Corey blinks at that and looks up, having been momentarily distracted by his feet and how high up they are and maybe he shouldn’t have let himself look again and oh—
“J-Just what? Quentin—“
Probably the first time Corey’s bothered addressing him by his first name. It feels odd on his tongue. It won’t happen again.
“What’s the point of all this, huh?” He sounds exasperated. If the lighting is decent enough where he’s standing on the bridge - he looks exasperated too. “The fuck are you trying to prove right now?”
Because he really doesn’t get it. Of all the places Quentin could’ve picked for them to meet - he picked here and now he’s getting angry because Corey is all locked up and frozen from sheer terror? Okay.
Corey’s a chicken shit. He’ll be the first to admit to that, even when he’s supposed to be some big bad killer. He’s sure everyone else knows that by now too - or at least spreads gossip behind his back. His record isn’t super impressive, but he does what he has to. Simple as that. He’s only human, not whatever the fuck some of the others here happen to be…
His eyes narrow, and he’s squinting with disbelief. Both hands out and gripping onto ropes now. Steadying. “Did you really think I was just going to dump all my trauma out here? Pour my heart out to you so you can disrespect me like everyone else does?”
He scowls. He’s getting angry, feathers ruffled, blood subtly being brought to a boil right beneath the surface of his otherwise anxious exterior.
“We can both fall. If that’s what you really want. Put us back at square one. Fresh start so we can try again.”
And then he stomps down, anything to jostle the bridge itself and possibly throw off the other boy’s balance.
"No, man, come on. I don't want you to pour your heart out, just--shit, stop!" The last thing he was expecting was for Corey to make it riskier to be up here. The interference takes him by surprise. Quentin wobbles and even falls, pulse skyrocketing when his hands abruptly have to support the bulk of his weight, balance him as he gets the rope under his ass. Easily, he's panting. "The fuck, Cunningham! I'm trying to put us in the same boat, don't be a prick!"
Here comes the yelling. No holding back. Corey gets loud, punctuating the words of his question enough to make sure they come across nice and clear. The echo amongst the trees is enough to disturb nearby crows and send some fluttering away. And then he starts moving forward, his paralysis all but forgotten as the rage keeps steadily building inside him. His expression is mean, eyes dark. The pathetic young man everyone writes him off as is casually pushed to the back for the meanwhile.
“What’s the fucking point, Quentin?” There it is again. First name basis. This must be serious. “Huh? What’s your deal? Gonna be a pissy little baby because you don’t get special treatment from me? Answer me or we’re both goners. I don’t give a fuck.”
He does nothing when Quentin falls and struggles, just watches and waits for a response, unflinching, his lip curled into a sneer. There’s no need for further scare tactics. He’ll just do it - end them both - without a second thought.
Neither of their senses may be heightened as they are in trial, but Corey has seen enough people in terror to recognize it in the way Quentin pales. He's seen it enough on Quentin, too, to recognize the steel in his jaw and eyes--don't panic, don't beg, don't give an inch to fear. Don't even move, he's not crazy interested in risking movement just now. Even if it wasn't risky to rock the bridge, he has a hard time thinking through a response and through getting his limbs coordinated at the same time.
So he settles on explaining, measure and low: "If you--if you didn't want to tip your hand, you didn't have to say anything about blacking out in text. Kinda seems like you do give a fuck--about--about someone understanding you. I'm trying--I'm trying to understand."
Corey's more than familiar with it. A part of him thrives on it, the part he so desperately tries to ignore and shove down deep inside himself until he loses all control and is no longer able to. The very one that's so clearly in charge right now.
He's also familiar with Quentin's personal brand of fear, the way he reacts when his stress is through the roof and fight or flight is triggered. Maybe that's why he was going so easy on him before, making excuses as to why he would just let him escape. Corey's not a monster. Mostly. When he's conscious of his behavior and how good people should act.
"Maybe I thought I could trust you with a tiny piece of personal information. That was a huge fucking mistake, wasn't it? I should've known better. Because it sure seems like you want to shove your face into all my business now."
Quentin's still not getting up and it's bothering him - irritating him more than anything else - so Corey slowly and and methodically closes the gap between them on the bridge, not taking his eyes off of the other boy.
"...Trying to understand so you can feel superior and keep on being an annoying pain in the ass, right? Did I figure it out? I think I did."
His mouth wobbles, his laugh too--all of him as Corey inches out. Quentin's hands shift to hold the ropes underhand, ekes back along the walking rope on one side of his hip. Just seconds ago, Corey refused to come out here. What changed? Adrenaline, maybe. Fear. Embarrassment? He'll be able to think about this better when it doesn't feel like he's going to wobble right off between the v-shaped banisters between the hold ropes and the walking rope. For now, he just laughs, unsteady.
"Superior. You think I feel superior. I'll cop to being annoying, but come on--you just wanna justify being mad at me. But hey, you know what they say: you give a mouse a tiny piece of personal information..."
"I have all the reason to be mad at you. You keep trying to get info out of me, figure out my shit - and it's none of your concern. I don't ask you twenty fucking questions. Just leave it alone - alright?"
The fear is gone. The need to stay frozen in place is gone also. Corey keeps moving, slow and steady, not once looking down or faltering in his actions. It's like he doesn't even have to think. Hyper-focused but with an eerie sense of calm about him.
Quentin's struggling, and Corey only stops to extend a hand towards him without saying a word. When he takes it or not is solely up to him. At least he's offering.
He doesn't like that. Not anymore than he likes Corey's reasoning, but that's just a rhetorical annoyance, where the feeling his gets as Corey reaches down is...chilling. Feels like crumbs on a trap, but it also looks like the single steadiest thing on this tightrope. Quentin's gaze ticks from his hand to his face, holds for a second before ticking back down. Mouth pinned down at the corners, he sucks in a stern breath and claps one hand to Corey's palm. The other follows soon after--better balance this way.
Corey remains quiet, observant. He crouches a bit, gesturing with his extended hand. His other stays gripping the rope to his side. Is Quentin going to take it or what? Can't stay like this all night. Not like he has many choices...
Once he accepts the offer, Corey is tightening his grip, making sure it's firm. He doesn't move otherwise. Is he really that strong? There's no protest when Quentin's other hand joins the fray. He just slowly stands himself up, nodding slightly for the other boy to do the same.
His mouth twitches into the smallest smile. Or is it more of a smirk? Whatever the expression is - it's not nice. Comforting. Pleasant.
"See?" A head tilt. "I'm not a bad guy. Could've just pushed you, let go. But I didn't."
It's an animal smile. It makes his skin crawl. Quentin nods slowly, lips pursed as he pulls his hands away. As he gets a grip back on the ropes, he risks inching back. "And you're all the way out here, too. All grown up, huh?" He understands the mafia-esque threats, the frustration at being picked over. Less clear, though, Quentin points out with another wary step backwards, "Why are you here, Corey? You don't have anything to prove. Fine. So why meet me? Why come out here if you don't want--"
Connection. Understanding. Help. It all sounds odd in his head. His mouth presses shut around the suggestions.
Quentin can inch back - several if he really wants to. Corey lets him, but his gaze doesn't shift. The only thing worse than that animalistic smile is the pitch-black eyes filled with absolute nothingness that seem to bore into whatever they're focusing on at the moment.
"Curiosity." He takes a step forward, moving himself further out as Quentin backs away again. "You never really know what can happen around here, you know? Always a surprise or two around every corner."
Here - another step. He's quite grown up now. Zero fear. Zero hesitation. Impeccable balance.
"You seem like the type of person who's always got something going on, some sort of... ulterior motive, you know? Unless that's just me." There's a short, cold-sounding laugh. "Sorry if I'm jumping to conclusions or anything."
The briefest pause. More eye contact. That smirk turns into a grin and both his hands are back to holding onto the guide ropes, just so Corey can jump quite literally. Hopefully Quentin's not caught off guard or anything...
The grin gives him a split second of warning that something's coming. It's not enough to prepare him. He's only just gotten his footing sure when the rope beneath rocks abruptly under Corey's weight. With a snapped-off curse, he falls. The bridge will leave bruises later, this paths across his back and neck where he snaps against it on the way down--but most notable inside his elbows. Quentin manages to hook both arms over the walking rope, and he can't feel the bruising for how focused he is on not letting go.
Maybe if he dies, the marks won't show up. That's a silver lining. Maybe.
"Fuck--" His voice snaps with anger and effort (fear, and fear). Oh, he's already losing circulation in his fingers. "Help--help me, Corey!"
“But if I help you you won’t learn anything, Quentin.” Corey tilts his head to the side, giving him the biggest pout. And then he just laughs. “And what’s the point in that? Huh? I need to make sure it really sticks the landing, you know?”
He cracks himself up. A bit too much, really. It’s almost comical, mostly deranged. No balance between the two whatsoever. Shows that whatever Nice Guy facade he had up before is crumbled to dust.
“Thanks for hanging out. I really appreciated the quality time. It was useful.”
Useful? In way what? He’s probably just spouting bullshit like he usually does. But it does feel good - getting to watch someone struggle and struggle, no sort of help anywhere in sight.
And that’s just what Corey does - stands there and watches, the most blank expression on his face as Quentin keep trying his darnedest to hold on. He backs away some more, his steps slow and precise, until he reaches the solid state of platform once again. And he pulls out the kitchen knife he had been hiding behind his back in the waistband of his jeans, idly twirling it by the handle. Just watching. Waiting.
Great. This is what he gets for going off script. Quentin curses under his breath as Corey starts to back away. The only upshot is that he can use the sway of the bridge for a little leverage, something to help him swing his legs up and hook--fuck! he manages an ankle, then a knee, then--one leg around the rope. Another. For a split second, he feels relieved.
Then the moonlight sparkles off the knife. Quentin wheezes, "You gotta be kidding me," and puts that high school presidential fitness test knowledge to the task. Upside down and hindered by the burn and twist of the rope, crawling is a real son of a bitch--but he's crawling as quick as he can manage towards the opposite end of the bridge.
Corey’s response is quiet, probably too low for Quentin to actually hear. And there’s an exasperated sigh that goes along with it. Difficult to tell if he’s annoyed or bothered or… anything, really. Real tough to get a read.
He keeps twirling, but just for a bit, then adjusts his grip. He watches the crawling, how much Smith is struggling with it. But he’s also making decent progress? All things considered. It’s impressive, but a person will do anything if they’re put into a difficult situation.
Corey slowly moves into a crouch, only glancing down to get the briefest look at the rope as it sways from Quentin’s movements. Then it’s back to watching him, the tip of the blade tapping against the platform.
Just watching. Cool. Just fucking watching, that's not disturbing at all. Quentin growls strangled and frantic between his teeth, and tries using his hands over his elbows for a second--and nearly drops. Elbows it is. Cursing, sweating, grunting, he does his best to ignore the eyes on him. Just focus on getting to that opposite, empty platform. He's almost there now. About six feet--three feet--look, he can brush his fingertips against the platform if he stretches now--
…Is it disturbing? He doesn’t notice. It’s just… normal for him. The usual. He likes to watch. The struggle is always the best part.
The closer Quentin gets to the platform at the other side, the closer Corey moves the blade of his knife towards the rope. One hand holds the rope itself, the other makes the knife hover. Closer and closer. It’s a silent threat. He just smiles.
Until he sees the stretch, the desperate reach for stability. The smile is wiped off his face, replaced with that same coldness from before. And it doesn’t take much effort for the blade to saw through the rope. It’s almost like Corey sharpened it especially for the occasion. What’s quicker - the knife or Quentin? There’s really not a lot of time to hesitate here, because that rope is as good as snapped.
Edited (thx for smacking sense into me.) 2023-03-25 03:41 (UTC)
Later, he'll wonder if he actually felt the rope shearing or if he just filled in the feeling with his imagination. It'll haunt him either way, more than his nails bending on the platform or the raw wood edge jamming against the soft underside of his arms. Technically, he makes it, but Quentin squawks as his back end drops into midair and yanks him till he's just hanging on be the elbow. The rope slaps loose and heavy against his side, more hindrance than help now that it's gone slack, blocking an easy path to the ladder nailed into the tree trunk. The platform groans but doesn't give.
It's a distant view, but maybe a satisfying one. Quentin looks particularly scrawny trying to shimmy his way up onto the platform but, ultimately, tangling himself up in the ropes instead. It's graceless, and he's noisy about it, but it's easier to get to the safety of a wide branch from the rope. Then--at last--he can hug himself to the trunk. Panting, feet sure on the ladder plank, he keeps one arm secure around the tree and uses the other to throw Corey a middle finger.
The fact that he doesn’t trip up and plummet to the forest floor? More than mildly disappointing. Corey tries not to let it show on his face (and fails). So much for the big finish. It was a good idea at the time, but he definitely underestimated his potential victim.
“Yeah fuck you too buddy.”
He doesn’t want to stoop to Quentin’s level, so there’s an absence of crude gestures. Corey just stands up and points the knife in his direction.
“Nice hustle by the way. Be more careful about picking your meeting places next time, okay?” Or just stay out of his way entirely. Quentin‘s choice really.
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“J-Just what? Quentin—“
Probably the first time Corey’s bothered addressing him by his first name. It feels odd on his tongue. It won’t happen again.
“What’s the point of all this, huh?” He sounds exasperated. If the lighting is decent enough where he’s standing on the bridge - he looks exasperated too. “The fuck are you trying to prove right now?”
Because he really doesn’t get it. Of all the places Quentin could’ve picked for them to meet - he picked here and now he’s getting angry because Corey is all locked up and frozen from sheer terror? Okay.
Corey’s a chicken shit. He’ll be the first to admit to that, even when he’s supposed to be some big bad killer. He’s sure everyone else knows that by now too - or at least spreads gossip behind his back. His record isn’t super impressive, but he does what he has to. Simple as that. He’s only human, not whatever the fuck some of the others here happen to be…
His eyes narrow, and he’s squinting with disbelief. Both hands out and gripping onto ropes now. Steadying. “Did you really think I was just going to dump all my trauma out here? Pour my heart out to you so you can disrespect me like everyone else does?”
He scowls. He’s getting angry, feathers ruffled, blood subtly being brought to a boil right beneath the surface of his otherwise anxious exterior.
“We can both fall. If that’s what you really want. Put us back at square one. Fresh start so we can try again.”
And then he stomps down, anything to jostle the bridge itself and possibly throw off the other boy’s balance.
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Here comes the yelling. No holding back. Corey gets loud, punctuating the words of his question enough to make sure they come across nice and clear. The echo amongst the trees is enough to disturb nearby crows and send some fluttering away. And then he starts moving forward, his paralysis all but forgotten as the rage keeps steadily building inside him. His expression is mean, eyes dark. The pathetic young man everyone writes him off as is casually pushed to the back for the meanwhile.
“What’s the fucking point, Quentin?” There it is again. First name basis. This must be serious. “Huh? What’s your deal? Gonna be a pissy little baby because you don’t get special treatment from me? Answer me or we’re both goners. I don’t give a fuck.”
He does nothing when Quentin falls and struggles, just watches and waits for a response, unflinching, his lip curled into a sneer. There’s no need for further scare tactics. He’ll just do it - end them both - without a second thought.
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So he settles on explaining, measure and low: "If you--if you didn't want to tip your hand, you didn't have to say anything about blacking out in text. Kinda seems like you do give a fuck--about--about someone understanding you. I'm trying--I'm trying to understand."
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He's also familiar with Quentin's personal brand of fear, the way he reacts when his stress is through the roof and fight or flight is triggered. Maybe that's why he was going so easy on him before, making excuses as to why he would just let him escape. Corey's not a monster. Mostly. When he's conscious of his behavior and how good people should act.
"Maybe I thought I could trust you with a tiny piece of personal information. That was a huge fucking mistake, wasn't it? I should've known better. Because it sure seems like you want to shove your face into all my business now."
Quentin's still not getting up and it's bothering him - irritating him more than anything else - so Corey slowly and and methodically closes the gap between them on the bridge, not taking his eyes off of the other boy.
"...Trying to understand so you can feel superior and keep on being an annoying pain in the ass, right? Did I figure it out? I think I did."
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"Superior. You think I feel superior. I'll cop to being annoying, but come on--you just wanna justify being mad at me. But hey, you know what they say: you give a mouse a tiny piece of personal information..."
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The fear is gone. The need to stay frozen in place is gone also. Corey keeps moving, slow and steady, not once looking down or faltering in his actions. It's like he doesn't even have to think. Hyper-focused but with an eerie sense of calm about him.
Quentin's struggling, and Corey only stops to extend a hand towards him without saying a word. When he takes it or not is solely up to him. At least he's offering.
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Once he accepts the offer, Corey is tightening his grip, making sure it's firm. He doesn't move otherwise. Is he really that strong? There's no protest when Quentin's other hand joins the fray. He just slowly stands himself up, nodding slightly for the other boy to do the same.
His mouth twitches into the smallest smile. Or is it more of a smirk? Whatever the expression is - it's not nice. Comforting. Pleasant.
"See?" A head tilt. "I'm not a bad guy. Could've just pushed you, let go. But I didn't."
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Connection. Understanding. Help. It all sounds odd in his head. His mouth presses shut around the suggestions.
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"Curiosity." He takes a step forward, moving himself further out as Quentin backs away again. "You never really know what can happen around here, you know? Always a surprise or two around every corner."
Here - another step. He's quite grown up now. Zero fear. Zero hesitation. Impeccable balance.
"You seem like the type of person who's always got something going on, some sort of... ulterior motive, you know? Unless that's just me." There's a short, cold-sounding laugh. "Sorry if I'm jumping to conclusions or anything."
The briefest pause. More eye contact. That smirk turns into a grin and both his hands are back to holding onto the guide ropes, just so Corey can jump quite literally. Hopefully Quentin's not caught off guard or anything...
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Maybe if he dies, the marks won't show up. That's a silver lining. Maybe.
"Fuck--" His voice snaps with anger and effort (fear, and fear). Oh, he's already losing circulation in his fingers. "Help--help me, Corey!"
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He cracks himself up. A bit too much, really. It’s almost comical, mostly deranged. No balance between the two whatsoever. Shows that whatever Nice Guy facade he had up before is crumbled to dust.
“Thanks for hanging out. I really appreciated the quality time. It was useful.”
Useful? In way what? He’s probably just spouting bullshit like he usually does. But it does feel good - getting to watch someone struggle and struggle, no sort of help anywhere in sight.
And that’s just what Corey does - stands there and watches, the most blank expression on his face as Quentin keep trying his darnedest to hold on. He backs away some more, his steps slow and precise, until he reaches the solid state of platform once again. And he pulls out the kitchen knife he had been hiding behind his back in the waistband of his jeans, idly twirling it by the handle. Just watching. Waiting.
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Then the moonlight sparkles off the knife. Quentin wheezes, "You gotta be kidding me," and puts that high school presidential fitness test knowledge to the task. Upside down and hindered by the burn and twist of the rope, crawling is a real son of a bitch--but he's crawling as quick as he can manage towards the opposite end of the bridge.
Christ, he was not trying to die tonight.
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Corey’s response is quiet, probably too low for Quentin to actually hear. And there’s an exasperated sigh that goes along with it. Difficult to tell if he’s annoyed or bothered or… anything, really. Real tough to get a read.
He keeps twirling, but just for a bit, then adjusts his grip. He watches the crawling, how much Smith is struggling with it. But he’s also making decent progress? All things considered. It’s impressive, but a person will do anything if they’re put into a difficult situation.
Corey slowly moves into a crouch, only glancing down to get the briefest look at the rope as it sways from Quentin’s movements. Then it’s back to watching him, the tip of the blade tapping against the platform.
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The closer Quentin gets to the platform at the other side, the closer Corey moves the blade of his knife towards the rope. One hand holds the rope itself, the other makes the knife hover. Closer and closer. It’s a silent threat. He just smiles.
Until he sees the stretch, the desperate reach for stability. The smile is wiped off his face, replaced with that same coldness from before. And it doesn’t take much effort for the blade to saw through the rope. It’s almost like Corey sharpened it especially for the occasion. What’s quicker - the knife or Quentin? There’s really not a lot of time to hesitate here, because that rope is as good as snapped.
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It's a distant view, but maybe a satisfying one. Quentin looks particularly scrawny trying to shimmy his way up onto the platform but, ultimately, tangling himself up in the ropes instead. It's graceless, and he's noisy about it, but it's easier to get to the safety of a wide branch from the rope. Then--at last--he can hug himself to the trunk. Panting, feet sure on the ladder plank, he keeps one arm secure around the tree and uses the other to throw Corey a middle finger.
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“Yeah fuck you too buddy.”
He doesn’t want to stoop to Quentin’s level, so there’s an absence of crude gestures. Corey just stands up and points the knife in his direction.
“Nice hustle by the way. Be more careful about picking your meeting places next time, okay?” Or just stay out of his way entirely. Quentin‘s choice really.
“We done here?”