"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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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?”