pharmacy | sprint across the wire, slide into my hand

[ He's been in hallways like this in countless dreams. The liminal space is rich territory for anxiety and despair. The details are unique, but the archetype is classic. Unresolved business Formative moments. Places where dreamers were lonely. He's read about these thousands of times and has been in his own a hundred times more. But this...this he doesn't recognize. He would turn and leave it for something else, in fact, if it wasn't for Peter.

[ Peter. For as much as a fixture as he's becoming in Quentin's days and nights, this is the first time he's ever been in one of Quentin's dreams. His first thought is that this is dangerous. Something is posing like Peter, a snare, a trap, a bait. But (because things are good now, actually good for once in a long time), Quentin fights the first thought and lets himself be curious; maybe his mind has something to say. Peter runs, and Quentin runs after him, careful not to touch, only observing. The franticness is unfamiliar to the composed, in-control man that Quentin has come to know. Why is he seeing this? The sound that Peter makes outside the door surprises him enough that he nearly wakes up.

[ Nearly. The lure of what's behind the door is far too strong. When they slip through, what greets him is absolutely fascinating. Peter moves hesitantly through the room, and Quentin trails behind him even slower, stopping to look at the photos hanging in the air. One face he recognizes. The other he's never seen before, and looking at her now feels...dirty. He shouldn't be here. Why is he seeing this? Photo after photo of Peter and this woman distracts him, but then comes that sound again.

[ This time, it's a draw. Quentin sets a beach-side shot down on the table to drift nearer. There's no dream logic here, no repeating images, no rushed jumble of memory. This is a clear play-by-play, like he was meant to watch it on TV. Why is he seeing this? When he's within reach, Quentin follows his instincts and sinks to the edge of bed behind Peter. Photos crumple under him and flop to the floor as he stretches over Peter's back. When he wraps his arms around him, they separate Peter that much from the body. He feels just like Quentin knows him to feel.

[ It's his dream, so he asks himself: ] Why are you showing me this? [ Sometimes it works. Maybe he'll just get a nonsense answer. His stomach sours as he turns his gaze on the slack face of the woman in Peter's arms. ] Who is she?

[ the presence at peter's back doesn't go unnoticed by his subconscious, it's novel and out of place here, a respite he can disappear into, warm, comforting and inviting. but peter doesn't react as he should — as he wants to — he doesn't deserve to escape the misery that dwells here. instead he clings tighter to gwen's body as if it might pull him away, face buried in the crook of her neck, the pictures surrounding them fluttering and pulsing with the beat of his heart. ]

Don't— don't open the door... [ comes a disembodied voice from behind them, a remnant of a regret... how was he supposed to know that one of them had survived? ] Why did you open the door? [ spoken under his breath, but his voice carries like an echo, fragmenting into a cacophony of whispers that wanes as quickly as it peaks. his body tenses in its wake, then shakes lightly with a shuddered breath, swallowing the sound that threatens to escape him. ]

I should've— [ peter lifts his head to press a gentle kiss to her temple, unwittingly leaning into quentin's embrace, ] I should've...

[ he never finishes that thought, not here, not like this— but he doesn't have to, his mind fills in the blanks with deep-seated compunction bleeding in through the edges. the walls begin to crack like thin glass, splintering and spidering all around them, bits and pieces falling and turning to ash as they hit the ground. the longer he stays, the more this dream deteriorates under the pressure of his desperate need to remain. ]

[ Should've. Quentin sucks in a harsh breath at the sound of snapping, scrapes his eyes around the room to see it crumbling by the second. He tries what he knows best to ground himself here, pulling Peter away from the body and more surely against himself, nosing into his hair. One hand drops to the bed, avoiding the body to grab a random cluster of photos to feel the glossiness, feel how it crumples in his hand. Quentin grinds his heel along the floor, tries to memorize the feeling of the rug--focuses on the sensory in an attempt to keep the dream bright.

[ This usually works wonders when he's lucidb but this dream keeps falling apart. Fear stabs cold in his chest. He looks to the body to make sure it's still that woman. Squeezes around Peter's waist, hoping that it's still Peter. ] Wait. Wait, don't go.

[ It's been almost a full year since the last time Freddy found him--the last time he couldn't control his own dreams. He doesn't want to know the answer, but: ] Tell me you're still here.

I can't— [ peter responds in a tone that carries the weight of his guilt, the ache that swallowed him whole when realization came crashing down. he slumps forward in quentin's arms, his mind now fully accepting his presence, integrating it like it's always been there, enmeshed in the recreation of a memory that should've degraded.

maybe it's a side effect of his ability to regenerate, inadvertently stitching the pieces of his mind back together. call it a blessing, or a curse, but he still remembers details that no ordinary human should.

with a resigned, despairing calm, ] There's nothing here anymore, Quentin.

[ almost instantaneously, the integrity of their surroundings weakens further, jagged edges seemingly smoldering and giving way to the void that lies behind them. peter pays it no attention, instead, one hand keeps him connected to the lifeless body before him, the other clutching tightly to the arms around his waist. ]

I'm here. [ Immediate, rushing through the back of Peter's hair. It's meant to be reassuring, but it's distracted. This isn't his dream, Quentin is starting to realize. He isn't doing this, which means someone else-- ] I'm here. I'm here, don't go--

[ But the dark cracks through anyway. Something's coming, and Quentin's energy at Peter's back grows more frantic by the second. He doesn't want to know what's coming. His head bows into Peter's shoulder blades. Wake up. He shakes his head fiercely. Wake up. ] Wake up!

[ He shudders--not physically, but like a ghost. The pressure around Peter's middle fades, then disappears when Quentin startles out of sleep with a jerk. In bed, his arm is slung more loosely around Peter, held close enough that he kicks Peter in his attempt to get out of the dream. He bites down on a curse as he sits up, turns away to scrub his hands over his face. Jesuschrist. It's--middle of the night, if he looks at the window. His phone is--somewhere, in his pants probably. Quentin pulls his knees close to his chest and leans over there. That wasn't his dream.

[ Jesuschrist.

[ His gaze drops to Peter, runs the length of him looking for blooms of blood on the sheets. Nothing. Nothing, but Quentin stretches an arm across him to lean over and look down the other side of his body. His free hand brushes over Peter's temple. ] Hey.

Hey, Peter? Wake up. [ Just for a minute, just to make sure-- ]

[ despite the dream and its raw emotion laid bare, peter sleeps soundly next to quentin, half his body obscured by the blanket. he's motionless, save for the steady rise and fall of his chest, not even a stir when quentin wakes with a jump. there's no tossing or turning. no cold sweat rolling over his skin— he almost looks as peaceful as his late fiancée did, lightly curled on his side, his hand overtop of quentin's before he pulled himself up to shake free from the coils of a dream not his own.

it takes a second or two for peter to respond when the sound of his name pierces through the veil, offering him an escape. he breathes deep, purposeful, then lets out a soft groan while rolling onto his back. ]

Yeah? [ groggily, as he cracks an eye open, gradually cementing himself in the real world. he's home, his new home, far from the tiny apartment in his dream— it was just a dream. he's home, next to quentin in a bed too large for the both of them, let alone, himself.

but he's home... ] What time is it?

[ peter furrows his brows, recognizing the unease in quentin's expression and at once, he's awake and pushing himself up onto his elbows. ] —what's wrong?

No--no, no, don't get up. [ Nothing's wrong, it would seem as he scans Peter's body again, skims a palm down his torso and a bit down his thigh before pulling back. Quentin's anxious touch breezes to Peter's hair again, brushes strands back fussily. The buzzy sickness in his gut is already fading when he hears the familiar voice, leaving him feeling...

[ Kind of stupid, actually. ] I, um. I had a dream that just--I had a bad feeling. It gave me a bad feeling. Guess I'm still waking up. It's so early-- [ His palm spreads along Peter's cheek, kisses come apologetically to his cheek and brow bone. ] Go back to sleep. I'm sorry, I was just freaked out.

[ curious— peter doesn't exactly move his head, but his eyes follow the drag of quentin's hand... searching for something? solidifying this reality? ]

Mm, you better be, [ soft, light-hearted with a faint smile — really, a poor attempt to further alleviate quentin's anxiety. ] Don't worry about it, [ he shakes his head as one hand drifts up to curl around his wrist, idly stroking the warm skin there. ] Happens to the best of us— [ drawing the heel of his palm to his lips, he presses a kiss, firm and lingering.

peter then shifts onto his side, his hand tracing the length of quentin's arm to his shoulder, gently guiding him back down on the bed as he partially drapes himself overtop. ] Tell me about it?

[ At first, he resists. His arm is tense in Peter's loose grip, body stubborn against being guided back--but he caves. Feels safe caving. Feels safe with Peter, which makes the strange dream all the more unusual and distressing. It's easier to breathe deeper, though, when Peter's weight settles over him. Quentin takes a second to pull in a long inhale, to wiggle a little nearer. The body heat off of Peter is grounding. ]

Um. It--it wasn't even that bad, just... [ His fingers sketch at the outside of Peter's elbow. ] You were there. There were these...photographs. Everywhere. On the bed with this woman, and--and in the air. [ He swallows and shakes his head. ] But I just had this--feeling. I dunno, I haven't had it for a long time, just this shitty feeling like something was...something was coming.

I'm sorry, I really--I really try not to bring my freak shit to sleepovers.

[ deliberately, peter breathes deep and slow, matching the stroke of his thumb across quentin's collarbone, offering as many sensory stimuli to calm his nerves. with his other hand pressed to his chest, peter rests his head atop and lets his eyes falls shut.

you were there... it's not exactly strange or out of the ordinary, but it sticks out to him— then his eyes snap open again, goes entirely still as quentin continues describing a dream he's had more times than he cares to count. he's long since abandoned the uncertainty of what is and what isn't possible, but it catches him entirely off guard. ]

Uh— what— [ peter lifts his head, brows slightly knitted together as he peers down at quentin, almost afraid to ask the question. ] ...what did she look like?

I dunno, um. Beautiful. Waify, dark hair with this long waves...dead. [ His eyes drift up as he works to recall, focusing on the dream more than Peter's reaction just this second. It's just like recalling any other dream, he has to stay in the zone. ] She was in the pictures with you. Um. Sailing. Holidays, graduations.

[ A brief, unsmiling laugh as he shakes his head. His hand flattens more surely around Peter's elbow, straining to recall how his body felt back there. ] You were so...you were so upset.

Posed perfectly, like... [ peter murmurs, swallowing thickly as he pulls back— seamless, but abrupt. he pushes himself up, hands pressed into the mattress to keep himself propped as he stares at the floor, at the wall, at anything but quentin. from the start, peter hadn't questioned his fascination with dreams, because what was there to question? it wasn't exactly out of the ordinary... even at the extent of plastering clippings in his apartment. ]

—like she was sleeping, sun on her face. [ his heart beats a little faster, unsettled by what else quentin could see the next time he dreams. ] You were there.

[ The comfort lifts off him along with Peter, rearing away as Peter starts to describe the dream for him. A fish hook snags the top of his stomach and pulls, tickling and odd and anxious, as Quentin gets up to his elbows--starts to scoot back towards the headboard. He was there. Not the other way around. He was with Peter. It doesn't make any logical sense, but Quentin knows his dream logic better than most--and in his head, it's perfectly reasonable. But Peter is so, so reserved, and he can only imagine-- ]

I'm sorry. [ He blurts out, hoarse, wide-eyed as he presses back to the wall. ] This has never happened before. I swear it's never happened before.

[ there's a part of him that feels violated, cut open and laid bare, strewn across the cold surface of a dissection table. his rawness unshielded, vulnerable, all for quentin's viewing pleasure. it weighs heavy in his chest, sinking lower and lower, commingling with a knot in his stomach that doesn't belong to him.

peter leans forward, quiet for only a second. a second that seems to stretch amidst his racing thoughts. maybe it's a good thing— he's been so guarded, disconnected, instinctively keeping quentin at arms length despite himself. he takes a breath as he runs a hand through his hair, then reaches back the clasp the other over quentin's leg. ]

It's— fine, it's okay. [ peter gradually pulls himself back, moving slow and careful to situate himself beside quentin at the headboard. he hesitates, doesn't meet his eyes just yet. ] Gwen... that was her name.

Gwen. [ He repeats lowly, tense under Peter's hand. It's not okay. Quentin watches him with all the caution that he would use with a wounded animal. By the mood in that room, back in the dream, by the photographs, he has a pretty good idea of what she was to Peter. Wife comes to mind, but didn't they laugh about this the first time they hooked up? Not married. Quentin didn't think to ask if Peter was widowed, or maybe if he had someone special, but not legal.

[ It's all bygones now; Quentin is the one sleeping in this too-big bed, somehow leaking into his dreams. That's it's own mystery, though. As Peter settles in next to him, Quentin has to know something else first: ] What happened to her? How--how long has she been...

[ ahh, that look... peter finally glances, just long enough to notice it on quentin's face, reminding him why he rarely talks about her. keeping her hidden away in his memories, in his dreams because of that particular look. some sort of sympathy that he knows he doesn't deserve—

I should've made sure they were all dead.

peter tries not to wince in response, but the crinkle between his brows is far too stubborn to easily smooth away. instead, he distracts — himself, or quentin, who knows — by adjusting the pillow behind himself. trying to make himself comfortable while having a not so comfortable conversation in the middle of the night. ] Two years ago, almost three now. She uh— [ he sighs softly, ] heart arrhythmia. It was sudden, she was alone...

[ He recognizes the expression, something familiar to his dad. Equal parts embarrassment and disappointment, mild, dutiful frustration at having to explain. Peter nests, but Quentin leans forward over his knees--away from Peter by inches. ] And you found her. That...that wasn't a dream.

It was a memory.

[ Don't open the door. Quentin's fingers dip between his shins to twist into the sheets. ] You...you probably have questions.

Part of a memory...

[ he remedies— figures it's easier than explaining the level of detail contained, a recollection that would naturally dwindle over time rather than remain almost pristine. almost... it's still a memory entangled in a dream, shrouded by his remorse. the intricacies of realism and irrational juxtaposition, knitted together and coming apart at the seams all at once.

peter sighs again, quiet, measured, then drops his head forward into his hands to rub the sleep from his eyes. ] Probably— [ nothing that stands out to him just then, still reeling from the encounter. ] We don't have to talk about this tonight... [ but what else are they going to do? go back to bed like nothing happened? peter's not even sure he can sleep. ]

...Sure. Yeah, I mean, I'm just gonna lay down and go back to sleep. [ As if. He shakes his head. ] I think--I'm gonna make some coffee and a joint or something if...

[ No idea what part of a memory means, especially when the details were so sharp. No idea what's going through Peter's head at all, which is usually part of his appeal. The game of guessing, the anticipation of what's going to happen next. Right now, carefully separated from each other after being so close (too close), Quentin's fingers itch with a need to reach over and shake the other man till something falls out. ] ...Tell me what you're feeling. Cuz I'm--I mean, you don't have to. If you want me to leave, I can call a cab or something.

Stay— [ peter doesn't even have to think it over, it's automatic, unquestionable, regardless of what quentin could stumble upon in his unconscious mind. at least, next time (if there's a next time), peter just might be more aware of his presence. ] I want you to stay, [ while running a tentative hand along quentin's back, hooking over his shoulder to keep him from moving further away. ]

It... doesn't scare me... [ he lightly squeezes, then drops his hand back to his lap, aimlessly taking in their surroundings while he considers his next few words.

his room is spacious, like the rest of his apartment, bigger than what's needed for one person. it's a lot and not enough— a lot of space, not enough to fill the extent of it. all the necessities one needs, but minimalistic, at best. the polar opposite of quentin's apartment in most aspects, it's not exactly what one would expect from someone who works in his field, but it's close enough. ]

At least, not in the— way you might think. Believe it or not, you're not the first person I met who can... do things that shouldn't be possible.

[ Peter starts to pull away, but Quentin catches his wrists loosely. Both hands settle in Peter's lap. Quentin's fingers weave cautiously between his--tighten minutely, the same as his brow, when he hears that phrase. ]

...Like. Like metahumans. [ He knows a little bit about them. Most people know a little bit. There are one or two from Quentin's hometown, but-- ] I'm not like that. It's not a superpower or something, it's just--I'm just really good at dreaming.

Right, [ dryly, ] because anyone can just walk right into another person's dream if they practice enough.

[ defense mechanisms firing all cylinders, very much without his permission, but it offers quentin more insight into how he's really feeling about the whole ordeal. he can't tell if this particular memory is better or worse— all he knows is that it cuts far too close for comfort. peter swallows hard, and squeezes his hands as he shoots a vaguely apologetic glance. ]

You're really good at dreaming... what— what does that mean?

[ No one likes being called out, but the hackling response feels more human. Quentin ducks his head for some measure of apology but offers no argument. Just drags his thumb back and forth along the heel of Peter's palm. ] It means...

It means like...ninety-eight percent of my dreams are lucid dreams. Like--high level lucid dreaming. A lot of time I can even...alter the environment. Decide where I wanna go. I've... [ His mouth twists sideways, brow pinches. Quentin watches the spot where their palms meet attentively. ] ...shared a dream. A couple times. But not for years, not since...not since my last girlfriend.

[ Peter has heard this story in brief: high school sweetheart, mental breakdown, made Quentin so sad he left town. The details are, it turns out, a little more complicated.]

[ the brush of quentin's thumb gives peter something to fix his gaze on, to release some tension in his shoulders as he absorbs his explanation— wake up, he remembers hearing it, then disregarding it as nothing more than a subconscious anomaly. ]

Mm, so— [ one of his hands disentangles from quentin's, gliding up to tug lightly at his wrist, ] When you say, this has never happened before... you mean with me. [ it should further lift the weight off his shoulders, unspool something tense in his gut— it doesn't. not as much as he'd like. even if quentin is genuine, he saw and heard things that peter doesn't know how to explain without digging his own grave.

but he's not asking, and that counts for something, he thinks. ]

This whole dream sharing— is that part of the reason you left?

No. Never, like--never. Not with anyone except--her. Nancy. [ And him. Freddy. But that's its own can of worms. He bows closer to insist: ] It's never happened with anyone I was sleeping with. Never without effort, never in someone's memories--there's a ton of ways that this has never happened before.

[ His teeth snag hard at the inside of his cheek, eyes dart around Peter's face, tight-wound shoulders, shifting fingers, trying to get a read. ]

...You're mad. You're--scared. You're something.

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