[ 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.
[ 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. ]
I'm... something— [ he laughs, abrupt and mirthless, pulling his hands free, struggling to find a place to rest them that isn't quentin.
it goes without saying that peter hasn't exactly been the most emotionally intimate type, not since— he lets quentin in just enough, manufactures the rest to keep him amenable. somewhere along the way, peter forgot why. somewhere along the way, he let his guard down and allowed himself to actually give a shit about quentin.
this would be easier if he didn't. ]
I feel fucking violated. You weren't supposed to see that, no one— [ he shakes his head, mild bitterness etching across his features, ] was supposed to see that. [ he runs a hand down his face, ] Yeah, I'm fucking pissed. Why did you watch? If you could've gone anywhere, why did you stay?
[ He wanted honesty, yes. He wanted humanity, yes. He wanted to apologize, obviously. But violated? The word brings color up high on Quentin's cheeks. ] Peter, come on. I didn't know it was real, I didn't even know it was yours until I woke up. Do you think I would have told you if I knew what it was?
[ peter can forgive quentin's ignorance... he's heard the stories, whispers through the grapevine, hell, he struggled with controlling his own abilities when they first manifested. but that last line— he sets his jaw, his gaze intense and unwavering for a long second. ] Jesus Christ, Q. [ exasperated, ] How— how am I supposed to believe this was the first time when you say shit like that?
What else did you see, huh? [ he feels that anger — usually controlled, now taking on a life of its own — rolling through his limbs, rippling outwards. ] What else? [ as the words come out, objects around them rattle and move in the slightest. not enough to notice outright, but enough that a sane person just might question their sanity. ]
[ He doesn't pick up on the rattle, not consciously. Later, the noise will shiver in the back of anxiety dreams, letting him know something's coming. But now, Quentin only sees Peter twisting tighter, coiling in a way he's never seen on Peter--but that he knows well. ]
Nothing. [ Left alone, his hands curl tight over his knees. Quentin's shoulders square, even as his head ducks like a dog. Defensive. ] You're not listening. I'm telling you this has never happened. I'm sorry.
[ it's hard to ignore what quentin's feeling at this moment, it seeps through peter's bones, mingles and mollifies the burning temper that threatens to consume him. it hasn't always been, but the longer they're in each other's orbit, the more he's tempted into breaking a promise made to himself, to form a sort of attachment— friendly or otherwise.
a difficult task to circumvent, almost impossible when his true power is to connect, to feel everything so very deeply.
peter sighs heavily, the crease in his brow still prominent. ] I am listening... [ a snap, ] I hear you loud and clear. Never happened... but if it did, you wouldn't tell me. Great, glad we cleared that up.
That's not what I mean! God, you know that's not what I mean!
[ Because he's not stupid, right? If anything from what Quentin's seen, Peter is too smart for his own good--always restrained, always careful. He's not a teenager or a parent at wit's end taking everything sideways. Quentin shakes his head sharply and shifts closer at last. He sits up on his knees directly across from Peter, grabs him sternly around the wrists. Frustrated, angry: ] Don't. Don't try to twist my words, I have never pushed you for anything. Why would I start now?
[ Then, just a little vindictive: ] What, you hiding some deep dark bullshit?
[ he knows... but it's excruciatingly easy to twist, and veer from the fact that he's fearful of the potential free rein quentin could have on his innermost thoughts. it's not in his nature, as far as peter knows, but it's easier to get mad and escalate the situation when quentin seems all too eager to bite back. ]
Why don't you have a look? [ a light scoff, threaded with indignation — he doesn't mean it — peter yanks his wrists from quentin's grasp to move further away, closer to the edge of the bed. ] Now that you have an all access pass— it's not like I can stop you.
[ but now that peter has the genetic template for quentin's so-called abilities... he probably can. ]
[ Quentin is, in this as in most things, an easy mark for escalation. Sensitive, reactive, combative. Even with just a little twist, he's already out of shape. Peter moves away, and Quentin reaches out for him again, catches one wrist in a more sturdy grip. His eyes water (he's an easy crier, in this as in most things), teeth bare as he shakes his head. ] That's not it! It's nothing like that, just--wait, let me talk to you! Whatever you want, tell me. I'll tell you whatever!
[ fuck— guilt washes over him like a cold shower, the lines of his body tense, and lightly vibrating with conflicting emotion. this isn't how this shit is supposed to go, it's the reason he kept quentin at arms length, to offer a clean break when things teetered too close to uncertainty.
but peter stops, doesn't resist the hold this time, settles down with a heavy sigh and an expression somewhere between irritated and resigned. ] What more do you have to say?
[ His mouth hangs open for a dumb few seconds. Then, he blurts: ] You remember--remember before we started dating? And I told you about the guy from my town--the preschool?
What does this have to do with anything? [ far too curt for such a sensitive topic— peter doesn't know the full story, just enough to put two and two together. he shakes his head, mentally kicking himself, and yet... it doesn't stop him from rubbing salt in the wound. ] Do you really think telling me any of this is going to make up for the fact that you invaded my fucking head?
You asked what I had to say, so I'm saying it, christ-- [ Peter hasn't pulled away, so Quentin scoots closer on his knees--even slings a leg over his lap to keep him from getting off the bed. He frames Peter's face with his hands. ] Listen.
He wasn't human. Isn't. Human. He's some kind of--I dunno, we used to call him a demon. The only time I've been in someone else's dream or had anyone in mine, to the absolute extent of my knowledge, was when he was trying to get into my body. Mine and Nancy's. My girlfriend. She was at the school too, she was--his favorite.
[ It all spills outs quickly, like ripping off a bandaid. Still hurts. When he hits the end, Quentin sucks in a sharp breath and looks down with a shake of his head. ] I dunno, that's--everything but the details, man, but I swear, that's the only time I've ever--I never meant to--
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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.
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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.
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[ 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...
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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...
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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.
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[ 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. ]
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[ 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.
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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.
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...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.
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[ 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?
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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.]
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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?
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[ 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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it goes without saying that peter hasn't exactly been the most emotionally intimate type, not since— he lets quentin in just enough, manufactures the rest to keep him amenable. somewhere along the way, peter forgot why. somewhere along the way, he let his guard down and allowed himself to actually give a shit about quentin.
this would be easier if he didn't. ]
I feel fucking violated. You weren't supposed to see that, no one— [ he shakes his head, mild bitterness etching across his features, ] was supposed to see that. [ he runs a hand down his face, ] Yeah, I'm fucking pissed. Why did you watch? If you could've gone anywhere, why did you stay?
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What else did you see, huh? [ he feels that anger — usually controlled, now taking on a life of its own — rolling through his limbs, rippling outwards. ] What else? [ as the words come out, objects around them rattle and move in the slightest. not enough to notice outright, but enough that a sane person just might question their sanity. ]
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Nothing. [ Left alone, his hands curl tight over his knees. Quentin's shoulders square, even as his head ducks like a dog. Defensive. ] You're not listening. I'm telling you this has never happened. I'm sorry.
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a difficult task to circumvent, almost impossible when his true power is to connect, to feel everything so very deeply.
peter sighs heavily, the crease in his brow still prominent. ] I am listening... [ a snap, ] I hear you loud and clear. Never happened... but if it did, you wouldn't tell me. Great, glad we cleared that up.
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[ Because he's not stupid, right? If anything from what Quentin's seen, Peter is too smart for his own good--always restrained, always careful. He's not a teenager or a parent at wit's end taking everything sideways. Quentin shakes his head sharply and shifts closer at last. He sits up on his knees directly across from Peter, grabs him sternly around the wrists. Frustrated, angry: ] Don't. Don't try to twist my words, I have never pushed you for anything. Why would I start now?
[ Then, just a little vindictive: ] What, you hiding some deep dark bullshit?
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Why don't you have a look? [ a light scoff, threaded with indignation — he doesn't mean it — peter yanks his wrists from quentin's grasp to move further away, closer to the edge of the bed. ] Now that you have an all access pass— it's not like I can stop you.
[ but now that peter has the genetic template for quentin's so-called abilities... he probably can. ]
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but peter stops, doesn't resist the hold this time, settles down with a heavy sigh and an expression somewhere between irritated and resigned. ] What more do you have to say?
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He wasn't human. Isn't. Human. He's some kind of--I dunno, we used to call him a demon. The only time I've been in someone else's dream or had anyone in mine, to the absolute extent of my knowledge, was when he was trying to get into my body. Mine and Nancy's. My girlfriend. She was at the school too, she was--his favorite.
[ It all spills outs quickly, like ripping off a bandaid. Still hurts. When he hits the end, Quentin sucks in a sharp breath and looks down with a shake of his head. ] I dunno, that's--everything but the details, man, but I swear, that's the only time I've ever--I never meant to--
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let's call it a wrap on this thread...........we can talk next steps B)