[ the weight of quentin isn't exactly unwelcome— though it should be, peter thinks. (in this moment, at the very least.) he even goes as far as reflecting it in the way he stiffens briefly as he meets his gaze, lips pressed into a thin line. he listens, hesitant hands finally coming to rest on the top of his thighs, unsure of whether they should hold him there, or shove him off.
peter won't admit it — out loud or to himself — but the press of his body, and his touch is... comforting. ]
Okay, fine, I believe you— [ still wary, but his temper gradually wanes, then shifts. a flicker of a protective nature that's been idle for so long, he barely even recognizes it. ] Is that supposed to be a sign? If it hasn't happened since you last saw him, does that mean he's here?
I don't know. [ Just as fast, just as earnest, but that fear he woke up with flutters back to life. ] I don't know, I haven't had an incident for like...for like six months. That's why I was...
[ This time, he slows to the pause, lets the air out of his lungs long and slow. Quentin searches Peter's eyes, thumbs stroking down his cheeks. If Freddy was here, if Freddy was here... ] That's why I woke you up. He can't get you if you're awake.
[ And, it goes without saying, he has no idea what he would do if that happened. ]
[ peter murmurs, bewilderment faintly creasing his brows. if the room was filled with half the sound that echoes in quentin's apartment, he probably wouldn't make out the words. but here and at close proximity, it's not difficult to understand. it comes out of nowhere, hitting him like a ton of bricks. peter doesn't know much about him, but some of what quentin describes matches up.
some might even refer to him as a demon... if they didn't know better. ]
Is that— does that ring any bells? [ he skim his hands over quentin's hips, reacting to his fear, arms encircling his waist instinctively. ]
Nightmare man. [ It's not familiar, but Quentin's eyes brighten at the term anyway. It's not inaccurate-- ] Freddy Kreuger. He's--all burned to shit, he has this glove he wears that's all knives--
[ His right hand draws along a series of four messy scars--puncture wounds Peter has surely noticed and Quentin has surely danced around till now--that trail down the left side of his ribs starting from his collarbone. Battle scars. ]
[ peter's gaze flits down, mild fascination in the subtle tilt of his head as he traces the uncolored tissue with his eyes. ] He can hurt you— [ it all comes together in an instant, the lightly tattered and torn pages that litter quentin's walls, the overlapping sounds... the sallow and tired look under his eyes when he goes without sleep. ] —in your dreams.
[ the distinction throws him off, makes him wonder if they're one and the same or two completely different breeds of monsters. ]
I— [ peter hesitates for a moment, glancing back up. ] I don't know his name, don't really know much about him other than what I've heard. [ he leans back with a deep breath, slow, controlled, his hands now resting at his hips. intentionally sustaining this topic in the hopes that it's enough to derail quentin's thoughts, keep him from remembering anything he might've seen or heard in peter's dream.
because they eventually fade, right? he's counting on it. ]
He's a telepath— fucking powerful one. He can do so much more than read your thoughts, he can get inside your head and make you see... anything he wants you to see. Trap you in your own head— in a nightmare. He holds all the power there.
[ It's a good ploy; for all that he does to avoid discussion of, interaction with, or thoughts about Freddy, Quentin has a hard time pulling away once he's on the topic. The tension that keeps his muscles jump-tight starts to ease, joints loosening in Peter's hands as he thinks through the inventory. ] No...no, that can't be him. Freddy--if he gets you deep enough, he can keep you in a dream, but if you pull him out of it, he's just an ugly guy with a bunch of knives.
But this guy--the Nightmare Man. [ Yeah, the gears are turning fast. His hands wring over Peter's shoulders, thumbs tap at the base of his neck thoughtfully. ] You've heard about him. Where do you hear about him? Do you know someone who knows him?
[ it's safe to say that peter really didn't expect quentin to pose those particular questions, even while it's the most obvious route to tread. (who wouldn't be curious?) his fingers curl lightly where they rest, more of a twitch, an involuntary reaction. he swallows hard, tensing for the briefest moment. ]
At an EVO meeting— [ you know, the support groups that are only for evolved humans. a roundabout way of outing himself, if quentin knows anything about them. peter doesn't make a habit of going, has only been to one or two at the start, where there were 2-4 people in attendance. the groups have grown since then... to go again now would be bad news for him. he's not aware of it yet, but absorbing too much at once would overload his system and shutdown for an undetermined amount of time. ]
Overheard a couple of people talking about his obsession with this child. And with everything that you told me, I thought— [ he shakes his head. ] So—you said, pull him out... does this Freddy live in the dreams?
Yeah. Yeah, since he died. [ He mutters, almost as an aside. An obsession with a child, mental lockdown, nightmares and sadistic tendencies--he feels stupid for never realizing before that someone so much like Freddy has just been kicking around. Quentin has been digging into the past, into academic, into mystics. He should have been looking at real people.
[ It's almost certainly an ethical breach, but: ] You don't remember who was talking about him? Maybe you have their contact or--
[ There's a beat, then his brow pulls tight and low. ] --wait. So...you're...?
[ since he died rings loudest, so loud that he barely registers the rest, mulling it over with a somewhat vacant expression. wondering just how one would go about killing someone who's already dead. quentin has surely thought about it— fire, he remembers clearly.
but the look on quentin's face pulls him out of it, gaze refocusing as he goes over it again. peter ducks his head with a shrug, hands pulling further back, but still pressed to quentin's thighs. ] I— [ he nods, and sighs softly as he tips his head up again. his lips press together, deciding if he should feed quentin half-truths or not. ] Yeah, [ softly, almost whispered, ] I can mimic what other people can do.
[ the whole damn truth that only manages to last about two seconds: ] When I'm in their vicinity.
[ Automatic, baffled: ] When were you gonna tell me?
[ He winces at his own question only a split second later. ] No, I know that's not fair, just--it seems like a big deal, like--I don't know, I don't know what it's like being someone like you, what's the etiquette of--hey.
[ Abruptly, he pauses, brings his fingertips gingerly under Peter's chin to draw his attention back up. Quentin tilts his head to get eye contact again, to look at him seriously. ] Hey. Don't hide. I'm sorry. Just...kinda seems like you can relate to why I didn't spill my fucking guts earlier.
[ peter goes rigid as soon as the question passes quentin's lips, and even though he rectifies himself, it doesn't quite assuage his jangled nerves. ] Sure, yeah, I can relate— [ just as quick, not as delicate, peter reaches up and curls his fingers around quentin's wrist. tight. tighter than he means to. he holds his gaze, intensity looming the edges of his eyes. ]
But I'm not the one that invaded your head, am I? [ he bites back, unnecessarily. ] Are you actually sorry, or are you just sorry you got caught? [ obviously still sore about the whole ordeal, and nurturing his cynicism. ]
You said it yourself, you've never pushed me for anything. [ his jaw tightens, ] If you knew it was real, would you have spilled your guts? Or would you skulk around in my dreams for all my dirty secrets?
Peter-- [ His eyes cut briefly to the vicious grip on his wrist, more appraising than anxious, before coming back to Peter. ] I didn't invade shit, I'm trying to tell you. I can't, you--
[ He'll see the gear click into place. Quentin's wrist flexes in his fist. ]
Are you fucking joking? [ peter lets go with a huff, then shoves at quentin's hips as he pulls himself back. far enough to remove himself from the bed completely, sheets and blankets hanging off the edge as he stands just a foot away, brows pulling together. ] How the fuck am I supposed to pull you in if I don't know how this shit works? [ he spits out the bold-faced lie, knowing damn well that his own ability is tied to emotion. peter doesn't need to know how it works, he just needs to emulate quentin's moods... or...
[ Quentin fumbles off him, worms upright again to grab for Peter--but he just gets handfuls of sheets. ] I don't know either! I told you, the last time I shared space with anyone was totally different, I couldn't do this on purpose! Peter. Please.
[ Sheets yanked away, he makes another grab for Peter's hands. Hips. Backs of the knees, thighs, whatever. It just feels like the farther he lets Peter get from him, the worse he feels. If he backs up, Quentin will slide to his knees to lengthen the reach--to show off his penitence. ]
What do you want? Tell me what you want from me, I'm trying here.
[ there's something... distressing about the way quentin scrambles for him, desperate to keep him here and present, to have some sort of physical contact as a tether. peter can't will himself to move any further away, and once quentin has his hands on him again, he takes a hesitant step forward.
then back again, adding pressure where quentin's hands lay.
peter breathes out a sigh, fingers twitching at his sides, fighting the urge to reach up, to return his gesture. ] Fuck, [ he murmurs, ] Don't you get it? Haven't you put the pieces together yet? [ his expression hardens for a brief moment, shaken away when he puts his hands on quentin's forearms. ] Why do you think I never talk about this shit? I only wanted you for your body— [ he cringes, ] And now all I can think is— I don't want the way you look at me to change because I fucking lied about what you saw.
So don't lie to me. [ LIke it's just that easy. He says it like it is easy, only a moment's hesitation for the sting Peter's confession. It's fine. He can't say he was any better: ] I know we're not--anything. But you're the best thing that's happened to me in a long time, so we could just be honest. We could just--be honest.
[ His mouth hangs open, expression dull, head shaking. ] ...I like you, Peter. I really--I really like you, I don't want you to think I'm some kind of fucking monster. I don't wanna lie to you. I don't think you wanna lie to me either.
No, that's exactly what I want. [ he huffs a humorless laugh, confounded by the awful taste the admission leaves in his mouth. ] I want to pump you full of lies until you're so delusional that you'd believe even the most blatant. I want to string you along for as long as possible and break that big fucking heart of yours— [ but the look in his eyes tells a different story, undermining every single word.
peter groans miserably, his grasp on quentin's arms growing a little tighter, reciprocating that stupid need to remain close. ] But I can't. [ he whispers as he lowers himself to his knees, ] You've somehow wormed your way under my skin—I couldn't cut you out even if I tried... even if I really wanted to.
[ wrapping both hands around one of quentin's, he clings to him in a pathetic and desperate sort of way. ] How's that for honesty?
[ Even for honesty, that feels raw. Quentin watches him intently, dumbstruck trying to see what kind of strategy Peter's running, but the strategy seems like--surrender. His mouth hangs open till Peter squeezes his hand, and Quentin snaps it shut. How is that? It feels raw, like cleaning an old wound. When was the last time he was honest with anyone?
[ His free hand fits to Peter's cheek, and he bows into kiss him feather-light. Still concerned, he frowns as he pulls back. ]
[ the kiss catches peter off guard— he's not exactly sure what kind of reaction he expected, but that wasn't it. there's something oddly calming about it, tempering the twist of guilt in his chest. he breathes deep with a subtle nod, instinctively leaning into quentin's touch. ]
I feel like I should be the one asking for you— [ he swallows thickly, thumbs brushing warm skin. ] I do, alright?
[ he's not fond of it, but quentin's right about one thing... he pulled him in. ]
And you believe me? [ Maybe he's right about Peter kicking this off--but that's the tone of a guy who feels like shit. ] I'm not--spying on you, I'm not doing this on purpose?
No, I know. [ it's sincere, at least, even if he sounds a little weary.
tired of his own shit, really. tired of fighting the way he feels about quentin. ] I know better than most that this shit isn't easy, there's no fucking handbook or cheat sheet. [ peter reaches up to hold quentin's other hand, ] You're fine, I just— blaming you was supposed to easier than the truth.
[ in any other circumstance, peter would readily follow quentin's pull. he'd lift himself off the floor and crawl in beside him, shoving everything else by the wayside for as long as he could.
but he resists while casting his gaze down, returning the squeeze— then release. ] Go on.
[ he figures quentin's all talked out, and maybe he is too. one thing he knows for certain, sleep is the furthest thing from his mind... but maybe something to smoke might help. ]
[ He can't imagine sleeping, not after this. But he absolutely cannot imagine being alone, either. Peter lets him go, and Quentin's stomach drops like a rock, face paling. ] ...Come on. Don't--
[ It's okay. It's okay, he meant to get up to start anyway. Quentin turns and goes for the other edge of the bed, where his clothes are piled clumsily on the floor. ] Let's watch TV or something. I can make coffee. Or something to eat maybe? Don't--leave me. We don't have to talk, just don't leave me alone.
[ jesus, there's something so final about the way quentin says it in his frantic intonation. it guts him, and overwhelms him with a need to reassure. ] I'm not— [ peter shakes his head, and plucks a pair of sweatpants off the floor as he follows quentin to the other side of the bed. ] I won't.
[ peter doesn't mind the company, probably prefers it anyway. ]
I could probably use some coffee, [ he finally adds as he slips into the loose-fit pants, then holds out a hand to lead them both out into the open-concept living space. the bedroom lets out next to the living room and dining space with it's too large windows, and across the room is the kitchen with an island. all in all, it's easy enough for quentin to keep peter in his sights. ]
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peter won't admit it — out loud or to himself — but the press of his body, and his touch is... comforting. ]
Okay, fine, I believe you— [ still wary, but his temper gradually wanes, then shifts. a flicker of a protective nature that's been idle for so long, he barely even recognizes it. ] Is that supposed to be a sign? If it hasn't happened since you last saw him, does that mean he's here?
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[ This time, he slows to the pause, lets the air out of his lungs long and slow. Quentin searches Peter's eyes, thumbs stroking down his cheeks. If Freddy was here, if Freddy was here... ] That's why I woke you up. He can't get you if you're awake.
[ And, it goes without saying, he has no idea what he would do if that happened. ]
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[ peter murmurs, bewilderment faintly creasing his brows. if the room was filled with half the sound that echoes in quentin's apartment, he probably wouldn't make out the words. but here and at close proximity, it's not difficult to understand. it comes out of nowhere, hitting him like a ton of bricks. peter doesn't know much about him, but some of what quentin describes matches up.
some might even refer to him as a demon... if they didn't know better. ]
Is that— does that ring any bells? [ he skim his hands over quentin's hips, reacting to his fear, arms encircling his waist instinctively. ]
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[ His right hand draws along a series of four messy scars--puncture wounds Peter has surely noticed and Quentin has surely danced around till now--that trail down the left side of his ribs starting from his collarbone. Battle scars. ]
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[ the distinction throws him off, makes him wonder if they're one and the same or two completely different breeds of monsters. ]
I— [ peter hesitates for a moment, glancing back up. ] I don't know his name, don't really know much about him other than what I've heard. [ he leans back with a deep breath, slow, controlled, his hands now resting at his hips. intentionally sustaining this topic in the hopes that it's enough to derail quentin's thoughts, keep him from remembering anything he might've seen or heard in peter's dream.
because they eventually fade, right? he's counting on it. ]
He's a telepath— fucking powerful one. He can do so much more than read your thoughts, he can get inside your head and make you see... anything he wants you to see. Trap you in your own head— in a nightmare. He holds all the power there.
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But this guy--the Nightmare Man. [ Yeah, the gears are turning fast. His hands wring over Peter's shoulders, thumbs tap at the base of his neck thoughtfully. ] You've heard about him. Where do you hear about him? Do you know someone who knows him?
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At an EVO meeting— [ you know, the support groups that are only for evolved humans. a roundabout way of outing himself, if quentin knows anything about them. peter doesn't make a habit of going, has only been to one or two at the start, where there were 2-4 people in attendance. the groups have grown since then... to go again now would be bad news for him. he's not aware of it yet, but absorbing too much at once would overload his system and shutdown for an undetermined amount of time. ]
Overheard a couple of people talking about his obsession with this child. And with everything that you told me, I thought— [ he shakes his head. ] So—you said, pull him out... does this Freddy live in the dreams?
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[ It's almost certainly an ethical breach, but: ] You don't remember who was talking about him? Maybe you have their contact or--
[ There's a beat, then his brow pulls tight and low. ] --wait. So...you're...?
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but the look on quentin's face pulls him out of it, gaze refocusing as he goes over it again. peter ducks his head with a shrug, hands pulling further back, but still pressed to quentin's thighs. ] I— [ he nods, and sighs softly as he tips his head up again. his lips press together, deciding if he should feed quentin half-truths or not. ] Yeah, [ softly, almost whispered, ] I can mimic what other people can do.
[ the whole damn truth that only manages to last about two seconds: ] When I'm in their vicinity.
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[ He winces at his own question only a split second later. ] No, I know that's not fair, just--it seems like a big deal, like--I don't know, I don't know what it's like being someone like you, what's the etiquette of--hey.
[ Abruptly, he pauses, brings his fingertips gingerly under Peter's chin to draw his attention back up. Quentin tilts his head to get eye contact again, to look at him seriously. ] Hey. Don't hide. I'm sorry. Just...kinda seems like you can relate to why I didn't spill my fucking guts earlier.
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But I'm not the one that invaded your head, am I? [ he bites back, unnecessarily. ] Are you actually sorry, or are you just sorry you got caught? [ obviously still sore about the whole ordeal, and nurturing his cynicism. ]
You said it yourself, you've never pushed me for anything. [ his jaw tightens, ] If you knew it was real, would you have spilled your guts? Or would you skulk around in my dreams for all my dirty secrets?
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[ He'll see the gear click into place. Quentin's wrist flexes in his fist. ]
You pulled me in.
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fuck—
an emotional connection. ]
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[ Sheets yanked away, he makes another grab for Peter's hands. Hips. Backs of the knees, thighs, whatever. It just feels like the farther he lets Peter get from him, the worse he feels. If he backs up, Quentin will slide to his knees to lengthen the reach--to show off his penitence. ]
What do you want? Tell me what you want from me, I'm trying here.
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then back again, adding pressure where quentin's hands lay.
peter breathes out a sigh, fingers twitching at his sides, fighting the urge to reach up, to return his gesture. ] Fuck, [ he murmurs, ] Don't you get it? Haven't you put the pieces together yet? [ his expression hardens for a brief moment, shaken away when he puts his hands on quentin's forearms. ] Why do you think I never talk about this shit? I only wanted you for your body— [ he cringes, ] And now all I can think is— I don't want the way you look at me to change because I fucking lied about what you saw.
But I think you already know that.
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[ His mouth hangs open, expression dull, head shaking. ] ...I like you, Peter. I really--I really like you, I don't want you to think I'm some kind of fucking monster. I don't wanna lie to you. I don't think you wanna lie to me either.
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peter groans miserably, his grasp on quentin's arms growing a little tighter, reciprocating that stupid need to remain close. ] But I can't. [ he whispers as he lowers himself to his knees, ] You've somehow wormed your way under my skin—I couldn't cut you out even if I tried... even if I really wanted to.
[ wrapping both hands around one of quentin's, he clings to him in a pathetic and desperate sort of way. ] How's that for honesty?
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[ His free hand fits to Peter's cheek, and he bows into kiss him feather-light. Still concerned, he frowns as he pulls back. ]
Forgive me.
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I feel like I should be the one asking for you— [ he swallows thickly, thumbs brushing warm skin. ] I do, alright?
[ he's not fond of it, but quentin's right about one thing... he pulled him in. ]
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tired of his own shit, really. tired of fighting the way he feels about quentin. ] I know better than most that this shit isn't easy, there's no fucking handbook or cheat sheet. [ peter reaches up to hold quentin's other hand, ] You're fine, I just— blaming you was supposed to easier than the truth.
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Lay back down?
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but he resists while casting his gaze down, returning the squeeze— then release. ] Go on.
[ he figures quentin's all talked out, and maybe he is too. one thing he knows for certain, sleep is the furthest thing from his mind... but maybe something to smoke might help. ]
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[ It's okay. It's okay, he meant to get up to start anyway. Quentin turns and goes for the other edge of the bed, where his clothes are piled clumsily on the floor. ] Let's watch TV or something. I can make coffee. Or something to eat maybe? Don't--leave me. We don't have to talk, just don't leave me alone.
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[ peter doesn't mind the company, probably prefers it anyway. ]
I could probably use some coffee, [ he finally adds as he slips into the loose-fit pants, then holds out a hand to lead them both out into the open-concept living space. the bedroom lets out next to the living room and dining space with it's too large windows, and across the room is the kitchen with an island. all in all, it's easy enough for quentin to keep peter in his sights. ]
let's call it a wrap on this thread...........we can talk next steps B)