(I really don't give a crap about him, Quentin. He's been lurking around our house for weeks, and none of us have done anything about it because what's the point? All he does is stand around. He never does anything.
But Mavis won't wake up. So yeah, his bullshit ideas where he cares about her more than us got to me.
[ There's no fighting with feelings; they've both hit the other with their own plenty for this particular juncture, and Quentin knows a soft spot when he sees one. ]
( Yeah, I know. We tried what they said, but it didn't work. So now I'm stuck in the clinic watching another person who's probably never going to wake up again.)
[ Oh, that sits awful in his gut. Was this happening the whole time last night? How long had she been asleep? Merta gives him a look when he promises to be back in an hour, but she doesn't stop him from slipping into a coat and out of the apothecary. ]
hang tight
[ Fifteen minutes to walk the familiar path between the two establishments plus another thirty seconds for him to spot Murphy waiting miserably near where Mavis is being monitored, fifteen and a half before Quentin is peeling back out of his coat and leaving it on the floor so that Murphy can feel it when Quentin's arm slips around the small of his back. The other hand splays over his stomach, chest to Murphy's shoulder. ]
[There's no resistance in Murphy for the touch. Quentin slips his arms around him and he turns into it immediately, face tucked down into his neck, hands clutching hard in the back of his shirt. It's easier than trying to think of anything to say. Trying to explain that Mavis on the bed is just the newest form of an old wound, one that keeps getting ripped open, over and over again. When people leave, they don't come back. His back and chest are tight with it, the desire to yell at Mavis until she wakes up, to yell at everyone else he's come to care about. Make them leave, soon, now, before it'll hurt this bad when they inevitably do it themselves.
But his fingers just twist tighter in Quentin's shirt. Holding on.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
— 12.17 . post-felipe afternoon
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I'm not sending him after you or mavis
I believe you about the way he is
But he was my first friend here
I found his body in the woods
I need you to let me see this thru
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But Mavis won't wake up. So yeah, his bullshit ideas where he cares about her more than us got to me.
Sorry, that I flipped on you too. )
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how long has she been collapsed? is she dreaming?
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this has been going around since the pegasi went thru. Did you see them?
Apparently the Rubeans are familiar with it, it's like a dreaming sickness
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hang tight
[ Fifteen minutes to walk the familiar path between the two establishments plus another thirty seconds for him to spot Murphy waiting miserably near where Mavis is being monitored, fifteen and a half before Quentin is peeling back out of his coat and leaving it on the floor so that Murphy can feel it when Quentin's arm slips around the small of his back. The other hand splays over his stomach, chest to Murphy's shoulder. ]
Hey. I'm sorry.
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But his fingers just twist tighter in Quentin's shirt. Holding on.]