rising_tide | IC Contact post

Okay.

Have you eaten anything?

Um. Can't remember. Don't think so.

Are you allergic to or have an aversion to eggs?

No, eggs are fine.

There are, uh.

[Yeah okay no he's not really feeling prepared to admit to everything just yet. He can go to Staxx if that's what she's thinking, it's fine, it doesn't matter that it'll just make him think of Eliot.] Nevermind.

[ THANKFULLY no, she has a little kitchenette in her room. ] Okay, good, because eggs and toast are about all I can make. They won't be spectacular but they'll be food that you can put in your body and keep it alive.

[Oh, phew. Sanity and dignity intact. He sounds a little relieved:] Okay. I'll be there soon.

Okay.

It took Quentin a little longer than Daisy might expect to get dressed and get himself to her, but twenty minutes or so later, he arrived at her door, knocking. God, he was tired. He'd slept last night, he was...pretty sure. Why was he so tired?

Daisy (wearing actual pants, wow) opened the door a few seconds later and immediately pulled Quentin in for a firm hug. She honestly wasn't sure how to help, in fact she was pretty sure there just wasn't, like anything anyone could do to actually help, but a good hard hug sometimes helped her when she felt like she was in pieces.

Quentin felt tears prick his eyes as he laid his head down on Daisy's shoulder, letting out a shaky breath as he hugged her back. He wasn't going to actually cry, it was just, you know, a lot. He was feeling the sting of it. He didn't seem too inclined to let go, either.

He doesn't have to let go. Daisy is perfectly content to hang on tight, fingers of one hand stroking over his hair and the back of his neck. "I gotcha," she murmured. "S'okay bud, I gotcha."

After a minute, Quentin forced himself to pull back, though his hands still rested on her waist. He pressed his forehead against hers for a moment or two, just...trying to silently communicate how much pain he was in and how grateful he was to have her help with it. He pulled away fully with a bit of a stricken look, then made to come inside. If they were just going to hug it out for like an hour, which did not sound unappealing, maybe they should at least do it on something soft and horizontal.

Daisy angled her head before he pulled away to kiss his forehead, then moved briefly to one side to close the door behind him. She stayed tucked in close, since he seemed to need it, her hand absently rubbing up and down his back. She planned to let him pick the direction--flop down on the bed, on a chair, curl up in the floor if he couldn't make it even that far, but after a moment or two if he seemed directionless she'd gently steer him towards the bed, it being the closest and most comfortable seat.

He let himself be steered, retaining just enough presence of mind to kick his shoes off before he crawled onto it, not stretching out, but leaning against one of the posts at the foot, legs crossed and knees up toward his chest ~~the classic Bisexual Sit~~. "Sorry I'm just...pointless right now."

"No you're not," Daisy huffed softly, flopping down after him and assuming a kind of half-hearted lotus position nearby. Cause we all know bis can't fuckin' sit right. "And even if you were, who gives a shit. Be as pointless as you have to be. Pain demands to be felt."

Quentin let out a kind of staggered breath that might have been a scoff or a laugh. "That's deep, man," he said, but the amusement didn't last very long. He closed his eyes and let his head rest against the post. "I keep thinking about...jumping in the lake. Trying to go down there after him."

"It's literal fake deep Hank Green shit, but also annoyingly true," Daisy replied with a tight smile, moving to tuck in against Quentin's side and wrap her arms around him. Not the most comfortable positioning but fuck it. "Pretty sure all you'd accomplish is get wet at best and drowned by mermaids at worst. And don't do that," she added firmly, giving him a harder hug, because when you're in that much fucking pain, well. Being drowned by mermaids starts to sound appealing, and even knowing it was a temporary condition here--just no, Q. Not allowed.

Quentin moved one arm to wrap around her shoulders, holding her secure against him. "Yeah, I mean. That is a possibility I thought about." Far from the first time he'd thought about it, either. Wouldn't even be the first time he tried. "Pretty sure I'd be in trouble with, like, a lot of people, though."

"I know." Been there, done that. Spent a lot of months just straight up wanting to die. Lived as recklessly as possible and just couldn't seem to pull it off. "You're damn right you would. Me, for starters. I'd hate to have to kick your ass, Q."

Quentin resisted the half dozen deeply morbid replies that came to mind. "I'm sure you'd win," he just said softly, trying for a smile.

"Mostly cause you'd let me," Daisy snorted, lifting her head to kiss his cheek. "Think you can eat something?"

Quentin nodded. "Probably a good idea to try, anyway," he said with a shrug, reluctantly letting go of Daisy to let her get up.

Daisy gave his hand a squeeze as she got up, making sure he was settled before she let go. "Try to relax a little, okay?" She wasn't going far, just over to her kitchenette to pop some bread in the toaster, dig some eggs, butter, and a pitcher of orange juice out of the mini fridge. While the bread toasted up she poured him a glass of orange juice and carried it back. "Here, quick glucose hit. Might make you feel a little more human."

Quentin accepted the glass a little reluctantly, and sipped at the juice slowly. The sharp taste was a little bit overwhelming to his depressed senses, but it was fine, he guessed. She was probably right that the sugar would help.

She unfortunately didn't have much else, just a couple beers and coffee. She used to try to keep milk, but it kept going bad before she managed to finish it by herself. Either way, she wouldn't take offense if he didn't want it. The eggs and toast, at least, should be pretty bland, other than some salt and slight butteryness.

It didn't take long for the room to smell faintly breakfasty, and for her too present him with a small plate of scrambled eggs that were kind of inconsistently cooked, slightly soft in some places and slightly browned in others, and some toast, which wasn't burnt. "Sorry, I'm not exactly a kitchen whiz," she sighed, leaning in to peck a kiss to his forehead as she handed him the plate. "You can get crumbs on the bed. I don't care."

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