Sweet Dream / Dangerous Nightmare
Quentin found himself in a spacious living room in a cottage. Or maybe it was a cabin? He was suddenly aware of the fact that he didn't know precisely where he was, or how he got there. And he couldn't remember anything that had happened immediately prior, so he had no clues to go on. Knowing this information should have terrified him. . . but it didn't. His arms hung tense at his sides, and he was clenching and unclenching his fists out of anxiety. But he didn't really feel afraid or worried, so that was something.
"Oh-kay," Quentin sighed out loud to himself in the empty, quiet room.
Trying to regain some kind of equilibrium, he crossed to the center of the room where there was a couch facing a large picture window overlooking a forested area with a lake in the distance. It was idyllic, in a too-good-to-be-true kind of way. But it was also a welcome change of pace from the insanity that Quentin usually found himself surrounded by, so he shrugged internally and decided to indulge himself with the view. Dropping onto the couch with a soft thud, he set his gaze straight ahead. The nature on the other side of the window was quite breathtaking. There wasn't a sound around or a person in sight and the water on the lake was eerily still.
But there was also no panic, no apparent danger. No immediate threat of death or dismemberment. It didn't take long for Quentin to allow himself to fully relax into that fact. Deciding to accept the quiet, peaceful moment, he leaned back against the couch and closed his eyes.
A few moments passed and Quentin's breathing had steadied into a solid rhythm, leaving a heavy warmth in his chest. Wherever he was, whatever brought him here, whatever was happening – he was glad for it and was seriously considering never leaving.
Another few minutes ticked by in silence. Then, eyes still closed, Quentin heard soft footsteps from some other part of the cottage. The ascending footsteps grew louder as the person entered the living room and approached the couch. The peaceful feeling was overwhelming, though, and Quentin was too comfortable – his eyes had grown heavy from being closed and he wasn't entirely sure he could, or wanted to, open them. So, he ignored the other person in the room and stayed in his comfortable position on the couch: Neck propped against the back of the sofa, eyes closed, with his face tilted mostly toward the ceiling but feeling the warmth of the—summer?—sun shining in the window on his face.
From the edge of the couch where the person had stopped, Quentin heard a chuckle. "Hmm," came the sound of a familiar male voice, followed softly by, "I could sure use a little Coldwater right now. . ."
Quentin opened his eyes and let his head loll back down to the straight-forward position, twisting ever so slightly on the couch toward the source of the comment. Of course, that voice belonged to none other than Eliot Waugh.
When Quentin didn't respond to the one-liner, Eliot let out a joking snort of contempt. "Oh, c'mon," Eliot half-whined, half-laughed. "I've been carrying that line in my back-pocket for a while now."
"Maybe you should have left it there," Quentin retorted playfully.
Eliot pouted, sticking his lower lip out for emphasis. He paused for a beat before rolling his eyes and laughing that musical laugh of his again. "Admit it, Q," Eliot said, suddenly serious and looking down at Quentin on the couch. "If I had said that to you in the Physical Kids cottage or in the hallway at Brakebills, or even in a random club or bar some night, it would have worked like a charm," he stated confidently, snapping his fingers in the air.
"Mehhh," Quentin squeaked with a shrug. He continued the flirtatious banter, adding, "I might have given you a pity-laugh."
Eliot took a few quick strides toward Quentin—an easy feat thanks to his long legs, which Quentin thought must go all the way to fucking Canada. Stopping short directly in front of him, he gazed down at Quentin with a devilish glint in his eyes. Before either of them could say anything else, Eliot stepped forward and eased himself onto his knees on the couch, straddling Quentin.
"El," Quentin said breathlessly, almost in a gasp. He wanted nothing more than to take full advantage of the situation, but he couldn't shake the fuzzy, confusion that was assuredly clouding his judgment. He knew that if he looked up, looked into those green-brown eyes or at those pouty lips, he wouldn't be able to control himself. And something told him that he needed to show some kind of restraint. So instead, Quentin focused his gaze dead-ahead, deciding that his best friend's neck/shoulders ought to be a neutral-enough space.
Eliot ran a hand through the boy's long hair, mussing it a bit, before locking his fingers together at the base of Quentin's neck. With a hard swallow, Eliot's Adam's apple bobbed in a way that Quentin found way more appealing than he should have. The tender skin of Eliot's neck was too tempting, as was the strong jaw it led to, which inevitably led to those talented lips. . . Left with no safe, neutral territory, Quentin mustered whatever resistance he still had and closed his eyes, releasing a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
Eliot snickered at the display of shyness, but took advantage of the opportunity to give Q's body a quick once-over without him knowing it. Happy with what he saw, Eliot allowed himself to settle his full weight on the boy's lap, seductively grinding his hips into Quentin's. The action made Quentin suck in a harsh breath, like he'd just been hit with an icy cold wind, followed by a nervous giggle – he actually giggled, like some giddy-ass schoolboy. His eyes fluttered open and he sheepishly glanced upward to meet Eliot's gaze, finding their faces much closer together than before.
"Hi," Eliot whispered with a smile.
Now, Quentin swallowed hard, suddenly feeling like his saliva glands were in overdrive. "Hey," he finally replied in a hushed tone. At first, he wasn't even sure he had gotten the word out or that the other man had heard him. He held Eliot's gaze, letting sparkling hazel eyes bore into his own brown ones.
Quentin felt like time had stopped, like the reason it was so quiet and still around them was to allow the weight, the meaning of this moment, to be fully appreciated. Quentin broke eye contact, moving down to Eliot's mouth, where a half-smile was still tugging at the corners. There was a pause. Eliot licked his lips, nonchalantly but slowly, biting his lip ever so slightly. It was subtle, but enough that Quentin couldn't resist any longer – He leaned forward, crashing his lips into Eliot's in a warm, passionate kiss.
Eliot responded in kind, chuckling softly and sending vibrations through Quentin's body as their mouths were still pressed together. His arms remained wrapped around Q's neck and he used this leverage to pull the boy toward him, kissing him fully. Quentin placed his hands on Eliot's hips, steadying the both of them.
The kiss deepened as Quentin playfully bit Eliot's bottom lip. Eliot let out a soft moan of pleasure and leaned harder into the kiss, slipping his tongue between Quentin's parted lips. Q wrapped his arms entirely around Eliot's waist, sliding his hands under the other's shirt, firmly and greedily holding Eliot in place.
After what seemed like both a lifetime and not nearly long enough, the boys finally broke apart to catch their breath, panting and dry-mouthed. Quentin ran a hand along Eliot's spine, making him shudder, followed by an involuntary chuckle.
"Eliot," Quentin said again, more forcefully this time. He was still breathless but forced himself to be clear-headed enough to clarify the situation. "Are you sure about this?"
Eliot leaned back slightly, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow. "You're shitting me, right, Q?" Quentin laughed in surprise and Eliot leaned forward to catch his mouth in another short kiss.
"But I thought—that you—didn't think—this—could work?" Quentin asked, between Eliot's quick pecks.
Eliot pulled back again, to Quentin's disappointment. This time, the look on his face was far more serious. "When the hell did I say that?" With a click of his tongue, he added, "And, more importantly, why would I say something that fucking stupid?"
Quentin couldn't conceal his confusion, shaking his head quizzically. "I just thought. . . I remember when. . . and you. . ." he stammered a few more syllables, trying to form words, before finally giving up on talking altogether, staring blankly at Eliot. Something didn't make sense and Quentin couldn't shake the feeling that he was forgetting something important. . .
Unable to decipher his foggy mind, Quentin finally muttered, "Never mind," almost to himself more than his companion. Whatever Q thought had happened or had been said, the fact was undeniable: Eliot was here, literally in his lap, looking stunning and, apparently, at his disposal.
Eliot sighed, glancing up at the ceiling and shaking his head before looking back down at Quentin, using his thumb to gently swipe a strand of hair from Q's face. "You, my dear, are a very trying boyfriend."
"'Boyfriend?'" Quentin repeated in surprise.
"Yeah, boyfriend," Eliot said, slowly drawing the words out. Then he leaned forward, so that his lips were right next to Quentin's ear. "But you're also one hell of a lover," he added in a husky whisper.
Quentin pushed his hands into Eliot's back, begging him to slide farther down on his lap. Eliot obliged, grinding into Quentin's hips again before burying his face in the space between Quentin's neck and shoulder, nuzzling him. Q could feel his boyfriend's hot breath against his neck and it was his turn for shivers to run along his spine. Eliot sucked on the soft, sensitive skin of Quentin's shoulder. He kissed his way down one side of Q's neck to his clavicle before he started back up the other side.
Their hands were all over, exploring one another's bodies at random. Moving one hand down to Eliot's ass, Quentin slid his other hand up the taller man's slender back, stopping at the base of his neck just before reaching his expertly moussed and in-place dark curls. Pulling him closer, he was overwhelmed with the intermingling scents of cedar and musk, a sexy sweetness that had to be natural because there's no way anyone could bottle that perfect mix into a cologne. As El shifted slightly, moving in rhythm with the placement of his kisses, he nipped playfully at Quentin's earlobe.
"Oh, fuck me," Quentin moaned aloud in ecstasy.
"Happily," Eliot mumbled into Quentin's neck, working his mouth up Quentin's jawline and eventually allowing lips to meet lips again.
"Mm," Eliot hummed softly, licking his lips as he paused and pulled away, panting. Quentin groaned—actually, almost whined—disappointed by the sudden separation. Eliot smiled that beautiful fucking smile and said, "Just, let me catch my breath." His eyes danced like he had some kind of secret, which Quentin found himself desperately wanting to know.
The window behind him held that too-still lake, with the sunset making it seem as though the sun was going to disappear into the dark, watery depths. Combine that with Eliot in front of him and it was like a damn postcard.
Once again, Quentin felt a sense that there was something missing. He couldn't figure out what it was and he mentally kicked himself for failing to recall what he knew had to be vital information. Then, he kicked himself again for letting his mind wander when he had a sexy god sitting on top of him.
Pulling Quentin from his thoughts, Eliot raised up off the boy's lap. Then, in one swift, fluid movement, he repositioned himself so that instead of straddling Quentin, he was sitting flat on his lap. He wrapped an arm around Quentin's shoulder, bringing the other arm across Q's chest to link his hands together and prop himself up.
"Hold me," Eliot whispered, somehow sounding seductive and innocent all at once. Putting one arm around Eliot's waist to rest on his hip, Quentin let his other arm lay flat across El's legs. With a contented sigh, Eliot lay his head down to rest it on his partner's shoulder. Quentin wrapped a hand under El's leg, squeezing to hold him even tighter against him, reveling in his scent and his warmth. Q placed a soft kiss on the side of Eliot's face, angling so that he could press his forehead to El's cheek.
A few minutes passed between them. Finally, a heart-wrenching thought occurred to Quentin "This feels like a dream," he blurted. He pulled away slightly, so he could look into Eliot's eyes. It was an action he instantly regretted because one look in that soul-baring gaze and Quentin could feel himself melting again.
"Damn, you're gorgeous," Q breathed. Eliot smiled – not his usual full-toothed beam, but a soft and shy grin with hints of pink filling his cheeks. It was enough to make Quentin lose any backbone he might have had and come completely undone. He slammed his lips into Eliot's once again, hungrily kissing the embodiment of perfection before him.
Again, Eliot let his mouth wander, first placing soft kisses on the corner of Quentin's mouth, his cheek, his chin, then trailing down his jaw. . .neck. . .shoulder. . . It was almost guaranteed there would be many marks left on various parts of Quentin's body. Quentin kept one hand locked on that tight ass, allowing his other hand to run up and down Eliot's thigh. When their lips met again, Q slid his hand between Eliot's legs, eliciting a gasp that Quentin was pleased to have caused.
Arms still around Quentin's neck, El pulled Quentin towards him as he leaned back to lay down on the couch. Their lips broke apart and neither could help but laugh at the awkwardness of their positions.
"Wait, wait," Quentin said. He gingerly pushed Eliot's legs to the side so that he could slide out from under them, scooting toward the other end of the couch.
Meanwhile, Eliot was adjusting his own position, so that he was laying with his head on the arm at his end of the sofa. He propped himself up on his elbows slightly, stretching his legs out toward Quentin. "Why are couches so narrow? This is stupid," The curly-haired boy critiqued, in typical Eliot Waugh fashion.
"Well," Quentin began, as he quickly stood and then dropped back down, resting on all fours at the end of the couch. "Maybe we should write a strongly-worded letter to furniture companies about that."
"Yeah, that's exactly what we should do, Coldwater," Eliot replied, with a jokingly snobbish snort of contempt.
"I love when you call me that," Quentin admitted, without really meaning to.
Eliot gave him a seductive grin and raised one eyebrow, "Oh, really?"
Quentin crawled forward, parting El's legs slightly to make room for his hands on the sofa. "Yeah," he confirmed, a bit more confidently thanks to Eliot's response. Thinking back to the sofa predicament, Quentin added, "We can make our case for wider couches by giving them an example of our struggles."
Still propped up on his elbows, Eliot pointed a finger at Quentin, "Only if it's in explicit, graphic, NSFW detail."
Q had that giddy feeling again and laughed, finding himself enjoying the intellectual foreplay. "Okay, fine, you can help me write it."
"Great," Eliot dead-panned. "But later. For right now, can you please get up here?!" he almost growled, leaning forward and grabbing a fistful of Q's shirt before pulling him down.
Quentin fell forward, on top of Eliot, unable to stop the nervous, giddy laughter that had overtaken him. Having dropped around El's chest, Quentin scooted himself up, settling onto his elbows when they were finally face-to-face.
Eliot wrapped his arms around Quentin, holding him in place on top of him. "We meet again," El said, his voice strong but breathy.
"Always," Quentin whispered, placing a gentle kiss on Eliot's waiting lips. He deepened the kiss and then decided it was his turn to explore Eliot with his own mouth.
Quentin immediately leaned down to Eliot's throat, kissing the Adam's apple that had teased him in the first place. He sucked on Eliot's skin, hot and salty. Moving his lips downward, he found an area just above Eliot's collarbone – a spot that was particularly sensitive and drove Eliot mad.
Eliot's back arched slightly and his hips bucked up, knocking into Quentin's. "Shit. You're so good," Eliot moaned, shuddering in pleasure. Q could feel every inch of Eliot's body beneath him, and he enjoyed the fact that Eliot wanted him so badly. In fact, he took pride in knowing that Eliot wanted him at all.
"Stop toying with me, Coldwater," Eliot groaned, but he made sure to place emphasis on the fact that he was using his counterpart's last name. That made Quentin smile, although he had no idea why it turned him on so much. Maybe it was just the way his name sounded when Eliot said it, or the way it rolled so naturally off his best friend's tongue. Then again, he liked Eliot's tongue, period.
Then, Eliot placed a hand on Quentin's chin, pulling his attention back up to his own face. "I'm serious," he said. Quentin figured Eliot must be aching as badly as he was, and nodded. He lifted himself up, so that he was sitting on El in a straddled position. Quentin pulled off his own shirt, as Eliot unbuckled the belt around the boy's waist and unzipped his jeans.
Q leaned forward to kiss Eliot, before quickly undoing the button-up shirt that his lover was wearing. Once the shirt was open, Quentin moved his hands to El's pants and worked on them. Then, he began moving his mouth down Eliot's neck again, but this time didn't stop at his collarbone. He placed a trail of kisses along El's chest, stomach, waist, hip bones. . .
This is a dream.
The thought hit Quentin like a ton of bricks, and he froze.
"Oh, what now?" Eliot groaned, his breath hitching in his throat.
Quentin sat upright and rapidly blinked a few times. He was still there in the cottage, on the couch, with Eliot. On top of Eliot. About to make love to Eliot. What the hell was wrong with him?!
This. Is. A. Dream.
His unconscious was practically screaming the words. As much as he fought the epiphany, a million inconsistencies raced through Quentin's mind: How he had appeared in the unfamiliar cottage at random; how he couldn't recall recent events; even that fact that Eliot was there, saying he was his boyfriend, basically throwing himself at Quentin with no hesitation. The whole thing was too perfect. Too neat.
"Quentin!" Eliot yelled.
Apparently, while overthinking, Quentin had leaned back and eased himself off of Eliot. He was now sitting on his knees on the couch cushion. Eliot was sitting up, his legs hanging off the side off the couch, and staring at Quentin with a wide-eyed, concerned look.
"Are you okay?" Eliot asked, quieter now that he had Quentin's attention.
Q shook his head slowly. "This is a dream," he said, this time out loud.
"What?" Eliot laughed, somewhat awkwardly. "Q," he began, placing a hand on Quentin's knee.
Quentin was afraid to give in to the temptation of the dream-version of Eliot again. He jumped back, scooting away from Eliot's reach. To be extra safe, he stood up, zipping his jeans and buckling his belt.
Eliot's hand dropped to the couch cushion where Quentin had been sitting. A hurt look flashed across Eliot's face, and it was almost enough to make Q race toward him. Almost.
"This," Quentin began, trying to steady his shaky voice, "is a dream."
The hurt look quickly erased itself from Eliot's face, replaced with a cool indifference. And that was so much worse than the pained look from a moment before. Quentin's heart ached.
"If you're trying to tell me I'm a dream come true or that this is like a dream, that's one thing," Eliot told him. "But pulling away from me? That's not how you do it, Q." Seething, but trying to hide it, El started buttoning his shirt back up.
Quentin backed up, sitting down on the edge of the cushion of the armchair next to the couch. "I'm sorry, El," he said, and he meant it. "I don't want to hurt you. And I love you. And I want this – I want you – more than anything."
"Then what the fuck, Quentin?" Eliot threw his hands in the air, with an incredulous look.
"I told you: This is a dream," Quentin told him apologetically.
"And what if you're wrong? What if it's not a dream?"
"It is!" Quentin replied, his tone harsher than intended.
Eliot stood up, using his height as a defense-mechanism. "Well, if it is a dream, then it was a good one!" Eliot argued. "Why would you want to ruin it?"
Q ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. "I don't want to, Eliot. I have to."
"Oh, you have to?" Eliot mocked, folding his arms across his chest. "And why is that?"
Quentin stood up, trying to maintain some sort of control over the situation. "Because something is wrong here."
His best friend raised an eyebrow, scoffing. Eliot spread his arms out, gesturing at the space around them. "Tell me, which part is so wrong, Q? Is it the perfect scenery? The beautiful cabin?" Then, Eliot suddenly clapped his hands together, holding them in front of his face as he let out a cold laugh. "Oh, I know – Maybe it was the amazing sex you were about to have!"
Before Quentin could respond, Eliot took a couple steps forward, bringing them dangerously close together. Quentin tried to steel himself against the allure of his friend, which was easier said than done as he was once again engulfed by Eliot's scent and the warmth of his body. Q tried to offset their height difference by backing up a bit, but came to an abrupt halt when he bumped into the chair behind him. He looked up, gazing into Eliot's eyes. He hated that Eliot's eyes, which were warm and inviting moments ago, were now harsh as he glared down at Quentin. They stared each other down, neither one wanting to give the other leeway.
Finally, Eliot gave in. He exhaled, clouding Quentin's mind with his deliciously minty, slightly cigarette- or marijuana-scented, breath. The taller of the two relaxed his shoulders slightly and took a half-step back, so he wasn't towering over Q in such a menacing way. Quietly, and more gently, he asked, "Do you honestly believe that you're so undesirable in real life that the only way you could have me is in a dream?"
Quentin was taken aback by the question. He wasn't expecting that – which worried him. Because if this were a dream, and now that he was aware of that, shouldn't he know what dream-Eliot was going to say? Because wouldn't it just be an extension of himself? This sent Quentin's thoughts spiraling, worrying that he had just made a colossal mistake.
Then, that nagging feeling came back. Quentin shook his head, trying desperately to remember. There was something he needed to know. Something that he had forgotten. . .
"No," Quentin finally whispered in reply to Eliot's question. "There's something else keeping me from you," he decided.
"Like what?" Eliot asked, cocking his head to the side in confusion.
"I'm not sure. But it's something important." Quentin chewed on his lip, mulling through thoughts and events, searching frantically for whatever he was missing. "Why can't I remember?!" Frustrated, Quentin pounded his forehead with the heel of his hand.
"Okay let's not do that." El reached forward and grabbed Quentin's wrist. For good measure, he grabbed the other one, before Q could use that one against himself, too. Instinctively, Eliot pulled Quentin against him, only releasing his wrists so that he could wrap his arms around him, holding him tight in a protective hug.
"This is really important, Eliot," Quentin whispered into Eliot's chest.
"I know," Eliot replied, shushing him soothingly.
Simultaneously, they dropped onto the couch side-by-side. Eliot kept one arm around Quentin's bare back—since Q's shirt was still laying on the floor where he had discarded it—and brought his other arm up to run his fingers through Quentin's hair, stroking his head.
"Don't do the anxiety-depression death-spiral just yet," Eliot mumbled into Quentin's hair. "It'll come back to you."
"What about you?" Q asked.
Eliot pulled away slightly, looking unsure: "What about me?"
"Will you come back to me?"
With a sad smile, Eliot nodded slowly. "Always," he promised, echoing Quentin's words from earlier.
He placed a soft kiss to Q's forehead, which filled Quentin with a profound sadness. He found himself wondering aloud, "Why do I feel like I'm losing you, El?"
"You haven't lost me yet, Q," was Eliot's response.
With that, everything came rushing back. Quentin remembered Blackspire and what Alice did and Julia losing her powers – and every big and little thing that had happened since then.
And the Monster.
Suddenly, Quentin's eyes shot open and he was lying on his back in his bed, in Marina's/Kady's/their apartment. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, staring up at the ceiling. "What a fucked up dream," he said out loud, as he rolled onto his side.
Quentin's blood ran cold, as he found himself face-to-face with Eliot-but-not-Eliot. He felt an ache run through him as he stared into the eyes that should be familiar but now belonged to a stranger, sending a wave of terror through him.
"Hi, Quentin." The Monster was kneeling on the floor at the bedside, having been there for who knows how long. "You were talking in your sleep."
Regaining composure as best as he could, Quentin sat up and straightened out, propping himself up against the headboard of the bed. "It was nothing."
"You were making lots of. . . noises in your sleep," It stated, somewhat matter-of-factly but with a hint of something else that Quentin couldn't quite recognize.
He was never sure what the Monster was thinking, or meaning, or planning. Quentin always had to try thinking ten steps ahead of the Monster, to prevent himself from saying or doing something that might upset It or offend It or cause It to go on yet another killing spree. Perhaps one of the only good things that had come from recent events is that Quentin retained memories of his time as Brian, during which he had learned how to handle the Monster – at least, to an extent. Keeping things simple and short, or making it out to be a game, had kept him alive so far. Even if it did enhance the Monster's strange obsession with him.
"I was having a nightmare. Just dreaming." Quentin shrugged, hoping that would put an end to the conversation. It didn't.
"I don't dream," The Monster informed him. "What's it like?" It leaned forward, resting Its head on the mattress and blinking up at Quentin, almost like a child waiting for a bedtime story.
Quentin sighed. Sputtering, he said, "Um, I don't know. It's like being awake, but different."
After a pause, the Monster smiled. "You're getting better at playing games, Quentin." It sounded just the slightest bit jovial.
"Thanks," Q told him, half-heartedly.
"You're really good at the game called Lying," The Monster added a bit more darkly, the playful tone starting to dissipate.
Quentin silently cursed to himself, racing through the last few days in his mind as he tried to figure out where he had screwed up. What misstep had he made? Then again, the Monster could be bluffing him. If there was any chance that It wasn't going to kill him, he should play it safe.
"What are you talking about? I haven't lied to you," Quentin promised, keeping his voice as steady as he could. "I have nothing to lie about. And I'd be pretty stupid to do that."
The Monster watched him for a minute before nodding slowly. "Yes, that would be foolish – considering how easy it would be for me to snap this fragile body in half. Especially when this body means so much to you."
Quentin fought the urge to flinch. "Y-yeah, so, why-I mean, why would I lie to you?"
After a moment of silence, the Monster smiled a devious grin. Then, It reached a hand—Eliot's hand, but not Eliot—forward, to move a strand of hair from Quentin's face. Instinctively, Quentin pulled away, slamming his head into the headboard of the bed as he did but he didn't care, didn't even feel it. His only focus was getting away from the poisonous touch.
The Monster frowned. "You liked when he did that."
Quentin sighed and pushed his hair out of his face on his own. "What are you talking about?"
"Why do you want him. . ." It hissed, "but not me?"
"Wait," Quentin closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "What?"
"I've been trying to figure out why you care so much about this Eliot," It nearly spat the name out. And Quentin hated the way his best friend's name sounded coming from the Monster.
"I told you, I just care. He's my friend. My best friend." Quentin was trying to hide his frustration, and feared that he was failing.
"No, there's something. . . Else." The Monster whispered.
It only took a second for Quentin to realize what It was implying. "Wait, wait, wait," Quentin tried scooting back, again limited by the headboard. "My dream. . . Were you. . ." he fumbled for the words. When a devilish grin spread across the Monster's face, Quentin's stomach churned and the realization hit him. "You were in my head?"
It sat up, putting Its hands in the air as if in self-defense. "I was just observing."
"Like that makes it okay?!" Quentin snarled. "You were in my head, in my damn dream? What else were you fucking with in here?"
"Nothing!" The Monster growled – a legitimate, guttural growl from deep in Its throat. "The dream was all yours. All I did was block memories of me. I was just watching – just to find out the things you haven't been telling me."
Quentin's blood boiled, but knew that he needed to be careful with his choice of words. He bit his tongue so hard, he swore he could taste blood. Finally, he felt he had calmed down enough to respond. "Feelings," Quentin began shakily, "are things you don't always share. They're personal."
"Would you keep your feelings from him?"
"That—ha," Quentin laughed incredulously. "That is irrelevant."
"Why?"
"Because you're not him!"
The Monster leaned back on Its heels, sitting low on the floor and shrinking into the darkness of the room. "If you want this body so badly," It began quietly, "you can have it."
Quentin spat out a harsh laugh. "I don't—ha. Ugh," Q put his head in his hands. When he looked up again, the Monster had placed Itself back at the bedside. It stretched across the edge of the bed, resting Its head on Quentin's leg. It then ran a hand along Quentin's chest and down his stomach.
"It's the same body, Quentin," It whispered. "You can do whatever you want to it." It raised Its eyes, staring directly at Quentin. "I know you want to."
"It's not. . ." Q groaned. "It's not just the body."
"What, then?" The Monster asked, sitting straight up, looking now like an eager child in school.
"It's just, I don't know." Quentin let out an exhausted sigh. Finally, feeling like he had lost all his fight, he admitted: "It's everything."
There was a long pause. The silence settled, making the air heavy. It made Quentin painfully aware of the immense, insurmountable distance between himself and Eliot – despite the physical body before him.
"He's your best friend," The Monster stated. "And you love him."
A nod was all Quentin could manage in reply.
The Monster nodded back. "Well," It dragged the word out, running Its hands on the edge of the mattress awkwardly. "Now, I know."
Quentin looked up at the dark ceiling and chuckled dryly. "Now you know what?"
"Why he matters," It told him. "Why you'll never let him go."
Suddenly overcome with all the emotions he'd been holding at bay, Quentin jerked his head toward the Monster. "Then you know something else, too," he said, an air of darkness entering his tone. "You know that I will do anything – anything – to get him back."
The Monster opened Its mouth, likely to offer some snarky response. But Quentin cut It off, continuing: "I will do everything I possibly can to save him. So, I'm going to play one final game with you. And then we're done."
"What game?" It asked, unable to hide the curiosity.
"Where I stop you and save Eliot. It's the only game we're playing from now on," Quentin answered with determination. With an edginess to his voice, he continued: "And the best part of it is that I'm gonna win. I will do whatever it takes to fucking destroy you, and your sister."
With a dry, dark chuckle, Quentin softly added, "I promise that by the time I'm done, there won't be a trace of you left." He leaned forward, daring the Monster. "I will annihilate you," he promised, placing fierce emphasis on each word.
The Monster stared at Quentin with a blank expression for a moment. Then, a devious smile spread across Its face. "You will try," It agreed before vanishing into thin air – leaving Quentin in the dark bedroom alone, to ponder how such a sweet dream could turn into such a dangerous nightmare.