#*sacrisomnia

arm has numbed as of a half hour ago, unwilling to and without the sturdyness of heart to move the boy soundly asleep against his chest. lost, somewhere in a daze of a repeating song verse when quentin flinches against him. steve peers down, shifting as minutely as possible. a soft frown as eyebrows pinch a tense line, as dreamwalker mutters, panicked and sharp beneath his breath. indiscernible over the crackle of fire, but distinctly upset.

there’s a brief tug-of-war in his head about whether waking an insomniac is a good thing or not--whether it could even be considered cruel under the circumstances. and then, there is the fact that everything concerning the boy curled against him is measured in small steps, a disentangling of preconception. hesitation in every brush of fingers, quietly concerned like his touch might shock. careful as he brushes away stray dark hair, careful as he graces pale cheek. impossible not think how he could mess all this up somehow. and so he hesitates to stir tired survivor. 

“hey,” steve starts, barely daring to raise his voice. he can feel the other’s breathing, unsteady stammer to a jackrabbit pulse. and then he speaks again, hand dropping to boy’s shoulder. it startles both of them as the other jolts awake, fingers curling at his sweater for purchase, or to push him away. quentin twists out of grasp, a defensive movement, and steve barely recovers fast enough to catch thrashing wrists. “hah- jesus, whoa.” hold is gentle, and he’s just as quick to release them. eyebrows furrow down, find that same barely fading panic on quentin’s expression.

“heyheyhey-- quen, it’s me. you’re okay.” eyes meet and quentin seems to steady, searching his face as the campfire grounds them in place and time. familiar, home. safety, however temporary. quentin’s shoulders sink, breath a sharp inhale-exhale in the night. arms wrap around the other boy, protective against what he can’t see, chin settles atop messy hair.  

it startles a soft laugh from jake, pauses from the mindless fidgeting and wringing of his hands. “i don’t recommend my style--it isn’t very rewarding,” he says, quiet amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. “anyway,” he adds, “--we don’t have enough people with your skillset around for you to be jumping in killers’ faces, alright?” try as he might, it isn’t so easy to shake the inherent worry that surrounded the other survivors--ones they had taught to bleed and mend and get out alive.

“or blow your mind?” a soft pshh-krow sound and accompanying gesture, followed by a lazy cat-grin; “--okay that was bad, but hey--i’m totally harmless.” steve’s lighter on his feet today, with lingering high of success--of making it through the finish line, fingers locked together with tired, loved boy. 

on one side of the debris, survivors--on the other, the doctor, frowning ( as much as could be detected in his forcibly bared teeth ) at the path of destruction wrought across lery’s halls. gurneys and heart monitors left knocked aside as path-blockers during what had been an entirely too hectic sprint toward exit gate. steve, maintaining his eye contact with snarling killer ( utterly, completely defeated this time ), lets the pallet in his hands drop, shattering glass and medical equipment beneath it with an echoing smash.

and then quentin speaks, and steve blinks, any remaining panic screeching to a crawl. he can’t help it; he cracks up, a quiet little huff from his nose as he glances sideways at the other. 

“yeah, well–” one hand on hip, the other gesturing vaguely panicked exasperation. “thought you were supposed to be the smart one.” even with lilt of self-depreciation, humour is slipping steadily into existential dread. he’s turning to squint through blood-speckled windowsill, searching out ominous silhouettes in the underbrush. bruised ribs twinge with the shift, and he’s sucking a tenuous breath in through his teeth. “...so--look, q, the a team is off the board. we’re, you know, b team. almost as good, just...” gaze drops, hand landing on battered companion’s shoulder with a defined tremble. “okay, actually, that wasn’t super motivational, but--” 

eyes raise, hairs standing upright on the back of his neck. the sense of being watched; time to move. taking quentin’s hand–so that they both feel skeleton key tucked against palm-- he pulls them porchside. stumbling steps and they’re crashing through the front of the house with heartbeat in their ears as killer’s presence resounds mere steps behind. shoes scrabble on asphalt as he drops and skids to a halt in the middle of the road.  “making it up to you, in three... two...uh…now!”

fingers scrabble with lock and key and palm lands on the hatch– the door whips upward with a creak. killer is practically on their heels. quentin ducks a swing of sailing blade, and steve yanks survivor behind him in a smooth movement.  “gogogogogogo!” two hands and swift shove to dreamwalker--toward the opening into void. quentin’s protesting something loud and visceral, but he isn’t listening to anything but his own pulse. got you into this mess, getting you out.

silvery blade swipes out, catches on green fabric as steve twists just out of reach. elbow lands against the killer’s solar plexus, like david had said. a muffled groan from behind mask, and then recovery, too fast. reeling curled fist caught and twisted backward with a yelp. hissing breath on the back of his neck and he’s being hauled back with heavy forearm around throat. he twists and thrashes his way free for half a moment– hands just miss each other as quentin’s steps slip backward, realization crossing two expressions at once--reality, blinking in angry red letters.and then falling.

send in a ❣ for a random kiss / a hand kiss

“whoa. did you deck someone? hope it was the clown.” a crooked upward grin as he settles himself down at quentin’s side. they’re both a little rough around the edges, battered and scraped from a scarcely escaped trial--blood-matted hair, purple-grey clouded jaw. but alive as they were, steve’s got an easy spark in his eyes where his smile reaches to crinkle them at the corners. he turns the other boy’s hand over in his, examining dark bruise, likely one of many inflicted by their stumbling through random debris. 

hardly anything in comparison to what the hooks did, what a handful of knives could do to a perfectly good sweater--what chainsaw feels like carving through bone. but exhaustion hangs onto quentin like rainwater--in the lines of his eyes and the curl of his fists. it feels like moral obligation to deliver lightness. “kind of took you for a lover, not a fighter, smith.” it’s a jab, but a fond one.

steve glances sideways, lets weary bones settle with a palm against the brick. terse, uneven breathing and ragged sides—not the worst outcome, considering the hard backpedaling they’d just done from branch-blocked exit. quentin--who he takes to be rather stoic, is watching the distance with a sort of worry in the crease of his brow. barely, is how he would describe their escape from blade of the hooded goon. he still had fingers and the necessary amount of un-hemorrhaged blood--sometimes these things are enough.

“ yeah, well, ” steve begins, “ new gameplan. ”  he levels his shoulders, exhaling. “ you make a break for the other switch while i... do whatever i’m gonna do to piss off joey-boy. we meet up, there is much rejoicing.” a small twirl of his finger to emphasize.