summonthesuit | IC Inbox

[Well, at least Steven hasn't left. That's... something. Quentin will take it at the moment, as he listens quietly. He doesn't miss that glance, though.]

...This doesn't have to be a quid-pro-quo thing if you don't want to. I still have a few secrets I won't give you, for a while. Things that are gonna stay mine. Not related to Mysterio but just- me. [He taps his own chest briefly, with the slight click of chitin against chitin.] But- sure. I won't. Barely know the guy anyways. I can give him the benefit of the doubt.

[Oh great. More secrets. But if it's not related to Mysterio, Steven doubts it's an 'I killed even more people' sort of secret. He'll let it slip.]

It's not a quid-pro-quo thing. I meant to tell you sooner, I just didn't know how. It's uh... [His voice reaches a soft little high note, as it often does when he's nervous.] God, this is gonna weird you out, I reckon.

[Because he knows exactly who caused that last death Quentin suffered. Dr. Osborn broadcast that for everyone in Ryslig to hear. It's for the same reason he didn't tell Peter. He's already said that Marc is harmless, but negative associations are bound to happen. So he breathes a deep sigh, hangs his head back for a second and finally runs both his hands over his face. Here goes nothing, and it's all coming out in an uncomfortable ramble.]

The reason Marc and me look alike is because back home, we share the same body. That's how it's always been. I dunno why the Fog decided we'd be better off having our own, but. Uh. Yep. That sleeping disorder that I thought I had? That was just Marc stretching his legs and doing his own things at night. Can't even say I blame him. Having to watch from the inside gets tedious fast. But now the body's all mine and that's even worse, somehow. Feels lonely. Barking, right?

[The softest little chuckle escapes him; something strained and weak. He throws another sideways glance Quentin's way, bracing himself for something like horror or disgust, or confirmation that he's crazy.]

[Quentin stares at Steven blankly for a moment, as things process.

Well. This is. Definitely not what he expected at all. But- okay. Sure. This may as well happen, then. And here he was just gonna guess the guy was an... estranged twin or something.

He's going to focus on the one part of this he even feels alright talking about.]

...Not... really? You got used to having him around, and then he was gone. It leaves a gap. It's not... something you get over overnight. Especially if you were- together, for a while? I don't know how to phrase this, that sounds wrong.

[Quentin's confused at the moment, but he's got the spirit. It helps that he's focusing on what's familiar to him though: loneliness.]

You get the point.

[A beat, before Quentin probably wades right into the metaphorical deep-end.]

...You swear he's not an evil twin or something, though? Just- [He laughs at himself, scrubbing a hand down his face.] First time I ran into him, I thought he was some Ryslig... thing. A warped reflection of you. That's. Kind of my only question at the moment. A double-check. You know the guy; he's the real deal-?

[It's a somewhat promising reaction at first. Understanding. And that's more than Steven can say for himself when he found out about the Mysterio thing. But then the conversation takes a turn and those last few words really hit Steven where it hurts. He would love to say he's made peace with this particular aspect of the situation, but he hasn't.

He raises one hand as if to move it up to his face, then drops it onto his leg again. His brow furrows so strongly that it almost hurts.]

He is. He's... He's always been the real deal. 'Cause he's the original, isn't he? I'm the warped reflection. Just a... an afterthought who came in later, and I didn't even know it. I'm not even really British. Most of my memories are fake. I... I'm not a real person. [Steven's voice cracked just a little bit on that last one. Oops.]

[Oh fuck. He's stepped into a conversational minefield he didn't even know was there. Quentin just meant 'real deal' in the sense that the guy was the one Steven knew, not- this. Oh no. Time to... figure something out, on the fly.]

...I dunno. You seem- pretty real to me. [He reaches over carefully to take Steven's hand. The grasp can easily be broken out of.] See? Solid. I knew you first, so that's why I... thought that. Him being potentially not- right. But you're right, you're not- bullshit. Take it from a bullshitter, if you weren't a real person, there wouldn't be-

[He gestures a bit helplessly with his free hand, struggling for a good word.]

Substance. Quirks. Things feel real when they have some truth in there. Ergo, you're real. Who else would write network messages like a letter, huh? Or know all those neat things about Dracula. I'm pretty sure that's all you, Steven. [He gives the other man's hand a small squeeze to emphasize his point.]

[Deep down, Steven knows exactly what Quentin meant when he asked. It just didn't stop his thoughts from derailing. He can't shake the image of a young Marc huddled up in his room, their mother banging furiously on the door. A memory that was never supposed to be shared between them, because 'that was the whole point of Steven'.

When Quentin's hand goes for his own, he doesn't shake it off. And he hears all of what's being said to him, but it somehow doesn't register as anything worthwhile. Who cares if he's different from Marc? Who cares if he lives life his own way? That was the whole point of him too.]

It is all me, but... But the only reason I exist is because Marc went through something horrible, and... [He swallows thickly, raising his free hand to his eyes. They're starting to burn. Some strained mix between a chuckle and a sob escapes him.] ... Hell if I know what happened at Tower Bridge. I don't remember anything like it. Chances are, I wasn't in town for it, but that won't stop me from thinking I've been living in London for years already. You know where... where he first got the accent? Off some movie he loved when he was just a lad. That just makes me the world's biggest joke, don't it?

[Oh, Steven. Quentin gives Steven's hand another small squeeze, and one of his wings very carefully drapes over the other man's shoulder. It's the best version of a hug Quentin can do without letting go.]

Hey, honey, no. [The endearment slips out before he can think about it.] No, you're not a joke. It means that you came from somewhere loved. That's gotta mean something, right? It's... I don't know how to talk about this kinda thing, but- it's your experience either way. Your life. This is your life here. Marc's just... showing up late to it, this time.

[He goes quiet for a moment, before deciding to give Steven another piece of things. One of those last remaining 'secrets' he's got.]

My uncle liked doing voices for fun. Does that mean he was a joke? Nah. You aren't either. Just means that something stuck. Was appreciated.

[Steven just feels so exhausted all of a sudden. And weak. He spent two months trying to adjust to life by himself; to be his own person again, as he always thought he'd been, but it just wasn't the same anymore now that he knows the truth. And having the body 24/7- not even getting a break to sleep- is much harder than it has any right to be.

He feels the squeeze into the palm of his hand, followed by the draping. It's like a soft quilt's been tossed over him and at first, that's what he assumes it was. It's not until he turns his head lightly that he realizes it's Quentin's wing. ... God, he's being comforted by the guy he was yelling at just a few minutes ago. He's really that pathetic, isn't he?]

Thanks... [He rubs at his eyes one more time before lowering his hand again. It comes to rest on top of Quentin's. When he speaks again, his voice is a little nasal.] 'M sorry for... For this. S'pose I'm just really tired too. But hey, all cards on the table now, right? ...Well, most cards. Those were the big ones.

[That whole Moon Knight thing is something for another day. Or possibly never. That's up to Quentin.]

[There's another small squeeze to Steven's hand. Quentin's not letting go any time soon, for as long as Steven needs it. Emotional stuff like this is... exhausting. This can be their small exhaustion zone for now. A place to rest.]

Hey, it was a lot to cover, lotta things to process. Shit like this is... [He lets out a small huff of a laugh, looking down for a moment.] It's a lot. But yeah, all big cards on the table. Think we can call this a success for now-? We could use the break.

[He's not ending the conversation at all. Just gently tabling this portion of things for a breather.]

[Once there's another squeeze, Steven's gaze strays down towards their hands and a faint smile tugs at his lips. The sensation- the warmth helps to ground him. He'd question if it's an act, but the gesture matches Quentin's words and he can't lie. For a 'bad guy', Quentin sure is a nice guy.]

Yep. Break sounds good. [The tip of his tail swishes, tapping against the bottom of the couch, near the floor. It has something of a mind of its own until he learns to control it better.] So how uh... How's your week been?

[Quentin can't help the genuine laugh that escapes when Steven asks him how his week's been. His wing slips off of Steven's shoulder before he gently thunks his head against the same spot, like a cat headbutting against a hand. God. Quentin is so fucked. Steven is such a dweeb, how dare he be charming even now.

The sudden snap of lingering tension is weirdly relieving.]

I- sorry, but, ah, alright, for the most part! [He's still smiling a little as he sits back up.] Bit weird, bit empty, but- alright. Coulda been better, coulda been worse. Happy we could talk. Was thinking about trying a new recipe I found so I could just- do something, y'know? Some kinda... bread thing, I think. You get up to anything recently-?

[Aw man, Steven liked having that wing there. It wasn't on the level of a weighted blanket, but it still spread the sort of pressure that brought comfort. He's not even sure what to make of that headbutt. Some sort of faerie thing, maybe? Or maybe Quentin's just that quirky. He doesn't mind it, but caught him off guard a little.

What Steven meant was whether Quentin saw any familiar faces in the batch of newcomers, or got caught up in that candy debacle or anything like that. But you know what? The resulting ramble about trivial things like bread recipes is nicer to listen to.]

Oh, uh... Not really. Just work and trying to avoid my lush, dodgy neighbour on account of a supervillain history. As one does. [He laughs weakly. Really, he feels bad about that, he does. The hand that's on top of Quentin's own gives it a quick pat.]

[Quentin snorts at Steven's reply. Honestly? Fair. If he was in Steven's position, he probably would have done the same.]

As one does, of course. I get that this stuff is lush- [He gestures to the red fluff around part of his neck, tone lightly teasing.] But c'mon. I think there's probably a better word for it. I'll give you dodgy, though.

[Steven blinks, unsure whether Quentin's just joking or whether he genuinely confused the British meaning of that word with the American one. He uh... Yep. He'll just roll with it, then.]

Dapper? Smart? ...Probably soft, it looks soft. Does it shed a lot? Big tufts of fluff in the shower drain? [God help him, he can't stop nattering now.]

[...Oh. Okay, that is- not what Quentin expected. Just gonna... quietly tuck that compliment away for later, as he looks away briefly. Scratches at his jaw absently as he can't meet Steven's eyes for a tongue-tied moment.]

I'll take smart. But it's- soft, yeah. Little bit weird, but not as messy as the... scales, I think? On these. [One of his wings twitches as he says 'these', like lifting an arm and then dropping it again.] They tint the water, looks- really weird, if you're not used to it. The fluff doesn't shed as much. Sorta like...

[Quentin's face scrunches up in thought. He's never had to describe this to somebody else.]

Hair, I guess? Some comes loose, but not- handfuls. Do you get feathers everywhere, or is it a similar deal?

[When Quentin brings up the wings, Steven takes a closer look at them. They tint the water? Now he's wondering how that works. He doesn't know enough about insects to trace it back to anything.

At the question, his own wings strain themselves a bit, their position tilting backwards.]

Ah, no, I barely moult. For most birds it's seasonal, so I expect I might be in for a trail of feathers everywhere I go when winter comes 'round, but... Depends whether angel wings follow the same rules as bird wings, doesn't it? Maybe they don't moult at all. There's not a whole lot of Nephilim around to ask.

[Quentin's only learned how moths vaguely... shed through personal experience. Before this, he knew little to nothing specific about insects. It's still off-putting sometimes.]

Huh. Well, I guess I can't really say 'birds of a feather flock together' then, if there's so few of you. But I'd say- maybe? [Another small thoughtful face scrunch as he looks at Steven's wings.] Most of us seem to take animal influences from somewhere. But your wings are... painterly. Nice. Look a little sharp there, but-

[He gestures at them loosely, careful not to touch even by accident.]

Wouldn't be surprised if they turned out to be soft. Place is always full of surprises, ain't it?

Not soft, actually. I wish. Turns out, feathers are real fragile, actually? And they can bleed? [Ronstadt gave Steven plenty of warnings about that and now he's honestly kind of terrified he'll accidentally break some feathers and bleed out.

But you know what? Beck seems to not have recognized just why Steven's wings look so 'painterly', which simply will not do.]

The influence is Egyptian. It's the kind of wings you'd usually find on depictions of Horus. You know, most commonly known as the god of the sky, including sun and moon. Which is different from the god of the night sky- that's Khonshu. Bet he hates Horus, come to think of it. More than he hates all the other Ennead. But anyway, you'd sometimes see wings like this on scarabs beetles, too. Scarabs were all over, in jewelry and such. And engraved into sarcophagi or tomb rooms. People saw it as an amulet of protection against disease and death. And it was interpreted as a symbol of resurrection, too. But don't think of the heart scarab, though. Those didn't have wings. But they're fascinating little trinkets. They'd place 'em on the heart of the deceased, right? So when they got to the afterlife, the scarab would bind the heart to silence while it was being weighed in the Duat- the underworld. That way, the heart couldn't bear false witness against the deceased and influence the scales. Brilliant, right?

[Oh no. This is all weirdly enthralling, and Steven is- very passionate about this. Quentin is... so very fucked, dear god he hopes he doesn't look head over ass or something right now. Oh no.]

Huh. So there are scarabs and then... heart scarabs? Do the heart scarabs have no open wings because they're... containing life, maybe? Keeping outside influence out of things. That is pretty brilliant, honestly. An interesting way to-

[Quentin makes a vague gesture as he tries to find the right word. Enjoy his vague theorizing, Steven. He was more of a Greek myth kinda guy growing up.]

Do the whole afterlife thing. What'd they way the heart against? Some kind of karma meter, or-?

[However Quentin looks right now, Steven's not really processing it. He's just happy he gets to talk about these things and actually be listened to, instead of being brushed off.]

No no, you weigh on scales. That's a common motif in a lot of religions, innit? In Greek Mythology, you'd have the golden scales that'd weigh fates. In the Iliad, during the battle between the Achaeans and Trojans, Zeus takes out those scales and weighs the keres of the Greeks and Trojans against one another. Keres are like death spirits, so they're "fateful portions of death". [He absolutely airquoted that.] But in the Testament of Abraham, the archangel Michael is shown weighing souls on Judgment Day. And then according to Egyptian beliefs, the Scales of Justice are used to weigh the ka, which is the heart. It's weighed against the Feather of Truth, and if the heart's heavier, the soul won't gain entry to the Field of Reeds. Which is, y'know, eternal bliss.

[...There was scales in Greek myth, not just woven tapestries of fate and shit? Neat. Also no one should look good while air-quoting something, and yet Steven is right here doing exactly that. Rude.]

Okay, so it's the heart versus- what. The truth as in some universal truth, some kinda- cosmic thing, maybe? Or the truth of the person's life? Like, the feather can pick up whatever lies you've told and go 'Nope, no bliss for you. No reeds, just-' I dunno. I do think that's some interesting overlap, though. The Greeks had Elysium Fields, and then there's the Field of Reeds with the Egyptians.

['No reeds, just-' Ammit, according to the old tales. Except, apparently that isn't quite right. Ammit was imprisoned by the Ennead, and ever since then, souls who don't make it to the Field of Reeds are cast into the sand to turn into... Well. Steven has a bit too much experience with that. His fingers shift uncomfortably in his lap.]

Right, right! And to get to Elysium, you'd have to cross the river Styx and face the judges, yeah? In the Egyptian underworld, it's the Duat you need to cross. That's not a river, it's a whole landscape, but you could still use a boat for that. [Trust him. He knows.] But then there's also the Wakandan Ancestral Plane, have you heard about that one? You wouldn't expect it, but that one's tied to Egyptian mythology too. They say Bast and Sekhmet will take the hands of the deceased's soul and lead them to an endless green valley. That's like another field, innit? And the Greeks also had that middle ground, didn't they? The Asphodel Fields? So just... Fields all 'round.

[Quentin doesn't miss that finger shift, but Steven sounds- confident enough. Settled. Prying isn't worth doing right now. He's not sure how long this pause on serious talk will last, so he'll enjoy it while it does.]

Now that you point it out, what is it with all these fields? If you're passing on, shouldn't there... [He gestures a bit helplessly in the air.] Be something to do, at least? Or are you gonna sit around all day watching the reeds and asphodels wave in the breeze-? Gonna get a bit dry after a while, I'd think.

[He has no idea what kind of personal experience Steven has with the afterlife already, so this'll get interesting.]

[Steven never actually saw the Field of Reeds with his own eyes, so he can't say for sure what it was like in reality. Maybe the tales were wrong. He'd ask Marc about it, but it feels like a touchy subject. Ultimately, all he can do is speculate based on stories.]

There's more than just reeds, at least in the Egyptian mythology. See, the afterlife was meant to be an idealized version of life. So you'd find your home there, right down to your favorite tree and the stream where you'd like to go fishing, things like that. And your lost loved ones, and your pets... It'd all be waiting for you, so you could live the... The best version of your life, so to speak. And working the fields was always seen as virtuous and satisfying. So spending the rest of eternity cultivating the perfect field and harvesting bountiful crops? That was their ideal. [Steven pauses for a moment, frowning.] Those stories are ancient, of course. Who knows? Maybe the Field of Reeds evolved along with humanity and now it's less field and more... Sitting around on a sofa watching the telly? Playing videogames with your chums? I dunno. Just a cuppa and a good book, that'd be nice. I expect the afterlife exists on a plane of existence that's outside regular space-time, so it wouldn't feel like forever either way.

[...An idealized version of life, huh? Quentin grimaces, briefly rubs a hand against his jaw. It'd be... nice, if that were real. If it could be real. He doesn't even know what his own ideal life would look like anymore.]

...Is it like a blanket-statement of what's the ideal, like everyone would be doing the same thing, or still varies, person to person? You would get your books and drink, and I'd get- something else. Just- [Quentin gestures vaguely, blowing out a breath.] Old projects to work on, or whatever. Some movies. Old haunts to pick through.

[He looks down at his hands for a moment. He doesn't want to be this vulnerable, but. Steven probably won't twist the knife, as it's a genuine question. Probably.]

...Would people also have to believe in the same afterlife if you wanted to see them there, or no? Seems like a pretty big... problem, there, for lack of a better word.

IC Inbox | Ryslig

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WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, HASNOFEAR. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 13.15.15.14 * HASNOFEAR has joined 13.15.15.14 <HASNOFEAR>** Hello! This is Steven Grant! If you need something, just leave me a message and I'll get back to you asap!