Chapter Text
Quentin's azure eyes flutter open. The first thing he can comprehend is the darkness lurking in the corners of his room, only broken by the moonlight pouring through his window, illuminating everything in an eerie glow.
The brunette groans in annoyance, he doesn't need to be awake for at least a few hours; his body has betrayed him.
He turns his body to face the window, keeping himself under the soft covers before tiredly glaring at the curtains he so carelessly forgot to close before going to bed. The light had to have woken him up.
God fucking damnit.
Quentin's irritated, he has nobody to blame but himself. It was such a simple yet obvious task that would've taken his past self a mere few seconds. He was so tired from working on Mr Thompson's History assignment, he just flopped into bed without thinking. Now he's paying the price.
The obvious solution is to close the curtains now and try to get back to sleep but… can Quentin even bring himself to do that? He's still exhausted and it's so warm under the blanket, he's in a very comfortable position too. He doesn't want to ruin that by getting out of bed at god knows what hour.
What time even is it?
The teenager sighs. Looks like he'll not be keeping this position. He slowly pushes himself up to sit, leaning against the wooden headrest comfortably, the pillows cushioning his lower back. He glances at the clock hanging above his desk opposite him.
Well, the clock that's supposed to be hanging above his desk. It's gone, leaving nothing but its imprint on the wallpaper.
Leaning in, Quentin frowns, a confused expression decorating his face. His eyes are trained on the space. He's not imagining things, the clock is just gone. Vanished.
Well, shit. Where is it?
Reluctantly, the brunette swings his legs out from his bed and pushes himself off. Immediately, he's introduced to the chill night air; his bare arms and legs bitten by the cold. Letting the moonlight guide him, Quentin takes careful steps across the carpeted floor to his desk, his movements rigid from the cold.
Shivering, he stops at his desk. His head tilts up at the wall and then falls again. His desk is covered in paper and pens in a tiny mess. There's no clock here, only his history assignment.
Sighing, the teenager leans forward, resting his palms on the wood while his eyes focus on the narrow gap between the desk and the wall. He squints through the dark space, trying to make out any objects within it. Nothing's stuck there.
He groans as he goes back to standing upright. He looks at his chair for a moment before falling onto it, working through the fog of fatigue to think.
“Well it can't have just vanished… but it hasn't fallen either,” the boy murmurs aloud, his voice soft and finished in the silent room. The lack of his clock ticking makes the whole space feel sad and lonely.
The only other possibility is that it was removed from his room, in one way or another. But Quentin vividly remembers it being there before he went to sleep. It was 11:43PM. He had checked because he wanted at least 6 hours of sleep before he woke up for school.
Did Dad take it when I was asleep?
As soon as the thought came, it was dismissed. No, his father wouldn't do that. They have an unspoken rule that he has to knock to enter Quentin's room, and only go in in emergencies or if he thinks his son is in danger or overdosed on Zoneral. Or whatever he thinks the brunette may be doing after the events in Springwood.
So it can't have been removed, and it hasn't fallen either. A sigh passes the teenager's lips and he walks back to the window, shutting the curtains and enveloping the room in darkness, with only the smallest cracks of light filtering in.
It's like it just disappeared. Vanished from this world.
Quentin pauses, thinking deeper. He was about to climb into bed and worry about it in the morning but… well, things don't just vanish. It defies the laws of reality, and yet the clock is gone. Possibilities swirl through his mind, Quentin's brows furrow before…
A terrorizing realization breaks his thoughts. His face, which had been scrunched up as he was thinking mere seconds ago, softens into a look of fear. That primal feeling that he's all too familiar with.
His voice breaks the silence, quiet but panicked, “I'm still asleep.”
Instinctively, Quentin backs away from his bed, his breath shaking as he stares at the covers. He's grown pale. This is a lucid dream. It has to be. Why else would something vanish like that?
He hasn't experienced a lucid dream since… since-
Freddy.
The teenager shudders at the name, his mind quickly repressing the memories that come with it. It has to be him. He's here. Somewhere. Watching Quentin panic. The boy can already hear his taunting laugh.
His eyes are still trained on his bed. The covers may be flat, but Freddy has a way to keep himself hidden. The teenager takes a tentative step forward, his hand clasping into a fist.
He's scared, but there's no use in delaying a confrontation. The quicker they get it over with, the quicker Quentin can hopefully wake up before it's too late. Delaying the inevitable just creates more fear, which is what Freddy wants. He slowly reaches out his hand, shakily gripping the fabric of the blanket; his chest hurts as his breath is held in anticipation.
With a swift yank, the brunette pulls the covers, exposing what's underneath. He lets out a heavy breath, a mix of relief and panic. Nothing's in his bed. He guessed wrong. He knows Freddy is getting a kick out of this little game of Hide and Seek. But if Quentin keeps guessing wrong, the more likely he's going to get surprise attacked.
Beads of sweat form on his forehead as he considers his options. He absentmindedly reaches for his necklace with his left hand, running his thumb along the cool metal of the cross. His eyes are still on his bed.
He could- he could be under it! He wanted me to guess wrong. He wants me to consider everything else because the bed itself is in the clear!
Quentin can't help but smirk to himself. Even as his body shakes and his stomach is in knots, he can still feel good over his analysis. Freddy's one sly bastard. He takes a deep breath before moving down, kneeling on one leg as he brings his head closer to the ground; his eyes searching through the darkness.
He can faintly see an outline in the shadow, but it's not a man. He reaches into the darkness and slowly pulls an object out. It's literally just one of his trainers; nothing else is under there. He places it down and pushes himself up, his legs still shaking and his breathing becoming faster.
Is it lucky or unlucky? Quentin can't decide. Had Freddy been down there, his face would've definitely been hacked and slashed and he'd already be at a disadvantage. The boy swallows, and there's a lump growing in his throat. But he's now onto a third guess, the two previous ones being wrong. He over-thought it and he's definitely going to pay the price soon.
I'm fucking this up real bad. Think, Quentin, THINK.
His eyes look over at the closet. Would he? No. That's too obvious, even for Freddy. Heck, Quentin's not even sure the man is in the same room. He could be in the hallway for all he knows. Heck, he could even be…
Outside. The window, shit!
The brunette hurriedly turns and opens the curtains, the moonlight falling onto his pale complexion. Nothing is there, yet. With trembling hands, Quentin quickly sets to work. He jostles the handle, the cold metal almost making him pull his hand away. The window's unlocked. His chest rises and falls every half-second, panic consuming his body. He needs to lock the window. Now.
Work, stupid hands, work!
He's getting more and more aggravated as he tries and fails to twist the lock in a hurried manner, his arms shaking too violently for the job.
Please. Please. Please.
Click.
Finally, he was able to get a proper grip and twist the lock. He's safe, nothing can come in without breaking the window. Quentin peers out into the street, still shaking. It's dark, but the streetlights illuminate most of the path. There are a few houses across the road from him, all with their dull colors, some beige, others blue. He scans neighbors' gardens, walls, anything for any sign of Freddy. There's nothing. Freddy's not lurking in eyesight. Either he's in a blind spot or, even more worrying, he's not outside at all.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. What the fuck am I supposed to do?
Quentin steps back, the fear rising in his chest again. His head swivels, his eyes wildly searching for that telltale sweater. Three wrong guesses. Three strikes; he's out. The teenager can't help it as a strangled, panicked cry forces its way out of his throat. He's going to die here. And it'll never be connected to Krueger.
His eyes fall onto the closet, its doors closed, containing whatever evils lurk inside. It's the only hiding place left, the one place Quentin hasn't checked. Freddy has to be in there.
With hastened breaths, he moves to grab his chair. There's no way in hell he's opening the closet door, that'd be suicide! Freddy will have to come to him; he'll be ready. Quentin holds the chair defensively, gripping the plastic like a lifeline. It's not that heavy but it'll still buy him time at the very least.
His knuckles whiten. This rodeo was meant to have ended. Quentin was rid of this curse the moment he left Springwood. He hadn't had lucid dreams for months. Hawkins was SAFE. Freddy had just become a nightmare. A real one that couldn't hurt him anymore. Why would Freddy be able to hurt him now? What's so special about tonight?
Did Nancy die? Is that it? Did she- oh god
Quentin fights back tears as he considers the very probable possibility. She's been fighting for ages, it was just a matter of time before she succumbed to the demon. The fact she lasted more than a month is an impressive feat. Still, it hurts to know someone you cared about so dearly, someone you still loved even though they broke your heart, is dead. Tears blur the brunette's vision. The thought of Freddy torturing Nance makes him see red.
“Krueger! Show yourself, you coward!”
A venom fills Quentin's shouts. He has to fight now. For Nancy. He grips the chair tighter, the plastic cutting into his fingers, waiting with bated breath for the man to reveal himself. Silence fills the space, a droplet of blood runs down Quentin's hand, stopping at his wrist. Nothing?
Suddenly, a noise. But it's not coming from the closet. The boy strains his ears to hear it again, moving his curls away from them. There it is again! It's coming from the hallway. Clever bastard. Quentin turns to his bedroom door, ready to bash Freddy's head in and then some. The sound gets louder, almost like footsteps, as a shadow forms at the crack under Quentin's door, blocking light from trickling in. The teenager's chest tightens. He's scared. The doorknob slowly turns.
Click
With a slow creak, the door swings ajar. Tension is in the air. Quentin's nearly hyperventilating. His eyes widen at the figure in the doorway. There are no claws cutting ribbons of red in his chest; no charred sweater reminding him of how fucked he is; no putrid smell of burnt flesh, blood, and sweat; no face of pure malice grinning at him. Hell, it's not even human, or any creature for that matter.
Quentin's face-to-face with a grandfather clock. He eyes it with confusion, taking in the warped and knotted mahogany and the cobwebs clinging to each crevice.
What the fuck?
What even is this? Some sort of joke? A clock? Freddy's getting bad at this.
What the FUCK?
The teenager's eyes burn into the clock, its rusted metal hands are somehow still ticking. He blinks and reads the time.
03:59.
Quentin bites his lip pensively. An oddly specific time. Is it nearly 4AM in the real world? Or is Freddy just fucking with him? Dread overwhelms his body as Quentin watches the second hand move around the clock.
10 seconds.
It hurts to grip the chair this hard, but he needs to be prepared. The swimmer's chest rises and falls anxiously. There's no point in trying to hide his fear.
5 seconds.
Quentin swears he can hear a faint whisper coming from the clock. It's a bunch of gibberish, though, he can't pick up a word of what it's saying. He grits his teeth.
Tick.
His muscles tense, bracing himself. The hour hand moves to the 4, and the minute hand settles on the 12. There's just silence, unnerving the boy further. He's half wishing the clock does something, just to put the anticipation at bay.
Then it hits, a sudden pain rattles Quentin's eardrums. The chair falls to the floor with a crash and the teenager's hands clasp over his ears.
The clock’s distorted chimes drown the room in sound; being so loud that Quentin can feel it rattle his bones. Pens fall from his desk while the boy stumbles back, squirming in pain. He's entirely unfocused, his movements jagged as the ringing gets louder and louder.
He cries out, his entire being in twisted pain. His body gives up, his vision fading to black. Quentin attempts to yell out again, but the void doesn't answer. He feels his knees hit the floor. He's done.