xp_logs | Quentin & Gabriel, Monday afternoon

Two pot heads turn the flyer's roof into their own drug den. To his surprise, Quentin meets someone who's not terrible.

If anyone asked, Gabriel planned to say this was Xavier-approved therapy.

He figured that was a good a reason as any for him to be lying on a towel on the roof, soaking up the sun while smoking a bowl. He'd been toking in his room on and off since everything had gone to shit, and nobody seemed to raise a fuss. Now that the weather was nice, Gabriel had simply migrated his behavior outside so he could feel the sun on his neck while he exhaled.

With how volatile he'd been, Gabriel doubted anyone would press him further. And if they asked Charles, he'd live with the consequences. Not that he was even too worried about that, anyway. What was the most they could do? Kick him out on his ass?

Please. He'd lived through worse.

Packing up and moving from Manhattan to Westchester had been far less traumatic than Quentin thought it could have been. Although given what he'd just been through, maybe his threshold for trauma had changed. And getting away from those assholes who were legally considered his parents definitely made the whole transition easier. But still, coming to a new place full of strangers was terrifying in the best of times, so Quentin needed to relax. So he took out the small lockbox he kept in a drawer built into Fuckwad the chinchilla's cage set to retrieve some rolling papers, a lighter, and a dime bag.

Now the question was, where the hell to even smoke?

His brief tour of the mansion included a mention of an accessible roof where people with flying mutations often went to practice, and that sounded as good as any place. It was high up, likely to be unoccupied (he hadn't seen anyone darting around the sky from his window, at least), and it was warm enough to be pleasant. It took him a little while to find the stairway, and he froze when he was the silhouette of another person passing their time on the roof, too. Fuck. He considered chucking the bag as far as his TK would let him, but that trepidation immediately vanished when the familiar aroma of weed wafted past him. That actually made him chuckle.

Gabriel rolled over at the sound of footsteps, but he didn't bother to hide the pipe or the smell. "Coming or going?" He lowered his sunglasses now that he was staring in the sun, realizing he didn't recognize the pink-haired Asian twink now standing in front of him. Truly new people were, in a way, a relief. "Either way, door."

Quentin kicked the door shut behind him and went to sit down only a few feet away from the other smoker. He gave the guy a quick lookover, smirked, and set up to roll his joint. If nothing else, at least the view here was good. "Shattering all my illusions about this place and I've only been here for five minutes," he quipped. "Some boarding school."

"Yeah, well." Gabriel shrugged, which was less than effective since he was lying prone. He lifted his torso from the towel, careful not to disturb his piece. "Mutant high." After a few seconds, he snorted and grinned. "Mutant high," he waved his hand in a gesture to Xavier's. "Mutant, high." He raised his hand to indicate himself.

That earned a derisive but also vaguely amused snort. "I'm not high enough for that to be funny yet," Quentin said. But he'd soon rectify that. The joint passed inspection, so he lit up and took a good hard puff. "You Mutant High, too?"

"Me?" Gabriel raised an eyebrow, not sure whether to be flattered or insulted. "Nah. More like..." He tried to think of a reasonable simile. "I dunno. I just live here, taking up space and serving as an occasional motivational tool. 'Stay in school, kids. Don't do drugs. You might end up with a reasonably happy, fun life in defiance of most social norms.'" He watched Quentin exhale. "Clearly the message is sticking."

That earned another snort, and Quentin took another drag. "Can't all be winners. Sometimes a fucker or two falls through the cracks." Could be worse. If Quentin was going to be an object lesson himself, then better to be out from under the Quires' apathetic eyes and the bourgeois conformity of an Upper West Side prep school.

"True enough." He nodded, glancing from Quentin's joint to his pipe. He still had a few drags left, so he picked the thing up and grabbed his lighter out of his pocket. "I'm Gabriel, by the way."

"Quentin." Pot protocol called for sharing, and far be it from Quentin to ever violate the sanctity of that, so after taking another drag, he held out his joint to Gabriel in case the other guy's pipe was empty.

"How about a trade?" He held out his lighter and his glass pipe (plus the hit or two it contained) to Quentin. Gabriel was pretty sure his weed was better, but this was how one made friends. "Should probably warn you that most of the adults here probably aren't cool with kids smoking la mota."

"Look at all the fucks I have to give," Quentin replied, waving an empty hand. "It won't be much longer until our whole lives are made illegal, if the normies have their way, so whatever. This is nothing in comparison." He handed his joint to Gabriel and carefully took the proffered the pipe for a toke. He nodded appreciatively as he blew out the smoke. "Fuck. Your man local? I don't want to have to go back to the city every time I run out, especially not if this shit's closer."

"Nah, that's city weed, man." He used his hand to shield the lit joint from the wind and took a hit, holding in the smoke a bit before exhaling. "I'm a bartender in Chelsea." He coughed a little and extended the hand with the joint back to Quentin. "Know some good people. I get a good deal." He tried to feel behind him for the bottle of diet Snapple he'd brought to the roof, watching Quentin all the while. "So. What's your story?"

Chelsea, huh? Quentin traded drugs and gave the guy another lookover, this time not even bothering to hide his elevator eyes. "My story? Gave a bunch of flatscans what they had coming, but it turns out that being able to read thoughts and control minds is a lot harder than it sounds. May've gotten myself in over my head." He laughed. "Don't worry, though. I'm not in your head right now. I can't use my powers for shit. I have no fucking clue how they work."

"Yeah, well, join the club." Confident as Gabriel was, it still felt like a huge boost to be ogled. He couldn't help the small smirk. His hand finally found the bottle of Snapple, and he grabbed it and placed it front of him. "Plenty of us are just kinda figuring things out as we go. I stole from a psycho woman and her girlfriend fucking paralyzed me. That shit forces you to learn." Not that he really had.

"And what did you learn? Not to fuck around with lesbians? They're not to be trusted," Quentin advised with all the wisdom of a high school senior. He took another toke. "Why'd you pull that? They leave your tip jar too light?"

"Nah, nah. Some of my best neighbors were lesbians. Don't be that guy." Gabriel put the pipe to his mouth and took the last hit, even though he was well past relaxed at this point and moving toward blasted. He closed his eyes before exhaling away from Quentin. Up here, Xavier's was the closest to tranquil that it had been for him in a while.

"Fuck, man, I dunno." he said after a second. "I mean, rent in the city's expensive, and I liked being able to buy nice things." He looked at Quentin, sizing him up. "Plus, honestly," he added, his high making him a little looser, "I think sometimes I just like fucking with people."

That bit of candor made Quentin let out a sudden and short burst of laughter that he quickly stifled. "Sorry. Man, if you're going to get yourself killed 'cuz you can't keep your hands to yourself, then you gotta make it for something worthwhile. Petty theft? That's weak."

"Yeah, well – dude, shut up," Gabriel grinned, lightly punching Quentin in the shoulder. "I lived, didn't I?" He popped the cap off the Snapple and took a sip. "Anyway, the other things I do with my hands don't get me in much trouble."

Quentin rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Does that line usually work for you?" Although it had taken less to be successful on Grindr, Quentin wistfully recalled, so who was he to judge?

"Child, please." Gabriel tilted his head so he could peer over his sunglasses. "You think that was me trying? I'm blazed, and we're just shooting the shit." And Quentin was young, and he'd tried sleeping with young, and it had turned into something that he wasn't looking for again. "Let's put our kitty claws away."

"Whatever." Quentin pulled his legs to his chest so he could rest his face on his knees. The hunger pangs of the munchies were starting to hit now, and he wished he'd brought a snack up with him. "You been here long?"

"Nah, not really." He leaned back down onto the towel. "A few months, I guess? 6? Not that long, compared to some of the lifers." He drummed his fingers on his chest as he stared at Quentin. "Nice people here. Kinda... earnest, but you know, nice."

"Sounds fucking terrible." There was nothing worse than nice, Quentin told himself. Nice meant passive and nonconfrontational. He wrinkled his nose at the thought of the people he was bound to meet. "Surrounded by do-gooders and superheroes."

"Yep." Gabriel's tone suggested he found it just as unappealing. After half the mansion died, everything about it seemed so hollow. Being good got people nowhere. "Could use a few more vigilante assholes, all I'm saying." He laced his hands together and turned his palms toward the sun.

"Fuck me if I ever put on tights and a mask." The joint had burned to near nothing, so Quentin smudged the remnant on the rooftop to extinguish it, and then tossed it aside. "They're fighting a losing battle unless they actually fight the establishment. Like those Spider-douches in the city. What good're they doing when all they're doing is helping the police propagate a system that keeps down the poor and then punishes them when they struggle to take a little for themselves for once?"

"Ah, so he's an anarcho-punk twink," Gabriel teased, looking toward Quentin with a grin. "Now it all comes together."

He slowly sat back up. "Can't say I disagree about the tights and the mask thing, but the Spideys aren't so bad." Even high, even now, he felt the need to defend Miles. "I mean, not that bright," he conceded. "One tried to save me from a fight I started, which was even more fucking ridiculous than it sounds."

Quentin let the first comment slide, although the look on his face let Gabriel know what he felt about those labels. "I feel like that's a pretty damn good metaphor for this whole mutant hero bullshit," he said, focusing on the more substantive part of the conversation. Now that munchies had hit, so did the need for pseudo-intellectual discourse. "Solving 'problems' that either they started themselves or getting in the middle of stuff that's not their business and just making things worse."

"I don't–" Gabriel wondered how much weed it would take to get Quentin to be so high he was virtually catatonic. "It's not always that simple." He wasn't sure whether it was or not, actually, but three months ago, the X-folks had saved the world. Although so had he, and he wasn't jumping to join the team.

"Really, though," Gabriel brushed his hands idly against the fabric, "If I were you, I'd raise more hell about the whole... hero-teachers-can-recruit-and-indoctrinate-the-students thing. Sounds like... Catholic school or church or something to me."

"You're making it sound like a cult. Bet there's a whole fucking list of things wrong about this place." Quentin would never be caught dead in the leather uniform, of that he was sure. And he'd have to be mind controlled to even consider the school-issued "training" uniform. "But pretty much stuck here until they finally serve the Kool Aid, so."

"You get used to it," Gabriel shrugged, being about as comforting as he could manage. He wasn't thinking too clearly; the bowl he'd packed was pretty generous. "Gotta say, nice to be somewhere that you don't have to worry about someone calling you a mutie fag. Fairly good about people who go against the grain and don't buy into the 'we are all heroes' shit, too."

He yawned. "Besides," he scratched his stomach, "do-gooders make good marks. You should meet Jessica Jones."

Quentin shrugged and slowly pulled himself to his feet. "We'll see. I'ma go raid the fridge. Please tell me it's not all fucking, like, kale and tofu down there."

"Ew, fuck no." Gabriel wrinkled his nose. "Actually, maybe. If you strike out, come back up and find me. I've got a half a leftover pizza in my room. Stoner-friendly."

"Now that's how you seduce a guy."