Quentin & Gabriel, Friday night

[xp-erverse.livejournal.com]

Quentin unknowingly visits Gabriel's bar and convinces him to make some bad decisions.


Quentin needed some Time Away from the mansion. Not that he had much interaction with anyone there that he needed space from, but physical distance from the whole concept of that fucking place would be good. Just for one night. His parents were out of town (again), which meant he had the whole house to himself. He'd be gone before they returned, too, so they'd never even know he was there.

It was about five minutes before he found himself bored and restless. It was just too quiet here to relax at all. Maybe a night in the city was what he needed. He quickly changed into an overly large tank top and slim jeans, grabbed one of his fake IDs, and sent for an Uber.

The bouncer at the first Chelsea club he found didn't even look twice at him when he confidently presented his ID and paid the cover. Quentin grumbled to himself about going through all this trouble for nothing until he pushed his way to the bar to hail the attention of one of the bartenders.

The spring thaw was well underway. It had been a busy night at the bar, and there was something different in the air. Eyes traveling, and libidos humming.

Gabriel could tell. It was the first night in months that the bartenders had been asked to go shirtless, and he could feel some of the looks he was getting. Normally he wouldn't have minded, but tonight, something just felt off.

At least he was busy. Gabriel moved down the bar, stopping in front of a guy he'd just notice arrive. "What'll i–" He stopped, glancing at the man in front of him. "Well, well, well." He smirked at Quentin. "And how did we find our way in here?"

Oh, great. Drive 50 miles and still can't get away the damn school. Quentin let out a grunt of annoyance and considered trying for the club across the street instead, but he'd already paid a cover and it wasn't like Gabriel was the worst person to be around. Especially with this dress code. "Tom Collins," he ordered as he reached into his pocket to retrieve his credit card. "What, you need to check ID, too?"

"I do," Gabriel answered, "but mostly out of curiosity." He said nothing of the drink order, even though there was something a little too pat about someone like Quentin ordering something with a cherry in it. "You use mind games on the bouncer, or is your fake really that good?" He grabbed a bottle of gin from the well.

"Mind games would be unethical." The ID went over with the (legit) credit card. It wasn't like the other pot-smoking delinquent was going to turn him over, not when tips were at stake. "Also, I haven't gotten that far yet. And I don't think Chuckles would give me any extra credit if I tried."

"Probably not," Gabriel nodded in agreement. "Here." He took the credit card and the ID, giving it a cursory look before giving Quentin his drink. Then, he held Quentin's fake closer to his face, scrutinizing it for imperfections. "Hm." After a few seconds, he passed it back with a raised eyebrow. "How much did you pay for this?"

"Jack Chin paid a couple hundred." And Tamago Yaki and Jimmy Cheung had paid the same for theirs, in case Jack ever became unavailable. Quentin downed a third of the drink at once and nodded appreciatively. "Not bad. You got a future, hunty."

"I know." Gabriel smirked. "And it's not bad, but Jack Chin might have been a little ripped off." He said it with the certainty of someone who knew from fake IDs - which, of course, he did. "Just don't get sloppy, or I'l have to cut you off."

"Yeah, yeah," Quentin said dismissively. "Save your concern for the twinks who haven't done this before." He turned around, leaning against the edge of the bar while he worked more slowly on his drink and surveyed the clientele. A hundred bodies in cotton and denim cut just right to tantalizingly tease their toned, perfected physiques. Though he still could not fully open his mind, he'd have to be a flatscan to not be swept up in the psychic cloud of lust and temptation.

"Yeah," Gabriel said rather dismissively. "I'm sure you've done this a lot." He glanced down at Quentin's credit card in his hand. "Open or closed?"

Quentin snapped himself out of his reverie before he became too self-pitying, and turned back to Gabriel. "Open. Can you drink on the clock? Get something for yourself."

"I can, but I usually don't." Gabriel turned away from Quentin and swiped his credit card, adding a shot of Jameson. "Not this early, especially. Either I get sloppy, or they get the wrong idea and stick around all night. But for you, an exception. Here." He gave the younger guy the card back and grabbed a bottle and a shot-glass.

"So, what are you looking for tonight? Night away? Night of fun? Or..." He wiggled his eyebrows as he poured a half-shot for himself. "Night of Fun?" He raised the glass to Quentin. "Cheers."

That earned Gabriel a loud scornful snort. "Not interested in playing up to some coked-out daddy's 'me so horny, me love you long time' fetish. I just . . . I don't know how you've survived nine months at that hell hole. I'm ready to eat a bullet now."

Gabriel laughed before clinking glasses, tapping his to the bar and taking the mini-shot. "Two answers. One, I'm here a few nights a week, and I've got a few odd jobs in the city. Two, I sleep all day, smoke on my days off and keep social interaction to a minimum." He glanced around the bar searching for another customer, but not spotting anyone, he stayed with Quentin.

Quentin rolled his eyes. "You don't have to humor me, Ricky. You can go. That troll's been thinking about how to get your number for the last five minutes." He nodded in the direction of the creepster at the end of the bar who was very obviously trying not to get caught ogling the bartenders. "You know I'm supposed to go to Harvard in the fall?" he asked, as though he'd instantly forgotten his dismissal.

"No shit? You must be as smart as you think you are." Gabriel raised an eyebrow at Quentin, then looked down toward the end of the bar to see a familiar face. He wrinkled his nose as he turned his head back. "So you're free in a few months. What's the big deal, then?"

Quentin snorted again. "Yeah, like I'm going to go to that conformation factory. I applied because I had to, not because I want to become some radical campus queer spouting their Soc101 buzzwords because it makes them feel like they're not actually a complete waste of carbon. " Drink done, he pushed the glass Gabriel's way and signaled for a second. "The Quires are donors, anyway. I didn't get in on my own merit."

"Oh." A smile appeared on Gabriel's face, and he looked up at Quentin like he very much wanted to say something. Instead, he grabbed a scoop of ice and began working on his co-prisoner's second drink.

"What?" Quentin asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, no, I mean..." Gabriel shrugged, the wry smile back on his lips. He stirred the contents of Quentin's new glass. "It's just, you kind of are a radical campus queer now. Relative to, you know..."

"I . . ." Quentin had no retort for that, though. His disappointment – both at that and the terrible truth in Gabriel's statement – made his face fall. "Fuck me. God dammit, next think I'm going to be marching in a corporate-sponsored pride parade chanting 'Show us what democracy looks like! This is what democracy looks like!' Can you put some arsenic in that, please?"

"Yeah, that'll look good on my employment record. Poison yourself." Gabriel handed Quentin his Tom Collins, with two extra cherries thrown in for good measure. "Stop worrying. You think too much to ever be that mainstream. If you're in a pride parade, it'll probably be to blow it up."

"Now there's a thought." This drink went down more slowly. "I see why you do this whole thing." Quentin gestured vaguely at the bar and its patrons. "You're good. Really know how to earn those tips, huh?"

"Well..." Gabriel gave Quentin a sheepish grin and scratched the back of his neck. "I didn't get into Harvard or anything, but you learn pretty quickly how to make money in this business."

"I always knew 'higher education' was a scam." Quentin looked around the club again. It was starting to really fill up and, to Quentin's pleasant surprise, with a pretty diverse clientele. Everyone seemed welcome. Like they really all were part of a community in more than just name. "Hey, do any mutants come here?"

"I'm sure they do. One sec." A customer came up to the bar, and Gabriel pointed to him in acknowledgment. The man made a show of eyeing Gabriel's chest before ordering an IPA. The bartender smiled politely before going to retrieve one from a cooler under the bar.

A minute later, Gabriel was back in front of Quentin, wiping his hands with a bar towel. "Nobody's super obvious about it," he continued. "But there are places for that kind of thing if you're interested."

Quentin had watched the exchange with a sort of forced detachment, and handed his now-empty glass to Gabriel as soon as he returned. "Where are they?" he asked loudly so he could be heard. It was starting to get too loud to talk, and the bar would be beset by a horde of other drunken revelers in no time. Not for the first time, Quentin rued his slow progress with his telepathy. If he were any further along then maybe he could have continued the conversation with the one tolerable person despite the noise.

"Kinda hard to say," Gabriel placed his hands on the bar and leaned in so he didn't have to shout. "Out in Queens or far parts of Brooklyn. A few parties. Some safe bars, if you hit them at the right nights. But you have to know someone - people are nervous, obviously."

"You know them, though, right?" Quentin leaned over the bar, too. "Where they are? We should go."

"I do," Gabriel acknowledged, with a smile that suggested he had some stories to tell beyond that. "But right now, I'm here." He gestured around him, up and down the bar, "and so are you."

The telepath waved his hand dismissively. "I don't have to be. And neither do you, really."

"I do," the speedster responded, pointing to the bar, "because I need to get paid."

"Ugh, don't be a slave to the man, Ricky. Yo, close me out." When Quentin got his receipt a minute later, he tapped the gratuity line with the pen. "How much do you normally make in tips a night, a thousand? Two grand?"

"Yeah, right." Gabriel snorted. Clearly Quentin didn't have to worry about money much. "Look where you are. Thousand's a very, very good night. Exceptionally good."

Quentin generously filled out the gratuity and passed the receipt back to Gabriel. Father Quire wouldn't be very happy at this month's bill, but as always, he'd pay just to keep Quentin placated. Sometimes capitalism worked in Quentin's favor. "Get your shit and let's go. You can leave your shirt here, leave 'em something to remember you by."

Gabriel glanced down at the receipt for a few seconds before looking back up at Quentin, his jaw set and his brow furrowed. "I know this is going to be hard for you to understand," he said slowly, "but I actually need to keep this job. And you don't get to buy me away from it."

"For one night! You can come back to all the desperate homos tomorrow. But you should be with your actual people tonight!"

"Dude." Gabriel scowled at Quentin. "Have you ever had a job?"

"Really? That's the question you want to ask me?"

"That's a no." Gabriel rolled his eyes, then looked back down at the receipt. He pursed his lips for a second before sighing. "Okay. Fine. I'm just bored enough to think this is a good idea. But if I get canned, you owe me."

Quentin smiled victoriously. "Put the whole damn bar on my tab, then."