xp_logs | Quentin & Tom Logan, Wednesday afternoon

Quentin finally tracks down his former lover, who makes it abundantly clear that he wants nothing to do with Quentin. Content warning for discussion of consent.

Months of complete silence. All social media dead. No forwarding address. Quentin could appreciate the desire to completely start anew especially after such humiliation. But why had Tom cut him off? Of all the people to abandon, Quentin should have been the last.

No matter. Quentin had found him, now in Queens working at some little used book store. Appropriately quaint, Quentin considered as he knocked on the door to the little brownstone that reputable sources had told him was Tom's new home.

It took a few minutes before Tom finally opened the door, already looking disgruntled and in the process of talking before the door had even been opened more than a few inches. "Look, I told you, I don't need ..." Whatever he didn't need suddenly stuck in his throat as Tom got a good look at who was on his doorstep.

"...shit. Quentin? Shit..."

For a moment, the shit-stirring, contentious, rebel without a cause was replaced by the doe-eyed, obsessive student that Tom had known. He opened his mouth to speak, but found his words inadequate, and settled for a leering smile instead. "Can I come in?" he finally said.

Tom's mouth opened and then closed as his fingers tightened around the door handle. "Yeah," he sighed, weighing his answers. "You can come in." He stepped back and held open the door with his one hand, letting Quentin squeeze in through to the hallway. Tom glanced around the street but withdrew, pleased to see that the street was empty and no one would have seen this.

It was smaller than the place that Quentin remembered. Only half-unpacked, too. The move must have been recent. If he'd been couch-surfing, Quentin thought, then that's why he'd been so hard to pin down. He sighed and turned to face Tom. "I've been trying to talk to you for a while, you know."

"I know, I know," Tom responded though he didn't stop walking until he'd led them into the kitchen. It was in just as much disarray as the rest of the house thanks to the combination of opened and closed boxes. He sat heavily at the kitchen table and reached for the carton of cigarettes. "I've been ... busy." He glanced at Quentin and said, "Sorry." It sounded inadequate.

Though the temptation to sneak a peak into Tom's thoughts was there, Quentin held back. It would be an intense violation of privacy, and Tom of all people did not deserve that. He wasn't just some nobody sheeple on the street. He was Tom Logan. "I'm sorry about what happened, you know. If there was any way I could've stopped it, I would have. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, I know." He'd lit the cigarette while Quentin had been talking and was now puffing away on it with intensity. Tom glanced up and sighed, "I know. I mean, I was afraid it was going to come out some way or another. Wasn't your fault." He'd managed to dodge any sort of legal impact thanks to their respective ages but it was still having a hell of an impact on the rest of his life.

"Yeah." Even though Tom had not extended an invitation, Quentin took a seat next to him. "That shit's in the past now, though. Tomorrow's my birthday, you know. I'll be 18. School's out. Fuck, I wasn't even at Van Wyck anymore after the telepathy thing. So, I mean, we can pick up where we left off. You got your bed set yet?" he asked, grinning lasciviously.

Whatever Tom had been about to say was lost as he inhaled suddenly and started coughing. Shoving his chair back, he staggered over to the sink and cough out the smoke that had gone down the wrong way. "Wait. Wait. Back the fuck up, Quentin," he choked, throwing the cigarette down into the soapy water. He turned back. "What telepathy thing?"

There was simply no way not to at least touch the surface of Tom's mind when he turned from apparent ambivalence to borderline hostility. Was he afraid of Quentin? Impossible. Quentin stood up but didn't approach. He tried to keep his tone and posture neutral, blase, as if trying to not scare off a wild animal. "After you left, Chad Matthews and his band of shitlords made it their mission to make my life hell. Like a week after you were gone, I just . . . I snapped, I guess. Turns out telepathy was hiding in my brain all along, too. Things happened, and long story short, they don't bother me anymore."

Tom froze. He completely froze. He'd never really thought about mutants before - really thought about them outside of the abstract. January had been terrifying but hadn't impacted him directly. But telepathy? That was reading minds and shit. That was ... "You're a fucking telepath?" Tom snapped, the blood draining from his face. "How long have you had powers, Quentin? Before we slept together?" The words stuck in his throat for a moment.

Quentin quickly picked up his jaw that had fallen to the floor. A moment before, Tom's mind flow had been mildly turbulent. To be expected when Quentin unexpectedly arrived. Quentin didn't like it but he could make an allowance for that. Now, though, Tom's mind was a raging stream of confusion and anger. More than anger. Enmity. Most of it directed at Quentin himself.

The telepath backed up a couple of steps and shook his head. "No no no. It's not what you're thinking. How could you even think that? I would never . . ."

"How could I know that?" Tom snapped. The room felt too small all of a sudden but he wasn't about to go outside. His face was flushed - anger, embarrassment, a whole host of emotions causing the skin to redden. "Hell, Quentin, as a matter of fact - you might not have known! Like, what if you didn't know and you ... you influenced me?"

He rubbed his hands over his face. "I was like the first person who was even decent, what if you just reached out? Fuck. Fuck! I can't believe - that must have been it. It was a new job, it was a good job." He was mostly talking to himself, trying to find a way out of this weird nightmare. "It wasn't my fault, how was I to know you had powers, maybe got in my head..."

This was crazy. How could Tom possibly think that's what happened? Quentin slumped back into his seat, dejected, staring up at his former lover (victim?) in despair. "Do you know what you're accusing me of? It's impossible! Please, you have to believe me. I'd never do that to anyone, especially not you! Not even accidentally. I couldn't. I'm not that kind of person."

But maybe he could? Quentin had power beyond what he currently knew. Was it out of the question to consider that he had, even without his knowledge, subtly influenced people? Had Tom literally fallen under his spell the same way that Quentin had metaphorically fallen under his? "No no no," Quentin repeated, trying to convince himself. "Don't be stupid. Of course I didn't."

"How do you know?!" Tom cried, feeling what was a bizarre combination of rage, terror and relief all at once. "It's not like you had your regular shit together, Quentin! How do you know that this wasn't all you?"

Quentin could not answer that question, not with the degree of certainty that Tom demanded. Had he really done this? Coerced Tom into sex over and over again for months? It seemed impossible and yet there were mutants who had done worse things with their powers, accidentally or on purpose. He knew he could do worse. He'd threatened to do so, and maybe it was not the hyperbole he had thought. Maybe this was what it really meant to be a mutant in a world of humans.

He was trembling when he stood up again and the unpacked dishes started to rattle in the cabinets. "Maybe you have a point," he said flatly. His chest felt tight and it was getting harder to breathe, but he kept on. "But tell me why I should care? You're just a flatscan like the rest of them. Disposable, holding me back. Why'd I even waste my time on a useless piece of shit like you?"

Tom laughed but it wasn't a happy sound. "Quentin, you've been singing the same song since the day you came into my classroom," he said bitterly. "You just ... you just move the things you hate into those neat little boxes. Only this time, the thing you hate just might be you. Not a great feeling, is it, to hate yourself? Welcome to the adult word, Quentin. Didn't I tell you it sucks?"

He gestured to the front door. "You really need to go."

There was no snappy comeback, no plea, no threat. There was nothing. For the first time he could remember, Quentin's mind was blank, like there was just nothing there at all. He did not even spare Tom a final glance before he walked calmly out of the kitchen, out the apartment, and out of Tom Logan's life.