Quentin & Gabriel, very late Friday night to Saturday morning

[xp-erverse.livejournal.com]

Quentin and Gabriel have some trouble getting lucky at the club, but eventually find a way around their troubles. Kinda NSFWish.


Quentin's self-loathing had achieved new heights tonight. Tom Logan — the man who had once taught Quentin that maybe just maybe not everyone was completely horrible, the man who then abandoned him and rejected him and accused him of making up the ecstasy of their entire relationship, and even worse, charged him with violating his free will — had come to the same club that Quentin had to escape. A serendipitous chance for reconciliation? Tom's hand down some twink's too-skinny skinny jeans suggested otherwise.

Cracks spider-webbed along the now-empty glass that Quentin held, but he returned it to the bar before his telekinesis could get the best of him. So Tom thought he could place all the blame for his moral failings on Quentin and then go right back to fucking guys who were clearly underage? Then it was a game two could play, and Quentin could find himself another lover of his own for at least one night.

Or so he thought. While the club's collective libido was strong, it was not directing itself at the pink-haired Korean telepath. He might as well have been wearing a hazmat suit, the way every man here avoided him.

"Well, looks like someone's having fun." Gabriel, fresh from his smoke break, appeared on the other side of the bar. He grabbed a bottle of well gin so he could top Quentin off. In characteristic-to-this-place form, his shirt was missing, but it wasn't helping him with his flirting today. Something about the night was just... off. "Here. On the house."

"So I'm not actually invisible," Quentin said with some relief. "Do I need to take off my shirt, too, to get anyone to look at me? I mean." He indicated the drooped tank top he wore that exposed a whole lot of skin already. "I'm halfway there already, I guess."

"I mean, it helps, but it doesn't help," Gabriel shrugged, taking Quentin in. "I think you're better off leaving it on. A little bit of mystery. Which is clearly what I need, since I can't get one person at this bar to buy me a damn drink." He grabbed a bar towel and wiped some water off his arm. "Fuck if I'm going back to the mansion tonight."

A youngish man, mid-20s by the look of him, wearing the whole lumbersexual-attracting getup pushed his way to the bar to order a drink. Quentin casually leaned back, eyeing him and nodding when he thought he'd caught the guy's eye. But he just shook his head, took his drink, and disappeared back into the club. "Is it a racial thing?" Quentin asked Gabriel disgustedly. "They all expect some sort of geisha 'me love you long time' thing?"

"Daddies with beards are in this weekend." The bartender reached for a glass and filled it with ice and water. "You are 0-for-2, I'm afraid, and so am I." He took a sip and placed the drink on the bar. "Plus, you're not very observant. There's a guy at the end of the bar who keeps eyeing you." Gabriel nodded to his right, where a young, skinny fellow around Quentin's age was sitting with a Jameson and ginger. His black fingernails drummed the bar idly while he looked around.

Quentin handed the now empty glass back to Gabriel again for another refill as he discretely evaluated the twink whom Gabriel had identified. "I don't know . . . Sure he's not looking at you?" Quentin asked, his voice slurred from drink and tinged with envy. "You're just bullshitting me now."

"Not looking at me," Gabriel affirmed while he scooped ice in the glass. "Trust me. I might as well have a vagina for all the attention I'm getting tonight. And I thought he'd be an easy mark, but no dice. Here."

"Thanks." This drink disappeared as quickly as the last one, and Quentin braced himself against the bar as he slowly stood back up and waited for the room to realign itself. "You really think he's DTF?"

"Dunno." Gabriel grabbed Quentin's glass. "Seems like it to me." He filled the glass with vodka and soda water. "Most people who come here are." Instead of handing the drink to Quentin, he imbibed it himself. "Except tonight," he added bitterly, "I guess."

"Well, what's the worst that could happen besides a deadly hate crime?"

"Sure," Gabriel snorted. He downed the rest of the drink without much thought. "That's the spirit." He grabbed the vodka again and began to refill it. If he wasn't getting any tonight, he might as well be getting drunk. "Go on. I got work to do."

~*~

Quentin woke up with a pounding headache, a mouth that felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls, and an annoyingly full bladder. At least two of those were easily treatable. He slipped out of bed and, without bothering to put on any of the clothes that he idly noticed were scattered all over the floor (and one pair of 2(x)ist briefs flung over a floor lamp), padded out of the bedroom to the nearest bathroom to relieve himself. He shuffled back still half-asleep a couple of minutes later, bladder empty and mouth washed out, and flopped back into bed to fall back asleep.

It took him another 30 seconds to realize that this was not his bed or his room. The furniture, the decorations, the plush carpet, the massive master bathroom. "FUCK." He was in his parents' room. Naked. With another person in bed with him. And, he saw, a pack of condoms and bottle of lube sitting on the nightstand.

A grunt came from the other side of the bed, where Quentin's companion was lying on his side with a pillow covering his head. "God," a muffled voice followed, practically whispering. "You're loud." The body shifted, hands coming up to pull the pillow even tighter to his face. "What time is it?"

Quentin did not answer, and instead tore away the pillow to reveal his bedmate . . . "The fuck are you doing here?"

A bleary-eyed Gabriel looked up at him. His head was throbbing, and his stomach was not happy. "That," he responded, grabbing the pillow and putting it back on top of his head, "is not an unfair question. Although," he threw the pillow off the side of the bed and shifted so his back was against the headboard, "you know." He glanced around the room, a smirk appearing on his face. "You know. Context clues."

The whole night was a blur. Quentin remembered drowning himself in a sea of gin to save him from the shame of seeing his former lover move on, of constant rejection, of every failure of the last 18 years of his life. Ugh. He sighed and sat back against the headboard, too. "Gin makes me a real fucking drama queen," he moaned. "Why you, though? The twink with the nail polish. He . . . Oh." Memory dawned on him. It had started off well enough. Dancing, excited fumbling in the bathroom . . . "A bottom."

"I guess." Gabriel continued scanning the room, searching for his black jeans. "You were pretty pissed when I saw you again." His search stopped when he spotted a Tiffany floor lamp. "Where the fuck are we?"

"Over there." Quentin pointed to a pair of jeans over by the door. Good to know that, even hungover his telepathy did not malfunction. Although that brought up another problem. "My parent's house. How the hell did I get you here, though? I remember you were wasted when I got back, too."

"Oh yeah." Gabriel agreed. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and planted his feet on the ground, but he didn't get up. "I was." He turned back over his shoulder to look at Quentin. "This cute gringo started buying me tequila shots. And so I took them. And then..." He closed his eyes. "I don't know what. He was there, and then he wasn't there? That doesn't make any sense." For a second, he considered whether he cared if a sober Quentin saw him naked.

Too late, I guess. "Anyway," he stood, steeling himself for a bit before crossing over to grab the cigarettes out of his pants. "He got me wasted, and he was flirting, and then he disappeared."

"So we both struck out. Again." Pieces were starting to fall into place. Gabriel's brazenness had Quentin pitching a tent under the sheets, but, like Gabriel, he did not bother to hide it. Clearly it was not anything they had not already seen. Even if they could not quite remember. "Still doesn't explain why this."

"I dunno." Gabriel crouched down to rifle through his pockets. "You were wasted. I was wasted. You were horny. I was horny." He shrugged as he pulled the pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his pockets. He tossed the smokes to Quentin. "I can't remember when, but you came back to the bar. I got off my shift." He stood, smirking as he caught sight of the younger guy. "And I was wearing a shirt again, but you told me to take it off."

The fog started to lift, and Quentin smirked as he caught the pack. "You had a joint on you and I didn't have anything, and your preferred way to share was to blow smoke directly into my mouth." He considered the pack before tossing it back. "I don't smoke cigarettes. They fund the enemy."

"So we went outside? That I don't remember. Christ." Gabriel caught the pack in the same hand he held the lighter, then slid back into the bed. "Can I smoke in here? Or will it offend your rebel-from-a-lap-of-luxury sensibilties?" He opened the pack and pulled out a cigarette.

"Please. Do whatever's gonna piss of the Quires." Quentin yawned loudly and stretched, and then lied back down with his hands behind his head. "I think . . . did we go to another club?"

"Yeah." Gabriel flicked his lighter and lit the cigarette. "Well, we tried to. I remember we went to some place in the West Village. And you wouldn't shut up about... something. Some socialist, real estate something? I don't remember. I just remember wanting you to shut you up." He took a puff on his cigarette and exhaled toward the Quires's ceiling. He turned toward Quentin again. "And then we started making out in the cab."

"Came here 'cuz they are traipsing around Italy or something right now so no one else is here," Quentin continued. Another part of the night (early morning?) surfaced in his memories, and he licked his lips, finding them suddenly dry again. "Took your pants off as soon as we got into the room."

"Well, sure." Gabriel leaned over and flicked ash into a half-full cup on and end table. "They were in the way."

More details of the night returned as Quentin thought back. He shook his head as if to dismiss the images and sat up again. "Still doesn't make sense. Why me? Why you? I mean, no offense, but I don't think my balls are that blue."

"Excuse me?" Gabriel raised an eyebrow. As he took another drag on the cigarette, his eyes migrated to where the sheets appeared to be tenting. "You want to try that one again?"

At least Quentin had the decency to blush, even if just for a second before reclaiming his composure. "Sorry." His tone was actually apologetic. "I shouldn't've gone out last night. Can't trust myself around anyone. Bad enough for some random asshole in the restroom. People like you don't actually deserve it."

"Oh yeah," Gabriel didn't bother hiding the sarcastic edge. "God forbid people like me get to fuck anyone." The cigarette was only half-consumed, but he tossed it in the cup of water anyway. "It was sex, Q. I obviously wanted it enough to do it."

"How do you know you wanted it?" Quentin spat back, his face reddening again. "Maybe I wanted it so bad I did the same thing to you that I did to Tom." His memory flashed to Tom at the club with the young man, both seemingly with their own free will, and to Barton's defense of Quentin. He wearily rubbed his eyes. "I just . . . I know I'm not a good person. But I'm not that bad."

"I was drunk and horny. You were drunk and horny. We were at a bar." Gabriel spoke flatly. A voice reminded him that Quentin was, in fact, a telepath. He wasn't comfortable with people being inside his head, but he didn't think it had happened. "I don't — I mean, you are so far from my type, but we were clearly both in the mood, and we were both available."

"And it doesn't worry that maybe I did something to you, even if I didn't know I did? I mean, you're not really my type, either, but you have a nice cock and that's about 50% of my type so maybe it's not such a huge leap for me."

"I mean, I don't particularly want you in my head," Gabriel scratched his chest. "Like, or anyone. Ever. But I've made worse decisions, I can tell you that much." In what was a fairly big departure from their relationship, Gabriel reached over and tousled Quentin's hair. "Don't be in your head so much. Sometimes drunk, high decisions are just drunk, high decisions."

Quentin snorted and grabbed Gabriel's wrist to stop the playfulness, but did not let go. Instead, after a brief moment of hesitation, he slowly let his hand move down Gabriel's forearm. "And they're different decisions than you'd make sober, of course," he acknowledged, his eyes meeting Gabriel's.

"Well," Gabriel grinned in spite of himself. "I mean. Look" He freed his hand from Quentin's grip and turned onto his side. "I'm here." He placed his hand on Quentin's chest, drumming his fingers on the other guy's pec. "You're here." His hand began to move downward, but slowly enough for Quentin to stop it. "Might as well see if it's better sober."

Quentin made no move to stop him. In fact, he scootched closer and turned over onto his side, too, so their bodies and faces were only inches apart. "Yeah, might as well," he said breathily, slowly leaning in.