Quentin & Gabriel, Thursday night

[xp-erverse.livejournal.com]

Quentin is out of his element looking to score at a punk rock concert. A twist of fate helps him accomplish his goals.


Quentin almost hated himself. How thirsty was he that he was actually making the effort to come see some guy's punk rock show just for the chance to get in his pants? He had even dressed the part to make himself seem interested: hair up in an approximation of a mohawk, grey wool pants tucked into black combat boots, a black drop-armhole tank top with long fringes hanging from the shoulders as if the sleeves had been shredded, and appropriately glam makeup. (Though truth be told, he looked damn good.)

He flashed one of his fake ID's at the bouncer but didn't pay the cover or wait for confirmation to enter; a brief telepathic suggestion got him in without a problem. What was more punk than that, he asked himself sardonically. Another telepathic flash inside grabbed the bartender's attention, although this time, Quentin left the cash to cover his gin rickey.

The band was already playing so Quentin scanned the stage for his target, and suddenly remembered exactly why he was putting in the effort. The guy had charisma, eye-fucking the audience even as he screamed and screeched about whatever the hell he was singing about. Yeah, this would be worth it.

The band's energy was infectious. Around Quentin, men and women thrashed, their limbs flying and flailing in some approximation of dance. The crowd roared as the singer continued to wail into a microphone, his voice cracking as he hit higher notes. Then the lyrics began to fade, the sound of his voice falling as an aggressive guitar riff took its place.

Knowing his place, the vocalist stepped back toward the drummer, dancing in the shadows and letting the band's two guitarists have their moment. The musician playing lead, a tall, slim woman with a pixie cut, moved forward, claiming her spotlight. Her partner, the rhythm guitarist hovered on his shadowed side of the stage, his face focused on the instrument hanging over his bare chest and the pair of black skinny jeans hanging low on his hips.

The lead singer dodged around the stage, stepping over cords until he was behind the male guitarist. He held the mic away from him, screaming something into the other man's ear. And so the guitarist stepped forward, moving into the lighted area at the front of the stage and bringing a familiar set of tattoos into view.

Despite himself, Quentin has started getting into it, too. Maybe the crowd's energy was seeping into his poorly shielded mind, but he drained his drink, set the glass aside, and pushed his way into the horde, mimicking their thrashing movements. This was not his scene, too shrill and discordant for the Eurosynth club kid, but there was an artistry he could appreciate. And that second guitarist had a body that put even the singer's sinewy skater boy build to shame.

A body sporting a pair of tattoos on his hips that Quentin had spent a inordinate amount of time studying.

Not much could shock Quentin into silent immobility, but Gabriel Cohuelo being encouraged to take the spotlight in a screamcore band? That did it.

Gabriel lifted his head from his guitar, all smiles as he locked eyes with his female counterpart, who was positively shredding. Behind them, the drummer picked up his rhythm, his sticks moving in a frenzy that might have channeled the way Gabriel's stomach felt.

He wasn't entirely sure how he'd gotten here. What had started as a hobby and some fucking around, a way to fill some time with friends when he'd stopped bartending, had turned into a garage band gig at a bar with no credit in the live music scene. They weren't ready to play in front of people, or at least he wasn't. And yet now he was. "What could be more punk than that?" Amber, who seemed to be a guitar virtuoso, had asked. He'd hesitated, and here he was.

The song continued, moving toward its close, and Gabriel moved back toward the side of the stage he'd claimed. His red T-shirt, which he'd shed at the last moment in the hopes his body would compensate for his guitar skills, rested on top of an amp. He grabbed it as soon as they stopped the set, wiping the sweat off his face and neck. Joel, their singer, bantered with the crowd, but Gabriel was barely listening. as he crumpled the shirt in a ball. On an impulse, he hurled it toward the audience.

A crowd of screaming fans clamored to catch the prize, but it abruptly changed course in midair, and Quentin raised a hand to pluck it out of the sky. He continued holding it high, clutching it tightly so none of the fair weather fans could take it from him, waiting to lock eyes with its former owner. Quentin smirked, his expression equal parts amusement, shock, disbelief, admiration, and, of course, arousal.

Gabriel squinted as he followed the arm holding his top, lowering his gaze to — well, shit.

Joel, thrown by the sudden maneuver, told a joke, not even casting a quizzical glance at an uncharacteristically nonplussed Gabriel. The dumb smile stayed on his face as he met Quentin's eyes, the surprise now clear to both of them. Unsure what else to do, Gabriel winked, and someone in the crowd whistled. He laughed, running a hand through his hair, all the while looking at Quentin.

Quentin, who looked genuinely delighted and stunned — and hungry. Quentin looked hungry in a way Gabriel had seen before, and in a way he'd come to quite enjoy.

Behind him, the drumsticks clicked. The crowd's energy, now funneled through one familiar face, fueled Gabriel. Guitar technique be damned; as the band launched into its last song, he went into it feeding off that raw spark.

Quentin fell right back into the crowd, reinvigorated by the same energy fueling Gabriel. Maybe it was not his style, but he fit in just fine. He was not even the only one with shockingly pink hair. He was so into it, he almost missed it when the music ended. Joel cried out over the final chord, and Quentin joined in with the rest of the audience to demand for more. It was an open question whether they were actually any good to justify the response, but Quentin was hard-pressed the remember the last time he'd been so entertained when he only had a mild buzz going.

Gabriel had fumbled through the song, missing a few notes and always feeling a beat behind, but it hadn't seemed to matter, given how the crowd begged for more music. He searched their faces again until he found Quentin's again and raised his eyebrows. Around him, the members of the band all looked at each other a little hesitantly, as if waiting for someone to make a decision. Then, unprompted, their drummer grabbed his sticks and went into the wings. Amber and Joel followed, and just like that, the possibility of an encore disappeared. Gabriel broke eye contact, lifting the guitar strap off his body as he strode off the stage.

The audience's disappointment was loud but brief, as the crew quickly came on stage to whisk away the band's instruments and set up for the next act. Broken out of his reverie, Quentin made a beeline for the bar, telepathically summoning the bartender again to get a round of drinks sent to the band, and a pair of double Jack and Cokes for himself and Gabriel, which the telepath handed to the secret guitarist when he emerged from the crowd. "You don't suck," he offered, raising his glass to cheer him.

"You're a bad liar," Gabriel rolled his eyes as he lifted the glass in response, clinking it against Quentin's, "but cheers." He took a healthy sip from it, scanning the room as he swallowed. Then he returned his attention to Quentin, giving him the once-over. "You look good," he said. "Not your usual look. Or your usual haunt, really." He raised an eyebrow as he reached for his shirt. "What are you doing here?"

Quentin put the hand holding the shirt behind his back, out of Gabriel's reach. The view was much too good, why ruin it? He downed half his drink and smirked. "Trying to fuck your singer. What's his name? Cole? Jon? Whatever. Met him at Paradise the other night, he invited me to his show, you know how it is. But now I've changed my mind."

"Have you now?" The corners of Gabriel's lips turned up in a small smirk before he drank. "Poor Joel."

The look on Gabriel's face, the sweat beading his bare chest, the way his pants hung low on his hips . . . Quentin finished his drink, set the glass aside, and leaned forward. "He'll live. I'm concerned about you, though. You seemed kinda nervous up there. You need a pick-me-up."

"I am a subpar guitarist who got convinced to be in a band that decided it would play a gig as a favor to god even knows who." A leather-clad woman with a shaved head pushed past Gabriel on her way toward the stage, and he shifted a bit closer to Quentin, their legs brushing against each other. "But at least I look good doing it." He raised an eyebrow. "Don't you think?"

"Can't you tell?" Quentin retorted, pressing against Gabriel for a moment to let another patron pass before taking half a step back. "I can imagine you as a musician. Kinda. But punk rock? That's the real stinger."

"God, I know." Gabriel downed the rest of his drink and placed the glass on the bar. "Good news for you," he said. "I think my punk rock career is probably over."

As more patrons came to the bar to refill before the next act started, Quentin looped a finger through one of Gabriel's belt loops and pulled him aside so they would not be in the way anymore. He did not let go after they had moved. "Really? That's too bad. You could revitalize queercore."

"You think?" Gabriel laughed. "I dunno if the rock star life's for me." One of his hands found its way to Quentin's back. "All those groupies..."

"You seem to do okay now with all the attention you cultivate. What would be so different that you couldn't handle?"

"The guitar."

Quentin laughed and decided to dispense with pretense, sandwiching Gabriel between himself and the wall. "There's lots of jokes there about just needing to learn the proper fingering to get it right. But I don't make jokes," Quentin reminded Gabriel, their lips only an inch or two apart.

"I know." Gabriel murmured, shifting slightly so his shoulders were against the wall. "So tell me." His breath was hot on Quentin's cheek, and he moved his hand down Quentin's back. "What'd you think of the show?"

The lights in the club dimmed and the crowd started to roar again as the next act came to the stage. It surprised Quentin that this band was even louder and sent the audience into an even greater frenzy than the opening act. But it just made Quentin laugh, and he extended a tendril of thought, as gently as he dared, to Gabriel so they could talk over the din. They had shared a mind once before, much more intensely and intimately than this fleeting connection. And now, several months later, Quentin had even greater control over his ability. To him, this was not much different than just speaking normally.

"I'm no music critic," he answered, gazing into Gabriel's eyes to gauge his reaction to the telepathic connection. "But everyone else seemed to like it, and they can't all be idiots."

Gabriel started a bit, his head turning to find the source of the voice before he suddenly realized that Quentin was in his head. His eyes widened a bit as he considered Quentin, as if he was seeing the other man anew. And then his brow dropped, his face relaxed a bit, and while his posture suggested he was still apprehensive, his eyes suggested a reluctant trust.

"I didn't ask about anybody else," he finally responded, his mouth moving as he thought the words, his gaze focused intently on Quentin. Gabriel changed positions against the wall, pushing his left leg against Quentin's. A feverish round of cymbal crashes came from the stage, but he paid it no mind. Suddenly, he felt he understood Almost Famous. "What'd you think?"

"I think . . . you need a shit ton more practice. I also think I'll stick with the regular clubs instead of dives like this. Although I do like this top." He plucked at the shirt he wore. "But mostly I think it's getting really fucking difficult not to just get down on my knees right here because even if you kinda suck at the music thing? You got the look going and it works."

"Yeah?" Gabriel grinned. "Well. That can certainly be arranged. There's a bathroom in the back I doubt anyone's using."

Quentin's heart nearly skipped a beat. He wanted to pinch himself to make sure he was not dreaming. Instead, he responded by locking lips with Gabriel, gently teasing open his mouth with his tongue, and keeping one hand on the belt loop while the other slowly ran down Gabriel's chest and torso. "Think Joel wants to come, too?" he jokingly wondered out loud.

"Shut up," Gabriel chuckled. One of Gabriel's hands was on the small of Quentin's back. The other flicked him in the arm. "You're not here for Joel, remember?" He slipped his hand under Quentin's shirt. "You're mine right now."