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xp_logsGabriel and Quentin sneak away from Gabriel's party for some birthday fun. Let's be on the safe side and say it's NSFW-ish.
It had been a nice party, Gabriel decided, and as he looked out the window of the black sedan driving him away from the mansion, he decided what still remained of the party was pretty nice too. He watched people huddling by the embers of the fire, until the car pulled far enough away that he couldn't make out their bodies in the darkness. Then he turned to his right.
"How drunk are you, do you think, on a scale of 1-10?" He scanned Quentin, looking for telltale signs of a buzz, which turned out to be quite difficult given that Gabriel himself had quite a few drinks in his system. Still, he'd been in enough of a right mind that when his phone alarm had gone off, he'd remembered to call this Uber to the mansion. And he'd somehow managed to convince Quentin to get in the backseat with him.
As someone who started breaking into daddy's liquor cabinet at 15 and had been drinking steadily since, Quentin prided himself on being able to hold his drinks. But tonight was a special occasion. It wasn't every night that a friend (friend! he had those!) turned 21. So Quentin had celebrated appropriately. It was a miracle he was still conscious.
"What number's higher'n ten?" he asked, his speech only slightly slurred. "Because that's where I am, boo."
Gabriel laughed, because he couldn't help himself. "Jesus, I must pour a strong cocktail. Here." He reached down at his feet, picking up a bottle of water he'd thought to grab before they left, and handed it to Quentin. "Don't think the nice man up front wants you puking in his car."
Though Quentin accepted the gift, he didn't open it yet. Instead, he gestured pointedly with it at Gabriel. "The only time I've been drunk so much I got almost got sick was the first morning I woke up in bed next to you. Which, now I think 'bout it, was also around our birthdays last year. Happy fuckiversary."
"What? No?" Gabriel frowned. "Nah, that can't — a year, really?" He turned toward the window. The problem with manipulating time is that it was remarkably easy to lose track of it. But Quentin apparently hadn't. Gabriel turned back to the other man with a smile on his face. "You remember the date of the first time we fucked?"
"Don't be stupid," Quentin admonished his friend/partner/buddy/Uber companion/labels what? "I just know your birthday's today, mine'stomorrow. Or yours was yesterday and now it's mine? Whatthefuckever. It was around this time of year. Because that's when I tried to get Tom . . ." Uttering that single syllable out loud threatened to release a whole package of long-repressed feelings, and even in his stupor, Quentin knew better than to risk that. So he turned the conversation back to the two of them. "We struck out and then I took you to my folks' place because it was empty and I could act out some childish rebellion by fucking in their bed. God knows they weren't using it for anything."
"Oh, right." Gabriel laughed again. "There was pretty good morning sex in that bed, too." That was much as he wanted to talk about Quentin's parents right now, and besides, Gabriel sensed he'd struck a nerve. "That was a pretty good birthday present on my part. Dunno how I'll top that this year."
"It was a'ight," Quentin lukewarmly agreed. "We got better. Where're you taking me now, anyway? Somewhere you'll get to top last year, Mister 'Now I'm Legal For Reals?'"
"You'll see when we get there," Gabriel said, a cryptic smile on his face. "Guess we should have stopped somewhere to use my ID — the real one — but I'm not even sure where it is. If I even still have one. Or if liquor stores are still open in the suburbs after 11." He reached into his pockets, pulling out his wallet and a pack of cigarettes. From the wallet, he withdrew a fake ID. "Goodbye, Andrew Jimenez, though."
"No, not Andrew Jimenez!" Quentin wailed dramatically. "He treated me so good. Rest in peace, papi. I'll never forget you." Feeling as if cotton balls were growing inside his mouth, Quentin opened the water bottle and chugged. It did little to alleviate his problem. "You gonna do the traditional visit to the DMV and get a big boy license now?"
"I dunno." Gabriel wrinkled his nose. "It's so cliché. What's, like, the opposite of that? I haven't been to a bar, I made virgin cocktails for a bunch of teenagers, and I'm not that drunk. This is the anti-cliché 21st birthday, damn it. I've been 21 since I was 18."
Quentin hrmmed loudly as he tried to get the cogs in his head moving so he could think of what nontraditional thing they could. "You could buy life insurance? I mean, the only custom for 21 is getting sloppy, so the anti-birthday would be to stay sober, but why the fuck would you do that?"
"Not sober," Gabriel protested, "just, you know. Aware. Reasonably clear-headed. Enough to get us where we're going, and enough that when I take E in an hour or whatever, I won't be a complete disaster."
Quentin focused his glassy, bloodshot eyes to Gabriel. "Well, fuck. If I knew that was an option, I would've kept pace instead of runnin' ahead of you. Or're you just tryin' to keep it all to yourself? That's awful miserly of you. Share the goods, boo."
Gabriel just smiled, grabbing the water from Quentin's hands and taking a sip from the bottle before handing it back. "So. What do you want for your birthday, besides drugs?"
"The brutal overthrow of the bourgeoisie and the kyriarchical regime. Or a pony" was the droll, automatic reply. "I mean, what do I need? I'm actually — and I swear no joke I will kill you if you tell anyone or even think of telling anyone — I'm not discontent right now. The world is terrible and and every day there's people who seem to go out of their way to make it worse, but that's just kinda how life is all the time. It's not getting worse, necessarily. I don't get to sleep every night worrying about, like, the apocalypse or whatthefuckever. So." Quentin shrugged, taking his leave of that brief bit of introspection.
"Plus, you know, you're gonna make me cum tonight and that's always a gift."
"Well, since you brought it up," Gabriel shifted to look at Quentin, "let me tell you what I'm getting for my birthday." He glanced at his phone. "We're about halfway to our destination, a room at a nice hotel on the water that's ours until, like, 5 p.m., because I called some people and got a pretty late checkout." He scooted closer to Quentin, dropping his phone on the leather seat and moving his hand to the other man's thigh. "I took the liberty of stopping by earlier and making sure there were plenty of party favors. And some snacks. Some toys."
His hand slipped up Quentin's leg slightly, and he moved his face closer to Quentin's ear. "Because what I want this year," he said, his voice quiet but his tone somewhat commanding, "is to fuck your brains out while I'm on high on E. But starting once it hits tomorrowmorning, it's your birthday." He pulled back slightly. "So," he smirked, "you better think long and hard"—and he hit those words like he was a character on Queer as Folk—"about what you want."
In his drunken haze, it took a moment for Quentin to process the scenario Gabriel had laid before him. His body was way ahead of his mind, though, and reacted instantly at the touch. With the short running shorts he was wearing, there was no hiding it, not that he even wanted to. His glance shifted from Gabriel's hand to his face and then to the driver, who was apparently making a point at keeping his eyes on the road and leaving the passengers to their own devices. Now there was a five-star driver.
Quentin guided Gabriel's hand further up his thigh and leaned in so Gabriel's breath — an alluring blend of barbecue, booze, and smoke — could entrance him like incense. "No, you make a good case. Changed my mind. That's what I want. Although," he added, grinning, "You scoffed at me when I suggested much the same thing."
"Well, sure." Gabriel's smirk widened. "But you didn't lead with fucking. And besides," he gently stroked the inside of Quentin's thigh, "it's much hotter when it seems like my idea, isn't it?"
"I'll have to remember that for next year." Quentin put his hand on the back of Gabriel's neck to pull him in for a deep, hungry kiss. He twisted in his seat, so he could send his other hand to mimic Gabriel's own, traveling up the other man's thigh. "You should turn 21 every day," he said breathily when they broke apart.
"Yeah?" Gabriel laughed. "I already have, a few times. Don't see why we can't make it a few more."
Quentin's tugged at Gabriel's belt buckle. "What if I just started our party right here? Think he'd mind?" he asked, nodding at the front seat. "Fuck, you're gonna get me into trouble soon enough, and then we'll have that Thelma 'n Louise ending after all."
"Please don't," the driver called from the front seat, and Gabriel laughed, because it was too perfect.
"Sorry, Q." He shifted, turning to face Quentin and shielding the other man's groin from the rearview mirror. Gabriel let his hand slip underneath the other man's running shorts. "Can't risk my star rating."
"I brought enough for the whole class," Quentin protested. "No one would be left out."
Gabriel snorted. "Well, I'll keep that in mind." He withdrew his hands, keeping them to himself, and reaching for his phone. "We're like two minutes away. Think you can make it?"
Quentin laughed and sat back in his seat like a normal, sober, unhorny person. He caught the driver's eyes in the rear-view mirror and waggled his eyebrows salaciously but received no response. "Yeah, I guess. But every minute is another orgasm you owe me..."
"Yeah?" Gabriel leaned back over for another deep kiss. "That was kind of the idea."
It had been a nice party, Gabriel decided, and as he looked out the window of the black sedan driving him away from the mansion, he decided what still remained of the party was pretty nice too. He watched people huddling by the embers of the fire, until the car pulled far enough away that he couldn't make out their bodies in the darkness. Then he turned to his right.
"How drunk are you, do you think, on a scale of 1-10?" He scanned Quentin, looking for telltale signs of a buzz, which turned out to be quite difficult given that Gabriel himself had quite a few drinks in his system. Still, he'd been in enough of a right mind that when his phone alarm had gone off, he'd remembered to call this Uber to the mansion. And he'd somehow managed to convince Quentin to get in the backseat with him.
As someone who started breaking into daddy's liquor cabinet at 15 and had been drinking steadily since, Quentin prided himself on being able to hold his drinks. But tonight was a special occasion. It wasn't every night that a friend (friend! he had those!) turned 21. So Quentin had celebrated appropriately. It was a miracle he was still conscious.
"What number's higher'n ten?" he asked, his speech only slightly slurred. "Because that's where I am, boo."
Gabriel laughed, because he couldn't help himself. "Jesus, I must pour a strong cocktail. Here." He reached down at his feet, picking up a bottle of water he'd thought to grab before they left, and handed it to Quentin. "Don't think the nice man up front wants you puking in his car."
Though Quentin accepted the gift, he didn't open it yet. Instead, he gestured pointedly with it at Gabriel. "The only time I've been drunk so much I got almost got sick was the first morning I woke up in bed next to you. Which, now I think 'bout it, was also around our birthdays last year. Happy fuckiversary."
"What? No?" Gabriel frowned. "Nah, that can't — a year, really?" He turned toward the window. The problem with manipulating time is that it was remarkably easy to lose track of it. But Quentin apparently hadn't. Gabriel turned back to the other man with a smile on his face. "You remember the date of the first time we fucked?"
"Don't be stupid," Quentin admonished his friend/partner/buddy/Uber companion/labels what? "I just know your birthday's today, mine'stomorrow. Or yours was yesterday and now it's mine? Whatthefuckever. It was around this time of year. Because that's when I tried to get Tom . . ." Uttering that single syllable out loud threatened to release a whole package of long-repressed feelings, and even in his stupor, Quentin knew better than to risk that. So he turned the conversation back to the two of them. "We struck out and then I took you to my folks' place because it was empty and I could act out some childish rebellion by fucking in their bed. God knows they weren't using it for anything."
"Oh, right." Gabriel laughed again. "There was pretty good morning sex in that bed, too." That was much as he wanted to talk about Quentin's parents right now, and besides, Gabriel sensed he'd struck a nerve. "That was a pretty good birthday present on my part. Dunno how I'll top that this year."
"It was a'ight," Quentin lukewarmly agreed. "We got better. Where're you taking me now, anyway? Somewhere you'll get to top last year, Mister 'Now I'm Legal For Reals?'"
"You'll see when we get there," Gabriel said, a cryptic smile on his face. "Guess we should have stopped somewhere to use my ID — the real one — but I'm not even sure where it is. If I even still have one. Or if liquor stores are still open in the suburbs after 11." He reached into his pockets, pulling out his wallet and a pack of cigarettes. From the wallet, he withdrew a fake ID. "Goodbye, Andrew Jimenez, though."
"No, not Andrew Jimenez!" Quentin wailed dramatically. "He treated me so good. Rest in peace, papi. I'll never forget you." Feeling as if cotton balls were growing inside his mouth, Quentin opened the water bottle and chugged. It did little to alleviate his problem. "You gonna do the traditional visit to the DMV and get a big boy license now?"
"I dunno." Gabriel wrinkled his nose. "It's so cliché. What's, like, the opposite of that? I haven't been to a bar, I made virgin cocktails for a bunch of teenagers, and I'm not that drunk. This is the anti-cliché 21st birthday, damn it. I've been 21 since I was 18."
Quentin hrmmed loudly as he tried to get the cogs in his head moving so he could think of what nontraditional thing they could. "You could buy life insurance? I mean, the only custom for 21 is getting sloppy, so the anti-birthday would be to stay sober, but why the fuck would you do that?"
"Not sober," Gabriel protested, "just, you know. Aware. Reasonably clear-headed. Enough to get us where we're going, and enough that when I take E in an hour or whatever, I won't be a complete disaster."
Quentin focused his glassy, bloodshot eyes to Gabriel. "Well, fuck. If I knew that was an option, I would've kept pace instead of runnin' ahead of you. Or're you just tryin' to keep it all to yourself? That's awful miserly of you. Share the goods, boo."
Gabriel just smiled, grabbing the water from Quentin's hands and taking a sip from the bottle before handing it back. "So. What do you want for your birthday, besides drugs?"
"The brutal overthrow of the bourgeoisie and the kyriarchical regime. Or a pony" was the droll, automatic reply. "I mean, what do I need? I'm actually — and I swear no joke I will kill you if you tell anyone or even think of telling anyone — I'm not discontent right now. The world is terrible and and every day there's people who seem to go out of their way to make it worse, but that's just kinda how life is all the time. It's not getting worse, necessarily. I don't get to sleep every night worrying about, like, the apocalypse or whatthefuckever. So." Quentin shrugged, taking his leave of that brief bit of introspection.
"Plus, you know, you're gonna make me cum tonight and that's always a gift."
"Well, since you brought it up," Gabriel shifted to look at Quentin, "let me tell you what I'm getting for my birthday." He glanced at his phone. "We're about halfway to our destination, a room at a nice hotel on the water that's ours until, like, 5 p.m., because I called some people and got a pretty late checkout." He scooted closer to Quentin, dropping his phone on the leather seat and moving his hand to the other man's thigh. "I took the liberty of stopping by earlier and making sure there were plenty of party favors. And some snacks. Some toys."
His hand slipped up Quentin's leg slightly, and he moved his face closer to Quentin's ear. "Because what I want this year," he said, his voice quiet but his tone somewhat commanding, "is to fuck your brains out while I'm on high on E. But starting once it hits tomorrowmorning, it's your birthday." He pulled back slightly. "So," he smirked, "you better think long and hard"—and he hit those words like he was a character on Queer as Folk—"about what you want."
In his drunken haze, it took a moment for Quentin to process the scenario Gabriel had laid before him. His body was way ahead of his mind, though, and reacted instantly at the touch. With the short running shorts he was wearing, there was no hiding it, not that he even wanted to. His glance shifted from Gabriel's hand to his face and then to the driver, who was apparently making a point at keeping his eyes on the road and leaving the passengers to their own devices. Now there was a five-star driver.
Quentin guided Gabriel's hand further up his thigh and leaned in so Gabriel's breath — an alluring blend of barbecue, booze, and smoke — could entrance him like incense. "No, you make a good case. Changed my mind. That's what I want. Although," he added, grinning, "You scoffed at me when I suggested much the same thing."
"Well, sure." Gabriel's smirk widened. "But you didn't lead with fucking. And besides," he gently stroked the inside of Quentin's thigh, "it's much hotter when it seems like my idea, isn't it?"
"I'll have to remember that for next year." Quentin put his hand on the back of Gabriel's neck to pull him in for a deep, hungry kiss. He twisted in his seat, so he could send his other hand to mimic Gabriel's own, traveling up the other man's thigh. "You should turn 21 every day," he said breathily when they broke apart.
"Yeah?" Gabriel laughed. "I already have, a few times. Don't see why we can't make it a few more."
Quentin's tugged at Gabriel's belt buckle. "What if I just started our party right here? Think he'd mind?" he asked, nodding at the front seat. "Fuck, you're gonna get me into trouble soon enough, and then we'll have that Thelma 'n Louise ending after all."
"Please don't," the driver called from the front seat, and Gabriel laughed, because it was too perfect.
"Sorry, Q." He shifted, turning to face Quentin and shielding the other man's groin from the rearview mirror. Gabriel let his hand slip underneath the other man's running shorts. "Can't risk my star rating."
"I brought enough for the whole class," Quentin protested. "No one would be left out."
Gabriel snorted. "Well, I'll keep that in mind." He withdrew his hands, keeping them to himself, and reaching for his phone. "We're like two minutes away. Think you can make it?"
Quentin laughed and sat back in his seat like a normal, sober, unhorny person. He caught the driver's eyes in the rear-view mirror and waggled his eyebrows salaciously but received no response. "Yeah, I guess. But every minute is another orgasm you owe me..."
"Yeah?" Gabriel leaned back over for another deep kiss. "That was kind of the idea."
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