Quentin & Gabriel, Saturday evening
Jun. 24th, 2017 09:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsQuentin and Gabriel catch up while preparing for a night of drugs, booze, and anonymous sex. Happy Pride, guys!
Every year during Pride, Gabriel wondered why he bothered spending so much time pulling himself together for the various parties of the season. Inevitably, his shirt would be cast aside. He lost half of his tank tops to thirsty revelers or the bedroom floors of his one-night stands. And it never took long for sweat (whether from the summer sun or the heat generated by a club full of hungry, gyrating bodies) to turn his hair into a mess.
Still, underwear parties and warehouse fundraisers had become the debutante balls and cotillion parties for queer New York, or at least the parts of it that Gabriel inhabited. Even though one rarely left wearing the outfit in which they'd came, first impressions counted, and it wouldn't do to show up to a gay society soiree looking like somebody's straight cousin.
That's how Gabriel had justified spending an absurd amount of time rifling through his underwear drawer; it was the explanation for the pile of rejected tank tops in the middle of his bed; and it's why he was now blow-drying his hair for the third straight time. He wasn't sure how long he'd been fussing at this point (between his preening and his powers, he'd lost track of the clock, and the Vodka Red Bull he'd been nursing hadn't helped), but he was determined that the night ahead would live up to all of his efforts.
His partner in crime had similarly spent the day preparing himself for the night. Quentin's hair was freshly dyed its usual shockingly bright pink, which matched the glittery polish with which he had painted his nails, the small triangle he painted on his right cheek, and the short running shorts he wore that did not leave much to the imagination. He finished his ensemble with a plain white midriff-baring tank top and a brand-new pair of white Chucks that were certainly not going to be white by the end of the day. New earrings, too; a double helix that dangled from his right ear, and a chain on his left that looked like a little set of handcuffs.
Quentin Quire would partake in Pride parties with the same vocal and vicious enthusiasm with which he opposed the corporate sellouts of the parade.
Once he was satisfied with his look, he left his room and headed down the hall to Gabriel's and knocked on his door.
The door swung open, seemingly of its own volition, though really, Gabriel had sped toward it and darted back to his bathroom mirror so as to not waste any time. "Come in," he called as he ran product through his hair. "I'm running a little behind."
After another a few seconds, he did the courteous thing and stepped out into the living room to properly greet his guest. Assuming that half-dressed-and-perfectly-coiffed was the Emily Post-approved way to welcome a frequent sexual partner into your home. "I need you to be honest about my hair," he said as he popped out of the bathroom. At the sight of Quentin, he stopped, crossing his arms as he took the site of the younger man in.
"Whoa." A smile on Gabriel's face morphed into a grin. "Look at you." His eyes lingered on Quentin's shorts for a second before moving back up to the other man's face. "As you can see," he glanced at the pile of clothes on his bed, "I am suffering from a crisis of indecision."
He would never give Gabriel the satisfaction of acknowledging the value of his approval, so Quentin merely smirked in response to the compliment and joined him by his bed. "You're not even going to take it home after tonight," he said knowingly. "I hope these are all affordable spares."
Gabriel sighed, frowning slightly. "I know," he admitted. "But I'll have it on for the train ride or the Uber or whatever we do, and that's good for a few snaps or instas so..." He surveyed the heap of discarded apparel before ultimately reaching for a light blue tank top he'd pilfered from a SoulCycle instructor he'd once slept with. It was a little too small; the fabric hugged Gabriel's body a little more closely than he'd generally allow. But seeing Quentin reminded him that this was exactly the look he'd been going for.
"You want a drink?" Gabriel glanced in the mirror. His shirt rode up slightly as he fiddled with his hair, and he pulled it down. "Bar lines being what they are, it's usually worth getting a healthy buzz on before you go to these things."
"I know these things. How long have you known me?" Quentin asked rhetorically, planting himself on the couch while Gabriel busied himself. "I don't leave the house sober. Or return sober. And besides, I get instant attention when I want it. Telepathy, bitch."
"I didn't realize your powers were strong enough to compete with such a high thirst quotient," Gabriel remarked wryly. He zoomed over to the kitchen to pour Quentin a drink. He grabbed a glass. "It's not like we've gone out together all that much. Not lately anyway. Feels like it's been a hot minute." He shrugged. "Although everything feels like it's been a hot minute for me, so who's to say, really?"
#I can do a lot of things now I couldn't do a year ago, or even six months#, Quentin said in Gabriel's head. But he switched back to verbal, aware of Gabriel's discomfort with anyone in his head, even Quentin. "Where've you been lately, anyway? Have you even been around here? Barely've seen you at all."
"Mmm, yeah, I've been around." Gabriel, who had done his best not to flinch or otherwise appear unnerved when Quentin's voice suddenly occupied his brain, just shrugged. "Just busy, I guess." He whirred into being in front of Quentin, a vodka tonic in hand. He set it on the coffee table before plopping on the couch.
"Day job. Sometimes, night job. The gym. Extracurriculars. I dunno." Gabriel searched around for his own drink before remembering he'd left it in the bathroom. "I guess our schedules haven't really lined up," he added before going to retrieve it.
Quentin sipped his drink. Something so simple, yet so perfect and refreshing. He nodded with contentment and settled into his seat. "Really getting into the murder-spy game? Or have you not graduated to that level yet?"
"You're a detective. You tell me." Gabriel returned to the couch. "But no," he answered after a swig from the cup. The ice had melted, making everything taste flat. "Still mostly research and errands. Nothing crucial or important. Study, study, study."
"And if I asked for more details, then you would have to kill me? A practical exam? And I'm no detective. Just some asshole making other assholes' lives slightly less shitty."
"Well, that's something," Gabriel pointed out. "And it's more than I'm doing by, like, getting Sydney's mail and answering Wade's phones." He shrugged. "Whatever. It passes the time. Pays better than pouring drinks." He punctuated that thought with a sip from his beverage. "I'm thinking about finally giving that up, honestly. Might be time to become a one job guy.."
The admission almost made Quentin choke. "Why?" he asked incredulously after he finished coughing. "Why would you give up such a high position on the gay hierarchy? Abdicating your throne."
"Okay, wow," Gabriel scoffed. "First of all, that job is not the only reason I am wherever the hell I am on the gay pyramid. Rude." He absently swirled the drink in his glass. "But honestly, I don't know, it's just a lot. And I know I can get a lot done in a day - faster than your average bear, yada yada - but for the first time in a while, I don't really need to hustle as much as I'm hustling."
"Was it ever about 'needing' so much as fulfilling a crucial niche in the ecosystem?" Quentin philosophized. "And that's gonna make getting free drinks harder. I mean, not really, but. A different kind of effort. Well, whatever. That's gonna leave you with all sorts of new free time. What're you gonna do to not go stir-crazy?"
"I dunno, that's part of the problem. Maybe I'm all talk. I don't know what free time is like, and I have twice as much of it as most people." He drained the rest of his glass, and they sat in silence for a few seconds. "It was about moving to New York with no money, no skills and no references, by the way, not that it matters."
Quentin telekinetically called the liquor bottle from the kitchen so Gabriel could refill his glass. "So it's time to move on from what started as just a way to survive the ~big city.~ Maybe you should open your own bar. That'd be the step up and the next part of your Cinderella story."
"Thanks." Gabriel grabbed the bottle as it moved toward him. "And yeah, maybe. Let me just take the couple thousand dollars I've got lying around and — oh wait." In lieu of a financial windfall, he indulged himself with a healthy pour. "We'll see," he shrugged. "This month'll probably change my mind. You get a lot of phone numbers when you're shirtless and surrounded by booze."
"And why would you ever want to give that up?" Quentin took the bottle to refill his drink and stood up to stretch before knocking back half of it. "I could give you Worthington's bank info. At least the accounts I know about. He's probably got a dozen illegal tax havens somewhere else. And before you say anything about how you don't want his handouts or whatever, it would be theft, so it's morally okay."
Gabriel just wrinkled his nose. "Even then, hard pass. Ugh." I assume you put Daddy Warbucks' coin to good use, though." His eyes went to Quentin's nails, and he considered taking the minute or so it would require to paint his own.
"I think he thinks the huge Versace bills he gets are his own, he just can't remember what he bought or who he bought it for. But I got these really great croc-skin sneakers and I'm not stupid enough to pay a grand of my own money for shoes. And yes, you should," Quentin added, gesturing at Gabriel's hands. "Need my polish?"
Gabriel shrugged after a healthy swig from his glass. "Dunno. Does it go with the outfit? I hesitate to do anything that would suggest another wardrobe change. Plus I'd have to wait for it to dry."
"At the risk of twinking out in front of you, I've got a dozen colors, so you've got your choice. And it doesn't take that long to dry. Just don't use your hands until then."
"Eh..." Gabriel glanced at his unadorned fingers, then at Quentin, then at Quentin's fingers. "Why not. Pride, right? You pick the color, though. I'm indifferent." A beat. "Croc-skin sneakers? Where are you possibly wearing those?"
"Still looking for the runway that deserves me."
Every year during Pride, Gabriel wondered why he bothered spending so much time pulling himself together for the various parties of the season. Inevitably, his shirt would be cast aside. He lost half of his tank tops to thirsty revelers or the bedroom floors of his one-night stands. And it never took long for sweat (whether from the summer sun or the heat generated by a club full of hungry, gyrating bodies) to turn his hair into a mess.
Still, underwear parties and warehouse fundraisers had become the debutante balls and cotillion parties for queer New York, or at least the parts of it that Gabriel inhabited. Even though one rarely left wearing the outfit in which they'd came, first impressions counted, and it wouldn't do to show up to a gay society soiree looking like somebody's straight cousin.
That's how Gabriel had justified spending an absurd amount of time rifling through his underwear drawer; it was the explanation for the pile of rejected tank tops in the middle of his bed; and it's why he was now blow-drying his hair for the third straight time. He wasn't sure how long he'd been fussing at this point (between his preening and his powers, he'd lost track of the clock, and the Vodka Red Bull he'd been nursing hadn't helped), but he was determined that the night ahead would live up to all of his efforts.
His partner in crime had similarly spent the day preparing himself for the night. Quentin's hair was freshly dyed its usual shockingly bright pink, which matched the glittery polish with which he had painted his nails, the small triangle he painted on his right cheek, and the short running shorts he wore that did not leave much to the imagination. He finished his ensemble with a plain white midriff-baring tank top and a brand-new pair of white Chucks that were certainly not going to be white by the end of the day. New earrings, too; a double helix that dangled from his right ear, and a chain on his left that looked like a little set of handcuffs.
Quentin Quire would partake in Pride parties with the same vocal and vicious enthusiasm with which he opposed the corporate sellouts of the parade.
Once he was satisfied with his look, he left his room and headed down the hall to Gabriel's and knocked on his door.
The door swung open, seemingly of its own volition, though really, Gabriel had sped toward it and darted back to his bathroom mirror so as to not waste any time. "Come in," he called as he ran product through his hair. "I'm running a little behind."
After another a few seconds, he did the courteous thing and stepped out into the living room to properly greet his guest. Assuming that half-dressed-and-perfectly-coiffed was the Emily Post-approved way to welcome a frequent sexual partner into your home. "I need you to be honest about my hair," he said as he popped out of the bathroom. At the sight of Quentin, he stopped, crossing his arms as he took the site of the younger man in.
"Whoa." A smile on Gabriel's face morphed into a grin. "Look at you." His eyes lingered on Quentin's shorts for a second before moving back up to the other man's face. "As you can see," he glanced at the pile of clothes on his bed, "I am suffering from a crisis of indecision."
He would never give Gabriel the satisfaction of acknowledging the value of his approval, so Quentin merely smirked in response to the compliment and joined him by his bed. "You're not even going to take it home after tonight," he said knowingly. "I hope these are all affordable spares."
Gabriel sighed, frowning slightly. "I know," he admitted. "But I'll have it on for the train ride or the Uber or whatever we do, and that's good for a few snaps or instas so..." He surveyed the heap of discarded apparel before ultimately reaching for a light blue tank top he'd pilfered from a SoulCycle instructor he'd once slept with. It was a little too small; the fabric hugged Gabriel's body a little more closely than he'd generally allow. But seeing Quentin reminded him that this was exactly the look he'd been going for.
"You want a drink?" Gabriel glanced in the mirror. His shirt rode up slightly as he fiddled with his hair, and he pulled it down. "Bar lines being what they are, it's usually worth getting a healthy buzz on before you go to these things."
"I know these things. How long have you known me?" Quentin asked rhetorically, planting himself on the couch while Gabriel busied himself. "I don't leave the house sober. Or return sober. And besides, I get instant attention when I want it. Telepathy, bitch."
"I didn't realize your powers were strong enough to compete with such a high thirst quotient," Gabriel remarked wryly. He zoomed over to the kitchen to pour Quentin a drink. He grabbed a glass. "It's not like we've gone out together all that much. Not lately anyway. Feels like it's been a hot minute." He shrugged. "Although everything feels like it's been a hot minute for me, so who's to say, really?"
#I can do a lot of things now I couldn't do a year ago, or even six months#, Quentin said in Gabriel's head. But he switched back to verbal, aware of Gabriel's discomfort with anyone in his head, even Quentin. "Where've you been lately, anyway? Have you even been around here? Barely've seen you at all."
"Mmm, yeah, I've been around." Gabriel, who had done his best not to flinch or otherwise appear unnerved when Quentin's voice suddenly occupied his brain, just shrugged. "Just busy, I guess." He whirred into being in front of Quentin, a vodka tonic in hand. He set it on the coffee table before plopping on the couch.
"Day job. Sometimes, night job. The gym. Extracurriculars. I dunno." Gabriel searched around for his own drink before remembering he'd left it in the bathroom. "I guess our schedules haven't really lined up," he added before going to retrieve it.
Quentin sipped his drink. Something so simple, yet so perfect and refreshing. He nodded with contentment and settled into his seat. "Really getting into the murder-spy game? Or have you not graduated to that level yet?"
"You're a detective. You tell me." Gabriel returned to the couch. "But no," he answered after a swig from the cup. The ice had melted, making everything taste flat. "Still mostly research and errands. Nothing crucial or important. Study, study, study."
"And if I asked for more details, then you would have to kill me? A practical exam? And I'm no detective. Just some asshole making other assholes' lives slightly less shitty."
"Well, that's something," Gabriel pointed out. "And it's more than I'm doing by, like, getting Sydney's mail and answering Wade's phones." He shrugged. "Whatever. It passes the time. Pays better than pouring drinks." He punctuated that thought with a sip from his beverage. "I'm thinking about finally giving that up, honestly. Might be time to become a one job guy.."
The admission almost made Quentin choke. "Why?" he asked incredulously after he finished coughing. "Why would you give up such a high position on the gay hierarchy? Abdicating your throne."
"Okay, wow," Gabriel scoffed. "First of all, that job is not the only reason I am wherever the hell I am on the gay pyramid. Rude." He absently swirled the drink in his glass. "But honestly, I don't know, it's just a lot. And I know I can get a lot done in a day - faster than your average bear, yada yada - but for the first time in a while, I don't really need to hustle as much as I'm hustling."
"Was it ever about 'needing' so much as fulfilling a crucial niche in the ecosystem?" Quentin philosophized. "And that's gonna make getting free drinks harder. I mean, not really, but. A different kind of effort. Well, whatever. That's gonna leave you with all sorts of new free time. What're you gonna do to not go stir-crazy?"
"I dunno, that's part of the problem. Maybe I'm all talk. I don't know what free time is like, and I have twice as much of it as most people." He drained the rest of his glass, and they sat in silence for a few seconds. "It was about moving to New York with no money, no skills and no references, by the way, not that it matters."
Quentin telekinetically called the liquor bottle from the kitchen so Gabriel could refill his glass. "So it's time to move on from what started as just a way to survive the ~big city.~ Maybe you should open your own bar. That'd be the step up and the next part of your Cinderella story."
"Thanks." Gabriel grabbed the bottle as it moved toward him. "And yeah, maybe. Let me just take the couple thousand dollars I've got lying around and — oh wait." In lieu of a financial windfall, he indulged himself with a healthy pour. "We'll see," he shrugged. "This month'll probably change my mind. You get a lot of phone numbers when you're shirtless and surrounded by booze."
"And why would you ever want to give that up?" Quentin took the bottle to refill his drink and stood up to stretch before knocking back half of it. "I could give you Worthington's bank info. At least the accounts I know about. He's probably got a dozen illegal tax havens somewhere else. And before you say anything about how you don't want his handouts or whatever, it would be theft, so it's morally okay."
Gabriel just wrinkled his nose. "Even then, hard pass. Ugh." I assume you put Daddy Warbucks' coin to good use, though." His eyes went to Quentin's nails, and he considered taking the minute or so it would require to paint his own.
"I think he thinks the huge Versace bills he gets are his own, he just can't remember what he bought or who he bought it for. But I got these really great croc-skin sneakers and I'm not stupid enough to pay a grand of my own money for shoes. And yes, you should," Quentin added, gesturing at Gabriel's hands. "Need my polish?"
Gabriel shrugged after a healthy swig from his glass. "Dunno. Does it go with the outfit? I hesitate to do anything that would suggest another wardrobe change. Plus I'd have to wait for it to dry."
"At the risk of twinking out in front of you, I've got a dozen colors, so you've got your choice. And it doesn't take that long to dry. Just don't use your hands until then."
"Eh..." Gabriel glanced at his unadorned fingers, then at Quentin, then at Quentin's fingers. "Why not. Pride, right? You pick the color, though. I'm indifferent." A beat. "Croc-skin sneakers? Where are you possibly wearing those?"
"Still looking for the runway that deserves me."
