xp_logs | Hank and Quentin | Friday night (backdated to April 27, 2018)

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Quentin takes Hank out for a night of firsts.

It was Hank's first time out, so Quentin graciously offered to start small. Just a typical Friday-night gay club that only gave a cursory glance to ID's. Good for Quentin, because without his telepathy and still another 6 months until legal age, he had to resort to his old fake cards, and Jimmy Cheung was nearing his expiration. Still, the bouncer let the pair inside, where the excited chatter outside turned into booming bass and raucous laughter. The floor was packed, so Quentin grabbed Hank's wrist to pull him to the bar, where his towering presence immediately called the bartender's attention, and Quentin ordered them a pair of vodka sodas.

"Cheers," he said, gently tapping Hank's glass with his own before downing half the drink. "You look good. Didn't know you actually have short-sleeves in your closet. Figured it was all khakis and button-downs."

"It was until recently," Hank said, his eyes roaming the scene around them even as he tried to keep most of his attention on Quentin. "Sue took me shopping. She said that since Reed was a lost cause, she'd have to make do with making over someone more biddable. I was just grateful for her help."

"Well, at least she's good for something," Quentin mused, barely audible over the din of the club. He followed Hank's wandering gaze, curious what piqued his attention most. The minglers, the dancers on the floor, the DJ, the pair of drag queen MCs, the gogo boys who probably were not employed by the club but were just some thirsty twinks? "Where's it you come from, again? Probably not many places like this there."

"No, there certainly are not a lot of places like this in rural Illinois," Hank agreed. "Though I did live near Chicago for a short time. Not that I ever went to any clubs while I was there - heterosexual or otherwise. Those are men, right?" He was definitely looking at the MCs now.

"Hard to tell. Maybe by day. But there's so many trans drag queens that maybe not. Does it matter?" Quentin asked curiously, not challenging Hank, just interrogating his thoughts.

"No, no of course not," Hank rushed to say. "I only meant that their costuming skill is all the more impressive if so. And perhaps something I should learn more about - it isn't as if conventional clothing is tailored to fit my frame," he added, holding up a hand before dropping it back to his drink. "I'm sure I could find some time to learn to sew."

"You would make a lovely queen. You'd need a stage name. Like Erlen Meyer. Kristal Meth."

A young man sidled up to them then, eyes fixed on Hank. He was young, about their age, fit and gorgeous and the perfect specimen for a Pride float. He wore a tank top and jeans so skinny his religion was discernible. Very similar to Quentin's outfit, which itself would have been enough for the pink-haired mutant to dismiss him, but encroaching on his companion, too? Before he even had his own chance? Nah, sis. A withering glare and a not-so-gentle telekinetic shove removed the interloper from their presence. Quentin looped his arm around Hank's and pulled him away, shooting the evil eye over his shoulder.

"Let's dance, shall we?"

Hank had no choice but to throw back his drink as Quentin dragged him away from the bar, pleasantly surprised to find it tasted of... nothing, really. Far better than the filched can of his father's beer which had been his only other introduction to alcohol thus far. The alcohol content wasn't nearly high enough to affect him, but just the rebellious act was enough to give him a bit of a buzz as they pushed their way through the crush of the crowd.

Gentle psychokinetic nudges cleared a path for them, and Quentin immediately fell into the rhythm when they got to the floor. Feet moving, hips swaying, paying no heed to any of the other men around them. After a couple minutes, Quentin's hand found its away around Hank's waist to rest on the small of his back and pull him in closer. "Like this," he instructed, guiding Hank's hips to mirror his own movement. "Get loose, McCoy. Don't be so tight. You look like you're going to have a seizure."

"I think perhaps I might." Hank's hips were anything but loose. Quentin's hands landing there didn't improve matters much. "I think I might not be cut out for this!" he shouted over the music.

Quentin smirked and put his other hand on Hank's chest. His surprisingly well-toned chest, for a man who seemed to live inside a laboratory and subsisted on a diet of scientific inquiry and gentle politeness. "Don't be such a white boy," Quentin chided him as he pulled Hank closer. "Do I have to put another drink in you to chill out?"

At first it seemed his dance partner was going to respond by either tripping over himself or fainting right on the spot, but somehow Hank managed to pull himself together. "This is just all very new to me," he told Quentin, his chest rising and falling with the deep breath he took to steady himself. "Patience would be appreciated while I, er, find my feet."

"It's just dancing. It's not like we're doing shrooms." Although that would be fun, Quentin mused. Still, for Hank's sake, he dropped his hand from the taller man's chest and put a little more space between them. His other hand remained on Hank's back, though. "Okay, think about it this way. Music is math with sound. The beats come at regular intervals. Shit's measured in hertz, like all other kinds of cycles. Make sense?"

His companion nodded, his gaze going a little farway as he tuned into the music, doubtless listening for the beats and cycles that Quentin had pointed out. Unsurprisingly his movements almost immediately became less stiff and self-conscious; they were by no means artistic but he at least looked less like he was being held on the dance floor upon pain of death. His hips even began to sway, helped along by Quentin's hand at the small of his back. "There's actually a very interesting cross-rhythm to the chorus of this song," Hank observed.

"Is there?" All this shouting over the music to hear each other was hurting Quentin's throat, and besides, the DJ was now playing the new Hayley Kiyoko, which demanded complete attention. They continued to dance, Quentin feeling at home on the floor, Hank not quite so alien anymore. He was not such a lumbering hulk after all. As the track changed again, Quentin spun around and pulled Hank's arm around his waist so now Hank was holding Quentin close. The psi looked over his shoulder and grinned, grinding lightly against Hank's hips.

He caught a glimpse of bright blue eyes widening in surprise - but Hank didn't pull away. After a moment Quentin felt another oversized hand come to rest on his hip, both keeping Hank in rhythm and ensuring that Quentin didn't grind too intimately.

Quentin played nicely, keeping that bare minimum space between them and not daring to move Hank's hands while still tutoring him on club basics. Not for the first time, he yearned for his full powers back, just to know what was going on in the other man's head. What was going on underneath that blanket of apprehension?

Whatever it was, the psi figured it could use another drink after all. When the track changed again, he started to push away from the floor, and beckoned Hank to follow him back to the bar, where it took an unnecessarily long time to call the harried bartender and order a pair of Manhattans. "This" — Quentin handed one of the glasses to Hank — "Is considerably different from round one."

Hank took a sip. "Oh, now this is spectacular," he said, blinking in surprise. Another sip. "This I like."

"The appropriately named Manhattan. Should have figured you for a whiskey man. Just don't become one of those assholes who makes a whole thing about it. It's fine, but it's not the only alcohol around."

"Somehow I doubt the likelihood of that happening. This is illegal," Hank pointed out, "and besides, I can't imagine making a habit of this sort of evening. Not that it isn't novel and enjoyable, but I think it's clear that I don't exactly fit in here."

"Oh, sis." Quentin patted Hank's shoulder and shook his head in mocking frustration. "If I teach you anything tonight, besides how to move, it's that everyone fits in here. It's the whole fucking point. Clubs have been the center of queer life for a hundred years for exactly that reason. And for real, have you seen the way guys've been looking at you here?"

Hank shifted uncomfortably. "I've noticed the staring. It's difficult not to. That's what I'm talking about." He dropped his voice until it was barely audible above the music from the dance floor. "They know I'm a mutant."

The last time they'd had this conversation, Quentin did all he could to push Hank in uncomfortable directions. Trolling was safe in Hank's lab. But he looked on the verge of a panic attack now, and not the virginal anxiety he has displayed on the dance floor. Quentin's hand ran down Hank's arm and rested on his hand. Not like Quentin was a particularly big man to begin with, but Hank's hand made his look positively childlike. The absurdity made the psi let out a little laugh.

"Maybe they do, or maybe they're looking at you like this 'cuz they want to fuck you."

The only real response to this was a hefty gulp of Manhattan; only once Hank had choked that down could he brave a glance around the room. Sure enough there was more than one pair of eyes on him and Quentin, but the longer Hank dared observe the more he noticed the lack of disgust in his fellow club-goer's eyes - indeed, they looked quite friendly, in a slightly hungry sort of way. One of them even went so far as to catch his eye and tip his head towards the entrance to the toilets, a signal that took the normally quick-witted young man a moment to parse. "Oh my stars and garters," he muttered, turning back to Quentin with burning cheeks. "You may well be correct."

"Of course I'm right. I wouldn't follow him, though, the bathroom scene isn't for amateurs," Quentin warned. One finger traced a random design on Hank's hand, while with his free hand, he beckoned the bartender for a refill on the drinks. "Are you really so surprised there's people who think you're hot?"

"I left high school early rather than endure the daily taunts and jeers of my classmates," Hank said, his tongue loosened by the all-too-drinkable cocktail. "To say my physical appearance was not generally hailed as attractive is rather an understatement."

Unbidden images flashed through Quentin's memories. The taunts, the trips, the punches and kicks. The rich, wealthy, normal kids laughing at the weird, isolated, pink-haired freak. Three years since telepathic manifestation and his thrilling departure from high school, and still those memories haunted him. It probably did not help that Shadow King had recreated them so vividly when it had imprisoned him on the astral plane only a few months ago. Or had he harnessed that fear and shame to combat the parasite? It was still too much of a jumble to make sense of.

Setting aside the ugly thoughts of his brief time in the afterlife, Quentin managed a wry smile and drank deeply from his glass. "We've got something in common, then," he said hoarsely. "The early graduation would have been a good idea. The daily hell by a bunch of self-loathing, pitiful, conformist flatscans, though."

Now it was Hank's turn to reach over and place a hand over Quentin's, covering it entirely. It was somewhat sweaty, but thankfully not too cool or clammy. "We made it out in the end," he said, his solemn expression completely at odds with the blaring pop music and flashing lights. "And now we find ourselves here. I can't say this is where I envisioned myself ending up, back then, but at least the company has improved significantly."

Through the mess of bad memories, alcohol, and hormones, all Quentin could manage was to roll his eyes and say, "Damn, how shitty were things that I'm your better option?" His smile remained, though.

With a chuckle Hank broke contact, reaching for his drink and downing it in one gulp. "I think the customary thing to say at moments like these is 'damn, girl, get your ass on the dance floor." A beat. "Did I do that right?"

"I'm sorry, have we met? I could've sworn I was just talking to someone else a second ago." Quentin followed Hank's lead with the drink and then eagerly escorted him back to the floor. "We're gonna have to make a regular thing of this, you know. You can't wuss out now."

"You're the one who will suffer for it - I can't imagine being stuck near my pitiful excuse for dance moves will do anything to boost your reputation," Hank replied, his lanky frame looser and more relaxed as they took the floor. "Though perhaps you are hoping to look more hip by comparison, in which case I say well played, sir."

"There is literally no way I could care less about what a bunch of flatscans think of me. I have much better reasons for taking you here." But no less selfish in a way, Quentin mused, easily returning to the same physical intimacy they'd had last time they danced: arms around each each others' waists, a hand on Hank's chest, hips grinding, legs intertwined.

His companion seemed more comfortable now - or maybe just drunker - his long limbs giving him a strange sort of grace as he tuned into the rhythm of the music and let it dictate his body's movements.

"You're an excellent dancer," Hank said after one song faded out and the next began, leaning in to be heard over the thumping bass. "Have you taken classes?"

The din drowned Hank's words so Quentin did not hear him. Instead, all Quentin saw was the bigger man lean in and part his lips, which, in his current state, he interpreted as something else entirely. He moved in, too, and — too short to reach him — stood on his toes and kissed him.

There was a moment where Hank responded, his arm tightening around Quentin, lips parting further against his mouth, and then he realised what he was doing and sprang back, the shock on his face tempered by alcohol - and the fact that he had very clearly been into it.

"I, er... I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me."

Quentin's expression darkened for a moment, being forcibly torn out of this fantasy. He opened his mouth, an angry retort on the tip of his tongue that, like Hank's last question, probably would be lost in the music, anyway. Not for the first time, he mourned his lost telepathy. Communication was so much easier, and it pushed straight through all this verbal pretense to get straight to the point.

"Don't apologize," he eventually said, shouting so he could be heard. "Tell me if I crossed a line, if I misread and you're not interested. Then I apologize. You don't."

Another Manhattan probably would've been welcome right then, but Hank managed to keep his flustered state from interfering with a response. Just. "You didn't misread," he said, shouting back to keep the words from being sucked up by the music. "This just isn't exactly how I envisioned my first kiss taking place!"

The music continued, the clubgoers unaware of the drama unfolding. That did not make for comfortable discussion. Quentin nodded his head to the side, indicating the front door so they could step out into the cool spring night and talk properly, with only the smokers and bouncers as their audience. "So, first kiss," he said, leaning against the brick wall outside the club, arms folded over his chest. "Sorry it wasn't what you imagined."

"I didn't mean it was unsatisfactory," Hank said, reaching up to rub the back of his neck with a bashful smile. "Only that it was unexpected. You may have noticed I'm not the most impulsive person. What I lack in alacrity of decision I make up for in painstaking deliberation and over-analysis."

The mild self-deprecation was charming, and Quentin found himself returning Hank's smile with a small one of his own. "No one has ever accused me of not being impulsive," he admitted. "Tonight's full of firsts, huh?"

"It most certainly is." Hank pulled his hand away and reached out for Quentin's, awkward but not hesitant. "I apologise for acting like the terrible oaf that I am. And... I would not be adverse to repeating the interaction, if you were still in a mind to do so."

"Don't apologize," Quentin insisted again. It took him a second to parse Hank's verbal thesaurus, and he snorted in amusement when he translated what he'd said. He stepped up to Hank, his small hand in Hank's much larger one, and kissed him again. More slowly this time, not powered by the frenetic energy inside that had led him to be so impetuous, but no less passionately.

He could feel his companion give a small tremble and then lean down into the embrace, stooping so that Quentin didn't have to balance quite so carefully on his toes to reach his lips. Hank smelled of sweat, and underneath that the faintest hint of cologne, reminiscent of the musk that often turned up on thrift-store clothing.

A far cry from Quentin's typical club hook-ups, who underneath the tinge of dancefloor sweat and the pervasive odor of cigarette smoke, doused themselves in fashionable scents. If he never smelled Britney Spears Fantasy fragrance line again, it would be too soon.

So lost in the moment (and assisted by three rapid drinks and dehydration), Quentin lost track of how long they were going at it. But when they finally stopped for air, he did not pull away, and instead pressed himself against Hank so the other man knew just how much Quentin had enjoyed that. "You wanna find somewhere more private and quiet?" Quentin asked, eyes gleaming mischevously.

"While part of me would like nothing more," Hank said, and there was no doubting which part of him that was, given Quentin's current position, "I think perhaps it would be adviseable to call it an evening. Any more firsts and I fear I may spontaneously combust, scientific impossibility or no."

"I can respect that." Even though inversely, not going further would likely be the cause of Quentin's self-immolation. He took out his phone and tapped the screen. "Let me call you a cab. It's too late to take the train all the way back. You wouldn't get there 'til sunrise."

"Don't you want to-- ah. I see." Hank nodded sagely, a hint of self-consciousness creeping back into his expression. "That's very kind of you."

"Don't I want to what?" Quentin kept his playful expression for Hank's benefit, though a brief sensation of dread sprouted in his stomach. Then realization bloomed. Quentin almost laughed. "Oh. You think I'm going to . . . No, Henry. I'm not going to find someone else to get it wet because you said no. That's an entire other level of slut than me."

"There are levels?" Hank asked, furrowing his brow. "Today has truly been more informative than most of my classes."

"Yes. I'm only a level 3, but ditching one person for another takes at least a level 5," Quentin said flatly.

"...I ought to stop talking altogether, shouldn't I?" the taller man wanted to know.

A Lyft pulled up next to them and Quentin nodded at the driver. "If you can't make it on brains, then at least you can fall back on your good looks. Good night, Henry. Text me tomorrow." He leaned in for a final good night kiss. It lasted a little too long and was a little too intense to be merely polite, and Hank's expression when he finally pulled back and folded himself into the car was distinctly remorseful. He raised one overlarge hand to wave goodbye as the Uber pulled away and then went to adjust his glasses, which of course were not there. It seemed a lot of things were changing for Henry McCoy.