Quentin & Arthur, Tuesday afternoon
Mar. 14th, 2023 03:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsQuentin grows close to a third older man in as many weeks, helping Arthur investigate his mysterious paycheck. The telepath learns more about the lucky one than he bargained for.
It was a casual day in the office, but there was a mystery afoot.
Well, a type of mystery.
"I always knew this card," and the blonde speaker waggled the card in emphasis, "Was connected to something, but I've always known the universe was looking out for me."
"Yeah yeah, but capitalism doesn't look out for anyone." Quentin sat across from Arthur, feet kicked up on his desk and laptop resting on his thighs. He was scrolling through years of payroll data. "It blows my mind that you've been drawing a paycheck here for almost a decade and didn't know it. How?"
"The universe watches out for me," Arthur replied with the unshakeable confidence of someone who had never been forced to consider things like paychecks. Or bank accounts. Or overdraft fees. "I seem to always have what I need."
He went to reach over and pat Quentin's shoulder, reassuringly, but held himself back as he was struck with something resembling a deep thought. "Or is this a sign from the universe that I shouldn't be getting a paycheck?"
Quentin scoffed at the thought. "I can think of a thousand ways to reallocate your salary, but no one's here providing their labor for nothing. If you don't need it, then invest back in the community. I'm sure the community center would be thrilled at your donation. Assuming, of course, the money's even in your possession. Lemme see that card again. I don't think it's matching up..."
There was a slight gasp. "Are you suggesting I've been using someone else's money? Q, I donate with that card."
"Or someone's using your money, 'cuz unless you're donating 75% of what you're supposed to be earning, you've got less than you should in this account." Quentin floated his laptop to Arthur so he could see the spreadsheet he had drawn. "Oh, don't look so surprised I know how to use Excel. I did go to high school."
Arthur's look hardened a little, "Q, I would never question the fact that you excel. You're excel-ent and don't let anyone tell you differently."
He stretched, idly, and didn't look overly concerned about what the spreadsheet was saying. "You're right, though, that's just my pocket fund. Lunches, food trucks, good samaritan Venmos. The rest all gets put into the 'lockbox.'"
That earned Arthur a look of frustration and contempt. Quentin's face was turning the color of his hair. "Centino, I swear to God. What, pray tell, is the lockbox?"
"So," and the man's tone immediately grew distracted and detached as if this was the most off putting and embarrassing story in the world, "Imagine back when you weren't even here. Adrienne was incredibly concerned about my well-being, as she always was, and told me that she wanted to do a little experiment. She created a lockbox," and there were little wiggly finger gestures at this, "where a little money would go every so often."
He sighed.
"All I know is that I'm not supposed to touch it, except the past couple of years I've been getting occasional phones calls asking for my thoughts and feelings on index funds — which I all about helping people to look things up, don't get me wrong there — and legacy pools, which I don't even get a membership card to go swim in. Those are the worst phone calls. The entire thing is a hassle."
Normally Quentin only got the degree of headache he was currently suffering when he dangerously overextended his powers. Connecting the dots should not have been so painful. "Let me get this straight. You use this debit card for everyday small purchases, not knowing where the money you're debiting even comes from. And that money is the salary Frost, Worthington, then Dane and now I pay you, and a huge chunk of it is automatically going to a separate imperceptible savings account that investors are desperate to tap into. And it's all just a nuisance to you? Like a mosquito. But I bet you've never once in your life been bitten by a mosquito, have you?"
Arthur's pleasant demeanor didn't falter, exactly, but over the course of Quentin's rant it was as if the very cheer was being drained from it, word by word, until all that was left was the mask that Arthur Centino chose to wear everyday. A carefully crafted veneer of shine. He was still smiling, unblinking, when he answered flatly, "I am lucky enough to manage."
"Lucky," and he leaned on that word like a crutch, "That I have an idea of how much I can take at a time without causing real harm." He tapped his head, as in offering. "Lucky I've always had my gifts, except for the fact that if I have too much or not enough, bad things happen to the people around me. I choose not to know exactly what's happening because that's how it works — if I'm 'pure' or kind or good, that's only when my power is more than just a wrecking ball. Thinking too much is a..."
He blinked, and all of that seriousness was swept aside. "Anyway, I've got my strategy and it works alright."
The change, as subtle as it was, was also terrifying. In all the years the two men had worked together, Quentin had never seen the mask slip. He didn't even realize it was a mask. And though he kept himself from snooping into Arthur's mind, he couldn't help but also sense a momentary darkening there, too. Or perhaps the opening of a deep dark pit never before explored, because if anyone did peer into the void, it would peer back and unleash savage misfortune.
Arthur was the mutant avatar of "ignorance is bliss," and a dark deadly flipside.
"Yeah, okay," Quentin finally responded, calmly like he was trying to get away from a wild animal protecting its territory. He removed his legs from Arthur's desk so he could sit upright. "Do you . . . I could keep any eye on all this, you know, just for safety, but keep you out of it."
Arthur laughed, too easy and too light, in delight at the offer. "You'd do that for me? That's amazing. No one's really been at the wheel there, but I know I can trust you to make sure any wins are going somewhere that will help the most people. I'm lucky to have you as a friend, Quentin."
Only Arthur could make such a gracious statement sound like a threat. "Don't worry about it. Like, literally don't. Let the universe keep doing what it's doing. I'll just make sure it's not screwing you over."
"Don't worry one bit. If there's one thing I've gotten good at, it is not worrying."
It was a casual day in the office, but there was a mystery afoot.
Well, a type of mystery.
"I always knew this card," and the blonde speaker waggled the card in emphasis, "Was connected to something, but I've always known the universe was looking out for me."
"Yeah yeah, but capitalism doesn't look out for anyone." Quentin sat across from Arthur, feet kicked up on his desk and laptop resting on his thighs. He was scrolling through years of payroll data. "It blows my mind that you've been drawing a paycheck here for almost a decade and didn't know it. How?"
"The universe watches out for me," Arthur replied with the unshakeable confidence of someone who had never been forced to consider things like paychecks. Or bank accounts. Or overdraft fees. "I seem to always have what I need."
He went to reach over and pat Quentin's shoulder, reassuringly, but held himself back as he was struck with something resembling a deep thought. "Or is this a sign from the universe that I shouldn't be getting a paycheck?"
Quentin scoffed at the thought. "I can think of a thousand ways to reallocate your salary, but no one's here providing their labor for nothing. If you don't need it, then invest back in the community. I'm sure the community center would be thrilled at your donation. Assuming, of course, the money's even in your possession. Lemme see that card again. I don't think it's matching up..."
There was a slight gasp. "Are you suggesting I've been using someone else's money? Q, I donate with that card."
"Or someone's using your money, 'cuz unless you're donating 75% of what you're supposed to be earning, you've got less than you should in this account." Quentin floated his laptop to Arthur so he could see the spreadsheet he had drawn. "Oh, don't look so surprised I know how to use Excel. I did go to high school."
Arthur's look hardened a little, "Q, I would never question the fact that you excel. You're excel-ent and don't let anyone tell you differently."
He stretched, idly, and didn't look overly concerned about what the spreadsheet was saying. "You're right, though, that's just my pocket fund. Lunches, food trucks, good samaritan Venmos. The rest all gets put into the 'lockbox.'"
That earned Arthur a look of frustration and contempt. Quentin's face was turning the color of his hair. "Centino, I swear to God. What, pray tell, is the lockbox?"
"So," and the man's tone immediately grew distracted and detached as if this was the most off putting and embarrassing story in the world, "Imagine back when you weren't even here. Adrienne was incredibly concerned about my well-being, as she always was, and told me that she wanted to do a little experiment. She created a lockbox," and there were little wiggly finger gestures at this, "where a little money would go every so often."
He sighed.
"All I know is that I'm not supposed to touch it, except the past couple of years I've been getting occasional phones calls asking for my thoughts and feelings on index funds — which I all about helping people to look things up, don't get me wrong there — and legacy pools, which I don't even get a membership card to go swim in. Those are the worst phone calls. The entire thing is a hassle."
Normally Quentin only got the degree of headache he was currently suffering when he dangerously overextended his powers. Connecting the dots should not have been so painful. "Let me get this straight. You use this debit card for everyday small purchases, not knowing where the money you're debiting even comes from. And that money is the salary Frost, Worthington, then Dane and now I pay you, and a huge chunk of it is automatically going to a separate imperceptible savings account that investors are desperate to tap into. And it's all just a nuisance to you? Like a mosquito. But I bet you've never once in your life been bitten by a mosquito, have you?"
Arthur's pleasant demeanor didn't falter, exactly, but over the course of Quentin's rant it was as if the very cheer was being drained from it, word by word, until all that was left was the mask that Arthur Centino chose to wear everyday. A carefully crafted veneer of shine. He was still smiling, unblinking, when he answered flatly, "I am lucky enough to manage."
"Lucky," and he leaned on that word like a crutch, "That I have an idea of how much I can take at a time without causing real harm." He tapped his head, as in offering. "Lucky I've always had my gifts, except for the fact that if I have too much or not enough, bad things happen to the people around me. I choose not to know exactly what's happening because that's how it works — if I'm 'pure' or kind or good, that's only when my power is more than just a wrecking ball. Thinking too much is a..."
He blinked, and all of that seriousness was swept aside. "Anyway, I've got my strategy and it works alright."
The change, as subtle as it was, was also terrifying. In all the years the two men had worked together, Quentin had never seen the mask slip. He didn't even realize it was a mask. And though he kept himself from snooping into Arthur's mind, he couldn't help but also sense a momentary darkening there, too. Or perhaps the opening of a deep dark pit never before explored, because if anyone did peer into the void, it would peer back and unleash savage misfortune.
Arthur was the mutant avatar of "ignorance is bliss," and a dark deadly flipside.
"Yeah, okay," Quentin finally responded, calmly like he was trying to get away from a wild animal protecting its territory. He removed his legs from Arthur's desk so he could sit upright. "Do you . . . I could keep any eye on all this, you know, just for safety, but keep you out of it."
Arthur laughed, too easy and too light, in delight at the offer. "You'd do that for me? That's amazing. No one's really been at the wheel there, but I know I can trust you to make sure any wins are going somewhere that will help the most people. I'm lucky to have you as a friend, Quentin."
Only Arthur could make such a gracious statement sound like a threat. "Don't worry about it. Like, literally don't. Let the universe keep doing what it's doing. I'll just make sure it's not screwing you over."
"Don't worry one bit. If there's one thing I've gotten good at, it is not worrying."
