[ In twenty minutes, Stephen will see him there. Quentin slides up to the bar as if he was built to fit, elbows square against the surface. He puts down his first drink quick, as if to prove that this is the reason for his being here. The worry is plain on his face, but the first beer washes it down. Temporarily at least. 

[ Businesslike, Quentin tucks his chin and stretches his fingers before opening: ] Stephen. I trust you. I'm not gonna fight you on this. I'm not gonna...mope. But--in case. 

I know I'm not gifted like you. But you taught me anyway. I know I'm not...smart. Or easy all the time. Or wise, or... [ His mouth shakes, and he presses his lips tight to shake the feeling away. He plods on. ] You're one of the only people here that's been--honest with me. Really honest, good and bad and ugly. You don't--quit when things go wrong. You don't coddle me. You don't torture me. You treat me like what I think matters. 

[ Another wave of feeling twists from the cleft up his lip and up into his nose, and his hand knot together involuntarily, nail tip of one thumb digging against the nail bed of the other. He has to clear his throat, and it still comes out froggy: ] 

I don't think of you--like that. But--but you're the closest thing I've had to a dad for years. If things go wrong. [ Fuck, fucking christ. A steeling sniff, and he turns his wet, determined gaze on Stephen wholly. ] I'm not gonna be okay. Alright? So--so do it right.