[ he states, pointedly and dismissively, making it clear that's all he's going to say about it. Quentin hasn't unlocked the right friendship level for this story and frankly the game developers might have fucked it up somehow because Felipe seems downright annoyed that Quentin felt it appropriate to ask him. ]
You don't have to be sorry. [ now softer: ] It's old news.
Don’t—don’t be flip, dude, you brought up this insane shit, how am I not supposed to ask. [ His hand wiggles free of Felipe’s—he needs it for gesturing. He tips his fingertips to his temples, the universal symbol for think, man, come on. ] Like you hear that this is wild shit you’re saying. Right? You hear yourself? If you tell me the saddest, weirdest shit in your life, I get to be sad and weirded out.
It was just for the game. [ he shrugs, looking away at first. like that'd explain it. he didn't expect to be called out like this, not when there are literal freaks walking around the place. who cares about his background? Quentin, apparently. ]
If it's so insane, then ask. [ he says, suddenly turning his dark eyes back on Quentin. challenging him to make it worse by asking, something cold creeping into his expression. ] What? What is it you want to know?
[ He doesn't want to make it worse. He hadn't thought asking questions of a friend would make anything worse. But the look that Felipe fixes on him--strange, warning--doesn't sit well with him. Feels paternal. Worse: patronizing.
[ Quentin frowns, arms winding over his stomach as he leans back in the booth. He does want to know. ]
...Why did he lock her up? I mean, if it was that bad, why--wy didn't you kill him?
[ he told Quentin to ask him questions, but he doesn't look happy to receive them. quite the opposite. he stares at Quentin over the table long before he answers, his voice colorless and wrung dry of any emotion. ]
He's family.
[ family still means everything. the root of his wretched problems, in every possible way. if he didn't have the old man's blood running in his veins, he would have gutted him ages ago. ]
He thought she was dangerous, so he made sure that she could only hurt herself.
Okay, so he was a psycho. [ He's almost entirely withdrawn--except for his ankles still hooked around Felipe's leg. They stay sure, crossed so that he'd really have to work to wiggle free. Just stay with him a little longer... ] Unless Farrah was dangerous. Was she?
[ this is the first, proper conversation he's had about his sister in months and it nearly makes him flinch to hear someone else say her name. a perfectly normal reaction. he exhales through his nose, tries to calm himself. ]
No.
[ of course not. how could anyone even think of that? abruptly, Felipe tries to get up, but Quentin's feet are still tangled with his. he shoots him a distracted glare. ]
[ slowly, he sits back down, his motions stiff and forced. he'll snap eventually if they continue down this road, but when Quentin reminds him of the promise he made, he knows he has to stay. he owes him that much. they just can't talk about this anymore. ]
No, I just don't want you to jump out a window when I'm not looking. You're mad, what are you even-- [ Because of the questions, a little voice reminds him. He's telegraphed that it's the questions. But this doesn't feel fair. ] Look, what can I do? I'm sorry for--wanting to know more about you. The fuck, man.
[ the apology is reluctant but genuine. he took the game too far, he got carried away with it. definitely not the first time that's happened, but usually he just fucks off. it's awkward when he has to face the consequences. ]
[ The tension in his calves eases, the makeshift cuff around Felipe's ankle loosening. Incrementally. He's not quite off the hook. Quentin's jaw works, fingers squirming in his sleeve. ]
So. Don't freak out, I just--you don't like talking about your family. Is that it?
[ who's freaking out? Quentin has managed to de-escalate the situation so far, but that question ripples in the air between them dangerously. Felipe clearly doesn't want to answer it. he stares at Quentin practically squirming in front of him. why ask questions you don't want to hear the answers to? ]
You're pretty fucking nosy, aren't you? [ he clicks his tongue, but at this point the words are tired rather than angry. ] I'd rather not talk about it now.
I'm--! You're the one upset! You're upset, and I can't even ask why? You're--
[ He's got a lungful to say, but the reminder (warning? It feels line a warning) that Felipe is still keeping his word has Quentin stitch his lips shut. He has to look away until he can come back without protesting, anger and annoyance stirring up bright in the look he fixes on Felipe. ]
[ he watches Quentin, silent, something definitely bubbling underneath the surface, but he's certainly feeling more like himself again. ]
Tell me about yourself. [ he nudges his foot against his. a peace offering. ] I want to know. When did you know you were into guys? Why can't you cook?
[ Felipe is finding a more measured tone, but the sting of his irritation still lingers. When Quentin hears the questions, he nearly rolls his eyes--except for the gentle tap of Felipe's foot under the table. Peace offering. Nostrils flare, chest swells with a sigh, and one hand unlaces from his chest so that Quentin can gesture loosely. ]
My dad was a single parent. And he was like--like a manly man, no one in his family ever taught him to cook. If he was feeling really--domestic, he'd make spaghetti. Just--premade pasta and jarred sauce, nothing crazy. We pretty much lived off of grocery store meals.
[ The explanation is tetchy, terse, but Quentin softens by the word. Eventually, both hands come loose, reach across the table to fidget with the wine bottle. ] ...And. And I realized I liked guys when I had-- [ This comes unsteady, not because he doesn't want to explain. He just never has. The words aren't lined up yet in his head. ] --I had this wet dream about my best friend. I dunno. I must have been sixteen? Seventeen?
[ he too relaxes while Quentin talks, comfortable in his silence and with the attention off him. the story about his father is nice, almost makes him envious, even though he knows it's not meant as such. he also knows what spaghetti is. John gave him a long lecture about it when he was trying to booty call him. ]
Did you like him? Did you tell him? [ slowly, Felipe leans forward too, but he doesn't reach for Quentin yet. he likes watching his hands move. ]
No. God, no, he would've beat the shit outta me. [ Even if he felt the same. Maybe especially if he felt the same. Quentin's brow furrows deep. ] Besides, he had this girl that he was into...I had this girl I was into, too.
[ Shaking his head, he pulls the bottle towards himself abruptly, still frowning as he goes for a deep drink. ] Anyway, they were all killed. Like a year later. I'm glad we were still friends until then.
[ Felipe waits for Quentin to swallow down the drink, carefully like he wanted to make sure he doesn't choke on it, before he gets up from his seat and joins Quentin on the other side of the booth. it's still too soon to touch him, so he places his hand on the bench between them, close but not quite in Quentin's space. ]
Do you want to tell me about that? [ the story took an unexpected turn and his expression softens, the guilt of being mean to him earlier making him cautious of the way he addresses him now. and he's curious. ]
[ He shouldn't have said anything to start with. When people ask where he's from here, he glazes over it. Ohio. The Fog. It was bad, so it's nice to be here, ha ha ha. He knows he's too exposed when Felipe moves closer--he shouldn't have said anything. His eyes stick to his hands, head shakes tightly. ]
There's not a lot to tell. There was this--creep from our town that killed them. He'd been watching us all since we were little, and one day, he just-- [ A shrug, a sniff. ] --got to it.
[ what a horrible story. he can see now how cruel it is to make him talk about his past on the night when they were supposed to find distraction from Quentin's (other) dead friends. yeah, he really should know better, but he can't stop himself. he moves slightly, wants to see Quentin's face. ]
All of them? [ he asks carefully, as if to make sure, even though he already knows. there's only Quentin left. lonely, vulnerable Quentin and his big, sad survivor's guilt. ]
[ All of them, except Nancy. But they committed her, and for all Quentin knows, she's dead too--or she's forgotten him. He couldn't say which feels worse, or whether the sore, untouched memory of them hurts more or less than the fresher, raw knowledge that Dwight and Danny are gone for god knows how long.
[ All he could say is that under the wine warmth, it hurts. Felipe's commitment to the game has left him especially sensitive, and when the man bows in for a good look at him, Quentin wants to look back. But the second their eyes catch, he hiccups, lungs clench, and Quentin drags both hands to his face just a second before sobbing. ]
[ the seemingly innocent question has the effect that some part of him knew it would have and -- Felipe's already there, drawing him close, strong arms wrapped around him so tightly that Quentin will have to struggle if he wants to be free of his touch. he hushes him so quietly that no one else can hear, turns so that his body shields them from any curious eyes and Quentin's moment can remain private. secret to anyone but him. he devours every tremble, every sound, memorizes them for later. ]
Hey, hey. I'm here.
[ whatever remained of the intensity from before is gone now, but it stirs something ugly deep inside him to know that Quentin got what was coming for him for asking too many questions. he tightens his hold of the boy. ]
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[ he states, pointedly and dismissively, making it clear that's all he's going to say about it. Quentin hasn't unlocked the right friendship level for this story and frankly the game developers might have fucked it up somehow because Felipe seems downright annoyed that Quentin felt it appropriate to ask him. ]
You don't have to be sorry. [ now softer: ] It's old news.
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If it's so insane, then ask. [ he says, suddenly turning his dark eyes back on Quentin. challenging him to make it worse by asking, something cold creeping into his expression. ] What? What is it you want to know?
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[ Quentin frowns, arms winding over his stomach as he leans back in the booth. He does want to know. ]
...Why did he lock her up? I mean, if it was that bad, why--wy didn't you kill him?
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He's family.
[ family still means everything. the root of his wretched problems, in every possible way. if he didn't have the old man's blood running in his veins, he would have gutted him ages ago. ]
He thought she was dangerous, so he made sure that she could only hurt herself.
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No.
[ of course not. how could anyone even think of that? abruptly, Felipe tries to get up, but Quentin's feet are still tangled with his. he shoots him a distracted glare. ]
I need to go take a piss.
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[ He's got the distinct feeling that if he lets Felipe go now, he won't see him again the rest of the night. ]
You said you'd stay with me.
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Yeah, I did.
[ slowly, he sits back down, his motions stiff and forced. he'll snap eventually if they continue down this road, but when Quentin reminds him of the promise he made, he knows he has to stay. he owes him that much. they just can't talk about this anymore. ]
You want me to piss myself?
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[ the apology is reluctant but genuine. he took the game too far, he got carried away with it. definitely not the first time that's happened, but usually he just fucks off. it's awkward when he has to face the consequences. ]
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[ The tension in his calves eases, the makeshift cuff around Felipe's ankle loosening. Incrementally. He's not quite off the hook. Quentin's jaw works, fingers squirming in his sleeve. ]
So. Don't freak out, I just--you don't like talking about your family. Is that it?
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You're pretty fucking nosy, aren't you? [ he clicks his tongue, but at this point the words are tired rather than angry. ] I'd rather not talk about it now.
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[ Quentin, he's going to shove you into a locker. he takes a deep breath. ]
I'm not leaving you.
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[ He's got a lungful to say, but the reminder (warning? It feels line a warning) that Felipe is still keeping his word has Quentin stitch his lips shut. He has to look away until he can come back without protesting, anger and annoyance stirring up bright in the look he fixes on Felipe. ]
Okay. Fine. What am I allowed to talk about?
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Tell me about yourself. [ he nudges his foot against his. a peace offering. ] I want to know. When did you know you were into guys? Why can't you cook?
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My dad was a single parent. And he was like--like a manly man, no one in his family ever taught him to cook. If he was feeling really--domestic, he'd make spaghetti. Just--premade pasta and jarred sauce, nothing crazy. We pretty much lived off of grocery store meals.
[ The explanation is tetchy, terse, but Quentin softens by the word. Eventually, both hands come loose, reach across the table to fidget with the wine bottle. ] ...And. And I realized I liked guys when I had-- [ This comes unsteady, not because he doesn't want to explain. He just never has. The words aren't lined up yet in his head. ] --I had this wet dream about my best friend. I dunno. I must have been sixteen? Seventeen?
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Did you like him? Did you tell him? [ slowly, Felipe leans forward too, but he doesn't reach for Quentin yet. he likes watching his hands move. ]
cw: homophobia mention
[ Shaking his head, he pulls the bottle towards himself abruptly, still frowning as he goes for a deep drink. ] Anyway, they were all killed. Like a year later. I'm glad we were still friends until then.
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Do you want to tell me about that? [ the story took an unexpected turn and his expression softens, the guilt of being mean to him earlier making him cautious of the way he addresses him now. and he's curious. ]
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There's not a lot to tell. There was this--creep from our town that killed them. He'd been watching us all since we were little, and one day, he just-- [ A shrug, a sniff. ] --got to it.
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All of them? [ he asks carefully, as if to make sure, even though he already knows. there's only Quentin left. lonely, vulnerable Quentin and his big, sad survivor's guilt. ]
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[ All he could say is that under the wine warmth, it hurts. Felipe's commitment to the game has left him especially sensitive, and when the man bows in for a good look at him, Quentin wants to look back. But the second their eyes catch, he hiccups, lungs clench, and Quentin drags both hands to his face just a second before sobbing. ]
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Hey, hey. I'm here.
[ whatever remained of the intensity from before is gone now, but it stirs something ugly deep inside him to know that Quentin got what was coming for him for asking too many questions. he tightens his hold of the boy. ]
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