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. ]
[ There's no attempt to move away. There are a handful of people here that he would flinch from, but the moment Felipe touches him, Quentin completely folds. Something about the attention--the secure pressure around his body, the safety of the booth walls and Felipe's body hiding him--cracks him wide open. His crying can be felt more than heard, low keening and ragged, stuttering breathes buried in Felipe's chest. Quentin's hands cling to his clothes, scrunch and twist and shift and scrunch again.
[ For a long few minutes, he can drink it up. When the worst of it passes, Quentin makes no attempt to move, sluggish from weeping and drinking at once. Even if Felipe does loosen his grip, Quentin keeps his face turned in, still hiding. His hands splay wide against Felipe's stomach, wind around him needily. Another long while passes before he asks bitterly: ]
[ he presses soft kisses on his head, rubs his back with calm, soothing strokes and buries his face in his hair, basically basking in the tender intimacy. he's just happy that Quentin doesn't move away because he needs to keep him close for a longer time, feel like he's the most important person to him right now. Quentin might have managed to annoy him, but he'd never turn him away when he's at his weakest and the more needy Quentin gets, the more he will only encourage it. ]
No, that was stupid, I'm sorry. [ quietly. again, for other, more vague things he's done: ] I'm sorry. Please forgive me.
[ Quentin nods: forgiven, but grudgingly. He sits up a little bit so that he's more on top of Felipe's should than locked underneath it--but still close enough that each deep, measured breath in pulls Felipe's smell to him, just body and tarnished jewelry, the sun and sweat off his hair. He mumbles into the hollow of his throat: ] Me too. I'm sorry.
You will. [ he actually means it. there are some things he will never share with Quentin because he's not even acknowledging them himself, but in this moment he wants to be open. he genuinely wants to be that guy for him. ] You already know me better than others.
[ he leans away so he can cup Quentin's face gently with his hands and take a proper look at him and his puffy eyes. it's awful how sweet he looks like this. ]
[ Better than the others. He isn't sure what it means. He doesn't have a clear enough head to consider what it means. But it's so wonderful to hear. He looks back at Felipe like there's a halo behind him, whispers honestly: ]
[ it's the correct answer. Felipe feels something stir deep in his belly when Quentin looks at him like that, sincere and vulnerable, and he returns the fond look even though his own eyes aren't clouded like Quentin's. it's all he wanted to hear – that he's more special to him than the rest, but the admiration also creates an opening. leaves him craving for even more. ]
You trust me, don't you? [ not a question, more like a demand. Felipe nods just slightly, approving of Quentin's choice to do so. he's still holding his face, not allowing him to avoid his gaze. ] That makes me happy, Quentin.
[ Quentin holds his look for a few more seconds, heart full and head a little turned around. No move to push Felipe's hand away, but he gets his weight under him, pushes up to his lips for something sure and soft and pleading sweet. He's sorry. ]
[ he closed his eyes for the kiss and now he opens them, slowly. Quentin's showing concern for him again, which is wonderful, because he loves the attention. it's only a shame that later on he will realize how potentially suffocating it may feel in the long run. ]
I was meant to make you feel better, remember? [ he's doing a shit job, isn't he. Felipe drops his hands so he can catch Quentin's in his own. ] I'll be happy again, I promise. And you?
[ Quentin laughs, cheery and dumb, and squeeze Felipe’s hands back. He falls into his shoulder, as lax as if they’d just had a workout. He feels sore from crying—they might as well have gone running. ]
I was supposed to be a good sport, so I guess we’re even on disappointments.
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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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[ For a long few minutes, he can drink it up. When the worst of it passes, Quentin makes no attempt to move, sluggish from weeping and drinking at once. Even if Felipe does loosen his grip, Quentin keeps his face turned in, still hiding. His hands splay wide against Felipe's stomach, wind around him needily. Another long while passes before he asks bitterly: ]
Do you really need to piss?
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No, that was stupid, I'm sorry. [ quietly. again, for other, more vague things he's done: ] I'm sorry. Please forgive me.
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...I just wanted...I wanted to know you better.
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[ he leans away so he can cup Quentin's face gently with his hands and take a proper look at him and his puffy eyes. it's awful how sweet he looks like this. ]
Have you told anyone else?
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Just Dwight. No one here. No one but you.
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You trust me, don't you? [ not a question, more like a demand. Felipe nods just slightly, approving of Quentin's choice to do so. he's still holding his face, not allowing him to avoid his gaze. ] That makes me happy, Quentin.
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You haven't been very happy lately.
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I was meant to make you feel better, remember? [ he's doing a shit job, isn't he. Felipe drops his hands so he can catch Quentin's in his own. ] I'll be happy again, I promise. And you?
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I was supposed to be a good sport, so I guess we’re even on disappointments.