[ Quentin is halfway down a beer by the time Billy shows up, because he's not stupid. He needs some level of sedative to be cool with the particular energy that Billy brings with him, and by the time he feels that heavy hand on his shoulder, he's just buzzed enough to only roll his eyes and not flinch away. ]
Last birthday I remember celebrating, my dad took me camping. Some...get in touch with nature bullshit. [ Offered easily, nodding to Nikita as she brings over the request pair of shots. He takes his without pause, holding it between them for a toast. ] Little did he know how much fucking nature I'd be in for. Happy birthday to me.
[ The shots hit the table, and he slides one to Quentin, plucks the other in his hand. ] Come on, put it up. [ And when he sees Quentin raise it, he'll tip his back, feel the burn of the paint thinner they have here. With it down, he gestures toward Nikita for a beer too. ]
That's what you used to do then? Celebrate your birthday by getting dragged into the woods. Everyday's a party here.
[ The liquor burn feels...actually great. Actually that's kind of very nice. Quentin frowns at the empty glass as he considers another. maybe in a bit. ]
No. No, I used to do cool shit--paintball, rock climbing, pool party, whatever--until Dad decided my friends were all juvenile delinquents. [ This last assignation is dealt with a lilting, uncharitable look at Billy, the picture of delinquency. ] I kinda worry Stephen might get that way any day. He's got major disapproving dad quality.
Pool party. Cute. Ritzy. [ No hard feelings. What's being a hot, fun juvenile delinquent if not worming your way into the circles of people who have pools, who can have pool parties? ]
Jesus. You hang out with that crank? Wait— [ Eyes narrow, but they're mirthful. ] You're living with him aren't you? Does he give you a curfew?
I'm not living with him, I'm--I mean, yeah, I am, but it's not like that sounds. [ He's not going to dignify that jab about curfew, not when he's got a little humblebrag to slide Billy's way: ] He's teaching me magic.
He's a sorceror, man, he does--sorcery! [ And maybe Quentin has to stall to remember the names of things by getting another beer! ] Like--teleportation, and conjuration, and, um. Transmutation, turning materials into something else, changing the states. Warding, he can create wards. Then there's the light constructs...
[ The list sounds very much like a student going through flashcards. ]
[ He colors bright red ear to ear, glaring back at Billy. It's hard to tell where the anger comes from--the offense to Stephen? Being asked so directly about his sex life with someone else? The assumption that they're fucking? The strongest contender, Quentin tries to ignore, is the fact that no one--not a single person in this place--has told him to account for sleeping with someone old. Older. He'd almost forgotten to feel strange about it until now.
[ And, now, he bursts about it: ] No, no, he's not stiff! He's good, he's--great, even someone really stiff can unwind if you're not a raging douchebag!
Jeez! Okay. [ Billy sounds annoyed, but he's grinning ear to ear. There's no time to hide it. ] Okay, I get it, he's really stiff and you love it. Do you rub his knees before bed too? So he can plow you?
Why would you say that? [ High, exasperated. Quentin leans in, covering Billy's mouth with one hand on a tipsy, compulsive instinct. Brows raised head shaking: ] What if I'm plowing?
His nose scrunches, but he doesn't flinch. Sorry, Billy, it's a little predictable. "Yeah, I fuck him. It's hot, and real." His palm lifts, and he smears Billy's spit across his own cheek with a grin. "And in our dreams, I fuck him over the hood of the Porsche."
Billy's own spit drags across his face and his eyes narrow at Quentin for a beat. Then another. And then he laughs, loudly, enough that other patrons turn and look. "It's HOT and it's REAL?"
He cackles like a hyena. "That's awful. Sorry it's hotter in your dreams."
"God, shut up, Billy!" He said what he meant, what he felt, albeit a little more freely than he might have if he wasn't a little soused. Billy's barking laugh slides up his nerves like a papercut. Quentin lets go of his drink to free up both hands and shove Billy as hard as he can, hopefully off his chair.
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Last birthday I remember celebrating, my dad took me camping. Some...get in touch with nature bullshit. [ Offered easily, nodding to Nikita as she brings over the request pair of shots. He takes his without pause, holding it between them for a toast. ] Little did he know how much fucking nature I'd be in for. Happy birthday to me.
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[ The shots hit the table, and he slides one to Quentin, plucks the other in his hand. ] Come on, put it up. [ And when he sees Quentin raise it, he'll tip his back, feel the burn of the paint thinner they have here. With it down, he gestures toward Nikita for a beer too. ]
That's what you used to do then? Celebrate your birthday by getting dragged into the woods. Everyday's a party here.
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No. No, I used to do cool shit--paintball, rock climbing, pool party, whatever--until Dad decided my friends were all juvenile delinquents. [ This last assignation is dealt with a lilting, uncharitable look at Billy, the picture of delinquency. ] I kinda worry Stephen might get that way any day. He's got major disapproving dad quality.
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Jesus. You hang out with that crank? Wait— [ Eyes narrow, but they're mirthful. ] You're living with him aren't you? Does he give you a curfew?
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Magic!
How many rabbits has he pulled out of your ass?
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But alright, alright, tell me about it. He can't make me a Walkman, so what can he do?
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[ The list sounds very much like a student going through flashcards. ]
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Wowww. [ A long drawl. ] The light constructs.
[ Billy takes another long swig. ] So— what can you actually do?
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[ His fingers drum on the bar top, and it's very casual when he asks: ] So. Is he a decent fuck? He looks stiff to me.
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[ And, now, he bursts about it: ] No, no, he's not stiff! He's good, he's--great, even someone really stiff can unwind if you're not a raging douchebag!
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His mouth opens, breath hot on Quentin's palm, voice a little muffled: "Call it curiosity. Do you? Do you really?"
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He cackles like a hyena. "That's awful. Sorry it's hotter in your dreams."
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