listen, from one fucked up little dude to another, it is a compliment, and you should work on getting laid
like I get it the paranoia, the anxiety, the feeling like idk anyone could do anything but when you're hooking up with someone, for a few minutes it's just you and them, and your bodies and it just feels good knowing exactly where you are
okay well meet me around back of moonies at 11 then
[ By eleven, the small time club will be in full swing, but it won't be so late that they'll risk any kind of trouble. The music is muted from the front of the club, but around back, the bass rumbles through a door propped open to let the humidity of the people inside leak slowly out. Later in the year, the air might fog with it. Tonight, it just pools into the air, like ice cream leaking down a cone.
[ It drips across Quentin where he leans against the door, fiddling with an unlit cigarette, crunching the insides till they crumble out flake by flake. When he spots Isaac, he pulls into focus, straightening up and raising his eyebrows. He shoves the cigarette in his jeans pocket. ]
[ Considering he generally gives off an impression that he has no idea what he's doing with himself, it probably says something that Isaac's uncertainty actually shows through his usual manner. There was a point he's pretty sure he actually liked crowds, given his scattered memories and some of the pictures he's been shown. Things are just -- different now.
He still shows up gamely enough, arms crossed across his chest, trying not to knock into people while he's moving around. ]
I... don't think so? [ The idea of dulling his sense isn't an entirely comfortable one, the face he makes entirely unconscious, but he did say he'd trust Quentin. That includes assuming he doesn't actually have to be on guard right now. As much as he can manage not to be. ]
Okay, cool, I just don't want you to get like--overstimulated. [ His hands come loose, a friendly gesture, but his smile turns a little coy. ] At least, not in a bad way. Here, come on--
[ As he angles towards the darkened, pulsing doorway, he keeps one hand held out behind him. Take it. Come on. ]
[ He braces himself as he moves towards the door, hit by a wave of heat and sound already, his hand slipping into Quentin's as soon as he feels it, any hesitancy there might be about staying close is pretty much overwritten by worries about ending up lost in a crowd.
Surprisingly, the noise isn't a problem. There's something almost comforting about it, the way it rumbles through him, deep down somewhere that's more instinct than memory. But the press of the crowd still has him staying close, practically Quentin's shadow as he follows him through. It means he doesn't have to pay as much attention to where he's going, making it easier to look around instead, get an idea of the place. To figure out where to run to, if things go wrong.
Not that he's expecting it to, but better to be prepared than not.
Isaac's distracted enough trying to adjust that he almost misses when they stop moving, bumping into Quentin before he realizes, not that there's much distance there to cross anyway. He glances over, at least seeming steady for now. Raising an eyebrow in a silent sort of question, now what? ]
[ There's something understood between the two of them. There's plenty understood, including the great big question marks around what the fuck is either of them supposed to do? How do they know any of this is real? That it matters? They both carry a hundred thousand deaths in the ditches between folds their gray matter. They both clawed their way back here to find nothing fits anymore.
[ But when Isaac drifts to the edge of a group of people or disappears into the nearest shadow, Quentin feels the gap between them yawn wide open. He can't imagine it, steering clear of the only place he feels safe--with someone else. Preferably many someones. This is the perfect place, full of people. Full of life. It's hard to be anywhere besides right here when he can reach out and feel someone on his hands, his mouth, his body.
[ But pushing and shoving doesn't work with a guy like Isaac, a guy that understands like no one else. So Quentin's been careful. Protective,even.
[ He's protective now, too. Yes, he's pulling Isaac through the sticky, swaying bodies, but it's a temporary crowd. They're heading for the DJ booth, where Quentin leans in for a dap and trades ear-skimming smiles before the DJ waves them back--behind the stage into a narrow corridor, the kind of spot that live artists might use to slip onto stage--just a heavy curtain between them and the tunes, then a three-foot wide walkway before the concrete wall. The air is still thick here, but there are no more bodies. Just them and the bass rattling the air. ]
We've got twenty minutes. [ Quentin explains, a loud secret next to Isaac's jaw, lets go of his hand to frame his waist and guide him back against the painted cinderblock. He doesn't press in, not yet. ] No one's gonna come in. I'm gonna touch you. You want me to stop, you just--step to the side. Okay?
[ His eyes are clear when he pulls back to look at Isaac square. Curious. Nervous, it's plain that he's nervous. ]
[ It would be hard to hide the way Isaac relaxes when the press of the crowd is gone, even if he was trying to, which is something he doesn't really bother to do in general. It isn't that it's bad, exactly. Just strange. A stark reminder that he's no longer the only person around.
Thinking about it like that, he can almost see the appeal in it. With so much around, it's harder to disappear inside your own thoughts. Still: it's easier to breathe, when it's just the two of them. Less to keep an eye on, though it still takes him a moment to go from checking for another exit to watching Quentin instead.
The nerves come as a bit of a surprise. Not enough to make him hesitate, though; just unexpected, another reason to be curious as he nods his understanding. ]
Okay. [ Not that he probably needs to be told; he usually won't hesitate to back out of an uncomfortable situation. But Quentin being clear with him does seem to help Isaac settle a little more, momentary uncertainty in his expression smoothing out quickly. ]
thank you for your patience, i'm traveling this month and will be! SLOW
[ His words don't make it over the music, but his nod and the breath that huffs out of them probably say just as much. His next inhale-exhale comes like a tutorial--breathe like this!--with a mouthed recommendation to relax. Then, tuning into the medium beat and out of the anxiety looping in his brain, Quentin touches him.
[ Just passes of his fingers at first, gliding gingerly over Isaac's sides and up his front, skating his arms and the sides of his thighs. Quentin goes slow enough to feel for tension and note where he finds it, to revisit it on a second pass. His eyes tick between where his palms travel and Isaac's face to gauge: is the reaction one of curiosity? Revulsion? Is it welcome when Quentin leans in to palm his favorite stretch of skin, dipping under Isaac's shirt to feel where his spine climbs up? It's crowded stuff, hugging them together at the belly, forcing Quentin to tuck against his neck. ]
You can touch me, too, if you want.
no worries! I'm always kinda slow, take as long as you need
[ Relax. He does his best, trying to ignore the little buzz of worry sparking under his skin. Breathing steady, heartbeat its usual unnatural slowness -- both of which go out the window almost the second there's any contact.
If someone asked Isaac if he was touch-starved, he'd just stare blankly at them. Wouldn't think he needs it. Doesn't change the fact that for stretches of months at a time, the only people he reaches out to are the dead, the sensations never quite the same. It doesn't take much for a shiver to go straight through him, eyes closing to shut out one set of stimuli, the better to figure out how to handle everything else.
His mind isn't quite sure how to feel, expression more open than usual, unsure but wanting, curious, strangely vulnerable. That does nothing to stop him from leaning into Quentin's touch like he needs it, hungry for it.
He's a quiet person even at his most comfortable; right now, he's pretty sure words would get strangled even if he tried them. He nods instead after a moment, but his hands still hover for a moment uncertainly, barely ghosting against Quentin's sides for a long few moments before settling light against him, moving a little and then stopping again, adjusting. ]
[ For a split second, he's sure Isaac is gonna bolt. It wouldn't be the first time Quentin's miscalculated a move, and that deer-flank shudder reads exactly like a half dozen people that never talked to him again. But Isaac waits out the first flinch, as curious and glacial as he's ever been, and then the hesitant pressure as he gives over to Quentin (even by inches, even shyly!) warms him top to bottom with relief.
[ The hand at the small of his back pushes up between his shoulder blades, bringing them necessarily together. There's just enough space for Quentin to drag his other hand down Isaac's front and scrunch under his shirt on that side. Palm on his stomach, he noses along Isaac's jaw--presses his lips firmly against his pulse. Isaac's heart is just a few beats-per-minute slower than the music. Maybe he can get it up to speed.
[ The next time the bass shakes the whole place, Quentin palms down the front of his pants, presses Isaac back against the wall with his body. ]
[ He's very aware of everything, as Quentin moves in closer. The pressure at his back, every little shift, the tips of fingers brushing the numb streak across his stomach, warm breath against his neck. Cataloging everything, not detached so much as he feels like he's in too many places at once, like each sensation is asking for too much of his attention.
It means Isaac's a little too much in his head to anticipate anything, the shift coming unexpectedly. If it was a stranger pressing him back and caging him in, the urge to fight back would be strong; as it is, Quentin's familiar enough that it leaves about as quick as it comes, one brief moment of unconscious tension that fades quickly. He's still preoccupied by everything else anyway, breath leaving him in a rush, fingers twisting in Quentin's shirt, keeping him close by instinct more than thought, pushing into his touch.
Some part of him is aware this probably isn't actually new to him, but it feels unfamiliar, a skitter of nerves, fingers flexing for a moment before his hands move to skim up Quentin's chest, not quite sure if there's somewhere else they're supposed to be. ]
[ He say something against Isaac's throat that isn't either close enough or far enough away to make sense, something soothing the horse-jitter that runs through Isaac. Quentin lifts his mouth to Isaac's ear. His palm stays sure over his crotch, but there's no movement there, just waiting stillness. ]
[It takes him a genuine moment of consideration to answer, which isn't new; reactions are easier than dissecting his own reasons. But he shakes his head a little after that beat, before tipping his head back against the wall.]
Just -- new. [Not that it's news or anything, Quentin already knows that, but it's the best explanation he's got. Another moment's hesitation, and then he goes on, uncertain but not upset about it, just stating a fact:] I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing.
[ Simply said, but he knows it's not that easy. After that beat for assurance, on the next rumble of bass through the partition, his palm pressures down again. His shoulder rolls as he talks, a reliable rhythm, something Isaac can acclimate to and predict--can anticipate. ]
You don't have to do anything. Give your body room to do it for you, y'know? Or not. We're learning here. Here...
[ His fingers spider between Isaac's knuckles, guiding his hand around the back of Quentin's neck. ]
Keep your hand here if you're good. Drop it if you don't like what I'm doing, or um. Squeeze if you do.
[ It's an unconscious motion, the way he presses up to meet the movement, his body clearly responsive despite Isaac's uncertainty. He's not great at putting a stop to his instincts, anyway; they tend to win out no matter how hard he fights them. Though usually that leads him to much more trouble than this is likely to end in.
It's still a relief to get some kind of guidance, know if he's supposed to touch or not. His hand settles where Quentin leaves it, fingers flexing slightly before mostly settling into place. ]
Okay. [ A quiet agreement. For now there's just his thumb, sweeping back and forth occasionally against Quentin's skin, a little rhythmic motion, a fidget as much as a need to move while the music is pressing in this loudly. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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I didn't think it'd actually be a surprise
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one of the driving forces of humanity
way less hot, way more fucked up people thank you get laid all the time
well, way less hot anyway, you're hard to beat for being fucked up
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I don't usually go places with a lot of people
or meet people in general
and I don't always like new people being close to me. I'm not used to it.
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like I get it
the paranoia, the anxiety, the feeling like idk anyone could do anything
but when you're hooking up with someone, for a few minutes it's just you and them, and your bodies and it just feels good
knowing exactly where you are
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I'm not saying I hate the idea
but I wouldn't even know where to start
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do you like music?
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sure?
I haven't actually listened to much since I came back
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Not really helpful, I know.
I don't mind anything I've heard, I just forget it's an option.
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I don't really have a reason not to
> in person, if you want!!
meet me around back of moonies at 11 then
[ By eleven, the small time club will be in full swing, but it won't be so late that they'll risk any kind of trouble. The music is muted from the front of the club, but around back, the bass rumbles through a door propped open to let the humidity of the people inside leak slowly out. Later in the year, the air might fog with it. Tonight, it just pools into the air, like ice cream leaking down a cone.
[ It drips across Quentin where he leans against the door, fiddling with an unlit cigarette, crunching the insides till they crumble out flake by flake. When he spots Isaac, he pulls into focus, straightening up and raising his eyebrows. He shoves the cigarette in his jeans pocket. ]
Hey. We're going in. You need ear plugs?
sounds good! :D
He still shows up gamely enough, arms crossed across his chest, trying not to knock into people while he's moving around. ]
I... don't think so? [ The idea of dulling his sense isn't an entirely comfortable one, the face he makes entirely unconscious, but he did say he'd trust Quentin. That includes assuming he doesn't actually have to be on guard right now. As much as he can manage not to be. ]
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[ As he angles towards the darkened, pulsing doorway, he keeps one hand held out behind him. Take it. Come on. ]
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Surprisingly, the noise isn't a problem. There's something almost comforting about it, the way it rumbles through him, deep down somewhere that's more instinct than memory. But the press of the crowd still has him staying close, practically Quentin's shadow as he follows him through. It means he doesn't have to pay as much attention to where he's going, making it easier to look around instead, get an idea of the place. To figure out where to run to, if things go wrong.
Not that he's expecting it to, but better to be prepared than not.
Isaac's distracted enough trying to adjust that he almost misses when they stop moving, bumping into Quentin before he realizes, not that there's much distance there to cross anyway. He glances over, at least seeming steady for now. Raising an eyebrow in a silent sort of question, now what? ]
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[ But when Isaac drifts to the edge of a group of people or disappears into the nearest shadow, Quentin feels the gap between them yawn wide open. He can't imagine it, steering clear of the only place he feels safe--with someone else. Preferably many someones. This is the perfect place, full of people. Full of life. It's hard to be anywhere besides right here when he can reach out and feel someone on his hands, his mouth, his body.
[ But pushing and shoving doesn't work with a guy like Isaac, a guy that understands like no one else. So Quentin's been careful. Protective,even.
[ He's protective now, too. Yes, he's pulling Isaac through the sticky, swaying bodies, but it's a temporary crowd. They're heading for the DJ booth, where Quentin leans in for a dap and trades ear-skimming smiles before the DJ waves them back--behind the stage into a narrow corridor, the kind of spot that live artists might use to slip onto stage--just a heavy curtain between them and the tunes, then a three-foot wide walkway before the concrete wall. The air is still thick here, but there are no more bodies. Just them and the bass rattling the air. ]
We've got twenty minutes. [ Quentin explains, a loud secret next to Isaac's jaw, lets go of his hand to frame his waist and guide him back against the painted cinderblock. He doesn't press in, not yet. ] No one's gonna come in. I'm gonna touch you. You want me to stop, you just--step to the side. Okay?
[ His eyes are clear when he pulls back to look at Isaac square. Curious. Nervous, it's plain that he's nervous. ]
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Thinking about it like that, he can almost see the appeal in it. With so much around, it's harder to disappear inside your own thoughts. Still: it's easier to breathe, when it's just the two of them. Less to keep an eye on, though it still takes him a moment to go from checking for another exit to watching Quentin instead.
The nerves come as a bit of a surprise. Not enough to make him hesitate, though; just unexpected, another reason to be curious as he nods his understanding. ]
Okay. [ Not that he probably needs to be told; he usually won't hesitate to back out of an uncomfortable situation. But Quentin being clear with him does seem to help Isaac settle a little more, momentary uncertainty in his expression smoothing out quickly. ]
thank you for your patience, i'm traveling this month and will be! SLOW
[ His words don't make it over the music, but his nod and the breath that huffs out of them probably say just as much. His next inhale-exhale comes like a tutorial--breathe like this!--with a mouthed recommendation to relax. Then, tuning into the medium beat and out of the anxiety looping in his brain, Quentin touches him.
[ Just passes of his fingers at first, gliding gingerly over Isaac's sides and up his front, skating his arms and the sides of his thighs. Quentin goes slow enough to feel for tension and note where he finds it, to revisit it on a second pass. His eyes tick between where his palms travel and Isaac's face to gauge: is the reaction one of curiosity? Revulsion? Is it welcome when Quentin leans in to palm his favorite stretch of skin, dipping under Isaac's shirt to feel where his spine climbs up? It's crowded stuff, hugging them together at the belly, forcing Quentin to tuck against his neck. ]
You can touch me, too, if you want.
no worries! I'm always kinda slow, take as long as you need
If someone asked Isaac if he was touch-starved, he'd just stare blankly at them. Wouldn't think he needs it. Doesn't change the fact that for stretches of months at a time, the only people he reaches out to are the dead, the sensations never quite the same. It doesn't take much for a shiver to go straight through him, eyes closing to shut out one set of stimuli, the better to figure out how to handle everything else.
His mind isn't quite sure how to feel, expression more open than usual, unsure but wanting, curious, strangely vulnerable. That does nothing to stop him from leaning into Quentin's touch like he needs it, hungry for it.
He's a quiet person even at his most comfortable; right now, he's pretty sure words would get strangled even if he tried them. He nods instead after a moment, but his hands still hover for a moment uncertainly, barely ghosting against Quentin's sides for a long few moments before settling light against him, moving a little and then stopping again, adjusting. ]
PHEW!! BACK!! ; c ;
[ The hand at the small of his back pushes up between his shoulder blades, bringing them necessarily together. There's just enough space for Quentin to drag his other hand down Isaac's front and scrunch under his shirt on that side. Palm on his stomach, he noses along Isaac's jaw--presses his lips firmly against his pulse. Isaac's heart is just a few beats-per-minute slower than the music. Maybe he can get it up to speed.
[ The next time the bass shakes the whole place, Quentin palms down the front of his pants, presses Isaac back against the wall with his body. ]
welcome back!! :D
It means Isaac's a little too much in his head to anticipate anything, the shift coming unexpectedly. If it was a stranger pressing him back and caging him in, the urge to fight back would be strong; as it is, Quentin's familiar enough that it leaves about as quick as it comes, one brief moment of unconscious tension that fades quickly. He's still preoccupied by everything else anyway, breath leaving him in a rush, fingers twisting in Quentin's shirt, keeping him close by instinct more than thought, pushing into his touch.
Some part of him is aware this probably isn't actually new to him, but it feels unfamiliar, a skitter of nerves, fingers flexing for a moment before his hands move to skim up Quentin's chest, not quite sure if there's somewhere else they're supposed to be. ]
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You okay? Need me to stop?
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Just -- new. [Not that it's news or anything, Quentin already knows that, but it's the best explanation he's got. Another moment's hesitation, and then he goes on, uncertain but not upset about it, just stating a fact:] I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing.
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[ Simply said, but he knows it's not that easy. After that beat for assurance, on the next rumble of bass through the partition, his palm pressures down again. His shoulder rolls as he talks, a reliable rhythm, something Isaac can acclimate to and predict--can anticipate. ]
You don't have to do anything. Give your body room to do it for you, y'know? Or not. We're learning here. Here...
[ His fingers spider between Isaac's knuckles, guiding his hand around the back of Quentin's neck. ]
Keep your hand here if you're good. Drop it if you don't like what I'm doing, or um. Squeeze if you do.
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It's still a relief to get some kind of guidance, know if he's supposed to touch or not. His hand settles where Quentin leaves it, fingers flexing slightly before mostly settling into place. ]
Okay. [ A quiet agreement. For now there's just his thumb, sweeping back and forth occasionally against Quentin's skin, a little rhythmic motion, a fidget as much as a need to move while the music is pressing in this loudly. ]
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