[Not his childhood crush who rejected him by literally dying and now spends her free time targeting all of his insecurities like a heat-seeking missile, that's for damn sure.]
[He could argue the (frankly offensive) assertion that Julian's complaining is somehow more effective than Quentin's, as though Quentin hasn't honed being rude for fun and profit into a veritable art form by this point. Julian wishes he could achieve the level of audacity Quentin wears like a fucking badge of honor every day of his life. Please. He thrives on impropriety.
( see, quentin complains to be annoying. generally when julian is bitching, it's because he has a valid complaint about something. and right now? his valid complaint is quentin is being irritating by coming at him to bitch about.. someone else getting it on. given the way he's gone about this, julian assumes it has to be someone in the manor. someone quire knows. whose sex life directly impacts him somehow, which really lowers it down, and julian - takes foley off the list.
figures there's no point in digging, and what does he care. it's not as if it could be laura-- )
/Fine. Meet me in the kitchen in ten./
( or closer to fifteen, actually. because julian's out to be fashionably late. )
[Yeah, so you know that whole "why type when you can think" thing? This is why. Much harder to send someone a message that turns out to be horribly cringe when you have to write it out, look at it, hit send, all of that. There's at least a few extra filters than with brain-to-brain communication. Maybe if he'd been forced to type out that first idiot thought, Quentin wouldn't have even started this dumb conversation. Then again, if he didn't have telepathy, he wouldn't be in this situation in the first place. It's just an endless merry-go-round of stupid, and Quentin wants to get off. Ha.
He gets to the kitchen in five minutes. And then waits. And waits. He almost pings Julian to ask if the bastard's ever planning on showing up, but that's. Objectively weird and desperate, and Quentin would like to salvage as much of his dignity as he possibly can. So instead he just paces and waits. The worst part is he can't even hear Sophie and Nate anymore. Not that he was ever actually trying to—despite the (very true) assertion about the quiet in his head, Quentin's control has always been exemplary, and the most he ever got was a few particularly loud feelings that one or both of them accidentally pushed out into the telepathic airways. And then at some point those quieted. A telepathic sock on the door, as it were. Just enough to send Quentin's brain spiraling, gleefully and maliciously turning back on itself. Self-sabotage. What a surprise.
Quentin stops mid-pace when he feels Julian approach the door, and he turns to look at him. He considers bitching at Julian for being late. "Took you long enough." "What kind of time do you call this?" "Get a clock, stupid." Instead he just says:]
( he's slow on purpose, which clearly makes his delay completely fine. it's different than accidentally being late, which is clearly unacceptable. but quire only gives him a dumb little hey, so julian just quirks up the corners of his lips as he reaches the kitchen with a four pack of red bulls and a massive bottle of vodka in his hands. )
Yo. ( julian almost, almost tacks on a creeper, but opts not to. quentin is suffering enough of having to know fucking is happening, no need to point out how it's creeping on whoever is doing it. it's probably not his fault. probably.
instead, he raises the pack of red bulls and drops them on the counter. )
[Never once in his entire life did Quentin ever think he would be this glad to see Julian Fucking Keller, a bunch of trash frat bro energy drinks, and what is very likely extremely cheap booze. Julian kinda smirks at him, and Quentin finds himself returning it with a lopsided half-smile. These are strange times, truly.]
God, yes.
[He raises a hand and pulls a pair of tall glasses from the cabinet with TK, bringing one to his hand and the other to the counter in front of Julian. Quentin drops heavily into a chair, restlessly running his fingers through his notably messier-than-usual hair. He's been very stressed, okay?]
This is a much better way to give myself brain damage.
( which he is. kind of. quentin drops the cups down, and julian drops the vodka down in front of quentin, before grabbing the pack of redbulls and cracking one open for himself. quire can get his own trash frat bro energy drinks, julian's pouring his into the glass before he goes for the vodka. )
Are we going to talk about it, or are we just going to drink until you crash?
[Quire can and Quire will get his own trash frat bro energy drink. He's opening and pouring it with telekinesis though. He's not a peasant.]
Depends. Do you actually wanna know? Or are you just doing that thing where you make everyone else's problems your problems? [A beat.] Ignoring the fact that I kinda made it your problem. A little.
[What Quentin did was different, though. He didn't ask for emotional support for his problems. He just asked to get punched into a coma. Which is obviously way better and more rational.]
( okay, he would, just because he does like to make everyone else's problems his own. which is mostly what this is anyway, but they don't need to go over that again, do they? nah.
julian doesn't reach for the vodka yet, and instead waits for quire to get what he wants first. may as well see how deep they're going today before he commits. )
[Quentin serves himself a standard 2oz of vodka. How does he know what 2oz precisely without any way to measure it? Uh, it's a little thing called attention to detail.]
Oh, that is such a lie. Give me a break.
[He rolls his eyes extra hard. Because Julian deserves it. And no, he's not stalling, in fact. So don't even ask!!]
[What is he—oh. Guess Quentin is playing the part of bartender today. Eh, whatever. You're welcome, buddy. He pours Julian's vodka with only the obligatory amount of petulance, and he doesn't bother asking how much before serving him the same 2oz as Quentin gave himself. Look, if Julian wanted a different amount he should've specified. Or at least not made a habit of being so touchy about telepaths poking around in his head. Whichever.]
It's Sophie.
[Might as well rip off that band-aid. And use a hefty gulp of his drink to dull the pain.]
( the benefit of having quentin pour his shots for him is chances are high julian isn't going to end up more fucked up than quire. the glass gets raised up to his lips, and julian takes a good few sips from it while quentin - seems to pull together whatever the hell he's trying to get at.
it's not who julian expected, but it's not as if it's surprising either. he slowly lowers the glass from his mouth, seems to - contemplate exactly how he wants to respond to that for a moment. )
So, Summers' kid and an Emma Frost clone.
( his voice is - deadpan. julian leaves it at that for a moment before lifting his shoulders in a shrug. )
[It's almost a biological certainty that Quentin will end up more fucked up than Julian. Even without their difference in body weight, Quentin's secondary mutation gives him a disadvantage. Damn his amazing fast-processing genius brain.
Anyway.]
Well, see, when you say it like that it sounds inevitable.
[It probably was, honestly. Quentin's just moping. He takes an extra cranky sip and raises an eyebrow.]
How would I know? I don't keep track of people's love lives.
( or sex lives, for that matter. especially since they all moved onto krakoa. seemed like more hassle than it'd really be worth. but, well. )
In this house? Storm was apparently fucking around with that Barney guy. It could've been her. It could've been Sophie and Scott Summers Jr. Maybe Hope found a boyfriend around here.
[Quentin peers at Julian incredulously and makes a particularly grossed out expression at the mention of Sophie and teen Summers. Really?? That's weird on so many levels.]
Ugh, forget I asked.
[On the bright side, this trash "cocktail" is actually... not that bad. Quentin's always liked sweet things, so that helps.]
Oh, hey. Been meaning to ask. Did you send Extra Slim to babysit his not-kid on Solmara?
( which. is confirmation enough, as far as julian's concerned. he takes a drink, then continues on, )
And out've the two of them, Summers is better suited even if he's - sixteen? ( which, ew. how dare he be so tiny. ) Figured if Nate had someone to babysit, he'd be a little more careful. And Summers is still Summers.
[He glances at Julian to check for any sort of skepticism in his reaction. They're on good enough terms these days, sure, but are they on good enough terms that Quentin openly agreeing is weird? Unsure.]
Like, you know. Giving a kid a goldfish to teach him responsibility or whatever.
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[Obviously. Was it under like 10 layers of sarcasm? Sure. But since when does that matter? Keep up, Keller!]
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( because this is absolutely how that works. )
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/Just go—oh, yeah, no, you're so right, why did I, the actual telepath, not think about that? Your wisdom truly knows no bounds./
[Can Julian feel the sarcasm? He should. He should.]
/There's not a lot of "somewhere else" to think, genius. What do you think I meant by quiet?/
[Because obviously he'll understand if Quentin just says the same word a second time.]
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( does he need to go tell them to shut up so quentin will leave him alone. )
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/... Why./
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( he's assuming it's foley anyway who julian has no problem yelling at. )
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/Dude. Do you seriously think if complaining was in any way an option here that we'd even be having this conversation? You have met me, right?/
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( everyone knows quentin just wants attention, and whatever. julian? definitely not even close to the same. but. fine. whatever. )
/Do you want to tell me who it is, or do you want vodka redbulls?/
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...
Anyway.]
/Vodka red bulls./
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figures there's no point in digging, and what does he care. it's not as if it could be laura-- )
/Fine. Meet me in the kitchen in ten./
( or closer to fifteen, actually. because julian's out to be fashionably late. )
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Ha.He gets to the kitchen in five minutes. And then waits. And waits. He almost pings Julian to ask if the bastard's ever planning on showing up, but that's. Objectively weird and desperate, and Quentin would like to salvage as much of his dignity as he possibly can. So instead he just paces and waits. The worst part is he can't even hear Sophie and Nate anymore. Not that he was ever actually trying to—despite the (very true) assertion about the quiet in his head, Quentin's control has always been exemplary, and the most he ever got was a few particularly loud feelings that one or both of them accidentally pushed out into the telepathic airways. And then at some point those quieted. A telepathic sock on the door, as it were. Just enough to send Quentin's brain spiraling, gleefully and maliciously turning back on itself. Self-sabotage. What a surprise.
Quentin stops mid-pace when he feels Julian approach the door, and he turns to look at him. He considers bitching at Julian for being late. "Took you long enough." "What kind of time do you call this?" "Get a clock, stupid." Instead he just says:]
Hey.
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Yo. ( julian almost, almost tacks on a creeper, but opts not to. quentin is suffering enough of having to know fucking is happening, no need to point out how it's creeping on whoever is doing it. it's probably not his fault. probably.
instead, he raises the pack of red bulls and drops them on the counter. )
Grab a couple cups?
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God, yes.
[He raises a hand and pulls a pair of tall glasses from the cabinet with TK, bringing one to his hand and the other to the counter in front of Julian. Quentin drops heavily into a chair, restlessly running his fingers through his notably messier-than-usual hair. He's been very stressed, okay?]
This is a much better way to give myself brain damage.
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( which he is. kind of. quentin drops the cups down, and julian drops the vodka down in front of quentin, before grabbing the pack of redbulls and cracking one open for himself. quire can get his own trash frat bro energy drinks, julian's pouring his into the glass before he goes for the vodka. )
Are we going to talk about it, or are we just going to drink until you crash?
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Depends. Do you actually wanna know? Or are you just doing that thing where you make everyone else's problems your problems? [A beat.] Ignoring the fact that I kinda made it your problem. A little.
[What Quentin did was different, though. He didn't ask for emotional support for his problems. He just asked to get punched into a coma. Which is obviously way better and more rational.]
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( okay, he would, just because he does like to make everyone else's problems his own. which is mostly what this is anyway, but they don't need to go over that again, do they? nah.
julian doesn't reach for the vodka yet, and instead waits for quire to get what he wants first. may as well see how deep they're going today before he commits. )
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Oh, that is such a lie. Give me a break.
[He rolls his eyes extra hard. Because Julian deserves it. And no, he's not stalling, in fact. So don't even ask!!]
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( aside from right now, because clearly bothering with quire is a waste of breath.
rather than pour his own vodka, julian - holds out the cup. figures quentin can pour him some just fine. )
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[What is he—oh. Guess Quentin is playing the part of bartender today. Eh, whatever. You're welcome, buddy. He pours Julian's vodka with only the obligatory amount of petulance, and he doesn't bother asking how much before serving him the same 2oz as Quentin gave himself. Look, if Julian wanted a different amount he should've specified. Or at least not made a habit of being so touchy about telepaths poking around in his head. Whichever.]
It's Sophie.
[Might as well rip off that band-aid. And use a hefty gulp of his drink to dull the pain.]
Sophie and Nate.
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it's not who julian expected, but it's not as if it's surprising either. he slowly lowers the glass from his mouth, seems to - contemplate exactly how he wants to respond to that for a moment. )
So, Summers' kid and an Emma Frost clone.
( his voice is - deadpan. julian leaves it at that for a moment before lifting his shoulders in a shrug. )
Could be worse.
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Anyway.]
Well, see, when you say it like that it sounds inevitable.
[It probably was, honestly. Quentin's just moping. He takes an extra cranky sip and raises an eyebrow.]
Wait, who did you think it was gonna be?
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( or sex lives, for that matter. especially since they all moved onto krakoa. seemed like more hassle than it'd really be worth. but, well. )
In this house? Storm was apparently fucking around with that Barney guy. It could've been her. It could've been Sophie and Scott Summers Jr. Maybe Hope found a boyfriend around here.
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Ugh, forget I asked.
[On the bright side, this trash "cocktail" is actually... not that bad. Quentin's always liked sweet things, so that helps.]
Oh, hey. Been meaning to ask. Did you send Extra Slim to babysit his not-kid on Solmara?
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( which. is confirmation enough, as far as julian's concerned. he takes a drink, then continues on, )
And out've the two of them, Summers is better suited even if he's - sixteen? ( which, ew. how dare he be so tiny. ) Figured if Nate had someone to babysit, he'd be a little more careful. And Summers is still Summers.
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[He glances at Julian to check for any sort of skepticism in his reaction. They're on good enough terms these days, sure, but are they on good enough terms that Quentin openly agreeing is weird? Unsure.]
Like, you know. Giving a kid a goldfish to teach him responsibility or whatever.
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kind of nsfw
also a little nsfw rip to both of these idiots
i love mess
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