Chapter Text
I want to know
Where do we go
When nothing's wrong
-Jeremy Aucker
His future was waiting. It had been waiting for him, hoping he would grow up already and face reality, and now he was here. All he had to do was walk through the damn door. There was no quest, no grand adventure, just a door to a home, behind which lived an alumnus who he needed to at least vaguely impress. Simple. Easy.
Quentin Coldwater raised his hand to the brass knocker. He faltered, and lowered it again.This was ridiculous, who did he think he was? Interviewing for a Graduate program at Yale, really? Please, he was just one more high strung millennial, hiding behind a slouch and too-long hair and an above average GPA. He had barely survived Columbia, how the fuck was he supposed to survive Yale? And if he did make it, where did he go from there? Did he stay in academia forever, waiting to have his shit together, or eventually would he give up and move on, pretending everything was fine until he finally snapped in half. Quentin’s hands found their way to his scalp, pulling at his hair in an attempt to stay grounded. It almost worked.
For a moment, he imagined he would walk through the doorway, and the warm June New York air and the bustling Chelsea sidewalks behind him would go quiet. The path before him would lead not to an interview that would push him further into the next age of his life, but through time and space, to a world between the walls. He would enter the gate and leave New York behind, finding himself in a lush world of greenery, and mystery, and magic. A place like Fillory, like so many of the stories he read in his youth. It was a stupid, childish fantasy, and he knew it. This was exactly the sort of thought he was trying to leave behind, what he needed to let go of, so why couldn’t he?
He also imagined traveling to a much more familiar world, characterized by beige walls and the smell of antiseptic, long hallways and the safe feeling of being able to hand his dread to someone else, at least for a little while. He sighed. Maybe he should have never left the hospital.
That wasn’t true and he knew it, he corrected. Being out was better, it was always better, but that didn’t mean the hospital hadn’t been easier. That was the problem though, wasn’t it? He always looked for the easy way out, be it his books, pushing his problems onto others (at least this time, they were professionals), or his...darker impulses.
(The walls in these places were always so sterile, so cold. Yeah, alright, no one went into inpatient care for the view, but would it kill these guys to make everything less gray? Even the potted plants in the main lobby seemed to be lacking saturation when he had checked himself in.
Had he really only checked in three days ago? Quentin wasn’t complaining, it was refreshing to feel so collected so soon, but he had planned to stay for at least a week. Obviously, he wasn’t better, he would likely never be better , a fact that could be read it all over him. The cuff of his sweatshirt was almost all raw edges from being worried at, and he could never quite lose his habit of tensing his jaw to the point of physical pain, but at least now he felt like he could see clearly.
Dr. London was good at her job, always had been. She didn’t sugar coat anything, she just cut right through the bullshit and told it like it was. She, unfortunately, had been seeing him as a patient since he was at his worst, hence they were even having this discussion.
"On admitting, you reported you couldn't concentrate, eat, get out of bed. You said the feeling of not belonging anywhere was overwhelming. And now, you feel better?"
She was ever the professional, Quentin couldn’t help but observe. Her glasses were perfectly in place, not a single hair was lose from her ponytail, and her gaze remained level and calm. Still, none of that could quite negate the slight tone of incredulousness in her voice. Quentin leveled his gaze back to her, fighting the urge to brush his hair back, lest it look like his anxiety was rising. It wasn’t, it definitely wasn’t.
"I mean, I get it."
"Get?"
He fought his anxious urges again, hands twitching under the table. Deep breaths, not too deep, don’t look like you’re trying too hard. "You're a kid, and you're whole life's ahead of you, and you have all these notions about what life is, and what it could be. But eventually, you have to let all that go. That's what I'm– that's what I'm doing."
She took off her glasses, and folded them delicately. A brief glimpse under the armor she had built up, a small show of vulnerability.
“Quentin, I do think you should stay for further-”
“And I get it, I do.” He interjected. “But I’m not a threat to myself, and I’m not a threat to anyone else, so I’m allowed to leave.”)
She was right, He should have stayed longer. But now wasn’t the time for that. Now, all he had to do was knock on the fucking door, and then he would blow this interview out of the water. Then, Yale, and a future, and maybe his entire fucking life would mean something . All he had to do was pull off this one interview, impress one alumnus, and he was set. Just take a deep breath, straighten your shoulders, stand upright, and knock. Piece of cake.
Well, here goes nothing.
Well, there went nothing.
The interview probably couldn’t have gone worse if he had tried. It was hard to pinpoint exactly where everything had gone downhill, especially when everything had gone downhill, but he had a few ideas.
“I’m telling you Jules, it really was that bad, I’m not exaggerating!”
“Q, come on, we both know you have a bad habit of blowing things out of proportion. Remember in high school when you thought Greg Carmichael was planning to stab you because you beat him at cards?”
“I didn’t just beat him at cards, he decided I was cheating, and he broke my nose!”
“Were you cheating?”
“Come on, that’s not the point!”
Julia Wicker laughed on the other end of the call, and God, did he love her. Not romantically, not anymore, but he had no idea who he would be without her. His tension was far from gone, his voice still strained in his throat, but somehow, she managed to be a balm to his raw nerves, just by being her, even when she didn't quite get how bad his brain was. Years ago, Quentin remembered seeing a program about cheetahs in captivity at zoos. They were a nervous species by nature, and generally not great at taking social cues. Handlers had found a way around this by raising them alongside dogs. The dogs would provide them with direction, help them to manage their nervous energy, and most importantly, give them companionship. Since he was 9 years old, Julia Wicker had been the dog to his cheetah. Together, they had explored fantasy kingdoms within their backyards. She had defended him to her friends when they called him a creep, he held her when she cried over her first middle school boyfriend dumping her, they discovered Fillory together. When he was sixteen, she had literally talked him off the ledge of their school roof, never stopping to patronize him about stealing the keys from the janitor, stayed with him all night while he looked for the words to tell his dad. She remained comfortably by his side the entire way to the hospital, and held him so tight before leaving. “You’re going to be just fine, Q,” she had whispered, “I’ll be right here waiting for you.”
How the hell he hadn’t scared her off that night was a damn miracle. Most people weren’t lucky enough to hold on to their childhood friends through normal growing up, let alone actual trauma. Yet, she was still here. Clearly, all of the luck the universe had to offer him had gone towards keeping Julia in his life. Some days, it was even enough.
“Look, that’s not the point, the point is that I really did that badly. When Mr. Greene got to the door, I thought he was going for a handshake but he was just directing me in, so that was awkward, then my palms wouldn’t stop sweating, then he asked to see my thesis, which I dropped all over the floor, and of course it wasn’t in order when I handed it to him, and-”
“Hey, hey, it’s alright, just breathe, okay?”
She was right, of course. He was starting to hyperventilate, and working himself up into a frenzy was not going to make this situation any better. All the breathing exercises in the world weren’t going to change the reality of the situation though.
“Is it though? Jules, you’re going to kill your interview, we both know that, and you’re going to go off, and live an amazing and crazy life, and I’ll just be here,-”
“And maybe you’re wrong, and you’ll come with me. Or maybe you’re not, and I’ll come back and visit you, and you’ll do something incredible here. Or maybe you won’t, and you’ll just take some time to find yourself. Whatever happens, you know I’ll be here, don’t you?”
Quentin had stopped, leaning against the Manhattan storefronts that separated him from the subway station. Breathe in, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, breathe out, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and repeat.
“Sorry, you’re right, I’m being kind of selfish right now, aren’t I?”
“You are but you’ve had a shit day. It’s alright.”
The conversation fell silent while Quentin got his breathing in order. The breathing excercises were dumb, but at least it was something he could control. Fuck, he would kill for a smoke right now, why did he quit last week? Maybe he still had one or two cigarettes hidden in his room. Maybe by the time he got back, he wouldn't need them anymore. Julia, ever patient, didn’t try to push the conversation. He knew she was right, and she knew it too, he just needed time to catch up with her. In, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, out, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and repeat.
“Still, I’m sorry Jules. I- I shouldn’t be throwing this in your face. It’s not your fault I fucked up, and I should be happy for you. And I am, I swear I am! I just-”
“You don’t have to apologize, really. Hey, how about instead of heading home, you head over here? James and I were planning on ordering takeout and watching Starship Troopers, we’d love your company.”
Quentin blinked his frustration back. One day, Julia would realize that he was more trouble than he was worth. One day, she would realize that she didn’t have the energy to keep helping him. One day, she would realize he was better off on that roof. He was just grateful that day wasn’t today.
“That sounds- That sounds really, really great, I’ll just, uh, I’m going to be out here a bit longer? Still- still decompressing, so- yeah”
“Alright, just, send me a text when you’re on your way. We’re not starting the movie till seven, and with your lit degree and my poli-sci, I’m pretty sure we can make James regret his film choice within 20 minutes.”
“What’s there to regret? It’s one of the greatest, misunderstood satures of fascism ever put to film.” Julia chuckled in response.
“Yeah, tonight’s gonna be fun. I’ll see you tonight Q, stay out of trouble till then.”
“Kay, bye.”
And once more, Quentin was alone, with only the Manhattan sidewalks and his thoughts for company. In, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, out, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, ok, so he bombed his interview, but his thesis was good. You didn’t graduate summa cum laude with a bad thesis, right? And people had bad interviews all the time, it didn’t stop them from getting jobs, or promotions, or getting into other programs, but shit, this wasn’t any program, this was Yale- Quentin stopped himself mid thought. Spiraling wasn’t going to do him any good, he needed to focus, to stay grounded. In, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, out, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, he needed to put things into perspective, realistic perspective, and stop catastrophizing. Ok, best case scenario: the interview wasn’t actually as bad as he thought. It was an awkward introduction, and he came across as disorganized, but his work was good, and maybe he recovered in the second half better than he thought. He would go to Grad school with Julia, and maybe get a job as a professor after graduation. Worst case scenario: he did so much worse than he thought. Mr. Greene would be so concerned with what a mess he had been that he would tell the admissions department about his behavior, and they would request his academic records from Columbia. They wouldn’t find anything damning, but would find a medical leave of absence for a few months of his freshman year, and hell, maybe they would even trace it back to the Midway Clinic. They wouldn’t know why he was there, thank God, but they might make assumptions, maybe that he was on drugs or something. They would put a black mark on his application, and then no graduate program would be willing to touch him, and-
And he really, really hated this game.
Quentin closed his eyes to the streets around him. It was 3:00 on a Thursday, so the sidewalks were far from busy, but in this city they would never truly be empty. Still, with his eyes shut and his back to the wall, he could pretend to be alright, for a moment at least.
In, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, out, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7,
He tried, desperately, to drown out the sounds of the city.There weren’t many, there really, really weren’t, but every one seemed to have been amplified in his mind; the whirring of bicycle couriers racing by, a muted phone conversation of course I didn’t forget dear, I’m on my way right now- , solid footsteps, stopping to his left, the door of the shop beside him opening and closing, it’s bell ringing with each new patrol. Maybe if he just picked one to focus on, he could calm his shit sooner. Maybe-
“So, I don’t know if you’re just having a bad day, or tripping hard, but you look like you need this.”
Jesus, of course this was his luck. All Quentin wanted was to be alone, and invisible, and now some strangers were having a conversation next to him, and he would need to move, which would draw attention to himself, and it was stupid and petty, but this was his spot first, damn it, and-
“Or you can keep ignoring me, that works just as well.”
Quentin opened his eyes, and was met with an outstretched hand in his left periphery, holding a pack of hestia’s. He turned to his right, certain that there was someone else present, but only found ivy covered brick, and a sign advertising unicorn frappucinos. Turning back to his left, he finally remembered that language was a thing, and maybe he should reply.
“Sorry, were you talking to me?”
And his breath.
Fucking.
Stopped.
Quentin looked around again, completely sure that the newcomer was speaking to someone else, someone he just hadn’t noticed yet. All he could spot was a woman walking a small dog across the street, a busy looking man entering the shop behind him, and two teenagers exiting with the aforementioned unicorn frappes. They looked awful. The man with the cigarettes, did not. He had slipped the pack back into the pocket of his vest, who the hell still wore vests? , and was leaning against the same wall Quentin occupied, artfully exhaling a stream of smoke. This guy, who couldn’t have been more than a year or two older than him, carried an absolutely effortless sense of confidence that Quentin couldn’t have copied with a decade of practice. What it must feel like, to be that at home in a world that was always intent on reminding you that it didn't care
“I mean, I-I assumed you were talking to someone else, so-”
“Oh, this is going to be fun,” the stranger chuckled, bringing the cigarette to his lips again. There was a richness to his voice, and god, even that was dripping with self-assuredness. “No, I was speaking to you. The offer still stands, for the record.” He began reaching for his pocket again. Quentin began to stop him, end their interactions before they could begin, but stopped himself instead He was really fucking twitchy right now, and fuck, he could really use a smoke.
“If you’re serious, then- thanks, I could really use one.”
Quentin attempted a smile, aiming for gratitude, but fearing that his expression was heading more into ‘why we don't talk to strangers’ territory. The new guy smiled back, his face falling somewhere between ‘effortlessly coy’ and ‘I’ll eat you alive, if you ask nicely’. He reached over with a hestia, and then a lighter. Quentin tried not to fumble too much during the exchange, but managed to nearly drop the cigarette, twice. After an appreciative nod, and a silent recognition of said nod, the two fell into a comfortable silence, letting the nicotine do its job. The quiet didn'tn’t last long, but somehow, the companionable atmosphere survived.
“So, it is the drugs, or the bad day, because freaking out in public outside a shitty coffee shop really doesn’t narrow it down” And with that,Quentin couldn’t help but laugh. The sheer absurdity of the situation hit him all at once; he was sharing smokes, with a stranger, who thought there was a real possibility that he’s on a bad trip, and was being completely nonchalant about the matter. Where the hell else could you have this conversation except New York?
“It’s-it’s definitely the bad day, yeah”
“Slightly less interesting, but fair. Want to talk about it?”
“ Definitely not.”
“Want to drink until it stops bothering you?” Quentin turned to stare, giving him a very pointed, hopefully not too confused look, and checked his phone.
“It’s only 3:30?”
“Your point?” The stranger raised an eyebrow at him, and shit , that expression looked good on him. Quentin looked away, and tried to swallow the pit in his throat, the one telling him ‘ you know this is probably part of an elaborate joke, right? He doesn’t want to talk to you, or maybe he does, but it’s just so he can sell your organs on the black market’, and other helpful ideas his brain liked to supply. The thoughts don’t want to go down, but this time, maybe he can force them back.
“....alright, let’s go.”
“And then , I’m pretty sure I mixed Campbell and Neumann up,-”
“You did not,”
“I totally did! And like, that’s pretty freaking bad , considering my entire thesis is like, on how Jung’s writings influenced them differently, so, you know, cheers to that!”
Apparently, he did want to talk about it. Strange. All things considered though, this was an improvement. Mr. Tall Dark and not a single fucking curl out of place had dragged him to a bar a few blocks away, that somehow Quentin had completely missed earlier. Not that he was looking for one earlier, he just usually thought he was more aware of his surroundings than that. Hyper-aware even. Typically, it was pretty annoying. The space was small and moody, all dark wood and amber lights. There was also an apparent advantage to day drinking, since you essentially had the place to yourself, and other patrons had only just started trickling in in earnest. The countertops were slightly sticky, and Quentin was pretty sure the lighting was intentional, to hide discoloration on the old bar stools, but fuck it, he was several drinks in and didn’t care.
His companion had opted for gin over anything the bar had on tap ( I’m not going to waste my time on an objectively awful drink just because it’s what everyone else chooses to drink, for some terrible reason ) ( I mean, it’s cheap, and I just wanna get drunk ) ( Like I said, some terrible reason ), and somehow, Quentin didn’t think he was a complete and total dick. No, wait, that wasn’t true, he was definitely a dick. He was prickly, and sharp tongued, and completely unapologetic about it, and yet, Quentin found himself drawn into his magnetic field. Julia probably would have laughed at him, called this his ‘delayed bad boy phase’, but whatever. He was drunk, he was laughing, and he was going to keep having a good time.
"Oh god, I’ve been talking about this for, like, what, an hour?" Perhaps it was just the alcohol doing it's job, but Quentin's voice managed to contain none of it's typically self loathing.There was still a part of him, (the quiet, insidious, self doubting part), that couldn’t help but wonder what, if anything, his drinking companion was getting out of any of this. That part of him, at least they right now, was becoming surprisingly easy to ignore." Sorry, I just guess I get- I mean- you know-”
“No, no, no, a word of advice,” and Quentin swallowed, how the hell could someone be graceful, even when interrupting them? “ Never , and I do mean never, apologize for having passion. Believe me, it beats the alternative.”
At that, Quentin scoffed. “Yeah, right, ‘cause my passion for literature is going to come with so many opportunities.” The man to his side cocked his head slightly, and looked somewhere to the middle distance. God, he was attractive. God, Quentin was drunk.
“You could always write a book. That is what every angsty, floppy haired, emo boy wants to do, right?”
“Did you just call me emo?”
And suddenly, he was staring directly at him, with that mildly amused, nonchalant grin that Quentin had no idea how to process. He didn’t know whether to laugh, or throw back something snarky. Quentin, being Quentin, did neither and broke eye contact as soon as possible, draining the last of his bottle in one go.
“I mean, that was the plan in high school, I just didn’t know what to write about. Everything I could think of was just, too derivative. I didn’t want to rip off better writers, you know? Besides, Rowling already cornered the market on that one” He stretched out over the bartop as he spoke, and fought the urge to lay his head on the bar-top. God, it was cool, and it felt nice, and he was sitting up now god damn it. “And then, like, you’re supposed to be getting ready for college, and for having a fucking life, and I didn’t know how to do that, let alone write a book? And everyone was telling me to get my shit together, so I just went with the easiest option, studied books instead. And now I’ve got a great degree, but no next step, and definitely no plan.”
“Now that I can relate to. God, my school is on my ass right now, and not in a remotely fun way mind you, about finding a mentor , and planning for life after graduation , and coming up with a decent thesis , and of course, in typical academic fashion they are providing no real advice or resources, so, cheers to that as well.”
The two clinked glasses, as wrong as it seemed with an empty bottle. Neither one commented on it.
“Alright, what about you? What dragged you to Manhattan today?”
Quentin turned towards his….temporary friend? Acquaintance? Person? His companion chuckled to himself, took another drink of his gin, and Quentin couldn’t help but smile back. A sense of quiet ease had come over him, dulling the rougher edges of his earlier moods, and it wasn't entirely the alcohols doing. Maybe it was just the inherent comfort found in being honest with a stranger, being able to be truly himself without fear of repercussion for what he might say the next day. Said stranger grinned into his glass, as though he may have been thinking the same.
“Firstly, I’m insulted that you didn’t assume I live here-”
“We’re millennials, we can’t afford the rent.”
“But we do have plenty of avocados.” He retorted, Quentin’s interruption not making him skip so much as a beat. “And actually, I’m here because of said useless, nonexistent school resources. Like I said, they want to see a halfway decent thesis, fuck if I know why, and I heard about an antique bookstore up here. Figured I would say I needed to research something there, get the faculty off my back and make a day of it. You know how it is.” His new friend’s facade had changed over the last...how long had they been here? Well, It didn’t matter. He was still just as effortlessly above the general chattering around him, but at the same time, seems stiffer than he had been a moment ago. Still open, still charismatic, but somehow more composed.
Quentin would have questioned the subtle change in behavior more, would have over thought if his companion was simply uncomfortable with the subject, or bored of him, or a million other possibilities , if he wasn’t so fixated on his companion’s last words. His jaw went slack, but hey, what was gross motor control in the face of a few rounds.
“There’s an antique bookstore here and I didn’t see it? I love books!”
“Oh, I’ve definitely noticed.” There was a playful lilt in his voice, that somehow managed to not be condescending, which was a huge accomplishment on it’s own, especially considering-
“Did you just boop my chin?” And oh god, if his personality wasn’t so magnetizing, his laugh would have done Quentin in right then and there. He just hoped like hell that his flush wasn’t too prominent
“Yes. You were rambling, it was adorable. Sue me.”
“I have... very conflicting feelings right now. Do it again.” He obliged, and Quentin could feel his entire face twitch. “Yeah, no, I’m not nearly sober enough to process that.”
“The fact that you’re even worried about that tells me you’re not nearly drunk enough either.”
“Fair, but I really shouldn’t drink any more.” Honestly, he shouldn’t have been drinking at all, with the cocktail of antidepressants he was supposed to be taking on the regular, but Quentin knew that thought was too little too late before it was even formed.
“I disagree, but, to each their own.” His companion retorted, and finished his drink with a flourish. The silence that lingered for the next few moments should have been anxiety inducing, between the sounds of other patrons finally filling in the room around them, the occasional glances from the bartender wondering whether they were going to get another round or get off his counter, and the underlying question of what the fuck am I even doing here , but those feelings never quite made their way out of the edges of his mind. They were always there, always present, but that space within his mind was their home. He could make them welcome there, and they would stay put for a while. Quentin wasn’t enough of a fool to think they’d ever move out, but he could manage them where they were. He turned his focus back to his temporary friend, not surprised to find him somewhat vacantly staring at the back bar.
Whether it was the drinks or the atmosphere talking, Quentin didn’t mind. Usually, this would be the point in any social gathering where the conversation would trail off, and he would say something awkward, or too nerdy, or completely nonsensical, and run off to hide in his room with his books. However, hiding in the comforting words of Tolkien, or Plover, or Sanderson, wasn’t an option at the moment. But furthermore, Quentin actually wanted to keep talking to him, and it was unlikely he’d ever see this man again, so what did he have to lose? Plus, he’d essentially recited his entire thesis to the guy earlier and he hadn’t left yet. Ergo, he could probably handle a personal question or two.
“So, do you have one?”
“Hm?” He turned his attention to Quentin, eyes strikingly hazel and not quite focused and was he wearing eyeliner?, and Quentin willed himself not to look away.
“I mean, do you have one, a plan, for what’s next? I can’t tell if you do, or you’re just really good at pretending to have your shit together. So, what’s your deal?”
For a moment, his companion’s face fell serious, a moment so brief Quentin was sure he had imagined it. No, his smile had definitely been just as effortless during their entire conversation, his movements hadn’t lost a touch of their grace. If his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore, Quentin was definitely imagining it.
“My deal, as you so eloquently put it, is to always keep them guessing what’s next.”
“That was, objectively, not an answer. God, I’ve got a friend who went with poli-sci, and she would probably have an absolute field day wi-oh shit what time is it?”
Julia. He had completely forgotten about meeting with Julia. He had completely forgotten to text her, not that he had even left Manhattan yet, but he really should have let her know he was alright at some point. Frantically, Quentin ripped his phone from his messenger bag to check the time.
5:42.
Fuck.
Quentin fumbled through his bags for a moment, fished out his wallet, and threw a few bills on the bartop. Fortunately, he was intoxicated enough to not properly panic right now. Unfortunately, if he wasn’t on a subway in the next 5 minutes, he would definitely be late.
Good thing the nearest subway station is 10 minutes away , his brain helpfully supplied.
“I am so, so sorry, this has been a great time, but I promised a friend I would see her tonight, and I just, god I totally lost track of time, I hate to run, sorry, gah, but seriously, it was nice meeting you, yeah, um-” Fortunately, he was interrupted before he could embarrass himself much further.
“By all means, go. It's been fun." His eyes had their mirthful sparkle back, and did he just wink at Quentin ? How did he manage to do that without looking like a complete douche? “Go on, get out of here, I promise I can take care of myself.”
With a final awkward wave, and a ‘kay, thanks bye’, Quentin shuffled back to the, now much busier, city streets. The entire departure felt oddly anticlimactic, for reasons he couldn’t quite place. The entire appeal of following this guy to a bar and blowing off some steam was the anonymity. He had never asked for his companion’s name, and his companion had never asked for his. For a few hours, they were just two people, able to say whatever came to mind, with no fear of it coming back to affect them later. Making a clean break with no awkward exchanges of phone numbers that Quentin would never work up the nerve to call, and not having to worry about how fast his own number had been thrown away, was honestly ideal. So how come he couldn't let go of the feeling that he would actually like to see this guy again? It was an objectively pointless thought, he knew. The list of people who tolerated him was exceptionally short, and made up of people who had known him for over a decade. That much history was something hard to let go of, even if it was arguably for the best.
The bar surprisingly had quite a crowd out front now. Quentin was grateful that he had at least gotten in and out before the scene became too crowded, too overwhelming. These last few hours had been amazing, but he was really looking forward to a quiet evening with Julia and James, especially when the topic of the evening was something that he and Jules could team up against her boyfriend about.
He was maybe 10 steps from the bar entrance when he heard the call behind him.
"Hey, high strung super nerd, wait up!"
Quentin’s first thought was that he must have imagined it. His second thought was that in this decade, ‘high strung super nerd’ probably described half the crowd out here. His third, was what if…
Turning back, there he was, impeccably dressed and towering slightly over the crowds congregating at the entrance. Even moving through a seething mass of humanity, he seemed to glide, and before Quentin realized it, his new acquaintance was right in front of him. He smirked slightly, and gazed down at Quentin. Something about his expression made Quentin feel small, but somehow, he didn’t mind.
“You left your phone on the bar, It’s a good thing you hadn’t gotten too far.”
Of course. Very smooth, Coldwater, very smooth. And yet…
Maybe this was the opportunity he had been wanting. He was probably going to be stuck in the city for a while, and this guy was local, or he seemed to be local enough. Maybe now was his time, when he should go out on a limb, try and make new friends. He certainly hadn’t done that in undergrad, and was definitely worse off for it. Quentin took his phone back with an awkward ‘thanks’, slipped his phone back in his back, and cleared his throat.
“My name’s Quentin. Quentin Coldwater.”
He stuck out his hand, and god, if this didn’t feel like the worst rehash of his public speaking class he could imagine. Maintain eye contact, but don’t stare aggressively , and all these other minor details of nonverbal communication that just made him like books more. One moment passed. Then another, and good god Quentin felt like he was dying. The rescuer of his phone stared at his hand, then directly at Quentin. He grinned, which surely was a good sign, right?Another moment, and Quentin learned that his hands, while rougher than he expected, were extremely warm.
“A pleasure meeting you, Quentin.”
...and then he turned and left. Leaving yet another pit in Quentin's chest in his place. That...that could have actually gone worse in so many ways but that objectively sucked. After a moment of daze had passed, he swallowed down the rejection as best he could, and reoriented himself. If he was correct, he should only be a few blocks from the station.
The walk to the station itself passed in a blur. He ran into a few people's shoulders, and tripped over his shoelaces once, but it was a pretty unremarkable four blocks. Quentin was halfway down the steps to the subway when his phone buzzed in his pocket. It's probably Julia, wondering why I haven't texted her yet. Fuck, I hope she doesn't think I'm bailing on her, I'll just reply once I'm on the train, yeah- and his phone buzzed again. That was, definitely unlike Julia. She wasn't the type of person who would double text, unless there was an actual situation, at which point she would be more likely to just call you. The joys of not having phone anxiety.
Once Quentin was at the bottom of the stairs and out of the flow of foot traffic, he slipped his phone back from it's pocket, hoping Julia was alright. Only, the texts weren't from Julia. Both messages were from an unknown number, responding to a winking emoji he definitely had not sent.
Unknown: Today - 5:56 PM - You know, you really should keep your phone locked. It was nice to meet you, Quentin.
Unknown: Today - 5:57 PM - I’m Eliot, by the way.
Stupid as it was, Quentin couldn't stop himself from grinning. Perhaps that hadn't been as much of a disaster as he thought.