[ Quentin plucks up enough courage to head in eventually, less because he's afraid and more because he has no idea what he's doing. It's a misfire. A raunchy one never intended for him. So what is he doing here? ]
Fuck it.
[ It's muttered to himself, because, well, what does he have to lose? A few drinks and he can head back home to the West Coat, no problem. When he does enter, it's what he expected for the most part: hollywood club type shenanigans, half naked women (they're definitely easy on the eyes), drinks, lavishness. When Quentin drinks he prefers it in the company of his friends or some hole in the wall bar, and this is already setting him on edge.
Except, for some reason, the moment he hears the piano and the voice, he's completely and perfectly comfortable. He doesn't even question it--he's also severely underdressed in just jeans and a black button down, hair hastily tied up--he'd been researching--and instead just...stares.
The last time he'd been so captivated by something, it had been Fillory.
He's pretty easy to pick out--he's got a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, half holding onto it. It had been a weird lifeline, but it's completely forgotten, grip slack. There's a strange, charged electricity in the air, like there's a conduit somewhere. Quentin can almost smell it. He'd try, if he could take his eyes off of the hottest guy he's ever seen in his life. ]
no subject
Fuck it.
[ It's muttered to himself, because, well, what does he have to lose? A few drinks and he can head back home to the West Coat, no problem. When he does enter, it's what he expected for the most part: hollywood club type shenanigans, half naked women (they're definitely easy on the eyes), drinks, lavishness. When Quentin drinks he prefers it in the company of his friends or some hole in the wall bar, and this is already setting him on edge.
Except, for some reason, the moment he hears the piano and the voice, he's completely and perfectly comfortable. He doesn't even question it--he's also severely underdressed in just jeans and a black button down, hair hastily tied up--he'd been researching--and instead just...stares.
The last time he'd been so captivated by something, it had been Fillory.
He's pretty easy to pick out--he's got a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, half holding onto it. It had been a weird lifeline, but it's completely forgotten, grip slack. There's a strange, charged electricity in the air, like there's a conduit somewhere. Quentin can almost smell it. He'd try, if he could take his eyes off of the hottest guy he's ever seen in his life. ]
Please tell me you're the guy I've been texting.