a heartless time

“Wait.” Quin held out a hand and closed his eyes tightly, thinking. When he opened them, Arthur looked as guileless and handsome as ever. This was going to be difficult. “You’re saying that literally no one organised something for Joel’s anniversary? Isn’t that kind of, like, your job?”

—      QUIN .

There was always something in people that were build the same, something that seemed to pull them together. As if something inside of them, a part of their soul, recognized one another. Nina often had seen it that way, and it was in part how she explained the unlikely friendship she had with Joel. There was just something inside of them to recognized each other’s. In her case, it was the laissé-pour-compte, the orphans of a world build without them in mind. There had been a rebellious streak in Quentin, or at least, a desire to look outside of the crystal covered world they lived in. They all had the leisure to educate themselves, to become intellectual in some way or another, without the weigh of obligations, at least other than their place in this world, on their shoulders. To Nina, Quin was like that, pushing the boundaries of what those before them had done, looking outside of the money that drove their parents, outside of the obligate status they were born with. And it was why she was smiling at him as he stood before her.

“Don’t tell me your ego finally broke free and now needs its own table. I can’t afford to sit the both of you at different tables.” The quip was easy, expected even. Nina had build herself a reputations on her words as much as her actions, both always defiant. Always testing. “In that case, I’m sitting you by the bar so I can keep an eye on you. As much fun as it sounds, I’m not sure you launching into a discourses about the need for emancipation for the working class would please the crowd tonight.”

There was a shrug at his question, some way to brush it off as much as possible. If she was honest, Nina had no idea why Soif was so popular. “Is it really a cop out when the publications put it on my natural charm? I can’t help it if the people love me Quin. I was just ahead of my time. Or people needed to be shit faced with expensive wine to appreciate me.” It made her feel strange, to be appreciated, to have people praise her personality and charms. To be popular. “I should probably buy a sign to put behind the bar, ‘don’t harm kitten or we won’t serve you’. What would you like to drink with that? I’m assuming your present state isn’t enough for the night.”

Nina’s reference to his Marxist days made him laugh in surprise. Astonished, he shot her a look that was equal parts amusement and indignation. “Excuse me!” he spluttered. “What better venue than a wine bar to accuse your friendly local capitalists of destroying the planet?” A nearby table shot them an inquiring glance. Quin stifled another laugh and gripped Nina’s shoulder, leaning into her, closing them off. “Oops. Sorry,” he added, not sounding very sorry at all, “I’ll behave. Scout’s honor. Can you do that if you weren’t a Scout?” It was a rhetorical question; as soon as he asked it, Quin was looking elsewhere, eyes skittering over the clientele, assessing the handsome in an easy, practiced way that was more habit than anything. When he looked back at Nina, he smiled. “I’ll sit anywhere, Lowell. I’m at your command.”

Nina really was too modest. They were birds of a feather in many ways, but her cute song proclaiming ignorance over Soif’s popularity was too much. Quin frowned at her, then rolled his eyes once she tapered off. “Puh-lease. You think anyone believes that? I mean, don’t get me wrong, you sound convincing, but it’s also a crock of shit. Of course people love you. Jesus. What, do you want me to get down on one knee?” He’d do it. Swear to God, he would.

Something about the easy way he laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners and hair gone askew, reminded them of why he was so easy to get along with. Despite the obvious doom and gloom he was tender hearted, complex and winding and full of life when he looked a little outside himself. He was genuine, not quite as delicate and full of endless questions that threatened to spill over the brim, gossip on who went where, money dripping from his fingertips and solving every such problem. 

“Officer Miller? I think I like the sound of that.” Her grin only grew at his further teasing and she took the opportunity to reach out and slide one hand along his side. Fingers skittered over his ribs and down his side, patting at his waistband and carefully teetering on the far edge of his pocket. It was all in jest, purely for fun, but she couldn’t help but linger just a tad more than expected while pretending to pat him down. It was that longing to connect again, to touch and be held and feel the warmth of another. The problem with growing so comfortable with someone was knowing where her physical affection was not welcome. Sloane was always terrible about boundaries to begin with. Quickly snatching her hand back at his words, they forced the flickering smile back onto their face and guided him in the direction of the checkout counter to hide the flicker of emotions that revealed how close his words hit to home. Everyone got bored of them eventually. 

“Idaho? Do I look like I’d be content to settle down anywhere else? Besides, don’t they have some kind of weird obsession with potatoes? I’ve been traveling for a bit…needed to get my head on straight and explore while I’m young. Flew out to Paris for a bit, Italy, anything that had enough architecture to keep me interested.” Sloane spared him a glance over her shoulder, quirking an eyebrow. “What have you been up to? Naomi’s told me a bit but I wanted to hear it from you.” 

Well, Quin certainly hadn’t expected dinner and a show. “If I wanted to get touched up in Bergdorf’s,” Quin drawled, watching Sloane grin up at him, “I would have come prepared.” To illustrate his point, he touched the side of his nose and waggled his eyebrows. Quin laughed. It was a bit weird, he guessed, having the hands of his sister’s best friend all over his pressed shirt, even if it was a joke, but then again, they’d known each other for practically a hundred years. Sloane was like a cousin. 

When Sloane started to lead them towards the counter -- the assistant stood up straighter and flashed them a welcoming smile -- Quin caught hurt flash across her face. He shouldn’t have said the thing about her being boring -- stupid. When Sloane wasn’t looking, Quin grimaced to himself; and when their eyes met again, he gave her a warm look and rubbed the top of her back briefly.

“Hey, don’t knock the Midwest,” Quin joked, as if he’d ever be caught dead beyond Manhattan. Sloane’s itinerary made him whistle lowly, impressed. His voice curled, teasing: “Well, shit, you globetrotter! Don’t tell me: you brought back some pretty thing to keep you company. You know what they say about Italians.” Actually, Quin was only dimly aware of what anyone said about Italians. He was more of a Lebanese man, himself.

Quin was surprised by how easily Sloane had alleviated his spirits. He’d quite forgotten sulking over scarves. As they reached the counter and were greeted by the assistant, Quin put his hands in his pockets and found himself gazing at Sloane’s auburn hair, how it swept along their pale shirt and brushed their sharp elbows. The overhead lights cast Sloane in a sweet light: Ophelia of the modern age.

“Oh, you know.” She probably didn’t, hence the question, but Quin felt suddenly reticent. He shrugged. “Business is swinging. Money is flowing. Et cetera. I haven’t felt the urge to crush anyone’s spirits lately, so I must be losing my touch.” He watched Sloane’s credit card flash through the machine. The assistant’s nails were long and lacquered red, like darts. “I found a Rigmor Anderson desk the other week for a steal. It’s going out West for the wife of a film producer, some guy, he’s a real hack. You know that new De Niro flick? The bad one? Yeah. It really sucks, because this lady wouldn’t know an Anderson if it bit her on the ass, but she’s paying through the nose...” What the hell was he talking about? Did anyone care about this crap? “Otherwise, fine.” Quin shot her a sideways smile. “Naomi probably did you a favor. You should know by now: nothing ever happens to me.”

If only to beat him to it, Theo closed the space between them once more; every movement was slow as molasses, big hands bracketing Quin’s waist and fingertips tapping idly on the countertop. Over the years, he’d come to know every line of his body, exactly how to elicit a sigh here or a breathless yes, Theo there. Point being: he knew precisely how to drag it out, teasing him mercilessly until they both couldn’t take it anymore. Hell, he could write the damn manual.

“Do you ever shut up?” he prompted, his tone not altogether unkind. It was less of a question, more of a statement; there was something nearly fond in his exasperation, the kind of tired acceptance running through the words that spoke of something that had been uttered countless times before. In lieu of giving him a direct answer, Theo pressed forward, crowding him further against the counter. “All this talk about tea, about my day…” He gave him one last, meaningful look before he ducked his head, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the underside of Quin’s jaw. “You’re starting to make me think we have different priorities.” These words, murmured against flushed skin, felt like they’d nearly lost all meaning. His intentions might not have been fully articulated aloud, but they were more than clear.

“If you really want to know, though,” he sighed, one hand coming up to frame Quin’s face as he straightened up, “I could give you a play-by-play of the lunch I had at the 21 Club today. Or— or, I could list out the appointments that Sharon told me I have for the rest of the week. Nothing gets me going like dates and times.” He toyed with the errant strands of hair he’d been eyeing earlier, offering him a grin before he leaned in again. This time, he pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, just barely missing the mark. “How’s that sound?”

Truthfully, he didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up. Quin’s stupid kimono kept falling off his shoulder, his mouth forever begged to be kissed, his eyes — well, it was Quin’s eyes that pulled him in most days, and today was no different. Curious, playful, inviting; the warmth in their depths could easily stop him in his tracks. Won’t you just give in, Theo? they seemed to ask him, and God, he wanted to. 

“Best not to,” she agreed with a nod and a smile. She liked to think that people found it generally difficult to argue with her. Logic and more than a little application of charm could carry the day.  

Quin had looked a little like the undead, but she hadn’t been going to mention it. She could see that he had been surprised at the invitation. It made sense of course. He was younger and they weren’t particularly close. But he was a familiar face in a very long line, and there was nothing stopping Susanna from inviting who she liked to dine with her. New York was wonderful for running in to people. And if she never took the initiative, she’d never learn anything. 

“I’m sorry, have I taken advantage of your zombified state?” she laughed lightly. “Here, let me get you a little hair of the dog?” She looked around and as if summoned, a waiter  arrived at their table.

Quin gave her what he hoped was a warm smile. This whole situation was unnerving. Since when did Susanna get all cosy with passing acquaintances? Sure, they ran in the same circles, but outside of their childhood temple and a bar mitzvah or two, their relationship fell within the realm of polite interest. Quin toyed with the sunglasses in front of him, half watching the sunlight play across the lacquered tortoiseshell. The suggestion of a drink made him exhale heavily, and with no small amount of fervor, Quin blurted, “God, yes.”

The waiter looked at him attentively. Without pausing, Quin glanced up and said, “Two highballs, thanks.” When the waiter slipped away, Quin shifted to lean forward in his seat, crossing his arms on the table. He scratched the side of his head and peered properly at Susanna. Little had changed: she was luminous as ever. Her cloudy dark hair, those steady liquid eyes, her coral lipstick. Quin searched her expression for a loaded moment before dropping his gaze. The waiter reappeared and delivered their drinks. The ice clinked against the cut crystal.