A New Beginning
It took the former surfer a very, very long time to reacquaint himself with the world after the sudden, tragic death he had to deal with. After the death of his fiance, and his two soon-to-be-adopted children, Quinlan found himself losing hope in a lot of things. Craig, also known to Q as ‘C’, was off getting married. Q had lost not only his fiance, but his father; and he felt very, very alone. And, if he wasn’t sure, it was maddening. He had lost his love for things he cherished; had slumped into a pit of alcoholism and had found himself sinking into the water of a bathtub to lay there for hours, staring at the ceiling, debating his life. His life, something he loved every minute of, of every day, seemed like a black, empty void. And he didn’t know what to do. He had stopped watching and quoting and loving the Star Wars franchise, and he had stopped surfing — rarely, if ever, did he even go to the beach. He didn’t sit there in the warm sand and let his dirty blond hair bask in the sunshine to turn it a bleached blond, that countered his dark, tanned skin. Sometimes, people would see him out and about and ask for an autograph, but that was very rarely now, and if he was honest? Quinlan didn’t particularly care.
And today, almost a year after the loss of the man he called his fiance, his Master, his owner, his best friend, he was still alive and kicking. At the age of thirty five — almost thirty six as his birthday was only a little over a month away — Quinlan found himself wandering. He hadn’t been to London in quite a while, and he decided he wanted to keep it that. No, he decided that he wanted to walk the streets of Los Angeles, California, part of the good United States of America. He hadn’t been to LA in a few years — since the last surfing competition — but today? He just felt rather nostalgic. He was going down towards the beach (planning on looking for any familiar faces, but not going down and engaging in anything) when something — no, someone — caught his eye. He had almost the same features as a man who previously held his heart, and Q found himself staring, mouth slightly agape and blue eyes, dulled and uninterested in most things, brightened just a little. But no, that couldn’t be. The man’s back was turned, but it looked like the same figure, the same outline…
Without realizing it, Q had found himself behind the man, reaching out to touch his shoulder, “B?” It was stupid. So fucking stupid — he had realized that only after the man started to turn, and that one singular consonant was out of his mouth. B was dead. His best friend was dead, and that hurt. Maybe Q was just trying to hold onto something he missed so much, “I — s-sorry. I didn’t mean that mate,” he said, voice cracking as he stepped back from the man, “you looked familiar and I thought you were someone else…” That someone else is dead, you dingo, Q reminded himself, and stuffed his hands in his pockets, ready to quickly excuse himself. He hadn’t been too fond of engaging conversations in the last year or so, and that was truly bothersome. It was just something he truly didn’t like anymore.
