[ It's not dating, exactly. They don't kiss or hold hands or call each other to coo at night. They don't talk about terms or about any of the stuff you talk about with someone you're dating--kids, parents, past relationships. At least, Quentin doesn't think they're dating, but it's hard for him to say; he's never given a guy his number before. Highschool hookups are one thing, high or drunk or running on adrenaline and a dare with boys from the team or Ian from the band in the next town over. But Quentin hasn't dated since he left home, and he certainly hasn't dated a guy.
[ Which is fine, because they aren't dating. They're just meeting each other for coffee every now and then. A couple of times a week, they take a morning run together. They text--not daily, not for long stretches, just sometimes. It's just...nice. To have a friend. Yeah, Quentin laughs more easily for him, and maybe he's a little stupid before and after they hang out (to the frustration of his manager at the bookshop), but they're friends. Peter's a friend that Quentin wouldn't mind seeing more. Friends.
[ Apparently the kind of friends that just--show up at each other's apartments unannounced in the middle of the night. When he spots Peter through the peephole of his grungy apartment door, there are no butterflies or laughs to be had--just an anxious knot balled hard in the pit of his stomach. He cusses softly, but it can be heard from the hallway as he yanks the door chain and deadbolt open. It's nearly midnight, but Peter might not be shocked to find Quentin still fully dressed sans shoes, music murmuring from deeper inside the apartment.
[ His eyes are dark, as usual, but entirely alert--even fixated, as he reaches to palm Peter's shoulder and invite him in. ] What the hell happened to you?
guys being guys
[ Which is fine, because they aren't dating. They're just meeting each other for coffee every now and then. A couple of times a week, they take a morning run together. They text--not daily, not for long stretches, just sometimes. It's just...nice. To have a friend. Yeah, Quentin laughs more easily for him, and maybe he's a little stupid before and after they hang out (to the frustration of his manager at the bookshop), but they're friends. Peter's a friend that Quentin wouldn't mind seeing more. Friends.
[ Apparently the kind of friends that just--show up at each other's apartments unannounced in the middle of the night. When he spots Peter through the peephole of his grungy apartment door, there are no butterflies or laughs to be had--just an anxious knot balled hard in the pit of his stomach. He cusses softly, but it can be heard from the hallway as he yanks the door chain and deadbolt open. It's nearly midnight, but Peter might not be shocked to find Quentin still fully dressed sans shoes, music murmuring from deeper inside the apartment.
[ His eyes are dark, as usual, but entirely alert--even fixated, as he reaches to palm Peter's shoulder and invite him in. ] What the hell happened to you?