continued from Olive Branch.Despite his brisk pace and the intermittent downpour, Quinn seethed the entire walk home from the Rabbit. There was a wash of spiralling emotion that prevented him from thinking clearly and making rational decisions as he made his way home by habit. More than once he walked into traffic a bit too late and tested the braking abilities of city drivers who then proceeded to honk their frustrations at him, receiving a flipped bird for their efforts.
Of course he thought about texting Malakai immediately, demanding of him whether what Jerry said was true, despite knowing better. He drafted text after text in his inbox and erased it everytime. None of his words made sense for how he felt, something he couldn't even figure out.
He rationalized and self-talked himself down from certain ledges that he was familiar climbing up with practiced self dialectic examination - thanks, Dr. Eliza Gonzales - circling the drain of his own pit of stubbornness. He wanted to drink and was shaking with rage, compulsively going over the conversation again and again as if it solved anything to revisit it. Quinn took out his pack of cigarettes and lit one hastily with quaking fingers, hoping the nicotine and the walk would calm him down.
It had been more than ten years since he had been kicked out of his mother's house for being himself. Somehow, news had trickled into the ear of Brian, Quinn's step-father, and the man took it upon himself to attempt to straighten the then-teenage Quinn out. He hated the fact that he could remember the night clearly still. Being outed to his parents was one of the worst things that had happened to him as a youth. Brian had cracked one of his ribs with a steel-toe boot and snapped his wrist after beating him so severely he couldn't go to school for the next week. When he had returned to school after a few nights of homelessness and couch surfing amongst friends, he was taunted relentlessly, asked who beat him in what the other kids assumed was a schoolyard throwdown and took bets as to who it was. A guidance counselor had pulled him aside and asked impatiently why he was in such a condition and Quinn only shrugged, lying smoothly that it was a skateboarding accident and that yes, he had been seen by a doctor. No one was there to return the call that was made home after school that day.
Now, as he stood in the rain ten plus years later, he still shook with rage that Jerry, Malakai's best friend, would just off-handedly out him to Quinn before they had even the opportunity to talk to Mal himself.
Everything was a mess and nothing seemed to be helping and all he wanted to do was put as much distance between himself and Jeremiah Peterson as possible. Of course Jerry didn't know about the reaction Quinn would have to the casual outing of Mal - it's not like Quinn was ever able to discuss deep things with Jerry, so unsurprisingly his tale of
woe never made it to Jerry's ears. He wondered now whether telling him the story would have even changed anything about the interaction they had just had - probably not. Jerry was thick after all.
He wanted to kick something, to break something, to cut something, and he wished that it was just because of the frustration with Jeremiah. That would have made things significantly easier than this.
Selfishly Quinn wanted answers, and he hated himself for it. He wanted to know why he never knew, how he had possibly missed that fact in the years of knowing them. He wanted to know if it was even fucking true. He wanted to know how this was going to work out if he wanted to keep dating Mal. Did he want to keep dating Mal, knowing that their flirtations would always be limited? No, he didn't know if that was even true yet. How many other people did Jerry out Mal to? Was Quinn the only one in their group of friends who didn't know about Malakai? Was that why he had never seen any of Mal's partners - because they never stayed long?
He felt stupid and he hated himself. He had always been nonchalant about his sexuality around Mal, usually because Jerry was nearby and that sort of thing was acceptable in that circle. How uncomfortable had Quinn made Malakai, coming over to parties smelling of Jerry? Had he been repulsed? The idea made Quinn pinch the bridge of his nose and rub his face with his hands, the stub of a cigarette burning between his fingers. His mind was racing and for a split second, he considered abandoning all of them altogether.
But he liked Malakai. He was by far the most affectionate and romantic partner he had had in years, possibly ever. Had this ruined everything between them? Was it selfish to want to have that physical connection with a man who treated him better than any partner before? Was it worth the awkwardness?
Dread weighed down his bones as he climbed the stairs to his apartment and locked the world away. He was drenched and cold and apathetic to both. Logic and reason told him to undress and get warm, but habit took him to the kitchen instead where he poured himself a glass of cheap spiced rum and refilled it twice. The spinning of his thoughts slowed and dangled before him as his sobriety left. Quinn reached for the half blunt in the ashtray and smoked the rest, making himself a third refill before swaying his way to the bedroom to change.
Weed and alcohol took off the edge appropriately, but left him feeling cold and empty. He hated himself for the pathetic, obsessive reaction he was having and looked at the bottle on the counter, mentally counting sleeping pills in a bottle in the bathroom.
Don't be ridiculous, he scolded himself.
It's nothing to kill yourself over, you idiot. Quinn changed into sweats and hoodie, angry that he was being so ridiculous about the whole thing. It was just some stupid thing Jerry did, and Freddy being his little bitchy self. And even the whole no-sex thing wasn't that deep.
But he couldn't figure out why it felt like one.
Before returning to the couch, Quinn nabbed a bottle of tequila from the cabinet by the sink and a short glass. He didn't bother with the salt rim or the lime, but decided it was time to forget his name for a little while.
As he sat, his phone buzzed and without thinking, he pulled it out of his pocket to find a fresh text from Malakai.
Hey, how's the talk going? 
Great, Mal, Quinn thought angrily.
Just fucking peachy. Jerry's a real fucking peach. Quinn put the phone and the drinking glass down on the table and filled his cup. He contemplated not responding to his... who was Mal to him now? Were they still lovers? Still dating? He contemplated not responding to Mal's text purposely, knowing he could break and spill the beans at any second during their text conversation, beans that he didn't know if he wanted to deal with right now, especially not via text.
Finw.He pressed send before he could correct the word and cursed, lowering the phone and backing out to the home screen. A gorgeous picture of Malakai smirking up at him from the picnic blanket of their last date. Quinn stared at it for a while, all of the former emotions sluggish and lingering, though not as intense. He locked his phone and tossed it towards the other end of the couch and downed the contents of his glass.
