QUINN.
“I don’t know either, different variant of vicious I guess.” True, he’d not even seen too many felines but the ones he had were the rangy, scruff and hiss sort who ghosted around empty streets and ruined buildings. Kittens were generally more fluff and puff with indignant moments, which thus far had fit his personal view of Basil on whatever what might have passed for a bad mood for him. It made him a little curious to know what the line was, but he didn’t want to push it when they were just starting to figure each other out.
“Not entirely on purpose, it’s not like that’s a part of anything you plan to eat.” He reasoned, if there was much logical reason to the conversation from a typical standpoint. “But it happens, teeth, things get in the way in a fight, hunting, all of that. I wouldn’t recommend it but, you know, necessity.”
Clearly there was a disconnect between Basil and the idea of werewolf but Quinn decided to give it some time, culture shock perhaps. He had things to learn too. “So there’s no weird or socially unacceptable norms for Changelings? Well, that’s going to take all the fun out of storytime, isn’t it?” He added with a hint of mock woeful tone, all those Grimm’s tales had led him astray.
“Nah, it’s fine. Personal spaces are strange at first, they belong to someone. It’s something you have to get used to.” Quinn tried to find a comparison that was simple, just to bridge the gap. “The sense of ’mine’ is a thing, it’s always a thing.” Sometimes that was a complicated overlap; especially when it came to people. “If it doesn’t actually stick your teeth together or peel the inside of your mouth then I think it still counts as coffee, and there’s no such thing as bad coffee,” he added with all the conviction of someone who lived with caffeine burning in their veins.
“Italy, huh? Never been there, guessing if you’re here in this wonderful experiment in social homicide the place didn’t hold up too well either.” But what had? The world was a dying animal too stubborn to drop. “Sorry about that though, losing home isn’t fair to anybody.”
Quinn found himself chuckling again, finally lifting the cup to his lips and watching Basil’s expression; in a less harsh world the boy would have been pure sunshine. “Don’t you know wolves are colorblind?”
He waited it out to see how long Basil would take the bait, mull over, see if he could tell he was messing with him. Finally he laughed and dropped his shoulders in a shrug. “ Okay, that’s a lie. I don’t know, blue? I miss the sky being that color instead of grey.” He couldn’t help but wonder how important the simplistic things were to Basil, interesting information to file away. “Let me guess, green?”
Yeah, so here’s Basil on the couch. Nose scrunched, hugging his cup like a lifeline as he tries to imagine Quinn having to bite into an eyeball. Never mind the werewolf bit, that’ll hit him later--- instead, he’s just picturing something akin to an apocalyptic version of fear factor. Quinn holding up an eyeball alone, and having to crunch it like a grape because of unknown reasons.
But then reality sets in and the scene shifts and he can imagine Quinn hunting or in a fight. Getting hurt. --- Then he’s frowning for an entirely different reason.
Necessity or not, he can’t help but... worry?? About the other. The scene he’d painted was something of the past, but that doesn’t make it go over any better in the changeling’s mind. He doesn’t like the idea of Quinn getting hurt. He likes him happy and smiling and holding his potato sack of a dog. Safe.
But then-- his eyes cast down for a second. That’s an issue in and of itself. Quinn isn’t his husband. They aren’t wearing rings. And to be quite honest, this whole ‘relationship’ between them is very, very new --- he doesn’t really have the right to concern himself like that. Not yet. Not when they’re still basically strangers.
So he pushes the thought aside. And makes it a concern for a later time.
Instead he moves on, thinking over the idea of personal spaces. “ So where do you draw the line with the whole ‘ mine ‘ thing? “ He asked, curious as to how that worked with werewolves. “ Fae steal things. I don’t think that they have a great grasp on ‘mine’ and ‘yours’ either.. --- Not that I would ever. It’s just something I noticed while being around them. Babies, shiney things, it’s a never ending list. “ And an odd one at that. “ Huh. Good to know. I always assumed there was such a thing as bad coffee. “ But to be fair, all coffee was bad coffee to Baz.
“ Depends on the changeling. Some are weird and have extra fingers or toes. -- And before you ask, I don’t. Sorry to ruin the excitement. Some are really smart. Like, to the point it’s scary. “ He counters, amusement in his voice. Of course he’d never encountered these changelings himself- but the faeries told him about them, so surely it’s true. “ Some have bad vibes. Or become human. -- But I still think you have me beat on story time. “ Unless he liked stories about stolen children and shiney things and bonding with the forest. Pretty objects and faerie mushroom rings that may or may not be a myth.
He smiles, “ Actually Rome is kind of, like, part of Italy? So you’re already there. Surprise. “ Still. He was pretty much right. Basil’s home town was long gone, burned to the ground and torn to bits. Completely unrecognizable. Not that he’d ever want to go back again. “ But, you’re correct regardless. No need to be sorry, it wasn’t so great there anyway. I felt long before it fell. “
But it wasn’t something that kept him up anymore.
He went from smiling, proud of himself for getting a chuckle out of Quinn to simply horrified. He hoped it hadn’t come off as an insult or just as incredibly naive to assume that he could see color. “ I’m so---- “ He cut himself off, just as Quinn admitted to the deceit.
“ You scared me !! “ He whined, trying hard not to laugh simply from the relief of it all. “ I honestly thought ‘ oh no, how insensitive. ‘ “ He playfully rolled his eyes. Of course he’d fallen for it. Of course he had.
“ ... It did used to be a nicer color. “ Basil replied, trying to think back to a day where the sky was more blue. More vibrant and less dull. “ -- That’s a good guess, but yellow’s my favorite. For a similar reason to yours, I suppose. Sunny days and everything that comes with it. “ Yellow sunshine, yellow daisies, and even yellow weed flowers. Lemonade from his childhood and fat, fluffy bumblebees that flew across the garden. It was a happy color.
The next question though. It came just as easy. “ Favorite food. Or meal. Whichever. “










