sanguine.

"having a big heart, seeing the good in people, forgiving easily - these were not his flaws. he had a healer's soul and a lover's mind."

[qarchibald-blog]

“Please take one,” he pleads, and there’s a desperation in his voice that’s a little too extreme for something as docile as the plate of cookies he’s extending. “This sweet new intern of ours won’t stop baking things for me and I genuinely don’t know how to tell him that I can’t eat twenty cookies a day.”

[qarchibald-blog]

rowan-tandel‌:

“Me too.” Rowan all but hissed, shoving his phone deeper in his pocket. “Fucking ‘Gossip Girl’. That’s the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard, and I personally can’t wait for the witch hunt that every heiress with a secret is going to orchestrate.” One mention of his name and his phone was blowing up with people he hadn’t spoken to since high school demanding he confirm or deny the rumors. He’d debated denying the whole thing- giving Monty the chance to play it off and act like this demented paparazzi didn’t know what the fuck she was walking about- but instead had decided to go with a general fuck you, piss off to anyone stupid enough to ask. Quinn Archibald was one who he didn’t normally talk to- Rowan assumed he was doing so now just because he happened to be closest, but he still replied. “Fuck the truck, there’s a Greek place a block down that has the best gyros you’ll ever taste in your life, if you’re going to bounce, head there.”

He’s not certain about who’s behind the mask, but he’s got a pretty good inkling that it has to be Rowan from the joint clues of appearance and voice. And though they aren’t the best of acquaintances, that’s almost the best part of it all - to Rowan, Quinn is just another party-goer with nothing too big to hide. “On second thought, there’s really no way that leaving wouldn’t look suspicious as hell,” Quinn tells him. “I think it’s best  to lay low for a while until this whole Gossip Girl situation dies down.” It feels strange to even say it, to even admit that there’s some omnipresent blogger out there who knows more than they should. He waits a moment longer before approaching the elephant in the room hesitantly. “Hey, so listen,” he starts, “I don’t really care about the gory details in all of this, but you were involved in that first E-Blast, so do you happen to have any prevalent enemies off the top of your head? It’d be nice to know how worried we all should be.”

[qarchibald-blog]

chessieabernathy·:

“On the contrary –” she scoffs, light laughter at her lips. “I was far more vanilla at sixteen. I didn’t have much to hide.” It wasn’t a lie, either – Just not the complete truth. Since Wren confirmed to her that he was going through with the engagement, Chessie couldn’t help but let her mind wander back to Quinn, curious what he made of all this. Of course, it wasn’t as if she could outright ask him about it, so she elected to try and play nice. At least for a night. Or until she got drunk. “It’s bullshit, if you ask me,” she speaks truthfully, rolling her eyes. “They have a more Romeo and Juliet vibe to them,” Chessie begins again, glancing over to Quinn for a moment, before eying her cigarette. “I suppose that’ll be a problem for me in thirty years.” she says plainly, shrugging a shoulder. She takes another drag of her cigarette as he speaks, a small chuckle passing as more smoke does. “I’m an open book, Q. Nothin’ to hide.” she lies, arms open to gesture around her. “I’ve got that closet door locked tight, keepin’ those skeletons in.” Chessie continues, grateful she had tossed her phone away and into her coat after ‘Gossip Girl’ made her debut. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to drink a cocktail of messages from her publicist, agent, and Wren in one sitting. “You’re the lucky one,” Chessie starts again, “Everyone already knows about your second-home at Betty Ford.”

Since Wren and Nathalie announced the wedding it seems that the only response has been the same regurgitated happiness, the word ‘congratulations’ written in a dozen tabloids in a dozen ways. To finally hear Chessie describe it as ‘bullshit’ is the breath of fresh air he didn’t know he needed, and in a bitter kind of way, Quinn feels grateful to her for saying the words he’s not allowed to. “I see them as more of a Macbethian couple, but it’s definitely up to interpretation,” he replies. He rolls his eyes playfully at Chessie’s next remark, shaking his head as he does so. “You don’t go to LA without bringing a few demons back with you,” he says off-handedly, as though he knows about these kinds of things. “If we’re planning for a worst-case, closet-door-gets-broken-down kind of scenario, how serious do you think this Gossip Girl is?” He doesn’t assume Chessie has all the answers, but he does trust her not to sugar coat anything. He side-eyes her a bit at her final comment, finding her use of lucky to describe him as a verbal irony in the cruelest sense - though it’s not like this is something he can point out to her. “I’ll be honest, they never brought up that angle during rehab,” he tells her. “I’ll be sure to bring it up at my next DAA meeting: ‘Addiction may be bad, but at least your family already knows you’re a failure so they don’t have to find out from an anonymous gossip blog.’“

[qarchibald-blog]

 wrenabernathy·:

There has never been more distance between Wren and Quinn, and Wren has never felt less at ease with him than right now. Or maybe once - right before they first kissed - but that was a whole different kind of uneasy, and Wren can think of nothing but wish for that moment to be their present.

But it isn’t, because Wren just dropped MOAB on him - the mother of all bombs - and it feels like, even though he wants to ignore that feeling, feels like all there’s left to do for the Southerner at heart is to stand back and watch the wreckage. The destruction he’s leaving in his wake. It’s not fair to himself, it certainly isn’t fair to Quinn - but lately, his entire life seems like a string of occurrences that are not fair to the people that Wren cares most about in his life. And the epicenter of the storm is always, and will probably always be, Wren Abernathy. The Golden Boy with the fearful heart.

Quinn utters what should sound like a congratulatory remark, but the bitterness seeps into Wren like a venom, and though he’s heard it before, it’s never burned this fiery as it does now. Wren looks back up when the other asks him a question, but then immediately regrets doing so when Quinn shares the most painful thing he can say - so much so that it physically hurts to hear him say it. Because the truth is, what Quinn is saying, underneath, is that being without the other is impossible. And it’s true. Wren knows that undoubtedly. He wouldn’t know who to be without Quinn in his life. But he also knows, deep down, that setting a date would always have an implication. In the best-case scenario, Quinn would love Wren so much that despite his bitterness, his anger, they’d still see each other until his wedding day. But what about after? Wren can’t be a married man with an affair, and he’s sure that Quinn feels the same way. But he also can’t not be with Quinn, and the wedding is happening, that’s for sure. 

So, Quinn voices what Wren has been thinking all along, but there’s no answer. Because Wren can’t leave Quinn - can’t survive without him, he’s convinced. But the alternative is also not an option. Because what is the alternative? Forever meeting in locked rooms, setting an alarm at four in the morning and leaving with a hood on, hoping that - even if people recognized who Wren was, they wouldn’t put it together simply because seeing Wren Abernathy in a hoodie near Quinn’s home on four in the morning was too ridiculous to comprehend?

“Quinn, I,” he starts eventually, cutting himself off when he realizes he doesn’t actually know what to say. ‘I love you.’ ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’ ‘I want more for us.’  The fact that it’s Wren who could solve this, only makes it that much worse. “I’m sorry,” he says in the end, although the words sound hollow. Because, of course he’s sorry for what he’s putting Quinn through. But despite everything, he’s not sorry that they ever met. Or that he ended up in Quinn’s bedroom, allowing himself to lean in too close and taste Quinn’s lips that first time - or all the times after. He’s not sorry for the past year, even though it was spent away from the public and even though it increasingly frustrated Quinn more. Because .. Simply put, Wren loves Quinn. And that’s wrong, and sinful, and he’s going to hate himself for it every day, and he’s going to hell. But he loves Quinn. “I can’t leave you. I just - I can’t do that. Please.” Don’t leave me.

“I’m sorry, Quinn. I messed up. Everything, I just - I messed up. I can’t fix it.”

He knows he’s supposed to be looking at Wren and his sad, sad eyes and his sad, sad words and feeling terrible. And yet, none of that is quite there. The word ‘empty’ gets bandied around a lot, so much so that it has become a lot like ‘I’m fine’ - phrases that don’t actually hold any meaning anymore, at least in a metaphorical sense. ‘Empty’ is a term reserved solely for teen angst and drugstore young adult novels; it’s cheap and kitschy and nothing makes Quinn roll his eyes more easily than overhearing it from some low-budget melodrama.

But standing in front of Wren as he asks Quinn for mercy - as though Quinn himself is some kind of wrathful God to be forgiven by - he stares at the crease in Wren’s white dress shirt and realizes that he feels sickeningly empty. Realizes that this might be a feeling he’s going to become awfully well-acquainted with. Realizes that whether he likes it or not, he’s dead and lonely with Wren and he’s dead and lonely without him.

“It’s alright,” he says. It’s not, but that’s not important. Wren apologizes for the sins he will never escape, Quinn loves him because he doesn’t know any better. These are the motions they must go through - the dirtiest holy thing there is. Quinn steps forward, threading a hand into Wren’s hair gently. “I’m still right here,” he tells Wren, then pulls him forward for a soft kiss. He lingers briefly after, glancing at Wren as though it’s his last chance. One of these times soon it will be, after all. He leans up to brush against Wren’s cheek, murmuring softly, “I wonder if you’ve ever felt a real thing in your life.”

With that, he moves away from Wren and grabs his satchel, shoving the few things he left on the table into it. In the next moment, he’s heading towards the door, only to stop and look back to Wren for one more thought. “I’ll see you Monday.” He’s walking out the door before Wren can even respond, and he doesn’t slow down until he’s safely another one in a million on a busy New York street. He hopes there are times when God isn’t looking.

[qarchibald-blog]

chessieabernathy·:

Stepping out for a much needed nicotine break wasn’t an unfamiliar act for Chessie – A casual conversation with Quinn, however, made the list. “Can I go for Option C? None of the above?” she joked, finding it strange to see a conversation begin between them that didn’t hold any malice. At least, not yet. “Tempting, but I have Bridesmaid duties. You know, participation, and all’a that bullshit.” Chessie half grumbled, taking another drag of her cigarette. “Just don’t tell him I’m out here smokin’ a cancer stick, alright?” she continued, only catching the indirect mention of her brother after the words spilled past her lips. “I – Don’t need him causin’ a scene.”

“You must have been a pain in the ass when it came to ‘True and False’ questions in high school,” he tells her with a grin. It’s a breath of fresh air, being able to talk to Chessie for a moment without feeling like he’s stepping on eggshells. A potential threat of all your secrets being exposed was enough to make anyone a little less hostile, he supposes. “Bridesmaid duties? Very official.  It must be thrilling, being in the center of it all. Rumor has it the whole thing is going to put Meghan and Harry to shame. Isn’t that so charming? Our own little Upper East fairytale.” He speaks with a little too much of a sardonic tone, but it’s not like he has anything left to hide from Chessie. “But don’t worry, my lips are sealed. I think it would go against our mutual interest of not wanting him dead from trauma pretty blatantly,” he tells her honestly. “Cancer is a killer though.” His phone keeps vibrating in his pocket with endless amounts of incoming panicked texts, but he has no energy to deal with any of that right now. Instead, he leans against the wall by Chessie, watching the smoke filter up to the sky as it leaves her mouth. “So, tell me. What secrets of yours are waiting to be brought to the light, Ms. Abernathy? Any bodies you need buried before midnight?” he asks with a lightness to his voice. “Personally? I am squeaky clean.” He’s chuckling lightly before the words even finishing leaving his mouth, but he can’t help how ridiculous the thought of it all is.

[qarchibald-blog]

He looks at his phone and it takes him reading the message once, twice, three times for him to fully comprehend the words on the screen. Quinn’s not the type to get easily nervous, but he feels powerless in that moment, mind replaying the secrets he had waiting to be exposed like a scratched record. “Honestly, I preferred the sex tape,” he says only half-sarcastically to the person next to him. “You know, if we go now we can still make a run for it. That food truck down the street is looking more and more promising, despite the fact there’s no way it could pass a health inspection.” 

[qarchibald-blog]

montysantos‌:

He didn’t understand why no one used the library anymore. He could take out up to ten books for free. Why did no one take advantage of this? The mistake he made was walking home with a few books, rather than taking the subway and trying to balance them. Dropping one, he tried to pick that one up and then all of them ended up dropping. “Oh crap, watch out. I don’t want there to be a book accident of any sort. Then we’ll have to call the library and tell them I should’ve brought a wagon.” He joked. 

He thinks perhaps the thing he missed most about living in the city during his college years was, well, the city itself - its sweeping architecture, its bustling atmosphere, its taxi-lined paved streets. He chooses so often for this reason to walk to more places than grab a ride, fearing that isolation from the heart of the city in the form of car windows will end up soon enough in his forgetting why he stays in New York at all. And though the city that never sleeps breeds its fair share of characters on the streets, Quinn can’t remember the last time he’s seen someone carry quite so many books at once. “If you get late fees on even half of those I think you’d be able to pay off the mortgages of at least half of Manhattan’s finest librarians,” he says with a simper. He bends down and helps in the picking up endeavor, getting a good look at the covers as he does so. “Which one are you planning on reading first? Or will this be a cross-content endeavor?”

[qarchibald-blog]

wrenabernathy‌:

Wren hates this. He hates this because he knows it hurts Quinn, because he knows it hurts Nathalie, and because he knows - by God, he knows - that’s the only one who can stop that hurt. If he were any braver, if he had the courage to just be himself, he wouldn’t hurt Quinn, and he would stop hurting Nathalie. But he’s not brave, he’s never been courageous, always following meekly into whatever footsteps his parents walked before him, doing what everyone expects him to do, scared to even step on the line, let alone over it. And so, as Quinn’s words fall into the silence of the room, he wants nothing more than to hold Quinn, to give him some form of comfort. But as the other pulls away, he realizes that’s it’s to get some distance between them, and now, two people are hurting.

“Quinn…” he starts, but the other keeps going - rightly so, but it ignites that anger in Wren that always rears its ugly head when they talk about this. “Please don’t say that, it’s not visitation rights,” he says, as if Quinn doesn’t know exactly what they are - and aren’t. The moments that he can spend with Quinn are the happiest of his life, but even Wren had to admit that the hushed secrecy was weighing on him. Not enough to change his ways - but still. He could only imagine what it must be like for Quinn.

At his last sentence, Wren glances from side to side, uneasy with what the man just said. He didn’t want to tell him yet, wanted to find the right moment before newspapers would print the announcement and it would be set in stone. But, as Quinn talks, Wren can’t help but being honest with him - a side effect of Quinn being the only one he can be fully honest with. “We won’t be engaged forever,” he says while shaking his head, then scratching the base of his neck. “We - we set a date.” He mumbles that last part, unable to guess what kind of reaction it will elicit from Quinn - if any, and for the first time since he’s met Quinn, he’s afraid to meet his gaze — afraid to face the music. 

Though the words rock through Quinn like a fever, he really has no reason to be taken so off guard. He knows how this arrangement works, knows that Quinn is always going to come second to Wren’s pious sense of religious righteousness, knows that nothing good could have possibly come from getting involved with an Abernathy. He has memorized the way this tragedy plays out a hundred, a thousand, a millions times over in his head, but like Oedipus and Hamlet and Creon and any other pitiful tragic hero, for a moment there he couldn’t help but dream that the odds could be defied. He allowed the waves of sweet oblivion to wash over him ( had drowned in them ), but now the ocean is dried up and he is left gasping for air, remembering what his relationship with Wren is before anything else - a mistake.

“A date.” Date, date, date. He repeats it in his head like a mantra, hoping if he repeats it enough the word will lose any meaning at all. It doesn’t - instead, Quinn just grows sick with surfeit at the thought. “Well, congratulations. It’s been a long time coming.” It’s pointless trying to hide his feelings on the matter, and the bitter sadness bleeds into his voice as he speaks. He leans against the table, suddenly needing something to keep him upright as though he might collapse under the weight of this recent development. He feels older, somehow, and tired and wounded. He wants to stay buried in Wren’s arms for the rest of his life yet wants also to never see him again.

He stands in quiet contemplation for a moment longer, tasting words in his mouth before deciding on the right ones to continue with. “Do you wanna know something?” he finally asks. “I dream about leaving you so often I can’t keep track anymore. It never goes exactly the same way. Sometimes it’s a big scene, sometimes we quietly grow out of each other. Sometimes I stay in New York, sometimes I move to DC or Santorini or Amsterdam. Sometimes I meet someone new. Sometimes I spend time in monk-like solitude. My career, my family, my isolated goals - they change in every fantasy. There’s only one thing that stays the same.” He delivers his next sentence with a pained expression. “I always come crawling back to you.” 

“So I need you to think hard,” he continues. “And I need you to tell me how the fuck you want me to respond to the fact that you’re getting married in February. Because if I have to leave you I need to learn how to do that first.” 

[qarchibald-blog]

taterodriguez‌:

Quinn keeping Tate at a distant in regard to his personal life was unprecedented.  In fact, it was also offensive.  Tate always made sure that he was aware of everything that was going on in their lives — whether it be drama within their workplace or who they went home with after a couple glasses of wine or shots of tequila.  Quinn and Tate told each other everything.  The worst part about it was that the more of a distance Quinn tried to keep them at, the more Tate was intrigued to know who he was sneaking around with behind closed doors.  Tate pushed themselves of their couch and skipped happily over to their open concept kitchen.  “She hasn’t stopped asking me,” Tate admitted as they pulled a bottle of wine from their fridge and generously filled two glasses.  “I can’t help that there’s a three week wait list minimum.  I guess I’m just that good.”  A chuckle passed through their lips as they approached Quinn, glass of wine extended in one hand.  “You and Mom should just be happy you guys get to eat free.”

"Well,” he says with a grin, “I guess that’s just the burden that comes with being a best-selling, nation-sensation novelist.” It’s something he brings up often, not just because it’s impressive but because it’s Tate. Tate, who got kicked out and told they would never amount to anything only to do everything they weren’t supposed to. Tate, who he loves and whose accomplishments he’s often more proud of than his own. “You’re an angel without wings,” he says as they bring over a glass of wine and he takes a hearty sip of it. It’s not like he’s an avid drinker - most weeks he doesn’t even have the time to schedule in both a night to party and a morning for recovery - but he’s not one to be cruel enough to say no to a good glass of wine when he sees it. “But if we’re on the topic of the restaurant,” he continues. “I’ve been thinking: if so many people are dying for a taste of your cuisine, are you thinking at all about opening up your own place? Live the all-American dream, sans white picket fence and nuclear family. Could be neat.”

[qarchibald-blog]

oatanas‌:

Eyebrows raise and O shoots him a pointed look at his laugh, though it doesn’t hold any ill will behind it. “Thank you. Your plebeian opinion is deeply appreciated and I do, in fact, take it to heart,” she shoots back with a grin before settling back into her seat. Despite the sarcastic tone, she means it — it’s nice to have someone acknowledge the blood, sweat and tears she had poured into the night, but she kept that to herself. “I had a glass of champagne or two, but my celebrations were pretty lowkey. But… I didn’t see much of you at the show or the after party — I was starting to wonder if you had skipped out on me.”

“Absolutely tragic. Remind me to treat you to a hearty drink on your next off night,” he says. It’s the thing he enjoys most about his relationship with Ophelia - the sheer versatility of their dynamic, the ability to go from casual nights at the bar to genuine quiet conversations. “I was around at the beginning of it devotedly, but I ended up getting a call from the office about a crisis that took up way more of my time than I wanted,” he lies through his teeth. It’s getting ridiculous, just how many people are noticing his absences and the plethora of excuses he’s had to procure as a result. He really should start a list, tally up each time he gives a different explanation to make sure they’re all receiving equal opportunities. “I’m very touched by your concern, though. Give me a general gist of when your next show’s going on and I won’t dare leave your side.”

[shareaquote]

There is nothing more messed up than being faithful to a man who is not even yours.

Tamader Morgan  (via wordsnquotes)

[qarchibald-blog]

taterodriguez‌:

Tate kept their eyes on Quinn — he should know better than to lie to them.  After all these years, Tate knew how to read him like an open book which should come as no surprise to Quinn.  They give a nod of their head as he lies through his teeth.  “Mmhm,” their words are slow.  “that’s unfortunate, then.  She said she was really excited to see you.”  Two could play the lying game.  “Uh, yeah… I believe I’m free Monday if you and Mom want to come over.  I can cook,” Tate offers.  “Mom’s been begging me to cook her dinner for the last few weeks.”

He’s grateful, usually, for Tate’s perception - their insight, their understanding, the way they seemed to be able to lead Quinn in the right direction with just a look. For this one thing, however, Quinn can’t help but wish Tate was any less omniscient. For this one thing, Quinn needs to take responsibility as an individual rather than a member of the us in us against the world. “She’s not the only one,” he says, diverting the conversation to focus on its latter section. “People keep asking me if I can slip them into Howl without a reservation as though it’s my restaurant. You should consider implementing a lottery system, give the people a fighting chance.” 

[qarchibald-blog]

sebastianoriley‌:

“Oh, me,“ Seb breathed out with mock disappoint, not at all bothered by the reaction, though wanting to laugh on it for a moment. “My mother actually greets me the same way.“ When he started talking, Sebastian let it flow nicely. Some people, a chosen few, were entertaining to hear ramble all day, and he didn’t mind Quinn’s voice, even through a bit of childish, forced withdrawal. He even chuckled at his joke, naturally. The gesture, though uncalled for (Sebastian didn’t drink coffee) he appreciated and smiled at, like they were children sharing halves of the same sandwich on the first day of school. ”This is more than I could have ever asked for, thank you,” he talked in dramatic hyperbole, though completely meaning it.

 He waved a hand dismissively as he introduced himself, not out of any personal opinion on Quinn, for he had none formed, truly, but because they didn’t need proper introductions to know each other. Or so Sebastian thought.  “Ben,“ he explains with the continuation of a shrug. He’s heard of Quinn  “Not that I’m Ben, but I think that’s where I know you from. From Ben. “ He gave the world a light chuckle, amused and not ashamed of his clumsy wording.  “I’m Sebastian. Truly nice to finally meet the legend.“ Rumors were all over the place regarding their common friend’s departure, and even he had holes in his version he heard from Rowan or maybe Monty… not that he remembered even that. Still, once he heard the magic name of Quinn Archibald, he was quick to recognize his spontaneous table company. Not having talked about Ben in months too long, Sebastian wanted to open his mouth, part his lips, and repeat the name in hopes of opening a conversation, but he chose not to. He didn’t know what kind of broken bottle shreds had stayed in Quinn’s heart after all that happened, without a doubt Vanderbilt’s fault.  ”I think you’re going to be fine. I’m not quite that showman, believe it or not. Though if you do wish for a scene, I know a few crazy girls who can make you viral.” A laugh signaled the fact that it was a joke, though Quinn seemed sensible enough to have figured that out for himself.

All it takes is the mention of Ben’s name, casual and well-intentioned, before uneasiness washes over Quinn. It’s not as though Sebastian has any reason to know anything at all about Ben and Quinn besides the fact that they had been close, but Quinn still feels like he’s being brought to trial with assumption of guilt. It’s ridiculous, he knows it is, because Sebastian definitely isn’t that guy.  Sebastian’s easy to talk to in that you-do-you kind of nonchalant way, and after a day of being locked in offices with too-serious Senators and their too-serious concerns about this upcoming too-serious political season, Quinn should take this refreshing change of pace as it’s being given to him and keep it moving. He clears his throat, takes a sip of coffee, and makes his very best attempt at not looking nervous. “Legend’s a little bit of a stretch, though I guess I wouldn’t refuse to respond to it,” he says, grinning as he does so. And he wants to move on, he really does, wants to ask Sebastian about his day or his week or his entire god damn life before getting back to the topic of Ben - and yet. “It’s funny you bring up Ben, I haven’t thought about him in so long.” Lie. “Have you heard from him recently at all? Know what he’s been up to?” He’s forcing the nonchalance in his voice so heavily it almost hurts, but he can’t help it. What was it they always said about curiosity and the cat? 

[qarchibald-blog]

oatanas‌:

Even before he’s extended the invitation she’s sliding half into the booth. Her eyes rolled so hard she thought they might fall out at his words, an involuntary groan leaving her lips. “I’ve been drafting statement after statement and apology after apology all night so I don’t ever want to hear the words sex tape again.” She leans forward, elbows resting on the table top momentarily and she steals a glance at the clock before nodding her head down toward the steaming mug she had set in front of her. “Usually by now I prefer vodka, but since that’s not on the menu… an Americano will have to do.” 

He doesn’t mean to laugh, but he can’t help the chuckle that escapes him. It just strikes him as so ridiculous, the fact that this is the kind of outlandish problem O is stuck with rather than complications with the actual clothing line at hand. “If it’s any consolation, I - a mere style plebeian with zero serious understanding of the fashion world - was totally blown away by the designs. And I’m certainly not alone,” he says it with a kind of sincerity, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Does all that stress mean you didn’t have a chance to celebrate? Not even a single non-Americano drink?”

[qarchibald-blog]

wrenabernathy‌:

He wanted to respond to Quinn’s passive aggressive response, but he was far too relieved to see his phone appear from Quinn’s satchel and thrown at him, so instead he just gave him an annoyed look to show just how he felt about that statement. “Thanks,” he did add, not wanting to get in to their continuous bickering over secrecy and what could be allowed and what couldn’t. “Hey, it’s not my fault these dang things are so small,” he said as he put it back in his pocket. It’s not so much that he was attached to his phone, but it held important business information, and Wren was still not entirely up to date with the ‘Cloud’ and how exactly he could use it best. So, every time he lost his phone, he also lost a good deal of important information. Surprisingly though, he’d never once lost the burner cells that he kept on hand for communication with Quinn. Bottom line, it was more laziness than inability.

As Wren looked at Quinn’s face while the latter spoke, and saw the gleam in his eyes, all that he wanted to do was tell him that he got all day off and didn’t have anywhere to go. But of course, he couldn’t. So instead, he walked over to Quinn, running his hands through the other’s hair and resting them at his cheeks, a loving gesture that felt right in all the wrong ways. “Quinn,” he said, his voice soft, “we can’t spend two nights in a row together.” There was guilt in his voice, because he knew it wasn’t fair to Quinn, but Wren was nothing if not careful when it came to the two of them. “I can see you S- .. Monday, though.” He’d wanted to say Sunday, but he knew from experience that after church, he wasn’t much fun to be around for Quinn, always feeling more self-conscious than usual.

He feels like a child getting scolded by a parent, small and naive and supposed to know better. He feels like a thief, stealing what was never his to begin with and still wanting more. Most of all, he feels exhausted, tired in a way sleep has no way of fixing. Wren says things to him sometimes like ‘we can’t spend two nights in a row together’ and it gnaws at Quinn’s gut, turning him claustrophobic at the thought of a lifetime spent in coatrooms and locked apartments and deserted hallways. And he doesn’t know how he got to this point, shoving himself back into closets when he already spent seventeen years in one. He shakes the thoughts away, instead leans into Wren, taking one of Wren’s hands in his own and pressing a kiss to his knuckle. 

“You’re cruel in your kindness,” he says, voice matching the softness in Wren’s. “Monday it is. I guess I should consider it generous. You get married and my visitation rights decrease to what, every third weekday so long as Mercury isn’t in retrograde?” And he doesn’t want to get into this today - he genuinely doesn’t - but his thoughts are rushing out before he can quite put a cap on them as he continues. “Have you even talked to Nathalie about that at all? Or does this just get lumped in with the ‘for worse’ part of ‘for better or for worse’?” He takes a step back to separate himself from Wren’s touch, and Quinn hopes there isn’t too much hurt in his eyes as he looks at Wren, but it’s wishful thinking to say the least. “It’s been two years, Wren. You know and I know and she knows that you can’t stay engaged forever.”

[qarchibald-blog]

taterodriguez‌:

Tate collapsed on the couch beside Quinn, resting their head upon his shoulder.  “So,” they started. “I was talking to Mom last night and she said that you guys, in fact, were not at dinner the other night.”  They glanced up at Quinn, giving a shake of their head.  “Where did you go that night if you weren’t with Mom?”

for @qarchibald !

He looks up from the document he’s annotating suddenly, caught off guard by the question he didn’t think he would have to answer. “I never got around to taking her out, too swamped at work,” he says, a blatant lie that he’s told enough variations of to speak like the truth. He doesn’t hide much from Tate - practically nothing, really - but he doesn’t consider the details of the affair as his to share, if only out of a genuine courtesy to Wren’s sexuality. “I’d be more than happy to make it up sometime, though. You free for dinner anytime this week?”

[wrenabernathy-blog]

october 4th, 2017 | wren and quinn

[qarchibald-blog]

wrenabernathy‌:

“Wren, please fix your tie.”

His mom, working on some last minute finishing touches of her makeup, had somehow managed to see that’s wren’s tie was crooked just as he walked inside the hall, even though she was facing a mirror and he was no where near her sight. Still, she was right, it was crooked, so he fixed his tie and then looked up as his dad also made his way to the hall, as dressed up as Wren was. 

“Son, again, you really don’t have to come along, this is old people’s politics,” the older Abernathy said, checking the pockets of his suit to make sure he had his wallet and keys. “Wayne, please, let him come along if he wants to. I think it’s great, Wren,” his mother chimed in, effectively shutting up their father. 

Wren didn’t know why he’d asked if he could come along with them — it’s not as if he looked forward to the political events his parents attended nearly monthly. Now, of course, if he were being completely honest, he could say to himself that he was attending the event because it was held at the Archibald house, and with any luck, a certain Archibald might be in attendance as well. Before he could linger on that thought, though, he cleared his throat and then looked from his dad to his mom and back. “Can we go?”

A mere twenty minutes later, someone was taking their coats and a waiter came by with a tray of champagne flutes, which Wren happily took one of to soothe his inexplicable nerves. He scanned the room - just to see who was there, not for any other reason, then followed suit as his parents walked up to the crowd, ready to go around the room and make small talk with all attendees. “Lotta democrats here,” Wren’s dad said under his breath, and though it earned him a stern ‘tsk’ from his mom, Wren chuckled at his words.

Forty five minutes and three glasses of champagne later, the Abernathy’s were speaking to an older couple about the renovation of a nearby playground, and Wren was, in all fairness, bored out of his mind. Once Lorraine joined the party of five, Wren saw his chance for some form of escape and interrupted the pros and cons of playground revivals to ask where the bathroom is. “Just down the hall, near the statue, dear,” Lorraine told him with a smile, pointing vaguely to a large corridor with a good eight doors. 

Leaving without making more fuss, Wren walked all the way to the back of the hallway, only to find statues on both sides. One moment’s thought later, Wren decided to try the left door first, and even though he saw he’d picked the wrong one as soon as he swung it open, he didn’t shut it, instead walking in to observe. He knew instantly what room this was. Or rather - whose.

If he were smart, he’d turn around right now and march out. The problem was, he’d had three glasses of champagne, and for someone who was only a social drinker (drinking mostly at events like these) the alcohol had an effect on his mind.

Studying the room, he only turned around when he heard a sound behind him, expecting someone on the staff ready to usher him out. “Sorry, I was just —” he started, then fell silent when he saw Quinn Archibald standing in the doorway of the bedroom.

 “Oh,” was all he could muster.

It wasn’t his first political event and it was far from his last. What was to some an elaborate gathering was just another Saturday evening for him, lights dimmed and muted music playing in the background as guests filtered in. There was a delicate balance in it all, a tightrope between politicians trying to appear unbothered while caring so desperately about the opinions in the room. It was an act, a farcical imitations of what life should have been, and Quinn was bred for this. He clasped hands, told jokes, allowed women to kiss his cheeks and men to squeeze his shoulder - all of it accompanied by a friendly reminder to vote Archibald in the upcoming midterms.

There was, of course, the elephant in the room. Though Quinn tried to avoid the topic in every way possible, discussing quite literally anything else, different people kept arriving at the same polite quips - “I couldn’t believe the news when I first heard” and “Quinn, honey, it’s so good to see how well you’re doing” and “You’re so blessed to have found healing”. They spoke with a gentle concern, but Quinn had been in this game long enough to hear the condescension that lay underneath, the cruel delight at the fact that Quinn Archibald was nothing more than a pious hypocrite like the rest of them. He knew as much would happen within the first few months of his return from rehab, but that did nothing to ease his unbridled frustration. Such was the double-edged sword of living a lie.

It was an hour and fifteen sympathetic conversations about his speedy recovery later that Quinn officially decided he needed an outlet. He targeted the first thing within sight and grabbed a flute of champagne from one of the trays, not-so-accidentally spilling it across the front of his shirt. “Oh my goodness, what mess,” he said to the woman he had been chatting up. “Excuse me for just one moment to clean this up.” He didn’t wait to hear what the woman had to say about the matter before exiting, walking down the hall and making a speedy beeline to his room - only to find it was already occupied.

“Wren,” he said. Quinn regarded him with a quizzical gaze, the question of what exactly he was doing here lingering on his tongue. However, judging by Wren’s deer-in-headlights appearance it seemed as though Wren wasn’t too sure either. “You’re wearing ‘desperate attempt to escape disingenuous conversation’ too? Well, one of us is going to have to change.” He smiled at the comment, turning as he did so to take a seat on his bed and look up to Wren. “I didn’t think you’d be showing up to this thing at all. You a politics man now?”