Corri Via | Q, Dante and John
If there was one thing that was guaranteed in Q’s life it was that trouble followed him everywhere, whether he wanted it too or not. He’d managed to get into a small fight, brawl, that he’d inevitably lost, never had been particularly good with his fists. Fast and light on his feet but he had no weight behind him to power the strikes, just an annoying wasp covering his opponent in light stings. The man he’d been facing, the man he’d irked in the first place, was largely unimpressed and had managed to knock him to the dirty bar floor without much trouble. Largely unscathed except for a bleeding lip and a bruised chest but he’d take any excuse given to irritate Dante. Especially if it meant he might get some food.
Q had snuck into the hospital, as he usually did, those words of warning from last time rung through his head briefly. Still his arm was perfectly fine, intact, Dante had no reason to beat him with it. All nonchalant without much of a care he whistled striding down corridors as if he had every right to be here, he didn’t, he couldn’t afford Stuart. His coat a usual flare of blurred pixels behind him, he hadn’t bothered to turn it off or turn it down. Didn’t care. A pretty little nurse had informed him that Dante was with a patient, not in his office, so instead of waiting—which he wasn’t good at, he hunted down the room number.
“Dante you gotta give me that nurses number, the one with the big—”
Q froze like a deer in headlights as he bombed into the room as soon as he caught sight of who the patient was, a familiar face, a face he hadn’t wanted to encounter again. He could feel his chest tighten and silently he blamed it on the bruises that’d be forming tomorrow from his pathetic fight. He stood there for the briefest of moments looking a fool before Q collected himself, a smirk masking his horror, he sidled into the room. Mismatched eyes glanced between both of them, between his longest, closest, friend and the man, John, whom he’d bared all for. A slight shiver ran through him, he wasn’t cold, but it was lost anyway under that ridiculous coat.
The closest he was going to get to showing that he cared, in front of either of them, uninvited Q found himself a seat and lounged in it. Tried not to spend too much time looking at him, but he couldn’t help himself, wondered whether he had lost a fight. There was something different, skin seemed paler as if it was grey—could just be the damnable hospital lighting. White, starched and made everyone look sick. He shifted in his seat to look up to Dante, “Per favore non mi dire che è qui per qualcosa di contagioso?”
“Aspetta, l'hai visto? Quei abiti non lasciano molto all'immaginazione, ma lui è tutto muscoloso sotto quel dolce viso—ha anche un cazzo grosso.” He informed the surgeon with an air of nonchalance, but mostly a smugness that was easily irritating. Q wasn’t going to let his walls fall so easily this time, built them higher and stronger, protecting them with a hail of crude comments. He wasn’t deserving of the kindness John had showed him, he hoped the man saw it now. It’d be easier. Easier to forget.
Q glanced over to John with those mismatched eyes, weren’t alone anymore so his optic was glowing a blueish white per normal, “my bed is so lonely without you, do visit again,” the smooth sardonic tone masked the bitter sweet truth behind his cooed statement.
