White Horse
Tagging: @classicallyclarington & Quinn Fabray When: February 14th, 2018 Where: Metropolitan Museum of Art What: Hunter and Quinn discover what it means to be stuck. Warnings: None.
Hunter smiled cuttingly as he stared outward, beyond the threshold of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, to the cooling twilight of the glistening New York City night. He stood up straight, shoulders broad, head level under the weight of his Ice King crown. Underneath the crown of polished jewels, he wore a suit the color of pine needles, trimmed to perfection, and he stood behind the heavy front doors of the Romanesque museum in the middle of the foyer. He had sent a white horse to Boreas Park to bring his intended to the site of their first Valentine’s day together, which was, technically, supposed to be unavailable to the public at such an hour. Lucky for us, Hunter thought, Claringtons and Fabrays are not the public.
Quinn arrived at the Met Museum on a white horse, more than a little bewildered. There hadn’t been much explanation, when the valiant steed had arrived at the Boreas entrance and a riding helmet had been passed along. She’d briefly pat his nose before doing the only obvious thing to do, and mounting up. Shoe-clad hooves had made a typical clop-clop sound as they pulled to a stop in front of the museum, expectedly devoid of people, as it was supposed to be closed. But apparently she shouldn’t take anything at face value, because the doors easily gave to her eager hands. She pulled the helmet off, looking around the blessedly-empty space, breathless until her eyes landed on Hunter. God, if he hadn’t been pulled from a magazine. The ice crown glimmered in the museum lighting, the suit was the perfect cut. As always, he was Hunter Clarington. Nights spent together hurting, and this felt more familiar than any of that ever would. This felt like why they were together. Her smile matched the bright lights reflecting off his perfect crown, “Mr. Clarington. You never do anything halfway, do you?”
Hunter Clarington grinned sideways as Quinn entered. The image of her, stepping through the grand romanesque threshold was an image he knew he wouldn't soon forget; the symmetry was pleasing and the subject lovelier still. He made his way toward her with another crown in his hand, and very gently fixed a few strands of hair which had fallen out of place from the ride over before setting the crown evenly on her head. "Do I really have to answer that question?" He quipped, grinning still, and leaned down to kiss her cheek before sliding a hand along the small of her back and guiding her over to where his enchanted rowboat, filled with cushion on the inside of the shell, was hovering three or four feet above the ground. "Well, Happy Valentine's Day, my lady. Should you like to tour your domain?" He asked well and proper, offering a hand to help her into the boat.
Quinn shook her head, what could be construed as an affectionate sigh slipping past her lips. It was so typical of him to go as extravagant as possible, and she should have expected no less. There was something about the way he said ‘your domain,’ with his grin, and that Aether-damn boat. It felt like the first time he’d shown up on her doorstep, and she’d stumbled getting in. “Why thank you.” She took his hand, using the leverage to make a much more graceful entrance than she had over a year before. Once safely inside, she returned the kiss to his cheek with a smile before taking a seat amidst the cushions. “How on Earth did you manage to book the entire Metropolitan Museum…” She managed breathlessly after a moment.
Hunter Clarington waved her off with a laugh, smooth and low as he took his suit jacket off from around his shoulders to better free his arms to row, "I know a guy," he whispered, teasing. He always knew a guy. Momentarily, he moved forward to fit his suit jacket around her shoulders. His eyes locked with hers as he did so, powerfully. He still wasn't quite adjusted to romance in the way he supposed he should be as a subject to betrothal, but fixation - that was a state he knew well and dwelled in often. After a moment, he glanced down again, to pour a glass with a rich red wine, "This is a Spanish Merlot. 1938." He explained as he lifted the bottle, and handed her the glass. Then he moved back to take the handles of the oars and, sinking the blades into the thin air, propelled them forward to the galleries, drifting. It was like a dream.
Quinn pulled the suit jacket tighter around herself, momentarily caught as Hunter held her gaze. There was something there, something different and charged. She hadn’t realized she hadn’t taken a breath since he’d leaned forward to place the jacket around her shoulders until he broke the moment by handing her a glass of wine. Her breath left her in a huff that she hid behind a generous gulp of a wine that should most definitely be sipped. It was rich and old and felt too-hot settling in her stomach. “Hunter…” She started, rough, but didn’t finish. It took a moment of gliding through the air, and another much smaller sip of the wine before she could put words to her thoughts, “You’re…ridiculous, sometimes, but I quite enjoy it.” The theme of honesty that they’d established late one night under the effects of a truth sticker had stayed with her, even then.
Hunter Clarington chuckled softly as he rowed, through the winding walkways of the Egyptian wing. If he wasn't such a skilled oarsmen, he likely would have knocked over and destroyed several priceless artifacts, but he was nothing less than cool and controlled when it came to his bladework. "Hunter Clarington, ridiculous. I have never heard that before." He said, glancing back her way after having taken a look at their course. His face broke into a grin, revealing his jest, and he glanced back again. "I have to admit, I do exhaust myself. It's difficult to imagine how I'm going to top this next year."
Quinn was watching his arms, glass halfway to her mouth, when he glanced back at her. If she were anyone less composed, that would be the moment she shook herself out of it, but she only allowed an easy grin, and did her best to play it off. “I’ll let you in on a secret, Hunter. You don’t always have to top yourself. Not…” With me, but she trailed off, because that wasn’t necessarily true. She was still Quinn Fabray, she still expected and adored grand in a way it seemed only Hunter could understand. “Not with this, at any rate.” She looked around at Ancient Egypt. This wasn’t how she would usually peruse a museum. Quinn was borderline obsessive over details; history had long been one of her favorite subjects. Displays passed by with every easy stroke of the oars, and she could only catch brief glimpses of the placards and informational screens. She looked back to Hunter, and thought of the words, “Next year. Next year, I can be the one to plan the Valentine’s Day agenda.”
Hunter Clarington 's eyebrow quirked, for a moment, when he thought he caught Quinn staring at his arms, muscles engaged with each stroke. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen that look before. It immediately surprised and amused him. At her suggestion, he chuckled and nodded approvingly, "As difficult as it is for me to relinquish control in most situations, I am going to hold you to that." It was then that he checked the oars in the still air, bringing their boat to a slow, gliding halt as they pulled up alongside the ruins of a remarkably large ancient temple, inside of which were mountains of cushion and blanket, velvet and silk, obviously contemporary, but still fitting. "This is the Temple of Dendur. It was an ancient Egyptian temple, commissioned by the Emperor Augustus and built by Petronius, the Roman governor of Egypt in 15 B.C." He exposited, eyes tracing over the monument. Two thousand years. He wandered, briefly, which Clarington it was who lived and breathed two thousand years ago. And which Fabray. Briefly, it overwhelmed him. Perhaps visibly so. He swallowed, "Just 15. The people who first entered this temple were so close to God in time and space that they must have," He swallowed again. He never invested his time and energy into religion, before. Before. "Felt it." He finished. "We can sleep here if you want. Should we take a detour?"
Quinn looked to the Temple, eyes tracing the columns, and the old tan stone, lost somewhere in the reverence in Hunter’s voice. There was something about ancient things that made everything feel so much bigger than herself, than that moment. They were part of something vast and so, so important. It was almost hard not to feel small, inconsequential, despite how much their families fought to be everything. She tore her eyes from the temple to look at Hunter once more, eyebrows lifting, one hand falling to point at the Temple of Dendur, “There? We’re sleeping there?” Aether, he had gone all out. And staying, staying felt different, somehow. This wasn’t an evening out anymore.
Hunter Clarington "There," Hunter confirmed. He climbed out of the boat carefully and extended a hand to Quinn to help her out as well, before lifting their picnic case from among the cushions in the boat. Everything that had ever happened in the history of time and space had let up to this moment, this Valentine's day with one Quinn Fabray. It was empowering to say the least. "Where Kings and Queens have laid their feet. I only thought it natural." He hummed, smiling winningly as he attempted to lighten the weight of history on their backs, "I had evening clothes packed for the both of us. Obviously, I don't know what you're accustomed to wearing at night, so there are a few options. You know, I didn't realize how much work a lot of Achilles' errands were, I'm an unnaturally demanding person."
Quinn took Hunter’s hand as she stepped out of the boat – Lucy, she reminded herself, briefly thinking of their first date and Hunter all but confirming her suspicions about the boat’s name – but her eyes never left the temple. He was saying something about kings and queens and evening clothes that she half-absorbed, appreciating the levity but focused on the history. She’d once told Puck she wanted to teach, that history classes were her favorite and if she could spend her life learning and teach others, that would be enough for her. “I’m sure what you picked is just fine.” She finally offered, looking to Hunter with a smile; it was a genuine smile, one of the very few that reached her eyes. One hand wrapped around his forearm, and she leaned forward to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “You’ve done perfectly, Hunter.” She said quietly, before pulling away. “Now, what can I do to help?”
Hunter Clarington pressed his lips together as he closed his eyes against the touch of hers on his cheek, chuckling softly. This was a new custom. Lips. After almost a year of witty, subdued banter, breathless moments of conscious ladder-climbing, now they used lips. He considered that this was perhaps the first time she'd kissed him for something other than a mere greeting, but remembered her lips brushing his forehead that night after New Year's. He tucked that away, and, turning to look at her with his the corners of his mouth still turned up, his eyes full of something warm and somewhat dazed, lifted the bottle of the Spanish red, "Well, you can help me finish this wine, for one. Would you like to get comfortable before or after dinner?"
Quinn looked to the bottle, then to Hunter, catching on something in his gaze; he never ceased to surprise her. The image she’d grown up memorizing, that picture of crisp suits and smiles that were only directed at just the right person, had blurred and sharpened and blurred far too many times since Hunter Clarington had waltzed onto campus. She felt so different than she had then, but then she wondered if he did, too. Even with the Met rented out for a private party for two, and a bottle of fine wine in hand, Quinn felt a world away from fifteen, a new name on her lips and the world spread in front of her. Her gaze flicked to their accommodations for the night, then back to Hunter, “Wine and dinner first sounds lovely.” She offered an arm, “Shall we?”
Hunter Clarington took her arm in his own in a single crisp movement, face fixed on hers for several moments before turning forward toward their destination. He thought that the twitch of his eyebrows in those few moments of looking at her must have given away his confusion, in some capacity, at the unfamiliar feeling twisting in his chest. Leading her over to the middle of the temple, he offered a hand to help her to the ground as he opened and began to unpack their "picnic" case. He rather disliked the word picnic. It sounded like quirky peasant terminology; but now was neither the time nor place for that. No, now was strawberries. Chocolate cake. Caprese salad. Melon and prosciutto. Tuna tartare. All the good art that ever was made, and her. "I thought I might have overstayed my welcome as far as bacon goes," He explained, pouring himself a glass of wine, and gesturing his glass toward Quinn's, "To..."
Quinn ’s lips twitched into a smile as Hunter pulled the items out of the basket. Of course, it was everything she’d expect to find at a luncheon, mid-spring with sundresses and hats with broad, floppy brims. The fruit looked fresh, and she was beginning to feel something almost familiar. But it wasn’t, all at once; she looked to Hunter with his glass raised towards hers, and she thought perhaps unfamiliar wasn’t as bad as she’d always feared it would be, and better yet with someone to share it. She raised her glass, “To us. To another year to come, and every adventure it might bring.” It had been just over a year, since Hunter had spoken with her father. One year. She tapped her glass lightly against his, and took a long pull.
Hunter Clarington nodded, a very pronounced nod, just one, and echoed her. "Us," He agreed, taking a long sip from his own glass. It was exquisite wine, and although he was trying these days to indulge less in self satisfaction, well... he'd had to admit, he'd done an excellent job. He turned her words around in his head as he drank. Another year. More adventures. Aether God, more adventures. All the terrible adventures they had been through in the past year, and still it made him smile to think on it. Strange. More wine. He took a melon and prosciutto skewer from the dish and handed it to her before taking one himself, and falling backward onto multitudinous cushions, "All of the food you see before you was made completely help-free. One hundred percent Hunter Henry, so do be kind with your facial and verbal reactions." He chuckled, and ate.
Quinn set the glass down in favor of the skewer, musing momentarily over how close prosciutto was to bacon, before deciding that was hardly a thought worth mulling over. More importantly, Hunter had assembled the entire dinner himself. The thought was both flattering, and curious. Achilles’ death had brought many changes, and Quinn knew the nights spent with Hunter afterward had only been the beginning. The loss had sparked much more in Hunter than she’d expected. His speech had been…something else entirely, both inspiring and terrifying. She’d wanted to shake him and hug him all at once. “If it tastes half as good as it looks, you’ve nothing to worry about.” She twirled the skewer before taking a bite; it was hard to go wrong with melon and prosciutto, and Hunter hadn’t. The moment stalled as she took another drink of wine, musing. “Have you…enjoyed doing things for yourself, Hunter?”
Hunter Clarington awed, and turned to lounge on his side. He lay with his legs stretched and his elbow propping him up, lazily taking food and wine as his eyes grazed over the minute details of the Temple of Dendur. "I'm glad you like it," He smiled, in the midst of hording sliced strawberries to his side of the cushion layout. At the accompanying question, he shrugged halfway and nodded a bit, "I do, the better part of the time. I actually find laundry fairly relaxing. Of course, a select few... fans of ours have figured out my laundry schedule and I tend to come back home with a few more bras than I left with." He laughed, taking another drink, "Some things are unpleasant, but overall, I think it's an improvement. Perhaps next year I'll be diplomatic like you, take a roommate. Can you imagine the poor kid who gets told he has to room with Hunter Clarington? I'm very intimidating, you know, and /very/ specific."
Quinn watched Hunter lay back, picking up her wine glass once more without a second thought. He looked casual yet composed, in a position she’d never quite imagined. How he managed to command a room even so grand and ancient as the one they were in, while lounged back and hoarding strawberries was a skill to be admired. Not that she felt she was below such things herself; she sat with her legs folded beneath her, skirt neat, a Fabray to the last, but comfortable nonetheless. “You? With a roommate? They wouldn’t last a week.” She laughed lightly, pulling some of the strawberries he’d stolen back towards herself. “I highly recommend the solitude, to be honest. It’s been…quiet at Boreas, now that my room is empty.”
Hunter Clarington hummed and nodded, "Not terribly quiet, I hope." He remarked, although still chuckling softly at the idea of himself attempting to share a space with another. As much as he did think he was growing, that was still more or less out of the question. Then again, he would have something close to a roommate after school, assuming Quinn Fabray would want to move in with him. He recalled telling her long ago - perhaps a year by now - all about how Lawrence and Cressida were prepared to move out of the Clocktower and leave it to them should their engagement go to plan; and, well, today more than ever it appeared as though it was going to plan. "Do you always want to live in New York?" He asked, lifting himself to sort their entrees. The tuna towers were tedious to say the least, and immaculate to say the most, "Well, New York is two different worlds as well, I suppose, between the city and upstate. But do you think you'll always live here?"
Quinn paused at the question, twirling a strawberry between her fingers, watching the way the leaves curled. Her father wanted her to take his place. It was going to be Francine – beautiful, elegant Francine – before Quinn had decided she was going to enjoy galas over books. It happened over time, earning a place at Russell’s side. Then he scratched Frannie’s name from the ballot, and Quinn knew exactly where she was sat in her ancient family’s line of succession. It all stood to reason that she’d inherit the family home; a portal from Lake George to the UMC had been set up generations ago. Then there was Hunter, and the clocktower that overlooked the city lights. She was expected to stay in New York, but…she looked up at Hunter, the smile on her face less bright then it had been moments before, but all grace nonetheless. “New York and Lake George, respectively. There’s nowhere better for someone who works within the UMC, is there?”
Hunter Clarington raised his glass to that, "There's nowhere better for anyone", he offered, enjoying the crisp sound of the clink of champagne glasses before taking a long, slow sip, "Except, of course, when less than strictly legal matters presume to transpire. Then New Jersey is the ideal. It doesn't count if it's in New Jersey." He chuckled, and tipped his glass up again in wordless reverence for the suburban repository of greed and lust and wrath. "I just mean I think I'd like to pass a few years in Italy after a well deserved retirement. Perhaps the rolling green hills of Scotland," He tried on the accent for size: "Ah was aye partial tae th' lallans". He knew immediately that it was a mistake, and cringed a little at himself.
Quinn breathed in, a quick burst unconsciously. Whatever shadow had plagued her smile only moments before lifted a bit. “Italy is beautiful.” She said on a breath. There was a distant memory of baptistries at night, of songs and angels echoing off turquoise domes, and that feeling of being whole and real for the first time in centuries. “The art and history is…” For the first time, she wasn’t sure she was putting on much of a show in front of Hunter Clarington. The feeling was curious, but not altogether unwelcome. “Uh, astounding, honestly. Scotland is beautiful, as well. I quite enjoyed Poland, and Norway; traveling has a way of reminding you how new our home country is.” She looked up, confidence easily restored. “You’ll have to brush up on your accents, should we settle in Scotland.”
Hunter Clarington chuckled, feigning a detrimental blow with the palm of his hand clapping over his right breast. It made a nice sound, muscle beneath the open instrument. He sat up from where he was reclining with his champagne, "If it comforts you, I don't imagine we should ever settle. Sure, we'd have places here and there, but our drive is to roam. To consume. And be subjected. Become intoxicated by the crisp summer air in Florence only to just hardly survive a Russian winter." He mused, draping a fur blanket from the mountain and pulling back to see her in it, head tipping to the side, "As long as the Earth and stars can stand it. Until the Prodigal Son returns." He considered momentarily how much he did enjoy dressing people up. Should his career path ever derail... then he added: "We don't have to go Russia."
Quinn smiled softly. It was warm and comfortable wrapped in fur; it made everything seem simple and easy. How Hunter knew that never settling was what she’d really wanted, she wasn’t sure, but then maybe it wasn’t about him knowing at all. Perhaps it was simply that they wanted the same things. She catches his hand in a gentle hold, the blanket of fur draped loose around her shoulders. “Please, Mr. Clarington, who are we, if we’re not brave enough to conquer even the harshest winters? We can’t skip Russia.” Her smile hints at teasing, but she doesn’t look up from the way his fingers look in hers. “Besides, with this blanket, we’ll be just fine.”
Hunter Clarington was charmed, of course, by her simple elegance, her reverent grace, and he had been all night long. However, when she caught her hand in his own, his eyebrows wrinkled together and his jaw relaxed momentarily from a half-sideways smile. Their fingers lock together nicely, the way he supposes it should be, in such a way in fact that he would suppose even Blaine Anderson could approve. His thumb glides over her knuckles once, then twice. It feels almost involuntary. It feels like instinct, shifting under his skin from the experiences of milennia of Bloodlines before them, practicing infatuation. Is there ever a moment he feels better known than when Quinn Fabray swears to stand with him in the Siberian snow? Before he finds the restraint to stop and use his words, his unoccupied hand grasps the side of her face very gently, his fingers sliding along her upper neck beneath her hair until his thumb stops in front of her ear. His eyes meet hers, searchingly, for just a moment before he leans in to press his lips against hers. It's over in an instant, experimental and chaste, but he lingers there close that they might brush together again.
Quinn had time to say no. His eyes searched hers, and it would have been a matter of blinking, the smallest shake of her head. But his thumb traced her knuckles like he knew every one, and his fingers were gentle and soft and easy despite all of Hunter’s sharper edges. He was right there she didn’t shake her head, she didn’t pull away. The space between them closed, and it was half her own fault, her body leaning forward, her head tilting up to meet him like a dance as ancient as the magic between them. It’s over before it registers, but he doesn’t pull away and she notices. It’s only natural for her hand to wind behind his neck, her fingers to splay into soft brown hair, to gently tug him back to her.
Hunter Clarington felt the corners of his lips turn up into half a smile as they found Quinn's again, his eyes sliding shut at the tug of his frame toward hers. It's ridiculous how aware he becomes of his own weight, of his breath and hers when they're kissing. It's just a slide of lips, firm but plush. His hand squeezes hers very gently when all the little atoms in his fingers come back to life from the flushed stillness of a first kiss, but he brings her hand up to rest on her shoulder so he can hold her just a touch closer, his palm sliding along the small of her back. His weight shifts forward with the motion. He wonders who Quinn practiced kissing on in her adolescence. Did everyone have kissing trainers? Was that just him? He steals just one more kiss before he pulls away, just hardly an inch, and convinces his eyes to meet hers. "Our lives are gonna be so cool," He chuckled in earnest, a touch breathless, "You um. Feel like New York. Swell of the Hudson in the morning. Grand Central Station after rush hour. The ancient glory of the Metropolitan." Was that hot? Brody would think that was hot. /Don't think about Brody./
Quinn feels the space between them, when he pulls away; inches between breaths, centimeters between her chest and his, none between their fingertips, intertwined tightly. He talks of rivers and cities that move, describing a feeling both abstract and so concrete. She feels just left of it, whatever it is he’s tumbling through. This wasn’t real. This was something that made her daddy smile, the final victory after years of making herself into something right. But then it was the two of them sharing covers and wiping away tears. Then it was the two of them versus the rest of the world. Then it was them, one whole, their fingers interlaced and their lips sliding together and it felt so real it ached. Her thoughts turned over his words and she laughed lightly, forehead falling onto his shoulder and a smile on her lips. Her hands fall to his waist and she squeezes gently. “You’re ridiculous, Hunter Clarington.” And he is, but he’s so much more than that, and she almost wishes she could forget. Almost.
Hunter Clarington hums and smiles as she falls into him just slightly, hands on his waist, head on his shoulder. His head turns in small degrees and he kisses the top of her head, lingers just a second as his hand slides across her back so he can stabilize himself, and his wine glass beside him, once more. Staring ahead, he chuckles at her refrain; his utter extravagance seems to be a topic of conversation they return to often. He doesn't mind. "I am /not/ ridiculous, I am just tipsy, and wearing a crown, and you look no less than compelling in fur, and /we/ are much better at kissing one another than I anticipated," He tells, and he imagines the quirk of her brow at that little admission from where her head is resting. /Oh, like she hadn't thought of it/. That amuses him too. He is suddenly very... well, tickled, by the state of things. Delighted, perhaps. For the first time in a little while. "Which is a win, if you do end up stuck with me." He teased, body relaxing as a breath of revelation moved through his chest.
Quinn felt Hunter relax against her, but caught on the word ‘stuck.’ It settled in her throat, and she wondered, not for the first time, at how accurate it might be. He was light and easy in a way she never thought they ever would be. It was never supposed to be like this. She hadn’t counted on liking him. Even so, it was hard not to think about how she fit against him, and the difference between something pre-determined, and something organic. Her heart stuttered and thumped and she closed her eyes against the thought, but couldn’t quite shake it. Her smile was easy when she leaned back again, her hands tightening against his hips before releasing as she slowly put inches between them. She picked up her glass, and held it out in front of her. “Cheers to being stuck. Happy Valentine’s Day, Hunter.”
Hunter Clarington chuckled under his breath as he raised his own glass, clinking it against Quinn's. There was a certain security in being stuck, the stagnancy of it. It was a promise that they were already well adjusted to what was to come, and in the deceptively gently February snow, Hunter could be well beyond glad for that. There must have been something in his eyes that turned serious for just a moment, just long enough before he assumed the comfort again. "To being stuck," He whispered, "Happy Valentine's Day, Quinn."
