Quinten R. Kearney; Anecdotes

[Quinten Kearney (DELETED 6516)]

((This thread is meant to be a collection of solo work including word-prompts, journal entries, and shorts; these are not necessarily in chronological order.))

[Quinten Kearney (DELETED 6516)]

01. First Kiss
Quinten had kissed exactly three people in his life, and each experience had been mortifying to some degree.

The first had been Miranda, the first day of Kindergarten, and had marked the end of both his social career and any interest he might have in the fairer sex. She’d made her move on the playground, while he was distracted explaining the dangers of tire swings. It had been—wet—and a complete violation of his personal space, and the resulting meltdown had been intense enough to warrant a session with the school counselor. Apparently. On the bright side, Miranda never even looked at him again.

He’d been invested in the second. He’d just started university, fourteen and at least three years the junior of everyone else on campus, but Steven treated him like an equal from day one. Up until Quinten tried to kiss him during the middle of their second year; anger would have been easier to deal with than gentle rebuttal, like he was a child who didn’t understand. He’d tested out of requirements for the rest of the year—he hadn’t been taking those classes because he had something to learn—and hadn’t spoken to Steven since.

The third was a bit of a blur. He’d never found Jeremy particularly attractive, but past a certain point of inebriation that apparently hadn’t mattered and they’d ended up necking in the booth while the rest of the group danced. He was fairly certain Jeremy had initiated? It hadn’t been that bad in the moment—and it was certainly more physical contact than he ever remembered having with another human being, which in retrospect was just depressing. Jeremy was a good-natured guy, though, and either ignored or was oblivious to Quinten’s nerves the next day at work. The incident was never brought up again.

In general, kissing was something Quinten tried to avoid these days.

--

02. Final
“Sexuality is fluid,” Ms. Fattore argued, “The Kinsey scale isn’t absolute. There are always exceptions. If I was younger, you bet your britches I’d be chasing after that Emma Stone. Always had a thing for redheads. Did I tell you my Joe was a redhead?”

Quinten took a steadying breath. “Ms. Fattore—”

“You never know until you try! Dafne is a good girl. You two should have coffee,” the woman pressed. Ms. Fattore was eighty-three year old, and damned persistent. Regardless of how many times they’d had this conversation—he’d thought maybe, finally, she’d given up after the last time; how more clear can a person get than “I like men”—she was still convinced he and her granddaughter should meet. Old people with the ability to google were terrifying.

“Ms. Fattore,” he said, and something in his voice finally made her pause, “This really isn’t a good time, even if you’re right. With everything happening with my mom—“

“Of, of course dear,” she said, immediately turning apologetic. “I’m sorry if I get carried away. You just look so sad sometimes…”

“It’s alright,” it wasn’t, “I’ll talk to you later, Ms. Fattore.” He took the final step into his apartment, and closed the door. He was getting another stress headache, and he was out of meds, but there was no way he was braving the hallway again anytime soon. A pharmacy run would have to wait.

--

03. Numb
He collapsed onto the hotel bed, and decided he’d just stay there for awhile; he wasn’t sure what he was feeling. He hadn’t been back to Harper Rock in five years, not since he left, and it had all the qualities of a dream that he couldn’t wake up from. He’d spent his entire adolescence rushing towards that moment when he’d be able to leave this town. And now he was back, like nothing had ever changed, and he wasn’t even sure that he missed New York. He had no idea what he was doing.

--

04. Broken Wings
Distance had made it easier—easier to pretend that everything was fine—but the doctors wanted to discuss options—“I think it would be better if we spoke in person, Mr. Kearney”—and so he’d made the trip back to Harper Rock. He hadn’t spoken to his mother in person since he’d left—he’d send letters; he missed her—but the sound of her voice always made him feel like something was breaking inside: squeezed too tight and then shattering into a million pieces. The doctors thought it might help, though.

“Hello, mother,” he greeted, and stepped into the room.

--

05. Melody
Quinten twitched, hands stilling on his keyboard. He usually found the gentle din of café patrons and quiet indie music an effective white noise. It would appear someone had forgone with the usual playlist, however.

Quiten wasn’t generally too picky about musical genre—with a couple drinks in him, he might even deign to enjoy something like Kesha—but he had to draw the line at this. There was nothing more insipid than a boy band, and there was no getting rid of them once the auditory infection began to spread through the populace.

He packed up his workstation, grabbed his coffee, and made a quick retreat. It might be time to find a new café.