Chapter Text
The first time Quinn registers the guy with the green hair properly it's at one of his gigs. "Gig" is a strong word for what he's doing, really; he's just putting on songs people can sing along to while they get horribly, sloppily drunk. He's seen Pablo around a couple of times, always surrounded by a popular crowd, but almost never by the same people, always laughing, always the life of the party. The kind of guy who makes his job easy. Quinn appreciates it, what with his wife moving out and dropping all contact unless she needs her credit card bills paid. It's an especially bad night, and watching couples younger than himself get it on on the dance floor is the last thing he can take in his current state, so he puts on "Hurt" by Nine Inch Nails and let's Jesus take the wheel, leaning back against the wall. He even closes his eyes so he doesn't have to see the confused and/or annoyed expressions of the party goers looking up at him.
It doesn't take long for someone to start insistently poking his arm. He inches open one eye and there's a toothy grin and a pair of bright eyes, not to mention a hell of a lot of green hair. The guy's wearing a crop top and he has a hand on his hip and almost immediately Quinn envies his confidence. He's practically oozing it as he slides a small USB drive into the DJ's hand and says something along the lines of "play something more upbeat next Friday" that Quinn can hardly make out as he's standing right between the two massive speakers. Despite that, when the next Friday rolls around he has the small USB drive in the back pocket of his cargo shorts, its contents still ringing in his ears. He's going to play it - not all of it, and not in the same order, or he might as well give up his job entirely - because he can't not play it. That's how good the selection of tunes is. It's almost annoying. The people seem to agree, or at least their moves seem to say so, but Quinn can't stop his eyes from flickering to the door every couple minutes. He wants to at least get a reaction from Pablo if he's going to concede that some - he's not still a teenager, is he? - some younger guy has him beat when it comes to party tunes. Where is he?
It's past 1am when Pablo shows his face, and Quinn can immediately tell he's out of it when he comes in through the door, leaning on another guy and surrounded by other, drunker people. Great, so he's having a better time than him, too. Although that isn't exactly a feat, Quinn reminds himself bitterly as he adjusts the intensity of the bass before lining up the next song. The reaction Pablo gives him when he realises it's a song he chose is worth it all. It's off the charts the way his face lights up, even through the haze of alcohol and whatever other substances he's taken. He runs up to the DJ desk and tackles Quinn with a hug and even though they've never exchanged more than a sentence (and even though he's not much of a hugger himself), he manages to give Pablo a reasonable hug in return.
After that, Quinn's DJ nights aren't quite as miserable anymore. They exchange more USB drives, and quite a few hugs as well, even though they've still hardly had a conversation since the music's always blaring whenever they meet. Quinn finds out that the bouncer, the bartenders, and even the guy who works the cloakroom all have similar stories about Pablo, so he knows it's nothing special per se, but he doesn't mind. It still feels special. Special enough that he starts putting on his own music occasionally, in between the mainstream bangers the crowd expects and the recommendations Pablo supplies him with. The DJ gig starts to feel less like a chore, less like yet another part time job he needs to pay his estranged wife's expenses with, and more like something he actually enjoys. And without fail he spots Pablo's face in the crowd, always surrounded by different people, always grinning from ear to ear whenever he catches Quinn's eye. Even he knows some of those people are bad news, but he'd never question it. By now he's asked around enough to know that Pablo is 21, and that he lives with his mother on the outskirts of town. He also knows that he has a one-man Witch House band called ✝✝V∆C∆NTVEIL✝✝ that has never once played a gig but has already made a hell of a lot of money selling t-shirts. Everything he finds out about Pablo endears him to Quinn more and more, although that sentiment is never without a small spark of jealousy in the back of his mind. As though this is the kind of guy he could have been if he hadn't gotten married right after college and thrown every opportunity that ever presented itself down the drain for Sandra. Deep down Quinn knows that he could never have been that kind of guy. Not like Pablo. He doesn't have the looks for it, or the charisma, or that certain... something that just magically makes people like him. Hell, he can't even get through a conversation with the pizza delivery girl without boring her to tears.
So Quinn continues on, trying not to worry when Pablo starts showing up to his "gigs" later and later, with more and more shady looking people. He really does try - it's none of his business, after all - but when one night putting on a certain song doesn't produce the usual reaction, he knows there's something seriously wrong. Pablo's eyes are unfocused and bloodshot and he's just staring off into space, not paying the slightest bit of attention to the music even as he's dancing to it, several people in eccentric dress around him looking to be in a similar state. The last thing Quinn wants to do is put on the next song, and then the next, and not do anything about it, but he realises it's not really his place to meddle. He doesn't know this guy. Not really. The party winds down and as soon as he can the DJ makes his excuses and escapes out into the parking lot, cool night air hitting him in the face like a brick wall after the stuffy, vapour-heavy atmosphere of the club. It's October already and the nights are getting colder, he muses, eyes scanning the drunken stragglers, looking for... what is he really looking for? Then he sees it. A van he's seen around before, quite a few times, pumping tunes with the windows rolled down and occasionally the unmistakable smell of weed. A van he wouldn't recognise if he hadn't been paying way more attention than was normal. He pushes the thought aside decisively and crosses the parking lot. The back of the vehicle is open, and inside there's an old mattress, a heap of clothes and blankets and empty pizza boxes and on top of it all, spread out like a starfish is Pablo. Quinn almost has to laugh at the sight of him before he realises he's shaking.
"Hey! Hey, you okay?"
A hand on his shoulder should do it, right? It takes a few long, terrifying moments in which Quinn's mind jumps to the absolute worst possible scenarios before Pablo's eyes flutter open blearily.
"Thank G-... man! What happened to you?"
The older man asks breathlessly, but Pablo doesn't answer, at least not at first. He doesn't answer, or sit up, or do anything but stare upwards with a vacant expression on that annoyingly handsome face of his, until Quinn shakes both his shoulders rather roughly and he finally snaps out of it, jerking into an upright position.
"Fuck! Where're they?! Those fuckin'... fuck!"
Quinn blinks at the many expletives that suddenly escape the man who moments earlier seemed dead to the world.
"Where's who?"
"That was so much money, oh my fuckin'... oh God."
Pablo runs his hands through his messy green hair, for all intents and purposes completely ignoring the dumbfounded DJ.
"Oh God, oh God, oh God..."
Then suddenly his eyes snap to Quinn's and he grabs his arm with a sudden intensity, so tight it almost hurts, like he doesn't know his own strength right now. His eyes really are bloodshot, Quinn can see it now, up close to him for the first time away from all the noise and the blinding strobe lights.
"You saw 'em, right?!" Pablo asks urgently, "The guys I was with! Two dudes and a girl. Dressed like they were goin' to a steampunk bar mitzvah or somethin'..."
It's like he loses energy halfway through the sentence and he slumps against Quinn like a puppet that just got its strings cut.
"I mean, yeah. I - I did see them. Don't think I could pick them out from a line up, if that's what you're asking..."
He isn't sure if he's making a joke or asking a genuine question because honestly? This is the craziest his life has been in a good long while and as far as he's concerned anything is possible right now. But Pablo doesn't answer, he just groans, leaning limply against him.
"Hey man, let me take you home."
Quinn offers, even though he maybe wouldn't have minded staying like this for a little bit longer. It's not something he's proud of, but there's no point in lying to himself.
"I can take you back to your mom's, yeah? How's that sound?"
He didn't mean it to come out like he's talking to a child, but he knows from the way Pablo's body immediately tenses up that he's said something wrong.
"S'fine. I got a place to stay."
The younger man slurs, though sitting up straight without Quinn's support still seems like a challenge.
"Where's that? I can drive you. Get your van back in the morning... or whenever you've slept this off, yeah?"
He's mentally scolding himself for every word. How is he managing to sound both like a boring adult and a creepy stalker at the same time? That must be a new record, even for him. Pablo hesitates before responding.
"Right... here?"
"The van?"
Quinn doesn't bother hiding his surprise. The damage is probably done anyway, and besides, there are more pressing matters at hand.
"You're sleeping in this van?"
The man leaning against him nods meekly. He's never seen him like this, and it's disconcerting to say the least.
"For how long has that been... a thing?"
He hazards, but Pablo just shrugs.
"What about your mom?"
Quinn follows up, his hand resting lightly on Pablo's back now in what he hopes is coming off as the comforting gesture he intends it as.
"Not spoken to her in a - in a while."
It's obvious Pablo doesn't want to talk about it, and Quinn can't really blame him. He remembers what being 21 was like, and even though he was never in as much shit as Pablo seems to be in right now, he remembers all to well thinking that not even your parents are going to take you back after whatever unthinkable thing you just did. There's a very large part of Quinn that just wants to hug him, some kind of payback for all those fleeting hugs across the DJ table that improved his life in so many ways that Pablo will probably never know about, but he doesn't. Instead, he does the only other thing that comes to mind.
"Just stay at mine. I got room."
"Really?"
Suddenly Pablo sounds dubious, even through the drug-induced haze, like he doesn't want to be a burden. Quinn just waves it off with as much nonchalance as he can muster given the circumstances.
"Did I mention I got a really comfy couch with your name on it?"