quentin whitfield • d1 • FIN

The brittle air brushed over his sharp cheeks, singing the pale skin there a light pink. Quentin didn't mind the cold too much. According to his family, he didn't mind anything at all, which he thought was an overstatement but a mostly true one at that. He tugged his coat closer to his lean frame and walked on.

Quentin liked his morning rounds despite his father's complaints ( "Wasting time when he could be working," he'd grumble ) The steps and the scenery cleared his head and kept him in shape, or so he'd like to think. He didn't have much of a shape to speak of, with his slim torso and legs. Perhaps it was his height that accentuated how thin he was. He didn't look starved, necessarily but he seemed too thin to be preferable. Fat and muscle were very hard to find on his bones. His shoulders were broad, waiting for him to grow into them. Despite this, they were excellent at shrugging, which was something Quentin did often. He was a very indecisive person, after all.

Quentin had a fragile will and opinions made of glass. He'd been told several times by his friends that he should stand his ground, but he seldom listened. Disagreement made him more uncomfortable than it should, and the discomfort bent him to the wishes of others more than his own. ( "I already know what Helena wants, Quentin. What do you want?" His mother had asked him. He promptly told her he wanted the same thing Helena did. They both knew it was a lie, but his mother dropped it anyway. ) Despite his denial of what he actually yearned for, he was always the mediator among his friends. They wondered why he was on a perpetual journey to make as many people he could happy. He took profuse teasing for it ( "Go ask Q to do it, he never says no." ) but he knew at least some appreciated his willingness to please.

The thought drew a smile across his thin lips as he turned a corner. Maybe he thought too much of others and not enough of himself, but he figured he'd rather have it like that than the other way around. Quentin liked that he was the nice one, so to speak, even with the duties the job entailed.

He trailed his slim fingers through the tawny strands of his hair. He ruffled it at the top of his head, where it was longest, before smoothing it down again. He had something of an affinity towards grooming his hair, but then he supposed so did everyone else.

Nevermind that, the cold air was making his eyes, a dark blue under blond lashes, water to an annoying extent. He wiped them quickly on the coarse fabric of his coat before turning back. The Whitfield family probably could have afforded him a softer, higher quality outfit than the one he had now, but he never indulged. Maybe it was because he was the least favorite child, maybe it was because his sense of style, which was very pathetic if he was being honest with himself, changed as often as day changed into night. He preferred thinking it was the latter but knew that he'd probably get more spoils if the twins weren't so good at everything.

Quentin frowned ( He was told that he frowned an awful lot. He thought that, for someone in his position, he frowned the perfect amount ) and kept walking, carried by his long legs and even longer strides. The twins, Helena and Esther, were stunning careers, but Quentin, three years their elder, could rest easy knowing he worked the hardest in the family.

After all, he had woken up very early to squeeze his walk in before work. It was probably because of his parents blatant favoritism of the twins that he tried so hard to please them. He worked in the diner every day after school and on the weekends ( what else was he going to do, anyway? ) while the twins were out training in the career academy. Quentin thought he was doing an alright job as a waiter, but he supposed the potential of riches upon imagining spurred them to encourage the twins more. He didn't complain. Sure, he had plenty to complain about, but why start drama in the quaint Whitfield family? His parents were more than loving, it was just that they gave their love in different amounts to different people. The only long standing thought he got when they bought Helena a new dress or denied Quentin money and then gave it to Esther, was that he wouldn't do the same with his own children. Quentin didn't like being bitter or holding grudges. They dampened life too much to pay attention to. 

Besides, Quentin didn't want to get caught up in that career business anyway. Watching the games was exciting, for sure, but he had never realized the consequences of death and pain. Not until that first day in the career academy, twelve years old and eager, did he understand. He came to find out that he hated blood and hated even more the act of drawing it. He remembered sobbing, begging to drop out. His mother finally gave in, but he had to remain in training for the year he was enrolled for, because "That good money will not go to waste!" Needless to say, that year was one of the more miserable ones of his life, but at least he gleaned some self-defense from the whole matter. He also found that there was a measure of disapproval, disappointment, in his parents eyes, but he pretended not to see it. A few years later, the twins would please them, and while they still felt cheated ( "He had so much potential!" ), they weren't as mad about it as they were before. 

The sun was rising up over the buildings, flooding the streets with warm light. He was glad that there was no one out on the streets. Whenever passing strangers, Quentin felt an obligation to greet them or send them a smile despite himself. He really wasn't great at talking to people or even in front of them, not to mention small talk ( one part bore and two parts nightmare, in his opinion ). He really was a boy who fled from discomfort, whether it be personal tensions or awkward lapses of silence. It was almost humorous to watch him interact with new people ( all "sorry" and "yeah" and "um" and not much else ). Quentin much preferred his regular friends that knew him well enough to be a little less awkward around them. But even then it didn't shed the habit of his rambling, which he did with friends and strangers alike. He hated himself for talking too much, going against his overwhelming desire to not talk, but he didn't often. To his intense relief, most people didn't seem to mind. 

His feet, large just like his hands, had returned him to the diner. It declared itself WHITFIELD'S DINER, a cozy little building that served BREAKFAST, LUNCH, & DINNER. To most, it was a nice place to met up with good food and even better prices, but to Quentin, it was home. Or, at least, the second story of the building was. It was a small living space for five people, but the Whitfields lived on. They didn't spend that much time in their home anyway, what with the diner jobs and the training and the walks. If they stopped giving Helena and Esther their career training, they'd be able to afford luxuries. At this point, however, they were quite happy with their comfortable living and the potential for glory. While it would be easy to find a large, spacious house, Quentin quite liked the canary yellow walls and the coziness of it all. He grew up in that diner, watched Helena and Esther grow up in that diner, and he wouldn't give it up for the world.

Quentin grew attached to things and people very quickly and very often. Maybe it was bad ( his heart's been broken a dozen times over ) but he enjoyed looking at someone or something with an unconditional passion and seeing it reflected back to him. It was the same with his sisters, his sweet sisters. Despite his lack of training, Quentin would fight a fully trained career for them ( although, he was sure, they'd probably fare better than he would ). He had a (bad?) habit of growing fiercely on to people and refusing to let go. After all, why bother with the superficial things when life is too short to bother with things that don't last?