Chapter Text
Quinn’s never really spent much time questioning who he is, or where he belongs, or even what he’s meant to do. It’s always been simple, really:
He’s Quinn Saint Nicholas, the youngest of the four children of Lady Justice. (More importantly, he’s Addam’s brother.)
He’s a source of happiness and pride for Addam, which makes up for the multitude of people who are terrified of him and anything that comes out of his mouth.
He’s (one of) the reason(s) that many people he cares about are alive (Addam, Rune, Brand, Max).
He’s a seer of unique talent, able to both see probabilities and sort through them at a phenomenally quick rate, identifying the best course of action and enacting his role in it without hesitation.
He belongs at Addam’s side, wherever that may be (and it will shift, over and over again, as Addam moves with the flow of time and love).
He’s even starting to think he’s finally reaching the part of his life to be able to call Max his best friend - and Anna, too, of course, though she’s not quite as close and there’s no danger of shenanigans involving ferrets.
He can even say he’s a student now, enrolled at Magnus Academy with his two friends and well on the way toward the type of training his brother and Rune think he needs. Which - thank the gods - no longer requires him to take the medicine that dulls his vision and irritates his stomach.
That’s enough for him. But, as it turns out, not so much for his classmates.
It’s not as though he’s suddenly made a lot of friends. No, even among other scions, even now that he’s associated with the controversial and rising Lord Sun (which, honestly, might not help his case), there’s still plenty of fear surrounding his gifts. Thanks to coaching from Max, he’s been getting better at talking about the present, which, if nothing else, helps mute the nervousness of those around him. Regardless, rumors swirl.
“His brother has taken up with the catamite prince. No wonder he’s so weird.”
“He’s never looked at anyone, not like that. Is there something wrong with him?”
“Maybe he knows who he’s gonna marry. Oh, maybe he knows who I’m gonna marry! Think I can ask?”
It’s not like any of it bothers him. He dodges the questions about others’ future love lives with increasing ease, and ignores the speculation about his preferences. It’s not really an important part of him, in his opinion. Why worry about that when he’s happy as he is?
What does begin to bother him is that same speculation, but put on Max.
Quinn may not be overly interested in pondering romance or attraction, but he’s not blind; not at all. Max was striking when they first met - or, rather, the first time he appeared in his visions. Pale blond hair set against similarly pale skin that shimmers with iridescence when he’s emotional; large, expressive eyes framed by waves. But he’d been lanky, skinny. Fragile, almost.
Months of training with Brand and Rune had widened his shoulders and defined his arms and legs. His shirts had once hung limply on him, but now both chest and abs fill them out wonderfully.
That’s not even considering the enormous emotional growth he’d undergone once he’d learned exactly how important he was to his father figures. Security and love looked good on him.
And, of course, everyone noticed.
Max’s status as a scion of a fallen court had been saved when he was officially appointed a Saint John. Many of the school kids flocked to him, flirting obnoxiously whenever Quinn caught a glimpse of them. It seemed like no matter where Max went, an entourage of admirers followed.
“Did you hear that Maggie asked Max Saint John out?”
Quinn’s lips purse as he peers down at the worksheet in front of him. He’s long lost count of how many people have approached Max with that very same intention and, for some reason, his annoyance grows in tandem with the number.
“No way! He’s way out of her league.” A loud pop of bubble gum punctuates the conversation behind him. “I mean, did you see the scales on her cheek? That’s so last year.”
A hum of agreement and the creaking of a seat sets him on edge, the pencil trembling in his increasingly firm grip. “For real. Like, he turned James down last week, and she’s not half as pretty.”
“Maybe Max wants more than just pretty,” a familiar voice snaps, fire scorching each word in disdain. “He’s not an idiot like the rest of you spoiled brats. If you think he’s that shallow, then you don’t stand a chance.”
A smile creeps unbidden across Quinn’s face as the girls behind him fall silent - the typical reaction when Anna tells someone off. What he lacks in confrontational skills, she more than makes up for.
By the time their eyes meet he’s sporting his usual grin, earning him a quick smile in return. Grabbing his bag, he gathers the papers scattered around his desk and shoves them haphazardly in, beyond ready to escape the semi crushing walls of the school. It’s not that he hates the time he spends here, necessarily; but it’s Friday, and his birthday is Sunday, and he’s really, really ready to go home.
Once the bag is securely hanging from his shoulder, Quinn falls in step with Anna as they leave the library, neither fazed by the “ freaks” spit from behind them. He knows Anna is every bit as used to it by now, if it isn’t a badge she wears proudly and a little defiantly. Crossing the threshold into the hallway, both turn automatically toward the art wing.
“Think Rune has enough of the estate cleared for a party this weekend?”
Quinn’s gaze slides over to the dark-haired girl next to him, curious about the motives behind the question but not dumb enough to ask. Instead, he inhales and turns inward, his mind’s eye flipping through the potential futures of the weekend rapid-fire. “He almost always has it ready,” he announces after a moment (how long, he’s not sure, but given that she’s not making noises of impatience it couldn’t have been too long). “Except for when a wright catches him off-guard and he accidentally dematerializes part of a weight-bearing wall. But that only happens once, the other times he knows it’s coming and is prepared. Oh,” he adds belatedly when Anna’s face lights up with the expression that warns she’s going to give her cousin a good tease, “and he means for it to be a surprise. He doesn’t know we overheard him and Brand planning, and if you bring it up, he always cancels.”
Her expression darkens for a second before she gives an exaggerated shrug and scoff. “Fine, whatever.”
Groups of their fellow schoolmates flood past them, most giving them a wide berth (which, if Quinn thinks about it, is likely due to the threatening scowl Anna plasters on her face whenever anyone gets too close). The art wing - where Max has many of his classes, due to a growing interest in it - is on the opposite side of the building as the library, but also conveniently next to the doors they need to exit from to catch their rides.
Come to think of it, Anna’s last class isn’t particularly close to the library, either. Yet she always comes to gather him. Strange.
Shrugging off the errant thought, Quinn ducks under a paper airplane magicked to dive bomb random students, only to be harassed from behind by it. A group of scions stand near their lockers, laughing obnoxiously as the object jabs its unrightfully pointy nose into the sensitive area on the back of his neck. Wedging his shoulders as close to his ears as he can, Quinn elects to ignore the nuisance - what’s a day at school without being picked on - figuring the boys will find a new target soon.
Another plane joins the first, only managing a brief brush of his ear before bursting into flames, heat licking but not burning him. Astonishment crosses the scions’ faces, quickly morphing into a sneer and, finally, mild fear as Anna flicks a wrist casually at them. Nothing happens, but they vacate quickly, unwilling to risk her ire and tripping over each other.
Quinn releases a heavy sigh. “You’ll get turned into the headmaster again,” he states, knowing it's a moot point because when has she ever cared? “And then Rune will make you pull weeds in Queenie’s garden.”
“For real?” She wrinkles her nose, then catches the exasperated expression on his face. “Oh, you didn’t actually see that, did you.”
One of the downsides to being a seer is that he can’t speak of consequences without others assuming they’re the inevitable future. Quinn has been trying to gain a better handle on his visions, and has at least managed to somewhat temper them so he’s not constantly seeing everyone’s. Max once mentioned it as ‘invasive’ (despite the fact that Quinn was only warning him that if he ate the last Devil Dog, Rune would know it was him and put him on dish duty), and he can see how that could be. So he’s tried to be better.
And yet, people assume.
“Ugh,” Anna groans as they turn into the corridor to find Max cornered by a group of girls. “Do they ever stop?”
“Guess not.” The upward turn of his mood quickly reverses when one girl, a pretty redhead named Jennie, runs her hand up Max’s arm. Instead of pulling away, Max simply tips his head back and laughs, the sound bouncing along the walls, and turning from beautiful to grating by the time it reaches Quinn. He sniffs and looks away, unwilling to watch more, yet finds his gaze drawn back as he glances out of the corner of his eyes in time to see Max wrap her in his long, strong, shimmering arms.
His brain shuts down in that moment, an unfamiliar emotion rushing through him. Boiling, sharp, and uncomfortable, Quinn blinks back the stinging of tears against his eyelids in confusion as the feeling spreads, engulfing him in both anger and hurt.
Max’s head turns, then, and Quinn experiences a prolonged moment of excruciating eye contact - and the sudden realization that it’s not just that he’s choosing not to see Max’s future.
It’s been entirely closed off to him.
Something about his expression causes Max’s eyebrows to shoot up and his eyes to widen, and then he’s calling out Quinn’s name but Quinn can’t hear it over the cacophony of his heart as the world closes in on him. Claustrophobia isn’t something he associates with himself, and yet he has the distinct sensation of unwelcome pressure against his skin, of his lungs trapped in a vice.
He turns abruptly on his heels and marches to the side door, deaf to Anna’s startled shout and the sound of pounding footsteps behind him. The town car Diana uses to get him to and from school is parked on the curb, idling; an oasis he needs to take shelter in. He can’t explain how, but he blinks and finds himself crawling in the front seat, unable to recall the steps he took to even get there.
“Quinn?” Diana’s voice is uncharacteristically surprised and laced with worry, and he flinches when he feels the vibrations of someone pounding on the window. “Max seems rather alar-“
“I want to go home.” Scratchy and raw, it feels like the words claw their way up his throat to burst into the air. “Please.”
Silence spreads thin between them as the seconds tick by slowly, before the pounding stops and the car rumbles forward. The window is cool against his temple as he leans into it, eyelids fluttering shut.
What… what was that?
The ability to see the future comes with side effects people don’t usually talk about - most probably don’t know, unless they ask. The metaphysical sensations differ from those of general magic, and are often hard to put into words. Sometimes his vision feels like he’s trying to walk through a swamp, thick with weeds; sometimes, he’s floating, barely able to keep himself grounded against the waves of time; sometimes it’s a hurricane and he’s at risk of losing himself completely.
But when he’d met Max’s eyes, there had been a wall. It wasn’t like he tried to reach out, to dig around and see what was coming. The connection is simply always there, like a string, or a leash, or quicksand. Max? There was nothing. A firm, blank end.
He’d never seen this coming. Should he have seen this coming? Was it a part of Max’s… romantic endeavors? Is he hurt? In danger?
No, none of that feels right.
More like… a door. Like Max found the door and slammed it shut in Quinn’s face.
“I’d rather he have the ferret,” he says miserably, vaguely aware of Diana’s heavy gaze. “Sorry. I’m fine. I just need… sleep.”
Diana hums uncertainly but doesn’t argue, much to his relief. There’s too much to think about, too much to research and study and learn. Ciaran . He digs his phone out of his pocket and sends an inquiring text to the principality.
> hey, do u know if theres a way to block a seers sight?
Hopefully Ciaran isn’t too busy to answer. Quinn has a lot of questions, and not a lot of time to figure out what’s going on.