[ peter's not expecting quentin — or rather, he is, but he's not entirely expecting him to turn up announced, so the knocking at his door makes him freeze. there's a moment — habit, more than anything else — where he checks to make sure he doesn't have anything obviously spider-man-y sitting out in plain sight: suit, no; webshooters, under his clothes, it's fine—. ]
Oh, hey. [ beat. ] Quentin. [ peter can't quite keep the surprise out his voice, and he pauses, just for a moment, as he takes in quentin's apparance: he's aware that the last week (had it only been a week?) had been rough on all of them, but quentin looks terrible. ] Come in.
[ he pushes the door open a little more for quentin before turning to head back into the room; there's a breath of a pause and he shoots a quick glance back at quentin before— ] You look about as great as I feel. [ it's not an entirely accurate statement: peter's felt worse, way worse, but he certainly doesn't feel great, and there is something to be said for the way that the darkness feels oppressive, for the way that peter hadn't entirely believed he hadn't just been cracking up, something to be said for the lack of routine and the fact that peter honestly can't remember the last time he'd had a good night's sleep.
the room itself doesn't entirely look as if anyone's lived there for four months: sure, the sheets on the bed are are dishevelled mess, and the desk is a scattered, untidy assortment of paper, some books, his tablet, and his tablet poking out from underneath a pile of veritable and miscellaneous this and that, but other than that, there's not a whole lot of personality to the room.
(unless you count an almost-finished cup noodle and the remnants of a cup of coffee as personality.)
peter gestures towards the chair at the desk, before opting to sit on his bed, and he runs a hand through his hair before speaking. ] —So.
no subject
[ peter's not expecting quentin — or rather, he is, but he's not entirely expecting him to turn up announced, so the knocking at his door makes him freeze. there's a moment — habit, more than anything else — where he checks to make sure he doesn't have anything obviously spider-man-y sitting out in plain sight: suit, no; webshooters, under his clothes, it's fine—. ]
Oh, hey. [ beat. ] Quentin. [ peter can't quite keep the surprise out his voice, and he pauses, just for a moment, as he takes in quentin's apparance: he's aware that the last week (had it only been a week?) had been rough on all of them, but quentin looks terrible. ] Come in.
[ he pushes the door open a little more for quentin before turning to head back into the room; there's a breath of a pause and he shoots a quick glance back at quentin before— ] You look about as great as I feel. [ it's not an entirely accurate statement: peter's felt worse, way worse, but he certainly doesn't feel great, and there is something to be said for the way that the darkness feels oppressive, for the way that peter hadn't entirely believed he hadn't just been cracking up, something to be said for the lack of routine and the fact that peter honestly can't remember the last time he'd had a good night's sleep.
the room itself doesn't entirely look as if anyone's lived there for four months: sure, the sheets on the bed are are dishevelled mess, and the desk is a scattered, untidy assortment of paper, some books, his tablet, and his tablet poking out from underneath a pile of veritable and miscellaneous this and that, but other than that, there's not a whole lot of personality to the room.
(unless you count an almost-finished cup noodle and the remnants of a cup of coffee as personality.)
peter gestures towards the chair at the desk, before opting to sit on his bed, and he runs a hand through his hair before speaking. ] —So.