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The mission was supposed to be a simple one.
Obi-Wan and his master went to a planet ravaged by dry weather wildfires. They were meant to help the aid workers set up temporary housing. Hand out food. Assist with any diplomatic snafus as Republic workers and private orgs came on world. Make sure no looters took advantage of the situation. Those sorts of things. At eighteen, Obi-Wan is now a senior Padawan, officially, and this mission? It should have been easy. Sad, given the circumstances, but there shouldn’t have been any trouble, is what he means.
But then they found a burned-out building while looking for other survivors. They heard cries coming from said burned-out building. Those cries came from the upper floor, which was unstable. A mother and her son, unable to navigate the ruined stairs, needed their help. Calling for a rescue team, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan got the pair out through the window with the help of a fire unit ladder.
And then ....
Well, then, the floor fell out from under them.
Literally.
Experienced as he is, the shock of it surprised Obi-Wan, and the quickness didn’t allow much time to think or to slow his fall. His master slowed it for him. Obi-Wan's fibula fractured, but if Qui-Gon hadn’t slowed his fall? It would have snapped in half. Through the skin. That kind of thing. Master Qui-Gon, on the other hand, impaled his thigh on a sharp piece of wood and nicked his femoral artery.
So, as Obi-Wan stands here in his master’s room in the Halls, he has trouble forgetting. He has trouble forgetting the spurt of scarlet. The cry of pain he had never, not once, heard from Master Qui-Gon before. He has trouble forgetting how he tore off his own robe and applied the pressure of his entire body, the Force, everything he had, to slow the bleeding. He packed the wound with torn of shreds of that same robe. He applied the tourniquet from the medical kit one of the Republic workers had given him.
When he looks at his hands, he still sees blood.
He should have stopped his own fall. He’s been stopping his own falls without a problem since he was sixteen.
“Obi-Wan?” Master Qui-Gon says, drawing Obi-Wan out of his guilt spiral.
“Yes, Master?”
Qui-Gon, still too pale for Obi-Wan's liking, tilts his face upward and meets Obi-Wan's eye.
“I insist that you stop blaming yourself.”
“I don’t think you can insist on that, Master.”
Qui-Gon quirks a brow. “You underestimate my stubbornness at your peril, young one.”
“Master—”
“I ought to have cleared the debris before going up to the second floor,” Qui-Gon interrupts. “Then my injury would not have been so grave. I rushed in my eagerness to help. You saved my life, Padawan, with your quick thinking. One of us was going to be more seriously injured in that fall, because there wasn’t proper time to slow the descent. I knew, right then, that I wanted that more serious injury to befall me. That’s my job as your master. You’ll have plenty of time, with your own student, to tear your arteries. A leg fracture is enough for now.”
Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Obi-Wan squeezes his master’s hand instead.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re incorrigible?”
“Oh, certainly.” Qui-Gon's eyes twinkle like stars. “All the time. Rael will be here in just a few minutes to annoy me, then Mace is coming. Tholme is bringing me dinner, and so I would like you to be grateful for your discharge and go get some rest in your own quarters. Is Quinlan still coming to sign you out?”
As if summoned by this query, Quinlan Vos, all hearthfire warmth, appears in the doorway with nine-year-old initiate Aayla Secura at his side.
“Obi-Wan!” Aayla exclaims, launching her arms around Obi-Wan's waist hard enough to elicit an oof. “Hi!”
“Hello, my very favorite initiate,” Obi-Wan replies, returning the little girl’s hug and tapping the edge of her nose. “Did Quin steal you from the creche?”
Aayla giggles. “Yes, he did.”
Quin clicks his tongue. “I did not steal her. I checked her out.”
“Like a book from the archives?” Obi-Wan teases.
“I’m on time and everything, and this is the treatment I get?” Quin protests. “Being harassed by my future Padawan and by my—” Quin stops, perhaps realizing that what he and Obi-Wan are does not yet have a name, but it is something. “By my best friend in the galaxy?”
“Truly ungrateful,” Qui-Gon chimes in, always happy to make more trouble when it already exists. “Quin, I entrust you with making my Padawan rest, all right? He’s being as stubborn as I am.”
With a wink, Quin salutes Obi-Wan's master. They might butt heads, sometimes, but they scheme together a lot, and their affection for each other runs deep. Quin knew Qui-Gon before he even met Obi-Wan at thirteen.
“Trust me, Master Qui-Gon, as soon as we take Aayla here to lunch, I have grand plans for your Padawan.”
Quin pushes a tantalizing tickle down their bond, and Obi-Wan would, in different company, bite him for it.
With one more squeeze of his master’s hand, Obi-Wan, temporary cane in hand, follows Quin and Aayla toward the closest refectory. Three rounds in the Bacta tank healed the fracture, but there’s a touch of pain and some stiffness that will dissipate after a week—so said Master Che. So said Bant, also, when she came to see him like she’d done every day during his five-day stint in the Halls.
Aayla, much more talkative now than she was when she arrived at age four, chatters about her youngling classes and her friends in the creche, and Quin plies her with more fizzypop than initiates are usually allowed. Watching Quin with Aayla, his gentleness and warmth with her, makes Obi-Wan love him all the more, which he didn’t really think was possible. As their relationship grows and changes, however, Obi-Wan finds he’s always wrong.
He can always love Quin more.
Once they deposit the little one back in the creche—after another hug for Obi-Wan and two for Quin—they head to the latter’s quarters, and Obi-Wan finds ....
“Is that my mattress on the floor with your mattress and both comforters?”
“Uh huh.”
“Is there a reason they’re on the floor?”
“There is, yes.”
Obi-Wan's eyes flick toward an open silver case on Quin’s dresser, and he takes in a hint of cinnamon in the air.
“Are those the flavored joints, Quinlan? Did you buy Corellian weed to get me high?”
“Closer to the Force, the more you know yourself or—” Quin bites his lip. “However the saying goes. These are Jedi-approved drugs, and you—” he jabs his forefinger in Obi-Wan's chest and gets him without much effort, with his back against the wall—“need to relax. Your master said so.”
Quin draws a finger down Obi-Wan’s cheek, and a click resounds when he locks the door with a wave of his hand. Casual and common as that is, Obi-Wan finds it impossibly sexy.
And Quin kisses him, full, hot, and eager on the mouth.
“If this is an ambush,” Obi-Wan mutters, his lips an inch from Quin’s, “then I’m in favor.”
Getting his thigh between Quin’s earns Obi-Wan a muffled noise that he likes quite a lot, but Quin, taking hold of the cane and setting it aside, isn’t quite done.
“I have a proposition.”
“I assumed as much.”
“You are always trying to take care of me in every possible way, and I appreciate it.” Quin traces the v in Obi-Wan's tunics with a tenderness that makes an emotion he’s scared to name well in Obi-Wan’s throat. “But sometimes, when I try to do that in return—”
“I do let you,” Obi-Wan cuts in. “You more than—”
“I know. But I’d like to really do that today. I’d like to smoke those joints and watch you relax. I’d like to draw things out. You’ve always really wanted to try that. Edging, or whatever? Can you just ... give yourself over to me for a couple of hours? You’ve had a hard time of it, Obes. You’ve been busy. Your master almost died, and you’ve been blaming yourself. I want to help, okay?”
Quin’s eyes, all big and brown with those flecks of gold, won’t let him go. They shine with a need that makes it easier for Obi-Wan to say yes. If Quin wants it, then it’s a starting point to Obi-Wan wanting it for himself. Which, he does, he really does, but it’s ... wanting things for himself has always been hard. He doesn’t even know why, really. No one ever told him he couldn’t. He just ... came out of the box that way.
“All right,” he whispers, and he can’t help the flush creeping into his cheek. “I’m all yours, Quin.”
“Just say no to anything you don’t want,” Quin replies, the Force bouncing with joy as he kisses along Obi-Wan's neck. “You can always trust me.”
“I always can,” Obi-Wan echoes.
Trusting Quin with anything, everything, has been a fact of Obi-Wan's life since he was thirteen. That Quin trusts him in turn after everything he’s been through? It’s a gift and nothing less.
Quin puts an album of Kiffar string music in the holodisc player, and Obi-Wan can’t say, really, if it’s the kind of music you get high to. He’s only been high once before with his master, who loves these particular joints that are popular in the temple—but in the Matcha flavor.
“Where’d you get these?” Obi-Wan asks.
“Kit,” Quin tells him. “He had some spare.”
The notes play pleasant in Obi-Wan's ears, and he undresses when Quin asks him to. The pair of them drop, naked, on top of the double mattresses, which are warm from the heating blanket that Quin must have put under their comforters. Quin hands Obi-Wan a joint and lights it for him. The silver-green paper burns orange-black, and it’s almost a shame. The paper is lovely. Quin’s lighter clicks a second time, and he gets his own joint going before flopping against the crisp white pillow. The intimacy of it melts hot in Obi-Wan's belly, and he takes a drag, managing not to cough. The taste of cinnamon fills his mouth as he takes stock of his friend. Boyfriend? Something in-between? It doesn’t really matter right now. Neither of them is seeing anyone else. Grown to a full six feet four, Quin’s legs splay out like a sculpture. His thighs, which serve to make Obi-Wan's mouth water every time they sleep together, have gained muscle in the past few months. His locs, loose from their tie, spill across the sheets, and the yellow ribbon in the front pops warm against his brown skin. His cock, just a touch hard in anticipation, looks as silken as always. Obi-Wan doesn’t think himself ugly by any stretch, but he’s still somewhat gangly despite reaching his full height, and he’s really considering growing out his Padawan cut. It’s tradition more than rule, these days, and Master Qui-Gon will not care.
But Quin ....
Quin is a masterpiece.
Thin wisps of smoke curl into the air as Obi-Wan settles with his head on Quin’s shoulder. Cinnamon sticks to his teeth. It always makes him think of Quin, because Quin always puts it in his caf, whether in the refectory or in here with his questionable machine that makes ... concerning noises. It’s a Kiffu tradition, or at least a Pethros tradition. Quin’s father put it in his caf everyday.
The slow slide of tension from Obi-Wan's shoulders makes him sink into the blankets. The Force enfolds them deep in its embrace, and Obi-Wan puts his joint out in the tray before he drops it. Shutting his eyes, he revels in the feeling of Quin’s fingers brushing over his stomach. Over one hip. Up his ribs. Gooseflesh follows behind, and this really is a meditation of sorts, isn’t it? Those fingers, determined to do their work, skim through his pubic hair. They toy first with his cock, then with his balls, and a calm pleasure, slips into his veins. He wants Quin, but he can wait. This is … it’s quite nice. Quin repeats the pattern once. Twice. Three times.
Quin takes another long drag off his own joint before pulling Obi-Wan to him in a side-by-side embrace. Obi-Wan's leg flings over Quin’s hip, his face buried against Quin’s chest, and he catches the scent of a new citrus cologne. Hmm, that’s pleasant, isn’t it? Fitting. With one arm, Quin holds him tight, while his free hand trails down Obi-Wan's back. Over the swell of his arse. A knuckle up his crease with eventual promises of more. Tangling his fingers in Quin’s locs, Obi-Wan kisses Quin, and, most of all, lets himself be kissed. Quin cradles his cheek and explores Obi-Wan's wet mouth with his tongue like an adventurer searching for new heights. That’s always been Quin, after all. That curiosity. The drugs let Obi-Wan moan when Quin sucks on his bottom lip before nibbling on it.
“You’re amazing,” Quin murmurs, and his voice shakes a little, unsure of himself. “Doing just like I asked, huh?”
Obi-Wan swallows. “I did say I would.”
They both often joke that Quin is the one with the praise kink, and it’s not at all untrue, as they’ve discovered, but those words, just now, made Obi-Wan's cock stiffen.
Well then.
They share a second joint, and Obi-Wan lets Quin kiss the smoke right out of his mouth. Quin holds the back of Obi-Wan's head like he’s the most precious thing in the world, and his fingers, trembling, card through the fine hairs there. Obi-Wan's limbs turn heavy. The weight of the world lessens. The Force swirls silver stars in his mind’s eye, and it hangs close around them. It might tell them its eternal mysteries if they asked. A golden sunset glazes Quin’s window, casting the pair of them in light. Obi-Wan's skin flushes a raw pink. All of him is warm. Loose. Kiss drunk. Quin moves into that sunset, the miracle of him, and fuck, how is it possible for anyone to be that beautiful?
Air catches in Obi-Wan's lungs.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Quin says, and he even younger than they are. “Qui-Gon’s okay. You’re okay.”
“It’s not that.” Tears well at the corners of Obi-Wan's eyes, and this is the downside of the drugs, or maybe it’s a good thing, in the end. “I just ... you—”
“You’re really good at talking Obes,” Quin teases. “Am I hot enough to make you forget how? Can’t say I mind.”
“Shut up.” Obi-Wan shoves at Quin’s shoulder, which is a silly thing to do, maybe, when his cock is hard as anything, and he’s high, and vulnerable. “I love you. Do you understand? Like that. You may say all you like that I shouldn’t, because you’re not good enough, or whatever other stupid thing, but I do. And you can’t stop me.”
Quin freezes, then he melts, all of him, on top of Obi-Wan. The pressure of it drives all the remaining stress from Obi-Wan's body, and he wraps his arms around Quin’s ever-broadening back. His knees slot against Quin’s hips like they belong there.
“You’re my sanity, sometimes, I swear to the fucking Force,” Quin whispers. “I need an anchor, and I think it’s you, and maybe that’s too much to ask, but—”
“It’s not,” Obi-Wan cuts in. “Wherever we go, whatever we are, I’ll be that. I promise, Quin.”
Quin answers with hot, desperate, open-mouthed kisses on Obi-Wan's neck that will surely bruise.
Obi-Wan doesn’t care.
A tingle spreads across Obi-Wan's body as Quinlan Vos worships every inch of skin he can touch. He mouths at Obi-Wan's nipples. His chest. The crooks of his elbows. His stomach and the curly copper hair there. Strong fingers massage Obi-Wan's thigh and then his just-healed calf. A thumb brushes over the white-pink scar. Rather than occupying himself with a scheme to give back what he’s getting, he lets Quin work. Just now, he’s sure he’s never worried about anything before. No, he was born in the cocoon of these comforters, and he might die here, too.
“Baby,” Quin says softly, trying out the new word he started using in private maybe a month ago. “Can I give you more? Is that okay?”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan breathes. “Please, Quin.”
Confidence pops in Quin’s Force presence, and he gets up, retrieving the lube from his nightstand drawer. Obi-Wan can’t help but watch Quin’s hard cock bob against his stomach, and it certainly is something that it’s all for him. Spreading his legs to welcome Quin in earns him a fire-bright grin.
“That’s right,” Quin says, continuing to try out this new dynamic. “I like it when you’re excited, Obes. I really, really do.”
Another kiss to the mouth. Quin’s fingers running a smear of lube down his chest, his stomach, and lightly over his cock, which pulls out a moan.
“Relax for me, okay?” Quin says as his fingers brush over Obi-Wan's rim. “It’s just me. Only me.”
Both of them are still kind of new to anal sex, having only started having it about half a year ago, but they’ve learned the basics by now. The newness of it, though, makes it really exciting, and Obi-Wan often tenses up with that and a little bit of anxiety—and that’s the opposite of what one needs. Quin’s better about relaxing when Obi-Wan tops, so today, Obi-Wan takes a leaf out of his book.
And he listens. Obeys, even.
Quin’s finger slides in. And out. In. And out. On the third movement, Quin finds Obi-Wan's prostate and presses the pad of his finger against it.
“Ah, kriff. Quin.”
“There?” Quin asks.
“Right there.” Obi-Wan's teeth dig into his bottom lip. “Just like ... just like that.”
Quin repeats that exact movement again and again and again, and it makes precum glisten on the tip of Obi-Wan's cock. It makes him lose sense of all reality. Of his worries. Everything. The air smells of cinnamon, and he offers a silent thanks to the drugs he scoffed at.
They really do enhance the Force.
Among other things.
It’s been a year since they first started having sex with each other in the first place—they were seventeen when it happened—but this is just ... different. The slow drag of Quin’s finger inside him is discovery. Their time together has been spent learning each other. It’s been spent learning more about sex in general and taking turns with things. They both had experiences of their own before they finally came together—Obi-Wan with Siri and Quin with Shylar. They’ve fumbled and they’ve tried new things and they’ve been so, so desperate to just be close that the sex is usually fast and needy. Obi-Wan has been so in awe of Quin’s body, so eager to make him feel good, to tease out those noises, that Quin usually has to wrestle with him a little to get him to focus on himself.
But this? Oh, this is revelation.
The sweet sting of his own blood hangs on Obi-Wan's tongue—he must have bitten it—and his old embarrassment at the mess of sex, at the slick squelch of Quin’s lubed fingers in his ass, falls away. That’s another thing about going down on Quin, or fucking him, or giving him a handjob—it's vulnerable, of course, but when Quin does the same to him? That’s rawness itself. It scares him, sometimes.
Today, it doesn’t. Maybe that’s the drugs. Maybe it’s just that it feels so good. Maybe it’s the miracle of Quinlan Vos.
Maybe it’s all of it.
“Eager huh?” Quin says with a trembling tease and a swallow.
Obi-Wan reaches up, sweeping a sweat drop off Quin’s face, onto his finger, and licking if away. “Talk to me like that more. I like it.”
Quin’s eyes pop wide, and a shit-eating grin overtakes him. Obi-Wan feels the ache of it on his own face.
“Do you want me, Obes?”
“Quite badly, darling.”
The darling gives Quin a shiver.
“Can you be patient?”
“Please. I’m not the once with the patience issue.”
“No, that’s not how the game works, Kenobi. Can you be patient?”
“Yes. I do suppose I can.”
Quin crawls up Obi-Wan's body, and if Obi-Wan whines, well, that’s just how it’s going to be. Usually, he likes making Quin whine, but Force, it feels good to just let go and not be worried about his stupid sex noises. They’re just part of the package, aren’t they?
“Come ‘ere,” Quin whispers, leaning over Obi-Wan again with his hands planted on either side of the pillow.
The kiss that comes next draws Obi-Wan's soul from his body. The heat, the slide of his tongue against Quin’s, is the Force itself. Obi-Wan shuts out the world.
Night falls outside the window, cloaking them in peace. Obi-Wan reaches between them and strokes up the vein on the back of Quin’s cock. It gets him the soft groan he expects, and he counts that in the column of his studied expertise on Quinlan Vos.
Quin gets Obi-Wan on his back again. Kisses trail lower and lower and lower, and Obi-Wan cries out when Quin takes him in his mouth. That velvet tongue twirls around the tip, fast at first before slowing down in remembrance of Obi-Wan's preferences. This goes on for a minute. Two. Three. An orgasm builds in the twist of that knot at the base of Obi-Wan's spine. Stamina, lasting longer, is an aim he definitely has. He is getting better. So is Quin. They learned well enough in their very thorough sex ed class that it takes time.
The quickness, however does often allow for … more than one round, sometimes.
“Quin.” The name spills out like a prayer as Obi-Wan twines their fingers together. “I need—”
Pulling off, Quin runs the flat of his tongue up the crease of Obi-Wan's right right thigh. He breathes in, unsure, before plunging forward.
“Can you tell—” Quin pauses, changing direction. “Tell me what you want, Obi-Wan. Exactly what you want.”
Kriff. Kriff. Obi-Wan is going to die in the best possible way. Mark his tombstone Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi Padawan, Dead From the Best Sex of His Life Before Reaching Knighthood.
“Your cock,” Obi-Wan replies, filthy and fervent, “in my arse. Now.”
That flush deepens. He’s not new to sex, anymore, but he’s new to that. He thinks he likes it. The abandon of it. The freedom of his want and nothing more. Being a Jedi is everything Obi-Wan has ever dreamt of, but having this? This private, sacred thing between him and the person who knows his insides? The release, the safety in knowing he can return to Quin’s hearthfire, makes him a better Jedi. The galaxy will take them this way and that, and Quin knows better than anyone how death comes when you least expect it. But right now, they’re alive. And Obi-Wan will treasure that for as long as they are.
He might be Quin’s anchor, but Quin is his home.
More kisses come next, and they turn into teeth and tongue and Obi-Wan’s gentle nipping at Quin’s neck. Lube drips onto Obi-Wan's stomach as Quin readies himself. Obi-Wan's legs, spread wide, invite Quin in again as he settles, busying himself with pressing yet more kisses to Obi-Wan's forehead, his nose, his mouth, and then ....
A feral noise comes from the pit of Obi-Wan's belly when Quin slides in, and their bond, Force alive, their bond, sends off sparks. Obi-Wan's calves rest on Quin’s thighs, and when Quin starts moving?
He lets go.
Nonsense tumbles from his mouth. Expletives fall from Quin’s. Obi-Wan feels Quin’s need to go fast, but the pace remains slow and steady instead, and Obi-Wan's hand goes to the back of Quin’s head. Obi-Wan holds him while Quin’s cock slides over that spot each and every time, somehow. Practice, Obi-Wan supposes. When Quin wants to focus on something? He does it without fail. It’s what will make him such a good shadow.
That also applies to sex, apparently.
“Feels good, baby?” Quin asks, and it’s half a tease and half an earnest question.
“Perfect,” Obi-Wan mutters. “Top marks, Quin, I’m—”
Quin moans at the praise, this time, and thrusts deeper, harder, and Obi-Wan Kenobi is going to lose his entire mind. Sweat drips down Obi-Wan's neck, and he revels in it. He revels in the damp skin and the slick sounds and the sight of Quin moving above him, his eyes flashing golden-brown in the dark. Hearthfire and stars meld together in the Force. The pleasure in Obi-Wan’s body elevates past anything he’s ever experienced. Quin’s ecstasy reaches him down their bond. They share each other’s delight as it pings back and forth. They moan against each other’s mouths with it. And that? It makes everything insanely good.
“Let me see you fall apart, Obes.” Quin takes Obi-Wan’s cock in hand, stroking slow as he nuzzles his neck, and they’re both shaking. “Please.”
The plea is what does it. That knot twists, it releases, and white strings of cum spill across Obi-Wan's stomach once, twice, and then again as a wash of heat passes over his body.
“Quin,” he says, his toes curling and his heart hammering, and he needs more, somehow. “Quin, please.”
He doesn’t have to explain what his please means.
Quin slots one of Obi-Wan's legs over his shoulder, and they both moan, loud, when he picks up the pace, going hard and fast, and kriffing Sith Hells, the overstimulation makes Obi-Wan's teeth buzz. The orgasm tears through Quin with a sacred cry of Obi-Wan's name and a pulse of wet warmth. Obi-Wan traces the familiar facial tattoos, brushing his thumb over the familiar swipe of yellow as an aftershock goes through Quin.
“Fuck.” Quin’s eyes glisten, and he gets onto his side, pulling Obi-Wan against his chest, all without slipping out, somehow.
They hold each other like that for a long time, almost like they want to crawl beneath each other’s ribs and make a home there. The high clings to them, and Obi-Wan laughs at he knows not what with his face pressed against Quin’s shoulder. Quin laughs, in turn, and when he finally pulls out, they wrap themselves in the comforters.
Obi-Wan can scarcely care about needing to do laundry.
“We’re getting really good, I think,” Obi-Wan says, tucking a loc behind Quin’s ear.
“Yeah, I think so. Imagine how good we’ll be when we’re like, thirty.”
Throwing an arm around Quin’s waist, Obi-Wan sets himself in the glow of that. Whatever they are, Quin wants it just like this until they’re thirty. Beyond that. Obi-Wan doesn’t want to break the moment with questions right now. They can get to that later.
“We’ll be experts,” Obi-Wan jokes. “Maybe they’ll let us teach the Padawan sex ed class.”
Quin snorts and tucks Obi-Wan's head beneath his chin. Obi-Wan might complain about Quin being several inches taller and protest that he himself is not short, it’s not his fault that he’s surrounded by giants, but he does like this.
“Thank you,” Obi-Wan adds. “For today.”
“You’re welcome, Obes,” Quin says softly, and with such tenderness that Obi-Wan might cry again. “You’re really, really welcome.”
Quin heats up soup from the refectory on his hot plate. They drink fizzypop until their tongues are sticky with it and watch bad late-night shows on the holo, ribs sore from laughing. They kiss and they kiss and they kiss, far past the high from the joint, until they are tipsy from touch alone.
When Obi-Wan sleeps, he rests like he hasn’t since he got back from the mission.
When he wakes, Quin is there, breathing with his mouth slightly open and all of him dappled in sunlight. The smallest drop of drool runs down his chin, and that touch of gross imperfection makes Obi-Wan's chest swell.
Obi-Wan Kenobi loves Quinlan Vos like a Jedi. He loves him with the whole of his heart and without laying claim.
Certainties are few and far between, but Obi-Wan knows that loving Quin will always, always be one of them.