[ quentin has spent much of his evening wandering the party, occasionally being pushed and pulled around by pretty women and men. no one here is anything like alonso, at least - most benefactors a little domineering but otherwise mild in comparison. he takes to the baths first to wash off, but the heat has lulled him into an easy, relaxed state.

he's only half aware of his surroundings when he finds a spot to slip into the water all clothes left aside, strong arms splayed on the edge to keep him afloat. his eye wanders and, indeed, he notes the dark haired man just a few feet from him, the collar at his throat, the name. he'd almost been made to wear one himself, but he refused. ]

Mm, don't know about that. You've got a prettier throat - long and fair. One someone might enjoy getting their mouth on, if you let them.

[ his body is littered in marks - a few new from the night along the underside of his jaw, but a many older - particularly the bruise that looks like blunt teeth just on the left side of his pec, nipple pierced with a simple, silver bar. ]

quentin smirks when they meet eyes, unapologetically continuing his appraisal, a brow raised.