John is sitting out on the grounds by the lake again. With a bottle of whiskey.While this is not suprising in the least, it is noteable that he is sitting, doing arithmacy, and drinking considerably.
Lo and behold, Quill doth come sauntering down the path to the aforementioned lake, a bottle of his own stashed oh-so-sneakily in his bookbag. Ostensibly going to study for the upcoming Potions exam, in fact he plans on wallowing in the seething rage his mother's latest letter has sent him into.
John looks up as Quill comes near. But he doesn't say anything. Because them? So not a thing here. Yes of course not.He simply moves his things a little so the other boy can sit down beside him.
Quill's stride falters for a split-second as he sees John, but he sinks down next to him with admirable casualness. His oh-so-sneakily stashed bottle makes an appearance, and he peers over at John's homework with a grimace. "Eugh." he mutters eloquently, and starts pulling out his own work.Quill doesn't like numbers. They give him vapors.
"Hi yourself," he says vaguely, smirking a bit and nudging Quill in the side with his elbow. He doesn't bother seeing what Quill is working on. Because he suspects like any sane student, it's potions because of the nearing exam.But John hates potions.
Very nearly everyone hates potions. But Quillian Roth has enough to deal with without flunking anything. Hence the last-minute studying. Blast."Mmm. Yes." He raises a supercilious eyebrow at the elbow, then smirks faintly. "How are you doing with that ghastly stuff, in any case?" he asks with a gesture towards said 'stuff'. Eugh, numbers.
"Fantastically. I'm good with numbers...." Scribblscribble. "And getting ahead is a good way to avoid studying for potions."
...Ahead?. Quill blinks for a moment, then shakes his head at the folly of athletes (despite the complete and utter lack of correlation between athletes and arithmancy) and starts studying. Oh the joys of naming all the uses one can make of Grindylow bile."Hmm. I find it highly unlikely that Professor Watson will take the excuse that you were 'getting ahead' in arithmancy as the reason you failed Potions, but do carry on."
"I won't fail." Supreme confidence. John can pass anything when he sets his mind to it. Barely. But he can pass. "Besides. No one expects me to do well. Quidditch player and all that."
A snort. Oh yes, Quill's opinion on the intelligence of athletes is well-known. "Yes, well, considering your peers, can one blame them? In comparison, you've probably already astounded them with your intellect, such as it is."
John pauses, blinking a bit as he glances over. "Thanks?"That was supposed to be a compliment, right?
"You are quite welcome, Sheppard." he smirks, only a faint hint of condescension in his voice. Which is the normal state of his voice, actually. It's when that condescension is absent that one should worry. As much of a compliment as anything that comes out of Quill's mouth can be, one must suppose.
He hums a bit, shaking his head and going back to his work. A second later, he pauses again for a drink.
Oh yes, the bottle! Quill pauses also from his contemplation of the myriad uses for a Grindylow's bile and takes a sip of his own. Why yes, it is purloined from his father's cabinet, and why yes, it does taste all the better for it."And how are things with you, by the way? Bloodied anyone in that game of yours recently?"
"Do you even watch Quidditch? Seekers don't touch anyone." He rolls his eyes. Scholar-types. Psh.
"No, actually. I've found being in the stands during a particularly spirited match is very nearly as prone to gaining one bodily harm as playing the actual game is." He sniffs disdainfully in lieu of rolling his own eyes. Athletic-types. Pfft.
"I prefer prudent, thank you very much." he smirks. "And if my father couldn't instill a love of violent and bloody 'sport' into me, then certainly no one else will."
John snorts. "It's not nearly as bad as all that."
He raises a naturally (or so he would like one to believe) arched and graceful eyebrow. "Oh really? I seem to recall seeing at least two cousins coming home from their games in various splints and bandages, with stitching all over. I'm afraid it did look rather as bad as all that."
"Okay. It can be as bad as all that. If your beaters are complete morons."
"I rest my case." he smirks.
"Still say you're a big baby," he grins brightly before turning right back to his work.
"Prudent." he grumbles, doing likewise. And if he happens to lean over and use John as a convenient backrest, well, there's nothing noteworthy about that. Nothing at all.
No of course not.John nudges him a little, smirking.
He huffs faintly at the unscheduled movement of his furniture, a suspicious tilt to his mouth, then continues pretending to study.