Peter Quill knew all about parties. He was an expert. He loved them, after all. Was almost an obligatory way to sign off on a mission. Took up quite a lot of any pay checks he earned, too. And so he’d seen a lot, done a lot, gotten into bar fights in Knowhere and partaken in pub crawls on Contraxia. That was one area where his knowledge was truly something to behold. He could be an academic if he wanted to be, pioneering the study of how that ubiquitous desire to get wasted and do stupid shit manifested in different alien species.
Recklessly imbibing intoxicants, ritually disassembling all inhibitions, engaging in acts of revelry and depravity that resulted the next day in awkward conversations and painstaking attempts to recreate memories lest some grave error had been unknowingly committed – these were by no means unique to human cultures. No, Star Lord had travelled throughout the universe, met dozens of big personalities from dozens of species, and though there were few true universal social norms (hell, even metaphors and basic morality seemed to be of a limited reach), some sort of zest for partying, some zeal for recreation, seemed to be as close to a universal as one could get.
So yeah, Peter knew a lot about what to expect. But he was still…well, this was new to him. He hadn’t really been to any big human parties before. Well, as a kid he’d been to parties, but they were a different sort of party altogether. The focus was on cakes and balloons rather than drinking and hookups. Which wasn’t to say Peter didn’t love cake and balloons – thankfully they were here, too – but yeah, Peter’s focus was on the booze and the flirting.
He knew roughly what to expect. As a kid, he’d witnessed enough adults on night outs, absorbed enough culture, saw enough TV that he shouldn’t have been watching, to have a rough idea of what American parties were like before going on. They weren’t too far afield from what many other species had – and there was the benefit of knowing every substance on offer was physiologically compatible with his internal organs. Which, you know. Reassuring. Some aliens ate sand or slurped the blood out of live space worms or inhaled noxious gases that made mammalian hairs catch alight and the like, so cool. Peter didn’t have to worry about that.
It was fun. It was great. But the feeling that this was home, that this was the life he could have lived…yeah. That was surprisingly exhausting. Quill wasn’t normally so vulnerable to sentimentality, but the drink had definitely worsened his defences. So he needed a break. Needed a bit of a respite. Peter decided the roof was the best place for that. And, drink in hand, he stepped out into the cool night air, expecting to be on his own. But he immediately saw that he had company.
“Birthday boy!” he yelled. He flinched, immediately realising that he might have made his younger namesake jump and slip or something, but that spasm of fear was short-lived, washed away as he took another sip. “How are you finding your party?” Peter Quill spoke with emphasis on every syllable, a consequence of his inebriation, walking towards the younger man to share his view of the night sky.
Once near him, to where he no longer needed to shout to be sure he got heard, he slumped against a rooftop air con unit, looking over at the nice view. The New York skyline looked pretty good too.