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Hi. This is Tim.

From the baths.

I meant to get in touch with you earlier, but everything got crazy last night after we separated. Did you make it out alright?

[ those ellipses last a long, long time. but he's trying, okay. ]

Tim from the baths. A good name. Strong name.

I left the party and had a very comfortable bed to fall into, so I would wager that outcome is more than alright.

Yourself?

Edited 2024-07-15 05:34 (UTC)

Tim Laughlin. Sorry. Did I not say so before?

You missed the wolf man? That's good.

I'm not hurt, so that's enough, considering everyone who was.

Of course you did. I like Tim from the baths more. There's a ring to it.

But sorry

what

wolf man?

I had a great time with you, but I don't think I want doing all that in public to be my legacy.

I know it sounds crazy, but it's true. It was half man, half wolf, and it was attacking people. It was gruesome and horrible, I'm glad you missed it. I'm in the hospital with someone now.

There could be worse legacies, Tim Laughlin.

But half man half wolf? I'd ask if you were imagining things if you weren't in the hospital with someone

Are you safe? And your friend?

I’m safe. It wouldn’t attack me.

He was hurt pretty badly. He was awake for a little while, but he’s out again. He’ll pull through.

I'm glad you're safe.

Have you eaten? Breakfast is about to start. Let me bring you something while you tend to his sickbed.

I don't think so. I'm not hungry, though.

When did you eat last?

[ an empty stomach can be the death of a man on a ship taking a long journey. it's habit to want to see to basic needs like this. ]

[ when he thinks about the answer, he realizes Quentin's right... ]

At the party. Before we met.

Right then. I'll bring you breakfast once it's out. Can't wait to see their faces when I take platefuls and run - I think they believe it's very improper.

[ it's a little attempt to raise his spirits at least. ]

Edited (one day ill remember html) 2024-07-16 04:25 (UTC)

Thank you. Just don't get yourself in trouble, alright?

And what trouble would there be if I fill my plate and say I'm taking it to my room? They don't need to know my appetite isn't that of a thousand soldiers.

Should I bring something for your friend, in case he's awake?

I guess not. I must be on edge, given everything.

The hospital is feeding him. And he won't be in the mood to meet you, so let's hope he's still asleep.

Which is nothing against you. He just gets jealous sometimes.

Oh I see. A very particular friend then.

Let me bring you breakfast. If your friend is awake, I'll find someone else to visit and leave your food somewhere you can collect it. I'm very clever when I want to be.

While I await the great feast, talk to me. It's never any good to sit and stew alone when your heart is aching.

Much more significant than that. I'm sorry, I should have told you. It's hard to explain.

I don't want you to hide, though. If he's upset, I'll deal with him.

okay. about what?

And why would you need to tell me? Your bed partners are your business. The ones of the heart? Even more so. We had a lovely evening you and I. To me that is the most important part. Did you enjoy yourself? Then it was a good evening.

Tell me what it is you do, Tim Laughlin. You may laugh - as some have - but I’m a sailor. I suspect we’re from different places, you and I.

I did enjoy myself. I didn't mean to offend you. Where I come from, it's frowned upon to be sleeping with multiple people.

A sailor. Were you in a navy?

I was a staffer for a prominent senator. I quit and enlisted right before I woke up here.

Oh I'm not offended, sweet man. I mean only to say that if you want another hot bath together, my door is open. If you don't, then my door will be open then, too. I try my best to never meet strangers where I go.

The navy helped, yes. Royal Navy.

But tell me what is that? senator. I don't know that word. But enlisted? You were fighting?

I do.
But I shouldn't.
I have someone I'm devoted to, and last time I was with you, he got torn to shreds. Which isn't your fault. You were perfect. That's on me.
I don't know. Haven't slept much either. I'll have to think about it

A senator is someone who makes the laws. And I hadn't gotten around to fighting yet. I was due at training in a couple days, when I woke up here.

My door is open for more than just a romp sweet man. Take care of those who feed your heart first.

I'm glad you didn't go to the fronts, whatever those look like where you're from. You're too important to lose yourself to violence because of some senator's laws. Those men are called chancellors where I live. They serve the Regent.

Our worlds are so very different.

A romp is kind of an unpleasant way to put it. But then you call me that. It's confusing.

How do you know I'm so important?

Regent to a king? My country doesn't have kings. We have presidents, and the people get to decide who it is.

Is it? Well that's what it's called where I live, and it's not a bad thing at all. I think I'm not quite so good at this in writing - but I enjoyed spending time with you.

There's a softness to you. I've seen many places, met many people, but you don't often meet the ones that shine like you do. Soft, sweet. Just a gut feeling.

The Regent is our King, I suppose. President? What a funny name. The people get no say in the Regent's bidding in Solastra.

It just sounds so impersonal. Frivolous, you know? I usually take it a lot more seriously. But I don't regret it, I did enjoy my time with you.

I'm sorry. I'm embarrassing myself.

[ He has the impulse to defend himself from the soft allegations, as he would most surely have to do if this conversation were taking place at home. But it isn't a thinly-veiled accusation, a suggestion of a secret that has to be locked tight in polite company. It's a compliment. One that doesn't make sense to him, with the casualness of the rest of it. It feels good, though. ]

I'm sorry that you have to live like that. That's what the enlistment is for, though. Overthrowing dictators that don't listen to their people.

Oh the first thing you must do is stop apologizing. There is nothing to apologize for, unless of course you would like to apologize to this serving maid on my behalf. I suspect she'll have to restock of the food when I'm through.

[ there's a little time, the dots coming and going and then: ]

Dictators will undermine themselves in time. They're stupid - ah, sorry, I think I dropped - oh yes it's for an ailing friend I couldn't leave them -

[ whoops, did he just discover voice to text? maybe. by accident. ]

Quentin?

How do you turn this off? Oh, you are a shining -

[ whoops. someone shouldn't be juggling this new contraption and a buffet line. it takes him far too long to punch out letters and words. thankfully, he salvaged the food before he dropped it, mishandling plates and phones and other items. ]

These strange things are very complication - they must be their own form of dictator in this realm.

I didn't realize it could copy what we speak. It would be easier than hitting all these lettters. What room are you and your companion in? I'm bringing food, and you don't get to say otherwise, sweet man.

[ Insert room number i forgot ok ]

Thank you. It's very kind of you.

[ he's never been to the hospital on the grounds but it takes little time for him to navigate, carefully minding the over-filled plate he has covered with another, walking through the halls with the confidence and ease of a man who should be carrying a hot plate of food into a medical ward.

he's astounded, first, by all the noises - whirring machines and beeps, but he comes to the door of room where tim sits inside, looking quite different from their run-in at the baths. quentin is dressed a little more casually as well, stuck with what the house has provided him, but oddly enough? his hair is braided back along his skull in what some might call a french braid. he's a little bruised up, but he doesn't make note of it. instead, moving to set he food down on the bedside table like he owns the room the injured companion of tim laughlin rests in. he keeps his voice cown. ]

I don't know the names of some of these items, but I've been assured they're all delicious. [ eggs, toast, pastries, fruits... you name it. in fact, he swipes a little cinnamon roll and with little restraint, presses it to tim's lips softly. ]

And I insist you eat in my presence, else I will have to return every morning and make a fool of myself juggling eggs in the dining room. I think the maid took pity on me when I spilled the milk. Go on - eat.

[ It’s not the casual bedroom clothes that makes him blush when Quentin arrives, though they do make his tired eyes linger a second too long. It’s not knowing what’s underneath them, or the memories of last night, or the way he confidently saunters as if he does not know or care that it’s completely inappropriate. It’s the damn cinnamon roll, still warm and soft and slathered in sticky-sweet icing when Quentin presses it to his lips.

Wildly inappropriate.

He takes the miniature pastry from Quentin, their fingers brushing together as he pinches it between his thumb and forefinger, licking the bit of frosting from his lip. ]

Okay, I’m eating. [ Putting it in his mouth. See? He’s a very good boy. He follows directions. ] We can talk in the hallway.

[ Head gesturing towards Hawk, thankfully still asleep. Let’s keep it that way. ]

[ all quentin knows is that he tried the little confection at the maid's insistence and he'd enjoyed it, so naturally he filled his plate with a handful for both of them, among other food items. he smiles, pleased, when tim takes the little pastry. he doesn't hesitate to grab another and pop it into his mouth. which means he's quietly talking around it for a few moments. ]

I see that you are eating - I had no idea that's what it looked like to eat. I so appreciate you informing me.

[ teasing again, and he shrugs, grabbing a napkin full of bread and cheese, walking out into the hallway with a glance back at hawk - all bruised and exhausted. only when they've left the quiet of hawk's room does he turn back to tim, pressing the little bundle of food to his chest. and then, as though it's nothing, he reaches to push the hair from tim's forehead with a familiarity he hasn't earned. ]

You don't have to eat all of it, but at least one.

[ He appreciates Quentin’s attempt to keep the mood light, he really does, but he can’t muster more than a soft hum at the teasing. This Tim is different from the sweet, bright-eyed boy from the baths last night. He looks withered and exhausted, he’s gone without sleep even longer than food, dutifully locked to his lover’s bedside, cycling between tears and prayers, if not mixing them together into holy gibberish. His face is puffy and dull, only finding color now because of Quentin’s bold behavior.

You can’t touch me like that, this is a hospital, he means to say, but the words die in the back of his tongue. It’s completely wrong, completely crazy, to let him do this where anyone could see them, not least of which is Hawk, just a wall away. But he does. His body craves the small sliver of comfort even with his mind screaming at him to reject it. Tim takes a deep breath, accepting the fingers smoothing out his fringe, and in so doing, smells the plate of food. It makes his stomach rumble. ]

I will. [ He plucks piece of sausage off the plate and bites it in half. ] Thank you. This is really sweet, you didn’t have to do any of it.

[ tim looks worn out - and from the sounds of the happenings over the last day alone he can imagine why. the man in the bed just inside of the room looked worse for wear, and he can see in tim's eyes the level of care he's gone to. he's pleased, though, when he eats at least a little bite of something. ]

Mm. On my ship, we always take care of those who walk aboard, whether they are strangers or family. If I'm to be stuck in this place I don't see why it should be any different here.

[ there's an easy sort of smile, quentin happy to hold the plate for him. he hears that stomach rumble, though and knows he made the right choice. hindsight - he's not sure he told tim where he hails from, but he doesn't seem to mind either way. ]

And you're right, I didn't have to do it, nor did I feel obligated. I may be a sea-faring brigand but I do have a heart, mind you. What have they said about his recovery? I heard all the noises and all the... things in there. I'm not familiar, but I hope they're helping him.

[ He shuts down Tim’s fretting with ease. He has a way of making everything seem easy, Tim’s already gathered, whether that’s debasing himself publicly or accepting his help in what should be the most awkward possible context in which he could ever need it. Quentin explains it away as if it’s as natural as the wind, letting him get swept away on it. This is fine. Maybe it’s even good, to have something to distract him from worrying, praying, and tears for a few minutes.

Tim gives him a tight smile and takes the plate, taking another sausage from it once he’s sitting down in one of the waiting chairs next to the door to Hawk’s room. ]

They think he’s past the worst of it. He was conscious and awake for a little while, but they have him on a lot of medication for the pain, so he’s out again. He’ll be okay, as long as there’s no infection and he keeps resting. It’s just... [ a pause, to calm down. To chew. ] I should have been there. We had an argument about something stupid, so I ran off, and...

[ Hawk almost got eaten over it. Thinking too much about it is making him lose his appetite, but he knows, logically, that he does need to eat. He nibbles at the end of a boiled egg with no enthusiasm whatsoever. ]

Tell me about being sailor.

[ Distract him. ]

You can't be everywhere you'd like to be, or you feel you need to be - at once. That's something I learned very easily as a sailor.

[ he follows tim, settling in one of the chairs beside him, expertly balancing the plate of food on one thigh so that tim can reach the plate with ease. quentin goes for one of the cinnamon rolls again, almost boyishly pleased at how sweet it is on his tongue. ]

My father was the Captain - a Naval ship. So I might as well admit my blood is half seawater anyway. But we'd miss things - birthdays and parties and big political things because we were traveling. I became his navigator, so as you can imagine I was very busy.

[ he grins, shrugging one shoulder. ] You can only give as much as you're able to - and that's enough. I like to think of it this way - if you're out on the waters and there's a storm that takes your crew for a spin, maybe you think later - if only we'd stayed in port longer. But the storm actually gave us the wind to make time to a new port, where I met a very good friend of mine. I was meant to be in the storm to find the moment after. The wolf attack may still have happened, and if you were there, who would be there to care for him?

[ another cinnamon roll, and this time he chews and speaks around it. ] You can't let guilt lead you astray.

If I were there, he wouldn't have been attacked. It wouldn't touch me.

[ If he hadn't walked away when he got his feelings hurt, if he had fought harder for what he wanted instead of turning on his heel and running away, again, he wouldn't be where he is right now. Hawk wouldn't have been injured, and Quentin wouldn't be sitting next to him and placating him into eating smiles and sweet words. They wouldn't even know each other. That would be...no, not better, but he would be focused. What kind of person thinks about another man's beard scratching against his neck when someone he actually loves is in the hospital?

Tim was overwhelmed before Quentin got here, and he's not making it better, despite his trying. It's good, physically, to be eating, but emotionally, it exposes more cracks than it patches. ]

Guilt isn't always a bad thing. It reminds you what's important.

[ Being pedantic, helpful. He sighs, tired, and takes another bite of his egg. With bacon. Getting there. ]

Some things happen for a reason. I think we're all here for a reason, for instance, and it's got to be deeper than the Balfours messing with us for fun. But fooling around with you in the baths while he was getting torn to shreds was a choice I made. Not God's plan.

[ tim has an optimism and belief in good that quentin lost some time ago. not completely, but that light has dimmed and sitting here even in tim's insistance and indignance, he finds himself refreshed by it. he steals some of the little pastries from the plate himself, letting tim talk, letting him get it out.

but at the end, he shrugs a little bit. the choice sounds like maybe tim thinks their bath meeting was a bad thing, but he doesn't comment. it wasn't bad at all, actually. instead, he sighs and reaches across to squeeze tim's shoulder. ]

You wouldn't have made the choice had you known, but you didn't. I know not being there for him must have been quite difficult - but for what it's worth, I think our meeting was quite serindipitous.

[ he raises his brows a little then picks a piece of fruit from the plate. he shouldn't talk around a mouthful but he's a sailor - and he does. ]

I don't know what gods your world worships, but we're all put here on these lands for something, yes. Some reason. But I think we ran into one another at the perfect time. You shouldn't be tending to his sick bed alone all the time. It's exhausting. So maybe I will annoy you in the future, but for the moment here we are. You'll simply have to continue looking at me, whether you like it or not.

[ It isn’t optimism that makes him so sure he could have prevented this attack, it’s tried and tested fact. He doesn’t know how or why, but the beast didn’t just neglect to attack him – it avoided him. It’s optimism to believe this is important, that he might have some greater purpose here than taking useful information back home, assuming he’s not here to purify his soul and failing catastrophically at every turn.

Case in point, the right thing to do would be to shrug the hand off his shoulder, apologize for the misunderstanding and dire lapse in judgment, and ask this impossibly kind man to leave. If he weren’t in such a frazzled state of mind, he probably could, but the comfort of the warm, heavy hand on him seems worth that extra little bit of decay in his soul right about now. Tim leans gently into it, and turns to regard Quentin with sad, tired eyes, hoping some of that summery brightness will rub off on him. ]

...I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make it seem like it was...

[ A mistake? No, it certainly was, and the evidence of that is laying on the other side of the wall, stitched up, drugged up, and hooked to a machine that beeps as his heart beats. Not every mistake must be a disaster in every way, though. He’s glad to have met Quentin, and despite himself, he’s glad that he’s here now. A supportive voice is what he needs, because he’s right. This is exhausting. ]

You were wonderful. You did everything right. It’s just complicated, for me. I told you, I don’t do that often.

[ Hookups. And when he does, Tim either never sees them again, or it evolves into a monumental, life-changing thing that he completely loses control of. Even with a full stomach and a good night’s sleep, this would be confusing. ]

And when I do, he doesn’t bring me breakfast in the hospital the next day.

Edited 2024-07-23 18:34 (UTC)

[ he squeezes tim's shoulder again and laughs softly - not mockingly, but more endeared and amused. this sweet man's heart is bigger than the room they're sitting in, and even his body was not mad a container to fit such a thing. it's hopeful, to see good people in the world after so long of seeing nothing but darkness and pain. ]

Tim. You greatly over-estimate how easily upset I am, but I think you do that for many people, by the look of you.

[ he smiles easily, letting his hand slide a little further, so he can brush his thumb against where his neck meets his shoulder. he dips his head to find the soft brown of tim's eyes, smiling. ]

And I'm terribly, regrettably sorry that I brought you breakfast when it is quite obvious you need to eat. Perhaps we had a little fun in the pool on a night that terrible things happened, but you have to understand my expectations are as simple as this - breakfast, among friends. Nothing more, nothing less.

[ he sits back, swipes another little pastry from the plate, chewing thoughtfully. ]

And how you need to try these chocolate ones next, get some good food in your belly, and return yourself to a man you love very much. But if you don't like these expectations, you'll have to do a great deal to change my mind.

[ The apologies aren’t solely for Quentin’s sake. He doesn’t seem to let anything phase him, but Tim is very different. He feels guilty, and not just because of what happened to Hawk in the meantime. He approached Quentin last night under false pretenses, having mistaken him initially for someone else entirely, prowling the bath out of anger and hurt that this man had nothing to do with and doesn’t deserve to be involved in, gave him parts of himself that he reserves for lovers. Serious connections, not tawdry hookups. If the roles were reversed, Tim would be hurt. He would expect something, if only some assurance that there weren’t a long-time partner, of sorts, waiting in the wings. That ought to be the bare minimum. Quentin’s carefree attitude about the whole thing doesn’t actually assuage his guilt. ]

I’ve never been friends with someone after. [ Quieter, hushed, as if it’s a scandal, because it is: ] After sex.

[ He takes the little chocolate one, as instructed, obedient despite his little protests here and there. He’ll have one, to please Quentin, and then return to the healthier bits on the plate. He’ll need the nutrients to take care of Hawk. Science, not appetite, forcing him to eat, but most of the work is being done by his new friend. The idea of which still sounds so strange. ]

Don’t say that so loud.

No one can hear, but I won't say it quite so loud.

[ he gives an easy little smile, shrugging one shoulder as he swipes a piece of fruit from the plate. he had his breakfast, but a sailor will always eat when they can. he can't help it when it's laid out in front of him. it's subconsciously why he grabbed enough for both of them. ]

Love is a terrible thing - it hurts even though it's one of the most magical things in all the land. Or so I'm told.

[ he doesn't know a romantic love, per se, but he can't help but think of his father and the way he'd have dried up every sea in the land to keep him safe, to protect him. and in tim's guilt he can see his own - he knows what it's like to not be there when someone needs you most. when what happened is, at the core of it all, one's own fault. ]

And if you don't want to be friends, it's a simple as that. I brought you breakfast to thank you for the evening, and we are two men on our merry way. But I'm sorry you've never left someone's bed feeling like more than a piece of convenient meat. That, too, is a terrible feeling on its own.

[ Tim nods solemnly, wondering to himself a little more than is appropriate, whether Quentin is speaking from his own experience and just being coy about it. He feels, like all lovers lost so deeply in the sauce that they’ll never swim out, that this is too profound and painful to possibly be universal. People wouldn’t be able to function. The economy would grind to a halt. In this moment, with Hawk laying injured, the heartache feels catastrophic. If everyone felt like this, it would be entirely up to kind souls like Quentin and their help, to avoid complete societal collapse. There can’t possibly be enough people like him, seemingly unphased by anything. ]

I didn’t mean I don’t want to. [ With a tiny smile. It doesn’t come naturally; he must force it with all the strength he can muster, but putting forth that effort is proof that he’s being honest. ] Just that I feel very...awkward, about it. Forgive me.

[ He busies himself looking down at his hands as he peels a boiled egg. Awkward indeed. Without looking back, ]

You didn’t make me feel that way.

[ Neither did Hawk, but that should be obvious enough, the way he’s leashed himself to his bedside. It’s far beyond what he would call friendship, either way. ]

[ quentin sits back in his seat, watching tim pull the egg apart, eyes focused in a way that reeks of someone tired, strewn out, anxious, awkward. it's endearing really, to see the small pull of a smile on tim's lips and he shakes his head. ]

I wasn't saying that. Simply giving you the option - I get the feeling you don't get to choose very often.

[ can you stay a few more minutes - had been heartbreaking in a way, stuck with him. ]

So, we'll be friends. It's settled - I'd say we could shake on it, but at the risk of ruining your boiled egg, we'll forgo that for now. So if you need me, you know how to contact me now on these little things they gave us. Awkward friendships are still friendships, mind you, and seeing what I've seen now -

[ a gesture to the hospital ward. ] A friend who is simply around but needs nothing is what might be best.

[ he plucks up a piece of fruit for himself before he sighs a little, rising to his feet. he's never been one for subtlety, and at least here, the injured what is surely lover of tim cannot see. he offers his hand to tim, insisting he rise. ]

Come here a moment.

[ I get the feeling you don't get to choose very often. It cuts deep, exposing a raw nerve within him that he'd rather keep hidden. He tries, keeping his focus on his egg and the plate of food in his lap, but he's never been a good liar, and so it's written on his face. It's uncomfortable because it's true, not just of his unsatisfying history of hookups until now, but his whole life for the last few months. Told that Hawk made his choice without so much as a conversation, brought here against his will, the choice he'd made to run off and enlist taken away from him. Things have been happening to him, and all he can do is react.

Last night, he chose this, and he's grateful that the choice is still his to make, lovers or friends or something in between. Everything is too overwhelming to know for sure right now, but Quentin is so inhumanly patient that he doesn't feel any pressure to. ]

Thank you, Quentin. You're a saint, honestly.

[ Tim raises an eyebrow up at him, but complies, wiping his hand on his pants before taking Quentin's, letting him pull him to his feet. ]

Oh careful now, I'm the farthest sailor from sainthood, actually. You'll change your mind come morning.

[ but he's not ignorant to the cut of darkness washing over tim's soft features. he's an attractive man, of course, but something there beneath the glasses and flop of downy hair shifts and he doesn't like the look of it. quentin toma is far, far too good at finding things, and not knowing when it's better to keep them a mystery.

but tim takes his hand, as confused as he is, and that is delightful enough. he gives a tug, closing the space between them and wrapping his arms around tim's shoulders, tugging him close. there are no whispers, no little kisses, no wandering hands - just the strong flex of his arms and crushing their chests together, so that tim may see it's not just his own heart beating by itself. ]

As your friend, I strongly advise you take care of yourself. Life's rough on the seas, and you're in a storm just now. It'll pass - but it's a storm all the same.

[ he draws back just enough to meet tim's eyes, quentin's smile turning a little soft at the corners. ]

Finish your breakfast, yes?

[ What time is it? Tim’s certain that it’s already come morning, at least from the time they met in the baths. The breakfast food still on the plate confirms it. He must have been sitting in that room for eight, ten hours? With no end in sight. He’s far too tired to resist the hug, which he might have otherwise out of a sense of propriety that would forbid it even if he didn’t have a lover laying injured on the other side of the wall. Now that it’s happening, warm, strong arms wrapping around him, it’s only a fraction of a second before Tim admits to himself that he needs this. He clings back, holding tight like some small, drowning creature climbing back to the surface, tears welling again at the corner of his eyes at the first true physical comfort after the longest, scariest night of his life.

He races to wipe his eyes before Quentin can see them, and loses. It’s uncomfortably vulnerable, but it’s a vestige of the past that’s making him feel that way, old scoldings about which feelings boys are allowed to have in public, old accusations that were true before Tim even knew what they meant. Old judgements. He doesn’t feel judged by Quentin in the least, even if he feels like he should be. ]

I will. I promise.

[ Quentin will get a picture of an empty plate in a couple hours. ]

I should get back, though. I need to be there when he wakes up. Thank you, for this, again.

[ oh, quentin can't stand the tears, and not out of anything nefarious - only that pretty-faced boys like tim laughlin shouldn't be sad like this. but he can understand what it's like to nearly lose someone you love, and feel like it's your fault. his father died because of him. he'll never forget it.

so he squeezes tim one last time before releasing him, and reaches up with one thumb to gently swipe away a rogue tear. ]

Good.

[ a small smile and his hand drops to tim's shoulder, giving a squeeze. ]

Yes, you should be there when he wakes. And no need to thank me - eat your breakfast or I'll have to come back and scold you.

[ he gives his arm a final, firm pat, swipes one more pastry off tim's plate with a little amusing waggle of his brows, and starts away from him, hands in his pockets, walking back down the hallway he'd come from. ]

Edited 2024-07-30 22:39 (UTC)

so don't freak out if you see a big snail in the room. he's from back home. and he talks. we use them instead of these that we use to talk? anyway he's feeling a bit down from the trip through the library.

A snail that talks?

Do animals often talk where you're from?

yeah! we use them for making calls instead of these phone things. you speak to them and they send the message to another snail who gives your words to the other person. always wanted one.

i don't know any other animals that talk.

A snail? Does it leave a trail everywhere?

Strange. They're so slow - how do they pass the messages back and forth? It seems inefficient. These phones they gave us are so fast - I almost wish we had them back home but it's better we don't.

they don't really move much so i don't think so.

i don't know, but they do. they just know what the other one is saying no matter how far away. with their minds i think someone said. they're just as fast as these things.

Don't let it slime on my carpet.

Is there another one of those sending snails then you can use here? Should we all ask for magical snails?

When it's rested, I want to see it.

i don't think he'll be going far, but he does love lettuce so if you have some he might move.

only one here. i didn't think the library would send one when i asked. we think he might be a bit broken but we're going to keep watch and see.

come see him any time!

I will steal us a head of lettuce for which to feed him then. I might as well bring a gift considering he is now one of my bunk mates.

But broken? How can a snail be broken? Did you damage his shell?

they like head scratches too.

yeah i think so, he keeps saying the same phrase over and over. i don't know what it means but it obviously means something to him. his shell is fine!

Lettuce and head scratches. What strange creatures.

What does it keep saying?

i guess they know what they like.

it keeps saying omelette du from arrge?

what

[ oh look he's interested in copying luffy's text style, too. it's easier without having to hit all the buttons. ]

what does that even mean? omlette du from arrge. do you know where arrge is? what strange creatures.

(It is so much easier, though one could argue that a future king of the pirates should be using punctuation.)

i don't know what it means but that's all it says. i don't know where arrge is but maybe it'll be in a book in the library. they're the best creatures i can't believe we have one.

you can get smaller ones too to carry around in your pocket.

a book in the library, right. i'll look today - or certainly ask for a book about it.

after that, i want to meet your sending snail from arrge.

if there are smaller ones - how big is this one? should i be concerned that we have a snail the size of a gull or one the size of a bear?

you can meet the snail any time, he's living with us so you'll be seeing each other often!

this one is about the size of

(Give him a moment to think.)

a cat? a small dog?

a snail the size of a cat or small dog?

we'll need plenty of lettuce then i presume. are you keeping him in your room? her? does it have a name?

[ important questions. ]

right. or maybe cats are snail sized?

lots of lettuce and he can stay in my room. i think if the snail was a she they would have said by now. and we're working on the name, you're welcome to add to the suggestions!

[ well then. ]

snail sized cats - i agree, this is the most logical.

[ it's not. ]

i'll think of some names, but in the meantime i'll let you know what i discover about arrge. maybe you can communicate better with it once we know. it could be homesick.

[It's late. It's between two and three in the morning, judging by the clocks on the walls and on the phones. And Koby knows he shouldn't, but he's almost sent this exact message a hundred times over the last several days. So, finally:]

Are you awake?

[ he's a light sleeper and so unused to technological sounds that when the little phone on his bedside table goes off, he starts awake. he lays in bed blinking for a moment, coming back to his body, then reaches for the phone.

koby. odd. ]

of course, was just considering a late night snack. you?

[Koby regrets sending it immediately, the flood of self-loathing like a tidal wave, having him biting his nails ragged before the response even comes. He almost doesn't reply, almost leaves it for some later conversation, to be dismissed as sleep-messaging or the like.

But he's not sleeping. He hasn't been since jerking awake in sweat-tangled sheets, heart racing, breath seizing in his throat, brought back over and over and over and over to that hold, that ship, that voice in his ears. It seems impossible that after all that's happened, he'd still be dreaming about it, but he does. Every single time he goes to sleep. Every time except --]

Yes. Can I come over?

[ something about the message feels strange, but in many ways he's still getting to know koby, still learning the ins and outs of the strange, enchanting man he met on his first day here. so, reserving judgement: ]

you don't have to ask.
the door is unlocked.

[ which has him sitting up, trying to wake himself up a little bit more, to take account of his room which is a bit of a mess, really. papers, maps, books, trinkets, some food wrappers from luffy, a head of lettuce waiting for the snail.

but he pays no mind to it - and instead tries to wake up a little all while sitting in his underwear, face flushed with the warmth of sleep, his hair a tangled, wavy mess. ]

[There's not another message, because the frenetic panicky part of Koby just seizes onto the permission, the promise of relief from the swirling nightmarish images that still claw at his mind, this late at night. He's down the hall, taking the route he's taken -- at least a dozen times by now, again and again and again, though never this late at night, never without a smile and full composure.

He has neither, now, not striding rapidly down the hall, not when he finally gets to Quentin's door, not when he stops and fidgets and paces and fights with himself before slowly grabbing the knob, turning, slipping inside. Koby's -- a mess, more than usual, still wearing the same clothes he'd had on during the day, hair mussed, eyes red-rimmed and bleary and glassy. His glasses are still folded on the bedside table, so it takes him a moment to find Quentin in the dim light.

When he does, he just -- looks at him for a long, silent moment, the only sound the shuddery shiver of each breath. It's not cold, but Koby's shaking all over, standing by the door, leaning back against it, arms crossed and hands white-knuckled from clutching himself so tightly.

Finally:] Did I wake you?

[ he hears koby outside before he enters, the pattering feet, the breathing, and seeing him in the dim light of his room, he stares for a moment, takes in every inch of him. it's all wrong - the lines of his arms tightly woven over his chest, the fists, the red-rimmed eyes, the clothes he'd passed him by the day before.

he's up and out of his bed in an instant since koby doesn't approach. he's a little sleepy footed, but it doesn't stop him from moving for the door and scooping koby up into his arms immediately. he knows fear when he sees it and presses the other man tight against his body, fingers sliding up to cradle the back of his head. ]

What happened?

[ his voice, usually sing-song and light takes on a rugged, deep timbre. serious, like a man readying himself to go to war. he pulls back enough to see koby's face, to look into the puffy, red-rimmed eyes. ]

What is it, Koby?

[There's a part that, awfully, sickeningly, cringes back when Quentin approaches, a flinch that Koby can't quite control, not when he's this tired, not when there's blood and fire and salt in his mind. A shuddery inhale, and Koby's opening his mouth to say everything's fine, he's being stupid, he's being ridiculous, he's sorry to disturb, he'll go back to his room where he belongs.

That's not what he says, though, because Quentin scoops him up, easy and effortless, warm and solid and real, real, like a scourging fire that sears away the ghosts in Koby's head, and his arms are up and around Quentin's neck, clinging on with all the strength in his shivery muscles, and he makes a sobbing sound of relief as everything inside him goes quiet. It's impossible to speak, for that moment, too dizzy with relief to articulate what's happening, what's happened.

But Quentin asks, and Koby shakes his head, quickly, realizing what it must look like, how it must seem.] N-Nothing, nothing happened, it's just -- dreams, they were just dreams. [It comes out too shuddery, too choked-off, and he's crying again, because of course he is. Because he's crybaby good-for-nothing Koby and that's what he does. One hand pulls away, swipes furiously at his eyes, at the tears that well up and keep welling, streaking down his already teary face.] Just dreams.

[ the sound of koby's sob moves something in his chest, like a hot poker, stabbing and sharp and fierce. he would storm the halls and drag every single person out of their rooms and question them, beat them into the fine marble floors if he had to, in order to find out who has done this.

his grip only tightens on koby, his mouth falling to his forehead, his temple, his hair. anywhere he can reach to sooth him. ]

You're safe here. I've got you. I'm here.

[ he breathes teh words furiously into his hair, but when he hears it - dreams - the anger in him fizzles out and turns into a sickening ache, instead. the dreams of someone trapped in a tumultuous life, a dangerous life. he makes soft shushing sounds against koby's hair and with little ceremony bends his knees and all but picks him up. it's elegant, but he manages to get an arm under koby's knees, lifting him up to his chest on a soft grunt before turning for the bed. ]

Come to bed - they're not going to bother you now.

[ it's not graceful the way he carries koby, kneels up onto the bed and settles the man down among the mussed covers. but he never ceases contact, moving to fall into the spot beside him and wrap his whole body round him, crushing him to his chest, mouth kissing at spilling tears and the bridge of his nose, fingers petting his hair softly from his face. ]

I won't let anyone harm you.

[Nightmares are a constant for Koby -- when he was younger, they'd be about the possibilities, about horrible happenings he saw in newspapers or books, pirate raids and burning villages, waking up half the dorms with his panicked sobbing every few nights. On Alvida's ship, the days and nights bled into one another, rigidly restricted by the amount of sleep he was allowed, never more than a few hours at a time, a habit that's carried over until now. In the Marines, having other people around meant that Koby's habit of keeping his nightmares quiet continued, but there was always work to do, always reports to file and decks to clean and something to do.

Here, there's no work to numb his mind, beyond the research and studying and note-taking, so Koby does that, he pushes and he pushes and he pushes and eventually he can't anymore, he ends up like this, a sobbing, sniffling mess hiding his face in Quentin's neck, drawing in shaky, sharp breaths, one after another, staccato and helpless and near-panicky. He can't lie when he's this upset, the dam stemming his emotions cracking under the soft words against his tangled hair, the arms around him. He wants to crawl into the safety Quentin offers, wants to build his home in those words, in the arms around him, the kisses scattered across his face, but he shouldn't, he can't, he -- can't remember why he shouldn't or can't, not right now.

So Koby just sobs, hiccupy, embarrassing, heaving sobs, every stress from the past few months -- from the past few years -- welling up uncontrollably. He's shaking like a sail in a storm, hands coming up to grab onto Quentin's, trembling so violently he can't get a good grip at first. And all the while, as he's carried to the bed, as he's laid down and gathered close and held the way he's ached for since longer than he can remember, Koby apologizes, the sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry on every exhale, like a compulsion he can't stop.

It stills a little when he's curled up on Quentin's bed, in the warmth of his sheets, the warmth of his arms, and Koby looks up, breath hitching, voice hoarse from crying, and he's honest and raw in a way he'd never let himself be in the daylight:] I have them every night. Every time I sleep, every time I close my eyes, I'm there, I'm there, I can hear her, but I don't -- have them here. I don't have them with you.

[It spills out, uncontrollable, water from a tap, blood from a wound, and Koby's hands curl into fists at Quentin's back, like he might disappear as he chokes out:] Can I -- can I stay? For. For just a little. Just. Please, can I stay tonight?

[ the body shaking sobs and the apologies come streaming out and he doesn't bother to try and quiet them, doesn't tell him to stop apologizing. he continues to smooth his hand over koby's hair, from his crown to his nape, press kisses where he can and let the other man soak his chest in tears. he just holds him tightly, lets him roll through the emotions like a sloop on a storm, tossed and turned in the night, sails haggard and worn.

but slowly, slowly, koby begins to come to, and all he needs to hear is her and he knows that should the pirate Alvida ever show her face on these grounds, he will put her in the bottom of the lake one way or another. he will seek out every little fear, find the buttons to press to make her come undone, and bring her to ashes. to bring a bright star like koby low, to dim his light with haze and clouds -

it's unforgivable. ]

Every night?

[ he hums lowly, listening, pulling back to wipe the tears from his face and kiss his damp cheeks, the flush across them, his forehead. ]

You can stay tonight - there's no need to ask. You can come every night. We will climb into bed as we would climb onto a warship and gun down any of those dream pirates. I won't let them harm you - not here. I won't stand for it.

[ his voice lacks all of its playful warmth, filled instead with a dogged determination. something aout the look of koby so fragile against him moves something again in his chest - the stupid, beating heart behind his ribs. the thing he's kept locked up for years and years now, protective. but here it is, thumping heavy and awake against his chest. ]

I've got you, Koby. You're safe here. [ he's going to keep saying it, over and over, until one day koby might believe it. ] And you've done well coming here. Dealing with these - nightmares are.... they're cruel.

[The worst of the sobbing is abating, and this is normally when Koby would start apologizing more, would try to disentangle himself so he can retreat somewhere quiet and dark and lose himself to the spiral of self-loathing for being so weak, so helpless. Except he's never done this before, never opened up the throbbing wound that those two years had gouged into him to this extent, let it bleed out the poison onto another person.

So all of this -- Quentin's hands smoothing through his hair, stroking away his tears, Quentin's voice with a deep, steely timbre that speaks of years on the sea, of the fearless determination that lends -- is new. It's something Koby has no defense for, wrung out by the teary panic finally bursting free, left raw and vulnerable and curled up in Quentin's arms, with no recourse other than to be honest. And to have that honesty seen, known, and welcomed in with open arms, even while Quentin carries his own wounds is -- unexpected.

Koby sniffs, draws in a shuddery breath, tipping his chin up so his teary, reddened eyes can catch Quentin's, can remind himself on every level that he's here, he's safe, he's safe, a concept so unfamiliar that it shivers around beneath his ribs like a living thing.] Every night. I think -- that I'm back, that I need to get up soon and do whatever she's thought up for me to do. Scrub the deck with a toothbrush or mend sails until my fingers bleed or watch her execute prisoners. That was her favorite, she had a -- mace she'd use. Just.

[A gesture, one vague, shaky hand sweeping through the air.] And I had to clean up the blood, after. I used to cry, every single time, and she'd just. Laugh at me. Tell me I had to get used to it, had to toughen up, or I'd be next, and sometimes I'd wish...I'd wish she'd just get it over with. [Koby laughs, hoarsely, humorless, hand dropping to Quentin's side, fingers shaky against his ribs.] I'd wish she'd just kill me and make it all stop. But she wouldn't. Because I could write maps and I could clean decks and I would do anything she told me to because I was too scared not to. Because I was such a fucking coward-- [His breath hitches, face pressing back into Quentin's shoulder.]

You’re not a coward.

[ quentin nearly sounds furious with the very implication that koby survived simply because he was a coward, that he wasn’t brave. he doesn’t let koby sink into the familiarity of his shoulder, and instead draws back enough to look him in the face, to let his palms slide and cradle it there, not allowing him to run from this. ]

And if you speak of such things again then I will throw you overboard myself the first time we set foot on the same vessel.

[ he shakes his head and fiercely kisses his forehead, letting his lips linger against the skin. ]

You played that woman - you bent to her whims and didn’t lose your spirit. You could have easily sacrificed yourself and succumbed to her anger and here you are. You’re here in this wretched cage with the rest of us and stronger for it.

[ his hands slide up and into koby’s hair, threading it away from his face before returning, thumbing gently at the tears there. he hates seeing him upset like this, feels a fire in his belly for his alvida woman - one strong enough that he knows for certain he will see her dead by his own hands should she arrive. the pirate woman and her crew.

he lets out a sigh, keeping koby’s eyes on his own. ]

Tell me what happened when Luffy saved you. Tell me how you adventured and helped a kind pirate, how you became a marine, how you overcame everything she said you weren’t worth. I want to hear you say it.

[There’s been fire in Quentin’s voice, in his movements since Koby had first stepped shivering and teary into his room, but it only registers now, with the ferocity of his words, refusing to accept something that Koby’s known to his marrow for years now. It stops the self-loathing spiral in it’s tracks, leaves Koby wide-eyed, blinking a few times at the savage tone, at the possibility that someone, anyone could look at him and not see all the ways he’s lacking. There’s no room for argument, not when Quentin looks at him that way, not with those eyes locked to his own, deep and bright and stormy.

Koby draws in a shuddery breath, still trembling, still half-caught in the roil of emotion he’s never, never let out before. Then he exhales, and his hands slowly move up, covering Quentin’s, seeking the space between his fingers and squeezing tight.]

Luffy found me. He – saved me and sank the ship. And I went with him, and I joined the Marines and…and it was hard and it was complicated and I wanted to give up, b-but. [A shuddery breath, more tears on his face, but his voice getting stronger with each words, his hands white-knuckled on Quentin’s, a tether, a guideline, a true north in a storm.] But I didn’t. I didn’t give up. And I proved myself, and my commanding officer saw it and he said – he said I did well. He said he was going to train me himself, because.

[A shuddery inhale, half-laugh, half hiccuping sob.] Because I had potential. Because I wasn’t…I wasn’t what Alvida said I was. I wasn’t useless and pathetic and a waste of space and I wasn’t her toy anymore. [Koby sniffs, exhales, tips his forehead to press to Quentin’s, nose bumping his, hands loosening in favor of stroking both thumbs across his knuckles, breathing in the scent of him, the sound of him, the warmth of him there, real, real and bright and unyielding like the sun itself.] And now I’m here. With you.

[ as koby begins to tell his story, quentin squeezes his hands and simply hums in response, acknowledging each point made and encouraging him to continue. they may still be getting to know one another, but quentin can read between the lines of koby's story, and the things he hadn't known - the blood, the fear, the terror - that's all something he will hold onto, use later when koby needs bolstering, protecting.

but he listens to the end of the story, the way koby's able to catch his breath as he tells it, the way he steadies in his arms. he smiles a little, encouraging, even if the intensity still burns behind his eyes. ]

She didn't know the first thing about you.

[ he leans his forehead against koby's, letting their noses nudge and their breaths mingle on the air between them in the dark. one hand pulls away from the other's, moving to wrap around his waist again, palm splaying against his back. the other stays, fingers twining. ]

And did any of what you said - did that sound like a coward's tale, Koby? Someone who would be better off nothing but a smear on the deck? Hardly. Let her think what she wants, but she's wrong and even if she was here, she'd have no power over you now.

[ he smiles. ] A dream is just that - a dream. A bad one, a good one. And maybe she haunts you there, but she has no power. Only you do.

…no. It doesn’t. [It feels like it should, like the fact that it’s Koby, sniveling, whining, cowering runt Koby, should make up for everything else, should blot out any spark of courage, any brave actions. But it doesn’t. If the story had been about someone else, Koby would admire them. So he exhales, reaching up with the heel of one hand to wipe at his tears.] She. She knew about me. That I'm...that I used to be...she was the only one, in that world, who knew. [There's a shaky exhale, almost a laugh.] She always said it meant she knew me better than anyone. But if I saw her now she probably...probably wouldn’t even recognize me.

[Those big teary eyes close in something like relief at the slip of Quentin’s hand down his back, warm and firm and grounding, tethering Koby to the earth, not to the thoughts that are always, always spiraling in his head. He snuggles closer, breathes in the now-familiar scent, sweat and sleep and fresh sheets, something sweet from dinner that Quentin had let himself indulge in, so close Koby can nearly taste it. Part of him wants to, wants to sink into the thrilling, delicious, all-consuming fire of those hands on his skin, that mouth on his, the tangle of their bodies like drops of water coming together.

But he’s so tired. He’s so tired, and it’s enough to just lie here, like he had that first morning after Quentin had arrived, that strawberry-flavored late morning, in this very same bed. Thinking of that, Koby smiles, weary and faint, eyes half-open and sore from crying.] I don’t think about her here. I don’t have any dreams when I sleep with you.

…did you mean it? That I could come here whenever I wanted? [It’s late, it’s so late and Koby’s whole body feels wrung out like a damp rag, so he can’t fully suppress the note of longing, of hopefulness in the words.]

From the looks of things, you never were what she thought you were. She just made sure you were afraid of yourself more than you were of her. She's a right cunt.

[ he shrugs a little bit, knowing very well what the implication here is, but he's met many people in his travels that seem to have been born in the wrong body. that seem to be and exude something else entirely than what they're made to fit in. and isn't that just what they are? bodies with souls inside of them, trying their best to live?

he sighs, petting koby's back, tracing soft little patterns over it to help soothe everything that's happened tonight. still, he finds a furious heat burning in his chest, a rage that can only be matched by what he feels for the regent. and yet, when he looks down at koby, his expression softens a little. ]

I don't waste time saying what I don't mean. I just like to say what I mean in a variety of ways. Come to my room whenever you see fit. My bed is your bed. You're staying here tonight, whether you like it or not. I insist.

[ he dips his head in, kissing him gently, sweetly, nudging their noses together. ]

Do you understand, Commander?

[There's more Koby could say, more about the horrors of those two years, of the things he was told, the things he endured -- but the insult is so bluntly savage, so unexpected that he chokes out a surprised laugh, chin tipping upwards, amused and teary in equal measure.] She -- she really was. Just terrible. And her ship was ridiculous, it was shaped like a duck.

[Then Koby stills, watching the silhouette of Quentin in the dim light from the moon outside, from the hall outside the warm safety of the room, watches the shape of his mouth, the tumble of his tangled hair. The kiss comes, sweet, soft, feeling like forgiveness, like absolution for every shameful tear, every choked-out memory. Koby's hand reaches up, finds Quentin's cheek in the dark, strokes along the sleek line of his jaw, his beard.]

I understand. Yes. [Another kiss, quicker, but no less fervent.] Thank you, Quentin. For -- for being awake. [For everything, he means, sniffling and drawing away long enough to prop himself up on his elbow and tug his shirt off, letting it drop on the floor for now, then snuggling back closer.]

Shaped like a duck? Wow, she really is a cunt then, to walk around acting like that with a duck shaped ship. Ridiculous.

[ he laughs a little, shaking his head and nosing into koby's hair when he returns from removing his shirt. quentin reaches to pull the covers up over them both, making sure koby is nothing if not secure in the bed beside him. he reaches again to brush any stray tears and dampness from the man's face, leaning into the little kisses offered. ]

It is no small feat that I was awake for you - you do know how sailor's enjoy their rest. [ a grin and he settles back into the bed himself, rolling to his back and tugging koby up along side him, keeping him close. ]

So you should stop thanking me while you're ahead and just let yourself in next time. No questions asked. It will be easier for both of us. [ a tease. ]

[There's another of those laughs, watery, soft, against the warmth of Quentin's mouth in the dark, as Koby tucks himself down into the cocoon of blankets and smooth, warm, bare skin, as he finds that place where he's worried marks into the other man's skin, where neck and shoulder meet.] Her mace was shaped like one too. She was very big on theme. I think she liked that I had the same hair color, maybe? I don't know, it doesn't matter.

[Koby sighs, one hand stealing out, sliding over Quentin's chest, past the piercing to where his heart beats, steady and soothing. One fingertip traces absent designs -- loops, swirls, something that might be a K.] Mmm, that's fortunate timing, isn't it. Stroke of luck.

...I'll knock. Just in case you're indecent. [Also teasing, but in a way that suggests he's going to take Quentin up on the offer, punctuated with Koby's roughened palm settling flat over that pulse, settling there.]

I doubt it looked half as good on her. Again, a royal cunt. Though that might be offensive to associate her with all other royal cunts in the world. She's a breed of her own.

[ he yawns a little as they finally settle in, one of his arms looped around koby, keeping him tucked in tight and close, the other settled on his arm above his elbow, so as not to impede the soft little movements over his chest. he's tired, but he doesn't plan to sleep until koby drifts off - wanting to be sure that the dreams don't chase him into his sleep again. ]

No need. I prefer you to find me indecent - and where's the fun if you don't take a little gamble here and there. [ he tips his head, pressing a kiss to his forehead. ]

You should rest.

[Again, a soft huff of a laugh, this one vague, sleepy. The shattering weight of the nightmares that had seemed so insurmountable, so overwhelming now feels very, very far away. Already drowsy, Koby mumbles into that notch where shoulder and neck meet:] She can't get me here.

[Then, drawing another vague looping shape, a circle or a heart or the like, over Quentin’s breastbone, then tapping it gently:] You rest. Decent or no. Dream something nice.

No, she can't. Not here, and certainly not with me here.

[ it's gentle, a sleepy murmur into the soft pink head of hair against his side. it's easy to grow comfortable here, to settle into koby and imagine his visiting nightly on better terms. for them to come together and drift lazily on their own paths on a calm sea. ]

I hope you have a sweet dream to chase all the others away.

[ he's not sure if he falls asleep or if koby does, or if they both do, but quentin goes still, his breathing evens out, and sleep pulls him back down into the comfortable dark. ]

Can you start buttoning your shirt at breakfast, please? It's very distracting.

and why would i do that? it’s uncomfortable.
these are the clothes they provide. i could tell them to give you a blindfold, if that’s easier for you.

Edited 2024-07-29 18:57 (UTC)

I'd look like an insane person.

but you would no longer be tortured by the sight of my chest over your breakfast.
i could feed it to you, since you wouldn’t be able to see.

Eating out of your hands would be even more inappropriate than looking at your chest.

you could always take your breakfast in bed.
then no one would see at all.

it’s a win win.

You are a monster, Quentin.

i am but a sailor and a man.
would you have me any other way?

my door is always open.

I wasn't complaining. If all sailors were like you, I would have joined the navy instead.

i think you would make an excellent sailor. you have the build.

and on the deck of a ship, wind and sun in your hair - we’d never accomplish anything.

What's the right build to be a sailor?

Where would you get into trouble like that on a ship?

strong arms. strong legs. strong back.

should i keep going?

and there are plenty of places. i’m the navigator - the crow’s nest is the perfect place for some trouble if you’d let me lure you there.

I'm too far away to possibly stop you.

Above everyone's heads?

you’re right. then i’ll go on about your hands, maybe your eyes…

far far above their heads.
you see nothing but sky and they’ll never hear a peep from us.

My eyes? No good for sailing. I'm nearsighted.

Is that where you invite all the boys you like?

sure they are - they'll catch the sun just right.

boys and girls alike, sometimes - boys are easier to hide on the ship. not many lady sailors, but plenty of lady pirates. sometimes the galley, sometimes the bilge room.

i can be flexible. but you? i'd take you to the crow's nest. lay you out so all you saw was sky.

Girls too?

That sounds nice. Do you miss it?

well of course. like the variety, the fun.

i do. grew up on those ships making all manner of trouble. but this place isn't so bad.

you see now why i enjoyed the baths so well. among other things.

That sounds stressful.

I can't even message you without feeling like a selfish ass, if I were worried about women too, I'd drive myself crazy.

not stressful at all. i am simply not concerned with what i'll find beneath a shirt or a dress. i am lucky to meet many wonderful people this way.

and why do you feel selfish? i don't see you being selfish at all.

That's completely foreign to me. There's just the one acceptable way to be, where I'm from. I guess if someone could be attracted to anyone, they'd just choose to stay "straight" so they're not punished for it.

You don't think it's selfish to entertain these little fantasies and not actually do anything about them?

that's so very restrictive, but i know some people prefer it that way. i travel so often between places it can be difficult to connect with anyone buy my crewmates. sex is one way to connect even with a stranger.

wouldn't you agree?

so no, i don't think fantasies and little games are selfish at all. sometimes not doing anything at all about them can be half the fun.

I don't usually feel connected after. Just dirty.

Except for the man I was with at the hospital. And you. Which is confusing. I barely know you.

that's a shame

but you care for that man deeply, i can tell. and as for me? well, i don't know. i don't expect anything from my partners, as long as we both enjoy ourselves. it's hardly fun if i'm only going after what i want.

Or a reminder.

You gave me exactly what I needed at the time. I guess I'm used to more selfishness than that.

you deserve better.

but you should also consider you gave me exactly what i needed, too. it's not a one way street.

That's nice of you to say.

How so?

it was my first day here in this place.

my home is quite different. you were sweet and warm.

I'm happy I could give you a warm welcome, then. I'm working through some things right now, but I am glad. I really do like you. I'd have shut down the flirting messages if I didn't.

Different how? Other than the sailing.

oh best of luck to you shutting down my overt affection - I've been told I'm insufferable.

we don't have these devices for one. we have electricity, but not so many devices. it's run by the sea, and lights our homes and such. people here mention countries that don't exist in my land. the laws are different, the rules are different, the customs.

You're on the borderline. But I like it.

We didn't have these either. Mine is kind of close to this one, but in the past. A lot's changed in fifty years, but not everything.

How are you adjusting? I've been doing alright at it, if you need a hand.

i do enjoy a borderline and seeing how far i can move it.

but at least your home is similar. the foods here are different, the culture. the comfort. i've enjoyed it, but there are things i'm sure are similar here and home - none of this can be free.

everything has a cost. i've been figuring things out, with a little help. i've recently been made aware that you can take pictures with these devices.

I don't know how how I'd cope if I was from somewhere completely different. You're braver than me.

You can. It's handy. Where I'm from, we have cameras, but they're bulky, and it takes time. This is instant.

i don't know about brave, but i'm certainly not afraid to throw myself into new places. i'd be a terrible sailor if that were the case.

change is all part of my landscape. but i like the pictures - i wish i could have pictures of my home to show you. the boat, the water. do you miss anything about where you're from?

You could be. You never specified.

My family, obviously. My church, too. Not a lot else, really. I was running away from a lot when I ended up here.

oh, well then i suppose you’re right. please consider me the most inept sailor you’ve ever met.

running from things? that i can understand. do you like this place better then?

Guess it's lucky you're so handsome.

Those things all followed me here. I don't know. There's a lot to like and a lot to hate. It's overwhelming.

well, i'm honored a handsome man thinks i'm handsome.

but it is overwhelming here. it's better for me here, than it is to go home. but i know we don't have a choice either way.

:)

Is it really? I thought it would be weird for you being stuck on dry land now.

it is, in many ways.

admittedly, i haven't been on the sea in over a year back home. i miss the sea.

Really? Why not?

[ Surprising, given that Quentin self-identifies as a sailor. Not 'I used to sail' or 'I like to sail', but a label implying that it's part of him. ]

there's a war. all the lands are involved.

[ he just doesn't mention why that war keeps him landlocked. ]

Were you fighting in it?

fighting to stop it, in a way.

[ in as much as he can, seeing as he was instrumental in the main offender's success. ]

But you'd rather be here? Than stop the war?

[ It does occur to him, in fact, that he's prying too much, that Quentin doesn't owe him any answers about things he doesn't understand in the first place. But he's drawn to Quentin, for better or for worse, and with that comes curiosity. ]

i don't know that i can stop it. i'm also the reason he's made it as far as he has.

it's complicated.

It sounds like it.

I won't press you if it's too personal. But I do want to know about you. I'm here to talk if you want to. I've never been part of a war, but I think I'm a good listener.

the leader of my country wants control of the continent and he will do anything in his power to bring the other armies to their knees. someone told him i had skills that could be helpful to his cause.

he made it clear i had no option but to help.

You were coerced by a dictator? What was he making you do?

[ how does he answer that question? how does he lay down the list of the many things he's asked to do, the many faces he has to wear, the many walls he hides his heart behind? ]

in a way, yes. i was acting as an advisor, of sorts. my hands were tied, i could do nothing to change my circumstances.

sorry, this is quite a dreary tale when it's so beautiful outside.

You said he was exploiting some skills?

We can talk outside if you want to. It doesn't have to be about this.

it's better you don't know what that means. if he shows his face here, it's better to act as if you don't know me at all.

i'm by the lake with my shirt unbuttoned - will you survive the sight?

You have to know that only makes me worry, right?

It's expected at the lake, not over eggs and waffles.

of course i do, but you'll simply have to trust me. please.

i'll make sure i leave one more button undone for you tomorrow morning, to commemorate this moment.

I trust you. I care about you, too. Remember that if something happens, okay?

Thoughtful as always.

well of course, sweet man. i could never forget a heart like yours.

and i am nothing if not a gentleman. i live to serve you - or at least your eyes. :)

You're a monster.

so you've told me. i take the title with honor, sweet man.

but when will you loose one button for me at breakfast? i am a man starving.

Maybe I'll just start calling you that from now on.

I'll meet you in the middle. I can lose a button if you can add one.

by all means, i'll accept it with great celebration.

a bargain tho - one that you're on the losing end of. so fine - consider it a deal. button for button.

It's a win if I can keep my eyes on my food.

👾

we'll see about that, won't we?

... what is that? is your phone broken?

If you scroll past all the faces, you get all kinds of things. It's the closest one to a monster that's not a ghost or a zombie, I think.

there are faces in this thing?

interesting.

so you think i look like that little purple thing?

of course not. you look like this one 😏

if it had nice wavy hair

how ever did you capture my face so perfectly?

you like my hair, do you? your fingers always feel so nice in it.

All the time spent staring at breakfast paying off, I guess.

I do. It suits you. Men don't wear it long very often, where I'm from.

no more staring, as you will have nothing to stare at with all my buttons buttoned!

really? men cannot simply wear their hair as they please? mine was long enough to braid once, but it kept getting tangled in the ropes.

Your face. But I can't ask you to cover that, nothing you can do about it.

Nothing is stopping you, technically. But it's considered improper. Either feminine (which is considered bad, for men) or rebellious (bad for everyone)

People try to fit in, for the most part.

i could wear a sack over my head. would that please you, sweet man?

and oooh, improper, feminine, rebellious. i like all the sounds of that. what's not to like.

i'm sorry you are so forced to fit in. would you grow your hair, if you could?

Don't you dare.

Thanks. I guess. I didn't know any different, so it didn't feel like anything was wrong.

I don't know. Maybe, just to try it out. But I've seen my sister fuss with hers for ages, I don't want to waste my mornings doing that.

oh struck a nerve? but you just said i was so distracting.

you’ll waste away if you don’t eat your breakfast.

and there’s very little to do - get it wet, slick it back and let nature do what it will. it’s not all so bad. but i like your hair - just enough to get my fingers into.

As you've made so clear to me already. I'll eat. Promise.

We're not all blessed with waves. Mine just sits flat. Unless someone's hands are in it, fluffing it up.

ooh, a promise. good. if you break it, there will be consequences.

and the hands in your hair, fluffing it up? that can be arranged.

I'll deserve it. If it break a promise, I mean.

Oh, I'm sure it can.

👾

oh, only if you break the promise? disappointing.

i’m an excellent planner, i’m sure we’ll find the time.

If you want to spank me simply for the joy of it, just say so. You're not shy about anything else.

oh i always want to spank you for the fun of it, but i think you like trying to earn it too.

what a good boy you are. :)

[ Whyyyyy is that still so hot to him over text? ]

Always? You lay awake at night, dreaming about the jiggle? You poor thing.

oh does it jiggle?

don’t remember considering i had my hands full of it last time.

You weren't looking at the right angle.

didn’t have to look, considering. only had to feel. and it felt lovely.

i’ll look a little closer next time, get my face between your thighs so i don’t miss a thing.

[ 🥵🥵🥵!!! ]

We've got quite a list going for next time.

[ Maybe they'll need to spread it into multiple times...hypothetically... ]

oh, i’m on a next time basis now?

i’m flattered. i’m available at your earliest command, sweet man.

You're the one who started saying next time, don't be so surprised.

well yes and this is the first time you haven't rebuked me. suppose i finally wore you down, did i?

You're a hard man to say no to. Best I can do is "be patient"

oh i'm not asking for anything. i'm a sailor, after all. i cant wait on the sea as long as the wind takes me.

Oh, I know. I don't mean that I feel pressured, it's not like that. You're a perfect gentleman.

oh you take me too seriously. let a man flirt and pretend to be a pining lass waiting for her sailor to come home and capture her heart.

You're a very silly person.

I say that with affection.

and here i thought i was a monster?

You're multifaceted.

truly an honor, sweet man.

Are you going to Koby's tonight?

i wander in and out on occasion. i wouldn't say it's planned.

are you?

I'd say it's more than occasional. But eventually, yes, probably. You don't think I'm outstaying my welcome, do you?

I wanted to ask you about something you said a while ago, about how pain can be purifying sometimes.

how could you outstay your welcome? koby would tell you.

and i said something so profound? pain being purifying? it can certainly be pleasurable if applied the right way.

but go on - ask your question!

He'd rather be nice than kick me out.

I think that's what I need right now. I was wondering if you would help me.

he won't kick you out. trust me.

but if you need a little help in that department, well. you do know my door is always open. a little afternoon fun never hurt anyone.

I know, but that wasn't the question.

I can meet you in half an hour, if you're not busy.

he's happy to have you there. so am i.

my door is open - let yourself in.

[ Before the half hour is through, he'll do just that.

Tim knocks to announce his presence, but does as he's instructed and lets himself in without waiting for Quentin. He's dressed more casually than he usually is when he's out and about - no jacket or tie, the cross that's usually around his neck already removed and placed snugly in his pocket - but more than the sailor's likely been used to, creeping into Koby's room in the middle of the night while Tim's been crashing there. The strangeness of the arrangement hasn't quite faded for him, but rather, he's learning to embrace it, accepting that he has so much more to learn about what desire looks like when it isn't shaped by one specific person. ]

Hey.

[ His heart's been heavy, and his moments of solitude dark, but the moments he's been allowed to intrude (invited, welcomed, they've both stressed repeatedly) on Quentin and Koby's whatever-they're-calling-it have given him enough to float on to keep his head above the water. He's grateful for it, all that gentleness and acceptance that seems to come completely without conditions, but that's not always what he needs. Penance is more powerful than coddling.

Anticipation buzzing underneath his skin, Tim closes the gap between them and offers Quentin a kiss, as sweet as always, at least for the next few seconds. ]

Are you sure you can do this? If you're too sweet it'll defeat the purpose.

[ Looking up at him and chewing at his own lip. It almost sounds like a challenge. ]

[ quentin has just gotten out of the shower by the time tim arrives, having just sat on the edge of his bed when the door opens, the sound of a knock announcing his arrival. he'd have been slightly more considerate and slipped into underwear at least had he realized the time. instead, a dark towel is wrapped snug around his waist, his hair dripping wet, rivulets of water running down his neck and shoulders.

but he smiles seeing the man he rises, leaning into the kiss offered without hesitation, humming and pleased behind it. he reaches for tim, broad palms sliding up his sides, to his shoulders. ]

And what, you think I'm too soft? Too sweet? [ he huffs a little, letting the challenge carry them into setting the tone for what exactly tim desires. ]

Are you doubting me, sweet little man? [ a cluck of his tongue, one hand sliding into the hair at his nape, curling into a fist and giving a sharp little tug to get his attention. ]

Not too soft. [ Raising his hands to touch Quentin too, fingertips grazing over solid muscle, wiping away drops of water, forgetting to breathe for a moment as he watches more drip from his curls and onto his chest. ] But you are sweet, and patient, and generous.

[ The things that he likes about Quentin, that keep him drawn in his direction despite how strange this arrangement feels if he lets himself think about it for more than a second. They let Tim trust him enough to ask this of him at all, or assume that Quentin understands what it is he needs when he struggles to verbalize it himself. He can forgive him for the wrong he's done, all the poor decisions, the recklessness, the moments of doubt and despair and the self-indulgence of wallowing in it, but can he punish him for it, too? The forgiveness won't mean anything if it hasn't been earned.

Rising to the challenge, Quentin makes him gasp with the yank of his hair, pulling Tim's eyes to meet his. He winces slightly, quickly. A faint flush of pink starts blooming onto his cheeks at the same time. ]

I am. Prove me wrong.

Ah, feeling bossy today? The mouth on you.

[ quentin laughs easily, like they're simply sitting over breakfast chattering about the weather. it's so flippant and amused, like a preycat playing with its food. it's a new dynamic, something he doesn't get to slip into the skin of very often and yet here they are.

the gasp, the flush. he can't deny the way it makes heat rise up beneath his skin, makes a thrill race up his spine. he keeps his fingers twisted in tim's hair, looks down at him amused, laze. water continues to drip where tim had cleared it off before. ]

Sweet, patient, generous. Maybe you should learn a thing or two from me, Tim. [ not sweets, not any warm endearment. ]

Get out of your clothes.

[ A familiar demand, in an unfamiliar voice. It's not that he can't name the source, or that it feels like it's coming from someone else, but it's usually so much warmer, sweets or sweet man or the 'm' at the end of his name trailing off into a cozy, gentle hum. Now, Quentin's colder, harder, despite the laughter. It's strange, but it's good. Tim's own needs in this moment aside, it's a side of him he hasn't gotten to see. He wonders how much of it is really in him, and how much is simply put on for Tim's sake, a generous performance to sate his neuroses and confusing desires.

Well, he doesn't wonder too much. He's distracted from the sting in his scalp, the acceleration in his pulse at the way he's denied the usual words of praise he's come to associate with Quentin. Tim's practiced enough in this to recognize it as a tactic, a screwdriver loosening something in his brain so that he'll scramble to put it back, to earn those fond words again, but that doesn't make it any less effective. ]

You don't think I can be patient?

[ Obedient, but still mouthy, talking back as he unbuttons his shirt and shrugs out of it, undershirt foregone because he knew this would happen, belt and pants to follow, pushed down and stepped out of, as long as he hands on him will allow. ]

[ of course tim begins to undress like a dutiful, careful thing - desire and want hanging suddenly on the air between them, hot and thick. it's easy enough to put on the show of this personality, something he draws from rarely, but is a good stretch, a good muscle to flex. controlled dominance, careful punishment, the pain for the sake of pleasure. ]

No, I don't think you can.

[ he smiles amiably, but too much like something dangerous laying wait, ready to leap upon its prey. he doesn't loosen his fingers in his hair, only allows tim the movement of his arm with the dip of his head. he's handsome, of course - masculine in all ways and gentle in others. it makes his mouth water, makes heat surge under his skin and low into his belly. ]

It's why I need to teach you a lesson. You understand, of course? [ he huffs, releasing tim's hair and backing away, circling him and sliding a hand down his bare back, soft at first, until he finds the waist band of his underwear and twists it in his fingers, letting the elastic dig into tim's skin just above his ass, his knuckles pressing against the muscle of one cheek. ]

I want these off. Now. Then your hands on the bed. No lip, either.

[ he releases the fabric, letting it snap, and he laughs lowly, slapping his hand hard against the same asscheek from before over the fabric, gripping hard once before he releasing. ]

Or you'll have bigger problems.

[ The desire's always been there, laying low ever since they met in the baths, even when Tim tried to downplay it or turn down the temperature, for all sorts of reasons that both seemed really good at the time and are far away from his mind right now. He was drawn to him because being with him was easy without being meaningless, a refuge from the ache and confusion of this place. Quentin (and Koby, too) has only become more important to him over the last few weeks, a safe harbor to hide in while he works himself out.

Penance is part of his process. Tim knows that he'll be safe, with Quentin administering it, but his heart races, pumping blood down to his cock at the threat. ]

Yes, I understand.

[ He gasps, softly, and jumps in Quentin's hand, after the long, teasing stroke down his back ends in a smack. The sting is sharp enough to get his attention, it spurs him into compliance, thumbs dipping beneath the elastic of his briefs and pulling them down, letting them drop to his feet. He steps out of them and toward the bed, planting his hands on the mattress, bending over it with his palms spread, and turns his head to find Quentin's eyes, seek his approval. Tim wonders what he'll find there. Fondness, or coldness, or something else? He's done this before, but he wants to know what Quentin's punishment looks like. So, he invites it. ]

And what if I want bigger problems?

[ Exposed and vulnerable, physically and emotionally, and still prodding, pushing at Quentin's limits before testing his own. ]

Edited 2024-08-27 05:35 (UTC)

Do you really understand?

[ he laughs a little, watching tim wriggle out of his underwear, seeing the beginnings of pink blooming where he'd laid his hand before. he reaches for the stinging mark, gently smooths his callused palm over it, up and down, fingers trailing to his low back, resting there .]

Because you want bigger problems, and you've told me? Well. I can't reward you before you're properly punished for that filthy mouth of yours.

[ tim looks back at him and though quentin's face is stern, brow set, there's a fiery hunger in his eyes, masking some of the fondness that would be there otherwise.

he goes back to rubbing that aching red mark, letting the slide of his fingers press briefly along the cleft of his ass, pressing between and back out, teasing but not giving. he follows it up with a sharp smack, right where the other had been before, and again. ]

Head and chest down - ass up. You don't get to make demands. What do you say, Tim?

[ he drags his nails over the mark, then pulls away, as though rearing up for another smack. ]

[ That makes sense. He came here to take his punishment, not to make requests. As Tim slips into his role and sees, hears, feels Quentin slip into his, he feels himself nodding. It's almost subconscious, the way the harsher tone brings it out of him. He's struck by the accusation - filthy mouth - as much as he is by the hand that's literally struck him on the ass. Is that a good thing, or a bad thing? He could be on his knees faster than Quentin could get out the request, prove to him that it's good, earn his praise.

He doesn't move, except for the flex as Quentin fondles his ass, inviting his fingers to stay there between his cheeks, and as if that desperation is hooked to a shock collar, he's put in line immediately, the impact of the hand against bare skin making a smacking sound that fills the room. Tim's toes dig into the carpet to keep him grounded, distract him from the urge to chase the touch as it pulls away, look for the comfort after the sting. All that comes is another slap.

A sharp intake of air, and he looks back behind him, nodding again, eager. ]

If that's what you think I need. You get to make demands. Not me.

[ There's no edge of sass to it this time, just repetition, call and response, proving that he understands. As instructed, he moves onto the bed, briefly on all fours, and then slinking slowly down so that his chest and forehead are pressed against the mattress, ass held high. The stretch feels good, does some work to soothe the sting, but not enough. He wonders if he ought to grab a pillow to stabilize himself, but doesn't. It's a luxury. Fisting in the blanket will have to do. ]

Oh, you're learning, but I think you can do better.

[ he watches tim climb up onto the bed, sprawled and naked before him, all smooth freckled skin and a flop of downy brown hair. it's the look over his shoulder - the wide, brown eyes - that softens him for a moment, gives tim a second to feel the stretch and relief. but it's short-lived, quentin reaching a hand to drag along the back of tim's calf, his thigh, nails pressing and biting the skin - leaving little red marks behind. he drags his nails over the bloom of read where he spanked him before. ]

Count.

[ it's not a request, more a demand. he climbs up onto the bed, the towel slipping low around his hips. he presses a hand between tim's shoulder blades, keeping him firmly planted to the mattress and a fraction of a second later, he begins to slap each of tim's presented cheeks, alternating - the sound of skin on slapping skin echoing in the quiet of the room. as he spanks him, the strikes grow more intense, increasing in impact and strength. ]

To twenty.

[ he pauses between some - making tim anticipate them, wait in the silence for when the next hand will land on red, tortured skin. ]

[ the demanding tone does a lot to ease Tim’s nerves. He knows, of course, that it was him who asked for this, that there’s a twisted desire in him to punish himself for any perceived slight or minor sin. He can't see himself objectively enough to apply the proper punishment, that’s what a priest is meant to do, but in the absence of one, Quentin will do fine, despite Tim’s bratty poking at the boundaries. It sounds like he knows what to do, and it feels like it too, the hand pressing down between his shoulder blades keeping him steady, grounded in his body as he nods. Counting, a simple rule, a task he can succeed at. ]

One.

[ He grits his teeth through the gasp that might have otherwise left his mouth, determined to be on time with his count, but he’s not so controlled on the next one. It comes quicker and sharper than he’s expecting it, without enough time to breathe, so he flinches away from it as he counts out two with a voice far more steady than he feels. Hurriedly, he corrects himself, jutting his ass back out, curving his body to make it as appealing a target as possible.

So it continues, the smack of Quentin’s hands against his blotchy red cheeks stinging harder each time, whether he means them to or not, as Tim’s skin grows more sensitive. To push past the pain, he pulls his focus to other parts of his body. His hands, twisted in the blankets, balling them around his fists. His eyes, the lesser sting of tears forming, as of yet unshed, but he’s only at eight now, rubbing his face against the bed so he can diligently keep up with his count. His toes curling with a sort of arousal he can’t explain, that he ought to be ashamed of, but he can’t bring himself to feel that right now. Tim’s not feeling anything now except for his body, his vessel for all things good and bad, perfect in God’s image. He feels in tune with it because of the pain, it pulls him back into his body when he would otherwise retreat into his mind and all the confusing mess housed within it.

The next slap, even harder than the last, doesn't make Tim gasp or yelp, but moan, deep and gutteral. His face, already flushed almost as red as his ass, goes darker, reacting to being perceived as getting off on this all on his own despite his blissful mindlessness. ]

Ten.

[ Breathless. His cock, hard and bobbing beneath him, is dripping a sticky line of pre onto the bed that he hasn't noticed or tried to relieve. ]

[ while this kind of play isn't new to him, it's been a while, and the first handful of strikes always leave him wondering if the person is enjoying it. or at least finding the pleasure they wish in it. but he sees the way tim's cock begins to grow, the way he leaks and smears the sheets, and so he continues.

it's only five more strikes before he stops short - he'd said twenty, but he's itching to change the pace for a moment, work tim up a little differently while his ass cheeks bloom scarlet, so flushed and pretty. he smooths his callused palm against the skin, pressing a little firmly on the spots smacked red, the skin warm to the touch, inflamed. a cool bath later, perhaps.

for now, he squares up on him, dips to kiss the bend of tim's lower back, then mouth over one furious cheek, the muscle flexing deliciously against his tongue. ]

You realize I can punish you any way I see fit?

[ the same tone, the same firmness. his mouth moves to the other cheek, laving his tongue over the heated skin once, twice, before pulling away. the air of the bedroom may sooth the spots made spit-slick for a few seconds before he smacks one cheek alone, grabbing it, then the other, squeezing the furious handfuls of him.

he bends to press one long stripe of his tongue from his sac to his puckered hole, repeats the motion twice more before letting go of him altogether - the utter lack of sensation. ]

[ By twelve, he can no longer stifle the leaking from his eyes either, his face flushing blotchy and red to match the angry, red color of his ass. Furiously, Tim rubs his face against the sheets, trying to swipe away any evidence that he might not be able to handle it. He can. He wants to, he needs to, if he can't pay his penance, if he can't finish this out, or have faith that Quentin's decided on an appropriate punishment, then he'll never get back to his own room free of the baggage of the last few weeks. The last few months. ]

Fif-teen.

[ On a shuddering inhale, his body tensing from the sharp pain of another strike against slapped-raw cheeks. Tim takes the moment to savor it, to feel it as he ought to, even as it gets close to being too much. To be so aware of his body is its own kind of pleasure, he keeps drifting to these other parts of him, spreading the sharpness throughout. His thighs, flexing to keep his ass up in the air and exposed. This throat, gone dry from all his open-mouthed gasping. His cock, hanging heavy but ignored, until Quentin says otherwise.

Tim tenses with the hand on him, expecting another hard smack on angry flesh, but it's gentler, if only just. He soothes the sharp pain into a throbbing ache, like pressing into a bruise. The needy mewling that squeaks out of his mouth as Quentin's mustache tickles against those sore spots would be humiliating if it were anyone else. ]

Y-yes, you can.

[ As Tim asked, as he stressed the need for. He reaches for the pillow after all, something to muffle the low, whorish noise into, only to pull away from it again, devoted to the rules they've set. Sixteen, seventeen. But the tongue makes him tremble, and cry out, forget all decorum and chase the wet heat on his hole as soon as it's gone, jutting his ass out and in the air even higher, the arch of his back more dramatic as he babbles simple phrases in the absence of any touch. Yes, thank you, please, oh God, Quentin, and variations thereof. ]

You are so very pretty like this, you know?

[ tim looks so perfect like this, arched back and ass up, pretty tuft of warm, downy hair at his nape. he can see the way tim's cock hangs untouched and angry between his legs. it matches the pretty flush of his cheeks, the little moles and freckles sparsely spread along side tim's back.

he's a pretty man, that much he can't deny, and hearing him beg the way he is only fuels him. he doesn't want to spank him - seventeen is more than enough, and instead he leans over tim's back, lining kisses along his spine, all the way down to the cleft of his ass again, beard undoubtedly tickling along his skin. ]

You're being so good, Tim. [ he murmurs, reaching again to smooth his hands over his red cheeks before he spread them again, pressing his mouth over taht waiting hole and circling it with his tongue, lapping at it slowly, thumbs caressing the sore skin of his ass cheeks.

he hums, and with a level of mischief, sucks hard at the little pucker of muscle once, twice, before gently nudging with his tongue. ]

Th-thank you.

[ He stutters out as he shivers under Quentin's attention, body still tense in anticipation of the last three slaps. Maybe seventeen is more than enough, but he was promised twenty, made to prepare for twenty, to want for twenty. When he proves himself strong enough to get there, he can be absolved, set off to do better, to be better - unless Quentin decides he needs more. But less? It feels incomplete, makes him squirm and whine with impatience to just get it over with so that he can give in to the pleasure of his hands, the hair prickling against him, the breath against his hole coaxing him to open up-- ]

Oh--! God...

[ Maybe that's part of the punishment. The hope of relief without actually getting it, a lesson in patience. A test that he's failing despite Quentin's praise, pushing his ass back into his hands and the ache of their firm press, into his tongue that's hot and wet enough to make him tremble in his want for more, but not thick enough to fill him properly. ]

I'll be good. I'll be good. I'll be good.

[ quentin doesn't stop him from from moving, allowing tim to fuck back on his tongue, his face. it's endearing but it's also wildly attractive - the needy little sounds he makes going right to his own dick. he's achingly hard, driven by tim's obedience and the heady feeling of power like this.

he moves his head in time with tim's little pushes so that his tongue goes as deep as it can, letting it curl and lap at the soft, hot velvet walls of his ass. he hums low in his throat, adding vibrations to every little press and push of his tongue, and at the same time? lands another smack against tim's ass, more toward his flank this time. he'll get his remaining three, but tim has to learn to wait.

another groan against tim's needy hole, the fingers of his other hand digging into the meat of his ass, nails leaving little half moons in the tender skin before he comes up for air. ]

You're being so good. I'm proud of you - handling this so well. You look so good like this - spread out for me, ass as sweet as an apple on a summer day. You want more? Tell me what you want.

[ The noise is careless and wanton, Tim's head blissfully empty except for endorphins, sensation, the dull, blunt pain of fingers pressing into smacked-raw flesh. For all the teasing about wailing, Tim's moaning is low and guttural, as if it's being pulled from deep within him, some wild, animal place that he doesn't have access to on his own. ]

Quentin-- I want--

[ He hesitates as he forces his brain back online, and his ass back against Quentin. Wasn't he supposed to be calling the shots? Maybe he is, even listening to Tim's requests, pulling him back from the edge of oblivion until he's deserving of it. His face is just as red as his ass as he squirms, leg spreading and body lowering to rut against the sheets. ]

You know I. [ Swallowing, whimpering with the tingling heat of just his breath against his hole. It clenches, in want of something to squeeze around. Tongue, fingers, anything. ] I want, fuck me, please.

[ in all their fumblings he's never seen tim so worked up, so desperate and quentin aches in a new way, too. his own cock throbs between his thighs as his mouth meets every needy jut of tim's hips until he reaches to press a single finger against tim's hole, breaching that fluttering ring of muscle and sliding his tongue against it as well.

at least until he hears it. ]

Ah, is that what you want? [ a hum against the wet skin of his ass, his index finger pressing slowly, stretching him on the slick of his spit and nothing more until he's in up to the knuckle. he laughs a low rumbling sound as tim ruts against the sheets, his ass pushing back. he clicks his tongue, disapproving. ] And here I was going to reward you for your behavior, then you had to go and break the rules.

[ and that's all he gets before his hand pulls away, before quentin's rising up onto his feet and gliding the hard line of him against the cleft of tim's sore ass. ] You want me to fuck you so terribly? Well, I'm feeling lazy.

[ he lines his dick up with tim's entrance, just enough to let the head of him press against him, but not further. he drags the nails of his free hand along the red, sore skin of tim's ass. ] You'll have to take what you want, since you like moving so very much. Go ahead, sweets.

[ Tim muffles another shocked gasp against the sheets, as if he's been smacked on the ass again, not because he’s been struck, but because he’s been chastised. Rules? He’s forgotten the rules, he hasn’t been thinking, only feeling, begging for Quentin and chasing pleasure.

Ah. That. It’s for Quentin to give out, to decide when and how much, isn’t it? Tim wipes his eyes against the sheet, flushed and tearful with the embarrassment of having forgotten such a simple instruction. Punishment and penance can’t be rushed, so there’s a practical lesson, fucking himself on only spit. He can do that, he has to do that, needs to earn the sweetness back, take back the praise that tickles his brain, his spine, his cock. With a shuddering breath, Tim picks himself up so that he’s on all fours again instead of shamelessly pressing himself to the bed and scoots back, angling into position with the hot head against his hole. ]

I’m sorry. [ A soft, needy sob, cock hanging heavy and red from lack of attention. He gasps further at the track of his nails across his ass, searing hot and painful. Necessary. ] I’m sorry. I didn’t–I’ll do better.

[ He moves his hips back slowly, accepting Quentin inside him with a wince at the sharp stretch. It stings, but not nearly as badly as losing his praise. ]

[ something about tim apologizing gnaws at him in spite of their little game. he allows tim to move back and take him in and he groans, unable to process anything but the tight, velvety heat that consumes him at first. he reaches an arm down to tim's hips, stopping him from moving any further. a kindness, letting himself sit pressed deep into him to stretch, to settle.

his mouth slides along tim's shoulder in the meantime, pressing soft kisses against his skin, worshipful in a way. ]

Apology accepted.

[ he moans again just from the way he feels like he's being consumed by the other man's body. ] You've done so well. So very well.

[ his free hand slides round tim's front as well, softly palming the aching, hard line of tim's dick as he draws out of the man slowly, hand following the motion as he pushes back in just as slowly. ]

Let me take care of you now, hm? You've done well. You listened, you took everything you deserved. So good.

Are you busy? I found something, by the lake.

i'm on my way. where are you? by the dock?

Oh, hello, that was fast. :) Yes, the dock. The one with the rowboat without holes in it.

well a fetching commander messaged me. who am i to ignore his call?

i'll meet you there.

[ and he does. he comes out not too long after, dressed again in what the house has give him, which today is a pair of dark jean shorts with a rip at the thigh and a heather gray t-shirt. very original, but it's comfortable.

he starts down toward the lake, peering around the edge until he catches sight of downy pink hair. he smiles, though there's a hint of worry and confusion in his expression. ]

Commander. [ a little huff, hands already reaching for his arms to tug him in closer. ]

["Fetching" is up there with "handsome", and Koby’s still smiling when Quentin shows up. He's barefoot, wearing one of his bright, borderline-garish colorful shirt-and-overall ensembles, and he brightens considerably when he sees Quentin, hopping up from where he'd been sitting.]

Hi! [Cheerful, up on his toes into the embrace, clearly giddy with some secret. One hand comes up, smooths over the little knit furrow between Quentin's brows.] Are you okay?

[ koby lights up on his arrival and some of his worry eases, arms sweeping around him and dragging him close to his chest. he looks down into his face, the bright eyes behind glasses, the sun-kissed warmth of his face. they should really meet out by the lake more often.

he laughs at the way koby smooths away his worry lines. ] So long as you're doing well then I am well, Commander. You're in good spirits.

[ and he can't help it - he bows his head and presses a kiss against koby's temple. ]

[It’s probably because of what Tim had said – scratch that, it’s definitely because of what Tim had said – but Koby notes the smile, the easing of the faint concern on Quentin’s face, the way he tugs Koby closer, kisses his temple, sunwarmed and sweet-smelling. He also notes the way it settles warm in his chest, like swallowing something hot on a chilly day, spreading down to the tips of his toes.

Stupid Tim, saying stuff. At least Koby can blame the pink in his cheeks, at the tips of his ears on the sun, right?]

I’m well. Did I not say that? [Fretting, gently, much more gently than he would’ve in days past – it’s hard to be genuinely anxious or worried when Quentin’s laughing like that.] Everything’s fine. I’d call if something were wrong, but – nothing’s wrong.

[A laugh, a little incredulous, because theres always something wrong, something to worry about and yet...repeating:] Nothing’s wrong. I just – wanted to show you something I found. That you might like.

No, you didn’t, but it doesn’t matter. I can see you’re in one piece and smiling thus no other man would need to suffer my wrath today.

[ he laughs a little, smoothing hair from koby’s face at the way he frets and fusses, pulling away to look around once again at the lake, the sun, then to koby. he’s glowing in the light, and though he knows the pink of his cheeks and ears isn’t from the sun, he doesn’t voice it. ]

Should I cover my eyes? Let you lead me to this thing you’ve found, or somewhere off into the wilderness? I would be at your beck and call, of course.

[The huffing laugh Koby gives in response has no real fire in it, even accompanied by an eyeroll, as he settles back flat on his feet and smooths both hands down the front of Quentin’s shirt.] No wrath necessary. All in one piece, here. [Shaking his head, hands lingering on Quentin’s chest, feeling the contours he’s memorized by now, the intoxicating heat that makes him tempted to abandon his discovery and find a sunny spot to spend the afternoon together instead.

Maybe later. One thumb traces over the shape of Quentin’s piercing, absently, and Koby amends that thought: definitely later.

Then, dropping his hands, Koby shakes his head again and turns back to the dock, to the (not at all seaworthy, but comfortable) rowboat tied up there.] We aren’t going into the wilderness, don’t be silly. You make it sound like I’m trying to spirit you away for nefarious purposes.

[Look at how innocent he is, nothing nefarious here~] We’re just going out on the lake.

[ the thumb grazing his piercing is a sign - something he's noticed koby does when they meet outside the confines of their room. it sends the smallest zing of heat up his spine - a promise for later, already. not that he minds, of course.

he gives koby's waist a soft squeeze, palms smoothing along his sides and steps back, laughing. ]

You made all of this very mysterious to begin with, thank you very much.

[ but seeing the boat, the water, he blinks. a boat without leaky boards and holes. he'd not noticed it there before, and yet here they are. something excited shows in the light of his eyes, burns behind the little grin. ]

Setting sail today are we? We mustn't be late.

[ he takes koby's hand, giving a gentle tug as he moves to the little dock. there's no hesitation whatsoever when he arrives, kicking off his shoes, releasing koby's hand and stepping down into the wobbly little thing. he stands in it like its tipping and tilting is as normal as solid ground beneath their feet. ]

I'd ask if you need a hand but something tells me you have sea legs on you. I've tasted them. [ a smirk. ]

Did I really? [Koby looks immensely pleased with himself, following along with Quentin, careful to skirt the patches of mud in his bare feet, until he's on the splintery wood of the deck. Here, he relaxes, away from solid land, close to the water, even if the water is just a modest-sized lake. The canvas bag he's taken to toting around is on the dock as well, and Koby scoops it up quickly, holding it to his chest.

Quentin's stepped down into the boat, and there's a moment where he's standing there, sailor stance, moving easily with the gentle rock and tilt of the water, and Koby can almost imagine him on the deck of a real ship, on the real sea. It makes his chest go tight, thinking about -- what that must have been like, seeing Quentin in his element. Seeing him at home.

But: that's the point of all this, right? Taking a breath, Koby nimbly steps down into the rowboat as well, reaching out to hold onto Quentin's arm as he does, making a face at him.] You're going to scandalize the fish and I'll never catch anything again. Sit down before you tip over. [No danger of that, but if he's not bossing Quentin around, what's he doing.]

The fish will be fine, thank you. I’ve swam in lakes and oceans bigger than this and without any clothes on at all. I think the sealife fared just fine thank you.

[ he laughs, helping koby down into the boat by way of his arm, looking around for the hitch to set them truly afloat. it’s nothing compared to the large vessels he’s used to, but he leans out and reaches easily for the rope, untying it and pushing a hand on the splintered wood of the dock to set them out to drift.

something about feeling the water move beneath them, feeling the way they rock even as he sits down, settles something restless in his gut. he’s missed it. more than a year away from the water and to be on a little paddle boat in a lake feels like breathing again. he takes up the oars, pulling them further out to the lake.

he grins, a little brighter, eyes lighting up. ]

Did you get this fixed? I didn’t think they had one that wouldn’t sink.

Have you? Recently? [Not that he's asking to be invited along on these skinny dipping explorations, but. But.

The slight rock of the boat on the mostly-still lake is nothing compared to the actual tip and reel of a ship on the high seas, but Koby's reaction is the same as Quentin’s -- a soft exhale, a relaxation, a release, like some fundamental part of his soul is satisfied. He holds the bag tight to his chest, hoping -- hoping this'll work. That it'll help, the way it had helped him, earlier that same day, alone out in the rowboat.

The question gets a pleased, proud smile -- a rare sight, considering how rarely Koby’s proud about anything he does.] I patched it. I used to maintain the lifeboats, back -- well. Back when I was at sea. Never know when you're suddenly going to be brave enough to escape, right?

[They're close to the middle of the lake already, the distance eaten up easily by Quentin’s practiced, strong pulls of the oars. Koby watches his arms for a moment, teeth finding his lower lip, chewing absently as he gazes shamelessly at the bunch and stretch of muscle and sinew. Then, blinking:] Here. Here's good. Do you trust me? [It seems out of nowhere, but Koby is -- deathly serious about it, all of a sudden.]

Daily. But of course you can patch ships. I think you’re capable of anything you set your mind to. I’m not so lucky.

[ he laughs a little, rowing them out to the middle of the lake with the intention to row them the whole way to the other side when koby stops them. he blinks, glancing over at the other curiously, brows raised.

at first he’s sure something is wrong, tilting his head a little, setting the oars so they don’t slide away from the little boat. he rubs his palms together, brow pinched when he peers back up at koby. ]

Of course I trust you. Why wouldn’t I? [ a beat, sweat stippling on his bow from the heat, he shifts to tug his shirt off, carefully tossing it in the bay behind him. ]

Is everything alright, Koby? You’ve been acting strange since I arrived.

[ a hint of nerves - an edge in his voice that usually isn’t there despite the easy way he smiles at him. ]

I've yet to see you try something and not succeed, Quentin, don't be silly. [It's said with immense fondness as Koby rummages through the bag, which has the usual shapes of books and pens and paper. He pauses entirely when Quentin pulls his shirt off, eyes widening a bit even though this has to be the hundredth he's seen this particular man shirtless. Then again, Koby also sees the sunrise every day and that never stops taking his breath away.

But then the words, the slight furrow in Quentin’s brow register, and Koby winces, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, face turning red.] I -- I really have been, haven't I. I'm sorry. [He sighs, shoving his glasses up into his hair and rubbing at his blushing face for a moment.] I'm not...good at doing things, for people. Nice things. I wish I were, but I haven't done them often enough to be nice instead of weird, so. So I'm sorry.

[Another sigh, then Koby tugs a pair of somewhat outdated, over-the-ear headphones out of his bag, borrowed (just borrowed, promise) from the library. They're meant to be used to listen to tapes, CDs, but they're able to be used with the phones as well. Koby knows, because he's made sure. He offers them, still blushing.] It's just -- something I found, I put it on my phone and you can hear best with these, but...

[But he thinks about Quentin clinging to him, that colorful, nightmarish night, about what he'd said the Regent had done -- "Blindfolded me so that I couldn’t see where we were, what we were doing" -- and the headphones aren't the same, but they're close, close enough, and Koby finishes, a little unsure:] But you can't hear anything else when they're on so I wanted to...make sure that was okay. That you were okay.

[Because that panic, that fear, that mindless horror -- Koby knows it'll come back, that it never really leaves. But he never wants it to be because he was thoughtless or careless. Ever.]

Koby, you do kind things for the people here without even blinking. I hardly think that's accurate, what you've said.

[ but he watches as koby brings out the little device, tilting his head at it before reaching to take them, turning them over in his hands this way and that. he's not seen them before, but koby seems to trust them and so does he. ]

They're for listening?

[ the fact that once they're on, he won't be able to hear anything else does do something - makes a little zing of uncertainty dance up his spine. a blindfold is one thing - he doesn't need his eyes to tell him where to go. but his ears? he has to be able to hear to visualize where he's going - to hear their destination and his hearing being dulled surprises him.

how had alonso not figured this out, when koby is here but months of knowing him and he anticipated the uncertainty. but koby has worked hard for whatever this is. planned, brought him here, handed him these things. so it must be safe. it must be. he sucks in a breath and shrugs his shoulders, trying to seem nonchalant. ]

Mm. Hold my hand during it. If we cannot be naked in bed together I suppose that will be the best alternative.

[ he grins a little, moving to put the headphones on the way they look to go on, and his hand falls to koby's knee, palm up.

the silence is almost immediately claustrophobic, his gut twisting uncertainly, but he continues to take easy, careful breaths. if koby takes his hand, he'll grip it a little tighter, eyes staying focused on koby's, his true north. ]

It’s different. It’s– [Because you’re special, because I care about you, because I can’t sleep if you aren’t with me, because I think about you all the time, because I think I might be in–

Words and thoughts both cut off, Koby gently settles the headphones more firmly in place, nestled against Quentin’s ears, surrounded by his tangled curls, which are carefully smoothed into place, coiling easily around Koby’s fingers. After a pause, he shifts one side slightly off one ear, breaking the surrounding, mildly claustrophobic sense of all sound being muffled, scooting closer so he’s kneeling in front of Quentin, smiling.]

There, better? I almost fell over the first time I used them – my sense of balance was completely thrown off. I read all about that, the inner ear and how it keeps us upright, which doesn’t really seem to account for sea legs, but maybe it doesn’t count for those. [Gentle, distracting prattle, a lifeline along with one callused hand slipping into Quentin’s, fingers lacing together and squeezing firmly. Koby can do the rest one-handed, plug the other end of the long, twining cord into his phone and swipe the screen like a professional. The phone had been an adjustment, but Koby’s a fast learner, as he’s shown again and again.

Nodding slightly, satisfied, he pauses with his thumb over the play button on the screen, over the files he’d downloaded from Saltburnt’s admittedly limited internet, the ones he’d carefully curated that morning. Some of the eager, hopeful excitement is back in Koby’s face as he squeezes Quentin’s hand and taps the button. The sound comes gradually, a soft, building sound, rhythmic and rumbling and achingly familiar – the sound of ocean waves.

With the headphones on, it’s everywhere, surrounding, coupled with the slight rock of the rowboat, the blue sky overhead, the sound of water building, cresting, falling onto sand, layered with the faint cries of seabirds, the sizzle of seafoam, the drip of waves pulling away across rock and tide pool. Some of the sounds Koby had found had music, piano or stringed instruments or something weird and melty-sounding called a synthesizer, but he likes this one best, because it’s just the ocean. Just the waves. Just the sound of home.]

See? [Barely above a whisper, wide-eyed and enraptured and gazing up at Quentin for his reaction, thumb stroking over his knuckles, again and again.] Isn’t that wonderful?

[ koby adjusts the headhones and even being able to hear a sliver of the true sound around him helps, relieves some of the pressure in his chest. how odd to be without sound, without surroundings, without his balance and certainty. but he trusts koby, of course, more than he trusts himself. koby all kind and sweet-faced, trying to act like being kind is foreign to him.

it’s one of the things he loves about him. one of many.

(he won’t think too hard about that - so absent minded and true that he hasn’t even realized he’s felt it that way).

but koby prattles on before the sound starts. he half expects music, like the club, but when it starts off a gentle hush turning into the trickle of waves and seaspray, the lazy lap of the ocean slapping against rocks and shore. a ship at dock, gulls occasionally crying in the distance, the wind rippling the water, the sun bright and warm, a calm and quiet that feels so much like home it’s easy to forget they’re on a little paddle boat far from it.

his expression warms, startled by every familiar sound, eyes turning to koby almost immediately, widening and baffled. ]

How…?

[ he doesn’t understand, his fingers flexing against koby’s, his face twisted in something like sorrow and longing and joy all in one. he listens for a long moment, air caught up in his throat before he speaks again. ]

I haven’t heard the sea in so long.

[ he can’t help but close his eyes against it, let his senses take over, tricking him and making it seem like he’s on some ship far, far away, in the crow’s nest. it’s muscle memory that pulls koby up to his lap, brings him close, lets him wrap his arms around him and feel him as part of it all. ]

It’s like home.

[There’s that brief pause, wherein every one of Koby’s vicious, anxious thoughts try to sink their teeth in, try to tear apart what he’s trying to do – stupid, pathetic, give a man who’s lost everything a ghost in a set of headphones, try to replace the sea with a recording and a rowboat, what were you thinking, you’ve made it worse, you’ve made him remember everything he’s lost. And he knows, he knows it isn’t the same, that the scent and the feel of the ocean – of their shared home – is gone and can’t be brought to this place.

But: Quentin sucking strawberry jam off his fingers, Quentin pillowing his head on Koby’s lap while he reads, Quentin smiling against Koby’s mouth when he kisses him. Somehow Quentin doesn’t see what’s missing, what’s lacking, all the fragmented holes in their current existence. Just the beautiful things. It makes Koby want to try harder, want to fight against the gilded bars of their beautiful, inescapable cage, want to bring in the sound of the sea and say this is for you, because I care, because I can, because you understand and know it’s enough.

And when Quentin looks at him, wide eyes and parted lips and hand curling tighter in the grasp of his fingers, all those hissing, snarling, hateful thoughts stop. Koby smiles back, absolutely beaming, reaching out to smooth Quentin’s hair back with his free hand. He could launch into an explanation of how the headphones work, but – that’s not important right now. Not when Quentin looks like that, aching and joyous all at once.

Instead he slips easily into Quentin’s lap, settling against him, warm and grounding and tucked under his chin, a physical presence to balance out the lack of sight or sound. This close, he can sort of hear the ocean sounds as well, trickling from the slightly-crooked headphones, undercut by the steady, beating pulse of Quentin’s heart in his chest. Koby tugs up their entangled hands, rests them over that unceasing thumpthumpthump, hair tickling Quentin’s chin.]

It is, yeah? It’s almost like being home.

[ it’s overwhelming, hearing the ocean and feeling like they’re drifting on the sea, lost together. koby is warm and solid against his chest, the scent of his shampoo and soap musky and soft, a smell as familiar to him as wax and wood and salt. he yearns for the sea in a way that makes his heart ache miserably, but the simple joy of feeling it all soothes the ache.

he presses his lips against his hair, breathing him in and laughing a little, throat thick with emotion. ]

It feels like home, yeah.

[ he listens on his own for a long moment, eyes closed and arms wrapped tightly around the slight frame in his lap. and then, after a beat: ]

Can we listen together? Or do I need these things to hear?

[ he takes the headphones off with one hand, the sound faint but present echoing in the quiet between them. there's a little noise out by the shore, some people sunbathing or chattering. but this far out he can feel nothing but the cool breeze and the gentle rock of the boat. ]

I want to hear it with you, even if you're just a marine. [ a smile against his hair, his voice soft, fingers petting his side where he holds him, gentle and nearly possessive. protective, even, wanting him close and calm, wanting koby to share the sea with him. ]

If not, we'll have to find a way. I want to feel the sun on my back, hear the waves and hold you here a little while longer. If you don't mind.

[ he huffs a little, emotional still. ] Thank you, Koby. For this gift.

[Koby would be content with this, with the rock of the water and the thump of Quentin’s heart, with the warmth of his broad, bare chest and the way he smells -- the way Koby's pillow smells, most mornings, to the point where the twice-weekly sheet changes are jarring, borderline upsetting. He has so many of Quentin’s shirts now, folded in a drawer so he can sleep in them, so he can breathe in the scent of sweat and soap and skin. Even on the occasional nights they don't spend together -- fewer and fewer as the weeks go on -- the feel of those shirts on Koby’s skin is usually enough to help him sleep, even if he wakes up reaching across the bed for Quentin.

And it's in that thought, in that space of time, that Koby has a shuddering, sobering realization: Tim was unequivocally, unquestionably right.

"You love him."

The question brings Koby back to earth, blinking and blushing and quickly nodding.] We -- yeah, we can. I know there are speakers for this phone thing, I can ask for one from the library. Ah, or borrow Tim’s headphones, they're smaller, but you can share them.

[For now, though, Koby tugs the cord of the headphones free, let's the sound of the waves emanate from the phone itself, albeit a bit more tinny, artificial-sounding. Koby tucks it into the front pocket of his overalls -- very handy -- then, on impulse, he straightens up, sitting taller in Quentin’s lap.

Both hands come up to nudge the headphones down to rest around Quentin’s neck, leaving his hair loose and lovely and soft for Koby to tangle his fingers in. He leans forward, kisses Quentin soft, fervent, with every bit of emotion that shuddering realization has swelling in his chest.] I wish it were more. [Against his mouth, forehead resting to his.] I'd bring the sea here, if I could. I'd do anything, for you.

No, no. I like this.

[ the phone with the speakers, the sound a little tinny but still sounding very much like the distant hiss of waves while sleeping in the belly of the boat. it's soothing, so much like his childhood, his whole life until now, and it rounds quentin's shoulders, smooths out worry lines in his face, lets him breathe a little easier. all this over a recording.

but he blinks up at koby, surprised by the way he straightens, at how close he sits, eyes lifting to meet the blue of koby's behind round glasses. his eyes flutter closed, the fingers in the tangles of his hair like the wind pushing through it on choppy seas. he sighs audibly this time, a pleasant smile pulling across his face before he looks up, eyes half-lidded. ]

It's everything.

[ he hums against the soft little kiss, letting his arms wrap a little tighter around koby's waist, reverent and adoring. he fits here against him, he always will, and something in his chest aches for the wanting of this moment to linger a little longer.

i'd bring the sea here, if i could. i'd do anything, for you.

he kisses koby again, so tender and soft, hands gentle as they come up to frame his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, admiring him and adoring him even as he pulls away from it, a little dazed, nudging their noses together. ]

I don't need the sea if you're here. It's why this gift is everything to me. What is a sailor without his harbor? Without his compass and his sails? Without his ropes and astrolabes and spyglasses?

Yeah? It's okay? [There are pages and pages of notes back in Koby's room, categorized by person and event and commonality, finding the threads of consistency throughout the various guests of this strange, strange house and trying to make sense of it. But, strangely, his notes on Quentin are very, very sparse -- not out of lack of observation, of course, but because Koby doesn't need to write them down. He knows the loosening in Quentin's shoulders when he's genuinely relaxed. He knows how Quentin's laugh rumbles out from deep in his chest, like a rolling, approaching storm. He knows what it feels like to be kissed by Quentin -- lazy and clumsy in the sunlit early mornings, deep and all-consuming and hungry when he's halfway through unbuttoning his shirt, slow and sweet and gentle, when there are words he wants to say all tangled up on his lovely tongue, like now.

He knows.

The ocean sounds, the rock of the boat, it all feels far away for a moment as Koby stays close, nuzzling his nose to Quentin's, the sun across his shoulders, in his hair. The words make him smile, gently perplexed.] Still a sailor? [Then the words actually register -- I don't need the sea if you're here -- and Koby's eyes widen a bit, something wild and hopeful and cautious in them.] What...what do you mean?

[I could have this exact same conversation with him, Tim had teased. He looks at you like you're the most precious thing in the world.]

[ the look on koby's face is enough to make his voice catch in his throat, make his lungs sting and burn with wanting, make his heart thud a little heavier in his chest. he's had flings, he's had flirtations, but nothing like this. nothing that started like a low, simmering fire that has since begun to roar. wherever they go after this, he wants it to be somewhere with koby. somewhere he can find him happily sailing on the see, watch him whoop and holler as the ships tear through the ocean.

he will always yearn for the sea. the smell of salt, the open air, the water lapping up in his face, the spray salty and sweet. but koby will go magnificent places. sail with the marine and chart every corner of the many seas, and the thought alone fills quentin's head with so much adventure and light he can forget there is solid ground waiting for him back in his own life.

he can weather it. koby's told him he can.

how can one person become so instrumental to survival?

the other man's expression is all wide eyes and cautious, and he doesn't have to be able to wonder if he's thinking to hear the cogs turning behind his skull. he doesn't know how to put it into words just yet, can't find what it is he wants to say but he kisses him again, cradling his face and letting it linger, letting the taste of koby stay on his lips and the warmth of him make him feel whole again.

he stays quiet, foreheads touching, noses bumping, breaths shared between them. ]

You're my true north. I don't know how it happened. I don't know when. I hope that's simply enough, but among the many there will always be you.

[There are some things, some moments in time that shift the entire universe on it’s axis, sear themselves into Koby’s ever-ticking, ever-thinking mind as important, pivotal – You’ll be one of the good ones, Luffy says, hand on his shoulder, smile bright in the darkness of Shell’s Town harbor. That uniform’s starting to fit you, Garp offers from behind his imposing desk, bemused and knowing. Like my friend…or whatever, Helmeppo mutters, embarrassed and loyal and unexpected.

You’re my true north, Quentin almost breathes, hands warm and callused and loving on Koby’s face, the taste of him still on Koby’s mouth.

The rowboat beneath them rocks somewhat dangerously as Koby’s breath catches, eyes bright and teary, as he surges forward and wraps both arms around Quentin’s neck, clings to him like an anchor in a storm. There’s an aching, all-consuming tenderness in his chest, as dizzying and intoxicating as the heat that floods him every time Quentin touches him, every time they kiss or snuggle together or tangle up between the sheets, and if he didn’t know Tim was right before, he does now. He does.

True north sounds a hell of a lot like something else, like a confession Koby knows they’re both too cautious to make, now. It sounds like something sturdy, the keel and hull of a ship, something to depend on, something to build on – not solid ground, because they’re both sailors, they both find much more peace on the sea, with the ever-changing waves and salt spray and high winds. True north sounds like I need you, sounds like I choose you, sounds like–]

It’s enough. [Soft, hoarse, pressed tearily against the side of Quentin’s neck, breathing in the way he smells, the way he feels.] It’s – everything. [Koby had never doubted that Quentin cared, that their entanglements had been wholehearted and genuine, and there had never been any sense of jealousy about other flings, other flirtations. Because it was his bed Quentin crawled into at the end of the night, his neck Quentin kissed first thing in the morning, his boat Quentin’s sitting in right now. True north means I’ll always know where you are, I’ll always find my way back to you and it’s more than Koby had ever let himself hope for, deep down, in the most secret part of him.

It’s hard to verbalize, hard to say it, so he resorts back to his dumb metaphor, laughing wetly even as he says it:] I told Tim it was like – having a crew. The way you and I are. Everyone means something, is important, is taken care of and watched out for, no matter how many there are, but the captain and first mate, it’s…different. [Sniffing, leaning back, smoothing Quentin’s hair away from his face again and not even bothering to hide how fond, how adoring his gaze is.] If I’m your true north, you’re my first mate. You know?

[ quentin laughs bright and unhindered as koby surges into him, the little row boat rocking in protest. he's careful to grip the seat with the backs of his calves, lets his arms wrap around koby's slim figure and draw him in as close as he may, as though their bodies could merge somehow and become one on this little boat lost on the lake.

he wants to kiss him again - wants to taste koby on his lips and taste the sun and salt and sea air all over again. he hadn't realized until lately how much time he spends cocooning himself in koby's life, seeking him out and welcoming him the same, their doors connected as much as everything else. a day is nothing until he's seen the soft pink hair out of the corner of his eye, caught a name on his phone, tasted home on his lips.

just like now. his compass turning, turning, turning. the busy clattering of his mind and magic stilling. he knows where he is. he knows where his heart has gone to. he knows where his thoughts are, and there are no lines to what he needs to see, because its here. there's nothing to track, nothing to find.

koby is right here with him. ]

Mm, your first mate? [ he laughs against koby's mouth, soft and sweet, color rising up into quentin's cheek, his expression open and honest. gentle. there's no joking or teasing or flirting here. it's not needed. ]

I'm honored to have the position. A first mate to an outstanding captain. I will follow you into the storm, into the dark, into whatever magics await us outside of this place.

[ he reaches up to koby's face, brushing away the hint of tears, unknowing that there have been a few to slip down his own cheeks. he leans to kiss him, soft things, over and over and over again, chasing the taste and warmth of him. the everything of him. ]

Mm, let me make love to you here. Let me lay you out in the afternoon sun with the ocean's song and show you all the ways you are home to me.

[It sounds like a promise, like a vow, like something Koby wants to tie himself to like an anchor, build something upon. He’s thought about after, about what will happen when this place lets them go, however that may happen, when it’s walls crumble and the gates fly open – or, maybe, less dramatically, they slip back or forward into something else, some other world entirely. He’s thought about returning home to the Marines, to training and working towards chasing down pirates, to finding a way to help people, and already there’s an ache at the idea of Quentin not being there. Of not having him there every day, a message or a photo or a sweet, fond kiss while passing in the hallway or the warmth of his body in bed at night, tucking up behind Koby while he’s half-asleep.

If he were offered the chance to return, to go back to chasing his dream, but it would mean leaving Quentin…Koby’s known for a while what his answer would be. He feels it now, hands tangled in dark hair, the warm, familiar callus of those sailor’s hands on his face, kissing away his tears – no. If it’s a world without him, I don’t want it.

But for now, there’s the sound of the ocean and the warmth of the sunlight and the curve of Quentin’s mouth against his own, sweet and adoring, the soft rumble of his voice making Koby entirely forget that there’s anyone else in the world. It makes him laugh through the tears, leaning back with one more kiss, two, hands lingering on Quentin’s face, like he can’t bear to let go, not for an instant.] Right here? In the boat? On the lake? Where anyone could see?

[Naturally, of course, he’s already unbuckling his overalls, leaning back in Quentin’s lap so he can tug his shirt off. Not wasting any time, not when Quentin asks so sweetly, stokes that ever-present flicker of want that belongs exclusively to him, a corner of Koby’s heart that is always hungry for more, greedy in a way that nearly terrifies him. Part of him is always, maddeningly, insatiable for this man.] Don’t tip over the boat, though. We have to be careful. [As much to himself as Quentin.]

Do you think I'd let us capsize? What sort of sailor could I possibly be?

[ but koby starts undoing his overalls, the shirt beginning to come up and his hands follow the reveal of skin, palms broad skating over the smooth plane of his stomach, one staying low and the other coming up to loop over his heart. when the shirt comes off his mouth follows, hot and slow against the line of that pale shoulder, freckled and pinkened by the sun. ]

I just want to show you how I feel.

[ he huffs a little, sheepish and even a little embarrassed against his skin. he's not much good with words, always better in spinning silly tales and stories. but this isn't any of that - this is something that makes his heart pound like waves against the shore on a storm, something that feels like wind in full sails and bright sun and the call of gulls in the distance.

the hand low on koby's belly drops, strong arm scooping across his thighs, so that when he's ready he can carefully, so carefully, lift and slide them both into the bottom of the boat, the cool of it against their skin and the sun overhead. ]

You've bewitched me. [ he'll say, of course, the moment that he can find koby's mouth in the tangle, speaking words between a slow kiss. ] You should have warned me the night we met.

No, no, never. [Koby says it laughing, bare-armed and bare-chested in the midday sun, something he’d never, never anticipated he’d do – not in front of anyone, not without immediately trying to hide, trying to curl in on himself and disappear. But here he is, not thinking about anything but Quentin’s lips pressed to his thrumming heartbeat, to the pinked warmth of his neck, to the freckles on his shoulder, not caring about anything but catching that mouth with his, kissing this man again and again and again, until he forgets what world they’re in, until he forgets they aren’t on any sea at all.] You’d never let anything bad happen to me. [Matter-of-fact, prompt, earnest, like he’s stating a fact of the universe, inarguable.

The boat is smooth whitewashed board, patched expertly, and Koby shivers a bit against the feel of it on his bare back, along his spine, his shoulderblades working as he reaches up to tug Quentin down, smiling again at the rock of the rowboat. Like this it’s a bit more private, just the sunny sky overhead, the trees far enough away from the shore that they can almost pretend they’re out to sea. Quentin’s mouth finds his, pouting just a bit, just enough to prompt a soft laugh as Koby’s fingers stroke through loose, dark curls, combing them away so he can kiss Quentin’s cheeks, his chin, his lips.] Okay. Show me. [Soft, settling into the hollow of the little boat, settling Quentin into the curve of his body, chest to chest, the way they wake up together so many mornings.

There’s hunger – always, with Quentin, always this barely-controlled desire to touch and hold and feel him, until there’s nothing and nobody else in the world – but there’s also a strange stillness, like a calm sea. Koby could stay right here, he realizes, could spend the rest of the time in this boat, with this person cradled in his arms, with the sun overhead. He could give up everything else, every other world, and that – should be terrifying. It should make him rethink everything.

It doesn’t. Because Quentin is kissing him again, voice soft and sweet and low, and Koby doesn’t want to do anything but kiss him back, playing with his hair, twining a long, silky curl around his finger.] Warn you about what? [Innocent, wide-eyed, guileless, in that soft early-morning voice he gets before anyone else is awake, when Quentin snuggles up on top of him just like this and they talk about nothing in the space between kisses.] I didn’t know to expect you either. I had no idea.

[A pause, Koby leaning back a bit, nose sun-pinked, eyes soft, tracing over every line, every feature of Quentin’s face.] I wouldn’t have changed anything, though. Not one part of it. Not one part of you. Of you and I. You know that, right?

I wouldn't.

[ anything he can control, he can prevent - he will try desperately if it means keeping koby safe. the night they wrapped around one another in their respective nightmares, quentin knew then that something in him was built to protect koby, the soft-faced, pink haired boy with eyes like wide windows to a soft, golden heart. if he could wrap him up in his arms and keep him from the hurts of the world, he would.

he can't, and for now all he can do is protect him from this place, from the small hurts that come and go here. he kisses him softly, slowly, pouring every bit of adoration he can into it, feeling overwhelmed with it now that they're both here, stretched out across the bottom of the patched, little boat. he goes quiet, reveling in the fingers pushing through his hair, the flutter of soft kisses, the words that follow. his eyes, half lidded, stay focused on the wide blues of koby's, soaking him up just like this, all sun-kissed and happy.

they could do anything right now - lay here like this, rock the boat as they fumble to get out of their clothes, jump out and swim - he doesn't care. so he kisses him again, this time chaste but lingering, lips over his and pressing close as his answer. of course he knows koby wouldn't change anything. of course. he knows it, too - that the way they met and how things have gone - it's everything he's ever needed.

and so when he comes up from that kiss, their noses nudging softly, his body blocking the light from koby's face - he sighs a little, voice quiet, almost shy: ]

I know that I love you. Is that enough, Captain?

[ a small smile, and there's a glimmer of unknown in his eyes - of being too forward, in too deep. ]

Mmmhm. [There's a sort of rhythmic, absent hum to that, Koby's fingers carding slowly through Quentin's hair, gently, not fixing or fussing or braiding it up like he does sometimes, in bed or on the couch or on the shores of the lake he can no longer see. Sometimes he thinks about the caution he'd had back home, the stiff tension in his shoulders any time anyone touched him -- even a hand on his arm, a pat on the back -- so unaccustomed to the contact, to the idea of open, easy affection. It seemed impossible, at least for Koby. He'd settled himself with the idea of passing through the world with everyone held at arm's length, with never feeling so safe, so at ease with someone that he could just reach out, touch them. Let them touch him. He'd satisfied himself with never being allowed to have that.

But here -- the sun above, the rock of the water beneath, the silky drag of Quentin's hair through his fingers, the afternoon slow and warm and sunlit before them. And he's allowed to have it, to have this moment be his, as long as it lasts, and nobody's going to take it away and nobody's going to say he isn't good enough. Not this time.

And then Quentin leans up, and kisses him and says -- he says --]

What? [It's very soft, shaky, it comes out as Koby's hands still and his eyes go wide and there's so much aching, bleeding, raw hope throbbing in his chest, because that's -- that's something beyond daydreams, beyond hoping, beyond anything he would've ever, ever let himself ask for. It would've been enough, he would've been okay if all he had was today, this moment, this warmth and softness. Koby could live the rest of his life on the sweetness Quentin's shown him just that afternoon. He could build himself a lighthouse out of it, could let it keep him warm, keep him safe for the rest of time.

But Quentin says I know that I love you and the lighthouse is a beacon is the sun itself, cradled in his arms and Koby looks down into those warm brown eyes and that softly smiling face and Tim was so, so right. His breath catches, and he knows there are tears in his eyes, but he can't stop smiling, can't stop grinning like he's that dumb, lonely, desperately terrified little kid he'd been the last time he hoped for anyone to love him.]

You do? Really?

I do.

[ quentin laughs a little, sheepishly looking away for a moment in the face of koby's shock. he doesn't want to come on too strong, doesn't want to imagine hanging this man his anchor and telling him to hold it - keep a line out that always leads back to him, pulling his ship and guiding his sails to a harbor he finds he wants nothing more than to settle in.

but this is what it feels like - overwhelming, consuming, distracting. the desperate need to be around someone and breathe in the very scent of them first thing on the morning. to go out and cast a net and always return to calm seas and clear skies. he'd imagined he'd always be alone, wandering port to port to familiar faces and come back to the ship as his anchor. his focal point. but everything has shifted in the short time he's known him - and for the first time in his life, he feels truly understood. seen. ]

Sorry, if it's too much. [ a little laugh, and his face flushed red for a change. his weight settled on koby's, arms around him, his fingers involuntarily flex. like trying to hold on in case he might flee, or run, or swim. he could see reason for it - sailors don't tie themselves down like this, and yet loving koby has never felt an impenetrable knot, a rough tide or a rusted, trapped anchor on unfriendly shores. ]

But it's true. It's why I wouldn't change a single thing about you.

It's not. [Immediate, so quickly the words trip out on a laughing sort of sobbing sound, because of course Koby's crying, of course the tears don't just well up and stay put, they well up and well up and well up and overflow down his sunkissed face. His hands find Quentin's face, the tickle of his beard and the smooth line of his jaw and the curve of his cheekbones, each feature so familiar, so adored. He doesn't think there's a place on Quentin's body he hasn't touched, hasn't pressed his lips to, hasn't traced his fingers over in sleepy, warm moments, just before dawn. Is it possible to know someone, to memorize them until they feel a part of you, and not end up loving them?

Koby leans down, presses his lips to Quentin's, thinks about that first kiss near the arena, about the taste of dust and sweat and blood, about the tangle of heat and pleasure and tangled sheets and spilled bath water that followed. About the first night he'd ever spent with another person curled in his bed, how he'd woken up fully rested for the first time in years, looked up at Quentin's face and knew he was in trouble. It wasn't just time, it wasn't just the knitting together of a hundred thousand tiny moments over the past weeks, trapped in the beautiful, dangerous pressure cooker of this house, this estate, this world -- though that was definitely what built the way he feels now, the fanning of a tiny spark into a flame.

But the spark had been there, when Koby woke up in Quentin's arms and realized he hadn't had nightmares for the first time in years. That he felt truly, completely, wholly safe with this man, that all he wanted was to slide back into the warm, sweet, perfect comfort of his presence and never, never leave it again.]

It's n-not. [Repeated as Koby pulls away, sniffles, pets back Quentin's hair and looks at him like he's the sun, the stars, the waves and the wind and the sea.] I d-do too. I mean -- [A quick breath, because he's thought about how to say it, how to make it special. But what's better than this, than the sound of their ocean and the rock of the water?] I love you too. So -- so much. I have since --

[A laugh, that day, that night, that morning flaring bright as cannonfire in Koby's chest.] The start? Maybe?

[ the arena had simply been a way for quentin to shut off his mind and do something to keep him from wandering back to the horrors of his home. it's difficult to think when your body has to work, has to exist in fight or flight, and he'd had every intention of going back in to win the round. or at least make the attempt. but something about koby stopped him - his insistence he stay, get medical care, his soft hands on his face and body, cleaning his wounds.

a gentleness with the firm hand of someone who has faced a lot of darkness. it resonated with him. how he ended up gravitating back to him, he'll never know. but his mornings turned into quiet moments wrapped around a warm body, kisses and whispers and stories shared over breakfast, the easy way he can slide into koby's bed when he's restless, the yearning to see him at least once, his smile soothing an ache in his chest.

but koby's crying and quentin wipes at his tears, laughing a little watery himself when koby lights up. he's not much of an anxious person himself, but waiting on koby's response feels akin to drowning - a fullness in the chest, lungs burning, heart pounding. but he says it - and quentin laughs, immediately leaning in and kissing him messy and hard, laughing behind it until koby speaks again. ]

The start? I thought you'd throw me back into the arena itself that night.

[ he laughs and kisses him again, a series of little ones over and over, arms wrapping tightly around him and keeping their bodies pressed close in the afternoon sun. ]

I knew you were special then. I didn't understand it. And now I wake up and think of you when you're not there, I come find you on days when I don't wake up to you. I feel safe with you, Koby. It's easy for everything else to feel leagues away when you're there, bright as the sun itself.

[ he's a little breathless with the emotion, touching their foreheads together and nuzzling their noses. ]

Will you share beds and baths and jam with me for a little while longer? I'd very much like it if you would.

[It'd be easy enough to chart things out, to tally up the mornings Koby's woken up with Quentin's tangled curly head pillowed over his heart, the constellations of marks left scattered over his thighs, up his neck, across his collarbone, an echo of the ones he's left on Quentin in return. He could try and quantify it, could turn it into data or notes or inventory, how many sweet mornings, how many heated nights, how many of those bright, warm smiles does it take to fall in love?

But it wouldn't translate. It wouldn't put into words the way everything in Koby is settled, calm, at peace, here in this boat, here with Quentin kissing him. It wouldn't make sense of how he'd found himself in the middle of this, the middle of them before he'd even recognized he'd begun. And for the first time, Koby doesn't want to try. He doesn't need to untangle the threads of who and how and why, to believe that every word Quentin says is true. And it's not going to fall out from beneath him, not going to crumble to pieces, not going to wash away with the tides. More than loving, he trusts Quentin, trusts that he isn't going to suddenly change or disappear or decide Koby isn't enough. Perhaps that's even more marvelous.

Now, though, Koby sniffs and tears up and is kissed all over, told he's the safe one, he's the trusted, beloved, sought-after one, and it makes him laugh, watery and amazed and giddy, pressing his forehead to Quentin's and nodding again and again.] Yes. Yes, I'll -- as long as you'll have me. As long as you want. [The unknowns loom, dangerous and fanged and burning, but Quentin is here, in his arms, and Koby can forget about the what-ifs, for a little while.] I love you. I love you. [Over and over, like he'll never get used to the words, laughing again and nuzzling their noses together.] Sorry, I -- nobody's ever said that to me before. Ever. My entire life.

[ quentin bundles him up against his chest, drags him close and wants nothing more than to intertwine and wrap around him, so that they may never part. koby is warm in the sun, their bare chests smushed together, legs tangled. he peppers soft kisses against that plush mouth, humming when their noses brush. ]

For the foreseeable future, how's that sound, hm?

[ he doesn't know what it holds for them, but so long as they're here, it's koby he wants at his side. it's koby he wants to return home to, it's koby he wants to love. all it takes is for the man to repeat those words i love you and quentin laughs brightly, kissing him again, longing and hard and deep - committing ever moment of this to his memory.

their noses nudge together and his face hurts for the smile pulled across it. ]

That's their loss. My gain. [ he reaches to run a hand back through koby's hair. ] There is so much about you to love. Your curiosity for the world. Your hunger to know more, to do right, to do well. Your heart as big as the sea itself. Your laugh, your stubbornness, your smile, the little freckles I can kiss when you're in the sun too long. The chapped skin on your bottom lip. The ink on your fingers and the taste of strawberries on your tongue.

[ his mouth slides against koby's jaw, to his ear, where he murmurs against it. ]

Your light helps me remember that there are good things in the world. Good people. I love that your heart shows on your sleeve - I love your tired kisses in the morning, the way you wrap your legs around me, the way you trust me with your body because it is perfect and beautiful. I love your scars, the wrinkle between your eyebrows.

[ he sighs softly. ] Do I make myself clear, Captain?

Yeah. [It comes out in a whisper, teary and grinning and giddy, one hand reaching to wipe away his tears, knowing he probably looks like a red-faced, crying mess, almost apologizing for it, but – but Quentin’s looking at him like nobody has, like even Koby at his messiest is beloved, and there’s no room for doubt in the face of that. The hissing, snarling, malevolent voice that lives in his mind is silent again, no sneaking tendrils of doubt in the way Koby feels when Quentin promises him as long as the future might last. There’s no fear about what if and what about and when he gets bored, when he leaves, what’ll be left?

There’s a lot about this place that Koby is cautious of, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the ground to fall out beneath him. But he’s somehow never doubted that Quentin cares about him, that his affection and tenderness was genuine. Because it’s been genuine from Koby since that very first day, because of the way everything went quiet, went calm and blissful and safe the first time Quentin touched him.

So he doesn’t curl away or try to poke holes in what Quentin says, doesn’t try to deflect the compliments, even if they make him blush deeper, squirm a little, hiding his bright red cheek against Quentin’s as the kisses trail up towards his ear. Koby shivers, inhales shakily, knowing he’s not as good at words, that he fumbles and stammers his way through anything serious. But Quentin’s voice, his warmth, sunkissed and adoring and the safest, safest Koby’s ever felt in his life – he wants to try, to say something.] I don’t – you’re so smart and you make me laugh and you find so much to be happy about, you’re always finding the sun, you’re always pointing me to it and. [He falters, laughs, squeezes his arms around Quentin’s neck, breathes him in through those dumb, incessant tears and he chokes out:] I don’t hate myself, when I’m with you. I don’t, and if I can – somehow be that for you, if I can keep being the place you go when you’re afraid, when you need that reminder that I – I love you, when you need to hide from the world for a little, then. Then I’ll be that as long as I can.

[Another sniff, and it’s probably good Quentin isn’t wearing a shirt because Koby would’ve cried a big wet patch into it by now, nuzzling his teary messy face closer and hiccuping out:] L-Loud and clear.

[ as koby speaks he laughs softly, brushing the other man's neck with kisses, trying to sooth him as he hiccups and cries into his neck, his shoulder. quentin would stay in this boat, adrift on the lake forever if it meant he could have koby for the rest of his life, not only his life here in the house. so he continues to kiss every inch of skin he's able to, smooths his hands down the man's sides, his hips, his chest, tracing the scars and anything he can. ]

You're all of that for me, there's no somehow. No trying. No Ifs. I wake up beside you and find all I can think of is your light. I feel frightened or sad or scared and you're the firelight from shore. I want nothing more than to sail home to you and press against your hearth, breathe in your warmth and kindness and maybe learn a little of my own.

[ he draws his head back, kissing koby again and again, sweet little things, a hand reaching again to wipe away those tears over and over. when quentin looks down with his own wet, happy eyes he smiles, genuine and unguarded and so immensely happy. ]

I love you. Loud and clear.

[ he leans in again, bumps their noses together, allows another kiss to pass through them, slow and yearning and hot, savoring and enjoying the fire burning between them. ]

[He wants to say more, wants to say that Quentin's the first person who's ever laughed when he cried and meant it in kindness, that the world has to be basically good, basically loving because he's in it, that the way his hair smells drives Koby insane, except -- well, that hair is tumbling down in loose, silky, heavy curls, and he's only human, after all. Instead he takes you're all of that and my true north and I love you and burrows the words deep into his marrow, for the bad days, for the nightmares.

And for now, he leans up, mumbles love you, I love you between a thousand kisses, matching Quentin's slow sweetness with open arms, with hunger, with kindling for that fire. Emotion is physical, for Koby, always has been -- he's sad, he cries, he's angry, he cries, he's happy, he cries. Everything is out on his sleeve, there for anyone to see, bleeding bright and vivid and inescapable where anyone can see. He thinks vaguely about haki, oddly, about the idea that emotion is a color, a taste, a sound, about reaching out and feeling someone else's like trailing fingertips over skin.

He stops thinking when his needy, insistent arch up towards that kiss makes the boat rock, getting a startled gasp, teary and laughing and shaken momentarily out of the heady haze.] I -- forgot where we were for a minute, I'm. Whoops. [Another laugh, red-faced and bright-eyed and reaching up to stroke his fingers down the curve of Quentin's face.] Sorry, keep going. You wanted to show me -- show me. [There's a quirk of a grin, that bright wickedness Koby has sometimes (mostly around Quentin, mostly when faced with his irrepressible, brilliant, addictive self), and he repeats, softer, knees nudging closer on either side of Quentin, wanting him closer, wanting to drown in him:] Show me.

I had a dream about you last night. It was very...vivid.

Was it?

Tell me more. What does Timothy Laughlin dream about?

Getting on my knees for you at the gym. You stopped me before I could make you finish and asked me to fuck you instead.

I see.

I'm very sad it was just a dream. Did you wake up hard and bothered? Do you need someone to come sit upon your throne?

I did, actually.

My throne? Is that what you think it is? I'm flattered.

You take care of yourself already then?

It's impressive. Like the way it fits in my hand - bet I'd enjoy it in my mouth, but you've put an impressive image in my head, you know.

I took a cold shower.

You'd be welcome to it somewhere other than your hand, if you wanted it.

Was hoping you'd say something like that.

But a cold shower - tsk. Should I come warm you up again this evening?

You should. I think I got too used to staying warm with you and Koby, it's been cold.

It's been a while since I've been on that end of things. But I'd reacquaint myself, if you like that.

Edited 2024-09-29 06:16 (UTC)

Consider it a formal agreement then - leave your door unlocked for me.

I will take anything you wish to give, sweets. Experiment all you like - I'm an open book.

You're gonna surprise me in the middle of the night?

As you've been so eager to remind me. But what you want is important too, you know.

I'd like to - it could be a little fun to make you wait and wonder. I know you'll do a good job.

Well, if you so wish to make use of skills you haven't in some time, it would be quite nice to make a new memory with the experience.

[ the last person who was intimate with him in that way? well. he's sure tim can guess. ]

Monstrous as usual. 👾👾

[ He would have assumed Koby, actually, given his talk with him about harnesses and fake appendages, but the specific way Quentin’s message is worded makes him reconsider. It makes him take this whole idea much more seriously than just fun, flirty texting, too. If Tim could actually help him, if he could do something to overwrite those painful memories with softer, sweeter ones, he wants to. ]

It would be. We can take it nice and slow. All night, if you can handle that.

I try my best to stand up to the title you've given me.

But slow, fast - that is all up to you isn't it? But all night - I can handle it. I'd like to.

It's up to you, too. It's only all up to me if you say you want it to be.

[ Knowing what he knows now about his relationship with the regent, it feels important to make that clear. Tim might feel more comfortable letting someone make every decision for him, but he doesn't assume that'll be the case for anyone else. ]

And what if I want it to be? All of it up to you?

[ he hasn't experienced that with someone he trusts fully - not like he trusts him. ]

I think I would enjoy that.

If that's what you want, I can give you that. Just don't expect a bunch of spanking.

Not the first time, anyway 😇

I will go in with an open mind, open thighs, and let you lead the way, sweet man. 😇

If I'm in charge, you'll be on time. 6:30.

Understood.

[ q spends the rest of his day out in the lake swimming beneath the burning sun of the afternoon. it's an easy place to clear his mind, to burn energy, to let his body do the work and his mind rest. he showers, towel dries his hair, and it's nearly 6:30 when tim will get a little knock at his door. and very much like quentin, he doesn't wait for the answer, merely cracks open the door to peek in. ]

Couple minutes early, sweets. Unless you'd rather me wait.

[ he's dressed simply, a pair of slim, gray jeans and a tight-fitting tee with a v-neck in a deep teal. ]

Whatever you wish.

I was always taught that “on time” means five minutes early. By my father’s standards, you’re late.

[ Lightly, almost sing-song, lifting himself on the tips of his toes to kiss him. Tim’s taking this seriously, but he doesn’t want it to feel serious, he wants it to feel so sweet and easy and unlike anything that’s ever happened with the regent that the monster of a man isn’t thought about at all. He feels the weight of whatever you want, the implication in the invitation that it doesn’t necessarily have to be sweet and easy, but the excited little smile on his face doesn’t imply it’ll be anything but.

His hands slide up and down Quentin’s chest, as if it’s his to touch whenever he pleases, and then catch on the hem of his shirt, giving it a little tug. ]

Take that off and get comfortable for me, alright? I’ll be right back.

[ oh.

oh. a prickle of surprise flits up his spine at the very thought that he is late. even all soft and singsong, there's something in him that already wants tim's approval. wants to prove he is a man of his word and can keep to what he says. it's all he has here. he watches as tim comes close, watches the hands slide up his chest.

idly his fingers reach to graze the other's forearms, boyish and a little less sure. timothy laughlin has caught him off guard. ]

Only my shirt then? Or shall I remove the lot for you?

[ Tentative fingertips graze up his arm, and Tim looks at him in return, warm brown looking even wider while he’s still got his glasses on. The smile quirking at the corner of his mouth gives his gaze a hint of playfulness, no true chastising, just poking around at corners and cracks to see what Quentin responds to. It would be easy enough to just channel Hawk, take the reins with a strong hand and not let go, but that’s what Tim needs. He needs to be claimed and kept under control, to give of his body as an act of worship, but that’s not true for Quentin. This has to be different. A reclamation of this as something good, divorced from duty, which he has a real choice in. ]

Hmmm...

[ Looking Quentin up and down, pretending to think about it as his smile breaks wider, teasing. ]

Keep the underwear. I want to take that for myself.

[ He steps back up to press a quick kiss to his lips, and then slips into the bathroom for a quick freshening up. A few minutes later, he returns with lube and a towel, nude and half hard already, and sits on the edge of the bed. Tim leans back on his hands and looks at Quentin, tilting his head in an invitation to come closer. ]

"Bet you'd enjoy it in your mouth," you said. Let's see.

[ quentin does as he's told, stripping down to only the slim, black boxer-briefs he always wears. he listens as he waits, the movement in the bathroom, the silence making his skin prickle with heat, anticipation. he eyes the supplies curiously, allows his eyes to follow the easy, lean line of tim's body.

he really is a pretty thing, strong but lithe, hard and soft in all the places he likes. but he stays still, watching as tim makes himself comfortable, tilts his head. and he does step forward, though he huffs a little at the words. oh, he did indeed say that. ]

You've a good memory.

[ he steps closer, leaning down to press his palms against tim's thighs, parting them a hair more to make room for the broad width of his shoulders as he kneels before him. his eyes stay focused on tim's as he reaches for his half-hard cock, long and callused fingers circling it to steady him. maybe even a cheeky swipe of his thumb along the underside before he leans down, laves his tongue slowly over the flared head, the slit, tasting him. he presses a long line of kisses down the length of him, dragging his tongue up the other side.

he's playing with his food.

but it's the next pass that has him closing his lips around the head of him, sucking once with a loud wet pop, then again. taking him deeper and deeper each time. ]

It was this morning.

[ A bratty little last word, at least for now, as he watches Quentin sink to his knees in front of him, feels his blood rush south. He's always been handsome, with the strong arms of a sailor, muscled shoulders he's thrown his arms around enough times that he's lost count, warm eyes that have felt safe to him since the night they met. He's never been looking up at him, though, and there's enough thrill in the novelty of it that Tim nearly forgets he's supposed to be in charge here.

But not for long. His cock grows thick in Quentin's hand, and his breathing grows deep and heavy just at the teasing, hot press of his tongue. Taking him in more makes him gasp, the warm wet and lewd noise darkening his eyes and kicking him into gear. Tim's hand reaches down to his hair, dark loose waves caught now between his fingers, keeping him from straying too far. ]

Taste good?

[ there's victory in the sounds tim makes, the way his breathing changes and the hand drops into his hair. his sweet man, carefully controlling him and gently coaxing him. it takes him out of his mind in a way, makes him focus on his body, ground himself in where he is and who he is with.

there is no one else haunting him in this moment, only the hot line of tim's arousal laying heavy on his tongue. at first he does nothing but take tim in to the back of his throat and hum his answer, low and rumbling, until he pops off of his dick, head tilting back a little, lips plush and red and slick. ]

Very. I see why Koby wouldn't let up. [ when they'd all been together, a tangle of limbs and bodies. he dips his head, licking softly at the slit, pressing harder on the second pass. ]

Do you like it?

Can I Stay with you for a while? I know I don't usually need to ask but I don't want to be alone right now. I'll pack light. If that's okay.

You're staying with me.

There's no question. Pack whatever you want. I'll be over to help you soon.

Okay. Okay. I don't know where to start I don't

[There's a long pause, like he's frozen, like he's swimming in circles in the dark and getting more and more exhausted. Six people dead -- seven, though Embry's death being a day before feels odd, off. One near death.

Finally:] I don't know what to do.

You just keep to yourself and keep safe.

[ he's already heading back up to the manor, though - panicked and worried and fiercely protective. ]

Pack some clothes, your notes, anything important. I'm on my way to you.

Right.

[Right. Stop standing in the middle of the room spiraling. It gives Koby something to focus on, grabbing his notes, his clothes, his charts and maps. This is why he'd done all this, right? So he can't freeze. He can't spiral.

He keeps looking out the window, his breath too quick, too tight, like he can't fully inhale or exhale unless Quentin's there. Unless Koby can see he's okay.]

Be careful.

[Once the door is locked and the phones are turned off and Koby's cried and cried and made himself sick from crying and he's tucked up with his face in the crook of Quentin's neck and he can finally breathe easily again:] Hey. I gotta tell you something.

[A beat, playing with the ragged threads of Quentin’s sweatshirt collar.] I know you don't need it, but -- thank you. For staying with me all day. Even when I was a mess.

[ quentin can't help the way his blood churns - the way this has made him more angry than he's felt in a long time. but he puts it aside, shoves it all down and wraps himself around koby. it's all he can do but pet his hair, wrap up in him, nuzzle against his neck and breathe him in. ]

You never need to thank me for that. We were with one another. We're both messes. You're allowed to be that - we all are.

[Somewhere beneath the exhaustion and fear and grief, Koby has a sharp blaze of pride in Quentin, in his ferocity, in his bold defense of Paul's sister, a girl who -- may be guilty, yes, but it didn't matter, at it's heart. The cards had been on the table, laid out for all to see, and they'd known it. Quentin hadn't voted to turn the tide one way or another, he'd done it to throw Alia a rope, to tell her I see you, I'm not afraid of you, you aren't alone.

Koby knows exactly what that feels like. How it changes everything. How there is before that warmth, that light and after. It's why he hadn't changed his vote, because Nami had needed that, in front of everyone, someone to stand beside her.

But he's scared. He's so scared it's metallic in his mouth, a sharp tang like blood, sickeningly familiar. It's the fear of what could happen next, the unknown, never knowing where the blow was coming from, where the mace would swing next. The fear of waiting. And it's the fear that it'll wrench this, wrench him away, somehow.]

I thought -- somehow it'd be easier. Enacting justice. That I'd just know who was guilty, like that, and it wouldn't cause any pain or. [A huff, a shake of his head, snuggling closer to Quentin's side, memorizing the way he feels, smells, even though he doesn't plan to be far from him in the coming days. If he goes to the library, Quentin's coming with him. If he remembers how to be hungry, they'll go eat together. Until this is over and -- well. They'll see when it's over.

Looking up, Koby offers a weary, wobbly smile.] You aren't a mess. You're wonderful. You're wonderful and I love you.

[ quentin holds koby a little tighter, feeling the sea rise up like a storm in him and he sighs, pressing his lips to koby's forehead. he's afraid, too. afraid that he will wake up and koby will be gone. that he won't be able to protect him if something happens. and maybe defending alia wasn't the right thing to do - maybe voting baela wasn't the right thing - but he couldn't let that woman go into captivity thinking she's alone. ]

It's never easy and there's never a right path. You have to do what you feel is right in the moment, and use all the facts you have. This place is simply evil - turning us against one another, using us for its entertainment. I know the Balfours act and play shocked but I don't see how they're not involved in this somehow. How they don't have the power to stop it.

[ quentin sighs, looking up at koby and he dips to press a kiss to the bridge of his nose, then the tear-stained cheeks he loves so well. ] I love you. And whatever happens in all this you have to remember that I love you so well as the sea. That I would spend an eternity land-locked if you're here with me.

[ there's something in his eyes when he says it - fierce, intense, a flicker of light that could be something from the window, if it weren't brilliantly gold fading out of the doe brown. ]

[Even this, this comfort, this sweetness, is laced with fear now -- because even if Koby struggled and strained to stay awake all night, even if he sat by their door wide awake and ready to fight anyone who came their way, the house wouldn't allow it. He'd be sound asleep and dreamless if anything came for Quentin, and that thought is like ice in his veins, even here in the warmth of their bed. It's evident in the way he presses forward, strokes his thumb over the line of collarbone and shoulder and neck, re-memorizing every inch of this man.]

They have to be behind it. [Soft, steely.] The Balfours have to know this is happening, how much pain and suffering and...destruction this game is causing. It has to be on purpose. [Koby's too tired to be truly savage about it, but the injustice of it rankles, has him squeezing his teary eyes shut for a moment, before exhaling slowly.] I just -- can't figure out why.

[Then, there, the nuzzle of Quentin's lips to his nose, his cheeks, and Koby sighs, melting against him, comforted now in spite of everything.] I love you too. I hate -- so much about this, about being here right now, but. Not you. Never you. [Even the agony, the grief of the last several days has been worth it, for Quentin. Anything would be worth it, for him.]

Koby.

[ he sighs, curling his arms tighter around him, drawing him in and keeping his lips pressed to his boyfriend's skin. he can feel the hurt and the pain bleeding off of him and it makes his stomach churn, makes his head spin. what he would do to protect his soft heart from the world, whether it was right or wrong. ]

There isn't a why. People like this... it's for their entertainment. There's no good left. There are evil people in this world and while they can be put down for good, it just takes time. It always takes time and pain.

[ he sighs, pressing a litany of kisses against koby's temple, his nose, his cheeks. ]

If I could send you back to your land of seas right now I would, even if it meant being apart from you. I'm sorry we had to meet this way, but I'll do everything I can to protect you. Everything, even when I have no power here.

[ the light in his eyes burns a little brighter, the flicker of cool, blue magic sparking into life and floating on the air, falling into koby's pink hair, warm across his brow, his freckles. he doesn't even realize he's doing it, but his heart aches for him. ]

You're everything to me.

[The hurt is -- a tangible thing, like a slow-healing bruise, like a cracked rib, like something crushed deep at the heart of who Koby is. He hadn't thought there was any innocence left in him, not after what he's lived through, not after Alvida. But there had been, because that's what pulses with grief and confusion and hurt, that part of him that insists it's not fair and it's not right when the world shows it, again and again, that there are no easy choices. That he's going to hurt people while trying to do the right thing. That they're going to hurt him.

And yet, still, this: Quentin's arms around him, Quentin's lips pressed to his nose, his face, Quentin's voice in his ear. Quentin says there's no good left and then makes himself a liar by existing.

Koby's so tired it aches, but he still frowns, still slips one leg over Quentin's hips, slides so he's straddling his boyfriend, hands on either side of his head.] I wouldn't. [Firmly, a touch stubbornly, with that clogged note that speaks of how often he's cried this month.] I wouldn't leave. And I'm not sorry.

[One hand finds the shape of Quentin's cheek in the dark, lit by his eyes, his voice, by the electric blue of his magic, even limited as it is. Koby cradles his face, leans in closer, forehead to forehead.] If it meant I could be with you, I would do it all again. Not -- my friends being hurt, I hate that, I hate it, but -- all this hurt. All the times I've cried your shirt snotty this week. I'd do it all again.

[ quentin holds him close, but makes a noise of surprise when that leg slides over his hips, when koby ends up atop him, hands planted. quentin is pinned in by his body and seeing the determination in koby's eyes is exactly what he wanted. he drops his arms so that his palms can rest on koby's thighs, petting them up and down.

they creep up to his sides when their foreheads touch. in the dark like this, their faces close, quentin's eyes glow bright and gold, shimmering in the dark. the blue magic around them suddenly bursts wide and vibrant, the color of it dousing their room in pale blue, lighting up the lines of koby's sweet face, the purse of his lips and the furrow of his brow. ]

Do you think I believed all of those things? Do you think I would want to be without you? Do you think I am sorry for how we met?

[ he huffs a little, tired and watery himself, and the magic swirls around them, dusting across koby's cheeks, his brow, his back, his arms... everywhere he can cocoon in warmth, the magic goes. quentin doesn't know how he does it - doesn't know how to wrangle the thing that bursts wild and rampant through him. ]

I'll fight for this. I'm hardly ready to let this house do what it's trying to do. And I'm not saying goodbye to you if I don't have to. Just wanted you to remember you can fight for it, too.

[ the magic presses into koby's skin, warm and soft, finding every little freckle or mole, alighting there, curving around his lips that quentin loves so, so well, he can see the magic more often now - but he doesn't realize that it's exposed like it is now - a raw nerve thriving against koby's haki, burst to full in desperation to end koby's despair. ]

[More than anything, Quentin seems to remind Koby again and again how much braver he is than he believes. The urge to bolt and hide, to curl up under the covers until this horrible game is over, to ignore the world and every hurtful, messy, complicated person in it is strong – but find the right thing to say, find that spark and he flares up like lightning in a bottle, like fire in the sky. The right thing is still, always someone else – fighting for himself is a skill Koby hasn’t quite learned yet.

But this, this he’ll fight for. The familiar shimmer of gold, the curl of electric blue, the hands slipping up over his thighs, his sides, beneath the oversized shirt Koby wears to bed nearly every night – especially now, in the midst of so, so much danger, wrapping himself in Quentin’s scent and presence even more so now that his haki is blocked. He’s so used to seeing the flicker of blue, the shimmer of it, that he needs to –

It hits, then: his haki is blocked. There’s been a blankness like a brick wall since the game started, one that Koby’s tried again and again to muscle through, to no effect. He’s mused that it’s like being blindfolded, like having his ears covered, like being underwater, unable to sense something that’s become so fundamental. Yet there: the bright blue he’s come to associate with Quentin, the aura he’s used to reaching out and feeling, like a tether, like an anchor. He shouldn’t be able to see it, now.

Unless it’s not just Quentin’s aura. Unless this is something else, something that pulses and burns and throbs with vibrancy and life, something that paints every inch of Koby’s exhausted, heartsick body in cerulean, like the sea, like the sky. His breath catches, and he leans back, lifting his hands, seeing how the bright, shimmering warmth is there, laid over his body like a second skin, glowing in the dark. For the first time in weeks, there’s no strain or fear or grief knotting his shoulders, furrowing his brow.

Instead, Koby just looks – enchanted, mouth curving in a wide, delighted grin, turning his hands over and back, tracing the magic (it has to be, it has to be, he hadn’t known it could be, but he knows it now) covering his skin, up his arms, over his collarbone, finally looking down at Quentin with a breathless, stunned laugh.]

This – are you? Doing this? You are, aren’t you?

I -

[ the magic stutters the moment he becomes aware of it again, the glimmering blue perceived and skittish, causing a pierce of pain behind his skull. a head ache. right. but his eyes stay alight and gold, the magic settling across koby's turning hands, dappling the curve of his laughing mouth. ]

Yes.

[ he has to resist the urge to say no - to hide away and pretend like this isn't something new and strange he can't control. but all the options are laid out before him - a world where he stays with koby in this place, a world where they split and forget, a world where he finds koby, koby finds him, and on and on and on like little threads floating through the air on a lazy wind.

the magic dissolves, returning the room to dark, his eyes staying flecked with gold even as the his head begins to ache from it. ]

I - it's only happened here. I don't know if this place changed me. It happens when I'm -

[ upset. worried. angry. flustered. happy. grieving. ]

I don't know.

[Even without his haki, Koby catches the hesitation in Quentin's words, remembers his life, his world, the place he came from. Remembers that others pursuing his gift, trying to control it, possess it, had caused the worst possible things to happen to him and those he loved. And if there was more, if the way Quentin can find a steady path through even the most fraught storms, the way he moves through the world like he's following an invisible thread is just the beginning of what he's capable of...it's understandable that he's anxious, nervous, maybe even afraid.

Leaning down, hands lit with brilliant blue, Koby cradles Quentin's face gently between his palms.] It's beautiful. It's -- so beautiful, whatever it means, however it works. You're amazing, Quentin, and I -- knew it, I've been seeing it this whole time, but I didn't realize what it was until now. I thought your aura was just beautiful because it was yours.

[The magic dims, but Koby catches the corner of Quentin's mouth with his own, kisses him there, kisses him properly, kisses him once more for luck.] And it is. But it's more. It's -- you're so much more. It's the most wonderful thing I've ever seen.

[ koby looks at him with loving wonder and his magic doesn't feel like a dangerous thing. his head aches dully from the use of it, but at every little kiss the warmth of it flares up between them, like waves on a sea, adrift and gentle. he reaches hands to slide along koby's thighs, rub up and down every inch of him to sooth him where his magic can't. ]

Alia. I don't know what she did, or how she did it - I could feel her. She could feel me.

[ quiet, because alia has been sentenced, has been sent down to a dungeon she does not belong in, regardless of what the house may or may not do. but he sighs, wrapping his arms tight around koby and gently nudging him to lay out on his chest, across his body. ]

She could see it - like you could. I didn't know. [ a little huff. ] I don't know what I can do or how to control it. I just - I was just thinking about protecting you. Defending you from all of this, and frankly I don't know how to.

[ i can't lose you is what it whispers, and quentin leans back up to kiss him again. ]

I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe.

Alia? Did she? [Koby's been cautious about the (odd, intense) girl since the wolf accusations, though he knows she's been kind to Tim and Hawk, kinder still to Quentin. His loyalty to her during the vote spoke volumes, and despite his own misgivings, Koby counts her as someone to watch out for.] She has -- powers too, doesn't she? Maybe she recognized something?

[Even in awe and wonder as he is, Koby's body is still exhausted, drained from the hectic, nightmarish month, so he's easily eased back down to lie on Quentin's chest, cheek pressed to where his heart beats, imagining the brilliant cerulean sparks of magic with each steady pulse.] It might be something new. But we'll figure it out. [When they're safe, left unspoken.

Koby leans up into that kiss, both his shaky hands coming to cradle Quentin's face, stroke through his hair, tug him closer.] Nothing bad's going to happen to me. [Softly, promised against his mouth.] Or you. Or anyone we love. We're all going to watch out for each other, yeah?

It's like I've known her for a long time. Like she saw it when I couldn't.

[ he sighs, letting koby rest against his chest, wrapping strong arms around him, fingers slipping up into the hair at his nape. never before would he think he'd belong in a place like this. that he would feel the pull of a north star and the night sky all in one. but here he is, starlight wrapped in his arms. ]

But it doesn't matter. Not when you're here. Safe.

[ he kisses him again, little soft things drifting like butterflies across his lips. ]

I love you. [ quiet, like a promise that he will watch out for him. a brand that he will stay at his side no matter the horrors this place or any other tries to press upon them. ] I love you, Koby, and I - [ a sigh - his head hurts, the rush of magic enough to make his skull throb. ]

I won't let anyone harm you or anyone we love.

Mmm, that's good, then. That she helped you see. [Koby snuggles closer, softly humming, thinking about the echo of his own gifts in someone who knows better, who understands how to navigate something he can barely understand. He knows what Quentin means, that soaring relief of being seen, understood. After shifting so he can feel each steady thrum of that resonant, steady heartbeat in his own ribs, Koby frowns in the darkness, frowns against the next kiss pressed to his lips.]

Yes it does. It matters. It's part of you. [One dark curl is tugged, reproachful and affectionate all at once.] Nothing could matter more. If -- if you want to find out more, of course. [Koby rests his chin over Quentin's heartbeat, hand moving to stroke gentle fingertips over the place where his own perpetual migraine lives -- just in front of his temples, where his brow furrows.] There has to be something after this. We have to be able to build something, here. Right?

[One fingertip runs down the length of Quentin's nose, then taps at his lips lightly.] I love you too. I love you and I love being here, with you. Despite everything. [Koby leans up once more, presses his mouth to Quentin's, kisses him slow and lingering, like that first day, like dust and blood and sunlight.] You need to rest too, though. You've been very brave and fought very hard for me, all month, and it's been very attractive and handsome and appealing, but you need to take care of yourself. Okay?

[ koby settles down on him and quentin's eyes drift shut, letting those fingers trace over the tired lines of his face, mapping out his features. he likes the way it feels - how soft and loving those touches are. he feels more human, more whole and real, in bed with koby than he does anywhere else.

he presses a kiss to the finger at his lips, smiling and opening his eyes slowly, looking down at him beneath heavy lids. ]

You need to rest, too. [ he shifts a little, lets one broad palm sweep up the line of koby's back, rubbing softly before he pulls the blankets up around them both, leaning down to receive the kiss, lingering and slow and full of love and light. he sighs against it, the worry in his brow melting away. ]

Stay with me - wake me up before you run off in the morning. Want to keep you close during all this.

The library's closed.

What do you mean? The doors shut? Or is it just gone?

[The most woeful selfie of the library door, with the "closed for repairs" sign on it, and Koby leaning heavily against said sign, looking incredibly dejected.]

Closed?

Did someone knock over the shelves? I'm surprised it wasn't us.

[ he knows how serious this is for koby, but he's trying to make light of it. ]

We can see if there's another room that might have books for you. Surely it won't be closed forever.

I hope not? That'd be very bad for the books. We never knocked anything DOWN, don't be silly. Just slightly dislodged things. And we always cleaned up afterwards. You're right. You're absolutely right. There are smaller rooms with books, it's just This one is the only one that answered us. Not even the Balfours do that. I'm worried about what this might mean.

Well I suppose we could try and sneak in? Check things out.

The door might be locked but I'm sure we can find a way.

It's strange that it happened with no warning. Has anyone mentioned if they'd done something to harm the library?

Through the windows? It's high up, though, that's dangerous. I don't want anyone to get hurt trying. I'd ask Giles, but I don't trust him as far as I can throw him. No, it was perfectly fine when I was there yesterday. Nothing amiss. Though I did have a strange Project. I wasn't supposed to talk about it when it was happening, but I think I can now? Maybe you'll have a better idea about its motivation than me. You're clever like that.

A project?

What sort of project?

I'd not ask Giles, either. I think he hates everyone. Not even sure if he really likes himself, poor old lad.

Sort of an information-gathering one? I'll show you, I'm on my way back now. You're at home, right? If he doesn't like you, there's something deeply wrong with him. [Then again, Koby thinks that about anyone who doesn't like Quentin. Untrustworthy behavior.]

I don't think Giles likes anyone.

[ facts. but it's deeply amusing. ]

I'm home - come tell me all about your information-gathering project. Though I'm in the bath if that might dissuade you. I can always get out to better receive you.

He likes sighing just loud enough to let you know he's exasperated by you, and I think that's about it. No, no, you'll catch a cold, running around with wet hair. Don't rush yourself. I can talk in the bathroom just as easily as anywhere else.

[He's absolutely only acting out of concern for Quentin's health and well-being. Obviously. No ulterior motives here.]

Oh whatever will I do if I do not have someone here to dry my hair for me. You're right - talking to me here in the bathroom is the wiser decision. For my health.

[ obviously he understands the health risks and he couldn't appreciate koby's mindfulness now more than ever. ]

You might even have to get in as well. It will be the only way to keep me warm once the water cools, after all.

[ she doubts very much quentin is well-versed in christmas, so she feels little apprehension in having a present delivered to his door by a helpful staff member, especially since it is not delivered on christmas. inexpertly wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine, sealed with a green wax stamped with a bird in flight.

inside reveals a piece of embroidery; a ship on the sea, bubbles made of tiny pearls instead of thread, real shells and sand dollars at the bottom, small hunks of bleached coral, a tiny starfish, delicately and near invisibly attached to the embroidery with the thinnest silvery thread that catches the light when he shifts the piece to look at it. the scent of salt water like a ghost in the air, just the hint of it caught in the physical threads of magic.

a note at the bottom of the box reveals an incredibly delicate and old-fashioned cursive: ]

Darling Q,

I much prefer this to the infernal texting you have subjected me to.

I've only just discovered the concept of Christmas and while I do not think Christ will convert me, I enjoy the idea of gift giving. My hope is that you will be able to look at the waves and some of the ache for the sea will abate.

Ever fondly yours,
P

[Alia’s gift is wrapped somewhat clumsily in brown paper, likely taken from the kitchens, and taped excessively to ensure it’s secure. Inside, resting in sparkly, star-studded tissue paper:

A warm, anchor-patterned scarf.

A smooth-polished rock from the lake (yes, everyone gets a rock) with the gift-receiver’s initials carefully carved into it (with what? Don’t worry about it.)

A business card for Sol & Scroll, because if you aren’t patronizing it, you should be.

There’s also a note, scribbled on notebook paper stolen from Alina (sorry, babe):]

Quentin -

Son of the stars, anchor to lonesome souls: keep yourself warm, until the sun rises on us again. Keep yourself safe, though never doubt: my eye is always on you. I will keep you safe.

- Alia

Will you tell me something nice? That has nothing to do with anyone getting gored or spiraling out of control or wearing mourning black on Christmas. Do we have any of that?

There are good people here. People with big, loving hearts and sharp minds. There's one I know, actually. Took him some time to warm up but I'd say he's charming, clever, maybe funny even if he won't admit it.

I've been reading a book from this world that's about an older time period than now. I drew Koby, actually. You as well but it is far less accurate considering I do not have the model before me in the flesh!

[ it's not at all nice and grand here, but quentin finds hope in its people instead. ]

:)

I should be offended that you can't remember every inch of me. Unless you've made me taller, then I forgive you.

I remember the mole on your lower back, right under your ribcage on the left. I remember more than you think, you know.

But I'll beg your forgiveness when I see you in a bit.

[ presumptuous! and also a sign he will make him come join him, if only so that quentin can cuddle him a little. koby's out doing all the busy things koby does, so sue him! ]

[ Very! But Quentin's earned the right. Tragically, ]

I'm at Aemond's. His mom just got eaten by another monster, I can't leave.

Talk some more about the freckles, though.

Edited 2024-12-19 02:08 (UTC)

Alicent? I'm sorry, Tim.

[ they hadn't been on the most excellent of terms but all the same - it makes his stomach twist sickly.

but he can forgive tim's absence. and he opts for the lighter for now - tim had asked for good things after all. ]

The freckles. You should get some sun - let a few show up on your nose. But you have another one on the back of your right shoulder. Where I always get my mouth and leave a mark. Another one on the inside of your knee. That one I like best, especially when I'm lying between your thighs.

Your freckles are cute.

Yeah.
Thanks.
Everything's messed up.

The one on my knee is ticklish. Sorry again for kicking you :(

Maybe I liked it when you kicked me. :)

And there's nothing messed up about you, Timothy Laughlin. Your heart contains oceans with so many ships lost at sea until you set them back on course.

[ what he would give to be there - get his arms around tim and pet his hair and kiss his brow, help him weather the storm just a little bit. ]

I think next time I see you I'll bite that little freckle at your knee. Leave little marks all along the insides of your thighs. They're so soft, you know. I can't help myself.

No you did not!

That's what I try to do. I don't know if it ever actually works.

sounds like it would take me out of my head for a while. I'm gonna need it before long.

[The library is still closed, but Koby's turned his room into gift-wrap central, no peeking boyfriends allowed, so that's where he texts from.]

How do they celebrate holidays where you're from? Or do they? I realized I never asked. Also papercut count: 5.

You realize you could just hide my gifts and let me help you?

We celebrate the winter solstic like you do this holiday. But there are no stories about a fat, jolly man.

On the sea we didn’t celebrate too much. We were never landside long enough to worry about it.

I'm almost done! I promise. You can help me deliver. I have a couple more than I can carry, but I made a map of the most efficient way to drop things off. I don't care for that part, honestly. Why is he going into everyone's houses? It seems suspicious. Us neither. I mean, even when I was on land, there was something else to worry about. Did you celebrate anything else? Birthdays, summer solstice, things like that? When IS your birthday?

If you're almost done then there's no harm in showing up early.

[ is he going to? probably. but he'll give it a little time for koby to panic a little bit. ]

But I agree - the stories don't seem quite right. Coming down a chimney? Eating cookies left out from every child he delivers to?

Oh. December 12th. I never remember. I suspect it was you who kept me occupied that night, maybe.

Not almost done with YOURS there are PIECES. I can cover everything, just knock first if you come by. It's nearly as strange as the whole god-as-a-baby thing, but please never tell Tim I said that. He takes this very seriously. The 12th? That was a week ago! Yes, I did, we watched part of some movie about an unpleasant green man trying to ruin some nice people's holidays. I remember because you were wearing that sweater I like and my hands were cold so I kept reaching under it.

I know he takes it very seriously. It is a very odd story but he likes it, so I listen when he says it.

But the green man! Yes. He had a name. Grunch? Grounch? Grouch? I wasn't paying attention - you had your hands up my sweater after all.

I'll keep away until you tell me I can come join you, but know I'm sorely missing you. I might need to warm up my own cold hands all on my own.

Edited 2024-12-27 03:23 (UTC)

That’s because you’re wonderful and if anyone cares deeply about something, you’ll give them plenty of attention.

[Koby knows this firsthand, has rambled at length about the most absurd things imaginable and gotten quietly impressed “hmmms” and thoughtful nods.]

Grinch. I remembered because it's ridiculous. I was multi-tasking, though, so I don't remember a lot besides that. Something about a sleigh and roast something. I think that was right about when we stopped watching. Well, I can't have that. I'll bring you something hot, from the kitchen. It's too cold, lately, I don't like it at all. Soon I'll have to wear socks to bed or risk freezing you with my toes.

[He teases, like he doesn't warm his feet on Quentin's shins every. Single. Night.]

[ A package delivered to Quentin's doorstep, neatly and lovingly wrapped. Inside the box is a large hooded scarf with pockets, to keep him warm, and nestled inside it for safekeeping, a fragrance that smells as advertised, and so of course, reminded him of Quentin.

A second package is a tin with a variety of Christmas cookies, and a homemade card with a felt snowman on it. ]

Quentin,

I know you don't celebrate Christmas, but it wouldn't feel right leaving you off my list. You've been a better friend to me than I could have hoped for, ever since the night we met. A lot of things here feel so impermanent, but you're one of the few things I know I can count on. So thank you for being you, for being so patient with me, and for teaching me all you have. You've done more for me than you know.

Merry Christmas.

With love,
Tim

[Quentin’s gift, after much deliberation, is a touch different. There’s the nautical paper, the blue ribbon, the tissue and card and everything, and there’s a lushly knitted blue scarf folded in the box, the same color as the deepest pulses of Quentin’s magic. However, when the card is opened, it just says:]

For the cold days. Go to the back booth in the restaurant, where you made me laugh until I couldn’t breathe at the party. - K

[When Quentin follows directions, goes to said booth, there’s another box – this one with a (mildly tacky) glittering suit fit to his exact measurements, and another note:]

For the next party. Go to the balcony outside the game room, where I stopped being scared of who was watching us, because you made me forget everything but you. - K

[The balcony is snowy, icy, but there’s another box right by the wall Quentin had pressed Koby up against in the head of summer, this one containing a less-formal outfit - a sweater, patterned with ducks, and of course, a third note:]

So Abe doesn’t feel left out. Go to the place I told you I loved you, for the first time. -K

[The lake is frozen over, the rowboat overturned to keep from gathering snow, but beneath it, a fourth box, this one filled with charcoal and smooth paper, gathered into a leather-bound sketchbook.]

For your maps or your art or your list of places to go and things to see and movies to watch and books to read and anything you want. Go to the place where I first KNEW I loved you, where you made me come alive the first time you touched me. - K

[Koby’s room, of course – rarely used anymore, not since October, not since he’d come to stay with Quentin on that first terrible day and sort of…never left. They’ve split time since then, periodically spending the nights in the suite where the notes and papers and supplies live, but more often than not they’re in Quentin’s room. In fact, when he opens the door to the rarely-used bedroom, it’s completely cleaned up, papers and files gone, all Koby’s belongings having been packed up and put away, bit by bit over the last few weeks.

All that’s left, on the cleaned-off desk, is a slightly crooked, homemade bookmark, made from a map in Quentin’s handwriting and a dried pink flower – the first two things he’d ever given Koby, that first little scavenger hunt from all those months ago. And one last note:]

For as long as I can, for the rest of my life, I want my home to be where you are. And I want that to start officially, today.

My first mate, my siren, my sailor, my love. Come home to me.

-Koby

[ quentin wakes without koby at his side for once and that alone is strange, but not wholly unheard of. but he wakes, dresses, and finds the little gift wrapped in blue paper and follows every little clue, each a stepping stone of their relationship, each personal and real and passionate.

but it leads him, finally, to koby's room. emptied out, bed tidily made, no signs of books or papers or the sea of theories and thoughts. no maps on the walls, no ink stains. the house has thoroughly cleaned it, but he finds the little paper, the note. the flower.

come home to me it says and quentin can't shake the staggered, shaken feeling in his chest. it sears into the back of his mind, makes his heart thump harder and faster. he tucks the little paper into his pocket and carefully cradles the dried, pink flower. down the hall, not far from koby's room for once, to his own. the room he left a little while ago on the treasure hunt, all the gifts tucked under his arm.

when he enters his room he can tell immediately that it's different - papers, books, clothes, the very smell of koby strong on the air. ]

Captain?

[ soft, full of emotion. ] I've come home to you.

[There's a quiet urge, as soon as Quentin's left the suite, to call the whole thing off, to go bolting through the house grabbing two or three of the gifts so it isn't too much, to swap out the letters or the gifts for something better or nicer or -- something. But it passes, it fades, replaced with how much Koby wants this, wants the end result of his gift nearly as much as he wants to give it. He breathes in, out, slowly, straightening up from where he's been crouched around the corner for the last half hour, waiting for his boyfriend to finish pulling on a sweater and slippers and padding out in search of his gifts.

The soft blue of Quentin's presence moves from place to place in the periphery of Koby's senses as he carefully unpacks the rest of his things, all of which he'd stuffed into a suitcase the night before, under the guise of spending the night at Nami's. The notes have all been burned or condensed down into three or so notebooks, the extra supplies is hidden in the barn, guarded by one very vicious attack duck, he's taken each and every book and map and sweater and pair of socks from the suite he'd first woken up in, months before, and now it all gets unpacked. Quentin's things are gently moved aside -- his books, his papers, his treasures and trinkets from across the grounds -- or rearranged to accommodate Koby's and it's wonderful and it's terrifying and it's all he's ever wanted since he was a tiny, scabby-kneed, lonely kid, praying to whatever god would listen for someone to want to make a home with him.

The door creaks open right as Koby's finishing the last touches -- the little table is set, there are candles, there's food and wine and there are stringed lights strung around the window and some of that Christmas music Tim's such a fan of playing tinnily from somewhere. Koby straightens up, fidgety and anxious in slacks and a sweater and so much raw hope and happiness and nervousness in his wide eyes and his fumbling hands and the way his breath catches.]

H-Hi. [Stammering, he hasn't stammered around Quentin in ages. But his heart is in his throat and his hands are a little trembly as he steps closer, as he reaches out.] Hi. Welcome home.

[ so much has gone into this, that much is evident the moment he walks in. the lights, the food, the table with candles and wine. even koby, dressed the way he is flushed pink in the cheeks. he looks around in wonder at the place then he laughs softly, baffled. welcome home. something he never hears back in his world, because he doesn't have a home to return to that's not the ship. and who says welcome home to a sailor living daily upon a ship?

it hits him like a ton of bricks, shakes him a little. home. part of him knows that koby has always been home, the spinning center of his compass, that sure feeling when the wind blows and the way he knows exactly where to go and when. koby is that - a sure thing, fixed, imperfectly perfect.

he can't say much else but close the door and cross the distance between them, his eyes a little glassy as he reaches for koby's face. there's no hesitation when he leans down to kiss him, cradling his face between his palms, sweet and soft and adoring. there's a pulse in his own magic, something surprised and blooming and settled. he lets the kiss linger, long and slow and languorous as though he's been at sea for months and months and just returned landside. ]

Welcome home to you, too. [ a place that is theirs. a room that makes up everything they are and will be. he grins against koby's mouth, kissing him again and again, little butterfly kisses, each one bringing with it a bubble of laughter. ]

This is incredible.

[The nerves are still there -- home isn't something Koby knows, for reasons that parallel Quentin's own. The ocean is changeable, shifting, and the last time he was on a ship for an extended period of time, it wasn't anything close to home. The Marines had -- been close, closer than Koby had ever thought he'd get to have. He could've been happy, he knows, in that world.

But Quentin walks in and the warmth, the love in his voice, his face, his eyes is -- unmatched, unparalleled, beyond happy. Koby's grinning too wide to worry, to fidget nervously or bite at his nails, because he's being swept up in the giddy rush of those kisses, or Quentin's hands cradling his face. He laughs, soft, presses closer, up on his toes for each and every one, anxiety ebbing away like the tide.]

It's -- okay? [One small concession to fretfulness, to wanting to make doubly sure, that wild, aching, throbbing want that's at the very core of who Koby is, heartfelt and earnest and honest and tender, still, after all this, tender and pleading -- tell me you want me to stay, tell me you want me, please, please.] I want it to be okay, even though -- I mean, I've been here for a couple months already, but. It's okay for this to be -- ours? Here?

It's already ours. It belongs to us.

[ he laughs, peppering koby's face with sweet kisses all over again, lingering on the plush line of his mouth. that koby would think for a moment he didn't want this? it makes something twist guiltily in his gut. ]

I would spend every day, every minute at your side if you would have me. I want you here, I want you there, I want you stay wherever I am. And I'll stay wherever you are. Isn't that what being a boyfriend is?

[ a soft, cheeky smile. ] I don't know. But I know it's what love is. Where would a sailor be without the sea? Without his north star? With the sun warm on his back and the wind in his sails? It is that simple.

[ he kisses his forehead, slides hands down to drag koby close. ] This is a most excellent present. I suppose I will have to celebrate this Christmas thing every year if it is to be so nice. Though I don't think we'll ever top this.

[ even if he has a few ideas. ]

I know, I know, it -- I know. I just wanted to -- make sure. Make a point of it.

[Koby's laughing, smiling, hands coming up to curl into Quentin's shirt, letting go the last shuddery exhale of nerves, of fear that maybe, maybe it would all be too much, maybe he'd say or do something wrong and drive away the greatest, brightest warmth he's ever had. Trust wars with fear, and for the first time in his life, trust wins.

Because Quentin talks about every year and Koby's chest goes alight with longing, heart leaping as he looks up, so much raw hope in his eyes, his face that it nearly aches. Quentin talks about a future that Koby's so, so scared he won't be allowed to have, but that he wants so much, enough that it makes him feel brave and strong and terrified all at once. Quentin speaks sweet, lilting words, like he did on the lake out under the sun, and it's freezing cold in the dead of winter, but Koby grins like the sun and rises up on his toes to press his forehead to his boyfriend's, slips into the wonderful ease of being with him.] You can have it -- all my minutes, all my days. All the messy noisy ridiculous stupid parts, all the simple parts. All of it.

[There's a laugh, watery, teary, because -- it's Koby.] We might need to, yes. I'll start planning now. [For Christmas and birthdays and all the holidays Tim's talked about and all the ones Koby's read stories about -- he wants them all, he wants everything, a hundred days, a thousand, more. He wants forever, after a lifetime of living for the next hour, next minute, next heartbeat. It feels like a heart's desire, like a dream. If you could do anything, be anywhere, Koby, where would you be?

Here. I'd be here.]

I think I like the messy noisy ridiculous stupid parts of you best. The simple parts, too. The handsome parts. The parts where I get to kiss you like this.

[ and it's a little on the dramatic side because quentin has watched one of those movie things recently, and he bends deep, enough to tip koby back, to dip him just a little in his strong arms and kiss him hard and wanting. just so koby doesn't have to reach or tiptoe to kiss him - because koby deserves to have everything made easy for him.

he deserves a softer journey than the ones they left behind.

he laughs against koby's mouth shortly after, keeping him tilted back, looking into his wide eyes with such adoration. their auras are one mess of violet in the room but the blue begins to beat it out just a little, magic tickling in the freckles he'd kissed into his skin so long ago. ]

I love you. It doesn't matter where we are. That will never change.

[There’s a soft gasp as Quentin bends him back, tips him like in a movie, like when the music swells and sweeps and the wind blows and the romantic leads kiss each other like there’s nothing else in the world. It had always seemed silly, in the movies, especially when there were other things going on – saving the world or a ship sinking or something.

It doesn’t feel silly now. It feels like coming home, it feels like steady ground beneath his feet, like an anchor, like a north star, like all the things Quentin’s called him over the months they’ve known each other. Koby lets himself imagine being called such things for longer, for days and weeks and months and years, lets himself believe that there’s a way to open a door between here and his world, lead the man he loves through and close it firmly behind him, so nothing monstrous or cruel or hopeless can follow.

And then he lets it slip away and curls into the sweet, wonderful warmth of now, of his heart in his chest and the grin on his face and the spark of Quentin’s magic teasing at his soul, his skin. Koby laughs softly, smooths back a loose, dark curl, lets his hand linger on Quentin’s cheek.]

I love you too. [Kissing him again, sweeter, quicker.] No matter when or where.

Well then we're settled. I like you, you like me. This is our home together and it will always be a safe harbor to return to.

[ he laughs into each sweet little kiss before pressing one more lingering and loving against the plush line of koby's mouth. he raises them back up but keeps his arms wrapped around him, fingers pressing into his sides, keeping them pressed and flush together. ]

I suppose we have to enjoy everything in here again differently now don't we. Do you remember when we ruined one of the maps because I had you pinned to our desk? Or the very first bath we shared? Or the carpet. The rug, the door. Or when we ate toast together, when you showed me how texting worked. The times you've dressed me. The boat on the lake. The swims. The sun on your face.

[ he snorts a little, dipping to nip at koby's jaw once, letting his hands slide down now to koby's ass, giving a playful squeeze. ]

I look forward to every moment with you.

[Quentin reminisces, and Koby smiles brighter, warmer with each recollection, nodding along -- of course he remembers, the bath and the bed and the desk, the lake, the sun, of course.]

I remember all of it. [Soft, pressed close against Quentin, hand tracing the line of his cheek, thumbing over the lines that appear when he smiles, the crinkle-eyed grin he adores so much.] I remember every day with you. Every moment. [He doesn't let any of it blur into mundanity, even the long lazy mornings spent quietly chatting beneath the covers, delaying getting up until Quentin suddenly springs up, stretching and yawning like a bear and announcing he needs breakfast -- or until Koby squirms a little closer and slips a hand up under Quentin's shirt, coaxing them into staying beneath the sheets a little longer. Koby sears it all into his mind, remembers the taste, the feel, the smell of each day, each hour, revels in it like a pirate king with his hoard.

And he laughs, wiggling closer, scrunching his nose at the cheeky grab, at the playful lightness in Quentin's face, his warm eyes, his bright grin.] Well, I did bring dinner up, but...we can always reheat it if... [Koby glances over at the newly-made bed, arches both eyebrows.] If you want to properly christen our new home?

Luffy and Usopp are gone. They went home. I'm checking in on the crew, but then I'll be home and Will you be home? It's okay if you're not but if you are I'll Be there soon.

[He is absolutely not spiraling :)]

Gone?

I'm home. I didn't hear anything.

Come home.

[ he will be waiting - one with a mug of hot tea sitting on the bedside table for him, but then also waiting to gather him into his arms. luffy's absence feels strange and surreal and all it took was a peek inside to see the room had been cleared, cleaned.

empty, save for the little snail they both fed. ]

yeah, i just felt it.

[Like the sun blotting out. Like losing a limb. A howling emptiness that even checking in on the others doesn't cure. He knows where Luffy's gone -- home, back to their world, back to a place where he's Koby's enemy. Back where all the crew is destined to go, eventually.

When Koby opens the door, it's with shaky hands, with his heart in his throat, because even though he can feel Quentin's presence pulsing and warm and shining like a sunlit sea, what if -- what if it's not real, what if it's a trick, what if he opens the door and finds this room empty too?

He doesn't, of course. Quentin is there, real and warm and solid, and Koby crosses the room in a couple quick strides, clinging onto his boyfriend with both arms, with all the strength in his body, breath coming quick, shuddery.]

[ quentin doesn't need to ask questions about this, doesn't need to share his own sorrow in it. luffy and usopp were never part of his crew, his foundation the way they were for koby. and so when koby comes in and clings, quentin wraps his arms around him, keeping him tight and close. he says nothing, just presses kisses to the top of his head, to his cheeks.

he doesn't ask before he picks koby up, before he carries him to their unmade bed and lays him down, crawls in beside him, drags koby onto his chest. he doesn't ask to hold him, to kiss him sweetly, to touch anything that might look like tears and wipe them away. ]

You're okay.

[ he threads fingers through koby's hair, keeps his lips atop the downy pink of his hair. ]

I'm here. I'm with you, let it out. I know how it must have felt.

[ koby now so in tune with everyone, with the manor, with the people he cares for. ]

It will be alright.

[The gentle bundling over to the bed, the warmth and affection of Quentin scooping him up and curling close beside him, stroking his hair, his face, wrapping him in his presence -- it soothes the sharp edge of panic, the urge Koby has to cling on with all his might, like Quentin might be next. Because he might. Because all the research and all the studying and all the planning and learning and working hadn't done anything, in the end.

It's perhaps a bad sign that he isn't crying -- his eyes are glassy, wide, stricken with grief, but dry. He's in that place beyond tears, brought back bit by bit with the steady pulse of Quentin's heart beneath his palm, the stroke of Quentin's fingers through his hair. Koby breathes in, out, slow, feeling like something's broken, shattered in his chest, like there are shards jabbing at him when he inhales. It's a grief he hasn't felt before, not like this.]

...I didn't get to say goodbye. [It comes out soft, small, and Koby's breath hitches, eyes flicking upwards.] I -- last time I did, but this time I couldn't -- I didn't get to.

where are you

there's something wrong with me

I need help please

[ this is the last thing he wants to see after a harrowing month with revenants and danger. ]

What's going on Tim?

I've just left lunch - where can I find you?

I went to your room to find you

It's so hot I need you to come

Are you still in my room?

[ strange, but he's seen people around acting a little oddly. it makes him wonder if it's this house again. it's hard to say, but he's starting toward his room the moment he sends his reply. ]

Yeah. I’ll stay put but please hurry.

[ He’s a good boy and does just what he says he will, he just neglects to mention that he’ll be shedding a few layers before Quentin gets there. Stripping down to his underwear doesn’t do a damn thing to cool him off, it only exposes his raw aching to the world, or the intimate little piece of it Koby and Quentin (and sometimes Tim) have made for themselves in this room. It fills him with a longing that overwhelms him to the point of fear, because he’s no stranger to yearning, but he wants now for no one and nothing in particular, just for touch, for the sake of touching. It burns in him, so hot that it threatens to hollow him out if he doesn’t heed its call.

Quentin won’t judge him for his weakness. That's the thought that keeps him in this room waiting, instead of prowling the halls for the first willing body he comes across, something he’d sorely regret the moment it was over, if not earlier.

The door is barely shut behind him before Tim jumps up, crosses the room in a rush (and with an obvious hardon swinging in front of him) and presses him back against it, descending on his neck and jaw to dot it with wet kisses. ]

You came. Thank you.

[ Breathless, like they’ve been going at it for some time already. ]

[ quentin doesn't know what he expects, but he hardly has time to think before tim has descended upon him. it's reflex that his hands find the dip at tim's waist, that he tilts his head and hums low and graveled beneath the kisses. he'd be a fool to not have noticed the heavy, throbbing need between tim's thighs, too. he's just a man, after all - quentin can't help himself. ]

Tim?

[ he gets one hand to tim's lower back, bringing him flush and close. ]

Who left you like this?

[ possessiveness, a little anger, a little wanting. he reaches his free hand to tim's hair, nails dragging along his nape. ]

Let me help you

No one.

[ he doesn’t...think. No one had gotten him riled up and then left him desperate and wanting, no one had offered him any drinks that might have been spiked or any strange drugs, not since the revenants finally left them in peace. Tim didn’t clock the candy as having any ill effects, and he’s not in the mood right now to retrace his steps until something clicks because he finally, finallyfinally has Quentin’s hands on him. Perfect hands with perfect fingers, the working hands of a sailor. Strong enough to hold him down and keep him there.

The fantasy runs through him like a jolt of electricity, making him shudder against Quentin’s body, making his own skin press against his wherever he can. Grinding into his thigh, Tim moans, soft and relieved. At the sensation, at the anger in his voice - protectiveness, always so fiercely protective, but never patronizing. One of his most attractive qualities, and exactly what he needs so desperately now. In his frenzy, he bites a little harder than he means to, leaving a red mark that will darken over the coming hours, and rises to his toes, pressing his lips to Quentin’s. Hungry, overwhelmed with need to the point of tears. ]

Please. You can fix it. Please.

[ the snare of teeth brings with it a hiss, brings with it the stirring of heat with tim's warm, desperate body against his own. he knows the shape of tim laughlin so well at this point, knows exactly where to feel that wet spot in his underwear, where to drag his nails to make it worse.

he gets his arms around tim and at the searing kiss he reaches his hands low, low, low, gripping roughly at his ass and hoisting him up, encouraging strong thighs around his waist. tim tastes sweet, like chalky candy and the coming of spring and quentin chases it, licking hot and deep and hungry into his mouth, taking his time when tim is absolutely messy in his arms.

another softer time, he might take tim to bed. instead, if tim allows him to hoist him up? he'll turn him and press him hard up against the wall, using his own body to pin him, grinding his hips up against tim's ass. ]

Tell me what I need to fix, sweets.

[ Tim presses into his hand, into his chest, into all of him, every part of him that isn't touching part of Quentin aching terribly. He trembles as if he's already teetering over the edge, despite feeling so painfully far away. With wet streaks on his face, he gasps, nodding with soft, needy sounds as Quentin handles him, obediently wrapping his legs around his waist - or attempting to, sacrificing his balance and control to someone who knows better than him what to do with them.

He whimpers at the impact, hands grasping at the door to steady himself, but there is no steadying himself, there is no normal. He's flying wild, burning up, grinding his ass back against Quentin and praying that he'll offer him relief. Mercy. ]

Fix me. Something's wrong.

[ From their very first meeting, Quentin got to him. Beautiful, sweet, easy to want, easy to accept that he was wanted in turn. But this is too easy, unnaturally so, like he can barely breathe without feeling the other man's breath on the back of his neck. It feels dirty, lacking intimacy in the way that always makes him feel guilty after, because the desire had come before the man. He hadn't sparked it, the feeling simply arose from inside of him, like a monster threatening to swallow him whole. ]

Fuck me. And don't stop talking.

[ Because there's love here, and trust, no matter how much this place tries to taint it and turn it into something tawdry. Tim knows it. It'll just be a reminder. ]

I'm not going to let anything happen to you.

[ there's a simmering in his veins, a tingling on his tongue that makes him dive back in, drink hot and hard and heavy from tim's mouth, messy and noisy, daring to suck at his tongue when the other man even tries to catch his breath.

he hums low and hungry, leaning his weight into tim and gripping so tightly at his ass, spreading him open and allowing his hips to slot into place, grinding his hardening dick up against the clothed seam of him, dragging him harder down into every roll of his hips. ]

You're mine to keep safe. [ a possessiveness he doesn't understand right now, fueled by the sweet candy taste of tim on his tongue. ] I'll help you, but I'm afraid I can't fuck you yet. Not with all of these clothes in the way.

[ he rolls his hips again, fingers likely bruising in how tightly he squeezes at tim's ass, bringing him down on him again and again. ] Go on - tell me how you want to be fucked, sweets. Or shall I surprise you?

[ If he had the wherewithal to wrack his brain for any logic in it, Tim would worry that the hard possessive edge to Quentin’s voice is unusual, coming from him, the very man whose openness and lack of possessive urge coaxed him into the idea of accepting multiple lovers in the first place. But the pieces of his brain that deal in logic and self-preservation have been shut off, replaced with more desire, more heat, moremoremore animal instinct overriding all else. And ’You’re mine’ isn’t a question, it’s not a negotiation. It’s a claim being staked.

It makes him so hard that it's a wonder there's enough blood to keep the rest of him upright.

Tim nods, furiously agreeing, and shoves his underwear down, the front smeared with so much pre that it's gone from white to transparent, until they fall around his ankles and he can really push back, press himself into the bruising grip of Quentin's fingers, the hard, hot line of his cock that should be inside him, why isn't it inside him-- ]

Hard. Please, Quentin.

[ Answering the question, for once, rather than gleefully submitting to what's been decided for him. ]

[ hard tim says and the air leaves his chest. it's good - tim begging, tim wanting him, and all he wants in turn is to relieve the pretty man he has pressed into the door, the pretty man who needs him. the pretty man he wants nothing more than to keep safe from anyone who may make ill use of these moments.

and tim asks so he cannot deny him - instead he buries his face in against tim's neck, sucking a purpling mark into the crook there. it's a distraction, though, especially with tim's sticky underwear hitting the floor between their feet. it means that the next thrust of his hips is a messy slide between the meat of tim's ass, the leaking, flared head of his own cock catching on his hole and sliding past. ]

Hard? Is that right, sweets?

[ he licks a lewd line along tim's neck, mouth moving to his nape, his shoulder blade. ]

You don't want me to get you nice and ready for me? [ he reaches for tim's front again, ignoring the aching line of his dick but instead reaching under and cupping his sac, giving an appreciative squeeze. another roll of his hips, this time getting himself in position, applying the barest hint of pressure against that fluttering ring of muscle. ]

[ Tim can feel him sliding between the muscle, teasing him. The brush of his cock against his hole frustrates more than it satisfies, an impatient grunt rumbles from low in his belly, and he juts his ass out to meet it, to take it the way he wants to. Needs to. Tim's back arches, making himself as appealing as possible because if he doesn't feel Quentin inside him in the next ten seconds, he might just pass out.

Bracing himself against the door with one hand, he spits into the other, and reaches behind him to smear it against his hole. It's a haphazard job, just so Quentin doesn't have any excuse not to fuck him. ]

I'm good.

[ Pressing his balls into his hand, and his ass back into him. He's good. ]

[ seeing tim so desperate and furious for him does something to the temperature of quentin's blood. he laughs, low and appreciative at the lewd way tim readies himself. he gives another appreciative squeeze of his balls and then begins to slowly roll his hips forward. he won't give him the punishing, harried fuck he's promised yet - instead he goes slow, slow, slow. he watches every inch of him sink into tim, hand sliding from deep between his thighs to carefully pet over the hard line of tim's dick. ]

So good.

[ he leans forward, mouth against tim's nape. ]

This what you wanted? [ and he bottoms out suddenly, deeply, letting his hips press flush and hard against tim's ass. ]

[ It's barely readying, just enough so that he has something wet to press his cock on as he pushes into him, painfully slow. It would be perfect, in any other mood, even with the sting of under-preparedness. But now, even though he whimpers, even though his fingers claw at the wall to steady him until there's paint beneath his fingernails, it doesn't feel like enough.

Tim whines, pushing himself back on Quentin's cock, and forth into his hand, rocking with frustrated tears in his eyes. He chokes back a sob and answers. ]

More.

[ it's impossible to keep his dick from throbbing with want as tim fucks himself back on him and then into the circle of his fist. but who is he to deny him more - and as tim drives his hips back he meets them with his own, a hard and rough snap that makes skin slap and chokes a heady groan from him. ]

You asked so nicely.

[ he squeezes his hand around tim, stroking from his sac, from root to tip before his sticky hand joins one on tim's on the door. the other to tim's shoulder, gripping hard and stabilizing himself as he begins to set a punishing pace, his breath coming in little pants and gasps. ]

And you're taking me so well.

Dear Mr. Toma,

You will no doubt be surprised at receiving a letter from me as we have had few opportunities to exchange pleasantries, but it is with honourable motives that I intrude upon you. I do also hope that you will forgive my frankness in this matter.

It has been expressed to me by several people now that those bound in love here may have dalliances with others; indeed it is quite common. I believe personally that such relationships must be entered into with the blessing of the most beloved partner.

It is in that spirit that I humbly beseech your blessing to pursue Koby's affections.

I possess a rather humble station in life, and have naught to offer him but every kindness of which I can conceive. To you, I may only say that I consider myself a man of honest character and that I am happy to answer any inquiries you may have. I do hope that you are to look favourably upon my request, but naturally I shall respect your wishes on the matter.

With deepest respect and admiration,
Yours,
Harry D.S. Goodsir

Hello there. You write letters like many back home wrote so it was a nice surprise to see this on these little phones we've been given.

It's nice to meet you - I don't think we've met, because I'd remember a pair of eyes vying for my Captain.

I kid, of course. There's nothing for you to ask me, however. I don't own Koby, I don't control him. I love him. That much you should know. And you should know that if you do anything to harm him then you will be met with a wrath larger than even the sea on a stormy turn.

But if Koby wants to be with you and you want to be with Koby, it's up for him to decide. If you feel so inclined, you could even join our bed on occasion - maybe that's what I should have requested in return. 😊

Do I? I am afraid I am a few hundred years out of date, but it is the manner in which I am used to communicating.

We've not, no. I have seen you but had unfortunately no opportunity to introduce myself. Which is a pity, as I was told you are a seafaring man, sir. I've the greatest respect for sailors.

I did not mean to imply Koby is not master of his own decisions, merely that I would hate to enter into a courtship without the consent of his true love. I would feel very strange about it.

I cannot promise that I will never hurt Koby accidentally, but I can promise I would never deliberately do so in any way. If that should happen, I will naturally expect swift retribution.

That is extremely flattering of you, sir, but I cannot imagine I would be a particularly worthy addition. To be perfectly honest I've no idea what Koby finds intriguing about me at all.

I've spent my whole life on a ship. Are you a sailor yourself? I happened to be a navigator for my ship.

If Koby likes you it says a lot - you must have a good heart under all the fancy words. I was never keen on writing letters. Too busy making maps.

Promise to do right by him as well as you can and I think that's something any honest man can ask for. But you would make a fine addition if Koby thinks so - our bed's quite comfortable. Well, unless he steals the covers - he does this often.

Nothing so adventurous, I'm afraid. Merely a ship's surgeon. I sailed aboard the Erebus, for the Discovery Service.

A navigator! Oh that is most impressive. I was fortunate enough to have longitudinal calculation via lunar distance explained to me. Terribly fascinating stuff! Such incredible complexity.

That I can and do promise. As to the latter, I am not confident I would be to your taste, sir. But I am very, very flattered all the same.

Merely. A ship's surgeon is the lifeline of the crew. I have a few scars of my own that were patched up by a good, steady hand. Don't underestimate yourself. Every man on that deck is as important as the captain.

Or so my Captain said.

[ his father, for one. koby, for another. two captains that take up so much space in his heart. ]

You'd be surprised what sailors enjoy, actually. I wouldn't be so quick to think anyone isn't my taste, good sir. There are many longitudinal calculations to be made, after all.

I always tried my best to live up to that responsibility.

One never does forget their Captain's words. I rather think they have a way of burning into your heart.

Perhaps. But I have met Koby, and Mr. Laughlin. If those are indicators of your most excellent taste, then you would be quite disappointed. I am 37 years of age, short in stature, hirsute, and of nervous temperament.

Burning into your heart. I like that. My father was the Captain on my ship. He has very much stayed burned into my heart.

I would go to war for Koby and Tim. You’ll feel the same in time. But bold of you to think that I only have one desire, one interest. I’ve sailed to many ports, of course. And I have sampled many that each port has to offer. Most are dear friends now.

But if you insist, it will be quite entertaining to prove you wrong. I enjoy a challenge - one that’s stubbornly won.

Your father, yet! That is most extraordinary. I can only imagine the unique challenges that would present, but I feel the rewards must have been extraordinary.

In no time at all, really. Mr. Laughlin has become very, very dear to me over these past weeks.

I cannot say it will be worth the trouble, but I admit to some stubbornness.

Hardly any challenges at all. He was a kind man and ran his ship like it was our family home.

Tim reminds me of home sometimes. Reminds me that the earth is still under my feet when I feel like I'm lost at sea. Koby reminds me that he waves won't swallow me up and everywhere I look, he's the north star waiting for me. Hold them close.

But for all that they're both stubborn enough that one has to get very creative when they pout their lips and dig their heels in. So I think I'd be more than a match against your stubbornness.

I admit I cannot begin to imagine. But it sounds ever so delightful. Your father sounds like a remarkable man. Are you an only child, sir?

You understand, then. How it feels to have someone so integral to your world that you can scarcely remember how it feels to have not known their light.

Ah, but they are young yet. I've several years experience in heel digging.

My father adopted me.

[ it's easier than telling the story as it really is. ]

Your stubbornness has you right about one thing, yes. I do not know what life would look like without either of them.

And in spite of that, I enjoy a challenge. Dig your heels in and see how hard I can pull, won't you?

Ah, that is in some ways more remarkable yet. It speaks of a choice to love.

Truly, I hope they remain with you always.

Somehow I think you understand that pulling is not always the best method. You seem a canny sort.

I hope they do, too.

[ it's easier than to think about his father - to dive into that choice of love and all it brought with it. that his father took him in and his father's wife left him for his choice to command his ship with nothing but a street whelp under his arm and come home when he could. ]

Canny? I'd like to think so. Pulling is only a means of distraction. Catch your attention, keep you distracted. That or I could just keep pulling - there are many who like that, too. Tell me, should I coax you with sweets and apples, or shall I pull the leads until you kick back? Both are very appealing, you know.

I'm to tell you, am I? It rather seems like that might ruin your fun.

It takes an awful lot to make me kick back. I don't like to do it.

If you're not interested in telling me, then you could show me. Or should I try and figure it out on my own? I'm quite good with my hands, sir, so be careful what you wish for.

I won't pull too hard, then. Only as hard as you'd like to pull me. I can be quite stubborn, too.

[ pot, kettle, etc. ]

As am I. A surgeon must be. I suppose we would discover who has the more precise touch.

I am beginning to see that.

I suppose we would discover many things, wouldn't we? But you're right - a surgeon's expert hands probably hold nothing to mine. I've only pulled ropes and climbed ladders. More rudimentary, but more tricksy!

But I'd imagine you know exactly where to pull to bring a man to his knees, don't you?

I think removing musket balls is rather tricksy as well. But I feel you are stronger than I.

In theory. Admittedly I could use more practice.

Is it really about physical strength? I don't think so.

But I would be happy to assist you - practice is very important for surgeons, isn't it? Imagine a navigator leading a ship when he hasn't had enough practice.

Thankfully I know my way around very, very well.

One can always use more practice, it's true.

A talented man, then.

I like to think I am adequate at many things at the very least.

The real question - if I pull too much, do you think you could put me in my place?

How do you mean, sir?

You don’t like to be pulled and pushed too much. What happens when you have a wily sailor who enjoys the rocking of the sea?

Sailors can be a fun bit of trouble, don’t you think?

Oh yes, seamen are most enjoyable!

It seems we're in agreement.

And here you thought you wouldn't be one to catch my eye. But we both enjoy sailors, so it's settled.

Indeed!

I'm sorry, what have I just agreed to?

I suppose you'll have to wait and see!

I told you that I'm quite tricksy, didn't I? Sailors are never straightforward but always reliable.

You did, sir.

Hopefully I won't have to wait too long.

You could pick the day or I could simply surprise you.

Catch you unawares.

I admit the thought of a surprise makes me slightly nervous. I'd have no time to prepare.

Then at your own pace.

We have all the free time we could want here. Koby will attest that I spend most of my time at the lake or in my bed. Well, when not with him.

The lake is quite lovely. I enjoy walking about it.

I spend most of my time reading, and now watching films. There are ever so many. They've found ways to capture even under the sea with cameras! Imagine! Music, too, is so readily available. I fear even with all of our free time I shall never have enough for it all.

Then it sounds like we should take a walk together sometime.

This place has far more than I had at home. I do not understand the movies but I like the stories they tell. I enjoy the books more.

We could walk the lake then see one of the movies you have enjoyed best so far.

I should like that very much. Only I must apologise if I am slow; although I am much recovered, I am not yet at full strength after a rather lengthy ordeal prior to my arrival here.

The 'documentaries' are the sort I love best. They are all true stories, with real pictures. There is an entire series that shows every place on earth you can imagine! Mountains and glaciers and jungles and deserts. It is all so very beautiful.

[Tim showed him BBC's Planet Earth. He still hasn't gotten over it.]

The slower the better. Then we may both enjoy the view a little while longer.

[ the view being one another of course. ]

I don’t know if I have seen that one. I have seen plenty of movies about pirates, though. They have such a funny concept of how ships work.

A most positive outlook, sir.

Do they? It must drive you absolutely mad.

Every ship is different, but the movies are entertaining. Koby likes them and we've watched many of them.

But I think if they ran the ships as they do in real life? They'd sink.

The things one does for love, I suppose.

Have you ever lost a ship, sir?

Love does make us foolish in the best of ways.

[ but the second question? it takes a moment for him to respond. ]

Never sunk a ship, no, if that's what you mean by lost. Have you?

It would seem so.

Not sunk. But Erebus and our sister ship were ice locked for two winters. We had to abandon them, I'm afraid.

Sorry to hear that.

It didn't get so cold for the seas to freeze where I'm from. The ship I was on was seized by the Empire not too long before I came here.

I don't know what's come of it, yet.

Thank you.

Did your crew escape?

The not knowing is terrible.

I don’t know.

When the ship was seized, they came for me. I haven’t heard word about the ship.

I like to think they’re sailing the seas as usual.

I am so terribly sorry.

If you wish to speak of your feelings on the matter, sometimes that helps.

That's kind of you.

I just don't want them to suffer because of me.

I understand.

There is a particular responsibility one holds for his men. Even if there is nothing you can do to change the circumstances, you still wish to look after then as best you can.

They're my family. My father adopted me off the streets and I lived on that ship until I was taken.

They're good people. They deserve to live their lives as they see fit.

I miss the sea, sometimes. The lake helps but it doesn't compare.

Then I hope fervently that they are doing exactly that.

As do I. Not as much as yourself, I am sure, but enough. It is very strange to be here - it is England, which I thought I'd never see again. And I am not unhappy. But still I yearn for other places.

England doesn't exist where I'm from, but it feels familiar.

Are you from England? Or somewhere else in this world?

Also, Koby did something for me once, out on the lake. Remind me one day and I'll do the same for you. It's as close as we'll get to the sea.

Yes, I am. So the climate is very familiar to me.

Oh? Very intriguing. But I would like that.

It's miserably cold here in the winter. I am used to warmer weather.

Maybe when we take a walk, we stop at the lake together for a while.

I might have agreed with you at one time!

I should like that very much.

Might have? Well, you'll have to teach me your ways.

Go - we'll take a walk together later. I think you've got some wooing to do, good man.

[ koby, of course. ]

Edited (shhh i did not use the same icon) 2025-05-07 05:44 (UTC)

Yes, of course. I look forward to it.

Thank you.

hey im at the library can yuo come get me pleas

[it's the best he can type out with his vision blurry and his whole body aching. he's gotten the fire out, at least -- it hadn't spread too far. koby's focusing on the positives.]

[ seeing koby's name light up on his phone brings a smile to his face, but seeing the text itself?

he's already up and moving. ]

I'm on my way. What's going on?

[ though why he asks is beyond him as he tucks his phone away and heads immediately toward the library. he's barefooted, not having bothered with shoes and he looks rumpled from leaving the bed after a day of dozing and reading. throwing the doors open to the library he looks around - smelling smoke. smelling something burnt. every muscle in his body tenses.

he doesn't bother to ask where koby is - there's a swell of bright, blinding blue in his aura as he uses his magic, following through bookshelves and around tables until he finds him. ]

Koby. [ and no matter where he is, quentin reaches out for him, careful and worried and furious. ]

I'm okay.

[he's not -- there's a smoldering, steaming pile of burned wood and books, an empty fire extinguisher in koby's hands, and he's got a blanket from the emergency stash draped over his shoulders because the back of his shirt had burned away, and his head is throbbing and there's a criss-crossed gash on his forehead, blood down the side of his face, but. but he offers a smile, reaches out and squeezes at quentin's arm, setting down the extinguisher.]

Tim's back. He's -- not himself. [a sort of hoarse, shaky laugh.] Obviously. I don't -- I couldn't really understand what he wanted.

[ quentin hears nothing but noise in his ears as he carefully reaches for his boyfriend, smoothing hands over his arms where he doesn't see any immediate injuries. there's blood, there's the smell of burned wood and burned flesh and q takes a second to respond, to stuff down the images from another time and another life so he can focus on koby now. ]

Let's get you to the room. [ because this isn't about tim, this isn't about anyone other than koby right now. koby, koby, koby, who is hurt, who got hurt while q wasn't paying attention. koby who stands here brave and injured and doesn't think twice about himself. ]

Need to clean you up. Can I carry you?

[koby's trembling all over, but he still manages a brave smile, squeezes quentin's arms with both hands, tries to focus on inhale, exhale, in, out. his eyes are glassy, glazed, pupils wide, and it takes a long moment for him to nod.]

Yes. You -- I could walk. [he says it with mild confusion, brow knitting, as if he's unsure -- maybe he could, maybe not, now that it's out there he's not so confident. his head hurts, and that had been why he asked quentin to come in the first place, because walking seemed so daunting, so impossible. koby frowns deeper, looks down at his feet, then up at quentin.] I feel like I probably -- shouldn't walk.

I'll carry you. Where - where are you hurt?

[ so i don't hurt you more than you already are. he reaches to gently tuck koby's hair from the wound on his forehead, sticky with blood. just enough to press his kiss to a clean temple. ]

Let me get you home, Captain. Love. Put your arms around my neck. [ maybe he can carry him so as not to touch what he's sure is an injured back. ]

Uhm. My head. [obviously -- the x-shaped wound slightly off-center, but there's also a knot at the back of his head where he'd struck it on the shelf, and one hand shakily reaches up, towards where it still sluggishly bleeds.] Hit it pretty hard. Burned my back. [a bit of a weak laugh.] It was on fire when I hit it. The thing.

Ah -- the window -- [he sweeps a hand out, points clumsily towards the shattered glass, littering the singed carpet.] Careful, your -- feet, don't step in it. [koby squeezes his eyes shut, waves his hand, vaguely.] Don't get hurt.

[ the whole room is a mess in a way that speaks of violence and power that quentin can't wrap his head around. he can't reconcile sweet tim with this destruction, confused even more with the idea that tim is back. it's a lot to process and so he buckles down, dipping to scoop his arms under koby's bottom and pick him up so he can lean into his front. ]

I'll be fine.

[ he murmurs it against koby's ear, soft and insistent as he begins to carry him back toward the door. ] Hold onto my neck, love. I'm here now. We'll have you cleaned up soon, then we can talk.

[the whole world is spinning in a way that makes koby's awareness go grey, fuzzy, and it takes a long, long moment for him to reach up, twine his arms around quentin's neck, the trembling rapidly intensifying as the adrenaline keeps fading away. for the first time, when quentin lifts him, koby feels the stabbing pain along his back, and he makes a small, bitten-off sound of pain -- tiny, hastily muffled. instinct; koby knows how to be in pain and not make it audible.

he's shuddering now, pressing his face into quentin's neck, steadying himself with the familiar scent of his skin. muffled, hazy:] Sorry. M'bleeding on you.

Shh, no more apologies alright. Just hold onto me, love.

[ he has to bite back the panic that wants to rise up into his throat. he has to find a way to seem cool and calm and collected, to batten down and get koby to safety first. a part of him wants to find tim, too. hold him and will whatever fury he has away but he doesn't understand what's going on.

all he knows is he has koby's blood dripping on his shirt, smeared on his arms and hands. that's all he needs to know. ]

I've got you. I'm sorry - it won't be long.

[ he shifts his hands under koby's bottom so he's not holding him around his back, leaving it untouched as much as he can as he starts to carry him from the library. he kisses koby's temple, eyes burning a little from the smoke in the room, from the fear that threatens to peek out.

he's careful as he carries his boyfriend back to their rooms, bringing him into their shared bathroom and so very, very carefully sitting him up on the counter. ]

Look at me, alright? Lets get the blood out of your eyes.

[koby doesn’t make a sound the entire time, just loops his arms around quentin’s neck and stays very quiet and very still – which is probably even more unsettling, because normally koby never stops talking. but he’s silent now, not even drawing in a sharp breath when quentin sets him down, not doing anything but obligingly opening his eyes and sort of looking through his boyfriend for a long moment.

in the bathroom, it’s easier to see the state he’s in – the back of his shirt is burned away, the skin along his spine livid red, blistered, radiating heat. there’s blood soaking the back of his head, dripping down over the burns, blood streaming down over his face from the gashes on his forehead, splitting at the bridge of his nose and tracing crimson lines down to the corners of his silent, pressed-together lips. it’s in his eyes, in his mouth, and koby frowns a little when he remembers to breathe in and tastes it.

after a pause, he moves, jerky, stilted, pulling something out of his shirt pocket – his glasses. they’re unharmed, but splattered with blood, and koby frowns deeper at them, like he’s trying to puzzle out why. when he looks back up at quentin, there’s a horrible moment where he looks – lost. confused. unrecognizing.

then it registers, slowly, and he exhales, offers the glasses without a word.]

inbox;

un: t.laughlin

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un: KINGOFTHEPIRATES

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text, sometime post-party and pre-event ig

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