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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.

[ 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.

(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.

[ 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. ]

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?

[ 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.

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.]

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)

inbox;

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text, sometime post-party and pre-event ig

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un: t.laughlin

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