[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.
no subject
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?