[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?
no subject
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?