[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.]
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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.]