…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.]
no subject
[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.]