[There's more Koby could say, more about the horrors of those two years, of the things he was told, the things he endured -- but the insult is so bluntly savage, so unexpected that he chokes out a surprised laugh, chin tipping upwards, amused and teary in equal measure.] She -- she really was. Just terrible. And her ship was ridiculous, it was shaped like a duck.

[Then Koby stills, watching the silhouette of Quentin in the dim light from the moon outside, from the hall outside the warm safety of the room, watches the shape of his mouth, the tumble of his tangled hair. The kiss comes, sweet, soft, feeling like forgiveness, like absolution for every shameful tear, every choked-out memory. Koby's hand reaches up, finds Quentin's cheek in the dark, strokes along the sleek line of his jaw, his beard.]

I understand. Yes. [Another kiss, quicker, but no less fervent.] Thank you, Quentin. For -- for being awake. [For everything, he means, sniffling and drawing away long enough to prop himself up on his elbow and tug his shirt off, letting it drop on the floor for now, then snuggling back closer.]