[Koby would be content with this, with the rock of the water and the thump of Quentin’s heart, with the warmth of his broad, bare chest and the way he smells -- the way Koby's pillow smells, most mornings, to the point where the twice-weekly sheet changes are jarring, borderline upsetting. He has so many of Quentin’s shirts now, folded in a drawer so he can sleep in them, so he can breathe in the scent of sweat and soap and skin. Even on the occasional nights they don't spend together -- fewer and fewer as the weeks go on -- the feel of those shirts on Koby’s skin is usually enough to help him sleep, even if he wakes up reaching across the bed for Quentin.

And it's in that thought, in that space of time, that Koby has a shuddering, sobering realization: Tim was unequivocally, unquestionably right.

"You love him."

The question brings Koby back to earth, blinking and blushing and quickly nodding.] We -- yeah, we can. I know there are speakers for this phone thing, I can ask for one from the library. Ah, or borrow Tim’s headphones, they're smaller, but you can share them.

[For now, though, Koby tugs the cord of the headphones free, let's the sound of the waves emanate from the phone itself, albeit a bit more tinny, artificial-sounding. Koby tucks it into the front pocket of his overalls -- very handy -- then, on impulse, he straightens up, sitting taller in Quentin’s lap.

Both hands come up to nudge the headphones down to rest around Quentin’s neck, leaving his hair loose and lovely and soft for Koby to tangle his fingers in. He leans forward, kisses Quentin soft, fervent, with every bit of emotion that shuddering realization has swelling in his chest.] I wish it were more. [Against his mouth, forehead resting to his.] I'd bring the sea here, if I could. I'd do anything, for you.