Yeah? It's okay? [There are pages and pages of notes back in Koby's room, categorized by person and event and commonality, finding the threads of consistency throughout the various guests of this strange, strange house and trying to make sense of it. But, strangely, his notes on Quentin are very, very sparse -- not out of lack of observation, of course, but because Koby doesn't need to write them down. He knows the loosening in Quentin's shoulders when he's genuinely relaxed. He knows how Quentin's laugh rumbles out from deep in his chest, like a rolling, approaching storm. He knows what it feels like to be kissed by Quentin -- lazy and clumsy in the sunlit early mornings, deep and all-consuming and hungry when he's halfway through unbuttoning his shirt, slow and sweet and gentle, when there are words he wants to say all tangled up on his lovely tongue, like now.
He knows.
The ocean sounds, the rock of the boat, it all feels far away for a moment as Koby stays close, nuzzling his nose to Quentin's, the sun across his shoulders, in his hair. The words make him smile, gently perplexed.] Still a sailor? [Then the words actually register -- I don't need the sea if you're here -- and Koby's eyes widen a bit, something wild and hopeful and cautious in them.] What...what do you mean?
[I could have this exact same conversation with him, Tim had teased. He looks at you like you're the most precious thing in the world.]
no subject
He knows.
The ocean sounds, the rock of the boat, it all feels far away for a moment as Koby stays close, nuzzling his nose to Quentin's, the sun across his shoulders, in his hair. The words make him smile, gently perplexed.] Still a sailor? [Then the words actually register -- I don't need the sea if you're here -- and Koby's eyes widen a bit, something wild and hopeful and cautious in them.] What...what do you mean?
[I could have this exact same conversation with him, Tim had teased. He looks at you like you're the most precious thing in the world.]