Mmmhm. [There's a sort of rhythmic, absent hum to that, Koby's fingers carding slowly through Quentin's hair, gently, not fixing or fussing or braiding it up like he does sometimes, in bed or on the couch or on the shores of the lake he can no longer see. Sometimes he thinks about the caution he'd had back home, the stiff tension in his shoulders any time anyone touched him -- even a hand on his arm, a pat on the back -- so unaccustomed to the contact, to the idea of open, easy affection. It seemed impossible, at least for Koby. He'd settled himself with the idea of passing through the world with everyone held at arm's length, with never feeling so safe, so at ease with someone that he could just reach out, touch them. Let them touch him. He'd satisfied himself with never being allowed to have that.
But here -- the sun above, the rock of the water beneath, the silky drag of Quentin's hair through his fingers, the afternoon slow and warm and sunlit before them. And he's allowed to have it, to have this moment be his, as long as it lasts, and nobody's going to take it away and nobody's going to say he isn't good enough. Not this time.
And then Quentin leans up, and kisses him and says -- he says --]
What? [It's very soft, shaky, it comes out as Koby's hands still and his eyes go wide and there's so much aching, bleeding, raw hope throbbing in his chest, because that's -- that's something beyond daydreams, beyond hoping, beyond anything he would've ever, ever let himself ask for. It would've been enough, he would've been okay if all he had was today, this moment, this warmth and softness. Koby could live the rest of his life on the sweetness Quentin's shown him just that afternoon. He could build himself a lighthouse out of it, could let it keep him warm, keep him safe for the rest of time.
But Quentin says I know that I love you and the lighthouse is a beacon is the sun itself, cradled in his arms and Koby looks down into those warm brown eyes and that softly smiling face and Tim was so, so right. His breath catches, and he knows there are tears in his eyes, but he can't stop smiling, can't stop grinning like he's that dumb, lonely, desperately terrified little kid he'd been the last time he hoped for anyone to love him.]
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But here -- the sun above, the rock of the water beneath, the silky drag of Quentin's hair through his fingers, the afternoon slow and warm and sunlit before them. And he's allowed to have it, to have this moment be his, as long as it lasts, and nobody's going to take it away and nobody's going to say he isn't good enough. Not this time.
And then Quentin leans up, and kisses him and says -- he says --]
What? [It's very soft, shaky, it comes out as Koby's hands still and his eyes go wide and there's so much aching, bleeding, raw hope throbbing in his chest, because that's -- that's something beyond daydreams, beyond hoping, beyond anything he would've ever, ever let himself ask for. It would've been enough, he would've been okay if all he had was today, this moment, this warmth and softness. Koby could live the rest of his life on the sweetness Quentin's shown him just that afternoon. He could build himself a lighthouse out of it, could let it keep him warm, keep him safe for the rest of time.
But Quentin says I know that I love you and the lighthouse is a beacon is the sun itself, cradled in his arms and Koby looks down into those warm brown eyes and that softly smiling face and Tim was so, so right. His breath catches, and he knows there are tears in his eyes, but he can't stop smiling, can't stop grinning like he's that dumb, lonely, desperately terrified little kid he'd been the last time he hoped for anyone to love him.]
You do? Really?