It's not. [Immediate, so quickly the words trip out on a laughing sort of sobbing sound, because of course Koby's crying, of course the tears don't just well up and stay put, they well up and well up and well up and overflow down his sunkissed face. His hands find Quentin's face, the tickle of his beard and the smooth line of his jaw and the curve of his cheekbones, each feature so familiar, so adored. He doesn't think there's a place on Quentin's body he hasn't touched, hasn't pressed his lips to, hasn't traced his fingers over in sleepy, warm moments, just before dawn. Is it possible to know someone, to memorize them until they feel a part of you, and not end up loving them?
Koby leans down, presses his lips to Quentin's, thinks about that first kiss near the arena, about the taste of dust and sweat and blood, about the tangle of heat and pleasure and tangled sheets and spilled bath water that followed. About the first night he'd ever spent with another person curled in his bed, how he'd woken up fully rested for the first time in years, looked up at Quentin's face and knew he was in trouble. It wasn't just time, it wasn't just the knitting together of a hundred thousand tiny moments over the past weeks, trapped in the beautiful, dangerous pressure cooker of this house, this estate, this world -- though that was definitely what built the way he feels now, the fanning of a tiny spark into a flame.
But the spark had been there, when Koby woke up in Quentin's arms and realized he hadn't had nightmares for the first time in years. That he felt truly, completely, wholly safe with this man, that all he wanted was to slide back into the warm, sweet, perfect comfort of his presence and never, never leave it again.]
It's n-not. [Repeated as Koby pulls away, sniffles, pets back Quentin's hair and looks at him like he's the sun, the stars, the waves and the wind and the sea.] I d-do too. I mean -- [A quick breath, because he's thought about how to say it, how to make it special. But what's better than this, than the sound of their ocean and the rock of the water?] I love you too. So -- so much. I have since --
[A laugh, that day, that night, that morning flaring bright as cannonfire in Koby's chest.] The start? Maybe?
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Koby leans down, presses his lips to Quentin's, thinks about that first kiss near the arena, about the taste of dust and sweat and blood, about the tangle of heat and pleasure and tangled sheets and spilled bath water that followed. About the first night he'd ever spent with another person curled in his bed, how he'd woken up fully rested for the first time in years, looked up at Quentin's face and knew he was in trouble. It wasn't just time, it wasn't just the knitting together of a hundred thousand tiny moments over the past weeks, trapped in the beautiful, dangerous pressure cooker of this house, this estate, this world -- though that was definitely what built the way he feels now, the fanning of a tiny spark into a flame.
But the spark had been there, when Koby woke up in Quentin's arms and realized he hadn't had nightmares for the first time in years. That he felt truly, completely, wholly safe with this man, that all he wanted was to slide back into the warm, sweet, perfect comfort of his presence and never, never leave it again.]
It's n-not. [Repeated as Koby pulls away, sniffles, pets back Quentin's hair and looks at him like he's the sun, the stars, the waves and the wind and the sea.] I d-do too. I mean -- [A quick breath, because he's thought about how to say it, how to make it special. But what's better than this, than the sound of their ocean and the rock of the water?] I love you too. So -- so much. I have since --
[A laugh, that day, that night, that morning flaring bright as cannonfire in Koby's chest.] The start? Maybe?