[There's a quiet urge, as soon as Quentin's left the suite, to call the whole thing off, to go bolting through the house grabbing two or three of the gifts so it isn't too much, to swap out the letters or the gifts for something better or nicer or -- something. But it passes, it fades, replaced with how much Koby wants this, wants the end result of his gift nearly as much as he wants to give it. He breathes in, out, slowly, straightening up from where he's been crouched around the corner for the last half hour, waiting for his boyfriend to finish pulling on a sweater and slippers and padding out in search of his gifts.
The soft blue of Quentin's presence moves from place to place in the periphery of Koby's senses as he carefully unpacks the rest of his things, all of which he'd stuffed into a suitcase the night before, under the guise of spending the night at Nami's. The notes have all been burned or condensed down into three or so notebooks, the extra supplies is hidden in the barn, guarded by one very vicious attack duck, he's taken each and every book and map and sweater and pair of socks from the suite he'd first woken up in, months before, and now it all gets unpacked. Quentin's things are gently moved aside -- his books, his papers, his treasures and trinkets from across the grounds -- or rearranged to accommodate Koby's and it's wonderful and it's terrifying and it's all he's ever wanted since he was a tiny, scabby-kneed, lonely kid, praying to whatever god would listen for someone to want to make a home with him.
The door creaks open right as Koby's finishing the last touches -- the little table is set, there are candles, there's food and wine and there are stringed lights strung around the window and some of that Christmas music Tim's such a fan of playing tinnily from somewhere. Koby straightens up, fidgety and anxious in slacks and a sweater and so much raw hope and happiness and nervousness in his wide eyes and his fumbling hands and the way his breath catches.]
H-Hi. [Stammering, he hasn't stammered around Quentin in ages. But his heart is in his throat and his hands are a little trembly as he steps closer, as he reaches out.] Hi. Welcome home.
RUBS MY GAY LITTLE HANDS 2GETHER
The soft blue of Quentin's presence moves from place to place in the periphery of Koby's senses as he carefully unpacks the rest of his things, all of which he'd stuffed into a suitcase the night before, under the guise of spending the night at Nami's. The notes have all been burned or condensed down into three or so notebooks, the extra supplies is hidden in the barn, guarded by one very vicious attack duck, he's taken each and every book and map and sweater and pair of socks from the suite he'd first woken up in, months before, and now it all gets unpacked. Quentin's things are gently moved aside -- his books, his papers, his treasures and trinkets from across the grounds -- or rearranged to accommodate Koby's and it's wonderful and it's terrifying and it's all he's ever wanted since he was a tiny, scabby-kneed, lonely kid, praying to whatever god would listen for someone to want to make a home with him.
The door creaks open right as Koby's finishing the last touches -- the little table is set, there are candles, there's food and wine and there are stringed lights strung around the window and some of that Christmas music Tim's such a fan of playing tinnily from somewhere. Koby straightens up, fidgety and anxious in slacks and a sweater and so much raw hope and happiness and nervousness in his wide eyes and his fumbling hands and the way his breath catches.]
H-Hi. [Stammering, he hasn't stammered around Quentin in ages. But his heart is in his throat and his hands are a little trembly as he steps closer, as he reaches out.] Hi. Welcome home.