longitudinal | inbox;

Thank you. Just don't get yourself in trouble, alright?

And what trouble would there be if I fill my plate and say I'm taking it to my room? They don't need to know my appetite isn't that of a thousand soldiers.

Should I bring something for your friend, in case he's awake?

I guess not. I must be on edge, given everything.

The hospital is feeding him. And he won't be in the mood to meet you, so let's hope he's still asleep.

Which is nothing against you. He just gets jealous sometimes.

Oh I see. A very particular friend then.

Let me bring you breakfast. If your friend is awake, I'll find someone else to visit and leave your food somewhere you can collect it. I'm very clever when I want to be.

While I await the great feast, talk to me. It's never any good to sit and stew alone when your heart is aching.

Much more significant than that. I'm sorry, I should have told you. It's hard to explain.

I don't want you to hide, though. If he's upset, I'll deal with him.

okay. about what?

And why would you need to tell me? Your bed partners are your business. The ones of the heart? Even more so. We had a lovely evening you and I. To me that is the most important part. Did you enjoy yourself? Then it was a good evening.

Tell me what it is you do, Tim Laughlin. You may laugh - as some have - but I’m a sailor. I suspect we’re from different places, you and I.

I did enjoy myself. I didn't mean to offend you. Where I come from, it's frowned upon to be sleeping with multiple people.

A sailor. Were you in a navy?

I was a staffer for a prominent senator. I quit and enlisted right before I woke up here.

Oh I'm not offended, sweet man. I mean only to say that if you want another hot bath together, my door is open. If you don't, then my door will be open then, too. I try my best to never meet strangers where I go.

The navy helped, yes. Royal Navy.

But tell me what is that? senator. I don't know that word. But enlisted? You were fighting?

I do.
But I shouldn't.
I have someone I'm devoted to, and last time I was with you, he got torn to shreds. Which isn't your fault. You were perfect. That's on me.
I don't know. Haven't slept much either. I'll have to think about it

A senator is someone who makes the laws. And I hadn't gotten around to fighting yet. I was due at training in a couple days, when I woke up here.

My door is open for more than just a romp sweet man. Take care of those who feed your heart first.

I'm glad you didn't go to the fronts, whatever those look like where you're from. You're too important to lose yourself to violence because of some senator's laws. Those men are called chancellors where I live. They serve the Regent.

Our worlds are so very different.

A romp is kind of an unpleasant way to put it. But then you call me that. It's confusing.

How do you know I'm so important?

Regent to a king? My country doesn't have kings. We have presidents, and the people get to decide who it is.

Is it? Well that's what it's called where I live, and it's not a bad thing at all. I think I'm not quite so good at this in writing - but I enjoyed spending time with you.

There's a softness to you. I've seen many places, met many people, but you don't often meet the ones that shine like you do. Soft, sweet. Just a gut feeling.

The Regent is our King, I suppose. President? What a funny name. The people get no say in the Regent's bidding in Solastra.

It just sounds so impersonal. Frivolous, you know? I usually take it a lot more seriously. But I don't regret it, I did enjoy my time with you.

I'm sorry. I'm embarrassing myself.

[ He has the impulse to defend himself from the soft allegations, as he would most surely have to do if this conversation were taking place at home. But it isn't a thinly-veiled accusation, a suggestion of a secret that has to be locked tight in polite company. It's a compliment. One that doesn't make sense to him, with the casualness of the rest of it. It feels good, though. ]

I'm sorry that you have to live like that. That's what the enlistment is for, though. Overthrowing dictators that don't listen to their people.

Oh the first thing you must do is stop apologizing. There is nothing to apologize for, unless of course you would like to apologize to this serving maid on my behalf. I suspect she'll have to restock of the food when I'm through.

[ there's a little time, the dots coming and going and then: ]

Dictators will undermine themselves in time. They're stupid - ah, sorry, I think I dropped - oh yes it's for an ailing friend I couldn't leave them -

[ whoops, did he just discover voice to text? maybe. by accident. ]

Quentin?

How do you turn this off? Oh, you are a shining -

[ whoops. someone shouldn't be juggling this new contraption and a buffet line. it takes him far too long to punch out letters and words. thankfully, he salvaged the food before he dropped it, mishandling plates and phones and other items. ]

These strange things are very complication - they must be their own form of dictator in this realm.

I didn't realize it could copy what we speak. It would be easier than hitting all these lettters. What room are you and your companion in? I'm bringing food, and you don't get to say otherwise, sweet man.

[ Insert room number i forgot ok ]

Thank you. It's very kind of you.

[ he's never been to the hospital on the grounds but it takes little time for him to navigate, carefully minding the over-filled plate he has covered with another, walking through the halls with the confidence and ease of a man who should be carrying a hot plate of food into a medical ward.

he's astounded, first, by all the noises - whirring machines and beeps, but he comes to the door of room where tim sits inside, looking quite different from their run-in at the baths. quentin is dressed a little more casually as well, stuck with what the house has provided him, but oddly enough? his hair is braided back along his skull in what some might call a french braid. he's a little bruised up, but he doesn't make note of it. instead, moving to set he food down on the bedside table like he owns the room the injured companion of tim laughlin rests in. he keeps his voice cown. ]

I don't know the names of some of these items, but I've been assured they're all delicious. [ eggs, toast, pastries, fruits... you name it. in fact, he swipes a little cinnamon roll and with little restraint, presses it to tim's lips softly. ]

And I insist you eat in my presence, else I will have to return every morning and make a fool of myself juggling eggs in the dining room. I think the maid took pity on me when I spilled the milk. Go on - eat.

[ It’s not the casual bedroom clothes that makes him blush when Quentin arrives, though they do make his tired eyes linger a second too long. It’s not knowing what’s underneath them, or the memories of last night, or the way he confidently saunters as if he does not know or care that it’s completely inappropriate. It’s the damn cinnamon roll, still warm and soft and slathered in sticky-sweet icing when Quentin presses it to his lips.

Wildly inappropriate.

He takes the miniature pastry from Quentin, their fingers brushing together as he pinches it between his thumb and forefinger, licking the bit of frosting from his lip. ]

Okay, I’m eating. [ Putting it in his mouth. See? He’s a very good boy. He follows directions. ] We can talk in the hallway.

[ Head gesturing towards Hawk, thankfully still asleep. Let’s keep it that way. ]

[ all quentin knows is that he tried the little confection at the maid's insistence and he'd enjoyed it, so naturally he filled his plate with a handful for both of them, among other food items. he smiles, pleased, when tim takes the little pastry. he doesn't hesitate to grab another and pop it into his mouth. which means he's quietly talking around it for a few moments. ]

I see that you are eating - I had no idea that's what it looked like to eat. I so appreciate you informing me.

[ teasing again, and he shrugs, grabbing a napkin full of bread and cheese, walking out into the hallway with a glance back at hawk - all bruised and exhausted. only when they've left the quiet of hawk's room does he turn back to tim, pressing the little bundle of food to his chest. and then, as though it's nothing, he reaches to push the hair from tim's forehead with a familiarity he hasn't earned. ]

You don't have to eat all of it, but at least one.

[ He appreciates Quentin’s attempt to keep the mood light, he really does, but he can’t muster more than a soft hum at the teasing. This Tim is different from the sweet, bright-eyed boy from the baths last night. He looks withered and exhausted, he’s gone without sleep even longer than food, dutifully locked to his lover’s bedside, cycling between tears and prayers, if not mixing them together into holy gibberish. His face is puffy and dull, only finding color now because of Quentin’s bold behavior.

You can’t touch me like that, this is a hospital, he means to say, but the words die in the back of his tongue. It’s completely wrong, completely crazy, to let him do this where anyone could see them, not least of which is Hawk, just a wall away. But he does. His body craves the small sliver of comfort even with his mind screaming at him to reject it. Tim takes a deep breath, accepting the fingers smoothing out his fringe, and in so doing, smells the plate of food. It makes his stomach rumble. ]

I will. [ He plucks piece of sausage off the plate and bites it in half. ] Thank you. This is really sweet, you didn’t have to do any of it.

[ tim looks worn out - and from the sounds of the happenings over the last day alone he can imagine why. the man in the bed just inside of the room looked worse for wear, and he can see in tim's eyes the level of care he's gone to. he's pleased, though, when he eats at least a little bite of something. ]

Mm. On my ship, we always take care of those who walk aboard, whether they are strangers or family. If I'm to be stuck in this place I don't see why it should be any different here.

[ there's an easy sort of smile, quentin happy to hold the plate for him. he hears that stomach rumble, though and knows he made the right choice. hindsight - he's not sure he told tim where he hails from, but he doesn't seem to mind either way. ]

And you're right, I didn't have to do it, nor did I feel obligated. I may be a sea-faring brigand but I do have a heart, mind you. What have they said about his recovery? I heard all the noises and all the... things in there. I'm not familiar, but I hope they're helping him.

[ He shuts down Tim’s fretting with ease. He has a way of making everything seem easy, Tim’s already gathered, whether that’s debasing himself publicly or accepting his help in what should be the most awkward possible context in which he could ever need it. Quentin explains it away as if it’s as natural as the wind, letting him get swept away on it. This is fine. Maybe it’s even good, to have something to distract him from worrying, praying, and tears for a few minutes.

Tim gives him a tight smile and takes the plate, taking another sausage from it once he’s sitting down in one of the waiting chairs next to the door to Hawk’s room. ]

They think he’s past the worst of it. He was conscious and awake for a little while, but they have him on a lot of medication for the pain, so he’s out again. He’ll be okay, as long as there’s no infection and he keeps resting. It’s just... [ a pause, to calm down. To chew. ] I should have been there. We had an argument about something stupid, so I ran off, and...

[ Hawk almost got eaten over it. Thinking too much about it is making him lose his appetite, but he knows, logically, that he does need to eat. He nibbles at the end of a boiled egg with no enthusiasm whatsoever. ]

Tell me about being sailor.

[ Distract him. ]

You can't be everywhere you'd like to be, or you feel you need to be - at once. That's something I learned very easily as a sailor.

[ he follows tim, settling in one of the chairs beside him, expertly balancing the plate of food on one thigh so that tim can reach the plate with ease. quentin goes for one of the cinnamon rolls again, almost boyishly pleased at how sweet it is on his tongue. ]

My father was the Captain - a Naval ship. So I might as well admit my blood is half seawater anyway. But we'd miss things - birthdays and parties and big political things because we were traveling. I became his navigator, so as you can imagine I was very busy.

[ he grins, shrugging one shoulder. ] You can only give as much as you're able to - and that's enough. I like to think of it this way - if you're out on the waters and there's a storm that takes your crew for a spin, maybe you think later - if only we'd stayed in port longer. But the storm actually gave us the wind to make time to a new port, where I met a very good friend of mine. I was meant to be in the storm to find the moment after. The wolf attack may still have happened, and if you were there, who would be there to care for him?

[ another cinnamon roll, and this time he chews and speaks around it. ] You can't let guilt lead you astray.

If I were there, he wouldn't have been attacked. It wouldn't touch me.

[ If he hadn't walked away when he got his feelings hurt, if he had fought harder for what he wanted instead of turning on his heel and running away, again, he wouldn't be where he is right now. Hawk wouldn't have been injured, and Quentin wouldn't be sitting next to him and placating him into eating smiles and sweet words. They wouldn't even know each other. That would be...no, not better, but he would be focused. What kind of person thinks about another man's beard scratching against his neck when someone he actually loves is in the hospital?

Tim was overwhelmed before Quentin got here, and he's not making it better, despite his trying. It's good, physically, to be eating, but emotionally, it exposes more cracks than it patches. ]

Guilt isn't always a bad thing. It reminds you what's important.

[ Being pedantic, helpful. He sighs, tired, and takes another bite of his egg. With bacon. Getting there. ]

Some things happen for a reason. I think we're all here for a reason, for instance, and it's got to be deeper than the Balfours messing with us for fun. But fooling around with you in the baths while he was getting torn to shreds was a choice I made. Not God's plan.

inbox;

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)