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quentin toma

NOTES: sailor, navigator, loverboy, war-bringer.

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[The huffing laugh Koby gives in response has no real fire in it, even accompanied by an eyeroll, as he settles back flat on his feet and smooths both hands down the front of Quentin’s shirt.] No wrath necessary. All in one piece, here. [Shaking his head, hands lingering on Quentin’s chest, feeling the contours he’s memorized by now, the intoxicating heat that makes him tempted to abandon his discovery and find a sunny spot to spend the afternoon together instead.

Maybe later. One thumb traces over the shape of Quentin’s piercing, absently, and Koby amends that thought: definitely later.

Then, dropping his hands, Koby shakes his head again and turns back to the dock, to the (not at all seaworthy, but comfortable) rowboat tied up there.] We aren’t going into the wilderness, don’t be silly. You make it sound like I’m trying to spirit you away for nefarious purposes.

[Look at how innocent he is, nothing nefarious here~] We’re just going out on the lake.

[ the thumb grazing his piercing is a sign - something he's noticed koby does when they meet outside the confines of their room. it sends the smallest zing of heat up his spine - a promise for later, already. not that he minds, of course.

he gives koby's waist a soft squeeze, palms smoothing along his sides and steps back, laughing. ]

You made all of this very mysterious to begin with, thank you very much.

[ but seeing the boat, the water, he blinks. a boat without leaky boards and holes. he'd not noticed it there before, and yet here they are. something excited shows in the light of his eyes, burns behind the little grin. ]

Setting sail today are we? We mustn't be late.

[ he takes koby's hand, giving a gentle tug as he moves to the little dock. there's no hesitation whatsoever when he arrives, kicking off his shoes, releasing koby's hand and stepping down into the wobbly little thing. he stands in it like its tipping and tilting is as normal as solid ground beneath their feet. ]

I'd ask if you need a hand but something tells me you have sea legs on you. I've tasted them. [ a smirk. ]

Did I really? [Koby looks immensely pleased with himself, following along with Quentin, careful to skirt the patches of mud in his bare feet, until he's on the splintery wood of the deck. Here, he relaxes, away from solid land, close to the water, even if the water is just a modest-sized lake. The canvas bag he's taken to toting around is on the dock as well, and Koby scoops it up quickly, holding it to his chest.

Quentin's stepped down into the boat, and there's a moment where he's standing there, sailor stance, moving easily with the gentle rock and tilt of the water, and Koby can almost imagine him on the deck of a real ship, on the real sea. It makes his chest go tight, thinking about -- what that must have been like, seeing Quentin in his element. Seeing him at home.

But: that's the point of all this, right? Taking a breath, Koby nimbly steps down into the rowboat as well, reaching out to hold onto Quentin's arm as he does, making a face at him.] You're going to scandalize the fish and I'll never catch anything again. Sit down before you tip over. [No danger of that, but if he's not bossing Quentin around, what's he doing.]

The fish will be fine, thank you. I’ve swam in lakes and oceans bigger than this and without any clothes on at all. I think the sealife fared just fine thank you.

[ he laughs, helping koby down into the boat by way of his arm, looking around for the hitch to set them truly afloat. it’s nothing compared to the large vessels he’s used to, but he leans out and reaches easily for the rope, untying it and pushing a hand on the splintered wood of the dock to set them out to drift.

something about feeling the water move beneath them, feeling the way they rock even as he sits down, settles something restless in his gut. he’s missed it. more than a year away from the water and to be on a little paddle boat in a lake feels like breathing again. he takes up the oars, pulling them further out to the lake.

he grins, a little brighter, eyes lighting up. ]

Did you get this fixed? I didn’t think they had one that wouldn’t sink.

Have you? Recently? [Not that he's asking to be invited along on these skinny dipping explorations, but. But.

The slight rock of the boat on the mostly-still lake is nothing compared to the actual tip and reel of a ship on the high seas, but Koby's reaction is the same as Quentin’s -- a soft exhale, a relaxation, a release, like some fundamental part of his soul is satisfied. He holds the bag tight to his chest, hoping -- hoping this'll work. That it'll help, the way it had helped him, earlier that same day, alone out in the rowboat.

The question gets a pleased, proud smile -- a rare sight, considering how rarely Koby’s proud about anything he does.] I patched it. I used to maintain the lifeboats, back -- well. Back when I was at sea. Never know when you're suddenly going to be brave enough to escape, right?

[They're close to the middle of the lake already, the distance eaten up easily by Quentin’s practiced, strong pulls of the oars. Koby watches his arms for a moment, teeth finding his lower lip, chewing absently as he gazes shamelessly at the bunch and stretch of muscle and sinew. Then, blinking:] Here. Here's good. Do you trust me? [It seems out of nowhere, but Koby is -- deathly serious about it, all of a sudden.]

Daily. But of course you can patch ships. I think you’re capable of anything you set your mind to. I’m not so lucky.

[ he laughs a little, rowing them out to the middle of the lake with the intention to row them the whole way to the other side when koby stops them. he blinks, glancing over at the other curiously, brows raised.

at first he’s sure something is wrong, tilting his head a little, setting the oars so they don’t slide away from the little boat. he rubs his palms together, brow pinched when he peers back up at koby. ]

Of course I trust you. Why wouldn’t I? [ a beat, sweat stippling on his bow from the heat, he shifts to tug his shirt off, carefully tossing it in the bay behind him. ]

Is everything alright, Koby? You’ve been acting strange since I arrived.

[ a hint of nerves - an edge in his voice that usually isn’t there despite the easy way he smiles at him. ]

I've yet to see you try something and not succeed, Quentin, don't be silly. [It's said with immense fondness as Koby rummages through the bag, which has the usual shapes of books and pens and paper. He pauses entirely when Quentin pulls his shirt off, eyes widening a bit even though this has to be the hundredth he's seen this particular man shirtless. Then again, Koby also sees the sunrise every day and that never stops taking his breath away.

But then the words, the slight furrow in Quentin’s brow register, and Koby winces, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, face turning red.] I -- I really have been, haven't I. I'm sorry. [He sighs, shoving his glasses up into his hair and rubbing at his blushing face for a moment.] I'm not...good at doing things, for people. Nice things. I wish I were, but I haven't done them often enough to be nice instead of weird, so. So I'm sorry.

[Another sigh, then Koby tugs a pair of somewhat outdated, over-the-ear headphones out of his bag, borrowed (just borrowed, promise) from the library. They're meant to be used to listen to tapes, CDs, but they're able to be used with the phones as well. Koby knows, because he's made sure. He offers them, still blushing.] It's just -- something I found, I put it on my phone and you can hear best with these, but...

[But he thinks about Quentin clinging to him, that colorful, nightmarish night, about what he'd said the Regent had done -- "Blindfolded me so that I couldn’t see where we were, what we were doing" -- and the headphones aren't the same, but they're close, close enough, and Koby finishes, a little unsure:] But you can't hear anything else when they're on so I wanted to...make sure that was okay. That you were okay.

[Because that panic, that fear, that mindless horror -- Koby knows it'll come back, that it never really leaves. But he never wants it to be because he was thoughtless or careless. Ever.]

Koby, you do kind things for the people here without even blinking. I hardly think that's accurate, what you've said.

[ but he watches as koby brings out the little device, tilting his head at it before reaching to take them, turning them over in his hands this way and that. he's not seen them before, but koby seems to trust them and so does he. ]

They're for listening?

[ the fact that once they're on, he won't be able to hear anything else does do something - makes a little zing of uncertainty dance up his spine. a blindfold is one thing - he doesn't need his eyes to tell him where to go. but his ears? he has to be able to hear to visualize where he's going - to hear their destination and his hearing being dulled surprises him.

how had alonso not figured this out, when koby is here but months of knowing him and he anticipated the uncertainty. but koby has worked hard for whatever this is. planned, brought him here, handed him these things. so it must be safe. it must be. he sucks in a breath and shrugs his shoulders, trying to seem nonchalant. ]

Mm. Hold my hand during it. If we cannot be naked in bed together I suppose that will be the best alternative.

[ he grins a little, moving to put the headphones on the way they look to go on, and his hand falls to koby's knee, palm up.

the silence is almost immediately claustrophobic, his gut twisting uncertainly, but he continues to take easy, careful breaths. if koby takes his hand, he'll grip it a little tighter, eyes staying focused on koby's, his true north. ]

It’s different. It’s– [Because you’re special, because I care about you, because I can’t sleep if you aren’t with me, because I think about you all the time, because I think I might be in–

Words and thoughts both cut off, Koby gently settles the headphones more firmly in place, nestled against Quentin’s ears, surrounded by his tangled curls, which are carefully smoothed into place, coiling easily around Koby’s fingers. After a pause, he shifts one side slightly off one ear, breaking the surrounding, mildly claustrophobic sense of all sound being muffled, scooting closer so he’s kneeling in front of Quentin, smiling.]

There, better? I almost fell over the first time I used them – my sense of balance was completely thrown off. I read all about that, the inner ear and how it keeps us upright, which doesn’t really seem to account for sea legs, but maybe it doesn’t count for those. [Gentle, distracting prattle, a lifeline along with one callused hand slipping into Quentin’s, fingers lacing together and squeezing firmly. Koby can do the rest one-handed, plug the other end of the long, twining cord into his phone and swipe the screen like a professional. The phone had been an adjustment, but Koby’s a fast learner, as he’s shown again and again.

Nodding slightly, satisfied, he pauses with his thumb over the play button on the screen, over the files he’d downloaded from Saltburnt’s admittedly limited internet, the ones he’d carefully curated that morning. Some of the eager, hopeful excitement is back in Koby’s face as he squeezes Quentin’s hand and taps the button. The sound comes gradually, a soft, building sound, rhythmic and rumbling and achingly familiar – the sound of ocean waves.

With the headphones on, it’s everywhere, surrounding, coupled with the slight rock of the rowboat, the blue sky overhead, the sound of water building, cresting, falling onto sand, layered with the faint cries of seabirds, the sizzle of seafoam, the drip of waves pulling away across rock and tide pool. Some of the sounds Koby had found had music, piano or stringed instruments or something weird and melty-sounding called a synthesizer, but he likes this one best, because it’s just the ocean. Just the waves. Just the sound of home.]

See? [Barely above a whisper, wide-eyed and enraptured and gazing up at Quentin for his reaction, thumb stroking over his knuckles, again and again.] Isn’t that wonderful?

[ koby adjusts the headhones and even being able to hear a sliver of the true sound around him helps, relieves some of the pressure in his chest. how odd to be without sound, without surroundings, without his balance and certainty. but he trusts koby, of course, more than he trusts himself. koby all kind and sweet-faced, trying to act like being kind is foreign to him.

it’s one of the things he loves about him. one of many.

(he won’t think too hard about that - so absent minded and true that he hasn’t even realized he’s felt it that way).

but koby prattles on before the sound starts. he half expects music, like the club, but when it starts off a gentle hush turning into the trickle of waves and seaspray, the lazy lap of the ocean slapping against rocks and shore. a ship at dock, gulls occasionally crying in the distance, the wind rippling the water, the sun bright and warm, a calm and quiet that feels so much like home it’s easy to forget they’re on a little paddle boat far from it.

his expression warms, startled by every familiar sound, eyes turning to koby almost immediately, widening and baffled. ]

How…?

[ he doesn’t understand, his fingers flexing against koby’s, his face twisted in something like sorrow and longing and joy all in one. he listens for a long moment, air caught up in his throat before he speaks again. ]

I haven’t heard the sea in so long.

[ he can’t help but close his eyes against it, let his senses take over, tricking him and making it seem like he’s on some ship far, far away, in the crow’s nest. it’s muscle memory that pulls koby up to his lap, brings him close, lets him wrap his arms around him and feel him as part of it all. ]

It’s like home.

[There’s that brief pause, wherein every one of Koby’s vicious, anxious thoughts try to sink their teeth in, try to tear apart what he’s trying to do – stupid, pathetic, give a man who’s lost everything a ghost in a set of headphones, try to replace the sea with a recording and a rowboat, what were you thinking, you’ve made it worse, you’ve made him remember everything he’s lost. And he knows, he knows it isn’t the same, that the scent and the feel of the ocean – of their shared home – is gone and can’t be brought to this place.

But: Quentin sucking strawberry jam off his fingers, Quentin pillowing his head on Koby’s lap while he reads, Quentin smiling against Koby’s mouth when he kisses him. Somehow Quentin doesn’t see what’s missing, what’s lacking, all the fragmented holes in their current existence. Just the beautiful things. It makes Koby want to try harder, want to fight against the gilded bars of their beautiful, inescapable cage, want to bring in the sound of the sea and say this is for you, because I care, because I can, because you understand and know it’s enough.

And when Quentin looks at him, wide eyes and parted lips and hand curling tighter in the grasp of his fingers, all those hissing, snarling, hateful thoughts stop. Koby smiles back, absolutely beaming, reaching out to smooth Quentin’s hair back with his free hand. He could launch into an explanation of how the headphones work, but – that’s not important right now. Not when Quentin looks like that, aching and joyous all at once.

Instead he slips easily into Quentin’s lap, settling against him, warm and grounding and tucked under his chin, a physical presence to balance out the lack of sight or sound. This close, he can sort of hear the ocean sounds as well, trickling from the slightly-crooked headphones, undercut by the steady, beating pulse of Quentin’s heart in his chest. Koby tugs up their entangled hands, rests them over that unceasing thumpthumpthump, hair tickling Quentin’s chin.]

It is, yeah? It’s almost like being home.

[ it’s overwhelming, hearing the ocean and feeling like they’re drifting on the sea, lost together. koby is warm and solid against his chest, the scent of his shampoo and soap musky and soft, a smell as familiar to him as wax and wood and salt. he yearns for the sea in a way that makes his heart ache miserably, but the simple joy of feeling it all soothes the ache.

he presses his lips against his hair, breathing him in and laughing a little, throat thick with emotion. ]

It feels like home, yeah.

[ he listens on his own for a long moment, eyes closed and arms wrapped tightly around the slight frame in his lap. and then, after a beat: ]

Can we listen together? Or do I need these things to hear?

[ he takes the headphones off with one hand, the sound faint but present echoing in the quiet between them. there's a little noise out by the shore, some people sunbathing or chattering. but this far out he can feel nothing but the cool breeze and the gentle rock of the boat. ]

I want to hear it with you, even if you're just a marine. [ a smile against his hair, his voice soft, fingers petting his side where he holds him, gentle and nearly possessive. protective, even, wanting him close and calm, wanting koby to share the sea with him. ]

If not, we'll have to find a way. I want to feel the sun on my back, hear the waves and hold you here a little while longer. If you don't mind.

[ he huffs a little, emotional still. ] Thank you, Koby. For this gift.

[Koby would be content with this, with the rock of the water and the thump of Quentin’s heart, with the warmth of his broad, bare chest and the way he smells -- the way Koby's pillow smells, most mornings, to the point where the twice-weekly sheet changes are jarring, borderline upsetting. He has so many of Quentin’s shirts now, folded in a drawer so he can sleep in them, so he can breathe in the scent of sweat and soap and skin. Even on the occasional nights they don't spend together -- fewer and fewer as the weeks go on -- the feel of those shirts on Koby’s skin is usually enough to help him sleep, even if he wakes up reaching across the bed for Quentin.

And it's in that thought, in that space of time, that Koby has a shuddering, sobering realization: Tim was unequivocally, unquestionably right.

"You love him."

The question brings Koby back to earth, blinking and blushing and quickly nodding.] We -- yeah, we can. I know there are speakers for this phone thing, I can ask for one from the library. Ah, or borrow Tim’s headphones, they're smaller, but you can share them.

[For now, though, Koby tugs the cord of the headphones free, let's the sound of the waves emanate from the phone itself, albeit a bit more tinny, artificial-sounding. Koby tucks it into the front pocket of his overalls -- very handy -- then, on impulse, he straightens up, sitting taller in Quentin’s lap.

Both hands come up to nudge the headphones down to rest around Quentin’s neck, leaving his hair loose and lovely and soft for Koby to tangle his fingers in. He leans forward, kisses Quentin soft, fervent, with every bit of emotion that shuddering realization has swelling in his chest.] I wish it were more. [Against his mouth, forehead resting to his.] I'd bring the sea here, if I could. I'd do anything, for you.

No, no. I like this.

[ the phone with the speakers, the sound a little tinny but still sounding very much like the distant hiss of waves while sleeping in the belly of the boat. it's soothing, so much like his childhood, his whole life until now, and it rounds quentin's shoulders, smooths out worry lines in his face, lets him breathe a little easier. all this over a recording.

but he blinks up at koby, surprised by the way he straightens, at how close he sits, eyes lifting to meet the blue of koby's behind round glasses. his eyes flutter closed, the fingers in the tangles of his hair like the wind pushing through it on choppy seas. he sighs audibly this time, a pleasant smile pulling across his face before he looks up, eyes half-lidded. ]

It's everything.

[ he hums against the soft little kiss, letting his arms wrap a little tighter around koby's waist, reverent and adoring. he fits here against him, he always will, and something in his chest aches for the wanting of this moment to linger a little longer.

i'd bring the sea here, if i could. i'd do anything, for you.

he kisses koby again, so tender and soft, hands gentle as they come up to frame his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, admiring him and adoring him even as he pulls away from it, a little dazed, nudging their noses together. ]

I don't need the sea if you're here. It's why this gift is everything to me. What is a sailor without his harbor? Without his compass and his sails? Without his ropes and astrolabes and spyglasses?

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.]

[ the look on koby's face is enough to make his voice catch in his throat, make his lungs sting and burn with wanting, make his heart thud a little heavier in his chest. he's had flings, he's had flirtations, but nothing like this. nothing that started like a low, simmering fire that has since begun to roar. wherever they go after this, he wants it to be somewhere with koby. somewhere he can find him happily sailing on the see, watch him whoop and holler as the ships tear through the ocean.

he will always yearn for the sea. the smell of salt, the open air, the water lapping up in his face, the spray salty and sweet. but koby will go magnificent places. sail with the marine and chart every corner of the many seas, and the thought alone fills quentin's head with so much adventure and light he can forget there is solid ground waiting for him back in his own life.

he can weather it. koby's told him he can.

how can one person become so instrumental to survival?

the other man's expression is all wide eyes and cautious, and he doesn't have to be able to wonder if he's thinking to hear the cogs turning behind his skull. he doesn't know how to put it into words just yet, can't find what it is he wants to say but he kisses him again, cradling his face and letting it linger, letting the taste of koby stay on his lips and the warmth of him make him feel whole again.

he stays quiet, foreheads touching, noses bumping, breaths shared between them. ]

You're my true north. I don't know how it happened. I don't know when. I hope that's simply enough, but among the many there will always be you.

[There are some things, some moments in time that shift the entire universe on it’s axis, sear themselves into Koby’s ever-ticking, ever-thinking mind as important, pivotal – You’ll be one of the good ones, Luffy says, hand on his shoulder, smile bright in the darkness of Shell’s Town harbor. That uniform’s starting to fit you, Garp offers from behind his imposing desk, bemused and knowing. Like my friend…or whatever, Helmeppo mutters, embarrassed and loyal and unexpected.

You’re my true north, Quentin almost breathes, hands warm and callused and loving on Koby’s face, the taste of him still on Koby’s mouth.

The rowboat beneath them rocks somewhat dangerously as Koby’s breath catches, eyes bright and teary, as he surges forward and wraps both arms around Quentin’s neck, clings to him like an anchor in a storm. There’s an aching, all-consuming tenderness in his chest, as dizzying and intoxicating as the heat that floods him every time Quentin touches him, every time they kiss or snuggle together or tangle up between the sheets, and if he didn’t know Tim was right before, he does now. He does.

True north sounds a hell of a lot like something else, like a confession Koby knows they’re both too cautious to make, now. It sounds like something sturdy, the keel and hull of a ship, something to depend on, something to build on – not solid ground, because they’re both sailors, they both find much more peace on the sea, with the ever-changing waves and salt spray and high winds. True north sounds like I need you, sounds like I choose you, sounds like–]

It’s enough. [Soft, hoarse, pressed tearily against the side of Quentin’s neck, breathing in the way he smells, the way he feels.] It’s – everything. [Koby had never doubted that Quentin cared, that their entanglements had been wholehearted and genuine, and there had never been any sense of jealousy about other flings, other flirtations. Because it was his bed Quentin crawled into at the end of the night, his neck Quentin kissed first thing in the morning, his boat Quentin’s sitting in right now. True north means I’ll always know where you are, I’ll always find my way back to you and it’s more than Koby had ever let himself hope for, deep down, in the most secret part of him.

It’s hard to verbalize, hard to say it, so he resorts back to his dumb metaphor, laughing wetly even as he says it:] I told Tim it was like – having a crew. The way you and I are. Everyone means something, is important, is taken care of and watched out for, no matter how many there are, but the captain and first mate, it’s…different. [Sniffing, leaning back, smoothing Quentin’s hair away from his face again and not even bothering to hide how fond, how adoring his gaze is.] If I’m your true north, you’re my first mate. You know?

[ quentin laughs bright and unhindered as koby surges into him, the little row boat rocking in protest. he's careful to grip the seat with the backs of his calves, lets his arms wrap around koby's slim figure and draw him in as close as he may, as though their bodies could merge somehow and become one on this little boat lost on the lake.

he wants to kiss him again - wants to taste koby on his lips and taste the sun and salt and sea air all over again. he hadn't realized until lately how much time he spends cocooning himself in koby's life, seeking him out and welcoming him the same, their doors connected as much as everything else. a day is nothing until he's seen the soft pink hair out of the corner of his eye, caught a name on his phone, tasted home on his lips.

just like now. his compass turning, turning, turning. the busy clattering of his mind and magic stilling. he knows where he is. he knows where his heart has gone to. he knows where his thoughts are, and there are no lines to what he needs to see, because its here. there's nothing to track, nothing to find.

koby is right here with him. ]

Mm, your first mate? [ he laughs against koby's mouth, soft and sweet, color rising up into quentin's cheek, his expression open and honest. gentle. there's no joking or teasing or flirting here. it's not needed. ]

I'm honored to have the position. A first mate to an outstanding captain. I will follow you into the storm, into the dark, into whatever magics await us outside of this place.

[ he reaches up to koby's face, brushing away the hint of tears, unknowing that there have been a few to slip down his own cheeks. he leans to kiss him, soft things, over and over and over again, chasing the taste and warmth of him. the everything of him. ]

Mm, let me make love to you here. Let me lay you out in the afternoon sun with the ocean's song and show you all the ways you are home to me.

[It sounds like a promise, like a vow, like something Koby wants to tie himself to like an anchor, build something upon. He’s thought about after, about what will happen when this place lets them go, however that may happen, when it’s walls crumble and the gates fly open – or, maybe, less dramatically, they slip back or forward into something else, some other world entirely. He’s thought about returning home to the Marines, to training and working towards chasing down pirates, to finding a way to help people, and already there’s an ache at the idea of Quentin not being there. Of not having him there every day, a message or a photo or a sweet, fond kiss while passing in the hallway or the warmth of his body in bed at night, tucking up behind Koby while he’s half-asleep.

If he were offered the chance to return, to go back to chasing his dream, but it would mean leaving Quentin…Koby’s known for a while what his answer would be. He feels it now, hands tangled in dark hair, the warm, familiar callus of those sailor’s hands on his face, kissing away his tears – no. If it’s a world without him, I don’t want it.

But for now, there’s the sound of the ocean and the warmth of the sunlight and the curve of Quentin’s mouth against his own, sweet and adoring, the soft rumble of his voice making Koby entirely forget that there’s anyone else in the world. It makes him laugh through the tears, leaning back with one more kiss, two, hands lingering on Quentin’s face, like he can’t bear to let go, not for an instant.] Right here? In the boat? On the lake? Where anyone could see?

[Naturally, of course, he’s already unbuckling his overalls, leaning back in Quentin’s lap so he can tug his shirt off. Not wasting any time, not when Quentin asks so sweetly, stokes that ever-present flicker of want that belongs exclusively to him, a corner of Koby’s heart that is always hungry for more, greedy in a way that nearly terrifies him. Part of him is always, maddeningly, insatiable for this man.] Don’t tip over the boat, though. We have to be careful. [As much to himself as Quentin.]

Do you think I'd let us capsize? What sort of sailor could I possibly be?

[ but koby starts undoing his overalls, the shirt beginning to come up and his hands follow the reveal of skin, palms broad skating over the smooth plane of his stomach, one staying low and the other coming up to loop over his heart. when the shirt comes off his mouth follows, hot and slow against the line of that pale shoulder, freckled and pinkened by the sun. ]

I just want to show you how I feel.

[ he huffs a little, sheepish and even a little embarrassed against his skin. he's not much good with words, always better in spinning silly tales and stories. but this isn't any of that - this is something that makes his heart pound like waves against the shore on a storm, something that feels like wind in full sails and bright sun and the call of gulls in the distance.

the hand low on koby's belly drops, strong arm scooping across his thighs, so that when he's ready he can carefully, so carefully, lift and slide them both into the bottom of the boat, the cool of it against their skin and the sun overhead. ]

You've bewitched me. [ he'll say, of course, the moment that he can find koby's mouth in the tangle, speaking words between a slow kiss. ] You should have warned me the night we met.

No, no, never. [Koby says it laughing, bare-armed and bare-chested in the midday sun, something he’d never, never anticipated he’d do – not in front of anyone, not without immediately trying to hide, trying to curl in on himself and disappear. But here he is, not thinking about anything but Quentin’s lips pressed to his thrumming heartbeat, to the pinked warmth of his neck, to the freckles on his shoulder, not caring about anything but catching that mouth with his, kissing this man again and again and again, until he forgets what world they’re in, until he forgets they aren’t on any sea at all.] You’d never let anything bad happen to me. [Matter-of-fact, prompt, earnest, like he’s stating a fact of the universe, inarguable.

The boat is smooth whitewashed board, patched expertly, and Koby shivers a bit against the feel of it on his bare back, along his spine, his shoulderblades working as he reaches up to tug Quentin down, smiling again at the rock of the rowboat. Like this it’s a bit more private, just the sunny sky overhead, the trees far enough away from the shore that they can almost pretend they’re out to sea. Quentin’s mouth finds his, pouting just a bit, just enough to prompt a soft laugh as Koby’s fingers stroke through loose, dark curls, combing them away so he can kiss Quentin’s cheeks, his chin, his lips.] Okay. Show me. [Soft, settling into the hollow of the little boat, settling Quentin into the curve of his body, chest to chest, the way they wake up together so many mornings.

There’s hunger – always, with Quentin, always this barely-controlled desire to touch and hold and feel him, until there’s nothing and nobody else in the world – but there’s also a strange stillness, like a calm sea. Koby could stay right here, he realizes, could spend the rest of the time in this boat, with this person cradled in his arms, with the sun overhead. He could give up everything else, every other world, and that – should be terrifying. It should make him rethink everything.

It doesn’t. Because Quentin is kissing him again, voice soft and sweet and low, and Koby doesn’t want to do anything but kiss him back, playing with his hair, twining a long, silky curl around his finger.] Warn you about what? [Innocent, wide-eyed, guileless, in that soft early-morning voice he gets before anyone else is awake, when Quentin snuggles up on top of him just like this and they talk about nothing in the space between kisses.] I didn’t know to expect you either. I had no idea.

[A pause, Koby leaning back a bit, nose sun-pinked, eyes soft, tracing over every line, every feature of Quentin’s face.] I wouldn’t have changed anything, though. Not one part of it. Not one part of you. Of you and I. You know that, right?

I wouldn't.

[ anything he can control, he can prevent - he will try desperately if it means keeping koby safe. the night they wrapped around one another in their respective nightmares, quentin knew then that something in him was built to protect koby, the soft-faced, pink haired boy with eyes like wide windows to a soft, golden heart. if he could wrap him up in his arms and keep him from the hurts of the world, he would.

he can't, and for now all he can do is protect him from this place, from the small hurts that come and go here. he kisses him softly, slowly, pouring every bit of adoration he can into it, feeling overwhelmed with it now that they're both here, stretched out across the bottom of the patched, little boat. he goes quiet, reveling in the fingers pushing through his hair, the flutter of soft kisses, the words that follow. his eyes, half lidded, stay focused on the wide blues of koby's, soaking him up just like this, all sun-kissed and happy.

they could do anything right now - lay here like this, rock the boat as they fumble to get out of their clothes, jump out and swim - he doesn't care. so he kisses him again, this time chaste but lingering, lips over his and pressing close as his answer. of course he knows koby wouldn't change anything. of course. he knows it, too - that the way they met and how things have gone - it's everything he's ever needed.

and so when he comes up from that kiss, their noses nudging softly, his body blocking the light from koby's face - he sighs a little, voice quiet, almost shy: ]

I know that I love you. Is that enough, Captain?

[ a small smile, and there's a glimmer of unknown in his eyes - of being too forward, in too deep. ]

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.]

You do? Really?

I do.

[ quentin laughs a little, sheepishly looking away for a moment in the face of koby's shock. he doesn't want to come on too strong, doesn't want to imagine hanging this man his anchor and telling him to hold it - keep a line out that always leads back to him, pulling his ship and guiding his sails to a harbor he finds he wants nothing more than to settle in.

but this is what it feels like - overwhelming, consuming, distracting. the desperate need to be around someone and breathe in the very scent of them first thing on the morning. to go out and cast a net and always return to calm seas and clear skies. he'd imagined he'd always be alone, wandering port to port to familiar faces and come back to the ship as his anchor. his focal point. but everything has shifted in the short time he's known him - and for the first time in his life, he feels truly understood. seen. ]

Sorry, if it's too much. [ a little laugh, and his face flushed red for a change. his weight settled on koby's, arms around him, his fingers involuntarily flex. like trying to hold on in case he might flee, or run, or swim. he could see reason for it - sailors don't tie themselves down like this, and yet loving koby has never felt an impenetrable knot, a rough tide or a rusted, trapped anchor on unfriendly shores. ]

But it's true. It's why I wouldn't change a single thing about you.

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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