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quentin toma

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

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[ quentin wakes without koby at his side for once and that alone is strange, but not wholly unheard of. but he wakes, dresses, and finds the little gift wrapped in blue paper and follows every little clue, each a stepping stone of their relationship, each personal and real and passionate.

but it leads him, finally, to koby's room. emptied out, bed tidily made, no signs of books or papers or the sea of theories and thoughts. no maps on the walls, no ink stains. the house has thoroughly cleaned it, but he finds the little paper, the note. the flower.

come home to me it says and quentin can't shake the staggered, shaken feeling in his chest. it sears into the back of his mind, makes his heart thump harder and faster. he tucks the little paper into his pocket and carefully cradles the dried, pink flower. down the hall, not far from koby's room for once, to his own. the room he left a little while ago on the treasure hunt, all the gifts tucked under his arm.

when he enters his room he can tell immediately that it's different - papers, books, clothes, the very smell of koby strong on the air. ]

Captain?

[ soft, full of emotion. ] I've come home to you.

[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.

[ so much has gone into this, that much is evident the moment he walks in. the lights, the food, the table with candles and wine. even koby, dressed the way he is flushed pink in the cheeks. he looks around in wonder at the place then he laughs softly, baffled. welcome home. something he never hears back in his world, because he doesn't have a home to return to that's not the ship. and who says welcome home to a sailor living daily upon a ship?

it hits him like a ton of bricks, shakes him a little. home. part of him knows that koby has always been home, the spinning center of his compass, that sure feeling when the wind blows and the way he knows exactly where to go and when. koby is that - a sure thing, fixed, imperfectly perfect.

he can't say much else but close the door and cross the distance between them, his eyes a little glassy as he reaches for koby's face. there's no hesitation when he leans down to kiss him, cradling his face between his palms, sweet and soft and adoring. there's a pulse in his own magic, something surprised and blooming and settled. he lets the kiss linger, long and slow and languorous as though he's been at sea for months and months and just returned landside. ]

Welcome home to you, too. [ a place that is theirs. a room that makes up everything they are and will be. he grins against koby's mouth, kissing him again and again, little butterfly kisses, each one bringing with it a bubble of laughter. ]

This is incredible.

[The nerves are still there -- home isn't something Koby knows, for reasons that parallel Quentin's own. The ocean is changeable, shifting, and the last time he was on a ship for an extended period of time, it wasn't anything close to home. The Marines had -- been close, closer than Koby had ever thought he'd get to have. He could've been happy, he knows, in that world.

But Quentin walks in and the warmth, the love in his voice, his face, his eyes is -- unmatched, unparalleled, beyond happy. Koby's grinning too wide to worry, to fidget nervously or bite at his nails, because he's being swept up in the giddy rush of those kisses, or Quentin's hands cradling his face. He laughs, soft, presses closer, up on his toes for each and every one, anxiety ebbing away like the tide.]

It's -- okay? [One small concession to fretfulness, to wanting to make doubly sure, that wild, aching, throbbing want that's at the very core of who Koby is, heartfelt and earnest and honest and tender, still, after all this, tender and pleading -- tell me you want me to stay, tell me you want me, please, please.] I want it to be okay, even though -- I mean, I've been here for a couple months already, but. It's okay for this to be -- ours? Here?

It's already ours. It belongs to us.

[ he laughs, peppering koby's face with sweet kisses all over again, lingering on the plush line of his mouth. that koby would think for a moment he didn't want this? it makes something twist guiltily in his gut. ]

I would spend every day, every minute at your side if you would have me. I want you here, I want you there, I want you stay wherever I am. And I'll stay wherever you are. Isn't that what being a boyfriend is?

[ a soft, cheeky smile. ] I don't know. But I know it's what love is. Where would a sailor be without the sea? Without his north star? With the sun warm on his back and the wind in his sails? It is that simple.

[ he kisses his forehead, slides hands down to drag koby close. ] This is a most excellent present. I suppose I will have to celebrate this Christmas thing every year if it is to be so nice. Though I don't think we'll ever top this.

[ even if he has a few ideas. ]

I know, I know, it -- I know. I just wanted to -- make sure. Make a point of it.

[Koby's laughing, smiling, hands coming up to curl into Quentin's shirt, letting go the last shuddery exhale of nerves, of fear that maybe, maybe it would all be too much, maybe he'd say or do something wrong and drive away the greatest, brightest warmth he's ever had. Trust wars with fear, and for the first time in his life, trust wins.

Because Quentin talks about every year and Koby's chest goes alight with longing, heart leaping as he looks up, so much raw hope in his eyes, his face that it nearly aches. Quentin talks about a future that Koby's so, so scared he won't be allowed to have, but that he wants so much, enough that it makes him feel brave and strong and terrified all at once. Quentin speaks sweet, lilting words, like he did on the lake out under the sun, and it's freezing cold in the dead of winter, but Koby grins like the sun and rises up on his toes to press his forehead to his boyfriend's, slips into the wonderful ease of being with him.] You can have it -- all my minutes, all my days. All the messy noisy ridiculous stupid parts, all the simple parts. All of it.

[There's a laugh, watery, teary, because -- it's Koby.] We might need to, yes. I'll start planning now. [For Christmas and birthdays and all the holidays Tim's talked about and all the ones Koby's read stories about -- he wants them all, he wants everything, a hundred days, a thousand, more. He wants forever, after a lifetime of living for the next hour, next minute, next heartbeat. It feels like a heart's desire, like a dream. If you could do anything, be anywhere, Koby, where would you be?

Here. I'd be here.]

I think I like the messy noisy ridiculous stupid parts of you best. The simple parts, too. The handsome parts. The parts where I get to kiss you like this.

[ and it's a little on the dramatic side because quentin has watched one of those movie things recently, and he bends deep, enough to tip koby back, to dip him just a little in his strong arms and kiss him hard and wanting. just so koby doesn't have to reach or tiptoe to kiss him - because koby deserves to have everything made easy for him.

he deserves a softer journey than the ones they left behind.

he laughs against koby's mouth shortly after, keeping him tilted back, looking into his wide eyes with such adoration. their auras are one mess of violet in the room but the blue begins to beat it out just a little, magic tickling in the freckles he'd kissed into his skin so long ago. ]

I love you. It doesn't matter where we are. That will never change.

[There’s a soft gasp as Quentin bends him back, tips him like in a movie, like when the music swells and sweeps and the wind blows and the romantic leads kiss each other like there’s nothing else in the world. It had always seemed silly, in the movies, especially when there were other things going on – saving the world or a ship sinking or something.

It doesn’t feel silly now. It feels like coming home, it feels like steady ground beneath his feet, like an anchor, like a north star, like all the things Quentin’s called him over the months they’ve known each other. Koby lets himself imagine being called such things for longer, for days and weeks and months and years, lets himself believe that there’s a way to open a door between here and his world, lead the man he loves through and close it firmly behind him, so nothing monstrous or cruel or hopeless can follow.

And then he lets it slip away and curls into the sweet, wonderful warmth of now, of his heart in his chest and the grin on his face and the spark of Quentin’s magic teasing at his soul, his skin. Koby laughs softly, smooths back a loose, dark curl, lets his hand linger on Quentin’s cheek.]

I love you too. [Kissing him again, sweeter, quicker.] No matter when or where.

Well then we're settled. I like you, you like me. This is our home together and it will always be a safe harbor to return to.

[ he laughs into each sweet little kiss before pressing one more lingering and loving against the plush line of koby's mouth. he raises them back up but keeps his arms wrapped around him, fingers pressing into his sides, keeping them pressed and flush together. ]

I suppose we have to enjoy everything in here again differently now don't we. Do you remember when we ruined one of the maps because I had you pinned to our desk? Or the very first bath we shared? Or the carpet. The rug, the door. Or when we ate toast together, when you showed me how texting worked. The times you've dressed me. The boat on the lake. The swims. The sun on your face.

[ he snorts a little, dipping to nip at koby's jaw once, letting his hands slide down now to koby's ass, giving a playful squeeze. ]

I look forward to every moment with you.

[Quentin reminisces, and Koby smiles brighter, warmer with each recollection, nodding along -- of course he remembers, the bath and the bed and the desk, the lake, the sun, of course.]

I remember all of it. [Soft, pressed close against Quentin, hand tracing the line of his cheek, thumbing over the lines that appear when he smiles, the crinkle-eyed grin he adores so much.] I remember every day with you. Every moment. [He doesn't let any of it blur into mundanity, even the long lazy mornings spent quietly chatting beneath the covers, delaying getting up until Quentin suddenly springs up, stretching and yawning like a bear and announcing he needs breakfast -- or until Koby squirms a little closer and slips a hand up under Quentin's shirt, coaxing them into staying beneath the sheets a little longer. Koby sears it all into his mind, remembers the taste, the feel, the smell of each day, each hour, revels in it like a pirate king with his hoard.

And he laughs, wiggling closer, scrunching his nose at the cheeky grab, at the playful lightness in Quentin's face, his warm eyes, his bright grin.] Well, I did bring dinner up, but...we can always reheat it if... [Koby glances over at the newly-made bed, arches both eyebrows.] If you want to properly christen our new home?

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i changed my mind on the other one bc i want this ok dont perceive me

RUBS MY GAY LITTLE HANDS 2GETHER

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