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quentin toma NOTES: sailor, navigator, loverboy, war-bringer. THREAT LEVEL LIKABILITY LEVEL SCANDAL LEVEL FASHION LEVEL WEALTH LEVEL

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No one can hear, but I won't say it quite so loud.

[ he gives an easy little smile, shrugging one shoulder as he swipes a piece of fruit from the plate. he had his breakfast, but a sailor will always eat when they can. he can't help it when it's laid out in front of him. it's subconsciously why he grabbed enough for both of them. ]

Love is a terrible thing - it hurts even though it's one of the most magical things in all the land. Or so I'm told.

[ he doesn't know a romantic love, per se, but he can't help but think of his father and the way he'd have dried up every sea in the land to keep him safe, to protect him. and in tim's guilt he can see his own - he knows what it's like to not be there when someone needs you most. when what happened is, at the core of it all, one's own fault. ]

And if you don't want to be friends, it's a simple as that. I brought you breakfast to thank you for the evening, and we are two men on our merry way. But I'm sorry you've never left someone's bed feeling like more than a piece of convenient meat. That, too, is a terrible feeling on its own.

[holyposition]

[ Tim nods solemnly, wondering to himself a little more than is appropriate, whether Quentin is speaking from his own experience and just being coy about it. He feels, like all lovers lost so deeply in the sauce that they’ll never swim out, that this is too profound and painful to possibly be universal. People wouldn’t be able to function. The economy would grind to a halt. In this moment, with Hawk laying injured, the heartache feels catastrophic. If everyone felt like this, it would be entirely up to kind souls like Quentin and their help, to avoid complete societal collapse. There can’t possibly be enough people like him, seemingly unphased by anything. ]

I didn’t mean I don’t want to. [ With a tiny smile. It doesn’t come naturally; he must force it with all the strength he can muster, but putting forth that effort is proof that he’s being honest. ] Just that I feel very...awkward, about it. Forgive me.

[ He busies himself looking down at his hands as he peels a boiled egg. Awkward indeed. Without looking back, ]

You didn’t make me feel that way.

[ Neither did Hawk, but that should be obvious enough, the way he’s leashed himself to his bedside. It’s far beyond what he would call friendship, either way. ]

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[ quentin sits back in his seat, watching tim pull the egg apart, eyes focused in a way that reeks of someone tired, strewn out, anxious, awkward. it's endearing really, to see the small pull of a smile on tim's lips and he shakes his head. ]

I wasn't saying that. Simply giving you the option - I get the feeling you don't get to choose very often.

[ can you stay a few more minutes - had been heartbreaking in a way, stuck with him. ]

So, we'll be friends. It's settled - I'd say we could shake on it, but at the risk of ruining your boiled egg, we'll forgo that for now. So if you need me, you know how to contact me now on these little things they gave us. Awkward friendships are still friendships, mind you, and seeing what I've seen now -

[ a gesture to the hospital ward. ] A friend who is simply around but needs nothing is what might be best.

[ he plucks up a piece of fruit for himself before he sighs a little, rising to his feet. he's never been one for subtlety, and at least here, the injured what is surely lover of tim cannot see. he offers his hand to tim, insisting he rise. ]

Come here a moment.

[holyposition]

[ I get the feeling you don't get to choose very often. It cuts deep, exposing a raw nerve within him that he'd rather keep hidden. He tries, keeping his focus on his egg and the plate of food in his lap, but he's never been a good liar, and so it's written on his face. It's uncomfortable because it's true, not just of his unsatisfying history of hookups until now, but his whole life for the last few months. Told that Hawk made his choice without so much as a conversation, brought here against his will, the choice he'd made to run off and enlist taken away from him. Things have been happening to him, and all he can do is react.

Last night, he chose this, and he's grateful that the choice is still his to make, lovers or friends or something in between. Everything is too overwhelming to know for sure right now, but Quentin is so inhumanly patient that he doesn't feel any pressure to. ]

Thank you, Quentin. You're a saint, honestly.

[ Tim raises an eyebrow up at him, but complies, wiping his hand on his pants before taking Quentin's, letting him pull him to his feet. ]

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Oh careful now, I'm the farthest sailor from sainthood, actually. You'll change your mind come morning.

[ but he's not ignorant to the cut of darkness washing over tim's soft features. he's an attractive man, of course, but something there beneath the glasses and flop of downy hair shifts and he doesn't like the look of it. quentin toma is far, far too good at finding things, and not knowing when it's better to keep them a mystery.

but tim takes his hand, as confused as he is, and that is delightful enough. he gives a tug, closing the space between them and wrapping his arms around tim's shoulders, tugging him close. there are no whispers, no little kisses, no wandering hands - just the strong flex of his arms and crushing their chests together, so that tim may see it's not just his own heart beating by itself. ]

As your friend, I strongly advise you take care of yourself. Life's rough on the seas, and you're in a storm just now. It'll pass - but it's a storm all the same.

[ he draws back just enough to meet tim's eyes, quentin's smile turning a little soft at the corners. ]

Finish your breakfast, yes?

[holyposition]

[ What time is it? Tim’s certain that it’s already come morning, at least from the time they met in the baths. The breakfast food still on the plate confirms it. He must have been sitting in that room for eight, ten hours? With no end in sight. He’s far too tired to resist the hug, which he might have otherwise out of a sense of propriety that would forbid it even if he didn’t have a lover laying injured on the other side of the wall. Now that it’s happening, warm, strong arms wrapping around him, it’s only a fraction of a second before Tim admits to himself that he needs this. He clings back, holding tight like some small, drowning creature climbing back to the surface, tears welling again at the corner of his eyes at the first true physical comfort after the longest, scariest night of his life.

He races to wipe his eyes before Quentin can see them, and loses. It’s uncomfortably vulnerable, but it’s a vestige of the past that’s making him feel that way, old scoldings about which feelings boys are allowed to have in public, old accusations that were true before Tim even knew what they meant. Old judgements. He doesn’t feel judged by Quentin in the least, even if he feels like he should be. ]

I will. I promise.

[ Quentin will get a picture of an empty plate in a couple hours. ]

I should get back, though. I need to be there when he wakes up. Thank you, for this, again.

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[ oh, quentin can't stand the tears, and not out of anything nefarious - only that pretty-faced boys like tim laughlin shouldn't be sad like this. but he can understand what it's like to nearly lose someone you love, and feel like it's your fault. his father died because of him. he'll never forget it.

so he squeezes tim one last time before releasing him, and reaches up with one thumb to gently swipe away a rogue tear. ]

Good.

[ a small smile and his hand drops to tim's shoulder, giving a squeeze. ]

Yes, you should be there when he wakes. And no need to thank me - eat your breakfast or I'll have to come back and scold you.

[ he gives his arm a final, firm pat, swipes one more pastry off tim's plate with a little amusing waggle of his brows, and starts away from him, hands in his pockets, walking back down the hallway he'd come from. ]