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[ something about the message feels strange, but in many ways he's still getting to know koby, still learning the ins and outs of the strange, enchanting man he met on his first day here. so, reserving judgement: ]

you don't have to ask.
the door is unlocked.

[ which has him sitting up, trying to wake himself up a little bit more, to take account of his room which is a bit of a mess, really. papers, maps, books, trinkets, some food wrappers from luffy, a head of lettuce waiting for the snail.

but he pays no mind to it - and instead tries to wake up a little all while sitting in his underwear, face flushed with the warmth of sleep, his hair a tangled, wavy mess. ]

[There's not another message, because the frenetic panicky part of Koby just seizes onto the permission, the promise of relief from the swirling nightmarish images that still claw at his mind, this late at night. He's down the hall, taking the route he's taken -- at least a dozen times by now, again and again and again, though never this late at night, never without a smile and full composure.

He has neither, now, not striding rapidly down the hall, not when he finally gets to Quentin's door, not when he stops and fidgets and paces and fights with himself before slowly grabbing the knob, turning, slipping inside. Koby's -- a mess, more than usual, still wearing the same clothes he'd had on during the day, hair mussed, eyes red-rimmed and bleary and glassy. His glasses are still folded on the bedside table, so it takes him a moment to find Quentin in the dim light.

When he does, he just -- looks at him for a long, silent moment, the only sound the shuddery shiver of each breath. It's not cold, but Koby's shaking all over, standing by the door, leaning back against it, arms crossed and hands white-knuckled from clutching himself so tightly.

Finally:] Did I wake you?

[ he hears koby outside before he enters, the pattering feet, the breathing, and seeing him in the dim light of his room, he stares for a moment, takes in every inch of him. it's all wrong - the lines of his arms tightly woven over his chest, the fists, the red-rimmed eyes, the clothes he'd passed him by the day before.

he's up and out of his bed in an instant since koby doesn't approach. he's a little sleepy footed, but it doesn't stop him from moving for the door and scooping koby up into his arms immediately. he knows fear when he sees it and presses the other man tight against his body, fingers sliding up to cradle the back of his head. ]

What happened?

[ his voice, usually sing-song and light takes on a rugged, deep timbre. serious, like a man readying himself to go to war. he pulls back enough to see koby's face, to look into the puffy, red-rimmed eyes. ]

What is it, Koby?

[There's a part that, awfully, sickeningly, cringes back when Quentin approaches, a flinch that Koby can't quite control, not when he's this tired, not when there's blood and fire and salt in his mind. A shuddery inhale, and Koby's opening his mouth to say everything's fine, he's being stupid, he's being ridiculous, he's sorry to disturb, he'll go back to his room where he belongs.

That's not what he says, though, because Quentin scoops him up, easy and effortless, warm and solid and real, real, like a scourging fire that sears away the ghosts in Koby's head, and his arms are up and around Quentin's neck, clinging on with all the strength in his shivery muscles, and he makes a sobbing sound of relief as everything inside him goes quiet. It's impossible to speak, for that moment, too dizzy with relief to articulate what's happening, what's happened.

But Quentin asks, and Koby shakes his head, quickly, realizing what it must look like, how it must seem.] N-Nothing, nothing happened, it's just -- dreams, they were just dreams. [It comes out too shuddery, too choked-off, and he's crying again, because of course he is. Because he's crybaby good-for-nothing Koby and that's what he does. One hand pulls away, swipes furiously at his eyes, at the tears that well up and keep welling, streaking down his already teary face.] Just dreams.

[ the sound of koby's sob moves something in his chest, like a hot poker, stabbing and sharp and fierce. he would storm the halls and drag every single person out of their rooms and question them, beat them into the fine marble floors if he had to, in order to find out who has done this.

his grip only tightens on koby, his mouth falling to his forehead, his temple, his hair. anywhere he can reach to sooth him. ]

You're safe here. I've got you. I'm here.

[ he breathes teh words furiously into his hair, but when he hears it - dreams - the anger in him fizzles out and turns into a sickening ache, instead. the dreams of someone trapped in a tumultuous life, a dangerous life. he makes soft shushing sounds against koby's hair and with little ceremony bends his knees and all but picks him up. it's elegant, but he manages to get an arm under koby's knees, lifting him up to his chest on a soft grunt before turning for the bed. ]

Come to bed - they're not going to bother you now.

[ it's not graceful the way he carries koby, kneels up onto the bed and settles the man down among the mussed covers. but he never ceases contact, moving to fall into the spot beside him and wrap his whole body round him, crushing him to his chest, mouth kissing at spilling tears and the bridge of his nose, fingers petting his hair softly from his face. ]

I won't let anyone harm you.

[Nightmares are a constant for Koby -- when he was younger, they'd be about the possibilities, about horrible happenings he saw in newspapers or books, pirate raids and burning villages, waking up half the dorms with his panicked sobbing every few nights. On Alvida's ship, the days and nights bled into one another, rigidly restricted by the amount of sleep he was allowed, never more than a few hours at a time, a habit that's carried over until now. In the Marines, having other people around meant that Koby's habit of keeping his nightmares quiet continued, but there was always work to do, always reports to file and decks to clean and something to do.

Here, there's no work to numb his mind, beyond the research and studying and note-taking, so Koby does that, he pushes and he pushes and he pushes and eventually he can't anymore, he ends up like this, a sobbing, sniffling mess hiding his face in Quentin's neck, drawing in shaky, sharp breaths, one after another, staccato and helpless and near-panicky. He can't lie when he's this upset, the dam stemming his emotions cracking under the soft words against his tangled hair, the arms around him. He wants to crawl into the safety Quentin offers, wants to build his home in those words, in the arms around him, the kisses scattered across his face, but he shouldn't, he can't, he -- can't remember why he shouldn't or can't, not right now.

So Koby just sobs, hiccupy, embarrassing, heaving sobs, every stress from the past few months -- from the past few years -- welling up uncontrollably. He's shaking like a sail in a storm, hands coming up to grab onto Quentin's, trembling so violently he can't get a good grip at first. And all the while, as he's carried to the bed, as he's laid down and gathered close and held the way he's ached for since longer than he can remember, Koby apologizes, the sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry on every exhale, like a compulsion he can't stop.

It stills a little when he's curled up on Quentin's bed, in the warmth of his sheets, the warmth of his arms, and Koby looks up, breath hitching, voice hoarse from crying, and he's honest and raw in a way he'd never let himself be in the daylight:] I have them every night. Every time I sleep, every time I close my eyes, I'm there, I'm there, I can hear her, but I don't -- have them here. I don't have them with you.

[It spills out, uncontrollable, water from a tap, blood from a wound, and Koby's hands curl into fists at Quentin's back, like he might disappear as he chokes out:] Can I -- can I stay? For. For just a little. Just. Please, can I stay tonight?

[ the body shaking sobs and the apologies come streaming out and he doesn't bother to try and quiet them, doesn't tell him to stop apologizing. he continues to smooth his hand over koby's hair, from his crown to his nape, press kisses where he can and let the other man soak his chest in tears. he just holds him tightly, lets him roll through the emotions like a sloop on a storm, tossed and turned in the night, sails haggard and worn.

but slowly, slowly, koby begins to come to, and all he needs to hear is her and he knows that should the pirate Alvida ever show her face on these grounds, he will put her in the bottom of the lake one way or another. he will seek out every little fear, find the buttons to press to make her come undone, and bring her to ashes. to bring a bright star like koby low, to dim his light with haze and clouds -

it's unforgivable. ]

Every night?

[ he hums lowly, listening, pulling back to wipe the tears from his face and kiss his damp cheeks, the flush across them, his forehead. ]

You can stay tonight - there's no need to ask. You can come every night. We will climb into bed as we would climb onto a warship and gun down any of those dream pirates. I won't let them harm you - not here. I won't stand for it.

[ his voice lacks all of its playful warmth, filled instead with a dogged determination. something aout the look of koby so fragile against him moves something again in his chest - the stupid, beating heart behind his ribs. the thing he's kept locked up for years and years now, protective. but here it is, thumping heavy and awake against his chest. ]

I've got you, Koby. You're safe here. [ he's going to keep saying it, over and over, until one day koby might believe it. ] And you've done well coming here. Dealing with these - nightmares are.... they're cruel.

[The worst of the sobbing is abating, and this is normally when Koby would start apologizing more, would try to disentangle himself so he can retreat somewhere quiet and dark and lose himself to the spiral of self-loathing for being so weak, so helpless. Except he's never done this before, never opened up the throbbing wound that those two years had gouged into him to this extent, let it bleed out the poison onto another person.

So all of this -- Quentin's hands smoothing through his hair, stroking away his tears, Quentin's voice with a deep, steely timbre that speaks of years on the sea, of the fearless determination that lends -- is new. It's something Koby has no defense for, wrung out by the teary panic finally bursting free, left raw and vulnerable and curled up in Quentin's arms, with no recourse other than to be honest. And to have that honesty seen, known, and welcomed in with open arms, even while Quentin carries his own wounds is -- unexpected.

Koby sniffs, draws in a shuddery breath, tipping his chin up so his teary, reddened eyes can catch Quentin's, can remind himself on every level that he's here, he's safe, he's safe, a concept so unfamiliar that it shivers around beneath his ribs like a living thing.] Every night. I think -- that I'm back, that I need to get up soon and do whatever she's thought up for me to do. Scrub the deck with a toothbrush or mend sails until my fingers bleed or watch her execute prisoners. That was her favorite, she had a -- mace she'd use. Just.

[A gesture, one vague, shaky hand sweeping through the air.] And I had to clean up the blood, after. I used to cry, every single time, and she'd just. Laugh at me. Tell me I had to get used to it, had to toughen up, or I'd be next, and sometimes I'd wish...I'd wish she'd just get it over with. [Koby laughs, hoarsely, humorless, hand dropping to Quentin's side, fingers shaky against his ribs.] I'd wish she'd just kill me and make it all stop. But she wouldn't. Because I could write maps and I could clean decks and I would do anything she told me to because I was too scared not to. Because I was such a fucking coward-- [His breath hitches, face pressing back into Quentin's shoulder.]

You’re not a coward.

[ quentin nearly sounds furious with the very implication that koby survived simply because he was a coward, that he wasn’t brave. he doesn’t let koby sink into the familiarity of his shoulder, and instead draws back enough to look him in the face, to let his palms slide and cradle it there, not allowing him to run from this. ]

And if you speak of such things again then I will throw you overboard myself the first time we set foot on the same vessel.

[ he shakes his head and fiercely kisses his forehead, letting his lips linger against the skin. ]

You played that woman - you bent to her whims and didn’t lose your spirit. You could have easily sacrificed yourself and succumbed to her anger and here you are. You’re here in this wretched cage with the rest of us and stronger for it.

[ his hands slide up and into koby’s hair, threading it away from his face before returning, thumbing gently at the tears there. he hates seeing him upset like this, feels a fire in his belly for his alvida woman - one strong enough that he knows for certain he will see her dead by his own hands should she arrive. the pirate woman and her crew.

he lets out a sigh, keeping koby’s eyes on his own. ]

Tell me what happened when Luffy saved you. Tell me how you adventured and helped a kind pirate, how you became a marine, how you overcame everything she said you weren’t worth. I want to hear you say it.

[There’s been fire in Quentin’s voice, in his movements since Koby had first stepped shivering and teary into his room, but it only registers now, with the ferocity of his words, refusing to accept something that Koby’s known to his marrow for years now. It stops the self-loathing spiral in it’s tracks, leaves Koby wide-eyed, blinking a few times at the savage tone, at the possibility that someone, anyone could look at him and not see all the ways he’s lacking. There’s no room for argument, not when Quentin looks at him that way, not with those eyes locked to his own, deep and bright and stormy.

Koby draws in a shuddery breath, still trembling, still half-caught in the roil of emotion he’s never, never let out before. Then he exhales, and his hands slowly move up, covering Quentin’s, seeking the space between his fingers and squeezing tight.]

Luffy found me. He – saved me and sank the ship. And I went with him, and I joined the Marines and…and it was hard and it was complicated and I wanted to give up, b-but. [A shuddery breath, more tears on his face, but his voice getting stronger with each words, his hands white-knuckled on Quentin’s, a tether, a guideline, a true north in a storm.] But I didn’t. I didn’t give up. And I proved myself, and my commanding officer saw it and he said – he said I did well. He said he was going to train me himself, because.

[A shuddery inhale, half-laugh, half hiccuping sob.] Because I had potential. Because I wasn’t…I wasn’t what Alvida said I was. I wasn’t useless and pathetic and a waste of space and I wasn’t her toy anymore. [Koby sniffs, exhales, tips his forehead to press to Quentin’s, nose bumping his, hands loosening in favor of stroking both thumbs across his knuckles, breathing in the scent of him, the sound of him, the warmth of him there, real, real and bright and unyielding like the sun itself.] And now I’m here. With you.

[ as koby begins to tell his story, quentin squeezes his hands and simply hums in response, acknowledging each point made and encouraging him to continue. they may still be getting to know one another, but quentin can read between the lines of koby's story, and the things he hadn't known - the blood, the fear, the terror - that's all something he will hold onto, use later when koby needs bolstering, protecting.

but he listens to the end of the story, the way koby's able to catch his breath as he tells it, the way he steadies in his arms. he smiles a little, encouraging, even if the intensity still burns behind his eyes. ]

She didn't know the first thing about you.

[ he leans his forehead against koby's, letting their noses nudge and their breaths mingle on the air between them in the dark. one hand pulls away from the other's, moving to wrap around his waist again, palm splaying against his back. the other stays, fingers twining. ]

And did any of what you said - did that sound like a coward's tale, Koby? Someone who would be better off nothing but a smear on the deck? Hardly. Let her think what she wants, but she's wrong and even if she was here, she'd have no power over you now.

[ he smiles. ] A dream is just that - a dream. A bad one, a good one. And maybe she haunts you there, but she has no power. Only you do.

…no. It doesn’t. [It feels like it should, like the fact that it’s Koby, sniveling, whining, cowering runt Koby, should make up for everything else, should blot out any spark of courage, any brave actions. But it doesn’t. If the story had been about someone else, Koby would admire them. So he exhales, reaching up with the heel of one hand to wipe at his tears.] She. She knew about me. That I'm...that I used to be...she was the only one, in that world, who knew. [There's a shaky exhale, almost a laugh.] She always said it meant she knew me better than anyone. But if I saw her now she probably...probably wouldn’t even recognize me.

[Those big teary eyes close in something like relief at the slip of Quentin’s hand down his back, warm and firm and grounding, tethering Koby to the earth, not to the thoughts that are always, always spiraling in his head. He snuggles closer, breathes in the now-familiar scent, sweat and sleep and fresh sheets, something sweet from dinner that Quentin had let himself indulge in, so close Koby can nearly taste it. Part of him wants to, wants to sink into the thrilling, delicious, all-consuming fire of those hands on his skin, that mouth on his, the tangle of their bodies like drops of water coming together.

But he’s so tired. He’s so tired, and it’s enough to just lie here, like he had that first morning after Quentin had arrived, that strawberry-flavored late morning, in this very same bed. Thinking of that, Koby smiles, weary and faint, eyes half-open and sore from crying.] I don’t think about her here. I don’t have any dreams when I sleep with you.

…did you mean it? That I could come here whenever I wanted? [It’s late, it’s so late and Koby’s whole body feels wrung out like a damp rag, so he can’t fully suppress the note of longing, of hopefulness in the words.]

From the looks of things, you never were what she thought you were. She just made sure you were afraid of yourself more than you were of her. She's a right cunt.

[ he shrugs a little bit, knowing very well what the implication here is, but he's met many people in his travels that seem to have been born in the wrong body. that seem to be and exude something else entirely than what they're made to fit in. and isn't that just what they are? bodies with souls inside of them, trying their best to live?

he sighs, petting koby's back, tracing soft little patterns over it to help soothe everything that's happened tonight. still, he finds a furious heat burning in his chest, a rage that can only be matched by what he feels for the regent. and yet, when he looks down at koby, his expression softens a little. ]

I don't waste time saying what I don't mean. I just like to say what I mean in a variety of ways. Come to my room whenever you see fit. My bed is your bed. You're staying here tonight, whether you like it or not. I insist.

[ he dips his head in, kissing him gently, sweetly, nudging their noses together. ]

Do you understand, Commander?

[There's more Koby could say, more about the horrors of those two years, of the things he was told, the things he endured -- but the insult is so bluntly savage, so unexpected that he chokes out a surprised laugh, chin tipping upwards, amused and teary in equal measure.] She -- she really was. Just terrible. And her ship was ridiculous, it was shaped like a duck.

[Then Koby stills, watching the silhouette of Quentin in the dim light from the moon outside, from the hall outside the warm safety of the room, watches the shape of his mouth, the tumble of his tangled hair. The kiss comes, sweet, soft, feeling like forgiveness, like absolution for every shameful tear, every choked-out memory. Koby's hand reaches up, finds Quentin's cheek in the dark, strokes along the sleek line of his jaw, his beard.]

I understand. Yes. [Another kiss, quicker, but no less fervent.] Thank you, Quentin. For -- for being awake. [For everything, he means, sniffling and drawing away long enough to prop himself up on his elbow and tug his shirt off, letting it drop on the floor for now, then snuggling back closer.]

Shaped like a duck? Wow, she really is a cunt then, to walk around acting like that with a duck shaped ship. Ridiculous.

[ he laughs a little, shaking his head and nosing into koby's hair when he returns from removing his shirt. quentin reaches to pull the covers up over them both, making sure koby is nothing if not secure in the bed beside him. he reaches again to brush any stray tears and dampness from the man's face, leaning into the little kisses offered. ]

It is no small feat that I was awake for you - you do know how sailor's enjoy their rest. [ a grin and he settles back into the bed himself, rolling to his back and tugging koby up along side him, keeping him close. ]

So you should stop thanking me while you're ahead and just let yourself in next time. No questions asked. It will be easier for both of us. [ a tease. ]

[There's another of those laughs, watery, soft, against the warmth of Quentin's mouth in the dark, as Koby tucks himself down into the cocoon of blankets and smooth, warm, bare skin, as he finds that place where he's worried marks into the other man's skin, where neck and shoulder meet.] Her mace was shaped like one too. She was very big on theme. I think she liked that I had the same hair color, maybe? I don't know, it doesn't matter.

[Koby sighs, one hand stealing out, sliding over Quentin's chest, past the piercing to where his heart beats, steady and soothing. One fingertip traces absent designs -- loops, swirls, something that might be a K.] Mmm, that's fortunate timing, isn't it. Stroke of luck.

...I'll knock. Just in case you're indecent. [Also teasing, but in a way that suggests he's going to take Quentin up on the offer, punctuated with Koby's roughened palm settling flat over that pulse, settling there.]

I doubt it looked half as good on her. Again, a royal cunt. Though that might be offensive to associate her with all other royal cunts in the world. She's a breed of her own.

[ he yawns a little as they finally settle in, one of his arms looped around koby, keeping him tucked in tight and close, the other settled on his arm above his elbow, so as not to impede the soft little movements over his chest. he's tired, but he doesn't plan to sleep until koby drifts off - wanting to be sure that the dreams don't chase him into his sleep again. ]

No need. I prefer you to find me indecent - and where's the fun if you don't take a little gamble here and there. [ he tips his head, pressing a kiss to his forehead. ]

You should rest.

[Again, a soft huff of a laugh, this one vague, sleepy. The shattering weight of the nightmares that had seemed so insurmountable, so overwhelming now feels very, very far away. Already drowsy, Koby mumbles into that notch where shoulder and neck meet:] She can't get me here.

[Then, drawing another vague looping shape, a circle or a heart or the like, over Quentin’s breastbone, then tapping it gently:] You rest. Decent or no. Dream something nice.

No, she can't. Not here, and certainly not with me here.

[ it's gentle, a sleepy murmur into the soft pink head of hair against his side. it's easy to grow comfortable here, to settle into koby and imagine his visiting nightly on better terms. for them to come together and drift lazily on their own paths on a calm sea. ]

I hope you have a sweet dream to chase all the others away.

[ he's not sure if he falls asleep or if koby does, or if they both do, but quentin goes still, his breathing evens out, and sleep pulls him back down into the comfortable dark. ]

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