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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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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.

[longitudinal]

[ 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. ]