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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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[kobes]

[He wants to say more, wants to say that Quentin's the first person who's ever laughed when he cried and meant it in kindness, that the world has to be basically good, basically loving because he's in it, that the way his hair smells drives Koby insane, except -- well, that hair is tumbling down in loose, silky, heavy curls, and he's only human, after all. Instead he takes you're all of that and my true north and I love you and burrows the words deep into his marrow, for the bad days, for the nightmares.

And for now, he leans up, mumbles love you, I love you between a thousand kisses, matching Quentin's slow sweetness with open arms, with hunger, with kindling for that fire. Emotion is physical, for Koby, always has been -- he's sad, he cries, he's angry, he cries, he's happy, he cries. Everything is out on his sleeve, there for anyone to see, bleeding bright and vivid and inescapable where anyone can see. He thinks vaguely about haki, oddly, about the idea that emotion is a color, a taste, a sound, about reaching out and feeling someone else's like trailing fingertips over skin.

He stops thinking when his needy, insistent arch up towards that kiss makes the boat rock, getting a startled gasp, teary and laughing and shaken momentarily out of the heady haze.] I -- forgot where we were for a minute, I'm. Whoops. [Another laugh, red-faced and bright-eyed and reaching up to stroke his fingers down the curve of Quentin's face.] Sorry, keep going. You wanted to show me -- show me. [There's a quirk of a grin, that bright wickedness Koby has sometimes (mostly around Quentin, mostly when faced with his irrepressible, brilliant, addictive self), and he repeats, softer, knees nudging closer on either side of Quentin, wanting him closer, wanting to drown in him:] Show me.