I was watching. [Koby means it to sound flat, unimpressed, but honestly, he'd approved of a lot of the man's techniques. Maybe he'd taken a few notes. For the sake of science, of course.] Very impressive. You've won the praise of people who watch naked men wrestle for fun. I hope you're pleased with yourself.

[Koby's clearly been around wounds before, pressing firmly at the worst-bleeding injury to staunch the flow, ignoring the more superficial cuts. He nudges at Quentin's forehead, lightly, between the wounds. He can smell sweat, blood, the tang of alcohol and Koby subconsciously bites at his lower lip, focusing on the task at hand.] Tilt your head back. Yes, it stings, you have an open, bleeding wound. Those sting.

[Then, because of course he hadn't missed that:] The sea? You're a sailor? [Not exactly typical injury-tending conversation, but...it's been months now, that Koby's been away, talked to people who've never even seen the ocean, much less sailed it. He misses it in a deep, near-pathological way, and he can't let the mention of it pass by, especially from a newcomer.]