[Out of all the things Koby misses in this strange, uncomfortable, confusing place, the sea is ever-present. He’s not a captain (yet), no officer or pirate king, but there isn’t a person alive in his world who doesn’t have that connection to the ocean, to the salt spray and the monsters and mysteries and wonders it holds. He doesn’t talk about it much with the others, worried that bringing up the lack of sea will lead to the other things they miss – their crew, their ship, their captain, all things that Koby can’t stake a claim to, can’t call his own – but talking to Quentin now has his chest aching with the longing for it.
Because Quentin understands. They’ve scarcely met, barely begun to talk, but when one bloodied, dusty hand comes to cup his chin, Koby doesn’t flinch back – he leans in, hunger and loss and longing painted vividly across his face, every memory he tries to hold back showing itself as raw as a fresh wound. Quentin talks like someone raised on the sea, like someone who has it in his veins, pulsing with every beat of his heart, and Koby is – indignant, somehow, that this place has taken someone else away from that lifeblood. So he takes a breath, shaky, unlocks that aching loss and lets it bleed out into his words, a vulnerability that he knows damn well could backfire, could show weakness, cracks in his careful composure. But it’s the only thing Koby can give, beside water and bandages and the full force of his intent, wide-eyed gaze.] My world is – mostly ocean. Almost entirely sea. Four of them [One hand lifts, draws the circle of the world, divides it into four, summoning up maps that don’t exist anywhere now but in Koby’s mind, in Nami’s, in the attempts he’s made on scrap paper.] East Blue, West, North, South. I’m from the East Blue. From an island, everyone’s from an island. You can’t go anywhere without smelling the ocean, without hearing it. I didn’t grow up on a ship, but – it was always right there. The sea. Everywhere you went.
[A shaky breath, as Quentin’s hand moves away, and Koby leans after it instinctively, before remembering himself, before the dreamy recollection fades. He reaches up, rubs at his chin, like he’s trying to recreate the sensation, unconsciously. Blinking, clearing his throat, like he’s waking up:] Um, Koby. That’s – not much nicer than “Cadet”, but there aren’t any Marines here, so. [No sea either. He swallows hard, against the ache of that thought, then forces a smile.] “Quentin” is nicer. Um, than “Lieutenant”, I mean. Not that – you don’t look like a. I mean.
[Koby leans back, rubs at the marks on his nose, then hooks a finger into the bridge of his glasses, pulling them back in place.] Sorry, um. I think the heat, it’s – we should go inside. I mean, if you want to. Wash off the, um. Rest of the blood. [Nailed it, doing great.]
no subject
Because Quentin understands. They’ve scarcely met, barely begun to talk, but when one bloodied, dusty hand comes to cup his chin, Koby doesn’t flinch back – he leans in, hunger and loss and longing painted vividly across his face, every memory he tries to hold back showing itself as raw as a fresh wound. Quentin talks like someone raised on the sea, like someone who has it in his veins, pulsing with every beat of his heart, and Koby is – indignant, somehow, that this place has taken someone else away from that lifeblood. So he takes a breath, shaky, unlocks that aching loss and lets it bleed out into his words, a vulnerability that he knows damn well could backfire, could show weakness, cracks in his careful composure. But it’s the only thing Koby can give, beside water and bandages and the full force of his intent, wide-eyed gaze.] My world is – mostly ocean. Almost entirely sea. Four of them [One hand lifts, draws the circle of the world, divides it into four, summoning up maps that don’t exist anywhere now but in Koby’s mind, in Nami’s, in the attempts he’s made on scrap paper.] East Blue, West, North, South. I’m from the East Blue. From an island, everyone’s from an island. You can’t go anywhere without smelling the ocean, without hearing it. I didn’t grow up on a ship, but – it was always right there. The sea. Everywhere you went.
[A shaky breath, as Quentin’s hand moves away, and Koby leans after it instinctively, before remembering himself, before the dreamy recollection fades. He reaches up, rubs at his chin, like he’s trying to recreate the sensation, unconsciously. Blinking, clearing his throat, like he’s waking up:] Um, Koby. That’s – not much nicer than “Cadet”, but there aren’t any Marines here, so. [No sea either. He swallows hard, against the ache of that thought, then forces a smile.] “Quentin” is nicer. Um, than “Lieutenant”, I mean. Not that – you don’t look like a. I mean.
[Koby leans back, rubs at the marks on his nose, then hooks a finger into the bridge of his glasses, pulling them back in place.] Sorry, um. I think the heat, it’s – we should go inside. I mean, if you want to. Wash off the, um. Rest of the blood. [Nailed it, doing great.]