[The moment passes, and for an instant Koby is saddened by that, thinks about talking more, about drawing maps in the sand, explaining everything he knows, everything he loves about a planet that's mostly sea. He has to bite his lip to hold back the words, to keep from offering to show Quentin his notes, his maps, his sketches-from-memory of the islands he's seen. Later, maybe. If this place allows it.
Besides, Quentin stands and Koby's thoughts stutter to a halt, because he is -- tall. Exceptionally so, especially when Koby is seated. He looks up and up and swallows audibly, breath catching a bit when Quentin adjusts the crooked spectacles. It's dumb to feel that sudden swoop of fascination, that flutter in his chest, his stomach, lower, just because someone's a sailor.
A smooth-talking, sad-eyed, bright-grinning sailor with broad shoulders painted in blood and sweat and sand, yes. But still.
Another swallow, then Koby stands, self-consciously tugging at the sheer fabric of his stupid impractical garment, pulling it away from where it's adhering to his chest, his waist, his lower back, everywhere sweat pools.] I don't know. Something -- ostentatious, maybe. Conqueror of Seas and Sands. Dehydrated Warrior. [This last is said with a meaningful eyebrow-arch at the half-finished water bottle.
Then, relieved to have a task to do, Koby turns, rolling back his shoulders, very conscious of the way the back of his neck is sunburned, the way his hair curls where it's sweat-soaked against his nape. He wonders if Quentin is looking, what he sees -- an underfed, scrawny, bad-postured youth who can't string a complete sentence together, probably.
Koby runs his fingers through his hair, pulls it away from his neck, makes a mental note to trim it, then nods towards the stairs.] I don't think you'll need a compass to go upstairs. At least, I hope not -- unless you have a concussion too. [Back to concerned, fussy, bossy, looking back over his shoulder and glancing over Quentin with a critical eye, even as he starts for said stairs.] Do you?
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Besides, Quentin stands and Koby's thoughts stutter to a halt, because he is -- tall. Exceptionally so, especially when Koby is seated. He looks up and up and swallows audibly, breath catching a bit when Quentin adjusts the crooked spectacles. It's dumb to feel that sudden swoop of fascination, that flutter in his chest, his stomach, lower, just because someone's a sailor.
A smooth-talking, sad-eyed, bright-grinning sailor with broad shoulders painted in blood and sweat and sand, yes. But still.
Another swallow, then Koby stands, self-consciously tugging at the sheer fabric of his stupid impractical garment, pulling it away from where it's adhering to his chest, his waist, his lower back, everywhere sweat pools.] I don't know. Something -- ostentatious, maybe. Conqueror of Seas and Sands. Dehydrated Warrior. [This last is said with a meaningful eyebrow-arch at the half-finished water bottle.
Then, relieved to have a task to do, Koby turns, rolling back his shoulders, very conscious of the way the back of his neck is sunburned, the way his hair curls where it's sweat-soaked against his nape. He wonders if Quentin is looking, what he sees -- an underfed, scrawny, bad-postured youth who can't string a complete sentence together, probably.
Koby runs his fingers through his hair, pulls it away from his neck, makes a mental note to trim it, then nods towards the stairs.] I don't think you'll need a compass to go upstairs. At least, I hope not -- unless you have a concussion too. [Back to concerned, fussy, bossy, looking back over his shoulder and glancing over Quentin with a critical eye, even as he starts for said stairs.] Do you?