[There's a beat where Koby just sort of watches Quentin drink, watches the working of his throat, the stray drips of water that course down his chin, dapple his bare chest. And he absolutely can't blame that on just being observant. But he's cleared his throat and turned back to the steps before the water's gone, hopefully managing to keep his voice steady when he replies:] Some titles are meant to be short-lived. I'll think of a better one.

[Then Quentin's darting above him, nimble and grinning and just slightly favoring his side in a way only someone observant might notice, and Koby's opening his mouth to chide him for moving so quickly, to mention a head injury again. But the older man's rattling off a description with uncanny precision, and Koby's stopping, one foot on the steps, looking upwards with furrowed brow.] That's...very exact. You have a very good sense of direction.

[He's about to pry, to ask more questions, ferret out the answer the way he usually does, when Quentin calls him handsome. And Koby stumbles on the steps, hand tightening on the banister, cheeks pinking for entirely un-sun-related reasons.] Hands-- [It comes out shaky, high, and he immediately clamps his mouth shut, blushing even deeper and quickly scaling the steps.] You're teasing me. Or you really do have a head injury.

[At the top of the stairs, Koby pauses, looking downwards, arms crossed tightly over his chest.] Whichever you prefer. I suppose. [A pause, a deeper frown.] What do you mean "we"?