Dictatorial? [It's very indignant, and Koby considers removing his support of Quentin altogether, except that he might stumble and fall and knock over a pile of books. So instead he huffs out a put-upon sigh, making a beeline to the bathroom, hoping against hope that his reddening ears, the back of his neck, aren't noticed -- faint hope, when Quentin is nearly a full foot taller than him.]
Nothing's forgotten, I have a very coherent system. [That's not a convincing argument whatsoever, but Koby seems unaware of that. Some of the maps flutter as they pass, floating gentle as autumn leaves to the ground, and he winces.] Maybe when you're less bloody. I'll let you look at every mistake I've made and crumpled and thrown in the corner. [Because the wastebin is full.
Then Koby shakes his head, firmly.] Not while you're all bloody. Unless you -- need to lie down? [He's nudging the door open with a knee, grateful his sometimes-suitemate is absent, that he can guide Quentin to sit on the edge of the tub, then crouch in front of him, frowning deeper.] Are you feeling all right? That was a long walk and you're -- you're hurt way worse than you let on, aren't you?
[Back to concern, back to Koby sitting on his heels and balancing with one hand on Quentin's knee, his -- robe, toga, whatever, slipping off his shoulder as he pushes up his glasses. He's breathing a bit heavier, scarred chest rising and falling, bubblegum-pink hair all mussed from being tucked up under Quentin's arm, but his main priority remains:] Tell me the truth. Please.
no subject
Nothing's forgotten, I have a very coherent system. [That's not a convincing argument whatsoever, but Koby seems unaware of that. Some of the maps flutter as they pass, floating gentle as autumn leaves to the ground, and he winces.] Maybe when you're less bloody. I'll let you look at every mistake I've made and crumpled and thrown in the corner. [Because the wastebin is full.
Then Koby shakes his head, firmly.] Not while you're all bloody. Unless you -- need to lie down? [He's nudging the door open with a knee, grateful his sometimes-suitemate is absent, that he can guide Quentin to sit on the edge of the tub, then crouch in front of him, frowning deeper.] Are you feeling all right? That was a long walk and you're -- you're hurt way worse than you let on, aren't you?
[Back to concern, back to Koby sitting on his heels and balancing with one hand on Quentin's knee, his -- robe, toga, whatever, slipping off his shoulder as he pushes up his glasses. He's breathing a bit heavier, scarred chest rising and falling, bubblegum-pink hair all mussed from being tucked up under Quentin's arm, but his main priority remains:] Tell me the truth. Please.