[Of course Koby hears the softness -- a lifetime spent longing for just that has him attuned to it, to any scrap of praise or approval, regardless of the source. And the source is...well, the source is dusty and bleeding in his bathroom. The source is looking at him with a quiet observance that isn't quite cartographer, isn't quite lover, is something else entirely, and Koby would be lying if he said he wasn't affected by it. It's not just that Quentin’s attractive -- because he is, he's that knife of a smile, those bright weary eyes, the tangled curls still matted with blood.
It's that something about him sees, knows, understands aches at the very core of who Koby is. There's seasalt in his touch, an echo of everything that's been lost, and Koby's probably projecting, probably thinking about someone else with dark curls and dark eyes and a sailor's smile, but he -- isn't, at the same time. He sits back on his heels, still as windless waves, feeling the trail of Quentin’s hand up his arm, fixing the loose shoulder of his clothes and half-expecting the warmth of his roughened fingers to leave marks. Like ink over his skin, like he's been mapped out too.
And there's honesty, glib and genuine at once, and Koby half-reaches out, his own callused fingertips just barely hovering over Quentin’s bare, bloodcaked ribs.] Here? You don't think they're cracked, right? My medical skills only go so far.
[Then Quentin’s hand is on his jaw, on the still-youthful curve of it, and Koby's eyes flickering back up, hand settling over the bruised ribs without thinking.] Good. [It comes out soft, each point of contact thrumming like a pulse. Unconsciously, Koby bites his lower lip, tugs it into his mouth for a moment, then flicks his tongue over the tooth marks. Repeats:] That's good. Your head, I mean.
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It's that something about him sees, knows, understands aches at the very core of who Koby is. There's seasalt in his touch, an echo of everything that's been lost, and Koby's probably projecting, probably thinking about someone else with dark curls and dark eyes and a sailor's smile, but he -- isn't, at the same time. He sits back on his heels, still as windless waves, feeling the trail of Quentin’s hand up his arm, fixing the loose shoulder of his clothes and half-expecting the warmth of his roughened fingers to leave marks. Like ink over his skin, like he's been mapped out too.
And there's honesty, glib and genuine at once, and Koby half-reaches out, his own callused fingertips just barely hovering over Quentin’s bare, bloodcaked ribs.] Here? You don't think they're cracked, right? My medical skills only go so far.
[Then Quentin’s hand is on his jaw, on the still-youthful curve of it, and Koby's eyes flickering back up, hand settling over the bruised ribs without thinking.] Good. [It comes out soft, each point of contact thrumming like a pulse. Unconsciously, Koby bites his lower lip, tugs it into his mouth for a moment, then flicks his tongue over the tooth marks. Repeats:] That's good. Your head, I mean.