[ what does it feel like to long for the sea when the sea has been the whole of one’s life? what is it to dream of waves and billowing sails, the songs of men singing or laughing, the spray of the ocean on the deck, on your face, in your hair. to see the sun rise on endless horizon, beckoned in by the call of gulls, the smell of crudely made coffee, the cooking of grits somewhere in the belly of a ship.
it must feel like this, he realizes - bright eyes and soft pink hair, soft jaw and callused fingers at his sore ribs. the pinch of a lip between teeth. he’s been seen and understood before - but only by the men he works and sweats alongside. they understand the job, but the sea lives in his chest, roaring and vast and awesome in many ways. ]
They’re not cracked, no. If they are, nothing to be done but wait and heal.
[ but his eyes remain fixed on the man, on the little indents in his lip, and it’s absent the way his thumb gently traverses the swell of it, callused pad indeed mapping the tender shape. the fingers on his ribs feel like a brand, and he shouldn’t be leaning into the space between them as it is, shouldn’t be closing the distance so that he may map koby’s lips with his own, but he is, soft and sweet, nose bumping against his. it’s a lingering little thing, his lips moving only to catch that bottom lip in his own, to feel the little indentations in the skin. ]
Very good, yes. [ against koby’s mouth, his own a slant of a smile all over again. ] My head, of course.
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it must feel like this, he realizes - bright eyes and soft pink hair, soft jaw and callused fingers at his sore ribs. the pinch of a lip between teeth. he’s been seen and understood before - but only by the men he works and sweats alongside. they understand the job, but the sea lives in his chest, roaring and vast and awesome in many ways. ]
They’re not cracked, no. If they are, nothing to be done but wait and heal.
[ but his eyes remain fixed on the man, on the little indents in his lip, and it’s absent the way his thumb gently traverses the swell of it, callused pad indeed mapping the tender shape. the fingers on his ribs feel like a brand, and he shouldn’t be leaning into the space between them as it is, shouldn’t be closing the distance so that he may map koby’s lips with his own, but he is, soft and sweet, nose bumping against his. it’s a lingering little thing, his lips moving only to catch that bottom lip in his own, to feel the little indentations in the skin. ]
Very good, yes. [ against koby’s mouth, his own a slant of a smile all over again. ] My head, of course.