Right. [It comes out softer than before, because Quentin is leaning in and because – that’s what Koby wants, what he’s wanted maybe this entire time (maybe his entire life), the press of bloodied lips to his, less a kiss than a caress, than the curl of a grin against his oft-gnawed mouth, than the lingering taste of salt and iron. Like the sea, everything comes back to that, life and death and other worlds, bruised ribs and very good and nights spent looking up at stars from a dark, dank hold. Back then, Koby hadn’t dreamed of this, hadn’t dreamed of anything except escape, except surviving another day, finding a way to live that didn’t involve blood caked beneath his nails, heart racing against his ribs.
Except here’s both, here’s his hand pressing flat to Quentin’s side, finding the notch of ribs beneath muscle and getting blood between his fingers. Here’s his pulse pounding beneath the hand against his neck, here’s the cartography of his eyes closing and his breath catching and his nose bumping against Quentin’s when he leans in quicker, too quick, too clumsy, rising up on his knees and kissing him harder. There’s a hunger in it, a sunbaked starvation that Koby’s tried covering up with uniforms and rules and regulations, but which is woven deeper than his skin. Very good, Quentin says, and it’s not praise, it’s not approval, but gods and monsters and sea kings and demons, Koby wants it to be. He wants to offer anything, everything, wants to prove himself until his muscles burn and his body aches, wants to keep that smile curled against his mouth until it sears itself into his skin.
He wants – to breathe, for the moment, pulling back suddenly, a shuddering gasp for air, squeezing his eyes shut, forehead resting against Quentin’s.] I – sorry. [Because he’s hurt, because he’s exhausted, because Koby doesn’t want him to assume he has to pay for this kindness. Because Koby would’ve kissed him if he was injured or not, would’ve helped him without kissing him, would’ve--] I’m sorry. You’re – you don’t – have to, you. [Quentin smells like he tastes, like blood and wine and salt, and Koby keeps his eyes shut tight, breath stuttered and shaky, hair mussed and curling.] You don’t have to. [Again, softer, rocking back enough to open his eyes, to look up and find the exhaustion, the sadness, to hold it like a tether, to knot it around his fingers.] You don’t have to give me anything, Quentin.
no subject
Except here’s both, here’s his hand pressing flat to Quentin’s side, finding the notch of ribs beneath muscle and getting blood between his fingers. Here’s his pulse pounding beneath the hand against his neck, here’s the cartography of his eyes closing and his breath catching and his nose bumping against Quentin’s when he leans in quicker, too quick, too clumsy, rising up on his knees and kissing him harder. There’s a hunger in it, a sunbaked starvation that Koby’s tried covering up with uniforms and rules and regulations, but which is woven deeper than his skin. Very good, Quentin says, and it’s not praise, it’s not approval, but gods and monsters and sea kings and demons, Koby wants it to be. He wants to offer anything, everything, wants to prove himself until his muscles burn and his body aches, wants to keep that smile curled against his mouth until it sears itself into his skin.
He wants – to breathe, for the moment, pulling back suddenly, a shuddering gasp for air, squeezing his eyes shut, forehead resting against Quentin’s.] I – sorry. [Because he’s hurt, because he’s exhausted, because Koby doesn’t want him to assume he has to pay for this kindness. Because Koby would’ve kissed him if he was injured or not, would’ve helped him without kissing him, would’ve--] I’m sorry. You’re – you don’t – have to, you. [Quentin smells like he tastes, like blood and wine and salt, and Koby keeps his eyes shut tight, breath stuttered and shaky, hair mussed and curling.] You don’t have to. [Again, softer, rocking back enough to open his eyes, to look up and find the exhaustion, the sadness, to hold it like a tether, to knot it around his fingers.] You don’t have to give me anything, Quentin.