[For an instant time goes very still, Koby's heart thudding in his ears, longing and anxiety and hope knotted in his chest until he can barely inhale, until his ribs ache with it. Quentin looks at him, in the light of day, in the steam of the heated bath, meets Koby's eyes and doesn't recoil, doesn't turn away or dismiss him or -- something, not cruel, he doesn't think Quentin would be cruel, but there's an inherent knowledge in Koby's marrow that hisses all the ways he's a failure. Something that hisses stupid, useless, pathetic, sniveling waste of breath of life of flesh, there's nothing but this, nothing but me, you're mine, you'll always be mine.
And then Quentin reaches for him, and for the first time in years, that damn voice is silent.
Koby shudders out a gasping laugh against Quentin's mouth, hands drawn back to his body like a compass pointing north, finding the ridge of his ribs, the contours of his chest and thrilling at the realization that they're already familiar. That he can close his eyes and seek Quentin's tongue with his, tilt his head back and surrender to the way he tastes, to the heat of his mouth, moaning open-mouthed against his kiss -- and still know the handspan from his waist to his chest, to the glint of silver in one nipple. Koby's thumb brushes against it, curiously, matched with his teeth closing on Quentin's lower lip, biting it the way he's imagined since the second they saw each other.
And then they're parting, and true to form, Koby's wide blue eyes are bright, his breathing shaky and hitched. Because he's crybaby Koby, because that's what he does, he wells up whenever he feels something, whenever something is good or bad or too big, too much. Quentin touching him, kissing him, Quentin gorgeous and naked and wanting him is so much, and yet when he steps back, Koby shivers at the loss of his body, thighs tightening together at the throb of want that pulses between them.]
Y-Yes, I -- I don't. Know what I taste like. [Koby immediately winces, stumbling over his own feet, fingers sliding between Quentin's and squeezing, thumb finding his knuckles and stroking over them. Callus to callus. But he's laughing, blushing, reaching to hook his glasses off his face and leave them on the counter by the sink, not caring if he loses track of them. They get in the way when kissing, he's learning.] But I -- do want to make sure you get clean too. And don't exert yourself too much.
[He says, already naked and following Quentin into the bath, his shoulders loosening a little at the luxurious heat, the steaming water. Having running water is never something Koby takes for granted. And while exertion isn't something Koby's signing off on, he does immediately try to get as close to Quentin as possible, once they're both settled in the huge tub. In his lap, if he can manage it.]
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And then Quentin reaches for him, and for the first time in years, that damn voice is silent.
Koby shudders out a gasping laugh against Quentin's mouth, hands drawn back to his body like a compass pointing north, finding the ridge of his ribs, the contours of his chest and thrilling at the realization that they're already familiar. That he can close his eyes and seek Quentin's tongue with his, tilt his head back and surrender to the way he tastes, to the heat of his mouth, moaning open-mouthed against his kiss -- and still know the handspan from his waist to his chest, to the glint of silver in one nipple. Koby's thumb brushes against it, curiously, matched with his teeth closing on Quentin's lower lip, biting it the way he's imagined since the second they saw each other.
And then they're parting, and true to form, Koby's wide blue eyes are bright, his breathing shaky and hitched. Because he's crybaby Koby, because that's what he does, he wells up whenever he feels something, whenever something is good or bad or too big, too much. Quentin touching him, kissing him, Quentin gorgeous and naked and wanting him is so much, and yet when he steps back, Koby shivers at the loss of his body, thighs tightening together at the throb of want that pulses between them.]
Y-Yes, I -- I don't. Know what I taste like. [Koby immediately winces, stumbling over his own feet, fingers sliding between Quentin's and squeezing, thumb finding his knuckles and stroking over them. Callus to callus. But he's laughing, blushing, reaching to hook his glasses off his face and leave them on the counter by the sink, not caring if he loses track of them. They get in the way when kissing, he's learning.] But I -- do want to make sure you get clean too. And don't exert yourself too much.
[He says, already naked and following Quentin into the bath, his shoulders loosening a little at the luxurious heat, the steaming water. Having running water is never something Koby takes for granted. And while exertion isn't something Koby's signing off on, he does immediately try to get as close to Quentin as possible, once they're both settled in the huge tub. In his lap, if he can manage it.]