Yes, I'm very aware. [There's a put-upon little huff, as if Koby's face and ears haven't been the exact shade of his hair for a while now. He could blame it on the warm water, on the pleasantly strenuous activities, make some comment about it being Quentin’s fault entirely. But the truth is -- well, it's somewhere in the shift between lilting banter and the ragged repetition of Koby's name like a prayer. There's something there, some hidden depths that Koby knows he has no right to explore.
But he wants to. He wants to follow that thread of raw, aching honesty he can still hear in the way Quentin’s breath catches. He wants to push and prod and untangle and confront whatever it is that makes Quentin stunned by kindness, again and again, much as he tries to hide it. Koby is a notorious overthinker, but he's also sharp, observant, putting together patterns somewhere behind those serious, wide eyes. And he's caught it, each time that Quentin’s carefully-crafted facade slips, every time there's a glimmer of something raw and vulnerable beneath.
And he wonders -- who taught you to hide that? Why? For how long? What can I do to show you that you don't have to anymore?
Koby doesn't say any of that, though, instead just waiting for Quentin to settle back before setting to work soaping up his shoulders, his collarbone and chest. There's -- granted, there's a little bit of lingering, of still-trembly fingertips gently rubbing in circles at dried blood or streaky grime. And Koby is very much still naked, still literally in Quentin’s lap, unable to hide the effect touching him has, the involuntary shivers, the subtle way he shifts his hips and squeezes around Quentin still inside him.
It's -- surprisingly nice, the softening warmth, the sensation of still being full, connected, even as the frenetic heat of moments before has faded. Even once he's finished lathering up Quentin’s front, his chest and stomach and shoulders and all down his (perfect, also perfect) arms, Koby lingers for a moment, taking one of Quentin’s hands. There's not much blood or grime there, but Koby circles his thumbs over the broad, callused palm regardless, looking down at the lines and creases, like he can find the answers to all his questions there.
When he speaks, it's soft, like the curl of his hair where it's still damp against his forehead, like the warmth of Quentin’s other hand at his hip:] I don't think you're going to disappoint me, Quentin. [Koby looks up, blue eyes serious, but still soft, still warm, tracing the calluses of Quentin’s hand like he already has them memorized.] You haven't yet.
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But he wants to. He wants to follow that thread of raw, aching honesty he can still hear in the way Quentin’s breath catches. He wants to push and prod and untangle and confront whatever it is that makes Quentin stunned by kindness, again and again, much as he tries to hide it. Koby is a notorious overthinker, but he's also sharp, observant, putting together patterns somewhere behind those serious, wide eyes. And he's caught it, each time that Quentin’s carefully-crafted facade slips, every time there's a glimmer of something raw and vulnerable beneath.
And he wonders -- who taught you to hide that? Why? For how long? What can I do to show you that you don't have to anymore?
Koby doesn't say any of that, though, instead just waiting for Quentin to settle back before setting to work soaping up his shoulders, his collarbone and chest. There's -- granted, there's a little bit of lingering, of still-trembly fingertips gently rubbing in circles at dried blood or streaky grime. And Koby is very much still naked, still literally in Quentin’s lap, unable to hide the effect touching him has, the involuntary shivers, the subtle way he shifts his hips and squeezes around Quentin still inside him.
It's -- surprisingly nice, the softening warmth, the sensation of still being full, connected, even as the frenetic heat of moments before has faded. Even once he's finished lathering up Quentin’s front, his chest and stomach and shoulders and all down his (perfect, also perfect) arms, Koby lingers for a moment, taking one of Quentin’s hands. There's not much blood or grime there, but Koby circles his thumbs over the broad, callused palm regardless, looking down at the lines and creases, like he can find the answers to all his questions there.
When he speaks, it's soft, like the curl of his hair where it's still damp against his forehead, like the warmth of Quentin’s other hand at his hip:] I don't think you're going to disappoint me, Quentin. [Koby looks up, blue eyes serious, but still soft, still warm, tracing the calluses of Quentin’s hand like he already has them memorized.] You haven't yet.