“Hardly any” is an improvement. I’m usually told I’m “not fun at all”. [It comes out soft, taking out any sting, because – well. That’s quite a back. Koby’s gotten the full, dizzying effect of Quentin’s broad shoulders, his muscled chest, but seeing the curves of his shoulderblades, the line of his spine, the way his muscles ripple and tense as he settles himself is…oddly intimate. Which yes, he realizes is strange considering that they were, until seconds before, joined as intimately as two people could be. But it’s different. Showing your back to someone is vulnerability, trust to some extent. It’s saying I believe you aren’t going to hurt me -- though granted, Quentin is easily half a foot taller than Koby, and significantly more broad, so maybe that isn’t even a possibility in his mind.
Still. It’s a nice back and it’s a nice moment of softness, which bleeds easily into a moment of concern when Koby sees that forming bruise. He frowns, brow furrowed, even as he rises up on his knees and absently kisses the side of Quentin’s mouth, eyes never leaving the mark.] You are. I remember. I’ll be careful. [One palm presses lightly to the edges of the bruise, feeling for the shift of bone that would speak of breaks, then Koby huffs, pulls his gaze away and leans up against Quentin’s back to kiss him properly.] We should wrap that, when you’re dry. Keep it from aching so much.
[One more kiss, a moment of flushed, heated, wet bodies pressed together, Koby’s stomach and scarred chest to Quentin’s broad back, then back to the task at hand. The careful, meticulous scrubbing is back, circles to coax away the blood and the grime, then a squeeze of the sodden cloth to rinse. There’s a methodical thoughtfulness to it, to the lull in conversation, just the sound of water and suds and the soft “hm” sounds Koby makes when he encounters a bruise. He always pauses there, switching from the cloth to his hands instead, so he can be especially gentle, so he can thumb away the dirt and dried sweat with the lightest touch possible. Once or twice he lingers, stroking around the edge of one injury or another, noting in his mind – not all of them are fresh. Some are old, scattered over Quentin’s throat or shoulders, same as the bruises on his front. It sparks more questions, more pieces fitting one into another, but Koby doesn’t say anything.
Not until this last comment, given right as he’s rinsing Quentin’s back and shoulders for a final time. He makes a mild, indignant sound, setting the cloth aside and reaching up to gather Quentin’s damp curls back away from his forehead, his neck.] I’m not the unclean one here. I wasn’t rolling around in the dust trying to punch people. Lie back, get your hair wet. [That huffy, bossy tone is back, even as Koby’s fingers card gently through each curl, coaxing out dried blood or grime, twining the coils carefully to protect the shape. Once Quentin obeys – how can he not, with such a demanding commander? – Koby cups water with one hand, pouring it gently over the thick mass of dark curls, ensuring they’re fully soaked. He adds, after a moment, in a soft voice:] If I need cleaning, whose fault is that, hm? [A bit of a cheeky question, considering Quentin’s very nearly lying in his lap, but Koby’s still throbbing, sensitive inside, well-aware that when he stands it won’t be just water streaming down his legs.]
no subject
Still. It’s a nice back and it’s a nice moment of softness, which bleeds easily into a moment of concern when Koby sees that forming bruise. He frowns, brow furrowed, even as he rises up on his knees and absently kisses the side of Quentin’s mouth, eyes never leaving the mark.] You are. I remember. I’ll be careful. [One palm presses lightly to the edges of the bruise, feeling for the shift of bone that would speak of breaks, then Koby huffs, pulls his gaze away and leans up against Quentin’s back to kiss him properly.] We should wrap that, when you’re dry. Keep it from aching so much.
[One more kiss, a moment of flushed, heated, wet bodies pressed together, Koby’s stomach and scarred chest to Quentin’s broad back, then back to the task at hand. The careful, meticulous scrubbing is back, circles to coax away the blood and the grime, then a squeeze of the sodden cloth to rinse. There’s a methodical thoughtfulness to it, to the lull in conversation, just the sound of water and suds and the soft “hm” sounds Koby makes when he encounters a bruise. He always pauses there, switching from the cloth to his hands instead, so he can be especially gentle, so he can thumb away the dirt and dried sweat with the lightest touch possible. Once or twice he lingers, stroking around the edge of one injury or another, noting in his mind – not all of them are fresh. Some are old, scattered over Quentin’s throat or shoulders, same as the bruises on his front. It sparks more questions, more pieces fitting one into another, but Koby doesn’t say anything.
Not until this last comment, given right as he’s rinsing Quentin’s back and shoulders for a final time. He makes a mild, indignant sound, setting the cloth aside and reaching up to gather Quentin’s damp curls back away from his forehead, his neck.] I’m not the unclean one here. I wasn’t rolling around in the dust trying to punch people. Lie back, get your hair wet. [That huffy, bossy tone is back, even as Koby’s fingers card gently through each curl, coaxing out dried blood or grime, twining the coils carefully to protect the shape. Once Quentin obeys – how can he not, with such a demanding commander? – Koby cups water with one hand, pouring it gently over the thick mass of dark curls, ensuring they’re fully soaked. He adds, after a moment, in a soft voice:] If I need cleaning, whose fault is that, hm? [A bit of a cheeky question, considering Quentin’s very nearly lying in his lap, but Koby’s still throbbing, sensitive inside, well-aware that when he stands it won’t be just water streaming down his legs.]