[There's a soft laugh as Koby rinses out Quentin's hair, scooping handfuls of the cooling, slightly sudsy water up over the soapy curls, then gently squeezing the thick mass out, before fingercombing it all back away from his forehead.] We'll run out of hot water eventually. Or turn into fish. [Now that Quentin's hair is clean, there's no need to really smooth or stroke it, but Koby continues for a moment more, enjoying the silky weight of each curl between his fingers.
More than that, he enjoys watching the tension leave Quentin's face, smooth out from between his brows, loosen from around his smirking, teasing mouth. One roughened thumb strokes over one temple, tracing slow circles there, as if to ward off any worry. As if that'd be enough.] I wouldn't mind being a fish. Or maybe a dolphin. [Koby's voice goes softer, the faint accent easier to parse out now, a bit of a twanging drawl that would mark him as East Blue, were he in the real world. But he isn't. He's in this one, warm and wet and pleasantly sore, that spark of wanting stirred back up by the weight of Quentin against his lap, by the inky cling of curls between his fingers.
There's that urge to lean down, to kiss Quentin again, to send the day hurtling back towards the steamy, hazy heat of their bodies entwined, to collect on the teasing implication hidden in that smiling, rumbling voice. There's also an urge to ask Quentin to stay, to spend the night, to let Koby keep looking after him, keep showing him again and again that he'd made the right choice following a scrawny, nervous, awkward little sailor up the steps, into his room, into his arms. At the heart of both is something that's been throbbing like a bruised rib this entire time -- he doesn't want this to be the only time he sees Quentin. One way or another.
A slow inhale, then Koby starts dividing Quentin's hair into sections, starting at the crown of his head and beginning to braid, an intricate pattern that gathers more and more sections as he braids down towards Quentin's neck. A French braid, it'd be called in some pockets of the universe, but Koby has no idea what France is.] My hair used to be much longer. I got good at braiding it to keep it out of the way. [A beat.] It wasn't as pretty as yours, though.
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More than that, he enjoys watching the tension leave Quentin's face, smooth out from between his brows, loosen from around his smirking, teasing mouth. One roughened thumb strokes over one temple, tracing slow circles there, as if to ward off any worry. As if that'd be enough.] I wouldn't mind being a fish. Or maybe a dolphin. [Koby's voice goes softer, the faint accent easier to parse out now, a bit of a twanging drawl that would mark him as East Blue, were he in the real world. But he isn't. He's in this one, warm and wet and pleasantly sore, that spark of wanting stirred back up by the weight of Quentin against his lap, by the inky cling of curls between his fingers.
There's that urge to lean down, to kiss Quentin again, to send the day hurtling back towards the steamy, hazy heat of their bodies entwined, to collect on the teasing implication hidden in that smiling, rumbling voice. There's also an urge to ask Quentin to stay, to spend the night, to let Koby keep looking after him, keep showing him again and again that he'd made the right choice following a scrawny, nervous, awkward little sailor up the steps, into his room, into his arms. At the heart of both is something that's been throbbing like a bruised rib this entire time -- he doesn't want this to be the only time he sees Quentin. One way or another.
A slow inhale, then Koby starts dividing Quentin's hair into sections, starting at the crown of his head and beginning to braid, an intricate pattern that gathers more and more sections as he braids down towards Quentin's neck. A French braid, it'd be called in some pockets of the universe, but Koby has no idea what France is.] My hair used to be much longer. I got good at braiding it to keep it out of the way. [A beat.] It wasn't as pretty as yours, though.