A trout. [With some indignation, with Koby's quick fingers weaving curls together, creating a neat line of a braid, silky and damp and smelling of lilacs.] I guess it's better than a salmon. Or a herring. [He could go on naming fish, even as he tangles one curl over and around itself, tying off the braid without elastic, an old trick. He wonders if Quentin ever fished -- he must've, a crew takes turns supplementing dried meat and pickles with fresh-caught fish. Koby used to like doing it for fun, hours alone with the line and his thoughts and his daydreams. Before the pirates, before the marines, a time summoned up by recalling the long, stick-straight plaits he once wore. Koby hasn't thought about that version of himself in a long time.
Quentin smiles up at him, sleepy and fond and sweet-scented, Quentin calls him unforgettable, in so many words, and Koby's smiling before he can stop it. There's an ache in his chest the shape of that grin, and Koby knows better than to hope for impossibilities -- but then, he's hidden away under layers and uniforms and scrunched shoulders for so, so long. But: he's here now, unveiled, unmasked, bare-chested and soft-smiled, with Quentin bright and beaming in his lap. There's something impossible.
Koby's about to reply when Quentin moves, and there's a brief frown of concern, both hands reaching out to ease the movement --] Careful, you're hurt -- [--but then Quentin is there, warm and broad and glorious, like some sort of sea god, rising from the depths to bewitch and beguile poor sailors.
Poor sailors who immediately reach out, who lean forward and curl both arms around said sea god's necks, pull them closer and kiss them deep. Stupid, foolish sailors who surrender immediately to the tricky twist of wind or fate, who murmur:] You shouldn't be doing anything laborious. Not while you're recovering.
[And, eyes wide, lashes damp from the steamy air, thumb finding Quentin’s cheek and tracing the sharp shape:] You should stay. If -- you want to. [An inhale, chest pressing against Quentin’s, the contact like the wind filling sails, the snap of rope and canvas and the scent of salt.] I want you to.
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Quentin smiles up at him, sleepy and fond and sweet-scented, Quentin calls him unforgettable, in so many words, and Koby's smiling before he can stop it. There's an ache in his chest the shape of that grin, and Koby knows better than to hope for impossibilities -- but then, he's hidden away under layers and uniforms and scrunched shoulders for so, so long. But: he's here now, unveiled, unmasked, bare-chested and soft-smiled, with Quentin bright and beaming in his lap. There's something impossible.
Koby's about to reply when Quentin moves, and there's a brief frown of concern, both hands reaching out to ease the movement --] Careful, you're hurt -- [--but then Quentin is there, warm and broad and glorious, like some sort of sea god, rising from the depths to bewitch and beguile poor sailors.
Poor sailors who immediately reach out, who lean forward and curl both arms around said sea god's necks, pull them closer and kiss them deep. Stupid, foolish sailors who surrender immediately to the tricky twist of wind or fate, who murmur:] You shouldn't be doing anything laborious. Not while you're recovering.
[And, eyes wide, lashes damp from the steamy air, thumb finding Quentin’s cheek and tracing the sharp shape:] You should stay. If -- you want to. [An inhale, chest pressing against Quentin’s, the contact like the wind filling sails, the snap of rope and canvas and the scent of salt.] I want you to.
Stay.