[The rush of the water, the dizzying taste of Quentin after what feels like too long -- though it's really been a scant handful of moments, scarcely anything -- has Koby thinking of the sea as well, the rush of the waves, the roll of the deck. He wonders: if they'd met somewhere else, somewhere with a horizon to chase and sails to fill with wind, would things have still gone as they did? Would something have drawn Koby to plant himself in Quentin's path, set his heels in and refuse to leave, be as loud and pushy and insistent as he possibly could and somehow still end up in his arms? Or was it just this place, this strange other world that had facilitated their meeting?
If it's the latter, Koby almost feels like it's worth it, with the nudge of Quentin's nose against his, the taste of Quentin on his tongue, the warm rumble of Quentin's voice in his chest.]
Let's hope you don't get seasick. [It's perhaps a weak attempt at keeping up with Quentin's easy, rollicking metaphor, but in Koby's defense, that's right about when the other man's moving away, climbing out of the tub in all his cautious, carefully cleaned glory. And while he'd been beautiful before, even bloodied and grimy, Koby is genuinely struck quiet in awe by the sight of Quentin fresh from the bath, broad shoulders and a sailor's physique, the gleaming ripple of sinew and skin. He just stares for a moment, eyes dragging slowly over every single inch of Quentin, still sitting on his heels in the cooling water. Subconsciously, Koby pulls that full lower lip into his mouth, bites down hard, shoulders shivering on a breath. He looks about two seconds from lunging out of the tub and consuming Quentin.
But then his gaze catches the bruise and he's himself again, rising from the water and letting it drain as he takes the offered hand, brow knitting in concern.] Towel, first. And medicine. I promise it's nothing dangerous, I've taken it for headaches since I got here. [The former -- fluffy and thick and freshly-laundered -- Koby grabs from a teetering stack, then presses into Quentin's hands, back to his fussy, busy self. Then he stands on tiptoe to run a smaller hand towel over Quentin's braided hair, squeezing the water out.] Dry off, let me get it. Okay?
[Leaving the towel draped over Quentin's head, Koby grabs one for himself, simultaneously drying off, running water into a glass, pulling open the cupboard to one side of the tub. It's crammed full of things -- medicine and bandages and packaged food and extra paper and pens and stacks of notes that don't fit in the bedroom. Koby's been fortunate that his suitemate hasn't complained about him taking up space in the bathroom as well. He wraps the towel around his body, tucking it in so it stays put around his waist, then grabs a bottle of some painkiller that had been recommended by the staff.] Not too many, I don't trust it that much, but like I said, it's helped before -- but we should still wrap it up, especially after -- after moving so much, but -- you need to rest first, that's the most important thing, we can always wrap it tomorrow before -- I mean, i-if you want to stay until tomorrow, but if you don't, that's fine too, but --
[He'll keep going until he's stopped, Quentin, sorry. He'd put aside caretaking in favor of the intoxicating tangle they'd made in the water, but now he's making up for lost time.]
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If it's the latter, Koby almost feels like it's worth it, with the nudge of Quentin's nose against his, the taste of Quentin on his tongue, the warm rumble of Quentin's voice in his chest.]
Let's hope you don't get seasick. [It's perhaps a weak attempt at keeping up with Quentin's easy, rollicking metaphor, but in Koby's defense, that's right about when the other man's moving away, climbing out of the tub in all his cautious, carefully cleaned glory. And while he'd been beautiful before, even bloodied and grimy, Koby is genuinely struck quiet in awe by the sight of Quentin fresh from the bath, broad shoulders and a sailor's physique, the gleaming ripple of sinew and skin. He just stares for a moment, eyes dragging slowly over every single inch of Quentin, still sitting on his heels in the cooling water. Subconsciously, Koby pulls that full lower lip into his mouth, bites down hard, shoulders shivering on a breath. He looks about two seconds from lunging out of the tub and consuming Quentin.
But then his gaze catches the bruise and he's himself again, rising from the water and letting it drain as he takes the offered hand, brow knitting in concern.] Towel, first. And medicine. I promise it's nothing dangerous, I've taken it for headaches since I got here. [The former -- fluffy and thick and freshly-laundered -- Koby grabs from a teetering stack, then presses into Quentin's hands, back to his fussy, busy self. Then he stands on tiptoe to run a smaller hand towel over Quentin's braided hair, squeezing the water out.] Dry off, let me get it. Okay?
[Leaving the towel draped over Quentin's head, Koby grabs one for himself, simultaneously drying off, running water into a glass, pulling open the cupboard to one side of the tub. It's crammed full of things -- medicine and bandages and packaged food and extra paper and pens and stacks of notes that don't fit in the bedroom. Koby's been fortunate that his suitemate hasn't complained about him taking up space in the bathroom as well. He wraps the towel around his body, tucking it in so it stays put around his waist, then grabs a bottle of some painkiller that had been recommended by the staff.] Not too many, I don't trust it that much, but like I said, it's helped before -- but we should still wrap it up, especially after -- after moving so much, but -- you need to rest first, that's the most important thing, we can always wrap it tomorrow before -- I mean, i-if you want to stay until tomorrow, but if you don't, that's fine too, but --
[He'll keep going until he's stopped, Quentin, sorry. He'd put aside caretaking in favor of the intoxicating tangle they'd made in the water, but now he's making up for lost time.]