[There's a faint thought for how -- considerate the movements are, for the care that Quentin takes not to dislodge a single stack, mindful of Koby's chaotic, absurd mess like it's something that matters. The constant humming of anxiety is quiet again, stilled by the sound of the silky sheets rustling together, by the way that Quentin looks moving to kneel over Koby, the way his mouth tastes. It's been scarcely a handful of minutes since they'd last kissed, but Koby surges up into it like it's the first time again, hands coming to cradle Quentin's face, relearning the contours, the tickle of his beard and the softness of his skin.]

Mmm-hm. Sorry. [It comes out laughing, sheepish, pink painted over Koby's nose and cheeks the same hue as his hair.] I -- worry about things. I talk too much. [Koby sighs, kisses Quentin again, strokes thumbs over the jut of his cheekbone.] Thank you for staying anyway. [It's softly, achingly genuine, no flirtatious persona here. Koby's still figuring out how to flirt, how not to be so openly emotional and bleeding his feelings all over. They're there now, awed and delighted and surprised and fond.

And then, slightly puzzled, even as he arches up, the dampened towel he'd wrapped around himself starting to come loose from the movement.] You -- want to -- what? [It takes Koby a moment, distracted by the tease of Quentin's mouth against the marked-up skin of his neck, by the sparking hum of bliss each gentle press of teeth or tongue sends down his spine, but eventually --]

Oh. [The blush is deeper, down Koby's neck, splashed over his collarbone and shoulders. He breathes in, shaky, thinking about the tormenting delight of Quentin's mouth lower, presses his thighs together hard against the dizzying throb of want.] A-Are you -- sure? [Then, quickly, because he doesn't want Quentin to get the wrong idea:] B-Because if you're sure, I'm sure, I'm really sure, I-I'm. Yeah. Yes.