[Koby's breath catches a little when Quentin looks up at him, arrested again by his face, his smile, the searing heat in his eyes. He's like something out of a daydream, out of a book, some swashbuckling hero on the high seas. But he's here, warm and bright and gently chiding. And rather than curling away, hiding behind his apologies and his fidgeting hands and his bitten lip, Koby laughs, soft and easy, smoothing back a loose strand of curly, dark hair.]

You sound like my commanding officer. [A scrunched nose, an affected, thick accent:] "Stop thinkin' so much, boy, you'll never get any damn thing done. Get out of your head and act." [There's evident fondness there, in the affectionate mockery, in the twinge of homesickness that shows itself in Koby's eyes, just for an instant. Then he sighs, settles back against the pillows, hair loose and curling gently at the ends against the dampened silk.] You're right. Both of you.

And I trust you. [Just like that. As if it's that simple.] You -- [A pause, a shuddery sigh at the drag of Quentin's tongue over his water-warmed skin, an arch of his back up towards that clever, wonderful mouth. Koby's mindful of his handiwork, mindful of the braid, fingers slipping to the back of Quentin's neck instead, cradling there. The next words are on the edge of a moan:] You get me out of my head, Quentin.

[When he complies -- because that's what the touch of Quentin's mouth is, luxury and indulgence, wet heat and teasing touch, where Koby's numb and where he's so, so sensitive -- it gets that moan in full, gets a delighted squirm against the sheets, Koby's blunt nails against Quentin's spine. And it gets a laugh when the towel is removed, when Koby's knees hitch together instinctively, then relax, letting the warm, solid weight of the other man's body settle between them.] Yes, because now I won't get the sheets wet. [Matter-of-fact, almost sweetly.

Then, after a beat:] With water, I mean.