The hands on his face, callused and warm and wet from the pool, get a soft huffing laugh, because -- he's being silly. It's Quentin, who's never made it painful or hard or scary to be with him, who silences every hissing, snarling, hurtful voice in Koby's head without even trying. It's his own fears getting in the way (again and again), not anything Quentin says or does, his own thoughts going a hundred miles an hour into every fearful, fraught direction -- what if he changes his mind, what if he disappears, what if I disappear, what if the house changes us somehow and we can't be together, what if we trip and stumble into another world, what if what if what if?
Koby reaches up, covers Quentin's hands on his face, squeezing gently and looking up at him. "It's not you. You don't make anything complicated, you make it -- effortless. You bring me out of my head, remember?" Turning, he kisses one palm, then the other, tilts his head into the first, apologetic and fond and sheepish all at once. "I love you. I want -- to be with you here and now, and later and whatever comes next. I want to wake up next to you as -- as often as I can, and I want to go to sleep next to you and I want to see you in between and tell you who I've met and what I've done and hear what you've seen and done and I want to."
He falters, bites at his lower lip, squeezing Quentin's hands tight. "I want to tell everyone who you are. That I'm yours." He'd thought it would echo back -- mine, always be mine -- would be soured by those words, by that hissing, snarling voice. But it doesn't. But it isn't. And Koby smiles, and something tight and aching and scarred in his chest releases, at last, at last. "If you -- want me to be. If you want that too. That's -- what I want."
One more breath, then, blurting it out: "Do you want. To go out with me? And be my, um. Be. Um. Boy -- friends? That's what it's -- that's what it's called? I think?" Rapidly turning bright red, Koby wheezes out a laugh, tugging Quentin's hands up to cover his face, mumbling from behind them: "Do you want that, whatever the word is?"
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Koby reaches up, covers Quentin's hands on his face, squeezing gently and looking up at him. "It's not you. You don't make anything complicated, you make it -- effortless. You bring me out of my head, remember?" Turning, he kisses one palm, then the other, tilts his head into the first, apologetic and fond and sheepish all at once. "I love you. I want -- to be with you here and now, and later and whatever comes next. I want to wake up next to you as -- as often as I can, and I want to go to sleep next to you and I want to see you in between and tell you who I've met and what I've done and hear what you've seen and done and I want to."
He falters, bites at his lower lip, squeezing Quentin's hands tight. "I want to tell everyone who you are. That I'm yours." He'd thought it would echo back -- mine, always be mine -- would be soured by those words, by that hissing, snarling voice. But it doesn't. But it isn't. And Koby smiles, and something tight and aching and scarred in his chest releases, at last, at last. "If you -- want me to be. If you want that too. That's -- what I want."
One more breath, then, blurting it out: "Do you want. To go out with me? And be my, um. Be. Um. Boy -- friends? That's what it's -- that's what it's called? I think?" Rapidly turning bright red, Koby wheezes out a laugh, tugging Quentin's hands up to cover his face, mumbling from behind them: "Do you want that, whatever the word is?"