Koby’s beginning to have the sinking suspicion that renowned magazine Cosmopolitan has led him slightly astray – but then the concern unknits itself from between Quentin’s furrowed brow, and he laughs that wonderful, carefree, warm laugh, and he kisses Koby sweet and lingering and warm, and it’s all okay. It’s okay, and Koby’s laughing against Quentin’s mouth, shoulders sagging as the tension vanishes from them, and he’s red-faced at his own absurdity, his own silly anxieties. Because he can’t even summon up enough self-loathing to be annoyed, now when he’s so happy.

“Y-Yeah, I want. I mean, I want that too, obviously, I.” Koby laughs again at himself, at the choke of tears in his voice, because he is who he is, and crying is as part of him as his hair or his voice or all the places on his body he used to hate. He kisses Quentin again, and again and again, and then he has to pull back and wipe at his eyes and laugh again, he’s never laughed so much in his life as he has these past few weeks. He’s never been so purely, wholly happy, without the sharp lance of loss or regret or bittersweetness.

Another sniff and he’s trying to get some control of himself, because he wants to remember that he said – something, something worthy of the occasion, something even approaching the sweet, warm, loving words Quentin is showering on him. Cradling his face, Koby repeats: “Bound. Boyfriends. I want – here and wherever comes next, I want to be with you. Home port, true north, all of that. Here, whenever you need me, mornings and. And nights and in between. That’s what I want.”

There. That’s clearer, that’s worthy of this moment, of this vow in the strange, vivid blue waters of the pool. Koby rests his forehead to Quentin’s, breathes him in, lets his presence settle the awkward, anxious fear of moments before. “I love you. I’m – I always will, I think. Always.”