The graze of Quentin’s warm hands on his waist tickles, the rough press of calluses that Koby could probably chart in his sleep. He leans closer, which makes toweling off his hair trickier, but means he can press the length of his chest against Quentin’s, feel the thrumming warmth of his heartbeat, nearly synced, nearly in tandem with his own. They’re out in the sunlight, surrounded by people, but Koby is scarcely aware of anything, anyone else, that constant anxious vigilance slipping down to a dull rumble in the back of his mind.

Especially when, right as he’s opening his mouth to explain the dangers of chlorine – he read an article, it’s very concerning – Quentin kisses him, kisses him sweet and firm and soft. And of course Koby forgets what he’s saying, forgets to fret, forgets to do anything but smile against Quentin’s mouth, let the towel drape over his head and stand on tiptoes to kiss him back.

“You’ve always done that,” mumbled, between the slip of parted lips, the shivery warmth of tongue, the nibble of teeth. “I mean – I’ve never felt like I had to hold back.” Rocking back on his heels, face flushed and sunkissed, hair dripping water over his slightly broader shoulders, Koby laughs, pushing the towel down so it drapes off Quentin's shoulders again. “Not with you.”

If he’s being honest, it had been that way from the first moment, from that lock of eyes in the arena, from the first time Koby had reached out and dabbed away blood from Quentin’s temple, had seen that look of weariness and warmth in those wide dark eyes and known, deep down in his soul, that he needed to know what it meant. He needed to puzzle out the baffling, wonderful, frustrating mystery of this stranger, and nothing was going to stand in his way.

Koby doesn’t feel like he’s solved Quentin, by any means. But he loves him, mystifying and exasperating and wondrous. So he smiles wider, and adds, with a quirked eyebrow: “Though I’ll admit, “kissing my boyfriend” has a very nice ring to it.”