[There's something to seeing that, to watching Quentin eat that soothes that fretful, fussy part of Koby, the part that still looks down to where the bruised ribs are, that thinks of the weariness, the exhaustion in the man's dark eyes, the way he'd collapsed into Koby's bed and slept until dawn. Sailors eat quick and simple and just enough, no time to enjoy, to indulge. But Quentin indulges, and it's because Koby brought him something, made sure he was eating, made sure he had time. And it feels -- good.

Just like it feels good to laugh about the idea of setting a mission to try every sort of jam in this gilded prison, to think of something so silly, so light, instead of the grim weight of their captivity.] Quite the mission. You've seen how big that breakfast table is. We'll be eating nothing but jam for weeks. Are you sure you're up to it?

[And it feels so, so good to have Quentin reach out and touch his face, the warm roughness of his thumb like a familiar song, Koby's head tipping towards the touch almost without thinking. He laughs, rolls his eyes at the anticipated, still-amusing line, and leans forward to accept that kiss, with an eagerness that bumps their noses together, has him huffing another laugh into Quentin's mouth. One hand comes up, cradles the side of the other man's face, like Koby's savoring the feel of him, the taste. Like he'd missed it.]