[Koby laughs at it, reaching to rub at the marks on his nose from his glasses, then thinking to reach up and pull them out of his hair, folding them on the pillow. His hair falls into his face, then, and he's brushing it away when something in Quentin's face shifts, subtle like a seabreeze. If Koby hadn't already made a habit of studying the subtle change in the smooth, sculpted features, the endless flickers of light in the constellations of Quentin's eyes, the furrow of his brow and the curl of his mouth, he might not have seen it.
But he does, and he stills, thumb pressed lightly to one of Quentin's knuckles, stroking back and forth gently as he speaks. Having a father of any sort on the sea is rare -- sailors pass through ports once, then not again for years and years, leaving sons and daughters behind them, wondering. Koby's own parents are a nonentity, people he's long since forgotten how to mourn. This, though -- it's different, the man Quentin speaks of much more than a concept.
He's real, he's vivid, there's fondness for him like a more acute version of a sailor's loyalty and love for their captain. Quentin is a sailor to his bones, and that his father was his captain...it makes sense. It makes sense too, that he's gone, that the sea itself is laced with grief, with loss. Koby's brow furrows a little, tucking closer to Quentin's side, until he's pillowing his cheek on his shoulder.]
Do they? [A prompt, an invitation. Quentin could say yes, could leave it at that or -- say more, share more. Either way, Koby knows he's been given something rare, something held close and quiet. Either way, the knowledge of Quentin's father is a gift.]
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But he does, and he stills, thumb pressed lightly to one of Quentin's knuckles, stroking back and forth gently as he speaks. Having a father of any sort on the sea is rare -- sailors pass through ports once, then not again for years and years, leaving sons and daughters behind them, wondering. Koby's own parents are a nonentity, people he's long since forgotten how to mourn. This, though -- it's different, the man Quentin speaks of much more than a concept.
He's real, he's vivid, there's fondness for him like a more acute version of a sailor's loyalty and love for their captain. Quentin is a sailor to his bones, and that his father was his captain...it makes sense. It makes sense too, that he's gone, that the sea itself is laced with grief, with loss. Koby's brow furrows a little, tucking closer to Quentin's side, until he's pillowing his cheek on his shoulder.]
Do they? [A prompt, an invitation. Quentin could say yes, could leave it at that or -- say more, share more. Either way, Koby knows he's been given something rare, something held close and quiet. Either way, the knowledge of Quentin's father is a gift.]