[Koby feels the mystery of who Quentin is, the threads that weave together to create the man lying next to him, strange and familiar in equal measure, a sailor, a navigator, salt-taste and ocean spray, all things he knows as well as his own name -- feels that retreat like seafoam on a retreating wave, slipping through his fingers. Something's been revealed, some great and terrible grief, and Koby could speculate, could note it down and turn it into one of his many reports about the guests/prisoners of this place.

He won't. It's too -- raw, delicate, something fragile in his hands that he could crush if he's too rough or careless in handling it. Koby longs to know more, to ask his thousands of questions, but not for his notes. He just...wants to know. He wants to know Quentin.

But that gets swallowed back, the seafoam of it tickling his fingers as it slips away, as he shifts to tuck closer into Quentin's side and huffs a little laugh.] I don't get that hungry, I told you. I'm used to not needing much. [Read: used to going without.] Maybe after we've slept. [Stern again, looking up with glasses-marks on his scrunched nose, with his cheek pressed to Quentin's shoulder:] You should sleep as much as possible. I haven't forgotten you're hurt, you know.