[Koby sips the coffee, wrinkles his nose, then grabs a sugar packet to tear open with his teeth, pour into the mug, swirling it slightly to mix it in. The comment gets a smile, a pleased, surprised thing, a lean closer so their shoulders bump together.]
That's it exactly. To help people who couldn't help themselves. Keep them safe. [Another sip, more satisfied this time.] People like me.
[Then, shaking his head:] Rescued. I was too scared to try and escape on my own. If I hadn't been saved, I would've stayed there the rest of my life.
[ a small smile pulls at quentin's lips, his eyes falling to his own mug, a swirl of sugar and pale cream not quite wholly blended together. ]
You have good friends, then. To come find you in the end and free you, but I don't believe for a moment you wouldn't have found the strength to discover a way out. You don't survive harrowing things like that and come out defeated.
[ he shifts a little, letting their shoulders stay touching, his hand sliding to koby's knee, thumb gently pressing little circles into his kneecap beneath the denim.
it's hard not to think of the regent, the whole ship full to the brim of men and women he was raised with, his home and the spray of salty air. his father's blood staining the deck. the cold room he'd been kept in for months, watched, studied. the slithering snake of a man with his hands on him, his tongue against his ear.
[There's something there, something in the way Quentin’s gaze flickers away, the circle of his thumb over Koby's knee. Something that tugs at the explorer, the investigator, the navigator charting mysterious waters.
But Quentin isn't the sea. He's a man with a life writ long before the dusty arena, the steamy bath, the nest of sugar packets where they sit now. And for once, Koby holds his tongue, though he leans closer, one hand coming to settle over Quentin’s, trace the notches of his knuckles.]
It was another pirate, actually. We hadn't met until then, but he saw I needed help, so. He helped me. [A bemused, soft huff, another coffee sip.] He's a funny sort of pirate.
[Koby glances up, glasses tangled in his hair, those serious eyes searching Quentin’s face for a long moment.] I am. We all are, here. Sort of a...fresh start, strange and dangerous as it is. Uncharted waters, if you like. [A squeeze of Quentin’s hand.] Drink, before it gets cold.
A pirate saving a civilian from pirates? That is rich.
[ he smiles a little at the idea, drinking again from his coffee but finding he doesn't exactly have a taste for it now. he'll drink it anyway - he doesn't waste anything, certainly not when it has been carefully brought to him.
koby's hand over his own makes him turn his palm up, enough to lace their fingers together idly over his thigh. his eyes raise, meeting the clear blue of koby's and he grins a little, the easy, warm façade returning with practiced precision. there's no need to draw anyone's attention to the obvious - this place is as fleeting as a sea storm. they've been brought here, but how long until they're returned?
it's better not to hang one's hopes on anything. quentin learned that a very, very long time ago. ]
I wouldn't think to waste a drop of it, even if it turned cold, as it was brought so sweetly to me by your own hands.
[ he takes another sip for good measure, pulling his free hand away from koby's then to pick up a piece of toast from the plate. ]
Yeah. Hard to separate people into good and bad when there are helpful pirates muddying the waters. [A touch of self-deprecation there -- Koby knows his urge to rigidly categorize doesn't hold up in the real world. People aren't that simple.
Including Quentin, even as he laces their fingers together, as he smiles with carefree ease. There was something there, gliding like a shadow beneath quiet waves. Koby unconsciously leans forward, intent, like he can pull the secrets free by just gazing up at that smile. Then he lets it go, slipping through his fingers, disappearing into the depths.
Quentin will reveal things in his own time, if he chooses to or -- or he won't. Koby doesn't need to unravel him like a snarled net to enjoy being here, breathing in his scent, resting his cheek on Quentin’s bare shoulder.] Yes, it was very taxing to pour it into a mug and walk upstairs. My culinary skills have been exhausted. [A pause, then he seems to remember something, straightening up and pulling -- an entire jar of jam out of his pocket.]
I think there are only people - neither good, nor bad. Just with all too wide a variety of amibitions and goals. After all, the dictator thinks he's right and believes he's right and good. The priest does the same. Who is good, then, if we're made to decide what that is.
[ he shrugs a little, blinking over at koby who presses closer, whose cheek comes to rest briefly on his bare shoulder. it's nice, though - the closeness, the nearness, when his chest feels like he's lost at sea. and he's never lost. he almost looks disappointed when koby pulls away, but it's short-lived. instead, he sees the jar and he laughs, surprised, bright and loud and open. ]
Those things hide that?
[ he takes the jam jar, delighted, and pops open the top. he's not had something sweet like this in so long, so he dips a finger into the sticky sweet substance and licks it into his mouth, humming at how tangy and sharp and sweet it is. it's good - expensive and fresh and flavorful. he almost looks boyishly excited over it.
he doesn't even think when he scoops another dollop onto his finger and offers it out to koby. ]
Mmmmm. [It's a noncommittal sound, but it's not dismissive. Quentin sounds like Shanks, like Garp, like Luffy, in a way. If there's good and bad Marines, there are good and bad pirates. Nothing is as simple as Koby had believed it to be, regardless of what world he finds himself in. He nudges a little closer, thinks about flopping back into the tangled sheets and taking Quentin with him and not thinking about how complicated the world is for a while.
But then -- jam, the pop of the lid and Quentin's grin (bright, warm, delighted) as he digs his fingers in. There's nothing complicated about that, and Koby grins right back, patting the pockets of the overalls.] Very, very deep pockets have their uses.
[There isn't any hesitation, because the sea is a place of hardtack and canned pickles and dried lemons, and the sugary strawberry drips down Quentin's fingers and Koby doesn't want to waste. So he leans forward quickly, takes the jammy finger in his mouth, sucks it clean before he can second guess himself. A hum, pleased, surprised at the sharp-sweet flavor, eyes widening approvingly as his tongue curls around Quentin's finger, savoring every last bit.] Mmmhmm -- s'goo. [Mumbled, careful of his teeth, one hand reaching to hold onto Quentin's wrist so he doesn't pull away yet.]
[ he should be more disturbed that this manor plucked him up out of his home and dropped him here, but he's not. it means settling solastra behind him, coming to this place that seems so strange and foreign but so simple. he's been given a bed, a room, food, clothing. he can roam as far as he can, he can do what he wants.
he can share strawberry jam with a pretty-faced man in his own bed. he smiles a little, letting koby lick his finger clean and he does indeed go to pull back, but is halted. well, then. ]
It is. I've never had anything like this.
[ not sweet - not straight from the jar. freely offered and freely taken. but if koby thought he could keep his hand captive for long, he thought wrong, he does pull away - he even licks his own finger clean though koby has done a sufficient job. it's almost sheepish when he says it, smiling a little down at the jar, turning it in his hand to read its little labels. ]
Can I keep this?
[ like a sailor who is not given nice things often. he looks at the spread of food on the plates and decides to try it with bread - and instead of using utensils to fish it out, he merely dips a corner of the bread in the jam and takes a bite. he hums, delighted yet again, and offers the other half to koby. ]
[Koby leans back, swallows, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth to savor the taste. It's summery, sunwarmed, the kind of fruit that grows far from the sea, but it's layered with the salt of Quentin's skin, and Koby thinks -- well. He thinks about the taste of Quentin elsewhere, other ways, about what else he could put his mouth on, swallowing again, the tips of his ears pinking.
But then he sits back, watches the curve of Quentin's smile, a subtly different one, this one soft and a little -- shy, almost. Koby feels like he could spend a long, long time learning the different ways Quentin's handsome face breaks into a grin, all the slight variations, could spend hours just gazing at him. This one, though -- this is one of his favorites.]
Of course. I brought it for you. [Chipper, like it goes without saying, like slipping the jar in his pocket hadn't been an impulse sparked by wondering about that exact look on Quentin's face, wondering if he could inspire it again and again.] They have plenty, anyway.
[The bread is accepted, nibbled at thoughtfully. Koby's appetite is tricky on a good day, stomach usually knotted or distracted, but he nods in agreement, settling back with his shoulder pressed to Quentin's.] Not better necessarily, but. It's good.
Mm, bread is not as easy to come by where I'm from. There's war - the country that grows the land's grain has restricted trade with my home.
[ he reaches for another piece of the bread, pressing it between his fingers, the soft, open texture pleasant. he even brings it to his nose to smell it before popping it into his mouth with a pleased hum. koby settles in with their shoulders touching and he relaxes a little, unable to help the way he reaches for bite after bite - sometimes fruit, sometimes bread, sometimes a piece of egg cooked to a little fluffy shape.
but he comes back to the jam, dipping a finger in once and licking it clean, then sweeping up another fingerful to offer koby. ]
I'm a sailor - my stomach is easy to please so long as it's full. But this? This is one of the best things I've tasted here.
I see. [Koby files it away, thoughtfully -- war isn't unfamiliar to him, but the idea of it being countries at conflict, of different pieces of a world, rather than one supreme whole... It's different than what Koby knows, of a world order and the pirates who threaten it with anarchy. It feels more complicated.] They have lots of bread here. [He means: I'll bring it to you. He means: I'll remember what you don't have and make it for you.
He eats less, watching quietly, sipping his coffee and nibbling his toast, shoulders loose and eyes thoughtful. Quentin has some of the easy, open gratitude that Koby's always liked in sailors, a simple understanding of sea and sky and salt, of the fleeting enjoyment in things like a good meal, good company, a tankard and a song and a favorable breeze. It makes the homesickness ease, replaces it with a warmth that has Koby smiling, propping his chin in one hand and watching Quentin eat.
The offered jam is obligingly licked off again, without embarrassment, and Koby mumbles around it:] I'll bring you more. They had other flavors, some I'd never even heard of. [There's jam on his lips, his chin and he grins around the strawberry in his mouth.] I want to try them all.
[ he eats probably more than he should, picking at cheeses, bread, fruit, and little pastries. the eggs are rich and savory - all of it is beyond a breakfast he would have on the sea. and while it's not dissimilar from the breakfast he'd have at alonso's bedside, it comes with so few strings attached here.
it's why he looks pleased when koby takes the jam from his finger again without question, and quentin's eyes remain on his as he speaks. ]
We should make it our mission to try them all.
[ the idea is so simple and so frivolous - so unimportant in the grand scheme of things - but the idea of sharing jars of sweetly flavored jams with someone feels so freeing. to make plans and believe, even for a moment, that they can happen, is heartening.
his eyes flicker to the smiling line of koby's lips and it's impossible to ignore how he can see the sticky pink glistening on his skin. he reaches to thumb at koby's chin first, wiping some away and bringing it to his lips to taste. he hums, amused: ] And I didn't think it could get any sweeter - how do you do it?
[ and he wastes no time leaning forward and kissing koby, almost chaste were it not for the way he sucks the swell of his bottom lip into his mouth to clear it of the jam. ]
[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.]
[ koby laughs into the kiss and quentin echoes it, what with the way their noses bump together but he tilts his head just enough to deepen the kiss, to feel the sweet and sticky jam on koby's lips. it's easy to relax in koby's company and usually he doesn't trust or relax so easily, but something about the other sailor...
he pulls away slowly, nudging their noses together like they'd bumped before. ]
I'm up for the task. Nothing but jam and you? I do not know for a moment how I will survive.
[ he presses another soft kiss to koby's lips before he leans back, unable to help but reach again for bread to dip into the jam, pleased with the taste of it the moment it hits his tongue. ]
This is all very kind of you - the healing of my battle wounds, the bath, your company, and now breakfast... I should find a way to repay you.
[ his smile is easy, and finally with the last piece of bread he seems sated, falling back onto the mess of covers. it's foolish the way he reaches for koby's hand, the way he wants to touch him and be close to him. ] What payment will you accept?
Mmmmhm, well. You've proven yourself capable of handling jam, at the very least. [Considering the jar is nearly a third of the way gone, at this point -- a fact that has Koby looking pleased, satisfied with himself. There's a relaxed looseness about Quentin, evident in his broad, bare shoulders, the softness of his jam-reddened mouth.
There's a moment where Koby chases after Quentin's mouth, leans forward and thumbs over his cheekbone, mindful of the bruise from the other day. But then he sits back, clears his throat, sets aside the plates and the empty mugs -- and just in time, too, since Quentin is flopping back into the blankets.] Mmmm, let me think...
[Koby kicks off his shoes, then lets Quentin tug him down into the messy sheets, to the scent of linen and a few stray crumbs, which are negligible in favor of their fingers lacing together, callus to callus. He settles on his side, cheek pillowed on his free hand, smile curling almost shy, now.] Could I stay, for a little? I woke up too early, I think, so I could use a nap. And my room's a whole four doors away, you know.
[ quentin looks up at koby, stretched out beside him, looking at every line of his face, the soft lashes, the big eyes, the soft pink hair with the glasses ruffling and tousling it. he can't help but wonder if they'll ever be on the same sea - if they could sit like this in the bed of a rocking ship on easy waters. ]
Do you think I'll turn down good company? Stay.
[ he grins, as though he means something else by company, but it's all play. at least in this moment. he shifts a little closer on the bed, letting one leg tangle up with koby's. he's on his back, one hand in koby's that he's dragged to his chest, the other up under the back of his own head. ]
I would be a monster to send you back to your rooms four doors down. [ he's tired, too, even behind the smiles and bravado. there's a moment of stillness that comes over him then, quentin's eyes studying koby but also somehow far, far away. he wants to commit this man to memory, of course. but koby shared with him earlier - his commander. his escape. lying here beside him like this, it feels disingenuous to not offer something in return.
he might not wear his heart on his sleeve like koby, but he's not a complete asshole. ]
My father captained the ship I grew up on. He took me in when my born father died at sea and my mother was unable to handle the grief, I suppose. I never really asked about her. I was three years old and it's history from there. He died, two years ago, but him and your Commander sound quite a bit alike.
[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.]
[ quentin's body adjusts for koby as the other man settles down against his side, shoulder becoming a pillow to the soft cheek of the pink-haired boy who brought him breakfast. but he naturally moves one arm to wrap around koby, draw him nearer into his side, his warmth, a hand rested on his side. ]
Mm. My father was loyal to the sea above anyone, and it got him in trouble sometimes, but otherwise - he was a good man. Grew the fleet, opened paths for trading among other countries. He was very talented - and cared people about his people.
[ he closes his eyes when he speaks, as though putting together the pieces of the man's face again in his mind - his warm smile, the way his braids would occasionally flop into his face as he moved to help a deckhand, or the knowing smile he'd share with him when they climbed up to the crow's nest together a sunset and sat watching it, eating something pilfered from a port. ]
Protected the people who worked for him. Protected me. It's what got him killed, in the end. Did you know that being the most excellent navigator in the whole of Anandara could cause such a ruckus? When the Regent sent his men, do you know what my father said to me? I can hear the way he laughed.
[ he laughs a little at the memory. ] You had to go and fall in love with the sea, didn't you? If I hadn't stayed on his ship and left when I had the chance - before all that happened - he might still be alive.
[It's evident fairly quickly that this isn't a happy story. This is something deep, something buried beneath layers of that careless grin and flippant words, something that Quentin carries beneath his ribs like an old wound. Or -- not so old, not with the tenderness in his voice, the weight of every word. Not so old at all.
Killed, Quentin says, and Koby is already still, but he goes even quieter at the word, at the picture being painted. A Regent -- a ruler, a general of some kind? Someone with power -- and a struggle wherein Quentin's father tried to protect him. It's whispering something that turns Koby's stomach, makes him think of blood on a splintered deck, of the way a crew splinters too, when a captain dies. Dies protecting a son, a talented son with a gift that caught the eye of someone dangerous, someone who attacked to gain control of that gift. And then -- and then what? What happens next, when a ship is conquered, when the resistance is destroyed?
To the victor go the spoils, of course. Koby knows that. He's seen it.
He doesn't ask any of those questions. They build up in his throat, threaten to choke him for a moment, but Koby just presses closer, warm against Quentin's side, squeezing their laced fingers tight for a moment. I'm sorry, is there, and it wasn't your fault, but Koby knows damn well how deep guilt weaves it's roots into someone's soul, where no amount of platitudes can uproot it. So instead he tugs Quentin's hand up, kisses his wrist, softly.]
He sounds wonderful. [Because he does. Because that's who he is in Quentin's mind -- wonderful and alive, still.] And...he knew you can't help it when you fall in love. Especially with the sea. [Again, hidden in the words: not your fault, he must've known it wasn't your fault.]
[ he wakes to the sounds of his father's voice calling the crew to deck sometimes after he dreams of waking in the crow's nest, feeling the way the ship rocks and turns as it floats lazily toward their destination. the very fond, booming: quentin, get your lazy ass up and point us in the right direction. but he wakes to a canopy over his bed, strange wallpaper, stranger surroundings. landlocked.
quentin sighs a little, squeezes koby's hand back and turns to nose against his forehead, humming a little. ]
Mm, maybe. He taught me to love it, so it was inevitable, really.
[ there's a laugh there and he shakes his head, shifting to allow koby closer still, reveling in the comfort and the warmth of someone beside him. he'd woken on those dreams today - sun at his back, waves beneath his feet, and his father shouting something he couldn't hear over the rush of it all.
and just like that, it passes, he feels the ache in his heart and the pull in his gut of yearning and longing, and he tries his best to shut the doors. quentin can't live long in the past - it's better he doesn't get so distracted. (it's better he doesn't get hurt). ]
You didn't eat much - do I need to bring breakfast to you next, or is this going to be an uphill battle to make you enjoy more than just the sticky jam from my fingers? Not that I minded that part at all.
[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.
I’m fine. I didn’t disappear over night and I even made it to my own room in one piece. Incredible, isn’t it? My magic is far reaching and powerful.
[ but koby is warm at his side, a pleasant weight against him as his mind tosses and turns with memories. this place is a small paradise, sure, but for how long? how long until he’s thrust back into a world of cold, dark rooms and greedy hands?
he’ll take this for what it is. koby against him warm and soft, beaming up at him, ordering him to rest and heal. he grins and with little preamble leans and kisses koby, the kiss itself chaste and soft, a mere pressing nad lingering of lips.
he comes back a little heavy eyed, sleepy, and squeezes him to his side a little closer. ]
You can go if you want. While I sleep.
[ because he does want sleep, he does want to heal and rest and soak up as much of this energy as he can. he traces patterns on koby’s back, closing his eyes, his cheek pressed to the man’s forehead. ]
[That gets a huffy laugh, one knee tangling around one of Quentin's legs, just to be closer, just to feel him in one more spot. There are questions still buzzing in Koby's mind -- now as always, that'll likely never change -- but they're quiet for the moment.] You don't melt in the rain either, I bet. Amazing.
[Tipping his chin upwards, Koby watches Quentin's eyes slip closed, hears that soft, weary note in his voice. What would it mean if he started counting each restful night he was able to give this man? Would it need to mean anything more than a port in a storm, a place to batten down the hatches and ride out whatever comes? Would he want it to?]
I don't want to leave. [Softly, settling closer against Quentin, hand slipping over to find the steady pulse of his heart.] If I wake up before you this time, I'll just eat the rest of the jam, hm?
[ his eyes don't open again as he settles into the warmth of a body beside his, of the bed plush and thick beneath him. he hums a little in acknowledgement, lips pulling into a faint, sleepy smile. ]
Then don't leave. Stay as long or as little as you wish to stay. But if you eat all the jam I'll have you know I'll have to find a way to it through you.
[ there's a teasing, tired lilt to his voice that is covered up by a yawn next. ] See how very much you taste of strawberries when I allow my mouth to do the chasing.
[ his words slur sleepily and he shifts to nudge a little bit closer to him, nose falling into the faint, pink hair. ]
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no subject
That's it exactly. To help people who couldn't help themselves. Keep them safe. [Another sip, more satisfied this time.] People like me.
[Then, shaking his head:] Rescued. I was too scared to try and escape on my own. If I hadn't been saved, I would've stayed there the rest of my life.
no subject
You have good friends, then. To come find you in the end and free you, but I don't believe for a moment you wouldn't have found the strength to discover a way out. You don't survive harrowing things like that and come out defeated.
[ he shifts a little, letting their shoulders stay touching, his hand sliding to koby's knee, thumb gently pressing little circles into his kneecap beneath the denim.
it's hard not to think of the regent, the whole ship full to the brim of men and women he was raised with, his home and the spray of salty air. his father's blood staining the deck. the cold room he'd been kept in for months, watched, studied. the slithering snake of a man with his hands on him, his tongue against his ear.
you will win this war for me. ]
You're making your own way, now.
no subject
But Quentin isn't the sea. He's a man with a life writ long before the dusty arena, the steamy bath, the nest of sugar packets where they sit now. And for once, Koby holds his tongue, though he leans closer, one hand coming to settle over Quentin’s, trace the notches of his knuckles.]
It was another pirate, actually. We hadn't met until then, but he saw I needed help, so. He helped me. [A bemused, soft huff, another coffee sip.] He's a funny sort of pirate.
[Koby glances up, glasses tangled in his hair, those serious eyes searching Quentin’s face for a long moment.] I am. We all are, here. Sort of a...fresh start, strange and dangerous as it is. Uncharted waters, if you like. [A squeeze of Quentin’s hand.] Drink, before it gets cold.
no subject
[ he smiles a little at the idea, drinking again from his coffee but finding he doesn't exactly have a taste for it now. he'll drink it anyway - he doesn't waste anything, certainly not when it has been carefully brought to him.
koby's hand over his own makes him turn his palm up, enough to lace their fingers together idly over his thigh. his eyes raise, meeting the clear blue of koby's and he grins a little, the easy, warm façade returning with practiced precision. there's no need to draw anyone's attention to the obvious - this place is as fleeting as a sea storm. they've been brought here, but how long until they're returned?
it's better not to hang one's hopes on anything. quentin learned that a very, very long time ago. ]
I wouldn't think to waste a drop of it, even if it turned cold, as it was brought so sweetly to me by your own hands.
[ he takes another sip for good measure, pulling his free hand away from koby's then to pick up a piece of toast from the plate. ]
no subject
Including Quentin, even as he laces their fingers together, as he smiles with carefree ease. There was something there, gliding like a shadow beneath quiet waves. Koby unconsciously leans forward, intent, like he can pull the secrets free by just gazing up at that smile. Then he lets it go, slipping through his fingers, disappearing into the depths.
Quentin will reveal things in his own time, if he chooses to or -- or he won't. Koby doesn't need to unravel him like a snarled net to enjoy being here, breathing in his scent, resting his cheek on Quentin’s bare shoulder.] Yes, it was very taxing to pour it into a mug and walk upstairs. My culinary skills have been exhausted. [A pause, then he seems to remember something, straightening up and pulling -- an entire jar of jam out of his pocket.]
Almost forgot, sorry.
no subject
[ he shrugs a little, blinking over at koby who presses closer, whose cheek comes to rest briefly on his bare shoulder. it's nice, though - the closeness, the nearness, when his chest feels like he's lost at sea. and he's never lost. he almost looks disappointed when koby pulls away, but it's short-lived. instead, he sees the jar and he laughs, surprised, bright and loud and open. ]
Those things hide that?
[ he takes the jam jar, delighted, and pops open the top. he's not had something sweet like this in so long, so he dips a finger into the sticky sweet substance and licks it into his mouth, humming at how tangy and sharp and sweet it is. it's good - expensive and fresh and flavorful. he almost looks boyishly excited over it.
he doesn't even think when he scoops another dollop onto his finger and offers it out to koby. ]
Try this.
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But then -- jam, the pop of the lid and Quentin's grin (bright, warm, delighted) as he digs his fingers in. There's nothing complicated about that, and Koby grins right back, patting the pockets of the overalls.] Very, very deep pockets have their uses.
[There isn't any hesitation, because the sea is a place of hardtack and canned pickles and dried lemons, and the sugary strawberry drips down Quentin's fingers and Koby doesn't want to waste. So he leans forward quickly, takes the jammy finger in his mouth, sucks it clean before he can second guess himself. A hum, pleased, surprised at the sharp-sweet flavor, eyes widening approvingly as his tongue curls around Quentin's finger, savoring every last bit.] Mmmhmm -- s'goo. [Mumbled, careful of his teeth, one hand reaching to hold onto Quentin's wrist so he doesn't pull away yet.]
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he can share strawberry jam with a pretty-faced man in his own bed. he smiles a little, letting koby lick his finger clean and he does indeed go to pull back, but is halted. well, then. ]
It is. I've never had anything like this.
[ not sweet - not straight from the jar. freely offered and freely taken. but if koby thought he could keep his hand captive for long, he thought wrong, he does pull away - he even licks his own finger clean though koby has done a sufficient job. it's almost sheepish when he says it, smiling a little down at the jar, turning it in his hand to read its little labels. ]
Can I keep this?
[ like a sailor who is not given nice things often. he looks at the spread of food on the plates and decides to try it with bread - and instead of using utensils to fish it out, he merely dips a corner of the bread in the jam and takes a bite. he hums, delighted yet again, and offers the other half to koby. ]
It's better on this.
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But then he sits back, watches the curve of Quentin's smile, a subtly different one, this one soft and a little -- shy, almost. Koby feels like he could spend a long, long time learning the different ways Quentin's handsome face breaks into a grin, all the slight variations, could spend hours just gazing at him. This one, though -- this is one of his favorites.]
Of course. I brought it for you. [Chipper, like it goes without saying, like slipping the jar in his pocket hadn't been an impulse sparked by wondering about that exact look on Quentin's face, wondering if he could inspire it again and again.] They have plenty, anyway.
[The bread is accepted, nibbled at thoughtfully. Koby's appetite is tricky on a good day, stomach usually knotted or distracted, but he nods in agreement, settling back with his shoulder pressed to Quentin's.] Not better necessarily, but. It's good.
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[ he reaches for another piece of the bread, pressing it between his fingers, the soft, open texture pleasant. he even brings it to his nose to smell it before popping it into his mouth with a pleased hum. koby settles in with their shoulders touching and he relaxes a little, unable to help the way he reaches for bite after bite - sometimes fruit, sometimes bread, sometimes a piece of egg cooked to a little fluffy shape.
but he comes back to the jam, dipping a finger in once and licking it clean, then sweeping up another fingerful to offer koby. ]
I'm a sailor - my stomach is easy to please so long as it's full. But this? This is one of the best things I've tasted here.
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He eats less, watching quietly, sipping his coffee and nibbling his toast, shoulders loose and eyes thoughtful. Quentin has some of the easy, open gratitude that Koby's always liked in sailors, a simple understanding of sea and sky and salt, of the fleeting enjoyment in things like a good meal, good company, a tankard and a song and a favorable breeze. It makes the homesickness ease, replaces it with a warmth that has Koby smiling, propping his chin in one hand and watching Quentin eat.
The offered jam is obligingly licked off again, without embarrassment, and Koby mumbles around it:] I'll bring you more. They had other flavors, some I'd never even heard of. [There's jam on his lips, his chin and he grins around the strawberry in his mouth.] I want to try them all.
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it's why he looks pleased when koby takes the jam from his finger again without question, and quentin's eyes remain on his as he speaks. ]
We should make it our mission to try them all.
[ the idea is so simple and so frivolous - so unimportant in the grand scheme of things - but the idea of sharing jars of sweetly flavored jams with someone feels so freeing. to make plans and believe, even for a moment, that they can happen, is heartening.
his eyes flicker to the smiling line of koby's lips and it's impossible to ignore how he can see the sticky pink glistening on his skin. he reaches to thumb at koby's chin first, wiping some away and bringing it to his lips to taste. he hums, amused: ] And I didn't think it could get any sweeter - how do you do it?
[ and he wastes no time leaning forward and kissing koby, almost chaste were it not for the way he sucks the swell of his bottom lip into his mouth to clear it of the jam. ]
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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.]
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he pulls away slowly, nudging their noses together like they'd bumped before. ]
I'm up for the task. Nothing but jam and you? I do not know for a moment how I will survive.
[ he presses another soft kiss to koby's lips before he leans back, unable to help but reach again for bread to dip into the jam, pleased with the taste of it the moment it hits his tongue. ]
This is all very kind of you - the healing of my battle wounds, the bath, your company, and now breakfast... I should find a way to repay you.
[ his smile is easy, and finally with the last piece of bread he seems sated, falling back onto the mess of covers. it's foolish the way he reaches for koby's hand, the way he wants to touch him and be close to him. ] What payment will you accept?
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There's a moment where Koby chases after Quentin's mouth, leans forward and thumbs over his cheekbone, mindful of the bruise from the other day. But then he sits back, clears his throat, sets aside the plates and the empty mugs -- and just in time, too, since Quentin is flopping back into the blankets.] Mmmm, let me think...
[Koby kicks off his shoes, then lets Quentin tug him down into the messy sheets, to the scent of linen and a few stray crumbs, which are negligible in favor of their fingers lacing together, callus to callus. He settles on his side, cheek pillowed on his free hand, smile curling almost shy, now.] Could I stay, for a little? I woke up too early, I think, so I could use a nap. And my room's a whole four doors away, you know.
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Do you think I'll turn down good company? Stay.
[ he grins, as though he means something else by company, but it's all play. at least in this moment. he shifts a little closer on the bed, letting one leg tangle up with koby's. he's on his back, one hand in koby's that he's dragged to his chest, the other up under the back of his own head. ]
I would be a monster to send you back to your rooms four doors down. [ he's tired, too, even behind the smiles and bravado. there's a moment of stillness that comes over him then, quentin's eyes studying koby but also somehow far, far away. he wants to commit this man to memory, of course. but koby shared with him earlier - his commander. his escape. lying here beside him like this, it feels disingenuous to not offer something in return.
he might not wear his heart on his sleeve like koby, but he's not a complete asshole. ]
My father captained the ship I grew up on. He took me in when my born father died at sea and my mother was unable to handle the grief, I suppose. I never really asked about her. I was three years old and it's history from there. He died, two years ago, but him and your Commander sound quite a bit alike.
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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.]
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Mm. My father was loyal to the sea above anyone, and it got him in trouble sometimes, but otherwise - he was a good man. Grew the fleet, opened paths for trading among other countries. He was very talented - and cared people about his people.
[ he closes his eyes when he speaks, as though putting together the pieces of the man's face again in his mind - his warm smile, the way his braids would occasionally flop into his face as he moved to help a deckhand, or the knowing smile he'd share with him when they climbed up to the crow's nest together a sunset and sat watching it, eating something pilfered from a port. ]
Protected the people who worked for him. Protected me. It's what got him killed, in the end. Did you know that being the most excellent navigator in the whole of Anandara could cause such a ruckus? When the Regent sent his men, do you know what my father said to me? I can hear the way he laughed.
[ he laughs a little at the memory. ] You had to go and fall in love with the sea, didn't you? If I hadn't stayed on his ship and left when I had the chance - before all that happened - he might still be alive.
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Killed, Quentin says, and Koby is already still, but he goes even quieter at the word, at the picture being painted. A Regent -- a ruler, a general of some kind? Someone with power -- and a struggle wherein Quentin's father tried to protect him. It's whispering something that turns Koby's stomach, makes him think of blood on a splintered deck, of the way a crew splinters too, when a captain dies. Dies protecting a son, a talented son with a gift that caught the eye of someone dangerous, someone who attacked to gain control of that gift. And then -- and then what? What happens next, when a ship is conquered, when the resistance is destroyed?
To the victor go the spoils, of course. Koby knows that. He's seen it.
He doesn't ask any of those questions. They build up in his throat, threaten to choke him for a moment, but Koby just presses closer, warm against Quentin's side, squeezing their laced fingers tight for a moment. I'm sorry, is there, and it wasn't your fault, but Koby knows damn well how deep guilt weaves it's roots into someone's soul, where no amount of platitudes can uproot it. So instead he tugs Quentin's hand up, kisses his wrist, softly.]
He sounds wonderful. [Because he does. Because that's who he is in Quentin's mind -- wonderful and alive, still.] And...he knew you can't help it when you fall in love. Especially with the sea. [Again, hidden in the words: not your fault, he must've known it wasn't your fault.]
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quentin sighs a little, squeezes koby's hand back and turns to nose against his forehead, humming a little. ]
Mm, maybe. He taught me to love it, so it was inevitable, really.
[ there's a laugh there and he shakes his head, shifting to allow koby closer still, reveling in the comfort and the warmth of someone beside him. he'd woken on those dreams today - sun at his back, waves beneath his feet, and his father shouting something he couldn't hear over the rush of it all.
and just like that, it passes, he feels the ache in his heart and the pull in his gut of yearning and longing, and he tries his best to shut the doors. quentin can't live long in the past - it's better he doesn't get so distracted. (it's better he doesn't get hurt). ]
You didn't eat much - do I need to bring breakfast to you next, or is this going to be an uphill battle to make you enjoy more than just the sticky jam from my fingers? Not that I minded that part at all.
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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.
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[ but koby is warm at his side, a pleasant weight against him as his mind tosses and turns with memories. this place is a small paradise, sure, but for how long? how long until he’s thrust back into a world of cold, dark rooms and greedy hands?
he’ll take this for what it is. koby against him warm and soft, beaming up at him, ordering him to rest and heal. he grins and with little preamble leans and kisses koby, the kiss itself chaste and soft, a mere pressing nad lingering of lips.
he comes back a little heavy eyed, sleepy, and squeezes him to his side a little closer. ]
You can go if you want. While I sleep.
[ because he does want sleep, he does want to heal and rest and soak up as much of this energy as he can. he traces patterns on koby’s back, closing his eyes, his cheek pressed to the man’s forehead. ]
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[Tipping his chin upwards, Koby watches Quentin's eyes slip closed, hears that soft, weary note in his voice. What would it mean if he started counting each restful night he was able to give this man? Would it need to mean anything more than a port in a storm, a place to batten down the hatches and ride out whatever comes? Would he want it to?]
I don't want to leave. [Softly, settling closer against Quentin, hand slipping over to find the steady pulse of his heart.] If I wake up before you this time, I'll just eat the rest of the jam, hm?
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Then don't leave. Stay as long or as little as you wish to stay. But if you eat all the jam I'll have you know I'll have to find a way to it through you.
[ there's a teasing, tired lilt to his voice that is covered up by a yawn next. ] See how very much you taste of strawberries when I allow my mouth to do the chasing.
[ his words slur sleepily and he shifts to nudge a little bit closer to him, nose falling into the faint, pink hair. ]