[ 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
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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
[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?
no subject
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. ]