[ Quentin, it seems, can sleep like a rock, with all the shifting and squirming being done to dodge tickles or elbows, and good for him, because the ruckus is escalating, Tim swooping over to grab Koby’s forearms and pin them down. ]
Quit jabbing. Lincoln dies. John Wilkes Booth shoots him in the theater. Sorry.
[Koby is stronger than he looks, yes, but not that strong -- Tim can pin him fairly easily, because he's trying not to thrash too much and wake up Quentin. His only defense is to flop onto his back and try to wiggle free -- though that stops immediately when Tim drops this news.]
That’s terrible. [All the fight goes out of Koby at this injustice, and he sags back against the pillows, looking up at Tim with wide, beseeching, slightly teary eyes.] Why would someone do that?
I don’t read the jackets, it wastes time. I’ll find out what the book is about by reading it. [He’s used to dusty tomes and leather-bound volumes, none of this glossy dust jackets and cover blurb nonsense.] Though I’ve had a little trouble finding objective accounts, I’ve noticed. Everyone has very strong opinions about everything.
You did read it, right? The Civil War had just ended, there were a lot of people on the losing side still angry.
[ Tim just settles, unpinning, but still sitting on him. Really regular behavior and not at all an indication that he’s getting way too comfortable here. ]
People like to think history is objective, but it isn’t. Not everyone gets the opportunity to tell their story, every writer has a point of view of their own, even when they have all the primary sources in the world. Sure, certain events did objectively happen, but you can contextualize it a bunch of different ways.
[ A beat. ]
Not to defend the slaveowners, obviously. But if they’d won, the tone of that book would be completely different, even the parts before the war.
Well, yes. But they lost. [Sternly, wiggling for a moment, then sighing and folding his arms behind his head. Might as well get comfortable if Tim is going to stay there for the time being.] They should move on with their lives, rather than shooting people.
[Koby, please, this is why you’ll never be a diplomat.
The explanation gets a soft hum, mildly displeased, but – understanding, in a way.] I guess that makes sense. It’s like the fishmen.
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Quit jabbing. Lincoln dies. John Wilkes Booth shoots him in the theater. Sorry.
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He what?! Are you sure?!
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[ It doesn’t require a history degree (which he does have, by the way) to know what happened to Lincoln, that’s grade school stuff, Koby. ]
I’m surprised it didn’t say so on the book jacket.
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That’s terrible. [All the fight goes out of Koby at this injustice, and he sags back against the pillows, looking up at Tim with wide, beseeching, slightly teary eyes.] Why would someone do that?
I don’t read the jackets, it wastes time. I’ll find out what the book is about by reading it. [He’s used to dusty tomes and leather-bound volumes, none of this glossy dust jackets and cover blurb nonsense.] Though I’ve had a little trouble finding objective accounts, I’ve noticed. Everyone has very strong opinions about everything.
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[ Tim just settles, unpinning, but still sitting on him. Really regular behavior and not at all an indication that he’s getting way too comfortable here. ]
People like to think history is objective, but it isn’t. Not everyone gets the opportunity to tell their story, every writer has a point of view of their own, even when they have all the primary sources in the world. Sure, certain events did objectively happen, but you can contextualize it a bunch of different ways.
[ A beat. ]
Not to defend the slaveowners, obviously. But if they’d won, the tone of that book would be completely different, even the parts before the war.
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[Koby, please, this is why you’ll never be a diplomat.
The explanation gets a soft hum, mildly displeased, but – understanding, in a way.] I guess that makes sense. It’s like the fishmen.
[What.]
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[ Koby this is why you're even more baby than Tim. ]
Don't even tell me what that is. I don't want to know. The snail thing is weird enough.
[ Alright, that's enough wiggling around on each other for now. Tim scoots himself off, and gives Quentin's leg a pat too, on his way off the bed. ]
I'm going to the chapel. Let me know when you tell him.