Saltburnt Inbox

[snaggleteeth]

WELCOME TO THE SALTBURNT NETWORK

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QIMIR

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Comments

[snaggleteeth]

Can you spit it out and send another picture?

[he is pretty sure he's going to have to go over there, but he's gotten into photography lately. better to have koby pictures than not.]

[kobes]

taste is there.

[but another photo, this one closer to the 😝 face than anything else.]

[snaggleteeth]

Keep it up and your face will get stuck like that. What will your favorites say?

[kobes]

about my mouth being open all the time?
theyll love it probably.

[koby.]

[snaggleteeth]

But they want to stare into your eyes while they fuck you. So, problem.

[kobes]

how do you know
did you ask?
at a party??
youre supised to be partying

[snaggleteeth]

That would be very good party conversation at Saltburnt manor. I'm great at parties. And I can hold my liquor.

[kobes]

im great and can hold my liquor dont be meannnnmmm

[snaggleteeth]

In your hands, maybe. In your stomach, if you don't keep going.

I'm trying to figure if you'd say you were great, if you were sober. It's sad I'm not sure.

[kobes]

im great at some stuff.
winking.

this liquors different.

[snaggleteeth]

Different, how?

[the response is a tad belated. noise, obligations. and why did balloons fall out of the ceiling or whatever.]

[kobes]

[koby had a similar, alarmed reaction, and is now texting from under a table where he jumped to hide himself.]

pink in it.

[snaggleteeth]

You're great at disappearing. That was fast. Lightning at sea.

Don't be scared. Buffy will protect you.

[kobes]

loud noises
on the dhip cannons meant time to hide
until we had to kill people then i had to get the mop

not SCARED
just quieter here.

[snaggleteeth]

Not the ship, though. Not cannonballs, but balloons. Not then, but now. Not under your captain, but with your friends. And me, somewhere across the room.

[kobes]

why acorss room
come over

[snaggleteeth]

I can't fit under a table. Have you seen me? I'm huge.

[kobes]

lying to me
you did at the library
under my desk!!!

→ action

[snaggleteeth]

[but he wasn't wearing these terrible clothes in the library, which are stiff, heavy, terrible to move around in. you even have to unbutton the jacket just to sit down. the stranger has been complaining about it in the privacy of his own head for the past forty five minutes, unwilling to forfeit wanda's weirdly specific joy or his brief reprieve from cancelation for his wisdom about vampire attacks. he doesn't reply.

instead, a glass of water pokes in under the tablecloth by koby's head, the meniscus of water seesawing dangerously without spilling. the next moment, 'qimir' is there. his (unbuttoned) jacket bunching as he makes his initial crouch. he slides in with the same fluid grace from the library. the top of his skull travels an inch shy of the table's underside, needing none of the conventional five senses to measure it.

the stranger finds koby in the gloom just as easily. some of that because of glitter, uneven constellations refracting colored light from koby's face. some of that, the vivid anima of haki. most of it, simply, because koby is hard to miss—bright in the light, pale in the dark. touchable in the diffuse shadows of liminal spaces and stolen minutes between busy dozens of obligations.]

Don't fuckin' tell Wanda, [he mutters, already dropping a shoulder, shrugging out of his jacket.] And drink this. [bossy. he knows, he knows.]

[kobes]

[koby doesn’t get drunk, is the thing – he’s been raised on a diet of rum, like any east blue child would, safer and cleaner than water in most cases, milk too expensive by far to waste on orphans. he can even handle the harder white liquor that comes in shots at nice restaurants – within reason. but he’d also grown up with very, very little sugar in his diet, an impractical flavor at sea, none of the necessity of citrus nor the longevity of salt.

so mixing booze with the sugary, pink-puckery punch at buffy’s prom/birthday had resulted in a drink that went down easy, but hit koby with the force of a brick to the head. a giggly, pink-cheeked, immediate-scooting-over-and-snuggling-up-to-qimir brick.]

No. [whispered, to the water, even as koby takes it, sips it, reflexively bratty, instinctively obedient. he hiccups mid-sip, makes a face at qimir like it’s his fault, then reaches out to tug at the still-on sleeve, clumsily trying to assist with the jacket removal.] Why’re you taking your clothes off. [another gulp of water.] Toldja you’d fit.

[snaggleteeth]

I don't like these clothes, [feels accurate enough, before the stranger amends,] for me, [because koby is wearing a jacket, too. also black. narrower in cut, youthful flair of modernity to it. no shirt, bold choice. the stranger finds he cannot remember whether koby was wearing a shirt earlier. he had been too far away. he would have remembered the faded seams of scar tissue winking up at him like a dirty punchline.

his arm closes around koby because that is how the human body arranges itself in gravity, when another happens to have flung itself over with dangerous abandon. with koby's help (or koby's interference), the jacket is evicted to just one wrist. the stranger manages to jiggle the rest of it off, his other elbow making an imperfect, geometric cradle under the pink fluff of koby's hair, around his shoulders. maybe if he were more drunk, he wouldn't mind formalwear, either.] Hey. Hey, hey.

You did a good job tonight. [his palm sweeps up koby's face in easy confidence, no caution spared to dodging his pupil's eyes because the stranger does not need sight to see. raking the pink fall of hair out of his eyes, pinning out to the crown of his head under the crook of his pinkie. removing the jacket was timely. koby emits heat like molten marzipan squirming in the pan.] Ani and Buffy are having fun, considering.

[kobes]

Ohhhhhhh. [long, drawn out, accompanied by a nod that bumps koby’s chin into qimir’s shoulder, prompting him to wiggle under the arm that curls relaxed, like a settling cat, heavy and warm and placid. koby’s still small, he’ll always be smaller, a fact carved into the make-up of his body, but he’s honed the planes of his chest, his stomach, his waist as tense and carved as possible, swimmer-toned, lean and ropy, the scars settled in the natural crease of pectoral like they belong there.

the compliment has him preen a little, bumping up into the big hand through his hair, eyes half-lidded, glasses down on the tip of his nose again, slipped there once more through the heat and the chaos of the night. it’s good chaos, though, bubbly and bright like the punch, the emotions of people who’ve chosen to have a good time, and maybe that’s part of koby’s giddy state, contact high from happiness.

but his eyes close all the way once qimir’s hand settles, raking his hair back, exposing another scar, the x-shaped one on koby’s forehead, usually hidden by the overgrown flop of pink.] Had to fix it. [blunt, unfiltered, not that koby usually leans cagey, but it’s without tiptoeing, this time.] S’my fault. [and he leans into qimir’s hand, rests more of his weight there, and the make-up and glitter had hidden a lot, but this close it’s easy to see the dark shadows under his eyes, the weariness in the way his shoulders droop.] Had to make it better.

[snaggleteeth]

I used to fix things. [the stranger is never tired of arguing, but he knows it's—unproductive, past a point. beyond enough repetitions. with specific superheroes. every strategy involves time and place, and the underside of a prom table is, maybe, not the place to haggle over profit shares of moral culpability.] People. Machines. Birds. It's a good feeling.

[balanced in his hand, koby's head feels fragile. a globe with unexplored countries colored in it, continents scarred in his forehead, private vistas in his head. he does, admittedly, consider pressing his thumb on the boy's windpipe and sucking the staggered breath suggestively out of his mouth, but that's—just routine neural pathways, really. the stranger does not choke koby at prom. that would be weird, even for him.]

[but it won't hurt anybody, to draw a finger down the line of koby's jugular, to measure koby's weight fluctuations by the depth of koby's collarbones, the heel of his hand on them. he pets koby's hair, as if he were a flightless seabird from home, tamed by the instinct to camouflage itself as stone. for once, it's not didactic.] Meant I had control.

[kobes]

Birds. [it’s bemused, almost a snort, the mental image sending a cascade of memories that bleed out like water through loose-cupped hands – birds on wing, birds on waves, birds catching fish, birds leaping up in a riot of snowy feathers when a gaggle of gangly girls runs through them, varying ages, toddler to teen, all in matching uniforms, chasing and hollering on a beach on a sunny day, careless and laughing with the reckless freedom of childhood. and – plaid skirts above bony knees, long, long pink hair in pigtails, shoulders scrunched up and forward to concave the shape of a budding chest, one hangs behind, pushes up purple-rimmed glasses and watches the others play.

the thought passes, but koby is quieter in the wake of it, not even twitching when qimir’s finger grazes down over another scar – a constellation, forehead to throat to chest, skipping over the labor-scars on koby’s knuckles, the whip-scars on his back, the smaller marks of a life hard-won. the one around his throat sits like a collar, like a noose, on bad days, bisects windpipe and jugular both, once-upon-a-time snapped each one. he thinks about birds, about boats, about water-swollen decks covered in blood. about mopping them clean, for 730 days and counting.]

I mended the sails. [faraway, tipping his head towards the petpetpetting of qimir’s hand.] And – went up the mast to see if the rigging had any weak spots. I fixed them, up there. [koby’s eyes flick up, towards the underside of the table, thinking about the stomach-cramping fear, being so high up, no spotter, no harness, nothing to keep him from falling right out of the crow’s nest and splattering on the deck, or plunging into the sea.] I fixed a lot of things. [a thoughtful beat.] I never felt in control, though.

[a logical fallacy: why, then, does he keep trying?]

cw dysmorphia, injuries

[snaggleteeth]

Then you were more honest with yourself than most people are.

[it's always a fallacy. illusion. control is a struggle in futility that causes more pain. this truth was somewhere in the way the sith think. admittedly, the jedi, too. he was becoming neither.] Just not ready to accept—something. Maybe for the better. [he doesn't have to be in koby's head, needs not break his promise, to guess that somewhere in the sog of koby's seafaring history, there was a dress, many humiliations, a slow-moving fear of growing into wide hips and perhaps even the wrong name. the stranger doesn't make oaths often; he's trafficked in the nightmares of many.]

Do you ask for hormones here? [absent-minded question, while his nose is going around the peach-fuzzed arc of koby's ear, in the side of his neck, notching between the splay of his own fingers to meet the scar collaring the neck. he doesn't like the idea of getting on of those. kindly ignore the fact this tactile analysis means he's nuzzling koby's neck, exposed by the loll of the head into his other palm. the sith do not need eyes to see, or skin to touch, breath to smell the salty sweat secretly stashing glitter down here. but a sith will use them anyway, pillowing koby's head on one shoulder, his voice diminishing into the mumble in the crook of koby's shoulder.]

I know that's not what you're sad about. Just asking.