[it's always different in person -- the air changes when koby stomps inside, heavy boots and black on black, the quintessential broody youth. sometimes he's softer, around dr. graham, flannels layered over washed-soft tees, loose cargo pants, sneakers. sometimes he wants that, the softness, the strange way that his doctor -- will -- looks at him and seems to see everything koby is, every shattered, miserable piece.
and sometimes he comes to will like this: sharp edges and glares, stuffing his phone in his pocket and tracking mud across the carpet to flop into one of the gilded armchairs.] Yeah, next time pick a room that isn't a million miles away, god.
[scowling, daring, pushing -- koby knows the lines, knows the boundaries, but he bites at them, strains and snarls until will puts him back in his place. his eyes are bright with wanting it, wanting the particular bite only the good doctor can give him.]
no subject
and sometimes he comes to will like this: sharp edges and glares, stuffing his phone in his pocket and tracking mud across the carpet to flop into one of the gilded armchairs.] Yeah, next time pick a room that isn't a million miles away, god.
[scowling, daring, pushing -- koby knows the lines, knows the boundaries, but he bites at them, strains and snarls until will puts him back in his place. his eyes are bright with wanting it, wanting the particular bite only the good doctor can give him.]