Wrench's language lessons have been extensive and wide-ranging, covering everything from the necessary pragmatism of medical nomenclature to fishing stories. Kurt has come to appreciate, in many ways, the increasingly poetic syntax of his hands and the expressions of his face. Now, lying in the rain-filled darkness that's full of the spicy heat of sex, he realises the beauty in the way a crooked finger and glancing palm can make him shiver even before they touch him. Want and need are written in the air as plain as the pulse he can feel against his tail.

He's glad, though, when that palm crosses the divide between them, sliding along his length as he lifts his hips to follow it, making a soft tense noise in the back of his throat. He reaches out a hand out to touch Wrench's thigh, fingertips seeking any part they can reach, wanting to ground himself, reassure himself, in the solid feel of him before anything else happens.

Kurt doesn't reply to either of them, at least not with words, letting the accepting shudder of his body be any answer they need.