Arced back on his heels, Wrench feeds Kurt his fingers like a priest offering blessed communion. The body is his own, shared at the other man's lips and compressed against his tongue until his own mouth parts in kind and he shudders out a hot, quaking breath. The heady insistence leaves no room for his gratitude, but it's what Wrench feels most profoundly as he looks past the man drinking him in to the bed where the third in their trio lies stretched across the mattress like a fresh body laid to rest. For a moment he's overcome by what he doesn't know about these men -- what they still don't know about him -- but the peace he's found here nevertheless. There's an implicit understanding shared in the silence between their bodies. A sort of forgiveness between men like them who know better than to ask the questions they might not want to answer for themselves.

Wrench drags Kurt's lower lip into a pout with his finger and leans in to kiss him, brazen and unapologetic and intended for the watchful eyes of the man on the bed whose hand moves against himself again. When Logan beckons to them he smiles and finds his feet, dragging his shorts back up himself but discarding his undershirt before offering a hand down to his companion. He gestures to the bed, but doesn't move to join the duo immediately. Instead Wrench notes the flush on Logan's skin and the bead of sweat that lingers on his brow. You need water, he notes, and pads through the darkened cabin to the kitchen to return with a filled glass for the man.

He doesn't intend to stay, expecting on this night like the ones before that his restlessness will only keep the two men up. But as Wrench settles at the edge of the bed to insist that Logan drink, he finds his own sense of exhaustion almost overwhelming, and the desire to settle in with them almost unignorable.