Kurt's hand is a warm weight on Wrench's chest. An anchor, holding him firmly to two disparate realities: that the place he's found himself within is very much real, and that he -- for all his fears and anxieties -- is not so alone after all. He's consciously aware of his own heartbeat, and the way it thuds against his ribcage is enough to rattle him with every beat. Wrench doesn't feel like he's made up of quite enough substance. This place has chipped away at him and he can't quite figure the dimensions of his own hunger, his pain, and his lightheadedness. But he feels Kurt's hand on him and knows the other man feels the beat of life beneath his fingers. That they're both real and solid and bound not just by circumstance, but by will.

It would've been easy for Kurt to turn him out, or for Wrench to have walked away. Neither man had expected to find the other in this place. This isn't what either of them had been looking for. But they must have both realized that they needed it somehow, in their own ways. Not just the efficient hands checking bandages and cleansing fresh wounds, but the quiet moments reading and playing cards. The easy way Kurt's feet have found his lap, like a silent reminder that he's seen and wanted nearby. The quiet domesticity of scrounging up what they have to make a breakfast plate. Being seen, being a part of someone else's quiet movement through this strange and impossible world.

Wrench isn't surprised that Kurt is bolder, but he's relieved. Relieved to taste something on his lips that isn't gin, and to know the other man feels something like what he's not sure he could fashion into words even if they shared a comfortable language with which to do it. He kisses him back, deep with a need that grumbles quietly into the other man's mouth. Wrench reaches an arm around him and urges him into his lap.