Wrench tastes like pine needles and juniper, the remnants of Logan's gin. A far distant part of Kurt's mind notes how fitting that is, the product of the man whose death brought them together, and wonders what Logan would say to see them. Laugh, probably, and tell them to take it out of the kitchen. The rest of Kurt is occupied by the warmth of Wrench's body, the thud of his heartbeat beneath his palm, the rumble of his groan that seems to resonate through Kurt's chest.

He feels the weight of Wrench's arm thrown around him and makes a small noise of agreement and desire, climbing easily from his chair and into the solidity of Wrench's lap, both of his hands occupied now with sliding down over the other man's sides, the urgent need to touch as much of him as possible building in his stomach and his hips and his heart.

It feels close to grief, the other side of that dark coin. After so long, so many deaths, it's almost familiar, the need to prove that he's still alive, that they're both still alive, even if it's not clear what that means any more. In other times he's submerged the weight of it in prayer, or running Danger Room sessions until his arms won't support him any more and, once or twice, in the arms of a friend. But even the familiarity of it only gets him so far; in everything else, Wrench is an untamed sea, an unexplored map that he longs, suddenly, to know.