To be seen like this should hurt or shame him. Kurt's clever interest seems, time and time again, to find every bit of himself that Wrench would sooner hide. He feels raw and exposed to the man stretched above him, reaching toward him and gathering him up into his hands. But Wrench finds no need for explanation. No question that begs immediacy in the eyes or the touch of the other man. And while he's sure his scars deserve no amount of forgiveness, he feels it in the soft pressure of the man's pursed lips and the leathery expanse of his touch.

He finds himself stirred to a hungry desire to see and touch and taste the other man in kind. To lay him bare and understand all the ways that life has shaped him, and all the things that Wrench might be able to pull from him with the right attention. He wants to play him like an instrument. Stretch him out and run his fingers across the slope of his spine and the curve of his hips until Kurt's breath sings from his chest for him and they both have to beg each other's mercy.

That giddy impatience rises in him, and Wrench takes back his hands to sling under the man's knees, until he rises from the chair and lifts Kurt all in one easy go. Not for the first time he thinks of how light the other man seems. How easy he might just slip away. Wrench knows the steps to the furnished bedroom now by heart, and he wastes no time taking them there, until he can deposit the other man onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs.