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[suchmiracles]

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birthday morning

[wwrench]

Since his return in the late hours of Halloween night, Wes has ambled around the cabin like a shell of his former self. Thanks for that is owed one part to the common symptoms of the Deerington death flu, and one part to the creeping realization that what he does not know about his life and history is not a matter of fact. Virtually everyone in the cabin realizes something about Wes that he doesn't know for himself, and it is being kept from him with intentionality.

For all of which he is uncertain, there are certain things he could never forget. Kurt's birthday, of course, is chief among them. Some deep part of Wes feels a familiarity in disregarding those dates entirely, but the stronger voice reminds him of how important it is. How every moment here exists without guarantee, and sharing any of these special dates with any of them is a real gift.

Besides, Kurt deserves to be celebrated. He is the glue that binds so many of them so strongly. Kurt Wagner means so much to so many, and gives of himself near-constantly. Wes feels drawn more than ever to show him that nothing this town might throw at them could diminish his love for his partner.

He has the money and the means, but tangible gifts have had no place in the man's life. It's hard to think of what to provide outside of necessity. So he gives of himself instead. That feels familiar. It seems to fit with a history Wes can't quite recall, and a sentiment inherent in the cabin.

The morning of Kurt's birthday, he is already waiting in the bathroom. The countertop has been assembled with a few combs -- some with deeper teeth and others with bristles glistening -- as well as some bottles, a set of clippers, hot towels, and a steaming bowl of water. Wes smiles like he's been caught in the act of something far more shameful.

I thought you might want me to help brush you.

[suchmiracles]

Over the years, Kurt has had little reason to make a conscious effort to avoid his birthday. The work of the X-Men is seemingly never done, and he can often count on being busy enough fighting for his life or the lives of his friends, being bounced around various dimensions or just up to his pointed ears in teaching duties to keep his mind off the auspicious date.

It's not that he minds aging, specifically -- though he's still not entirely sure he wants to think too much about whether that particular mark of humanity will even be available to him, the child of a shapeshifter and a seemingly immortal ruler of the underworld -- but the fact that his birthday has frequently been the lodestone which has drawn bad luck and worse down on his head and those of his loved ones. Margali and her schemes are a long way behind him now, but he can't get past the habit of avoidance, or at least a certain amount of wilful ignorance.

When the day comes, he finds himself in a contemplative mood, already stacking tasks ahead of himself. He greets the dawn out in the forest, working himself hard through his usual exercise routine that's as meditative as it is essential, until the burn of the cold air has settled deep into his muscles. Returning to the cabin, he heads towards the bathroom already pulling his sweat-damp t-shirt off over his head, then blinks in surprise when he finds Wes waiting for him.

His gaze takes in the assembled items and the slightly sheepish smile from his partner and feels, suddenly, both foolish and immeasurably grateful. An answering smile wreaths his expression, letting his love for the man in front of him show in his face. In some ways it's still something he's getting used to, having the uniqueness of his body not just tolerated but appreciated, admired, longed for. To be reminded of that, to be offered without question a space where he's cared for, salves an old ache that he hadn't realised was tugging at him.

I would like that, he replies, without hesitation, dropping his shirt onto the floor and stepping in to the warm oakmoss and leather scented space around the taller man. The yoga pants that Wes himself gifted him last Christmas are the only thing he has on as he sways into him close enough to brush his hands against his chest when he continues. I love having your hands on me.