His eyes are closed.

He keeps them closed.

There's a weight.

Blaine can feel it on his hip. Just below his waist, somewhere above his thigh. A warm, unfamiliar weight. Not pressing down. Not moving or anchoring. Not constricting or restraining. Just a weight.

This weight… it's unfamiliar, but it isn't unpleasant.

There's something in the exact temperature of it that inspires calm and comfort in him. It's just as warm as he is, neither giving nor taking.

It's soft, too. Long, not too wide, and really not too heavy. Kind.

Soft like risen dough, powdery with flour, and dry.

Warm as leavened bread, left to cool by the window of some prairie house he's only ever seen in books. Baked by a plain woman in a bonnet and apron; calico and lace.

Blaine breathes in, slowly waking. He smells something.

Security and ease.

When he was younger the ten hour old spritz of Chanel No. 5 behind his mother's ear stirred this kind of feeling in him. Hugging her. Clutching at her throat as her arms consumed him. Catching that trace of everything that was safe and just and right in his small world, blooming from her pulse point. That smell held everything he needed.

This… this isn't that smell. Not at all. The feeling is the same, but the smell… this smell is toasted almonds and sage and something alive. Something living. It's something that perspires and respires. Something that goes stale if untended for too long, but if left for even a day or two (maybe a night) simply smells flourishing. Thriving. Healthy.

Alive.

He keeps his eyes closed.

His mouth is dry.

It's dry every morning. Downy and cottony and sour. Disuse makes it foul. Most mornings it tastes like a vulgar word. Obscene, and discourteously flung in hatred. The worst taste. His tongue darts out to rasp at his dry lips and savours something else. He can almost place it, but not in this scene. He's never woken up to this flavour.

It's barely there. Amongst the salt and the habituated hint of his ever present skin is the slightest of sweetness's. Not sugar, no; natural or otherwise. It isn't fruit or chocolate or liqueur. He can't place it, though he knows it.

He can't help but think that it might be the most profound taste in his life.

He feels something else. What is that? And that brand new, faultlessly old smell?

It's tickling the skin stretched so tenuously at his temple.

At first he thinks feathers, but it's not feathers. Brushed the wrong way, feathers scratch and unravel and lose their fragile beauty.

This is softer. This is kinder and more solid, if excruciatingly slight.

The scent less so. It's harsher than the other smell, and equally lovely, suddenly overwhelming him. How did he only just smell this? Virile, deep and rich. It's all around him and it's filling his mouth. It's on his skin, and now he can taste it too.

And, wait! A sound. He knows this.

It's breathing.

Blaine breathes like this. Dogs breathe like this. Horses and apes and cattle breathe like this.

Breath in. Breath out.

And again.

And again.

Alive.

Breathing on his shoulder with more accuracy than a metronome. These breaths could lead a marching army, a team of rowers, a firing squad.

It thunders next to his ear, hot and damp. It should sound like a dragon, but for some reason he thinks it's a knight.

He's awake now. Conscious enough to be consciously curious.

He peels his eyes open.

Fuzzy. Indistinct.

He blinks. Once, twice. It's all coming into focus. His ceiling. Pristine since the day it was painted. So necessary yet so neglected. They told him it was the colour of eggshells, but to him it's more like milk. After all, he's seen brown eggs. Blue and green and speckled. If his ceiling is a colour and not an object, then it's honestly nothing but white.

The weight on his hip shifts, reminding him of his reason for waking. It only moves a little, staying on his skin (his skin, his naked skin) and causing him to finally crane his neck and look down.

Oh.

Kurt.

His hand.

Blunt yet elegant fingers clumsily balled like a slumbering creature.

His Legs, a hair's breadth from Blaine's own.

Literally. So many hairs

Completely naked too. Dizzyingly, shockingly, impeccably naked.

Blaine's own cock lies where it always lies, dark and familiar, Kurt's hand unintentionally and heartbreakingly close and so, so far away.

Eyes scan, a short lived pang of guilty voyeurism giving way to exultant awe as they fall on short, chestnut curls between Kurt's legs, and his rosy length, slightly hard and new, new, all new.

His arm slung across his flat, white (or is it eggshell?) dune of stomach. White chest, pink nipples that could be compared to some kind of fruit, raspberry, strawberry, cherry, but really they just look like nipples.

Perfect.

The driftwood of his collarbone and the trunk of his neck, silvery like a eucalypt, equally blemished and all the more-

Perfect.

Blaine leans back, one pillow shared between them, faces at first too close to determine anything more than an abstract oil painting of features.

Now he can see it though. Kurt's face. Incomparable. It isn't like anything else. It's only what it is.

Kurt's face.

Blaine exhales. Sighs, and Kurt's eyes crack.

Just blue.

They stare.

You're so beautiful.

"Good morning."