Blaine can feel the sweat. It keeps him grounded. His clammy back clings to the bedsheet, his clammy palms cling to Kurt's shoulders, his curls come undone at his temples and flatten in ringlets by his ears. There's breath everywhere – he can feel that, too. He can feel it all the way down to his stomach as Kurt's head drops against his own, forehead to forehead, and every inhale is more warmth than air, more lips than breathing. It burns bliss; his brows press together, little hitched breaths and slow, building moans that Kurt swallows with a ghost of a smile and a brush of his mouth. A hand tangles in the back of his hair and Blaine's legs reposition around the man's waist, and suddenly Kurt's an anchor and the world rushes through him, stabs through his belly and curves his back from the bed. His fingers dig in to skin and his mouth opens in a wordless cry, like suddenly language doesn't exist, and silence replaced it as currency – except there are words, softness sinking through his skin from his fiancé's lips, now by his ear, that he can barely hear but taste like honey. Kurt's weight stalls over him just as Blaine registers his heart hammering against his skull as the noise in his head and suddenly he's gripped like a rope dangling forty feet above cement, like a lyric. He can feel Kurt cloud his senses, shudder inside him, tinnitus in his boneless body. All at once, he is too warm: it condenses in a lump lodged in his throat and squirms inside his chest, and in the cool air now ghosting his sweaty thighs, in the hand that's still cradling the back of his head, he feels clarity in the body fused with his. It chokes him. And, then, he cries.

He cries and Kurt catches his breath against the minute jolting of Blaine's chest, slowly carding his fingers through what remained of his hair gel. Tears slip, hot, down his cheeks, hot already, and follow the flush down his neck. With great effort, Blaine squints open his eyes only to see Kurt's already on his, heavy with the same emotion that Blaine could feel clogging up his windpipe. He sniffles, blinks a few times – water clings to the ends of his lashes like they're scared to fall, scared of the unknown. Slowly, so slowly, Kurt wipes them away from his cheeks. “What is it?” he whispers.

Swallowing dryly, Blaine thinks about the past months. He thinks about the ceiling, how well mapped out all the cracks are in his mind. He thinks about the kitchen sink and washing the plates without gloves on just to feel the water burn. He thinks about how many nights sleep evaded him and how many days he spent anticipating night-time. He thinks about Kurt talking and him not hearing a word he said. “I feel like a person again,” he whispers back, and a blueprint of something better flickers to life behind his eyes.