They're a strange fit, together in complexity.

Blaine is intrinsically vocal: from the way every breath hitches and curls sharp over his tongue and fills the room with gentle sound; to the soft bloom of laughter spilling from his lips when they slip awkwardly together, high on flat notes and inexperience; to the way he smiles against Kurt's palm and mouths wetly over soft inner thigh and whispers gentle and teasing over Kurt's cock until he squirms and says please. It's not loud or overstated, exactly, no gaudy performance to a forcibly captivated audience – it's just Blaine, who finds solace in the little sounds, and is sometimes afraid that no one can hear him.

Kurt however is mostly silent: not for lack of interest or otherwise, but where he is loud in public he clicks down the volume and revels in the silent language of skin and muscle and touch in private. In his world, the soft lines mapped under his fingers speak more than pretty words, the fan of Blaine's eyelashes against his cheeks in the dark and the tight clutch of his fingers across Kurt's ass more expressive of his craft than any whispered demanding questions. He just knows, through hours and days and weeks spent curled into each other like a swirled symbol of limbs and light kisses, and that in itself is indescribably beautiful.

They understand. There is no Blaine without earnest compliments and open kisses, and there is no Kurt without measured presses of fingertips into the curve of a hip and the dark glitter of blue eyes that catch every little shift in pattern. Although, Blaine wonders how Kurt can say everything with nothing, where his own reactions fall just short of elegance and nuance.

Sometimes Blaine wonders if he could swirl the feelings he can't express in words onto Kurt's skin, brush them in delicate colour down his spine like a glittering moulted waterfall. Rose pink and the fieriest blaze of orange would fan down his neck and flare like desperate imitations of angels' wings, fade into wisps of watery teal and turquoise and marbled topaz where the colours have bled together and burn into some unnamed shade. Kurt would complain, roll his hips indignantly under Blaine's straddle and ask him what on earth he thinks he's doing (being ridiculous, he supposes), but he would let him. It's a strange facet of trust, the way that lovers indulge curiosity in the hope that the curls of arousal thrum hard in their veins. Blaine loves it.

Maybe Blaine would cup Kurt's face in his left hand and speak with his right, an extension of a soft brush sweeping across Kurt's clear skin, paint a ragged rainbow of hues over his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose, the delicate arch of his eyebrow, the smooth expanse of his forehead; the colours fluttering like the cuttings of fabric decorating the floor of a tailor's workshop, their ribbon-like sinuous strokes still incompetent means of expressing the starlight Blaine sees in Kurt's physicality.

(There are no colours fit for stars.)

Blaine never brings those thoughts into reality – probably wouldn't even have the time to, he knows, messing with a heavy college and part-time work schedule bringing nothing but pain – but he considers it, once or twice, on days like these where he wakes with dawn and lets himself sink in the warm morning scent of unwashed Kurt, in the hidden juncture between neck and shoulder where Blaine presses his nose and adores in a rare calm silence.

There's nothing important to do today, he reminds himself, wrapping one arm around Kurt's waist and fitting them together in a sleep-soaked haze. Nothing nothing nothing, nothing to distract from Kurt's waking noises and muttered complaints about how they'll both have terrible morning breath, Blaine, but okay, if you can get over that – and they tangle in lazy kisses and wandering hands, Blaine's thumb running down the dip of Kurt's spine, which always gets a tiny shiver and a warning dig of fingers over his ass. They pin each other over and over in a mass of laughter, rolling and pressing and sucking quickly-fading pink marks into exposed skin until Kurt pushes up and tugs them to the edge of the bed, sliding to the floor and slipping his fingers into the waistband of Blaine's briefs.

Blaine wonders if he'll cry this time.

It doesn't always happen. There are days when his breath catches hard in his throat instead, or his eyes will roll back into his head, or he'll simply mouth silent nonsense as he comes hard; and rarer, when he whimpers and begs oh fuck please Kurt and his teeth and hands press bruises into Kurt's shoulder like a curious apology (and one he will have to vocalise later, tangled in bed together, with soft kisses and braided fingers). But sometimes, when they're not quite fucking but not quite making love, a raw awkwardness tracing their bodies as they rock together in tight closeness and heat, toes digging into the dip of the lower back and a hand trying to match pace but losing in the depth of warm hazel and stark blue, it happens.

Or even just like this, now, with the running of blunt nails down Blaine's thighs and blown pupils trailing his face as Kurt swirls heady wet patterns into the lines and arcs of Blaine's cock, lips wet and soft kissing obscene nonsense across the head and along the underside. Blaine's feet arch off the floor and he feels the coil tight in his chest, a low rumble rolling off his lips as he struggles to maintain eye contact with Kurt kneeling between Blaine's legs like that, sleep-mussed hair falling across his forehead like that, with him smirking and flicking his tongue over Blaine's slit a last time before that beautiful mouth sinks hot and oh. He knows he can't and tips his head back, hands fisting in the sheets pulled around to the edge of the bed, desperately trying to hold onto something as Kurt remembers and maps every little spot, his hands coming to stroke tingling, confident lines across the soft crease of Blaine's hip to thigh and back again.

“Kurt,” he stutters hard, words suddenly difficult to form. His head falls forward again but he's so desperately close and opening his eyes is now a monumental task, so he settles for the soft broken beginnings of words and appreciative hums of sharp breaths spilling from his mouth. But if he lifts his eyelids barely, Kurt smiles as he pulls off and noses at the tip, smearing pre-come across his face but paying no mind, not now (later, please later), kissing the head affectionately before curling a slick hand around the base and Blaine can't help but jerk his hips forward and bite a whimpered fuck into the air because he's really –

Kurt swallows lazily, and Blaine feels the relieving trickle of tears tracking down his face as his muscles begin to unwind. Maybe it should be odd, or shameful, but it never feels like anything other than a physical manifestation of everything words can't express for him. Blaine blinks his eyes open and runs his wrist protectively over his cheek, because he's still not sure what to do like this, when his legs are still shaking and he feels a weight lifting from his shoulders like some pornographic miracle.

But after a moment Kurt leans up, fully awake and lips moving to make a sound that never quite makes it. Instead, he moves closer and kisses away the salt-tracks, licking softly at them, tongue leaving a thin residue of Blaine's come across his cheeks. It dries strangely on his skin, but he just squirms pleasantly and lets him, eyes closing again as though he could preserve the memory better by obscuring the visuals and focusing just on the coolness on his skin, on the way Kurt aligns their bodies and covers him like something fragile and precious. (For some reason, he doesn't mind.)

“You're perfect,” Kurt says quietly, slipping his fingers through Blaine's and nosing at his jaw, and how Blaine's heart still skips at that. They smile broadly at each other, suddenly like nervous teenagers again, before Kurt catches Blaine's lips in a heavy kiss, tongues pressing slow and familiar into each other, Kurt settling himself a warm weight in Blaine's lap with his fingers tangling in the loose curls he finds at the nape of Blaine's neck. Their eyes crinkle and kissing becomes awkward with smiling, but it's okay, because later they'll make it up to each other (I'll make it up to you in a minute, Blaine whispers against Kurt's lips).

In that later, after they are both unwound and clean, Blaine settles himself around Kurt's back and props himself on Kurt's shoulder, ignoring the tut of weak protest as he kisses the hem of a cotton shirt and says thank you in the most open of tones. He means it like he always does, because where is the point in lying when honesty makes for the lightest you've felt in a while?