Thanksgiving morning, Kurt oversleeps. Didn't set an alarm—he so rarely needs one. But it's after 8:30. He needed to get the turkey in the oven an hour ago. But it's not the end of the world. He's not as anxious about it as he would have been a year ago. He makes it upstairs by nine, and finds Carole putting the herb rub on the bird. The oven clicks as it preheats. She gives him a cheerful, "Good morning!" and points with her elbow, "coffee's fresh."

"Thank you," he says.

Looking out the window over the sink at the backyard, the light seems brighter and colors more vibrant. It could be the simple contrast with the palette his eyes have grown accustomed to in LA: concrete and metal and gray ocean, but this morning the world seems uncommonly pristine and perfectly made.

While Kurt's washing cranberries, Finn comes downstairs and into the kitchen, still in his pajamas. He grabs a glass, fills it with orange juice, and gives Kurt a sunny smile that lets Kurt know, everything is going to be fine.

That night, after dinner's cleared and the guests are gone, Kurt's yawning into his shoulder as the sink drains with a gurgle. The roasting pan and casserole dishes are air drying in the rack by the sink, and he's done. Kurt peels off his rubber gloves and washes the latex smell from his hands, which have gone pruney anyway. He's reaching under the sink for the hand cream Carole keeps there, when Finn comes into the kitchen. "You need a hand?" Finn asks.

"As always, your timing is perfect," Kurt says. "I just finished."

"Cool," Finn says. "Go put on something warm, I want to take you somewhere."

Kurt does. And they go out to the garage to Finn's old truck. It starts right away; the motor runs smooth and cat content. Finn shakes his head in wonder. "Burt's a genius."

"Where are we going?" Kurt asks, shivering even in his wool coat. He twists the climate control dial on the dash from blue to red—which results in a blast of still cold, toasted-dust scented air—and then tucks his gloved hands between his thighs as they back out.

"It's a surprise," Finn says.

"Ooo," Kurt says.

He doesn't expect their destination to be a frozen fallow field, so that is definitely a surprise. Finn's truck bumps over the ruts and makes Kurt's teeth rattle. The leftovers of last years' crop crunch under the tires. But Kurt hasn't forgotten this place: it's where they watched the meteor shower.

"I didn't realize you were so sentimental," Kurt says.

Finn laughs and brakes the truck. Turns to grab a pair of heavy stadium blankets from behind the seats. "Come on," he says, and pops his door open. The frigid night air bleeds into the cab quickly. Kurt tugs his hat lower to cover his ears, and gets out.

They climb into the bed of the truck together. The plastic bed-liner insulates them from direct contact with the metal floor of it. But it's still not warm, nothing like the muggy August night they sat together and watched the Perseid shower streak across the sky.

The cold, dry night brings clarity to the sky. The stars burn bright and vast, dazzlingly clear here in a way they aren't on the coast.

Kurt pulls the blanket close around his shoulders and turns his body toward Finn's for extra warmth. "I'm freezing my ass off," he complains.

"Yeah, this is a lot colder than I expected," Finn says. "I think California's made us soft."

"Is there a reason we're here?" Kurt asks. He doesn't think there're any astronomical events tonight. The moon is a cold, patient sliver of a waning crescent.

"I thought it would be romantic," Finn says.

"Oh," Kurt says.

"I was thinking about kissing you," Finn says, "and I wanted it to be right."

"Oh," Kurt says again.

"So here we are," Finn says. His breath puffs out in a starlit fog. "But I didn't think this through very well."

"No," Kurt says. "But it's nice. I appreciate the sentiment." He works one hand free from where he's got it tucked under his arm and carefully ventures to find one of Finn's hands. Tries to avoid inadvertent and inappropriate groping. Finn reaches back and they interlace their gloved fingers as best they can atop Finn's thigh.

"Hmm," Finn says. It's a skeptical, thoughtful sort of hum. "I guess I should ask you though. Do you want me to kiss you? Last night you said you wanted me to be sure, and I am, but... are you?"

It's harder to answer than Kurt ever thought it would be. He's so used to the way things are between them, so accustomed to thinking this would be impossible. He's become so good at treasuring the close moments between them without expecting more, he's scared of what will change. What the cost will be. But maybe just a kiss, from Finn... Kurt closes his eyes. He wants that badly. "It depends," he says.

"On what?"

He takes a deep, cold breath. "I want that, but could it be just a kiss? Because I don't know if I can— I'm not ready for more than that." He swallows hard. "What we have now is important to me. I can't lose—" Kurt breaks off before he tears up.

"Hey, no," Finn says, shifts beside him so they can meet each other's eyes. Finn's gaze is wide, glimmering in the night. "We're not losing anything, okay?"

Kurt hiccups a chuckle. "I don't even know what this means for you. I mean, are you bisexual or...?"

Finn's quiet for several heartbeats, but his fingers squeeze Kurt's tightly. "It took me a while to figure that out," he starts quietly, glances down. "I think, um. When I got to Alaska—it was so different from here. People didn't want to suffer with their secrets, you know? Or miss opportunities to feel good or connected. We were all there for the same reason, we were all staring into the abyss."

"So... you're saying people there were having a lot of omnivorous recreational sex?"

Finn laughs. "Not exactly. It was just a lot less judgmental. No one cared who you were with. Being with someone was better than being alone."

"Were you with anyone? While you were up there?"

"Not... not really. It took me a long time to loosen up. It wasn't until the second year that I started to, I don't know, be more open to myself?"

"After the Summer of Brandy?"

"That, and after some of the things I'd felt toward you that summer, things that had been hard to understand. Once I got back to Alaska, I let myself feel whatever I was feeling without trying to negate it. Does that make sense?"

"I don't know." Kurt tucks his chin behind his scarf.

"Yeah, you're lucky, I guess. You always knew who you were."

"I never felt lucky," Kurt says.

"No, sorry, of course not. That was a stupid thing to say. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I think I get what you're saying. That clarity helps, even if other factors don't."

"By the time I got to the Shatterdome, I'd stopped worrying about it so much. Figured I was attracted to people who were—" Finn wrinkles his nose, like he's unsure of the right word. "—beautiful to me, people who I had a connection with. Their gender didn't matter that much.

"It was easy with Quinn. Her first Drift partner was a woman, and they'd been close, you know? Intimate. She understood.

"And then you arrived, all grown up and gorgeous, and the way that hit me—it made things pretty clear. I guess, I got that clarity. So to answer your question, the answer is, yes. I'm bi."

"Okay," Kurt says. Surreal, in particular, to hear Finn call him gorgeous.

"Okay," Finn echoes. Nods. Rubs his thumb over the back of Kurt's hand. They watch the stars in silence. After a while, Finn speaks again. "I don't know what this is between you and me, but I don't want to keep ignoring it, now that I know how you feel. If you decide to put yourself forward as a candidate to pilot Romeo with me, things will change for us, Kurt."

Kurt looks at Finn and, for a moment, considers what happens if he doesn't. Finn pilots with someone else, and he and Finn— When he imagines it, he doesn't want to be left behind again. He wants to be there, with Finn, beside him. No matter what end they meet, it's right that it be together. And if he's ready to risk all of that, then surely he can do this now, when it's just he and Finn, alone within themselves and still separate, innocent in a way, untouched by the Drift, back here in the town where they grew up. It feels right. "Then I think you should kiss me," he says.

"Just a kiss?" Finn asks, and he reaches for Kurt, pushes his scarf down and cups his jaw with the prickly wool of his gloved hand.

"Just a kiss," Kurt whispers back.

Kurt's eyelids flutter closed as Finn ducks his head close. Finn's breath is warm; the bump of his nose against Kurt's cold. His lips are cool; his mouth is hot. It's soft and slow, and sends a frisson of delightful bliss to warm Kurt's entire body. He doesn't think he'll ever quite catch his breath again.

The clock is ticking, Finn needs a partner, and putting it off once Kurt's made his decision is pointless. So the evening of the day they get back to the Shatterdome, they're scheduled to go into the Drift together. It's a compatibility test only—they're not even in the Jaeger simulator, but instead, are in a dimly lit room in the J-Tech labs. He and Finn are seated side-by-side in white vinyl upholstered chairs. Finn's chair has a joystick mounted on the right arm; Kurt's joystick is mounted on the left. Behind them is a bank of computers, which Daphne is attending to. A wide transparent display takes up the space in front of them. One of the Drift techs, Sugar, is smearing viscous yellow data relay gel on Kurt's temples, forehead, and at the base of his skull. It smells like ham and new plastic. Kurt keeps his gaze on the leopard print kerchief knotted at Sugar's throat.

He's practicing his breathing, the way Finn taught him on the plane flight back, deep slow breaths into his belly to stimulate his vagus nerve and calm his autonomic response. Controlled exhalations out through pursed lips. He knows how to breathe to center himself for a fight, but this is not the same. Preparation to be cracked open to his deepest foundations as a person and not actually panic. Preparation to surrender himself to it.

Finn's fingertips touch his knuckles, draw his attention. "You okay?" Finn's helmet is already on. He's relaxed and smiling.

"I will be," Kurt says. Slips his right hand into Finn's left.

"Just don't chase the RABIT," Sugar says. It's the advice everyone has given him today. Don't get sucked in by the Random Access Brain Impulse Triggers, powerful memories the subconscious shuffles up, that surface and draw a person into reliving them. Sugar caps the relay gel and picks up the Pons helmet. Once it's fit snug on Kurt's head, the computers behind them give a cheerful bing. Kurt resists reaching back to soothe the pinch at the back of his neck.

"Ready?" Daphne asks.

"As I'll ever be," Kurt says.

"You'll probably feel like throwing up at first, but don't worry, people almost never do," Sugar says

"The initial bridge is easier if you close your eyes," Finn says, so Kurt does that.

And somewhere behind them, Daphne counts down from three and flips a switch.

It feels like his soul is being sucked out through his brain stem.

Nausea is only part of it, but he's glad his eyes are closed. At first, it's a dizzying whirl down into an infinitely small vortex. Then, it all everts. Not like an explosion—it just turns inside out, like pulling the toe of a stocking up through the leg, except there's no exit. A perpetual trip through a virtual Klein Bottle.

Then comes the riffle of memories:

Snow falling at night, fat flakes lit up like stars in the floodlights. His father—that is, Finn's father—teaching Finn how to make a snowball. Snow crusted on the palms of his blue mittens. School will be canceled tomorrow.

Lying on his stomach under the neighbor's coffee table. Their fluffy black cat lies next to him, patient but intimidating. Kurt is very gentle; the cat's fur is very soft.

A big yellow dog that lives down the street follows him everywhere when he's twelve. It means Finn never gets lost.

His father's wide callused hand around his at his mother's funeral. His trousers are horribly itchy.

Finn, crying, with two badly skinned knees. The school nurse cleaning gravel from them with tweezers and iodine. It's the worst pain he's ever felt.

Barefoot in white on woven mats. The first time Kurt takes a real hit: a kick to his stomach. His opponent, a serious square-faced girl with straight brown hair, a year older than him. Bigger than him. Shocking. Disorienting. But he stays on his feet, doubled over and gasping. Doesn't throw up. Doesn't cry. He wants to learn.

Finn passing his mother dinner plates as she wraps them in paper and stacks them in a box. The afternoon California sun flashes on the white porcelain. His mother is sniffing back tears. His father has been gone a month, and they're moving back to Ohio. Where there's family. Where it's safe. Finn's missed the snow.

The smell of his mother's perfume. Fresh and vivid, not faded and dusty like the drawers in her dresser.

Stealing a sip of his mother's coffee, because he's not supposed to have it. It's awful.

Bundling up his urine soaked jacket into the trunk of his car. Furious and ashamed.

Ejaculating in his pants the first time he makes out with a girl. Eighth grade. Her name is Shelly. "I didn't even touch you," she accuses him, insists. She's disdainful or scared or disgusted. Unforgiving. She doesn't want to look at him now. The humiliation is Finn's.

Jerking off in the shower while timidly but determinedly touching himself between his buttocks, because Kurt's overheard: that's how people like him have sex. He wants to know what it feels like. Slow and careful. He's scared it'll hurt. It doesn't.

Brandy guiding Finn's hand under her skirt. Between her legs she's hot and damp. He doesn't know what he's doing, but her smile is encouraging. He still comes before she does, but he makes sure she does come.

Midnight. Summer. Kurt naked on his bed, semen on his belly, chest heaving, stretching a cramp from his leg. He didn't have to touch his penis this time. It feels like an accomplishment. He feels very lonely.

Stepping off the plane in Alaska. Elated. Terrified. Proud, but alone.

His mother's heartbeat against his cheek. Steady in a world that feels too loud and too fast for Kurt sometimes.

Making love to Quinn the first time. He knows what to do. He feels so safe.

Seeing Finn in the corridor at school. Blue shirt under red jacket. Superman's here.

The taste of waffles and maple syrup and fresh peaches in Finn's mouth. Kurt ironing a shirt. His hands are so precise. He's scowling and severe. But when did he become this beautiful?

On and on and on... more than Kurt can catalog or mark.

Kurt fights to keep breathing steadily. His eyes are hot and full of tears. He can't tell if they're open or closed. He's swamped with an amalgam of every emotion he's ever experienced, overlaid with Finn's. They have different flavors, his familiar, Finn's startling and new.

Finn carries more fear than Kurt would have guessed. More sadness, too. Self-doubt and moments of confusion. But a stalwart desire—a need—coded so deeply in his psyche, to become the man he can be most proud of. To be among the ones who charge into the chaos and destruction and not away from it. One who won't back down. One who leads and loves well, inspires and protects. It's Finn's idealized self Kurt perceives—along with all the ways Finn feels he's less than that. He doesn't realize he's more, and Kurt wonders what Finn sees of him that's new.

"You're doing very well, Kurt," Daphne says. "Keep doing what you're doing." Finn squeezes his hand.

And then it evens out, into a calm that's sleek as satin. Floating in the moment. One mind, one consciousness. A fathomless ocean below of all they are. The trick is to stay on the surface, ride the gentle waves. Keep it in the frontal lobe. So far so good.

"Neural bridge complete," Daphne says.

« open your eyes »

The prompt comes as intention and concept more than words. A thought between them, in Kurt's mind, originating within Finn's. The thought, a most gentle imperative, it has a complex timbre: encouragement, a deep well of affection, anticipation. Faith.

Kurt's tangled wet lashes come apart reluctantly. He opens his eyes, and—blessedly—he is looking out from his own eyes. He's not suffering double vision. The screen ahead of them displays a maze of white lines. There's a red ball at the entrance. Their goal is to move the ball toward the exit without bumping into the walls of the maze. As they go, the maze will rotate, making it a challenge. The rules are simple enough; he flexes his left hand around the joystick.

Turns to look at Finn. Finn's smiling back at him, and Kurt apprehends the swell of his love and the steadiness of his trust. Kurt feels the same way, in his own way.

"Let's start," Daphne says, and the red ball blinks.

They get a score of eighty-eight percent. Good. Excellent for a first attempt, even. If they both agree, they'll continue with a run in the simulator tomorrow. Kurt nods his assent. Finn too. In unison. Then Daphne shuts down the neural link.

It's hard to speak after the disconnection of the Pons system. His conscious collapses back into his own physical limits, but he feels flayed open at the molecular level. Thinks, maybe, he wants to be alone, to try to seal the lingering sense of psychic ruptures before he tries to even talk to Finn—or another human—again.

He waits for Sugar to clean the gel off his skin, while his heart rabbits in his chest.

Looks at Finn when they both stand up.

"I need to—" he starts, resisting the urge to bolt out the door.

Doesn't need to finish. Finn's been in his head. "Yeah, sure." Gentle smile. Tinged with a melancholy trepidation. Worried this was too much after all, Drift compatibility be damned. Kurt understands, but doesn't have an answer for himself or Finn.

He showers and dresses for bed. Lies on his bunk in the dark. The darkness is pierced only by the red LED on the comm screen to show it's powered. His head is a jumble. Like pieces of Finn are stuck in him. Memories and sensations and feelings that are not his own. He's heard of ghost-drifting, of Rangers experiencing a lingering connection and emotional bleed after sharing the Drift. Is this that? They weren't bridged that long.

The dinner hour comes and goes and Kurt's skin crawls in the silence. It's not only the disconnection, he doesn't think. Passing the Drift compatibility has made this all more real, brought distant dreams into high, immediate definition and brought long held secrets into the light. It's all happening so fast. Can he keep up? All the people who are relying on him, people whose friendship and respect have come to mean so much to him. If he gets into Romeo Blue with Finn—will he ultimately be enough?

In the dark he feels untethered. It's not calming. Blood pumps deafeningly through his body and the loneliness and doubt creeps in, worse than anything. The feelings are, he realizes, not only his own.

He's off the bed before he's even agreed to the impulse. Grabs a sweater to pull on over his t-shirt and shoves his bare feet into his slippers.

He doesn't think about it or question it, he just crosses the corridor and knocks on Finn's door, knows he'll be there.

Finn opens the door looking weary. "Oh, thank god," he says and pulls Kurt inside by his wrist, pulls him closer, into his arms, and presses a kiss to his temple.

They don't speak, and Kurt understands, they still don't need to. Finn leads him to his bunk and they lie down together, clothed. Finn's barefoot, and Kurt toes his slippers off blindly, kicks them off the end of the bed, squirms out of his sweater, and then rolls into Finn's arms. Breathes against his chest, and holds tight. His skin still seethes, and his mind is churning full of pieces not his own, floating about like glitter in a recently shaken snow globe. Being close, it doesn't stop, but it feels better.

The comm screen in Finn's room plays low volume nonsense. An infomercial for an autonomous, intelligent robotic vacuum cleaner. The previous models' stupidity is shown in a montage of minor household catastrophes, terrified house pets, and crying toddlers.

Finn rubs his back, slides a warm open palm under Kurt's t-shirt along his naked spine. It's immediately compelling, the skin to skin contact. As if all the cells of his body are oriented to all the cells of Finn's and they want to reconnect. Finn kisses the top of his head and digs his fingers into the muscles over Kurt's shoulder blades. It draws Kurt more securely against him. Kurt shivers as he warms at the contact. Bliss. He's never been held like this.

More is possible, if he chooses it. He's seen some of Finn's desire, and Finn has seen his. But Finn also knows Kurt's reluctance. This closeness Finn has experienced before with others. It's entirely new for Kurt. And having it with Finn, it wasn't even a hope. Which makes it seem a fragile thing. Hard to pull from his mind a fantasy so long thought unobtainable and enact it into reality.

But he could. The possibility itself is a gift. He wants to enjoy that overabundance of choice without pressure to make one. This is enough for now.

Though sleep doesn't feel like it's among his possible choices, he closes his eyes. Lets Finn soothe them both. Eventually Finn turns off the comm screen and then the lights. Sleep does come. Kurt doesn't wake till dawn.

Finn's alarm goes off at six AM: his phone blaring "Don't Stop Believin'".

Kurt sits up with a start, wide awake all at once. With an audible yawn, Finn rolls to his back.

"God, I'm starving," Kurt declares. He turns back to look at Finn, who is stretching his arms and smiling up at Kurt. The bottom of his pajama top has ridden up, and Kurt can see the whorl of hair around his belly button. Sees then, too, with a rush of heat blanking out his brain, the thick column of Finn's erection behind the thin cotton of his sleep pants. Everything about Finn's posture grants permission.

"Good morning," Finn says, unabashed and making no move to cover himself. He's seen Kurt's reaction though, surely. His gaze on Kurt's face roves, curious and keen.

That he could reach out and touch— Talking may be necessary again. "Is that because of me?" Kurt blurts.

"Partially," Finn says easily, blinks lazily.

"Which part?" Kurt asks. Nonsense, but it's what comes out of his mouth.

Finn laughs. "I had it when I woke up about a half hour ago. Having you close kept it around."

And Kurt knows in a flash, because that knowledge is shuffled into his memory store now. "You usually... uh... take care of that sort of thing before you get up."

"I do." Finn's gaze on him glows warm and steady.

Kurt can't breathe. "Well," he says with more air than volume. Bold beyond his usual standards for reason. "Don't let me stop you."

With a quirk of his eyebrows and a tuck of his bottom lip between his teeth, Finn reaches down to palm himself. He hums softly and keeps his attention fixed on Kurt, and—oh god—that's hot.

"What do you want me to do?" Kurt asks. Still feels like everything coming out of his mouth is preempting his ability to consider his words and impulses. But after the Drift, shame and embarrassment are remote.

"Are you getting hard?" Finn asks.

"Yes," Kurt says.

"Let me see?"

"Oh god." Kurt rips apart the snaps of his fly and brings his cock out, pulsing fatter in his hand just as Finn shimmies his pajamas down his hips and bares himself to Kurt. "Oh god," Kurt says again.

"Take your shirt off?" Finn asks, pulling up the gorgeous length of his cock. The ruddy crown gleams at the tip. "You don't have to... uh... do anything. I just want to look at you."

Kurt hauls his t-shirt off, and makes a quarter turn on the bed to face Finn better. Bare torso, naked dick jutting out from his open pajama pants. He's not sure where to put his hands. So he plants them behind himself, leans back, arches his back and lifts his ribcage.

"You're so fucking pretty," Finn says, working his hand in an even, quick tempo. "You don't even know." The brazen, erotic admiration feels good. Being a spectacle for Finn's pleasure is even better. The safety of it, too. Just knowing and being known down to their soul foundations. No secrets, no shame.

"Well, I do have abs," Kurt says with a twist of his shoulders and a twitch of a grin.

Finn's chuckle is breathless. A flush blooms across his chest. His gaze is shadowed and hot. "You got a lot of mileage out of that, huh?"

"I sure did." Kurt's gaze travels from Finn's face to the flex of his biceps, to the muscles cording in his forearm, to his fist jerking his cock faster now—and rougher. The movement blurs.

"I'm glad," Finn says. It's more of a gasp. His eyes roll back, his thighs tense, and his hips lift off the bed. He comes with a stuttering, relieved groan. Kurt watches the semen spurt across his belly. Shining white against his tanned skin and the dark sweeping trail of hair. A shudder takes Kurt then, a surge of sharp pleasure, like an echo of Finn's orgasm. Kurt's breathing just as hard as Finn is when Finn lets go of his dick and opens his eyes.

Just barely, Kurt has the wherewithal to pass Finn the box of tissues sitting on the shelf beside his bunk. Knows without being told: Finn doesn't like to let semen stay on his skin for long.

One boundary, shockingly easily crossed. Kurt isn't sure he has in it him to cross another just yet. He fastens his fly while Finn wipes himself clean.

"You need a hand?" Finn offers.

"I'll, just— In the shower," Kurt says, makes a vague gesture.

"Okay," Finn says, without a trace of disappointment.

Kurt stands up. "I hate to perv on you and leave, but..." He waves at the clock. They have a date with the simulator at eight sharp, and Kurt is still very hungry.

"Yeah, go. I'll see you in the mess."

Kurt's halfway through his scrambled eggs when he hears a familiar, "Hey, Kurt." It's Blaine, seating himself across the table from him. "Welcome back."

"Hi," Kurt says. Nice to see Blaine's smiling face. Makes him feel, weirdly, home. He's been missing Quinn already. "How are you? How's Romeo running?"

"Like a thoroughbred," Blaine says. "I missed you last night, but I heard you and Finn got a good compatibility score."

"Um," Kurt glances down; heat creeps up his neck. He resists the urge to apologize. "Yeah, we did all right."

"That's great, Kurt," Blaine says. As always, brightly sincere. "I'm happy for you."

"So, we're in the simulator today," Kurt says. Tight grin.

"Nervous?"

"Mmhm," Kurt says. "The whole lack of Academy training issue persists."

"You'll be fine," Blaine says. "Honestly, it's not that different from the X-Box sims we all played as kids. It uses most of the same code and models. I found the simulators here easier in many ways, because the interface is better. Did you know they made those games to be recruitment tools?"

"I didn't actually know that," Kurt says.

"Mmm." Blaine nods. Times like this, it's uncanny how well he reads Kurt's mood, easily filling in the silence that would stretch too long and uncomfortably. "They wanted a generation of kids who'd be ready for this war," he continues. "You've probably got more training than you realize." He carries on, telling Kurt the history of the Jaeger game sims and their relationship to the simulators used in the PPDC training programs. It's got Kurt feeling new confidence by the time he's finished his eggs and started on his hash browns.

Finn arrives shortly after that. With a pat of Kurt's shoulder, Finn sits down next to him with a bowl of apple cinnamon oatmeal, toast and peanut butter, and a green smoothie. His sweetly crooked (and knowing) smile makes Kurt's insides knot up in the same ticklish-hot way they used to when Kurt was a hopeless pining fifteen year old. Under the table, Finn squeezes his thigh. Kurt hides his blush by downing the last of his third cup of coffee.

Six of six kills in the simulator before they break until tomorrow morning. Four hours deep in the Drift with Finn. Four hours in a cradle driving a fake robot killing CG monsters. Kurt's legs feel like liquid, and his brain feels like it's been under structural renovations.

If not for the support of the Drivesuit, he'd already be lying on the floor. He grasps the bar along the wall of the Drivesuit room and grits his teeth while a Drivesuit tech—she introduced herself as Dottie—unsnaps the spinal clamp from the suit.

Blaine was right: the simulator, with its immersive environment and haptic feedback, proves easier, at least in terms of coordination. The Drift makes mutual decisions lightning quick. Each Kaiju they fought, though, Kurt knew. Some of them he'd even fought before with Finn, in the sim on Finn's old X-Box. They were all Kaiju that'd been fought and defeated. They worked their way up from Karloff to Hardship, Ceramander to Onibaba, Miscreant to Yamarashi. He knew their capability, had studied all the past battles. But every Kaiju that comes through the Breach is a new creature and presents a new challenge.

"You think they learn," Finn says. He's beside Kurt, and another tech—Trent—kneels behind him, unfastening his boots.

"It seems impossible," Kurt says. "I mean, we kill them, right? We've never found one with a phone in its pocket. They can't be phoning home to say, with their dying breath, 'Hey, Uncle Meathead, watch out for the plasma lance on the blue and white one—it only has a thirty second recharge—and make sure you go for the head! Oh, and pro-tip: grow extra horns before you come, and please tell mom I won't be home for dinner.'"

Finn snorts with laughter, but responds seriously. "But they are getting harder to kill. They're definitely getting better at beating us."

"I don't understand it," Kurt says. He wants to talk to Tina.

But first he needs to lie down before he falls down. Preferably with Finn, before he starts feeling too itchy and disjointed.

"Shower first," Finn says. "And you're not skipping lunch, or you'll feel like hell later."

"There better be room service," Kurt grumbles, but he does think he'll feel better washing the sweat and traces of relay gel off himself.

The showers are, thankfully, right off the Drivesuit room. And it's easier to move without the weight of the suit itself. He and Finn share a stall that's made for two: it's wide, two adjustable shower heads, and two seats. Metal bars bolted to the white tile provide hand holds. The rubbery legs problem must be a common one. Gratefully, Kurt sits and slides the shower head lower. Washes his hair with both a grimace and the 3-in-1 shampoo-conditioner-bodywash provided. Generic chemical clean-scented cyan liquid. He'll survive.

"Now you know what they do with the Kaiju Blue," Finn says, scrubbing under his arms.

"I almost believe you."

Kurt wonders briefly at the complete absence of modesty. Maybe when you've seen and accepted the most intimate vulnerable human details of another person and are seen in return, taboos degrade into meaninglessness. All the mismatched fragments of shame a person carries—as if they're the only one—are shown to be a lie.

And Quinn was right. Experiencing the quality of another person's love for you, it becomes a stable invariant fact. Not an act of faith or trust any longer, but a new constant in a private shared universe. The body Finn's washing, for all of Kurt's complex longing and (current) appreciative visual survey, may as well be his own. It's weird, in part, because it should be weirder but it's not.

The closest there is to room service is Finn going down to the mess to get food for them both, while Kurt wobbles back to his quarters, still in a terry robe from his shower, clutching the bundle of his clothes against his chest. Finn promises to meet him there.

With Finn absent from his company, Kurt feels hollowed out. Lonely again. Prickling with potential, a live wire in need of grounding. It's not exactly sexual, he understands as he considers it. It's just there. Or not there. He drops his clothes in the chair by the wall and flops down onto his bed. The relief at being horizontal is astounding. Hopes it doesn't take his body too long to get used to the exertion of piloting the Jaeger. Supposes the patrols themselves are a way of cultivating the endurance of Rangers.

Pushes up to his elbows an instant before the knock on his door. Uncanny. "Come in," Kurt calls.

Finn's got a prodigious armload of plastic wrapped sandwiches, chips, bars both protein and candy, water bottles, yogurt, fruit cups, and—dangling from his fingers—a six pack of canned protein drinks.

"Jesus," Kurt says.

"I'm putting some of this in your mini-fridge," Finn says. "It's a good idea to have extra food in your room."

He throws a sandwich at Kurt's head. The throw is—of course—well aimed, but Kurt's reflexes and arms are shot. He can only duck. The sandwich hits the wall behind Kurt with a thud. "Thanks." It's wheat pita with shredded romaine, carrot, and chicken salad. It's the best tasting thing he's ever eaten.

Finn passes him a super sized Snicker's bar, a full-size bag of Fritos, a vanilla flavored protein drink boasting of its 25 grams, and a bottle of water. He sits on the bed, near its foot, perpendicular to Kurt, leaning against the wall, and unwraps a sandwich for himself.

"Does it always make you this hungry?" Kurt asks. He lies on his side, braced on a bent elbow. Folds his knees so he can tuck his feet against Finn's thigh, and Finn drops a hand to stroke Kurt's ankle.

Finn nods. "You burn so many calories," he says. "You need to eat a lot."

"I'm surprised no one's got out there with a Jaeger Cradle Workout Youtube channel."

"Sounds like a good business plan for after the war," Finn says. "Soccer moms'll love it."

Kurt laughs into the neck of his water bottle, clears his mouth with a sip. "It's the Drift, too though—that's a lot of neural energy."

Finn nods around a mouthful. Swallows. "I should have warned you last night. I'm sorry."

"It's not a perfect relay for information," Kurt says with a shrug.

"It'll be a lot more when we get in Romeo. It's like you can feel the weight of the machine in your brain."

"When do you think we will?"

"Depends," Finn says. "The Marshal will look over Daphne's reports and our simulation performance. You'll need to pass your—"

"—fitness test," Kurt says. "Yeah, wow." It doesn't bear thinking about in his current state.

They finish eating in an increasingly fatigue glazed silence, and then, blessedly, Finn takes off his shoes, belt, and watch, and lies down with Kurt. Spoons up behind him and slides his hand into the open top of Kurt's robe, rests his hand over Kurt's breastbone. The pleasure and comfort of that small touch is profound, but Kurt is exhausted to his bones. "Sleep a little if you can," Finn says. "I'll be right here."

A little sleep is all Kurt can manage. His brain won't settle into REM, keeps kicking him back with ill-fitting dreams made from memories not wholly his own. The one that finally rouses him completely is a sex dream about Quinn. Even after he opens his eyes, he can still taste her. And, god, he's achingly hard. It's bizarre to be channeling a memory of Finn's arousal more than his own.

"You okay?" Finn asks. "Your heart's going crazy." He pets Kurt's hair. It's floppy and soft, fresh from the Kaiju Blue 3-in-1. "You're sweating. Feels like you have a fever." The timbre of Finn's voice is warm, a seductive tease. He presses his groin against Kurt's ass, and Kurt feels the shift of Finn's cock growing hard. Finn's well aware of Kurt's state.

"Weird dream," Kurt says, squirming in Finn's arms as his phantom arousal turns into something more substantial and irrefutably his own. "But I'm awake now."

"I can tell," Finn says, and his lips brush the side of Kurt's neck. Electric longing. Kurt shivers and sighs a soft moan. "I know what you'd like," Finn says. His hand drifts down to the tie of Kurt's robe. "I know how to make you feel better. May I?"

"Yes," Kurt says. The ghost of the Drift is less now, but not gone completely. He senses Finn's marveling, his anticipation. He opens Kurt's robe and wraps his palm around Kurt's stiff cock. It's like closing a circuit, the way that the touch jolts so hard between them.

Each measured stroke of Finn's hand is a bright shock. Kurt's helpless, drawn into a torrential current of pleasure. It starts to crest almost immediately, faster and stronger than it's ever been by his own hand. For an instant, he's afraid of coming far too soon, but that swiftly turns to laughter, because he knows that's not a problem here. He comes, joyfully. His laughter hiccups into a ragged cry as his climax seizes his body. Finn's hand moves ceaselessly beneath the drape of terry cloth, milking every last blissful twinge from Kurt.

Dazed, he licks his lips and settles back into his skin. Finn lets go. Kurt wonders if it's normal for it to all be so quick and intense. Not that he's disappointed—it felt incredible. He feels, yeah, so much better. But—

"Everything's super new for you," Finn says quietly. "Your nervous system is massively hyped up right now. It'll adjust, and this kind of thing will... last longer."

That makes sense. "I want to kiss you," Kurt says, tipping back against Finn. Finn shifts to give him room to roll to his back. Kurt's robe falls open, and he doesn't care. Just pulls Finn's face down toward his own. Kisses him without any attempt at technique beyond the simple wanting of it.

"When Finn pulls back, his smile is new—not one Kurt knows how to read exactly. "Are you okay?" he asks.

Finn exhales. "Yeah. This is—with you—it's..." Finn sighs shakily, blinks, and his gaze goes bright.

"Hey," Kurt says, pushing up to his elbows, concerned.

"I'm fine," Finn reassures. "I'm great, in fact. This is all just kind of overwhelming. In a good way. In the best way."

Kurt smiles, relieved, and he looks down Finn's body. "In that case," he says, reaching down to touch the tie of Finn's waistband with one fingertip. He bites his bottom lip and glances up. "May I?"

"Yes."