Author's note. This should take place in an AUish future!fic I've been outlining, where a Blaine/Dave romance (fairly conflict-free in itself) causes a great deal of contention in Blaine's friendship with Kurt, and eventually requires some decade-late peace-making between him and Karofsky.

But I rather like how this bit works, just like it is here, with no explanation and no context. Hope you do too.

The sea life of Kamchatka.

As winter approaches, they spend their mornings off fleeing the sunlight that pours through the blinds. They always forget to close them in the evening, when they're left open to catch the last rays of sunlight in the dwindling November days. David's noted predilection for sleeping in a toasty bed within a nippy room means he doesn't mind the night chill; Blaine's reluctance to get up and close them himself, or even to let his bed warmer get up to do so, ensures that the situation won't be remedied until midmorning. By then, the thin autumn light has successfully flooded the bedroom, but at least it no longer spills directly onto their eyes.

Blaine quite likes this bedroom activity, really. There's abundant bedding and boyfriend to bury his face in and hide his eyes, and so he does.

David's body has plenty of firm, warm, muscled real estate on offer, but Blaine prefers the places where surface bone makes him hot and unyielding, like a river stone in the sun. His cheekbone inevitably ends up planted against his boyfriend's shoulder blade.

Blaine loves it; David loves it. Loves that Blaine loves it. That he seeks it, persistently, like their cat seeks sunlight to nap in.

Ordinarily, Blaine sleeps on his side, in a blanket-hogging fetal ball, improbably small for a man his age, invariably in the middle of the bed. Unless, of course, he has something to snuggle against. David, on the other hand, sleeps splayed on his belly, limbs spread far, claiming a disproportionate area of the mattress, his nose in the bed sheet and his pillow more above his head than beneath.

It's an excellent use of their bed, Blaine thinks. Even when compared to the many things they have done there—that David has done, made Blaine do, made Blaine say. As much as he likes it when his body ends up bare and flushed and so tired it's sore, his hair so sweat-soaked that it's broke into curls again...

He likes this just as much.

Great things can be said about sex. About fucking. But there is something beautiful about spending autumn mornings as a barnacle on a starfish.