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You don't remember when you first met Kurloz any more. It's been a long time since then, though; you know that much. He says hello silently with a slight tilt of the head and the upward pull at the edges of his lips. His eyes are lifeless and empty, but his face is expressive and lively. Some time when neither of you really knew each other, he would squint at you and sign rapid-fire to the exciteable deaf girl. The deaf girl explained to you later that it was just weird seeing someone new in the bubbles after so long. Nobody could tell you how long they'd been there. He seemed to have asked around about who you were, but...You felt like an ass for asking around about him and his stitches once you heard the story. You just sort of wanted to know. After all, he stood out even in the ragtag group of weirdos that "lived" in the bubbles.
You got to know him with Meulin acting as his translator until you learned enough sign language to understand on your own. He refused to write anything he said down for you, but seemed at least a little happy when you started to learn to speak with motion. You became some sort of dynamic trio over the eons, bright-dead-eyed and fast-handed. She told you how she went deaf and how he went mute and pulls you closer while he stays distant. Sometimes you feel an itching in the back of your skull like pinpricks around them. He's kind of religious, but it's not offenseive or rude or anything so you don't much care. It just slips in now and then, hands working in a reference to messiahs or saviors when a related topic pops up. It's only you and Meulin around when he does anyway, so the red-sweatered guy never gets mad about it.
Some of the others try to warn you off him for some weird reason. They just say he's creepy or unnerving, or in one case, "skeevy". You're pretty sure the wannabe greaser is the skeevy one here. It's probably just a combo of his get-up and his muteness that freaks them out anyhow. You told him about it and he just flicked his wrist out from his temple in an absent "I don't care" gesture before steering the conversation toward some of the wackier relationship dynamics that had recently developed in their group with Meulin. It seems to be his general response to questions or comments about himself, except for an apparently uncomfortably invasive question that got him to cross his arms in an "X" and frown. You refrained from taking part in the relationship statuses conversations from then on.
The hills are rolling grassy green with wide-branched oaks dotting the landscape where the three of you sit. Little splotches of grey or black on the horizon let you know the others are still around, though. Meulin is explaining how to make some kind of fluffy cake that you're eating while you watch clouds in the slate grey sky. The moons are bloated and huge, watching closely through the haze. Meulin quiets down and you look over your shoulder, eyebrow raised. Kurloz is staring at you, hands folded in his lap. He seems analytical and detached; he might as well be calculating traffic statistics. You feel a little dizzy for a moment before he circles a hand against his chest in a quick "sorry" and raises his eyes skywards. Meulin looks puzzled and wonders aloud if she made the cake wrong. You snort and tell her not to say that when her friend is eating said cake.
--
Meulin is busy with something or other, maybe squealing with her dancestor or plotting detailed romantic possibilities, and you're left alone with Kurloz in the usual place by the cloudy blue water of the pond. He looks at you expectantly, and you stare right back. He smiles and suggests a walk, sensing the awkward atmosphere. You agree and almost immediately find yourself on a relatively calm beach with the moons just crawling above the waves. Kurloz studies your face, then smiles and shrugs when you explain the implications of a moonlit walk on the beach in your culture to him. He doesn't start walking until you do, a half-step behind you with his hands shoved into his pockets. The beach is all rough yellow grain and roaring waves, broken shells littering the wet sand under the surf. It's a bit of a weird feeling walking down the shoreline as though you were alone. He's absolutely silent. His steps don't crunch in the sand and he hardly leaves footprints.
You turn to him and ask if he visited this beach a lot in life. His eyelids twitch down and he shrugs. It's damn near impossible to get a read on him. The three of you are almost always together, so why should he feel the need to keep being so closed off and, well, blank? You ask him why with a frown and he pulls his hands from his pockets and signs a quick "I like you". You ask him to repeat himself-Maybe you misinterpreted the motions? He deadpans while pointing to himself, presses a hand on his chest and deliberately slowly pinches his thumb and middle finger together, then points at you. That's a bit...sudden, but he smiles and reminds you that you were the one who asked. His form is backlit by the moons, pale light filtering into a halo through his hair. His eyes are opalescent, reflecting the moons that have swung high into the night sky. You blink hard and he's smiling brightly at you, suggesting you head back and see if Meulin wants to hang out. You head back down the beac with Kurloz beside you, absently smiling.
--
Kurloz catches you outside the central plaza with a casual wave, and you drift over and take a seat on a remembered bench. He hands you a necklace as offhandedly as can be, asking if you want to get a snack or a drink from the vault. You gape for a moment, then ask why he gave you a necklace out of the blue. He smirks and shrugs. You sign "You like me" with a raised eyebrow and he nods, grinning as best he can with the wire pressing into his lips. You dig through your pocket until you find an old pin you liked and silently pin it to his shirt. When you're done you sign "I like you" in the same careless way he does, and he actually laughs. His lips pull on the wire as they pull wide and his shoulders shake. He signs a quick thanks and eyes the pin on his shirt as best he can. He gives a thumbs-up and drapes an arm over your shoulders as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
You spend the better part of the, night? day? afternoon or some glorious mix of dawn and twilight pressed against his side and watching people real and remembered pass. Sometimes he runs his fingers through your hair, flicks out lazy signs, lets you completely take over his lap until his legs fall asleep. He doesn't kiss you, not with his mouth strung shut. He acts like he doesn't have a mouth. You don't need to eat or drink when you're dead, you guess. You rest your head on his shoulder and he rests his head on yours. It's a perfect comfort to feel his arms loosely around your waist, silently supporting and keeping you close. Meulin squeals at you when she stops by, grabbing up your hands and bouncing up and down, yelling that the two of you look so cute together and how proud she is and calling you both precious babies. Kurloz pulls his arms away from you to sign rapid-fire to her, lazy hands slurring the words. Meulin oohs and winks deliberately, making little pew-pew motions at you as she sidesteps away, giggling furiously. He shrugs when you eye him suspiciously.
He nuzzles your neck while he resettles his hand on your hip, pulling you close. His white opalescent eyes envelop you, pull you in, have you pressing kisses to his cheek and throat. He's gorgeous, handsome, strange and wonderful. He chuckles deep in his throat when the red-sweatered troll glares at you from across the plaza, daring you to continue so he could throw a veritable fit and lecture you on the inappropriateness of PDA. You stand and offer Kurloz your hand, smiling as he draws up and follows you down the street. The little red troll seems disappointed, and Kurloz jokes that you should have kept going just to piss him off. It's hard to talk with one hand so the both of you go quiet as you step over broken cobblestones. He's still a step behind you even with his strong hand in yours, a shadow.
He taps your shoulder as you pass a white brick building, leading you in by the hand. The door connects to another memory, seamlessly stitched into the patchwork. It's his hive you suppose, though its bare walls hardly seem homey. He tugs you further in, smiling. There are cushions and clubs littering his room, as well as a recooperacoon and computer. He's embarrassed by the untidyness, not the bareness, of his home. It somehow seems to fit him perfectly, though. He keeps nothing for himself but works doggedly for others. At least, that's the comparison you make in your mind as he strokes your hair and nudges some of the cushions together with his foot. He rests a palm over your tailbone and between your shoulders, pulling you tight against him. He smiles apologetically, apparently unsure if you still want to kiss despite his lips being sewn together. You kiss him square on the mouth as an answer and feel the wire in his skin pressing back.
You both sit in the small pile of cushions, twining fingers and legs. He wipes a smudge of grey paint from your lips and pulls you into his lap. He slides a hand up your thigh and nuzzles the nape of your neck lovingly. You twist around to steal another kiss, burying your fingers in his wild hair while he unbuttons your jeans and slides a hand between the two layers of fabric. You absently play with his hair while he rubs you through your underwear, feeling his cool breath on your neck. His free arm pulls you tight to his chest and lifts you slightly, using his other hand to shove your jeans and underwear down to mid-thigh. You awkwardly kick them off while he smiles into your neck and rubs his thumb over the curve of your hip. He slips his hand back between your legs when you're finished, gentle and firm. His fingers are deft and smooth, switching between toying with your entrance and caressing your clit. He rests his other hand on your breast as he hooks his fingers into you, switching to using the soft side of his thumb to tease out breathy moans.
Kurloz twitches and looks at you confusedly when you swat at his hand, but obligingly withdraws. He looks amused but uncomfortable when you wriggle around to face him in his lap and start fussing with the latch on his shorts. He patiently waits until you have his fly open and lifts his hips just enough for you to yank his shorts off. Even though you were in his lap, you didn't feel his now very obviously unsheathed bulge which is lazily coiling against his groin. He smirks up at you and settles his hands on your waist, watching you carefully. You pull his bulge up and guide it inside you, taking it in slowly. He's still smiling softly when you finally work your hips down to his. He signs "Can I?" with a hopeful face, shifting to brace his shoulders against the cushions and his feet against the floor. When you nod you feel his hips start to subtly rock beneath you. He works up a decent pace once he's sure you're comfortable and dutifully follows any instructions you give.
You have no idea how he's not struggling for breath with all the urging you've given him, faster, harder, more, but he's still just calmly smiling and holding you at the waist. Wherever his paint has smeared thin, though, you can see indigo rising through. His hips jolt and catch you off balance, toppling you onto his chest with a startled squeak. You're about to push yourself back up, using your hands for support, but he wraps one strong arm around your waist and strokes along your spine with the tips of his fingers. He resumes bucking his hips up into you while you're still sprawled against him and the angle somehow feels more comfortable, or at least less challenging. You can feel his bulge flicking inside you as he closes in on his finish, straining to hold back as best he can. His brows pinch and his hands twitch on your back, adams apple bobbing uncertainty as he climaxes in spite of himself and pours thick indigo slurry inside you with a look of shame and satisfaction. To make up for it, he keeps rocking into you despite the over-sensitivity he must be feeling. It only takes a minute for you to reach your own climax, moaning against his neck while he works out the last of your shivers.
When you finish, you roll off and settle at his side, watching his face relax back into an easygoing smile. He reaches out and strokes your hair, propping himself up on one elbow to gaze down at you. He sits up after a long moment and makes a face at the ruined cushions under the two of you, kicking them away halfheartedly. When you snicker and pull him back down he silently complies with an embarrassed sidelong glance. As the two of you bathe in the afterglow you become sure that this is who you want to spend your afterlife with.