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[personal profile] generaljanuary

In Lima, Kurt Hummel scrunches up his nose as he peels off his grease-stained coveralls after a long day at the garage. He cringes when he hears loud, boisterous laughter coming from the working area.

In Westerville, Blaine Anderson sits on the bed of his childhood bedroom and stares at the luggage he hasn’t fully unpacked since he’s been back home about four months ago.
The year is 2018, this is Ohio.

***


Blaine Anderson, at 24, is a man who tends to value self-awareness. If he is completely honest with himself, he knows that he's not much less naïve (or, you know, stupid) than he was at sixteen.
Sixteen is Dalton and the Warblers and sneaking up alone on the rooftop of Rasler Hall; eyes closed, slow deep breaths and the touch of the breeze on his face. It's a sensation he now associates with the pure notion of youth, that feeling he had back then; like he could throw himself in the void and the wind would simply pick him up and carry him wherever he needed to be. Looking back, Blaine's a little glad he never shared his secret rooftop musings with anyone. Any sane person would have thought him suicidal, but it was actually the exact opposite; an intense, overwhelming confidence in life.


He used to be a little too intense at romance; wanted to believe in love at first sight and soul mates. He likes to think that wisdom does come with age; that his approach towards love and relationships has matured with him. He now believe in I-want-to-know-everything-about-you at first sight; a tug in his gut, a slow tickle down his spine, a blindsiding spark of tenderness for a stranger. An intense and instantaneous attraction staggering him from just the right combination of shoulder slant, crop of hair around an ear shell and waist well accentuated by a belt. Blaine doesn't have a type, really. It's a pleasant surprise every time. Who catches his attention, what his brains chooses to remember and project against the back of his eyelids at night when he closes his eyes. While Blaine isn't nearly as intense as he used to be and doesn't believe in destiny per se, he likes to believe that sometimes the universe sends hints, instincts. Friendly little pushes in the right direction.


Blaine’s been back in Ohio for a few months now, but it’s only his second night out at the Alterno. The establishment--that opened while Blaine was away at college-- prides itself in being the only gay bar in Westerville. Blaine had been dubious at first, but he had to admit that it was nice not having to drive all the way to Columbus for a good time and since the Alterno was indeed the only alternate bar around, it had a little bit of everything for everyone. Blaine is completely ready to spend another night hanging out in a quieter, warmly lit part of the nightclub, nursing a beer and watching men interact, feeling only a little bit creepy and out of place, when he notices the slight, elegant man leaning casually over the bar, waiting for his drink. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to reveal pale, long forearms that are resting on the surface of the counter. One of his angled legs is bent at the knee, the square-toed end of his shiny black shoes tapping against the floor to the beat of the music.


Blaine, Nothing-is-a-coincidence-Blaine, really can't bring himself to simply let it go. He would recognize the stranger anywhere. In fact, Blaine remembers spending most of his last night out admiring the man’s silhouette and the careful way he carries himself. Blaine remembers his first night back in Ohio in strange, explosive bursts of emotion that the memory of the attractive, stranger paints in even darker colors.


It's nothing like a little tug, what he feels in his stomach. He feels like he's been punched- and Blaine knows a thing or two about being punched in the stomach. All the air slips out of his lungs, quick and uncontrolled; like it was tied to a string that is suddenly being pulled with force. It's not a mere combination of nice features, the imprint this man makes in Blaine's mind, it's like successfully slotting two seemingly unfitting puzzle pieces together. Blaine didn't think it was possible to be so unexpectedly startled by a stranger’s appearance and demeanour upon second sight.


The bartender slides a tall glass filled with a clear concoction to the man who nods his thanks with a half-smile. He turns around and rests his back and elbows on the countertop, takes a sip from his drink- a mojito if judging by the twig of mint twirled through the crushed iced- and casts a glance across the room, his gaze slow and heavy. His eyelids are slightly lowered over his wandering eyes, as if weighted down by long lashes that Blaine notices from a distance when the strobe lights catch them just right. A careless, casual grace surrounds his silhouette and for half a second he looks bored, uninterested. Then Blaine cocks his head to the side and his perception shifts; the foot tapping is a little faster than the tempo and the man's long fingers are just a little tighter than necessary around his glass. The restlessness is barely buried beneath the calm surface.


The stranger's eyes reach Blaine after a slow blink and Blaine startles a little and looks down into his beer bottle, now warm between his hands, hoping his inappropriate staring hasn't been caught. He fiddles with his brown napkin, twisting the corners between his fingers, and nervously taps the sole of his shoe against the leg of the small round table he's sitting at. When he dares to look up, the man has seated himself on a stool, still facing away from the bar. His legs are crossed at the knee, their long, perfect lines flaunted for the whole room to admire.


Blaine's not done this much; tried to pick guys up in bars. It's not really his scene; it's not a very organic way of meeting people. He prefers quieter places, but after Boston, being in Ohio again makes electricity gather restlessly under his skin. Ohio feels like going to sleep hungry. He needs to not be home and watch his parents pretend to watch TV. He needs to do something.


In that dreadfully unremarkable Midwestern gay bar, Blaine practically physically feels it; the universe tapping on his shoulder, trying to catch his attention. He fidgets a little in his seat, gathering himself up into someone who looks worth striking up a conversation with, not a guy who feels like all the important parts of him have been misplaced. He downs the last of his tepid beer, hops down his bar stool and pats down his shirt, chasing away imaginary creases. He fiddles a little with his hair, making sure it’s still all in place despite the sweat gathering at his temples from the hot heavy air.


The bartender is busy at the other end of the counter. It’s not a particularly busy Friday night, but there’s a group seated at the end of the bar, loud and boisterous, keeping the bartender busy with easy conversation and frequent orders. Blaine sets his empty bottle down and settles next to the attractive man, leaning onto the bar and drumming a nervous rhythm with his fingers on the flat surface. After a few breathes, he glances at the other man from the corner of his eyes and finds him looking at him, body still facing the other side of the room but head tilted towards him, lips stretched into a tiny half-smile, one eyebrow raised expectantly. Blaine gets a head rush, a torrent rising just behind his eyes, his head suddenly swimming. For a dizzy second, he’s sure he can feel his body floating; his brown scruffy shoes hovering an inch or two above the sticky floor.


“Hi!” He blurts out through the huge grin he can feel spreading uncontrollably on his face.

“Hi.” The stranger echoes, quieter. His features soften a little and his smile seems to settle more surely on his lips.

Blaine, encouraged, opens his mouth to speak but, for a moment, his brain and throat freeze and nothing comes out, until:

“Hum… Do you come here often?”

The stranger’s eyes and smile widen, both his eyebrows shoot up and chase after his hair line and he laughs; a little surprised, a whole lot amused. His laughter sounds like a bell dropped on a thick carpet. Blaine is overcome with the urge to feel the rounded underside of those revealed straight, white, tiny teeth with the pad of his thumb and that, right there is a little scary. Wanting to touch someone’s teeth is so far removed from normal human behavior – unless you’re a dentist, or something- that Blaine thinks to himself that he ought to have stayed home. He doesn’t get to linger on that thought for too long.


“Wow. Okay. Cliché pick-up lines. Does that work often for you?” Despite the dismissiveness of the words, they are framed by warm chuckles and the man’s eyes stay on him, his face open, signalling that the question is not rhetorical. Blaine manages to not feel completely mortified.

“Huh.” He lowers and shakes his head a little, grin still firmly in place. “I-I don’t know. I don’t really do this.” He pauses. “It was pretty terrible, wasn’t it?”

They share a smile and the slender stranger takes a sip of his drink through a tiny white straw, the ice clinking in the glass as the amount of liquid rapidly decreases.


“That’s okay, here you go, ” he affects an exaggeratedly leering expression and says, in a voice much gruffer than his normal timbre: “ Can I buy you a drink?”They both laugh and the man turns a little on his stool so he’s facing Blaine. “Now, nobody needs to feel embarrassed.” His voice is light and playful, laughter printed all across his face. Blaine straightens up from his half-slouched position against the counter and offers his hand.

“I’m Blaine. Blaine Anderson.” He stops himself from adding Pleasure to meet you! .
“I’m Kurt.”


His hand is a little stiff and cold and Blaine sort of wants to keep it forever, but he settles for a handshake that probably lasts just a little too long. Kurt is still smiling, though, so Blaine guesses he’s not acting like a total creep.

“I was serious, though. Can I get you anything?” Kurt gestures towards the bar and looks down into his own mostly empty glass, high pale cheeks coloring a little. His shoulders curve inwardly almost imperceptibly; shy. Like he’s afraid Blaine will brush him off.

Blaine feels his fingertip tingle and go numb; like that one time he stupidly shoved them into an electric socket on a drunk dare in college. He lets them dance idly on the countertop to calm himself down a little. His excitement keeps ratcheting up and up and up. Like there is no roof, no peak, just endless heights of exhilaration to be attained.


“Sure! I’ll have… anything! Surprise me.” Blaine spots a free stool a little further along the bar, drags it next to Kurt’s with a loud metallic noise and sits himself down.

Kurt raises an eyebrow cockily, the shyness from before has mostly sipped out of his demeanour, but Blaine can’t unsee it now that he’s recorded it on these features, that posture. It’s still there, retreated to the shadows left on his face by the lighting of the club, furled tightly in the corners of him, ready to uncurl and cover him up like weeding vines at any moment and Blaine only hopes that he doesn’t trip and calls it forth in his clumsiness.


“Are you sure? I know some pretty awful cocktails.” Kurt says, his voice rising to a teasing sing-song on the last syllables.



Blaine has to put his whole body on lockdown. He wants to turn and stare onto Kurt’s eyes and say I trust you. He clenches his jaw and breathes in, out. Damage control. Even he knows that’s too intense. He bites his lower lip. He hasn’t stopped grinning since he’s stepped up to the bar and his cheeks are starting to ache a little, muscles strained from supporting the tremendous weight of his giddiness.


“Can’t be as awful as that beer I just had.” He points the empty bottle that the bartender still hasn’t picked up and shrugged.

“Bland, mass-produced, American beer.” Kurt grimaces in distaste, nose scrunched up and lips pursed. “I see enough of that at home. I tend to go a little wild when I get to go out.” He emphasizes by shaking his glass and slurping up the rest of his drink. He puts the glass back down with more force than necessary. The noise attracts the bartender’s attention in their direction for the first time and he starts making his way towards them.

“Oh, so that’s how it’s done.” Blaine gestures vaguely in the direction of the approaching employee.

Kurt smiles, self-satisfied and tilts his head as if accepting a praise.

“Yep. That’s how it’s done.” He quips.

When the bartender reaches them, Kurt orders two Rum Alexanders and slips a bill out of a wallet so slim that it doesn’t even create a bulge when he slips it back into the back pocket of his skinny jeans. When they get their drinks, Kurt raises his.

“Cheers?”

“Cheers, thanks.” Blaine clinks his glass against Kurt’s. They both take a first slow sip and Blaine hums appreciatively. “That’s good.”

Kurt smiles and lowers his head.

“I know.” He stirs his straw around his glass, looking at Blaine through his eyelashes. “You know, if I wanted to continue with the theme of the evening-“

“Which is?” Blaine interrupts, raising an eyebrow.

“Bad pickup lines.” Kurt deadpans with an amused yet pointed look that causes Blaine to blush a little and chuckle warmly. “If I’d wanted to stick with the theme of the evening, there are tons of cocktails with really, really inappropriate names that I could have ordered.”


Unexpected warmth churns and swells in Blaine’s belly. Kurt had looked practically unattainable when Blaine had just been looking at him longingly from across the room. Up close, like this, with the easy, comfortable banter, Blaine can see the playful glint in his eyes, the way his shoulders tense and relax as they weave through a conversation that has had many opportunity to turn awkward or trite but has so far managed to remain fun and casual.


“Like what?” He asks curiously, playing with the orange slice wedged onto the rim of his glass before he takes another sip.

“Oh, I don’t know.” He laughs. “Like a ‘Slow, Comfortable Screw Up Against The Wall’. “

Blaine chokes on his drink and Kurt snorts. Blaine’s face feels hot from the coughing, the embarrassment and something else. He feels hot all over, actually.

“Is… is that a real thing? I mean, is that any good?” Blaine asks in a rough voice once he’s regained his bearings.

Kurt’s smirk morphs into a smile that suggest he is not as angelic as his exterior advertises and he lowers his eyes. Blaine observes him, fascinated by the fluctuations in his confidence. One second he looks like he has no clue about his own charm and the other he flirts unashamedly, his movements looking almost rehearsed. Kurt’s index finger traces little Xs in the condensation left by his glass on the countertop. Blaine barely has time to wonder if he’s spelling kisses or rejections before Kurt’s eyes sharply cut back to him, pinning him in place, in time. Like an arrow spearing through him, through his surroundings and landing, bull’s eye, at the center of Blaine’s mind; a detailed memory solidly fixed, forever vivid, never to slip away.


“Don’t know. Never had one.” Kurt’s voice is breathy and every slow word sinks, heavy, inside Blaine. He is struck dumb for a moment, thoughts fleeing in every direction, like they’re suddenly swirling around his head instead of inside it. It’s only the almost imperceptible change in Kurt’s appearance that sucks them back in; a slow, slow crumpling around the edges. The strobe lights from the dance floor in the adjacent section of the club glint of off of those wet Xs on the countertop. Blaine is quick to open his mouth to say something, anything and unfortunately, what comes out is:


“Hum, wow. You’re really good at this. How can you stand to be having a conversation with me?”


Kurt’s expression freezes on his face for a second before he’s laughing again, relief seeming to pour out of him at the seams. He takes a steadying sip of his drink and there’s still disbelieving mirth in his voice when he shakes his head and asks:

“Are you even real?”

Blaine chuckles self-consciously but inside he’s compiling all of the ways he already knows to make the other man laugh.
“I don’t know, I often wonder the same thing. Maybe I’m not and you’re only dreaming this up, safe and sound at home in your bed.”

Kurt’s face settles into a warm smile as he wipes the counter with a nearby napkin before he rests his elbow on it, then his face in his palm.

“You’re not entirely hopeless.” He says softly.

Silence settles comfortably in the space between them, like big heavy snowflakes filling the void slowly, gently. Nothing like the image of cement sloshing sluggishly between two bricks that Blaine usually associates with awkward stilts in conversations. Bodies turned towards each other, they share quiet looks and smiles in between sips of their drinks. The fragile knowledge is swirling around them; that they’ve both stumbled into a gently glide towards one another. That it’s up to them to decide if they will surrender to it and let themselves collide in the middle.


“I don’t. Not really.” Kurt says quietly after a few silent minutes have passed.

“What?” Blaine is confused.

Kurt looks down and drums his fingers against the side of his half-empty glass, a wry smile twisting his lips.


“Earlier, you asked if I came here often. Not really. Never twice in the same month, not every month; I have to skip at least one once in a while. No more than three drinks; I have to keep my head clear enough to drive back and be home before three AM.” He rests a fingertip on the counter for every strange rule he enunciates. Blaine furrows his eyebrows, but keeps quiet; Kurt doesn’t look like he’s done talking. “I’d never been to a bar or a club before I turned twenty-one; even less in a gay one.” Blaine doesn’t know what to make of the snort Kurt lets out. “At first it was always so exciting. It felt special; like a reward for making it through a couple of months. I’d get to come here. I don’t even know.” Kurt shakes his head and finishes his drink. The coat of false unaffected cheerfulness is so thin Blaine can make out the heavy sombreness beneath.


Blaine’s hand twitches towards Kurt’s on the surface of the bar and he stares at it, thinking : Behave! viciously. He wants to sweep his hands over these too-straight shoulders and rid them of whatever burden they so apparently struggle to carry, raise those eyebrows and the corner of those lips with the tips of his fingers; sculpt serenity on this delicate face. A dozen questions are bouncing around in his mouth, but he clenches his teeth against them, fumbling to find something to say that would be interested but not invasive.


He is saved from his task as Kurt’s face suddenly light up and Blaine notices- for the first time since he’s started talking with Kurt- the music from the adjacent dance floor. The intro of the song instantly catches his attention , an old song from his teenage years that he – and probably a thousand other kids- had had on repeat in his iPod for weeks.


“Oh! I can’t believe they’re playing this! They almost never play her songs anymore. You remember her, right? I was so devastated when she died.” Kurt looks like someone flipped a switch and lit him up from the inside and Blaine is once more reminded of the power music has on people.


Kurt sends a look over his shoulder, stares at the dance floor longingly. When he turns his face back to Blaine, he is biting his lower lip and Blaine isn’t about to make him beg. He hops down his stool and offer his hand for Kurt to take.


“Come on, you have to help me dance off that drink if I want to be able to drive back home tonight.”


Kurt grins delightedly and slips his lovely hand in Blaine’s; lets him lead the way to the dance floor. The song is gritty-sexy and fast-paced, just like Blaine remembers. He turns to face Kurt once he’s found a not too crowded spot and they both start finding their rhythm. Blaine has spent large portions of his adolescence swaying and twirling on himself while encased in a sea of masculine bodies, so while he sometimes misses the security of a choreography, he’s always been rather comfortable on a dance floor, snapping his fingers to the tempo. Kurt is mouthing the lyrics, eyes closed, face painted ghostly-beautiful by the sharp shadows and colored lights. The song has attracted more people and the crowd presses around them, bringing their bodies closer until Blaine can make out that Kurt is actually singing, voice loud and wrecked, buried beneath the music pouring out of the powerful speakers.


“I want your love and all your lover’s revenge, you and me could write a bad romance.”


Kurt’s breath stirs a lose curl near Blaine’s ear. It tickles and makes him shiver down to his toes. He feels very aware of every part of his body, the distance between them and the man before him. There’s a little wistfulness mixed into the unmistakable joy splashed all across Kurt’s features and Blaine can’t help but to let his eyes linger, especially when Kurt keeps his closed, lost in the moment. The way he moves suggests a half-forgotten choreography and when he looks at Blaine after a twirl, making sure he is still facing the right dance partner, the open, delighted look on his face make something usually sturdy inside of Blaine snap. His hands, when he places them on Kurt’s hips, feel light; like a single sway of the other man’s hip could send them flying away. He swallows thickly and shifts closer. He realizes that in the process of observing his dance partner, his own body has gone completely still. He searches Kurt’s face to look for a sign that the contact is unwelcome and, close as they now are, his eyes make a slow ascent to reach Kurt’s own gaze and… oh. Breathing is suddenly a little more difficult.


Blaine’s used to being an average-size guy and besides the infrequent wish for an extra inch or two, he’s never put much thought into it, but with the proximity, feeling his chest tremble at the idea that his hands might be brushed off, his hooded, unsure eyes looking up at Kurt feel like a supplication; like he is begging for Kurt to be ok with this, for him to want more as well.


Kurt’s eye lower a little and meet Blaine’s. Makes a minute move with his head; so subtle it could be part of his dancing. The tiny nod is almost meek, bashful, but it’s a definite green light. Blaine licks his lips nervously and resumes dancing; feeling like a caged bird is madly fluttering its wings inside his chest. The song hasn’t changed but their movements have gone slower, more purposeful, as if they are now underwater; their limbs having to cut through something tangible rather than just the stale air of the club. Their bodies have synched up. When Kurt steps back, Blaine fills the void and even though it’s his hands on the other man’s hips, he tries to let his body language spell clearly that he likes following, finding the right moves to answer his partner’s. Kurt’s gone a little shy again, his eyes open but lowered, watching their moving feet, a small pleased smile on his face and when their belt buckles accidentally collide and click his mouth opens. His eyes meet Blaine’s and his smile widens, becomes a little daring. They’re close and touching and swaying, but their dancing hasn’t turned dirty and Blaine’s mouth dries up at the challenge he reads etched up on Kurt’s face.


The furtive glances and lingering touches make Blaine dizzy and when the song abruptly ends, the anticipation is a huge sphere vibrating around them, drowning out the crowd. The next song is inexplicably too loud and too fast, eroding their imaginary bubble of intimacy. They’ve both stopped moving, standing just a little too close to each other for the immobility to remain comfortable very much longer. Kurt is staring at him, chest heaving from the exertion of the dance and before the moment becomes awkward, before the anticipation turns to ashes at their feet he grabs one of Blaine’s hands from his hip and starts leading him out of the dancing area.


Something heavy and huge is sitting in Blaine’s throat, something that tastes a lot like expectations and hope. A droplet of sweat crawls down his temple and the sound of his heartbeat drowns out the new song and Calm down, calm down, don’t do this to yourself. He’s probably just taking you back to the bar for another drink and a chat. Or he’ll kiss you on the cheek and disappear into the night before he turns into a pumpkin for breaking one of his rules… For a moment, he regrets not having snapped before. If this is all he was going to get, he should have enjoyed it fully and gotten a little grinding action going, no matter what a stupid, stupid voice in his head says about rupturing the moment. He needs to douse himself in good cold shower of reality, rewind his memory and erase the magic he’s imagined; revise how much of himself he’s allowed to place into a stranger’s hands.


Blaine snaps out of his self-recriminating thoughts when Kurt leads him into the restroom and crowds the two of them into a stall, locking the door behind them. Oh. His heart sinks a little more. His mind flashes back to the last time he came to the Alterno, that time he’d first noticed Kurt and trapped him in his memory. He remembers that whatever this is, it’s not about him. It’s mostly not about him.


For a moment, they’re back to silently staring at each other, there’s little distance between them and the rising tension invites the continuation of the earlier challenge: who’s going to make the first move. Blaine thinks it’s a little unfair how Kurt led him here and won’t man up and take that step, but he sees the other man’s hand reaching for him and abruptly stopping, as if the movement had been swallowed by a sudden, ridiculous doubt as to whether or not Blaine would welcome the touch. One of the walls Blaine works very hard at keeping up inside of himself crumbles, just like that. He smiles warmly and cups Kurt’s cheek, his hand steady. He takes the responsibility of the moment out of Kurt’s hand. He waits a moment for Kurt’s eyes to seek his and when they do, he whispers:


“You are so beautiful.”


Kurt’s eyes lower instantly and although his cheeks color, his smile carries the indulgence of someone who has come to hear compliments in a distorted way. Slowly, he places his palms on Blaine’s chest and starts bending one of his legs. Blaine only has a few seconds to realize that Kurt is about to kneel on the floor and panic fills his head because No. Just… no. Not like this. Although the image of Kurt on his knees in front of him is almost enough to make his own knees buckle, he actually feels crack forming in the moment and wrongness gushes in like muddy water. He grabs Kurt’s upper arms, keeps him right where he is. He is relieved to see that he reacted fast enough when he notices confusion rather than humiliation spread on Kurt’s face. With the tip of his fingers, Blaine strokes across the other man’s forehead and down his cheek. He traces his jawline on both sides. Blaine feels his throat tighten up because he’s never seen a face like this. A face that makes you think: ‘Oh, this is how faces are meant to look.’ His fingers make their way to Kurt’s scalp where his hair is short and soft. His hands pause to rest on each side of Kurt’s long white neck. The fluttering pulse he finds there reminds him that he has his hands cupped around one of the most vulnerable part of the human body. He gulps and let his thumb stroke the delicate skin, hypnotized by the bobbing of the other man’s Adam’s apple. He then slips his hand down those shoulders that always seem too stiff or too slouched.


Kurt’s eyes are a little wide; he blinks rapidly as his gaze travel up and down Blaine, studying him as Blaine learns him with his hands. The only noise in the tiny stall is their breathing. Blaine slowly, slowly slips his hands down Kurt’s shoulder blades and brings him closer in a loose embrace. He can’t quite control the trembling in his voice when he says, quietly, his lips brushing against Kurt’s ear:


“Please, let me take you somewhere else.”

He definitely doesn’t say I’ll have you whatever way you let me, but please, I don’t want your only lasting memory of me to be stains on the knee of your jeans. Kurt has been nothing but an intricate mountain of contradictions since the moment they’d started talking. It must be exhausting to constantly be pulled and stretched in opposite directions and yet he manages to maintain the appearance of being larger than life; cocky, yet undeniably vulnerable. He’s just a little too vibrant. A light that burns too bright, threatening to flicker out at any moment. Just a little too expressive, just a little too sad around the edges he tries to fold out of sight. Just a little too much. He’s a single drop spilling over the brim of perfection and Blaine just wants to gather up every last trace of him.
Kurt stiffens a little in his arms and puts enough distance between them for Blaine to see his expression turn a little wary. Blaine knows his request is the force that subjected something fragile and possibly beautiful to gravity and he catches his breath, hoping for Kurt to gently break its fall.


“I-I don’t…” Kurt stammers, pushing a little more against Blaine’s chest, like it will be easier to say no if they are not breathing the same air. Then his whole composure changes like he’s shifting gears, changing tactics. His face smoothens into a seductive mask and his fingers tighten in Blaine’s shirt.

“I promise I can make you feel good right here.” He smirks and leans down, latches his hot mouth onto Blaine’s neck and sucks wetly at his pulse point.

“Oh!” The exclamation dies down in a moan and Blaine cups the back of Kurt’s head again, short hair soft like silk between his grasping fingers. “Kurt, I-“


Here it is; uncontrollable arousal and its dizzying cloud of urgency. It’s sweet and intoxicating and it swallows everything. It disintegrates thoughts into smoke and good intentions into raw need. Blaine doesn’t know what to do. He wants and wants; refuses to even think about how much he wants, but he can’t quiet down his stupid heart. The stupid soft part of him that has probably already written a song about this man he just met. The part of him that is still and will always be that teenager who liked to sneak up on the top of a school building to feel the wind whisper promises across his face. As much as he likes to believe that he’s a grown up and has shed his foolish romantic notions, he can’t help but to feel that some things have to be done the right way. That it does matter in the grand scheme of things.


He gently cradles Kurt’s face and kisses him slowly, tries to get his trembling fingers to stop spelling nervousness; to instead etch tenderness across the soft skin. He feels Kurt melt a little between his hands, against his body and he sighs softly into his mouth, tries to let the tension bleed out of him through this one, long, unhurried kiss.


“I have no doubt that you can.” He whispers against Kurt’s lips. “But I want…”He bites his lips.


They are rising in him; the inappropriate, too intense words. The things that can’t be said this early, especially to someone who spooks so easy. The words he can’t bring himself to consider cheesy when they’re true. To undo you the way you undo me. To do right by you. To make you feel special. To take my time and erase the hurt you carry in your eyes. He knows he’s clumsy; drops his heart everywhere and lets anyone pick it up; doesn’t care if they give it back or not. He leans back in and presses his lips against Kurt’s again; silences himself. He takes a long steadying breath through his nose and grasps Kurt’s biceps when he breaks the kiss. He keeps his eyes tightly closed for a second, hopes the right words will come to him; the impactful but casual words that will convince Kurt to let Blaine be at least a little more than a quick, public bathroom blowjob. Kurt’s hands are roaming down his back, nimble fingers wriggling their way into Blaine’s belt loops, bringing their hips closer.


“You want…?”Kurt prods for Blaine to continue, his nose sliding up Blaine’s cheek in a barely there caress.


Blaine leans forwards, rests some of his weight on the slightly taller man, pinning him to the partition wall. One of Kurt’s leg slides between Blaine’s. One of his hand travels down to Blaine’s ass, the other buries itself in the mess of curls that is Blaine’s hair. Blaine rocks his hips almost subconsciously, grinding slowly against Kurt’s solid thigh. Kurt’s hand guides his head down to his neck and Blaine places sucking kisses there in between pants.


“You.” Blaine practically strangles out. “ Just… just you, please.” His face buried in the damp junction of Kurt’s neck and shoulder, the truth spills out of him and he slumps down just a little more against the other man. Kurt grabs at him like he’s afraid that Blaine’s knees are giving out and when he gets his hands on both sides of Blaine’s face, he plants a kiss on his bitten lips.

“You are the biggest cheeseball, I swear.” He laughs into Blaine’s mouth.

“Yeah?” Blaine chuckles, relief sweet and tart on his tongue. “I don’t know, that seems to be working for you.”

Kurt ducks his head, tries to hide a blush. His whole body feels looser against Blaine’s; his surrender a soft blanket of new privacy around the two of them.

“Shut up.” He mutters, pinching teasingly at the skin of Blaine’s hip peeking out where his shirt has ridden up. Kurt fakes a put upon sigh but his smile is soft and his eyes sparkle with excitement when he asks:

“Where do you want to take me, Blaine Anderson?”



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generaljanuary

September 2011

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