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[personal profile] generaljanuary

The hotel is just a few streets away from the club. It’s not the classiest, but it’s far from seedy. When Blaine had pleaded with Kurt to let him bring him elsewhere, he had not really been thinking rationally. If he had, he would have remembered that he’s no longer in Boston. He no longer lives in a one bedroom apartment on top of small Indian grocery store that makes his place smell like he’s living somewhere much more exotic than Massachusetts. He’s back home, in Westerville and his parents were getting ready for bed when Blaine slipped out for a drink.

When Blaine had mentioned renting a hotel room, Kurt’s face had grown wary. Blaine had felt the sweat making his shirt stick to his back turn cold thinking Kurt might decide that this tryst was much more trouble than it was worth, but they were already in Kurt’s old, well cared-for 2010 Navigator and his expression had wavered before it turned into a smile. ”Better be a clean place…” he’d muttered, rolling his eyes but looking like a little boy ready for an adventure as he turned the key in the ignition.

The room is sparsely decorated and cold, like every other hotel room Blaine’s ever been in. He notices Kurt’s eyes roaming across the walls, his face critical; clearly unimpressed by the décor. Blaine smiles fondly and presses him against the door as soon as it’s closed and locked behind them.

“Don’t tell me you were all ready to go in a bar restroom and this room is not good enough for you.” He chuckles against Kurt’s neck.
Kurt’s answering laugh is a mere trembling exhale that Blaine feels escaping, face pressed to the other man’s throat.

“This seems so different, somehow.” He whispers, as if not to disturb the chilly quietness of the room.

Blaine doesn’t want to ask how because he’s afraid he knows, so he sighs softly against the pale skin of Kurt’s throat. He wants to say that he truly hopes it will be but he bites down on the soft words that probably wouldn’t have come out right anyway and resolves to show instead of tell.

“What do you like?” He murmurs, nosing at Kurt’s neck, his fingers brushing carefully against the fabric of the other man’s shirt.

Kurt settles into a loose sprawl, Blaine’s body crowded close and warm against his.

“What?” he asks, sounding a little overwhelmed and Blaine is perplexed by the change of attitude in Kurt who had been much more confident and aggressive at the bar.

“What do you like?” Blaine asks again, looking up into Kurt’s eyes through his eyelashes.

“What kind of question is that?” Kurt winces when his voice rises into a squeak at the end of the question, but his hands are reaching for the buckle of Blaine’s belt with scrabbling fingers.

Blaine grabs Kurt’s hands and tangles their fingers together.

“A pretty important one, I think.” Blaine answers, stepping closer still. He can feel the cold room spreading wide behind them, feeling too big for this tiny head-spinning moment. He presses his chest and hips against Kurt’s and noses at his throat, behind his ear; butterfly touches.

“I’m sure I like whatever you like, Blaine.” Kurt breathes out, his words longer, dragging against his palate before he pronounces them. His eyes are closed, like he’s soaking up the attention.

Blaine slowly lets go of his hands and strokes them across Kurt’s shoulders, down his arms. He brings them back up to the collar of Kurt’s shirt and makes a questioning noise, reaching for the top button. Kurt licks his lips and nods in tight little jerks. Blaine starts undoing the buttons and notices that the fabric is soft from many washes but the color is still vibrant. The second button is sown on much tighter than the first, like it’s been stitched back in place quickly after coming loose.

“I-I can undo it myself.” Kurt says, and clasps his hands around Blaine’s.

“I’d really like to do it, if it’s alright.” Blaine smiles at him with steady eyes, his voice still quiet.

“Yeah, ok. Hum.”

Blaine places one of Kurt’s hand on his neck, presses it against the sensitive skin there, checking for places where needles could have pricked his fingers, for the calluses of someone who works with their hands. All he feels is soft, soft skin, dainty fingers and smooth, rounded, cared-for nails. When he’s done unbuttoning Kurt’s shirt, Blaine takes Kurt’s hand again, brings the fingertips to his lips and presses a kiss to them.

“You are so lovely.” It’s barely more than an exhale. The pad of Kurt’s fingers against his lips made the truth spill instead of keeping it locked tight and unthreatening inside Blaine’s mouth. Instead of getting an indulgent look at the compliment like he did earlier, Kurt blushes and goes lax, practically crumbles onto Blaine, as if he had pulled on the one piece of him that was keeping all the other pieces together.

“I like the way you look at me. The way you touch me, I really like that.” He coughs softly and then, much quieter: “I like when I can tell someone finds me hot. You… you’ve been pushing all of my buttons all evening long.”

This time, Blaine’s knees almost do give out. He’s been doing this right. He’s been doing this right.

“Yeah?” he rasps out, throat tight, chest trembling with a feeling of accomplishment. He rocks his hips forward against Kurt’s and the other man moans sweetly and throws his shoulder back, letting his shirt slide down his pale arms and to the floor. Kurt shivers against Blaine when the cold air of the room envelops him and he leans forward into his warm chest. Blaine presses one hand at the small of Kurt’s back to keep him close as they continue rocking into each other. He muffles a gasp into Kurt’s shoulder, followed by a wet sucking kiss.

“Mmh-mh.” Kurt nods against his head. “What do you like?”

Blaine grins and leads Kurt to the bed by the hand. He sheds his clothes without much fanfare.

Despite all the things he is self-conscious about, his general physical appearance usually isn’t one of them. He keeps himself in respectable shape and he figures if someone has issues with body hair, his scratchy forearm would keep them away. His face is just a face; it’s all there on display and he is still just as short with or without clothes on. Kurt seems to be another story that Blaine can plainly read across his skin. In the dark room, it’s almost shocking in its paleness, taut as if unused to be bared. When Kurt lies down on the bed, he blends in with the white sheets and Blaine fears for an irrational second that he’ll lose him, so he lets his body find him.

“You feel so cold, do you want the covers?” Blaine whispers, rocking his hips against Kurt’s who is twitching restlessly beneath him.

“No it’s ok.” Kurt’s voice is almost meek in between quietly panted breath. His erection is warm against Blaine’s thigh, hardening lazily with the slow friction. Blaine is not really scared when the thought flashes into his head that there’s probably nothing he wouldn’t do if Kurt asked right at that moment. He inhales and bites his lips, he feels heavy on top of the other man, heavy with the responsibility of Kurt’s pleasure and he wants to beg for directions, beg for Kurt to tell him what to do to make this worth it.

“Are you going shy on me?” he asks instead, quiet. No accusation, no teasing, just his voice pooling slowly in the shell of Kurt’s ear.

Kurt arches his back and thrusts up a little against him, no rhythm or purpose, just his body against Blaine’s, seeking.

“I don’t know... You brought me here, I figured I’d let you take the lead.” He sounds just a little too breathless and Blaine grunts softly when their hips coordinate and the friction becomes more satisfying for both of them.

“I don’t… I don’t do this. The bar, the hotel, I- I don’t…” Blaine gives up on the sentence, crumples it and throws it away.
Kurt’s fingertips dance on one of his sweat-damp temples.

“I kinda figured.” There’s the sound of a smile in his voice and something other than anticipation and arousal sparks again inside of Blaine. “You are such an unusual guy.” Kurt marvels.

Blaine’s chest is just a little bit tight. He feels raw and overwhelmed. He doesn’t know how to do this. He’s never understood; to him, nothing about sex is casual.

Kurt’s hand presses on the small of his back and he makes a strangled noise when their cocks touch. Blaine’s nervousness has kept his erection a little hesitant, but the feel of Kurt against him, fully hard, makes him moan and thrust with more purpose. He kisses Kurt, open and a little sloppy.

“Am I wearing your patience down?” he rasps out.

“Sort of. You talk a lot. I don’t hate it.” The sounds he makes promise Blaine that Kurt really doesn’t hate anything that’s going on and that’s enough reassurance for Blaine right now. He slides down Kurt’s body and a low whine accompanies the unexpected loss of contact.

“Since you won’t say what you like, just tell me if you get any ideas along the way.” Blaine says and he knows he should have made his voice sound dirty or teasing, not honest like the real request that it was, but he really can’t be bothered with making himself palatable for society right now.

“Oh my god!” Kurt sounds half-frustrated and half amused. “Are you serious? You did not really just seriously say that!” but he is shaking with laughter and Blaine grins happily.

It hurts his eyes a little bit, but he can’t take them off of Kurt’s face when he wraps his mouth around the other man’s erection and sinks down until it nudges the back of his throat. Kurt’s hand flies to his mouth and he bites his fingers. The gesture, the restraint Kurt is trying to have, makes something in Blaine’s brain fritz. He takes his hands off of Kurt where they’d been framing his sharp hipbones and Kurt thrusts up once, mindlessly. Blaine relaxes. He can’t help a soft gagging sound but he doesn’t move, breathes through it. Kurt suddenly flattens himself to the bed, a few uncontrollable twitches of his hips making him move shallowly between Blaine’s sucking lips. Kurt is looking at him with huge eyes that ask What are you doing?” but Blaine simply shuffles until he finds a more accommodating angle and sinks back down, only stopping when his nose is flat against Kurt’s pubic bone. He breathes calmly through his nose, inhales the close, intimate scent of the other man while he carefully works his throat muscles.

He hasn’t done this in a while, hasn’t done this for many men. He’d almost forgotten how much he loves it; the feeling he gets from giving everything he has- even the mindlessness of breathing - dedicating all of himself to another man.

Blaine reaches up, squeezes Kurt’s free hand and looks at him, trying to convey that it’s ok for him to let loose, to seek his pleasure as he needs, but Kurt shakes his head tightly, still wide-eyed and biting his fingers. Blaine shrugs as much as he can and bobs his head up and down a few times, enjoying the muffled noise slipping past Kurt’s obstructed lips. He pulls off with one last tight suck and wipes at his saliva-covered chin.

“Do you have lube?” He asks, voice hoarse.

Blaine straddles Kurt and takes the tube he supplies from one of the seemingly magical pockets of his jeans from his hand with a lazy smile. He slicks his fingers and reaches back behind himself. Kurt’s looking at him, studying his face; one hand gripping Blaine’s thigh, the muscles shifting beneath his palm and clutching fingers and the other wrapped tight around Blaine’s forearm, as if to help steady him. Blaine lets out a breathy grunt as he preps himself, enjoying the slight burn of the initial stretch. He shuffles on his knees and shifts his weight, trying to reach deeper, to make space for Kurt inside of him.

A veil of quiet has fallen on the room, only disturbed by the soft noises pouring out of Blaine as he rocks back on his hand. When he slips his fingers out of himself, he reaches for the condom he’d previously placed on the nightstand and slips it on Kurt, slathering it with the remaining lube on his hand. Kurt’s long, skinny arms reach out and bring his face down for a hot, wet kiss. His fingers span Blaine’s cheeks, caress at his temples, smooth away his damp curls. Blaine hears himself whimpering into Kurt’s mouth, eager for more. When they break away, Blaine takes a long inhale and slowly sinks down on Kurt with a low moan.

“Oh.” Kurt is all quiet wonder, one hand clenched on Blaine’s hip and the other tangled in the pillow next to his own head. He stares at Blaine’s face.

Blaine knows he won’t last long; it’s too good being able to give all of this, all of himself. He feels soothed deep inside from an ache he’s been good at pretending doesn’t exist; the scrambled mess of anxiety in his stomach untangling a little under Kurt’s fingertips. He wishes he could take his slow damn time; make this into a long drawn-out memory, but his breaths punch out of him in unexpected rhythms even though he is the one dictating the pace with shaky rises on his knees and heavy, clumsy thrusts. He fights to keep his eyes open on Kurt’s face as he feels himself soar and soar until he becomes light and loose and uncomplicated. Kurt’s legs twitch restlessly under Blaine, indicating that he is close as well. It’s all over much too soon, Kurt clutching at his arms and thighs through his practically silent orgasm; his eyes scrunched tightly shut and his mouth open, soundlessly gasping stoppered breaths. Blaine tumbles as well, falls from almost much too high. He feels unexpectedly moved by Kurt’s heartbreakingly quiet climax.

Blaine is silent for a moment; lets the colors come back to his whitewashed mind to the sound of his and Kurt’s uncontrolled breathing. He doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to fracture the moment but his shaking limbs barely keep him from collapsing on top of Kurt so he reassembles himself. He grunts softly and sighs low and loud when he shifts up and lets Kurt slip out of him. He swallows, saliva thick in his mouth from his arousal, and leans forwards to pepper unhurried kisses on Kurt’s forehead, jaw, and cheeks. He lingers at the corner of his still panting lips, at the dip in his collar bone where perspiration has gathered. He reaches back and rids Kurt of the condom. It lands in the wastebasket with a sound that makes Kurt flinch slightly beneath him. Blaine shushes him, soothingly, burying his face against his shoulder. He inhales the sharp, sweet scent of his partner’s sweat and cologne in big dizzying gasps that go straight to his head.

“Thank you. Thank you.” He whispers against the pale skin that is rapidly turning cold in the inappropriately heated room.

He remains crouched over Kurt for a moment, counting breaths as the muscles of his thighs start to cramp up. After a few minutes of silence, he carefully lies down, pillows his head on Kurt’s chest and feels him huff a weak laugh. Blaine feels the rise and fall of Kurt’s chest slowly grow long and steady and he can’t tell how much time has passed when he raises his head to realize that Kurt has fallen asleep, sweet and trusting. He slowly sits up with his back against the headboard and strokes a hand through the sleeping man’s hair; watches him snuffle a little closer, his face right up against Blaine’s thigh.

“I’ve seen you before. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I figured I manage to be creepy enough without the stalker factor.” Blaine whispers. Kurt is dead weight against him, already snoring quietly. “My first night back I went to the bar and I saw you. Couldn’t get you out of my head.”

Blaine remembers feeling his guts churn staring at Kurt from across the room for the better part of the evening. He’d been so out of sorts that night that he’d barely been able to voice his order to the bartender, never mind strike up a conversation with a gorgeous stranger. Just before he left the bar he’d had to use the restroom and heard the muffled sound of drunken public bathroom sex. He remembers rolling his eyes but being reluctantly aroused by the vocal climax he’d heard through the partition wall He was startled when he’d heard a door bang open and closed loudly as soon as the grunts died down. Blaine could still see the feet and calves of a man kneeling in the next stall. He heard a few bitten off desperate whimpers and strained his ears. There was the clinking of a belt buckle, the rustling of urgent movement; the unmistakable sound of masturbation and the tiny spark of arousal Blaine had felt earlier died down.

That first night back in Westerville, Blaine had felt raw, broken open; all his mistakes bared for the world to stare at and it’d been only too easy to imagine how the stranger must have felt, ungratefully abandoned to a desperate jerkoff on the cold, dirty floor of a club restroom; it was release for the mere sake of release, surely there was no real satisfaction or pleasure to be had after being so unceremoniously tossed away.

It’s not until he was halfway back home that he realized the studded leather pants and worn Doc Martens he’d spied below the partition wall were the same he’d stared at for most of the evening on some of the nicest legs he’d ever seen.

“It pissed me off, you have no idea. I was so irrational I got out of my car and kicked a rather impressive dent in the door… and I’m not a violent guy. Just, it seemed so unfair.” He chuckles mirthlessly. “I guess I felt overwhelmed with unfairness by then.”

He falls silent. knows there is no need to tell all those things to an awake Kurt; he’d probably feel incredibly humiliated. His arm tightens around the sleeping man almost unconsciously as he stares at the ceiling. He knows there will be no sleep for him, he feels too tremulous, still. He sighs deeply, feeling oddly pleased. He can’t quite comprehend the complete lack of panic he feels but he decides to embrace it.


The next morning, Kurt floats back to awareness slowly, gradually; trying to keep himself in the safe, comfortable space in between sleep and wakefulness for as long as possible. His body feels lush, loose and light. His lips are stretched into a small, lazy smile against his pillow. He takes a deep breath. His chest feels full to the brim, about to explode, as if he somehow swallowed a helium balloon and he's about to float away.

He cracks open his eyes and closes them; lazy early morning sunshine painting abstract designs on the back of his eyelids. He can't remember what he dreamed of, or if he dreamed at all, be he recognizes the wonderful, tremendous feeling of just waking up from an amazing dream, lingering in a state of consciousness where it still might be real. The contentment burrowing deep in his heart is so immense that it will without a doubt last for at least a whole day.

He nuzzles his face deeper into the pillow, as if to try to retrace his path to slumber, to the source of all these feelings. He shuffles a little, delighted by the sensuality of his own two naked legs shifting against one another; he very rarely sleeps in the nude and is somehow surprised at the softness of his own skin. Even the sensation of industrially bleached low thread-count sheets against his body can't seem to put a dent in his inexplicable golden moment.

His thoughts swirl aimlessly inside his head, half-formed and unbothered to be completed. Images from last night surface and Kurt's sleepy smile widen. Soft dark curls between his fingers and kind, kind eyes looking up at him. His body sluggishly goes warm from head to toe, as if it's been doused in heavy, melted caramel. His heart is thudding loudly inside his chest, like it's trying to climb up his throat and out of his mouth. He's boneless, like Blaine had reached deep inside of him and dissolved everything that was coiled, tense and cold.

Kurt feels the sunlight leave his face and owlishly opens his eyes to see the whole room darkened a little by the passage of a cloud obscuring the sun. All his senses come to life, sharpen into focus; wakefulness settling into him decisively.

He hears the sound of the shower running and turns to see that he is alone in bed, surrounded only by crumpled sheet and quiet dawn darkness. The door of the adjacent bathroom is ajar and Kurt spies curls of steam slowly billow and die through the opening. Pale sunlight bathes the room once again and Kurt rubs at his face, muffling a breathy laugh. He'd never done this, before; gone home with a guy. Kurt knows that a hastily rented hotel room isn't exactly home, but it feels the same to him, like he'd broken one of the many unwritten rule of Kurt Hummel's Guide to Casual Sex, or something. He swallows against something huge, trembling and nameless suddenly lodged in his throat.

And then he hears it.

"Before you met me, I was alright but things were kinda heavy, you brought me to life..."

Blaine is singing in the shower. His voice shouldn't sound so clear and near, not while it’s veiled behind a shower curtain, a thick mist of steam and a thin wall, but it does. It's deep and practiced and filled with joy. Kurt is suddenly very attuned to what he hears coming from the other room; the steady fall of the shower water, interrupted by random sluices and splashes that are Blaine's movement under the steady spray. He imagines it in half-formed snapshots in his mind; water pooling at the crook of an elbow, in between fingers resting on a glistening belly. His stomach lurches and Kurt is suddenly so confused that he can't tell if the flip-flopping is pleasant or not. He brings a hand to rest on his chest, where his heart is beating too fast.

He can feel his stomach getting heavier and heavier; tiny lead marbles dropping at the bottom of it. First one by one and then more and more rapidly, like a dam's been broken. He frowns at his growing unease and looks around the room, as if looking for the cause of his inexplicable mood shift.

"You make me feel like I'm living a teenage dream, the way you turn me on. I can't sleep. Let's run away and don't ever look back."

Kurt's head snaps back to the bathroom door. He hears hints of laughter layered with the lyrics and a few words are garbled; Blaine's mouth undoubtedly filling with shower water. He almost, almost doesn't recognize the song. This utterly, utterly forgettable song from his own teenage years.


The last of Kurt's stupid, stupid, good mood crumbles around him. He whips the sheets away from his body and lets the cold air of the hotel room envelop him in goose bumps instead.

"Oh," he utters again, as if struck dumb.

He stands up too quickly and gets dizzy. When his head stops spinning, he's standing, immobile, useless and naked in the middle of the room. Articles of clothing, both his and Blaine's, are strewn all around his feet that suddenly feel as though they are bolted in place. In fact, he feels so heavy that he looks down to make sure that he isn't sinking through the carpeted floor.

"Shit. What is this?" he berates himself, struggling to breath.

He quickly grabs for his crumpled clothes and slips his arms through the sleeves of his dress shirt, feeling it settle uncomfortably on his shoulders, as if laden with shame. He refuses to acknowledge his trembling hands as he buttons his shirt, casting quick glances toward the door to the bathroom. He can still hear Blaine belting out that awful, awful goddamn stupid song and he lets out a dark, self-reprobating laugh.

"This is the most ridiculous- what is this? What are you doing you stupid, stupid-" he grinds the words out between his teeth, knowing that he must be silent but unable to stop the barrage of agitated, angry half-formed sentences.

Black clouds of self-recrimination and fear are rising, rising inside of him; threatening to choke him, to submerge everything.He buttons his jeans and pats his pockets frantically; making sure that he has his phone, keys and wallet.

"You just let some guy take you to a- a fucking hotel room. How stupid does that even sound when you say it aloud, Hummel?" he reprimands himself, still powerless against the bitter words that just keep spurting forth from his mouth. Heaves and heaves of uncontrollable, bitter verbal abuse. "-and wake up feeling like, like- What? What the hell is wrong with you?"

He shakes his head and clenches his jaw shut, grabbing his jacket. He hears the water shutting off as he is stepping through the door. He pauses for one, painful, dizzy moment in the doorjamb, casting a glance towards the room before making a quick exit.


The drive back to Lima is done in complete silence except for the smooth hum of the Navigator’s engine and a few swear words that slip past Kurt’s bitten lips. He stops at the Lima Bean for a grande non-fat mocha that sluices down his throat in only a few scalding, punishing gulps. He also grabs a couple of lattes; he’s not expected at the garage on a Saturday but he feels so down on himself that he decides work is the only thing that is going to keep his mind off of what he did last night. It’s early, but Vic and Fernando are already there, taking care of the work that hasn’t been finished yesterday. Kurt knows that they have a few oil changes and a tire rotation scheduled for later today. He sighs and composes himself; grits his teeth as he enters the garage.

“Oh. Hey, Boss. Didn’t expect you here today. ” Vic drawls, barely lifting his eyes from the entrails of a beat-up Ford.

“Good morning, gentlemen!” Kurt says, cheerfully, ignoring the way ‘Boss’ always sounds like an insult whenever it comes out of Vic’s mouth. “I know Vic, but I felt like getting my hands dirty today!”

Kurt goes to the locker room to change into his coverall, but this early, the garage is very quiet and he can hear Vic muttering, still elbow deep in the truck’s displayed engine.

“Get his hands dirty? I’m pretty sure that’s what he does on his days off anyway, if you know what I mean.”

There’s a clattering sound.

“Vic, man, stop it. His daddy would punch your lights out if he was still alive to hear you talk like that. You and me both, we practically helped Burt raise that kid.”

“I’m just saying, ‘Nando, that you gotta admit this place ran much smoother when I was in charge.”

“That’s bull and you know it! You might be an excellent mechanic but you can barely count to ten you dumb fool. And you knew it wasn’t forever, anyway. It’s been years, Vic. It’s time you get over it.”

“You’re just a brown nose, Fernando. You were the same with Burt before his heart attack and you were the same with me when I took over and you’ve been the same with Kurt since he’s been old enough to take this place from me.”

“This place was never yours! You just stepped up and took care of it until Kurt was old enough to legally inherit it! I don’t know why he decided to stay and not just let you buy it, okay? Obviously he cares for this shop as much as you do.” Kurt heard Fernando sigh heavily. “We’ve been having the same fight every week for five years, Vic. Give it up.”

“If I quit, then Alex would quit. Rob too. Then you’d have to quit too because this place would go out of business and you have three lil’ kids to feed.”

“How can you even talk like that? Burt was your friend, Vic. How can you want to see his shop, his kid, go under?”

Vic is the one to sigh now and Kurt hears him putting down his wrench.

“I don’t ‘Nando. I’ve been working here practically my whole life. I just… I just wish Burt was still around, you know.”

“Well, that’s something you, me and Kurt can agree on.”

The familiar sounds of an engine being taken apart are heard again and Kurt starts to change, practically ripping his shirt off in anger. It’s not like he doesn’t know that Vic’s been questioning his competences and throwing slurs at him behind his back (and sometimes even in his face), but it still makes him blind with rage to hear him talk about his Dad.

Vic had always been nice to Kurt, until Kurt came of age and decided not to sell the shop. Then everything had shifted. Every other word became a sly jab at Kurt, his skills at mechanics, his sexuality. What infuriated Kurt the most was that Vic was right; if he left, most of the staff would leave with him. There is a sort of pack mentality among the few employees of Hummel Tires and Lube and despite Kurt being owner and manager for over five years, Vic is the one with the most experience. He talks loudly and easily influences his co-workers.

Kurt pulls on crisply pressed coveralls, his moves jerky, and he only becomes more infuriated when he notices light, fingertip-sized bruises on his pale arms.

“Fuck!” he shouts and collapses into the bench situated in the middle of the locker room, holding his head in his hands. “Get yourself together, Hummel.” He grits between his clenched teeth.

Kurt takes a deep breath and stands back up. He goes to his locker and chooses the most flamboyant brooch he can find and pins it to his coveralls. He pins a fake smile on his face as well as he walks back into the garage.

“Oh! That’s right! I picked up some lattes for you guys on my way over, I’ll go get them from my car.”

Fernando looks up from the tools he’s wiping and smiles warmly at Kurt, nodding his gratitude silently.

“Regular coffee would have been A-OK, Boss, but thanks, I guess.” Vic says, apparently still too busy to look up from his work.

Once he’s out of sight, Kurt’s fake smile dissolves into a scowl and he has to remind himself for the tenth time that day that he is not a teenager anymore, or he’d have spat in Vic’s cup.

It’s a slow Saturday, they get only one walk-in and Fernando takes care of it in under an hour. The other appointments go as planned and Kurt decides to leave early, letting Vic handle the rest of the day, as scheduled. When he gets home, he sighs as he lets his shoulder bag drop to the floor. The quiet darkness of the house is a crushing weight all around him, trying to push him to the floor.

He showers, conditions his hair, exfoliates and moisturizes; pays particular attention to his hands. He gives himself a mini-manicure, just to keep his nails rounded and his cuticles in check. He stands naked in front of his mirror, immobile. His arms are too long and thin; he doesn’t look like a man who daily hauls heavy car parts but rather like a man made out of stretched toffee. He sucks in his stomach, counts his ribs. Inventories his moles, wishes he could dust the freckles off of his shoulders.

He stares at himself for almost an hour, looking for the man that Blaine, honesty bleeding all over his features, had described as lovely. All he finds are shortcomings and a gaunt face with eyes like sucking sea whirlpools. He sighs, turns away and slips on his robe, thumbing the hickey on his neck. He folds the memory of last night in two, tucks the feelings it brings neatly into the crease and puts it in a creaky drawer at the back of his mind. In a neat pile with the smell of his mother, the nervous giddiness of stepping onto a stage in front of a crowd, his dad’s strong, capable hands showing him how to replace a carburetor, the sound of his own voice soaring, clear and high. He goes to the kitchen and makes himself a cup of herbal tea; he’s got to detox his system from those drinks he’s had the night before.

Later that night, primly tucked into the silk pajamas he still enjoys, in between perfectly turned over quality bed sheets, he listens to the silence of his house. Although there is only void where he feels a headache should be, it takes a long time for him to fall asleep.

Link to Part 2a
Back to Masterpost

Date: 2011-09-10 05:58 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Before I click on 2a, I just had to stop and tell you how beautiful your prose is. You really know how to craft a phrase and create a feeling. This entire last section was especially lovely. ♥♥♥

Date: 2011-09-10 04:27 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Thank you! <3 Part one is my baby. Your comment is greatly appreciated.


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