Fic (Complete): In These Days Of Plenty (NC-17, Kurt/Blaine)
Title: In These Days Of Plenty
Author: Cimmerians
Fandom/Pairing: Glee, Kurt/Blaine
Rating: NC-17 for m/m sex
Warning: Angst. Although nothing bad happens.
Word Count: 1,475
Summary: Um. Sex and love and coping and uncertainty and angst?
Gratitudes: To Ali and Andie, for bearing with me and my relentless, horrible sentenceyness, and striving to help me in my endless ongoing crusade to make sense.
***
For Kurt, the future is there. Like a deadline, like a death sentence, like an amorphous but final judgment; like doom. A gunslinging showdown, and it doesn’t matter that he’s just some smart-mouth kid, because high noon is coming, and pretty soon he’s going to have to step out into a lonely, dusty street, and face it. Because it’s there. And it’s coming for him. Always.
It makes him… more serious than he should be. Not that he doesn’t manage to forget from time to time, because he does-but those periods of forgetfulness are followed by the sharp shock of realization, and then he has to be very nimble on his mental feet, reviewing everything he said and did while under the narcotic influence of freedom-because he has to remember. Everything. He has to have it, keep it, all.
In the beginning, when he first started being awed and intrigued by thoughts of the future (awe and intrigue being what he had before the fear set in), there were two basic categories: one that was about his life, and one that was about Blaine. That was what made sense, at the time.
It doesn’t make sense any more.
Because now, Blaine is woven through everything-every bit of warp and weft that makes up his personal tapestry of existence (and the ominously dangling snarl of thread that makes up his future). Blaine used to be distinct, but now he’s diffuse-he’s everywhere, touching everything, entwined and enmeshed and there just isn’t anywhere in the fabric of now or the blank canvas of later that isn’t twisted through and filigreed with the bright-red strand that is Blaine.
Nobody marries their high-school sweethearts. Almost nobody. But everybody thinks they’re going to. Knows they’re going to. Until they don’t.
He knows what he hopes for, knows what he wants. What he doesn’t know-can’t know-is whether or not that will make any difference at all.
He doesn’t want to push for assurances-there is no way to be sure. Not really. Nor does he want to blithely ignore his fears, and wrap himself in a false security-blanket of faith in the power of love-he’s had enough experience with self-deception that he knows the high that comes with it is a habit he can’t afford, and kicking is a bitch.
What he wants to do is… the only thing that’s left, really: he wants to appreciate what he has. He wants to remember everything. He wants the one consolation, the one firm place he can put his unsteady future feet to be this: that he didn’t take anything for granted. That he didn’t waste a single moment, or a single opportunity.
So he doesn’t. He drinks up every second, every word, every connection, spoken or unspoken, with a thirst that is nearly vampiric: unquenchable, insatiable, and necessary for his survival. He doesn’t hesitate-or, if he does, it’s only until he remembers what’s at stake-and then he plunges. He dares.
And sometimes, that’s a blessing: when he’s uncertain or shy or just plain awkward with the whole crazy business of being romantically intimate with another person (not as tidy or rose-tinted as his imagination had made it out to be-which turns out to be a good thing.) There’s only so long he can debate with himself or doubt himself or worry about the million and one things that could go wrong before he remembers: say it, or regret not saying it. Do it, or regret not doing it. So he says it; he does it.
At first, it translates as urgency-and God only knows what Blaine must have thought, that day when the patience, gentleness and hesitant exploration that had so-far characterized their lovemaking gave way to the kind of desperation that drove him to grapple Blaine down onto the bed naked, and lick and touch every inch of him. He fucked Blaine hard and fast, grinding him into the sheets, grabbing for as much as he could get and groaning between ravenous kisses and pushing, pushing to get closer, to fuse, to burn down anything and everything that created space between them.
He doesn’t know what Blaine thought of it, but he doesn’t really need to ask-Blaine responded; Blaine went there with him, Blaine surrendered and offered and gave up everything without a murmur of protest, and afterwards Blaine blinked at him through glazed, sated, love-doped eyes, and grinned like a naughty schoolboy. Kurt grinned back, panting, and his heart broke just a little bit, because-his Blaine. So beautiful.
So it’s a dizzying few weeks of the two of them going at each other ferociously every chance they get (and a few chances they probably shouldn’t have taken,) before it occurs to him that urgency doesn’t say everything that needs to be said. It’s one note, one thread, one theme in a much more complex conversation. It’s like gobbling a feast that has been beautifully prepared: you get points for appreciation and enthusiasm, but you end up missing a lot.
So the next time they’re together he drags Blaine on top of him and kisses his succulent mouth softly, teasingly, taking his time, cupping Blaine’s face in his hands and keeping him close. “Fuck me slow,” he whispers, spreading his legs wide. “And don’t let me come.”
Blaine does, moving in him like he’s precious and fragile and could break with one careless thrust, and Blaine keeps going and doesn’t come either, keeps going until the two of them are drenched with sweat and echoing each other’s low, agonized groans of need; pain and pleasure meshed and indistinguishable and everywhere. Blaine stays right with him, everything right there on his face with nothing held back, how good it is and how hard it is and how much he wants, and in the end it’s Blaine’s beautiful, suffering face that makes Kurt twine around Blaine’s shaking body like a vine and pump his hips and come, squeezing down on Blaine’s cock while it throbs inside him, and both of them are lost, utterly lost to everything except-this.
Details. Nuance. He wants them; he wants all of it. He memorizes as much as he can: the curve of Blaine’s instep, which always looks so vulnerable and makes him want to rub the soft skin of his lips right there; the resonance in Blaine’s half-throated sighs, and the way his own balls twitch in response no matter how many times he hears them; Blaine’s face when he comes, when he’s trying not to, when he’s losing it, when he’s almost-but-not-quite crying. The small of Blaine’s back. The inside of his elbow. His thin-skinned temple, so sweet to kiss.
It’s natural, probably-it feels natural-that there’s a progression: because slow isn’t enough either, doesn’t get at the entirety of what is. So after a few more weeks of maddening-slow-tease, ‘what is’ is the two of them clinging together and rolling, and Kurt goes deeper and takes more and makes Blaine come over and over again. He drives both of them to exhaustion, touching and sucking and sliding and fucking until both of them have their eyes closed and are wordless and near-silent, holding on and finding each other’s hands without looking, squeezing tight to keep going. Coming is blissful and then devastatingly good and then mind-wrecking and then a trial of endurance, something that drives them into each other’s arms to sob with relief afterwards, drowsing just a little until one or the other of them stirs, starting all over again.
And that is everything, finally the entirety of everything, and Kurt takes it all in and gives it all back, mapping Blaine’s body and mind and heart so well he could navigate them blindfolded, letting Blaine in and in and in even though Blaine’s love leaves marks that Kurt knows will never go away, no matter what happens. To him. To them. No matter what happens, when the future finally comes for him, he’ll step into it changed forever by a kind of alchemy that he still doesn’t really understand.
But that’s the future-and the future isn’t here yet. So for now he drinks it all in, and loves, and dares, and gives and takes, and hoards every gorgeous, perfect second for the treasure that it is, his store of grace in these days of plenty.
~End