Fic (Complete): The Muse (NC-17, Glee AU, Kurt/Blaine) 3/7
Previous
***
“You know, Blaine,” Quinn purred in his ear-the dangerous purr, the one that meant he was about to be on the receiving end of a righteous ass-kicking. “If you’re going to utterly ignore all your friends, we’re going to be forced to collaborate on theories about why you’re hiding. I’m personally rooting for a hideously embarrassing combination of acne, goiters and male pattern baldness, but-”
“I’m so sorry, Quinn,” Blaine sighed, settling down at the kitchen table with the phone pressed to his ear. From upstairs there was no music, just rapid clicks of the keyboard-Kurt was typing again. “I’ve been busy, and I… I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Blaine-I know how you are when you fall in a hole. As long as I get beautiful canvases for the new book out of it, I’m willing to forgive you.”
Blaine said nothing, but that was okay, because she went on without him. “So, look, Blaine-I was really looking forward to seeing you, goiters and all, but I’m not going to be able to make it to Tina’s premiere-mother has decided to make one of her pilgrimages to the Sodom and Gomorrah of the left coast, and since her dream ticket for President is Glenn Beck and Sarah Palin, I don’t think she’d really enjoy attending a premiere benefit for a queer teen shelter. …Although I’d certainly enjoy watching her at it, if only to see if her face would freeze that way-”
“Oh my God-Tina’s premiere,” Blaine murmured, rubbing his forehead. “I can’t believe I forgot.”
“You have been in a hole-what have you been up to?”
“Working, I’m… trying some things.”
Quinn perked up a little. “Like, things that we could build your next contract around? Are these bestseller-blockbuster-box-office-gold things?
“Quinn-”
“Oh, fine. Artists, I swear… okay, Blaine. You enjoy being all mysterious and tortured and at one with your artistic vision, but just remember-you show whatever you’ve got to me first. Then we plan. Then we talk about pitching-the teasing, not the pleasing.”
“Quinn-of course. I know I could never do it without you.” That much was absolutely true-his own head for business was laughably bad. Quinn was a fucking genius at it. But there was no way he was ever going to show her the canvases he had stashed upstairs no matter how much of a genius she was.
“Then I will anxiously await the next masterpiece I’ll have to blackmail you into signings for-oh, hey, whatever happened with Pinocchio, anyway?”
“With-”
“Your little teenage dream? The French-fry kid? Oh, God, Blaine-please tell me you didn’t take advantage of his blazingly obvious crush on you-”
“No,” Blaine said through numb lips. “I… I never touched him.”
“Good boy.” She sighed. “I can’t blame you, though-they’re so pretty when they’re young, aren’t they? I’m finding myself ogling my pool-boy these days, feeling like such a dirty old lady-”
“You are gorgeous, and lovely, and forever perfect,” Blaine said soothingly. “The eternal Prom Queen.”
“Save the butter for some tall and dashing stranger-you’re past-due for one,” Quinn said, but he could hear that she was smiling. “I’m really, really sorry that you won’t get to see mother-that time you took us out to dinner at La Folie after I slipped and mentioned the guy you were sleeping with was a truly wonderful experience.”
Blaine grinned. “I can’t believe she shrieked and ran when I said ‘boo’, honestly-”
Quinn snorted. “Oh, the bitter tears that were shed in the ladies’ room-she’ll never forgive you for not marrying me, Blaine. She was counting on it for fifteen years.” Quinn sniffed. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too. Why don’t you give me a call when the coast is clear, and we’ll do something decadent and outrageous that would scandalize your mother into fits?”
“Oh, you mean, like, me eating a taco, or leaving the house without a slip on?” Quinn said dryly, then sighed. “Okay, it’s a date. Excelsior, and all that-wish me luck, and pray for my sanity.”
Kurt was at his desk, still typing, when Blaine stopped to lean against the open door. “Writing your life history?”
Kurt glanced at him briefly, with a quirk of his mouth. “No, I’m sexually propositioning older men on the internet who own more than three houses. I’m upwardly mobile.” He stopped typing, clicked the mouse, and turned towards the door. “What’s up?”
“There’s a premiere-a benefit thing-tomorrow night, that I’m supposed to go to.”
“In San Francisco?”
“It’s a documentary premiere, not a Hollywood flick. My friend, Tina Cohen-Chang, she makes documentaries-and this is her new one, it’s about, um. Gay teens who end up homeless after coming out.”
Kurt blinked, slow and steady, nothing showing on his face.
Blaine cleared his throat. “Would you like to go with me?”
Kurt tilted his head, rocking back in his chair a little. “Of course, Blaine-I’d love to go.”
***
Kurt watched the film with his face carefully set, his lips pressed together-when he wasn’t nibbling on his fingers. Afterwards, Blaine lost track of him when he went for drinks-but finally spotted Kurt standing in a quiet corner of the patio, talking to Tina. Blaine didn’t intrude. He drank his wine and wrote a check to the shelter that the benefit was for, then chatted with Mike a little. Then Mike floated away but Tina was there, accepting his congratulations with a serene smile while giving him a soft, velvety hug.
“Come with me,” she whispered in his ear. “I need to smoke so badly I’m about to start chewing my hair.”
In the alley outside the theater she lit up a clove and then leaned back against the bricks, sighing heavily. Her hair had crimson and indigo streaks, and in her lacy black velvet she looked like a teenage girl playing dress-up in old-fashioned clothes, barely older than the kids in her film. Blaine tucked an escaped indigo lock back behind her ear. “It was really good, Tina. Painful, but good.”
She shrugged. “I’ll feel a lot better about it tomorrow, when I curl up on the couch with Mike and watch it with just the two of us. I hate these things-the fundraising, even though it’s for a good cause-and all the producers, the bean-counters, losing their shit trying to figure out if they’ve hooked themselves to the next Shoah or not.” She blew smoke, and grinned. “Mike’s in his element, though.”
Blaine grinned back. “He did seem to be basking in the glow of being Mr. Tina Cohen-Chang.”
She snorted delicately, and high-fived him. He leaned against the wall next to her, shook his head when she offered him the cigarette.
“A year and a half of work,” she said softly, gazing up at the slice of stars that were visible from the alley. “I can’t believe it’s over. But some of them-I’m going to see their faces for the rest of my life.”
“I know.”
“Speaking of which-I met your friend Kurt. At least, he said he was here with you-”
Blaine swallowed. “He is.”
She drew in smoke, hissing a little. “I can’t believe you haven’t told me. How long have you been together?”
Blaine felt his cheeks go hot. “Been-no, Tina, we’re not. He’s modeling for me, and he was… in a bad living situation, so I invited him to move in, but we’re… not. No.”
“I see. I’m sorry, Blaine-it was a simple mistake. When I talked to him, it was clear that he cares for you very much, that’s all.” She tapped ash off her cigarette, an elegant, practiced gesture. “You know he’s… been through some stuff, right?”
He turned his head towards her, studying her profile. “He told you? Did he tell you what-”
“He didn’t tell me anything,” she said quietly. “I just… I know it when I see it, that’s all-I ought to, by now. He came up and thanked me for making the film, and congratulated me, and asked some questions-smart questions. Very smart questions-”
“He’s a smart kid.”
“He’s… I don’t think he’s really a kid, Blaine. But don’t let the poise, the shine, fool you-he’s not really an adult, either.” A plume of smoke, slow and steady. “He’s a person-a person who’s been hurt, a person who’s trying to survive as best he can.”
Blaine closed his eyes. “He’s sixteen.”
“And?”
“He’s a runaway.”
“Okay.”
“And… I’m in love with him, Tina.” Blaine opened his eyes, staring up at the stars while they blurred in his vision. “I’m totally fucking head-over-heels for him, and I can’t-I never want to hurt him. Ever. I’m not… I’ve never touched him, I can’t touch him-but not-touching him feels like it’s killing me.”
“Oh, honey-” she tossed the clove away and wrapped him up, and Blaine pushed his wet face into her velvet-covered shoulder and tried to steady his breathing. Her hand on the back of his neck was cool, soothing. “I’m so sorry, Blaine-I’m sorry this is so hard for you. For both of you.”
“What can-what should I do?”
“Just… be there, Blaine. If you really want to help him, and not hurt him-just be there, if he needs you. Because he’s probably going to need you. That’s all you can do.”
***
Kurt was quiet on the drive home. Blaine stayed quiet too, until he started wondering whether ‘being there’ meant being quiet, or talking. “Everything okay?”
“Yes,” Kurt said succinctly, and left it at that.
Blaine waited, but nothing else seemed to be forthcoming. “Okay, well, I just want you to know, I’m here for you, if you need to talk, or, you know, if you need… anything.”
“Like what?”
“Um… anything?” Oh, lame. Lame, lame, lame. “Anything you might need.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Welcome.”
Silence reigned supreme for the rest of the drive home.
***
Kurt would need time, of course, time to process everything-Blaine still had no idea whether Kurt’s history or experiences were at all similar to any of the kids they’d seen in the film, but he was willing to bet that something he’d seen had struck home for him, so-he’d need time.
Blaine retreated to his bedroom to give Kurt the run of the house, should he need it-only he hadn’t planned that out very well, because the only thing he ever used his bedroom for was sleeping. There was nothing in the room except his clothes and his bed; not even a stray sketchbook.
So-fuck it. He went to bed.
Or, he started to. He’d just tied the waist of the old sweatpants he slept in when there was a knock on his door. Kurt came in, closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, his arms crossed over his chest. Blaine froze.
“I’m… I’m really not used to thinking of myself as lucky, Blaine.”
“Okay.”
“But I am. Not in what I… what I went through, but-after.”
“After?”
“I never had to turn tricks. Never started using booze or drugs to try to handle the pain or the anger. Never got locked up. And I never realized how lucky that meant I was.”
“Oh.”
“And I thought-maybe you don’t know-there’s a lot you don’t know. You don’t know, the ways I’m… the ways I’ve been hurt-they’re not like that. I thought, maybe you think if you, if we… that it would break me.” Kurt looked at him then, his face calm. “It wouldn’t break me, Blaine.”
Kurt was still in the same clothes he’d worn to the event, only now his shirtsleeves were unbuttoned and rolled up to the elbow, and his vest hung open. His tie was yanked down and his collar was unfastened and his hair was messy, and for the first time he didn’t look like a boy at all-he looked like a man, a sexy, dizzyingly handsome man, staring at Blaine with calm equanimity.
Blaine could see (it was a curse, sometimes, the clarity with which he could see things) an unspooling chain of events-one where he got Kurt by the tie and Kurt tucked three fingers into the front of Blaine’s sweatpants before they crashed into each other, where any space between them was too much space and the two steps to get to the bed was two steps they didn’t have time for. He could see them grappling on the floor, desperate to get as much of each other as possible, desperate to get off, kissing like devouring and rutting like beasts. He saw it, saw the liquid-slide, flesh-and-sweat sex of it, and his cells were crying out for it like they were desert-parched because it had been so long, so long since he’d lost himself in the taste and feel of a beautiful man, so long since he’d let go-
One step forward, one change in the angle of light was enough to break the illusion-Kurt was sixteen again, far-away and long-ago and so far apart from him that bridging the distance would tear everything, leave it in shreds. Blaine whirled around and sank down on his bed with his head in his hands before he could do something stupid like put his fist through his bedroom door, or kiss Kurt on his open, wanting, innocent sixteen-year-old mouth. His heart was pounding. His head was pounding. “I’m sorry, Kurt-I’m so sorry. I never meant to-God. I’m so sorry.”
But when he opened his eyes, he was talking to an empty room.
***
He couldn’t fucking draw.
He could still see-a small slice or a composite image or sometimes an entire vista, textured and complete-but he couldn’t draw any of it. At all.
A line, graphite on paper. Just one line, but recognizable to him as the curve of the back of Kurt’s neck seen in profile, as he sat at the piano. One line.
But the line was wrong. The line was… guilty, and off, and not-right, and when he ploughed ahead anyway and insisted that his hand do its job, the result was a mess.
Stop. Try again. No. Again. No. Over and over, failure after failure, and he stashed those sketchbooks far back in his closet, because he never wanted to look at them again.
It felt like starving. Like kicking a drug. Like chasing a high, deprived and empty and half-panicked and half-devastated, something vital that he needed in order to live carved right out of him, leaving a terrifying hole behind.
Kurt seemed fine-except for how he wasn’t. There was no acrimony, no suffering glances, no undue tension-he was just… distant. Calm, and existing, and distant (going, going, almost gone). Even though he was still there-they still lived together, cooked together, and (more or less) spent time together.
But Blaine couldn’t draw any of it. And nothing was the same.
***
He had to ask, but he couldn’t do it in the clock-ticking hush of the house-it felt too close to the bone, too vulnerable, too easy to imagine the silence and solitude that would descend if it went the way he was afraid it might.
So he asked Kurt to go to breakfast with him, and took him out near Fisherman’s Wharf-hellishly touristy and utterly devoid of charm, but it seemed like neutral territory, somehow. He ordered coffee (although he was fairly sure he wouldn’t be able to drink it), and food (something-he didn’t pay attention to what, since he really had no urge to eat anything at all), and waited until the coffee appeared before he took the plunge.
“Kurt.” Kurt left off his half-amused, half-contemptuous survey of all the tourists thronging the street, and looked at him. “Are you going… are you planning to leave?”
Kurt blinked. Sipped his coffee. His cheeks flushed. “I’m… I’ve been considering it.”
There it was. And there was a whole world of difference between thinking it was coming and knowing it, because Blaine’s stomach dropped out from under him like he’d just pitched himself off a cliff. “I really wish you wouldn’t.” Such a calm statement, so unemotional and detached, completely inadequate to sum up the terrifying thought of Kurt, gone, God knows where. Maybe forever.
“I know.” Kurt was pale beneath the flush, his lips pressed tight together. “But… it’s really hard for me to stay.”
“I get that, Kurt, I do. I-”
“No, you don’t, Blaine-you don’t get it.” Kurt cut him off sharply. His eyes flashed. “You don’t get it-you don’t get that you’re the only person in my life who’s ever seen what’s different about me, and liked it. You don’t get what that means to me. You don’t get that it made all of… everything I’ve ever had to go through to be who I am-and that’s a lot, Blaine, a lot-all seem worthwhile.” Kurt wiped his eyes, angry now, crying, breaking Blaine in two. “You don’t get it. You just don’t get how it feels that you’re the only one who’s ever seen me like that-and you act like you’re going to burn in hell if you touch me. Like liking me, wanting me, means you’re damned. And I can’t… I just. Can’t-”
Kurt was up and gone before Blaine could stop him. It had happened so fast, everything seemed too loud and too bright, and Blaine was trying to move but his muscles had locked up-until he saw Kurt push through the door and into the street. Then it was a mad scramble, his nerves screaming at him to hurry, and he fumbled for his wallet and tossed bills on the table before he ran out the door.
“Kurt-”
The street was a sea of people, but he could only see one-one tucked-down shiny brown head walking away, moving fast. He followed. “Kurt!” He was almost running, trying to catch up-but then he saw Kurt actually collide with a girl coming out of an ice cream store, almost knocking her down-and then everything stopped.
“Kurt?” That was from the girl. She was short and had long, brown hair, and her eyes were huge and her hands were on Kurt’s arms, holding him. “Kurt-oh my God-you’re here-what are you… they wouldn’t tell us anything, they said-we couldn’t find you-”
Blaine stopped in his tracks. Kurt had spun halfway around, and Blaine could see how pale he was, white and bloodless with dark circles of shock under his eyes. “Rachel-oh, Jesus, Rachel, you can’t-you can’t tell anyone you saw me, okay? Not anyone. Nobody can know this-promise me, you have to promise me-”
The girl was crying and saying something, something about a competition and that she was sorry, but that seemed secondary to the fact that a horde of kids were piling out of the ice cream store she had come out of-and all of them seemed to know Kurt. Blaine watched Kurt shrink back, pressed against the storefront with his hands splayed out against the glass, until a man came out of the store, a guy with a chiseled face and wavy hair-and went as white as Kurt was, dropping his ice cream cone on the sidewalk.
“Kurt?”
Kurt bolted, and Blaine ran after him.
***
He lost sight of Kurt within a block-too many people, too many possible turns and alleys and places he could have ducked into-but he kept looking, kept running, and even when he knew it was hopeless; he kept on until there was a stitch deep in his side and spots floating in front of his eyes. He eventually circled back to the ice cream shop, but there was nobody-nobody but everybody, a throng of unrecognizable tourists undoubtedly wondering if the crazy-haired, panting, sweaty guy was about to try to rob them.
He went home, steering his car with shaking hands, hoping fervently that he’d find Kurt there when he arrived-probably upset, okay, maybe crying or scared or angry or all three-but there.
But the house was empty.
Blaine sat down at the kitchen table, and waited.
***
No police-you don’t go to the police about a kid on the run from… whatever. No hospitals (please don’t let Kurt be in the hospital)-Kurt and his ‘documentation problem’ meant no hospitals. There was nothing for Blaine to do except keep his cell phone charged (Kurt’s phone didn’t even go to voice mail-it just rang, endlessly, and nobody ever picked up, but he kept trying anyway) and try not to wonder too much about where Kurt might be, if he was okay, if he would ever speak to Blaine again-if he would ever be able to.
It was almost two o’clock in the morning when Blaine found himself outside, in his driveway with his car door open and the keys in his hand. A futile, absurd undertaking-but he went anyway, cruising slowly around the streets in the parts of the city where he thought Kurt might go, and the parts of the city where he thought Kurt might go if he knew someone was looking for him, someone who knew where to look.
The sun was rising by the time he got back, a gorgeous, pink flush over everything that just made the house seem darker and more empty, like the shed carapace of some giant insect, dry and frail and ready to skitter away in the smallest breeze. He didn’t want to go inside.
He went inside. Plugged his cell phone in again. Called Kurt again. And waited.
On the second night of waiting he got apocalyptically drunk, then felt apocalyptically guilty for it-what if Kurt called, needed help, needed him? He made himself throw up, then drank an entire pot of coffee-and then threw that up-at which point he really, badly needed a shower. He showered with his cellphone just outside the curtain, wrapped in a dry washcloth with the volume turned all the way up. Kurt didn’t call. Not then, and not when he brushed his teeth and combed his hair and put on jeans and a polo that weren’t spattered with fluids that made them look like they belonged on a fratboy after a pub crawl, not as the sun came up all over again and the day stretched out like torture.
He almost called Tina. He almost called Quinn. He almost, God help him, called his fucking lawyer-but he didn’t. He went on another tour of the city instead, driving aimlessly, and then purposefully, and then dejectedly back to the house, back inside the house, cell phone in the charger and Blaine on the kitchen floor, waiting.
He started losing time at that point-not sleeping, he was pretty sure he wasn’t sleeping in any normal sense of the word-just dropping giant chunks of time down an unseen maw, fumbling for his cell every time he came back to himself, just to check-no calls.
It was late. He didn’t know how it had gotten so late. And he didn’t know what to do.
He actually had his phone in his hand, staring at the screen, when it lit up-unknown caller. His thumb shook when he pressed the screen.
“Hello?”
“Blaine…”
Blaine closed his eyes. He was so dizzy with relief that he slumped over sideways onto the floor. “Kurt-oh my God, Kurt, where are you?”
Kurt was crying. “Blaine, I’m so sorry-I tried to fix it, tried to fix things, but I couldn’t-”
“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Please don’t-”
“Blaine, listen.” Kurt sniffed. “I’m sorry, I want to… I’m fine, okay? I mean, I’m not hurt. I just… I tried to fix things, and I tried to make it safe for you and I couldn’t, and if… you have to be sure, Blaine-you have to be really, really sure, because this could get ugly, it could get so ugly, and I don’t ever want to hurt you-”
Blaine squeezed the phone so hard he heard the plastic creak. “Kurt, please-just tell me where you are. Let me come get you.”
“I can’t… no. I can’t go back to San Francisco. Not for a while. I’m sorry-”
“Then I’ll come to you-wherever you are. Anywhere. Just tell me.”
“I’m… in Cambria. At your house. I had the key and I didn’t know where else to go and I’m sorry-”
Blaine was up, on his feet, his muscles burning with exhaustion and adrenaline. “I’m on my way. Right now. Don’t leave, okay? Just… wait for me, Kurt-please. Please?”
Kurt was crying again. “I’m so sorry about all this, Blaine. I never wanted-”
“Shh.” Blaine had his keys in his hand and the car door open, and he stood there for just a moment, his eyes closed, his head back, the phone held tight. His heart was pounding like crazy. “It’s okay, Kurt-it’ll be okay. Just stay where you are. I’ll be there soon.”
***
He let himself into the house at half-past three in the morning. It was dark, just a soft glow coming from the living room-the small lamp on the left side of the couch. Kurt was on the floor, curled up on his side, asleep. He was still wearing the same clothes Blaine had last seen him in, but now his feet were bare and his jeans rolled up, his vest and tie gone, his white shirt rumpled and untucked-like a boy who’d fallen asleep trying on his big brother’s clothes. Blaine went to his knees silently, his eyes stinging as he reached out one hand, his breath catching in his throat as Kurt’s eyes fluttered.
“Blaine-” Kurt got him around the neck and Kurt was in his arms and right there-with him, and safe, and right there-“Blaine, you’re here, oh my God, you’re here…” He felt Kurt shake, crying again, and he hung on, rocking just a little, hanging on while Kurt’s hands touched his shoulders, his head, his face, as if checking to make sure he was real-and it was everything, it was all he needed; Blaine shut his eyes and breathed deep and held Kurt close, and it was everything.
“Please-” it was just a whisper, shaky and faint, a running susurration of sound. “Please, Blaine, please-please don’t-please don’t hate yourself-not when I love you so much-”
Kurt’s mouth was so, so soft, tender and tasting like tears. It was a shock, a giant, walloping shock, like cresting a wave in the deep ocean, kissing Kurt’s mouth, silky tongue and innocence and openness and it rocked him, rocked him to the core of his being. He teased Kurt’s tongue with his own, rubbed their open lips together, then dove back in and breathed deep, breathing Kurt in, drowning sweetly.
Kurt moaned just a little, shuddering, surging against him, and then everything in Blaine’s head went white-there were noises and there was need, and some kind of popping, pinging sound-the buttons on Kurt’s shirt, flying everywhere when Blaine tore it open, the creak of straining denim under his hands and a deep purr of ripping fabric and then he had it, he had Kurt’s hot, hard cock in his hand, so soft-skinned it felt criminal to touch it. Everything slowed down then, and he came back to himself, came back to Kurt, eye to eye with him while his hand moved-so gently, so slowly-below.
Kurt’s lips were glossy-wet and open, gasping, his cheeks flushed deep red. Blaine watched, greedy for all of it, stunned by all of it, losing himself in every shiver, every flutter of Kurt’s eyelids.
“Blaine…”
“Yes.”
“That… feels-your hand-”
“It’s okay-”
“You love me?”
“…so much.” A dam breaking, the hot, sweet rush of everything he hadn’t said. “You’re so beautiful, and I love you so much, and I want you-I always want you, Kurt, all the time, want to touch you and kiss you and… oh fuck yes-” He watched Kurt come, softly moaning with his brows drawn down, shaky hands on his shoulders and a hard push into his fist and then spilling, warm and wet, his own eyes were wet, Kurt’s lashes were wet and matted and Blaine was groaning himself because he soaked it up, rode it out like it was his own, delicate tremors of ecstasy running through him like fine threads of fire.
They were kissing again. He didn’t remember when they started, but it was different now-awed and soft and hushed, luxurious and sated and sugar-sweet. Infinitely and instantaneously addictive-Kurt’s gentle, curious tongue, the soft hands cupping Blaine’s face, holding him close. Blaine felt drugged, heavy and lax, and swayed a little when he pulled back. Even his bones felt exhausted. “Come to bed,” he said huskily. “My bed. With me.”
“Okay, yes-” Kurt blinked at him, sleepy-eyed and so open, so willing, that Blaine gave in to the sudden, ridiculous impulse of the moment and scooped him up, arms under Kurt’s shoulders and knees and then up on his feet, heading towards the stairs. Kurt giggled faintly, then snaked both arms around his neck and nestled close, leaning his head on Blaine’s shoulder. “Don’t let go.”
“I’m never letting you go,” Blaine said quietly.
***
Another one of those moments, a memory embedded so deep in him it would never be anything less than perfectly distinct: Kurt in his arms, in his bed for the first time. Simple, and simply miraculous. Kurt half-draped across him, sleek brown head tucked down, babysoft cheek against his chest, one long leg tangled between his. Kurt was asleep by the time Blaine got the blankets settled over them, sighing softly, and even though he was so tired himself that keeping his eyes open felt like a kind of torture, he had to watch-just for a little while, just long enough to take it in, to memorize everything, to bring it home that Kurt was here, and safe, and his. Then he kissed the top of Kurt’s head, and let himself fall.
He sank, and surfaced, and sank all over again: snuggling with Kurt, warm animal comfort as the hours ticked by, as the room filled with light. The first thing that really woke him was Kurt sliding away, gently extricating himself. “Don’t go.”
“I have to pee.” Kurt’s voice was hoarse, whisper-quiet. “I’ll be right back.”
“That was too long,” he murmured when Kurt returned, cool-skinned, shivering boy eagerly burying himself under the covers.
“Cold out there,” Kurt breathed, and Blaine wrapped him up, held him until the shivering stopped. “God, you’re so warm.”
And then he sank again.
***
The light suggested late-afternoon when he opened his eyes, and a glance at his bedside clock confirmed it. Kurt had moved off his chest and onto the pillow right next to him, but their arms and fingers and legs were still laced together, a sweet, constricting tangle, too-warm now. Kurt’s eyes were open, just barely open, heavy-lidded but so bright, the thick lashes making Blaine want to draw them all over again.
Blaine swallowed. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Kurt blinked, slowly. “Are you okay?”
“I’m… I need to pee.” He really, really did. He walked away feeling absurdly self-conscious about wearing nothing but boxer-briefs, a feeling which really wasn’t assuaged by Kurt’s wide-eyed, up-and-down look when he came back from the bathroom.
“Oh my God,” Kurt said faintly. He was blushing, and Blaine was mildly scandalized to feel his own face heating up when he ducked back under the sheet, tossing the duvet onto the floor. Kurt’s eyes were solemn, huge. “Blaine. Please tell me you’re okay.”
“Kurt-I wouldn’t be mostly naked and in bed with you, if I wasn’t.” Kurt started reaching for him, but Blaine stopped his hand, laced their fingers together. “But I need… we need to talk.”
“Blaine.” Kurt pulled his hand back, tugging the sheet up under his chin. “I’m not… I can’t, I’m not ready to-”
“Okay-I know… I know. But… I don’t want you to disappear on me again. That was… it was terrible, Kurt, and I don’t-I need to know you won’t run. Not on your own.”
Kurt reached out again, touching his fingers gently. “I’m sorry, Blaine-I’m so sorry you were worried about me.”
“Worried isn’t the word for it, Kurt. I was… I can’t lose you.” His voice thickened, and he cleared his throat. “I just can’t.”
Kurt closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. “I won’t disappear, Blaine. And… if I have to run, I’ll let you know where I’m going and-”
“If you have to run-I’m running with you.” He took Kurt’s hand. “Promise me.”
“I… okay. I promise,” Kurt murmured, squeezing Blaine’s fingers, his eyes too bright. “Could you maybe kiss me now?”
The sunlight coming in through the windows illuminated the bed, dust motes in the air drifting as if time itself had slowed. Kisses were distinct, patient, dropping deliberately like each was a petal pulled from a flower. Kurt’s mouth was irresistible, his eyes hazy, his white throat working as he swallowed. His body shifted, heels skidding a little on the sheets as if he were trying to keep still. “Blaine.”
Blaine almost moaned aloud when he pulled the sheet up, because Kurt was always, always covered, a continual tease, and the first sight of his sweetly naked body was overwhelming-boyish and beautiful and elegant and powerful, and Blaine wanted to draw everything and touch everything and also taste everything all at the same time and his hands were shaking, just a little.
Kurt blushed. It went all the way down. “Blaine-you too, okay? I want-”
Blaine was already breathing heavily when he tossed the sheet away, already hard when he skimmed out of his briefs. Kurt was hard, gorgeous and big and curved up over his lovely belly almost to his navel, thick dark pubic hair but none on his balls, rosy and tight-drawn close to his body and oh Christ, Blaine had to swallow because his mouth was watering.
Naked kisses, soft skin and sunlight everywhere, already sweating-God, he’s sixteen and a virgin, don’t maul him-but Kurt pulled him close and pushed up against him and gasped into the curve of his neck, wrapping strong thighs around his hips, blunt-bitten nails digging into his back, and that was pretty much the end of Blaine’s self-control. He worked them together in tight, smooth arcs, kissing Kurt hard and deep while Kurt bucked under him.
“Oh fuck,” Kurt moaned, flushed red and gorgeous, tight pink nipples and the muscles in his stomach quivering. “Oh my God, Blaine, that’s… don’t stop, okay?”
Blaine groaned. His balls were heavy, aching, his cock twitching, and Kurt was smooth and hot and delicious, slick now with sweat and moving with him, half-lidded eyes drinking Blaine in avidly as he reared up. More pressure and more friction, and Blaine couldn’t, couldn’t stop watching Kurt give in to it, surrendering bit by bit.
He would have liked to stretch it out-but it had been too long, and too much, and it felt too good. Blaine worked his hips until he found what made Kurt moan and gasp and shake the most, then closed his eyes and dropped his head back and stayed right there, almost a full-body slide grinding them together, wickedly intense with their cocks pressed against each other.
“Blaine-ohh… fuck-” He dropped down and covered Kurt’s mouth with his own and kissed him while he came, shaking so hard it felt like his bones were rattling, groaning and gasping through some kind of massive, silent explosion in the middle of his head when he shot all over Kurt’s stomach and chest, all the strength running out of his muscles like water.
He didn’t remember rolling over, but when he could see again he was on his back with Kurt lying on top of him, kissing him and humming a little and moving slowly, gently, like he was floating. Blaine felt like he was floating himself-untethered from everything, like if Kurt wasn’t on top of him he might just drift gently up to the ceiling. He was appalled to find himself giggling quietly.
“What?”
“Apparently I think I’m a balloon.” He snickered helplessly. His arms and legs didn’t work, and that was hilarious.
Kurt came vaguely into focus above him, sweaty and rosy and sated and gorgeous and concerned. “Are you okay?”
“Oh yeah I’m awesome,” Blaine said stridently, then completely lost it, laughing so hard his stomach ached and his eyes teared up.
“Oh my God I love you, you dork,” Kurt murmured, then collapsed onto Blaine’s chest and nestled there, smiling faintly.
***
Next
***
“You know, Blaine,” Quinn purred in his ear-the dangerous purr, the one that meant he was about to be on the receiving end of a righteous ass-kicking. “If you’re going to utterly ignore all your friends, we’re going to be forced to collaborate on theories about why you’re hiding. I’m personally rooting for a hideously embarrassing combination of acne, goiters and male pattern baldness, but-”
“I’m so sorry, Quinn,” Blaine sighed, settling down at the kitchen table with the phone pressed to his ear. From upstairs there was no music, just rapid clicks of the keyboard-Kurt was typing again. “I’ve been busy, and I… I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Blaine-I know how you are when you fall in a hole. As long as I get beautiful canvases for the new book out of it, I’m willing to forgive you.”
Blaine said nothing, but that was okay, because she went on without him. “So, look, Blaine-I was really looking forward to seeing you, goiters and all, but I’m not going to be able to make it to Tina’s premiere-mother has decided to make one of her pilgrimages to the Sodom and Gomorrah of the left coast, and since her dream ticket for President is Glenn Beck and Sarah Palin, I don’t think she’d really enjoy attending a premiere benefit for a queer teen shelter. …Although I’d certainly enjoy watching her at it, if only to see if her face would freeze that way-”
“Oh my God-Tina’s premiere,” Blaine murmured, rubbing his forehead. “I can’t believe I forgot.”
“You have been in a hole-what have you been up to?”
“Working, I’m… trying some things.”
Quinn perked up a little. “Like, things that we could build your next contract around? Are these bestseller-blockbuster-box-office-gold things?
“Quinn-”
“Oh, fine. Artists, I swear… okay, Blaine. You enjoy being all mysterious and tortured and at one with your artistic vision, but just remember-you show whatever you’ve got to me first. Then we plan. Then we talk about pitching-the teasing, not the pleasing.”
“Quinn-of course. I know I could never do it without you.” That much was absolutely true-his own head for business was laughably bad. Quinn was a fucking genius at it. But there was no way he was ever going to show her the canvases he had stashed upstairs no matter how much of a genius she was.
“Then I will anxiously await the next masterpiece I’ll have to blackmail you into signings for-oh, hey, whatever happened with Pinocchio, anyway?”
“With-”
“Your little teenage dream? The French-fry kid? Oh, God, Blaine-please tell me you didn’t take advantage of his blazingly obvious crush on you-”
“No,” Blaine said through numb lips. “I… I never touched him.”
“Good boy.” She sighed. “I can’t blame you, though-they’re so pretty when they’re young, aren’t they? I’m finding myself ogling my pool-boy these days, feeling like such a dirty old lady-”
“You are gorgeous, and lovely, and forever perfect,” Blaine said soothingly. “The eternal Prom Queen.”
“Save the butter for some tall and dashing stranger-you’re past-due for one,” Quinn said, but he could hear that she was smiling. “I’m really, really sorry that you won’t get to see mother-that time you took us out to dinner at La Folie after I slipped and mentioned the guy you were sleeping with was a truly wonderful experience.”
Blaine grinned. “I can’t believe she shrieked and ran when I said ‘boo’, honestly-”
Quinn snorted. “Oh, the bitter tears that were shed in the ladies’ room-she’ll never forgive you for not marrying me, Blaine. She was counting on it for fifteen years.” Quinn sniffed. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too. Why don’t you give me a call when the coast is clear, and we’ll do something decadent and outrageous that would scandalize your mother into fits?”
“Oh, you mean, like, me eating a taco, or leaving the house without a slip on?” Quinn said dryly, then sighed. “Okay, it’s a date. Excelsior, and all that-wish me luck, and pray for my sanity.”
Kurt was at his desk, still typing, when Blaine stopped to lean against the open door. “Writing your life history?”
Kurt glanced at him briefly, with a quirk of his mouth. “No, I’m sexually propositioning older men on the internet who own more than three houses. I’m upwardly mobile.” He stopped typing, clicked the mouse, and turned towards the door. “What’s up?”
“There’s a premiere-a benefit thing-tomorrow night, that I’m supposed to go to.”
“In San Francisco?”
“It’s a documentary premiere, not a Hollywood flick. My friend, Tina Cohen-Chang, she makes documentaries-and this is her new one, it’s about, um. Gay teens who end up homeless after coming out.”
Kurt blinked, slow and steady, nothing showing on his face.
Blaine cleared his throat. “Would you like to go with me?”
Kurt tilted his head, rocking back in his chair a little. “Of course, Blaine-I’d love to go.”
***
Kurt watched the film with his face carefully set, his lips pressed together-when he wasn’t nibbling on his fingers. Afterwards, Blaine lost track of him when he went for drinks-but finally spotted Kurt standing in a quiet corner of the patio, talking to Tina. Blaine didn’t intrude. He drank his wine and wrote a check to the shelter that the benefit was for, then chatted with Mike a little. Then Mike floated away but Tina was there, accepting his congratulations with a serene smile while giving him a soft, velvety hug.
“Come with me,” she whispered in his ear. “I need to smoke so badly I’m about to start chewing my hair.”
In the alley outside the theater she lit up a clove and then leaned back against the bricks, sighing heavily. Her hair had crimson and indigo streaks, and in her lacy black velvet she looked like a teenage girl playing dress-up in old-fashioned clothes, barely older than the kids in her film. Blaine tucked an escaped indigo lock back behind her ear. “It was really good, Tina. Painful, but good.”
She shrugged. “I’ll feel a lot better about it tomorrow, when I curl up on the couch with Mike and watch it with just the two of us. I hate these things-the fundraising, even though it’s for a good cause-and all the producers, the bean-counters, losing their shit trying to figure out if they’ve hooked themselves to the next Shoah or not.” She blew smoke, and grinned. “Mike’s in his element, though.”
Blaine grinned back. “He did seem to be basking in the glow of being Mr. Tina Cohen-Chang.”
She snorted delicately, and high-fived him. He leaned against the wall next to her, shook his head when she offered him the cigarette.
“A year and a half of work,” she said softly, gazing up at the slice of stars that were visible from the alley. “I can’t believe it’s over. But some of them-I’m going to see their faces for the rest of my life.”
“I know.”
“Speaking of which-I met your friend Kurt. At least, he said he was here with you-”
Blaine swallowed. “He is.”
She drew in smoke, hissing a little. “I can’t believe you haven’t told me. How long have you been together?”
Blaine felt his cheeks go hot. “Been-no, Tina, we’re not. He’s modeling for me, and he was… in a bad living situation, so I invited him to move in, but we’re… not. No.”
“I see. I’m sorry, Blaine-it was a simple mistake. When I talked to him, it was clear that he cares for you very much, that’s all.” She tapped ash off her cigarette, an elegant, practiced gesture. “You know he’s… been through some stuff, right?”
He turned his head towards her, studying her profile. “He told you? Did he tell you what-”
“He didn’t tell me anything,” she said quietly. “I just… I know it when I see it, that’s all-I ought to, by now. He came up and thanked me for making the film, and congratulated me, and asked some questions-smart questions. Very smart questions-”
“He’s a smart kid.”
“He’s… I don’t think he’s really a kid, Blaine. But don’t let the poise, the shine, fool you-he’s not really an adult, either.” A plume of smoke, slow and steady. “He’s a person-a person who’s been hurt, a person who’s trying to survive as best he can.”
Blaine closed his eyes. “He’s sixteen.”
“And?”
“He’s a runaway.”
“Okay.”
“And… I’m in love with him, Tina.” Blaine opened his eyes, staring up at the stars while they blurred in his vision. “I’m totally fucking head-over-heels for him, and I can’t-I never want to hurt him. Ever. I’m not… I’ve never touched him, I can’t touch him-but not-touching him feels like it’s killing me.”
“Oh, honey-” she tossed the clove away and wrapped him up, and Blaine pushed his wet face into her velvet-covered shoulder and tried to steady his breathing. Her hand on the back of his neck was cool, soothing. “I’m so sorry, Blaine-I’m sorry this is so hard for you. For both of you.”
“What can-what should I do?”
“Just… be there, Blaine. If you really want to help him, and not hurt him-just be there, if he needs you. Because he’s probably going to need you. That’s all you can do.”
***
Kurt was quiet on the drive home. Blaine stayed quiet too, until he started wondering whether ‘being there’ meant being quiet, or talking. “Everything okay?”
“Yes,” Kurt said succinctly, and left it at that.
Blaine waited, but nothing else seemed to be forthcoming. “Okay, well, I just want you to know, I’m here for you, if you need to talk, or, you know, if you need… anything.”
“Like what?”
“Um… anything?” Oh, lame. Lame, lame, lame. “Anything you might need.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Welcome.”
Silence reigned supreme for the rest of the drive home.
***
Kurt would need time, of course, time to process everything-Blaine still had no idea whether Kurt’s history or experiences were at all similar to any of the kids they’d seen in the film, but he was willing to bet that something he’d seen had struck home for him, so-he’d need time.
Blaine retreated to his bedroom to give Kurt the run of the house, should he need it-only he hadn’t planned that out very well, because the only thing he ever used his bedroom for was sleeping. There was nothing in the room except his clothes and his bed; not even a stray sketchbook.
So-fuck it. He went to bed.
Or, he started to. He’d just tied the waist of the old sweatpants he slept in when there was a knock on his door. Kurt came in, closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, his arms crossed over his chest. Blaine froze.
“I’m… I’m really not used to thinking of myself as lucky, Blaine.”
“Okay.”
“But I am. Not in what I… what I went through, but-after.”
“After?”
“I never had to turn tricks. Never started using booze or drugs to try to handle the pain or the anger. Never got locked up. And I never realized how lucky that meant I was.”
“Oh.”
“And I thought-maybe you don’t know-there’s a lot you don’t know. You don’t know, the ways I’m… the ways I’ve been hurt-they’re not like that. I thought, maybe you think if you, if we… that it would break me.” Kurt looked at him then, his face calm. “It wouldn’t break me, Blaine.”
Kurt was still in the same clothes he’d worn to the event, only now his shirtsleeves were unbuttoned and rolled up to the elbow, and his vest hung open. His tie was yanked down and his collar was unfastened and his hair was messy, and for the first time he didn’t look like a boy at all-he looked like a man, a sexy, dizzyingly handsome man, staring at Blaine with calm equanimity.
Blaine could see (it was a curse, sometimes, the clarity with which he could see things) an unspooling chain of events-one where he got Kurt by the tie and Kurt tucked three fingers into the front of Blaine’s sweatpants before they crashed into each other, where any space between them was too much space and the two steps to get to the bed was two steps they didn’t have time for. He could see them grappling on the floor, desperate to get as much of each other as possible, desperate to get off, kissing like devouring and rutting like beasts. He saw it, saw the liquid-slide, flesh-and-sweat sex of it, and his cells were crying out for it like they were desert-parched because it had been so long, so long since he’d lost himself in the taste and feel of a beautiful man, so long since he’d let go-
One step forward, one change in the angle of light was enough to break the illusion-Kurt was sixteen again, far-away and long-ago and so far apart from him that bridging the distance would tear everything, leave it in shreds. Blaine whirled around and sank down on his bed with his head in his hands before he could do something stupid like put his fist through his bedroom door, or kiss Kurt on his open, wanting, innocent sixteen-year-old mouth. His heart was pounding. His head was pounding. “I’m sorry, Kurt-I’m so sorry. I never meant to-God. I’m so sorry.”
But when he opened his eyes, he was talking to an empty room.
***
He couldn’t fucking draw.
He could still see-a small slice or a composite image or sometimes an entire vista, textured and complete-but he couldn’t draw any of it. At all.
A line, graphite on paper. Just one line, but recognizable to him as the curve of the back of Kurt’s neck seen in profile, as he sat at the piano. One line.
But the line was wrong. The line was… guilty, and off, and not-right, and when he ploughed ahead anyway and insisted that his hand do its job, the result was a mess.
Stop. Try again. No. Again. No. Over and over, failure after failure, and he stashed those sketchbooks far back in his closet, because he never wanted to look at them again.
It felt like starving. Like kicking a drug. Like chasing a high, deprived and empty and half-panicked and half-devastated, something vital that he needed in order to live carved right out of him, leaving a terrifying hole behind.
Kurt seemed fine-except for how he wasn’t. There was no acrimony, no suffering glances, no undue tension-he was just… distant. Calm, and existing, and distant (going, going, almost gone). Even though he was still there-they still lived together, cooked together, and (more or less) spent time together.
But Blaine couldn’t draw any of it. And nothing was the same.
***
He had to ask, but he couldn’t do it in the clock-ticking hush of the house-it felt too close to the bone, too vulnerable, too easy to imagine the silence and solitude that would descend if it went the way he was afraid it might.
So he asked Kurt to go to breakfast with him, and took him out near Fisherman’s Wharf-hellishly touristy and utterly devoid of charm, but it seemed like neutral territory, somehow. He ordered coffee (although he was fairly sure he wouldn’t be able to drink it), and food (something-he didn’t pay attention to what, since he really had no urge to eat anything at all), and waited until the coffee appeared before he took the plunge.
“Kurt.” Kurt left off his half-amused, half-contemptuous survey of all the tourists thronging the street, and looked at him. “Are you going… are you planning to leave?”
Kurt blinked. Sipped his coffee. His cheeks flushed. “I’m… I’ve been considering it.”
There it was. And there was a whole world of difference between thinking it was coming and knowing it, because Blaine’s stomach dropped out from under him like he’d just pitched himself off a cliff. “I really wish you wouldn’t.” Such a calm statement, so unemotional and detached, completely inadequate to sum up the terrifying thought of Kurt, gone, God knows where. Maybe forever.
“I know.” Kurt was pale beneath the flush, his lips pressed tight together. “But… it’s really hard for me to stay.”
“I get that, Kurt, I do. I-”
“No, you don’t, Blaine-you don’t get it.” Kurt cut him off sharply. His eyes flashed. “You don’t get it-you don’t get that you’re the only person in my life who’s ever seen what’s different about me, and liked it. You don’t get what that means to me. You don’t get that it made all of… everything I’ve ever had to go through to be who I am-and that’s a lot, Blaine, a lot-all seem worthwhile.” Kurt wiped his eyes, angry now, crying, breaking Blaine in two. “You don’t get it. You just don’t get how it feels that you’re the only one who’s ever seen me like that-and you act like you’re going to burn in hell if you touch me. Like liking me, wanting me, means you’re damned. And I can’t… I just. Can’t-”
Kurt was up and gone before Blaine could stop him. It had happened so fast, everything seemed too loud and too bright, and Blaine was trying to move but his muscles had locked up-until he saw Kurt push through the door and into the street. Then it was a mad scramble, his nerves screaming at him to hurry, and he fumbled for his wallet and tossed bills on the table before he ran out the door.
“Kurt-”
The street was a sea of people, but he could only see one-one tucked-down shiny brown head walking away, moving fast. He followed. “Kurt!” He was almost running, trying to catch up-but then he saw Kurt actually collide with a girl coming out of an ice cream store, almost knocking her down-and then everything stopped.
“Kurt?” That was from the girl. She was short and had long, brown hair, and her eyes were huge and her hands were on Kurt’s arms, holding him. “Kurt-oh my God-you’re here-what are you… they wouldn’t tell us anything, they said-we couldn’t find you-”
Blaine stopped in his tracks. Kurt had spun halfway around, and Blaine could see how pale he was, white and bloodless with dark circles of shock under his eyes. “Rachel-oh, Jesus, Rachel, you can’t-you can’t tell anyone you saw me, okay? Not anyone. Nobody can know this-promise me, you have to promise me-”
The girl was crying and saying something, something about a competition and that she was sorry, but that seemed secondary to the fact that a horde of kids were piling out of the ice cream store she had come out of-and all of them seemed to know Kurt. Blaine watched Kurt shrink back, pressed against the storefront with his hands splayed out against the glass, until a man came out of the store, a guy with a chiseled face and wavy hair-and went as white as Kurt was, dropping his ice cream cone on the sidewalk.
“Kurt?”
Kurt bolted, and Blaine ran after him.
***
He lost sight of Kurt within a block-too many people, too many possible turns and alleys and places he could have ducked into-but he kept looking, kept running, and even when he knew it was hopeless; he kept on until there was a stitch deep in his side and spots floating in front of his eyes. He eventually circled back to the ice cream shop, but there was nobody-nobody but everybody, a throng of unrecognizable tourists undoubtedly wondering if the crazy-haired, panting, sweaty guy was about to try to rob them.
He went home, steering his car with shaking hands, hoping fervently that he’d find Kurt there when he arrived-probably upset, okay, maybe crying or scared or angry or all three-but there.
But the house was empty.
Blaine sat down at the kitchen table, and waited.
***
No police-you don’t go to the police about a kid on the run from… whatever. No hospitals (please don’t let Kurt be in the hospital)-Kurt and his ‘documentation problem’ meant no hospitals. There was nothing for Blaine to do except keep his cell phone charged (Kurt’s phone didn’t even go to voice mail-it just rang, endlessly, and nobody ever picked up, but he kept trying anyway) and try not to wonder too much about where Kurt might be, if he was okay, if he would ever speak to Blaine again-if he would ever be able to.
It was almost two o’clock in the morning when Blaine found himself outside, in his driveway with his car door open and the keys in his hand. A futile, absurd undertaking-but he went anyway, cruising slowly around the streets in the parts of the city where he thought Kurt might go, and the parts of the city where he thought Kurt might go if he knew someone was looking for him, someone who knew where to look.
The sun was rising by the time he got back, a gorgeous, pink flush over everything that just made the house seem darker and more empty, like the shed carapace of some giant insect, dry and frail and ready to skitter away in the smallest breeze. He didn’t want to go inside.
He went inside. Plugged his cell phone in again. Called Kurt again. And waited.
On the second night of waiting he got apocalyptically drunk, then felt apocalyptically guilty for it-what if Kurt called, needed help, needed him? He made himself throw up, then drank an entire pot of coffee-and then threw that up-at which point he really, badly needed a shower. He showered with his cellphone just outside the curtain, wrapped in a dry washcloth with the volume turned all the way up. Kurt didn’t call. Not then, and not when he brushed his teeth and combed his hair and put on jeans and a polo that weren’t spattered with fluids that made them look like they belonged on a fratboy after a pub crawl, not as the sun came up all over again and the day stretched out like torture.
He almost called Tina. He almost called Quinn. He almost, God help him, called his fucking lawyer-but he didn’t. He went on another tour of the city instead, driving aimlessly, and then purposefully, and then dejectedly back to the house, back inside the house, cell phone in the charger and Blaine on the kitchen floor, waiting.
He started losing time at that point-not sleeping, he was pretty sure he wasn’t sleeping in any normal sense of the word-just dropping giant chunks of time down an unseen maw, fumbling for his cell every time he came back to himself, just to check-no calls.
It was late. He didn’t know how it had gotten so late. And he didn’t know what to do.
He actually had his phone in his hand, staring at the screen, when it lit up-unknown caller. His thumb shook when he pressed the screen.
“Hello?”
“Blaine…”
Blaine closed his eyes. He was so dizzy with relief that he slumped over sideways onto the floor. “Kurt-oh my God, Kurt, where are you?”
Kurt was crying. “Blaine, I’m so sorry-I tried to fix it, tried to fix things, but I couldn’t-”
“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Please don’t-”
“Blaine, listen.” Kurt sniffed. “I’m sorry, I want to… I’m fine, okay? I mean, I’m not hurt. I just… I tried to fix things, and I tried to make it safe for you and I couldn’t, and if… you have to be sure, Blaine-you have to be really, really sure, because this could get ugly, it could get so ugly, and I don’t ever want to hurt you-”
Blaine squeezed the phone so hard he heard the plastic creak. “Kurt, please-just tell me where you are. Let me come get you.”
“I can’t… no. I can’t go back to San Francisco. Not for a while. I’m sorry-”
“Then I’ll come to you-wherever you are. Anywhere. Just tell me.”
“I’m… in Cambria. At your house. I had the key and I didn’t know where else to go and I’m sorry-”
Blaine was up, on his feet, his muscles burning with exhaustion and adrenaline. “I’m on my way. Right now. Don’t leave, okay? Just… wait for me, Kurt-please. Please?”
Kurt was crying again. “I’m so sorry about all this, Blaine. I never wanted-”
“Shh.” Blaine had his keys in his hand and the car door open, and he stood there for just a moment, his eyes closed, his head back, the phone held tight. His heart was pounding like crazy. “It’s okay, Kurt-it’ll be okay. Just stay where you are. I’ll be there soon.”
***
He let himself into the house at half-past three in the morning. It was dark, just a soft glow coming from the living room-the small lamp on the left side of the couch. Kurt was on the floor, curled up on his side, asleep. He was still wearing the same clothes Blaine had last seen him in, but now his feet were bare and his jeans rolled up, his vest and tie gone, his white shirt rumpled and untucked-like a boy who’d fallen asleep trying on his big brother’s clothes. Blaine went to his knees silently, his eyes stinging as he reached out one hand, his breath catching in his throat as Kurt’s eyes fluttered.
“Blaine-” Kurt got him around the neck and Kurt was in his arms and right there-with him, and safe, and right there-“Blaine, you’re here, oh my God, you’re here…” He felt Kurt shake, crying again, and he hung on, rocking just a little, hanging on while Kurt’s hands touched his shoulders, his head, his face, as if checking to make sure he was real-and it was everything, it was all he needed; Blaine shut his eyes and breathed deep and held Kurt close, and it was everything.
“Please-” it was just a whisper, shaky and faint, a running susurration of sound. “Please, Blaine, please-please don’t-please don’t hate yourself-not when I love you so much-”
Kurt’s mouth was so, so soft, tender and tasting like tears. It was a shock, a giant, walloping shock, like cresting a wave in the deep ocean, kissing Kurt’s mouth, silky tongue and innocence and openness and it rocked him, rocked him to the core of his being. He teased Kurt’s tongue with his own, rubbed their open lips together, then dove back in and breathed deep, breathing Kurt in, drowning sweetly.
Kurt moaned just a little, shuddering, surging against him, and then everything in Blaine’s head went white-there were noises and there was need, and some kind of popping, pinging sound-the buttons on Kurt’s shirt, flying everywhere when Blaine tore it open, the creak of straining denim under his hands and a deep purr of ripping fabric and then he had it, he had Kurt’s hot, hard cock in his hand, so soft-skinned it felt criminal to touch it. Everything slowed down then, and he came back to himself, came back to Kurt, eye to eye with him while his hand moved-so gently, so slowly-below.
Kurt’s lips were glossy-wet and open, gasping, his cheeks flushed deep red. Blaine watched, greedy for all of it, stunned by all of it, losing himself in every shiver, every flutter of Kurt’s eyelids.
“Blaine…”
“Yes.”
“That… feels-your hand-”
“It’s okay-”
“You love me?”
“…so much.” A dam breaking, the hot, sweet rush of everything he hadn’t said. “You’re so beautiful, and I love you so much, and I want you-I always want you, Kurt, all the time, want to touch you and kiss you and… oh fuck yes-” He watched Kurt come, softly moaning with his brows drawn down, shaky hands on his shoulders and a hard push into his fist and then spilling, warm and wet, his own eyes were wet, Kurt’s lashes were wet and matted and Blaine was groaning himself because he soaked it up, rode it out like it was his own, delicate tremors of ecstasy running through him like fine threads of fire.
They were kissing again. He didn’t remember when they started, but it was different now-awed and soft and hushed, luxurious and sated and sugar-sweet. Infinitely and instantaneously addictive-Kurt’s gentle, curious tongue, the soft hands cupping Blaine’s face, holding him close. Blaine felt drugged, heavy and lax, and swayed a little when he pulled back. Even his bones felt exhausted. “Come to bed,” he said huskily. “My bed. With me.”
“Okay, yes-” Kurt blinked at him, sleepy-eyed and so open, so willing, that Blaine gave in to the sudden, ridiculous impulse of the moment and scooped him up, arms under Kurt’s shoulders and knees and then up on his feet, heading towards the stairs. Kurt giggled faintly, then snaked both arms around his neck and nestled close, leaning his head on Blaine’s shoulder. “Don’t let go.”
“I’m never letting you go,” Blaine said quietly.
***
Another one of those moments, a memory embedded so deep in him it would never be anything less than perfectly distinct: Kurt in his arms, in his bed for the first time. Simple, and simply miraculous. Kurt half-draped across him, sleek brown head tucked down, babysoft cheek against his chest, one long leg tangled between his. Kurt was asleep by the time Blaine got the blankets settled over them, sighing softly, and even though he was so tired himself that keeping his eyes open felt like a kind of torture, he had to watch-just for a little while, just long enough to take it in, to memorize everything, to bring it home that Kurt was here, and safe, and his. Then he kissed the top of Kurt’s head, and let himself fall.
He sank, and surfaced, and sank all over again: snuggling with Kurt, warm animal comfort as the hours ticked by, as the room filled with light. The first thing that really woke him was Kurt sliding away, gently extricating himself. “Don’t go.”
“I have to pee.” Kurt’s voice was hoarse, whisper-quiet. “I’ll be right back.”
“That was too long,” he murmured when Kurt returned, cool-skinned, shivering boy eagerly burying himself under the covers.
“Cold out there,” Kurt breathed, and Blaine wrapped him up, held him until the shivering stopped. “God, you’re so warm.”
And then he sank again.
***
The light suggested late-afternoon when he opened his eyes, and a glance at his bedside clock confirmed it. Kurt had moved off his chest and onto the pillow right next to him, but their arms and fingers and legs were still laced together, a sweet, constricting tangle, too-warm now. Kurt’s eyes were open, just barely open, heavy-lidded but so bright, the thick lashes making Blaine want to draw them all over again.
Blaine swallowed. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Kurt blinked, slowly. “Are you okay?”
“I’m… I need to pee.” He really, really did. He walked away feeling absurdly self-conscious about wearing nothing but boxer-briefs, a feeling which really wasn’t assuaged by Kurt’s wide-eyed, up-and-down look when he came back from the bathroom.
“Oh my God,” Kurt said faintly. He was blushing, and Blaine was mildly scandalized to feel his own face heating up when he ducked back under the sheet, tossing the duvet onto the floor. Kurt’s eyes were solemn, huge. “Blaine. Please tell me you’re okay.”
“Kurt-I wouldn’t be mostly naked and in bed with you, if I wasn’t.” Kurt started reaching for him, but Blaine stopped his hand, laced their fingers together. “But I need… we need to talk.”
“Blaine.” Kurt pulled his hand back, tugging the sheet up under his chin. “I’m not… I can’t, I’m not ready to-”
“Okay-I know… I know. But… I don’t want you to disappear on me again. That was… it was terrible, Kurt, and I don’t-I need to know you won’t run. Not on your own.”
Kurt reached out again, touching his fingers gently. “I’m sorry, Blaine-I’m so sorry you were worried about me.”
“Worried isn’t the word for it, Kurt. I was… I can’t lose you.” His voice thickened, and he cleared his throat. “I just can’t.”
Kurt closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. “I won’t disappear, Blaine. And… if I have to run, I’ll let you know where I’m going and-”
“If you have to run-I’m running with you.” He took Kurt’s hand. “Promise me.”
“I… okay. I promise,” Kurt murmured, squeezing Blaine’s fingers, his eyes too bright. “Could you maybe kiss me now?”
The sunlight coming in through the windows illuminated the bed, dust motes in the air drifting as if time itself had slowed. Kisses were distinct, patient, dropping deliberately like each was a petal pulled from a flower. Kurt’s mouth was irresistible, his eyes hazy, his white throat working as he swallowed. His body shifted, heels skidding a little on the sheets as if he were trying to keep still. “Blaine.”
Blaine almost moaned aloud when he pulled the sheet up, because Kurt was always, always covered, a continual tease, and the first sight of his sweetly naked body was overwhelming-boyish and beautiful and elegant and powerful, and Blaine wanted to draw everything and touch everything and also taste everything all at the same time and his hands were shaking, just a little.
Kurt blushed. It went all the way down. “Blaine-you too, okay? I want-”
Blaine was already breathing heavily when he tossed the sheet away, already hard when he skimmed out of his briefs. Kurt was hard, gorgeous and big and curved up over his lovely belly almost to his navel, thick dark pubic hair but none on his balls, rosy and tight-drawn close to his body and oh Christ, Blaine had to swallow because his mouth was watering.
Naked kisses, soft skin and sunlight everywhere, already sweating-God, he’s sixteen and a virgin, don’t maul him-but Kurt pulled him close and pushed up against him and gasped into the curve of his neck, wrapping strong thighs around his hips, blunt-bitten nails digging into his back, and that was pretty much the end of Blaine’s self-control. He worked them together in tight, smooth arcs, kissing Kurt hard and deep while Kurt bucked under him.
“Oh fuck,” Kurt moaned, flushed red and gorgeous, tight pink nipples and the muscles in his stomach quivering. “Oh my God, Blaine, that’s… don’t stop, okay?”
Blaine groaned. His balls were heavy, aching, his cock twitching, and Kurt was smooth and hot and delicious, slick now with sweat and moving with him, half-lidded eyes drinking Blaine in avidly as he reared up. More pressure and more friction, and Blaine couldn’t, couldn’t stop watching Kurt give in to it, surrendering bit by bit.
He would have liked to stretch it out-but it had been too long, and too much, and it felt too good. Blaine worked his hips until he found what made Kurt moan and gasp and shake the most, then closed his eyes and dropped his head back and stayed right there, almost a full-body slide grinding them together, wickedly intense with their cocks pressed against each other.
“Blaine-ohh… fuck-” He dropped down and covered Kurt’s mouth with his own and kissed him while he came, shaking so hard it felt like his bones were rattling, groaning and gasping through some kind of massive, silent explosion in the middle of his head when he shot all over Kurt’s stomach and chest, all the strength running out of his muscles like water.
He didn’t remember rolling over, but when he could see again he was on his back with Kurt lying on top of him, kissing him and humming a little and moving slowly, gently, like he was floating. Blaine felt like he was floating himself-untethered from everything, like if Kurt wasn’t on top of him he might just drift gently up to the ceiling. He was appalled to find himself giggling quietly.
“What?”
“Apparently I think I’m a balloon.” He snickered helplessly. His arms and legs didn’t work, and that was hilarious.
Kurt came vaguely into focus above him, sweaty and rosy and sated and gorgeous and concerned. “Are you okay?”
“Oh yeah I’m awesome,” Blaine said stridently, then completely lost it, laughing so hard his stomach ached and his eyes teared up.
“Oh my God I love you, you dork,” Kurt murmured, then collapsed onto Blaine’s chest and nestled there, smiling faintly.
***
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