fic: yes i get by (with a little help)
Title: yes i get by (with a little help)
Fandom: Glee
Rating: pg-13
Length: 3591
Summary: "No problem, I mean, what are friends for?" Or four times 'bros helping bros' has nothing to do with sex. And one time it does.
Spoilers: None
Characters/Pairings: Kurt/Blaine, one mention of Kurt/Adam
Warnings: frottage
Notes: I couldn't help myself.
Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue
It’s not that Kurt’s afraid. That would be ridiculous. Crazy talk even. It’s not his fault that most people translate ‘not a fan of horror movies’ to ‘afraid’. There are a lot of things to be afraid of in the world, synthetic blood and poor lighting do not make Kurt’s list.
Blaine knuckles tap against his thigh and Kurt takes a moment to carefully consider the contents of the popcorn bowl they’re sharing. The music turns to sharp violins on the screen and Kurt does not take his eyes off the popcorn. Most of the bag seemed to have popped.
The music builds and builds and there’s a sticky knot of suspense tightens in his throat and Kurt resolutely keeps his eyes open (okay, scores totally made it on the list of Things to Be Afraid Of, but Kurt’s an artist. It’s not his fault he has such an intense connection to music). The music crests and there’s a mangled scream and Kurt’s heart beats wild inside his chest. The music quiets. Blaine’s knuckles tap against his thigh again.
Kurt looks up and the scene’s changed to another filler exposition scene before the next blood bath. He’s never letting Finn pick the movie again. He’d rather sit through Attack of the Clones again.
“Doing alright there bro?” Finn doesn’t turn away from the screen and Sam chuckles from the other side of Blaine. On second thought, Kurt decides, next time they’re watching Steel Magnolias and he’ll post the video of Finn crying at Shelby’s funeral on youtube.
“Peachy.”
Blaine’s fingertips graze Kurt’s in the popcorn bowl, momentarily distracting Kurt from his thoughts of revenge with the memory of this afternoon and Blaine’s hand creeping up the inseam of Kurt’s jeans in retaliation for the attention Kurt had been paying the spot under his ear. Kurt’s ears flush hot and he fidgets a little in his spot, nudges Blaine’s shoulder accidentally. The scene changes again, a jump cut to somewhere dark and stormy and those menacing violins start again. Kurt remembers hiding his face in Blaine’s shoulder to muffle the sound he made as Blaine’s hand moved higher, remembers further back still, a hundred movie nights before, hiding his face to keep from seeing whatever gore fest he was being forced to endure. The music lingers threateningly in the background and Kurt wants turn his face in to Blaine’s shoulder, just like before. But he doesn’t (he can’t). Instead they sit close and share popcorn and when the time comes Blaine warns Kurt and Kurt averts his eyes.
Kurt’s not afraid. He’s not. He just doesn’t want to look.
Their skype connection isn’t at its best tonight. It freezes and jumps, and their voices never quite sync with the images on the screen. The screen even goes to black a few times.
None of that really matters tonight.
The image flickers in and out but holds long enough for Kurt to see Blaine holding up a swathe of black fabric, stalls with Blaine’s expression positively radiant, not with a show choir smile but the goofy all-teeth high beam of genuine excitement. “Oh my god Kurt, it’s amazing.” The happiness in Blaine’s voice can’t be diminished by distance or a weak internet connection. The image stops, drops, flickers back and jumps ahead to Blaine drawing the fabric around his shoulders. It looks ridiculous over his red cardigan and polo shirt-but then Kurt’s seen the pictures. It doesn’t get any less ridiculous as part of the completed ensemble-but Blaine’s already setting his shoulders a little straighter, holding his head a little higher. He looks so pleased. It makes something warm twitch in Kurt’s chest and his ears prickle with heat. He shrugs a shoulder nonchalantly, but it doesn’t matter because their screens go to black entirely. He clears his throat. “Well a little bird told me that yours got ripped when you were trying to get a cat out of a tree.” Laughter bubbles in his throat and he doesn’t try to hide it.
The image cuts back to Blaine’s face frozen in a sheepish expression, drops again. “Finn told you.”
Kurt doesn’t bother denying it, “Did he really catch you?”
“Mostly.”
Kurt laughs and the picture comes back just in time to catch him at an unflattering angle with his mouth open. Web cams do favors for no one.
“I’m glad you like it,” he says, voice steady and sure. He’s made things far more difficult, greater and grander, than a cape before. “I mean, I hope I got the emblem right. I was going off the picture Tina sent me as reference-”
“No, no, it’s perfect Kurt, absolutely-” Blaine’s voice warps, skips and cuts in again. “I love it. Thank you.”
Kurt chews on his bottom lip. “No problem. I mean-what are friends for?”
He has a hard time falling asleep the night before. He dozes in intervals, wakes up panicking about oversleeping or forgetting lyrics or missing a note or or or-
He wakes up twenty-three minutes before his alarm and gives up on sleep entirely. His audition isn’t until nine, he has a whole three hours to get ready and drive to the location specified in the letter he received a month ago. He’s applied to plenty of colleges, most of them in New York, all of them with excellent music programs. Blaine would be lucky to get into any of them. NYADA isn’t the end all be all of Blaine’s future, but that doesn’t stop the anxious ripple in his stomach, the constant loop of this is it, this is it, this is it.
He eyes the music sheets on his desk, the clothes he laid out the night before look all wrong now (his yellow pants seem like a lackluster imitation of everything he isn’t).
He tries to drown out his nerves in the shower, hums a few bars of his audition song and recites every single lyric to the tiled walls just to make sure he knows them (I promise you a happy ending like the one you’ve been dreaming about).
This is it this is it this is it (where the vows are vowed and the knots are knotted)
He wipes the condensation off the mirror with the corner of his towel. His hair is a disaster and his eyes are tired and there’s the beginnings of a blemish, reddened and irritated, on his chin. His hand, when he reaches for his toothbrush, won’t stop shaking.
-
Kurt’s phone vibrates on his bedside table. It’s Saturday and there’s no good reason for anyone to be calling him before seven on a Saturday morning. But plenty of bad ones. He fumbles for his phone and presses it to his ear, his limbs sluggish with sleep and clumsy with the quick onset of fear. “What’s wrong?”
“Kurt, oh god, Kurt I woke you didn’t I? Ha, that’s a stupid question. I’m sorry-I wasn’t thinking, I mean-”
“Is everything okay? Is it-?”
“No, I’m sorry, everything’s fine. I’m sorry I didn’t mean to scare you. I just-forget it, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking-” Blaine’s voice is stretched thin, the crisp façade of his manners doesn’t fit quite right over the strained edge of it. “I’ll let you go back to sleep.”
“Blaine wait,” he has to remember to keep his voice low, the last thing he wants is Santana stomping in and threatening to tamper with his products in retribution for an unwanted wake up call. It’s hard to manage with Blaine still rambling anxiously in his ear, “Blaine stop apologizing. Breathe.” Blaine cuts off mid-apology and there’s the long pause of Kurt’s instructions being followed. “Now speak.”
“My audition’s today.” Blaine breathes out in a rush. It jumps forward in Kurt’s mind, because yes, he knows this. “And I, um, I didn’t think I was going to freak out this much but I’m-”
“Totally freaking out.” Kurt helpfully supplies, soft and careful, and Blaine laughs (it’s not a happy sound, nervous and sharp). “Yeah, that.”
“Don’t be. You have no reason to.” Kurt knows there’s very little he can say to make this better, remembers the twisted knots of nerves in his own stomach when he took the stage. Both times. “You’re going to be amazing, Blaine.” He says and means it down to marrow in his bones. “They’re not going to know what hit them. You’ve got this.”
Tina sent him a video a week ago of Blaine practicing in the auditorium. It really is a beautiful song and Blaine sings it spectacularly.
Blaine makes a choked sound over the line. “I don’t know what to wear.”
Kurt smiles a little bit, keeps his voice low but doesn’t skimp on the cheer. “Well then you’ve called the right person.”
-
Kurt talks him through practically his entire wardrobe. It doesn’t feel anything like feels like the kind morning they might have shared the year before, talking to each other as they got ready for school, but the knot in Blaine’s stomach loosens little by little with each outfit they consider. Kurt’s voice barely above a whisper, reassuring even if he’s only talking about pants and vetoing shirts and suggesting sweater combinations.
“And a bowtie,” Kurt says, once they’ve settled on everything else, “the burgundy one I think.”
“Thank you.” Blaine says. He knows they have to hang up soon, that he should give Kurt back his Saturday morning; that he has to finish getting ready and get going and face the music. “I-I wish you were here.” He feels stupid saying it, but no stupider than at any other point this morning. He can’t help himself around Kurt. He never really could.
Kurt goes quiet and Blaine worries he’s crossed the wobbly line they’ve drawn between them. “You’ll have to call me later and tell me everything.” Kurt says warmly and Blaine nods even though Kurt can’t see him, phone tucked close to his ear like it’ll narrow the distance between them.
“Promise.”
Carole hangs up and Kurt sits on his bed, mouth pressed into a hard line and phone clutched between his palms. He closes his eyes and doesn’t cry, he doesn’t let himself cry, there’s no reason for it. Not today.
We slip and slide as we fall in love and I just can’t seem to get enough trills weakly from between Kurt’s hands and he breathes in deep before he accepts the call. “Hey Blaine.”
“Hey.” There’s no sound in the background, just Blaine’s voice soft and familiar. Kurt hasn’t felt so far from home in a long time. “How are you?”
Kurt huffs, “I’m fine.”
“Yeah?” Blaine’s edging around a question and Kurt chews his lip with impatience.
“Blaine.” The word’s clipped and Kurt remembers all the irrational irritation that came at Christmas, the prickly jealously that came from knowing Blaine knew about his dad before he had, that Blaine would be there while Kurt was here. The tension pulls at Kurt’s spine, makes his hunch further in on himself like a bruised leaf.
“I know you’re worried-”
And it’s hysterical, really, an understatement. Kurt worries about rain on days he breaks in new shoes, about Santana alone in the apartment and Rachel’s cooking. Cancer though, cancer is terrifying.
(They lost Mom without warning and Kurt will never forget the sudden freefall of having the world pulled out from under him, but this, this drawn out threat of fingers curling at Kurt’s heels, the possibility of the world out from beneath his feet just when he thinks he has a foothold. This might be worse,)
“You’d tell me right? If something was wrong. You won’t tell me it’s going to be okay just because you think that’s what I need to hear, will you? Because I need you tell me the truth-”
Even when it was a truth Kurt would have rather not known, he needs to know Blaine will tell him the truth.
“Kurt-”
“I’m scared.” The words stick on his tongue. It’s different saying it out loud, not any realer than it has been pressing down on Kurt’s chest all these months, but there’s a different texture to it all together.
Blaine doesn’t say anything, not right away, but he’s still there. “This is scary.” He says finally, “I’m scared too.” And he is; Kurt knows he is, because Blaine loves Dad. Not in the way Blaine loves most people, and not because he’s Kurt’s, but because Blaine recognizes all the ways Dad’s earned ever single mug Kurt’s ever given him.
“I just wish I could be there.”
Blaine hums low in his ear doesn’t try to convince Kurt of anything he wouldn’t believe anyway. “You’ll be here next month.” He says simply and it’s not a consolation, not exactly, just a fact Kurt can’t dispute.
“Tell me about home.” Kurt says quietly, picking at a nonexistent loose thread on his comforter.
“I think Sam’s hiding a cat in his room.” Blaine tells him casually.
Kurt listens to Blaine’s story about Friday night dinner and Sam’s multiple helpings of meatloaf he didn’t eat and the suspicious mewling that comes from Sam’s closet whenever they play video games in there. “And the smell. Sam keeps says he’s given up deodorant but it’s a whole other type of bad.”
Kurt laughs a little bit. The sick feeling in his stomach is still there, but it doesn’t get bigger either.
They don’t mean to fall asleep. But the sunlight slits warm through the curtains and the bed is soft and his sheets are still drier fresh and it proves impossible to pay attention to the movie playing on Kurt’s laptop. They nod off side by side and when Kurt wakes up it is to the warm heavy weight of Blaine pressed tight against his side. Blaine’s leg presses Kurt’s down on the bed, his hand splayed out on Kurt’s stomach (sleep turns him into a cuddling ninja, body molded around Kurt’s like they might share the same space if Blaine only tries hard enough).
His eyes feel gritty and he’s going to regret sleeping in the afternoon, it turns his sleep pattern, and he’s going to move, really he is, just not yet, not right away, he’s so comfortable. Blaine holds him close and Kurt would feel a little bad about how there’s absolutely no contest between Blaine and Bruce except for how he’s not thinking about Bruce at all.
His eyes slip shut without his consent and Kurt’s lingers in the slippery in-between of consciousness and sleep, muscles like pulled taffy melting from direct exposure to the sun, floats for indeterminable minutes on the steady rhythm of Blaine’s breathing and his own heart beat slow and steady in his chest.
And then Blaine moves, wiggles closer, leg and arm and hips and oh.
Oh.
That happens sometimes. Half hard and shifting against Kurt’s thigh in his sleep and Kurt’s stomach turns cartwheels. His heart stutters like it’s having a difficult time articulating the consonant sound of whatever it is curling low in Kurt’s belly.
“Blaine.” He whispers-there’s no need, not really, they have the house to themselves for another handful of hours-body still pinned in Blaine’s hold and face growing warmer. “Blaine.” There’s procedure, protocol left over from before they ever did anything at all. When sex was only ever something Kurt thought about in quick, skittish intervals like he was afraid of getting caught fantasizing about his boyfriend (the way he thinks about the non-wedding and the car and the hotel room and Blaine’s mouth against his in the back of a nearly empty movie theatre).
He knows Blaine wakes up when his body goes rigid. He begins to pull away, at first in tiny increments and then all at once, until Blaine’s disentangled himself all together, rolled over on his stomach, cheeks pink and eyes closed. “Sorry-I um-” Blaine’s inelegant with leftover sleep and Kurt doesn’t know why, he doesn’t, but he reaches out, hand soft against the small of Blaine’s back.
“I can go.” Blaine’s head gives a jerky tilt towards Kurt’s bathroom but Kurt just inches closer, closer until his chin brushes Blaine’s shoulder and he doesn’t know what’s come over him (he does, he does), he just leans in closer until he’s mouth brushes Blaine’s warm cheek. “Don’t.”
Blaine makes a sound at the back his throat like an aborted question, turns his head towards Kurt’s but doesn’t move any closer. He won’t move any closer, for all they’ve accomplished since Thanksgiving, since Valentines Day, there’s a newfound hesitation to Blaine’s movements.
Kurt’s not the only one who is afraid of what might happen.
Blaine’s mouth is wet and sleep stale, and he breathes out shakily through his nose at the first touch of Kurt’s mouth but kisses Kurt back just a little bit harder. The angle’s awkward and off center so Kurt nudges with his knee and pulls with his hand until Blaine relents, sighs into the kiss and rolls on his side. Kurt cups Blaine’s hip and edges his knee between Blaine’s, slips closer still.
It isn’t anything more than that for a long while. One lazy, wet kiss after another. Kurt’s hand moves to Blaine’s face and Blaine’s hand comes up to fist the side of Kurt’s shirt like Kurt might change his mind and pull away. Blaine’s tongue touches his, and Kurt sighs with what feels like his whole body, shivers at the sensation of Blaine’s hand dragging over his side. Kissing Adam was always nice, but kissing Blaine is indescribable, makes Kurt dizzy with feeling.
He might now know what they are right now, but he doesn’t question who they are to each other (maybe he never did and that’s what made everything else hurt so much more). He says Blaine’s name and Blaine hitches his leg higher, over Kurt’s hip and Kurt reaches down to take hold of Blaine’s thigh and kisses him deeper, longer, breathes but never seems to have enough air in his lungs.
It takes some maneuvering and almost cost them an elbow to Blaine’s ribs, but they manage it, Kurt’s hand tight on Blaine’s leg and Blaine sitting astride him, heavy on Kurt’s thighs. “Kurt.” Blaine’s eyes are dark and his mouth is red and Kurt’s heart beats hard behind his ribs. Blaine licks his lips and Kurt’s hands go to Blaine’s waist, pull at his hips until he’s closer, bearing down on him fully, “Kiss me.” It’s not a question and Blaine doesn’t mistake it for a request, ducks down so that their chests press together, takes Kurt’s mouth in his.
Kurt smiles into the kiss until he can’t anymore, until it turns into something desperate and quick, panting quick-drawn breathes pulled short between them.
They talked about what had happened before Kurt left for New York, and Kurt knew what Blaine had wanted it to mean regardless of what he’d said in the backseat. Whatever had been holding Kurt back in February seems thinner now, more fragile and yet less frightening. There are more talks ahead of them, Kurt knows that, he wants that, like he wants Blaine’s mouth moving against his and Blaine’s hands on his chest and everything else between them.
His hands move from Blaine’s waist to his ass, his fingers slip into the back pockets of his jeans and Blaine moans into Kurt’s mouth. Kurt’s hips rock up and his whole body is burning and buzzing. “Oh, god, Kurt.” Blaine gasps, voice low and ruined, his lips red and swollen. Their kisses get sloppier, clumsier, Kurt grinding against Blaine where he’s gone fully hard in his jeans. It’s over embarrassingly fast, Blaine rubbing frantically against Kurt’s, and they’re not even kissing anymore, mouths close and chasing air they can’t seem to catch, when Kurt’s orgasm shocks his body into stillness. Kurt barely manages to get his hand over Blaine’s erection when he sucks in a tight breath and bucks into Kurt’s hand.
It takes a few seconds for his lungs to stop burning in his chest. Blaine kisses along his jaw and his neck, swipes his tongue at the skin there. “Hmm.” Blaine drapes heavily across him and Kurt’s in hurry to move, pets at the sweat-damp small of Blaine’s back and wishes they’d had the presence of mind to take their clothes off.
Blaine lift to his elbows, looks down at Kurt’s face with lovesick eyes that make Kurt’s stomach swoop.
Blaine’s face wrinkles with a smile at whatever he sees, like Kurt’s just shared a secret. Kurt’s all sweaty and red and his eyes burn, just a little-because less frightening doesn’t mean it isn’t still scary-but he reaches up, touches Blaine’s face and the damp curls that have escaped his hair gel. “I miss you a lot.” Kurt says, but that’s never been a secret at all. Not really.
Blaine’s mouth trembles. “I miss you too.”
Kurt pulls him down and Blaine goes, sticky underwear be damned. There’s so much they have to do and they might never have what they had before but they can have something new. Kurt’s never been one to shy away from new or different, he can’t start now.
The End
Fandom: Glee
Rating: pg-13
Length: 3591
Summary: "No problem, I mean, what are friends for?" Or four times 'bros helping bros' has nothing to do with sex. And one time it does.
Spoilers: None
Characters/Pairings: Kurt/Blaine, one mention of Kurt/Adam
Warnings: frottage
Notes: I couldn't help myself.
Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue
- Movie night
It’s not that Kurt’s afraid. That would be ridiculous. Crazy talk even. It’s not his fault that most people translate ‘not a fan of horror movies’ to ‘afraid’. There are a lot of things to be afraid of in the world, synthetic blood and poor lighting do not make Kurt’s list.
Blaine knuckles tap against his thigh and Kurt takes a moment to carefully consider the contents of the popcorn bowl they’re sharing. The music turns to sharp violins on the screen and Kurt does not take his eyes off the popcorn. Most of the bag seemed to have popped.
The music builds and builds and there’s a sticky knot of suspense tightens in his throat and Kurt resolutely keeps his eyes open (okay, scores totally made it on the list of Things to Be Afraid Of, but Kurt’s an artist. It’s not his fault he has such an intense connection to music). The music crests and there’s a mangled scream and Kurt’s heart beats wild inside his chest. The music quiets. Blaine’s knuckles tap against his thigh again.
Kurt looks up and the scene’s changed to another filler exposition scene before the next blood bath. He’s never letting Finn pick the movie again. He’d rather sit through Attack of the Clones again.
“Doing alright there bro?” Finn doesn’t turn away from the screen and Sam chuckles from the other side of Blaine. On second thought, Kurt decides, next time they’re watching Steel Magnolias and he’ll post the video of Finn crying at Shelby’s funeral on youtube.
“Peachy.”
Blaine’s fingertips graze Kurt’s in the popcorn bowl, momentarily distracting Kurt from his thoughts of revenge with the memory of this afternoon and Blaine’s hand creeping up the inseam of Kurt’s jeans in retaliation for the attention Kurt had been paying the spot under his ear. Kurt’s ears flush hot and he fidgets a little in his spot, nudges Blaine’s shoulder accidentally. The scene changes again, a jump cut to somewhere dark and stormy and those menacing violins start again. Kurt remembers hiding his face in Blaine’s shoulder to muffle the sound he made as Blaine’s hand moved higher, remembers further back still, a hundred movie nights before, hiding his face to keep from seeing whatever gore fest he was being forced to endure. The music lingers threateningly in the background and Kurt wants turn his face in to Blaine’s shoulder, just like before. But he doesn’t (he can’t). Instead they sit close and share popcorn and when the time comes Blaine warns Kurt and Kurt averts his eyes.
Kurt’s not afraid. He’s not. He just doesn’t want to look.
- Nightbird
Their skype connection isn’t at its best tonight. It freezes and jumps, and their voices never quite sync with the images on the screen. The screen even goes to black a few times.
None of that really matters tonight.
The image flickers in and out but holds long enough for Kurt to see Blaine holding up a swathe of black fabric, stalls with Blaine’s expression positively radiant, not with a show choir smile but the goofy all-teeth high beam of genuine excitement. “Oh my god Kurt, it’s amazing.” The happiness in Blaine’s voice can’t be diminished by distance or a weak internet connection. The image stops, drops, flickers back and jumps ahead to Blaine drawing the fabric around his shoulders. It looks ridiculous over his red cardigan and polo shirt-but then Kurt’s seen the pictures. It doesn’t get any less ridiculous as part of the completed ensemble-but Blaine’s already setting his shoulders a little straighter, holding his head a little higher. He looks so pleased. It makes something warm twitch in Kurt’s chest and his ears prickle with heat. He shrugs a shoulder nonchalantly, but it doesn’t matter because their screens go to black entirely. He clears his throat. “Well a little bird told me that yours got ripped when you were trying to get a cat out of a tree.” Laughter bubbles in his throat and he doesn’t try to hide it.
The image cuts back to Blaine’s face frozen in a sheepish expression, drops again. “Finn told you.”
Kurt doesn’t bother denying it, “Did he really catch you?”
“Mostly.”
Kurt laughs and the picture comes back just in time to catch him at an unflattering angle with his mouth open. Web cams do favors for no one.
“I’m glad you like it,” he says, voice steady and sure. He’s made things far more difficult, greater and grander, than a cape before. “I mean, I hope I got the emblem right. I was going off the picture Tina sent me as reference-”
“No, no, it’s perfect Kurt, absolutely-” Blaine’s voice warps, skips and cuts in again. “I love it. Thank you.”
Kurt chews on his bottom lip. “No problem. I mean-what are friends for?”
- NYADA
He has a hard time falling asleep the night before. He dozes in intervals, wakes up panicking about oversleeping or forgetting lyrics or missing a note or or or-
He wakes up twenty-three minutes before his alarm and gives up on sleep entirely. His audition isn’t until nine, he has a whole three hours to get ready and drive to the location specified in the letter he received a month ago. He’s applied to plenty of colleges, most of them in New York, all of them with excellent music programs. Blaine would be lucky to get into any of them. NYADA isn’t the end all be all of Blaine’s future, but that doesn’t stop the anxious ripple in his stomach, the constant loop of this is it, this is it, this is it.
He eyes the music sheets on his desk, the clothes he laid out the night before look all wrong now (his yellow pants seem like a lackluster imitation of everything he isn’t).
He tries to drown out his nerves in the shower, hums a few bars of his audition song and recites every single lyric to the tiled walls just to make sure he knows them (I promise you a happy ending like the one you’ve been dreaming about).
This is it this is it this is it (where the vows are vowed and the knots are knotted)
He wipes the condensation off the mirror with the corner of his towel. His hair is a disaster and his eyes are tired and there’s the beginnings of a blemish, reddened and irritated, on his chin. His hand, when he reaches for his toothbrush, won’t stop shaking.
-
Kurt’s phone vibrates on his bedside table. It’s Saturday and there’s no good reason for anyone to be calling him before seven on a Saturday morning. But plenty of bad ones. He fumbles for his phone and presses it to his ear, his limbs sluggish with sleep and clumsy with the quick onset of fear. “What’s wrong?”
“Kurt, oh god, Kurt I woke you didn’t I? Ha, that’s a stupid question. I’m sorry-I wasn’t thinking, I mean-”
“Is everything okay? Is it-?”
“No, I’m sorry, everything’s fine. I’m sorry I didn’t mean to scare you. I just-forget it, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking-” Blaine’s voice is stretched thin, the crisp façade of his manners doesn’t fit quite right over the strained edge of it. “I’ll let you go back to sleep.”
“Blaine wait,” he has to remember to keep his voice low, the last thing he wants is Santana stomping in and threatening to tamper with his products in retribution for an unwanted wake up call. It’s hard to manage with Blaine still rambling anxiously in his ear, “Blaine stop apologizing. Breathe.” Blaine cuts off mid-apology and there’s the long pause of Kurt’s instructions being followed. “Now speak.”
“My audition’s today.” Blaine breathes out in a rush. It jumps forward in Kurt’s mind, because yes, he knows this. “And I, um, I didn’t think I was going to freak out this much but I’m-”
“Totally freaking out.” Kurt helpfully supplies, soft and careful, and Blaine laughs (it’s not a happy sound, nervous and sharp). “Yeah, that.”
“Don’t be. You have no reason to.” Kurt knows there’s very little he can say to make this better, remembers the twisted knots of nerves in his own stomach when he took the stage. Both times. “You’re going to be amazing, Blaine.” He says and means it down to marrow in his bones. “They’re not going to know what hit them. You’ve got this.”
Tina sent him a video a week ago of Blaine practicing in the auditorium. It really is a beautiful song and Blaine sings it spectacularly.
Blaine makes a choked sound over the line. “I don’t know what to wear.”
Kurt smiles a little bit, keeps his voice low but doesn’t skimp on the cheer. “Well then you’ve called the right person.”
-
Kurt talks him through practically his entire wardrobe. It doesn’t feel anything like feels like the kind morning they might have shared the year before, talking to each other as they got ready for school, but the knot in Blaine’s stomach loosens little by little with each outfit they consider. Kurt’s voice barely above a whisper, reassuring even if he’s only talking about pants and vetoing shirts and suggesting sweater combinations.
“And a bowtie,” Kurt says, once they’ve settled on everything else, “the burgundy one I think.”
“Thank you.” Blaine says. He knows they have to hang up soon, that he should give Kurt back his Saturday morning; that he has to finish getting ready and get going and face the music. “I-I wish you were here.” He feels stupid saying it, but no stupider than at any other point this morning. He can’t help himself around Kurt. He never really could.
Kurt goes quiet and Blaine worries he’s crossed the wobbly line they’ve drawn between them. “You’ll have to call me later and tell me everything.” Kurt says warmly and Blaine nods even though Kurt can’t see him, phone tucked close to his ear like it’ll narrow the distance between them.
“Promise.”
- Burt
Carole hangs up and Kurt sits on his bed, mouth pressed into a hard line and phone clutched between his palms. He closes his eyes and doesn’t cry, he doesn’t let himself cry, there’s no reason for it. Not today.
We slip and slide as we fall in love and I just can’t seem to get enough trills weakly from between Kurt’s hands and he breathes in deep before he accepts the call. “Hey Blaine.”
“Hey.” There’s no sound in the background, just Blaine’s voice soft and familiar. Kurt hasn’t felt so far from home in a long time. “How are you?”
Kurt huffs, “I’m fine.”
“Yeah?” Blaine’s edging around a question and Kurt chews his lip with impatience.
“Blaine.” The word’s clipped and Kurt remembers all the irrational irritation that came at Christmas, the prickly jealously that came from knowing Blaine knew about his dad before he had, that Blaine would be there while Kurt was here. The tension pulls at Kurt’s spine, makes his hunch further in on himself like a bruised leaf.
“I know you’re worried-”
And it’s hysterical, really, an understatement. Kurt worries about rain on days he breaks in new shoes, about Santana alone in the apartment and Rachel’s cooking. Cancer though, cancer is terrifying.
(They lost Mom without warning and Kurt will never forget the sudden freefall of having the world pulled out from under him, but this, this drawn out threat of fingers curling at Kurt’s heels, the possibility of the world out from beneath his feet just when he thinks he has a foothold. This might be worse,)
“You’d tell me right? If something was wrong. You won’t tell me it’s going to be okay just because you think that’s what I need to hear, will you? Because I need you tell me the truth-”
Even when it was a truth Kurt would have rather not known, he needs to know Blaine will tell him the truth.
“Kurt-”
“I’m scared.” The words stick on his tongue. It’s different saying it out loud, not any realer than it has been pressing down on Kurt’s chest all these months, but there’s a different texture to it all together.
Blaine doesn’t say anything, not right away, but he’s still there. “This is scary.” He says finally, “I’m scared too.” And he is; Kurt knows he is, because Blaine loves Dad. Not in the way Blaine loves most people, and not because he’s Kurt’s, but because Blaine recognizes all the ways Dad’s earned ever single mug Kurt’s ever given him.
“I just wish I could be there.”
Blaine hums low in his ear doesn’t try to convince Kurt of anything he wouldn’t believe anyway. “You’ll be here next month.” He says simply and it’s not a consolation, not exactly, just a fact Kurt can’t dispute.
“Tell me about home.” Kurt says quietly, picking at a nonexistent loose thread on his comforter.
“I think Sam’s hiding a cat in his room.” Blaine tells him casually.
Kurt listens to Blaine’s story about Friday night dinner and Sam’s multiple helpings of meatloaf he didn’t eat and the suspicious mewling that comes from Sam’s closet whenever they play video games in there. “And the smell. Sam keeps says he’s given up deodorant but it’s a whole other type of bad.”
Kurt laughs a little bit. The sick feeling in his stomach is still there, but it doesn’t get bigger either.
- And the one time it totally did.
They don’t mean to fall asleep. But the sunlight slits warm through the curtains and the bed is soft and his sheets are still drier fresh and it proves impossible to pay attention to the movie playing on Kurt’s laptop. They nod off side by side and when Kurt wakes up it is to the warm heavy weight of Blaine pressed tight against his side. Blaine’s leg presses Kurt’s down on the bed, his hand splayed out on Kurt’s stomach (sleep turns him into a cuddling ninja, body molded around Kurt’s like they might share the same space if Blaine only tries hard enough).
His eyes feel gritty and he’s going to regret sleeping in the afternoon, it turns his sleep pattern, and he’s going to move, really he is, just not yet, not right away, he’s so comfortable. Blaine holds him close and Kurt would feel a little bad about how there’s absolutely no contest between Blaine and Bruce except for how he’s not thinking about Bruce at all.
His eyes slip shut without his consent and Kurt’s lingers in the slippery in-between of consciousness and sleep, muscles like pulled taffy melting from direct exposure to the sun, floats for indeterminable minutes on the steady rhythm of Blaine’s breathing and his own heart beat slow and steady in his chest.
And then Blaine moves, wiggles closer, leg and arm and hips and oh.
Oh.
That happens sometimes. Half hard and shifting against Kurt’s thigh in his sleep and Kurt’s stomach turns cartwheels. His heart stutters like it’s having a difficult time articulating the consonant sound of whatever it is curling low in Kurt’s belly.
“Blaine.” He whispers-there’s no need, not really, they have the house to themselves for another handful of hours-body still pinned in Blaine’s hold and face growing warmer. “Blaine.” There’s procedure, protocol left over from before they ever did anything at all. When sex was only ever something Kurt thought about in quick, skittish intervals like he was afraid of getting caught fantasizing about his boyfriend (the way he thinks about the non-wedding and the car and the hotel room and Blaine’s mouth against his in the back of a nearly empty movie theatre).
He knows Blaine wakes up when his body goes rigid. He begins to pull away, at first in tiny increments and then all at once, until Blaine’s disentangled himself all together, rolled over on his stomach, cheeks pink and eyes closed. “Sorry-I um-” Blaine’s inelegant with leftover sleep and Kurt doesn’t know why, he doesn’t, but he reaches out, hand soft against the small of Blaine’s back.
“I can go.” Blaine’s head gives a jerky tilt towards Kurt’s bathroom but Kurt just inches closer, closer until his chin brushes Blaine’s shoulder and he doesn’t know what’s come over him (he does, he does), he just leans in closer until he’s mouth brushes Blaine’s warm cheek. “Don’t.”
Blaine makes a sound at the back his throat like an aborted question, turns his head towards Kurt’s but doesn’t move any closer. He won’t move any closer, for all they’ve accomplished since Thanksgiving, since Valentines Day, there’s a newfound hesitation to Blaine’s movements.
Kurt’s not the only one who is afraid of what might happen.
Blaine’s mouth is wet and sleep stale, and he breathes out shakily through his nose at the first touch of Kurt’s mouth but kisses Kurt back just a little bit harder. The angle’s awkward and off center so Kurt nudges with his knee and pulls with his hand until Blaine relents, sighs into the kiss and rolls on his side. Kurt cups Blaine’s hip and edges his knee between Blaine’s, slips closer still.
It isn’t anything more than that for a long while. One lazy, wet kiss after another. Kurt’s hand moves to Blaine’s face and Blaine’s hand comes up to fist the side of Kurt’s shirt like Kurt might change his mind and pull away. Blaine’s tongue touches his, and Kurt sighs with what feels like his whole body, shivers at the sensation of Blaine’s hand dragging over his side. Kissing Adam was always nice, but kissing Blaine is indescribable, makes Kurt dizzy with feeling.
He might now know what they are right now, but he doesn’t question who they are to each other (maybe he never did and that’s what made everything else hurt so much more). He says Blaine’s name and Blaine hitches his leg higher, over Kurt’s hip and Kurt reaches down to take hold of Blaine’s thigh and kisses him deeper, longer, breathes but never seems to have enough air in his lungs.
It takes some maneuvering and almost cost them an elbow to Blaine’s ribs, but they manage it, Kurt’s hand tight on Blaine’s leg and Blaine sitting astride him, heavy on Kurt’s thighs. “Kurt.” Blaine’s eyes are dark and his mouth is red and Kurt’s heart beats hard behind his ribs. Blaine licks his lips and Kurt’s hands go to Blaine’s waist, pull at his hips until he’s closer, bearing down on him fully, “Kiss me.” It’s not a question and Blaine doesn’t mistake it for a request, ducks down so that their chests press together, takes Kurt’s mouth in his.
Kurt smiles into the kiss until he can’t anymore, until it turns into something desperate and quick, panting quick-drawn breathes pulled short between them.
They talked about what had happened before Kurt left for New York, and Kurt knew what Blaine had wanted it to mean regardless of what he’d said in the backseat. Whatever had been holding Kurt back in February seems thinner now, more fragile and yet less frightening. There are more talks ahead of them, Kurt knows that, he wants that, like he wants Blaine’s mouth moving against his and Blaine’s hands on his chest and everything else between them.
His hands move from Blaine’s waist to his ass, his fingers slip into the back pockets of his jeans and Blaine moans into Kurt’s mouth. Kurt’s hips rock up and his whole body is burning and buzzing. “Oh, god, Kurt.” Blaine gasps, voice low and ruined, his lips red and swollen. Their kisses get sloppier, clumsier, Kurt grinding against Blaine where he’s gone fully hard in his jeans. It’s over embarrassingly fast, Blaine rubbing frantically against Kurt’s, and they’re not even kissing anymore, mouths close and chasing air they can’t seem to catch, when Kurt’s orgasm shocks his body into stillness. Kurt barely manages to get his hand over Blaine’s erection when he sucks in a tight breath and bucks into Kurt’s hand.
It takes a few seconds for his lungs to stop burning in his chest. Blaine kisses along his jaw and his neck, swipes his tongue at the skin there. “Hmm.” Blaine drapes heavily across him and Kurt’s in hurry to move, pets at the sweat-damp small of Blaine’s back and wishes they’d had the presence of mind to take their clothes off.
Blaine lift to his elbows, looks down at Kurt’s face with lovesick eyes that make Kurt’s stomach swoop.
Blaine’s face wrinkles with a smile at whatever he sees, like Kurt’s just shared a secret. Kurt’s all sweaty and red and his eyes burn, just a little-because less frightening doesn’t mean it isn’t still scary-but he reaches up, touches Blaine’s face and the damp curls that have escaped his hair gel. “I miss you a lot.” Kurt says, but that’s never been a secret at all. Not really.
Blaine’s mouth trembles. “I miss you too.”
Kurt pulls him down and Blaine goes, sticky underwear be damned. There’s so much they have to do and they might never have what they had before but they can have something new. Kurt’s never been one to shy away from new or different, he can’t start now.
The End