Illicit, Part Two. Kurt/Blaine 5+1 pot-smoking fic

[emilianadarling]

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Two:

“Kurt,” Blaine groans, hand fluttering along Kurt’s waist and letting out a shuddery breath.
Eyes closed, Kurt hmms quietly in acknowledgement, leaning farther over the gearshift in order to work his teeth over the spot that drives his boyfriend crazy; right where his jaw meets his neck below his earlobe. Blaine inhales sharply as Kurt nips at the sensitive skin, his hand fluttering along Kurt’s waist. They’ve been parked for almost twenty minutes now, and it’s obvious that Blaine is more than a little affected. His voice is coming out slightly choked and breathy, and the skin of his neck is flushed against Kurt’s lips. He tastes good, though, so Kurt drags his tongue over the patch of skin again.
“Kurt, I think - nngh, god - that we should head back to your h-house soon.”
A small whine of confused irritation escapes Kurt’s throat. “Already?” he asks, pulling back so as to look his boyfriend in the eyes. Blaine’s breath is coming sharp and hard from the driver’s seat, and Kurt can see that his lips are moist and kiss-swollen even in the dimness from the streetlamp light outside. He has one hand clenched too-tightly around the side of his seat, and some of his curls are coming loose around his ears from where Kurt’s fingers have edged up and twisted at the back of his neck. His eyes are dark and wide and heated, full of something secret and exposed all at once.
He looks... god, he looks incredible. “We have fifteen more minutes before my curfew,” says Kurt decisively, shaking his head, and leaning in to kiss his boyfriend again. Blaine kisses back automatically for about five seconds before his hands shakily come up to rest on Kurt’s shoulders.
“No - wait, stop,” murmurs Blaine against his lips, gently pushing him away. Unimpressed, Kurt lets out a tiny huff of noise and tilts his head to one side, waiting for an explanation. They don’t get all that much time to be physical with one another - not with his dad’s ever-frustrating no-closed doors policy - and Blaine had better have a damn good reason for cutting this short. Blaine bites down on his lip, looking slightly embarrassed. “If... if I’m going to be able to come in and say goodnight to your dad, Kurt, I’m going to need those fifteen minutes to... well. To calm down. A little.”
Blaine shoots him a remorseful look as he shifts awkwardly in his seat, and it takes Kurt longer than it should to fully comprehend the meaning of that sentence. One moment he’s opening his mouth to ask what are you talking about? and the next he’s clamping his lips together as realization hits him like a tidal wave.
Oh. Oh.
“Oh,” says Kurt, the syllable soft and surprised in the quiet of the car. An embarrassed flush is threatening to creep over his cheeks, but more than anything Kurt feels... pleased. Wanted. There are ripples of a delicious heat twisting through his body at this new discovery. Blaine - wonderful, lovely, gorgeous, his boyfriend Blaine needs to calm down because of him.
It feels incredibly powerful.
Slowly, Kurt feels a smile stealing across his lips. It makes Blaine let out a small, relieved exhalation of air that could almost be a laugh if it weren’t so devastated. Gratefully, his boyfriend smiles back and reaches out to rest his hand over Kurt’s own.
It’s been three weeks. Three weeks since Blaine had his moment, since the kiss that left him disbelieving and breathless and quietly freaking out on the inside. Since Blaine reached over the piles of glitter and rhinestones, and slid his hand on top of Kurt’s and said you move me. Three weeks since they went from Kurt and Blaine to KurtandBlaine boyfriendsboyfriendsboyfriends and everything Kurt had been hoping and pining and starting to think was never going to happen came true at once. And to Kurt’s great surprise, being Blaine’s boyfriend is tremendously similar to being Blaine’s best friend.
There are a few more perks, now, of course. A few more doors that have been opened to him. There’s holding hands, now, and cuddling. Getting tangled up in one another when they watch movies, or television programs, or just lying there doing nothing at all except being together. Kurt doesn’t have to hide the way he looks at Blaine anymore: can stare and memorize all he wants without having to worry about their friendship, or being obvious, or making Blaine uncomfortable.
And, of course, there is kissing. Quick kisses and languid kisses and kisses so incredibly searing hot that it sometimes feels as though Kurt is going to glut himself on them. Now that Kurt’s discovered how incredible it is to be kissed by someone he wants to kiss back, he’s a little uncertain of how he ever got excited about anything else before because kissing is almost definitely the best thing in all of creation.
And yet, some things remain so the same that it makes Kurt shake his head in wondered amazement. They can still talk for hours about fashion and politics and music and literature a mile a minute; they still go get coffee practically every other day. Kurt still pokes fun at Blaine for his ridiculous song choices for the Warblers, even more so now that he’s back at McKinley, and Blaine still squeezes his hand when he gets particularly excited about something. They still Skype one another most nights before bed.
Despite the changes, the essential formula of them remains the same.
They’re still new at this, though. Still adjusting and learning and figuring this different aspect of one another out, testing limits and habits and preferences and trying their best to spend as much time together as humanly possible considering their extenuating circumstances. Both attending different schools, and Kurt’s father so strict about curfews and house rules and what is or is not appropriate. Intellectually, Kurt knows that they can’t keep coming home from dates a half hour early and parking next to the public park around the corner from his house in order to get some alone time. It isn’t safe, for one thing, considering the sort of town they live in.
And there are always limits - even ones Kurt hasn’t been aware of until this very evening. Having to cool off - being able to admit out loud that one of them needs to cool off - is so new and strange and intimate that it makes the tips of Kurt’s fingers tingle.
“I like that,” Kurt finds himself saying out loud, and Blaine gives his hand a squeeze as he tilts his head to one side questioningly. Kurt gives a little shrug, feeling shy. “That you need to... take a minute. It means that you like what we do together. I’m the one who makes you feel that way, and... that’s nice.” It means you really like me, and that you aren’t just doing this because it’s convenient and I’ve been hopelessly into you for months now.
“God, do I ever like it,” murmurs Blaine quietly, reaching up with his free hand to trail over Kurt’s cheek. The touch is light, barely a graze, but Kurt can feel it even more because of its softness. Blaine licks his lips, lets out a little laugh. “You have no idea what you do to me, Kurt. How amazing you are. I can’t believe...” He gives his head a shake. “I can’t believe how stupid I was. How long it took me to realize just how much I wanted this.”
“Yes, well,” says Kurt, leaning over to rest his head on Blaine’s shoulder. The angle is awkward, but it doesn’t matter. “I, for one, was very unimpressed with the wait. But I suppose I’ll have to forgive you. Better late than never, Blaine, they always say.”
There’s a teasing smile in his voice, but Blaine still gives him a comforting little squeeze.
“Wes and David knew, you know,” says Blaine quietly, after a few long moments spent all tucked into his face. His breath is warm and pleasant. “They knew how much I liked you, even when I was still clueless. A couple of the other Warblers, too, I think. Isn’t that funny?” Blaine lets out a little laugh, humming softly. “But I suppose, now that I think about it... I might have been a little obvious at Wes’s house party that one time.”
That makes Kurt let out a sharp snort into Blaine’s shoulder, because Wes’s house party isn’t something they talked about for a good long time after it happened. The awkward, anticipatory looks everyone had given them for days afterwards had been too uncomfortable for Blaine - and too painful for Kurt - to be able to talk about it easily. That particular evening has been off the roster of conversation for the sake of their friendship for long enough that Kurt had completely blanked that since they’re dating now, they’re totally allowed to talk about their awkward pre-dating stage.
“That was quite the night,” Kurt admits, remembering that sickly sweet smell of the smoke mixing together with Blaine’s deodorant and Blaine’s laundry detergent and Blaine as they lay in a sprawled mess on Wes’s living room carpet. How straightforward and floaty and easy everything had felt between them. And how awful it had been to wake up in an empty bed with sheets that smelled of Blaine the next morning. Having to face everyone for breakfast with his mind still slightly fogged around the edges and Blaine’s cheeks flaring bright red every few minutes.
“I was really confused the next morning,” Blaine admits quietly, leaning forward to press his lips against Kurt’s forehead in a kiss, and holy hell. Blaine is his boyfriend now. “Hey... I never got to ask you, by the way - I felt too awkward after how intense we got, and my emotions were all ‘hey, Blaine, how about a personal realization that you won’t accept for another few weeks’, but.” He hesitates, squirming a little awkwardly. “Did you enjoy it?”
A memory drifts across Kurt’s eyelids, fogged with vagueness and haze. Blaine’s hand nestled in his own, the sensation amplified so much larger and closer and more than usual, as he lead Kurt down the ornate hallway. Laughing and saying nonsense things, and the incredible sense of being above himself that Kurt’s found himself thinking back to every so often in the past few weeks. Because... yeah. When completely detached from the awkwardness of the two of them the morning after? That night had been pretty incredible.
“I did,” admits Kurt, smiling into Blaine’s shoulder. “It’s not... I never thought I’d really want to do that, you know? But... I’m glad I did. It was really fun.”
“Fun,” Blaine hums into his hair, sounding pleased. He gives Kurt’s hand a squeeze.
“Actually,” Kurt adds, pulling away because seriously, the gearshift has been digging into his side and hurting like a bitch for about four minutes now and he just hadn’t wanted to ruin the mood. He straightens himself up in his seat a little bit, looking over at Blaine. The curly-haired boy looks calmer now, definitely. Almost presentable-to-fathers levels of decency, and there’s something that Kurt’s been wondering about since that night at Wes’s house. Or, more accurately, ever since he and Blaine started actually, properly, really dating. A curiosity that wormed its way under his skin and left him lingering on the idea. “Have you ever thought about... I don’t know. You and me, just... doing that. Together. Without a party, or anyone else, just... us?”
He turns to glance up at Blaine, and his heart just about stops in his chest. Because Blaine is giving him a look, and something awful twists in Kurt’s stomach. “Oh, god, is that weird? I bet it’s weird. Seriously, ignore everything I just said -” His hands fly up to cover his face, because he so has no idea what he’s talking about, and Blaine probably thinks he’s a naive idiot more than ever, and -
“No!” Blaine insists, reaching up to gently pry Kurt’s hands away from his face. When Kurt opens his eyes, there’s a look of caring concern in Blaine’s hazel eyes, in the twist of his mouth. “No, Kurt, you didn’t say anything wrong. I just... didn’t think you’d be interested in anything like that. With... just me. And you, and. Yeah.”
“You’d want that?” Kurt asks, feeling self-conscious in the extreme. “I mean. It’s not weird, right? That I’d... want to. Again, so soon. And privately.”
“It’s not weird,” murmurs Blaine, eyes shining a bit. “I would love to have that experience with you. Just you and me together, and... yeah. I would really like that.”
What Kurt should be saying is something along the lines of: I’m being a bad influence. We should not do more illegal drugs. I don’t know why I suggested that, Blaine, please ignore my brief lapse into deviant madness.
Instead, he murmurs “okay” as he leans in to kiss Blaine again, their lips pressing together in that maddening slide of skin that makes the hairs stand up on the backs of Kurt’s forearms and gooseflesh creep down the skin that covers his spine. Blaine’s hands slide along his waist, slightly under the shirt but just barely, just the slightest touch of fingertips to skin, and Kurt can’t stop himself from making tiny, breathy noises into Blaine’s mouth in spite of himself.
They kiss, and kiss, until Blaine flies back with his eyes wide and says “shit, your curfew”, and before Kurt can even process the conversation in full the car is roaring to life and they’re speeding down the road back at his house.
When he waves goodbye to Blaine out the living room window ten minutes later, Blaine waves back with a truly ridiculous smile on his face and a bouncy step that makes Kurt smile so hard his jaw aches.

--

Doing it at Kurt’s house is completely out of the question: one of the downsides of being a member of a newly nuclear-style family is that their home is almost always occupied. Between Carole’s peculiar hours as a nurse at the hospital, the number of friends Finn brings over on a regular basis, and his dad’s stay-at-home attitude, Kurt is never truly alone at home. They have enough trouble finding time to make out in the Hudson-Hummel household with the door open, let alone participating in illegal and socially disapproved activities. Besides, Kurt suspects that his dad would be... unimpressed... to say the least if he and Blaine were ever found out.
Fortunately - well, not really fortunately, but it’s useful for this particular endeavour - Blaine’s parents are always busy. William Anderson is a successful businessman who spends days at a time in New York making deals and signing papers and generally being extremely important, although he does try to spend at least three days a week in Westerville with his family. And even though Blaine’s mother Marita doesn’t work anymore, she spends a ridiculous amount of time out of the house, as well; fluttering around with the charities she dedicates herself to, going to luncheons, going to spend afternoons with friends two towns over.
They couldn’t be more dissimilar to Kurt’s own father in terms of handling their son and intimacy, either. Burt Hummel would raise his eyebrows and start a serious discussion about what is or is not appropriate under his roof if Kurt invited his boyfriend to stay over for a full day in an otherwise empty house. The Andersons, on the other hand, simply do not want to know. They’re trying, Blaine frequently tells him, voice small and dampened down with worn optimism. But with Blaine’s parents, the bedroom door is always shut so that they don’t have to think too hard about what the two of them are getting up to in there.
This is how Kurt ends up pulling up to the large Anderson house in his SUV a few days after he and Blaine decide they want to try smoking together, flutters of excitement and nervousness twisting restlessly in his stomach. There is one another car in the driveway besides Blaine’s carefully-middle class silver sedan that Kurt recognizes as his mother’s.
He checks his reflection in the rear view mirror before he exits: he looks okay, he thinks, if tremendously casual. Fairly simple hairstyle, skin looking passable. Red-and-white striped sweater over a plain white t-shirt with skinny jeans and boots. But since Kurt honestly has no idea what they’re going to be getting up to, he had figured it would be best to avoid donning anything too tremendously ornate.
When Kurt heads to the door and rings the bell, it flies open after only a few seconds. His boyfriend stands revealed in the doorway, looking eager and happy to see him. There’s a nervous energy about him that, on anyone else, Kurt would probably find exasperating. On Blaine, he can’t help but find it endearing.
“Hey,” says Blaine happily, bouncing slightly where he stands. Wearing a black polo shirt and a pair of nice jeans, he looks like a particularly attractive ad straight from a J-Crew catalogue. Blaine steps forward into Kurt’s space and tilts his head up to press a sweet, chaste kiss to his lips in greeting. The first time he did this on his doorstep, it had given Kurt quite a shock - it’s a public space, after all, and during broad daylight. It’s a risk - but a fairly small one. One they’re willing to take. He leans back into the press of Blaine’s lips against his.
“Hey,” he says back when they break apart, already feeling the broadness of his own smile despite trying to play at least a little coy. Blaine always seems to do this to him; to disarm him, to pull back the layers and enter his space and open him up in a hundred little ways. “Can I come in?”
“Of course,” smiles Blaine, shifting out of the doorway.
The Anderson household is nowhere near as large as Wes’s place, but it is comfortable in a way that marble tile bathroom floors and chrome just can’t compare with. Wealth is woven through Blaine’s house in a much subtler way; the carpets are ridiculously plush, and the couches in the living room are large and red and comfortable to nap on. The kitchen is state-of-the-art, yes, but it clearly does see at least some use. Kurt knows from the two times he’s been invited over to dinner - as Blaine’s “friend”, as both his parents had referred to him as, but at least they’re trying - that Marita Anderson is a wonderful cook. Everything is at least a little bit expensive, but in a way that doesn’t seek to call attention to itself.
The only truly self-indulgent room is the den. Stuffed with row upon row of books on shelves that reached up to the ceiling, the den and its adjacent office is where William Anderson spends most of his time when he’s in town.
It takes Kurt a few minute to unlace his boots, but once he’s slid them onto the shoe rack Blaine takes his hand and they begin to head up to Blaine’s room together.
“Blaine, you have a friend over!”
And Kurt very nearly jumps out of his skin. Marita Anderson is just turning into the entranceway, rolling a small piece of compact luggage behind her and with her handbag already slung over her shoulder. She looks immaculate in a brown dress that ends exactly at her knees, a pair of sensible pumps, and a pair of oversized white sunglasses. She is obviously just heading out the door. Blaine’s mother always looks so impeccably glamorous that it makes Kurt feel self-conscious. Her long and lacquered brown hair sways like something from a Golden Age of Hollywood film as she cocks her head to look at them.
“Hello, Mrs. Anderson!” Kurt blurts, face heating up, because oh god. What if she knows? What if she can look at them and just tell they’re about to do something illegal, like it’s written across their faces?
“Hello, Kurt dear,” smiles Marita, adding the pet name as she always does. And although she has been fluent in English for practically longer than Kurt has been alive, there is something lovely in the way she wraps her tongue around his name. As though she is still learning the full meaning of the word. “You boys will have the whole house to yourselves until tomorrow afternoon; I’m going to Columbus for an all-day shopping trip with the girls!”
“Are you heading out now, mom?” asks Blaine, smiling at her charmingly. She wrinkles her nose at him in response, a look of distress coming into her eyes as they slide upwards over Blaine’s face.
“Oh, darling boy,” says Marita sadly, expression pinching in disapproval. “Your hair.”
And oh, sweet lord in heaven, Kurt is actually about to watch Blaine’s mother chastise him for that helmet he calls his hair.
Giddiness is sparking in Kurt’s stomach, and it’s taking all of his effort not to burst out into an excited grin. Because Kurt loves hair product; there’s no denying that whatsoever. He loves the way hairspray and gel and mousse can help turn his tragically ordinary mousy brown strands into something vibrant and interesting and eye-catching. But Kurt loves hair product in the same way he loves make-up; as an invisible tool to looking good, one that people don’t notice if they aren’t looking for it too carefully.
The way Blaine uses hair product, however, is... noticeable. Kurt has watched him slather it in gel until his curls are sheen and slick enough to use as poster tack, and it’s more than a little unsettling. There’s only so much Kurt can say about it, though; Blaine is his boyfriend, and he does (mostly) try his hardest not to insult the way he dresses or looks. (Or, at least, not the same thing over and over.) The fact that he is about to witness Blaine’s mother, who probably has more say than anyone in how Blaine looks, chastise her son for his shameless hair gel addiction is more than a little elating.
Which is why it is such a shock when Marita steps forward, reaches out toward Blaine, and starts smoothing his hair harder down onto his head.
“You keep letting it get unkempt, beloved. You must try your best to look presentable, Blaine, even when you are only having friends over.” The Andersons’ persistent use of the term ‘friend’ to describe Kurt is the least of his problems at the moment, because Blaine’s mother is attempting to make Blaine’s hair smoother.
“Mom,” groans Blaine, sounding slightly petulant as Marita ruthlessly smears the strands more so into place. “Mom, it’s fine. Just have a wonderful trip, okay? I love you.”
Smiling, Marita leans down to give her son a kiss on the cheek. “Oh, all right. I love you too, darling. I hope you boys have fun!”
She picks up the handle to her suitcase, sends a glamorous smile in Kurt’s direction, and heads out the door. Kurt stares, mouth slightly open, at his boyfriend.
“What?” asks Blaine, reaching up self-consciously to his head. “Do I look okay?”
“You mother... likes your hair gel,” says Kurt stupidly, because he honestly cannot wrap his mind around this right now. Blaine’s mother looks shockingly like a movie star every single day of the week, and she likes the way Blaine keeps his hair practically glued to his skull. Briefly, his mind flashes to her ruthlessly straightened tresses.
“Of course,” says Blaine, sounding confused. “She was the one who started buying it for me when I was little. She thinks it makes me look more...”
He trails off thoughtfully, brows furrowing as he searches for the right word. For a truly awful moment that makes him feel slightly sick, the only word that comes into Kurt’s mind is white.
“... conventional,” Blaine finishes, smiling. He quirks his head. “Ready to head upstairs?”
Feeling guilty and ashamed for reasons he doesn’t want to put into words, Kurt nods quickly and trails after him as his boyfriend leads the way upstairs to his room. The sight of Blaine’s bare feet padding up the carpeted steps is oddly sweet, Kurt thinks. His own socks stay on practically constantly, sometimes even when he goes to sleep.
“Dad’s out of town until tomorrow,” explains Blaine, as they head down the upstairs hallway. “Are you sure you don’t have to be back in time for your curfew?”
Kurt shakes his head, quirking his head to one side and smiling slyly. “Finn owes me one, so he’s covering for me. I’m at a sleepover at Tina’s house as we speak.”
“Awesome,” says Blaine, as they reach the door to his bedroom. He turns the knob and pushes it open.
And as much as Kurt would like to remain nitpicky and impartial, he honestly cannot help how much he loves Blaine’s room. The carpet is a thick, plush beige that nestles up perfectly to the light blue walls - the colours of which Kurt rather suspects were chosen by a designer, and not by Blaine himself. The bedspread is a lightly striped blue, with a few bright red throw pillows that show a peek of Blaine’s hand in the room design. While never truly dirty, there are always a few articles of clothing strewn over chairs and dropped on the floor in a way that Kurt would never treat his own clothes. Blaine’s desk, bookcases and bed frame are a solid wood, and there are a few understated framed pictures on the wall and several handsomely framed photographs on the sidetables and desk.
It isn’t a very personalized space, but the photographs show a hint of the person Blaine is. A large one of the Warblers after a win at a competition, all in uniform and acting ridiculous; a twelve-year-old Blaine with his parents during a trip to Manila, all three of them sweaty but grinning; one of Blaine and Kurt heading out for a date that Finn had snapped a few weeks ago, the two of them leaning into one another’s space and smiling private smiles.
Blaine’s room may not be particularly notable, but it’s where Blaine lives. It’s where he spends his time, where he and Kurt can find the privacy to do more than kiss quickly on doorsteps. It’s a special space.
“Sorry about the mess,” says Blaine shyly, nudging a pair of discarded jeans into a corner with his bare foot. His concern makes Kurt snort out a tiny burst of air, because really. He lives with Finn Hudson.
But Blaine isn’t done rambling. “I didn’t know what you wanted to do, really,” he says, turning to face Kurt with an anxious look on his face as he twists his hands in front of him. “I mean, we could watch a movie if you wanted. Or cuddle! I like cuddling. And there are a few board games downstairs if you don’t want to - um. Start. Right away. I mean, I didn’t really know -”
“Do you have...” Kurt hesitates, because saying the stuff really does sound like something out of a terrible crime show from the 1940s. But actually saying the words out loud is hard for him; it makes this sound like something devious and wrong, when the last time they did this together felt so safe. And all of the terms sound stupid and presumptuous, as though he has any idea what he’s doing. “... the pot here? Because we could just... get everything ready, and start, and watch a movie or something once we’ve started?”
Blaine nods, looking relieved, and Kurt wonders how the hell he’s the one leading the charge.
“I really only ever do this at parties,” says Blaine by way of explanation as he picks up a large, scrappy-looking towel off of his desk chair. “I’ve never done it at home before.” He closes the bedroom door, then takes the towel and lays it down tight and long against the crack at the bottom. To stop smoke from going into the rest of the house, Kurt realizes, and oh my god they’re actually going to do this.
“I already turned off the smoke detector,” says Blaine quickly, as he pulls out one of his desk drawers as far as it will extend. “It’s sensitive, so I didn’t want to take any chances.”
“I’m impressed,” says Kurt, voice slightly higher than usual but still relatively calm as he takes a seat on Blaine’s bed. “I probably wouldn’t have thought of that.”
“Yeah,” says Blaine, wincing as he digs around at the back of the drawer. “We once set the sprinkler system off at Nick’s house. After something like that, it sort of sticks with you.”
The double-bagged ziplock Blaine pulls out of the drawer is so stereotypically delinquent that it makes Kurt’s breath catch in his throat. He supposes Blaine has no reason to have a proper box like Wes does, but the sight of the clear plastic filled half-way full with loose green buds - along with what appear to be several little white sticks tucked in amongst the green, and a packet of rolling paper in his other hand - is surprising nonetheless.
“Are we going to do...” Kurt trails off again, gesturing at the bag and feeling awkward, because cigarettes doesn’t seem quite right.
“Joints, yeah,” says Blaine, looking down at the bag in his hand. “Damn it, I forgot water. I’ll be right back, okay?” Blaine hands the bag and papers to Kurt, who stares down at them as though there is a live snake in his lap, and then scoots the towel out of the way and heads downstairs.
Alone, Kurt hesitates for a moment before bringing the baggie up to his eye level. The smell hits him even through two layers of plastic; sweet and green and vibrant, and he closes his eyes and inhales as he remembers that night at Wes’s house. The feeling of floating, of a world ever-so-slightly off balance. He wants this, realizes. Really, really wants to do this with Blaine. His fingertips twitch, antsy with anticipation.
When his gaze falls on the three joints inside the bag, he furrows his nose in disdain. They look... not so good. Sort of... loose. Not wrapped very tightly, and a little bit lumpy inside the white of the paper. They don’t look very much like the ones he’d seen once in a say no to drugs video at a school assembly. He undoes one plastic bag, and then the other, and pulls them out into his hand. And oh, wow, yeah. Kurt has no real idea of what these are supposed to feel like, but the loose way the marijuana moves around inside the wrapping feels very wrong indeed.
With only a tiny hiss of paranoia - he’ll delete his search history afterwards, anyways - Kurt pulls out his smartphone and types in “how to roll a joint” into Google.
By the time Blaine arrives back a few minutes later, two tall glasses of water in hand, Kurt is kneeling on the floor with one of Blaine’s songbooks in front of him on the ground. The baggy is open, and Kurt is staring at the diagram on his phone as he fiddles with a line of weed and two fresh sheets of rolling paper.
“Decided you could do it better than me?” asks Blaine, sounding amused as he sets down the water slightly away from them on the floor.
“I can do everything better than you,” returns Kurt vaguely, not looking up from the project in front of them. He’s taken a pair of tweezers from Blaine’s bedside table to deal with stuffing the weed more compact, and for dealing with reluctant paper.
“I sense a song coming on,” Blaine jokes, smiling, and goes to pick out appropriate music from the unfairly large CD wrack on one of the shelves. It takes a little while - Blaine’s CD player has the capacity to fit five discs at once - but that works out in their favour, because it gives Kurt time to roll another one once he’s got the first one down. He’s good at this, he realizes, as he finishes off wrapping around the tiny piece of ripped-off rolling paper box at the tip. The meticulousness of it appeals to him, and when he’s finished he’s produced two almost decent joints: fat and tight, wider at one end than the other.
Blaine comes back a moment later, a small tea candle in a holder, a pack of matches, and a tin can in hand. “We’re going to have to improvise,” he says, looking abashed. “I don’t own a lighter or anything.”
“That’s fine,” says Kurt, smiling to himself as he finishes the last joint. “I didn’t know how many to make, so...?”
“That should be fine,” smiles Blaine, lowering himself down onto the ground cross-legged. And here it is. They’re actually, actually going to do this. By themselves, in his private school boyfriend’s room, with a tea candle and a tin can and two almost okay-looking joints.
“You’ll have to show me,” says Kurt warningly. “I’ve never done it like this before.” Blaine nods in response, lighting one of the matches and hovering it over the candle until the wick catches alight. He picks up one of the nicer, tighter joints and holds the side without the little ‘filter’ - the roach, the online guide had said - over the open flame.
“When you start one, you burn off the little bit of excess paper at the end. See? And now... there. When it gets that little bit of red from the heat, just like with the bong, you know you can inhale. It’s really similar, Kurt: you just breathe it in, hold in the smoke, and exhale. It might burn a little bit more than you’re used to, though.”
Kurt nods - and then feels his mouth fall slightly open at he watches Blaine put the joint between his lips and inhales deeply. The lit end simmers and flares a tiny amount, and a little bit of the joint gets burned away as Blaine sucks in. His eyes are closed, lashes so long they brush his cheeks, as he slips it out of his mouth and holds the smoke in. Blaine’s throat spasms slightly, suppressing what looks like a cough, but the way the movement looks makes something tight and hot twist in Kurt’s stomach. His boyfriend looks gorgeous like this - and when he opens his eyes, Blaine curves his mouth into a tiny little ‘o’ as he blows a long coil of smoke into the room.
There’s a tiny cough, and Blaine looks down expectantly between them. Kurt glances down - and realizes that Blaine has been holding the lit joint out to him for some time.
“Sorry,” Kurt murmurs, feeling embarrassed for being caught out. He carefully extracts the joint from Blaine’s hands, careful to keep his fingers away from the hot part, and Blaine reaches for one of the glasses of water to take a long drink.
It feels light and harmless in his hand, and the tip is the smallest bit moist from Blaine’s saliva. That... really, really shouldn’t be sexy. Somehow, though, the knowledge that he is about to place his lips where Blaine’s just were is... yeah. More than a little bit hot. Shaking his head, Kurt raises the little white stick to his mouth, seals his lips over it, and inhales.
It burns, the sting and choke in his throat far more immediate and harsh than it had been with the bong. His inhalation is hot on the way down, tugging at his throat and stinging in a way that makes it almost impossible not to cough. Kurt’s eyes start to water, but he keeps the smoke hot in his throat as best he can. Three seconds, four, five, six - and it’s all he can handle. He chokes out the smoke in a gagged burst of air, all at once in an angry puff and not at all attractive like Blaine had done. The cough doesn’t stop. It keeps coming, harder and sharper until he’s hacking into his hand, unable to stop. He feels someone pluck the joint from his hand.
“Try not to cough,” says Blaine gently, but Kurt’s eyes are squeezed shut for the exertion of the coughs. Hard and fast and dragging. “I know it’s hard, but try not to cough. When you can breathe, we’ll give you some water.”
Kurt wants to say oh, what marvellously intuitive advice, you guru you, because of course he’s trying not to cough, it’s not like he’s enjoying hacking like an eighty-year-old smoker. But Blaine is rubbing little circles along his back through the fabric of his sweater, and when Kurt actually tries to shove the coughing down - not attempting to breathe, just attempting to not cough - he’s shocked to find that it actually works. After a minute, the coughing slows. When he’s only half-choking on air, Blaine hands him a glass of water. He drinks, trying not to splutter everywhere.
“Burns,” Kurt chokes out, reaching up a hand to rub along his neck. He takes another sip of water, trying his hardest not to cough because he knows it will only set him off again.“That was... different.”
“It’s a bit harsher,” says Blaine, sounding apologetic. His hand is still smoothing along Kurt’s lower back, even though it’s not strictly necessary anymore. Kurt leans back into the touch. “I don’t have anything else to smoke it in, so it’s all we’ve got. Sorry about that - you’ll get used to it, I promise.”
“It’s fine,” says Kurt, as Blaine’s fingers smooth along his back one last time before he pulls away to take another hit. And it’s then that Kurt realizes: Blaine is his boyfriend. His actual, proper, real life boyfriend. This time, when they smoke, Kurt doesn’t have to pretend that he isn’t looking at the way Blaine looks when he inhales; doesn’t have to feel embarrassed about staring, or choking, or making a mistakes. Blaine is his boyfriend and he doesn’t care. This is fine. This is wonderful.
A stupid grin tugging at the corners of his lips, Kurt settles back down and watches.
They pass the joint back and forth between them, and Blaine is right in that it does get easier after the first few times. He doesn’t cough after the first hit, although he can feel the potential teasing at his throat. Inhaling smoke from the joint burns more than the bong did, yes, but it also feels... more, in a funny way that Kurt can’t explain. More hits, more closeness. More Blaine. The two of them chat a little bit where they can as the joint grows smaller, knocking off bits of ash into the tin cup where necessary as their fingers get closer and closer to the heat of the lit end.
For the last possible hit Kurt is nervous about having his fingers so close to the heat, so Blaine takes the plunge for him. Holding it gingerly between his fingers, an excited smile comes over Blaine’s face.
“Here,” says Blaine, and his eyelids seem the smallest bit droopier than usual. “I’m going to inhale, okay? You keep your mouth open, like this.” He opens his mouth wide, like a lion mid-roar. “I want to show you something. Okay?”
“Sure,” giggles Kurt, because the image of Blaine with his mouth hanging open like a wide-mouthed tree frog really is a bit funny, but he opens his mouth wide as Blaine takes the last hit.
He doesn’t realize the connection between his open mouth and the pot until Blaine drops the end of the joint into the tin can, leans close enough that their mouths are only an inch apart - and exhales a long stream of smoke right into Kurt’s mouth. The surprise of it almost makes Kurt cough, but he manages to close his mouth around the heat of it in time to trap most of it inside. Blaine doesn’t move; he stays there, right up in Kurt’s personal space. His lips are so close that they graze Kurt’s ever-so-lightly by accident; tiny little brushes that send sparks through his whole body and make the hairs on the back of Kurt’s arms stand up.
Something hot and tight coils up in Kurt’s stomach when he realizes that Blaine is waiting for him to exhale the smoke onto his face.
There isn’t much of it, but the few wisps that coil out trail along Blaine’s lips look and feel so personal that it makes Kurt shiver. Their chests are both rising and falling quickly, breathing in the heat of one another’s air - before Blaine reaches up, slides his hand along the back of Kurt’s neck, and closes the space between them.
The touch of Blaine’s lips against his is incredible; heated and slightly frantic, startling in its intensity. He can actually feel the slightest movement of Blaine’s lips under his with a sensitivity he doesn’t usually possess. Kurt closes his eyes and leans into it as Blaine deepens the kiss, the slight roughness as Blaine slides his thumb along the back of Kurt’s neck making him shudder. Their mouths slide together with the taste of sweet, thick burning.
It’s languid and long, the moment stretching out between them until time begins to blur. There is only the slide of Blaine’s lips against his, the way his tongue presses into Kurt’s mouth, hot and needy. The tiny bite he marks into Kurt’s bottom lip as he pulls away, the sensation amplified so much that it makes Kurt gasp out loud.
The world keeps floating around them even when Blaine sits back on his heels, and it takes Kurt a moment to realize that feeling is probably more than a little because of the drugs. It’s a wonderful sensation, though - the slightest lilt of his vision tugging at his perspective, the room out of alignment in a distantly dreamlike way. The twinge of something slightly off-kilter in his limbs. And Blaine’s hand is still on his neck, tracing unknowable patterns into the sensitive skin.
“Hi,” whispers Kurt, the word coming out higher and breathier than he intended.
“Hi,” Blaine says back, eyes darting back down to Kurt’s lips with such a look of undisguised want that it makes Kurt feel light-headed. There is always something cautious about the way Blaine treats their time alone together; as though he doesn’t want to let on how much he wants this lest he frighten Kurt away somehow.
He doesn’t look worried about holding back right now, and Kurt doesn’t feel frightened.
“Another?” asks Blaine, finally pulling away and letting out a large exhalation of air. His eyes are bright and shining, slightly red around the rims, and his face looks flushed. From the kiss or the pot, Kurt has no idea. He reaches down to grab the cup for a sip of water, and Kurt does the same.
The liquid is soothing as it slides down Kurt’s throat. His limbs are starting to fill up with that sensation of loose lightness he recognizes from last time. He feels vaguely indistinct and warm, and all he wants is more.
“All right,” says Kurt, smiling as he reaches down to pick up another and holding it over the flame to light it.
The second joint disappears faster between the two of them, since Kurt now knows what to expect and Blaine has been given a refresher course. They only have one coughing fit between the two of them, and this time Blaine takes the honour. When it happens, Kurt parrots what Blaine did for him; taking the little white stick out of Blaine’s shaking hands as his chest spasms and he hacks into his hand. He runs a hand along Blaine’s back, as well, although it slides up under the shirt a little more than strictly necessary. Kurt just can’t help himself, though; Blaine’s back is warm and slightly muscled beneath his hand, almost like an invitation.
By the end of this one, the room is floating happily around him. When Kurt sways slightly to one side, the shift of his body is too quick for the rest of the movement to catch up. Blaine raises a hand to swipe some of his hair out of his eyes, and his hand seems to drag in the air. The room is hazy with smoke, Kurt realizes abruptly. Blaine is in focus, but the rest is ever so slightly fogged; difficult to look at directly at.
This time, too, Kurt’s throat is starting to feel sore in earnest. He takes a long drink of water, but the stinging feeling remains. Sharp and hard inside his throat, aching as he drags his fingers over it. Lying on the ground and swiping his fingers over the front of his neck, feeling the tiny movement as he breathes and swallows. Little circles along the skin, dragging his nails in slightly after a minute to feel the scrape.
Blaine makes a tiny, helpless noise in front of him - and after depositing the last of the joint into the tin can, he stands and heads toward his closet. When he emerges later - a few seconds later? A minute? The passage of time is doing strange things - he returns with a red bag of rippled Lays chips in hand.
“Do you want some?” Blaine asks, blowing out the candle for now and moving their supplies onto his desk. He plunks back onto the floor, stretching out on his back and opening the bag. He gives Kurt a questioning look.
It takes Kurt a little longer than it probably should to fully understand the question. “Oh,” murmurs Kurt, when realization dawns. “Oh, no it’s fine. I don’t want any.”
“Really?” Blaine asks, sounding surprised. His eyes are a bit bloodshot, eyelids droopy as he reaches into the bag and pulls out a chip. There is a massive smile on his face. “I always want food when I do this. I don’t... yeah. I don’t really know why.”
He pops the chip into his mouth, and the crunch of his teeth around it seems absurdly loud in the quiet of the room. Loud and repetitive, over and over, until he swallows it down. After a few moments, Blaine reaches over - with the same hand that touched the chips, but Kurt dressed down for a reason - and tugs Kurt down so that he’s lying on the floor as well, his head cushioned by Blaine’s stomach.
And oh, god, this feels nice. He can feel and smell Blaine all around him, and the soft rise and fall of Blaine’s breathing makes the room jostle and sway. Blaine’s free hand comes up to brush along the side of Kurt’s face, and he leans into the touch. The only sound for a little while is the quiet crunching as Blaine eats the chips.
“Seriously, though,” says Blaine after an indistinct amount of time. “These are really good. You should probably try one.”
“They’re empty,” says Kurt, by way of explanation. But that isn’t quite right. “Empty calories,” he elaborates, waving his hand vaguely in the air. And oh, wow. It’s actually a bit neat, the way the air pulls at his hand as he drifts it overhead, fingers splaying and twitching above him.
“Just one,” wheedles Blaine, reaching his hand out to hold one yellow chip right beside his line of vision. “It won’t hurt, I promise. And they taste really good.”
“Fine,” exhales Kurt, rolling his eyes even though he knows Blaine can’t see. He takes the chip in hand, wrinkling his nose at the greasy texture. “I should warn you, though, I don’t really like junk food.”
Gingerly, he lowers the chip into his mouth - and, oh. Oh, sweet lord. It tastes. Kurt can’t quite figure out why he can’t get past that in his head, but it tastes. The flavours of starch and salt stand out in a way he can’t explain on his tongue, gripping at his taste buds in a way that just isn’t fair. It’s more - everything is more, so much more, like this. Kurt can even feel the ridged edges of it along his tongue. His eyes are rolling back up into his head, because oh god, it tastes better than anything. The salt is mixing with the heavy smokiness of weed still clinging to his mouth, but it doesn’t ruin the flavour; it makes it better.
There’s a groan of pleasure, and it takes Kurt a second to realize that it came from him. Blaine laughs, sounding delighted.
“Isn’t food amazing?” asks Blaine, popping another chip into his mouth. “I always want food when I do this. But not, like. Just because it’s good. I get hungry. Aren’t you hungry?”
“No,” Kurt murmurs, wiping his hand off idly on the side of his sweater. His limbs are starting to feel heavy, pressed into the floor like this. The cushion of Blaine’s stomach is amazing, but everything else is starting to feel a bit sore. “Tired, though,” says Kurt, even though that isn’t quite the word, and he pushes himself up onto his feel.
The world whirls around him for a long second, spinning and floating, and okay. This is a little bit like being drunk, he realizes. Standing up equals be careful. He nudges Blaine with his foot.
“Where are you going?” asks Blaine, sounding confused.
“Bed,” Kurt explains, nudging him again. “Don’t bring the chips or I’ll eat them all.”
Obediently, Blaine leaves the bag on the floor as he stands up to follow Kurt onto the bed. Without bothering to wait for him, Kurt flumps himself onto Blaine’s bedspread; and oh, yes, it’s so much better than the floor. So much more comfortable, like he could melt right into the blankets if he imagined he was heavy enough. Kurt scrunches his face into one of the pillows, rubbing his nose back and forth because it feels more than a little funny.
“Hey,” comes a voice from right beside him, and Kurt startles away from the pillow with wide eyes. Blaine is stretched out next to him - Kurt hadn’t even felt the mattress decompress as he got on, wow - so that they are lying side-by-side, facing one another.
Sometimes Kurt just can’t quite wrap his head around why someone as beautiful and gentle and charismatic as Blaine would bother to settle for someone like him. Blaine is lying with his head in his hand, gelled curls coming loose around his ears, as he stares at Kurt with such incredible affection it makes old butterflies stir up in his stomach. There is a wide, sloppy grin across Blaine’s face, and his eyebrows are thick and handsome and his nose is so round, it’s adorable. A tiny bit of his black polo shirt is riding up at his stomach, but Blaine hasn’t seemed to notice. His boyfriend reaches over and brushes the backs of his knuckles over Kurt’s cheek.
“I’m so lucky,” whispers Blaine, voice rough with smoke and emotion. The air above them is spinning slightly, and Kurt can feel Blaine’s hand on his face so strongly it shouldn’t be allowed. “How ‘m I so lucky, Kurt?”
“I don’t know what you’re...” Kurt trails off, blinking in pleasure at the continued touches. He feels hot and foggy; somehow relaxed, even as every nerve ending seems to be standing on edge. The fingers trail along his cheek, the shell of his ear, down to his neck. Kurt leans into it, unable to stop himself from letting out a tiny, breathy noise of delight when the pressure intensifies. Blaine groans next to him.
“Jesus Christ, you have no idea what you do to me,” Blaine growls, hot and desperate, before he’s suddenly closer and their lips are pressed together and oh, god, this is better than anything else could ever be.
They kiss, long and hot and leisurely, bodies pressed together as close as they can get. Chest to chest on their sides, Blaine’s hand setting off fireworks as it slides under Kurt’s neckline to slide over the skin of his shoulder. Kurt hooks a leg over Blaine’s calves to get them closer together, as close as they can be without stopping the kissing, because the whole world has been reduced to the way their mouths slide against one another like this. The tiniest of insignificant movements feels a million times more as their lips press together, warm and damp and perfect. And when Kurt presses his tongue into Blaine’s mouth, the heat of it makes him groan - uncontrolled and raunchy in a way so very foreign to his own ears, but Blaine groans back and brings him in even closer.
Sliding his fingers up the short sleeves of Blaine’s shirt to knead the skin and muscles of his upper arms, an idea occurs to Kurt - and it isn’t until the world spins and twists around him that he realizes he’s put it into action without realizing. Blaine gasps as Kurt rolls him onto his back, straddling his hips to keep him in place and swaying slightly as the room floats. The sight of Blaine splayed out beneath him makes Kurt groan out loud; his boyfriend is panting, eyes dark and heated, with his lips kiss-swollen and his hair coming out of place. There’s a flush creeping along his neck, and when Kurt leans down to kiss him Blaine pushes back into it with a wanton moan, arching his hips up mindlessly. That feels good, Kurt realizes, impossibly good, so he grinds his hips back down again.
Kurt has never, ever been so turned on in his whole life. Every muscle in his body is twinging and straining blissfully, trying hard to get as close to Blaine as physically possible. Everything is Blaine - every smell, every touch, every bit of warmth. Kurt wants to press and press until he’s buried inside Blaine, wrapped up in that warmth and kindness and caring until it’s all there is in the world. He breaks off the kiss and Blaine gasps out loud as Kurt slides his mouth down to Blaine’s throat, searching until he finds that spot that makes his boyfriend squirm and twist and arch up into the touch. He works at the skin there, sucking it between his teeth as Blaine bucks up under him.
Time fades in and out, losing any sort of significance as the two boys twist together on the bed. Sometimes the seconds pass too quickly, other times slow and drawn out and far too infinitesimally to be real. Kurt has no idea how long it is until he starts working his way down Blaine’s chest; pressing a kiss to the bare skin exposed by the undone buttons of his shirt, then sliding down so he can ruck up Blaine’s shirt to expose the flat expanse of his stomach. The smattering of dark hair is so gorgeous Kurt can’t help to press a kiss to Blaine’s stomach, and then another. It makes Blaine hiss and press his head back into the pillow, straining up to meet Kurt’s lips and exposed the marked length of his neck. Kurt can’t help himself, though: Blaine’s skin is tingling, every single inch, and Kurt can feel it. Can feel it with his lips, and his hands, can feel the way the shivers press into his own skin and make him shudder hard.
It’s only when Kurt reaches down and absently brushes a hand over the bulge in the front of Blaine’s jeans that he realizes exactly how far this is going, and how far it can go if he doesn’t stop now. His boyfriend shouts out loud at the tiny touch, thrusting his hips up into Kurt’s hand, and oh god holy fucking shit, Kurt is about two seconds away from giving Blaine a handjob.
His cock gets harder than he even thought possible at the idea of gripping Blaine tight, of making him come undone underneath him - sweating and flushed and writhing for Kurt’s touch, only Kurt’s touch - but the common sense he’s been drowning out with the sweet stickiness of the drug suddenly rears its head.
Gasping, Kurt jolts back onto the unoccupied bed in a sprawl of limbs, leaving Blaine exposed to the air. He’s breathing hard and shaking from wantwantwantwantwant, and he knows that if he allows himself to keep touching and kissing Blaine like this, they’re going to go farther than they ever have before.
And Kurt Hummel does not want his first time bringing Blaine apart to be something he has any potential to forget.
Blinking and breathing hard, Blaine pushes himself up slightly. “Woah,” he whimpers, licking his lips, and Kurt’s libido is practically crying at how incredible his boyfriend looks right now. Blaine is shaking, too, Kurt can see it - or maybe Kurt is the shaking one? It’s so hard to tell.
“Sorry,” chokes Kurt, running a hand to smooth down his hair and attempting to straighten his hair simultaneously. Neither motion is very effective. “Sorry, that was just - wow, it was good, but it was getting a little... intense, and I didn’t want -”
“Of course,” murmurs Blaine, pushing himself up and crawling over to wrap his arms around Kurt’s middle in a hug. He presses his face into Kurt’s shoulder, burrowing it there. “Of course, of course, I know. It’s so okay, you’re amazing, I can’t even say.” He nuzzles his face into Kurt’s sweater. “So amazing, Kurt.”
Kurt wraps his arm around Blaine’s tucked up shoulder, and they sit there for a few long minutes. Pressed together in the safest of ways, Blaine still warm and gentle beside him, and Kurt realizes that he isn’t feeling as spinney as before. He doesn’t feel... normal, exactly, not yet. But he’s able to acknowledge a difference between himself before and himself now. Everything feels a little bit more real than it did, and time seems to be sliding at least somewhat back into an almost-normal speed.
“Want to watch a movie?”asks Blaine excitedly, pulling away enough to look Kurt in the eye. “I have a bunch of musicals, and some comedies. No drama, though. I don’t know if I can follow it.”
“Okay,” hums Kurt, leaning down to kiss Blaine on the forehead and the both of them grinning like idiots.
They watch “Thoroughly Modern Millie” on Blaine’s laptop so that they don’t have to leave the bed, sprawled as they work their way through the bag of chips together. It’s a good thing Kurt’s seen the film before, because he doesn’t remember actually watching the movie this time around, even though intellectually he knows they view it from start to finish. He does remember Blaine’s hand in his, however. Warm and safe and solid tucked into his, as the world slowly comes back down into place and settles around them over the minutes and hours together.

Three:

It isn’t something that either of them does frequently by any stretch of the word. The first time at Wes’s party and again at Blaine’s house with more than a month apart, and then nothing for ages afterward. Kurt comforts himself with the fact that they smoke far, far less than practically any member of the New Directions drinks.
Sometimes Kurt sits down next to Brett in Spanish class, already starting to roll his eyes at the stale, sickly oily herbed stench that rolls off that boy in waves before he remembers that, oh, right. He’s done that, too. He finds himself wondering if that means he should lose his mocking privileges, or if he gets a whole new host of silent mocking privileges because he’s done weed, too, and it didn’t turn him into a deadbeat loser who can barely remember his own name half the time.
It isn’t something that defines his and Blaine’s relationship, either. They don’t have the time, for one thing, with their respective commitments to their glee clubs and school and family and friends, and more than anything they try to use the time they do have just to be together. What exists between them is quietly nurtured and careful, coffee dates and movie dates and excited conversations about everything under the sun. It is study sessions and public serenades, and trying to nod as though he’s paying any attention when Blaine tries to explain football to him. It is growing from you move me to I’m crazy about you to I love you, just like that, and finally Kurt can say the words out loud.
Smoking is something tiny in comparison to all of that. Something they do rarely, but enjoy a great deal when it happens. A potential toy, almost always off to one side in their lives, ready to be pulled out if they want it. Something to calm them down and help them bask in one another again when things start to get hectic.
And the past few months have been more than a little hectic. What with Kurt transferring back to McKinley, the rigorous final exams at Dalton for Blaine (and their notably easier McKinley counterparts), the catastrophe that was the New Directions’ trip to New York for Nationals and the beginning of summer, the two of them simply haven’t had much time for relaxation of any sort. And even though finding time alone is a great deal easier with the oncoming of summer heat and so many days without school stretched out like endless opportunity, things have still been hectic. Blaine works at the theme park all week, and Kurt goes into the garage to work with his dad more days than not.
This is why, when the two of them are able to secure Kurt’s house for themselves for an entire day, the decision was made to use the privacy to the best of their ability.
... which would be a whole lot easier if the weed Wes had given them didn’t have the comparative ability to get them high of oregano.
“Seriously?” asks Kurt, starting to get supremely pissed off. They’re tucked into Kurt’s bedroom with a towel pressed up against the bottom of the door, a spray bottle of Febreeze at the ready to smother the smell. Everything has been laid out for an amazingly fun day of slightly stoned macking with his boyfriend.
But they’ve smoked their way through an entire joint, now, and nothing. The angry, dull buzzing at the edges of Kurt’s head is the only hint that the marijuana they’re currently smoking has any recreational properties at all. They would probably get more stoned from sniffing whiteout, for Christ’s sake.
“That’s strange,” says Blaine, picking up the baggy and narrowing his eyes at it. “Wes said David’s brother got a new source...”
“Well, it’s crap,” snipes Kurt, feeling irritated and wrong-footed as he crushes out the joint. There is seriously no point in smoking it; they may as well be smoking rolled up ficus leaves. He raises an eyebrow, letting up a huff of breath. “What now, Blaine Warbler?”
Blaine hums thoughtfully as he closes the little metal tin they now have for this purpose. “We could... watch a movie? Play cards? Go get coffee? Have sexy shenanigans in my boyfriend’s empty house with my incredibly hot boyfriend?”
Kurt sniffs. “I suppose,” he says delicately, wrinkling his nose and glaring down at the tin.
They wind up doing all those things, and the day turns out to be ridiculous amounts of fun despite the aborted weed. Kurt still fakes annoyance about it later, though, even though he knows Blaine can see right through him.
It’s the principle of the matter, after all.

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