Fic: A Nation of Two (Blaine/Kurt, R) (3/4)
a nation of two.
by novelized. ~30,000 words.
fandom: Glee.
pairing: Kurt/Blaine.
summary: In which Blaine and Kurt aren't "Facebook official" and Blaine transfers to McKinley.
part three.
Most of the lights in the basement are turned off. Blaine has to blindly navigate himself around a chaise lounge, a computer desk, and a full-length mirror that Kurt had found at a thrift store once and had Blaine carry the two miles home because it wouldn’t fit in the back of his car. Luckily, Blaine knows his way around the room. There are so many things about Kurt that Blaine has committed to his memory.
The way he looks when he’s half-asleep, bathed in the muted glow of the television, arm draped loosely over the side of a couch, cheek planted on a satin pillow, for instance. Blaine has seen him like this a hundred times. But he doesn’t ever really get used to it.
Smiling, Blaine lowers himself onto the carpet right next to Kurt’s head, and he reaches up and gently pushes the hair away from his eyes.
Kurt just barely stirs. “How was the game?” he asks, voice clogged with sleepiness. In his exhaustion, apparently he’d forgotten to be mad.
“It was good. We won. And I learned that Finn’s being treated for an especially resilient case of athlete’s foot.”
Kurt’s nose wrinkles. “Disgusting. I could’ve lived my entire life without knowing that. Thanks for stealing my innocence.”
Blaine shakes his head and brushes his knuckles along Kurt’s cheek. Kurt, in turn, leans into the touch, almost unconsciously, eyes falling shut again.
“I haven’t stolen your innocence yet,” Blaine tells him, and then there’s an awkward pause followed by a fumbling chance at recovery: “Wow, that sounded terrible. Not what I meant.”
“For your sake, I’ll pretend you didn’t say that,” Kurt tells him, but his cheeks are a little warm. Blaine pulls his hand away to stop himself from commenting on that fact. “And besides, you’re not allowed to mention Finn and my innocence in the same conversation, ever again.”
“You said it first.”
“Yeah, but you made it perverted.”
“I can’t help it. It’s a gift.”
Kurt groans in exasperation and turns over on his back, kicking his feet up onto the armrest. His shirt bunches up a little in the process, so there’s a pale strip of skin showing just above his belt, and Blaine’s eyes are pulled that way but he doesn’t say anything. He wonders vaguely if the skin on his stomach is as soft as his hands. Probably it is. He has the odd desire to join him on the couch, but there’s hardly enough room for one person, let alone both of them. They’d have to be on top of each other, practically.
Not that that’s the worst mental image in the world.
“Hey, Kurt.” Blaine grabs a handful of Kurt’s shirt and gives him a little shake. “I think I should go.”
“I just ironed this yesterday,” Kurt complains, pushing his hand away. He tips his head sideways, though, looking at Blaine through half-lidded eyes. “You can spend the night, if you want. You can sleep on the foldout. My dad won’t mind.”
“Mm, I would, but I told my parents I’d be back tonight. But let’s do lunch tomorrow. I’ll make sandwiches.”
“I don’t eat processed sandwich meat,” Kurt tells him, his words punctured by a yawn in the middle.
Blaine grins. “Trust me, I know. I’ll pick you up around noon, okay? You should go upstairs to bed. Goodnight, Kurt.”
Kurt buries his head back into the pillow. Apparently he's not making it back upstairs to his bedroom anytime soon. “Goodnight, Blaine,” he says, and Blaine has another flicker of desire, the urge to kiss him goodnight, the urge to grab him by the neck and pull him down onto the floor with him and roll him over on the carpet and -
He heads back upstairs quickly, his heart beating a little too fast.
***
Saturday is not the picnic-perfect weather he’d been hoping for. The skies are grey, overcast. Dark clouds loom overhead. The only upside to the whole day is that it’s at least warmer than it has been lately, and the ground’s still dry, so Blaine packs his mom’s old wicker basket (very quaint, very old-fashioned; he’s mostly bringing it because he’s sure Kurt will approve) and drives to Kurt’s house. He’d foregone any hair gel this morning. Half because he’s running low, and half because Kurt had been sending him some variation of a lose the product text every twelve hours for the last week straight. It feels weird, but in a good way. (He does still, however, comb it into submission as much as he can. Just because he’s opening himself up to new possibilities doesn’t mean he’s letting his hair take on a life of its own.)
Kurt meets him in the driveway, looking as pressed and polished as ever. Blaine stares at him for a second too long before tearing his gaze away, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel while Kurt climbs into the passenger seat.
“I brought a canteen of Shirley Temples,” he says, buckling himself in.
“Perfect. I brought a plate of freshly-baked brownies.”
“Freshly-baked by whom?” Kurt asks, giving him a suspicious look.
Blaine grins sheepishly. “By our friendly neighborhood Whole Foods.”
“That’s what I thought.” Kurt rolls his eyes and begins shuffling through Blaine’s CD collection. Without pulling his eyes back up, he adds, “Your hair looks good, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Blaine says, pulling out of the driveway. He flashes him a wink. “Everything about you looks good.”
The park Blaine had picked out is only a short distance from Kurt’s neighborhood. Somewhere along the drive, Kurt presses his forehead against the window and tips his eyes skyward, and he says, “It’s so gloomy out there. I’m fairly positive this is how Twister started, on an otherwise innocuous day like this.”
“How would you know? You didn’t make it through the first five minutes of that movie.”
“I can’t help it that your taste in action movies leaves much to be desired.”
“You better be careful, the guy you’re insulting is the one who made your egg salad sandwich this morning.”
Kurt gives him another look. “You wouldn’t poison me. You enjoy basking in my presence too much to off me.”
“You have a point,” Blaine agrees, pulling into the parking lot just beyond the entrance and turning the car off. They hop out of the car together and fetch their things (Blaine was right: Kurt’s delighted by the picnic basket) and head off in search of a good spot. There are a few moms here, a bored babysitter or two, a group of devoted tennis players over on the far courts, but otherwise, the park is mostly empty for a Saturday. Blaine’s a got a nervous energy in the pit of his stomach, but he tries to ignore it. He just wants to have a nice afternoon lunch with Kurt.
“Here,” Kurt says, when they find level ground. It looks over the nearby playground, and there’s enough grass to prevent dirt stains, so it works. He looks at Blaine. “Did you bring a blanket?”
Blaine shrugs. “I brought towels?” he offers, because even though those weren’t nearly as charming, his mom didn’t want him getting any blankets dirty.
Kurt laughs and shakes out one of the towels, which just so happens to have Daffy Duck’s face on it. They’re old. That’s his only excuse. “I suppose these will do.”
They arrange the food in a semicircle around them; Kurt sits cross-legged, but Blaine flops down on his stomach, propping his chin up with his hand so he can see Kurt better. “This is romantic, right?” he says, tearing open a bag of cheddar-flavored pretzels with one hand. Kurt looks at him with raised eyebrows.
“Are you trying to be romantic?” he asks skeptically.
“I don’t know, I like to think I’m an innately romantic guy. Like I don’t even have to try.”
Kurt throws a mini pretzel at his face. “Trust me, you should try.”
Blaine trades his sandwich in for a brownie. He chews in thoughtful silence for a moment. “Hey Kurt?”
“Yes Blaine?”
Blaine sits up a little straighter, so Kurt knows he’s not joking anymore. He holds out half of his brownie, even though he knows Kurt won’t eat it, because Kurt is not a dessert-before-the-main-course kind of guy.
“I was lying before,” he says, and Kurt goes, “Oh?”
Just as he’d expected, he waves the brownie away.
“I am trying,” Blaine says, because he and Kurt have always been honest with each other, and he doesn’t want to stop that now. “I’m trying really hard.”
“What, to be romantic?”
Kurt’s face is guarded, slightly, but Blaine can see past that, can see maybe just a sliver of what he’s getting at dawning in his eyes. He loves the way they understand each other, the way they don’t always need words. The way that it kind of just feels like they were meant to be. And so maybe Kurt will never take the initiative. Maybe waiting for Kurt to take the initiative is the stupid thing; there are roles in every relationship, and maybe this is Blaine’s. He can put himself out there without having too much to fear. He’s never had a friend like this - he doesn’t think they’re friends at all. They were destined to be so, so much more.
And Mercedes was right. If not now, then when?
He can’t wait any longer.
“To make you fall for me,” Blaine answers truthfully. He watches for a change in Kurt’s expression, and it’s subtle, but it’s there. Like Kurt, too, had been waiting for this all along. “Is it working?”
“You kissed me,” Kurt says. “And then nothing. I didn’t know what to think.”
“I kissed you,” Blaine counters, “and then you listed your Facebook status as single.”
Kurt groans and hides his eyes with his hand. “Please don’t bring Facebook into a conversation about our relationship.”
“Do we have one?”
“What?”
“A relationship.”
Kurt’s hand lowers. He studies him, carefully. “I’d like to,” he says, his voice a touch quieter than normal, but still steady, sure.
Blaine smiles, a sudden warmth spreading all the way from his stomach down to his toes. “Me too.”
“Then I guess we have one.”
Kurt licks his lips; Blaine draws in a breath and thinks that those are some of the best words he’s ever heard.
“We do,” he says, and he pushes the food out of the way, because a picnic now feels so insignificant compared to kissing his boyfriend, and that’s what he does, right on top of a Daffy Duck blanket in the middle of the park.
They kiss and they kiss and they kiss, and they rolled around and flatten the entire pan of brownies, and they laugh and then they kiss some more. Eventually, Kurt pushes at Blaine’s shoulder, detaches himself from his lips and says, “Um, Blaine -” but before he can even get the words out, there’s a clap of thunder overheard, and not two seconds later, it starts pouring.
“Oh God,” Blaine laughs, and they scramble to pick up all of their belongings and race back towards Blaine’s car, but it doesn’t even matter, not really, because they’re both soaked before they get there. “This day went a lot differently in my head,” he admits, fumbling for his keys.
But Kurt just shrugs. “I think it’s pretty perfect.”
They make eye contact for a moment and then suddenly, dropping the towels and the basket and the leftover plates of food, Blaine has Kurt pressed against the hood of the car while the rain beats down upon them and he kisses him like he’s never kissed anybody ever before.
***
Monday morning they meet in the hallway, their usual spot, right by Blaine’s locker. There are about six minutes until class starts. They keep exchanging silent, happy glances, and Blaine couldn’t bite back his smile if he tried. There doesn’t need to be any sort of formal announcement: he can tell Mercedes knows by the wink she gives them as she passes, and Rachel walks with her shoulders squared and high, proud, like this was somehow her doing. Blaine doesn’t mind giving her credit. He doesn’t mind much of anything at the moment.
“We should probably get to class,” Kurt says, drawing himself up. “As much as I’d rather pretend that facet of school doesn’t exist.”
“But think about how much we’ll learn.”
Without making a spectacle of it, Blaine holds his hand out for Kurt to take. Kurt looks at it for a second before complying, and his smile grows twice in size, if that’s possible.
They walk down the hall together, hand-in-hand. No one says anything. No one even looks twice.
***
Blaine sits next to Kurt during Glee club. Their knees touch and their hips brush and at one point Blaine drapes his arm along the back of Kurt’s chair, and he draws gentle circles on Kurt’s back with his fingertips, and it’s good, good, so good to be able to do this. Finally.
***
“Hey Anderson.”
Blaine looks up, vaguely startled by the sudden intrusion of Puck. They didn’t have a lot of friendly after school chats. Blaine’s not sure Puck has a lot of friendly after school chats with anyone.
“Hey, Puck,” he returns, packing his backpack. Kurt’s already gone for the day, a dentist appointment he couldn’t get out of, so Blaine had been planning on leaving the building alone. To his surprise, Puck walks with him.
“You and Hummel, huh?” is the first thing Puck says on the way through the doors, which, oh.
Blaine shifts his backpack on his shoulders and looks at him strangely. “Yeah,” he says, after a beat, wondering if he’s being set up or something. He’s fairly convinced this conversation isn’t going to end in Puck secretly coming out, and there doesn’t seem to be that many other alternatives. So he’s suitably confused. “Me and Kurt.”
“That’s cool. I was wondering when he was finally going to get some. Thought it might help to loosen the stick up his -”
“Is there a point to this conversation?” Blaine interrupts, and Puck shuts up, but smirks a little while doing so.
“Touchy, touchy,” he says, running his hand over his mohawk. “It’s cool, I get it. Anyway. I’m having some people over Saturday for Dude Night. And you’re invited.”
“Dude Night?” Blaine repeats, looking skeptical. Now he definitely feels like he’s being set up.
“Yeah, you know, have a few beers, play some video games. That sort of shit. It’s just the guys in Glee. My parents are out of town.”
The guys in Glee didn’t really seem to be the bonding sort. They were friends, sure, but he didn’t think they ever seemed especially tight. But who was he to turn down an offer like that? He figured being a member actually meant being a part of a family, the way Kurt had talked about it sometimes, and when there’s an open-arms invitation into the family, you don’t say no.
“Sure,” Blaine agrees. “That sounds good. Your house?”
Puck nods. “Around eight.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Sweet. Later, dude,” and Puck takes off towards his car, which is completely dented and banged up in the front like he’d recently rammed it into a brick wall, and Blaine watches him for a moment before heading towards his own.
Dude Night.
When had he ever been invited to a Dude Night before?
This, he thinks, he could get used to.
***
The rest of the week is relatively average. Kurt had no cavities to report, and Blaine gets the highest grade on an oral report, which prompts the teacher into urging him to join the debate team. (He doesn’t. At least, not yet.) Every time Blaine passes Kurt in the hall he thinks he’s mine, which is a pretty awesome thought to have. His mom says he seems happier. He tells her it’s because of the weather.
Thursday night Kurt calls him, right in the middle of the math homework. He bites down on the cap of his pen and answers. “Didn’t I just talk to you three hours ago?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Kurt deadpans, “am I interrupting something? Because I can hang up -”
“No, no,” Blaine says quickly. “I like hearing your voice.”
He writes down an answer, and then scribbles it out. Math’s never been his strong suit.
They chat about small, pointless things for a while, their back-and-forth banter as easy and organic as it’d ever been, and then Blaine starts in on number sixteen and Kurt says, “So what are we doing Saturday night? I’m thinking we should venture out from Breadstix. I’ve heard talk of this mystical place they call Olive Garden where the salad bowls magically refill themselves…”
Blaine frowns at the equation. This had seemed easier when the teacher had done it. “Saturday?” he repeats, only halfway paying attention. “Saturday’s that thing at Puck’s house.”
“Excuse me?”
There’s a pause. Blaine finally stops staring at his textbook.
“Puck’s house?” Kurt finishes, slow, questioning.
“Yeah, you know - Dude Night.”
“Dude Night?”
“He didn’t… invite you to Dude Night?” The phone feels heavier than it did ten seconds ago. Kurt doesn’t say anything. Blaine bites down on the inside of his cheek and knows he’s got his answer. “He didn’t invite you to Dude Night.”
There’s another short silence.
“I won’t go,” Blaine says, resolutely.
“No.” Kurt’s voice sounds tight, like when he’s trying to pretend he’s not upset about something. “You should go. You should definitely go. Why shouldn’t you go? He invited you to Dude Night.”
“Kurt, I won’t go,” he repeats.
“Please. Don’t let me stop you from attending Dude Night.”
Blaine has the foreboding feeling that they are about to have a fight. Their first fight. Blaine does not want to have a fight about this.
“I said I won’t go. Look… maybe he just forgot to invite you. That’s possible, right?”
“It’s possible that Noah Puckerman ‘forgot’ to invite me to Dude Night. Right. Sure, Blaine. Or, have you considered this, the possibility that Puck didn’t invite me to Dude Night because he doesn’t think of me as a ‘dude’?”
Blaine licks his lips nervously. “I’m sure he-”
“No.” Kurt cuts him off, in a tone that’s more snappish than he’s ever taken with him before. “You’re not sure of anything. Look, it’s fine. The jokes about being ‘one of the girls’? I’ve heard them all before. A thousand times. It doesn’t matter. Go to Dude Night. Revel in your manliness. Enjoy exuding testosterone. Congratulations on being a dude.”
He hangs up the phone before Blaine has time to get a single word in.
Blaine calls him back three times that night, but each time, it goes straight to voicemail.
***
Blaine has never been in a relationship before, so he doesn’t know how to deal with a relationship fight. A lover’s quarrel, or whatever it is they call them on TV. He’s pretty sure bringing flowers to school the next day is overkill, especially when the fight hadn’t even been his fault, not really. In fact, he hadn’t even been a participating member of the fight. More like an innocent bystander that just so happened to be dating Kurt.
He works up an apology in his head, though, just in case, but he’s pretty grateful when Kurt approaches him first with a slightly strained and abashed smile.
“I’m sorry,” Kurt says, first thing. “I overreacted.”
“No, it’s fine.” Blaine takes one of his hands in between his own, twining their fingers together, and brushing a quick kiss over one of Kurt’s knuckles. “I’m sorry you didn’t get invited to Dude Night. Puck’s a dick.”
“Of course Puck is a dick. Puck has always been a dick.”
“Whoa, whoa, excuse me,” Puck says, from right behind them, looking at them with narrowed eyes. He seems more bothered by the name-calling than the hand-holding, so he at least has that to his credit. “What did Puck do? Why is Puck a dick?”
Blaine glances over at Kurt for a brief second. “Why did you invite me to Dude Night and not Kurt?” he asks, serious. He gestures towards their hands. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Puck, but I’m gay too.”
Puck rolls his eyes. “It has nothing to do with your gaydom, dude. Mercedes and Rachel just said you three were having some sort of soiree - whatever that is - on Saturday.”
Kurt pauses. His face slowly takes on a guilty expression, and his eyes flicker to meet Blaine’s. “Right,” he says slowly. “We did agree to that. I… must have forgotten. Heh.”
“That’s why I didn’t ask. Don’t come all up on me accusing me of hate crimes I didn’t commit,” Puck says, and then slaps them both on the back and continues down the hallway, pushing a freshman out of his way as he goes.
Kurt tugs his hand loose from Blaine’s. “Whoops?” he says, trying to look both cute and apologetic.
“It’s a good thing I like you.” Blaine shakes his head and grabs Kurt’s hand again, but this time, he uses it to reel him in so their faces are only an inch or two apart. “I almost left a pleading voicemail on your phone last night. Then how bad would you have felt?”
Before Kurt can answer, Blaine leans forward and presses a short, chaste kiss against his lips. “Revel in your manliness,” he teases, in a perfect impression of Kurt. Laughing, Kurt pushes him away. “Go and exude testosterone,” he adds, making a face.
“You’ve made your point!” Kurt says loudly, and when Blaine starts in on “congrats on being a DUDE” Kurt actually plugs his fingers into his ears, walking away quickly, humming at the top of his lungs like he can pretend Blaine’s not talking at all.
They are certifiably ridiculous.
Blaine loves it.
***
Blaine arranges to meet Wes and David for lunch on Saturday. He hadn’t realized how much he’d miss them, once the missing actually kicked in. He loves being at McKinley now, being a part of New Directions, but Dalton and the Warblers have and will always have a big piece of his heart. They agree to meet at David’s house, because he has a large backyard and a grill, and when Blaine gets there at 12:30 there are about ten cars parked outside along the street. Suspicious, he rounds the house, and comes face-to-face with fifteen guys in pressed pants and blazers.
“Guys,” he says, looking around in wonder at all of the Warblers, “what’s -”
But before he can finish his question, they burst into song: ”Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back,” they sing, in perfect harmony, and while Blaine’s staring gapingly at them, Jeff walks over and places a Dalton blazer around Blaine’s shoulders that’s two sizes too big, but it doesn’t matter. He laughs and pulls his arms through the sleeves.
After they wrap up a really awesome ‘70s theme song medley, the sixteen of them sit around chatting about school and singing and anything that comes to mind, really. They overindulge on hotdogs and sing impromptu a capella songs. Someone, from somewhere, magically produces a guitar. It’s one of the most fun informal Warblers experiences Blaine ever remembers having. Even if Wes does keep opening and closing his fist like he doesn’t know how to function without a mallet to call order.
They sit around, talking and singing and eating, until right before sundown. “Thanks, you guys,” Blaine says, finally pulling the blazer off and returning it to its rightful owner. “This was an awesome surprise.”
“Good luck at Nationals, Blaine,” Trent says, and the other guys murmur their assent.
“Rep us well,” David adds, punching him lightly in the arm with a grin.
On the drive back - straight to Puck’s house, incidentally, for what he thinks will be the complete opposite of what just went down at David’s - Blaine thinks about how glad he is to have those guys as friends. How easily they’d accepted him into their fold, flaws and all. He wouldn’t trade those experiences for the world.
***
From: Kurt 5:36 pm.
Did you have fun with the Warblers?
From: Blaine 5:38 pm.
you knew?
From: Kurt 5:39 pm.
Knew? I arranged it.
From: Blaine 5:42 pm.
sneaky sneaky, mr. hummel. you’re the best.
***
Finn opens the door to Puck’s house, but not in one of those hi-welcome-to-the-party Betty Homemaker ways. Instead, he pulls the door open, gives a little wave and says, “Oh, hey Blaine,” and then continues towards the living room like he hadn’t paused at all. He’s carrying a twelve-pack of Bud Light, which Blaine has only had once in his life and thought it tasted remarkably like cat pee, but he supposes there’s really only one kind of beer for Dude Night: cheap.
“Everyone else already here?” he asks, peeling his jacket off and glancing around for a coat hanger. He doesn’t find one, but he does see a mound of jackets hanging over an armchair in the den. Shrugging, his joins the pile.
“Pretty much. Sam and Mike and Artie are in the living room. Puck’s trying to break into his parents’ liquor cabinet, but he can’t figure out the combination.”
“Did he try 1234?” Blaine suggests, trying to be helpful, and Finn shrugs and pokes his head into the hallway and yells up, “Hey, Puck, try 1234!”
There’s a scuffle of motion, a quiet click, and then a celebratory “Hell yes!” and everyone’s looking at him like they’re suitably impressed, which is not a bad feeling. Blaine Anderson, alcohol savior of Dude Night. Except then he suddenly has a flashback of the last time he was drunk around these guys and… oh.
Oh no.
Puck tramples down the stairs with a bottle of vodka in one hand and a bottle of tequila in the other. Blaine feels a wave of nausea just looking at them. “Hey Anderson,” Puck says, “welcome to the Casa de Puckerman. What the hell are you so dressed up for?”
Blaine glances down at his clothes. He’s wearing jeans and a button-up. Not even something he’d wear on a date. Then again, Puck’s wearing basketball shorts and a wifebeater and Finn’s got baggy sweatpants. He guesses, judging by their outfits, he is a bit overdressed. “I didn’t have time to go home and change,” he says, and then gestures towards the living room, where the other guys are sprawled out in various places around the TV. “What’re we playing?”
“Call of Duty, baby. All night long. Here, take a beer.”
“Beer before liquor, never sicker,” Blaine points out, taking the offered can but not opening it yet.
Puck stops and stares at him like that was the greatest thing he’s ever heard. “Did you just come up with that?” he asks, looping an arm around Blaine’s shoulders before he has time to dispute and dragging him into the room. “That was, like, inspired. Guys, we have a beer Yoda with us. Who knew?”
Sam, Artie, and Mike glance up from their controllers and nod their heads in greeting. “Hey, Blaine,” they echo, then go right back to committing virtual manslaughter on the TV screen.
“Hop on in,” Mike says, “Sam’s getting his ass handed to him.”
“I have an unfair disadvantage,” Sam claims in defense, beating down so hard on the controller that Blaine’s mildly afraid he’s going to break it.
“What’s your unfair disadvantage?” he asks, dropping into a beanbag near the couch. He sets his beer down on the coffee table and slips out of his shoes.
Sam frowns. “That I suck.”
“We can’t all be good at everything,” Finn says, kicking Sam’s feet out of the way and sitting down with his back braced against the table.
“Or anything,” Artie adds, and they all laugh, and Sam one-handedly flips him off. It doesn’t affect his playing, really. It’s not like he could get much worse.
“Okay, boys,” Puck says, in his deep announcer voice; they all glance over their shoulders to look at him. In the lull, Puck has aligned six shot glasses on the coffee table, all filled to the brim. “Let’s get Dude Night started.”
“I thought we were sticking to beer,” Blaine says, scrunching his nose just a little.
“Don’t be a pussy, Anderson. We’re playing a drinking game. You just have to take a shot every time you die.”
They all agree; Blaine’s only played Call of Duty a handful of times before, but he figures, how hard can it be to stay alive?
Apparently, as he learns twenty minutes and three vodka shots later, it’s a lot harder than it looks. They’re all drinking pretty liberally, though. Even Finn and Puck, the self-declared experts, have a few shots under their belts. Blaine suspects Puck’s taking them even when he doesn’t die. Maybe he just likes to be drunk.
Blaine has never marathonned a video game before. He’s pretty sure his current record is somewhere around two hours; when he glances wearily at the clock sometime later that night, it’s suddenly one o’clock in the morning. It takes him a while to read it. The numbers are wiggling around, and he’s not sure if it’s because of the alcohol or because he’s been staring at a television set for the past three - four - holy crap, five hours.
“I’m drunk,” Sam moans, from somewhere to his left. “How did I get drunk?”
Mike heaves a throw pillow at his head, but he misses extraordinarily and it nearly knocks a vase off the fireplace mantle. “You got drunk because you suck,” he says, once they’re sure it’s done wobbling. “And you suck because you’re drunk.”
“Vicious cycle,” Artie comments. Somehow he’s out of his wheelchair, chilling on the ground beside the couch. Had one of them helped him down? Had he fallen? Blaine can’t remember. His head feels woozy.
Finn’s the first to throw his controller down. “I can’t do this anymore, man,” he says, covering his eyes with his hands. He’s probably the least intoxicated of them all, but his eyes are bloodshot regardless. Most likely all of theirs are. “I forfeit, whatever. I’m done.”
“Me too,” Blaine concedes, glad he’s not the first one to give up, and he tosses his controller aside.
Artie’s not even holding his controller anymore - where had it gone? - and Sam and Puck and Mike all give in with a shrug. “Anybody want to shotgun a beer?” Puck asks, but they all just groan in response.
“We should call the girls,” Artie suggests after a second, popping his head up off the carpet. “We should convince them to come over.”
“No, dude, this is Dude Night. That would totally invalidate the point,” Puck argues, but then he hesitates and adds, “Though Lauren is about two minutes away from showing me her boobs.”
“Don’t invite them,” Sam chimes in. “Santana always makes me leave the TV on when we make out. She keeps wanting to watch this show called The L Word.”
“I’d watch Barney if it meant I got to make out with Santana,” Mike says, and when they turn to look at him, he adds, “If I wasn’t with Tina, I mean.”
“It’s not like it’d be hard,” Puck says, leaning back against the couch. “Santana puts out for anyone. Brittany’s better in bed, though. She’s more - enthusiastic.”
Artie points an accusing finger at him. “Watch it.”
“Just sayin’, man.” Puck glances over at Blaine with a devilish look in his eyes. “What about Kurt? Has he put out for you yet?”
“Gross, dude, that’s my stepbrother,” Finn cuts in, and Blaine flashes him a grateful look.
“So? Step ain’t blood.”
Blaine shakes his head. No matter how drunk he is, he will never be drunk enough for this conversation. Not with these guys. “I am not answering that.”
“Whatever. I bet he’s a giant prude.” Puck burps loudly and uninhibitedly and stands up, swaying a little. He grabs the couch to steady himself but when he goes to sit back down, he lands clumsily right next to Finn, draping an arm over his shoulders. “It’s late enough, right? We should see what’s on Skinemax.”
“I don’t think all of us want to watch that, Puck,” Mike says, gesturing towards Blaine with his head.
“Why not? They have dudes on there.”
Sam snorts. “Yeah, dudes makin’ hot love to girls.”
Blaine shudders at the mental image. “I’ve seen the porn you straight guys watch. Trust me, there’s a reason I’m gay.”
There’s a pause in the conversation, and Blaine wonders vaguely if he’s crossed some sort of line, if it’s an unwritten rule at Dude Night that you don’t speak about your sexuality unless your sexuality happens to be the same as everybody else’s, but then Puck says, sounding legitimately curious, “So you watch gay porn?”
“I…” He glances around the room. “Are you really asking me that?”
“I don’t know.” Puck shrugs. “I’ve never seen it. What do dudes in porn do with each other, anyway?”
“Pretty much the same thing you’re doing with Finn right now,” Blaine says, just to be mean. “But with less clothing.”
The two of them immediately pull away from each other, leaving plenty of space in between. The other guys crack up.
Puck’s enthusiasm is not to be dampened, though. “So are you usually the dude giving, or are you the one ta-”
“Hey Finn,” Blaine says loudly, just to change the subject, “How’s Rachel?”
“Or are you back to Quinn now?” Sam adds with a smirk. “We can’t keep track…”
“Or, better yet, both at the same time,” Mike says, and his jaw goes a little slack at the possibility.
“Hey, why are you all focusing on me?” Finn grumbles, but he looks like he’s possibly considering that magical outcome, too. “What about you, Mike? Tina shortened the leash for one night I see.”
“Hey, Tina’s cool.” Mike doesn’t look ashamed about defending her; after a second, though, he shrugs loosely. “Sometimes… she starts talking about marriage, though. It kind of freaks me out. I mean, we’re in high school.”
“Ugh, chicks and marriage,” Artie says, flapping his hand in the air like he can somehow relate. “I’m glad Brittany hasn’t brought that up yet.” He pauses and rubs his chin. “Though I’m not sure she even knows what marriage is, to be honest…”
There’s a strange silence for a moment, and then Sam offers up, probably because he’s had too much too drink, “I took a laxative two days ago so I could eat pizza in the cafeteria and not feel guilty.”
“I kind of want to make out with Rachel even though I’m supposed to only want to make out with Quinn,” Finn says next.
Puck stares up at the ceiling. Apparently they’re all confessing, or something, but when he speaks, for maybe the first time ever that Blaine can remember, his voice is quiet and serious, not joking at all: “I keep having this dream of this little blonde girl looking up at me and calling me daddy.”
They’re all quiet after that. Blaine knows he’s never going to talk about this, not even to Kurt, but he feels a sort of manly bond with the guys that he’s never exactly had before, and it’s not something he’s apt to forget.
***
Blaine sneaks out of his loaned-from-Sam Spiderman sleeping bag and into the bathroom around 3 o’clock in the morning, where he crouches in the bathtub and calls Kurt. It rings once, twice, and on the third ring he picks up, and Blaine smiles warmly at the sound of his voice.
“Hi,” he says. “Puck’s house is cleaner than I thought it’d be.”
“That’s a relief,” Kurt laughs. Blaine can hear him shushing someone in the background before returning to the line. “Are you having fun?”
“I’m drunk,” Blaine says, which he figures is sufficient enough of an answer.
“Oh good. Please tell me there’s no spin the bottle this time around.”
“No spin the bottle.” Blaine looks up and studies the different kinds of shampoos they have in their bathroom. He’s pretty sure the Daisy Fuentes for Voluminous Curls isn’t Puck’s. “Besides,” he says, “the only person I want to kiss right now is you.”
“Mm, then it’s too bad you went to Dude Night, isn’t it?” His voice lowers, though, and Blaine can tell he’s smiling into the phone. “But. I want to too.”
“Kurt,” says a shrill voice from Kurt’s end that is most definitely Rachel Berry, “is that Blaine?”
“I should go,” Kurt says quickly. “And you should get to sleep. But not with any of those guys, you hear?”
“Cross my heart.” Blaine closes his eyes and tips his head backwards. “Goodnight, Kurt,” he says, and he doesn’t even remember hanging up the phone.
***
Blaine wakes up to the sound of someone peeing. It’s probably the worst wake up call he’s ever received, and when he glances upwards out the window, it’s still dark. When he glances over the side of the bathtub, there’s Sam, taking a leak.
“Hi,” Blaine says groggily, and Sam jumps.
“Holy crap,” he says, flushing and zipping up. He’s still a little drunk, Blaine thinks. Otherwise he might’ve been a little more freaked out. “Why are you in the bathtub?”
Blaine shrugs and doesn’t bother moving. “It’s comfy.”
Sam nods, like he can get behind that. “Cool,” he says, and then he turns around and heads for the door, very thoughtfully flicking off the light as he goes. “Later.”
part four.
one | two | three | four
by novelized. ~30,000 words.
fandom: Glee.
pairing: Kurt/Blaine.
summary: In which Blaine and Kurt aren't "Facebook official" and Blaine transfers to McKinley.
part three.
Most of the lights in the basement are turned off. Blaine has to blindly navigate himself around a chaise lounge, a computer desk, and a full-length mirror that Kurt had found at a thrift store once and had Blaine carry the two miles home because it wouldn’t fit in the back of his car. Luckily, Blaine knows his way around the room. There are so many things about Kurt that Blaine has committed to his memory.
The way he looks when he’s half-asleep, bathed in the muted glow of the television, arm draped loosely over the side of a couch, cheek planted on a satin pillow, for instance. Blaine has seen him like this a hundred times. But he doesn’t ever really get used to it.
Smiling, Blaine lowers himself onto the carpet right next to Kurt’s head, and he reaches up and gently pushes the hair away from his eyes.
Kurt just barely stirs. “How was the game?” he asks, voice clogged with sleepiness. In his exhaustion, apparently he’d forgotten to be mad.
“It was good. We won. And I learned that Finn’s being treated for an especially resilient case of athlete’s foot.”
Kurt’s nose wrinkles. “Disgusting. I could’ve lived my entire life without knowing that. Thanks for stealing my innocence.”
Blaine shakes his head and brushes his knuckles along Kurt’s cheek. Kurt, in turn, leans into the touch, almost unconsciously, eyes falling shut again.
“I haven’t stolen your innocence yet,” Blaine tells him, and then there’s an awkward pause followed by a fumbling chance at recovery: “Wow, that sounded terrible. Not what I meant.”
“For your sake, I’ll pretend you didn’t say that,” Kurt tells him, but his cheeks are a little warm. Blaine pulls his hand away to stop himself from commenting on that fact. “And besides, you’re not allowed to mention Finn and my innocence in the same conversation, ever again.”
“You said it first.”
“Yeah, but you made it perverted.”
“I can’t help it. It’s a gift.”
Kurt groans in exasperation and turns over on his back, kicking his feet up onto the armrest. His shirt bunches up a little in the process, so there’s a pale strip of skin showing just above his belt, and Blaine’s eyes are pulled that way but he doesn’t say anything. He wonders vaguely if the skin on his stomach is as soft as his hands. Probably it is. He has the odd desire to join him on the couch, but there’s hardly enough room for one person, let alone both of them. They’d have to be on top of each other, practically.
Not that that’s the worst mental image in the world.
“Hey, Kurt.” Blaine grabs a handful of Kurt’s shirt and gives him a little shake. “I think I should go.”
“I just ironed this yesterday,” Kurt complains, pushing his hand away. He tips his head sideways, though, looking at Blaine through half-lidded eyes. “You can spend the night, if you want. You can sleep on the foldout. My dad won’t mind.”
“Mm, I would, but I told my parents I’d be back tonight. But let’s do lunch tomorrow. I’ll make sandwiches.”
“I don’t eat processed sandwich meat,” Kurt tells him, his words punctured by a yawn in the middle.
Blaine grins. “Trust me, I know. I’ll pick you up around noon, okay? You should go upstairs to bed. Goodnight, Kurt.”
Kurt buries his head back into the pillow. Apparently he's not making it back upstairs to his bedroom anytime soon. “Goodnight, Blaine,” he says, and Blaine has another flicker of desire, the urge to kiss him goodnight, the urge to grab him by the neck and pull him down onto the floor with him and roll him over on the carpet and -
He heads back upstairs quickly, his heart beating a little too fast.
***
Saturday is not the picnic-perfect weather he’d been hoping for. The skies are grey, overcast. Dark clouds loom overhead. The only upside to the whole day is that it’s at least warmer than it has been lately, and the ground’s still dry, so Blaine packs his mom’s old wicker basket (very quaint, very old-fashioned; he’s mostly bringing it because he’s sure Kurt will approve) and drives to Kurt’s house. He’d foregone any hair gel this morning. Half because he’s running low, and half because Kurt had been sending him some variation of a lose the product text every twelve hours for the last week straight. It feels weird, but in a good way. (He does still, however, comb it into submission as much as he can. Just because he’s opening himself up to new possibilities doesn’t mean he’s letting his hair take on a life of its own.)
Kurt meets him in the driveway, looking as pressed and polished as ever. Blaine stares at him for a second too long before tearing his gaze away, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel while Kurt climbs into the passenger seat.
“I brought a canteen of Shirley Temples,” he says, buckling himself in.
“Perfect. I brought a plate of freshly-baked brownies.”
“Freshly-baked by whom?” Kurt asks, giving him a suspicious look.
Blaine grins sheepishly. “By our friendly neighborhood Whole Foods.”
“That’s what I thought.” Kurt rolls his eyes and begins shuffling through Blaine’s CD collection. Without pulling his eyes back up, he adds, “Your hair looks good, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Blaine says, pulling out of the driveway. He flashes him a wink. “Everything about you looks good.”
The park Blaine had picked out is only a short distance from Kurt’s neighborhood. Somewhere along the drive, Kurt presses his forehead against the window and tips his eyes skyward, and he says, “It’s so gloomy out there. I’m fairly positive this is how Twister started, on an otherwise innocuous day like this.”
“How would you know? You didn’t make it through the first five minutes of that movie.”
“I can’t help it that your taste in action movies leaves much to be desired.”
“You better be careful, the guy you’re insulting is the one who made your egg salad sandwich this morning.”
Kurt gives him another look. “You wouldn’t poison me. You enjoy basking in my presence too much to off me.”
“You have a point,” Blaine agrees, pulling into the parking lot just beyond the entrance and turning the car off. They hop out of the car together and fetch their things (Blaine was right: Kurt’s delighted by the picnic basket) and head off in search of a good spot. There are a few moms here, a bored babysitter or two, a group of devoted tennis players over on the far courts, but otherwise, the park is mostly empty for a Saturday. Blaine’s a got a nervous energy in the pit of his stomach, but he tries to ignore it. He just wants to have a nice afternoon lunch with Kurt.
“Here,” Kurt says, when they find level ground. It looks over the nearby playground, and there’s enough grass to prevent dirt stains, so it works. He looks at Blaine. “Did you bring a blanket?”
Blaine shrugs. “I brought towels?” he offers, because even though those weren’t nearly as charming, his mom didn’t want him getting any blankets dirty.
Kurt laughs and shakes out one of the towels, which just so happens to have Daffy Duck’s face on it. They’re old. That’s his only excuse. “I suppose these will do.”
They arrange the food in a semicircle around them; Kurt sits cross-legged, but Blaine flops down on his stomach, propping his chin up with his hand so he can see Kurt better. “This is romantic, right?” he says, tearing open a bag of cheddar-flavored pretzels with one hand. Kurt looks at him with raised eyebrows.
“Are you trying to be romantic?” he asks skeptically.
“I don’t know, I like to think I’m an innately romantic guy. Like I don’t even have to try.”
Kurt throws a mini pretzel at his face. “Trust me, you should try.”
Blaine trades his sandwich in for a brownie. He chews in thoughtful silence for a moment. “Hey Kurt?”
“Yes Blaine?”
Blaine sits up a little straighter, so Kurt knows he’s not joking anymore. He holds out half of his brownie, even though he knows Kurt won’t eat it, because Kurt is not a dessert-before-the-main-course kind of guy.
“I was lying before,” he says, and Kurt goes, “Oh?”
Just as he’d expected, he waves the brownie away.
“I am trying,” Blaine says, because he and Kurt have always been honest with each other, and he doesn’t want to stop that now. “I’m trying really hard.”
“What, to be romantic?”
Kurt’s face is guarded, slightly, but Blaine can see past that, can see maybe just a sliver of what he’s getting at dawning in his eyes. He loves the way they understand each other, the way they don’t always need words. The way that it kind of just feels like they were meant to be. And so maybe Kurt will never take the initiative. Maybe waiting for Kurt to take the initiative is the stupid thing; there are roles in every relationship, and maybe this is Blaine’s. He can put himself out there without having too much to fear. He’s never had a friend like this - he doesn’t think they’re friends at all. They were destined to be so, so much more.
And Mercedes was right. If not now, then when?
He can’t wait any longer.
“To make you fall for me,” Blaine answers truthfully. He watches for a change in Kurt’s expression, and it’s subtle, but it’s there. Like Kurt, too, had been waiting for this all along. “Is it working?”
“You kissed me,” Kurt says. “And then nothing. I didn’t know what to think.”
“I kissed you,” Blaine counters, “and then you listed your Facebook status as single.”
Kurt groans and hides his eyes with his hand. “Please don’t bring Facebook into a conversation about our relationship.”
“Do we have one?”
“What?”
“A relationship.”
Kurt’s hand lowers. He studies him, carefully. “I’d like to,” he says, his voice a touch quieter than normal, but still steady, sure.
Blaine smiles, a sudden warmth spreading all the way from his stomach down to his toes. “Me too.”
“Then I guess we have one.”
Kurt licks his lips; Blaine draws in a breath and thinks that those are some of the best words he’s ever heard.
“We do,” he says, and he pushes the food out of the way, because a picnic now feels so insignificant compared to kissing his boyfriend, and that’s what he does, right on top of a Daffy Duck blanket in the middle of the park.
They kiss and they kiss and they kiss, and they rolled around and flatten the entire pan of brownies, and they laugh and then they kiss some more. Eventually, Kurt pushes at Blaine’s shoulder, detaches himself from his lips and says, “Um, Blaine -” but before he can even get the words out, there’s a clap of thunder overheard, and not two seconds later, it starts pouring.
“Oh God,” Blaine laughs, and they scramble to pick up all of their belongings and race back towards Blaine’s car, but it doesn’t even matter, not really, because they’re both soaked before they get there. “This day went a lot differently in my head,” he admits, fumbling for his keys.
But Kurt just shrugs. “I think it’s pretty perfect.”
They make eye contact for a moment and then suddenly, dropping the towels and the basket and the leftover plates of food, Blaine has Kurt pressed against the hood of the car while the rain beats down upon them and he kisses him like he’s never kissed anybody ever before.
***
Monday morning they meet in the hallway, their usual spot, right by Blaine’s locker. There are about six minutes until class starts. They keep exchanging silent, happy glances, and Blaine couldn’t bite back his smile if he tried. There doesn’t need to be any sort of formal announcement: he can tell Mercedes knows by the wink she gives them as she passes, and Rachel walks with her shoulders squared and high, proud, like this was somehow her doing. Blaine doesn’t mind giving her credit. He doesn’t mind much of anything at the moment.
“We should probably get to class,” Kurt says, drawing himself up. “As much as I’d rather pretend that facet of school doesn’t exist.”
“But think about how much we’ll learn.”
Without making a spectacle of it, Blaine holds his hand out for Kurt to take. Kurt looks at it for a second before complying, and his smile grows twice in size, if that’s possible.
They walk down the hall together, hand-in-hand. No one says anything. No one even looks twice.
***
Blaine sits next to Kurt during Glee club. Their knees touch and their hips brush and at one point Blaine drapes his arm along the back of Kurt’s chair, and he draws gentle circles on Kurt’s back with his fingertips, and it’s good, good, so good to be able to do this. Finally.
***
“Hey Anderson.”
Blaine looks up, vaguely startled by the sudden intrusion of Puck. They didn’t have a lot of friendly after school chats. Blaine’s not sure Puck has a lot of friendly after school chats with anyone.
“Hey, Puck,” he returns, packing his backpack. Kurt’s already gone for the day, a dentist appointment he couldn’t get out of, so Blaine had been planning on leaving the building alone. To his surprise, Puck walks with him.
“You and Hummel, huh?” is the first thing Puck says on the way through the doors, which, oh.
Blaine shifts his backpack on his shoulders and looks at him strangely. “Yeah,” he says, after a beat, wondering if he’s being set up or something. He’s fairly convinced this conversation isn’t going to end in Puck secretly coming out, and there doesn’t seem to be that many other alternatives. So he’s suitably confused. “Me and Kurt.”
“That’s cool. I was wondering when he was finally going to get some. Thought it might help to loosen the stick up his -”
“Is there a point to this conversation?” Blaine interrupts, and Puck shuts up, but smirks a little while doing so.
“Touchy, touchy,” he says, running his hand over his mohawk. “It’s cool, I get it. Anyway. I’m having some people over Saturday for Dude Night. And you’re invited.”
“Dude Night?” Blaine repeats, looking skeptical. Now he definitely feels like he’s being set up.
“Yeah, you know, have a few beers, play some video games. That sort of shit. It’s just the guys in Glee. My parents are out of town.”
The guys in Glee didn’t really seem to be the bonding sort. They were friends, sure, but he didn’t think they ever seemed especially tight. But who was he to turn down an offer like that? He figured being a member actually meant being a part of a family, the way Kurt had talked about it sometimes, and when there’s an open-arms invitation into the family, you don’t say no.
“Sure,” Blaine agrees. “That sounds good. Your house?”
Puck nods. “Around eight.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Sweet. Later, dude,” and Puck takes off towards his car, which is completely dented and banged up in the front like he’d recently rammed it into a brick wall, and Blaine watches him for a moment before heading towards his own.
Dude Night.
When had he ever been invited to a Dude Night before?
This, he thinks, he could get used to.
***
The rest of the week is relatively average. Kurt had no cavities to report, and Blaine gets the highest grade on an oral report, which prompts the teacher into urging him to join the debate team. (He doesn’t. At least, not yet.) Every time Blaine passes Kurt in the hall he thinks he’s mine, which is a pretty awesome thought to have. His mom says he seems happier. He tells her it’s because of the weather.
Thursday night Kurt calls him, right in the middle of the math homework. He bites down on the cap of his pen and answers. “Didn’t I just talk to you three hours ago?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Kurt deadpans, “am I interrupting something? Because I can hang up -”
“No, no,” Blaine says quickly. “I like hearing your voice.”
He writes down an answer, and then scribbles it out. Math’s never been his strong suit.
They chat about small, pointless things for a while, their back-and-forth banter as easy and organic as it’d ever been, and then Blaine starts in on number sixteen and Kurt says, “So what are we doing Saturday night? I’m thinking we should venture out from Breadstix. I’ve heard talk of this mystical place they call Olive Garden where the salad bowls magically refill themselves…”
Blaine frowns at the equation. This had seemed easier when the teacher had done it. “Saturday?” he repeats, only halfway paying attention. “Saturday’s that thing at Puck’s house.”
“Excuse me?”
There’s a pause. Blaine finally stops staring at his textbook.
“Puck’s house?” Kurt finishes, slow, questioning.
“Yeah, you know - Dude Night.”
“Dude Night?”
“He didn’t… invite you to Dude Night?” The phone feels heavier than it did ten seconds ago. Kurt doesn’t say anything. Blaine bites down on the inside of his cheek and knows he’s got his answer. “He didn’t invite you to Dude Night.”
There’s another short silence.
“I won’t go,” Blaine says, resolutely.
“No.” Kurt’s voice sounds tight, like when he’s trying to pretend he’s not upset about something. “You should go. You should definitely go. Why shouldn’t you go? He invited you to Dude Night.”
“Kurt, I won’t go,” he repeats.
“Please. Don’t let me stop you from attending Dude Night.”
Blaine has the foreboding feeling that they are about to have a fight. Their first fight. Blaine does not want to have a fight about this.
“I said I won’t go. Look… maybe he just forgot to invite you. That’s possible, right?”
“It’s possible that Noah Puckerman ‘forgot’ to invite me to Dude Night. Right. Sure, Blaine. Or, have you considered this, the possibility that Puck didn’t invite me to Dude Night because he doesn’t think of me as a ‘dude’?”
Blaine licks his lips nervously. “I’m sure he-”
“No.” Kurt cuts him off, in a tone that’s more snappish than he’s ever taken with him before. “You’re not sure of anything. Look, it’s fine. The jokes about being ‘one of the girls’? I’ve heard them all before. A thousand times. It doesn’t matter. Go to Dude Night. Revel in your manliness. Enjoy exuding testosterone. Congratulations on being a dude.”
He hangs up the phone before Blaine has time to get a single word in.
Blaine calls him back three times that night, but each time, it goes straight to voicemail.
***
Blaine has never been in a relationship before, so he doesn’t know how to deal with a relationship fight. A lover’s quarrel, or whatever it is they call them on TV. He’s pretty sure bringing flowers to school the next day is overkill, especially when the fight hadn’t even been his fault, not really. In fact, he hadn’t even been a participating member of the fight. More like an innocent bystander that just so happened to be dating Kurt.
He works up an apology in his head, though, just in case, but he’s pretty grateful when Kurt approaches him first with a slightly strained and abashed smile.
“I’m sorry,” Kurt says, first thing. “I overreacted.”
“No, it’s fine.” Blaine takes one of his hands in between his own, twining their fingers together, and brushing a quick kiss over one of Kurt’s knuckles. “I’m sorry you didn’t get invited to Dude Night. Puck’s a dick.”
“Of course Puck is a dick. Puck has always been a dick.”
“Whoa, whoa, excuse me,” Puck says, from right behind them, looking at them with narrowed eyes. He seems more bothered by the name-calling than the hand-holding, so he at least has that to his credit. “What did Puck do? Why is Puck a dick?”
Blaine glances over at Kurt for a brief second. “Why did you invite me to Dude Night and not Kurt?” he asks, serious. He gestures towards their hands. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Puck, but I’m gay too.”
Puck rolls his eyes. “It has nothing to do with your gaydom, dude. Mercedes and Rachel just said you three were having some sort of soiree - whatever that is - on Saturday.”
Kurt pauses. His face slowly takes on a guilty expression, and his eyes flicker to meet Blaine’s. “Right,” he says slowly. “We did agree to that. I… must have forgotten. Heh.”
“That’s why I didn’t ask. Don’t come all up on me accusing me of hate crimes I didn’t commit,” Puck says, and then slaps them both on the back and continues down the hallway, pushing a freshman out of his way as he goes.
Kurt tugs his hand loose from Blaine’s. “Whoops?” he says, trying to look both cute and apologetic.
“It’s a good thing I like you.” Blaine shakes his head and grabs Kurt’s hand again, but this time, he uses it to reel him in so their faces are only an inch or two apart. “I almost left a pleading voicemail on your phone last night. Then how bad would you have felt?”
Before Kurt can answer, Blaine leans forward and presses a short, chaste kiss against his lips. “Revel in your manliness,” he teases, in a perfect impression of Kurt. Laughing, Kurt pushes him away. “Go and exude testosterone,” he adds, making a face.
“You’ve made your point!” Kurt says loudly, and when Blaine starts in on “congrats on being a DUDE” Kurt actually plugs his fingers into his ears, walking away quickly, humming at the top of his lungs like he can pretend Blaine’s not talking at all.
They are certifiably ridiculous.
Blaine loves it.
***
Blaine arranges to meet Wes and David for lunch on Saturday. He hadn’t realized how much he’d miss them, once the missing actually kicked in. He loves being at McKinley now, being a part of New Directions, but Dalton and the Warblers have and will always have a big piece of his heart. They agree to meet at David’s house, because he has a large backyard and a grill, and when Blaine gets there at 12:30 there are about ten cars parked outside along the street. Suspicious, he rounds the house, and comes face-to-face with fifteen guys in pressed pants and blazers.
“Guys,” he says, looking around in wonder at all of the Warblers, “what’s -”
But before he can finish his question, they burst into song: ”Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back,” they sing, in perfect harmony, and while Blaine’s staring gapingly at them, Jeff walks over and places a Dalton blazer around Blaine’s shoulders that’s two sizes too big, but it doesn’t matter. He laughs and pulls his arms through the sleeves.
After they wrap up a really awesome ‘70s theme song medley, the sixteen of them sit around chatting about school and singing and anything that comes to mind, really. They overindulge on hotdogs and sing impromptu a capella songs. Someone, from somewhere, magically produces a guitar. It’s one of the most fun informal Warblers experiences Blaine ever remembers having. Even if Wes does keep opening and closing his fist like he doesn’t know how to function without a mallet to call order.
They sit around, talking and singing and eating, until right before sundown. “Thanks, you guys,” Blaine says, finally pulling the blazer off and returning it to its rightful owner. “This was an awesome surprise.”
“Good luck at Nationals, Blaine,” Trent says, and the other guys murmur their assent.
“Rep us well,” David adds, punching him lightly in the arm with a grin.
On the drive back - straight to Puck’s house, incidentally, for what he thinks will be the complete opposite of what just went down at David’s - Blaine thinks about how glad he is to have those guys as friends. How easily they’d accepted him into their fold, flaws and all. He wouldn’t trade those experiences for the world.
***
From: Kurt 5:36 pm.
Did you have fun with the Warblers?
From: Blaine 5:38 pm.
you knew?
From: Kurt 5:39 pm.
Knew? I arranged it.
From: Blaine 5:42 pm.
sneaky sneaky, mr. hummel. you’re the best.
***
Finn opens the door to Puck’s house, but not in one of those hi-welcome-to-the-party Betty Homemaker ways. Instead, he pulls the door open, gives a little wave and says, “Oh, hey Blaine,” and then continues towards the living room like he hadn’t paused at all. He’s carrying a twelve-pack of Bud Light, which Blaine has only had once in his life and thought it tasted remarkably like cat pee, but he supposes there’s really only one kind of beer for Dude Night: cheap.
“Everyone else already here?” he asks, peeling his jacket off and glancing around for a coat hanger. He doesn’t find one, but he does see a mound of jackets hanging over an armchair in the den. Shrugging, his joins the pile.
“Pretty much. Sam and Mike and Artie are in the living room. Puck’s trying to break into his parents’ liquor cabinet, but he can’t figure out the combination.”
“Did he try 1234?” Blaine suggests, trying to be helpful, and Finn shrugs and pokes his head into the hallway and yells up, “Hey, Puck, try 1234!”
There’s a scuffle of motion, a quiet click, and then a celebratory “Hell yes!” and everyone’s looking at him like they’re suitably impressed, which is not a bad feeling. Blaine Anderson, alcohol savior of Dude Night. Except then he suddenly has a flashback of the last time he was drunk around these guys and… oh.
Oh no.
Puck tramples down the stairs with a bottle of vodka in one hand and a bottle of tequila in the other. Blaine feels a wave of nausea just looking at them. “Hey Anderson,” Puck says, “welcome to the Casa de Puckerman. What the hell are you so dressed up for?”
Blaine glances down at his clothes. He’s wearing jeans and a button-up. Not even something he’d wear on a date. Then again, Puck’s wearing basketball shorts and a wifebeater and Finn’s got baggy sweatpants. He guesses, judging by their outfits, he is a bit overdressed. “I didn’t have time to go home and change,” he says, and then gestures towards the living room, where the other guys are sprawled out in various places around the TV. “What’re we playing?”
“Call of Duty, baby. All night long. Here, take a beer.”
“Beer before liquor, never sicker,” Blaine points out, taking the offered can but not opening it yet.
Puck stops and stares at him like that was the greatest thing he’s ever heard. “Did you just come up with that?” he asks, looping an arm around Blaine’s shoulders before he has time to dispute and dragging him into the room. “That was, like, inspired. Guys, we have a beer Yoda with us. Who knew?”
Sam, Artie, and Mike glance up from their controllers and nod their heads in greeting. “Hey, Blaine,” they echo, then go right back to committing virtual manslaughter on the TV screen.
“Hop on in,” Mike says, “Sam’s getting his ass handed to him.”
“I have an unfair disadvantage,” Sam claims in defense, beating down so hard on the controller that Blaine’s mildly afraid he’s going to break it.
“What’s your unfair disadvantage?” he asks, dropping into a beanbag near the couch. He sets his beer down on the coffee table and slips out of his shoes.
Sam frowns. “That I suck.”
“We can’t all be good at everything,” Finn says, kicking Sam’s feet out of the way and sitting down with his back braced against the table.
“Or anything,” Artie adds, and they all laugh, and Sam one-handedly flips him off. It doesn’t affect his playing, really. It’s not like he could get much worse.
“Okay, boys,” Puck says, in his deep announcer voice; they all glance over their shoulders to look at him. In the lull, Puck has aligned six shot glasses on the coffee table, all filled to the brim. “Let’s get Dude Night started.”
“I thought we were sticking to beer,” Blaine says, scrunching his nose just a little.
“Don’t be a pussy, Anderson. We’re playing a drinking game. You just have to take a shot every time you die.”
They all agree; Blaine’s only played Call of Duty a handful of times before, but he figures, how hard can it be to stay alive?
Apparently, as he learns twenty minutes and three vodka shots later, it’s a lot harder than it looks. They’re all drinking pretty liberally, though. Even Finn and Puck, the self-declared experts, have a few shots under their belts. Blaine suspects Puck’s taking them even when he doesn’t die. Maybe he just likes to be drunk.
Blaine has never marathonned a video game before. He’s pretty sure his current record is somewhere around two hours; when he glances wearily at the clock sometime later that night, it’s suddenly one o’clock in the morning. It takes him a while to read it. The numbers are wiggling around, and he’s not sure if it’s because of the alcohol or because he’s been staring at a television set for the past three - four - holy crap, five hours.
“I’m drunk,” Sam moans, from somewhere to his left. “How did I get drunk?”
Mike heaves a throw pillow at his head, but he misses extraordinarily and it nearly knocks a vase off the fireplace mantle. “You got drunk because you suck,” he says, once they’re sure it’s done wobbling. “And you suck because you’re drunk.”
“Vicious cycle,” Artie comments. Somehow he’s out of his wheelchair, chilling on the ground beside the couch. Had one of them helped him down? Had he fallen? Blaine can’t remember. His head feels woozy.
Finn’s the first to throw his controller down. “I can’t do this anymore, man,” he says, covering his eyes with his hands. He’s probably the least intoxicated of them all, but his eyes are bloodshot regardless. Most likely all of theirs are. “I forfeit, whatever. I’m done.”
“Me too,” Blaine concedes, glad he’s not the first one to give up, and he tosses his controller aside.
Artie’s not even holding his controller anymore - where had it gone? - and Sam and Puck and Mike all give in with a shrug. “Anybody want to shotgun a beer?” Puck asks, but they all just groan in response.
“We should call the girls,” Artie suggests after a second, popping his head up off the carpet. “We should convince them to come over.”
“No, dude, this is Dude Night. That would totally invalidate the point,” Puck argues, but then he hesitates and adds, “Though Lauren is about two minutes away from showing me her boobs.”
“Don’t invite them,” Sam chimes in. “Santana always makes me leave the TV on when we make out. She keeps wanting to watch this show called The L Word.”
“I’d watch Barney if it meant I got to make out with Santana,” Mike says, and when they turn to look at him, he adds, “If I wasn’t with Tina, I mean.”
“It’s not like it’d be hard,” Puck says, leaning back against the couch. “Santana puts out for anyone. Brittany’s better in bed, though. She’s more - enthusiastic.”
Artie points an accusing finger at him. “Watch it.”
“Just sayin’, man.” Puck glances over at Blaine with a devilish look in his eyes. “What about Kurt? Has he put out for you yet?”
“Gross, dude, that’s my stepbrother,” Finn cuts in, and Blaine flashes him a grateful look.
“So? Step ain’t blood.”
Blaine shakes his head. No matter how drunk he is, he will never be drunk enough for this conversation. Not with these guys. “I am not answering that.”
“Whatever. I bet he’s a giant prude.” Puck burps loudly and uninhibitedly and stands up, swaying a little. He grabs the couch to steady himself but when he goes to sit back down, he lands clumsily right next to Finn, draping an arm over his shoulders. “It’s late enough, right? We should see what’s on Skinemax.”
“I don’t think all of us want to watch that, Puck,” Mike says, gesturing towards Blaine with his head.
“Why not? They have dudes on there.”
Sam snorts. “Yeah, dudes makin’ hot love to girls.”
Blaine shudders at the mental image. “I’ve seen the porn you straight guys watch. Trust me, there’s a reason I’m gay.”
There’s a pause in the conversation, and Blaine wonders vaguely if he’s crossed some sort of line, if it’s an unwritten rule at Dude Night that you don’t speak about your sexuality unless your sexuality happens to be the same as everybody else’s, but then Puck says, sounding legitimately curious, “So you watch gay porn?”
“I…” He glances around the room. “Are you really asking me that?”
“I don’t know.” Puck shrugs. “I’ve never seen it. What do dudes in porn do with each other, anyway?”
“Pretty much the same thing you’re doing with Finn right now,” Blaine says, just to be mean. “But with less clothing.”
The two of them immediately pull away from each other, leaving plenty of space in between. The other guys crack up.
Puck’s enthusiasm is not to be dampened, though. “So are you usually the dude giving, or are you the one ta-”
“Hey Finn,” Blaine says loudly, just to change the subject, “How’s Rachel?”
“Or are you back to Quinn now?” Sam adds with a smirk. “We can’t keep track…”
“Or, better yet, both at the same time,” Mike says, and his jaw goes a little slack at the possibility.
“Hey, why are you all focusing on me?” Finn grumbles, but he looks like he’s possibly considering that magical outcome, too. “What about you, Mike? Tina shortened the leash for one night I see.”
“Hey, Tina’s cool.” Mike doesn’t look ashamed about defending her; after a second, though, he shrugs loosely. “Sometimes… she starts talking about marriage, though. It kind of freaks me out. I mean, we’re in high school.”
“Ugh, chicks and marriage,” Artie says, flapping his hand in the air like he can somehow relate. “I’m glad Brittany hasn’t brought that up yet.” He pauses and rubs his chin. “Though I’m not sure she even knows what marriage is, to be honest…”
There’s a strange silence for a moment, and then Sam offers up, probably because he’s had too much too drink, “I took a laxative two days ago so I could eat pizza in the cafeteria and not feel guilty.”
“I kind of want to make out with Rachel even though I’m supposed to only want to make out with Quinn,” Finn says next.
Puck stares up at the ceiling. Apparently they’re all confessing, or something, but when he speaks, for maybe the first time ever that Blaine can remember, his voice is quiet and serious, not joking at all: “I keep having this dream of this little blonde girl looking up at me and calling me daddy.”
They’re all quiet after that. Blaine knows he’s never going to talk about this, not even to Kurt, but he feels a sort of manly bond with the guys that he’s never exactly had before, and it’s not something he’s apt to forget.
***
Blaine sneaks out of his loaned-from-Sam Spiderman sleeping bag and into the bathroom around 3 o’clock in the morning, where he crouches in the bathtub and calls Kurt. It rings once, twice, and on the third ring he picks up, and Blaine smiles warmly at the sound of his voice.
“Hi,” he says. “Puck’s house is cleaner than I thought it’d be.”
“That’s a relief,” Kurt laughs. Blaine can hear him shushing someone in the background before returning to the line. “Are you having fun?”
“I’m drunk,” Blaine says, which he figures is sufficient enough of an answer.
“Oh good. Please tell me there’s no spin the bottle this time around.”
“No spin the bottle.” Blaine looks up and studies the different kinds of shampoos they have in their bathroom. He’s pretty sure the Daisy Fuentes for Voluminous Curls isn’t Puck’s. “Besides,” he says, “the only person I want to kiss right now is you.”
“Mm, then it’s too bad you went to Dude Night, isn’t it?” His voice lowers, though, and Blaine can tell he’s smiling into the phone. “But. I want to too.”
“Kurt,” says a shrill voice from Kurt’s end that is most definitely Rachel Berry, “is that Blaine?”
“I should go,” Kurt says quickly. “And you should get to sleep. But not with any of those guys, you hear?”
“Cross my heart.” Blaine closes his eyes and tips his head backwards. “Goodnight, Kurt,” he says, and he doesn’t even remember hanging up the phone.
***
Blaine wakes up to the sound of someone peeing. It’s probably the worst wake up call he’s ever received, and when he glances upwards out the window, it’s still dark. When he glances over the side of the bathtub, there’s Sam, taking a leak.
“Hi,” Blaine says groggily, and Sam jumps.
“Holy crap,” he says, flushing and zipping up. He’s still a little drunk, Blaine thinks. Otherwise he might’ve been a little more freaked out. “Why are you in the bathtub?”
Blaine shrugs and doesn’t bother moving. “It’s comfy.”
Sam nods, like he can get behind that. “Cool,” he says, and then he turns around and heads for the door, very thoughtfully flicking off the light as he goes. “Later.”
part four.
one | two | three | four