Fic: A Nation of Two (Blaine/Kurt, R) (4/4)
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 four.
Kurt gets asked out on a date in the middle of a Banana Republic in the downtown Lima Mall on a Tuesday. This would be okay if: 1) Blaine was the one who’d asked him out on a date, but he wasn’t, or, 2) Blaine didn’t happen to be standing right next to Kurt when he was asked, but he is. The guy has bright blue eyes and a buzz cut, and he’s tall, a good half-foot taller than Blaine, even, and he’s muscular and his arms are huge and he’s actually really, really attractive. He’s probably older, too, maybe a college freshman. One of those frat guys. The kind who runs three miles every day.
The guy walks up while Kurt’s sorting through an assortment of sweater vests, and he grins easily and says, “Hey, how’s it going?” and Blaine, from across the clothes racks, thinks that maybe he works there except he’s not wearing a nametag. Kurt looks briefly startled; he pushes a shirt back on its hanger and clears his throat.
“Good. Um. How are you?”
The guy with the stupidly bright smile sticks his hands in his pockets and manages to look both confident and shy, which is something Blaine has never been able to master. “I’m good, too. I, uh, I was wondering if you’re doing anything this weekend - and you don’t have to answer right now, but here.” He tugs a piece of paper out of his pocket and presses it into Kurt’s hand. Blaine wonders irritably how long he’d been storing it in there, if it was crinkly after being shoved back in by the last non-single guy he’d tried to pick up. “Here’s my phone number. You should text me sometime and let me know when you’re free.”
Blaine waits for it - and waits for it - and waits for it - but all Kurt does is nod and slips the paper into his own pocket. “Okay,” he says, returning a warm smile, and the guy touches his shoulder briefly before turning and walking away, not even sparing a glance at Blaine. As if he were invisible.
Blaine’s lip is curled in disgust. He waits for Kurt to make some sort of excuse, to laugh and insult the guy, but he doesn’t. In fact, Kurt has the gall to say, with a slightly moony look in his eyes, “That has never happened to me before.”
“Congratulations,” Blaine says, harsher than he’d intended. “You better text him now, I’m sure he’s dying to hear from you.”
The dazed look drops from Kurt’s eyes. He rounds on Blaine, snapping back to reality. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me? Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously. You’re acting like a jealous child.”
Blaine feels like a jealous child. But it’s justified. Totally justified. And Kurt’s not really helping matters. “Well, sorry if I don’t like another guy hitting on my boyfriend right in front of me.”
The fight visibly drains out of Kurt almost immediately. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. This, in turn, makes it harder for Blaine to be mad at him. How can he be mad when Kurt looks like that? “What?” he says, defensively, still guarded.
Kurt is still smiling. “You called me your boyfriend.”
“Well… yeah.” Blaine looks at him levelly. “That’s what you are.”
“I know. I just haven’t heard you say it out loud before.”
“Really?”
The fight is draining out of Blaine, too. What a stupid thing to fight about.
“I don’t care about that guy,” Kurt says, gesturing over his shoulder like he’d already forgotten which direction he’d come from. “I mean, it’s flattering to be hit on - in public - but that’s it. I like being your boyfriend. I like you.”
Just to be sure, Blaine steps closer. “He was pretty cute, though.”
Kurt laughs. “Not as cute as you.”
Even though they’re in public, even though there are probably people watching, Blaine reaches forward and kisses him square on the lips. He loves that he’s allowed to do that now. He loves that Kurt is his.
***
They’re in the middle of a family dinner when Blaine drops the news that, by the way, he thinks he’s going to need a tux for prom. His mom looks up from her soup bowl with such excitement that he immediately regrets it, but it is kind of nice to have someone be happy for him. His dad just keeps chewing his chicken. Prom is not something he’d be inherently thrilled about.
“Our little boy going to prom,” his mom says, reaching across the table and squeezing his hand. “You’re going to have so much fun. Do you have a date?”
Blaine nods. He hasn’t had this talk with his parents yet. He’d been meaning to, really, there just hadn’t been a good opportunity. Even the coming out talk had been easier than this. (He hadn’t really needed to officially come out to them, though; the notes his teachers sent home from school pre-Dalton had done all the talking.)
“Yeah, actually,” he says, spearing a green bean on his fork. “I mean, I haven’t asked him yet, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be going with Kurt.”
There it is. The momentary flash of disappointment in his dad’s eyes, like he’d been hoping, deep down, that he’d been about to say a girl’s name. At least he disguises it fairly well. Silent, he goes back to eating like nothing had ever happened.
“Because Kurt’s my boyfriend,” he adds, and this time, both of his parents look at him.
“Since when?” his mom demands, but not in an angry way. If she’s mad, it’s probably only because he didn’t tell them sooner. She’s been surprisingly cool about everything else.
“Not long now. Just a few weeks.”
“And are you boys being safe?”
Blaine nearly chokes on his vegetables. “Mom!” he says, scrunching his forehead. Talking about sex with Burt Hummel isn’t nearly as torturous as with his own mom, but only because she’ll want the nitty gritty details. “We’re not - doing that. We’re just going to prom together. That’s all.”
She nods, but with a suspicious little smile peeking through. “We’ll start looking for a tuxedo tomorrow,” she tells him, and then, turning to her husband, “Honey, how’s the chicken?”
***
Kurt acts like he doesn’t want to go to prom. He puts on a big show of complaining about how rudimentary he thinks the whole thing is, how pointless, how inane. Blaine’s glad he knows Kurt well enough to tell that he’s bluffing. He’d be a pretty crappy boyfriend if he took his words at face value and swept prom out of his mind. Kurt wants to go to prom. And, presumably, he wants to go to prom with Blaine.
The thing is, Blaine has never been to a prom before. He’s never even really thought about it. Dalton had biannual formal dances with their sister school, but not prom - and even if they did, who would he go with? He knows nothing about boutonnières and limo costs and what color tie to wear. He doesn’t even know how to ask Kurt, because everything he thinks of seems corny and lame.
The most practical option seems to be asking him in song, but the last time he’d attempted to serenade somebody it hadn’t gone so well, and besides, he doesn’t have the Warblers at his whimsy anymore. He could ask the New Direction kids, but they all seem pretty preoccupied, what with their coming in and out of relationships and switching of dates more frequently than an entire season of Gossip Girl. So he rules out that possibility. Besides, he thinks, that’s so overdone.
He still wants some sort of grand and elegant gesture, but what happens is this: he and Kurt have the house to themselves for the afternoon and so, like any unsupervised teenage couple, they’re making out on the couch in the basement. Kurt’s flat on his back and Blaine’s straddling his hips, leaning over him, arms braced on either side of Kurt’s head. They’re kissing hungrily, passionately, all tongue and teeth. Kurt brings one hand up to Blaine’s waist and his fingers brush against warm skin. The touch is electric. Blaine groans and drops away from Kurt’s lips, buries his head in the crook of Kurt’s neck, breathing in deep the smell of him, the familiar smell, his favorite smell.
“Kurt,” Blaine says, low and needy, “go to prom with me.”
Kurt stops running his fingers along the hem of Blaine’s shirt. He instantly and ferociously regrets speaking.
“What?” Kurt says, unsure, like he’s trying not to get his hopes up. Like maybe he misheard.
But now that it’s out there, Blaine can’t very well take it back. He figures he doesn’t need a perfect moment. This is pretty perfect in and of itself. “Prom,” he says, pressing a soft kiss against Kurt’s jawline before pulling back. He shifts his weight to his knees but doesn’t bother climbing off. He’s too comfortable. “Go with me.”
“Really? But I thought we both agreed it was stupid -”
“I don’t care if it’s stupid. We’re in high school. We’re allowed to be stupid.” He pulls Kurt’s hand between his own. “Come on. Say yes. Go with me.”
Kurt’s nodding, slowly at first, trying it out, before giving in and nodding for real. “Okay,” he agrees. “Prom. We’ll go.”
“Awesome.” Blaine grins and leans in for another kiss, to pick up just where they’d left off. But Kurt plants a firm hand against his chest and pushes him away, wriggling out from underneath him, adjusting his Blaine-wrinkled clothes and clambering to his feet.
“Where are you going?” Blaine demands, half-astonished, half-insulted. He wasn’t done making out with him. They still had a lot of potential kissing to do.
“Prom’s in two weeks, Blaine,” Kurt says absentmindedly, digging around in his desk drawer for a sketchpad and a pencil. “That’s barely enough time to figure out what I’m going to wear.”
Blaine pouts at him. He’s pretty sure this is neither the first nor the last time that kissing him is going to be overshadowed by clothes. Stupid prom. “But-”
Kurt waves an impatient hand at him. “Don’t get me started, Blaine,” he says, tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration. “We haven’t even begun thinking about what you’re going to wear.”
***
Mr. Schuester takes it upon himself to post a Countdown To Nationals poster in the front of the choir room, and every day he rips off a sheet and they marvel at how quickly it’s approaching. It gets swept into Prom Frenzy a lot of the time, and Blaine thinks that having two integral events so close to each other should definitely be outlawed. But they’re all fairly decent at multitasking. Blaine, at least, is pretty sure that there’s nothing better than spending three days in New York City with Kurt, singing in front of a hundred billion people, or however many are slated to be in the audience, and then coming home and taking him to the biggest school-organized function of the year six days later. It’s hectic, sure, but it’s the best kind of hectic he could ever imagine.
When the countdown drops to 10 Days, ten days until they leave, Mr. Schue draws their attention by handing out thick packets of paper. “Okay, guys, make sure your parents sign everything,” he says. “And I just got the hotel arrangements in today. We have six rooms - come see me after practice if you want to see who you’ll be rooming with. Now, let’s start rehearsing.”
They do, and it’s one of the most fun, most upbeat, most infectious performances they’ve ever given. The whole room radiates with fun. No drama, no fighting, no yelling or screaming. They’re all doing a miraculous job at getting along. Even Santana seems nicer.
Afterwards, Kurt grabs Blaine by the hand and drags him over to Mr. Schuester. “We’d like to know who else we’re staying with, please,” Kurt says, and Mr. Schue consults the list.
“Kurt, it looks like you’re with Finn, Mike, and Artie, and Blaine, you’ll be with Puck and Sam.”
That seems fair enough to Blaine. He’s about to say so, when all of a sudden Kurt cuts in with a sharp, “Um, excuse me, but I’d prefer if Blaine and I were in a room together -”
Schue lowers his papers. “Come on, Kurt, you know I can’t do that.”
“Because we’re obviously going to perform lewd sexual acts with Puck and Finn two beds over.”
“No, it’s not about that. But it’s pretty common knowledge that the two of you are dating. Imagine how inappropriate it would look if I put you two in a hotel room together - if Principal Figgins caught word -”
“Fine,” Kurt says tersely. “Can I at least room with Rachel and Mercedes?”
Mr. Schue hesitates, but then folds. It’s pretty hard not to want to compromise with Kurt. “I think that’d be okay,” he agrees, scribbling a quick note on his paper. “Blaine, are you okay with -”
“Yeah, that works for me,” Blaine says. He likes those guys. Besides, it’s just a few hours each night. He’ll get to spend the rest of the time with Kurt.
“Great. Then I will see you guys tomorrow.”
Mr. Schue grabs his briefcase and hurries out of the room, leaving Blaine and Kurt virtually alone. Blaine raises his eyebrows, teasingly. “So would you perform lewd sexual acts with me if Finn and Puck weren’t two beds over?”
“Oh shut up,” Kurt says, but he doesn’t deny it.
***
Nationals is on a Saturday. One of the greatest thing about making it to a national competition is that they’re excused from school on Friday, and right before the bell on Thursday Figgins makes a staticy, rushed announcement of, “And good luck to our Glee Club as they head to New York this evening. We all hope you bring home the big prize,” right between tomorrow’s lunch schedule and a reminder that visible g-strings are strictly prohibited. The buses are already waiting in the parking lot when school lets out, and their overnight bags had been locked inside Schue’s office.
The eleven-hour bus ride isn’t going to be fun, but there are an abundance of soda bottles and energy drinks in a cooler up front, and when Rachel Berry suggests a harmonizing singalong within the first thirty minutes, they all shoot her down pretty quickly, so at least they don’t have that to dread. Blaine and Kurt share the seat right behind Mercedes, and they spend a good portion of the trip in quiet, comfortable conversation.
Sometime after sundown Kurt falls asleep, and his head sort of unconsciously tips sideways so he’s resting against Blaine’s shoulder. Blaine doesn’t mind. He settles down further into the plastic-covered seat, trying not to jostle him too much, and closes his own eyes, listening contently to the quiet, steady breathing in his ear.
They’re both shaken out of their sleep a few hours later by Puck making obnoxious fart noises in the seat behind them. This, Blaine thinks, is the second worst wake up call he’s ever received.
***
They don’t even make it to the hotel until just before three o’clock in the morning, and when the overhead lights flicker on and Mr. Schuester claps his hands to rouse them, slowly, one-by-one, they pop out of their seats and march off the bus like zombies. Blaine feels especially groggy; he slips his hand into Kurt’s, mostly so he can be led towards the lobby without being forced to open his eyes all the way.
The boys are on the seventh floor. The girls - and Kurt - are on the fifth. They take an elevator up together, silent save for the occasional sleepy groan or stifled yawn, and when the doors slide open at their first stop, Kurt disentangles his hand from Blaine’s and very quickly, very unthinkingly, presses a kiss against his lips.
“Night, Blaine,” he says, hoisting his bags (bags: plural; Puck and Finn had brought only a backpack each) over his shoulder and following Mercedes down the hall. Blaine smiles, considerably more awake now, and rests his back against the sleek wall of the elevator. Twenty seconds later, the doors reopen.
The rooms themselves are not all that impressive. It’s the standard hotel setup. Queen-sized beds with scratchy blankets, a Bible in the nightstand, tacky paintings on the wall. He follows Sam and Puck into room 723, and they all exchange mild glances when they realize there are three people and two beds, which means somebody’s obviously sharing.
“I call the big spoon,” Blaine announces, tossing his duffel bag off to the side, and that’s how he winds up with a mattress to himself and all the room in the world to sprawl out.
***
Friday, the majority of them don’t wake up until well past noon. The continental breakfast has been cleaned up and put away by that point so they get dressed and find a quaint (read: not dirty) diner about two blocks away. Afterwards, they’ve got a few hours to explore the city by themselves (“keep your cell phones on you at all times, hide your wallets, don’t talk to strangers,” Schue tells them, looking pointedly at Brittany for that last one) and Blaine and Kurt head off on their own.
“We could be shopping right now,” Kurt complains after the third time Blaine refuses to stop for a street vendor. “Where are you taking me, anyway?”
Blaine blocks the sun out of his eyes with one hand and looks towards the sky, the assortment of skyscrapers. “The Empire State Building,” he says, heading in that direction.
Kurt reluctantly follows along, his nose wrinkling. Kurt is not much into touristy things. “Why?”
“Because I have this crazy and impulsive desire to kiss you at the top,” Blaine tells him, and after that, Kurt stops complaining.
***
Kurt still manages to drag him into approximately two hundred and fifty seven stores by the time they have to meet back at the hotel for one final run-through rehearsal. Blaine’s head is spinning, and he’s carrying three bags of ‘souvenirs’ that definitely hadn’t been there that morning.
***
There are no less than six billion people in the audience.
In all reality, though the Hammerstein Ballroom is spacious and beautiful, there are probably only a few thousand people sitting out there. But from behind the curtain, where Blaine’s poking his head out and staring into the endless rows of seats, he can see that pretty much every spot is filled. Blaine Anderson does not get nervous before singing competitions. He doesn’t even have much of a solo this time around. But there’s something big about being the new guy at a national level competition (and, he thinks, somewhat selfishly, this will look awesome on his future college applications) and he’s heard whisper that the other teams are absolutely incredible, and Rachel Berry’s constant pacing is making everyone anxious. So it’s not exactly a day at the spa.
He’s about to pull his head back in and join the team when he sees it. Them. Him, in particular. Just about gaping, Blaine rubs at his eyes to make sure he’s not seeing things - there are, after all, a lot of bearded men in New York City - but he’s not imagining it. He’s not making it up. There, twelve rows back, already seated, chatting amicably with the other couples around them, are his parents. His dad. There. To see him.
Blaine can count on one hand the number of times his dad has come to see him perform. He’s never tried to stop him, never discouraged him from singing, but he’s always mysteriously busy the day of concerts, competitions - “it’s just not my thing,” how many times had his dad told him that? And yet there he is. In New York. For him.
He lets the curtain fall closed and turns around and there’s Kurt, two feet away, watching him with a smile. “See anyone special out there?” Kurt asks, the picture of innocence.
Blaine’s heart skips a beat.
“You,” he says, his voice smooth and steady despite the weird things his stomach is doing. “This is totally your doing.”
Kurt looks perfectly nonplussed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t do anything. All I did was convince my dad to call your dad and tell him that he and Carole were driving up for the competition and that they might’ve had extra seats in the SUV.”
There’s a pause.
“And maybe I told him to mention something about how he likes to listen to Coast to Coast AM on roadtrips,” Kurt adds. “What, our dads both enjoy the paranormal. That’s strictly coincidence.”
Blaine is shaking his head. He can’t believe this. He can’t believe him. He looks at Kurt, really looks at him, takes him all in, and even then. Sometimes it feels too good to be true. “Thank you,” he says quietly, because it’s all he has, but he means it, means it so much.
Kurt wraps his arms around Blaine’s shoulders and pulls him in for a quick, meaningful hug. He opens his mouth like maybe he’s going to say something more, but all of a sudden, Finn appears just behind them, sidestepping nervously like he’s afraid to interrupt. “Uh, guys, we’re supposed to be taking our seats now,” he offers, phrasing it more like a question than a statement. “But if you - I mean, I could -”
They laugh and let go of each other. “Come on, Finn,” Kurt says, leading both of them away from the stage. “Let’s go watch our decidedly-less-talented competition.”
None of the other teams are actually less talented, though. A few times Blaine forgets that they’re slated to go sixth, and he spends the first four-and-a-half performances enjoying himself in the audience, watching impressively choreographed song after impressively choreographed song, and there’s a team from Delaware that actually blows his mind with a medley of Bruno Mars songs, but then all of a sudden they’re being stood up and shepherded towards backstage because, oh right, they’re next.
Kurt grasps his fingers on the way up the steps. Mr. Schue is shooting out last-minute tips, and Quinn is practicing the Lamaze breathing she’d learned a year ago, and Rachel’s singing scales and getting progressively higher pitched with each run through, and Blaine’s pretty sure Tina is visibly shaking. They can do this, though. All of them. When the music starts it’ll be like they’re right back in that choir room, and he feels a familiar dull burn of energy in his arms and legs, and he gives Kurt’s hand a quick squeeze before they line up where they’re suppose to be, and with one final deep breath, the curtain goes up.
***
Third place. Third place out of ten at a National Competition, the biggest scaled show choir tournament in the United States. That is pretty freaking incredible, considering. (The kids from Delaware take the gold; Blaine doesn’t even have to force himself to applaud, because they really were that good.) When they announce the third place winners there’s a slight moment of maybe just the teensiest disappointment, but it doesn’t last long: a second later they’re shouting and hugging and hugging and shouting, and when Blaine glances over his shoulder into the audience, his dad’s on his feet, clapping, and Kurt’s face presses against the crook of his neck, and it’s one of the best feelings he has ever, ever had.
***
No one back at McKinley really cares about their achievement. There was a banner before first period that had been messily thrown together the night before, probably by a member of the PTA, that said Congratulations New Directions!!! but it’s ripped cleanly in half and mysteriously missing by the time lunch rolls around. With prom the next weekend, everyone else apparently has much more pressing matters on their minds.
***
Somehow, Saturday afternoon, Blaine finds himself standing in front of a vanity mirror right next to Mercedes Jones. She looks stunning in a midnight blue dress, and she’s hovering inches away from her reflection diligently applying a coat of mascara. Up until she’d arrived outside his house a little after noon that day, Blaine had thought getting ready for prom was a rite most men went at alone. Apparently that’s not the case. He stands behind her, looping a classic black tie around his neck.
“I’m glad you went with the three-piece tux,” Mercedes tells him, reaching for a tube of lipstick. “Poor little Kurt is going to eat his heart out.”
“That’s if he’s still alive,” Blaine counters. “I’m pretty sure everyone’s going to drop dead of jealousy when you walk in the room.”
She smiles at him with bright white teeth and goes back to fixing her makeup. “Are you excited?”
“For prom? Yeah, I am. It should be fun. I mean, it’s legitimately impossible for there to be drama on prom night. Right?”
“Never, ever, ever,” she says, brandishing an eyeliner stick at him like a weapon, “rule out the possibility of drama.”
“Good point. Hey, by the way, how’s my hair look?”
Mercedes turns around to study him seriously, as if the question were the most important thing she’d ever been asked. “Can I?” she asks, one hand extended in midair, and when he nods, she very carefully, very meticulously wraps one strand of carefully coifed hair around her finger and curls it around in front. “There,” she says happily. “Perfect.”
“Thanks,” he says, peering at his own reflection. It does look pretty good. Why do girls always seem to have a sixth sense for these kind of things? “So what’s the plan for today, anyway?”
“Well, we’re taking my dad’s SUV. We’re picking up Kurt, first, at 6:30 and then heading to Rachel’s house, because one of her dads has a professional camera and he promised he’d email pictures to all of our parents. Breadstix reservations are for 7, and we should get to prom by 8:30 at the latest.” Mercedes rattles the numbers off so quickly that it’s like she’s had them memorized for weeks. Blaine just listens and nods - who said prom had to be a hassle? As far as he was concerned, they should’ve let the girls plan everything all along. It made his job so much easier.
They spend the rest of the afternoon getting ready - Blaine has to veto an at home foot bath three times before she gives up - and finally, right on schedule, they’re ready to go. “You look amazing,” Blaine says, holding the door for Mercedes, but she clucks her tongue and shakes her head and corrects him, “We look amazing.”
He won’t argue that.
Kurt had refused to let him see what he’d decided to wear for the prom - Blaine is only thirty percent frightened that it’s going to be something fluorescent or shiny or glow-in-the-dark, but then, he figures if anyone can pull it off, it’s Kurt - so he doesn’t know what to expect when they pull into the driveway. “I’ll wait here, you go get him,” Mercedes says, shifting the car into park, and Blaine unbuckles and climbs out of the seat and heads up the steps and rings the doorbell.
Burt, unsurprisingly, opens the door. “Hey, Blaine,” he says, stepping aside to let him in. “Looking sharp.”
“Thanks, Mr. Hummel.” This all feels very stereotypical 80s teen movie, except maybe he should’ve brought flowers for Carole. Did people still buy their male date’s stepmother flowers? “Is Kurt ready?” He glances up at the staircase, waiting for the final movie trope: Kurt making his slow descent, one step at a time, all eyes on him, maybe a sudden and inexplicable wind blowing his hair back, possibly moving in slow motion.
But, instead, never one to give into clichés, Kurt enters from the living room. All eyes are on him, though.
That’s because he looks incredible.
“You look incredible,” Blaine says, when he can remember how to speak.
He does. He’s wearing an outfit that Blaine definitely hadn’t seen hanging from any of the various clothes rack at the numerous tuxedo shops he and his mom had visited: in fact, it’s either the highest designer or some sort of Kurt Hummel trademark. He’s got a jacket and a hot pink waistcoast, a bedazzled bowtie and gleaming shoes, and his hair is done perfectly and he just looks - perfect.
“So do you,” Kurt says, giving him a not-so-subtle glanceover and smiling so wide it reaches his eyes. “Here, I-” He holds out a pink flower, roughly the same color as the pink under his jacket, and he looks a little abashed. “I wasn’t sure if I should, but -”
“I love it,” Blaine says, no hesitation in his voice. He steps closer. “Pin it on for me?” and Kurt does, with slightly shaky fingers, to the lapel of his jacket.
“You both look wonderful,” Carole chimes in from the doorway, her hand over her chest. When Blaine looks at Burt, he’s halfway astonished to see the muscles in his jaw working, like he’s trying hard to bite back some display of emotion he doesn’t want to show.
It’s really, really touching, and it’s not even his dad.
“We should go,” Kurt says, joining Blaine at his side, “Mercedes in the driveway, and that girl is not afraid to honk.”
“One picture first!” Carole calls, producing a digital camera from nowhere and pointing it at them with as much vigor as a professional paparazzo. “Boys, you first,” and before Blaine even has time to slide his arm around Kurt’s waist, it flashes in their face in three quick bursts. “Okay, now one with Kurt and Burt -” and Blaine steps out of the way so Kurt’s dad can fill his role, and he looks so proud to be standing next to him, his son, that it makes Blaine’s heart hurt a little, “now all three of you-” and Burt is tugging Blaine over by the jacket and wrapping one arm around each boy, and three more flashes, and then Carole’s yelling, “Finn, Finn, get down here!” and Finn comes trampling down the steps looking pretty good for a guy who hadn’t thought to rent his tux until yesterday, and he grins and steps in for a picture with them, and then he grins a little wider when Carole asks him to crouch down because the top of his head’s not in the frame.
Mercedes actually does start honking somewhere around the second to last picture, so hugs and kisses and well-wishes are passed around the room and then the three of them head out and climb none-too-gracefully into the car.
Rachel’s house is much of the same, except Blaine’s pretty sure her dad was a professional paparazzo at one point in time. He is scarily good at his job, at making sure everyone gets at least one picture with everyone else, at group photos and date photos and guy photos and girl photos and jumping photos and smiling photos and laughing photos and - the list goes on and on. Blaine is thoroughly exhausted when the whole ordeal is over, and they haven’t even gotten to the dancing portion yet.
Dinner is nice. Sam accidentally knocks over his glass of water, but on prom night girls apparently have some sort of superpowers and Santana and Brittany both move so fast out of their seats that not a drop gets on anybody’s dress.
Prom itself, because the public board of education in Lima is seemingly full of cheapskates, is held in the William McKinley High School gym. At least they’d sprung for decorations: it’s a corny Dancing With The Stars theme (Puck had suggested One Night In Paris, and it’d been the forerunner for a long time until Figgins had done a little Internet research) and the streamers and balloons look out of place, but over all, with the lights dimmed, it doesn’t look half bad.
“You do realize,” Kurt says, when Blaine hops out of the car and offers him his arm, “that we’re going to be the first gay couple to attend prom at this school? Possibly in the entire state of Ohio.”
“I don’t care,” Blaine responds. Kurt looks at him, surprised, and he shrugs. “I’ll worry about being the posterboys for equality in the public school system later. Tonight, I just want to enjoy prom with my boyfriend.”
Kurt smiles and takes his hand and, accompanied by thirteen of their best friends, they head inside.
They’d forgone a DJ this year; Blaine knew that, but he didn’t really know the specifics. When they cross through the gym doors, he sees why.
“You’re joking,” he says, a wide grin blooming across his face, because there are fifteen boys on the makeshift stage, standing in front of four strategically placed microphones, and they’re all wearing matching ties and blazers. He can hardly hear the song they’re singing - he thinks it’s something by Ke$ha, maybe, and gloms of students have already taken over the dance floor - but he thinks how awesome it is to see them up there, off-campus, performing at an informal event.
“Kind of like your worlds are colliding, right?” Kurt whispers, bumping Blaine’s hip with his own.
“Another one of your doings?”
“I plead the fifth.”
Blaine’s eying the bowl of punch when Mercedes and Rachel approach them, each grabbing a hand. “We called first dance,” Rachel says, tugging Blaine towards the floor, and Kurt laughs and gives Mercedes a twirl before the two of them follow suit.
Dancing with Rachel is fine, even if she keeps staring at his lips every twenty seconds like she’s remembering what it felt like to kiss them. The Warblers are singing fun, upbeat songs, and they trade partners after the second, and Blaine grinds all up on Mercedes like that was what he was made to do.
Thad taps on the microphone about twenty minutes later, for their first break in music, and he clears his throat while the room falls quiet. “Hi guys,” he says, looking at surprised at the way his voice booms out over the gymnasium. “We’re the Dalton Warblers, and we’re here to make sure you have an amazing prom night.” Everyone claps, and they take polite little bows. “Now, we’re going to slow down things a bit, so grab the person that you love - or like - or want to take home to your mother, and hold them close.” He scans the dance floor until his eyes find Blaine’s, and then he grins and reaches again for the mic. “And this one goes out to Blaine Anderson,” he adds, before getting back in formation, and all at once the guys break into a softer, slower version of Teenage Dream.
Blaine locks eyes with Kurt; suddenly, the girls have vanished, and it’s just the two of them. “Our song,” Blaine says, suggestively, and Kurt’s mouth curls up into a faux grimace.
“Who says this is our song? Who ever dictated a Katy Perry song as being our song?”
“Oh, come on, Kurt, don’t kill the moment.” Blaine extends a palm, waiting. “Will you dance with me?”
Kurt’s eyes flicker over to the floor, where guys and girls - only guys and girls - are coming together, sidling close. No one bats an eyelash at them. Blaine’s pretty sure the two of them will get a head or two turning. He’s also pretty sure he doesn’t care.
Kurt takes his hand.
“I didn’t think I was ever going to get to slowdance with someone at my prom,” he admits, and his arms move to circle around Blaine’s shoulders, and Blaine wraps his own arms around Kurt’s waist.
“I’m lucky, you know,” Blaine tells him, looking into his eyes. “That I get to be the first.”
Blaine has always wanted to kiss the guy he likes in the middle of a dance floor - in his fantasies, it might not have been the McKinley gym, but he’s not too picky - and he does that, now, the chorus of Teenage Dream in his ears, Kurt’s eyes fluttering shut, and it’s sweet and chaste and completely perfect.
The song ends, as they’re apt to do, and is replaced with another uptempo one, so he regrettably releases his grip on Kurt’s waist and they break apart. “Dance circle!” Rachel yells, throwing herself between them again, and without warning they’re dragged over towards the rest of the Glee club, where Puck and Lauren are dancing dirty and Finn and Quinn are both sort of swaying awkwardly to the beat and Mike is dancing circles around them all and everyone is utterly unselfconscious, arms in the air, faces tipped back towards the twinkle lights around the room. It’s fun. It’s so much fun.
Blaine slowdances with Kurt four times and every girl in the Glee club at least once. The room starts to empty out around 10:30, with the promise of afterparties high and unhidden, and they’re practically the last ones there by eleven. The Warblers left around ten, replaced by Figgins and his iTunes library, and when the music stops altogether it’s time to leave. They’re still one big group, talking and laughing as they leave the gym, all of them, none of them really paying attention -
- which is why they’re surprised to see eight members of the football team in the parking lot, waiting around, Styrofoam cups held high.
They all seem to sense it before it actually happens; the girls shriek, and the guys try to duck but it’s no use: sixteen bright red Slushies are flying their way, and flying fast. They get drenched, all of them, their suits and dresses ruined, their faces, their carefully styled hair. Blaine’s muscles clench with the dreaded expectation, and it’s just as icy sharp, just as painful as the first time.
“Just cause you went to New York doesn’t many you’re worth anything, losers,” one of the football players says, tossing his empty cups aside.
“Yeah,” another chimes in, a guy with big arms and not much else going for him, “you’ll never be popular here.”
“Later, Gleetards,” the first laughs, and he turns and walks away calmly, the rest of the team following suit.
Puck and Finn immediately start after them. The girls have to grab them by the jacket to hold them back, but they’re struggling and yelling obscenities at their backs, and Puck keeps shouting, “I’m going to kick your ASS, I swear to GOD,” which looks pretty ridiculous coming from a guy with red Slushie dripping from his mohawk.
“This sucks,” Sam says when the football players have disappeared, shaking ice off of his suit coat. “My mom’s going to kill me.”
“I loved this dress,” Brittany says sadly. “I got a matching one for my Barbie doll.”
“Anyone have a giant washing machine?” Lauren asks.
None of them laugh, because it doesn’t seem very funny. Blaine can hardly feel his neck.
“Wait,” Puck says, all of a sudden, rounding on them all. “Wait, hold up. Everyone follow me.”
They don’t have a whole lot of options - no one wants to climb into their cars the way they are, and it’s not like they’re going to show up at a party looking like the victims of a recent mass murder. So Puck takes off towards the back of the school and they all follow, curiously, as he leads them through a gate and over a hedge and into an undeveloped neighborhood, where there are only a few houses dotting the street. “Puck,” Artie says, wheeling forward on the bumpy ground, “where are you taking us?”
“You’ll see.”
“Is this illegal?” Kurt asks. “I do not want to besmirch the memory of my prom night any more than the artificial flavoring of a gas station dessert has already done.”
“Just come on,” Puck says, and then they round a house with all of the lights turned off and he stops them with one hand and says, “Here.”
They’re in front of a fairly average inground pool. There’s nothing spectacular about it, aside from the fact that the water’s clean and the pool is uncovered, and no one seems to be around.
“Where, exactly, have you taken us?” Quinn asks, looking at him with the utmost annoyance.
Puck grins like he’s done something brilliant. “Lauren asked for a giant washing machine. This is pretty much the next best thing.”
Fifteen people respond back with no at the exact same time.
“No. Absolutely not,” Quinn says. “First off, it’s May, and second, we have no idea whose pool that is.”
“Don’t worry, babe, I clean this pool for the people who live here. They’re in Florida for a month. No one’ll ever know.”
“No,” Santana says.
“No,” Tina says.
“Hell to the no,” Mercedes says.
Blaine shrugs and steps forward. “I’m in.”
They all turn to look at him in surprise. Kurt, especially, looks concerned for his mental health. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Yeah, why not? The Slushie has to come off somehow.”
“I’m in too,” Sam agrees.
“Does anyone have any floaties?” Brittany asks, looking around with concern.
It takes a little coaxing for the more stubborn members of the group, but for whatever Godforsaken reason, they eventually all agree. Like it’s some sort of bonding experience. Like that some sort of magic will occur when their feet touch the water. “On three,” Puck says, the toes of his shoes balanced right on the edge of the pool. “And if you don’t jump you get pushed in, so you might as well jump.”
“I assume I get a special pass?” Artie says, looking a little terrified at the possibility, and the guys laugh and agree to carry him in the shallow end provided none of their balls shrivel up and fall off before they get the chance.
“One…”
Blaine looks to his left and right, Mercedes on one side, Kurt on the other. They grin and slip their hands into his.
“Two…”
Lauren kicks her high heels to the side and crouches her knees, like she’s getting into position.
“Three!”
- they all shout together and then, screaming foolishly, like the crazy high school students they are, they crash into the pool, all of them, like one body, and the water is freezing but not nearly as cold as the Slushies, and they surface one-by-one and laugh and splash around and Puck dunks Finn’s head under the water and for some bizarre reason they stay in for nearly twenty minutes, goofing off, until Rachel’s teeth start chattering so hard that they can’t understand her, and when they climb out, they look like drowned rats, their prom outfits drenched and clinging to their bodies, makeup running down the girls’ faces, and they look terrible, but somehow, that doesn’t matter.
They’re happy.
Their happiness matters.
They walk back to the high school in companionable silence, dripping water as they go.
“This,” Kurt whispers, sliding a wet arm around Blaine’s wet body, “was the best prom ever.”
***
Blaine’s parents aren’t home.
They’re visiting his paternal grandparents for the weekend, and even though his mom had been upset that she was missing one of the most important days of her son’s life, he’d assured her that it didn’t really matter because he’d probably stay at Sam’s house or Mike’s house afterwards, one of those guys from school, and she seems so thrilled with the fact that he has actual male friends that like him that she eventually folds and gives in.
“Kurt,” Blaine says, once they’re back in the parking lot, and everyone’s saying goodbye, getting in their respective cars. “Do you want to spend the night at my house?”
He knows there could’ve been a lot of implications about that sentence, what with it being prom night, the night with the most expectations - but the greatest thing about his relationship with Kurt is that they don’t have to rely on expectations. They are what they are without the hidden meanings, the code words, the needing to decipher.
“Um.” Kurt licks his lips and looks at Blaine. “Yeah. That’d be nice.” He turns his head over his shoulder. “Finn, cover with me for Dad?”
“Sure, but you owe me,” Finn says, but when Kurt shoots him a dubious expression, he shrugs. “Okay, fine, fine. I’ve got your back.”
Mercedes drops them off at Blaine’s house with a knowing smile, and she wiggles her fingers at them before calling out, “Bye, boys, have fun!”
Blaine’s palms are sweating for no particularly good reason. He and Kurt have spent the night together before - but, he realizes, not since they’ve begun dating. That makes it feel a little more heavy, a little more real. He pulls his keys out of his back pocket. It turns in the lock, and he feels like the click is magnified by ten. “Kurt,” Blaine says, swinging the door open and stepping through into the darkened hallway, “I just wanted to tell you that tonight was one of the best -”
He’s cut off, surprisingly, by Kurt’s lips.
Kurt closes the door and pushes Blaine up against it, letting out a breathy little gasp that lets Blaine know he’s not the only one surprised by the action. Kurt kisses him hard and messy, his hands curling around Blaine’s neck, his lips warm and slick against his own, and Blaine can taste cherry and the faintest hint of chlorine, and he groans and pulls Kurt closer.
“I,” Kurt says, pressing a kiss along his jaw with every word, “have - been - wanting - to - do - this - all - night.”
“No better time than now,” Blaine agrees, tipping his head backwards against the door when he feels Kurt’s teeth against his neck, light at first, and then with more pressure, and Kurt bites and sucks lightly at the skin, moving forward in a direction they’ve never taken before. This is Blaine’s new favorite direction. He wants to travel in this direction forever.
Blaine’s fingers curl into Kurt’s jacket, still damp, and he takes in a shaky breath through his nose when Kurt kisses him again, just as hard. “We should - we should get out of the doorway,” he whispers, because this is not the most romantic spot in the house, not even in the top ten, and Kurt nods and pulls away but just a little, allowing him to lead him towards his bedroom upstairs.
Blaine’s hands are sweaty again, this time with anticipation. With want.
The thing is, though, they’re still trailing water behind them, and Blaine makes a last minute decision and veers to the left at the top of the stairs instead of the right, into the guest bathroom, shutting the door behind them. Kurt looks at him inquisitively but not unwillingly, and Blaine, pausing to kiss him again, more soft and sure, slowly and carefully reaches up and pushes the sleeves of his jacket up and away from his shoulders.
Kurt watches him for a second before helping out, tugging at the material, letting it drop to a wet pile on the floor, and then he mirrors the image with Blaine’s jacket. “Can I -?” Blaine asks, gesturing towards his waistcoat, and Kurt nods, just barely, and Blaine’s fingers move to the buttons. They lock eyes while he does this, one at a time, taking it slowly because the last thing he wants to do is overwhelm him. He wants this, sure, but not if Kurt doesn’t.
The look in Kurt’s eyes says that it’s not unrequited.
Too much clothing, Blaine thinks, kind of desperately, because once that’s gone he’s still got a long sleeve shirt underneath, but Kurt, once again, surprises him. He knocks Blaine’s fingers out of the way and undoes the buttons himself, more deftly this time, more expertly, until finally his shirt’s hanging open and all Blaine can see is a long expanse of smooth, pale skin. He pulls him in for another kiss, one hand pressing against his chest experimentally, right along his ribcage, and Kurt hums his approval into his mouth.
Blaine doesn’t remember turning the shower on, except that he’s sticky with sweat and chlorine and faint traces of Slushie, and Kurt doesn’t complain, and suddenly they’re both fumbling for their clothes so quickly that Blaine nearly trips trying to get out of his pants. He can’t stop staring at Kurt. His legs are long and lean, and his shoulders broad, and he wants to kiss him, so badly, every part of him - he’s backing into the too-hot stream in the shower before he’s even completely naked, his boxers still clinging to his hips, his back pressed flat against the cool tile, but it doesn’t matter, because a second later Kurt’s joining him, pushing aside the shower curtain and kissing him fiercely.
“Kurt,” Blaine says, and his hands are running slowly and thoroughly down Kurt’s sides, thumbing over soft skin and muscles, fingernails dragging lightly across his hipbones, “can I touch you?”
“Yes,” Kurt answers, nearly moans, and Blaine doesn’t waste any time, reaches down and touches the soft skin of Kurt’s inner thigh, first, and then upwards, curls his fingers around him, gives him a few gentle, easy strokes to make sure this is still okay, and Kurt groans again quietly and rests his forehead against Blaine’s shoulder heavily, like he can’t hold it up himself.
It’s wet and cramped but so good like this, and Blaine quickens his pace when he can feel Kurt’s hips jerking forward against him, and it’s his first time, both of their first times, but it still feels so natural, having Kurt here, up against him like this.
Afterwards, after Kurt’s finished and their kissing is more languid, slow, even though Blaine’s achingly hard, he edges the water pressure down to a dull trickle, and Kurt laughs quietly against Blaine’s skin and says, “Was this premeditated? Did you have this planned all along?”
“No,” Blaine says, honestly, carding his fingers softly through Kurt’s hair in the back. “I’m just lucky.”
“I’m fairly positive I’m the lucky one here,” Kurt says, and he disentangles himself from Blaine’s arms, and then suddenly, out of nowhere, he’s lowering himself to his knees.
“Kurt,” Blaine breathes, watching him, “you don’t - you don’t have to -”
“I know,” Kurt replies, smiling easily, finally dragging his soaked boxers torturously slow down his hips. “But I want to.”
***
Blaine wakes up in the morning, naked from the waist up, tangled in the sheets, and Kurt’s warm arm thrown haphazardly around his chest. Even though the sun is peeking in through the parted blinds, bathing everything in warm light, Blaine smiles and buries down deeper into the blankets, breathing in the smell of Kurt. He immediately falls back asleep.
The second time he wakes up it’s to Kurt kissing him, just once, soft on the lips. “Mm,” he says, his voice rough with sleep, “good morning.”
“Good morning,” Kurt returns, briefly pressing his nose into Blaine’s cheek. “I have to go.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do. I promised my dad I’d be home in time for brunch.”
“Brunch isn’t an exact time, you know,” Blaine says, half-whiningly. “You can eat a meal at four in the afternoon and still technically call it brunch.”
“I have to go,” Kurt repeats, “but call me later?”
Blaine makes a big deal out of sighing and propping himself up on his elbows, but he can’t stop from smiling, so his act falls pretty flat. “I will,” he promises. “I definitely, definitely will.”
***
His parents aren’t due back for a good five hours, so Blaine makes a quick sandwich in the kitchen and then settles down in front of his computer. When he signs onto Facebook, he’s got a handful of notifications, but the most recent one catches his eye:
Relationship request - Kurt Hummel.
Biting back a smile, Blaine shakes his head and clicks confirm.
fin.
+ title taken from if you want by quiet company.
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 four.
Kurt gets asked out on a date in the middle of a Banana Republic in the downtown Lima Mall on a Tuesday. This would be okay if: 1) Blaine was the one who’d asked him out on a date, but he wasn’t, or, 2) Blaine didn’t happen to be standing right next to Kurt when he was asked, but he is. The guy has bright blue eyes and a buzz cut, and he’s tall, a good half-foot taller than Blaine, even, and he’s muscular and his arms are huge and he’s actually really, really attractive. He’s probably older, too, maybe a college freshman. One of those frat guys. The kind who runs three miles every day.
The guy walks up while Kurt’s sorting through an assortment of sweater vests, and he grins easily and says, “Hey, how’s it going?” and Blaine, from across the clothes racks, thinks that maybe he works there except he’s not wearing a nametag. Kurt looks briefly startled; he pushes a shirt back on its hanger and clears his throat.
“Good. Um. How are you?”
The guy with the stupidly bright smile sticks his hands in his pockets and manages to look both confident and shy, which is something Blaine has never been able to master. “I’m good, too. I, uh, I was wondering if you’re doing anything this weekend - and you don’t have to answer right now, but here.” He tugs a piece of paper out of his pocket and presses it into Kurt’s hand. Blaine wonders irritably how long he’d been storing it in there, if it was crinkly after being shoved back in by the last non-single guy he’d tried to pick up. “Here’s my phone number. You should text me sometime and let me know when you’re free.”
Blaine waits for it - and waits for it - and waits for it - but all Kurt does is nod and slips the paper into his own pocket. “Okay,” he says, returning a warm smile, and the guy touches his shoulder briefly before turning and walking away, not even sparing a glance at Blaine. As if he were invisible.
Blaine’s lip is curled in disgust. He waits for Kurt to make some sort of excuse, to laugh and insult the guy, but he doesn’t. In fact, Kurt has the gall to say, with a slightly moony look in his eyes, “That has never happened to me before.”
“Congratulations,” Blaine says, harsher than he’d intended. “You better text him now, I’m sure he’s dying to hear from you.”
The dazed look drops from Kurt’s eyes. He rounds on Blaine, snapping back to reality. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me? Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously. You’re acting like a jealous child.”
Blaine feels like a jealous child. But it’s justified. Totally justified. And Kurt’s not really helping matters. “Well, sorry if I don’t like another guy hitting on my boyfriend right in front of me.”
The fight visibly drains out of Kurt almost immediately. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. This, in turn, makes it harder for Blaine to be mad at him. How can he be mad when Kurt looks like that? “What?” he says, defensively, still guarded.
Kurt is still smiling. “You called me your boyfriend.”
“Well… yeah.” Blaine looks at him levelly. “That’s what you are.”
“I know. I just haven’t heard you say it out loud before.”
“Really?”
The fight is draining out of Blaine, too. What a stupid thing to fight about.
“I don’t care about that guy,” Kurt says, gesturing over his shoulder like he’d already forgotten which direction he’d come from. “I mean, it’s flattering to be hit on - in public - but that’s it. I like being your boyfriend. I like you.”
Just to be sure, Blaine steps closer. “He was pretty cute, though.”
Kurt laughs. “Not as cute as you.”
Even though they’re in public, even though there are probably people watching, Blaine reaches forward and kisses him square on the lips. He loves that he’s allowed to do that now. He loves that Kurt is his.
***
They’re in the middle of a family dinner when Blaine drops the news that, by the way, he thinks he’s going to need a tux for prom. His mom looks up from her soup bowl with such excitement that he immediately regrets it, but it is kind of nice to have someone be happy for him. His dad just keeps chewing his chicken. Prom is not something he’d be inherently thrilled about.
“Our little boy going to prom,” his mom says, reaching across the table and squeezing his hand. “You’re going to have so much fun. Do you have a date?”
Blaine nods. He hasn’t had this talk with his parents yet. He’d been meaning to, really, there just hadn’t been a good opportunity. Even the coming out talk had been easier than this. (He hadn’t really needed to officially come out to them, though; the notes his teachers sent home from school pre-Dalton had done all the talking.)
“Yeah, actually,” he says, spearing a green bean on his fork. “I mean, I haven’t asked him yet, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be going with Kurt.”
There it is. The momentary flash of disappointment in his dad’s eyes, like he’d been hoping, deep down, that he’d been about to say a girl’s name. At least he disguises it fairly well. Silent, he goes back to eating like nothing had ever happened.
“Because Kurt’s my boyfriend,” he adds, and this time, both of his parents look at him.
“Since when?” his mom demands, but not in an angry way. If she’s mad, it’s probably only because he didn’t tell them sooner. She’s been surprisingly cool about everything else.
“Not long now. Just a few weeks.”
“And are you boys being safe?”
Blaine nearly chokes on his vegetables. “Mom!” he says, scrunching his forehead. Talking about sex with Burt Hummel isn’t nearly as torturous as with his own mom, but only because she’ll want the nitty gritty details. “We’re not - doing that. We’re just going to prom together. That’s all.”
She nods, but with a suspicious little smile peeking through. “We’ll start looking for a tuxedo tomorrow,” she tells him, and then, turning to her husband, “Honey, how’s the chicken?”
***
Kurt acts like he doesn’t want to go to prom. He puts on a big show of complaining about how rudimentary he thinks the whole thing is, how pointless, how inane. Blaine’s glad he knows Kurt well enough to tell that he’s bluffing. He’d be a pretty crappy boyfriend if he took his words at face value and swept prom out of his mind. Kurt wants to go to prom. And, presumably, he wants to go to prom with Blaine.
The thing is, Blaine has never been to a prom before. He’s never even really thought about it. Dalton had biannual formal dances with their sister school, but not prom - and even if they did, who would he go with? He knows nothing about boutonnières and limo costs and what color tie to wear. He doesn’t even know how to ask Kurt, because everything he thinks of seems corny and lame.
The most practical option seems to be asking him in song, but the last time he’d attempted to serenade somebody it hadn’t gone so well, and besides, he doesn’t have the Warblers at his whimsy anymore. He could ask the New Direction kids, but they all seem pretty preoccupied, what with their coming in and out of relationships and switching of dates more frequently than an entire season of Gossip Girl. So he rules out that possibility. Besides, he thinks, that’s so overdone.
He still wants some sort of grand and elegant gesture, but what happens is this: he and Kurt have the house to themselves for the afternoon and so, like any unsupervised teenage couple, they’re making out on the couch in the basement. Kurt’s flat on his back and Blaine’s straddling his hips, leaning over him, arms braced on either side of Kurt’s head. They’re kissing hungrily, passionately, all tongue and teeth. Kurt brings one hand up to Blaine’s waist and his fingers brush against warm skin. The touch is electric. Blaine groans and drops away from Kurt’s lips, buries his head in the crook of Kurt’s neck, breathing in deep the smell of him, the familiar smell, his favorite smell.
“Kurt,” Blaine says, low and needy, “go to prom with me.”
Kurt stops running his fingers along the hem of Blaine’s shirt. He instantly and ferociously regrets speaking.
“What?” Kurt says, unsure, like he’s trying not to get his hopes up. Like maybe he misheard.
But now that it’s out there, Blaine can’t very well take it back. He figures he doesn’t need a perfect moment. This is pretty perfect in and of itself. “Prom,” he says, pressing a soft kiss against Kurt’s jawline before pulling back. He shifts his weight to his knees but doesn’t bother climbing off. He’s too comfortable. “Go with me.”
“Really? But I thought we both agreed it was stupid -”
“I don’t care if it’s stupid. We’re in high school. We’re allowed to be stupid.” He pulls Kurt’s hand between his own. “Come on. Say yes. Go with me.”
Kurt’s nodding, slowly at first, trying it out, before giving in and nodding for real. “Okay,” he agrees. “Prom. We’ll go.”
“Awesome.” Blaine grins and leans in for another kiss, to pick up just where they’d left off. But Kurt plants a firm hand against his chest and pushes him away, wriggling out from underneath him, adjusting his Blaine-wrinkled clothes and clambering to his feet.
“Where are you going?” Blaine demands, half-astonished, half-insulted. He wasn’t done making out with him. They still had a lot of potential kissing to do.
“Prom’s in two weeks, Blaine,” Kurt says absentmindedly, digging around in his desk drawer for a sketchpad and a pencil. “That’s barely enough time to figure out what I’m going to wear.”
Blaine pouts at him. He’s pretty sure this is neither the first nor the last time that kissing him is going to be overshadowed by clothes. Stupid prom. “But-”
Kurt waves an impatient hand at him. “Don’t get me started, Blaine,” he says, tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration. “We haven’t even begun thinking about what you’re going to wear.”
***
Mr. Schuester takes it upon himself to post a Countdown To Nationals poster in the front of the choir room, and every day he rips off a sheet and they marvel at how quickly it’s approaching. It gets swept into Prom Frenzy a lot of the time, and Blaine thinks that having two integral events so close to each other should definitely be outlawed. But they’re all fairly decent at multitasking. Blaine, at least, is pretty sure that there’s nothing better than spending three days in New York City with Kurt, singing in front of a hundred billion people, or however many are slated to be in the audience, and then coming home and taking him to the biggest school-organized function of the year six days later. It’s hectic, sure, but it’s the best kind of hectic he could ever imagine.
When the countdown drops to 10 Days, ten days until they leave, Mr. Schue draws their attention by handing out thick packets of paper. “Okay, guys, make sure your parents sign everything,” he says. “And I just got the hotel arrangements in today. We have six rooms - come see me after practice if you want to see who you’ll be rooming with. Now, let’s start rehearsing.”
They do, and it’s one of the most fun, most upbeat, most infectious performances they’ve ever given. The whole room radiates with fun. No drama, no fighting, no yelling or screaming. They’re all doing a miraculous job at getting along. Even Santana seems nicer.
Afterwards, Kurt grabs Blaine by the hand and drags him over to Mr. Schuester. “We’d like to know who else we’re staying with, please,” Kurt says, and Mr. Schue consults the list.
“Kurt, it looks like you’re with Finn, Mike, and Artie, and Blaine, you’ll be with Puck and Sam.”
That seems fair enough to Blaine. He’s about to say so, when all of a sudden Kurt cuts in with a sharp, “Um, excuse me, but I’d prefer if Blaine and I were in a room together -”
Schue lowers his papers. “Come on, Kurt, you know I can’t do that.”
“Because we’re obviously going to perform lewd sexual acts with Puck and Finn two beds over.”
“No, it’s not about that. But it’s pretty common knowledge that the two of you are dating. Imagine how inappropriate it would look if I put you two in a hotel room together - if Principal Figgins caught word -”
“Fine,” Kurt says tersely. “Can I at least room with Rachel and Mercedes?”
Mr. Schue hesitates, but then folds. It’s pretty hard not to want to compromise with Kurt. “I think that’d be okay,” he agrees, scribbling a quick note on his paper. “Blaine, are you okay with -”
“Yeah, that works for me,” Blaine says. He likes those guys. Besides, it’s just a few hours each night. He’ll get to spend the rest of the time with Kurt.
“Great. Then I will see you guys tomorrow.”
Mr. Schue grabs his briefcase and hurries out of the room, leaving Blaine and Kurt virtually alone. Blaine raises his eyebrows, teasingly. “So would you perform lewd sexual acts with me if Finn and Puck weren’t two beds over?”
“Oh shut up,” Kurt says, but he doesn’t deny it.
***
Nationals is on a Saturday. One of the greatest thing about making it to a national competition is that they’re excused from school on Friday, and right before the bell on Thursday Figgins makes a staticy, rushed announcement of, “And good luck to our Glee Club as they head to New York this evening. We all hope you bring home the big prize,” right between tomorrow’s lunch schedule and a reminder that visible g-strings are strictly prohibited. The buses are already waiting in the parking lot when school lets out, and their overnight bags had been locked inside Schue’s office.
The eleven-hour bus ride isn’t going to be fun, but there are an abundance of soda bottles and energy drinks in a cooler up front, and when Rachel Berry suggests a harmonizing singalong within the first thirty minutes, they all shoot her down pretty quickly, so at least they don’t have that to dread. Blaine and Kurt share the seat right behind Mercedes, and they spend a good portion of the trip in quiet, comfortable conversation.
Sometime after sundown Kurt falls asleep, and his head sort of unconsciously tips sideways so he’s resting against Blaine’s shoulder. Blaine doesn’t mind. He settles down further into the plastic-covered seat, trying not to jostle him too much, and closes his own eyes, listening contently to the quiet, steady breathing in his ear.
They’re both shaken out of their sleep a few hours later by Puck making obnoxious fart noises in the seat behind them. This, Blaine thinks, is the second worst wake up call he’s ever received.
***
They don’t even make it to the hotel until just before three o’clock in the morning, and when the overhead lights flicker on and Mr. Schuester claps his hands to rouse them, slowly, one-by-one, they pop out of their seats and march off the bus like zombies. Blaine feels especially groggy; he slips his hand into Kurt’s, mostly so he can be led towards the lobby without being forced to open his eyes all the way.
The boys are on the seventh floor. The girls - and Kurt - are on the fifth. They take an elevator up together, silent save for the occasional sleepy groan or stifled yawn, and when the doors slide open at their first stop, Kurt disentangles his hand from Blaine’s and very quickly, very unthinkingly, presses a kiss against his lips.
“Night, Blaine,” he says, hoisting his bags (bags: plural; Puck and Finn had brought only a backpack each) over his shoulder and following Mercedes down the hall. Blaine smiles, considerably more awake now, and rests his back against the sleek wall of the elevator. Twenty seconds later, the doors reopen.
The rooms themselves are not all that impressive. It’s the standard hotel setup. Queen-sized beds with scratchy blankets, a Bible in the nightstand, tacky paintings on the wall. He follows Sam and Puck into room 723, and they all exchange mild glances when they realize there are three people and two beds, which means somebody’s obviously sharing.
“I call the big spoon,” Blaine announces, tossing his duffel bag off to the side, and that’s how he winds up with a mattress to himself and all the room in the world to sprawl out.
***
Friday, the majority of them don’t wake up until well past noon. The continental breakfast has been cleaned up and put away by that point so they get dressed and find a quaint (read: not dirty) diner about two blocks away. Afterwards, they’ve got a few hours to explore the city by themselves (“keep your cell phones on you at all times, hide your wallets, don’t talk to strangers,” Schue tells them, looking pointedly at Brittany for that last one) and Blaine and Kurt head off on their own.
“We could be shopping right now,” Kurt complains after the third time Blaine refuses to stop for a street vendor. “Where are you taking me, anyway?”
Blaine blocks the sun out of his eyes with one hand and looks towards the sky, the assortment of skyscrapers. “The Empire State Building,” he says, heading in that direction.
Kurt reluctantly follows along, his nose wrinkling. Kurt is not much into touristy things. “Why?”
“Because I have this crazy and impulsive desire to kiss you at the top,” Blaine tells him, and after that, Kurt stops complaining.
***
Kurt still manages to drag him into approximately two hundred and fifty seven stores by the time they have to meet back at the hotel for one final run-through rehearsal. Blaine’s head is spinning, and he’s carrying three bags of ‘souvenirs’ that definitely hadn’t been there that morning.
***
There are no less than six billion people in the audience.
In all reality, though the Hammerstein Ballroom is spacious and beautiful, there are probably only a few thousand people sitting out there. But from behind the curtain, where Blaine’s poking his head out and staring into the endless rows of seats, he can see that pretty much every spot is filled. Blaine Anderson does not get nervous before singing competitions. He doesn’t even have much of a solo this time around. But there’s something big about being the new guy at a national level competition (and, he thinks, somewhat selfishly, this will look awesome on his future college applications) and he’s heard whisper that the other teams are absolutely incredible, and Rachel Berry’s constant pacing is making everyone anxious. So it’s not exactly a day at the spa.
He’s about to pull his head back in and join the team when he sees it. Them. Him, in particular. Just about gaping, Blaine rubs at his eyes to make sure he’s not seeing things - there are, after all, a lot of bearded men in New York City - but he’s not imagining it. He’s not making it up. There, twelve rows back, already seated, chatting amicably with the other couples around them, are his parents. His dad. There. To see him.
Blaine can count on one hand the number of times his dad has come to see him perform. He’s never tried to stop him, never discouraged him from singing, but he’s always mysteriously busy the day of concerts, competitions - “it’s just not my thing,” how many times had his dad told him that? And yet there he is. In New York. For him.
He lets the curtain fall closed and turns around and there’s Kurt, two feet away, watching him with a smile. “See anyone special out there?” Kurt asks, the picture of innocence.
Blaine’s heart skips a beat.
“You,” he says, his voice smooth and steady despite the weird things his stomach is doing. “This is totally your doing.”
Kurt looks perfectly nonplussed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t do anything. All I did was convince my dad to call your dad and tell him that he and Carole were driving up for the competition and that they might’ve had extra seats in the SUV.”
There’s a pause.
“And maybe I told him to mention something about how he likes to listen to Coast to Coast AM on roadtrips,” Kurt adds. “What, our dads both enjoy the paranormal. That’s strictly coincidence.”
Blaine is shaking his head. He can’t believe this. He can’t believe him. He looks at Kurt, really looks at him, takes him all in, and even then. Sometimes it feels too good to be true. “Thank you,” he says quietly, because it’s all he has, but he means it, means it so much.
Kurt wraps his arms around Blaine’s shoulders and pulls him in for a quick, meaningful hug. He opens his mouth like maybe he’s going to say something more, but all of a sudden, Finn appears just behind them, sidestepping nervously like he’s afraid to interrupt. “Uh, guys, we’re supposed to be taking our seats now,” he offers, phrasing it more like a question than a statement. “But if you - I mean, I could -”
They laugh and let go of each other. “Come on, Finn,” Kurt says, leading both of them away from the stage. “Let’s go watch our decidedly-less-talented competition.”
None of the other teams are actually less talented, though. A few times Blaine forgets that they’re slated to go sixth, and he spends the first four-and-a-half performances enjoying himself in the audience, watching impressively choreographed song after impressively choreographed song, and there’s a team from Delaware that actually blows his mind with a medley of Bruno Mars songs, but then all of a sudden they’re being stood up and shepherded towards backstage because, oh right, they’re next.
Kurt grasps his fingers on the way up the steps. Mr. Schue is shooting out last-minute tips, and Quinn is practicing the Lamaze breathing she’d learned a year ago, and Rachel’s singing scales and getting progressively higher pitched with each run through, and Blaine’s pretty sure Tina is visibly shaking. They can do this, though. All of them. When the music starts it’ll be like they’re right back in that choir room, and he feels a familiar dull burn of energy in his arms and legs, and he gives Kurt’s hand a quick squeeze before they line up where they’re suppose to be, and with one final deep breath, the curtain goes up.
***
Third place. Third place out of ten at a National Competition, the biggest scaled show choir tournament in the United States. That is pretty freaking incredible, considering. (The kids from Delaware take the gold; Blaine doesn’t even have to force himself to applaud, because they really were that good.) When they announce the third place winners there’s a slight moment of maybe just the teensiest disappointment, but it doesn’t last long: a second later they’re shouting and hugging and hugging and shouting, and when Blaine glances over his shoulder into the audience, his dad’s on his feet, clapping, and Kurt’s face presses against the crook of his neck, and it’s one of the best feelings he has ever, ever had.
***
No one back at McKinley really cares about their achievement. There was a banner before first period that had been messily thrown together the night before, probably by a member of the PTA, that said Congratulations New Directions!!! but it’s ripped cleanly in half and mysteriously missing by the time lunch rolls around. With prom the next weekend, everyone else apparently has much more pressing matters on their minds.
***
Somehow, Saturday afternoon, Blaine finds himself standing in front of a vanity mirror right next to Mercedes Jones. She looks stunning in a midnight blue dress, and she’s hovering inches away from her reflection diligently applying a coat of mascara. Up until she’d arrived outside his house a little after noon that day, Blaine had thought getting ready for prom was a rite most men went at alone. Apparently that’s not the case. He stands behind her, looping a classic black tie around his neck.
“I’m glad you went with the three-piece tux,” Mercedes tells him, reaching for a tube of lipstick. “Poor little Kurt is going to eat his heart out.”
“That’s if he’s still alive,” Blaine counters. “I’m pretty sure everyone’s going to drop dead of jealousy when you walk in the room.”
She smiles at him with bright white teeth and goes back to fixing her makeup. “Are you excited?”
“For prom? Yeah, I am. It should be fun. I mean, it’s legitimately impossible for there to be drama on prom night. Right?”
“Never, ever, ever,” she says, brandishing an eyeliner stick at him like a weapon, “rule out the possibility of drama.”
“Good point. Hey, by the way, how’s my hair look?”
Mercedes turns around to study him seriously, as if the question were the most important thing she’d ever been asked. “Can I?” she asks, one hand extended in midair, and when he nods, she very carefully, very meticulously wraps one strand of carefully coifed hair around her finger and curls it around in front. “There,” she says happily. “Perfect.”
“Thanks,” he says, peering at his own reflection. It does look pretty good. Why do girls always seem to have a sixth sense for these kind of things? “So what’s the plan for today, anyway?”
“Well, we’re taking my dad’s SUV. We’re picking up Kurt, first, at 6:30 and then heading to Rachel’s house, because one of her dads has a professional camera and he promised he’d email pictures to all of our parents. Breadstix reservations are for 7, and we should get to prom by 8:30 at the latest.” Mercedes rattles the numbers off so quickly that it’s like she’s had them memorized for weeks. Blaine just listens and nods - who said prom had to be a hassle? As far as he was concerned, they should’ve let the girls plan everything all along. It made his job so much easier.
They spend the rest of the afternoon getting ready - Blaine has to veto an at home foot bath three times before she gives up - and finally, right on schedule, they’re ready to go. “You look amazing,” Blaine says, holding the door for Mercedes, but she clucks her tongue and shakes her head and corrects him, “We look amazing.”
He won’t argue that.
Kurt had refused to let him see what he’d decided to wear for the prom - Blaine is only thirty percent frightened that it’s going to be something fluorescent or shiny or glow-in-the-dark, but then, he figures if anyone can pull it off, it’s Kurt - so he doesn’t know what to expect when they pull into the driveway. “I’ll wait here, you go get him,” Mercedes says, shifting the car into park, and Blaine unbuckles and climbs out of the seat and heads up the steps and rings the doorbell.
Burt, unsurprisingly, opens the door. “Hey, Blaine,” he says, stepping aside to let him in. “Looking sharp.”
“Thanks, Mr. Hummel.” This all feels very stereotypical 80s teen movie, except maybe he should’ve brought flowers for Carole. Did people still buy their male date’s stepmother flowers? “Is Kurt ready?” He glances up at the staircase, waiting for the final movie trope: Kurt making his slow descent, one step at a time, all eyes on him, maybe a sudden and inexplicable wind blowing his hair back, possibly moving in slow motion.
But, instead, never one to give into clichés, Kurt enters from the living room. All eyes are on him, though.
That’s because he looks incredible.
“You look incredible,” Blaine says, when he can remember how to speak.
He does. He’s wearing an outfit that Blaine definitely hadn’t seen hanging from any of the various clothes rack at the numerous tuxedo shops he and his mom had visited: in fact, it’s either the highest designer or some sort of Kurt Hummel trademark. He’s got a jacket and a hot pink waistcoast, a bedazzled bowtie and gleaming shoes, and his hair is done perfectly and he just looks - perfect.
“So do you,” Kurt says, giving him a not-so-subtle glanceover and smiling so wide it reaches his eyes. “Here, I-” He holds out a pink flower, roughly the same color as the pink under his jacket, and he looks a little abashed. “I wasn’t sure if I should, but -”
“I love it,” Blaine says, no hesitation in his voice. He steps closer. “Pin it on for me?” and Kurt does, with slightly shaky fingers, to the lapel of his jacket.
“You both look wonderful,” Carole chimes in from the doorway, her hand over her chest. When Blaine looks at Burt, he’s halfway astonished to see the muscles in his jaw working, like he’s trying hard to bite back some display of emotion he doesn’t want to show.
It’s really, really touching, and it’s not even his dad.
“We should go,” Kurt says, joining Blaine at his side, “Mercedes in the driveway, and that girl is not afraid to honk.”
“One picture first!” Carole calls, producing a digital camera from nowhere and pointing it at them with as much vigor as a professional paparazzo. “Boys, you first,” and before Blaine even has time to slide his arm around Kurt’s waist, it flashes in their face in three quick bursts. “Okay, now one with Kurt and Burt -” and Blaine steps out of the way so Kurt’s dad can fill his role, and he looks so proud to be standing next to him, his son, that it makes Blaine’s heart hurt a little, “now all three of you-” and Burt is tugging Blaine over by the jacket and wrapping one arm around each boy, and three more flashes, and then Carole’s yelling, “Finn, Finn, get down here!” and Finn comes trampling down the steps looking pretty good for a guy who hadn’t thought to rent his tux until yesterday, and he grins and steps in for a picture with them, and then he grins a little wider when Carole asks him to crouch down because the top of his head’s not in the frame.
Mercedes actually does start honking somewhere around the second to last picture, so hugs and kisses and well-wishes are passed around the room and then the three of them head out and climb none-too-gracefully into the car.
Rachel’s house is much of the same, except Blaine’s pretty sure her dad was a professional paparazzo at one point in time. He is scarily good at his job, at making sure everyone gets at least one picture with everyone else, at group photos and date photos and guy photos and girl photos and jumping photos and smiling photos and laughing photos and - the list goes on and on. Blaine is thoroughly exhausted when the whole ordeal is over, and they haven’t even gotten to the dancing portion yet.
Dinner is nice. Sam accidentally knocks over his glass of water, but on prom night girls apparently have some sort of superpowers and Santana and Brittany both move so fast out of their seats that not a drop gets on anybody’s dress.
Prom itself, because the public board of education in Lima is seemingly full of cheapskates, is held in the William McKinley High School gym. At least they’d sprung for decorations: it’s a corny Dancing With The Stars theme (Puck had suggested One Night In Paris, and it’d been the forerunner for a long time until Figgins had done a little Internet research) and the streamers and balloons look out of place, but over all, with the lights dimmed, it doesn’t look half bad.
“You do realize,” Kurt says, when Blaine hops out of the car and offers him his arm, “that we’re going to be the first gay couple to attend prom at this school? Possibly in the entire state of Ohio.”
“I don’t care,” Blaine responds. Kurt looks at him, surprised, and he shrugs. “I’ll worry about being the posterboys for equality in the public school system later. Tonight, I just want to enjoy prom with my boyfriend.”
Kurt smiles and takes his hand and, accompanied by thirteen of their best friends, they head inside.
They’d forgone a DJ this year; Blaine knew that, but he didn’t really know the specifics. When they cross through the gym doors, he sees why.
“You’re joking,” he says, a wide grin blooming across his face, because there are fifteen boys on the makeshift stage, standing in front of four strategically placed microphones, and they’re all wearing matching ties and blazers. He can hardly hear the song they’re singing - he thinks it’s something by Ke$ha, maybe, and gloms of students have already taken over the dance floor - but he thinks how awesome it is to see them up there, off-campus, performing at an informal event.
“Kind of like your worlds are colliding, right?” Kurt whispers, bumping Blaine’s hip with his own.
“Another one of your doings?”
“I plead the fifth.”
Blaine’s eying the bowl of punch when Mercedes and Rachel approach them, each grabbing a hand. “We called first dance,” Rachel says, tugging Blaine towards the floor, and Kurt laughs and gives Mercedes a twirl before the two of them follow suit.
Dancing with Rachel is fine, even if she keeps staring at his lips every twenty seconds like she’s remembering what it felt like to kiss them. The Warblers are singing fun, upbeat songs, and they trade partners after the second, and Blaine grinds all up on Mercedes like that was what he was made to do.
Thad taps on the microphone about twenty minutes later, for their first break in music, and he clears his throat while the room falls quiet. “Hi guys,” he says, looking at surprised at the way his voice booms out over the gymnasium. “We’re the Dalton Warblers, and we’re here to make sure you have an amazing prom night.” Everyone claps, and they take polite little bows. “Now, we’re going to slow down things a bit, so grab the person that you love - or like - or want to take home to your mother, and hold them close.” He scans the dance floor until his eyes find Blaine’s, and then he grins and reaches again for the mic. “And this one goes out to Blaine Anderson,” he adds, before getting back in formation, and all at once the guys break into a softer, slower version of Teenage Dream.
Blaine locks eyes with Kurt; suddenly, the girls have vanished, and it’s just the two of them. “Our song,” Blaine says, suggestively, and Kurt’s mouth curls up into a faux grimace.
“Who says this is our song? Who ever dictated a Katy Perry song as being our song?”
“Oh, come on, Kurt, don’t kill the moment.” Blaine extends a palm, waiting. “Will you dance with me?”
Kurt’s eyes flicker over to the floor, where guys and girls - only guys and girls - are coming together, sidling close. No one bats an eyelash at them. Blaine’s pretty sure the two of them will get a head or two turning. He’s also pretty sure he doesn’t care.
Kurt takes his hand.
“I didn’t think I was ever going to get to slowdance with someone at my prom,” he admits, and his arms move to circle around Blaine’s shoulders, and Blaine wraps his own arms around Kurt’s waist.
“I’m lucky, you know,” Blaine tells him, looking into his eyes. “That I get to be the first.”
Blaine has always wanted to kiss the guy he likes in the middle of a dance floor - in his fantasies, it might not have been the McKinley gym, but he’s not too picky - and he does that, now, the chorus of Teenage Dream in his ears, Kurt’s eyes fluttering shut, and it’s sweet and chaste and completely perfect.
The song ends, as they’re apt to do, and is replaced with another uptempo one, so he regrettably releases his grip on Kurt’s waist and they break apart. “Dance circle!” Rachel yells, throwing herself between them again, and without warning they’re dragged over towards the rest of the Glee club, where Puck and Lauren are dancing dirty and Finn and Quinn are both sort of swaying awkwardly to the beat and Mike is dancing circles around them all and everyone is utterly unselfconscious, arms in the air, faces tipped back towards the twinkle lights around the room. It’s fun. It’s so much fun.
Blaine slowdances with Kurt four times and every girl in the Glee club at least once. The room starts to empty out around 10:30, with the promise of afterparties high and unhidden, and they’re practically the last ones there by eleven. The Warblers left around ten, replaced by Figgins and his iTunes library, and when the music stops altogether it’s time to leave. They’re still one big group, talking and laughing as they leave the gym, all of them, none of them really paying attention -
- which is why they’re surprised to see eight members of the football team in the parking lot, waiting around, Styrofoam cups held high.
They all seem to sense it before it actually happens; the girls shriek, and the guys try to duck but it’s no use: sixteen bright red Slushies are flying their way, and flying fast. They get drenched, all of them, their suits and dresses ruined, their faces, their carefully styled hair. Blaine’s muscles clench with the dreaded expectation, and it’s just as icy sharp, just as painful as the first time.
“Just cause you went to New York doesn’t many you’re worth anything, losers,” one of the football players says, tossing his empty cups aside.
“Yeah,” another chimes in, a guy with big arms and not much else going for him, “you’ll never be popular here.”
“Later, Gleetards,” the first laughs, and he turns and walks away calmly, the rest of the team following suit.
Puck and Finn immediately start after them. The girls have to grab them by the jacket to hold them back, but they’re struggling and yelling obscenities at their backs, and Puck keeps shouting, “I’m going to kick your ASS, I swear to GOD,” which looks pretty ridiculous coming from a guy with red Slushie dripping from his mohawk.
“This sucks,” Sam says when the football players have disappeared, shaking ice off of his suit coat. “My mom’s going to kill me.”
“I loved this dress,” Brittany says sadly. “I got a matching one for my Barbie doll.”
“Anyone have a giant washing machine?” Lauren asks.
None of them laugh, because it doesn’t seem very funny. Blaine can hardly feel his neck.
“Wait,” Puck says, all of a sudden, rounding on them all. “Wait, hold up. Everyone follow me.”
They don’t have a whole lot of options - no one wants to climb into their cars the way they are, and it’s not like they’re going to show up at a party looking like the victims of a recent mass murder. So Puck takes off towards the back of the school and they all follow, curiously, as he leads them through a gate and over a hedge and into an undeveloped neighborhood, where there are only a few houses dotting the street. “Puck,” Artie says, wheeling forward on the bumpy ground, “where are you taking us?”
“You’ll see.”
“Is this illegal?” Kurt asks. “I do not want to besmirch the memory of my prom night any more than the artificial flavoring of a gas station dessert has already done.”
“Just come on,” Puck says, and then they round a house with all of the lights turned off and he stops them with one hand and says, “Here.”
They’re in front of a fairly average inground pool. There’s nothing spectacular about it, aside from the fact that the water’s clean and the pool is uncovered, and no one seems to be around.
“Where, exactly, have you taken us?” Quinn asks, looking at him with the utmost annoyance.
Puck grins like he’s done something brilliant. “Lauren asked for a giant washing machine. This is pretty much the next best thing.”
Fifteen people respond back with no at the exact same time.
“No. Absolutely not,” Quinn says. “First off, it’s May, and second, we have no idea whose pool that is.”
“Don’t worry, babe, I clean this pool for the people who live here. They’re in Florida for a month. No one’ll ever know.”
“No,” Santana says.
“No,” Tina says.
“Hell to the no,” Mercedes says.
Blaine shrugs and steps forward. “I’m in.”
They all turn to look at him in surprise. Kurt, especially, looks concerned for his mental health. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Yeah, why not? The Slushie has to come off somehow.”
“I’m in too,” Sam agrees.
“Does anyone have any floaties?” Brittany asks, looking around with concern.
It takes a little coaxing for the more stubborn members of the group, but for whatever Godforsaken reason, they eventually all agree. Like it’s some sort of bonding experience. Like that some sort of magic will occur when their feet touch the water. “On three,” Puck says, the toes of his shoes balanced right on the edge of the pool. “And if you don’t jump you get pushed in, so you might as well jump.”
“I assume I get a special pass?” Artie says, looking a little terrified at the possibility, and the guys laugh and agree to carry him in the shallow end provided none of their balls shrivel up and fall off before they get the chance.
“One…”
Blaine looks to his left and right, Mercedes on one side, Kurt on the other. They grin and slip their hands into his.
“Two…”
Lauren kicks her high heels to the side and crouches her knees, like she’s getting into position.
“Three!”
- they all shout together and then, screaming foolishly, like the crazy high school students they are, they crash into the pool, all of them, like one body, and the water is freezing but not nearly as cold as the Slushies, and they surface one-by-one and laugh and splash around and Puck dunks Finn’s head under the water and for some bizarre reason they stay in for nearly twenty minutes, goofing off, until Rachel’s teeth start chattering so hard that they can’t understand her, and when they climb out, they look like drowned rats, their prom outfits drenched and clinging to their bodies, makeup running down the girls’ faces, and they look terrible, but somehow, that doesn’t matter.
They’re happy.
Their happiness matters.
They walk back to the high school in companionable silence, dripping water as they go.
“This,” Kurt whispers, sliding a wet arm around Blaine’s wet body, “was the best prom ever.”
***
Blaine’s parents aren’t home.
They’re visiting his paternal grandparents for the weekend, and even though his mom had been upset that she was missing one of the most important days of her son’s life, he’d assured her that it didn’t really matter because he’d probably stay at Sam’s house or Mike’s house afterwards, one of those guys from school, and she seems so thrilled with the fact that he has actual male friends that like him that she eventually folds and gives in.
“Kurt,” Blaine says, once they’re back in the parking lot, and everyone’s saying goodbye, getting in their respective cars. “Do you want to spend the night at my house?”
He knows there could’ve been a lot of implications about that sentence, what with it being prom night, the night with the most expectations - but the greatest thing about his relationship with Kurt is that they don’t have to rely on expectations. They are what they are without the hidden meanings, the code words, the needing to decipher.
“Um.” Kurt licks his lips and looks at Blaine. “Yeah. That’d be nice.” He turns his head over his shoulder. “Finn, cover with me for Dad?”
“Sure, but you owe me,” Finn says, but when Kurt shoots him a dubious expression, he shrugs. “Okay, fine, fine. I’ve got your back.”
Mercedes drops them off at Blaine’s house with a knowing smile, and she wiggles her fingers at them before calling out, “Bye, boys, have fun!”
Blaine’s palms are sweating for no particularly good reason. He and Kurt have spent the night together before - but, he realizes, not since they’ve begun dating. That makes it feel a little more heavy, a little more real. He pulls his keys out of his back pocket. It turns in the lock, and he feels like the click is magnified by ten. “Kurt,” Blaine says, swinging the door open and stepping through into the darkened hallway, “I just wanted to tell you that tonight was one of the best -”
He’s cut off, surprisingly, by Kurt’s lips.
Kurt closes the door and pushes Blaine up against it, letting out a breathy little gasp that lets Blaine know he’s not the only one surprised by the action. Kurt kisses him hard and messy, his hands curling around Blaine’s neck, his lips warm and slick against his own, and Blaine can taste cherry and the faintest hint of chlorine, and he groans and pulls Kurt closer.
“I,” Kurt says, pressing a kiss along his jaw with every word, “have - been - wanting - to - do - this - all - night.”
“No better time than now,” Blaine agrees, tipping his head backwards against the door when he feels Kurt’s teeth against his neck, light at first, and then with more pressure, and Kurt bites and sucks lightly at the skin, moving forward in a direction they’ve never taken before. This is Blaine’s new favorite direction. He wants to travel in this direction forever.
Blaine’s fingers curl into Kurt’s jacket, still damp, and he takes in a shaky breath through his nose when Kurt kisses him again, just as hard. “We should - we should get out of the doorway,” he whispers, because this is not the most romantic spot in the house, not even in the top ten, and Kurt nods and pulls away but just a little, allowing him to lead him towards his bedroom upstairs.
Blaine’s hands are sweaty again, this time with anticipation. With want.
The thing is, though, they’re still trailing water behind them, and Blaine makes a last minute decision and veers to the left at the top of the stairs instead of the right, into the guest bathroom, shutting the door behind them. Kurt looks at him inquisitively but not unwillingly, and Blaine, pausing to kiss him again, more soft and sure, slowly and carefully reaches up and pushes the sleeves of his jacket up and away from his shoulders.
Kurt watches him for a second before helping out, tugging at the material, letting it drop to a wet pile on the floor, and then he mirrors the image with Blaine’s jacket. “Can I -?” Blaine asks, gesturing towards his waistcoat, and Kurt nods, just barely, and Blaine’s fingers move to the buttons. They lock eyes while he does this, one at a time, taking it slowly because the last thing he wants to do is overwhelm him. He wants this, sure, but not if Kurt doesn’t.
The look in Kurt’s eyes says that it’s not unrequited.
Too much clothing, Blaine thinks, kind of desperately, because once that’s gone he’s still got a long sleeve shirt underneath, but Kurt, once again, surprises him. He knocks Blaine’s fingers out of the way and undoes the buttons himself, more deftly this time, more expertly, until finally his shirt’s hanging open and all Blaine can see is a long expanse of smooth, pale skin. He pulls him in for another kiss, one hand pressing against his chest experimentally, right along his ribcage, and Kurt hums his approval into his mouth.
Blaine doesn’t remember turning the shower on, except that he’s sticky with sweat and chlorine and faint traces of Slushie, and Kurt doesn’t complain, and suddenly they’re both fumbling for their clothes so quickly that Blaine nearly trips trying to get out of his pants. He can’t stop staring at Kurt. His legs are long and lean, and his shoulders broad, and he wants to kiss him, so badly, every part of him - he’s backing into the too-hot stream in the shower before he’s even completely naked, his boxers still clinging to his hips, his back pressed flat against the cool tile, but it doesn’t matter, because a second later Kurt’s joining him, pushing aside the shower curtain and kissing him fiercely.
“Kurt,” Blaine says, and his hands are running slowly and thoroughly down Kurt’s sides, thumbing over soft skin and muscles, fingernails dragging lightly across his hipbones, “can I touch you?”
“Yes,” Kurt answers, nearly moans, and Blaine doesn’t waste any time, reaches down and touches the soft skin of Kurt’s inner thigh, first, and then upwards, curls his fingers around him, gives him a few gentle, easy strokes to make sure this is still okay, and Kurt groans again quietly and rests his forehead against Blaine’s shoulder heavily, like he can’t hold it up himself.
It’s wet and cramped but so good like this, and Blaine quickens his pace when he can feel Kurt’s hips jerking forward against him, and it’s his first time, both of their first times, but it still feels so natural, having Kurt here, up against him like this.
Afterwards, after Kurt’s finished and their kissing is more languid, slow, even though Blaine’s achingly hard, he edges the water pressure down to a dull trickle, and Kurt laughs quietly against Blaine’s skin and says, “Was this premeditated? Did you have this planned all along?”
“No,” Blaine says, honestly, carding his fingers softly through Kurt’s hair in the back. “I’m just lucky.”
“I’m fairly positive I’m the lucky one here,” Kurt says, and he disentangles himself from Blaine’s arms, and then suddenly, out of nowhere, he’s lowering himself to his knees.
“Kurt,” Blaine breathes, watching him, “you don’t - you don’t have to -”
“I know,” Kurt replies, smiling easily, finally dragging his soaked boxers torturously slow down his hips. “But I want to.”
***
Blaine wakes up in the morning, naked from the waist up, tangled in the sheets, and Kurt’s warm arm thrown haphazardly around his chest. Even though the sun is peeking in through the parted blinds, bathing everything in warm light, Blaine smiles and buries down deeper into the blankets, breathing in the smell of Kurt. He immediately falls back asleep.
The second time he wakes up it’s to Kurt kissing him, just once, soft on the lips. “Mm,” he says, his voice rough with sleep, “good morning.”
“Good morning,” Kurt returns, briefly pressing his nose into Blaine’s cheek. “I have to go.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do. I promised my dad I’d be home in time for brunch.”
“Brunch isn’t an exact time, you know,” Blaine says, half-whiningly. “You can eat a meal at four in the afternoon and still technically call it brunch.”
“I have to go,” Kurt repeats, “but call me later?”
Blaine makes a big deal out of sighing and propping himself up on his elbows, but he can’t stop from smiling, so his act falls pretty flat. “I will,” he promises. “I definitely, definitely will.”
***
His parents aren’t due back for a good five hours, so Blaine makes a quick sandwich in the kitchen and then settles down in front of his computer. When he signs onto Facebook, he’s got a handful of notifications, but the most recent one catches his eye:
Relationship request - Kurt Hummel.
Biting back a smile, Blaine shakes his head and clicks confirm.
fin.
+ title taken from if you want by quiet company.
one | two | three | four