you might need me (2a/2); glee
Title: You Might Need Me (2a/2)
Pairing: Kurt/Sam, most canon S2 pairings.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: Junior year doesn't go the way Kurt expects. S2 rewrite.
Part 1a / Part 1b / Part 1c | AO3
You Might Need Me
Mike and Santana are still there the next morning - Mike because he wants to help Sam clean up, and Santana because she wants to find out what happened with he and Kurt last night, lie on his couch and eat all of his food. Sam still thanks them both in the morning, because he’d rather wake up feeling kind of stupid but not alone than wake up in an empty house, feeling really, really stupid.
“You missed a spot,” Santana tells Mike helpfully, leaning back on his couch and lifting her feet, pointing to the space of floor beneath. He gives it a quick vacuum and doesn’t even try asking her to help again.
Even though Sam’s gotten rid of the last few crinkled beer cans lying around, the house still smells like a night of underaged teenage stupid decisions. He opens the windows, airs it out, has one annoyingly insistent hangover that makes Mike lead him to sit down at Santana’s side in concern.
He rubs his temples and groans. “Like, everything I did yesterday is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”
Santana nods in agreement, even though he hasn’t told her anything that happened yesterday yet. Mike sits next to him and rubs his back.
“It was that bad?”
Sam replays it in his head. He thinks of getting drunk and hiding Kurt away upstairs. The blurry way he saw Kurt and the way Kurt looked back at him, like the last few months together never happened, like Sam didn’t know how the ridges of his teeth felt under his tongue, like they were strangers to each other. He hears himself calling out Kurt’s name but it gets swallowed by voices he doesn’t know; he feels himself taking hasty steps towards him but he gets blocked by a swarm of people he doesn’t know.
Then Kurt is slamming the front door and leaving him.
The phantom sound leaves vibrations in his ears like the sound of rattling hinges, and he squeezes his eyes shut, covering them with an unsteady hand.
Mike still has a hand on his back, and even Santana has straightened beside him to give him a worried look. But he can’t tell them anything: he can’t say that he doesn’t know if he threw up this morning because of a night of binge drinking or because he feels like the crappiest mix between being heartbroken and lovesick. Santana would definitely hit him for the second one.
“Pretty bad,” Sam murmurs after another moment. He leans back slowly until he’s sinking into the cushions, then gives Mike a small smile. “Thanks for helping out. Especially with, you know, the vomit someone left in my closet.”
Mike waves him off, like it wasn't unforgettably traumatic. “Don’t worry about it.”
He and Santana are still giving him concerned looks. When Mike asks if he’s okay before he leaves he says he’s fine, just sick from yesterday, and closes the door feeling glad Santana’s still around - Santana who knows, and without any awkward confessions and without ever making it big deal.
He asks her to do him a favour, and from her completely horizontal position on the couch, she huffs, “God, haven’t I done enough today?” and gets up.
They end up in the bathroom, Sam’s head over the bath’s rim and Santana on the edge of the toilet seat snapping on a pair of plastic gloves and reading the back of a bottle of dye.
“He got you this for Christmas?” she asks. Sam can hear practically hear the included cocked eyebrow. “Sounds like he wants the carpet to match the drapes before he gets down there. He's a total freak when it comes to colour schemes. Even pubic ones, I guess.” She nudges his bare arm with her knee. “So, now?”
Sam holds his towel tighter to his shoulders, nodding. “Yeah. Go for it.”
“Just a quick heads up,” he hears the bottle pop open, “I’ve never done this before. So don’t blame me if you come out of this looking even more gay 90s boyband member than before.”
-
There’s nothing to do in the time between Santana leaving and his family coming home except sit on his bed in the same position for a few hours and wonder if he should call Kurt or not. He’s impatient to hear his voice, but still kind of sickly worried about what he might say.
Worried that maybe, he’s blown it for good.
He drags his fingers through his slightly darker hair and takes a deep breath. Santana advised him not to call so he knows he probably definitely has to, but when? And what should he say? And what if he’s really, truly, completely blown it?
There’s only half an hour left before his family returns. He caves.
It rings, and then again, and Sam fidgets with the threads in the sides of his jeans until it stops, and the tips of his fingers are sore and red.
“Sam?”
It’s Finn.
There’s a short silence. Sam lets out a breath when it starts to make his lungs ache and presses his lips together.
“Look, I don’t think he wants to talk to you right now, dude. But not just you, I mean... anybody.” In a quieter voice, Finn tells him, “I think he’s just in one of those moods. He gave me his phone and then just locked himself away all day.”
Sam shakes his head like Finn can see him. “It was me,” he says before he can help it, “I did something yesterday that - it was stupid. I wanted to apologize.” His voice has gone soft.
It was so stupid.
“Oh...” He must hear what’s off about Sam’s tone, he must just hear something in it Sam hasn’t actually put into words because the next thing he says is, “If it helps, Rachel used to always say the best apology is a ‘big, romantic gesture.’ Before we... y’know.”
Sam stills. Finn knows - he knows. It’s not just an odd look Sam can forget, it’s not a little jibe at how much time Sam spends with his brother, it’s not at all unsure - it’s genuine relationship advice.
“So keep that in mind, yeah?” Finn asks, sounding optimistic.
With his throat feeling suddenly dry, Sam echoes, “Yeah.”
Finn is quiet on the other line for a moment that feels long and heavy. “Good luck, man.” Then the it clicks, and he’s gone.
-
It’s Monday, and Sam takes his seat next to Kurt in class hoping for the best, but the relief of at least having Kurt talk to him quickly leaves again.
“How bad was the mess the next morning?” he asks when Sam sits down. He does it with his eyes fixed on his notes and his voice carefully light.
Sam doesn’t like it.
He smiles at him anyway, even shrugs, but Kurt doesn’t look. He pulls his things out of his bag, almost anxiously watching him and feeling decidedly off as he does. “It was okay. I had some help.”
There’s a tiny quirk to Kurt’s lips like he’s trying to smile. “I’m sure Santana was a big hand,” he jokes, but still he won’t look at Sam as he does it. Still reading his notes, even though Sam hasn’t seen his eyes move from the same spot yet.
“She gave me a pretty good dye job,” Sam tries. He nudges Kurt’s arm, gently, tries to give a convincing smile.
Kurt turns and his eyes brighten when they land on him - Sam feels something inside of him come back to life. For a second, Kurt even smiles back at him, reaching one hand up as though to brush it across his darkened bangs before simply dropping it back down to his side again and looking away. “Suits you better,” he says, his voice low and smile fading. Then, lightly: “Do you like it?”
He stares at the same word again. Sam stares at him.
“Yeah,” he answers after a moment, softly, then he makes himself tear his eyes away, too.
Something in him desperately wants to discuss that night, but this isn’t where he wants that to happen, or how, with Kurt unable to look him in the eye and with his insides still feeling so heavy and sort of hopeless. It’ll all go away because Sam can make this better - and he'll do his best when he doesn't still have the same lingering sickness, or that perpetual fear in the back of his mind.
But for today, he sits with Kurt in silence, with no scribbled Tic-Tac-Toe games on the back page of Kurt’s textbook, no shared doodles, no whispers or nudges, no glancing to the side in the middle of class to find Kurt looking back with a warm look in his eyes that makes Sam duck his head and break into a grin - there's nothing.
Sam writes a note on his page he knows he won’t end up showing him even as he very carefully, neatly takes it down.
dont give up on this
-
Rachel notices, because she stays latched on to Kurt’s side most of the time now and because she’s been noticing for a while, having cornered Sam a total of three times this year to earnestly ask him what’s going on between he and her very good friend, Kurt.
The number jumps to four.
Sam takes his gym bag out of his locker and shrugs it over his shoulder, then swings the door closed to find Rachel’s face behind it, watching him intently. As much as Sam likes her, there’s always something intense about her that makes him feel certain she’s probably seriously thought about murdering someone before.
Right now, every part of her is telling him that.
“Sam,” she greets, voice clipped, and gives him a quick once over. “Nice hair, it suits you much better." She steps closer and Sam cautiously backs away. “I heard you had a party this weekend.” Her hand is placed over her chest as she says, “Not that I, or anyone else in glee club who isn’t a member of the Cheerios or the football team would know since we weren’t invited - but I’ll chalk that up to an oversight on your part because that’s not what this is about.”
“There weren’t invitations or anything, it was more just, you know, showing up,” he explains, honestly. Then he adds, with some dread, “What is it about?”
Rachel tilts her head, still looking at him with her too-bright, too-focused eyes. “We weren’t invited, but I’m sure you couldn’t not ask Kurt, even if he didn’t mention it - even if you were borderline ignoring him for weeks before, but that’s not what this is about, either.” Suddenly, more than anything she looks worried. “Did he go?”
Tightening the hand on his bag strap, Sam briefly looks around them at the wave of students passing by. “Look, Rachel, if he hasn’t said anything to you it’s because he doesn’t want you to know.”
“I know he doesn’t!” Her voice has raised slightly. She looks up at Sam with her eyebrows furrowed. “But whatever happened made him upset, regardless of whether he’ll explain why, and from what I know, you feel the same way.” Biting her lip, she leans in to him and says with startlingly genuine eyes, “Even if you guys won’t tell anyone what’s happening between you, it’s not that hard to guess. You...” She struggles, glancing down at the ground with a small frown before looking back up at him. “You care about each other so much.”
It’s so strange to hear her acknowledge it. For a moment it makes Sam feel disconnected, far-off, then he settles back into his skin where the words you care about each other so much are still bruising into his skin.
It hurts, knowing that Kurt hurts because of him.
He swallows down the new dryness in his throat and looks away from her. “I haven’t been able to get him alone to talk about it,” he tells her quietly, pressing his lips together. The halls are emptying, and he’s going to be late to class but he feels so heavy he can’t move an inch, anchored to the spot. He looks into Rachel’s face and tells her, voice steady, “I’m gonna make this okay.”
Rachel stares back at him for a moment, searchingly, and then her face softens and she smiles to herself, squeezing her books to her chest. “Good.” She nods at him approvingly. “Because I like you, Sam. And I know how good you are.” Her smile widens. “I know how much he likes you.”
That’s strange, too, but a nicer strange, like butterflies in his stomach. It’s a reassuring thing to hear, and even if Sam assures himself he can make this right, having Rachel’s vote of confidence is still a pretty valuable thing.
“Do it soon,” Rachel instructs him, backing away down the empty corridor. She has to call out as she gets further and further away. “Preferably in song - and if you have any trouble finding one, I’m available for suggestions!”
He gives her an awkward parting wave and when she’s disappeared completely, stands there for another moment before heading out to class.
-
It’s hard to get Kurt alone when he seems to be avoiding Sam as much as possible. It’s been two days, no glee rehearsals, and they’ve only saw each other in their one shared class and at the opposite sides of the lunch table. It feels like more distance than Sam knows it is, but he’s gotten used to hanging back at the doors of Kurt’s classes and sharing more in looks between them than awkward half-smiles.
He needs it back; walking around with Santana everywhere becomes soul-destroying when she’s at this all new level of pessimism and bitchiness (Brittany had to cancel on her last weekend for 'emergency sex' with Artie), and with Mike and Quinn he’s still mostly just getting worried questions. Finn makes a point of talking to him between classes now, friendlier than ever, but he looks more concerned than anyone else.
It’s lucky when his class gets let out early for lunch to find that the only other person at the table is Kurt, with a textbook in front of him lying open but not in use while he fiddles with his phone. Sam looks at him for a moment, then the clock on the wall.
He has five minutes at most.
He takes a deep breath before walking towards him and sitting at his side, somewhere that feels familiar and warm when their arms and legs touch so slightly together.
“Hi,” he starts, and Kurt’s surprised enough that he has to look his way.
He blinks and glances at the empty cafeteria around them, then his eyes fall warily back on Sam. “Hey.” There’s another brief, considering moment, and then Kurt slips his phone into his pocket and closes his book over, turning to Sam fully with the same little signs on anxiousness in his tight expression as Sam feels.
“I’m sorry about Friday,” he says, quietly but sincerely. Kurt looks surprised again, his face softening, and Sam wants to curl his hands around the loose fist at Kurt’s side but can’t. “And even before Friday, I wasn’t treating you right for a while, and - I’m sorry, Kurt. I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.” He shakes his head, seriously. “Not ever.”
Because Kurt doesn’t deserve to be hidden. Sam still has trouble imagining himself leading him up his staircase and away, out of sight together still feels a little sick thinking about the whole night, thinking about the weeks before he’s almost blocked out - weeks of wanting to be with Kurt but refusing himself. A lifetime of being scared.
He looks into Kurt’s face and tries to ground himself again.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, touching his hand lightly to Kurt’s.
Wide eyed, Kurt stares back, then looks off to the side and starts shaking his head. “There’s a lot going on in your life right now. It’s okay.” Sam wants to protest, and hears a weight in the words that’s hiding more, more than Kurt is telling him, but then Kurt adds, softly, “I’m sorry, too, for avoiding you.” He smiles at Sam like he’s laughing at himself. “It was stupid.”
“We’re just not used to arguing,” Sam explains. He squints his eyes up like he’s thinking of possible improvements. “We don’t know how to handle it. I think there should’ve been more angry songs about each other and bitch-slapping.”
Kurt hums at his side. “Next time I’ll try throwing my drink over your face.” He’s smiling when he catches Sam’s eye, in a way he’s been pretty desperate to see again. It lightens him, clears away all the stress and strangeness of the past few days. Weeks.
“All good?” Sam asks after a moment’s hesitation. He bumps Kurt’s shoulder with his own and smiles.
Kurt just smiles back at him, but it’s oddly sad looking. Then he nods, agrees, “Of course.”
Sam wants to press further but doesn’t get the time. The bell rings when he opens his mouth to question it, and then Kurt is packing his things away and pulling out his lunch and Sam is just watching, a little confused but still mostly relieved. People start loudly crowding the cafeteria so he drops it for now.
“Kiss and make up?” Puck asks, appearing side-by-side with Rachel, Santana closely following them. They both take seats on the other side of the table while Santana drops next to Sam, then Puck puckers his lips at Kurt until he has to block the sight of him with his hand.
He throws a grape at him, scowls, even blushes a little. “Don’t make me sick on my lunch.”
Rachel catches Sam's eye and winks. Santana tugs lightly on some of his newly-darkened hair and whispers, "You're welcome."
-
Everything kind of is back to normal but at the same time, kind of isn’t.
“Well, what isn’t?” Quinn asks, losing patience.
She’s in a bad mood because she feels sick, but she can’t leave class because Coach Sylvester would never let her hear the end of it. The more time she spends pretending to stretch off to the side with him, the more time Coach Sylvester has to think up traumatizing insults to throw at them as it is.
Ever since she, Santana and Brittany quit the Cheerios, gym class with Sue has became, if possible, an even more terrifying hour of the day, which Sam really didn’t think was possible since once she tried to punish him for asking what the time was through a choice of either making him run 300 laps around the school or sawing off his favourite finger (“And I know you and some of those humongous tree branches shooting out of your hand have gotten very intimately acquainted! Don’t try to hide it, Collagen Head, I can see the evidence in your lippy face!”).
Plus, it’s Valentine’s Day, and cheery holidays are always a good way to make her even more Sue.
Sam spots her in the distance, apparently too busy running directly behind Jacob Ben Israel, mouth looking wide open in an angry yell even from so far away, and he squints in the sunlight, thinking he can see a stick in her hand, jabbing into his back every once in a while. He doubts she’ll notice them talking.
“I don’t know,” he answers finally, frowning. It must have been bad for a while if even Quinn’s asking if they’re friends again - there was a period before when Sam stuck to the jocks instead of Kurt or the club, an admittedly dumb period, but he’d never thought someone as detached as Quinn had noticed, or anyone else, really.
He scuffs his trainers against the dirt, trying to think. Since he and Kurt moved past the whole party disaster, they’ve spent as much time together as before, making the same faces at each other when Mr Schuester’s back is turned and exchanging the same smiles.
But Sam sort of expected something more.
He says as much, quietly, and then Santana stops smirking at the way Quinn sways unstably with every movement to look at him.
“Why don’t you just say that? It’s Valentine’s Day for Christ’s sake, God himself is making this is easy for you.” She glances down, where Brittany is leant over, touching her toes. “It’s not like he’s with some other guy, or like he’d say no,” she says softly, eyebrows drawn, “You both want it just as bad.” Then she sharpens, turning her gaze back on Sam, who stills, alternately staring at Quinn and Brittany for a reaction.
He’s never really told them he likes Kurt before, or that liking guys is a thing that he does. He talks around it, kind of, hints at it, but the girls never say anything so until this point he’s thought they’ve kind of but never really known.
Santana keeps staring at him, wide-eyed, then guiltily looks away. Two of her fingers curl around his palm and squeeze, reassuringly.
Apparently they’ve always really known, though.
“She does have a point,” Quinn agrees, still keeping a watchful, glassy eye on where Sue is chasing Jacob across the field and looking completely unsurprised all the while, if a little pale and sickly.
Brittany stretches up, yawning and making a small noise. “Totally. And what if the guy from Dalton asks him out first?” She looks genuinely worried by this. “Santana says she heard children crying in his hair.”
Sam looks between them both, mouth parted in surprise, then at Santana, who bumps her hip off of his with a smile and says, “That's 100% true.”
Later at glee practice, he finds Kurt sitting in the front row of chairs with Puck’s guitar slung around him while Puck sits at the piano with Lauren, staring at her with a weird, dreamy look in his eye while she bangs down on random keys.
Mr Schue has cheerfully written Love Songs!! on the board.
Of course.
Sam walks over to Kurt, steadfastly not looking at those giant, obnoxious red letters, and sits down next to him while he carefully strums one chord, over and over.
“Mercedes said I’m very good,” Kurt tells him over the continuous background noise of G, G, G, his head raised high in faux-pride.
Sam hums agreeably. Grins. “Totally, man. I love this song.”
Kurt’s elbows him in the side.
Laughing, Sam shifts a little closer in his seat, settling his hand over Kurt’s on the guitar neck. “It sounds kinda wrong. Very good, obviously, but - a little wrong, too.”
His other hand settles on the small space of seat left behind Kurt, and his chin hovers just over Kurt’s shoulder, then he holds Kurt’s hand firmer in his own and pushes his fingers further down against the strings, even though Kurt has stopped strumming and Sam’s close enough to know that he’s holding in his breath in, too.
“Try it now,” he murmurs.
A hesitating pause follows, then Kurt turns to look at him, and Sam’s already sitting so close that it makes their noses brush, that Kurt’s eyes are almost completely black when he looks at him - there’s just a thin blue ring around his pupil. Sam can still read the feeling in them, the same one settling heavily into his stomach right now and making his fingers twitch over Kurt’s, electrified by his warm skin.
Kurt quietly strums the chord out, still staring into Sam’s face.
Sam stares back. “Better.” His throat sounds dry, voice too low.
Something inside of him rises up again: that need Kurt gives him, the need to map out the freckles on his skin, the need to have him closer, the need that scares him so much sometimes that he feels like needs it gone. Even if it feels nice, like this.
The hand he has covering Kurt’s slides down, and he means to pull it away but instead he can’t stop it sliding lower, across Kurt’s smooth, bare forearm, and then he’s thumbing at the spot on the inside of his elbow where he knows a freckle sits and Kurt is letting out this quick, short breath. Their noses bump again; Sam remembers the hot taste of Kurt’s mouth.
Then Kurt pulls away, and they’re in school again, and Finn is standing in the doorway with his hands over his eyes.
Coldness hits Sam all over.
“Sam, dude, where is your other hand ‘cause I really need it to not be like, down my brother’s pants or something behind that guitar.”
“Oh my God,” Kurt chokes out, face disappearing into his hands.
Puck and Lauren turn around too, at which Sam quickly raises both of his hands innocently above his head, feeling his face heat up. Finn peeks out of a gap between his fingers and lets out a giant rush of relieved breath, one hand spread over his chest. His face scrunches up.
“I feel sick,” he huffs out, raising his palm to his forehead.
Kurt stands up, red-faced and rolling his eyes, pulling the guitar strap over his head and setting it down next to the band’s instruments. “Don’t overreact, Finn.”
“No, really - I feel sick, man.”
Frowning, Kurt walks over to inspect Finn more closely. “You’re pale,” he notices, sounding worried. He bats Finn’s hand away from his head and places his own there instead. “And warm.” He moves back again, hands on his hips while he considers. “Maybe you should go to the nurse. You’ve been kissing complete randoms all week at that booth, and God knows what they could have.”
“Quinn was feeling sick today, too,” Sam remembers.
Finn stares at him with his watery eyes, then his face scrunches up and he lets out a groan.
“Calm it, the past has told us that getting feely with Fabray can lead to way worse places,” Lauren helpfully points out, gesturing her thumb at Puck.
Mr Schuester comes in, claps his hands together enthusiastically then reluctantly has to let Finn go to the nurse. The rest of the club trails in, gradually, but all Sam can really focus on is Kurt at his side, the way their knees are touching, the way his voice sounds when he leans over to Sam while Puck prepares his song for Lauren and quietly murmurs into Sam’s ear, “Stay back after rehearsal.”
-
“I was hoping we’d get to talk today,” Sam says, grinning.
The choir room is empty except from he and Kurt now, standing behind the piano and idly flicking through the sheet music on top of it. Kurt looks at him in response, a small smile on his mouth, but keeps quiet.
After a moment’s hesitation, Sam lifts his hand to the side of Kurt’s face and gingerly touches the tip of his thumb to the dimple of his cheek. His skin is still warm, still soft, and gives Sam a thrill. “Valentine’s Day is pretty good timing for a first kiss in like...” He trails off, can’t keep the pad of his thumb away from Kurt’s shiny bottom lip. “Forever.”
Weeks. Sam doesn’t want to think about it anymore - just this, the aftermath of a shitty, lonely couple of weeks spent wondering if he’d even get them back to this point.
He leans down, heart beating so frantically it makes him feel kind of dizzy, and huffs out a heavy breath against Kurt’s lips. His hands curl around the back of Kurt’s long neck; Kurt’s make tight fists in his shirt.
“No - wait,” Kurt says, tilting his head away. Sam follows him, desperately.
His eyes are shut when Sam looks at his face and his eyebrows are drawn. “Not that I don’t want this.” He sighs, opening his eyes. “I really, really want this. But maybe you should just focus on you for a while.” The hands caught in Sam’s shirt smooth the fabric down his chest for a reassuring moment then pull away momentarily, finally settling on clasping around Sam’s wrists and sliding his hands from his neck. “I think we’ve seen that rushing this... it’s not a good idea. I don’t think you’re really ready for it.” His eyes flick to Sam’s pressed lips and he adds, absently, “And I guess I’m not, either.”
Sam stares at him, trying to take it in. He pulls his hands away, letting them hang awkwardly and heavily at his sides again and still twitching, curling, wanting to touch him again. “Oh,” he breathes. He scratches his neck for something to do and feels kind of hollow with disappointment.
Kurt’s still so near and warm - suddenly that’s overwhelming and Sam has to take a step back. “I get it, yeah. Yeah.” He rubs at the back of his neck and looks at the floor. “If you think... if you’re sure it’s best.”
He keeps curling and uncurling his hands, awkwardly, part of him beginning to worry just what Kurt thinks of him now, that maybe he wants to undo what they’ve become in the past months completely. His worries get worse and more irrational, which Sam tries never to let himself become, until Kurt’s hand is around his own, and he relaxes again. He slips his fingers between Kurt’s and feels his heart do something funny when Kurt smiles up at him, looking as nervous as he feels.
“We just need some time.” He squeezes Sam’s hand, pauses with it still warmly kept in his own, and lets it go again.
On the walk outside, Sam misses the feel of their held hands. They’re getting there, he thinks, but he knows the way he feels when he looks at Kurt means he already feels far past what they’re trying to be right now.
He knows he can’t wait long.
-
Sam doesn’t know whether taking Finn’s advice on grand romantic gestures is a solid idea, especially considering it obviously hasn’t worked for he and Rachel, who are currently broken up for the second time (that he knows of, anyway - and really, he has even less of an idea what was going on with the glee couples last year than this one, which is saying something). Maybe it hasn't worked out before, but Sam thinks he can change that.
“Gay bar by Electric Six,” Santana suggests, helpfully.
Sam lowers his notebook to give her an unimpressed look. She gives him one back for not adding her suggestion to the list of song ideas he’s barely written anything on, then they both pretend to be reading from the random book in front of them when the librarian walks by.
Santana watches her pass, then, “The Bad Touch by Bloodhound Gang.”
She shoves at his hand, the one loosely holding a pen he borrowed from Brittany last period - it’s shaped like a flamingo with real pink feathers and he knows without asking that Santana wants it when he’s done. “Come on, Sam, I’m handing you wads of gold here.”
“That’s a pretty gross way to put it, even for you.” He itches his chin with the tiny flamingo’s beak, thoughtfully, then looks down at his page with his lips pressed together. “Man, this is tougher than I thought it’d be. I thought I had a bunch of song ideas earlier, but I guess, you know...” He looks at his little list. “Not.”
Santana stares at him, pulling out the slushie she’s hidden in her bag to loudly drink the last few drops at the bottom of her cup. She stabs her straw around in the remaining sludge with a frown and sighs, “This is lame as fuck.”
A hand touches Sam’s back and he turns curiously to find Rachel standing over them clutching an armful of books, looking down intently at Sam’s open notebook.
“Songs for Kurt,” she reads, sounding weirdly breathless. Her eyes go big when she looks at Sam, mouth breaking into that broad, toothy grin. “It’s like you were calling my name.”
At his side, Santana raises her hand. “Actually, I think I did that when I said ‘lame as fuck.’ Those are the magical words that summon you leprechauns, right?”
Rachel rolls her eyes but otherwise disregards the jibe, instead giving Sam another smile, setting her books down and seating herself between them, Santana looking appalled all the while.
Without asking, Rachel draws the notebook towards her and pulls a glittery pen out of her cardigan pocket. “So, were you thinking along the lines of emotionally raw, irrefutable power ballad? Or maybe something easier to swallow - like a contemporary, pop love song.” Her eyes bore into his, seriously. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think some of Taylor Swift’s earlier work might be perfect for you. Plus, Kurt definitely appreciates a twist on the singer’s gender.”
“Uh,” Sam says, fumbling with Brittany’s pen. His face heats up - he’s really not that used to discussing what he and Kurt are with anyone but Santana and once, awkwardly, Puck.
Rachel just keeps staring.
Scratching his neck, he drops the pen on the table and turns to her. “I just want the right song, you know?” He avoids both she and Santana’s gazes, opting instead to check on his feet under the table. “Something that says the stuff I need him to know.”
The pen in Rachel’s hand clicks to life. “Elaborate.”
He shrinks into himself a little, shyly, and clears his throat. “Just that, y’know... I like him. I like everything about him. I think being with me makes him pretty happy.” He shrugs. “Maybe it could make him as happy as it makes me. Maybe.”
They say nothing, but he still feels their eyes on him, almost cripplingly heavy.
“Stuff like that,” he adds, vaguely, then awkwardly ducks his head.
Santana’s hand appears in front of him, curling around Brittany’s pen and pulling it out of sight.
He looks at them both, aware his face must be flushed by now, and finds Santana looking down at the pen in her hands and Rachel still looking back at him, softer expressions on both of their faces.
Abruptly, Rachel turns away again, staring down at the page in front of her. “That’s really sweet,” she mutters, pushing her lips together in thought.
“Actually,” he says, thinking over his own words and reaching to take her pen out her limp hand and pull the book towards himself again, “I think I’ve got it.”
-
He plans to sing it in glee club, which is A Really Huge Deal as far as he’s concerned, because then effectively everyone will know - everyone, not just the club members, but the people the gossipy club members tell, and then the whole school.
They’ll have to find out, anyway, Sam tells himself. He looks into his mirror, guitar slung over his shoulders, and takes a deep breath. And that’s okay.
He plays the song again. He’ll get it perfect.
-
Sue is in the choir room today. Sue is a new member of the club, Mr Schue says.
“Isn’t that right, Sue?” he asks as the first few students filter in.
In answer, she scowls and throws the nearest song book at his head, which he dodges just in time.
Sam stays locked to the spot with his guitar case feeling too full of dread to carry inside anymore.
Mr Schuester notices him and, looking pleased to be at the other side of the room, gives Sam a pat on the shoulder, gesturing his head to the guitar around him. “You got a song for us today, Sam?” he asks, lightly, almost hopefully.
Opening his mouth, Sam’s eyes find Kurt in the front row of chairs, on the farthest one from Coach Sylvester. He’s talking to Mercedes in the row below hers, but notices Sam’s gaze and smiles brightly at him, nodding his head at the empty seat beside him. Sam closes his mouth and smiles back, distracted.
“Gay!” Sue yells.
Sam looks at her, wide-eyed, then shakes his head at Mr Schuester and shrugs. He can’t meet his eyes. “I, uh, I have a song but I don’t think it’s ready yet, so.” He squeezes the strap in his hands. “Maybe next time.”
With evident disappointment, Mr Schue claps him on the arm again, using his grip to lead Sam inside. “That’s fine, Sam, take all the time you need. I look forward to hearing it,” he adds, pointing at Sam like he’s holding him to the it.
Sam nods, mindlessly, and puts his guitar down before taking his seat beside Kurt, avoiding Sue’s eyes the whole time.
“Do you think she’s here to kill us?” Mercedes whispers to them from the row behind while they wait for the others to show up.
“I heard that!” Sue tells them. “And you can count on it, Oprah.”
-
Sam brings his guitar and two copies of the music in every day of the week, and every day, something stops him. Normally, it’s Sue. Sometimes, it’s just a feeling in his stomach, like a siren going off all through his bloodstream letting him know he’s not ready for this.
This is what Kurt meant, he realises. That feeling is why Kurt wanted to give them time before jumping into what Sam’s trying to force them to be ready for. Right now, he just doesn’t want to announce it in Mckinley like that - even if they’re all aware enough, really. He doesn’t want to have to make the big statement to all of their friends, their school, and doesn’t want it to change anything like he knows it will there, where everyone gets judged enough already.
“What’s so urgent?” Kurt asks, rolling his eyes fondly at Sam when he moves behind him and slips his coat off his shoulders. He cleans his boots off on Sam’s welcome mat then stands there, smiling expectantly and rolling up on the balls of his feet towards him every so often.
Sam smiles back, feeling kind of sick with adrenaline. He called Kurt up on an impulse and asked him to come over before he overthought it. Now feels like the right time, he assures himself, and that’s still true.
“I kind of need your help with something,” he explains, swallowing thickly. He takes a breath, then slips his hands into Kurt’s, leaning towards him. “It’s - it’s pretty important.”
With a sobering expression, Kurt blinks up at him, says, “Oh.” He looks momentarily nervous, then sees something in Sam's face that makes him straighten and lightly squeeze around his fingers reassuringly. “Of course.”
Sam smiles. He’s kind of nervous, too, but he doesn’t really expect anything bad. He knows he shouldn’t at all, but the lingering fear is still there, anyway, more insistent now that ever.
He walks them backwards into the empty living room, leading Kurt by the hands. His parents voices filter in through the half-closed kitchen door, and Kurt starts at the sound, like he’s just now understanding.
“Ready?” Sam asks, half directed at Kurt and half at himself. He knows he is: he knows it has to be now.
In answer, Kurt raises himself up to Sam’s height and takes a few unstable steps on his toes to bump his lips against the corner of Sam’s in a hard, brief kiss. He stares into Sam’s face, eyes bright when he nods, and it helps Sam forgets about the part of him that’s scared of this.
They stop a foot from the door, and he lets one of Kurt’s hands go. His mom laughs inside, and it’s a comforting sound, enough to be what makes him tear his eyes from Kurt’s and resolutely push the door separating them open.
“Guys,” he says, voice even, calm. Kurt’s thumb rubs his knuckles, comfortingly.
His dad turns from the cooker, the billow of steam from the pot in front of him fading out after he closes it over; by his side, his mom looks over her shoulder and her eyes land on their locked hands. There’s no going back now, Sam thinks, taking a breath, and that’s okay.
More than anything right now, he wants them to know.
“Maybe you should, like...” He vaguely waves his free hand at the breakfast table. “Sit down.”
His parents share a look, and even though he’s pretty sure they’ve been preparing for this to happen for a while, they still oblige him, wordlessly, looking politely interested.
There’s a pause where Sam presses his lips together and tries to think of how to say this, Kurt’s grip firm and steadying as he does, then his dad prompts him with an encouraging, “What’s up, you two?”
His parents smile at both of them. He feels sure they already know now, but he needs to say it to them, regardless.
After more jumbled ideas on how to phrase it he just shakes his head, smiles. He looks at them both and says, more easily than he thought he could, “I’m gay.”
Kurt’s fingers twitch around his, first. Then his dad’s chair squeaks across the tiles as he moves closer until he can reach out and take Sam’s free hand, and his mom stands up to give him a hug, and they’re both still just smiling at him the same as before.
“We had an idea,” his dad says, squeezing around his palm.
His mom stands back to give him an appreciative look. “I’m glad you told us,” she tells him, putting her hand against his cheek, then he wraps her up in his arms, tightly, and feels dizzy with relief.
Over her shoulder he sees his dad clapping Kurt on the arm with his grin, and when Kurt’s eyes catch his own, he winks and has to let out a breathless, elated laugh.
-
His parents insist Kurt stay at least until Stevie and Stacey are home from swimming lessons, and after that both he and Sam know he’ll be made to stay for dinner too, like always; only this time it feels less like this is just Sam’s mom and dad being themselves and more like having their approval.
“That was nerve-wracking even for me, and I just stood there and did nothing while they were completely nice people,” Kurt says when they get to Sam’s room, dropping heavily onto Sam’s gaming chair.
His face is still tinged red from earlier and Sam keeps having this fantasy of grabbing him and kissing him hard then saying something cool and charming (a thousand of Spiderman’s worst puns come to mind on cue, even a few choice Batman and Robin quotes) that he blames on the adrenaline, even if it still doesn’t go away when he’s sure he’s calmed down a little.
“It probably couldn’t have gone any better,” Sam says, smiling. “It was still weirdly intense and kind of made me want to throw up and everything, but if they hadn’t reacted like that, it would’ve been way, way more intense and I'd have really, probably thrown up.”
They never would have, and Kurt’s amused little smile tells him he knows as much, too.
Something occurs to him, suddenly.
“I have something for you.”
Kurt gives him a curious look.
“I wanted to sing this song to you in glee club. Well, I wanted to sing it with you, but...” Sam swallows, shakes his head. “Even though I want everyone to know how I feel about you, I need you to know first.” He looks searchingly into Kurt’s surprised face. “Would you sing it with me? I have everything here, my guitar and the lyrics and -”
“Yes,” Kurt agrees, breathlessly. He nods, sits up, smiles. “Of course.”
His eyes catch Sam’s, and his smile broadens. The one Sam flashes back is dopey, sort of overly-happy, but he doesn’t care and Kurt only laughs. He gets the sheet music off the desk and slings his guitar over his shoulders, then turns to find Kurt’s moved to sit on his bed, too, and is watching him expectantly with warm, shiny eyes.
Sam looks at him for a moment, smiling, then takes the spot beside him and hands him the music.
“‘Cause I Love You,” Kurt reads, half-laughing, half-touched. He gives Sam a quick look that lasts long enough for him to see the pleased curve of his mouth and the new redness in his cheeks. “My dad loves Johnny Cash.” He presses his lips together after he says it, like he finds it funny. “We should stop talking about our parents now, right?”
Nodding, Sam agrees, “It’d probably be best.”
They smile at each other for a moment, then Sam says, fumblingly, “I should - uh, yeah,” before starting to play, and Kurt laughs again, quietly.
Sam starts to sing, feeling swallowed by the beginning anxiety that starts off every song before Kurt sings back to him in answer and clears it away, voice calming, as lovely as ever. His fingers stutter on the neck of the guitar when Kurt turns to him during the chorus and smiles around the words I’ll be there beside you, but it still sounds perfect, Sam thinks: the way their voices twine together, steady and sweet over the sound of his excited hands on the guitar.
“If we’re ever parted I will keep the tie that binds us,” they sing, and Sam’s heart beats harder the closer they are to the end, the longer Kurt looks at him this contented way. It’s so close now, and Sam’s anticipating - something after, something certain, like a kiss - “And I’ll never let it break ‘cause I love you.”
The last note lingers, then dwindles off. Sam keeps looking at Kurt afterwards, breathing too fast, then slips his guitar off his shoulders, setting it against the wall, and waits for his heartbeat to settle before facing Kurt again.
At his side, Kurt stands up, briefly fidgeting with his hands, anxious looking, before giving Sam that happy look again and reaching out to slide his hand underneath the curve of his jaw. Almost immediately, Sam leans into the warmth of his palm, his soft skin, and can’t tone down the smile that spreads across his face. He puts his hand over Kurt’s, threading his fingers through the spaces between his.
Kurt steps closer into the spread of his legs, close enough that when Sam looks up at him his chin touches just above Kurt’s stomach. The heat of Kurt’s body against his makes him dizzy, and the intent way Kurt looks back down at him while he slides his other hand into Sam’s hair.
“You should be proud of yourself,” he tells Sam, lowly, sincerity audible in his voice. Looking into his face, Sam thinks for a minute that he looks like he might cry and then feels like he wants to, too, in this deliriously happy way. “I’m proud of you. And I’ve missed you.” He strokes his thumb against Sam’s temple and Sam presses his face into his stomach, pulling him closer by the waist and breathing him in.
“Me too,” Sam murmurs, the words muffled. Both of Kurt’s hands slowly card through his hair, and Sam has two of his tightly clutching Kurt’s waist, trying to bring him as close as possible. He looks up at Kurt, quickly presses his lips against the the closest spot on his arm, on the inside of his elbow. “I want us to be together.”
Sam can feel it when Kurt lets out a long breath. His body relaxes under his hands, and Sam slips his hands up beneath his shirt to knead at his hips, the skin there hot and smooth under his touch. Kurt makes a breathy sound in answer, says in a soft voice, “So do I, I -”
Then he gives Sam an unfocused look, his lips looking wet in the light, and he stoops down low to kiss Sam hard on the lips.
-
On Sunday, Santana drags him out to the mall in the search of a dress for a party at some jock’s house next weekend, even though he has no idea what looks nice and even though she has no interest in jocks, their houses, or their parties.
After he tells her what happened with Kurt, she stops flicking through racks of short dresses to ask, “So, what, are you guys like...”
She points her two index fingers out then starts hitting them off of each other.
“Are we...” he echoes, struggling. He squints at her hands. “Swordfighting?”
She looks between her two fingers and holds one up in his face, and then the other, explaining, “These are your dicks.” Then she hits them off of each other again, giving Sam a lewd smile when she adds, “This is you guys fucking.”
He glances around them and puts his hands over hers, trying to hide them from the four kids he’s saw in this store so far. “We started dating yesterday,” he reminds her, taking her hands back down to her sides. It gives him a funny thrill to say it.
He’s dating Kurt.
“Stop looking so pleased with yourself,” she tells him, but there’s no real venom in it - she just looks sort of fond, maybe even happy for him. Then she starts digging through the dresses again and pulls out something leather with gold studs on the shoulders Sam doesn’t really get but knows she’d probably still look good in. “I’m just saying, you know, sounds like you guys were going at it before the kiddies came home. When that starts, well, you know what they say.” On her way to the changing rooms she slaps his butt and finishes, “Once you've got ass, you never say pass.”
-
Sam gets dropped off at school and ends up just sort of awkwardly standing outside, looking up at it for a good five minutes and playing with the strap of his bag. He feels like maybe Kurt should be here, taking his hand so going inside doesn’t feel so big anymore; or Santana should be charging in with him in tow, assuring him he can pork who he wants; or Mike should be with him, saying nothing but resting a comforting hand on his arm all the way inside.
Instead, it’s Artie.
“‘Sup,” he offers, appearing by his side.
He nods his head at Sam and Sam nods back, and then two of them are there together, staring up at the school and not moving. Everyone else is making their way inside around them, and Sam glances at them feeling an odd mix of happiness and anxiety, and then guilt for having anxiety - like he owes Kurt never to be nervous about this.
“Is this the big day?” Artie asks after another moment, re-adjusting his glasses.
When Sam turns to him, Artie is just giving him his knowing little half-smile. “Yeah,” he answers through a dry throat, then can’t help giving Artie a smile back.
“Mazel tov. So, you need another minute? You need my help getting the game face on first? Psyching up? I can give you a pretty accurate guess at what Kurt would think of your outfit, too.”
Sam snorts and looks down at himself. “He’d say blue’s my colour.”
Artie clicks his fingers, tells him, “Knew it.” Then he looks back up at Sam. “You know, I’ve learned that the best way to not want to stay home every day in case some jocks decide it’s time to dowse me in sugary goodness is to think about why it’s all worth it.” He shrugs. “And maybe you don’t know when someone’s gonna try hurting you, but you’ve always got people around to make it better. I know you haven’t totally meshed into glee club yet but - you’ve at least got Kurt, man. You guys look Hallmark card levels of disgustingly happy when you’re together.”
Artie gives him his comforting smile again, then gestures his head back at the school, eyebrows raised in question. Then he gives Sam’s arm a light punch. “Y’hear me?”
Unable to stop his grin spreading, Sam agrees, “I do,” and suddenly the anxiety and the guilt have gone, and he’s back to just feeling happy, relieved.
Artie reaches up to slap the handlebars of his wheelchair. “Then start pushing, damnit.”
-
In History, once his eyes find Kurt at their table, setting out his highlighters, he walks towards him with his dopey smile plastered across his face. Kurt looks pleased and flushed to see him and greets him with a breathy, “Hi,” through the curve of his mouth.
Sam just takes his seat and continues grinning at him.
He can remember bruising Kurt’s lips and having him laugh against his neck, warm and giddy. He can remember the soft touch of Kurt’s hands on him. He can remember the pace, the sound of Kurt’s stilted breathing. He can remember more than is probably appropriate for class.
Tentatively, he reaches one hand out and twines two of his fingers around Kurt’s on the desk. Kurt looks surprised by it, but the look he gives Sam is all toe-curling warmth.
His voice is soft, with an audible smile. “Blue’s your colour.”
Sam squeezes his fingers again and laughs quietly. He takes his book out, one handed, flicking through pages to get to the next blank one. Instead he lands on a sheet that only says, dont give up on this.
Pairing: Kurt/Sam, most canon S2 pairings.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: Junior year doesn't go the way Kurt expects. S2 rewrite.
Part 1a / Part 1b / Part 1c | AO3
You Might Need Me
Mike and Santana are still there the next morning - Mike because he wants to help Sam clean up, and Santana because she wants to find out what happened with he and Kurt last night, lie on his couch and eat all of his food. Sam still thanks them both in the morning, because he’d rather wake up feeling kind of stupid but not alone than wake up in an empty house, feeling really, really stupid.
“You missed a spot,” Santana tells Mike helpfully, leaning back on his couch and lifting her feet, pointing to the space of floor beneath. He gives it a quick vacuum and doesn’t even try asking her to help again.
Even though Sam’s gotten rid of the last few crinkled beer cans lying around, the house still smells like a night of underaged teenage stupid decisions. He opens the windows, airs it out, has one annoyingly insistent hangover that makes Mike lead him to sit down at Santana’s side in concern.
He rubs his temples and groans. “Like, everything I did yesterday is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”
Santana nods in agreement, even though he hasn’t told her anything that happened yesterday yet. Mike sits next to him and rubs his back.
“It was that bad?”
Sam replays it in his head. He thinks of getting drunk and hiding Kurt away upstairs. The blurry way he saw Kurt and the way Kurt looked back at him, like the last few months together never happened, like Sam didn’t know how the ridges of his teeth felt under his tongue, like they were strangers to each other. He hears himself calling out Kurt’s name but it gets swallowed by voices he doesn’t know; he feels himself taking hasty steps towards him but he gets blocked by a swarm of people he doesn’t know.
Then Kurt is slamming the front door and leaving him.
The phantom sound leaves vibrations in his ears like the sound of rattling hinges, and he squeezes his eyes shut, covering them with an unsteady hand.
Mike still has a hand on his back, and even Santana has straightened beside him to give him a worried look. But he can’t tell them anything: he can’t say that he doesn’t know if he threw up this morning because of a night of binge drinking or because he feels like the crappiest mix between being heartbroken and lovesick. Santana would definitely hit him for the second one.
“Pretty bad,” Sam murmurs after another moment. He leans back slowly until he’s sinking into the cushions, then gives Mike a small smile. “Thanks for helping out. Especially with, you know, the vomit someone left in my closet.”
Mike waves him off, like it wasn't unforgettably traumatic. “Don’t worry about it.”
He and Santana are still giving him concerned looks. When Mike asks if he’s okay before he leaves he says he’s fine, just sick from yesterday, and closes the door feeling glad Santana’s still around - Santana who knows, and without any awkward confessions and without ever making it big deal.
He asks her to do him a favour, and from her completely horizontal position on the couch, she huffs, “God, haven’t I done enough today?” and gets up.
They end up in the bathroom, Sam’s head over the bath’s rim and Santana on the edge of the toilet seat snapping on a pair of plastic gloves and reading the back of a bottle of dye.
“He got you this for Christmas?” she asks. Sam can hear practically hear the included cocked eyebrow. “Sounds like he wants the carpet to match the drapes before he gets down there. He's a total freak when it comes to colour schemes. Even pubic ones, I guess.” She nudges his bare arm with her knee. “So, now?”
Sam holds his towel tighter to his shoulders, nodding. “Yeah. Go for it.”
“Just a quick heads up,” he hears the bottle pop open, “I’ve never done this before. So don’t blame me if you come out of this looking even more gay 90s boyband member than before.”
-
There’s nothing to do in the time between Santana leaving and his family coming home except sit on his bed in the same position for a few hours and wonder if he should call Kurt or not. He’s impatient to hear his voice, but still kind of sickly worried about what he might say.
Worried that maybe, he’s blown it for good.
He drags his fingers through his slightly darker hair and takes a deep breath. Santana advised him not to call so he knows he probably definitely has to, but when? And what should he say? And what if he’s really, truly, completely blown it?
There’s only half an hour left before his family returns. He caves.
It rings, and then again, and Sam fidgets with the threads in the sides of his jeans until it stops, and the tips of his fingers are sore and red.
“Sam?”
It’s Finn.
There’s a short silence. Sam lets out a breath when it starts to make his lungs ache and presses his lips together.
“Look, I don’t think he wants to talk to you right now, dude. But not just you, I mean... anybody.” In a quieter voice, Finn tells him, “I think he’s just in one of those moods. He gave me his phone and then just locked himself away all day.”
Sam shakes his head like Finn can see him. “It was me,” he says before he can help it, “I did something yesterday that - it was stupid. I wanted to apologize.” His voice has gone soft.
It was so stupid.
“Oh...” He must hear what’s off about Sam’s tone, he must just hear something in it Sam hasn’t actually put into words because the next thing he says is, “If it helps, Rachel used to always say the best apology is a ‘big, romantic gesture.’ Before we... y’know.”
Sam stills. Finn knows - he knows. It’s not just an odd look Sam can forget, it’s not a little jibe at how much time Sam spends with his brother, it’s not at all unsure - it’s genuine relationship advice.
“So keep that in mind, yeah?” Finn asks, sounding optimistic.
With his throat feeling suddenly dry, Sam echoes, “Yeah.”
Finn is quiet on the other line for a moment that feels long and heavy. “Good luck, man.” Then the it clicks, and he’s gone.
-
It’s Monday, and Sam takes his seat next to Kurt in class hoping for the best, but the relief of at least having Kurt talk to him quickly leaves again.
“How bad was the mess the next morning?” he asks when Sam sits down. He does it with his eyes fixed on his notes and his voice carefully light.
Sam doesn’t like it.
He smiles at him anyway, even shrugs, but Kurt doesn’t look. He pulls his things out of his bag, almost anxiously watching him and feeling decidedly off as he does. “It was okay. I had some help.”
There’s a tiny quirk to Kurt’s lips like he’s trying to smile. “I’m sure Santana was a big hand,” he jokes, but still he won’t look at Sam as he does it. Still reading his notes, even though Sam hasn’t seen his eyes move from the same spot yet.
“She gave me a pretty good dye job,” Sam tries. He nudges Kurt’s arm, gently, tries to give a convincing smile.
Kurt turns and his eyes brighten when they land on him - Sam feels something inside of him come back to life. For a second, Kurt even smiles back at him, reaching one hand up as though to brush it across his darkened bangs before simply dropping it back down to his side again and looking away. “Suits you better,” he says, his voice low and smile fading. Then, lightly: “Do you like it?”
He stares at the same word again. Sam stares at him.
“Yeah,” he answers after a moment, softly, then he makes himself tear his eyes away, too.
Something in him desperately wants to discuss that night, but this isn’t where he wants that to happen, or how, with Kurt unable to look him in the eye and with his insides still feeling so heavy and sort of hopeless. It’ll all go away because Sam can make this better - and he'll do his best when he doesn't still have the same lingering sickness, or that perpetual fear in the back of his mind.
But for today, he sits with Kurt in silence, with no scribbled Tic-Tac-Toe games on the back page of Kurt’s textbook, no shared doodles, no whispers or nudges, no glancing to the side in the middle of class to find Kurt looking back with a warm look in his eyes that makes Sam duck his head and break into a grin - there's nothing.
Sam writes a note on his page he knows he won’t end up showing him even as he very carefully, neatly takes it down.
dont give up on this
-
Rachel notices, because she stays latched on to Kurt’s side most of the time now and because she’s been noticing for a while, having cornered Sam a total of three times this year to earnestly ask him what’s going on between he and her very good friend, Kurt.
The number jumps to four.
Sam takes his gym bag out of his locker and shrugs it over his shoulder, then swings the door closed to find Rachel’s face behind it, watching him intently. As much as Sam likes her, there’s always something intense about her that makes him feel certain she’s probably seriously thought about murdering someone before.
Right now, every part of her is telling him that.
“Sam,” she greets, voice clipped, and gives him a quick once over. “Nice hair, it suits you much better." She steps closer and Sam cautiously backs away. “I heard you had a party this weekend.” Her hand is placed over her chest as she says, “Not that I, or anyone else in glee club who isn’t a member of the Cheerios or the football team would know since we weren’t invited - but I’ll chalk that up to an oversight on your part because that’s not what this is about.”
“There weren’t invitations or anything, it was more just, you know, showing up,” he explains, honestly. Then he adds, with some dread, “What is it about?”
Rachel tilts her head, still looking at him with her too-bright, too-focused eyes. “We weren’t invited, but I’m sure you couldn’t not ask Kurt, even if he didn’t mention it - even if you were borderline ignoring him for weeks before, but that’s not what this is about, either.” Suddenly, more than anything she looks worried. “Did he go?”
Tightening the hand on his bag strap, Sam briefly looks around them at the wave of students passing by. “Look, Rachel, if he hasn’t said anything to you it’s because he doesn’t want you to know.”
“I know he doesn’t!” Her voice has raised slightly. She looks up at Sam with her eyebrows furrowed. “But whatever happened made him upset, regardless of whether he’ll explain why, and from what I know, you feel the same way.” Biting her lip, she leans in to him and says with startlingly genuine eyes, “Even if you guys won’t tell anyone what’s happening between you, it’s not that hard to guess. You...” She struggles, glancing down at the ground with a small frown before looking back up at him. “You care about each other so much.”
It’s so strange to hear her acknowledge it. For a moment it makes Sam feel disconnected, far-off, then he settles back into his skin where the words you care about each other so much are still bruising into his skin.
It hurts, knowing that Kurt hurts because of him.
He swallows down the new dryness in his throat and looks away from her. “I haven’t been able to get him alone to talk about it,” he tells her quietly, pressing his lips together. The halls are emptying, and he’s going to be late to class but he feels so heavy he can’t move an inch, anchored to the spot. He looks into Rachel’s face and tells her, voice steady, “I’m gonna make this okay.”
Rachel stares back at him for a moment, searchingly, and then her face softens and she smiles to herself, squeezing her books to her chest. “Good.” She nods at him approvingly. “Because I like you, Sam. And I know how good you are.” Her smile widens. “I know how much he likes you.”
That’s strange, too, but a nicer strange, like butterflies in his stomach. It’s a reassuring thing to hear, and even if Sam assures himself he can make this right, having Rachel’s vote of confidence is still a pretty valuable thing.
“Do it soon,” Rachel instructs him, backing away down the empty corridor. She has to call out as she gets further and further away. “Preferably in song - and if you have any trouble finding one, I’m available for suggestions!”
He gives her an awkward parting wave and when she’s disappeared completely, stands there for another moment before heading out to class.
-
It’s hard to get Kurt alone when he seems to be avoiding Sam as much as possible. It’s been two days, no glee rehearsals, and they’ve only saw each other in their one shared class and at the opposite sides of the lunch table. It feels like more distance than Sam knows it is, but he’s gotten used to hanging back at the doors of Kurt’s classes and sharing more in looks between them than awkward half-smiles.
He needs it back; walking around with Santana everywhere becomes soul-destroying when she’s at this all new level of pessimism and bitchiness (Brittany had to cancel on her last weekend for 'emergency sex' with Artie), and with Mike and Quinn he’s still mostly just getting worried questions. Finn makes a point of talking to him between classes now, friendlier than ever, but he looks more concerned than anyone else.
It’s lucky when his class gets let out early for lunch to find that the only other person at the table is Kurt, with a textbook in front of him lying open but not in use while he fiddles with his phone. Sam looks at him for a moment, then the clock on the wall.
He has five minutes at most.
He takes a deep breath before walking towards him and sitting at his side, somewhere that feels familiar and warm when their arms and legs touch so slightly together.
“Hi,” he starts, and Kurt’s surprised enough that he has to look his way.
He blinks and glances at the empty cafeteria around them, then his eyes fall warily back on Sam. “Hey.” There’s another brief, considering moment, and then Kurt slips his phone into his pocket and closes his book over, turning to Sam fully with the same little signs on anxiousness in his tight expression as Sam feels.
“I’m sorry about Friday,” he says, quietly but sincerely. Kurt looks surprised again, his face softening, and Sam wants to curl his hands around the loose fist at Kurt’s side but can’t. “And even before Friday, I wasn’t treating you right for a while, and - I’m sorry, Kurt. I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.” He shakes his head, seriously. “Not ever.”
Because Kurt doesn’t deserve to be hidden. Sam still has trouble imagining himself leading him up his staircase and away, out of sight together still feels a little sick thinking about the whole night, thinking about the weeks before he’s almost blocked out - weeks of wanting to be with Kurt but refusing himself. A lifetime of being scared.
He looks into Kurt’s face and tries to ground himself again.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, touching his hand lightly to Kurt’s.
Wide eyed, Kurt stares back, then looks off to the side and starts shaking his head. “There’s a lot going on in your life right now. It’s okay.” Sam wants to protest, and hears a weight in the words that’s hiding more, more than Kurt is telling him, but then Kurt adds, softly, “I’m sorry, too, for avoiding you.” He smiles at Sam like he’s laughing at himself. “It was stupid.”
“We’re just not used to arguing,” Sam explains. He squints his eyes up like he’s thinking of possible improvements. “We don’t know how to handle it. I think there should’ve been more angry songs about each other and bitch-slapping.”
Kurt hums at his side. “Next time I’ll try throwing my drink over your face.” He’s smiling when he catches Sam’s eye, in a way he’s been pretty desperate to see again. It lightens him, clears away all the stress and strangeness of the past few days. Weeks.
“All good?” Sam asks after a moment’s hesitation. He bumps Kurt’s shoulder with his own and smiles.
Kurt just smiles back at him, but it’s oddly sad looking. Then he nods, agrees, “Of course.”
Sam wants to press further but doesn’t get the time. The bell rings when he opens his mouth to question it, and then Kurt is packing his things away and pulling out his lunch and Sam is just watching, a little confused but still mostly relieved. People start loudly crowding the cafeteria so he drops it for now.
“Kiss and make up?” Puck asks, appearing side-by-side with Rachel, Santana closely following them. They both take seats on the other side of the table while Santana drops next to Sam, then Puck puckers his lips at Kurt until he has to block the sight of him with his hand.
He throws a grape at him, scowls, even blushes a little. “Don’t make me sick on my lunch.”
Rachel catches Sam's eye and winks. Santana tugs lightly on some of his newly-darkened hair and whispers, "You're welcome."
-
Everything kind of is back to normal but at the same time, kind of isn’t.
“Well, what isn’t?” Quinn asks, losing patience.
She’s in a bad mood because she feels sick, but she can’t leave class because Coach Sylvester would never let her hear the end of it. The more time she spends pretending to stretch off to the side with him, the more time Coach Sylvester has to think up traumatizing insults to throw at them as it is.
Ever since she, Santana and Brittany quit the Cheerios, gym class with Sue has became, if possible, an even more terrifying hour of the day, which Sam really didn’t think was possible since once she tried to punish him for asking what the time was through a choice of either making him run 300 laps around the school or sawing off his favourite finger (“And I know you and some of those humongous tree branches shooting out of your hand have gotten very intimately acquainted! Don’t try to hide it, Collagen Head, I can see the evidence in your lippy face!”).
Plus, it’s Valentine’s Day, and cheery holidays are always a good way to make her even more Sue.
Sam spots her in the distance, apparently too busy running directly behind Jacob Ben Israel, mouth looking wide open in an angry yell even from so far away, and he squints in the sunlight, thinking he can see a stick in her hand, jabbing into his back every once in a while. He doubts she’ll notice them talking.
“I don’t know,” he answers finally, frowning. It must have been bad for a while if even Quinn’s asking if they’re friends again - there was a period before when Sam stuck to the jocks instead of Kurt or the club, an admittedly dumb period, but he’d never thought someone as detached as Quinn had noticed, or anyone else, really.
He scuffs his trainers against the dirt, trying to think. Since he and Kurt moved past the whole party disaster, they’ve spent as much time together as before, making the same faces at each other when Mr Schuester’s back is turned and exchanging the same smiles.
But Sam sort of expected something more.
He says as much, quietly, and then Santana stops smirking at the way Quinn sways unstably with every movement to look at him.
“Why don’t you just say that? It’s Valentine’s Day for Christ’s sake, God himself is making this is easy for you.” She glances down, where Brittany is leant over, touching her toes. “It’s not like he’s with some other guy, or like he’d say no,” she says softly, eyebrows drawn, “You both want it just as bad.” Then she sharpens, turning her gaze back on Sam, who stills, alternately staring at Quinn and Brittany for a reaction.
He’s never really told them he likes Kurt before, or that liking guys is a thing that he does. He talks around it, kind of, hints at it, but the girls never say anything so until this point he’s thought they’ve kind of but never really known.
Santana keeps staring at him, wide-eyed, then guiltily looks away. Two of her fingers curl around his palm and squeeze, reassuringly.
Apparently they’ve always really known, though.
“She does have a point,” Quinn agrees, still keeping a watchful, glassy eye on where Sue is chasing Jacob across the field and looking completely unsurprised all the while, if a little pale and sickly.
Brittany stretches up, yawning and making a small noise. “Totally. And what if the guy from Dalton asks him out first?” She looks genuinely worried by this. “Santana says she heard children crying in his hair.”
Sam looks between them both, mouth parted in surprise, then at Santana, who bumps her hip off of his with a smile and says, “That's 100% true.”
Later at glee practice, he finds Kurt sitting in the front row of chairs with Puck’s guitar slung around him while Puck sits at the piano with Lauren, staring at her with a weird, dreamy look in his eye while she bangs down on random keys.
Mr Schue has cheerfully written Love Songs!! on the board.
Of course.
Sam walks over to Kurt, steadfastly not looking at those giant, obnoxious red letters, and sits down next to him while he carefully strums one chord, over and over.
“Mercedes said I’m very good,” Kurt tells him over the continuous background noise of G, G, G, his head raised high in faux-pride.
Sam hums agreeably. Grins. “Totally, man. I love this song.”
Kurt’s elbows him in the side.
Laughing, Sam shifts a little closer in his seat, settling his hand over Kurt’s on the guitar neck. “It sounds kinda wrong. Very good, obviously, but - a little wrong, too.”
His other hand settles on the small space of seat left behind Kurt, and his chin hovers just over Kurt’s shoulder, then he holds Kurt’s hand firmer in his own and pushes his fingers further down against the strings, even though Kurt has stopped strumming and Sam’s close enough to know that he’s holding in his breath in, too.
“Try it now,” he murmurs.
A hesitating pause follows, then Kurt turns to look at him, and Sam’s already sitting so close that it makes their noses brush, that Kurt’s eyes are almost completely black when he looks at him - there’s just a thin blue ring around his pupil. Sam can still read the feeling in them, the same one settling heavily into his stomach right now and making his fingers twitch over Kurt’s, electrified by his warm skin.
Kurt quietly strums the chord out, still staring into Sam’s face.
Sam stares back. “Better.” His throat sounds dry, voice too low.
Something inside of him rises up again: that need Kurt gives him, the need to map out the freckles on his skin, the need to have him closer, the need that scares him so much sometimes that he feels like needs it gone. Even if it feels nice, like this.
The hand he has covering Kurt’s slides down, and he means to pull it away but instead he can’t stop it sliding lower, across Kurt’s smooth, bare forearm, and then he’s thumbing at the spot on the inside of his elbow where he knows a freckle sits and Kurt is letting out this quick, short breath. Their noses bump again; Sam remembers the hot taste of Kurt’s mouth.
Then Kurt pulls away, and they’re in school again, and Finn is standing in the doorway with his hands over his eyes.
Coldness hits Sam all over.
“Sam, dude, where is your other hand ‘cause I really need it to not be like, down my brother’s pants or something behind that guitar.”
“Oh my God,” Kurt chokes out, face disappearing into his hands.
Puck and Lauren turn around too, at which Sam quickly raises both of his hands innocently above his head, feeling his face heat up. Finn peeks out of a gap between his fingers and lets out a giant rush of relieved breath, one hand spread over his chest. His face scrunches up.
“I feel sick,” he huffs out, raising his palm to his forehead.
Kurt stands up, red-faced and rolling his eyes, pulling the guitar strap over his head and setting it down next to the band’s instruments. “Don’t overreact, Finn.”
“No, really - I feel sick, man.”
Frowning, Kurt walks over to inspect Finn more closely. “You’re pale,” he notices, sounding worried. He bats Finn’s hand away from his head and places his own there instead. “And warm.” He moves back again, hands on his hips while he considers. “Maybe you should go to the nurse. You’ve been kissing complete randoms all week at that booth, and God knows what they could have.”
“Quinn was feeling sick today, too,” Sam remembers.
Finn stares at him with his watery eyes, then his face scrunches up and he lets out a groan.
“Calm it, the past has told us that getting feely with Fabray can lead to way worse places,” Lauren helpfully points out, gesturing her thumb at Puck.
Mr Schuester comes in, claps his hands together enthusiastically then reluctantly has to let Finn go to the nurse. The rest of the club trails in, gradually, but all Sam can really focus on is Kurt at his side, the way their knees are touching, the way his voice sounds when he leans over to Sam while Puck prepares his song for Lauren and quietly murmurs into Sam’s ear, “Stay back after rehearsal.”
-
“I was hoping we’d get to talk today,” Sam says, grinning.
The choir room is empty except from he and Kurt now, standing behind the piano and idly flicking through the sheet music on top of it. Kurt looks at him in response, a small smile on his mouth, but keeps quiet.
After a moment’s hesitation, Sam lifts his hand to the side of Kurt’s face and gingerly touches the tip of his thumb to the dimple of his cheek. His skin is still warm, still soft, and gives Sam a thrill. “Valentine’s Day is pretty good timing for a first kiss in like...” He trails off, can’t keep the pad of his thumb away from Kurt’s shiny bottom lip. “Forever.”
Weeks. Sam doesn’t want to think about it anymore - just this, the aftermath of a shitty, lonely couple of weeks spent wondering if he’d even get them back to this point.
He leans down, heart beating so frantically it makes him feel kind of dizzy, and huffs out a heavy breath against Kurt’s lips. His hands curl around the back of Kurt’s long neck; Kurt’s make tight fists in his shirt.
“No - wait,” Kurt says, tilting his head away. Sam follows him, desperately.
His eyes are shut when Sam looks at his face and his eyebrows are drawn. “Not that I don’t want this.” He sighs, opening his eyes. “I really, really want this. But maybe you should just focus on you for a while.” The hands caught in Sam’s shirt smooth the fabric down his chest for a reassuring moment then pull away momentarily, finally settling on clasping around Sam’s wrists and sliding his hands from his neck. “I think we’ve seen that rushing this... it’s not a good idea. I don’t think you’re really ready for it.” His eyes flick to Sam’s pressed lips and he adds, absently, “And I guess I’m not, either.”
Sam stares at him, trying to take it in. He pulls his hands away, letting them hang awkwardly and heavily at his sides again and still twitching, curling, wanting to touch him again. “Oh,” he breathes. He scratches his neck for something to do and feels kind of hollow with disappointment.
Kurt’s still so near and warm - suddenly that’s overwhelming and Sam has to take a step back. “I get it, yeah. Yeah.” He rubs at the back of his neck and looks at the floor. “If you think... if you’re sure it’s best.”
He keeps curling and uncurling his hands, awkwardly, part of him beginning to worry just what Kurt thinks of him now, that maybe he wants to undo what they’ve become in the past months completely. His worries get worse and more irrational, which Sam tries never to let himself become, until Kurt’s hand is around his own, and he relaxes again. He slips his fingers between Kurt’s and feels his heart do something funny when Kurt smiles up at him, looking as nervous as he feels.
“We just need some time.” He squeezes Sam’s hand, pauses with it still warmly kept in his own, and lets it go again.
On the walk outside, Sam misses the feel of their held hands. They’re getting there, he thinks, but he knows the way he feels when he looks at Kurt means he already feels far past what they’re trying to be right now.
He knows he can’t wait long.
-
Sam doesn’t know whether taking Finn’s advice on grand romantic gestures is a solid idea, especially considering it obviously hasn’t worked for he and Rachel, who are currently broken up for the second time (that he knows of, anyway - and really, he has even less of an idea what was going on with the glee couples last year than this one, which is saying something). Maybe it hasn't worked out before, but Sam thinks he can change that.
“Gay bar by Electric Six,” Santana suggests, helpfully.
Sam lowers his notebook to give her an unimpressed look. She gives him one back for not adding her suggestion to the list of song ideas he’s barely written anything on, then they both pretend to be reading from the random book in front of them when the librarian walks by.
Santana watches her pass, then, “The Bad Touch by Bloodhound Gang.”
She shoves at his hand, the one loosely holding a pen he borrowed from Brittany last period - it’s shaped like a flamingo with real pink feathers and he knows without asking that Santana wants it when he’s done. “Come on, Sam, I’m handing you wads of gold here.”
“That’s a pretty gross way to put it, even for you.” He itches his chin with the tiny flamingo’s beak, thoughtfully, then looks down at his page with his lips pressed together. “Man, this is tougher than I thought it’d be. I thought I had a bunch of song ideas earlier, but I guess, you know...” He looks at his little list. “Not.”
Santana stares at him, pulling out the slushie she’s hidden in her bag to loudly drink the last few drops at the bottom of her cup. She stabs her straw around in the remaining sludge with a frown and sighs, “This is lame as fuck.”
A hand touches Sam’s back and he turns curiously to find Rachel standing over them clutching an armful of books, looking down intently at Sam’s open notebook.
“Songs for Kurt,” she reads, sounding weirdly breathless. Her eyes go big when she looks at Sam, mouth breaking into that broad, toothy grin. “It’s like you were calling my name.”
At his side, Santana raises her hand. “Actually, I think I did that when I said ‘lame as fuck.’ Those are the magical words that summon you leprechauns, right?”
Rachel rolls her eyes but otherwise disregards the jibe, instead giving Sam another smile, setting her books down and seating herself between them, Santana looking appalled all the while.
Without asking, Rachel draws the notebook towards her and pulls a glittery pen out of her cardigan pocket. “So, were you thinking along the lines of emotionally raw, irrefutable power ballad? Or maybe something easier to swallow - like a contemporary, pop love song.” Her eyes bore into his, seriously. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think some of Taylor Swift’s earlier work might be perfect for you. Plus, Kurt definitely appreciates a twist on the singer’s gender.”
“Uh,” Sam says, fumbling with Brittany’s pen. His face heats up - he’s really not that used to discussing what he and Kurt are with anyone but Santana and once, awkwardly, Puck.
Rachel just keeps staring.
Scratching his neck, he drops the pen on the table and turns to her. “I just want the right song, you know?” He avoids both she and Santana’s gazes, opting instead to check on his feet under the table. “Something that says the stuff I need him to know.”
The pen in Rachel’s hand clicks to life. “Elaborate.”
He shrinks into himself a little, shyly, and clears his throat. “Just that, y’know... I like him. I like everything about him. I think being with me makes him pretty happy.” He shrugs. “Maybe it could make him as happy as it makes me. Maybe.”
They say nothing, but he still feels their eyes on him, almost cripplingly heavy.
“Stuff like that,” he adds, vaguely, then awkwardly ducks his head.
Santana’s hand appears in front of him, curling around Brittany’s pen and pulling it out of sight.
He looks at them both, aware his face must be flushed by now, and finds Santana looking down at the pen in her hands and Rachel still looking back at him, softer expressions on both of their faces.
Abruptly, Rachel turns away again, staring down at the page in front of her. “That’s really sweet,” she mutters, pushing her lips together in thought.
“Actually,” he says, thinking over his own words and reaching to take her pen out her limp hand and pull the book towards himself again, “I think I’ve got it.”
-
He plans to sing it in glee club, which is A Really Huge Deal as far as he’s concerned, because then effectively everyone will know - everyone, not just the club members, but the people the gossipy club members tell, and then the whole school.
They’ll have to find out, anyway, Sam tells himself. He looks into his mirror, guitar slung over his shoulders, and takes a deep breath. And that’s okay.
He plays the song again. He’ll get it perfect.
-
Sue is in the choir room today. Sue is a new member of the club, Mr Schue says.
“Isn’t that right, Sue?” he asks as the first few students filter in.
In answer, she scowls and throws the nearest song book at his head, which he dodges just in time.
Sam stays locked to the spot with his guitar case feeling too full of dread to carry inside anymore.
Mr Schuester notices him and, looking pleased to be at the other side of the room, gives Sam a pat on the shoulder, gesturing his head to the guitar around him. “You got a song for us today, Sam?” he asks, lightly, almost hopefully.
Opening his mouth, Sam’s eyes find Kurt in the front row of chairs, on the farthest one from Coach Sylvester. He’s talking to Mercedes in the row below hers, but notices Sam’s gaze and smiles brightly at him, nodding his head at the empty seat beside him. Sam closes his mouth and smiles back, distracted.
“Gay!” Sue yells.
Sam looks at her, wide-eyed, then shakes his head at Mr Schuester and shrugs. He can’t meet his eyes. “I, uh, I have a song but I don’t think it’s ready yet, so.” He squeezes the strap in his hands. “Maybe next time.”
With evident disappointment, Mr Schue claps him on the arm again, using his grip to lead Sam inside. “That’s fine, Sam, take all the time you need. I look forward to hearing it,” he adds, pointing at Sam like he’s holding him to the it.
Sam nods, mindlessly, and puts his guitar down before taking his seat beside Kurt, avoiding Sue’s eyes the whole time.
“Do you think she’s here to kill us?” Mercedes whispers to them from the row behind while they wait for the others to show up.
“I heard that!” Sue tells them. “And you can count on it, Oprah.”
-
Sam brings his guitar and two copies of the music in every day of the week, and every day, something stops him. Normally, it’s Sue. Sometimes, it’s just a feeling in his stomach, like a siren going off all through his bloodstream letting him know he’s not ready for this.
This is what Kurt meant, he realises. That feeling is why Kurt wanted to give them time before jumping into what Sam’s trying to force them to be ready for. Right now, he just doesn’t want to announce it in Mckinley like that - even if they’re all aware enough, really. He doesn’t want to have to make the big statement to all of their friends, their school, and doesn’t want it to change anything like he knows it will there, where everyone gets judged enough already.
“What’s so urgent?” Kurt asks, rolling his eyes fondly at Sam when he moves behind him and slips his coat off his shoulders. He cleans his boots off on Sam’s welcome mat then stands there, smiling expectantly and rolling up on the balls of his feet towards him every so often.
Sam smiles back, feeling kind of sick with adrenaline. He called Kurt up on an impulse and asked him to come over before he overthought it. Now feels like the right time, he assures himself, and that’s still true.
“I kind of need your help with something,” he explains, swallowing thickly. He takes a breath, then slips his hands into Kurt’s, leaning towards him. “It’s - it’s pretty important.”
With a sobering expression, Kurt blinks up at him, says, “Oh.” He looks momentarily nervous, then sees something in Sam's face that makes him straighten and lightly squeeze around his fingers reassuringly. “Of course.”
Sam smiles. He’s kind of nervous, too, but he doesn’t really expect anything bad. He knows he shouldn’t at all, but the lingering fear is still there, anyway, more insistent now that ever.
He walks them backwards into the empty living room, leading Kurt by the hands. His parents voices filter in through the half-closed kitchen door, and Kurt starts at the sound, like he’s just now understanding.
“Ready?” Sam asks, half directed at Kurt and half at himself. He knows he is: he knows it has to be now.
In answer, Kurt raises himself up to Sam’s height and takes a few unstable steps on his toes to bump his lips against the corner of Sam’s in a hard, brief kiss. He stares into Sam’s face, eyes bright when he nods, and it helps Sam forgets about the part of him that’s scared of this.
They stop a foot from the door, and he lets one of Kurt’s hands go. His mom laughs inside, and it’s a comforting sound, enough to be what makes him tear his eyes from Kurt’s and resolutely push the door separating them open.
“Guys,” he says, voice even, calm. Kurt’s thumb rubs his knuckles, comfortingly.
His dad turns from the cooker, the billow of steam from the pot in front of him fading out after he closes it over; by his side, his mom looks over her shoulder and her eyes land on their locked hands. There’s no going back now, Sam thinks, taking a breath, and that’s okay.
More than anything right now, he wants them to know.
“Maybe you should, like...” He vaguely waves his free hand at the breakfast table. “Sit down.”
His parents share a look, and even though he’s pretty sure they’ve been preparing for this to happen for a while, they still oblige him, wordlessly, looking politely interested.
There’s a pause where Sam presses his lips together and tries to think of how to say this, Kurt’s grip firm and steadying as he does, then his dad prompts him with an encouraging, “What’s up, you two?”
His parents smile at both of them. He feels sure they already know now, but he needs to say it to them, regardless.
After more jumbled ideas on how to phrase it he just shakes his head, smiles. He looks at them both and says, more easily than he thought he could, “I’m gay.”
Kurt’s fingers twitch around his, first. Then his dad’s chair squeaks across the tiles as he moves closer until he can reach out and take Sam’s free hand, and his mom stands up to give him a hug, and they’re both still just smiling at him the same as before.
“We had an idea,” his dad says, squeezing around his palm.
His mom stands back to give him an appreciative look. “I’m glad you told us,” she tells him, putting her hand against his cheek, then he wraps her up in his arms, tightly, and feels dizzy with relief.
Over her shoulder he sees his dad clapping Kurt on the arm with his grin, and when Kurt’s eyes catch his own, he winks and has to let out a breathless, elated laugh.
-
His parents insist Kurt stay at least until Stevie and Stacey are home from swimming lessons, and after that both he and Sam know he’ll be made to stay for dinner too, like always; only this time it feels less like this is just Sam’s mom and dad being themselves and more like having their approval.
“That was nerve-wracking even for me, and I just stood there and did nothing while they were completely nice people,” Kurt says when they get to Sam’s room, dropping heavily onto Sam’s gaming chair.
His face is still tinged red from earlier and Sam keeps having this fantasy of grabbing him and kissing him hard then saying something cool and charming (a thousand of Spiderman’s worst puns come to mind on cue, even a few choice Batman and Robin quotes) that he blames on the adrenaline, even if it still doesn’t go away when he’s sure he’s calmed down a little.
“It probably couldn’t have gone any better,” Sam says, smiling. “It was still weirdly intense and kind of made me want to throw up and everything, but if they hadn’t reacted like that, it would’ve been way, way more intense and I'd have really, probably thrown up.”
They never would have, and Kurt’s amused little smile tells him he knows as much, too.
Something occurs to him, suddenly.
“I have something for you.”
Kurt gives him a curious look.
“I wanted to sing this song to you in glee club. Well, I wanted to sing it with you, but...” Sam swallows, shakes his head. “Even though I want everyone to know how I feel about you, I need you to know first.” He looks searchingly into Kurt’s surprised face. “Would you sing it with me? I have everything here, my guitar and the lyrics and -”
“Yes,” Kurt agrees, breathlessly. He nods, sits up, smiles. “Of course.”
His eyes catch Sam’s, and his smile broadens. The one Sam flashes back is dopey, sort of overly-happy, but he doesn’t care and Kurt only laughs. He gets the sheet music off the desk and slings his guitar over his shoulders, then turns to find Kurt’s moved to sit on his bed, too, and is watching him expectantly with warm, shiny eyes.
Sam looks at him for a moment, smiling, then takes the spot beside him and hands him the music.
“‘Cause I Love You,” Kurt reads, half-laughing, half-touched. He gives Sam a quick look that lasts long enough for him to see the pleased curve of his mouth and the new redness in his cheeks. “My dad loves Johnny Cash.” He presses his lips together after he says it, like he finds it funny. “We should stop talking about our parents now, right?”
Nodding, Sam agrees, “It’d probably be best.”
They smile at each other for a moment, then Sam says, fumblingly, “I should - uh, yeah,” before starting to play, and Kurt laughs again, quietly.
Sam starts to sing, feeling swallowed by the beginning anxiety that starts off every song before Kurt sings back to him in answer and clears it away, voice calming, as lovely as ever. His fingers stutter on the neck of the guitar when Kurt turns to him during the chorus and smiles around the words I’ll be there beside you, but it still sounds perfect, Sam thinks: the way their voices twine together, steady and sweet over the sound of his excited hands on the guitar.
“If we’re ever parted I will keep the tie that binds us,” they sing, and Sam’s heart beats harder the closer they are to the end, the longer Kurt looks at him this contented way. It’s so close now, and Sam’s anticipating - something after, something certain, like a kiss - “And I’ll never let it break ‘cause I love you.”
The last note lingers, then dwindles off. Sam keeps looking at Kurt afterwards, breathing too fast, then slips his guitar off his shoulders, setting it against the wall, and waits for his heartbeat to settle before facing Kurt again.
At his side, Kurt stands up, briefly fidgeting with his hands, anxious looking, before giving Sam that happy look again and reaching out to slide his hand underneath the curve of his jaw. Almost immediately, Sam leans into the warmth of his palm, his soft skin, and can’t tone down the smile that spreads across his face. He puts his hand over Kurt’s, threading his fingers through the spaces between his.
Kurt steps closer into the spread of his legs, close enough that when Sam looks up at him his chin touches just above Kurt’s stomach. The heat of Kurt’s body against his makes him dizzy, and the intent way Kurt looks back down at him while he slides his other hand into Sam’s hair.
“You should be proud of yourself,” he tells Sam, lowly, sincerity audible in his voice. Looking into his face, Sam thinks for a minute that he looks like he might cry and then feels like he wants to, too, in this deliriously happy way. “I’m proud of you. And I’ve missed you.” He strokes his thumb against Sam’s temple and Sam presses his face into his stomach, pulling him closer by the waist and breathing him in.
“Me too,” Sam murmurs, the words muffled. Both of Kurt’s hands slowly card through his hair, and Sam has two of his tightly clutching Kurt’s waist, trying to bring him as close as possible. He looks up at Kurt, quickly presses his lips against the the closest spot on his arm, on the inside of his elbow. “I want us to be together.”
Sam can feel it when Kurt lets out a long breath. His body relaxes under his hands, and Sam slips his hands up beneath his shirt to knead at his hips, the skin there hot and smooth under his touch. Kurt makes a breathy sound in answer, says in a soft voice, “So do I, I -”
Then he gives Sam an unfocused look, his lips looking wet in the light, and he stoops down low to kiss Sam hard on the lips.
-
On Sunday, Santana drags him out to the mall in the search of a dress for a party at some jock’s house next weekend, even though he has no idea what looks nice and even though she has no interest in jocks, their houses, or their parties.
After he tells her what happened with Kurt, she stops flicking through racks of short dresses to ask, “So, what, are you guys like...”
She points her two index fingers out then starts hitting them off of each other.
“Are we...” he echoes, struggling. He squints at her hands. “Swordfighting?”
She looks between her two fingers and holds one up in his face, and then the other, explaining, “These are your dicks.” Then she hits them off of each other again, giving Sam a lewd smile when she adds, “This is you guys fucking.”
He glances around them and puts his hands over hers, trying to hide them from the four kids he’s saw in this store so far. “We started dating yesterday,” he reminds her, taking her hands back down to her sides. It gives him a funny thrill to say it.
He’s dating Kurt.
“Stop looking so pleased with yourself,” she tells him, but there’s no real venom in it - she just looks sort of fond, maybe even happy for him. Then she starts digging through the dresses again and pulls out something leather with gold studs on the shoulders Sam doesn’t really get but knows she’d probably still look good in. “I’m just saying, you know, sounds like you guys were going at it before the kiddies came home. When that starts, well, you know what they say.” On her way to the changing rooms she slaps his butt and finishes, “Once you've got ass, you never say pass.”
-
Sam gets dropped off at school and ends up just sort of awkwardly standing outside, looking up at it for a good five minutes and playing with the strap of his bag. He feels like maybe Kurt should be here, taking his hand so going inside doesn’t feel so big anymore; or Santana should be charging in with him in tow, assuring him he can pork who he wants; or Mike should be with him, saying nothing but resting a comforting hand on his arm all the way inside.
Instead, it’s Artie.
“‘Sup,” he offers, appearing by his side.
He nods his head at Sam and Sam nods back, and then two of them are there together, staring up at the school and not moving. Everyone else is making their way inside around them, and Sam glances at them feeling an odd mix of happiness and anxiety, and then guilt for having anxiety - like he owes Kurt never to be nervous about this.
“Is this the big day?” Artie asks after another moment, re-adjusting his glasses.
When Sam turns to him, Artie is just giving him his knowing little half-smile. “Yeah,” he answers through a dry throat, then can’t help giving Artie a smile back.
“Mazel tov. So, you need another minute? You need my help getting the game face on first? Psyching up? I can give you a pretty accurate guess at what Kurt would think of your outfit, too.”
Sam snorts and looks down at himself. “He’d say blue’s my colour.”
Artie clicks his fingers, tells him, “Knew it.” Then he looks back up at Sam. “You know, I’ve learned that the best way to not want to stay home every day in case some jocks decide it’s time to dowse me in sugary goodness is to think about why it’s all worth it.” He shrugs. “And maybe you don’t know when someone’s gonna try hurting you, but you’ve always got people around to make it better. I know you haven’t totally meshed into glee club yet but - you’ve at least got Kurt, man. You guys look Hallmark card levels of disgustingly happy when you’re together.”
Artie gives him his comforting smile again, then gestures his head back at the school, eyebrows raised in question. Then he gives Sam’s arm a light punch. “Y’hear me?”
Unable to stop his grin spreading, Sam agrees, “I do,” and suddenly the anxiety and the guilt have gone, and he’s back to just feeling happy, relieved.
Artie reaches up to slap the handlebars of his wheelchair. “Then start pushing, damnit.”
-
In History, once his eyes find Kurt at their table, setting out his highlighters, he walks towards him with his dopey smile plastered across his face. Kurt looks pleased and flushed to see him and greets him with a breathy, “Hi,” through the curve of his mouth.
Sam just takes his seat and continues grinning at him.
He can remember bruising Kurt’s lips and having him laugh against his neck, warm and giddy. He can remember the soft touch of Kurt’s hands on him. He can remember the pace, the sound of Kurt’s stilted breathing. He can remember more than is probably appropriate for class.
Tentatively, he reaches one hand out and twines two of his fingers around Kurt’s on the desk. Kurt looks surprised by it, but the look he gives Sam is all toe-curling warmth.
His voice is soft, with an audible smile. “Blue’s your colour.”
Sam squeezes his fingers again and laughs quietly. He takes his book out, one handed, flicking through pages to get to the next blank one. Instead he lands on a sheet that only says, dont give up on this.