Fic: spend some time forever [1/1]
Media: Fic
Title: spend some time forever
Rating: R
Spoilers: None.
Word Count: 1134
Summary: Spending the summer together, Kurt and Blaine have a lot to learn.
AN: Title comes from Weezer's 'Island in the Sun'
Blaine and Kurt have already been going out for a few months when the summer starts. Blaine goes on vacation first thanks to a private school’s shorter terms and is plagued with boredom for those long hours during the weekdays when Kurt is still at McKinley. He finds himself lingering in the foyer more than once, waiting until it wouldn’t be too obscenely early to leave for Kurt’s. It’s not even a question that they’ll be spending as much time as humanly possible together this summer. They’ve been going out for a few months when it starts but there’s still so much to learn.
Kurt learns about extended family and trips to summer houses. He learns how it feels to be one of the youngest in a slew of cousins and aunts and uncles. He learns about outdoor dinners and pointing out made-up constellations. Kurt learns exactly how it feels to have a father’s eyes dip disappointed from a son’s face to the stains of oil over a cloth. He learns what it means to not be enough because of something out of your control. He learns the lines of a mother’s arms around him, tight and warm. He learns how a mother can be the only anchoring happiness among a silent disapproval. He learns the crunch of a nose too far to the right, bruises under ribs. He learns how gravel stings when it gets into scrapes over your palms as you fall to the ground from a knee to your stomach.
Kurt learns how to hold a boy close. He learns the lines of Blaine’s face and the stretch of his eyelashes. He learns the exact shade Blaine turns from days spent loitering in the sun or singing and dancing under it at amusement park performances. He learns just how far that tan reaches. He learns the gasp and hitch of Blaine’s breathing when his hand skips over Blaine’s cheeks, his chest, his stomach, lower. He learns Blaine’s middle name and how to say his first name so that Blaine’s blood rushes and pools and his entire body cants into Kurt’s. Kurt learns the press of Blaine’s fingers on his skin and the weight of Blaine curling into him.
Blaine learns about soft, comfortable routines of summer in Lima, Ohio. He learns what it is to be two men alone together. He learns about early mornings opening to a quiet house and working at your father’s garage. Blaine learns what the swell of love over being able to pass easy jokes and snarks with your father over carburetors and engines feels like. He learns what it means to be someone’s son and for that being enough, no matter what or who you are or do. He learns the ache of wishing for a mother’s arms, tight and warm. He learns how a father can be the only anchoring happiness among a shouting disapproval. He learns the exact echo a body makes as it slams into the thin metal of a locker. He learns how words can sting just as badly as gravel and the strength it takes to hold your chin high and steady.
Blaine learns how to keep a boy close. He learns the tremble of the muscles in Kurt’s stomach and the dance they do when his fingertips tease. He learns the number of elusive freckles on Kurt’s face and shoulders that not even Kurt’s diligence can avoid. He learns how to make Kurt love those freckles by laying soft kisses over them. He learns how to solidify Kurt’s voice into groans and moans with his legs and arms wrapping around the boy. He learns Kurt’s mother’s name and how to stop breathing because of the touch of another boy, the touch of this boy. He learns the press of Kurt’s lips into his and the security of Kurt’s chest rising alongside his.
They learn each other through stories and questions and laughter and memories. They relive bruises and scars and tears and put each other back together when necessary; undo the seams and pull the insides out when that’s necessary. They whisper names and dates and feelings and close eyes against the pain of past lives, against the pleasure of others. Quiet voices spell out wishes of rewrites and send them along on the gentle breezes of summer late afternoons.
Hooking fingers together, they turn pages until blanks appear and then they write in pencil, alternating to incorporate each other. They work out hypotheticals of college in New York and an apartment after that. Sometimes there’s a big break on Broadway, sometimes there’s grad school. Sometimes Rachel is a third wheel, sometimes she’s a member of the family. Sometimes there’s Finn, sometimes there’s Jesse, sometimes there’s, inexplicably, Puck. There’s usually Mercedes and Sam, only sometimes it’s Mercedes, and Sam, and sometimes it’s Mercedes-and-Sam. Sometimes the rings are gold and sometimes they’re silver and once they’re white-gold but Kurt wrinkles his nose at that; still, they’re always present. Sometimes there’s a little girl and sometimes there’s a little boy and sometimes there’s more than one. They cycle through names and they realize the insanity of that, teasing each other through hopeful eyes.
They learn each other through careful fingerprints. They learn each other through kisses and exhales that cant up into groans and decrescendo back into whimpers. They learn the many different ways to say (shout, groan, moan, whine, gasp, whimper, plead) each other’s names. They learn each other between their sheets and over pillows and, once, caught between the cushions of the Anderson’s couch. They learn the negative space of each other’s hips, where their own fit so well; they learn the lines that trace lower and cut muscle through flesh and humming nerves. They learn each other through lips and tongue and teeth and the taste of themselves on someone else’s tongue. They learn the weight and heat of someone else on their tongue. Kurt learns the wind of curls in Blaine’s hair and Blaine learns the wind of fastenings on Kurt’s pants. They learn each other’s fingerprints catching on their own and they learn to rock in synch.
Between breaths and kisses and stories and laughter, they relearn themselves. They tear into old wounds and turn their souls over to the side gone cold. Their lips meet to whisper wishes back and forth onto each other’s tongues. Anything taboo, everything kept hidden, all things similar and all things different are shaken out of long-since locked parts of themselves to be offered to the other in effort of being close as possible, being as close to one as possible. They fall asleep to each other breathing and wake to the other having let himself in and over their bodies.
They learn to love; they relearn to be loved.
Title: spend some time forever
Rating: R
Spoilers: None.
Word Count: 1134
Summary: Spending the summer together, Kurt and Blaine have a lot to learn.
AN: Title comes from Weezer's 'Island in the Sun'
Blaine and Kurt have already been going out for a few months when the summer starts. Blaine goes on vacation first thanks to a private school’s shorter terms and is plagued with boredom for those long hours during the weekdays when Kurt is still at McKinley. He finds himself lingering in the foyer more than once, waiting until it wouldn’t be too obscenely early to leave for Kurt’s. It’s not even a question that they’ll be spending as much time as humanly possible together this summer. They’ve been going out for a few months when it starts but there’s still so much to learn.
Kurt learns about extended family and trips to summer houses. He learns how it feels to be one of the youngest in a slew of cousins and aunts and uncles. He learns about outdoor dinners and pointing out made-up constellations. Kurt learns exactly how it feels to have a father’s eyes dip disappointed from a son’s face to the stains of oil over a cloth. He learns what it means to not be enough because of something out of your control. He learns the lines of a mother’s arms around him, tight and warm. He learns how a mother can be the only anchoring happiness among a silent disapproval. He learns the crunch of a nose too far to the right, bruises under ribs. He learns how gravel stings when it gets into scrapes over your palms as you fall to the ground from a knee to your stomach.
Kurt learns how to hold a boy close. He learns the lines of Blaine’s face and the stretch of his eyelashes. He learns the exact shade Blaine turns from days spent loitering in the sun or singing and dancing under it at amusement park performances. He learns just how far that tan reaches. He learns the gasp and hitch of Blaine’s breathing when his hand skips over Blaine’s cheeks, his chest, his stomach, lower. He learns Blaine’s middle name and how to say his first name so that Blaine’s blood rushes and pools and his entire body cants into Kurt’s. Kurt learns the press of Blaine’s fingers on his skin and the weight of Blaine curling into him.
Blaine learns about soft, comfortable routines of summer in Lima, Ohio. He learns what it is to be two men alone together. He learns about early mornings opening to a quiet house and working at your father’s garage. Blaine learns what the swell of love over being able to pass easy jokes and snarks with your father over carburetors and engines feels like. He learns what it means to be someone’s son and for that being enough, no matter what or who you are or do. He learns the ache of wishing for a mother’s arms, tight and warm. He learns how a father can be the only anchoring happiness among a shouting disapproval. He learns the exact echo a body makes as it slams into the thin metal of a locker. He learns how words can sting just as badly as gravel and the strength it takes to hold your chin high and steady.
Blaine learns how to keep a boy close. He learns the tremble of the muscles in Kurt’s stomach and the dance they do when his fingertips tease. He learns the number of elusive freckles on Kurt’s face and shoulders that not even Kurt’s diligence can avoid. He learns how to make Kurt love those freckles by laying soft kisses over them. He learns how to solidify Kurt’s voice into groans and moans with his legs and arms wrapping around the boy. He learns Kurt’s mother’s name and how to stop breathing because of the touch of another boy, the touch of this boy. He learns the press of Kurt’s lips into his and the security of Kurt’s chest rising alongside his.
They learn each other through stories and questions and laughter and memories. They relive bruises and scars and tears and put each other back together when necessary; undo the seams and pull the insides out when that’s necessary. They whisper names and dates and feelings and close eyes against the pain of past lives, against the pleasure of others. Quiet voices spell out wishes of rewrites and send them along on the gentle breezes of summer late afternoons.
Hooking fingers together, they turn pages until blanks appear and then they write in pencil, alternating to incorporate each other. They work out hypotheticals of college in New York and an apartment after that. Sometimes there’s a big break on Broadway, sometimes there’s grad school. Sometimes Rachel is a third wheel, sometimes she’s a member of the family. Sometimes there’s Finn, sometimes there’s Jesse, sometimes there’s, inexplicably, Puck. There’s usually Mercedes and Sam, only sometimes it’s Mercedes, and Sam, and sometimes it’s Mercedes-and-Sam. Sometimes the rings are gold and sometimes they’re silver and once they’re white-gold but Kurt wrinkles his nose at that; still, they’re always present. Sometimes there’s a little girl and sometimes there’s a little boy and sometimes there’s more than one. They cycle through names and they realize the insanity of that, teasing each other through hopeful eyes.
They learn each other through careful fingerprints. They learn each other through kisses and exhales that cant up into groans and decrescendo back into whimpers. They learn the many different ways to say (shout, groan, moan, whine, gasp, whimper, plead) each other’s names. They learn each other between their sheets and over pillows and, once, caught between the cushions of the Anderson’s couch. They learn the negative space of each other’s hips, where their own fit so well; they learn the lines that trace lower and cut muscle through flesh and humming nerves. They learn each other through lips and tongue and teeth and the taste of themselves on someone else’s tongue. They learn the weight and heat of someone else on their tongue. Kurt learns the wind of curls in Blaine’s hair and Blaine learns the wind of fastenings on Kurt’s pants. They learn each other’s fingerprints catching on their own and they learn to rock in synch.
Between breaths and kisses and stories and laughter, they relearn themselves. They tear into old wounds and turn their souls over to the side gone cold. Their lips meet to whisper wishes back and forth onto each other’s tongues. Anything taboo, everything kept hidden, all things similar and all things different are shaken out of long-since locked parts of themselves to be offered to the other in effort of being close as possible, being as close to one as possible. They fall asleep to each other breathing and wake to the other having let himself in and over their bodies.
They learn to love; they relearn to be loved.