fic: infinite minute
Media: Fic
Title: Infinite Minute
Rating: PG
Spoilers (if any): mention of that character from 3x15...
Warnings (if any): none
Word Count: 643
Disclaimer: I don't own Glee, this is a work of fiction.
Summary: Conversations under streetlamps in spring: they both really love holding each other’s hand.
Late April and the weather’s warmer and they spend weekend nights outdoors, basking under the artificial starlight of Whitman Avenue’s streetlamps.
It’s free and open and safe under there-and Blaine’s eyelashes toss lovely little shadows onto his cheekbones when they’re illuminated by the smoky orange light. Their feet are bare and Blaine tucks his cold toes under the arch of Kurt’s foot when a breeze rolls in.
Sometimes they fall into whispers when they don’t need to be whispering. Though it’s the farthest thing from secret, this place feels private: a place for whispers-and slowness and softness and sleepy sighs against the other’s chest. It’s so quiet: the night is the blackest late and the street is empty and sometimes the only things Kurt hears for minutes are the swipe of Blaine’s thumb over his cheek and Blaine’s smile (he swears he can hear it sometimes).
Blaine’s got that smile tucked into his shoulder after being swatted by Kurt for repeating one of Cooper’s dirty jokes. He stays there a minute, head bowed, and crawls his fingers over the grass, decorated with spring’s white-lace blossoms, to tangle with Kurt’s. Almost shy, he seems-head still ducked, eyes looking up at Kurt through his lashes-the notion is bizarre, of course, but doesn’t stop it from being just a little true.
“Do you even know how much I love holding your hand?” he says softly, dropping his eyes from Kurt’s to their laced fingers. Kurt furrows his eyebrows, smiles a confused smile.
“It’s just that…I don’t know…I love it. Just…whenever I’m holding your hand, nobody can say anything to hurt me. Nobody can hurt me. And I’m just…safe and protected and I just…I feel so good. Because of you.”
“Me too.” Kurt replies quietly, running a finger over Blaine’s knuckles. “And I don’t know why-I mean, yeah, I do-all of what you just said, but…you know, it’s something kids do. Hold hands. And it doesn’t mean anything to them. They hold hands to drag their friend somewhere or to keep them under their power. But when you hold my hand, I just think sometimes…how is it that we’re doing the same thing as those kids and it feels so different?”
“I don’t think those kids are quite so in love with the person whose hand they’re dragging to the jungle gym.” Blaine brings Kurt’s hand to his mouth, closes his lips around a knuckle in a kiss, and drags his lips away, leaving Kurt’s hand to rest on his cheek like a tether.
Kurt moves behind Blaine, studying the skin of Blaine’s shoulders lit by streetlamps and stars. He hooks his chin over, wraps his arms around Blaine’s waist. And Blaine shivers. He can still make him shiver; Blaine can still make Kurt shiver. Seventeen months of touches and each one still raises goosebumps. Thirteen months of kisses and each one still makes him bite an enormous smile off his lips afterwards. Eleven months of I love yous and each one still makes his chest swell up.
“You were the first boy to hold my hand. And you’re the only boy I ever want to hold my hand.” Kurt murmurs into Blaine’s neck. Blaine turns around to face him, their bare knees pressing close and warm, and the kiss tastes like an I love you.
“I will be.” Blaine nods fervently, swallows hard, presses his forehead to Kurt’s. “Always, always will be.”
And the night is silent but for Blaine’s whispers of breathing and the intermittent press of his lips to Kurt’s. And there is a feeling of closeness Kurt cannot-but does not wish to-shake, something that crackles to the surface each time this boy is next to him. And a hand-the hand that took his own one day in November and saved him-still holds his.
Title: Infinite Minute
Rating: PG
Spoilers (if any): mention of that character from 3x15...
Warnings (if any): none
Word Count: 643
Disclaimer: I don't own Glee, this is a work of fiction.
Summary: Conversations under streetlamps in spring: they both really love holding each other’s hand.
Late April and the weather’s warmer and they spend weekend nights outdoors, basking under the artificial starlight of Whitman Avenue’s streetlamps.
It’s free and open and safe under there-and Blaine’s eyelashes toss lovely little shadows onto his cheekbones when they’re illuminated by the smoky orange light. Their feet are bare and Blaine tucks his cold toes under the arch of Kurt’s foot when a breeze rolls in.
Sometimes they fall into whispers when they don’t need to be whispering. Though it’s the farthest thing from secret, this place feels private: a place for whispers-and slowness and softness and sleepy sighs against the other’s chest. It’s so quiet: the night is the blackest late and the street is empty and sometimes the only things Kurt hears for minutes are the swipe of Blaine’s thumb over his cheek and Blaine’s smile (he swears he can hear it sometimes).
Blaine’s got that smile tucked into his shoulder after being swatted by Kurt for repeating one of Cooper’s dirty jokes. He stays there a minute, head bowed, and crawls his fingers over the grass, decorated with spring’s white-lace blossoms, to tangle with Kurt’s. Almost shy, he seems-head still ducked, eyes looking up at Kurt through his lashes-the notion is bizarre, of course, but doesn’t stop it from being just a little true.
“Do you even know how much I love holding your hand?” he says softly, dropping his eyes from Kurt’s to their laced fingers. Kurt furrows his eyebrows, smiles a confused smile.
“It’s just that…I don’t know…I love it. Just…whenever I’m holding your hand, nobody can say anything to hurt me. Nobody can hurt me. And I’m just…safe and protected and I just…I feel so good. Because of you.”
“Me too.” Kurt replies quietly, running a finger over Blaine’s knuckles. “And I don’t know why-I mean, yeah, I do-all of what you just said, but…you know, it’s something kids do. Hold hands. And it doesn’t mean anything to them. They hold hands to drag their friend somewhere or to keep them under their power. But when you hold my hand, I just think sometimes…how is it that we’re doing the same thing as those kids and it feels so different?”
“I don’t think those kids are quite so in love with the person whose hand they’re dragging to the jungle gym.” Blaine brings Kurt’s hand to his mouth, closes his lips around a knuckle in a kiss, and drags his lips away, leaving Kurt’s hand to rest on his cheek like a tether.
Kurt moves behind Blaine, studying the skin of Blaine’s shoulders lit by streetlamps and stars. He hooks his chin over, wraps his arms around Blaine’s waist. And Blaine shivers. He can still make him shiver; Blaine can still make Kurt shiver. Seventeen months of touches and each one still raises goosebumps. Thirteen months of kisses and each one still makes him bite an enormous smile off his lips afterwards. Eleven months of I love yous and each one still makes his chest swell up.
“You were the first boy to hold my hand. And you’re the only boy I ever want to hold my hand.” Kurt murmurs into Blaine’s neck. Blaine turns around to face him, their bare knees pressing close and warm, and the kiss tastes like an I love you.
“I will be.” Blaine nods fervently, swallows hard, presses his forehead to Kurt’s. “Always, always will be.”
And the night is silent but for Blaine’s whispers of breathing and the intermittent press of his lips to Kurt’s. And there is a feeling of closeness Kurt cannot-but does not wish to-shake, something that crackles to the surface each time this boy is next to him. And a hand-the hand that took his own one day in November and saved him-still holds his.