Happy Birthday, Jamie!
So I'd love to have that epic novel done for you today, likeasouffle, but it just ain't happening. Instead, have 642 words worth (ha ha, Wordsworth!) of Kurt Hummel's kind of dirty mostly romantic thoughts during Glee Club the week after, you know, West Side Story opened.
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The closer Kurt and Blaine get when they're alone, the farther apart they sit in glee club.
Because, seriously, if they allowed their chairs to get closer than three feet apart, it would be a hopeless cause. One of them would drop a hand in the space between them and the other would catch it, and they'd sit there, hands swinging happily in the space between them. It would be fine for a moment, comfortable and reassuring, and thrilling only in that they were doing it in front of other people, and that was so rare here at McKinley, outside of this room.
But then Blaine would probably start dragging his thumb along the back of Kurt's hand, or Kurt would slide his fingers up to trace the tendons in Blaine's wrist, and the sense memories would flood them. Kurt would remember Blaine's mouth on his palm, his wrist, his forearm, the thin skin on the inside of his elbow, and Blaine would remember the way Kurt sighed with satisfaction when the edges of their hips touched - and they wouldn't be in the choir room anymore. All the world but skin and body and scent would disappear.
So they make sure not to sit that close. Not for now, at least. Not until they're more used to this.
Though Kurt's not sure he ever wants to get used to it. He has a hard time imagining not feeling breathless every time he glimpses Blaine after any length of absence - 14 hours or 14 minutes, it's all the same. He loves the insane giddiness of it, even if he has trouble concentrating in class sometimes because the slightest thing, or nothing really, will send him off into another world and all he can see is Blaine's flushed face, eyes wide with anticipation, lips trembling and wanting and murmuring Oh God Kurt.
So he keeps his chair far from Blaine's. Far enough so he doesn't, you know, accidentally crawl into Blaine's lap and dry hump him in front of all the New Directions.
The Nude Erections.
Yup, there's a certain nude erection he'd like to see right now.
Fuck. Kurt really needs to get his mind out of the gutter.
But the thing is, where his mind is right now - it doesn't feel like the gutter at all. It feels like something transcendent.
He lets his mind stay there for a second - because Mr. Schue is listening to himself talk right now and won't let any of the New Directions/Nude Erections get a word in edgewise, and Kurt figures he's got at least two minutes before Mr. Schue gets to the point. So he lets that picture of Blaine's nude erection - well, all of Blaine, really, because he can't seem to see part of Blaine now without needing to see him all - stay in his mind. He sees the trail of dark hair beneath Blaine's perfect hollow of a belly button, the line of his hip bone, the grace of his thighs. He thinks of the musky, black-currant taste of Blaine in his mouth, the mineral-earth tang of his sweat, the honeyed salt of his tears.
He glances surreptitiously at Blaine, guiltily hopes that Blaine will look back and know what Kurt is thinking and become flummoxed and moonstruck, both.
But Blaine is dutifully looking at Mr. Schue, and very possibly listening to what he's saying, and fucking hell if Blaine's earnestness isn't as much of a turn-on as his earlobes and his neck and the way his sweater fits closely over his perfect, broad chest. Before Friday night, when Kurt would lean his face against that chest, he thought of it as like the ground - solid and stable. But on Friday night, Kurt was reminded that the ground sometimes shifts and trembles and quakes, and though that can be terrifying, it's breathtaking, too.
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The closer Kurt and Blaine get when they're alone, the farther apart they sit in glee club.
Because, seriously, if they allowed their chairs to get closer than three feet apart, it would be a hopeless cause. One of them would drop a hand in the space between them and the other would catch it, and they'd sit there, hands swinging happily in the space between them. It would be fine for a moment, comfortable and reassuring, and thrilling only in that they were doing it in front of other people, and that was so rare here at McKinley, outside of this room.
But then Blaine would probably start dragging his thumb along the back of Kurt's hand, or Kurt would slide his fingers up to trace the tendons in Blaine's wrist, and the sense memories would flood them. Kurt would remember Blaine's mouth on his palm, his wrist, his forearm, the thin skin on the inside of his elbow, and Blaine would remember the way Kurt sighed with satisfaction when the edges of their hips touched - and they wouldn't be in the choir room anymore. All the world but skin and body and scent would disappear.
So they make sure not to sit that close. Not for now, at least. Not until they're more used to this.
Though Kurt's not sure he ever wants to get used to it. He has a hard time imagining not feeling breathless every time he glimpses Blaine after any length of absence - 14 hours or 14 minutes, it's all the same. He loves the insane giddiness of it, even if he has trouble concentrating in class sometimes because the slightest thing, or nothing really, will send him off into another world and all he can see is Blaine's flushed face, eyes wide with anticipation, lips trembling and wanting and murmuring Oh God Kurt.
So he keeps his chair far from Blaine's. Far enough so he doesn't, you know, accidentally crawl into Blaine's lap and dry hump him in front of all the New Directions.
The Nude Erections.
Yup, there's a certain nude erection he'd like to see right now.
Fuck. Kurt really needs to get his mind out of the gutter.
But the thing is, where his mind is right now - it doesn't feel like the gutter at all. It feels like something transcendent.
He lets his mind stay there for a second - because Mr. Schue is listening to himself talk right now and won't let any of the New Directions/Nude Erections get a word in edgewise, and Kurt figures he's got at least two minutes before Mr. Schue gets to the point. So he lets that picture of Blaine's nude erection - well, all of Blaine, really, because he can't seem to see part of Blaine now without needing to see him all - stay in his mind. He sees the trail of dark hair beneath Blaine's perfect hollow of a belly button, the line of his hip bone, the grace of his thighs. He thinks of the musky, black-currant taste of Blaine in his mouth, the mineral-earth tang of his sweat, the honeyed salt of his tears.
He glances surreptitiously at Blaine, guiltily hopes that Blaine will look back and know what Kurt is thinking and become flummoxed and moonstruck, both.
But Blaine is dutifully looking at Mr. Schue, and very possibly listening to what he's saying, and fucking hell if Blaine's earnestness isn't as much of a turn-on as his earlobes and his neck and the way his sweater fits closely over his perfect, broad chest. Before Friday night, when Kurt would lean his face against that chest, he thought of it as like the ground - solid and stable. But on Friday night, Kurt was reminded that the ground sometimes shifts and trembles and quakes, and though that can be terrifying, it's breathtaking, too.