Happy Holidays Meridith4132!
Title: Fodder
Recipient: meridith4132
Author/Artist: to be revealed January 3rd, 2012
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Jacob Ben Israel. Minimal homophobia; dialogue only.
Word Count: ~3580
Summary: After reading the casting results for West Side Story, Jacob Ben Israel is convinced that he’s found his next story. Written for this prompt #2: Any post-audition conversations from 3x02, or post-casting from 3x03.
Notes: Happy Holidays Samantha; I hope you experience all of the joy that this season has to offer.
“SHALOM BLOGOSPHERE, Jacob Ben Israel reporting here from McKinley High.” The teenager stands in front of the April Rhodes Pavilion, his signature microphone clutched in a vice-like grip. Jacob is a serious journalist; he’s visibly eager to report, even though his face is stone-cold sober. The unsteady hands of his camera operator only amplify Jacob’s frantically restrained energy.
“It’s that time of the year, Titans. It’s a time of misery, though some might go as far as to say ‘woe’-- we’re at the cusp of the annual school play, and it looks like this year, the production might actually see opening night.” Jacob walks backward, confidently navigating the halls as they become more densely populated. He moves with distinct purpose, heedless of the students lingering by their lockers and drudging their way to class. Ever the opportunist, his eyes dart over the halls in search of anyone that he might corner for an interview.
“After last year’s scandalous and hastily aborted production of the Rocky Horror Picture Show, one can only imagine what inappropriate production one Will Schuester has in store for this year: Avenue Q? Spring Awakening?
“No, Titans. Surprisingly enough, it’s only West Side Story, and like it’s source material Romeo and Juliet, spoiler alert: it doesn’t end well,” Jacob sounds as cheerful as Jacob can sound. “Now, I know what you’re all thinking-- West Side Story? Didn’t my grandma see that? Wait-- wasn’t my grandma in that? Why should I even care? It’s not like it’s even going to see opening night anyway! To you, final naysayer, I say... good call. The underground odds are stacked against the production, but with Mr. Schuester having backed out of it’s direction and Sue Sylvester diving into political waters, could we actually have a play on our hands that stands a chance of opening?”
Jacob’s face lights up as they round a corner. He rights himself, now walking with his eyes on focused on his target. He waves his hand for the cameraman to follow, making a straight beeline for three students grouped in front of a row of lockers.
“Lemme get something straight,” Santana says heatedly, bursting into the camera’s frame. “I finally get to play a fierce Latina hottie... in a part that, let’s face it, was totally written for me... only to read through All. Of. This-” she punctuates each word with a jab of her finger to her script, voice drawn out and inflected with a Lima Heights Adjacent timber. “-to see that she almost gets gang-raped? Yeah. Good job, Hammerstein. That’s not sexist at all.”
“It was written by Arthur Laurents,” Kurt supplies distractedly, just as Blaine mouths, “Did she mean Bernstein?”
Kurt leans against a locker, long legs stretched in front of him. He smiles at Blaine before looking down to swipe something from one of his cuticles.
“Of course it was written by a man,” Santana huffs, flipping her stapled script closed and rolling it up.
Blaine smiles cheerfully once he realizes that they are no longer alone. “Hey,” he says, depositing his books into his locker. He sees the camera, the microphone, but clearly doesn’t know what to expect. His smile melts once Kurt stiffens.
Kurt stands to his full height, looking boldly into the camera. It’s only then that Blaine fidgets his thumb over his satchel’s strap, reshouldering the bag.
Without the microphone, Jacob might look meek or troubled, but with it, he has all the courage of a lion prowling the Serengeti. Courtesy of the Internet and a following of students ravenous for meanspirited tabloid journalism, there is no power that he doesn’t wield.
“We’re here with Arsonist Mastermind Santana Lopez, her accomplice --and McKinley’s Alleged Secondary Gay-- Blaine Anderson, and Student Council hopeful Kurt Hummel.” Not missing a beat, Jacob turns to stand in front of his subjects, “West Side Story: Lovers. Gangs. Rivalry. And maybe some Rachel Berry in the nude?”
Behind him, Santana makes a retching noise. The camera jerks to capture her face mid-disgust. “A guy can dream,” Jacob defends himself, pushing his thick glasses up to the bridge of his nose.
Santana steps out of her impatient turnout, unjutting her hips. “That fire was, like, three weeks ago Jacob.” She looks into the camera, “And I just want to say that no one, and I mean no one, can say I had anything to do with it.” Her lips turn up in a smirk that’s so self-satisfied that she looks as if she regularly eats canaries for breakfast. Her faux sweetness permeates each word, innocence burning like acid, “It was a total accident. People really shouldn’t smoke.”
Jacob looks to Blaine, “So you set a piano on fire in the courtyard? On your first day.”
“You should have seen what he did to the GAP,” Kurt jokes.
Blaine looks slightly abashed, but somehow vaguely pleased, “Oh, so we’re at the point where we can joke about this?”
Kurt lifts his chin with a superior, but flirtatious air. “No, we’re at the point where I can joke about this.”
“I just wanted to sing,” Blaine tells Jacob, eyes still on Kurt.
“It’s true; Blaine’s a sucker for Tom Jones,” Kurt sighs as if he’s terribly put upon. The way his head affectionately cants in Blaine’s direction suggests that he is actually put upon, but accepts his fate. “Pop, disco... You should see him when he gets his hands on art rock, it’s like watching a kitten get tangled up in a basket of yarn. I’m already ruing the day he decides that he’s ready to tackle the entire catalogue of Procol Harum... or Peter Gabriel.” He assesses Blaine quickly, “Oh my god-- you would be a Genesis fan.”
Blaine opens his mouth as if he’s about to defend himself, instead he sings, “Follow on! with a twist of the world we go. Follow on! till the gold is cold.” The camera sweeps to catch the reaction of a startled student, she side-eyes the group hard, but otherwise continues on her way.
“Yeah,” Santana recoils. “That’s my cue,” she tucks her script under her arm and wastes no time walking away.
“Congratulations on cinching the role of Tony,” Jacob transitions easily. He shifts the microphone in his grip, ready to thrust it in front of Blaine at a moment’s notice. “It’s not common for a junior to nab the lead.”
“Thank you, I’m excited.”
Blaine tries really hard not to look pleased, looking to Kurt before Kurt subtly lifts one shoulder in a way that invites Blaine to bask in the praise. Blaine casts his eyes down to the floor instead, letting the smile quirk up and then fade away.
“Have you any comment on the rumor that, since stealing the role of Tony from your lover’s clutches, your days as a couple are numbered?” Jacob offers the microphone, only to think better and pull it back to his own lips for elaboration. “Or an exclusive confirmation for my blog that the two of you are --in fact-- dating? Reports have been conflicting, what with your Cheerio mushing in the courtyard, and the rumor that you and Rachel Berry shared a very public kiss in the Lima Bean last spring.” Satisfied, he pushes the microphone back in Blaine’s face.
Blaine’s head snaps up, “For your blog?” His hesitance is visible to the camera, and he turns away to close his locker, fingers lingering on the latch.
When he looks to Kurt’s face for support, it’s to see a resigned yet understanding expression.
Blaine gapes, eyebrows raised as he stumbles for an answer, “I didn’t steal anything from Kurt. I wouldn’t.” His eyes dart between Jacob, the camera, and back to Kurt- unable to choose any one of the three. “We both auditioned, and we’ve talked about the results. Things aren’t nearly as dramatic as some people might be suggesting.”
Blaine tries to step away from his locker, but is smoothly intercepted by Jacob, “So, no comment regarding an Anderberry kiss? Nothing about the existence of a Blurt relationship?”
“There’s nothing between Rachel and I,” Blaine relaxes as a private smile creeps onto his face. His body language is directed to Kurt, who watches Blaine thoughtfully.
Undeterred, Jacob tries another question, “Kurt made a comment to me as little as a month ago that he hopes to be legally married by the age of thirty... are you denying that he meant to you?”
That rips Kurt out of his gentle reverie. The boy looks mortified, and then irritated. “-- Charming.”
“I don’t think this is really appropriate. I’m not denying Kurt... I’m just... I’m not going talk about it with you,” Blaine slides his thumb down the satchel’s strap, tilting his head down the hall. Kurt nods.
“So... you are confirming the fact that you’re gay?” Jacob lights up, turning back to the camera.
“Really?” Kurt squawks, looking between Jacob and Blaine. “Let no one ever tell you that you’re unprepared for the world of soundbite journalism, Jacob,” Kurt says, coolly sliding his hand into the crook of Blaine’s elbow and forcibly tugging him out of the interview. Together, under Kurt’s direction, they successfully sidestep both Jacob and the cameraman. “How many times have I told you not to talk to strangers, Blaine?”
Jacob reaches up to cup the camera’s body, turning it to film the pair as they walk away. The halls are considerably less dense with most students in their classes. Kurt’s hand releases Blaine’s elbow and hovers near the small of Blaine’s back, as if about to press into his sweater. Instead, Kurt drops his hand back to his side. Blaine leans closer to Kurt, brushing their shoulders as he says something that the camera can’t pick it up. Even Kurt’s voice is muffled by the distance, it looks and vaguely sounds like: ‘You’re too nice for your own good.’
Jacob turns back to the camera, snapping his fingers for his cameraman’s attention, “What do you think Blo-”
. . .
“Ugh,” Blaine grimaces. His face looks like he ate something sour, “Turn it off.”
“I don’t think it’s that bad,” Kurt backs up the video to where he’s framed from the waist up and pauses. “I mean, look how phenomenal my jacket looks with that scarf.”
Blaine levels a glare.
“No, seriously. Blaine... look, I wish they would have tilted down to get my boots.”
“Kurt--”
“--Blaine.”
The teenagers are sitting on Blaine’s bed, shoulder to shoulder. Kurt closes the video tab on his iPhone, conceding to his boyfriend’s apparent misery. “I’m guessing you want to talk?” he sits up on his knees to slide his phone into his jacket pocket.
“He was so awful,” Blaine starts. “I really-- I didn’t even know what to do, and now this thing is just... out there. It’s awful... the whole idea that you can lynch someone, film it, and put it up on a website is--”
“Awful?” Kurt teases. He throws his hands up in a playful surrender at Blaine’s dark look. Without thinking about it, he moves on the bed, knee-walking to kneel completely behind Blaine.
Blaine tries not to wriggle against his boyfriend, and Kurt holds Blaine in place by the shoulders. When Blaine turns his head to say hi, his nose brushes against Kurt’s cheek and he finally relents; Blaine sinks back into his boyfriend’s arms with a warm sigh.
Kurt’s hands slide away and he loosely drapes his arms around Blaine’s middle, so they breathe chest to back. When he leans forward, kissing Blaine’s temple, Kurt realizes that Blaine is slowing down his breathing to match his own. The realization hits him in a place that’s both proud and new; Kurt, someone who spent so much of the last year needing comfort, now has someone who depends on him.
“I love you,” Blaine mutters on an exhale. “I don’t say it enough, but I do.”
“You say it in other ways.”
“Yeah, but does that count?” he asks glumly, like he really doesn’t know what’s enough for Kurt.
“It does to me.” It’s not as if they take each other for granted, on the contrary: Kurt needs to touch Blaine in the way that he needs to memorize the texture of fabric; Blaine needs conversation with Kurt in the same way he needs to sing. By an unspoken rule, they both say ‘I love you’ when they feel like there’s no other way to communicate how their knees are knocking, or how their stomachs quiver. Their hearts feel so big that sometimes kissing says it for them; the way that Blaine’s hands shake as they timidly trace the hem of Kurt’s shirt says it, too.
To Kurt, it’s more than he ever thought he would have-- not just before Blaine, but even after they’d kissed. Everything seems to bring them closer and closer; their intimacy is limitless. So yeah, he knows that Blaine loves him. It counts and he doesn’t need to hear Blaine say it a hundred times a day, because Blaine says it a hundred different ways. Those hundred different ways make hearing it the one way all the more arresting.
When Kurt says, ‘It does to me’, he’s pretty sure that Blaine’s heart stutters the same way as if he said ‘I love you, too’.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell him we were boyfriends,” Blaine confesses, sounding like he wishes he could take back walking away. Knowing Blaine, and how much regret Blaine feels when he concedes any kind of defeat, Kurt figures that’s the only thing about the video that’s bothering Blaine. Not the fact that Jacob tried to bully him into coming out, and not the fact that there’s probably a hundred comments on the video already stating how obvious it was that Blaine was gay. He’s upset that he didn’t proudly say he was in love with Kurt.
To Kurt, that’s actually the thing that bothers him the least. He feels protective of Blaine, especially with him trying to find his footing at McKinley. To realize that Blaine had been cornered today, standing right next to Kurt, fills Kurt with belated indignation. “This is what Jacob does. Don’t let him get into your head, because you’ll never get him out. As far as you should be concerned, he’s the love-child of It’s A Small World and the Macarena, and just as bad for your health.”
“I don’t know how you can just accept it.”
“I have more interesting things to think about,” Kurt’s strong fingers hook into the ‘Y’ of Blaine’s suspenders, pulling him backward enough so Kurt can kiss the back of Blaine’s neck. It’s meant to be playful, but the press of Blaine’s back suddenly feels daring.
“At it’s best, Jacob’s blog is a tool. At it’s worst, it’s a nuisance, okay? Don’t let him bully you into thinking you owe him anything. You don’t. There’s no reason to subject yourself to criticism--”
Blaine turns around, careful not to push Kurt back, but needing to see Kurt’s face. “--Subject us to criticism. People know we’re together, I’m not stupid enough to think we’re that low on the McKinley radar. Prom pretty much guaranteed that we aren’t.” Kurt nods, and Blaine continues, “I wanted to say that we’re together, but I kept thinking about how cruel people might be when they saw the video. We’ve been through enough this week.”
“I’ve been going to that school for years, Blaine. Really-- you don’t need to explain. I get it. I more than get it.”
Blaine points to the head of his bed, pulling out of Kurt’s arms completely in order to lazily crawl to it. He settles on his side, one hand tugging Kurt down beside him. “We’re okay, right?” he asks, afraid to look up. Blaine nuzzles their noses together, “I hate that people think our days are numbered.”
“I hate that you’re obsessing about this.”
“I hate that we both couldn’t have been Tony.”
“That would have made for an interesting production,” Kurt winks.
“I should have said no,” Blaine rolls onto his back. “It’s not too late to back out, right?”
“You want to be Tony,” Kurt heaves a fond sigh. He props himself up on one elbow, leaning over Blaine’s chest. “I want you to be Tony, because there’s nothing I want more than for you to be happy.” He’s so sick of talking about the play already, and casting results only went up a few days ago. “There’s nothing I want more-- except for some light, yet enthusiastic, petting before your parents get home.”
Blaine’s face softens, eyes dawning with a look that Kurt feels more than he understands. With a look, Blaine communicates that there is nothing more wonderful than Kurt’s forgiveness, charity, and understanding. It says ‘I love you, so much’. Kurt nuzzles the bridge of Blaine’s nose, cupping his face and saying ‘I love you, idiot’.
Blaine sloppily kisses Kurt chin, punctuating each adjective with a wet smack, “You’re the most... interesting... compassionate... moral... sexy--”
“I like it when you’re complimentary,” Kurt lifts his head, catching a hint of Blaine’s gel and shampoo. The scent thrums a lazy sense of comfort through him, even if Kurt’s stomach simultaneously flops.
“Well dressed-”
“I agree,” Kurt forcibly angles his head down to capture Blaine’s lips. Blaine, caught by surprise, exhales a whimper when Kurt sumptuously rolls the kiss to completion. “Don’t forget my excellent taste in flowers-”
Blaine carelessly dodges Kurt’s kiss to look at the bouquet on his dresser. The sight of the flowers still make him feel small, part of something too big, and way more than he anticipated finding outside of a silly love song. “Have I told you how much I love them?” he asks, turning once Kurt pulls away from mouthing at Blaine’s jaw.
“I could stand to be told, again.” Kurt’s hands pass over Blaine’s crisp shirt, bunching the fabric into his fists and easing it out from where Blaine has it tucked in. The suspenders leave the shirt restrained over Blaine’s hipbones, but ungathered in all the places that Kurt is dying to touch.
He ventures a look down, comfortable that this is still well within their boundaries. They’ve tugged and pulled while making out before. They’ve both been shirtless, but sometimes Blaine gets a little strange when it comes to making sure they aren’t rushing things.
Rather than dive his hands under the loosened shirt, he lets it fall back down over Blaine’s waist, a little more rumpled for the wear. They are both so sleek and polished all the time that Kurt loves seeing wrinkles. He loves making them.
“Do you know how to press them?” Blaine asks, hands coming up to cup Kurt’s cheek. They seesawed each other sometimes, one working to touch high, the other in the middle for fear of sliding too low in moments when fumbling becomes heated. “They’re already losing color on me, I can’t keep them alive.”
“Because they’re already dead,” Kurt jokes. He’s touched though, a little surprised that Blaine would want to hang on to them. Blaine’s room is more nostalgic-functional-chic than it is sentimentalist. He sobers, because he can’t help but wonder where Blaine might put a pressed flower-- if it would go with other mementos that Kurt has yet to see, things like old birthday cards, photos, or choir programs. “I’ll show you,” he concedes.
“See- you’re generous.”
“Sometimes.”
“All the time,” Blaine softly comes up to kiss Kurt’s top lip, the tip of his tongue tracing the center of the flesh before flitting away.
The kissing isn’t languid; both boys are skirting hands over one another, randomly sealing their mouths over the corners of smiles, chins, jaws, and necks. It’s like neither one of them wants to settle into a headier rhythm, both perfectly content to flit, float, and freefall. It’s hours before they have to worry about curfew. With Kurt’s fingertip circling the rim of Blaine’s bellybutton, dipping in to wriggle so that Blaine’s abdomen suddenly seizes like Kurt knew it would, tomorrow feels like it’s a lifetime away.
They can worry tomorrow.
--
Please consider spreading holiday cheer by commenting on and/or reblogging this fanfic! If you rec this fic, please be sure to attribute it to anonymous until the author/artist is revealed on January 3rd, 2011. Don’t forget to check out all of the other amazing works that will be posted throughout December!
Recipient: meridith4132
Author/Artist: to be revealed January 3rd, 2012
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Jacob Ben Israel. Minimal homophobia; dialogue only.
Word Count: ~3580
Summary: After reading the casting results for West Side Story, Jacob Ben Israel is convinced that he’s found his next story. Written for this prompt #2: Any post-audition conversations from 3x02, or post-casting from 3x03.
Notes: Happy Holidays Samantha; I hope you experience all of the joy that this season has to offer.
“SHALOM BLOGOSPHERE, Jacob Ben Israel reporting here from McKinley High.” The teenager stands in front of the April Rhodes Pavilion, his signature microphone clutched in a vice-like grip. Jacob is a serious journalist; he’s visibly eager to report, even though his face is stone-cold sober. The unsteady hands of his camera operator only amplify Jacob’s frantically restrained energy.
“It’s that time of the year, Titans. It’s a time of misery, though some might go as far as to say ‘woe’-- we’re at the cusp of the annual school play, and it looks like this year, the production might actually see opening night.” Jacob walks backward, confidently navigating the halls as they become more densely populated. He moves with distinct purpose, heedless of the students lingering by their lockers and drudging their way to class. Ever the opportunist, his eyes dart over the halls in search of anyone that he might corner for an interview.
“After last year’s scandalous and hastily aborted production of the Rocky Horror Picture Show, one can only imagine what inappropriate production one Will Schuester has in store for this year: Avenue Q? Spring Awakening?
“No, Titans. Surprisingly enough, it’s only West Side Story, and like it’s source material Romeo and Juliet, spoiler alert: it doesn’t end well,” Jacob sounds as cheerful as Jacob can sound. “Now, I know what you’re all thinking-- West Side Story? Didn’t my grandma see that? Wait-- wasn’t my grandma in that? Why should I even care? It’s not like it’s even going to see opening night anyway! To you, final naysayer, I say... good call. The underground odds are stacked against the production, but with Mr. Schuester having backed out of it’s direction and Sue Sylvester diving into political waters, could we actually have a play on our hands that stands a chance of opening?”
Jacob’s face lights up as they round a corner. He rights himself, now walking with his eyes on focused on his target. He waves his hand for the cameraman to follow, making a straight beeline for three students grouped in front of a row of lockers.
“Lemme get something straight,” Santana says heatedly, bursting into the camera’s frame. “I finally get to play a fierce Latina hottie... in a part that, let’s face it, was totally written for me... only to read through All. Of. This-” she punctuates each word with a jab of her finger to her script, voice drawn out and inflected with a Lima Heights Adjacent timber. “-to see that she almost gets gang-raped? Yeah. Good job, Hammerstein. That’s not sexist at all.”
“It was written by Arthur Laurents,” Kurt supplies distractedly, just as Blaine mouths, “Did she mean Bernstein?”
Kurt leans against a locker, long legs stretched in front of him. He smiles at Blaine before looking down to swipe something from one of his cuticles.
“Of course it was written by a man,” Santana huffs, flipping her stapled script closed and rolling it up.
Blaine smiles cheerfully once he realizes that they are no longer alone. “Hey,” he says, depositing his books into his locker. He sees the camera, the microphone, but clearly doesn’t know what to expect. His smile melts once Kurt stiffens.
Kurt stands to his full height, looking boldly into the camera. It’s only then that Blaine fidgets his thumb over his satchel’s strap, reshouldering the bag.
Without the microphone, Jacob might look meek or troubled, but with it, he has all the courage of a lion prowling the Serengeti. Courtesy of the Internet and a following of students ravenous for meanspirited tabloid journalism, there is no power that he doesn’t wield.
“We’re here with Arsonist Mastermind Santana Lopez, her accomplice --and McKinley’s Alleged Secondary Gay-- Blaine Anderson, and Student Council hopeful Kurt Hummel.” Not missing a beat, Jacob turns to stand in front of his subjects, “West Side Story: Lovers. Gangs. Rivalry. And maybe some Rachel Berry in the nude?”
Behind him, Santana makes a retching noise. The camera jerks to capture her face mid-disgust. “A guy can dream,” Jacob defends himself, pushing his thick glasses up to the bridge of his nose.
Santana steps out of her impatient turnout, unjutting her hips. “That fire was, like, three weeks ago Jacob.” She looks into the camera, “And I just want to say that no one, and I mean no one, can say I had anything to do with it.” Her lips turn up in a smirk that’s so self-satisfied that she looks as if she regularly eats canaries for breakfast. Her faux sweetness permeates each word, innocence burning like acid, “It was a total accident. People really shouldn’t smoke.”
Jacob looks to Blaine, “So you set a piano on fire in the courtyard? On your first day.”
“You should have seen what he did to the GAP,” Kurt jokes.
Blaine looks slightly abashed, but somehow vaguely pleased, “Oh, so we’re at the point where we can joke about this?”
Kurt lifts his chin with a superior, but flirtatious air. “No, we’re at the point where I can joke about this.”
“I just wanted to sing,” Blaine tells Jacob, eyes still on Kurt.
“It’s true; Blaine’s a sucker for Tom Jones,” Kurt sighs as if he’s terribly put upon. The way his head affectionately cants in Blaine’s direction suggests that he is actually put upon, but accepts his fate. “Pop, disco... You should see him when he gets his hands on art rock, it’s like watching a kitten get tangled up in a basket of yarn. I’m already ruing the day he decides that he’s ready to tackle the entire catalogue of Procol Harum... or Peter Gabriel.” He assesses Blaine quickly, “Oh my god-- you would be a Genesis fan.”
Blaine opens his mouth as if he’s about to defend himself, instead he sings, “Follow on! with a twist of the world we go. Follow on! till the gold is cold.” The camera sweeps to catch the reaction of a startled student, she side-eyes the group hard, but otherwise continues on her way.
“Yeah,” Santana recoils. “That’s my cue,” she tucks her script under her arm and wastes no time walking away.
“Congratulations on cinching the role of Tony,” Jacob transitions easily. He shifts the microphone in his grip, ready to thrust it in front of Blaine at a moment’s notice. “It’s not common for a junior to nab the lead.”
“Thank you, I’m excited.”
Blaine tries really hard not to look pleased, looking to Kurt before Kurt subtly lifts one shoulder in a way that invites Blaine to bask in the praise. Blaine casts his eyes down to the floor instead, letting the smile quirk up and then fade away.
“Have you any comment on the rumor that, since stealing the role of Tony from your lover’s clutches, your days as a couple are numbered?” Jacob offers the microphone, only to think better and pull it back to his own lips for elaboration. “Or an exclusive confirmation for my blog that the two of you are --in fact-- dating? Reports have been conflicting, what with your Cheerio mushing in the courtyard, and the rumor that you and Rachel Berry shared a very public kiss in the Lima Bean last spring.” Satisfied, he pushes the microphone back in Blaine’s face.
Blaine’s head snaps up, “For your blog?” His hesitance is visible to the camera, and he turns away to close his locker, fingers lingering on the latch.
When he looks to Kurt’s face for support, it’s to see a resigned yet understanding expression.
Blaine gapes, eyebrows raised as he stumbles for an answer, “I didn’t steal anything from Kurt. I wouldn’t.” His eyes dart between Jacob, the camera, and back to Kurt- unable to choose any one of the three. “We both auditioned, and we’ve talked about the results. Things aren’t nearly as dramatic as some people might be suggesting.”
Blaine tries to step away from his locker, but is smoothly intercepted by Jacob, “So, no comment regarding an Anderberry kiss? Nothing about the existence of a Blurt relationship?”
“There’s nothing between Rachel and I,” Blaine relaxes as a private smile creeps onto his face. His body language is directed to Kurt, who watches Blaine thoughtfully.
Undeterred, Jacob tries another question, “Kurt made a comment to me as little as a month ago that he hopes to be legally married by the age of thirty... are you denying that he meant to you?”
That rips Kurt out of his gentle reverie. The boy looks mortified, and then irritated. “-- Charming.”
“I don’t think this is really appropriate. I’m not denying Kurt... I’m just... I’m not going talk about it with you,” Blaine slides his thumb down the satchel’s strap, tilting his head down the hall. Kurt nods.
“So... you are confirming the fact that you’re gay?” Jacob lights up, turning back to the camera.
“Really?” Kurt squawks, looking between Jacob and Blaine. “Let no one ever tell you that you’re unprepared for the world of soundbite journalism, Jacob,” Kurt says, coolly sliding his hand into the crook of Blaine’s elbow and forcibly tugging him out of the interview. Together, under Kurt’s direction, they successfully sidestep both Jacob and the cameraman. “How many times have I told you not to talk to strangers, Blaine?”
Jacob reaches up to cup the camera’s body, turning it to film the pair as they walk away. The halls are considerably less dense with most students in their classes. Kurt’s hand releases Blaine’s elbow and hovers near the small of Blaine’s back, as if about to press into his sweater. Instead, Kurt drops his hand back to his side. Blaine leans closer to Kurt, brushing their shoulders as he says something that the camera can’t pick it up. Even Kurt’s voice is muffled by the distance, it looks and vaguely sounds like: ‘You’re too nice for your own good.’
Jacob turns back to the camera, snapping his fingers for his cameraman’s attention, “What do you think Blo-”
. . .
“Ugh,” Blaine grimaces. His face looks like he ate something sour, “Turn it off.”
“I don’t think it’s that bad,” Kurt backs up the video to where he’s framed from the waist up and pauses. “I mean, look how phenomenal my jacket looks with that scarf.”
Blaine levels a glare.
“No, seriously. Blaine... look, I wish they would have tilted down to get my boots.”
“Kurt--”
“--Blaine.”
The teenagers are sitting on Blaine’s bed, shoulder to shoulder. Kurt closes the video tab on his iPhone, conceding to his boyfriend’s apparent misery. “I’m guessing you want to talk?” he sits up on his knees to slide his phone into his jacket pocket.
“He was so awful,” Blaine starts. “I really-- I didn’t even know what to do, and now this thing is just... out there. It’s awful... the whole idea that you can lynch someone, film it, and put it up on a website is--”
“Awful?” Kurt teases. He throws his hands up in a playful surrender at Blaine’s dark look. Without thinking about it, he moves on the bed, knee-walking to kneel completely behind Blaine.
Blaine tries not to wriggle against his boyfriend, and Kurt holds Blaine in place by the shoulders. When Blaine turns his head to say hi, his nose brushes against Kurt’s cheek and he finally relents; Blaine sinks back into his boyfriend’s arms with a warm sigh.
Kurt’s hands slide away and he loosely drapes his arms around Blaine’s middle, so they breathe chest to back. When he leans forward, kissing Blaine’s temple, Kurt realizes that Blaine is slowing down his breathing to match his own. The realization hits him in a place that’s both proud and new; Kurt, someone who spent so much of the last year needing comfort, now has someone who depends on him.
“I love you,” Blaine mutters on an exhale. “I don’t say it enough, but I do.”
“You say it in other ways.”
“Yeah, but does that count?” he asks glumly, like he really doesn’t know what’s enough for Kurt.
“It does to me.” It’s not as if they take each other for granted, on the contrary: Kurt needs to touch Blaine in the way that he needs to memorize the texture of fabric; Blaine needs conversation with Kurt in the same way he needs to sing. By an unspoken rule, they both say ‘I love you’ when they feel like there’s no other way to communicate how their knees are knocking, or how their stomachs quiver. Their hearts feel so big that sometimes kissing says it for them; the way that Blaine’s hands shake as they timidly trace the hem of Kurt’s shirt says it, too.
To Kurt, it’s more than he ever thought he would have-- not just before Blaine, but even after they’d kissed. Everything seems to bring them closer and closer; their intimacy is limitless. So yeah, he knows that Blaine loves him. It counts and he doesn’t need to hear Blaine say it a hundred times a day, because Blaine says it a hundred different ways. Those hundred different ways make hearing it the one way all the more arresting.
When Kurt says, ‘It does to me’, he’s pretty sure that Blaine’s heart stutters the same way as if he said ‘I love you, too’.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell him we were boyfriends,” Blaine confesses, sounding like he wishes he could take back walking away. Knowing Blaine, and how much regret Blaine feels when he concedes any kind of defeat, Kurt figures that’s the only thing about the video that’s bothering Blaine. Not the fact that Jacob tried to bully him into coming out, and not the fact that there’s probably a hundred comments on the video already stating how obvious it was that Blaine was gay. He’s upset that he didn’t proudly say he was in love with Kurt.
To Kurt, that’s actually the thing that bothers him the least. He feels protective of Blaine, especially with him trying to find his footing at McKinley. To realize that Blaine had been cornered today, standing right next to Kurt, fills Kurt with belated indignation. “This is what Jacob does. Don’t let him get into your head, because you’ll never get him out. As far as you should be concerned, he’s the love-child of It’s A Small World and the Macarena, and just as bad for your health.”
“I don’t know how you can just accept it.”
“I have more interesting things to think about,” Kurt’s strong fingers hook into the ‘Y’ of Blaine’s suspenders, pulling him backward enough so Kurt can kiss the back of Blaine’s neck. It’s meant to be playful, but the press of Blaine’s back suddenly feels daring.
“At it’s best, Jacob’s blog is a tool. At it’s worst, it’s a nuisance, okay? Don’t let him bully you into thinking you owe him anything. You don’t. There’s no reason to subject yourself to criticism--”
Blaine turns around, careful not to push Kurt back, but needing to see Kurt’s face. “--Subject us to criticism. People know we’re together, I’m not stupid enough to think we’re that low on the McKinley radar. Prom pretty much guaranteed that we aren’t.” Kurt nods, and Blaine continues, “I wanted to say that we’re together, but I kept thinking about how cruel people might be when they saw the video. We’ve been through enough this week.”
“I’ve been going to that school for years, Blaine. Really-- you don’t need to explain. I get it. I more than get it.”
Blaine points to the head of his bed, pulling out of Kurt’s arms completely in order to lazily crawl to it. He settles on his side, one hand tugging Kurt down beside him. “We’re okay, right?” he asks, afraid to look up. Blaine nuzzles their noses together, “I hate that people think our days are numbered.”
“I hate that you’re obsessing about this.”
“I hate that we both couldn’t have been Tony.”
“That would have made for an interesting production,” Kurt winks.
“I should have said no,” Blaine rolls onto his back. “It’s not too late to back out, right?”
“You want to be Tony,” Kurt heaves a fond sigh. He props himself up on one elbow, leaning over Blaine’s chest. “I want you to be Tony, because there’s nothing I want more than for you to be happy.” He’s so sick of talking about the play already, and casting results only went up a few days ago. “There’s nothing I want more-- except for some light, yet enthusiastic, petting before your parents get home.”
Blaine’s face softens, eyes dawning with a look that Kurt feels more than he understands. With a look, Blaine communicates that there is nothing more wonderful than Kurt’s forgiveness, charity, and understanding. It says ‘I love you, so much’. Kurt nuzzles the bridge of Blaine’s nose, cupping his face and saying ‘I love you, idiot’.
Blaine sloppily kisses Kurt chin, punctuating each adjective with a wet smack, “You’re the most... interesting... compassionate... moral... sexy--”
“I like it when you’re complimentary,” Kurt lifts his head, catching a hint of Blaine’s gel and shampoo. The scent thrums a lazy sense of comfort through him, even if Kurt’s stomach simultaneously flops.
“Well dressed-”
“I agree,” Kurt forcibly angles his head down to capture Blaine’s lips. Blaine, caught by surprise, exhales a whimper when Kurt sumptuously rolls the kiss to completion. “Don’t forget my excellent taste in flowers-”
Blaine carelessly dodges Kurt’s kiss to look at the bouquet on his dresser. The sight of the flowers still make him feel small, part of something too big, and way more than he anticipated finding outside of a silly love song. “Have I told you how much I love them?” he asks, turning once Kurt pulls away from mouthing at Blaine’s jaw.
“I could stand to be told, again.” Kurt’s hands pass over Blaine’s crisp shirt, bunching the fabric into his fists and easing it out from where Blaine has it tucked in. The suspenders leave the shirt restrained over Blaine’s hipbones, but ungathered in all the places that Kurt is dying to touch.
He ventures a look down, comfortable that this is still well within their boundaries. They’ve tugged and pulled while making out before. They’ve both been shirtless, but sometimes Blaine gets a little strange when it comes to making sure they aren’t rushing things.
Rather than dive his hands under the loosened shirt, he lets it fall back down over Blaine’s waist, a little more rumpled for the wear. They are both so sleek and polished all the time that Kurt loves seeing wrinkles. He loves making them.
“Do you know how to press them?” Blaine asks, hands coming up to cup Kurt’s cheek. They seesawed each other sometimes, one working to touch high, the other in the middle for fear of sliding too low in moments when fumbling becomes heated. “They’re already losing color on me, I can’t keep them alive.”
“Because they’re already dead,” Kurt jokes. He’s touched though, a little surprised that Blaine would want to hang on to them. Blaine’s room is more nostalgic-functional-chic than it is sentimentalist. He sobers, because he can’t help but wonder where Blaine might put a pressed flower-- if it would go with other mementos that Kurt has yet to see, things like old birthday cards, photos, or choir programs. “I’ll show you,” he concedes.
“See- you’re generous.”
“Sometimes.”
“All the time,” Blaine softly comes up to kiss Kurt’s top lip, the tip of his tongue tracing the center of the flesh before flitting away.
The kissing isn’t languid; both boys are skirting hands over one another, randomly sealing their mouths over the corners of smiles, chins, jaws, and necks. It’s like neither one of them wants to settle into a headier rhythm, both perfectly content to flit, float, and freefall. It’s hours before they have to worry about curfew. With Kurt’s fingertip circling the rim of Blaine’s bellybutton, dipping in to wriggle so that Blaine’s abdomen suddenly seizes like Kurt knew it would, tomorrow feels like it’s a lifetime away.
They can worry tomorrow.
--
Please consider spreading holiday cheer by commenting on and/or reblogging this fanfic! If you rec this fic, please be sure to attribute it to anonymous until the author/artist is revealed on January 3rd, 2011. Don’t forget to check out all of the other amazing works that will be posted throughout December!