How Something Like Luck You Are
Media: Fic
Title: How Something Like Luck You Are
Author: OhQuixotica
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Kurt Hummel/Blaine Anderson
Spoilers: None, though the plot assumes events through the end of season 2 (without mentioning them)
Warnings: Consensual sex between minors over the age of consent; homophobic language
Word Count: 5280ish
Summary: Kurt and Blaine have a crappy date, then make up for it on the playground, and Blaine never does find his shoes.
Author Notes: This is a gift for glitterwocky who, when asked to prompt me, said: Kurt takes Blaine to visit his elementary school playground after dark. Such potential for sweet and sad and hot and healing. Painful memories discussed on the swing set. Lots of hidden enough places for some possible public lovin’ as a "screw-them-they-can’t-touch-us-or-what-we-have." and then I said who put this finished fic on my computer? because it seemed to have written itself. She has Mad Prompting Skillz. Plus, she kindly served as my beta, too. Thank you, my little diamond of a friend, for the great prompt & the help & encouragement & good conversations.
This story gets a little angsty in moments, and goofy in others, and there's a plastic twisty slide to be reckoned with, but I hope despite (or due to) all of this, you enjoy it. (Oh, and as usual, obscure reference warning: if you're curious about the Princess Diana suit, look no further.)
::--::
How Something Like Luck You Are
Kurt
There is not a word, not in English, that carries the weight you want. Atrocious comes close, but is too genteel. Fantastically-disastrously-horrible, maybe. Unfathomable beastly trainwreck of abominability.
Your father--this man who says he loves you--has parked himself on the rust-plaid couch next to your boyfriend--this other man who says he loves you--and the two of them are huddled and giggling--giggling--over the duck-yellow, spangled craft project that is your baby book. The one with the picture of you at two, naked and covered in spaghetti (a photo which, to this day, you insist your father had staged, because it was most definitely not your idea). And the picture of you in kindergarten after you'd given yourself a haircut with safety scissors (which was your idea, but the outcome had not been quite what you'd intended). And the picture of--
"Oh my god!" Blaine shrieks, slapping his hands to his cheeks in gleeful stage horror. His eyebrows are arched so high they're indistinguishable from his hairline. "What is that?"
"That," your father manages to say between heaving laughs, "is my son."
"My god, dad," you huff, "if you do not put that away this instant, I will be forced to get out the other album and we can discuss your tragic fascination with acid wash."
"That is my son," your father struggles again, his shoulders shaking hard, his face frighteningly pink, "during his Princess Di obsession."
"Acid wash you paired with a mullet," you say. You put your hands on your hips so they know you mean business. It does no good.
Blaine looks up at you, his face bright and wide and beautiful and shining. "The tiara kind of fits with the hair--"
"--wig!" your father splutters, "Yarn!--" and you really could just kill him if you weren't so afraid this apoplectic fit might do it for you.
"--But what is that suit?"
"I'll have you know I sewed that suit myself," you growl, trying unsuccessfully to snatch the book from their laps. "It was an exact replica of the suit the Princess wore to greet Queen Beatrix of Holland upon her arrival in London in 1982."
This brings a fresh round of laughter from your men, your father going so hard no sound comes out, only a high-pitched wheeze, and Blaine's fallen against him and are they actually hugging? They are. You bite the inside of your lip against the twinge of something that isn't really anger.
"He cut up our bedspread to make it," your father sighs, wiping his eyes. "And dyed it using canned beets. Crap, he was only seven years old. I was ready to ground him for life, but his mother loved it so much, she wouldn't let me."
"No, no, Kurt, it's great, it's so creative," Blaine says, making a supreme effort to collect himself, and you almost love this boy again. He's smiling hard at you with his hazel eyes all lit up, and you do, you love him. "It's very...puffy." Your dad sucks in a snort. There's breath-holding between them.
"It was historically accurate," you say, and that breaks it, the two of them are rasping and hawing and hugging each other, so you shift your weight to the other leg and wait it out. Because when your dad gets like this, it's the only thing you can do, and it's not like humiliation is new to you.
"Oh, crap!" your dad finally sighs, leaning back to press the heels of his hands to his eyes. Blaine, released from your father's grip, is turning the pages of the book, and you know he's searching, trying to suck up as much of your secret past as he can, because he knows, oh, he knows, you'll never let him near this book again.
"Kurt, you are so much your mother's kid. From day one," your dad says. He looks down to where Blaine's tracing a finger over the picture of you and your mom in matching, broad-brimmed sun hats. You're too far to see the details, but you know this picture by heart. She's wiping a stripe of sunblock down your nose. You're counting her freckles with the tip of your finger. Her arms are around you and everything smells like coconut and lily of the valley and warm skin and chlorine and two seconds from this moment, she will sweep you up and over her head, giggling, the two of you, wildly, and she'll whirl you around in happy circles while your dad shouts that she's going to make you throw up, even though he's laughing like an idiot.
Your dad's quiet for a long time. Then he pats Blaine's knee, closes the book and gently shoves him up. "Okay, kiddos, you guys are too young to hang out here on a Friday night. Go catch your Western Story sing-along before all the good songs are taken."
You roll your eyes and softly put your palm against the back of his neck where it's still hot and sweaty from laughing at you. "It's West Side Story, dad. Natalie Wood."
"Right, West Side Story," he mumbles, shaking his head as you sweep Blaine door-ward and out. "That makes more sense."
Blaine
Despite all its promise, the evening has been very much a bust.
It had started fine: they'd found a good spot near the center of the field, spread the blanket and kicked off their shoes. Kurt had brought a thermos of lemonade and a little parcel of strawberries. Blaine had surprised him with a tiny brick of very fancy chocolate, and Kurt had literally swooned. The sky slowly darkened and everywhere the shadows of lovers leaned into one another on blankets scattered, archipelago, across the grass. When the film finally flickered on, and the strains of the Overture called out across the dark, Kurt had shifted to sit between Blaine's legs, leaning back against his chest. Pressed like this, Blaine could feel Kurt humming, a deep vibration on his sternum, so that the music was around him and in him and between them and it really was, well, glorious.
It turned out that Blaine only knew two songs from the whole movie, plus the chorus from "Officer Krupke," and nobody else in the audience really seemed to be interested in singing along anyway. So Kurt fed Blaine strawberries, awkwardly, over his shoulder, without tearing his eyes from the screen's glow, and sang alone every note of every song, even the high note on Tonight. And Blaine licked the strawberry juice from Kurt's fingers and pulled his arms tighter around him and felt almost giddy, because this boy was the weirdest and most beautiful thing he could imagine.
And then the jerk on the blanket behind them said, "Tell your girlfriend to shut up."
Everything might have been fine if Kurt had let it pass. It was so nice to hold Kurt like this in the dark, open night and kiss the sugar from his fingers and be unremarkable and almost forget it was Ohio. But Kurt had turned around, leaning across Blaine's shoulder to hiss, "It's a sing-along, you cretin!"
"Oh, shit!" laughed the girl who'd wound herself around the kid's chest. "That's a guy!"
"Fuck! Get off me." He spat, pushed the girl so she went tumbling sideways. "I'm going to puke. I don't need to see that shit."
"Then why don't you shut up and watch the film?" Kurt snapped, and turned back to the screen.
So Blaine sits now, the evening a wreck around him, his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides, because he does not know how to hold the rigid body in front of him, all angles and venom. Kurt keeps his back razor-straight and his arms locked around his knees, and they stay, two stones, and do not touch or talk or sing, while the jerk behind them pelts their backs with a hail of whispered profanity and disgust. Blaine wants desperately to leave, but Kurt is rooted in place, gripping the blanket and staring fiercely at the screen, and there can be no pushing him.
"Fags!" the guy finally hisses.
Blaine feels a searing bite rip across the side of his neck, and then Kurt jerks sideways, slapping at his lap frantically. "He threw a cigarette!" Kurt says.
And suddenly Blaine is on his feet, fists clenched, and his vision tips as he launches himself at the kid. He feels Kurt's hand grab at his calf, feels himself lifted back into a clench of arms and broad shoulders, and he kicks and whirls in his helpless fury.
"Cool it," says the man who's wrapped his arms around Blaine to hold him back. "This is a family night. We don't need a fight." His voice is firm, kind, reasonable; his arms smell of shaving cream and mint. Blaine lets his body go limp, and the man loosens his grip.
"I think you should leave," Blaine says to the kid. Reasonable. Level. Firm.
"Fuck you," the guy sneers. The girl beside him sullenly picks at her toenail polish and snorts without looking up. "You leave, faggot. You're in public, for fuck's sake."
The shadows on the blankets around them blink, stare, silent. "Watch your mouth," someone says in the dark. "There's kids here."
One of your own kind, Anita is singing, stick to your own kind.
"Maybe you guys should go," the man says, not unkindly, looking pointedly at Blaine.
Without a word, Kurt stands stiffly and carefully folds the blanket into a neat square, then bends to pull on his shoes. He places the thermos and the box of fruit on top of the blanket, gathers the pile into his arms, and silently walks past Blaine, past the reasonable man and the shadows and their blinking eyes and keeps walking until he starts to disappear against the dark.
The kid snickers. "Swish on out, sweetheart," he says. The girl snorts again, still concentrating on her toes.
"That's enough," says the man, holding his hand up at the kid as a warning.
Blaine stands for a long moment, his heart banging hard in his chest, because there are words he wants to say, to the kid, to the man, to Kurt's disappearing figure, to the lovers on their blankets, to someone, but he doesn't know what the words could be. And finally, his body breaks itself into motion and he walks, his legs moving automatically, and the grass whispers hush hush hush against his ankles. He keeps walking until he sees the lights of the parking lot, until he sees Kurt's silhouette, long and fragile, leaning against the car, until the soundtrack of the movie he is leaving behind sounds faint and tinny and underwater.
I have a love and it's all that I have.
Right or wrong, what else can I do?
I love him, I'm his,
And everything he is,
I am, too.
Kurt
The plans you'd had for post-movie coffees are over. Plans for staring moon-eyed into each others' faces and chattering happily (sentences spilling over each other and bubbling up between you like popped champagne), plans for a circuitous walk around the dark, damp park, hooking your arm around his waist, pressing the date as far as you can into the night--those plans are dashed. Because some Lima loser at the movie was a verbally-abusive asshole, and you'd stalked off with the picnic blanket and Blaine had chased after you, forgetting his shoes entirely, and then had refused to go back for them, and had refused to let you go back for them, even after the film was over, because he didn't want either one of you getting hurt if that scrawny loser and his straw-haired girlfriend were waiting for you. So instead, Blaine's curled his bare feet underneath him on the passenger seat, and you're driving his car down 117 toward the parks and the cemetery because you don't know where else to go, but you don't want to go home.
Blaine's been silent a long time, tracing lines in the condensation on his window. You tap his knee with two fingers, then leave them there, and it's awkward, but warm.
"Hey," you say. "Wanna see my old school?"
Blaine looks at you, resting his cheek on the dashboard. "I don't have shoes." He plays with the control on the A/C vent, looking small and dark and pitiful.
"We can just look from the car if you want," you say, gently. "Or we can walk in the grass."
He shrugs one shoulder, and you take this to mean that it's good enough, that you can still salvage the evening, and you turn the car a bit too abruptly down the side road to take you north.
"I'm sorry," Blaine breathes against the dash, "I'm really sorry," and you realize the swerve seems angry. It's not. You're not angry; you don't have words for what you are, except that you've bitten down on something bitter and the taste won't leave your throat, and you just want to pull the car over and curl around Blaine in the dark and close your eyes and be somewhere else entirely. It's a slipping-down feeling, and tired, and shaken apart. You think of his shoes, kicked sideways and lonely in the deserted field, empty of him, untied and open like a broken promise.
"We're here," you say, stroking your finger down his nose. "This is it."
Blaine sits up, cranes. "Elementary," he says. "I thought you meant junior high."
You arch one eyebrow and smile slightly, because it's an odd thing he's said, and because you know full well he finds your eyebrows sexy, and you want to kiss him. "There's a playground."
"Swings," he says, matter-of-fact, and you can't read what it means in the flatness of his voice, but you roll yourself out of the car and round to his side anyway, pop open his door and lean over him to unfasten the seat belt. You can feel him hanging on hard to the maudlin like it's a responsibility, in situations like these, to be sad. "Kurt, what are you doing?"
"I'm sweeping you away," you say like a breeze, and turn, and squat, and pull his arms around your neck. "Come on, up," you say, and he does it for you, climbs onto your back and curls his legs around your waist like a monkey. He's heavier than you thought, but your legs are strong enough, and you heave up, palms snugged under his thighs, and jog across the parking lot with Blaine jolting against your back, his breath in little puffs on your neck, and it's easy to pull this night back up into brilliance, you know it, when you feel Blaine's laughter rumble against you.
"Kurt! You're going to kill us," he shrieks, kicking his bare feet out in front of you like he could hit the brakes.
"Live dangerously," you say, and zoom him across the grass in crazy bumblebee swoops just to hear his laugh bouncing breathless, then drop him on his ass on the spongy, over-green lawn. You fall down next to him, put a hand on your heaving chest. "You're really fat."
"You're really weak," he laughs, rolls into you and kisses a low, sweet kiss that clings to your bottom lip.
"I'm sorry about your shoes. We'll get them tomorrow in the morning. Before the mowers."
"No. Leave them. As a monument," he sighs, rolling onto his back and folding his arms under his head. You roll into him, then, because it's too much air and distance between you, and his body is warm and muscular and hard.
"To what?"
"To..." he sighs, closing his eyes and slipping into a silence so long you worry he's sleeping. But he opens his eyes and turns them on you, green and brown and flecked and flickering, and he cups your cheeks in his hands. "I want to go on the swings. Let's swing, I haven't since forever, oh my god, let's go swing, come on, Kurt, swings!" The sentence flaps and twirls on the air behind him like a bright ribbon as he runs, as you run to catch him, as he hot-foots bare across the blacktop that's still skilleting even though the sun's been down for hours.
The Sky
Two boys pell-mell and yelp and tumble over pavement and into chain-creak swings and flip their feet up in the air and hurl themselves into motion. And this boy has lost his shoes, and so the other kicks his off and sends them bumpjump across the blacktop like skiprocks, and for this once he doesn't think about scuffs or ruin because the wind goes whistling through his toes like a beachday, that gentle and cool. They swing sometimes together and sometimes in counterpoint, flinging their bodies upward and back in graceful arcs, easy and natural and waterbeautiful and together together together with no words but laughing and shouts like starbursts and shut eyes to breathe hard in.
Then this boy goes sideways, stretchkicks his legs to lock around those otherboy ankles, and he pulls in til their chains twist up and their knees lock together and their breath locks together and the kiss is a good one, sweet and deep and still as lakewater and not one soul anywhere on earth is looking. They are invisible under the humming stars. And it's delicious because even the crickets are quiet and the lawns of the stoic cross-street houses yawn open, clean and empty like hands in supplication, and everything stops to pray for this for once just for this kind of quiet.
Here, here, come gentle now, put your head on his heart and listen, boy. You are darling and somebody in love like this made you once, and wished for you a mostexactly moment like this. Gentle, gentle, breathe him in he is moss and damp ground and sun on earth. Put your kisses there, in the crook of his neck and the divot above his lips and kiss the eyelashes, too, and the brow. Go down slow, slide there, back to his heart, and tell him you hear it beat beat behind there like a giant under the ribs. Let him hold your chains and rock you watersoft through the whirl of nightsparking bugs let the chains groan on their rusty hinges they will hold you up until you twist apart but not yet, let not-go just yet, hold here together a little while it is so deepquiet and so still like it's never still and do you feel it now, boy, how something like luck you are?
Blaine
He stares up at the sky and waits to notice the stars through the noise of streetlamps and light on earth. If you are still enough and you wait, they begin, one by one, to appear as your eyes adjust, as if they weren't there all the time, as if they'd just decided to turn on because you're looking. His head's hammocked in the rubber swing seat, and Kurt's curled against him on the cedar wood chips underneath, one knee on either side of Blaine's torso, breathing lightly against his neck.
"You're missing it," Blaine says.
"The stars have been there billions of years," Kurt says, and the words feather across Blaine's Adam's apple. "They're not going anywhere."
"I like your dad," Blaine says.
"My dad likes you. He doesn't even hug Finn like that, you know. That was a moment."
"I know," Blaine says, and he does, and something inside him makes a fist, but a loose, careful holding-fist, a fist that's curled around something precious and fragile and secret.
"At great personal expense to me, I should add, but a moment. I'm furious with you. But I'm glad."
"You were kind of a weird kid."
"I was a weird kid," Kurt sighs.
"I wish I knew you," Blaine says. "Knew you then, I mean." He doesn't look down at Kurt, he's still holding the stars in place, but he spreads his hands across Kurt's sharp shoulder blades, holds them, too.
"Me, too. It was lonely."
"You didn't have any friends?"
"None my age, really. I had teachers, and elderly neighbors, and I had my mom," Kurt says. He's quiet for a long time, and Blaine can feel him holding his breath. His own neck is starting to hurt and he wants to slip his head out of the swing and down, but moving would move Kurt and force him to breathe out and Blaine knows he needs to hold on to his air just now, so he stays, aching and tense, to keep still.
"And after my mom died," Kurt finally says, "I had my dad. We had tea parties and dress-up days and we spent two weeks with crayons drawing wallpaper designs on the walls of my mom's sewing room. I drew toile patterns; my dad made stick figures, like cave drawings. It was just us, so I guess I never thought it was weird. But I guess it was."
"No kickball," Blaine says, and a realization starts to burn in him like a pinpoint of light. "No little league. No bikes on the big hill and throwing firecrackers into the woods."
"No," Kurt says softly. "No birthday parties. No Kool-Aid. No swimming pools."
"No playground, either, then?"
Kurt hums, and Blaine knows he means to say no, no playground either, then, and maybe he's a little glad he hadn't known Kurt. Because Blaine had been sanguine and scattered, good at playground and kickball and teams, and he had been very good at getting along and laughing and not knowing more than he needed to know in the moment, and boys like that don't play with quiet boys who lose their mothers and spend recess writing stories while the rest of them shove and tag on the playground, screaming like wild things.
"My dad never repainted the sewing room. He kept our drawings," Kurt says. "You can see them next time."
Blaine sits up to stretch his back, and Kurt slides up to sitting. When Blaine looks at him, Kurt's face is milkweed white and tender, a loose constellation of freckles barely visible across his cheeks, and Blaine wants to tell him how beautiful he is and how like the photo of his mother, how fragile, how strong, how stunning and how much a miracle.
Instead, he says, "You have to try the twisty slide. Just once."
Kurt
"On your stomach," he says, laughing, so you go this way, face first and arms out like a superhero, slipping in quick coils and down, smacking hands-first into the scraping cedar, laughing and losing your breath when Blaine follows and crash-slides over you in a messy heap.
"You're crushing me!" you heave, but you're still laughing when you tell him, "This isn't fun at all! This hurts! Who does this?"
"Again!" Blaine wheezes, grabbing your hand and pulling hard til you rock to your knees, then your feet, and he pushes you up the fat plastic stairs to the top.
You brace yourself against the slide walls. "Absolutely not!" you squeal. "This thing is a Draconian torture machine. And you could have warned me about the landing."
Blaine rocks his body against yours, pushing gently, "Again, again, again, let's go, let's go, again!" he whispers, bouncing rhythmically.
"You are full of crazy brain if you think you can get me down this way! Off, Blaine Anderson, I am not going down!"
He falls back on his heels. His hands are off you, but he's breathing hard, crouched, limpid. "You won't go down?" he says, low and flirty, and it makes everything pull in tight inside you. "What if I ask nicely, Kurt? If I ask you really nicely, will you go down?" He leans back, spreading his knees, one hand caressing there, where you're looking, where you can see through his shorts that he's hard.
And so. You put your hands on him, cup his hipbones and press him back against the high plastic wall and kiss dirty hard kisses into his mouth. You slide your hands up his sides, taking his shirt with you, pull his nipple fast into your mouth, flick your tongue and suck hard until he digs his nails in your neck, until you're full of possibilities, until you're aching hard.
Above you, the tree shakes its leaves between you and the sky. You put your hands on him now, pull his waistband down and bring your lips so close to him they're almost kissing skin, a whisper distance from touching. "Since you asked nice," you hiss, blowing your words across the head of his cock, "I will." You touch him briefly with the tip of your tongue, just a wet tap, then withdraw. "Soon."
Blaine lets loose a rough groan, but he doesn't touch you. He keeps his hands flat against the curve of the slide, holding himself still, pressing down so hard the tips of his fingers are white. So you pull his shorts down past his knees and press your hands over his to help him stay, and kiss your way lightly back up his thighs, letting your tongue wind airy circles in the crease of his hip. You blow quick and warm across him so he strains under you; he's pressing his lips together into a thin line, holding in the barest little moans. You float your tongue a half-inch above his skin, catching and moving the tips of the dark hairs at his groin, and his hips come loose on their own, wrenching up to try to meet you, his cock thick and heavy and lifting itself on its own heat.
But the game is good, so you pull up and kiss him soft on the mouth, hold his hands down while his hips twist, and kiss a wet line down his neck, down his chest, down his belly, and then you stop, looking up into his face from where you are, breathing in the smell of him and exhaling in hot, moist swells over the swollen, wet tip of his cock.
Please please please. It's desperate and fast and the words roll over each other and become one sound unfurling around you, and you dig down against the smooth floor of the slide, rolling your hipbone against your own hardness in a way that sends an ache squeezing through you. You let your tongue loose to flit up and down the underside of him, light as a butterfly, pulling away when his hips reach up for you.
The whisper is a river, your name a stone in the water, please please please Kurt please please please. Blaine's voice quickens and drops and becomes weeping, which becomes tremors that shake his chest in soft sobs: please please please Kurt please I'm so sorry I'm sorry please don't leave me alone like this Kurt I know I know I know and something breaks in you, beautiful and hot and aching sad, and the pull in your throat is so hard you can't speak, you can only clasp his hands and hold them to touch you, press the full weight of your body against his so it stops quivering, and you kiss his mouth until he quiets and just says, please, just once.
It's enough that you want to give him everything now, and hold him inside you and let him come and come until this feeling is gone. You slip down on your belly and close your lips around the head of his cock, and you take him into your mouth in one slow, wet slide and he moans in a way that erases everything, gritty and deep. He lets his hands go, touching your hair, your angled shoulders, your spine, tracing your lips as you suck hard and roll your tongue against him while he fucks himself into your mouth with the slow gyration of his hips. Sound is magnified in the little slide tower, and when he grinds your name through his teeth, you feel it everywhere on your skin, and you taste the change in him when he draws in tight and ready, a bitter warning on the back of your tongue before he starts to come, hard, long, with a vicious sound that vibrates everything around you.
Then Blaine's hips jerk hard and thrust you back, your mouth open and you knocked off your axis. You claw and press, but it's too late, you're slipping down off him, down the twist of the slide, your toes making a stuttering squeal against the plastic as you try, in vain, to stop yourself. And Blaine's laughing and coming and squeezing his cock in his hand, no no no Kurt, and you might, you do, reach your hand up toward him as he disappears from view, tasting the last of him as you go down, around, down, down.
Blaine
"Are you okay?" Blaine hollers down the plastic tube. "I lost you! Kurt?" He's still laughing, giddy from coming so hard, and his hands and thighs and belly are a smeared mess, his shorts snarled around his calves, and he can smell his own scent thick on the air around him.
"Yes," Kurt calls weakly. "I slipped." And the obviousness of this statement strikes Blaine as so funny, he's tipped over the edge again, laughing like he'll cry or choke, tears squeezing out from the corners of his eyes.
"Don't laugh at me," Kurt's voice echoes up the tube, plaintive and small, "I'm in the cedar," and this only makes Blaine laugh harder, and he yanks up and tucks and zips hastily and dives down the tube, wriggling where he sticks on his own sweat, until he's spit out into the open air sharp with pine, and he's tangled against Kurt and laughing, still laughing.
"I may have broken my penis," Kurt says, and it's too much and Blaine does choke then, wracked with coughs that pound hard in his chest.
"Let me see," he says, and rests his cheek against Kurt's hip, holding his hand softly over the broken place. "I think it's good," Blaine whispers. "Still hard."
"Yes," Kurt says.
"I love you," Blaine says, still cupping gently.
"Which one of us are you talking to?"
"Both of you."
"Come here, please," Kurt whispers. "I fell down. I need hugs."
So Blaine wriggles up Kurt's side until they're level and, with his chin on Kurt's shoulder, he hugs.
"I don't like the twisty slide," Kurt says.
"I loved it."
"Yes," Kurt says. "I saw."
"I'm not done with you," Blaine whispers, stirring his fingertips low on Kurt's belly soft, soft, in tickling circles, dipping lower each round, lower until he's lightly brushing Kurt's cock through his pants. The noise Kurt makes is sweet and wet and small in his throat. If he could do it, Blaine would tell him that he's sorry that the world's cut up into territories, places they can be and places they can't. And he's sorry for assholes and cowards and losses, for standing still and for loneliness and for childhood and for childhood falling away, for questions and for laughing when your throat aches and for not knowing and for holding things in you only and alone. But there are no good words left. So Blaine draws the spirals down, down over Kurt's pelvis and over his cock and his thighs, the touch circling like a song over this body he loves, circling as if to say this place here is ours.
Title: How Something Like Luck You Are
Author: OhQuixotica
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Kurt Hummel/Blaine Anderson
Spoilers: None, though the plot assumes events through the end of season 2 (without mentioning them)
Warnings: Consensual sex between minors over the age of consent; homophobic language
Word Count: 5280ish
Summary: Kurt and Blaine have a crappy date, then make up for it on the playground, and Blaine never does find his shoes.
Author Notes: This is a gift for glitterwocky who, when asked to prompt me, said: Kurt takes Blaine to visit his elementary school playground after dark. Such potential for sweet and sad and hot and healing. Painful memories discussed on the swing set. Lots of hidden enough places for some possible public lovin’ as a "screw-them-they-can’t-touch-us-or-what-we-have." and then I said who put this finished fic on my computer? because it seemed to have written itself. She has Mad Prompting Skillz. Plus, she kindly served as my beta, too. Thank you, my little diamond of a friend, for the great prompt & the help & encouragement & good conversations.
This story gets a little angsty in moments, and goofy in others, and there's a plastic twisty slide to be reckoned with, but I hope despite (or due to) all of this, you enjoy it. (Oh, and as usual, obscure reference warning: if you're curious about the Princess Diana suit, look no further.)
::--::
How Something Like Luck You Are
Kurt
There is not a word, not in English, that carries the weight you want. Atrocious comes close, but is too genteel. Fantastically-disastrously-horrible, maybe. Unfathomable beastly trainwreck of abominability.
Your father--this man who says he loves you--has parked himself on the rust-plaid couch next to your boyfriend--this other man who says he loves you--and the two of them are huddled and giggling--giggling--over the duck-yellow, spangled craft project that is your baby book. The one with the picture of you at two, naked and covered in spaghetti (a photo which, to this day, you insist your father had staged, because it was most definitely not your idea). And the picture of you in kindergarten after you'd given yourself a haircut with safety scissors (which was your idea, but the outcome had not been quite what you'd intended). And the picture of--
"Oh my god!" Blaine shrieks, slapping his hands to his cheeks in gleeful stage horror. His eyebrows are arched so high they're indistinguishable from his hairline. "What is that?"
"That," your father manages to say between heaving laughs, "is my son."
"My god, dad," you huff, "if you do not put that away this instant, I will be forced to get out the other album and we can discuss your tragic fascination with acid wash."
"That is my son," your father struggles again, his shoulders shaking hard, his face frighteningly pink, "during his Princess Di obsession."
"Acid wash you paired with a mullet," you say. You put your hands on your hips so they know you mean business. It does no good.
Blaine looks up at you, his face bright and wide and beautiful and shining. "The tiara kind of fits with the hair--"
"--wig!" your father splutters, "Yarn!--" and you really could just kill him if you weren't so afraid this apoplectic fit might do it for you.
"--But what is that suit?"
"I'll have you know I sewed that suit myself," you growl, trying unsuccessfully to snatch the book from their laps. "It was an exact replica of the suit the Princess wore to greet Queen Beatrix of Holland upon her arrival in London in 1982."
This brings a fresh round of laughter from your men, your father going so hard no sound comes out, only a high-pitched wheeze, and Blaine's fallen against him and are they actually hugging? They are. You bite the inside of your lip against the twinge of something that isn't really anger.
"He cut up our bedspread to make it," your father sighs, wiping his eyes. "And dyed it using canned beets. Crap, he was only seven years old. I was ready to ground him for life, but his mother loved it so much, she wouldn't let me."
"No, no, Kurt, it's great, it's so creative," Blaine says, making a supreme effort to collect himself, and you almost love this boy again. He's smiling hard at you with his hazel eyes all lit up, and you do, you love him. "It's very...puffy." Your dad sucks in a snort. There's breath-holding between them.
"It was historically accurate," you say, and that breaks it, the two of them are rasping and hawing and hugging each other, so you shift your weight to the other leg and wait it out. Because when your dad gets like this, it's the only thing you can do, and it's not like humiliation is new to you.
"Oh, crap!" your dad finally sighs, leaning back to press the heels of his hands to his eyes. Blaine, released from your father's grip, is turning the pages of the book, and you know he's searching, trying to suck up as much of your secret past as he can, because he knows, oh, he knows, you'll never let him near this book again.
"Kurt, you are so much your mother's kid. From day one," your dad says. He looks down to where Blaine's tracing a finger over the picture of you and your mom in matching, broad-brimmed sun hats. You're too far to see the details, but you know this picture by heart. She's wiping a stripe of sunblock down your nose. You're counting her freckles with the tip of your finger. Her arms are around you and everything smells like coconut and lily of the valley and warm skin and chlorine and two seconds from this moment, she will sweep you up and over her head, giggling, the two of you, wildly, and she'll whirl you around in happy circles while your dad shouts that she's going to make you throw up, even though he's laughing like an idiot.
Your dad's quiet for a long time. Then he pats Blaine's knee, closes the book and gently shoves him up. "Okay, kiddos, you guys are too young to hang out here on a Friday night. Go catch your Western Story sing-along before all the good songs are taken."
You roll your eyes and softly put your palm against the back of his neck where it's still hot and sweaty from laughing at you. "It's West Side Story, dad. Natalie Wood."
"Right, West Side Story," he mumbles, shaking his head as you sweep Blaine door-ward and out. "That makes more sense."
Blaine
Despite all its promise, the evening has been very much a bust.
It had started fine: they'd found a good spot near the center of the field, spread the blanket and kicked off their shoes. Kurt had brought a thermos of lemonade and a little parcel of strawberries. Blaine had surprised him with a tiny brick of very fancy chocolate, and Kurt had literally swooned. The sky slowly darkened and everywhere the shadows of lovers leaned into one another on blankets scattered, archipelago, across the grass. When the film finally flickered on, and the strains of the Overture called out across the dark, Kurt had shifted to sit between Blaine's legs, leaning back against his chest. Pressed like this, Blaine could feel Kurt humming, a deep vibration on his sternum, so that the music was around him and in him and between them and it really was, well, glorious.
It turned out that Blaine only knew two songs from the whole movie, plus the chorus from "Officer Krupke," and nobody else in the audience really seemed to be interested in singing along anyway. So Kurt fed Blaine strawberries, awkwardly, over his shoulder, without tearing his eyes from the screen's glow, and sang alone every note of every song, even the high note on Tonight. And Blaine licked the strawberry juice from Kurt's fingers and pulled his arms tighter around him and felt almost giddy, because this boy was the weirdest and most beautiful thing he could imagine.
And then the jerk on the blanket behind them said, "Tell your girlfriend to shut up."
Everything might have been fine if Kurt had let it pass. It was so nice to hold Kurt like this in the dark, open night and kiss the sugar from his fingers and be unremarkable and almost forget it was Ohio. But Kurt had turned around, leaning across Blaine's shoulder to hiss, "It's a sing-along, you cretin!"
"Oh, shit!" laughed the girl who'd wound herself around the kid's chest. "That's a guy!"
"Fuck! Get off me." He spat, pushed the girl so she went tumbling sideways. "I'm going to puke. I don't need to see that shit."
"Then why don't you shut up and watch the film?" Kurt snapped, and turned back to the screen.
So Blaine sits now, the evening a wreck around him, his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides, because he does not know how to hold the rigid body in front of him, all angles and venom. Kurt keeps his back razor-straight and his arms locked around his knees, and they stay, two stones, and do not touch or talk or sing, while the jerk behind them pelts their backs with a hail of whispered profanity and disgust. Blaine wants desperately to leave, but Kurt is rooted in place, gripping the blanket and staring fiercely at the screen, and there can be no pushing him.
"Fags!" the guy finally hisses.
Blaine feels a searing bite rip across the side of his neck, and then Kurt jerks sideways, slapping at his lap frantically. "He threw a cigarette!" Kurt says.
And suddenly Blaine is on his feet, fists clenched, and his vision tips as he launches himself at the kid. He feels Kurt's hand grab at his calf, feels himself lifted back into a clench of arms and broad shoulders, and he kicks and whirls in his helpless fury.
"Cool it," says the man who's wrapped his arms around Blaine to hold him back. "This is a family night. We don't need a fight." His voice is firm, kind, reasonable; his arms smell of shaving cream and mint. Blaine lets his body go limp, and the man loosens his grip.
"I think you should leave," Blaine says to the kid. Reasonable. Level. Firm.
"Fuck you," the guy sneers. The girl beside him sullenly picks at her toenail polish and snorts without looking up. "You leave, faggot. You're in public, for fuck's sake."
The shadows on the blankets around them blink, stare, silent. "Watch your mouth," someone says in the dark. "There's kids here."
One of your own kind, Anita is singing, stick to your own kind.
"Maybe you guys should go," the man says, not unkindly, looking pointedly at Blaine.
Without a word, Kurt stands stiffly and carefully folds the blanket into a neat square, then bends to pull on his shoes. He places the thermos and the box of fruit on top of the blanket, gathers the pile into his arms, and silently walks past Blaine, past the reasonable man and the shadows and their blinking eyes and keeps walking until he starts to disappear against the dark.
The kid snickers. "Swish on out, sweetheart," he says. The girl snorts again, still concentrating on her toes.
"That's enough," says the man, holding his hand up at the kid as a warning.
Blaine stands for a long moment, his heart banging hard in his chest, because there are words he wants to say, to the kid, to the man, to Kurt's disappearing figure, to the lovers on their blankets, to someone, but he doesn't know what the words could be. And finally, his body breaks itself into motion and he walks, his legs moving automatically, and the grass whispers hush hush hush against his ankles. He keeps walking until he sees the lights of the parking lot, until he sees Kurt's silhouette, long and fragile, leaning against the car, until the soundtrack of the movie he is leaving behind sounds faint and tinny and underwater.
I have a love and it's all that I have.
Right or wrong, what else can I do?
I love him, I'm his,
And everything he is,
I am, too.
Kurt
The plans you'd had for post-movie coffees are over. Plans for staring moon-eyed into each others' faces and chattering happily (sentences spilling over each other and bubbling up between you like popped champagne), plans for a circuitous walk around the dark, damp park, hooking your arm around his waist, pressing the date as far as you can into the night--those plans are dashed. Because some Lima loser at the movie was a verbally-abusive asshole, and you'd stalked off with the picnic blanket and Blaine had chased after you, forgetting his shoes entirely, and then had refused to go back for them, and had refused to let you go back for them, even after the film was over, because he didn't want either one of you getting hurt if that scrawny loser and his straw-haired girlfriend were waiting for you. So instead, Blaine's curled his bare feet underneath him on the passenger seat, and you're driving his car down 117 toward the parks and the cemetery because you don't know where else to go, but you don't want to go home.
Blaine's been silent a long time, tracing lines in the condensation on his window. You tap his knee with two fingers, then leave them there, and it's awkward, but warm.
"Hey," you say. "Wanna see my old school?"
Blaine looks at you, resting his cheek on the dashboard. "I don't have shoes." He plays with the control on the A/C vent, looking small and dark and pitiful.
"We can just look from the car if you want," you say, gently. "Or we can walk in the grass."
He shrugs one shoulder, and you take this to mean that it's good enough, that you can still salvage the evening, and you turn the car a bit too abruptly down the side road to take you north.
"I'm sorry," Blaine breathes against the dash, "I'm really sorry," and you realize the swerve seems angry. It's not. You're not angry; you don't have words for what you are, except that you've bitten down on something bitter and the taste won't leave your throat, and you just want to pull the car over and curl around Blaine in the dark and close your eyes and be somewhere else entirely. It's a slipping-down feeling, and tired, and shaken apart. You think of his shoes, kicked sideways and lonely in the deserted field, empty of him, untied and open like a broken promise.
"We're here," you say, stroking your finger down his nose. "This is it."
Blaine sits up, cranes. "Elementary," he says. "I thought you meant junior high."
You arch one eyebrow and smile slightly, because it's an odd thing he's said, and because you know full well he finds your eyebrows sexy, and you want to kiss him. "There's a playground."
"Swings," he says, matter-of-fact, and you can't read what it means in the flatness of his voice, but you roll yourself out of the car and round to his side anyway, pop open his door and lean over him to unfasten the seat belt. You can feel him hanging on hard to the maudlin like it's a responsibility, in situations like these, to be sad. "Kurt, what are you doing?"
"I'm sweeping you away," you say like a breeze, and turn, and squat, and pull his arms around your neck. "Come on, up," you say, and he does it for you, climbs onto your back and curls his legs around your waist like a monkey. He's heavier than you thought, but your legs are strong enough, and you heave up, palms snugged under his thighs, and jog across the parking lot with Blaine jolting against your back, his breath in little puffs on your neck, and it's easy to pull this night back up into brilliance, you know it, when you feel Blaine's laughter rumble against you.
"Kurt! You're going to kill us," he shrieks, kicking his bare feet out in front of you like he could hit the brakes.
"Live dangerously," you say, and zoom him across the grass in crazy bumblebee swoops just to hear his laugh bouncing breathless, then drop him on his ass on the spongy, over-green lawn. You fall down next to him, put a hand on your heaving chest. "You're really fat."
"You're really weak," he laughs, rolls into you and kisses a low, sweet kiss that clings to your bottom lip.
"I'm sorry about your shoes. We'll get them tomorrow in the morning. Before the mowers."
"No. Leave them. As a monument," he sighs, rolling onto his back and folding his arms under his head. You roll into him, then, because it's too much air and distance between you, and his body is warm and muscular and hard.
"To what?"
"To..." he sighs, closing his eyes and slipping into a silence so long you worry he's sleeping. But he opens his eyes and turns them on you, green and brown and flecked and flickering, and he cups your cheeks in his hands. "I want to go on the swings. Let's swing, I haven't since forever, oh my god, let's go swing, come on, Kurt, swings!" The sentence flaps and twirls on the air behind him like a bright ribbon as he runs, as you run to catch him, as he hot-foots bare across the blacktop that's still skilleting even though the sun's been down for hours.
The Sky
Two boys pell-mell and yelp and tumble over pavement and into chain-creak swings and flip their feet up in the air and hurl themselves into motion. And this boy has lost his shoes, and so the other kicks his off and sends them bumpjump across the blacktop like skiprocks, and for this once he doesn't think about scuffs or ruin because the wind goes whistling through his toes like a beachday, that gentle and cool. They swing sometimes together and sometimes in counterpoint, flinging their bodies upward and back in graceful arcs, easy and natural and waterbeautiful and together together together with no words but laughing and shouts like starbursts and shut eyes to breathe hard in.
Then this boy goes sideways, stretchkicks his legs to lock around those otherboy ankles, and he pulls in til their chains twist up and their knees lock together and their breath locks together and the kiss is a good one, sweet and deep and still as lakewater and not one soul anywhere on earth is looking. They are invisible under the humming stars. And it's delicious because even the crickets are quiet and the lawns of the stoic cross-street houses yawn open, clean and empty like hands in supplication, and everything stops to pray for this for once just for this kind of quiet.
Here, here, come gentle now, put your head on his heart and listen, boy. You are darling and somebody in love like this made you once, and wished for you a mostexactly moment like this. Gentle, gentle, breathe him in he is moss and damp ground and sun on earth. Put your kisses there, in the crook of his neck and the divot above his lips and kiss the eyelashes, too, and the brow. Go down slow, slide there, back to his heart, and tell him you hear it beat beat behind there like a giant under the ribs. Let him hold your chains and rock you watersoft through the whirl of nightsparking bugs let the chains groan on their rusty hinges they will hold you up until you twist apart but not yet, let not-go just yet, hold here together a little while it is so deepquiet and so still like it's never still and do you feel it now, boy, how something like luck you are?
Blaine
He stares up at the sky and waits to notice the stars through the noise of streetlamps and light on earth. If you are still enough and you wait, they begin, one by one, to appear as your eyes adjust, as if they weren't there all the time, as if they'd just decided to turn on because you're looking. His head's hammocked in the rubber swing seat, and Kurt's curled against him on the cedar wood chips underneath, one knee on either side of Blaine's torso, breathing lightly against his neck.
"You're missing it," Blaine says.
"The stars have been there billions of years," Kurt says, and the words feather across Blaine's Adam's apple. "They're not going anywhere."
"I like your dad," Blaine says.
"My dad likes you. He doesn't even hug Finn like that, you know. That was a moment."
"I know," Blaine says, and he does, and something inside him makes a fist, but a loose, careful holding-fist, a fist that's curled around something precious and fragile and secret.
"At great personal expense to me, I should add, but a moment. I'm furious with you. But I'm glad."
"You were kind of a weird kid."
"I was a weird kid," Kurt sighs.
"I wish I knew you," Blaine says. "Knew you then, I mean." He doesn't look down at Kurt, he's still holding the stars in place, but he spreads his hands across Kurt's sharp shoulder blades, holds them, too.
"Me, too. It was lonely."
"You didn't have any friends?"
"None my age, really. I had teachers, and elderly neighbors, and I had my mom," Kurt says. He's quiet for a long time, and Blaine can feel him holding his breath. His own neck is starting to hurt and he wants to slip his head out of the swing and down, but moving would move Kurt and force him to breathe out and Blaine knows he needs to hold on to his air just now, so he stays, aching and tense, to keep still.
"And after my mom died," Kurt finally says, "I had my dad. We had tea parties and dress-up days and we spent two weeks with crayons drawing wallpaper designs on the walls of my mom's sewing room. I drew toile patterns; my dad made stick figures, like cave drawings. It was just us, so I guess I never thought it was weird. But I guess it was."
"No kickball," Blaine says, and a realization starts to burn in him like a pinpoint of light. "No little league. No bikes on the big hill and throwing firecrackers into the woods."
"No," Kurt says softly. "No birthday parties. No Kool-Aid. No swimming pools."
"No playground, either, then?"
Kurt hums, and Blaine knows he means to say no, no playground either, then, and maybe he's a little glad he hadn't known Kurt. Because Blaine had been sanguine and scattered, good at playground and kickball and teams, and he had been very good at getting along and laughing and not knowing more than he needed to know in the moment, and boys like that don't play with quiet boys who lose their mothers and spend recess writing stories while the rest of them shove and tag on the playground, screaming like wild things.
"My dad never repainted the sewing room. He kept our drawings," Kurt says. "You can see them next time."
Blaine sits up to stretch his back, and Kurt slides up to sitting. When Blaine looks at him, Kurt's face is milkweed white and tender, a loose constellation of freckles barely visible across his cheeks, and Blaine wants to tell him how beautiful he is and how like the photo of his mother, how fragile, how strong, how stunning and how much a miracle.
Instead, he says, "You have to try the twisty slide. Just once."
Kurt
"On your stomach," he says, laughing, so you go this way, face first and arms out like a superhero, slipping in quick coils and down, smacking hands-first into the scraping cedar, laughing and losing your breath when Blaine follows and crash-slides over you in a messy heap.
"You're crushing me!" you heave, but you're still laughing when you tell him, "This isn't fun at all! This hurts! Who does this?"
"Again!" Blaine wheezes, grabbing your hand and pulling hard til you rock to your knees, then your feet, and he pushes you up the fat plastic stairs to the top.
You brace yourself against the slide walls. "Absolutely not!" you squeal. "This thing is a Draconian torture machine. And you could have warned me about the landing."
Blaine rocks his body against yours, pushing gently, "Again, again, again, let's go, let's go, again!" he whispers, bouncing rhythmically.
"You are full of crazy brain if you think you can get me down this way! Off, Blaine Anderson, I am not going down!"
He falls back on his heels. His hands are off you, but he's breathing hard, crouched, limpid. "You won't go down?" he says, low and flirty, and it makes everything pull in tight inside you. "What if I ask nicely, Kurt? If I ask you really nicely, will you go down?" He leans back, spreading his knees, one hand caressing there, where you're looking, where you can see through his shorts that he's hard.
And so. You put your hands on him, cup his hipbones and press him back against the high plastic wall and kiss dirty hard kisses into his mouth. You slide your hands up his sides, taking his shirt with you, pull his nipple fast into your mouth, flick your tongue and suck hard until he digs his nails in your neck, until you're full of possibilities, until you're aching hard.
Above you, the tree shakes its leaves between you and the sky. You put your hands on him now, pull his waistband down and bring your lips so close to him they're almost kissing skin, a whisper distance from touching. "Since you asked nice," you hiss, blowing your words across the head of his cock, "I will." You touch him briefly with the tip of your tongue, just a wet tap, then withdraw. "Soon."
Blaine lets loose a rough groan, but he doesn't touch you. He keeps his hands flat against the curve of the slide, holding himself still, pressing down so hard the tips of his fingers are white. So you pull his shorts down past his knees and press your hands over his to help him stay, and kiss your way lightly back up his thighs, letting your tongue wind airy circles in the crease of his hip. You blow quick and warm across him so he strains under you; he's pressing his lips together into a thin line, holding in the barest little moans. You float your tongue a half-inch above his skin, catching and moving the tips of the dark hairs at his groin, and his hips come loose on their own, wrenching up to try to meet you, his cock thick and heavy and lifting itself on its own heat.
But the game is good, so you pull up and kiss him soft on the mouth, hold his hands down while his hips twist, and kiss a wet line down his neck, down his chest, down his belly, and then you stop, looking up into his face from where you are, breathing in the smell of him and exhaling in hot, moist swells over the swollen, wet tip of his cock.
Please please please. It's desperate and fast and the words roll over each other and become one sound unfurling around you, and you dig down against the smooth floor of the slide, rolling your hipbone against your own hardness in a way that sends an ache squeezing through you. You let your tongue loose to flit up and down the underside of him, light as a butterfly, pulling away when his hips reach up for you.
The whisper is a river, your name a stone in the water, please please please Kurt please please please. Blaine's voice quickens and drops and becomes weeping, which becomes tremors that shake his chest in soft sobs: please please please Kurt please I'm so sorry I'm sorry please don't leave me alone like this Kurt I know I know I know and something breaks in you, beautiful and hot and aching sad, and the pull in your throat is so hard you can't speak, you can only clasp his hands and hold them to touch you, press the full weight of your body against his so it stops quivering, and you kiss his mouth until he quiets and just says, please, just once.
It's enough that you want to give him everything now, and hold him inside you and let him come and come until this feeling is gone. You slip down on your belly and close your lips around the head of his cock, and you take him into your mouth in one slow, wet slide and he moans in a way that erases everything, gritty and deep. He lets his hands go, touching your hair, your angled shoulders, your spine, tracing your lips as you suck hard and roll your tongue against him while he fucks himself into your mouth with the slow gyration of his hips. Sound is magnified in the little slide tower, and when he grinds your name through his teeth, you feel it everywhere on your skin, and you taste the change in him when he draws in tight and ready, a bitter warning on the back of your tongue before he starts to come, hard, long, with a vicious sound that vibrates everything around you.
Then Blaine's hips jerk hard and thrust you back, your mouth open and you knocked off your axis. You claw and press, but it's too late, you're slipping down off him, down the twist of the slide, your toes making a stuttering squeal against the plastic as you try, in vain, to stop yourself. And Blaine's laughing and coming and squeezing his cock in his hand, no no no Kurt, and you might, you do, reach your hand up toward him as he disappears from view, tasting the last of him as you go down, around, down, down.
Blaine
"Are you okay?" Blaine hollers down the plastic tube. "I lost you! Kurt?" He's still laughing, giddy from coming so hard, and his hands and thighs and belly are a smeared mess, his shorts snarled around his calves, and he can smell his own scent thick on the air around him.
"Yes," Kurt calls weakly. "I slipped." And the obviousness of this statement strikes Blaine as so funny, he's tipped over the edge again, laughing like he'll cry or choke, tears squeezing out from the corners of his eyes.
"Don't laugh at me," Kurt's voice echoes up the tube, plaintive and small, "I'm in the cedar," and this only makes Blaine laugh harder, and he yanks up and tucks and zips hastily and dives down the tube, wriggling where he sticks on his own sweat, until he's spit out into the open air sharp with pine, and he's tangled against Kurt and laughing, still laughing.
"I may have broken my penis," Kurt says, and it's too much and Blaine does choke then, wracked with coughs that pound hard in his chest.
"Let me see," he says, and rests his cheek against Kurt's hip, holding his hand softly over the broken place. "I think it's good," Blaine whispers. "Still hard."
"Yes," Kurt says.
"I love you," Blaine says, still cupping gently.
"Which one of us are you talking to?"
"Both of you."
"Come here, please," Kurt whispers. "I fell down. I need hugs."
So Blaine wriggles up Kurt's side until they're level and, with his chin on Kurt's shoulder, he hugs.
"I don't like the twisty slide," Kurt says.
"I loved it."
"Yes," Kurt says. "I saw."
"I'm not done with you," Blaine whispers, stirring his fingertips low on Kurt's belly soft, soft, in tickling circles, dipping lower each round, lower until he's lightly brushing Kurt's cock through his pants. The noise Kurt makes is sweet and wet and small in his throat. If he could do it, Blaine would tell him that he's sorry that the world's cut up into territories, places they can be and places they can't. And he's sorry for assholes and cowards and losses, for standing still and for loneliness and for childhood and for childhood falling away, for questions and for laughing when your throat aches and for not knowing and for holding things in you only and alone. But there are no good words left. So Blaine draws the spirals down, down over Kurt's pelvis and over his cock and his thighs, the touch circling like a song over this body he loves, circling as if to say this place here is ours.