"Sebastian fucking Smythe!"
Sitting at the kitchen table, drinking his morning coffee and eating a slice of whole grain toast, Sebastian snickers. Well, I guess that means he's finally up, he thinks, taking another satisfying sip of his delicious French roast. He'd expected the reaction, but not the name. The night after a hangover, he usually ends up being Sebastian motherfucking Smythe, so this was an obvious improvement.
"Yes, darling?" he asks, not looking up from his phone when Kurt's clumsy cavalcade stops inches away from the kitchen table.
"What … what the … what the heck did you do to me last night?"
"Not a single thing I wanted to," Sebastian replies, jutting out his lower lip. "And I have to say, I'm extremely disappointed. You really need to learn to lay off the Tequila."
"Is that why you resorted to disfiguring me!? To teach me a lesson!?" Kurt wails.
"Why, whatever do you mean?" Sebastian delicately puts down his coffee mug, impressed that Kurt can withstand the rage-filled notes he's hitting knowing his head must feel like it's about to implode.
"I mean this!" Kurt pulls up his shirt and tugs down the waistband of his sleep pants. On his exposed right ass cheek, written in thick black Sharpie, are the words Property of Sebastian Smythe ... except, not exactly. It actually says Property of Sebastian Smorthe, but that's a matter of specifics.
It's not easy writing on skin, even with a Sharpie.
Sebastian peeks at the ass cheek jiggling with emphasis just inches from his face, and the snort he's been holding back erupts from his pinched lips.
"Oh, very funny! Very funny!" Kurt scolds, angrily pulling up his pants. "I should have expected something like this from you! How frickin' immature can you get!?"
"Pretty immature," Sebastian agrees, infuriatingly unfazed by his boyfriend's soaring temper.
"You know … you … you … you said you were okay with me going out last night!" Kurt sputters, jabbing an accusatory finger in his boyfriend's direction.
"And I was."
"You were the one who said drink, relax, dance, have fun! You deserve it!"
"And you did."
Kurt opens his eyes wide in disbelief (a huge mistake in retrospect), his argument starting to run off the rails as Sebastian calmly agrees with every point. Where was he going with this? This isn't the way Sebastian's pranks normally play out.
"You … you said it didn't matter to you one inch that Blaine was going to be there!"
"And it didn't." Sebastian takes a bite of his toast, casually continuing his breakfast (or brunch, seeing as, according to the microwave clock, it was closer to noon) as if Kurt wasn't standing in front of him, screaming himself hoarse like an agave-pickled banshee.
It actually frustrated Kurt to no end that Sebastian didn't seem at all concerned – or jealous - that his ex would be joining them last night. Even though Sebastian had offered to "chaperone" the impromptu New Directions reunion that invaded the Amnesia Nightclub, he claimed it was only to make sure Kurt could drink his fill and properly enjoy himself without the fear of getting jumped in an alley on his way home. In all respects, Sebastian had been the perfect boyfriend – courteous, polite, and downright respectful of Kurt's friends, not rising to the occasion when a few admittedly deserved but not entirely necessary jabs were thrown his way. He'd laughed off the side-eyes and the remarks from the less forgiving members of the group, and had smoothed out a heated, beer-fueled argument by springing for a round of drinks. In short, he willingly escorted Kurt to a potentially uncomfortable gathering of ex-rivals for the sole purpose of ensuring that the man he loved would stay safe and have fun.
The bastard.
"Why … why are you acting like such a … a … pushover? You're usually so damned proud of yourself when you pull a stunt like this!"
"You're right. I usually am proud when I do stuff like that."
"Wha-?" Kurt's face screws up in partial agony as he fights the fog of alcohol shrouding his brain to remember exactly when Sebastian had marked him up like this. He has a vague recollection of the Sharpie, which had been lying unsupervised on the bar. He remembers its tip pulling at his skin as the words were written, and the sound of Sebastian's voice – not laughing, but firmly saying, "Alright, babe. I think you've had enough for tonight. Say goodnight to your little friends." The one thing Kurt can see clearly is the look on his face – not angry, but stern, and not aimed at him.
At Blaine.
And then, with a sharp stab behind his eyes, he remembers the argument that had preceded the branding – Blaine pulling Kurt aside to tell him that he thought him dating Sebastian was a mistake; that even though Blaine and Sebastian had made peace and become friends, he still felt that Sebastian wasn't good for Kurt in the boyfriend department; and that if Kurt could see fit to overlook his and Blaine's past and give him a second chance, he would show Kurt how sorry he was for everything he'd done.
He'd show him how good they could be together.
Kurt's eyes pop open again and he groans in pain, but not as much from the light piercing his retinas as from that conversation, one that they'd had a dozen times before, and that he had hoped, with close to a half decade between high school and now, they would have put to rest for the remainder of their lives.
Regardless, Kurt has a defense for all of Blaine's tired arguments; he has ways of not letting those get to him. Except Blaine had veered off into a different direction - a relentless assassination of Sebastian's motives and character.
The tipping point had been when Blaine called Sebastian an asshole.
Kurt slides the waistband back down a few inches so he can examine the handwriting on his ass in this brighter, better lighting. The letters are blocky, sloppy, and clumped together, but he can still make out the telltale swoops of his capital S, the curl on the tail of his y, the way the r in property attaches to the o.
Sebastian doesn't do any of that. But Kurt does.
"You … didn't do this … did you?" Kurt says with dawning realization.
"Nope."
Kurt sighs, letting go of the waistband and watching it snap back into place. He looks at his boyfriend, debating in his head when would be the best time to apologize. With his heart climbing up his throat and what remained of his sanity attempting to break through his skull, he figures now isn't that time. "I really need to learn to lay off the Tequila."
"Yes. Yes, you do." Sebastian rises to his feet. He wraps his arms around his boyfriend, leaning in for a kiss. But Kurt smells like a combination of stale alcohol, vomit, and morning breath, so he settles for a peck on the forehead. He can't be too mad at him considering he was willing to risk permanent marker on his precious alabaster skin in order to make a point to his pernicious ex-boyfriend – the man who was supposed to be his soulmate before he decided to poke a lighthouse. "Come on. Let's get you into a shower."
"Okay," Kurt says, melting into Sebastian's arms as he leads him to the bathroom, "but no sex. I'm still seriously hungover."
"Well, duh. I'm not going to turn you into a cheater."
Kurt tilts his head up and squints at Sebastian. "What do you mean, a cheater?"
"It says right here you're the property of Sebastian Smorthe," he jokes, squeezing Kurt's right ass cheek. "I don't know who that guy is, but I've heard he's an asshole."