Author's Notes:
Don't want to shove the music down your throats, I'm hoping to pique your interest naturally, which is why the names of the songs are rarely mentioned. All lyrics are in italics, none of them belong to me, and all of the songs can be found in a youtube playlist, in order of appearance: playlist?list=PLxfCJHSOib1deVvEwnw-cNcayc_owc4Zy — playlist's link (goes right after the 'dot-com' in youtube's address.) Thank you so much for reading.
chapter 1: thunder, porch, barbecue, and almost-crash
"Blaine, sweetheart, you're scaring me."
Pamela tilts her head to the side, watching Blaine from across the kitchen table—the very same table Blaine's family used to gather at every night to have dinner for as long as Blaine can remember.
What used to be his family, now.
Outside the sanctuary of Blaine's childhood house, it's dark and quiet; a warm, breezy night in early August. Ironically, Blaine realizes that it's been almost exactly three months since, at that very same table, his mother first told him about the divorce.
What three months could do to a person, Blaine thinks idly, tugging at the sleeves of his sweatshirt and cloaking his clammy fingers in it. He shifts in his chair, looking away—somewhere, anywhere but into his mother's anxious eyes. His own eyes start to prickle with tears; he reaches up to press a fist to his quivering lips.
"Blaine," Pamela chokes out in a flat, broken whisper with her heart racing in an apprehension.
Blaine squeezes his eyes shut, doesn't move doesn't breathe as he waits for the tears to trickle down his eyelashes. At the sight of this, Pamela feels her heart sink low into her stomach—until Blaine, as if somehow being able to tell, suddenly nods, puts his hands down, and pulls himself together.
Eyes boring into the tabletop, he slides his hand forward with his palm up, fast—almost as if afraid his cowardice will catch on. Without a second of hesitation, Pamela cups his offered hand with two of her warm palms. Squeezing it reassuringly, she doesn't give up on her desperate efforts to search out Blaine's eyes. Her boy has grown so much over this past year, his freshman year at college.
He looked so small now: his curly hair a boyishly unkempt mess, his timeworn sweatshirt the very same one he'd always pick to wear when coming home from Dalton.
Sucking in a sniffling breath, Blaine forces himself to look up and into his mother's eyes. Forces himself to hold her gaze when he does so.
"Mom," he says in a voice that comes out hollow and raspy.
The tears keep clouding his vision as if deliberately abetting his escape from her trying eye contact, but he holds on. Pamela's face is contorted with panic.
"Momma, I'm gay," his voice breaks.
Three months ago at that table, Blaine didn't know.
Three months ago Blaine was just winding up his second semester at OSU where he majored in journalism while sharing an apartment with his close friend Jesse in Downtown Columbus. Right underneath it, there was a pub that hosted them as their cover band Thursday through Saturday, for almost half a year by then.
Three months ago, their drummer Ian had just transferred to SMTD in Michigan, leaving all three of them—Santana, Jesse, and Blaine—with no other option but to put their attendance at that pub on hold. At least until Jesse, a self-proclaimed leader of the band, found them somebody new to fill Ian's place.
But, little did they know, the pub managed to find a replacement for them sooner than they did for Ian.
Then, along with looking for a new drummer that would be willing to provide them with a place to rehearse—among Santana, Jesse, and Blaine, Ian was the only one who'd grown up in Columbus and lived in a suburban house, a place that came with a basement and a relative seclusion from the outside world—they also had to find themselves a new place to perform, preferably that which would pay them to do that.
Three months ago, Blaine and his mother were sitting at that exact table with that exact silence hovering in the air between them. Only that time, it was Pamela's turn to drop a bomb.
Inside the pockets of his not-so-tight yet not-so-loose-fitted jeans, Blaine could feel his cell phone buzzing—Jesse buffeting him with text messages.
That day Jesse'd finally found Finn.
That day Blaine's mother first told him about her and Devon's plans to file for a divorce.
It was the dawn of May. Outside, Blaine could hear the freshly-revived tree crowns swish to the gentle gusts of wind; inside, he could see a red-orange sunbeam piercing through their kitchen curtains, exposing hectic motes of dust floating silently in the room.
As silently as Blaine was sitting across the table from his mother, staring blankly into nowhere.
"Please say something, sweetheart," Pamela said just above a whisper.
Blaine blinked away the wetness in his eyes and squeezed her hand.
"I'm so, sorry," he said then.
Pamela let out a tearful laugh, almost hysterical, and pressed a kiss to the back of Blaine's hand. Blaine didn't like it when she did this, but at that moment, she didn't think twice. He didn't either.
"What are you sorry for, honey?"
Blaine swallowed and looked up at her; what he was about to say nobody in their family had been brave enough to admit to before.
"I'm sorry I didn't let you do this sooner."
He knew—he'd always known, it's just that at some point in time it was too soon, too early for his still maturing mind to deal with something this adult—and at some point, it was too late. They'd missed out on the right moment to go through with it and the only thing left for them to do was to embrace the fact that everybody in this house would keep sacrificing everything for the sake of Blaine's well-being. Even if it meant sentencing oneself to a marriage that had been exhausted of love an awfully long time ago.
Blaine felt like he should be grateful for how much his parents loved him, but he couldn't escape the feeling that this wasn't the way it was supposed to be.
"Nonsense," Pamela said, shaking her head vigorously. She straightened in her chair, tightened her hold on Blaine's hand, and looked deep into his eyes. "Don't you ever entertain this thought, you hear me?"
That day Blaine decided to stay at his mother's until the end of the week—which was the last week before his summer term was going to start. No matter how many times his mom tried to reassure him—sway him, even—that it was okay to take a break this summer, Blaine was adamant in his intending to finish undergrad as soon as physically possible.
The sooner he would be done with it, the sooner he could find himself a high-paying, full-time job; the sooner he'd be able to reimburse his parents all the money that went into his studying but otherwise could've gone into building better lives for themselves.
With brief performances at the bar (wherein the cash would get split between all four members of the band) and the mere luck Blaine would occasionally stumble upon in freelancing—that with the addition of schoolwork Blaine tended to with the most diligence of them all—the very best he could hope for was to glean enough by the end of the month to pay his share of rent. And even then, due to the fickle nature of those sources of income, he would usually end up trying to pay his mom back after the payment was due and she'd taken care of it.
And, of course, those who knew Pamela Anderson, also knew that these kinds of attempts were ultimately bound to fail, leaving all the money for Blaine to keep and not taking 'no' for an answer.
Jesse, for one, didn't stress about those types of things. Had long since accepted the fact that his parents were going to cover his tuition as well as his living expenses—and kept ordering take-out every day, had little concern over price tags at the bars, held a couple of gym memberships simultaneously.
And maybe there was something right about that. Maybe it was simply Blaine and his younger-brother insecurities.
Cooper fended for himself.
"Why hello my straight friend Blaine," he heard Jesse's voice say into his ear upon picking up. "And here I thought you were never going to pick up."
Blaine grimaced in confusion at the nickname.
"What?" he asked, amused at his friend's weird ways sometimes.
"What?" Jesse parroted him instantly, intonation and all. Blaine could hear a grin in his voice.
Blaine drew his eyebrows together with an uncertain smile but chose to ignore this.
"What's up with the new drummer?" he asked instead, stopping by the entrance of an all-too-familiar grocery store. Pamela told him she'd spotted a better parking spot and would repark; Blaine told her he would be waiting here, right by the good-old Kroger signboard.
"The drummer rocks," Jesse told him. "But you have yet to see his brother," he added as his voice slipped into this low and sweet silk he saved for flirting with his boys. It made Blaine's skin crawl; for some reason, he was creeped out by hearing it speak so close to his ear. "I guarantee there's no way your heterosexual libido is going to stand up against this treasure."
Blaine smirked, studying the concrete under his tattered New Balance sneakers.
"But seriously though, we're in their garage now, setting everything up; when are you gonna be here? I texted you the address."
"Yeah, about that," Blaine said, threading a hand through his curly head of hair. "I'll stay till Monday."
Jesse didn't respond right away; Blaine heard him talk to somebody before the background noise started tapering off—Jesse excused himself.
"Is everything okay, Blaine?"
Blaine sighed into the phone right when he caught sight of Pamela climbing out of her car and slamming the door shut before she locked it with her key, heading his way. "I don't know," he said. "My parents are getting divorced. I want to spend some time with my mom. Be there for her."
The sun would instantly turn from pleasantly warm into scorching each time the soft wind would die off. Blaine wished he hadn't forgotten his sunglasses at home.
"Blaine, I'm...sorry," Jesse says in a heavy voice on the other end of the line. "How are you holding up?"
"Thanks, I'm okay," Blaine said. "Everything's going to be okay."
Blaine remembers that time he and his mom shopped at Kroger as if it was yesterday. He was pushing his weight onto the shopping cart, lifting his feet off the floor as he nudged it forward while Pamela was filling it with groceries, leveling a half-charmed, half-chastising gaze at him.
"Remember the last time we did this together?" she asks him, wiggling her eyebrows.
Blaine grins.
"Feels like in another lifetime," he says as he tugs a bag of tortilla chips off the shelf—and with it, a can of salsa stuck nearby.
Staying he is. At Pamela's unimpressed gaze, he bats his eyelashes innocently.
"Some things never change," she sighs as they switch places behind the shopping cart. "Jesse's not gonna miss you?" she asks conversationally.
For some reason, Blaine finds this question funny.
"No. We were just talking," he says, smiling. "Told me he'd recruited a new drummer into our band."
Pamela smiles knowingly.
"Persuasive much, is he?"
Blaine nods, shoving hands into the pockets of his jeans as they approach the checkout.
"Poor girl of his dreams, I wonder what that's like," Pamela mutters jokingly, making a face.
Blaine takes a deep breath, straightens up his shoulders, and—smiles at her words. They join the line.
"Speaking of girls," she drawls, goading him, and this time Blaine can't help the genuine smile as he rolls his eyes. "We were so preoccupied with my personal life that we've completely missed out on yours!"
"Mom," Blaine begs.
"How's life been treating your good friend...Santana?" Pamela mocks in a low voice.
"Mom," Blaine smiles at her, and she giggles.
"You know I'm only fooling with you. Though I have to say I was truly impressed by her straightforwardness," Pamela adds in a gossip-like mutter.
Blaine hangs his head, feeling his face go red, again.
"No like seriously," she insists good-heartedly. "Of all the ways I've been addressed by the girls my sons dated, 'Take your paws off of my boyfriend, bitch' was something else for sure."
"Mom!"
The first time Blaine saw him, a roll of thunder reverberated across the room. Literally.
It's been a week since Finn became a part of their band; a week that Blaine spent by his mother's side in Westerville while Jesse was trying to get into Finn's brother's pants, Kurt. (Amid practice sessions with Finn and Santana and his constant texting Blaine about how 'fucking gorgeous' Kurt was.)
The thunderstorm catches on to Blaine back when he is fumbling with google maps in his car, driving down The Outerbelt on his way to Finn's. A dark, ominous tune pervades the interior of his car, sending vibrations through the leather of Blaine's seat and the steering wheel. Blaine turns the volume higher up and relaxes into his seat, taking a moment to appreciate the cluster of thick, deep-grey clouds brooding over the horizon as the whole car bathes in a menacing bass throb.
an awful noise
filled the air
i heard a scream
in the woods somewhere
Blaine rolls the windows down, letting in a surge of wind that instantly winnows up his curls, making them flap wildly. Feeling a distant, meek longing for a cigarette, Blaine squeezes the wheel harder and sucks in a breath through his nose, eyes sinking further deep into the road in front of him. The air is humid and thick with the fresh taste of thunder and lightning, invigorating in its novelty; it's the first thunderstorm in the year.
Blaine chances a glance to his left and sees the last strip of the sky that used to be clear now blurred into a deep, misty shade of blue. Cradled by the dark pall from above and the downtown rooftops from below, it was the last trace of the horizon, a distinct frontier between the clouds and the city.
When Blaine reaches his destination in Northern Columbus, it's pouring, and the very lightning to which the next peal of thunder will belong flashes bright and fast just as Blaine shuts the driver's door. He can hear a familiar bass sequence coming from inside the garage and smiles as he pulls up the hood of his scarlet sweatshirt, hurrying forward. Jesse's told him that they've only been playing covers so far, the light ones: both to make it easier for Finn to blend in and due to Blaine's temporal absence, their lead electric guitarist.
The garage gate is cracked open on purpose and Blaine rolls it up just enough for him to slip inside, then pulls it down all the way. At the sound of Jesse's vehement voice, Blaine smiles before he even pulls his hood back.
"Are you ready? Are you ready for this! Are you hanging on the edge of your seat?" Jesse sings, pointing a finger at Blaine.
Blaine beams at him with his wild, charming smile, dragging the slider of his zip-up all the way down as he undoes his red hoodie and lets it drape loosely over his clothed torso: a thin, grayish T-shirt underneath.
When Blaine glances around and lays his eyes on him for the first time, the roll of thunder floats atop of Santana's bass and Finn's drumbeat.
He's perched on some kind of wooden crate, legs crossed in a composed, elegant manner, his body slanted slightly to the back where he holds his weight with one of his hands. His other hand is wrapped around a glass of cocktail that he holds up to his lips in a manner just as graceful as everything about his posture seems to be.
He's wearing all black: a dark turtleneck with a high collar wrapping neatly around his neck, a frayed, greyish jeans hugging his legs, and fashionably huge boots that occasionally swing to the uptempo beat.
With that same coquettish albeit dispassionate fashion of his, his tongue swirls idly around the straw as he watches Jesse perform.
Those three to four seconds that Kurt's gaze lingers on Blaine, Blaine feels his face go hot. It's then that the thunder rolls over them.
And maybe Blaine starts to see things or the corners of Kurt's lips actually twitch in the weakest, quietest smile that almost isn't there—right before dismissively, Kurt steers his attention back to Jesse, his coolness otherwise untinged.
"Another one bites the dust-uh!" Jesse belts out, throwing his head of tiny curls back. From behind him, Santana's blatant gaze bores into Blaine, her eyebrow arched as her fingers work the chords without the slightest bit of imprecision.
Blaine faces her gaze with a stiff smile as his arms work to fling his damp hoodie off of his shoulders. Spotting his guitar all set up and waiting for him in the corner (thank you, J) Blaine makes a beeline for it, nodding his greeting to Finn on the way. Blaine drapes his sweatshirt over the back of one of the chairs, lifts his guitar up, and ducks his head of curls to throw the strap around his neck. The soft, cotton T-shirt hugging his torso seems to be fairly dry and untouched by the wetness of the rain.
One hand wrapping around the slim fingerboard, Blaine checks the overdrive pedal and bends down to tweak a couple of knobs. Then, with a concentrated expression, he turns to face Jesse and nods to the beat, his right hand flying up to push his wet locks of hair up and away.
and another one gone
and another one gone
Jesse writhes at the mic stand, singing the notes out, and then—raises his fist up.
hey!
Blaine strums down the guitar once, sharp, eyes on Jesse.
i'm gonna get you too
—and four more abrupt times for each syllable, as his left hand blindly switches chords and slides down the fingerboard sharply when he's done. The song enters its bridge with Finn altering the rhythm, thumping at the snare drum now with both sticks in sync, changing to a flatter, heavier beat. Both Jesse and Santana pick it up by clapping along and Blaine supports it by slapping at the guitar's strings with his palm. Everybody's voices, with the exception of Kurt's and Blaine's, start to echo off the garage walls as Santana and Finn back up Jesse's solo, building up for the last verse to come.
another one bites the dust
ow!
another one bites the dust
hey! hey!
Blaine glances at Santana behind him as his right hand sneaks into the back pocket of his jeans to fish out his pick. Santana winks his way when they make an eye contact just before getting back to her recurring chord progression, plucking the strings with her nails while singing along. Blaine rolls his eyes weakly at the gesture but can't help the mad smile; his hand retrieves into its previous position when he ducks his head to glance at the fingerboard, locating the next due chords. And—deftly—he dives into the quick rhythm of yanking the strings with a pick while whizzing his left hand up and down the fingerboard.
He's missed this.
"Blaine," says Jesse after he and Blaine pat each other on the back when the song is over. "Please, meet Kurt," he sighs, squeezing Blaine's shoulder as he turns to look at Kurt sitting opposite of them on the other side of the room. Blaine has no other choice but to glance Kurt's way, too; he hasn't looked at him once during the song.
With his back held straight and calm, Kurt sits at the very same spot, sucking at the remnants of his cocktail, cheeks hollowed in. Blaine lets himself watch askance the way Kurt swings his feet back and forth, kicking at the wood in a child-like boredom that almost strikes Blaine as adorable. Then, he sees Kurt put his empty glass down next to him before gracefully letting himself off the crate. He snatches a decorative cherry off of the brim of his cocktail and sucks it from his fingers; then faces them, slides his hands into his back pockets, and starts to tread cattishly towards them. Blaine keeps his gaze at the level of his chest.
As soon as Kurt is close enough, Jesse reaches to tug him into the possessive circle of his arms.
"Kurt, this is my best friend Blaine," Jesse mumbles into Kurt's hair, Kurt's back to his chest. Just as perfectly composed as before—almost irresponsive, it seems to Blaine—Kurt tilts his head to the side, watching Blaine.
Blaine watches the way Kurt's thumbs curl into his own front pockets as Jesse nuzzles the side of his neck.
"Hi Blaine," Kurt says to Blaine, craning his neck for Jesse.
His voice must be the definition of ethereal: soft and high and the perfect complement to that captivating, self-possessed demeanor of his. If Blaine could imagine being able to grasp it, he is sure it would feel exactly the way silk does, delicate and smooth and cold to the touch.
And, either it's just Blaine, or he indeed catches a tinge of irony hidden in it, as if some kind of inside joke Blaine hasn't been let in on.
Nobody seems to laugh, though; Jesse keeps nibbling at Kurt's neck, Kurt keeps watching Blaine right from under the touch of Jesse's lips—and suddenly, Blaine feels idly hot, and twitchy, and utterly out of place. He strains a polite smile and hangs his head and looks down at his toe kicking the floor.
From behind the drums, Finn clears his throat—which, fortunately for Blaine, muffles the final snicker Santana refuses to hold any longer.
"Oh right, and Finn," Jesse adds almost as an afterthought. Perhaps a tad too eager, Blaine turns to shake hands with Finn, engaging him in a small-talk that, for once, isn't perfunctory at all.
He doesn't see a bleak shade of amusement fleet across Kurt's features. No one sees the blatant wtf expression plastered on Santana's face.
your hair
and your eyes
i saw them in the night
Blaine strolls down the hallway inside Hummel-Hudson's house until he reaches the corner that bends into their living room. In the mystifying, bluish twilight, he leans on the wall, watching others relax on the couch to the logy tune wafting from the speakers.
Hearing the soft voice float over the dark music, Blaine instantly recognizes it as belonging to Hope Sandoval. The subdued, hazy atmosphere in the room seems to be perfect for this particular song; Blaine watches Santana drag at her cigar before lazily puffing out rings of smoke, all perfectly shaped by her lips of an exquisite, deep-red color. She sits in an armchair with her boots pressed into the edge of the coffee table, knees swaying to the sluggish rhythm. Next to her Blaine sees Kurt and Jesse snuggled together on the sofa facing outward. Kurt's elbow is resting on the back of the couch, his sharp chin is propped up by his delicate knuckles. Jesse strokes his inner thigh, whispering something in his ear, but Kurt seems to be listening only half-heartedly, his expression serene and smoothed out in the hushed light.
In the hushed light, Blaine can see it almost glowing in its beguiling paleness. He finds himself unable to look away; finds no need to.
"You and Santana, huh?" he hears Finn's sudden voice creep up on him.
He jerks, turning to look at his left Finn seems to have come straight from the kitchen, two opened Coronas in his hands. With an amiable smile, he holds out one to Blaine. Staring up at him dumbly, Blaine accepts it with a soft thanks.
Finn nods to the music and takes a sip.
"A thing?" Finn elaborates his initial question with an equally cryptic one after swallowing down the bitter liquid.
"No," Blaine shakes his head softly, turning back to face others. Finn nods. Blaine smiles. "Go for it if you dare."
For a moment or two, Finn gives him an odd look before eventually catching up.
"Oh. Oh. No, no, I—I've got a girlfriend in New York," Finn explains.
"Oh," Blaine responds.
"I just, y'know, saw the way you were looking at her, and just thought..."
Blaine clears his throat and rushes to take a sip of his own.
"Nice place," he comments first thing after swallowing.
Finn shrugs, glancing around.
"It's all Kurt; this place is nothing like it used to be back when it belonged to my father."
Blaine turns to look up at Finn.
"You and Kurt have different fathers?"
Finn shakes his head no as he swallows down his gulp of beer.
"Not even that, we've different parents. We're stepbrothers," he explains then. "My father died when I was an infant; Kurt's mom died when he was eight. Our sophomore, Kurt set his dad and my mom up on one of those parents meetings," Finn recalls with a nostalgic smile. "Two days in and they were head over heels," he grins, glancing down at the rim of his bottle. Then, his private smile falters as his eyes cloud with something deep and dark—mournful it seems."Next year...," Finn starts but never finishes as the front door behind them suddenly bursts open, causing Blaine to jerk with a bottle in his hand.
With a wild look on his face, he turns to look at the disturber and sees a blonde girl with a high ponytail step inside before, helping herself with both hands, she whistles over the music.
"What's up bitches!" she shouts excitedly. "Guess who just passed all of her finals and is ready to party until dawn?"
Blaine looks around; Kurt's jaw falls open in a pleasant surprise, Finn gives the girl a high-five; Santana takes her feet off of the table, shifting in her armchair, intrigued. Apparently, everyone but Blaine has some idea of what the hell is going on.
"Somebody needs to turn this dirge off and gimme gimme some Britney, tequila, and a pole," the girl dictates, clapping her hands as to rally everybody up before she gets to the laptop and cuts off Hope Sandoval's voice.
it's britney, bitch
Before Blaine even knows it, this becomes a part of their routine—the mini-party following each Friday session. The first one, though, the Sunday one, lasted longer for everybody else than it did for him, for as a) he feared that his ears were about to bleed before the first Britney Spears song was even over and b) he was the only one who had school literally the next day, so he left.
In all fairness, though, those semi-afterparties became a thing before Blaine was even introduced to them; to this day, he keeps forgetting that first week he spent in Westerville over which the entire dynamic of his life in Columbus had changed so drastically, without him knowing.
Apart from him, Santana was the only one else who had a busy schedule; this is why Jesse didn't insist on them gathering far too often: two times a week was enough. Plus, there were times when their fooling around at Hummel-Hudson's led to the impromptu sessions—they were spending most of their weekends there anyways. Blaine stuck around only on Fridays.
Kurt would show up at the garage during the rehearsals and stay for at least one song. Sometimes he would have a drink in his hand, sometimes he would chew at the fruit, his favorite one being apple. Usually, he would haul himself up to perch on that crate from the first day. Glancing his way askance, Blaine would see him sit with this thin legs spread and swinging to the music, hands pressed into the wooden edge in between. Sometimes he would tilt his head and watch others play with a contemplative look on his face; sometimes he would mimic dancing from his seat, moving his hands in the air with closed eyes and a concentrated frown on his brow.
Either way, Blaine would find himself thinking again and again that if he were to write the perfect novel, all of its characters would look and talk and breathe the way Kurt did.
Next Friday—the next time Blaine stayed after the practice—he and Kurt talked for the first time.
His mother calls him; he steps outside to get some privacy. It's fully darkened by now; a quiet, peaceful night in early May. Blaine listens to his mom tell him about how all the paperwork is over with; in pauses between their voices, Blaine hears the comforting sounds of crickets. He tells her about Kurt and Finn.
After they hang up, Blaine doesn't want to go inside right away and decides to sit for a while on the porch. He sits down on the steps and takes a deep breath of the late-night air that somehow comes shaky and shuddery—right before somebody opens the front door behind him. Blaine turns to see who that is and feels a sudden jolt of adrenaline lash down his legs.
"Hi there, straightie," Kurt coos closing the door from outside. The sound of his teasing voice gets muffled by the cup he drinks from when he says the nickname. After he takes the sip, he moves the chocolate-colored cup away from his mouth; there is a trace of the brownish liquid left on his upper lip. Kurt licks at it softly, walking up to Blaine.
Blaine watches Kurt sit down beside him and hears his heart beating.
"Chocolate?" Kurt offers, watching Blaine with an unabashed, intense gaze.
Blaine nodes before the question even fully registers with him and Kurt hands out his cup of hot chocolate. Blaine takes a sip and licks at his own lips, staring down at the cup. Then he glances up at the neighboring house across the street.
They sit in quiet, listening to the muted melody wafting its way from inside the Hummel-Hudson's house.
"Neighbors must hate you," Blaine smirks, chancing a glance at Kurt next to him—only to find Kurt facing him with his back to the balustrade, left knee bent and his foot resting at the same level they sit on. When Blaine looks up, Kurt's gaze is already studying him.
Before Kurt responds, he riches with grabby hands as a clue for Blaine to return his cup.
"Dunno," Kurt shrugs, taking another sip. His eyes, grey in the dim streetlight, never leave Blaine's face. When Kurt runs his tongue over his upper lip again, Blaine turns back to face the road.
"I wouldn't know who our neighbors are."
"You guys didn't grow up here?" Blaine frowns after a moment of silence.
Kurt sucks in a breath through his pointed nose and turns away, eyelids fluttering shut when he does so. Fiddling with his fingers, Blaine watches Kurt watch the road.
"We grew up in Lima," Kurt sighs into the darkness.
Something in his high, gravelly voice stirs the warmth inside Blaine's stomach. That same something doesn't let Blaine look away. He hears the house behind them vibrate with a slow, crawly tune that keeps building and building up to something fierce and promisingly dark. A drawn-out, distant voice weaves itself into the cold music, reminding Blaine that of Foals. It's beautiful, he thinks, studying Kurt's pale silhouette.
i'll take your coat,
then i'll take your king
Rather sudden and harsh, the music blasts louder when the front door is pushed open, again.
"Kurt, hey," Finn stammers when he sees Blaine sitting next to him.
Kurt turns to send Finn a sweet smile.
"Um," Finn treads at the doorstep, eyeing Blaine.
Sensing Finn's discomfort, Blaine stands and starts to brush the dust off of the back of his jeans.
"Jesse was looking for you and told me to tell you that if the hot chocolate is going to take that long, he doesn't need it; he only needs you."
At the sight of Finn's solemn face as he racks his memory in an attempt to recite Jesse's words to the letter, almost as if called out in class, Blaine can't help but smile into his fist.
"Aw," Kurt coos at Finn, flattered. He follows Blaine's fashion and stands up too, slow and graceful. "Better go then. Before my favorite song is over."
That's how Finn and Blaine become friends. When it happens, Blaine doesn't attribute it to that time on the porch, of course.
It's just that Finn starts approaching him during the practice sessions more often. It's just that he asks him out one day to go jogging down the Scioto Trail. Blaine finds himself accepting his invitations gladly.
As a rule, they talk a small talk, rarely touching upon anything of real value—which is more than okay with Blaine. Finn is exactly the type of person who is most interesting to talk to about the dullest stuff that there is. Sometimes they can't avoid making minor references to their biographies, a couple of stories from their past here and there.
Blaine finds out more about Kurt, which, in all honesty, feels almost too fortunate to be true. At that time Blaine doesn't acknowledge the funny feeling swelling in his chest at every single piece of information about Kurt that Finn bestows upon him. Blaine doesn't have a name for this feeling yet, doesn't even know the half of it, and secretly cherishes every little bit he gets.
He finds out Kurt and he study at the same place, the OSU School of Communication, except Kurt majors in communications whereas Blaine in journalism. Remotely, he wonders how come a personality as flamboyant as Kurt's hasn't caught his eye before—until Finn clarifies that Kurt does everything in his power to make as few appearances there as possible. "Skipping lectures and trying to get away with doing the bare minimum," Finn's voice is clipped, bare, and simple when he says that—just as the truth he speaks.
Blaine thinks he catches a note of sadness in it, which must be a pretty strong emotion to have managed to break through the natural austerity of Finn's voice.
It's the same voice Finn spoke in this one time he alluded to Kurt's general lifestyle, light and carefree and—unequivocally put—promiscuous, with weekly one-night stands and reckless flirting and a history of countless flings that were never intended to last. Blaine holds no prejudice against promiscuity whatsoever, and somehow it seems to him that Finn doesn't either; Blaine might just be wrong, but somehow it seems to him it's the underpinning for Kurt's choice of living that Finn has a problem with.
He must be very happy then to see Kurt and Jesse take their relationship to the next level and become exclusive, Blaine concludes as he and Finn stroll up the block one day on their way from the local grocery store.
Blaine gets to know more about Rachel, Finn's girlfriend in New York; about his plans to spend the good half of his summer break at hers. He learns the backstory behind their romance, behind Brittany's friendship—both tracing back to High School. Blaine learns a lot about the close ties they've all made in Glee Club.
He himself grew up surrounded by a very tight circle of a limited number of friends, only the closest ones, which is why it is both foreign and fascinating for him to listen to Finn talk about the occasional mess their boisterous pack would get themselves into. Most of all, Blaine harbors a distinct sense of adoration to the unconventionality and creativeness each of Finn's friends seemed to embody and likes how virtually every member of that Glee Club went on to pursue their passion.
Kurt doesn't catch Blaine and Finn together until a week and a half passed since that night on the porch.
Both of them chill in the Hummel-Hudsons' living room watching football when Kurt passes them on his way out.
"Boys?" he calls, lingering behind the couch when he catches Finn having company.
At the flirty voice Blaine straightens up in his armchair, presses an elbow into the armrest, and turns in his seat. He props his chin up with a hand; his fingers tuck a curly strand behind his ear before he hides his mouth in his palm. This doesn't do much for his wild head of curls, of course.
Kurt saunters deeper into the room, chin pressed to his chest, hands busy with spreading a hairspray over his perfect coiffure. He's wearing a cozy blush knitted sweater that seems extremely soft to the touch and a pair of white tight-fitting pants. Finn and he exchange a couple of words; the world keeps moving, but Blaine doesn't quite hear them.
"...waiting for me, but, oh well," Kurt says in that light and soft and high voice of his as he places the lid back onto the aerosol. Then, his voice regains this teasing quality as he strolls further into the front. "I've just been needing another pair of eyes," he says as he circles Blaine's armchair and stops in front of him, blocking the TV screen. "Blaine?" he calls teasingly.
Blaine—almost startled—slowly looks up from Kurt's thin thighs.
"What do you think?" Kurt asks him, tilting his head to the side and raising his hands questioningly as he makes a lazy, graceful twirl.
Blaine stares up at him silently, the TV behind Kurt the only source of noise in the house. Eyes boring into Kurt's piercingly blue ones, Blaine manages to hold his eye contact out of sheer conviction that Kurt must be joking.
But Kurt—oh, Kurt is so far from joking.
"Blaine?" another voice calls from behind. Blaine breaks Kurt's eye contact and quickly, glances back. "Hey, brother. Whatcha doing here?" Jesse asks him excitedly, walking into the room with a bouncy gait.
Blaine tells him just that as they perform their good-old handshake, yet his friend—his friend hardly listens, gaze dark and shameless, as he ogles Kurt's figure up and down, down and up, flexing his jaw visibly. He stands there, behind the back of Blaine's armchair, swallowing a little too hard, his hold on Blaine's hand a little too tight, and the only thing left for Blaine to do is hope he didn't look like this five seconds ago.
highway run
into the midnight sun
wheels go round and round,
you're on my mind
An adoring smile tugs at the corners of Blaine's lips as he buckles up his seatbelt, turning to look at Finn in the driver's seat. Finn pulls his van out of the driveway, then clicks his own seatbelt, and only then does he notice the face Blaine's making at the song that switched on with the start of the engine.
"Rach and I sang it together at Regionals," he smiles warmly, draping his hands over the steering wheel. "Every time I hear it, it's like I'm back in High School. The senior year was by far the best year of my life, y'know."
Blaine isn't sure which year was the best year in his life. He's not so sure he had one.
"They all would keep telling you how those times were gonna be the time of your life, and I'd be trying so hard, y'know. The right girlfriend, the right rep, until my senior year—I stopped. And fuck if it wasn't the best year ever," Finn shakes his head with a satisfied beam, flicking his turn signal on. "By the way, we once competed with Warblers, you've never mentioned them—you've never been a part of?" he asks Blaine as they drag slowly down the parking lot at the grocery store.
"No," Blaine says, shaking his head, then shrugs. "A cappella is not really my thing. And pop in general—well, you know that. Over my dead body."
As Finn pulls up, Blaine shakes in a sudden fit of laughter, "Or, over my magic number of shots. Vodka, karaoke, and I—is a deadly combination."
Finn kills the engine, leans back in his seat, eyes Blaine slyly.
"Noted."
They shop for the barbecue. It was Jesse's idea which Finn eagerly supported, offering their backyard as an option. At first, Blaine was rather skeptical, having read somewhere about the new Ohio Fire Code regulations. Kurt, however, had something else to say, laying on the couch with his feet in Jesse's lap as all of them were chilling one of those times at Hummel-Hudson's.
"Don't worry, hon," Kurt assured Blaine offhandedly without even taking his eyes off of what he was reading. "We've got enough space in our yard to fit three grills of that size."
The sound of his bored, nonchalant voice put Blaine on the spot: Kurt hadn't been participating in the conversation for the last hour.
"All without triggering your friends at the Fire Department," Kurt added, sending a dry yet almost adoring smile Blaine's way. Blaine caught it, staring at Kurt blankly from across the room.
"What meat should we get?" Finn asks as they stroll towards the poultry section.
Blaine sifts through the cart packed with huge bags of chips, shrugging. "Dunno. I'm down with whatever you and Kurt get."
"Kurt's not a fan," Finn responds, assessing the serve-over counter. "What about Jesse? Oh, by the way, Jesse will get us bear, right?"
"Sure," Blaine nods, joining Finn at the display fridge. "Okay, this is our last stop."
"Kurt also asked for a sorbet."
do it
do it
do it
do it
don't wanna be your slave
Blaine sips at his Diet Coke, flipping the steaks at the grill grates. The pleasant wind winnows at his curls; he licks the sweetness off of his lips, glancing up to where Finn, Santana, and Britt stand engaged in some animated conversation. Santana has a dandelion crown placed on top of her head, laughing at something Britt has just told Finn. Once Blaine catches sight of her smile, he can't take his eyes off of it. Never has she ever smiled like this—so open, so pure, radiant in its brightness and mesmerizing in its sincerity.
Honestly, Blaine didn't know she had it in her. The yard is vibrant with the greenness unique to this time of the year and as she stands in the center of it with a bizarre garland against her dark hair and a dazzling smile on her face, Blaine simply doesn't recognize his friend.
Just as careful, Blaine sheds an oblique glance to his left where Kurt and Jesse hang out by the van Finn rolled into the backyard. All of its doors have been left wide open, the trunk lid included, and a loud Rolling Stones' improv blasts out from the car's speakers. Jesse sits at the edge of the trunk, gazing up at Kurt standing between his legs. His hands feel around Kurt's hipbones as Kurt sways relaxedly to the funky rhythm that must be deafening everything within the radius of their block.
Their neighbors definitely hate them.
Kurt wears an oversized denim jacket, his legs are tightly wrapped in dark jeans, his feet are two bright turquoise blobs—he's shod in fashionably huge Nikes. Jesse gets up, hands sliding up under the fabric of Kurt's jacket as he budges their noses together and stats to rock them both to the light beat. Relaxedly, Kurt lets his elbows rest on top of Jesse's shoulders, hanging his forearms loosely as he throws his head back, mouthing what seem to be the only legitimate words in this song.
don't wanna be your slave
Jesse makes their hips brush in the dance as his right hand crawls further up under Kurt's jacket, stopping at his shoulder blades. His other hand slips down to rest on Kurt's lower back. Jesse kisses his neck. With his eyes peacefully closed, Kurt cups the back of his boyfriend's neck, thumb stroking the skin behind his earlobe. Out of the corner of his eye, Blaine watches Jesse nuzzle Kurt's chin before—gently, slowly—pecking him on his soft lips. Or so they must be.
don't wanna be your slave
And one more time, now slower; Jesse runs his tongue transversely, dipping it in between Kurt's lips now parted. Jesse's teeth lock onto Kurt's bottom lip, then gently let it slip out. They never stop swaying as Kurt lets his slackened mouth deliciously fall open, inviting Jesse to do as he's pleased. These teasing bites and nibbles proceed for another good minute before—finally—Jesse collects Kurt in his arms to claim his mouth in a full kiss—a kiss so forceful and heated Kurt has to bend back a little under Jesse's eagerness as he squeezes Kurt's waist fervidly. Blaine watches Kurt pet the locks of Jesse's hair in an almost soothing manner, kissing him back weakly, calmly, yet contentedly.
What breaks the thrall that has Blaine's eyes glued to the pair is the sound of his Diet Coke can cracking. When he looks down, he sees it crunched in his fist just as the smell of burning meat riches his nostrils.
Unfortunately, the spoiled meat is nothing compared to what almost costs him the next time he gets distracted.
The three of them are in Blaine's car as Blaine drives them to his and Jesse's apartment. It's one of the Friday nights that Jesse and Kurt decided to spent at theirs, not at Kurt's. Blaine, of course, had no business partaking in what the two were intending to do once inside—nor was he thinking about it. The only plan he had for that night was to spend it locked up in his room with his headphones on and music turned up loud.
He didn't mind giving his friends a ride, though.
Not long after the current song fades into silence, the car starts to pulse with the new, all-too-familiar beat, slow but vigorous. Without taking his attention off of the road, Blaine reaches out for his iPhone streaming the music.
"Sorry, guys," he shouts over the throb of the bass. In the backseat, Kurt and Jesse are teasing each other with frisky pecks and breathy laughs. "I'll find something fresh," Blaine lets them know as he starts scrolling through his playlist.
Picking a song with Kurt and Jesse in the car was never easy: Kurt would carp coquettishly every time Blaine decided to go with something of rock classics and Jesse would find fault with every ambient piece he picked.
"Don't," Kurt says from behind in that same playful voice in which he was just flirting with Jesse. Suddenly, Blaine feels Kurt's cold, delicate fingers wrapped around his wrist. "Keep it."
The corners of Blaine's lips tense up; he lets his iPhone slip out of his hand without Kurt's hold on his wrist loosening. He feels Kurt squeeze him softly. Those two seconds that his cell phone falls back onto the passenger's seat next to him while Kurt unwinds his fingers and lets go of his hand seem to slow the time down. It feels like an awful long until Blaine's hand finds its way back to the steering wheel.
have you got color in your cheeks?
The car is filled with a rich harmony of two other voices on top of the song's vocals as Kurt and Jesse dive headlong into singing along. Blaine smiles at the sound, flicking the turn signal on.
have you no idea that you're in deep?
i've dreamt about you nearly
every night this week
Blaine glances up into his rear view and sees two of them squirm and gesture as they mimic a performance. Jesse serenades Kurt, wiggling his eyebrows; Kurt has his head thrown back, staring up at the ceiling with a mad smile on his lips. It doesn't take Jesse long to give up singing and nuzzle the exposed curve of Kurt's neck instead, taking playful bites at his pale skin. Blaine looks away.
However, the next thing he hears is the chorus come up and Kurt take a higher note, blending in together with the back vocals in this song. Astonished, Blaine swivels his gaze back to the mirror where Kurt keeps singing and Jesse keeps kissing his neck until his mouth slides its way up to Kurt's ear; Kurt grabs his tenacious jaw and turns to sing the words straight into his mouth, teasing him.
Blaine doesn't notice the moment when he's let himself gaze too long and he doesn't see the car in front of him switch its brake lights on as it starts to slow down at the next red. Kurt laughs into Jesse's eager mouth and lets his own jaw fall open; Jesse starts to crawl on top of him, pushing Kurt's upper body back into the seat.
Only he doesn't make it.
The rapidly approaching red lights somehow register in the corner of Blaine's eye and, instinctually, he squeezes the life out of his brakes, throwing the car into an abrupt, screeching halt.
"Fuck," Blaine growls through gritted teeth after he manages to stop the car seconds before they bump into the other car's rear bumper. Cheeks flushed with a sudden rush of adrenaline, Blaine gestures a sincere apology to the driver in front of him, then presses his hands into the steering wheel and sinks low into his seat.
Kurt hides his forehead in the crane of Jesse's neck; Jesse turns his head back to Kurt, soothingly kisses Kurt's ear, and no one sees the way Kurt's chest shakes with quiet laughter.