I know it's the middle of January, but here's a New Year's fic just because. Hope you like it!
"Heads up!"
"Puck no point it up—" Quinn shouts in alarm, but too late, Puck has popped the cork out of a bottle of champagne with the narrow end pointed directly into the cluster of New Directions, and Kurt winces as only Brittany's natural agility and Rory's Irish luck save them from being shot in the stomach with a cork-bullet. Finn is the lucky victim, choking out a pained "Oof" as the cork hits him square in the stomach and he sags forward like a deflated bouncy-house; Kurt, standing beside him in a gloriously thick and warm cashmere wrap, only just manages to grab his arm and keep him on his feet.
"Thanks, man," Finn says hoarsely. Puck shrugs and toasts Finn with the foaming bottle.
"Sorry, bro. Here, a fifteen-minutes-till drink to take the edge off!" He shoves the bottle at Finn, who hesitantly wraps his hand around the slender glass neck and tips it back for a mouthful of foam and a couple drops of champagne. Kurt watches Finn swallow and is weirdly reminded of his old pet gerbil, Liza, trying to drink water from the little silver pipe in her plastic water tank. White fizz drips down the sides of the bottle and splashes onto Rachel and Kurt; they both shriek and scurry backwards to avoid any further overflow.
It's eleven-forty-five on the thirty-first of December, and the entire glee club is gathered at what Artie calls "the prime fireworks-watching spot north of Lima Heights Adjacent." It's a crumbly old parking lot at the top of a hill, the last remnant of what used to be a Mayo Clinic before all the crazies moved to more hospitable climates than Ohio in winter. A long grassy field slopes downwards in front of them, running up against a ring of trees that separate the hill from the outskirts of town. Lights are all laid out in front of them, sparkling as a reflection of the stars that are so much brighter on this high ledge, out of reach of all the light pollution. It's certainly dark in the area; though moonlight and starlight flood the lot with a silvery glow, Kurt wishes that the tipsy folk among them had a little more light to see by, if only to decrease the chance of someone spilling their drink on his cashmere.
According to Artie, who's been watching the fireworks here with his parents since he was little (they've agreed to go to a party tonight and bequeath him and his friends the usual spot, as a belated Christmas present), the fireworks will rise up on the right side of the hill, where the trees are thinnest, and though they won't be directly overhead the entire sky will be burning and showering sparks.
It's supposed to be magical. And Kurt, needless to say, is always on the lookout for some high-quality magic.
Fireworks and solitude is more than enough for the New Directions, who have turned out in full force to welcome in the New Year together. Kurt's insides twist happily as he looks around at all of them, talking and laughing and acting like the big dopey family they are. Mike and Tina, having bargained and bartered for their freedom from the mandatory Chang-party attendance, are sitting on the hood of Mike's Chevy, snuggled up in a pair of down jackets and clutching plastic champagne flutes (strawberry wine coolers for Tina, sparkling cider for Mike since he's driving). Sam and Mercedes are leaning against the side of the Chevy, both of them a little tipsy from Mercedes' family's pre-New Year's dinner and hanging all over each other like newlyweds. They're passing a single flute of Jack Daniels back and forth, and every time Mercedes drinks Sam takes the opportunity to kiss her forehead and smirk a little when she pretends she doesn't notice. Shane's not around, no one asks why, no one cares because when Sam laughs at one of her jokes and strokes a soft thumb over her cheek, Mercedes' smile is bright enough to wash out any fireworks.
Artie is parked between the two cars everyone's arrived in, nursing his own wine cooler and looking very content in his new matching glove-sweater-hat set. Rory sticks close to his side, sipping sparkling cider and smiling whenever anyone speaks to him, but mostly staying quiet and looking over his new friends, basking in the warmth of their energy and acceptance that banishes the cold on any night, even one so freezing as this. Also in the in-between space are Finn and Rachel, clinging tight to each other in a tangle of scarves and hats and cold clutching fingers. Rachel cradles the champagne bottle when Finn is finished drinking, holding it with no little sense of awe, as though its inherent glamor is setting off visions of Tony Award dinners and late nights at Sardi's in her head.
On Finn's other side, leaning up against Puck's broke-ass station wagon, are Kurt himself and Blaine, both of them drinking sparkling cider and pressed so closely together Kurt can feel Blaine's warm, sweet breath puffing against his cheek. Blaine is wearing his thick pea coat and a scarf, his cheeks are bright red from the cold, and every once in a while he'll slide his freezing bare fingers over the thin strip of skin between Kurt's cozy cashmere sleeve and his black leather glove, and the delicious shivers that run up Kurt's arm are almost enough to make him drop his flute.
Puck is perched on the roof of his car, army-booted feet hanging down and a hefty supply of wine coolers, champagne, sparkling cider, and the one giant bottle of Jack all lined up beside him like a pirate with his hard-won booty. Quinn, Santana, and Brittany are huddled at the other end of the in-between space, the latter two obviously underdressed in their Cheerio jackets but making up for the lost heat by generating some more: Santana has her arms wrapped around Brittany from behind, her hands stuck deep in Brit's pockets, and after every swig of Jack she giggles and nuzzles Brit's neck and squirms up against her. Apart from these moments, when she pointedly keeps her distance, Quinn stands close to the two of them, sipping her wine cooler and laughing whenever Brit sings her little New Year's song that she made up herself.
("It's new, it's year, it's new, it's here, come everybody and celebrate, it's a very important date, look out! He's Spiderman!")
"So, Hummel," says Puck loudly, nudging Kurt in the shoulder with a boot. Kurt ducks away, terrified of filthy boot soles. "Got any New Year's resolutions?"
"Yeah, throw you in a dumpster for once," Kurt replies without hesitation. Laughter floats up from the group and Puck grins down at Kurt, ruffling his hair with a big gloved hand.
"You know I'm sorry for that, right? I was just being a—what'd you call it—"
"An asshole?" offers Mercedes, and Puck toasts her with the bottle of Jack.
"Exactly! I was an asshole, Kurt. Now you're like my little brother…or my little sister. I already have one of those, though, so yeah, my little bro Kurt, who I will throw down for and who wears really soft clothes like this jacket which is so insanely nice to pet and who has a boy for himself! And that boy is awesome!" Puck takes a swig of whiskey and throws his head back to howl like a deranged mohawked wolf, the sound echoing over the empty hillside and fading out into the blackness around them. Kurt snorts and shakes his head; beside him, Blaine is grinning as he sips his cider.
"Blaine is pretty great," says Brittany matter-of-factly, rocking back into Santana as she balances on her heels. "He's funny and nice and pocket-sized, so you can carry him places. Like a Tamagotchi."
"He's not as cute as you, though," Santana purrs, and plants a big kiss on Brit's bare neck. Sam whistles and Mercedes elbows him in the ribs.
"Seriously, guys, what're your new year's resolutions?" Tina asks, cuddling into Mike and slurring her words just a teeny bit. "Mine's to find a new style. I'm over goth, but all these Forever 21 clothes are not doing me justice. I have to find a new groove."
Mike kisses the top of her head and takes a pull of cider.
"Dance more. And see you more. I resolve to do those things every day," he says quietly. Tina turns to him and cups his face in her mitten.
"Asian kiss?"
"Asian kiss," Mike agrees, and everyone awwwwws as they peck each other on the lips. Blaine's cold hand is suddenly grasping Kurt's arm, the tips of his fingers pressing against the thick cashmere, and Kurt lets his head fall sideways onto Blaine's shoulder.
"Let's see…my resolution is to be more kickass, to go for what I want, like my heroes. Like Han Solo," says Sam with enthusiasm. Mercedes groans and rolls her eyes.
"Seriously? You resolve to be more like a guy whose best friend is a walking shag carpet?"
"Hey, Han Solo rocks! He's tough, he's smart, he's Harrison Ford…and he's got the coolest chick in the Dantooine system," Sam says with a raised eyebrow, his arm coming up to pull Mercedes close. She grins and busies herself with her wine cooler, only looking up when Tina presses her to share her own resolution.
"Um, hmmmm…I mean, honestly, I don't know. I have fabulous friends, a fabulous weave, fabulous music…I guess I resolve to deal with problems better this year. People and problems…forgive them easier and keep the ones you love close, even if they're divas." She smiles at Rachel, who grins back and darts over to wrap her arms around Mercedes. Everyone applauds and Kurt's heart grows a couple sixes as he remembers the early days, when it was six losers in a room together, working out dance routines and fighting with each other and having no idea of how far they would come as a team and as a family.
"Well, my resolution is to temper my talent with consideration for others," Rachel says when she releases Mercedes. Santana mutters "Yeah, right," and starts biting Brit's ponytail. "Of course, nothing will ever stop me from achieving the stardom I so richly deserve, but this year I've really started to understand how I affect people and how sometimes I can let others down in my—"
"Lust for power?" Kurt supplies. Blaine snorts into his cider.
"In my drive to succeed, thank you. I mean, I really…I really do love all of you. And I don't want to lose you guys, no matter what," she finishes with uncharacteristic hesitation. Mercedes and Sam pull her in for a big double hug and Artie offers her a high-five.
"Sing it, sister. I resolve to keep on my directing streak this year. Once you've discovered where your genius lies, you gotta keep on that, yo."
"How about you, Rory?" Rachel chirps. Rory shrugs.
"Well…maybe, I dunno, call home less? It's okay, it's fine," he says hurriedly when Rachel looks as though she's considering spreading the hug his way. "I just want to be a little more independent than I've been here, and after all of you were so lovely over Christmas, I think it'll be less of a struggle."
"Whenever you miss your family over there, man, just remember you have one here too," says Finn, and Rory gives him one of the green-eyed smiles that melts your heart like butter.
"Thanks, Finn. Truly."
"Any time, bud."
"So what's your resolution, then?"
"Well," Finn says slowly, hefting Rachel's abandoned champagne bottle in one hand. "I guess to actually do what I was trying to do when I joined glee in the first place. Just live in a way that makes me happy and not—fight it so much. Not try to make everything one way or another, and kind of turn myself into a guy I could admire. Does that sound stupid?" he asks anxiously, and everyone shakes their heads as a cloud of affection rises like mist from the New Directions. Kurt gives Finn a brotherly nudge with his elbow, and Puck leans down from the roof to pat him on the back.
"You're already pretty admirable, dude," he says, and as Finn and Puck give each other a pound, Kurt feels like hugging them both. He can joke about it, but he does remember the days of dumpster-diving and pee balloons and hating Puck's jock-meathead guts and crushing helplessly on Finn, obsessing over him like a crazy person because Finn was tall and husky-voiced and muscular and everything Kurt was not, everything his father was thrilled about and had learned not to expect from Kurt. It's taken a lot of time and bruises and tears, but Kurt loves his body and his voice and himself now, and he loves Finn and Puck too (even though they're chuckleheads). And of course, in a completely different and wonderful way, he loves the boy standing next to him—the boy who is shorter than him and who can play the straight roles Kurt can't and who likes glamrock a little too much, but who changed his life so completely that Kurt literally cannot imagine a world without Blaine now. This is the boy who loops his arm around Kurt to pull him in close and snuggle against the cold and who rubs a slightly stubbly chin over Kurt's cheek as he turns his head to whisper, "Best bromance ever," into Kurt's ear. This is the boy Kurt wants to spend his new year with, and the year after that, and the year after that.
Finn nudges Kurt with his elbow, snapping him out of his Blaine-trance. "D'you have a resolution, dude? Other than throwing Puck into a garbage can, I mean."
"What else could I possibly want?" Kurt asks in his best Audrey Hepburn chirp, but Puck kicks him in the shoulder again anyway. "Ow! Watch it, Puckerman!"
"C'mon, Kurt, if we're all going around and doing the cutesy feel-good bit, you don't get to pussy out," growls Santana. Quinn rolls her eyes and sips her wine cooler.
"She's a bitch but she's right, Kurt. Out with it."
"Oh my god, you guys," Kurt groans as he rolls his eyes. Blaine squeezes him a little tighter. "You are all a bunch of pushy little—you know what, that's my resolution. When I end up in New York, I am channeling each and every one of you so I can take no shit and get up in everyone's faces and be really obnoxious and make that town mine." It comes out a lot fiercer and a lot less jovial than Kurt was planning, but no one seems to care as they applaud him and whistle and clap. Rachel runs back across the gap and kisses him resoundingly on the cheek.
"It's gonna be amazing, Kurt. We'll be amazing together."
"You bet your Barbra we are," he replies, and for a moment everything is the future, a New York skyline full of sparkling lights and empty stages waiting to be filled. Then, still clutching Kurt's shoulder, Rachel turns to Blaine.
"And what're you resolving to do this year, Mister, when Kurt's away in New York?"
She means the question to be jokey and familiar, she isn't trying to be thoughtless or cruel, and Blaine knows it, and he tries to hide what it does to him, but Kurt sees—he sees and he feels the way Blaine just shrinks, curls back a bit and loses an inch of confidence and crumples up like used tissue paper. His heart goes cold and he fights the urge to smack Rachel in her eager little bird beak, even though it's not her fault, she's just being one-track-mind Rachel.
"He could marry Katy Perry," Puck suggests, also oblivious. "I hear she's single again."
"Yeah, that alien she was married to went home," adds Brittany wistfully. Blaine turns his head even more towards Kurt, practically hiding his face between Kurt and the car window, and Kurt can hear him breathing heavy and a little choked and oh my god Rachel is poking Blaine in the shoulder.
"Blaaaaaaaaine, answer me! Your resolution should be to send Kurt love letters every week. And care packages with cookies that I can steal," she adds, giggling. Blaine gives a sickly smile and tries to back away, but Kurt grabs his arm before he can get too far and pulls him so they're pressed side-to-side, warmth gathering between them as the air seems to get colder.
"Um…I…well…" he stammers. Kurt desperately wishes someone would interrupt him and change the subject, but everyone is silly enough and tipsy enough that they don't notice or understand what this is doing to Blaine, all of them sitting there with expectant faces and mouths ready to laugh. "My resolution is to…to help Artie and Tina keep the New Directions on top when all you guys are off taking over the world. Right, guys?" he says with a weak attempt at jocularity, and Artie and Tina raise their glasses and salute.
"Pffff. Boring," snorts Santana. "I resolve to work on my roundhouse kick."
"I resolve to help you find a round house so it's easier," Brit says eagerly, and Santana grins and kisses her. Quinn takes a big step to the side and runs a gloved hand through her blonde hair.
"Puckerman, you haven't resolved yet," she says with a pointed stare. Puck meets her eyes and stays silent for a long moment, while beside Kurt Blaine is shaking a little underneath his coat and leaning into Kurt's shoulder like he can't stand up without it.
"I know exactly what I'm going to do this year. I'm going to be the best father I can be to the most amazing little girl in the entire world," says Puck, never for a moment looking away from Quinn. She matches his gaze evenly, and answers the question before he can voice it.
"And I'm going to be the best I can be for her. Not as a mom. Just…for her." Quinn's voice is quiet and steady, but only after Puck nods and smiles at her does she relax and smile back and take a sip of her wine cooler.
The silence after these resolutions stretches on and on in the darkness, and people are looking down into their drinks, and all Kurt wants to do is get Blaine alone for one second so he can hold him proper.
"How long?" Sam finally asks, and Artie checks his wristwatch.
"Nine minutes, y'all. Get them poppers ready to pop."
"Ooh, I can't wait. Happy ne-ew year," Tina begins singing, and others join in, waving their drinks above their heads and cuddling with each other, and Kurt sees his chance and grabs Blaine's hand and pulls him towards the parking lot, past Santana and Brittany wrapped up in an oblivious kiss, past the back ends of the parked cars, out into moonlight-drenched asphalt and on and on until they're alone at the opposite end of the lot and the drunken singing is a faint, whispery note floating towards them through the darkness.
"Kurt, I'm fine," Blaine mumbles, his head down as he fumbles with his gloves; Kurt strips off his own gloves and takes hold on Blaine's face with cold bare skin, tilting him upwards so that their eyes meet.
"It's fine not to be fine," he whispers, and Blaine gives a weak little laugh.
"I mean, I'm not—it still feels like everything is—you know," he stammers, misty breath rising in front of his face. Kurt's heart beats quicker as he looks at this person who knows him, who loves him, who is suffering because he's going to lose him in one way at least. Blaine's pain makes Kurt hurt too, and makes him sad, and in a strange and guilty way it makes him glad, to know that Blaine is affected by Kurt just as strongly as Kurt is by Blaine. He runs his thumbs over Blaine's cheeks, presses the tips of his fingers gently into the back of Blaine's neck.
"I love you, okay? New York won't make that go away." The words don't sound right to Kurt's ears, and Blaine doesn't seem very comforted. He tries again. "We've been apart before. When I was at McKinley for the end of the school year, think about how little we saw each other then compared to now. And there was a whole seventeen years where we were apart before that, if you'll recall."
That does spark a smile on Blaine's face. Kurt smiles too and leans in close, his cider-breath blowing back into Blaine's. "I couldn't forget you if I tried."
Blaine's arms are suddenly up around Kurt's shoulders, tugging him close, and Kurt grabs Blaine around the waist to keep his balance.
"I'm not scared you'll forget," Blaine says in an urgent whisper. "I'm scared that you'll change, and I'll miss it happening, but the rest of the world will see it and then you won't come back."
"Blaine…" The name is like a plug in Kurt's throat. He can't speak, can't form a single word, because deep in his heart he knows Blaine's fear is exactly what Kurt wants the most—to go away and shine and never have to come home to dullness and drabness and longing.
"But I want that for you, Kurt, I want you to have that," Blaine goes on, his voice rasping. "I know what it's like to be feel trapped here and god, if you have to stay any longer it'll just get worse and worse, so go already, just leave and…maybe somehow we'll keep track of each other."
Okay, yeah, Kurt's heart is breaking and Blaine knows it is and whether or not he's doing it on purpose, Kurt isn't sure, but whatever, he just yanks Blaine right up to his chest and kisses him hard, cold lips pressing together and then sliding apart for warm tongues and breath and the faintest little moan from Kurt as one of Blaine's hands cups the back of his head and the other slides down the cashmere to the small of his back. Kurt keeps the kiss going as long as he can, because it feels so good and it smells like Blaine and they have so little time left in the year that saw their very first kiss of all, and he means to make the most of it.
"Mmmmph…Kurt," Blaine breathes as Kurt sucks on his lower lip and scratches his nails gently against the nape of Blaine's neck. "Oh god, I want—I just want—"
"What?" Kurt whispers back, and he pulls away from the kiss and trails his mouth along Blaine's cheek, down to his jaw, up and around to his earlobe and then following the curve of his ear. Blaine is shuddering beneath Kurt's lips, his breath puffing short and fast into the night air. "You want what?"
"This," says Blaine as his eyes flutter shut, and Kurt kisses both closed eyelids before he grips Blaine's shoulder blades through his coat and buries his face in the curve of his boyfriend's neck. Closeness, touching, skin on skin—this is what they'll miss, this is where the knife will twist when they're apart. For the longest time, Kurt couldn't just reach out and touch when he wanted to, couldn't stroke the exposed wrist peeking out from beneath the blazer's sleeve, couldn't lay his hand casually across Blaine's knee and spread the fingers wide and possessive, couldn't run a hand over the spread of Blaine's bare chest from clavicle to belly button and savor the spasming of muscles underneath the skin all because of Kurt. And now he finally has that sacred right to touch and Blaine is going to be miles and miles away.
"I'm so proud of you," Blaine murmurs into Kurt's cashmere. His voice sends a shiver ricocheting down Kurt's spine. "I can't believe the person you are, what you've done, what you can do. You're incredible."
"I had help," Kurt says, and Blaine hugs him tight and they stand there for the longest time, wrapped up in each other and just holding holding holding.
"Yo! Gaylords! It's almost time!" Santana's voice cracks through their shell of darkness and cold and ends the moment. Hoots and hollers follow; Kurt specifically hears Puck wolf-whistling. Blaine lets go of Kurt with a derisive snort and steps back, a small but sincere smile on his face.
"Kiss me as the clock strikes twelve?"
"I thought you'd never ask," Kurt replies, and with their freezing hands clasped tightly together they head back across the lot for cider and countdowns and the beginning of another year.
"You got her?"
"Yeah, she's fine," says Finn, hefting a drunken Rachel over his shoulder. She mumbles something unintelligible (downing an entire bottle of champagne over the course of an hour will make that happen) and kicks her feet against his chest.
"You sure?" asks Blaine, peering through the passenger-side window. Finn nods.
"I'm just gonna get her inside and let her flop on the couch. Her dads said it's cool if she stays over as long as Mom calls them when we're in the house and lets them know she's okay. I think they had their own thing to go to or whatever." Finn can't completely hide the bitterness in his voice, and Kurt knows that he's imagining a New Year's Eve with an empty house and a girlfriend who isn't completely sloshed.
"Okay, well, I'm gonna drive Blaine home," says Kurt, ducking his head to catch Finn's eye from the driver's seat. "Let Dad know?"
"kay," Finn grunts as he hoists Rachel higher on his shoulder, and raising a hand in farewell he turns and heads up the front walk towards the house. Blaine shakes his head as he watches Rachel's hair bouncing against Finn's back.
"Do you think they've really got it?"
"Got what?" Kurt says vaguely as he starts the car and pulls away from the curb; his mind is a little preoccupied with the navigation involved in the long drive to Blaine's, and his boyfriend waits patiently until Kurt stops mouthing exit-turnoffs to himself and glances over in his direction.
"Got love. The real thing. I mean, half the time they snipe at each other and Finn gets all grumpy about Rachel and then Rachel accuses Finn of not appreciating her and I'm pretty sure it didn't even get better when they finally started—you know—"
"Doing the dirty?" Kurt supplies. "Just because they're getting laid doesn't mean they magically become less dumb about everything. And let me point out that we fight way more now than we did before things started happening down south."
"We don't fight," grins Blaine, sliding a hand up Kurt's thigh. "We have passionate discourses."
"Passionate discourses or passionate intercour—Blaine, I'm driving!" Kurt squeaks indignantly as Blaine's hand makes a very insistent gesture against the inside of his leg. Blaine smiles even bigger and moves his hand up another teasing inch before sliding it back down to rest lightly on Kurt's knee.
Not once during the thirty-five minutes of Pink-singing, bad-joke-telling, comfy-silence driving does it move away.
When they pull into the driveway at Blaine's house, Kurt sees that only one window is lit up: a small round one, over to the left and nearly out of sight as it half-curves to the back of the house. He recognizes it as Blaine's father's study.
"Looks like your dad's awake," he says, applying the parking brake and killing the headlights, and then as he turns towards Blaine to ask if he thinks his mother is already asleep, Blaine shrugs off the safety belt he's just undone and lunges at Kurt, crushing their mouths together and forcing Kurt's head back against the headrest of his seat with a soft thump. Kurt gasps in surprise and his open mouth is not an opportunity Blaine is likely to miss, his tongue slides hot and strong into Kurt's mouth and his teeth are scraping against Kurt's lower lip and the hand on his leg is dragging roughly upwards towards his hips. Something painfully hot and irresistible suddenly begins to pulse in Kurt's groin and he strains upwards without thinking, wanting more, more of this, more of the incredible heat of Blaine's tongue in his mouth and that hand, that hand, strong and forceful against the crotch of his regrettably tight jeans. Blaine reaches his other hand across Kurt and braces himself against the door, levering his body up and over so he's almost straddling Kurt, the steering wheel forcing them even closer together, and it's all gasping and squirming as Blaine rolls his hips up against Kurt's side and Kurt knows what he feels there, shudders and pumps upwards as his own condition aches perfectly at the touch of Blaine's fingers.
"Nnngh—what're you—Blaine, oh my god, Blaine," Kurt chokes out as Blaine slides his hand up and away from between Kurt's legs and before the awful emptiness has a chance to show up he works his fingers under the hem of Kurt's shirt and runs them all over Kurt's stomach, cold fingertips (despite the car heater) stroking the delicate skin and skimming lightly at the top of Kurt's jeans where they brush the very beginnings of light brown hair. Kurt makes a strangled gurgling noise and arches his head back in vain against the headrest, hands scrabbling at the seatbelt that is still stretching so tight and painful across his lap, twisting helplessly as the most ridiculously good feelings radiate through his body from the white-hot point in the pit of his stomach.
"I can't help myself," Blaine pants, voice husky and dull with lust. "Just looking at you, the things you say, the way you drive, Kurt, it's too much for me. You make me crazy."
Kurt whimpers in this really high-pitched, desperate way, which is appropriate because too much and desperate pretty well sum up how he's feeling right this moment, as Blaine buries his face in Kurt's neck and begins to suck at the skin there, rolling it between his teeth and breathing hard against Kurt's ear, and his hand is still on Kurt's stomach and then it slips downwards and tries to wriggle into Kurt's jeans, but between the tightness of the jeans themselves and the seatbelt that hasn't been undone yet damnit there's very little space to maneuver.
"Shit," Blaine grunts into Kurt's shoulder, and he starts trying to move himself around so he can get at the seatbelt latch but Kurt is one step ahead of him, the removal of Blaine's hand has given him just enough control of his body that he can reach down and fumble with the latch until it finally clicks open and with a swishy-slithery noise the seatbelt wooshes back and away from his lap and the sudden lack of pressure makes Kurt moan and thrust upwards against the inside of Blaine's leg.
"Nonono wait," he manages to get out as Blaine starts to reach back down towards the zipper of Kurt's jeans. Blaine's eyes meet him, pupils wide and black with all-consuming arousal, and for a long moment Kurt forgets what he was going to say. "We…not out here. Can't do this in the car," he eventually stutters, and Blaine bites his lip in confusion.
"Why not?"
"Because it's New Year's Eve," Kurt says without thinking, and suddenly he realizes he means it. "Because if this happens I want it to be—I want to be close to you. Not cramped up with the steering wheel in your back, but you. All of you." He places his hands flat against Blaine's lower back and leans in, pulling with his teeth at one of the buttons on Blaine's shirt, and that's pretty ridiculous, even for Kurt, but it seems to do the trick because Blaine goes kind of wobbly and clutches at Kurt's shoulders and moans. After a little bit of this, Kurt sits back and gently shoves Blaine back into the passenger seat, which is the last place in the world (i.e. not touching Kurt) that he wants him to be. Blaine sways beside him, cheeks bright red, dazed and rumpled from their lightning-fast tryst, and Kurt knows there are many reasons this isn't a very good idea but he honestly cannot stop himself, not when Blaine looks like that. His eyes flick towards the house, and Blaine's eyebrows go up.
"You know my dad's—"
"That room's soundproof, right?" Kurt asks breathlessly, and a smile spreads across Blaine's face as he recalls the other times they've taken advantage of his father's remote and sealed-off little hideaway.
"Yeah. My mom sleeps like a rock, so we don't have to worry about her, so let's go already," he says in a rush as he opens the door and drops out into the freezing air, and Kurt is following him outside, and as they meet at the front of the car and head toward the door of Blaine's house Kurt is gratified to see that Blaine is walking with the same painful limp.
Three dark rooms, seventeen carpet-muffled steps, one snaky hallway, and a carefully opened-and-closed door later, they can get back on track.
Kurt doesn't wait to get jumped this time, he grabs Blaine by the collar of his open jacket and in the silky soft-spun darkness of the bedroom his mouth finds Blaine's and pushes it open and goes to work on it, curling his tongue up against the roof of Blaine's mouth and swallowing Blaine's low moan when Kurt slides one hand down and around and into his back pocket. Blaine is more progressively-minded: he starts in on the clothing, shucking his own jacket and grabbing for the hem of Kurt's shirt (which has already been pulled out of his pants, how fortunate) and in one big tug yanks cashmere, shirt, and undershirt off of Kurt and throws them into a big pile by the foot of the bed.
"No, wait—wrinkles—let me just—agh," Kurt yelps, nearly biting his own tongue off as Blaine rips his mouth away and half-crouches so that he can pay attention to Kurt's chest, his hands roaming all over Kurt's bare back and pressing him up against his mouth. Kurt kind of jerks and twitches as Blaine licks and bites in terrible wonderful patterns all over Kurt's skin, and those chilly smooth hands are stroking the small of his back, and something is happening around his hips that's both familiar and overwhelming because he doesn't know if he's ever felt this before, an urgency that's partly physical and partly emotional, their time left together suddenly so fragile and sacred-seeming that it brings Kurt to a whole new level of arousal, and he wants, no, he has to have Blaine now or it's going to be too much and it'll break him.
"Off," Kurt growls so low that whoa, I think I just added another register to my vocal range, and Blaine barely has time to detach from the left side of Kurt's torso, right above his heart, before Kurt is tearing at his shirt and buttons are pinging on the floor and who cares, Blaine's shirt is coming off and then the undershirt and Kurt gives himself a split second to admire Blaine's chest, defined and dusted with dark hair and scarred below one nipple from a fencing accident as a kid, and then his hands are moving again, this time at Blaine's belt, and Blaine's breath hitches and his head falls forward onto Kurt's shoulder as Kurt deftly undoes the buckle, slides the leather clear of the belt loops, and undoes the top button on Blaine's jeans.
Blaine gathers himself enough to fumble with Kurt's jeans (luckily beltless), but his fingers are clumsy and weak from being horny and Kurt helps him out with a few quick movements, and then he's stepping (actually shimmying, they're so damn tight) out of his jeans and Blaine is pulling his own off and then for a moment they're just wearing underwear and not touching, and Kurt really gets a second to look at Blaine and he's so ridiculously beautiful. The upper arms, the curve of his wrists, the stance of his legs, his shoulders and his stomach and his face just hit Kurt right in the gut and this is right, this is why Kurt's life finally started making sense, because he spent so long being different alone by himself and then when he finally wasn't lonely it was because of someone who looked this incredible and who made—who makes him feel beautiful too.
Gravity kicks in and they fall together, crash into a big tangle of limbs and skin sticky with the beginnings of sweat, and Kurt is kissing Blaine like forever is just around the corner. Their feet move, they stumble backwards, giggling and laughing and not being the least bit quiet, and then Blaine folds at the knee as he runs into the bed and they fall with identical "oof"s onto the comforter. Blaine spreads his legs so Kurt's lower body fits between them and there it is, that friction around the hips, and Kurt shudders and bites his lip and drags himself upwards against Blaine in a way that makes Blaine cry out and clutch at Kurt's ribs like a drowning man might hold to a life preserver.
They roll back and forth, kicking the sheets up, rutting against each other, hands trying to cover every bare piece of skin. It's a massive rush of heat and heavy breathing and good good good oh Jesus Christ so good, and Kurt's eyes roll back into his head when Blaine's hand starts up at his shoulder blade and slides all the way down to underneath his boxer briefs, and yeah, okay, this needs to happen now.
"D'you have—"
"Wait a sec," Blaine cuts him off, and Kurt could laugh as he realizes just how on the same page they both are, but he's too turned-on to laugh, if that's even possible. Blaine reaches up and over Kurt, fumbling in his nightstand, and Kurt is clinging around his stomach like a koala baby because he's not letting Blaine go for a single second, and then Blaine is back and while he fumbles with the little bottle, Kurt rips open the condom wrapper.
"What do you—I mean, which way should we—" Blaine stammers, the bottle uncapped in his hand, and Kurt freezes for a moment as he considers. They have general guidelines for this—experimentation has confirmed that they both enjoy themselves regardless of role, but Blaine loves to be protective and Kurt enjoys being held and taken care of and so it follows that Blaine usually takes top—but right now, in this moment, something seems to have shifted a little. Kurt is unsure as he looks at Blaine, so naked and soft and wide-eyed on the bed next to him, and even if he doesn't quite know what to make of how he feels right now, he does know that Blaine was shivering and stuttering and hugging him for dear life earlier tonight, and that the looming shadow of their separation will descend when Kurt walks away and leaves Blaine behind, and he desperately wants Blaine to know that Kurt is here for him, wants to be with him, will always want that.
"…would you let me?" he says, so softly that he's not sure Blaine can hear him, but apparently that's moot because Blaine's lips part a little and he nods slowly, his eyes locked onto Kurt's, and something about that—the quiet permission, the desire in Blaine's face—gets Kurt's heart pounding, and he leans forward and draws Blaine's mouth to his, and while they kiss he shoves his briefs down and rolls the condom on and tries to think through the heat swirling in and around every part of him.
"Oh my god…"
"Yeah. That was…"
"…unbelievable."
Kurt is lying on his back in bed, having just rolled off Blaine, and it feels like somebody stuck a cattle prod into his brain. His vision is jittery and every single square inch of his body is buzzing and sizzling underneath the skin and he's shaking all over, breath coming out in raspy heaves. Beside him, Blaine is still on his stomach, face pressed into the comforter, eyes shut tight. His voice still has a little croak to it, a leftover from the sobs that were scraping through his throat moments ago.
Kurt lets one hand drift up and ghost over Blaine's back, knuckles brushing the tender skin so lightly he's not sure when he's really touching or just imagining he is. They've had sex before—you might even say, relative to the first time anything resembling sex showed up in the relationship, they've had a lot of sex before—but nothing like this, never anything like this. This time something snapped when Kurt moved his body and Blaine was so close beneath him and he realized this won't last forever, I won't be able to reach out and find him when I want him, this could be the end of everything, and suddenly there was no self-consciousness or awkward fumbling or any of the pitfalls of physical intimacy, there was just blind want and the strength moving Kurt's hips and keeping his balance and directing his hands wasn't controlled or decided, it was just there, fighting for Blaine, wanting Blaine, bring him closer in every possible way to Blaine.
And when that happens, when your body takes away your control and the same thing is happening to the other person simultaneously, you can't fight it or change its direction, you can simply hold on and have your mind and nerves and senses blown like never before.
Blaine whimpers softly as Kurt's hand taps gently against his neck, and now Kurt rolls back over and lays himself down across Blaine's back, so slow and careful now as opposed to the almost violent way he was touching him before. Topping is scary for Kurt, if he's honest with himself, it's a lot of responsibility, and this time around the intensity of everything made the world opaque with pleasure and desire and pure animal heat, and so now the fear that kept its distance earlier is sneaking in, making him wonder if he hurt Blaine or was too rough with him or—despite how Blaine sounded just a second ago—if he took something from him instead of what he meant to do, which was give everything he had.
"Mmmm…you," Blaine mumbles, and he turns his head and opens one hazel eye to stare dazedly up at Kurt. "I couldn't even…it was like…you're so…"
"Finish a sentence," says Kurt, kissing Blaine's shoulder, and Blaine begins to move underneath him so Kurt sits back and lets Blaine turn over onto his back before he lowers himself down and lies on Blaine's chest, front to front now, a reversal of one act of love to the next.
"I can't," Blaine laughs shakily. "You broke me."
"Sorry," Kurt whispers, resting his forehead against Blaine's. He runs a hand through Blaine's sweat-soaked curls. "I love you, you know that?"
"Mmm, I have an idea," Blaine says. He tilts his head up and presses his lips chastely against Kurt's for a quick kiss. "I love you too."
"You're the most incredible thing that has ever happened to me," Kurt tells him, and in his mind he hears his mother singing him to sleep when he was little, and feels his father's arms holding him tight in that magic moment after he first came out, and remembers the burst of energy and emotion from the first time he looked up at glee club and thought, I'm home, and even with all of this that he's been lucky enough to have in his life, yes, Blaine is the most of everything. Blaine showed him that he was more than acceptable or okay, showed him how great a person he truly was; Blaine gave Kurt to himself.
"Do you really have to go?" asks Blaine, his eyelids fluttering, and Kurt's stomach drops away into the void.
"Oh, Blaine…I do, you know I do. You said it yourself, I can't stay here forever, I would die. And that's not even me being me, I would really…but oh god, Blaine, I will miss nothing like I will miss you. And I will always come home to you. No matter what." Kurt looks down at the boy beneath him—they're both still just boys, so young to be feeling such strange and powerful things—and kisses him gently, like their lips are embracing.
"Thanks," Blaine murmurs sleepily as they pull apart, "but actually I meant do you have to go home tonight."
"Oh," Kurt says, his already-flushed cheeks starting to burn again. "Um. Well, what time is it?"
Blaine nods towards his nightstand and Kurt looks over at the luminescent clock: 3:45 a.m.
"Argh. I don't know…screw it, I'll stay," he decides suddenly, and slides off Blaine so that he's lying beside him, draping one arm across Blaine's chest and nuzzling into his shoulder. Blaine laughs and throws a leg over Kurt's hip, turning so that they're face to face again.
"Your dad?"
"Either he'll be pissed or he won't. But I think he'll understand."
"Maybe you should text him? Just in case?"
"Oh, fine. God, you're so responsible."
"I'm mature."
"You're sleepy," Kurt says with a raised eyebrow as he sits up, and Blaine grins until Kurt gets off the bed and then he groans like a kicked puppy and reaches out for Kurt, wagging his hands in the air and making little keening noises as Kurt types out a quick "blaine's, be home soon" and then scoots back into bed beside Blaine, who stops whining and practically purrs while he curls all four limbs around Kurt and snuggles in. Kurt rolls his eyes but hey, it's love, you forgive your sleepy naked boyfriend for being a goof.
After a minute or two, Blaine is sound asleep, little puffs of breath playing over Kurt's collarbone and his eyes unmoving beneath his lids. Kurt stays awake for a while, staring out Blaine's window at the moon shining through the bare branches of the tree in the backyard, occasionally thinking about how he's going to sneak past Blaine's parents tomorrow or about his dad's reaction to what's obviously an unapproved sleepover with Blaine or even farther ahead in the future, to a plane that will fly him to the Center of the Universe and begin his life for real—but mostly, Kurt thinks about Blaine, and how warm he is, and soft, and good-smelling, and wonderful.
No matter what happens, Kurt will have these thoughts about Blaine to keep him strong when there is no hand to hold and no mouth to kiss and no heartbeat to flutter regularly and peacefully against his ribcage. He will have them, and he will have Blaine, and he will have enough.
Happy new year to me.