A/N: Blanana is my absolute favourite Glee friendship OTP ever; call it Blainetana all you want, but it's fabulous. :3 Title stolen from ee cummings.
"You are not," Kurt says, punctuating each of his words with a short, sharp jab to Blaine's forearm, "having a party and inviting all of the New Directions." He lifts his head from where it's resting against Blaine's chest, swinging his legs down over the side of the bed in a single motion, and Blaine finds it impossible not to watch as Kurt twists away from him with all the grace of a dancer, even as he feels his heart constrict with the lack of pressure now that his boyfriend isn't curled up against his chest. He's suitably distracted a moment later though, as Kurt stretches back across him, planting gentle kisses up his side, letting his lips rest almost too softly against the expanse of skin at the bottom of Blaine's sleeve that he'd taken to assaulting, just moments before.
"There's not even going to be alcohol, Kurt," Blaine protests, not even bothering to hide his squirms as Kurt shifts to rest on the other side of him, kisses more him hot and insistent as he nuzzles against the juncture between Blaine's collarbone and neck. He knows that Kurt understands how to be sexy now, if the recent nature of their late night texts is any indication, but there's a difference between understanding and intrinsically knowing, and he thinks that Kurt learns a little more of the difference each time Blaine lets go like this. After so long constricted by uniforms and rules and the tightness of his ribcage as the broken bones clenched against his heart, it gives him a thrill to know that he's found someone with whom he can just fold up his insecurities, tucking them into a drawer labelled things to learn from (he thinks Kurt might label it things to mock Blaine for), folding himself instead into Kurt's embrace. "Rest assured that my parents have foiled any and all plans for that, despite the fact that I wasn't even making them in the first place."
"I'm not worried about you getting drunk and kissing –- well, anyone, really," Kurt says, moving his mouth away from Blaine's collarbone long enough to glance up at him with heavily lidded eyes. He looks a little shy, hesitant, as he adds: "I have it on good authority that you never want to kiss anyone but me."
"If you're going to continue to flatter my ego by calling me a 'good authority' like that, then it's certainly the case," Blaine replies, bringing his hands up to cup Kurt's face as he kisses him open mouthed and rough. Kurt stutters something incoherent against his lips, and he loves that they're still unsure about some of these things, that they're not afraid to poke at the edges of their relationship with a stick just to reassure themselves that it's real. Because while they're still taking inventory of all the things they'd almost never dared to wish for, they're not going to do anything stupid enough to make sure that it's not. "I don't want any repeat of Rachel's party at all –- I've got a Six Flags show on the Monday and I do not need a killer headache."
Kurt hums thoughtfully for a moment. "The hangover might make your shows bearable. At the very least, your co-star's makeup will look better through a blurry, monochromatic haze, because seriously –- that shade of red only belongs under the fingernails of serial killers."
"And here I was wondering why she seemed so intent in getting me alone after every show," Blaine says, before wincing. He forgets, sometimes, that just because Kurt seen all these parts of him, has dissected him with his fingertips and his gaze until they're both punch-drunk on something like affection, tempered with a splash of desire, that –-
"Try as you might Blaine, you are not going to disappear through the floorboards. Girls flirt with you, I get it." Kurt's voice softens, almost imperceptibly, even as he curls his fingers tight into the bedspread. He's breathy, but not nervous, just - Blaine thinks it might be arrogant, but he feels like Kurt might be contemplating exactly how much of his love to let spill out at once. "It's –- I can't even bring myself to be jealous, really, when you tell them you're taken… by me."
"I know, Kurt," Blaine replies, and he does. It's the same feeling he gets when they go to the theatre in Columbus and the usher is a little too interested in the origin of Kurt's bowtie, only for Kurt to press himself tighter against Blaine's side, a question and an answer all at once -– why would I want him? I've got you. "It's just –- it's not like I can be absolved of any kind of blame when it comes to -–"
"You need to stop fixating on that," Kurt says, almost too-straightforwardly, like it's that simple. "I know you regret what happened with Rachel, but you can stop apologising. I forgive you." He pauses, jabs a finger in the air to make a point. "It's like we have fixed markers in our relationship that you keep defining yourself by, when –-"
"I've long since achieved –- or found, I guess - my personal best?"
Blaine just laughs as Kurt elbows him a little too forcefully for the use of a sporting metaphor; they sit side beside for a moment, surrounded by the soft lull of show tunes from Kurt's iPod and the heady sense of comfort that comes from just being with Kurt. The air in Kurt's bedroom is heavy with it, and Blaine finds himself wrapping in himself into like a blanket, secure in the knowledge that it will never fray, and that if it does, he's got Kurt to stitch it all back up.
"I wasn't going to, you know –-" he says quietly, after a moment, even if he can't quite identify what it is that sits thick and viscous on the tip of his tongue.
"You were," and Kurt's gentle, understanding; his fingers come to curl comfortingly around Blaine's side, and the way they touch is so easy that Blaine makes difficulties for himself by becoming paranoid about how they don't have any, not in this moment. "But it's okay. I get what it's like to regret things, you know that."
Blaine does. Right now, it hits a little too close to home. "So?" he says, a little more lightly than he'd thought he could manage. "That's an absolute no to any and all forms of alcohol, then?"
"I'm just saying," Kurt says, "social situations are kind of like a good shot of tequila for this group, in that all social decorum gets left at the front door with their shoes." He pauses for a second, eyes widening. "Oh dear, I'm going to have to personally approve all their outfit choices, because your parents are totally fastidious about that whole not wearing shoes inside rule, and I happen to know that Puck has pictures of boobs on his socks."
"I'm not even –-" Blaine starts, even if he's sure that the answer to any question about where Puck finds half of his possessions, or how Kurt finds out about them, is probably less disturbing than the things he and Santana have taken to dreaming up. "It's… I just need to fit in, Kurt. We've already bypassed the quintessential high school experience of fretting about what colleges we're going to and what would happen if we chose different cities and as much as I love that we're on the same page about all of it, the one cliché I'd kind of like to indulge in is the one where you find all your amazing friends."
"New Directions isn't that, Blaine," Kurt says quietly, picking at a fingernail. "They'll accept you, but it won't be because they'll take pity on you and your totally insane reasoning that you need some kind of validation that you made the right choice. It won't even be because you're my boyfriend, it will be because you're you.
"Besides, I like to think that you've already lived out that cliché," Kurt says, leaning back into him. Blaine shifts to rest against the headboard of Kurt's bed, letting Kurt fit neatly back into his side. Their pizza lays cold on the floor; the playlist ends, filling the room with the funny-staccato beat of sudden silence. "I'm not sure if you remember this, but we were best friends long before we were boyfriends, and it's that which lets me know that you weren't trying to be offensive."
"And yet failing miserably at it."
"Well, yes, but -" Kurt grins at him, before planting a tender kiss on his cheek. "You're you, Blaine. That's exactly why they love you."
"They love you too," Blaine replies, because they do, he was there that day Kurt returned to McKinley, blinded by the sun's unfortunate angle on those risers and the sheer intensity of everyone's grins. "We must be pretty fabulous, then."
"Yes," Kurt replies, before kissing him, open mouthed and slack-jawed and so thoroughly that Blaine can't tell if he's responding to the idea of them being fabulous, or the idea of them as a we. As Kurt rolls Blaine's bottom lip into his mouth, nipping gently, he finds that he can't bring himself to mind either way.
It doesn't occur to him until later that Kurt never asked why his parents are letting him have this party in the first place.
"I get why you're having this party," Santana says to him later that week, as they stand in line for frozen yoghurt, the trolley in front of him laden down with cases of cola and party supplies. He nods noncommittally; tries to decide whether he wants banana or strawberry.
"It certainly wasn't to spend hours debating whether or not condoms make good party favours with Satan herself," Kurt laughs, before leaning over and shoving Blaine's wallet back into his pocket. At the sight of Blaine's raised eyebrow, he says, "This mall is the seventh circle of hell; we're not classing this as a date."
"But it's okay for you to pay," and it's all he can do not to grin uncontrollably; as far as Blaine's concerned, the only prerequisite for a date with Kurt is that they're together, although he realises his admittedly lax definition might cause some problems once school starts again and they're together every day at McKinley. The fact that they can do this, can spend so much time together and still find it new and exciting and filled with possibilities is exciting in itself, because he knows they'll never get bored together.
He settles for slipping his hand into Kurt's as his boyfriend orders for both of them, hoping that Kurt can feel the press of something like love through his skin. They slide into a booth side by side, and Santana sits opposite them, making a show of licking the yoghurt from her spoon; Blaine and Kurt make simultaneous gagging noises that only seem to egg her on.
"But seriously, Blainers," Santana drawls when she's finished, "This party –- you've got something to prove."
"What makes you think that?" he asks, almost too quickly; he can't help but think of the circumstances through which they became friends, about him picking fights with a Neanderthal twice his size and then planning a serenade for Kurt at McKinley, and it's almost too easy to get how she came to that conclusion.
"Either you're trying to make yourself out as something interesting, or you just want to play Spin the Bottle as an excuse to get your mack on with anyone who's not Rachel Berry. I don't like to brag, but this is coming from someone who's the queen of making herself appealing." Santana winks at him, but it's belied by the way her smile softens and her head drops slightly. It shocks Blaine how someone as open as Santana can be so vulnerable at the same time, such a study in contradictions. He almost wants to wrap her up in a hug. "I can wax your eyebrows no problem, but you're going to need something stronger than all of this if you don't want to be as boring as Shakespeare."
"I'm surprised you know who Shakespeare is," Kurt replies, but he's smiling all the same. With a sudden gulp, Blaine realises his boyfriend would probably fight Santana for the rights to the eyebrow wax.
"Please," Santana says, "I'm a regular Mercutio."
They laugh at that, it falls in scraps from their mouths and Blaine revels, just for a second, in the easiness of this, of sitting here with his boyfriend and their friend, all three of them so natural together. He's jerked back to reality a moment later, when Kurt spittakes so loud at the way Santana's slurping the last of her milkshake that people at the next table over turn to glare.
Blaine's still thrumming with it though, like music, and it makes him a little bolder, like the day he said I love you.
"I just want to get to know everybody," he says finally. "Kurt thinks it's insane how much I want you guys to like me, but … I guess there's nothing like a party to be fully inducted into your crazy. Besides, my parents want to meet the people responsible for making me officially change my last name back from Warbler, and… they're letting me transfer to be with you guys, so it's easy to appease them."
"'Inducted' suggests an organisation scheme that doesn't really exist. Besides, I think Blaine Warbler suits you just fine; we're a family and someone's got to be the crazy aunt from out of town. We can't all be the beloved first child," Kurt replies, mouth tipped upward just enough for Blaine to know that he's teasing, although he rests his hand on Blaine's thigh under the table in a sign of reassurance, anyway; across from them, Santana just looks thoughtful.
Blaine doesn't think much of it until later, when they're in some fashion store or other, waiting for Kurt to try on some shirt or other –- he'd wanted Blaine's opinion, but all he'd really been able to manage was to control exactly how far his eyes bugged out at how tight it was. They've carried all the party supplies out to the car and come back up, and Santana and Blaine are left leaning against a rack of half price jeans, trying not to snort at how Kurt's bondage pants –- and seriously, that first day Kurt had shown up at Dalton, Blaine's mind had been blown by what Kurt thought was simply a fashion statement – are less dramatic than some of the hideous floral dresses that summer can inspire.
"He doesn't realise how lucky he is, does he?" Santana asks, her sigh short and something kind of like wistful.
"What do you mean?" he replies; his stomach clenches in the way he's come to expect with this line of thought. Blaine loves Kurt, he really does, but - by any standard definition, Kurt's year has been terrifying and it makes him a little uneasy to know that Kurt, so easily disappointed, put enough faith in Blaine to tell him it got better after he'd spent so long denying to others exactly how much everything sucked. It thrills him a little, when he's alone and can stop for long enough to think I made someone happy, but some days he's not sure if he's enough to make Kurt lucky, not all on his own, and that scares him with its magnitude, too.
Blaine knows that Burt helps, Carole and Finn and all the New Directions too, in their own way, but this is what it means to be a boyfriend, to be in a relationship, to rely upon each other, and it's a little more than he'd anticipated at fourteen when he'd just wanted to date someone for the experience of being with a boy, not being in love. This is what it means, Blaine gets that, and that's how he knows he can continue being that person for Kurt –- because Kurt wants it, and he's more than willing to oblige.
"Everyone in New Directions loves him, and they're going to love you too, even before they find out that you're actually a human being under all that Elvis shit." Santana tugs at his bowtie, leaving it slightly askew, and Blaine moves to bat her hand away. The grin she wears is so flirtatious he can't take it seriously, and before long they're both snorting in the middle of Urban Outfitters; he's almost glad Kurt is trying on several cardigans he really doesn't need. The sight of them is –- so typical Ohioan teenager in a way that it's been so long since he's gotten to really experience, and Blaine softens his expression and says, "I'm really glad I can rely on you Santana." It's possibly more earnest than he'd intended, but she takes his hand in hers and squeezes tight, and he gets that she understands.
"Me?" she says though, a moment later. "I liked you better before I realised that all that microphone fucking was an actual thing and not just a by-product of you being one of those Jingle Bell Rock Santas they sell at the mall."
"I'm pretty sure those don't come with microphones," he begins, slumping slightly against the wall and sighing, but:
"A little less conversation, a little more action ring any bells, Blainers? I'm trying to talk, and the only action you should be making is getting out your credit card to pay for these boots."
Blaine snorts, a little unattractively. "You started this conversation," he reminds her, with a gentle poke to the shoulder; she rolls her eyes at him. "He's lucky, Santana, and I feel so unbelievably lucky to have him, that's no secret. But –- he's had to go through a lot to be happy with himself, I think. It's –- we all do."
He thinks of his parents, of having this party to show them that his McKinley friends are worth it, that they make him worth it, and how he's going to have to spend a good portion of the night decidedly not making out with Kurt, and adds, "some of us are just better at it than others, I think. I've come a long way since I came out, but I'm no self-help poster child, not yet. I can't even convince my parents that me going to McKinley is a positive; they're just sitting back and waiting for it to all fall down around me, like I'll learn something from it."
Santana glances up from a pair of boots, apparently checking if they come in her size. He almost hopes that they don't –- they're flawless, even Kurt would approve, but they'd also hurt like hell if she ever decided to stomp down on his foot a little too hard.
She pulls a pair from the stand, sits down in a chair and begins undoing the buckles on her sandals, her brows furrowed with concentration. "That's not… It's like, we all get shit from people outside of glee, and we all give each other shit in there, but people were actually devastated when he left; even Puck looked teary. I mean, I know I put together that whole plan for him to come back to McKinley because I wanted that stupid, stupid crown, but everyone supported me for him, everyone pretended to believe damn Karofsky for him. They wouldn't… they wouldn't do that for me."
Santana hunches further over, sliding on one of the boots, and Blaine can see her shoulders shaking slightly. She looks so -– he's not sure, but her hair is falling in her eyes and it's all so unlike Santana that he can't quite process it. Or maybe this is Santana, behind the façade, and he doesn't know what to do with that, either; even in the earliest day with Kurt, it had really been him that was insecure and broken.
Blaine settles for sitting down beside her, gently rubbing his hand in circles on her back. Santana tilts her head up towards him and rolls her eyes, tries to flutter her eyelashes all at the same time and he bites down on a laugh.
"I would," he says, after an awkward pause. "And so would Kurt, not just because you did it for him first."
They sit there in silence again, waiting for Kurt to emerge from the dressing room laden down with outfits. "Blainers," she says, "at your party, if you need anything… just let me know. I'm the life of the party, even when there's not enough alcohol for me to effectively get my mack on."
"Will do," he replies, and then, flashing her a grin, "those boots are amazing. You're a regular… I don't even know who, really, Kurt will kill me, but…" Blaine drops his voice conspiratorially low. "Hot."
"I honestly don't know why I'm friends with you," Santana replies, but she grins at him, wild and wolfish for just a second, before pulling out her credit card and, spotting Kurt, hurrying over to join the line with him and pay. He follows her after a moment, slipping one hand into Kurt's and the other into hers and just laughing when they both pull away, claiming it a few degrees of separation too few.
He just grins; party or no party, he's going to be doing his senior year at McKinley, and by the end of it: they're going to get along great.
The party starts off well enough; all of the New Directions are polite to his parents –- who've thankfully agreed to stay inside and let Blaine order pizza, even though Blaine's got his suspicions about why his dad was angling for a barbeque –- and Puck's even managed to wear appropriate socks that earn Kurt's approval. His parents are tight-lipped at best, although he notices his mother giving Quinn a vaguely fond smile when he introduces them, tries not to think about the implications. His parents have always been observers; his father watched him like a hawk that summer they rebuilt the car, so passive in his intentions that it always felt aggressive to Blaine and he wonders, not for the first time, how they failed to realise he was gay before he came out; it's different to Kurt, certainly, but Blaine's never been known for being subtle.
His mother pushes him outside to join his guests with a gentle smile before he even has time to say and of course you've met Kurt.
Everyone gathers on the back porch, and after an argument about how Blaine owning a actual karaoke machine is so 1990s and has he never heard of guitar hero, Rachel decides to serenade them with My Heart Will Go On; Blaine and Tina retaliate with Genie in a Bottle, backed up by Mike's dancing, and it all goes –- not downhill, exactly, but it makes him think of music not as an equaliser, drawing everyone together, but as something that allows them to be themselves, making an art piece out of the fact that they're all on different wavelengths.
He makes small talk with Artie and Sam about the new X-Men movie, gives Finn a helpful pat on the back when he looks vaguely ill at the prospect of dueting with Rachel, congratulates Lauren on her latest wrestling win, and it's easy, so so easy. First Kurt, now Santana; Blaine likes nuances, likes that this is becoming a theme.
Before long, night falls over them with a heavy embrace and Blaine finds himself sprawled in a deck chair, wrestling his soda can away from Santana. He's watching his boyfriend, perched regally on the steps, bottle of water in one hand, the other jabbing at the air as he gesticulates wildly and how did Blaine never connect the fact that this boy is beautiful with the fact that this boy is beautiful for so long.
Kurt's laugh is trilling and magnetic in that way everything about him is, even as Blaine reminds himself that part of the reason their relationship works is because they're so alike in all the ways that matter and opposites attract is a pathetic cliché, and he finds his eyes drawn to where Kurt laughs with Mercedes and Tina about something a girl they went to junior high with posted on Facebook. Through the window, he can see his parents sitting inside and as he catches his father's eye there's a glint of something there. There's a part of Blaine that can realise he's vindictive enough to want it to be disgust at the way he's practically ogling his boyfriend; it's the same part of him that tried to cut Mercedes down at Breadstix by excluding her from a conversation about Patti LuPone before he'd known Kurt well enough to get that his boyfriend's lack of subtly about gay issues had just worn her to the bone and that she didn't actually not agree with everything he stood for. It's also the same part of him that had all but caused him to use Rachel, just because his father had been giving him that look a lot that week after he'd mentioned maybe being invited on a road trip with the Hummels to Chicago over Spring Break, and she'd just happened to get drunk and kiss him and he'd enjoyed it just a little more than he thought he would.
In all honesty, the look is probably something more akin to his father floundering in his attempts to express that he's trying to understand even if he can't, not really, but the fact remains that it's there.
Santana notes the direction of his gaze, and stops trying to grab at his drink, instead swinging her legs up to perch in his lap.
"I could help you, you know," she says, and it's all Blaine can do to blink confusedly at her. He doubts it's an attractive look.
"What?"
"Getting my mack on with you might be pushing it a little considering that you kiss Hummel and I happen to know that his chapstick tastes gayer than him, it's that fruity," and whoa, what? That's –- offensive on not nearly as many levels as it could have been, considering that this is Santana Lopez.
"But I could, you know." She presses a hand flat against his chest until the chair's tilted so far back Blaine doesn't know how they're still in it and gives him a smile that even he recognises is meant to be flirty. Blaine kind of actually gets how so many guys (and more than her fair share of girls, now that she's stopped wearing all that unflattering plaid in some kind of stereotypical homage) find her attractive. He also gets how so many of them end up in bed with her: she's distracting to the point that he's almost learnt that it's not worth asking any questions.
"I'm not even going to ask how many of your jackets he asked you to burn in exchange for getting your hands on that," he says, in lieu of agreeing that Kurt's beauty products are from the seventh circle of hell, if only because they mask the salty taste of his skin.
"Seriously, Anderson," she replies, with an exaggerated eye roll, "I'm so hot my clothes go up in smoke every time they're on me." She shifts until she's perched in his lap, arms wrapped around his waist and her ankles entwining with his. It's a pose not entirely dissimilar to Mike and Tina, who are sprawled out on one of the pool lounges, excepting the fact that their lips are firmly not touching and oh. Oh.
Apparently their friendship has blinded him to the full extent of her Machiavellian tendencies, or she actually trusts him enough to be something other than manipulative, these days, even if this isn't one of those times. The prospect of the latter shocks him in a way that he doesn't quite expect, and it takes Blaine a moment to realise –- he's had trouble separating the feeling from love, with Kurt, but this is what it means to be proud. Since he's known her, she's had her heart stomped on more times than he can count, by Nationals, by Brittany, and he's not sure how he didn't realise this the other day, but -
Santana can be someone really worth knowing, when she wants to be.
Of course, it's tempered with the realisation that yeah, Santana just offered to be his beard.
"He's already caught me and Kurt in a… compromising situation just last week, and I'd hate for the trajectory of my sexuality to swing so fast that he gets whiplash."
"There are so many offensive responses to the thought of you and Kurt in a compromising situation –- and honestly, Blainers, you need to ease up on the prep school language before you become a regular fucking Prince William - but Auntie Tana doesn't like to become too predictable. Besides –-" she takes a lengthy sip from his can before he can even protest and smirks at him through too-bright lips, even as her features soften with the beginnings of a smile, "—it's more fun watching your eyes roll back in your head as you think of all the things I could have said."
Blaine flushes. "Kurt is writing a musical about Pippa Middleton, and unless we need to buy Rachel's silence for long enough to convince Finn that what he's eating isn't tofu again, I'm fairly sure he fancies himself as Kate." He shrugs, aiming for nonchalant but just kind of grinning like a fool –- and honestly, he likes that Santana and his boyfriend see straight through him; after years of the perfect Dalton persona, it's nice not to be under the delusion that he even has to try, because even if neither of them say it in so many words (in all honestly, he prefers Kurt's version to the use of actual coherency, anyway), they appreciate him anyway.
It's hard to stop from frowning though, as he adds, "None of which explains your sudden desire to make out with me. I'm flattered, but –-"
"Please, Blaine. Your mouth is so gay the only way we could make it more obvious is to stuff it full of Skittles."
"And that's exactly the kind of thing I was terrified you might say a minute ago." More softly, he adds, "you need to stay away from the gay jokes, Santana. It's –- offensive to me, and to Kurt, and –-"
"You think I'm secretly offending myself, too," Santana finishes for him. "I'm pretty sure they're also offensive to your dad, for different reasons, which –- you? Me?" She lowers her own voice, this time, and there's something in her eyes that glints, a sparkle of mischief, but it's more like tarnished silver than polished gold.
Blaine can't help but wonder if this is the price of silence, for her; this isn't just her shutting everyone out, but a lot of other people neglecting to open the doors, too. Santana does this, becomes the brushfire, this force of nature trying to act anything but natural, and the harder she spins through the landscape in this blaze of destruction, her energy kinetic and there, never converted, the more she goes up in flames. She continues to push the boundaries because she can, and because it terrifies her to know that she's pushed people so far away that they'll never tell her to stop.
The fire all but consumes her, sometimes, and Blaine wonders how to show her that she's a looking glass; if she glances deep enough into her reflection, she'll also find the softest trickle of water.
"You think –-" he says, eyes widening again, his mouth falling agape. "You think all the issues with my dad are about the fact that I invited my boyfriend to this party."
"Well, duh, Napoleon," she says. "I mean, you all but said your parents weren't happy about McKinley and then Kurt just sat there and cracked jokes about me being Hellboy, which, hello boob job, but whatever. He's the best at deflecting; I'd ask him for lessons if he wasn't as talented at being smug… among other things," Santana's smile is just shy of dirty, borderline pornography in a way that only she can be. She shifts in his lap; he can smell the shampoo she uses and there's a warmth about the intimacy that he needs despite the sticky late August heat, which makes this all the more awkward.
"They're not happy about that," Blaine replies, quietly. "But it's –- Dalton's a prestigious school, you know, where boys become gentlemen thing. In comparison, being at McKinley is like spending a night with Bear Grylls, except this is a scenario where camping doesn't confirm my heterosexuality but leaves me dead."
"Survival of the fittest," Santana says softly, picking at the hem of her dress. "You, me. We're good at that."
"We don't even need to make out to prove it," he says, and she groans. There's so many intonations there, so many inflections, and Blaine wonders what it must take for her to really, truly let her guard down, even as she becomes tangled up in her own web of lies, her own suit of armour. He just lets her collapse in his lap, for a moment.
"Figures that none of the people I let my guard down around want to get their mack on with me, doesn't it?"
"I can't speak for anyone else," Blaine replies, "but if I weren't dating Kurt… No, I wouldn't, actually. We're friends, and I really like that, you know."
Wrong choice of words, he realises with a gulp, but Santana doesn't say anything, just pulls at one of the curls framing his face with a little more vigour than she normally would; he winces, but lets her get away with it. If nothing else, Kurt finds his mussed up hair to be attractive.
"I'm sorry," he says earnestly, "about saying that, and about…. it's against everything I've ever preached, not just to Kurt, but –-" Santana gives no formal recognition to the fact that he's all but tried to play some kind of gay mentor for her this summer even though they both know he has no idea what's he's doing, but her eyes soften and he knows that she appreciates the sentiment in her own often terrifying way. He's still not sure that offering to buy him and Kurt sex toys with her fake ID as thanks for helping to hide her one night stand with one of Crawford Country Day's lead soloists from New Directions at a party when a game of I Never hit a little too close to home, but he guesses it's the thought that counts. Kurt's reaction to the news that Santana had all but tried to thrust a dildo into his hands had at least made him appreciate the thought –- and the fact that Mercedes' fashion emergency meant that they'd had to reschedule their daily catch-up at somewhere other than the Lima Bean.
Blaine thinks about the other day though, and he thinks this might be her way of saying thanks.
"It's mean to my father, and… he's trying Santana, I'm sure of it. He's never going to be Burt Hummel and… there are times that I really resent him for that, but it would be meaner to pretend that I'm something other than what's been making him uncomfortable for the past four years. I'm hoping this party is a start; that he sees how happy I am, as I am."
"At least I chose to get sappy with someone who's as emotionally stunted as me, right," she grins, swinging herself off his lap in one languid motion, her bare feet hitting the tiles with a dull thump. "Seriously, Blaine. You rip all your best lines from Days of Our Lives."
"Oh yeah," he challenges, taking the hand that Santana holds out, motioning for him to follow her. It's slightly clammy, but he doesn't say anything, just waits. He thinks he's going to be waiting for a while, with Santana; she's a catalyst in all the best and worst ways, and he cares too much about her to not be there when, like so much she touches, she explodes. Blaine gets it, it's difficult, and things can only get worse when they're back at school with Brittany, so he lets her have this moment to mock him.
"Yeah. Totally owned by Baywatch; have you seen that beach? It's like binging on Breadstix and calling Mr. Schue out for his Journey obsession all in one."
"That's not why I was watching," he admits, with a wolfish grin; she pulls up short, spins to face him and he just laughs until she quietly adds was anyone? They make their way over to Kurt, Mercedes and Tina, who are now debating whether or not Spring Awakening songs would be appropriate in the wake of last year's Rocky Horror disaster –- he makes a mental note to ask Kurt about that later; he wants pictures –- and, without even stopping to wonder if his parents are still watching, plants a quick kiss on the corner of Kurt's lips.
Kurt hums into it for a few short lived seconds, blushing brightly, and then motions for Blaine to sit down beside him. His boyfriend wraps an arm around his waist, fingers curling into the hem of his shirt, and Blaine feels giddy with the knowledge of it, secure in the fact that he can do this, not all around McKinley, but with these people at least, with these friends. He chances a glance back towards the house; his parents have moved away from the window altogether.
This is –- how the world ends, not with a bang but with whimper, but it might just be how the world, for them, begins, and all of them are lucky, not just Kurt. He gets it now, as he catches Kurt glancing cautiously around himself, before settling himself deeper into Blaine's side, resting his head on Blaine's shoulder, Kurt knew. His boyfriend knew that the real reason for this party wasn't just about making friends, not really, and chose to support him anyway. And Santana, well –-
He doesn't imagine it getting any easier from here, especially if he has to start explaining away dry cleaning bills to his parents, but he grins, thinks of it was more fun doing it together and knows that, fun or not, it's what they need. He turns to her midway through Kurt's dramatic re-enactment of some New Directions thing he doesn't really understand and says, "You know, if we had made out, the next step would have been dating, right? I mean, that's how it worked with me and Kurt," and it's all he can do not to turn sloppy at the memory even now; it's all but memorised but Blaine still draws new observations from it, from Kurt, every single time. "I mean, it'll be decidedly not a date, because we decidedly didn't kiss, but how would you like to come over, this weekend." He pauses, raises an eyebrow. "We've got a travel channel on cable that dedicates entire specials to beaches."
"You're on," Santana laughs, before leaning across him and stealing Mercedes' drink; Kurt bats at her when her hair fans across his lap, muttering something about Finn's dog and not another ruined McQueen, and Blaine thinks back to the start of the week with Kurt, because yeah, he's pretty sure they like him for being him and he definitely likes them for being them.
Blaine slips his own arm around Kurt's waist and settles into to enjoy the conversation; with them, he's going to have the quintessential high school experience, and for a split second in time, nothing else matters.