Blaine leaves Kurt's bedroom without protest. Normally he would have argued that Kurt's purposeful avoidance of the topic was going to get him into trouble somewhere down the line. But normally, he wasn't running out of the Hummel-Hudson residence like a bat out of hell with his blazer shoved in front of his crotch.
"I thought you were staying for dinner?" Burt asks, looking a bit wary of Blaine's appearance.
And with that, his issue is no longer an issue. He mumbles something about a change of plans and lets Burt assume their disagreement had been the advantages of iPhones versus Blackberries or Hogwarts houses, because the reality has Blaine blushing to the tips of his ears.
He manages to shove the images to the corner of his mind until later that evening. It's hard, no pun intended, but he somehow manges to scrounge up some restraint. Saintly restraint. Statues should be erected in his honor. He is the best friend ever and is definitely no on the verge of fetishizing Kurt Hummel's innocence.
The floodgates open. He can't fight it. Kurt is sitting in front of his computer, fingers nervously dancing around the play button. (And maybe that's the problem, maybe Kurt had gone looking for the wrong type of 'those movies.' Maybe he saw something extreme and fears that's what sex is like for gay guys.) When he finally gives in and clicks play, the guys on his screen don't look like the ones he had described earlier that day back in his bedroom. There is more kissing, more tentatively touches slowly growing more hungry.
He looks nervous, like he doesn't know what to do with himself. Maybe like he's always relied on the abstract to fuel his desires. Seeing it in the flesh is almost too much for him.
Until the moment it's not. This version of Kurt is in a pair of sweatpants that he'd never wear, mostly because the idea of him wriggling out of those damn skinny jeans is less appealing that he might have once thought.
He follows Kurt's hand as it snakes into his sweatpants, trying to focus in on the rustling of the fabric over the hiss of "never in a million years would I wear synthetic fabrics, Blaine Anderson!"
"Shut up, actual Kurt," he mumbles back, palming himself through his pyjama pants.
It doesn't even matter what's on the screen anymore, Blaine stopped thinking about that ages ago. All that matters is the way Kurt reacts andgod, would that boy be reactive. It's obvious he's enjoying whatever it is he's watching, if the way he's alternating between worrying his bottom lip and darting his tongue out to soothe the hurt is any indication.
Is it weird that that is the moment that has him shoving a hand under the elastic and curling around himself? If it is, he can't bring himself to care. Not even a little. He pairs it with the once innocent images of the way Kurt's lips curl in when he sings. And fuck, how hadn't he made that connection before?
Right. Because there once was a time when he wasn't using his best friend for the world's most awkward jerk-off fodder.
He doesn't even have time to feel guilty about the borderline fucked up voyeuristic scenario he's dreamt up before his orgasm hits him like a freight train. That description has never made sense to him until now. He's used to a slow build until he lets go by his own choosing, or maybe a rushed job if time doesn't permit for his usual way of going about things. Not the way he feels now, panting as he squeezes himself through the aftershocks.
The ding of his phone brings him back to reality. Clearly, the universe has it out for him because it's a text from Kurt.
i'm sorry about earlier. coffee tomorrow before class?
me too. yeah, sure.
He rereads his response at least five times before sending it, just to make sure he didn't actually write 'Oh, yeah. We're cool. Definitely just jerked-off to the version of you who now lives in my head exclusively for this purpose.'
great! see you tomorrow!
"Oh my god," he grumbles, blindly feeling for the oh-so-discreet box of tissues on his nightstand. Life would be so much easier if he knew how he felt about Kurt Hummel.