Sugar and Spice (and Ice)
A/N: This is inspired by FifiDoll's I Love You, a heartbreaking unrequited Seblaine fic that you must read. In it, Blaine says that he likes Sebastian because he spices things up. TOO EFFING TRUE. And then I thought about Kurt and Blaine, and this fic was born. Also, the part about Alex from Paris who can put up with Sebastian long-term is taken from CharlieSchulz's fic Worthless Dregs, which you also must read. The other friends' names are from Bad Boys Don't Cry by Seren McGowan. Again, read. *motions with hands* Enough from me, carry on!
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Sugar, spice and ice. And they are beautiful alone.
The question is making them work together.
Blaine's the sugar, of course: sweet and innocent, romantic and caring, trusting and open. From your first meeting, his innocence and obliviousness set him in that role. You hit on him like a hammer and praised him like the Virgin Mary (though of course you don't believe), and he blushed.
Kurt's the ice; cool and condescending and distrusting, of you especially for reasons obvious and also people in general. Engaging him in a battle of wits in first meeting thrilled you, though obviously he's not your match or anything like. But sarcastic banter's always fun, and you look forward to the inevitable no-holds-barred verbal smackdown that's sure to come.
You're the spice to top it off; sharp, straightforward, unfettered, inappropriate, flirty, and unashamedly sexual. You own three beds from all the notches on their four (twelve in total) posts — cliché, but amusing. Kurt and Blaine are so saccharinely sweet that you are essential to keep anyone in the vicinity from contracting diabetes, and you're more than happy to oblige.
But sugar, spice, and ice are contained in all three of you. Kurt's sweet when you're not tagging along, or so Blaine tells you, gushing with the goofiest grin known to man. And while Kurt's basil to your capsaicin, what talent he does possess in wittiness proves that the Ice Queen's got spice to go with that dash of sugar. Blaine's spice is so minuscule as to be non-existent in company, but after he finally agreed to attend a lacrosse match of yours (you won, of course), you returned the favour and saw him boxing. And the hidden spice came out, and it was delicious. And it only made you love Blaine more (though damn if you'll admit that — you have a reputation to maintain). His ice is different — instead of the frosty haughtiness that is Kurt, his ice is the welcome relief of an ice-cream on a hot day in Paris, wrapped in a sweet crêpe. But when Kurt's around, he freezes up from warm and friendly to colder and stilted. Yes, Blaine has ice.
Your ice is also easy to see; in those battles of verbal jousting, you are aloof and detached, unafraid to target those sore spots that should never be touched, those little things everyone has that are sacred ground; you don't care. You unflinchingly poison them, mercilessly needle, go where everyone else draws the line. Your sugar is reserved for those you trust, and that isn't many; only Blaine, and your friends from Paris. When you and Blaine are alone together (not like that), whether it's shopping, getting coffee, or just hanging out, you are friendly. Nice. Sweet, even. (Still hitting on Blaine, but more subtly, more genuinely.) Genuinely interested in Blaine as a person, while at night you lie in bed and wish with all your heart for more.
You remember one time when you were extra sweet; you and Blaine were out shopping. Sort of shopping, really, if you could call wandering down the one strip of concrete that was called the main street shopping, and of course you were wishing for Paris. But instead of only thinking that, you were feeling cheeky, and so you said that this was pathetic compared to Paris (but of course nothing compares to Paris). And Blaine, being the sweetheart he is, asked about Paris, and your life there. And you told him all about it — the beautiful food, eating from street cafés and picking up a crêpe from corner stands; your wonderful house, spacious and luxurious with the best of French antiques; school life, where everyone spoke French and didn't care if you were of a promiscuous inclination (though you neglect to tell him why exactly you sleep around); and all your friends who you miss like crazy: Thierry, Mikael, Corie, and Alex of course, and how crazy you all were. And how much you missed it all. And then you had a really great idea; you and Blaine, alone together in Paris, eating and exploring and living. And you told him so, open and honest and sincere, how much you hoped he'd accompany you on your inevitable return.
Blaine took your hand, squeezed it, and told you he'd love to.
And he looked so genuine, so excited, so friendly, and your heart skipped a beat before you remembered that this would, of course, be platonic. And you resolved to fix that before you and he left for Paris. It is the city of love, after all.
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But ice is the optional extra to the trio; the ancient saying is of sugar of spice. And while you're well aware that that saying is supposed to apply to girls, sugar and spice work well together, regardless of gender. Sugar and spice and all things nice, they say. How about sugar and spice make all things nice? After all, you do balance each other out. Blaine tempers you, keeps you in check (but only when you're alone), balances you out. And you know that Blaine is excited by you, intrigued by you; you know this from how he automatically tenses, breathes faster, and his pupils dilate whenever he looks at you; the telltale, undeniable signs of attraction. And he's so sweet to you, the sugar in him; to him, you're a person, not a slut or a sex toy. Although he does roll his eyes and cluck his tongue whenever you tell him of your latest conquest (and there's always a new one), but he also seems guiltily interested; your spice rubs off on him.
You're sure if you were ever to lick him, he'd taste delicious.