"Kurt, don't you dare."
"Rachel Berry, I'm going to have to ask you to get your claws off me and, with love and respect, put a sock in it," Kurt says coolly, wrenching his arm out of Rachel's grasp. Rachel narrows her eyes and lunges for him again, but Kurt has been attending Elementary Modern Dance II for four weeks now and he's more nimble than he used to be, so he sidesteps and smirks as Rachel nearly collides with an older woman wearing a white fur hat on her coiffed red hair. Her husband, also red-headed, glares at both Rachel and Kurt as he escorts his wife inside.
"Does Ms. Pillsbury's family run a chapter of the Ginger Mafia or what?" Kurt wonders aloud; Rachel, apparently too ruffled for wit, takes the opportunity to grab Kurt's elbow in a vicegrip.
"Ow! Get off me!"
"Hummel, listen to me. If I didn't kiss Finn, you don't get to go hump Blaine in the back of that stupid rental Prius," she hisses, her fingers tightening even further. Kurt rolls his eyes and tries fruitlessly to free himself.
"I'll hump whoever I want, thank you. I don't care either way if you hook up with Finn or not, that's your giant steaming pile of drama, not mine. My particular situation is that there's five foot eight of willing, eager, and sinfully attractive ex-boyfriend standing by the stupid Prius, and while you figure out who exactly you're going to ride off into the sunset—don't give me that look, we're playing for mature audiences here—I'm going to go get me some of that, so if you please, let go."
He's gone before she has time to react, one hard tug and Kurt is moving upstream against the flow of guests moving towards the rows of pews covered with flowers, white flowers, white silk and netting draped over dark wood seats, for a beautiful white wedding, the kind Kurt always dreamed of, the kind he spent hours planning every day of fifth grade and most of sixth, the kind that he used to imagine he and Blaine might one day—
No. None of that. No thinking about Blaine like that, the old swooping romance, fingers intertwined on the bedspread while whispered conversations floated smoke-like over half-dressed bodies. No heartbeats, no chaste kisses to promise deeper ones, no gentle fingers squeezing his knee under the table at Breadstix. None of that.
Kurt blinks once, hard, and as he emerges from the cool shadows of the church foyer into a blazing winter sun, those thoughts are neatly swept away and trashed.
The parking lot is full and getting fuller, ancient Chevys full of redheaded relatives and squat little Toyotas driven by Mr. Schue's out-of-state family all playing chicken for the closest spaces. The church's pastor is a friend of Kurt's dad—he remembers waiting in this very lot, kicking his feet impatiently in the front seat of his father's pickup truck while he and Pastor Moor chatted about a new carburetor and the basketball game at the VFW. The sun had been bright then too. Or maybe Kurt just associates brightness with churches. His mother's funeral had been in June, and the sun beat down on the casket and the stained glass and Kurt's itchy little-boy tuxedo.
But today, the sun doesn't throw his mother's coffin into sharp relief, and it doesn't irritate him while he waits for his father to drive him home so he can watch Julia Child reruns. Today, the sun shows him one thing and one thing only: Blaine, slim and sexy in his tuxedo, leaning against the stupid rental Prius with a half-smile on his face.
"Hey…wow, nice bow tie," Blaine says, eyes widening slightly as Kurt approaches. Kurt considers how to respond to this particular greeting, and eventually decides to go with grabbing Blaine by his own tie and kissing him hard enough to jolt the dainty Prius on its axel. Blaine gasps and nearly loses his balance, grabbing Kurt's shoulders to stay standing; Kurt smiles against his mouth and gives Blaine's lower lip a quick bite before pulling away.
"Hey. Your tie's nice too."
One look at Blaine's face, at his red cheeks and parted lips, and Kurt decides it's time to get inside the car and take care of business.
He knew this would happen the second he saw Blaine yesterday, when he and Rachel dropped by McKinley to visit glee rehearsal. One look across the choir room—one echo of those old signals they used to have, the ones that meant everything from Dinner tonight? to The handicap stall on the second floor right this second, the jocks are at practice and I want you so bad—and there was an unspoken agreement between them. Everyone hooks up at weddings; their safeground has precedent.
It takes all of ten seconds for them to move past pleasantries. Blaine starts out on top, following Kurt into the backseat and shoving himself between his legs so that Kurt can immediately understand just how much Blaine has been looking forward to this. They kiss desperately for a minute or two, mouths clumsy and too eager, bodies overstimulated by the sudden rush of contact. Kurt shudders and arches up, nerve impulses firing like crazy as Blaine runs a rough hand down his side and grabs his ass, hard, needy, remembering all at once. The car is full of ragged breathing and scrambling limbs, Kurt's low groans as Blaine rolls his hips forward and tries to drag Kurt's pelvis up against him. He cups Blaine's face to still their frantic pace, opens his mouth and lets his tongue and teeth and lips take a long, slow, burning moment to touch Blaine's, to move him, to connect to him. Blaine kisses back, wide open, breathing deeply; instead of wild, they're suddenly serious and slow, and so unbelievably hot it's kind of making Kurt dizzy, just the way he keeps feeling more and more—Blaine's hot breath on his cheek, Blaine's weight on his stomach, Blaine's hands, oh God his hands on Kurt's legs, pulling him up, pulling him in—
He can't take it anymore, it's too much, way too much for the backseat of a car before the wedding. With a gasp Kurt breaks the deepest, most crazy-amazing kiss, and moves his mouth to Blaine's neck, curling a hand around the back of his head and grinning against damp skin when Blaine jerks between his thighs and whimpers. He sucks at the spot under Blaine's ear, at his earlobe, the nub of bone behind the soft cartilage; he runs his tongue over the ridges of the shell; he moves back down, under the jaw, over the Adam's apple, letting his teeth graze and his lips kiss every once in a while, and by the time he starts on the other ear Blaine is practically having a breakdown, hands fisted in Kurt's once-beautifully pressed tuxedo jacket and face buried in the side of Kurt's head, his high-pitched moans and hissed profanities a strange accompaniment to this methodical torture. He's twisting at the waist, looking for friction, helplessly straining, and Kurt would keep this up forever if he weren't too eager for his own slow death by ecstasy, so when Blaine finally manages to find a shred of self-control and flips them over, hauling Kurt up on top and yanking at his belt buckle, he doesn't stop him. He closes his eyes and waits for it, waits for Blaine to find the zipper and—oh my god that hand.
"Jesus, Blaine, you, oh, Jesus," he manages, teeth clenched, feeling things he forgot were possible. Why now, why in this weird-smelling electric car, in a church parking lot on their show choir leader's wedding day, after months of half-hearted efforts on his own behalf, thinking of this same boy and feeling so guilty and unenthusiastic, why after all that his body suddenly chooses this particular moment to rediscover what it's capable of experiencing—well, Kurt's not going to question it, not when Blaine's hand is moving with that familiar confidence, just the way Kurt likes, the way he loves, the way that always, oh God, okay, stop, no, don't stop, please, just keep going—NO, shut it down, they're still in the car and this suit is not going to be ruined before anyone has said, "I do."
"Hold on," he gasps, and wrenches himself backwards. Blaine stares up at him, panting, eyebrows knit together and looking quite literally too cute to live. Kurt huffs a deep breath and smoothes his hair back to buy another couple seconds as his heart rate slows. "We should probably…we need to take it down a notch."
"You think?" asks Blaine with the smallest quirk of a smile; Kurt suddenly recalls another extremely familiar urge, specifically to smack Blaine when he gets smarmy.
"Hey. It's not me getting all, you know, in pants that aren't mine," Kurt snaps. "There's plenty of time for that, but right now let's just—"
"Make out?" Blaine says hopefully, fluttering his eyelashes.
"Yeah. Let's just do that. Nothing too fun." Kurt smiles before he can stop himself, and Blaine is laughing as he reaches up and pulls Kurt down, kissing him a little lighter now, but still hot, still insistent, still running those small strong hands up his spine in a way that—
Tock tock tock.
"Oh no, she is not doing what I think she is doing," Kurt growls as he looks up and sees Tina Cohen-Chang glowering in through the window. He pulls the latch and lets the door swing open a couple inches, far enough for Tina to stick her face in and to allow a draft of chilly wind to blow directly down his spine.
"What exactly is going on here?" Tina says in a voice no warmer than the breeze. Kurt raises an eyebrow and looks down at Blaine, whose blush is creeping to his collarbone.
"What does it look like?" Kurt replies with equal bite. Tina glares at him and then at Blaine; he meets her eyes with a sheepish smile.
"Um, hi, Tae-Tae…we're just, ah…killing time? Before the ceremony?"
"Blaine, didn't we have a Talk about this? Do I need to remind you about certain guidelines that we agreed on, about certain ex-boyfriends and certain things that we might be tempted to do with—
"Tina, darling, do shut the door on your way out," Kurt says in his best Kate Hepburn, and it takes a good five or six seconds of open-mouthed staring before Tina slams the door shut and flounces away, disappearing into the blinding sunlight. Blaine sighs and lets his head thump back against the car upholstery.
"Sorry about that. She's been kind of possessive recently, I don't really know why. It probably has something to do with Mike, apparently he might be dating a barista in Chicago."
"Oh my god, suck it up, little Miss Diva-Pants. I mean, I'm semi-dating a figure-model and I don't see you accosting people out of nowhere," Kurt says airily, knowing it's no coincidence that Blaine tenses up underneath him at the mention of "semi-dating." Part of him wants to milk it, prod at the subject and make Blaine squirm a little—but he settles for making him squirm a different way, lowering his head and kissing his ex-boyfriend until they're both moaning and their feet thump up against the poor, abused car door.
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Even his fifth baby cupcake can't take away the empty ache in Kurt's stomach as he watches a slew of couples cross the floor for another slow dance. It has nothing to do with being lonely—he and Blaine have already snuck off to the coatroom three times since the reception started, there's no lack of coupling going on here—but for some reason, he can't stop feeling awful about poor Mr. Schue being jilted. Maybe it's because he recognized the look on Schue's face when Sue Sylvester came floating down the aisle: uncentered, lost, suddenly spinning on an unrecognizable axis. He had felt that way in Washington Square Park on an early fall night, when the words "I was with someone" brought the logic of his heart grinding to a halt. Schue looked like he was going to fall apart up there, literally detach at the joints and crumble into a pile of loose and meaningless body parts. Kurt hates to think of him being so miserable. He wants to be back in New York, where Mr. Schue is a static and beloved memory, where there are no creepy Asian ex-boyfriend molesters, where he isn't currently on a sixth cupcake and reaching for a seventh.
A sudden urge to find Rachel, to feel closer to New York than to Lima right this second, makes him search the faces in the room, but she's nowhere to be found; neither, for that matter, is Finn. Quinn and Santana are shrieking with drunken laughter in the corner, pulling at each other in a way that's considerably more familiar than what Kurt thinks he remembers from high school. Sam and Brittany are slow-dancing, as are Artie and that blonde girl, Puck and the weird Quinn-clone cheerleader, Kitkat or something, and Mercedes and Mike, the only two people who genuinely seem to be having a great and unawkward time tonight. Tina is sulking in the corner, wrapped around a Shirley Temple, and Kurt would feel bad for her if he weren't still vaguely disgusted by the idea of her straddling Blaine in his sleep and getting up close and personal with greasy cough medication and his chest.
Maybe he should call Adam. That might make him feel better, to hear that adorable little English accent—but Kurt immediately vetoes the idea, because as much as he has convinced himself that he's fine with it, that he can date Adam and still have Blaine's hand down his pants without any guilty pangs, he still can't really stomach the idea of talking to Adam and fooling around with Blaine in the same day. Not when Blaine is right there, in his tux, with his derpy little smile and his warm laugh and his arms, the defined muscles that make Kurt's stomach flutter, the slim hips and the ticklish thighs, even his stupid flat feet that still somehow let him dance so well, the smug bastard—
"Look what I got," sing-songs behind him. Kurt turns to find Blaine, grinning goofily and back in the jacket he shucked to dance to "Every Little Thing She Does," dangling a pair of car keys in front of his face. "Found my keys! Turns out they weren't lost, they actually fell out of my pocket and into the janitor's spare pair of Wellington rain boots, so now you owe me apology for calling me a doofus, and I will collect it right now, in the parking lot, from your mouth," Blaine finishes triumphantly, jingling the keys and bouncing on the balls of his feet. Kurt's heart gives a massive pulse of something, a dangerous and warm and too-much something, so he bats the keys away and rolls his eyes.
"You're still a doofus, doofus. And those have been sitting in old-man sock-sweat for the last three hours, so please, not in the face." It's barely said before he feels like a jerk; he doesn't even need to see Blaine's face fall to start getting all guilty, and so he follows up with the best card he could possibly play.
"Besides," he says, turning to Blaine and crooking an eyebrow, "I see your car keys and raise you a hotel key card. Specifically, the key card for room 206."
Blaine's mouth drops, and when Kurt pulls the card out of his pocket, his eyes practically fall out of his head.
"You—Kurt, you got us a room?"
"I don't work ten hours a week at the NYADA bookstore café for nothing," Kurt smirks. Blaine swallows and blinks hard.
"I just—wow, I mean—really?"
"Do you not want to? Because if you don't, the car's fine, I mean, sure, whatever you want," Kurt says with a shrug, and he gets two steps closer to the door before Blaine grabs him and yanks him back, yanks him hard, and looks him in the eye with a burning energy.
"Let's. Go."
"To the parking lot?" Kurt asks innocently. Blaine growls and seizes Kurt by the shoulders, steering him straight towards the hotel lobby. Kurt giggles and lets himself be moved, lets Blaine's strong hands shove him through the door and into the elevator.
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He can hear someone walking down the hallways and this is it, no way are they getting another lecture from Tina or Rachel or anyone else who feels like being a cockblock tonight. Blaine trips a little as he comes inside, Kurt's grip on his tie upsetting his balance, but it doesn't matter because he clears the door and Kurt slams it shut so that he can slam Blaine too, right up against the peephole, his mouth seeking Blaine's and his hands pressing them both back into the door. Blaine moans and finds him, kisses him, curling one leg up over Kurt's hip and snaking his fingers into Kurt's waistband. Kurt reaches for the small of Blaine's back and gets tangled in his tux jacket; he rips it off, first Blaine's and then his own, and then they're tearing at each other's clothes with the intensity that they had pushed back earlier, a deep, desperate need that has no room for laughter or breathy comments.
Blaine gasps as Kurt pulls off his own undershirt and then grabs Blaine's head to tilt it back, exposing his bare neck. Kurt takes a split second to stare, now that he's up close and here, not imagining, not remembering, but here: Blaine naked from the waist up, pale and defined, chest heaving, eyes tightly shut and face flushed, absolutely and completely trusting Kurt to make him feel good. It shocks Kurt, the sudden rush of lust, the bolt of heat that strikes in his groin and chest, and he starts in on Blaine's neck, biting and sucking and generally retracing his steps from earlier with two hundred and six percent more energy.
"K-Kurt, Kurt, mmmm, yes—oh, oh my God," Blaine is babbling, his voice trembling, his body thumping against the door as he squirms under Kurt's touch. Kurt noses down into the curve of his neck and takes a deep breath, tastes the salt and cologne bitterness and aloe-copper-warm-sweater taste that is Blaine. His hips jerk forward of their own accord, and damn it, if he was hard before, then feeling Blaine there against him, just as hard, shaking just as violently, just as frantic and fraught with need, then that is it. Kurt has to either pass out or have sex, and the choice is about as clear as he expects.
He tugs them away from the door, stumbling towards the big white bed as they kiss and run their hands across each other's backs. Blaine moves one clumsy hand to Kurt's belt and yet again he manages to undo the buckle, and this time Kurt has no plan to stop him; they fall backwards and land with a soft thump, their hips slotting together and a harsh moan rising from both of them when the impact drags their crotches up against each other in a way that is absolutely too much, too good. Blaine climbs on top, knees on either side of Kurt's hips, yanking at his tuxedo pants. Kurt shimmies a little and manages to free himself, kicking them over into the corner, and he and Blaine are both working at Blaine's belt but Blaine is too stupid-horny now to do much good, so Kurt bats his hands away and get the belt loose himself, unzips the black pants and guides Blaine's legs out one after the other, gently, with tenderness and care.
Underwear gone, bodies bare in the golden light of the one pre-lit lamp. Kurt's head is spinning and his heart is pounding; he reaches down and strokes Blaine, closes his eyes and lets the old sense-memories wash over him, soaks up Blaine's choked exclamation and the way his thighs scissor tight in reaction to the movement of Kurt's hand.
"Can I—please—do we have—"
"Night table, in the drawer. I asked the concierge," Kurt gasps, and even in his light-headed state he doesn't miss Blaine's soft snort of laughter as he lunges sideways across the bed and gropes at the night table.
"You asked?" Blaine pants as he rolls back to Kurt, now holding a neatly accordion-folded string of condoms and a small bottle of water-based lubricant. "Kurt, this is Ohio, not Canal Street."
"Oh yeah, because when I told him to put safe-sex equipment in the nightstand, I definitely mentioned that it was for my ex-boyfriend and me to screw each other with." The "ex" barely makes it in there, and the slip shows; Kurt swallows hard and kisses Blaine before either of them can think too clearly. He pushes Blaine down and climbs on top of him, moving his hips in slow circles, letting one hand start at the throat bole and slide down, down, down, until he brushes over soft hair and takes hold, strokes, up and down with a loose grip and a relentless rhythm. Blaine is gasping, hands white-knuckled with handfuls of the topsheet, and he's jerking up into Kurt's hand—but Kurt has so much more in mind, and he drops his head and lets his mouth take the same journey, from clavicle to navel and then lower, and when he takes Blaine in his mouth all the circuits blow instantly, for the both of them. Blaine's head goes back and he thrashes, making strangled noises and burying a hand in Kurt's hair; Kurt puts an arm across Blaine's hips and holds him down, holds him steady, works carefully with his tongue and throat, occasionally humming a little or backing off almost to separation, until Blaine is beyond voice, beyond movement, just trembling and making fast, high-pitched whimpers as he inches closer and closer to—
"Fuck me."
Kurt doesn't mean to say it, doesn't plan to, but suddenly he's moved back and the words are out there, hanging as though in a cartoon bubble. Blaine gasps, twitches, arches up and for a moment seems about to go over the edge; but then he shudders and gives a long, slow exhale, sinking back down and untangling his fingers from the sheet one by one. He manages to look at Kurt, face soaked with sweat, eyes heavily lidded, and Kurt realizes just how close he is—his stomach is tight, every part of him is buzzing and sensitive, and just looking at Blaine makes his pelvis stutter in place. He is quite literally aching for contact, but the words were said, for the first time ever between him and Blaine, because in high school he would never ever have used that kind of language, out of a mixture of embarrassment and propriety, but now—now things are different. Everything is different.
"You…you want me to…"
"Yes. F—fuck—I mean—yes," Kurt stutters, doubting himself, doubting the rush of whatever that made him say it in the first place. Blaine stares at him, still breathing heavy, practically glowing in the dim light. Kurt wonders if he's crossed a line here, in the strange and twisting maze of ex-boyfriend sex.
"Okay. Just, um, just give me a sec to calm down a bit," Blaine says quietly, and raises himself up on his elbows, huffing a deep breath. Kurt nods and tries to quiet his own desire, ignoring the urge to rub himself up against Blaine's hot, wet skin. Long seconds go by, marked only by increasingly even breaths and the occasional sound of a car leaving or entering the parking lot outside the window.
"Kurt?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm ready now, if you still…I'm ready." His voice is soft, so soft, and Kurt suddenly wants to reach out and touch Blaine's face, brush the sweaty curls off his forehead. But that is not how this goes, and so Kurt follows the script he didn't even realize until now that he has written down so exactly: he crawls across the bed and straddles Blaine, thighs up against his hipbones and chests warm together, looking down into two wide, wanting, hazel eyes.
Blaine somehow manages to rip a condom off the string, open the packet, and roll the rubber down onto himself without breaking eye contact, but he does have to look down to open the lube. Kurt watches as he struggles with the cap and finally get it off, pouring clear, watery gel over his fingers and dripping a little onto Kurt's knee. But it doesn't matter, because just as Kurt starts to shiver from the cold dribble on his skin, Blaine reaches back with two fingers and suddenly there is nothing but Blaine, nothing at all, no Adam, no New York or Ohio, no life before or after this, just Blaine under and in front and inside of him, moving slow and sharply sweet, dragging across the absolute secrets of Kurt's body, and he only remembers to breathe again when black spots start to dance in front of his eyes.
"Oh…oh…please…" he hears himself murmur, and Blaine hums back, a comforting, low sound, and how they got from frenzied boning to this, this terribly lengthened and wonderful slowness, Kurt doesn't know and doesn't care, not when Blaine adds a third finger and his body is melting into a tingling flow of pleasure. More, more, and now Blaine is moving them both, rolling Kurt down onto his back, and his legs go up and Blaine is right there over him, red-rimmed eyes and half-open mouth, and just when Kurt thought he was slipping into some kind of sublime dream he feels Blaine pushing up against him, and he relaxes every muscles he still has control of and just lets go, lets Blaine inside and oh, oh my, hold me, feel me, stay close, yes, yes yes yes…
From a dreamlike, almost unwaking quality, now the sensation starts to become full and sharp again, but a blunt sharpness, like a dull knife pressing its blade against his nerves, and every time Blaine snaps his hips Kurt starts to rise towards the surface, starts to tense around Blaine and come back to the actual feel of him, his weight, his length, his warmth—and it is too good again, Kurt's heart is racing, he wants out or up or anywhere, but not this, not the insistent and panicky feeling of pleasure that is mounting and mounting and beyond him, out of his control, coming to a head, so good so good and Blaine is right there speaking to him and moving in him and loving him—
Kurt comes right then, the second he thinks the word love, and it's like he stumbled into an electric fence, a white wave of feeling that jolts through him and sends him arching, whining, grabbing the sheets behind his head and bucking up again and again as it washes over his body. Blaine is still moving, fast now, uneven, jerking back and forth, and just as Kurt begins to come down Blaine lets out a crackling moan and rams his hips forward, straining through his climax with a kind of astonished abandon. They rock together, one barely conscious, the other right at the point of obliteration, and Kurt can only grab Blaine and hold on tight.
They ride it down, chasing each other, unclenching and unknitting bit by bit until Blaine slides out and they're lying there, tangled up in each other's limbs, sweat-soaked and slippery, gasping for breath. Kurt absently trails a hand over Blaine's shoulder blade and raises goosebumps in the flushed skin.
A good two or three minutes pass, and Kurt is of two minds. On the one hand, a part of him is aching to cuddle with Blaine now, to fold himself around that small and compact body and just hold him close to his heart. On the other hand, part of him—including his brain—wants to make this exactly what the night has been up until now: fun and easy. No strings attached.
So he waits. And he decides.
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As Kurt closes the door behind him, he can hear the bed springs squeak, and he guesses that Blaine has jumped on the bed like the little kid he becomes when he's excited about something. Well, that's fine, let him have his happy times; Kurt knows that they aren't getting back together, that while this "friends with benefits" thing may work really (really really really) (really) well, there is no coupledom down the road for the two of them, for Kurt And Blaine. They had that, once, but Blaine destroyed it. And it's not Kurt's responsibility to build it back up.
He's a hot New York homosexual now, with a man in Middle America and a man on the Lower East Side, a tuxedo with a bow tie and a leather shoulder satchel, recoiffed hair and a plane ticket to JFK Airport. He got laid. Fantastic. Nothing more than that.
But even Kurt can't deny that as he walks towards the elevator, his underwear bunched in his jacket pocket and the skin above his right hip still tingling from the newly marked hickey, there is a spring in his step that was not there before. The last time he moved like this was when he was finding his way out of Dalton Academy, dreading the trip back to McKinley and lost in the thought of a boy with dark hair and a soft smile.