Wasted Sundays
by padfoot
...
For reilisation
who prompted 'Rainy sunday morning'
To Kurt, Sundays felt wasted without Blaine.
Without a text or an email or a smile to wake up to. Without a warm, soft smell on his pillow or a hand on the small of his back, blunt nails stroking rhythmically over skin. Fingertips sketching circles, swirls, diamonds, words - writing out nonsense and poetry and lyrics and magic, weaving spells and scrawling incantations that were nothing to anyone else, but meant everything, everything to them.
Sundays lost their meaning without whispered, "Good morning"s, and tangy tastes lingering on his tongue. Bad, bad, dirty, sticky tastes. Tastes of boy and of toothpaste or desert or midnight snacks if they'd risked it. The taste of sneaking downstairs in a towel or a bedsheet and dipping fingers in jars of nutella just because nothing else could quench that particular late-night hunger.
Hands slipping, teeth chattering, feet shuffling tiredly on the kitchen tiles, everything aching, aching, aching for more or for longer or maybe just for sleep. Stealing nutella-kisses and then nutella-touches and then Kurt would squirm and Blaine would whine and they'd giggle together and slump back upstairs, always saying, "Soon, I promise, soon," but always collapsing when they finally made it to the bed.
Lifting hands to settle around waists on in hair or against chests, caressing, coaxing, comforting one another to sleep. Holding each other through dreams and nightmares and all the demons and angels that came to visit when they weren't watching, weren't shooing them away.
And waking up on Sunday mornings to the sound of rain on the window and the fractured rays of sun like broken glass, shining yellow-white on the wall.
"It's going to be a slow day," Kurt would murmur, and Blaine would write S L O W on his back in messy calligraphy.
To Kurt, those mornings were bliss. They were what he tried to hold onto as he awoke to the sound of shouting in the hallway outside his dorm. The feel and smell and taste of Blaine hung around him like a spider's web, but he never dared to reach out or inhale or moisten his lips in case he tore the crystalline fibres and destroyed the illusion.
But then the sun would break through the crack in his curtains, cutting like a knife into his consciousness. Cutting through the S L O W that was being painlessly carved into his skin, the F O R E V E R that had settled deep in his heart. Waking him up to the reality of New York. The reality of a whole different type of dream.
And he'd roll over and check his clock and chuckle to himself. Because the Sunday morning had been wasted indeed. But what a pleasant way it was to let time trickle by, each second echoing the vow, "Soon, I promise, soon."