Note: First ever Fanfic, would love some feedback. This is just a bit of a character study I started because the other thing I am working is not cooperating at all! If you guys like, there will be more to come!
1)
He's not quite sure how he got to where his is now, half sitting against the edge of a table covered in paste brilliants and sequins; one hand wound into the wool of Kurt's sweater, just this side of not being able to breathe. And while one half of his brain is stunned, white hot with joy and desire and just ridiculous happiness, the other just cannot seem to shut up.
Through the whispered sounds of Kurt's breath and their lips and the benediction of kisses, some slow, some sweet, some winding into some sort of desperation they've only just discovered for each other, is a constant litany of worry and doubt. About what he's doing, if he's a good kisser, if Kurt is ok, where to put his left hand that's just been left to awkwardly clutch the edge of the desk. He's not comfortable, but not willing to move for fear of breaking apart whatever ridiculous good fortune has left him here, eager and so so full. He's telling himself to shut up, shut up already and just enjoy this, to concentrate and focus, and oh my god that feels so amazing, who knew his neck would be so sensitive, and holy crap this is Kurt, who is whispering, ghosting praise and disbelief against his skin and its so good, so sensitive and he just needs to breath and not worry because Kurt seems fine, everything is fine and thank you so much Pavarotti for dying because ohmygod ohmygod, oh. my. god.
2)
It's not so much that he knows he must be careful, tread with precision, when it comes to Kurt. It's just that he is so damn confused. Kurt's always been a sort of mystery to Blaine, sometimes completely transparent, painfully honest, utterly sincere. But then there are the moments, the fractured seconds when Kurt feels threatened or unsure or unstable. Faster than a breath he can see when Kurt's defenses come up, the moments where he folds back into himself, a façade like delicate origami- just a pale imitation of the real thing. And he never knows when he's going to trip the alarm wire, trigger a retreat that leaves him with bitter Kurt, defensive Kurt, delicately wounded but oh so cold Kurt. Any of the dozens of constructs that Kurt uses.
At first, Blaine thinks this is just protection. Kurt has been hurt, he had been misunderstood and so wounded. Soon enough though, it became clear that this fortress protected Kurt from more than insults and shoves and malignment. Blain has learned though, over these months of friendship and confusion and blurred boundaries and inadvertent pain, that any number of things can be seen as a threat to Kurt, up to and including hearing things he doesn't want to hear or won't like. His walls serve to protect, yes, but also to intimidate, shut down, or shut out those who tread too close, too hard.
Blaine knows that they have a good thing, something special and maybe even once in a lifetime here. Something kinetic and singular. It has kept him awake night after night, wondering and weighing and trying to understand what the next step would be, should be. After Jeremiah and the gap and the whole sordid mess (and quite a bit of embarrassment and shame), he can't quite bring himself to even approach love or lust or affection without really considering the ramifications. It had hurt, Jeremiah's casual and pitying dismissal. Blaine realized he knew nothing about love, and perhaps not even very much about himself. If anything, Valentines Day and Kurt's confession only left him more confused, floundering.
So he'd thought. And considered, examining himself and Kurt and their friendship from every angle he could find. And in the process of trying not to cause more damage, to at least keep what he had with Kurt safe and whole, he'd damaged it even more. Somehow, he'd managed to give Kurt the wrong impression about his feelings without ever really even knowing what they were, and the realization that he could be so blind and lost and stupid had rocked him.
He questioned everything. His abilities to be a good friend, his idea of romance, the way he dressed, his ability to love, his sexuality; everything. And in some small way, Kurt had known. Kurt's ferocity, his staunch loyalty to the person he'd seen in Blaine had hurt yes, only because he was so lost and had so needed something, someone to tell him that it was ok, not to know, to be lost and searching and swimming desperately toward something, someone he was going to be. But in the end, after harsh words and callous behavior and certifiable stupidity, he'd realized that Kurt had been that something and someone, a staunch and unmovable force. He'd known Blaine, even when Blaine didn't.
But it wasn't until that bird died, until poor sweet Pavi had died, that he'd been sure. Not just that he wanted Kurt, but that he was willing to risk it, willing to try to move in a new direction with Kurt, to close his eyes on a dumb, blind leap of faith, and hope that somehow, they'd land together, safe and whole and perfect and united.
But that doesn't mean he has any idea what the hell he is doing. And Kurt, well he isn't helping. He is slippery and coy, guarded and careful and so so delicious that it's a wonder Blaine can even think at all when he's with him. And Blaine is so tremendously besotted, stunned by Kurt's beauty, the way his skin is redolent of something almost like comfort and belonging. He's trapped himself on a delicate precipice, by turns impulsive and emotional, drugged by Kurt's touch and skin and the fact that, yeah he can do this now. But he's also careful, and watchful. Because at the turn of a dime, Kurt will retreat, pull away and in and become so aloof and separate, leaving Blaine confused and needy and almost helpless with confusion. So yes, he knows he must be wary, but he has no real idea why.
3)
He tries to read signs. He listens, to Kurt's breaths and exclamations and the little moans that punctuate their movements and mouths. He documents Kurt's hands and arms and limbs, the way they sway into and against him, gentle and sweet and needy.
But it's like the rules are always changing. Friday in the back of the car after the movie and he has Kurt in his lap, pliable and nervous, his hands rumpling into the back of Kurt's jacket and its like they are barely touching, just vibrating in the same space, and when his hand finds it's way against the skin of Kurt's back, he's arching, whisper breaking against Blain's lips that yes, yes and yes this is nice, and Blains fingers are mapping the rivets and cells and mercy of Kurt's skin.
Sunday is all innocence, books and pens and in Kurt's case, a calculator, strewn about the floor of Kurt's dorm room. They are side by side on their stomachs, Blaine conjugating French verbs out loud as he supervises Kurt's attempts at solving his math problems. Not even intentional, his foot brushes against Kurt's, and then it is intentional, a deliberate pass, unspoken. I'm here. You're beautiful. Before he can guess what's happened, Kurt is sitting up, rolling up and away and into himself, eyes shifting and nervous and making up some excuse and, excuse me I forgot I have to call my dad. Blaine finds himself alone in his room, the sound of his roommate playing Call of Duty too jarring, contemplating his circumstances. If only he knew just what those were.
They play this game for weeks, Kurt by turns malleable and willing and so so into it, and then at times just not. The slightest touch, a look too long or lingering or hungry perhaps; anything can set him off, and Blaine can almost hear the alarm, the silent signal to batten down the hatches and protect. He knows well enough by now to understand how this sort of protection works, enough to know that without care and consideration and just the right combination of words and intentions, he'll never manage to breach any thing long enough to even have a conversation about what the hell is going on.