Notes: Hello! Have another one shot, aha. I tried writing in a different style than my usual, so reviews are greatly appreciated.
Based off the song Lover I Don't Have to Love by Bright Eyes.
Bad actors with bad habits, some sad singers they just play tragic...
Let's just keep touching, let's just keep keep singing.
I hope you enjoy it. (:
Moving to Las Vegas is the best decision Kurt Hummel has ever made.
The beauty of New York calls back on him every day, but it doesn't matter where you are, just who you're with. And Kurt Hummel doesn't want to be with anybody—at least, for no longer than a night. The bars back home were great except for one crucial fact, that it was the same people every other night, the same faces, the same lines. The same memories.
But in Vegas? Either you hardly saw the same face twice, or were too drunk to remember.
Kurt's face, however, is a little more memorable among those in one certain nook of the city, but he is not famous. He never expected to have a weekly gig in a Vegas bar but here he is every Wednesday night, arousing men and women alike with his flawless voice and hair, in his skin-tight jeans and slightly unbuttoned shirt. A break from the usual drag. Kurt Hummel doesn't need love—he has adoration.
As for loneliness, well, weekends are nearly unrelenting in stealing it from his hands.
It's Friday again. Kurt makes his way to his favourite club, feeling not excitement but relief, as though he's already been given his dose of love sans love. There will be a warm body beside him soon—he can relax and breathe.
He feels even better once inside the building; submerged in blue light, air conditioning, and perfume. It is like being in the ocean—so many fish. And he's a good swimmer, manoeuvring through the glistening dancers until he reaches the bar.
The female bartender is a friend, too pretty to be a bartender but too humble for the showgirl scene. She tells him something amazing is going to happen tonight, she can feel it, she says. He replies with sarcasm and laughs because it's impossible not to be content, where everyone is alive and his thoughts can't be heard by his own heart, drowned by energy and music. What he loves most is that no matter who you are or where you're from, in Las Vegas, you were a million dollars.
Of course, he applies this to everyone excluding himself. Any worth Kurt had previously felt had been ejected out of him like cassette tapes, and they no longer fit into a system that only accepts thin, compact discs of value. Flat satisfaction is easier to carry nowadays.
But Kurt doesn't think the kind of sex he gives is entirely meaningless. When he's in bed, he's giving love's shadow a face, creating something short and sweet with his bare hands. The dead weight of having nobody lifts itself from his shoulders.
It's not love. It's not lust. It's therapy, it's medicine. It's what it is.
A tall blond catches his eye, but Kurt breaks the contact when he sits with company. Rule #3: No men with friends.
Across the room, an incredibly fit brunette looks promising. Until Kurt gets the mental image of him probably being a footballer in high school. Rule #7: No men who remind you of other men you know. Especially when reminded of Finn.
He leans back onto the bar, glancing down the seats. A group of people move away, and then he sees. It feels like his eyes have just been opened but he wonders if they're closed and he's dreaming. Kurt doesn't remember purchasing any plane tickets to Florence, but there's David, sculpted three seats away from him, face carved into the exact stoic expression. The music continues to drum upon him, the dancers insist to sweat, the merry chatter bubbles. He's dreaming, he's sinking in a glass of champagne, going under in fuzzy sunlight, let him be dragged out to sea.
And then he remembers they're both only fish.
Kurt slides off the barstool, leaving his thoughts there, the blue waves of light lugging him easily.
"Hi," he breathes.
The dark, curly head turns toward him, and Kurt watches golden, marble eyes melt into liquid—looking first stunned and then satisfied. His lips come to life next, red and pulled upwards at one corner. Through them glides a surprisingly confident, warm voice.
"Hi," he says, but the words might as well have been "Well hello,"
Kurt glances down. "I like your shoes," he says. They are brown and withered looking and do not match his sharp outfit. He thanks him.
Briefly they stare, intentions oozing from their eyes like bloody wounds, god, it is so obvious.
The golden pair looks the club over then narrows, pensive. Planning. Asks if they can go somewhere quiet.
Walking down the street, the people are all mosquitoes, drawn to the lights and blood. Kurt breathes in deeply through his nose, suppressing the excitement stirring within him. When was the last time he'd been thoroughly excited about a boy? They walk shoulder to shoulder but they're not touching. The lights blink rapidly. The mosquitoes are all sucking. The heat flares.
His skin is on fire and they're not touching.
Kurt has an apartment just outside the city, but it's not practical. Every weekend he simply checks in to a different hotel, different room, it helps wash away the memories, dilute reality. Kurt's about to hand the woman his credit card when the man presses his arm down, I've got this, he says.
Kurt just stares at him, trying to stop himself from wondering about the man's thoughts. This man who's violating more than one rule, but he can't get himself to walk away.
Blaine is falling into those blue eyes. Vegas would be incredibly dark without them.
And he used to be so good at this.
They're in the room, wine is ordered, the pale man drinks 'til he is rosy and confident. Awkwardly he is reminded of retching on does. He never drinks this much. The lights are off and they sit in the chairs by the large window, mouths opening and closing. Their lack of words rise to the ceiling and hang above them like balloons.
"What's your name?" Kurt drawls, watching where the outside lights hit the man's face, who is truly gorgeous. He feels he will fall apart just looking at him.
Blaine exhales, it's half a laugh. "I'd rather not get into that," Unintentionally his gaze drops to Kurt's waistband, and suddenly he's up taking the glass from his hand, setting it on the table, pulling Kurt upright.
Hands on his waist, Blaine presses into him as Kurt takes hold of his statuesque arms. For a moment, the world stops turning: Blaine's eyes sweep over the angelic face, lashes fanning away Kurt's breath. They slowly lean into each other, softly locking lips.
The kiss deepens, fingers find themselves ringed in curls, their jeans press harder together. Blaine's hands rub up and down Kurt's body, begin to slide buttons out of their holes. Kurt's half naked, being steered towards the bed, their lips not letting go. He has wondered what it would feel like to be hit by a transport truck. It would feel like this.
Once Kurt's sitting on the edge of the bed, Blaine tears away. It's like pulling a knife from Kurt's body and he's afraid he'll bleed to death. Blaine effortlessly removes his tee shirt and kneels before the porcelain boy. If Blaine is a sculpture, Kurt is a china doll—neither living, never really touched, only adored.
If they fall, Kurt will shatter, but Blaine will fall harder.
Blaine shoves Kurt's pants down over his hips, shoves away the risky thoughts. His nose grazes up Kurt's length, then his lips brush down. He gently brings him into his mouth, looking up through his lashes to see the other's face.
The blue eyes are closed, and it's probably for the better. Kurt's back is arched, toes curled, fingers knotted in the blanket. He feels Blaine's warm palms on his inner thighs and it takes all his control not to push his hips forward. He only carries on for a minute, growing harder and more impatient, yet it feels so good to have his lips enclosed around someone as painfully perfect as Kurt. To influence him, to have him. If only for a night.
Eventually Blaine stands, grabs Kurt from under his arms and practically throws him up higher on the bed. They're already panting as Blaine crawls over Kurt, whose knees draw up. He twists his fingers back into the black coffee curls, forces him down to his neck and buries his nose in his hair, he wants to drink it all in. Blaine's lips pluck at the tendons in Kurt's neck like guitar strings, making the boy sing without words, without rests. Just as he's nearly wincing at the roughness of Blaine's jeans against his bare skin, they're suddenly gone, and it's a different kind of burn.
It's all nothing he's never felt before, but as Blaine runs his hand up Kurt's forearm, bringing it above their heads and connecting their fingertips together, it's like completing a circuit. Electricity charges through their veins and their bodies hum like engines…cars…you matter, Kurt.
The fire between them burns the thought up like oil and they drive faster. Kurt's not used to being in the passenger seat, always topping, but he knows he wouldn't be able to take the wheel safely tonight. He's not sure he wants this stranger to be careful—he hopes they collide, crash, go up in flames. As Blaine enters Kurt, he bites his shoulder, breaks Rule #4.
No, no, no; no sears, no scars, no souvenirs. Nothing lasts so pretend it doesn't happen.
But Kurt doesn't stop him from biting again. He loves the way it hurts. Blaine kisses where he bit as though apologizing, and as their bodies gently rock together like a floating dock on the waves, he reaches down and takes Kurt in his hand, stroking it just as calmly, but firmly.
He groans, unhh, he says. Keep touching; keep singing, they silently plead to one another.
Blaine smiles against his lips before poking his tongue inside. He can feel his heart slipping into the body beneath him.
Strongly, they love. Their breath becomes more laboured, they hold each other tight, their hips plunge and propel like they're trying to fuse the meagre dust of their bodies into a star, big and blazing. They come and it's like a supernova, they are bursting, they are but remnants once again.
Lying still, their passion gradually flickers out, their skin dims beneath sweat. But Blaine is still lying on Kurt as their bodies cool together, breathe together, he's still pressing his lips along his jaw line. They hit Kurt like first raindrops, it's a sign a storm is coming but he can't get himself to move.
What would happen if the sky fell on them? Would that make them birds, would they fly?
Kurt reaches under the man's chin, lifts his head up so their eyes are level. For the first time, the gold eyes appear faint, yet they shine in the distant city lights.
Rule #1: Don't treat anyone like they matter, because you don't either.
But it's in his eyes, he knows, he knows the loneliness that consumes this man, the fear that freezes him. He knew he knew it all along, and that the next morning he would not be able to look at the marks on his shoulder without ever again feeling the mouth that put them there.
Maybe Blaine knew that all along, too. They glow like moons in the darkness, suspended as the world far below them continues to turn. He lowers his curly head into the crook of the other's neck.
Kurt stares at the ceiling. Love's an excuse to get hurt, he whispers.
Blaine stares at the bedside table. Do you like to hurt?
"I think you matter," Kurt concedes. He doesn't just mean to him, but as his own person. A heron among the fish.
Blaine has wondered what it would feel like to be hit by a transport truck. It would feel like this. "Why do you say that?" Voice gravelly, windless, his brows furrow. When did he grow so heavy, when did he get so sore?
"Because I'll remember you,"
Blaine blinks, and slowly but surely manages to lift his weight off the boy so he hovers above him. Drips his honey eyes into the blue pools.
"My name is Blaine," he breathes.
A delicate, hopeful expression paints him. "Kurt,"