Ryder's been having a tough three weeks. Let's just put it that way.
Ryder's only a little drunk, but Blaine's a lot drunk, and Ryder rolls his empty beer bottle between loosely curled fingers and a suddenly sweaty palm. Blaine backs that perfect ass up against him in perfect fucking time: up, down, up, down, up, down, updown updown updownupdownupdown. How Blaine fits himself into pants like that every day is a mystery. They're like second skin. Blaine's skin, which is hairy, yeah – Ryder has eyes, they've changed in the locker room together tons of times – but he works out, so Blaine is a compact package of grace and muscle and sinew which Ryder, all of a sudden, really, really, really wants to touch: flick the dampened curls away, let tiny glossy beads fly away and shimmer, faintly, in the party lights.
Blaine's got his back to him (such a perfect back), so Ryder can only imagine what his face looks like now. Maybe he's got his eyes closed tight. Maybe his face is sweaty, too. Sweat and salt. Ryder wonders vaguely how it might taste. Whether Blaine is into that or not, Ryder doesn't know, but all of a sudden, he thinks he might want to find out. Blaine's put his hands on the armrests of the chair to steady himself. His wrists are hairy. Ryder imagines the ropey muscles in his forearms, tight and flexed, and the cloth of Blaine's polo pressed hard and unwrinkled against his bicep, tighter still. Above him, Blaine arches his back and throws his head up to the ceiling with reckless, wanton abandon and this, all this, is the hottest thing Ryder's seen in a long, long time. Sweat drops scatter around. Ryder wonders whether Blaine's got a hard-on, too.
Ryder leans back in his chair and plants his feet wider apart. He's tenting his pants – hot, so hot – but he hopes everyone's too drunk to care or look. Blaine's also got staying power, and his ass inches, ever so slightly, closer, closer, closer. Ryder admits he wants to touch them, cup them in his hands, reach boldly underneath, stroke them with the pads of his fingers in swirling circles and then soft, tender, streaky lines, blurred lines.
This is all so surreal. Tina's basement is dark and clammy; loud music thumps, thump, thump, thump – or maybe that's just the blood throbbing in his ears, rushing everywhere into places he'd never thought in a million years they'd reach, for another guy, anyway. Everyone's dancing and waving around the glow sticks they'd saved from the bathroom parties. Tina's high happy laugh bounces around the walls. Kurt's here somewhere, and that's part of the adrenaline rush, not that he'd ever let Blaine cheat on his fiancé, no, not ever, and not with him, shit, shit shit, and there he is (how the fuck did Kurt get to the party from New York so fast?) which is bad, bad, horrible timing, because his hips desperately want to thrust. Up. Up. Oh yeah. Up.
Ryder fully expects Kurt to at least berate him and he doesn't want to be the reason why Tina stops having parties, but instead of an argument, Kurt just stands there. Stands there, with his head tilted off to the side, and a quizzical quirky grin spreading out over his face. He puts his hands on his hips (Kurt has nice hands, too, Ryder thinks) and -
Someone turns off the music. And all of a sudden, everyone's watching.
"Oh shit, Kurt, I'm so sorry – " Ryder babbles, and he deflates a little, well, uh, just a little – and then –
Kurt's tongue darts out of his mouth. Just like a wet, pink, slick snake, light, every sneaky movement calculated to have an aching, blood-boiling effect. Slowly, and that golden stud rolls out between his lips. There's a very knowing, very willing, very seductive gleam in his eyes, and a faint sheen of sweat lingers on his brow, too.
Ryder can also hear the breath escaping out of Blaine's lungs in a rush. "We have to go. Go. Now." And Blaine scrambles off of Ryder's lap in about two milliseconds as he grabs, flailing, at Kurt's hand.
Ryder feels so silly. "Down the hall, first door on your left!" Tina yells, and she and Kitty fall into cascades of drunken giggles. Kitty's put her hand through Tina's arm. The music comes back on, and shit, he's so embarrassed now, but also, well, confused. Home's the best place. He makes to get up (at least his erection's subsided) but Kitty puts her other hand on his. There's some hard, insistent thumping and moaning coming from the vicinity of the bathroom, and all three of them make a valiant attempt to pretend that they don't know what's going on there – and fail. They all laugh. And it's nice.
"You're on their list." Kitty makes an effort to enunciate through her smile, which is obviously meant to be kind and nice and only ends up being slightly sloppy. "Their list to, you know. To be in a threesome with. Which Tina is stillsuper cut up about."
Tina giggles, "I'd be a good threesome thingy-person." She takes another big gulp of amaretto and Coke and then falls, laughing, into Ryder's lap. Some of it spills into his lap and then Tina tries to lean in, swerving, to actually kiss him, but she gets the corner of his mouth, and then Ryder tastes it on her. It's sweet. And salty. And good. "Blaine was on mine and Mike's list."
"Uh, should I thank them that I'm on theirs?" and Ryder sits up and curls Tina up there, in the crook between shoulder and arm. She starts rubbing Ryder's arm, and yeah, it does feel good, or it would feel better if Tina was sober and wasn't hiccupping half-hysterically into his shoulder. But still. Tina almost makes him forget the memory of Blaine's ass, behind his eyeballs, weaving and bobbing, up and down, hypnotically, the memory of wanting to peel his pants off, touch Blaine there, and maybe, just maybe, see Blaine's shiver ripple through that well-knit frame as he does. Tina smells like almonds, and vaporous alcohol, and heat drifts up and through her long, brown-streaked hair, radiating out of her body in dense waves and hitting his like an oncoming train, and the memory of Blaine almost, sort of, fades out. But Kitty yells, "Shove over!" and somehow there's now two girls, squirming around in his lap. Ryder cuts an eye over to Artie, just a few feet away, who just gives him a thumbs up before tossing back another gulp – "You're on our list too!"
"What, you and Artie's list? Thanks?" Ryder bites down on his bottom lip. Hard. There. It goes.
"That one too!" and Tina and Kitty look at each other, significantly, and laugh again, and Ryder's mind is again, blown. "It's okay to just be yourself! Didn't you say that before? And it's okay to like him," Kitty whispers, closely, in his ear. Her breath feels hot on his earlobe, and Ryder imagines the flick of her tongue on its edge. "It's okay. Just like we like you." And that's just as good - or maybe not quite as good - as the memory of Blaine, wriggling close, so close, to him, just within tempting, tantalizing reach.
—
Ryder's had a tough three weeks, but, on the morning after the party, in his own bed (where, after all, he hadn't landed together with Artie, Kitty and Tina or with Blaine and Kurt), he stares up at the ceiling, blearily, with the seed of a half-formed plan in his head.
He drags himself out from between the tangled sheets, wipes off his hands, and turns on his computer to search on Tumblr. If he is this way, Ryder thinks, he's definitely going to find out more about it.