Warnings: evidence of recent consensual m/m sex, minor nudity and implied nudity, post-coital fluffiness, inexcusably mistreated fine linens (that's more Kurt's warning than mine), extreme verbosity
Author's Notes: Ok, so this thing wasn't supposed to happen. I don't write, I beta. I was happily beta-ing (it is so a word) away on "Hot Fun" and the ending needed some tweaking and what started out as "notes to self" turned into this. A million trillion gajillion (again, so a word) thank to Aeria for not even considering killing me (and in fact being amazingly supportive) for hijacking the end of her fic. I think very visually so this is pretty much a written-out version of what played out in my head as film shots and an epic still photograph. I could see this and initially only wrote it out as a reference for myself. Anyway, if you want a soundtrack to go along with this "scene" (because scenes with no dialogue need music playing over them) then go with Zero 7's "Simple Things" (the song, though the album itself is fantastic sexy times music).
Disclaimer: Don't own Glee or any part of it. If I did, I wouldn't have so much anticipatory angst about what they might decide to do in season 3.
Epilogue: Undocumented Masterpiece
Blaine's eyes drift closed, even as in the back of his mind he knows he can't actually fall asleep just yet—there are still candles burning. The heat and humidity seem to surround him, suffocating him, pressing in on him as the distraction of Kurt and ice and strawberries shift from the present into the past tense.
The only comfort his heat-addled brain can extract for the moment is the gentle pressure of his now peacefully sleeping boyfriend's fingers entwined with his. He takes a deep breath, trying to will himself to ignore the oppressive discomfort. His exhale sounds like a resigned sigh.
Eventually, Blaine realizes that no matter how much he wishes he could ignore it, he's not going to get even vaguely comfortable until he answers his body's protests for the relief that only a cool shower will provide. Slowly, he extricates his fingers from Kurt's and carefully rolls off the bed, making sure to disturb it as little as possible even as his mind is already in the bathroom, turning shower knobs in a fantasy of cool streams of water washing away hot and sweaty and sticky. As he makes his way silently around the corner of the bed he glances back momentarily and finds himself stopping in his tracks, his mind suddenly snapped back into the present moment.
Blaine turns and stares at the bed, surveying the elements before him in awe as they flicker gently in golden hues—that perfect light that can only be created by candles and fires and setting suns. The top sheet is twisted and bunched and cascading off the bed, held up only by one corner of fabric trapped beneath Kurt's chest. The bottom sheet is an utter mess of strawberry juice stains, bits of crushed berry and expanses of darkened cotton that are a combination of melted ice and sweat and Blaine has to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing as the thought well this redefines the concept of wet spot spontaneously invades his otherwise serene thoughts. Then the centerpiece of the scene snaps into focus and humorous thoughts vanish as his eyes take in the man asleep on the bed, his man and the man he belongs to, a sheen of sweat covering expanses of pale smooth skin interrupted by lines and swirls of reddish stain that would seem artistic to him even if they weren't using that achingly beautiful man as their canvas.
Blaine's focus pulls back to take in the entirety of the scene and he finds himself utterly struck by it. The idea of being a photographer has never previously occurred to him, but for a brief moment he yearns almost desperately to capture and preserve this tableau if only to be able to show it to Kurt later—because Kurt would be someone who could fully appreciate just how stunningly beautiful the totality of it is. This is the kind of image one of Kurt's fashion photographer friends would kill to have in her portfolio. He's never given much consideration to his knowledge of visual art either but this—the light, the shadows, the colors, the angle at which Kurt is splayed across his side of the bed on his stomach, the long unbroken line of his naked silhouette from the curve of a heel all the way up to the point at which neck meets a mess of utterly unkempt hair—even the most uneducated eye would see the inarguable artistry in this.
A bead of sweat rolls over the ridge of one of Blaine's eyebrows and as he instinctively swipes it away with the back of his hand before it can reach his eye, his awareness shifts—back to the stifling heat, back to the oppressive humidity, back to the sticky, sweaty discomfort of his own body in this space and time. He's has no idea how long he's been standing there, but he smiles as the sounds and smells of the world retake their places in his conscious mind, and begins to move silently around the room again, blowing out the candles one by one and forcing the undocumented masterpiece to fade into oblivion tiny snuffed flame by tiny snuffed flame.