Disclaimer - I don't own it.

Kurt liked Blaine.

He really did.

Blaine was sticky sweet. He complimented, he held open doors, he always called. He asked about Kurt's day, offered advice, and chose not to carry on about himself. He called Kurt beautiful, held his hand, and cooked dinner every Friday night.

When they kissed, it was soft, smooth, and entirely too short. Romantic and tender, but not nearly enough to suffice the burning fire, the longing, the pure need emanated from every pore on Kurt's lean body. Passion, apparently, was overrated at Dalton.

So when Sam's fingers, warm, bit into Kurt's forearm as he was dragged toward the auditorium, lacking delicacy, he couldn't help but feel a little...thrilled.

Sam's eyes, the way they held anything (a little irritation, a little anger, a little amusement) but softness, intrigued him.

The way he smelled like Axe, like man, instead of designer products, made the hairs on his arms stand up.

The way he moved bluntly, brusquely, lacking grace, sent a little shiver down his spine.

Kurt Hummel could definitely get used to Sam Evans.

His eyes found Sam's full lips, his large mouth, and realized it was moving.

"...And it's just ridiculous that you're - Kurt, are you even listening to me?"

"No." It slipped out before he could stop himself; Sam scoffed. "I mean, of course. Yes, I agree, completely ridiculous."

Sam pulled open the auditorium door, one eyebrow raised into his platinum bangs, and gave Kurt a nudge toward a seat in the back row. "So, you're breaking up with him, then?"

"Ha. For a very terrible second, I thought you were being serious."

Sam dropped onto the velvet seat beside him. "Kurt, I said, it's completely ridiculous for you to be with him if you don't even like the guy. In fact, it's mean and morally wrong."

"I feel like we've had this conversation before." Kurt couldn't help but start to feel annoyed at Sam's adamant argument. Who was he - the perfect blonde, straight guy with the beautiful, perfect blonde girlfriend - to judge Kurt's admittedly questionable methods? "You have no idea how it feels to be alone, do you?"

Sam's green eyes locked onto his for a millisecond, the bright color darkening slightly (with what, Kurt couldn't tell), and then looked toward the stage. "All I'm saying is, you shouldn't be leading the guy on! It's not very admirable, Kurt. You could find someone else, someone who you like more -"

At this suggestion, Kurt snorted in a very unattractive and unKurt-like way. "You seem to lack any type of brains. Who, in this entire state, would want to date me, the Resident Fairy, other than sweet, caring Blaine?"

Sam gaped at him for a second, physically unable to come up with a coherent answer other than, "Kurt, you're being stupid!"

"No, Sam, you're being stupid." He jumped to his feet, his Gucci scarf flapping hard against his thin chest. Sam's eyes widened, obviously unhappy with his reaction. "I understand that there's probably some man code that you have to follow in these situations, but before you run off and tell Blaine everything, I - I have to go."

But then Sam had caught him by the front of his Prada cardigan, both fists clutching the one hundred percent cashmere, and Kurt was being pulled forward. They were so close that their noses bumped and Kurt could count every single eyelash that framed Sam's intense emerald eyes. He didn't though; he had lost himself somewhere in the deep green irises.

"Kurt." It sounded sexy, that one syllable word, rolled carefully off Sam's tongue. Kurt felt goosebumps erupt on his skin. "If I see him holding you again, I think I'm going to have to punch something."

Kurt felt his heart jump into his throat. He could feel Sam's breath ghosting over his face, the heat from his fingers burning through Kurt's cardigan.

"And God help me, if he even tries to kiss you..." Sam's voice shuddered a little, and his eyes flickered down, sweeping over Kurt's parted lips. "Do you have any idea how it makes me feel when I see you together?"

As Rachel and Finn flashed into his mind, Kurt thought maybe he did. He reached up, placing his hands on Sam's, which were still clutching cashmere. Swallowing slowly, he began to pry the fingers away from his shirt.

"You're going to wrinkle it."

He guessed that maybe the little sentence had been the straw that broke the camel's back; Sam plunged forward just then, capturing his lips, and capturing the last bit of self control Kurt had been saving for his storm-out.

The soprano's toes curled in his fancy boots; he was being kissed like he'd never been kissed before.

It was rough, deprived, and intoxicating. Like they would never see each other again, like it was their first and last kiss.

Sam's hands were everywhere. Tracing his jaw, pushing through his perfect hair, digging into the small of his back, slipping down into the back pockets of his designer jeans. Every nerve felt like it was exploding; Kurt gasped into Sam's mouth when he bit down (nowhere near gently) on the surprised soprano's pouty bottom lip.

So different from kissing Blaine. So different from sweet, from gentlemanly, from soft.

So different, and Kurt never wanted it to stop.

Which is what, seconds later, happened.

"Shit." Sam fell back a few steps, covering his swelling lips with one hand and steadying himself with the other. Kurt's chest was heaving. "Shit, Kurt, why do you have to be so beautiful all the time?"

"Hello?"

The auditorium door opened, squeaking on its old hinges. A head of curly hair and a set of hazel eyes peered around the wooden frame.

"Kurt?"

heh. :)

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