Someday: Our Loves of Summer

by HADALABO

"Our love stayed alive only in summer, and summer love is seasonal." They were two kids on the golden coast of California, unlikely friends turned "Best Bruhs" when they were unfairly separated. Yet with a ring given, a promise made with it and they'd find each other again. Even if it took them years. Even if it took them halfway across the globe, Summer Love never felt so good.

13. Blaine

THE MAN
2017

XIII

~ Blaine ~

It was six in the afternoon that with a brief journey through Mestre before the crossing of the Venetian Lagoon, the Orient Express finally arrived at Santa Lucia train station in Venice. Passengers were allowed time to disembark, some choosing to partake in another drink in the bar car, cigars puffing in the mustached mouths of potbellied gentlemen, others caught in old world romanticism, imagining a lone woman awaiting her male lover as he'd catch sight of her through the window to escort her off the railway car, a kiss to the hand. Whilst others were to say goodbye to their stewards, a scene of smiles and mature laughter as out on the platform they descended, the stretch swathed in steam, billowing hot and moist in the sun dusted air.

Kurt and Noah were themselves still in the bar car, having spoken for a near two hours yet how chaste the time had been to them, this wine-sweet conversation. They'd caught up on each other's lives. They'd looked at each other unblinkingly throughout, body language attuned to a set of stealthy movements that were almost flirtatious, sometimes speaking fast, lagging behind their own breathes and catching up with it from states of excitement bordering on insanity for Jesus was their an electrical pulse between them that beat like a drum. The joy it brewed within, and with shins that had touched, the light graze of knuckles. A magic friction so familiar and effortless it was as if they were by themselves fantastically and divinely alone.

For Kurt and he could not hear enough of Noah's West Coast life. The surfing tours, the gigs at Hotel Café, the clubbing in West Hollywood. The story of his property climb from cramped shabby quarters in La Mesa with narrow cots for beds, the mattresses an inch thick, to his current little haven that smelled allegedly of surf wax, ambergris and coconuts. His record player that sounded Bruce Springsteen, Chet Baker, Jeff Buckley and Nirvana as he'd attempt to learn intricate guitar solos online. His dinners, when not at Subway and El Pollo Loco, just heated canned soup with jellied bread, bananas, oranges and water. No soda. No beer. Alongside a regular "beast mode" exercise routine like the shredded endorphin addict he was. All fascinating.

Yet their time was to end. Upon Santana's arrival, approaching their table with a dominant swish of her hips and Kurt was to retract himself, feeling the hairs on the back of Noah's muscular hand bristle with loss. He smiled at the Latina, glancing then at Noah who could not have been looking at him with any more amorous affection, only then to spontaneously inquire where the man was staying. Noah shrugged, scratching his head boyishly. He had not planned that far ahead, afraid to admit Kurt had been the source of his single minded obsession since boarding the Orient. It had been a mission of pursuit, a now halted chase upon this reunion that promised to soon resume as into Venice Kurt would disappear with nowhere for Noah to turn or go.

Kurt watched as a semblance of panic now struck across the man's face, hazel eyes puppy wide and alert, imploring him, please don't go. Kurt, please. The reservations office had booked him and Santana's accommodation at the Belmond Hotel Cipriani, one of Belmond Ltd's Orient-Express Hotels situated not far on the tip of the Giudecca Island. They were to leave soon to catch a water taxi there, a passenger count of two, yet smiling with a hand already around Noah's wrist, Kurt insisted, "Don't worry, you'll come with us. We'll do Venice altogether. It'll be fun." And Noah beamed, the sweet relief from that momentary soul numbing fright washing over him as he jolted Kurt's hand from his arm and into his, holding it there warmly cradled and snug.

Santana smirked. The blushing look of surprise on Kurt's face was absolutely precious, a look that reminded her of the one her little nephew would pull when he couldn't figure out how she'd got his nose, and damn it was it cute, now observing the little clockwork cogs whirring in Kurt's head thinking had Noah misinterpreted his invitation? Was such familiarity appropriate for those newly reacquainted, for one, unbeknownst to the other, already in a relationship? Blaine had not been mentioned and yet Kurt had not retrieved his hand from Noah's. She promptly shuffled them both out of the car before he could, out onto the bustling excitement of the platform, out into the throng of stewards and passengers, out into the sight of Kurt's very man.

I couldn't believe it. Standing by the station doors at his hobbit height of 5'8"on which he'd rise on tiptoes to elevate that searching slicked Lego helmet head of his, there stood Gay Clark Kent, Blaine Anderson. I mean of all fucking preposterous coincidences, there he stood, and it was too late to avoid him. He spotted us immediately, and no more than four fifths of a second after that had Kurt noticed him, exclaiming his name in 'what the fuck' shock and wrenching his hand out from Noah's. Of course Blaine came jogging over like a trotting Akhal-Teke. He lifted Kurt up and spun him around, kissing him right on the mouth and right in front of us. It was then I looked at Surfer Boi and man, did it look like he'd been sucker punched in the heart.

"Blaine, what are you doing here?" Kurt asked as the man's hands wound round his slim waist.

"You'll never believe it, but the Schoenfeld's ceiling collapsed."

"What?"

"Forty minutes into the Sunday matinee and it collapsed, so the show's as of now on hold until we find another theatre."

Kurt gasped. "Oh my goodness! How did that all happen?"

"It rained a lot Saturday night and the plasterwork just fell through."

"Was anyone injured? Are you alright? Why didn't you call me?"

"I was backstage when it happened so I wasn't hurt," Blaine replied, touched at Kurt's frantic concern. "Ninety members of the audience were though. Ambulance sirens everywhere, eight of them you could hear echoing for blocks, but I didn't want you knowing because I know how you worry. Besides, it gives me time off and I thought I'd come surprise you, take you up on this trip I know Santana has replaced me on, hey San."

The Latina perked a well plucked brow. "Right back at ya, other Gay. "

"But I paid for another room at the hotel just for us and I flew right over," Blaine continued. "It's been tight, but I wanted to see you when you'd step onto the platform like Audrey Hepburn in Funny Face, only you'd be grander because off you'd step out from the Orient Express, I mean, look at it this train, look at the railcars, they're beautiful."

Kurt nodded. "They are."

"Did you have a good time?"

"I did."

Blaine pulled him even further in, mouth grinning. "You'll have to tell me all about it."

"I will."

"I'm sorry, I don't believe we've met," said Blaine, looking at Noah. Kurt was quick to detach himself from the man and let forth a nervous breath.

"Oh right, yes, Blaine this is my childhood friend, Noah Puckerman. Noah, this is my boyfriend, Blaine." The men shook hands.

"How do you do?" Blaine smiled as Noah jerked his head casually.

"Sup. Sorry about your theatre ceiling tryin to kill your play or whatever. That's gotta suck."

"Thank you," Blaine replied, smiling appreciatively. "It was quite a night."

"Blaine's a stage actor," Kurt began. "He's playing the role of Zach in A Chorus Line on Broadway and the Schoenfield is just one of the many theatres in the Manhattan midtown area."

Noah glanced over at Blaine and nodded, "Cool," only to look back at Kurt expectedly. The fair boy shifted, looking to Blaine.

"And it's only by complete coincidence that I've had the pleasure of reuniting with Noah here on this journey. We haven't seen each other in years so it was good to catch up… wasn't it, Noah."

"Totally, though you sure know how to leave the best for last," Noah quipped, ignoring the look of reproach Kurt eyed him with.

"As he has no accommodation in Venice," Kurt continued. "We were going to bring him along with us to the Cipriani, arrange something for him there."

Blaine nodded. "Well there is now a spare bed in the first room." He now turned to Noah. "It has twin beds so as long as you and Santana don't mind sharing, it could work. Would both of you be alright with that?"

"Sure dude, thanks," Noah nodded, slapping a firm hand on the man's shoulder before walking through to the doors and accepting his suitcase from the steward. Blaine wobbled, steadying himself from the forceful pat as he chuckled uneasily.

"You're welcome. Do we know how to get to the hotel?"

"I rang for a water taxi already," said Santana. "It should be here soon to pick us up outside the station."

Blaine nodded. "Right…oh Kurt, sweetie, let me."

"Thank you," Kurt muttered, accepting Blaine's help as he handed over his suitcase, just given to him by the steward. He cast his eyes into the station, watching dolefully as Noah made his way through.

"So, where exactly did you and Noah meet?" Blaine asked as they set off.

"Coronado, California," Kurt replied. "We were both on vacation at the Hotel Del."

Blaine grinned. "Ooh, very Some Like it Hot."

"Yes… yes, he thought me "cute" which I took as pity at the time on my social anxiety."

"How old were you?"

"I was eight."

"Right, right, you were diagnosed when you were six with the beta blockers."

"Beta blockers?" Santana frowned.

Kurt nodded. "They said my resting heart rate was fifteen percent higher than normal so they put me on beta blockers. I no longer take them, but up until a years back I did and it was a real help. It certainly helped anyway when I met Noah. I didn't know what he saw in me, what the curiosity was. He wasn't like any other boy I'd known with his Californian laid back, tie dyed point of view, but he befriended me and we ended up getting along really well."

"I'll say," Santana smirked as Kurt shook his head wistfully.

"It's been good to see him again."

"You haven't seen him since?" Blaine asked.

"Sure he has," said Santana. "When they were sixteen they met up on some fancy safari in South Africa. Surfer Boi over there planned it all, wanted to see Kurtie again because as it turned out, he'd had the hots for our little doll all along."

Blaine blinked. "He did?"

"It was nothing more than a school boy crush-"

"You liked him too," Santana pointed out.

"Wow, you are on fire today," Kurt exclaimed, eyes glaring at Santana as Blaine laughed.

"It's alright, honey. I don't blame you, he's a good looking guy. I can already tell from the outline of his back muscles that God is real."

"So quiche," Santana mocked to the roll of Kurt's eyes.

"Did you say he was a surfer?"

Kurt nodded. "Yes, he competes professionally. In fact he's just come from winning a world tour in the French Philippines."

"Oh, very impressive," Blaine grinned, now nodding his head as Santana smirked mischievously.

"So quiche!"

"In any case," Kurt continued, ignoring the Latina as he slipped his arm through Blaine's. "I'm so happy you're with us. We're in for a real treat with the Biennale this year. The theme is 'Pop Surrealism', Mark Ryden is set to represent America, and I've had a look at the Venice Film Festival's program and circled a few movies that sound good."

"Sounds exciting. Santana, you'll come with us too I presume. Will Noah?"

"I don't know," Kurt muttered. "I don't really know what he's going to do…"

He distanced himself from us. Through collecting the rest of our luggage to waiting an uncomfortable two minutes by the canal for the water taxi, he was removed and reserved, hardly uttering a word. When on board and he sat at the stern of the boat, looking out across the city. My own dialogue with Blaine and Santana would enter shallow lulls, filled with the landscape of Venice as we all partook in its views, this city of water, floating upon its Adriatic kingdom, the most beautiful city built by man with its gothic buildings of dream pink, its lagoon of frosted aqua, the roofs glans mauve and the flowers tulip red, all the same colors of that of my summer wardrobe, "a sucking candy on legs" I recalled Noah once calling me, but that had been a long ago.

Twenty minutes later and they'd arrived on the island of Giudecca, the island itself lying immediately south of the central islands of Venice, whereupon they docked at the hotel's private pier, their water taxi tied fastly to the palina striped mooring poles. The welcoming doorman, Luigi, was there to greet them, his accent laid on thick like over buttered bread, but what a cheerful man! "Benvenuto, everyone!" He said, shaking hands with them all. "Welcome to the Belmond Hotel Cipriani. I trust your voyage was comfortable." They nodded their heads in near unison as Noah remained silent, his averted eyes now hidden behind dark shaded sunglasses. Kurt, with discomfort, kept his own forced on Luigi. "If you will please follow me, I will lead you to the hotel."

The Belmond Hotel Cipriani, five star rated and noted as one of the most expensive in the world, commanded unrivalled views of the lagoon and Doge's Palace. It seemed to have been perched most meticulously within the fairest Venetian garden, a looming ornament, large in stature yet as pretty as a bird bath cherub. Such a staggering beauty, like the villas of Lake Como, the Villa del Balbianello with the sprawling garden itself resembling those of Tremezzo and Picnic Meadow. There were quaint balconies that out wafted linen curtains, exquisite balustrading that overlooked the lagoon, tall hedge plants near supporting the patio awning and there, heated and filled with filtered seawater, the only swimming pool in the whole of central Venice.

Everything appeared so tranquil, so peaceful as they approached reception, signing in under "Anderson" for the recently booked room, "Hummel and guest – Vogue" for the first. The hotel had charged the magazine a significantly discounted price, as had the Orient Express, seemingly for the promise of more than impressive mentions in the fall issue. It was a type of understanding well aware of in the industry, yet one Kurt disliked, long awaiting the day Vogue would capitulate to his demand of an honest opinion, but on this trip and his words were to remain decorous. How unprofessional it would seem if he were to allow what had transpired with Noah, the sudden appearance of his boyfriend and subsequent tension to overrule both sides of his mind.

As it was, they were able to arrange Noah's accommodation in the Junior Suite with Santana, Kurt and Blaine's next door, both of them garden views on the second floor that boasted comfortable sitting areas richly upholstered in stylish Venetian decor, two bathrooms with separate bath and shower as well as their own balconies overlooking the Casanova gardens and vineyard. Upon entrance, mentally mapping every corner of their rooms as they did, they would note the television, iPod dock, mini bar, and to their surprise, the glasses of Bellinni and sparkling Prosecco wine laid out on the various bedroom tables. White peaches, strawberries, and chocolate. It was all amidst an accompanying sprinkle of rose petals they had not at all anticipated.

For both Kurt and Blaine, it was an ideal welcome. For Noah and Santana, it would only accent the uncomfortable situation from which exuded such solemn exasperation, such depression, all neuralgia inducing at the sight of romance's intolerable tenderness from which Noah would scoff at in disgust, plucking a chocolate from the metal stand and biting down into it forcefully and without forgiveness. He'd do the same for a strawberry, juices flying. He'd flick a rose petal off the table with his finger. He'd take a sip of the Bellini before chucking the rest over the balcony, and through it all Santana would watch warily, all up to the grunting of something incomprehensible as the man hastily took his leave, the door slamming behind him.

A short while after and she'd had Kurt in the room, the boy pacing anxiously and with an ashen sense of awfulness. He knew better than to pursue Noah, recalling a harsh temperament that was not often and easily roused, for this aside, Noah was not an aggressive person. By nature he was not a danger to anyone. His heart had always been in the good, but such a slave he was to his emotions. To see Kurt in the arms of another man after having held his sleeping head to his chest when they were sixteen and in love. At this moment and Kurt knew Noah was holding Blaine in the greatest contempt, holding him right in the focus of his incandescent anger. The man was beyond mad! Everything swept away now leaving nothing but dreadful lucidity.

"And here I thought it was only going to be the two of us here," Kurt sighed, seating himself on the bed next to Santana.

"He'll calm down," she assured. "Just wait for him to come to you."

"And say to him what? I'm sorry, but you can't have me, I'm with someone else. I know he wants me back, San."

"I think we all know he wants you back, Kurt. To be honest, I don't even know how you were able to escape from a girth like that anyway."

Kurt rolled his eyes irritably. "San, this isn't the time."

"Seriously, a long distance relationship couldn't have been so bad if his dick was long enough to reach you-"

"Santana."

"If you guys had actually fucked and you'd asked him to go deeper, there'd of been no worries about him being all out of dick-"

"Will you just be quiet!" Kurt snapped. "I'm trying to think."

"The ball's not in your court, Lady Face. I've already told you this. But wait until he stops calling Blaine a "shrimp dick fuck nugget" under his breath, then go."

"Okay, now he's just been immature," Kurt replied, shortly. "Which is another thing. Whenever he'd get angry he wouldn't act his age."

"Act his age?" Santana frowned. "What is the fuck is that, "Act his age"? What do you care how old he is, Kurt. The ocean is old as fuck, but it will still drown your ass with vigour. Surfer Boi is mad."

Kurt huffed angrily. "Yes, but this isn't my fault. I've moved on. I wasn't about to wait for him to change for the rest of my life, I didn't trust him to for a very long time."

"And now that he's here saying he has, do you believe him? Kurt, has he changed?"

"Yes, I believe he-"

"'Cause you're the only one here who can tell."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Well I'm telling you now, he has."

"Then take him back, dumbass! He's perfect now," Santana exclaimed. "Never mind Blaine. You two have had your little Ken on Ken fetish fest, which, by the way, must be like eating unflavoured gelatine, but now that Surfer Boi's finally got his act together, go for it. Man eat him. Man eat him!"

"I'll do no such thing," Kurt retorted as the Latina flung her back onto the bed in exasperation. "I have a good thing going with Blaine and I'd appreciate it if you acknowledged that. We've been together three years, a hell of a lot longer than most gay couples and I respect him more than to casually dispose him for another man, for a previous dalliance that had me, compared to how I'd been with all the other boys I saw back then, at my most insecure."

Santana rolled her eyes. "Uh-huh, how so?"

"I feared he'd tire of me, lose his attraction and eventually see me as I saw myself: Out of my league," Kurt sighed. "I mean, I was told it was always best to find an attractive boy who didn't think they were attractive which would have them think you were out of their league when in fact you were way out of yours, but the truth hurts, and I knew I wasn't as conventionally attractive as Noah. Besides, he knew he was good looking. He'd revel in the swarms of female attention he'd attract wherever he went."

"Really?"

"Granted they were all cougars, but yes. They'd flirt with him in public, stick lewd notes underneath the windshield wipers of his car, hide explicit drawings in his mail, throw catcalls at him when driving by and even ask for his hand in marriage right in front of me. Grown women, San. All of them sexually harassing this sixteen year old, it was disgusting."

"Right."

"And it's not that through all this I worried he would stray. I knew he loved me, adulated me even. He had no intention of replacing me with a set of poor old dry wives, but there was only so much of this perverse competition I could take and I admit my insecurities partook in my decision to end it."

"Did Surfer Boi know about this?" Santana asked as Kurt nodded glumly.

"Yes, I told him it was my problem and that his high animal magnetism shouldn't be put to blame, but he took it badly anyway. He thought he was being punished for being attractive and started resenting the attention he got because of it. Called it a "curse" after he suddenly realized that no girl at his school, despite them all talking of how hot he was in class, had ever approached him because they never thought themselves good enough to do so."

"Huh."

"As "Puck" and this hadn't been so much of a problem as he'd fed off the insecurities of these girls, but as Noah and it only wounded him. He's told me that for the remainder of his high school and college days in California he remained single. No one asked him on a date. No one even neared him on the subject of getting a cup of coffee because people were just too intimidated by his looks and now here he is, handsomer than ever."

"Yes. Here he is."

"With Noah, San... when I was with Noah and my heart, my nerves, my whole body eventually became an anxiety attack inducing mess and to hell with my beta blockers, but with Blaine, and I'm calm. Everything's calm."

"Yeah as calm as a dead fish floating on a tank of stale beer," Santana quipped. "Your relationship with gel head is a fucking bore to watch. You need a guy who'll have you feeling like a dog unleashed in a field wagging its tail so fast its butt shakes, or a diner at a restaurant watching as his fucking food approaches. You need the stomach flip, Kurt. Not a guy who'll leave you to rely on getting your own when you see an Urban Outfitters sale that'll save you only four fucking dollars. I mean, come on. Don't you see yourself?"

"Yes, all the time! All too clearly-"

"No, you don't," The Latina argued loudly. "You're restricting yourself to a love you think you deserve all because you can't come to terms with your looks. Screw conventional, you're cute, Kurt. I mean, have you seen the way Surfer Boi has been looking at you? Not once since Verona did he so much as glance at anyone else on that train and my tight tits are the seven wonders of the fucking world right here. Hell I was the one who set up that whole platform meet up."

"You were?" Kurt asked as Santana scoffed.

"I had to. It was getting real pathetic by then."

"When was this?"

"At lunch, once you'd ditched me to go hide. Surfer Boi came in to eat and I had him sit with me. He didn't want to at first, but I got his ass at the table when I mentioned you, and that's when I told him everything. How we're roommates vacationing together, that you knew he was onboard, that he and I had fucked." She now chuckled. "At that last mention and he looked ready to blow."

"San," Kurt urged as Santana continued.

"Anyway, we got to talking and to help him out, I arranged a way for you two to actually talk to each other. So when the train stopped, I lead you out along the platform away from anyone else, and as you know, he came out to meet you, just like I'd told him to. It was all part of the plan, see."

Kurt sighed, looking away. "I'm sorry you had to do that. It's all so sixth grade of us."

"Yeah, so don't let my efforts be all been in vain."

"What?"

"You heard me," the Latina said. "When Surfer Boi returns, I want this all settled. He's here for no other but you and you know this, Kurt. You know he still loves you and if you turn him away now it'll be the last you'll ever see of him, and you will regret it for the rest of your life. Everybody deserves a second chance. You know you could have it all a damn well better, and even if I have to stuff you on his surfer cock myself, I will, 'cause you need to get fucked by other than your low self-worth right now."

But Noah did not return. He made no appearance at dinner in which they would all converse sedately, the topic of his unknown whereabouts kept quiet and masked with Kurt and Santana's whispers, those like playful children that could not be deciphered as like a microscopic script. The hatching of a plot maybe behind those velour jacketed menus or perhaps just Kurt's supposed amusement at the Latina's sexually crude nonsense, twanging through Blaine in a rising rhythm. It was thrilling for him to watch, and he chuckled at their lack of subtly that now ceased as Kurt came to sit himself next to him with a peck on the cheek. Hello. Eying his thick sideburns, his Prada ascot, catching scent of his 'Le Male' fragrance. The man did not suspect anything at all.

After dinner and Kurt excused himself, hurrying to the reception desk and asking if a certain "Mr. Puckerman" had booked out of his suite, a fear riling within that Noah had checked himself into another hotel. He heaved a sigh of bittersweet relief upon learning it was not so and looked about the glittering foyer, helplessly. He did not know what to do. His mind was obsessed by all sorts of purely ethical doubts and fears. Conjectures of where Noah was. Worrying for his safety. Worrying he'd get lost on the island. That he'd do something irrational. Kurt searched the hotel high and low for him, his pretty face drawn into a look of such concern it disquieted those who noticed him, but without success until with relief now delicious, the man was found.

There in the pool with only the pale moonlight for company was Noah. He was on his own in the water, swimming laps breast stroke one after the other in a certain solemn pleasure, his movements slick and smooth as a seal, though Kurt could imagine that not more than an hour or two ago it had been front crawl performed furiously, the sound akin to a distracted bather thrashing about, his bellows of anger muffled in the water. The pool itself closed at seven. It was eight now and likely the staff had not wished to disturb the man for with a threatening slit eyed look Kurt could also all too easily imagine had been thrown their way and they had granted Noah the pool for the evening, there for him to swim relentlessly in and without stopping.

I hid myself behind a tall nearby hedge plant and watched him, silent as death. How he had grown, how his body had matured gloriously with his shoulders broad, the wide frame of his back, the swellings of his tense pectorals and abdominals, the seaside of his muscular thighs, his calves. The man had more muscles than a New England clambake and I gasped as he hauled himself out of the water stark naked with nothing to hide his narrow nates and semi erect penis, and done so shamelessly with various masculine movements, stretching his arms high and revealing dark fuzzy underarms, fuzz on his navel, a tattoo on his left hip. I was biting my lip through it all and I did not know it, the sight of him sufficient to attain a beggar's bliss he was so handsome.

Later that night and Kurt would be sprawled on his bed, Blaine hanging heavily over his surrendered, surreptitiously labored body and sweating in the moonlight, though it's light no longer pale, but a fierce white as if casting an appraiser's cold eye upon his writhing hips frotting against those so fair in dutiful awkwardness. Through the rush, and Kurt would never feel so detached. His ears were deaf to his boyfriend's panting words of love, the chaste kisses on his under lip unregistered. His mind was in a distraction as thick as the undergrowth of a dark decaying forest with thoughts of a swimming body within shimmering water, a clean cut jaw, vein pulsing arms, a sexy hemp anklet. He could not think of anything else. He used in his mind nothing else.

And suddenly he was moaning, with a monstrous fire rising through his loins and he was crying out, his mouth soon clamped down hard by Blaine's clumsy hand for the walls were thin and sound carried easily, seeping next door into the neighboring suite and penetrating the awakened senses of the two within. Santana clutched her forehead, her wincing eyes shielded shut as with dread she glanced at the man in the adjoining twin bed, saw how he pillow muffled his cries of anger, his hands fisting the sheets and balled to punch through the wall, grab Blaine by the ankle and drag him off thetortured pale body of his boy, his Kurt. Kurt was his, out of reach, lost, and to the Latina's heartbreak she watched as into despair, Noah Puckerman wept.

.

Glee

.

Under that thirsty Italian sun dripping with heat and it was into Venice the following day for the Biennale, catching the early vaporetto along the fondamenta zitelle and crossing the lagoon over to the city, the voyage lasting a whole thirty minutes before they disembarked at the Arsenal and made their way towards the Venice Giadini, the host of the Art Festival. It made up only a mere area of the parkland, the gardens themselves created by Napoleon in the late 18th Century, and housed all thirty permanent national pavilions ranging from those oldest like 'Gran Bretagna', 'Francia' and 'Italia' to those newly added like 'Cine', 'Messico' and the 'United Arab Emirates', all of which now showcasing work from their country's featured artists.

Kurt was most excited, the musk of which everyone could sense as they entered the Biennale. It was his mission to paint the peculiar scene for Vogue, this 'art fashion' fair filled with eccentrics dotting the city like an infectious disease in artistic fervor, lining everyone up to see the projects and the artists' themselves who had invested all their time in their creations for it was not a platform that allowed for mistakes. Contemporary art adapted to different places and when each country presented, the identity of its nation wasn't shown, but rather the image within, a context of international art. For the division of the Venice exhibition was also linked to the responsibility of the various countries as to the subsidizing and financing of art itself.

Kurt, Blaine, Santana and Noah were to view every single project in the gardens, or as many as they could squeeze in in the amount of time allowed before closure. For Kurt it was interesting to note the limitations if one wished to present, having to divide oneself into a curator, director, producer and an artist, the latter of which only counted for one percent of everything. And Blaine took note of the funny mood of the pavilions, appreciating their national characterizations as it was something quite obsolete, but noticing the way they were trying to outdo one another, the pavilion next door seen as a competitor for the award for Best Pavilion. Ironic, as artists were often always clueless with original projects changing frequently at the very last minute.

Santana would trail behind the two, her mouth working violently on a piece of chewing gum, her arms crossed when viewing projects and always with that same look of synthetic resignation on her face where she'd occasionally roll her eyes or even laugh out loud at what she saw such was the extent of her philistinism. And Noah, whilst it was a surprise he had come to join them in the first place, looked at nothing else but Kurt. Throughout the day and he kept in close proximity to the boy, pushing Blaine's position at Kurt's side to the back with Santana and feigning interest in all projects they saw together, Pop Surrealist inspired projects Kurt said were in fact not "imitating" the movement, but "demonstrating a critical analysis to its approach."

Noah would smile. Oh, what an intellectual his Gay Jane had become. The boy's knowledge on the Biennale well versed from research. His appreciation and respect for the artists evident, even when viewing projects he disliked, Pop Surrealism simply entranced Kurt just by its trochaic trill, stirring him automatically. He was to whom its glee, impishness and sarcasm was dedicated: the ideal viewer, the subject and object of every project Noah himself couldn't get his head around. They were all just so odd and there he ridiculed them mercilessly, grinning that familiar boyish grin Kurt found had not been lost in maturity, but still endearing as he rolled his eyes giggling among the slight grazing of their shoulders, Noah's innocent touches, his guile.

The man did not care if he aroused suspicion. He showcased no dread of his familiarity becoming too apparent nor created any plausible arrangement so as to veer away those who speculated for he could not bear to see Kurt with that other man, that hobbit boyfriend of his any longer. It made him so uncomfortable, made him so dreadfully unhappy, yet distancing himself from them, to know what they were doing, having heard their strenuous love making the previous night, stirred only an oppressive, hideous feeling that constrained him tightly, as if Blaine was set to reduce Kurt to a mere ghost Noah couldn't connect with no matter how long he'd rack his brain for some quip under the bright wing of which he might dare to near his him. His Gay Jane.

He would remain close right into the next day as they'd all visit the Biennel projects outside the Giadini, those in the Corderie dell'Arsenale, those in the Spazio Punch. They would learn about the emergence of independent centers within the city to the space panic countries who didn't have official pavilions would have when renting for the festival and through it all and Kurt was aware of the man's presence beside him. One that would rarely wonder off to leave him be. For when it did, and Blaine would take his chance to join him, say hey, but not even manage to ask how he was before Noah would return, each time closer to Kurt as if he were out to attach them together until the materials and patterns of their clothes blended seamlessly.

By the third day, on their visit to the island of Lido for the 74th Venice Film Festival and Blaine was growing tired of Noah's interceptions. Constantly would he find him in Kurt's company, talking to him, laughing with him, seating himself next to the boy at all three movie screenings they attended that day with all three occasions having had his arm slung over the back of Kurt's chair, his body angled into his. Perhaps Blaine had also seen in an alternate vision as if the projector's course of light branched, Noah's hand resting on Kurt's thigh and cupping the inner side with a look of carnal deliberation on his tan face, disturbing Blaine greatly with relief flooding him only when Kurt politely pushed it away, his legs then crossing suspiciously.

But in Kurt, Blaine would trust. In his fair apple-sweet boyfriend, he'd trust him almost celestially not to invite nor return Noah's advances for Kurt loved him. They were the ones in love. Had been for a year now. Kurt, who was of quiet and taciturn disposition, of charm and wit, of blue silks and rosy mirth, it was this refreshingly unusual young man Blaine had first been struck two years ago. Beautiful. And of this beauty feeling a kinship, an attraction that had lasted ten dates, the proposal to go steady, their consummation, the exchange of apartment keys, till this day, for both were harmonious in their relationship, equal like church and state, and both wearing the pants. One leg each, waddling around in unison. "It's beautiful," Kurt said. "In a way."

Now back at their hotel suite that evening and they were attiring themselves for a night at the Casino Di Venezia. Already Kurt was pleased with what he'd written on the Biennial. Having filed it next to his pieces on the Orient Express and Film Festival, he read aloud his latest draft from his position on the bed, stomach down in his fitted suit as Blaine unsuccessfully, and after many failed attempts, tried to fix his bowtie in the opposite wall mirror. The man was not feeling himself tonight. The tremors in his fingers palsied his wrist, his crisp white shirt nothing but a frivolous hindrance. He glanced in fright at Kurt's reflection, and for a split moment, fell at peace at the sight, now adoring his boyfriend from afar as like watching the blooming of a rose.

"As Italy itself does not have a real contemporary museum of art," Kurt began, "The Venice Biennial serves as its world of creative aesthetics. It is looked after like a jewel, challenged from the point of view of an extremely official institution yet also counteracted from those smaller and independent with different funds often with a more political and aggressive behavior, and all seen as good, for the Biennial wouldn't be as dynamic if there weren't the pesky fleas pinching at it here and there."

"Yeah… that sounds good, sweetheart," Blaine muttered as Kurt continued, keenly.

"I go onto say that the Biennale is a beast. It is up to the people of Venice to establish a dialogue with it and put up resistance, to stress the bio political difference from their surroundings for art is alive. It is living criticism and through this space that implicates everything as a public-participation private foundation, they must speak up. Their voices must be heard."

"Yeah… um… that's also good, Kurt."

"Blaine, you seem distracted," Kurt said, frowning. "Are you well? Are you… It looks like you're having problems with your…" He gestured to the man's bowtie, smiling, "Here, come here, I'll do it." Obediently, Blaine neared the bed, Kurt now stood before him. "Is everything alright?" The fair boy asked, smoothing out of the tie before starting. Blaine only sighed, now eying him.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," Kurt nodded as his boyfriend paused.

"And it may come off as a little untoward."

"Alright… but if it's as to why Santana was so keen to shake hands with a celebrity today at the festival, I don't know why, but from that look on her face I don't think it was to do with exchanging tips on hand sanitizing."

Blaine smiled. "No. It's because if she touched their hands she'd die happy knowing that at some point the celebrities have touched their own genitals with said hand."

"Oh San."

"Yeah, thankfully she didn't see anyone, or worse, a celebrity crush."

"I know, right!" Kurt exclaimed, laughing. "Her crushes start with "Who the hell is she?" and almost always turn into, "That's her right nostril, I can tell." I mean, I'd hate to have her as a crusher. She'd sit on my face and grind so hard my nose would break, and the tears on her ass would make her explode. "Blaine winced as Kurt nodded, uneasily. "Either that or suction cups to me and rope them to a ceiling fan, or maybe even crazy glue my mouth to her ass and turn us into a human centipede."

"That's it, I'm taking you out of that Bushwick place," Blaine insisted jokingly as Kurt laughed, finished tying his bowtie. "You're not safe there. Didn't you say she was once so horny she couldn't help picturing you in a Japanese schoolgirl uniform because she found you so adorable?"

Kurt smiled. "That and she wanted to fuck me with a pink sparkly dildo, or maybe it was a childo, I can't recall, definitely not a condom she'd stuff with mashed potato 'cause that's how cheap dildo's are made, or so I'm told."

"Yes, but she shouldn't be telling you such things," Blaine chuckled. "We have to distance you from her if only for a little while."

Kurt whined. "But she's fun, she makes me laugh, and besides she's not all about sex positions. Just the other day she asked if anyone had discovered one for reading that didn't become uncomfortable after five minutes."

"I'm just saying, I'd like more of you and I and less of you and Santana, and Noah even, which is actually what I wanted to ask you about."

"Yes?"

"He seems awfully familiar with you, Kurt," Blaine replied, concern coating his voice. "Inappropriately so given how you and I are together, and perhaps that's the nature of your friendship, perhaps it's how you've always been with each other, I don't know, but I've got to tell you now, it's starting to make me feel uncomfortable." Kurt nodded as his hands fell from Blaine's jacket, his expression grave. "Is there any possibility he may still harbor affection for you? I mean, should I be worried here?"

"No, no, darling, no," Kurt insisted, now seating Blaine down on the bed with him. "Noah and I are mere friends. We're not rekindling anything of that sort, just our friendship. It has been eight years you know and to suddenly see him again with no prior warning, well, you can understand what a pleasant surprise this is for me. We're so dear to each other."

"Right. I heard him call you 'baby' several times today, and 'Gay Jane'. I mean, what is that?"

"Just a childhood nickname."

"And 'baby' too?"

"No, I think you must have misinterpreted that," Kurt replied. "See, you think he was using "baby" as a term of endearment but in reality babies are dumb, loud and obnoxious. He was insulting me and I didn't even realize it. Take that society." Blaine frowned, watching as the fair boy struggled under his gaze. "That and he thinks 'babe' and 'baby' are cliché and outdated and that people should try fun new terms of endearment like 'lieutenant', so if anything, you will have heard him calling me that."

"Sweetheart, all of that aside, does he still like you?"

"I… I think he does, yes," Kurt replied, hesitantly, "but I had a word with him when he returned and I've made it clear his familiarity is inappropriate. It won't be happening anymore."

"Thank you," Blaine said, welcoming Kurt's head on his shoulder. "I mean I understand he's very fond of you but-"

"Don't worry darling, he knows now. He'll keep his distance. It didn't bother him all too much anyway, he thought it all a bit silly really."

"He did?"

"Well, on par with silliness that say the Apple Store doesn't sell apples or that teenagers have unprotected sex but have cases for their iPhones or that you need a license to sell hot dogs but anyone can make a baby." There was a pause.

"… It bothered him, didn't it?"

"…Yes, but he's working on it," Kurt insisted, lifting his head. "Some people are just hard to let go of."

"He was in love with you once wasn't he?" Kurt looked at him, emotion now crossing his fair face.

"… W-we better go."

The lack of an answer was enough of a confirmation. Blaine watched with an impending sense of loss as Kurt rose from the bed and fetched together his things, his keys, his wallet, his jacket, all in silence. He was immediately regretting his question. Since the festival and the expectation, the special point in space and time had been drinks at the Venice Casino followed by a nine o'clock dinner at the exclusive Da Ivo Restaurant, but now and it appeared the skeleton of Kurt's day had sagged and collapsed, an awful sight. Blaine hated being the menace. His sole raison d'etre was to keep Kurt happy from kiss to kiss and rarely did they ever row. Major or minor, rarely were they ever cruel to one another. Just the thought wobbled his poor heart to despair.

We were to all journey by water taxi to the casino, the sky dark as along the canal we weaved and along the way and I would behave decently, accommodating Kurt in whichever way I could just to have him in good humor again, apologizing for my earlier remark, wishing only for us all a pleasant evening. I was clever enough to realize that I had to secure his co-operation in keeping our discussion on Noah secret, that it should not become an issue no matter what grudge he might bear me, no matter what other pleasure he might seek, especially when confiding with Noah himself, such a bond they shared I felt like a third wheel in their presence. Oh, I implore you Kurt, look my way. Kiss me. I'm your boyfriend, I'm speaking English and I love you. Please.

But Kurt, seated beside Santana towards the front of the taxi, remained to himself, quietly conscious of Blaine's frequent glances of concern opposite him, looks of surrender and shy smiles and quietly conscious ever still to Noah's faraway position at the stern of the boat, the man eying him moodily in his neglected state. Kurt had warned him earlier on his all too "familiar" body language, "I'm with Blaine now," he'd said. "You can't get away with the same things you used to, Noah. We're not sixteen anymore," And had consequently established a background of shared secrecy and guilt. Tension was in the air and Kurt was refusing to look him in the eye as instead the boy cast his gaze over the water as they neared the glittering Cannaregio quarter.

Upon their arrival at the Casino di Venezia and Santana was the first to disembark, jumping from her seat and striding along the boarding pier to pay the ten Euro entrance fee. Too long had she wondered the city almost vagrantly to see all this art, having grown to furiously resent people calling her attention to this or that enchanting detail of the Biennale with Kurt having promised this evening of alcohol and gambling as a compromise, for not only had Santana no eye for art except nudity, but long had he learned to discern the woman after sharing a loft roof with her for quite some time, and in this moment of emotional turmoil and he would gladly accompany to slouch and fall prostate in whatever ornate Italian sofa, chaise longue or stool they had.

The casino itself was situated within the palace of the Ca' Vendramin Calergi, known throughout Venice for its architecturally distinguished Renaissance-style, its splendid façade of classically inspired columns, arches, trefoil windows and French doors. Inside, and opulent paintings, sculptures and Mattia Bortoloni decorated ceilings dazzled the eye for the palace had been the home to many prominent people throughout history including the German composer Richard Wagner to which a museum, the Museo Wagner, had been long established on the upper levels of the palace. Yet Kurt knew better than to point out the Calergi's features shining like fixed stars before them to Santana for as likely as not and she would feign gagging as soon as he'd begin.

They travelled through the various throng filled rooms of the palace in a gold and red velvet haze, careful not to run into the waitresses and their gleaming silver platters, the crystal chandeliers, the enormous bouquets. There were countless table games in a whirring vortex of blackjack, craps, roulette, baccarat, all surrounded by men and sequined women, croupiers and poker dealers at the head distributing cards in a blur to the dancing of poker chips. Of poker plaques. At the bar, cream was shaken for White Russians though dry martinis with three measures of Gordon's, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet, shaken over ice with a slice of lemon peel was popular and on this night like all nights and everyone was set on the jackpot. To win.

Following after them in hot pursuit was Blaine, Noah a wary distance behind him for in his lucid jealousy and the man was now more alert to the gel headed grease monkey than before, catching scent of his agonizingly anxious state, watching as in his haste he scampered on short legs to catch up with Kurt only to lose him behind people he'd run into, apologizing profusely again and again. In such chaos and Noah eyed the man only with an energy of disgust that distorted his mouth and sharpened the shadows beneath his jaws. He hated Blaine, and he refused to watch him and Kurt together, together in their smug love, together in their backfisch foolery in imitation of some simulacrum of fake ass romance. Fuck, he had to breathe in clean air.

So I pulled back, losing myself in this crowd of gamblers that engulfed me, these elegant glittery folk that had me disappearing amongst them as if behind a pandemonium of smoke, the stench of Toscano cigars everywhere like echoes of the Orient's ash trays. They were all speaking their fancy Italian words I couldn't pick up. Even their shouted words amid so much hilarity I didn't understand though they were far too preoccupied on their table games to cast me a second glance in my innocent era of surveillance. I just wanted Kurt and get outta this place, to grab him by the hand and bounce. I was lost in here. Without Kurt and I was just… Christ, I just wanted him when he was my Kurt and more of my Kurt than ever. He was all I ever wanted. Kurt…

~ Flashback ~

You make me crazy, you make me wild, just like a baby, spin me 'round like a child
Your skin's so golden brown, be young, be dope, be proud like an American

July, 2009. Dallas, Texas. The sun had made its usual round of the Puckerman farmhouse and was now ripening into a late afternoon sunset, its incarnadine shades blotched and smeared against blue. Out on the porch swing sat Noah, sixteen, in only an A shirt and shorts, barefoot. He'd just come from mowing the previously unkempt lawn, a long overdue house chore that had had him lurching and lunging the machine from the front end of the yard all the way to the back, all those ugly dandelions perishing and all to the sight of grass optically twittering in the low light. Yet what a messy job he'd made of it. Uneven lines, every one of them far from parallel and with so many invariable angles. Shoddy work for sure his mother would disapprove of.

Looking upon it all guiltily from his porch perch, he now cursed quietly, "Damn it", blaming himself but granted never before when performing outdoor chores had he had such a pretty distraction in his midst. In their presence and he'd been wary of eructating for which he would happily do when seemingly alone laboring. He'd been considerate enough not to disturb them with the deafening roar of the lawn mower, nearing them only to present a daisy he'd stumbled across and now on the porch swing that gave out clear views of the whole yard, he was able to watch with a smirk of one about to perform a good action the figure about the washing line, that silhouette dancing behind white bed sheets and towels, each descending one by one.

He was dressed in a colorful printed tee and shorts, ankle socks on his feet with an oval wicker basket held in his arms. By now and it was near full of bedding, all dry, though occasionally he'd squeeze other miscellaneous pieces for signs of remaining moisture; the dish cloth from the kitchen, Sarah's embroidered hankie and quilt, Mr and Mrs Puckerman's crocheted bathmat and of course, Noah's "wank towel", all of which he neatly popped into the basket along with the pegs from the line before making his way up the trimmed lawn to the house. Noah was quick to avert his previously unflickering gaze as into the sunset air he casually tossed a glossy apple, catching it each time with a plop! Listening to the chirping of the crickets, to the trickling-

Suddenly, with a rapid swipe, and his fruit was intercepted. He looked up with flustered surprise to catch Kurt now standing to the side of the swing, the wicker basket deposited by his feet with the apple cupped and polished in his hollowed pale hand, turned over and over, like the rounded beats of Noah's heart so like snow under thin crimson skin until it was brought to ruby lips and bitten into with a clean crunch. Delicious. Noah remained quiet, watching the boy chew and swallow. There was juice trickling from the side of Kurt's mouth down his chin though it hardly hampered the boy as he neared, stooping low to grab Noah's jaw and force it down, and there to stick the disfigured fruit in his mouth as like a head of a roasted pig, laughing hard.

Such cheek! He plopped himself down next to Noah, brushing his bare leg against his still giggling but with a whoop and Noah had brought them to lay athwart his lap, spitting out a piece of the Eden-red apple he'd bitten into and pulling Kurt in by the nape of his neck for a crushing kiss, the taste delicious. When he pulled away, he lunged his mouth along Kurt's chin, catching that juice trail that tickled the boy with thick suckling laps of his tongue and lips and oh! Kurt was now shifted upon a muscular thigh, a large hand running along his right shin. The boy smiled, looking giddily down at his boyfriend. How affectionate Noah was in his enjoyment. That monkey like nimbleness, that puppy dog enthusiasm, and all brought in closer with those big arms.

"I see what you did to your parent's lawn," Kurt smirked. "Terrific job."

"Hey, whoa," Noah protested, "give me a break, I'm still exhausted from beating all the other sperm. Besides I said I'm good at pool cleaning, not at mowing lawns."

"No, you're rather allegedly good at mimicking surfing on a plank of wood in pools and not mowing lawns. Your mother talks."

"Yeah, well I talk too and let me tell you she breakdanced through her entire pregnancy when she had me."

Kurt blinked. "She did what?"

"Yeah," Noah nodded, "even in the hospital she was gettin in the groove and the nurses were like, "mam, stop break dancing, we're trying to deliver your baby." I can't be blamed for being kooky."

Kurt looked unconvinced. "Uh-huh."

"Plus when I started jackin off by typing "boobies" in the calculator, I used her face cream as lube before I could afford the real stuff so I owe her big time."

"Oh Lord."

"What?" Noah asked, chuckling. "Go down a dry waterslide and you'll understand why it's so important."

"Noah-"

"Try doing the stuff we like doing together without lube and you know what it's so important."

Kurt paused. "Like Slippery Twister? I see you slather the mat with it just so you can fall on top of me on every move, don't think I can't."

"Hey," Noah shrugged. "No pain. No game."

"Yeah, you also said that when you tried to break Sarah's leg on her turn so-"

"No, that was payback for her stealing my chocolate box flavors template. Eating them then was like a fuckin game of minesweeper."

"And with that brings the score to 4 for you and 6 for Sarah," said Kurt, shaking his head. "Come on Noah, you used to have game. Where it go?"

Noah perked his brow. "Oh, so you're into dudes who don't play by the rules, huh Kurt? Watch me at dinner tonight and I'll bite into a string cheese stick without peeling it first. Mmm, I can already taste the rebellion."

"Shut up," Kurt smiled. "Eat your apple."

"I will. I haven't eaten one in days and I was starting to feel the doctors closing in."

"What?"

"My barricades weren't going to last much longer. Shit, I haven't finished it," Noah panicked, picking up the discarded apple beside him and munching on it manically, his mouth full as he exclaimed, "Watch out, babe! The doctors are coming! Tell my family I love them!"

Kurt shrugged. "Meh, they remain indifferent."

"Bastards. You?"

"Me? Oh I've already moved on." Mimicking actions, the fair boy continued. "See me just spooning my new boyfriend out of his container… its ice cream."

"Really?" Noah asked as Kurt replied, "Well frozen yogurt rather. Ice cream would conflict with my non-dairy diet."

"Kurt, that's not the most effective way to prevent acne, but sawing your head clean off, now that'll rid you of blemishes once and for all."

"Great idea."

"It's what I tell all the health nuts at school, 'cause giving up Ben & Jerry's for pimples? I'd cry. Seriously I would, though I'd cry with my eyes open so as to check out any super-hot chicks passing by 'cause that's what real men do."

"Why would they pass you?" Kurt asked. "They already approach to say how hot you are. All the Barbies. All the Stacies. Even if they knew we were together and that I had you on lockdown like I was Guantanamo Bae, they'd already be stealing you away from me only to return you and apologize when their moms would find out. As it is I'm just your "friend"."

Noah sighed. "Texas is a suck shack of a state when it comes to gays, baby. It's… it's just not as rad to hold another dude's hand here as it is in Cali."

"Then why am I here?"

"'Cause I want you to be," Noah replied earnestly. "I wanted you to see where I live and… I wanted you. Kurt, I want all of you. I want this to work out. I wish you lived closer, I… I just want to cuddle you until we fall asleep, make you moan until your lungs give out and talk about everything that we could never talk about with anyone else. You're mine, and no chick is stealing me away from you. You be the one I'm marrying. You be the future holding mate of my man seed, and…"

"Yes?" Kurt asked as Noah pursed his lips.

"Having two parents of the same gender would suck 'cause when you'd be in need of one you'd say "dad" but the other would reply and you'd have to say "not you, the OTHER dad", and that's why when we marry and have kids, you can be "dad". I'm gonna be 'Optimus Prime'," The fair boy smiled, watching as Noah came in for a kiss. "And when our kid will ask how we met, we'll say Optimus commented on daddy's text post and it was smooth as fuck."

"And when you're old, you'll probably shout out those text posts the way old men do with war flashbacks," Kurt laughed as Noah grinned.

"Totally. Maybe I'll have Alzheimer's and I'll no idea who you are but every day I'll bring in flowers from our garden and ask you to elope with me and every day you'll say we're already married and the smile on my face will be the most beautiful heartfelt thing you will have ever seen."

Kurt's heart now swelled exponentially. "Oh… Noah, you're so romantic."

"You wanna know what I find romantic and more so intimate?" Noah grinned as Kurt cocked his head.

"What?"

"Your bare face. You've got nothing on. When I licked your chin, it didn't taste of paint."

The boy blushed. "Oh, well apart from concealer, I guess I'm mostly makeup free."

Noah smiled. "I'm so proud of you, baby."

"You're comfortable as to expose your backne around me, I thought it only fair to reciprocate. I didn't want to imply you were shallow by keeping it on all the time."

"I wouldn't want you to," Noah replied. "I just want you as secure in your own skin as you are in your sexuality, and you know how much that turns me on."

"And I wish you didn't live in fear of people's judgment. Haters gon hate, Noah. You can't let them win. You're my Tarzan, my Swaggersaurus Sex. Optimus Prime would march right into Sephora holding my hand to find the sickest shade of guy-shadow: "Monster Truck Gas Fumes", packaged in the form of a bullet and he'd do it with pride."

"Nice," Noah chuckled. "What other shades would there be?"

"Let's see… there would be: 'The Laker's Won!', 'No Crying in Baseball', 'SWAG', WWE Uniform', 'Cinnamon Toast Crunch', 'Jizz Tissue', 'Sweat Stains', 'No Homo', 'Fuck Her Right In The Pussy', 'Mud', 'Guys Being Dudes', 'Smoke Weed Erry Day', 'It Was Just One Time At Camp It Doesn't Count', 'FOOTBALL!', and 'Moms Boobs'."

"Fuckin eh!" Noah laughed.

"Of course I don't mean for you to do that literally, even if it would be nice if boys took a greater interest in makeup as the market would grow and it'd no longer cost $25 for a foundation primer, but I digress. I just want you as proud to be with me as I am to be with you."

"I am baby boy, I am," Noah replied, coming to kiss Kurt's lips. "And tomorrow I'll let everyone know it."

"You will?" Kurt asked as the tan boy smirked his way.

"Hella. Just you watch me."

~ End Flashback ~

Next moment I can remember and he'd been all over me, kissing me with such intensity every shuffle he'd made, every ripple my lap absorbed and it would reveal the correspondence of my gagged, bursting beast. I had a hidden tumor in my pants of unspeakable passion and Je-sus was Kurt a golden load I couldn't get enough of. Seriously, we rocked the porch swing so frantically in our excitement the bolts holding the left hand chain broke from the ceiling sending us both to skid to one side and man was mom pissed when she found out, but I had to laugh 'cause it was hilarious. Those days with Kurt had been awesome. In fact, I could still feel the minute hairs bristle along his shins as my glancing finger tips roamed up and down his ivory legs…

Opening his eyes and Noah, the present hitting him full force with realization encompassing his body as like a ghost returning to its host, looked down to find his hand indeed on a thigh. He'd been massaging it, slowly enveloping it and because of what he assumed to be a woman's very perfunctory underwear, nothing had prevented his muscular thumb from reaching the hot hollow of her groin. He looked about in terror. He was sitting at a table game. He was playing no limit holdem poker with nine other people he'd never seen in his life. The woman in his lap, a gorgeous brunette swathed in a daring neck plunging piece was smirking at him, directing his hand further and further beneath her dress, but it was to his utter repulsion. Lady, you're not Kurt.

Immediately he shoved her off his lap, her cry a sudden shrill note. He stood from his seat, looking wildly about as those around the table eyed him in ripe silence. The croupier was now asking if he was alright. He didn't know. He was confused. Had he drunk something? Why was he here? Why had he crushed out against that woman's left buttock the last throb of the longest ecstasy he'd had in a long time thinking it was Kurt? For in that seat and he had had the honey of a spasm. He remembered now, much to his guilt. All those rippling images of him and Kurt on that porch swing afflicting him with desire. That that night he'd unleased his venereal appetite on Kurt in his bed. But to look at himself now, debauched and perverted. He was pathetic.

"Signore," the croupier asked him. "Do you wish to leave the game?" Noah looked back round at him, feeling sweat heavy on his forehead. Indeed he had a temptation to abandon his cards before he further embarrassed himself, taking note of them now as they lay haphazardly strewn on the table, the many poker chips too, and the plaques. From what he could see in his daze he'd been playing well, the hollows of his hands that had been misguided to be ivory full of Kurt, full of the feel of his adolescent incurved back, that ivory smooth sliding sensation of his skin through the thin tee that Noah had worked up and down while he'd held him on that swing having in fact danced across this table like the hands of a poker savant, he- Shit!

Approaching the table, drinks in their hands were Kurt, Santana and Blaine. They had all as of yet to notice him, casting wondering eyes across the room but with great speed did Noah hurriedly return to his seat, regaining his composure as casually as he could. "Continue," he said, nodding to the dealer. The game resumed. Four players, whose turn was now his. Noah paused. The first player had checked and unceremoniously, so had the second, but the third had bet fifty thousand dollars to which Noah had called. In response, the first two had folded, a heads up that the third had then followed with a one hundred thousand dollar bet that Noah had once again called. What the fuck had he been doing? Seriously, what was this?

The third player, an austere looking man with a horsey-handsome face, had since placed a two hundred thousand dollar bet on the table, now leaving it up to Noah to call or fold. Noah himself ruminated over his chips, his brain sonorous and still heavily clouded from that earlier flashback. He was resisting the urge to look back around and seek the room for Kurt, if only to ease the poignant chaos that was welling within him, but he had to pay attention. He had to focus. Come on, he had to- Fuck. With a single fleeting glance ahead of him and there was Kurt on the opposite side of the table, watching him, Santana alongside him, both observing the game with mild curiosity. Noah's heart stopped. It was then with a large shaking hand that he called the bet.

Unfortunately, with a full house to this Signore D'Angelo, deuces full of nines and Noah had no option but to fold. He watched with much grievance as all the chips were pooled under his opponent's wing, all two hundred thousand dollars lost, but he did not wish to retreat. A quick scan around the table at the drained looks in many multicolored eyes spoke of defeat, of bleeding chips, but he was still standing tall. This was a game he could win. He was Tarzan. He was Swaggersaurus Sex, Kurt's Optimus Prime that had eight years prior held his hand to the mall only to back out upon encountering school friends, and he'd pushed Kurt violently away and his own face had morphed into Puck's frightening smirk, distorted and warped set to terrify, to hurt.

I might as well have delivered Kurt a tremendous punching blow, catching him smack on his pale little cheekbone when I did that. Minutes later when my friends and I parted, he was no longer behind the potted plant he'd fallen behind, but gone. Disappeared. He was nowhere to be seen. I was already in remorse, in a poignant sweetness of sobbing atonement as I'd raced around the mall in search of him only to find him in the parking lot crouching by the wheel of my truck with his knees drawn in to his chest. And behind the windshield with our doors slammed shut and my love had groveled for him. I was caught in a fucking hopeless sensual reconciliation kissing his fingers and thin knobbly wrists. I immolated myself, but what I'd done, it had doomed us both.

Locking eyes with Kurt now and determination rose within Noah. His ears were attuning themselves once more to the game. Call. Call. Call. Three players. Bet three hundred thousand. Call. Call. Three players. Check. "Mr. Puckerman." Swiveling his eyes to the table, Noah cleared his head. He took a deep breath, peaking at his cards, odd numbers and nodding. He scanned his chips, neatening them meticulously. Yet with a casting glance down at his plaques, he paused, there to place one in front of him, the bet of five hundred thousand dollars. "Signore D'Angelo, it is up to you," the dealer announced, D'Angelo bringing two thick fingers to his temple as he eyed Noah's plaque with interest, but making no move as in a rapt silence he pondered.

From their position near the table, Santana and Kurt were soon joined by Blaine, the man having been in search of them for the past five minutes. He made to indulge in conversation but with a hush from Santana, "Noah's playing" made a harsh whisper, he turned his head to glimpse Puckerman indeed participating in the game, eyeing his opponent before him with patient assurity. But with no mental emphasis did Noah enjoy Blaine's sudden appearance. He was sickeningly conscious of the man's skeptic gaze, his continued whispered questions Santana would answer in a huff. And standing beside the two at the end, Kurt, his slim fingers knotted to his chest as like his six year old self looking on with concern. Oh how Noah loved him so damn much.

"Raise. One million." Flashing his eyes to the table, Noah, bewildered, took note of D'Angelo's bet, the two plaques before them indeed raising the sum to one million. His opponent looked upon his decision seemingly with no regret and appeared to revel in the wave of arousal that swept the crowd as every onlooker neared like predators to dying prey. They watched as the first player with an abrupt throw of his cards, folded, sitting back in his chair in a sigh of resignation. They watched as Noah, with unequivocal concentration, re-raised the bet to two million, and with a house raising roar, they watched as D'Angelo went all in, pushing forward all his chips and plaques across the table, totaling the sum of fourteen million, 500,000 dollars. Je-sus

The sweat on Noah's brow was so heavy, he felt his pores clogging one by one. This game had grown grotesquely out of his league. He'd played poker only a handful of times at home with his father before this and how he'd deplored it. He'd had no aptitude for the game. "Son, pay attention to the cards on the table, "His father had said, firmly. "In Texas Holdem, you wanna figure out what the best possible hand would be to fit the flop, okay. Make sure you notice flush & straight possibilities and don't play at too high a limit." The game was no limit. The stakes could rise as far as they wished to whirling heights and slow awful fear made to envelop Noah upon every gulp of his laryngeal. Seconds later, it was upon instinct that he called the bet.

Kurt could not watch. Everyone observing the game from their various strategic points, including Blaine and Santana, were peering ever more closely with baited breath. It was the showing of arms that would seal the fate of both these men, this D'Angelo gentlemen who with a reserved smirk placed on the table a full house, aces full of sixes, rapturing chatter from all around that resonated through him, feeding his arrogance, his high ego that reigned supreme, and this young American gentleman Puckerman, bringing forward his cards under the gaze of his opponent, a harsh twinkle in D'Angelo's left iris that with a sudden flash, froze. Five and seven of spades. A straight flush. Four to the eight. A high hand. "Signore Puckerman wins."

The crowd was not to withhold their cries of exulting surprise, their manual applause a sound to Noah's nerves that had only minutes before come near to crashing all around him. In the wake of his triumph, he watched as all of D'Angelo's chips joined his own, one by one, all fourteen million five hundred thousand dollars of it now his as D'Angelo himself rose from his chair and left in haste, Noah, in his immense zest, looking Kurt's way, only to find the boy hurriedly rounding the table to embrace him, hugging him so hard Noah felt his soul burst with love-ache. Kurt had been worried for him, he was saying. So worried. Kissing him on his head. "What was all that, Noah?" Kissing him on his cheek. "You could have lost! You coul-" Kissing him on his lips…

Upon contact and Noah's heart lurched to a stop, rising to the surface of a pool of perfect water and staying there, calm and incandescently afloat. Kurt's lips that had remained faithful to his mental imprint he had cherished for more than eight years, felt the same; soft, pliant and amazing. So ama… mama-zeballs. But as if he'd gone too far, reminding him of the fluid limits and rules of girlish games he'd never understood as long as he'd been kissing girls, and Kurt started back in terror, leaving no time for Noah's lips to soften from their puckered state as the boy bolted, dashing from the room in such an instant it'd been like watching a small impetuous child slipping through the crowd, the tinted light catching his hair, shimmering, and he was gone.

Noah showed no signs on considering any other alternative than to pursue his winged boy. He glanced Blaine and Santana's way, the look on Blaine's face stunted in an expression of shock and hurt, Santana herself standing awkwardly to his side before Noah was off, pelting rapidly through the room, the vision of his sixteen year old self running parallel to him through that crowded Dallas mall, that labyrinthal concrete complex that brought forth a gasp of panic. Past the ladies serenading each other on their gowns. Gentlemen almost knocked over several feet. Taking three steps and runt thee. The foyer. And beyond that, the pier, where Noah seeing with a melody of relief, Kurt, some ten paces away, his back to him waiting for a water taxi.

"Kurt!" Noah shouted. "Kurt, wait up!"

The boy slit his eyes to him. "Noah don't! I can't allow myself to look at you right now!"

Striding along the pier, Noah reached the end, gently taking hold of his arm. "Where are you going?"

"Back to the hotel," Kurt replied, shrugging him off. "I can't deal with anymore of this."

"Any more of what, Kurt?-"

"Of you, Noah! Why did you have to come back into my life?! Why must you always find a way to come back?! Can't you see we can't be trusted?!"

"Hey!" Noah protested. "You kissed me! I was just playing poker!"

"No limit with stakes of fourteen million! How was it you were able to call such a bet?! You don't have that kind of money!"

"Well then it's a damn good thing I won, isn't it!"

Kurt huffed. "It was reckless and irresponsible, that's what it was. I didn't even know you played poker, you hated table games."

"Yeah, well, when you see a dude with the boy who broke your heart, life has the common decency to gift you a fuckin good hand."

"Don't take that tone with me," Kurt snapped. "I broke up with you for our own good."

"Screw that Kurt, I loved you! And you loved me! What we had was real and we were the best! You can tell me to 'keep my distance' all you like, you can even pretend like I don't exist but I still used to make you whimper like a little bitch when you were about to cum every time you warmed my bed. All two hundred and ninety eight times!"

"Noah, be quiet!"

"Seventy four of which you passed out!"

"That is hardly relevant!" Kurt shouted, now shaking his head. "And to say we were 'the best' would be an egregious lie. Your life wasn't ready for me and you know it! All those weeks in Texas and I was suffocating! I was at the brunt of every single one of your objections to showcase any affection in public and all because you rather we'd glamorize sexual repression behind your parents' securely locked front door! I mean, do you realize the affect that had on me?!"

"Why don't you enlighten me, Kurt!"

"With every rebuttal, you were labeling the love you now say we had so fervently as wrong! By doing all that you justified every homophobic taunt I endured in middle school because you believed it! My own boyfriend! How dysfunctional does that sound to you?! Your actions Noah, that Puck stunt at the mall, all of it thundered skies high above anything they ever jeered at me, because it came from you. It came from you!"

Noah was silent, his clenched jaw trembling.

"And as for California, well, my faith in you by then had near bled dry," Kurt continued. "Even there your affections were fickle and who was I to stand in your way when the Surfing community was prepared to embrace your return just as long as I was out of the picture? I mean, how convenient. Saying you'd have no career if you were openly bisexual. It only reflected your own closed subconscious views. You and that so called 'open-minded' culture deserved each other more so than you ever did me."

"Kurt-"

"So don't you dare make me out to be the villain here, Noah. You were weak, as weak as those who can't dry swallow pills, eat pizza crusts, handle all black outfits or find Mario Kart's Rainbow Road too difficult. Like them, I was sure natural selection had its sights locked on you and that any children you'd have would wither in the cold winter winds." Noah gulped. "But rationally, I knew we'd just gone too fast too young and now here you are eight years later claiming things have "changed"."

"Things have changed," Noah now pressed. "Kurt, everything I told you on that platform in Verona was true. I don't know how else to prove it you other than wish I could fly you over to L.A. right now and have you see my life for what it is, 'cause things are different. And for the better. I'm so grateful for what I have, what I've accomplished. To date, I'm the first openly male pansexual elite pro surfer on tour and coming out as such made for one of the proudest moments of my whole career."

"Noa-"

"I suffocated too, you know," Noah said. "Lying about who I was from the day I received my very first sponsor. Surfing is not like Vogue, Kurt. Your magazine's not still locked in its old 60s stereotypes. I've had to struggle to reconcile myself with the conformist image because I'm pan for so long now. Living in fear, suffering in silence to keep the industry happy, the sponsors happy until three years ago when I couldn't take any more of the pressure and came out."

He paused, his breaths labored.

"And I could have lost it all," he continued. "Right then and there they could have kicked my ass to the curb but I made sure they knew they'd be losin out on an allright dude someday set to become a fuckin legend if they did, and now look at me. I've set an example to all LGBT surfers that you can be out n' proud and still be successful. I'm changing mainstream surfing for all of them 'cause damn it I don't want them doing what I did and losing the love of their lives just to become more "marketable"."

"Noah-"

"No Kurt, listen!" Noah roared, eyes stinging. "Losin you was… Je-sus," His voice broke as Kurt coming forward, embraced him. "Kurt, I love you. I love you fiercely as fuck. I've never stopped. Nothing since we broke up has filled that hole. No fling, no relationship. Even if I had fallen in love again doesn't mean I was gonna share the same love with them as I had with you 'cause it belongs to you, baby. You're the only one to have ever deep throated my heart and man did you take it deep."

"Oh Noah."

"Every step I have really taken has been to someday bring us together again, and not to shove us both back into a closet, but have us love each other unconditionally. Even if it takes slitting my own throat in hopes that everything I've ever wanted to say comes pouring out, I wanna make that clear. I wanna let you know I'm ready."

"You-"

"Kurt, I've never been readier in my whole life and whether you say yes or no at this point, I don't think I'm gonna catch it, as all I wanna do is shut your mouth with mine 'cause damn are you gorgeo-."

"Just kiss me already," Kurt begged as Noah with a low moan descended a kiss of sweet wetness and trembling fire, Kurt's lips opening with upmost piety, sipping cutely on the man's mouth that was not salacious until with impatient arms around his waist pulled him further in, it pressed harder. So hard Kurt felt Noah's front teeth. So hard and he shared in the taste of his saliva until he pulled away, smiling cutely, dizzily. "You know, I live for the moments you make me fall in love with you all over again."

"Sounds like a life worth living," Noah breathed. He embraced Kurt once more, there to dive his face into the boy's neck with emotion high about his rough voice. "Oh baby, I love you so much. I just… I just can't sleep without your breathing and I can't breathe each time you leave. Promise me you'll never leave again, Kurt. Please."

Pulling away, the fair boy returned his gaze, coming to cradle Noah's cheek in his hollowed hand. "We can leave together," he smiled. "Come on, let's get out of here."

The water taxi approaching the pier had hardly come to a standstill than Kurt took hold of Noah's hand and led him aboard, handling him in an energetic, matter of fact manner as if he were an insensate gadget unconnected with himself. The boy was anxious to smuggle them both down the canal and into the hermetic seclusion of the Hotel Cipriani before anyone was to stop them, flowing into the man's lap and kissing him so hard and so fast there was sure to be a great endeavor luring him on: the want forNoah. The need for Noah. God, he was allowed his way while Noah himself could still bear it, those blue eyes blinking at the man through batting lashes. Cheeks flushed and aflame! Tonight, in this mad dream world, would be his dissolution.

This love is good, this love is bad, this love is alive back from the dead
These hands had to let it go free and this love came back to me
This love left a permanent mark, this love is glowing in the dark
These hands had to let it go free and this love came back to me…

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