Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters; Ryan Murphy and Co. hold that honor. I'm simply writing this for fun, not profit.
No Hummel had ever been caught in such a precarious situation as this, Kurt thought.
Instinct told him to go for it. He had an amazing body (and yes, he was willing to admit it, once he had matured from pear-hips sophomore into the lean fashionista he had become), it was an unprecedented opportunity to finally show off that he wasn't a complete prude, and he would have a front row seat to finally see Blaine in a swimsuit. If that last alone wasn't enough to make him want to throw away half the consequences and go for it, he didn't know what else was more compelling evidence. Still, it was perhaps that was giving him the most grief as he attempted to work around the fact that in order to see Blaine in a swimsuit he would have to be in a swimsuit around Blaine and, put simply, he would almost rather be in a Cheerios uniform.
Because at least then he had been surrounded by attractive girls that wore skirts that should have been illegal and might have at least drawn away other people's attention. Then he wouldn't have felt as in the spotlight as he did, not under as much scrutiny as he might have been in spite of his role as one of the few male cheerleaders on the squad (and the only countertenor). Then again, he thought dourly, looking at himself in the mirror critically, he doubted Blaine would have drooled over the girls anyway.
The thought of Blaine watching him while he performed in a Cheerios uniform made Kurt blush scarlet. He thanked the fates that he had just taken a shower and could use the hot water as an excuse for the flush as he hurried through his morning routine, practically throwing on his clothes. Layer upon layer slid neatly into place, and he sighed with relief as he finished looping the last loose end and knotting the final lace on his boots. He felt comfortable in layers, and although Blaine had teased him on several occasion that he was really just a phantom underneath it all (how else was he so lean while wearing seven shirts?), Kurt had never really fallen out of the habit. Layers were highly fashionable, and all the best wore them. Going casual was something that he might do on a day where he didn't have school and wasn't expected to perform in a pool, but doing it on a regular basis would probably made a small portion of his soul die.
He loathed exposure like most people loathed school uniforms. His freedom came from security that he looked fabulous at all times. Even though he fussed over his hair and smoothed collar lapels unnecessarily, he knew that the gestures were merely out of habit and not truly required in most situations. (Unless, of course, he had been dealing with a slushy, in which case grooming was highlynecessary.) Without that same sense of confidence that his clothes gave him, he felt uncertain and diminished, somehow, as though all the fabulousness he put into himself was really just a facade.
After all, lean muscle and pleasantly well-tended skin aside, he was no Noah Puckerman. Girls were more likely to coo than swoon, to deem him a cherub than someone actually attractive. Granted, he didn't particularly care for their opinions, but it made him self-conscious to think how Blaine would react. The swimsuits werer more conservative than he had hoped for, but there was still the matter that arms and legs that were always studiously covered would be exposed, and that slight dip in the front of the shirt that would expose more of his chest than Kurt's turtlenecks typically allowed. At least the Cheerios uniform had been snug, covering his feet to the ankle and his arms past the shoulder (albeit not much further).
Stop being so Victorian, he chided himself, quickly applying the last of his moisturizers, running through the motions without thought. It's not like you're going to raise a scandal if you show a bare ankle or two.
Even so, the thought was little consolation as he got up from his vanity and tugged his satchel over his shoulder, determined to face the day. He would have to, either way, since he refused to skip the class just because of his skepticisms. He would endure, if nothing else, and find a way to escape the reality if he had to. Maybe he could claim he was sick and leave before they had to get in the pool, or just refuse to change into the uniform and take the inevitable detention, or make up some other elaborate excuse that involved an injury that meant he couldn't perform. The only flaw in his logic stemmed from Blaine: Finn wasn't perceptive enough to catch Kurt in a lie, but Blaine could, and he would, and then Kurt would feel even worse from trying to deceive him.
Just grit your teeth and do it. You've done harder things.
Recalling those activities was difficult, especially when the thought of being exposed like that kept invading his mind. Perhaps it was a more conversative outfit than he had originally predicted, but that didn't mean it wasn't still fundamentally a swimsuit. Which, unfortunately, also entailed the fact that he would have to be in the water in a swimsuit, a thought that was nearly as bad as the swimsuit itself. He hadn't gone swimming in public for years, mostly preferring to just sit on the sidelines carefully protected from the sun and read or write or entertain himself in other ways. Even on the day that Finn, Blaine, and Rachel had dragged him out to the local gym and insisted on swimming he had been able to avoid it by feigning distaste for the water instead.
Now he wished that he had accepted that offer, if only because it might have given him a little more background in swimming while in public. He was competent—there were few things Kurt Hummel couldn'tdo—but he was also lax in how often he had had opportunities to practice. Mostly he just avoided it and waited for other distractions to come and sweep him away. It hadn't been difficult—after ten minutes of pleading the trio had left him alone and dove in instead, laughing and generally enjoying themselves—but it meant that he was woefully unprepared for the task before him now.
"Kurt? You ready?"
His dad's voice drew him back to the present as he realized he had been hovering on the top of the stairs aimlessly, unable to bring himself to go down them. Forcibly wrenching his thoughts away from swimsuits and swimming, he half-jogged down the steps and wolfed down a quick breakfast with a speed that might have impressed Finn. His dad certainly stared at him as he devoured a slice of toast in seven seconds flat, careful not to get any crumbs on himself. At least if he didn't have quite the same speed as Finn he had better aim.
"Important day?" his dad asked, eyeing his empty hand skeptically as he dragged it through a towel quickly and shook his head.
"Just lost track of time," Kurt said, only half-lying. Procrastination would probably have been an equally viable explanation, but that would entail explaining to his dad why he was lingering and he wasn't quite ready to do that.
It's just two weeks, Kurt assured himself, trying to take comfort in the fact that, six months from now, none of this would matter. He would be planning out college and how he would get there and what he would need and how many courses he was taking and where his path would take him, not worrying about whether or not he could handle being in a swimsuit. Of course he could handle a swimsuit—it was no more physically challenging than a unitard or a Cheerios uniform had been—but whether he was mentally prepared for the task was a different matter.
Thoughts of the unitard made him blush furiously even while he tried to suppress it, Blaine tossing him a quizzical look as he stood patiently by the door. The sight of Blaine only made Kurt's blush deepen as he hastily grabbed his coat off the rack and tugged it over his arms. Blaine looked at him, seeming tempted to ask but not enough to risk a rant that may ensue, before turning back to the door when Kurt was ready and holding it open behind himself for Kurt.
The drive to McKinley was quiet, Kurt fidgeting with the wheel as he determinedly avoided thoughts of unitards and Cheerios uniforms. He managed to make it ten minutes before the sudden mental image of Blaine in either outfit forced its way into his mind. Needless to say, his blush could have burned off a layer of frost from the streets.
"What's wrong?" Blaine asked, his voice genuinely concerned as he reached over to lay a hand over Kurt's knee. Kurt jerked and Blaine retracted his hand without touching him, looking confused and somewhat hurt. He was silent for the rest of the ride, Kurt working on not speaking—heaven knew what would come out—and not thinking about Blaine in tight outfits. Especially not unitards.
Once they were parked Blaine was out of the Navigator almost before Kurt had put it in park, his entire stance resigned while Kurt sighed slightly to himself and dragged himself out of the car. He knew that he was being ridiculous, but he couldn't help himself. And if he unintentionally upset Blaine, then he would have to do so, because the alternative was mortifying and terrible and would probably kill at least some part of him.
Stepping into glee club that morning was still probably one of the hardest things he had ever had to do, his every nerve screaming at him to turn around and leave. Mr. Schue was already hurrying the rest of the group to head for the lockers and get suited up, since they needed to take full advantage of their time with the pool. Kurt wrinkled his nose in distaste at the rest of the group's enthusiasm—even Puck seemed in a good mood, a rarety for him lately—and focused on not drawing anyone's attention as he meandered about the room. "Kurt!" a voice barked, startling him out of his reverie as Mr. Schue flapped his arms in a shooing gesture. "Suit up!"
Reluctantly, deliberately dragging his feet and enlongating the process as much as he could, Kurt sauntered over to the rack and delicately picked off the hanger labeled Kurt. From the corner of his eye he saw Blaine waiting expectantly by the door where the rest of the glee kids had already left through, his presence largely ignored by Mr. Schue, who seemed entirely focused on making sure everyone had his or her swimsuit and was on the way to being ready.
When Kurt could no longer delay the inevitable, he sidled over to where Blaine stood and followed him through the door. Mr. Schue was still bustling around energetically behind them, hurriedly locking up the room while Brad the pianist gloomily trailed after him with the swimsuit rack itself in tow.
Purposefully keeping his gait at a slow walk, Kurt noticed that Blaine matched his pace without any sign of discomfort, even when the distinct noises of arguing ahead of them became clear. Despite their proportionately small conglomeration, the glee club seemed to have invaded every corner, clothes tossed haphazardly as the boys shamelessly stripped and tugged on their gear. Puck complained loudly about the shirt, walking between the aisles shirtless and arguing to Finn that it was ridiculous that they had to wear them at all. Finn was bobbing his head along, adjusting his shirt over his own torso, before he caught sight of Kurt and Blaine. There was a momentary pause where he seemed uncertain how to react to their arrival before he casually lifted a hand in greeting before turning back to listen to Puck's conversation. Puck continued unrelentingly, his hand gesturing with the shirt demonstratively whenever he deemed necessary.
Glad that he had chosen to arrive later rather than earlier, Kurt quickly located one of the few closed stalls and locked himself in. He knew that the glee guys were more comfortable with each other than they let on in the public eye, but guys didn't change in front of girls and similar concepts seemed to have embedded themselves in his own mind. It would have been no less uncomfortable for him to watch them as it would have been for them to watch the girls, although he was fairly certain they might not be as protesting. Rolling his eyes and still blushing at the thoughts—since when had nudity and tight uniforms been on his mind so much?—he tugged off his layers methodically, mourning each one that was stripped away. He took his time laying them in a neat pile on one of the benches (knowing that he would have to wash them rigorously later; who knew what sort of bacteria bred there), not bothering to hurry even as he heard the boys moving more quickly, apparently summoned from somewhere above.
The locker room quieted quickly, Kurt almost relaxing as he realized that he was alone and maybe he could just stay here until the class was over and no one would notice. Mr. Schue had yet to perfect the art of counting heads and few of the glee clubbers would raise the alarm over him. If Mercedes mentioned his absence in anything more than a passing comment to Tina or Rachel, then he would be surprised. Really, he didn't have to face this now, he could just stay down here until next period, or, better yet, stop pulling off his precious layers (he was done to his undershirt and jeans, now) and replace the ones he had already tugged off. That way he could just walk out of the room and find an empty classroom to spend the two hours they had before moving on to his next period. He wouldn't have to face the potential disaster ahead of him, the mortification, the terror.
Just as he was about to pick up one of the shirts he had pulled off, however, a quiet voice asked, "Kurt? You still here?" and he knew that he couldn't just leave. Not when Blaine would wonder, would ask, would worry about him the whole time because he wouldn't know that Kurt was unhurt. He would just think that Kurt had not shown up when he should have and draw the wrong conclusions from there, and Kurt didn't want to put him through that over something so silly.
Swallowing inaudibly, he pulled off his undershirt, the cold air striking his chest malevolently. He knew it was childish and silly, but he couldn't help crossing his arms over his torso protectively, his long, deep breaths probably raspy and loud enough for Blaine to hear. He hoped he didn't sound too afraid, but he couldn't help himself. He already hated the exposure, hated how open and vulnerable he felt without the layers of clothes separating him from McKinley. The sudden remembrance of a finger jabbing harshly into his chest and trailing down several inches threatened to blank out his thoughts as the terror from that day reinstated itself in his mind. He shivered a little and realized that he couldn't stop quivering, on edge and exposed and vulnerable to attack.
But then: "Kurt? Are you okay?"
And suddenly he could breathe again, because Blaine was still out there and he wouldn't let Karofsky come anywhere near Kurt, not if he had any malicious intents. Kurt pulled on the swimsuit top quickly, the simple fabric feeling rough and a flimsy barrier to the outside, before quickly following with his lower half. At least the combination was less awful than he had first imagined, but he still felt uncomfortably aware that he had only one thin layer of protection separating him from the wrath of McKinley. His clothes, precious and unprotected, rested on the bench, looking feeble and powerless without his confidence to infuse them.
Drawing in a deep breath, he gathered the clothes in his arms and slowly turned the handle, forcing his eyes to remain open even when he felt tempted to close them as he stepped into the locker room fully. Blaine was leaning against the wall nearby, having straightened the moment he heard the handle move, and his attention seemed riveted on Kurt, half-concerned, half-stunned.
Without looking at him or even acknowledging his presence, Kurt gingerly stowed his clothes away in a locker, tugging on the lock once to make sure it was properly secured before turning to face Blaine at last.
And for the first time since entering the locker room he remembered that Blaine was in a swimsuit, too, and it relaxed him more than he could say to have that simple comparison. If Blaine could still look calm and unperturbed (albeit worried for Kurt and increasingly anxious about his silence), then surely Kurt could be all right with it, too.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked, stepping forward and offering his hand. Kurt hesitated before intertwining them, his left ring finger feeling bare where the ring was absent. (He had left it at home to prevent possible theft; at McKinley, one never knew the lengths the jocks would go to harass them, and at least clothes could be replaced, if necessary. A ring like that couldn't—not really.)
"Yes," Kurt said, surprised at the strength of his own voice.
Blaine stared at him a moment longer, silently scrutinizing his face for any signs that he was lying, before conceding with a slight nod and squeezing his hand. "Let's go join them, then, shall we?"
All of Kurt's former worry returned in a flood but he nodded regardless, keeping a hold on Blaine's hand even while the latter hesitated in pulling it away. In the end, Blaine just gripped Kurt's hand and led the way, the sounds of the glee club above them muffled by the heavy doors. Kurt drew in a deep breath as Blaine reached for the handle, letting go of his hand with some reluctance, and nearly faltered at the roar of noise that greeted them, voicing overlapping and the sounds of splashing and Mr. Schue blowing on a whistle greeting them.
Blaine stepped out confidently onto the deck, seemingly unselfconscious about his own appearance. He was shorter than the rest of the guys, yes, but they were already in the water, and he had better arms than half of them. (Kurt narrowly beat back the urge to blush at that, too; his face would probably burn if he kept flushing.) At least he could stand there as the image of masculinity while Kurt was all lean and soft and . . . well, not.
"It's okay," Blaine said, seeming to read his thoughts, ignoring the shrill cry of Mr. Schue's whistle. (Most of the rest of the club already was, anyway.) "No one's even looking, Kurt."
Kurt looked around him, glad that the shadows mostly concealed him from sight, and saw that Blaine's assessment was valid. The girls had huddled together in a group and were watching the boys in apparent disgust as they attempted to drown one another, Mr. Schue yelling at them to settle down so they could get started. Kurt let his gaze drift around the natatorium, his nose wrinkling at the pervasive scent of chlorine, before he shuddered a little and took a step forward onto the deck. Two steps later and he was fully in the open, the bright light of the main area almost a spotlight by comparison.
Tempted to rush back before anything could change—none of the glee clubbers had noticed his entrance yet, after all—Kurt gritted his teeth instead and folded his arms, unable to help himself. It gave him some sense of protection, at least, and that was better than the full exposure that he felt. A warm hand rested on his arm and he looked over at Blaine, who smiled back. "Don't worry," he murmured soothingly, his thumb briefly stroking the skin there before his hand retreated. Kurt could still feel the delicate hairs surrounding the area standing on edge from the contact, tremendously soothed by the gesture.
He followed Blaine warily towards the steps leading into the pool, hesitating while Blaine slid in casually. Blaine was already fully submerged before Kurt even stood near the edge, looking up at Kurt with something akin to amusement. There was sympathy there, too, and Kurt knew that he wasn't judging his behavior as cowardly or silly. He waited, both hands extended patiently, and Kurt lingered only a moment longer before tentatively putting his foot in the water.
It was slightly warmer than he had expected it to be but still only lukewarm, a full body shudder wracking him despite himself. Blaine didn't comment on that, just stood waiting for him, and Kurt slowly edged into the pool, feeling some of his trepidation vanish once the water had filled the place of layers around him. And, really, with the rest of the glee club so intent on each other at the other end of the pool, it wasn't that bad. The water was more comfortable than he had expected and slipping his fingers into Blaine's gave him back a measure of security that he hadn't realized he could have both while wearing seven layers and in a pool.
Giving him a grin that was nothing other than happy, Blaine squeezed his hands once tightly before edging backward, Kurt involuntarily digging in his heels. That was deeper water, and while he was fine with this where his feet touched the ground and it was just him and Blaine, out there meant other people and less safety, less sense of knowing. He wasn't afraid of the water, but the idea of stepping away from their tranquil isolation and back into the fully chaotic environment on the other end of the pool had Kurt's feet digging into the bottom.
Blaine didn't move, their hands still connected underwater, Blaine's thumbs rubbing the backs of Kurt's hands until at last he stepped forward. One small step, but it still made Blaine grin wider, and then another, and another, until at last they were close enough to the group to be considered a part of it. Kurt's feet no longer touched the bottom, his arms pinwheeling lazily at his sides in a tread that his body remembered even if it was out of practice. Blaine had no trouble keeping up with it, smiling proudly at him in a way that clearly said, I'm glad you did this.
Kurt shrugged a little in a self-deprecating way, a piercing cry from the whistle making him wince as he looked to where Mr. Schue, nearly purple from the effort, clasped his hands and looked at them all. "Right!" he expounded, his voice slightly breathless. "Now that everyone's in the pool . . . Puck!" he warned, while the latter attempted to pounce on Mike from behind. "Let's get started. Sam, you had something you wanted to say?"
Sam was sitting on the edge of the pool near Mr. Schue, Kurt realized, having pulled himself up out of the water as soon as Mr. Schue mentioned his name. "You should just know that synchronized swimming isn't like tap-dancing or any of those other dances," he said, his feet swinging back and forth lazily. "It's a lot more complicated because you have to tread water and you can't move as fast in certain positions." He looked pointedly at Mike, who rolled his eyes and dove under the water, reappearing a moment later behind a shrieking Tina.
"Says who?" he challenged, wrapping her in his arms in an apologetic hug while she swatted at his head.
"All right, so maybe some things are faster," Sam said, rolling his eyes. "But for the most part, you're going to have to figure out how to compensate with your movements so that they're slightly exaggerated. That's the only way it works." He grinned suddenly at Finn, adding, "It might even make you a better dancer."
Finn beamed at the mention, Kurt rolling his eyes—Finn would never be a good dancer; he could be decent and competent at best—before Sam clapped his hands together and slid back into the water. "All right," Mr. Schue said hurriedly before conversations and drowning attempts could resume. "We're just going to go over some basic moves today. I see all of you can tread water," he added, pointedly ignoring the way Brittany was holding onto the wall looking unperturbed. "Let's work on just simple circles, okay? I want you guys to split into two groups, arms length apart."
It took some maneuvering and bumping of shoulders, but eventually Kurt found that he was actually good at keeping up with the basic instructions Mr. Schue gave them. It wasn't a difficult lesson, mostly involving hovering between Rachel and Tina or Mike and Rory in their impromptu sessions. Artie, he saw, was sitting on the deck beside Brad, who watched the group with his typical forlorn expression.
At last, after what felt like several hours' worth of swimming in circles, Mr. Schue blew the whistle and told them that they could change in the lockers.
"See," Blaine told him, rubbing at his hair brusquely with a towel, dripping water onto the locker room floor and still in his soaking swimsuit, "that wasn't so bad." He grinned at Kurt toothily before focusing on a particularly stubborn patch of hair that seemed to resist his every effort to dry it, Kurt just staring at him in a vague sort of amusement as he did so. He had already changed, having torn through the bathroom as soon as the whistle touched Mr. Schue's lips and practically thrown on his clothes. Just having his layers around him was a comforting feeling, and with the rest of the guys changing in other parts of the room, it was almost like it was just him and Blaine. Blaine, who was apparently unselfconscious about the fact that he was still in a swimsuit while Kurt was very much layered. "I mean, yeah, Mike's kind of a jerk, but everyone else is pretty nice," he said, loudly enough for the other boy to hear. Mike let out an indignant squawk, eliciting a laugh from Blaine and several of the other boys, before Blaine shook his head and resumed towel-drying his hair. "God, this is why my hair is terrible," he said.
"Need some help?" Kurt asked dryly, the words slipping out of his mouth before he could help himself.
"Please?" Blaine replied, not seeming to realize the implication, either. He just looked at Kurt as he scrubbed uselessly at the back of his head, unashamed.
Slowly, Kurt stood, taking two steps forward and staring at Blaine. At this distance he could all but feel just how much Blaine's swimsuit clung to him and the puddle of water congealed underneath him. Blaine looked at him, seeming surprised by the sudden closeness, but he didn't hesitate to pass the towel over to Kurt. Gingerly, half-wondering if he was allowed even though Blaine had offered no sign of resistance, Kurt reached over and brushed it carefully through the hair at the nape of his neck, most of it sticking up as soon as he passed over it. It was more effective than just scrubbing endlessly at the spot, Blaine's shoulders drooping slightly as Kurt continued, apparently entirely unaware of the fact that this was so . . . well, intimate. It was simply the natural progression of things that Kurt smoothed the towel down just a little further than his neck to the edge of his collar where the water had congealed, sweeping across to reach both his shoulder blades.
When Blaine didn't protest or move to take the towel back from him, he brushed it gently down his arms, watching in fascination as the hairs stood up in the same staticy way they had on his own. Blaine shivered once when he was done with both arms, looking at Kurt with suddenly clear eyes before lightly bopping him on the nose with the edge of the towel in mocking rebuke. A smile crossed Kurt's lips, even though the scent of Blaine seemed overpowering and he really couldn't handle this right now, when Blaine was still literally dripping wet in a swimsuit.
"I . . . lunch?" he said, cursing himself inwardly for his incoherency.
Blaine just looked at him with questioning eyes for several long, silent moments before seeming to come back to himself and nodding, a small grin of his own on his face as he worked on towel-drying the rest of his torso. "Sure," he said simply.
If Kurt walked a little more quickly out of the locker room then he might have on any other occasion, then he could only blame it on the fact that he had not expected things to turn in that direction. He just . . . it was just water. It wasn't like it made Blaine suddenly more or less attractive.
Except it kind of does, since it makes his shirt cling to him like that and his pants skin-tight and—
Forcibly shutting that unhelpful voice aside, Kurt hurried to his French class with more gusto than usual, willing himself not to think about any of it.
"Hey."
Blaine looked over at Karofsky, surprised to see the jock standing by his locker in a green-striped t-shirt. Despite his apparent demotion among the ranks of the jocks, he normally stayed in his letterman jacket. To see him in a different outfit was bizarre, making Blaine wonder if something else had happened, something even more serious than before. Bracing himself for a potential explosion, Blaine cautiously edged nearer—if nothing else, he needed to reach his locker. "Hi," he said at last, his voice neither welcoming nor unwelcoming, a neutral tone that left Karofsky to respond either way.
The former jock didn't back down, looking at him intently. "I wanted . . ." He cleared his throat and lowered his voice, his gaze darting around the hall briefly. Most of the students were milling about aimlessly, a few passing near enough that they might be able to eavesdrop but vanishing seconds later, clearly not intending to hear anything outside their own spheres of influence. Apparently satisfied with this conclusion, Karofsky looked hard at Blaine and finished carefully, "Thank you for talking to Figgins. He, uh, told me what you did. You and Hummel," he added.
Blaine blinked in surprise, an eyebrow raising without his permission. "I didn't talk to Figgins," hovered on his tongue before he restrained himself. Perhaps it wouldn't be best to undermine Kurt's decision in this instance, although he could admit confusion about it. How he was supposed to react to finding out that Karofsky had been somehow assisted by Kurt was beyond him.
"You're welcome," he said at last, hedging the words as he opened his locker. "Though I'm sure he already had his mind made up, anyway."
Karofsky jerked his head in a nod, seeming to acknowledge that—Figgins was usually fairly decisive in one way or another on certain issues—before leaning forward suddenly, crowding Blaine against the locker and making him stiffen with surprise, rigid with the proximity. No matter what sort of person he had become, Karofsky was still fundamentally the same jock that had bullied Kurt so severely that he felt he had to leave the school just to stay safe. Whether or not he had ever meant him any genuine harm didn't matter; he had still given off the full impression that he could and would, and that was all that had mattered.
Karofsky didn't try to punch him now, though, or threaten him. He just kept speaking, his voice low and seemingly determined to keep this conversation between them and them alone. "I know Santana's been riding you hard to protect me, but I'm fine," he all but rasped, his whispering harsh and quick. "Don't listen to her. She sort of owes me a favor from the summer—I, uh, got her out of a tricky situation with one of her relatives—and now she thinks she's . . . obligated to help me or something. Personally—" and here Blaine practically had to read his lips he was speaking so quietly, "I think she just wants to see if my being out of the closet will make it easier for her to be out of the closet, too."
In an instant, Karofsky stepped away, leaving Blaine still pressed against the lockers as he looked at the former jock, trying to read past the nervous glances he cast down the halls and see if what he had said was true.
Santana wanted to come out of the closet? Blaine had known from Kurt's descriptions that she was gay before he had even met her, but the thought of her actually coming out at McKinley seemed almost unfathomable. She was the cheerleader that had sex with every male she could find, not the lesbian secretly holding out in the closet. She would endure in silence until the day came when she either decided to come out or locked herself permanently away. To hear from Karofsky that she thought his situation might be a gateway for her own to be resolved made Blaine's head spin. The possibility was difficult to wrap his thoughts around, let alone seriously consider.
She's not just doing this for him, he thought finally, while Karofsky jerked his head in a decisive nod before stalking away, she's doing it for herself.
Karofsky's words haunted him until his lunch date with Kurt, and while he did his best to remain engrossed in the conversation he couldn't help being distracted by the revelation. Fortunately, it seemed, Kurt was evidently distracted as well, for he didn't even comment on Blaine's lax attention (something he never would have normally missed).
Don't we make a fine couple, Blaine thought wryly, nodding along to what Kurt was saying without hearing any of it.
That night, Kurt lay awake, unable to sleep. This was largely the fault of Blaine Anderson, who was currently curled up beside him, one hand resting on his shoulder comfortably while his head rested against Kurt's side, his breath warm and deep and even. Kurt shivered slightly, unable to stop it, feeling Blaine shift a little in response. Ever since the locker room incident, he couldn't get thoughts of Blaine out of his head—namely, Blaine in a soaking wet swimsuit with loose curly hair and a completely relaxed demeanor. Even now, it seemed, he was more open and casual than usual, despite their positions being no more adventurous than they had always been.
Why not? Kurt thought, suddenly daring, before squashing the rebellious impulse with a blush. His father was home, for Gaga's sake, and his stepmom, and Finn. Now was definitely not the time to be having inappropriate thoughts, especially when it came to Blaine. His family had already been so accepting about their situation that he knew it would be beyond overstepping to put all of that on the line for this.
For what, exactly? Kurt's cynical side demanded.
He ignored the voice, instead wrapping his arms a little more firmly around Blaine and focusing on sleep.
It didn't come, thoughts of their future and New York invading his mind instead. He knew that, within the next couple of weeks, they would be receiving letters from colleges regarding their admittance. He knew that, as long as he got into at least one school in New York, he would be content. If not, then he would be facing a life bound within Ohio, only to possibly achieve an escape once he had graduated from college (a thought that made his stomach knot and twist). He didn't want to have to wait another four years to really begin living his life; he wanted to get out of Ohio and really experience the world beyond a small, mildly homophobic town.
I don't want you left behind, either, he mentally amended, his chin resting on top of Blaine's head briefly. I can't leave you behind.
Not after everything they had been through. Not after the weeks of trial and error they had spent as friends and eventually boyfriends, the months of getting to know each other and truly develop their relationship into something that was deep and intimate but also casual and easy.
The locker room had reminded Kurt that while they shared many sides of themselves with each othere, there was still a very distinct line drawn between how much of themselves they emotionally invested and how much physically. Gestures were always soft and sweet and full of love, just simple affectionate movements meant to reassure each other that they were each other's. Kurt knew that they were tame to a degree that would have driven most high school boys mad with exasperation, but he liked the pace of their relationship.
You didn't mind exposing more skin today, his cynical side added scathingly.
Kurt blushed deeper and shut it out. Later, he thought. Later he would work that out, figure out what this new interest in physicality meant. Because while nothing had technically changed, and Blaine was still the same person he had been twenty-four hours ago, Kurt's perception of him had altered drastically. Even just the warm weight of him sleeping was not enough to lull Kurt away from his troubles and into sleep. He couldn't help thinking about what it would be like to wake him up and just run his fingers over his bare arm like that again without the barrier of a towel between them. Just fingertips, just feeling the smooth contours of it without overstepping barriers.
Maybe you have to overstep a little to figure things out, a quiet voice pointed out. Kurt didn't recognize it but he also didn't silence it immediately either. Maybe it is time to be a little adventurous.
Still, Blaine was asleep now and he didn't have the heart to wake him, so Kurt just traced light patterns against his arm as he had done so a hundred times before, feeling the bicep underneath his fingertips with more acuity than usual. He seemed intensely aware of everything that was Blaine, and although the mere thought of knowing more made he want to backpedal hastily before he ruined everything, he couldn't shake the thought completely.
Adventurous, he mused, the word chasing him into sleep, his head still resting on top of Blaine's. Maybe that's what we need to be.
