Chapter Eighteen: Character Flaws
The sneaking hadn't stopped.
Kurt woke up before the sun, heart high in his chest as he realized it was Christmas. He grinned as his gaze fell upon the chain around his wrist, gleaming even in the soft glow of early morning. He'd argued against Carole trying to remove it the night before until she'd given in and allowed him to wear it to bed. As he fingered the bracelet gently, he noticed the small, pink indentation in his skin where it had pressed hard against it. His smile brightened, despite the twinge of pain that came as he touched the tender skin.
His legs protested as he swung them off the side of the couch where he'd slept, and even more when he limped into the kitchen. Quietly as he could, Kurt began pulling out bowls and utensils, whipping up his traditional Christmas French toast. He turned his nose up when he realized how few berries were in the fridge – he'd been gone for a month, for goodness' sake! – and made a note to send Finn off with a list the next day.
An hour passed before the telltale pitter patter of feet against the stairs made him look up. Carole's shocked expression greeted him, and his father's behind her. "Kurt, how long have you been up?" she asked, taking in the quantity of toast he'd stacked up on the island.
"Not long," he lied, reaching up to grab the syrup from the top shelf. He stopped, an intense, throbbing pain bursting from his chest and abdomen, and he pressed against the counter as he gasped. Burt ran to his side, one hand shucking up his pajama top as he inspected his side.
"Jeez, kiddo, take it easy!" Burt shouted, wincing as he took in the purple bruises and thick scars along his son's body. He'd seen them many times by now, but they never failed to hurt him. He grabbed Kurt by the arm tenderly, maneuvering him towards the table. "C'mon, Kurt, sit down."
Carole brought an ice pack from the kitchen, pressing it against his ribs. "You've got a few more weeks before these heal," she reminded him, "which means you can't be doing things like this all on your own."
Tears prickled in the boy's eyes, but he nodded, muttering darkly, "I just wanted to keep our traditions alive."
"And you have!" Burt insisted, gesturing towards the breakfast. "It looks great, Kurt. Thank you. But please, ask me or Carole for help next time?"
"Okay." He wasn't happy about it – he couldn't even do something as simple as make French toast on his own. Still, he nodded helplessly again as Carole placed a piece onto a plate and pushed it in front of him, encouraging him to eat.
"Before Finn gets here and eats them all," she joked, drizzling syrup over it like Kurt liked. A throat cleared from the stairs then, and Finn stared back at her with a small smile on his face. He raised an eyebrow, gesturing towards the food.
"Trying to hide them from me, mom?" he asked, laughing as he joined them at the table. He forked three pieces onto his plate, shoving one into his mouth immediately.
Kurt frowned at the smile on his brother's face, almost certain that it wasn't entirely genuine. It wasn't the kind of smile where his dimples fought with his cheeks, the kind where every inch of his teeth were on display. Kurt hadn't seen that smile in a while. So, he asked, "Are you alright, Finn?"
The taller boy's brows furrowed, and he spoke through a mouthful of food. "Uh, yeah? Why wouldn't I be? It's Christmas."
Either he'd been mistaken, or his brother was a very good actor. Somehow, Kurt doubted the latter. "Never mind, just checking."
"You're weird," Finn chewed, rolling his eyes as Kurt flicked a napkin ball at him.
"Boys," Carole chided, clicking her tongue amusedly. "No fighting."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Finn dismissed, kicking his chair back and depositing his syrupy plate in the sink. He joined Burt then in the living room, plopping down onto the couch to watch cartoons and grabbing a candy cane from the bowl before sticking it in his mouth. Kurt followed him, shoving his legs off the coffee table before sitting down and tucking his own up under him.
"It's not snowing today," Kurt commented sadly, looking out at the overcast sky. "It's not even cold."
"No, I think we're due for some rain," Carole sighed.
"What's important is that we're all here," Burt said suddenly, a passionate air to his tone that the family had grown used to hearing over the years. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
"Me neither," Kurt agreed, smiling at his father. Their relationship had been a tad strained lately, but he knew he only wanted what was best for him. Remembering a time when Burt had been all he had, he was struck by a fierce and consuming love for his father.
"Of course," Carole echoed.
The peaceful, reflective silence lasted all of five minutes, after which the family proceeded to get into an argument about which movie to watch. "A Charlie Brown Christmas is elite," Finn defended as Kurt returned with a bowl of fresh popcorn. "It's way more smart than you guys give it credit for."
"Smarter, and I doubt that," Kurt mocked, throwing a piece of popcorn at his brother who caught it in his mouth and proceeded to boast about it. Kurt stuck his tongue out childishly.
Finn glared at him. "Well, Moulin Rouge! isn't even a Christmas movie."
"Maybe not, but the leading man is named Christian, so I think it's applicable here."
"Jesus Christ, Kurt!"
"Really? I thought it was Ewan McGregor, but I could be wrong," Kurt teased. "Let me check Wikipedia."
"Ugh!" Finn groaned, biting his cheeks to hide his smile. He refused to admit that Kurt's retort had been actually funny. They were brothers, after all.
They eventually settled on Home Alone, which was both clever enough for Kurt and humorous enough for Finn. Surprisingly, Burt was the one who looked away during the difficult to watch parts, tucking his face into his wife's arm, who patted his head lovingly. Kurt watched them, contentment blossoming in his chest. He could barely remember a time when his father had loved his mother like that, and he was glad that Burt had found something again.
Alongside that contentment, loneliness festered. Sure, he had his family, and they were the most amazing people he could have wished for, but a part of him had always, always yearned for a love of his own, his entire life. He was so achingly lonely that, at times, it actually hurt. The kind where, after an intense bout of it, looking back upon it was like memories of childhood that made you hide your face in your hands.
He grabbed his phone and typed out a text, glancing up to make sure his family wasn't paying attention to him.
To Blaine: How's your solitary Christmas going? I miss you.
Before sending the text, he stared at the screen for a good five minutes. Was it too much, too clingy, too obnoxiously dependent? He decided the answer was yes to all three despite its obvious truthfulness and quickly deleted the last sentence before sending the message. He was a teenager after all – mulling over a text to send to his… crush was a rite of passage of sorts.
To Blaine: How's your solitary Christmas going?
From Blaine: Not bad. Catching up on some work. Wish you were here, though.
The text had come back right away, and Kurt's stomach fluttered anxiously, yet happily. Blaine had told him that he'd missed him, right? So maybe it wasn't entirely one-sided. He still couldn't, for the life of him, figure out why Blaine wanted to spend time with him, though. Not after… everything.
To Blaine: Same here. Watching Home Alone with my family. I'm sure you'd have some interesting opinions on it.
From Blaine: It's absolutely iconic, Kurt, and the fact that you're texting me instead of watching the movie makes me feel very conflicted.
To Blaine: Conflicted? Why is that?
From Blaine: Well, on one hand, you aren't paying attention to what amounts to a cinematic masterpiece of nostalgia and wit. On the other hand, the hand I'm more inclined towards, you've decided to talk to me instead, which I rather like.
Kurt's breath caught in his throat at the message. That was flirting, right? It had to be! But he had nothing to compare it to, so he could have been awfully mistaken, and that wouldn't do, but either way, there was no way Blaine was interested in anything more than friendship with him.
Right?
Squeezing his toes together nervously, Kurt decided to test the waters.
To Blaine: If it helps, I wouldn't not pay attention for anyone else. I like talking to you more than most. In fact, I would go so far as to say it's worth missing the part where Marv takes an iron to the face.
From Blaine: I had no idea you felt that way about me. We might have to get married now.
A strangled mewl escaped the boy's lips, an embarrassing sound that he attempted to cover up with a cough. His stepmother glanced at him, concerned. "Are you alright?"
"Mm-hmm," he choked out. "Must have swallowed a bug."
He could sense that she wanted to press further, but they were interrupted by a loud click, followed by the front door opening. Santana peeked her head in, greeting them. "Merry Christmas, Hudson-Hummels!"
"Merry Christmas, San," Kurt called back, waving at her. Her smile brightened as she spotted him, and she rushed over to hug him. Kurt flinched, but only a little, accepting the touch hesitantly. They vaguely registered Burt grabbing the remote and pausing the movie.
"God, I wasn't here when you…" She trailed off, a solemn expression taking over. "I should have been. It was the least I could do."
"It's alright," he replied earnestly. "I'm glad you didn't have to see that. But I am upset that you're leaving us just as I got home! Do you hate me that much?"
She scowled. "Shut up. You know you're one of the few people I don't hate."
"Yeah, I know, you're a softie," he teased.
Santana leveled a glare onto him. "I know where you live, Cupcake. Watch it."
Kurt rolled his eyes, and she and Carole took that moment to climb up the stairs to his room where she'd been staying and begin packing up her things to take back to her parents' house. They were only up there for a few minutes – it seemed she'd already done most of it. When they came back, Finn offered to drive her there, and she shook her head.
"It's not that far," she replied, lugging a bag over her shoulder and another over her arm.
"You have, like, six bags," Finn pointed out. "Jeez, you're such a girl."
"That's sexist," Kurt interrupted, but Santana just laughed.
"You already knew that," she taunted, wiggling her brows suggestively. Finn's eyes widened, and Kurt thought he might be sick if he had understood that interaction properly.
"Please, stop talking," he pleaded, covering his ears. "That's my brother, Santana!"
"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," Carole interjected, looking equally appalled. "Finn, Burt, help me get these bags in the car. Santana, sweetie, we're going to drive you home. No arguing."
She shrugged gratefully, and the three piled out of the house carrying two bags each. Santana held the door open for them before letting it close behind them, leaving her and Kurt alone. She turned her gaze onto him, questioning but in a passive way.
"She did the same thing to Blaine last night," Kurt recalled, looking anywhere but at her the moment he said it. Oh, crap. Shouldn't have let that cat out of the bag.
She smiled devilishly. "Blaine, huh? I remember hearing about that interesting development from your stepmother. Although I promise it wasn't why I went to Britt's, she's just upset about our whole situation."
"It's fine, I understand," Kurt comforted her. "Is everything okay with you two?"
Santana nodded. "We're doing better, now. I still wish it had never happened, but I know she didn't do it to hurt me. She would never hurt me on purpose, but I honestly never gave it any thought that she could do it by accident."
Kurt recoiled as his own words echoed in his mind, a sharp jab at his father's concern: Blaine wouldn't hurt me. He wondered if he'd given enough thought to the same thing. "You couldn't have known."
"Still, I should have." She cleared her throat. "Anyway, you still haven't spilled about Blaine. What happened last night to make you so smiley, and what the hell is on your wrist?"
He caught his bottom lip between his teeth, holding his wrist up so she could see. "It was a gift from Blaine. A bracelet that represents oxygen, so I remember to breathe. And… so I remember him."
Her jaw dropped as she took a closer look at it, careful not to touch him unnecessarily as Carole had warned in a text. "Fuck," she whispered.
"Um…"
"That guy has is bad for you, dude," she pressed. "God damn, who would've thought you'd land a hot doctor?"
"What exactly is that supposed to mean?" he asked, knowing she had no malicious intent but still feeling a bit put-out by her comment.
"Ah, shit, not like that. You're great. Attractive in a twink kind of way, and nice and stuff," she back-tracked. It was more entertaining than insulting. "I totally get why he's into you. I just mean I never thought either of us would find someone, not here in this hell hole."
"Oh," he breathed. "Yeah, me neither. But I haven't… found Blaine. Not yet."
Santana fixed a disbelieving expression onto him. "You're telling me that nothing happened last night, then?"
"I didn't…" Mortification filled his chest. "I mean, we had a few moments, here and there. We made hot chocolate together, and I wiped whipped cream off his nose, and then we watched the stars together, and he showed me…" He trailed off, wishing he'd stopped before. He didn't need to tell her everything.
She blinked at him. "Well? What did he show you, if not his di-"
"Don't you dare finish that question," he hissed, covering his face. "Nothing, he showed me a constellation and said it looked like my pie, and no, that is not a fucking euphemism."
She closed her mouth slowly. "Damn, you beat me to it. Just like he beat-"
"I swear to god, Santana," he cried incredulously.
"Fine, fine," she surrendered, holding her hands up. "You two are sickeningly sweet. I'm just trying to make it less tooth-rotting."
"Well, it's not like that," he muttered embarrassedly. "It was never about… that."
She nodded. "Sorry, Kurt. I didn't mean to imply anything. I… I know with…"
His breath caught, this time in the painful way that makes you feel like you're drowning. She knew. Nobody was supposed to know, nobody who didn't have to, but she knew. He choked out, "Finn told you, didn't he?"
Santana looked like she wanted to slap herself in the face. "Oh, fucking hell, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to…" She trailed off, not knowing how to save it. "Look, I don't think any differently of you. Not at all. I need you to know that."
Kurt squeezed his eyes shut. "I… I know. I just didn't want anyone to know."
"I'm sorry," she repeated, eyes flitting towards the closed front door. "Uh, Finn-"
"Don't worry, I'm not mad at him, and I won't tell him you told me," Kurt confirmed. She sighed in relief.
"It's stupid that I don't want to get him in trouble, right?" she muttered. "He's an idiot for telling me in the first place. The jackass can't keep a secret for the life of him."
"He's kind of endearing, I guess. Enough that you can't stay mad at him, but not enough that you can't try."
"Sounds about right." She watched him with a mix of guilt and intrigue. "Again, I'm sorry about this whole thing. I won't mention… um, and I understand if you don't want to talk to me about it."
"I don't," he replied stoically. He could tell that she wanted him to, and he tried not to be upset about that fact – everyone has character flaws.
Burt opened the door, then, saving the both of them. "Santana, we're ready to take you home. Kurt, Finn is staying to keep an eye on you, okay? I know you don't love it, but please don't call him your babysitter again. He did not like that."
The boy shrugged, giving Santana a smile that he hoped said 'we'll get past this, don't you worry.' It probably came out more as a grimace considering the look Burt gave him. They didn't hug again, for the best, and she waved him goodbye before driving away with his parents. Finn leaned against the doorframe as they disappeared from sight, and Kurt tried not to look at him for fear of revealing something in his eyes.
"You need anything, Kurt?" Finn asked, likely of his mother's instruction. The boy in question shook his head, wishing his brother would leave.
"No," he replied curtly. "I'm actually pretty tired. I think I'm going to take a nap before Carole and dad get home, okay?"
Finn faltered but said nothing about it. "Okay. Do you want me to stay here just in case?"
"In case of what?" he snapped, maybe a bit too harshly. He took a deep breath, shaking his head. "No thanks, Finn. I don't need a babysitter, and you would just make it hard to sleep. You can go to your room and play video games, or whatever."
He didn't miss the hurt expression on his brother's face, but he did ignore it. Finn stalked wordlessly up the stairs, and, in fact, music did come blasting from his room, but only for a minute before he turned it down, probably remembering that Kurt had wanted a nap. The thoughtful gesture made his stomach churn with guilt, but he shook it off.
Grabbing his phone from the coffee table, Kurt slipped his feet into a pair of boots, shrugging on a beige sweater he'd left over the back of the armchair. Without looking back, he snuck quietly out of the house, locking the door behind him, and stepped into the chilly air. It nipped at his skin, dyeing his cheeks and nose pink like a strawberry popsicle. He climbed down the steps carefully, wincing as his ribs jostled against one another.
He hit solid ground.
The sneaking really hadn't stopped.
Curtains drawn back, low sunlight streamed through the open window, tinting the living room of his apartment with a soft blue glow. There was a thick layer of clouds in the sky, the kind that usually meant rain, and the air could almost smell of it. Blaine, strewn carelessly sideways across his couch, quietly hummed to himself, eyes skimming across the pages of his textbook as the glare of light glinted off his round glasses.
He yawned, stretching, back arching off the couch like a cat. His unbuttoned shirt hung off his frame, and a cool burst of wind tickled his taut stomach. The man shivered but made no move to button it up, instead rubbing a hand idly across his skin, warming it with his fingers. It had been forever since the place had been vacant enough for him to indulge himself in something as simple as this, and he wasn't going to waste it.
Blaine flipped the page. His eyes were having trouble focusing – a consequence of how little sleep he had gotten the night before. His hand moved upwards, stroking languid circles against his chest as his lips and tongue worked unthinkingly over the pen that hung from them. It was the sort of heavy, lazy sexuality of a rainy weekend in an empty apartment, bathed in the glow of the low-hanging sun, that he had missed all this time. Although, the treacherous thought did enter his mind that there were better ways to spend it.
His gaze strayed towards his phone. He hadn't been able to help flirting with Kurt over text earlier, but the boy had stopped responding to his messages, and he was concerned that he'd gone too far. Shit. This was exactly what Cooper had meant when he'd asked Blaine not to start anything. He had no idea what sorts of things he could say to Kurt, playful or not.
He was way in over his fucking head.
Blaine sighed, buttoning his shirt up as he straightened his position, trying to focus on his textbook. Making little notes in the margins, he worked for a few more minutes before his tired eyes gave out on him, and he leaned back, closing them for just a moment. Suddenly, his phone pinged, startling him out of his exhausted stupor.
From Kurt: Sorry, Santana showed up right after you sent that last message.
He breathed a sigh of relief; he hadn't done anything wrong. Or, if he had, it hadn't been wrong enough that Kurt was going to call him out on it. Which was an awful thought to have, maybe, but he was okay with it – everyone has character flaws.
To Kurt: No problem. Is she okay?
From Kurt: She's doing better, I think. I'm worried about her going home.
To Kurt: I can give her a call later, check up on her? Maybe she'll talk to me if something's going on. Not that she wouldn't talk to you, but sometimes it's easier to talk to someone when you don't have to see each other every day.
From Kurt: That would really give me some peace of mind. Thank you, Blaine.
To Kurt: Don't worry about it. I worry about her, too.
From Kurt: You worry about too many things.
Never have truer words been spoken, Blaine thought. It wasn't like he could help it. Maybe he had more character flaws than he thought. If so, how many were enough to make him not worth it anymore? He typed out his answer without worrying about it.
To Kurt: I could say the same about you.
From Kurt: That's not the same thing. My worries are all about myself in some way or another. You worry about the entire world. I don't know how you do it.
To Kurt: If I weren't like that, my life would be very different.
From Kurt: Easier?
To Kurt: Probably. But emptier, too. Less fulfilling. Maybe without you in it.
From Kurt: Well, then, I'm just selfish enough to ask you to never change.
To Kurt: I think I'm okay with that.
A moment passed before he got a reply, and Blaine wondered idly why Kurt seemed to think he was selfish. The entire time they'd known each other, Kurt had been thinking about others – Rachel, Santana, even… Karofsky. He shivered as the name entered his mind, locking the memories away immediately, hoping he would never need a reason to revisit them.
His phone began to ring, then, his ringtone playing a pop song that made him smile. He picked it up without a second thought, bringing the device to his hear, and said, "Kurt?"
"The one and only," the boy in question replied, a drained tone to his voice.
Over the speaker, Blaine could hear wind, birds, traffic sounds. He frowned. "What's going on? It sounds like you're on the street or something."
"That's because I am," Kurt said matter-of-factly. "I snuck out. I don't even know where I'm going."
Blaine shot up out of his seat. "What? Where are your dad and Carole?"
"They went to drop Santana off at her house," Kurt whispered, like he was suddenly realizing what he had done. "They left like seven minutes ago. I don't know how much longer I have before they notice I'm gone. I don't know what'll happen..."
"Shit, Kurt." The man slipped his feet into a pair of sneakers. "Where are you? I'm coming to get you."
"I'm not a child, Blaine," he snapped. "I don't need you to babysit me."
Blaine gnawed on his lip as he searched for his keys, holding his phone between his ear and shoulder. "You're injured. Badly. I'm not going to let you get yourself in more trouble."
Kurt was silent for a minute as he listened to the sounds of the man's rustling. Finally, he said, "Fine. I'm near the park by my house. Meet me there."
"Give me ten minutes," Blaine replied. The park was a good twenty minutes away from Blaine's apartment, but he would make it. He'd had the full intention of staying on the line with Kurt, but the boy had hung up the second he'd told him how long it would take.
Racing down to the lobby, Blaine, by some Christmas miracle, hailed a taxi within five minutes. He slipped into the cab, rattling off the park address and tapping his foot restlessly against the floor. Thirteen minutes later, he found himself surrounded by trees and play structures, scanning the open space for a familiar head of coffee-brown hair and glasz eyes.
Just as he pulled out his phone to call Kurt, a hand pushed it away from his ear. "I'm here," the boy murmured, and Blaine turned around to find him, clad in his holiday pajamas, hair mussed, bracelet still around his slim wrist. He was taller than Blaine, especially in his boots, but the way his back curled towards the ground made him seem shrunken. There was regret in his eyes.
"Hi," Blaine greeted, keeping the distance between them. Kurt seemed unsteady, and he didn't know that his touch would be well-received.
Kurt made no move to close the distance himself. "Hi."
"I should get you home," Blaine said. "It's the responsible thing to do."
"I wish you wouldn't be so responsible." Kurt wandered away from him, stalking off towards a particularly tall tree, and leaned his back against the thick trunk, staring off at the sky. His jaw was sharp in the low light, delicate features contrasting in a way that suited perfectly the overcast hue of the world.
The park was empty, surprisingly, and it must have started to rain while Blaine was in the cab, because he suddenly realized that his clothes were wet and sticking to his skin. He shivered, and Kurt noticed, frowning. "You didn't bring a coat."
"Must have slipped my mind," he mumbled, shrugging. "No biggie. I'm good with cold."
Kurt shook his head. "Come here. There's less of it under this tree."
Blaine listened, joining the boy in their safe haven from the rain. Watching the grey, gloomy clouds, he asked Kurt, "Why did you sneak out? Especially today? It sounded like you were having a good time earlier."
"Santana told me something upsetting," Kurt explained. "I guess I have little tolerance for emotions anymore. Every small thing feels huge, now. I feel like I'm about to explode, so I do or say stupid things. I can't stop it. Plus I have to go to school next month, and I can't even think about it without feeling like I need to throw up."
"I understand," Blaine consoled, gratified when Kurt took his offered hand. His fingers traced the engraving in the bracelet by unwarranted muscle memory. "Do you… think seeing someone would help?"
"Like a shrink?" Kurt asked.
"Yes, a psychologist," Blaine corrected, laughing lightly. "Don't put them down. I went to therapy until I graduated college. It was quite useful."
"Your brother wants me to," he confessed.
Blaine nodded. "I think it would be a good idea. I want you to feel in control of yourself."
"So do I, but I can't even remember the last time I felt that way."
"We'll work on it. Together. And I'll be right there when you go back to school."
"Promise?" The hope in his voice was so pure that Blaine thought he might make a promise he couldn't keep. Nevertheless, he nodded earnestly, reveling in the bright smile it got him.
"Promise."
The patter of the rain against the hard cement of the sidewalk echoed up and down the long street. Kurt looked down at him with wet eyelashes, and the atmosphere felt dangerous, the kind where your chest aches to say something you'll regret. Something specific. "Your clothes are soaking wet," the boy said.
"Yeah," Blaine breathed, staring up into his eyes, his heartbeat stuttering in his throat. He wished to the absent stars that he had never left his living room, never picked up his phone, never even been at the hospital when Kurt had come in, because it was a character flaw, his fatal flaw, that he couldn't keep this one promise, not right now when the sun's muted light cast a halo around Kurt's head.
Kurt tugged on Blaine's sleeve, air puffing out between the wet fabric and his damp skin. He looked down at the man. "Take me home so you can get out of these."
His heart stuttered. "W-What?"
"I think I have some old clothes that'll fit you," Kurt clarified, pushing off from the trunk. Blaine stared at him, blinking rapidly, still trying to calm his racing heart as Kurt shot him a lopsided grin. "The least I could do is let you borrow them, since you rushed all this way to make sure I was okay."
"Right, uh, of course," Blaine sputtered. He followed as Kurt lead the way through the familiar neighbourhood, and it took them ten more minutes to get inside the house. Blaine sighed as the heat warmed him up quickly, rubbing his arms to create some friction.
Kurt paused as they entered, glancing around the room. There was no one there, and Finn's snores could be heard from upstairs. Burt and Carole's shoes were gone from the mat by the door. The boy let out a relieved breath, closing his eyes as he ran a hand through his damp hair. "Thank goodness. That would not have ended well."
Blaine nodded. "I can't imagine it would have. But I should get out of here before they come home."
Kurt shrugged, peeling his drenched sweater over his head carefully. "I'll just tell them I called you when Finn fell asleep, just to be safe, and you insisted on making sure I was okay, like the gentleman you are. It's close enough to the truth."
"Are you okay? Physically, I mean?" Blaine inquired as they made their way to the couch. He gestured towards the boy's injuries. "You went for quite a walk there, and some of it was uphill on the way."
Kurt waved him off. "It was a bit uncomfortable, but nothing excruciating. A long, hot shower should take care of it. Honestly, I think I'm healing a lot faster than Dr. Anderson expected."
That made him smile. "Glad to hear it. We had a few bumps, some big ones, but I'm hoping it's smooth sailing from here."
Kurt stretched his arms over his head, a cautious motion that made his sides ache just enough to give him some relief. His pajama shirt rode up to reveal a sliver of pearly skin. Blaine's eyes were drawn to it, as though by force. He tore them away, but not soon enough that the boy didn't realize. His cheeks were tinged with colour, but he didn't put his arms down right away.
"Why don't you go take a shower first?" Kurt offered, gesturing up the stairs. "I can't go up the stairs, but the bathroom is the third door to the right, and there should be a towel in there. I'll wake Finn and ask him to bring some clothes."
"Sounds great," Blaine replied gratefully. "What about you?"
"I'll text Carole to make sure everything's alright," he answered with a little frown.
Blaine placed a hand over his, pleased when the frown turned into a soft smile. "I'm sure they're fine. They probably got roped into a chat with Santana's parents or something."
Kurt nodded. "You're right. Now go, you're going to get sick in those clothes."
"Okay, mom," Blaine teased, retracting his hand and following Kurt's directions up the stairs and into the third door to the right. He opened the handle and found the bathroom, a nicely decorated room that he was sure a certain blue-eyed boy had had a hand in. Sure enough, there was a clean towel hanging over the holder, and Blaine had finished unbuttoning his soaking shirt when there was a knock on the door.
He opened it, and Finn stood on the other side, a sheepish grin on his face and a pile of folded clothes in his arms. "Kurt told me he texted you when I fell asleep," Finn explained, handing the man a shirt and pair of sweatpants. "He told me to give you these. I would have offered mine, but you're kinda small. No offence."
"None taken," he replied, setting the dry clothes on the counter.
Finn blinked as he took in his appearance. "Damn, bro. You're, like, fit for an old guy."
Blaine quirked an eyebrow. "Thank you? You know I'm only twenty-four…"
"You're also super wet. Did you walk here or something?"
"I took a cab. It was raining. I didn't really remember to bring a coat."
Lines appeared in Finn's youthful skin. "Thanks for taking care of him."
"You don't have to thank me," Blaine answered. "I do it for myself as much as for you."
Finn nodded. "That's what I thought," he said before closing the door, leaving Blaine alone with his mind and a pile of clothes that had once smelled like Kurt but had long faded into smelling of bottom drawers and stale air.
He stripped quickly, stepping into the steamy shower once it was hot. The warmth seeped into his bones through his skin, as though he could feel it permeate; the muscles in his back relaxed almost instantaneously, welcoming the pressure like they would a pair of expert hands. He had to remind himself that Kurt was waiting for him downstairs – he made quick work of washing his hair with whatever shampoo he could find.
It smelled like Kurt, unlike the old clothes.
He smelled like Kurt.
Dragging himself out of the shower, Blaine stared at his reflection in the foggy mirror. His skin was red from the heat, blood rushing underneath. His hair was wet and stuck to his scalp, and his face was gleaming from the forgiveness of hot water. The whites of his eyes had turned a pale pink, but there was a sultriness to them that he didn't mind.
He tugged the clothes on piece by piece, grinning when he realized that the shirt was from the Chicago live production of Wicked. Blaine knew the kind of memories these shirts held. It wasn't just a random one that he'd plucked out of the bottom drawer.
Wondering idly if Finn had chosen it or been given specific instructions on which shirt to choose, Blaine wandered out of the bathroom, mist following behind him like a ghost. He made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen, gaze immediately finding Kurt, who was in the kitchen over a pot of coffee. He'd changed out of his wet clothes into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, the most casual Blaine had seen him wear apart from the hospital gown of the first few weeks of their friendship. He still looked unfairly gorgeous. Blaine walked up behind him, wrapping an arm around his waist.
The boy tensed for a moment before realizing it was Blaine and relaxing into the embrace. "I'm making coffee," Kurt declared. "How do you take it?"
"Black, like the sleep-deprived college student I am," he joked.
Kurt laughed, turning around in his arms so they were face-to-face. "You mean, post-graduate."
"Mm-hmm," Blaine assented, taking a sip of the warm drink. Everything was warm in this house, especially the boy in his arms. "It's delicious."
"It's bitter and gross," Kurt argued, laughing again. "I like mine with chocolate, whipped cream, and vanilla."
"That makes sense. It's sweet, like you," Blaine murmured, still high from his shower. His mouth was less filtered than his coffee.
Kurt flushed under his intense gaze. "I'm not sure how to respond to that."
That comment broke him out of his daze, and he pulled his arm away, very aware of the touch suddenly. "Sorry," Blaine breathed, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Don't be," Kurt protested. He'd immediately missed the warmth of the embrace, but there was no way he was going to start another one. "Your coffee order is nothing like you. I wouldn't call you bitter or gross."
"Your brother called me an old man," Blaine repeated, chuckling.
"I wouldn't call you that, either," Kurt replied, appalled. "I need to have a talk with him."
Blaine bit his lip to contain his smile as Kurt heaped sugar and cream into his coffee. "If it helps his case, it was more amusing than offensive."
The boy took a sip, sighing at the sweet, familiar taste. "I'm going to let it go, but only because I've missed caffeine, and this is heavenly."
"Remind me to get you coffee first if I ever need a favour from you," Blaine teased, following with his eyes as Kurt lifted the mug again and wrapped his rosy lips around it. He swallowed.
"Grande non-fat mocha from the Lima Bean," Kurt recited with a grin, "and a banana muffin if you really need something."
"I'll keep that in mind," Blaine said, tapping his head with a finger. His features morphed into a more serious expression as he remembered what he'd decided on in the shower. "Kurt?"
"Hmm?"
"What did Santana tell you that made you so upset?"
Kurt bit his lip, setting his mug down on the counter. "Do you really want to know?"
"I asked."
"She, um…"
The boy dug his nails into his palm without thought. Blaine took his hand, smoothening the indents, and shook his head, saying, "Don't do that. You don't have to tell me anything, but please, don't hurt yourself."
At the feeling of the man's fingers stroking along his palm, Kurt sighed. "She told me that Finn told her about… well, everything that happened to me. Not just the parts I told her."
Blaine's muscles tensed evidently. "You mean…"
"Yes." Kurt leaned forward, setting his forehead on Blaine's firm shoulder. A pair of arms came around him, and his frown softened. "I'm not mad at either of them. I just wish it had been in my control. I would have told her eventually."
A beat passed. "Would you have?"
Another. Kurt shook his head against Blaine, the smooth material of his own shirt on the man's body cushioning his skin. "No, probably not."
"Would you-" Blaine hesitated, a hand coming up to caress the boy's hair. "Would you have told me? If I hadn't…"
"I don't know, Blaine," Kurt answered honestly. "I wouldn't want you to know, but I might have told you, anyway."
"But why?"
He shrugged. "For transparency? So you could decide if you wanted to keep wasting your time with me?"
A deep frown engraved itself into Blaine's forehead. "Don't say that. I've never wasted a second of my time when I was with you. And knowing about your history hasn't changed my feelings for you, not one bit."
Kurt's heart went haywire, pounding in his chest and ears and neck and wrist. "Your… feelings for me?" He could feel the man's heavy breathing, shoulders rising and falling, rising and falling like the waves against a cliff at high tide.
"My desire for you to… to be," Blaine clarified, fingers playing with strands of chestnut hair. "The world would be lost without you, Kurt Hummel."
"Yeah?" Kurt breathed, pulling back to watch his face. "Well, Kurt Hummel would be lost without you." His breath skirted across Blaine's cheek, a warm, tender movement that drew them closer, an unmistakable pull. Kurt's eyes roamed Blaine's face, his twisted hair down to his thick eyebrows down to his strong nose down to his soft lips… and back up to his eyes, the kind of chocolate that would come wrapped in a golden cover.
"I…" Blaine murmured as his eyelids drooped lazily. His lips parted, a pink tongue darting out to lick along them as his gaze wandered. "Oh."
Suddenly, there was clear and painful conflict visible in Blaine's eyes, the kind he would have hidden by looking away if there wasn't that magnetic attraction between them again. The sight of it confused Kurt to no end – what could possibly be causing it? Whatever it was that was causing him so much confusion, Kurt wanted to grab it and toss it far, far away, like kryptonite.
Blaine made to move away, but Kurt held onto him, pulling him closer. "What is it, Blaine?" he asked, willing the man to be honest through their connected gaze. "Why won't you just…"
"I can't," he croaked, voice breaking at the end like a pencil tip, pressed too hard.
Kurt loosened his grip, guilt filling his gut. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"
"No," Blaine interrupted, the word tumbling out of his throat as his arms came back around the boy. "You don't understand. I can't."
"I don't understand, because you won't tell me!" Kurt growled, fingers forcing into Blaine's shoulders, desperate and confused. "I can't play games, Blaine. Not about this."
"I should go," Blaine announced suddenly, arms pulling back and wrapping around his own torso. He looked scared, like a child who'd lost his parents in a mall. A big world of possibilities, no one to guild him through it. He took a step backwards towards the door without turning.
Filling that step with his own feet, Kurt shook his head. "No, you shouldn't. I refuse to let you run away from me, Blaine Anderson. Not when it took me so long to find you."
Blaine swallowed around the knot in his throat. "I'm not running away, Kurt. I just need some air."
"You look like you're never going to come back," Kurt shot back.
Blaine didn't reply.
Upset, Kurt flared his nostrils. "Alright, fine. If that's how you want this to end, so be it."
The man's hands came up to fist his hair, and he groaned. "What do you want from me?"
"You know what I want, Blaine." Kurt stared him in the eyes, bold, honest, exactly what he needed to be for himself. "You know exactly what I want from you. You have for a while."
Blaine collapsed against the wall, hiding his face in his hands. "Yeah, I have."
"And you don't…" Kurt's throat constricted. "You don't want the same thing."
A tear slid down Blaine's cheek. "Of course, I want the same thing."
Kurt's fist unclenched. His muscles relaxed. Every ounce of despair in his body seeped out from under his skin. All that was left was tired, tired yearning. He breathed deeply through his nose. "Then why?" he asked.
"I can't," said the man.
"Why not?"
"I can't," Blaine repeated slowly, hoping frantically that Kurt would understand him. "I…"
He had no idea if Kurt understood as the boy took another step closer, no idea as he placed his hand over where his fingernails had dug into his own t-shirt over Blaine's skin and smoothened it with his fingertips, no idea as he reached his hand up further to cup Blaine's face, scraping along his stubbly cheek with intent.
He had a bit of an idea when Kurt brought his face an inch away from his – then, he hesitated for just a moment, waiting for Blaine's tiny, imperceptible nod – and a lot of an idea when their lips met in a searing kiss. Blaine's hands immediately found Kurt's waist, pressing into his lower back, bringing them even closer together if that was possible
Kurt sighed into the kiss, a pleased little noise that told of a lifetime of waiting coming to an end. His soft lips, inexperienced and exploring, turned Blaine's heart to silk as they mapped out the crevasses of his mouth. Kurt's fingers continued their trail along his cheek, playing with the hints of hair along his jaw, following down his neck as his lips pressed harder and more confidently against Blaine's. The man let him take control entirely, allowing himself to be kissed within an inch of his life, back pressed against the wall.
It was Kurt who pulled away eventually, just far enough that their foreheads balanced their weights between them. Blaine pressed two more kisses to his face, one to each closed eyelid. They fluttered open once he was done his attentiveness, a brighter shade of blue than Blaine had ever seen in his life. "Woah," the boy whispered once he had regained the ability to speak. "That was…"
"Like coming home," Blaine finished, hands wandering up and down Kurt's back. He shivered at the touch, the tremor rushing through his torso like a sparkler atop a birthday cake.
"Exactly," Kurt murmured, bringing his face even closer. He pressed another trial kiss against Blaine's lips, smiling into it as he confirmed what he'd suspected. Kissing Blaine was perfection. "Mmm. Home."
"I could do this forever," Blaine said, stealing another one. And another. And another. They broke apart for air, but it was like it wasn't even necessary anymore.
"So could I," Kurt echoed, an arm sliding around his neck. His nose pressed into that space, and he took a deep breath, taking in the scent of coffee, lavender, and freshly showered skin. "You smell like me."
"I used your shampoo," he explained, reveling in the feeling of a warm body against him – not just any body, but Kurt.
The boy pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. "I like it. I prefer your usual smell because it's so uniquely you, but it's like… it's like I'm a part of you."
"Oh, Kurt," Blaine breathed, tilting his head to give him more space. "You are a part of me. Ever since that first day we met, you have been."
Wetness bloomed against his skin. Kurt looked up at him, tears looming in his eyes. "This is all I wanted. Why did it take us so long?"
"Hey, shh," Blaine soothed, wiping the tears away with his thumb. "I'm sorry. It was my fault. I couldn't… I couldn't be the one to kiss you first, Kurt. I was too afraid that you wouldn't be able to say no to me, even if you wanted to."
Kurt nodded. "I understand. I wish I had realized sooner. But I was scared, too, for a different reason – you know I've never done anything like this before. I didn't know how to kiss you first."
Blaine's thumb landed on his chin, pushing it down so their faces were aligned. "I don't care that you're new to whatever this is between us, okay?" he conveyed. "I will be here for you, always. As your friend, as more, whichever one you need."
"Okay," Kurt repeated, cheeks flushed and mouth puffy. "Um, could we be… more?"
Blaine's smiling eyes looked up at him through thick, black eyelashes, and he answered by bringing them together once again, pressing a fierce kiss to his lips. Once they pulled apart, he decided to make it even more clear. "Yes, Kurt," he murmured as they caught their breaths. "We can be whatever you want us to be."
At that moment, the only thought running through Kurt's mind was what he wanted them to be: everything.
And they already were.