content warning: strong language, homophobic slur, explicit sexual content, mentions of death

Chapter 2: In Them and Not in Me

I overhear that Kurt spent some of his break with Kitty and Bowie. I haven't really given consideration to what he did during that time, but I certainly didn't imagine him in similar parties I went to. Of course David would migrate towards San Francisco. He came out as bi in an interview last year, didn't he? I remember the uproar that caused, how it's still not over and how righteous American parents are telling their children not to listen to his music. David's got balls. It could have destroyed his career if he wasn't so talented.

It'd ruin The Warblers if any one of us was gay and the word got out. Suddenly, all the lyrics would no longer be just lyrics, but the listeners would look at them to find all the gay undertones, parents would forbid their kids from coming to our shows, Christians would be outside boycotting us with hate-filled slogans for corrupting America's youth. Everything we do would be connected to that one band member liking cock.

Luckily, none of us are gay.

Considering Kurt's sudden mingling with international rock stars, you'd think he'd be back flaunting it in my face. But he's not. I don't know what to do with his snappy but sad "Someone close to me died". How do I say I'm sorry when I don't even know who it is? And he certainly wouldn't even tell me if I asked.

I can't sleep, so I end up listening to the hum of the bus and staring at the ceiling. I can hear voices, so not everyone's in bed. Beiste is driving us to New Orleans, and Kurt disappeared to his bunk before we took off, so I know he is just on the other side of the door. Someone died. That's why he was late. That's why he was upset. Not me. Not what happened between us.

Maybe it's an ex-boyfriend. He's never talked about any relationships he's had, but he must have had a few, unless it's all casual sex. I wonder if David fucked him. I hope not. David's wife flew over last that I heard, so he's probably trying to play the whole husband thing right now, anyway. Maybe it was Kurt's grandmother, but everyone expects old people to die. Kurt looked anything but at peace with it.

Just then, I hear the sound of a bunk curtain opening, followed by the soft thud of feet landing on the floor. The steps lead the other way, but I am pretty sure that was Kurt's bunk. I haphazardly reach for the wristwatch I left on top of my pile of clothes; the bus is so damn hot that sleeping in the nude is the only way to go. I can't see what time it is in the dark, but it must be the middle of the night. Kurt can't sleep either.

I pull the covers off, locating jeans on the floor and pulling them on. Murmured voices and laughter are floating through my door, sounds like Nick and Puck catching up. I hear an excited voice. Seb. My three bandmates hanging out without me. I have no desire to join them.

Instead, I card my hair and wait for the telltale increase of volume when the bunk area door is reopened and their voices are louder, followed by quiet steps all the way to my door where they stop.

I stare at the door, palms sweating.

Kurt's not climbing into his bunk. He is standing just on the other side.

I picture him with his knuckles raised, tentatively hovering over the wooden surface of the door. My eyes dart to the side, to the innocent patch of wall that he slammed me against before getting down on his knees.

I forgot the way he makes the room feel hotter than it is. He isn't even in the room.

This is why I didn't want to come back on tour.

My fingers curl around the doorknob, ready to open it when he knocks. I am listening so intently that I could hear a pin drop. No one would notice him coming back here. We could be discreet.

A sound, and I flinch, my breath hitching.

I hear a curtain drawing closed. Kurt has climbed back into his bunk.

My fingers loosen around the doorknob reluctantly.

Kurt's not any better the next day. He looks tired and confused and sad, playing solitaire crossed-legged on the backstage floor, the cards laid out in front of him as he hunches over the game. I keep sketching him into my notebook, crude lines, crossing out different versions because he keeps moving. I'm not much of an artist, anyway.

Tours always involve a lot of waiting around. Ryder does his best to keep us entertained, making sure there's a TV somewhere for us to watch or a guitar we can play or a party we can attend (though we are not allowed to party too hard). But despite our manager's best efforts, we still end up hanging around, waiting for soundcheck, waiting for the show. Usually, Kurt finds a guitar and plays his favorite songs. He is talented as fuck. He can listen to the radio, hear a song once, and then be able to figure it out on the guitar or the piano. I can't do that. If Kurt's not playing, he's cracking jokes or drinking up with Mason. I've never seen him playing solitaire before.

I give up trying to sketch him, closing the notebook and sliding it into my back pocket. The backstage area is busy, our band socializing with Seb's admirers who have gathered outside the dressing room. That man always manages to find a crowd. No, it's not him finding one, it's him actively searching for one. He needs others to feel good about himself. If he got locked in a room by himself for one hour, he'd probably go insane. Kurt isn't taking part and neither am I.

I walk over to our roadie and flop down, sitting opposite him and crossing my legs. The concrete feels cold beneath my ass. Kurt looks up from his cards, arching an eyebrow at me.

"Let's see if you've learned any poker yet," I tell him, fucking up his game as I gather the cards and start shuffling them.

"I was winning that."

"Sure you were," I say with a roll of my eyes. He only sighs. Where's the bitchy reply? The snide remark? "Stud poker?" I offer, and he shrugs indifferently. "We'll play for cigarettes." I'm always running low on them, anyway, and he just shrugs again. I deal the cards, and we start playing silently.

I know I should be worrying about the rumored European tour. I think Ryder's been avoiding me all day, knowing I'm going to break his neck if I find out there is some truth in it. But right now, all I can think about is the man sitting in front of me.

I hear someone say my name, and I look over to the guys sitting on amp cases and other equipment, liquor bottles in their hands, whistling at the cute cleaner whenever she walks by. I don't really feel like drinking.

A young woman is looking our way, her long hair hanging to her waist, and Seb places a hand on her arm and says, "Blaine's not one for company." He says it loud enough for me to hear. Asshole.

"I've heard," the groupie says sadly, eyes lingering on me, and I look away and focus back on the game. I've got that reputation now: the mysterious hermit. Somehow, it makes the fans even crazier and the groupies pushier. Like they could somehow walk in and charm me, take one look at me and have me figured out. I'd like to think I have more layers than that.

Kurt still isn't any good at poker. He owes me three packs of cigarettes when I finally say, "So who was it?" He only stares at the cards between us. "Who died?"

He scratches his forehead, eyes going between his dealt hand and the cards on the floor. "My mother. Hey, is a full house better than four of a kind?"

I stare at him silently. "No."

He says nothing. I chew on my lower lip, and we're still holding our cards, but I doubt he's paying attention. He's not even looking at his cards now, instead he's staring into nothing. I didn't know what to say when I had no idea who it was, and I don't know what to say now that I do. I can't relate. I was hoping that it had been a grandparent, for instance, or his father since I have such a rocky relationship with mine. But my mom and I aren't really close either. I don't know where she is half the time and vice versa. The thing is, I thought Kitty said his mom died years ago, so how come it's affecting him now?

"You wanna talk about it?"

He smiles crookedly. "Not really."

"Thought you didn't keep in touch with your family." I try getting some information out of him.

Kurt wipes his nose. "I don't. I should really stop playing before I owe you ten packs."

"Doesn't matter," I tell him, getting up quickly as he stands up. He's not looking me in the eye. "Was she sick?"

"My mom? Yeah. I don't – she went into remission only to die in a car crash. That's what I heard. Shit luck, right?" he asks, voice too neutral to cover up the fact that he is trying hard to sound like he doesn't care. He sounds scared shitless.

"Come on," I offer quietly, maybe even beckoning, though I'd never admit to that.

We go to the dressing room, and I snatch the beer bottle that Matt offers me on the way. I hope it's not too suspicious, me hanging out with Kurt like this. But it's not me hanging out with the faggot as such. It's more me not hanging out with them.

The dressing room is empty, though it sounds like Puck is fucking someone in the bathroom. I wonder what Quinn would say to that, if she thinks Puck is faithful. Poor Quinn. She's the kind of girl all the guys will fuck, but not a single one of them refrains from screwing someone on the side. It's like we just somehow know she has plans of leaving, and when she goes, packing her shit and heading for the door, she's not taking a single one of us with her. I'm fine with that. I doubt Puck is.

Kurt and I sit in the dressing room quietly, on different couches. We lean over the coffee table when we pass a joint back and forth. I'm not telling him to talk about his mother's death, though I am curious, but neither am I leaving him alone out here. Whatever. He can soak up some of my energy, but it's probably not calming as we're nearing the time of going on stage again and I feel more and more anxious.

Kurt keeps staring somewhere far away, not even reacting when Puck comes out of the bathroom with a brunette who can barely walk. A virgin. Well, not any more. Her pupils look blown. How old is she? Sixteen? And how old is Puck? Twenty-three?

"Let's go talk to Ryder," Puck says, and she follows, trying to walk without wavering but failing, either from an intense orgasm, which is unlikely, or from having a thick cock ramming into her repeatedly. She manages a somewhat straight line for the door, and that's the last we'll see of her. 'Talking to Ryder' is universal code for 'Ryder, I'm done with this one, get her out of here'. Ryder always does. He's not that bad at what he does, really.

The rest of the band joins us in the dressing room once the support band gets on stage. The freeloaders pour in too, and Puck has already moved onto the next girl. I used to do the same thing, but the novelty wore off three years ago.

Ryder is giving us a pep talk on how we'll be fine and how much we'll rock. Kurt has closed in on himself, knees raised in front of him on the couch. He looks so damn tiny.

"This touring isn't too bad, is it?" Ryder asks tentatively. "You're meant for this. I think we could even tour some more this year." Maybe he thinks he's being smooth, but he's not. At all.

Seb and Puck are nodding thoughtfully, Nick looks pondering, and I sit up straighter. "Is this about the European tour?"

Seb's eyes widen. "We're going to Europe? Far out! When we leaving?"

"Rock on!" Puck says enthusiastically, lifting his beer bottle. The groupies, fans and roadies cheer, clapping enthusiastically. The instant buzz is there, in them and not in me. A girl, who is wearing flower-embroidered bell jeans with a pink bikini top, hugs Seb, her long blond hair sweeping her bare back. I think she's Seb's regular fuck in this town.

"I've missed London!" Seb says with a bright grin, and that's it. That's enough.

I stand up and bark, "We're not going to fucking Europe!"

Everyone quiets down instantly, wide eyes landing on me. The excited buzz fades. We had a plan: spend the summer on the road, take the rest of the year off.

Ryder clears his throat. "Everyone out except for the band!" He claps his hands. "Go on!"

I watch Kurt get up from the couch, his soulful, now grey eyes locking with mine for a second before he looks away, shoulders slumped as he heads for the door.

Once everyone but the five of us are gone, the door closing behind Beiste, Ryder motions us to sit down. Puck sits next to me, Seb and Nick on the couch opposite. Ryder keeps his hands on his hips. He is wearing enormous sunglasses with brown lenses, and we're indoors, for god's sake. I know he is trying to put a wall between himself and my anger.

"Europe. Thoughts? Concerns? Let's talk," Ryder says with a confidence inducing smile. He believes that everything can be solved with words.

"I dunno, man..." Nick begins uncertainly after a long silence. He's got his newborn daughter, of course, but he is not objecting as fiercely as I expected him to. Seb's shoulders are tense and he is glaring at me angrily.

"Listen," Ryder says, holding his hands in front of his chest in a calming gesture. What follows is a long speech he undoubtedly had prepared, one in which he tells us just how much money we could make there. The money. Since when has it been about that? Ryder promises us luxury treatment, screaming fans, French groupies, prestige, glory, and it's Europe. Goodbye, U-fucking-S, we're going across the pond.

We've been there before, and I didn't get what the fuss was about.

"I've been talking with the label, and we've been thinking about this. A two-month tour, kicking off in October right up to December. You'd be back for Christmas. Fifty shows or so, the schedule a bit tighter than this one. Think of the experience. And, also, we've been thinking about recording some of the shows and putting out a live record. Huh? Sounds good, right? The Warblers in Concert! The kids would eat it right up!"

There it is: my fears materialized. The label wants us to conquer Europe.

"No," I hiss, shaking my head.

"B, listen to me! It'd –"

"NO!" I bark loudly, glaring at my bandmates and manager. "This is not in the contract!"

Ryder's smile falters slightly. "No. It's not."

"Then I'm not fucking doing it," I state simply, shrugging. Puck shoots me a glare. Oh, he wants to go to Europe, does he? Does he think that'll impress Quinn? She was in Paris this summer. She has seen the world herself. Puck has to do a lot more than tour Europe to impress her. He would have to be me, for one thing.

"This band is not a dictatorship," Seb snaps, "and I want to go to Europe."

"Me too," Puck declares.

I stare at them in astonishment. I'm the frontman, I'm the lyricist, I'm the vocalist. The article last month talked about 'Blaine Anderson and The Warblers', causing Seb to throw a bitchfest, but they had a point. If I'm not going to Europe, then no one is going to Europe.

Nick looks thoughtful, eyes cast downwards. "The experience might do us good," he mutters.

"What?" I spit. Nick wants to go to Europe too? What about Vicky and Suzie?

For the first time since Memphis, I realize that Nick looks a bit off. It's not as obvious as it is with Kurt, who looks like he has been dragged through hell with his dead eyes and paler-than-usual appearance. Nick looks like he did before: his stubble still lining his chin, but his hair a bit shorter. Vicky always used to cut his hair and clearly still does. But when I walked in on the Duvals in Cincinnati, Nick was so goddamn proud. He looked happy in a way I had never seen him, when he finally had something I or this band could never offer.

I've known Nick long enough to catch the way his fingers now curl around the drumsticks in his left hand: uncertainly and too firmly, not with the easy confidence he has. But if he wants to go to Europe, it's not the band he's unsure about. I know when I've seen the same nervous grip.

He's fought with Vicky.

"You can't tour without me," I point out, hoping the fight was bad, that Vicky is filing for divorce, that maybe Suzie isn't Nick's but the mailman's. She had Nick's nose, though, and I wonder what losing that little girl would do to Nick. I don't want that either.

"Are you suggesting the rest of us are replaceable?" Puck asks, the displeasure clear in his tone. I stop looking at Nick and find my bassist's angry eyes pouring into me.

"Of course he isn't!" Ryder intervenes. "You're all just as valuable, the four of you. The Warblers needs you all."

"If someone here is replaceable, it's Blaine," Seb now says, and my eyebrows quite easily lift to my hairline. "We all know he's the least popular member."

"Excuse me?" I ask.

Seb shrugs easily, but he looks pleased. "When it comes to the fans, you are definitely the least popular."

That is so not true. They adore me. They scream my name in the front row, wait outside hotels for me, knock on my hotel door in the middle of the night, offer me beers and joints and sex. Anything for five minutes or a lock of my hair. I scoff loudly to make sure everyone present knows that Seb's claims are ridiculous.

"They love me," I state matter-of-factly. During our break in LA, I noticed just how much they love me. Then I start thinking of the show last night. The kids kept screaming Seb, didn't they? I noticed that because it caught me by surprise.

"Ever since we started this tour, your reputation has been on a downward spiral," Seb notes. "They talk, you know. The fans. Call radio stations to discuss the Warblers shows, not to mention now that we've got a handful of kids following us from town to town, our actions have consequences. And they used to say you were reserved, but now they all flat out know you're rude and arrogant. Fans don't like that, no matter how genius Rolling Stone says you are. Kids want someone to idolize, someone who embraces them. Not someone who disowns them."

"And I guess you embrace them, huh?" I ask irately, and Seb nods. It's not a competition for popularity and money. "Music isn't about those things," I argue, but their faces are priceless, like I've said that I believe in world peace or that the communist threat has been exaggerated.

Seb states, "They might let you do what you want because you're suddenly as famous as some of the big old names, but that doesn't mean they don't know you're a shitty human being."

"Seb, that's more than enough," Ryder says firmly. The blow is too low for me to even respond to. I just lean back into the couch, having nothing to say. If Seb wants to take the one thing I've ever loved – music – and make it void, rob it of its importance to me, then he has reached a new level of assholeness, and I won't let myself sink as low as to retaliate.

An ominous silence lands on us, broken only when I say, "I need to take a leak."

They don't try to stop me as I go to the bathroom where Puck fucked a virgin not that long ago. Ryder looks guilty, and even Nick lets me walk away just like that.

We were waiting for an explosion. Usually, Seb snaps something, I fight back, Puck offers a mediocre comment that demonstrates his infinite stupidity while Nick pacifies and Ryder tries to declare truce. But this one didn't go that way.

Once inside the bathroom, I flip down the toilet seat lid and sit down, burying my face in my hands and closing my eyes. The audience cheers back in the hall. The support band must have just finished a kick ass song, and I can hear the commotion through the concrete walls. It's like a tidal wave, from the crowd's open mouths and air-filled lungs, soaring out and onwards, pouring onto the stage and running backstage along the corridors, leaking under doors and roaring in my ears. My hands shake as I fiddle with a lighter, a half-empty cigarette pack now resting on my knee.

Is this it? I refuse to go to Europe and we break up? Or will they throw me out? Could they do that? Popularity... It won't be the same music without me. I am the main songwriter, so they couldn't... Would Nick even back me up?

I hear my band talking on the other side of the door, but it's not argumentative or sympathetic; it's just murmurs I can't make out. The support band kicks into a new song loudly, causing me to almost miss the sharp knock on the bathroom door. Nick. Is he planning to be that supportive, sane part of me? He hasn't tried stepping up to that role yet.

I inhale the cigarette and sigh, breathing out and watching the smoke swirl. I locked the door out of habit, and as I stand up, I study my worn out reflection in the bathroom mirror. My long fingers tremble around the cigarette, and I focus on it until my hand stops shaking. I brush brown locks behind my ear with my free hand. The counter is littered with makeup and hair products, none of which I've used. Most are Seb's.

I lean against the wall close to the door, reaching out to turn the lock like it's a particularly hard task. My wrist feels powerless. I hear the soft 'click' and it opens automatically, inching forward slightly. I bring the cigarette to my lips, having prepared a dozen snarky comebacks for Nick, like 'So how's the married life going?' or 'A few states isn't far enough from your wife, is it?', but instead Kurt walks in, closing the door behind himself and locking it again.

"What?" I ask the roadie.

He sighs dramatically but keeps his eyes nailed to his shoes. "I'm here to talk to you."

"About?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. Ryder said that I should come talk to you, said he thinks I've got a calming effect on you." He finally looks up, his bottom lip uncertainly between his teeth. "Do I?"

I don't know if he wants me to say he does. "Do you?" I ask quietly.

"I don't think I know you well enough to say."

He leans against the counter. There is something soothing in his posture, so maybe Ryder is right.

I finish the cigarette with one, final drag, dropping it onto the floor and stomping on it. Kurt looks like I shouldn't litter the bathroom floor. I ask, "Would you want to? Know me well enough, I mean."

Kurt smiles crookedly. "I'm not sure."

I wasn't offering, anyway.

Ryder probably wanted him to come in and tell me why a European tour sounds like a great idea, or talk me into not quitting or at least going on stage. Start out with something small. Kurt's not doing it, though. He pushes himself up to sit on the counter, feet dangling off the floor. He's clearly content on us not speaking, but when it comes to him, I can't hold my peace.

"It's just bullshit," I blurt out angrily. "All of this is fucking bullshit. I need a break, not another tour."

"I've never been outside the country. Well, except for Canada now. But I think it'd be nice, going to Europe."

"It's not like you get to actually see any of the countries. It's just hotel rooms and venues except that you can't understand what anyone says and the fans are crazier and creepier and the drugs are stronger."

"I'd love to have a job that enabled me to travel."

"It's not a job. It's a way of life. They think it's a job, but I know it's more than that."

He casts me a long look. "Maybe that's the problem."

He's probably right.

He leans against the wall by his side, his neck longer as he tilts his head, light brown hair shifting in front of his eyes. We keep up the eye contact, and I feel the bathroom shrinking. "I don't want to be on this tour either," he whispers. It shouldn't surprise me, but somehow, it does. We all assume that getting chosen to be our roadie must be the best thing that's ever happened to Kurt. "I just want to go home."

"Where's home?" I ask quietly.

"No idea. I just..." he begins and breathes in deep. He closes his eyes, a frown on his face. He licks his lips. He probably doesn't mean to, or at least he's not aware of it, but my eyes lock on the pink tongue swiping over his lower lip before it disappears. I shift restlessly. God, he's distracting. "Life feels insignificant. People drop like flies. You spend- You spend your entire life trying to be something, and then you just die. For no good reason." His head droops as he adds, "I just want to stop thinking about it."

"Your late mother?"

He nods tiredly, his lips twitching downwards in the corners. "Life, family, this tour... But I'm stuck here. I just need to deal with that."

"I'm stuck here too. I could –" I begin, rushing it out too fast like I'm nervous. I stop myself quickly, but he still looks up, a wondering look in his eyes. "I could help you take your mind off of those things." I'm not sure if he knows I'm quoting him at first, but he must know as his face flashes with a darker look. I step towards him, my eyes darting to the lock to make sure no one can barge in. "Would you like that?"

He sits up straighter on the counter. I can see myself reflected in the mirror behind him. I'm surprised by how predatory I look.

"That's not a good idea," he says, but his voice is lower than it was a second ago. Good. If he can't get me out of his head either, then...

I step closer, my hands resting on his knees. He's got skinny knees; I can feel the bones through the fabric and skin. God, I've waited all this time just to touch him.

Having sex with him once makes it impossible not to see him in that light. Even when he's playing guitar, drinking beer, hauling gear back onto the bus, he's not just Kurt. He's the Kurt I fucked. I know what he sounds like when he comes, a helpless groan deep from his chest, pupils widening. I know. And having done it once, I just want to do it again, see how much more helpless I could make him sound, how hard I could make him come.

"Why isn't it a good idea?"

Kurt smiles. "Because you're trouble, Blaine Anderson."

Me? Trouble? Hell, I could've told him that. His right hand lands on mine on his knee, calloused fingertips brushing my knuckles and closing around my wrist. "And what if...?" he begins but trails off, sounding younger than he is.

"I'm just offering a distraction. For us both."

My eyes are locked on his mouth, his pink bottom lip. My stomach burns, my breaths deeper and faster.

"Fuck," he whispers in disbelief, but I don't know what he can't wrap his mind around: my actions or the lust that I can hear in his tone.

I pull his knees apart without waiting for an invite. He leans forward to capture my lips as I step between his legs, my hands moving to his hips as I pull him closer.

Twenty-four hours. I managed to resist him for a day. Really, I should congratulate myself for showing such restraint.

Kurt's mouth opens up for me, pliant and unfamiliar. I don't recognize his taste, maybe because I told myself to forget. The stubble on his chin is long, slightly irritating against the skin around my mouth, but I kiss him harder. I can hear the music being played on stage, muddled and muted, and I hear the crew and the band talking behind the door. Kurt sighs against my lips, not nearly as aggressive as I am being. I take bites at his mouth desperately, pulling on his bottom lip until he groans.

My hands are restless on him, his clothes in the way when I want to touch him. His legs wrap around me hurriedly, his crotch pressed to me. The last time, his kissing was as rough as mine. Now it isn't. His hands run up my arms and to my neck, one cupping the back of my head and bringing me closer. The kisses are just as deep and urgent, but not aggressive. They settle hard in my guts, making my skin burn.

The kiss breaks when Kurt shifts, legs wrapping around me tighter, pulling me in. "You gonna ignore me afterwards?" he asks against my lips, voice a rough whisper. I don't think he knows how erotic his voice is like that. "Ashamed you fucked a guy again?" He looks at me with wondering eyes.

My hand moves between us, stopping on his thigh for a hesitating second before going up to cup his cock. The outline of his erection burns hot against my hand, trapped between his jeans and thigh.

"I can do whatever I want," I tell him. As long as no one knows. The back of my neck feels heated. He noticed the shame, did he? But my lust for him, the desire and the burn, isn't going anywhere, even if I could barely look at my reflection the morning after in Florida, thinking 'You had sex with another man and liked it. You're disgusting'. But I didn't feel disgusted, and that was why my reflection was taunting me. My peace with the act. Still, there is nothing peaceful about Kurt: whenever he walks into the room, a war is declared inside me.

It's not the sex that's the problem.

I keep palming him through his jeans, mind racing as I think of what girls have done for me, what I've liked. His breathing is shaky, his cheeks rosy. I trace the outline of his cock, thumb pressing the underside, index finger pressing the top. Fuck, I can't stop now.

"B," he says breathily, one hand on the side of my face. We kiss hungrily, and I feel his cock twitch beneath my hand.

"Come on," I rush out, having absolutely no patience. I step back and pull him with me. He slides off the counter, feet finding the floor. I fist his hair to bring us together, our lips crashing, a little awkward since he's taller than me but it works.

"Around," I tell him from the midst of feverish kisses. My hands unbuckle his belt, quickly moving to unzip him and pull his jeans down. He turns around, and I try not to groan. God, I want him. I look over his shoulder and into the mirror where a guy who looks like me is standing behind him in a compromising position. I press my crotch to his ass, trying not to shiver from lust.

My eyes focus on the large bulge of Kurt's blue briefs. In the mirror, I see my hand sliding to rest on his lower stomach, on the stripe of skin exposed, fingers flexing and wanting to move down to cup him. I stop watching. I flush myself against him, my nose pressed to the side of his neck, body thrumming. Kurt jerks and pushes against me, a needy sigh escaping his lips. He must feel how hard I am. I suck on his neck, inhaling his scent. Want, want, want...

Kurt lets out a guttural groan as my fingers press into the soft skin of his stomach. I'm itching to move my hand down to cup him, to feel him hot and hard beneath my hand, rub him, touch his cock and hear him moan. I don't, though.

I take a step back and yank his briefs over his ass. My stomach drops, my insides dripping with heat. Kurt instantly leans forward, offering himself to me as he spreads his legs the little he can, his palms pressed against the counter. He is breathing hard, anticipating. I watch the curve of his back, the way I can almost see muscles shifting beneath his red t-shirt. My eyes dart downwards, focusing on his pale behind that is now revealed.

I always thought that I was mostly a tits kind of guy, but god. He has got the most perfect ass: full, firm and smooth.

My hands fly to my zipper faster than I can acknowledge. Need to get my cock out, need to be inside him. Now.

Kurt groans at the back of his throat as I take a hold of his hips and roughly pull him to me, my achingly hard cock now trapped between us and pressed against him. My pants are down to mid-thigh and out of the way.

My eyes land on the mirror again, and I can see his hard cock, flushed and curved upwards in front of him. He leans against my chest, his head dropping onto my shoulder. The view in the mirror is mesmerizing – Kurt in my arms with his jeans pulled down, his chest rising and falling rapidly, me looming over his shoulder with a dark gaze in my eyes, my starving hands on him. This one man on display just for me.

I thrust against his ass for friction, and he cranes his neck to kiss me as I meet him halfway. It's a dirty kiss. It's a dirty situation. I hear Seb's laughter echo through the door, but it's the panting, the small gasps and the wet smacks that ring louder in my ears. We're rushing it again. Kurt wants to not think about his problems? Fine. I will provide that with the best ten-minute fuck he's ever gotten. Before they get suspicious. Before they come breathing down my neck, telling me to justify this one, justify Kurt. I can't.

I break the kiss, my hands on his ass and massaging. I cup him, the soft flesh perfect to the touch. My cock is pressed between us, the pink head pointing upwards, a clear drop of pre-come at the tip. Kurt shudders against me.

"You want me?" I whisper into his ear, my voice deeper than I expected.

I move one hand to the base of my cock and rub myself against him, running the swollen head along his crack teasingly. Kurt's head remains on my shoulder, and he licks his lips, eyes closed. "Y-Yes," he chokes out. "Please."

I wasn't expecting him to admit it, but fuck, it makes me even harder he does.

I snatch his earlobe between my teeth, sucking on it briefly. "Lean forward."

Kurt obeys, leaning over the counter slightly. I spread his cheeks, my brain humming. The air is thick with want. I have never felt so fucking urgent with anyone before.

"Use this," he says hurriedly, turning back and offering a bottle of hand lotion. Lemon scented. It's Seb's, something about keeping his hands soft for the chicks and for his own masturbation sessions. I take the bottle quickly, frustrated. Chicks lubricate themselves. Couldn't Kurt just grit his teeth and take me?

When two of my lotion-covered fingers slip past Kurt's tight ring of muscle, I forget to be frustrated. He moans, trying to keep quiet, his muscles squeezing around my fingers. He is just as tight as I remembered.

My aching cock is steadily poking his ass cheek as my fingers work him open. His brows are furrowed as his breathing gets shallower. I poured too much lotion and it's too slick and messy, my palm and fingers and his hole smeared with it, but god. He pushes against my hand needily, my fingers slipping in deeper. I keep twisting my fingers to get a reaction.

The mirror reflects us, the way he is bending forwards, bracing himself as he gets fingered. I study him, the way his fingers claw the counter. "You fucked anyone during the break?"

"Yeah," he groans, not even needing to pause. Fuck. He licks his lips, eyes closed.

"How many?"

"Just the one."

I pull my fingers out. I barely stretched him but I don't care. "How was he?" I ask, my mind flashing with images of Kurt getting fucked, him coming and groaning and shaking. Jesus.

I align my cock with his hole, spreading his cheeks clumsily with one hand. My cock brushes over his wet entrance, teasing. Kurt pushes back in vain.

"He was alright," he manages breathily. "He – Oh. Oh, god." I've pushed the tip of my cock into him. He freezes up, anticipating the rest. It's killing me, how tight he is around me, how I want to ram in the whole way and thrust and fuck until we come. My palms are sweating as I grip his hips, my forehead pressing to the nape of his neck as I lean forward to be closer to him. My thighs are pressed to the backs of his legs, but I am only one inch inside him. I am barely keeping it together.

"Tell me more."

"Please –"

"Tell me," I order, biting onto his neck where there already is a fresh bruise.

"In San Francisco. A club corner. Everyone fucks in the corners, so - This tall guy, muscles and tattoos. He fucked me against the wall."

I slide in further, making us both moan. Sweat rolls down my neck, my mind flashing as I picture Kurt's moans getting lost in the bad music played in the gay club, the way Kurt pushed back to get more cock, like he is doing now. I'd love to see him get fucked.

I make sure to look at us in the mirror to capture the moment I push in all the way. I have no restraint left. Kurt muffles a groan, his expression one of bliss. He stands up straighter, and my chest presses to his back. My hips begin to move, smacks of skin on skin as I fuck him with hard, unrefined thrusts. His head turns to the side, eyes focusing on my face, his pupils blown and burning. My guts drop. He feels divine.

I focus on staring at the mirror image. That's me. Fucking a man.

My hair is disheveled, brown frizzy curls out of place and one glued to my forehead. My mouth is hanging open as I try to get enough oxygen in. Kurt's got one hand on the counter and the other around his leaking cock. He is stroking himself to my thrusts. God, he looks so hot, and my insides burn seeing myself do this to him. Kurt kisses me desperately, catching my lips at an awkward angle, but I don't close my eyes as I kiss him back. I watch us kiss.

That's me fucking him.

I love watching myself do something I shouldn't.

Kurt breaks off the kiss when I thrust in deep. "God, I feel so full," he pants helplessly.

"Look," I order, and he seems to become aware of the mirror for the first time. His blown pupils get even more blown when he sees us.

My hips snap forward, the only part of me moving with erratic thrusts. My upper body remains still and glued to Kurt, my toes curling in my shoes and my fingers digging into his hips. Kurt leans to me further, giving me a better view of him touching himself. He's far gone right now. His other hand reaches behind me and lands on my ass, and he draws me in deeper. "More."

It gets frantic from there. I won't let myself come until he gets off. My cock pushes into him, and he's wet, smooth and so tight. Pleasure, bliss and ecstasy radiate from all sides. I keep kissing his neck, his ear, anywhere, his lips when he turns his head before facing forward again. He watches me fuck him, and I watch myself fucking him.

When I finally let myself grunt, low and dirty in his ear, he moans, "God, there you are." Like he was waiting for me to give in to the overwhelming pleasure. He shifts his hips slightly and his breathing hitches, his barely hushed moans that much more desperate. "Watch me," he pleads as I remember that there are angles and spots, and now it seems to be just right.

My eyes snap to the mirror, and I fuck him even harder. My hands pull on him hungrily, his skin, my tongue tracing his earlobe. Kurt is beginning to shake, and I lift one hand to his mouth, placing my palm firmly over his swollen lips. His eyes widen and he orgasms, fisting his cock. His muscles spasm as white come shoots out from the head. I keep watching. He squeezes damn tight around my cock buried deep inside him. His eyes never leave mine, even as his face flashes with pleasure, his mouth dropping open beneath my hand and a dirty moan escaping, coming deep from his chest. It vibrates against me.

I can let go now.

With that thought, I bury myself as deep as I can go, my orgasm hitting me before my hips come to a proper stop. I keep fucking his ass through it, small thrusts to get friction, to feel him better as I climax. I pant against his neck where sweat is rolling down. I didn't watch myself come, but I know he did.

I pull out of him the second I know I can without moaning. My cock feels spent, glistening with lotion and probably my come. I let go of his hips and unglue myself off of him. His t-shirt has sweat marks on it, his ass is red, his legs still slightly parted. If I parted his cheeks, I could probably watch my semen decorating his stretched hole. That thought should not turn me on like it does.

I stop staring when his blue briefs move to cover his ass again. He turns around, zipping himself up with shaking hands, neck flushed a deep red. "Dammit," he curses when his hands shake too much. The bathroom stinks of sex.

I feel restless, looking around and waiting for the setback as I try to get my dick back in my pants. An earthquake? A car crash? I mean, something must happen. Last time I fucked him, I saw someone die. If there is a god, then that must have been a sign that some deity out there knows what I did and goddamn disapproved of it. It was punishment. Then again, I watched that chick blow her brains out, so I don't think it can get much worse. I can't stop myself from wanting him.

Kurt's mouth is swollen and red, lips still slick with our spits. "Mahalo," he manages when he's properly dressed. I've zipped myself up and only stare back, somehow angered by him thanking me in some stupid language, by him thanking me full stop. He gets a dark look in his eyes. "What?"

"Nothing. And you too, thanks."

Kurt quickly looks away. "One minute you want to, the next you don't," he mutters quietly as he now busies himself with wiping the counter with toilet paper.

"I want to. When we're on this tour, we could... We could fuck."

If Kurt is going to be on that tour bus, I want to be fucking him.

"Casual sex?" he clarifies, now rolling the toilet paper into a ball, having cleaned his come off the counter.

"If you want to label it." I focus on not thinking about what I'm saying or offering. I can scorn myself later. "But no one can know I'm fucking you. That goes without saying."

Kurt flushes the paper down. He stares into the bowl, making me nervous. I just had my cock up his ass, and I feel nervous. There is something sardonic about that.

"Okay," he shrugs just as the audience bursts into applause, signaling the end of the support band's set. The roar is louder than I thought, making me realize that covering Kurt's mouth might not have been enough. I glance at the door skeptically. "I'm needed on stage," Kurt says hurriedly. Of course.

He seems closed up as he moves to get past me. I place a hand on his hip, stopping him. "If we're gonna be fucking," I tell him, my voice rough.

I kiss him in a way that is not graceful or polite. My tongue pushes into his mouth forcefully, brushing over his. He exhales and responds wantonly. It's the kind of kiss only two people who are screwing each other can share, one that shows it's just the tip of the iceberg. I love the way he tastes. When I break the kiss, I give him a smug grin. "Am I distracting you yet?"

"Immensely," he whispers, eyes nailed to my lips. I've got him hypnotized, and I purposefully lick my lower lip. A shuddery breath washes over my mouth as he leans back in for more, but I step back quickly. He seems to snap out of it with a slightly bewildered look.

"You should shave," I tell him.

"So you can pretend you're kissing a girl?" he asks but his voice lacks the usual poison. He sounds almost playful, and the wall he put up is gone.

"Because your stubble is irritating the shit out of my skin." And there is nothing in the way he kisses that could make me think he's a girl.

Kurt grins. "Yeah, your mouth looks a bit red."

I turn around in surprise to check myself in the mirror. I see his smirk over my shoulder as he unlocks the door and walks out with a lot more grace than Puck's coked up virgin. My mouth is red, maybe even a beard burn on my chin, and fuck. We are so obvious. Fuck.

I hear Ryder immediately tell Kurt to get on stage. Does the bathroom stink of sex? If someone walks in now, will they smell what we did? I wash my hands and furiously flatten my hair, quickly wiping my mouth before I re-enter the dressing room. My bandmates are idly sitting on different chairs, Puck playing one of my guitars and Seb filing his fingernails. Nick looks up from a magazine he's reading, and I hold my breath, but then he just looks back down. The roadies are gone.

Ryder rushes over to me. "Blaine! Did Kurt talk to you?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

And I fucked him like the only thing that mattered in the universe was getting off.

"I don't want to talk about Europe right now," I say, still on edge, still waiting for someone to notice what has to be obvious.

"But later, yeah?" Ryder asks hopefully, and I nod. Sure. Whatever. "Groovy," he smiles, hand landing on my shoulder and squeezing.

A venue worker comes in to tell Ryder there's someone there to see him, and Ryder hurries off. I gingerly take a seat on an empty couch. My bandmates pay no attention. I can smell Kurt on me.

Didn't they hear? Didn't someone say "Oh, those two are taking long in the bathroom?", followed by a groan as I pushed into another man, burning with lust? Clearly not. Clearly, no one noticed anything.

There is no punishment this time around. Leaning back into the couch, I fight off a smile. Holy shit. I can get away with this too.

The crowd is now chanting for us, but I don't feel stressed. My body is relaxed, my mind at peace, mostly still clouded by the thought of Kurt. I can get on stage just fine.

"Um, guys?" Ryder asks from the doorway. We all look at him, and he rolls his eyes. "There was this stupid radio competition, and the winner got to meet you guys, so he's here. I forgot, sorry, but I'll invite him in, we'll sit him down, sign his shit and kick him out in five minutes, alright?"

Puck scoffs. "Sure." Ryder knows we all hate this kind of forced nicety.

"Okay, come on in!" Ryder calls over his shoulder, and a skinny teenager with millions of freckles spread across his face walks in. He's wearing a Warblers t-shirt and is clutching onto our discography, holding it to his chest: the self-titled debut album, Her House and Boneless. His eyes widen comically at the sight of us, mouth dropping open and a long 'eeeeeerrrr' coming out.

Seb and Puck exchange unimpressed glances. The kid gives me an awed and frightened look. He must be around fifteen.

Popularity.

I stand up and address him. "Hey! Come on in, sit down! You want a beer? You seem to dig our music, that's cool."

I'm not sure who looks the most shocked: my bandmates, our manager or the kid.

The fan recovers the quickest, nearly stumbling over his feet as he heads over, eyes shining with astonishment and gratitude. Somehow, his reaction makes me feel a tiny bit better about myself. I can wrap this kid around my finger in five minutes if I want to.

If it's a popularity competition Seb wants, then he can bet his sweet fucking ass that I will win. After all, I just realized that I can do just about anything.