smut warning

Chapter 6: Under Your Skin

I've never bought anyone flowers, and I'm not starting now, even if the roses on the other side of the display window do cross my mind for a second. I'm not buying a guy flowers. I will, however, go back to that fucking restaurant and make up with him. Say that we had a disagreement for no real reason. Because going there will prove that I'm different.

It's hard to detect change when time doesn't stop. There are no actual chapters in life, and yeah, I can look back and think that I'm different, but when the change occurred or how it came about aren't as easy to answer. Change is gradual. And I don't know what parts of me have transformed into something else, but I'm pretty sure that a few years back I wouldn't have gone to try and make up. Maybe he'll know that. But I'm not going to grovel. I'll simply go in and say my piece – sorry about yesterday, didn't mean to cause a scene at your work, I couldn't really sleep with things between us being as they are, so you know, here I am, and now I'm going, happy holidays.

Keep it concise.

If I left it until later, he'd get weeks to brew his resentment. This way he can think about how sorry I seemed instead of how I yelled at him in the kitchen. It's got to be worth something, though I know that it's a long shot, that tonight might be Kurt's night off, but at least I can ask if he'll have more shifts before I fly to Canada. Or maybe write a letter. I should really find out where he lives.

The restaurant is still there, a smiling fat Italian guy painted on one of the windows – Luigi, I suppose. Whereas yesterday was sunny, today is not, and wet snow keeps falling on me from the darkening sky. I shake it off and check my reflection in the restaurant window before walking in, my eyes adjusting to the darker setting with a few blinks. A brunette waitress spots me, navigating between tables and smiling at me. "Hi! Table for one?"

"Is Kurt working today?" I ask and look over her shoulder, but I don't see him. When my eyes find hers, she looks tensed up. "What?"

"He. Um." She shifts restlessly. "He doesn't work here anymore."

Well, she's a fucking liar. Kurt probably put her up to this. "He does. I came here yesterday and he was here, so." I put as much authority as I can into my words.

She scratches her cheek with one finger, looking uncomfortable. "He got fired. Like an hour ago."

"Fired?" I repeat, and she nods. "Fired fired?" Another affirmative. Her cheeks redden like the memory is still too fresh on her mind and is making her embarrassed for everyone involved. I wonder if there was a scene. Kurt would cause a scene.

"You still coming in to eat?" she asks cheerfully, clearly keen to change the subject.

"No. Thanks." The speech I had prepared has magically vanished. What the hell did he do to get fired? He seemed like an alright waiter. He was standing there, full of an honest job's arrogance, like he had no problem waiting on tables – in general, of course, because he sure as hell was pissed off that we had come. And now this?

I give the girl a parting nod and turn back around, not sure what to do. "Hey," she calls after me, and I look at her in hopes of another grain of information or gossip or hearsay. "There's a bar on Poplar Street, called Seven Horses. Try there." She shrugs a little. "Kurt could probably do with a bit of cheering up."

"Sure. Thanks."

As I leave, her eyes widen like at that precise moment she recognizes me, but by then it's too late.

A Santa is walking on the street outside, ho ho hoing, and a little boy runs up to him with stars in his eyes like it's the real deal. I intend to walk straight to the subway and go home, but I don't. Instead I walk around, making no conscious decision at all except for how I know that I do, and then a street sign tells me I'm on Poplar Street. I look left and right, figure it doesn't make a fucking difference because a needle in a haystack is always a needle in a haystack, and it doesn't matter if you flip the haystack around.

Seven Horses, it turns out, was in the opposite direction to where I initially headed, but twenty minutes later it's there in front of me, with a dark green facade and a painted horse's head on the sign hanging above the door. It looks like it's trying to be an imitation of an English or Irish or Scottish pub, but Americans never get it right. The bars lack the native people, for one thing, which means they don't have a tenth of the authentic atmosphere. I've certainly spent enough time in London pubs to know that.

The bar is mostly dead. A jukebox stands in the corner, and a forlorn looking guy with a huge beard is going through his pockets for coins. The dark oak furniture looks dusty and the lamps hang too low from the ceiling, and I walk over to the bar where a Union Jack has been nailed to the wall and is miserably hanging behind the bartender, who immediately smiles at me like he's the only one left to keep the spirits up.

"What can I get you?" he asks. I look around the bar and towards the back and – There. Alone in a small booth, leaning over the table like gravity's pulling him down, shoulders slumped. There.

"A beer. No, make it two."

I dangle the bottles between my fingers as I make my way over, hearing the jukebox come to life and a sad blues song crackling through the bar. "Mind if I sit here?" I ask, and Kurt lifts his head a bit too abruptly. Three empty glasses stand on his table. He's got a head start for sure.

"What are you doing here?" he asks groggily like he's just woken up, and he even blinks too much to heighten the impression.

"This girl at the restaurant said you'd be here."

"Oh."

I patiently count to three in my head. "So. May I?"

He jerks a little like he's only now processing my words. "Sure. Yeah." He motions at the other side of the booth, and whereas Luigi's had vinyl seats, these booths are wooden.

I sit down across from him and offer him the other bottle. He takes it with a small smile, and I bring my own to my lips. "A bad day?"

He laughs, resting the bottle's mouth against his lips. "You could say that." He takes a sip and catches the residue on his lips with his tongue. It leaves his lower lip shiny. He probably knows that I've heard the news – well, of course he does – and he shakes his head and heaves a sigh. "Bastard, that guy. Tony. A fucking bastard."

"Did he, uh..." I start, leaning back in the booth and unbuttoning my jacket. His eyes follow my fingers, and I forgot what I meant to say. I quickly pull my arms out of the sleeves and then lean back in, elbows on the table. "Did he find out about Dave, then?"

"Dave?" he asks, tasting the word on his tongue like it's foreign to him.

"Roommate. Not roommate."

His eyes widen in realization, and he ducks his head. Hair falls out of place, and my fingers itch, and I look over to the barkeep, wonder if he'd notice if I reached out, if the guy by the jukebox would, if the few other bored looking men lingering at the bar would. But they all seem lost in their own thoughts, and no one is paying attention to Kurt and me. I let my hand move forward an inch and hover in the air, and then I pull it back and focus on holding my beer.

"No," he then says and looks back up. "Nothing to do with that. This time." He sounds just as angry as he did some years ago when he recalled the jobs he had lost because of rumors that he was a faggot. He rubs his face and grimaces slightly, unpleasant memories clearly flashing through his mind. "I was just late. Again."

"That's it?"

He takes in a deep breath. "And then I told a customer to stuff the spaghetti and meatballs up his ass." He finishes half the bottle in one swig. I try to keep my face straight but clearly fail because when he puts the bottle down, he glances at me and says, "It's not funny."

"No. It's not." My voice is full of barely hidden laughter, and he shoots me a glare, but the corners of his eyes are wrinkling.

"It's very serious."

"It is. I'm sure."

He breaks into a grin, fingers nervously picking at the bottle's label, and I let myself laugh. Back when we were trying to get the band going in LA, I never held onto a job for very long, but I certainly never lost one for something like that.

"The asshole kept talking to me like I was his servant or some shit," he now says in his defense, and the smile fades slightly.

"Yeah," I say, my laughter dying out. It must have hurt. Not that he says it, but something about the situation clearly touched a nerve. That and a bad day, and the older version of Kurt rears its head, the one that felt free to tell pretty much anyone to go fuck themselves, me included. Kurt doesn't seem to think it's an accomplishment, though.

He sighs. "I really needed that fucking job."

"New York's full of jobs."

"Yeah, but I –" He looks up. "What were you doing there?" It seems like it's only occurred to him now that my presence can be considered a bit odd.

"Came to apologize for yesterday," I say honestly, without pausing to think about it, without hesitating or considering possible lies. I think I'm more surprised than he looks. "I just." It feels like something's stuck to my throat, and I try to swallow it down. "I didn't want to leave things like that."

"Who remembers yesterday anymore, right?" he asks and finishes the bottle. I remember yesterday. He does too. And the day before that and the day before that to all the days, to things like him, Sam and Sam's bandmates playing poker in a hotel room or him sucking me off for the first time in the back of the tour bus, my hips bucking pathetically like I'd never been blown before. And then a snap of your fingers and it's all gone, transforming from something that happened to you into a memory, but I know we both still remember. There were times when I wished I didn't. Right now isn't one of those times. Right now, I feel like I'm back to controlling this thing with him and me. "Besides," he then says, "I've got this whole unemployed thing to think about now." He's eyeing my beer bottle wistfully.

"How about I get us a bottle of whiskey?"

He looks at me, wide-eyed, in some fucked up way reminiscent of the way he looked in the middle of sex sometimes, when I pushed in deeper and he didn't realize I wasn't in all the way yet. A sudden awareness washes over me, putting back something shattered inside.

"Yeah," he then says, voice lower than before. "Whiskey'd be great." He smiles and then digs out a pack of cigarettes.

When I come back with a bottle and two glasses, he's humming along to The Beatles song coming from the jukebox. The cigarette moves up and down between his lips, and I fill our glasses, trying to keep my hand from shaking. Like I'm nervous. No, not nervous. Just excited, maybe. Anxious. Impatient. Victorious.

He quietly sings, "There's no one that compares to you," takes the cigarette from his lips and offers it to me with a quirked eyebrow.

"Thanks," I say, taking it to my lips. Exchanging saliva.

"Bottoms up," he says and drinks all the whiskey in one go. He moves further into the booth until his back is resting against the wall, and he brings his feet up onto the seat, resting his arms against his knees. He laughs at nothing, it seems, his head rolling to the side, hair falling in front of his eyes, and he looks at me with a smile. It's not warmth but fucking fire that scorches at my insides, and I have to breathe faster because I'm not getting enough oxygen, but I smile back a little – not too much and not a full blown grin. Try not to show all of it. Let him do the fucking guessing for once.

"I was hoping for a Christmas bonus," he says and snorts. "Can say bye to that, right?" He extends the glass my way, and I fill it up. "Fuck. Fuck, Dave's going to be pissed." He drinks it all on the first and coughs for a second.

"Were you happy there?" I ask, still smoking his cigarette.

"No."

"Then he should be happy for you."

Kurt laughs like I just made a joke. Dave lacks vision, which is ironic considering that he's trying to be a director. But he lacks vision when it comes to Kurt. Fuck, this guy could be anything he chooses, and Dave doesn't get that. If he thinks Kurt's better off as a waiter, then fuck him.

Maybe Kurt senses my thoughts, maybe not, but he says, "Christmas is just an expensive time of the year." It sounds final, like he doesn't want to say anything more on it, and I really don't feel like talking about his boyfriend either. No, right now Dave is the one topic that I need to make Kurt forget. That Dave even exists. I'll be damned if I let the mere fact of Dave's existence ruin this for me.

I let him drink and smoke excessively, and I drink and I smoke, but not too much. After all these years of alcohol, it takes a lot to get me drunk. Kurt, well, he's kind of drunk. He's getting drunker. But he's laughing and talking and motioning with his hands, and he bums quarters off of me and goes to the jukebox and comes back with sparkling eyes and says that he loves this song, and it's ABBA, and he tells me not to judge, and I lift my hands and say that I didn't say anything and that my girlfriend's a major ABBA lover, so really, I don't judge.

"Rachel," he says, nods, and takes a deep drag. "You love her?"

Yeah. He's definitely drunk. "Of course I do," I say automatically, then regret ever mentioning her. I need to make her evaporate too, until it's just me and Kurt, and that makes us free, that gives us the right to do whatever we feel like is right for us. Not for anyone else.

"You must have changed," he says, and I wonder if that's what he meant yesterday, if he was referring to my capacity to feel for others. Lust, envy, dislike, love. Maybe just love. And for a second my insides feel frozen, and he seems to understand through his alcoholic haze that his words might sound like he's referring to. Well. Us. "The, uh," he says, laughs, motions vaguely with his hand. "You just once told me that, that you don't love."

"When have I ever said that?"

"I don't remember. But you did. And I believed you, for what it's worth. In the end, I believed you." He tries to take another sip, but his glass is empty.

"Love is a human condition. No one can escape it."

He shrugs, now fiddling with his dying lighter. His brows knit together, and sparks ignite but a flame doesn't emerge, and I lean over the table and flick my own lighter. He takes my hand, pulling it close to his mouth where his cigarette is waiting, the hardened tips of his fingers sliding across the back of my hand where bluish veins circuit under the pale skin. His cigarette lights up. I lift my thumb, and the flame dies. He's not looking at the cigarette. He's not looking me in the eyes. I lick my lower lip, and he exhales shakily, eyes still on my mouth. He looks like his world has slowed down. He'd hide it a lot better sober.

I sit back down, the lighter still in my fist as my arm lowers, my hand resting on the table. His hand is still holding mine, and then he jerks. "Sorry," he says, voice rough, and removes his hand, warm against my own, little electric pulses dancing over my skin. We've drunk half the bottle. Well, he has, mostly.

"You look good these days," I tell him.

His cheeks look redder and his pupils wider, and he bites on his lower lip, worrying the flesh with his teeth until it's puffy and shiny. He's no idea how fucking seductive that is.

"You too," he says, and he casts a quick look my way, as if to read my reaction.

I let myself smile at the compliment and pour myself another. "So. Looking forward to Bowie's new album? Coming out next month."

"God, yes," he says and gets into it, and he's got a way to him. It can't be explained, but he's got charisma, even now, and I stop giving a fuck and let myself get pulled into the conversation about music because it's my passion in life as well as his. And when he's passionate about something, he's even more beautiful. He kicks my feet under the table when I say that Station to Station didn't impress me much, calling me obnoxious and arrogant, and I tell him that the new album's got a lot more depth, which I know because I've heard it already.

"Contacts," I shrug.

"Fucker," he says through a grin, and our hands are on the table, an inch between our fingers. We keep sharing cigarettes. We don't have to; we've both got our own.

After a good while – a damn good while, I've lost track of time, but the ashtray's full – he says, "I might be a bit too drunk." He looks at me and laughs.

"That's no good," I smirk. I pass him the cigarette, blowing smoke through my lips. I watch his face through the haze, feeling something in me expand. I've been worrying for nothing. I've been driving myself insane for nothing. "I remember this one time you came to my hotel room drunk out of your head. We were meant to fuck, but you ended up puking in the bathroom instead."

His cheeks get colored crimson, but he smiles down at the table. "Not one of my finest moments." He takes in a deep breath. "Fuck, that summer..." His middle finger brushes mine, and I move my hand closer, letting the tips of our fingers lace together. He doesn't say anything of it. Neither do I, even if I feel his warmth all the way to my bones. He smokes the cigarette with his free hand, then stubs it out. His thumb brushes the side of my forefinger. He doesn't seem to be aware of it until he is, and tension sets into his shoulders but he doesn't move his hand.

"We should get out of here," I tell him, and he starts slightly. I pull my hand back, his touch vanishing and my insides protesting the sudden loss as I point upwards with my forefinger. "Playing Sonny & Cher. Whenever a place starts playing this shit, you know it's time to go."

He eyes the whiskey bottle, a quarter of it left. "Yeah." He breathes in unevenly, and something's buzzing under his skin. "Okay."

I feel the weight of the alcohol when I stand up, but I manage to move gracefully, or at least I think I'm graceful. I get my jacket on, and Kurt's standing up too but struggling with his own, like he doesn't remember how buttons work anymore.

"C'mere," I grin, grab the collar and pull him over. He matches my grin and his pupils look blown, blown, blown, and I can smell him, shampoo or cologne or something, and he keeps looking at me like he's never seen me before. I button his jacket for him, starting from the top, over his chest, down his stomach, the last one at his crotch. He stays astoundingly still for someone who's as drunk as he is. I let my hands fall to the sides and nod towards the door. Sign language. It takes him a moment to register the gesture, but he nods, cheeks rosier, eyes dark, and I lift a hand towards the bartender as a goodbye.

It's stopped snowing and the sun has set, but the streetlights compete with the darkening twilight. I start walking to the direction I came from, my steps slower than slow, and Kurt walks next to me, our feet trampling snow that's already been trampled. The street is less busy than before because the stores are closed, but we don't stand out in the midst of people who probably should be home by now. "Huh," he says, for whatever reason, and he stumbles a little.

"You alright?" I ask, steadying him with a hand to his shoulder. We stop in the corner, and he does a shaky nod, stepping closer to me. My hand slides to the side of his neck. His skin is warm. His breaths are shallow, and he seems overly aware of everything.

He asks, "What time is it?"

"Eight. Nine. Not late yet." My thumb rests on a vein on his neck, and I can feel his pulse, rapid and feverish.

"Dave's finished his shift at Will's, then." He pulls in cold air and then smiles to himself drunkenly. "He'll be at the gallery now."

"Not waiting for you at home."

"No."

He's standing close to me, waiting. I can sense it. See it in his eyes. That he's waiting.

A taxi's coming down the street, a spot of yellow amongst the sandstone background, and I step to the side of the street and put my arm up. The taxi comes to a stop next to us. "You live far from here?" I ask, and he shakes his head. I can still feel his skin against my palm, the way it fucking radiated, practically saying it's mine. I take in a calming breath. "You got money for the taxi?" He looks confused, and I open the backdoor. "I'm gonna take the subway back, so you can take this one. You're too drunk to walk home."

His confusion clears off quickly, though not very well in his state. "Yeah, uh. Sure. I mean." He looks at the taxi as if seeing it for the first time, then he looks at me, startled, and then he kicks into motion and gets in. Even in the backseat he looks befuddled, but he's clearly trying damn hard to sober up a bit. The invitation is still there in his eyes, and he looks at my lips rather than my eyes. "Um. Thanks."

"Get home safe," I say and close the door. The taxi takes off instantly, heading down the street, and my hands are sweating and my heart is hammering and my skin feels electric, and I get out my last cigarette with a trembling hand, light it, and smoke the entire thing in the space of a minute, slowly calming down.

The hardest thing I've ever done.

Plant a seed. Watch it grow.

I start looking for a subway station, trying not to grin.

Two days. Forty-eight hours. Or less, really, because it's in the afternoon that I become aware of the knocking on my door. I only hear it because the record comes to an end, the needle lifting with a static sound, and the living room grows quiet once more. My suitcase's open on the couch that Ian slept on that one time, an oddly shaped present on top of everything that I've thrown in. It's something for Rachel's mother. I forget what it is.

But then the knock is there, and I try to fix my hair that's still wet from a shower. I grab the first shirt that's on top of the suitcase, sliding it on as I make my way to the door. Forty-one hours, maybe? Time has ceased to matter lately. If it's Jeff, I'll punch him, because forty-one hours of patience isn't easy. I've spent a month being patient, but the past few days have been the hardest.

The knock sounds melodic, like it's following a pattern or a tune that ends up indistinguishable, and I let my shirt hang open in case it is Jeff, let him see a slice of the body that he most certainly will never have.

I open the door.

It finally clicks into place. Everything.

"Um. Hi," Kurt says, standing there, looking terrified like a mouse about to step into a trap, and he's beautiful. He's here. His eyes fly up and down my form. "Is – Is this a bad time?"

"No. God, not at all." I open the door further and motion him to step in.

He's got his red scarf in his hands, knuckles white around the thick cotton. He clears his throat, like he's trying to keep a professional line. I close the door after him and do one button above my navel, the plain white dress shirt hanging on me though it's a perfect fit at the shoulders. He looks at my bare feet and black jeans, and I say, "Just got out of a shower."

His eyes linger at my neck, but he says nothing about the chain. Instead he says, "Huh." He swallows hard and averts his gaze. "I came to pick up Dave's camera. The one he forgot in the practice room. Sam told him you brought it back here." His voice is searching like he wants me to confirm all of this, and I do with a nod.

"Dave said he'd pick it up," I say as I lead us to the living room.

"I was in the neighborhood."

"Oh."

My living room looks like it's been hit by a hurricane, the floor littered by records out of their sleeves, shiny black discs everywhere, a few broken. The suitcase is overflowing with clothes, and the ones I've discarded are now on the floor and any near-by furniture, surrounded by empty liquor bottles, dirty glasses, full ashtrays, a stash of weed on the coffee table, and I really should have cleaned up.

"A bit messier than last time," he observes. Yeah. Clearly Rachel hasn't visited in a while and called up that cleaning service again.

"The camera's somewhere in here," I say and then just stand still, no idea where to start looking. I have a feeling it's by the TV and the windows, but why bother looking for it when Kurt's not here for it? Because I know why he's here, and it's not for Dave's camera. He fidgets, but his pupils look blown when he looks at me.

"Look, I was kind of drunk the other night –" he starts, and I instantly cut him off with, "Hey, it happens. Don't worry about it." I look at him and smile calmly. "You didn't dance on tables in case you were worried."

He laughs embarrassedly and lifts his eyebrows like he wouldn't be surprised if he had. "Yeah..."

"You want a beer?"

He looks like I've asked something a lot more complicated than that. And I have. "Yeah. Thanks."

I take him in, standing in my living room, two buttons of his winter coat undone, scarf now in one fist. He looks like he feels out of place, and there's something to his features, something that's got him wound up.

"This way," I say simply. I nod towards the kitchen, and he drops his red scarf on the couch and follows. He slowly unbuttons his coat, and I press my fingernails into my palms to keep my hands where they are. The way he looks, self-conscious, might as well think he's taking all of his clothes off. He leaves the coat hanging neatly from the back of one of the dining chairs, and he keeps looking around nervously, like he's not sure if he's done a stupid thing coming here. He hasn't.

My eyes fly over his form: black slacks, black dress shirt and a black tie. He's either heading to a funeral or, "Job hunting?" I ask, and he flinches, nods, leans against the kitchen doorway. "How's it going?"

"It's going," he says. "Or. Well, I haven't started yet. Decided to drop by here first."

I wonder how long he stood opposite the building, talking himself out of this when it was already too late. I open the fridge door and look at its almost gaping emptiness. "Miller or Coors?"

"Coors."

With every word he says, my pulse picks up. It's surreal, this moment, even if I knew it had to happen, it had to or else I would've – But I try to remain calm. Breathe.

I get out two bottles, rummaging the cabinets for a bottle opener for embarrassingly long, handing him the other bottle when I join him. He's leaning against the doorframe, not that there is an actual door, just an open archway that links the dining room to the kitchen that I hardly ever use. I stay opposite him, letting my back lean against the wall structure. My toes almost touch his shoes.

He's pale, eyes a bit scared. God, he doesn't need to be scared. I've got it from here.

We drink our beers quietly, and he clearly doesn't know where to look. Kitchen floor. Dining room table. The radio on the windowsill. Into the living room. He saw the suitcase but didn't ask. I could tell him if he asked. Tomorrow morning. Flying out. Meeting Rachel at the airport. I could tell him.

I finish my beer quickly, without either one of us having said a word. And now. Now it's time.

He takes a sip as I step closer. His posture immediately goes rigid. He stands up straighter, he must've had another growth spurt in the last two years, right now he looks taller than I remember. His eyelashes are dark against his skin, his full bottom lip moistened by the beer. I reach out to the counter on his side and put my bottle down, using it as an excuse to take another step. My knee touches his. He doesn't move. His breathing fills the air between us, shallow, dragged. His beer bottle is still between us, and I reach out to take it. He loosens his hold, and I look him in the eyes. He's starting to look a bit flushed.

I knock down the rest of his beer and place the bottle next to mine. He shifts, like this limbo is killing him, and he brushes against me, legs and crotch, and I place a hand on his hip. He stills. Doesn't say anything. Ducks his head, like he's just going to focus on breathing.

I lean close, right into his space, until my nose touches his cheek. His breaths wash against my lips, so close I can almost taste him, and I try to hold back what could be a whine. My eyes close, and I must be bruising his hip with my too firm hold but he doesn't say anything. The tip of my nose slides across his cheek, to his hair, and my body feels like it's been wound up so tight, so fucking tight, and I breathe him in, my cock hardening from his scent alone.

I swallow hard. Try to think. Can't. My hands are shaking, my heart feels like it's on a suicide mission to die from overheating, and warmth spreads to every cell in my body. He tilts his head towards me, his wet lips briefly making contact with my cheek.

I swallow hard before I whisper, "I'm not going to kiss you."

He jerks, a gush of air hitting my cheek. There's a lull, a momentary silence of neither one of us moving, and then he says, "Don't you – Because of her, you don't?" He sounds confused. Breathless.

"That's not what I said." I push my hips closer until they're pressed to his. He lets out a surprised groan. The pressure against my crotch lets me properly feel how fucking hard I am, and he must feel it too. Blood pounds in my ears and I try to remain still. "I said that I'm not going to kiss you."

I turn my head, look at him. He's staring at me, pupils blown, mouth shiny, cheeks rosy. His eyes focus on my mouth. "I can't," he whispers, breathing hard, and then he kicks into motion.

He fists my hair and pulls me in, our mouths crashing, and it erupts in my chest, all of it, his taste, his hands, his touch. He kisses me hard, full of want, and I grip his hips hungrily. My mouth opens up, and our tongues meet, wet and hot. He tastes like beer and he tastes like him, and I feel like I'm right back in the backstage dressing rooms, making out with him before shows. I feel driven insane by want. He grinds up against me, frantic, and he drops one hand from my hair and slides it down my chest. The kisses are bruising and full of one thing: sex. Sex and sweat and saliva, and his nails drag downwards, making my skin flare up. "Blaine," he groans, rushed, and undoes the single button of my shirt.

"Fuck," I manage, pulling off my shirt that's in the way, in the stupid fucking way, and my fingers get tangled in his hair – soft, so soft – as I pull him closer, feeling his calloused fingertips move on my back. Our mouths are loud, ungraceful, primitive, and I stumble backwards with him, trying to navigate this thing.

It's not fast. No. Not after weeks of me thinking about this, and he's thought about it too. It's so fucking obvious that he has. And him and I, we have no reason to hold back. Pretend to take it slow, pretend we're not animals when we are. And maybe he's touched himself thinking about this. Maybe this is his fantasy coming to life. For me, this is better than any fantasy ever was: knowing how much he wants me.

I crash against a dining chair and knock it down. My hands are on his shirt, unbuttoning as fast as I can. Our mouths part with a wet pop, and he's loosening his tie, lips swollen and red, eyes full of unhidden desire. My guts tighten painfully with lust. Fuck, what took him so long?

He drops the tie just as I pull his unbuttoned shirt from his slacks, and our teeth click together when we move in for a kiss. His lips are taunting me because I've missed this, he doesn't even know how much I tried to forget him in London, Los Angeles, everywhere, then here, with guys that had full, promising looking lips that I thought, well, maybe. Maybe they'd compare.

They never did.

I swirl us around so that he's going backwards as I push us further into the living room. Something cracks and breaks between our feet – a record, fuck it – and I push him against the wall with a bang, and he groans and sucks on my lower lip. My arm's securely around his waist, pulling him to me so that I can feel him and – There: his hard cock under the fabric, pressed against me. His breath sputters, eyelids slipping shut, and he presses the back of his head against the wall. We grind against each other, and I attack his neck, wanting to bruise, to mark him, bite him, taste him –

"Oh god," he breathes out, heaving. He keeps rocking against me like he's desperate to get off. I violently tug his shirt off his shoulders, pulling it off all the way, a button goes flying from the cuffs. I kiss my way back to his mouth, wet bites along his jaw line, his cologne musky and tempting. His fingers dig into my shoulder blades. He shivers, is shaking, I can feel it now. "Fuck," he breathes out. "Blaine, fuck, you just –"

I cut him off by grabbing his head with two hands, pulling on his hair as I kiss him as hard as I can. The minimalistic restraint I had is evaporating – here he is, saying my name with such want in his voice, like I always knew he would in the end. I knew no one can change that much. Because I knew him, and he knew me, and the specifics can change but the core of a person remains the same. And it's that that has brought him back to me.

I pull him off the wall, lost in the way he's touching me, like he wants to devour me. God, he's stupid for turning me on this much because I'll never let him leave now, not when he's shown just how much he wants me, like I want him. He made me nearly lose my mind for nothing.

I get us to the bedroom door in a tangled mess of hands and tongues, of me grabbing his ass, copping a feel, and he grinds against me hungrily, trapped between me and the door. The doorknob refuses to turn at first because I'm too busy kissing him to look, and he manages to toe off his shoes, constantly pushing his body against mine, offering, wanting me to touch him. The door gives way, and he almost falls backwards at first but I hold him to me securely. His arms are wrapped around my neck, our mouths sliding together, and we stumble to the bed, falling on it with our mouths locked. His teeth sink into my lip from the impact, and I taste blood but don't care.

I go for his pants as he goes for my jeans, our hands knocking together, blocking, in the way. I just want him naked beneath me, want to see him exposed. He moans against my mouth as I try to tuck his pants down, having managed to unzip them, and he lifts his hips, trying to help. He's slid my jeans halfway down my ass, and we'd be naked by now if we could stop for a second to do this in an orderly fashion but we can't.

"Oh god," he gasps when his hand slides over my cock, now out of my jeans, and I feel frustrated, borderline furious with his pants but then they slide down to his knees, and I can touch him, feel him. We stop squirming for a second, gasping for air. He's leaking onto my palm, leaking already, and I squeeze his shaft, cup his balls, force my hand between his legs where my fingers push between his cheeks and press to the ring of muscle, tight and dry, and god, god. I want to fuck him, leave him slick and open and wet with my come.

"I want to fuck you so hard," I groan against his swollen lips, my body practically shuddering in anticipation.

His hand pulls on my cock, making me hiss, and his other is in my hair, tangled in the locks. "I want you to," he says, voice husky and low, and I swear against his lips, my heart skipping beats, and I kick off my jeans impatiently while he does the same to the rest of his clothes.

I grind down against his naked form and our cocks brush together, and he curses into my mouth, indistinguishable and hot. I thrust against him, his cock flat against his stomach, my cock throbbing next to his, and he's already parting his thighs, spreading his legs like a good boy, such a fucking good boy. I break our kiss, taking in his face, and he's got this look, no, The Look on his face, like he needs to seduce me at this point, but he's not even doing it on purpose because there's a primal urgency to his movements – he just wants me. Me. Wants me inside him, wants me to fuck him, and fuck, fuck, fuck, the last grips that I had on reality seem to fade as I kiss him hard and get the lube out with an outstretched arm to the nightstand drawer, searching from the mix of condoms, empty wrappers and lighters and picks.

"Please," he groans, sounding far gone already. I lift myself to hover above him, and he takes the opportunity to touch my cock, moaning as he does it. Fire pools at my stomach and my cock twitches in his hand. Him sounding that hot should be forbidden. His fingertips feel hard against my heated flesh, his thumb rubbing the slit where pre-come has gathered. I can barely concentrate on my own movements, clumsily pouring lube onto my palm with only one hand and instantly reaching between our bodies to get him ready. He spreads his legs wider, and I reach between his perfect, pale cheeks, my fingers rubbing over his entrance. "Oh fuck, Blaine," he breathes out when I push a finger into him, not stopping, not waiting, going in knuckle deep. His voice is heavy with disbelief I usually didn't hear until I had two fingers in him and fucking him hard.

Half the work of taking a cock up your ass is mental, I've come to find. When a guy wants to get fucked, really wants to get fucked, even a bit of spit will do and willpower will take care of the rest. And Kurt can take a cock, I know he can, but he also really, really fucking wants this right now, so prepping is just a fleeting thought in my head.

He's barely used to the first when I work in a second finger, all the while kissing him until our lips get numb. His hole feels so tight and slick, and my cock throbs in his hand, and I just want to, need to, want to feel his muscles give way for me, force myself into him. I crook my fingers as I push them in deep, and he jerks and his mouth drops open.

"Shit, shit, shit," he swears, hips shifting, trying to get more. He's perspiring, a hint of salt on his upper lip when we kiss. It doesn't really add up, how hard he is already, how much getting fingered is affecting him – doesn't correspond to my memories of me having to work for it, having to put an effort into driving him fucking wanton. Yeah, it's me. Obviously me and how much he fucking wants me, or then it's just the simple result of –

I crook my fingers, and his entire body convulses again, and I muffle his helpless moan with my mouth. His muscles contract, squeezing my fingers hard. "Doesn't he fuck you?" I ask, pushing my fingers in deeper. He's so tight around the two digits, so fucking tight. I push my fingers into his prostate again.

He chokes on his breath. "Blaine, please." He's trying to control his breathing, keep it levelled. He's failing. He attempts to move up on the bed whilst pushing me down from one shoulder, trying to buck up a little to get my cock where he clearly needs it.

"He doesn't," I conclude for him, torn between disbelief and contentment.

"He's ju-just been busy," he gasps out, and I watch the way beads of sweat are already rolling down his neck.

I almost laugh. Fuck, that's insane. That's a crime. I crook the fingers I have inside him, and he jerks, gasping like he'd forgotten what that feels like.

"I would never be too busy to fuck you," I say. Never. I kiss him hungrily, and he groans into the kiss, his hands in my hair, hips moving to the rhythm of my fingers. And knowing what I know, I could go slow on him, get him slickened up and loose, but I won't. Can't. Want him too fucking much, and he feels it too, the urgency, the fire, I know he does.

He's taking the matter into his own hands, spreading lube on my cock, squeezing my length with slick fingers, and my fingers slip out of his hole as I choke on my breath, head spinning. I fervently grab his hips, pulling him down on the bed. His legs move to press against my sides, and both of our hands are there, mine grabbing the base of my cock as I guide it between his parted ass cheeks, and his hand at the tip, feeling me, rubbing me over him.

"God," he moans when I press the tip of my cock to his hole. He's so full of tension, so ready. "I can take it, I can –" he says feverishly, groaning and moving to bite on his hand when I add pressure. My cock is flushed and throbbing in my hand, leaking pre-come over his entrance. A steady rush of blood pounds in my ears, and it's all him, his taste, his scent, and I push forward, my swollen head against his wet hole. In one, firm push, I slide inside him, every inch of my cock pushing into him.

He's so loud. Fuck, he – And I bite his shoulder, try to muffle my groans. He feels like nothing I've ever felt. Nothing like I remembered. His muscles are resisting, grabbing onto me from all sides, so tight and so hot, and my balls ache, the skin drawn up so tight, and fuck, fuck, fuck –

"Oh god, oh fuck, that's so good, Blaine, Blaine –" His back arches, and overwhelming pleasure radiates to all of my body from where we're joined. I know. God, I know, I know, I know –

I begin to fuck him, unable to stay still for longer. The back of his head presses into the pillow, and I kiss him, try to, a strand of messy saliva between our mouths as we just breathe, breathe, bodies trembling from the friction, the rhythm we get going. His ass is tight, driving me insane with how good he feels squeezing around me, how my cock pushes him open with each thrust.

"Kurt," I manage, my voice thick with want. I can't shut up, moans and groans coming deep from my chest, from the core, and his hands keep pulling at me, grabbing me wherever and pulling like I'm not close enough. "You remember yet?" I ask, closing my eyes, my toes curling as I try to get deeper into him.

"I never forgot," he breathes out, overwhelmed, and I feel like I'm going to come before it's even started. Him. Kurt. Fuck, it's too much. It's not enough. I pound into him, desperate, intent on making him lose his fucking mind, and he matches me flawlessly, instantly, his hips moving to meet me. We figured it out. We had this figured out, even if it was the only thing that seemed to work. But I forgot that it was like this. That it was this intense.

Kurt grabs the back of my head, and our lips crash together. He pulls on my arms, my shoulders, and then a hand slips down my back and grabs my ass, his hand possessive, and I bite on his tongue to keep my pathetically loud vocals down. The bed is creaking, sheets tangled, and as we move I feel like I'm a part of something bigger, something that's not just me. My worn out lips press kisses to his sweaty neck, biting here and there, hoping everyone in the world will see the souvenirs of this. All proof on his skin, that I was here, that he isn't complete without me. And right now, neither am I. He feels alive beneath me, his leaking cock brushing my stomach, our flushed chests touching, and I let myself fall deep, deep into it.

The sex is graceless and wanton. I press my nose to his neck, bite on his collarbone, close my eyes and keep up the rhythm of thrust, thrust, thrust, firm and hard into him. His hand moves to my lower back, trying to press me down, and he gasps a shuddered, "Oh god, god, god –" when the head of my cock makes impact with the spot inside of him that tears him apart. And he's still so tight, so fucking tight, and I can't really even fathom how big my cock must feel for him. I force him open with every slide, and he moans like he can't get enough of it.

"Blaine. Blaine, fuck," he groans, and I have to kiss him when he says my name like that, like a seal or proof that it's me on his tongue and he can't pretend that it's not. He pulls on my hair, and he tastes me with his tongue, licking against the roof of my mouth. His hips move in a way that's beyond sinful, and I reach between us to grab his swollen cock to see how much more I can get out of him. He groans helplessly, his muscles contracting around my cock. "Oh. Oh, god."

"Jesus, Kurt," I gasp, my thumb tracing a wet trail of pre-come on the sensitive underside of his cock.

"Please. Please, I need to get off," he groans. Puffs of hot air wash against my lips, and he pulls on my hair almost painfully. "Can't stand how good you feel, how fucking good –" I push in fucking hard, and a moan breaks him off, his back arching. I wrap my fingers around the head of his cock, spreading the pre-come on him with a few lazy strokes before matching the movement with the rhythm of our hips.

I fall into it, the heat of it, the urgency, the way we're too rough but don't give a fuck, the fact that he'll be sore and I'll be bruised. My body feels like it's covered in sweat but it doesn't matter, is inconsequential, and he kisses me, wants me in him, above him, his cock pulsing in my fist as he swears against my mouth.

"Oh god," he breathes out, out of control, and he reaches above him to clutch a headboard bar. The other remains on my shoulder, nails digging in, and his hips move fluidly. His muscles keep contracting around me, and he bites on his lower lip whenever I brutally hit his prostate, a muffled yet guttural groan sounding in the heated air around us. He chants, "Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck –", and it's all nonsense and he doesn't seem to care.

"You still with me?" I ask, my voice shaking, and he nods, slurs, "Yes, yes, yes," every time I thrust into him, his voice mixing with the sound of my hips slamming against his ass. I run my thumb over his slit, trying not to lose it when he's so far gone, when he feels so fucking good. No one's ever had to ask me if I'm still with them during sex, if I'm too out of it, no one except him, and now I remember why. What makes it worse is that it's mutual – it makes it almost lethal.

He reaches up and kisses me, sucking on my lower lip, and then both of his arms grab onto my shoulders, fly into my hair, and he trembles and groans, masculine and low. I fuck him until the bed moves and the headboard bangs against the wall and he sounds like the groans are tearing his lungs apart. I kiss him again and again and again, and I missed him, fuck I missed him, and suddenly he comes to a still. He gasps against my lips, pupils expanding, and his entire body tenses up as he comes, as he falls apart beneath me. His muscles spasm around my cock, strangling my dick so hard that it's not easy to fuck into it but I do because nothing's ever felt as good, and my fingers feel wet and sticky as his cock pulsates in my fist, streaks of come erupting, and he's so tight and he's mine and he's perfect, and I slip into it, groaning into his mouth as my hips jerk, fucking him through it, wanting to fuck him through it.

"Fuck," I manage, my own voice foreign and choked up. "Fuck, fuck." I push in again and come hard, feeling like something inside me is breaking, coming so hard that it hurts even as it feels like the most unbearable pleasure to ever wash over me.

Behind closed eyes, all I can see is him. All I feel is him beneath me, relaxing, shivering, radiating warmth. His chest moving as he breathes heavily. My scalp hurts from him pulling on my hair, my mouth is swollen and raw, but our mouths find each other and slide together slowly, anyway. Just to get a focal point in this mess.

His hands run down my back, caressing, and I breathe him in, moving to kiss the side of his face, letting him come down. Letting myself do the same. He's still shivering beneath me, and I don't pull out of him. Don't want to just yet.

"Fuck," he whispers, voice hoarse. He sounds wrecked. When I open my eyes, he's looking at me, hair a mess, cheeks rosy, eyes wide and almost helpless. An open book, like I could see it all – his secrets and mistakes, all the little things that make up who he is. And he came back to me.

I smile a small, small smile into his cheek, trying to wrap my head around it. "You okay?"

His breaths steady slowly. "Yeah." He doesn't sound too sure, but he says it anyway. He sounds like he's just gotten his brain fucked out and speaking is a little difficult.

"Fuck, you're amazing." I almost laugh, smiling wider against his skin. "God." I inhale his scent.

I'm still holding his now almost flaccid cock, and his come has started drying onto my palm. I love every gritty detail, love the mess we've made, but he shifts slightly beneath me, and I let go, not wanting to crush him. I pull my cock out of him carefully, and he flinches, a small yet fucking sexy gasp escaping his lips when the crown slips out of him, his hole tightening and come slipping out. I place a hand on his chest, over his heart, feeling the fast thud, thud, thud as I sit up between his legs. He's sweaty, sex-haired, flushed, come-stained, well-fucked and glowing, and my stomach drops.

You're beautiful. You're astounding. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

I rub my face with one hand, trying to suppress a shit-eating grin or a worshipping gaze. "God, I could do with a cigarette," I laugh, my fingers rubbing his knee just to keep touching. He stares at me like he still hasn't quite caught up with me, and I grin slightly.

I get off the bed, messing my hair, feeling it wet from the roots, watching him close his legs, but that's alright, twenty minutes before I'll push them apart again. We've got catching up to do. A shit load of catching up to do. I open a drawer to get us a cigarette, but only find five empty packs. "Dammit," I swear, pulling boxers on instead. "I've got some in the kitchen," I tell him. My body feels more relaxed than it has in a long time, and the world has slowed down somehow, seems less chaotic. He's risen to rest on his elbows, his cock lying against his lower stomach, and I smile, smile, smile, a euphoric buzz in my veins. "Be right back."

It's hard to tear my eyes away from him.

I find cigarettes in the kitchen, seeing the empty beer bottles from earlier still standing on the counter, the memories now gold-tinted, and I store them in some part of my brain where I can fish them out at will. And stupid, really, that I put boxers on, but it was habit. Useless, though. I'll take them off, slide into bed with him, enjoy the much needed post-coital cigarette, and then fuck him until sunrise. Amazing plan.

I push the bedroom door back open just as Kurt's pulling his pants back on. He freezes by the bed, looks up, hands on the undone fly. I stop where I am, ignoring the instant sensation of having been punched in the gut.

"What are you doing?" I ask. What the fuck does he think he's doing?

He kicks back into motion and zips himself up. "What does it look like I'm doing?" I don't respond, just stare. He glances at me, bangs hanging in front of his eyes. "I'm going."

"Kurt. That's not funny." No reaction. He picks up his socks and stuffs them into his pockets hurriedly. I walk over in four long strides, grabbing his bare shoulders. His skin is still hot to the touch. "Kurt." He avoids eye contact. "Kurt. Kurt."

He looks up, and there it is: guilt. Right there in his eyes. A tormented guilt and anger rooted in it, and he snaps, "We did it, okay? We fucked, so now I can- I can stop thinking about you, I can stop –"

"No," I cut him off, capturing his lips though he turns his head away. "No stopping." Never. It's not an option.

"Blaine," he says, sounding broken. I can fix it. I can, but that requires him not going. "I can't do this to him." His voice wavers. "Not to him."

"But we're not doing anything to anyone!" I argue angrily, and he laughs, desperate, close to a break down. "No, listen. Listen. What he doesn't know, what they don't know, can't hurt them."

"But what I know –"

"You did what you wanted. We only did what we both wanted," I say, cup the back of his head and kiss him. He responds, hands fumbling, not sure whether to take hold of me or not. I put everything into the kiss, everything, the magic powers needed to make him stay, and he kisses back like he desperately wants to hold on. "There's nothing wrong with this," I say against his lips, and that's when he pulls himself free of my hold and heads out of the room. I try to breathe, but it's hard. It's hard without him. The sheets haven't even cooled yet, we've barely recovered from our orgasms, and he's already leaving.

When I march out of my bedroom, he's by the dining table, shoes back on and shaking hands clumsily buttoning up his shirt.

"You think leaving is going to solve anything?" I ask him angrily, watching him cover up the bite and nail marks, the bruises and come stains. He pockets his tie, in a real hurry. "You think you can pretend this never happened? Because you can't! Don't think for a second that I'll let you do that!"

"I made a mistake," he says, lying to himself, and he grabs his coat from the back of the dining chair closest to him and throws it on before trying to get past me to the door.

I block his way, grabbing his arm and keeping him still. "Yeah. A mistake by not coming here sooner."

He looks hurt but why? The sex? My words? Dave? He pulls himself free, and I don't even know what's going on anymore, why he is doing this when we both know where he belongs, why he is trying to sabotage this for us. It doesn't make any sense as I follow him to the door, watching him button his jacket, and then he's there, fingers curling around the door handle.

"Kurt!" I yell, not caring how desperate I sound. He stops, and I'm trembling. "You walk out that door, and you'll regret it! You will always regret it! Because you can't deny this, what we have. You leave now, and it will eat you up inside." He's not moving. He's listening. "You're not going to tell him. Stay or go, you will never tell him about what we did, and neither will I. It's not wrong to go after what you want, Kurt. Fuck, when was the last time you thought what you wanted and fucking went for it? Do you even remember? Because no matter what happens, this won't change. Us. I'm under your skin, and if you go, you'll lie there tonight, ridden with useless guilt and not because of what you did, but because you can't fucking stop thinking about me. When you wake up, when you go to bed, when he fucking makes you come, you'll be thinking about me. Or then – Then you can stay. You can be here, with me, and no one will ever have to know. But if you walk out that door, I swear you will regret it for the rest of your life."

I take in a shuddery breath and watch the tension in his shoulders, watch him unblinkingly, waiting for his vanishing act where he goes and leaves me fucking broken again, and I don't know how to recover from that this time. I don't know if I ever did to begin with.

Excruciatingly slowly, his hand drops back to his side. He turns around slowly, too slowly, and then he leans against the door, shoulders slumped, looking small. He's got a look in his eyes like I'm the worst fucker he's ever come across, but then he laughs emptily, out of desperation, maybe.

"So," he says quietly, voice testing the waters but still managing to make the iron hold around my heart loosen. He breathes in, he breathes out, and he smiles. "What do we do now?"

I cock my head to the side. Welcome him home.

End of Vol.2 – I