smut warning
Chapter 19: Editing History
Back in 1971, Mason McCarthy got fired from a phone sales company due to his low sales. He had hated the job, anyway, seeing himself as a more rebellious spirit. They had made him wear a tie to the office even though he was on the phone, and he said screw that and screw you, and stopped putting his hair in a ponytail. After that, he managed to get a job as a cleaner in the Winterland Ballroom, a well respected San Francisco venue, but he soon joined their venue staff as a tech. There he befriended a guy called Claudio, who knew tour promoters in LA, from where he had only recently moved to Fog City. Claudio had toured with bands, which Mason thought sounded like fun, so he asked Claudio to keep him informed.
In late summer 1972, a band called The Warblers released their second album and went on tour. They needed roadies, and someone told Claudio, who told Mason, who expressed interest, and who was consequently hired. We all thought Mason was a bit of a whiny faggot who could be a laugh but was mostly draining with his impulsive personality and tendency to create drama out of nothing. Still – he was a good roadie and got along with Matt, Beiste and Artie. It was a good crew.
Kurt Hummel from Here and There, USA, moved to San Francisco in 1972. He had probably heard that it was the haven of homosexuals, and he headed straight to The Castro District and slept with a different guy every night for the first two weeks, partly because he had nowhere to stay and used these men's places as hotels, and partly because the shock of being surrounded by other gay men got him overly excited, but also because he just loved cock. Then he realized he had kind of slept with the hottest guys there, and also that the ugly ones now assumed he was always up for it, and one of his suitors got a bit too touchy once and he kneed him in the balls. My boy's always been fierce.
Kurt was a multi-instrumentalist looking for a job that would somehow relate to music, and so he managed to score a job at the Winterland Ballroom. He swooned over David Bowie and changed guitar strings and scrubbed the dressing room floor, and he met Mason, who was only a part-timer then because he needed flexibility to go on tour with different bands. The two got along marvelously well and became good friends. Kurt, however, got fired from the venue when his boss discovered that Kurt had helped himself to the till to get the missing rent money he needed for that month. Desperate times call for desperate measures. He's not a thief, he told me that. He is not a thief and that's the only time in his entire life that he's stolen anything. Well. Apart from some clothes and food when he first left home. He's not proud of it either, some kind of Christian 'thou shalt not steal' guilt overshadowing the humiliating memory of him helping himself to a pretty modest fifty bucks.
Now Artie Abrams was a scrawny, skinny man, who could play every Hendrix song with his eyes closed, but not behind his back or with his teeth. He was from Missouri, T-total and a good laugh, but back in 1972, he met me, and I introduced him to whisky. He thought it tasted rather nice, and since then he had a bottle of whisky per day. One night in 1974, he and his friend Beiste stayed up boozing all night, and in the morning Artie woke up, fell down the stairs and broke his leg just before he was supposed to join The Warblers on tour.
The band urgently needed a roadie, and Mason thought of his friend Kurt, currently unemployed and homeless and permanently homosexual (not that he told us that), and we said sure, and Kurt said sure, having heard our music and not minding it, and besides, San Francisco was starting to feel small and he needed a change of scenery and definitely the money, and everyone said sure sure sure, and then I got on that tour bus one June morning, and there Kurt was, stuffing his bag into his bunk and saying "Hey" like it was no big thing.
But had Mason McCarthy been better at phone sales, or had I respected Artie's refusal to drink alcohol, or had Mason's friend Claudio never moved to San Francisco, or had Kurt done the Christian thing and not tried stealing fifty bucks from his employer, Kurt and I never would have met, I never would have fallen in love with him, I would probably never even have slept with a man, The Warblers might not have ever split up (although that's pushing it), and I never would have fallen out of grace with Mason McCarthy for screwing his friend Kurt around.
And we never would have gotten here: Los Angeles on a bright, sunny morning, standing in the hotel lobby that's full of light, tour passes around our necks and sunglasses covering our eyes, Mason and Kurt embracing like brothers, and Mason's eyes landing on me and sending a clear message: you are the enemy.
Dave's next in line, and Mason hugs Dave long and hard, beaming, ruffling Dave's hair like long lost friends. Dave laughs and talks animatedly. Kurt smiles slightly nervously. I wonder how he's going to break it to Mason: us.
I asked Kurt in Houston yesterday if he plans to tell Mason everything now that he seems to have decided that the time to confess is nigh. He said no, that he won't tell Mason who or when and that Mason would castrate him for cheating on Dave. He simply plans to say that there is someone else.
I'm the someone else. He is placing me as an option, as something he might choose, and it's the only thing keeping me going.
Three days without codeine.
When I was taking it, my arm felt fine. I also felt nauseous, had headaches, suffered from insomnia and a handful of other side effects that I figured were side effects but couldn't know for sure. Kurt went and did his homework, brought information leaflets from a pharmacy that he's forced me to read. I assured him that I had not at any point suffered from erectile dysfunction, however. Nope, I can get it up just fine.
But now that I'm not taking codeine, I feel more nauseous, the headaches are even worse, I sleep even less, I break out in cold sweat and shiver. Lauren's beside herself, and most of the guys think I've caught a cold. I refuse to see a doctor. It's withdrawal, that's all. It feels like claws are ripping up my insides, and I hate it and want to find more codeine, but then.
I'm an option now.
He keeps checking up on me. Worried. Concerned. But proud that I'm doing it.
Mason, Dave and Kurt walk over to the band as we check into the hotel. I look like shit although I'm wearing huge sunglasses that try to hide my face – I can see that in Mason's deprecating gaze, but you know what? Fuck him. He doesn't know anything about Kurt and me, and he certainly knows nothing about me. And when Kurt chooses me, Mason will just have to deal.
"Mason," I say as a greeting. "Long time, no see."
"Blaine," he says with a stiff nod.
"What's happenin'?"
He shrugs in an elusive way, folding his arms over his chest.
"Heard you're swinging the other way these days," I note, unable to help it. His eyes flash dangerously, but come on. We all knew he was gay before he did, even when he was trying to screw women. It's funny. There is no way I cannot mock him for it.
"Who is and who isn't," he says pointedly, looking at me sharply. My smile fades. With guys like him around, no wonder there are rumors about me. Fucker.
Dave looks surprised that we're throwing insults out of nowhere. Mason, of course, has to be in on Kurt's little secret of not telling Dave about The Warblers tour and what happened between Kurt and me. Everyone's busy lying to Dave.
Lauren comes back from the desk and hands me my key. I glance at the number, say, "2504. I'm off to take a nap," and leave them to it, my eyes briefly locking with Kurt's.
Were this the good old days, Kurt would take the hint, lose Dave, and soon appear at my door for a pleasant and sweaty afternoon fuck. But that's not happening because he won't even let me kiss him. He barely even touches me – he'll feel my forehead for temperature, but that's it. And the second I try to touch him in return, he recoils, seems confused, makes a quick exit. It's like now he has decided to obtain morals and doesn't want to do anything inappropriate while he remains undecided, like now the cheating would actually be cheating.
Lauren's cancelled all of my previous engagements for today. Our first LA show isn't until tomorrow, and I was supposed to do PR, but my health comes first. She makes sure I go to my hotel room, disconnects the phone, draws the curtains, stays nagging at me as I undress, and only leaves when I push her out of the door.
I hide under the covers, feeling feverish and drained. Maybe Kurt will come check up on me, even though he said that he'd be hanging out with Mason all day. He's meeting Mark from Columbia tomorrow, and one of Lauren's guys, Carden I think, is flying in from New York to meet Kurt too, to potentially manage him if the two get on. Kurt's nervous about all of it, not sure what to expect. Neither do I – do they want to sign him on the spot or do they want to see what he's got first?
Kurt's life will change tomorrow.
So will mine.
I sleep for seventeen hours, waking up in the middle of the night. I'm covered in cold sweat but finally feel rested. My stomach grumbles. I call room service, but they say that the kitchen is closed. I say I'm Blaine Anderson, and they say that a steak dinner will be cooked for me promptly. I say that I'll come down to the breakfast room to eat it, and they say that it's located on the thirty-fifth floor.
I shower and shave, my hand trembling as the razor slides across my cheek. I cut myself twice. I throw clothes on, and it's a bit after four in the morning as I head up to get some kind of food into my system. A chirpy waitress is already expecting me.
It's slightly eerie, sitting in the spacious breakfast room by myself. The sun is coming up between tall skyscrapers of the financial district, hills in the distance lighting up with morning sun. Everything looks official and new. It's weird being in Los Angeles again, but no longer having a place of my own here. Being a visitor someplace that used to be my home.
I'm seated near the entrance to the breakfast room, the remains of a steak and cream potatoes on my plate, and so I hear the sharp "Hey!" clearly. The glass door rattles as Mason tries to pull it open, but the place isn't officially open yet. The waitress comes rushing to see what the commotion is.
I take my napkin, press it to my lips slowly. Mason calls out, "Hey! I need to talk to you! Don't you dare ignore me!"
The waitress looks alarmed.
"Let him in," I tell her. Not a deranged fan, but an anti-fan. Mason clearly needs to get something off his chest, probably how much he despises me. Okay. If that's what needs to be done.
Mason keeps his head held high when the waitress opens the door, and he marches in like a man coming onto a battlefield. "Sit down," I offer. He looks down his nose at me, but then does. "You want a drink?" He huffs. "Two whiskeys, then."
The waitress nods and hurries off. It's too early to legally be serving alcohol. Laws don't apply to me.
Mason looks tired. He hasn't gone to bed yet.
"Are you staying at the hotel?" I ask, wondering how he could afford it. The place opened last year and is one of the hippest places we've ever stayed in.
"No. I've been hanging out in Dave and Kurt's room." He says it with emphasis, like he's a news bearer.
"Right."
The whiskeys arrive. He glares at the glass like he doesn't want to take anything from me, but then he downs it in one. He coughs and presses a hand to his throat. "Fuck."
I sip mine slowly. I'm in no rush. That cocky arrogance Mason had this morning is gone – now he just seems unsettled. Kurt's probably told him of his extramarital thoughts. I hope that he has. He promised me he would.
Mason's fingers whiten as he squeezes the glass too hard, looking thunderous. "I know it's you."
I look across the table at him. "I'm sorry?"
"Of course it's fucking you," he sighs, leaning back in his chair in defeat. "You just couldn't let him go, could you? And don't think I haven't asked him about it. I have over and over again, all winter and spring, and he's told me you two have nothing to do with each other, and I wanted to believe him, I did, but – All the proof I need is the way he says your damn name." He looks around hopelessly. Kurt's one of his best friends, but the way he hugged Dave showed that he considers Dave to be a friend of his too. And now Kurt's said... I don't know what exactly. That there is an option.
Mason looks at me long and hard. "Have you two fucked yet?"
I laugh in surprise. "That's really not any of your business." My tone is too defensive even to my own ears. He looks pissed off.
"So you have." He rubs his face tiredly. "Shit." He probably thinks it's a recent development. He has no idea Kurt gave up nearly six months ago, and then again, and again, and again. Mason leans over the table and looks me straight in the eye. "You have to leave them alone."
And now I'm the home wrecker? Hardly.
"What if Kurt doesn't want to be left alone?"
"He does! You just – You don't get it. You think you can come in and out of his life as you please, but you fuck it up. You fuck him up. Dave on the other hand –"
"Oh, please," I interrupt, because the last thing I need is a rant on Dave's virtues and my vices. "I didn't steal Kurt."
"He can't say no to you. He never could," he says slowly like it's taking extra effort to make me understand this. "Blaine, you fucked him over that summer. You used him and then you just threw him away. Do you have any idea what a mess he was after that? After you? Of course you don't, because you weren't there. Well, I was."
"He left me, not the other way around," I remind him, getting angry of being accused. He's the one who told me to leave, who called me vile and cruel. I offered him the damn world, and that's what I got in return.
"It was the wisest decision he ever made! He'd fallen for you fucking hard, and you treated him like a lap dog," he hisses angrily, and my words of protest die in my throat. My insides feel heavy and paralyzed all of a sudden. Mason stares at me angrily and then with slight disbelief. "You didn't know he was in love with you?"
"He said –" I start, trying to trace ancient memories. He said he was falling in love. Not that he already was. There's a big difference. And what did I know back then? I didn't know that love really existed, and I certainly didn't know that it could exist between two men. I didn't know. He never said. That is not my fault.
"I knew how he felt. I could see it," Mason muses like he can read Kurt's feelings that easily. I don't think he can. Hindsight is all he's working with, hindsight and the times Kurt's opened up to him. God, what did Kurt say to him back then? Did he really… say that he was… With me? "Kurt knew how he felt about you. And then you just left him. He was homeless and broke, and you just left him in a fucking mess and carried on with your rockstar life. You spat him out and never fucking looked back."
"That's not how it happened. Don't think for a second you know how I felt back then or how I feel now."
"But it's true," he insists. "Dave saved him. What did you do? Nothing. Fucking nothing."
"I'd call 'saving' Kurt slightly dramatized."
"Giving him somewhere to stay, paying off his debts, getting his overly touchy boss off his back and helping him back on his feet? Yeah, maybe I am dramatizing it," he says sardonically. He then breaks into a gigantic, sadistic grin when I say nothing in return. When I just stare. "Oh. You had no idea. Why am I not surprised?"
"Kurt's never talked about that time or –"
"Of course not! He's ashamed of it all, isn't he? It killed him to accept Dave's help, but Dave offered. Unconditionally," he adds, like unconditional is something I would never offer. My utter incomprehension must show because he sighs and leans forward. "Look, Ryder screwed him over for a breach of contract when he quit before the tour was done, and he only got half of the money he was promised for being a roadie for you guys."
"I never knew that," I say instantly, my mind reeling. Ryder Lynn, that cheap fucking git. But it's not just Ryder, it's all of this: Kurt never told me. I wouldn't have let that happen to him had I known.
"Of course you didn't know. You didn't care. Just like you didn't care about Matt. We all know you would've gone to jail, driving with that much alcohol in your blood. You nearly killed us all, you selfish fucking prick, and you fucked Matt over when he was made to take the blame for you, and you fucked Kurt over when he'd fallen for you. You didn't steal Kurt from Dave, okay, maybe, but you're his weakness. He can't say no to you, but that doesn't mean he should ever say yes."
Not many men could call me a prick to my face and live to tell the tale. Not many.
I know that Matt took the blame for the bus crash. That was decided on that night, that I hadn't been the one driving. Ryder orchestrated it, and Matt got enough money for it to buy a new house. It was fair. It seemed fair. I had been drinking – I couldn't own up to it. Matt was driving too fast, it was raining hard, he lost control of the bus. It happens. We didn't force Matt into admitting it, so how is that my fault?
As for Kurt... He was staying with that creepy faggot that walked around in high heels. He had his bag and a guitar and a mattress. But he didn't care. He chose it over me.
So Ryder refused to give him the money he deserved. I didn't know that. I got a lawyer to talk to Ryder for me. I didn't want to see my manager again. I didn't know of Kurt's debts, and I didn't know he got stuck in a job with a boss who… The thought of anyone touching him without his consent is enough to fill me with rage, but as far as I can see, none of that is my fault.
But I feel like it is.
"Tell me," I say quietly, my chest constricting. I need to know. Kurt won't tell me, and Dave will wonder if I start asking questions. Mason knows. "Just fucking tell me."
He seems to consider this awhile, but then nods. Probably knowing that it will be unpleasant for me to hear. "Kurt was in debt even before the tour. Whatever money he made that summer, he spent on paying other people back, but even that didn't cover it all. Terry let him stay with him for a while, and then I let him stay on my couch, but then my landlord threatened me with eviction, so… He slept on people's couches, started working as a bartender. It wasn't enough to pay people back. He was a mess over you. He did the bit where he'd only talk about what an asshole you were, and then he did the bit where he did drugs and slept around, and he did the bit where he was quiet and wouldn't speak to anyone. He'd listen to Boneless when I was out of the house and thought that I didn't know. And he wasn't – He just wasn't getting better. He didn't care, really, about going to work or trying to pay off his debts, which only made it worse with the interests these guys were taking. Not a dangerous crowd, but not pleasant either. Luckily that dodgy guy who ran the club had a soft spot for him. I'm sure he would've been fired otherwise."
I keep telling myself that Mason is exaggerating this, editing history to guilt trip me. It's working. My throat feels tight, and nausea that isn't connected to my withdrawal is pooling in my guts.
"And then he met Dave, and Dave fell for him instantly. I had to play matchmaker for those two to come together. Kurt didn't want to date people, he was too messed up. When Dave found out about the mess Kurt was in, he offered to take Kurt in. Help him get things sorted. Kurt was running out of friends who'd let him lodge at their places, and he usually paid people for letting him stay, but Dave said he wouldn't charge him a cent. Dave said they could be friends if Kurt wasn't interested. So Kurt moved in, although they hardly knew each other." Mason smiles obnoxiously when he knowingly adds, "It didn't stay platonic for very long."
For some reason, my jealousy feels worse than it usually is. The thought of that first time together, when I was still so fresh on his mind. If he thought of me. If that's when he started not to think of me. If he did it out of obligation, or was he really attracted to Dave, or was it gratitude or love or –
I didn't steal Kurt from Dave. Dave stole him from me. Mason's just proven it.
"Dave loves him," Mason says quietly. "Dave is good for him. Dave doesn't fuck him up. And Kurt's judgement is lacking when it comes to you. He might have forgotten how you used him, but I haven't. And you and I both know how it'd end, with his heart broken yet again. It's inevitable. Do you want to know why?" He stands up, clearly only to create the sense of towering over me. "Because you're a selfish asshole who's never cared about anyone but himself. So do everyone a favor and leave him be."
"I can't," I say simply, trying not to feel insulted that that's what Mason thinks of me.
"Then I suggest that you figure out how. Because if you care about him at all, you'll put an end to it before it even starts."
Having said his piece, he heads back out.
He's so wrong about all of it. It started years ago, and it's still ongoing. There is no putting an end to it anymore, you can't put an end to something that's infinite.
Maybe Mason's right about something, though. Maybe Dave fixed Kurt for me. And there's so much Kurt's never told me.
So much he is holding against me.
I almost miss Kurt's meeting with Mark Reynolds of Columbia, who has flown from New York just like Lauren's puppet Carden has. The label doesn't even want to wait for Kurt to get back to NY – they've sent an A&R across the country to speak to him. It's even worse than we thought.
I told Kurt that I'd meet him in the hotel lobby at eleven, that I'd be there to figuratively hold his hand. Even though he is dancing a fine line between avoiding me and looking after me, he still wants me to go with him. The crew thinks I'm being damn nice, Dave's said that I'm such a considerate guy. Lauren, Jeff and Sam have all been giving me looks, like they thought I had given up on that already.
I can't give up on him.
I almost miss the meeting, though.
It's Mason's fault. Mason and all the shitty things he said got under my skin. I finally get it: Kurt said he was scared to let me in. Mason said that he was in love with me. None of that is my fault, but they think it is. I sit in the breakfast room, nursing whiskey and smoking until the waitress kindly tells me that it's six in the morning and that they're opening up for other hotel guests soon.
My first instinct is to find Kurt and tell him how I had nothing to do with what he went through, how I thought he wanted me gone. He's probably still asleep, however, sharing a bed with Dave, no doubt, but as I wander along the corridor, I bump into Sam. Mercedes's gone to the hotel gym for a morning workout – Sam looks tired just saying it – and we go to their room, get out guitars and start messing about.
It's also Sam's fault. He doesn't remind me that I have somewhere to be. Neither does Mercedes, who doesn't seem pleased to find me jamming with her boyfriend in their hotel room. She changes in the bathroom and says she's going shopping.
And because it's a distraction, I slip into it willingly, not snapping out of it until Jeff and Dave show up. And you'd think that seeing Dave would make the bells go off in my head, but instead I keep thinking of him helping Kurt out over two years ago now. I hear Dave's voice in my head, an assuring 'Look, I just want to help you out. I won't try anything with you. I've got an extra room, we can be friends', and I see Kurt's eyes cast downwards, unsure and humiliated. I wonder who made the first move. Probably Dave. He knew, like I know, that there is no way in hell either one of us could ever be friends with Kurt.
"Shouldn't you be on your way already?" Dave asks as he and Jeff get settled in the room. Jeff snatches my cigarette and guitar and begins to play the intro to Royal Blood.
I wonder if Kurt felt like he had no choice but to begin a relationship with Dave. If that's why he chose Dave: there were no alternatives.
Dave looks concerned. I have no energy to even talk to him.
"Well, since you're here and not there," he says, sounding very confused, "could I finally interview you?"
And as I wonder what 'not there' means, I finally remember where I am meant to be. There. With Kurt. I grab Jeff's arm to check his wristwatch, and it's half past eleven, and no one told me, and it's Mason's fault, Sam's fault, Mercedes's fault, just like the post-tour mess Kurt suffered back in '74 – someone else's fault.
"Oh, fuck," I swear, standing up quickly. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
And then I'm out of the room and I'm pressing the elevator arrow going down, and then I give up and decide to take the stairs, go down two floors, realize I still have over twenty to go, and then I try the elevator on another floor, wait impatiently, get inside and press the G button. I'll take a cab, make it just in time, just make sure that he doesn't think I've abandoned him, that he knows I'm not the kind to just throw him to the wolves. And he'll know that I didn't do it on purpose and he'll forgive me, and –
The doors to the lobby open, and I rush out and head for the exit, stopping only when my name gets called. I swirl around and see Kurt with a young guy with dark brown spiky hair. They both look stressed out like they've been waiting. Oh thank god.
I hurry over, trying to catch my breath. "I was just on my way to –"
"I don't care," Kurt says icily. He's dressed up – black slacks instead of jeans, and a maroon dress shirt with a butterfly collar that sits on him perfectly. Probably shopping that he and Mason did yesterday. "We're late," he says angrily. He doesn't wait for a reply.
Me and the guy with the rock hair follow him out of the hotel. He extends his hand. "Mike Chang from Zizes Management. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Anderson."
"Yeah, sure," I say, ignoring his hand and catching up with Kurt instead. "Listen, Kurt –"
"Don't talk to me," he hisses, opening up the back door to a taxi standing outside the hotel. "You can take another one."
Great, now he's pissed off again.
"You take another one," I tell Mike. Mike looks surprised and alarmed because there are no other taxis around, but I only follow Kurt in before his taxi can take off. His eyes flash dangerously when I join him in the backseat, but I lean over to pass the driver some of the bills in my pocket and say a simple, "Drive."
The taxi driver looks at me with wide eyes. "I'll drive you to the fucking moon for that." He takes off.
Kurt's got his arms folded over his chest. I look at him with what I hope are puppy eyes. He doesn't budge.
"I'm really sorry I was late."
"Yeah?" he asks. "We called your room, and we called Lauren, and we're late now because you fucking vanished. Where were you, then? Stocking up on your favorite pain killers, maybe?"
"I was with Sam. You can ask him. And I'm clean. I promised you, remember?"
I'm definitely clean because I feel like shit. I'm no longer tired and I've been fed, but I still feel weak, still start shivering out of nowhere, and I know that the headaches and nausea will last for days if not weeks before I've come out of the woods.
"Don't be mad, Kurt," I say quietly because excuses are useless. I'll skip straight to the groveling. I know I let him down, but I'm here now. He says nothing, his shoulders drawn tight. "It was Mason's fault. He said all these things –"
"When did you talk to him?" he asks sharply. I've finally gotten his attention.
"This morning. He told me things about that summer. And he told me about you and Dave, back in San Francisco, and I just..." I swallow hard, not knowing where to start. "I'm sorry. Baby, I'm so sorry."
The car comes to a very sudden stop, tires screeching and the both of us falling forwards. The driver's turned around. "You two, get out," he barks. His face is red and he looks furious.
I stare in confusion. "What the fuck?"
"Get out of my cab, faggots," he swears. I stare at the guy in astonishment.
"It takes a man to take a cock," Kurt says like it's an automatic response, and then he flips off the driver and opens his door without arguing further, but I keep staring. The driver throws the money I gave him back at me. Like he won't take it. Like he will not touch faggot money. "Out, do you hear me?!" He's middle-aged and has a big moustache, and somehow he distantly looks like my father. "Don't you push me," he threatens when I don't move. People don't treat me like this – they bruise their knees prostrating at the sight of me.
"Fuck you," I hiss angrily. "Your job is to fucking drive, that's it. Now, unless I'm sucking a guy off in your backseat, it's none of your –"
My door gets opened, Kurt grabbing my arm. "Just come on, it's not fucking worth it."
"If I had my gun, boy!" the driver swears.
"You fucking threatening me?!" I snarl, but Kurt's pulling me out persistently. I get out and slam the door as hard as I can. The car takes off, speeding, my unwanted money still on the backseat. I stare after it in astonishment. "What a cunt. What a fucking cunt! Didn't he know who I was?"
"We'll get another one," Kurt says dismissively, standing on the edge of the sidewalk on the lookout. The street is relatively quiet, business men types with briefcases hurrying to meetings. "And just a thought – try not to call me baby in the presence of the next driver, alright?" He doesn't sound at all amused.
I scoff. I did not call him baby. Did I? And even if I did, which I didn't, no one has the right to kick me out of their damn car because of it. Kurt's not fazed, however. He's used to this kind of treatment. I'm still trying to come to terms with it as something I'd have to live with, something I'd have to face were I ever to... in some alternative universe where it would be okay to be honest about it. But not this one.
"Okay, I'm sorry. Again. I'm just – Mason messed me up. He said these things, and –"
"Don't believe a damn word that he says, alright? If you've messed up my chances with that record deal now, I swear to god –"
"They will wait!" I bark. "I'll say that it was my fault, and even some Columbia rep can respect that! Not many guys can walk into a label meeting with the current record chart number one, which you will, so stop worrying about it."
A taxi's coming down the street. Kurt reluctantly drops his arm. His cheeks have blushed slightly. Embarrassment. He exhales shakily, looking uncomfortable.
"Okay. Alright." He fidgets. He never wanted me to know about the things Mason told me. "What did he tell you?"
"Did Dave really let you move in with him?" I ask. He sighs in a 'here we go' way, but nods, jaw set tight. So that's true. "Did Dave pay off your debts too?" Another nod, more reluctant than the first. Buying Kurt's love and gratitude. So cheap. I've never had to stoop that low. "And did Ryder fuck you over with the money?" He nods again. Great… "I never knew Ryder fucked you over. If I had, I – I would've told him to give you what was yours. I would have."
"Let bygones be bygones," he mutters, but it's not gone. It's present even now.
"Where did you work after I left?"
"This gay club. Bartending." He shrugs dismissively.
"And did anyone..." I start. This is the hardest question, but it's one that I have to ask. "Did anyone force themselves onto you?" He frowns at my question. "Did anyone ever?"
"No."
"No? Because Mason said something about that club owner. I would kill him. You know that I would fucking kill him if he had." The anger in my guts is dark, darker than anything I've ever felt. If anyone hurt him like that, if anyone – And I can't even finish the thought, my brain short-circuiting. That part of me is too violent for me to want to connect with.
"You get a lot of arrogant guys in The Castro who think that anyone's up for grabs. You learn to fend for yourself pretty quickly," he says, but he's avoiding my question and knows it. When I don't look away, he sighs. "My boss was a well-known perv who only hired pretty boys and smacked our asses when walking by. He tried to talk me into sucking him off once, that's it. I didn't, for the record," he adds, glancing at me like I could easily believe that he got on his knees for someone like that. "The comments were unpleasant, but I lived with it. Mason exaggerates, you know that," he says, but do I really? Mason's been giving me facts. Dramatizing them slightly, sure, but they're facts nonetheless. I would not even let suggestive comments slide, if someone came onto him after he's said no. I ignore his 'no's all the time, okay, but that's because he doesn't mean them with me. Because Mason said it, didn't he? That Kurt doesn't know how to say no to me. And that's because deep down, he doesn't want to.
"I didn't know. I didn't... mean to leave you in a mess like that," I say quietly.
"You were busy crashing the bus and then you took off to England," he says, which accurately recaps what I did. We've never talked about this before, and I've never stopped to wonder if he knew who was driving, but clearly he did – Mason wouldn't have lied to him about it.
I had to get out. Had to. I'd lost my band and my girlfriend and my best friend and him, and I had no idea why I was still alive. I came close then, before a survival instinct kicked in. I fled. It wasn't dignified, but it saved me. As for him...
"You threw me out, Kurt. You made it clear you wanted nothing to do with me. But if Dave... saved you." The words are bitter on my tongue. "If he saved you, then I owe him for that. Then I'm grateful that he was there for you when I wasn't. And I get that you feel indebted, I get that now. He's done so much for you. He gave you a home, helped you back on your feet. And I get that it's hard for you to walk away from that, that you don't want to seem ungrateful, but... I'm back now. I'm back."
"And you think that's all there is to it?" he laughs.
Yeah. Pretty much.
No one gets through life without breaking someone's heart.
I step closer to him carefully, and he doesn't back away. I'd touch him but we're in public, and he'd shy away from the touch quickly. "If you want me to say that I'm sorry about all of it, then okay: I'm sorry. But I would never do that to you again. I wouldn't."
He stares down at his shoes like he's trying to process my words. "I don't think it's that simple," he says eventually. "I don't feel like... I can trust you."
"Try," I say softly. "I wouldn't let you down again."
He looks unsure, but if he's placed me as an option, like he has admitted that he has, then surely he's slowly beginning to trust me again. I just need to keep proving it. For a day or two longer. God, I'm so sick of waiting.
A cab drives past us but then slows down rapidly. We both tense up. Maybe the fucker went to get his gun.
The back door opens, and Mike gets out. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asks exasperatedly, like he cannot comprehend what is happening at all.
"Our cab broke down," Kurt supplies.
"Well, get in here! We're late!" He motions frantically.
Kurt casts a side glance at me, and I follow him. Figuring out how to feel constant for him, instead of being something that flickers like a mirage in his horizon.
It's not what Kurt thought, but then again it never is: they want him in a band. The Columbia guy, Mark, says that Kurt's got the rockstar babe looks, and he's definitely got the talent, but it's hard to market a solo artist right now. Lauren's guy Mike, on the other hand, turns out to be a pretty knowledgeable guy, stipulating this and that addition to Kurt's contract. Both men seem intimidated by me when I throw in my own comments, trying to give Kurt as much room to maneuver as I can. I made mistakes, signed contracts asking too much of me: this many albums, this many tours, this much of my soul.
"You have a great sound," Mark tells Kurt, buttering him up. "And if we just tweak it here and there, it will be easy to sell."
"But if it's already great, why do we need to tweak it?" Kurt asks. He's sweaty and pale, pulling on his collar. He is not enjoying any of this: a semi-official meeting in Columbia's LA branch, around a smart table with water-filled glasses in front of us.
"To make the sound greater!" Mark laughs. Suave label bastard. "And I know talented musicians who I think would form a great band with you. You'd be the star, don't worry. We want you singing those songs, you being the frontman, but I want to make sure you have a good band to work with."
"My client has the right to refuse appointments made by the label," Mike cuts in, looking up from the paperwork and holding a pen like it's his lethal weapon.
"Well, Ian would obviously be in my band," Kurt says, and Mark quirks an eyebrow. "My friend in New York. Amazing guitarist."
"Okay. We could look into that." Mark doesn't sound happy. "Is he good-looking?"
Kurt frowns. Mark waves his hand like they can save that for later. "How many songs have you got finished?"
Kurt exhales, brows knitting together as he runs a hand through his hair. "Like... forty? And then a whole load of unfinished songs."
"Forty?" I repeat in astonishment.
He glances at me briefly. "I've been writing music since I was fifteen, so yeah."
When has he written these songs? I've seen him fiddling with guitars often enough, but I thought he was doing just that – fiddling. Not writing, although he must have been. He's never offered to play them for me, has never asked for feedback. Like he's been too shy or unsure.
"And how many out of the forty do you feel have potential?" Mark enquires.
"Maybe sixteen. The rest are older stuff that I don't really like."
Mark hums.
"My client has a final say on the track lists of his albums," Mike now cuts in.
"I don't think so," Mark objects. "That should be negotiable."
Mike's eyes gleam. "I doubt that."
It goes back and forth like this for half an hour, Mike and Mark twisting each other's arms, me trying to twist both of theirs, and Kurt trying to keep his head. In the end, and because it's inevitable, Kurt signs a record deal for three albums – he can opt out after two under certain conditions, and Columbia can also drop him after two if they're not happy with the sales. He needs to get a band, and Mike and Mark agree that Kurt will meet with the label's candidates too, and Kurt insists on Ian, because he wants the band to be real and not artificially put together.
The end result is the same: Kurt's got a record deal with Columbia – anyone would die to be in his band. The part that I am most pleased with is that I manage to get time: Kurt is still on tour with us, and will be for all of summer. Columbia can't have him until September.
At least I got that much.
"It's a good deal," Mike assures him when he gives Kurt the pen. Kurt looks at me from across the table, nervous and unsure. Mark holds his breath. I nod. It is a fair deal. Kurt signs it. Mark exhales.
There he goes.
A lot of hand shaking takes place after that, and Mike grins from ear to ear as we walk out of Columbia's LA branch. He takes us out for lunch, all paid for by Zizes Management, of course, and he orders us champagne in an expensive restaurant with mostly businessmen around us. Although Kurt is dressed up and I have a brown suede suit on, we get looks from the others, and I put my sunglasses on and keep my head low.
Mike gives a grand speech on how he is now Kurt's bitch. Anything Kurt needs – he's here for it. Lauren gave me the same speech once.
"And also," Mike says, getting tipsy on the champagne. Kurt keeps smiling patiently, but is clearly overwhelmed. Mike grins at Kurt excitedly. "You need a new name!"
"Sorry?"
"Well, Kurt Hummel will not do, will it? It's so very..." His brows knit together. "Unrock 'n roll. You sound like a Mormon." He laughs. "No, no, you need something groovy. Something electric. I'll let you have a think about that."
He excuses himself and heads to men's room. I've gotten out a cigarette, trying to keep my opinions to myself. Kurt's looking my way, and I can tell that he's trying to locate my eyes, so I push the sunglasses up to rest on my head.
He looks lost.
"You okay?" I ask quietly.
"Yeah. Yeah, just – I never thought getting a record deal would make me feel so unsure about the future." He laughs sadly, trying to smile. He isn't jumping up and down in a 'I've just got a record deal' way. He worries on his bottom lip. "Does he really want me to invent a new name for myself?"
"David Bowie, Bob Dylan, Elton John, Freddie Mercury, Elvis Costello, Cilla Black, and do I really need to keep going?"
"You didn't have to change your name," he protests.
"That's because I was born to be a rock star," I wink, trying to get him to relax a little. He can keep his first name – Kurt is unique enough. He just needs a cool sounding surname, maybe something musical, like Kurt Note or Kurt Drum, something that is obviously pretty fake but it's okay because it suits him.
They can have his name if he can have his music. It seems fair enough.
He worriedly looks over his shoulder towards the men's room. "I mean, this is amazing. A record deal with Columbia, getting represented by Lauren's people. This is really amazing, more than I ever dreamed of, and I should be so happy right now, but I just –" He stops his rant to exhale heavily, clearly stressed. "It's not what I had in mind. That's all. But I don't want to seem ungrateful."
"Welcome to the world of eternal compromise."
I'm not going to tell him to rejoice because there is so much shit that comes with record deals, obligations that come with the contracts. He might be huge, he might be a failure. We can't know. But if he goes in expecting the worst, then it'll probably end up badly. I don't want him to dread it.
"It'll all work out," I tell him softly, and he looks at me with hopeful eyes. "Trust me."
The simple imperative bears much more weight than it normally would. He looks unsure.
Without meaning to, I reach over to touch a patch of skin under his left ear, to get him to relax. He leans into it, eyes fluttering shut. I rub my fingers in a circular motion and move them up an inch. His breathing hitches. His eyes fly open. His eyes are dark.
I pull my hand back and look out of the window. Trying to breathe evenly.
It's automatic to touch him in those places I've only discovered from having had him.
He clears his throat quickly, ducking his head. I count seconds. Getting oxygen in feels difficult, my eyes hurting. He takes a large, large gulp of his champagne.
"So what did Mason tell you?" I ask after a while.
"That leaving Dave would be the biggest mistake of my life," he responds instantly. His cheeks have a faint blush on them now, but he's trying to shake it off.
"He only says that because he knows it's me."
"I know." He shakes his head slightly. "I tried denying it." He tries to say it like a good thing but it's not. If he's trying to choose between Dave and me but can't tell his best friend that he's involved with me, especially when Mason really knows? That's not a good sign. "Mason didn't have much good to say in general. Ranted about how fickle fags are, but Carl repeatedly cheats on him, so it's a touchy subject. Men aren't too good with the whole monogamy thing."
"No kidding," I say and motion back and forth between us. The corners of his mouth twist upwards, and that's a point my way. I greedily suck in cigarette smoke as a more serious, almost pensive frown appears on his face.
"Could you?"
I close my eyes for a second because the light is beginning to hurt. My hand is trembling, so I quickly snub the cigarette in the ashtray, before he can see. "Could I what?"
"Be monogamous."
He's looking at me evenly. I've never been monogamous because I've never had to be. I've been expected to be by some, but their expectations did not mean that I had to live up to them.
"I've never tried," I say honestly. "But I could."
I don't add 'for you'. If that's a deal breaker, then okay. If that's something that he wants. And the second I think it, I feel a pull in the bottom of my stomach. If I can have him all to myself. If he wants the same in return. Just us.
Fuck, when did monogamy become sexy? The sixties are clearly long gone. And there are people I'm attracted to, all the time, every day, people I would qualify for a fuck, but it never compares to the want I feel for him. Being there, in that moment with him, point of orgasm, when we're one being. My skin heats up just from the thought of it, how addictive that is with him. Seeing him so far gone, feeling it myself.
I could reject all others for him.
We hold eye contact, and I want to say 'Let's start now' – what the hell. But he hasn't made up his mind yet, and the wait is getting to me. I just want him to say it already: that it's me.
Mike slumps back into his chair, and I flinch. I pull my sunglasses back over my eyes as he picks up the conversation of how he thinks Kurt should cut his hair. Mike then says, "If you have any skeletons in your closet, tell me now because they will be dug up eventually. Ever murdered anyone?" He winks, but it's not funny. Kurt's paled. The boy's made of secrets. Mike pours more champagne for everyone. "So any ideas for your new name?"
A sudden headache is coming on, pounding at my temples. I try to focus on their voices, but it becomes static noise, then a single high-pitched note, and I close my eyes and try to shake it off. I reach for my drink with a strong, good grip, I would think, but the glass slips through my fingers and crashes on the table.
Mike pushes back his chair, and I try to stand before the champagne spills all over me. I waver standing up so quickly, my legs not having the strength to carry me. I begin to fall backwards and I grab the table cloth for balance. The cloth comes off, bringing with it all the glasses and plates, the crashing sound loud and confusing. I don't fall. I breathe hard and feel dizzy and nauseous with broken porcelain at my feet. Kurt's arm is secure around my waist, and he's pulling my arm around his shoulders and keeps steadying me as I lean into his side.
"Whoa, okay," he says, sounding alarmed.
"Fuck, it just got so," I say, try to explain, try to stand up properly but can't.
"Is he alright?" Mike asks worriedly.
"We're leaving," Kurt says in a tone that no one can argue with. I notice the entire room of wealthy corporate bastards staring our way in disapproval. Kurt navigates us between the tables neatly, and I let my eyes close because he'll get us out of here.
The spell of nauseating dizziness doesn't start to fade until well into the cab drive. Mike yelled after us that he'd be in touch, getting the hotel numbers from Lauren. I feel embarrassed and stupid when breathing becomes easier, when the world comes back into view. My nose is runny and I've started sweating for no reason, and my fucking hands keep trembling, and I lean against the backseat and feel pathetic. I sure know how to charm a man.
"I'm sorry," I manage.
"Don't worry about it." He's staring at me with blatant concern.
"I feel better now. I do." I close my eyes for a second and swallow hard. "You don't need to look after me."
"Stop being so damn proud," he says but his tone is warm. It's only when he squeezes my hand that I realize he is even holding it. He's been trying so hard not to touch me these past few days.
I keep my eyes closed for the rest of the ride, feeling the episode pass. My body feels weak once more. I have no idea how I'll live through the show tonight. Well, I will. I have to. There are no other options.
When the cab stops outside the hotel, Kurt gets money out before I can. When I try to protest, he says, "I just got a two grand advance on future sales. I can pay for this." He says it like the amount of money is too huge for him to even comprehend, especially when he doesn't even have a band yet. Kurt's never really had money for extra things before. I've always had to twist his arm to accept things: a hotel room, studio time, room service, me.
I walk by myself, though he keeps hovering, like he's ready to catch me should I suddenly collapse. Trying to walk straight at a normal pace is draining, but I don't want him knowing how shitty I feel.
A message is waiting for him at the reception. He reads it quickly, telling me to wait up when I try to leave. "Dave," he says, glancing up from the note. A warm smile is stretched across his lips. "He's gone to the arena with the film crew. There's a number so that I can call him right away."
"You should call him, then," I say. "I bet he's dying to know how it went."
"Yeah. I don't know what I'd say, though."
"That you got a record deal with a major label."
He smiles wider and with a bit more confidence. When we word it like that, it sounds as amazing as it is. He knows they'll change him, and he's reluctant to let them do that, but that doesn't change the fact that he's been given a shot at becoming a professional musician. Seb, Nick, Puck and I were over the moon when we signed our first deal. By the time we signed to Capitol and Ryder became our manager, I felt the sense of dread that Kurt can now sense hovering in the back of his mind.
The others won't understand why he's apprehensive about it – they'll gush and tell him he'll be famous and rich and fabulous, but he knows that it comes with a price on any kind of artistic integrity that he wishes he could hold onto. He knows what it means for his sexual orientation: it is not to be mentioned. He knows that he's to be ogled by women, who have to think that he is available. He knows all of this. So do I. I doubt Dave does.
He just needs to put his foot down and not let them push him around. Not all artists are martyrs for their cause – some of us can do the music that we want to be doing, even if we have to change our names.
He folds the note, but not before I see it signed with 'Love you' and beneath it 'Dave' in neat handwriting. The reaction is physical, all of my insides twisting together so tightly that it hurts, a violent burn spreading into all of my bones. I clutch the reception counter and breathe hard and unevenly.
I jerk when his hand lands on my shoulder. "Hey," he says gently, but that dizzying weakness is back. "You need to lie down."
"I'm fine," I say through gritted teeth.
"Stop saying you're fine."
I don't want him seeing me like this. It's just turning out to be a rough afternoon. It's not like I've never suffered from withdrawals before.
When we get to my room, however, and I lie down on the bed, I realize how worn out I feel again, like I didn't sleep all of yesterday. I kick off my shoes and leave my sunglasses on the nightstand, and he fusses but I tell him to go. I roll onto my side, away from him. This is something I have to suffer myself.
But he doesn't leave. I keep shivering, my fingers crooking involuntarily, everything feeling cold. And I hate it when he lies down and spoons me from behind, hate it when his arm wraps around my waist, hate it when his head hooks on my shoulder, hate it when he begins to whisper, "You'll be fine. You'll be just fine." I hate that it works. I don't know how much time passes, but the tremors pass, too, until I'm left feeling tired but coherent once more. Humiliated and useless.
He hasn't gone.
"What are you thinking?" I ask quietly, not sure if I want to know.
"The future." His nose presses the skin just behind my ear. "The record deal. You. What Mike said. Everything."
"Thought of any cool names?"
I feel him smile. "No."
"It'll be easier to hide behind a pseudonym."
I say it to make him feel better, but he exhales heavily. "I never thought that far," he says quietly. "If this music thing works out, if it – if it was successful, and I'm not saying it will be, but if it was... they would dig up my past, wouldn't they? Find out where I've come from."
They would. They've done it to me. I try to confuse them with interviews, give contradictory accounts of my past, and it's still working pretty well, but they're separating the facts from fiction better and better.
I say, "You can do a Jim Morrison and claim that your parents are dead. You've done it before." His warmth disappears, his hand sliding off my stomach. I turn around, and he's staring at the ceiling solemnly. "It'd take a while for them to track you down. Depends on how successful you are, how much they care. But they would eventually."
"So the truth would come out," he says. He gets a pained expression on his face. "Dave would find out."
"Yeah. He would."
He sighs and pulls Dave's note out from his pocket. He looks at the number on it. He sighs again, eyes closing. His lips move but no sound comes out, but I can read it easily: 'Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.' He rises to rest on one elbow. "Can I use your phone?"
"Sure."
I lie back down as he gets up, heading to the phone on the table. He picks it up, stretching the cord to the bathroom. He closes the door after himself the best that he can, and I try not to listen, try to tune out the words carrying from the slightly ajar door and across the room. He does this happy, embarrassed laugh when he finally gets Dave on the phone, and he seems unable to get a word in once he says that he got a deal. Dave must be so proud.
I sing songs in my head, focusing on breathing. I hear him say, "We don't need to do anything special," sounding abashed, and he says, "Can't it just be the two of us tonight?"
I turn to lie on my side in hopes of falling asleep. I'm not needed at the venue until last minute as Lauren's ordered as much rest for me as possible. And I want a moment of not being aware of this constantly changing balance of the scales.
"I want to talk. Well, about things, I just – We just need to talk." He gives a short, defensive laugh. "That doesn't sound ominous. No, it – I just have things to talk to you about. Okay? Okay."
He talks to Dave for another few minutes, and I try to decipher his tone: reassuring, defensive, soothing, worried.
I stay still when he comes back, let him think I'm asleep. He says my name quietly, but I don't respond. Go now. Leave me be. I'm too tired for this.
Then the bed dips behind my back. There's no way that I'll sleep when he's near me.
"Don't," I say, and the movement stops. "Not unless you've made up your mind."
He says nothing, certainly not exclaiming that he has made up his mind, he has, he has. Instead he says, "I thought you were going to give me time."
"Until LA. So you could talk to Mason. You have now."
He sighs heavily. I won't be a pushover for all times to come. I've shown patience. Now I'm out of patience. I'm tired and my insides feel bruised and my body feels weak, and Dave signs things with 'Love you' and it makes him smile, and I feel like such an idiot in all of this.
"I'm going to talk to Dave tonight."
"About what?"
"Things I haven't told him."
He isn't even owning up to some of his lies out of free will. It's only because he has to.
"Are you telling him about us?" I ask demandingly. His silence is answer enough. I roll onto my back and stare at him angrily. "Why the fuck are you stringing me along?"
"I'm n –"
"You are. I feel like that fucking Dusty Springfield song where I keep wishing and hoping like some fucking chick. You know I could have anyone, right? But I want you. I keep waiting for you."
"It's not easy for me!" he objects. "No matter what I do at this point, I'll hurt Dave, and he doesn't deserve –"
"I don't deserve this!" The exclamation is draining, and he looks hurt by my comment. I reach for his hand to keep up the illusion of me having a hold on him, but he pulls his hand back instantly. He ducks his head and that blush on his cheeks from before is back. "Why are you so afraid of letting me touch you?" I ask quietly, studying his alarmed and confused expression.
"I'm not."
"You are. It's all sunshine and roses if you cuddle me, like you don't think that messes me up, but you won't even let me..." I trail off, angered.
He seems restless and tense, and he sighs, defeated. "Maybe I should go."
He moves as if to leave, but I grab his wrist firmly, tightening the hold so much that it's got to hurt. His eyes meet mine – still worried and unsure, but beneath that... wishing and hoping, thinking and praying. "B." His tone is warning. I know he's confused. I know, I know.
I move to sit up on the bed until we're face to face. "I'm going to kiss you now," I whisper, in order to test him – and it works. He doesn't move away. He stares at me in a mix of fear and fascination, like he wants to see this through but is terrified of what it'll mean. I lean in slowly, with plenty of time for him to protest or claim that this isn't what he wants. I tilt my head, let my lips hover over his. His shallow breathing washes over my lips, and his eyelids have fluttered shut. He's waiting with baited breath.
Our lips press together, dry and gentle. His lips are soft in the way that I remember, as intoxicating as they ever have been. He trembles. I pull back, then, because I'm the one who should be shivering, my body full of dissolving chemicals. "Kurt?" I ask quietly. He's breathing fast, blinking too much, cheeks too red. I cup his cheek, my thumb brushing over his cheek bone. "Hey."
He swallows hard, eyes cast downwards. "I just feel so..." His hand lifts to carefully touch my hair, hesitating. His fingers are trembling. "Torn open. Whenever you touch me these days." He meets my gaze reluctantly.
"Why is that a bad thing?" I ask, trying to figure out if this means the same thing for both of us, if a kiss is just a kiss, or if it's so much more than that. If, for him, it's a promise.
His eyes flicker between my eyes and my lips, like he shouldn't, but then he makes a decision. He decides. And when he leans in and kisses me, I clutch his arm and pull him closer, lying back down, pulling him on top, and let us fall into each other.
Our movements are unrushed like we have forever, and exploratory like we've never touched each other before. I move on top of him on the bed, pin him beneath me. Our bodies press together, and I yearn to be closer than this. He's pliant, responding but not initiating. That's fine by me. We kiss hungrily, like we're trying to recover a hidden truth from each other's lips.
I palm him through his black slacks, working him up slowly, feeling his cock getting harder and harder until the outline of his erection is bulging, running along his left thigh. I kiss the hollow of his throat and squeeze his cock. He jerks and says my name restlessly. It's music to my ears.
I move down on his body, placing kisses on his shirt, pulling the hem out of his slacks. "Blaine, maybe we shouldn't," he breathes out, his voice rough. "Maybe we..."
I unzip him, push his shirt up, and kiss his navel slowly. He swears and says, "Oh god, oh Christ." I kiss my way down his lower stomach, my nose brushing his skin. I yank his slacks down to his knees, and his cock is suddenly vertical and in front of me. He's not wearing underwear, either because the slacks are such a tight fit that the brief outline would have looked bad or he's simply out of clean underwear, being on tour after all, but all I can think of is his cock brushing the bare fabric of his slacks when he walks, how fucking sexy that is. He's hard. He is really fucking hard.
I kiss the tip of his cock, letting my tongue swirl around it to trace his taste. He lets out such a turned on, helpless sound that my body thrums in response. I get pre-come on my tongue. I love his taste. Love it, love it, love it. Fuck.
He helps me get his slacks off the rest of the way, kicking his legs. My hands run up his bared shins to his knees, pushing them apart. The hair on his legs gets thinner higher up, and I love the way it feels. He's still got his shirt on, his flushed cock against the maroon.
Dave's at the venue with the crew. Kurt's in my hotel room, in my bed, spread out beneath me, gorgeous and beautiful and having made a decision.
I feel so full of emotions that I can't stand it. It all swells up and burns and scorches and soothes, urgent and calm at the same time. I can't stop touching him, feeling him react and suck in air. I kiss his hipbones, pushing his shirt up, feeling his cock brushing against my shirt. When I bite down on his skin, his hands move to my hair. His hips shift so restlessly, and the sounds that he makes burn into my memory. I'll never be able to forget.
My suitcase is open by the bed, the clothes a mess from my search earlier today, and a white and blue tube is just beneath a sweat covered stage shirt. I pick up the lube quickly and move up on the bed to capture his swollen lips. He's been biting on them. He kisses back fervently, fisting my hair. "Blaine, fucking hell," he says, and he trembles, but that's okay, that's alright, I've got this all figured out. I sort of do. I think.
I settle down next to him, lying on my side, and I keep eye contact with him when I reach down with lube covered fingers. He spreads his legs willingly, his eyelids fluttering shut. My wet fingers reach between his legs, over his perineum and to his hole. His mouth drops open when I touch him there. He bucks his hips. "Please."
He's so beautiful when he asks.
I push two fingers into him, staring down the bed, the planes of his body, my arm reaching down between his legs. He's tight and hot around my digits, tighter than I thought, and I kiss his ear and thank my lucky stars. It's been a while for him. Thank god. Thank god because the thought of someone else getting to see him like this drives me mad.
I kiss him hungrily, but he's too busy trying to breathe for it to work. His pupils are blown, and he's staring at the ceiling, face flashing with bliss, showing everything he feels as I finger him. All the pleasure and how intense it is. He clutches my shoulder like a drowning man at a straw.
I pull my fingers out, and he flinches slightly. I rub him there, slowly, letting him calm down. The skin feels wet from lube, and I know what it looks like, his pink, tight hole, lubricated, the way the skin there is tight first, then how it gives way, how it relaxes, stretching for fingers or cock. I push the two back in again, past the first ring of tight muscle, sinking into his warmth. He groans, his body wired. I love touching him there.
Our mouths move over each other's, wet and slow. He reaches down to slowly stroke his cock.
"Could do this for hours," I tell him, pushing my fingers in deeper. He jerks and moans. "You want a third?"
"Fuck," he hisses. I crook my fingers, and he lets out a helpless groan, going so slack on the bed even as his body is full of unreleased energy. I press kisses to his mouth, our swollen lips getting more swollen. The room gets filled from our heavy breathing and from the wet sounds my fingers make when they push into him.
"I want you," he sighs. Both of his hands are down there, the other cupping his balls, the other stroking himself. Seeing him touching himself – because he has to, because he can't stand the pleasure – makes my cock throb and my guts flare up.
I brush my head against his. "Want me to what?"
"Want you to kiss me," he says, and I kiss him. I am utterly incapable of not kissing him. "Want you inside me."
I close my eyes. My heart skips a beat.
Fuck.
"Yeah," I breathe out, crooking my fingers again before pulling them out. Please. Please, please, please.
We kiss fiercely as I unbuckle myself with shaking hands, and his hands are on my fly, zipping me down. He pulls at my clothes until we get my pants and underwear down. We've been so patient, for years, but now a desperate urgency fills my bones. He pulls me closer, having decided to participate, and we kiss and we kiss and we kiss as I move on top of him, move between his legs that he spreads wide.
I'm mostly dressed, my pants and underwear down to my knees and that's it. It doesn't matter. He feels the urgency of it, too, the need to be one being, one entity. His hand is between us, guiding me to his hole. He groans against my mouth, to the tune of 'please', and I will, of course, baby, baby, I will.
My body tenses up when the sensitive head of my cock pushes against his entrance. We're pressed together otherwise, stomach to stomach and chest to chest, and I kiss his jaw and his neck, full of emotions no one's been able to name yet. He's restless and willing and mine. I slowly push forwards. I love the resistance there, his little gasp, I love the way I can thrust my hips and get him to open up for me, the way he feels. I love the way my cock sinks into his tight heat.
He clutches the back of my neck, nails digging in. "Oh god, oh fuck," he slurs like he can't stand it. He's tight. He's never been fucked before. He hasn't, and I've never fucked before either, we can be virgins if we choose to be, we can erase all those other fucks, even the sublime ones. Because they didn't feel like this.
He lets out a gorgeous, high pitched 'ah' when I finally am in all the way. I pull back slowly, feeling the drag, and then push back in again. Another gasp. It's too intense to take, and I swear heavily and move to suck on his neck. I start working on a bruise, the kind that he won't be able to hide, just over his vein, to kiss the life in his blood. And it'll be there and obvious and everyone will see it, and we both know it, but he lets me. He usually tells me not to. Marks, scratches, telltale signs – Don't, he'll notice, not there, be gentle –
He lets me. He cranes his neck further, letting out restless gasps, small whimpers. He lets me.
We begin to fuck, both shifting our hips to find the right angle that's so familiar and sweet and hot, most of all hot. He's bucking up to meet me. The movement starts from his hips, rippling the skin of his stomach, my cock sinking into him further when he offers himself. The pace is steady, impatient. We know what we're doing. We're good at this. We breathe into each other's mouths, kissing, wet tongues meeting. When I push in really fucking hard, he groans, head tilting back because it hurts just right. I try to get in deeper than ever before, and his thighs fall apart further because he wants it.
My shirt is clinging onto my back from the sweat that is building up, and I finally decide that it's in the way. I halt for a second, buried so deep in him, and try to undo my shirt with one hand. He tries to catch his breath and moves to help with clumsy fingers. He's sweaty and flushed, and his muscles squeeze around me steadily, so wired up. Stupid shirt, stupid buttons –
We push my shirt out of the way, and he pulls my undershirt over my head, and then his hands are on my bare back, my uncovered shoulders, touching everywhere. His touches flow straight to my chest, making it hard to breathe. His touch feels like a claim.
"Kurt," I whisper, and then, "Kurt, Kurt." I fall back into him, finding a rhythm again, kissing him wherever I can reach. Our hips move hard, and his skin is salty everywhere. Everywhere. Him and this place and this life. "I love you," I say when our lips brush together. I fuck him harder, now feeling the tip of his leaking cock against my lower stomach. It smears the body hair that I have there, making my skin slick. Sweat rolls down my back, down the curve of my spine. It's hot and hard, our bodies slamming together. "I love you," I say again because it's the only coherent thought running through my head, it's all I can fucking feel.
He nods, then, pressing our lips together. He nods frantically, and I grab his hips and fuck him harder, taking him like he wants me to. His moans turn into loud gasps, a repeated "Oh god, oh god". He pulls on me hard enough to bruise my arms. The bed moves, and he reaches between us to touch himself.
He bites my neck, muffling himself, his body drawn up so tight as he's about to come. I quickly pull on his hair to pull him back, to see him, and I just catch the moment his pupils get blown and his mouth drops open. He comes hard, back arching, come spilling between us. His muscles grip onto my cock in a way that should hurt, but I only fuck the tight heat, pleasure radiating up and down my spine.
He's still coming when I follow. The climax hits me hard, and I freeze above him although my hips keep thrusting. My loud groan is graceless, awed. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Want to come so deep inside him, want to fill him up. I ride it out, erratic, uncoordinated thrusts. He trembles beneath me, fisting his cock, his knuckles white with come, and I collapse on him. We breathe into each other's mouths. My toes crook, and my skin flashes with ecstasy. It lasts for a long time, and he and I die a little. I don't understand this. I can't.
Our mouths press together. He tastes like me. His hands move to my shoulders, then wrap around my neck.
When I look at him, he looks different. I've never seen this look in his eyes before. His pupils are so, so blown, like something has shifted, and he feels closer. Like the look in his eyes is the core beyond dozens of walls, the ones I've spent years trying to smash down.
He buries his face in the crook of my neck, and I feel him shivering. I shift to lie on my side, keeping him in my arms, his leg now thrown over my hips. My cock almost slides out of him all the way, but not quite. I wrap my arms tight around him, carding his hair. He trembles, trying to breathe out evenly.
"I'm here," I whisper. I'm here, I'm here. He's shaken up, and I don't fully understand any of this, but that's okay. I'm here, and it'll be okay. We'll figure it out together.
My skin feels wet where he's hiding his head. Sweat. Maybe. Maybe not.
I won't call him out on it in either case.
My nose brushes against the top of his head as I nuzzle him, breathing him in. And as lost as I am in this, a faint voice keeps reminding me of the one thing I still have to defeat.
"It's time you tell him the truth," I say when I manage to find my voice.
He exhales shakily and burrows into me further. "Yeah. But which one?"