Hey hey! This chapter is a little more intimate than previous ones, and I feel like the ending is kind of abrupt, but I did my best to keep it classy and in line with the rest of the piece. Let me know what you think, and happy new year, y'all!
"Don't leave."
"What time is it?"
"I don't know. Blaine, stay, please."
"Move over, I can't see the clock—"
"It's like eleven-thirty, okay? Just lie back and relax."
"Your dad's lunch break is when?"
"I don't want you to—"
"It's when?"
"…noon," Kurt mumbles, his face pressed into Blaine's bare chest. The muscles beneath the hair-dusted skin shift as Blaine sighs and lies back down, one hand reaching up to scratch softly at the fuzz on the nape of Kurt's neck. Sunlight reflects off the next-door neighbor's skylight, slants in through the window and paints the room a warm, tingling yellow; it plays over the clothing puddled on the floor and draped across the furniture, glints off Blaine's car keys lying on the dresser.
Kurt's body feels heavy and thick, like it's been baking in an oven for too long. The whole ride back to his house, the walk upstairs and the removing of clothes, the placing of hands on each other, the lips ringed by beads of sweat as they work at sensitive skin, the tendons burning with prolonged contraction as limbs shake uncontrollably with violently pleasurable nerve impulses—all of that, and not a single word spoken between them, has gotten rid of his hangover, but left him with this too-solidness. Beneath him, Blaine is safety without a seatbelt, home without a lock on the door: as soon as he leaves this bed, Kurt might crack and crumble into dust.
He stretches a little and presses his mouth against a small scar two inches below Blaine's left nipple, running his tongue over the puckered skin. The hand on his neck stops moving.
"Fencing, third grade. Some guy poked me with a foil, I bled and everything," Blaine says flatly. Kurt lifts his head and catches Blaine staring down from underneath half-closed lids.
"Did it hurt?"
"Not really."
"Good," Kurt says, and dips his head to kiss the scar with reverence. He's seen it before, just didn't ask, didn't pay particular attention to this littlest of physical marks. Somehow, parts of Blaine still remain unexplored territory.
They're never had sex like this before: no talking, no smiling, barely even looking each other in the face. It's as though they performed a warped, somber emotional-exorcism that ended in orgasm. Kurt still can feel Blaine's fingers digging into his hips, breath hissing against his ear, one hand reaching around from behind him and pressing against his stomach to drag slow and searing hot over the smooth skin. He can remember how it felt to let his head fall backwards onto Blaine's twisting shoulder and breathe hard enough to make his vision swim; to tangle his fingers in Blaine's sweaty curls and pull him forward into a twisted, desperate kiss; to arrive at that moment where the coiled energy in his body has reached the point of no return, and just when the whisper-soft knife slices his thoughts to ribbons, Blaine stops moving and holds him, clasps his hands against Kurt's chest and shakes and falls to pieces right at the same time.
They've tried as hard as they can, beaten themselves to a pulp, hit their heads against the thresholds of strength and desire all so that the blood on Kurt's hands from last night and the tremble in his voice as it echoed across the empty field might be erased, wrung out of their lives like water from dishcloths. This kind of lovemaking is a cleansing by fire, and it's meant to leave them both exhausted and worn out but whole again.
Kurt just doesn't know if it's worked.
"I need to go," Blaine murmurs, and he begins to sit up, Kurt's chin sliding down his stomach. Kurt jumps up onto his knees and places his hands flat against Blaine's chest, his thumb settling over a wine-dark hickey from twenty minutes ago.
"No. Not yet."
"Kurt…" Blaine says with something like sorrow, and reaching out he takes hold on Kurt's face with one hand, swipes his thumb gently over Kurt's eyebrow and runs the pad of his index finger over the top of Kurt's ear. The earnest, pained look on his face is burrowing deep into Kurt's heart, dragging the atoms of his soul together so that he feels even denser and more weighted down than a moment earlier.
"I don't want your dad to catch me in here," Blaine tries, attempting to sound normal. Kurt squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, knocking Blaine's hand away from his face.
"He won't. He never comes upstairs during lunch, he just eats his salad and goes back to the garage. Blaine, please. I need you. Stay here with me."
"I want to." Blaine sounds as though he's pleading, even though Kurt is the one with the request. He's suddenly aware of everything that is Blaine: rounded knees pressed against the backs of his thighs, the slight smell of chapstick still drifting off his skin, the fluttering of his heartbeat beneath Kurt's hands. Blaine can't leave now, they're still on two different sides of a chasm, still split down the middle with unspoken feelings and muddied guilt. If he goes, there will a piece of Them that can never be replaced. Without thinking, without planning, Kurt pushes against Blaine's chest, forcing him down onto his back and sliding his hips a little so that Blaine breathes in sharply.
"Kurt, wait—"
"With me," Kurt whispers, and he lowers his head and touches his lips to Blaine's collarbone, the plane of his pectoral muscle, his left nipple, the little fencing scar. Further and further he descends, crawling backwards like an acrobat setting themselves up to tumble. His teeth graze Blaine's navel and Blaine's voice cracks on a high-pitched whine as his hips buck up against Kurt's chest.
"God, Kurt, what're you—this isn't—oh fuck, Kurt Kurt Kurt," Blaine chokes out as Kurt draws a slow, burning stripe with his tongue over the patch of curly black hair, and then closes his eyes and lets his instincts take over. He takes it slow on purpose, dragging the process out with stops and starts, varied rhythms, an exploration more thorough than ever before, and after God knows how long, Blaine is completely gone, shattered to his core. Kurt goes at an even more deliberate pace as Blaine strains and sweats under his touch, begging for more in a rasping voice punctuated by sobs and shaky moans, his legs trembling violently against Kurt's shoulders and one hand twisted in double folds of the sheets while the other scrapes helplessly at Kurt's hair.
This is power, Kurt thinks, and this is love, and this is what Sebastian thinks I don't understand, that the two can't be separated. Blaine is crying out above him and his hips are quaking with the effort of not pumping upwards and every part of Kurt is focused on prolonging the inevitable, working Blaine out until Kurt is holding every string, calling every shot, and nothing happens under his skin unless Kurt decides it will.
The difference between Sebastian and me is that I don't love myself for this—I love Blaine instead, I love him more than can fit inside of me, more than any feeling I know. This is how I find him. This is the place only we know.
Time narrows down to a hair's-width and Kurt doesn't ache, doesn't tire, just moves tirelessly and exquisitely, and finally Blaine's body stops thrashing and twisting in the throes of perfect torture and he judders to a halt, seizes up, giving Kurt just enough warning to brace himself for the finale. He's there with Blaine for each blazing second, absorbing every shout and twitch and flawless shudder, riding it out and steadily continuing his ministrations until Blaine is finally spent and collapses, limp and soaked with sweat, back down onto the much-abused sheets.
Kurt does what he has to do, because it's what he considers good manners (and Blaine has never not done the same for him) and gives Blaine a minute or so to pull himself together before slithering up and wrapping his boyfriend in a tight embrace. Blaine moans and nuzzles deep into Kurt, his tears and sweat smearing sticky wet trails over Kurt's neck and shoulder. They tangle themselves, Kurt gathering up Blaine's loose joints and still-shaking limbs and pulling them all close against him.
"I swear…to God, if your father…heard that…if he busts me, I am…I am not even going to bother hiding your body," Blaine gasps in little clusters of words. Kurt nods into the side of Blaine's head. This is what they had searched for with so much determination, all that time in bed earlier today. Whatever was lost or shaken or pulled apart by the night at Wes' has been restored by this insanely close level of intimacy, and for the first time since stepping into that mansion, Kurt is completely and totally at ease.
"I just wanted to give that to you," he mumbles, and Blaine's fingers curl into his hip. "I can't feel weird about being with you, anything else but not you, and this was supposed to get rid of all that and just makes us together like we're supposed to be, so easy—"
"There will never," Blaine interrupts him, and though his voice still wavers a little he sounds so sure that Kurt can't help but listen. "Never, ever, be a reason that you and me won't be easy. What we have is everything, it's breathing, it's how we live," he goes on, and even though Kurt's mouth still has that certain taste Blaine kisses him sweet and sharp, sending waves of love love love through every part of his body.
Bzzzzzzzz. I'm on the edge, the edge, the edge, THE EDGE—
"Nooooo," Kurts moans, but after what's just happened he doesn't mind as much as he might when Blaine reaches over him and grabs his phone from the nightstand. Kurt traces Blaine's lips with the tip of his finger, basking in his boyfriend's warmth as Blaine checks the caller ID, and only when Blaine presses TALK and holds the phone to Kurt's ear and mouths "Rachel" does he rouse himself enough to speak.
"H'lo?"
"I told you," Rachel says with so much ice in her voice that Kurt's haze practically freezes in a cloud around his head. "I told you all this was a bad idea, but no one listens to me! Oh, Rachel's crazy, let's ignore her and go to parties and ruin everything forever!"
"Rachel, what are you talking about?" Kurt asks warily, and in the short pause between his question and Rachel's reply, the bottom of his stomach falls away into oblivion.
"He got us, Kurt. He got you and he got us and there's an emergency meeting at my house in an hour so we can figure out how to keep this boy from doing to our chances at Regionals what he did to your face last night."
Rachel hangs up, and as Blaine asks what she said Kurt lets his eyes fall shut and wishes that just for once, when he wants the world to crack open and swallow him up, it would actually happen.