The second time is still pretty much an accident. Mostly an accident.
New York is wonderful and amazing, and living there is everything they ever dreamed it might be. Making it in New York, however, is at least twice as demanding and frustrating as they were expecting.
They both work themselves nearly to the bone, Kurt at a high-end clothing boutique in Manhattan, and Blaine as a glorified coffee boy at a prestigious law firm he hopes to intern at when he starts at NYU's law school next semester. They'd both attained their undergraduate degrees (Kurt's in drama from Tisch, and Blaine's in pre-law, obviously) the previous year, just before they'd moved in together.
They don't have to work as hard as they do, really. Whatever tensions exist between Blaine and his parents—and though they really do try, and do genuinely seem to like Kurt, Blaine doesn't really think they'll ever stop hoping that he'll wake up someday and realize he's really straight—they have never hesitated to provide for him. His father is paying Blaine's way all the way through law school, so that Blaine can graduate without having incurred massive student loan debt. On top of that, his paternal grandparents left him a generous trust fund that he gained access to when he turned twenty-one.
They want to support themselves now, though, and save the trust for when (not if, Blaine is quite certain of that) Kurt starts getting more auditions and callbacks, and has to cut back on his work hours. That had actually been one of their only really serious fights…Kurt absolutely hating the thought of Blaine supporting them both, and Blaine trying to make his stubborn, stubborn boyfriend see that helping Kurt achieve his dreams is an investment in both their futures. In the end they compromised, agreeing that they would give it two years. If Kurt hadn't "made it" by then, they would look at where Blaine's own career was and re-evaluate.
Blaine knows it won't come to that, though. Kurt tries to stay realistic, reminding Blaine over and over that his voice is unusual in this day and age, and hard to cast. Blaine, personally, can't imagine how anyone could hear the ethereal tones Kurt is capable of, and not want to use him in a production. But whatever, they agreed to give it a couple of years. Blaine just seriously doubts it'll take that long.
So, when Kurt comes home one night a couple months after they first moved into their apartment, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, and a dazed smile on his face, Blaine just arches an eyebrow. Kurt's been at an audition for a part in an off-Broadway production of JosephandtheAmazingTechnicolorDreamcoat (and Blaine had teased his staunchly atheist boyfriend about auditioning for a show based on a Bible story, only to be told firmly to "shut up, Blaine Warbler, it's Andrew Lloyd-Webber!") for most of the evening. It's only a casting call for chorus members, but the theater running it is well-respected and considered a gateway to bigger and better productions.
"That went longer than expected…did you get in?" Blaine already knows the answer, of course. Kurt's expression gave it away the moment he walked through the door. He's already running through a mental list of restaurants he can take Kurt out to and celebrate. To his surprise, though, Kurt shakes his head. Blaine frowns, opens his mouth to ask what, then, Kurt is so happy about, but Kurt beats him to the punch.
"They cast me. Blaine, they cast me as the Narrator!" Kurt's grin threatens to split his face as he hugs himself tightly around his middle, practically vibrating with excitement. Blaine freezes a moment, jaw dropping slightly. Kurt licks his lips and shakes his head a bit, one elegant hand flying up to make a vague gesture in the air. "I mean, I know it's just stunt casting…having a guy sing that part in the female register is going to catch some attention, get the show some free publicity, but…" Kurt visibly tries to rein in his excitement, and that just won't do.
"Kurt," Blaine interrupts, striding over to take his boyfriend's face in his hands. "Don't do that, don't you dare downplay this. Baby, this is huge!" And it is. It's not Broadway, it's not a major theatrical production—but it is Kurt walking into a cattle call for people to sing and sway in the background, and walking out with a lead role. It is someone hearing his voice and instantly recognizing that Kurt Hummel does not belong in the background.
Abruptly, they are both laughing wildly. Blaine lets out an excited whoop as he seizes Kurt around the waist, lifting him off his feet and twirling them both in a mad circle. They're more of a height now, thanks to Blaine's late growth spurt right before they left for college, but Kurt is still enough taller than him that it's slightly awkward. Blaine doesn't care, though. He swings them around and around until they collapse on their sofa in a tangle of limbs. Blaine kisses Kurt soundly, over and over, before pressing their foreheads together.
"I'm so happy for you," he whispers. "And so, so proud of you. You're going to be incredible, Kurt. Just incredible." He pulls back, grabbing Kurt's hands and tugging him back off the couch. "We should go out and celebrate! Or wait, do you want to call your dad and Carole? And Rachel…we should call Rachel; I'll bet she'll want to come with us. And—"
"Blaine!" Kurt is laughing helplessly as he reaches over and smacks Blaine lightly on the shoulder. "Slow down. I already called Dad on the way home. And Rachel knew I was auditioning today, so I had, like sixty missed calls by the time I got out." Kurt smiles ruefully. "She may or may not have already informed our entire circle of friends, and we may or may not be expected at Evolve by ten o' clock." Kurt shrugs, a little apologetically, but it's been a few weeks since they went out with Rachel, and Evolve is their favorite stop in New York's gay club scene.
"Sounds perfect," Blaine answers.
And so, Blaine finds himself relaxing at a table at their favorite New York hotspot, animatedly arguing the finer points of the Giants' defensive line with Rachel Berry's new boyfriend (a rather nice personal chef by the name of Max, who he and Kurt both like and both expect to be kicked to the curb within another month, tops.) while Kurt, Rachel, and a small group of their theater friends are enjoying themselves on the dance floor.
Blaine likes this club. It's fast-paced and fun, but the music isn't so loud it deafens you for three days straight, the lights are flashy and entertaining without running the risk of inducing seizures, and the bar has a food menu that's upscale without being pretentious. Blaine thinks he could cheerfully live on their Asian chili-spiced shrimp skewers.
And the alcohol is top-notch.
"Blaine! Why aren't you dancing with meeeee?"
Really, really top notch, Blaine reflects wryly, as he suddenly finds himself with a lapful of Kurt. Blaine smiles fondly as Kurt doesn't wait for an answer, instead snatching his drink up from where he'd abandoned it on the table and downing the remaining contents with a speed that sober Kurt would have found uncouth. He should probably cut his boyfriend off, soon. If he's so far gone he doesn't remember that Blaine only sat down about ten minutes ago after a solid hour of doing nothing but dancing with him…
Kurt hadn't been kidding when he said Rachel had called their entire circle of friends. They'd been greeted at the club by a huge knot of people—classmates, friends from both their work, a few couples they'd become friendly with at a local LGBT community center—and nearly all of them seemed to think that the only appropriate way of congratulating Kurt on his success was to buy him a drink. Kurt passed tipsy a while ago, and is fast on his way to just straight-up drunk.
They're enjoying themselves, though, and Blaine loves seeing Kurt like this…happy, carefree, and so beautiful it makes Blaine's chest ache a bit. Kurt is incandescent tonight, absolutely glowing with happiness and excitement. His face is flushed with exertion and alcohol, a light sheen of sweat glistening on his skin, dampening his hair. He's wearing some kind of silky white dress shirt that stands out in stark, simple contrast to a pair of sinfully tight black pants and knee-high black boots, both of which are decorated with a complicated series of silver buckles. He laughs suddenly at something Max has said, and Blaine is seized with the desire to pop a few buttons on the front of his shirt, expose the tempting landscape of Kurt's collarbones, his chest. Blaine watches a drop of sweat slide down Kurt's neck, and he desperately wants to follow it with his tongue.
As if reading his mind, Kurt turns in his lap suddenly, slinging his arms around Blaine's neck and nuzzling against the underside of Blaine's jaw. Blaine smirks a little as his boyfriend trails one hand down his chest, stopping to toy suggestively with the buckle on Blaine's belt. It's not like Kurt has a problem with PDA—not here in New York, where two men holding hands or kissing on the street isn't even a little bit remarkable—but when there's alcohol in his system, he's positively handsy.
Blaine gently guides Kurt's hand away from his belt, casting a side-eye at the empty glasses that litter the table and trying to remember how many of them are Kurt's. Blaine's pretty far from sober himself, but his boyfriend is damn near plastered-though honestly, given the fact that Kurt usually limits himself to a glass or two of wine when he does drink (and Blaine has never been able to get the full story behind why Kurt dislikes drinking to excess…Blaine knows there's something more to it than what happened at Rachel's disastrous party back in high school), it's not like he has much of a tolerance. Kurt pouts adorably when Blaine laces their fingers together, then immediately leans in and begins nuzzling the side of Blaine's throat, suckling at the skin and nipping with just the right amount of force.
Blaine groans a little and rests his hand on the back of Kurt's neck, ruffling the sweat-damp hair at his nape. Max is watching them with an amused expression, his bright green eyes dancing with mirth. The man winks saucily at him before sliding out of his chair, presumably to go find Rachel. Blaine reluctantly pushes Kurt off of his neck, leaning in to kiss those tempting lips when Kurt whines a little at the loss of contact.
"I think we better get you home, babe," he mutters, and yeah it takes a little effort to string the words together coherently through the haze of lust and alcohol, but he's not slurring yet. He figures he's sober enough to pour Kurt into a cab and get them both up the stairs to their place safely. Fortunately, Kurt seems to agree with him, as he immediately scrambles up and out of Blaine's lap. He stumbles a little as he stands, and Blaine nearly falls himself when he reaches out a hand to steady him.
Yes, he's definitely not braving the subway like this.
He hooks an arm around Kurt's waist and begins leading them toward the exit, waving casually at their friends as they pass and ignoring the good-natured teasing and catcalls that follow them. They skirt the edge of the dance floor, pausing long enough in the crowd to snatch Rachel out of Max's arms so they can say goodbye properly. Blaine presses a kiss to her cheek and steps back as Rachel and Kurt wrap themselves around each other, hugging tightly and whispering in each other's ears for a few moments. Judging by the way they are both swaying, Blaine seriously doubts either of them will remember what they're saying come morning.
Eventually, the two let go of each other and Blaine pulls Kurt back to his side, heading for the exit again. The cool night air helps him sober up slightly, which turns out to be a good thing as it does no such thing for Kurt. He does indeed end up nearly pouring his boyfriend into a cab, barely managing to call out their address before Kurt is wrapped around him again, clinging like a limpet. Blaine laughs a little, wrapping one arm around Kurt's back.
The ride back to their apartment is torture of the sweetest kind. Kurt is all over him, kissing him with sloppy abandon. Blaine knows he's going to have a hell of a hickey on the side of his throat, probably more than one, and Kurt's hands are roaming everywhere he will let them. The cab driver tosses him an amused wink in the rear view mirror when Kurt's long, graceful fingers start unbuttoning his shirt, tangling in his chest hair and slipping down to tweak at a nipple. Blaine bites back a groan and reluctantly forces his boyfriend's hands into less R-rated actions. The driver is shooting him the same congratulatory smirk Puckerman used to back in high school when they would enter the choir room with swollen lips and disheveled hair (well, his had been disheveled), and Blaine has no desire to give the guy a free show.
Kurt giggles drunkenly, presses himself closer. He hooks one long leg over Blaine's lap and rubs his knee against Blaine's rapidly growing erection. Kurt licks his lips suggestively, leaving them spit-shiny and slick and God, Blaine can't wait to have them wrapped around his length. He can practically feel his blood buzzing in his veins, drunk enough that everything is bright and somehow more. He swears he can feel little sparks popping everywhere Kurt is touching him, arousal mixing with the alcohol and leaving him slightly dizzy with desire. He lets one hand wander down the line of Kurt's back, slipping it into one of Kurt's back pockets and squeezing. Kurt hums contentedly, shuddering as Blaine flexes his fingers, kneading and massaging the firm flesh of Kurt's gorgeous ass.
By the time they pull up to their building, Blaine's jeans are so restrictive it's almost painful. He hauls Kurt out of the cab and has to actually prop him up against the side of the car while he fumbles his wallet out of his pocket to pay their (entirely too amused) driver. Kurt's movements are getting increasingly slow and uncoordinated as Blaine slings his boyfriend's arm over his shoulder and starts them staggering towards the door.
Halfway up the—honestly, he loves their apartment, but he can't wait 'til they can afford to move somewhere with an elevator—third flight of stairs, he's supporting almost all of Kurt's weight, and he bites back a moan for an entirely different reason than in the cab. Kurt doesn't get this drunk all that often, but Blaine recognizes the signs…his boyfriend's just about gone, and Blaine is going to be lucky to get him all the way up to their apartment before Kurt passes out.
He hauls Kurt up the final stairs, resigning himself to a night of frustration and only his own hand for company as he manages to unlock the door and stumble into their apartment. Kurt mumbles something incoherent and starts to slide from Blaine's grip.
"No, no, no c'mon, Kurt…bed's just a little further," Blaine says, tightening his arms around Kurt's waist. Kurt may be tall and slender, but his body is pretty solidly muscled. Blaine would really rather avoid having to carry his boyfriend's deadweight. "Man…I thought we talked about this, baby; vodka is not your friend." Kurt makes another sound that might be agreement, his head lolling against Blaine's neck.
They make it to the bedroom without incident, and Blaine dumps Kurt as gently as possible onto the bed. Kurt lets out a little grunt as he hits the mattress, blinking hazily up at Blaine for a moment. Blaine can't help a tender smile as he reaches down and brushes Kurt's hair off his forehead. "You're going to be hating life tomorrow," he informs his nearly insensible lover. Sighing, he strips down to his boxers and undershirt before kneeling down to start working at the intricate laces and buckles of Kurt's boots.
Blaine's still not anywhere near sober himself, and his hands are clumsier than usual. Still, he makes short work of the boots and pants, tossing them carelessly over his shoulder. He'll just let Kurt rail at him for treating designer pieces so callously in the morning. The buttons on Kurt's shirt prove more difficult, and Blaine debates whether or not it's worth it to try and wake Kurt up enough to drink some water while he fumbles with them. He has the shirt worked about halfway open when Kurt lets out a high, breathy sigh, unconsciously writhing under Blaine's touch on his chest.
Blaine freezes, his hands stilling, and his eyes fly to Kurt's face. His boyfriend is slumped against the pillows at the head of the bed, features slack and peaceful, lips slightly parted. Blaine swallows roughly and slowly, hesitantly, rubs his hands over Kurt's chest again. Kurt shifts again, pushing into Blaine's touch. He whispers Blaine's name, voice slurring and heavy.
The pulse of lust is absolutely electric, shooting straight to his cock. Blaine gasps out loud, his half-wilted erection springing back to full attention almost instantly. Heart pounding, he crawls fully up on the bed to straddle Kurt's thighs. He runs his hands slowly, almost reverently, up and down Kurt's arms, loving the contrast of hard muscle under that silky, silky skin. He lowers his head, pushing his nose into the crook of Kurt's neck and just inhales the scent of him. His whole awareness narrows to the clean sweat, the warm bite of alcohol, the citrusy tang of Kurt's cologne, and it's heavenly. He mouths at the juncture where Kurt's shoulder meets his neck and skims his hand down the center of his chest, over his breastbone, down to splay his palm his belly.
Kurt sighs again, a wordless murmur escaping him, but he lays quiescent under Blaine's touch. Blaine bites his lip as he pushes himself up to kneel above Kurt, sliding his arms under Kurt's shoulders and gently drawing him further up against the pillows. Kurt falls limply where Blaine directs, his limbs slipping boneless over the navy blue comforter and Blaine groans low in his throat. He pulls Kurt's underwear off, tossing it back over his shoulder to land on the floor with their other clothes. The moonlight spills into their room this time of night, lending Kurt's naked body a damn near ethereal glow. He's so hard, the ache between his legs demanding attention.
He knows, he knows that he just roll over and take care of it himself, get up and get a glass of water and the bottle of aspirin to leave on Kurt's night table. He's tried very hard not to think too deeply about the night they first moved into their apartment, the way it made him feel. This isn't like that night anyway…the number of drinks Kurt has had tonight, he's down for the count. He's not going to be waking up to enjoy anything Blaine does. He doesn't know why the sight of Kurt like this is, the feel of his slackened body, the soft, barely-there noises he makes, affect him so strongly…but God it turns him on so much.
He can't help himself, he really can't. He drapes himself over Kurt with a low whine of pure want. He cages Kurt in lightly with his arms, drawing his boyfriend in tight against him, pressing his face into Kurt's neck. He doesn't think he's going to last long enough to prep Kurt enough to make love to him.
He ignores the little voice inside of him screaming that fucking his boyfriend while he's unconscious wouldn't be makinglove anyway.
He also ignores the little thrill the wrongness of this gives him, the edge it puts on his arousal. He runs one hand through Kurt's hair, kisses his neck as he thrusts down between Kurt's thighs, sliding his cock against Kurt's. His boyfriend is completely flaccid, not even a little bit into this, not even aware of it and Blaine's hips piston forward again at the thought. He ruts against Kurt, the crease of his thigh, the coarse, neatly trimmed hair of his groin. He feels the familiar rush of heat in his belly, pulls back from Kurt to kneel up on the bed. He fists his own cock roughly, sliding his hand up and down the length of it as he stares down at Kurt—the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the fan of his eyelashes against the top of his cheekbone. Spread out where Blaine put him, not moving, not responding, not reacting.
He comes so hard his vision whites out, thick spurts of white splattering on Kurt's pale skin, painting his stomach, his groin, the tops of his thighs. Blaine keeps pumping himself through his orgasm, shuddering and shivering above Kurt, biting back his cries so hard he thinks he might actually draw blood. He collapses next to Kurt when it's over, angling his body to fall alongside of his boyfriend, panting as though he's just run a marathon. He just stares at Kurt a moment—the beautiful planes of his face, flushed from the alcohol he's consumed, the silken glow of his skin in the moonlight.
The streaks of Blaine's come dripping down his belly, like a brand marking this gorgeous creature as his.
He throws one arm over Kurt's chest, drawing him close and pressing a soft kiss against his temple. He'll get up in a moment, get something to clean Kurt and himself up with. For now, he wants to just lie here and listen to Kurt's breathing, the adorable little snuffles and snores that only ever make an appearance when Kurt's been drinking. He wants to lie here and enjoy the closeness.
And firmly promise himself that he's not going to do this again.