Author's Notes:
Thank you so much for reading. For anyone out there who's up for some good music: playlist?list=PLxfCJHSOib1deVvEwnw-cNcayc_owc4Zy — playlist's link (goes right after the 'dot-com' in youtube's address.) ;)
chapter 3: Blaine's not gonna teach him how to dance with Kurt
And Finn wasn't even there for the worst, a couple of days later at the gay club.
In Blaine's defense, what happened that night would never have happened if Jesse hadn't felt compelled to back out of his and Kurt's plans earlier that day. The idea of paying a visit to a gay club had been floating in their minds ever since that Friday session—after Kurt's kindly query as to whether the club they were supposed to have a gig at next week happened to be a gay club.
Blaine tried not to follow the intricacies of Kurt's and Jesse's relationship too closely, but there was one thing he couldn't escape noticing. For people who took quite a pleasure in flirting left and right and teasing each other—as a couple, they seldom went out to public places and mostly kept to their established group of friends. In fact, Blaine was somewhat surprised they hadn't become regulars at some gay bar by this point (seeing that both used to frequent those places quite a lot before they became exclusive.)
Perhaps found what they were looking for, a voice in Blaine's head suggests.
Regardless of that, an old friend of Jesse's from Akron reached out to him that day on a short notice, explaining how he was stopping by in Columbus and how he was only going to stay for the night.
As helpless against Kurt's charm as was Blaine, Jesse couldn't quite ditch his boyfriend all the way, of course, so he promised to stay with Kurt for at least a couple of hours there before he ran off to meet his buddy.
"Wanna go with us?"
The gulp of tea Blaine took threatens to escape through his nose as he starts to cough, staring up at Jesse, incredulous.
"Sorry?"
"To the gay club," Jesse says with a shrug, doing the buckle on his watch. "Dance with us, chill out. Boost your ego a bit when you become the aim of every gay soul in sight. And then, I'll go get Simon and you'll drop Kurt off at his," Jesse adds with a sly smile, revealing the self-serving motives underlying his proposal.
Blaine chuckles. "Yeah, alright. You want me to be Kurt's designated driver? Could've just asked, I'd do it."
Jesse frowns.
"Well, you maybe you would. I wouldn't," he admits frankly, alluding to his selfish side. "Not if I wasn't invited to the fun part."
Blaine gulps down the few remaining sips of his tea as he climbs off the island stool, then goes to leave his cup in the sink.
"But for Kurt, I would, of course," Jesse amends. "Kurt is"—he points a finger at Blaine—"the only exception."
Blaine chuckles. How many times has he caught himself thinking Jesse and Cooper would get along just about perfectly?
"Yeah. But not today though?" Blaine teases Jesse's inconsistencies and the fact that he's literally asking Blaine to handle what he assures him he would, for Kurt, 'of course'.
"Careful," Jesse says as he levels Blaine with a sarcastic glare. Blaine grins. "So what, you're with us or not?" he asks Blaine then, nodding at him.
See no reason why not, Blaine thought then—and half an hour later found himself sitting behind the wheel, Kurt and Jesse in his backseat giving him the directions to the place they had in mind.
Sparks of adrenaline were racing down Blaine's thighs as his stomach churned anxiously.
If Blaine had to put his first impression of a gay bar into words, he would probably characterize the place as a perfectly regular bar with the exception of the public, which was all Kurts and Jesses, everywhere.
Yep, that summed it up nicely, he thought, sitting at the bar, sipping at his alcohol-free drink as he was familiarizing himself with the surroundings. He couldn't quite settle on the way to conduct himself as to attract as little attention as possible; he didn't want to dance and have somebody try to crowd him from behind, yet he didn't want to sit at the bar all night, afraid someone would get the wrong idea and decide he's in need of company.
He was sober is all; even sober he knew it was him and not the place, but alas, sober he had agreed to stay all night, for it was the very purpose of him being there in the first place.
Few times Blaine went upstairs to get some air and was close to lighting up a cigarette, but stifled the urge each time. He was curious to test his limits when under stress and see how far he could make it without resorting to those 'dark measures' as Kurt had so aptly put it a couple of days ago. His last cigarette with Kurt in the car was so far from being dark that, if Blaine was to ever have his truly last one, he would really prefer it to stay that way.
One time Jesse dragged Blaine to the dance floor while Kurt kept Blaine's seat warm, sipping at his first drink that night. Kurt watched the two fool around and, for some mysterious reason, the sight of them together filled him with a weird sense of mirth.
By the time Jesse had to leave, Blaine had lost the count of cocktails Kurt had refilled and himself had turned down an impressive handful of guys with an apologetic, "No, um...I'm not on your team."
He never liked saying no, but saying those words in particular made it even more cringy for him—as if he was knowingly deceiving those poor dudes, and by the time Jesse had to leave, Blaine, quite honestly, wouldn't have minded leaving himself.
"Keep an eye on my boy, will ya?" Jesse asks him jokingly, pressing their foreheads together, patting Blaine on the back of his neck. Blaine nods and wishes him luck as Jesse pilfers a piece of lemon from the brim of Blaine's glass.
Ten minutes in and someone else is by Blaine's side.
Blaine remembers him to this day because it was the first guy in this club—the first guy in Blaine's life—that was a shameless flirt towards him but whom Blaine felt no actual desire to turn down. Not at first.
Looking back at it, Blaine sees now that Sebastian and Kurt did actually have something in common. Maybe it was the hair, the posture, or the breath of confidence they had to the way they spoke and flirted and teased. There was no one like Kurt for Blaine; even then, on some subconscious level, Blaine knew that if it were Kurt in Sebastian's place, Blaine wouldn't have thought twice about it. He wouldn't turn him down then, later, or ever.
Still, it was something new. This felt like a darker version of Kurt somehow, a colder one, more ruthless, less inviting. Yet he was as calm as a rock taking one breaking wave after another and made it seem like making others blush came as easy to him as breathing. Blaine couldn't explain back then why he kept leading the guy on, why he wouldn't just get away or go sit somewhere else.
It flattered him. The attention this guy was pouring his way flattered Blaine for the first time on Blaine's conscious memory, and they've kept at this game of cat and mouse for a good half an hour.
"So tell me, Blaine," Sebastian drawls in his vibrant, unctuous voice, leaning on the bar top with his elbow. "Who's got the pleasure of leaving with you tonight?"
Blaine's mentioned being the designated driver when Sebastian attempted to buy him a drink—a real drink.
"No, it's not like that, um—I'm just dropping him off," Blaine says into his glass, smiling.
"His loss."
Blaine's smile grows wider right before he takes a sip.
"You know, when you're done tucking your friend to sleep, you can always come back," Sebastian tells him with meaningfully. "Trust me, no one here has better stamina than me when it comes to hearing the last call," Sebastian says, tilting his head as he watches Blaine.
"Hm, so you come here a lot?" Blaine asks conversationally, licking his lips that taste like his drink.
Sebastian stares at him, then says, "They have a drink named after me, you do the math. What I'm curious about is, how come I've never seen you around?"
Blaine takes notice of the bit-by-bit way Sebastian loses hold of his detached, cocky facade; his gaze grows darker as his attention slowly slips under thrall to every little word Blaine says, every gesture he makes.
"'tis my first time," Blaine explains nonchalantly.
This earns him a cynical scoff. "Oh please. Where were you going all this time? Rubbing bellies with dad bods at Scandals?" Sebastian asks, and by the way his lips curve in disdain Blaine construes that Scandals must be some godforsaken place on the list of top local gay bars.
Blaine smiles; he finds pleasure in weaving his responses to Sebastian's questions in such a way as to baffle him.
"No, I mean, my first time," Blaine clarifies, glancing at Sebastian before taking another sip. "At a gay club."
The way all traces of emotion flee Sebastian's face at that moment—is precious. In the blink of an eye, his gaze darkens all the way; he looks away, flexes his jaw, then takes a couple of heavy sips of his own drink. And when he turns back to Blaine, he actually straddles the stool, this time granting Blaine his undivided attention. "Come again?" Sebastian asks, watching him closely.
Blaine raises an innocent eyebrow, feigning obliviousness as to what could've caused such a reaction.
Sebastian's chest puffs up as he sucks in a deep breath. He glances away once more, gives the back of his neck a scratch, clears his throat, and then—as if having mustered up all the stamina in the world—he turns his intense gaze back to Blaine. "You've ever been with a man?" comes his straightforward inquiry.
"No," Blaine responds, looking Sebastian straight in the eye.
What on earth do you think you're doing?
Sebastian strains his jaw, holds the eye contact.
dead and gone
not too long
i'll be right behind you
if i keep this up
Blaine chuckles secretly at Sebastian's face and turns to face the bar before hiding his smile in his cocktail. He feels Sebastian's eyes bore into him and finds himself not minding it at all.
The club gets filled with a curious rhythm that stands out among other tunes that have been played so far. Blaine turns in his seat, deciding he might as well keep his promise to Jesse (as well as slake his own tingle of curiosity) and check up on Kurt.
And right there, in the middle of the dance floor that has been half-emptied, Kurt is dancing with somebody else.
Somebody else is murmuring something into Kurt's ear as Kurt, with his eyes peacefully closed, presses his back against the guy's chest. Seeing them sway to the languid rhythm, the guy's dark muscular biceps against Kurt's pale skin, Blaine feels his heartbeat pick up a sick pace.
As Blaine turns his body to fully face the dance floor, Sebastian takes it as Blaine indulging him.
"So where were you all this time, huh Blaine?"
Blaine watches the way the stranger's hand squeezes Kurt's hip, pressing their pelvises together, his white teeth biting at Kurt's earlobe.
"Watching Twilight with your girlfriend as you braided each other's hair?"
Blaine sees the guy's other hand crawl into the tightness of Kurt's front pocket in his close-fitting jeans, sees the way his teeth graze the line of Kurt's jaw, sees the way Kurt—in some kind of daze—responds to his touch, edging his lips closer to the stranger's seeking mouth. Sees the way Kurt arches his neck, his delicate fingers clawing into the guy's brawny biceps.
"Picking up chicks with your rockstar charms during the day as you beat off to that Axl Rose poster on your wall every night?"
Blaine slams his glass down with a menacing thud, nearly splashing half of its contents in the process, when the guy's lips ghost over Kurt's inviting ones.
Sebastian jerks, glancing at his jeans and then up at Blaine, his face twisted in a 'wtf?' expression.
But Blaine doesn't see it, Blaine sees red. He only has his eyes for the madness that's happening on the dance floor. Having lost the last bit of his self-restraint—the last bit of himself—he starts to storm towards the pair. He's never felt the anger so powerful, overwhelming him so thoroughly as it took over his whole mind, body, and soul.
Eyes closed, Kurt smiles groggily into the stranger's mouth seconds before their lips brush—right when Blaine intervenes as he shoves the guy off of Kurt, grabbing Kurt by the waist instinctively.
"He's got a boyfriend, okay?" Blaine strains his throat, shouting at the stranger over the heavy pulse of the music.
He tries to keep his rage at bay—the guy didn't know, it wasn't his fault—as Blaine's arm winds itself unconsciously around Kurt's waist, holding him close.
The guy arches an enraged eyebrow, throwing his hands up in a wtf fashion as he regards Kurt's back with a cold, cheated gaze—and then waves them off altogether, muttering something along the same fuck lines as he walks away.
Blaine watches him go, cupping Kurt's elbow with the hand that used to rest on Kurt's waist.
"What are you doing, Kurt?" Blaine growls into Kurt's ear, feeling his chest rumble with his voice before he even hears it. To Kurt just now, he must've sounded like an animal.
Meanwhile, Kurt's hand catches Blaine's other one, the one that he pushed the stranger off with. Kurt laces their fingers together as his left arm escapes Blaine's grip in order to slide up Blaine's shoulder and dip under Blaine's T-shirt at the back of his neck.
Blaine freezes dead in his tracks as the coolness of Kurt's fingers against his bare skin sends a rush of goosebumps down his back. Kurt nuzzles Blaine's temple, breathing in the smell of his hair.
"Dance with me," Kurt says in a low voice, setting Blaine's ear on fire as Blaine squeezes their clasped fingers without even being aware of it.
And before Blaine has the time to quit gawking like a helpless fish cast on the shore and actually respond—Kurt steps onto him in a wide, confident stride as he starts to lead them in a teasing, drawn-out dance. Blaine stumbles back, clutching at Kurt's waist.
The song reduces to the three recurrent chords that go on in circles again and again and again, blending together with the monotonous voice lulling over the music. The vocals are soft and pliable as they drift back and forth over the sound of winds and keyboards and the soft rhythm that resembles somebody's heartbeat rather than regular drums.
Kurt presses their heads together, nuzzling Blaine's hair, his ear, the line of his jaw as they keep moving to the smooth beat, their hips brushing with every little movement they make. And Blaine—Blaine finds it hard to breathe in Kurt's arms as he grabs a fistful of Kurt's cotton T-shirt; he must be squeezing their laced fingers so hard it hurts for Kurt, but Kurt—shows no sign of it, just keeps nudging their faces together. Blaine's heart races; he makes a shuddering gulp of air, tries to force his chest to stop heaving so wildly because Kurt can feel it—Kurt can feel all of it.
lay your hands down
and rest your tired eyes
call upon your final fate but—
but don't apologize
Kurt tilts his head back a little, pressing their cheeks together—Blaine presses back, eyes fluttering shut. Almost unconscious, he guides their clasped hands closer, tucking them in between their bodies, cradling Kurt's fingers against his chest. Kurt keeps inching his head further back until his cheek slips from where it was pressed to the side Blaine's face—he throws his head back, baring his throat to Blaine as he moves to change sides. Blaine's nose brushes against Kurt's neck, and he shudders, his whole body trembling with a sudden surge of butterflies unleashed from his heart down to all of his limbs never mind the stomach.
When Kurt's other cheek finds the other side of Blaine's face, Blaine pushes back eagerly; Kurt's fingers untangle themselves from Blaine's grip to make their teasing way up his chest, curl around Blaine's neck, and tug at his small curls there at the back.
If it wasn't for the music, both of them would've heard the deep, vibrant moan escaping Blaine's throat as his freed hand winds its way around Kurt's lower back, urging him even closer.
One hand in Blaine's hair, the other one shoved under the hem of Blaine's T-shirt, Kurt moves his head up and down, incessant, scratching their stubbles together. Blaine mewls quietly, swept up in a whirlwind of crushing pleasure—hot sparks assailing him on all sides, sending impulses to his crotch as he clutches on to Kurt for his life. Kurt's hand slides further upward, tangling itself in Blaine's mess of curls in order to control the movement of Blaine's head against Kurt's own.
Blaine can feel himself go weak at his knees as his legs forget how to dance; eyes shut and lips parted slightly, his whole body throbs as his heartbeat gallops and his skin shivers with cold sweat against Kurt's heated, painfully, shatteringly perfect body in his arms.
Kurt arches his neck again, changing sides again, and after he does so, Blaine inches closer to him, nuzzling behind his ear, squeezing Kurt tighter in the snug circle of his arms. Blaine's hands roam over Kurt's back, trying to cover as much of the expanse as physically possible, from his lower back up to his shoulder blades as Blaine feels Kurt's fingers stroke the knobs on his spine.
Kurt's hand keeps tightening then relaxing its grip on Blaine's hair, tugging at its roots, teasing at his skin. His other hand slips from under his T-shirt to cup the side of Blaine's jaw instead.
The song reaches its climax, the tune grows ever richer with the background noises and screams and roars and other tracks that Blaine's not in the state of mind to put a name to. This time Kurt switches the sides of their faces without bothering to throw his head back. This time their noses get smashed together, lips ghost against each other as they breathe each other's hot breaths those spare moments they get to.
Their dance simmers down to absent stamping and treading in place as Kurt squeezes Blaine's jaw in between his cheek and his forceful hand, breathing into Blaine's ear. Blaine's nails bite into the soft fabric on Kurt's back as he swallows down hard, his eyes roll in his head—dear god, he's never felt anything like this before. He's never felt anything period, it sure as hell now seems.
The song is on its last gasp, Blaine knows it but he doesn't trust himself to let Kurt go when Kurt feels like going.
but i still got a lot to say
The music slips through their fingers as it merges into something else completely, the rhythm all wrong and too-fast, leaving Kurt and Blaine clutching at each other, panting; their dance long-forgotten and given up. Kurt's hand lets go of Blaine's disheveled hair as it joins his other one in cupping Blaine's jaw. In the dark, Kurt searches out Blaine's forehead with his own as Blaine keeps squeezing Kurt's heated, strong, ohmygodsoperfect body in his hands. They brush their noses together, both trying to calm their breathing down.
Regardless of what Kurt says any moment from now, Blaine cannot imagine himself mustering the strength to let him go, to loosen the circle of his arms where he holds him close and there and with him.
Holding his breath, Blaine hears and feels Kurt's tinkling, breathy laugh—the one from behind the door that night when he heard him and Jesse on the couch—the same fucking one now on his lips, when Kurt traces the line of Blaine's jaw with his thumb.
"Let's get out of here, straightie," Kurt sighs into Blaine's mouth, nudging the tip of his nose. "I've had one too many"—and lets go of him, his hands losing contact with Blaine's jaw, smooth and lingering, fingers skimming down Blaine's chest; Blaine's arms go slack out of pure stupor when Kurt brushes past him as he heads for the bar to close his tab.
For a couple of moments onwards, Blaine stands frozen in the middle of the dance floor, facing the wall. The new, irrelevant song barely registers in his mind as he stands and breathes and fails to wrap his mind around what has just happened.
When he shoves his hands into his back pockets, turning around, glassy-eyed, there's Sebastian standing sentinel over him. The upper buttons on his shirt undone, gaze glazed with feral hunger, he looks as though he's experienced first-hand everything Blaine has just lived through with Kurt.
Being on the receiving end of that animalistic stare, Blaine feels his heart skip a frightened beat. As Sebastian inches closer, Blaine takes an instinctive, wary step back.
Only then does Blaine realize that Sebastian must be meaning to tell him something—which he can't do over the stomping music. So he lets him step up closer.
Sebastian's fingers ghost over the waistline of Blaine's jeans, right over his hip when he growls into Blaine's ear, low and dangerous, "If he doesn't fuck you tonight, I will."
Blaine jerks back, aghast and stunned into silence, his hands still inside his back pockets, his heartbeat racing madly. Sebastian's eyes keep boring into his, dark, deadly, sure, sending chills down Blaine's spine.
"You heard me," he tells Blaine without breaking their eye contact.
Blaine stares at him, speechless, eyeing Kurt behind Sebastian's shoulder where he stands at the bar with his back to them, chatting coyly with a bartender. When Blaine looks back at Sebastian, the look is almost befuddled, unsure.
What the fuck is going on?
And how the fuck was he able to draw so much attention? His first time at a gay club, Jesus Christ.
Sebastian moves even closer as he steps back into Blaine's personal space without giving him the reprieve from his intense gaze. Blaine tenses up, looking up at him before he feels Sebastian's hand work its way into the front pocket of Blaine's jeans. Blaine glances down, caught off guard—a second of hesitation ensues when he becomes aware of Sebastian's fingers against his leg through the thin fabric of his pocket—before Blaine rushes to take a clear step back, warning Sebastian with an unequivocal hostility in his glare. Sebastian does nothing but flex his jaw—and Blaine leaves.
It's only when he's on his way to Kurt that the piece of paper in his pocket brushing against his leg registers with Blaine.
a little good for you
a little more evil for me
come and see
come and see
come
Blaine takes Kurt home. They're quiet at first as Kurt lets his head fall back on the headrest and bob to the abstract rhythm the car pulses with. Shadows from street lamps brush over their faces; Blaine keeps his gaze on the road, distant and emptied, hands working the wheel on autopilot.
Eyelids dipped sweetly, Kurt turns to Blaine with a soft smile. "Off to yours?"
Blaine's hold on the steering wheel tightens; slowly, he turns his head to look at Kurt. "Ours? I thought I was taking you home."
At this, Kurt's eyes flutter open to look at Blaine. Kurt looks at him as if all that's happening right now is—alright. As if it's perfectly normal, and maybe even good.
"I don't wanna go home," Kurt pouts coquettishly. Blaine turns back to the road. "Sam's there."
"Sorry?" Blaine asks, confused.
Kurt yawns.
"Sam Evans, the stripper."
"Ah." That guy. "He's in town?" Blaine asks as he types his and Jesse's coordinates into his Navigator.
"Uh-huh," Kurt grumbles, hardly excited. "It's like today is the national come-visit-Columbus day. Rachel might've been misinformed though, as she will only be coming by Saturday," Kurt notes dryly.
"I thought they were gonna see each other on July 4th, in Lima."
"Oh yeah," Kurt says, snuggling in his seat as he turns to face Blaine. "They're even gonna try to drag me along."
"You don't have to go."
"I know," Kurt says right away—as if he knew Blaine would say that. "But Carole."
Blaine frowns; Carole is Kurt's stepmother, Finn's mom.
"What about her?" Blaine asks softly, glancing at Kurt.
"She misses me," Kurt says in an even, calm voice, still watching Blaine.
"And...what about your dad?"
Kurt is quiet, yet he doesn't take his eyes off Blaine—just tilts his head back a little, scratching his cheek against the leather of the headrest, his eyes a preoccupied, clouded shade of blue.
what do I look like to you
what do you want me to be
uh oh
Concerned by the silence, Blaine chances a glance at Kurt.
"Yeah, she misses him also."
This time Blaine turns to look at Kurt for a dangerously unlimited amount of time because this time is the first time he hears Kurt's voice like that.
This is everything. This is all the glances, all the touches, the flirty smiles, and the dances combined. Because Blaine knows in his heart it's been a long time since Kurt has last talked in that voice to anyone; perhaps not even to Finn—certainly not to Jesse.
Blaine knows that just here just now, he was lucky enough to get a glimpse of what it would've felt like to talk to Kurt from some faraway times—before his friends gave up on him, before he started smoking, before something dark and awful happened to him that not him nor Finn ever talk about now.
Blaine knows nothing about Kurt's life that really matters, yet he savors those seconds as much as he knows Finn would have, had he been there in the car with them to witness it.
"You've reached your destination," a pleasant voice announces on Blaine's Navigator. Blaine watches the boom barrier in front of them rise into the air.
"I want broccoli."
Blaine changes T-shirts as Kurt sits on the couch, rocking with his legs pressed against his chest, facing away from Blaine.
"Come again?" Blaine asks, glancing over his shoulder as he washes the cup he left earlier.
"Are you done yet? Can I turn?" Kurt teases, throwing his head back to rest on the back of the couch, looking at Blaine upside down.
Blaine chuckles; it's not like he told Kurt not to watch.
"I want broccoli," Kurt repeats.
Blaine smiles. "So?"
"So I want it now and I want it stewed and I don't want to cook," Kurt says as he yawns, casual and relaxed. "By any chance, do you have some in your fridge? Or are you guys on a rigid pizza diet 24/7?"
Blaine glares at Kurt's subtle gibe as he walks up to the fridge to check.
"Yes we do, in fact," he says in triumph when he spots a head of broccoli resting on the bottom shelf. Granted, buying this particular vegetable was Jesse's initiative, but it's not like Blaine's eating habits are too terrible on their own.
"Wow. Now you got my attention," Kurt says all joking aside as he gets up and walks up to Blaine in the kitchen. "The pot? The lid? The bowl?"
Blaine gets everything Kurt asks for and puts it out on the counter for him. Then, Kurt steps into his personal space and—pressed a soft, sweet kiss to Blaine's cheek.
"Thanks," he coos into Blaine's ear, patting his shoulder. "Wake me when you're done," he says in a light voice when he leaves the kitchen. Blaine stands, and breathes, and can't quite feel his cheek as watches Kurt go and slump onto the couch.
And then, Blaine does something ridiculous. He starts to cook broccoli for Kurt at one o'clock in the morning.
By almost two, the bell rings. Blaine washes the soap off the pot before he puts it out to dry. Wiping his hands with a towel, he chances a wary glance at the countertop. It's empty, yet again, and his own experience suggests this shouldn't be Jesse, even though five minutes ago Kurt told him that Jesse was on his way.
Regardless, Blaine never seems to learn as he, yet again, opens the door without checking the viewer.
It's Santana. The first glimpse Blaine gets of her, an idle towel in his hand, is when she's fixing a speck of mascara under her eye. As soon as the opened door registers with her, she takes her hand off her face, locks her dark, piercing eyes onto Blaine's, and—without a second of hesitation—starts to stride toward him.
Blaine catches her elbows when she grabs his neck, pressing her sharp thumbnails into the line of his jaw, and—kisses him. Claims his mouth with a crazed, desperate passion that throws Blaine out of his element as he drops the towel and just stands there numbly, too stunned to react as she presses herself into him.
"San—" he tries to say to have it die in the kiss because, as soon as he opens his mouth to speak, she quickly shoves her smooth, warm tongue inside, trying to coax Blaine into kissing her back. He squeezes her thin waist in a gentle attempt to push her away. Which fails; she drags him along with her by the force of her hands clutching his jaw as she keeps sucking on his lips fiercely.
He cups her wrists on his face, mumbling into her mouth, "No, San—"
She seems to finally get the message, her hold on him loosening, as she pulls back a bit, staring at his face—angrily, Blaine finds. Venomously.
He takes her face in his hands, his fingers sliding under the thick heaviness of her black hair.
"No," he says, soft but clear. "What happened?" he asks then, searching her eyes with genuine concern.
"You tell me what happened, and since when do you ask stupid questions?" she asks bitingly before she blatantly disregards his objections, pouncing on him in another attempt to kiss, hands stroking his chest coaxingly.
Just a few feet away from them in the dim light, Kurt sits on the couch with elbows plopped on top of its back as he noshes on broccoli Blaine made for him.
A fork in his mouth, he very much enjoys what's unreeling in front of him, eyes brushing down their figures as he nibbles on one of the fork's tines.
"Santana," Blaine calls her attention again, disentangling them again, losing his patience as he holds her head. She fumes with annoyance, pursing her lips as she glares at Blaine with a voiceless 'What now?'.
He pins her with a meaningful stare until finally, he averts a demonstrative glance to the left.
She turns her head under Blaine's hands and—jerks, unprepared for another person in the room.
"Fucking hell, Hummel."
Kurt tries to swallow as fast as possible, batting his eyelashes at her. "Please guys, don't mind me here. I'm all into watching," he says with a wink at Blaine.
"Fuck," Santana mumbles under her breath, taking a step away from Blaine. She presses one hand to her forehead and the other one to her side. "Does he live here or what?"
"No, Santana. Jesse does," Blaine says in Kurt's defense, bordering aggressive.
Kurt watches the exchange with a bowl of broccoli as if it's some kind of Broadway show and he's sitting in the first row with a bowl of popcorn.
"Santana." Blaine waits until she looks at him. "We can go to my room and talk there."
He knows something has to have happened because standing in front of him right now—is the old Santana. And, against Blaine's fresh memories of the new Santana, this rough version of her is a stark, frightening contrast.
Her eyes, ruthless and stone-cold, pierce into Blaine's, threatening to burn him alive as she grits her teeth, furious. Blaine feels as if he offended her somehow, watching her seemingly at a loss for words to retaliate. Which has never happened before.
Her eyes shooting daggers at Blaine, she spits out in a harsh, rancorous voice, "Go fuck yourselves, both of you." She glares at Kurt chewing on his vegetables untroubled. "We all know you two are fucking anyways," she grits on her way out before she slams the door shut.
Her first comment is something Blaine's grown quite used to over the course of their friendship and knows how to deal with by now.
The last one though, makes him go numb with shock and a little bit of dread and maybe a little bit of something else.
Unperturbed, Kurt keeps munching on his broccoli, gazing up Blaine carefully as Blaine stares at the closed door with a blank expression.
"Bitch?" Kurt suggests, watching Blaine with gullible eyes as he eats.
His light, gentle voice jerks Blaine out of his daze; he turns to look down at Kurt.
"No," he says softly, then turns back to look at the door. "Something happened."
"Broccoli?" Kurt offers to Blaine, casually holding his bowl out.
Before Blaine has time to respond, the front door is swung open.
"Will somebody tell me why our door isn't locked and why Santana has nearly shoved me off the stairs just now?" Jesse asks as he turns the lock shut and kicks his shoes off. "And why is our kitchen towel serving as a rug?" he asks, picking up the discarded cloth.
Kurt perks up, puts the bowl down on the coffee table, then hurdles over the back of the couch, racing up to Jesse. Jesse beams at him before catching Kurt's thighs when Kurt flings himself onto him.
"Santana wanted Blaine to fuck her but Blaine said no and chose to abide by your no-screwing policy, right Blaine?" Kurt chimes in playfully, wrapping his legs around Jesse's frame.
Jesse smirks, impressed, hauling Kurt up a bit.
"Oh wow. And here I thought people never change."
Blaine forces a sarcastic smile, taking Kurt's and Jesse's interaction as his cue to leave. Jesse mumbles something into Kurt's mouth as he carries him to the couch where he plops himself down on it, Kurt in his lap. Blaine fidgets timidly, stupidly, trying to remember if he has everything on him before retreating to his room where he closes the door on them.
Still feeling the warmth of Kurt's touch with his hands, with his cheek, with his lips, Blaine can't recall a time it's been more of a pure, sheer torture to simply watch.
Later that week on Friday, when they're supposed to be performing at that rock club, Blaine stops by a certain someone on his way there.
He strolls through the apartment complex, maneuvering his way through the labyrinth of hallways until he reaches the door. He rings the bell, watching the beige carpet under his feet he remembers so well.
The last time he's been here was probably half a year ago, back when he and Santana were still a thing. The thought of it feels so bizarre right now he almost wants to question the authenticity of his memories.
Santana opens the door, all dressed up and ready for tonight, wrapped up in a tight-fitting black leather jacket and equally tight black pants. Blaine smiles at her outfit. "You look awesome," he tells her before chancing a glance up at her, sympathetic and genuine.
She makes an annoyed moue at that, tilting her head in an unimpressed manner, but can't eventually help a smile breaking through. Blaine and his geniality.
"You're here to give me a ride?" she asks offhandedly, jutting her chin at him.
Blaine swallows down, hides his palms suddenly cold with sweat in his pockets.
"I will. But I came to talk first."
Santana's face slips under an imperturbable mask of emotionlessness as she crosses her arms, leveling Blaine with a grouchy glare.
"About me," Blaine adds, swallowing nervously. "I need to talk."
This brings a frown to Santana's face—and Blaine knows that's the glint of worry he sees in her eyes.
She pushes the door open, inviting him in. Blaine rubs his palms together, his heart pumping blood at a wild rate.
Once inside her living room, he forces himself to sit down on the couch, slow and careful.
He loved Santana's place probably more than their own, it had this distinct, stylish feel to it, making it far more inviting than his and Jesse's sloppy abode. Perhaps that was precisely the reason she made it a rare occasion to let them in and preferred to hang out at theirs instead—in an attempt to uphold its neatness and cleanliness.
She sits down at the opposite end of the couch, crosses her legs elegantly, then turns her head to look at Blaine sidelong, watching him.
Blaine clears his throat before shifting too, turning his body to face her, his gaze glued to his hands.
"About what you said back then."
Santana frowns; there are plenty of things she might've said that could've hit Blaine a little too close to home as to make him question himself.
"On your way out."
Her eyebrows, delicate and cared for, even out as she aims a stunned expression at Blaine—as if holding her breath the same way Blaine is at what he's actually about to say.
At what he's actually about to confess.
Blaine clears his throat again, swallows hard, and inches toward the edge of the couch.
"Kurt and I—," he starts. "We're— We're not— We're not," he says, eyes boring into the furniture in Santana's apartment. "But."
His hand scratches the back of his neck before it slides forward to cover his mouth, fingers pinching his upper lip. Santana watches him jerk his hand down and clasp his fingers together, elbows pressed into his knees.
"But sometimes I feel like," Blaine says as he stares at his feet, his voice dying to a flat, hollow whisper. "Like I wish we were."
Santana is silent for a couple of moments as she looks at his face, at his ear, at his frizzy head of curls, his eyes that are hard and unforgiving, boring into the floor.
"At the bar," Blaine says after a few seconds of dead silence, his voice now a bit louder. "The gay bar. That day you stopped by, there was a guy. Hitting on me." Blaine arches his neck, covering it with his hand again. "He left me his number."
Santana changes her posture, spreading her knees further apart, imitating Blaine as she presses her elbows into her knees and steeples her hands, watching him.
"And I kept it," he blurts, almost hysterical. "He." Blaine closes his eyes, and Santana is oblivious to the way her own face winces in heartfelt worry for her friend. Blaine tries to swallow around the lump in his throat before he speaks up again, his voice labored and lifeless. "He isn't Kurt." Eyes still shut, Blaine squeezes them tighter still. "But when he said those words. When he—offered me, I—" his voice breaks quietly.
Blaine blinks his eyes open, his gaze settles on some faraway point on Santana's wall. She watches his face with an intense concentration.
"I knew it then if it was Kurt...I wouldn't even think twice about it," Blaine shrugs quietly, miserably, helpless in his confession.
Silence. Silence in which the words Blaine's just said, the words Blaine finally said, echo in his head back to right, right to left, left to front, relentless, each time pushing him closer and closer to the brink of comprehension of just how they sounded.
And how they sounded exactly the way he felt inside, and has been for a very long time now.
His eyebrows furrow as his lips start to quiver; Blaine hides his face in his hands.
"Blaine," Santana warns sternly, reaching out to wrap her fingers around his wrists.
She peels his hands off his face gently, then makes him look at her as she squeezes his fingers in her own tight. Blaine stares at her intense face and sucks in a shuddering breath through his nose.
"This is okay," she says in a harsh, forceful tone that under different circumstances could've been considered rude yet which suddenly, magically, unravels that lump of emotions swelling in Blaine's throat and sends a giant wave of relief washing down Blaine's whole body, letting him breathe. And dear God how good it feels to be able to breathe for the first time in months—so good he almost chokes on it, squeezing Santana's hands back.
It's something he desperately needed to hear.
But, as funny as that sounds, this wasn't something he came here to hear; this was something he came here to give her, he just didn't know how much he needed it himself.
"Um," he collects himself, squeezing her hands one last time before he lets go to pinch the bridge of his nose instead. "How's...um, how's Brittany doing?" he asks as casually as he can manage, praying to God she won't shut him off.
Yet Santana's voice is sharp and physically painful when she says the next words; suddenly, her hands clap on her thighs as she gets up from the couch.
"No idea. Let's move, before we're late. There, you can ask her yourself," she tells him as she disappears in the hallway.
That simple. Blaine watches her leave, pulling his hands away from his face.
she's got
pretty almond eyes
i was
taken by surprise
she was
standing at the shore
why? i
guess i'll never know
"Should I stay or should I go?" Finn drawls out from behind the drums, singing as he winces in vocal effort, his legs jittering as one of his feet presses the pedal first time, second time, third time, his bass drum producing the opening beat for their closing song.
Blaine's curls are a sweaty mess, the damp fabric of his dark-gray T-shirt clings to his body as his nimble fingers work the chords, hands squeezing his electric guitar to the point of his veins swelling menacingly.
The whole band agreed to let the last number be nailed by Finn as he relieved Jesse to go keep Kurt company on the dance floor. In reality though, performing this song had been a dream of Finn's ever since Glee Club (where he never got to do it,) so he couldn't not take Kurt up on his 'seductive skills', as Kurt once aptly put it, to have Jesse inveigled into Kurt's arms on the dance floor while Finn had the stage to finally make his dream come true.
Blaine jerks his head back, sending his head of curls bouncing back, away from his eyes; he feels the streak of sweat trickling its way down his temple, his jaw tight, as he watches Kurt dance with Jesse the same way Kurt was dancing with a stranger a few days ago.
you
can
stay a little longer
Blaine yanks at the strings, feeling his nostrils flare as his gaze threatens to bore a hole in the two. Mostly in Kurt.
you
can
stay a little longer now
Kurt laughs, throwing his hands up and back to wind them around Jesse's neck as he looks up at the stage cluelessly before he stumbles across Blaine's fierce gaze, dark and sudden and unforgiving.
you
can
stay a little longer
"Stay a little longer as my heart grows fonder!" Finn lets it all out—right before he beats the heavy rhythm out of the drums, struggling his throat through the rich chorus that's all splashing tension and screeching howls of Blaine's guitar that are shadowed by the low rumble of the one Santana borrowed from Jesse—the perfect harmony of vehemence and despair.
i ain't gonna be your ohio man
i ain't gonna take you by the hand
Kurt keeps on moving with Jesse behind his back as the latter mouths the lyrics into his ear hotly, but Kurt doesn't quite break Blaine's eye contact, looking up at him with crystal blue eyes—a tinge of something dark in them also—that reminds Blaine of the day they met, of how Jesse was kissing down Kurt's neck and how Kurt was challenging Blaine with a stare.
This time Blaine won't back down to stare at his sneakers like the foolish idiot that he was.
Almost as a challenge, he blindly finds all the right chords, his bare biceps working sharply each time he snaps the strings with his pick with no care for their intactness—eyes fixed on Kurt, ruthless, unabating, as Kurt rocks to the heavy beat with Jesse's body crowding him from behind, Jesse's hands on his belly, Jesse's mouth in his hair.
Finn rasps his throat out on the next insurmountable, crazily intense verse—his face red, neck covered in bloated veins as his arms fling blindly for the mad rhythm he's mastered by heart years ago.
"I packed up my artifacts I'm leaving mid-December as I'm leaving all the things I know the one thing to remember is that the middle of nowhere is somewhere for someone else Ohio's gonna get you or she'll put you on her bottom shelf yeah baby!"
Kurt's eyes never leave Blaine—even when Blaine is the first one to break their heated eye contact as his riff comes up, compelling him to focus on his fingers as they run the notes flawlessly; nobody could discern the chord patter if they tried. Kurt keeps looking at Blaine as his own body moves with the flow Jesse steers, and Blaine misses just the way Kurt's looking at him.
All at once—the song is slimmed down to the single, low sound of Santana's play as Blaine's chest heaves; he glances back up into the audience, at Kurt.
she'll break the poor boy down
Clueless to the tension in the air, Jesse finds Kurt's chin with gentle fingers, inching Kurt's jaw to face him; Kurt holds onto Blaine's eye contact for as long as the angle lets him—but when Jesse presses his lips to Kurt's in a languid, heated, hungry kiss—Kurt—Blaine's never seen Kurt respond like that, of all the times he's been watching the two like some kind of desperate, closeted pervert, God, Kurt's never gripped Jesse's jaw with splayed, keen fingers, never mouthed back at him with such naked fervor, never once lost his facade of coy passiveness like that. And Blaine can feel a sweet tremor rushing down his body, making him weak at his knees at the realization that this right there—this must be—this has to be—Blaine could bet his life that this is all a show, for him.
This almost makes him stumble over the chords.
Almost. Blaine's one of the best in this, and he knows it. The song is swept up in a new tide that comes crashing suddenly and violently, and Blaine gives it his everything, absolute and ultimate everything. He squeezes the flawless, sublime play out of his guitar, bending in half with the effort, everyone else on the stage sweating out the outro to the utmost perfection.
Blaine pours into the music everything he's got, everything he's been keeping inside for the last month and a half, every little funny feeling he tried to stamp into submission, tried to conceal and contain and never ever think about each time he saw Kurt and Jesse do what they are doing right now, right in front of him, right there for him on display. Blaine plays until his hands are shaking and he can't feel his fingers anymore—and even then he keeps playing, blind and mad, this piece a single most difficult, intense, devastating one they've taken on so far.
Kissing Jesse at that moment, Kurt is deafened by the yowling screech of Blaine's guitar that crawls its way into Kurt's head, runs down his veins, and claws into Kurt's heart, urging it to pick up a jealous pace. At that moment Kurt is absolutely high on Blaine's emotions, feeling as if he is the direct author of this music, the driving force behind it, and the harder he'll kiss Jesse's hot, silky mouth—the harder the music will come to sweep him—and everyone in here—up, vitalizing the whole club to the verge of the guitar strings snapping, Finn's voice breaking, and the drums shattering to pieces under the force of Finn's strikes.
"Wow, um. Not really sure how one's supposed to trump that," the next band's lead singer admits with a diffident smile, tuning up his guitar before they start their performance—scheduled as the closing one that night.
His compliment to the pack of Finn, Blaine, and Santana generates a rumble of an awkward laughter across the crowd.
"But we thought we could keep it light for you by the end, so for those of you out there who are not into hard rock, per se, and are more like, indie-light type, you might be happy," he promises in an even, gentle voice that's illustrative of his naturally coy demeanor.
The band stays true to their promise as they perform a series of generally mild, indie-rock hits that Blaine wouldn't usually consider his first choice. More like Jesse's.
Blaine readjusts his shirt that's clinging to his damp skin when he finds a secluded place at the bar—public seems to harbor a universal appreciation for the indie-light type of music, seeing as they hurry out to the heart of the dance floor. Blaine watches Kurt facepalm at Jesse's moves when the latter starts dancing to his jam like a madman.
Looking at Kurt's face, slightly sweated and flushed and scintillating with laughter, Blaine feels his heart pump out a surge of heat that spreads down his veins before converging into a tingling sensation at the tip of his fingertips. Blaine feels his heart rate speed up as his hands curl into fists until his knuckles are white.
Having brought it out into the open, Blaine thought it would get easier. He didn't dare to hope this feeling would vanish, but at least he hoped he'd get rid of the insufferable bout of despair that seized his chest each time he would so much as look at Kurt.
He thought that having admitted to it, he'd have all the bravery in the world. That having said that out loud, he'd be able to say anything, do anything, and never, ever be afraid of being a coward or feeling week again.
But sitting right now, all sweaty and worked up and still out of breath, watching two boyfriends dance to the lively tune, Blaine suddenly feels more scared than ever. Scared this feeling will never truly let go of him.
Sitting there, panting, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows around the coarse dryness of his throat, Blaine is for the first time actually terrified of what is happening to him.
"Two shots of Vodka for us, pretty face," Santana says to the bartender as she takes a seat next to Blaine. Blaine levels her with a warning gaze: everybody knew better than to let him get his hands on Vodka, yet all he gets from her is a sharp raise of her eyebrow.
Everybody knew better than to argue with Santana.
He looks away defeatedly; his glance falls on Brittany dancing with Sam, both of them confident and rhythmic in their motions. Over the course of their band's performance, she's mostly kept to the bar, sipping her drinks, occasionally swaying her arms to the beat. Blaine didn't have the chance to talk to Sam yet; the only two times they've exchanged any words at all were when they were introduced and later upon the wrap of their last song when Sam complimented their play.
Blaine knew about him and Brittany from what Finn had told him about Lima, yet Blaine never would've thought that they were still dating, and he's somewhat confused it came as an equal surprise to Santana—at least from what he could glean, from what she would let him.
Because she doesn't let the tiniest shred of emotion show when she opens her tab, informing the bartender to put all of their subsequent rounds on her. And so they drink.
Blaine goes rogue.
Finn sees it before it happens; somewhere halfway through the second piece performed by the last band, Finn stops by the bar when the drink in his hand is about to run out. That's when he first gets the glimpse of Blaine and Santana drinking. In an attempt to stay inconspicuous, he turns his back to them slowly as his drink gets refilled, and when it's done, he retreats to his dark corner, deciding to stay in a role of an observer for now.
By the third song, Blaine forfeits his attempts at sneaking unobtrusive glances at Kurt dancing with Jesse and goes for staring at the pair openly, eyes dark and jaws tight. Finn shifts his balance on his feet, glancing between Blaine and the pair, somewhat concerned.
dance around like skeletons
cause we forgot what we wanted
By the fourth piece Blaine's eyes, naturally dark, are pitch-black to the point of seeming aggressive, lethal as he watches Kurt move obliviously, smoothly to the dark, uptempo beat.
cause i never learned to tell you no
Santana has to smack Blaine's shoulder a few times in an attempt to draw his attention back to what she's telling him animatedly, her gestures broad and her voice sharp.
oh
no i never learned
Blaine doesn't budge, doesn't even seem to feel her punches; menacingly quiet, he tosses off a yet another shot, then sucks his cheeks in at the bitter taste, eyes never leaving Kurt's figure in the dark.
oh i never learned to tell you no
Yet much to Finn's relief, the more Blaine seems to drink, the more this tightness seems to leave his body; and before that song is even over—the last vestige of tension fled Blaine's posture as he sits relaxed and laid-back against the bar top. His eyes are glazed with a pleasant buzz, still dark but now harmless as they roam up and down Kurt's figure moving with Jesse in the crowd against the flashing lights.
and we almost go insane
trying to chase
some pleasure brand
new
Occasionally, he nods his acknowledgment of Santana's animated chatter in his ear. At some point, she flips her thick hair back and actually laughs—in a way that Finn hasn't seen her laugh for a week now, in a way Blaine told him she never used to laugh up until recently.
Finn has his own share of suspicions as to how her sudden lack of spirit had something to do with Sam's unexpected arrival that night and with how Brittany introduced them as a boyfriend and a best friend. It could be that Santana wasn't head over heels happy with the fact that she and Britt weren't going to be spending as much time together, now that Sam is in town—yet it's hard for Finn to imagine Santana falling for something as petty and childish. After all, Sam wasn't about to stay for longer than a week and she knew it. Which was why Finn was led to believe that the true reason behind her surliness wasn't lying on the surface.
"Hey Finn, have you seen Santana?" Brittany screams over the loud music—what has been prior announced as the last song for today—jerking Finn out of his thoughts, when she and Sam stumble over to him, tipsy and laughing, clinging to each other.
Finn doesn't see the way Blaine runs his tongue over the front of his gums, savoring the alcohol burn in his mouth before he turns back to the bar top where he puts his glass down with a loud, dangerous thump.
Finn's gaze brushes down Britt and Sam solemnly, distantly, before he strains his throat to shout back, "At the bar with Blaine."
Finn doesn't see the way Blaine slides off his stool carefully, patting Santana on her arm when he hums into her ear that he'll be in the bathroom.
"Why are you here all alone?" Britt chuckles, poking Finn playfully with one hand, clutching to Sam's arm with the other.
Finn musters a lopsided smile. "Honestly?" he asks, gesturing with his glass. "I'm still a little afraid of Santana," he jokes over the loud music, shrugging.
Sam snorts out a sudden laugh which he stifles when Brittany turns to look at him.
Finn doesn't see the way Blaine shoves his way through the crowd in a semblance of cool-headedness and composure, headed straight for the bar's administrator.
"No like, honestly?" Sam asks Finn, making a flipping motion with his hand. "I'm totally with you on that, dude. This is like Sue meets Megan Fox, and it is so, confusing," Sam says with an amusingly stoned look on his face.
No one sees Blaine speak to the person in charge of the this night's program. No one knows what Blaine says to them—one side of their head is shaved, baring a minimalistic picture of a small sheep tattooed on their skin, the other side hidden by the short, wavy strands of their dark-blue hair—yet they just shrug, nodding somewhat favorably, gesturing to the band on stage wrapping up their last song.
When the three of them, Finn, Britt, and Sam find Santana at the bar, Blaine isn't there, much to Finn's dismay.
Santana glares at Britt and Sam with an arrogant arch of her eyebrow, flipping her hair to the side as she pointedly straightens up her gorgeous, lean back, showing it off to the pair when they take their seats to the right of her. Finn lingers on his feet nearby as Britt flicks the tip of Sam's nose before they giggle at some inside joke and order drinks.
"Where's Blaine?" Finn asks Santana, relieved he doesn't have to shout as the music seems to die down.
No one notices Blaine jumping up on stage as soon as the band squeezes the final chords out of their instruments.
"Bathroom," Santana shrugs, sipping her drink when suddenly Britt lays a gentle hand on her shoulder.
No one sees Blaine say something into the lead singer's ear.
Jesse finds Finn sooner than Finn turns to look for them as he claps Finn on his back, tugging Kurt back to the group by their clasped hands. Finn nods to them, half-relieved to see Blaine nowhere near them. As much as he wants to see Kurt and Blaine's relationship progress, he doesn't want his friend to do anything he'd regret in the morning.
At first the thought of getting Blaine buzzed as to give him a little more leeway in acting on his feelings seemed like a brilliant idea; now that Finn got that accomplished for him, he wasn't so sure, with Jesse being there to witness it.
The pair takes their seats to Santana's left, and she seems to be hugely relieved by their company as Jesse orders one shot of Scotch for him and a glass of water for Kurt.
"Hey there, again," Blaine's smooth voice echoes from the speakers—Finn turns his head sharply, wide-eyed, to stare at the stage. So does the rest of the group, their voices dying mid-sentence as another rumble of cheers travels through the crowd. "I know you've been promised to 've gotten rid of us by now," Blaine murmurs into the mic in a coyly indifferent manner, adjusting its holder's length. "But I was just—so inspired by good gentlemen over here"—he first splays his hand over his chest and then gestures with a broad sweep of his arm to where the band's members each stayed in their place, the lead singer joining them in the back—"that I didn't wanna let you go just yet," Blaine finishes, glancing up demurely into the audience, his eyes smoldering as they land on Kurt sitting at the bar with the rest of their crew.
Santana breaks into a devilish, mischievous smile, waving over to Blaine with an encouraging whoop; Sam and Britt, oblivious to what's really going on, hang on to Blaine's every word, intrigued; Kurt is frozen with a deadpan expression, eyes locked on Blaine quietly. As if two drastically different emotions are grappling for dominance on his face, effectively rendering him emotionless as a result of it.
"Oh my God, was he drinking?" Jesse asks Santana with an impish smile, leaning over to her; his hand rests behind Kurt's back on the bar top.
"You got it?" Blaine's muffled voice resonates across the club weakly when he turns away from the mic to address the band.
The lead singer checks with their keyboard guy, then nods to Blaine.
"Aright," Blaine says as his lips bump into the mic when he turns back to the public. "Now this will be a little different from what you've heard from me so far," he prefaces in a soft, preoccupied voice as he makes sure his mic is all set. "You and my friends both, man," Blaine mumbles mindlessly, eliciting an incredulous snicker from Santana.
Blaine is so cute when he's drunk.
When the lead singer claps Blaine on his shoulder as his good-to-go cue, Blaine quits fiddling with his mic, pulling his hands down. "Whoop, here we go."
The guy behind the keyboard generates the first electronic sound, tweaking the knobs on his synthesizer as Blaine takes a little step back, hanging his head to look at his feet before—
one
—he grabs the mic, belting the single note out; all members of the band are nodding in the dark, letting Blaine and the keyboard guy nail the opening.
two
—Blaine shouts, clutching onto the mic stand.
three
—he takes a step back, then surges back to the front—
one, two, three, four!
Blaine shouts out before he bends in half as the whole club suddenly flashes with bright scarlet lights—the band behind him blasts into a crisp, up-tempo beat, livening the whole stage up with a vigorous, discoish motif.
Blaine keeps his hold on the mic stand, turning to nod at the electric guitarist who musters out a wispy, brisk, drawn-out solo with fitful pauses in concord with sharp halts in the drumbeat.
The audience roars their cheers of encouragement when they recognize the song. Moving to the music, the public seems to absolutely love this remastered version of it that edges off more into electronic territory rather than its original rendition in indie-rock fashion.
"Oh. My. Fucking. God," Jesse enunciates each word in awe as he makes a fuss to fish his cell phone out of his back pocket. "This is it, Kurt!" he shouts to Kurt over the music. "This is Blaine going rogue!" he trumpets, switching to the video recorder on his iPhone.
Kurt is motionless, stunned, numb, and all of these things—eyes dashing hectically across the stage, cheeks flushing up—almost as if he's deeply, utterly, so very much failing to comprehend what he's seeing right now.
you are the girl
that i've been dreaming of
ever since
i was a little girl
Blaine cradles the microphone, all but moaning out the lyrics with his eyes squeezed shut, eyebrows drawn together in a concentrated frown. His upper body seems to be strained in an effort to be still as he sings into the microphone, yet his feet tramp and stamp and stomp with vibrant energy bubbling up inside him as his foot pops then kicks the floor.
one!
i'm biting my tongue
Jesse seems to be enjoying himself behind the camera, letting out a wheezing whoop of encouragement.
two!
he's kissing on you
Blaine shoves his hand into the curly mess on his head as Kurt's eyes, placid and clouded and hard, bore into him.
three!
oh why can't you see?!
—Blaine literally wails, his throat strained, the veins on his neck swelled to the point of appearing feral as he sinks down a little at the stand.
"One, two, three, four!" the band behind him chants—and then he bounces up, wrenches the mic out of the holder, and dives right into the chorus.
"The word's on the streets, and it's on the news," he sings animatedly as he struts up to the front. "I'm not gonna teach him how to dance with you," Blaine wiggles his hand by his neck, signaling for 'ain't-gonna-happen'. "He's got—two left feet and he bites my moves," Blaine mimics an awkward dancing for a second, his movements free and graceful even as he parodies clumsiness. "I'm not gonna teach him how to—" he throws his head back sharply, watching the crowd finish for him.
When the song enters its interlude, Blaine turns his back to the audience, dance-walking in a smooth, nimble manner toward the stand where he puts the mic back, carefully tucking it into the holder. The spotlight switches back to the girl with the electric guitar nailing her recurring solo as she flips her short hair to the side with the movement of her head.
In the dark, Blaine wanders off to trace a couple of idle circles on stage, his gait bouncy and giddy and absent-minded as his weak fingers get a handful of the sweaty, curly strands that keep getting into his eyes. He collects whatever his hands managed to get a hold of into a small, unkempt ponytail on top of his head and before he's even finished—he's back at the mic, singing.
you are the—girl
that i've been dreaming of
Finn hides his face in his fancy cocktail, gobbling up the rest of his drink—he isn't very sure now if it's a good thing that Kurt is the sober one to give them a ride home this time, or not so good, seeing how Blaine is apparently gonzo, and Finn's no good to him if he can't take him out of this place like, right fucking now, before he gets to say any other word to Kurt or—better yet—sing it for the whole world to know.
you are the girl
that i've been dreaming of
ever since...
"Ever since!" Blaine wails with a strained grimace, his face flushed with fervor and damp with sweat.
one
—the whole public now chants.
"I'm bitin' my tongue," Blaine sings with a slight accent.
two
"He's kissing on you huh!" Blaine shouts it out as his knees bend a little.
three!
"Oh why can't you see?!" he writhes at the stand, his voice a whining stretch of sexiness.
Not sure what to expect, Finn sneaks a glance over his shoulder at Kurt, trying to stay out of Jesse's camera. Kurt's expression is a stark contrast to every single soul in this club; it's almost solemn against the row of animated faces next to him: Jesse's beam, Santana's cheering, Britt's and Sam's laughter.
There is not a single trace of laughter in Kurt's eyes, deep-dark-gray and heavy as they watch Blaine perform, following his every move, catching his every glance.
i'm not gonna teach him how to...
"Uh uh uh uh uh uh the second I do, I know we're gonna be through; I'm not gonna teach how to dance with you," Blaine swaggers up to the front, one hand gripping the mic as the other one gestures in wild, fervent motions. "He don't suspect a thing, I wish he'd get a clue," he points straight at the bar before he pulls his hand back to hold a fistful of air as he looks down to the side sharply. He holds a beat like that before he finishes his line, "I'm not gonna teach him how to!" He rushes off to bounce around the stage in sharp, twisting motions, bursting with energy, as the crowd chants the lyrics for him.
It seems to Finn that Kurt sees right through what's happening to Blaine now and ever—and maybe even then some, that he maybe even sees more than Finn does and more than Finn knows.
one!
One thing Finn sure as hell knows (no matter how buzzed he may be) is that the stormy look in Kurt's eyes won't augur well for tonight—not for Jesse, not for Blaine in this state, and ultimately—not even for Kurt, whatever it might be that stands behind that dark gaze of his.
two!
Finn fishes out his cell phone, hastily thumbing the screen as he clicks on the Uber app.
three!
one two three four!
Finn puts his glass on the bar top, then beckons the bartender hastily to close his tab.
(i'm not gonna teach him how to)
"Uh! Uh!" Blaine shouts into the mic, swinging the stand back and forth, "He's got—two left feet and he bites my moves—"
(i'm not gonna teach how to)
"Not gonna teach him how to dance"—Blaine draws the note out long and strong, flat-out desperate—"with you," he jerks back, panting—and then surges back up to the stand, cradling the mic for the few remaining lines he has.
Finn takes his credit card back hurriedly before he hobbles through the crowd, trying to make his way toward the stage.
how to dance with you
oh!
no!
no!
Blaine's chest puffs as he shouts each word with a jerking motion, the band behind him pepping the tension up as they near the song's climax.
i'm not gonna teach him how to
No one seems to notice Finn push through the cluster of people bouncing to the final beats as the song culminates, the lightning in the club alternating between red and violent flashes.
"Dance, dance, dance, dance, dance!"—Blaine screams his final words as he drops to his knees—the lights fade out—the crowd bursts into roaring applause, the loudest of them being Jesse and Santana.
Kurt's face is blank, cheeks are slightly flushed, and breathing is a little ragged as he keeps watching the spot Blaine was last seen at even as the club goes pitch-black.