Chapter Summary: Kurt and Blaine try to avoid each other, Kurt and Mercedes finally talk, and Kurt finally discovers what's got Blaine so scared of kissing him.
A/N: Oh my word. I just. Just. These boys. Now I see why Glee always ends up writing sad Kurt story lines. Goodness me. This is a very long Part B–the longest chapter of this fic by far. Warning for this chapter: Remember when I told you this story was going to get intense? This is where it starts. This chapter contains copious amounts of tears and complicated boy-problems, but stick through it. I promise it won't send you into a depression. I hope this doesn't scare people away. Any feedback is highly welcome feedback. To paraphrase a favorite author of mine, most people judge a story here on FFnet based on the amount of reviews it's received. If you like this story, don't keep it to yourself; comment and tell me so! I do take your opinions into account when I'm writing these chapters. I write this story ultimately for your enjoyment, after all! Read away, and I hope you enjoy!
Kurt sat on his bed, reading Jane Eyre and studiously ignoring any and all thoughts that had to do with the boy downstairs. All night last night, Blaine's rising panic had crashed like waves inside his head, ebbing away for long periods of time just to swell again a few minutes later. The concentration of it woke him up several times during the night, until it finally settled to a loud white noise (which had been almost soothing at three a.m. in the morning and was now utterly distracting at 11:30 in the afternoon, making it nigh impossible for him to focus on anything). Finn had begun working in the shop with Kurt's dad on the weekends, and so he, Carole, and Kurt's dad had by now all left for work—leaving Kurt alone in the house with Blaine all day. Or rather, as was actually the case: leaving Kurt and Blaine alone to avoid each other all day.
Kurt had no idea what to think about what was going on with Blaine anymore. He was angry, and upset, and confused. But, even though they had only been apart for less than twelve hours… he missed Blaine. With a strength that surprised him when he discovered it.
He traced his arm again absently as he turned to the next page. While he was taking a shower this morning, he had found a strange inscription sewn into white of his arm, a spindly cursive of a language that perfectly aligned along one of his veins. Blaine must have put it there, last night, when he was tracing patterns into his arm. Kurt had stared at it for what felt like hours, using up all the hot water as he let the spray pound away at the sudden, powerful flood of—hunger, desire, arousal—and the twinge of unease that rose up inside of him at the sight of the line of magic inside his skin. He had no idea what it said—but there was something almost empowering, almost possessive about the look of the language; the placement of the script as it moved down his skin and curled around his pulse.
Kurt caught himself and cleared his throat, trying to focus back on Jane Eyre.
He was just reaching the part where Jane heard a creepy moaning coming from a room upstairs when it happened—the untuned radio station that was Blaine inside his head suddenly cut off.
Kurt froze.
He listened intently, trying to focus, or clear his mind, or bend a spoon, but, distressingly, he couldn't hear anything. It was like someone had pressed the mute button, or cut the line in the middle of a phone conversation. Kurt snapped the book shut and sat up, trying harder.
Nothing.
Kurt thought of the time he came home to an empty house, and of a boy who had pressed Blaine up against the bark of the tree in the backyard.
Determining Blaine's health and safety were above his own pride, Kurt quickly got out of bed, speeding down the stairs. He just wanted to check on him. He didn't have to open up or forgive him or anything like that, he just needed to check on him.
"Blaine?" he called out, trying to stay calm. He hurried into the living room, frowning at the empty couch. "Blaine?" he called again, voice rising. No answer. His eyes flew around the room and he moved to the glass door leading into the backyard, spotting movement. Kurt let out a huge sigh.
Of course. Of course he'd be outside in the middle of December, that closed off, secretive idiot.
Carefully, Kurt opened the door and stepped out, shivering immediately at the frozen ground against his bare feet. As he moved closer, he noticed a foot peeking out from behind the trunk of the tree he'd found Blaine under all those weeks ago. Annoyed and now freezing, he came around the trunk, hopping slightly from foot to foot in the vain hope he could prevent his toes freezing off (shoes, Hummel: they exist for a reason).
A cold hand fell upon his bare feet, dropping with the kind of heavy sluggishness that graced the turning off of an alarm clock. Warmth tingled up his body, and Kurt looked down to find the hand attached to the boy he was looking for. Blaine was staring deeply into the circle of trees that edged the backyard, a slight frown drawing down his eyebrows.
Kurt looked at him for a second (careful to keep his expression stony), trying to hear him. Blaine's clothes were disheveled, eyes tired—a coat was draped around his shoulders like a cloak, but he wasn't holding it closed. He sat slumped against the bark, immobile.
…And still nothing. Mute.
"What are you doing out here?" Kurt asked, frowning. Blaine didn't answer. He crouched down, reaching out to take Blaine's hand—and Blaine jerked it away.
Kurt's eyes stung with hurt, even as his stomach flipped at the brief but icy touch of Blaine's skin.
"Blaine, you're freezing," Kurt snapped. Blaine looked down at himself in mild surprise.
"Oh," he said softly. "I wasn't sure if that was me."
He sounded strange—distant—and Kurt's heart started making a slow journey up his throat.
"What's wrong?" it came out harsher than he intended. Blaine shook his head.
"Building walls," he said bluntly, still sounding only half-there. It took Kurt a few seconds to translate what he meant.
Oh.
He was building up his mental walls. That must have been why Kurt didn't hear anything anymore; if Blaine was shutting his mind away from the world, then—
Wait. Why was he doing this now? Was he actually, literally closing his mind off from Kurt? Kurt almost couldn't speak for the constricting of his throat.
"Is this because of last night?" he asked around the beating in his esophagus, feeling too small and too young. "Did I do something to make you angry, or… did I do something wrong?"
Blaine didn't look at him, the frown remaining ever-present on his face. "No," he said, standing up and tugging his coat close around his shoulders. "I'm not angry with you. You didn't…" Blaine trailed off, squeezing his eyes shut. He started to move back inside. Without waiting to make sure Kurt was following him. Kurt swallowed thickly, trying to stop his throat from closing, and hurried to catch up.
"Then what–?"
"Maybe you should call one of your friends today, visit them," Blaine interrupted. Kurt couldn't believe what was coming out of his mouth. "Get out of the house for a bit."
Kurt stared, almost in amazement at the audacity. Had Blaine just seriously asked him to get out of his own house?
"Are you serious?" he heard himself asking, voice sharp. Blaine still had yet to look at him.
"I'm sorry," he said lowly, annoyance biting his voice. "I'm not—I just think you should spend some time with someone other than me for more than five minutes."
"Are you insinuating I'm being too clingy? Me?" An ugly scoff came out of Kurt's mouth, even as he dammed tightly against the tears fighting to escape his eyes. "Because, if I'm remembering correctly, I'm not the one who's been coming to school every day just to spend every possibly minute of my free period with me! I'm not the one who's always waiting for me in the choir room before glee practice, or who—!"
"No, but you sure look forward to it, don't you?"
Blaine's words cut into him like a whip as he finally turned to face Kurt, and hazel eyes burned into blue with feverish, painful intensity. The shock of it stole Kurt's breath, broke his dams—and water finally, silently spilled out his eyes from the sting. He opened his mouth—to say something, to protest, to—do something—but he couldn't find his voice.
That…
That insinuation had been all too clear.
Blaine's hands came up to cover his face, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Kurt, just… time. Just, for today, just please go somewhere else and give me some time, please." Blaine's voice was so strained it cracked, and Kurt noticed, oddly disconnected, that he was crying, too. "I—Mercedes is angry at you, you should make things right with her. You should—I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I—just, please, I'm sorry, just—please."
He couldn't speak. Or even close his mouth. He just walked, lost, away from Blaine; over to the sliding glass door; inside the house. Over to the front entrance, putting on a pair of sneakers and grabbing his coat; grabbing his keys; opening the door and walking outside. Closing the door. Unlocking his car and climbing inside. Shutting the car door.
Oh god.
Oh god, oh god, oh god.
Had he been making up everything in his head? Had Blaine been… had everything that was going right with them, between them, all that time spent together, had that been Blaine at all? Had it all been happening just because Kurt wanted it to?
He wanted to throw up.
No, this wasn't fair. Blaine couldn't just say something like that, not when it changed everything, when it ruined everything. Kurt stabbed the keys into the ignition and twisted the car to life with a swift jerk. Shaking, he shifted gears, speeding down his driveway backwards, shifting once more and taking off down the street. He couldn't, he couldn't be near Blaine right now, he didn't want to be near Blaine right now. Oh god, he was going to throw up, he was going to cry, he was going to—he didn't even know where he was going, just out, just away from the house, he had been ignoring everyone except Blaine but maybe he had even been ignoring Blaine in the end and he couldn't just say things like that oh god he couldn't he couldn't he was just saying that he was just angry and scared and he was just saying that.
He had no idea what went through Mercedes' head as she opened the door only to be greeted by an armful of sobbing Kurt. But whatever it was, he was thankful for it—because she immediately wrapped her arms around him and ushered him up to her room, silently letting him cry on her shoulder for ten whole minutes before she opened her mouth to ask him what happened.
Kurt hadn't meant to tell her everything. But somehow, as she asked more and more clarifying questions, it just spilled out—everything. And it was such a relief, to tell someone else, even as Mercedes started looking at him with increasingly more skeptic features.
"Lemme get this straight," she stated, standing with a hand on her hip and a pitying look in her eyes that spelled out more than her words did how much she believed him. "You think Blaine's magical."
"No, he's magic," Kurt corrected with irritation.
"Right. Sorry," she said with a little attitude-filled flip of her head. "He's 'magic'. And he's only hanging out with you because you want him to hang out with you, and not because he wants in your pants. Because… you can control what he does."
"Okay," Kurt threw up his hands, frustrated and ready to give up and cry again. "You know what? Forget I ever told you, because—" and then he suddenly remembered his arm.
Hurriedly, he yanked down his sleeve, holding up his forearm to the light. "Proof!" he exclaimed, triumphant as Mercedes' expression changed. The strange script glinted weirdly in the sunlight. "How do you think I could have gotten that? It's not a tattoo, and I couldn't have sewn it into my arm. I don't even know what the thing means. Blaine did it to me."
Mercedes looked disturbed and more than a little nervous. "That—that came from Blaine?" she asked, face paling. Kurt nodded. "You're not making this up?" she accused him. "This isn't some stupid practical joke you and Blaine planned, is it?"
"Mercedes—do you honestly believe I'd do that to you?"
"I don't know what to believe anymore," she snapped back at him. "I used to believe we were best friends who'd be friends forever, but that ended up being totally wrong."
Kurt felt shame heat his cheeks, and he let his sleeve fall down.
"I'm sorry," he said to her. "I didn't mean to make you feel like I forgot about you. I kept meaning to get together with you, or call you, or text, and then we hadn't spoken for so long…"
Mercedes studied him with angry eyes.
"…I know," she admitted reluctantly. "That doesn't mean I forgive you. But… I should have tried to call you when you stopped trying. I guess it's on me, too."
"I just got a little carried away," Kurt's voice was quiet in confession. "He's just so amazing and I—"
"And you're in love with him," she finished for him. He opened his mouth to contradict her, but she held up a hand, full-on angry diva. "Now don't you go denying it, white boy. Every single person in glee club knows your lovesick puppy faces. Need I bring up painful memories about a certain step-brother of yours?"
Kurt gasped. "We agreed we would never talk about that!" he cried, betrayed.
"Yeah, well, we also agreed we wouldn't keep secrets from each other, and look how that turned out." Mercedes' softened eyes took some of the bite away. "…It feels like we were never not talking in the first place," she commented, sounding so young all of a sudden.
Kurt smiled at her softly. "I guess that's what happens when you're as compatible a gay and a hag as we are."
Mercedes sat next to him on the bed. "I should apologize too," she said hesitantly. "For not noticing Karofsky was bullying you so bad—even though you should have told me," she said this last with a stern look. "I'm glad you had Blaine there to help you out."
Kurt wasn't quite ready to forgive her that, either—after all, she had been his best and only close friend at the time, and she should have noticed—but… he was willing to work on it, if she was willing.
(And, okay, so Kurt hadn't told her everything. Karofsky's secret wasn't his to tell.)
Mercedes stared at his arm.
"Go ahead," Kurt held it out to her. She took it carefully, pushing up his sleeve and feeling the line of script with a dazed look on her face.
When she finally let go, she sighed heavily next to him.
"Blaine is magic," she said suddenly. Kurt looked at her and nodded, patting her on the knee.
"Blaine is magic," he agreed. He thought about the first time he'd found out, when he'd almost begged Blaine to show him what the boy had been doing to him up against the tree, and Blaine had… he had almost done it, Kurt realized with growing horror. He wondered if it was just that Blaine couldn't do it—that he didn't know how—that had stopped him from following through on the feelings Kurt had forced him to imitate that night. Because if everything that was happening between them was because Kurt had been so focused on what he wanted that he was forcing his feelings upon him…
'With you… It's different with you.'
He bit his lip as an encroaching upsurge of tears suddenly pressed up against his throat. "I just think—" he began, voice wavering, before succumbing to another flood of sobs. Mercedes let out a cry of dismay and wrapped her arms around him. "I just think if I had known, if I'd just known, then he wouldn't have had to—then he wouldn't have—oh god, 'Cedes, what if he's been hating me all this time, and he was forced to hide it because I was so—!"
Mercedes let him cry for a few more minutes before speaking.
"Boo, I don't know what's up about this magic thing. But I do know one thing. And I really can't believe you haven't noticed it."
Kurt swallowed a thick sob. Finn had said the exact same words to him yesterday.
He sniffed, straightening up and wiping his eyes. "Oh, and what's that?" he asked, voice clogged. "I'm the most oblivious person on the face of the planet?"
Mercedes hit him upside the head lightly. "Yeah, actually," she sassed. "You know why? Because that boy is head over heels for you, and you've done nothing about it for three weeks."
…
Kurt was pretty sure his hearing had gone.
"…Sorry, what?" he said blankly.
"I've seen how he looks at you. Hell, everybody's seen how he looks at you, Kurt. That's not the face of a boy who's being forced into something."
"How do you know?" he couldn't help but argue. "He feels what I feel, so how–?"
"Yeah, but he has his own feelings to feel along with feeling yours, right? Didn't you say you knew he didn't want to do whatever it is you wanted him to do that first time? He was still feeling what you were feeling then, and you could tell which feelings were you and which were him."
"I—yeah, I guess," Kurt began doubtfully.
"So, even with you being completely blind to everything else that's happening around you when you have a crush, you don't think you'd be able to tell he was struggling against doing something he didn't want to do? You don't think we'd be able to tell? He's like attached to you at the hip in the choir room, babe. You're Jada Pinkett and he's Will Smith."
Kurt felt like a weight had been taken off his chest. That… made so much sense he wanted to hit himself for not thinking about it. "Wait," he said before he let himself get carried away. "But he's the one that put the idea in my head in the first place. Why would he do that if it wasn't true?"
Mercedes bit her lip.
"I don't know what's going on with him," she said slowly. "Maybe he's just being a stupid boy. But I think he was right—give him some space. Maybe he needs some time to figure it out on his own." Kurt took the tissue she offered him, considering her words. "Okay, so, you need to give your man some space" –("he's not my man, 'Cedes.")—"and you know what that means, don't you?" Mercedes nudged. Kurt looked at her blankly.
"What?"
"Mall time!" She slapped his shoulder. "Nothing cheers you up more than shopping. And we need to get our winter wardrobes up to date!"
Kurt grinned for what felt like the first time in ages.
—-
Hours and several scarves later, he realized the irony as he made his way home from Mercedes' house. They had spent most of the afternoon shopping, reasserting their friendship. They even grabbed lunch at the food court and ended up spending it discussing two boys a few tables away from them (an African-American Kurt thought needed his wardrobe dissected and an Asian Mercedes had found cute)—just like they'd used to when they were inseparable last year. By 5:30, he was feeling markedly happier than he was when he'd left the house—and that was when he remembered that it had been Blaine's suggestion to make up with Mercedes in the first place.
The discovery allowed a kind of sad content to settle over his shoulders as he drove home, pulling up the driveway and parking in the space next to the garage. At least he could take comfort in the fact that Blaine knew him so well. That had to mean something, right?
The sun was already starting to set, all golden purple and blushed rose as Kurt got out of his car. He opened the front door after fishing out his key (a little surprised to find it locked), and stepped into the house.
It was dark—none of the lights in the house were on, the only source of illumination coming from the dying embers of sky fading in through the windows. Kurt frowned slightly, taking off his shoes and closing the door. Once inside, he noticed a soft, high-pitched sound—the kind that he always heard when someone had left something electronic on. Maybe Blaine had watched a movie and turned off the DVD player, forgetting to turn off the TV with it (he'd done that several times before).
The house was getting uncomfortably dark. Wondering if maybe Blaine was just taking a nap, he made his way quietly to couch in the living room.
It was empty.
A tickle of foreboding crept down his spine.
"Blaine?" he called softly, trying once more to hear—
OH. Oh, that wasn't the tv, that was Blaine, he was hearing Blaine again—faint, muffled, tiny fissures in Blaine's mental walls that let out miniscule streams of sound into Kurt's mind, too quiet and small for him to distinguish what they felt like…
Then Kurt saw him: lodged into the corner made by the TV stand and the wall. He was hunched in on himself, knees drawn up protectively, grasping his head with hands that clawed first into his hair, then into the air around him—and it took a few minutes for Kurt to realize his shaking shoulders were the accompaniment to his quiet crying.
Something clenched tightly around his chest.
"…Blaine?"
Blaine jerked violently, choking on a startled breath and looking up at Kurt in surprise.
As if he hadn't known Kurt was there.
…Blaine always knew Kurt was there. Blaine could feel Kurt before he even entered a room. A misty unease settled over Kurt's lungs, and he took in the tear-stained cheeks and disheveled hair.
"What's wrong?" he asked cautiously.
Blaine studied him with red-rimmed, amber eyes. Kurt frowned at the eye color, at the gaze that was untamed, off-kilter, intense. He was suddenly reminded of the day Blaine had first awoken on his couch—he had seemed wild then, almost inhuman. But that was before Kurt had gotten to know him. Blaine himself had told him he wasn't human, but Kurt thought Blaine was the most humane person he had ever met. This person in front of him, this creature hunching over itself in the corner of the living room, this wasn't all Blaine. Not the Blaine Kurt knew, the Blaine Kurt was in—was crushing on. This was… part of this was something else.
"Is it the magic?" Kurt realized, voice hushed. "Is that what's been bothering you all this time?" Blaine just stared, looking lost, not even really seeing Kurt.
And then suddenly his expression morphed. A hard determination sculpted his features, and Blaine stood up, grabbing Kurt's forearms in a firm, unyielding grip. Kurt heart jumped in his throat as Blaine methodically began to move forward, forcing Kurt to take backward steps in time with him in order not to fall over. Kurt almost tripped over his own feet as Blaine, expression hard and concentrated and unchanging, body tense and controlled, walked them until Kurt's legs hit the back of the couch. Kurt collapsed down onto it quickly. He didn't like this. He didn't like this. He wanted Blaine back, he didn't like this silent creature at all.
Blaine followed, muscles flexing in restraint as he reached out carefully to slide his hand up one of Kurt's sleeves.
Kurt breathed in fast through his nose. "What are you doing?" he asked quickly. Blaine open his mouth but no sound came out. Instead, another hand moved, shaking more than the first one, sliding slower up his other arm, feeling the muscle carefully. Blaine watched his ministrations intently, moving slowly back down to Kurt's wrist. He pressed into Kurt's palm with his thumb, stepped into the segments of Kurt's hand. Kurt could only watch, licking suddenly dry lips, unease warring with worry warring with fascination.
Something flickered in Blaine's expression.
He interlaced their fingers and waited.
Desperation started to seep into Kurt's ears; a faint, sharp hum.
Squeezed tighter. His other hand moved up Kurt's arm—and Kurt saw the moment Blaine felt the inscription because he froze.
A spike of panic, distorted as if through a radio.
Blaine's fingers slowly traced down the words, and Kurt's eyes widened, his lips parting in surprise at the sudden, unexpected pulse of hunger that electrified his veins at the touch. It hadn't felt like this when Mercedes had been touching it. It—
Fear.
Kurt could only watch as a quick, sobbing breath burst out of Blaine's lips, his face contorting back into the distressed picture it had been twisted into when Kurt found him sitting on the floor. He moved his hands quickly back up Kurt's arms, pushing the sleeves up this time and firmly dragging his hands down, moving to his shoulders, the base of his neck, his covered collarbone, a strange combination of swift and careful and firm and this was not the time to be getting turned on, Kurt, if there was ever a worse time for his hormones to start spinning out of control—
"Blaine," it was breathier than he meant it to be, "talk to me, let me"—he huffed out a surprised breath as Blaine's hands ran carefully down his chest and a siren song of something that felt like arousal started singing in his head—"let me help," he ended on a dry rasp. Blaine nodded, blindly, and Kurt couldn't tell if he had actually heard or if he was just nodding. He moved closer, his hands raking over Kurt's stomach. The muscles there twitched and the sound got louder.
Blaine's walls were dropping. That must be it, why he was hearing him so clearly now. His walls must be falling, he must be losing control.
He should do something about that. …Right?
Kurt didn't know what was going on, he didn't—and he should want this to stop, because he didn't know why Blaine was doing this, what was on his mind, why he was—but he really, really didn't want this to stop. He really didn't. He closed his eyes, futilely trying to pretend he was at Mercedes', or the mall, or with the black kid with the bad wardrobe.
Fingers—Blaine's fingers—quietly slid around his hip. They started on the sliver of skin bared by the riding up of his shirt and crept even further underneath the fabric until the whole hand lay hot and tentatively resting flat against his stomach; then, lightly stroking past his stomach, the thumb tickling—
"Oh," Kurt gasped as the touch sent a jolt down through to his groin, eyes shooting open. Blaine's arm seized and he clawed his hand around Kurt's hip like it was the only thing keeping him anchored to the world. Kurt took in shaky air as Blaine's other hand came up to cup the side of Kurt's neck and jaw, his thumb resting just in front of the ear. He had lost his control, he must have, because Kurt could hear him so clearly now, could hear the need that was thrumming down his arms and buzzing in his fingers, the fear trembling in his breath, as if he had never been muffled at all—and in the silent dark, Kurt found himself tensing as Blaine moved in close.
"What—?" he started to ask, but Blaine interrupted him.
"I feel you," he muttered desperately, and Kurt had never seen him so unraveled. He pressed his forehead against Kurt's and Kurt could feel his breath fluttering against his cheeks. "All the time. When you sleep. When you're awake. When I dream—" Kurt sucked in a breath as Blaine's hand slid slowly up his side. "Stronger all the time, like I don't even know who I—what I'm—I can't—Kurt, please—"
Kurt couldn't look at anything but those lips—so close, so close—centimeters away from his own. Blaine was scorching against him, and Kurt was dangerously close to panting, or hyperventilating, or not breathing altogether, and Blaine shuddered and Kurt hadn't thought it possible for him to move any closer but he was closer, suddenly.
"All day away from you and still underneath my skin," it poured out of him feverishly. "Inside of me like a toxin, all day, and you do something to me, I can't control it, you—you're so—please," he entreated against Kurt's lips. Kurt trembled with the effort to keep still as the hand stroking up his side started mapping out his ribs. "I can't—please—" Oh god…
Kurt was going to hate himself so much for what he was going to do next, he just knew it.
"This," he started and he cursed himself for the words as they exited his mouth: "Is this because you want to? Or because…" He swallowed and forced himself to keep talking; it wasn't like Blaine didn't know, anyway. "B-because I want you to?"
Kurt crossed his fingers and prayed as hard as he could to whatever empty figure was listening above as he waited for Blaine's reply. Because he'd shatter if it was the second reason, he'd just break. Please please please please please….
Blaine was silent. His palm, still scorching against Kurt's skin, caressed down his neck. Something loving. Tender.
Hot.
"I don't know," he breathed.
Kurt squeezed his eyes shut.
Because how was he supposed to do the right thing when everything in him was screaming for this to keep going? And Blaine, still tracing the outlines of his body… unthinkingly, like maybe this was a reaction to what Kurt wanted him to do, like maybe it was just like that night four weeks ago when Kurt had tried to force him into something he'd never wanted to do—how could he let Blaine continue when neither of them knew who really wanted this?
Mercedes' words flashed through his head: 'You don't think you'd be able to tell if he was struggling against something he didn't want?'
"Show me what's you. Show me you." Blaine kept whispering as if it were a prayer, an invocation. "Please. Show me what's you."
What was the right thing to do, really?
"Show me what's you."
Tiptoeing fingers sketched shivering patterns into his skin.
Down his neck.
Over his ribs.
"Show me what's you."
Maybe all Blaine needed was evidence that it really was him. That he really did love Kurt and it wasn't just his empathy making him feel that way. Maybe…
"Show me you."
Kurt forced out air and he… gave up. Okay. Okay. He thought he said it out loud, he must have, because Blaine's breath poured out of him like a sigh—and he didn't know who moved first, they were so close, and maybe they both just moved at the same time, but suddenly his lips and Blaine's were brushing against each other—gentle and hesitant in a way Kurt didn't expect—and then firmer but still slow, and Blaine's hand slid back down to his waist and gripped and Kurt breathed in and brought his hand up to bury his fingers in those curls, and they were moving, Kurt getting up on his knees and pushing Blaine backward onto the couch because yes yes YES he had been waiting for this since the minute he laid eyes on this boy and he couldn't stop, it was perfect and amazing and so many other things that—
Kurt had never thought of kisses as sexy. They were romantic—the end result of fairy tales, the ultimate expression of love in musicals—and even though he knew kissing led to making out, and far more explicit things, he had never really viewed kissing itself as something sexy.
But this. If he never felt anything but this for forever…
Kurt didn't even know what his hands were doing, only knowing that he had to get closer, as close to this boy as possible, to touch and sense everything about the body underneath him and nothing mattered except the feel of Blaine's muscles under his palms, Blaine's fingers sliding down his spine, Blaine's lips, Blaine's tongue, Blaine Blaine Blaine. It was like a part of his brain had been turned off—and it must have been the same for boy beneath him because, for the first time, Kurt felt like he could see into Blaine as clearly as Blaine could see into him—and he was chaotic and wild underneath everything, and he had truly lost all self-control now because bursts of pleasure were racing up Kurt's back from Blaine's fingers, magic that he couldn't stop, he didn't initiate, that sometimes scared him, and Kurt could see it, could see how it made him fist his hands in weak prevention before want spasmed them flat out against Kurt's skin again and Kurt didn't think he could find anything more intoxicating than the knowledge that it was Kurt that was doing this to Blaine, that was making him fall apart like this (not like Kurt was any better, dear god he didn't need magic to make this enjoyable, and it was overwhelming, he was shaking and still those heated fireworks of pleasure exploding inside of him from feverish fingers were making everything so much more intense and—)
WHAT WAS HE DOING HE NEEDED TO STOP NOW.
Kurt wrenched himself away from Blaine's lips with a gasp and Blaine craned his neck as if to follow him, a small whine of protest sounding from the back of his throat before his head dropped boneless back down onto the couch. Kurt swallowed air, feeling dizzy, off-balance. He waited to catch his breath before he spoke, intensely aware of the heavy rise and fall of Blaine's own chest as he did so. He shouldn't have done that. That had been…
"Wow." It came out like an explosion of air, and it was not what he had meant to say. "I'm sorry—I'm sorry!" he rushed. "I didn't mean—I shouldn't have done that, I shouldn't have—"
Blaine suddenly started shaking, and Kurt looked up at his face in concern—only to find that he was laughing quietly.
"Wow," Blaine agreed, giggling louder (and holy crap was that adorable). His laugh was contagious, and Kurt found it tickling its way up their conjoined bodies as some kind of order came to the emotions racing through his mind. "Wow," Blaine repeated, his head rolling back with the force of his laughter. Kurt relaxed back down onto the couch, because his arms were getting tired from holding himself up (but, really, because relaxing back onto the couch actually meant collapsing back onto Blaine and that sounded like a really fantastic idea right now).
"Did that help?" he asked hesitantly. Blaine nodded.
"Yes. Yes. I feel like I can think again. Oh my god…" Laughter shook his chest, tickling Kurt's body.
"Where did that come from?" Kurt murmured into Blaine's neck. Blaine made a high noise in the back of his throat, before erupting into more giggles. His arms, loosely encircled around Kurt's back, tightened their grip, pulling Kurt closer.
"Are you kidding?" Blaine's stomach moved with the jerked movements of his laughter. "I've wanted to do that for ages!"
He was still laughing, but Kurt suddenly couldn't laugh along with him. He stilled, Blaine's words echoing oddly around his head, before placing his hands firmly on Blaine's chest and sitting back up again. Blaine sat up with him (a little awkwardly, as Kurt was half-straddling his hips), clutching at his back to stop him, before letting his hand slide back down to Kurt's waist as their eyes met. Giddiness warred with concern inside those hazel eyes.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Kurt asked, a vague, unsettling feeling that almost spelled betrayal climbing up his ribs. "All this time you've been feeling this—and you've felt what I feel for you. You can't have not noticed. Why didn't you say anything?"
Blaine looked at him, licking his lips in nervous habit, one of his hands stroking soothing lines up and down Kurt's back (seemingly unaware he was doing it).
"I felt it," he admitted, searching Kurt's eyes, "the minute I saw you. But I couldn't tell if it was you or me. Or even if it was… me or the magic. And then it kept getting more intense, like I couldn't be happy until I was near you, and… I didn't know who I was, anymore. I couldn't control my body. I've never… you do something to me, to it, and sometimes it feels like I've got a separate creature inside me. There's me, Blaine, and then there's… " the magic, Kurt finished in his head. He wondered that Blaine hadn't claimed the magic as a part of himself, like he had in Kurt's bedroom so many weeks ago. He contemplated what that meant as a wondrous smile spread across Blaine's face.
"You knew," he added with the kind of contented amazement castaways settled into when they'd finally been rescued. "You asked me." The hand stepping lightly up Kurt's spine moved to cup his neck, and Kurt's heart inflated at the intimacy of the gesture.
"I did," he said, the extra air seeping out and filling his voice.
"You did," Blaine agreed, leaning in, and Kurt couldn't help but notice how close his lips were. "You asked me if it was you or me. You knew."
"You…" Words. Words were coming out of his mouth. "It was you, then?" Closer. The hand on his back slipped down to his thigh.
"It was me," Blaine hummed. (Closer.)
"It was you," Kurt repeated mindlessly and he really didn't understand why he was still talking. "It was…"
"Me," Blaine traced against his lips. A whimper slipped out of Kurt's open mouth before he could catch it, and then they were kissing again, the hand on his neck steadying him as the hand on his thigh pulled him closer, moved to under his knee and lifted as Blaine gently lowered him onto the couch (Kurt grinned against his mouth at the change of roles) and some part of Kurt thought vulnerable and wait as Blaine spread Kurt's legs and moved into the gap they created, but a larger part thought oh fuck yes as Blaine kissed him, sparks of intense craving crackling out of Blaine's hands and flushing Kurt's body and that was about the time when his fingers strangled the back of Blaine's shirt.
"…nly you," Blaine was saying between kisses, moving down his neck, "I'm only me with you."—Kurt clutched at his shoulder blades and tried to bring his mouth back up to his, but Blaine kept murmuring against his skin, and Kurt shivered and he couldn't think and—"I don't have to control it with you." Kurt heard relief crying out from Blaine, so loud it was intoxicating, and a heady rush of giddiness swept up and over him. "God, you're amazing, you…"
Blaine was back up by Kurt's jaw. "Oh god," Kurt groaned, grabbing at dark curls roughly and tugging them so that their faces were closer to each other. "Stop talking!"
Blaine laughed inside of Kurt's mouth and Kurt clutched at his back and flipped them, suddenly, pressing Blaine into the couch.
Blaine gasped into the kiss and he grabbed the back of Kurt's neck possessively, and Kurt slipped in his tongue, and then there was no more talking for a very long while.