Title from the song by Christina Perri, Arms.
A more coherent drabble tomorrow. Pinkie promise.
You Put Your Arms Around Me
Kurt's finger draws circles on Blaine's bare back.
The ceiling fan twirls slowly, warm air blowing on sweating skin.
There's nothing but a single plane ticket on the nightstand.
The bed is unmade.
A single, hefty purple suitcase is sitting menacingly by the door.
Blaine's hand clings tightly to Kurt's bicep; he doesn't want to let go, he will not let go, he refuses to tear himself from Kurt's side.
The clock ticks slowly, but still too fast.
A cat growls outside, then quiets abruptly and only the sound of crickets is heard.
"Don't leave me."
With the hand that was previously drawing on his back, Kurt grips Blaine's hair- enough to feel the pull but not enough to really hurt.
He inhales; exhales; inhales again.
"Weren't you the one who said I belong in New York?"
Blaine's nails leave behind little red marks that bite into Kurt's skin; he's only let go of Kurt's arm to snuggle deeper into his hug.
Kurt tightens his hold on Blaine's waist.
"Ugh, don't remind me."
"I'm not leaving you, though. You know that."
A sigh against Kurt's chest.
Fingers grabbing his shoulder.
"I'm still scared."
One of their phones buzzes, forgotten on the floor inside a pocket of a pair of pants.
"Baby."
Blaine looks up, and immediately he's shocked with the honest, deep glasz gaze he meets.
"I'm never saying goodbye to you."
The clock keeps ticking on the wall.
"Okay."