(at much request, the continuation of this fic)
They have sex in Kurt’s bed over Thanksgiving break.
The get-together—an alcohol-fueled party not unlike Rachel’s of years past—is the first time they’ve talked, seen each other, since the break-up. And while Kurt does keep busy talking with Mercedes about LA and Mike about Chicago, going through every graduated member’s new life in detail, there’s a void next to him, a silence after his words that used to be filled with a voice that he desperately misses. He’s gotten better, but he’s still not okay in the truest sense of the word—he still tosses and turns some nights and cries sometimes in the afternoon.
Most of the night is full of awkward avoidances. The last vestiges of anger have finally dissipated and in its place is a longing sort of sadness, one where Kurt will look over at Blaine across the room when Blaine isn’t looking and Blaine will look over at Kurt across the room when Kurt isn’t looking. No one says anything about their behavior and Kurt suspects Rachel had a part in it, which is good because he’s still numb, still hurting, even as he downs cup after cup. He can hear Blaine’s boisterous laugh, see Blaine dancing to whatever’s playing on the stereo, grabbing Tina’s hand and forcing her to join him. Kurt wishes that he was the one holding onto Blaine’s hand like that, being dipped like that, being spun like that.
Avoiding works well until Kurt’s finished his drink and heads to refill what will be his fourth cup of rum. On the way to the table where Puck had set up all the bottles, Kurt, well on his way to tipsy, looks down and swirls the remaining contents of his drink, contemplating what he wants this time, and doesn’t see the body headed directly for him until they collide, soaking Kurt’s deep blue shirt with what smells like Jack Daniels. He splutters indignantly, anger flaring up at the clumsiness of whoever had just bumped into him, and he opens his mouth to verbally tear whoever it is apart.
When he looks up he sees Blaine with a dented red cup in his hand.
The words die on his tongue immediately. He forgets how to breathe, forgets how goddamn gorgeous Blaine is head-on, how even more enticing he looks when his eyes are wide with apology and his forehead is creased with worry lines as he stammers about napkins and washing machines. It’s Blaine and it’s the first time Kurt’s allowed himself to really look all night.
“It’s fine,” Kurt finds himself saying, even though it isn’t. It’s going to be nearly impossible to clean this shirt, but he’ll worry about it later. Blaine is still talking and Kurt still gets the same visceral reaction he’s always gotten; Kurt repeats it’s fine over and over until finally he grabs Blaine’s arm in frustration.
“Blaine,” he says, and oh god, he’s missed saying that name, missed the way it feels in his mouth and sounds coming out, breathless but now with the ghost of a happiness long turned bitter with circumstance. “Seriously, it’s fine. This shirt is nearly out of season anyway, and I’m sure I could find a better one from The Closet when I go back.”
Blaine looks down, away, at the increasingly intoxicated group of their friends. He meets Kurt’s eyes fleetingly twice, tries to smile but it comes out looking more like a grimace. He sets his now-empty cup on the table and twists his fingers together. Splashes of whiskey have made their way onto his gray sweater vest, but he doesn’t seem to care. “I, ah, okay.” He pauses, swallows and forces himself to look directly at Kurt. “I’m really sorry.”
Kurt wants so desperately for it to be a double entendre.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, glad they’d had decided to host the party here. “I can just go up and change. I have some clothes I left here that can withstand another soaking in alcohol if it happens again.” He smiles crookedly, feeling forced, and Blaine—thankfully—smiles back, his eyes twinkling with a hint of what Kurt used to see directed at him.
The silence stretches on awkwardly for a few moments, both of them looking around, before Kurt begins to turn. “It was, um, good to talk to you again, Blaine.”
Blaine nods and smiles, running his hand over his hair. “You too, Kurt.”
Kurt wishes he could be angry, wishes that, just for once, he could hate Blaine instead of succumbing to the drowning sadness he’s been floundering in for weeks. He heads up the stairs, telling Rachel he’s just going to change when he stops him and gives him a curious look. She bounces off and says no more, and Kurt watches with amusement the slight zigzag to her steps and wonders how many she’s had so far., knowing he’s hardly faring any better.
When he gets to his room he closes the door most of the way before heading to the closet, pulling the doors open to appraise the meager selection he’d left behind. After some chin-tapping and lip-biting he settles on a plain charcoal-gray v-neck, one he used to use for winter layering, and begins to undo the buttons of his ruined shirt.
He’s just down to the last button when his door creaks open. He whips around, startled, and sees Blaine standing unsurely in the doorway, one hand still on the doorknob. Kurt remembers a time when Blaine finding him half-undressed would have resulted in some teasing, a few playful kisses and gropes, but all it elicits now is silence underlain with the thump of the bass downstairs.
“Blaine?” Kurt questions, shivers when he sees Blaine’s eyes rove over his torso, his hands where he clutches the flaps of his shirt together. His heart pounds in his chest and the blood rushes in his ears. The silence thickens, tenses up, and Kurt swallows dryly, fingers trembling on his shirt.
Suddenly Blaine crosses the room and pins Kurt against the wall before Kurt can process it through the haze. Warm, damp lips are on his, tainted with the tang of whiskey and vodka and beer, and Kurt gives in instinctively, opening his mouth and licking across Blaine’s lips. He whimpers into the familiarity, grabs at Blaine’s sweater vest and tugs him closer. It’s muscle memory, locks clicking into place and puzzle pieces finding their partners: Kurt knows this, how to kiss Blaine and make Blaine feel good, and he didn’t think he’d ever forget but it’s somehow comforting to know that he didn’t.
“I was so fucking stupid for what I did to you,” Blaine gasps out between kisses. He brushes his lips across Kurt’s, changes angles and kisses his jaw, the dimple in his chin. “I’m sorry, so sorry, Kurt. I can’t believe I thought we were better off alone. It was stupid and rash and I missed you so fucking much.”
“Just shut up.” Kurt says it quickly, sharply, and suddenly he is angry, a simmering just below his skin that ignites and engulfs. He nips harshly at Blaine’s bottom lip and swallows down Blaine’s moan. “You don’t just get to waltz back into my—mmph!—life and pretend like everything is going to be okay once you say sorry. You broke my heart, Blaine.”
“And yet you’re still kissing me.”
“You never answered my calls!”
The bass pounds under their feet and still Kurt is pressed against the wall, Blaine’s solid, sturdy weight holding him there, and he knows that if he were to shift just slightly he’d be able to rub against the undoubtedly-hard line of Blaine’s cock. His anger still remains, cresting and licking at every inch of his body, but still he clutches onto Blaine’s back, still he kisses Blaine again and again until he can’t breathe, until he’s not drunk from alcohol but from Blaine. The way it used to be.
“You’re an asshole,” Kurt grits out when Blaine presses his hips forward, rubs against Kurt’s thigh with purpose and fuck, he is hard. “You broke up with me in a fucking park and then flew home the next day.”
Blaine twines his fingers in Kurt’s hair and tugs, hard, and Kurt’s forced to gasp, close his eyes and let his head thump against the wall. “It was for your own good,” Blaine says, licking a wet line from Kurt’s throat up to his ear. “New York needed Kurt Hummel at his proudest and fiercest, and I just didn’t fit there anymore. Not if I wanted you to give the city your all.”
“I wish I could hate you,” Kurt growls, sliding his hands down to cup and squeeze Blaine’s ass. Blaine stutters against him and gasps against his neck, hot puffs of air that make Kurt shiver and whine. “I wanted to hate you but I couldn’t. I love you so fucking much, Blaine. I continued loving you the moment I walked away.”
“I love you,” Blaine breathes, sliding his hands under Kurt’s shirt to splay his palms broad on taut muscles and smooth skin. “Let me fuck you, Kurt, please.”
Kurt thinks that if he’d been thinking a bit more clearly, if he hadn’t been the pleasant, warm side of tipsy, he might’ve hesitated, asked Blaine what this all meant, would mean once the endorphins wore off, but he doesn’t. He kisses Blaine hard, working his fingers through the gel, and says yes.
They’re naked and on the bed before Kurt can form a coherent thought. Blaine’s bare skin is rubbing against his, slick and sticking with sweat, and the drag is even better than he remembers. Blaine’s cock is heavy and slick against his hip, hot and pulsing whenever Blaine shifts, and Kurt rocks into the pressure, moaning when Blaine’s balls drag over his cock.
“You’re still the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen,” Blaine whispers, trailing his tongue along Kurt’s clavicle, down his chest to encircle his nipples in turn. Kurt arches up, breathes out a moan and tangles his fingers into Blaine’s hair.
“Goddamn it just hurry up,” Kurt groans, tipping his head back and arching up when Blaine licks up the length of his cock. He isn’t sure if he’s supposed to be angry or happy, isn’t exactly sure if this is even a good idea in the first place. But it’s Blaine’s weight, his scent and his lips and tongue and everything and Kurt’s missed it, craved it and pined for it. He’s been home for days but now he really feels like he’s home. “Blaine, please. C’mon and just fuck me already.”
When he’s prepped and Blaine’s grabbing his thighs to lift his hips, Kurt closes his eyes and grabs onto the edges of the pillow, lets himself get lost in the sounds of the party downstairs, the shared harsh breaths between him and Blaine and the little sparks of residual pleasure shooting through his body. He’s drawn up tight in anticipation, the apprehension that someone could walk in and catch them and Kurt’s not sure if he could even give a proper explanation if he tried.
He’s relieved, so happy that he could cry and the only reason he’s not is the tenuous control he has over his emotions as Blaine slides in for the first time in over a month and the familiar heavy pressure fades into a tingling fullness that makes him arch his hips up, silently begging Blaine to slide in deeper.
“Fuck,” he gasps out, Blaine sliding out to the tip and back in with a fast, rough thrust that jars Kurt’s body and slaps their skin together. “God, Blaine, please, yes.”
“Missed this,” Blaine murmurs, pressing his forehead to Kurt’s. “Missed you.” He keeps his pace steady, long pulls out and in with the burning pace of desperation. Kurt feels himself fast unwinding, voice rising higher and higher each time the head of Blaine’s cock brushes his prostate, Blaine’s fingers digging into his thighs to leave marks.
“Please, make me come,” Kurt whispers, cupping Blaine’s cheek to guide him into a kiss. He feels tears sting his eyes, well up and slide down his cheeks to disappear into his hairline. “I want to know this is real, Blaine, please.”
“It’s real,” Blaine says, kissing Kurt as he works a hand between them to loosely grasp Kurt’s cock in his fist. Kurt gasps and arches up, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m here. Kurt, c’mon, it’s okay.” He shifts, angles and thrusts back in and Kurt lets a sound hovering between a moan and a sob rip from his throat before he’s coming hot and wet between their bodies.
Blaine drops his head to the crook of Kurt’s neck and shoulder—his usual place Kurt thinks absently, panting through the lingering shocks of his orgasm—and thrusts weakly a few more times before coming into the condom with a low, shaky moan.
Clean up is awkward and mostly silent, but Blaine is gentle with the washcloth and when he smiles at Kurt it’s sincere and his eyes look a little less sad than they did downstairs. They slip on their underwear and collapse onto the rumpled bedding, staring at the ceiling with a space between them that Kurt can’t even remember having before.
I guess that’s what happens when your boyfriend unexpectedly breaks up with you, he thinks bitterly, pursing his lips. He’s just turning to ask Blaine what this—the tied-off condom wrapped in a tissue in Kurt’s trashcan, the soiled washcloth—means, but Blaine beats him to it.
“I heard you crying.”
“On your voicemail. You never shut your phone off and I heard you crying and saying my name.”
Kurt’s skin flushes with embarrassment and anger; his mind screams why didn’t you call me back then why did you break me like you did and just walk away. “And that didn’t make it obvious to you that I needed you?”
“I needed some time to think.”
“You changed your voicemail, Blaine. It seemed like you really, really wanted to move on.”
Kurt thinks it could be stupid, melodramatic, to hang onto something as trivial as a voicemail, but it was the fact that Blaine even kept it at all—it had been recorded just a few weeks after Blaine’s transfer to McKinley when they were supposed to be doing homework. Kurt remembers how happy they’d been that day, running on the high of an entire school year together.
Blaine takes a deep breath; Kurt turns his head, watches Blaine’s profile.
“I wanted to.” Blaine’s voice is soft. “I wanted to move on and I wanted to answer your calls, Kurt. I didn’t know what to do. But I—I also didn’t know what to say. I just wanted everything to stop hurting.”
Blaine turns over, fixes Kurt with eyes glistening with tears, red-rimmed with sorrow. He reaches out, takes Kurt’s hand in his and Kurt squeezes back automatically. “I only made it worse,” Blaine says, “and I don’t deserve to be forgiven right away. Or—or even at all, if that’s what you want.”
Kurt laughs and it comes out wet, a sob, and when he blinks he feels a tear slide down his face. Blaine brushes it away with his thumb. “I only want you, Blaine,” Kurt replies. His voice shakes and his body trembles and he feels like he’s teetering at the precipice of a tall cliff. “I think I’m always going to want you.”
“I’m so sorry,” Blaine says, and they’re kissing again, deep and wet with saliva and tears. There’s a thump downstairs that’s followed by a shout, but they ignore it as Kurt inches closer to Blaine, splays his palm across Blaine’s cheek to tilt his head. “Goddamn it, Kurt, I am so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Kurt says, nodding his head. He presses a kiss to Blaine’s forehead and scoots closer, runs his palm along the lines of Blaine’s shoulder and side. He’s not sure how long it’s going to take them to get through this, to get back to the way they were before the break up, but Kurt knows they can do it, just like he’s known for months now that Blaine is the man he wants to marry, wants to go through life’s ups and downs with—and that’s what this is, a hiccup, a curve thrown at them. They can get through it. “It’s okay.”
“I was stupid to think I’d ever be able to say goodbye to you.”
“That’s my line,” Kurt says with a smile, and beneath his hand Kurt can feel Blaine laugh softly. “I’m never going to leave you. I don’t think I ever could.”