"Ah, back in the old Cheerios uniform, I see," Kurt says with a teasing little smile when Blaine gets on Skype an hour later than usual, breathless from Cheerios practice. Kurt remembers those days all too well.

He watches Blaine flush and fidget, looking down at his lap before back up. “Not as good as you looked, that’s for sure.”

Kurt rolls his eyes but inside preens at the compliment. He knows he’d looked good, of course—but Blaine looks better, somehow, and Kurt hates that he isn’t in Lima to witness this in person. A little part of him also wishes that they were still together, just for some other benefits, but he pushes those thoughts off to the side, shaking his head. “You look good,” Kurt says, feels his own face heat up. It’s like they’ve just met again, Kurt harboring this persistent little crush despite him repeatedly saying friends, just friends.

He tries not to notice how Blaine is still sweaty, the sheen of it shining in the bluish glow of his laptop. A few tiny curls have flopped over Blaine’s forehead, and Kurt tries not to remember all the other times he’s seen Blaine’s hair sweaty and less-than-perfect.

"I’ll look better once I’ve changed and showered," Blaine replies, staticky and tinny. He stands up, and Kurt follows his movements. "Hold on, okay?"

"Mm," Kurt says in assent, looking down absently at his keyboard, noticing a smudge on the A. When he looks up, he does a double take, sucking in a breath that gets lodged somewhere in his throat.

Blaine is bending over, rummaging through his backpack that’s propped up at the end of his bed, and very clearly, peeking just above the thick, bright red waistband of the uniform pants, is a thin black string. Kurt’s eyes widen, and he stares at the way the polyester clings to Blaine’s ass and thighs without a single line, and he doesn’t even need to ask to know.

But still, he does.

Clearing his throat as Blaine turns back around, cardigan in hand, Kurt asks, in a voice a touch higher and pitchier than normal, “Um, Blaine? Are you…are you wearing a—a thong?” Even saying the word makes Kurt’s cock twitch in his jeans, and he has to grit his teeth to keep from making an awkward noise.

Blaine’s flush returns, deeper, and Kurt watches his eyes go wide, wide. He drops his cardigan and rushes to pick it up, and from the side the string is more obvious, arching up a little over his hip and digging into his flesh—flesh Kurt’s fingers have dug into countless times.

When Blaine straightens back up he hesitates for a moment before nodding, once, and averting his eyes so his lashes fan dark across his cheeks. It’s so unintentionally demure that Kurt has to look away, clenching his hands into fists against his thighs.

"Coach Sue made me," Blaine replies, and it’s pinched and a little shamed. "And it’s not like I’m in any position to say no. She’d probably make another sign, and I don’t think I could handle it."

Kurt tries not to imagine the way the thong would dip teasingly between Blaine’s cheeks or the way his cock would look, constricted by the small patch of fabric. He doesn’t need to be imagining this, doesn’t need to be imagining Blaine putting it on in the first place. They’re friends now. Just friends, and friends don’t think of friends that way.

But Kurt doesn’t know what to say, because he is thinking of Blaine in that way, and Blaine standing there, the shirt of his uniform ridden up, inches above his pants, that little dark strip of fabric over his hips. Blaine with the thong pushed aside, uniform shirt still on as he rides Kurt’s cock.

"Oh my god," he gasps, it slipping out before he can catch himself. Blaine looks at him, unsurely, and clutches his cardigan tighter. "I think—"

That you should show me? That maybe we should rethink the “with benefits” part of our relationship? That you in a Cheerios uniform is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen and I want to bend you over my bed and push your pants down just enough to fuck you?

"I should shower," Blaine says, slowly, and carefully drops his cardigan to cover his lap. He steps closer to the screen, and Kurt sees now that his eyes are darker, a little dilated. He swallows hard, nods, and wets his lips. Blaine’s eyes shift as he follows the movement, and his tongue darts out, pink, to wet his lips.

"Yeah," Kurt replies, and it’s shaky, forced with casualness. "I’ll, um, talk to you later, then?"

Blaine nods, slow, like he’s calculating, and says, “Bye, Kurt.”

He disconnects, a black screen, and Kurt slams his laptop shut, pressing the heel of his palm to his cock and letting out a long, shuddering moan.

Life is not fair.


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