July 16, 2013, 5:39 p.m.
About Rights and Wrongs
About Rights and Wrongs: Part 10
E - Words: 5,935 - Last Updated: Jul 16, 2013 Story: Complete - Chapters: 10/10 - Created: Jul 16, 2013 - Updated: Jul 16, 2013 203 0 0 0 0
Brittany had been anything but herself.
Or, at least, the Brittany Santana knew and loved had been anything but herself.
In reality, Brittany had probably been nothing but herself. Santana hated it. She hated it because Brittany was independent now, and strong, and just as kind and caring as always but a thousand times more confident and observant, and though Santana had thought her all of those things before, she had to acknowledge them as part of her now instead of just fantasize about doing so. Brittany had grown up. Brittany didn't need anyone anymore; she wanted people. She'd matured, she'd adapted, and she was happy now.
And Santana had been stuck in the same place emotionally for over a year now, and she was a train wreck nobody got close enough to see. Brittany was the only person, besides possibly Blaine, who really knew things were bad, and Brittany could actually give her advice instead of just telling her to let it out and that she'd be there.
Brittany couldn't even say she'd be there. She had a boyfriend and she was happy with him and Santana was an emotional and mental cinder block, sitting there, never changing, never moving, just waiting for her builder to come and pick her up and use her again.
Every time Santana started thinking about their conversation again she realized how stupid she was. She'd called a break because of the distance, when they, out of every long-distance couple, had been the one working the most. Sure, they were a little bent out of shape, but she'd been in Ohio more than any other graduate and they Skyped or texted all the time, and they kept each other, for the most part, stable.
And she'd called an end to it.
And she thought Brittany would wait.
But then Brittany hadn't and Santana was going after her again but Brittany hadn't just stopped waiting - she'd started moving with a purpose. There's a difference between wandering aimlessly because you can't wait anymore and moving with a purpose, because when you wander aimlessly you can find your way back without meaning to, and when you move with a purpose you have a destination in mind, a future you want.
Brittany was stretching for her future and she was doing well. And Santana was still a bartender in New York with her college roommate who was currently making odd sounds in the bathroom.
Santana couldn't sleep at all. Every time sh- wait, what were those noises Blaine was making?
For a moment, her head thought the only natural course was that he was jacking off, but no, as she listened, the sounds were entirely different. He was... retching.
Throwing up.
All thoughts of Brittany vanished and she leapt to her feet, throwing the covers off of her and racing to the bathroom, her bare feet stinging on the cold apartment floor, the lighted skyline of the city making outlined silhouettes on the other side of the window glass. "Blaine?!" she called, reaching for the doorknob and trying to twist it. It moved maybe a quarter of an inch and snagged. "Blaine!"
Her frantic calls were met only with a broken silence from the other side, and then the sound of a gasp and Blaine puking again, the vomit spewing into the toilet. Santana held back her gag at the sound and flinched. Her nails scratched at the doorknob, her fist tightened around it, she pulled and tugged and then realized through her jolt of adrenaline that he'd locked it.
"Blaine, let me in," Santana ordered, still fiddling with the handle uselessly. "Blaine, let me in!"
Blaine vomited again, and she could hear him breathing heavily, and then his voice, small and scared, like a child's, moaned, "No, don't..."
"Please let me in!" she tried. "Unlock the door, let me help! I can help, let me in!"
"Go, San..."
"I'm not going anywhere," she nearly spit the words through her gritted teeth. "Do you hear me? I'm not going anywhere unless it's into that room!"
Blaine retched again and Santana flung her fist at the door in desperation.
"Fine!" she snapped, "stay away from the door, I'm kicking it in!"
And she did.
She leaned back and kept her left foot flat against the floor, her calf muscles flexing as she held herself up, and she slammed her heel into the door right next to the knob and lock, shoving all of her weight onto it and leaning forward with everything she could.
The door flung open and hit the bathtub with an echoing crash, but she paid no mind to it, fumbling into the room. Blaine hadn't even turned on the lights, and she couldn't see a damn thing - her fingers felt along the wall for the switch, and when she found it she flicked it up and fell to her knees beside her roommate.
His eyes were shut tightly, one hand entangled in his mass of curls, his fingers gripping tightly to his scalp, his knuckles white, forming a fist. Cold sweat plastered the curls to his head and simultaneously drained the color from his cheeks and let it drip off of his chin - it also shone over the contours of his back and made it look like he was glistening under the artificial lights because he was shirtless, and only his sweatpants, old and stained, covered his legs. He shivered, his other free hand gripping the edge of the bowl tightly so he held himself over it, his dripping chin hooked over it beside his knuckles; and he looked to be in so much pain she let it steal a bit of her breath and sigh it into the air. The smell of vomit hung stagnant but fresh in the air, and she didn't have to look to know the toilet was full of it still.
But she only lost a moment taking in his appearance. "Where does it hurt?" she asked, her hands flitting about him but never landing, afraid of the reaction they might elicit should they make contact. She reached up and flushed the toilet once, not watching as the puke went down noisily, watching only how Blaine took a horribly shaky breath upon hearing her. "Your head? Is it your head?" A really bad migraine had the possibility of giving you an upset stomach and sometimes it made you sick, and from how he was grabbing his head - his concussed head - that shouldn't be ruled out.
"N-N-" and then he threw up again, and Santana didn't hold her hands back this time, letting them rub circles into his chilled back, massaging him gently as he retreated, a breathless sob tearing from his lips.
"You're okay, you're okay," she whispered. "I'm going to stay here until you're okay. Shh, B, you're alright. You're okay."
"Head," he gasped for air, and then it came out again staggered, and he sucked more in.
"Okay, it's your head," she responded, letting him know she understood. "That's alright, we can deal with that. Please try not to hyperventilate, B. Slow, easy breaths. Don't overwork yourself. Take your time."
"Stomach," he added, and she was reminded of a six-year-old Blaine, though she'd never met him.
"Your stomach too?" she clarified, and when he nodded and scrunched his face up in pain she let her hands spread out widely and rub his shoulder blades. "That's okay, that's okay. Did you take your medication?" Maybe if he hadn't the pain in his head was just a side effect of the concussion and had nothing to do with his stomach. As it was, it still sounded like a really bad migraine, but she wasn't sure.
"Mm," he said, and she didn't know what the answer was, but a second later the muscles she'd been massaging convulsed under her palms because he was throwing up again.
"It's all going to be alright," she promised, and why the hell was she about to cry? Her throat wasn't so thick a second ago and her eyes weren't so warm. "It's all going to be alright. I'm right here, and you're okay."
"It's... felt..."
"You don't have to talk," she assured him, and it was a really good thing she was behind him because otherwise he'd have seen the tear that had fallen. "You don't have to talk until you're ready." She wanted to get rid of the tear, but she didn't dare take her hands off of him.
"Felt sick," he gasped out as soon as she'd finished speaking. "Woke up, felt sick... felt con- congested c-coming home."
"We can get through that easy," she said.
He laughed humorlessly. "Easily," he corrected.
Another tear fell. "Whatever, Gel Head."
"Sweat Head."
"Do you enjoy correcting people so much that even when you're puking your guts out into your shared toilet with them you have to make sure their trying to comfort you is technically correct and accurate?" If she could make him feel better no other way, she'd do it like this.
He threw up again instead of answering her. "Shh," she said automatically. "Don't, don't. Don't breathe like that. In and out, with me. In..." she took a deep breath and he copied her, and she let go of him with one hand to lean up and flush the toilet again. "Out," she instructed, and showed him how, slowly and deliberately. "There we go, just like that. In... out..."
It took three and a half hours and both of them were exhausted to the point of not just passing out but being physically fatigued as well, and Santana managed to stay conscious long enough to make sure that Blaine was comfortable and safe cradled in her arms sleeping on the bathroom floor before she fell asleep herself.
Blaine remembered, vaguely, falling asleep surrounded by the warmth of Santana's hug. That definitely wasn't where he was now.
Santana's arms were gone, for one thing. For another, though he was warm, it was nothing like the body heat he'd been encased in before - he was covered snugly in a thick blanket that wasn't exactly soft, but wasn't scratchy. His whole head felt pressed in on itself, like it was going to cave in, and where he knew his stitches were there was a horrible throbbing that echoed around the cavern threatening to concave.
But Santana wasn't holding him and the cold bathroom tiles weren't under him and he didn't know where he was and he hurt and god damn it, "San?"
"Oh, good, you're awake," Santana's voice came from somewhere nearby, but his perception was so off he couldn't tell where. He struggled to find his eyelids and lift them, but there was a constant thrumming that took over his thoughts, and he couldn't focus hard enough to succeed at his task. "I was wondering what movie we might watch. What movies do you like? I really don't know, I've never had a reason to care before."
"San?"
When she spoke again, it was closer and it was different. "I'm next to you, Blaine. I'm right here."
He tried again to find his eyes. Something, anything that registered color. Talking seemed easy enough, where was his mouth? There, right there. He'd always been in good control of that. So if his mouth was there, his eyes were... there.
He lifted his eyelids tiredly. He still couldn't see properly; everything was swimming and wavy, as if he were hallucinating in the middle of a desert - but there was something black that seemed long coming from something tan that looked kind of round, so he assumed it was Santana, and she was right next to him as she'd said. "San?"
"You've called to me like three times now," she narrated. "Care to tell me why?"
"Are you there? Right there?" He still couldn't be sure. He didn't want to blink because he wasn't sure if he could lift his eyelids again, but his eyesight got worse the dryer his eyes got. He searched for his hand and when he found it he tried to wriggle it out of where it was beside his face towards her.
Her hand placed itself on top of hers and she could have been on fire for all the heat she passed to him. "Yes. Blink, B." Another flaming palm touched him, this time his forehead. "You're burning up."
What? No, she was the one who was overheated. "No, I'm cold."
"Oh." Santana sighed (he thought, or maybe she said something quietly he couldn't catch). "Alright, well, I'm pretty sure you're got stomach flu."
"What? From who?"
"Mr. Schue or Miss Pillsbury," Santana answered. "Remember what they said? Mr. Schue got sick last week."
"But Emma didn't..." he'd have furrowed his brow if he could have, but blinking took up enough energy.
"People who are around other people who are sick don't have to get sick to pass on the disease," Santana explained. "They're called carriers. They carry pathogens that give you the disease they managed to avoid."
"Oh." Blaine still didn't understand, but it sounded like something that made sense. "I'm cold."
"So you've said," Santana remarked, flipping her hand over on his forehead to press the back of it to him. "And on that we disagree. I'm going to give you a pain reliever for the headache and a fever reducer, okay?"
"Medicine?"
"Yes, medicine." He could almost hear her rolling her eyes. "On top of the medicine for your concussion. That's three pills, Blaine, maybe four depending on how much pain reliever you need. Can you swallow them?"
"Don't..." know, he wanted to say, but it never got past the thick drainage that was clogging his throat.
"You need to, B," she told him. "I'll get you a glass of whatever you want to help wash it down. Water? Juice? Probably not wine, that might not be too good, but we've got sparkling cider Little Miss Vegan/Vegetarian/I-Don't-Even-Know-Anymore and her roomie Lady Man gave it to me when I moved out officially as a going-away gift."
He had to take medicine. Okay... okay. Okay. How strange, he wasn't accustomed to accepting help. But he needed it.
And in his half-asleep, half-sickness-affected mind, he finally figured out that if you need something, you deserve it, and he wasn't an exception simply because of a few mistakes more people than just him had made.
"Yes." He'd have nodded if he could have. "Yes, medicine. Good."
She snorted. "Okay, I know you're sick and injured and tired and stressed beyond what you should ever be, but you sound absolutely insanely like a toddler."
"Do you want soup?" Rachel asked him cheerfully, discarding her jacket behind her on the chair, scooting it back and standing up. The outside of the window was light and sunny, and none of them were outside enjoying the fantastic weather - but that didn't matter, because they were inside and scattered among the living room/kitchen and watching Music Man, blankets and pillows and mugs of hot chocolate or tea in their hands, small forts constructed and a heavily-medicated Blaine in the midst of the controlled chaos.
"If he's getting soup I'm making it," Kurt dictated.
"I don't know about the two of you but I've been making his soup for the past two weeks, I think I can handle it," Santana contributed.
"Does he even want soup?" Blaine teased them.
"Good point," Kurt awarded him absent-mindedly, "does he even want soup?"
"What kind of soup does he want?" Rachel asked. "I can make tomato soup. And grilled cheese!"
"You can't eat cheese, you're Vegan," Santana pointed out, and then asked, "Wait, are you? When I first met you you were, but then you said you were Vegetarian, and then you ate pizza with pepperoni and sausage on it, and then you gave me your chicken at lunch and said you were Vegetarian, and then you said you were Vegan again..."
"If our lives were a TV show, that would have no continuity and drive our viewers mad," Kurt commented.
"What would drive them mad is those jeans, Hummel," Santana argued. "And how they just cling to the curve of that ass."
"You're a terrible lesbian," Kurt teased. "If you could have soup made out of my ass, you would, and you know it."
"I'm pretty sure Blaine's the one who wants that soup," Blaine said, the huge smile on his face and third-person sentence allowing them to semi-ignore him again.
"Nobody wants soup made out of your ass, Kurt," Rachel told him, "No matter how delicious it looks in those jeans."
"Mm," Blaine said, and bit the inside of his cheek to choke back the laugh that threatened to pass his chapped lips.
"See? Delicious," Santana said, sitting back. "Delicious soup. Which I will make for Mr. Sicky Gel Head over there."
"I'm making soup, I brought it up!" Rachel declared.
"I'm making soup, I'm his boyfriend." It was said with finality, but finality is hardly ever truly acknowledged in their group, and it's something they all love to hate about themselves.
"Boyfriend, Toyfriend, I'm his roommate, best friend, and sister, I'm making the damned soup."
"I don't think he ever asked for soup," Blaine mused.
"Yeah," Rachel nodded in his direction without actually being away of her actions, "Did he ever ask for soup?"
"No, you suggested it," Santana informed Rachel, who bit her lip and folded her hands together. "He didn't ask for it."
"Just hold on a second," Kurt snapped his fingers and his words, and leaned forward. "Since when have you been his best friend?"
Kurt's voice carried from the kitchen, where he hustled about the stove, the soup he was making from scratch emanating a mouthwatering aroma that made Blaine's stomach rumble more than it already did from his illness. Satine, on the television screen, was looking at Christian, the reprise of their song bursting from the small speakers. "Suddenly the world seems such a perfect place..." And Kurt sang it so that he wasn't the star, so that he was just a mindless background to Satine, so Blaine wouldn't feel bad about his sore and clogged throat that prevented any really good song from coming through.
When he'd gotten the flu before at McKinley, it had just been a simply sinus-heavy flu, and it had mainly been his nose and head that had been affected, not his throat. He'd had to put twice his normal effort into his Diva Week performance, but he'd pulled it off. Now he couldn't even start singing without sounding like he was croaking.
It killed him a little, but he was still surrounded by music. Rachel, who was mixing batter for cookies next to Kurt, was humming along, and Santana was tapping her foot silently to the beat„ her eyes glued to the screen.
"San?" he spoke up, because the other two were busy.
"Mm?" she turned to him, her eyes leaving the screen immediately, going to him as if it were second nature to her.
"Cuddle with me?" he asked, spreading his arms wide and wiggling his feet a bit before the motion tired him out and he stopped both, letting them fall.
And though Santana did her trademark eye roll, she stood up and took the two steps to the couch, where she sank into the cushion right beside him and lifted the blanket over herself, too. They were around the same temperature now, but she felt slightly cold - because now Blaine could feel his own excess of heat, even if he still shivered. She put her arm around his shoulder as soon as their sides were pressed together, and he leaned into her as a response, his head resting just above her collarbone. Her hair fell over his and he was reminded that he hadn't gelled.
But he didn't care because he looks good anyways. He was good anyways.
"I love you," he told her, because he loved her.
And her smile, so genuine and unexpected, stretching her cheeks and changing how the one resting on his head pressed against it, was welcomed like a monsoon in Death Valley. "I love you too."
"Santana, I will not have you stealing my boyfriend!" Kurt called over to them, and they all snickered.
"What do you want, Britt?" Santana answered her phone, holding it up to her ear and not bothering to pull away from Blaine. It killed her to be so harsh, but harshness was all she had for Brittany now that she could afford to show.
And then it disappeared because Brittany was crying. "I... I know we had a fight but I need to talk to you."
"Sweetie what's wrong?" she rushed without thinking about it. Blaine raised his head from her neck and looked at her worriedly, and Kurt, on his other side holding his hand, did the same. Rachel glanced over from the kitchen but went back to pulling the cookie trays out of the oven.
"I know you don't want to talk about Sam -"
"Did he hurt you?" she demanded. "I sear I'll -"
"No, I... well, yes, but it was me, too."
"What did the bastard do?" she growled. Brittany should not be crying.
"He said... he said what you did, except he said quieter and with no song and he didn't say he'd always love me the most -"
"He broke up with you?!" So this wasn't just a couple's spat she was calling her best friend to vent about. Santana's vision began tinting itself red.
"Because of the d-distance," Brittany sobbed. "Because I'm going to a dance school in Chicago and he's still in K-Kentucky -"
"You got in?" Santana asked, and then remembered that that wasn't the main issue. "Right, sorry. I'm proud of you, though."
"Tell me I'll get better?"
"You are better, honey," Santana promised, just as Blaine's phone rang. He fished it out of her pocket as she said, "You are better but you'll feel better in time, I swear." And then he looked at the caller ID and answered it.
"Hey, Sam."
A week went by.
Blaine was never once alone in the apartment, not even when it was clear his flu had passed.
It was a moment of sheer victory when Santana was leaving for work and paused before she was out the door to ask, "Are you okay?"
And he could answer with, "Yes. Yeah, I'm okay now."
"So are you sure you want to do this tonight?" Blaine asked him quietly, his voice muffled slightly by the pillow that cushioned his head as he laid sideways on the bed, facing Kurt, so he could see the curls escaping the loosened gel and the dancing lights in his eyes. "Make this choice?" He was happy, and content, and excited, but he'd been so respectful of Kurt's boundaries, boundaries he'd been careful not to cross for way too long, that Kurt ached to be able to hold him.
Wait a second - he could. Blaine was his boyfriend, that wasn't out of line.
He was about to stretch his arms out and rest them around Blaine, around his boyfriend, because despite his tentativeness that's what they are and have been for long enough to have driven their friends crazy with their denial of it, when he caught himself - Blaine has boundaries too, he reminds himself. Respect goes both ways. So he said, "That depends on whether or not we can do it tomorrow, too," and the words weren't picked out well but they got the message across. He wanted to be able to be intimate whenever possible, but he didn't know how long it would last - somehow it seemed like it'd be forever, but going day-by-day was the only thing that made sense. They couldn't measure time in eternities anymore - an eternity had been broken before it had been finished and they'd been left with shattered days in a row instead.
"I can promise you tomorrow," Blaine said, smiling slightly, but he could sense the same trepidation that buzzed around in his head catching in Blaine's.
"And after that?"
Blaine's smile faltered. "I can keep promising you tomorrows in our todays, but I can't promise you an eternity. Nobody can."
Ah, so they were on the same page.
But Kurt wanted this. And Blaine wanted this. So why couldn't they have it? Why couldn't they continue the conversation they'd just had, but speak their bodies and not their minds? Why the hell not? All eternities are made of are a beginning and a middle and never an end. It's what an eternity is: something that never ends. For whomever it was that would outlive the other, the eternity would end there; but for the other, the eternity would stretch on and on.
And Kurt realized that they had had an eternity before. And they were still in the same one. The breakup hadn't been the end. The eternity hadn't shattered. The days had simply become more individual, building blocks instead of a foundation. Sometimes they didn't fit and had to be placed elsewhere, or reshaped so they could be used when they needed to be, but all the days since the one where he'd first tapped him on the shoulder on that staircase at Dalton were part of an eternity they were still in. It hadn't ended. It would never end. Beyond death and fights and insecurities, it would never end - it would simply lull and stop counting. The days not happening anymore wouldn't change the fact that they did.
Their eternity would last forever because the time they spent knowing each other would always exist. And Kurt knew, looking at Blaine, that he'd finally reached that point faster than he had, which reminded him of their Dalton days, before their first kiss, when he had a crush on his best friend that was finally reciprocated. Blaine had been waiting for him to catch up for months, for years - and now that he had, he was racing ahead. Making up for lost time, though it would never truly be lost and would never not count.
So he said, "I can promise it. I can promise that if you keep giving me tomorrows, I can build an eternity. It won't be perfect, because that's really boring and no fun at all, and it will probably be fraught with faults and bad choices and a hell of a lot of mistakes; but it will be an eternity." Blaine looked confused, but open - honestly shy of the topic but not closed to it. "If you can promise me tomorrows forever, I can promise you forever tomorrow."
And Blaine caught up with him. Kurt sensed it in the way everything about him shifted. His body, first of all, on the bed, was suddenly closer, the sheets rustling under him as he clenched and spread out his muscles to scoot towards him further. And the sparkles in his eyes winked warmly at him, and the smile on his lips beckoned him to press his own against them. "I know we've tried before," Blaine whispered, his voice husky and low, "But I think you just wrote a rough draft of our wedding vows." Kurt knew the risk behind the statement and behind his grin, and goosebumps rose on his skin in reaction, his body responding to the thrill of it faster than his mouth.
"That's a tomorrow that we'll get to," Kurt said, and Blaine frowned. "But we should get married," he assured him. Anything to make the frown go away.
"Okay," Blaine said, and though Blaine had said that in response to him countless times, this time it was different. Different because he pulled away.
"What are you doing?" Kurt called out feebly. How had he driven him away? He'd spent all week working up to this, to having the courage to pursue this.
Blaine pulled open his drawer and plucked something out of it before sliding it closed again. And then he threw it casually and it landed in front of Kurt's stomach. As Blaine got back in the position he'd been in, this time actually smiling wider than he had been no matter how small it remained, Kurt's fingers brushed over the box and pulled it up in front of him. The velvet was smooth beneath his fingers and dark before his eyes.
"What is this?"
"I'm proposing," Blaine explained. "It's a ring."
And sure enough, when Kurt pushed the lid back, it gently opened, and there, sitting in the satin cushion, was a band of gold, thin but wide, set with one small onyx. Kurt stared at it, at the abnormal ring that was still the most beautiful gift he'd ever received besides Blaine himself. "You're... this is real?"
"Yes," Blaine responded, newly hesitant at Kurt's tone. "It's gold because I know you wear warm colors better and gold goes with warm colors and it's an onyx because I was thinking of 'Blackbird' when I bought it..."
"You bought this," Kurt repeated. "You bought this for me. To ask me to marry you."
"Well, yes," he said, trying to make a joke of it now, and Kurt looked up, because he hadn't meant to make Blaine so unsure he tried to pass it off as humor. "That is the general function of a ring like this."
"Yes," Kurt whispered.
"Yes?" The joke was gone. "What are you saying yes to?"
"The implied 'Will you marry me?'"
"Yes."
"Blaine!" But Kurt giggled then, high on exhilaration and adrenaline, his thoughts spinning even more than they had been. "Just help me put this on."
"Yes, sir," Blaine said, and Kurt's heart lurched at the playfulness. It was so easy. He didn't have to be as cautious as they both had been for too long. And then Blaine's fingers, warm and soft, took the box from his, and gently tugged the ring out. In the dim evening light pouring in the window it glistened and shone almost angelically, and when Blaine took his hand it was with the utmost care and tenderness, and then the ring was slipping onto his finger and Blaine set the box on the side table. The playfulness vanished and he was in total and complete awe as he met Kurt's eyes, and Kurt thought, I did this to him. I made him this happy.
"So we'll get to it sooner than I thought," Kurt murmured. "And now we'll focus on the forever that will rise with the sun in a few hours."
Blaine caught his worse and his reply had a double meaning."So you are sure?"
"Well, geez, it's not like I just got all philosophical and poetic just to have you question it. I'm offended."
"I love you, you know," Blaine told him, and Kurt felt a bit like a dam inside his chest broke and the sigh he let out let out everything and the air that came in was full and clean again.
"And I love you," Kurt replied, saying the words as if they were the most obvious thing in the world, and then chuckled, "I also think this is the most adult conversation I've ever had."
"You're nineteen, pushing twenty, and this is the most adult conversation you've ever had?"
"Well you're nineteen and I dare you to beat it. It has to have greater factors for joy, fear, and future to qualify for competition."
"Mm," Is all Blaine says in response, and his eyes flicker between the pools of oceanic blue that mesmerize him so often and so much and the lips found below them that seem so ultimately soft and kissable. "Yeah, no, I can't think of anything."
"That's what I thought," Kurt smirked smugly.
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Of course."
"Can I kiss you?"
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Um, yeah."
"Why do you think you need to ask my permission to kiss me?"
Blaine's eyebrows furrowed. "Because making a romantic advance when it's non-consensual is not only extremely wrong but way too creepy for me to ever consider actually doing?"
"Oh, so you're being appropriate."
"Yeah."
"Well then." Kurt raised his eyebrows and his smirk grew more profound. "I guess my hopes of inappropriateness are dashed."
And Blaine's triangular eyebrows quirk up adorably, though his entire demeanor changes. "Inappropriateness?"
"Indeed," Kurt murmurs. "You see, I had hopes and even a half-formulated plan that involved a rather excessive amount of tongue usage. And not all of it concerned mouths."
"God I've missed you like - Jesus Christ, Blaine - this so much," Kurt breathed under Blaine as he slid into him again. Kurt's heart was racing and pounding so harshly that he felt it would rocket out of his chest, where he was sure Blaine could already hear it throbbing the way he could hear Blaine's thrumming like a hummingbird's wings. Blaine didn't seem capable of forming comprehensible words, but the moan he released was so low and guttural that Kurt's breath caught in his throat and accelerated his pulse faster.
Kurt threw his head back, his eyes half-open, half-closed, wanting desperately to look at Blaine full-on but knowing if he did that he would be gone entirely, to the point of no return. Kurt felt Blaine's hands on his hips, tugging him closer as he thrust, and Kurt returned the favor in a scramble of fingers, clawing down Blaine's back until he scratched just below his waist and pulled him impossibly nearer. Blaine pushed forward again, but so quickly and with so much force that Kurt let a whimper fly past his lips, begging for more -
And Blaine was gone, coming hard and fast inside him, and Kurt felt the heat of the feeling flicker through his bones and blood when he arched his back and cried out, Blaine's hips stuttering with his incoherent words.
"Finish me," Kurt heard his voice plead but couldn't recall speaking, his mind and all inside it blurred and hot. "Finish me, please, Blaine, please - o-oh," and he finished with another whimper, which he knew drove Blaine mad.
Blaine's hips slowed then, but he didn't stop entirely - he ground his hips against Kurt's and rolled his body over his so Kurt felt a new part of it feel a flash of Blaine's body heat before it moved downward in a wave, which only succeeded in adding to the intense heat and pain that emanated from Kurt's pulsing dick. Kurt dug his nails into Blaine to control his movements and found that when Blaine fought against that and went slower still that the sense of control and yet lack of it was enticing, and he groaned loudly, closing his eyes all the way so he could no longer see how the dim light cast traipsing shadows across his cheeks.
And then Blaine let go of his hips entirely and put on hand on his shoulder, parallel to his mouth, which he put on Kurt's neck, right behind his ear and at the top edge of his clear jawline. He began to suck on the spot, dragging the skin between his teeth, as he pumped his hand up and down Kurt's cock.
"Come for me," Blaine panted against his skin, his breath washing over his neck in between soft kisses and tongued bites, "Come for this, for me, Kurt."
It took two more strokes of Blaine's hand and Kurt was gone with him, shuddering and convulsing as the individual bits of him screamed with torturous pleasure, wracking his frame with ultimate joy; a whine passed into the air around them and Kurt couldn't tell which one of them it belonged to. Blaine loosened his grip on Kurt's length and slipped tenderly out of Kurt's battered opening before collapsing on top of him and just lying there, his breathing labored, both of them choking on staccato intakes of air they felt deprived of.
And then Blaine was laughing through his gasps and rocking himself over top of Kurt, and Kurt laughed with him, though he didn't know what they were laughing at - maybe they were laughing because it felt so good to do so.
Blaine's low giggle just barely made the words possible to make out: "You do realize that's the first time I've topped, right?"
And Kurt laughed twice as hard and Blaine joined him and they were both fairly certain that if the neighbors hadn't heard them before they certainly heard them then.
The End