It's going well. Two new kids will be moving into the house soon, no one's set any of the living room couches on fire, and Kurt's still going to his classes in vibrant scarves and brooches. Blaine's been keeping a close eye on Kurt (not because he feels guilty, or because he remembers the way that Kurt gasped into his neck, wrung-out and utterly dependent on Blaine's strength to hold him up). Kurt has always been a special kid, and he doesn't have many people on his side. Blaine can be one of them, he can support Kurt through high school and Glee club, and whatever else it is that Kurt decides he wants to do. He can do that – even if he can't hold Kurt's gaze or accept a cup of morning coffee from him without his chest clenching painfully.

When the bell on his apartment door chimes, he slips a bookmark between the pages of his book and pads over in his socks to open the door. When he sees Kurt Hummel standing there with his arms folded and his pretty blue eyes set with determination, Blaine's mouth falls open.

Kurt studies him, managing to look expectant and unimpressed all at once. Blaine blinks, stunned and feeling slightly like he's been hit on the back of the head with a two-by-four.

Kurt can barely contain his eye-roll. "Social courtesy suggests that you invite me in."

"I--" Blaine's hand twitches on the door handle, instinct opening it a few inches before he gets some of his brainpower back and stills. "What are you doing here? How are you here?" As a rule, he doesn't give out any personal information -- employees know where he lives in the case of an emergency, but that's it.

"There's this newfangled thing called the internet," Kurt says. "I know it came after your time, but you might have heard of it."

"Right."

Kurt's chin lifts when Blaine remains immobile. "Are you letting me in or are we having this conversation on the stoop?"

There are only so many options: let Kurt in to have their inevitable conversation (which, as present circumstances are ruthlessly driving home for him, Blaine has inexcusably delayed), try and talk to him outside where the neighbors could see to spare himself from the painful intimacy of Kurt in his home, or shut the door on his face. The latter Blaine can't consider seriously -- one, it would be so terribly cruel when the point of this is to keep Kurt as intact as possible, and two, Kurt would stubbornly stay at his door until Blaine caved.

He opens the door wordlessly and steps back, Kurt already brushing swiftly past him into the living room. He regards the contents for a moment, and Blaine wonders what Kurt's sophisticate eyes see. It's all fairly nice stuff, if eclectic, and some of it hold-overs from his college years, but Kurt loves cohesion and clean lines. "May I sit?" Kurt asks, less cutting now that he's wedged his way inside, although the air between them feels practically frosty.

"Of course."

Kurt sits in a way that Blaine can tell is well-rehearsed; one slim leg crossing the other, a hint of his bright socks between the hem of his pants and his shoe. Kurt folds his hands on his lap and gives him a long look, sizing him up. "I'm young, but I'm not stupid or impressionable, or docile and compliant and whatever else you've convinced yourself that I am. Do you understand that?"

"Kurt-- what--"

"No." Kurt holds up a hand. "You've done enough. It's my turn. We're talking about this whether you like it or not."

The room is Kurt's, Blaine effectively silenced. It's the very least of what he owes Kurt. Kurt takes a moment to collect himself, glossing over the sharper edges of his temper and allowing the rigid set of his mouth to teeter back into a more neutral expression. He's still angry; Blaine can feel the anger as much as he can see it in the lingering glitter of his eyes, but Kurt's buttoning it up.

"I realize that we have an unconventional --" Kurt tilts his head and purses his lips. "Inappropriate relationship, by most standards. But it is a relationship, or I thought it was until you had s-" he stops and his eyes dip down, the smallest fumble. "Sex with me and completely ignored me after. I'm not stupid, I know why you did, but if I was anyone else, it would have been so awful, Blaine."

"If it was anyone else--" Blaine exclaims in disbelief. "It wouldn't be anyone else, Kurt."

The next breath Kurt takes lowers his shoulders and unravels some of his unyielding posture, making him less of a brittle, unmovable object on Blaine's couch. He's gentler when he speaks again, his voice higher. "I know that. That's what I'm saying. What we have, it may be unconventional, but it's special."

"Unconventional," Blaine repeats, rubbing a hand over his stubbly jaw and giving a grimace of a smile. "That's a polite way of putting it."

"Well, how would you put it? Unless I'm horribly off base and you really do just want to get rid of me," Kurt says, harshly, "you care about me."

"That's the point." Blaine's voice is rising now. "It has to be this way because I care, because I don't want to see you throw away your life when you're only seventeen. Do you even know how old I am?"

"Thirty-four," Kurt says, quick as a whip and just as cutting, dismissive. Like he knows everything and nothing Blaine says could ever surprise him.

"Wrong."

"Thirty-five."

"Wrong. I'm thirty-six, Kurt."

"Oh, because I was so off," Kurt mutters.

Blaine isn't about to be derailed. Kurt is living in some fantasy land where -- where The Somewhat Ephebophic Love that Dare Not Speak Its Name is so immense that every obstacle just crumbles before it. "I could be your father," he points out.

Something flickers over Kurt's face, but it's gone as quick as it came. He uncrosses his legs then re-crosses them, curling forward and into himself. "At least my father took the time to consider how I felt when he made decisions about my life. My father never told me that I was wrong or inappropriate. He never tried to make me change myself into something that was fake, just because it was easier for everyone else to swallow. He listened to me. He was there when I needed him." The challenge and anger have begun to fade from Kurt's eyes, and without that spark he just looks small and disappointed.

Blaine tries to picture the man that Burt Hummel must have been -- calloused hands, squared shoulders, a deep voice. He can't help but see his own father sitting in his study with thinning hair, reading glasses, and a perpetual headache line etched between his brows. Burt Hummel was a solid man with an open heart who never needed to think twice about loving or protecting. He (or perhaps Kurt, who has been the source of all of his information) might be romanticizing in the soft, blurry glow of memory that grief gives, but for some reason he doesn't think so.

His own father was never comfortable sitting on the couch next to him, letting his son's head tip onto his shoulder as he drowsed off, or carrying Blaine to bed. His father didn't leave him with resolve and self-assurance, but hollow expectations and a lingering feeling of disappointment. He knows, at least, that it wasn't because he was gay (although that put a whole new layer of distance between them when Blaine came out in college). His family simply... wasn't like that.

Although the strain and distance existed before he ever knew or said he was gay, Blaine can't ever forget the first thing his father could bring himself to say to him once he'd come out. It was 1994, and Blaine felt a world away from backwards Ohio, liberated on his college campus. When he came home for Christmas, he told them about his boyfriend. Blaine doesn't know why he was surprised by the reaction he got. It was, after all, what everyone was consumed with, at the time. His father looked at him from across the room with a blank stare and said Do you have AIDs, Blaine? It's a memory he still chokes on.

At once, Blaine realizes how selfish he's been. It hits him with all the subtlety of ice water -- he has to close his eyes, force himself to swallow before he can look at Kurt again. No matter how raw the relationship is, it's still there. And even if he never speaks to his parents again, he still has a network of colleagues, old friends, acquaintances he can fall back on.

Kurt doesn't have any of that. He thought he had Blaine, but Blaine's been too busy clinging to his own misguided resolution. Pushing him away makes Blaine feel untethered and guilty and alone, and it makes Kurt feel the very same. Blaine can't stand knowing it now, seeing the hints of uncertainty and hurt.

"We should set some ground rules," Blaine says. He affects a thin smile for Kurt's sake, but his voice is still shaky.

"Ground rules?" Kurt echoes with cautious hope.

"Mhm." Blaine takes a deliberate seat on the couch beside him and curls his palm over Kurt's knee. "We have to be careful. We have to be so careful, but we can be... us, too."

Kurt leans into him, resting his forehead against Blaine's bicep like he's been tired for a long time and has only just been offered reprieve. "Of course," he whispers. "Of course."

"We can't sleep together at the house. We can't kiss. We probably shouldn't be alone together," he says with a sigh, running through a mental list of all the places and situations that could cause them to slip up.

"I thought we were trying to keep from attracting attention. No one at the house cares that we spend time together. Until last week, it was a regular thing. It's more conspicuous if we suddenly start avoiding each other. Let's just be reasonable," Kurt sounds weary but fond. Blaine can feel the sweep of Kurt's eyelashes against his arm. "We set boundaries, we don't overstep them, and we stop making decisions for each other."

Blaine considers that for a moment. Kurt is, of course, right. "Stop being so smart," he says, guiding a finger to Kurt's chin and tipping his face up. "It makes me look bad."

When he gets a look at his eyes, he reels. Kurt is calm and stunning and Blaine's never seen him cry, not once, but right now his eyes are too-clear and shining, lashes spiky with wet. The fingers on Kurt's stubborn little chin drift up, feather-light, trying to soothe and memorize at the same time. The bow of his bottom lip is full and silky as Blaine runs his thumb across it, entranced.

Kurt closes his lips over the tip, holding his finger in place. It matches the tenderness of Blaine's touches, hardly any pressure at all, but it feels like Kurt has just yanked on a tether from Blaine's fingers to his stomach. Kurt doesn't lick it or bite at it, nothing overtly suggestive, only lets the warm plush of his lips surround him until Blaine slips out. Kurt's mouth falls open for him, and Blaine can see the wet pink inside. He taps Kurt's lip with a content, thoughtful hmm and only pulls his hand away after a few seconds of the kiss he leans in for. He settles both hands at Kurt's narrow waist and wonders what it will feel like when the two layers (that he knows of) aren't in the way.

Kurt kisses him back with an open mouth, trading off slow and sweet pecks. He lengthens his torso so he can lean up into Blaine, encouraged by the hands sliding down from his waist, curving briefly over his ass and gripping the backs of his thighs. Blaine presses his mouth more insistently against Kurt's, and between Kurt inching forward and Blaine guiding his hips in, he lowers his weight down onto Blaine's thighs, straddling him with his legs tucked in close.

Blaine hooks his hands together behind Kurt's back, letting his arms drape low and easy around Kurt's waist. Kurt must like it; he dips his forehead to touch Blaine's for a moment and goes back to his mouth, nipping there.

Kurt, Blaine thinks with admiration, is definitely a fast learner.

Kurt's weight is grounding and invigorating on top of him, but the longer they kiss the more Blaine's control slips from him, and the last thing he needs is a repeat of the laundry room. He's not going to make decisions in the heat of the moment again, and what's between them needs some time to even out after churning waters. He puts his hands on Kurt's hips instead of his waist.

"You should get home," he breathes, pressing his forehead to Kurt's, mirroring earlier. "It's nearly dinner."

Kurt leans back and arches a dubious eyebrow. "You choose now to bring this up?"

"No time like the present?" Blaine tries to joke, but his laugh comes out as a huff.

Kurt's face turns serious, and he looks down at Blaine with entreating poise. "Will you come by to eat dinner with us again? It doesn't have to be tonight, just... sometimes."

Blaine gives a short nod, exhaling forcibly. "Yeah. Yeah, I can do that." He brushes a few strands of hair away from Kurt's forehead, then pats at his hip. "Up now."

Kurt goes, unfolding himself with impressive flexibility, hands already smoothing his shirt and pants. Blaine feels the loss of warmth immediately, departed with the reassuring weight of Kurt's body. Blaine stands before he can give himself any ideas, and Kurt gives him a wry smile as they both begrudgingly head toward the door. Unfinished business is hanging heavy in the air, and its push is what makes Blaine place a hand on the small of Kurt's back, ostensibly to guide him but more to assuage Blaine's fierce need to touch and protect.

"Is my hair all right?" Kurt asks, turning around, letting Blaine's hand slip along his side.

He brings his other hand up to brush against Kurt's cheek, and honestly he has no idea what the state of Kurt's hair is; all he sees is the happy look on his face. "You look fine."

Kurt harrumphs at him, clearly not satisfied by his answer, but leans forward to peck him on the lips. "I'll see you soon."

"Tomorrow," Blaine says, separating them once and for all so he can get the door for Kurt. "Stay out of trouble."

"Oh," Kurt says airily, "I don't know about that."

Blaine leans against the door frame and watches Kurt walk away, eyes following the swing of his hips and the way he leans far out off the sidewalk to check for cars before crossing, disappearing from view.

--

At dinner two nights after Kurt's appearance at Blaine's apartment, it takes a Herculean effort to keep from gazing at him from across the table. Everyone's there; Mia came early to pick up her paycheck and hung around after (he feels someone validated by the fact that the other staff seems as married to work as he feels), Charlie's the one who cooked, and all of the kids are inhaling whatever hodgepodge pasta it was he put together.

Kurt made the bread. He made the bread. Blaine wasn't aware there was a bread maker on the premises. It smells fantastic and Blaine takes three slices, despite his dangerous relationship with carbs. He allows himself a few wide smiles in Kurt's direction, and Kurt returns them a bit conservatively. Of course he's better at this whole covert thing than Blaine.

Tom starts prodding him about the fresh meat that's due the next day, two of them at once. It's the usual; "gay? bi? lez?" and Blaine deflects the questions with a handwave and a lack of smile. "None of your business," he says. "They want to tell you, fine. I'm not going to,"

"Lame. Do we at least get to know what gender they are, or is that violating the Thirtieth Amendment?"

Kurt sighs. "There is absolutely no such thing," he says, not unkindly. The corners of his mouth appear to be twitching.

"Girl and a boy," Blaine allows.

He has no idea what orientation Justin is. Melissa is MTF homosexual, and Blaine's got a bit of a quandary with the rooming situation. The last bedroom needs some serious maintenance, and Blaine isn't comfortable letting anyone sleep in there yet. As of right now, they all room alone. Tom''s pretty volatile, so it should stay that way for him. Tracy used to room with Michael; Blaine hesitates to double up people of the same orientation. A lot of the kids sneak around and have sex anyway, but it's severely against the official rules. He supposes he could try and put the new girl in with Tracy, move one of the boys in with her, or use the tiny, tiny room Blaine and the staff uses on overnights. He'll cross that bridge when he comes to it. No one's going to be very happy with the final decision.

"Girl?" Tracy stops twirling her pasta with her fork and looks interested. "Thank God. I was beginning to feel like I was going to grow a penis by osmosis. And Mia, like, smirks at me if I stare at her. Like I can help it that you're so hot."

Mia snorts, but Blaine is too busy being rattled to openly react. Whatever. It's a joke. They make them all the time, and their default setting is inappropriate. "Please try to keep any leering to a minimum," she says.

"Sooo, Blaine," Charlie butts in, cutting off conversation that can only get more inappropriate. "How's the charity thing coming? Reel in any big fish?"

Blaine slouches back in the chair, sighing heavily. "Can we not? I'm trying to pretend it isn't happening."

Kurt perks up at that. "You shouldn't put it off. If you want to have a successful drive, it needs to be planned very thoroughly."

"I know. I'm falling behind."

Kurt uses the side of his fork to cut the strands of his pasta. He keeps his eyes on his plate. "I could help you. I've got a knack for that sort of thing, and I've always wanted to plan a soiree."

"Maybe," Blaine says, wavering, eyes darting around the table. Everyone just looks bored. Blaine could use the help, and Kurt's perfect for it. He'll collage swatches and plan the seating chart and use his superpowers to ensure that Mia's newbie chef friend doesn't give the guests food poisoning.

At the same time, he knows it's an excuse to spend time alone together. He admires Kurt's machinations, and the prospect is more than enticing.

Kurt shrugs. "It's just an idea."

"No, it's... it's a good one. We'll see."

Kurt looks at Blaine from under his lashes, and there's a promise in there somewhere, and Blaine resigns himself to the fact that Kurt's going to get what he wants. They both are.

--

"Paper napkins are fine if you want the guests to think that we're uncouth and under-prepared. Fabric napkins are more expensive, but you can wash and reuse them again and again. They're more refined and practical," Kurt says in a tone of voice that suggests Blaine would be lost in a tangle of cheap mylar balloons without him.

Blaine bites his bottom lip on a laugh and updates his notepad accordingly. "All right, fabric napkins it is."

"Good." Kurt nods authoritatively, but his smile is so simple and happy that Blaine nearly forgets what he's writing.

He's seen Kurt through a lot of different lenses – wary and introverted when he first came to Courage House; brittle and overcompensating while he started to settle in; and the most recent, the shades of who he is under all of the damage being in the system can do, but he hasn't seen this before. Kurt is relaxed but confident, even a little arrogant, and utterly in control. Watching Kurt in his element like this makes Blaine feel a lot of things, but he's not surprised to realize that the most prominent one is pride.

"Have you finished with the seating chart yet?" Kurt asks, interrupting his woolgathering.

"Mm, yeah. It's... somewhere around here." Blaine thumbs through a stack of papers, passing the chart over to Kurt for approval once he's found it.

Kurt eyes it critically, undoubtedly checking and cross-checking the table arrangements. Blaine would assure Kurt that he's not ignorant enough to stick the county administrative assistant next to the TANF chairman after their embarrassing motel escapades last year, but he's already learned that he's got to pick his battles when it comes to Kurt and party-planning, and this is one to pass on.

"Hey," Kurt says, tapping the end of his pencil against the seating chart. "That's... I know them."

Blaine peers over Kurt's shoulder to see. "Oh, the Berrys? They've donated consistently since I opened this place up. Really helped us out a lot."

"Their daughter is in Glee club with me. Rachel." Kurt arches an eyebrow, a malicious sort of humor on his face. "She's like a fly that you keep trying to swat at but never manage to squash, so she just buzzes around your head all day." He pauses, considering, and his tone turns mild. "But, my god, she can sing."

Blaine's quiet a moment, trying to read between the lines. "How is Glee club? I haven't heard much since the audition."

Kurt shrugs carefully. "It's fine. We might do a showcase at the next assembly. Of course, I'll be stuck in the back while Rachel sings all of the solos and does overly dramatic West Side Story hand gestures, but I'm used to it." He waves a hand. "Buzz, buzz."

Blaine chuckles and pushes up the sleeves of his cardigan, about to say, Maybe I could come watch you perform? when the door in the front room chimes and voices flood in.

"What, no leather daddies and drag queens lined up to meet me? You've gotta at least show me to the free condom bowl."

"Cute," Blaine hears Charlie say in a weary tone that he extensively knows means douchebag.

Kurt's eyebrows furrow, the downturn of his mouth decidedly unimpressed. He reaches out a hand to Blaine, who blinks at it until Kurt gestures expectantly at his notepad and folder with its pages nearly spilling out. Blaine passes them over on his way to the front door to find Charlie with a dubious expression and his hands in his pockets, and someone who can only be Justin peering around the hallway with his eyebrows raised. He's not carrying much, just a backpack and a small rolling suitcase, but that's by no means unusual.

"Hi," Blaine says, and Justin shifts to face him. Blaine goes for the same polite smile he uses on everybody -- too much enthusiasm and the kids get weirded out or start making fun of him the minute they're in the door, which he learned the hard way. Blaine's naturally exuberant, but Charlie was the first person to ever say anything to him about it. "You need to put a leash on your face, man." "I'm Blaine."

Justin doesn't answer. His angular blonde eyebrows creep up even closer to his hairline. "Where am I sleeping?"

"We don't know yet, I'm sorry. We're waiting for another guest before we make any rooming decisions."

Justin mouths guest with an incredulous tilt of his head, and the eyebrows finally come down. For the first time Blaine can see that this kid isn't bad looking, in a broad-jawed, big-featured kind of way. He looks around twenty, too, but the info Blaine was given says he's only seventeen. "Well, that's great. Can I at least put my stuff somewhere?"

Blaine nods. He's not sure if Justin's going to be this standoffish for his entire stay, but he can do what he wants so long as he generally abides by the rules. Blaine's pretty sure Charlie will eventually side-eye any attitude into the ground, anyway. He's good like that. "Sure. For now let's set it in the living room and we can fill out some paperwork."

"Paperwork?"

"Yeah," Blaine says, leading Justin into the living room. "Charlie, do you have his file?"

Charlie nods and disappears to grab it, and Blaine tells Justin to sit down and make himself comfortable, and apparently the height of comfort is to be perched on the arm of the couch. He dumps his backpack onto the ground and keeps his suitcase in front of him.

"We've just got some basic rules and a sort of roommate agreement." To Blaine's surprise, it isn't Charlie who comes back into the room with Justin's paperwork, but Kurt. It stalls him out for a moment, but he takes the proffered file and pen and nods. "Thanks, Kurt."

"Charlie's starting dinner," Kurt informs him, arms crossing in front of his chest. He's very obviously ignoring Justin's presence, and Blaine can't really figure it out. It's not just about Kurt's peculiar set of etiquette that, once offended, inspires remarkable disdain, thought that must be part of it. This, though, is downright defensive, and they haven't said two words to each other. "Let me know if you have any special requests."

"Are you on any special diet, Justin? Vegan, vegetarian?"

Justin's eyeing Kurt with a look of private amusement. "Nope."

"Any allergies?"

"Nope," he says again, with a tinge of irritation.

Blaine shrugs at Kurt. "Whatever Charlie wants to make is fine."

"All right." Kurt stands there for a moment longer before dropping his arms and pivoting on his heel. But not before Blaine catches the fleetingly bitchy look he aims at Justin, and Justin would have to be an idiot not to catch it too, given that he's staring right at him. "I'm making dessert," says, with enough weight for a parting shot.

Blaine's got to ask him about that later, because Kurt's almost funny when he's so ruffled, and it was practically from out of nowhere.

"Kurt's quite the chef," Blaine offers, when Justin still hasn't turned to look at him and is staring off into the space where Kurt stood. "It's one of his duties during the week, but I think he'd do it even if he wasn't signed up for it."

"Oh, I'll bet," Justin says in a droll, definitely pointed voice, and Blaine's eyes narrow, but he doesn't respond.

He pulls out the sheaf of paperwork, takes a mental breath, and dives into the spiel he's given at least fifty times.

--

Blaine had to fight hard to keep his face neutral while they went over the paperwork. Nearly every single box Blaine hated to check, the ones most kids had the insight to lie about, were ticked off. Justin looked bored the entire time, giving him droning yeses and nos and never flickering. Still, he didn't send people away for poor choices, but he did put extra emphasis on the part about a ban on all illegal activities.

During dinner, he keeps a thoughtful eye on Justin and Kurt, but nothing happens. No interaction, no staring, no huffiness from Kurt's corner. Justin hung out in the living room to keep close to his stuff. Blaine's had issues with stealing at the house before, but not much, and he reassured him that it'll be fine where it is, but Justin stayed put until Blaine came to get him.

Justin's seated between Tracy and Charlie, but pretty much the only person he talks to is Tom. Tom tends to get along with guys unless he’s surly that day or until he feels rejected or usurped, but it'd be nice to see him make a friend. Justin asked Charlie to pass the salt, but otherwise that's it, interaction-wise.

Kurt brings out his dessert, and he must have decided to pull out all the stops for the new kids because it's some gooey, decadent thing he announces is chocolate cake with cr�me anglaise. He finishes his description and his explanation of the plating -- "dark chocolate streaks, for flair" -- and allows himself a pleased, satisfied smile when the doorbell rings.

Blaine's relieved. Melissa was supposed to be there hours ago, and he'd left a voicemail with her case worker when she'd failed to show before five-thirty. He puts his napkin next to his plate and pushes his chair back from the table.

"It looks delicious, Kurt. Save me one?"

Kurt nods, looking deflated, a dainty serving spoon in his hand.

Melissa's, like, four inches taller than Blaine, and she's wearing flats. She seems startled when he swings open the door, and he affords her a cheerier smile than the one he gave Justin. Dinner was good, and food always perks him up, and not to mention, Melissa hasn't had a chance to ruin her first impression yet.

"Hi?" she tries, hoisting her bag higher over her shoulder, behind which he can see her case worker lurking. She's got a fair amount of luggage at her feet, too, and the bag looks heavy.

"Yes, hi, you're Melissa, right? I'm Blaine. Welcome to the house," he says, moving back so she can come in. "I can help with your bags, if you'd like."

She hesitates but only for a second. "Sure, that would be nice."

Melissa passes him and stands in the foyer while Blaine awkwardly tries to manhandle her suitcase, which is somehow heavier than the already bulky mammoth it looks like. It bangs against his shins a lot, and he tries to look as dignified as possible while setting it down.

Melissa's case worker brings in the other bag and closes the door behind her. "I just need to sign her over into your care," she says, and Blaine immediately pats his pockets for a pen while Melissa watches them awkwardly, unsure of what to do.

She doesn't have a clipboard, so Blaine ends up scrawling a shaky version of his signature and initials all over floppy papers, trying as best he can to prop them stiff with his other hand. It's as fast as that and she's out with barely a goodbye, but it's Thursday at six and people who are not Blaine tend to have lives.

"We just finished up dinner, but we saved you a plate, if you're hungry. There's snacks, too."

"It's okay. I already ate."

"You can leave your stuff in here while we get you settled. I haven't quite figured out where everyone goes -- we got two of you in one day, which is awesome, but kind of a puzzle."

"That's okay." She slowly lowers the bag down one skinny arm to the floor, and now that Blaine's in better light, he can see the hint of a bruise under her eye. Her file didn't say much, just that her previous foster family cited behavior difficulties and kicked her back to the state. Blaine's pretty good at reading people, and unless she's got some hidden well of rage (entirely possible; he thought Tom seemed well-adjusted when he came in), she seems fairly meek.

"There's dessert. I haven't had any yet, but I'm pretty sure it's fabulous."

"No, I'm fine."

He figures it's in their best interests to go over the house rules as fast as possible and get her a bed. It doesn't seem likely that she's going to turn especially chatty, and Blaine will only make her more uncomfortable as he prods.

Courage House doesn't get very many transsexuals, for whatever reason. They're no different from any other client, no more or less difficult -- although if they're on hormones they require a few more trips to the doctor than on average. Still, the majority of people who pass through the house are gay males, and that makes the roommate situation tricky at best.

He's not sure how to ask Tracy -- it's probably going to be Tracy, he knows -- if she's comfortable sharing her room. He doesn't particularly give a fuck if she isn't, that's her problem, but he can't in good conscience room Melissa with someone who's going to make her feel at all unwelcome. If Tracy balks, he'll know he has to figure something else out.

While he's trying to find the best way to approach her, Kurt comes out carrying a plate of his cake with a fork balanced on the edge.

"I brought cake," he says gaily, and he's not looking at Blaine. "If you don't eat it, I will, and it'll be ugly." His hand pulls back a little. "Unless you're allergic?"

"I'm not allergic," Melissa says, tucking her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, and her torso sticks out in all angles, collarbone, jutting shoulders, spindly arms. She's way too skinny, and way too tall to afford to be at whatever weight she's at. "But you don't have to bring me any."

Kurt's expression never falters. Blaine knows she's going to end up eating the cake even if she hates chocolate with passion. "Of course I do. I'm the welcoming committee." He holds the cake out to her. "You're welcome."

Blaine coughs a laugh into his fist and Melissa, luckily, looks amused too. "Thanks, I guess," she says, taking it from him and picking up the fork to poke at the side of the cake.

"So. Melissa. Do you know who you're rooming with?"

She pauses with a forkful of cake in midair. "Um."

Sometimes, and only sometimes, Blaine wishes Kurt wasn't quite so insouciant. Awkward. "I haven't really figured it out. I've gotta talk to you guys."

Kurt's eyes narrow, and he worries the corner of his bottom lip thoughtfully. "Well, the choices seem obvious enough. You can't room her with Tom, I wouldn't -- " he cuts himself off and starts again. "Not with Justin. I suppose Tracy would do."

"I'll have to ask her," Blaine says, trying not to sound irritated. Kurt's not usually so oblivious --

"No, you won't. Melissa, you should room with me." He says it matter of factly, the same needling Kurt who gets people to eat his cake and to go against their better judgment by getting into some sort of relationship with him. It's impressive.

"I... Okay?" she sounds out slowly, looking from Blaine to Kurt and back again. "Sure?"

"I promise, I'm very respectful," Kurt says brightly. "And tidy. And I don't snore. And I'll go clear you out a space in our closet right now, actually." He pivots on his heel for the second time that day, this time with far less dramatic flair. He seems... genuine, even if it's not quite excitement. Blaine can't believe he's actually giving up his room.

Or Kurt's not oblivious. In the slightest. Big surprise there.

Melissa looks a little lost. Blaine gives her a sheepish smile. "That's Kurt. He --" Blaine debates the myriad of things he could say, and settles on something fairly objective and comforting that doesn't sound like inappropriate gushing. "He really will make a good roommate."

--

"Aren't you going to offer me something to drink?" Kurt asks, composed as ever, as he helps himself to a seat on Blaine's couch.

As much as he'd like to, Blaine can't claim that he was honestly surprised to find Kurt waiting outside his door, cheerfully zipped up in a military-esque jacket with a jaunty scarf. Noting that Kurt seemed to be amassing an army of accessories, Blaine let him in with a resigned smile and a genuine, "you look nice."

Bemused, he opens up the refrigerator door. "I've got water, milk, and 7-Up left over from Tracy's birthday party."

"Blaine. That was two and a half months ago."

Blaine shrugs it off. "I don't really entertain that much."

"Water, please," Kurt says after a prolonged pause, and Blaine knows he's just barely keeping a quip behind his teeth.

"Coming right up." Blaine snags two water bottles, and while he's tempted to hand it to Kurt as-is, he figures using a glass every now and then won't kill him. Inevitably, Blaine's on edge about Kurt being in his apartment -- being alone with Kurt in his apartment, but Kurt has on his trademark nonchalance today, along with the scarf. He's up and off the couch, poking around at the trinkets on Blaine's shelves, picking up his picture frames and turning them into the light.

"You look young here," Kurt points out, and for once it doesn't sound like a jibe at his age, but rather an off-hand observation. "Who is he?"

As he crosses the room, Blaine's already thinking about what the picture could be -- he's got a handful of family portraits and snapshots from college and grad school tucked behind the more recent pictures taken at Courage House.

"Oh." He hasn't looked at, or even thought about, that one in years. He's shoulder-to-shoulder with a sandy-haired man in the picture, grinning wide and sunburned at the bank of a river. The man is holding a paddle, half-out of a wetsuit, hair tipped with droplets of water. "That was my junior year at Northwestern." Blaine hesitates at the rest of the explanation -- he definitely hasn't dated enough seventeen year olds to know the protocol for discussing past relationships. "He was my boyfriend, at the time."

"He's cute," Kurt says flippantly, but his eyes have taken on a focus. "Tall. Blond. Athletic."

Blaine sets the glasses down on his entertainment center so he can ease a hand over Kurt's shoulder, letting his fingers fall one-by-one against the fabric of his jacket. He hums a little, considering the photo and the memories and what Kurt must be thinking. "I keep it as proof that at one time I made it across the river without capsizing the kayak. I wasn't really into that sort of stuff, but he was." Blaine pauses. "It was a fun semester."

Their relationship lasted much longer than the semester, but he's wise enough not to say that. The tension Kurt is radiating, and badly trying to mask with faked nonchalance, is speaking volumes. And, honestly, as Blaine looks at the photo and the boy standing directly in front of him, he feels the dissonance of what he used to want and what he shouldn't want but does.

"This one," Kurt says next, selecting another picture. Blaine's in his high school uniform with the ill-fitting gray slacks, caught mid-song as a line of blazered boys two-step behind him. He feels worlds away from that teenage boy, though the span of his shoulders is barely any broader and he still gels his hair the same.

Blaine feels a warm rush of nostalgia. "Ah, the Warblers."

"The Warblers?" Kurt echoes, smothering a laugh. "Really?"

"Don't laugh," Blaine chides, but in reality -- even decades later -- he's so inured to the jokes they don't even land anymore. "The Warblers were, like, rock stars. We almost went to Nationals when I was the lead soloist."

"Wow, almost. I'm standing next to someone who almost went to a national show choir competition." Kurt's sardonic tone fades, and he taps his finger against the glass of the frame absently. "I know who they are. I didn't make the connection between Dalton and the Warblers." He sits the frame down and exactingly nudges it back into place on the shelf. "We're going up against them at sectionals."

Blaine whistles. "I haven't seen them perform in a while, but if they're anything like when I was there, you guys are going to have a tough time of it."

Kurt snorts. "Rachel looked them up on Youtube. They're a doo-wop group in blazers. And the lead isn't anywhere near as cute as you."

"Well," Blaine says, pulling Kurt into a hug from behind, and not quite sure if he should feel flattered or insulted on behalf of the Warblers, "who is?"

Kurt relaxes against him instantly, Blaine's front fitting snug to his back; Blaine even sways a little under the shift of weight Kurt has put on him. He tucks his chin over Kurt's shoulder and kisses the side of his neck. He smells so good, even though Blaine doesn't think he uses anything terribly special. His shampoo, maybe.

"Are you smelling me?" Kurt asks, sounding delighted.

"Maybe," Blaine admits. He squeezes Kurt around his middle and drops his hands away. "Come on, let's sit down. My bookshelves are boring."

He kind of doesn't want to find out if there are other pictures of ex-boyfriends hidden back there.

They sit down together, Kurt automatically crossing his legs before he realizes that it's blocking some of Blaine's access to him; he recrosses them the opposite way. Blaine wants to touch him, even if it's just resting a hand on his thigh, but he's reticent to turn every moment alone into something with a sexual element.

Kurt acts on the impulse for him by trailing his fingers up Blaine's forearm. He feels it keenly even through the material of his shirt. He looks open, face tipped toward Blaine, but there's no rush -- Blaine has no plans for them to rush into, anyway.

"How was school?" he asks.

"Oh, you know. Long, intellectually stifling." He keeps moving his fingers over Blaine, stopping to trace circles at his pulse. The light sensation chases a shiver up his spine. "Do you really want to talk about this? I haven't had much time with you lately and thinking about McKinley will just make me depressed." Kurt lets his head tip onto Blaine's shoulder, amiable and undemanding.

"Depressed?" Blaine would protest that they always have time together, but it's not what Kurt means. Sitting at the kitchen table with kids coming in and out while Charlie tries to install new cabinets behind them isn't the same as this, as the intimacy they have right now.

Kurt closes his eyes, pained. "Do you know how much polyester blend travels through those halls?" He says it as if the situation holds a gravity that Blaine cannot possibly grasp. "Just thinking about it makes me feel light-headed."

Blaine goes to chuckle right as Kurt scratches his nail over the thin, sensitive skin at his wrist, and the air gets stuck in his throat. The little noise he makes is tight and caught, and he has to clear his throat to get oxygen traveling properly again. If Kurt elicits that sort of reaction by touching his wrist, Blaine's brain is going to splinter at the first proper touch.

"All right?" Kurt opens his eyes to look up at him, a smile lurking around the corners of his lips.

"Yep," Blaine says, dropping his nose into Kurt's hair. It's easier if he doesn't try to take on those blue eyes. "This is nice, being like this."

Kurt shifts beside him, stretching with a languorous curve of his spine. "Mhm," he agrees, and in the next moment drops his fingers from Blaine's wrist to his thigh, tracing the same patterns on the seam of his pants.

Blaine pauses, enjoying the soothing effect of Kurt tucked so close, even if he's a little preoccupied by what may lie behind it. "Kurt, you do know... just because we're alone doesn't mean something has to -- happen?"

Kurt doesn't pull away, but there's now a careful stiffness to him.. "We don't exactly have many opportunities for something to happen."

"I know that," Blaine says, awkwardly rubbing his hand over Kurt's. "I'm just saying. We could just watch a movie. Or talk."

"We talk all the time," Kurt says. "But if you'd rather just watch something..." He starts to get up off the couch, bangs falling into his eyes that he doesn't immediately sweep aside.

"No, no, hey," Blaine says, leaning after Kurt to grab his wrist as he moves toward the entertainment center. When Kurt stops short and looks at Blaine, he tilts his head expectantly. His face is far less petulant than Blaine would have assumed from his words; it's cool, but there's no real tension in it. "That's not what I meant." His fingers span Kurt's wrist, hard bone and soft skin. "I don't want you to think I expect anything," he says, figuring bluntness is best. "Last time we went a little... fast."

Kurt's eyebrows rise, and his hand twitches in Blaine's grasp, so Blaine lets go. "We went a little fast? No, last time you went a little fast, and it's okay, Blaine, I liked it, but now I'm telling you what I want. Remember how we decided not to make decisions for each other?"

Though Blaine's finally getting a decent picture of things, he's too curious and too aware of how right Kurt is to not ask. "What do you want?"

Kurt closes his eyes, a disbelieving smile tugging at his mouth. "What do you think, Blaine?"

"Well," Blaine says, "I'm not sure. If I had to make a guess--"

Kurt gapes at him and it's uncannily like being pounced on by an angry cat when he pushes Blaine back into the couch and straddles him, knees digging into each side of Blaine's hips. "You're so--" he says, this ineffable mixture of wide-eye astonishment and vexation. "You are so frustrating," he finishes, the seal of his mouth to Blaine's like a punctuation mark.

It's whiplash, going from not touching Kurt to having an insistent lap full of him. He recovers quickly, though, hands finding their way to Kurt's hips, and Blaine tries his best to keep up with the kiss as Kurt directs it, licking all the way over his lower lip.

Once Blaine relaxes and lets his weight fall into the cushions, Kurt seems to feel it and stops holding his perch above Blaine, his ass settling on Blaine's thighs.

Blaine shifts forward -- to settle Kurt better or get more space, he's not sure -- but Kurt just presses in tighter, pinning Blaine with his hips. The momentum jostles Kurt to the side, and Blaine uses his palms on Kurt's ass to push him straight on his lap again but Kurt's struggling to get at Blaine's fly, which --

"Wait, Kurt," he says, dumbfounded, chin down so he can stare as Kurt's knuckles bump against the fabric of his clothes as he tries to clumsily unzip him.

Kurt's sliding entirely off of his lap now, both at Blaine's urgent hands pushing him away so they can think about this, but also because he's realizing that the angle is much easier this way. He has no idea where this came from, or how Kurt was hiding it from him )or more likely how Blaine failed to notice, he's been good at that), and especially doesn't know how on earth how he's supposed to have the willpower to try and stop him, when this is what he so badly wants every time they're somewhere private.

He's getting hard, of course he's getting hard, Kurt's undoing his pants and brief, accidental brushes from Kurt's fingers against the length of him aren't helping matters, but it's not like Blaine can switch off his brain and let this run its course. Something about the way Kurt is looking at him, head down, single-minded, his bangs still sweeping over his forehead, is like he's barreling through this before his courage runs out.

"Honey, you don't have to," Blaine tries, stalling Kurt's progress with his own fingers.

"I know I don't have to," Kurt says, piercing Blaine with an indignant look and knocking his hands out of the way. "I want to. I want to touch you." The last dips low in confession, achingly sincere.

Any chance Blaine gets with Kurt, he snaps. He wants to glut himself on the feel of his body, the wet of his mouth, chasing it all before it can slip away. He has to let that tight feeling in his chest run itself out as much as it can. Blaine has to take care of Kurt, make him feel everything Blaine can give him, make him know in his bones and his heart how much Blaine wants him.

He gives so much he takes. Blaine cringes at his own stupid greed. He's getting really tired of realizing that he can't make assumptions without fucking everything up along the way.

Blaine's zipper drag downs its teeth with barely a hitch, and Kurt pops his button open like he's done it a hundred times. Kurt's a wunderkind with his teeth working over his lip, instinct showing him how to reverse everything he does to himself to make it work.

Kurt stops when the fabric of Blaine's pants spreads enough to see what's under, the obscene bulge of his cock through his boxer briefs. Blaine chances a look at Kurt's face to gauge what's happening, if this is freaking him out.

Kurt shakes his head. "Cotton?" he says, spreading the fabric even wider and -- as though it's incidental -- runs two fingers up his clothed erection, stopping at the band at Blaine's waist. He pushes Blaine's shirt up only a scant few inches but doesn't touch the strip of bared skin. "You can't do better than cotton?"

"What?" Blaine manages, as Kurt skims his knuckles up and down.

"Plain white cotton. It's just so boring." He uses the fact that Blaine has turned to stare at him to his advantage and leans in for a kiss, and the tremble of his lips shows he isn't as unaffected as he's pretending to be. Blaine's somewhat reassured by that and leans into the kiss, but then it's over.

There's no warning and nothing unsteady about Kurt's hands as he hooks his fingers in Blaine's waistband and pulls. He glances down, staggered, and it looks -- fucking filthy, the sudden exposure, the fact that Kurt hasn't pulled him all the way out and the hem of Blaine's shirt is nearly brushing against the head of his cock. He can't look at himself or Kurt's pale hand, which has frozen above him. He switches back to the only place he can look, Kurt's profile, the shell of his ear.

"Kurt," he rasps, when touch continues not to come and Kurt's face doesn't change from its wide-eyed, fixed stare.

Kurt swallows and he looks terrified, but before Blaine can cover himself and do damage control, he draws in a breath and regains the same steadiness he had before.

He wraps his fingers around Blaine and using his other hand to push his underwear down a little more. He uses fast, strong strokes all the way up and down, close enough to the way Blaine does it to seriously stun him. "I don't know what I'm doing," he says, keeping up the rhythm.

"Oh my God." Blaine watches his own body tremble as this thing, this crazy thing, happens to him.

He's in his living room, on the couch he deliberately pretends to have forgotten the price of because it's shameful, and Blaine can't remember the last time he was kissed on it. He wonders if anyone he knew at seventeen would have had the temerity to jack off a man while he's still wearing his clothes -- no one at thirty ever thought that the hell up. Kurt keeps finding new ways to undo him, but Blaine wouldn't have anticipated anything this sordid ever, never fucking ever, in his most indecent dreams.

"Tell me if I'm doing it wrong." Kurt smears precome around the head, neatly trimmed fingernail sliding sweetly sharp over the slit.

"Oh, shit, just like that, oh shit."

He's so swollen, and his underwear is too tight right on his balls, but it's just more stimulation as he watches Kurt thoroughly work him over, up and down, squeezing the circle of his fingers, emboldened by Blaine’s reactions to go faster and harder. Sometimes Blaine gets himself off this way, with not enough slick, when he's desperate and thinking about dirty shit he twitches over later. Kurt's perfect, he's perfect, where did he come from?

Blaine edges closer and closer, and when he starts whimpering, Kurt dives in and kisses him. The counterpoint to what is possibly the best handjob of his life is getting him there even faster.

"I'm close," Blaine warns. Kurt squeezes so hard he fucks his hips up into it, back bowing. "Oh god, you should -- I'm going to come all over my shirt."

Kurt doesn't slow down or push Blaine's shirt up; his kissing turns so sloppy he licks Blaine's chin. Blaine shakes and starts shoving his hips up with every stroke now, unable to stop with Kurt practically yanking his orgasm from him.

Blaine tries to say something, makes a desperate sound he chokes on, and starts to come all over himself, steaks on his shirt, shiny white catching on Kurt's knuckles. He has to close his eyes so the overstimulation won't start to hurt. Kurt just won't stop and it's too much but he's still sort of coming as he does it, locking up and moaning through gritted teeth.

Kurt stops, finally, and Blaine can hear both of them panting -- Kurt quieter, like he's tamping down on it -- now that he's coming out of it.

When he opens his eyes, Kurt is staring at Blaine's come all over his hand like he has absolutely no idea what to do about it. It shouldn't send a rush of heat through Blaine's body, make his dick throb with soreness, but it does.

"My shirt's already a mess," he says, somehow lifting his arm to cradle Kurt's wrist and guide it to his own ruined shirt. Kurt halfheartedly wipes it clean and rests his hand further up where it isn't -- gross. Blaine reels him in, not caring about how he's messy and indecent and is probably going to have a small crisis later.

Kurt gets as close as he can, drawing his legs up onto the couch and tucking himself up as small as possible, his head resting on Blaine's shoulder. "Blaine," Kurt says, a tremulous voice, so tiny Blaine feels it more than hears it.

What can he even say? He tilts his head to rest it atop Kurt's and rubs his thumb as soothingly as he can manage along Kurt's back. He closes his eyes and breathes in, trying to hold them both together.