Kurt pauses, taking in the television set to ESPN and the Blaine-shaped indent in the couch. "Unlike yours."

Blaine drags a shaky hand through his hair. "Yeah, uh. Sorry. I'm not really exciting company."

Kurt's already on the way to the couch when he shakes his head dismissively. "I don't come here expecting book club discussions and tea parties." He sets his backpack down at his feet and carefully slides out a fashion magazine.

"Then... what do you come here for?" Blaine has to ask, hovering around the back of the couch.

"To let you bask in the pleasure of my company." Kurt looks up at him and offers a too-casual shrug, barely holding back a smile. "Or maybe because I like to bask in yours. Now, sit down and tell me all about the charity dinner while I flip through this. We haven't really seen you since it happened -- have you been hiding in here? It wasn't that bad, was it?"

"It wasn't bad at all," Blaine admits, sitting down a respectable cushion away from Kurt. "It was just exhausting."

"Hm, I'll bet."

"We made more than I thought we would, which is the biggest relief." Blaine does not think about the check of Wes' that topped the gross into something more than satisfactory. "I won't be planning any bake sales for a while."

Of all of the moments from the dinner, Blaine thinks he'll remember Mia pressuring Ted Saunders into writing a bigger check the most. When he's dying, there will be a second where he recalls the disapproving look on her face and the "come on, that's just stingy" with a fond smile and embarrassment so acute it makes him want to twitch. He kind of wants to tell Kurt, but he can't quite laugh the mortification away yet. The bright side is that her bullying worked.

"I'm glad. You were so stressed out." He gives Blaine an up and down glance, taking in his frizzy hair and track pants that are a size too big. "You still are. Have you slept?"

"Yeah. A bit. I was thinking of taking a nap before you showed up."

"That's a good idea. You should go lie down. It'll give your eyes a chance for the puffiness to fade --" how perfectly blunt of him "-- and for me to make dinner."

He reaches over to Blaine's coffee table and stabs the power button on his remote with finality. Apparently Kurt isn't a fan of ESPN.

"You're making dinner?" Blaine asks. "I don't know what I have in my fridge--"

"I've got it covered. Go to sleep and leave me alone."

Blaine stands and stretches until his spine cracks. Kurt eyes the strip of skin that's bared by Blaine's shirt rising, but he goes back to his magazine and Blaine pads down the hall to his room. He wants to think of something coy to toss over his shoulder, something to make Kurt follow him, but he wants sleep, and if Kurt's there next to him he'll only be able to trace his hands over his features, taste him. And Blaine knows Kurt's pissed when he's derailed from any of his plans.

Later, he thinks, sinking between his sheets.

--

His body wakes up of its own accord a few hours later. Blaine rolls over and blinks at the clock by his bedside until the neon blur comes into focus; six-thirty, and he went to sleep around three. Kurt probably should have woken him by now. He must be bored out of his skull.

He throws off the covers and tries to throw off the lingering sleepiness that's dogging him in turn. It's dark in his room, fall sunsets being what they are, and Blaine was feeling pretty cozy until he realized he had to get up.

When he opens the door and walks down the dark hallway toward the inviting light filling the rest of the apartment, he takes a moment to process the changes to his kitchen -- and the sock-clad boy who orchestrated it all.

Kurt has found his best dinnerware, a set of classic ceramic plates that have unsurprisingly spent the last few years collecting dust in his cabinets. Full sets of silverware are lined up next to each plate, every utensil in its place from the salad fork to the soup spoon. Cloth napkins (utility and presence, Blaine remembers from Kurt's lesson when they planned the charity dinner) are folded on top of the plates, dainty and waiting.

Kurt himself is standing at the stove, stirring something. He hasn't noticed Blaine yet, and Blaine gets to watch him unselfconsciously as he picks up a serving spoon and tastes something from the pan. From the brief, obscured glance he gets, it looks light and creamy, but he can't wager a real guess as to what it could be.

Blaine can see the careful effort Kurt has put into the set-up, from the symmetry of the silverware to the chef-ready presentation of the meal, but somehow he knows that Kurt has held back, and that that's part of the show, too. The napkins aren't molded into swans, which he knows Kurt is actually capable of doing, and even though he's lit a handful of vanilla candles, he's kept the lights on and the stereo tuned to top 40 radio. It's warm, relaxed, and intimate -- exactly what Blaine didn't know he wanted, and far more than he'd imagined.

"Kurt..." Blaine starts, because he doesn't know what to say.

Kurt turns, gives him a quick smile. "How was your nap?" he asks, like he hasn't taken over Blaine's kitchen and his dining table and all the spare thoughts in his head.

"It was… good." Blaine adds, awkwardly, "thank you." Out of all the things he could thank Kurt for, he's not sure which one he's acknowledging.

Kurt shrugs it off, flitting from stove to counter as he puts the last of it together. He's dressed down, just fitted jeans and a t-shirt with his hair a little tousled. The vest he had on earlier is folded neatly across the back of the couch, presumably to save it from cooking mishaps. Kurt's there, slotted into place in Blaine's kitchen, comfortable and attainable, an arm's length away.

"Take a seat," Kurt says as he sets a bottle of red wine down in the middle of the table. "It's ready."

Blaine puts his urge to touch Kurt on hold and sits, incredulous anew at the table in front of him. He unfolds his napkin and drapes it across his lap. His eyes hold on Kurt as he bustles around, bringing platters and bowls from the kitchen, haricot and risotto (of course it's risotto instead of mashed potatoes or something equally pedestrian) and absolutely none of that was in Blaine's fridge. Certainly not the lamb.

He wants to ask what Kurt spent on it, but that's rude and mood-shattering. It's painful to picture Kurt, who skimps on the things he loves, shirts and dress shoes and CDs, buying food for the two of them. He shakes his head and stares up at Kurt carefully pouring two glasses of wine.

"What?" he asks when he notices Blaine staring, and he can see a split-second of nervousness cross his face.

"Nothing," Blaine says, smiling at him for reassurance. "It looks great."

"I forgot to ask if you like lamb."

"I do. Sit down and stop fussing and have dinner with me."

Kurt shoots him a look but drops down into his own chair. Blaine's dining room table only seats four, so they're close, but as Kurt intently serves himself a spoonful of risotto, he wishes they were closer.

--

Kurt's only had the one glass of wine -- which might not be kosher, but Blaine's parents started letting him have a glass on Christmas or Thanksgiving when he was thirteen, and by the time he was eighteen it was on more than special occasions. Kurt's seventeen and giggly, sweet and carefree with the wine adding a flush to his face. Blaine leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, just taking him in.

"You're stunning," he says.

Kurt drops his elbows onto the table, a self-conscious glitch in his impeccable manners, and shakes his head. "You know you can let people do nice things for you without showering them in flattery afterwards, right?"

Blaine makes a noise of protest, but instead of trying to vocalize it he pushes his empty plate out of range and holds his hand out for Kurt. "C'mere."

Kurt props his chin on his hand. "Where?"

His finger crooks in. "Here."

Kurt slides out from his chair, shuffling a few steps over until his knees bump into Blaine's. Blaine lets his palms settle right below the curve of Kurt's ass, curling around the back of his thighs to hold him in place.

Kurt slips an arm around his shoulders, and Blaine feels the tip of his thumb brush along the shell of his ear. "Here?"

"No. Here." There's not any space to separate them but Blaine presses against his thighs to edge him in closer.

Kurt starts to slide a knee up on the side of the chair, so he guides Kurt all the way into his lap, locking his arms around Kurt's waist, warm and possessive. Blaine hears a tiny, barely-there laugh as Kurt lets his weight settle fully onto Blaine's thighs, punctuated by close-mouthed kisses fluttered along the outer curve of Blaine's ear.

"Here," Kurt says with some finality.

He hums an affirmative, dragging his lips along Kurt's collar and ending with a kiss pressed to the middle of his chest. "Here."

Somehow his fingers start tucking themselves into Kurt's back pockets, and it's all he can do not to squeeze and press up into him, especially as Kurt starts to leave a trail of tiny pecks along the line of his jaw.

"Admit it," Kurt murmurs, sounding rather self-satisfied as he takes the time to explore Blaine's neck. "You needed that nap, that dinner, and me."

Blaine chuckles, feels the way his body shakes into Kurt's. "I admit it. Without you I'd have sent out charity invitations for the wrong day, seated everyone on upside-down buckets, worn a crooked bowtie to the dinner, then ended up alone tonight with Rafael Nadal on ESPN, eating a bag of chips."

"With puffy eyes," Kurt reminds him. He tips Blaine's chin up with his knuckles, giving him a once-over. "Mm. They look better now."

Blaine's tempted to roll his eyes, but that move belongs to Kurt. He's slowly dragging his hands out of Kurt's back pockets because he needs to slide them under his shirt, notch them up his spine and let his nails graze over his unmarked skin. Kurt keeps shifting a little, back-and-forth in his lap -- ticklish, maybe? -- as his hands go higher and Blaine has to swallow down a groan. He rests his forehead against Kurt's chest, and when he lets his fingertips press into Kurt's back, it's only the slightest reprieve and the slowest sieve.

"Bed?" Kurt inhales, hopeful and scared and needy, all at once.

Blaine takes in a shuddering breath, feeling Kurt's t-shirt soft under his eyelids, the slope of his nose aligned with the side of Kurt's ribs.

"Yeah," he says as soon as he dares to exhale. "Let's go."

--

"Wait, hang on..." Blaine lifts up from his station on the underside of Kurt's jaw, wiping away the spit that still clings to his lips with the back of his hand.

Kurt's hands had been underneath Blaine's shirt, mapping thumb-breadth by thumb-breadth across his chest, but then they'd slipped out and went somewhere that was not on Blaine's body and... was that the sound of a zipper?

"What're you doing?" Blaine asks, sounding a little more rough and turned-on than he expected.

"Helping this along," Kurt replies matter-of-factly, though it doesn't escape Blaine's notice that his voice is pitched higher than usual.

"With..." Blaine pulls back just enough to actually see, and he swears he can feel his stomach invert itself when he realizes that Kurt is unbuttoning his own pants, wiggling his hips to help ease the unnecessarily tight denim down.

Kurt is occupied with taking his pants off, and doesn't stop squirming around even when he answers. "I have to be back at the house in two and a half hours," he says, and Blaine's staring at his hipbones as they're bared, too-tight friction catching his boxerbriefs and dragging them down along for the ride. Kurt stops and awkwardly holds one hand over his underwear to keep them in place while he uses the other to keep peeling off his jeans. "You took a three-hour nap and dinner ran longer than I'd planned."

Blaine is close to asking how long Kurt seriously thinks this -- whatever this is -- is going to last in their window of time, but Kurt's pants have cleared his thighs and his t-shirt is riding up his stomach as he moves around. He doesn't even have the wherewithal to blink.

"Well?" Kurt's kicking his pants off his ankles, looking up at Blaine.

He can't help it; his eyes do a rush job of looking at the new parts of Kurt that have been bared to him, and zero in on the way he can tell Kurt is half hard. "Yes?" Blaine answers, and fuck, he is way too old for his voice to break.

"You too," Kurt nods at him, and like he doesn't expect Blaine to be able to do it on his own, his fingers are circling underneath Blaine's waistband to tug his trackpants down, too. Blaine shivers as Kurt's blunt nails skim over the thin skin at his abdomen; he feels the resonant spike of lust all the way down his legs as he kicks his pants down.

They've been in this position before, sort of, and it spares them from a potentially precarious moment when Kurt realizes that Blaine's gone without anything under his pants. He watches Kurt's mouth part, his torso suddenly tense with focus, and this isn't the decisive onslaught of that time on the couch. This time is thoughtful, experimental; Kurt drags a light, curious finger up the shaft of his dick and follows it up with a more sure press from the heel of his hand.

But it is like the time on the couch after all, because Kurt's hand is on him, and while Kurt's jeans might be on the floor, he is still wearing miles more than Blaine is. And it feels really, really dumb to be mostly naked instead of fully naked, so he takes care of that by pulling his shirt up and over his head, launching it toward his bathroom where the hamper is.

Kurt makes a contented little noise and pets his way across Blaine's chest, brushing his lips in the wake of his hands as he finally has a chance to see what he's only felt. Blaine lets his head fall back on the pillow with a sigh, and when he opens his eyes up again all he sees is the meticulously crafted pouf of his swept up bangs and the pane of his back from the peek Kurt's dropped shoulder gives him. Blaine tries not to be obvious when he cranes to get a better look, but every time Blaine's gotten to see the back of him, he's been wearing layer upon layer of clothing. Kurt's black boxerbriefs are thin, molded to his shape, and favor the slope of his ass. He nearly makes a really fucked up sound; apparently those jeans Kurt's fond of painting himself into every day are unflattering.

Kurt pokes his head up, looking for reassurance after Blaine basically checked out on him, so Blaine cups a hand over his cheek and coaxes him in, dropping a kiss to the bridge of his nose. He reaches for the hem of Kurt's shirt to tug it on over his head, but Kurt jolts back with a disapproving, high-pitched sound.

Blaine freezes. "I'm sor--"

"No, stop, you're just doing it out of order." Kurt's up on his hands and knees, contorting to reach his feet. "Socks first," he explains as he tugs them up from his toes, and when they're off he lets them drop off the side the bed, "then shirt. We're not cavemen."

Blaine chokes out a laugh, because god, this kid is going to make his blood pressure skyrocket before he even gets to thirty-seven. "Kurt," Blaine starts, setting his hand onto his shoulder, "I need you to write me a handbook of all the rules. Like, a user manual."

Kurt rolls his eyes and moves Blaine's hand back to the hem of his shirt. "It's not that complicated."

He waits to see if there's another step he's missed, but Kurt just returns the look, waiting in turn. Blaine hikes his shirt up a few inches, and Kurt raises his arms above his head, the way Blaine used to when his mom helped him get dressed as a kid. His shirt comes off with one intent pull, and Blaine is in a hurry to not deal with clothes anymore, so he tosses it across the room with a flick of his wrist.

Kurt settles back onto his side, and Blaine almost startles like a fool when he realizes what it is he's looking at. Somewhere in his head he forgot the part where taking off Kurt's shirt would mean he'd see Kurt shirtless, his arms loosely draped to rest over his stomach, shoulders subtly curled forward. He's so close to what the flashes of Blaine's prurient imagination provided; pale, the black of his underwear such a contrast that they seem to divide one part of him from another, and he's close to hairless on his chest, but not as raw-boned as Blaine might have expected.

"Oh, sweetheart," Blaine says through a tight throat.

Kurt's shoulders hunch in a little more, and he finds a sudden fascination in the stitching on Blaine's comforter. Blaine strokes a finger down the soft hair at the nape of his neck, wanting Kurt to meet his eyes again. Kurt's always been a study of contradictions -- sweet and sour, quiet and loud, a weary adult in a teenage boy's body. Sometimes Blaine can glance at his face and read novels, but he can shut down, too, and when he does he's as accessible to Blaine as a dial tone.

"You're..." He exhales; he doesn't even know how to describe to Kurt what he sees when he looks at him. He threads his fingers into Kurt's hair, nudging his head up as gently as he can -- and it's there in Kurt's eyes, not what he had anticipated but at least what he had wondered would surface, if he ever let himself picture this. Blaine doesn't remember the first time he shed his clothes to be this close and exposed to someone else as well as he wishes he could, but certainly his heart had raced and his confidence had knotted up in his stomach. It had helped to recognize that he and the guy he'd been with were balancing on the same ledge -- this was new for both of them, and if they messed up or got something wrong, they were in it together.

With Kurt, the ground is uneven, and Kurt's by himself on the ledge. Blaine is the first person in his life to make him feel attractive or wanted. He's never been another man's boyfriend or lover, and right now he's improvising the role without really knowing the lines.

Blaine wants to be the one who teaches him.

"I love your neck." Blaine trails his knuckles down to Kurt's shoulder, rubbing briefly over the hollow of his clavicle.

Kurt flashes an expression Blaine can't nail down, but he hasn't drawn away at the touch, so he keeps a steady eye on Kurt's reaction as he continues the drag down to the top of his chest. "Granted, this is the most I've seen of it, so I'm a little overwhelmed," he goes on, keeping his voice casual.

The huff of Kurt's startled breath as Blaine's finger catches over his nipple suspends between them for a moment. He nearly stalls, but Kurt only swallows and closes his eyes for a second. Blaine moves on, tracing the ridges of his ribs, taut skin stretched over them.

"You can stop me if I do something, you know, you don't like," Blaine offers, hoping Kurt will take it to heart.

Kurt just shakes his head. Blaine can't tell if he means it or if his patented stubbornness is winning out. Not exactly reassured, Blaine spreads his palm over Kurt's stomach, feeling the tense rise and fall of his breath under his hand. When Kurt doesn't so much as blink, Blaine makes another wager and presses his lips to Kurt's neck. He meant what he said; it's lovely, and up until tonight, it was the most he'd gotten to see and touch of Kurt. It's a familiar thing for both of them, and he gets the feeling that they need familiar to start with.

He skims his teeth over Kurt's skin and smiles to himself at the heavy exhale he gets in return. Kurt drops the pads of his fingertips to Blaine's shoulder, unconsciously using the barest pressure to encourage him. Blaine feels flush as he dips back into the curve of Kurt's neck, following the line of it down to his throat. This close he can feel the thrum of blood under Kurt's skin and the increasing labor of his breath. When he kisses wet over his collarbone, Kurt shifts against his sheets.

Okay. That's good. Blaine doesn't feel so much like he's grasping at straws. He does it again, and Kurt's reaction isn't as obvious, just a deeper inhalation, but he clearly likes it. He trails kisses lower and lower and lower until he finds himself bracing his hands on Kurt's chest and kissing to the left of his nipple. They're already pulled small and tight, darker points of color in his fair chest. There's still no negative reaction from Kurt, but just to be sure he raises his eyes and keeps them trained on Kurt as he slowly pulls the flat of his tongue across it.

Kurt actually makes a noise, a -- there's no other word for it -- peep of surprise. His fingers tighten on Blaine's shoulder, but Kurt doesn't pull him closer or push him away, and when Blaine seals his mouth and sucks, his fingers dig in even harder. It sends a pang of holyshit through Blaine, this sensation of playing with it, the knot of Kurt's nipple under his tongue as he worries it, and then he just throbs as Kurt starts to move around again.

"Good?" he asks, pulling back to check, distracted by the barely-there shine to Kurt's nipple, the proof of what he's done. Kurt doesn't answer him, so he forces himself to stop staring and look up.

Kurt looks shell-shocked, which raises his concern for a moment, but he gives a quick nod and pulls his lower lip between his teeth.

"Okay if I keep going?"

Kurt nods again, and Blaine settles in this time, loosening the tension in his shoulders and pushing his hips into the mattress to take the edge off, confident he's probably not going to fuck it up. He presses his open mouth over Kurt's other nipple, flickering the tip of his tongue.

This time, Kurt's hips unmistakably jolt. Blaine pushes aside his own reaction to that and goes for broke, sucking and licking and scraping with his teeth until Kurt's bare calves are restless against the sheets, his knees drawing up, feet planted flat on the mattress.

He starts a row of kisses down Kurt's sternum, happy when fingers tangle in his hair, happier still that it isn't stiff with gel. Kurt's body is so responsive, and he doesn't know why this is novel to him. Kurt's always so expressive around him, the dam of his constant reserve in front of others leaking for once, and the part of Blaine that went insane one random night and kissed him for the first time keeps reminding him that Kurt's never been touched, that his reactions are unschooled and genuine.

"You can stop me," Blaine says, slurred into the skin above Kurt's navel. "Jesus, you're smooth." He skirts his fingertips above Kurt's waistband, barely feeling fuzz there.

Kurt makes a pained noise -- Blaine should have known he would be sensitive about that. Kurt's very much solid in himself and most things slide off of his back remarkably, but Blaine has seen him shut down or get vicious if someone calls him a girl. He's boyish, is the thing; his stomach is soft and flat, showing resistance of muscle only when Blaine presses hard with his hands and mouth. The first time Blaine came when he really thought about how Kurt looks, and what it means that Blaine likes how soft and slim and pure he is, he freaked out a little.

"You're fucking gorgeous," Blaine says unevenly, fingers itching to slide under Kurt's waistband. He's fully hard, and all it would take to really see is sliding down a few more inches. He doesn't know how much he bothered Kurt with his comment, and short of putting the whole thing on hold so they can sort it out, he can't do much to fix it except be cautious.

"Blaine," Kurt says, quiet but needy, hands petting through his hair like Blaine is the one who needs soothing.

"You can stop me," he says again stupidly, helplessly, squeezing Kurt's waist. He watches his hands pull at Kurt's underwear until, fuck fuck fuck, he can see the hair there, coarse and a little lighter than the hair on Kurt's head.

His cock is thick, which he already knew, but not pale like he'd pictured, blood-flushed and so close to Blaine's mouth. He has to remind his hands to keep moving, remind himself to sit back so he can work Kurt's boxerbriefs down his thighs, his calves, his ankles.

Oral sex was a really big deal for him, when he was Kurt's age. He remembers the slight edge of panic that lurked in his mind when he thought about it, whether he'd like to do it, or if he'd be any good at it.

He's pretty good at it. He mouths over the head of Kurt's cock, inhaling when the taste of him hits his tongue, the little bit of slick there. He flutters his tongue against the crown, getting him wet, getting him used to it. It's difficult to go slowly; what he wants is hard and fast, Kurt filling his senses, pulling every noise he can get from him. He brings his hands to Kurt's hips and tilts him up, holds him there, digging his fingers into the fleshy area above his ass, and being that close to something else it drives him crazy to think about, to being able to do the things he wants to, makes him light-headed.

He can show Kurt what it's like, the slow suction as he slides his lips down, up. Kurt makes a sound that has Blaine rubbing up against the mattress, and he can't draw it out, not when he's able to do this and he knows that it's good for Kurt too. He takes Kurt in until he hits the back of his throat, spasming for a second until his body remembers that he knows exactly how to do this, even if it's been a while since he's needed to.

"Oh, oh my God," Kurt whispers. Blaine can feel him shaking.

Blaine sucks him with single trick he's learned and every technique he's shamelessly ripped off, trying to overload him, make him feel better than he ever has. He begrudgingly moves one of his hands out from under Kurt and wraps it around the base, pulling off to get a few deep breaths. Blaine keeps stroking him, feeling the way he fills out Blaine's palm, slippery, precome beading at the tip, and looks up to see how he's doing.

Kurt's head is tilted back on the pillows and he's staring wide-eyed up at the ceiling, breathing harsh and irregular. He folds his lips over a whimper when Blaine twists his fingers around the head the way he likes, and Blaine needs to really look at him, needs to read his face.

"Hey," he says, slowing. "Look at me?"

Kurt shakes his head frantically, his right hand knotting a fistful of Blaine's navy sheets. Blaine squeezes his hand, though he's not sure if that's really going to be encouragement. When that provokes another choked off noise, Blaine speeds up a little.

He's a wreck, panting, starting to squirm again, and Blaine did that.

"God, you're so good. Let me take care of you." He goes to take him all the way to his throat again, eyes closing, and it barely registers when it happens; Kurt whines and then splashes of wet hit his lips, his chin, even one streak up to the apple of his cheek.

He made Kurt come, just from that. Kurt came all over his face. Blaine groans and licks the salt of him from his lips, and he's so turned on that when he opens his eyes Kurt's blurry in front of him.

Kurt just lies there, shuddering, and Blaine wants to crawl on top of him and press him down with his weight into the mattress, rub his cock right up against him, but he imagines he's pretty sensitive right now. He lets him lie there for a while, stroking his hips, but all of a sudden, Kurt starts.

"Ohmygod," Kurt says, sitting up, his hands flighting like birds. He starts to slide up the bed, knocking his knees into a suddenly confused and barely functional Blaine. "I am so -- this is so --"

"Kurt?" Blaine asks, sitting up too.

Kurt gets a look at his face and recoils. "That was disgusting, I'm sorry, I didn't mean --" His voice starts rising, and Blaine hurriedly catches his wrists.

"Don't be sorry," he says. "God, Kurt. I liked it."

"What?" Kurt asks, clearly astonished and not a little dubious, and Blaine can see he's trying to make himself look at Blaine's face again, but he's wincing every time he tries.

"You got me so close, just from that."

Kurt's eyes widen and his hands twitch in Blaine's grasp. He lets him go. "I," he bites his lip briefly. "If you could... I want to -- could you wash your face?" he asks miserably.

Even though Blaine was definitely not kidding about being close, at freaking all, he can't help laughing. He laughs all the way to the bathroom, rolling his shoulders and trying to ignore how unsexy he must seem right now, what with his awkward erection and Kurt's horror at -- well. He grabs a washrag from its hook and wets it with warm water in the sink. He gets a good look at himself in his mirror; flushed and positively debauched, still a little turned on by the streaks across his face. It only takes a few drags of the cloth before all traces of Kurt are gone, and he smiles ruefully at his reflection while he rinses it again.

When he comes out, Kurt has collected himself somewhat, Blaine's sheets drawn over his lap.

"Hi," Blaine says, resisting the urge to hold his hands over his erection, which is still stubbornly hard.

Kurt plucks folds of sheets between his fingers and doesn't look up at Blaine as he does so. "I'm sorry," he mumbles.

"Stop apologizing," Blaine says, climbing onto the bed, chancing his luck by lying next to Kurt, but the only parts of them that are touching are through the sheet. His fingers reach out of their own accord and rest lightly on Kurt's knee under the covers. He gives it a squeeze. "I know you're embarrassed but it was fine."

Kurt scoffs, shaking his head, the cleft of his chin especially prominent with how tensely he's holding his face, his entire body. "It is decidedly not fine. It was rude and -- and gross and I don't want to think about what it did to your skin."

"You may have a point there," Blaine says wryly, trying to get Kurt to unwind. Kurt just shakes his head again, so obviously that didn't work. "Can you look at me?"

Kurt does, and Blaine thinks it's the first time they've made eye contact in a while. Blaine smooths his hand up and down Kurt's knee and shin, the silky texture overlaying Kurt's leg, the shinbone hard underneath, is an appealing contrast.

He shuffles around on the bed some, feeling starkly naked next to Kurt with his protective sheet, which he is pulling up until it rests just under his nipples. Blaine gets close enough for them to kiss but doesn't go there yet.

"It was your first time, so you don't..." He sighs, not unhappily. "It's not rude. I mean, generally there's some sort of warning but, God so not a problem for me. I didn't mind it at all," he says pointedly, watching Kurt's mouth slacken in this mixture of bewilderment and dawning understanding. "I liked it." The way he's resting on his side, propped up on his shoulder, is getting uncomfortable, but he doesn't notice it at all when he remembers how it happened and looks at Kurt's full, parted mouth. He moves his hand to it and ghosts his fingers across the tender skin. "I liked the way you taste."

Kurt looks even more bewildered then, but when he gets Blaine's so-not-about-kissing meaning, he blanches and looks wary. Blaine drops his hand. "I have a hard time... I thought that sort of thing was just something for those movies," he says with a gravity like he's referring to snuff films.

Blaine takes a moment to consider Kurt watching porn, trying to imagine what those movies could have possibly been. God knows what the internet led him to. "It's not. It's really not."

"Oh." Kurt looks less freaked out now. Blaine slides a hand up his thigh, not trying to be sexual about it, just intimate or reassuring, but right now -- though he's thankfully not as single-mindedly hard as he was a few minutes ago -- it feels electric to him. "I suppose," he allows.

Blaine smiles, finally tilting his head up for a kiss that Kurt doesn't hesitate to grant him. He lets Kurt direct it, calm now that the adrenalin is wearing off and his body can slip into the happy, sleepy buzz that comes after sex.

Kurt leans to get a better angle to the kiss, and the sheet falls back to his hips, giving Blaine an expanse of skin to touch again. He rests his palm on Kurt's stomach, just feeling, hips shifting closer to the warm body next to him, and Kurt makes an urgent noise against his mouth.

"Blaine!"

"What?"

"You should have said something!" His eyes are narrowed, and he draws his knees up to give him leverage as he scoots up the bed.

"About what?" Blaine asks, wondering why warm and skin is being taken away from him.

"You didn't," he says, twitching his fingers in a vague gesture.

Oh. That. He's really naked and yeah, pretty much. "It's not like there's etiquette for this sort of thing, don't worry about it."

Kurt gives him an intensely unimpressed look. "Of course there is. I'm not about to... Come here."

Not entirely sure what Kurt wants to him to do, or where 'here' is, Blaine sits up, his shoulder nearly singing with relief, and to his surprise, Kurt pulls him in so Blaine's erection is pressed against his side.

"Like this," Kurt says, moving around again once he realizes the position he was going for didn't work out the way he wanted it to. "On top of me." He holds Blaine back for a second while he peels back the sheet, but his movement has a hitch. "Unless you don't want that."

"No," Blaine says, breathless at the way the sheets slide against his cock in a brief moment of contact. "This is great." The next breath he takes splits off into a groan as Kurt, naked again, fits them together so Blaine's rubbing right against his hip, close to his stomach. "Fuck. Aren't you sensitive?"

"I'm fine," Kurt says softly, flattening his palms against Blaine's back, urging him down. "I want you to."

"Shit," Blaine says, bracing himself above Kurt and giving an experimental roll of his hips. He doesn't mean to keep cursing like an idiot -- Kurt doesn't swear much, Blaine doesn't know if that means he doesn't like it -- but every sensation he gets when they're like this short-circuits his brain.

Their thighs slide together as Blaine moves, and it isn't the most comfortable he's ever been; they could really use some lube, and he's hyper-aware of the fact that this is all about him, Kurt kissing his jaw and nipping his lower lip and staring up at him with curious, attentive eyes. He grinds down, hiccupping on a moan as Kurt's hands slide lower down his body and settle above his ass, pressing insistently.

He picks up speed, letting the fact that there's so little slick between them make it better, dirtier, licking unsteadily into Kurt's mouth, too much teeth. He was so close for so long, their detour didn't do much to kill how badly he wanted this, and by the time Kurt's breath starts picking up, Blaine's almost there.

"I'm going to, baby, I'm close, fuck," Blaine says, eloquent as ever. Kurt whines and clenches his fingers into the meat of Blaine's ass.

Now the mattress is squeaking, Blaine jostling Kurt with every thrust. The sound and the movement is so close to something else, and it's that thought that gets him there, smashing them into a kiss as he comes all over the two of them, Kurt's soft little stomach and sharp hip, spreading sticky wetness all over himself too.

Kurt mmphs when Blaine slumps on top of him, breathing hard, but he cradles him, bracketing Blaine's lower body snugly with his knees.

"Blaine," he whispers, arms clenching around him in a hug, sweeping his hand up and down Blaine's damp back, gentle and wonderful.

He kisses the nearest part of him he can, which turns out to be his collarbone, and leaves his mouth there, open and messy, as he tries to come back to himself.

He is eventually able to raise his head and move himself to Kurt's side so he isn't slowly suffocating him. One of Kurt's hands stays on his back to keep him anchored and close, but the other pushes back Blaine's slightly sweaty hair. He trails a finger down Blaine's cheek and smiles at him from the pillow that's completely messing up his already messy hair, and Blaine shudders a last truly overwhelmed breath.

"Good?" Kurt asks, fussily pulling at some of his curls.

"No, dummy, it was terrible." He kisses the ball of Kurt's shoulder and closes his eyes when Kurt threads his fingers through his hair. "That feels awesome."

"Hmm." Kurt scritches at his scalp and Blaine knows he has to get up and wipe them off at the very least but he's so comfortable and happy, Kurt makes him so happy. Plus he's really great with his hands. Blaine usually hates people playing with his hair. They tug on his curls like it's the most novel thing they've ever seen, and ruffle it like he's a kid. It frizzes so easily, so it's just best to remove temptation altogether with the gel. If Kurt wants to slide his fingertips through it, gentle and shiver-inducing, he can do it whenever he likes. "We should... clean up."

"I have some baby wipes. Or you could shower."

"My hair's a mess," Kurt says mournfully. "I just know it is. But I don't want to shower yet. Tired."

"Me too. I'll go get the wipes."

He doesn't move, letting Kurt lull his eyes closed with more touch.

"Blaine, it's drying, it's so gross."

"Right. Sorry." He gets up in a swift push of what's left of his energy, going into the bathroom and poking around to figure out where he left the wipes. They're in the same cupboard as his towels, which is weird and more random than he would have expected, but he pulls two out and brings both back to the bedroom.

Kurt wipes his over his skin and looks away from Blaine while he does so. He's still bared, the sheet bunched and abandoned next to him on the bed, but despite the picture of casual he makes, he's actually not.

Blaine wads his and tosses it into the wastebasket by his bed. Kurt follows, though his toss is far more careful.

"Do you want to do anything?" Blaine asks, sitting on the edge of the bed. He can feel the slight wet from the wipes drying slightly tacky on his stomach and idly rubs at it.

"I should put the leftovers away and clean up, but no."

"Look at you," Blaine says approvingly, and with some genuine wonder. "Sex mellows you out."

"Isn't it supposed to?" Kurt drawls with only the slightest lack of confidence, caving in to his own renewed skittishness and putting the sheet back over his lap.

Blaine shrugs and yawns wide, lying down next to Kurt on the bed again, over the covers while Kurt stays under. The contrast is weirdly nice, and Blaine knows without the layer of material he'd been staring unabashedly at Kurt's body, now that the arousal has faded and he can see Kurt without getting dizzy-hot again.

"Do you want to just lie down? Until you have to go?"

"That sounds nice," Kurt says mildly, his eyes heavy-lidded as he studies Blaine.

"I'll set an alarm..." Blaine offers, blindly groping around in the opposite direction of where his phone ended up.

There's a quiet chuckle from Kurt, and he just takes Blaine's hand in his own, holding it palm against palm. "I already did."

"Good boy," Blaine says, patting him once on the shoulder, then slinking his free arm around Kurt's waist to keep him close. He closes his eyes, and he can feel Kurt melt further into the bed beside him. It strikes him how easy it is to be like this, with Kurt, and the cynical side of him can't help but introduce doubt -- is it too easy? In his school days he believed in love and romance and passion like they were discrete, holistically tangible concepts that he could slip in his pocket or twirl around his finger. They got complicated as he got older, but lying here, watching Kurt's chest rise and fall... it's simple.

He's tucking his fingers into Kurt's side when the doorbell chimes.

Kurt tenses, and he groans, heart skipping a beat as he remembers that he can't remember the last person who'd rung the doorbell who hadn't been Kurt. He vaults out of bed, wobbly with the spike of nerves - Mia? Charlie? Mormons? Social Services? - and hunts for his clothes, his sweatpants a heap on the floor and his shirt near the bathroom. He opens a dresser drawer and puts on the first thing he finds; a raggedy Northwestern shirt with holes in the collar.

"Blaine?" Kurt asks, sounding worried.

Blaine's hands are absolutely not shaking. "It's all right. Just... put your clothes on?"

"Okay," Kurt says waveringly, and Blaine tugs his hair with both hands, overwhelmed, and takes a rallying breath.

The dining room is still strewn with their abandoned dinner, set with romantic intent that all but bleeds over the table. An open bottle of wine, candles, oh God oh God, please let it be Mormons.

He can't bear to look out the peephole in case it's bad and his panic will rise. Blaine's face is as neutral as he can make it when he swings the door open.

It's Wes, standing there, bags under his eyes and a familiar if harried smile, his hair slicked -- well, quite a bit like Blaine's, longer than he's seen it before. For a moment Blaine nearly slumps with relief, but then he remembers that his apartment is still a den of sin and Wes wants to come inside. Where Kurt and the remainder of the dinner of seduction is waiting.

"Hey, Wes," Blaine manages casually, cocking his hip to lean against the doorframe. "Wasn't expecting you tonight."

"I can see that," Wes says, a tinge of exasperation as he raises his eyebrows at Blaine (or possibly Blaine's hair, or Blaine's trackpants). "I called you eight times. Is there any particular reason you didn't answer?"

"My phone," Blaine remembers. "I had it turned off, I'm so sorry. I was having a lazy day and I turned it off."

"Yes, I can see that too." He seems less edgy than he was a moment before, and oh, Blaine really hopes Wes didn't think he was intentionally avoiding him. Wes is good-natured but he can get prickly. He hates it when people are rude. "I'm not staying long, I have a hotel room in town," with the kind of emphasis that Kurt would put on the town as it represents Lima, Ohio. "I thought I should check on you in person, in case there was something wrong."

"Oh. No, nothing wrong. A little tired from the charity dinner still, and incredibly sorry I accidentally ignored you, but I'm fine."

Wes nods and then pauses. "Courtesy says that you don't entertain guests on the stoop, Blaine," he says, punching Blaine in the stomach with how Kurtlike, almost verbatim Kurtlike, he sounds. And not unlike his commanding, condescending tone back at Dalton, seated at the council table.

"Of course, come in, can I fix you a drink?" Blaine says, nearly stumbling away from the door to let Wes inside.

"A drink would just put me to sleep, but thank you."

Blaine can feel it in the air when Wes notices the dinner. He feels like a plucked string.

"Yes, I can see what a lazy evening you've had. Is that risotto? I always take the time to make it on my lazy evenings in, too." Wes raises an eyebrow. "And I set a second plate. When I'm home. Alone. Who is he?"

Blaine opens his mouth to reply, but he can't quite figure out what words to string together. He moves his jaw around, tugs on the hem of his t-shirt to straighten it out.

In the bedroom, the bathroom door closes with a creak, and Blaine can hear the muted sound of water running from the sink.

Wes's eyebrow twitches higher. "He's here?"

He thinks about saying no for the briefest of moments, but it's not like he can play off the sound like it came from next door. "Yes," he admits somewhat miserably.

"Oh," Wes says, articulately. "Well, I apologize for the inconvenient timing, but maybe this will encourage you to pick up your phone." Before Blaine can wince at that all over again, Wes turns up the corners of his mouth in a wry smile. "And I do believe you promised to inform me of any developments in your love life."

"It's-- it's not," Blaine tries. "I'm not seeing anyone, this is-- Not that. He's just a friend."

Kurt strides out from the bedroom, and Blaine has never been so relieved to see anyone fully dressed and unruffled, not a strand of hair out of place, not the slightest hint of a telling blush or, God forbid, a hickey, in his life. His relief is tempered by more panic, what is Kurt doing, this is the worst possible thing. He's immaculate, but he was also in Blaine's bedroom, and there are wine glasses and candles.

Wes would never stand for Blaine's gentleman caller lurking alone in Blaine's bedroom like Mrs Rochester in the attic. Kurt would end up out here for introductions some way or another.

Blaine concentrates on looking as unfazed as possible. He swallows. "Kurt, this is Wes Montgomery. Wes, Kurt Hummel. He's one of our lodgers at Courage House. I've been, uh, helping him out with some numbers for Glee club. They have a Glee club there at McKinley again -- do you remember when we were up against them at Regionals? They had that powerhouse blonde."

"April Rhodes," Wes says, and Blaine's not at all surprised that he still remembers her name.

"Did we beat you?" Kurt asks with an easy smile, like he has these conversations in Blaine's living room all the time. He's acting too comfortable and too cheerful. Blaine wants to go crawl underneath his bed and come out some time next year. He has a feeling like a sink hole beneath him that he's not doing a great job of hiding it.

"Yep. But it was close." Wes has far too much self-control to let loose whatever is really on his mind, but Blaine swears he can see the lecture starting to weigh down his friend's tongue. He's also keeping his attention on Kurt, not sparing Blaine a glance.

"I should be heading back," Kurt declares, without balking, his tone too perfect again. "It was nice meeting you."

"Likewise," Wes says evenly.

Kurt's shoes are by the door, and there's an awkward, lagging silence while he steps into them, pulling at the tongue gently so he doesn't bend them out of shape in the process. He makes quick work of the laces and stands, walking back over to pick up his bag from near the couch. Kurt presses it to his chest and wraps both arms around it rather than slinging it over his shoulder. He heads to the front door, Blaine following him when he remembers how to work his legs without them buckling under him, and they both skirt glances at each other when he opens the door, locking only for a moment.

"Thank you," Kurt begins, his lower voice the first sign of what is really going on, and what had taken place in Blaine's bedroom not an hour ago. He's standing a respectable personal bubble of space away. "For helping me with my song, Mr Anderson."

"It was my pleasure, Kurt." He offers a smile that he hopes, hopes conveys the full, true meaning of his words. The distance of fear and the necessity of Mr Anderson, fuck, how bizarre is that, is a wall of glass. "Good -- good luck, and have a safe walk home."

"I will," Kurt says, smile freshly painted on, tossing another look and a nod to Wes on his way out of the door.

Blaine sends him off into the cold night, his breath making billows of frost in the air, dismissed and alone and having just been warm in Blaine's bed. He has to close his eyes and deal with the ache in his chest for a second before he can shut the door, shut out Kurt's disappearing silhouette.

Wes is waiting for him in the kitchen, hands tucked into his pocket with a measured casualness. His lips are pressed into a thin line, and he's looking absently towards the collection of picture frames on the other side of the room, but his eyes are distant, the gaze of someone hypnotized and sightless.

"Still sure about that drink?" Blaine asks quietly, as harmlessly as he can, even as anxiety swells and chills him like a gale wind.

"Maybe just a glass of water." Wes turns to face him, his expression as tight and guarded as Blaine's ever seen it. The silence is thick as Blaine goes for the drink, and every ice cube that clinks into the glass gives away the shaking of his hands.

He can't meet Wes's gaze as he passes it over -- he just sees his hands, maybe a little smaller than average, blunt nails, wide knuckles and a fading tan. Kurt's hands are bigger, he's noticed, and they have presence. His seem so useless right now.

"Thank you." It's his apartment, but Wes spreads his hand towards the living room sofa, indicating that they should sit. Blaine follows like there's a tug on his leash, but it feels like closing in on a guillotine.

"I..." Wes starts, dropping his elbows onto his knees and staring into the empty space between, shaking his head. "What the hell is going on? Blaine, he looks fourteen." His head comes up, forehead creased and eyes thoroughly incredulous. "Is he?"

"No," spits out of him in a defensive tone he isn't able to contain. It's a sharp barb; at Kurt's first steps into Courage House, tilting his head to glance both ways down the hallway like he was checking that the street's safe to cross, Blaine pegged him as fourteen. Fifteen, maybe. "He's seventeen."

"Seventeen," Wes repeats in disbelief.

Too late, Blaine realizes that his quick defense is damning. He knew he'd crumble if Wes truly saw through his weak excuses -- he can't lie, not baldly - but he didn't know he would dig his own grave and happily jump down into it. "He's more of an adult than most people I know," he says, regretting the way he sounds like a father singing his son's praises.

"Even so," Wes is unrelenting, "have you... have you even thought about this? What this looks like?" His eyes turn hard, harder than Blaine's ever seen them. "Tell me this hasn't happened before."

"Of course not," Blaine denies with such vehemence that he nearly gags on the words. He's not prepared for how much the veiled accusation prickles. "You know goddamned well that I'm not like that. No."

Wes adopts a more conciliatory tone, but he's still visibly strained. "I know. I don't know what to think. I see -- this and... it's all rather hard to swallow." He exhales, looks up to catch Blaine's eyes. "How long?"

Blaine tries to gather up enough information to answer -- how long has he known Kurt? How long since he realized he was attracted to him? How long have they been -- like this? How long since they first had sexual contact? It's all a fluid fucking mess and he can't explain it to himself on the best days, and when he opens his mouth he doesn't know what he's going to say, but Wes cuts him off before he can. "You know what? Never mind. The less I know, the better."

"No--" Blaine protests, "You have a right to understand. What you saw--"

"I don't want to know, Blaine. All I need you to tell me is that you're aware of the consequences should this get out. That you've thought about this, that you're not just lonely and trying to deal with turning forty in the next few years. That you know what it means for him and his future." Wes carries on, laying out the facts he's gleaned from years of watching Blaine fumble his way in and out of relationships ass over teakettle. "You're impulsive, you keep your heart out on your doorstep, and you could never say no to a charity case. Is this any different?" His tone suggests that he doesn't think so, and his raised eyebrows are slamming his lack of faith in Blaine home like a hammer to a nail.

Blaine isn't sure if he should feel offended or ashamed. Twinges of both bite at him, and he pushes his mouth closed in a firm line before opening it again. "No. Kurt is not a charity case, and I'm not having some delusional midlife crisis. I am actually capable of making judgment calls, and I can do so without turning into a cynic." His pointed is perilously close to petulant.

"You're risking your career," Wes points out unnecessarily, and with a minute shake of his head. He drags his fingers through his hair, a move so startlingly un-Wes. It's still weird to see him with longer hair. "Which you know." He sighs, shifting his weight on the couch like he's considering his options, then starts to stand up. "I don't have to tell you that."

"No, you don't." Blaine says it quietly, like he still fears for lines he could cross. He gets to his feet a moment after Wes.

"I'm... I'm going to go now," Wes says with a delicate finality, casting once last tired glance across the room. "I'll talk to you later." He opens the door, eyeing Blaine, and takes an unbalanced step towards him that brings his hand up to Blaine's shoulder. "Take care." He double-takes at his own hand and it is seriously awkward until he pulls it back like he can't believe he did it in the first place.

Then he's gone.

Blaine clicks the lock behind him and leans his back against the closed door for a complete lack of something better to do. The disquiet lingers for a moment before he exhales Wes and Kurt from his mind. He considers the leftovers sitting out and the pots in the sink. They'll spoil if he doesn't tend to them soon.

--- tbc