Chapter five- that time when we called it love

The second the door closes, the light fades out. Blaine presses his knuckles to his mouth to avoid screaming.

"Shit," Kurt mutters, and the light flickers back on to reveal him standing with his hand on the switch. "All right," Kurt says, eyes impossibly blue and boring into Blaine's, "they're gonna expect that we're doing stuff. Want to fulfill their expectations, or just sit here for seven minutes?" Blaine realizes with a start that of course Kurt doesn't know what he was thinking, nor about Blaine's boner, and that he's not gonna push anything with Blaine. And Blaine doesn't know how to answer. Again.

He shrugs. "I don't know," he says, and casts his gaze to the floor. Kurt's not gonna do anything with him anyways. Kurt doesn't like him like that, right?

"Are you going to ask me what I want to do?"

Kurt's voice comes softly and Blaine thinks he imagined it until he realizes that Kurt's giving him an invitation.

Blaine looks up slowly and almost gasps because Kurt is just, very close to him, and very beautiful, and Blaine's breath is suddenly lacking from his body. He struggles, to breathe, to speak, to say—"Aren't you going to tell me?"

"I want," Kurt starts too quickly, like he's practiced a response, and stops when he trips over the first two words. "I, well, I don't know what you want, and I'm not going to force you to do stuff, and I know it's awkward and it's confusing, and I also know that you're really beautiful, and I'd like to kiss you."

*

Kurt:

I did not mean to say that. Fuck. Please let this not be weird please let this not be weird please let this not be weird why do I fuck things up so much?

*

Oh. With that, Blaine has to actually close his eyes or else he might faint. He might faint anyways. He thinks it's from happiness. Happiness. What did happiness feel like, back when he was happy? He doesn't know. But he thinks it's something close to this.

"Sorry," Kurt is saying, and he's backing away—what did Blaine do—Blaine disappointed him.

"No—Kurt—I—" Blaine shakes his head. "No, I want, I want, I'd like that too." His eyes are still closed. He inhales a deep, shaking breath and feels long fingers sweeping over his pulse.

"Okay," Kurt says, "but one thing?"

"Yeah?"

"Open your eyes," Kurt whispers, and Blaine does, and Kurt is so close, leaning in then pressing their bodies flush, and his eyes are shimmering blue-green-gray and his nose piercing is glinting in the wobbling light of the closet, and his lips are pale pink and they are—on Blaine's lips. Blaine is being kissed. By Kurt.

It takes him a moment, but he kisses back despite being pressed against the closet door, and his eyes are still open, because Kurt's have slid shut and his eyelashes are fanning lightly over his high cheekbones and Blaine has never, ever seen anything so beautiful. Kurt's mouth is sweet and dry on his, and their noses bump accidentally but Kurt tilts his head and Kurt opens his mouth to, oh, lick at Blaine's lips gently, and Blaine opens his mouth in response and then there is tongue and Blaine is thinking that the taste of alcohol is really, really disgusting, especially when mixed with that of Doritos, but his eyes slide shut anyways and Kurt's hand is grasping Blaine's wrist firmly now, and his other hand has come to cup Blaine's cheek gently, and Blaine thinks maybe he should be doing something with his hands. He manages to pull Kurt closer to him with his right hand landing on the small of Kurt's back, and his left hand is kind of occupied being held by Kurt's right hand, but he holds it back tightly and think that's enough.

—what the hell are you doing—

—stop him—

—freak—

There are voices and Blaine doesn't know whose they are or why they're there but suddenly everything in his body is screaming at him to stop, and he pulls away, and his hand falls away from Kurt's back, and his lips leave Kurt's.

Blaine thinks he should say something, but Kurt's eyes have opened and he is looking at Blaine.

"Is something wrong?" he asks, words forming a hesitant, fragile flower that is not yet ready to bloom.

"No—yes—I don't know," Blaine says, and hates himself in that instant. He just—he's so fucking stupid. He doesn't even know what he's doing and it was probably a pity kiss and only that and he's feeling horribly trapped, claustrophobic, the closet is small and seems even smaller through the blurred vision of his tearing eyes. He thinks he might throw up. He wants to throw up. He wants to feel the strong, bitter taste of alcohol leave his throat and be replaced by the quivering sweetness lingering in the back of his mouth, he wants to feel Kurt's lips on him again, and he can almost imagine their soft pinkness smoothing over his skin, he wants to leave this stupid fucking party and get out of this house with its pink wallpaper and carpeted floor, he wants, he wants, he wants, but he doesn't deserve except for one thing—

He wants to die.

Not in an embarrassment way, or a oh shit I fucked it up way, or an oops way, or in a hahaha yeah right way, just—

He wants to die. That's it that's the truth it's out there unbelievably simple just four words four words for words mean nothing, and he should mean nothing too. He knows that he deserves it.

"B-Bl-Bl-Blaine."

He has not heard that stutter for, not four, but six. Six years.

He looks at Kurt, who looks as surprised as Blaine feels.

"I don't," Kurt starts, pink tinting his cheeks, "I've never—not after—Blaine, Blaine, please talk to me."

Patterns.

Blaine likes patterns, normally.

This is not normal.

"Blaine," Kurt says again, broken helpless pleading, and Blaine is pleading too, broken too, helpless too, but he can't speak because if he opens his mouth he is going to throw up.

He sits abruptly, ass hitting the floor with a thump, and it hurts but he doesn't really notice. He notices that the interior of the closet is carpeted as well and he notices that Kurt is not sitting next to him and he notices that he is an asshole, he has fucked everything up, once again—he could make excuses. He could, and he knows what excuses he could make. But it's just—he doesn't want to hide from what he knows is the truth.

*

Kurt:

He can't hide from me. He can't hide from me, not now. For fuck's sake, we are in a four by five empty closet and he is avoiding me. He's closing himself up, his face is covered in this blank mask that I can't see past and I've never seen it before. What the fuck is this mask? I know all Blaine's disguises. I know how he hides, from his parents, his brother, his friends who are more like acquaintances, he hides from the world but he's never hid from me. He came out to me when he was nine. We were so much younger than nine, though. I don't know what to do. I don't know Blaine anymore. I want, I want, I want, but I can't have. But oh god, I need.

*

Santana:

A text? What the fuck is this? Oh my god—oh my god—Kurt—how could he? Doesn't he know that before he came along, the Skanks were just a bunch of angsty girls in black clothes who needed to focus all their energy and time into one thing? And doesn't he know that he was that thing—the thing that made us a family? God, I hate getting sappy, but—we need Kurt. He can't just leave. He can't. Q needs him. Who took her in after Fuckerman got her pregnant? Not me, not Britt, not Lauren—definitely not Lauren, she was dealing with getting over Puck and didn't need more shit—oh god. Who helped me and Britt through so many breakups, and hookups, and nasty shit? Who is almost better at decoding my girlfriend's language that me? Hummel. Hummel. The answer is Hummel, goddammit. Once he gets out of that fucking closet I'm going to fucking murder him. I swear to god, it doesn't matter about me—it's just, Q, god, we were nothing more than a few drunken touches and she thinks she loves me. She'll get over it, but who will help her? Lauren's always away, Britt's with me, and I—I'm the whole cause of the fucking problem. Hummel would've. And Hummel will. I'll see to that if nothing else. I owe it to her.

*

Blaine hates crying. He hates feeling weak and open and vulnerable. He hates letting other people see shit they don't need to see, they've got enough to deal with. He hates feeling like he can't do anything, like he's useless, like he's worthless, and yet, all of the above is happening, and he hates it.

He also hates Kurt. Kurt's hand is stroking between his shoulder blades and he's curled up next to Blaine on the cold, rough carpet and he's not saying anything. Blaine will at least thank him for letting the silence hang between them, round as the moon, not awkward, just there. But god, Kurt—Kurt, what is he doing? He's got so much more to deal with than Blaine, and yet, here he is, hand on Blaine's back, other hand clasping Blaine's knee tightly and they're pressed together but it's not really sexual anymore, it's just, it's just, Blaine thinks he's going to explode, not from arousal but from hate.

Blaine hates hate. It's a nasty thing, hating is, and it would explain why he's such an arrogant, self-important, whiny, selfish bastard—he's full of hate. He hates the hate. He hates all of it. He wishes it would just go away. He wishes Kurt would just go away. Kurt's eyes are turning green under his half-lowered eyes, but he's still looking at Blaine, however subtly. He's looking at Blaine how he's always looked at Blaine. Like Blaine is important. Like Blaine is human. Like Blaine is more than a fly on the wall. Like Blaine is more than a burden on Kurt's already heavily-bowed-down back. Like Blaine matters.

But that's all bullshit.

Blaine wipes the tears from his eyes, god, stupid fucking tears, so pathetic and lonely on his skin, each isolated unless he tilts his head and makes them run into each other, but when he tilts his head he's closer to Kurt, and he just, needs, he needs—he doesn't know what he needs but he knows that he can't let Kurt give it to him.

"Time's up," Puck's voice says, as he raps on the door, and they stand together and Blaine opens the door and Santana leaps into his vision, grabs Kurt by the collar, and drags him away. Brittany trails them up the stairs, and Blaine watches, mouth agape until he grows aware of his dropped jaw and closes it. This is around the same time he becomes aware of everyone in the circle staring at him with varying stages of apprehension on their faces.

"I think you should probably go," Rachel says primly from her seat in the circle. "You're not welcome at the party anymore." Blaine doesn't even ask why. He just goes up the stairs and lags a little so Kurt won't see him following and so he won't have to see Kurt. Blaine walks home and his cardigan is pulled tight across his shoulders and he's too cold.

Blaine knows that Cooper will call or text or something tomorrow. So he turns off his phone completely and pulls the covers on his bed over his head and doesn't even bother changing out of his clothes. It doesn't matter. He doesn't matter.

No matter what Kurt thinks, he doesn't matter.