"Sixty Spring, please. And, take the long way, would you?"

"What long way would that be, sir?"

Blaine drops his head back against the headrest and considers for a long moment. "Broad, through the Discovery District." He considers his decision as the cab pulls away from the airport curb. "Yeah, that sounds good."

And, as any cabbie would who wants a bigger take than usual, he grants his passenger his wish – a long journey home after a longer journey away.

Blaine has been traveling for three solid weeks, and as much as he can't wait to get home to his own bed to sleep in, his own pot to piss in, his own hook upon which to hang his hat, he's wound up tight – unhappy, unsettled and most definitely uninterested in going home yet.

He directs the cab through a few more unusual turns and before long, they are driving by a small theater abuzz with activity. People are milling about outside before the show begins, enjoying the last few moments of daylight on this beautiful fall day. Without a second thought, he's asking the driver to pull over, tipping him excessively to assure he'll get his carry-on bag to his downtown loft's concierge.

He makes his way through the crowd into the foyer to the windowed ticket office. A huge man with an even more huge smile greets him.

And then, "I'm sorry, Babydoll. Show sold out last week."

"Ah. Better luck next time, I suppose."

Blaine makes his way back outside, leaning against a light post as he smacks a cigarette out of its pouch. As he tries and fails to light it, his mind wanders to days gone by where this was his life – small theater productions, products of years of piano, voice and dance lessons finally culminating in a musical theater degree that now gathers dust in his mother's hope chest.

Or is it in his guest room closet?

He tries his lighter one final time, taking its failure and the sold out show as clear indications that despite his brief attempt at spontaneous behavior, the pre-packaged, pre-determined life of Blaine Anderson is all it's ever going to be.

With a defeated sigh, he pockets his lighter and pulls the cigarette from his lips, wondering how long it will take to get yet another cab.

"Here. I've got it."

He turns to the voice, rushed and airy, and holds the cigarette to his lips again catching striking blue eyes that sparkle before disappearing behind the light of his torch. Manicured hands cup the flame from the soft breeze and as the tip of Blaine's cigarette glows orange, the stranger gives him a wink and slaps his lighter shut. "Better get inside – you're going to miss the show!"

The man jogs off, a huge gym bag knocking at his thighs as he disappears into the building, leaving the memory of those sparkling eyes and the scent of woody citrus in his wake.

"Anyone need an extra ticket?"

The question comes from a gaggle of very young, very beautiful college boys and Blaine takes the free ticket – the boys refusing payment.

"Oh no, honey. Austin ditched us – he can lose the cash."

Blaine chuckles and thanks them again, looking down at his ticket to see what is on the marquee for tonight.

"Oh, and make sure you get yourself a drink, Gorgeous. Bar's at the end of the hall."

"I definitely will. Thank Austin for his absence."

He goes inside and orders a whiskey sour, following the small crowd in to the black box theater. A table for almost-two sits empty in the second row, so he helps himself, tipping back a sip of the liquor as a familiar drum beat begins.

"Queens and gentlemen, I bring you…ReVue!"

Blaine sits back with a satisfied grin, the five-piece band converging on the classic, Sing, Sing, Sing. He takes his second sip of whiskey as 20 men, dressed in simple black pants, red shirts and black ties dance out and pause before their dramatic vocal entrance. They are in perfect, 40's-style harmonic synchronicity.

You, Blaine Anderson, are a fucking genius.

~~***~~

ReVue's show is amazing. Creative staging and precise choreography showcase the choir's tight harmonies as they move from ballads to up-tempo numbers capturing the swing era as though they are back in time.

But, as amazing as the whole of it is, Blaine has eyes for only one. He spots him during the second verse of Sing, Sing, Sing, the blue-eyed beauty who lit his cigarette only minutes before.

His moves are more graceful than the others', his command of the crowd more enchanting, his demeanor more magnetic.

He is a showman.

Blaine's second row table gives him just enough lift on the orchestral risers that he can see it all – when he's in back, when he's in front, stage left, stage right, when he flits off-stage and when he flutters back on.

Blaine follows his every move – lithe and exquisite, practiced and precise.

Halfway through the second set, the familiar chords of Moonlight Serenade begin and a portion of the group spreads out to the audience grabbing random partners for a dance.

And as he chuckles at the gentleman in front of him playing hard-to-get with a red-headed flirt, he sees Mr. Blue Eyes heading right toward him, reaching out a hand with a warm smile and that voice – that musical, delicate voice.

"Dance with me?"

Without a word, Blaine takes the man's hand and ducks into a spin as he is lead in a soft, casual foxtrot, serenaded by the choristers who didn't chose a partner. They silently dance, Blaine following the gentle tug and pull as he's expertly lead across the black box floor.

"Thanks for the light earlier."

"Thanks for the dance now."

His hands are soft and smooth, as if covered with satin. His chest firm, holding the perfect frame, lightly muscled yet warm and welcoming. When he speaks, the wisp of breath in Blaine's ear is enough to make him walk his fingers in a little further, pulling him in just a hair's breadth closer.

And when he takes a breath to speak, he catches the intoxicating scent of fresh sweat and citrus. "Blaine, by the way."

"Kurt." A few more steps, and then, "You're a dancer."

"No. Well, not anymore, no."

"Pity."

"Pardon?"

"No dancer should ever say not anymore."

And with that, Kurt spins Blaine back to his seat, nodding appreciation as he takes his place back into the ensemble.

"Are you his sweetie?"

The cute couple at the neighboring table is leering, chins on hands, leaning in to hear Blaine's answer, perfect caricatures of the nosey gay.

"No. I've never met him until now."

"Lucky you. He's the one we all watch. And he certainly has his eye on you."

Blaine looks back as the group winds up to do a cheesy rendition of Take the A Train and sure enough, Kurt's eyes are on him, darting away quickly to include the whole of the crowd, but as the set continues, so do the stolen glances, the flirtatious smiles and the completely unnecessary winks.

"Well, that works out nicely. Seems I have my eye on him."

~~~**~~~

During intermission, Blaine refills his drink and peruses the program. He’s admittedly jealous of the pure pleasure these men get from performing, unabashed in their joy, in their talent and in their sexuality. Songs that are traditionally sung from men to women get the gender-bending treatment, but his favorites are the forlorn torch songs traditionally sung from women to men. Here, they are passionately crooned to the men who "done them wrong," who they yearn for, who they love.

With another rhythmic drum beat, the second half begins – a call and response from the band:

Tarzan and Jane were swingin' on a vine

Three men strut on stage dressed in WWII flight uniforms, complete with short, tight-fitting Ike jackets, perfectly pressed garrison caps, and high-waisted pleated pants.

And enough brassiness – both in their belt buckles and in their attitudes – to turn the black box theater red.

Taking lead in the perfectly harmonizing trio is Blaine's blue-eyed, foxtrotting, citrus-smelling Kurt.

Candyman fills the theater – all 40's style music with contemporary, naughty lyrics. And this trio is bringing on the sass. The flirt. The raunch. Swiveling hips, pointing fingers, flirtatious sashays all matching the rousing beat.

But none of it would be half as entertaining, half as sexy if it wasn’t for Kurt, his singing voice is strong – more alto than tenor, but with a depth of tone making it resonant, rich and pure male, even in its highest range.

Kurt works the crowd like a pro, flirting his way across the front row making every patron feel like they were seeing the show in the privacy of their own living room. At the bridge, he's pulling men in by their ties, singing nose to nose, whoops and hollers rising from the crowd as he pushes one man back only to grab at another.

Sweet sugar Candyman
He's a one stop, gotcha hot, making all the panties drop
Sweet sugar Candyman

He's a one stop, got me hot, making my uh pop
Sweet sugar Candyman

He's a one stop, get it while it's hot, baby don't stop

And when he gets to Blaine at the final whispered chant, Kurt lifts to the second row and turns his back to him, straddling Blaine's legs with each word.

Sweet sugar…

At the drum roll, Kurt wiggles his ass, filling Blaine's vision with the juiciest, bounciest booty shake he’s ever had the pleasure of enjoying.

Kurt looks over his shoulder and winks as he steps down, Blaine hiding a huge grin behind a swig of his drink.

The flirtations continue, Kurt shooting Blaine coy faces at particularly naughty lines, more over-the-shoulder glances complete with a wink and a pucker. When it’s time to take the song home with the long rising diva note, it’s Kurt front and center with his arms in the air, head thrown back, the audience firmly in the palm of his hand.

And Blaine's heart not too far behind.

~~***~~

The second half of the show is equally entertaining as the first, filled with songs from Cole Porter, Gershwin, Duke Ellington and the like. During an especially delightful rendition of S'Wonderful Kurt makes his way to Blaine again, lounging across his lap, one leg kicked up, one hand wrapped around his tumbler as he steals a swig of his watered down whiskey. Not a word is shared, but for the second time in one evening, Blaine smiles. A real, honest-to-goodness smile.

And that's not something he's done a lot of lately.

Before anyone is ready, the show is over, the curtain calls are bowed and the theater begins to empty. Unfortunately, Blaine is no more ready to go home now than he was when he arrived. As people file out, he skims through his phone messages, daring himself to breathe in a bit of the empty theater.

That's when the ghosts come out to play. The memories. The dreams and illusions of Broadway, of something bigger than himself.

Dreams bigger than his life allowed him to be.

He stands to take a slow stroll out, nodding to the custodian as he walks by the glorious Steinway Grand in the middle of the black box floor. It's luxurious. Pristine. Begging to be touched.

"May I?"

"You any good?"

"Mmm, I used to be."

"Have at it. Entertain me."

He drapes his jacket over a lone microphone stand and settles his whiskey glass on his handkerchief before settling down, his fingers tracing the smooth ivory of the keys. He's always likened sitting down to a new piano, one he's never played, to that of falling into bed with a new lover. The parts and mechanisms are all the same, but the touch, the give and take from player to instrument is unique, easily learned if they are in tune with one another other, and with themselves.

It's virginal and salacious all wrapped into one exquisite journey.

A journey he hasn't taken in entirely too long. Faceless, nameless pick-ups at hotel bars are nothing like an untouched Steinway. Like this Steinway.

The give on this beauty is a bit more needy than a broken-in piano, the pedals a bit tight to his gentle nudging. But, after a bar or two of uneven notes, he gets the general feel and his melody fills the small theater. 40's-style swing, harmonic and rhythmic, an unnamed song from his own head. He hears the custodian whistling along softly, anticipating his next notes.

And then, from behind the performance curtain, "I don't know – Nathan left already." There's a pause and then, "It is…I'll go see. Yes, tomorrow at 3, then. Have a good night, Barry."

Blaine keeps playing, matching the rhythm of his made-up tune to the footsteps coming towards him, stopping a few feet from the piano with a gentle gasp. "It's you."

He looks up with a slight grin having known immediately who was behind those footsteps; Kurt's distinct voice hadn't left his thoughts since he first heard it.

Not missing a note of the soft jazzy tune naturally flowing from his fingertips, he replies simply, "It's you."

"You play beautifully."

Blaine winds his song to a close and begins to stand, but Kurt is there at his side, sliding his overstuffed gym bag onto the floor. He's wearing a small fedora to cover his performance-sweaty hair, his clothes are classic street dance wear – over-sized shirt draping open to show a skin tight tank top and just a hint of his pale chest and right shoulder, skinny jeans clinging tightly. Showing everyth—

"Keep playing. It's lovely." And he's standing there, arms folded, leaning against the front edge of the piano blocking the top octave of the keyboard with his perfectly muscled thighs and his perfectly round ass that had, not more than an hour ago, been shaking in his face.

Blaine clears his throat and sits to begin again, this time sliding into Body and Soul, a favorite of his, glancing up to see if Kurt would take the vocals.

He doesn't. At Blaine's lifted eyebrow, he scoffs. "I'm listening." And after a few more bars where Blaine fills the vocal line into his accompaniment he asks, "Do you sing?"

"Not anymore."

"Hmmm…you don't dance anymore. You don't sing anymore…"

"I don’t play anymore either, truth be told."

"You're playing now."

"That I am." He ramps the end of the chorus and Kurt steps away from the piano to flit over to the maintenance man, scooping him into his arms and swirling him around the performance space amidst grunts and complaints and Mr. Hummel, for pete's sake, all of which Kurt ignores until Blaine brings the song to its natural conclusion.

"Bow for Mister...?"

"Anderson."

"Bow for Mister Anderson, Merle."

"If I bend over, I'll never stand again. Are you locking up or am I?"

"Go home. I've got it."

"Good evening, gentlemen. And Mr. Hummel?"

"Yes, Merle?"

"Don't ever do that again. My wife would have my hide if she knew I was dancing with someone prettier than her."

Kurt laughs, triggering a melody in Blaine's head, so he begins to play again, trying to keep focus when Kurt hikes himself up to sit on the extended music deck of the piano. Blaine watches out of the corner of his eye as Kurt cups his knee with his hands, his long legs falling easily over the keyboard, his body swaying with the movement of the song. Kurt's eyelids drift shut as he gently mouths the words to But Not For Me, Blaine accompanying his silent solo.

"Sing for me again."

Kurt smiles but doesn't sing, still swaying to the song, a gentle no slipping from his lips, holding perfectly in the 'o,' a pillow of unintended invitation. Blaine watches him and catches light reflecting off metal accents on the sleeves of Kurt’s shirt, running down the full length of his long, graceful arms. They're zippers.

Good god.

Blaine's fingers falter but he quickly rights himself, filling in an improvisational bridge while Kurt sways and begins humming the lyrics for the next verse.

And Blaine asks a question that had been twisting in his mind all evening.

"You're an amazing performer, Kurt. Why are you wasting your talent in a two-bit theater in Columbus Ohio?"

Kurt peels his eyes open, looking down to Blaine with a gentle smile, slight irritation clear by his raised eyebrow. "175 people didn't think I was wasting my talent tonight."

Blaine nods concession and swirls the bridge back into the chorus. Kurt's eyes slip shut again, mouthing the lyrics until the end when the gentle smile he offers is no longer tinged with irritation.

"You're an amazing pianist, Blaine. Why waste your talent in a two-bit theater in Columbus Ohio?"

Blaine suitably blushes. "One person doesn't seem to think I'm wasting my talent tonight."

"See? Sometimes it's good enough to know you made someone's night better."

Blaine trails his eyes up the length of Kurt's body, up the zipper of his sleeve, wondering if it's actually functioning. A puff of air escapes his lips as his eyes rest into Kurt's. "You've made mine infinitely better."

Kurt smiles and reaches out, brushing his knuckles down Blaine's cheek, taking his breath away with one simple touch. "Play me something else. Something…sultry."

"Sultry, huh?" Blaine tickles around at the keys as he tries to come up with something sultry, finally settling on The Man I Love, inviting Kurt to sing again, and this time he does, quietly, beautifully, his eyes never leaving Blaine.

He comes to what would be the bridge, the piano solo, but stops the song instead, arppegiating the final chord up the keyboard, ending with his fingers under Kurt's dangling legs. He looks up to Kurt, his eyes once a bright, clear blue now darker, greyer.

"That was your big solo. Why did you stop?"

Blaine swallowed to gather his voice. "Your eyes…are burning my skin. Why are you staring?"

Kurt's parted lips close into a soft smile, but his eyes remain dark and wanting. "I keep wondering if your fingers would burn mine."

Blaine can't speak, can't break his gaze, his eyes tracing the full of Kurt's face – his soft lush lips pulling for attention from the hard, defined lines of his jaw. His nose slightly tipped up adding a childishness to his face that is otherwise all grown man.

And then, Kurt breaks their trance with that voice. That breathy, musical voice, deeper now in their whispered tones. "Why did you come to the show tonight?"

"To relax. To unwind from weeks of travel."

Kurt tilts his head and scoots closer, resting his feet on the bench next to Blaine. "And have you? Relaxed?"

"I have, thank you." Blaine looks to the keyboard, ghosting his fingers over the keys, not pressing, not wanting to miss the sound of a single breath between them. He dares to look up to Kurt, swallowing thickly as their eyes met again. His voice is dry and raspy when he speaks. "Why didn't you leave out back with everyone else?"

"I wanted to see who was playing so beautifully…and I have." Kurt scoots closer still, swinging his leg up and over Blaine's head to straddle him, the inside of his calves bracketing Blaine's shoulders, his crotch inches from Blaine's face.

"So." Blaine looks up through his thick lashes, his eyes settling up on Kurt's shoulder, the pale skin there and the curve and dip of his clavicle shadowed behind the fabric of the tank, begging for the wet swipe of his tongue. He lifts one hand from the keyboard, daring to run his fingers up the length Kurt's calf. He licks his lips wishing for a taste of Kurt and maybe, one more taste of that whiskey. "Then, I guess that means our business for this evening is finished."

"Indeed it does."

Blaine's eyes and hands drop and he pushes back to leave. Before he gets too far, Kurt leans forward, the open neck of his shirt dropping below the curve of a shoulder, and curls his fingers around Blaine's loosened tie. He pulls him in, warm breath ghosting across Blaine's face. "But, Mister Anderson…what comes after business?"

With a lift of his eyebrows, Kurt lets go of Blaine's tie and pulls his leg back over his head and hops off of the piano, picking up his gym bag. He adjusts his fedora and walks toward the hallway exit, leaving Blaine to sit speechless, left only to imagine the taste of Kurt's skin.

But then Kurt stops at the door and with a click of his heel, turns back to him, his voice firm yet playful, his eyes shining in the darkened hallway. "Well? Are you coming or not?"

~~~**~~~

"Mind if I smoke?"

"Mind if I share?" Blaine knocks out a cigarette and puts it to his lips, cupping his hand over Kurt's when he brings his lighter to the tip. Their eyes lock again as it glows in the darkness, street lights virtually blocked by the leaves of the overgrown trees lining the street.

"This is one of my favorite neighborhoods in the fall – the colors are so gorgeous."

Kurt picks Blaine's cigarette from his mouth, taking a slow drag only to put it back, brushing his finger along Blaine's bottom lip as he takes hold, still rambling about the seasons or the leaves or something. Blaine can't concentrate. "It'll be even prettier in a few weeks. And then, the walk gets really noisy. That's my favorite. Crunching leaves under my boots, that crackling sound when the wind blows through the few leaves that hang on tight."

Kurt falls silent, thin trails of smoke circling their heads as they walk and while Blaine doesn't particularly care, he has to ask, "Where are we going?"

"My place." Kurt stops and cocks his head at Blaine, watching the smoke pour out of his mouth after a particularly long pull. "I'm being rude. Is it okay if we go to—I have wine."

"It's fine. I think you stole my night quite a few hours ago."

"I can give it back if you want."

"I don’t."

They cross a brick-paved street and Blaine looks up and chuckles as they turn into Kurt's complex—a contemporary, 16-unit apartment building popping out of the traditional architecture of the neighborhood. Somehow it seems to fit this enigma of a man, all artsy and quirky and seductively confident, yet genuinely sweet, a flicker of shyness brushing across his cheeks on any particular given moment.

He snuffs out his cigarette in the tray outside Kurt's door, squeaking when Kurt yanks him inside with a giggle, pressing him against the foyer wall as he kicks the door closed behind them. Before he can focus, Kurt's lips are on his, wet and soft, the firm press of his hand cupping his jaw, as he tilts Blaine's head just enough to fit their mouths together perfectly. The hushed sounds of their kisses echo around the high ceilings, broken only by soft moans as their tongues meet and they pull back for a breath only to push forward again for more.

When Kurt slows and loosens his grip, grazing his teeth along Blaine's bottom lip, his smile is devilish, eyes darkening as he watches Blaine's tongue follow the trail Kurt left on his lips as if grasping for just one more taste.

The taste of Kurt and whiskey.

"Jesus." Kurt swallows thickly smiles as Blaine's gaze falls to Kurt's shoulder, pale and strong.

With a shy smile, Blaine slides a hand up Kurt's arm and grasps the zipper-pull on his sleeve, tugging gently, his breath catching when it moves down and down, the weight of the front of Kurt's shirt going with it. Blaine leans in and presses a kiss to the curve of Kurt's arm, moaning at the soft skin there and the warmth of Kurt's hand as it sinks into his hair.

"It works."

"It does." Kurt tugs at Blaine's hair and they kiss again, slow and slick, Blaine's fingers slipping around the bare of Kurt's arm. "I think I'd like to take a shower."

Blaine blinks back, the mood suddenly scrambled. "Oh. Oh-kay. I- I have some calls…"

Kurt trails a finger under Blaine's chin and smiles, soft and seductive – like his kisses. "I was kind of hoping you'd join me."

~~~**~~~

The next kiss is all Blaine, surging forward causing Kurt to stumble on the stairs, giggling beneath their lips, one chasing the other as they jostle to find purchase again. Instead, they simply use the momentum to get up the stairs, kissing and clawing at clothing, jackets, shirts, ties – god only knows where Kurt's hat landed – all being unceremoniously dumped somewhere between the first and second floors.

By the time they've made it into Kurt's bedroom, they're topless, breathless and reconsidering a shower, simply wanting to fall onto the bed and tangle together until the reality of tomorrow stirs them apart.

But, as they pause, foreheads together and eyes more focused on each other's mouths than eyes, Kurt kisses the tip of Blaine's nose and pulls him into the bathroom.

"Bath or shower?"

"Naked. Hot water. I don't care."

Kurt's kissing him again, pushing him back against the counter, his satiny hands smooth yet demanding over his chest, his lips softer than Blaine could have ever imagined yet completely in control of every move, every sweep of their tongues, and if possible, every moan that escapes from Blaine's throat.

“Hike up.” Blaine feels the heat of Kurt's gaze as his arms flex to push himself onto the counter. He spreads his legs and runs his hands up Kurt's arms as their lips briefly meet again, Kurt delicately dotting kisses up his jaw to his ear, pulling tenderly on the soft flesh of his lobe. His hands cup at Blaine’s ass, pulling him in closer and all motion momentarily stops as they feel their erections push together through their pants.

Blaine shudders and Kurt almost growls at the contact, Blaine's fingers scrabbling up Kurt’s chest – biting and sucking at the pale skin on his shoulders and neck, finally getting to dip his tongue into the valley along his clavicle, even more divine than he had imagined. He curls his calves around Kurt's legs, pulling him in closer and closer as they find friction together – each new touch eliciting gasps and hisses that echo through the tiled room.

This kind of heat, this kind of soft desperation has been absent from Blaine's life for too long. It's been a succession of quickies at conferences, men as lonely as him vying for attention at hotel bars. No one really cares, no one truly desires.

They take a breath and share shy smiles, their fingers arguing at Blaine's belt. Kurt finally wins, pinning Blaine’s hands down on the counter. “No. Let me. Lean back.”

He scoots back, resting his head against the wall, watching Kurt's fingers, deft and quick, divest Blaine of his trousers, his boxers, all of it in one swift movement. Blaine shivers as his bare ass hits the granite counter, watching as Kurt's fingers slide up his legs, dots of kisses following the trail. Blaine's groan fills the room after a hickey-leaving bite to his thigh and Kurt stands, lips swollen and red, simply admiring.

"You're more beautiful than I imagined."

"You imagined?" Blaine nervously runs his hand through his own hair, a shyness at Kurt's hungry gaze shocking even himself. But then, when their eyes meet again, he lets his hand drop, skirting down his abdomen to lazily take hold of himself, slow strokes keeping a rhythm of their conversation.

"Oh, I imagined." His eyes drop to watch Blaine's hand work over himself, the tip of his tongue peeking out before biting his bottom lip. "I failed tremendously." Kurt grazes his hands up the inside of Blaine's thighs, "…so fucking gorgeous," his eyes taking in the full of Blaine's body.

Kurt's eyes never leave Blaine's when he lowers himself, putting a hand on either side of Blaine's hips, and tenderly kisses the tip of his cock, gathering just a hint of the pre-cum puddled there. Blaine's breath hitches as he continues to slowly stroke himself, needing relief from Kurt's intense gaze, feeling properly fucked with nary a touch.

"Do you feel good, Blaine?"

"Yes."

Kurt licks his lips and moves Blaine's hand away, resting the flat of his tongue at the base of Blaine’s cock, pulling slowly up the length of the thick vein there. Blaine's moan rattles deep in his chest as Kurt lavishes his head and ridge with swirls of his tongue.

"Beautiful and delicious."

And then, without warning he curls his lips around the darkened tip and works his mouth down, opening his throat to take him in whole.

“Jesus…fuck.” Blaine resists the urge to buck, jamming his hands in Kurt’s hair, holding his breath as Kurt pulls back up with a wet, languid suck, pulling in a thin string of spit. A tender kiss seals the deal.

Kurt looks up through his lashes, his eyes dark and seductive, his voice thick and raspy with want. “Let me go start the water.”

“You…" When Blaine's voice cracks, he clears his throat and tries again, feeling like a pre-pubescent boy, "You are a horrible tease.”

"Mmm…" Kurt takes Blaine's hand and kisses each fingertip, curling it back around Blaine's cock with a squeeze. "I bet you can keep yourself occupied."

As Kurt spins towards the tub, Blaine lazily strokes himself, stopping to lick his palm and watch Kurt remove his jeans with a showy shimmy and wiggle as he kicks them across the floor. He bends dramatically to start the water, swaying his ass to an unheard tune.

Maybe Blaine's shy evaluation had been a bit hasty. Kurt is wicked. A tramp. A delicious, wicked tramp.

And he's still performing. Still on stage. Except this time? It's a private show.

Unwilling to be a spectator for one more minute, Blaine hops off the counter and goes to Kurt, slipping an arm around his waist, running his hand along the line of Kurt's cock. He nips and suckles on his back and shoulders and Kurt leans back into his touch, hissing as Blaine's fingers slip beneath the waistband of his underwear taking a firm hold of him. "In a hurry?"

"I have all night. I'd just rather spend it touching you."

~~~**~~~

The shower is almost clinical, save for the stolen glances, the slippery kisses, the tongues trailing across lines of necks as one leans back to rinse their hair. Once clean, the residue of their long, exhausting days washed away, they meet again, half-hard cocks bumping together in the steam, lips wet and searching.

Kurt pulls back and spins Blaine to face the wall, licking the shell of his ear before pressing in against him. "I think we missed your back." Blaine reaches up to twine his fingers in Kurt's as he leans forward, his body pliant to the simple touch of Kurt's lips on his skin. "Don't move."

Kurt untangles his fingers and soaps up the sponge, holding it over Blaine's shoulder blades to let the sudsy water trickle down his back, between the cheeks of his ass, down between his thighs. As Blaine arches back, Kurt presses forward, wrapping his arm around Blaine's waist. They're chest to back as Kurt's cock slips in between the firm flesh of his ass, slicked perfectly from the soap, the water, the gentle motion of their give and take.

It's so little and so much, intimate and impersonal, but mostly, mostly delicious. Blaine rests his head on the tile, only able to focus on the thick of Kurt's cock and then the grip on his own as Kurt slips his hand from his waist to take hold of him, stroking slowly, matching the rhythm against his ass.

He's speechless, almost soundless but for the puffs of air escaping each time the tip of Kurt's cock grazes at his hole, sliding away again – a tease, a taste of what's to come.

"Do you want to stay in here?" Kurt groans when Blaine reaches his arm back and pulls him in closer, his nails digging into the flesh of his hips. "Or take it into the bedroom?"

"Mmmm…." It's not a moan, it's not a groan, it's just noise deep from within his chest. No one ever asks what he wants; they just do. He just does. And at the moment, because he asked, Blaine couldn't give a flying fuck where, he just wants. Kurt. All over him. Inside of him. Around, through, he doesn't care.

Kurt waits for a more coherent answer, continuing his slow torturous rocking and stroking, pulling the soft of Blaine's earlobe into his mouth, his breath hot on his wet skin. "I don't speak caveman, love."

Blaine chuckles, jolting them, Kurt's cock now pushing at the rim of his asshole which makes them both hiss and stand straight, Blaine spinning in Kurt's arms for a hot, desperate kiss, hands knocking into each other as they grab at each other's faces, thighs, elbows, cocks bumping and annoying and god. "I don't…," more kisses and teeth scraping against jaw lines and, "…fucking care." And when Kurt kisses him one more time, holding his gaze until he gets an answer, he still doesn't know. All he sees are the blue of Kurt's eyes sparkling in the bright lights of the bathroom. "Bed. Now."

The water is off and Kurt steps out, turning to pull Blaine in for another kiss, "Wrap your legs around me."

"You think you can carry me?" Even with his words of doubt, he does as asked, grabbing a towel as Kurt carries him into the bedroom. They laugh as Blaine shimmies the towel over each of their heads for a quick dry and fall onto the bed with an oof.

"Yes, I think I can."

And then words become superfluous, interruptions of discovery and experimentation, Blaine as Kurt's subject, pliant and acquiescent to his wishes and desires, yet completely fulfilling his own.

Simply watching Kurt work his mouth over Blaine's skin, his tongue swirl around his nipples, his eyelashes fluttering as though Blaine tastes of fine chocolate. Hearing the sighs sung when Blaine's cock throbs under the twist and press of Kurt's fingers as if pleasuring him is the greatest joy imaginable. And feeling him, the weight of his thigh thrown across his own, the press of Kurt's lubed finger to his hole and then the glorious push inside taunting, teasing, stretching with another until finally, finally he's on his knees and Kurt's hand is running up and down his back as his cock eases its way inside, filling him long and slow until there's nothing left but the urge to move, move, move.

And move they do, the drag of Kurt pulling out almost completely and back in, his puffed grunt of fuck as he bottoms out a second time until a steady rhythm is found and Blaine is pushing back to meet him, taking, taking all of him, every touch, every kiss, every thrust, every word of endearment ghosting over his skin. Beautiful. Tight. Sexy. Birthmark. Angel's kiss. Good, good, so fucking good.

And when Kurt's hand slips around Blaine's waist to take hold of him, his head drops down, completely in his own world of hot heat, soft lips, hard bodies, sweat, sex, his body on fire with it all.

But Kurt changes the game. "No."

"N-no?" Blaine's looking up and back reaching a hand back to hold Kurt's. "Tell me."

"Lift up. Lift your…" Kurt slides his hand out of Blaine's and splays his fingers across Blaine's abdomen, pressing even as the muscles quiver at his touch. "…sit up. On my thighs."

So he does and the new position causes him to gasp out, Kurt grazing over his prostate with every thrust. He lays his head back onto Kurt's shoulder and again, "No. Head up. Look."

And Blaine lifts his head looking forward following Kurt's gaze, their reflection clear in the mirror on Kurt's dresser and the moan that escapes Blaine's mouth is raunchy and tainted.

"Yeah. See? Don’t hide from me. Look at you…you're gorgeous."

"Mmmm…I'd rather look at you."

"Look at us then." Kurt rests complexly back on his haunches, stopping movement, nipping at Blaine's neck when he unashamedly whines. "Come on. Come out and play." His hand curls around Blaine's cock again, lazy and unmeasured, dotting tongue-led kisses along his shoulder, catching glances in their shared reflection, Blaine lifts off of Kurt's thighs, knowing what Kurt wants, but so unsure he can just let it go. "Dance again, Blaine. Dance with me."

"Oh fuck."

Their eyes meet in the mirror and then Blaine turns to Kurt, brushing their lips together and like a slow uncoiling spool, that man who's been hidden and closed away for so many years slips out of his chains. Blaine swirls his hips around Kurt's thighs, the motion twisting up his body, up and out his fingers as they sink into his own hair, his head falling back against Kurt's shoulder as the twist comes again and again and he's moving them, moving Kurt inside of him and just as smoothly Kurt joins the dance meeting his motions, their lips clumsily joining, moans and sighs building and building as their bodies writhe together in perfect synchronicity, an improved dance of glorious bliss.

And then it's beautiful chaos with oh god please, and don't stop, and so gorgeous and then yes, yes, YES! as Blaine uncoils completely, coming up and onto his chest, into Kurt's hand as he strokes him through it stopping only when his own body snaps, spilling into Blaine, a cry so beautiful it fills the room with the sounds of pure euphoric joy.

They fall to the mattress in a heap, and Blaine starts chuckling, pulling Kurt to him, kissing any slip of skin he can reach until he has Kurt's face cupped in his hands, still breathless, Kurt's porcelain skin blotched and perfect, completely spent. "What's so funny?"

Blaine kisses him, sweeping his tongue into his mouth and pulling back with a wet smack, his eyes searching Kurt's for answers he simply shouldn't have. And yet…

"Who are you?"