Memorial Day Weekend, 2016

The flight -- the first of three in the cheapest possible cross-country trek -- left far too soon after Blaine’s final class, as far as Kurt was concerned. They had a grand total of 14 hours between the end of Juilliard’s spring semester and the beginning of their separation, and he had scarcely packed.

Blaine didn't consider it all that complicated, really. Blue Jeans. Red Jeans. Mustard jeans. A pair of dress slacks. A couple of pinpoint oxford shirts. Polos. Plenty of polos. A sweater or two. A jacket that could be dressed up in a pinch. A few bow ties, selected to coordinate with as many outfits as possible. Shoes. Maybe a pair of socks.

Kurt disagreed, of course, and would have started the planning for optimum suitcase usage weeks ago if his heart was into it at all, but he left it to Blaine. It would be finished faster this way, anyway.

He watched the proceedings propped up on the bed, sketch pad in hand and glasses pushed down his nose, occasionally lending an opinion.

"Left hand or right hand?" Blaine would ask, holding up two similar belts.

"Left. Definitely left," Kurt would say, peering over the top of his glasses. 

"Wayfarers or Aviators?"

"Mmmmm. I like both on you. But the Wayfarers are very Boys of Summer."

"And don't forget The Anderson," he added, pointing out Blaine's lucky bow tie, a diamond-pointed, dual fabric slimline of a deep red jacquard with subtle navy and green stripes. Kurt called it The Anderson "because it hints at your inner Warbler, but adds layers of complexity." It had been the first of many that Kurt designed and made for him, often from selvage of his own designs. 

The bulging suitcase zipped and stored by the door, Blaine collapsed dramatically backwards into the mattress with a dramatic "oomph."

Kurt continued his sketch, scarcely glancing up.

Blaine stretched his neck around to look up toward the headboard, a smile creeping across his lips.

"I sleep really well on planes."

His fingers ghosted along Kurt's calf.

"That's nice."

"And I only have a few hours before I need to be up and dressed."

He lingered at Kurt's knee, drawing circles on his pajama pants.

"MmHmm."

"So it wouldn't make a lot of sense for me to go to sleep now. I'll only interrupt my REM cycle with the alarm," he said, leaning over to nuzzle Kurt's toes.

Kurt looked down at Blaine, now flashing a lascivious grin and raising his eyebrows suggestively, and set the sketchpad aside.  

"Wouldn't want to interrupt your REM cycle," Kurt said, removing his glasses.

Blaine clambered up his body, peppering his legs, his belly and his chest with light, breathy kisses. He dawdled at Kurt's neck, because Kurt's neck was always worth an extended visit.

He tongued at the sternal notch. He would live there, given the chance. He would also change its name, because it deserved to be called something so much sexier than 'supersternal notch.' He moved on to suck at Kurt's Adam's apple as he raked his fingers through his hair.

That was it. Any attempts by Kurt to appear aloof to Frisky Blaine ran fleeing from the room.

He arched his back and grabbed at Blaine's old Dalton t-shirt, running his hands up and down his chest, pulling the age-softened cotton along for the ride. There is absolutely no way that t-shirt is leaving this apartment, Kurt vowed silently to himself. It smells like morning dew and salt and puppies and Blaine and allgoodthingsonthisearth  ... and I'm keeping it if its the last thing I do.

Kurt yanked the shirt up and over Blaine's head, tossing it to a far corner where he hoped it would go unnoticed. His hands settled just above the rise of Blaine's ass, thumbs toying with the waistband of his sweatpants. 

Blaine's mouth migrated behind Kurt's ear and Kurt could feel his pulse quicken to match the rhythm of the heated breath along the side of his neck. 

Blaine pressed his hips down into Kurt, and with a tiny upward thrust, drove them into an increasingly syncopated rhythm.

"Clothes ... off," Kurt said in his final moments of coherence. 

Blaine was happy to oblige. He reached down to grab the hem of Kurt's tank top, peeling it away with one hand, skating down Kurt's chest with the other. Kurt raised his hips as Blaine wrestled his pajama pants free, taking a slight detour for a quick grab of ass.

Kurt kicked his pajamas free and got to work untying and removing Blaine's sweats in short order. They were scarcely free of Blaine's ankles when Kurt grabbed his face and kissed him deeply,  then breaking to set his palm in front of Blaine's mouth with a direct, breathless command.

"Lick."

Blaine nodded a hazy yes, and tongued a sloppy path across Kurt's outstretched palm. Kurt then took Blaine in hand, starting a slow, rhythmic stroke that prompted a gasp, then a prolonged moan. He picked up the pace, twisting, stroking, then thumbing at the head before starting the whole process over again. Blaine responded by turning up the volume of his increasingly delirious cries.

All Blaine could do was moan and grab. Grab at the sheets. Grab at the pillows. Grab at Kurt. Grab at anything that could anchor him to this bed. "Oh shit, Kurt ... KURT. Whoa. Wait. Need. Slow. Need. You. God."

Kurt somehow got the message, and slowed his forceful strokes to a gentle massage, giving both a moment to catch their breath and collect their wits.

Blaine grabbed Kurt's face and kissed him, softly at first, then with a persistent build to something greater. He sucked Kurt's lower lip between his teeth, then pierced Kurt's mouth with an inquisitive tongue.

His hands grazed the soft skin beneath him, and marveled. He mouthed his way down Kurt's body, grazing a nipple between his teeth, rolling it with his tongue. His kissed his way across his chest, assuring both nipples of equal time, then nibbled his way down Kurt's rib cage.

Kurt gripped the pillow behind his head and let out a guttural moan. "Want your mouth," he said. "Please, Blaine." 

Blaine didn't need to be asked twice. 

He nosed Kurt's cock, exhaling deeply along the overheated skin. He lapped at the pre-cum collecting at the head, and then took it into his mouth to suck lightly  before shifting his attention to the entirety of Kurt's length, tongue-tracing the prominent lower vein from head to groin. His tour continued to Kurt's balls, which he rolled, one then the other, in his mouth before heading north once again.

"Blaine, please!" Kurt gasped. "Please."

Blaine finally sunk his mouth fully over Kurt's cock, taking it in one thrust of Kurt's hips, then pulling up slowly with a solid press of his tongue. He lingered again at the head, kissing and tonguing at the slit, and following up with a delicate twist of his wrist. 

Then he was down again, relaxing his throat to take in all Kurt could give him.

Kurt reached behind his head, clawing at the pillow with one hand, pawing at Blaine's unraveling curls with the other. He was lost in the moment, but remained lucid enough to know this would be the last time he would feel Blaine on him for three months, if not longer. It made him want to keep it going as long as possible, so he reluctantly pushed Blaine off of him. It was his turn to slow things down.

"Want more," Kurt said. "Need less."

Blaine pulled up, humming quizzically.

"So close, Blaine. Want more time."

Blaine nodded, rubbing Kurt's chest affectionately while his other hand served as a slow, rhythmic substitute for his mouth. 

Though they now were deeply familiar with each other's scents, sounds and  idiosyncrasies, these moments had yet to grow old. Blaine was mesmerized by just how fresh it still felt. Each and every time they were together, he felt he discovered something new.

The tiny freckle to the left of Kurt's nipple. Had he noticed that before? It merited a kiss.

That little wrinkle by his nose? That had to be new. Kiss.

And that sound Kurt made a moment ago. Was it a sigh? A moan? It was certainly something uniquely Kurt. Kiss.

Blaine took a lingering look down at Kurt and caressed his forehead, his eyebrows, his eyelids and more, mapping his face with butterfly kisses. Then he let his tongue take a pass at Kurt's ear. Kurt's sighs turned to soft moans, and Blaine grinned. "Better?"

"Yes," Kurt murmured.

"Ready?"

"Mm hmm."

"Let's dance," he said in a deep murmur. Kurt recognized their longstanding code, and eagerly flipped Blaine on his back, straddling his hips.

Kurt stretched to reach their supplies from the nightstand, while Blaine ran his hands up and down Kurt's chest. He circled each nipple, then let his hands drift down to that soft  dusting of hair leading down from Kurt's navel.

"Hand," Kurt said, holding the bottle of lube.

Blaine held his hand out, and warmed to slippery liquid by rolling his fingers together.

"Up, Kurt."

He circled Kurt's perineum, widely at first, drawing closer to his target with each concentric pass. It was nearly too much for Kurt, and not nearly enough.

"C'mon Blaine. Please," he said, panting.

With that, Blaine slipped a finger through the tight ring of muscle. Moments or minutes later, another. Eventually another.

"Blaine! Please. Now," Kurt huffed.

Blaine reached for the familiar foil packet, and when he didn't find one began looking around the bed. Kurt grabbed Blaine's hand and shook his head. "Not this time. Need to feel you."

They had been each others' first in high school, and had stayed together ever since, so it certainly wasn't the first time they'd foregone a condom, but it also wasn't their norm. Neither one really wanted to deal with the mess involved in going without, so they just made it part of their routine.

"Want to feel you, Blaine. Please," Kurt begged again, running his hand up and down his arm. Blaine nodded his assent, and eased his fingers out. Kurt squeezed some lube into his own hands, and gave Blaine's cock a last few strokes before lining it up to his slick hole.

Blaine reached up and held Kurt's hips still, easing himself in enough to ensure they were secure, looking into Kurt’s eyes to confirm This is OK, right?, then setting in, gently at first, then with a solid thrust fully encasing himself in Kurt's heat.

Kurt gasped, shut his eyes and waited. Blaine gave him time to adjust, lightly fondling his hip bones. He looked on, slightly mesmerized by the sight of Kurt adrift in pleasure. Then he gave Kurt a tentative bump.

Kurt opened his eyes and smiled. 

Showtime. 

He circled his hips, slowly at first, as Blaine began a series gentle, even thrusts. As Kurt picked up the pace, Blaine drove harder, propelling his hips off the bed.

Their "dance" began a few years before, when Burt Hummel decided to share a grainy black and white video with Blaine as a joke. Blaine giggled along with the family, and an  embarrassed Kurt, to the Single Ladies video. But inside? He committed the dance both to his memory and his vivid and colorful imagination. 

It would soon be a sexual request, and later become code for Ride me hard.

Kurt's circles evolved into heated figure eights. Between groans, he urged Blaine on. "C'mon, Blaine, please," he begged. "Harder. Right there. There. Yes. Harder."

Blaine picked up the pace, grabbing Kurt's hips to lift, then plummet him back down on to his cock with each thrust. Kurt leaned forward, grabbed himself in one hand and reached toward Blaine’s heart with the other as their rhythm grew erratic.

And with each surge, Kurt's voice said "Yes," but his heart said, No. ... Don't leave me.

****

The postcard arrived without warning or hoopla three days after Blaine's departure, a water-colored piece of kitschy nostalgia.

Greetings From California!

The cheesy graphic, no doubt procured from the airport, or maybe a cheap tourist shop on Hollywood Boulevard, outlined "the Golden State," with artists' rendering of highlights in what were no doubt intended to be geographic-appropriate locations.

A surfer off San Diego.

The Space Shuttle landing in the desert.

The Golden Gate Bridge.

Poppies.

An oil rig off the coast of Santa Barbara. 

Girls in bikinis. 

Oh, that really makes me want to visit, Kurt thought to himself.

Seriously? Blaine had his goofy moments, but this may top them all. And did he really have to send a reminder that he was a continent away?

Just landed! Wanted to make sure you got the lay of the land. Here are some highlights!  Text me when you get this. 

I love you.

B

He landed three days ago. We've Skyped each day since. Why is he sending me tacky postcards? Kurt thought to himself. Sometimes, there was no explaining Blaine. You just had to go along for the ride.

Kurt grabbed a magnet and posted the card to the side of the refrigerator. He picked up his phone and messaged Blaine.

OK, I'm game. Explain the mystery of the postcard. 

What? No affection? No love? No "I'm missing you already and I will surely die without you?" No "Our last night together shattered me?"

I'm missing you already. Especially your mouth. What's up with the ugly card?

So much better! Email explanation to follow. Look for it. <3 you, B

Kurt rolled his eyes, powered up his laptop and logged in to his email. In moments, he received an email with attachments from Blaine. The eye rolling morphed into head-shaking.

TO: Kurt Hummel

FROM: Blaine Anderson

RE: Freeway traffic is monstrous!

Hey Kurt! 

Look what tied up traffic today!  : D 

I've settled into Coop's extra bedroom and unpacked. Nothing too crushed or destroyed, you'll be happy to hear. I know we've talked both days since I've been here, but there's something about devoting time to a letter that just makes me feel that much more connected to you.

Sometimes I think about how history is written -- how letters have documented life, love, diplomatic treaties, shifts in the social structure and even music -- and I think how that can't happen in a world of texts and Skype. That somehow, we're losing something important.

Think about The Notebook and those 365 letters that went unread, Kurt. Those letters were game-changers. Think about the soldiers who went off to war with letters from their loved ones tucked in their uniforms. Even those vacation postcards our parents used to send home, the "Wish you were here" sentiments.

I wish you were here, Kurt.

And I'm grateful every day that I can hop online and see you, talk to you or somehow communicate with you instantly.

But I think to those old letters and postcards, and how people dedicated themselves to spending time choosing their words, expressing their love, sharing their lives -- and I want to do that, too.

So here's my vow: I will write you, no matter how often we text, or call, or Skype. And anytime I go somewhere new, experience something I haven't seen or heard or smelled or experienced, I will find a way to share that with you, by email, photo or postcard. 

Almost like you're here.

All my love,

B

There were times when Kurt couldn't help but roll his eyes and shake his head at Blaine Anderson's attempts at romance. There were other times that his longtime boyfriend left his heart aflutter. The fact of the matter was, Blaine was an old fashioned romantic fool, and Kurt wouldn't change it for the world.

It was clear that Blaine was excited to be in Los Angeles. He was excited to be reunited with his brother, with whom he'd finally forged the brotherly relationship he'd always craved. He was especially excited about starting his job on Tuesday, interning in the executive suite at NSO Music.

And as much as Kurt wanted Blaine to be happy, he couldn't say he entirely shared the sentiment. He had a bad feeling about this, but wanted to avoid the petulance that caused their near-breakup six weeks earlier. So he played along, played the supportive boyfriend.

And it was little more than an acting exercise, because he didn't like this, not one bit.