Everyone is naked under their clothes.

This truth isn't one Kurt's enjoyed terribly much. In fact, in schooldays punctuated by time spent in the boys' restrooms and locker rooms, he puts effort into pretending it's not true. Not because he's tempted to ogle every half-dressed boy in his vicinity—because, most of those guys? The way they smell? The way they talk? What passes for their personal 'grooming'? He really isn't. But he also doesn't want them to ever think he is, because he knows what they'll assume, no matter how wrongly: that he thinks about them in the same crass ways they talk about girls. It doesn't help that some of those girls are among his closest friends.

Even more than that, Kurt doesn't want those boys looking at him either, to see him as this small, pale human body, that still clings stubbornly to its childhood softness. Vulnerable and bared as if he doesn't possess a skin of his own, he doesn't want those boys looking at him. He hates it when they do.

Much of the time, he's wished he wasn't actually naked under his clothes. If he could fuse his body every morning with the clothes he wears, if he could only choose his own invulnerable skin for each day, then that would be pretty neat.

Blaine is naked under his clothes. This Kurt knows well, from those precious late afternoons in the Dalton common rooms, when they would find themselves with the privacy and time for loosened ties, opened collars, and untucked shirts. Kurt still thrills at the memory of the first time he slipped his hand up the back of Blaine's shirt to touch bare skin. The heat of Blaine's skin beneath his fingertips had lingered all day, like his fingers had their own memory. The satin smoothness of Blaine's skin had clung, like there was no other texture his hand cared to know.

And now, Blaine sits upon Kurt's bed looking at Kurt in a manner that reminds Kurt: Blaine is very aware of Kurt being naked under his clothes. Blaine will have his own memories, too, of the first time he touched Kurt's bare skin (which Kurt remembers vividly enough the recollection alone is enough to make him flush). It was a fleeting sweep of his palm across Kurt's belly to rest at his waist. The memory of Blaine's fingertips pressing against his flesh had felt like a brand. All day, the remnants of Blaine's touch had prickled upon Kurt's surface, indelible bright marks. They told Kurt that he does have skin of his own, that he is naked beneath his clothes, and that someone—Blaine—wants to touch that skin and be touched in return. And for the first time, Kurt didn't mind.

Which doesn't make Kurt feel any less vulnerable as he settles beside Blaine on his bed. He doesn't need to be literally naked with Blaine to feel so exposed. The knowledge is enough for now. So he lets his eyelids slip closed when Blaine kisses him deep and slow and wonderful. And when Blaine's hands unknot his scarf and gently draw it from around his neck, Kurt shivers at the intimacy of the touch even more than he does the passage of the fabric across the back of his neck. Kurt answers with the curl of his fingers into the dense cotton of Blaine's polo to pull its hem free of Blaine's waistband.

As they lie down together, Blaine's lips find Kurt's pulse low on his throat ("You smell so good," he says), and Kurt's hands explore the sleek contour of Blaine's spine.

#

Blaine doesn't stay for dinner. Carole calls to say she'll be bringing home subs on her way back from the hospital, his Dad comes downstairs freshly showered and smelling of Dial soap, and Finn returns from wherever he's spent the day. Kurt throws together a sesame and ginger coleslaw.

The four of them eat outside on the patio with the chemical-orange scent of the citronella candles thick and cloying in the air. Conversation, the small talk of the day, interleaves comfortable silences, and Kurt lets his mind drift. The candlelight through his glass of iced tea makes the ice cubes look like polished copper; he turns and tips his glass to make them clink. Finn tears open a bag of Cheetos and dumps them in a bowl in the middle of the table. There's an idleness, and an increasing feeling of openness and ease.

Dusk passes into twilight, and the mockingbird keeps singing.

#

After dinner, Kurt finds Finn in his bedroom, playing some shooter game on his X-box. He knocks on the door and pushes it open with his elbow. He's got two bowls of fudge swirl ice cream. "Bon soir," he says to Finn, and tries not to wrinkle his nose against the old socks and cheap body spray smell that clings to Finn's bedroom.

"Hola, dude," Finn replies, but he doesn't look away from the TV screen. His tongue tip is pressed flat between his lips as he winces, squints, and tilts to his side, mashing the control buttons furiously.

"Does that help?" Kurt asks.

Finn's glance flicks at Kurt briefly, then it's back on the screen. "Just... gimme a sec."

Kurt perches on the edge of Finn's desk chair, to avoid sitting on the sleeves of the several shirts Finn's tossed over it; the ice cream bowls are cold and sweating in his hands. While he waits, he looks around Finn's room. He's been in here before, but he's never really looked at it for clues of Finn's taste. It's fairly generic boy themed: brown wood and shades of blue. The duvet cover is plaid, the curtains striped. Kurt doesn't think Finn chose them. The posters on the walls are unframed, just tacked up with pins: various bands (most of whom Kurt's never heard of), some sports stadium, a few ample breasted models in bikinis. It doesn't give Kurt any insight.

"Goddamnjackassmotherfucker," Finn mutters at the TV, and then he tosses the control off to the side and turns to Kurt.

Kurt raises his eyebrows. "That bad?"

Finn closes his eyes in exasperation. "I can never get past that one room."

"C'est la guerre," Kurt says, gets a blank look from Finn, so Kurt just shakes his head and passes one of the ice cream bowls over to Finn.

"Gracias," Finn says. "So, what's up?"

"Well," Kurt says, pushing through the ice cream with his spoon to carve out a bite. "I came to tell you that, given a few small conditions, I would like to do the interior of your camper."

"Awesome!" Finn says with a sudden smile. "That's great news. I'll have to tell Puck..." Finn reaches across his bed for his phone.

"I said I have some conditions," Kurt says.

"Oh, right," Finn's fingers hesitate upon his phone.

"First, if you're going to trust me with this..." Kurt pauses and waits for Finn to nod. "Then, I need to trust you too, so I want you to be honest with me about what you do and don't like, okay?"

"Okay." Finn shrugs.

"Second," Kurt says and pauses for a breath. "If you or Puck insult me or my work, then I'm done."

Finn manages to look mildly offended. "Dude, we're not going to—"

"You better not."

With a nod, Finn closes his mouth.

"And finally, since you revealed yourself to be a decent songwriter at Nationals, in recompense, you're going to be my sounding board for the libretto I'm writing this summer, Pip Pip Hooray."

"Um, yeah, cool," Finn keeps nodding, smiling with enthusiasm now. It appears sincere. "Is that all?"

"For now," Kurt says. "I'll let you know if there's anything else."

"Great, thanks, Kurt."

As he leaves Finn's room, Kurt can't help but wonder if Finn's being too agreeable.

#

Back in his own room, Kurt closes his curtains, docks his iPod, and scrolls to the first playlist that's got none of his studying songs on it. He ends up with a high energy shuffle of Lady Gaga, Madonna, and Beyonce. It's not ideal, but he lets the music be energetic in his stead as he falls back upon his bed. His duvet is still rumpled from Blaine's visit. Kurt smiles as he reaches out to follow the shapes of the contours. He relaxes and soaks up the music, lets his body remember Blaine's touch today: Blaine's hand upon his bare thigh, rubbing up and down, from above his knee to just under the bottom hem of his shorts, Blaine's hands unfastening the buttons of his shirt, and Blaine's lips kissing down from his throat to his breastbone and lingering over his heart until Kurt couldn't stand it and dragged him back up by his hair to kiss him on the mouth again.

Kurt finds one of his own hands has wandered absently to the inside of his thigh, is rubbing soft circles across the thin skin. With a sharp breath, he stills the motion. Embarrassment heats his face, though he hears an echo of Blaine telling him: 'It would be okay if you did.'

"It's okay," Kurt whispers to himself. He closes his eyes and imagines if Blaine had kept touching him today, if he'd slid his hand higher, kissed lower. Kurt's heart speeds and he tries sliding his own caress farther up his leg, dragging the hem of his shorts up with the side of his thumb as he goes. Tries to pretend it's Blaine's hand. Except he doesn't think Blaine's hand would be so jerky or unsure. He wishes Blaine had stayed for dinner.

Kurt stops and sighs. He opens his eyes and reaches for his phone. It's nearly ten o'clock; Blaine might be done studying. He sends Blaine a text, "How's the Biology going?"

There's no prompt reply, so, to clear his head, Kurt sits up. He stares at the prom photo of he and Blaine on his bookcase. It's not the official one, but one Rachel snapped of them dancing together. They'd both been so terrified, until—as no new terrible thing transpired—that fear had given way to a bizarre relieved elation.

Next to the photo, his crown rests upon the bedazzled skull and his scepter lies flat before it. The carnation from his boutonniere has dried, it's pink yellowed to peach. "The queen is dead. Long live the queen," Kurt says to the skull. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands and wonders if he'll ever be able to endure this restlessness of missing Blaine.

His phone chimes with a reply from Blaine. "I'm successfully digesting dinner, so I'd say about as well as always."

Kurt laughs. "I meant the studying."

"Protein synthesis is really cool," Blaine sends back, followed shortly by, "I'm not being sarcastic."

"I believe you," Kurt types, grins. "Call me when you take your next study break?"

His phone rings almost immediately.

"That wasn't me being passive aggressive," Kurt says as he answers.

"I know. But I'm so done for the night. If I don't dream about anti-codons and polypeptides and template strands tonight, I've done something wrong."

"Ooh, science talk," Kurt says. "Tell me more."

Blaine laughs. "No, I'm really done. Talk to me about anything else, please?"

"Okay," Kurt says. He chews his lip, hesitating. He could say, 'I was just lying here, thinking about you, about kissing you earlier today, and your hands, and what you said in the restaurant last night...' But he doesn't. For all the things it may imply, Kurt's not ready for most of them. So instead he says, "I told Finn I'd do the interior of the camper for him."

"Oh, that's good, right?"

"Yeah, I think so. I'm still nervous, but I think it's mostly the scale of it that's daunting."

"Well, hey," Blaine says. "Um. I have no idea what my schedule's going to look like this summer, but I'll help if I can, Kurt. A couple summers back, my Dad and I restored a car. I'm no expert, but I might have some relevant knowledge or skills."

"Really?" Kurt says, because he's sure he would have remembered Blaine telling him something like that. "You're full of surprises, Blaine Warbler."

There's a silence that Kurt thinks might be Blaine smiling.

"Okay, so, Mr. I'm No Expert. Where shall I start?"

"Hmm," Blaine says. "I'd say you need to name her first."

"She?"

"The camper. She needs a name. So you can imbue her with some spirit to help direct your process."

"Esprit de... camper?"

"Exactly," Blaine says.

"Of course," Kurt says, though he's not sure he does understand. But they spend the next half hour coming up with names. Kurt settles on 'Eliza', and it does feel, once he's decided, remarkably right.