Finn wants to start tearing down the camper straight away. Late Sunday morning, Kurt returns to the garage. His satchel is packed, not only with his laptop, but also with various sized zip-lock bags, stick on labels both large and small, and every color Sharpie he could find. His phone is charged with a freshly emptied memory. The day grows hot already; the smell of warming asphalt and dirty metal that blankets the garage during the summer months is another harbinger of long days.

Puck's here today too, and he and Finn have been at work for a while. They've pulled Eliza outside and got her up on blocks. Her wheels are gone. Around her, they've marked a working perimeter in electric orange traffic cones. Her front bumper lies upon the ground in front of her. Puck works at removing a headlight while Finn pries the old weatherstripping from around her windshield. It's all a bit brutal, watching the old thing be dismembered. Her faded floral paint job is extra shabby and dull in the daylight.

Kurt goes inside to set up his laptop up in the office, and then he gets changed into coveralls and collects the other tools and supplies he'll need.

When Kurt goes back outside, Finn's gone. ("To get food and things," Puck says.) Kurt decides to start in the cab, only it looks like Finn and Puck already have. Various fixtures lie in a disorganized pile in the passenger side footwell. Kurt recognizes the dome light casing and mount, some knobs from the dashboard and the rear-view mirror, loose screws and other bits and pieces he's less sure of. He sighs and leans out the open door. "I thought I was doing the interior," he says to Puck.

"Yeah, sorry, dude. Finn didn't tell me until I'd already started."

"I don't suppose you've noted down where all these parts came from?"

Puck straightens up and peers into the cab. "I figured it's all obvious enough."

"Right now, maybe," Kurt says. "But in several weeks when we're trying to put it all back together, it might not be."

So Kurt lays out a drop cloth on the ground, and then the parts upon it. He photographs each item and asks Puck where it came from if he can't work it out for himself. Then Kurt labels and bags it, tags the photo, and makes a color-coded entry in his notebook. He's planning to build a database on the computer for easy reference.

As the bags pile up and his notebook pages fill, Kurt's feeling pretty good about his organizational methods. He sets to work with screw drivers and pliers to remove more. Each piece gets the same methodical treatment. He's sure to make note of what's broken or too worn and will need replacement.

Eventually he becomes aware that Puck is watching him work. "What?" he asks from where he's wedged himself half under the dash to get at some awkwardly placed bolts securing the steering column.

"I really thought getting laid would make you relax more," Puck says. "Guess I was wrong."

Kurt sits up too fast and clips his head on the steering wheel. He bites back the reflexive profanity and says instead, "Excuse me?" He rubs at the sore spot on his skull, but it's not bad. His whole head feels too hot, but it's not because of the bump.

"Warbler boy hasn't managed to dislodge the stick up your ass?"

Kurt rolls his eyes, adjusts his grip on his vise-grips, and leans back over. "You've got to be kidding me," he mutters. Apparently there're other things Finn hasn't told Puck, but Kurt knows Puck well enough to understand this isn't actually an insult. It's just Puck being Puck: inappropriate and rude. "His name is Blaine, and that's... really none of your business." Kurt shimmies his shoulders against the seat to angle himself better, tries to get a good grip without having to actually get down on the floor. It smells like stale beer, old shoes, and wet dog down there, and the mats are seriously dirty.

"Dude, chill. I'm just making conversation."

"Then let me invite you to make a different one." Kurt holds his breath as he tightens the vise-grips around the first bolt holding the steering column to the dash. He tests the grip before applying force.

"Wait," Puck says as if something momentous has just occurred to him. "You two haven't actually done the rumpy-pumpy yet, have you?"

Kurt feels his eyes widen as he glances to the open passenger side door, and immediately wishes he hadn't. He sees Puck making an illustrative and lewd pelvic gesture. "Rumpy...?" Kurt asks. The vise-grips slip off the bolt, and Kurt swears under his breath. He should have grabbed the bolt extractor. "Oh my god, Puck, this is not a different conversation!"

"I just figured, since you're both dudes and all," Puck says as if Kurt's both a willing and comfortable conversation partner. "Hell, if I had a girl with an ass like your boy's, I'd be hitting that." Also accompanied by a gesture: this time, mimed spanking accompanies the hip thrusts.

"You're being gross," Kurt says. "Please don't talk about Blaine that way."

"I'm just saying," Puck says, and it's bizarre and disturbing how glibly Puck can discuss such prurient—and personal—matters.

"Well, you can stop," Kurt says, and he's relieved when Puck goes back to the front of the camper. Kurt leans back down, relaxes and decides to try one more time with the vise-grips.

They work in silence for a while. Kurt is entirely comfortable with the silence, even manages to get one bolt out.

And then. "How long have you two been dating anyway?"

That seems safe enough to answer. "Two and a half months."

"That long?"

"Mmhm," Kurt says, though it hasn't felt very long to him. They're planning to do something special for their three month anniversary: maybe a picnic by the river, if the weather is good.

"And you're still not—?"

"Ugh!" Kurt says. "Will you leave it alone?" The last thing he needs—aside from discussing the intimate aspects of his relationship with Blaine with Puck—is to hear another horrible sex euphemism. "And, no—not that it's any of your business—we're not."

"Kurt," Puck says, and his voice is closer again, this time coming through the driver side window. Kurt looks up at him as his shadow falls upon Kurt's face. Upside down, Puck actually looks concerned. "I know you spend a lot of time hanging out with chicks and all, so maybe you don't fully appreciate this, but us guys? We have needs. Like sexual needs. And that includes your pretty prep school boy."

"Maybe some of us are slightly more evolved than that, Puck," Kurt says.

"Not a chance," Puck says. "Your boy might act all gentlemanly and sophisticated, but underneath that fancy uniform and hair gel, he's an animal just like the rest of us. And so are you, no matter how hard you try to pretend you're not."

Kurt sits up with a sigh. "If there's a point to this conversation, would you please make it so we can move on to something else?"

"Seriously, dude. I'm just looking out for you. I mean, you really like him, don't you?"

"Of course I do."

"You're happier now than you ever were before you met him," Puck says. "And that makes me happy."

"Okay," Kurt says. That seems a little weird, but it's fine.

"Then, I'm telling you, Kurt. If you want it to last with Blaine, you got to take care of him, right? You don't want him going off to find some other dude just because you're too prissy—"

Kurt closes his eyes. "Really?" he says softly. Puck doesn't hear him.

"—to put out."

Kurt won't get angry. He won't. He opens his eyes and speaks calmly, "You have no idea what you're talking about." Kurt starts to gather up his things from the seat. "I'm going to head home. Tell Finn I'll finish stripping the cab tomorrow." Kurt scoots across to the open passenger side, gets out, and starts packing the bags into boxes so he can carry them inside.

Puck comes around the front of the camper, follows Kurt into the garage. "Hey, hold up."

Kurt stops. It's cooler in the shade. He takes a breath to clear his head. The familiar tang of motor oil and other automotive chemicals unwinds some of the tension that's building behind his eyes. "What?" he asks wearily.

"I didn't mean to offend you," Puck says; he sounds genuinely apologetic.

But Kurt can't leave off the sarcasm. "Good job, then."

Puck is silent for a moment. "I just figured maybe you didn't have anyone to talk to about this stuff," he says more gently.

"I talk about this stuff with Blaine." Kurt says and turns to face Puck, and then he makes himself say the next thing. "But as horrifying as it is to talk about sex with you, I can, at least, appreciate your concern."

Puck smiles, and Kurt smiles back, but Kurt goes home anyway.

#

As much as Kurt doesn't wish it to be so—and he denies to himself that it is for several days before he gives up and admits it to himself—Puck's advice (or whatever the hell that was) bothers Kurt. Until now, his romance with Blaine has been perfectly comfortable and wonderful, in terms of what they're doing and how much they each seem to be content with it. Admittedly, he wouldn't mind more opportunities to be alone with Blaine, and he's growing curious about doing more. His fantasies are becoming more daring, anyway. But as for reality, he's not interested in anything becoming pornographic anytime soon. He likes the grace of their mutual courtship. He loves it: the longing, the romance, the shy glances, the anticipation.

But now he's wondering, no thanks to Puck, if Blaine truly is as satisfied as he seems. Above many other things, Blaine is a gentleman, and while Kurt's no lady, perhaps Blaine does want more, he just doesn't want to pressure Kurt. (Kurt suspects he will never not feel humiliated over the aborted sex talk Blaine tried to give him back before they were boyfriends.)

So maybe Kurt needs to be bold, take initiative, give Blaine something more than he's asking for. More, as in an activity that will lead to an orgasm. More as in sex of some sort.

It's at that point Kurt feels his own mind clamming up on him. He wasn't lying when he said he didn't like porn. He's always felt alienated by the reduction of people into grunting assemblages of straining body parts. It feels like the opposite of intimacy and care. The men in those videos aren't tender with each other; they don't talk. It's all so... mechanical and rough. Whatever else he wants with Blaine, he doesn't want that. But maybe Blaine does—at least a little bit—and he's too aware of Kurt's hang ups to say so.

It's common enough advice, that relationships require compromise, so Kurt needs a compromise. He's not ready for anything that Puck could possibly refer to as 'rumpy-pumpy', so that's off his list of things to consider. Fellatio is similarly intimidating. His pamphlets had extolled the virtues of frotting (safe, mutually gratifying, with an ancient tradition to recommend it), but that would require much more nudity than Kurt is comfortable with—unless they did it clothed, which, if brought to the intended conclusion would render their pants unacceptably soiled. He may be a teenage boy, but he's not dry humping his boyfriend until he ejaculates in his pants.

A hand-job it is, then, Kurt decides. And of course, he needs a plan, but this isn't something he can sketch out in his notebook. He thinks a quiet evening in might provide an opportunity. He'll need to be ready to seize it. Literally.

#

It happens Friday. Blaine's parents are going out for the evening and Blaine invites Kurt over for delivery pizza and movies. He's exhausted from a week of exams with more to look forward to. When Kurt arrives, Blaine's dressed down in faded jeans and a Dalton t-shirt. His hair is still damp from the shower, and a day's worth of stubble darkens his chin. It's the first time Kurt's seen Blaine so casual, and even if Kurt feels relatively overdressed in his fresco blazer and tie, Blaine is still the most beautiful boy Kurt's ever seen.

They go to Blaine's room with snacks and drinks in hand. The pizza will be their intermission. Kurt takes off his jacket and loosens his collar and tie before he settles upon Blaine's bed. Meanwhile Blaine thumbs through the DVD cases on his bookshelf.

Kurt sits cross-legged near the high padded headboard, watching Blaine (admiring him, really, because the cut of Blaine's jeans is infinitely more flattering than the Dalton uniform pants) but only half-listening to Blaine's monologue recommending various films, because he's wondering how best to go about getting his hands in his boyfriend's pants. This isn't shaping up to be a put on a movie and don't watch it sort of evening, and Kurt doesn't want to be clumsy about it.

Blaine turns with the case for Bryan Singer's first X-men film in his hand. "Since you liked First Class, I thought you might enjoy this one too, to see how things develop. The story isn't focused on Erik and Charles quite as much, but Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellan have amazing chemistry, and—of course—there's Hugh Jackman who's, you know, hot..."

Kurt smiles and nods. Possibly too vacantly.

"Um. Was that too weird to say?" Blaine asks.

"Hmm? What's that?"

"About Hugh Jackman?"

"Oh, no you're right. He's definitely nice to look at." Kurt smiles and adds, "Not as nice as you, though." He reaches a hand out to Blaine, to coax him over to join Kurt on the bed, but Blaine just laughs softly and turns back to his shelf of DVD's.

Kurt looks at his hands and hopes he moisturized enough. Working with the camper this week has spawned a few calluses. He doesn't want his hands to be rough on Blaine. He runs his thumb along his fingers. He thinks they're soft enough, and there are no snags on his nails. He drags one hand across Blaine's plaid duvet cover. Nothing catches on the fine cotton.

"Or," Blaine says. "If you don't feel like mutants and politics, we could watch Spiderman? It's brighter, more nostalgic and sweet. Definitely more romantic. You'd like Peter and Mary-Jane—"

"You choose, honey. I'll be fine with anything." Kurt folds his hands in his lap.

Blaine glances back at him. "I don't want you to just humor me, Kurt. It's important to me that you enjoy yourself too."

Kurt sits up a little straighter. "Well, you know the films, and you know me. Pick what you think I'll like best."

"How do you feel about Superman? I liked the reboot. Some thought there was too much drama and romance, not enough action, but Kevin Spacey was fantastic as Lex Luthor, and I—" Blaine stops talking and turns to face Kurt. He makes a thoughtful grimace as he looks at Kurt. "We don't have to watch a comic book movie."

"It's fine," Kurt says. Then, "Are you nervous about this?"

"Well, yeah," Blaine says. "I love these movies, and I don't want to introduce you to them badly."

"Let's go with your first choice then. One franchise at a time?"

Blaine smiles, relieved. "All right." He puts the DVD in and comes back to the bed.

Blaine sits at the foot of the bed and navigates the menus while explaining how the politics and bigotry around the mutants can be read as an allegory for societal prejudice around homosexuality. Kurt nods, and wonders at the oblivious homophobic fanboys. "Well," Blaine says. "It's a way of discreetly changing minds, don't you think? Like Star Trek did in the sixties."

"I haven't seen Star Trek either," Kurt confesses.

Blaine shakes his head, amused. "Not on your radar, huh?"

"Not so much," Kurt says. "I was obsessed with the Power Rangers though."

"Really?" Blaine asks, smiles. "That's cool."

"Yeah, I still have my action figures. Somewhere. They all lived together in my dollhouse."

"Adorable." Blaine keeps smiling and crawls up the bed toward Kurt. He gives Kurt a soft kiss on the cheek as he reaches across him to flick off the lamp.

Kurt's heart beats faster as he props the pillows up against the headboard and leans back. He opens his legs and invites Blaine to sit between them and recline against him. Even though the popcorn has cooled off while they chose the movie and the ice has melted into his drink, it's close enough to perfect that Kurt doesn't mind.

The movie plays, and Kurt finds it easier to follow than he'd expected. It's not enough to engage him fully though, not with his mind still half-occupied with how to best go about seducing Blaine. It's hard not to think about touching Blaine more anyway, with him so warm and relaxed in Kurt's arms, and the occasional scents of him wafting up to overpower the popcorn smell. Kurt nuzzles into Blaine's hair; his soft curls are still slightly damp, saturated with the bright aroma of grapefruit shampoo and the richer, sweeter notes of whatever styling product Blaine's used.

It's not long before nuzzling has become kissing. Kurt's lips find the tender skin of Blaine's temple, caress high on his cheekbone. When Blaine exhales heavily and his head lists against Kurt's shoulder, Kurt nudges Blaine's head farther to the side and bends closer; he kisses below Blaine's ear, behind his jaw, along the side of his neck, until Blaine shivers and squirms and breathlessly asks, "Are you even still watching?"

Kurt flicks his gaze to the screen. They're fighting in a train station; Magneto's guys are trying to capture Rogue. Kurt doesn't like the Toad. "Mmm. Sort of?" he says, and then admits, "But not really."

"Kurt," Blaine says with a sigh, affection warming his exasperation. "Are you bored?"

"No..." Kurt says, and he reaches to start to tugging Blaine's t-shirt up. "I'm definitely not bored."

"I mean... uh... with the movie?"

"No," Kurt says. "It's just hard to care very much about Rogue or Wolverine when I've got you right here, like this." Kurt looks down over Blaine's shoulder to where his hands are pale upon Blaine's dark t-shirt, dragging it up to bare his belly, and then, skimming down to touch his skin and feel the warm tremor of the muscles beneath his fingertips. He can do this for Blaine; he can take care of him.

Blaine's breath comes out in a rush. "I'll pause it."

The screen freezes, casting a pale, still glow upon them on the bed. Kurt is gratified to see the evidence of Blaine's arousal swelling behind his fly. Can feel his own, a hot pulse, pinned behind Blaine's weight, pressed against the small of his back. It's not new, being in this state together, but it is the first time Kurt's intended to do something about it. He tells himself he's not scared, but he's not terribly convincing. At least he's used to being scared.

As fast as his heart beats, it feels like the rest of him is moving in slow motion. He flattens his palm low upon Blaine's belly, spreading his hand over the yielding warmth, presses and drags his touch until his pinky edges below Blaine's waistband. "You feel really good," Kurt whispers against Blaine's temple, and Blaine arches back against him, turning his head to find Kurt's mouth with his own, reaching with one hand to take a messy handful of Kurt's hair. His other hand goes to cover the one Kurt has low upon his belly; Blaine fits his fingers between Kurt's knuckles and rubs encouragingly.

Kurt does his best to be encouraged: he moves his hand to the buckle of Blaine's belt. Pulls back from Blaine's mouth to ask, "May I... ?"

"Yeah," Blaine says, and then he's twisting around in Kurt's arms, his mouth seeking a deeper, hotter kiss. Kurt's wrist bends awkwardly, so he lets go to reorient his hand, tugs at the loop of leather through the buckle. Blaine turns all the way, and suddenly his hands are on Kurt's belt, jerking the tongue free, popping the top button of Kurt's jeans, and he's murmuring so hotly against Kurt's parted lips. "God, I want to touch you too. Want to see you."

Kurt freezes even as Blaine's fingers work the buttons of his fly open, and Blaine is so—too—close to touching him already, and it's all happening so fast. The tugging of the denim over his crotch is enough to have Kurt trying to pull away, except there's nowhere to go, so he's just moving uselessly beneath Blaine's hands in a manner that may appear eager. He grabs Blaine's hands with his own to still them. "Wait, Blaine... please. Wait," he says, breathless and increasingly, uncomfortably off balance.

Blaine sits back slowly, gives Kurt some space, and looks at him. Kurt can't quite meet Blaine's eyes, so he looks at his chin, his ear, his forehead, his nose. "I'm sorry," Kurt says.

"That's..." Blaine's lips press together, and then he releases a breath in a nervous laugh. "Kurt, that's not your sexy face."

So of course Kurt manages to look like he's in some sort of gastric distress. Of course he does. Kurt lets go of Blaine and covers his face with his hands. "I can't. I'm sorry," he says. "I thought I could, but I can't."

"Hey," Blaine says, and his hands rest tentatively upon Kurt's knees. "Hey, sweetheart, please. Please don't hide from me. Did I do something wrong?"

The sincerity and concern of the endearment makes it through. Kurt peels his hands away from his too hot face. Looks at Blaine helplessly as his stomach wrings itself into restless knots; he wishes he could grab the remote and rewind the last several minutes to before he made a fool of himself. But he can't, and he doesn't want to make it worse. Can't think of anything to say other than, "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Then?" Blaine asks. "What just happened?"