The view from the Metro station at the Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport is impressive; swathes of trees decked in spring green spread around the white marble of the city's buildings. Kurt can spot the Capitol and the spire of the Washington Monument, but The National Cathedral dominates. Along the wide gray river, Kurt sees what he's sure is The Kennedy Center. He yawns, still a little groggy from his nap on the plane, and turns to make a remark to Blaine about the view. But, taking in the sight beside him, Kurt is caught. Blaine stands, squinting in the sunlight and admiring the vista. With the sun brightening his eyes to gold and his gaze eager and amazed, Blaine is stunning.

It was stepping out of the airport with their luggage that brought the full realization to Kurt, a realization that's somehow just as momentous as coming to Washington D.C. for the first time: this is the first time he and Blaine have been outside Ohio together. Even though it's only for a few days over Easter Break, it means this is possible. They got on a plane together in Ohio, and now they are here in Not Ohio—in a major world city—together. It's like they've hit FFWD on their lives and been momentarily transported to a future where things like their being together somewhere Not Ohio is an inevitability. Sure, it's not New York, but it's somewhere, the Shining City on the Hill upon which the eyes of the world rest. Or something like that. There's a brownish haze of humidity and smog blanketing the white buildings that makes the city less than shine.

Earlier in the week, his Dad had surprised them with the airplane tickets, said he really wanted to do this for them both while he could. Blaine's parents agreed, largely, Kurt suspects, due to his father asking them himself. And also because Blaine promised he would take the opportunity to go to Georgetown, pick up information, and look at the campus.

"Okay," Kurt says, finally dragging his attention away from admiring his boyfriend's face. He pulls his phone from his pocket and unlocks it with his thumb to double-check the email from his Dad with directions and instructions. "We need to take the blue line to Capitol South."

The metro train from the airport is busy, and he and Blaine end up in the center of the car, suitcases corralled between their legs, hanging on to the bar above their heads. While the train is above ground Kurt catches glimpses out the window. Closer, much of the city's edges (though this side of the river is technically Virginia) are surprisingly—disappointingly—shabby, neglected. And then they are underground. Conversation isn't viable over the clatter and wail of the train, so Blaine just nudges him with his elbow as they pass through stations with signage bearing such notable names as Pentagon, Foggy Bottom, and Smithsonian. At the less intriguingly named Federal Center SW, Kurt leans in so Blaine can hear him. "The next one's us."

Off the train, they take a moment on the platform to orient themselves and take in the station itself. It's nothing like the functional tiled right-angles of the the New York subway. The station curves high above them in a vaulted arch of honeycombed concrete. Lit from below, it's theatrical, like some kind of strange tubular auditorium. Or, Kurt thinks, Sam would describe it as looking like the inside an alien space ship. There's a sense of it being the past's vision of the future, so clean and graceful. The careening roar and billowing gust of an approaching train shakes Kurt from his consideration. Blaine nods his head toward one of the signs. "This way?" Blaine asks, and Kurt leads their way back to the surface.

On the street, after the soft-lit underground glow of the Metro, the sun glaress twice as bright. The air is crisp and pleasantly on the cooler side of warm. Overhead the sky is a limpid grayish blue; beneath their feet, the sidewalk is chalky red brick laid in a herringbone pattern. The buildings along the street are wide and uniformly variations of white. Trees and hedges and beds of flowers abound, lending a freshness to the air Kurt doesn't expect to find in a city. They walk north, their suitcase wheels chattering across the bricks behind them. Kurt holds his phone, map displayed, glancing up only to verify they turn where they need to; he thinks they're pretty much there, they just need to turn up the next street, cross the road. Kurt quickens his pace, but then, Blaine is grabbing his arm, pulling him to a stop and saying, "Kurt, wait. Look."

He looks up and follows Blaine's gaze up the street where, visible between the trees, is the tall white dome of the Capitol. It's so immediately, simultaneously familiar and novel, there's something both fundamentally strange and awesome about being in its physical presence, like it's only meant to exist in photographs and movies; it can't be an actual place that exists. He felt the same way in Times Square and Central Park. "Oh," Kurt says. "Look where we are."

"Yeah," Blaine says. "Kurt, your Dad works there."

"Which means, this..." Kurt gestures to the enormous Neoclassical building taking up the entire block before them. "...is the Longworth House Office Building." His phone agrees. Up the street, its broad white columned portico looms, unabashedly evoking democracy and imposing its conviction. The building is like a granite and marble manifestation of enlightenment ideals. "My Dad's office is in there."

"Wow," says Blaine, looking up at it.

"My Dad's a U.S. Congressman," Kurt says, as if saying it will make this all feel more real, before it was words and theoretical knowledge; now its physical evidence is right in front of him. They cross the street at the intersection.

The Longworth Building feels smaller on the inside, a warren of marble floored corridors and recessed paneled doors with brass hardware. It's quiet though. Presumably most of its denizens are off for Easter. They find his Dad's office without much difficulty.

He's there in his office suite with two slightly frantic staffers to whom his Dad introduces them, "My son, Kurt, and his boyfriend, Blaine Anderson." There's Sonia (Comms), who barely looks older than Kurt but appears the consummate professional in her tailored gray suit with her black hair swept up in a neat French knot. She's prompting his Dad through a speech. And Scott (Scheduling), a twenty-something guy with an expensive looking, perfectly knotted paisley tie that doesn't go at all with his rumpled linen blazer and chinos. He's on the phone with the airline, finalizing the last minute plans for the evening flight back to Ohio. Originally, the weekend was meant to be them with his Dad, but then, this morning, his Dad was invited to an Easter charity event for the pediatric cancer ward at Lima Memorial, and that wasn't an invitation his Dad wished to decline. He's heading back to Lima late tonight.

Which means Kurt and Blaine will be on their own over the weekend, and that is—as much as Kurt was looking forward to spending time with his father—kind of thrilling.

"We'll be done here, soon," Sonia reassures them with a smile. Kurt and Blaine try to keep out of the way.

Once the travel arrangements and other last minutes details are resolved, Sonia has said she'll be picking his Dad up at nine thirty to go to the airport, and Scott has made seven PM dinner reservations for Kurt, his Dad, and Blaine at Central Michel Richard. His Dad calls for a car to drive them the short distance to the apartment he's renting on Capitol Hill. It's behind the Supreme Court, with, his Dad tells them, a pretty good view of the Court. Kurt is still finding it all mildly surreal, and Blaine has been smiling so much, Kurt expects he'll end up with muscle cramps in his cheeks.

The apartment—a unit in a boxy, Federalist style building called The Horngate—is just one bedroom. But it's more spacious than Kurt expected, though it is not objectively large. It's certainly larger than anything he'll be able to afford in New York next year, even if he's sharing the rent. His Dad packs a suitcase while Kurt explores the small space and Blaine flicks through the Washington Post on the coffee table.

It's a furnished rental, with pretty polished oak floors, off white walls, and fairly bland modern decor in neutral grays and browns. There're large sliding doors (with tacky plastic vertical blinds) at the end of the living room that open out to a small balcony (with a view across to the back of the Supreme Court), and there's a vented gas fire on the shared interior wall. The kitchen has full sized stainless steel appliances, but little counter space or storage (and what's there predates the appliances by at least a decade). All that's in the fridge is a solitary light beer, half a loaf of Wonder bread, strawberry jam, margarine, and a canister of coffee. Kurt considers whether he needs to have another talk with his Dad about what constitutes a healthy breakfast, but today doesn't seem like the right day for that.

The bathroom is tiny with a just small fiberglass shower stall—no bathtub. Disappointing, but at least the bedroom is big enough for a queen-sized bed, which his Dad tells him he and Blaine are welcome to share so long as they make sure to leave it with clean sheets. Kurt rolls his eyes and says, "Good grief, of course, Dad."

Once his Dad is packed, he suggests they have time to walk to the end of the Mall before dinner. So that's what they do. There aren't many opportunities for long walks in Lima due to inclement weather, lack of sidewalks, and a general absence of viable destinations within walking distance. It's oddly liberating to be able to step out the front door of the apartment and require only oneself for transportation. It's what it will be like in New York. Lots of walking and the subway. It feels a lot like freedom.

As they walk, Kurt uses his phone to identify the various museums lining the wide grassy expanse of the Mall. They buy ice cream from one of the food carts on the Mall and pause outside the Smithsonian Castle while they eat them. They watch people—young and old alike—riding the colorful antique carousel nearby. "We'll come back and ride it tomorrow," Kurt says with a grin and a bump of his hip against Blaine's.

"I really want to," Blaine says, grinning back, a smudge of ice cream in the bow of his top lip.

"If we don't go to the Air and Space Museum, Sam will never speak to us again," Kurt says. He thinks they could spend all of their time this weekend just on the Mall, going to the museums, monuments, and memorials, and they wouldn't even see a quarter of it.

"Can we go to the International Spy Museum?" Blaine asks.

Kurt's eyes widen. "There's an International Spy Museum? Seriously?"

Then his Dad says, "I've got tickets to the White House Easter Egg Roll on Sunday if you kids want to go to that."

Blaine smiles brightly and nods. Kurt imagines sugar fueled toddlers. But it's The White House. He can tolerate some chaos in order to see The White House.

They resume their walk, unhurried, Passing over the mound upon which rises the spire of the Washington Monument, and down the other side, wandering beneath the shade of the ancient elm trees lining the reflecting pool. They easily make it all the way to the Lincoln Memorial (but they don't loop around to see Jefferson or Roosevelt). Standing small in the presence of the enormous statue of Lincoln, Kurt can't help but be awed. Sometimes he forgets—it's so easy to forget in small-minded Lima—that there are ideals in this nation that, while imperfectly realized at various points in history, are still its driving aspirations. It makes him feel hope. For all that Lima is considered part of the country's so-called Heartland, Kurt's never felt the pulse of the United States there the way he's feeling it standing here. He looks to his father, and feels so much pride. Then he looks to Blaine and sees the same awe and hope that he is himself experiencing. He reaches out and takes Blaine's hand loosely. They share a smile. Here, in Lincoln's shadow, it should be safe enough for them to indulge a moment.

~*~

Their walk back takes them to Central Michel Richard in plenty of time to meet their reservation. They have have drinks in the bar while they wait for their table, and it's terribly grown up. Kurt finds it peculiar, being in this stylish, modern restaurant of blonde wood, polished stone, and sheer drapery, that his father knows people. He's chatting to the maitre d' like he's an old friend. Kurt is impressed.

Once they're seated and perusing the menu, Kurt ends up discreetly Googling things on his phone under the table. He's not about to admit that he doesn't know what lardons or boquerones are (bits of julienned or cubed pork fat and marinated white anchovies, respectively); he doesn't want to appear ignorant to the waiter. Unfamiliar French culinary terms are the least of it, however.

"They have a lobster burger," Kurt says.

His Dad notes his raised eyebrows. "It's like Frenchified American food here, so I figured it's perfect for you and me, kid."

"It's thirty dollars." Kurt's not sure how he feels about that.

"Yeah, I haven't tried that one. The lemon chicken schnitzel is real good. I get that a lot, and the chicken is free range. But you kids order whatever you want, we're celebrating."

It's so weird to hear his Dad talking about food like this. Kurt's been trying for years to cultivate more culinary sophistication with his Dad, but it takes being in a city to actually do it. "What are we celebrating, Dad?"

"The three of us, being here together like this." His Dad looks from Kurt to Blaine, and Kurt can see in the way his Dad swallows that he's about to go on with something serious, possibly emotional. Kurt glances at Blaine, who is smiling and sitting straight and proper as he unfolds his napkin and drops it to his lap. Very gentlemanly. "So, Blaine," his Dad continues.

"Yes, sir?"

"Okay, first of all, kiddo, I want you to call me Burt, no more of this Mr. Hummel and sir stuff, all right? You've been with Kurt long enough, we can drop the formalities."

"Oh, um, okay," Blaine says, endearingly bashful and pleased in the face of the invitation.

"And that's why we're celebrating," his Dad continues. "Cause, for a long time, it was just me and Kurt, and it wasn't always easy for us. It hasn't always been easy for Kurt to make friends, let alone find someone special. I didn't know if he—"

Kurt lowers his gaze to fidget with his cutlery. "Dad, please—"

"Yeah, yeah, let me finish. So, it means a lot to me to see Kurt with someone like you, Blaine. Someone—a boyfriend—who gets him and cares about him and—"

"Yes, Dad, thank you," Kurt interrupts, because—wow—this is getting sentimental fast.

"Fine, I guess I'm embarrassing Kurt. I just want to say that I like you, Blaine. You're a good kid, and I can tell how much you love my son. I've got to tell you, it means a lot to me that you do. And I know he loves you too. I like how Kurt looks at you, and I like how you look at him. You're good to each other." His Dad stops with an inhale, like there's something else he wants to say but he doesn't; he closes his mouth and just smiles at the two of them. It's only a little bit awkward.

"Thank you, Burt," Blaine says. "I'm glad you think so."

"You guys should know, too—and I'm not saying this because I'm pushing for you two to, you know, do anything stupid like your stepbrother. You're both way too young—and probably way too smart. But I want you both to know that there's some talk the president may start putting his weight behind repealing DOMA, at least rhetorically. He's maybe going to start talking about full marriage equality at the federal level. They figure with DADT repealed, there may be some momentum to get this done too."

"Oh," Kurt says, blinks.

"I told the Democratic leadership they could count on me. If they need a standard bearer or whatever, I'm happy to be their man, even if it costs me a re-election. Because I see you two, how you care for each other, and I know that a world where you're not free to love each other and make a commitment like any straight couple can, whether that's to each other one day, or to other people. That's a world I want to try to change."

"That's... Dad, really great," Kurt says blinking back the sting and blur of sudden tears, and Blaine murmurs words of approval too. It seems like too big a thing to contemplate, really, but here they are in the city where it can happen, talking to a man—his father—who has some actual power in the game. And it's also like his Dad is giving them his blessing for the future. Part of him, the practical part who wants always to keep his Dad safe and happy—wants to warn his Dad off doing something that may hamper his chances at re-election (courage in politics isn't always smart), but the rest of him? On this issue? "I'm so proud of you," he says softly around the tension in his throat. "I hope the leadership gives you that chance. If anyone can make a difference, it'd be you, Dad."

His Dad nods, his smile tender. "Because of you," he says, clearly meaning them both. "Now, you should also know that I've been told we shouldn't get our hopes up. It could end up being more talk than action from The White House. Things could die in committee or stay held up indefinitely. But, you know, the conversation has to change before the laws do, so it's still a good thing if the President is going to start talking about it."

"Yeah, that's..." Kurt trails off as Blaine's hand finds his under the table, giving a squeeze. Kurt looks to Blaine and sees their future dreams laid out right there in his open, loving gaze. Kurt's breath catches, his cheeks warm, and he's suddenly teetering off balance. They're in public, his Dad is looking at them, and Kurt has no idea what to say or do or—

Their waitress arrives. Kurt lets out a breath, gives Blaine's hand a parting squeeze, and picks up his menu again to remind himself what he wants to order.

They start with the cheese gougères for the table and salads. Kurt orders the steak au poivre, Blaine the chicken "Julia", and his Dad the salmon and eggplant. They share various side dishes. Gradually, Blaine relaxes over the food. Kurt doesn't fully understand why Blaine is still sometimes nervous around his Dad, but he is. And so, seeing Blaine's grip on his utensils loosen, his forearms come down from their nervous hover to rest upon the edge of the table, and his smile come less self-consciously? Seeing Blaine saying something just to make his Dad laugh, and seeing his Dad gently, but affectionately, teasing Blaine as if he's still trying to learn Blaine's tolerances and boundaries? The food is delicious, but it's not the only reason it's one of the best meals Kurt has ever had.

~*~

After dinner, they return to the apartment so his Dad can get his suitcase. Sonia soon arrives with the car for the airport. His Dad asks her "Did you get them?" and she hands his Dad a fat envelope, which his Dad then passes to Kurt with a, "Happy Easter." Inside are not just the tickets to the Easter Egg roll but tickets to The Shakespeare Theater for Saturday night, along with dinner reservations for the nearby Spanish restaurant, Jaleo. Kurt's heard of it; it's famous for its tapas or something. But neither he nor Blaine have much time for much more than enthusiastic thank you's. There's a flurry of quick hugs, and then his father's concerned requests for promises to behave and be safe and have fun. And then the door is swinging closed behind Sonia and his Dad. They're abruptly alone, and Kurt is more than a little disoriented.

Kurt presses his palm against the painted wood and closes his eyes. Blaine isn't far behind him. Kurt opens his eyes, takes a breath and drops his hand down to slide the chain across, down further to flip the deadbolt and twist the lock on the knob. They're alone. The weekend that had started out with the promise of them being them relegated to the fold-out sofa bed and no real privacy has become something quite different.

Being alone like this with Blaine—like absolutely alone, without wondering who might overhear a moan or a creak or a rustle or a laugh—every time, it hits him like a wave of something unreal, like a fantasy somehow managed to escape his brain and manifest itself around him, like he's just walked into a holodeck or has fallen asleep into a particularly vivid dream.

In this place, this apartment in this city, it's an even starker contrast, an even deeper rising heat when Blaine's hand comes, so real and warm and heavy, to rest upon his shoulder to prompt Kurt to turn. Kurt turns easily and steps back until he's flush against the door as Blaine presses in to kiss him with his hot, eager mouth.

Blaine is pulsing hard against his hip already, and Kurt's body answers with its own heavy throb of blood to his groin. "I've been thinking about kissing you all day," Blaine murmurs against his lips.

Kurt replies with a hum and a slow, deep sweep of his tongue into Blaine's mouth, and one of Blaine's hands is pulling his shirt free of his waistband, and Kurt is sliding a hand up the back of Blaine's neck. And then Blaine's phone is ringing from his jacket pocket.

"Ugh," Kurt says, tipping his head back against the door with a thunk as Blaine pulls away.

Blaine pulls out his phone and makes a face. "Shit. I forgot to text my Mom," he says before taking the call. Kurt remembers he was meant to remind Blaine to call her once they'd landed. So this is likely not going to be a quick call. "Hi, Mom," Blaine says, followed shortly by an, "I'm sorry, I—" and a "Yes, I know, but I—" and a "I'm fine, Mom, I just—"

In between it all, Blaine mouths an "I'm sorry" to Kurt, and Kurt smiles, shrugs, and jerks his thumb toward the bathroom. He'll feel better—more sexy anyway—if he washes the day's worth of travel and exertion from his skin. It'll give Blaine privacy, too. Kurt never enjoys hearing Blaine's half of the conversations with his parents anyway; there are too many apologies. It's so awkward, and Kurt is never sure of the right thing to say if Blaine is irritated or sad afterward.

Since the shower stall is very small and the water pressure mediocre, Kurt keeps his shower quick; his erection fades on its own. Blaine is still on the phone when he's done, so he takes the time to blow dry his hair. He hangs his towel up before he realizes his dressing gown is still in his suitcase, which is still sitting near the front door. There's no need for modesty, so Kurt heads out of the bathroom nude, venturing quietly into the living area. Blaine is in the kitchen leaning on the counter carrying on the conversation in interrupted half-sentences. He glances up as he sees movement, interrupting himself this time. His mouth falls open ever so slightly, and his eyes widen. Kurt grins and takes a moment to pose ridiculously, pursed lips and a hand on one canted hip, before heading for his suitcase.

"Mom," Blaine says. "I really need to go. It's late and—" Blaine nods and stares at Kurt, adding an absent, "Yes, I will. You too. Good night." And then he sets his phone down and goes to where Kurt is pulling out his thin cotton dressing gown from his suitcase. "You're naked," Blaine says, his fingertips trailing across the span of Kurt's lower back as Kurt zips his case back up.

"You noticed," Kurt says and wonders if perhaps nudity is the key to cheering Blaine up after one of his parental phone calls. He stands up and reaches for Blaine with his empty hand, takes the hand in which Blaine had gripped his phone so tightly to rub over his palm with his thumb. "You should go shower, and then you'll be naked too," Kurt suggests.

Blaine nods. "Yeah," he says, his gaze dragging up and down Kurt's body with an intensity that has the blood pumping straight back down to thicken Kurt's cock. Kurt lets Blaine watch it happen, lets him see how much he can affect Kurt with just a look.

"I'll go... do that," Blaine says at last, and he grabs his toiletries and goes.

"I'll wait," Kurt says. Kurt pulls on the light robe and gets their suitcases into the bedroom. There's a queen-sized bed flanked by two night tables, and a tall bureau. No mirrors, which is weird, but Kurt can deal. He unpacks his clothes to the bottom two drawers and the mostly empty closet, and gets their supplies set up on the night stand: condoms, lube, wipes, tissues... The water is still running, so Kurt pulls the sheets down, slips off the robe, and lies down to wait for Blaine.

While he has hoped for some opportunities for sex over the weekend, Kurt hasn't really planned anything specific in his mind. Up until an hour before their flight, it didn't look like they'd get a chance for anything more than a quick, quiet, under the covers fumble while his Dad slept. But now they have the apartment to themselves, a proper bed, and time. Kurt tries to catalog his present state of arousal and desire, to determine what he wants tonight. Considers what Blaine may like, wonders if there's an opportunity here for something special. But he's sleepy and warm and comfortable.

He stifles a yawn against the back of his hand and rolls to his side. The travel and sun and all the city walking have left him with a pleasant buzz of fatigue, and his mind has been presented with a lot of new stimuli today. About as far as he gets with his planning is that he would very much like to be naked and have orgasms with Blaine, and then he drifts off into a semi-conscious doze.

A touch rouses him: Blaine's hand, warm, sliding up his thigh. "Kurt?" Blaine asks quietly, his voice coming from behind, near Kurt's ear. " Are you asleep?"

"Mmm... not really," Kurt mumbles, blinking his eyes open and clear. He's fallen forward a bit, his leg bent and canted up to keep him from being flat on his belly. "Was just relaxing while I waited for you."

"I'm here," Blaine says, and Kurt feels the mattress dip and Blaine's warmth draw near, before the hot, satin-smooth press of his body aligns itself behind Kurt. Blaine's hard, his cock bumps against Kurt's flank while his lips press a slow, lazy kiss to the angle of Kurt's jaw.

"You feel so good," Kurt says and turns his head so he can find Blaine's lips. It's a poor fit, twisting back for a kiss over his shoulder, but Blaine scoots up and leans over him to deepen the reach of their tongues. Firm, Blaine's hand comes up Kurt's thigh to his ass, to squeeze a handful. Blaine withdraws from the kiss, leaving Kurt dizzy. His hand relaxes, petting over the swell of Kurt's backside.

"What do you want to do tonight, Kurt?" Blaine asks.

"Mmm... anything," Kurt replies, and it's such a wonderful thing to say it and mean it. No matter what Blaine does to him right now, he's not anxious with the anticipation of it, just filled with the warm easy thrum of (slightly sleepy) desire. "Just so long as it doesn't require too much energy," Kurt amends.

Blaine huffs a silent laugh against his shoulder. "Okay," he says. "You relax, I'll do stuff, okay?"

"I think you should do me," Kurt says, half into his pillow and grinning as Blaine starts kneading his ass again and presses another kiss to his skin, lower this time, upon the back of his ribs. Blaine's shower damp curls are pleasantly cool and ticklish upon his sleep warmed skin. Kurt shivers.

That earns another soft laugh from Blaine. "So demanding," he says, shifting and trailing his lips farther down, angling toward Kurt's spine, and down into the small of his back. "I'll make it good for you."

"I know you will," Kurt says, with a hot thrill at the direction Blaine's mouth is taking.

Blaine takes his time. He presses Kurt's buttocks apart and nuzzles between them lazily, nudging into Kurt's cleft with his nose and exhaling humid breaths for a time, only gradually progressing to pressing soft, indulgent kisses and and scattering shallow slips of tongue wherever he can reach. Blaine hasn't shaved after his shower, and his day's worth of hair growth is a sensitizing scuff against Kurt's tender skin. Kurt sighs and twists languidly against the sheets, lets his body soak up the sensation, lets the burn catch and flare. "Mm, baby, that feels so... god..." Kurt trails off lazily and opens his thighs wider for Blaine. "Love your mouth."

When Blaine's tongue finally comes to press flat and lax over Kurt's anus, Blaine hums, low and long, and begins, not quite licking, but rubbing his tongue firm and fluid over Kurt's hole and squeezing Kurt's buttocks in tempo with it.

That's when Kurt wakes up completely.

"Oh... Blaine," he moans out, tilting his hips, pressing back against Blaine's face for more. He can feel the way he clenches beneath Blaine's tongue, involuntary twitches and shivers and— "Ooh," Kurt sighs when Blaine slides his tongue up farther, enough that, when he points and curls the tip of it, it catches as he presses, digging into Kurt's sensitive center, and it's so fucking good, it's like the best thing ever, and Kurt craves the delirious push and slide of Blaine's tongue working its way into his body. But it's little more than a slick tease, for Blaine is pulling away then, his breath hot and heavy across Kurt's bare skin.

"Do you want to come like this, Kurt?" Blaine asks.

"Please... god yes," Kurt says, for in this moment, there's nothing he wants more. He shoves a hand beneath his lopsided sprawl to find his cock, needful and bereft of touch. He wraps his fingers around it, crooking his index finger over the tip to drag the slickness down. "Want to come with your tongue on me," he says, squirms shamelessly back into Blaine's hold and amends, "in me... fucking me."

"Yeah, okay," Blaine murmurs, and then his mouth is back on Kurt, his tongue an insistent slip and slither, slowly working Kurt open, and Kurt's not gritting his teeth against it, but opening his mouth around every harsh moan and sigh, letting whatever nonsense pleasure sounds there are come out, while Blaine, in small increments, pushes in and in and in, and...

"Oh, god..." Kurt mutters, his whole body rocked by Blaine's attention; Kurt's cheek is hot shifting against his pillow, his fingers curled stiff into the sheets that are no longer cool, but instead reflect all the sweltering heat of his arousal right back up at him. "So good, Blaine... god, you're so good at that. So good at me."

Since this is not the first (or second) time Blaine has done this for Kurt, Kurt knows what to expect from his body. He's able—just barely—to relax into the sensation enough that he can ease himself through the intensity of Blaine's tongue boring into him without coming immediately. But he can't stave it off for as long as he wants. He turns his face to muffle his tangled, increasingly loud moans into his pillow, feels his lust, raw, intensifying, searing beneath his skin. Kurt pinches and rubs over the head of his cock just enough to draw it all together.

And Blaine works him faster, stabbing into him over and over—tirelessly—quick and slick and even. And then, as Kurt gets so close his orgasm is coming upon him unavoidably, Blaine changes to slower, deeper, and hungrier licks, pressing and reaching, with his clever twisting tongue, to scour out every last bit of pleasure from Kurt's overwrought nerves while Blaine holds him fast and helpless against his mouth. Kurt's thighs start to shake, and all the heat and ache and want is building up impossibly; Kurt has no choice but to crumble.

He catches his semen in his hand. That's Kurt's last act of volition before he collapses into a graceless numb-brained heap.

The fierce grip of Blaine's hands on his buttocks loosens, but Blaine does not release Kurt or relent entirely. His mouth is still upon Kurt, shallow, soothing licks and soft, closed mouth kisses as Kurt settles back into his bones, heavy, lax, and spent. Then Blaine is dragging his tongue tip up from Kurt's hole to his tailbone, which, immediately post-orgasm, is insanely ticklish; it makes Kurt's muscles jump, Kurt swear, and Blaine chuckle. "You all right?" Blaine asks, folding his arms across Kurt's lower back and resting his chin upon Kurt's tailbone.

Kurt groans and works his tongue through his dry mouth, remembering how to speak. He feels tipped off his axis in the best possible way, like Blaine's unmade and remade him with this one act of startling euphoria. He smiles but doesn't open his eyes. "I'll never be all right again," Kurt mumbles. "I'm so far beyond all right right now..." Kurt trails off as nothing particularly witty comes to mind to follow. He trusts Blaine understands.

"You enjoyed that, then?" Blaine asks; he shifts, his hands sliding a caress to Kurt's waist as he kisses up the line of Kurt's spine toward the nape of Kurt's neck. His chest drags across Kurt's buttocks, then his yielding belly, and then his cock is there, heavy and hot nestling high between his cheeks.

"Mm, so much," Kurt says, tipping his ass up against Blaine's cock. "I loved it. Are you going to fuck me now?" Kurt asks, and then adds, more softly so Blaine knows, "You can. If you want to."

"Hmm," Blaine hums into his hair thoughtfully, rocks his hips down to meet Kurt's movement. Then answers, "Not exactly."

"Not exactly...?"

"Are you still hard?" Blaine asks; then he kisses behind Kurt's ear.

"Pretty much, yeah," Kurt says, for though he's well sated for now, he knows it won't take much to be ready to go again.

"Roll over?" Blaine asks.

With a grunt and some extra effort, Kurt does, careful of his soiled hand. He's not positive there's a change of sheets here. Next time, he'll bring a towel in.

Blaine is smiling beautifully, slightly scruffy and flushed as he takes Kurt's hand and cleans it off with tissues and a moist towelette. "Don't get me wrong, I love your ass," Blaine says, carefully scrubbing between Kurt's fingers as he glances at Kurt with barely tempered desire. "But right now, I really want your cock in mine."

"Okay," Kurt says, feeling a tentative curl of heat catch anew. "What do you need me to do?"

"Nothing," Blaine says with a flirtatious wink that is both ridiculous and promising. "Just lie back and enjoy the show." He releases Kurt's hand.

"Oh, I see..." Kurt says, smiling up at Blaine and reaching to loosely caress up his arms and shoulders as Blaine leans away and reaches for the lube and a condom.

"You will," Blaine says. "I know how you like to look... to see." And with that he turns his back on Kurt, throwing a leg over to straddle Kurt's waist, facing the foot of the bed. "Okay?" he asks over his shoulder.

"Oh," Kurt sighs in greater understanding of what Blaine plans. "Yes," he says, scooting up a little against his pillows and bringing his hands to Blaine, holding on and digging his thumbs into the dimples either side of the base of Blaine's spine, just above his perfectly round, luscious, amazing ass. "This is so okay, Blaine."

~*~

Saturday morning, Kurt doesn't let himself linger in bed with Blaine the way he would like. There's too much to do, and he wants to get to the Eastern Market early. His Dad has told him about it, and Kurt is excited to see it for himself. Into his iPhone, he taps out a list of viable Easter brunches he could make in their under-equipped kitchen while Blaine showers. Learning to cook in a small apartment kitchen is a skill he's going to need. There is, at least, a decent nonstick skillet he thinks will be suitable for crepes or pancakes (he's brought his mother's recipes). Or French toast, if he can find some good bread. Maybe a baguette or a sourdough.

The morning is bright and cool with a freshening trace of dew as they walk to the Metro station. It's just one stop to Eastern Market, and Kurt's already feeling like a pro at this as he buys their tickets. Blaine is gorgeous as always, the early morning chill pinkening his cheeks above the dark high collar of his jacket.

The market doesn't disappoint. The sprawling building that hosts it is yet another historic Federalist structure, well maintained and charming in an East coast colonial way Kurt thinks he's beginning to understand. Everything here is a reminder of that history and its attending aspirations: colonization, revolution, foundation. He can feel it all steeped into the red bricks, the white columns and pediments.

Beneath the clear Spring morning are technicolored mounds of fresh vegetables and fruit, stalls of boutique preserves and sauces, local cheeses, breads, and more. The quality and variety of the food makes Kurt dizzy with possibilities. And then there are the tables strewn with local arts and crafts—so many lovely things: hand-knitted sweaters he could pet all day, felt hats in amazing jewel toned colors, glass beaded jewelry Carole would adore. He nearly, nearly buys himself a scarf. There's a woman selling sheer, hand painted floral scarves that would be perfect for summer; each is unique. He holds one with bright red poppies in his hands for too long. He doesn't have the pocket money for it though, not if he's going to buy food, so he sets it back down reluctantly.

He tries to keep focused on his Easter brunch goal, especially after Blaine reminds him that everything they buy, they'll have to carry back to the apartment. They get fruit, strawberries, blueberries, early white peaches, nectarines, and apricots. He goes easy on the citrus—it's heavy—but he can't resist a plump pink grapefruit or a few shiny Meyer lemons. He buys bread and pastries, too—too much. They eat the flakey custard danishes straight away with the best coffee he's ever had. Then there's a half dozen free-range eggs, organic cream and mascarpone, and other soft cheeses with unfamiliar names the vendors tell him will go with the fruit, and finally a blood orange marmalade he can't pass by once Blaine tells him how much he loves marmalade.

With Kurt's wallet denuded of funds and the laden bags at their feet, Kurt and Blaine lean against the wall outside and sip their coffee. Blaine brushes bits of pastry from Kurt's cheek and smiles at him.

"This is a fantastic morning," Kurt says.

"Spending all your money on more food than we can comfortably eat in one day?"

"No... just—" Kurt gestures vaguely around them and between them. "Living like this, with you. Being somewhere."

Blaine bends down, sets his coffee at his feet to rummage in the paper sacks of their purchases. He pulls out a tissue wrapped parcel and hands it to Kurt. "Here," he says. "A souvenir of the day."

"Blaine," Kurt says fondly. He takes the package and unwraps it. It's the scarf with the poppies. "Oh! Thank you. When did you even—?"

"You were really into that cheese selection, it wasn't hard to sneak away," Blaine says. "You like it?"

"I love it, you know I do," Kurt says, and then adds with quirk of his smile and a quieter voice. "I'll thank you properly when we get home."

Blaine laughs.

"In fact..." Kurt unknots the tie he's wearing and folds it neatly into his pocket, then he opens the collar of his shirt and ties the scarf about his neck. He lifts his chin. "How does it look?"

"Lovely," Blaine says, running his fingertips down the ends of the scarf that drape Kurt's chest.

~

They return to the apartment long enough to drop off and put away their purchases, and Kurt takes the time to press Blaine against the kitchen counter and kiss him until they're both breathless and growing indecent. "Thank you," he says. "Now, let's go to the Smithsonian."

Blaine groans and follows him out the door.

~

The museums are vast. They start at Air and Space, gawking up at rockets and famous airplanes and space capsules. By lunchtime, they're still there. They eat in the cafe there, which isn't all that nice, really, but it has a decent view. The cashier is charmed enough by Blaine that she forgets to charge them for their drinks. After lunch, Blaine has to drag Kurt out of the gift shop with reminders that he can shop online if he really wants to. It's a rush to get through the rest of the museum, but they want to hit more than one. Kurt tries to snap lots of photos of Blaine looking at interesting things. His favorite is Blaine walking through Skylab with the afternoon light behind him, hands in his pockets.

"We're not going to have time to go to the Spy museum today are we?" Blaine asks him, squinting at the angle of the sun as they head back outside.

"It's not on the Mall is it?"

"No."

"Probably not? Unless it's open tomorrow."

Blaine shrugs. "So, dinosaurs next?"

"Carousel first," Kurt says.

It's so much fun; they both end up with terrible giggles, and all of Kurt's photos are blurry. Blaine calls them artistic. Then they go look at the dinosaurs.

Too soon it's time to head back and get ready for dinner and the play. Kurt's rarely been so ambivalent. He wishes they could stay the whole week. He really wanted to head out to the textile museum, too, but that's not possible today either.

~

After the show—a rousing production of "Taming of the Shrew" that leaves Kurt elated and envious all at once—they break free of the swarming crowd exiting the theater and leisurely walk to the Metro stop. It's begun to drizzle, not enough to be oppressive, just enough to fuzz out the lights of the city into an impressionistic blur and make the sidewalks glitter. Blaine appears to be looking at his feet rather than the street. Kurt bumps Blaine's shoulder with his own to draw his attention back from wherever it's strayed. "Hey," Kurt says.

Blaine blinks at him, and his automatic smile lags just a fraction of a second. "Hi," Blaine says.

"Enjoy the play?" Kurt asks.

"It was amazing." Blaine smiles with more vigor. "And so funny! I swear, that play wasn't nearly as funny in Mr. Kroger's English class."

"I know! I haven't laughed that hard since..." Kurt grins. "I can't even remember."

"Yeah," Blaine says. The twinkle of his smile lights up his eyes in that magical way Kurt loves, that still catches him somewhere sharp in his chest every time, still makes his cheeks warm. It makes Kurt reach for Blaine's hand on impulse. Grabs and squeezes and tugs. Blaine squeezes back.

"You know, when we're in New York, we'll have so many more evenings like this," Kurt says; he tips his face up to the smeared lights and the fine prickle of the drizzle as he imagines it: the brighter lights of Broadway, Blaine's hand in his, Blaine's smile and laughter, looking forward to all their amazing tomorrows together in the city of their dreams. He refuses to think about going back to Lima on Monday. For tonight, they can pretend.

Blaine lets go of his hand. "Yeah," he says, more softly, trailing off with a gust of breath. Wistful, Kurt thinks.

Kurt looks back at Blaine, gives him another shoulder nudge. "I can't wait," he says.

"I know," Blaine says, and if Kurt didn't know better, he might think Blaine sounded sad.

~*~

Back at the apartment, Kurt closes the door on the city, on their crystal daydream of an evening out. And though he is sad to step away from all the vibrant experiences of the city, from the wonder of having access to all this culture and sophistication and art, he is glad to return here too. The now familiar snick of the door latch, the slide of the chain, the solid thunk of the deadbolt—with he and Blaine, and only he and Blaine, on this side of the door, together in their own (even if temporary) space—he wonders if this kind of thing will ever feel routine, even when they are living together. Or if it will always be a relief and a thrill, a little wing-like flutter glancing the base of his heart. It's a haven; it's home: it's Blaine.

Kurt turns. Near the kitchen Blaine stands, one hand curled around the edge of the peninsula counter. His posture is too careful to be nonchalant. His eyes upon Kurt are dark and restless; his mouth tense. Blaine must feel it too, the way the pressure changes when the door is closed. Beneath Kurt's scrutiny, Blaine lifts a hand to unknot his bowtie; then he unbuttons his collar, and Kurt goes to him. Kurt kisses him, and Blaine yields to the kiss: deep, sweet, and hungry.

So hungry, it swiftly rouses an answering heat in Kurt's blood. He growls into Blaine's soft open mouth, presses in with ardor. His fingers dig into Blaine's shoulders, and Blaine begins to sway into Kurt's embrace. But then Blaine catches himself, and he's suddenly pulling back. He breaks the kiss, breaks Kurt's hold on him—but his gaze doesn't break from Kurt's.

With a glimmer of a smile, Blaine steps away, backwards into the low light of the living area, until he's standing upon the thick rug. There, dusted in the wan glow of the street through the open blinds, he lowers himself to his knees. Blaine reaches a hand out, palm up, and Kurt moves to meet him, curious and alert. He takes Blaine's hand—expects Blaine will go straight for his fly, but he doesn't. His smile has faded, and the desire in his eyes is less simple.

Kurt doesn't ask, 'Are we doing this right now?' and he doesn't say, 'I didn't plan anything.' Instead he asks, "What do you need, baby?"

"I need to feel you, Kurt," Blaine answers.

"All right," Kurt says. There's an edge to Blaine, something desperate rising up from the dark well of his gaze. It's not entirely familiar, but Kurt thinks he recognizes it nevertheless. Kurt brings his other hand to Blaine's head, tangles his fingers tightly into Blaine's hair, and tugs his head back, a little roughly. Blaine winces and gasps, his eyelids flutter and his mouth comes open. His gaze drops from Kurt's face to the front of his trousers. Blaine seeks Kurt's response, and then—once found—Kurt sees how Blaine wants it.

"You want to suck my cock." Kurt says.

"Yes, Kurt," Blaine says. "Tell me."

Kurt brings Blaine's hand to the front of his jeans, lays it flat over his erection so Blaine can feel it. Blaine curls his fingers around its thick shape, his breathing hastens. "Tell me, Kurt," he repeats, licks his lips. "Please?"

It's so tempting to give in, but there's that edge; now it's chiseling Blaine's voice: Kurt wonders if he can sharpen it. He'll try. "No," Kurt says, though he's not sure what he's doing exactly, improvising.

Blaine's eyes widen and flick up to Kurt's in something akin to disbelief.

"Not that," Kurt says. "Not yet. All right?"

"Yes, Kurt."

"Undress yourself, please," Kurt says, and Blaine shifts his weight as if to stand. "But don't stand up," Kurt adds, and he lets go of Blaine.

Kurt doesn't watch Blaine while he undresses, but Kurt can see in his peripheral vision that it's accomplished somewhat awkwardly, accompanied by a few soft, self-conscious chuckles. It makes Kurt smile. But instead of looking at Blaine, Kurt attends to getting what they need from the bedroom, finding a blanket (something easily laundered), and trying to orient his galloping mind. He hasn't planned anything, has only a general idea of Blaine's desire, which seems like something more specific tonight. Kurt trawls through the memory of the evening for hints. Dinner was amazing; the food incredible (and Kurt finally has a benchmark for good paella), the conversation light as they talked about the day, Kurt wondering how the Smithsonian will compare to the museums in New York, the Met, MoMA, the Guggenheim... How he'll wait to see them on the weekends when Blaine visits. Blaine smiled and nodded, looking at him with his shining eyes, and he took Kurt's hand across the table and squeezed tight.

Kurt shakes out the folds in the blanket and drapes it over the sofa, then he turns back to check on Blaine, who is just pulling his briefs off and setting them aside on his loosely folded pile of clothes. He's completely bare now, his musculature cast in fallow chiaroscuro by the pale glow of the streetlamps. Blaine sits back on his heels, his hands lax on his thighs: a picture of patience but for the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the dark jut of his cock, and his bright eyes trained upon Kurt. It arrests all Kurt's thought, his breath, his heart.

"Blaine," Kurt says, barely audible. "Come here."

It's like a dream how slowly Blaine moves, tipping forward to his hands and knees. He watches Kurt, stares at him in a way that makes Kurt's lungs seize and his heart tremble. He's caught, so helplessly caught by this boy. Blaine crawls toward him, and Kurt cannot look away from the strength in the rise and fall of his shoulders, the sinuous flex of his spine, the way he crosses the black vertical bands of shadow from the blinds, how the bars of light and shadow seem to drag against the movement of his body. The way Blaine looks, it's... potent, infused with erotic suggestion. Kurt clenches his fingers into fists to forestall any trembling that would betray his lack of composure.

"Blaine," he says. He means it to sound firm, but it comes out whisper fine and tender.

When Blaine reaches him, he stays on his hands and knees, presses his face against the side of Kurt's leg just above his knee. Through the denim, the heat of Blaine's cheek is vivid. Kurt's rigid with apprehension as he looks down at Blaine, so beautifully nude, kneeling in supplication, silently asking for... Everything or anything, Kurt isn't sure which.

"Help me with my boots," Kurt says.

The pressure of Blaine's hands on one ankle, his thumbs running up the laces of Kurt's white Docs, is almost worshipful. Then Blaine lowers his head and presses his lips to the toe of Kurt's boot, and suddenly it unequivocally is. There's reverence in the way Blaine slowly kisses over the front of the boot while his fingers press a muted caress through the leather, and all of Kurt's blood is pounding it's way to his cock, except for the blood racing across his skin, burning up his cheeks and chest and... "Oh," he says, and he stares.

Then Blaine raises his head a few inches, but he doesn't look up. His voice is rough and low when he asks, "I-is this turning you on, Kurt?"

It takes a few attempts at gathering air for Kurt to answer. "Yes," he says quietly, imparting a strange secret. "I don't know why, but yes."

"You don't have to know why," Blaine says, and then he lowers his head again and licks across the polished white leather. Licks.

Kurt sways on his feet and tries to find some handhold, but the arm of the sofa is out of reach; he can only dig his fingertips into his own thighs. Hot as this is, he can't help but think of the dust and drizzle that will have collected on his boots throughout the day. It's been city walking, but still. He wants to kiss Blaine later and not have him taste like a city street. "That's enough," he says, never minding that his boots are still laced tightly. "Sit up, please."

Blaine does, sitting up and back on his knees, his head bowed with his lashes lowered, his cheeks flushed, and his chest rising and falling with deep breaths.

"Look at me," Kurt says, and he reaches a hand to cup Blaine's jaw, tilts his head up. Blaine's chin comes up before his gaze, but he does meet Kurt's eyes. His lips are pressed thin with nerves. "Baby," Kurt says gently and with a smile. "Did you think licking my boots would get you what you want?"

Blaine smiles around a short gust of laughter. He shakes his head. "No—I don't know. I just wanted to..."

Kurt lets his smile fade. "I asked you to help me with them."

"I— of course. I'm sorry. Please, let me..." Blaine starts to lean forward to reach for the laces.

Kurt pulls him up short, tightening his grip beneath Blaine's chin, pushing him back. "No," he says, watching Blaine's face carefully. Blaine's eyes widen, his mouth comes open releasing a soft grunt.

The inspiration comes from nowhere Kurt wishes to examine too closely just now: he raises one foot to place the toe of his boot against Blaine's breastbone. He gives the slightest push and Blaine goes back, supple and easy, falling back to catch himself with his hands, braced upon trembling elbows, and the sole of Kurt's boot is flat against the center of his chest. Kurt takes care not to put much weight on that leg. He holds himself very still and looks down at Blaine, who stares back up at Kurt, his gaze fathomless. Kurt's not certain he understands precisely what Blaine wants from him in this moment. While he knows—and thinks he understands this well enough—that Blaine wishes to be pushed at times, and he likes it when Kurt is rough, this is not exactly that. It feels like something else, this edge to Blaine. It seems fragile in some difficult to quantify way.

But fragile things Kurt gets. He knows how to be careful. And there's one thing he's sure of. Kurt leans forward as far as he dares, balancing carefully so as not to shift his weight forward, and he ventures to repeat Blaine's earlier question to him, "Is this turning you on, honey?"

"Yes, Kurt," Blaine replies immediately.

"You'll let me do whatever I want with you right now, won't you?"

"Yes, Kurt. Whatever you want."

"Anything I want."

"Yes, Kurt," Blaine says, his voice tapers to a whisper. "Anything."

"And what do you want, baby? Tell me."

"Whatever you think I deserve, Kurt."

It's a peculiar, vaguely unsettling, turn of phrase, and Kurt knows he has a choice to make. He can push Blaine down more forcefully with his boot, or he can relent. He wonders which Blaine wants; he searches Blaine's face for any sign, as if he gazes fixedly enough, seeks the right angle of light, he'll be able to discern an answer. It's fruitless. He looks down at Blaine naked and stretched taut beneath him; he looks at his boot, coarse upon Blaine's smooth skin. Sees the formless entreaty in Blaine's gaze, a brief flicker of trepidation within the space of two rapid blinks, but underlying those is the terrifying trust.

And that's it, really. Kurt remembers the first time, how he gave in to that trust: to follow his own desire, not to try to guess at what secrets Blaine may harbor. It's Kurt's desire Blaine trusts, so Kurt chooses that. He lifts his foot from Blaine's chest and wordlessly goes to his knees. He guides Blaine to lie back and straighten his legs, and then Kurt straddles his hips.

"What you deserve?" Kurt murmurs before he leans down, takes Blaine's face between his hands, and kisses him.

When Blaine moans in the back of his throat, arches up, and reaches for Kurt's shoulders to pull him down, Kurt pulls away. His hands don't tremble at all as they go to his throat to unwind the scarf Blaine bought for him this morning. Even in the gloom, the saturated red of the poppies is a bright splash of color against the white. "Give me your hands," he says.

Blaine nods and offers Kurt his hands. Kurt winds the scarf around Blaine's wrists without speaking. He can hear his own breath coming faster, is aware of the heat coming like waves from Blaine's bare body. Once he's satisfied with the knot, Kurt pushes Blaine's hands back, above his head. "Keep them there," he says. He pauses for a heartbeat, holding Blaine's gaze before he adds, "If you want me to let you come tonight."

"Kurt—?"

"Hush," Kurt says. He sits back and settles his weight down until he feels the rigid line of Blaine's cock between his legs, trapped beneath the heavy seam of his jeans. With a grunt, Blaine arches up against the rough contact, Kurt hushes him again, pets him until he settles, tells Blaine, "Relax."

With Blaine naked and breathless, bound on the floor like this, pinned by Kurt's fully clothed weight, it feels so serious, this thing they do together sometimes. And maybe it is serious (Kurt definitely wants to ask Blaine about what happened—or didn't happen—with his boots), but it's also meant to be joyful. So Kurt smiles at Blaine. Smiles as he brings a hand to his belt to unfasten it, smiles as he unbuttons his jeans, and smiles as he eases the zipper down over the straining shape of his erection.

Blaine's eyes follow the movement of his hand, and Kurt takes his time opening his pants, unsnapping the band of his underwear, and drawing his cock out from his fly. There's a tremor in the muscles of Blaine's neck as Blaine holds his head up to see, and Kurt realizes he should have got Blaine a cushion. But it feels too late for that, so Kurt pulls his phone from his breast pocket, sets it aside, and then slides his jacket from his shoulders. He folds it and rolls it into a neat bolster. It'll be too creased to wear again without a trip to the dry cleaners, but that's a small sacrifice, really. He leans forward to cup one hand behind Blaine's neck, supporting while he tucks the makeshift pillow behind Blaine's head.

"Comfortable?" Kurt asks, stroking over Blaine's cheekbone with his thumb.

Blaine's lips come apart; his gaze held within Kurt's is rapt, but he doesn't speak; he only nods.

"Good," Kurt says, trailing his fingertips from Blaine's face down his neck, across his throat, his pulse, over the bob of his larynx as Blaine swallows, his collar bones, his chest until his fingertips are denting the muscle right over Blaine's heart and Kurt can feel its steady, loving beat. "You're so good, Blaine. So pretty."

Still, Blaine doesn't speak, just stares at Kurt as if he can absorb something of him with the intensity of his gaze. It's such an easy place to lose himself, Kurt thinks. With Blaine, it's always been so easy to fall. A pleasant shiver ripples up Kurt's spine, and he brings his hands to the buttons of his shirt. He works his way down, unhurried, opens his shirt to bare more of himself to the steady heat of Blaine's eyes. One last glance up at Blaine's wrists shows Blaine's arms still relaxed within the snare of Kurt's scarf.

Then Kurt leans over Blaine, braces himself on one straight arm. His other hand, Kurt wraps around his dick. "Watch me, baby," Kurt says. In the quiet space between their bodies, his words fall muffled, like a secret.

So that Blaine may see, Kurt straightens again, presses his weight down against Blaine's cock as he drags his fist, loose and slow, up his own. Kurt keeps his gaze fixed upon Blaine's face, while Blaine—his attention is wholly upon Kurt's hand on his dick.

"Loved the little show you put on for me last night," Kurt says, his breath stutters as he tightens his grip and sees how that change resisters in Blaine's face: the shudder of his eyelids, the flash of his tongue across his bottom lip. Of course, Kurt had been able to touch last night, had been able to dig his fingers into the flesh of Blaine's ass, had run his thumbs around the stretch of Blaine's body about his cock; had been able to slide his palms over the sweat-slicked flex of the muscles in Blaine's thighs as he fucked himself so shamelessly on Kurt's cock.

The memory of it has Kurt's hand speeding up, has him arching into the grasp of his fingers remembering the sweltering hold of Blaine's ass. "God, Blaine," Kurt says; it comes out so low and ragged, like Kurt's speaking with someone else's voice. "You were so hot."

Blaine's chest heaves with deep, rapid breaths. His eyes burn, and he groans and struggles beneath Kurt's weight, trying to buck up for some relief. Kurt doesn't let him.

"You want my cock, honey?"

"Yes."

"You can have a taste," Kurt says. He swipes his thumb over the tip of his cock, collecting the wet glint of pre-come. Brings his thumb to Blaine's mouth, smears it over his plush bottom lip, lets his touch linger, dragging across Blaine's hot cheek as Blaine's eyelashes flutter and he sucks his lip into his mouth with a pleased moan. "Good boy," Kurt says, and returns his hand to himself.

"Kurt..."

"Hmm?" Kurt bites down on his own lip as he picks up his pace again, with less finesse, less performance, and more intention to just get himself off. He lets his eyelids drift down to hood his gaze.

"Please, let me—" Blaine's arms tense and his hands flex, but he leaves them above his head.

"Not yet," Kurt says, can't help the way his hips are starting to rock against Blaine's trapped cock. He's close, so close. He tells Blaine, "Going to... Ah! Come on you."

Blaine tosses his head back as he swears. "Fuck, oh... fuck."

Kurt gluts his vision upon the gleaming, vulnerable arch of Blaine's throat. His free hand drifts from where it rests on his thigh up his torso to find a nipple; he pinches it as he gives his cock a last barrage of fast, hard strokes to finish himself off.

His semen spatters white across Blaine's torso, all the way up to his collarbones.

Then, dizzy, Kurt's falling forward, leaning down, pressing his open, gasping mouth to Blaine's throat, feeling the hammer of Blaine's pulse beneath his lips, sucking at the sweat salty skin, inhaling Blaine; the heady mix of his cologne, sweat, and arousal fills his nostrils. Blaine cries out softly, almost pained, as Kurt's weight shifts off him, as his cock comes free again.

"Please, Kurt, please..." Blaine mumbles and begs, writhing and hot beneath Kurt. "Please."

"Okay," Kurt says as he catches his breath. "It's okay, baby."

He pushes up, drags two fingers through the mess on Blaine's tummy, scooping up as much as he can. He pushes them between Blaine's parted lips. Blaine takes his fingers greedily, sucking hard, moaning; the luxurious slide of his tongue is enough that Kurt loses what little breath he's regained. He slicks up his other hand with his spunk, brings it down to Blaine's cock.

He intends to give a few teasing strokes before going down on Blaine; he wants to draw this out longer, but as soon as his fingers curl around Blaine's shaft, Blaine jerks hard and comes even harder. Just like that. Barely touched.

"Wow," Kurt says.

"Mmph," Blaine replies.

Blaine's a mess, his skin soaked with both their semen. Kurt cleans him up best he can without having to leave him alone to get a washcloth. Then Kurt unties Blaine's hands and kisses him, and Blaine sighs and tangles his fingers into Kurt's hair. They lie on the floor like that until the cool begins to creep into their flesh, and Blaine starts to shiver. So Kurt helps him up, wraps him in the blanket from the sofa, and takes him to bed. He undresses and spoons up close behind Blaine, smoothing his hands over Blaine's body to rub out his chill. Once they're both warm again, Kurt gets up to freshen up in the bathroom. He brings a warm washcloth back to Blaine. After that he makes hot tea (decaf Earl Grey with honey and milk), and they sit up in bed to drink it with a plate of Oreos shared between them. Blaine's quiet and content in a way he wasn't before; the edge is blunted. But Kurt's still wondering about a few things.

"May I ask you something?" Kurt opens. He knows Blaine doesn't always like to talk about this stuff, but he can't leave this question unanswered, a little Blaine mystery to try to solve.

"Sure," Blaine says over the rim of his mug.

"Earlier," Kurt says. "With the, uh, boots...?"

A flash of a smile, self-conscious. "Your boots are sexy."

"Yeah, okay, but not... that. Um." Kurt chews his lip.

"What is it?"

Kurt makes himself say it. "There was a moment, and I couldn't tell. Did you want me to, like step on you, push you down?"

Blaine is quiet, nibbling around the perimeter of a naked Oreo half.

"It's okay if you did," Kurt says, but it comes out a little faint.

"Is that something you wanted to do, Kurt? To do that... to me?"

Kurt shakes his head; he had the thought, the impulse, but it wasn't a personal desire for that, to hurt or humiliate; it was more like a willingness to embrace a role for Blaine if it would turn Blaine on. That's the rush for Kurt: turning Blaine on. But he's not sure he can explain the difference well. "I don't know, not really. No," Kurt says but he doesn't want Blaine to think he's denying Blaine something he may genuinely want. Kurt's read things. So he quickly adds. "I mean, not for myself. But if you wanted me to? If it's something you might enjoy, I could—I would—for you."

Blaine nods and presses his lips together for a moment before he replies. "I think, what I enjoyed was..." He tilts his head, glancing down at the plate of cookies resting upon the rumbled duvet. "I liked that you could have, but you didn't. I would've let you, but you didn't want to, and I liked that. Does that make sense?"

"I— I'm not sure, Blaine."

"Okay, think about it this way," Blaine says, and when he raises his gaze back up to Kurt's, there's something more certain there. An easy confidence that makes Kurt feel like he did that day on the stairs. Blaine sets his cookie down on the edge of the plate and reaches out to take Kurt's hand. "I really love being at your mercy," Blaine says, his voice low and sexy smooth, and all the implications of his words glimmer dark in his eyes.

"Oh, I— O-okay," Kurt says, a flush of heat rapidly rising up his neck.

Blaine rubs his thumb across Kurt's knuckles. "You love it, too, don't you? When I'm on my knees for you, waiting for you. Or tied up and helpless, but so willing..."

"I do," Kurt whispers, and he manages to set his tea aside before Blaine leans in and kisses him, hard.

"Now, just tell me what I have to do so you'll let me suck your cock..." Blaine murmurs into the corner of Kurt's mouth.

Kurt laughs and falls back into the pillows; he pulls Blaine down with him.

~*~

The next morning, Kurt wakes to the weight of Blaine's hand on his waist and the caress of his breath against his neck. It's dark, dark enough it doesn't feel much like morning, but there's enough dull gray filtering through the blinds, the sun must be up. The drizzle from last night has turned to a steady, heavy rain. Above them, upon the roof, it's a muted bass thrum. He glances at the clock and yawns into his pillow. It's too early for the alarm to have gone off. Kurt's ready to snuggle back into Blaine's warmth for another hour of sleep when Blaine speaks quietly but clearly, his breath stirring the fine hairs at Kurt's nape. "How many different ways do you think I can make you come?"

"Whuh...?" His brain's not nearly awake enough for this. Or for counting. His body though... It doesn't take much to flip that switch: Blaine's hand sliding over his chest, finding a nipple, the feel of Blaine—hard—pressing against his ass, the ticklish caress of Blaine's parted lips tracing the edge of his ear. The possibilities blur together. He guesses, "Five?"

"I count at least seven," Blaine says.

"Seven..." Kurt says with his exhale. Blaine's hand is smoothing down his pajamas to his belly. "You've been awake for a while, huh?"

"Mmhm. Pick a number for me?" Blaine says, skimming his palm over Kurt's growing erection.

"Uh... three?"

"Good choice. I really like three." And then Blaine is moving with purpose, rising up behind Kurt so he can lean down over him.

"Now?" Kurt asks. The tug of more sleep still holds some appeal, but it's disintegrating quickly enough under the press of Blaine's lips to Kurt's throat, his hand tugging at Kurt's hip.

"Uh huh," Blaine says, hot breath against his skin. "We have time."

"Okay," Kurt says and lets Blaine tip him to his back.

"I love it when you're like this." Blaine unbuttons Kurt's pajamas.

Kurt snorts a soft laugh. "Sleepy?"

"Mm. A little," Blaine says thoughtfully. smiling. He sweeps his palm down Kurt's breastbone to his belly, follows the motion with his gaze, contemplative. "But it's more that you're so relaxed and, like... loose" Blaine curls his fingers over Kurt's waistband. "It's hot."

"So you're saying you like it when I'm easy?" Kurt asks, smiling and nudging up with his hips.

Blaine chuckles and looks up. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, when it's for me."

"It's only ever for you."

"I know," Blaine says, and brings his other hand to Kurt's pajama bottoms. Kurt arches his backside off the bed so Blaine can strip them off, and then Kurt is lying naked in the cool pewter gloom of the rainy morning, breathless and warm beneath Blaine's attention. His cock lies heavy and hard against his belly.

"So what's three?" Kurt asks, clenching one hand into the thick woven texture of the duvet cover. As if he could possibly anchor himself.

"Three is..." Blaine coaxes Kurt's legs apart so he can kneel between them. He reaches back to his side of the bed for his pillow. "Lift up?" he prompts, and Kurt lifts his hips again so Blaine can tuck the pillow beneath him. "Three is fingering you to orgasm."

"Ah," Kurt says, watching Blaine reach for the lube on the nightstand.

"I mean, so long as— Is that... all right?"

"No, Blaine it's a terrible idea," Kurt says. "The worst."

Blaine laughs and slips a hand under Kurt's thigh to get him to raise his leg up, rests Kurt's calf upon his shoulder, strokes his shin. "I'll take that as a yes, then," he says.

Kurt can only nod as he hisses in a gasp between his teeth. On the hot skin behind Kurt's balls, Blaine's fingers are a cool wet shock. It makes his heart thump hard in his chest and heat scatter across his skin, but Kurt accepts it, his body responding this way. To let Blaine touch him like this now, it's so easy. Although it's still marginally less easy to say, "That feels really good," in a hushed whisper when Blaine's fingers slide lower to rub over and around his anus. Kurt says it anyway.

"You want me to blow you while I—?" Blaine presses a fingertip in, not far, just enough to start massaging away the tension from the inside.

"No. Just... ah... want to feel this," Kurt says. This is still a new enough sensation, he wants to concentrate on it, catalog it, find every little variation to savor before expanding it into other things. "It's so good."

"Touch of the fingertips, huh?" Blaine says; it's affectionate.

"Yes," Kurt says, arching up into Blaine's touch as Blaine reaches farther into him. "Yes."

Blaine works his body patiently, thoroughly, with an ineluctable, perfect rhythm; and Kurt shivers and sighs, loses himself in the electric haze Blaine creates within him.

When Kurt gets close to his climax and he's tensing and crying out softly, Blaine leans over Kurt, kisses him deeply to swallow his whimpers, and then draws back to whisper to him: "So gorgeous," and "So hot," and "Come when you want, Kurt. Whenever you want," until Kurt does. He comes in a heaving surge, like a river in a rainstorm, overflowing and then... gently, gently, receding back into his own skin.

Blaine leaves his hand inside, but sits back, looks down at Kurt as if surveying his work. His fingers still move, slowly as if to soothe, but there's nothing soothing about it. The relief of Kurt's climax dwindles swiftly into fresh involuntary twitches; he trembles around Blaine's unrelenting touch. Then Blaine is saying his name urgently and starting to slide his hand out, but only far enough to tuck a third finger against the two he's been using, and he pushes back in.

Kurt gasps and arches at the sudden stretch, and his nerves blaze with too soon, too much. His eyes snap wide open. "Christ, Blaine... what're you...? Oh..."

"Please, Kurt," Blaine says, tipping forward and nuzzling against his cheek, mouthing at his jaw, down his neck. "Please, may I— Let me fuck you. Now, like this. I want you... want to be in you, want to come in you... so bad. Kurt, please."

"Okay," Kurt says; he doesn't want to deny Blaine this. He licks his dry lips, tries to swallow some moisture down his dry throat. "You can, just—"

Blaine shifts his weight, and his free hand comes to pet through Kurt's sweat damp and sleep mussed hair. "I'll take it slow, okay?"

"Yeah..."

When Blaine's fingers slide free of his ass, Kurt tries to collect himself. At least his body is feeling so opened up and sated that it's not difficult to relax again. The ghost of Blaine's touch still flickers inside, feeble but warm. Blaine tissues his hand clean and pulls his pajama top off brusquely, doesn't bother unbuttoning it, just tears it off over his head and throws it across the bed. Kurt sees how his hands tremble as he strips off his pajama pants. Blaine's cock comes free, dark and heavy, and always such a welcome sight to Kurt, even though, right now, with Kurt still sensitive in the aftermath, it's rather intimidating to contemplate. "Slow, right?" Kurt says.

He gets a nervous flash of a smile in response. "Yeah." And then Blaine tosses Kurt the tissues and reaches for a condom.

"Skip it, please," Kurt says, half-heartedly wiping at the spunk on his stomach. The thought of the latex dragging against him while his nerves are still frayed holds little appeal.

"Right," Blaine says, and he's so breathless and keen, he's nearly shaking with desperation as he turns back toward Kurt. Kurt discards the soiled tissue and lifts his legs to wrap them high around Blaine's waist. It's a contrast Kurt relishes: being calm within himself while Blaine is so needful. It won't last long.

"Here," Kurt says, tightening the grip of his thighs around Blaine's torso to bring him nearer, until the satin heat of Blaine's shaft brushes Kurt's balls, and Blaine is staring down at Kurt's face with such complex longing it stops Kurt's breath. Between his legs Blaine is so warm and solid and close. The implications of this intimacy—how they're about to fit themselves together—ignites anticipation fresh and hot within Kurt. "Let me..." Kurt says, reaching for the lube where it's half buried in the sheets.

Blaine leans over him on straight arms as Kurt slicks up his hand and reaches for Blaine's cock. The heat between their bodies is palpable. His own dick begins to stir, and Blaine eagerly pushes into the slippery grasp of Kurt's fingers. "Kurt," Blaine says, lowering his head.

"You feel so good," Kurt says, tipping his chin and straining up so he can meet Blaine's mouth with his own. He tightens his grip as he spreads the lube over Blaine's length, loves how hard and thick Blaine is in his hand, the smooth heat of him, how it's all going to feel pushing inside him soon, the breach and stretch and fill and everything. Kurt slips his tongue between Blaine's lips with a growl, tangles his free hand into Blaine's hair, holds him close, and works his hand faster along Blaine's cock, tugging him up until Kurt's knuckles brush along his own returning erection.

"Careful." Blaine breaks the kiss with a shudder and a gasp. He pulls back. "I don't want to come yet."

"Mmm, sorry," Kurt says, lets go of Blaine to move his wet hand to himself.

"Are you good?" Blaine asks; he sits back on his heels; his hands are warm upon Kurt's thighs. "I mean, are you ready?"

"Yeah," Kurt says. "Go ahead."

Blaine nods and presses Kurt's legs apart, slides his hands to the backs of Kurt's thighs, presses them farther, making Kurt's spine curl. With Kurt on his back, and Blaine kneeling between his legs, holding them apart, holding Kurt open for him—to his gaze and his cock—it's enough to make sweat break across Kurt's skin, enough for his breath to come faster, for the heat to flare even deeper—more hungrily—in his belly. And there's something so deliberate about the way Blaine is holding him, something about the way his gaze is so keen upon the exposure and splay of Kurt's body even as Blaine hesitates... Kurt lets go of his cock, raises both arms above his head to lay them, lax, upon his pillow. "Whatever you want, baby," Kurt says. "Take it. Take me."

"You're amazing," Blaine says, and then he lets go of one leg to position his cock. And then Blaine's cockhead is nudging Kurt, blunt and insistent, seeking entrance. He moves his hand back to Kurt's leg, wraps his fingers tight around Kurt's ankle, and, with a steady push, Blaine cleaves him open.

Kurt's mouth falls open around a soundless sharp exhale. He forgot this. But how could he forget? He thought he remembered, but he didn't. He didn't remember just how hot and huge and impossible this feels, Blaine pushing his cock inside him. It's visceral, undeniable. How could he, in the space of a few weeks forget the magnitude of this fine feeling? Blaine, inside him, consuming and consumed.

"Kurt?" Blaine pulls back a fraction, pushes back in a little farther. Swears under his breath.

"...huh?"

"Open... Jesus. Open your eyes."

Kurt's not sure when he closed them. He opens, blinks up at Blaine, who's like some stunning sex god kneeling between Kurt's legs. Cast steel in the dim gray light, Blaine is all sleep tousled and sweat glazed, gloriously nude and glassy eyed; his torso flexes beautifully with each movement that takes him incrementally deeper into Kurt. And Kurt can't speak for the way the root of his tongue feels bizarrely tangled up with the forceful thud of his heart and the fullness edging inside him.

"Are you okay?" Blaine asks.

Kurt licks his lips, forces some words out. He thinks they're the right ones. "Yeah... fuck. You feel... it feels so..." Kurt tries to move, to twist up or bear down onto Blaine's cock, to take him in faster, but Blaine's grip shackles his legs, and all Kurt can do is relent and accept.

"Yeah," Blaine says. "Me too." He rocks his hips, slides deeper. With each roll in, he plies Kurt wider, looser, more open. He bows his head and looks down, and Kurt knows Blaine is watching it, the way his cock is moving in and out of Kurt's body; watching the same way Kurt likes to watch when he's the one doing the fucking.

With a steadying breath and a stretch of his arm, Kurt reaches out for the lamp, can barely get to the switch, but he manages to flick it on, floods the cool gray of the room with warm gold. "Better?"

"Yeah," Blaine says, glances up at Kurt's face. Drags his gaze back down Kurt's body slowly until it's resting once more where Kurt cannot see, where they're joined. "God, you look so good like this."

And before Kurt can reply, "So do you," Blaine is dragging his cock out and out and all the way out. The abrupt emptiness makes Kurt swear, his body cramps around the nothing. "Blaine," Kurt complains.

"Wait," Blaine says, and he thrusts back in, all the way in: one long, fat, spine-splitting shove.

"Fuck... fuck," Kurt says, and it feels like his eyes are going to roll all the way back into his skull. "Fuck."

"Good?" Blaine asks.

"Oh my god yes."

"'Kay," Blaine says, and that's how he fucks Kurt: long discrete thrusts that drag out slow and then slide back in quick. There's a tiny pause when Blaine is as deep as he can be, just the smallest moment of stillness, before the pull back out that then reverses so smoothly to thrust back in hard. Blaine fucks him like a machine, like his cock is some kind of steam era piston; his cadence is so perfect, so inexorable.

It takes Kurt beyond words. That's something Kurt loves about this, how dominating it is of all his faculties. He has no choice but to give in, let go.

But Blaine, he doesn't let go; he's so controlled, so brilliant, and it feels amazing. Kurt can see how he's struggling to hold back, can tell in the uneven breaths, the flex of his fingers, the shudder of Blaine's shoulders. It takes what seems like minutes for Kurt to summon the clarity for speech. He reaches a hand down to Blaine and whispers: "You can be... Ah! You can... be greedy, Blaine," Kurt says, and Blaine reaches back, takes Kurt's hand in his. "I'm yours," Kurt says.

"Want to last for you."

"I know, but you..." Kurt says, hoarse with lack of breath, 'I can take more... you can..."

But Blaine doesn't. Instead he slows and stops. Lets go of Kurt's legs and leans over Kurt, takes his face between his hands. "Stay with me today," Blaine says urgently. With his thumb he rubs Kurt's bottom lip free of the reflexive grasp of his teeth.

With the momentum of pleasure still pulling bright and tight at his insides, it's hard to process Blaine's words let alone formulate a response. Kurt relaxes his spine, takes a deep breath around the sensation overwhelming his awareness: of Blaine, rooted so deeply in his body. "Blaine," He mumbles, winces as it seems his whole body flutters and throbs and aches in the stillness. Of course they're together. "I'm—"

"I mean, let's stay in bed today, together, all day. Just you and me, naked, and we can... do this." Blaine starts up again, slow and shallow, his easy motion flowing together into wonderful ripples of wonderful.

They had plans. "What about, the... uhh... the, um, Easter... thing?"

"It's raining, and I don't... I don't care about that. Right now, I don't care about it at all. I care about being with you, and I... Kurt, I just, I want to stay in and make love to you all day."

As much as Kurt would like to visit the White House, he's not sure he wants to say no to that. But his mouth feels useless, clumsy and Novocained, when he tries to reply. All that escapes is a wretched groan that was meant to, maybe, be Blaine's name.

"Even when we're... like this, Kurt? God, I want you so bad. I just want you, and I don't want it to end."

"Yeah," Kurt manages. He rolls his head against the pillow, tries to suck in enough air, but the steady pulse of Blaine's hips is making it so hard to think. "Okay," he mumbles. "Just... keep fucking me, please."

"As long as you'll let me," Blaine says. He straightens again, takes hold of Kurt's hips, lifting Kurt to meet his cock as he drags back slowly and then drives back in fiercely, fracturing Kurt's nerves into splinters of rapture.

"Unh..." is the only response Kurt manages, for Blaine is fucking him faster, smart snaps measured out with Blaine's gift for perfect, unbroken rhythm—and all Kurt can comprehend is Blaine moving inside him, the deliciously jarring, roiling heat and pressure and friction of it, how tremendous Blaine feels, as if he's taking up every empty space within Kurt, how it feels like he's reaching right up to Kurt's heart, into his throat, invading his lungs to force out every incoherent breath and sound until Kurt is full, overfull, and it's all Blaine. And it feels like it can never be enough, not ever, like he's always going to be aching for more, for closer, for more. It's never enough. And then it is.

Kurt comes, sobbing and twisting and delirious.

He hears Blaine swear, "Jesus, Kurt. Fuck... Jesus. You..."

Feels Blaine's hands tighten on him. Blinks open bleary eyes to see Blaine above him, flushed and glossy with perspiration, with exertion, dazed and amazed. "Beautiful," Kurt mumbles, screws his pelvis up into Blaine's next heavy thrust inside him. It's too much, but he still wants it. God, he does. This feeling of being cracked so wide open while crammed so utterly full at the same time. It's insane.

"You are," Blaine says. "So fucking gorgeous when you come."

"You too," Kurt says, panting, sweating freely. He's got enough lucidity back, he gets his elbows under to brace himself so he can flex and grind his ass against Blaine with each incoming jerk of Blaine's hips, "Come on, Blaine, you can... too."

"Don't want to," Blaine grits out. His brow creases with concentration; he gasps for air like he's drowning.

But there's an unwanted twinge of a ache growing within Kurt that's not the pleasant sort; it's dull and raw. "I... don't think... I can't take that much more, Blaine. Are you close?" Kurt asks, then, with less volume and more air, he pleads, "Please, baby, come for me."

"Yeah... yes, Kurt," Blaine says, and Kurt watches him let go, feels it. Blaine comes like a wave, irresistible and resolute.

Blaine pulls out immediately, leaving Kurt's body shuddering in feeble protest at the sudden absence. His strained thigh muscles burn when Blaine releases him. Kurt winces as he straightens his knees and flexes his feet to relieve the threat of cramp. Beside Kurt, Blaine succumbs to a weary sprawl.

As Kurt relaxes, heavy warm lassitude floods his muscles. Everything feels weirdly dense and loose, from his toes to his scalp, like there's not a muscle fiber anywhere that could bring itself to contract even if Kurt wanted to move. Which he doesn't. Blaine caresses his belly and ribs, heedless of the slippery mess of Kurt's orgasm, just smearing it around and into Kurt's skin. And Kurt's ass feels wet and sticky, and well-used. It makes him feel sort of sloppy, but in a good way. He should get up, go clean himself up, but... not yet. He just wants to bask in it for a bit. And sleep.

"So was that... good?" Blaine asks, breath soft against Kurt's shoulder.

Kurt lungs spasm, attempting a laugh. They're only partially successful.

"You're okay?"

"Yeah," Kurt pushes out with his next exhale. His eyelids feel like lead. "Oh my god, Blaine."

"You'll stay in with me today then?"

Being interrogated when his brain is only firing on half an exhausted neuron is not really working for Kurt. He does his best. "I'm sure as hell not going anywhere anytime soon," Kurt says. "I can't even move."

Blaine chuckles, and then he's nuzzling Kurt's bicep and dipping a ticklish fingertip into Kurt's navel. Even that isn't enough to rouse a physical response. "Think I'm gonna go back to sleep," Kurt mumbles, lets gravity roll his head to the side so he's facing Blaine, but he can't open his eyes. He yawns, gracelessly. "Just for a bit."

"Go ahead, sweetheart," Blaine says, snuggles a little closer, and presses a kiss to Kurt's chin. As they fall into silence, the rain drums louder above them. The close warmth of Blaine and the steady drone of the weather lull Kurt back down into unconsciousness.

~

The second time he wakes, Kurt has no sense of how long he's slept. The clock tells him it's been two hours, but outside is no brighter, the rain still pounds patient and steady upon the roof. Blaine is gone from the bed, but Kurt smells coffee and hears the soft beat of music coming down the short hall. His body still feels too heavy, too sated and reluctant, but he gets up anyway, dragging on his robe before shuffling on weary legs to the bathroom to take care of biological necessities.

A quick shower helps him feel more human, though he still feels like he's lagging a bit, not quite connected to reality. It's comfortable, anyway, and at least as much a product of the atmosphere as it is the recent physical exertion. He heads to the living area where Blaine meets him—showered and groomed and neatly dressed in a casual t-shirt and cardigan—with a big mug of coffee in one hand and a bowl of batter in the crook of his arm. "Hungry?" he asks. "I used your Mom's recipes, I hope that's okay. I know you had plans, but I wanted to surprise you."

"It's a wonderful surprise, Blaine," Kurt replies. He smiles, seeing how Blaine has already set the small dining table with silverware and a half grapefruit in a bowl at each setting. Clustered in the center of the table are plates of cut fruit, cheese, and pastries; a bottle of maple syrup, a dish of whipped cream, and a pitcher of orange juice. Kurt swallows through the sudden constriction in his throat, blinks. "Thank you," he says, and gratefully he accepts the mug of coffee from Blaine along with a soft, chaste kiss on the lips. "Everything looks great."

"I'm glad!" Blaine says, smiling more broadly now. "I was going to do the crepes with lemon and sugar—that's what you wanted, right?"

"Yeah, that sounds good," Kurt says.

Blaine heads back to the kitchen, with an overly chipper, "Great!"

There's a loud clatter behind Kurt. It's takes a lot of willpower not to look, but Kurt doesn't. Instead, he reaches for the sugar bowl to sprinkle some on his grapefruit. But he can't stop himself himself from saying, "Let me know if you need help."

Brunch turns out well once Blaine gets the temperature of the pan right, and Kurt doesn't mind eating a few too-dark crepes without complaint. The blueberry pancakes fare better, and Kurt eats too many of them. No one has made him these pancakes but himself since his mother died. He praises Blaine repeatedly and enthusiastically—possibly too much, but his gratitude is immense and hard to express.

~

After, they abandon the mess in the kitchen, and Blaine lights the gas fire. Kurt brings the pillows, duvet, and blanket from the bedroom to make a cozy spot on the floor in front of it. They're too full to do much but lie there together, listening to music and the rain while sharing lazy kisses and idle caresses. Kurt slides a hand beneath Blaine's shirt to pet his soft, lax belly, and he wonders if they're missing much. It's possible the Easter Egg Roll's been canceled. He convinces himself that's likely, and he smiles without reservation when Blaine tips his chin up for a slow deepening kiss.

"How do you feel?" Blaine asks him once their lips part.

"Warm," Kurt says, and then he's growing warmer as Blaine pushes his t-shirt up and presses his mouth to Kurt's sternum.

"I love you," Blaine says. "So much, Kurt." And then he's undoing Kurt's jeans.

"Love you, too," Kurt answers, helps Blaine along by arching up and pushing his pants down his hips.

~

It keeps raining through the afternoon and Kurt loses track of how many orgasms he's had or how many Blaine has had. They're not even aiming for them any more, just sharing touches and kissing and finding new places and techniques to make each other feel good. It's comfortable and familiar even as it's a wholly different sort of day for them, so unhurried and indolent. Eventually, Blaine rolls Kurt to his belly and gives him a massage, blissfully working all the kinks from Kurt's legs and shoulders until Kurt feels like an overcooked noodle and is in danger of falling asleep—which he really doesn't want to do—so they move to the sofa and end up watching some emotionally manipulative melodrama on the Hallmark channel. They snack on more fruit and cheese and bread, drink more coffee and tea and juice, and the day drips by in a lovely haze, gradually turning imperceptibly into dusk.

By evening, the rain has eased to silence, and Kurt finds, in its absence, lying on the couch with Blaine wrapped around him from behind, he's peculiarly alert and growing restless. "Hey," he asks, nudging his shoulder back against Blaine's chest. "The rain's stopped. You want to go for a walk?"

He feels Blaine's shrug; it accompanies a determinedly non-committal noise.

"I could use some air," Kurt says. "I thought it'd be nice to walk to The White House, just to get a closer look, you know?"

"I guess," Blaine says, but his arms tighten around Kurt. "I'm pretty comfy though."

"Come on, Blaine. We probably won't have a chance tomorrow before we have to leave, and you still have to go to Georgetown."

Blaine groans. "Don't remind me."

"You promised your parents," Kurt does remind him, not because he thinks Blaine needs to go to Georgetown, but because he has some idea of the repercussions to Blaine should he not return home with some brochures to prove he went.

A heavy sigh. "I know."

"Okay, so," Kurt pulls out of Blaine's embrace and sits up. "Get up, let's go look at the White House now, so you can go to Georgetown tomorrow."

"You really want to go, huh?"

"Yes."

So they get dressed, and they go.

~

The White House is beautiful all lit up at night, dramatic and gleaming and remarkably still, which seems weird given everything that happens in the building. It's also smaller than Kurt expected. He grips the iron fence and stares at it, tries to imagine what's going on within its silent walls. "We should've gone this morning," he says. "They probably still did something. We might've met the President."

Beside him, Blaine is quiet for a few moments. Then he says, "I'm sorry."

"What?" Kurt turns to look at him. "No, Blaine. No, that's not..." He takes Blaine's hands in his own. "I loved this morning with you, okay? It was amazing."

Blaine's gaze slips from his. "Okay."

"It's just, I was thinking. What if this was our only chance? My Dad might not be re-elected. Even if he is, Obama might not be. Who knows what things will be like next April? Can you imagine if it's President Romney? God, Blaine, neither of us will want to go see him."

But Blaine doesn't laugh. "Next April," Blaine says slowly. "You'll be in New York."

Kurt rolls his eyes. "Yeah, but we'll still be doing stuff together on weekends and holidays."

"Right," Blaine says and summons up a smile. Kurt's glad to see it.

"Come on, lets take a photo together."

~

They walk for a while after that, meandering about, snapping photos, getting lost (but not really). It's late when they return to the apartment. Kurt makes French toast as a late supper, and they finish off the rest of the fruit with it. Blaine's a little quiet, has been most of the evening. Tired probably; Kurt knows he is himself feeling an increasingly deep fatigue. So when they go to bed, they just sleep. Kurt pulls Blaine into his arms, tucks his face against Blaine's neck, and promises himself he'll always remember this.

~*~

Monday morning is kind of wretched. Kurt suspects he has some kind of sex hangover—he wonders if that's even a thing. He probably ate too much sugar yesterday, too. While he cleans the apartment and packs, he drinks a lot of water. It helps. Blaine heads to Georgetown on his own while Kurt works. He gets back just in time for them to leave for the airport. With a resigned sigh, Kurt stands in the corridor outside the apartment and locks the door; he squeezes Blaine's hand one last time before letting go to pick up his suitcase, and then they leave.

Shortly after take-off, Kurt can't stop himself from falling asleep. He doesn't wake until after they've landed, with Blaine gently shaking his shoulder to rouse him. He speaks softly, "We're back, Kurt." Kurt blinks and looks out the airplane window to see Ohio. It's an indigestible lump in his belly. But then he turns back to look at Blaine, who is smiling at him and waiting for him. And Blaine's smile, it makes everything easier.

the end