The first weekend after Christmas is always devoted to taking down the decorations. The second weekend after Christmas Kurt spends doing winter wardrobe maintenance. Mostly, this consists of painstakingly hand-washing woolens, taking his coats to be dry cleaned, sorting his bureau and closet, doing minor repairs, and ironing whatever needs it. It helps stave off the post solstice doldrums, of realizing spring is still weeks and weeks away. He plans new outfits, scours the internet for good deals on late season items, and rearranges his wardrobe which always, by this time of the year and despite his best efforts, has fallen into some chaos. By this time of the year, Kurt has also fallen into some small amount of chaos, himself. Time doesn't stop the sharp pangs of grief resurfacing during the holidays. But by Monday he will feel orderly and human again, ready to face the cold, bleak days to come.

This year it's less lonely. Blaine is with him as he goes through his routine, and that helps so much, because he would have been alone otherwise. His Dad and Carole are in D.C. over the weekend, looking at apartments. Finn and Sam have been out all afternoon but are due back any time. It's the first time in a long time Kurt has been alone with Blaine for a decent stretch of time and they haven't been having sex of some variety. At least, they haven't yet. Kurt made sure Blaine knew that he had a lot to get done and distractions—no matter how theoretically welcome—were unhelpful. Thus far they've been good at keeping their hands to themselves so Kurt can check things off his list.

It's been nice, too, spending time like they once did. Hanging out, talking, just being friends. Not that they had stopped being friends at any point, but they've been so enthralled by the wonderful world of sexual activity, it's been a while since they spent time alone together not getting each other off. They've had time to talk, so in some of those moments when Kurt has missed his mother, he's told Blaine instead of telling no one. Nothing too much, just matter-of-fact things. He hasn't cried today, and it's good. Kurt doesn't drown in the pain any more, he just acknowledges it. Doesn't fall down the hole into his memories, just knows they're still there. It's easier to stay anchored to the present with Blaine here, immediate and affectionate. It's harder to stay on task though.

Kurt's resolve is definitely slipping now that's it's late Sunday afternoon, they are still alone, and he doesn't know when their next good opportunity will be. They haven't had a long span of quiet, uninterrupted time for each other since Blaine's parents went to Cincinnati. Exchanging hasty blowjobs and handjobs in his bedroom after dinner most nights is fine and satisfying, but it's not the same as having the time and comfort and space for more, for slower and more thorough. Valentine's day is next month. Kurt is considering surprising Blaine with a nice hotel room for the night. He'll forgo the McQueen shirt he's had his eye on and spend the money on them.

But that is still over a month away, and though Kurt has been determined to behave like a mature, responsible human being and not a sex obsessed adolescent today, the way Blaine's hands have worked up under the back hem of his waistcoat and the way his thumbs are digging into the small of his back either side of his spine threatens that determination. It's like there's a direct neural route between Blaine's hands and his groin, and Kurt is beginning to feel flushed. He's sure Blaine isn't trying to seduce him; he's just responding to Kurt's earlier complaint of a muscle twinge after he'd been bent over the ironing board for an hour. Now he's bent over the laundry sink. He redoubles his concentration on the Ralph Lauren sweater from which he's carefully squeezing water, mindful not to twist or stretch the wet wool.

"Now I know why you smell so good in the winter," Blaine says, and his breath puffs warm against the back of Kurt's neck.

"Do I smell bad in other seasons?" Kurt teases lightly, and he bites down on his lip to quash the groan that threatens when Blaine's thumbs slide down to his waistband and pause there, rubbing little circles of warmth into his muscles, dipping just a little bit lower, behind the ridge of his belt. Maybe Blaine is trying to seduce him. Even if he's not, Kurt is grateful for the distraction. Memories of his mother instructing him how to do this, to squeeze not wring, to be careful not to agitate the knit, are close to the surface. But Blaine is closer, so Kurt lets himself be ambivalent, wanting Blaine but trying to resist the want so he doesn't mangle his sweater. It's easier than thinking about other things.

"No, but there's a particular scent to you in the winter, and it's this, isn't it?" Blaine slides one hand around his waist to gesture toward the bottle of organic wool wash Kurt's been using. Then he flattens his palm across Kurt's belly and lifts his hand from Kurt's back to smooth his waistcoat back down, tripping up the laces at the back of it, giving them a little tug, before sliding around to join his other hand, holding Kurt in a loose embrace.

"Mmm," Kurt confirms, trying to pretend he's not preternaturally aware of Blaine's hands and their effect on him. Surely he can go a day without molesting Blaine. "Lanolin conditions the wool, and the lavender repels moths," he says.

"Feel better?" Blaine asks, leaning in and propping his chin on Kurt's shoulder. He's warm near Kurt's back, but not pressing so close that Kurt can be sure Blaine's in a state similar to him.

"Yes, thank you," Kurt says as he rolls the sweater gently so he'll be able to lift it from the sink without it stretching. Hears the ghost of his mother's voice reverberating with his own as he asks Blaine, "Can you pass me a couple of those towels, please?" Sweetheart, his mother called him.

Blaine lets go of him, and Kurt takes a deep head-clearing breath and smiles at Blaine over his shoulder as he hands him the two large bath towels. Blaine grins and presses a quick kiss to Kurt's cheek. "Good," he says, and then purses his lips. "Hey, do you want to take a break? Coffee and a snack?"

Kurt nods. "Sure, I am past ready to be done with this," he says, laying out one towel atop the washing machine. He lifts the rolled up sweater out of the sink and lays it upon the towel, unrolling it down the length of it. "There'll still be some cookies Carole made in the tin in the pantry." He folds up the excess length of towel over the base of the sweater and places the other towel on top. Then he rolls them together, pressing evenly to extract more water. "I'll be finished soon." Once he's satisfied he's got the sweater blotted out as best he can, he takes it to the drying rack to lay it flat upon a fresh towel with the other woolens he's washed today. It should be dry by tomorrow afternoon.

His hands are pruney and cold, so he washes them under warm water and squirts a dollop of hand-cream from the dispenser by the sink. His hands absorb it only reluctantly. He doesn't like wearing gloves for this though; he likes to be able to feel the wool.

When he gets to the kitchen, the coffee pot is chugging away and Blaine is arranging Carole's lemon thyme shortbread on a plate for them to share. It's Kurt's favorite plate, old porcelain with delicately hand painted purple clover. It's crazed in the center, the gold trim around the edge is worn, and there's a large chip out of the foot ring. It belonged to his mother's grandmother, and Kurt smiles that Blaine remembered the plate and Kurt's fondness for it.

Blaine looks up, returning his smile. "So what's next after this?" The late afternoon sun is orange glancing across Blaine's face. It makes his eyes glow amber. Kurt really wants to touch Blaine, and he's beginning to wonder why he feels like he's not supposed to today. Perhaps it's the melancholy.

Kurt pulls out a stool at the island and sits. "Just my closet," Kurt says, "and maybe a couple drawers."

"Will that take long, do you think?" Blaine asks over his shoulder as he goes to the cupboard for mugs. Kurt likes to see Blaine so comfortable in his kitchen. It's been easy to let him, too. Blaine's respectful of the space, he remembers where things are, what they're for, how to take care of them. Kurt barely managed to save his non-stick saute pan from the dishwasher when Sam helped clean up dinner the other night.

"Do you need to leave soon?" Kurt asks. He's hoped Blaine would stay for dinner, even though it will probably be delivery or take-out tonight.

"No," Blaine says, pouring coffee into the mugs, leaving room for milk in Kurt's. "I just wondered if we'd have a little time to mess around, too." He glances up as he reaches for the sugar bowl, puts half a teaspoon into Kurt's mug. "Maybe?"

The breath Kurt's been holding comes out in rush. "After dinner?" he suggests. "Finn and Sam will be back, but Finn's got his X-box plugged into the big screen while Dad's gone, so they'll be doing that, I imagine."

Blaine smiles and nods and passes Kurt his coffee.

"I'm sorry it's been so long," Kurt says, wrapping his cold hands around the warmth of his mug, "since we've been able to take our time together."

"It's okay," Blaine says. "It's that time of year. Things will settle down."

"Yeah," Kurt says with another sigh, taking a cookie from the plate, but he's not sure if things will settle down. He doesn't want to talk about how he's worried they're running out of time, because there's still plenty of time, but now that he's writing '2012' in the date, everything feels so much closer, cluttered, and uncertain. His NYADA rejection will be coming soon, and then he'll be forced to make new plans. And he doesn't want to talk about how it still makes his stomach twist up—and not in a wholly good way—when he thinks about the last time he was inside Blaine, in his parents' bedroom. Not because he didn't love being with Blaine or being there for Blaine, but because the whole tone of that night is discordant. It makes it harder to think about leaving Blaine behind. And Kurt also doesn't want to talk about how washing sweaters sometimes makes him feel left behind himself, because it triggers such vivid memories of his mother, and the feel of the wet wool in his bare hands makes him remember her voice. Which is precious, but it reminds him how hard it is to be left behind even when you have people who love you nearby. It reminds him that things don't always settle down. Sometimes they just end.

His head is too crowded, despite this weekend being the weekend for clearing it. It works nearly every other year, but unsettled things are intruding; things are changing. He just wants to run away with Blaine somewhere sunny and warm with a big bed, a well stocked shower, and room service. And nothing else to do but each other. A hotel room for Valentine's Day is the best he'll be able to arrange. But it feels like forever away.

"Kurt?" Blaine asks.

Blinking, Kurt looks up from his hand; he'd fallen into a trance staring at his half-eaten piece of shortbread.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm— Yeah, sorry." He forces a smile. "Just tired and stuff."

"It's okay," Blaine says. "And we don't have to—"

"No, I want to Blaine, god. I miss you."

"I haven't gone anywhere. I'm right here, Kurt."

"I know, I mean, not like that. Just you and me, together, just us without other stuff, other things getting tangled up with us."

Blaine's eyebrows come together in sympathetic concern. "We're still us," he says. "There's just been a lot of distractions lately. Between now and Regionals, it should be quieter."

"Yeah, I hope so," Kurt says, and puts the rest of his cookie in his mouth.

~*~

Upstairs there are fewer memories of things lost. It's in this room that he's come to know Blaine. So Kurt is feeling lighter and brighter as he pushes hangers along the rail in his closet seeking things that are out of place, hung too carelessly, or are good options to sell or give away to make room for new pieces. Blaine is on his bed patiently tidying and folding the contents of Kurt's accessories' drawers. Kurt pulls out a couple jackets, three pairs of trousers and several shirts he thinks he can resell. He finds another shirt that needs a button, so he sets that aside for repairs. Then he starts moving misplaced items, organizing by season, color, and type.

"Kurt?" Blaine asks. His tone of voice is strange, thin: inquisitive and cautious.

Kurt turns, still holding a celadon green linen blazer that belongs with his Summer items but had ventured in with Autumn's jackets. When he sees what Blaine has got in his hands, he freezes, his hands clenching tight on the shoulders of the jacket in his hands. He forgot that was in his drawers still, didn't realize Blaine would find it. A cold sort of nausea swirls in his stomach, trickles out along his limbs, an abrupt wash of insecurity twisted up with something akin to humiliation. It's Kurt's black brocade corset with the antique gold stitching and laces. Kurt hasn't been able to bring himself to get rid of it; for all that it no longer fits him (thank you, growth spurt), he can't sell it on or give it away, and it was too expensive to trash. "Yes?"

"Is this a—?"

"It's a corset, Blaine," Kurt says, his voice brittle and defensive. "And before you ask, it is a mens' corset."

"No, that wasn't what I—" Blaine swallows hard, shifts his weight and tilts his head, looking up at Kurt through his long dark lashes. His expression is in no way horrified or mocking, rather Blaine looks intrigued and maybe even a little bit aroused. "Do you wear this, Kurt?" Blaine pets the brocade, his touch tender. "When do you wear this?"

"Oh," Kurt says, noting the red blossoming across Blaine's cheeks. "I don't wear it now, it doesn't fit right any more." But my sophomore year, I wore it a few times. As an accessory."

"So you wore this to school?" Blaine sounds incredulous, but there's a note of admiration there, too.

"Yes. Not often, though. It wasn't exactly one of my more popular looks, but I did get a lot of attention for it," Kurt says, doesn't need to explain more than that, the kind of attention he got.

"And it doesn't fit you now?" Blaine has turned it over in his lap and is playing with the long laces, tracing their zigzag with his fingertips. Kurt recalls Blaine's fingers upon the laces of his waistcoat and wonders.

"Not well, why? Do you like it?"

"I... Yeah, I do."

Kurt cocks his head and evaluates Blaine. He's slender, slimmer than Kurt was. Kurt knows a corset is not an item to share, but he never really wore it enough for it to have adapted to his body shape. "It may fit you," Kurt says.

"Oh!" Blaine's fingers flutter from the shimmery brocade to his denim clad thighs, but one of his thumbs can't resist running down a line of the steel boning. "Do you think so?"

"I know it's not exactly Brooks Brothers," Kurt says, which makes Blaine look up with a short laugh. "But if you want to try it on, I can help lace you up."

"What would I wear it with?" Blaine asks with genuine wonder.

"Oh, I still have the shirt I got to go with it. You'll love this," Kurt says, turning back to his closet. He hangs the linen jacket before he goes digging back into the far end of the rail where he keeps the things he no longer wears but hangs on to just in case. "It's so theatrical."

The shirt is a cobweb fine, pearl gray silk poet's shirt with billowy sleeves and a wide, open neck. Kurt kept it for potential costuming value. "Ta da," he says, flourishing the garment on its hanger to Blaine, whose eyes widen.

"Seriously, Kurt, you wore that? To school?" He holds up the corset "With this?"

"I did. Twice."

Blaine laughs, but it's affectionate and not at Kurt's expense. "You're... incredible. I would love to have seen that."

"So..." Kurt holds the shirt by the shoulders and does a little shimmy with it. "You want to try it on?"

Blaine looks at him, his smile quirking into some strange blend of embarrassment and anticipation. "Only so long as you don't expect me to wear it outside this room."

"No, of course not," Kurt assures him. "This shirt really isn't your style. In fact, aside from being provocative, this shirt wasn't even my style. I don't know what I was thinking. This shirt shouldn't exist outside the International Male catalog. Which itself no longer exists, so..."

"Okay," Blaine says, chuckling softly as he stands up. He pulls his sweater off over his head. Then he unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off, reaching out to Kurt for the poet's shirt.

"You'll need to take off your undershirt, too," Kurt says, ignoring the rush of warmth Blaine's increasing level of shirtlessness provokes. The twitch of interest from his dick.

The undershirt comes off and Kurt can appreciate better Blaine's state. His blush is spreading down his neck to his chest and his nipples are pebbled hard. Kurt chews his lip and watches Blaine slip the filmy gray shirt over his head. The wide collar exposes and displays his neck and collarbones beautifully, and the material is thin enough, Kurt can clearly see the shape of Blaine's pecs and the points of his nipples beneath the silk. The sleeves drape Blaine's deltoids and biceps, alternating between clinging and floating away as Blaine moves.

"It's really comfortable," Blaine says, looking up at Kurt as he smooths the shirt over his torso, and it leaves nothing obscured where it comes into contact with his skin. It's erotic and exotic, and Kurt is glad he is Blaine's only audience, because the sight of Blaine in his dandy shirt is making half the blood from his brain lurch straight down to flood his cock.

"It's really soft," Blaine says when Kurt finds no words to respond.

"It's silk," Kurt says, pointlessly.

"Yeah," Blaine says, looking down at himself. "So, the other thing?"

"Oh, uh, right," Kurt says, and reaches to the bed to collect the corset. The brocade is cool and softly slick with the vague relief of pattern beneath the pads of his fingers; the steel boning is cold and stiff. He anticipates how it will soon be wrapped about Blaine, fitting snug around his ribs and belly, warming with his body heat. Kurt clears his throat and explains, "You need to step into it, so your shoes and stuff need to come off." Kurt starts pulling the laces loose enough for Blaine.

"Ah, so I should, um..." Blaine toes off his shoes and goes to work on his belt and fly, and Kurt is, in the quiet corner of his mind where he's not growing light headed, intrigued by how this situation has got them both blushing and stammering like sheltered virgins.

Then Blaine is standing there in nothing but his briefs and the flowy shirt, which is long enough it's not obvious Blaine is still in his underwear. Kurt tightens his grip on the corset, lets pass the urge to push Blaine down onto his bed to kiss him and touch him until he's needy and begging. Kurt hands Blaine the corset and steps back, clasping his hands in front of himself, trying to hide his physical response and not stare too much at Blaine's slim, lean legs or his sleekly muscled chest, or his flushed, bright eyed face, or... Really there's no part of Blaine that's safe to look at. But they're just playing dress up, Kurt reminds himself. He can wait until after dinner. "The laces are the back of it," he says, though that's probably not hard for Blaine to guess.

Blaine bends to step into the oval of the corset and Kurt looks back at his closet, wonders if he has something he could dress up in too, so Blaine won't feel alone in his fancy dress. He has some burgundy crushed velvet pants in there he hasn't found the opportunity to wear yet. If he put them with his sequined vest? No, that would be too much texture. Maybe a simple white shirt and the right scarf would—

"Kurt? Can you, um, help me out?" Blaine asks. He's trying to tuck the tails of the shirt into the corset, but it's uncooperatively slippery and bunching up. He needs an extra pair of hands to smooth it into more even gathers.

"Here," Kurt says, stepping over to assist. "Just hold it up, I'll straighten the shirt." Kurt reaches for the bottom hem, tugging it down evenly.

"Okay, but—"

Kurt's wrist brushes against the very hard and very prominent evidence of Blaine's arousal. Oh. He's not surprised, given how much Blaine has been blushing, but it's still an unexpectedly pleasant rush—and a relief. He's not the only one caught up in the eroticism of the situation.

"Yeah, that."

"Ah," Kurt says, taking more care not to accidentally bump against Blaine's erection, trying to concentrate on arranging the shirt neatly so it won't be wadded up and chafing. He knows if he looks up, his lips will be very close to Blaine's and the temptation will be too terrible to resist.

"Sorry," Blaine says. "I don't know why—"

"It's okay," Kurt says. "Me too."

Blaine lets out a gust of breath that ruffles Kurt's hair and says, "So this is getting both of us hot and bothered?"

"Uh huh," Kurt says, and he has the shirt arranged well enough, so he adds, "Turn around and I'll lace you up."

Blaine turns obediently, and Kurt focuses on the laces, starting at the top and working his way down, tugging them until they're just barely snug. Then he works up from the bottom. Does it again, careful not to pull too tightly. "It shouldn't be too tight or hurt," Kurt says. "It should be like a firm hug, not like you're being squashed."

"Okay," Blaine says. "I think... I mean, it's good. I'm not—"

Kurt gives two final, sharper tugs where the laces meet and ties them off in a neat bow.

"Oh!"

"Still okay?"

When Blaine replies, his voice has that strange thinness too it again, a hazy sort of breathlessness. "Yes, Kurt," he says.

Kurt runs a fingertip down the laces, admiring the accentuated curve of Blaine's lower back, the steep dip of it before the curve reverses into the luscious arc of his ass, temptingly shrouded by the bottom of the shirt. Then Kurt lets his vision expand, to take in the whole spectacle. And Blaine is certainly a spectacle. Kurt sucks in a sharp breath.

He knows Blaine is slim, but in this, he looks like Kurt could completely enfold his waist in the span of his hands. It draws contrast to the breadth of Blaine's upper back and shoulders, and the perfect swell of his high, round rear, the fine lines of muscle in his thighs. There's also something so unforgiving about the corset, so contained and caged. Kurt remembers how it felt to wear it, like it was holding him together, physically and otherwise.

"Do you like it?" he asks, rushing the words out with too little breath. "The way it feels?" Kurt places his thumbs, tip to tip at the center of the laces, at the narrowest part of Blaine's waist. Then he stretches his hands, folds them deliberately around to see if his fingertips will touch in the front. It's not that close, but it's close enough that Kurt notices the difference, it spurs a bright flash of possibility.

"Yes," Blaine says. "It's so... controlled."

"You like that," Kurt says. "Like with your ties and tight shirts, tight pants. Your hair." And, Kurt leaves unspoken, when he tied Blaine up with his scarf.

"Yeah," Blaine exhales. His inhale is sharp and aborted, and Kurt hears it catching in his lungs as his diaphragm refuses to expand fully. He loosens his grip around Blaine's waist, strokes along the boning to soothe, feels how it's heating up to Blaine's body temperature, which is also on the rise.

"You need to breathe with just the top of your lungs," Kurt explains. "It's counterintuitive to us as singers, but deep breaths are hard."

"Okay," Blaine says. "So no physical exertion then?"

"Well," Kurt says, bringing his hands up off the top edge of the corset to slide over the frictionless gossamer of the silk, around Blaine's chest, finding his nipples still peaked. "Some people use them during sex," he says. "For, like, mild breath control."

"They do?" Blaine asks, breath hitching again, but this time because Kurt is pinching his nipples, twisting them between his thumbs and forefingers.

Kurt answers with a speculative hum, slides his palms from Blaine's chest back to the corset, splaying his hands over the flat front of it, tempted to keep going lower, to find Blaine with his hands, hard and wanting. "If it's something you'd like to try, we can do that." It is a kind of bondage, Kurt considers, like tying Blaine's wrists. It's like binding Blaine's very lungs, which is a strange thrill.

"Kurt," Blaine says. "You...? Is that why you got this for yourself?"

"Oh, god, no. Blaine, I didn't know the first thing about that sort of thing then. I just thought it was avant garde and beautiful." Kurt lets his fingertips kink up along the bottom edge of the corset. He swears he can feel the heat of Blaine's arousal near his knuckles.

"So you never jerked off while wearing it?"

"No," Kurt says. "Are you kidding? And risk getting semen on a three-hundred dollar fashion whim?" It never even occurred to him at the time, but he thinks he might like to jerk Blaine off in it. His hands twitch, resisting the urge to slide lower.

"I probably would have," Blaine admits.

"I can believe that," Kurt says, trying very hard not to dwell on the mental image of it. Then he moves his hands away from temptation to give Blaine a little push toward the open door of the closet where the full length mirror is angled away from them. "Let's go take a look at you."

"Oh my god," Blaine says when he sees himself. He runs a hand across his tummy, skipping over the boning, along to appreciate the cinched incurve of his waist. "I look like some kind of slutty gay pirate." He breathes out a soft laugh. "I need my fencing foil."

Kurt snorts in amusement, but Blaine isn't wrong. He does look like he could swash some serious and sexy buckle in this, "I have eyeliner," Kurt says, "but no appropriate hats. A bandana maybe?"

Blaine grins and twists to meet Kurt's gaze over his shoulder. And with that smile, Kurt can't resist it one moment longer. He leans in and kisses Blaine. It's not tender or chaste, but deep and succulent, as he takes Blaine by the shoulders to turn him so they are facing, and then Kurt presses him back against the unforgiving surface of the mirror and crowds up against him until they are pressed together, mouths to hips, and Kurt feels Blaine so hard against him, himself so hard against Blaine. The closet door creaks on its hinges. Blaine growls into the kiss, taking Kurt by the hips and yanking him closer yet.

Their teeth clack and Kurt shudders as he eases his mouth from Blaine's before either of them sustains any dental damage. "Jesus, Blaine," Kurt gasps.

Even more breathless, Blaine regards Kurt from beneath heavy eyelids and whispers, "Do we really have to wait until after dinner?"

"Fuck, no," Kurt says, bending his head to press his mouth to the wondrous smooth line of Blaine's exposed neck, dragging his lips along until he reaches the edge of the shirt's collar, near the bump of his shoulder. Kurt inhales the scent of Blaine, wondering at how the faint aroma of coffee still clings to him, a warm, bitter note overlaying the brighter citrus, spice, and cedar characteristics of his cologne. It's so classically masculine, it makes Kurt's head swim. For then there's the diaphanous shirt, somewhat absurd and florid but no less masculine, really, though it's a different kind of masculinity and such a contrast to Blaine's usual preppy primness. Kurt draws his hands down across the silk to trace the shape of Blaine's chest, finds his nipples, and mouths down the slippery fabric to the nearest, sealing his mouth over its small rigid shape and exhaling a hot breath that makes Blaine squirm and swear and cling to Kurt's shoulders with stiff fingers.

Kurt wants to devour Blaine; the lust rearing up within him is ravenous and so deeply rooted, Kurt can't fathom the strength of it right now. It's roasting his brain and flooding his veins with such a terrible ache to consume and possess and take and taste and... Kurt groans as his hands slip down and close tightly around Blaine's waist, so easily encompassed. He licks roughly over Blaine's nipple, the silk dragging dry against the flat of his tongue. It's the sweetest music, Blaine's answering raspy moans, tight with breathlessness. When Blaine says his name it comes out a plaintive whine, carried upon a spare, thin tendril of air.

Beneath his lips, Blaine's chest heaves, and Kurt bites down, his teeth catching fabric and flesh together, pinching Blaine's nipple severely. Blaine lets out a startled whimper. Kurt tugs at his nipple, scraping over the sensitive nub until it slips free and he's got nothing but the silk left between his teeth and clinging to his lips. He opens his mouth to release the material, leaves his mouth open against Blaine's chest, panting against the damp silk, hot and dizzy.

"Kurt... Fuck.... Kurt, you..." Blaine babbles between desperate breaths; needy and shallow. His fingers spasm, clenching and releasing a chaotic rhythm upon Kurt's shoulders.

Kurt's lips move against Blaine's body; he can feel the beats of Blaine's heart drumming beneath them. "I don't know what I'm doing right now," he confesses, squeezes Blaine's waist. He's afraid to lift his head or look up. "I don't want to hurt you."

He waits for Blaine to recover enough air to reply. Blaine's hands loosen their grip and move to his hair, sliding fingertips firmly across his scalp, a soothing massage for Kurt's poor overwrought brain.

"What is it you want to do to me?" Blaine asks softly.

It's not something Kurt has the words for, at least not the right ones. He doesn't literally want to consume his boyfriend, but he does want to saturate himself with Blaine, wrap himself up and hold on, lose himself until the only thing that exists in his consciousness is Blaine, until Blaine has seeped into his very cells and all there is left is them, even if it's only for a few precious moments.

It's far too much to desire, an impossible thing. Kurt tries to translate this into something that is possible. "I want to fuck you with my mouth, taste you and smell you and make you—feel you—come."

Blaine's fingertips, mirroring each other, tracing around the tender edges of Kurt's ears. "That... Kurt, that's not something that will hurt me," Blaine says gently.

"I just, I want you so much right now," Kurt tries to explain. Can't articulate why it scares him. How he wants to cling forever to transitory things.

"Do you want to move to your bed?" Blaine asks.

Kurt turns his head to evaluate that option. His cheek presses against Blaine's firm chest, the sodden silk sticking. The bed is in disarray, covered in scarves and belts and empty drawers. "No," Kurt says. "Here is good." Then he slides down to his knees.

Kurt doesn't waste any time hauling Blaine's briefs down and off. Then he's wrapping one hand around the thick veined column of Blaine's hard cock and licking the slick beads of salty precome from the crown. The intimate scent of Blaine here fills his nostrils. It smells like private moments and sex, sweaty naked laughter on his bed, and quiet tender moments in Blaine's bed, and joy and lust and freedom and together. The opposite of loneliness.

Kurt inhales deeply as he opens and presses forward with easy suction. He draws Blaine into his mouth and into his lungs. He wills his throat to unlock, to relax so he can take more, but he can't quite. Blaine's cock is huge and unyielding against his soft palate. Kurt flinches back, but he doesn't—thankfully—gag. He groans in frustration, feels sweat breaking out all over. Blaine's thumb rubs across his forehead and brows, pressing away the lines of his frown.

"Feels so good, Kurt, so good. You're so good at that," Blaine murmurs, his other hand coming down to cradle Kurt's stretched open jaw; his fingertips wipe away the saliva leaking from the corner of Kurt's mouth. "So good, Kurt, you don't have to—"

Kurt tries again, pushing forward with a little more speed and force. He just goes for it, seeing if he can push through the resistance and reflex and come out the other side a more expert cocksucker.

This time he does gag.

He jerks back, pulling off Blaine to sit back on his heels, coughing and struggling to catch his breath, trying not to retch. "S-sorry," he stutters and gasps. He keeps hold of Blaine's cock with his hand at least, squeezes and strokes it as he recover his equilibrium.

"Don't," Blaine says with a sharp hitch of his breath. "God, don't... apologize."

"I just—" Kurt breaks off with another coughing spasm. He lets go of Blaine, covers his mouth, and looks up helplessly. This is not at all what he had intended.

"Hey," Blaine says, stroking his hair, "Hey, are you okay, sweetheart?"

Kurt's eyes widen and he hauls himself together enough to ask, "What?"

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, but not that. What did you call me?"

"Sweetheart?" Blaine makes a face that's the lopsided lovechild of a smile and a grimace. "Too saccharine?" Blaine asks.

Kurt shakes his head, "No, not at all." It should be weird, shouldn't it? But it's not. It fills him with a warm affection; tethers him, tamps down some of the insane desperation that had been overtaking him. "I like it." He smiles up at Blaine, comforted in some difficult to quantify way. He takes a long, clear breath and his throat doesn't cramp in protest. He looks back at Blaine's cock before him, the tail of the shirt draped over it like it's on display. His gaze skates up Blaine's torso, the spectacular lines of his torso bound up in the corset, the way Blaine's skin almost glows in contrast to the cool gray of the shirt. Kurt moves his hands to Blaine's knees, squeezes and then slides up Blaine's thighs until his thumbs are tucked up in the crease of his groin, knuckles brushing against the heavy heat of Blaine's balls. Kurt still wants everything. His mouth waters with it.

"Turn around," Kurt says, loosening his grip so Blaine can obey.

Kurt pushes the back of the shirt up to expose Blaine's ass to his view, tucking its edge up beneath the corset to hold it there. Then he fills his palms with the firm, cool flesh of Blaine's buttocks, squeezes as Blaine presses back into his grasp, bending at the waist and folding one arm upon the mirror and resting his forehead against it.

It makes Kurt's heart tremble, how easily Blaine offers up himself like this when Kurt hasn't reciprocated himself. His stomach clenches as he imagines their positions reversed, him leaning against the unrelenting chill of the mirror, patiently waiting for Blaine's mouth on his ass, waiting for Blaine's tongue to slip inside him, to push and pulse until Kurt's mad with need and shamelessly begging for more. Why can't he, when he wants so much to lose himself in Blaine? What's holding him back still? Pride?

It doesn't matter, not right now, not when it's Blaine patiently waiting for him, and Kurt wants so much to make it good for Blaine. Can't wait to hear him pleading, hot, and wanton.

So he brushes with his thumbs either side of Blaine's cleft, drags down to the softest most tender inner base of his cheeks where they come together between his legs, behind his balls, framing his perineum; where it's not yet quite his thighs. He strokes lightly to arouse goosebumps, gets a lovely gasp in response, then presses into the flesh, kneading as he lifts and spreads, opening Blaine up for his gaze, for his mouth.

He bends his head and tastes, long and lazily; breathes Blaine in, strong and elemental, sex and sweat and boy and his. Kurt's eyes slip shut and he sighs into the kisses he's giving Blaine. He licks lightly, tiny flickers of the tip of his tongue all around and along; he chases texture and traces the trembling of the tender muscle, but he doesn't try to press into it, not yet.

Then there's a light, ticklish ruffling of Kurt's hair and he glances up best he can, realizes it's Blaine's hand, fingertips raking through his hair without quite meeting his scalp. Feels pin prick pulls as Blaine traps strands between his fingers and tugs, whispering, "Kurt."

Kurt shuts his eyes again and hums, presses closer, closing his lips around Blaine's opening and suckling softly, heedless of the obscene wet slurps escaping his mouth. He hears the wheeze of Blaine's breath, how it cuts off as if it's hitting a wall, the forceful, sharp exhale and the next shuddering attempt at gathering air.

"God, Kurt, that feels—"

Kurt pulls back. "Don't speak," he says. "Just breathe, baby."

"'kay," Blaine murmurs, and his short nails skate against the back of Kurt's skull, urging him back into place.

He returns to Blaine with long wide sweeps of his tongue, slicking all along between his buttocks, from his balls to his tailbone. Licking and licking and licking until Kurt's lips and chin are glazed with spit, the only taste left on Blaine's skin is his own saliva, and Blaine is whining and squirming back against his face, seeking more. It's what Kurt had been waiting for. His grip tightens on Blaine's ass, squeezing and spreading and holding Blaine steady. His tongue finds Blaine's hole, points and swirls around his rim, then presses into the center, slick and swift and shallow, before sliding back to the edge and making another revolution. Then dipping back in, and out again, circling, repeating, gradually screwing his tongue deeper into Blaine's ass.

Blaine shudders, moans, and begs for it with broken sobs and eager rolls of his hips back against Kurt's mouth, fucking himself open on Kurt's tongue. Kurt holds on and surrenders to Blaine's rhythm, thrusting now with less finesse, pushing in as far as he can, wriggling against the tight muscle, loving the way it clenches and releases, how greedy Blaine is for this.

Blaine's breathing is desperately heavy, rapid, and strained. The laces of the corset are creaking. Kurt withdraws with care, giving Blaine a soft kiss before he speaks. "Touch yourself for me, please, Blaine. I want you to come."

With one last drag of his fingers, Blaine's hand leaves Kurt's hair, goes to wrap around his cock. Blaine starts stroking himself off, and Kurt leans back in, kissing, licking, sucking, and fucking with his tongue. Gluts his senses on Blaine, the heat and sweat and spit and scent of it all. It's just them right now, nothing but them. Kurt groans into Blaine's flesh, filling Blaine with the vibrations, working him mercilessly, and Blaine drives back against him, hips faltering between his hand and Kurt's mouth. He comes bearing down on Kurt's face, spasming around his tongue. And Kurt rides it out until he realizes Blaine is slipping, barely catching himself against the mirror. Kurt scrambles up, offering his arms for support and Blaine slumps, boneless, red faced, and gulping for air like a drowning man.

"I've got you," Kurt says, wraps one arm around Blaine's waist while, with his other hand, he pulls the bow free at the back of the corset, swiftly yanking the laces loose so Blaine can better fill his lungs. "I've got you. Just breathe, baby, it's okay." Kurt gently guides Blaine down to the floor to lean against Kurt's chest, sprawled between his outstretched legs.

"Okay?" Kurt asks, petting Blaine's hair, stroking his neck, rubbing his back. There's semen dripping down his wardrobe mirror, sliding down the glass toward the floor. Kurt doesn't care; he'll deal with it later. "Blaine, honey?" he prompts.

"That was..." Blaine pants. "...amazing."

Kurt hums and smiles down at Blaine, who twists enough in Kurt's arms to look up, his answering smile lazy and content. "I'm glad," Kurt says. "You're so gorgeous, so good, Blaine." He picks at the laces of the corset, pulling them looser. "Let's get you out of this," he suggests.

Then the front door slams and there's a loud, "Hey, Kurt?" Sam and Finn are back. Of course they are.

"Shit," Kurt mutters, letting go of Blaine. His door is ajar, but even if it were closed, Sam is not good about waiting to be invited in after he knocks. He tends to just come in. "Sorry," Kurt says to Blaine and scoots back so he can get clamber to his feet. Kurt bolts for the door as footsteps thunder up the stairs. He slams it shut just as he hears Sam come down the hall.

"Don't come in here," Kurt yells, his fingers slipping against the smooth brass lock as he tries to twist it the wrong direction.

There's a thump on the door as Kurt hastily corrects the work of his trembling fingers and successfully locks the knob.

"Kurt?" Sam says.

"Yes, Sam?" Kurt keeps one hand flat against the door in an irrational distrust of the lock facing down Sam's enthusiasm. The last thing they need is Sam or Finn walking in on them, especially like this, when Blaine is... Kurt turns back to check on Blaine, concerned.

But he finds Blaine, despite the complete debauched mess he's in, covering his mouth to stifle laughter. Kurt raises an eyebrow.

"Hey, so we were wondering what you were planning for dinner? Artie's bringing Gears of War 3 over tonight. And we were gonna do the four man thing, but Mike can't make it and Puck's not answering his phone."

Blaine has stopped laughing and is shimmying out of the corset, sending a raised eyebrow of his own back at Kurt. "What?" Kurt mouths at him. And to Sam he says, "I wasn't planning on cooking." Kurt says. "Do you guys want pizza, subs, or Chinese?"

"Can we get KFC?" Sam asks.

"No, Sam, no KFC," Kurt says, watching Blaine carefully as his boyfriend crawls across the floor toward him, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "I don't care that you lived in Kentucky."

"I can order extra coleslaw," Sam wheedles. "And corn."

Blaine kneels up when he gets to Kurt, reaches for Kurt's belt.

"We're a fast food franchise free home," Kurt reminds Sam as his eyes widen at Blaine. He shakes his head, but Blaine just grins and tugs Kurt's belt and fly open. "Oh, god," Kurt whispers. "What are you—?"

"Whatever," Sam says, "Pizza is fine. So how about being our fourth man, Kurt?"

And Kurt is sort of forgetting the question since Blaine has now got his hand firm around Kurt's cock and is bringing it out of his open zipper. Blaine's tongue peeks out from between his lips as he stares at Kurt's erection hungrily.

"What?" Kurt asks Sam, he leans back against the door, reaching down to rest a hand upon Blaine's head, to gently hold him back, because he needs to answer a question and he can't think with Blaine looking at him like that.

"We need four guys for Gears of War. Finn said you're pretty good."

"Oh," Kurt says as Sam's video game dilemma registers. But Kurt's hand isn't enough to stay Blaine, who leans forward and opens his mouth, and Kurt finds himself taken into blissful sweltering suction. "Ooh," he says, looking down at Blaine, the flutter of his eyelashes, the hollowing of his cheeks. "Blaine..." he says, clears his throat. "Blaine's here," he says more clearly, alarm vying with pleasure. He should probably tell Blaine to stop; that would be the sensible thing. Kurt doesn't want to be caught, but, oh, god. There's something coiling so hot in his balls right now, Kurt can't bring himself to interrupt Blaine, who is so fucking beautiful on his knees, taking Kurt's cock.

"Oh," Sam says, then speaks more loudly, "Hey, Blaine, how's it going?"

But Blaine doesn't pull back to answer Sam. Instead he sinks farther onto Kurt's dick, humming as he takes Kurt deeper, until Kurt feels his cockhead nudge back into the hot constriction of Blaine's throat. "Ah," Kurt says, proud of himself for keeping his voice relatively controlled. "He's, ah, he's doing well. Really well. Can't really talk right now, though. Sorry, Sam."

"Oh, well, he can play with us tonight, too. We can swap whenever someone dies, keep up a rotation."

Kurt instinctively starts to rock his hips, but Blaine quickly pins him against the door, so all Kurt can do is take it when Blaine starts sliding his mouth. This has to be some sort of karmic retribution for when he talked to Sam in the shower.

"Okay," Kurt says, rallying enough breath and neural activity to produce speech. "Okay, that's good, whatever you want to do."

"Cool," says Sam with a parting thump to the door. "See you downstairs."

Kurt closes his eyes and sighs with relief. The world is still trying to intrude, and maybe it's selfish of him to want to keep that door closed as long as possible, to want to stay here with Blaine. But there's something else, something that's good in a different way, about being invited out and included. Not every change is a loss. And when he leaves the room, Blaine will be following him downstairs.

That is Kurt's last coherent thought, for Blaine is demanding his undivided attention, and Kurt is happy to give it to him.