Part Eight – Age 17 – Blaine

Late Winter, Junior Year

Rachel had scheduled the celebration party before their win at regionals—her dads must be as arrogant as she is—and after their victory, the entire Glee club was so high on adrenaline they actually decided to go.  Puck, who was repeating his senior year, and his half-brother Jake, who had joined Glee club this year along with his Fab, Marley, brought along plenty of alcohol, and with Rachel's parents sequestered upstairs in their room for the night with earplugs and reruns of The Golden Girls, the party was remarkably almost fun.

Or it started to seem fun after his first beer.  Was just one supposed to have this much effect?  Blaine had only had small glasses of wine before when his parents entertained, so he was surprised to feel a pleasant energy humming through his body after downing a single can.  Maybe he was a lightweight.

He kind of wanted another.  Quinn shot him a disapproving look as he grabbed one and popped the tab, but for once Blaine ignored her.

To no one's surprise, the Berrys had a small stage set up in their basement, and the first couple to grace it were Rachel and Jesse with a dramatic rendition of Run Joey Run.  Blaine would bet any money that Rachel picked the song.  Of course, Rachel always picked the song.

He took stock of the room as he drank his beer.  Sugar had dragged her Fab, Rory, to the middle of the room to dance, though he hardly looked like he minded.  Unique had joined them along with Jake and a shy, giggly Marley.  Rachel and Jesse were currently flipping through music by the stage.  Santana and Brittany had commandeered a loveseat on the far side of the room—Brittany's face was buried in her Nat's neck, Santana's hands up her shirt.  In the opposite corner, Tina straddled Mike in an arm chair, his fingers splayed on the back of her exposed thighs, their lips rarely parting.  Strewn along the wall in between were Artie and Quinn, talking quietly, both seemingly sober.  Mercedes and Kurt sat on a couch with their foreheads pressed together, laughing at something on Mercedes' smart phone while Finn looked on from behind.

Blaine's eyes, as always, zeroed in on Kurt.  It was rare to see him so openly happy, even when it was the four of them or, more infrequently, when they were alone.  Blaine wondered how much Kurt had had to drink.  He'd noticed him accepting a wine cooler from Rachel earlier.

Blaine finished off his beer, tossing the can in the direction of the trash, eyes never leaving Kurt.  Impulse overtook him, alcohol thrumming through his veins like liquid courage, and on a whim he approached.

“Sing with me, Kurt,” he insisted loudly.  Kurt looked up at him, startled, and Blaine was struck not for the first time by the vivid blue of his eyes. Love, his heart sang, apparently free of inhibitions as well.  Admit it or not Blaine, you're in love.

“Blaine, I…”

“Please?”  He arranged his face in what he hoped was an attractive pout.  “We've never gotten to sing together, Kurt, and I've always wanted to and it's a party, there's a stage, why not?” he shrugged, as if this out-of-the-blue rationale made sense.

Kurt never sang duets, not even with Finn.  He insisted on performing solo—songs of his own choosing—or not at all.

“I don't know, Blaine, I…”

“You should do it, Boo,” Mercedes urged, nudging him with an elbow.  “Lord knows Shue would never let you in Glee.”

Kurt flushed, still looking at Blaine.  Maybe he hadn't had as much to drink as Blaine thought.  “What would we sing?” he asked at last.

Blaine's mind raced, because he hadn't thought so far ahead.  “We can pick anything you like—“ he started say, but Mercedes interrupted.

“Ooo, I know!  Just Can't Get Enough!  It's perfect for your voices, and, well, look around us…” her eyes did a sweep of the room and then she rolled them, and Blaine beamed.

“That sounds perfect,” he agreed.  “Come on Kurt, pleeeeease???”

Apparently, a little alcohol put him not-above whining.

Kurt sighed.  “Alright,” he conceded, holding out his hand for Blaine to help him up.  Blaine took it, giddy.  He hoped his palm wasn't sweating too much, wondered if Kurt felt the same small thrill shoot through his arm at the touch that Blaine was feeling, that Blaine always felt when their fingers brushed or their shoulders bumped or, God, when Kurt merely smiled at him.

Rachel huffed in protest as they climbed onto the stage, informing them that she was just about to sing her better-than-the-classic version of Streisand's Don't Rain on My Parade.  Blaine pointed out that it would be rude not to let her guests have a turn, and she reluctantly surrendered to his charm, Jesse scrolling through the little computer to find their song.

It felt incredible performing with Kurt, so much more than he had anticipated.  Blaine could sense every eye in the room watching them, but none of it mattered—only the beat of the music and Kurt's body moving in rhythm next to his.  Blaine felt brave, met his eyes, reached out to touch him, drew him in so they could move together, and it was like… like a whole new world opening up, and Kurt there with him.

It took a moment to leave his heart after the music died, their fingers still tangled, and Blaine didn't even know when or how that had happened.  He finally looked to their audience and froze.  The whole room was watching them, everybody, even the couples had stopped making out.  Only Mercedes was smiling.

Blaine's eyes found Quinn's, hoping for an explanation, and his heart plummeted further.  Quinn could be a hard person to read, but Blaine knew her, knew her like no other, and now he could see it, plain and cold as day.  Quinn's eyes were dark, wistful and almost troubled—she knew.

Maybe everyone else did too.

He turned back to Kurt to find him still staring at Blaine, still happy, and Blaine had never been so grateful for small mercies.  He squeezed Kurt's fingers once, releasing his hand as a slow clap broke through the silence.  It was Rachel, and others—startled—began to join in.

“I've got the best idea,” Rachel declared to the room.  “Why don't we play… Spin the Bottle!  That's the best party game, right?”  She looked to Jesse for approval, but he just shook his head, smiling, and Rachel added, “after I perform again, of course.”

As Rachel took the stage and began to sing Barbra, Blaine decided he needed more alcohol.  Maybe this party hadn't been such a great idea after all.

When she was finished, everyone sprawled into a giant circle on the floor, and Rachel announced cheerfully “no rules” as she sloshed the drink in her hand and took the first spin.  What proceeded was a long series of kisses that Blaine barely followed, too intent on sneaking glances at Kurt to make sure he was okay, and at Quinn, to make sure she didn't hate him.  His heart filled with dread at the thought of the conversation they'd surely be having by the end of the night, and he drank some more.

At the end of the first round, all Blaine could recall was that Kurt had kissed Mercedes, brief and awkward.  Quinn had kissed Santana, giggly and smiling, and Puck as well, leaning too-close, hand on his face and a shiver that might have been excitement radiating visibly through her body.  Blaine had kissed Rachel—unremarkable—and then Mike, finding his spicy cologne vaguely arousing.  Those abs, he couldn't help but think, still wishing he had the opportunity to kiss Kurt instead.  Then in a moment of clarity he remembered Quinn's eyes, everyone's eyes, and he was glad that he hadn't.

Santana rolled her eyes.  “That was boring!” she declared.  “I don't want to do it again.  Why don't we make things more interesting?”

“The rest of us liked it just fine, Santana,” Rachel insisted, but looking around the circle, seeing the majority of the Glee club nod in agreement, it was clear to Blaine that Santana was going to win this argument.

“Seven minutes in heaven this round,” Santana said firmly

Nearly everyone perked up at that, Sugar clapping excitedly, Puck calling out, “hell yeah, that's what I'm talking about!”

“Let's get this party started,” Artie added enthusiastically.  Blaine wondered if he wasn't just a bit drunk now, though eyeing his cup of punch he thought that probably wasn't Artie's intention.

And then the real fun started.  Or rather it didn't, in Blaine's opinion.  He shuffled back, hoping to disappear, to go last or not at all.  He eyed the bottle nervously with every roll, praying it wouldn't land on him—or worse, on Kurt.

Luckily, Kurt's roll landed on Tina.  They went into the closest laughing, their hands clasped and swinging mockingly between them.  When the timer dinged and Rachel opened the door, they were huddled together on the floor engrossed in a YouTube video.

Blaine breathed a sigh of relief.

Only a few pairings after that caught his attention.  Finn's roll landed on Rachel, but he predictably looked to Kurt for approval before entering the closet.  When they emerged Rachel was quiet, Finn breathing heavily, and everyone stared at them wanting to know but no one said a word.  Blaine wondered if Kurt would tell him about it later if he asked, if he would even bother to ask Finn about it himself.

There was a bit of chaos when Jake's roll landed on Brittany.  Santana called out in warning, “Mia chica, Puckerman Jr., hands above the waist!” but Marley… Marley looked crushed.  Jake pressed a kiss to her hair before he stood, giving Brittany his full attention with an open and lascivious grin, but Blaine couldn't tear his eyes away from the girl.  I'm sorry, he wanted to say, thinking of the rumors-that-weren't about Jake's affairs with one cheerleader after another.  I'm sorry; you're a person; he shouldn't do that to you.

They emerged with clothing rumpled.  Santana pulled Brittany into her lap for a possessive kiss; Jake took Marley's hand, not even looking, not even seeing her.

Quinn rolled next and got Kurt, to both their amusement, and it didn't even occur to Blaine to be worried.  They came out on their own after seven minutes, considering each other with strange, sober expressions, and Blaine wanted so badly to ask what happened, what did you talkabout? that his toes curled with it, and he willed the game to be over.

As he'd wanted, Blaine went last, and his roll landed on Quinn.  There was a cry of outrage—can they do that?  It doesn't count if it's your own Fab!—but eventually they were shuffled into the closet like the rest, the door closing behind them, and it was… dark, a little cold.

“Quinn?” Blaine said into the emptiness. 

“Yeah, I'm right here.”  She stepped closer, her fingertips brushing Blaine's arm, and he sighed in relief.  Whatever else this was, at least it was safe.  Familiar.

He thought back a few years, remembering how determined he'd once been that Quinn would never know that there was anything wrong between them, anything different about him.  Blaine still wanted just as badly to protect her now, but he knew it was too late.  The game had changed the moment he'd stepped through McKinley's doorway and spied a lanky teen in unusual clothing, his eyes the color of the sky just before a storm.

He'd never planned for Kurt.  There was no planning for Kurt.  Kurt had leapt into his heart and made a home there, inevitable and unchanging, and Blaine still had not a clue what he was meant to do about it.

Blaine swallowed, squared his shoulders, thought: courage.  It was out there, he knew it was out there now, and the very worst thing to do would be the thing he wanted most: avoidance.  “We should… we should talk.”

“What about?” Quinn's voice was too-casual, and even without sight Blaine knew she was deflecting.

“About me,” Blaine forced out, wetting his lips because they were suddenly, unbearably dry.  “Me and Kurt.  About… my feelings.”

For a moment there was silence.  “I already know about that,” Quinn admitted.

“Because of the song,” Blaine supplied.  “I… I wasn't planning on telling you.  I never wanted to hurt you, Quinn.”

“I've known longer.”

Blaine nearly gasped his surprise.  He'd hoped he'd been less obtuse.  “How long?”

“Since… since last year.  You—the movies.  I saw you staring at him.  I'm surprised I didn't notice it sooner.”  She paused, then “How long for you?”

He couldn't tell—not in the dark, not from her voice alone—how she was feeling, and he hated that.  “We're not… we're not actually together, Quinn!  God, I don't think he even knows.”

“He feels the same, you know.  He asked me not to say.”

“You… you spoke with him.”

He sensed, didn't see her nod.  “Seven minutes.”

Blaine took a deep breath, let everything come pouring out like water through a busted dam.  “I've loved him so long, Quinn.  Maybe since the first moment I saw him.  I can't explain it, just… there was something there.  There was always something there.”

It felt good to say it.  To his best friend—to anyone, maybe.  Freeing.

“I'm happy for you,” Quinn said, soft and slow.

“Are you… are you really?”

She hesitated, and Blaine could sense it: the awkward, the unsure, the hurt, and there was a war of feelings within him, their intensity fueled by alcohol.  “I want you to be happy,” she answered at last.

Blaine pulled her close, cocooned her in his arms, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume.  “I want you to be happy, too.”  His words were muffled, spoken into her hair.  “And you know it's not… it's not you.  You're perfect.  If I… if I were straight.”  He'd never said them, the wordsI'm gay, and the worst part was that no one would care, not if there hadn't been Quinn since before he was five, since before he could understand.

“I know.  I believe that, Blaine,” she pulled back, and Blaine wished more than ever he could see her eyes.  “I will be happy,” she finished quietly, sounding resolute.

The door was opening, and they were shooed out, and Blaine… Blaine didn't look at anyone, not even Kurt, as he grabbed another beer.

*******

In the wee hours of the morning Quinn drove them home, rightfully deeming herself the most sober of the four.  The entire car ride Blaine thought about it, thought about finally, really doing it, the miraculous words he feels the same echoing in his mind, the want thrumming through his body making his legs jump, his pulse speed.  When they got to Kurt's house Finn rushed inside, mumbling something about the bathroom.  Kurt and Blaine lingered on the porch.  The sun hadn't risen yet, but Kurt's face was lit faintly by the porch light, and Blaine's drunken eyes thought he looked almost angelic.

There was so much unspoken between them, and Blaine knew in the morning it would probably be buried; they would continue this charade of denial, unacknowledged.  But right now Kurt was beautiful, and Blaine was still buzzed, still brave in the darkness.  The same feeling sparked between them that always sparked between them, and for a moment there were no secrets, no desire to keep them.

He didn't think, didn't want to as he moved closer, and Kurt exhaled a little “oh” as his head collided with the brick wall of his porch, and Blaine was finally, shockingly, kissing him.

Kurt's lips were soft and cold and sweetly parted, and Blaine felt alive, for the first time alive, taking his mouth and pressing in, his hands finding Kurt's slender hips as Kurt's closed around his shoulders.  They kissed and breathed and sighed and it didn't stop, Quinn watching from the car, Burt or Carole or Finn or the next door neighbor could be looking on from a window and Blaine didn't care.  He hadn't gotten to kiss Kurt tonight, faked nonchalance amid childish games, and so he was doing it now for real, damnit.  He was doing it.  He was kissing Kurt.

One of them cried out when they finally broke apart, and Kurt's eyes were all Blaine could see, a world of emotion in them that was heartbreaking as much as reassuring, because Kurt was not the world; the world was vast and dark and calculated and cruel, and nothing like Kurt nor what Blaine felt for him at all.

Blaine said, gruff against Kurt's lips, “I won't kiss you again, not unless you ask me,” and then forgot his promise, pressed in one final time, one final note of joy and sorrow.

He felt Kurt's gaze on him as he made his way back to his car, back to Quinn and his parents and reality.  It wasn't until Kurt's eyes were gone that he felt the chill of early March, seeping into his bones like the very worst reminder. 

Was this the night? he wondered foolishly, hardly daring to hope.  Maybe it wouldn't, couldn't be buried—not what Blaine felt, not what they'd just shared.  This could be the night that changed everything.  The night that might sever him and Quinn, and God, he couldn't lose her.  The night that maybe meant Kurt, finally resting in his heart, his hand in Blaine's in secret, only in secret.  The night that meant risk—what about his parents, what would they think if they knew?  What about his freedom, what about prison, Blaine wasn't good at keeping secrets.

*******

Monday morning Kurt smiled at Blaine in greeting—the same smile he'd always given, though something about it didn't sit quite right.  He held Finn's hand through the hallways, kissed him in front of the entire Glee club for the very first time.  Blaine felt Quinn's eyes on him, felt her sympathy, her delicate fingers curling around his wrist as she moved to sit beside him and together they watched Kurt and Finn sing Don't Go Breaking My Heart.

Friday night hadn't meant anything.  But how could it not, when everything felt so irrevocably different, so fragile, so much like hope?

Hope can shatter, Blaine reminded himself.  You knew not to harvest it; hope can shatter.

And apparently, so could Blaine's heart.