Kurt Hummel snored.

Of course Blaine would never dare voice that if Kurt had been even marginally more awake and not out cold, making tiny, hushed snuffles into Blaine's pillow with every breath. He would squawk with protest and throw him a dirty look, hissing that it was "breathing, Anderson. I'm breathing and I'm doing it a hell of a lot easier than you are with all that smoke clogging up your lungs."

Kurt grunted faintly, pushing his face deeper into the pillow with a contented sigh and Blaine stifled a laugh at the soft, whispery breaths that came from between his lips.

Definitely snoring.

Blaine shifted backwards, settling more comfortably against the cool plaster of the wall to blow smoke out of the wide open window, feet propped against the torn battered frame of his desk chair once half torn apart in a particularly vicious fit of anger, and pretended to the otherwise empty room that he wasn't staring at the boy in his bed.

Because there were never boys in his bed, not really.

Sure Sebastian had passed out there more times than they could count, and Blaine was by no means some innocent virgin but he preferred the easy stability of the back wall of Scandals or the cramped back seat of his car. Other places, easy places; houses that weren't his where he could leave in the early light of morning and smoke his way home without a backwards glance.

His room, his house, they were his.

His for his friends, for Sebastian and Quinn and sometimes even having his mother and stepfather around was more preferable to having strangers in his bed, no matter how good they'd been the night before.

Blaine closed his eyes and turned his face towards the morning sun, letting it warm his skin as he thanked whatever stars shone over him that the Andersons had opted to take an early anniversary trip to Paris that week because even with Kurt, who would be all polite smiles and dashing charm, he wasn't quite ready for that introduction. Especially with Kurt.

He wondered what Jennifer Anderson would say if she'd come home to find a boy asleep in her son's bed, snorting when he pictured the undoubted happiness on her face. The way she would ruffle his hair and tut at his smoking habits with a glint in her eye, demanding that Kurt be woken and introduced to her immediately.

Blaine got his unabashed wild streak from his mother, his untameable hair and the unbridled desire to break rules.

He got his temper from his father.

Jenny Anderson had been seventeen; a citrusy blonde teenager with a pink bikini and a pineapple cocktail, staying at her grandmother's summer house when she'd met James Ford and been cast into a whirlwind schoolgirl trance.

He was twenty-four, working his way through business school when an infatuated teenager landed in his lap, all blue eyes and curls and smiles brighter than the August sun.

They were married six months later.

But Jenny wasn't a girl who could stay tied down, especially to a man who couldn't lock her cage fast enough. He wanted a family, the hazy mirror of normality and the more Jenny resisted the angrier James grew.

Blaine had been barely two years old when she'd packed her bags and kissed his cheek, vanished through the front door with a split lip and a wave into the world without him. She left him with a man who drank more and more, and whose affection was limited at the best of times as he tried desperately to raise Blaine into a carbon copy of himself.

Maybe his father was a bad man, maybe to some he wasn't.

He was a controlled man, a man with limits and rules, with structure and money. Someone with a rage so deeply repressed it would surge and spill when you would least expect it.

He'd been understanding, accepting even, when Blaine admitted his sexuality over a rare and hesitantly awkward Thursday night dinner, going so far as to pay for private tuition when the bullying turned so bad it landed him with three broken ribs and a black eye. He'd suggested building a car together, barely losing his temper when it turned out Blaine was clumsier than a blind elephant and all he could do was knock over oil and drop wrenches. Barely.

But Dalton meant uniforms, Dalton meant integrity and promise and a calm ignorance towards the anger that seemed to build and bubble in Blaine's chest and when he was expelled during his first term for lighting a fire behind the bleachers the faded and bitter disappointment in his father's gaze only made something else grow.

Something like triumph.

Blaine didn't want it all to be okay, he didn't need safety and security and a cage of blazers where he could hide from the world.

He wanted to shout and scream and burn everything inside him, until he flamed and smouldered like a dying phoenix in a cloud of ash.

He wanted to explode.

And even when his father grudgingly let him finish his last two years of education at public school, the distaste in his eyes as he saw the name McKinley High on the acceptance letter, the growl of disgust at Blaine's tattoos and drugs and the sudden familiarity of Sebastian at his shoulder, Blaine craved more.

He longed for judgement and hate. He wanted to destroy and create, to paint the world as a vicious canvas of emotion.

The way he saw it.

The police report had been the final straw, and he'd arrived home to find James in his office, staring at the table with a glass of whisky in one hand.

The punch to Blaine face shattered his cheekbone.

But he'd smiled anyway, through the sting of tears.

Blaine spent three weeks sleeping on Sebastian's bedroom floor, turning up at his door with two packed bags and a guitar, and suddenly he was young and carefree and alone with his best friend. The friend who'd punched the leader of the hockey team in the face when Blaine received a face-full of strawberry slushie on his first day at McKinley, winking and pulling back Blaine's retaliatory clenched fist muttering, "revenge, my friend, must be served as cold as the ice currently sliding its way into your boxers."

Blaine had resisted, of course. Immediately defensive, the only response he knew.

Everything he'd ever known was screaming within him, and he wanted to fight back and defend himself and fuck don't let them do this to you again, no one gets to hurt you not anymore.

They'd gotten the guy back two days later thanks to an imaginative prank that left him half naked and scarlet red with embarrassment in the middle of the lunch hall, and that afternoon Quinn Fabray had fallen into step beside Blaine as he walked the corridor amid awed stares. She hadn't said anything and neither had he, but from that moment on she was part of them.

Blaine had been just shy of his seventeenth birthday when Jenny Anderson had stormed back into his life, tanned and dramatic as always, demanding that Figgins drag him out of class where he'd sat carving shapes into the desk at the back, and wrapping him in a warm hug, her sunglasses digging into his neck.

She'd taken him home that afternoon, gushing about how she'd rung his father and screamed at him until her voice was raw, and Blaine said nothing as she chose gesticulating wildly over careful driving and sped them the whole way to his new house.

He knew he should be happy, even now.

He had his mother back, the flighty hummingbird of a woman who sang and danced and laughed and was loved by her new husband. He could drink and fuck and smoke, he could be anything.

But Blaine was angry, he'd always been angry.

And he saw it sometimes when his mother looked at him, the way she would cock her head and narrow her eyes slightly as she considered his face.

He reminded her of his father.

The raging desperation, coupled only with her hereditary desire to misbehave and Blaine was like a bowstring, pulled too tight and taught.

As though ready to snap.

Blaine was the perfect blend of the worst parts of his parents, and he didn't want to look in the mirror every day and see the man he hated.

Kurt made a small noise, a moan of discomfort and it jerked Blaine from his thoughts and back to the boy in his bed.

The boy who was lithe and thin with a dancer's figure, but who somehow still managed to sprawl himself diagonally across the mattress like a starfish, covering the entire bed. He rolled onto his back, legs tangling in the blankets kicked down to his waist, arms stretched sleepily over his head.

Blaine could see the shallow dents of his hipbones, the thin rise and fall of his stomach under his rumpled shirt.

Goosebumps chased up his back and Blaine smashed the glaring end of the cigarette against the windowsill, smearing the ash in a rough circle before he looked back to Kurt and to the soft rays of sun the glanced across his cheeks.

Kurt's eyelashes fluttered against his cheek, casting long shadows down his face once, then twice, before he blinked open, rolling his head to the side and meeting Blaine's gaze.

There was a beat of silence, a quiet, drowsily contented smile before some sort of awareness shadowed Kurt's eyes and he sat up with a start and a glare. One hand clutched his forehead with a wince as his eyes darted to the door and back; down his own body; back to Blaine's face.

"What the fuck, Anderson?"

Blaine winced.

Of course. Nothing had changed.

"Good morning to you too, Hummel. It's nice to know you're as pleasant as always."

Something rose in the back of Blaine's throat as he swung himself off the desk and stalked towards the couch, throwing his body across it with a creaking whine of broken springs under Hummel's stony glare.

He swallowed it down, staring hard and impassive at the ceiling.

"How much do you remember?"

Kurt scowled and pushed back the covers.

"I remember you taking me out. I remember arriving at some god-awful seedy club, and then I remember nothing. What the fuck did you do to me?"

Blaine scoffed, squeezed his eye shut for a moment and breathed out long and hard.

"Why would you assume –" he began, attempting to keep his voice calm before Kurt cut across him like a whip.

"Oh please. You're an asshole I don't trust and barely even like, you take me to a disgusting bar and I wake up what, twelve hours later in your bed? Why wouldn't I assume something, are you stupid as well as –"

He was up, out of Blaine's bed and marching towards him spitting a furious verbal tirade that grated against Blaine's ears and down to his clenched fists until his anger propelled him upwards, meeting Kurt head on.

"What are you insinuating, Hummel?"

Kurt's face was wild, high spots of anger flaring across his cheekbones as his mouth ripped open in a snarl of fury.

"Oh I don't know. Only that I woke up in your bed of all places. Of all people, and you honestly think I should trust you enough to assume that you didn't –"

"That I didn't what? Take advantage of you? Give you the fucking of your life and you're just sad that you missed –"

The slap across his cheek was hard enough to jerk Blaine's head to the side, stinging against the cool air of the room.

Blaine's hand caught Kurt's wrist as it flew up again, snatching his hand from the air in a grip so tight Kurt's eyes flew open in shock.

He hauled him closer by the wrist, until their noses were almost touching and something akin to fear flashed through Kurt's eyes, just for a second. As though he'd just remembered who they were and where he was.

But then it was gone and his eyes hardened, dark and fierce as his lips pursed and tightened.

"If you slap me again, Princess, don't hesitate to think that I won't punch you right back."

Kurt wriggled his arm in Blaine's grip and he tightened it further, fingers digging into soft skin until Kurt let out a tiny whimper of discomfort.

"Let me go," he hissed, but Blaine was walking his backwards until he stumbled against the wall behind him, back flat against it and their bodies pushed in too close.

"No."

Kurt was looking at him, anger fading into something unreadable, unfathomable. His eyes were tired and hair stuck in every direction, ruffled with sleep and bed-warmed skin and Blaine supposed that by now he should be used to the way anger could turn into and insatiable longing whenever Kurt was around.

"Blaine."

His voice was low, hot against Blaine's cheek as he raised his chin and their faces were close enough for his nose to brush up the length of Blaine's face.

His wrist was against the wall, but Blaine wasn't pinning him anymore and his hand slid up, slow and tentative against Kurt's pulse point, across his palm, until their fingers were linked against the wall, clutching hard and desperate.

"Kurt."

One leg pressed between Kurt's holding him still, dragging a thumb over his hipbone until Kurt shivered into his body and there were barely inches of space between them, not a whisper of room but Blaine wanted more, he wanted closer. He wanted to quench the scorching need that burned in the pit of his stomach and his nails dug into the skin of Kurt's waist until he felt him breathe out, shaky against his face and a cracked sound that might have been his name.

Blaine had never yearned for a person so badly.

So badly it hurt.

Kurt was breathing, deep and steady and every movement had their chests pressed tighter, hearts pounding together, and Blaine could feel eyelashes skimming across his cheek. He tilted his head, just slightly, just enough –

Blaine's phone blared with Sebastian's ringtone from his desk, shocking through the room like a lightning bolt and Kurt jumped in his arms, fists suddenly clenched against his shoulders and pushing him away.

Blaine tripped backwards, throwing a glance towards his phone before he turned back to Kurt.

Kurt's faced had dropped like the fall of a curtain, impassive and cold and he shook his head hard.

"No. I don't want you near me."

Blaine felt his face twist into a scowl, because Kurt's voice was broken and quiet, his face torn with a violent conflict and there was something behind his eyes. Something Blaine couldn't recognise or name and it drove him wild.

Kurt was backing away, moving towards the door away from him and he was vibrating with a cold, simmering anger whether at himself or at Blaine, he couldn't tell and Blaine could feel his nails digging into his own palms, hot rage flushing up the back of his neck.

"I want you to stop, Anderson. I want…I don't….Not anymore."

His arms were clutched around his stomach, holding himself. Caging himself in; protecting.

Blaine turned through his hazy red vision, fist smacking against the plaster wall with a burning flash of pain and a screaming growl from his throat. He heard Kurt's faint intake of breath before the door slammed closed, but his ears were buzzing with rage and every inch of his skin was too hot around him. Blaine wanted to claw at himself until the itching stopped, until he was calm and collected and his fists hit the wall over and over until it was smeared with blood and cracked paint.7

�

***

�

"Kurt isn't talking to me."

Quinn said nothing and he looked over his shoulder to catch her eye as she raised an eyebrow at him.

"What?"

"You called him Kurt."

Blaine felt his cheeks redden and turned back to his guitar, strumming an angry disjointed tune that left his fingers raw.

"Shut up. The point still stands."

It was a week later. Seven days, endless days of glimpses of Hummel caught through the gaps of the bodies of football players that seemed to oscillate around him like a celestial body as he walked the halls of McKinley. Seven days of trying to catch his arm as Kurt darted from the classes that Blaine dared to attend, only to miss him by a fraction of space and have his fingers close around empty air.

He didn't seem to go anywhere without Santana glaring on one side and Finn hulking on the other as he stared pointedly ahead, chin raised at a stubborn angle and cheeks flushing faintly as he caught Blaine's gaze against his face.

Blaine had taken to leaning against the lockers, obstinate and moody and fixing his eyes on the rise and bob of Kurt's throat as he swallowed and talked, on the hint of collarbone that peeked from beneath his uniform, the curved flick of hair as he turned his head.

It was like the sweetest form of torture, and eventually Blaine was kicked off the grounds from smoking inside and felt Kurt's eyes on his back as he stormed through the doors with Sue Sylvester's voice ringing in his ears and one finger flipped off behind his head.

He thought he heard Puck laugh.

"So what? You only ever complain when he talks anyway."

Blaine scowled harder at his fingers until she collapsed elegantly into the squeaking seat beside him and he shrugged.

"That's because when he's talking I'm usually busy thinking of other things his mouth could be doing. But at least then I'm getting somewhere. "

She laughed and leant her head against his shoulder until her spikey hair tickled his nose.

"I've got a date with Berry," she muttered eventually.

He shrugged her off and turned to face her fully.

"Wait, Q. Seriously?"

She nodded, grinning as she blew smoke into the room.

"Apparently if you talk shit about Streisand to a theatre nerd it really gets her going. Also there was something about Joan Jett-esque glamour, I don't know I kind of phased out," she waved her hand airily around her head, bracelets jangling up her thin arm, "Regardless. I managed to convince her that writing real songs takes pain and living, and what better way to live than to get drunk? So I'm taking her out drinking next week."

Blaine shook his head with a laugh and let it fall back against the wall behind them.

"Damn. I better get moving with this."

"Still intent on winning?"

"Of course. Seb needs to get a good loss in before we leave. Plus this whole fucking fiasco has passed nearly two months of school really fucking quickly. By this rate we'll be out of here in no time."

"And heading nowhere," she said with a throaty laugh. He bumped his shoulder against hers.

"Shut up, Q. We can do whatever the fuck we like when we leave."

"We do whatever the fuck we like anyway."

"Why are you so intent on pissing all over my plans?"

Quinn stuck out her tongue but gestured for him to continue.

"We'll drive anywhere and do everything, you know. That whole…bohemian travelling thing."

"Sex and drugs?"

"Of course."

"What about Seb?"

Blaine paused, nicking the cigarette from her fingers and putting it to his own lips. Stalling.

"He'll be in Paris or Italy. Somewhere his parents paid for, fucking rich, pretty boys. Being the same as always."

She was quiet for a moment, fiddling with the frayed edge of her skirt.

"Is that why you're so stuck on winning this? As…a last hurrah? A goodbye fuck, something you've always wanted, what?"

"I haven't been building up to this for two years, if that's what you're getting at," he snapped, pulling away from her slightly and picking the guitar back up, forcing her to speak louder over the noise.

"I wasn't, B. I wasn't. I just…at first I thought it was about proving him wrong. He taunted you and it was fun and light-hearted, but now," she dropped her shoulder with a sigh, "I know you, B. I know you so well and this…I just don't know anymore."

She paused for a moment.

"I mean, Seb fucking drugged Hummel, alright? You can't tell me you're okay with that."

"God, Q. I'm really not fucking okay with that. I'm furious with him. I just –" Blaine fists tightened until his fingers ached, his face screwed up with barely restrained anger. He was silent, noisy fingertips dancing over strings until she touched his shoulder with a rare tenderness.

"Hey. You can tell me, you know I won't tell him."

"Tell him what?"

"That…this isn't about winning anymore, is it? It's about fucking –"

"Yeah. Seba–"

"No. Not Seb. This is about fucking Kurt, isn't it? And about you not knowing what you want more."

Blaine swallowed, his throat suddenly bone dry and eyes burning. His fingers clenched the neck of the guitar until it was rough and burning against his palm. He didn't look at her.

"Isn't it?" She insisted, catching his jaw with persistent fingers and forcing his head around to face hers.

"I don't know."

Blaine underestimated Quinn Fabray too much, and he knew that.

But he wasn't expecting Rachel Berry to seize his sleeve and drag him into a corner during the morning rush that Monday, although he knew immediately that Quinn had something to do with it when she held her finger against his lips and hissed.

"Kurt will be in the gym after school today. Alone. You didn't hear it from me."

And then she was gone in a whirl of plaid and a kitten patterned sweater, leaving Blaine blinking in confusion. He looked down the hall just in time to see Quinn marching towards him, dipping her sunglasses down her noses just long enough to drop Rachel a wink that left her ducking her head and blushing as she scurried away, before she reached Blaine's side and looped their arms together making an innocuous comment about the weather.

"I love you, Q."

"I know you do, B. Now isn't the sunshine delightfully awful today."

He grinned and swung their arms in tandem with their feet.

"Positively grotesque."

�

***

�

He shouldn't be this nervous.

Not so nervous that he'd had to stop outside in the dying sun and chain-smoke for ten minutes, until the pounding of his heart slowed in his ears and his palms stopped sweating so much that his lighter almost slipped from his grasp.

Blaine didn't get nervous, especially not with Hummel.

Because with Hummel he didn't have to be fake and romantic, or even apologetic.

This was Kurt who'd seen him at his worst, and he didn't have to pretend or throw on some idealistic masquerade to make him fall at Blaine's feet.

This was just them, with nothing in between.

And the thought of being himself was suddenly paralysing.

The lighting in the gym was harsh and bright and Blaine squinted against it, focusing on the streak of red that was Hummel with one leg up on the barre across the wall, leaning and stretching until his nose just touched his knee.

Blaine let himself appreciate the tight curve of the uniform and the way it fit neatly over his ass, just for a moment before he cleared his throat.

Kurt raised his head, catching sight of Blaine in the mirror and staring. Blaine saw him swallow hard before he lowered his leg and turned, hands clasping around the pole behind him as though it grounded him.

"Hi."

Blaine felt suddenly stupid, foolish and looked down at what he held between his fingers trying not to blush like a twelve year old girl with a crush.

Kurt said nothing, cocking his head slightly and considering Blaine's face with a faintly quizzical expression before he turned back and raised his other leg to stretch.

"I…um…"

"Ineloquence isn't an attractive trait on you, Anderson. Even less so than smoking."

"Oh, fuck you Hummel."

He caught a flash of Kurt's smirk in the mirror before it was hidden by his leg as he dropped his cheek against it with a huff of breath.

"That's more like it."

"I was trying to be a gentleman."

"I don't know why you bothered, I'm no lady."

"Oh I am perfectly aware of that, Hummel."

He let his eyes drag deliberately down Kurt's body, raking over the tightest spots until Kurt's face was fiery red and he straightened up completely, leaning against the barre and smiling at their reflections for a moment.

"What do you want, Anderson?"

Blaine moved a few steps closer until he was behind Kurt completely, image in the mirror obscured by Kurt's own and he was forced to turn and face him.

"Well?"

"I wanted to say I'm sorry. And to…give you this."

He held his hand out feebly, and Kurt paused for a moment before he stepped forwards to take it with a faint breath of shock caught in his chest. Blaine tried not to clutch at his hand when he felt their fingers brush. He saw Kurt's gaze linger over the battered scars of his knuckles, old wounds under half-healed skin and Blaine still maintained that the wall had come off worse.

"A sunflower?"

"It reminded me of you."

Now his hands were free Blaine felt awkward, one flying up to rub at the back of his neck as he ducked his head to stare at the grainy floor, trying not to blush.

Kurt was silent for a moment, thoughtful as he spun the flower between his fingers. Something like a smile graced the corners of his lips as he looked up.

"Thank you."

He knelt to place the flower reverently on top of his bag, before dropping to the floor and stretching his legs out in front, leaning forwards to grasp his toes and staring at them hard.

"It should probably be me apologising to you," he admitted eventually, throwing the words out in a rush when Blaine opened his mouth to speak, "No, I know I was wrong! I know you looked after me, I know you didn't do anything and I know you wouldn't because…because I trust you. And – Blaine shut up, let me finish. I spoke to Rachel who heard from Quinn about what Smythe did…and I know you wouldn't do that and god I hate him, and I'm embarrassed and I'm so fucking sorry that I reacted like that. I'm such a moron, I can't–"

Blaine had realised early on that Kurt spent far too much time talking than was probably necessary, although he was usually spitting out lashing insults and violent words in angered retaliation rather than a scrambled apology, and even as Blaine fell onto his knees in front of him and he looked up, Kurt didn't stop talking. The words gushed from his mouth like water, in an unstoppable flow until Blaine could barely stand it, not anymore, not for another second.

His hand caught Kurt's cheek, pulling him up and closer and kissed him. Kissed him until the tirade silenced and the world crashed with a shocked stillness around them, and then it was just them with their lips and their beating hearts.

Kurt froze with a shocked noise; a gasp that fell from his own mouth and straight into Blaine's and was still against him. Blaine pressed his fingers gently against his cheek, the other hand cupping Kurt's neck and he whimpered faintly, lips curving to fit Blaine's with a soft wet pressure. Blaine pulled back, just a fraction before dipping back down and licking across the seam of Kurt's mouth, tongue sliding over and between the hesitant parting of his lips and Kurt's fingers reached up to clutch at Blaine's own, fitting them together over his face and holding him there.

Kurt's legs parted, Blaine moving between them until he could press one hand to the base of Kurt's spine and feel them arch together, and then Kurt was kissing with some desperate insistency. He was feverish and wild against Blaine's mouth, groaning deep inside his chest as he twisted his head and kissed Blaine deeper and firmer. Kurt moaned faintly, one hand fisting hard in Blaine's hair as he tugged his face down harder and then they were flat against the floor, Blaine's weight dropping heavily onto Kurt's chest with a huff of breath and they broke off with a wet, messy laugh.

"I knew kissing you would be a good way to shut you up," Blaine murmured over Kurt's lips, letting their noses rub together.

Kurt's fingers trailed through his hair for a moment, down to cup the back of his neck and he tangled their legs.

"How much do I have to say to get you to do it again?" he whispered.

"Just one word," Blaine said with a smile, ghosting their lips together until Kurt was straining up to meet him, "Say please."

Kurt's breath caught with a choke, his eyes falling closed and fingers running shivers up Blaine's neck.

"God, please."

Kissing Kurt, Blaine discovered, was a lot like drowning.

Something beautiful that left him breathless, feeling Kurt's tongue lap across his teeth and the roof of his mouth. Something that left his mouth damp and gasping for air, that made him writhe and tangle his fingers into Kurt's hair.

Like letting himself drown even though he could swim.

Something dangerous.