It was all Pavarotti's fault.

If the bird hadn't died, Kurt wouldn't have felt the need to sing at Warblers' practice.

If Kurt hadn't felt the need to sing at Warblers' practice, Blaine wouldn't have spent the entirety of dinner with the sound of his flawless countertenor repeating in his head.

If Blaine hadn't spent the entirety of dinner with the sound of Kurt's flawless countertenor repeating in his head, he would've been paying attention to where Wes sat his glass… and he wouldn't have knocked it straight into his lap and soaked himself and his uniform from chest to thigh.

And if he hadn't soaked himself, he wouldn't be in the shower attempting to clean up… and trying to convince his hand that palming his dick was, in fact, not an appropriate response to Kurt Hummel's flawless countertenor.  He'd been singing about a dead bird for God's sake, he tried to remind himself.  A dead bird, and emotional pain, and the Beatles, and it had nothing to do with Blaine, and they were just friends.  Just friends!  Sure, Kurt was great… probably the most interesting kid in all of Ohio…

A mental image of Kurt out of his Dalton uniform, in the tall boots and sweaters and obscenely tight pants that he preferred when they hung out on weekends, made his dick jump against his palm.

Blaine turned his head into the harsh spray of the shower and considered.  There was no harm, was there?  Thinking about your friend in the shower?  It's not like he was going to tell Kurt about it.  Everyone did it… right?  Maybe just a little bit, to take the edge off.  And once he took the edge off, he'd finish shampooing and get back to his essay on themes of community in Lord of the Flies.  Yes, he'd just take a little bit of the edge off.  He'd just, wrap his hand around the base of his dick and slide his thumb down the length.  Once, maybe twice.  Just to –

He groaned, leaning back against the tiled wall, before shutting his mouth with a start.  Dalton showers weren't soundproof.  He needed to be quiet if he was going to do this.  And quick.  And just a little bit to take the edge off.  He didn't need to finish, he just needed to get back to the point where he could concentrate and not keep hearing Kurt's voice in his head.  He just needed Kurt to be quiet.  To close those lips and…

Fuck, now all he could think about was Kurt's lips.  He really had beautiful lips, didn't he?  They'd look even better wrapped around your dick came a small voice in the back part of his brain. 

Blaine closed his eyes, and slid his fist down his length once… twice… three times, each time feeling a new bead of moisture when he brushed his slit with his finger.  Kurt's lips would get red wrapped around his cock, wouldn't they?  And he'd have to do something with his hands cause Kurt was always doing something with his hands.  He'd probably slide them between the tile and Blaine's ass.  His fingers would press into the fleshy curve and hold his hips as close to his face as he could.  He'd want to take in as much as he could.  He'd pull Blaine's hips forward with his face buried against the curls that trailed from his navel to his thighs, mouth full of Blaine's dick.  Maybe he'd tease the ridge right under the head of Blaine's dick with his tongue.  He sang so well and cut people down with words, surely he'd have a really dexterous tongue.

Blaine moaned softly as his hips pushed faster against his fist.  Kurt would open his eyes, even if they were in the shower, and look up Blaine, wouldn't he?  Through those long lashes, with those blue eyes and he'd fucking smirk.  He'd love the fact that Blaine was standing there, helpless to think about anything other than his mouth, and his eyes, and his fingers pressed against his ass. 

Oh, god, what if he moved his fingers from on his ass, to in his ass?  What if Kurt, while he was looking up at him and smirking, moved one of those hands across wet skin.  What if he moved to spread his cheeks as he pushed him back against the tile and let one finger slip between to tease at the pucker of his hole?  Blaine gasped softly as he felt his own finger slide back to tease that thin, tender skin.  Kurt would press ever so slightly in, wouldn't he?  And he'd watch Blaine's reaction as he did it.  And Blaine would be helpless to stop him.  Not that he'd want to.  He'd want him to press his finger in as far as he wanted, curling his finger and pressing against any nerves he could find. 

His balls were tight as he dropped his head, the motions of his hand being replaced completely with visions of Kurt, wet hair and hollow cheeks, sucking him down to the hilt and crooking a finger in his hole.  Kurt would moan, and sigh, and suck, and Blaine would come hard, his fingers gripping Kurt's hair as Kurt stilled and licked Blaine's length to catch everything he could and swallow, before releasing Blaine's dick from his mouth with a vulgar little pop as he pulled back.  

Blaine's head jerked back against the tile at the thought of a dribble of come escaping at the corner of Kurt's mouth, and he came, hard, wet white stripes painting the back of his hand as he stroked himself through his orgasm.  The crack of his head against the tile brought him back to reality.  It wasn't Kurt's mouth, but his hand around his dick.  And it wasn't Kurt's fingers, but his own in his ass.  And there was no one there but himself and Kurt's voice in his head, singing Blackbird about a dead yellow goldfinch.

It really was all Pavarotti's fault.