The Way To A Man's Heart

Sugar's birthday fell a week after Blaine's break-up with Kurt, and she spent the day being a melodramatic princess, walking around the school in a pair of enormous high heels, a dress that was a mass of sequins and pink, and a coat that was either genuine mink or a very good imitation. When she strutted into the choir room at the end of the day, a tiara balanced on her professional curls, her bag clattering with endless boxes of chocolates from those desperate to make friends with the rich girl, she produced the most enormous tub of cookies from her bag, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and chirping, "The cook made a hundred, so there's lots for all of you, because you're my very best friends!"

Lacklustre and staring blindly at the scrawledDREAMSon the board for this week's theme, Blaine reached blindly into the box Sugar offered and bit into the cookie. Cinnamon spread out over his tongue, spicy and sweet and a reminder of home, of the scent of Kurt after they'd been baking, invariably ended up licking cookie dough or icing off each other's fingers, and it brought warmth to his heart, made him feel a little less empty and angry and hating inside, and he found his fingers itching to grab another, to breathlessly hang on to the fading feeling of momentary fullness within his bitter-cold chest.

When he reached home after the rehearsal, crumbs clinging to his lips and chocolate sweet on his tongue, he went straight to the cupboard, grabbing a bag of microwave popcorn and pacing anxiously as he waited, filling a bowl with it and heading straight up to his room. He sat cross-legged on his bed, cutting up cards from Kurt, apologies and well wishes and congratulations, Christmas and Valentine's Day and birthday, sticking them with his clean hand into his scrapbook of reminders, pages stiff with glossy photographs, the other hand methodically emptying the popcorn bowl, every piece sliding down his throat making him feel a little less alone, warming him when all he felt was cold and lonely as the nights stretched long and the days grew longer.

The moon grew round and baleful in the sky, shining through the gap between the curtains, and Blaine lay in bed, stomach bulging slightly and feeling almost as if he was held in a comforting embrace once more. For the first time in days, he didn't cry himself to sleep, but fell with the sweet taste of the popcorn still dancing on his tongue like the words of a love song.

Every day became slowly the same. The cupboards were like a siren call summoning him from bed in the morning, to chase away the melancholy thoughts of Kurt composing a lump in his throat with a bowl of cereal, then another, and several slices of toast, until he felt full enough to no longer feel, to have the food soak up the tears so he couldn't cry any more. It became his cushion from the world, protecting him from feeling, from sleeping with the salt-slick of his tears clinging to his skin and awaking with sadness settling heavy on his heart. The unhappy moments late at night, caught only in the fridge light; the bone-deep panic that descended when the misery threatened to fall over him, forcing him to breathlessly eat slice after slice of bread until it was absorbed into the fullness of his belly; quietly eating squares of chocolate if anything reminded him of Kurt, blinking away tears and eating until he didn't feel cold and alone and in desperate need of someone to love him anymore.

Half an hour before the performance of Grease, when everyone was rushing around with last-minute fixes to hair, make-up, costumes, Blaine dusted the crumbs from the cheeseburger Sam had stopped on the way over to buy off his costume and stood up, sliding his thumb beneath the waistband of the pants to adjust where the button dug painfully into his belly, shuffling through the corridors to the bathroom in a search for Artie, who seemed to have disappeared. He wasn't there, but Blaine caught sight of himself in the mirror, face grey-pale with nerves above the white of his shirt, not a hair out of place, shirt clinging to his stomach far closer than it had three weeks ago at their fitting.

He'd tried to ignore it, but he wasn't blind, or deaf. He saw the way his stomach jiggled when he walked, the way his thighs spread out and stretched the fabric of his jeans when he sat down, the shadow of a double chin above tight collars. He knew that he no longer fitted into his favourite skinny jeans, that he wore more layers to hide his body from shrewd eyes, that he got too-hot and felt the sweat gathering beneath his clothes with half an hour of learning and practicing choreography. He'd heard the whispers in the corridors, that the gay slut was going downhill, packing it on, obviously eating his feelings away. But he'd never truly realised what he was until now, staring at his reflection in a mirror smeared with fingerprints and hardly connecting himself to the spry, slim, agile boy who had spent nights tangled around a long, lithe body and cheerfully seen his boyfriend onto a plane to a place where he could chase his dreams.

He wasfat. The very word was like poison on his mind, creeping into his limbs and freezing his insides, twisting and curling like a snake, hissing on and on in his mind, ringing in his ears like a frantic pulse until he clamped his hands over them and sangBeauty School Dropoutin his head, over and over and over, until it finally faded, and the call for the start of the show echoed through the school.

When the time for his entry came, he had driven himself into a state of burning self-consciousness, feeling the way the extra flesh above his waistband jiggling when he walked down the stairs, conscious of how flushed and sweaty he was beneath the bright, hot lights. His eyes automatically sought out Kurt, skin glowing in the light falling onto him from the stage, and something hot twisted low and bitter in his stomach because Kurt looked utterly amazing, beautiful and ethereal and angelic as ever in the light, eyes on him, heavy with betrayal and conflict and disgust, seeing how fat he had gotten, flesh spilling over every seam and waistband. Perhaps he'd even lost weight, the line of his jaw sharper, his eyes bigger in a thin face, fingers fragile when Blaine saw them tighten on his armrest, his eyes softening, losing his character for just a second as he gazed at Kurt.

The tears came after the performance, methodically chewing his way through the box of chocolates Brittany had left in his dressing room as a wish of good luck, make-up half-off and smeared over his face, wrapped in his robe, naked beneath it, sobs muffled by his full mouth as he squeezed at the spare flesh around his waist, wishing he could tear it away, claw it off and be the slim, lightly muscled boy Kurt had fallen in love with, the agile boy who could move anything anywhere during sex, who could twist and roll to bring pleasure racing across Kurt's skin. Standing up, he closed his eyes, untying the cord at his waist and letting the robe fall away, turning to the light-framed mirrors and forcing himself to look.

He gazed at himself, his body some vast sleeping thing, lazy and flabby and glistening unattractively with sweat, the mirror brutally honest. He turned slowly, examining his wide thighs, the spare flesh hanging over his knees, the swell of his ass, always a little too large for his liking, the swell of his belly more suited to a pregnant woman than a teenager who should be handsome and thin and sculpted and muscled, able to slither into tight clothes and feel confident when he stepped outside, and not hide away sweaty and uncomfortable in self-conscious layers.

How could Kurt want him now? A fat boy who had cheated on him in a second of stupid judgement, who ate his feelings and would rather spend the evening alone with a tub of ice-cream than do anything with his friends for fear of triggering memories of a once-happy relationship, bring on that spiral of breath-shortening panic before he could find food to drain away the melancholia. A boy who hadn't waxed in three months, dark scratchy hair growing over his chest and legs and belly and back, only drawing attention to where his belly creased slightly beneath his clothes.

Kurt would never want him back, would move on to handsome New Yorkers with their suits and briefcases and money, and Blaine would be remembered as nothing more than a high school fling, something to look back on with a hint of nostalgia and then forget. He would be a boy who grew into a man, only growing rounder as he continued to eat to keep away the misery, keep himself from sinking beneath the waves of depression growing stronger, trying to pull him down under, and he would be alone for the rest of his life, longing silently for the boy he knew was the one, but had lost in one split-second decision that had sent everything he knew about his life spiralling to the ground in flames.

The weeks passed. They started talking again, exchanging friendly texts, never approaching the subject of their break-up or the possibility of reconnecting, spent long nights on Skype teasing and laughing, Blaine making a point never to fold his arms and draw attention to his stomach, sticking his chin out to avoid showing Kurt that he had a double chin now, hoping Kurt would still see him lithe and compact and good-looking, the boy he'd fallen in love with those many moons again. The need to eat eased off a little now they were interacting positively again, the attacks of breathless panic growing less and less frequent, the need to binge on individual slices of bread or pieces of cold chicken before bed no longer a bone-deep want, nagging at him until he gave in to the urge, but he still ate when he felt the tears approaching. It was coping mechanism for him, and one that worked beautifully, keeping him full and warm and safe from intense emotions.

Burt approached him a week before Christmas, genuine and quiet and twisting his baseball cap anxiously in his hands, telling him in a perfectly level voice that he had prostate cancer, that he was going to tell Kurt on Christmas Eve when he went to visit him, that he wanted Blaine there to help Kurt through it, be there for him and comfort him and make sure his Christmas could still be bright. Blaine hesitated at first, not sure what the correct response was when the father of his ex-boyfriend, who he'd cheated on, came to his door asking for him to be there, but he agreed for the chance to see Kurt and have the promised mature heart-to-heart, packing as many sweaters and heavy coats and loose shirts as he could, desperate to hide his weight gain from Kurt for as long as possible, make him think he was still worthy of his love.

He could sense Kurt's sadness the night he and Burt arrived, see when he arrived at the ice rink that Burt had already told him, even when he smiled as they sang and swirled around each other on their skates, and slid his fingers through Kurt's while they waited for the bearded vendor to prepare their decadent hot chocolates and waffles, and a smile lit his face, flushed with the cold, when Kurt's hand wrapped around his and squeezed, a thousand words through a single touch, telling Blaine Kurt was glad he was there, needed him there, wanted him there to support him, truly was happy to see him after weeks apart.

When they got back to the loft, Kurt gave them a quick rundown of where everything was and went straight to bed, and Burt exchanged a telling glance with Blaine as he helped him ease out the sofa bed and apologetically slid into Rachel's room where he'd be staying, Blaine slipping into the bathroom to don his loose shirt and sweatpants, curling onto the surprisingly comfortable mattress and letting his thoughts drift.

He was almost asleep, content and warm and free of guilt or sadness and sinking into the mattress and the thick pillows and the comforter heavy on his shoulders so he could imagine someone's arms around him, when he heard soft, choked-back sniffling from behind Kurt's curtain, and the thought of Kurt crying alone in the darkness of the night drove him to his feet, padding across the bare wooden floors to brush the curtain aside. Kurt was curled into a miserable little ball atop his comforter, feet bare and legs long beneath the leggings Blaine knew he would never dare wear outside his bed, wide-collared shirt falling adorably off one shoulder when he realised Blaine's presence and shot upright, not bothering to pretend he hadn't been crying, eyes watery and swollen red, face blotchy and stained with tears and nose running onto his top lip, vulnerable and needy and looking so lost and lonely.

"Are you okay?" Blaine asked softly, sitting down tentatively on the end of the bed, reaching out a hand to rub Kurt's knee reassuringly, giving him a small smile as he tugging his collar up to wipe away his tears, sniffing loudly and coughing out soft sobs.

"Do I look okay?!" Kurt snapped, voice high with lingering tears, folding his arms across his chest, keeping a barrier between them. "My dad has cancer, Blaine.Cancer. He could die, and I already had to try and cope with the possibility of losing him once, I can't do it again. I can't lose both of the most important people in my life in such a short space of time, I'll die without you."

"You're not going to lose your dad," Blaine reassured him, holding back the grin at the idea that he was still one of the most important people in Kurt's life, even after everything that had happened. "The cure rate is almost a hundred percent, Kurt, the chance of losing him is so slim it isn't worth making yourself ill over."

"I've felt terrible for weeks, this is hardly a setback," Kurt said monotonously, running a hand over his concave stomach beneath his shirt, jealousy twinging through Blaine at how lithe and beautiful he is. "I couldn't eat after we broke up, I drove Rachel mad worrying about me. It got better after we started talking again, but I worked so hard at Vogue that I came home and collapsed into bed without eating, and then I couldn't sleep, and I have headaches constantly from not sleeping and stress and crying and I ran out of my pills yesterday and I can't get more because the pharmacist's is closed for Christmas."

"I have some aspirin in my bag, will that help?" Blaine asked softly, and Kurt looked up at him with tear-veiled eyes and nodded once, and Blaine squeezed his ankle before getting up and tiptoeing into the kitchen, filling a glass with water and adding two aspirin before returning to Kurt's room, shuffling up closer beside him and offering him the glass, saying, "Drink it slowly, K. Be careful with yourself, we don't want you any more broken than you already look."

"Thank you," Kurt whispered, teeth clinking against the glass as he drank and reached over to lay the glass on the nightstand, rubbing his face and wiping away the last traces of tears. "I am glad you're here, Blaine. I know it might not seem like that, but you must understand that I just found out my dad has cancer. He's one of the few things I've managed to hold on to through everything, it's a lot to take in."

"I know, I understand, and I won't push you to accept it any faster than you want," Blaine assured him, letting Kurt lean against his side, steadying his breathing. "I promise you, Kurt, I won't push you into anything. It's your call from now on, no matter what happens with you or with me or with us. Your dad isn't going to leave you, and neither am I. You're always going to be my best friend. I'll never stop wanting to see you happy. I'll always love you."

Kurt gazed at him for a moment, lower lip quivering minutely and eyes sheening with tears again, before he launched himself across the bed, knocking Blaine back with the force of their mouths crashing together, Kurt's tongue finding the seam of Blaine's lips and separating them, sliding into his mouth, gently exploring as his hands rose to tangle into Blaine's hair, a moan escaping Blaine before he could choke it back. He detached his mouth from Kurt's, a shiver dancing down his spine at the slick sound of their lips separating, and asked, "What are we doing? Why are we making out? Why did you kiss me?"

"Because I still love you even though people tell me I shouldn't, and I need to feel close to someone tonight, and it's Christmas and there is mistletoe fifteen steps forward and three to the right of this bed and I want the romance," Kurt answered softly, stroking Blaine's hair back from his forehead, pressing a kiss just below his ear. "Is this okay? Or do you want me to stop?"

"God no, don't stop," Blaine whispered, and Kurt smirked before kissing him again, less aggressive this time, gentle as his hands ran down Blaine's sides and curved beneath his ass, pulling him down on top of Kurt as they kissed. Blaine broke the kiss again, Kurt whining out in protest before Blaine began to kiss down his neck, mouth finding its way to the exposed skin of his shoulder where the collar of his shirt had slipped down, sucking a bruise into the skin as Kurt arched against him, hands cupping the back of his head and pressing him closer.

"Clothes," Kurt murmured, and Blaine pretended he hadn't heard him, insecurities creeping back into his lax, warm, content being, pressing another hard kiss to Kurt's mouth with an unrestrained moan. "Quieter, Blaine, my dad could wake up. C'mon, let's lose some clothes, I want to feel you."

Shaking his head, Blaine pushed himself up and off Kurt, turning away from him and swallowing back the lump swelling in his throat, uncomfortably hot in his pyjamas but unwilling to show Kurt what was lurking beneath them, knowing he'd turn away in disgust and this reconciliation would end before it ever even started. "Blaine, what's wrong?" Kurt asked, pressing kisses to the back of his neck, hand sliding up his side to play with his nipple through his shirt, rolling and pinching and sending shockwaves of pleasure through Blaine's body. "Baby, please just tell me. You're scaring me."

"I don't...I don't...can I just show you?" Blaine asked nervously, and Kurt nodded, backing away and sitting perkily cross-legged, head on one side and eyes expectant. "Can you take your clothes off too?" Kurt just smiled at him, ducking out of his shirt and peeling his leggings away, acres of flawless, pale skin, but for the red mark on one muscled shoulder, that Blaine longed to touch and caress and worship with his fingers and lips and tongue, mouth watering at a sight more delicious than anything on earth, working at the phantom memory of Kurt's cock stretching his lips, as hard and red as it was now, curved against the alabaster skin of his belly.

"Don't be nervous, Blaine, you're beautiful," Kurt breathed reverently into the still air as Blaine fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, unwilling to release the one barrier between his body and the judging eyes of the world and, more importantly, the man opposite him, who he wanted so badly to spend the night relearning and rediscovering and finding new ways to make his back arch and his eyes slide involuntarily shut. "Let me see you, baby. I want to." In one quick movement, Blaine shed his clothes, casting his eyes down to the bedspread and avoiding Kurt's gaze, feeling it on him, roving over the new bulk of him, trying desperately not to let himself break down over how ugly he felt in that moment.

"You look amazing," came a reverent breath, and Blaine looked up in shock, eyes damp and breathing shaky, to see Kurt's eyes drunkenly taking him in, as if he was the most beautiful thing in the world, hands reaching out for him like he just couldn't help himself, needing to touch. "Oh God, Blaine, just come here so I can touch you. You're sobeautiful, oh my God."

"But I'm not," Blaine murmured, unable to help the tears spilling over his lids as Kurt reached for him, pressing a kiss to his cheek as he drew him in close. "I'mfat, Kurt. Can you not see it? How can you still want me when I look like this? I'm not the boy you fell in love with anymore."

Kurt smiled softly, gathering Blaine in his arms and cradling his head against his chest, where Blaine could feel the rapid beating of his heart. "I didn't fall in love with a blazer and a tie and gelled hair," he said softly. "I fell in love with the boy behind the navy and red. The boy who took the hand of a perfect stranger one day on a staircase and gave him advice and made him feel like he could be in control of his life. The boy who sang flirty duets with me and made me feel like I was worthy of being desired. The boy who confessed his feelings in a beautiful speech over a casket for a dead pet bird and gave me my first real kiss. I love the boy who stood up with me at my junior prom when I was humiliated in front of everyone, even though he was terrified, and danced with me and made everyone see he was proud to be with me. I love the boy who cried saying goodbye to me on the steps of McKinley, and cried sending me off to New York for our very first attempt at Nationals. I love the boy who blurted out that he loved me just as much over coffee." He raised Blaine's head to press a gentle kiss to his lips, wiping a tear away with his thumb, and looked deep into his eyes as he concluded, "It doesn't matter to me what you look like, because you'll always be my sweet, dorky, charming, loving, tender, romantic, friendly, talented Blaine, and that's the boy I love."

"I love you so much," Blaine whispered tearfully, and Kurt smiled and wrapped his arms tighter around him as he kissed him, one hand at his hip, fingertips tracing over the ragged lines of his stretch marks, and the other tangled into the curls at the base of his neck, holding him close.

Kurt's lips suddenly left Blaine's, trailing a path down his chest, fingers scratching through the wiry dark hair dusting his skin, pressing slow, wet kisses over his belly, the damp patches glistening in the light from the moon as he pressed kisses to the insides of Blaine's thighs, worshipping the dark stretch marks there, giving Blaine a glimpse of a wicked smirk before sinking his mouth down around him, hot and slick, fingers digging into his thighs, and Blaine threw his head back with a loud moan, hand falling into Kurt's hair, twisting through the thick strands. Delivering a stinging slap to his thigh, Kurt pulled off for a moment, hair falling over his face and making him look absurdly young and innocent with his pink-stained cheeks and red-swollen lips, and snapped, "You need to be quiet, Jesus, Blaine! Bite your hand or the pillow or something, just don't wake my dad up!"

"I'm sorry!" Blaine hissed, raising his other hand to his mouth and biting at his third finger when Kurt pressed a kiss to the tip of his cock. "You feel so good, ohGod." Kurt winked up at him and went back to work, pressing his tongue flat against all the length he could reach, hand covering what he couldn't, before hollowing his cheeks and sucking, Blaine hitting the mattress repeatedly with the flat of his palm, teeth clamping down on his finger hard enough to bruise to stop a cry bubbling in his throat from escaping. "Nngh, Kurt, gonna come, oh God, I'm sorry I couldn't last longer." Blaine's body jerked and he shot into Kurt's mouth, tears at the corners of his eyes from the perfection and intensity of his orgasm, shaking through it until Kurt pulled up, swallowing hard and smirking at him, a drop of come at the corner of his mouth.

"Let me know when you're not so sensitive," he said cheekily, a little of his old self coming back in, flirty and playful and teasing. "I want you to make love to me tonight. I need you close." Blaine smiled, breathing heavily, sprawled out in the pillows, luxuriating in his orgasm, a lazy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He traced his fingers along the lines of Kurt's ribs protruding beneath his skin, making it obvious that he had lost weight after they'd separated, seeing the hitch of Kurt's chest when he found that sensitive spot low on his ribcage, one he'd spent hours worshipping in tangled sheets, making Kurt scream his name over and over until his throat was raw and his body was so lax with pleasure that he could barely move. "Found it," he whispered against Kurt's ear, sliding down the bed to press a kiss to the spot, Kurt's back bowing and his hands clenching into fists at the hot caress.

"Shit, Blaine," Kurt groaned, stuffing his fist into his mouth to muffle his moans. "Yes, rightthere, right fucking there!" Blaine smirked against Kurt's skin, tonguing at the spot and scraping his teeth against the sensitive flesh, sliding the hand not wrapped around Kurt's shoulder down to his cock, Kurt trembling and groaning and thrusting frantically into the circle of Blaine's fist. Watching him, the flush clinging to his skin, neck long and pale and graceful with his head thrown back, mouth open and swollen from kissing and sucking, Blaine felt himself begin to grow hard again, and buried his groan in Kurt's stomach as Kurt came with a howl muffled into his fist, come shooting up his chest as far as his chin. Collapsing back against the bed, Kurt brushed his hair back from his forehead and groaned, "Oh Go-od."

"Where do you keep lube and condoms?" Blaine asked softly, and Kurt pointed to his nightstand, chest rising and falling raggedly where he lay on the bed, and Blaine crawled up the bed to retrieve the bottle and grab a foil-wrapped condom from the mostly-empty box. "Come here. Which way do you want this to go?"

"Wanna ride you," Kurt whispered, finally sitting up and crawling up to Blaine, pressing a tender kiss to the corner of his mouth. "But want you to sit with your legs crossed so I'm in your lap. Wanna feel you that close." Blaine nodded and reaching for the lube, squeezing it out over his fingers and waiting for Kurt to kneel up over him before sliding a finger into him. Kurt shifted at the intrusion, face twisting in ecstasy, and begged, "Two, Blaine, I can take two, do this fast." Blaine tilted his head up to kiss Kurt, deep and tender, as he slid another finger into him, twisting and scissoring until Kurt detached their mouths, panting and harshly breathing, "Three, now."

It was five minutes of slow kissing, Kurt fucking himself down on Blaine's fingers, later that Kurt ripped the condom wrapped open with his teeth and rolled it down onto Blaine, slicking him up with a lube-coated palm and lowering himself down inch by inch, wrapping his legs around Blaine's waist and his arms around his shoulders. As Kurt rocked down with him, he pressed his forehead against Kurt's shoulder, feeling like Kurt's every drop down onto him broke him apart, and Kurt's legs and arms tight around him built him back up, holding him together and keeping him safe. Maybe he was beautiful, if Kurt still wanted to kiss him and make love to him and have him close. Maybe being fat wouldn't affect his life the way he'd feared it would.

Kurt threw his head back and whined high and thready as he came between them, hot splashes of come painting across their stomachs, and Blaine spilled into the condom as Kurt's muscles squeezed tight around him. As Kurt rolled away carefully, Blaine grabbed his hand and murmured, "Merry Christmas, Kurt."

With a smile on his face and his eyes lit up, Kurt cupped Blaine's face between his hands and planted a kiss on his lips, his breath of, "Merry Christmas, Blaine," lingering on even after they'd cleaned up and wrapped themselves around each other to drift into sleep.