Klainiac
Oct. 5, 2012, 9:23 p.m.
3:17 AM
Blaine listens to Kurt masturbating. Set at Dalton before OS, when they are just friends.
M - Words: 850 - Last Updated: Oct 05, 2012 947 0 0 1 Categories: Humor, Characters: Blaine Anderson, Kurt Hummel, Tags: friendship,
It’s 3:17 in the fucking morning when you wake up. You’ve only gotten a couple of hours of sleep and that seems so unfair. Finals are over for the rest of the students, but you’ve got that damn AP test tomorrow. Seriously, who the fuck takes AP Art History anyway? Your roommate is long gone, leaving as soon as his last final was done today-no it wasyesterday now. The rest of your friends are gathered in Wes and David’s room, blowing off steam, dancing and drinking (because you know Jeff’s gotten hold of some booze). And yet here you are, having left the party early to turn in at 11 and get a good night’s sleep but spending hours tossing and turning, wondering if you’ll ever be able to remember the difference between Titian and Tintoretto. You finally drifted off and now you’re up again as the door softly opens than closes. You know it’s got to be Kurt-your roommate told him he could use his bed tonight-didn’t want to drive all the way home so late at night after partying.
You can tell he’s really trying to be quiet and not wake you. It’s pretty much pitch dark except for the faint glow from your alarm clock. You close your eyes as he disappears into the bathroom and drift off again. You jerk awake to a sound barely heard in the back of your consciousness. You wonder why you’re awake. You don’t really have to pee and the room is quiet and dark. Then it comes again, barely audible, the quietest squeaking of bedsprings. Your roommate’s bed. You’ve heard it before as he settles down each night and you know it will stop soon and you’ll be able to sleep. You close your eyes and start to drift off when –Fuck-there it is again. It’s so soft you almost have to strain to hear, and you really don’t want to hear it so you try to avoid listening. You’re tired and you really need to sleep. But your ears seem hyperacute and you hear it again, then again and again.
It’s fucking rhythmic and all of a sudden your sleepy brain begins to catch on to what is going on in the other bed. He wouldn’t-not with you right here in the room. Not even if he thinks you’re asleep. He’s not the type. You wonder if he’s been drinking, if his inhibitions are lowered, and against your best judgement you listen for anything-a breath, a sigh-anything. There’s nothing but the infuriating maddening squeak, over and over and over.
You can’t move. You don’t dare breathe. You can’t let him hear that you’re awake. You can’t risk turning away so you keep your eyes tightly shut to avoid seeing anything. While you may have imagined this scenario, have fantasized about it, it’s anything but erotic at the moment. It’s fucking annoying. You lie there, eyes squeezed tightly shut, waiting for the sound to end.
3:34 AM. You hear it. A kind of high-pitched catch between a sigh and a moan. That’s it, you think. He’s done. The sound stops for a few seconds, then a few more, and you almost start to breathe again when there’s that damn squeak again. Fuck. What the fuck is he doing over there. But you don’t want to ask that question because you already know the answer so you try to will yourself back into sleep. But the incessant squeaking WILL NOT STOP! And now you really couldn’t move even if you wanted because you’ve been listening so long. You pray you won’t have to use the bathroom, that you won’t have to get up, or see anything, or disturb anything.
On and on it goes. It’s 3:58. How can he last so fucking long? He must have been drinking. Your mind pulls up the effects of alcohol on sexual performance. You try to will it back to at least thinking about Art History. You run through the Dadaists, and the Surrealists. You may even have drifted off because you don’t exactly notice when the sound stops. This time there’s no sigh or moan, just silence, and then the waft of an unmistakable odor that you didn’t even know you’d recognize. It smells like fucking sex. Your mind drifts to all the times you’ve not been caught, when you washed the evidence down the shower drain after you finished and assumed that no one would ever know. Did they all know anyway? Could they smell it on you, in the bathroom, in the air itself? Have you been deluding yourself all this time that nobody knew?
You realize that it’s been quiet for awhile now but you don’t want to turn or move. For all you know, your bed squeaks as badly as the other one and you can’t let him know that you’re awake. You force your mind back to Art, to safe, neutral subjects, keeping your thoughts far away from renaissance paintings and sculptures and onto the abstract, to Pollack, and Kandinsky and Miro, and you finally fall asleep to the vision of swirling colors on canvas.
You can tell he’s really trying to be quiet and not wake you. It’s pretty much pitch dark except for the faint glow from your alarm clock. You close your eyes as he disappears into the bathroom and drift off again. You jerk awake to a sound barely heard in the back of your consciousness. You wonder why you’re awake. You don’t really have to pee and the room is quiet and dark. Then it comes again, barely audible, the quietest squeaking of bedsprings. Your roommate’s bed. You’ve heard it before as he settles down each night and you know it will stop soon and you’ll be able to sleep. You close your eyes and start to drift off when –Fuck-there it is again. It’s so soft you almost have to strain to hear, and you really don’t want to hear it so you try to avoid listening. You’re tired and you really need to sleep. But your ears seem hyperacute and you hear it again, then again and again.
It’s fucking rhythmic and all of a sudden your sleepy brain begins to catch on to what is going on in the other bed. He wouldn’t-not with you right here in the room. Not even if he thinks you’re asleep. He’s not the type. You wonder if he’s been drinking, if his inhibitions are lowered, and against your best judgement you listen for anything-a breath, a sigh-anything. There’s nothing but the infuriating maddening squeak, over and over and over.
You can’t move. You don’t dare breathe. You can’t let him hear that you’re awake. You can’t risk turning away so you keep your eyes tightly shut to avoid seeing anything. While you may have imagined this scenario, have fantasized about it, it’s anything but erotic at the moment. It’s fucking annoying. You lie there, eyes squeezed tightly shut, waiting for the sound to end.
3:34 AM. You hear it. A kind of high-pitched catch between a sigh and a moan. That’s it, you think. He’s done. The sound stops for a few seconds, then a few more, and you almost start to breathe again when there’s that damn squeak again. Fuck. What the fuck is he doing over there. But you don’t want to ask that question because you already know the answer so you try to will yourself back into sleep. But the incessant squeaking WILL NOT STOP! And now you really couldn’t move even if you wanted because you’ve been listening so long. You pray you won’t have to use the bathroom, that you won’t have to get up, or see anything, or disturb anything.
On and on it goes. It’s 3:58. How can he last so fucking long? He must have been drinking. Your mind pulls up the effects of alcohol on sexual performance. You try to will it back to at least thinking about Art History. You run through the Dadaists, and the Surrealists. You may even have drifted off because you don’t exactly notice when the sound stops. This time there’s no sigh or moan, just silence, and then the waft of an unmistakable odor that you didn’t even know you’d recognize. It smells like fucking sex. Your mind drifts to all the times you’ve not been caught, when you washed the evidence down the shower drain after you finished and assumed that no one would ever know. Did they all know anyway? Could they smell it on you, in the bathroom, in the air itself? Have you been deluding yourself all this time that nobody knew?
You realize that it’s been quiet for awhile now but you don’t want to turn or move. For all you know, your bed squeaks as badly as the other one and you can’t let him know that you’re awake. You force your mind back to Art, to safe, neutral subjects, keeping your thoughts far away from renaissance paintings and sculptures and onto the abstract, to Pollack, and Kandinsky and Miro, and you finally fall asleep to the vision of swirling colors on canvas.