“Keep as still as you can,” Kurt said, his voice breaking into Blaine’s haze of pain, exhaustion, and that damn potion Kurt had forced into him. “This will hurt very much.”

It was hard not to scream. Blaine had been sewn together before, but the stinging, tugging bursts of pain from the needle’s every movement never got better, it seemed, even when he was nearly delirious.

Soon enough, though, Kurt’s sweet voice drifted to him, explaining the little jar he was dipping his elegant fingers into. And just like that, Kurt was touching him, spreading a waxy ointment onto his arm. It stung a bit at first, but the coolness began to soothe the ache, and he found himself relaxing, his eyes drifting mostly shut.

He kept his eyes on Kurt the entire time, with no conscious decision on his part. It was as though his eyes found their natural resting state wherever Kurt happened to be, and it was so easy to stop fighting and just look.

Even so, it took him a moment to realize that Kurt was looking back.

It started with little peeks, as though he were afraid to be caught, but soon enough Kurt was staring outright.

Blaine’s immediate instinct, as usual, was to anger, but he couldn’t find it in himself to get riled up. He wanted to brush it off as the fault of the potion, but he knew, beneath the pain of years, that that would be just an excuse.

Kurt wasn’t looking at him with fear, or disgust. He was just looking, a curiously soft look in his expressive eyes. He was obviously taking in Blaine’s appearance, leaving Blaine feeling vulnerable, bare. It wasn’t a feeling Blaine was used to anymore—he’d grown so accustomed to the distance he’d set between himself and others.

And it finally hit him—that’s why Kurt had such an effect on him.

There were so many reasons Kurt had simply (and entirely without design) closed that distance. His beauty, his entire conformity to everything Blaine found attractive in another human being, was one. But it was more than even that. It was his indomitable spirit, the fight that had never left him even as he was beaten down and scared away. It was his voice and the way he looked at things. It was his effortless style and the way he walked like the entire world could try to crush him and he’d still maintain perfect posture. It was his conviction and his strength.

It was the way he looked at Blaine: like he was a person, even now that all his ugliness was laid out. It was the way he saw past that and believed in Blaine in spite of it, evidenced by his very presence here, caring for a man who had frightened him enough to send him into the woods at night, who was carrying a faint bruise on his arm from where that man had gripped him too hard and tried to hurt him.

Kurt saw him for what he could be rather than what he could have been.

Blaine focused on Kurt as his mind caught up with his heart, the rest of the room going fuzzy as he committed every detail to memory.

Kurt was staring at him, all his movements ceased.

As soon as he realized it, his eyes fluttering in surprise, he locked eyes with Kurt, holding the faceted gaze for several long seconds before it flickered away, instead resting on his injuries.

And just like that Kurt was back to business, ripping him from his clothing (the pain overruled the arousal caused by that action) and tenderly washing him of blood, hand grasping his sensitive side (but pain could not stop the way his body reacted to that).

But Blaine had seen it, just for a moment, and again as Kurt commented on his scars, his pale cheeks flooding with color. Kurt was not afraid of his scars, as he had assumed since his inexcusable loss of temper that night. No, Kurt had been looking at him like he was discovering something. Blaine had seen the same look on his face from a distance his first day at the castle—like he was looking at something he found beautiful, just a little sad to see it in such bad disrepair.

Kurt found him beautiful?

Blaine felt as though his heart was literally straining out of his chest, trying to reach the man who had so thoroughly claimed it and place itself in his arm forever. Was he a fool to feel the little tendrils of hope growing in him for that? Was he delusional, or did he truly see Kurt looking at him not only like a human being, but one he was perfectly content to continue looking at?

For the first time in seven years, Blaine felt like someone saw him; saw him and not all his scars, both internal and external.

It was this heartening notion that allowed him to release within himself all the previous bad feelings. It allowed him to speak to Kurt neither as a Prince nor as a beast, but as a man speaking simply to another man—equally. He inquired when curious, he bantered and laughed freely, he admitted weakness and absurdity. He allowed himself to abandon care in Kurt’s voice, which cleared his head and soothed the ensuing ache. He reveled unflinchingly in the press of Kurt into his skin, imagining that it was the type of embrace he truly wanted and not one that was necessary. He was not afraid when he revealed his lost love of music, and unashamedly hinted at his minstrel for lessons. He basked in small triumph when Kurt played along.

Bust most importantly, he laid to sleep that night and allowed himself to dare dream of letting his beautiful Kurt all the way in, and of what might be.