mochiboom
Feb. 5, 2012, 2:04 a.m.
Corps-à-corps
Companion ficlet to Lunge, Parry, Coulé but you don't need to have read it for this one to make sense. Blaine's halfway through a tournament bout with an outside competitor when events take a nasty turn.
K - Words: 1,025 - Last Updated: Feb 05, 2012 744 0 0 0 Tags: established relationship, hurt/comfort,
Blaine’s halfway through a tournament bout with an outside competitor when events take a nasty turn.
It hadn’t been a particularly difficult match; his opponent was well-learned in all the moves, but inexperienced. While he’d made a valiant effort, his attacks were too hesitant and his defence not strong enough. Blaine made to cut across his chest once more but his opponent struck back to violently that he knocked the foil clean out of Blaine’s hand.
The referee announces the end of the match, but, despite having won, his opponent hurls himself at Blaine, whipping the foil across the tops of his legs like a riddling crop and ramming into him. They both crash to the floor in a heap, the back of Blaine’s head ricocheting off the inside of his helmet as he strikes the floor.
The hall falls silent, but all Blaine can hear is a ringing in his ears and the harsh pants of his opponent who lies sprawled cross him. Then he’s pulled off of Blaine by the referee and there’s someone asking if he’s alright, but all Blaine wants to do is stop the ringing in his head.
He groans and curls onto his side, hands scrabbling uselessly at the base of the helmet. Strong hands under his arms heft him up into a sitting position and gently but firmly ease his helmet off. The tops of his thighs vaguely sting, and Blaine looks down to see why. There’s a blotted red line sliced across them; evidently his opponent’s blade had broken the skin from the force of his blow.
Someone’s obviously called the first aider over because there’s a blurry mass of fluorescent yellow-green in Blaine’s vision and it feels like he’s playing twenty questions. After listening to Blaine’s half-mumbled replies, most of which have nothing to do with the question he asked, the first aider takes the executive decision to have him stretchered off.
Normally, Blaine would be completely humiliated; being stretchered off in front of all these people, but at this point, his head’s too painful to care. Pain lances through his skull in time with his heartbeat and he flings an arm over his face to try and block out every last bit of light that shines through his eyelids. They set the stretcher down on one of the benches and the first aider helps Blaine into a sitting position.
He jumps as latex glove-covered fingers probe the back of his head looking for any damage.
“Nothing too serious,” The first aider reassures him in a gruff tone, pressing an icepack into Blaine’s slack hand. “You’ll have a nasty headache for a few days but you’ll be fine.” Blaine manages a slurred thanks in reply and holds the proffered icepack to the back of his head.
The bench creaking signals the first aider leaving and all Blaine can hear for a while is the quiet murmur of the spectators in the hall around him until a shrill cry of “Blaine!” makes him jump.
Kurt falls to his knees in front of him, reaching up to tough his cheek. “Blaine, what happened?” His voice quivers and Blaine leans down to rest his forehead against Kurt’s, keeping a careful hand on the icepack at the back of his head.
“My opponent got angry, knocked the foil out of my hand and committed Corps-�-Corps. That’s, er, body-to-body contact. We went flying. I hit my head pretty hard but the first aider said I’d be okay…” He trails off when Kurt takes a shuddery breath and slides a hand around to the back of Blaine’s neck.
“Kurt,” He pleads. “Don’t be upset; I’m fine, people get hurt all the time in fencing.” Against his better judgement he opens his eyes. He winces in the harsh light but this is too important. “I’m fine, baby.” He presses a kiss to Kurt’s cheek and continues. “I’m gonna have a headache for a few days, but it’s nothing serious.” He removes the ice pack and puts it down on the bench beside him so he can properly slide his arms over Kurt’s shoulders and around his neck.
Kurt leans up to kiss him, hands pressing onto Blaine’s knees, fingers digging in. They’re in public, so, as much as Blaine wants to lower Kurt to the floor and kiss him with every ounce of passion in him, he has to restrain himself. He pulls away gently, smoothing the hair behind Kurt’s ear with the pads of his fingers and trying not to grin like an idiot when Kurt leans into his touch.
Even as the judges announces over the speakers the disqualification of his opponent and Blaine’s advancing to the next round, Blaine busies himself with wiping tears off of Kurt’s cheeks. Kurt sniffs and gives him a watery smile, running his fingers of the line of blood across Blaine’s thighs.
“Come on,” he says succinctly, getting to his feet and brushing the dust off his jeans. “Let’s go and get that cleaned up” He holds his hand out and Blaine lets Kurt pull him to his feet. He doesn’t say anything when Kurt’s arms automatically winds around his waist and is instead content to let Kurt lead him out of the hall and into one of the bathrooms.
Later, just he’s about to put his helmet on for his final match of the day, Kurt, ever the spontaneous guy, takes Blaine’s face in his hands and kisses him hard. Someone jeers at them from the stands but both of them tune it out, relishing the love that sweeps through them. They’re both a little glassy-eyed when Kurt pulls away, but Blaine grins and pulls Kurt into a tight hug, kissing the side of his neck as Kurt’s hands splay across his back.
“Go out there and kick some ass Blaine Anderson,” Kurt’s voice is mock serious as Blaine puts his helmet on again.
Blaine snorts and rolls his eyes. “Yessir,” he mock salutes and walks back onto the floor, his foil swinging idly by his side.
“I love you!” Kurt shouts suddenly from the bench and Blaine turns mid stride and blows him a kiss. It doesn’t matter if he wins or loses; Kurt’s got his back.
It hadn’t been a particularly difficult match; his opponent was well-learned in all the moves, but inexperienced. While he’d made a valiant effort, his attacks were too hesitant and his defence not strong enough. Blaine made to cut across his chest once more but his opponent struck back to violently that he knocked the foil clean out of Blaine’s hand.
The referee announces the end of the match, but, despite having won, his opponent hurls himself at Blaine, whipping the foil across the tops of his legs like a riddling crop and ramming into him. They both crash to the floor in a heap, the back of Blaine’s head ricocheting off the inside of his helmet as he strikes the floor.
The hall falls silent, but all Blaine can hear is a ringing in his ears and the harsh pants of his opponent who lies sprawled cross him. Then he’s pulled off of Blaine by the referee and there’s someone asking if he’s alright, but all Blaine wants to do is stop the ringing in his head.
He groans and curls onto his side, hands scrabbling uselessly at the base of the helmet. Strong hands under his arms heft him up into a sitting position and gently but firmly ease his helmet off. The tops of his thighs vaguely sting, and Blaine looks down to see why. There’s a blotted red line sliced across them; evidently his opponent’s blade had broken the skin from the force of his blow.
Someone’s obviously called the first aider over because there’s a blurry mass of fluorescent yellow-green in Blaine’s vision and it feels like he’s playing twenty questions. After listening to Blaine’s half-mumbled replies, most of which have nothing to do with the question he asked, the first aider takes the executive decision to have him stretchered off.
Normally, Blaine would be completely humiliated; being stretchered off in front of all these people, but at this point, his head’s too painful to care. Pain lances through his skull in time with his heartbeat and he flings an arm over his face to try and block out every last bit of light that shines through his eyelids. They set the stretcher down on one of the benches and the first aider helps Blaine into a sitting position.
He jumps as latex glove-covered fingers probe the back of his head looking for any damage.
“Nothing too serious,” The first aider reassures him in a gruff tone, pressing an icepack into Blaine’s slack hand. “You’ll have a nasty headache for a few days but you’ll be fine.” Blaine manages a slurred thanks in reply and holds the proffered icepack to the back of his head.
The bench creaking signals the first aider leaving and all Blaine can hear for a while is the quiet murmur of the spectators in the hall around him until a shrill cry of “Blaine!” makes him jump.
Kurt falls to his knees in front of him, reaching up to tough his cheek. “Blaine, what happened?” His voice quivers and Blaine leans down to rest his forehead against Kurt’s, keeping a careful hand on the icepack at the back of his head.
“My opponent got angry, knocked the foil out of my hand and committed Corps-�-Corps. That’s, er, body-to-body contact. We went flying. I hit my head pretty hard but the first aider said I’d be okay…” He trails off when Kurt takes a shuddery breath and slides a hand around to the back of Blaine’s neck.
“Kurt,” He pleads. “Don’t be upset; I’m fine, people get hurt all the time in fencing.” Against his better judgement he opens his eyes. He winces in the harsh light but this is too important. “I’m fine, baby.” He presses a kiss to Kurt’s cheek and continues. “I’m gonna have a headache for a few days, but it’s nothing serious.” He removes the ice pack and puts it down on the bench beside him so he can properly slide his arms over Kurt’s shoulders and around his neck.
Kurt leans up to kiss him, hands pressing onto Blaine’s knees, fingers digging in. They’re in public, so, as much as Blaine wants to lower Kurt to the floor and kiss him with every ounce of passion in him, he has to restrain himself. He pulls away gently, smoothing the hair behind Kurt’s ear with the pads of his fingers and trying not to grin like an idiot when Kurt leans into his touch.
Even as the judges announces over the speakers the disqualification of his opponent and Blaine’s advancing to the next round, Blaine busies himself with wiping tears off of Kurt’s cheeks. Kurt sniffs and gives him a watery smile, running his fingers of the line of blood across Blaine’s thighs.
“Come on,” he says succinctly, getting to his feet and brushing the dust off his jeans. “Let’s go and get that cleaned up” He holds his hand out and Blaine lets Kurt pull him to his feet. He doesn’t say anything when Kurt’s arms automatically winds around his waist and is instead content to let Kurt lead him out of the hall and into one of the bathrooms.
Later, just he’s about to put his helmet on for his final match of the day, Kurt, ever the spontaneous guy, takes Blaine’s face in his hands and kisses him hard. Someone jeers at them from the stands but both of them tune it out, relishing the love that sweeps through them. They’re both a little glassy-eyed when Kurt pulls away, but Blaine grins and pulls Kurt into a tight hug, kissing the side of his neck as Kurt’s hands splay across his back.
“Go out there and kick some ass Blaine Anderson,” Kurt’s voice is mock serious as Blaine puts his helmet on again.
Blaine snorts and rolls his eyes. “Yessir,” he mock salutes and walks back onto the floor, his foil swinging idly by his side.
“I love you!” Kurt shouts suddenly from the bench and Blaine turns mid stride and blows him a kiss. It doesn’t matter if he wins or loses; Kurt’s got his back.