Two pairs of lips, parted, drag lightly over each other, skin catching on smoothest skin.
Nudging. Baiting. Lingering.
Perfect play, perfected by... practice.
One mouth draws back a little, to give a smile. Not so shy anymore, but venturing.
Then they meet again. And again.
Heads angle to deepen the kiss, following a blind and inward rhythm.
There’s sharp intakes of breath. Breath then let out in throaty sounds, soft yet resonating throughout both of them.
All the while hands grip at collars, at necks, cheeks, jaw lines, drawing lines and patterns, pulling closer, pulling each further into the other.
Two faces, mouths, two ends to a touch, a contact, one kiss.
Slender white fingers ghost over lightly gelled dark hair, trace along the hairline.
Only to have the touch reciprocated, mirrored in a caress countered, along a nape, above a buttoned up black shirt that closes high on a pale neck in sweet contrast of colour.
A caress so caring, daring, still ever so careful to not mess up smart chestnut hair in its impeccable shape.
In yet another answer, soothing fingers smooth and feel out the collar of a neat navy jacket.
Then dip below the neckline of ... a ruby-red shirt.
.
A rustling. A push. A jerk runs through them, as a door tries to open, but is blocked by a foot, heel, then a body, a back against it.
Then there’s stumbling forward, gasps and suppressed giggles.
.
Outside,
Mr. Schuester’s brow furrows. He grabs the handle of the door more firmly, then tries again.
This time he succeeds easily and the door swings open.
He starts a little at the familiar voice he hears before his eye catches and recognizes the person coming out towards him:
“Sorry, Mr. Shue, I was just standing behind the door...“ Mr. Shuester’s mouth falls open in a question that his mind hasn’t quite put to words yet. More than one, actually.
But Kurt skates over it, instead aiming for his best unbothered, matter-of-fact explanatory tone:
“So, Blaine, as I said, that was the choir room, so you’ve seen that. Come on, moving on, classes are about to start...”
Mr. Schuester’s look falls on the boy who emerges behind, meeting his look then lowering his eyes, offering a smile, polite and radiant but somewhat abashed as well, clearly struggling to stifle a grin beneath.
“Blaine?” Another jolt seems to run through the addressed at Kurt’s voice. He wraps his hands around the shoulder strap of his school bag, and with a last shy nod jogs to catch up with Kurt, past Mr. Shuester’s raised eyebrows.