spirithamburger
Nov. 18, 2012, 9:21 p.m.
might as well be strangers
kurt/blaine, christmas ice skating, post-breakup
K - Words: 779 - Last Updated: Nov 18, 2012 772 0 1 0 Categories: Angst, Romance, Characters: Blaine Anderson, Kurt Hummel,
“I don’t even want an explanation.”
But of course Blaine’s ready with one anyway, twisting his gloved hands together and looking down at Kurt’s feet.
“Sugar.”
“Excuse me?” Kurt’s voice is sharper than he means, even though the conclusion is ridiculous — Blaine never called him “sugar” before. He called him a million other things though, and they fill up the space between them.
Blaine turns redder — though that might be the cold, because the tip of his nose matches the pompom on his hat and the trim on his gloves and coat. He’s a fluffy red-and-blue (Dalton colors, Kurt’s quick to notice) winter stereotype and it’s not helping at all with the urge to kiss his lips and cheeks and forehead until he’s warm.
Kurt ducks his head and focuses on lacing up his skates, noticing with a soft sigh that Blaine’s left sock has a hole in it.
“Sugar Motta? She paid for us to come and see the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center.” Blaine is babbling, pulling his hat off and sitting next to Kurt. Right next to him. Too close, because he smells like cider and cinnamon, like winter and Kurt wants to lose himself in that scent like he did last year and the year before.
“It’s cold outside.” It’s probably meant as a joke — no, no, judging by the startled look in Blaine’s eyes when Kurt glares at him, it wasn’t intentional at all. An unfortunate turn of phrase. Another one.
God, all Kurt wants is to stop remembering.
“Hence the coat,” he replies coolly, standing up and turning his collar up. Then he’s turning and penguin-waddling to the rink, wobbling a little on the thin blades. All the awkwardness melts away as soon as he’s on the ice, though, body remembering how to shift from side to side and balance his weight as he glides around the rink.
Kurt’s not an Olympian, but he skated often as a child, and there’s a comfort in the biting cold air, a familiar clearing of the mind. God knows he needs it.
The sight of Blaine sitting on the ice sort of ruins that, though.
With a heavy sigh, Kurt skates to a halt beside his ex-boyfriend’s dejected form, setting his hands on his hips. “Do you need help?” It’s clipped and annoyed, but Blaine treats it like a lifeline, looking up at Kurt, all wide eyes and tangled curls.
“Would you…” he begins, but Kurt’s already bracing his feet, sliding his hands under Blaine’s arms and levering him up onto his skates again. He tries his best to help, but he’s still mostly dead weight, wobbling wildly, and his hair is tickling Kurt’s face and the way they curl together echoes how they’d lie in bed, like spoons in a drawer.
And the worst part is that Kurt dreamed of this, of his boyfriend visiting him in New York for Christmas, of them taking in the sights and sounds, of Blaine reenacting Bambi on the ice rink. Just like this. But it’s all so wrong and so ruined that Kurt just about drops him on his butt again.
Instead he steers Blaine back to the side, making sure his skates are firmly on solid ground before he lets go. “There. Have you satisfied your desire to emulate Michelle Kwan?”
“Are you here alone?” Kurt’s baffled by the question, until he sees Blaine’s watching one of the countless couples, hand-in-hand, skating languidly along, lost in their own little world. Remarkably, it isn’t jealousy in the other boy’s face. Regret, longing, sadness, sure. But resignation too.
It’s almost funny that he thinks Kurt’s moved on so soon.
“Are you?” No, no, that’s all wrong. Kurt meant to lie, meant to say he was meeting someone — not even necessarily another boy, maybe someone from work, maybe Rachel. Someone that would give him an excuse to deny the question written all over Blaine’s face.
But he’s said it, and Blaine shakes his head, hope blotting out every other emotion, hope so tangible it nearly glows. And Kurt thinks, what’s the harm? There’s nobody to see, to ask questions, to demand an explanation. He owes it to himself to have this dream, at least.
So he stretches out his hand, giving Blaine a warning look. “No talking about…just. No talking.”
Blaine nods eagerly, reaching out to take Kurt’s hand, in that same awkward way he did once upon a time, when nothing was certain and nothing was said aloud. Like time’s been rewound and they’re back on that staircase, and they can run and run and pretend real life won’t catch up to them.
And for now, Kurt decides, as he moves back onto the ice, Blaine silent and wobbling beside him, that will have to be enough.
But of course Blaine’s ready with one anyway, twisting his gloved hands together and looking down at Kurt’s feet.
“Sugar.”
“Excuse me?” Kurt’s voice is sharper than he means, even though the conclusion is ridiculous — Blaine never called him “sugar” before. He called him a million other things though, and they fill up the space between them.
Blaine turns redder — though that might be the cold, because the tip of his nose matches the pompom on his hat and the trim on his gloves and coat. He’s a fluffy red-and-blue (Dalton colors, Kurt’s quick to notice) winter stereotype and it’s not helping at all with the urge to kiss his lips and cheeks and forehead until he’s warm.
Kurt ducks his head and focuses on lacing up his skates, noticing with a soft sigh that Blaine’s left sock has a hole in it.
“Sugar Motta? She paid for us to come and see the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center.” Blaine is babbling, pulling his hat off and sitting next to Kurt. Right next to him. Too close, because he smells like cider and cinnamon, like winter and Kurt wants to lose himself in that scent like he did last year and the year before.
“It’s cold outside.” It’s probably meant as a joke — no, no, judging by the startled look in Blaine’s eyes when Kurt glares at him, it wasn’t intentional at all. An unfortunate turn of phrase. Another one.
God, all Kurt wants is to stop remembering.
“Hence the coat,” he replies coolly, standing up and turning his collar up. Then he’s turning and penguin-waddling to the rink, wobbling a little on the thin blades. All the awkwardness melts away as soon as he’s on the ice, though, body remembering how to shift from side to side and balance his weight as he glides around the rink.
Kurt’s not an Olympian, but he skated often as a child, and there’s a comfort in the biting cold air, a familiar clearing of the mind. God knows he needs it.
The sight of Blaine sitting on the ice sort of ruins that, though.
With a heavy sigh, Kurt skates to a halt beside his ex-boyfriend’s dejected form, setting his hands on his hips. “Do you need help?” It’s clipped and annoyed, but Blaine treats it like a lifeline, looking up at Kurt, all wide eyes and tangled curls.
“Would you…” he begins, but Kurt’s already bracing his feet, sliding his hands under Blaine’s arms and levering him up onto his skates again. He tries his best to help, but he’s still mostly dead weight, wobbling wildly, and his hair is tickling Kurt’s face and the way they curl together echoes how they’d lie in bed, like spoons in a drawer.
And the worst part is that Kurt dreamed of this, of his boyfriend visiting him in New York for Christmas, of them taking in the sights and sounds, of Blaine reenacting Bambi on the ice rink. Just like this. But it’s all so wrong and so ruined that Kurt just about drops him on his butt again.
Instead he steers Blaine back to the side, making sure his skates are firmly on solid ground before he lets go. “There. Have you satisfied your desire to emulate Michelle Kwan?”
“Are you here alone?” Kurt’s baffled by the question, until he sees Blaine’s watching one of the countless couples, hand-in-hand, skating languidly along, lost in their own little world. Remarkably, it isn’t jealousy in the other boy’s face. Regret, longing, sadness, sure. But resignation too.
It’s almost funny that he thinks Kurt’s moved on so soon.
“Are you?” No, no, that’s all wrong. Kurt meant to lie, meant to say he was meeting someone — not even necessarily another boy, maybe someone from work, maybe Rachel. Someone that would give him an excuse to deny the question written all over Blaine’s face.
But he’s said it, and Blaine shakes his head, hope blotting out every other emotion, hope so tangible it nearly glows. And Kurt thinks, what’s the harm? There’s nobody to see, to ask questions, to demand an explanation. He owes it to himself to have this dream, at least.
So he stretches out his hand, giving Blaine a warning look. “No talking about…just. No talking.”
Blaine nods eagerly, reaching out to take Kurt’s hand, in that same awkward way he did once upon a time, when nothing was certain and nothing was said aloud. Like time’s been rewound and they’re back on that staircase, and they can run and run and pretend real life won’t catch up to them.
And for now, Kurt decides, as he moves back onto the ice, Blaine silent and wobbling beside him, that will have to be enough.