Wherever he goes – it’s there. Imperceptible, powerful, magnetic. The uneasy, almost tangible, feeling of attraction.

The shocks run through Blaine’s body at a mere glance at the statue. Hidden purposely in the corner, somehow it seems to draw more attention to itself. And Blaine can’t look away. He tried covering it, or shielding it with other pieces he made – in marble, limestone, alabaster – each captivating in its own way. But it turned out to be completely useless.

His own creation followed his every move with its spent dead eyes.

Blaine remembers the ache in his hands when he started sculpting. As if he were possessed, days and nights were spent working, carving, polishing, refining. Strangely, Blaine doesn’t recall the exact moment the muse sparked the idea into his mind, he doesn’t remember much of that period of time, apart from the infinite excitement and the inhuman urge to create. What Blaine remembers clearly is the gut-punching feeling of amazement when he beheld the statue as a finished whole piece for the first time. The feeling of right spread in every corner of his body, and he became light-headed with the realization that this was his masterpiece. The one that will define his style, the one that all the others will be compared to, the one for which he will be remembered when he died.

Maybe he was exaggerating, or being obnoxious.

But Blaine couldn’t help feeling deeply moved by the extraordinary grace of the sculpted boy’s beauty.

***

The long lean legs and toned biceps of the arms, the tiny dip just below his neck, the elegance of his wrists. Months have passed, and Blaine still finds new and new details that haunt his sleep.

It has been a week since Blaine has last left home. The grocery maid still brought some provisions, but he couldn’t care less about food. Hours passed while Blaine stared at the softest place where the neck met the jaw, marveled in the posture of the boy. Blaine’s gaze always wandered down, following the spine, lingering on the twin dimples of his lower back, quickly sliding down to the perky cheeks, barely hidden with the scarce clothing made of stone.

He would turn away and attempt to busy himself with other commitments as soon as he caught his mind flooding with inappropriate thoughts, but instead found himself hit with a new force as he yet again came face to face with the boy.

“Kurt,” he exhales, as if someone urged the words out of his mouth, and is utterly struck by how well the simple syllable fits the object of his adoration. Kurt – simple, sharp and sweet.

The gentle line of the collarbone rises above the young, feeble torso, which is adorned with two puffy nipples, and Blaine can’t help but look lower, to the dip of the navel, to the firm hips, the nearly invisible line between his belly and thighs… The toga doesn’t cover this part of his body at all, and Blaine feels quite ashamed because of the exposure he induced the boy to have. Was he turning into an old perverted fool?

Questions evaporate from his mind, and he spends two whole days wandering through the market, bargaining with merchants of distant lands, but still pays generously for the beautiful materials – silk, cashmere, fur, satin. He buys golden bracelets and belts made of little pebbles, ivory brooches and exotic feathers of indescribable value, pays unreasonable sums of money for each item of clothing, accessory and material. Beautiful flowers, white and delicate, are also among Blaine’s purchases. As he brushes the soft petals, he imagines them tucked behind Kurt’s ears.

Upon arriving home, Blaine’s heart expands with the rushing anticipation and excitement of showing off all the beautiful things he bought for his love, almost sees Kurt’s eyes widening and cheeks blushing oh so prettily. He covers the boy in new fabrics and textiles, makes him try on the ornaments, each and every detail creating new forms, new impressions. Some are more beautiful, others not quite, but Blaine realizes soon that nothing is better than the bare beauty.

He reaches to unclasp the last golden bracelet, and suddenly feels the cold stone of Kurt’s arm, which makes him wince in shock.

Fool. You’re nothing but a fool.

At the end of the day, Blaine leaves the boy covered with a white satin sheet, to avoid even casting another glance at the object of his fanatical passion.

***

An insistent knock at the front door slaps Blaine out of his trance.

Panic feels his limbs, as he considers ignoring it. But the noise is too loud, too boisterous. It resonates in his tired brain, and Blaine wishes for it to stop. As he opens the door, he’s greeted with cheers and wolf-whistling, and a dozen of his friends from the art academy laughing at him.

“We haven’t seen you in so long, so we thought you were already dead!” mocks him Sebastian, ruffling his hair, letting himself in, gesturing for the others to follow.

Blaine helplessly stares at them agape, as the party unceremoniously bursts into his house, dancing and shouting, and with the corner of his eye catches Sam, who is already pouring everybody a drink from a bottle of wine.

Blaine realizes that they were probably already drunk when they left the previous place.

“So, Blainers, tell me, aren’t you hiding a beautiful wife somewhere in here?” Puck teases, the smell of alcohol too sharp on Blaine’s cheek.

“Yeah! Isn’t that why you avoided us for so loooong,” cries out Finn, and tries to wink, but fails spectacularly.

“No… I just…” tries to defend himself Blaine, but soon becomes conscious of the fact that no one is listening.

Standing in the center of the room, lonely among people, he suddenly remembers a gathering here, at his house, when he was the soul of the party, shouting louder than everyone, shamelessly flirting and telling dirty jokes, gulping wine right out of a jug, dancing too close with complete strangers. He remembers the joy and lightness of those hazy times.

The people, their pointless, superfluous talk, the amorality, the noise, the vices, the wine and dancing.

He despises it all now, with a raging hate.

Blaine begins to shout, a wild beast woken inside of him. He must look too scary, as he pushes people out with all his force, because soon they’re gone without too much protesting.

All of a sudden, a bone-crushing weakness fills his whole body, and Blaine stumbles into his room, without bothering to undress, falls face down on the sheets.

He cries himself to sleep, in a bed which feels too cold and lonely.

**

The first thing Blaine does the next day is throw away the white satin sheet.

Once again seeing Kurt in all his stunning beauty feels so right, so calming and relaxing. There’s nowhere else Blaine would rather be, than here. By Kurt’s side, admiring him and basking in the powerful connection.

Letting out a trembling sigh he didn’t know he was holding, Blaine wipes at his puffy eyes, which are probably red from last night’s incessant crying. He reaches out his hand, as slowly as possible, and touches Kurt’s shoulder, cold and firm under his fingers. But Blaine’s mind begins to wonder. What would it be like, to touch Kurt as if he was made of flesh and blood, stroke his warm skin?

Blaine’s palms turn sweaty, as he unconsciously rubs at Kurt’s arm. The fingers almost leave an imprint on his limbs, and Blaine fears to bruise him. He delicately strokes the back of his hand on Kurt’s cheek. Could this be real, the shy fluttering of Kurt’s eyelashes?

His senses are overloaded, his soul too full to comprehend, when Blaine embraces Kurt for the first time. Complete and overwhelmed, he nuzzles into the statue’s neck, and presses as close as physically possible, but still not close enough.

His skin feels cold because of the stone, but he doesn’t care, because his insides are melting-hot from the powerful feeling.

That night, Blaine lays Kurt down onto the bed with him, putting a soft pillow under his head.

He hugs him close, and whispers sweet nothings into Kurt’s ear. He tells him about his family, his childhood, his sculpting passion, shares secret stories, laughing to himself and stroking Kurt’s body. Blaine feels vulnerable and open, but altogether completely safe and free, as if he was sharing his whole life with a close lover.

Falling asleep, Blaine daringly presses his lips to Kurt’s cheek, and imagines it blush under the peck. He realizes in that moment that he will never be able to stay away from Kurt.

***

It has been days of tenderness, embraces and stories, of Blaine curled up beside Kurt on his bed.

There are moments in which Blaine lets himself believe in a fantasy, imagines Kurt’s heartbeat in his ribcage, his pulse against the wrist, and Kurt’s soft puffs of breath in his sleep.

There are moments of insanity, when Blaine feels the sharp, freezing cold of the stone against his skin, and screams in frustration, leaves the room and wanders around the house, avoiding Kurt, pretending he can live without his masterpiece.

There are moments of desperation, the pain and suffering of a lover who is unable to be with his other half inflicting a wound too deep into Blaine’s doubt-ripped mind.

One night, lying next to Kurt, Blaine watches the boy’s face illuminated by the moonlight. He is so breathtakingly beautiful, that Blaine wishes above all that this beauty could be real, that for once reality could reflect art, and not art be a shadow of reality.

But there was a transparent glass shield between the creation and the artist, between two lovers, between flesh and stone. Staring at the wanted and seeing the obstruction, Blaine felt his loneliness eating him alive. He realized that he was ready to give up everything he had for the glass to break, for his wish to come true.

It has been a month and Blaine finally decides to leave the house. He has one last hope, one last chance, no matter how foolish, he’s going to do everything in his power.

He heads out of the town at dawn, a rabbit safely tucked in a sack behind his shoulder. It’s helplessly beating its tiny paws in hopes to escape, but Blaine’s hand grips too tight and firm, as if he’s holding onto his dream.

Through a path in the woods he finally arrives to a beautiful temple, hidden in the shadow of pine trees. The little altar is mostly ruined now, covered in ivy, little flowers and grass. Blaine takes an uneven step forward and marvels in the magnificence of the statue his grandfather created when he was young. The goddess of love stands in front of him, powerful, but not as spectacular as he remembers her being. Her limbs are ruined by winds and rain, her face a shadow of the beauty of bygone times. Blaine closes his eyes, and prays for his love not to be destroyed as its goddess once was.

Religious cults have been long forgotten, as the world turned to logic and science, and people didn’t believe in mightier forces, destiny or fate anymore. No one turned to gods, when they needed a solution, a favor, a miracle. But Blaine was desperate for a miracle, for at least one chance.

He lowered himself down on his knees, and hesitantly untied the knot on his sack, gripping the rabbit’s ears. Holding the innocent creature, Blaine prayed.

As if waiting for a beast to attack, the forest fell silent, listening to the hushed pleading of a wretched man. The knuckles on his hand turned white from the tension, and the rabbit’s ears started bleeding.

With every word his prayer grew louder, and clouds began to rush and gather upon the forest. Blaine felt the sudden cold wind playing with his hair, ruffling his clothes, and his speech acquired strength, his soul found faith. A mighty sense of rightness washed over Blaine like an ocean wave, and he took out his silver knife.

As blood poured from the animal’s fragile body, the goddess’ eyes began to glow, and Blaine felt tears of spiritual ecstasy and salvation roll down his cheeks.

He believes.

***

Blaine runs home, and it feels like gods granted him the wings of a butterfly. Sandals fall off his feet at midway, but he doesn’t care, runs even faster, racing the wind, not daring to stop even for a second to catch his breath.

Slamming the door of his room open, Blaine’s ears are filled with the sound of his own heartbeat.

Could it be that the grey stone now turned into a gentle shade of pink, or is it just wild imagination and games of light?

Taking a few tentative steps forward, Blaine falls down on his knees beside Kurt, who is lying still on the bed. He holds Kurt’s hand in his own two, and closes his eyes, afraid to scare this blessed moment away, terrified that upon opening them, he will be met by the same rigidness of the statue.

Not a moment later, Blaine feels the stone being transformed under his fingers, as a piece of wax that grows soft in the sunshine. His whole body shakes with gratitude and amazement, and he can’t hold back tears.

He cries, when he hears the rustling of the sheets, the moving body, when he feels a hand with throbbing veins gripping tightly at his own, and cries louder, hearing a splendid, beautiful voice breathe out his name for the first time. Blaine’s scared of opening his eyes, as if vision will reveal the deception of his other senses, but then he feels soft, wet lips placing sweet kisses to his temple and cheeks, to the corner of his mouth, and finally responds with his own tentative touches.

Kurt’s hands pull at him until he’s lying on the bed, and Blaine decides to open his eyes. Kurt, gorgeous Kurt, is lying in front of him, glorious naked skin, exposed for him to stroke and take and claim. Blaine’s mind goes dizzy with desire.

“You’re so beautiful, Kurt,” he exhales, his voice breaking, and Kurt blushes under his gaze. This time it’s not his silly fantasy, but the sweet reality.

He lowers himself on top of Kurt’s body and kisses Kurt’s mouth like he’s starving, obscenely licking inside, as if he can’t get enough. He continues, pressing languid kisses to Kurt’s jaw and lower, down on the column of his pale neck, and his ears flood with Kurt’s little sounds of pleasure, and Blaine is hard, oh so achingly hard under his clothes. He reaches to take them off in one go, and why hasn’t he done this sooner? He sees Kurt’s eyes turn dark at the sight and can’t help but feel breathless, at the thought of making Kurt so turned on.

Blaine pushes himself back on the bed, to sit on his knees, and urges Kurt to get up, and move into his lap. He marvels in the soft, graceful movements of Kurt’s young slender body, as he obeys to Blaine’s wishes, and embraces Blaine’s shoulders. And now he seems taller than Blaine, looking down at him with those bright glasz eyes, and Blaine drowns in their pure color, and realizes that he could have never created something as beautiful as this.

Blaine nuzzles into Kurt’s neck to keep himself from crying because of how his heart is beating wildly, and strokes his hands softly down Kurt’s back, until, oh. And there is his plump ass, so round that Blaine can’t help but squeeze a little.

Kurt’s hips thrust up automatically, and he lets out a breathless laugh. It’s adorable, and Blaine blushes, looking right into his joyful eyes. He squeezes again, and again, and this time can’t help but thrust up himself. He loves how their hard cocks meet in his lap, Kurt’s flushed cheeks, the low buzz in his own stomach.

“Do you have any ointments, Blaine?” Kurt’s voice snaps him out of his trance, and he’s immensely grateful, otherwise this would’ve ended embarrassingly soon.

He reaches under a pillow, and feels Kurt curiously following the movements of his fingers as he uncaps the tiny flask and smears some of the liquid between his hands.

Then, Blaine tentatively reaches between their bodies, to simultaneously take both their cocks in his hand. This feels too good, and the way their hips are eagerly moving into the slickness is deliciously sinful in Blaine’s eyes.

“Do you… want to?” Blaine asks hesitantly, after managing to still for a short moment.

“Please, Blaine,” begs Kurt, kissing and sucking at Blaine’s neck.

Smiling sheepishly, Blaine reaches down the crack of Kurt’s ass, to tease one finger at his hole, and feels his lover’s legs spread even wider under his touch. He prepares Kurt long and slow, stretching inside him and murmuring comforting words, and kissing, kissing, kissing.

Soon Blaine has three slick fingers pushing rhythmically, Kurt’s shameless moans filling the room, and his own cock hard and aching, straining towards his navel. When Kurt cries “I want you inside, please, Blaine”, he has to reach his other hand to squeeze at the base of his cock to stave off his impending orgasm.

Kurt stands up briefly on his own knees, to let Blaine adjust his cock, and when he’s sinking down on him, there are stars exploding behind Blaine’s eyelids.

“You’re perfect, Kurt,” he manages to say, before he’s cut off by his own moan of pleasure.

“Ah, Blaine, move,” orders Kurt, his hips thrusting erratically, failing to meet Blaine’s rhythm, and somehow making it even hotter.

When Blaine fantasized about making love to Kurt before, he would imagine taking things slowly, exploring his whole body with butterfly touches and kitten licks, taking torturous hours to make Kurt fall apart underneath him.

But now that Kurt is made of flesh and blood, he can’t even think of being slow. He wants all of Kurt, right now. He wants to push as close to Kurt as he can get, make him scream and moan, grab him and claim him as his own, because he still can’t believe that Kurt is real, because there still is a slight fear in the corner of his brain that Kurt will turn back into a statue.

Blaine thrusts up, again and again, loving how Kurt is riding his lap, how his nipples have drawn up tight, his muscles covered in a thin layer of sweat, and his mouth is wide open, an expression of pure ecstasy on his angel face.

Blaine grabs at Kurt’s milky thigh, and reaches one hand between them, grabbing at Kurt’s cock, loving how Kurt’s immediately accelerating the speed, how he cries out a stream of “ah” and finally begins to come, white streaks shooting right at Blaine’s chest.

Suddenly, he kisses Blaine hard, and his own orgasm takes him by surprise, absolute pleasure almost blinds him and Kurt’s delicate fingers on his scorching balls make him come the hardest he ever has in his life, inside of Kurt.

They try to catch their breath, and Kurt winces when Blaine pulls out, but smiles, when he lays them both down on the bed, facing each other.

It seems as if a hurricane passed through the sheets, both boys are flushed and shivering from oversensitivity, messy from come and sweat, but oh so happy.

Blaine kisses Kurt lovingly and smiles, pulling him close for a hug.

“Kurt, I’m so grateful to finally have you.”

Kurt smiles shyly and begins whispering in Blaine’s ear as if he was sharing a secret.

“I remember all the things you told me, Blaine. I remember your kisses and the warmth of your hands, which I envied so much. And I am very grateful that you saw beauty in me, and fought for me. And from now on I’m yours, and you’re mine. For eternity and beyond,” he said, and his words were serious, but his tone was light, as if his confession was the most natural thing one would say to a newfound lover.

“I love you with all my heart,” whispers Blaine, kissing Kurt, and in this moment he’s the happiest man on earth, because he knows there will be at least an infinity of kisses, that will show his love for the boy he made real with the passion of his dreams.