An unceasing pounding on the front door drags Blaine wearily from his nest of blankets and pillows on the sofa. He stumbles a bit and scrubs the sleep from his eyes.

He pulls the door open and Kurt is there, all flushed cheeks and too bright eyes and wearing leather. Oh god so much leather. Why is he wearing leather?

Blaine wants to reach out, curl his fingers into the wide, open collar that’s exposing so much of Kurt’s pale neck and the shadowed dip of his collarbone and pull him inside. He wants to press him into the wall and find out if the leather is warm from his skin or cool from the winter chill. Blaine thrills at thought that he can, he can do just that. He’s allowed now. They are allowed.

Except no. Finn and Rachel are there too, flanking Kurt, and all three of them are talking so fast, the words tripping and stumbling and drowning each other out. In the cacophony that’s making his head ache, Blaine catches the Warblers and dance off and Sebastian and holy shit Kurt has a hell of a right hook and Blaine blinks. Twice.

He looks down and sure enough Kurt is flexing his right hand, gingerly, like it pains him, and even in the dim light of the hallway his knuckles look red and bruised and scraped raw.

“You,” Blaine swallows, his throat tight against everything building up so fast inside him.

“You hit someone.” The words are filled with surprise and wonder and something a little darker that squirms restless in his stomach.

He looks up and his eyes lock with Kurt’s. He is blazing. Beautiful. Triumphant.

“I did.”

“For me?”

Kurt nods and a sharp, wicked grin starts to curve his lips. “The things he was saying about you. He doesn’t get to say those things about you.”

Blaine sucks in a quick breath and it feels like his skin his crackling, too tight over his muscles. Even his light pajamas are starting to feel like too much, too constricting.

“Get out,” he says, his voice already rough and ragged around the edges and his eyes stay locked with Kurt’s.

“What?” Kurt’s expression falters, the grin starting to slip into a confused frown.

“Get out. The two of you need to leave. Now.” Blaine’s eyes are dark, the pupils already blown wide, but his words are for Finn and Rachel alone. Kurt has forgotten in the intensity of Blaine that they were even there.

“But,” Finn starts. “How will Kurt get home?”

“Now,” Blaine repeats and his tone brooks no argument. He feels himself drawing closer to Kurt. He presses a trembling hand to Kurt’s chest and yeah, the leather is warm beneath his palm. Smooth. And the heart beneath it is pounding - strong and insistent.

Rachel squeaks a reply and drags Finn out into the cold night air.

Blaine immediately crowds in close to Kurt, the weight of their bodies closing the door behind them.

“Blaine,” Kurt whimpers, sighing as he nuzzles into his throat. He tips his head back against the door, exposing more and more skin. Blaine inhales deeply, smelling the rich leather, tasting on his tongue the tang of boysweat and adrenaline and fading soap and underneath it all Kurt.

“You hit someone,” Blaine repeats, moving his mouth down the pale column of Kurt’s neck. The skin and muscles jump and shiver under his touch. “For me.” And this time the words are a low growl. He presses his hips forwards, feeling a sharp buckle of Kurt’s pants dig into his soft skin.

One of Kurt’s hands grip the back of his neck while the other slides down his side. His body is tense and thrumming. He can’t stop shifting restlessly against Kurt.

“For you,” Kurt murmurs. “He doesn’t,” he takes a deep breath, moaning softly when Blaine’s teeth find the tender juncture of his neck and shoulder and dig in, just a bit, just enough. He spreads his legs for Blaine to fit in closer between them.

“But you wouldn’t,” Blaine pants. “At Dalton, you said violence…” Blaine breaks off on a groan. Kurt’s hand, with those bruised, heated knuckles, has slipped down between their bodies and grasped him firmly.

“He doesn’t get to talk about you. Like that. Like you don’t matter.”

Kurt’s palm is smooth and Blaine keens brokenly at the sensation of those raw, broken knuckles grazing his inner thigh.

He has a flash, sudden and ferocious, of Kurt, bare-chested, fists wrapped in tape, eyes blazing, stalking an opponent around a ring, lithe body gleaming with sweat and maybe a little blood. He shudders hard at the unexpected image, hips jerking in Kurt’s grip.

“Kurt,” he whines, and the hand on the back of his neck tightens, pulling his face up.

“You matter,” Kurt says fiercely, with a slightly twist to his lips that Blaine doesn’t understand before that mouth is on his - hot, possessive, and his.

It’s the kiss that does it, the need and the everything behind it, and Blaine shudders neck to toes, hips stuttering uncontrollably as Kurt kisses him through it, his other hand gently petting the short hair at the back of his head.

He slumps against Kurt’s body, thrown by the quickness of everything, shivering in the aftershocks as Kurt slips his hand from his pajamas and licks his palm clean. Blaine starts to reach for the complicated series of belts and straps of Kurt’s pants when Kurt grabs his wrist, shaking his head fondly.

“Nu-huh. I’m not ruining these pants.” Kurt grins that wicked little grin from earlier and tosses his hair back a bit. “You have no idea how hard they were to make. Upstairs.”

Blaine smiles back, tangling his fingers with Kurt’s damp ones and pulling him through the long, dim hallway. As they stumble towards his bedroom, he tries to think of a way to get Kurt to tell him just what happened tonight, and why on earth he’s wearing a leather jumpsuit. Later. He’s got far more important things to attend to just now.