Friday nights during football season are some of Blaine’s favorite. Those Fridays he grabs his overnight bag, which he packs the night before and leaves ready on his bed, and dashes through the gates of Dalton. It takes him just about two hours to get to Lima if the traffic is decent, and if he leaves right after Warbler practice he can make it Kurt’s house just in time to meet Burt and Carole and head to the game together.

The black and red Dalton Academy gym bag, with its prominent crest on the side, sits on the passenger seat, holding a change of clothes and his shaving kit. He keeps a toothbrush in the crystal and brass holder on Kurt’s bathroom sink and a pair of faded Dalton Fencing Club sweatpants in Kurt’s bottom drawer to sleep in.

Burt once offered him a spare razor, but Blaine prefers the kit his grandfather gave him for his 13th birthday, with its deadly sharp straight razor and carved Snakewood handle. It had taken him a long time to become skilled at using it without hurting himself, and even longer to properly hone and strop the blade without assistance, but Blaine is nothing if not determined to get things right.

When he uses it, which is becoming ever more often, he remembers the smell of licorice and pipe tobacco that lingered on the edges of his grandfather’s collar and the clink of the pocket watch that draped from his waistcoat.

This Friday, traffic is nearly non-existent and Blaine sings along with the radio as he passes expansive farms and small towns, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, and he pulls into the Hummel-Hudson driveway with plenty of time to spare.

The front door is left unlocked for him on Fridays and every time the knob turns easily under his palm a thrill races up his arm and jolts his heart.

He calls out a hello as he enters the house. It smells of pot roast and Blaine is already excited for the late dinner that will await them after the game. A hot meal is just what Finn and Kurt need after a long game in the autumn chill.

In the living room, he sets his bag next to the sofa, next to the neat pile of sheets and blankets that’s always there for him.

Burt would never let them share Kurt’s bed, and doesn’t even let Blaine camp out in a sleeping bag on the floor of Kurt’s room, but he makes up the sofa for Blaine and it’s comfortable enough, especially when the pillow he’s given comes from Kurt’s bed and is redolent of his hair and his skin and his breath. And the sweatpants he sleeps in smells sweetly of the laundry detergent Carole uses, and sometimes a faint hint of Kurt’s cologne and lotion.

Tucked deep into his bag is also a bottle of lube, because even if Burt won’t let them share a bed, he’s not always in the house, and Blaine tends to stay in Lima through Sunday afternoon.

“Is that you, Blaine?” Carole’s voice calls out from upstairs.

“There better not be any other teenage boys coming into my house without knocking,” Burt’s teasing voice answers before Blaine can.

They come down the stairs as Blaine is gathering up the cozy blankets and thermoses of coffee (decaf for Burt) and hot chocolate (for Blaine who really only drinks coffee with Kurt) they’ll need to ward off the night chill during the game.

“Evening, hon,” Carole says as she leans him and gives him a hug and a pat on the cheek.

“Hi, Carole.”

“Hey, kid,” Burt clasps him on the shoulder like he always does, and it’s heavy, but comforting.

“Good to see you again, Burt.”

It took Blaine a good eight months of family dinners and weekend outings and late afternoons helping out in the shop when Kurt had practice and Blaine needed a breather from Dalton to remember to call Kurt’s dad ‘Burt’ and not ‘Mr. Hummel.’ It still sits in the back of his throat, though, and threatens to slip out when he’s had a rough week and his own father has proved lacking once more.

“You ready to go? You know how Kurt likes to see us in the stands before the game.” Burt shrugs into his jacket and adjusted his worn cap on his head. “Let’s get a move on.”

The short drive to McKinley is easy for Blaine. He’s been with Kurt long enough that he’s no longer unbearably awkward alone in the car with Kurt’s family. Usually Carole chatters about her shifts and tells him stories of any interesting patients she had, and sometimes Burt grumbles about the shop.

And sometimes Carole asks Blaine about his classes and the Warblers and his latest fencing match; she asks about all the things his own mother never does.

He tried to thank her once, but the words caught in his throat like tears, but when she glanced over her shoulder at him, with that soul-deep kindness in her eyes, he knew she understood.

The parking lot at the school is filling when they arrive and Blaine hustles ahead to get a good seat in the stands.

The Titans are out on the field warming up - a mass of bodies in red and white, but Blaine spots Kurt easily. He’s on the sidelines with Coach Beiste, going through his own warmups. His tall, lithe form stands out amongst his stocky teammates. As does the perfect sweep of his hair that his helmet hasn’t yet tousled.

Blaine’s breath catches, as it always does, when Kurt straightens from his stretches and finds him in the stands. The smile that spreads across his face is all teeth and sunshine and Blaine waves at him like a fool. A fool so helplessly in love with a high school football team’s star kicker that he doesn’t even notice the few glances he gets from certain parents in the stands.

It’s true Blaine loves football. Loves the intricacies of the plays, the momentum of bodies until the crash of inertia, the breath-catching moments when the ball is spiraling through the air towards a pair of outstretched hands and there’s no way to know if a catch will be made or missed until the slap of fingers against leather mingles with the roar of the crowd.

He loves football, but these days he loves watching Kurt play even more.

The way the white pants mold to his long, lean thighs and hug his ass, showing so obviously the shifting muscle. The way the pads accentuate the width of his shoulders and narrow taper of his waist. The bright red splash of the number 3 across his broad chest. Sometimes Blaine has to dig his nails into the tender skin of his wrist and make sure the blanket is bunched over his lap. It’s all he can do until the end of the game.

“Good seats, kid.”

Blaine startles at the sound of Burt’s voice, flushing a little when Kurt smirks at him before returning to his warmups. He passes blankets and thermoses to Burt and Carole as they make themselves comfortable for the game.

Kurt is kicker and punter on the team. After Kurt’s first game of last year, when his game-winning field goal split the uprights, no one was going to challenge the strength of his leg or his uncanny ability to drop a ball exactly where he wanted it on the field.

The game begins with Kurt’s kickoff and Blaine lets himself fall into the rhythm of the game and the commentary he keeps up with Burt. They’re friendly with the parents of some of the other players and Blaine likes to prove himself to the adults. That even though he’s gay and sings girl’s songs and wears bow ties unironically, he’s still a guy who loves sports and knows what he’s talking about.

The Titans offense is doing well tonight, and it means Kurt spends more time off the field than on it. Blaine is ok with it though, because it means he can admire the stretch of Kurt’s neck and laugh at the way Finn likes to hide Kurt’s BPA-free water bottle.

But late in the second quarter there’s finally a fourth and inches within Kurt’s admittedly long range and the Titans opt for a field goal to extend their lead.

Kurt in on the field, ready for the snap. He’s shaking his wrists and cracking his neck, and Blaine can tell that after all this time, Kurt still hums “Single Ladies” to himself as he gears up for a field goal attempt.

The kick is good, of course it is, and Blaine cheers as loudly as he can, pride swelling in his chest as he watches his boyfriend jog to the sidelines and get engulfed by his teammates.

(He never wears it, but Kurt has a letterman jacket tucked into his closet. Blaine knows it’s back there, behind the McQueen and Dolce. Bulky. Faux-leather. Ugly. Earned.)

After the game, which the Titans win, Blaine heads down to the sidelines to let Kurt have the last of his hot chocolate, as per his post-game ritual. Kurt’s eyes twinkle at him over the rim of the thermos, but Burt and Carole are right behind him, so Blaine doesn’t lean in to kiss Kurt like he wants to, like he’s aching to.

“Hey you,” Blaine says, and gets momentarily distracted by the slide of sweat down the curve of Kurt’s neck.

“Hey you.” Kurt grins at him and Blaine knows that grin. It’s the one that says wait, soon.

“Great game, Kurt,” Burt says pulling his son into a hug. “You too, Finn.”

“Thanks, Burt! Gonna hit the showers. I’ll meet you at the car!” Finn hugs his mom before heading off the locker room, bumping shoulders with Puck along the way.

Kurt doesn’t shower with the other guys. It’s his second year on the team, and no one would argue that he’s not wanted there, especially when he’s the reason they win so many games, but he’s still uncomfortable with it. He hasn’t gotten any shit for being gay since Karofsky left and Azimio was kicked off the team for harassment, but still. Kurt knows that even the most open-minded of his teammates are still awkward, body-shy teenage boys and he’d rather wait a few minutes than endure that.

Waiting also means that sometimes after a game he gets a few minutes alone with Blaine. In the showers. Kurt swallows thickly and meets Blaine’s eyes. His pupils are already so big.

“You coming, Blaine?” Burt asks pointedly.

“Oh uhm, I was going to wait for Kurt. Ride back with him.” Blaine has had a lot of practice at controlling the flush that threatens to rise to his cheeks, but Burt knows. Burt always knows.

He’s a great father, just trying to protect his son from the world, but he’s also a master cock-blocker and sometimes Blaine wants to tear his hair out in frustration.

“Come on, Burt,” Carole interrupts, and she’s got that sparkle in her eyes, the one that both pleases and mortifies Blaine. “Let the boys have a few minutes to themselves before dinner.” Blaine swears Carole winks at him.

Burt sighs, because he knows this time he’s not going to win, not when Carole is rubbing soothingly his shoulder and subtly pulling him away.

“All right, you ride with Kurt. But hurry, or Finn’ll have eaten everything before you get home.”

With that, and another pointed look in Blaine’s direction, the one that says I know what teenage boys are like, Burt lets Carole lead him back to the car.

By the time the last of the Titans have left the locker room, Blaine is thrumming with tension, his hands and lips itching to get at Kurt.

He waits until the locker room doors swing shut behind them before grabbing at Kurt, pulling him in for the kiss he’s be waiting for all night. Kurt opens for him immediately, all teeth and tongue, and he tastes of hot chocolate and the orange slices from halftime and underneath that Kurt.

Blaine wants to get him in the showers, where the hot water will warm his chilled skin and god how he loves watching beads of water race down Kurt’s flushed skin, but he can’t wait that long. Not this time.

He makes it to the last row of lockers before it’s too much and he pushes Kurt down onto a bench, laying him out flat and crouching over him, never breaking their desperate kiss, one knee planted between Kurt’s spread thighs. Blaine gets his fingers tangled in the tight laces of Kurt’s pants, but he’s dealt with more complicated obstacles when it comes to Kurt’s clothes and the laces loosen and fall away.

Blaine gets his hand inside and curls his fingers around Kurt’s cock, getting him out of his pants. He groans into Kurt’s mouth at the feel of him, hot and already damp against his palm. He pumps his fist once, twice, swallowing Kurt’s whimpers before he shifts back and down.

He bypasses any teasing, any finesse, because there’s not enough time, there’s never enough time, and just takes Kurt in, all the way down. It had taken weeks, several glorious weeks of practice to master that trick. His gut clenches hotly at the feel of Kurt, thick in his throat, and the taste of him hot on his tongue.

Kurt grabs a towel and shoves it between his teeth to keep his moans from echoing across the perfect acoustics of the locker room. Whoever designed this place was not thinking about post-game blowjobs.

Blaine struggles to get a hand into his own pants, but he’s shaking and Kurt is squirming against the bench and he feels so big in his throat and heavy on his tongue and his hands won’t cooperate at all and just grabs at Kurt’s hips, holding him steady and rutting against his thigh.

He barely hears the footsteps coming closer. Blaine wants to groan in frustration, but he can’t. He can’t make anymore noise than he already has and he has to stop. He has to stop with his nose pressed to Kurt’s belly because the wet slip of his mouth is so loud and Kurt is panting helplessly around the towel and scratch of Blaine’s jeans against Kurt is louder still.

Blaine breathes as best he can around Kurt’s cock and holds his hips as still as he possible for what seems like hours until a locker clangs shut and footsteps fade into the distance.

Blaine has to make this quick before someone else comes in. He swallows around Kurt’s cock and groans low and needy when Kurt arches off the bench. He works him fast and dirty, the way he does when they’re parked a block away from Burt’s house after a date and he’s got 5 minutes before Kurt needs to be in the door for curfew.

He finally gets a hand under Kurt’s balls, tight and drawn up against his body, and Blaine feels one of Kurt’s legs curl around his thighs and he thrusts forward helplessly.

Kurt is so close, Blaine can feel it rising hot and fast, and he works his throat in a way that would have embarrassed him a few years ago just as he presses the tip of his finger to Kurt’s hole, dry and fluttering, and that does it.

Kurt full-body spasms and it’s hot and perfect down his throat. There’s a soft thump as Kurt’s leg slips and his foot hits the ground. Blaine presses forward once, twice more and groans around Kurt’s still-twitching cock as he comes, wet and sticky and almost hurting in his pants.

Blaine finally pulls back. Kurt is flushed and panting, wide-eyed beneath him, and the sight of the towel still jammed between his teeth makes Blaine’s stomach flip and his cock twitch painfully. Too soon he thinks, but it’s not really. He’s 18 and has a beautiful boy spread out beneath him. It’s never enough.

Blaine gently takes the towel from Kurt’s mouth, leaning for a messy kiss as he wipes them both clean as best he can. They really should shower; they’re both sweaty and sticky and Blaine should carry a spare pair of underwear with him, but if they linger any longer Burt will really be suspicious.

It’s hard enough sitting around a dinner table, enjoying Carole’s perfectly done pot roast, his throat sore from Kurt’s cock and the taste of him still on his tongue, without Burt giving him the evil eye to boot.

With one last kiss, Blaine helps Kurt to his feet, holding him and chuckling softly when he wobbles unsteadily. Kurt gets dressed quickly and they head to Kurt’s car, fingers intertwined and shoulders brushing.

There’s another long week at Dalton ahead of him, but Blaine doesn’t think about it.

He has the weekend at Kurt’s house and neither of them has any homework left to do. He’ll sleep on the couch tonight, and in the morning Kurt will wake him early with gentle kisses and fingers in his hair and they’ll cuddle before the rest of the house wakes up.

He’ll help Kurt make breakfast and Burt will give him the sports page and Finn will steal his bacon. Then maybe he and Kurt go for a walk if it’s nice out, or to a movie if it’s not. And they’ll lounge on Kurt’s bed listening to music and flipping through magazines; the door left open enough that Burt can’t complain.

Blaine will get kisses at his car when he has to head back to Dalton Sunday afternoon, and while it always hurts to leave, he’s had the weekend and it has to be enough until they graduate. It has to be.

And there’s always next Friday.