Archive of Our Own

They fight on the way out of counseling, which is ironic considering that they had been holding hands and smiling on the way in.

"I am taking this serious, Rachel. I agreed to come. I know that we need this. Please stop implying that I don't care."

"You didn't seem very attentive, is all I'm saying," she says. "We're paying a ridiculous amount of money to air our dirty laundry, the least you could do is pretend to be interested, I mean, that's what we're paid to do, isn't it, every day, pretend, we're so good at that—"

Kurt slams the driver's side door shut behind him and buckles his seatbelt with more ferocity than is strictly necessary. "Okay, enough. You've been dropping that sentiment all week and frankly, it's gone well beyond tedious." He jerks the car into gear and exits the parking lot, knuckles white around the steering wheel. "I get it, okay? I get it."

She frowns, and the frown turns into a pout, and the pout back into a frown that she knows he is absolutely unable to resist. He's angry, so this time all it gets her are the lines across his forehead smoothing out, but it's a victory nonetheless; the sniping has peaked.

"I just don't understand why this is happening now," she says, voice shaking. "We've been married for four years."

Kurt has no response to that, but he has very specific ideas about what he's looking for in a marriage counselor and Doctor Reginald had not been it.

"I don't like him," he says, at a red light. "He's old enough to be our grandfather. I can't relate. Let's find someone younger. Didn't the receptionist say there was another in the practice...?"

"Different hours. My vocal coach—"

"Rachel," he huffs, "this is more important than your secondary vocal lessons."

"You're right," she says after a pause, biting her lip. "I love you. I want us to work."

She wraps her littlest finger around his and he feels thoroughly miserable, because a small part of him isn't sure that he feels the same way.

*

Two weeks later they have their first appointment with Doctor Anderson, and Kurt is surprised. When the receptionist had said “younger” Kurt hadn't thought that would mean “more or less the same age as you and your wife”. He's tempted to ask to see the man's credentials but Rachel is giving him the sit down honey look and he is already drained from arguing with her all morning.

Doctor Anderson stands to shake their hands, and the first thing that Kurt notices is how well-dressed he is. Kurt finds himself looking intentionally for a flaw in the cut of his suit but can't find one; every seam and line is perfectly tailored to the doctor's trim body.

He wonders if he could ask about the tailor, but then—well, then there's the say hello honey look, and he's jolted out of staring.

"Kurt, Rachel," Doctor Anderson says, shaking their hands. "May I call you by your first names?"

"Of course," Rachel chirps.

"And naturally, you may call me Blaine. Have a seat."

Kurt sits. He feels oddly warm in the small room, though he shouldn't. Something about Blaine seems familiar, and he finds himself trying to place the man's features—apart, they aren't remarkable, but together they are stunning in a racially blended way; the shape of his facial features in combination with his compact body and gorgeous clothes leave Kurt with a sense of deja vu. He almost feels as if he's seen Blaine somewhere before. But that's silly.

Blaine's introduction is more or less the same as the other counselor's, but once he's dispensed with the requirements he diverges from the script entirely. He asks them to tell him how they met and how they got together and how and when they were married, almost as if he is a friend who they are catching up with. He seems interested and engaged.

Of course, for both Kurt and Rachel, that's as good as permission to take it from the top, and they do.

*

Sessions bleed by with nothing more than background information being given. After the third, when they finally begin to talk about what had started their current set of troubles off, Kurt hangs back.

"Start up the car?" he asks Rachel, and she squints at him curiously. "Just give me a second."

"We're not supposed to talk to him individually yet," she insists.

"I need to ask him something, nothing to do with us, just, please?" She goes reluctantly. Kurt ducks back into Blaine's office.

"Doctor And—"

"Blaine," he says, smiling. His eyes twinkle with amusement and friendliness and Kurt's breath hitches.

"Uh, yes. Sorry. I do remember that," he babbles, his cheeks heating up. He feels ridiculous. He performs in front of musical theater critics; he should certainly be able to handle the invasive stare of his marriage counselor without embarrassment. "I have to ask, because this is the third suit and the third time that I have been absolutely floored. Who does your tailoring?"

There's a pause, and then Blaine laughs, eyes darting sideways and then back to Kurt's. They tick down, almost politely, but there's pink on his cheeks when he looks back up. "Madame Paulette, near 65th? I've been going there for years. There are more expensive places, but I don't trust anyone else."

"I'll have to remember that," Kurt replies. He can't stop smiling; his face actually hurts from trying to.

"They keep trying to get me to branch out, but I'm a Brook's Brothers fiend," Blaine goes on, looking for a moment as awkward as Kurt feels. "Brand loyalty is a thing for me, I guess?"

"God, no, don't even feel bad about that," Kurt pushes out, "you pull it off as well as their models, I swear." He blinks, biting his lips shut. What has gotten into him? He's not only gushing, he's gushing ridiculously.

Blaine is staring at him, head tilted, lips parted, eyes sparkling. His hands are frozen around the leather folder that he had picked up as Kurt had come back into the office. "Well," he says, taking a deep breath, "thank you. I try."

He's about to blurt the words you succeed, when the embarrassment becomes too much. "We'll see you next week, then," he says instead, and shakes Blaine's hand.

His palm tingles all the way to the car and it's only when he's about to grip the steering wheel that he wipes it self-consciously down the leg of his pants.

*

"So it was sudden for you," Blaine says.

"Well. I mean. I guess? We were roommates for that whole year. And then we were cast opposite each other. It was sort of a joke between us, because in high school I tried to stage a Romeo and Juliet scene with her to convince my glee club directors that I could pull off Romeo. It was a disaster, but—anyway. When we got the parts we must have retold that story to a hundred separate people. Everyone loved it. Anyway. We started rehearsals. We tried to keep it professional—no lines at home unless the other was out. You've got to separate work and domestic life at some point, you know? Otherwise you go crazy, living with people who you also perform with. Anyway, so yeah, we just—we kept rehearsal to the theater. Something about that theater just—we'd dreamed about it all through high school and college, and we spent so many hours there after we got the parts, running the lines and the choreography, and one night we had a moment and one thing led to another."

It's weird to be talking about this with a stranger. He isn't sure if he's ready to admit that he'd been a virgin at twenty four and lost it to his high school frenemy Rachel Berry while mouthing Shakespeare at the lip of the stage in the Gershwin Theater.

Blaine just nods, scribbles a note and crosses his legs the opposite way. Kurt watches his pants go tight over his thighs. He consults his notes. "You dated for a little over year, and then proposed?"

Kurt nods. "We decided to wait until we had some free time to plan everything, and some money saved up for deposits and such. I mean—it was hardly a surprise. She wanted control of things, so it was less me asking and more her guiding us along." He smiles, shrugging. He's always been fine with Rachel being as bossy and single-minded as he is. It often forces him to let her handle things, and he could certainly do with less pressure now and then.

Blaine smiles and writes things down. "You're both performing now...?"

"Yes, and I'm also teaching at Kingsborough Community. It was originally a favor for a friend but it grew on me and it's extra income."

"Is it a challenge for you, doing both?"

"Not really," he answers. "I like being busy."

"How much time would you say you and your wife spend together at home? Relaxed time, intimate time...time that is spent focused on each other?"

"Oh god, not much. Between the shows, my classes, and the social demands of the theater circuit...maybe half a day Sunday and the off week day?"

"Have you discussed making more time?"

"She has, but I—I'm sort of a workaholic." He frowns. "My career had a slow start, and once I began to get good reviews and offers I felt hesitant about ever saying no."

"We'll discuss that further during your joint session," Blaine says, "I felt the need to ask you because when I asked you that question last week in joint you both avoided it."

Kurt swallows. He blushes hot, and nods. It's odd—there are moments when he forgets how quickly Blaine is able to find the heart of the matter, things that Kurt hasn't even thought about until Blaine is asking about them directly.

"There's no judgment here, Kurt," Blaine says. "I'm just trying to learn how you both feel, and when I have a better grasp on what you shy away from in joint sessions, I can begin to help you talk to each other about what's not working."

"Thank you," Kurt says, feeling suddenly overwhelmed.

When they'd first talked about counseling Kurt had looked at it like cosmetic surgery—six months of treatment and they'd be as good as new, they'd go and talk and things would just be better; restored or adjusted well enough for them to go back to their lives without much fuss, without really needing to do much of anything but let the doctor take care of it.

But sitting here with Blaine staring at him so openly, so helpfully, he realizes that—this isn't what he'd expected it to be. He and Rachel really do have problems. They aren't going to be solved overnight. And again there's that niggling in the back of his mind, a termite of doubt writhing deeper and deeper with every passing week that hisses, something is wrong.

*

It takes weeks of both joint and individual sessions for Kurt to break.

In all honesty, he's felt it coming. Their home life is worse now than it had been before they had started going to counseling and even though Blaine constantly assures them that it often gets worse before it gets better, Kurt isn't so sure of that in their case.

They bicker and bicker and see each other less and he stops associating her presence with comfort and ease. When she reaches for him in bed he feels his skin tense up with the desire to not. They've never had a bouncing off the walls, raunchy sex life, but it's always been consistent; now, it slows to a crawl, and everything about her and her body and his body and the way that they come together feels wrong.

Everything in their life that pings husband and wife makes him uncomfortable. He's only at ease when they act like the best friends they were in high school, and he begins to wonder if the entirety of their romance has been the misguided result of performance passion. He hates himself for thinking that, but it's a notion that's been taking root for months, he realizes now.

He thinks about the amount of time they've actually spent together since getting married—aside from their honeymoon in Paris, they've lived more like roommates who occasionally have sex than a married couple. And when he thinks about it, really thinks about it, he realizes that it's always he who is pulling away from her, always hiding behind work, always making excuses.

"I think I'm the problem," he says to Blaine one rainy afternoon, pacing back and forth in a wrinkled button-up and badly pressed slacks (he'd been that distraught this morning).

"Why do you think that?" Blaine asks, watching him.

"Can we," Kurt says, then stops. Starts, "Can we talk about just—me? My past?"

"Of course, it's all relevant. What would you like to talk about?"

"Rachel was my first girlfriend," Kurt says, and then it comes spilling out and he can't stop, "my first everything." He stares at Blaine. "I lost my virginity to her after we got Romeo and Juliet. I'd never even thought about sex before that. I was waiting for the right person to make me feel what all the other guys seemed to be unable to stop feeling; I waited so long that I eventually just gave up and focused on school and work and nothing else. And then we were there in the theater and that place is—it's magic, for us, it always was, and for the first time I wanted it, I felt it, or at least I thought I did." He sits, hard, his body jolting more from actualization than impact. "Blaine, I've never been attracted to another woman. Ever."

Silence. And then very carefully Blaine says, "There's no rule that says a person has to be attracted to a certain number of people in life, Kurt. For some, one is more than enough. There's nothing wrong with that."

Kurt laces his fingers, puts his face against them, leans forward on his knees and rocks back and forth a little. "No." He keeps rocking. "No, it's—not just that. We have sex. We do. But it's—never been great." He feels the weight of that confession at the center of his chest, weighing him shamefully down, and saying the words aloud almost lightens it. Almost. "She'd never admit it. I'd never admit it to her. But it's—it's not what it's supposed to be. I don't anticipate it. It's not amazing for either of us, because it's—not amazing for me, and there's only so much you can do with half of the equation. I don't know what it's supposed to feel like, but it has to be more than just—" He motions, splaying his fingers. "One minute there, the next over, intimacy nice but physically—almost nothing."

Blaine stops to write, then carefully folds his hands over his knee. "In our joint sessions, Rachel mentioned that sex has always been more of a scheduled activity than a spontaneous act for you both." He lifts a hand. "Again, sex is different for every couple, Kurt. That may work for you two. That's okay. There is no right or wrong here.”

Kurt exhales. He's sweating, and he feels as if his organs are trying to find the quickest exit out of his torso. He wants to hold onto something, so he grips the leather armrests of the chair he's sitting in and tries to modulate his breathing as he would before stepping out on stage.

"However," Blaine says, and Kurt looks up. He's desperate for however. However sounds like something he might need in order to leave this session with some hope. "The fact that Rachel has been your only romantic attachment does encourage me to ask you whether or not you might have unexplored—areas, of your sexual identity?"

The words hang in the air between them like London fog, and Kurt can't look away from those gorgeous, kind eyes. Something about Blaine makes him want to prostrate himself and confess things that he's not even sure he has the words for. He feels as if he can trust Blaine with anything, that Blaine would forgive him anything.

"Just because I work in theater and like fashion doesn't mean I'm—"

Blaine holds up a hand. "No. That's not what I'm implying." He wets his lips. "But I want you to think about why that was the first thing that came to your mind when I mentioned sexual identity. For next time. Okay?"

Shit.

Fuck.

Kurt nods.

*

Kurt would normally turn down the offer of drinks after matinée and go home to Rachel, but she's attending a bachelorette party tonight and he finds the idea of going home to an empty apartment unbearable.

He's three drinks into a rather nice buzz when he notices Blaine Anderson down the bar, laughing and talking with someone from the chorus. It's the weirdest disconnect in the world, seeing his marriage counselor in a pair of jeans and a cardigan and bow tie with a bright pink cocktail in his hand, standing there as if they share the same world. Which, you know. They do, but that doesn't make it any less strange.

He wanders over. Pretends to bump into the person standing next to him, and then smiles and feigns surprise, "Doctor Anderson?"

Blaine's eyes go wide. He laughs, putting a hand to his chest. "Mr. Hummel."

Ricky, the baritone from the chorus, smiles, "Oh god, I always knew you'd need a shrink in the end, Kurt."

Kurt smirks. "Ha, ha. Shove over." He wriggles in between them and orders a refill for all of their drinks. "Please tell me that you're trying to get a foot in the door," he says to Blaine, trying to bridge the awkwardness that has been there since the moment they made eye contact. "I've heard you singing in your office. You're not half bad."

"Head case, I knew it," Ricky mutters fondly.

Kurt hip-checks him a little farther away with a grin as Blaine answers, "Actually, I had tickets to the show tonight. I wasn't sure if it would be weird to tell you in advance—I'm friends with Julian, he invited me here at the stage door." Blaine smiles politely. "I didn't want to—it's sort of unprofessional, I guess—I wanted to maybe not force you to notice me unless you wanted to?”

"Oh, Jesus," Ricky says, eying them both before grinning and wandering away with a jovial, "I'll just leave you two to it."

Kurt slides into the abandoned bar spot. "Sorry, he's kind of—"

Blaine waves a hand, smiling. "It's okay. He was just informing me what a terrible boyfriend Julian was. Sometimes it seems like this entire cast has dated or slept with each other, I swear; it's all Julian ever talks about."

“All that trashy gossip. It must be so tedious to listen to.”

"God, no," Blaine says, grinning wildly. "I love it. I like to live vicariously. I went out for performance before I switched to pre-med."

"What changed your mind?" Kurt asks. He's trying very hard to stop staring, as he so often does when he's around Blaine; the man is just so put together, so dapper. Kurt can't decide whether he's jealous of the man's style, merely appreciative, or—

"I wanted to help people, and I had a crisis of realism when I graduated high school," Blaine says, shrugging. "I do community theater from time to time just to keep my instrument tuned. It's fun as a side thing. Sometimes I think I prefer it that way. Sometimes I miss it."

"I'm sure Mrs. Anderson must love your dramatic side," Kurt says. He leans an elbow on the bar, turning his body toward Blaine's when someone nudges up too close behind him. Their arms brush.

"If you mean my mother, who is the only Mrs. Anderson in my life, then no, not so much," Blaine answers, laughing, eyes bright and cheeks flushed from the alcohol. "But she's pleased that I have those extra letters after my name."

Kurt watches him long after he finishes speaking, and when he catches himself holding eye contact for too long he looks down at his empty drink and rattles it, "Another?"

Blaine bites his bottom lip and nods.

It's a terrible idea, but Kurt is feeling a little giddy.

The bar is disgustingly crowded and hot, and by the time they get drunk he can't breathe and he's sweat through his layers, so he tugs Blaine out onto the sidewalk. The freezing winter air is a relief and Kurt spreads his arms and flaps his coat to encourage his body to cool off.

Blaine says he needs to make a call. Kurt isn't quite sure what they're doing, if it's unprofessional or too personal, but nothing has felt off-limits since they said hello. Why change course now?

Blaine ends the call and comes back to him, nudging his side and walking them down the block. "Need some air. Did you leave anything inside? Anyone to say goodbye to? I took care of the tab."

Kurt shakes his head. He wants to say my sanity but he just smiles and ducks his face and sticks his hands in his pockets as they walk.

"No shop talk, right?" he asks, after a block or two. He wonders what Blaine is looking for.

"No shop talk," Blaine answers, smiling.

They find a quieter bar, order burgers and eat in silence, grateful for the grease to settle their stomaches. Being not so drunk helps to restore some self-control. Kurt steals onion rings off of Blaine's plate and Blaine steals French fries off of his and they smile and scuff their shoes along the floor and don't make a lot of eye contact.

And yet, even with all that, Kurt's pulse is tripping and his palms are sweaty and he's—excited. He's excited to be there, to have Blaine across the table from him, excited for whatever words will come next from those lips, excited to hear or do or say anything as long as Blaine is involved. Is it misplaced dependence from the therapy? He can't tell, and it doesn't seem to matter.

"Your bow tie is ridiculous," he says, apropos of nothing.

Blaine laughs. "Oh, really?"

"It is. I love it," Kurt says, dragging a French fry through a puddle of ketchup. "It's—charming. Old-fashioned. Mostly you wear it like you own it, and that's what matters."

"Your stamp of approval means a lot," Blaine says, half-joking and half-serious, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth up.

"Show a little gratitude; I am buying you dinner, after all." Kurt's cheeks warm at the notion.

"Oh," Blaine hums, stealing another French fry. "I see. Is that what you're doing?"

"Yep," Kurt answers, knocking their knees together under the table and trying to make it seem like an accident. He has no idea what he's doing. "You did buy the drinks."

"Hm," Blaine answers, pressing his right knee to Kurt's left. "Seems fair. If you'll let me walk with you until you find a cab? I feel sort of responsible since I stole you from your friends."

"Real talk?" Kurt asks as they search for an empty cab. "They're not my friends. It's weird—I thought theater was going to be like this instant family connection every time. This show? It kind of hasn't been. I don't know why. I've felt distant from this group since the start." He frowns. "Maybe that's why my home life has blown up. I've always had work to socially distract me—without that, I guess—crap. Shop talk. Sorry."

Blaine bumps their arms together. "It's okay. You seemed like you were having fun tonight."

"I am, I have," Kurt answers, smiling, hands fisting in his pockets. He keeps wanting to thread his arm through Blaine's—a common gesture for him—and has to remind himself that they're not friends in that way, not familiar enough to justify that kind of intimacy. "I'm glad we ran into each other. I just hope that it won't be weird, I mean, with the sessions."

"It happens, Kurt," Blaine says, shrugging. "It's a big city, but it happens."

Finally, they find a cab, and Blaine holds the door for Kurt while he climbs in. "Thanks for the drinks. And the friendly ear."

"Thanks for dinner," Blaine replies, staring at him with that same open, honest expression that he always wears. "Get home safe, alright?"

Kurt smiles. "I will."

*

Rooms become prisons when you have no desire to share them.

It trips awkwardly, in stages. At first it's just that they stop eating dinner at the table. Kurt will take his food—let's face it, they almost never cook, so it's usually take-out—and eat on the sofa watching television, or while he taps away at his tablet or laptop in his office or the bedroom.

They stop feigning interest in the intricacies of each other's days. Whereas before it would have been unheard of to not be fully updated on everything that the other had done or gone through or said that week, it's now the status quot. They stop keeping up on the television shows they used to share, they stop mentioning phone calls to their families back home. They stop dieting together, stop singing together at home for fun, stop giving each other manicures and pedicures.

At night he sits at the edge of their bed, bare shoulders still wet from the shower, and his skin crawls because he really, really wishes he could have the bed to himself. Rachel gives off heat like a furnace so their apartment is always freezing in the winter; she turns down the temperature to be comfortable under the blankets at night and so Kurt is cold before bed, then overheated all night, and hates it, but before now it hasn't bothered him like this.

Every time they have sex he wishes he could be somewhere else. His body responds to the stimulation but it's like having sex with a snow suit on through a hole in the sheets; he just can't connect, can't feel. One evening he can't even finish. She rolls off of his sweaty hips with a gentle sigh, and even though things have been rapidly going to shit for a while now he feels awful. That's never happened before, and failing at this makes him feel less of a man, even though he knows that he has no control over it.

"I'm sorry," he says, carding his fingers through his hair and tugging his boxers up with a guilty sideways glance at her disheveled hair and naked body.

The worst part is, he knows that he still loves her, but it's all faded colors and shrunken shapes. Without the "in" part of "in love", it's become such a smaller thing, and his illusions are shattered.

"It's okay," she replies, shrugging back into an over-sized t-shirt. "It's late, anyway."

*

Their joint counseling sessions become a nightmare, because neither of them want to admit what's most obvious, and there's only so much that Blaine can do if they won't talk.

Kurt gets so much more from his individual sessions; Blaine is easy to talk to. Kurt himself isn't easy, really, and so he appreciate the time that Blaine takes to try and help sort him out.

As it turns out, he's a fucking mess.

Marriage had made everything feel so stable, so normal, but in the wake of the beginnings of the failure of it, Kurt can see how he's been so utterly, completely clueless. The fact that he'd hardly masturbated or fantasized all through high school and college both. That he'd never felt a sexual attraction to Rachel until the moment when he'd fallen in love with the idea of it.

But the thing that really confuses him is that he's never really felt anything sexual for anyone. They briefly discuss asexuality—it's fascinating and Blaine provides him with excellent resources, but in the end it doesn't feel any more him than the idea of being attracted to women had. He definitely wants sex, but in a way that has always felt so small, so shapeless compared to everything else in his life that he's felt really passionately about.

He knows that Blaine isn't a sex therapist, but they end up talking about it, and one day Blaine asks, "Do you have sexual fantasies? If so, what are they like?”

He stares at the perfect shine of Blaine's shoes, at the way the seams of his trousers fall down his legs. He spends a lot of time now staring hopelessly embarrassed at Blaine's lower half in that chair, because making eye contact is sometimes impossible, especially on days when he feels like his whole world is falling apart around him and the only thing giving him hope is Blaine's soft purr of a voice and the comforting scratch of his ballpoint pen over paper as he takes notes.

He clears his throat. "Faceless. Bodiless. You know—when you're in high school, or even college, and everyone talks about kinks and body parts and wink wink nudge nudges when an attractive person goes by? I never did that. I never felt that. For me—my fantasies were always—feelings. Romance. I wanted to be seen, to be desirable. I wanted to be loved and needed. I wanted to feel safe and connected to someone, more than I ever wanted a particular physical act or person."

Blaine nods, writes. "But you naturally gravitated toward Rachel. So there is something physical there."

"Only because I already loved her, I think," Kurt says, feeling his heart slam against the inside of his chest. It's the first time that he's verbalized that, and it hurts. The hurt makes him want to shut down, and he shrinks into his chair.

"We seem to always circle this issue," Blaine says into the quiet. "So let's approach it more directly. Please bear with me." He lifts his pen in a plaintive gesture. "Have you ever been attracted to another man, Kurt?"

Kurt looks up just in time to catch Blaine's eye. The silence blossoms with awkwardness. He feels his face go hot and cold in alternating flashes.

The thought, as simple as it is, has never fully occurred to him. It would have been easy to assign various stereotypes to himself, especially back in high school. He isn't stupid; he'd heard the tittering and whispers. He'd heard them all of his life, and as early as middle school he'd known what they thought of him. He had never wanted to be something that people hated, even then, but he hadn't suppressed any particular, obvious urges, either. He has to admit, however, that every time they skirt this topic in session, he reacts. He feels something in his belly, warm and squirming, and that's got to mean something because it feels new.

"You think I might be gay," he says. The word settles like a lump of burning coal in his chest.

Blaine smiles. "I'd like you to tell me your thoughts about it.”

"I think I've—" He pauses. He tries to let the words just come, because he's thinking too much already. "I've always lacked male friends in general. I figured it was because I fit in better with women—being friends with girls is just easier when you're—like me, I guess? At least, in high school, and by the end it had become habit, I guess? In college I was surrounded by gay men, but I never—I never really bonded with anyone but Rachel, not on a long term basis, anyway. I kept expecting a social life to just happen, but then there was work, so much work, and auditions—everyone seemed to pass me by in the end, everyone but her. It felt like it was meant to be, by the time we got together, you know? Like life was trying to tell me something." He inhales. "Now that I think about it, I guess I had a blind spot for gay guys. I had no prejudice, I didn't avoid them, I just—they were like anyone else to me, of no more interest than the next person."

"There's a theme of disconnection, here, that I'm noticing constantly," Blaine says. "You seem to have latched on to Rachel at a young age and ever since, you've used her as a buffer against the world—against a broader social life, against possible non-platonic interactions with other people, against even fantasies of something, someone different. You rely on her heavily, and you keep referencing belonging and feeling safe. You don't seem able to connect to things unless she is in some way involved, and the distance issues you're having in your marriage are definitely causing you even more distress because without your connection to her, you're floundering in every aspect of your life, not just the ones associated with your marriage. Your self definitions are vague and may always have been, and for the first time in your adult life you're being forced to acknowledge that."

"What—what do you suggest?"

Blaine holds up his hands. "I think you two may benefit from a temporary separation. But that's something that we'll discuss in joint session, okay?"

Kurt's heart races. "Oh, god. Okay."

"Our time is up for today. Can I, uh, walk you out? I'm on my way to lunch."

"Sure."

Blaine is wearing a particularly fetching overcoat today and Kurt takes a moment to admire it as they walk down to the parking garage.

"This is sort of a heavy-handed segue, but I, uh, wanted to ask you if you and Rachel are attending Julian's birthday party this weekend? I'm going, and I didn't want it to be awkward."

Kurt thinks about that one lovely evening they'd spent together at the bar and smiles. "Yeah, we are. I'll let Rachel know. I don't think it'll be a problem."

They stop at Blaine's car and Kurt tugs his coat tighter around himself. He suppresses the urge to reach out to shake Blaine's hand.

"Are you okay?" Blaine asks, and it pings as personal to Kurt. "I know the idea of separation can be frightening, and the sexuality talk we've been having even more so—you look pale, and I just—"

"Doctor Anderson, are you shrinking my head outside of our allotted hour?"

"I can charge you extra if you'd like," Blaine says, smiling playfully. "And no. I'm just concerned. May I—give you a ride home? As a friend?"

He seems to hold his breath at that, and Kurt blinks owlishly at him.

Friends. Huh.

"Sure," he says, and tries to act cool as he slides into the passenger seat of Blaine's hybrid.

Despite Blaine's concern, they keep their conversation light. They talk about restaurants and Kurt asks Blaine where he's having lunch—a little Italian place with a friend—and they make small talk about food preferences and allergies—Blaine is allergic to shrimp—and then they sit idling outside of Kurt and Rachel's apartment for ten minutes before Kurt realizes that they're still yammering with no end in sight.

Again, he can't seem to stop smiling. Again, talking to Blaine feels as natural as breathing. Again, he questions his sanity, and wonders if he's just latching onto him because he's the first person to be there for him since he has fallen out of love with Rachel. He sighs. There's no easy way to gauge that and he feels lost, but it's warm in the car and Blaine smells good and he doesn't want to be alone right now. He doesn't know what he is and isn't supposed to be feeling—nothing is normal or predictable anymore, so where is the bar set?

Finally, they can't ignore the time anymore. Blaine smiles and wraps his hands around the steering wheel and looks away, almost as if bracing himself, and the tension between them snaps and curls.

Kurt's palms are sweaty beneath his gloves and his chest hurts. He holds a hand out. "Thanks, doc," he says, smiling, when Blaine takes it. "I'll see you this weekend, then?"

Blaine's grip is firm and warm and somehow familiar. Kurt likes it. He likes the broadness of Blaine's palm and the smell of his leather driving gloves. He likes the way that Blaine's thumb passes over the back of his hand when they break the gesture.

"I've heard that there's going to be karaoke," he says. "You might wanna bring your A-game, I'm just sayin'."

Kurt giggles as Blaine rolls up the passenger side window with a wink.

*

"Did Doctor Anderson mention to you that he's going to be at the party tonight?" Rachel asks.

"Yeah," Kurt answers, turning in front of the mirror and spraying his hair again. He's not surprised that Blaine had talked to them both about it separately.

"You haven't mentioned anything about how those sessions are going for you," she says, smoothing her lipstick on carefully. He offers her a different shade of lip liner. She smiles and takes it. "Thanks."

"It's a first for me," he says, evading slightly. "I'm—figuring stuff out, I think."

"I don't want to start a fight," she says, smoothing the silky, shiny fabric of his dress shirt over his shoulders. "I just—let's have fun, okay? I have several duet options that we need to discuss on the way over."

He laughs, shakes his head, leans down and takes her face in his hands and kisses her. If nothing else, she's still his best friend, and he wants to have fun tonight, too. "You don't think it's weird that Blaine will be there?"

She smirks, fluffing her hair with a hairspray can in the other hand. "Blaine, huh?"

Kurt shakes his head. "What? He asked us to call him that."

The party is already in full swing when they arrive fashionably late and hand off their coats and gifts to Julian's brother, who seems to have arranged the festivities. Kurt loses track of how many cheeks he has to kiss before he gets to the food and alcohol; Rachel knocks back a flute of champagne, kisses him, and disappears into a knot of friends. He's used to this; they both have to drink and socialize a little before singing and dancing in front of their friends begins to sound appealing, and he's more than used to stuffing his face full of tiny quiches and baby cupcakes while she catches up with the latest gossip.

He finds Julian, wishes him a happy birthday, chats with him for a few minutes, then mingles again, bobbing to the music and slowly sipping his drink. There's no shortage of acquaintances and theater people to talk to, and Kurt actually forgets to look for Blaine for a good half hour after they arrive.

It's only when he's admiring the purple on purple shirt/tie combination on a particularly lovely pair of shoulders that he realizes the person wearing them is Blaine. His sleeves are rolled up and his dress slacks have a slight shine to the weave that catches the light when he turns. Kurt grins into his canapé and finds himself biting the inside of his cheek to keep his expression in check. He forces himself to walk across the room slowly, smoothing his clothes just before he approaches.

"Kurt," Blaine says, smiling. He has a beer in one hand and uses the other to pull Kurt into a friendly hug. Kurt turns at the last second, burying his face against the bend of Blaine's neck as they embrace. When he pulls away he's laughing, cheeks flushed, at the slight inebriated twinkle in Blaine's eyes. "A little birdy tells me that your wife is about to drag you up onto the stage."

"Oh, god, she's fast tonight," he says, grinning. "That means it's probably going to be Wicked."

"I can't wait," Blaine replies. He still has a hand on Kurt's elbow and at that he removes it slowly, licking out across his bottom lip. "Don't let me keep you."

"Don't leave while I'm stuck up there?" Kurt asks, feeling bold. Champagne always goes right to his head.

"Of course not," Blaine says.

Rachel finds him halfway to the karaoke machine. Their rendition of "For Good" is a hit—stage chemistry is something that they still have in excess—and they're plied with more alcohol and hugs and kisses, until Kurt is completely turned around in the crowd.

He dances with Rachel for a few songs, then several of Rachel's friends at her request. The crush of dance partners has no gender boundary, and Kurt finds himself going from man to woman with a giggle, no thoughts of Blaine at all, until the drunkenness begins to wear off.

He uses the bathroom, eats a small plate of pasta, cuddles in a corner with Rachel, then begins to mingle again, remembering to keep an eye out for Blaine.

Kurt finds him in a corner alone, nursing a drink. His tie is loose and the top button on his shirt undone. His gelled hair has little curls wisping up around his temples where it's begun to lose its hold. He looks far too contemplative for such a lively party.

"God, your voice is incredible, even on that crappy setup. And the two of you together—amazing harmony," he says when Kurt approaches, swaying a little on his feet.

"So when are you going up there?" he asks, by way of reintroducing his presence as he simultaneously preens under the compliment.

Blaine's eyes spark to life under his. "Oh, no. No, I've had too much to drink, I'd sound terrible.”

"Wait, wait, wait," Kurt says, waggling a finger. "That isn't fair." He leans against the wall beside Blaine, body turned sideways to face him. "Come on. Do something stupid. A pop song. I wanna see you."

"Before the night is over, I promise," Blaine says, smiling. "Dance with me?"

It's no different than any dance that Kurt has shared with his other friends tonight. Blaine's hands land on his hips but there's a polite distance between their bodies. He eventually grows bold enough to curl his fingers over the tops of Blaine's shoulders.

They dance until the music switches to something slower, and Kurt tugs them out of the crowd and back into the quiet corner they'd occupied before.

"You don't want to sway with me, Hummel?" Blaine asks with a teasing poke to Kurt's upper arm.

Kurt laughs, ducks his face and sets his drink down on the edge of a decorative table. "Do you always slow dance with your patients?"

Blaine's right hand smooths up his arm, making him tense and stand up straighter. "Do you always say no to slow dancing because you don't know how to follow?"

"I know how to follow," Kurt protests.

Blaine gently tugs him closer by his sleeve, takes his free hand and holds it as he presses the other between Kurt's shoulder blades, turning them in a slow spin.

"You're being silly," Kurt says, voice wobbling. Blaine rotates them in the opposite direction, leading with his foot and their clasped hands. Their hips brush, but there's still that distance and Kurt shouldn't be going red up the back of his neck the way that he is.

"True," Blaine says, grinning, "but I can dance."

He spins Kurt and clasps him, turns him and dips him, over and over in their little secluded corner, until Kurt is giggling and feels as if the blush on his skin has grown permanent. He's never felt quite like this before—comfortable and excited at the same time, as if nothing could go wrong as long as they just keep doing this, at this pace.

"This isn't going to get you out of karaoke, you realize," he says.

"Sorry," Blaine answers, rubbing his hand up and down Kurt's shoulder blade. "I'm a little drunk."

Kurt is, too. He blames his next words on that. He doesn't mean for them to come out, but they do. He doesn't mean to pull back and stare into Blaine's eyes as he says them, but he does.

"Are you gay, Blaine?"

Blaine stares right back and replies without hesitation, "Yes."

Kurt swallows around the lump in his throat and is about to say something equally stupid in reply when Rachel comes up behind them, squeaking something about an encore, and pulls him away.

In the end, he doesn't see Blaine take the stage. He gets drunk again and ends up stumbling into a cab with Rachel at two in the morning without even getting the chance to say goodbye. A part of him regrets that; still other parts of him think that it's for the best.

The next morning, though, he has a text from an unknown number:

2:32 AM: my debut and you missed it..maybe some other time?

10:12 AM: blaine anderson i presume?

2:56 PM: was totally drunk when i sent this....had your # from that time you called to cancel, geez, sorry, won't happen again

4:01 PM: don't apologize, im intrigued, did you bring the house down?

4:12 PM: you'd have to ask marco, i think he already has it up on youtube, but pls don't share with the entire theater company? i think i sang britney spears, don't judge me

4:20 PM: i promise to savor it in private..these kinds of giggle-fits are best had alone

5:03 PM: gee thanks

5:12 PM: giggles of sheer joy, god, don't take everything so negatively.....maybe we need to talk about your head and its lack of shrunkenness doctor anderson

5:15 PM: i'll keep that in mind. have a good weekend :)

He re-reads the conversation a half a dozen times over the course of the weekend. Every time that he and Rachel get too quiet or gripe at each other he brings it up and it makes him smile. He knows it's stupid to consider them friends—it would be odd indeed to hang out too frequently with the guy you pay two hundred dollars an hour to take your psyche apart—but he can't help liking the idea.

Sunday is "bonding day" and he and Rachel take in a movie and have lunch at their favorite Indian place and it's nice. It reminds him of their college days and of how much simpler life was then; the future was a goal that they worked toward together, a tangible and reassuring plan both in scope and execution.

Now that they're settled he wonders what the next step is, and wonders if he wants to take that step with her, or she with him. Everything is suddenly changeable, questionable, and it scares the shit out of him.

*

They have a particularly bad session. It's odd—they leave okay, but something had clearly upset Rachel more than Kurt; she's brittle all afternoon, and then they argue about dinner and she starts snapping at him, spitting swear words that she normally never uses. Kurt is stunned into silence.

And then she barks, "Get out. Just get out, I can't even look at you right now."

He's shaking by the time he hits the sidewalk, too hurt to even turn around and go back for his wallet or keys. He has shoes on his feet and his cellphone in his pocket and at least he'd had a sweater on when she'd started waving her hands at him.

He walks four city blocks before he stops to catch his breath in front of a Korean grocer.

There are any number of people who he could call, but he calls Blaine. He knows that he shouldn't, but none of their friends know about the problems they're having, and he can't bear the thought of having to explain.

"Kurt? Are you okay?"

"Rachel kicked me out," he blurts. "I mean, for the night, I just—we had a fight."

"Today was hard for her," Blaine says. "Did you try to calm her down?"

"I thought I knew how, but," he replies, throat closing up.

"I didn't mean to imply that you did something wrong. Sorry, it's habit, to ask that." He pauses. He's probably in the middle of something. At least, he sounds distracted. "What—what can I do? As a friend. I can't—you know what I mean."

"I ran out without my wallet or keys," Kurt breathes, staring blearily out into the street. "And I—it's cold. Could you give me a ride, to a hotel maybe? Let me borrow your card for a check in? I can take care of the billing tomorrow.”

His fingers are starting to go numb around his cellphone. He closes his eyes, shame flooding his cheeks at having to ask this. He hates it, but the street is wide and dark and unforgiving, and he just wants to be warm somewhere that doesn't scream you don't deserve her you don't deserve this your life is a lie.

"I don't have any plans tonight," Blaine says. "Would you like to crash on my couch?"

"Oh, god, no, that's too much. Just a ride, please, if it's not too much trouble?"

Twenty minutes later he's in Blaine's car, so grateful for the heated seats that he almost starts crying—he has no idea where these waterworks are coming from tonight, but he keeps seeing Rachel's twisted face in his mind's eye, and every time he just—

"Hey," Blaine says, putting a hand on his arm. "Take a deep breath, okay? In and out."

They drive without direction for a little while. Kurt tries to think of an affordable hotel in the area, then gives up and starts looking up lodging on his phone.

"I really appreciate this," he says as he scrolls. He's still shaking despite the warmth, though the worst of the panic has faded. "It's above and beyond."

"Let me put you up for the night," Blaine says. "I don't like the thought of you in a hotel all alone and—you'd need me to check you out tomorrow, so I'd have to come back anyway."

Kurt looks at Blaine, really looks at him for the first time since he got in the car. He's wearing sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and a jacket. He's got on glasses and his hair is a curly mess. He smells like cologne and the gloves he's wearing don't match the scarf around his neck. He must have run out of his apartment the moment that Kurt had called.

Kurt inhales to steady himself, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind. His skin tingles, whether from the heat in the car or something else, he can't say.

"If you're okay with that," he says, finally.

Blaine smiles. "I am okay with that."

Blaine has a gorgeous if small apartment on nice street and naturally Kurt isn't surprised. He does take the time to compliment the decor and color scheme as Blaine takes his sweater and offers him hot tea.

"Why don't you shower first? I'll put out some pajamas. They'll be a little short on you, but—"

"Blaine," Kurt sighs. "You don't have to do all this."

"Let me?" he asks, eyes bright and lips pursed, and Kurt can't refuse him.

It's strange, though, walking through someone else's life, showering in a strange bathroom and slipping on pajamas patterned with musical notes that come up around his wrists and ankles. Not his home, not his clothes, not the smell of his own body wash. He borrows a dab of product just to keep his hair from frizzing and then finds Blaine in the kitchen. He accepts a steaming mug of tea and sits at the breakfast bar, eyes darting around.

"It's really a lovely place," he repeats, sipping the steaming liquid with a grateful sigh. "Thank you.”

"It felt stuffy in the beginning," Blaine says. "But it's grown on me and I've learned how to use every inch of space." He sits opposite Kurt, sipping from a bottle of water and leaning forward on his elbows. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

"I knew she wasn't okay the second we left your office," Kurt says. "It just got worse from there. We fought over where to order dinner from. She just—broke. Started screaming about indecision and how she couldn't stand one more minute of it. Then she told me to leave."

He tries not to watch Blaine's throat bob around swallows of water. There's a faint strip of stubble that he must have missed shaving just above his Adam's apple, and it's distracting.

Kurt blushes. Blaine notices his staring.

"It's not getting any better, is it?" Blaine asks.

Kurt shakes his head. He feels tears well up behind his eyeballs, hot and horrible. "I don't know what to do. God, it's such a mess."

"She was not happy when I suggested the temporary separation."

"No. No, that's not her style. Honestly? It's not mine, either. We're all or nothing sort of people. We always have been. It either is what it is, or it isn't. I understand her." He swallows another warm gulp of tea. "I think that's why this hurts so much.”

Blaine looks down at the plate of cookies between them and Kurt takes the chance to look at him, at the glare across the lenses of his glasses, at the untamed mess of curls that he's never seen before. He looks younger like this, and a little lost. Even the half-botched shave makes him seem more humanly flawed. Kurt finds himself smiling fondly.

And then, of course, there's the wide spread of Blaine's shoulders under that thin t-shirt. The swell of his high, round buttocks encased carelessly in sweatpants that are a size too small. Kurt would never notice these kinds of things with anyone, but he's noticing them with Blaine.

He watches Blaine cross the kitchen to put his mug in the sink and shudders, clutching his elbows to his chest as a very natural response begins to gather in his belly, hot and creeping and right.

It's terrifying.

And of course, he says the most ridiculous thing imaginable right then and there.

"I think I might be gay."

Blaine freezes, and then his eyelashes flicker in a slow, confused blink. He's leaning back against the sink, his weight braced on his hands, and Kurt's eyes are glued to the swell of his chest and belly against his threadbare t-shirt. There's a line of tiny, almost invisible holes along the seam on the right side of Blaine's shoulder where his upper arm is making the material bulge.

"You," he stammers, "you don't have to be gay just because you aren't sexually interested in your wife, I mean, it's—there are so many—sexuality is complicated."

Kurt's face burns. He's been an idiot around Blaine. About Blaine. And as frightened as he is, even he is growing tired of this obtuse behavior. He's not in denial—he's just somehow fallen behind in his understanding of himself, and it's about time that he started catching up.

He stares into Blaine's eyes as his own glaze over with nervous wetness. "I can't take my eyes off of you," he says breathlessly. "Since the moment we met, I—" He moves to stand, then sits again, and Blaine walks back over to his side of the breakfast bar, eyes wide with surprise.

"Kurt," he whispers.

Their hands are almost touching on the bar top.

"I've never felt this way about anyone. Do you understand what that means? I'm twenty-eight years old and I've never—"

"Kurt," Blaine repeats, high-pitched and desperate, and his fingers fly up and catch Kurt's jaw, and before Kurt can say another word he is being soundly, wetly, hungrily kissed.

Blaine's mouth feels simply like a mouth under his, eager and warm and full. It's what the kiss does to every other part of him that shocks him; the heat of it shoots down his belly like a lash, and the tingling and shivering that this creates takes over quite literally every inch of his body.

He utters a broken moan that dies on Blaine's lips and reaches up, grasping Blaine's arms and leaning farther over the breakfast bar. The edge of it is biting painfully into his stomach, but he doesn't care. He sucks in a breath between kisses, then huffs it out between still more kisses, and over and over so that they can keep kissing each other.

Blaine's tongue slides into his mouth and he stiffens, pulls away with a shudder and a twist.

"Oh," he breathes, eyelids fluttering closed and then open again. "Oh, god."

"I'm sorry," Blaine blurts. His mouth is burned red from Kurt's stubble. His eyes are wild with fear and arousal.

Kurt is feeling panic as well, but it's not quite the same kind. He circles the breakfast bar on unsteady feet before he allows that fear to settle, reaching for Blaine blindly, and even as Blaine shakes his head in denial Kurt takes Blaine's waist in his hands, backs him up against a counter and seals their mouths together again.

"Kiss me," he says raspingly, feeling Blaine's arms wrap around his shoulders. "Kiss me, keep kissing me."

"Kurt," Blaine moans, resistance fading as their lips meet again and again.

Kurt presses him roughly into the unforgiving hardwood, pins their torsos and thighs with no intelligence. He just wants. He has to get closer; every touch is sending his doubts up in smoke. Every kiss is an affirmation.

"We can't," Blaine groans, breaking away to breathe and kiss down Kurt's neck, "you're married, you're—you're upset—you're marr—" He goes silent mid-word, working his mouth down to Kurt's collarbone with a groan. "You're wearing my clothes, do you have any idea what that's doing to me?" His fingers tighten in Kurt's hair.

It's just this side of too much. Kurt feels as if he's drowning in sensations—he almost wonders for just a moment if something is wrong with him, if he really is okay enough to be doing this, and then he realizes that it's less that and more that he simply has never felt this way before. He's never felt this kind of anticipation sizzling at every nerve ending. He's never craved, never longed, not with his body, not like this. He isn't sure if it's Blaine's gender or simply Blaine, but the distinction seems unimportant considering how bound up one thing is with the other.

He thumbs Blaine's hips, traps that tiny waist beneath his fingers and squeezes. "I'll stop. We can stop, I just—I couldn't wait, I couldn't stop that from happening anymore, I just—want you. Is that what this is? Is that what it feels like?"

They stand there face to face, their noses brushing, breathing each other's breath, and Blaine looks as if he's been struck by lightning. He brings a hand up to Kurt's face, smooths a wayward strand of hair off of his forehead, then cups his flushed cheek and jaw. He thumbs Kurt's bottom lip, traces the curve of his mouth outward to the curl of its corner, nudging their faces together.

"Yes," he says. "God, yes, sweetheart, that's what it feels like."

And something inside of Kurt breaks loose.

*

He spends the night on the couch, grateful for the space, grateful that they'd been able to hug and say goodnight without it being too much. He feels like if they had done anything more he might have not been able to cope—he has no idea what to do with these new feelings. It's like waking up after a fever breaks and being unsure of the world around you though you know it's you who is impaired; bright and sharp and colorful but you feel as weak as you do recovered.

He wakes up to the smell of coffee and bacon. They murmur good mornings and eat at the little table in the dining area. Blaine is on his laptop for most of it, glasses perched on the edge of his nose, and Kurt feels no need to interrupt.

He serves himself and then does the washing up without asking for permission and when it's done he comes back to the table with the coffee pot and a piece of fruit for each of them. Blaine eats his orange slowly, deliberately, treating each wedge like a discovery as he chews and swallows them.

"You know what's really crazy," Kurt says. His voice is a wreck, gravelly from not speaking since last night.

Blaine smiles, just one side of his mouth, but it's enough. "What's crazy?"

"This isn't weird," he replies, breaking off a piece of banana and popping it into his mouth. "This isn't weird at all. Shouldn't it be weird? I'm pretty sure that it should be weird."

And then there's that laugh, soft and explosive and overwhelmed, the kind that Blaine produces when he's truly amused. "Uh. Yeah. I'd—I'd say that it should be." He looks up, cheeks red, then glances back down at his laptop.

Kurt means to say something smart. All that comes out is, "You look adorable in glasses."

"I look like a train wreck," Blaine says. "I don't think my hair has gone this long without product in years." He smiles. "But thank you. That's sweet."

"I like this you. It's sort of—vulnerable. I like the other you, too, though. All slick-haired and those suits and your briefcase—that's you, too." He can't stop babbling. These feelings have been bubbling for a while. "Please tell me to shut up."

Blaine laughs. He does that adorable thing where he stops mid-laugh, mouth open, throat freezing up, and then he just blushes and looks at Kurt as if he has no idea how to escape what he's feeling.

They finish their breakfast quietly, stealing glances at each other like embarrassed children, cheeks feverish from the newness of their connection.

"Tell me what you're thinking," Kurt says into the quiet.

"I shouldn't have kissed a married man. I shouldn't have kissed a patient. I shouldn't have kissed someone who was feeling that vulnerable." He rattles these off like sentences from a textbook and then he reaches across the table and takes Kurt's hands in his. "And I'd like to do it again before you leave, because I don't regret it, not one bit." His eyes bleed earnestness.

Kurt's heart cracks inside of his chest. He twines his fingers around Blaine's, feeling as if their connection is the only thing protecting him from the razor-edged, shattered shards of his life raining down around him.

*

11:03 AM: i can't stop thinking about your mouth

11:05 AM: oh god

11:11 AM: your fault. your mouth. i blame you

11:14 AM: kurt :(

11:15 AM: i'll forgive you the next time we're kissing, how does that sound?

11:18 AM: you drive me crazy

11:21 AM: you arent the first person to say that to me but i am going to assume you mean it nicely because it makes me feel better

11:30 AM: haha mostly. how are you feeling? how is rachel?

11:32 AM: she's staying with a friend, we talked when i got home..i think its for the best for at least the week, but i feel bad, i would have offered she take the apartment if i'd known she wanted space...i don't care where i sleep as long as i have my hair and skin stuff and clothes

11:35 AM: i don't know if we could do that right now..not sure if i could behave after the way you left me this morning

11:40 AM: i would have gone to a hotel silly i don't expect you to give up your privacy for me on that kind of basis, last night was an exception. oh really. and just how did i leave you sir

11:41 AM: um. worked up? is that a nice way to put it

11:43 AM: blaine we're almost 30 years old i think we can say "i jerked off the second i was alone because kissing you turned me on so much"

11:45 AM: .....is that what you did

11:50 AM: well now i feel dumb

11:51 AM: no no. i did too i just....god, kurt

11:52 AM: when i said it wasn't weird i didnt mean to imply that id be trying to make it weird which i guess i'm doing? ill shut up now

11:53 AM: mental images. sorry. totally your fault btw

11:54 AM: okay, true

11:55 AM: thank god i don't have to work today

12:00 PM: first time wasn't enough? ;)

12:02 PM: oh my god

12:03 PM: i am just speaking from personal experience.

12:04 PM: oh my GOD kurt

12:06 PM: it's a shame you're not that kind of doctor i think i may have hurt myself

12:07 PM: i can't decide whether i'm laughing or crying right now it's been a hell of a weekend

12:10 PM: i was trying to make you laugh so lets go with that first one....did it work?

12:12 PM: yes thank you

12:15 PM: ive got so much crap to catch up on can i call you later tonight maybe?

12:16 PM: sure, pls dont be offended if i don't catch it though theres a thing i might be guilted into attending

12:17 PM: not a problem i can always irritate you with txts

12:19 PM: haha okay, take care today

12:23 PM: you too

*

During the following week they hardly have time to talk or text—Kurt finds himself shooting off hellos and how are yous and funny one line stories when he gets the chance to pee or eat, but they are both very busy people and just as often Blaine has no time for him.

And then there's Rachel. Kurt is baffled as to how to act around her, so he's spending whatever time he can near her to compensate. This means either not texting Blaine or frantically deleting their conversations after every line and so it's easier to commit to radio silence, for the time being.

Ever since she came home from her friend's apartment they've brooded but peacefully so; he knows that she's settled down emotionally even though she's not happy about it. He just has no idea where or how she's settled, and the open-ended nature of their issues gapes like a fresh wound. He begins to think that neither of them has any idea of what to do besides let go, and the thought is unsettling.

The first joint session they have with Blaine after his and Kurt's evening together is probably the worst yet. Rachel is deadly quiet, answering briefly and avoiding the more direct questions. Kurt prefers shouting to this and keeps shooting Blaine wide, desperate eyes, which of course Blaine can have no response to. He's entirely professional. It's as if nothing had happened.

Except for Kurt's inability to stop his eyes from wandering. Blaine is wearing a bright pink dress shirt under his suit jacket with an orange tie that would be borderline offensive on anyone but on him is just—pretty. His legs are crossed in Kurt's direction and his right pant leg over his thigh is so tight that Kurt can see the muscle ticking beneath the fabric and his mouth goes wet.

Blaine glances up, catches his eye and says, "And how did that make you feel, Kurt?"

He's fairly certain that like my pants don't fit is not the answer to the question that he's been asked, but he knows that his eyes say it as clear as day, and Blaine's cheeks darken unconsciously. Kurt's fingers twitch in his lap and he threads them together over his knee to still them.

Rachel narrows her eyes. "Of course."

"No, that's not—sorry. What was the question?"

It's a disaster. He's never had to cope with this kind of distraction before.

As has become habit, he hangs back after their session while Rachel goes for the car. He has an apology already worded, but the moment the door closes Blaine is pressing him into it.

"Have you been practicing that?" he breathes, sucking kiss after kiss from Kurt's lips.

"Um," Kurt whines, "what?"

"Undressing me with your eyes? God, Kurt. Thank goodness for that stupid notebook."

Kurt flushes, overwhelmed by the press of Blaine's body against his. Every nerve is firing for the first time in his life and he doesn't know what to do. He knows that they shouldn't be doing anything, but he and Rachel are so close to falling apart and Blaine feels like the antidote to the sucking, poisonous despair that is now constantly welling up inside of his chest.

"I have to go," he gasps when Blaine swoops in to keep kissing him. He's trying not to let Blaine feel his body's developing interest; it's embarrassing to be on such a hair trigger at his age.

"Can I text you? Or call later?"

"Sure," Kurt says, voice breaking.

Untangling their bodies feels like being severed by blunt knives. He shakes all the way to the car and has to stop in the shadows of the parking garage to center himself. He's flushed and twitching in his pants and can't stop smiling and his belly swoops every time that he closes his eyes and lets himself remember the way that Blaine's mouth and body had felt against his.

How could he have ever thought that what he'd felt for Rachel was this?

Later that night after she goes to sleep, Kurt curls up on the sofa in the living room.

1:34 AM: hey you there? sorry calling is not possible right now

1:38 AM: np...yep, im here...im not really sure how to be...okay this is weird

1:39 AM: it is i just want to, i dunno want to be close to you somehow

1:40 AM: im not sure im up for that kind of stuff, seeing rachel today was...hard

1:42 AM: i know. i'm...not there either. sorry. this is insane and completely unfair to you, should we not do the texting thing?

1:43 AM: its not as bad as you think it is but yeah ive never let something like this happen ive never wanted something like this to happen ...kurt i want you to know that i don't make a habit of getting involved in my patients' personal lives

1:47 AM: i know you don't have to tell me that

1:50 AM: that day you came back to ask me about my suit.....i was done for

Kurt has to smile at that.

1:51 AM: yeah?

1:57 AM: you have no idea. i mean i thought you were gorgeous at first glance but something about the way you just had to ask me about my tailor...i knew you were noticing me and i had a feeling you might be interested in me...and then you just kept showing up in my path. i knew i shouldn't chase you...but i couldn't help myself..i shouldnt even be saying all of this now damn

2:00 AM: i have no idea what i'm doing, please don't think you have to play hard to get or anything, i mean i'd have no idea what to do even if you did...this is all new for me

2:02 AM: i don't want to hurt you or rachel, I really respect you both

2:03 AM: i could say the same

2:05 AM: but i don't want to push you away either, god i want you so badly

2:06 AM: this is my first time experiencing that feeling but I need you to know that it's mutual

2:09 AM: can't stop thinking about you, you know what but everything else too...your laugh and your smile and that piece of hair you can never stop from falling down over your forehead before the end of the day and the second act of your show when you do that thing where you slide across the stage on your knees

Kurt laughs, shaking his head.

2:11 AM: i don't even know where to start blaine..is it okay if i just say im totally overwhelmed by everything i've learned about you so far?

2:12 AM: very okay

2:14 AM: i have no idea why its taken me this long to realize im not straight

2:17 AM: it doesn't matter to me what or who gets you going...i just need to know that this is what i hope it is

2:18 AM: whats that?

2:20 AM: i dont want just sex kurt, or just friendship...i know its silly in this day and age but im a big romantic gesture kind of guy....i want it all the butterflies and the hand holding the wanna rip your clothes off sex and the long term, its why ive only had a few boyfriends in my life and why i held on to them so long...i wanted everything, i was willing to do anything to have that, but ive never met anyone who wants it the way do

2:21 AM: god, me too...i mean i want everything, i do, but i don't want to hurt you.....i know what i have to do but im not sure im ready

2:24 AM: you don't have to tell me that honey im your counselor i know

2:25 AM: im an idiot sometimes, i should warn you

2:27 AM: me too

Kurt grins and ducks his face into the bend of his wrist, heart fluttering wildly in his chest.

*

Eventually, a social opportunity presents itself and they take it; it's a birthday party for another mutual friend and even though naturally Kurt and Rachel attend together, there's more than enough time for Kurt and Blaine to interact. It's a more subdued party than Julian's had been, in a house outside of the city, and there are rooms to get lost in.

There's a limit to how lost they can get, of course, but that doesn't stop them from trying. After hours of socializing and drinking, Blaine's hand finds his in the crowd and guides him up a flight of stairs and down two hallways until they reach the guest bedrooms.

Kurt is terrified. He's never wanted physical contact so badly in his life, but worry picks at him like gnats: did anyone see us walk up the stairs? Can anyone hear us? Will Rachel come looking?

One by one, kiss by kiss, Blaine drowns these fears.

By the time they make it to the bed, Kurt has his fingers in Blaine's hair and Blaine's hands are clasping his lower back like a lifeline. They're both hard in their dress slacks but angled aside so that they're not quite rubbing together—Kurt isn't sure if he's ready for that, though Blaine feels amazing. It's just that Blaine's kisses are so wonderful, warm and damp and intimate, almost as good as any sexual act that Kurt has experienced.

Blaine's tongue fills his mouth, explores every nook and cranny and whorl of tooth, leaving Kurt a panting wreck in his embrace. When they break for air Kurt whimpers, turning his cheek against Blaine's—both are blazing hot.

"Oh," he sighs, twisting Blaine's hair even though he shouldn't. "Oh, god, yes."

"Feel so good," Blaine whispers, nuzzling kisses into his neck. "Feel so good, honey." He curls one hand lower, cups Kurt's left buttock and squeezes, pressing their pelvises together.

Kurt stiffens. "We—we can't, not here."

Blaine groans, cupping the cheek lower, hauling Kurt harder against his hip. "Please. Please, just—"

"Not like this," Kurt says, barely able to gather the breath required to say the words, "I want to see you, feel you, don't want to rush." He can hear people in the hall, and it's frightening him.

Blaine nips softly at the base of his throat. "Let me take care of you. Please?" He breathes hot over Kurt's spit-smeared skin, making him shiver. His fingertips graze the front of Kurt's slacks, making his cock throb against the zipper. "Show you what it feels like, a big, strong hand around you, making you come," he murmurs, cupping Kurt through his pants.

"Oh my god," Kurt moans, knees buckling halfway, sending him ass-first onto the bed.

And then there's a hammering at the door, and a drunken voice shouting. The door knob jiggles—whether it's someone they know or not, it's enough to make Kurt cool off completely.

"We can't," he repeats, standing. "She's here; everyone we know is here, Blaine, please."

"You're right. Sorry, I'm being stupid." He's panting, face flushed red, and risen against the front of his slacks in a half-tent that makes Kurt groan with wanting it.

"I'll go to the bathroom, no one will notice. You go back downstairs, okay?" Blaine says, touching his cheek briefly before turning to go.

They don't get home until four in the morning, and by five Rachel is passed out and Kurt hides in the bathroom with his phone tucked against his ear as he dials Blaine again and again and again. On the fifth try Blaine answers, sounding half-asleep.

"Sorry," Kurt whispers. "Did I wake you?"

"Yeah. Don't care, though, it's—get home okay?"

"Yeah," Kurt answers, voice threadbare. "Blaine. Talk to me, please. Tell me—tell me—" He squeezes a hand between legs. "Tell me what you were going to do to me before. I just need—"

"Sweetheart," Blaine groans, and Kurt can hear the sheets rustle as he sits up in bed.

He doesn't even know how to stop the escalation of his arousal; he's never had to try and slow it down before, but that becomes necessary now. He's rubbing himself through his boxer briefs and doesn't even need to push them down; he's so hard that he's risen out of the slit at the front, has sprung into his hand as hard as stone and wet at the tip just from listening to Blaine breathe.

"How close are you?" Blaine asks.

"Close," Kurt groans under his breath, trying not to make noise. "I'm so close—"

"God, just, let me," Blaine pants. "Wanted to touch you so badly. Wanted to take you out of your pants slowly, so slowly, let you feel the heat, the hardness of my hand around you, feel every silky inch of your cock—know how big you are, could feel you through your pants, and you weren't even fully hard, god, made my mouth water—"

"Blaine," Kurt moans, spreading his legs and rutting up against his own fingers. "Please, please, make me, make me. Please!"

"I don't think I would've even made it to you with my mouth, which is what I wanted to do. It excited me so much, knowing that you'd probably come in my hand before I even managed to drop to my knees. You've never felt the things that I've made you feel and god I don't think I've ever been so desperate, I would've let you fuck my fist while I rode the heel of my hand until I came in my pants—so turned on just from feeling your cock—that's all it would've taken—just wanted to see you come for me—"

"Oh my god," Kurt whimpers, the phone falling from his fingers to the curve of his neck; his hips twitch and rock and he comes over his hand, messy and sudden and hard and everywhere, sobs tearing from his throat. "Oh Blaine."

"God, baby, god, that's it, keep coming for me," he chokes out, and then moans, and Kurt knows that he's coming, too, and it feels so good, he keeps dribbling over his fingers, pushing the softening curve of his erection through the mess over and over just to keep the orgasm rippling down his belly and thighs.

"O-oh," Kurt whimpers, deflating slowly against the back of the toilet, his legs splayed wide and his cock shrinking in his fist. "Oh, my god."

A breathless laugh and Kurt tries to get the phone back up to his ear. "I've never, that hard, that fast, oh," he whines, useless, his tongue like a slab of dead meat in his mouth.

"So good," Blaine replies, wrecked, "Not even touching you and it's so good."

"Can't feel my toes."

Blaine laughs. "Do I need to dispatch the paramedics?"

"Now that would be a hell of a way to start our sex life."

"I like the sound of that. I like 'our'."

"Me too," Kurt says, giddy with it. "God, me too."

*

Weeks later, after a steady stream of sneaky phone calls and continually deleted text message conversations, they end up at a post-show get together again as they had that first time, and there's nothing to stop them from getting drunk, arms looped around each other's waists in a tucked away corner of the bar.

To Kurt's co-workers and friends, Kurt and Blaine are now good friends, and when compared to the others here tonight their behavior is mild at worst. They laugh and sing loudly and kiss each other in a joking sort of way, smacks on the lips that Kurt would share with any of the people in attendance tonight. It's nice to not pretend, to just be with Blaine and not worry.

After a loop or two of drunkenness tapering to sobriety and back again, Kurt presses his face into Blaine's neck and says, "Rachel told me this morning. About her sessions."

Blaine stiffens. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Kurt says, lips brushing parted over Blaine's racing pulse. "It's okay. I know you couldn't."

"I wanted to," he replies, exhaling. "I've already broken so many rules, sweetheart, I just—"

"I understand."

It had been a shock to hear her say I stopped my individual sessions. I need to go back to a full time training schedule, Kurt, and I really don't think that I'm making any progress with Doctor Anderson. It had hurt, knowing that Blaine had held this information for weeks and not shared it.

"I'm sorry," Blaine says, sounding truly apologetic. "I tried to convince her to give it another month."

"I'm sure you did,” he sighs. The bar is loud, the alcohol is making his head hurt, and he's beginning to feel too melancholy for the company.

"I have to get home," Blaine says, when their glasses are empty and neither of them are eager to go for refills. "Walk me outside?"

They budge up side by side and walk, ignoring several empty cabs in favor of their five block minimum before they say goodbye. The streets are crowded with unfamiliar faces and Kurt doesn't see the harm in looping his arm through the crook of Blaine's elbow.

It's cold, and he's feeling it inside and out tonight.

*

The decline is completely nonlinear, which surprises him.

Some weeks it feels as if they're moments away from looking at each other and saying, we need to discuss divorce. Some weeks it's almost the way it was before, sweet kisses and embraces and hand holding at night and talk of what they'll be doing next year, and the year after, and they catch a show or a movie or eat dinner together and Kurt feels the security of almost thirteen years of knowing her, being sure of her, of the foundation that such a relationship has to be built on.

It's easier to just stay Rachel's husband, keep things civil, and see Blaine, talk to Blaine when he can. It's almost enough. Almost being the keyword.

Because now that he's had a taste of passion, true passion, he can't forget it. He tries things, to see if it's just Blaine; he watches gay porn with his face wrinkled up and even goes to a gay bar once or twice to let himself ogle men. He doesn't enjoy either experience very much, but his body has involuntary reactions that he'd never simply had with Rachel or any other woman that had caught his eye, so he supposes he must have tendencies toward men, whatever that means.

*

Just before Christmas, Rachel announces that she's going home to spend a weekend with her dads. Kurt feels the sting keenly—in the past, pre-holiday visits home had always been shared. They'd flown home for a visit during Hanukkah, and his presence had never been a question then. But there's nothing he can do; she wants to go alone, and with Carole in California and his dad gone there's nothing to go home for except his in-laws. All things considered, it might be better if he didn't see them again this year.

When he casually mentions this to Blaine after a session he earns a grin and hurried kiss. "My place? The weekend?" At Kurt's wide-eyed stare he rushes to add, “Say yes.”

Kurt's hesitation evaporates in the face of Blaine's obvious excitement. “I'd love that.”

He has a gift for Blaine but it's nothing much, just a small collection of bow ties that he's been sewing for stress relief and to keep his hands busy the last month or so. He has an idea of what he wants out of this time together—they've been desperately trying to find ways to be alone to no avail, and he is as hungry for Blaine's touch as he is for Blaine's time.

He arrives with wine and the gift in hand but all Blaine seems to want is him, stripped of his overcoat and outerwear and in Blaine's arms.

Hello kisses complete, Blaine says, "So I left the garlic on the counter. Should I forget it, or do we not care?" He waggles his eyebrows.

Kurt laughs, "I love garlic. Put it in. I'll kiss your garlic-y face all night."

"Excellent," Blaine declares, and before long they're snuggled up in front of the television under a blanket eating pasta out of huge bowls and drinking wine out of equally huge wine glasses. Blaine kisses him after every bite, sometimes on the lips, sometimes on his neck, sometimes against his hair, and each time he grins and flushes and chews his dinner that much faster.

"This is really good," he says.

"I have to admit, I scrounged for a recipe this morning," Blaine replies. "I'm not that handy in the savory department but I'm pretty amazing at cookies."

"I'm more proficient at the basics, I just never have the time anymore," Kurt says. "We tried to keep fresh ingredients in the house to encourage healthy eating but they'd always go to waste, so we just stopped."

"How are you doing?" Blaine asks, drawing his legs up underneath himself. "It's the first time she's gone home to visit her folks without you, right?"

He nods, exhaling. "With a few justifiable exceptions, yeah. They visited for Leroy's birthday in September and we visited for Hanukkah, so it's not as if I haven't seen them recently. It's just strange, being left behind so close to Christmas."

"What did she say?"

"That she needed to be with her dads by herself. Daddy-daughter time." He shrugs, twirling a forkful of pasta. "If they don't know already that we're on the rocks, they'll know after this weekend."

"Are they close with you, too, or...?"

"Yeah," he says, nodding, swallowing. "They were a huge support for me in high school after Rachel and I became best friends. A few times in college we almost went flat broke, and they helped us with money. They're good people."

"Maybe they'll be just as supportive through this, as well?"

"I would like to think so," Kurt says. "But I don't know. I couldn't blame them if they weren't. Rachel is their whole world. They love her more than breathing. I almost wouldn't mind if they—took her side. She needs them, she really does. More than I deserve them, anyway."

"Hey," Blaine says, putting his hand on Kurt's knee. "There's no one to blame in this situation. Not for the relationship problems, anyway. Not for what and who you are, either."

Kurt puts his bowl on the place mat on the coffee table and takes a long swallow of wine. "I know. It's difficult. But right now I just want to drink this wine and make out with you, if that's alright."

Warmth flickers deep in Blaine's hazel eyes. "There is no other way I'd rather spend tonight, trust me."

The apartment is comfortably warm. Kurt is glad that he'd gone with a light sweater and no layers because the moment that he's drawn into Blaine's lap the temperature goes up a few degrees. At least that's what it feels like when Blaine's hands circle his waist and stroke up and down his back as they kiss.

They taste like garlic and onions and he doesn't care; he wraps his arms around Blaine's neck and straddles Blaine's folded up legs and opens his mouth hungrily, inviting Blaine's tongue inside from the first kiss onward. They've never had this level of privacy, this amount of time to just be together, no strings, no need to get home on time, no phones going off, no business calls, just the two of them.

Kurt whimpers when Blaine holds him tightly around the waist and turns them, presses him back into the couch cushions and climbs on top of him without losing the rhythm of their kissing. His face floods with a heat that lashes downward from there, making his skin prickle with sweat and his cock throb in his jeans.

"Okay?" Blaine asks, breathing heavily against his jaw.

"I'll let you know if it isn't," he answers.

Weeks and weeks of sexy texting and late night phone calls full of if i were there right now and god the things i want to do to you have been more than enough to prepare Kurt for this. He's not sure of himself but he is sure of Blaine's experience, and he feels safe in Blaine's arms, and that's all that matters right now.

Blaine is heavy and hard on top of him, and Kurt can feel every bit of him from the pounding of his heart to the tickle of his sock-clad toes wriggling against the turn of Kurt's ankles. His hip hones, his belly, his thick, strong thighs, and the warm bulge of his cock—all perfect, all exactly as Kurt has imagined they might feel.

He pants heavily into the kisses, sliding his hands up and under the back of Blaine's shirt to touch the warm skin of his lower back. He spreads his thighs, lets Blaine's hips settle between them, bends his knees just a little to increase the pressure of Blaine's body against his own. A glass of wine isn't enough to get him dizzy but apparently making out horizontally with Blaine is, because his head is spinning in record time.

He isn't quite prepared for how intense this can be. He gasps in a breath and breaks the kiss.

"Whoa," he says, panting. "You are really good at that."

"Because I'm with you," Blaine says, rubbing their parted lips together. His eyelashes are so long that they brush Kurt's skin. "Because you are so gorgeous."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," he says, kissing Blaine again.

Giggling, Blaine kisses his neck. He flicks the top button on Kurt's shirt, dropping a second kiss there. "May I...?"

Kurt nods, biting his bottom lip. He watches shadows dance along Blaine's cheek as he lowers his mouth to the skin just above the second button, then the third, and by the fourth or fifth Kurt's eyes have drifted unconsciously shut against the pleasure. His head starts to go dizzy again as Blaine places wet, open-mouthed kisses all the way to the waistband of his jeans where he stops, nuzzles into the concave dip of Kurt's pale, flat belly.

"God, you are so perfect," he moans, running his hands up and under the loose flaps of Kurt's shirt. He shifts back up on his knees, kisses over Kurt's collarbone and then wraps his lips around one of Kurt's nipples.

"Oh," Kurt moans. The sensation is electric and shoots from his nipple outward, catching him by surprise.

"That feel good?" Blaine asks, scraping his teeth over the wet, hard pebble.

"Yes—"

He repeats the process on the opposite nipple, then drags the flat of his tongue over one and then the other, again and again, back and forth until they're shining with spit and hard enough to cut glass. Kurt doesn't even remember putting his hand in Blaine's hair, but it's there, and he can't seem to stop the high-pitched whimpers that are rising in his throat. He gets harder and harder, locks Blaine's thigh between his and thrusts up desperately.

"Mm," Blaine hums, and Kurt looks down in time to watch a grin spread his mouth wide. "Love when you respond to me like that."

He drags his tongue down the center of Kurt's chest, all the way to the dip of his bellybutton. Kurt breathes faster, watches his belly rise and fall against Blaine's chin. He's throbbing just there below, aching behind his zipper and Blaine's mouth is so close, his pupils wide and dark.

"Could you," Kurt says nervously, "um, could you—"

Blaine grins, bites the corner of his bottom lip and inches down the couch, dragging his fingertips along the front of Kurt's jeans. He kisses over the ridge of Kurt's clothed hard-on, smiling when Kurt hisses. "Remember what we talked about?"

"Which—which time?"

"That time we talked about you coming in my hand before I even made it to you with my mouth," he says, and every word is a puff of hot breath over Kurt's pulsing, fattening erection. It's so full now that his jeans hurt and he breathes out, back bending.

"Oh, that time," he whimpers.

"Not going to let that happen tonight," Blaine says, thumbing his jeans open, then tugging the zipper down.

"You may get to experience that sooner than we'd like," Kurt breathes, eyes wide as Blaine peels his underwear down, freeing his cock which flops back against his belly with an audible smack. He feels even dizzier, even stranger, the reality of Blaine on him, touching him, the eager jerk of pleasure one step ahead of him as it has never been before.

"We have all weekend," Blaine drawls, his eyes locked on the thick curve of Kurt's cock. He licks his lips unconsciously. "I'm not going to complain about us taking the edge off now." He nuzzles his nose against the base of the shaft, inhaling, eyes closing with pleasure. "Waited so long to have you like this, spread out and ready for me. Worth every second," he says, rubbing his cheek along the underside of the shaft all the way to the head, where he stops to lick the swollen crown in his mouth.

Kurt moans, tenses, and squirms his hips upward. He wants to be polite, but Blaine's mouth is—gorgeous. Full and pink and round and it's been so long since he's had sex with Rachel that he thinks he's forgotten what it's like to even feel sexual. And Rachel had never made him feel like this, like his heart is trying to escape his ribcage and he's going to come the moment that Blaine squeezes him. But god, he wants more; he wants to hold Blaine's head still and fill his mouth up.

Blaine wraps his mouth around the head and sinks down. He hums the whole way, creating vibrations that make Kurt's legs tingle. From the start, he knows that he isn't going to last. Not watching Blaine's dark head bob up and down on him. Not watching those lashes fan out across Blaine's cheeks as he hungrily licks and nibbles, clearly savoring every moment. Not when his fist closes around the shaft and his cheeks hollow and the sucking grows wet and noisy.

Not when he says breathlessly, "You can move, I don't mind," and "You can pull my hair, it's okay," and Kurt gives in, gives over, lets the friction and pressure take him higher. Blaine's mouth is tight around him, holding him deep and sucking him, tongue and the faintest pass of teeth just enough to keep him on edge, and then he squeezes Kurt's swollen sac and Kurt cries out.

"I can't," he gasps, feeling the pressure coil up. "Oh, god, Blaine, I can't."

Blaine doesn't stop, he just presses a thumb under Kurt's balls and Kurt squeaks, for lack of something more dignified, and comes in Blaine's mouth. Blaine licks him clean with deliberation, his tongue quite literally everywhere, until Kurt is soft as a kitten and twitching from too much stimulation. He nuzzles into the hollow of Kurt's hip and closes his eyes.

"Perfect," he sighs. "Can I just stay here like this for a minute?"

"Y-yeah," Kurt replies, feeling shaky and drowsy.

He falls asleep with Blaine dozing against his thigh. Hours later he feels Blaine get up to clear the dinner dishes, then mumbles sleepily through Blaine helping him out of his jeans. It feels so good to be undressed that he clings to Blaine's shoulders, mutters endearments as Blaine smiles and helps him down the hall and into the bathroom.

He wakes up over his toiletry bag, brushes his teeth, washes his face, and uses the toilet. His cock is spit-sticky, so he takes a moment to wash up with flushable baby wipes until he's clean enough to feel comfortable with the thought of Blaine going anywhere near those places a second time. He shuffles back down the hall, finds Blaine already in bed.

It's such an odd feeling, standing there at threshold. Blaine, pajama-clad, looks over at him, bedroom eyes and neatly buttoned pajama top in place. The opposite side of the bed is turned down. Kurt smiles as he crawls under the covers.

"I fell asleep on you," he says. "God, you can tell I haven't—at least, not like this. I'm sorry."

"You needed that," Blaine says, rolling onto his side and propping himself up on one elbow. "I needed that. And you seem—" He smiles, a little sadly, and drags his knuckles down Kurt's bare chest. "Tired. I want you to rest, too. I want you to feel comfortable here with me." He smiles, and the smile goes a little wicked toward the end when he leans over and covers Kurt halfway with his body, kissing along his rough jaw. "And I want to wake you up tomorrow morning with really excellent sleepy sex, so it's not exactly a sacrifice on my part."

Kurt laughs. He's overwhelmed in the best possible way. "Sleep it is, then."

*

The promise of morning sex keeps Kurt still under the covers for maybe twenty minutes before he realizes that he has to use the bathroom, his mouth feels like an animal had crapped in it some time during the night, and his hands smell like garlic. Also, Blaine snores like a tractor.

He laughs into his pillow for a good minute or two before deciding that stereotypically flawless morning sex is going to have to wait for another time.

He washes up and uses the toilet, changes into a clean pair of underwear, brushes his teeth, and when he gets back to bed Blaine is still sleeping. He nudges his back against Blaine's chest, draws the covers over them to recapture their body heat, and settles back into a light sleep.

Blaine does the same at some point that morning because Kurt feels cold, rolls over onto a warm spot and curls up in it and falls back asleep. The third time he wakes up he's cuddled into Blaine's chest, head tucked up under Blaine's chin, and he knows as soon as he opens his eyes that he's slept enough. It's almost ten in the morning. He can't remember the last time that he'd slept that late.

Blaine kisses his hair and mutters, sleep-rough, "Pasta is like Ambien."

Kurt laughs, stretching from head to toe under the covers. It's warm and close and he loves the feel of Blaine's legs against his hairy calves. "You snore."

"I know," Blaine replies, kissing down the slope of his bare shoulder. "I should have warned you."

"I don't care." He focuses on the kisses that Blaine is dabbing down his bicep. "Mm."

They roll toward each other at the same time, Kurt slotting his right thigh between Blaine's and running his right arm around Blaine's body, using the leverage his length provides to fold their curves together. He kisses Blaine, tastes toothpaste and presses deeper, spearing his mouth with his tongue.

He's kind of panicking, in a distant way, because Blaine's cock is pressing against his belly and he wants to touch it. He knows that it's dumb to be afraid of it; he has one, for fuck's sake. But it's never been like this before and they're rubbing against each other and breathing heavily and Blaine's smooth torso is like a miracle under his fingers and he doesn't even know where to start.

"I'm not going too fast, am I?" Blaine asks, throaty and low.

Kurt flushes hot. "I want to—return the favor."

"Oh."

He reaches between them, splays his hand wide over Blaine's belly and turns his fingertips south, sinking them into the waistband of his underwear. "I've been thinking about this," he says, scratching his fingernails through the rough patch of trimmed pubic hair above Blaine's groin. "About your—cock, hard, in my mouth." He blushes, kissing across Blaine's collarbone and feeling Blaine's heart pound under his cheek. "Never thought about that before, but, god, you—" He presses his fingers down and over the firm curve of Blaine's erection. "You're so gorgeous."

Blaine arches into his hand, breathing hot against his shoulder. He's shaking. "Touch me. However you want, I just—need you so badly.”

Kurt wraps his hand around Blaine's cock. It fits perfectly in his hand and now that he's there, it's not quite so daunting. He begins to stroke it slowly, firmly, savoring Blaine's satisfied noises. He's not sure if it's the revelation of a lifetime but it is addictive, touching Blaine like this. He begins to shake with sympathetic arousal long before he decides to move down the bed.

"Kurt," Blaine says, sitting up on his elbows, "don't—if you feel obligated."

He kneels between Blaine's legs, then bends over so that his mouth is hovering just over the object of his desires. "Obligated is not the word I'd use." He peels Blaine's boxer briefs down, going hot at the sight of his naked erection. "Fascinated. Turned on." He closes his hand around it, drawing it straight up. "Did I mention turned on?"

Blaine's eyelids dip. "Uh. Y-yes." He swallows. "Sorry. You're all—kneeling, and right there, and gorgeous, and I've been fantasizing about your mouth since the second week I knew you."

"Is that so?" Kurt asks, not pausing the motion of his hand.

"It was after the first time I saw you really smile," he pants, hips churning, the muscles in his belly bunching as he strains. "Almost kissed you so many times, you have no idea."

Kurt drags the tip of his thumb over the slit at the head of Blaine's cock, feeling the slightest dampness there. His pulse trips and races and he bends over, rubbing his mouth back and forth over the head. He drops his jaw, drags Blaine over the soft, wet inside of his bottom lip, then closes his mouth, sucking a kiss around the head.

"Shit," Blaine hisses, eyes wide.

He tastes delicious, clean and salty, and Kurt digs the end of his tongue into the slit, then swirls it around the crown slowly, experimentally. He knows what he likes, and he can't imagine that Blaine is much different.

Blaine squeezes his fist along the shaft, holding it so that Kurt can explore it. "Oh my god, your mouth," he moans, head falling back.

Kurt closes his lips together and sinks, and then rises, and then sinks, and then rises, pushing Blaine's hand farther down with every pass. It's odd; it's too much to fit, and his teeth are in the way, and he has to breathe through his nose, and his tongue feels sloppy. But it's—nice, it feels special, to be close like this, to have Blaine inside of him somehow, to make Blaine feel good.

And then Blaine starts to moan and rock into him, and it's like something just goes loose inside of Kurt's brain; he garbles an unconscious groan and swats Blaine's hand away, taking the base between his thumb and forefinger and sucking harder, faster, using his tongue, squeezing his hand shut, working it up and down.

"I'm close," Blaine gasps.

"Should I—"

"Oh, god, whatever you want." So he closes his lips around the tip, draws on it hard and fast while using his hand to pump Blaine's cock.

"Kurt," Blaine moans, thrusting up and then going stiff, spilling warm gushes into Kurt's mouth. Kurt can feel the shaft of his cock throb in time with the release. His come tastes funny but Kurt swallows it, shaking with the pleasure of getting to do that on his first try. He feels self-conscious wiping at his mouth as he crawls back up to the pillows, but Blaine just draws him down and kisses him, kisses his mouth and cheeks and nose and forehead until he's laughing.

"Amazing, you're amazing," Blaine says, stroking his hair.

"How—how long as it been since you were with someone?" he asks.

"A little under a year," Blaine says. "I had a boyfriend. We were together about six months."

"What ended it?"

"He got a job offer in another state that he couldn't afford to turn down," Blaine says. "I didn't feel that we were serious enough for me to abandon New York and my job here to follow him."

"I just wanted to know how hazy your memory of your last blowjob was," Kurt says, smirking.

"Oh, my god, don't," he answers, laughing. "That was wonderful. You were wonderful."

"It isn't rocket science, but I'm going to get better, I promise."

Blaine smiles, looking lazy and warm under the covers again. His hair is a mess and he turns his stubble-covered jaw into Kurt's throat, breathing in deeply. "I don't need you to win a gold medal in deep throating. I just need you. Is that okay for now?"

It's more than okay.

*

They take in a show, then discuss romantic history (mostly Blaine's, of course) over lunch. Kurt learns about each of his three long term boyfriends; it's odd to hear the stories, but they don't make him uncomfortable. After that it's thrift shops and a couple of tourist traps for laughs (mostly at the tourists), another round of shopping and dinner with drinks. They get a little tipsy.

"What's it like?" Blaine blurts, swallowing back a burp and giggling with his hand over his mouth. "Excuse me. Er, so what's, what's it like, with a, with a woman?"

"You've never...?"

"Gold star gay." He frowns. "Is that rude? Crap, sorry. I guess the question is rude, too.”

Kurt laughs. "Uh, no, it's okay. It's um—can I be honest, it's not that much different. I mean—I guess because I tried to ignore the finer points I've never had the full experience? I didn't realize just how tuned out I've been with Rachel until I was with you. It's like the difference between watching a film in black and white and then discovering that they come in color, too."

"If you're insulting black and white cinema in any way I may have to leave you with the check," Blaine says, eating his mousse.

"Oh, god, no," Kurt says, giggling. "You know what I mean." He blushes. "I mean, we haven't done—everything, so I can only comment on what we have done."

Blaine pauses, cheeks darkening, a soft grin tugging at his lips. "We'll have to revisit this conversation when we've done everything, in that case."

Warm tension flickers between them. Kurt's mind, once arrived at that particular destination, seems to have no desire to shift. The arousal that has buzzed low and easy all day at every small touch between them swells to brighter life.

He can't stop staring at Blaine's hands on his fork and knife and spoon, can't stop noticing just how well Blaine fills his dinner jacket. He wants to undo the tie hanging around Blaine's neck, pop the buttons on his shirt and trousers and haul their bodies together. He wants Blaine to touch him in places that he's never been touched, places that he hardly understands the sexual function of himself.

He thinks about Blaine having had boyfriends, years of relationships, experience with the male body that Kurt doesn't have. He thinks about the things they haven't done and he wants to do them, even though he thinks he may end up fumbling as he had this morning with a cock in his mouth and very little idea of how to enjoy the finer points of it, and certainly next to no idea of how to execute the flourishes that would leave Blaine a panting, wrecked mess.

But god, he wants to learn.

On the way back to Blaine's apartment he thinks about "all the way", about what that had meant in college, about what that had meant when he'd slept with Rachel that first time. He knows that it's ridiculously narrow minded of him, compartmentalizing sex with Blaine into those boxes—manual, oral, penetrative sex, like some kind of numbered list that you check off in order to be able to declare that you've “done everything”. He knows that if they were dating as a normal couple, both single, that they wouldn't have to rush to fit these experiences into the span of a weekend, and god knows that he doesn't want to hurry through for the sake of checking off the boxes.

But a part of him wants more; for himself, and also to carry back with him when he has to face Rachel. He isn't sure what he's going to do. He isn't sure whether they should just coast through the holiday and then set everything ablaze in the New Year. But the thought of going back to her without—more, from Blaine, is a torment. He just needs, and he hopes that Blaine does, too.

He uses the bathroom when they get in, washes his hands and brushes his teeth. Blaine ducks in after him and when he comes back out again he's down to his shirt and pants, his bow tie loose around his neck and the top two buttons of his shirt undone. Kurt intercepts him in the hallway outside of the bedroom, smiling as he tugs Blaine by his tie in for a kiss.

"Is it rude to drag you back to bed so early?" he asks, hardly able to breathe as Blaine's strong, wide hands map his back.

"You in those pants has been torturing me all day," Blaine says against his lips, lightly brushing his fingers down and over the curve of his ass. "I'd consider it rude if you didn't."

He smiles, walking backwards into the bedroom, feeling the soft give of the carpet under each step as Blaine unbuttons his shirt, kisses the curve of his neck, then opens the front of his pants. He sits on the edge of the bed, presses his face against Blaine's belly, and does the same. The bow tie whispers its way from around Blaine's neck, the shirt flaps fall aside, the zipper on Blaine's pants gives way with a low scratch, and before he can think too much about it Kurt is mouthing at him through his underwear, thrilling at the solid bulk of him.

Blaine's hands find his hair. "Kurt—"

Kurt tugs the shirt from Blaine's elbows, where it's dangling, then pushes his pants down around his ankles. He leans back in to nuzzle at the cock stiffening in front of him, opens his mouth over the girth of it, presses it between his lips all the way to the head where Blaine's underwear has gone wet.

"Kurt," Blaine moans, desperate.

"Please tell me you have condoms," Kurt breathes, tugging the waistband down and thrilling at the sight of Blaine surging erect and eager out of them.

"Oh my god," he whimpers, twisting his hands in Kurt's hair and gently rutting himself against the stubble on Kurt's jaw. "Are you sure? H-how—"

Excitement swells, sharp and demanding, like a cramp just under his breastbone. He feels giddy with it, unable to think clearly because all he can feel is want. No wonder he'd never understood the urgency, the temptation, the demand of sexual arousal before this. No wonder that it had been so easy to stay faithful to Rachel in both thought and deed when he'd never even known.

"I want you to fuck me," he says, feeling stupid with arousal. He's never used that word with Rachel but somehow nothing else sounds right in his head, and when it falls from his lips it's love and lust in one word, soft around the edges and rock hard intention in the middle.

They climb onto the bed, Blaine hovering over him on his hands and knees. "Have you ever done anything—there?" he asks, voice already ragged.

"No," Kurt answers, kissing his neck. "I—used the bathroom already." He has gotten his Google on since they started messing around. He's not entirely unprepared.

"Geez, Kurt, that's," Blaine says, laughing into his collarbone.

"I didn't want something stupidly technical to ruin my first time," he admits, smiling into the kisses that he's placing on Blaine's chest. Affection rolls through him, and he puts he hands on Blaine's back. "I have been thinking about this all day." He lifts his hips to get out of his pants and underwear, then shrugs out of his shirt, eager to get his mouth and hands back on Blaine. He runs one hand up the back of Blaine's neck into the short hair at the nape, threading his fingers where the gel is lightest and savoring the shiver that shoots down Blaine's spine in response.

"I've been thinking about it for months," Blaine confesses, lowering their bodies together. Kurt whimpers—the feel of Blaine on top of him, heavy and hard, between his legs, is almost too good. "God, let me—show you how good it can be, I just want to—" He breaks off, licking a hungry stripe up the center of Kurt's chest. "Want you to love it.”

"Oh," Kurt moans, "oh, that's, can we, now?"

"Turn over?" Blaine rasps, kissing his belly.

Kurt's cock throbs at the request. He ruts down into the mattress after complying, grateful for the pressure as Blaine kneels over his body and begins kissing his shoulders. He nibbles Kurt's ears and the back of his neck. Being covered like this, it's so intimate, and Kurt blushes into the pillows at the rush of Blaine's excited, heated breathing against his skin. They're so close, every inch of them touching, and Blaine is sort of holding him down, and then he tangles their hands and folds their arms up underneath Kurt's cheek like a second pillow.

"Blaine," Kurt moans, pressing kisses to Blaine's hairy forearm.

Blaine lines their bodies up, lets Kurt feel him hard and full nudging the underside of his ass. "Want you," he whispers, rubbing them together. "Want you so bad."

Shaking, Kurt squeezes his fingers around Blaine's. "Please—"

"Would it—would it completely freak you out if I—used my mouth? First?"

For a second, the request doesn't register. Kurt's mind is so busy circling the notion of that big, hard dick pushing inside of his body that he blanks. And then he realizes what Blaine is offering and goes so hot, so fast that he thinks he bursts a blood vessel somewhere vital.

"On my," he gasps, trembling.

Blaine reaches down and squeezes his right cheek away from his left, coasts his thumb up along the furry crevasse between them. "Yeah," he breathes, nuzzling between Kurt's shoulder blades. "Right here, right up against you, put my tongue inside, sweetheart."

"P-please," Kurt whimpers. In truth, he can't be sure what that will feel like, but judging by Blaine's unsteady hands and the surge of his erection against Kurt's skin, it's exciting for him, and so it's exciting for Kurt.

It's not what he expects. Well, primarily, he doesn't expect Blaine to take so long getting there, kissing and licking every inch of his back with helpless mutters of "so gorgeous" and "god, Kurt, your skin" and "hottest shoulders I've ever seen", until Kurt is sweating and humping the bed and generally feeling like a desperate teenager.

By the time that Blaine gets to the curve of his ass he feels like begging, it's been so long. Blaine bites and sucks kisses into his cheeks. Embarrassment rushes in. Kurt presses his face into the pillow beneath it and closes his eyes, trying to relax and not think too much about smells or—other things. He'd be lying if he didn't also admit that he's feeling self-conscious; Blaine's ass is probably a twelve on a scale of one to ten, and even though he knows that he himself is nothing to shake a stick at, he also knows that in comparison he falls short of stereotypical backside perfection.

Of course, at this point Blaine's nose is on his sacrum and the nerve endings in his ass cheeks are firing and he isn't sure whether it tickles or feels like arousal but he can't stop shifting around, trying to get more of it. He can feel Blaine laugh against the crack of his ass, can feel the brush of lips just where the part begins.

"Sensitive," he says, the word vibrating against Kurt's skin.

"Are you sure this is," Kurt pants, thighs clenched, ass clenched, as the shivers run rampant, "fun for you, too?"

Blaine hums, brushing his lips feather-light down the wiry hair that frames the split. Kurt's fingers clench into fists. He wants to move, or for Blaine to do something, but all he does is tease, sweeping up and down Kurt's crack with his lips and fingers, until Kurt debates shoving his ass higher just to get something, to make the ticklish twitchy sensations stop.

"If you want it," Blaine drawls, kissing up and down the divide, "then yes. Love the idea of tasting you. Love being this close, love feeling where I'm going to be buried so deep inside of you." He presses Kurt's cheeks with his thumbs and then lightly spreads them apart, letting his mouth fall farther in between.

"Oh, god," Kurt whimpers, shoulders bunching as he bends up on his elbows and digs his knees into the mattress. "Oh god please don't stop, I can't wait anymore."

"Yeah?" Blaine asks, kissing up and down and finally, over Kurt's pucker. "There, honey? Right there?"

"Oh my god—yes."

He lashes the spot with his tongue, then kisses it, then sucks the wrinkle of flesh between his lips. Almost without thought, Kurt spreads his legs and arches his back and Blaine is there to accept the offering, moaning into Kurt's flesh and digging in with his tongue.

"Oh my god, Blaine."

He just keeps saying it, can't stop it; his nerves are going haywire. Every inch of him down there is sensitive in ways that he's never discovered before and the pressure against his hole feels incredible. He doesn't even realize how wantonly he's thrusting back into Blaine's mouth until Blaine puts a hand on his up-turned ass cheek to brace him.

"That's it," Blaine whispers, licking and licking and licking. "Relaxing so well for me. Let me inside, honey."

He's open, more open than he had been at the start, at least; he can feel the entrance to his body winking at the end of every lick. He flushes, bites back a moan at the sensation. He feels vulnerable; he's not sure if he likes it, not until Blaine starts tonguing inside and he realizes that it would be impossible not to enjoy the way that feels, like a tickle only about a thousand times more intense.

He pushes back, forces Blaine's tongue deeper. "Please," he babbles, half on his knees now, rocking back onto Blaine's tongue. "Oh fuck please."

It all goes fuzzy when Blaine starts pressing inward with his thumbs. Kurt isn't even educated well enough on the mechanics to know why it feels so fucking good, but Blaine's thumb is edging alongside his tongue, and then finally there's the pad of a digit pushing past his rim and he cries out and goes still and just lets his body clench.

"Oh, oh, oh," he chants, listening to Blaine open a tube of lubricant.

"Okay?" Blaine asks, fingers coming back slippery and cool.

"Yeah—god, yeah—"

He doesn't anticipate Blaine's thumb coming in angled down, and when it drags out back toward his balls instead of forward, he isn't prepared for the electric thrill of sensation that follows, cinching beneath his testicles and drawing the shaft of his cock up hard against his stomach.

"Blaine," he gasps, fingers flailing and then tightening around the pillow. And then Blaine's lips latch onto the skin just below his hole and he sobs. "What are you doing," he whimpers, shaking. "Oh my god what—"

"Not good?"

"So good," Kurt pants, looking over his shoulder. That turns out to be a mistake, as seeing Blaine crouched there between his spread, flushed, trembling ass cheeks is not exactly slowing him down. He's covered in Blaine's saliva and it's the sexiest thing that he's ever seen. "Felt—close, for a second, but I haven't even touched—"

"So don't touch," Blaine says, grinning playfully, as he lowers his mouth back to Kurt's rim. "You won't come unless you want to. I'll make sure.”

He has to admit, he's enjoying giving Blaine free reign, even if he isn't sure of what his body is doing. It feels good. And terrifying. And like there's a thumb up his ass. He's found that these things are not necessarily exclusive of each other.

"N-no," he says, going back down on his elbows. "No, I like it."

It's wet, Blaine's thumb working him open, Blaine's tongue suckling his rim. He gets caught up on stupid details—wondering if the lubricant tastes bad, wondering if he's clean enough for this, wondering if Blaine's forearms or jaw or tongue are cramping—just as often as he gets swept up in them—the warm skittish rushes of sensation that come from this, so different from the simplicity of a hand on his cock or a mouth, or even Rachel's—and good god he is not going to think about that now.

He falls back against Blaine's chest like a rag doll when Blaine kneels up behind him. They shuffle forward together and Kurt grasps the headboard of the bed while Blaine slots his hips up against the curve of Kurt's ass. Kurt settles half-kneeling, half-sitting on Blaine's thighs and spreads his legs, letting Blaine budge up even closer.

"Can we do it like this?" he asks, turning his face in search of a kiss.

"We can do it any way that you want," Blaine answers.

He wants some control, and he likes being able to hold onto the bed's frame. He goes warm all over when Blaine's arms come around his waist. Blaine kisses him sideways, stroking up and down his flat, tight chest, teasing his nipples and circling his belly button and making him smile and gasp.

“I like this,” Kurt says.

"God, I love the way you feel right now," Blaine groans, drawing on his tongue. "Need to—need you, can I...?"

“Put it in me?” Kurt asks, feeling naughty, and then naughty as well as successful when Blaine groans into his hair. He's lost track of the time that they've spent working up to this moment—it feels like they've been in bed for hours. He's ready, and he knows that Blaine is. He still isn't sure whether or not he's going to like it, but he is eager to find out.

"I'm good," he says, gripping the headboard with one hand and Blaine's forearm around his waist with the other.

He listens to the crinkle as Blaine opens and puts on a condom, his face going hot. Bold, audible proof that Blaine is shortly going to be inside of him makes him feel dirty and achy all at the same time, and he finds himself rutting his ass back into the latex even before Blaine is finished.

"Sit back onto me at your own pace, okay?" he says, kissing the back of Kurt's neck.

The blunt press of his cock is as shocking as it is welcome; it feels good, to push against it, feels good when the head circles and then pops past his rim. But beyond that it burns, and Kurt tenses up. Blaine kisses his neck and shoulders, not moving at all. He drizzles lubricant down between them, gently hitching his hips back and forth just to spread it. Kurt inhales sharply. He writhes his pelvis left to right, right to left, trying to get used to it.

"Oh, god," Blaine whimpers.

There's pressure again, and heat, Blaine's cock an unyielding hardness, but the lubricant is helping. Kurt pushes back and down, ignores the discomfort and just lets himself take it. The act of that, of telling his body to just accept the intrusion, is somehow the best part yet. It's better than the reality of what they're doing, almost, and it excites him.

He grips the headboard until his knuckles go white and sits down on Blaine's cock, inch by inch. Sweating and shaking, he bottoms out and releases a pent-up breath. He's so full, so completely, wonderfully stuffed. There's just so much of Blaine and it's all in him and he likes it even though it feels strange.

More lubricant, and Blaine holds his hips and pulls out to the head, making him gasp, and then he's pushing back inside, spreading him, spearing him, filling him. The lubricant spreads and Kurt's rim goes soft and he inhales, bends his spine and presses back as Blaine presses forward.

And that—oh, that—

"Oh my god," he hisses.

The fucking motion sends a jolt down his legs and up his spine and he does it again, and again, until they're moving together. Moving changes everything—the odd burn, the weird feeling of almost having to go to the bathroom fades, and he can feel the rings of muscle give way, and oh fuck that's what it's supposed to feel like. It's all the fullness and pressure with none of the weirdness, none of the discomfort. Oh, god, it feels good.

"Yeah?" Blaine breathes, holding him tight and close. "Better?"

"Fuck," Kurt hisses, moving slowly, deeply, in Blaine's lap. "Oh fuck, yes." He buries his face in the crook of his elbow and gasps, "Move. Move, move."

Blaine holds his waist and begins rocking into him. "T-tell me—"

"Feels, oh, god, feels good, so deep, just—please, keep, oh, shit, oh god, there," he snarls, angling his hips back so that Blaine will hit that spot again, "just, fuck me, fuck me."

"God," Blaine gasps, burying his face in Kurt's shoulder. "God."

The urgency is so bound up in itchy sensations that it's difficult to relax—every thrust feels like too much and not enough, every slap of Blaine's balls a tease, every slide back inside too short. He can't hold onto any one thing and all he wants to do is come.

"Touch me," he whimpers, writhing his ass back onto every thrust.

He's losing it, and quickly—unaware of how desperate he sounds, how gone he is. And then Blaine's fist closes around him and he can't take it anymore. He fucks himself wildly through Blaine's hand, back onto Blaine's cock, and around and around in a sticky desperate loop. He can feel the lubricant-smeared globes of his ass pool on Blaine's thighs, can feel where it's gotten into his pubic hair and all over his balls.

"Just like that, just like that, honey, come on, don't have to wait. Don't have to wait for me, wanna feel you come, wanna feel it around me, come on." Blaine's fingers dig into his cheeks, holding him still and open. The slap slap slap of their bodies coming together pushes Kurt right to the edge; feeling his ass jiggle around Blaine's cock pushing in and out of him tips him to the brink.

"Harder," he begs, and Blaine listens. "Oh god oh god oh god—"

He comes so suddenly that it almost hurts. He's never had his ass full while having an orgasm and it feels incredible, something to clamp down around, something to ride while he spurts and spurts and spurts, soaking Blaine's fingers and the headboard, and all the while Blaine fucks him through it with deep, hard, perfect thrusts.

"Kurt," Blaine sobs.

After the orgasm it feels as if his body were literally made to take Blaine's cock—there's no discomfort left, just jellied relaxation, his muscles tapped out, the urgency gone. He bends low, wraps his arms around Blaine's arms and holds him, feels the sweat run between their bodies and Blaine fucking into him smoothly, rapidly, and deeply. He gives over, eyes closed, body shaking, his spent cock flopping against his thigh to the rhythm of Blaine's movements.

It's like going into a trance. It's probably the most open, the most safe he's ever felt during sex. His eyes fill with moisture even though he isn't paying attention, and when Blaine jerks and comes inside of him the tears spill over his cheeks. He lets the tears come, savors the feel of Blaine throbbing inside of him, and it is quite literally perfection.

"Stay," he whispers, sliding down onto his belly. Blaine lies over his back, tangling their legs and arms, and he lets Blaine's weight squash him into the sheets. "Stay, just, stay, please?" He feels Blaine nod, whisper, and falls asleep with Blaine still inside of him.

*

He wakes up in the middle of the night with Blaine's fingers buried inside of him, shocked out of sleep by the scrape of them over his prostate, and before he can even turn around he's coming in Blaine's hand, twisted half onto his back and half on his side, crying out his orgasm to the ceiling as Blaine pants heavily into his hair.

“Still so loose, god, you were rubbing against my leg, Kurt—“

The second time they wake up Blaine's already fumbling for the condoms and Kurt, half-asleep, straddles his hips and sits down on his cock and rides him until they both realize that he's too exhausted to even come like this. Kurt tumbles off of him and strips the condom from his cock and bends, takes Blaine in his mouth despite the sour latex flavor and sucks him bold and wet and unashamed in the dark, then takes him in hand and jerks him off all over their naked skin.

By the time the sun breaks over the buildings they've only slept an hour or two all told. The rooms reeks of sweat and semen and body odor and Kurt is feeling the burn in muscles that he hadn't even realized he had. Also, he seems to be sleeping horizontally across the bed, Blaine's feet are in his face, and he's starving and dehydrated and has to pee all at the same time.

He giggles, rolls over onto his back and exhales elation to the ceiling. He feels transformed—powerful and stretched and sexual and happy. And then Blaine rolls over onto him and gathers him up and kisses him and those feelings blow up about a thousand times bigger.

"You are," he says, punctuating each word with a kiss, "the sexiest man that I have ever been with."

"Does that mean hot breakfast and lots of coffee?" he asks, grinning.

"You are damned right it does," Blaine says, swatting his bare ass before sliding off of the bed.

*

Later that day, enjoying their last few hours together over sandwiches, Kurt doesn't think it's out of bounds to admit, "My ass feels weird."

Blaine laughs so hard and sudden that he spits pink lemonade across the table, and the giggle fit that ensues leaves them in stitches for a good five minutes. Kurt's face is on fire, whether from embarrassment or amusement or both he can't say.

"That's, um, yeah, that happens," Blaine says, still trying to breathe and get acid out of his sinuses.

Kurt stares at him, eyebrow raised. "It goes away, right?"

"No, Kurt," Blaine announces gravely, face perfectly still. "Your ass is forever changed."

Kurt throws a melon ball at his head with a casual flick. "Make me another sandwich, ass changer."

"Yes, sir," Blaine replies.

While he does, Kurt checks his phone. He had meant to last night, but—well.

He has a few texts from Rachel, nothing important or even recent, just an update on some old school friends and a message of hello from her dads. He answers her idly, trying not to feel awful; it isn't that he's forgotten the situation but what's done is done and he has to focus on what's next.

He's glad that Blaine is still in a light-hearted mood as he packs his overnight bag and takes a shower because with every passing minute he's realizing just how badly he wishes he didn't have to leave.

Blaine shaves while he showers and then they swap places.

"Can I ask about the tattoo? Inside joke?"

For a second, Kurt blanks at the question. Sometimes he forgets that he has it. "Oh, god." He laughs. "No, uh, Rachel and I had this 'rebellious' phase. Air quotes intentional. Anyway, we got drunk and decided to get tattoos. She chickened out halfway through me getting mine, naturally, and failed to mention it until the next day when it was already done with. Being drunk I messed up telling them what I wanted. So instead of 'it gets better' I got 'it's gets better'. The tattoo artist had to get creative to fix it, but I ended up falling in love with the result. Rachel and I both adore Bette Midler, so it seemed fitting. It's been a talking point ever since."

"That's sweet," Blaine says, "that you were always doing that kind of stuff together."

Kurt steps out of the shower, wraps a towel around his waist and reaches for the toothbrush that he hasn't packed yet. "Can I borrow toothpaste?" Why he'd packed the toothpaste and not his toothbrush he can't say.

"Sure."

He brushes his teeth, then spits. "I used to think it was sweet. But I spent almost my entire teenage life and now a good percentage of my adult one being completely dependent on Rachel to be everything to me—don't get me wrong, there were years when I wanted to kill her, she drove me that nuts, but she was always there. She always came through in the end, she always knew me better than anyone. And she never had any luck romantically, either. She tried to date a couple of times. There was this football jock in high school that never quite came around, and a dance student at NYADA who slept with her and then asked her for money—he was a prostitute—and this show choir asshole who never seemed to be able to leave her alone. And I never even—I never tried, not really. At the end of the day there we were, the two of us, alone and struggling. At the first sign of success—it was like a miracle. It went to our heads and I remember thinking, if I can make Romeo work for me, for the critics, I can do anything."

Blaine watches him through the mirror, eyes wide with sadness, eyebrows flat lines on his forehead. "You really love her."

Kurt nods, wraps the head of his toothbrush in a piece of toilet paper and tucks it into his toiletry bag. "Like a sister. Like a best friend. The rest—the rest I've been pushing past with blinders up." He sighs, looks down at the wedding ring on his finger. "I think she knows. I mean—that the sex isn't—that I'm not—I think she knows. I think she's always known, deep down."

"I'm trying so hard not to inject my personal feelings," Blaine says, shaking his head, then leans his hip against the counter top and sighs.

"Blaine," Kurt says, smirking, "I'm dating you behind my wife's back. You can have an opinion."

Blaine's head is tilted. "We're dating?"

"Of course we're dating," Kurt blurts. And then he realizes how insistent and childish that sounds and adds, "Uh, unless you don't want to?" He frowns. "Okay. I—shouldn't have assumed that, I'm sorry."

Blaine's chest hitches. "Of course I want to. I just wasn't sure if you were ready to call it that."

"That much I am sure of," Kurt replies, scrubbing the towel over himself. "But I don't want you to think that you have to get in the middle. It isn't going to be pretty.”

“I feel so awful for you both,” Blaine says, frowning. “I—I want you. But I can't help feeling terrible.”

"It's not about you, not the coping part, I mean," Kurt says as he slides his arms around Blaine's waist. "Honey, you're amazing, but that part is not about you. I'm just so happy to have you right now, to make me smile and be the light at the end of the tunnel." He leans in, presses his face to Blaine's jaw and adds in a playful tone, "And the sex is amazing."

Blaine shakes with laughter even as he says sadly, "I feel responsible. I can't help it."

"If it weren't for you, I might have ended up needing to do this to us ten years from now, or twenty. It would have been so much worse. I can't turn back time but I can put the breaks on now, before we get any older, any more settled. We don't have kids, or pets, or a mortgage. We're both still young enough to get around, and I just—I want her to be happy."

"It's not that simple for me, though,” Blaine says, holding him closer. “You and Rachel—you were my patients, and now you are—you are so special to me. It is my problem. I want to help. That's just who I am.”

Kurt pulls away, runs his hands up Blaine's naked arms with a fond smile. "Understood. Just—let me handle telling her. After that, you can be as involved as you want to be."

Blaine nods. "Okay."

They exchange gifts just before Kurt has to leave—Blaine lights up at the collection of handmade bow ties almost as brightly as Kurt does at his gift of a recording of the last community theater show he had been a part of. The exchange feels good, personal, and appropriate—he'd worried that they might not be able to figure out what to offer each other considering the nature of their relationship, and he's thrilled that it has worked out so well.

Blaine kisses him at the door, fingers on his cheeks, so obviously unwilling to let go. He keeps trying to hide the fact that his eyes are full of tears as a result of the gift, still, and Kurt lets him be bashful, closes his eyes and revels in the brush of his eyelashes against his cheeks as they kiss and kiss and kiss.

*

10:32 PM: my inlaws are in the kitchen sos

10:45 PM: omg what?!?!

*

"I'm going to have a heart attack."

"Did she warn you?"

"She's been home since this morning. They've been here all day. They saw me with my overnight bag, oh my god, I'm going to have a heart attack."

"Did she ask, did she—"

"No. That's the worst part. No. Oh my god. Oh my god."

"Kurt. Honey. You need to calm down. If they see you losing it—"

"Okay. Okay. I'm going to unpack and hide in the bathroom for a few minutes."

"Okay. Just. Relax. You need to relax. Let me know if I can do anything."

And then Kurt's on his own.

*

It isn't a good idea for the first thing he says to be, "You could've told me when you texted me last night," but that's what tumbles out when he opens his mouth.

"They surprised me with tickets at the gate," Rachel hisses, staring nervously over her shoulder where her fathers are sitting at the dining room table. "Besides, what's the problem? This isn't the first time they've come on short notice. They made reservations at Per Se, they brought us gifts, what was I supposed to say—"

"Okay. Okay, look, just, let me change and do my hair, alright, at least?"

She nods stiffly. "Go ahead."

He selects an outfit that will impress as well as serve as armor. He takes time treating his skin and arranging his hair. These rituals calm him down and by the time he's done he's ready to face his in-laws both physically and mentally.

He gets a fresh tray of snacks from the kitchen where Rachel had laid them out, sets the food down and then exchanges hugs and kisses and pleasantries with them with a smile on his face. Nothing much is different except for a tension in the air that he can't seem to defuse no matter how congenial the conversation gets. Rachel must have said something. He guesses that it doesn't really matter at this point.

It's late and before long Hiram and Leroy are excusing themselves to the office, where Rachel has already set the futon up for them. When she reappears she looks drained; she's dropped the pretense. Without thinking about it Kurt reaches for her, and she slides into his arms.

"Sorry," she whispers.

"Me too," he replies.

If only it could end there.

"You weren't home this weekend," she says.

He can't claim to have gotten drunk and crashed somewhere unplanned because she'd seen the overnight bag. He tries to think of a friend that she'd consider intimate enough for him to feasibly want to spend a night with and can't think of a single person. She is his best friend. And what if he were caught in the lie? He can't name someone and then have them contradict the story later. He doesn't want to lie, but if he isn't prepared for everything to come out here and now with her fathers in the next room then he has to.

"Someone invited me to a thing, last minute. I didn't want to go, not really, but there was a director—"

She nods. "How did it go?"

"It was great," he says, the untruth like a barb catching along his skin.

"Well, that's good. You spend too much time at home, you know." She exhales, so tiny in his arms, and leans up to kiss him. It feels weird after kissing Blaine all weekend, but he doesn't stop her. "Bed?"

"Sure. I'll be there in a sec." In the minute or two that he has, he takes his phone out.

12:04 AM: crisis averted, but the hole's a little deeper

12:06 AM: im sorry, sweetheart..thinking of you tonight

12:07 AM: same...ttyl

*

With his father-in-laws in town, he loses whatever personal time he might have had between now and the actual holiday.

All he wants to do is go back to Blaine's cozy apartment, pull the blankets over their heads and never come out again, but he can't. He has to go shopping, has to cook, has to be taken out, has to be available for everything and anything that Hiram and Leroy might want to do for or with he and Rachel. There's nothing malicious about it—her dads adore them, and Kurt appreciates everything that they are and do. But it just isn't the time, and they hadn't been prepared for this level of domestic occupation so close to Christmas.

There's one way to clear some of their schedule and Kurt can't say that he's surprised when he finds their calendar free of counseling minus one last joint session four days before Christmas Eve. He doesn't ask Rachel about the change; he knows that she'll just blame it on her dads' visit or, failing that, work.

It's a full week away, and he hasn't even had a chance to call Blaine.

He knows that Blaine is as nervous and as lonely as he is—text messages between them have gone brief and cryptic, pet names and endearments set aside for fear of Rachel randomly looking over at Kurt's phone, as she's never far away, and it's not enough. It's not nearly fucking enough, and after half a week of this he's brittle, ready to shatter at the slightest provocation.

He has to do something.

"I need some air," he says. "I just—I'll be back in a few hours." She's about to tell him to stay put, but he raises a hand and shakes his head. "I need to be somewhere else or I'm going to go nuts. I'm sorry. Please."

"Dinner's at seven," she says. That's only an hour and a half, but it'll have to do. "Don't be late."

He's on the street before he can even bother to be annoyed, dialing Blaine's number.

"You wouldn't happen to have an hour to spare for a desperate man?" he asks.

"Oh, thank goodness," is all Blaine says.

Twenty minutes later they're parked in an all-but abandoned garage in a frightening part of town making out in the backseat like the Apocalypse is tomorrow. He has Blaine beneath him, has shoved his fingers through Blaine's too-perfectly-gelled hair, and is claiming kisses like a man possessed. He doesn't stop to breathe until Blaine paws at his coat to try and get his attention.

"What, sorry," Kurt gasps, licking his mouth.

"Air," Blaine squeaks.

Kurt chuckles. "Sorry."

"Bad at home?" Blaine asks, nosing down his throat, placing kisses at the softest spots.

"They're on me every second, but I'm dealing," he answers, pushing Blaine's coat off of his shoulders and then reaching for his belt. “They mean well.”

"Whoa, hey," Blaine breathes, reaching down to stop his hands. "I've got to get you back in time for dinner, don't I?"

Kurt's fingers tremble as they open Blaine's belt. "I need something. Let me blow you?"

Blaine's pupils dilate. "You can't just say that—"

"Actually,” Kurt murmurs, pulling Blaine's underwear down, “you'll find that I can.”

It takes five minutes all told and Kurt doesn't let up the entire time, pins Blaine's ass to the leather seats and chokes himself so many times trying to take Blaine deeper, harder, faster, that he loses track. He doesn't care; he feels reckless and aroused and alive, sweat springing up beneath his clothes as Blaine fucks his mouth and eventually comes with the car rocking on its shock absorbers beneath them, one hand tangled in Kurt's hair. Kurt hums contentedly around his mouthful, staying after he swallows to lick until Blaine goes completely soft in his mouth.

He rearranges Blaine's clothing, then draws him up onto his knees for more desperate kisses, until they officially run out of time.

"Shit," he sighs, clinging. "Shit, shit, I hate this."

"Me too."

"I'm sorry. I am so sorry, calling you up like some kind of sexual service hotline, I just—missed you, wanted you, and I didn't mean to make this about sex, I actually just wanted to talk—"

"Kurt," Blaine breathes, kissing his jaw. "It's okay. I understand. I missed you. I missed this. I don't mind."

He doesn't know what to say, other than things that would only upset them both. So he just sighs, "We need to get on the road."

Blaine helps him back into the passenger seat and holds his hand as they drive. "If you need me to back off until after the holidays..."

"No. I'm a wreck as it is. What would I do without you?"

There's a pause, and then Blaine smiles and tries to hide it. "Okay."

*

He makes it, though by the time they get back from driving Hiram and Leroy to the airport he's ready to crack. He knocks back a shot of whiskey (purely for medicinal purposes as he can't stand it otherwise) while Rachel putters around in the next room, shudders under the desire to reach for his phone and text Blaine or see if Blaine has texted him, and sits on the edge of the sofa with his head in his hands.

After that, there are no less than six separate Christmas parties—social ones, networking ones, charity ones, and small private ones that they feel too guilty to not attend, mostly her friends—and out of all of those there's only one that Blaine ends up attending as well. It's one of the larger, theater company funded ones, probably the most formal of all of them, so Kurt and Rachel dress to the nines and rent a luxury car for the drive upstate.

Rachel is in her element and normally Kurt would be as well, but as the years go by the shine of theater politics has begun to wear off, and the fact that he has to act around these people both on and off the stage weighs heavily on him. Still, it's a good excuse to wear his best tuxedo, and he takes his time with small alterations to make it shiny and personal. If he has to kiss ass he's at least going to do it in style.

His interactions with Blaine have been at a minimum since their weekend, and missing him has gone past unbearable and straight on into numbness. Kurt almost can't remember what it had been like to be with him without limits, to talk for hours and hold hands and nap in each other's arms and not worry. In a way the pain of denial feels justified; every time that he looks at Rachel he thinks you deserve this. At other moments he just wants to disappear. He spends more time than he'll ever admit dreaming up excuses that will allow them time together. Inevitably they're all one time use and too risky besides. So they go without each other.

They'd discussed the party, of course, but no amount of talk could have prepared Kurt for the sight of Blaine in a full tuxedo, hair flawless, fingernails manicured, and even his eyebrows groomed to the individual hair into their natural triangular shape.

Kurt sees him on the central staircase outside of the ballroom just as he and Rachel cross the lobby and he stops in his tracks, mouth hanging open as Blaine neatly descends the stairs. He looks like something out of old romantic movie. Kurt is almost surprised that he's not in black and white while the world buzzes colorful and tacky-modern around him.

Rachel waves him over. The awkwardness of their canceled sessions is meaningless against holiday spirit. Blaine kisses her cheeks and shakes Kurt's hand.

The warm weight of Blaine's fingers around his after so many days without them makes him shake with desire. The longing is so painful that it makes his ears ring.

He means to say something witty but when his mouth opens all that comes out is, "Is that from the Great Gatsby collection?"

He'd found some aspects of the line uninspired but Blaine has picked the best of the bunch and is wearing it effortlessly; along with his classic looks the tuxedo is the perfect match.

Blaine laughs, still holding his hand. "Why yes, it is. You have an excellent eye."

"He certainly does," Rachel says, tightening her arm in Kurt's.

They stare at each other, and finally Blaine lets go of his hand and nods to them both. "So, cocktails and maybe dancing later?" The dinner is assigned seating and they aren't at the same table but the cocktail hour and the after dinner entertainment are theirs for mingling.

"Definitely," Kurt says, extremities still tingling as Rachel guides them into the area roped off for the cocktail hour.

“There are some people I need to touch bases with first, if you don't mind? Business before pleasure, I'm afraid,” Blaine says, and they both smile and shake their heads and watch him cross the room.

"The usual?" Kurt asks Rachel and she nods and, still feeling like he has no control over his feet, he walks over to the bar.

He can do this. He can get through tonight without losing his mind. He can have a drink with his wife and—

"Ooh, I see Jesse," Rachel says, after two sips of her vodka cranberry spritzer. "Let me go see if he's free, I know you don't care for him."

"Sure," he breathes, but she's already gone. He would be more concerned—Jesse has been a thorn in his side since high school, had briefly been one of Rachel's failed relationship attempts, and had been awful to her as often as he had been kind—but tonight his mind is definitely elsewhere, and Rachel can handle herself.

He downs his drink in one long swallow—it's more ice than drink—and has a refill in hand in short order. He feels ridiculous standing alone and turns a slow, easy circle, searching for a familiar face so that he has someone to occupy himself with, when he feels the touch of a hand on his lower back and turns too fast, almost spilling his drink down the pristine front of Blaine's shirt.

"Oh," he squeaks, steadying it.

Blaine smiles, sweet and slow, and his eyes burn as they dig into Kurt's. "Alone already?" He lowers his voice. “Sorry for that, I just had to talk to the people who got me the invitation first. And I thought you might need a minute with Rachel.”

Kurt stares back, enthralled and overwhelmed. "You look amazing."

"You don't look half bad yourself," Blaine replies, sipping his drink with a seductive curl of lip around the rim of the wide-bottomed glass, his eyes gently raking Kurt from head to toe.

Kurt's pulse quickens. In just a couple of short weeks he's forgotten what it's like to be appraised like that and be able to feel the same in return. More than that, though, it's just Blaine—there is something about this man. Blaine is so special, deserves so much more than what Kurt has been able to give him. But Kurt can't turn him away. It would kill him to even try. So here they are.

They sip their drinks. Blaine breaks the silence with, "Jesse St. James, huh?"

"Don't get me started," Kurt answers. "He's hovered around her since high school. No matter where we go he always seems to pop up. I'm sure there's a show that he's trying to tempt her to audition for—and I'm sure whatever role he's pushing it'll be opposite his." He huffs, jabbing the cherries at the bottom of his drink forcefully with a cocktail straw.

Blaine chuckles. "Ouch. Jealous?"

"Of course I'm jealous. People rip each other's arms off just to get near him; who wouldn't want that kind of charisma in this business? But mostly I hate his guts. Don't judge me. It's a cleansing sort of loathing. Good for the blood."

At the intense look on Kurt's face, Blaine's chuckle becomes a full blown laugh. "Oh my god, you are adorable when you're pissed off."

"He and Rachel dated for like, a month, in high school."

Blaine raises an eyebrow. "Oh. I see."

"The truth is, he's not as bad as he used to be. I think that's kind of why I hate him more now. Asshats like that should not be able to use personal growth to entice people who I care about."

"Now there we can't agree," Blaine says, threading an arm through Kurt's elbow and tugging him into a stroll around the bar area. "If this guy has grown up since high school, that's great."

"Siding with Jesse," Kurt sighs, feigning resignation. "It's a good thing that you're cute, Blaine Anderson."

Blaine leans in. It's a split second motion, but he manages to brush his lips past the curve of Kurt's ear as he whispers, "I'll take cute for now, sweetheart."

Heat shivers down Kurt's torso, settles in his hips and twists eagerly. "Blaine." His eyes frantically scan the room for any sign that they've been noticed. He sees Rachel's glossy hair just beside Jesse's on the opposite side of the bar and for once he's relieved that they're caught up in each other.

And even though he and Blaine do nothing more than walk, stopping every loop or two to refill their drinks, Blaine's touch and low murmurs continue to test Kurt's willpower. He's not innocent, either, but he has less experience with this kind of thing and Blaine knows it.

At a certain point they stop in a corner near a Christmas tree and Kurt gives his back to the room. The garland around the tree allows them to sort of hide, at least at the waist level, and Kurt isn't surprised when he feels Blaine's fingertips against the inside of his wrist where his pulse is racing.

Blaine's thumb strokes slow, steady circles there. "Miss you."

Kurt's shoulders twitch lower. "Me too. God, me too."

Every time they speak, he worries that today is going to be the day that Blaine starts asking have you and he has to find a new way to say I don't know how to do it, I'm sorry every time thereafter. So far, that hasn't happened, but he knows that it's only a matter of time, and he is no more prepared for it than he is to lose Blaine because of his inability to be honest with Rachel. Still, no matter how angry he gets at himself for that, the situation never feels any less unfair.

Why had it taken him so long to realize these things about himself? Why had he not figured himself out before he'd bound someone to his life, made promises to them that he couldn't keep? Why had Rachel not found someone better suited to her in college? If she'd known him so well, how had she not seen what he couldn't see?

But even these questions feel stupid after the fact. She loves you, you idiot, that's why, he thinks.

Blaine's fingers lace through his, out of sight and warm and a little sweaty, and realizes that he's not checked in to their conversation at all.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, squeezing Blaine's hand. "This is complicated and I'm handling it pretty damned badly."

"I know, and I'm here for you," Blaine answers, frowning. "Will you save a dance for me later? I don't care which or when, I just want to hold you tonight, and try to make you smile."

Kurt ducks his face as he does just that. "You already are. But I will." And with that the safe bubble around them bursts, and Kurt is thrust back into the crowd.

*

The rest of the evening passes in a whirl of networking, speeches, small food on large plates, and finally a more relaxed period of drinking and dancing where the mood shifts from business to pleasure in a very subtle way.

Kurt dances with Rachel and then with several people that Rachel encourages him to dance with—he's all too eager to switch partners when she starts talking about Jesse—and all the while he keeps an eye out for Blaine.

Their social circles are not so overlapping that they're constantly bumping into each other, and no one at this party would know about Blaine's private relationship with Kurt and Rachel. It's not as if they have to explain their connection—the gathering is too large for that kind of microscopic social analysis—but Rachel is always nervous about the impressions that they make.

Something about the formality of the event and how stunning Blaine looks in his tuxedo, though, has Kurt feeling more nervous than he probably should. He's a hopeless romantic, Blaine looks like a Disney prince tonight, he's had quite a bit of very good wine, and the beautiful ballroom and Christmas decorations are all going to his head.

Still, none of that is going to stop him. He whispers in Rachel's ear that he's going to find Blaine and does, just as a soft, slow instrumental begins to play behind him.

"There you are," Blaine says, taking his outstretched hand and pulling him in.

"May I lead?" Kurt asks.

"Of course," Blaine answers.

They stand a little closer than they should, but Kurt can't help himself. He's only an inch or so taller than Blaine but he uses his reach and length to lead with grace, keeping Blaine against him at all the right angles.

He can't help but enjoy the blush that's risen on Blaine's cheeks as a result of the intimacy.

"What are you thinking?" he asks.

"You look like a prince," Blaine answers, eyes wide, “and you make me feel like one.”

The urge to kiss him right then and there is overwhelming. "Thank you," Kurt says, staring down into Blaine's clear, hazel eyes. "The feeling is mutual. And god I wish we were alone right now.”

"Are you staying over?"

Kurt nods, shifting his hand higher on Blaine's back. "We have a room."

"I don't suppose there's any chance of you sneaking away for a few hours?"

He hadn't thought about the possibility, but now that he sees how engaged Rachel is...

"I could claim a headache from too much alcohol and go upstairs a little early," he says, wheels turning. Rachel would never leave the party early if she were having a good time, not unless he was ill enough to worry her. "But there are no guarantees." She could show up in their room twenty minutes or four hours later without warning. "I could ask her to let me know when she's on her way up because of the headache, but if she's drinking she may not remember."

"We could go to my room, then," Blaine says, "so in that case all she'd do is call looking for you, and you could say that you went to a friend's room in search of something stronger for your headache. The party is just getting started; if she's with her friends she'll most likely be down here for hours."

Kurt's heart pounds in his chest. "Give me some time?"

"I'm in room 1206," Blaine says, as they spin apart at the edge of the dance floor. "Say, an hour?"

After one last touch of their fingertips he wipes his sweaty palms off on a handkerchief and goes to find his wife.

*

Kurt takes off his tuxedo and hangs it neatly in the garment bag in his and Rachel's room. He has no desire to damage it in a rush to get it off, and he wants as much time as possible with Blaine, besides. He showers, then slides on a pair of yoga pants and a pull-over and takes the elevator up seven floors, nervously tapping his fingers along the mirrored surface the whole way.

Despite the relative ease of this sneaking around, he's still suffering under a mixture of fear, guilt, and arousal, and that only intensifies when Blaine lets him into his room. He seems to have had a similar idea in regards to his formal wear; as much as Kurt would have loved to peel him out of that lovely suit, they are both far too invested in their wardrobes to risk these kinds of pieces.

Blaine laughs, closing the door behind them. "I guess you felt the same way?"

"Alas, time constraints," Kurt says, grinning playfully as he takes Blaine by his hips and pulls him in.

He's wearing little green shorts and a black tank top that's so tight that his body is completely on display; Kurt can't resist settling his thumbs into the v-shaped muscle at his pelvis. Blaine melts into his arms, almost as if he'd like to disappear, tucking their bodies together and wrapping his arms around Kurt's shoulders, fingers going for the soft hair at the nape of his neck. Urgency builds, kiss by kiss, until they're whimpering together and Blaine leads them to the bed.

The covers are turned down. Kurt climbs under them and takes Blaine with him, then under him, spreading the length of his body along Blaine's and tangling their laced hands somewhere above Blaine's head. Blaine's curls are still damp and springy from his shower and Kurt nuzzles into them, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply. They go still, enjoying the feel of each other's bodies, and then Blaine takes off his sweatshirt and runs his fingers hungrily up and over the naked curve of his shoulder, dragging him close and kissing the side of his neck.

"You feel so good," he whispers, wrapping his calves around Kurt's hips.

"We could stay here for weeks and still not have enough time for the things I want us to do," Kurt says, kissing his chest and throat and cheeks and lips until his head is spinning.

"Was Rachel upset?" Blaine asks, relaxing under him.

"No, she was two sheets to the wind and having a great time." He gently pushes Blaine's arms above his head and under the pillows, kissing lines down his taut biceps while their fingers thread and unthread. He drags his mouth wetly down Blaine's collarbone and over his brown nipples.

"God, Kurt," Blaine sighs, eyes sliding shut.

"When you came down the stairs earlier," Kurt says, kissing Blaine's belly until it goes concave between his ribs from too much ticklish sensation, "I couldn't even breathe." He licks into Blaine's bellybutton, rubs his face against the hair there, back and forth until Blaine's skin flowers with goosebumps. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone so breathtaking." Blaine whimpers. Kurt kisses the swell of the belly under his cheek, then begins working his way up again.

"Want you," Blaine breathes, trembling as Kurt kisses his jaw and throat, his fingers grasping Kurt's ass and pulling him closer. "I can't decide whether I like you better in slacks or leggings, god, Kurt, your ass in these pants," he whines, twisting their pelvises together.

Kurt goes hot down the back of his neck. "Both have their merits. I'm casting a vote for these short shorts you're wearing, if it's all the same to you," he says as he palms Blaine's ass.

"I don't want to push the envelope too much," Blaine exhales, biting at his upturned jaw. "But I sort of—got myself ready in the shower? If—if you want."

Kurt blinks, and then realizes what he means. "Oh. Oh, Blaine."

Blaine kisses down and over his Adam's apple. "Do you want to? We don't have to. I just—I'd really like to."

And the way he says that, desperate and throaty, makes Kurt ache. He can't claim to have shared Blaine's premeditation, but now that the idea is out there, and knowing that Blaine had been so worked up over it that he'd done that, in the shower, maybe thinking about being with Kurt soon, about having that so soon—

"How—how do you like to—"

Blaine doesn't say anything, he just rolls over onto his belly and then rises on his hands and knees and Kurt cranes over him, hardly breathing; his wide shoulders, tapered back, tiny waist, and flared, round ass all on shameless display.

"Like this," he says, looking over his shoulder at Kurt.

There's a strip of condoms and a tube of lubricant by the pillows and Kurt reaches for both, hands shaking. He sets them near his knee, then removes Blaine's tank top, flushing hot at the sight of all that tanned flesh. Blaine's body bends, every inch of it arching sensually, skin over muscle glistening in the lamplight.

Kurt exhales, running his hands up and down Blaine's back, biting his lip when he reaches the rise of Blaine's ass. It's gorgeous; almost too perfectly round to be real, and the way that the halves just—split, forming two identically spherical, muscled halves that still have just enough give to bounce enticingly, and the way that the swell of it tapers so sharply into his little waist—

Blaine reaches back, pushes the waistband of his shorts down over his naked ass, letting the material tangle around his thighs. Kurt groans, bends to press a kiss to Blaine's spine because he needs a moment to recover from the sight of that furred crevasse bracketing a brown-pink hole that's already gaping wantonly, wetly for his cock.

He also can't bear to admit to himself the extent to which the flagrant maleness of it overwhelms him. It's his first time doing this. His cock is aching to be inside of Blaine, but his cock isn't the only part of him that's firing on all cylinders right now. He doesn't want to screw this up.

"I've never," he gasps, thumbing Blaine's cheeks. He wants. He wants to touch, to taste, to thrust, but he's scared of hurting him. "I've never done this."

"It's not much different, sweetie. Just go slow. I'll tell you if I'm uncomfortable."

He and Rachel have always used condoms as a precautionary measure against getting pregnant on top of her birth control as well as for cleanup, so it's nothing new to roll one on himself, but this is leagues away from the clinical pre-sex ritual that he has with her. For one, he's trembling, wrecked by arousal and eagerness, and Blaine is—sprawled out like some kind of sex god in front of him, ass up, shoulders down, just waiting for him. For another, it's not just a physical thing; his mind is ripe with affection and adoration and the desire to make Blaine feel as good as he possibly can, an two-way surety that he's never been able to harness with Rachel.

Blaine hadn't been kidding about preparation. All Kurt has to do is shimmy out of the rest of his clothes, get some more lubricant, press himself against that quivering pucker and it gives; he slips in all of the wet, gripping Blaine's up-turned, plush cheeks like a lifeline as he sinks inside as slowly as he can manage.

"Oh, god, yes," Blaine hisses, back arching.

He plants his knees and presses in all the way to the base of his cock; it's just a matter of controlling himself once he gets there, resisting the urge to feel the sucking drag of Blaine's ass by pulling out too fast, too soon. He's not young enough to worry about coming that fast, but the tightness Blaine's body is testing him in a very serious way.

"Can I," he groans, "move?"

"More lube, okay? Then yeah."

He goes a little overboard with it but that's just fine; he likes the wetness, likes how it gets everywhere and makes everything feel easier, safer, likes how it kills some of the friction that's making everything feel far too urgent for his tastes. It allows him to start to pull out and push back in and oh, oh god, he is so tight.

"Blaine," he whimpers, staring wide-eyed at the girth of his cock disappearing between those lush, spread cheeks. They're enough to almost pillow him as he pumps in and out.

"God, you're big," Blaine pants, sounding far away, swaying on his hands and knees, taking it but giving back just as well with hungry rolls of his hips that send his ass against Kurt's pelvis. moment when the lubricant starts to grow sticky the friction becomes unbearable again; Kurt groans at the sensation, rolling his hips, chasing the hungry noises that fall from Blaine's lips.

He can feel the tension in Blaine's body when he reaches down to touch himself. The thought of Blaine using his cock to get off on is unbelievably hot and he has to clamp down on the instinct to just fuck until either he or Blaine comes, measuring his thrusts to the rhythm that he can feel ticking in Blaine's forearm and silently chanting not yet not yet not yet.

"Can you sit up?" he asks breathlessly, running his fingernails along Blaine's sweaty, flushed back. "I just—want to be closer."

Blaine sits up on his knees, reaching for Kurt's arms as Kurt reaches for his waist and god, they are both so hot and slippery with sweat that's it's not a sure thing for a moment. He wraps his arms around Blaine's chest tightly, gasping when the change in position sends Blaine's ass down around him, impossibly tighter.

"Oh my god that's," Kurt whines, rocking his hips. Blaine's hole flutters hungrily around the base of his cock.

"Not going to be able to stop if we—like this," he says, thighs shaking.

Kurt stares wide-eyed over Blaine's shoulder at his swollen erection; the head flinches every time that Kurt pushes in deep, and the shaft throbs as he pulls out and and pushes back in all the way.

"Let me," he whispers, kissing Blaine's ear, and takes Blaine in hand.

"Oh," Blaine gasps, writhing between Kurt's cock and his hand. "Oh, Kurt. Oh god please."

At this angle it's less fucking and more grinding and Kurt loves the intimacy of it. He loves holding Blaine, loves feeling every muscle tick and spasm. He loves Blaine in his hand, especially with the lubricant making everything just a little bit slick, loves their thighs meeting, loves being able to kiss Blaine's hair and neck and shoulders. He feels so connected, so safe, so—

Loved.

Shuddering, he rocks faster, tugs harder, and Blaine gasps, "Don't stop," and he doesn't, and he's rewarded with a wet gush of come over his knuckles and Blaine's keening, high-pitched cries as he comes. The noises vibrate through him, egging him on, and he comes seconds later, rutting in and out of Blaine roughly.

Blaine slumps back against him, clutches his hair with his neck backwards, and Kurt is laughing into his mouth before he can stop the giddy rush, kissing him, pushing his tongue into his mouth, shivering as Blaine's fingers tug his hair to get him closer, deeper.

"Honey," Blaine breathes, shaking. "God."

"Is it always this good?" Kurt asks, hardly able to get the words out.

"No," Blaine replies, sounding dazed, "no, this is—this is—god, I know this sounds like a line but this is the best sex that I've ever had."

"I like that," he replies, nuzzling into Blaine's neck. "No. I love that." He can't stop grinning.

They slump down onto the bed, sprawled side by side, heedless of the wrecked sheets and used condom, free hands joined together between their sweaty bodies.

"Set," Blaine yawns, "set an alarm, okay? An hour, so we can—shower and—you can—"

"Yeah," Kurt murmurs, jabbing at his phone. He's already half asleep, and when the task is done he falls the rest of the way with his phone still in his hand on the pillow.

*

He feels like he's still asleep all the way through his hasty, solitary shower. Everything is fragmented and fuzzy around the edges, from the smell of the hotel soap to the unacceptable scratchy towels to the clothes sliding back over his skin.

Blaine passes him with a quick kiss to his hair. He sits on the end of the bed and waits for him to finish, not wanting to leave without saying goodbye but not wanting to lie down and fall back asleep either, which is a definite risk at the moment. He hasn't felt so physically tapped out since college dance classes had taught him what his body could do, and that's saying something.

He has no messages from Rachel, so he can only assume that she's either still downstairs or back in their room for the night; he doesn't want to leave Blaine, but either way he needs to check on her.

When Blaine comes back with a towel around his waist, Kurt's resolve is tested by the sheen of water across his naked back and the damp curls framing his handsome face. His eyes look even prettier framed by spiky lashes. Kurt wants to draw him close and fall back into sleep smelling him, feeling him, having him, but he can't. Not tonight.

This doesn't stop him from sleepily confessing, "God, you are beautiful. I don't want to go."

Blaine leans back on his hands, and the towel falls open over his thighs.

Kurt groans. "Oh, come on."

Smiling, Blaine shrugs, and spreads his thighs. "You can't blame a guy for trying."

Kurt's mouth actually goes wet at the sight. "I so can. Oh my god, Blaine."

The sight of his flaccid cock and balls hanging heavy between his thick thighs and the swell of those fat cheeks below—criminal. Kurt almost breaks, but it's three in the morning and he has to make sure that Rachel is okay.

"Retribution will be swift," he announces in mock severity, dotting Blaine's mouth with a kiss. "Prepare yourself, Doctor Anderson."

Blaine laughs, touching Kurt's jaw as he kisses him back. "I'm being insufferable. I know. Go, go. Text me when you find her."

She is indeed in bed when Kurt gets back to their room. She rouses only for a moment when he slides into bed beside her. She asks sleepily, "Headache okay?"

He kisses her hair. "Yeah. Have fun?"

"Yeah," she replies, smiling, and is asleep again within seconds. He rolls over to text Blaine a quick goodnight, and then joins her.

*

Out of all the things to dream about, he dreams about the theater.

Rachel in her tank top and jeans, her hair smooth and shining under the camp light they've brought with them. Her mouth bright with gloss and her eyes wide and earnest as they rehearse the lines that they'd attempted as stupid teenagers on a much smaller stage at McKinley High.

They're not laughing this time. They're trained performers and adults and they take their craft seriously, but mostly it's just—this place. This theater.

After so many years of struggling—sometimes competing with, sometimes supporting one another—it seems as if they have finally arrived. The loneliness that Kurt has felt even at his busiest of times seems to evaporate into the very air of the place, zapped to powder by an invisible, creative, life-affirming force. It feels like destiny. It feels like success. He's never felt more alive, more ready, than he does in this moment.

And there she is, his Juliet, and for the first time in his life he doesn't feel alone, and he realizes that she's been there all along. It's always been Kurt and Rachel, since the start, even when all they did was steal each other's solos and call each other creative, insulting nicknames across the choir room. The surge of love that floods his chest then could fill the auditorium.

Before he can really think about the consequences he's holding her hair between his fingers and tipping her head up and kissing her. It isn't a stage kiss and it isn't a gentle kiss; it's heated and wet and hurried and she squeaks, and her surprise gains him entrance to her mouth.

"Kurt," she gasps, giggling, "we're not at that part yet."

He breathes across her lips and kisses her again. "Rachel. Rachel."

Her eyes go wide. "Oh. Oh."

They had been so stupid. No protection, no discussion, and it had lasted maybe ten minutes all told. But afterward she'd been a trembling mess in his arms, wrapped around his naked body, the possessor of his first time, and he'd cried into her hair and then tried to hide it and she'd babbled confessions of love and rolled them over and it had started all over again.

He wakes up in the middle of the night at that part of the dream, panting and reaching for her before he can think about whether it's a good idea or not. She's asleep. He puts one hand just under her breasts over her ribs and the other on her thigh, squeezing her and kissing her neck frantically. He's so hard. Nothing feels real except for her weight beside him.

She comes awake when his hand slides between her legs, surprise making her stiffen, and he rubs her through her panties. Muscle memory—do this, leads to this, don't think about it too much—falls into place, woven with the urgency that's singing in his blood, and he can still taste Blaine in his mouth but mostly it's just confused desperation.

"Oh," she moans, when he pushes her underwear to the side and presses his fingers against her. She's wet—as wet as she would be if they had been ramping up for a while—and he doesn't even care why that's the case. He edges his fingers over her, then inside of her, wanting to make sure that she's that far gone, but she's already rolling onto her back and tugging him on top of her.

It's never been quick like this for them but he can't think, not now. He doesn't even have the presence of mind to reach for a condom. He just rolls over on top of her, framing her tiny body with his hands and legs and thinking that he could almost wrap his arms and legs around her once and then half over again if he wanted to, she's that petite. He doesn't take off her panties. He just sits up on his knees, lifts her onto his thighs, and pushes inside of her.

"Kurt," she moans, wrapping her legs around his waist.

"Please," he gasps, burying his face in her throat and fucking up into her. She's slippery and hot and tight around him. He doesn't think. He won't compare. It doesn't matter. He cradles her hips and ass in his hands and pounds into her blindly.

"Oh god, oh, god," she pants, arms around his neck, fingers in his hair, riding him.

He lowers her back to the bed, pins her wrists the pillows and fucks her with her legs around his hips. He can feel her touching herself between them and he doesn't think about it. He just moves, and moves, and moves, and he feels sick and powerful all at the same time, sure of her response but cut adrift by the lack of intimacy as he comes down rapidly from the dream and tumbles head first into fear, fear, fear.

She's loud when she comes, clawing his back and spasming around him and he just keeps going, autopilot taking over, until he starts to soften against his own will. He doesn't want that to happen, so he closes his eyes and thinks about how it had felt hours before, Blaine's ass snug around him, but even that's not quite right, the correlation is dangerously close and therefore useless; he rushes and rushes, thinks instead of Blaine after his shower, sitting on the edge of the bed sprawled naked and wet, cock and balls and his hair and his body—

And he pulls out, strokes himself quickly and comes all over her belly, sobbing.

The aftermath is terrible. The violent, opposing surges of emotion inside of him make him feel seasick.

She tries to touch him, to calm him, whispering, "It's okay. Kurt, it's okay. Honey. Honey, stop."

"It's not," he says, shaking, broken, "it's not okay, it's not."

The dream had been so lovely. But it's over. It's over.

*

Three days later:

10:30 AM: i slept with rachel after i left you at the christmas party

10:45 AM: okay. im...what should i say to that kurt? i sort of thought you never stopped sleeping with her

10:46 AM: i dreamed about the gershwin and i woke up and she was there .. i could still feel you. around me, on me, under me. i almost threw up after

10:47 AM: baby i don't know what to do, where are you?

10:50 AM: locked in the bathroom avoiding breakfast with her like it's my job

10:51 AM: if you need me i will find some way to get to you

10:55 AM: i can't do this anymore

10:56 AM: what do you mean?

10:58 AM: i cant be sexual, romantic, whatever you want to call it, with you both, its killing me

There is silence for five full minutes, and then Kurt texts again.

11:04 AM: can i call u?

10:07 AM: yeah

"I'm freaking out," Kurt rasps, high-pitched and threadbare.

"That's—that's it, then?" Blaine asks. "You want to end it?"

"I have to," he says, sounding and feeling like a corpse. "No matter what happens we all lose, but if I keep going like this—I don't even know myself anymore and I feel like I'm dissolving."

"I just walked out in the middle of a session with a patient after a half an hour of texting you under my desk," Blaine says, voice sharp with self-loathing and not a small amount of anger at Kurt.

"I am so sorry," Kurt whispers, shuddering so violently that he feels the bathroom tilt around his line of sight.

"I can't do this, not over the phone," Blaine replies. "I'm sorry."

The line goes dead.

*

Having to hide what essentially amounts to a nervous breakdown is challenging, but Kurt has always been a performer. Rachel has been walking on eggshells around him since Christmas; they haven't had a fight or a serious conversation or anything approaching intimacy since then, and suddenly New Year's Eve is tomorrow and they figure out during a brief exchange before bed that they have committed to two different parties as a couple.

"I want to go to Elliott's," Kurt insists. "It's more intimate, and you got your networking with Nathan in at Christmas."

"It's not as if there's a quota to meet; more is always better with him," she argues. "Making an impression on Nathan is important to me. We can see Elliott any time, and Rosa's birthday party is in January so we'll see him then for sure."

"You aren't listening. I don't want to go to Nathan's 'look at my penthouse' hoity toity New Year's Eve extravaganza. I want to be with people who I can be myself around."

"And since when is this all about you?" she asks, throwing up her hands. "There are people that I care about who are going to be at Nathan's. A year ago you would have known that; I wouldn't have even had to say it."

"You could have told me you'd made these plans days ago." He's evading. They both know it. feels like every volley is meaningless—they are not listening to each other, or at the very least have no interest in compromising.

She stands with a huff, her nightgown tangled around her knees. "You go to Elliott's, then, and I'll go to Nathan's. Will that make you happy?"

Silence descends. She's not being completely serious, but the implication is foreboding considering their situation.

Kurt frowns. "No. No, I don't want—"

"Want what? It's become routine, anyway, don't you think? We parade ourselves around like the musical theater version of Barbie and Ken. There might as well be a script. They expect us together, that's all it is anymore."

The jab hurts, as intended, and Kurt thinks to himself, this could be the moment. All he would have to do is say something like "so let's just stop doing this, Rachel", and she'd burst into tears and he'd cry even though he hates crying in front of people and he'd end the day sleeping on the sofa and forcibly stopping himself from contacting Blaine, who hasn't spoken to him since he ended their affair two days ago.

It's almost as if she knows what he's thinking. She sits on the end of the bed, braces herself visibly and says, "I can put in a couple of hour's at Nathan's and then come to Elliott's for the ball drop. That's the best part anyway, right?" She attempts a wobbly smile, and his heart breaks.

He hates admitting it, because she's attempting the emotional equivalent of slapping a bandaid on a bullet wound and they both deserve better than that, but he'll take anything right now.

"Okay," he says, swallowing back a thousand words and just as many emotions. "Thanks, Rach."

*

The snow on New Year's Eve is terrible. They leave early to make their parties on time and end up both arriving fashionably late despite the effort. Weather-related strife aside, Kurt is terrified at the idea of Rachel traveling by herself in this weather, even just across town, and he doesn't relax until she texts him a picture of herself smiling with a glass of champagne in her hand.

He lets Elliott distract him with talk and alcohol, at least until Elliott has to put his daughter to bed, and then Kurt mingles. The party is low key and casual. There's no one to impress and Kurt breathes a sigh of relief, able to enjoy the food and really excellent champagne with gusto now that he knows Rachel is safe at Nathan's for at least a few hours.

Elliott finds him again closer to midnight.

"So look," he says, "I have a confession to make."

"Well that never boded well back during the band days," Kurt says, none too dryly.

His old friend laughs. "I promise, no more diva-esque song battles." He smirks. "Even though I'd still win, of course."

Kurt snickers. "Of course."

"Seriously, though. There's someone on their way who I invited a while back. He declined originally, but when I mentioned that my good friend Broadway star Kurt Hummel was going to be in attendance, he suddenly changed his tune. At first I thought he was just a fanboy, but then he said that you two were friends.”

"Let me guess," Kurt says, "Blaine Anderson?"

"That's the one."

"God, how do you even know him?"

"Same way you do, sweetcheeks." He taps his temple. "Long story. I just wanted you to know. I get the feeling that there's a complicated something or other there. And no, he didn't tell me anything; it's all guesswork, so don't look at me like that."

Elliott has always been a good friend, and Kurt isn't upset. He's just not sure how to approach this. He doesn't want to leave and, if he's being honest, he wants to see Blaine rather badly. It won't be easy, but that's on him and Blaine is worth it. Not to mention, Kurt owes him an apology and a face to face conversation.

Rachel unknowingly complicates things by arriving literally steps ahead of Blaine.

"I am soaked," she says, hugging Kurt and dropping a kiss on his cheek. "And freezing. Is there hot cider?" She smiles. "Is there spiked hot cider?"

He chuckles. "By the gallon. I'm going to get us champagne for the countdown, though.”

"Thanks, hon," she says, and then tightens her fingers around his sleeve. "Don't be mad, but Jesse followed me back from Nathan's."

He frowns. "Uh, okay. I'm surprised. Nathan is very much Jesse's style."

She fusses. "I guess he'd had his fill."

At the bar getting their drinks he watches Jesse come up next to Rachel and lean down to say something in her ear. The way that his hand lands on the small of her back sends warning signals to Kurt's brain, but all he does is continue to watch.

And that's when he sees Blaine come in the door.

He makes his way back to Rachel, his eyes on Blaine taking off his overcoat, and just when he's about to excuse himself to go talk to Blaine, Jesse nudges into him. The look that he gives Kurt is nothing short of challenging and Kurt stops, stiffening defensively.

"Problem?" he asks.

"If you consider your inability to stick by your wife so that she didn't have to travel in a fucking blizzard just so you could avoid the brass on New Year's a problem then yeah, there's a problem," he says, eyes blazing.

"It's none of your business what plans Rachel and I made," he spits back. "And she doesn't need sleezeballs like you speaking on her behalf."

"She'd never say a damned word against you and you know it," Jesse says, so far into Kurt's space now that the champagne in Kurt's hands almost tips over. "And between you and me, we both know where your fucking attention has been, Hummel, and it hasn't been on her."

Kurt goes very still.

At that moment, whether by divine force or random chance, Blaine appears over his shoulder. He follows Jesse's line of sight—Blaine sees him, smiles, waggles a hand in greeting—and before he can help it his face goes hot and his pupils blow wide open.

"Yeah," Jesse sneers, "not so good at hiding that, now are you?"

Blaine has no idea that their conversation is hostile when he walks up to them, smiling politely. "Jesse. Kurt. Happy New Year." He smiles again at Kurt. “Can I steal you for a second?”

Kurt doesn't know how to communicate this is the worse combination of things that I could have ever possibly imagined with just hand gestures and panicked faces, so he rips himself away from Jesse's hackle-raising orbit, even though all he wants to do is put the smarmy jerk in his place.

Rachel watches this happen with concern written all over her face, and Kurt wants to twitch out of his skin when Jesse goes to her as he goes off into a corner with Blaine.

Blaine catches on quickly. "What in the world did I just walk into?”

Kurt does not want this to be the first thing that they talk about tonight, not by a long shot, but it is what it is. "I think there's something going on with Jesse and Rachel.”

"Oh, wow," Blaine says, watching them discreetly out of the corner of his eye. "Is that new?"

"Maybe not," Kurt answers.

He's feeling a thousand things at once—jealousy, anger, disgust, fear, elation, excitement. He could never blame her, not after what he's done, but he really doesn't like Jesse. And then there's Blaine, standing in front of him for the first time since they kissed each other goodbye at his hotel room door, and he wants to focus on him but everything has gone to such shit.

"I don't want to complicate things further," Blaine says, treading lightly. "But can we talk later? Or this week, some time, if tonight is not...?"

The rage simmering in Kurt's blood goes gradually cold. It's not possible to hold onto that anger when Blaine is in front of him, looking as handsome as he looks in his dark wash jeans, form-fitting sweater, and his bow tie with its pattern of colorful fireworks bursts.

"I am so sorry," he says, taking Blaine's hands in defiance of the consequences. "I should never have done what I did to you over the phone. I panicked and I regret it. I don't even know why you want to see me after what I did."

Blaine smiles, tilts his face down so that all Kurt can see is eyelashes and cheeks and those distinctive eyebrows. "I was pissed off. I still am." He plays with Kurt's fingers. "But when Elliott mentioned you were coming tonight, I changed my mind so fast. I didn't even consider what might happen. I just knew that I had to be where you were. Nothing else seemed to matter."

"I don't deserve you, not after all this," Kurt says, unable to let go of the guilt.

"I'm in love with you," Blaine replies. Kurt's heart knocks up into his throat and his lips part in surprise. "I won't let you go, Kurt, not unless you want me to." There is surety in every line of his body, in every blink, in every breath. He knows what he wants.

Somewhere behind them, a group of people crowded around a huge flat-screened television start counting down from sixty. Kurt goes rigid and pulls his hands from Blaine's. He feels like he's about to step off of the edge of cliff, no matter which direction he takes.

There's confetti already being tossed, square-shaped, colorful, shiny debris falling around them like snowflakes, catching on Blaine's hair and clothes, and Kurt flinches. Something about the whimsy of confetti around all of this drama is terribly out of place, like laughter at a funeral.

"I have to find Rachel," he blurts, stupidly, emptily, knowing that these are neither the words Blaine deserves nor the ones that reflect what Kurt wants to tell him. "After that—"

Blaine's eyes fill with tears. He shakes his head, drops Kurt's hands, and steps away.

"Kurt," Rachel shouts from across the room.

And Kurt goes.

*

Rachel is crying when she pulls away from him. Behind her in the crowd, Jesse is scowling and pacing, and Blaine is hardly a dot as he moves past everyone to get to the door. Kurt realizes with a sinking, painful clarity that he's leaving. Blaine is leaving and Rachel is crying and absolutely nothing makes sense.

And then she shouts over the jubilant, celebrating mass of people around them, "I slept with Jesse at the Weatherford's gala."

Kurt stares at her. He can't feel anything. He can't be jealous. He can't even reassure her.

His heart just walked out the door.

She watches him, tears streaming down her cheeks. "It's Blaine, isn't it?" His mouth opens. She nods. "I—I figured."

"Jesse?" he asks, heart pounding.

"I don't know, honestly," she answers, looking aside for the first time since her confession. "But I guess it doesn't matter." Her mouth twists and she starts to cry again. "Because you're sure. I can see it in your eyes." She leans in and presses her cheek to his. "I know you, Kurt Hummel." She strokes his jaw. "Papa was going to--talk to you, when they were here. It's why they were so insistant about visiting. They wanted to help us, or to--help you figure things out. But on the way home I asked him not to. We all love you so much. I couldn't bear to--to do that to you, not then. I don't think you were ready. But you're ready now. Aren't you?"

He begins to shake violently. He's numb and the tears won't form.

"You should go get him," she says, sounding miserable and relieved at the same time. "It's slippery out there."

"Rachel," he moans, throat closing up.

"You're my best friend," she says, as if that explains everything. "Now get out of here."

He has his coat in his hand before he can even remember to thank her.

*

It's fucking freezing.

He doesn't know which direction to take but figures that in this weather Blaine had most likely hailed a cab, so he heads in the direction of the nearest busy intersection, shrugging his jacket and gloves and scarf on as he goes. He almost kills himself twice slipping on ice, and again crossing the street against traffic, panic making him stupid and yet simultaneously hyper-aware of every gust of wind that finds the gaps in his outerwear.

He doesn't know what he's going to say. He can hardly feel. He just left his wife for the man who was supposed to have helped him fix his relationship with her. It feels like something out of an awful Lifetime movie and yet here they all are, and he has dirty sidewalk slush in his Armani boots and rocks in his stomach.

What are the odds of finding Blaine right now?

It's New Year's Eve in New York City; the streets are overflowing with people even though they are nowhere near Time's Square and the insanity that comes with this holiday and that spot, and Blaine is not tall, and had been wearing a dark overcoat.

Then again there had only been a few minutes in between their exits, and Blaine may be taking it slow along the icy sidewalks, so Kurt just walks as fast as he safely can, squinting desperately at the throngs of people around him until his eyes water and burn from the cold.

When it finally happens, it's a split second window of time, a fractured moment of base terror, because Blaine is almost entirely inside the cab that he's hailed and Kurt isn't close enough to be heard or seen over the crowds. So he yells. He doesn't think about how crazy it is to start screaming someone's name over the heads of hundreds of half-drunk, celebratory New Yorkers and tourists. He doesn't care if he breaks a leg getting across the slick concrete and asphalt beneath his feet. He just moves and keeps shouting Blaine's name.

He gets to the cab just as Blaine is closing the door behind him. The door goes still and then opens again, and Kurt is so relieved that he almost starts crying. It's more relief than tears, more chest hitching than sobs, but everything is spilling out at once, all of the numbness that he felt staring down at Rachel's tear-streaked face abandoning him.

"What are you doing out here?" Blaine asks, waving at driver. "Sorry," he says, "here, for your trouble," tipping the man. “Happy holidays.”

They move onto the sidewalk, then away from the crowds. By the time they find a relatively quiet place to stop, Kurt is sweating nervously under his layers. He tries to catch his breath.

"I made it really easy for you back there," Blaine says, each word slow and cool, his eyes watering and narrowed in pain.

After a lifetime of speaking words for a living, Kurt finds that they are failing him here and now. He doesn't deserve another chance but he takes it all the same, reaches up and slides his fingers around Blaine's jaw, stroking freezing thumbs over equally freezing lips and feeling his heart pound sickeningly fast in his chest.

"Please don't do this to me tonight," Blaine says, eyes fluttering closed, two lines of tears running down his cheeks to wet Kurt's fingers.

"I love you," Kurt says, searching Blaine's eyes with his. "Rachel—she let me go.”

"What?" Blaine asks, cheeks going blotchy.

"She suspected. She—her and Jesse, too. But mostly she just—she knew." The words feel dumb, badly connected. He doesn't even know if he's making sense anymore. "I'm scared and I keep messing this up but I'm here, I'm here and I'm yours if you want me."

He can see Blaine's throat visibly tighten, can see the emotion steal upwards across his face, draw his cheeks and jaw and forehead tight, knows that he's going to start crying and when he does Kurt draws him closer, presses his lips to Blaine's in a begging, tentative gesture. It's his second tear-soaked kiss of the night. The thought makes him feel hysterical and he swallows a nervous laugh, and then Blaine's arms are around his neck and Blaine's mouth is moving against his.

"Of course I," and Blaine chokes there, a sob twisting sideways in his throat, and his shoulders convulse, "of course I want you, I want—" Another hitch and he folds inward, tucking his face against Kurt's neck. "I thought I'd lost you."

Kurt has his arms around Blaine in the space of a heartbeat, and he turns his face up at the snow falling all around them, lets the cold kiss of flakes dissolve against the warmth on his cheeks. It feels like benediction, like a grant of relief that he didn't think he would ever be worthy of.

"You saved me, you know that?" he whispers, tangling his fingers in Blaine's hair. It's wet from snow and coming apart in clumps from the gel, so familiar, so Blaine. "Want to be here with you. Want to be home with you. Want to wake up next to you, and eat dinner with you, and argue about the credit card bill with you, and figure out how to make you forgive me every time we fight—"

Blaine holds him tighter, laughing and crying at the same time. "You'll win. You'll woo me with words."

"Want to learn how to make you scream in bed," he continues, pressing a kiss to Blaine's skin with every pause, "want to hold your hand in Central Park and meet your brother and brag to all my friends that I've bagged a doctor until you get mad at me for it even though you know I'm joking." He takes Blaine's face in his hands. "Want to know you and love you. Please? Please forgive me, please let me be yours?"

"Yes," Blaine answers, laughing through the kisses that he drops all over Kurt's cheeks and lips and jaw, as if it's the only word left to say, the only word that matters as the snow falls thickly around them. "Yes, yes, yes."