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During the month leading up to finals, Blaine hasn’t been able to stop thinking about all the things he would rather be doing. It was a curse on this attention span, an anxiety-induced hindrance.
He even spent a hefty length of time ignoring a major ten-page paper that’d been due the next day in favor a making a list of funner activities, joyful scenes of sunny days filling his mind.
Writing all those ideas down invigorated him, though. Pumped him up for the rest of his all-nighter, because he had a goal now: doing whatever it took to get through finals so that he could start marking things off that list.
Going back to Ohio to see his mom and and Kurt’s parents was definitely on there. Flying out to L.A. to visit Cooper even got a mention. But there were little things too, like walking through Central Park and having a relaxed dinner at a nice restaurant and going out to a show.
In the margin of the paper, he drew a brace encompassing all the bullet point and added “with Kurt” at the tip of it. Because there is nothing more Blaine wanted than to spend time with Kurt again.
And yet.
Maybe it’s because it’s the first day off, Blaine thinks, the thought a distant, idle echo of his voice in the sluggish haze of his brain.
The first day off of finals, and all he can do is stare out the window at the brilliant, sunny New York afternoon from the living room couch.
He hasn’t moved since he plopped down after lunch (which was technically breakfast since he and Kurt didn’t get out of bed until twelve-thirty). If he got up, there would surely be a Blaine-shaped dent, marking where he’d been wedged in the corner of the right armrest and the couch’s back.
A gray bird flies by the window, reminding him of all the nature he could be out experiencing.
He groans, thinks, Why am I so lazy?
He squirms a bit, and instantly remembers part of the reason why he hasn’t moved from his spot. From the opposite side of the couch, Kurt’s legs stretch across the cushions, crossed at the calves and bent over Blaine’s own. Their weight has effectively numbed all feeling from Blaine’s feet up to his mid-thighs; the movement sent a prickly feeling through those parts.
Even if he hasn’t accomplished anything on the list yet, at least he’s getting to spend time with Kurt. It’d been such a rare occurrence when he was buried under assignments and study guides.
Blaine looks at Kurt, at his expressionless face as he stares down at the magazine in his lap, intent like he’s reading though Blaine isn’t sure if he’s turned the page since he opened it. He has his right arm propped up on the back of the couch, his hand tangled in his own hair like an absent placement, and the other down by his side, hand resting on hem of Blaine’s gray sleep pants where they’re riding up his ankle.
His wedding band glimmers in the light, and Blaine smiles, wide. It’s such an ordinary accessory, but with so much meaning, it still takes his breath away even after these few months.
All he wants to do is lean over and kiss Kurt, his best friend, his husband.
And yet.
Oh, and yet.
I don’t even have enough motivation to kiss you, Blaine thinks, watching the flat line of Kurt’s mouth. I can do nothing today.
Then, as clearly as if he’d spoken aloud, Kurt’s voice says, Me neither.
Blaine blinks, thinks he may have missed a moment or two where he’d said his thoughts allowed or where Kurt had opened his mouth.
Even if he feels like he’s floating on an unreal cloud of time spent on nothing and the silence of their apartment, Blaine knows he is awake.
Did you just read my mind? he thinks.
(If he’s being honest, it’s not the first time he’s been paranoid about this sort of thing. He imagines everyone wonders who’s hearing their thoughts at one time or another; tweets talking about it with thousands of favorites and retweets can’t be wrong.
He’s just—never heard Kurt’s voice that clearly in his mind before.
And he answered him.
And Blaine heard him.)
I think so, Kurt’s voice says back. His eyes raise from his magazine he might be reading to meet Blaine’s. And I think you read mine, too.
Squeeze my leg if this is happening, Blaine says.
He figures it’d be healthy (and sane) to put it to a test. Because there is nothing normal about sudden telepathy, even if Blaine’s believed they’ve always had a soulmate thing going on between them.
But really, there’s just no way. Kurt must have sensed Blaine staring at him like he is, must be thinking his husband is watching him like a serial killer or something (because Blaine doesn’t know what his face looks like but it feels very, very focused, maybe too focused) rather than hearing Blaine’s own thoughts and thinking of replies to them-
Steadily, so slow that it must be intentional, Kurt’s hand flexes on Blaine’s ankle, going from a light rest to a grip that makes the feeling-staticky nerves in his leg shoot off weak sparks.
Blaine’s eyes widen. Oh my god, this is happening.
Oh my god, Kurt’s voice says—or, rather, thinks, We have to tell someone.
And yet.
Neither move. Neither reach for their phones or jump up from the couch. Another gray bird flies by the window, and watching it zip past is enough to tucker Blaine out.
The day fades, the pages of Kurt’s magazine never turn, the list never gets started, and Blaine falls asleep in his Blaine-shaped dent on the living room couch.
All in all, a rather uneventful day.