Sometimes
I don’t want to show these poems
to anyone, sometimes
I want to remain hidden, deep in the coals
with the one who pulls the stars
through a telescope’s glass, the one who listens
for the click of the lock, the one
who kisses softly a woman’s eyes.

-- Jay Leeming

reblogs, babble, occasional fiction.


Text

Mar 6, 2013
@ 11:23 pm
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FIC: Another Chance To Turn It All Around (Kurt/Blaine, 1/1)

"You’re going out to dinner," Finn says, all disbelief, but Blaine doesn’t pay him any attention, keeps looking at Kurt looking back at him, and presses on: "I also thought it would be nice to catch up with my best buddy. You know, since we haven’t really gotten much of a chance to talk this week.”

"No, we definitely haven’t done a lot of talking,” Kurt murmurs, low and insinuating.

"You’re going on a dinner date! Am I the only one who sees this? Am I going crazy?"

"Finn, shut up," Kurt says.

Post 4x14, “I Do.” Blaine takes Kurt on a Very Platonic Outing.

(also on LJ, on AO3)

When Blaine swings back around to the front—sans Tina this time, although somehow he doesn’t think she’s that disappointed about having to leave with Mike instead—Kurt is already there by the lockers, deep in conversation with a very consternated-looking Finn. “—the last time, Finn, it’s just a platonic outing,” he’s saying. “Between two friends. I don’t know why you’re having so much trouble with this.”

Finn narrows his eyes. “You went out on a ‘platonic outing’ yesterday!”

"We did." Kurt has his affectedly-patient voice on, the one that’s pretty much reserved for Finn and Blaine when Blaine is enthusing Katy Perry. "With Tina. So unless you’re trying to suggest we had wild and raunchy threesome sex in the back of the movie theater—”

They had not, technically, had sex in the theater, although Kurt’s fingers idly toying with the button on Blaine’s fly for half the last movie—Blaine had whipped his head around and he’d just been staring straight ahead, to all appearances intent on Elizabeth Berkley’s face—had made it a pretty near thing. (Tina had not been involved at any point. Thank god.) Still, Blaine is pretty impressed by Kurt’s ability to keep a straight face through this.

"Anyway," Kurt continues, "Blaine got us last-minute tickets to the community playhouse production of Kiss Me, Kate, and you know I never pass up an opportunity to judge low-rent theater.”

"I guess," Finn says, still looking distinctly unconvinced, which Blaine takes as his cue to make his entrance, stepping up behind Kurt.

"Hey, handsome," he says, light and teasing, which is maybe pushing it, but Kurt turns back to look at him with an expression that is more indulgent than anything else, his mouth twitching.

"Hey, yourself," he says. "We were just talking about you."

Finn’s face flits from ‘math class’ confused to ‘Rachel Berry’ confused in the blink of an eye, and Blaine bites the inside of his cheek so as not to laugh.

"So I was thinking," he continues quickly, deep breath, just go for it, ”if we leave now we still have time to catch an early dinner, if you don’t mind? There’s a Vietnamese place that just opened up and it’s—well, it’s not Breadstix.”

He puts on his most charming smile. Unfortunately his most charming smile has never had the desired effect on Kurt, who raises one eyebrow eloquently, as if to say, oh, I know exactly what you’re trying to do, Anderson. “‘Not Breadstix,’ hmm? That’s some compliment.”

"You’re going out to dinner," Finn says, all disbelief, but Blaine doesn’t pay him any attention, keeps looking at Kurt looking back at him, and presses on: "I also thought it would be nice to catch up with my best buddy. You know, since we haven’t really gotten much of a chance to talk this week.”

"No, we definitely haven’t done a lot of talking," Kurt murmurs, low and insinuating.

"You’re going on a dinner date! Am I the only one who sees this? Am I going crazy?"

"Finn, shut up," Kurt says, without looking away from Blaine. He tilts his chin up slightly. "Anyway, Blaine, I’d love to go to dinner with my best friend, of course. Let’s head off, shall we?”

And he strides away, without waiting for a response. Finn whips his head back around to look at Blaine. “Okay, seriously, though,” he says. “What are you guys even doing?

Which is the operative question, isn’t it. “Uh. I’m—being dastardly and seductive?” he offers hopefully.

Finn doesn’t look very impressed. Blaine sighs, smooths down his hair with one hand. “I’ll tell you when I figure it out.”

 

In the end, he decides he’s just going to play it by ear.

"After you, pal," he says at the door, motioning Kurt in with an exaggerated sweep of the arm, and Kurt snorts.

"Oh, no, pal, after you. I insist."

They lock eyes for a long moment—beatific smile for beatific smile—but Kurt raises his chin imperiously, and Blaine has never been good at refusing him.

Anyway, it totally works out, because going through first means he gets to pull out Kurt’s chair for him. Kurt’s gaze swivels slowly from his face to the chair and back again, and his expression is inscrutable when he says, “I see we’re feeling very gallant today.”

"I just," and he is actually stammering, god, he is so bad at this, “you know, I think people should do nice things for—my best friend. All the time. Because he’s really great.”

Kurt turns his head aside at that, tucking away a smile, and Blaine’s heart jolts, because that’s a smile he knows very well, one he hadn’t been sure he’d ever see again.

Kurt rolls his shoulders back. “While that’s an admirable sentiment—” he says, after a moment, eyes on the tablecloth, “not to mention incredibly flattering, you might want to tone it down a little.”

He swallows. “Yeah,” he says, “yeah, okay,” and he tries really hard not to grin as he takes his own seat.

Dinner passes fairly uneventfully after that—Kurt makes his trademark judging face all the way through the menu, and tries his best to deny it when Blaine points it out, and Blaine had not known, until that exact moment, how much he’d missed this. They really do have a lot to catch up on (texts really don’t cut it sometimes). At one point, Blaine is in the middle of talking about his college plans—“and then Stanford and Columbia, you know, for the parents,” and Kurt sort of harrumphs into his drink, eyeing it with distinct disdain.

Blaine quirks a smile, despite himself. “What?”

"Well, you know how I feel about your parents," Kurt says, eyebrows halfway to his hair, and it’s gratifying, but—he looks away.

"They’ll get over it," he says, with as much confidence as he can muster. "They’ll have to," and he’s still eyeing the centerpiece on the table to the left, which is why he misses it when Kurt slides his hand over to land lightly on top of Blaine’s, the fingers squeezing. When he looks back, Kurt’s just clutching his drink, although the look in his eyes is clear and gentle.

"—anyway," Blaine says after a moment, clearing his throat, "we’ve been talking about me for way too long," and he changes the subject.

(He spends the rest of the meal rubbing the back of his hand idly, though. It’s—nice.)

 

"So tell me this isn’t a date," he says, as they’re standing in line for the tickets, and Kurt looks down, looks up, looks out toward the parking lot.

"It’s not a date," he says, and he might actually be trying not to smile. "We went out like this all the time junior year."

"Junior year when you were crushing on me?" Blaine asks, incredulously.

Kurt twirls a finger. “Junior year when you were fantasizing about discounts at the Gap.”

Blaine chokes in a way that’s only a little outraged, he swears, and then it’s their turn at the window, and he has to fumble in his pocket for his wallet. (The lady at the window rolls her eyes at them.) He takes the tickets, a minute later, and he takes a deep breath, and as he’s passing one over to Kurt he says, “I was totally into you then, you know.”

Kurt’s head snaps up as quickly as the rest of him stills.

"Just like I’m in love with you now," he adds, and watches the twitch at the corner of Kurt’s open mouth for a moment, his slow and shuttered blink, before concluding, "No homo."

He twists away, striding toward the doors of the theater, to Kurt’s startled laugh.

 

"I just want you to know," Blaine murmurs, in between trailing kisses down Kurt’s hip, "that I understand," this one to the crease of his thigh, lower, lower, ”this is a strictly platonic arrangement.”

He’s here, spread out on Blaine’s bed and heartbreakingly gorgeous, for the first time in months, and Blaine is seriously so glad his parents are out of town this weekend. It had been disconcertingly easy, to turn to Kurt and casually mention this fact as they were idling in the driveway; as disconcertingly easy as it had been impossibly hard back a year and a half ago, when they were doing this for the first (second, third) time. When promising forever had felt like the simplest thing, and saying I want you inside me anything but.

Everything is a little backwards, now. He’s just trying to keep up.

Now, in the present moment, Kurt throws his head back and groans—“god, Blaine—” and Blaine hums against his skin, flicking out with his tongue. “Just friends giving one another a hand,” he murmurs, half against the shaft of Kurt’s cock. “In fact—”

Kurt’s eyes fly open. “Blaine,” he says, a caution that Blaine blithely ignores.

"—you might even call it—"

Blaine Devon Anderson, if this is going where I think it’s going—”

"—a brojob," Blaine finishes triumphantly, and then he can’t say anything more, because in the next instant Kurt has tackled him to the bed, swift as light, and is shrieking, "What is wrong with you?

It is, after all, kind of hard to talk when you’re laughing so hard you can’t breathe.

Kurt smacks him in the shoulder. “What is wrong with you—you idiot—” But he’s laughing too, shaking with it even as he does his best scowl down at Blaine. “You are a ruiner of moments,” he pronounces, and it would be more convincing if he didn’t dissolve into giggles halfway through.

Blaine does his best to rearrange his features into an expression that isn’t about to suffocate. ”I’m sorry,” he says, looking imploringly up at Kurt. “Let me make it up to you?” He waggles his eyebrows.

Kurt just sniffs. “Oh, no.” And he lowers himself down, nose-to-nose with Blaine, elbows on either side of his head. “You are not allowed to drive anymore. Not after that. Your sex van license has been revoked.

Blaine squeezes his eyes shut. “That’s a terrible metaphor.”

"Oh, like you can talk about terrible," Kurt says, sliding down, cool and purposeful, breath warm against Blaine’s skin, and—well, it doesn’t take them very long to get back on track after that.

 

"You’re staring," Kurt murmurs drowsily from where he’s half-nestled against Blaine’s shoulder. Blaine’s always thought he was at his most beautiful like this, in the afterglow, loose and relaxed and open, the tension all leached out of his shoulders and every line of his face speaking quiet contentment.

He slides an arm around Kurt’s shoulders without even thinking about it, but Kurt just sighs and shifts closer. “Am not,” he murmurs back, flicking at a stray strand of Kurt’s hair. (He is. He absolutely is.)

Kurt flicks back. “Are too. And you wear too much hair gel.”

"You wouldn’t like me without my hair gel."

"I liked you just fine without it at prom," he says softly, reaches back up and tugs. Blaine tilts his head into it.

"Well," he says, "that was definitely a one-time thing."

Kurt sniffs. “I’ll get you again someday. You and your voluminous curls can’t hide from me forever, Blaine Anderson.”

He raises his hands—well, his free hand, the other one’s kind of wedged into the bed by Kurt. “No way. I will take this rat’s nest to my grave if I have to.”

"When we’re living together—"

"I’ll get up before dawn every morning to put my gel in! I’ll wear it to bed every night."

Kurt sits up, shoving at him. “Oh my god, Blaine, you will not. That’s disgusting.”

"I will, I swear!" he says. "You just watch."

"You will not! No hair gel before bed. I’ll put it in the prenup if I have to—"

It doesn’t really register to Blaine until a second after Kurt freezes, mouth clamping shut on a half-sucked-in breath. This is forever, and it is—the line Kurt, not Blaine, has crossed—the one line that’s too far.

Blaine pushes himself onto his elbows, slowly, heart hammering in his chest, slowly pushes himself upright, and Kurt hasn’t moved an inch, is still staring blankly back at Blaine. His mouth fumbles around the right words. “Tell me—”

"—we’re just friends," Kurt finishes, whisper-thin, his eyes wide and luminous. He leans forward, or Blaine does, or they both do, millimeter by millimeter until they’re touching, forehead to forehead, until the rattle of his unsteady breathing is the only thing in Blaine’s ears.

They don’t kiss. Blaine holds in a breath, watching Kurt’s eyes slide shut impossibly slow, and waits, and waits.

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