I wrote this to make this Blaine stop bugging me. He had a lot to say…
Title: Two Roads Diverged
Fandom/Pairing: Glee, Kurt/Blaine
Rating: NC-17 for m/m sex
Word Count: 2,661
Author’s notes: The working title of this story was: MAI HEADCANONS. LET ME SHOW YOU THEM.
Gratitudes: this fic was midwifed by AubreyLi, who unfolded her mind like a beautiful, elegant puzzle-box and let me peek therein, and made things so much deeper and better.
He was comfortable enough now—more or less—that he could stay naked afterwards, lounging in Blaine’s soft bed with all the sheets and covers tumbled carelessly onto the floor. It was cooling sweat and gradually-slowing heartbeats, and linked hands because it was too hot to touch anywhere else, and the smell of sweat and come and latex rich in the air—a smell that he was secretly starting to love. It was the slow drowse of time before responsibility and caution returned to drag them back to real life, it was Blaine’s pulse under his fingertips, and it was his own body slowly coming down from the revelation of what he could do with it, what they could do together.
Blaine never drowsed. Blaine watched him. Every moment, for however long Kurt was naked and the covers were gone, Blaine watched him. Not intensely, and not shyly, not even lustfully, just—rapt. Eyes that were full of him. Eyes that couldn’t get enough of him.
At first it had been nerve-racking. Now it was… gratifying. And still nerve-racking. And it made him wonder.
He wondered, but he didn’t ask. Until the day that he did.
“Why did it take you so long?”
Blaine blinked slowly. “Why did what take me so long?”
Kurt swallowed and shifted his legs, ignoring the faint twinge-and-throb from his ass. “Why did it take you so long to see me… the way you see me now?”
Blaine reached out and touched his cheek, one finger tracing over the curve, close to his ear. “It didn’t.”
Kurt blinked. “Um. Actually, it did—it’s not like I’m going to forget the Great Unrequited Crush of 2010-11, Blaine—”
Blaine closed his eyes. “It wasn’t. Unrequited.”
He’d asked the question without knowing he was going to do so—casually, he’d asked it casually—but he didn’t feel very casual now. “I… Blaine. You—”
“You know that I got hurt.” Blaine’s eyes were still closed, but the fingers laced with Kurt’s twitched a little. “That I got beat up.”
It was such a non-sequitur that Kurt felt dizzy for a moment, but that topic sobered him, as it always did. “Yes.”
“What you don’t know is that before that—before it happened, my dad—” Blaine stopped, swallowed. “In his ongoing campaign for a straight son, I guess—he adopted a new strategy of alternating his usual intense disapproval with this… this compassionate-sounding, ‘I just don’t want your life to be hard, I don’t want you to get hurt, I don’t want your life to suck’ line that was…”
Kurt’s free hand curled against his own chest, pressing there. “Blaine—”
“That was hard to take,” Blaine continued, his voice soft, his eyes open, now, staring at the ceiling. He seemed suddenly very far away. “It was hard to work against, hard to argue with.”
Kurt squeezed his hand, gently.
“The disapproval hurt, of course, but it wasn’t… it’s not as hard to deal with as that other thing. But I was determined, determined that he was wrong, that my life wouldn’t suck—I was trying, I was… trying.” He took a deep breath. “Then the dance, and what happened after, and—and my life sucked. For a while.”
Blaine blinked at the ceiling. He was pale. He’d been so flushed, earlier, but he was pale now. “It was while I was healing that I came up with the answer.”
“The answer? To what?”
“To the rest of my life.” Blaine breathed deep again, as if he were steeling himself. “I would… in high school, I’d have boyfriends. One or two. Discreet love-affairs; enough to do away with my virginity so I wouldn’t be some kind of freak when I got to college—and then, in college, I’d meet James.”
Kurt’s throat was dry. Perfectly dry. “James?”
“In my head, his name was always James,” Blaine said, and he let go of Kurt’s fingers to rub both hands over his face. “I’d be pre-law. He’d be pre-med. We’d be friends, good friends—and then, slowly, more.” Blaine pressed his palms into his eyes. “Slowly, because neither one of us would be sure—about… about the other, but then yes, and then college and stealing every moment we could get together.”
Kurt couldn’t speak.
“After school was done we’d both work hard, new careers and all that, and we’d live together—just two young career men, two bachelors sharing expenses—”
“Blaine—” his voice was cracked.
“Kurt,” Blaine said, and finally looked at him—looked at him with red, raw-looking eyes and his normally vibrant face so carefully set. “I’ve wanted… I wanted to tell you. But I can stop, if you… I can stop.”
“No,” Kurt managed, although he really didn’t know if he could stand to hear another word. “Go ahead.”
To his surprise Blaine curled up against his chest, his face ducked low against Kurt’s clavicle. “After a few years, we’d get a house,” Blaine said, his voice low, heavy. “A small house, a first house. We’d get a house and a Labrador retriever we rescued from the pound, who we’d call Cooper—that would be James’ choice, ribbing me about my crush on—”
“Anderson Cooper,” Kurt finished for him, and took a deep breath. “You put some serious thought into this.”
“It was all I thought about,” Blaine said softly. “For a long time, it was all I thought about. I thought about how we’d go running together through our neighborhood, James and Cooper and I, and about how we’d have friends over for nice dinners on the weekends—and about how everyone who saw us, everyone who met us, would just think—‘what nice, polite, well-groomed young men’—and would never think anything else.”
Kurt closed his eyes. Blaine found his hand again and squeezed it. “Because we’d both look straight, and act straight, and even my father would be able to stand it, eventually—and our lives wouldn’t suck and they wouldn’t be hard, and I wouldn’t have to spend every goddamn minute of my life wondering if someone was going to kick me in the face for… for being who I am.”
Kurt held on. He breathed when Blaine breathed, and petted Blaine’s damp hair, and when it wasn’t quite close enough he hooked his bare leg around Blaine’s thigh and settled, rocking just the smallest, tiniest bit.
“You were hurt, that first day,” Blaine said after a while, his voice low and rough-sounding. “You were so… wounded, so hurt, and so beautiful, I… right away, I wanted to be your hero, wanted to be some kind of… white knight for you.” Blaine reached up without looking, his face still pressed hard against Kurt’s chest, and slid his hand up the side of Kurt’s neck, holding there. “You were also… so dangerous.”
Kurt blinked, and his hand froze on the curve of Blaine’s skull. “Dangerous?”
“So dangerous,” Blaine said, his voice drifting, ragged. “Dangerous to me. In ways I couldn’t even really understand—I just knew.” He squeezed Kurt’s neck. “I wanted to save you. You were… so real, hyper-real, the realest person I’d ever seen. I wanted to save you and I wanted you to… to need me—but I didn’t want to need you. So I had to keep you close, but far away. I texted you. Courage. When what I really wanted to say was—” His voice cracked a little. “How can you be so brave?”
Blaine pulled back and Kurt let him go, trailing half-numb, tingling fingertips over his bare, muscular shoulder. “Blaine.”
Blaine had one hand over his own eyes, and his face looked pained. “When I couldn’t stop thinking about you, I kept telling myself that it was because you were going through the same thing that I’d gone through—that was all.” He swallowed, his throat working. “I’m very persuasive; I believed it for a long, long time.”
It was starting to sink in, just a little. Blaine meant it. It was obvious that Blaine meant it. There was a sudden moment of feeling out of his depth in dark water, of groping for a solid place to set his feet, and finding none. “So,” Kurt said carefully, his words faint in his own ears. “When it changed, when that finally changed—”
“I still think,” Blaine said slowly, sliding his hand away from his closed eyes and finding Kurt’s hand without looking, entwining their fingers together. “I think it happened because you were singing about the pain you felt. When you’re in pain, I tend to have… an extreme response.”
“I have to fix it—I have to try. But there was no… nothing I could do, no way I could make it better for you, so it was like I checked out, like the part of me that was capable of keeping you at a distance… checked out. You chased it away, the pain in your voice chased it away, and it was like losing my skin, like the world shifted from black and white to color, like suddenly being n-naked, naked but not… ashamed.”
Blaine’s breathing had caught, sped up, and caught again as he spoke, and Kurt went bonelessly onto his back when Blaine rolled on top of him, his eyes so dark and wide and wet that it was impossible to look away. “And it was then—that moment—that I…” he broke off, reaching down for Kurt’s cock, stroking him softly. Kurt gasped. “I looked at the life I’d picked out for myself—only it didn’t look like happiness anymore. It looked like a lie.” A gentle squeeze, and Kurt bit his lip. “It was a lie. I had taken myself and carved myself up—I did it ruthlessly, with no hesitation at all—and then took only certain parts and stitched them back together, and decided to pretend they were a whole person…”
“No wonder I thought you were dangerous, Kurt.” Blaine kissed him, his mouth wet and cool and faintly metallic, like tears. “You are dangerous. I’ve loved you from the first minute I met you—from the first time I looked into your eyes. I’ve loved you… for so long—”
Kurt’s eyes were burning, but he couldn’t blink, couldn’t close them, couldn’t look away. Not even when Blaine kissed him again, eye-to-eye and softly hungry and… vulnerable, he didn’t think he’d ever sensed such vulnerability in Blaine, and it did something to him, striking home low in his belly.
“Fuck me, Kurt,” Blaine breathed against his lips. “Love me. Fuck me. Can you…?”
He could. He needed to. He slid Blaine off him and left him on his belly, moaning and groping for him when he went for the lube and a condom. He worked quickly—which wasn’t like him, which wasn’t like them, they were always so careful—but this wasn’t about being careful, it was about getting past careful, so he took Blaine’s moans and shudders as cues and opened him up with fast, smooth strokes of his fingers, panting hard and pushing for more as soon as Blaine let him in.
Inside, Blaine was hot—hot, and tighter than he’d ever been, even the first time. Kurt pulled Blaine up to his knees and worked into him from behind, squeezing Blaine’s hips and holding him still. He hadn’t done enough with his fingers—but Blaine spread and bucked and tried to take more of him anyway, the muscles in his back rolling like waves, moaning his name and slurring his way through half-articulated pleas for more. Kurt held tight and made Blaine take him, sweat springing out on his skin and everything so hot, wet, needful.
Once they were together he pulled back, almost all the way out, then held tight and yanked Blaine back hard onto his cock—Blaine’s spine buckled and his shoulders sagged and he came, shaking, his ass clenching rhythmically, legs twitching while he gasped and cried out.
Kurt didn’t stop moving. Blaine didn’t stop moaning. Blaine was easy to move, now, joints loose and muscles lax, a sweet silky-skinned weight in his hands. Kurt fucked him gently, then harder, and finally so hard that he had Blaine half-pinned against the headboard, and both of them were gasping and drenched and working for it. Every time he thought he couldn’t go on, that he either had to come or go crazy, he shoved that down and pushed it right into making Blaine take more, giving him everything, his own hips stuttering and twisting while his head lolled on his neck, holding back, squeezing tight, delirious.
He slowed down when he felt Blaine getting ready to come again, thrusting slower but harder, each stroke separate and distinct while Blaine clawed the headboard and spread his legs wider and made soft, choked-off noises that Kurt felt in his stomach, in his balls, in the unbearable ache of need in his cock.
“Come, Blaine,” he managed—and he felt Blaine give it up, every muscle clenching and fluttering and Kurt finally-finally-finally closed his eyes and cried out and let go himself, digging his fingers into Blaine’s hips and coming in him with ragged, desperate thrusts while the entire world slipped away and he curved down and pressed his sweaty forehead between Blaine’s sweaty shoulders, and groaned like something in him was broken.
Afterwards he couldn’t get close enough, rolling Blaine over gently and gathering him up, kissing him deeply and stroking Blaine’s arms where they were looped around his neck. Blaine’s eyes were wet and his face was wet, and everything seemed soft and hazy and very, very precious. They were quiet for a long time, just kissing, being close. Kurt breathed, and breathed, deeper than usual because there was something going on in his chest—not a presence but an absence, the vanishing of a tiny, stinging wound he hadn’t even really noticed until it was suddenly gone.
“Thank you for listening,” Blaine said at last, stroking his back. “And for… for loving me.”
Kurt leaned in, rubbing their noses together softly. “Just so you know, I plan to get a Bichon-Frise. I’m naming her Zsa-Zsa.”
Blaine closed his eyes, sighing, grinning. “That’s… wonderful, Kurt. Zsa-Zsa. I’m sure I’ll love her.”
“Him,” Kurt said primly, and then they were both laughing, laughing and kissing and hanging onto each other, hanging onto what they had.
Author’s Endnotes: this was a strange story to write, but it was one of those things that’s been nipping my heels forever, and wouldn’t go away until I gave in and wrote the damn thing. Thank you for keeping me company while I exorcised this particular little demon.
And finally, an apologia: I work one full-time job with some overtime, and a second part-time job that sometimes expands to full-time, plus I run a household, so even though I don’t sleep much I never have enough time to keep up with stuff. The bits of free time I have are spent scribbling, so I’m the world’s worst at responding to comments. I feel horribly guilty about this because your comments keep me going; I take refuge in them when I’m struggling to find the right words, and they are affirming and motivating and always serve to remind me that while I write for myself, I am not alone. So thank you so very, very much for your support, and for the honor of sharing this corner of fandom with you. You are my family, and my home.
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