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Competitive Hangover

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Sebastian has no good reason to be at the Lima Bean.

If he wanted good coffee, he would make it at home, splashing Courvoisier into the bottom of his mug before pouring in the coffee (single-origin from Guatemala, shipped once a week to their house directly after roasting). Then he would drip heavy cream over the back of a spoon onto the surface. He wouldn’t stir it in. Some of it would slowly descend into his coffee, turning it  tones of chocolate and caramel; but most of it would float at the top, serving as a sweet filter for the bitter-warm liquid to flow through as it found its way to his tongue.

If he wanted sex, he would be in the Short North of Columbus, or driving to a pre–winter-term party at Oberlin, or winking at a kid with a fake I.D. at Scandals. He might even have stayed for the morning-after party from last night’s New Year’s celebration. (He fled that particular shindig several hours ago, after waking up with his face nuzzled pathetically into the naked chest of last night’s lay.)

He wouldn’t be sitting in a podunk coffeeshop in podunk Lima nursing a vodka-fueled hangover with northwest Ohio’s worst coffee, alternately skimming Le Monde on his phone and letting the Sudoku puzzle in today’s Columbus Dispatch make a mockery of him.

And yet, he’s here. Waiting. Hoping, even – if Sebastian can ever be said to do something as naive as hope – that Blaine and Kurt will eventually show up and entertain him.

He’ll blame it on the tedium of this winter break. He ought to be in Paris or the Virgin Islands or Rio. But it’s been a bad few years for real estate so he’s stuck in Ohio instead, lurking in Lima’s worst coffee shop on the off-chance that he might run into someone who is clearly not going to sleep with him any time soon, and therefore has bad judgment and isn’t worth his time.

Because while Sebastian enjoys the chase sometimes, it’s not the best part of sex for him. The best part of sex is, well, sex. And the best way to get sex is to quickly shop around until you find someone who’s offering what you want, and who wants what you’re offering.

He thought that’s what he was getting the first time he met Blaine. He’s already figured out from what the other Warblers said that Blaine was both eager to please and easy to please – Sebastian’s favorite type. But if Blaine’s reputation hadn’t preceded him, he still would have been able to figure it out from the way he carried himself and the way he dressed: his sockless loafers in late fall, jaunty bowtie, and waist-accentuating cardigan screaming “Pay attention to me!” while the greyness of his fabrics and his ruthlessly controlled hair murmured “I want to blend in.”

It should have been easy from there. Sebastian gave his usual routine, and Blaine blushed and batted his eyelashes and protested that he had a boyfriend but didn’t put an end to the conversation.

Boyfriends hardly ever do.

Flirting with Blaine made Sebastian feel sexy and powerful. Still, Sebastian would have given it up after a few tries with no lay if Kurt had never entered the picture. There are lots of guys who can make Sebastian feel sexy and powerful.

Flirting with Blaine in front of Kurt is an entirely different, and more seductive, creature. Sebastian feels alive and dangerous, and on the edge of being in danger himself.

It sends a thrill through Sebastian’s sternum every time Kurt glares at him, every time his eyes go from ice to fire. Each insult Kurt flings at him goes down like cognac – a sharp, piercing burn followed by a glow that radiates from his center until his fingers and toes feels its warmth.

And so Sebastian’s sitting in the Lima Bean on New Year’s Day, hoping like a lovesick middle schooler that Blaine and Kurt will add some fire to a freezing winter afternoon.

Sebastian’s about to stab his pen into his cranberry-orange scone (that was a really, really stupid Sudoku move)when Blaine finally steps into the shop – or rather, Kurt strides in, Blaine following half a step behind like a loyal and well-trained dog.

Sebastian watches surreptitiously as they walk up to the counter. He could go up to them now, before they’ve even taken off their coats, but then they might leave. They’re less likely to do that once they’re sitting down with their drinks.

So Sebastian sips slowly at his coffee as they wait for their orders and then chat domestically at the sugar-and-creamer station. When they make their way over to the loveseat (Sebastian rolls his eyes; of course they would sit in the loveseat) and start taking off their coats (Kurt helps Blaine with his first, obviously trying to assert that he’s a man since no one can tell by looking), Sebastian slips his phone into his jacket pocket and starts walking toward them.

They still don’t see him, but of course they wouldn’t. They are the stars in each other’s eyes and he is a piece of cosmic dust. Kurt, still playing at being the gentleman, helps Blaine down onto the loveseat, holding his hands and Blaine lowers himself oh-so-slowly, until Blaine makes contact with the cushion and winces slightly and – oh. He blushes up at Kurt like that pain is the sweetest thing in the world.

The words Sebastian spoke to Blaine the other day immediately stab his brain: “Kurt will never give you what you need. He’ll always be gentle, and reverent, and make you feel so cared for, and he’ll never fuck your ass so hard you feel it for days. Feel him for days. Make you remember how well you were fucked every time you sit down.”

Sebastian doesn’t have time to recover from the humiliation of being wrong before unbidden images flash across the screen of his imagination:

Blaine pressed belly-flat against the mattress, thick eyelashes fluttering with each heavy thrust, moaning like a whore as Kurt pounds into him over and again.

Kurt panting, sweat dripping from his hair and face and every pore of his skin, the skin of his chest sliding sweet and slick against Blaine’s back.

Kurt’s fingers, long like daggers, curled possessively into Blaine’s hips.

Kurt’s cock, pistoning and out of Blaine’s willing ass, growing thicker and harder with each pass, filling Blaine up and making him weak and wanting and god Sebastian’s never let himself be fucked so well, never trusted anyone enough to let them fuck him like his body was hunger and satiety both, fuck him into a soreness that made him smile.

Sebastian’s pants grow embarrassingly tighter.

Oh crap. I have a Kurt Hummel-induced hard-on. This is not happening. He’s a girl, and I don’t like girls, and –

Another image: Kurt Hummel hovering naked over him, his hands wrapped around his wrists and pinning them to the mattress, his whole body pinning Sebastian into the mattress as he nudges the head of his cock at Sebastian’s hole, nudges but won’t enter until Sebastian’s begging: “Please, please, I need your cock, please fuck me, you’re better than me, make me feel it.”


It’s not too late to flee. They still haven’t seen him.

Sebastian spins on his heels toward the front door.

“Oh, look, Blaine, it’s your friend Sebastian.” It’s Kurt’s voice – a voice that Sebastian has always dismissed as fey and womanly but suddenly finds to be the most erotic and charged sound he’s heard in months.

Sebastian tugs on the hem of his (thankfully hip-length) shirt as he spins back around. “Well, if it isn’t Peter Pan and Twinkerbell.”

“Fancy meeting you here again.” Kurt is still standing, with a smile on his face that Sebastian might think was genuine if he didn’t know any better.

“Apparently all the good cafés are closed on New Year’s,” Sebastian realizes only too late that he’s opened himself up to the question of why he shows up there at any other time of the year.

Kurt tilts his head and grins like the Cheshire cat. “Of course.” His tone is only slightly sarcastic. “Well, join us, won’t you? It’s a shame that you’re always here alone.”

Sebastian ignores the smarting in his chest. “Not all of us need to wander around like Siamese gays at the Columbus Pride circus sideshow.”

Kurt blinks like a cupie doll. “And I thought for New Year’s you might come up with more creative banter.”

“I thought for New Year’s you might resolve to stop dressing like a girl.”

“Sebastian,” Kurt says in the tone that au pairs reserve for errant toddlers. “Again with the heterosexism. That kind of talk will ultimately bite you in the ass.”

Blaine has been so silent up to this moment that Sebastian almost forgot he was there (How can I forget when he’s the whole point of me being here?). But upon the words “bite you in the ass,” he lets out a bark of laughter so loud that the coffee shop literally turns silent around them as the other patrons turn their heads to see where the noise came from.

Kurt, for his part, is barely stifling a giggle.

Sebastian waits for the background hubbub to return to its previous level before speaking. “What’s so funny?”

Blaine coughs. “Nothing. I’m not laughing at you. It’s just a … a joke that Kurt and I share. I’d explain it to you but it’s … complicated.”

Kurt’s mouth twists into a supressed smile. “Yes, it is rather complicated. At least, you’d have a hard time wrapping your head around it, Sebastian, if I tried to explain to you that ‘bite you in the ass’ isn’t always metaphori–”

“Kurt!” Blaine starts, then looks down at his coffee, blinking rapidly as his cheeks flush pink. He coughs again and looks up at Sebastian through his lashes. “Really, it’s nothing.” He clears his throat. “So how’s Warbler’s practice been going?”

It’s simply a move to change the topic – Blaine’s too naive to have any malicious intent behind the question – but it gives Sebastian an easy out.

“If you think you’re going to trick me into divulging our setlist, you have another thing coming. I think it’s time to bid my adversaries adieu.” He clicks his heels and nods to them both.

“Oh, Blaine already has lots of things coming,” Kurt says, his eyes gleaming pure vindictive joy.

“Kurtohmigod,” Blaine squeals in embarrassed delight.

Sebastian pretends to hear neither of them as he turns toward the door.