Blaine doesn't know how successful he'll actually be in taking Sue down via the Cheerios, but he's full of positivity lately, so he's willing to try. He holds the odd gift from her in one hand--black and red, made of the same silky lyrica that makes up the infamous red pants--and smiles to himself about the sheer ridiculousness that has been his life this past week. He's learned to accept it.
Sam joins him in-step and in-sync in the hall. "How'd it go?"
"Exactly as planned. I'm gonna work from the inside and bring her down. By the time we graduate, Sue Sylvester's reign of terror will finally be over."
Blaine goes to high-five Sam, but forgets to use the hand that isn't holding balled up underwear, ungracefully passing it to Sam.
"Dude," Sam laughs, has to stop and keel over for a second, "what the hell is this?"
"I'm a real Cheerio now," Blaine says, taking it back, "gotta walk the walk."
"Wait, they aren't used, right?"
"No, Sam, there's a tag."
"I wore g-strings when I was a stripper. Trust me, your ass'll look huge. In a good way."
When Blaine gets home from school, he decides to keep the bright red uniform on for a little while. He's not gonna drink Sylvester's Kool-Aid one hundred percent, but there is something about its perfectly tight fit, the crisp edges on the applique of the shirt, and the way the pants seemed to be formed to his every curve. It's comfortable, it's sleek, and most of all, it's head turning. No wonder Quinn Fabray always used to say that she felt powerful wearing it. He sort of gets it.
He's making himself a fruit and cheese plate in the kitchen, about start his homework, when his phone buzzes with a text message from Kurt. He almost chokes on the grape he's eating. Damn it, Blaine, calm down, he thinks. They're friends now, they actually are, not in that sad way they tried to be the weeks leading up to Mr. Schue's wedding, all lingering pain. They still don't talk that often, maybe once a week or two weeks, almost always on weekday afternoons, like today. But there are no ulterior motives involved in it. They're able to joke around, and Blaine's okay even asking Kurt about Adam, now and again. Kurt won't ever give him a straight answer about that. "I like him," he always says, "but nothing's really going on. We're just friends."
Hey, Kurt's text messages says, Totally aced the Acting For The Camera test I was worried about, and Santana and Rachel aren't at each other's throats. Today. Enjoying peace while I can. How are things on your end?
Strangely good, Blaine replies. This week was drama with Finn finally telling Mr. Schue about Emma, and I had my signature forged in the least probable way I could've imagined. But still, I'm good.
OMG. Signature forged, awful, but tell me about Mr. Schue and Finn!!!
Blaine goes back to rearranging cheese on the board, because he wants to tell the story, but it'll be a lot to text at once, so he needs to be ready. Just then, his laptop on the counter lights up and he hears the distinctive sound of a Skype phone call coming in. It's Kurt.
His stomach twists and his heart soars skyward. He almost knocks his glass of water over scrambling to click the accept button. Stop it, he tells himself, taking a breath. Relax. He steels himself, grateful for the good luck gods in heaven, and that his parent's aren't home from work for a couple more hours. They know about Kurt, they're friendly with him, he's just always felt more comfortable talking to his person, about gay stuff, about whatever, when he has the house all to himself.
"Hey, yourself," Kurt says, casual. He's sitting at the desk in his bedroom, eating some kind of noodle dish, squinting into the camera. "Are you wearing a Cheerios uniform? Again? I thought you and Tina only joined when you thought Glee was going kaput."
"It's a long story, as is anything involving Coach Sue's convoluted, twisted schemes, but basically, I'm being blackmailed into it."
"Oh, God." Kurt rolls his beautiful eyes. "Well, you seem to be in a good mood about it."
"I am. Despite the fact that she's done tens of thousands of dollars worth of credit damage to my family, and started a rumor around school that I'm a power bottom, I don't know. I just know I'm gonna get back at her. And my parents are definitely going to sue. And we'll win."
"Are you a power bottom?"
"You tell me."
"Well, let me know if you need legal counsel, my dad has tons of resources from when he was trying to make her pay for that slander about his baboon heart."
There's a pause for a moment, in which Kurt glances around his room, takes a little blissful sigh. He looks happy. Blaine is glad that they've gotten to this place. Though it isn't completely without its awkwardness--when Kurt looks back at screen, it must hit him that he's making something of eye contact with Blaine, direct, uninhibited, which at the wedding, the last time they saw each other, he was completely trying to avoid. His smile fades a touch, but he takes a deep breath, regains it, remembers. Blaine is unendingly grateful for the soothing passage of time.
He also feels like his heart is in his throat, staring at Kurt, even just in a computer. God, if looks and pompadours and sharp jawlines could kill...
"So, let's see it," Kurt is saying.
"The uniform. Give us a little spin, show it off."
Blaine obliges, trying to water down the stupid goofy grin he knows he has on his face as he does. Kurt puts his chopsticks down to clap, and Blaine bows.
"Ah, I remember what it was like to wear those pants," Kurt says. "I still have trouble finding outfits that make my ass look that bodacious. I don't know how Sue does it. She probably has a list of all of our measurements hidden somewhere."
"That's right, I forget that you were a Cheerio. I used to have that picture of you and Mercedes in your uniforms. I think I lost it somewhere. It was so cute."
"Oh, yeah, she and I were the best looking ladies on that team, hands down. You may give us a run for our money, though. Maybe."
Blaine tries to ignore that comment, knowing it's meant to be friendly, and sees the aforementioned photo's image in his mind's eye now: young Mercedes and Kurt with headset microphones, backs towards the camera but eyes over their shoulders, looking fierce. He remembers distinctly the way those pants fit in it, hugging Kurt's ass like a glove. When Blaine saw the picture the first time, when they first started dating, he shyly brought that up. Kurt's face had turned beet red, but he'd said, "You wanna touch it?"
"What?" Kurt says, in the present.
"Nothing." Blaine moves to finish his fruit and cheese plate. "Hold on, I'm gonna carry you upstairs, okay?"
Blaine cumbersomely balances the artisan wood board and his laptop over his arms, spilling cheese cubes and raspberries as he goes, as he starts to tell Kurt about feud week at Glee club, Mr. Schue and Finn.
"I still can't believe I had to find out from Santana that Finn kissed her," Kurt is saying as Blaine puts the laptop on the bed, then sits before it with his afternoon snack and textbooks. "I feel like I was the last one to know. Probably because he knows I would've smacked some sense into him and told him to tell. You know, lovingly."
"I told him I thought that he should tell," Blaine says, staring down at a math worksheet. "If there's one thing I've learned, it's that lies just make everything worse. This world has no place for them."
At Kurt's quiet, Blaine glances up at him. He's suddenly afraid he's gone too far, not thinking that that statement could've just reminded Kurt of the lie that they've vowed to move past. But Kurt still looks happy. In fact, he's pursing his lips, smile spreading slowly. It gives Blaine hundreds of butterflies.
"What?" Blaine insists.
"Nothing," Kurt says. "I just can't believe you're a Cheerio."
"Oh, get this," Blaine says, fumbling for his backpack behind him on the bed, because he knows Kurt will find it just as hilarious as Sam did, "after I changed, Sue gave me this limited edition, Cheerios thong as part of my uniform."
"What, did you not get yours?" Blaine holds it up and out, turning it back and forth. "One of these little numbers?"
"God, no, no, I mean, we all went commando underneath, anyway, I mean, I didn't--"
"But the girls--god, it's just so inappropriate!" Kurt laughs, loud and hard, and it's music to Blaine's ears. "She's out of control."
Blaine folds the underwear up, hoping Kurt can't see how hot his ears are burning, and then Kurt says:
"Put it on."
"Humor me, just tell me if it's itchy or uncomfortable or if Sue knows our bodies so well that her thongs fit us perfectly, too." Kurt's absently touching the neck of his scarf. "If you want."
Blaine burns from the challenge of it. But, not wanting to stop the fun, he gets up, shuffles over to the open door of his bathroom. Peels down the red sweatpants, stares at his hairy legs in the mirror, tugs down his briefs. Stares at the reflection of his bed, at the computer sitting on it, turned from view. It used to be arousing, changing, doing this private ritual knowing Kurt was just around the corner, listening, waiting for him. Still, Kurt can't see him now, but it has some of that same feeling, this moment. Blaine tries to kill the wishful thinking in his head.
"Is it awful?" Kurt's voice sounds.
Blaine pulls the underwear up; it's obviously made for girls, too small around his crotch, leaving his balls slightly bulging out of either side. He frowns, dealing with his flaccid dick and where on earth he should place it directionally; he decides on due north, and the tip pokes out the skinny waistband, even soft.
"Uh," Blaine responds, "yeah, it's definitely too small."
"It's supposed to be."
Blaine turns around, looking at the fit on his ass. He doesn't expect for the straps to convex so, doesn't expect to see his own ass looking so round, sitting so high; he's never not worn baggy briefs that sag, and he has put on weight. This just amplifies that. He almost doesn't recognize himself.
"Oh, wow," he says.
Blaine quickly pulls the red pants back over himself, leaves the bathroom, walking back over to the bed and smiling incredulously, because god, what a crazy fever dream of a day this has been.
"I, uh--" He comes back into the view of the camera, sees his own face and is embarrassed, but Kurt's eating more noodles, distracted, like this is normal. "I don't know if I wanna tell you."
Kurt chuckles, knowingly. "It looks good on you, doesn't it?"
"Maybe. Probably. I don't know."
Kurt places his food aside, and then stares at him, the expression on his face evolving; at first, it moves to be casual, but then his eyes wander down his image of Blaine on his screen; they flicker down to the pants, and he takes a deep breath, and then looks directly into the camera's eye, intense. Blaine has always been intimidated by this move of Kurt's, the way most people when using a webcamera look at the images in the screen, not directly into the viewer. Kurt does this when he wants Blaine to know he really sees him. Even hundreds of miles away.
"Can I see it?" Kurt says.
Blaine's mind blows a gasket, nervous, full of questions, but he silences them. Focuses instead on Kurt's eyes.
"Friends with benefits," Blaine says, sliding his pants down his legs.
"Friends with benefits."
It takes him longer than he expected to get the pants off while he's sitting on the bed, as they bunch around his ankles and black socks. When they're gone, though, he stands up, picks up the computer, and sets it on the desk, adjusting the lid slightly downward. He backs up, looking at himself the screen for reference like a mirror, showing Kurt his whole body--upper half still in the Cheerios shirt, lower half hairy legs and hairy balls and thin strip of red and black. He's somewhat mortified at his display, but the shame is arousing. This almost doesn't feel real, so much so that he wishes he could minimize the Skype window--Kurt's reaction, in real time, his sharp inhale, his mouth falling open--instead pretending that this is just another one of his lonely, break-up fantasies.
Blaine does, glad for Kurt's command because he doesn't know if he wants Kurt to see him going from flaccid to chub under the front of the thong. He reaches around to lift the shirt back of the shirt up slightly, call it habit, from when they did this before. He turns over his shoulder to look at the screen.
"So," he says, hoping he doesn't sound self-conscious, "what do you think?"
"That the thong is an art form, that I might major in it." Kurt bites his lip. "Can you--will you come closer?"
Blaine feels heat coarse through him. Stop being afraid, he thinks, taking steps back towards the camera. This is Kurt. He once told you you were beautiful. Own it.
"I don't know," Blaine says, starting to smile, cock pulsing once against the fabric, "it's just so much, you know? I feel so open...they're hanging out..."
He grazes a hand down a cheek, squeezing a little, lifting.
"God. Jesus, Blaine."
"Strong words for an Atheist."
"Shut up, stop trying to make me laugh and just--let me--mm."
Kurt is pulling at his scarf with one hand until it falls away, the other hand out of view, though given away by the shifting of his bicep. His chest is growing red, Blaine can see it even from here, and he has to stifle a groan, imagining Kurt's hidden hand, tracing his boner beneath white jeans.
"Are you touching yourself to me?" Blaine asks.
"What do you think?" Kurt is breathless, smiling.
Blaine takes off the Cheerios shirt, encouraged and turned on, and then teases Kurt: toying with the tight straps and snapping them along the fat where his ass meets his back.
"Take it off," Kurt says. "Slowly, please. Make me wait for it."
Blaine pulls it only halfway, stepping closer. Uses both hands to squeeze his cheeks, massage them, snap the straps again even harder, leaving red marks. Loops a finger around the thin strip of fabric over his hole, gliding it around slightly. Kurt moans.
And Blaine caves, his thighs starting to shake as he pulls the thong just under his ass. About front, he's rock hard, pulsing out of the thin strip of underwear. He moves his hands on his ass even slower, more deliberate, kneading flesh, spreading his cheeks open wide.
"Oh, my God." Kurt backs up in his chair and adjusts the lid of his computer, letting Blaine see his hand massaging his lap, fly buttons open on white jeans, hand beneath them, coaxing his naked length—no underwear—thick and hard, in a slow rhythm. "You're incredible."
Blaine turns from the screen, licks two fingers, slicks them around his hole, getting it wet, as his other hand spreads one cheek apart. He circles his rim, thrusting back shallowly, closing his eyes.
"Wanna see you slick with my spit," Kurt says. "Eat your ass until you're shaking and screaming for me."
"Fuck, fuck, Blaine, I'm close."
Blaine looks over his shoulder at Kurt's bare cock on screen, that hand giving it no mercy, and starts slapping his own ass the way Kurt does when he's about to come taking Blaine from behind, so hard it stings.
"God, yeah, Kurt, give it to me--"
"You're the best I've ever had," Kurt blurts out. "So hot, fucking perfect, fuck, fuck--"
Blaine can't watch when it finally happens; feels it's something that's too private, remembers the boundary of the computer, what it means for where they are now. Still, there is the sound of Kurt's whimpering, and sighing. When Blaine feels like it might be safe to turn around, all the way around, he pulls the thong back over himself and finds that Kurt has readjusted the camera back up towards his face, that he's unbuttoning his shirt.
"Holy mother of all that is good." Kurt stops buttoning, eyes growing wide and mouth falling open at the view of Blaine's front.
Blaine can't help his laughter, tugging at himself where he sticks out at the top of the fabric, red and straining.
"It's a joke," he says, "might as well not even be wearing it."
"Come in it."
Blaine groans, and it doesn't take much, maybe five or six quick, rapid strokes to the head before he's spilling over the tight ring of his fist. His come drips down his knuckles, some of it indeed staining the underwear.
"Well," he says, out of breath, collapsing into sitting on the end of his bed, his come-hand shaking. "Guess I'll need another one."
Kurt laughs, rubbing the skin of his chest with his palm. "Just go commando," he says, winking. "Like me."
They don't talk much, in the after. Blaine leaves Kurt on as he goes to clean up, hears Kurt lowly humming a tune as he must be wandering around his room, doing the same. Blaine wonders where the small part of him has gone, that part that withers and slows after, wants to push and press and ask Kurt about his other friend, or if Blaine and Kurt will see each other in person again. A part of Blaine wonders if they ever will. He doesn't care so much right now, in this moment. Because the sound of Kurt's voice, graduating from humming to singing notes, just the thought of him around the corner, is enough for Blaine, near or far, and he knows that.
Things aren't perfect, never will be again. But they're good.
When Blaine gets back to the computer, Kurt's eating again, and has his reading glasses on.
"I have to go," Kurt is saying. "I was only supposed to be here to go over my lines for the Tennessee Williams club reading I'm going to later."
"Okay. I'm sorry if I made you late."
The next morning, in Blaine's 8 AM class, the next day, his phone lights up with a message from Kurt.
Thinking about you wearing it under your pants. Have a good day.