Kurt wishes he could enjoy this completely: Blaine with his arms wrapped around him, steering him around the dance floor, tippy, off-balance and laughing. Blaine smells like pomegranates and he is beautiful in his tux, and he’s smiling and his eyes are soft and his hand is firm at Kurt’s back, holding him close.
But all Kurt can see is Karofsky, face sallow and crumpling under Kurt’s gaze. I am so sorry for what I did to you.
Blaine, dressed up for his Sadie Hawkins dance, his excited bright smile. The way his face must have looked after, swollen and bruised.
Santana’s eyes, sharp and angry, watching Brittany dance, a gorgeous twirl.
Tonight may be their night, but it’s only one night. Kurt and Karofsky and Blaine and Santana – they have to live the rest of their lives like this. Jagged and scarred.
“Kurt?” Blaine is saying, low in his ear. Kurt can barely hear him over the thud of the music. He tightens his grip on Blaine’s fingers, and Blaine squeezes back.
“Where are you right now?” Blaine asks, and Kurt blinks.
He refuses to cry again.
Kurt bites his lip and picks a spot over Blaine’s shoulder. He remembers practicing pirouettes in his living room when he was little, his mother saying, pick a spot on the wall and find it again.
This is how you keep from losing your balance.
Blaine doesn’t try to make Kurt talk afterward as they make their way back to his car. When Kurt reaches for the door handle, Blaine catches his wrist and spins him around, pressing him against the car door. He looks worried and his eyes are questions. Kurt inhales.
“Don’t do this to me, Kurt,” Blaine whispers. “Don’t shut me out.”
Kurt sags in Blaine’s arms. “I just—“
“Did I do something wrong?” Blaine asks. “Tell me. Please.”
“You did everything right,” Kurt says. “I’m sorry. I wish I could let this go—“
“No,” Blaine says, his voice firm and low. “Never let it go.”
Kurt’s eyes widen, and Blaine presses into him harder.
“Never let it go,” Blaine repeats. “History is how we learn.”
“I don’t know what I learned, though,” Kurt says. “I still have to go back to McKinley on Monday and face those assholes. Dave is hurting so much. Santana is so pissed off and so afraid. I can’t keep doing this, Blaine – being the one out in front, taking the hits.”
Blaine leans in and presses a kiss to Kurt’s mouth. He tastes minty and his lips are soft.
“Not the one,” Blaine says, quiet but steady. “If we take hits, we take them together.”
They’re halfway to Kurt’s house when Kurt flings out an arm on impulse and grabs Blaine’s shoulder.
“Don’t take me home,” he says.
Blaine glances at him, eyes a little wild. “Where do you want to go?”
“I don’t know,” Kurt says. “Somewhere pretty.”
Kurt can see Blaine’s brain working. He grips the steering wheel more tightly and takes a left at the next stoplight.
They drive for awhile until they’re no longer within Lima city limits. It looks familiar, but Kurt has no idea where they’re going.
“You’re not taking me to Dalton, are you?” Kurt asks.
Blaine’s mouth curves up at the corner. “Believe it or not, Kurt, there are beautiful places outside of Dalton.”
“In Ohio?” Kurt says, raising an eyebrow. “Please, educate me.”
Blaine’s eyes are dark when they meet Kurt’s. “Oh, I’d love to.”
Suddenly they can’t get off the road fast enough. Blaine turns the car down a bumpy side road into a field, and after a few minutes of being shaken and stirred, they go through a patch of tall fir trees and come out on the other side in a clearing.
It’s dark and the sky is alive with tiny clusters of light. The trees reach up, up around them and the moon peers out from between the branches, nearly full.
Blaine puts the car in park and says, “There you go.”
Kurt breathes slowly, in and out. He’s conscious of Blaine beside him, staring.
“Can I touch you?” Blaine asks, and Kurt turns to look at him. His stomach flutters.
“You never have to ask me that,” Kurt says.
Blaine’s mouth tips into a smile. He reaches out and thumbs over Kurt’s eyebrow and down his cheek. His touch ghosts over Kurt’s lips, and Kurt hitches in a breath.
“I don’t think I ever told you how incredible you look tonight,” Blaine says.
“You too,” Kurt murmurs. “I was skeptical, but the thin lapels were a good choice.”
“So was the kilt,” Blaine says, cupping Kurt’s chin. “I’m sorry I wasn’t enthusiastic about the idea. You were right. You look amazing.”
“And hey, I attracted attention anyway! Just a consequence of my dazzling personality,” Kurt says.
His voice shakes. He hates that his voice shakes.
“But that’s the thing,” Blaine says softly. “You will attract attention wherever you go. Not because you’re gay or flamboyant or whatever, but because you’re you. You’re a star.”
“You were doing all right up on stage tonight too, you know. Very much hot young Elvis.”
“Well, thank you,” Blaine says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “But I still maintain – you’re a star, Kurt. I’m an Elvis impersonator.”
“That’s not true, you—“ Kurt starts to say, but Blaine leans in and cuts him off with a kiss.
Every time Blaine kisses him Kurt feels like he should pinch himself. His mouth moves smoothly over Kurt’s, eager but slow, the tip of his tongue touching the dip of Kurt’s lower lip. Kurt gasps and Blaine’s hand curves around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.
This. This. This is what nobody can take away.
Kurt is conflicted. Part of him wants to climb into Blaine’s lap and push his hands into Blaine’s hair and mess him up good and proper. But part of him is afraid Blaine will think he’s desperate – which, face it, he is, but he doesn’t want Blaine to know that.
“Oh God, Kurt,” Blaine breathes against his neck. “We need to move somewhere I can touch you all over, or I am going to die.”
Kurt shudders. Well. Maybe he doesn’t need to worry so much about seeming desperate.
“I understand people use backseats for things like this,” Kurt says primly, and Blaine chuckles and leans across Kurt and shoves his door open.
“Out,” Blaine says. “On the ground. C’mon. It’s got grass and everything.”
Kurt adores Blaine, but sometimes he worries that he fell on his head as a child.
“I am wearing the clothing of Scottish royalty, Blaine.”
“I understand people use dry cleaners for things like this,” Blaine says, and before Kurt can say anything he’s hopped out of the car, sprinted over to Kurt’s side and is taking his hand to pull him out.
“What are you doing?” Kurt asks, aghast. “Have you lost your mind?”
Blaine sinks down onto his knees in front of Kurt, and oh. That is quite the visual.
“Please,” Blaine says. “I will pay to clean your clothes, I will clean them myself with a toothbrush and hypo-allergenic soap, I don’t care, just get out of the car.”
Kurt is having trouble remembering why any of this matters. Blaine is on his knees.
Blaine must see Kurt’s expression shift, because his mouth slides into a wicked grin, and this time when he gets to his feet and tugs on Kurt’s hand, Kurt goes with little resistance.
Blaine attempts a complicated dance turn with Kurt and stumbles, losing his balance. They go tumbling to the ground, and Kurt finds himself in a tangle of limbs. Blaine laughs, rolling them over, and suddenly Kurt is flat on his back beneath Blaine, his wrists pinned to the grass by Blaine’s warm hands.
“Are you sure Artie didn’t spike the punch?” Kurt asks. “You seem under the influence.”
“Under your influence,” Blaine says, and leans in to lick up Kurt’s neck. His breath is hot and his lips are wet on his skin. Kurt curls his fingers, and oh, hello, there are Blaine’s teeth.
“You are so ridiculous,” Kurt says, a bit breathless.
Blaine’s laughter feels good against his neck, vibrations and puffs of air.
“Tell me more about how I’m like hot young Elvis,” Blaine says, his hand pushing under Kurt’s carefully tailored jacket. Kurt arches into the touch without thinking, and Blaine exhales, hard.
“It’s mostly the product,” Kurt says airily, though he’s starting to feel dizzy. “So much product, Blaine Warbler.”
“Mmm,” Blaine says. “Not all of us have hair we can shape with the sheer force of our own will.”
Blaine nips under Kurt’s chin, teeth scraping over his pulse point, and Kurt groans.
“Oh, yes,” Blaine says, smug. “I was just thinking about how you were the only member of New Directions not to sing tonight.”
Kurt’s hand curls in the back of Blaine’s jacket, and Blaine shifts so he has one leg between Kurt’s thighs.
“Ridiculous,” Kurt huffs out, then squeaks when Blaine pushes one hand under Kurt’s kilt and slides it over his thigh.
“Tell me to stop,” Blaine says, his voice strangled.
“I—“ Kurt’s eyelids flutter shut as Blaine strokes over the front of the tight black pants he’s wearing under the kilt.
Blaine pulls back so he can look at Kurt. His eyes are wide and dark, his cheeks flushed. “Seriously, Kurt, I will stop if—“
“Don’t stop,” Kurt whines.
Blaine makes a sound then that sends tingles up Kurt’s spine, an almost-growl.
Kurt shoves at Blaine’s clothes, managing to get his jacket off his shoulders, then loosens his tie. He meditates for a moment on the irony of prom night being such a notorious occasion for hook-ups. There are so many things to unfasten and unbutton and take off.
Blaine is still touching him under the kilt, which is not improving Kurt’s focus. He presses the heel of his hand into Kurt’s cock through his pants and Kurt’s hips push up, a gasping moan escaping his mouth.
“Fuck this,” Blaine almost snarls, and before Kurt knows what’s happening he’s using both hands to tug Kurt’s pants down over his hips.
Then he stops.
“Are you not wearing underwear?” Blaine says, his voice going high at the end.
“Um,” Kurt says, worrying his lip.
Blaine curls his hand around Kurt’s cock, and Kurt stops breathing for a second.
“I can’t believe you aren’t wearing underwear,” Blaine says, his voice rough.
“I did research,” Kurt says, voice thin. “These pants are more like leggings, and I didn’t have any underwear that would—“
“Oh my God, stop talking about your underwear,” Blaine hisses. “I’m going to come before we even get anywhere.”
Kurt swallows a moan and reaches out for Blaine, who’s sitting on his thighs but seems so far away.
“Can I touch you?” Kurt asks. “Seriously, you are doing all the work here.”
“This does not feel like work,” Blaine says, tightening his grip on Kurt and sliding his hand up and down. “And you never need to ask me that.”
Kurt smirks and pushes himself up into a sitting position, tugging Blaine forward by his tie into a breath-stealing kiss.
Blaine bites and licks at Kurt’s mouth as Kurt struggles to undo his tuxedo pants. Blaine’s making these small gasping noises that go straight to Kurt’s dick, and Blaine is touching Kurt’s dick, and God, what prom? There was a prom tonight?
He finally gets Blaine’s pants open and his zipper down. The angle is awkward but he still manages to brush his knuckles over Blaine’s dick. Blaine’s eyelashes flutter and he bites his own lip so hard he leaves little dots of blood.
“Here,” Kurt says, encircling Blaine’s wrist with one hand and bringing it up to his mouth. Blaine’s eyes widen, and Kurt thinks, why not. He always thought it seemed like some sort of tired porn cliché, but Blaine has really nice hands, and if he’s going to jerk Kurt off, he needs lubrication. This is the best sort of multi-tasking.
When he sucks two of Blaine’s fingers into his mouth, Blaine’s lips part and he makes a somewhat hilarious sound of disbelief. Kurt lifts an eyebrow and licks up the side of his pointer finger, swirling his tongue around the tip.
“Jesus. Kurt,” Blaine hisses. “I’m not – if you keep doing that –“
Kurt has never been one to do anything halfway. He kisses Blaine’s palm and then strokes his tongue across it, getting it good and wet. Blaine is shaking. This is awesome.
“Kurt, I’m serious, I—“ Blaine gasps, and when Kurt slides his tongue between Blaine’s fingers, Blaine’s hips buck and he shudders and groans and – oh.
So that’s what Blaine was trying to warn him about.
Blaine is panting, eyes closed, cheeks a shell pink. He has a sheen of sweat on his forehead and his lower lip is still bleeding.
Kurt glances down.
“So much dry cleaning,” he says sadly.
Blaine begins to laugh.
“And we’ll have to find someone discreet,” Kurt says, “because we rented from my dad’s buddy Jim and good Lord, how those ladies gossip.”
Blaine’s shoulders are shaking.
“Kurt,” he says, “you are incorrigible.”
“You just used an SAT word,” Kurt says, and honestly, he is blaming everything that is coming out of his mouth right now on the fact that he is incredibly, astoundingly, desperately turned on.
Blaine extracts his hand from Kurt’s grip and slides it back under his kilt. Kurt tenses when Blaine strokes him. Blaine’s mouth quirks with mischief, and his eyes spark. Kurt wishes Blaine wasn’t so sexy, like, all the time. Blaine should just give it a rest every few days or so. Blaine should give Kurt a rest.
“I promise,” Blaine says, “that next time we do this, I’ll last longer.”
“That’s what they all say,” Kurt says, but what he meant to be cavalier sounds awfully shaky when Blaine drags his thumb across the head of Kurt’s cock, a slow, deliberate touch that leaves Kurt trembling.
“You are so sexy,” Blaine murmurs, pressing closer and kissing Kurt, a torturous, melting sort of kiss, tongue and licking and Blaine is touching him, Blaine is touching his dick, and Kurt wants everything, everything, he wants all the things he knows about and even the things he doesn’t, he wants to be sexy with Blaine every which way, every single day for the rest of his life.
Kurt comes with a long, embarrassing moan that Blaine muffles with kisses, tangling his free hand in Kurt’s hair while he strokes Kurt through it. Kurt can hear crickets, and the sound of a car engine, far off, and Blaine’s breathing, quick and loud against his cheek.
“We are such a mess,” Kurt exhales. His voice sounds strange, too rough and breathless.
“Mmmhmm,” Blaine says. He’s tucked his face into the crook of Kurt’s neck. He sounds ready to fall asleep.
“If we get married, we are taking all our clothes off on our honeymoon night,” Kurt says. “This is just cruel, to do this to such exquisite fabric.”
Blaine pulls back slightly so he can look up at Kurt from under his eyelashes.
“Planning ahead, are we?” Blaine says, amusement brightening his dazed features.
Kurt realizes, a beat too late, that he may have possibly just proposed to Blaine, or at least alluded to a future where they might get married, and oh God, what is wrong with him, they have been dating for like a month—
“Kurt,” Blaine says, placing his hand on Kurt’s cheek. “Don’t freak out.”
“I didn’t mean—“
“I know,” Blaine says. “It’s okay.”
There’s a moment of silence while Kurt tries to collect his thoughts so he won’t say something else monumentally stupid, and Blaine touches his finger to Kurt’s lower lip, tracing.
“All potential dry cleaning drama aside,” Blaine says, “I have no regrets about tonight. None.”
Kurt meets Blaine’s eyes.
“They can’t touch us,” Kurt whispers.
Blaine brushes a fingertip across Kurt’s cheek as if flicking imaginary tears away.
“Not even a little,” he says.