Story: Past Perfect
Rating: R (language, sexual situations)
Character: Kurt/Blaine and yes, Dave…
Disclaimer: I don't own these people, they own themselves and are just nice enough to let me spin them around the page now and then.
Summary: Kurt thinks it's his turn when he brings Blaine back to his house after Rachel's party, but they may not be entirely alone…
Warning: Up to 2x14
Kurt didn't think he'd ever seen anything so perfect.
Even reeking of alcohol, with Rachel Berry's disastrously red lip gloss smeared over the lower third of his face (what was wrong with that girl? she kissed like a piranha!), Blaine was still the most beautiful thing Kurt had ever seen.
In spite of the alcohol and the lipstick.
In spite of the fact that he'd spent a good portion of the party attached-at-the-lip to their hostess.
No, because at this very moment, that perfect face (lips, hair, adorable eyebrows) was resting on Kurt's 100% Egyptian cotton sheets, in his brand new perfect white bedroom, blitzed out of his mind and, how should he put it, open to suggestions?
Kurt was the master of subtle manipulations. Heck, he was the master of the more dramatic variety, too. But tonight, thanks to Rachel Berry's dads' copiously stocked liquor cabinet, he was thinking he could skip the manipulations entirely, well, the verbal kind, anyway, and go right for the gold, as it were.
Since Blaine (with the aid of distilled spirits, mind you), seemed to respond to readily to the application of warm and mobile lips to his own, why not see if Kurt could get as lucky as that confused girl clearly did.
He felt a momentary twinge at the thought of stealing something, even a kiss, that had not be knowingly offered to him, but he sighed it away, believing that many a great gay love story had begun just this way: friends sharing a bed after a drunken binge, then a kiss, then…whatever joys may follow…
He could look at that perfect profile all night long, and he desperately wanted to wind his fingers into those frantic curls, but he was eager to cross that line, the line between innocent friends and caring lovers, and he knew that if he just kissed Blaine, Blaine would know that – would feel it immediately, would know they were meant to be together.
Levering himself up on his elbow, he leaned over the still sleeping, still smiling Blaine, avidly taking in his up-close face for the first time, hovered over those full lips for the briefest second, then pressed his own to Blaine's.
At first, there was no reaction from the drunken Blaine, but then Kurt felt his lips curve into a smile, a sigh, and begin to move against his own. He thought he might swoon then, but he held on, overjoyed that his experiment was working. Blaine was rousing himself, mouth moving against Kurt's easily, enthusiastically, and Kurt rejoiced, feeling in his heart that this was his first real kiss, not that other…stolen…aberration; that attack. But even as Blaine moved to deepen the kiss, even as he slipped his fingers into Kurt's hair, hands cradling Kurt's face, Kurt could feel the color, the life, fading from it.
He may not have had a wealth of experience to draw from, but he had an encyclopedic knowledge of, well, available…material, both mainstream (Hollywood love stories) and underground (Tampa, Florida's gay porn industry…) and he knew how to recognize when a kiss was passionate – and when it was rote; uninspired.
This was not a kiss of knowing, a kiss for Kurt alone, it was a kiss for anyone, a kiss like any other.
He had a sudden flash, of the press of frantic fingers against his scalp, of the passion and longing of desperate lips against his, of harsh breathing and the sound of sweet surrender in the back of a throat not his own.
As though struck by lighting, he pulled away, gasping for air.
Had that closeted asshole, the King of D-Nile, scarred him, ruined all other kisses for him?
Blaine's eyes were still closed, but his smile persisted though confusion lines pinched between his brows. "Rachel?" he murmured, clearly still asleep.
Kurt felt the bile rise in him and he threw himself off the bed, stumbling into his freshly painted bathroom to anoint his new, carefully chosen toilet. (color - 'Innocent Blush')
What happened to perfect?
What happened to the perfect plan? Blaine was drunk, willing, there. All Kurt had to do was show him they were perfect together, show him how well they fit together.
But something in that kiss had been missing; depth, heart, soul, passion.
God fucking damn you, Dave Karofsky!
It made Kurt sick to think of it, but somehow he doubted Karofsky would have wavered, would have called someone else's name when he was right there. Karofsky wouldn't have been asleep.
Karofsky may have been in denial, so deep in the closet he was practically in the next room, but Kurt had never doubted that he'd done, that day, what was deep in his heart to do.
That's why he hadn't revealed Karofsky's secret, why he hadn't told everyone what was behind the big asshole's attacks on him, even though it would have made it all go away, even though it would have turned it all around on Karofsky.
Sick, twisted, angry, dangerous, but Kurt knew how Karofsky felt about him.
Locked deep inside, but released when Kurt's badgering tongue cracked the lock.
Flushing, he splashed some water on his face, wiped the corner of his mouth with a washcloth, and stepped back into the bedroom.
Blaine was curled on his side now, clutching Kurt's pillow with this ridiculously dopey grin on his face, Rachel's lip gloss still smeared around his mouth.
Kurt didn't know what was perfect anymore.
He just knew it wasn't here…