I am a violent combination of shocked, astounded, and insanely grateful at the response "Who Taught You To Use Your Hands" got. Seriously guys. Some of your reviews were so lovely and kind that I got a little bit teary.
So this is the other half, Kurt's half.
If you haven't read the other one, you probably should at some point because the two are mutually exclusive.
This was hard to write considering I'd already written the story, but then Katy (atticrissfinch) posted the song "Braille" by Regina Spektor and I listened to it all night on repeat. And then I wrote this.
This is dedicated to four people. peevesthepoltergeist, atticrissfinch, lltheportmanteau and theawkwardones. Because they whore my fics out like they're paid to do it, and they keep me sane when writers block is a bitch. And they're awesome.
WAAARNINGS: TEACHER!STUDENT SEX (as if you didn't already know)
The quotes are taken from a plethora of Jeanette Winterson books this time. Mostly Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit, because it's a personal favourite...
Everyone who tells a story tells it differently, just to remind us that everybody sees it differently
Kurt Hummel liked change.
He stood in his awful shared apartment with a mug of the strange flavoured tea that Finn was always complaining about – Stop drinking it then, if you don't like it – because he was trying to cut back on coffee, watching the world pass through the tiny window.
Maybe he was waiting for the rain the sky was threatening.
It was too warm for October, too warm for Kurt who preferred the scarves and gloves and cardigans that winter insisted any day. But there was that heavy opulence on the air, like it was getting heavier and heavier and when he was outside it was as though the rain was pressing through the air without breaking it.
Kurt loved the rain.
He also loved it when Finn was on time, but you can't always get what you want, and some things just weren't meant to be.
He was a violent combination of sheepish and overtired when he finally poked his head through the door.
"I don't even like books! The last one I read was Harry Potter, and that was only because you made me and the films didn't make sense."
"Finn, you're taking it because you had six hours a week to fill. And when we left home Carole made me promise to keep an eye on you. In my mind that means forcing you to come to my lessons."
Finn's look softened slightly and Kurt turned away biting back a smile, because this was the closest they ever got to heart-to-hearts.
"The films still didn't make sense," Finn muttered, but he was grinning now and slung his arm around Kurt's shoulders. Kurt let him for a moment, but Finn smelled of the beer he'd dropped down his shirt the night before, and they were already late so maybe brotherly bonding could wait until they had less pressing issues at hand.
He heard Finn turn and grumble his way back to his room, heard the clattering and banging that was inevitable whenever Finn was made to do something. Kurt poured his tea down the sink.
American Literature wasn't his first choice, of course. But Kurt was as realistic as he was ambitious, and he knew that dreams needed a backup. He wasn't going to roll out of bed one day and be famous, and until that pinnacle in his life where fame was actually an option, Kurt needed a Plan B. And if that meant dragging Finn along for the ride, then so be it.
Finn moaned the whole way to class that the ground was mocking his hangover by making their footsteps too loud.
"Maybe you shouldn't have done a shot for every year of your age last night," Kurt said listlessly.
"But it's what you do!"
"It's not even your birthday, Finn."
"But I'm still twenty one! Which means twenty one shots!"
"No Finn, it means nineteen shots and me dragging you to bed at four thirty this morning, when you knew we had to be up at eight."
"Dude, class isn't until ten thirty. It's ten seventeen!"
"Yes. And we're not late, but you know sure as hell we would have been if I hadn't been telling you we already were."
There was a pause and Kurt looked at the ground, watching his own boots tick back and forwards as he walked.
"That's some twisted logic, man."
Finn wanted to sit at the back of the room, of course. Kurt had no doubt in his mind that he also wanted to check out girls and throw paper aeroplanes and fall asleep as well, and Kurt had stopped wondering when Finn was going to grow out of High School and started to accept the inevitability of it never happening.
And sure enough.
"Finn. Wake up, you imbecile."
Finn grunted and shifted slightly, and the pretty brunette two seats across giggled, and Kurt rolled his eyes in response and turned back to the front.
Because maybe Kurt was lonely and just longing for something uncertain, but there was just something in the way his voice was quiet as he introduced himself, but he still managed to command the class to absolute stillness with his words.
It was like the sunlit room was brighter when he started talking.
Blaine Anderson was younger than any college professor Kurt had ever seen, but that wasn't what made him enthralling. He spoke with such passion and such unbridled love towards his work and his job, the way he cradled a book in his hands like it was made of the purest gold. Even Finn was awake and listening to the synopsis of Mrs Dalloway.
That evening Kurt logged onto Amazon and bought everything Virginia Woolf had ever written.
The days and lessons passed and Kurt found himself wanting to be closer to the front, to absorb every sound and word that came from Blaine's mouth, to wrap himself in his words and let them sink into his skin and stain him.
But Finn dragged him to the back and Kurt had to make do from there.
He couldn't see the shades of Blaine's eyes from this far away, couldn't see the way light would filter through the curls of his hair or reflect through the lenses of his glasses as he bent over his work. But Kurt imagined and he wished.
And when Kurt plucked up the courage to tell Finn to go ahead of him one Thursday, nodding that he just wanted to ask a question, he wasn't prepared for the way Blaine's eyes widened slightly as they met his. The way his lips parted and one curl fell over his left eye.
Maybe it would have been easier if he was like other teachers, if he didn't feel the need to connect with his students, to please everybody.
But he laughed when Kurt admitted that he hated the book, leaned just that little bit closer and there was a teasing glint in his eyes and a smile so beautiful that Kurt's heart ached just a little bit.
"I would never have guessed you felt that way, teaching about it the way you do."
Something in Blaine's eyes flickered, and he looked vulnerable for just a second and he didn't reply until the silence was so loud that Kurt wanted to scream to break it.
"I'll tell you a secret," he said finally, "Next week we're starting Winterson, all the way up until winter break."
Kurt's heart sang and he wanted to run back to his apartment and dig Oranges are not the Only Fruit from the boxes in his Dorm room, and curl up on Finn's bed with a mug of coffee and bury himself in the words.
Because he would never admit it but Finn's bed was more comfortable than his own, and Blaine's eyes were the colour of coffee and Kurt had never craved anything more.
Making love we made a dictionary of forbidden words. We are words, sentences, stories, books
"Kurt you've been sitting in my bed reading that book for six hours."
"I'm not in your bed Finn."
"Fine, on it. Whatever. I need to sleep, dude."
"Just go to a party or something. I'm reading, and your bed is comfortable."
Kurt didn't want to look up because his eyes were burning and he knew even blinking would drop the tears clustering under his eyelashes down his cheeks, and Kurt really didn't want Finn to see that. He stared at the page until the words blurred and he heard Finn break a glass in the kitchen.
Because when Kurt discovered Oranges are Not the Only Fruit he was sixteen and had just told his father he was gay. And when walking the halls of McKinley began to feel a little too much like being a lamb led to slaughter, Kurt would curl up in the library, or in his room and read and read and read the tiny tale of self-discovery until he could whisper whole passages to himself when a bruise bled a little too deep.
Maybe he was clinging onto a teenage fantasy that came with living in a small town but something about the book had given him hope throughout his school years, just the hint that if Jeanette could find acceptance after years of rejection, then maybe Kurt Hummel could too.
He stayed up for 48 hours trying to finish the assignment Blaine had set, pouring his heart out over his laptop and letting his fingers convey every fragment of knowledge the book had given him over the years, and when he finished and fell exhausted into bed clutching the book, confident that it was the best thing he'd ever written.
"Kurt, are you okay?"
Kurt was halfway out the door when Blaine's voice caught up with through Finn's constant barrage of useless comments. He hung back slightly.
"Your Oranges essay. It was…"
"Was there something wrong with it?" Kurt asked, his heart thudding painfully.
"God, Kurt no!" Blaine looked uncomfortable, but his eyes warm and contemplating as though trying to communicate through a means of their own.
"It just seemed very…personal. That's all. I just wondered if you were okay."
Kurt nodded, smiled, dug his fingers into the woodwork of the doorframe and looked away, feeling as though his soul was painted entirely across his face for Blaine to see.
"The book is just special to me, that's all."
Kurt felt lonelier as the winter deepened, despite Finn's constant moans that he should go out and drink with them, and he spent his nights curled inside the old fleece blanket that smelled like his father, rekindling the caffeine addiction he had tried to repress. Because there was nothing like home comforts when reliving your childhood torments, and Kurt missed his mother more than ever as he listened to the rain thunder against the shaky glass of the windows.
Kurt huddled inside sweaters he stole from Finn and cardigans that had once belonged to his mother, trying to crawl inside the memories in the fibres to protect himself from the air that froze the back of his neck and the very tip of his nose.
Kurt Hummel liked change, and right now he wanted to go backwards.
Because every day he was drowning in the comfort of Blaine's classroom, but trying so hard not to. Blaine reminded Kurt of the coffee he drank every day, the warmth and the ease and the taste of longing and home and the buzz that ran under his skin with every sip.
"I want to do Oranges, I can't believe you let Jackson have that one! Of all people! You know how much that book means to me!" Kurt was furious and he could feel his anger flushing up his skin, lighting him up like a beacon.
"I wrote eight thousand words about it last week! I'm hardly incapable; in fact I'm probably over capable. You know how well I would do on that assignment!"
Maybe Kurt shouldn't ley himself flat so often, letting his feelings run wild over his face like an open book, but Blaine was so damn hard to read that it drove Kurt wild, as he looked up at him with patient eyes and let Kurt finish.
Blaine pulled off his glasses and ran a hand through his hair. He looked even younger without them, with his hair ruffled and unkempt and his tie loosened, almost childlike.
"Kurt you just said it yourself. You're more than capable when it comes to writing about Oranges, and we both know that."
"So why –"
Blaine held up his hand, and Kurt snapped his mouth shut, biting the inside of his cheek.
"My class is about challenging yourself, Kurt. I'm going to set you a task that perplexes you, that you can spend days and nights puzzling over. One that will be on your mind constantly, like a nagging itch you can't quite scratch."
When Blaine handed Kurt a copy of Written on the Body he knew at once that it was his own; there was a coffee stain on the back page and sentences underlined in pencil, notes scribbled in the margin in untidy scrawl. Kurt wanted to run back to his apartment and bury himself in the pages that Blaine had so clearly loved, wanted to read the words that he had read, feel the story the way he had.
It was raining, and Kurt lifted his head back to let the drops catch on his face, loosened the knot in his scarf to let them trickle over his bones and into the collar of his shirt. The touch of the rain was gentle, soft and pressing and it was so long since Kurt had been touched by anyone that wasn't Finn, anything that wasn't clothing.
Kurt wanted to feel skin pressed against his, he wanted the trail and trickle of fingers like raindrops down his spine and along his ribcage. He wanted lips and teeth and tongue to map their way across the ridges of his body.
Finn was out when he got home and Kurt could almost remember him mentioning Sam and football and beer and come on man, why don't you come along?
Kurt knew that college was about new experiences and making friends and drinking yourself stupid until you couldn't see in the class the next day, and he'd tried to do that for the first few weeks. But Kurt likes cocktails with fruity syrups, and gossip and organic dark chocolate. Kurt liked lemon vodka and ice, and Finn liked warm beer and pizza and maybe they were just never going to have things like that in common.
Kurt fixed himself a glass of ice tea, dropping two slices of lemon into it because that was the way his mother made it in the summers of his childhood, and settled himself on the wooden floor with his back against the couch and his legs stretched out in front of him, with Written on the Body heavy in his hands and he tingled with the anticipation that only came when opening a new book.
"To lose someone you love is to alter your life for ever. You don't get over it because 'it" is the person you loved. The pain stops, there are new people, but the gap never loses."
The rain tapped like fingers against the walls and the windows, and a single drop of condensation slid from the rim of Kurt's glass to crash against the floor.
"Love demands expression. It will not stay still, stay silent, be good, be modest, be seen and not heard, no. It will break out in tongues of praise, the high note that smashes the glass and spills the liquid."
The words were flowing over Kurt's mind and he felt himself turning the pages faster, leaning into the book closer.
"In the heat of her hands I thought, this is the campfire that mocks the sun. This place will warm me, feed me and care for me. I will hold on to this pulse against other rhythms."
It wasn't his own voice in Kurt's mind anymore. The words being read weren't being read by him, they were being heard by him and the voice was deeper and huskier than his own, and the face he saw when he blinked had brown eyes and a face like autumn.
Kurt's hair was still damp from the rain and he could smell it and feel it, and it was sticking to his neck where his shirt was still wet and pressed against the skin of his back. Kurt's mouth tasted like lemons and he could hear nothing but Blaine's voice and the hands that turned the pages were larger and warmer than his.
"You are still the colour of my blood. You are my blood. When I look in the mirror it's not my own face I see. Your body is twice. Once you, once me."
Kurt's skin was sticky and his head rolled back and he heard the book fall to the floor beside him, but all that mattered was the sound of Blaine's voice in his ear whispering sweet filthy words and Kurt could feel his hands ghosting across the folds of Kurt's body, could almost taste his touch and the warmth of his skin and his breath on Kurt's ear.
"What are you that makes me feel thus? Who are you for whom time has no meaning?"
Kurt's phone beeped twice and he sat up straight, face flushing with the embarrassment of being caught alone in the apartment with his heart pounding and his mind filled with sex and images of his teacher.
Finn: Duuude! Life hazs meanning when ur handcuffed 2 a blondey!
Kurt rolled his eyes, dropped his phone onto his desk and fell onto his bed knowing he wouldn't be able to sleep that night.
He was right, and the next morning he was shadowy-eyed and aching from hours of tossing and turning and resisting the urge to slip his hand into his pyjama pants to allow himself the slightest relief. The book mocked him from where it still lay on the floor, and Kurt threw a pillow at it and wrapped himself in his sheets until he was too hot and his head was pounding.
Finn looked worse though, but Kurt said nothing as they stood side by side in the kitchen. The world outside was wet and quiet, and even caffeine wasn't easing the tension under Kurt's skin. He wanted to scratch until he bled the words out and they weighed down his veins like led, his system deadened but somehow more alive.
He felt weighted down, but free; like the carrier of a great secret and he was tense and coiled like a spring, his growing dread diluted with anticipation.
The feeling built and built over the next few days, the last day before Christmas was a black mark on Kurt's brain and he knew that without doing something he would burn until he went mad. He felt crazed and wild and frantic, spending his sleepless nights sweating and torn between indulging his fantasies and cursing them, while his days were edged with a soft buzzing pressed around his existence. He was even drinking with Finn, and arguing more and he forgot to call his dad three days in a row, and then it was the last day and a stitch in his sweater unravelled as he pulled it on.
Kurt plucked at the string on soft white wool; the knit was too big for him anyway, the neck stretched and gaping. He pulled it off and left the apartment without a word, with Finn trailing behind him staying thankfully silent. He didn't even mention Kurt's lack of coat, or his customary knitwear in the biting December air and there was a strange pleasure in the way the wind raised the hairs on Kurt's arm, the way it tossed his bangs out of place and burned his eyes dry until they watered.
Kurt's heart pounded throughout class, almost drowning out everything Blaine said but not quite. He could still hear each tone and inclination of his voice, each rise and fall as he talked and laughed and gestured and pulled the students along through the pages of the books. Every word he spoke alighted on Kurt's skin like a butterfly, pressing its wings against him until he shivered.
"I'll meet you later Finn, okay. I've got some books to pick up, I won't be long."
Of course he believed him, and Kurt nearly wished he hadn't because it would take a miracle to talk him out of this now, and he pushed the classroom door closed.
Blaine looked up at the click, and they were alone and silent, but Kurt blushed as though hoards of eyes were watching him through the desks.
"You must be cold," Blaine said, and Kurt had almost forgotten because when Blaine looked at him every inch of his skin lit alight with longing.
"I've been having some trouble. With the book, I thought you could help me."
Blaine made a noise or a movement or a whisper that said, "But I am teaching you Kurt," and his voice was deeper, reckless like all those nights in Kurt's mind and he couldn't help but move forwards as close as he could get. He was between the desk and the chair, and their knees were barely brushing.
"I don't think you understand, I want you to teach me, Mr Anderson."
Blaine's lips parted and maybe he was going to protest but Kurt didn't want to give him the chance. He moved his face down and felt the body below him freeze, but he moved them gently against the others and his mind was begging, please, please, just let me have this one thing before you reject me.
And then he felt Blaine's lips part below him, the warm cavern of his mouth suddenly open and there was a breath and a gasp and who knows which of them it came from but their breathing mingled in the space where their mouths met.
Kurt didn't know who moved first, or when Blaine's fingers had tangled themselves in his hair, he just knew that he wasn't being pushed away, he wasn't being rejected or laughed at. He pressed their bodies closer and closer, half in Blaine's lap before he broke the kiss to speak in a hoarse-throated whisper.
"Teach me. Teach me how the words work."
Hands were grasping and pulling at his shirt and they were clumsy and fumbling, and causing more of a hindrance than anything, and Kurt laughed until Blaine bit his lip and then his hands were on him, burning like branding irons and Kurt wanted to press their skin together until it fused into one.
But Blaine's hand was pressing hard against the plane of Kurt's chest, urging him backwards until he was propped against the desk behind him, edge digging into his arms and back but he didn't care. He couldn't feel it.
And then Blaine was talking and fuck, his voice was better than anything Kurt had dreamt up in his wild nights. Blaine was hoarse and delicious and almost purring as he pressed the point of a black marker into the space below Kurt's collarbone, and he was whispering the tantalising phrases that had chased around Kurt's mind for the past week.
"Words are a secret code, only visible in certain lights."
Kurt couldn't breathe, his head falling backwards, laying his body flat and open and a blank slate beneath Blaine's mouth and pen and lips. The words fell from Blaine and sank into Kurt's skin until he was gasping and whimpering and every press of ink, every black stroke across white was enough to make him tremble.
"I like to keep my body rolled up away from prying eyes, never unfold too much, or tell the whole story,"
And when Blaine's mouth followed the words in an aching, wet trail down and across Kurt moaned and pressed the join of their hips harder together. Every touch was almost painful, as though every nerve in his body was sparking and jolting and every brush against his skin throbbed in the most excruciating way, but Kurt loved it.
"We will fall like ripe fruit and roll down the grass together."
Blaine's flicked the pen, let his mouth travel further and further down until Kurt stopped breathing altogether, his mouth fell open with a choke as Blaine grazed his teeth along the waistband of Kurt's jeans. His tongue darted out to press into the grove of Kurt's hip and he was lost, wrenching Blaine's head back up to press their faces together. Hands crashed and curled and ripped at jeans until they were free and there were hands on skin that yearned so badly.
Blaine's mouth fell against Kurt's neck, as he sucked Blaine's fingers into his mouth and it wasn't enough but it would have to do, and then Blaine's hand was around them both and Kurt couldn't help but thrust hard into his fist. Blaine's arm held him tighter, pulled him closer with every jerk until the words were all that lay between them and Kurt was moaning and panting into every inch of Blaine's skin.
Kurt was winding tighter and tighter, he wanted more and more, he wanted to absorb every inch of Blaine into his skin, to press them together into oblivion until it was unclear where Kurt ended and Blaine began.
He came with a gasp and a groan and Blaine held him through it, following him until they were clutching at skin for something to hold onto and finding only each other, holding tighter.
Their bodies curled together for a second that passed all too quickly, and Kurt let his lips ghost over Blaine's collarbone, felt him shift into the touch.
And then everything came crashing down.
Blaine forced himself away, throwing Kurt off him and stumbling backwards, colliding with the wall.
"You should go."
His voice cracked and it broke Kurt's heart, but his eyes weren't cold or ashamed. Blaine looked lost, bewildered. His hands were in his hair, he was gnawing on his own bottom lip and Kurt couldn't tear his eyes away from the word together printed backwards under his collarbone. Transferred from Kurt's own skin.
Kurt made to reach out and touch him; maybe if their skin met it would erase the shock and the hurt. Blaine's skin was like a warm bath and home, and Kurt wished he could hold himself against it whenever.
His eyes blurred with tears as Kurt tried to fasten his own shirt back up, to cover up the black marks that discoloured his skin. His fingers fumbled and slipped and he let out a choking sob.
Then Blaine's hands covered his, and he was close again but not close enough. His eyes were bright as though reflecting Kurt's, and he buttoned the shirt without breaking their gaze. He let a hand lay flat across Kurt's heart for just a second, feeling the thud that hadn't slowed.
"Go home, Kurt."
Kurt didn't remember the walk home, the six flights of stairs because the elevator hadn't worked since they'd lived there, the turn of his key in the lock. He passed Finn without a word and fell into the shower managing to struggle out of his shirt as he twisted the water on. But his hands stilled when they brushed against his jeans and he fell to the floor, back pressed against the cool tiles and let the water run over his head and back, soaking into the denim and bleeding the words from his skin.
He sat until the hot water faded to a lukewarm trickle, until he was clean but the ink had run into the white of his jeans and he could still feel them like an itch, like a craving in the back of his throat.
It could have been hours before Finn came in, hours of staring at the dirty wall ahead of him and refusing to cry.
Finn's arms picked him up and carried him towards his bedroom, folding Kurt between the sheets still dripping wet. He didn't say anything, he didn't have to, and it wasn't until twelve hours later when Kurt woke, still tired, that he said anything.
"Finn, this is your bed."
"I know. I know you never told me, but I kinda figured you liked it better than your own. Y'know cause I broke half the springs that time, and now it's really soft? And you just looked like you needed a soft place to sleep last night."
And that was it, and Finn didn't ask any questions because he knew that Kurt would tell him if he needed to, and Kurt knew that Finn would be there for him whether or not he told him. Because maybe they didn't heave heart-to-hearts every day, and maybe they fought like cats and dogs but they were brothers, and that was enough.
While I can't have you, I long for you. I am the kind of person who would miss a train or a plane to meet you for coffee. I'd take a taxi across town to see you for ten minutes.
Kurt spent Christmas in Lima and Burt Hummel knew the second he walked in the door that something was wrong, but he knew not to ask. He clapped him on the shoulder and nodded when Kurt asked if he could look through old boxes of his mother's things for a while.
Kurt spent the days filtering through junk and memories, the smell of his mother's perfume still lingering amidst her scarves, the dried flowers from her wedding bouquet, the letters she wrote too his father.
Kurt didn't cry, he just spoke. He whispered to his mother's life about his own, told her everything he couldn't tell a living soul. But the only problem was, she couldn't whisper back and nothing became clearer as the days of returning to Blaine's class ticked nearer.
But his answers were there the second he entered the room, a yellow silk scarf of his mother's wrapped around his throat like a guardian. Blaine didn't look up, didn't meet his eyes all lesson and by the end Kurt wanted to throw something, because wasn't he supposed to be the immature one is this scenario?
Kurt had seen something in Blaine's face before he'd told him to go home, and Kurt knew Blaine was as lonely as he was. He knew that Blaine craved skin and touches and kisses stolen with the feverish desperation of a starving man.
Kurt knew that they could both try, but humans couldn't survive with just books in their life if they didn't have anybody to read them to.
Kurt's birthday fell in late March and he was dreading it. Twenty-one meant adult, meant decisions and taking responsibilities and not doing stupid things without facing the consequences.
Finn, however, was ecstatic.
"We can drink together!" He said over and over.
"Delightful," Kurt said, whacking the coffee machine into action every morning.
"I thought you were giving it up?"
"I was. Now I'm not."
Because Kurt could taste Blaine in every mouthful and sometimes he would hold it in his mouth and pretend, but the hot liquid was the same colour as Blaine's eyes and Kurt found himself adding spoonful after spoonful of cream and sugar until it faded to a milky gold.
He let Finn drag him to bar after bar, and it turned out that all the guys Finn talked about were actually bearable company after a few drinks. They liked Kurt because he could dole out snarky comments that cut right to the core, but they laughed anyway and plied him with shot after shot and laughed harder when he tried to stand up and the room spun.
"He's a birthday shot virgin, guys!" Sam announced, dropping more tequila and lime onto their table.
"He's an everything virgin," Santana smirked, and Kurt had no idea how she'd managed to sneak into his birthday gathering being neither male nor a friend of his, but she handed him the salt and he forgave her immediately for gate-crashing.
"Who says I'm a virgin!" Kurt said, too loudly and the table stopped to look at him. He bit his lime and flushed scarlet.
"Dude. You're my brother, we had a deal. You don't even know what sex is when your around me, remember?"
Kurt scoffed and tried to stand but table legs and chairs were difficult to manoeuvre in the dark when his legs seemed to have multiplied but his depth perception lessened. The room swayed and he clutched Finn's arm to hoots of laughter.
Then he was laughing harder and harder, because if only Blaine could see him now; drunk and reckless and his top three shirt buttons had fallen undone, and his hair was falling onto the questionable side of ruffled, but for once he didn't care.
He felt lighter than he had done in weeks and could see immediately why depressed writers turned to alcoholism.
There was a prickling on his skin, and Kurt knew before he raised his eyes. He knew as though a string connected his heart to Blaine's and was tugging gently. He looked tired, miserable. He looked how Kurt felt but there was no sympathy as their eyes met.
Kurt didn't want to forgive him, because he didn't want to have to hate him.
Blaine was backing away, moving towards the rest rooms off to the side but Kurt knew he wasn't running, he was beckoning. He was giving Kurt a chance.
He followed, purely because he was unable to resist.
Kurt crashed into the room seconds after it swung shut behind Blaine, looked at him curled against the mirror as though trying to sink into the glass. When Kurt was little he thought that parallel worlds lived inside mirrors; the version of you that you wanted to be, pressed alongside your reality and only visible through the glass.
But then Kurt grew up.
"I should punch you in the face."
Blaine made a noise of agreement and turned. He was dark-eyed and ruffled and t-shirt must have been years old, but he was still beautiful and Blaine; all curls and dark eyes and glasses. He was pale and drawn, but he was still there and Kurt's anger evaporated like it had never been.
This was Blaine, and maybe they weren't friends or lovers. Maybe they didn't even have to be teacher and student because Kurt had never really been into labels.
Maybe they could just be Kurt and Blaine, and did it really matter what they were when their limbs were entwined tighter than a Celtic knot?
"Fuck. Blaine, please tell me exactly why you aren't kissing me right now?"
Maybe that was all Blaine needed to weaken the little resolve he had, because his eyes were suddenly darker and was the tequila playing tricks on Kurt's senses again, or had Blaine moved infinitely closer to him.
"Kurt, you're my student?"
"I'm not a child, Blaine! I turned twenty-one today for fucks sake! I think I can decide what's good for me and what isn't!"
Kurt knew it was him who stepped closer this time, because the distance was too far and he wanted to brush his fingertips along Blaine's cheekbone and feel him shudder in response. He wanted to watch the flutter of his eyelashes and the sharp curve of his jaw.
Kurt had never hated Finn Hudson more than he did when he felt his hand close around his upper arm and drag him from the room. He was simmering and twisted himself free to glare at his brother, but Finn just blinked and smiled in that way and Kurt had to forgive him.
The classes were different after that night. There was a tension between them, and they remained silent waiting for it to break.
I want someone who will destroy and be destroyed by me.
Kurt had never like the summer, but now he hated it even more.
The air was cloying, pressing too close to him, stifling his brain and his thoughts as they sat and sweated through the last few weeks of class before the summer.
But Kurt had made up his mind as the weeks passed, he knew what he wanted and approaching summer break only taunted his brain, a vicious reminder that he needed to act, needed to do something because every thought that crossed his mind and every beat of his heart and every word and breath was Blaine, Blaine, Blaine.
He felt like a pocket-watch wound a little too tight, every spring coiled.
He knew Blaine wanted him as much as he wanted Blaine. He saw it in the way his eyes forced themselves to look away from the long bare stretch of his arm, the way he blinked and refocused when Kurt chewed on his pen or threw his head back to laugh at Finn.
It seemed that even when Blaine was trying to ignore him, they were left palpably aware of each other's presence. Every shift in position had Blaine's eyes glancing up and then away. Every movement was countered by one of his own until it seemed that they were locked in a perpetual stalemate.
It wasn't hard to convince Finn to take his books back in to class for him.
"I really don't need to go in on the last day, Finn. I've still got to pack half of my things, and repack all of yours. He'll understand."
He was stretched out alone on his bed, naked except for the summer air and the window was open just enough to let a breeze tickle across his body.
He closed his eyes and let his mind take over just the once, and Blaine's eyes were emblazoned onto his eyelids and his hands were brushing over Kurt with the gentlest of touches and Kurt craved to lean into the touch, to sooth the ache inside him but fantasies are insubstantial and he didn't dare move.
Kurt spread two legs, pressing a hand below his erection and he'd never done this to himself before, and there was one drunken memory of a brunette at a party last year, but with his mind screaming Blaine, Kurt pressed one finger inside himself.
Two fingers, and the lube was sticky and slippery and even the sunlight seemed to turn to liquid where it hit Kurt's skin.
Kurt felt like subdued electricity. Like lightening. Like Mona Lisa with a secret and a smile as he wrapped his longest coat around his naked body, laced his combat boots to his knees.
He knew the lessons must be over by now, and a text from Finn had told him that everyone was meeting up in some bar, on some street in a place Kurt never wished to go. He told him maybe, and was outside the door of Blaine's classroom in twenty minutes.
There was silence and stillness on the other side of the door as he knocked, but Kurt knew because he could feel Blaine's presence like an ever-constant shape pressed over his heart, and it was heavy and painful, but there.
He saw the way Blaine's eyes lit up when they hit him, the way he tried to fight a smile and a frown as Kurt walked past him silently. He faced the desk, his heart pounding.
"Isn't it a little hot for the coat?"
Now or never.
Kurt wanted to laugh, because who knew how easy it was to play Blaine straight into his hands.
His fingers didn't shake as they untwisted the buttons, he didn't fumble like the last time he'd stood here, because this was going to be different.
He head Blaine's gasp as he dropped the coat and kicked it to the side, the groan that came from his chest as Kurt bent over the desk, his arms holding him steady as they grasped the sides.
Kurt spread his legs slightly, and he was laid out and bare and open to Blaine's gaze and he was giving him everything and holding nothing back, and fuck, all Blaine had to do was reach out and take it.
Kurt glanced over his shoulder to where Blaine had frozen, "Blaine, I want you to fuck me."
Blaine's eyes snapped up to latch onto Kurt's holding him with his gaze like a challenge; he'd already given in, he was going to do everything Kurt said.
"I want you to take all your clothes off, come over here right now and fuck me."
And when Blaine's body finally slotted around his, all soft skin where Kurt was hard angles and bones, coarse hair where Kurt was smooth, Kurt finally let himself breathe again.
When he inhaled he felt Blaine move behind him, and every shift of their skin was just another way of slotting together.
Blaine's fingertips danced slowly down Kurt's spine, tripping like raindrops from one bone to the next, caressing lazily at the curve of his back. Two fingers slipped deftly between his cheeks to rub up and down and fuck
One finger pressed into Kurt and he writhed against it.
"I prepped myself before I came," Kurt choked out. He tried not to move, but Blaine has stilled his fingers and Kurt was throbbing and burning from the inside out.
"I didn't want to oh, waste any…time which could be fuck, spent doingah…other….things."
"Other things like what?" His voice was drawn out, pressed against Kurt's throat, the words vibrating right into Kurt's body and his tongue just brushed the skin and Kurt knew he was doing this on purpose and he hated it, but he gave in.
"Other things like fucking me against this desk until I can't see!"
One arm came up to close around his torso, anchoring him and it burned but Blaine was kissing between his shoulder blades and Kurt wanted more and he welcomed the fire that shot up his backbone when Blaine added another finger.
"Please!" It sounded like a shout, and Kurt was begging until his throat was raw but he wanted and he needed this so badly. His eyes were screwed shut, and Blaine pressed his fingers against Kurt's prostate insistently.
Kurt jerked, gasped.
"Please, Mr Anderson. Fuck me against your desk until I scream your name, until we can't breathe and the world goes dark because it's so fucking good. Fuck me until I can feel you in me every time I move over the summer."
Blaine pulled his fingers out and pressed Kurt forwards until he was leaning against the desk again, and there was a second's pause, but then Blaine was there, pushing himself into Kurt so torturously slowly that Kurt wanted to scream, and maybe he was and maybe the shouts and the moans were falling from his lips. But Blaine was soft and gentle and Kurt wanted more.
He wanted to feel Blaine on his skin from the inside out, wanted to imprint every cell of his body onto Kurt's until he couldn't walk without feeling him.
"Harder, Blaine fuck!"
Kurt's hips hit the table edge with every thrust, but he wanted to bruise and stain and feel the ache and the burn of Blaine every day this summer, wanted to clutch him closer, wanted Blaine to hold him tighter just to prove to him that this was real.
Their kissing wasn't kissing, just lips pressed and breathing each other and panting into Blaine's mouth to muffle his moans, and every thrust was an apology and when Blaine tightened his arm across Kurt's chest he was begging and begging and Kurt knew and he forgave.
Kurt's eyes screwed shut, he couldn't see Blaine could only feel every pore of him, could read the ridges and bumps of his body like braille and Kurt sobbed and felt a tear leak from his closed eyes and felt Blaine kiss it away.
Blaine's hand tightened on Kurt's hip and he could feel the bruises bursting under his skin and his teeth were biting into Kurt's shoulder and his mind was flying and falling and everything around him burst until all that was left was Blaine, and Blaine, and Blaine was holding him and kissing him and the world could shatter around them and neither would care.
Maybe their knees trembled and their legs gave out simultaneously, but Kurt would forever accuse Blaine of being the one who dragged them both to the dusty floor that afternoon.
Kurt let his fingers trace swirls into the dirt that collected between the wood of the floorboards, and Blaine traced his fingers from the backs of Kurt's knees to his neck, from his elbows to his thighs and back again as though committing him to memory.
"I really like these boots," he murmured into Kurt's thigh, running a finger along the laces.
"I thought you might."
Blaine sighed and folded himself into Kurt's body, his eyes closed as he rubbed his rough cheek against Kurt's stomach. He seemed to be afraid to let go.
Kurt curled his fingers into Blaine's hair, tugging slightly until he looked up.
"I'm not going anywhere you know."
Blaine's arms tightened slightly, "I know. I just really don't want you to."
But on the wild nights, who can call you home? Only the one who knows your name.
Let me know what you think, because I love you guys!