DISCLAIMER: I do not own Glee, Fox does. And Ryan Murphy.
Warnings are: well, there aren't really any. Allusions to masturbation and underage boys fantasising, kissing, desire, that sort of stuff. What, no language in a story written by me? What is this? However, I do make up for it by writing yet another fic based around NBK. I'm so predictable.
Again, reviewers (and subscribers and author alerters and favouriters), I cannot embody Blaine more perfectly when I say "I. Love. You." Because I do. I love you and you're all beautiful.
You know what I love more? TUMBLR! :D
endofadream [.] tumblr [.] com
From a nearly-dead Yaghan language. It describes "a look shared by two people with each wishing that the other will initiate something that both desire but which neither wants to start."
It had started with a look.
Just like everything else, it was a look.
A slack-jawed, wide-eyed, heart-stopped look. The moment that Blaine Anderson turns around, his life couldn't become more different. The moment he locks eyes with the owner of the voice who had spoken to him, he can only think oh my god.
Almond-shaped blue-green eyes, airbrushed pale skin stretched over high cheekbones, arched brows that still managed to convey superiority and indifference even when those eyes scream sadness and suffering. Pretty pink lips, dark brown hair, and an outfit that is not Dalton's uniform.
Whoever this boy is, outsider, newcomer, friend or foe, something about him is magnetic, enigmatic. Blaine sees the obvious things: hurt, fear, sadness, all caked over with a layer of feigned superiority, a front, if Blaine had a guess. It's something that he knows far too much about.
A sentence, stammered and little hesitant, but calm nonetheless. He's new and he's curious.
Blaine extends his hand, never taking his eyes from this boy's face, and introduces himself with the smile he's spent countless hours in front of his mirror practicing. A soft-skinned hand slides into his and the touch is brief, too brief, and Blaine feels empty and cold when their hands part. But this boy at least now has a name to put to a pretty face.
With that first look, their lives change forever.
Call it hackneyed, clichéd, trite, commonplace, whichever. When Blaine fronts the Warblers and sings to the gathered crowd of students, his eyes never leave Kurt's and Kurt's never leave his. It's like they're alone in their own little world, swimming in a sea of these new, strange feelings, each the other's buoy.
For once, Blaine is at a loss for words.
Blaine strives for very few things in his life. Since his mom died and he came out to his father he's strived for acceptance. When he couldn't gain that and obtained a cold indifference instead he began to strive for perfection. He changed himself from a rambunctious boy to a polite, calm teenager, paid more attention in school and did as many extracurriculars as he possibly could.
Still, that acceptance was never given and though he still strives for perfection, he's under the impression that it's something elusive that he'll never obtain. He can wow the crowds of onlookers at competition with his voice and energy, but he'll never wow his father with anything
It hurts, almost too much sometimes, but Blaine's learned to accept it.
For awhile, before he'd transferred to Dalton (run, a tiny voice in his head supplies), Blaine had tried to put his sexuality behind him. He'd tried to stop letting his eyes wander in class, in the locker room, when he was walking down the hallway, to the boys: their broad shoulders, the flat planes of their backs and chests, their long, lean thighs and muscular asses.
He tried his hardest to let his eyes wander down the smooth, feminine lines of the girls' legs, tried his damndest to focus on their cleavage and the way their shirts hugged their curves. Blaine had tried to change himself to make his father happy because he was just too different.
It didn't work, and whenever he lets himself imagine during nights alone in his bed, under the covers, it was always still men, in him, around him, the heady smell of masculinity and the zigzagging rushes of pleasure as he comes.
And then, suddenly, it's Kurt running, transferring to Dalton and he's there every day, all day and all night because Westerville is a good two hours from Lima. Suddenly, it's Kurt in a few of his classes, Kurt at his lunch table, eating and smiling and looking a little less scared each day the Warblers let him in on their jokes and into their family.
Suddenly, Blaine can't help but stare. He's attracted to the upturned slope of Kurt's nose, the way his ears taper into a point that's so elfin and so adorable, how his eyes shine and change colors constantly, the way his smile cuts across his face sharply and he looks so happy, so content and wholly unafraid.
Blaine still feels a twinge of guilt whenever he finds himself liking another boy. Somewhere, not-so-deep down inside of him he still feels like he's shaming his father, the whole Anderson family—because that's the words his father used before when Blaine had asked to transfer, bruises littering his face and ribs aching so much it was excruciating to draw in a deep breath for air: shaming the whole family, Blaine—just by finding someone cute.
Of course, he never tells Kurt, but he stares.
Kurt stares back.
When their eyes meet whole volumes of text are spoken nonverbally. Blaine can't quite decipher the shadows of Kurt's eyes, the twitch of muscles in his face, but he does know that Kurt likes him, and whether it's more than a friend Blaine isn't sure yet, but where they're at is nice.
Blaine isn't exactly a mystery or hard to read, but he likes to believe that the way he holds himself doesn't let on to how deeply he's wounded, how much his heart aches when someone so much as speaks about family or significant others. He likes to believe that he's a pretty decent actor.
He thinks he is because Kurt never says anything and nether does he. He wants to, though, wishes he could so badly sometimes that his chest aches and he screams into his pillow. This isn't fair, none of this is, and why can't he just tell Kurt, let him in on his dirty little secret and kiss him, hold him and do everything with him.
Because it's shameful, the tiny voice supplies. Blaine cries some more.
He wants to talk to Kurt, but he just can't.
It doesn't take long for Kurt to figure out that he's hopelessly in love with Blaine. In fact, it takes a chance meeting, a highly suggestive performance, and coffee afterwards. Blaine Anderson is perfect and flawless and strong and everything Kurt strives to be.
Kurt is most definitely in love.
He knows Blaine thinks he doesn't notice the little looks he gives, but he does. When their eyes meet, it's like nothing else exists or even matters. It's a tension, thick and crackling, but neither want to be the first to break it.
Kurt's not strong enough to do that. He's not brave enough like Blaine is. When it was Finn, he'd only wanted to manipulate, to change and force and mould the universe around him just so that this hulking giant of a cute-faced jock that'd been one of the few to show any semblance of kindness to him would like him like that.
He's always used to getting his way, but he was so young and naïve and so hell-bent on pulling the wool over Finn's eyes that he lost track of who he was and why he was doing this. He had been so desperate for any sort of physical interest from someone that wasn't a girl that he almost didn't recognize himself in the mirror anymore.
But here he is now, in a school he'd at first deigned to visit and had grown to love, from its ornate interior design to its impeccable sea of boys. Sophomore-year Kurt Hummel would be drooling. Junior-year Kurt Hummel lives for the days when he and Blaine lock eyes and share the look.
Still, neither speaks up, and Kurt's not sure if they ever will.
They get coffee. They go shopping in Westerville's mall on the weekends and countless nights are spent crashing in each other's dorms from a night of tedious, headache-inducing studying. Countless times Kurt has woken up to his head pillowed on Blaine's lap, both still fully-clothed in Dalton's finest, and all those times his cheeks had flamed and he'd hurriedly pulled himself up and a safe distance away.
They're always around each other; always share that look, and the sexual tension mounts.
Kurt's pussyfooting around it, Blaine as well, but they're as close as they ever were, Blaine having memorized Kurt's coffee order and always relaying it to the barista with an easy, sated half-smile on his face as Kurt stands off to the side, arms crossed and head tilted as he just looks at Blaine.
Kurt isn't going to lie to himself or to Mercedes (who texts him every night asking for the gory details of his and Blaine's latest cramming session): he wants Blaine to kiss him. He wants to feel another boy's lips on him that aren't hard or unforgiving, but soft and pliant and open, ready and inviting.
He wants Blaine's hair underneath his fingers and his palms as he smoothes over the copious amounts of dried gel and the soft, thick curls underneath. He wants to hear another boy moan, feel the slick, wet, hot slide of another tongue against his, in his mouth and tracing around his bottom lip. He wants to feel someone else's hardness against his hip and between his legs.
Kurt wants Blaine in the hormone-induced teenage way that screams bad idea. And he's been frank about it, spoken directly about his feelings after the Gap incident, but Blaine had just blinked, stammered a few half-sentences and continued on being pissed off at the whole Valentine's holiday.
Kurt wonders if maybe this whole time he's misconstrued the look.
He hopes that he hasn't. He wants Blaine to say something, but he won't.
Even when Kurt confesses that he'd thought he was the one Blaine had been planning on serenading with a (very bad) song, Blaine still refuses to talk about it. He doesn't want to be the one to initiate whatever this could possibly be because the room for screwing it up is way too big and the price is way too hefty.
If he screws this up, it means that he could lose Kurt forever, and Blaine would, truthfully, rather sit and stare with longing in his eyes than try to fill the empty Kurt-shaped void that would inevitably be in Dalton once Kurt lost the thing that he desired most.
Blaine strives to be perfect, but he isn't. He doesn't want someone like Kurt to see his flaws and the raw inside of his heart. He doesn't want to have to tell Kurt about all the nights he'd cried himself to sleep and felt ashamed because he'd come imagining a man's lips on his, on his cock.
He doesn't want to lose this because when Kurt's happy, Blaine's happy.
Blaine knows the look. Blaine is well aware of its presence and the meaning behind it. He's seen Kurt's eyes darken with thinly-veiled arousal when he's moved a particular way or hit a killer note, felt that gaze intensify, but Blaine doesn't want to be the one to say anything. He wants Kurt to.
That's a long shot, though, because they don't talk about this.
Kurt doesn't want to be the one to finally break the ice and take initiative. He's learned his lesson and knows that he can come off as actually really frightening when he's wanting and yearning. And he's yearning for Blaine. He dreams, feels Blaine's strong tighs wrapped around his waist as he thrusts, his lips presisng against his with bruising force as his hands grapple at any surface as he moans and grunts and makes all the sounds Kurt has always found sexy.
Kurt wants but he doesn't.
So he stares. He stares and Blaine stares and they communicate without really communicating. He sees the cogs and gears turning in Blaine's head, notices the way he draws his bottom lip into his mouth as he continuously glances up from his calculus textbook to find that Kurt's eyes are still on him and that deep within there's a hardened, determined edge in them.
They look at each other with desire but they never start.
Pavarotti dies and Kurt's upset because death is so unfair and abrupt and it really does remind him of his mom, in a way, because even though they'd have time to tie off loose ends, watching her waste away and suffer had been the hardest months of Kurt's life. So seeing this tiny, tiny little bird, so golden and yellow and once so full of life, drop dead in the blink of an eye, he can't quell the rush of emotion that overtakes him.
He sings and tears roll down his face, drip off his chin and onto his all-black emsemble. He stares out the window and into the bright March sunlight; in the back of his mind he hears the Warblers backing him up, singing solemnly and mournfully behind him, but one thing catches his eye.
It's Blaine. It's the look. It's the look turned up a thousand watts, it's Blaine shifting hs whole weight to stare, watch Kurt as he pays homage to the late canary in the best way he knows how. It's Kurt opening up his heart, raw and just as wounded and bloody as Blaine's, for the room to see while he sings.
Blaine watches Kurt and knows.
Kurt sings and walks out of the room when he finishes.
In the end, a day later, it's Blaine, after all, who initiates it.