Title: Her Name Was New York
Author: epanaphoric and MotherGoddamn
Summary: It's just another night in New York, for Finn to mope over Rachel and wait for Kurt to come home and yell at him over the coaster rings. But a blast from the past fills Finn's doorway instead.
Her Name Was New York
"I know kung-fu!" Finn shouted, a split second after he ducked behind the couch with a thump, and he knew New York was full of burglars, and vagrants, and danger, and people wanting him to travel to Honduras with, like, a piñata stuffed with cocaine or something. He'd watched CSI: New York more times than he'd admit, always told Kurt to keep his sharpest kitchen knife under his bed just in case, but...
Oh, no. Oh God no. What if it was Rachel? Kurt said they were studying at the Bobst Library, but Kurt had lied to cover up Rachel's tracks before, and what if she was at the door, clutching flowers and candles for some date with some guy, and looking all pretty and crazy and perfect and not his.
Yeah. He would much rather it was the world's least stealthy cat burglar than that. Footsteps padded in the hallway, and Finn fumbled in his pockets for a weapon while his heart thumped with each step.
"Chill out, Mastodon! It's only me."
Finn stood up, hiding his trembling hands behind his back. "What are you doing here?"
"Collecting my -"
"Dorky bow tie collection? Box of fob watches? Syringes of growth hormone?"
"Toys," Blaine said, raising up onto tip-toe and dropping back again with a smile.
Blaine rolled his eyes. "I was joki- Nevermind. My flash drive is over here. Kurt said he was out, so I thought I'd come get it and return my key at last."
Finn scratched his head. "By toys, you did mean Fisher Price and stuff. Right?"
"Yes, Finn, Fisher Price Little People. And me? What about you? I used to live here!"
"Oh. Kurt was having some trouble with his musical." He paused to flop down on the couch. "Something about nothing being able to rhyme with 'Garland' or something. Not sure why he's writing about flowers, but he sounded a bit stressed and suggested I come by to visit for a few days, you know, take my mind off stuff."
"Oh." Blaine sat down, clasping his hands into his lap. "Yeah. Kurt's a... Kurt's a really good brother."
That was progress. Admittedly, he'd only heard one side of the story, and Kurt was a somewhat melodramatic and unreliable narrator, but apparently Blaine had been unable to even mention his stepbrother's name for a few weeks without bursting into tears. There wasn't too much sadness in Blaine's voice, but he sounded resigned and, dare he say it, lonely, as he shuffled his feet in patterns on the floor and pressed his palms together, weaving nervous fingers between each other. Finn didn't especially like Blaine, unless it was in bite-sized doses, but company had been fairly thin on the ground recently.
"Hey, man. I know we didn't always, well, ever see eye to eye on several things, but you fancy a drink before you head on your way?"
Blaine looked like he'd appreciate the company, too. "Um, okay, why not? I'll stay for one. What do you have?"
"Beer? Some freaky blue stuff called cure-a-cow? Um, maybe some tequila somewhere?" He paused. "Kurt and Rachel aren't, like, the biggest drinkers."
"Got my own," Blaine said, extracting a shiny pewter flask from the inside pocket of his blazer and patting it affectionately.
"You have a hip flask? Dude, that's awesome!"
"My dad got it for me." Blaine turned it so Finn could read the inscription. 'With God, all things are possible'. The Ohio state motto. It seemed kind of inappropriate for a flask of eighty proof spirits, but then again, Blaine was often inappropriate; perhaps it ran in the family?
"Cool! You're like, gay MacGyver. MacGayver! Hey, do you have some duct tape and a Swiss Army knife?"
Blaine blinked. "No, and yes. Have you been drinking already, Finn?"
"Nah." Finn walked to the kitchen island, rummaging for two airplane cups and a can of Coke which he tossed to Blaine. "Also," he said, gesturing to a pair of sunglasses on the floor which were missing an arm, "can I borrow the Swiss Army knife? I kinda stepped on these when you burst in, and Kurt has enough reasons to murder me as it is."
"Let's not talk about Kurt," Blaine sighed, looking away as a frown lined his mouth.
"So. Uh." Finn's eyes searched to the ceiling. "How 'bout those Buckeyes, then? Downhill since the Tressel days, huh?"
"Definitely." Blaine was all animation and swirling hands now. "God, I used to have the biggest crush on Troy Smith."
"Huh. Thought Joe Germaine would be more your type. Anyway, yeah. Brutus the Buckeye used to scare me so much when I was a kid. Those eyes, man. Mom used to make me sleep with a nightlight on and check under my bed."
"Aw, that's kinda cute. How old were you?"
Finn blushed. "Uh, like, fourteen?"
Blaine guffawed, utterly undignified, face creasing up like a scrunched soda can, then stopped, patting Finn on the knee gently. Finn nodded at him with a half-smile; childhood traumas were not a laughing matter. Clearing his throat, Blaine daintily unscrewed the lid of his hip flask, taking a more than healthy slug before offering it to Finn.
Four drinks in, bottle of Cuervo liberated from Kurt's room, and Blaine was a lot more tolerable. It didn't take him much to open up at the best of times, but a couple of drinks, and he was actually a pretty decent conversationalist and a wide open book. Finn felt a pang of regret and frowned; it might have won him some major points with Kurt and Rachel if he'd been able to do that when Kurt and Blaine were actually dating.
"It's completely different movie, Blaine!" Finn shook his head. "You're thinking of a Labyrinth."
"Well, I don't want that nickname then." Blaine stuck up his chin. "Not if I haven't seen it. It might be an insult."
"Dude! You had a wasted childhood. Willow is awesome. There's this really sick bit where the evil stepmother turns the soldiers into pigs and-"
"Peck doesn't sound very suave." Blaine considered. "Is he one of the soldiers?"
Finn waved his hand. "No, he's the dwarf, anyway, the pigs, right-"
"A dwarf! I don't want to be named after a dwarf!"
"Hey! We agreed. It was either this or Blood Brothers. But someone is scared of a little bit of pain."
"Finn, please, I mean no offense but I wouldn't feel comfortable to be around you while you were holding a knife when you were sober, let alone drunk!" He sniffed. "You're not coming anywhere near my palms."
"Yeah? Then accept your nickname, Peck!" Finn slapped a hand down on his knee. "I didn't complain about being called Empire State." Finn stared at his hand, his hand which still rested on Blaine's leg and pulled it back. He didn't want him getting the wrong idea after all.
For a moment they sat in silence, occasionally swigging at their drinks and letting their minds fill.
"It must have been hard for Kurt," Blaine said, interrupting the quiet, "having his first love break up with him." Blaine patted above his heart and shook his head sorrowfully.
Finn raised an eyebrow.
"Am I doing that thing where I'm being too full of it again? God, you need to warn me about that. I need to be more self-effacing; Kurt always said so." Blaine nodded. "He used to make me fill out all these customer satisfaction forms…"
"No," Finn paused, searching for the right words. "You're fine enough the way you are, Blaine, just... you weren't his first love, dude."
"Huh?" Blaine took another swig of his drink. "But Kurt told me on the first day I transferred that we were the only two out guys at McKinley, so... who was the first? Was it that ripped blond in the gold shorts?"
"Sam? No, no. Kurt crushed on him a bit, but...you didn't know? Oh, well I can kinda see why he wouldn't tell you." Finn shrugged. "In case you got insecure that he was hotter than you. Sam was, like, TV good looking not, you know-." Finn made a random gesture at him. "Theatre good looking."
"I'm not entirely sure what you mean by that, but, uh, thanks," Blaine said dryly. "Who was it, then?"
"It's not important. You were the first love that counted, anyway."
Blaine puffed out his chest. "You think?"
"Definitely. Each time he came home from Dalton, it was always Blaine this, Blaine that."
"Really?" Blaine gave a little bounce in his seat, and Finn was reminded of Puck saying he always expected Blaine to launch into Barney says share-mode while handing out balloons and candy. Heck, Finn still had the epic Blainesaurus doodles Puck passed him during a particularly boring Geography class; possibly cruel, but if Blaine kept showing up wearing purple pants, what did he expect them to do?
"Yeah. Really. Blaine's dreamy, Blaine's so funny, Blaine looks so good in amaranth - and what an amaranth is, I never knew, Blaine is the bestest best thing since sliced gay bread."
"Must you put finger quotations on every word?"
Finn stared down at his hands in confusion. "Uh, anyway. Yeah, Burt banned your name from the dinner table because it was, like, your name every fourth bite."
Blaine was looking entirely too pleased with himself, then his eyes clouded over and he looked away. Yeah, nice going, Finn. Remind him that Kurt is getting all the mouthfuls he needs now Blaine and him have split up. Wait, what? Geez, this drink was working fast.
"Sorry," Finn said quietly. "That probably doesn't help."
"Well, I did ask." Blaine said sadly, then he turned to Finn, a smirk twisting his lips. Finn could still see a glimmer of pain in his eyes, but the bravado was swiftly pushing it away. "He never looked at what was under his own roof?"
Finn stared at him, confused. "I don't follow, dude?"
"You know? Like Supernatural?"
"Wait? The show? What's that-" Finn sucked in a breath as he realized Blaine's implication. "What! No, I mean, Sam and Dean aren't even- that's freaky, dude, and Kurt doesn't-" Finn took a long, long, swig of his beer. "Maybe. Once."
"You and he?"
"No! God, no. I'm just saying there was a time- When he, he noticed me. Yeah."
"I get it." Blaine was leaning into him now, harsh breath against the crook of his neck, trailing his finger around the edge of his flask. "Don't take this the wrong way, Finn, but you're so tall, and your smile, and your eyes are, like, brighter than shining stars... why me?"
Oh no. Finn recognized that look. A warm palm rested on his thigh, and he gulped.
"Yeah," Blaine breathed, hot against his neck. "When you smile, that cute little sideways one, it's like the whole world stops and stares."
Yes. Blaine was definitely flirting. Finn smirked, and let Blaine rest his palm on his leg for just a little while, at least. He could have some fun with this, uncover some major blackmail material about Kurt, for one. Blackmail that would easily trump the time Kurt caught him with Rachel on the fire escape, or the time he ordered steak tartare at Sardi's and threw up in his napkin.
"Are you quoting lyrics from Just the Way You Are at me? You do realize that's Kurt and mine's song, right?"
"Wait, that's from a song? You have a song? Isn't that kind of gay for brothers? Heh. Brothers. Brothers with benefits, right Finn?"
"No! There have never been any benefits! That's just sick, man." He paused. "Kurt backed off around the time of the wedding anyway."
Blaine was quiet for a few moments, invisible cogs turning in his brain. "The hell? Was this before, or..."
"Before!" Finn placed his hands up apologetically. "One look at you and I was all last season to him."
"Well," Blaine's palm was patting circles on his thigh, now. "Kurt always did have good taste; you have to admit you're rather easy on the eyes, Finn Hudson."
Finn placed his palm over Blaine's. A simple gesture, comforting, friendly, but it ended up placing more pressure on his thigh and wow, Blaine was such a tiny bundle of energy that even his palms were burning hot. Finn felt his cheeks burning hot, too. This really was some potent booze. "Uh, thanks, man."
"So. You and Kurt, huh? Make sense, I suppose. You never thought about him like that?"
"No, I just..." He paused. "And what do you mean, makes sense?"
"Lingering hugs, and arm-stroking, and didn't you sing Losing My Religion to him after Burt had his heart attack?" Finn realized he was moving Blaine's palm now, and quickly batted it away.
"Excuse me for reaching out to the school's only gay kid. And I'd like, prayed to touch Rachel's boob the week before anyway. It was a one-sided crush which ended in me wearing this, this, weird shower curtain Lady Gaga thing. Kurt and me we, uh, don't speak of it now."
"One-sided? You wanted Kurt?" Blaine paused. "I feel like I should address the shower curtain thing, but I've learned with you guys to just let some things go."
"No! For the last time, I did not, and do not want Kurt. More like Kurt wanted me. Christ, does a private school education really leave you that dense? I thought it would just make you all world-weary and schemey, like Cruel Intentions."
"You two really never...?"
"Drop it, Blaine! The answer to that question is no. But," he smirked, narrowing his eyes, "Kurt totally wanted me."
"And all that serenading and stuff didn't mean anything?"
"Well, yeah. Just the Way You Are was to get into Rachel's pants really. Totally didn't work. But then, yeah. 'That's me in the corner, that's me in the spotlight, losing my religion'. I was being totally supportive, cause you know Kurt doesn't believe in God. Puck helped me choose it, it was perfect!"
"You do know that song's not about religion, right?"
"What is it about?"
"What if all these fantasies come flailing aground ..."
"Oh. Huh. It's a love song?"
Finn was going to rip Puck apart like a ragdoll the next time he saw him. "Something like that, er, yeah."
"Anyway. Then you came along, and it was like I didn't exist."
"And brightened up his world, right!" Blaine was beaming, and Finn idly wondered if his bow ties had some magical properties, because it all but looked his he was preparing himself for take-off.
Finn shook his head. "No. You made him like, hurt and angst and ask me questions about whether it was normal for guys to compare each other to Arctic-dwelling animals."
"Ouch. Yeah, maybe I didn't handle that the best. So," Blaine paused. "How's Rachel?"
"Can we not talk about Rachel, please?"
"Are you two over for good, then?"
Finn wasn't entirely sure about that one. "Hardly." He looked to Blaine's eyes, tinged with sympathy and loneliness and a little slice of want. Guilt ran through him, but honesty was perhaps the best policy right now. "We'll get back together; we always do. The chemistry, man, it's just... electric. I never saw your nationals kiss on YouTube."
"That's because it happened behind the stage. Where those things should happen. Anyone recording that would be a major league perv."
"You recorded your brother?"
"He just looked so happy!"
And also kind of hot. Well, Blaine had looked hot, clutching handfuls of Kurt's shirt, resting his head on Kurt's shoulder, making these happy little sighs. Well, Rachel and Tina thought it was hot; it wasn't like Finn would have known about that sort of stuff or anything, but, objectively, and purely objectively...
"Shut up! You can't have a go at me for kissing my girlfriend on stage when you eye-fucked and serenaded a guy in the GAP!"
Blaine's mouth gaped in an almost comical expression of rage. Then, he seemed to gather himself together, a large triangle of eyebrow arching up. "Jealous?"
"Hardly. I was more jealous when Rachel and Kurt did their audition for West Side Story." He paused. "And also kind of scared Rachel would want me to wear blue pantyhose. I can't rock that look."
"So let me get this right," Blaine said. "Kurt and Rachel made out; Rachel and I made out."
"Dude, I'm not following."
"Don't you think the four of us are... well. Incestuous?"
"I am not kissing Kurt, if that's what you're getting at!"
"No. So." Blaine leaned in, inches from Finn's face and licked his lips. His eyes were really pretty, sort of brown, and green, and gold, like falling leaves; Finn couldn't honestly say he had noticed that before. "Um, do I look like a good kisser then?"
Finn gulped. Blaine said nothing, merely brushed a speck of lint from his pants. Was this what it felt like to have a guy really flirt with you? Not innocent, I want to hold your hand flirting, but honest to God, let me take you next door and screw you until you can't walk for a week flirting? It was... not unpleasant.
"You have some drink on your chin," Blaine whispered in his ear, and before Finn could do anything, Blaine's fingertip swept down his cheekbone. Reflexively, Finn shifted back on the couch, which was a bad idea, because he saw every colour in Blaine's eyes glimmer and glitter before he leaned forward, then lapped up the drop of honeyed liquid with a single flick of his tongue.
Finn gulped. His stomach made this weird, flopping motion, and his brain told him to back off, but he liked the attention. It made him feel warm, and Blaine was warm, and between work, and classes, and dealing with the dysfunction of his New York family from the safety of his dorm back in Ohio, it had been more than a while since anyone paid him attention, aside from that strange TA in his Marketing class who smelled like cat.
But... he was not into guys. At all. Or maybe he was just into this one guy, who was clearly into him right now? It was never as though he'd stood up in front of his friends and had a not-coming-out party, after all.
"Well. That kiss didn't miss, Blaine," he said, succinctly.
"Really? Do go on." Blaine was twisting his suspenders between his fingertips, fingers thin and nimble, and dare Finn say it, quite likely talented in areas other than piano-playing and wild gesticulation.
"Oh, no. I'm gonna need another few drinks before I critique your performance of epic make outs, dude."
Blaine licked his lips and shrugged his blazer from his shoulders. "I can arrange that."
Seven drinks in, and Blaine's arm was wrapped around his waist, gelled curls falling against his shoulder, and Finn didn't particularly feel an urge to move. Everything was warm, and fuzzy, and foggy, and happy, and, and nice.
"So. You heard of gay chicken?"
"Don't you have to be gay to play gay chicken, Finn?"
"Dude, you kissed Rachel. Three times. World's worst gay."
"Spin the bottle, testing my sexuality and West Side Story. Yeah. I'm clearly just dying for vagina, Finn."
"Vagina." He creased his forehead. "That is such an ugly word. It sounds like, some swallowing creature from the black lagoon or something."
"Aaaand that's why I prefer cock." Blaine raised his other hand, shakily, offering a high five, but Finn merely laced their hands together, Blaine's palm hot and sweaty against his.
Finn felt his cheeks warm up, the more he told himself not to think about the word 'cock', the more it echoed around him, like his head was stuck in a really long tunnel. "Cock. Like that's so much better. Sounds like some weird pecking chicken. Why do they even call it that?"
"Cause it goes back and forth?"
"Like, clucking?" He paused. Did Blaine really have to add a head gesture, complete with licking his lips? "Oh! So maybe Rach did know how to -."
"Thank you for the image, Finn. I adore Rachel, really, she's, she's great, but I never needed to know that."
"No to gay chicken, then, but hey. You wanna do body shots?"
"Isn't that even gayer?"
Finn shrugged. "Yeah, but unless I missed something, you are gay?"
"One hundred percent." Blaine chuckled, ducking his head and his face coloring. "Yeah, er. Alright, then."
"Just keep it like, above the waterline, hm?" Blaine's hand was tight around his waist now, drawing small circles just below the base of his ribs.
Then, Blaine extricated himself, standing up on unsteady feet and walked to the kitchen, returning juggling two limes and a plate with salt on. He dropped one of the limes on the floor and bent over to retrieve it, all but waving his ass in Finn's face with a big neon sign.
And it was a very nice ass. Finn hadn't exactly noticed that before but, then again, it wasn't like he made a point of checking out guy's asses. What was that, that song about being the only exception or something?
Blaine rested the plate of salt next to Finn and stood in front of him, fumbling in his pocket for his knife, and cut a wedge from the lime, resting the remainder on the arm of the couch, citrus dripping down the soft leather, and damn it, Kurt was going to kill him for that. Blaine made eye contact and sunk his teeth into the lime wedge, an eerie green smile glinting in the dark room. Then, he sunk down onto the couch, and straddled Finn's hips. Straddled his hips!
"What are you -"
"You said keep it above the waist," he said, deep into Finn's ear. "I'm not even going below your chest; there's no need to freak out on me."
He leaned back, and licked his index finger, flicking his dusky tongue over the tip until it glistened and ran it through the plate of salt then sucked his finger in his mouth, cheeks hollowing, eyes fluttering shut.
Blaine stretched to the table, fumbling to fill a shot glass, except his knee kind of brushed him in this way that sent sparks flying through Finn's body when it really, really shouldn't have.
"That's..." Finn bit back a moan, "that's so not how you do body shots."
Blaine was back in his lap, now, salt-citrus breath against Finn's mouth. He placed his hands on Finn's shoulders.
"Why don't you show me?"
"I can't move! For someone the size of Gary Coleman, you're kinda pinning me down."
"Do you want me to move?"
Finn shook his head. There was good. Really, really good.
"Good," Blaine answered him. "You are so, so hot, Finn."
"Thanks." He reached behind Blaine's neck to playfully snap the elastic holding his bow tie in place. "Your, your shoulders fill out that shirt really nicely," he whispered in Blaine's ear, took a deep breath, then flicked his tongue across Blaine's neck tasting sweat and salt.
"No homo?" Blaine shuddered against him, shifting his hips up, then down in waves.
"Maybe homo," Finn replied, softly, meeting Blaine's big, bright eyes. "So. Um. Testing your sexuality and stuff?"
"So if I were to kiss a guy, and I didn't like, feel stuff, would that mean I was totally straight?"
"Do you wanna kiss me? You don't have to make up any excuses to do that. I'm not going to turn you down. And it's not like I'd tell anyone."
"No! Well, maybe? Forget it. It was just a question!" A question, Finn realized, he was burning to find out the answer to.
"Kurt's right; you really are very affable." Blaine's fingers wandered up and petted at Finn's hair, an index finger twirling a strand and tugging slightly.
"Does affable mean, like, horny and desperate and stuff? Because that's kind of, well, me, but seems kinda rude for Kurt to say that, you know?"
"No. It means good-natured. Approachable. Likeable. Easy to chat to. Affable, and adorable."
"Aww, you like me? I always thought you hated me!"
"Yes!" Blaine nodded happily and then froze. "Oh! I mean, not like that, I mean, not that you're not likeable in that way Finn, but..."
"Shut up," Finn said with a chuckle. "You're kinda affable, too," he added, nibbling Blaine's ear lobe with his teeth. "Very affable, in fact."
Blaine groaned, pulled back, and before Finn could process what was happening, he was leaning forward to him, closer, so close the tips of their noses touched, and then alcohol-heavy lips were on his. Warm, wet, soft, and his brain all but fuzzed out, misty around the edges, because the next thing Finn knew was that he was on the couch, not his couch, with something warm on top of him, like some sort of awesome-smelling, writhing pillow fort.
He opened his eyes. Closed them. Then, he rationalized, if they were shut he'd only be able to feel hard abs and hair gel and stubble beneath his palms, and to his inebriated brain that would be kind of like making out with Mr. Schue.
Finn opened his eyes again, shifted his hips, because he wanted to see this, needed to see this, Blaine flushed and wanting above him, breath misting against him with harsh, broken gasps.
"I'm not doing this -"
"Great. The inevitable gay panic. Straight boys are so predictable."
"- on Kurt's couch. God. Grinding with you doesn't make me gay, Blaine." He sighed. "It just makes me desperate," he muttered under his breath.
Blaine pointedly ignored the 'desperate' remark. "So how do you wanna do this, Finn?"
"Do what? Christ, Blaine. How would I know what two men do in bed, or, or on couches, together?"
"I'll show you the ropes," Blaine replied, dipping down and flicking his tongue across Finn's collarbone. "C'mere."
Blaine grasped the collar of his shirt and groaned; Finn bucked his hips, finding hardness and friction that made his cock jerk in his pants. "It's like I'm caught between a rock and a dapper place," he giggled.
Blaine shifted his hips back against him in reply. "Yeah, well I feel like I'm writhing against the Leaning Tower of Pisa."
"I'm getting friction burn," Finn gasped. "Maybe, er, you should-"
"What?" Blaine stopped, goddamn him, and stared down dopily. "Oh! Yeah!" Blaine unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt, not breaking eye contact, then removed his shirt and sweater vest over his head in one sweep, throwing them behind him and turning to Finn with a grin. "Is that better?"
"Holy crap! I thought gay guys waxed? That's not gonna stop the friction burn. God. I'm making out with Bigfoot." Blaine frowned at him. "No, you're like, a hot Bigfoot. Like, Bigfoot played by Rock Hudson. Uh, a short Rock Hudson."
Blaine was still silent, forehead creased, clearly thinking something, potentially something disastrous, which made Finn think he was really bad at this whole making out thing.
"Pants, too." Finn smiled slyly, nodding his head. "I want the good kinda friction."
"Oh God. Did you really just say that, Finn? Your bedroom talk is just -"
Finn cut him off with a wet, messy kiss until Blaine broke away, braced his hands against Finn's chest and shook his head, terror appearing in his eyes.
"What's wrong, man. D'you wanna stop?" Wasn't it supposed to be him, Finn Hudson, having the gay freak out right about now?
"No," Blaine said, with a gasp as Finn brushed his hand down the line of his chest hair towards Blaine's pants. "But, can - can we move the mirror? My reflection makes it look like Frodo is making out with an Ent."
Oh. The mirror by the hallway. Finn had forgotten about that, and turned his head around, seeing silvery flashes of dark, curly hair and lust-dark eyes, and shit, if grinding wasn't enough to make his cock leak so much it soaked his underwear through, that sight would have done it in a second.
"No," Finn growled, turning his head back and sliding his fingertips over Blaine's stubble and down to his chin, which he tilted upwards. "Look at yourself, Blaine. See what I get to see. Trust me, it's so fucking hot."
"Take yours off, then," Blaine said, licking his lips. "Let me see you."
Finn blushed as Blaine stood up in front of him on unsteady feet. Finn knew he didn't look hideous with his shirt off, and it was dark, but he certainly wasn't all hard lines and defined abs like Blaine. He gulped, removed his t-shirt and folded his arms over his chest. "Um, there?" He said, feeling about ten inches tall.
"Hands by your side, Finn. God, you're gorgeous." Blaine kissed his chest, hard. "Your nipples are just so, so lickable. Let me see all of you."
Finn smirked to himself, happy at Blaine complimenting his least favorite feature and stretched his arms up, running his fingers through his hair.
"All your clothes first, Blaine," he said, surprised at how dusky and dark his voice sounded to his own ears.
Blaine acquiesced. He shimmied out of his pants, Finn not breaking eye contact while he fumbled with his jeans and slid them down until they pooled at his feet. He rested the heel of his palm against his cock, and bit his lip.
"Socks before jeans, Finn. Didn't anyone teach you how to undress?"
"I don't think anyone even taught me to dress, man," Finn said. "And, yeah, like you can talk about sock etiquette. God, you must get athletes foot all-"
"Finn!" Blaine gasped, scandalized. "Not exactly sexy. I don't like my feet being hot. That's all."
"And I don't like mine being cold! I -" Finn was cut off. He looked up at Blaine, who was wiggling his toes, but Blaine was right in front of him, the hard, thick line of his erection straining against his tight red boxer briefs, and Finn licked his lips subconsciously. Or was it unconsciously? God, he was drunk.
Blaine slid his underwear down to his feet, tossed them somewhere, Finn didn't care where, and gestured at him to recline on the couch. Finn complied, grabbing a pillow behind his head, and groaned as Blaine slid on top of him, tanned thigh sliding deliciously between his legs, then reached down to grip his cock through his underwear.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Cosmo said guys like it if you make, like, a hot dog."
"My dick is not food! Aren't you supposed to be, like, practiced? Maybe you could just suck me off instead?" He reached up and flicked Blaine's nipple with his thumb. "Or I'll keep doing this again, and again, and..."
"That's..." Blaine panted. "Oh God, keep doing that."
Finn braced one palm against Blaine's chest and the other against his back, dragging him down for another kiss. He broke away, panting, meeting dark eyes and took in Blaine's face, and Blaine was biting his lip so hard Finn could swear it bled.
"Shit, Blaine. You're like some Greek statue or something."
"Good things come in small packages."
"I'm good, Blaine," he said, waggling his eyebrows. "I'll come in your -"
"Okay. Stop. Your innuendo during sex is even less sexier than your innuendo outside of sex. Can you just get naked and get this over with?"
Blaine pressed his hips against Finn's, hard, and warm, and Finn groaned. "That's... that's not a small package."
"I saw you eat a deep fried Whoopie Pie in one bite at the State Fair last year. You'll deal, Hudson."
"It was fairtastic. Kurt had to, like, run so I didn't puke on his fancy man purse made from camel ass or whatever, but it didn't taste like dick. Unless..."
"My dick is not greasy. And we are not having this conversation right now."
"And, no, it's not, like... what's that thing? Trafalgar's Column or whatever."
"Don't you mean Nelson's Column?"
"Or, or like the Washington Monument."
"Wow, so you did learn something in US History?" He paused. "Well, my dick is a monument."
"I'll say. It has its own Zip code."
"I'm gonna have to do something to shut you up." Blaine reached out for Finn's palm. "Touch me," he breathed.
Finn gulped. He'd overheard Kurt on the phone once, saying how it was pretty much just like touching yourself, but it wasn't. It was rather weird but nice, nice and warm, and hard, and Blaine was leaking at the slit and it enabled Finn's hand to glide, smoothly, firmly, over and across the head of Blaine's thick cock.
"Yeah. Yeah, like that, just like that," Blaine panted, eyes rolling back in his head.
"You like your cock there, huh?" Finn was being shameless; he didn't care, just wanted Blaine to keep rolling his eyes, and creasing his forehead like that. "You like my long fingers stroking you? You want my big hand wrapped around your dick?"
Finn felt Blaine's groan reverberate in his ear. "There's something else I'd like more," he said, breaking away, his right hand sliding down to palm Finn through his underwear, and Blaine was sliding down his body, pressing light kisses against his chest, Finn's toes clenching helplessly, seeking purchase against the end of the couch.
Blaine kissed Finn's navel three times, looked up with long eyelashes and eyes which flashed all black like those weird Californian tar pits Finn had read about, and didn't hesitate. He pressed a single kiss against the head of Finn's cock which was straining and leaking against his underwear, nuzzled him with his nose, and deftly slid Finn's underwear to his ankles. He slid his hand under Finn's thigh, licked his lips and sighed before brushing the head of Finn's cock with his soft wet tongue, an odd flickery motion which just felt awesome and made him melt from head to toe.
"That's awesome," he said, but regretted the words as soon as they left his lips. Because, he had no doubt that Blaine knew he was awesome, too. He didn't want to add more logs to the fire, or however that metaphor went. Blaine was, what was that word, eff- or full of it, whatever, it didn't matter, it really didn't matter, because good God, his mouth felt amazing.
Looking down, he felt spoiled because Blaine was touching himself, sliding his dusky cock tightly between his fist, and Finn wasn't sure whether to look at that, or at the sight of his own cock slipping between plump, full lips instead. Before he knew it, he felt something, he wasn't initially sure what that something was through the fog of alcohol, and sheer want, but it registered that Blaine was dipping the very tip of his small, firm finger inside his ass.
"What the hell, Blaine!" His hips jerked up against their will, but to his surprise, he trembled, moaning, not sure whether to sink down on Blaine's hand, or tilt his hips upwards to get further into his mouth. He breathed in, rewarded with Blaine's finger pressing harder and firmer, groaning as, yeah, he decided to sink down onto Blaine's hand.
"I'm, I'm gonna -"
Blaine broke away from his cock, a trail of saliva glistening, shiny in the darkness and Finn should not have found it hot, should not have found this whole situation hot, but his cock twitched, seeking Blaine's mouth, and Blaine sucked him again, hard, flicking his tongue against his slit, right hand heavy against his side, mapping mindless patterns against his hipbone, and before he could process what was happening, he arched, hard, Blaine swallowing everything, holding Finn's hips down against the couch as he came, biting his lip to muffle a yell so hard it would make the walls shake, shuddering up against Blaine's mouth, head falling back against the arm of the couch.
Coming to, Finn looked down. Blaine's cock was back between his fist, gripped fiercely, but white, shiny, liquid, and wet, and... oh. It took his drunken brain more than a few seconds to process that.
"I'm, I'm... Shit!" Blaine pulled away, wiping his face with the back of his hand.
That wasn't particularly flattering, but, well, at least Blaine swallowed. Rachel had cried when he accidentally came on her blouse once.
"Oh my God, was I bad, do I taste bad, nobody's ever... Blaine, I -"
"No, it's, like seven in the evening." Blaine sounded instantly sober. Twelve cups of black coffee sober. "Crap! They're gonna be back, like, any second now, and, and I -" Finn flopped a hand over his eyes as Blaine stood up, sudden, shaking, fumbling for his pants, yanking them on, muttering a litany of regrets under his breath.
"Shit," Finn added unhelpfully. "Shit, shit, shit."
"I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
Finn stood up, placed his palm against Blaine's shoulder and pressed a kiss against the top of his forehead. "Don't be, Blaine. Look, that was totally new to me, and you're kind of annoying and the ego can be a little much, but..."
"I am so glad I don't tie these things by hand," Blaine muttered, Finn frowning because Blaine was trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. It didn't work; it was less successful than Finn's attempts to change the subject during Algebra 1.
"Look, I know you gotta dash, but... don't be a stranger, huh?"
Blaine frowned. "Isn't that what you want, though? All cats looking grey in the night?"
Finn slumped back onto the couch, reaching for his pants. "I'm - I'm not sure what that means."
"It means we can pretend this never happened, pretend we were drunker if that makes it easier, makes it -"
"No." Finn said, firmly. "This happened."
Blaine grabbed his satchel and slipped on his loafers. "You're around for a couple more days, right? If you want to grab coffee, I'm - oh, I'm no good at this. Just, take care, Finn. And if you can't take care of yourself, at least take care of him for me."
"Blaine! Wait up!" He paused. "Blaine! You, you left your, your skivvies on the floor, dude, you -"
It was no use. Blaine waved, bending his fingers once, twice, eyes sad, and before Finn could so much as ask for a goodbye kiss, he gently closed the door behind him. Finn groaned, reached for his half-consumed bottle of beer on the floor, and took a large slug. Maybe it was a one-time thing, but... behind the bravado, and the theatricality, there was this sort of uneasy magnetism behind Blaine's eyes, and behind Blaine's smile, and, well...
Maybe, just maybe, he might try this again without the clouds of desperation and alcohol and perhaps he might want more?
He fumbled behind the couch cushion for his cell phone, typing out a quick text to Blaine, praying he hadn't changed his number since High School, praying this wasn't another impulsive decision in the long line of impulsive decisions which ended up stinging him like the slap of a towel against his ass in the locker room.
Blaine's reply arrived almost instantly. Keep the underwear. And Bridge Café 8pm is fine.