Author's notes: I don't even know, people. One minute I was having a writing block in the Breathe threequel and the next I had a new doc open and words were flowing out of me at alarming speed. No idea what I was writing about, no plan, nothing – a stream of consciousness, word vomit. I DON'T WORK THIS WAY! So two hours later, when I was done with what is now the first chapter, I showed it to judearaya and she told me she'd break up with me if I don't keep writing. So I had no choice, right?

This is crazy. Intense. There's sex there – a LOT of sex, though it's not the core of the story – so if you don't like that, be warned. There's also friendship, romance, angst and a happy Klaine ending, because that's what I do.

The whole story is already written and my awesome friend and beta, judearaya, is editing the further chapters right now. I will update regularly, every other day.

Have fun. I did.


Blaine runs.

He's never felt such a shame before, such a nauseating disgust with himself, so much guilt. Everything's crumbling now, his whole life falling to pieces around him. The walls he raised so painstakingly over all those years, gone. Gone in a cloud of dust that is choking him now, filling his lungs as he runs, runs as fast and as far as he can. Further, further away from the evidence of his failure, of his utter defeat. Further from his parents who must know already, and if they know, they're on their way to disown him this very minute. Even further from her.

From Jessica. His wife. The woman he left in a hotel bed just an hour ago, naked and humiliated, as he flew to the bathroom to throw up, unable to do the one thing he was supposed to do. That he was supposed to be doing again and again for years to come. A small thing really, just penetration, just rhythmic movement, just some more pretending. Nobody would look into his head – he could imagine whatever he wanted as he had sex with her. Whoever he wanted. Even…

No, he can't. He can't even think about it, no! All these years, he's heard it as a mantra, ever since he let slip when he was 12 that no, girls didn't do anything for him, that he… They all said it, always the same: that he was sick, it was an illness, nobody could know. This was perverted. But they'd help him; he'd date girls, he'd learn to like girls, he'd see.

So he did what he was told. He dated a lot. He was charming, so he never had trouble finding dates – girls loved him. He was considered a gentleman, because he didn't press for anything more than kissing. He never even seemed to notice veiled invitations to go further – always perfectly polite, perfectly dapper. Years went by.

Then somehow it was more than that, suddenly he was dating his dad's boss's daughter, and he didn't even know how it happened, really, but then he was down on one knee, a diamond ring burning his hand like a red-hot coal, his insides twisting, a voice in his head screaming for him to stop, to run while he still could. But how could he do that when everyone believed in him, everyone saw he grew out of his sick fantasies; it had been a phase, it passed, see, they said.

And then there was a wedding worthy of a prince, except the prince was a frog, unable to do the one last simple thing required to make the marriage lawful. He could act, could lie with his mouth, with his face and hands and smiles, but his body knew better. His stomach turned inside out as soon as his new wife took his hand and led it encouragingly between her legs. The gut-wrenching nausea surprised him. He'd told himself so many times that he was fine with it, that he could do it, that he'd like it once he tried; he almost believed it himself. Almost; just a tiny, quiet voice there kept telling him that he was deluding himself. And he was, which his body showed him; as soon as his finger touched Jessica's wet, hot slit, he'd gagged so hard he barely had time to sprint to the bathroom.

All the lies, all the delusions crumbled then and he couldn't believe he ever thought they were true. Suddenly it was all so easy, so clear. The reactions he never had with girls. The dreams. The revulsion for breasts (no, no, of course not, I just like small boobs, yeah I know it's weird, but well). God, he'd repressed it so far, he let them convince him, pushing it so deep down even though somewhere inside he knew, he'd always known. But now it's out; he won't be able to hide anymore. Not after he ran out of there, quickly pulling his clothes back on, passing by his shocked wife who tried to stop him, tried to ask, to demand explanation. So he gave her the explanation. Humiliated, angry, lost, he shouted it out just before he shut the door and ran to his car to drive into the night. The words that cut through the air buzzing with tension, slapping Jessica in the face.

I can't do this! I can't, I'm gay.

That was an hour ago and he's been driving since then, blinded by despair, by fear and shock and, stunningly, relief. When he thinks about lifetime of pretending to be a perfect husband, perfect son and probably father, ever while imagining flat, muscled chests, tight asses and leaking cocks every time he'd have to fuck his wife; when he thinks of hundreds of nights like tonight, he feels sick again and has to stop by the roadside to throw up, even though there's nothing left in his stomach. Once he feels better, he drives on, finally starting to take in his surroundings; he has no idea where he is, where he's going, with his phone buzzing nonstop in his pocket. He could be anywhere now, except there's something familiar in the landscape he's speeding through. This crooked, peeling billboard, that cluster of trees there…

He gasps. Yes, he knows where he's going, where his brain apparently believes he'll find asylum. It makes sense, a lot of sense actually, but is it a good idea? He snorts; which part of today was a good idea exactly? So maybe he'll make a fool of himself once more – it can't get any worse, really. And he doesn't have very many other options anyway. By now he's certainly considered persona non grata at his parents' estate, and his credit cards are bound to be frozen any minute.

There's no way back, so he just goes on.

It's after 2 a.m. when Blaine pulls over in front of the apartment complex in Columbus, ringing the bell by the familiar door that he hasn't seen in years. He's shaking badly by the time the door opens, revealing a disheveled, shirtless young man in low-slung pajama pants – Blaine's roommate and friend since their first days in college. His eyes are wide as he takes in Blaine's face, his creased tux, the stupid white rose of his boutonniere. Blaine feels himself sway, no longer supported by his legs, but the man catches him swiftly, sure arm keeping him upright.

"Whoa, Blaine, what are you doing here? What happened? Come on, let's get you to the couch."

Blaine has no strength to protest, to say anything, to move. His friend leads him to a cream couch in the middle of the small living room and settles him there gingerly. Blaine can only curl in on himself and stare blankly at the floor as the enormity of everything that happened today finally hits him. The man walks out from the room, only to return with a glass half-filled with amber liquid that he pushes into Blaine's shaking hands, steadying them.

"Drink this."

He does, not even thinking. The drink burns as it goes down and it's the first thing in this whole dream-like, nightmare-like day that feels real and palpable and easy. This, and the touch of the warm fingers on his trembling hand.

"Better?" this man, the absolutely gorgeous, hot man asks and oh god, where do these thoughts come from, why do they feel so right?

"Yeah." His voice is raspy, raw, like a stranger's. It is. He doesn't know himself anymore. But in a way, he can see himself better now than he ever has.

His host looks at Blaine imploringly.

"Okay. Can you tell me what happened or would you rather I didn't ask questions?"

"Kurt…" He doesn't know where to start. There's just so much.

"I mean, I don't have to know, just tell me if I should expect your parents trying to find you or maybe police breaking down my door…"

"No. Nobody knows where I went. Nobody knows your address."

"Okay, good." His friend just nods his head, apparently satisfied with just this bit of information. Blaine knows he won't pry; it's one of the qualities he's always loved about Kurt.

But suddenly Blaine has to tell. He has to share it with somebody who won't condemn him, who will understand. And Kurt, of all people, definitely will. Even though they haven't spoken for almost three years.

Blaine starts choking on long suppressed sobs even before he manages to speak, but he pushes through. He has to get it out, out before it kills him.

"Kurt, I'm gay."

Kurt just raises one eyebrow in that trademark look of his and answers calmly, so, so calmly, "I know."

"You know?"

Kurt shrugs. "Of course I know. I've known all along. I wondered what it would take for you to admit it to yourself. So what was it? Something dramatic, judging by your state."

"I got married."

Kurt whistles. "Oh, that's even more than I expected. And then what, you left your wife at the altar?"

"No. In our wedding bed." He feels sick again and quickly covers his mouth.

"Shit. Here, drink." Kurt picks up the bottle of whiskey he set by the couch earlier and fills the glass to the brim. Blaine drinks half of it in one gulp and is relieved to feel his stomach settle.


"Okay, so you were more repressed than I ever thought. You really believed marrying a woman would heal you of your little perversion? Or was it your parents?"

At the mention of his family Blaine quickly drinks the rest of his whiskey.

"Please, don't." His voice sounds raw. "I know it was shitty what I did back then. I've been sorry ever since. Feel free to kick me out if you want to. I don't care, I have nothing left to lose."

Kurt shakes his head fondly, standing in front of Blaine.

"Blaine, maybe in your book friendship ends when someone checks out of your life, leaving a crappy note, but in mine it doesn't. You can stay as long as you want."

Blaine knows he should thank him, but he kind of can't move, can't speak. Or take his eyes off Kurt's bare chest. He feels light and warm, the alcohol drank too quickly on the empty stomach is singing in his veins and turning off his inhibitions. He sees his hand raise before he realizes doing it, and then it's lying on Kurt's firm, toned stomach, light as a butterfly. He hears a sharp intake of breath, feels Kurt's muscles tense, and desire coils low in his belly, want like he never let himself feel before, not in reality, but very similar to what he often experienced in his dreams. Erotic dreams, gay dreams. He laughs feebly.

"Oh god. All these years, I knew. I knew, but I chose to lie to myself. I let them convince me. What a dumb bastard I am." His hand keeps moving, sneaking up Kurt's smooth chest. God, these muscles, the small nipples, that masculine form, so gorgeous… How could he ever believed that a woman could do it for him?

Kurt catches his wandering hand in a tight grip, his breath fast and shallow.

"Blaine, fuck, you can't do that. You can't just appear in my life when I'm unprepared, defenseless, and touch me like this. You… you can't. Not after I did everything I could to forget you, to kill this… this thing. You have no idea what you're doing to me."

Except Blaine kind of has an idea, there's no way he can't see it now, not with the crotch of Kurt's thin pajama pants right in front of his face. The tented crotch of his pajama pants. Blaine doesn't think, acts on instinct, on lust and want, raising the other hand to put it right there, right on Kurt's cock, thick and steel hard, and so, so hot. He hears his friend moan deep in his throat.

"Blaine… no, stop that or I won't be able to be reasonable or responsible or a good friend."

But Blaine doesn't listen. He doesn't need reason or responsibility now, he doesn't really need a couch to sleep on. There's only one thing he needs and he knows it right now, in a flash of understanding that lights every cell of his body on fire. So easy, so obvious. So close it hurts.

"Kurt. I need you. I need you, please." He can't stop stroking the cock in front of his face, he can't get enough of this feeling that it's this, it's perfect, it's what he wanted all along.

Kurt gasps and whimpers, his eyes squeezed tight, his head tipping back.

"Blaine, okay, stop. You can sleep here. You can stay here. Just… don't make me do something you'll regret."

"I won't regret this. Kurt, please." Blaine can't believe how broken he sounds, begging now. He moves forward to the edge of the couch and presses his lips just under Kurt's bellybutton, his hand still stroking slowly.

Kurt moans, but forces words out, breathless and low. "What… what do you want from me?"

Blaine doesn't hesitate. He knows exactly what he wants, what he needs, and he whispers it against the smooth skin under his lips. "Fuck me. Please Kurt, take me, show me, make me understand it, make me whole at last. Fuck me, I've dreamed about it so many times, of being filled, of being taken. Please, Kurt."

Kurt grabs both his wrists now, pushes them away from his body and pulls Blaine up to face him, his eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and desire. Blaine feels dizzy, the loss of contact like a physical pain, and he whimpers before leaning in to press his whole body against Kurt's and laying his head on the naked shoulder.

"Blaine. You're drunk, you're brokenhearted, your whole life just shattered. Do you even know what you're asking for? You never even touched a man before. You never kissed a guy, probably never even fantasized about it consciously. You've never been touched. And you want me to take you, to fuck you?" Blaine starts kissing Kurt's neck now, open-mouthed, and his friends groans, his voice getting more breathy with every word. "You want me to spread you and work you open, push into you and make you hurt and shiver and fall apart? Is that what you want from me? To take your first time just like that? Fuck, Blaine, I don't want to be this guy, but damn, I want you, I've wanted you since I met you, so please, stop, stop before I can't help myself and make you hate me tomorrow."

The last words are barely audible and Blaine answers heatedly, fiercely. "I won't hate you, Kurt, please, please… I need this. I need you to do this for me."

Kurt groans weakly. "Oh god, I'm going to regret this in the morning. But fine. Fine."

He releases Blaine's hands and they immediately return to Kurt's stomach, his sides, frantically pulling the pajama pants down and there it is, Kurt's cock, the most beautiful thing Blaine has ever seen. Thick and solid, and so much like his own but so different at the same time. Blaine touches the velvet skin, grabs the shaft, strokes experimentally and Kurt moans loudly. The sound goes right to Blaine's groin, and he's so hard it hurts, probably harder than he's ever been before, and he needs to feel, he needs Kurt to touch him, to get him off, to fill him, and he whines helplessly, not really sure what to do.

"Okay, okay, come here." Kurt pulls him into a rough kiss as his hands slip off the tux jacket, his fingers make short work of the shirt buttons, the pants, and soon Blaine's naked, aroused, shivering with need. Kurt pulls back to look at him and whispers, "You're so fucking hot, more than I ever imagined," and then his fingers close around his cock for the first time and Blaine cries out. This is so, so good, better than his own hand, better than anything. Kurt's warm, firm hand strokes a couple of times and releases him and he almost sobs at the loss, but then he's led to a tiny bedroom, occupied solely by a huge bed and a small bedside table with a lit lamp.

And then Kurt pushes him on the bed and straddles his hips and that's it, he's in heaven, he can't think, because it's Kurt's cock sliding against his own and if he had any doubts that he's gay, they'd have no chance of surviving this. Kurt keeps rolling his hips, kissing his lips, his neck, then sucking on a nipple and the electricity flowing through Blaine is like liquid fire, the synapses in his brain lit like New York at night, all pleasure, pleasure like he's never known, like he's always dreamed of. But he wants more, he needs more, he feels empty, hollow, like everything that he lost today needs to be replaced with something and he begs again.

"Kurt, please, I need you inside me, I need you to fill me, please."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Just… do it."

"Okay, turn around. I'll be gentle, but it can hurt anyway, and I'm sorry. You need to relax, okay? Just tell me if you want to stop at any point."

Blaine is on his stomach in a heartbeat, his heart pounding with anticipation, his cock throbbing. He can hear a drawer being opened, the click of a bottle cap and then there are soft lips on his shoulder blade and a slick finger teasing his entrance, pressing slightly and Blaine can't help himself, he bucks his hips and pushes against it and… Yessss, there it is, sliding in smoothly, filling him deep and he cries out because this. This is what he's needed even if he never let himself acknowledge it. He moves his hips frantically, in rhythm with Kurt's finger sliding in and out, in and out.

"God, you really want this," Kurt murmurs against the skin of his back, awed, and his tongue is mapping the line of Blaine's spine.

"More." His voice is like sandpaper, harsh, but he doesn't care.

And there it is, another finger sliding in, without teasing now, and there's a discomfort, but it doesn't matter because of the feeling of full and the drag of fingers inside him as they slide, curling a little on their way out and…

"Oh godddddddd!" White hot pleasure is like lava in his bones and he can barely move, lost in a whirlwind of sensations, as Kurt fucks him with his fingers, faster, rougher, stretching him, and before Blaine knows it, there's more and he goes crazy, his hips working on their own, pushing against those fingers up his ass, wanting more, needing more, pleading shamelessly until the fingers withdraw and he turns his head to see Kurt sliding a condom on himself.

"Get on your knees." The command is soft, gentle, more like a plea, and Blaine shivers with anticipation. He pushes his ass up, his head still on the pillow, and soon he feels Kurt grabbing his hips, feels the tip of his cock at his yearning entrance, and he whines, impatient.

"Blaine, just… relax, okay? Work with me here."

And then there's pressure and a burning pain that overwhelms him for a second – okay, that's a lot more than fingers – but just as Blaine tenses instinctively, Kurt stills where he is and strokes his back soothingly.

"Shhh, relax, just relax, it'll pass, I promise."

Kurt's voice is quiet and tender and so familiar, and there are so many good things Blaine associates with it – trust and care, laughing and singing, shared dorm rooms and lazy afternoons in cafes – that he can't help but relax, and soon there's just a dull ache and Kurt is sliding further, careful and slow, too damn slow. But then he's fully in and holy shit, Blaine thought that his dreams were amazing, but they were nothing compared to this feeling. Kurt holds still, his harsh breath loud in the quiet bedroom, and Blaine feels himself melting into this, into Kurt, into himself, this new self, that man who seems to be emerging as all the facades fall. He feels calm, at peace, the frantic restlessness, the panic, all gone. There's only here and now, being filled and taken and accepted as he is, just as he is, him, Blaine Anderson, gay, music lover, closet romantic; no longer hiding, no longer ashamed. This is his coming out in front of himself, his full understanding. This is him.

Kurt begins to move now and the drag of his cock inside is unlike anything Blaine has ever felt, and he loves it, he absolutely loves it and gives in to it, gives his all, opens himself up completely for this man to see, to judge and take, and he's not afraid, for the first time that he remembers he's not afraid to open up, to be who he is. And it's liberating and amazing, and he would marvel about it, except he can't because he's overwhelmed by the onslaught of pleasure as he responds to every push with his own, the sound loud and the feeling intense. And then Kurt changes an angle, and there it is, that white-hot pleasure again. And again, and again, and it's too much, too much and yet not enough, until Kurt reaches to stroke him in rhythm with his hips and it barely takes two, three slides before Blaine's mind explodes, his vision blackening for a moment, his own voice echoing against walls, Kurt's cock pulsing inside him.

He's barely aware of what comes next – Kurt sliding out of him, leaving a slight ache in his wake, the bed moving, then something warm and soft cleaning him up so, so gently. He turns to his side when the rooms gets dark. There's a warm body there, a man's body, hard and flat in all the right places, and Blaine's head finds a place on Kurt's shoulder that feels like he belongs there. He can barely move, but he manages a raspy Thank you. And then he falls asleep, not sure if the soft kiss on his lips is still reality or already a dream.

In the next chapter: The morning after