GKM link: www . glee-kink-meme . livejournal 36785 . html ? thread = 49504433
Link to YouTube video this is based on (contains spoilers): www . youtube watch ? v=vFART6ZMeEA

Warnings: past character death, implied homophobia, one case of 'making love', and magical realism so you can't question the things that don't make sense, ha! Also Britishisms.

Notes: The dates aren't really all that significant – I just thought they were a nice touch, and they're a reference to the video. And I changed some of Kurt's background, although this has no actual consequences. Title is from Homeward Bound by Simon & Garfunkel.

17 February, 2015

The air was so stiflingly hot that Kurt wished desperately he were back in the northernmost tip of Russia; at least the cold could be combated by a dozen layers.

But even if he could ignore the oppressing heat – and he couldn't – the sun was shining so strongly through the curtains and Kurt's eyelids that he wouldn't be able to back to sleep anyway. With a groan, he untangled himself from the sweaty sheets and went to turn on the air conditioning before opening the curtains. When he looked through the window, he saw only untouched sand dunes underneath a clear blue sky.

A desert, then. Kurt groaned again and then went to adjust the AC to full blast and dig a large fan out of the attic.

He hated the days he was stuck inside the most.


Kurt Hummel grew up in a small, inconsequential town in the middle of Montana, USA. His parents were well-liked; his mother was an active member of the church and worked as the best seamstress in the town out of their kitchen/diner/laundry room; his father owned the only garage, and there was almost nothing he didn't know about most vehicles. When Kurt was a boy, he was as adored as his parents. He eagerly volunteered as live entertainment for their parties, putting on plays and concerts. When he helped his father in the garage, donning a uniform made specially for him, his mother's friends would coo and his father's co-workers would laugh and tease and slap him on the back; when he fixed his first hem, he was praised and his cheeks were squeezed far too many times.

However, as he got older, he gradually stopped helping his father, spent hours sitting with his mother, and got more serious about singing and performing. When he hit puberty and his voice showed no signs of dropping, his parents' friends started making remarks that left Kurt feeling uncomfortable and very upset.

And then he came out, and everything went to shit.

10 August, 2013

Kurt was relieved when he heard the sound of civilisation outside – he'd been running low on toiletries and was really beginning to miss fresh . . . well, everything. Frozen food just wasn't the same. He should probably also take this opportunity to buy some more books and films – and wine, he'd just drunk the last of the cheap stuff a few days ago, and he'd promised his parents he'd never touch their alcohol without permission.

Luckily, he was somewhere that spoke English this time. From the accent, he guessed Australia.

His house had better be as poison-free as when he left it. If he came across a single Australian creature, he'd burn the damn country into the ocean.

Still, he was glad for conversation that he could understand with minimal arm waving and shouting.

22 June, 2017

The first anniversary of his parents' deaths, Kurt had been somewhere in Wales, so he'd been able to get off-his-face drunk completely legally. Since then, he'd got a lot better, and four years later he just drank half a bottle of wine and watched all his favourite childhood films with his parents' wedding photograph sitting beside him.

When he finished singing along to the closing song, he joked, "I'd say I've improved a lot since I was six."

He tilted his glass towards the photo in an imitation of a toast, drained it, and stared at the credits. When they finished and the DVD started going through the certificates, he said sombrely, "I think it would be nice, though, if I were six."

25 June, 2012

The moment he closed the door behind the final guest, Kurt collapsed against it, body heavy with the combined weight of his grief and the snide, hurtful comments from his parents' neighbours, co-workers and friends. It felt like half the town had come to their wake, and their hatred of his person was almost palpable. Thank God he'd graduated already; he couldn't stay in this town for another year, not without his parents.

He barely noticed cleaning up or getting ready for bed, and it was only after his cheeks and pillows were soaked that he realised he'd started crying in the first place.

26 June, 2012

Kurt woke up, nose stuffy and eyes aching and throat sore from the tears he'd continued shedding while he slept. He moved mechanically through his routine and his tasks for the day.

When he opened his front door to put out the bin bags, he blinked dumbly at the unfamiliar street he was on and the Eiffel Tower stretching up behind it.

1 April, 2016

When Kurt woke up on a deserted tropical island, he was beyond relieved. Yesterday had been awful, henhouse somehow balanced on a small ledge on the side of a cliff. Kurt had spent the entire day barely moving for fear he would send the house tumbling down the cliff face.

He spent a large portion of the day and night exploring the island. The temperature was just the right side of too hot, the sand was soft, the sea was warm, and the shade during the sun's zenith was wonderfully cool. He made a picnic for lunch, dug out his dad's deck chair to read a magazine in the sea spray, used three disposable cameras trying to capture the ambiance of the island.

He was still glad when the house moved on that night.

19 November, 2018

Kurt was ecstatic – finally, after over six years of travelling, he was finally in New York! Upon looking out his bedroom window and recognising the skyline, he'd shrieked in excitement and barely stopped to dress appropriately for the cold weather.

With his hands stuffed deep in his pockets – he'd forgotten his gloves, go figure – Kurt wandered through Central Park, staring around in amazement, trying to drink everything in, and planning what he would do for the rest of the day. Fortunately, it was still quite early, so he had several hours before he had to be back at the house.

But first, a real New York bagel and some coffee, to warm up his damn fingers.

Kurt settled into a seat by the window and almost moaned at how good his bagel was. He was almost loathe to wash out the taste with his mocha, but he really was cold; his scarf and hat had done little to protect his nose.

"Excuse me," someone said, and Kurt opened his eyes – the mocha was also, of course, absolutely delicious – and his mouth almost dropped open as he took in the stranger's features: clear, tan skin, black hair slicked back into a pomade, hazel eyes framed by lashes to die for, "Do you mind if I sit here?"

"No, not at all," Kurt replied, his voice going high and breathy the way it always did when he talked to truly handsome men. He realised then that the café was mostly empty, so there was no real reason for this man to be sitting here. When he looked back, the other man seemed to have caught on to Kurt's train of thought, if his blush and embarrassed laugh was anything to go by.

"My name's Blaine," he offered, holding out a hand. Kurt gave his own name and hand in return. His skin tingled with Blaine's touch. "So do you live here or just visiting for Thanksgiving?" Blaine asked after a sip of his drink.

"Only visiting, sadly," Kurt replied with a small smile. "Though I would love to live here. New York is my dream city."

"Oh, I know what you mean!" Blaine grinned and leant forward in his chair, as if committing himself entirely to the conversation. "Where I grew up wasn't the best and I got out as soon as I could. I didn't get to New York until after I graduated college but still, I never looked back."

"What do you do?" Kurt asked.

"At the moment? I'm a bartender slash live entertainment at a pub nowhere near my apartment. Paying off student loans. But when I'm off, I look for auditions on broadway – I wanna perform, you know?"

"I do," Kurt forced through the sudden block on his throat. "Absolutely."

They talked until their coffees went cold, half drunk, about theatre and plays and musicals and films and music and artists, the topics weaving in and around each other until Kurt couldn't tell one from the next. When the shop started getting busy, Blaine asked if Kurt had been in the city long and then offered to be his tour guide. He quickly backtracked, stumbling over his words to clarify only if Kurt didn't have other plans, and it had put Kurt in such a happy, giggly state that he didn't even blush when Blaine bought him another coffee for while they walked around.

"What about you?" Blaine asked. "We've talked about me, what do you do?"

"Right now, I'm just taking some time to see the world." It was involuntary, but there was no need to say that. "My parents died a few years ago in an accident and since then I've just been . . . wandering. I haven't been thinking very far ahead."

"Oh, Kurt," Blaine said. Kurt was so enamoured by the way Blaine said his name that he almost missed it when he finished, "I'm so sorry about your parents."

For a moment, Kurt was thrown back to the wake, faces he recognised but didn't register offering insincere condolences and then whispering behind their hands that this was no less than the Godless queer deserved. But then he blinked back into the present and took in Blaine's wide, earnest eyes, and he smiled.

"Thank you." He had a sip of his mocha and lightly added, "I still live in their house, our house. Well, I suppose it's my house now, but whatever." He absentmindedly ran his fingers along the side of the cardboard cup. "It was hard at first, of course, but now, it's nice having so much of them around. It helps me remember them."

"In that case, I'm glad." Blaine raised his own cup towards Kurt and said, slow and hesitant, "To your parents?"

Kurt's heart fluttered. "To my parents."

They were window shopping along Seventh Avenue, slowly making their way to Fifth, when Blaine realised that Kurt's hands were shaking and offered him his gloves.

"No, I'll be fine," Kurt insisted. "Besides, if I had them, then your hands would be cold."

Blaine paused, and then a light blush returned to his cheeks as he suggested, with forced slowness, "We could have one glove each? And then, our bare hands, we could hold them. If you don't mind."

Kurt's ears heated up immediately and he pressed his lips together in an effort to contain the beaming grin threatening to take over his face. "Not at all," he said. "I'd say that's a very good idea, actually."

Blaine grinned widely at him, and now the smile broke free of Kurt's efforts. They both took one glove, and it felt a bit silly up until Blaine linked their fingers together, looking up at Kurt almost coyly through those eyelashes, and then kit could have been walking in the cold naked for all he would have noticed.

When Kurt confessed to having never seen something on Broadway – or even Off-Broadway – Blaine gasped in feigned horror.

"We have to rectify this immediately!" he announced, and then amended, with a disappointed but oh, so endearing pout, "Well, not immediately, since Broadway will be completely booked this week, but you should definitely try and see something before you leave."

The reminder of Kurt's impending departure twisted at his stomach, so he promised Blaine he'd try and then quickly directed the conversation to get Blaine talking about what shows her already been to see and what he'd auditioned for and what his ideal roles were. Blaine looked at him as if he knew Kurt was trying to distract him, but he let Kurt guide the conversation anyway. In his relief, Kurt talked about his own love of performing, sharing anecdotes from before he became the town pariah. This thread of conversation carried over into their late lunch, when Blaine's stomach growled loudly enough for Kurt to hear it even over the noise of the New York streets.

It was only when the sun began to set that Blaine allowed them to go up the Empire State Building – "it looks best at night," he had insisted. "And besides, then you could at Meg Ryan!"

"I suppose Tom Hanks is superior to Billy Crystal," Kurt had mused, even as he'd shyly run his thumb over the back of Blaine's hand.

There had been a bit of a queue at the bottom of the building, and a bit of an argument as to who would pay (Kurt had paid for lunch, but they negotiated so that Kurt would pay for entry and then Blaine could pay for dinner), and Kurt was bouncing on the balls of his feet by the time they reached the lift. He caught Blaine looking at him in the mirror, warm and gentle and fond, and to distract from his blush, Kurt playfully swatted Blaine's arm and said, "Oh, shut up."

"I didn't say anything!"

"I have been dreaming about this for literally my entire life," Kurt continued over him. "Do you know how many times I watched Sleepless in Seattle? I wore out my mom's VHS! I had to make do with James and the Giant Peach until we got a new copy, and the giant insects still terrify me."

"You're adorable," Blaine said. Kurt's breath caught in his throat and his eyes widened, but Blaine just continued looking it Kurt as if he were something precious. And then the lift doors opened, breaking the moment, and Kurt didn't have time to figure out if he was more annoyed or relieved by that before he was taken in by the city skyline.

"Oh," he gasped, and his hand reached out automatically for Blaine's.

Blaine took him to a cosy two star restaurant, and he actually apologised when he told Kurt he couldn't realistically afford anything more.

While they were getting their coats on after the delicious meal, Kurt couldn't stop himself from rhapsodising about the cheesecake – there had to be something in the water, there was no way everything would just taste better here otherwise.

"Just wait until you try Junior's cheesecake," Blaine cut in. "It's literally the best cheesecake in the entire world. I'll take you to GCT tomorrow, if you want."

Kurt forced a beaming smile onto his face as he replied, "I would love that." Blaine saw right through him, if the slight tightening of his mouth was anything to go by, but he thankfully didn't push.

"Now," he said instead, "I know we can't see an actual Broadway play, but . . ." He paused for dramatic effect, before finishing with an impish wink, "I do happen to have a bootleg copy of Wicked sitting on my shelves."

Kurt gasped and clapped his hands – one gloved, one bare – together in excitement.

Since they'd shared a bottle of wine at the restaurant, Blaine poured some cranberry juice into a couple of wine glasses instead Kurt giggled helplessly, almost falling off the sofa, but by the end of the opening number his laughter had given way to singing along, and he and Blaine sang with every number. They fell about laughing when they turned Popular into a duet and Blaine led them in goofy dance moves, and Kurt almost legitimately swooned every time Blaine sang on his own.

But the best part was when Kurt hit the high F of Defying Gravity, and Blaine looked up at him in awe. Kurt went to ask, "What did you think?" but barely got past the first syllable before Blaine wrapped his arms around his waist and crashed their lips together. Kurt gasped, and Blaine flicked his tongue against Kurt's lower lip and then pulled back.

"Is this okay?" he asked.

"So okay." And then Kurt pulled him back, thrilling at the way he had to bend his head and Blaine had to crane up his for their lips to meet. He pressed a leg between Blaine's, trying to get them closer, and felt the heat of Blaine's erection at the same moment Blaine's groan vibrated through his bodies. Blaine canted up, rubbing himself against Kurt's legs, and Kurt couldn't help the whine that escaped him.

"You're amazing, Kurt, so amazing," Blaine muttered, presses kisses to Kurt's lips, jaw, neck. He pushed his own leg to rub against Kurt's dick, and Kurt collapsed onto the sofa, pulling Blaine down on top of him which forced another groan from both of them. "Let me blow you, please."

"God, yes, Blaine, please," Kurt gasped, thanking every deity he could think of that he'd thrown on far fewer layers this morning than usual. Blaine kissed him again, as if to thank him, which was absurd enough to make a small giggle escape him, and then he kept laughing right up until he gasped and thrust up his hips when Blaine started sucking on a spot beneath his ribs. "Oh God, Blaine, don't stop!"

And then his cock was free from his jeans and briefs, and Blaine was mouthing along it, tracing his tongue along the veins, flicking his tongue against his frenulum, sucking lightly on the head, and Kurt didn't realise his hips were moving until Blaine held them down to take Kurt's cock properly in his mouth.

"Blaine!" Blaine swept his tongue over the slit of Kurt's cock and then bobbed back down with a groan. "God, you're so good, I—"

The tip of his dick touched the back of Blaine's throat, making Kurt cut himself off with a cry. He threw his arms out, one of them to hold onto the back of the sofa, the other to grip Blaine hair, his shirt, his shoudlers. He tried to warn Blaine he was close, but the words caught in his throat and Blaine just hummed again. Kurt looked down, and the image of Blaine looking back up at him – his eyes dark with lust through thick eyelashes, sweat gathering around his hairline and starting to shine on his face and loosening the hair gel more than Kurt's fingers already had – was what tipped him over the edge, and Kurt flung his head back as he came with a shout. While he caught his breath, he felt Blaine humping his thigh and sucking his collar bone, and that just wouldn't do at all.

"No, here," he murmured, pulling Blaine up to kiss him, deep and dirty and he could taste himself bitter in Blaine's mouth, as he and Blaine worked together to push his jeans and unrewarding down. He pumped Blaine's cock, trying to use as much pre-come as he could so that his hand wouldn't be too dry. For one stroke, he tried tightening his grip, and it made Blaine moan long and high and breathy, and it was barely another minute before he orgasmed, too.

After they both came down, Blaine used his T-shirt to clean up ("What?" He shrugged at Kurt's horrified face. "It's already dirty and it's not like I can't chuck it in the wash.") and then pulled Kurt close, draping his legs over his own so they could be face to face.

"I don't usually do this," he said quietly. "Have sex with someone I've just met, I mean."

"I've never . . . I've never really had sex before without being completely wasted, and even then, only a couple of handjobs," Kurt confessed.


Kurt shrugged and pressed a kiss to Blaine's jaw. "I was the only person out in my entire town and then I was never in one place for long enough to get to know anyone." He sighed, snuggled closer to hide his face and skim his lips over Blaine's chest as he murmured, "I'd like to stick around now, though, if I could."

"That would be nice," Blaine said, his voice thick. Kurt squeezed his eyes closed, not daring to look up for fear the dam would break. "We could go to Macy's Day Parade on Thursday, if you want? And the cheesecake tomorrow . . . Broadway . . ."

Kurt just pushed himself closer, to imprint the memory of his body against Blaine's. He ran his hands over Blaine's chest and sides and arms, trying to memorise how the muscles felt under his hands, where Blaine was sensitive and where he was ticklish.



"I want you to make love to me."

Their remaining clothes had been shed, folded and left on top of Blaine's dresser, and Blaine had put a bottle of lube and a condom on the bedside table. At the moment, the men were just lying next to each other on the bed, trading soft, unhurried kisses.

"You're perfect," Kurt breathed out.

Blaine chuckled, trailing a hand lightly down Kurt's stomach and to the tip of his cock. "I think the state of my refrigerator would claim otherwise."

"Maybe it's just for me, then."

Blaine smiled at him, more open than any of his previous ones, and so wide it creased his eyes almost closed. It made Kurt think that maybe he wasn't the only one falling in love, so he surged forward and rolled onto his back, pulling Blaine with him. The other man let out a breathless chuckle and reached for the lubricant.


"More than." Kurt moaned at Blaine's first touch, though he was only stroking over and around rather than penetrate just yet. He stroked Kurt's cock and ran his teeth over the mark on Kurt's ribs, and Kurt didn't realise Blaine had started fingering him until he was already a knuckle in.

It ached and he whined, and Blaine moved his other hand to pet at Kurt's thigh and whisper assurances into his skin. But by the time Blaine had reached three fingers and Kurt's prostate, Kurt was almost completely lost, his world narrowed down to the points of contact where Blaine's skin burned against is own. He only even realised his keening and half-sentences when Blaine took his fingers out to put on the condom.

Kurt panted heavily, trying to get himself under some control. While Blaine fiddled with the lube, Kurt studied him, absorbing his image, his skin slick and shining with sweat, his hair curling at the edges, his chest heaving, the dark hair on his chest and leading from his belly button to his groin, his head tilted back and his face screwed up as he wrapped a hand around his dick to cover it with lube - he memorised every hair and crinkle in his skin and tiny noise and locked them up in his heart, where he'd put his parents and every single thing about this day, where he'd never forget them.

"It's – it's easiest first time if you turn over," Blaine panted. Kurt shook his head.

"Want to see you," he said, balancing on an elbow to caress Blaine's cheek and place a tender, bittersweet kiss to his lips. And then Blaine was there, pressure against his hole that made Kurt cling to him, clutching at his back and shoulders as he tried not to fall apart.

"Fuck – Kurt!"


Starting slowly, with barely-there thrusts to open Kurt up more, Blaine began to move, building up to long, deep thrusts which sparked up Kurt's spine and gathered around his heart. He brushed against Kurt's prostate, and the feeling was so much, too much – Kurt cried out Blaine's name and the memories broke through the lock, leaking out as tears through Kurt's eyes. Blaine chanted his name under his breath like a prayer against Kurt's lips, moving faster, harder, deeper, and then Kurt was coming, never feeling so full as he did clenching round Blaine. And after only a handful more thrusts, Blaine fell, too.

The first thing said as they lay in the afterglow, Blaine still inside Kurt, Kurt's come getting sticky between them, was by Blaine, and so sadly that it shattered all that remained of Kurt's heart: "I made you cry."

Kurt caught his hand and kissed his fingertips, and gave him a soft smile. "It's okay," he lied. "It was just . . . so much," he told the truth.

Blaine returned his smile, soft as candlelight, and then slowly pulled away. Kurt breathed in sharply, from both the emptiness and sudden chill of the room. It reminded him so harshly that this was what his life was to be that he had to hold back more tears, and he forced himself to move despite his protesting muscles. He sat up, accepted a wash cloth from Blaine to clean himself off, and then got back under the covers as Blaine pulled off the soiled topmost cover before slipping into bed himself. He held out his arms for Kurt, who went willingly and laid his hand on the other man's chest and curled up as best he could around him. It was a little before eleven; he had to leave soon if he were to get back to the house in time.

"I'm so glad I met you," Blaine whispered, pressing a final kiss to Kurt's hair before quickly falling asleep. When Kurt was sure his breathing had steadied, he brushed his lips against Blaine's chest above his heart, took a deep breath, and then slowly slipped out of the covers. He dressed as quickly as he could, and left a note – just Thank you signed with a kiss – on the pillow next to Blaine's. And then he ran.

He reached the house with two minutes to spare, and he'd barely caught his breath before the house started to shake. Nowadays, he mostly managed to sleep through this, and as always it lasted for only thirty seconds.

When it stopped, Kurt stared. The day before, he'd been sewing while having a Disney marathon, and the evidence was spread out across his mother's work desk in front of him.

Cinderella. Leave the prince, the time of hour life, be back before midnight, before the carriage turns into a pumpkin and the gown into a torn, dirty, disgusting rag of a dress.

With a strangled yell, Kurt threw the tape at the opposite wall. The top snapped off and some of the tape unravelled. But the rage and the grief – so much more than his parents, because Blaine was still alive, but Kurt could never abandon the house he'd grown up in and held memories of his entire life – everything was still balled up tightly inside his chest, so with another shout, he threw another video at the wall, and then another, and another, and then he swept the fabric and kit off the desk with his much force as he could muster.

And then all he was left with was the grief. He sank to the floor and wept, and the dull ache at the base of his spine made him cry all the more.

20 November, 2018

There were birds singing.

Kurt hated birds. They could go wherever they wanted and build a new home wherever they ended up, and what did they care if one day they left behind everything they ever knew?

He'd ended up falling asleep on the floor last night, and now his entire body was stuff and sore. He reluctantly dragged himself up, intending to go upstairs, take a shower, and drink himself into a stupor with whatever alcohol was left in the house, and instead he instinctively glanced outside. And did a double take.

It looked like he was in Central Park, still, now, today as well as yesterday.

He wanted to go slowly, creep towards the door so he'd have plenty of time to realise the truth, that he wasn't actually in New York any more and he was just hallucinating, but he was outside before he could blink. His breath got stuck in his throat, caught behind his tears, the grief still unfinished with and the brand new euphoria.

He took off without a second thought, back to Blaine's apartment and Blaine's arms, hoping against hope that everything wasn't ruined.

He just needed to make a quick stop first.

While he waited for the door to open, Kurt shuffled anxiously on his feet. What if Blaine hated him for leaving with only some crappy note? What if Blaine had actually been relieved and would hate him for coming back? What if yesterday hadn't meant nearly as much to Blaine as it had to Kurt?

And then Blaine opened the door, lips turned down, wearing sweats and a college sweater, hair still shower damp, drops of water clinging to his eyelashes that would have been from the shower too were it not that his eyes were red as well. His eyes went wide now, and his mouth dropped open, and he looked like he had no idea what to think about Kurt coming back. Hell, Kurt was still trying to figure it out himself, but he never wanted Blaine to look like that again.

"You . . ." Kurt licked his lips and drew in a fortifying breath. "You said something yesterday about the state of your kitchen?" he said, holding up a bag of different flavoured bagels.

"Kurt," Blaine croaked. "I thought you'd . . ."

Kurt shook his head hastily, an exuberant grin spreading across his face. "I thought I had to but – I can stay!" And then he had an armful of Blaine, and both of them were shaking and crying and laughing on Blaine's doorstep.

"I thought I'd never see you again," Blaine choked out, his arms wrapped around Kurt's body so tightly it was if he'd never let go again. Kurt would be more than okay with that.

"Blaine," he murmured, pressing fleeting kisses everywhere he could reach, trying to kiss everywhere at once, "I promise, I will never say goodbye to you again."

Maybe one day, he'd tell Blaine the entire truth, about the house and his travels. Maybe he wouldn't. Either way, it didn't really matter – all that mattered was that they had a one day.