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18 September 2013 @ 08:47 am
Fic: Fidelity, Chapter 24 - Floating  

Fic summary: An unlikely friendship forms. Dave learns to love himself, Blaine learns to trust love, and Kurt learns that love is both simpler and a lot more complicated than he expected. AU from 3.05 with canon elements.
Chapter summary: Sometimes you just need to go out on a ledge. ~7,000 words
Rating for this chapter: NC-17

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Note: Chapters on AO3 are numbered differently due to factors beyond my control.


Chapter 24: Floating

It's ridiculously warm the next afternoon – so much so that Blaine threatens to turn on the air conditioner. Kurt objects in an outward bid to protect the environment, but his ulterior motive has to do with watching Blaine and Dave sweat. He convinces them to move out to the screened-in gazebo and let the ceiling fan and their glasses of iced soda cool them down. They sit in a T, Kurt taking the chaise longue, the other two on the loveseat at his feet. Blaine props his feet near Kurt's on the end of the chaise longue; Dave's are on the floor.

For Kurt, it's that sweet spot of weather that's warm enough for baring arms, but not so warm that he's constantly breaking out in a sweat. It's not that sweet spot for Blaine, though, much to Kurt's delight. Spots of perspiration bloom on the front Blaine's t-shirt and under his arms. Kurt's too far away to catch Blaine's intoxicating blend of deodorant and apocrine sweat, but he knows it's there, and that turns him on almost as much.

Kurt's surprised at how not sweaty Dave is. So far this afternoon, there's just been a disappointing glow of dampness across his forehead and, if Kurt looks very closely, the barest hint of perspiration around his collar.

The last time Kurt saw Dave really sweat was the night they danced at Scandals. He felt the press of it through his shirt when he rolled over Dave's back. It was delicious.

He wants to feel it again.

Kurt tries to concentrate on his homework. Kind of. Between surreptitious glances at Blaine and Dave both, between thoughts of tackling Dave to the loveseat and owning his mouth, of Blaine riding him the way he did yesterday afternoon, of being pressed between Blaine and Dave’s bodies and sucking purple marks on Dave's neck – Kurt doesn't get much done.

It's a good thing Kurt is on the chaise longue. The way he's sitting, it should be difficult for either Blaine or Dave to see how hard he is unless they push his knees down and stare.

He wishes they would stare.

He could distract himself if he had to answer questions or write out Spanish verb conjugations – no, nix that, that would get him thinking about Señor Martinez and whether he sweats in this weather – or solve some math problems. But all he has is his English assignment to read and, as it is, he's pretty sure he's scanned the last paragraph of Catch-22, well, twenty-two times.

"I can't concentrate." It's not Kurt who says it. It's Dave, plopping his linear algebra book down on the floor next to the loveseat. "It's too nice out here."

That's one way to put it, Kurt thinks.

"I'm gonna go practice some." Dave turns to Blaine. "Do you want to work on Poulenc?"

"Mmm." Blaine barely looks up from his history book. "No, I'm kind of in a groove right now. Maybe later."

Dave turns to Kurt. "Do you want anything when I come back?"

You, Kurt thinks, but instead he says, "No, thank you. I might get something later. I should probably stretch my legs soon, anyway."

Dave disappears into the house. The sound of the screen door sliding shut is apparently the right piece of magic to wake Blaine out of his trance. He sets his open book on his lap. "Why aren't you inside?"

"I was the one who wanted to study in the gazebo, remember?"

Blaine smirks. "I haven't noticed you doing much studying. Have you even turned a page of that book since you started reading?"

Kurt opens his mouth, but then he realizes that something ridiculous like I never is about to come out of it. He shuts it and the paperback, which he throws in Blaine's general direction, intentionally missing him. Blaine ducks and giggles.

Kurt harumphs. "Well, Mr. Know-It-All, I don't suppose you've gotten much work done either if you've been able to keep track of my page turns."

"Actually, I was reading. The page-turning thing was a guess based on evidence."

"What evidence?"

"You're tense. Which either means that book you're reading is so difficult that it's making you stress out, which – no, it's not, it's Catch-22.  Or you're thinking about sexy things and trying not to. And when that happens, you're very bad at reading."

Kurt sinks back into the chaise longue and lets his legs go limp. He doesn't care if Blaine sees his hard-on. Or maybe he wants him to. "It's kind of difficult not to have sexy thoughts around you two."

"Well," Blaine says, leaning forward in his chair to tease Kurt's ankle with his finger, "I'd offer to help you with that, but I really am kind of on a roll with this reading."

Kurt kicks his hand away and crosses his arms. "You are evil. You know that?"

"Guess you have no choice but to go inside and talk to him about who's going to kiss who first," Blaine says as the first faint strains of the piano drift out the screen door and across the yard.

"'Who's going to kiss whom,' Blaine. What did they teach you at Dalton?"

Blaine doesn't blink. "Stop trying to change the subject."

"Truly, truly evil."

Blaine smirks. "Get in there, tiger. You know you want to."

"You think you know everything," Kurt grumbles, but he stands up anyway.

"Don't go in there with that attitude."

Kurt steps closer to Blaine and bends over to kiss his brow. "I love you. And you annoy me." He straightens. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."

Blaine kisses his hand. Kurt bends back down to give Blaine a peck on the lips before turning to leave.

"And Kurt," Blaine says as Kurt swings the gazebo door open. "I want a full report after Dave leaves, and if one of you hasn't kissed the other, you're not getting laid tonight."

"Fuck you," Kurt says, but he's beaming. He swings his hips with every step back to the house.


Dave is running scales when Kurt enters through the screen door into the living room at the back of the house. Kurt doesn't go to the front room at first because, hello – hard-on. He walks as far as the couch and sinks down into it, letting the cushions cradle his body. He closes his eyes and pretends that the couch is water and he's floating on it. He lets his body become loose and soft like water, too. It works if he just focuses on the music coming from Dave's hands and the sensation of being held up.

The scales come to an end, and Mozart's Rondo Alla Turca begins. Kurt's more than a little proud to actually know the name of it, although he really should by now – Dave plays it as a warm-up almost every day.

It's good to have distance when listening to it. It makes Kurt a little dizzy when he's in the front room, watching Dave's fingers rush over the keys, coaxing the music out of them with seemingly effortless speed. Even without the benefit of seeing Dave's hands, the music makes Kurt feel a lot like he's riding a whirligig.

Before the dizziness can get too much, the song sounds out its final trills and slams on the brakes with solid, straightforward chords. It heaves Kurt's heart forward and then back. He squeezes his eyes and reminds himself: Float. Float.

The house is devoid of music for a minute. There's just the breeze shush-shushing through the azalea bushes outside the screen door, and the quieter sounds that Kurt hears even more clearly – the rustling of pages atop the music stand, the muted cough that Dave makes when he's thinking.

The notes begin again – just the bass line at first, so low and staid that Kurt can barely hear it at first, and then come the first treble notes: high E, E-sharp, E-sharp, E-sharp, F-sharp. Kurt doesn't have perfect pitch, but he can recognize these notes from a mile away, feels them vibrate in his throat and cheeks when he hears them because he's fought to keep them part of his own voice for so long.

Dave has played this one before. It's Chopin and a nocturne, but Kurt doesn't remember its number, and he’s not sure why it's a nocturne either if nocturnes are supposed to suggest the night. To Kurt, the music is like waking up early in the morning, just as the sun is coming up over the horizon, and watching the sky become steadily brighter until suddenly you realize that your room is flooded with diffuse light. And then clouds blow in, sudden and fast, and the sky turns that sickly shade of green that warns of tornados, and the wind picks up and you should get away from the window but you can’t because you’ve never seen leaves tear off of the trees like that.

And then the storm stops, and the house is still standing and you are too, and the sun slices cleanly through a break in the clouds and everything feels heady and new.

It makes Kurt feel like he's falling in love. Everything, lately, makes him feel like he's falling, one way or the other.

Like all things, the music ends. It ends even though it shouldn't, even though Kurt could lie there all afternoon with the notes falling over his skin like warm summer rain. It ends and there is no new song to replace it, to fill the space in Kurt's heart that apparently has grown just for this song as sung by Dave Karofsky's hands.

The piano bench squeaks against the floor. A pair of feet moves. The refrigerator opens and closes, and ice cubes clink in a glass. The tab on a soda can pops open, letting out a gasp of air.

Soda rushes over ice, and the ice cracks under its touch.

The steps begin again, over tiles and wood. The tension winds through Kurt's muscles, ordering him to sit, to stand, to run – to something – but he stays lying there, his eyes closed, until he hears Dave’s voice: "Oh, hi, Kurt."

And suddenly Kurt knows what to do.

First, he opens his eyes. Dave is at the entrance to the living room, glass in one hand, one foot in front of the other as if he's frozen in mid-step. "I didn't know you came in," Dave says.

Kurt doesn't answer, just looks right at Dave and the eyes below those incorruptible eyebrows. He goes from lying to standing in one motion, steps forward and forward again, and another step forward, until Dave is within arms' reach.

The ice trembles against the sides of the glass. Dave's hands, too, are trembling. Kurt looks at Dave, looks at the glass, unwraps Dave's fingers from it and sets it on the side table.

"Dave," he says.

"Kurt," Dave says.

Dave's eyes are brown, but they're different from Blaine's. More like Darjeeling tea, Kurt thinks.

And his lips. His upper lip is just like the top of a heart, smooth unbroken curves dipping down at the center. Kurt traces the line with two fingers, feels Dave's breath – warm as this day – against them.

Dave kisses those fingertips tentatively, breath fluttering and unsure.

"I wish I could be more for you," Kurt says. He strokes the back of his fingers slowly up Dave's jaw. The fine stubble there offers hardly any resistance.

"Kurt." Dave sounds a little like he's choking. "You're everything."

"But I'm not enough. I'm not – I belong to Blaine, too. You deserve –"

"It’s not about deserving." Dave reaches up and wraps his hand around Kurt's, and it's – it's the first time that Dave has ever initiated a touch like this, and it's ... not electric, no, but it fills an empty space in Kurt and leaves it on the verge of overflowing. "I want you. You're the only person I've ever really wanted. I swear, Kurt – you're so much more than enough."

And that's how Kurt knows it's time.

He leans closer, and a little closer, hears and feels Dave's breath catch against his upper lip. He watches the patch of skin between Dave's two perfect eyebrows furrow and relax.

He wants to kiss that first.

He lifts his hands to circle the curve of Dave's skull and guide his face down. Kurt kisses the patch of skin, slowly traces the arch of each eyebrow with his lips. He kisses to the top of Dave's forehead and down over Dave's closed eyelids, lingering on the apples of Dave's cheeks – and Kurt wonders suddenly why they're called apples at all, because they might be round and sometimes red, but they've got none of the hardness of apples. They're soft like cherry blossoms, pliant like an overripe peach. Kurt kisses them and kisses them until Dave's breath turns into a quiver, and the sound makes Kurt aware of how much he needs that breath to enter his body.

So he kisses Dave. He kisses Dave like he's underwater and Dave is his only source of oxygen. He kisses him and kisses him and kisses him because Dave kisses him the same way, because Dave makes these little moans like he's gotten a glimpse of heaven, because Dave tastes like Mountain Dew and ginger and skin and flesh and a multitude of things that Kurt has never tasted, but apparently has always loved. He can't think of words for them.

Except – cardamom?

No, Dave does not taste like cardamom, and yet his taste is like cardamom.

It's an analogy that makes sense if you live inside of Kurt Hummel's head.

See, Kurt spent years perfecting his oatmeal cookie recipe and finally thought he had it down when he settled on grade A Korintje cinnamon and chopped bittersweet chocolate with 81% cocoa content as the central flavorings.

That was before he met Blaine. They were in the Hummel kitchen one afternoon early in their friendship, and Kurt decided to gift Blaine with the privilege of learning his secret recipe. Kurt called for the cinnamon, and Blaine brought the cardamom too. "I bet this would be good in it," he said.

Kurt looked at him askance.

"Really," Blaine said. "Have you ever had cardamom buns? They’re like cinnamon rolls without the cinnamon. I've always wondered, what if you put the cinnamon and the cardamom into the same thing?"

 Kurt gave Blaine a withering look, but then he felt bad about it. So he added the cardamom to the batter.

And holy spaghetti monster, the resulting cookies were the best thing Kurt had ever tasted in his life.

A few months later, when he and Blaine started making out in the middle of mixing the dry ingredients together, they added the cardamom but forgot the cinnamon.

The resulting cookies were pretty good, but you could definitely tell there was something missing.

So, in Kurt Hummel's head, it makes sense to compare Dave to cardamom, even if he doesn't actually taste like it. Kurt's the bittersweet chocolate – of course – and Blaine is so cinnamony and Dave is cardamom.

And that's why Kurt has Dave on the couch now, why he's straddling Dave's lap and kissing him like he was born for this.

* * *

One half of Dave's brain has completely emptied of thought.

The other half is screaming, Holy fuck, I'm kissing Kurt Hummel.

The screaming half of the brain then corrects itself: No, no, Kurt Hummel is kissing me!

Yes, Dave is kissing back – how could he not? – but he wouldn't be doing any kissing at all if Kurt hadn't started it. It would have been another afternoon of uncomfortable longing, a feeling that Dave's become so accustomed to that it's actually become comfortable.

Dave wants to get accustomed to this feeling, too.

The flavors of Kurt's mouth – cola and Juicy Fruit and flesh – are notes that come together to form a major chord. The textures – slippery and dry, pliant and hard, smooth and ridged – are melody and countermelody. Dave opens his eyes and he sees Kurt's, so close to his own, eyelashes fluttering like a trill.

Kissing Kurt is like touching music with your hands.

It's not like kissing Brittany – sweet and tender and safe, but missing something. It's not like kissing Gavin-Patrick – sloppy and wanton, with the parts not fitting quite right. It's not like kissing Sebastian – hot and indulgent, but nonetheless leaving you with the sense that you're a car that's being driven on cruise control.

It's definitely, absolutely, positively nothing like kissing Jerry.

Kissing Kurt is everything good – hot and sweet and tender and indulgent and wanton and safe – without the bad parts. It might be perfect.

Of course, Dave has always known that Kurt is perfect and anything he chooses to do, he will do perfectly.

Oh my god. Kurt has chosen to.

Kurt has chosen this and he's kissing Dave like he owns him, like he's always owned him.

It's very, very difficult not to come on the spot.

The screaming part of Dave's brain is fishing around for some distraction. Finn said something once about his trick for not coming in the middle of a makeout session. It had something to do with a mailman.

No, that won't work. Dave's mailman is hot.

Dave tries to spit out, "Hold on." The syllables actually leave his throat. But with Kurt's tongue in his mouth, he can't really form any of the consonants and it just sounds like he's moaning.

Kurt moans back.

Dave moans for real this time, loses himself in Kurt's mouth again, so so so so lost. Dave never knew that being lost could be such a wonderful thing. He's hyperaware of Kurt's lips against his, his tongue subjugating the inside of Dave's mouth, one hand kneading the muscles of Dave's chest and the other tugging gently at Dave's hair.


Somehow, Dave manages to grab Kurt's shoulders – wait, that's not the difficult part. The difficult part, the part he should win a goddamn trophy for, is when he manages to nudge Kurt just enough so that he has to pull those (amazing, better even than they looked, taste-like-cloudless-skies-and-awesome) lips away from Dave’s.

"Oh," Kurt says in a voice that Dave has never heard but quickly deduces is Kurt's bedroom voice. That doesn't help Dave's hard-on at all. Nor does the fact that Kurt is looking at him with wide cerulean-warbler eyes, because – well, Dave has read in porn that people's pupils get bigger when they're turned on, but he always figured it was just some kind of trope and never really happened in real life.

But Kurt's pupils are fucking huge.

"Sorry," Kurt says, not breaking eye contact unless you count the rapid blinking, which Dave has also read in porn is a sign of arousal. "Was that – that was too much, wasn't it? I should've – I'm sorry, I probably should have asked or –"

"No," Dave says, "not too much," and yes, the lack of nouns and verbs in that utterance probably makes him sound like the Neanderthal that Kurt used to think he was and that he may, in fact, have been – but he's never seen Kurt flustered before and even if it's flattering, it's a little disconcerting, too – so grammar's a bit beyond him right now. "Just need a break."

Kurt's chest is heaving the same way it used to after a Cheerios number, when Dave would stay in the bleachers with a backpack in his lap so no one would notice how Kurt's breathing made him feel. What Dave never saw after those Cheerios routines, because he was too far away – or maybe it wasn't there to see, maybe this only happens when Kurt's just had his tongue down someone's throat – is the bright flush across Kurt’s cheekbones and down his neck.

"Okay," Kurt says, and it's both torture and a relief when he stands up, makes a half-turn, and sits back down with his ass on the couch, his back against its arm, and his legs draped across Dave's lap.  The shyness from earlier in the afternoon returns to Kurt's face as he plays with the opening of Dave's t-shirt sleeve. "Everything good?"

"Better than good."

Kurt leans closer and kisses Dave's shoulder, looks up at him from under fluttering lashes. "I want you to be comfortable. Sorry if I got a little – pushy."

"Um, I like pushy."


Kurt laughs. It's waterfalls and warblers and the wind rushing through open car windows.

“Thank you,” Dave says without thinking.

“For what?”

“I – I don’t know.”

Kurt closes his mouth, turns his smile into something contained and serious. "I need you to let me know when you're not okay with something. I tend to get – well, like I said, I can be pushy. But I don't want to be pushier than you're comfortable with."

Dave looks down to where his hand is stroking Kurt's knee. My hand is stroking Kurt Hummel's knee! "Your pushiness is one of the things I love about you."

Kurt smiles and arches his eyebrow in his knowing way. "Of course it is," he says, leaning in closer to wrap his arms around Dave's neck and nuzzle his ear. Dave takes that as the hint it is and turns so that Kurt can kiss him again, a little more gently this time, but owning Dave all the same.

"I can't think of anything you could push me to do that I wouldn't want," Dave whispers against his lips, and for once he doesn't worry that he's said too much.

Being owned by Kurt is the safest feeling in the world.

* * *

"It's okay, though?" Kurt says a few minutes later when they break apart again. There's no urgency in separating this time. They just do it so they can look at each other for a while from this new perspective, faces so close together that they could start counting each other's eyelashes if they wanted to.

"Okay?" Dave says. "It's a lot better than okay."

Kurt traces his finger around the rim of Dave's ear and lands on the lobe, rubs it softly between his index finger and thumb. "No, I mean –" He smiles. "I mean, I was going to wait for you to kiss me, because I want this –" Kurt waves his free hand between the two of them, then gestures toward the screen door to indicate Blaine in the gazebo beyond. "– to be okay for you."

"That's better than okay, too," Dave says, ducking his head to give Kurt a quick kiss on his lips. The second time Dave has initiated all afternoon. All month. All year. Kurt feels all the air leave his lungs in one lovely swoop. "Haven't I said that, like, a million times already?"

Kurt sighs dreamily. "It's just a little hard to believe that I can have my cake and eat it, too." His finger and thumb are still rubbing at Dave's earlobe obsessively, which Dave seems to enjoy, the way he's leaning into it. "I mean, I feel like I'm getting the better end of the deal here. What do you get?"

Dave swallows and rubs his thumb along the nape of Kurt's neck. "I get exactly what I need."

* * *

"I need to tell you something." Kurt's straddling Dave's lap again, but he's being careful not to do it in the hot and heavy way. He's cradling Dave's face in his hands, and it's only Kurt Hummel who can make Dave feels like this, like he's actually being seen – all of him, his skin and his flesh and the soul inside. It's terrifying.

"What?" Dave says.

Kurt traces the s-curve on the inside of Dave's eyebrow with his finger. "When we went to Moulin Rouge, I wanted to kiss your eyebrows."

Dave lets out a stunned laugh.

Kurt smiles. "I think the first time I noticed them was that first time at Scandals. They were kind of hidden beneath your baseball hat, except I could see them when you looked up, and maybe that's why I noticed them – because they were hard to see. And when I would think about you later, I would remember them and think how beautiful they were and wonder why hadn't I noticed them before. I think I it was mostly an aesthetic appreciation at first, but then – I don’t know. It was hard to figure out because I couldn't understand how I could think about you when all I wanted was to … make out with Blaine all the time." Kurt pauses, something flicking across his eyes. "I'm sorry, is that too much?"

"No," says Dave. "I’ve noticed that you guys make out sometimes."

Kurt smacks Dave on the upper arm. Dave doesn't even pretend to flinch. He just grins goofily because Kurt is grinning goofily and laughing. It feels … nice, playing like this.

Until it's not playing. Until the laughter subsides and Kurt's smile goes from goofy to enchanted and he looks at Dave's lips like they're cheesecake.

Dave clears his throat. "Kurt, you know I like seeing you in love. And, you and Blaine, I like – " He stops himself, even though he's not sure he has to, even though it might be perfectly fine to say, I like to think about you fucking each other until you're weak and shaken and then about you fucking each other all over again. "I don't want it any other way."

"You're really amazing, you know that?"

Dave shakes his head. "No, I'm just –"

Kurt puts a finger to Dave's lips, keeps looking right at him, into him, protectiveness flashing across the blue. "You are."

Dave keeps shaking his head, feels his eyebrows and cheekbones ache with pressure.

"And you're beautiful, too." Kurt is still holding Dave's face in his hands, still carrying him. "You always have been. We just couldn't see it." Kurt traces the line of Dave's eyebrows again and it releases some of the pressure. The tears start to squeeze out.

Dave cries silently into Kurt's chest and Kurt holds him through it, the way Dave has wanted someone to do for so long, but never dared to hope anyone would.

* * *

You would think it would be difficult to concentrate on the minutiae of the Treaty of Versailles while your boyfriend is potentially making out with your best friend in your living room, or maybe your kitchen, or possibly right on the piano bench.

Blaine very much doubts the piano bench, though. That would get uncomfortable fast.

You would think so. Blaine would think so. He's spent hours imagining this scenario and was pretty sure he'd spend the whole time hot and bothered and squirming in his jeans, palming his cock and trying not to come so he could be of service to Kurt as soon as he might be needed.

But it's not difficult at all. In fact, he can't remember ever being more focused, the phrases and facts etching themselves into his brain more quickly. Everything he reads makes him think of its cause and effect. He sees how events are not isolated, but flow into one another as an organic whole.

Blaine could sit in the gazebo until sunset, reading about Versailles and whether it was cruel to Germany or actually strengthened it, contrasting the treaty with Woodrow Wilson's Fourteen Points and picturing how the future might have been different if those had been agreed upon, instead – or how it might not have made any difference at all in the larger scheme of things.

He's so lost in it that he doesn't even hear Kurt coming back until the gazebo door opens.

Kurt is radiant. It's not just the way that the afternoon sun slants into the gazebo and makes Kurt's hair and eyelashes glow like embers. It's not just that his lips are pink like cotton candy, ripe like June strawberries, plump like August peaches. It's not just the way he smiles.

It's everything – in his body, the way his shoulders swing loose and unwound like they haven't in weeks, in his breath and his posture and his eyebrows and his smile.

Blaine smiles. "Something happened." He closes his book, not taking his eyes off of Kurt. Understanding the widespread ramifications of tariffs on the German interwar economy can wait.

Kurt sits down on the loveseat next to Blaine in the spot that Dave occupied earlier this afternoon. The expression on his face is a cross between dazed and touched by God, if there is a god. Blaine's jury is still out on that one.

"Yes," Kurt says, taking Blaine's hand. "I love you so much."

Blaine kisses Kurt, and he's not sure he actually tastes Mountain Dew on Kurt's lips, but the thought that he might makes his heart beat a little more strongly.

* * *

Maybe things should be awkward when they walk back into the house to find Dave at the piano, playing something that Kurt doesn't recognize but likes, and something that makes Blaine bounce up and down on his toes going, "I can't believe you can play this! I tore up the sheet music I had for this because it got me so angry."

Perhaps they should worry that Dave will be uncomfortable if they start to two-step around the piano, and maybe Kurt worries slightly, but the feeling goes away when he sees Dave look up from the keyboard with a smile and nod and a dare curved in his eyebrow. Kurt lets Blaine whisk him around the room and Dave's playing becomes livelier and more joyful with each step.

When Dave strikes the final chords and Kurt wants to fling his arms around Dave and tell him that he's amazing, one might expect him to feel a moment's hesitation about doing that in front of Blaine. But he doesn't, and he adds a kiss on the cheek to sweeten the compliment.

No one would be surprised if Dave, who for his whole life has resisted whatever his heart told him to do, were to hesitate before turning his face to Kurt and kissing him on those sweet-perfect-never-ever-want-to-stop-kissing-them lips. But he doesn't.

And one might expect that when Blaine sees that, he would have at least a moment of doubt, the slightest churning of his stomach, a squelched flare of jealousy. One might expect Blaine to experience the bitter realization that the best fantasy often makes for the worst reality.

But one would be wrong. Blaine's heart wells up with so much joy that he can't help but continue two-stepping around the room, even though the music has stopped and his partner is in the lap of the piano player.

* * *

Kurt and Dave can't stop kissing once it's time to say goodbye. They stand in the vestibule, Blaine watching them from the entry of the front room, and they try halfheartedly to pull apart from each other every minute or so. They are giddy and giggling and their cheeks are flushed. It could be from the heat of the afternoon, but Blaine thinks it's mostly from each other.

"I really should … get going, I … promised my dad … I'd make … dinner tonight." Dave's sentence is interrupted by Kurt's insistent kisses, some quick and some lingering.

"Okay," Kurt's voice sounds disheveled. Blaine leans against the wall and hugs himself, curling his fingers into his arms until his nails press half moons into his skin. He wonders if one can explode from lustful joy.

Kurt kisses Dave again, prying his mouth open and god please yes, Dave really needs to not ever leave the house.

Kurt pulls away. "Okay." He's breathy, but there's a little more conviction in his voice this time. "I'm going to control myself and you're going to go home and we'll talk on the phone later. Okay?"

Dave nods obediently. "Okay."

"Now get out of here before your dad sends out a search party that finds you in my mouth." Kurt smacks Dave on the ass and Dave blushes brightly. Blaine has never seen Dave smile so hard.

And then the smile is turned toward Blaine. "See you later, Blaine," Dave says.

Blaine has never really thought of Dave's face as beautiful, even after listening to Kurt wax poetic about his eyebrows. Handsome, maybe, thanks to those eyebrows and the Roman nose and shy smile. And cute, when he gets flustered or, alternately, when he gets excited about numbers and birds and football and Kurt ululating.

But Dave's face is beautiful now. Blaine doesn't know if it's because his eyes are dancing with light, or his skin is shimmering from the humidity and his closeness with Kurt, or his lips are red and lush from Kurt's kisses. It's probably all that and then some.

It's probably because he's seeing Dave – all of Dave, fearless and unmasked – for the very first time.

Blaine doesn't try to contain his smile, even though it stretches so wide that the muscles behind his ears start to ache. "See you tomorrow," he answers.

Dave's step, as he walks out to the car, is as light as Blaine has ever seen. It reminds Blaine of the way Dave carries himself on the football field, making movement look effortless, like there's no resistance from the ground or the air and gravity's not a law that governs him, but a tool that he uses to his own advantage.

They stand in the open doorway and watch as he disappears down the road, then stare dazedly at the empty space it leaves behind.

"This has been quite the afternoon," Kurt finally says, breaking the silence.

"Yes," Blaine says.

Kurt squeezes Blaine's hand. "I love you."

Blaine studies the pink of Kurt's cheeks and lips, the sweet upturn of his nose, the depth of his eyes. "I want to make you come," he says.

Kurt just smiles.

Blaine means to bring Kurt upstairs, but as soon as they close the door he's throwing his arms around Kurt's hips, pressing him against the wall and licking long strokes up from his collarbone to his ear.

"Blaine," Kurt gasps.

Blaine becomes acutely aware of his own cock, hard and yearning. He has a vague idea that it's been like this for a while, but he honestly can't say when it began. He was so lost in watching Kurt and Dave that he forgot to think about his own body.

He presses his hardness against Kurt's thigh, hoping it will say everything he doesn't have the words for yet – how beautiful it is to watch Kurt with Dave, how hot and heart-filling.

"Blaine," Kurt says again, angling his hips to meet Blaine's and ducking his head to kiss him.

It's so many sensations at once – Kurt's cock against Blaine's, Kurt's lips against Blaine's, that cock made flush by Dave and those lips redolent of Dave. Blaine licks into Kurt's mouth, tries to distinguish between the taste of Kurt and the tastes that Dave left behind, but he can't.

Blaine grows even harder.

They rock together, the outlines of their cocks brushing together, against their thighs and hips, awkward and erratic pressure that is somehow perfect. They can't stop kissing, can't stop running their hands over each other's bodies, can't stop circling back to each other's hips and asses, can't stop themselves from pressing their fingers into each other's muscles as they thrust together. They pull at each other, closer and closer until they forget they have their clothes on, everything is just their bodies and that sweet, terrifying sensation of losing yourself and trusting your lover to find you.

"Oh, Blaine. Blaine. I can't wait. I'm gonna – oh, I'm gonna –"

"I'm here." It's been so long since they've come like this, desperate and hurried and fully clothed. But he still feels Kurt inside him. Kurt is the heat that erupts low in Blaine's belly, magma pushing toward the surface of a shaking earth.

Kurt bites down on Blaine's shoulder, digs his fingers hard into Blaine's hips, beautiful sharp stabs of pain that turn into ecstasy under these conditions. The heat in Blaine's belly rumbles into his balls, and he's so close, so close, but he wants Kurt to –

Kurt's head flings back, his eyes wide and on Blaine's, shocked and elated, the blue flashing like an electrical storm. His jaw is slack and trembling, the edges of his bottom teeth visible behind a quivering lip.

Blaine would tell Kurt that he's beautiful, that watching him come is the most wonderful privilege he's ever experienced, that he wants to share that with Dave, that he wants everything between them, but the heat overwhelms him before he can start the words, fills his body and his cock and flows in every direction – to the lips that kiss Kurt and the ears that hear Kurt and the eyes that adore him and the hands that love him and the feet that follow him and the cock that comes and comes and comes – is coming, right this moment – for him.

They slide down to the floor in a sweaty, breathless heap – ignoring, for the moment, the slick slide of their underpants against their dicks.

"Oh my god," says Kurt.

"Yes," says Blaine.

Kurt pulls Blaine toward him and kisses his hair, growing wild with the humidity. "I love you so much."

"I wish I could tell you how much I love you."

They link their hands, even though their palms are damp with sweat.

"Don't worry." Kurt kisses Blaine's scalp again. "I already know."

* * *

Dave's mom is out with her book group. He was just going to throw a frozen lasagna into the oven for himself and his dad, but when he got home, his hands were itching with the emptiness of not holding Kurt, so he pulled all the vegetables out of the refrigerator for a stir-fry. He needed something for his hands to do, a focus for his jittery energy, but it's oddly sensual. His fingers have never felt so alive, so aware of the textures they encounter, the satisfying smoothness of eggplant and the ticklish tease of broccoli. He compares it all to Kurt, and it is all vastly inferior, but it is still wonderful.

"You look happy," his dad says when he gets home from work and strides into the kitchen to find Dave whisking the vegetables up the sides of the wok.

"I am," Dave says.

"Anything in particular, or just looking forward to graduation?"

Dave shrugs and smiles. "I feel like my life is finally beginning."

* * *