Anonymous prompted: Blaine goes over to Kurt’s house and Kurt is still sleeping. and Kurt sleeps naked. (A/N: I meant to just write a smutty drabble but then I had feelings. So many feelings.)

At 7:07 he texts Kurt to let him know his connecting flight is delayed. At 7:08 he orders a triple shot soy latte and considers a somewhat rubbery looking egg sandwich in the display case. At 7:09 there’s an announcement for a flight going to Newark instead of LaGuardia. Blaine decides he isn’t all that hungry anyway, and rushes to the counter to make the flight. 

He takes a cab in, doesn’t feel up to sorting out public transportation from New Jersey to Bushwick this early in the morning. He doesn’t text Kurt again either. His track record with surprises is spotty, but Blaine just figures that means there’s plenty of room for improvement.

Santana opens the door, gives a brief, unimpressed once-over then steps aside. “He’s in his…area,” she says with a flick of her hand, and goes back to her breakfast. 

“Oh, is he busy?” 

“Probably,” she says around a mouthful of cereal. “You know, flitting through wild flowers, perching on toadstools, spreading fairy dust everywhere. The usual.”

Blaine presses his lips together, hikes his bag up higher and backs away. “Okay, thanks.”

He hesitates outside the closed curtain, wonders if he should call out to Kurt first? Or maybe just text him and wait in the living room? 

“Actually that last part may be true!” Santana calls, “Question for science: is his jizz actually glitter?”

Blaine ducks inside and closes the curtain quickly. He lets out a slow, calming breath, only to have it come back out as an embarrassing squeak when he turns around. 

Kurt is fast asleep, stretched out on his back, arms flung across the bed and legs loose, one bent to the side. His face is peaceful, calm; mouth lax and eyelashes swept low on his cheekbones. Blaine decides it is not hyperbole to think he looks just like an angel. 

A very, very naked angel.

Blaine’s bag thunks to the floor. He takes a step forward, then freezes, body swaying a little and fingers twitching to touch miles of satiny, pale skin; morning warm and pliant. He wants to taste the salt of it, bury his nose in Kurt’s neck and find just him there, earthy and dank and pulsing with coppery blood just beneath. 

He swallows hard, ignores the throb between his legs, calls Kurt’s name in a hoarse whisper.

Kurt sighs, stretches slowly; his back arching and muscles flexing, cock flaccid but gently stirring awake against his thigh. Blinks up at Blaine even slower. “You’re here.”

And Blaine has resolved to be patient, to let Kurt define what they are and aren’t right now- friends but not, lovers but not. But he’s only human. He only has so much willpower.

“You’re naked,” he replies.

“Mmmm, am I?” A slow, spreading grin. Blaine saw it, before. When no else did, when even Kurt didn’t. The hints of a simmering surety, a confidence in his body, in his desirability. Kurt sees it now, too. Blaine is a dead man.

Kurt crosses an arm over his broad chest, nipples standing out pink and pebbled, pats the pillow next his. Blaine walks around the bed with Kurt’s eyes following lazily, slips in next to him and lays stiffly on his back staring up at the ceiling. Kurt is not his, he can’t just take, he needs Kurt to make the first move. He needs to be sure.

“I like this sweater.”

“Thank you.”

Kurt shifts around, sheet and blanket rustling beneath him, jostling Blaine a little closer, a little less contained to the very edge of the bed. Kurt’s hand starts stroking a slow circle over Blaine’s belly, over the wool of his sweater then pushing it up just enough to slide a hand underneath, up and over and around. 

It’s one of the quickest ways to get Blaine going; Kurt’s hand warm and gentle and teasing, fingertips dipping just below his waistband every once in a while. Blaine closes his eyes and grips the sheet to retain some semblance of control, but he’s flushed hot with arousal. Knows his pants are strained and tented. Knows Kurt knows.

“Are you hungry?” Kurt doesn’t stop the movement of his hand, but curls in just a bit closer. Blaine’s body automatically turns into his warmth; a twisting vine crawling towards the sun.

“A little,” Blaine replies, breathes. He should be starving, the espresso likely eating away at his empty stomach. But it’s hard to think of food when all he hungers for is Kurt.

“What do you want, Blaine?” Kurt’s hand slips down, shoves into his pants, wraps tight around him, pulls and pulls and winds him up tight.

Blaine doesn’t say: anything. He doesn’t say: everything. He doesn’t say: forever. But he knows now -learned the hardest way possible, shattered into jagged pieces by it- that speaking without words isn’t really speaking at all. 

If they are going to find their way back to each other, for keeps this time, he has to trust Kurt with his words, know that Kurt hears him. Will always hear him.

“Just this,” Blaine says, turns into Kurt’s bared skin, his naked heart, twines their bodies together and lets himself drown in an ocean of Kurt; smell and taste and touch. Comes with Kurt’s name on his lips, watches the widening of black pupils ringed by blue.

It’s enough. For now.

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