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By the third week of classes, Kurt feels like he never left school.
College is different from high school for a lot of reasons. Even with his year out, it's the first time he's ever lived on his own, and that's every bit as glorious as he'd thought it would be. The classes are moderately challenging but not in a way that leaves him feeling destroyed, and there is an eagerness among the student body to do well and appear intelligent; he never feels a strong need to dumb himself down, not yet.
Oberlin is a strange place, steeped in music and art that is completely different from what he has come to understand, but no less welcome for all of that. On Thursday evenings after dinner an all-bassoon ensemble plays in the courtyard outside his dorm room window, and the pavement between his dining hall and his dorm is constantly filled with chalk, recolored after every storm by somebody who must be sneaking out at night to decorate the sidewalk with political slogans and symbols and a surreal band of orchestral fairies, each one playing a different instrument. The politics suit him, the deep weirdness of the place confuses but intrigues him, and sometimes when he walks around campus and laments the fashion choices of his fellow undergraduates, he is deeply remorseful that he'd had no idea a place like this was so close. He'd spent four years in high school thinking that the only way forward was out. He'd really had no idea.
For the last year he's seen his life mostly from the outside, like the moments within it are a disjointed montage of a bad year redeemed. From the day he’d realized he wouldn't be spending the next year in New York, he'd floated through his days removed, moving through life one step at a time. When he started over with college admissions in October he'd knuckled down, tried to see clearly through the haze of his dreams to separate his dreams of escape from his plans for a real life. It had been easier once he'd joined his father in DC after the new year, and that six months in the wrong east coast city had taught him so much more about himself, about how big the world was, about the range of possibilities in front of him. From the moment he'd stood beside the Tidal Basin and looked from the pink and white flowers of the trees to the acceptance email from Oberlin on his phone, he'd known he was headed back to Ohio, but it was an Ohio that was just as new to him as DC was, as New York would have been.
It's not just the weirdness of the school that's different; he has an Ohio mailing address again, but the people here are so different. Andrew lives down the hall, and he seems nice, though maybe a little too pleased to see Kurt when they run into each other in the hallway or the dining hall. Kurt finds him fun to talk to but not really attractive, and as nice as it is to be in a place where he won’t ever be identified as “the gay kid”, that could get awkward. It’s not like it’s hard to meet people; he’d met everybody on his floor within 15 minutes of the first time he’d fired up the Keurig Carole had given him for Christmas, because the scent of brewing coffee seems to draw undergraduates from hiding.
He met Kirsten in his first cinema studies class when she’d come into class and asked him for a pen; when he gave her one with a raised eyebrow and said, “It's a bit early to be this disorganized already, isn't it?” she just beamed back at him and said, “Oh, fine, I have one. I just wanted to say hi, really. I like your scarf.” He grinned at her and the next time they were in class he slid in next to her. By the third class they were talking in nudges and raised eyebrows, like they had a language all their own, and on their fourth meeting Kirsten had turned to him after a guy in the front row answered a question and mouthed at him, “He's cute!” And oh, he had noticed.
Blaine is the slight, puppyish guy who wears glasses and says nothing on Mondays and then by Friday morning is back in his contacts with an answer for every question, and everybody in the room knows his name by the end of the first week of classes. Kurt sits in the back where he and Kirsten can watch everything, but he can't help feeling like he has something to prove. He makes sure he's always put together, and he never volunteers an answer unless he's called on but it's always, always, flawless, like he's been practicing. Even on Mondays, even when he's spent his weekend back in Lima and he's just come from junior-level French conversation class, he doesn't open his mouth until he knows he has something worth saying – not here.
Kurt watches him sometimes, because he is cute and he's certainly entertaining. He smirks when his head nods and curls bob on Mondays; smiles at the way he rubs at the back of his neck on Wednesdays, strong fingers strangely pale against his dark hair; rolls his eyes with the rest of the back row at his enthusiasm on Friday. Sometimes Kurt thinks Blaine is making him look bad in comparison, but when he gets his first reaction paper back with "Very interesting insights" scrawled across the top in purple ink, he smiles to himself and tucks it into his notebook.
For their term project their instructor wants them in pairs or small groups, and she has them each propose three areas of cinema they might like to investigate. Talking about it takes an entire lecture period; she also reminds them that the deadline for winter term proposals is looming, and suggests that those who are finding the material interesting may consider using winter term to flesh out their projects more thoroughly. She tells them about past projects, and Kurt lets his mind wander while she does. Winter term is something all Oberlin students have to complete at least three times to graduate, and although he is sure he’ll take advantage of the time to explore something further in a year or two, he's assumed for a while now that his first winter project would be three more weeks of field experience in DC, back to sleeping on the pull-out sofa in the apartment his dad shares with 3 other freshman congressmen and acting as junior aide by day. If nothing else, he hopes he can finally do something about his dad's bedroom because nobody should ever regularly sleep in a room with exposed mini-blinds.
In the end, it's a quiet Saturday night back in Lima when he sprawls across his bed and types out brief paragraphs on three topics:
A retrospective of women's fashion through period film
Gender fluidity and the rigidity of the lens
Music, film, and the fourth wall
He knows the topics are all probably done to death – god knows he's had plenty of random thoughts about them – but he just doesn't care enough to dig deep for something new. Next week it'll be October and he's already a little tired. He realizes then that he should have worked with Kirsten to come up with something they could be paired on together, but instead he just writes up a quick email to his instructor and hits send.
---
A few days later their instructor hands back their proposals at the end of class, fresh with another crop of purple comments. While he's shoving his laptop back into his bag with one hand he skims the page, looking over her sprawling commentary in the margins, glancing at the stars and strike-throughs, until he gets to the bottom of the page. “You're in luck – your topic #2 matches pretty well with one of your classmates. Find Blaine Anderson and see if you can't work out some kind of compromise.”
He smirks down at the page and shows it to Kirsten, who takes a break from staring at her own paper to scan the note and waggle her brows at him, and then he looks over to where Blaine is usually sitting – he's already made it out of the room, so he assumes he'll have to use the listserv to track him down later today or tomorrow. Just as he's shouldering his bag on the way out of class he hears, “Hey, Kurt,” and when he turns, Blaine is leaning against the wall of the corridor.
He takes a moment to look him over. Blaine is dressed well for a Wednesday, in cropped jeans and a cardigan that looks like something from a prep school film; he's in glasses, but his hair is well-styled and he looks shockingly awake, his eyes wide and his smile genuine.
“Did you get the same note I did?” Blaine asks, and Kurt smiles and walks over.
“I did. 'Gender fluidity and the rigidity of the lens', yes?”
Blaine's brows go up for just a second. “Mine was 'Queerness in cinema over the last half-century', but yes. Close enough, I guess.”
Kurt smirks to himself; he'd finally gained some practice honing his gaydar over the last several months in DC, but he hadn't felt like he could trust it as much as he would’ve liked, so it's nice to have a little confirmation. “Where are you headed now?” he asks, hiking his bag a little higher up.
“Back to East, I think. Walk together?”
Kurt is shocked still for a few seconds but takes longer steps to catch up. “Oh. Do you live there, too?” What he really wants to ask is, 'How do you know where I live?' but Blaine was vague enough that he doesn't want to assume; it seems incredibly rude.
Blaine is grinning at him, a bit sheepish. “Yeah. I lucked into one of the singles on the first floor.” They walk along in silence for a few seconds. “I've seen you in Stevenson before; I figured you were somewhere close by, but you weren't at any of the dorm events, so I wasn't sure.”
Kurt smiles, a little wry, a little pleased. “No. I'm not really... those things aren't really my style.” He pauses for a second and then feels like an asshole. “I spent most of the last year living in DC, and it feels a little weird to be a college freshman after all of that.”
“Oh. Did you take a year out, then?”
When Kurt glances his way before they cross the street Blaine's smile is bright and interested, and Kurt basks in it for just a moment before he steps out into the road.
“I did. I... well, frankly, I was planning to move to New York for college and it didn't work out, so I ended up interning with my dad. In DC.” He hates talking about this; he hates that Oberlin still feels like a second choice for him, especially with people like Blaine who seem overjoyed to be here.
Blaine nudges his shoulder and says, “So you are that Hummel. I wondered, but frankly you don't look anything like your dad.” He pauses, and then adds, “Or, and I hate to say it, like a mechanic's son.”
Kurt's smile is small, tight. “It isn't done to wear McQueen in a garage, is it?”
He can see Blaine shrugging out of the corner of his eye. “Well, no. And your dad is mostly bald – and you have great hair.”
He thaws, just a little, and says, “Thank you.”
They're quiet as they walk together, both of them stuck in that moment of conversational mishap, until Kurt says, “So – Ohio, then?”
Blaine grins and says, “Right – that's how I knew your dad's name. We tracked the special election in my high school civics class, even though it wasn't our district, and then I remember him being re-elected last year.” He can see Blaine sneak a look at him. “So you're the kid he ran for, then.”
Kurt's smile is small. Even now his feelings are mixed. “It's what fathers do, I'm told.”
Blaine's laugh is bitter, practiced. “My dad liked Sue Sylvester for that seat.”
“Not a big fan of the arts?” Kurt says lightly.
“Not really, no. And we ordered a lot of pizza that month, so I suppose it could have been worse. Maybe he really did just like the sauce. Hard to tell, really.”
They fall into quiet again, and Kurt kickstarts the conversation the best way he knows how with another freshman. “Do you know what you're majoring in?”
When no answer comes, he glances over at Blaine, whose smile is wicked. “Musical studies.”
Kurt can feel the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, but instead he just raises an eyebrow and says, “Delightful.”
Blaine's grin is wide, unabashed, when he says, “So, is your stepmother really a donkey?”
Kurt lets his own smile grow. “No. Just a Democrat.”
Blaine's laugh is lovely, and Kurt feels something grow within him. He lets it, and he hitches his bag a little higher, and he keeps walking, smiling small and secret to himself when they fall into step.
Blaine says, “So let's talk about films,” and Kurt nods.
---
Kurt doesn't mean to intrude on Blaine's space, but they're deep in conversation and they just keep talking until suddenly Blaine's juggling his stuff to key into his room and Kurt pauses in the doorway. Blaine doesn't seem to notice, though, barreling in and dropping his bag on his bed, and Kurt catches the door just before it closes and follows him in.
His room is simple and still doesn't quite look lived in. There's a beanbag chair sitting against the wall and two collages of photographs on the wall, but other than that it's simple, characterless, and a rumpled navy blue comforter makes up the majority of the color in the room. It makes it hard to know where to look; he doesn't want to go for the photos, not yet – it seems so personal – but Blaine just drops into his desk chair and waves his hand around the rest of the room, so Kurt perches anxiously on the edge of the bed and watches Blaine pull out his laptop.
“Okay, so I'm going to start a list, just based on what we talked about. I'll email it to you and you can leave me notes and we'll just go back and forth on this for a few days until it's settled. And then I guess we just... start watching?”
Kurt shrugs his bag off his shoulder and leans forward a little. He hasn't spent much time in other people's dorm rooms, and most of his time in other people's bedrooms in high school had been with girls, and he's suddenly acutely aware that Blaine is gay, and he's certainly not hard to look at, and he can't stop wondering if this bed has already been... used.
He drags his mind back to Blaine, who's still typing but has his head half-turned toward Kurt, waiting for a response. “Yes, I think that's fine.” He stands up, finally, leaving his bag on the floor, and walks forward to look over Blaine's shoulder. He's typing quickly, and when he types out Priscilla, Kurt adds, “Oh, yes, and add To Wong Foo there, too – they pair together well.” Blaine nods and keeps typing, and Kurt glances down at the keyboard, seeing strong fingers moving rapidly over the keys. “Do you play piano?” and he can feel himself starting to blush as soon as it comes out.
Blaine finishes the word and then nods, a little absently. “Yep. Many many years of lessons. For which I am now grateful, so that works out.” Blaine smells like soap and shampoo, something clean, herbal and woodsy, and he tries to focus on the words on the screen. Some of these are films he's seen, but there's one there he‘s never heard of.
“What is Weekend?”
“Oh, wow. You should see that, even if we can't work it in. It's a British indie – I think Netflix has it, or I can burn you a copy. There's not much gender stuff, but it's nice realism and there's good dialogue about coming out. Plus it's pretty sexy. Good looking guys, fair amount of nudity, really good kissing.” Blaine tosses a grin over his shoulder and must see something of Kurt's discomfort written across his face, because he freezes and his face falls, just a little. This close Kurt can see each eyelash and the shadows they cast, and oh my god his eyes are lovely. “Oh. Do you think that's okay for class?”
He can feel his smile going stiff on his face. “I'm sure it's fine. We're all adults,” Kurt says. Blaine is looking at him, staring at his eyes, and when he can finally look away from Blaine's eyelashes he can see a small smile growing at the corner of Blaine's mouth.
“Okay,” Blaine says, turning back to his desk, leaving Kurt staring down at his dark head.
He's not sure what just happened. And now he has to discuss a sexy movie with this boy. Kurt presses one hand to his cheek and is incredibly grateful for email.
---
Kurt grabs pasta from the dining hall and eats it back in his room while he mulls over Blaine's email, Joan Armatrading playing low and soothing from his laptop's speakers. The list Blaine has sent is short enough to be doable before the end of the semester and between it and their conversations earlier, it really doesn’t need much editing, but all Kurt can think about is everything that's left off. They've agreed to focus on the 1980s forward, because otherwise the scope spirals out of all control, but while he's flipping through Netflix looking for Another Country he grins at Some Like It Hot while it passes. Another time, maybe.
An hour and a half later he lies on his back and listens to a boy's choir sing aloud while the titles scroll by and he tries to piece together what Blaine might have been thinking of when he began the list there. The film was dark, a period piece about exclusion and betrayal, and it's obscure enough that its inclusion in the project isn't necessary. He dashes off a quick email.
I just finished Another Country. I'll have my thoughts for you tomorrow, but I was wondering if you wanted to tell me what you see in it? Because it's incredibly depressing, and I'm not sure what about it requires its inclusion at the beginning of our timeline.
By the time he clicks out of the last reading for tomorrow's meeting of his First Year Seminar, there's a response waiting for him.
I see what you mean. But it's a movie I feel really personally about, and I can't think about films with gay characters without starting there.
My last three years of high school were at Dalton Academy in Westerville, a private boarding school. What made Dalton so attractive to both me and my parents was its no bullying policy; they simply had no tolerance for any kind of harassment. And public high school hadn't gone as well for me as it could have, so that was the best solution possible. For the first year or so there, it was perfect. There was a small a capella group there, and I fit right in.
During my junior year a new student transferred in. Within 8 weeks we were dating, and then 4 months later it was over. When I write it like that it seems so neat and self-contained, but the truth is that it followed me for the rest of my time in high school. He wasn't a good person, and if I hadn't been so enamored of having a cute gay boy delivered just for me, and so trapped in my gilded cage, I think I would have seen that earlier.
I think the movie is important to me because the parts of it that feel true still feel so true. Life at a school like that is intense, because without parents involved the school develops a pretty strict social order. And once I'd been knocked out of my spot it was impossible to get it back, and it wasn't that I was bullied – nobody ever harassed me for being gay. But Sebastian spread around a bunch of stuff about our sex life, and once somebody has called you a slut and told your (straight) male friends how much you like to take it up the ass, nothing is ever quite the same between you, at least not in high school.
The movie captures something about that, about the way that even people who think they are okay with homosexual behavior can be upset if things are too gay, if the gayness creates any kind of drama or friction. Guy thinks he's safe because he understands the system and how to live within it, but it's not until it's too late for him that he really comes to understand that he can't ever be safe.”
Kurt's shaken; it's too much to know about this boy he's only just starting to know, this cute guy who sits up front and seems so eager and is, frankly, way too pleasant to look at. But he reads it again, over and over, and thinks about what that might have been like, about how different to his own experience but all the ways it's the same, too, and then he sees the notification at the bottom of the screen. Blaine's sent an update, and he clicks in without hesitation.
Oh my god. I'm so sorry. That was WAY too personal. I don't know what I was thinking – it just all poured out.
I'm sorry. Please don't think I'm a total freak. Can we just forget this ever happened?
Kurt smiles, and clicks to reply.
Don't worry about it. We all have secret scars, and I know more than most about how to keep them hidden. He pauses for a minute, his fingers hovering over the keyboard, before he just goes for it. I was thinking about going out for a walk tonight, and I could use some company. Want to come with me?
Thirty minutes later Kurt is still wrapping his scarf around his neck when Blaine opens the door to his room with a chagrined smile. They walk through campus together, talking about the film and classes and home and friends and where they come from and what they like about Oberlin. The only thing Kurt brings up from their email exchange is the Warblers, because he remembers them from competition, vaguely, and nothing in Blaine's smile suggests that he's uncomfortable talking about it. They laugh together, and Kurt pokes gentle fun at their rendition of “Raise Your Glass” until Blaine grins back at him and runs a hand through his hair. Kurt thinks he's absolutely adorable.
Later that night he lies in bed and replays the conversation, replays the entire day (it’s only been a day!) and he thinks about the way that Blaine's eyes crinkle when he smiles, and he tries very hard to forget everything in the email.
---
On Friday he wonders what it will be like to see Blaine again after everything that happened on Wednesday, and he sneaks in early and takes his usual seat toward the back. Kirsten slips in a little later and starts whining instantly about her First Year Seminar, but Kurt keeps an eye on the door and smiles when Blaine steps into the classroom looking for him. He smiles and gives him a little wave, and when he looks back at Kirsten her mouth is open and her brow is up. He raises his brows at her and gives her a little smirk, and then their instructor is banging into the doorway again. He lets his smirk fade into a smug grin and turns toward the front of the classroom so he can watch Blaine’s hair and pretend to pay attention. When class lets out, Blaine is waiting for him outside again, and when he raises his hand to wave at Kurt, Kirsten just mutters, “Okay, I see how it is,” before shoving gently at his back.
After that day it takes less than a week before they fall into a rhythm. Both of them finish classes with cinema studies three days a week, so even though Blaine stays front and center and Kurt is still holding down the back row with Kirsten, they walk back after class together, and will occasionally sit and talk about their project until it's time for dinner. The first time Blaine knocks on his door Kurt is a little stunned, but he lets him in and they talk about music and classes and the way Kurt has decorated his closet of a room, and gradually he eases into the idea that they are here together, that this space is his own and completely private, that nobody is going to assume anything just because they are two gay guys behind a closed door.
Sometimes he wishes they would, or that there was something to assume. Instead he says to Blaine, “I can’t get over the dorm room thing,” and Blaine just grins and tells him a story about his first year living in at Dalton until he gets distracted by Kurt’s Keurig and immediately begs Kurt to teach him how to use it.
They study together, eat together, and occasionally still go out for long midnight rambles around campus. One night they accidentally catch the sidewalk chalk artists, and Kurt laughs at Blaine's utter inability to remember how many loops go in a treble clef.
By the second week of October Kurt is caught up in every little thing about him. He sees him every day, and they're in and out of each other's room all the time. He picks up extra K-cups for the Keurig in the roast that Blaine seems to prefer and he knows where Blaine keeps his dental floss. There are still mysteries; Blaine is strangely fond of electronic music, and Kurt likes some of it but remains mystified about where exactly that came from, and he teases Blaine about it sometimes. But there’s always Diet Coke and bottled water in each of their fridges and he has stood in front of Blaine’s collage of photographs, getting the full rundown on Blaine's time with the Warblers, and repaid Blaine with a narrated slideshow on his laptop, telling stories on his friends, his family, DC. One day Kurt asks if Blaine has a photo of Sebastian, and although Blaine frowns he pulls one up on his laptop. Kurt dislikes his self-pleased little smirk instantly and says so, and Blaine just smiles and says, “Where were you two years ago?”
“Lima, Ohio, more's the pity,” he responds, and Blaine just grins wider.
One Thursday evening, a week or so before Halloween, Blaine stops by just before 10 and when Kurt answers the door he’s bouncing on his toes, a giant grin crinkling his eyes.
“Tater tots. I need ‘em; The Feve has ‘em. Want to come with me?”
Kurt grins and shakes his head. “Oh, tater tots, my old nemesis.”
Blaine just looks confused and says, “Is that a yes?”
Kurt looks at him and then back at his desk and shrugs; his French reading can wait. “Let me get my jacket and keys. I’ll tell you about my storied relationship with tots on the way.”
The Feve is an Oberlin institution, and it doesn’t take Kurt long to figure out why. The space is strangely pretty, almost elegant in the dim late night lighting, and the menu knows its clientele. Kurt watches Blaine struggle over choosing dipping sauces and stays well out of it, just giving Blaine a bemused grin when he tries to figure out whether “masochistic wing sauce” is really a good choice for him.
When the waitress clears their menus and brings their drinks, Kurt screws off the top of his water, leans back, and takes a look around. The crowd is young, all students, running on coffee and the hyper energy of the dual approaching threat of midterms and Halloween. The two-top next to them is overfilled, two laptops jockeying for space with baskets half-filled with the remnants of burgers and tots. The girl across the table is frowning behind chunky black glasses that reflect the glare of her screen, but he can see the display of the girl sitting closest to them, and she’s flipping back and forth between American Idol videos and tumblr. He grins.
After a few moments, Blaine leans forward over the table and says, “Okay. So, don’t turn around? But there’s a guy across the room who is seriously checking you out.”
Kurt can feel his smile freezing in place. So that’s that, then – Blaine definitely isn’t interested. He can feel himself start to mourn, but he can’t stop time, and he shoves it down to think about it later.
Blaine grins at him and says, “Don’t freak out. He’s…” he glances away and then back at Kurt. “He’s cute. Tall, blond hair.”
“Stop staring at him,” Kurt hisses, and Blaine just looks at him and laughs.
“He’s talking to his friend about you, I think.” Blaine’s eyes continue to dart back and forth between Kurt and somebody behind him. “Oh, yes, definitely. They’re both looking over here now. That’s definitely all about you.”
Kurt rests an elbow on the table and sinks his forehead into his palm. “Oh god. Please stop. I just came with you to get tater tots. I’m not looking for a –“
The waitress comes out of nowhere, dropping an overflowing basket of tots and a plate with six little ramekins arranged in a circle. She shoots a glance at their drinks and then scurries away before they can ask for anything else.
“Not feeling it, huh?” Blaine says, nodding back across the room.
“Six?” Kurt says, grasping for a change in topic.
“I knew you weren’t paying attention.” He points to them each in turn. “Coconut curry, lemon dill mayo, honey sriracha, jerk, mango habanero, and masochistic wing.” He tilts his head. “I think. Not too sure about those last two, actually.”
Kurt picks up a tater tot and breaks it in half, gingerly dipping one edge in the coconut curry.
“So, the thing from before?” Blaine prods.
Kurt shoots him a sharp glance and sees the sympathetic look in Blaine’s warm eyes. There’s a candle on their table, and his eyes look warm and honeyed and he can’t keep staring at them, a tater tot halfway to his mouth, so he takes the bite and props his cheek back on his fist while he chews and swallows. It’s not bad, and he grins a little when he remembers where he is – in a restaurant, at college, with a guy checking him out and another one (the one he really wants) across the table from him. He’s a long way from his high school cafeteria.
He picks up the other half of his tater tot and pauses over the choices, staring down at them while he says, “I just don’t think that’s how it works. Not for me, anyway.”
The lemon dill mayo is also good, but all he can think about is the consequence of dipping fried potatoes into mayonnaise before he decides he’ll be trying something else next time. “How does it work for you, then?” Blaine asks, poking one corner of a tater tot into what Kurt thinks was jerk sauce.
“As if I know,” Kurt shoots back, stealing another glance before he looks back down at the table and sighs. “I don’t know. I think I have to get to know people first. I’m pretty sure I’m not going to meet somebody I really want to be with just because I happen to catch his eye over a basket of tater tots.”
He can feel the smirk twisting at the corner of his mouth but Blaine stays quiet, and when he finally glances up Blaine’s gone still and is staring at him, a bright orange coated tater tot hanging from his fingers just inches from his mouth.
“Right,” Blaine says, his voice quiet. “Of course not.”
Kurt lets the smirk blossom, and then says, “I know. Silly romantic, right?”
Blaine rests his hand against the table and smiles fondly at him, the tater tot all but forgotten. “You’re silly about a lot of things, but I don’t think this is one of them. It’s very romantic.”
Kurt raises his brows and says, “Are you going to eat that?” nodding his head toward the abandoned tater tot.
“Right,” Blaine says again, staring down at his hand. “Which one was this?”
Kurt laughs at him. “Try it; you might like it.”
Blaine pops it into his mouth and almost immediately his eyes go wide and he reaches for his soda. “Habanero, I think. Oh god. Can I have some of your water?”
Kurt just laughs again and passes him the bottle.
Later that night he thinks about it. He thinks about Blaine’s excitement to see Kurt getting checked out, the way Blaine had put one hand on his shoulder as they walked out of The Feve, the way he had paused when they parted in the hallway, and he is sure he is never going to understand people.
---
Kurt resolves to focus more on his school work, and that weekend he goes home where there are no distractions and plows through movies, eager to get a jump both on the required viewing for the film component of his Media and Memory seminar and also his project with Blaine.
Carole is in DC for the weekend and the house will be quiet, so he stops by the grocery store on the way home and buys ingredients for a salad, something huge that he can make once and eat from all weekend. His room feels empty and weird, so he sets up camp in the living room and fires up Netflix, getting most of the way through Boys Don’t Cry by the time he figures out the streaming for his laptop.
He settles in to watch Weekend, and doesn’t move for the entire time the film is running. There is nothing about their story that feels familiar to him – the setting, the drugs, the sex – except for the quiet desperation in both characters. One of them wants to get out, to move on; the other wants connection, solidarity, peace. Somehow he feels like both of them rolled into one, and even while he’s scribbling notes about their conversation about coming out and ‘gay art’ (oh, the irony) and filming style, he’s thinking about those characters. He’s trapped by Glen and Russell and by the gentle, gradual way they fall in love. It feels true. That feels familiar.
The sex, when it finally comes at the close of the film, doesn’t embarrass him like it sometime can. For once, they’re just people who want to be close to somebody they care about, and it’s tender and attractive and so incredibly hot; it rolls through his stomach how much he loves watching them, even though neither of them are really his type. He watches it three times and is cuing it up for a fourth when his phone rings and he fumbles guiltily for the remote.
---
Later that night he sends an email to Blaine.
Today I watched Weekend, and then my friend Rachel called from New York and gave me a hard time about finding a vocal ensemble – again. And all I could think of was that conversation the characters have about how people's expectations keep you in one place.
Blaine emails him back almost immediately. At least you have people looking out for you. I think I know what you mean, though. This might help: the costume shop is having a sale all day on Monday, just in time for Halloween, which I wanted to talk to you about anyway. Want to go rummaging through cheap pieces that will make us somebody else altogether?
YES. Early morning, before everybody else gets there?
Ouch. Fine. Can you bring me down coffee when you come get me for it?
You are pathetic. And yes, of course.
---
“So do you have plans for Halloween, or is this just a seasonal outing?” Kurt asks as they step out of East and start making their way toward the costume shop sale. The morning is cool, and he’s glad for the scarf he’s thrown around his neck. The dorms are always slightly overheated.
“A guy in my seminar said something about Lambda throwing a party. I was thinking about it?”
Kurt hesitates for a second, and then says, “Oh. I think I’m going to that, too. Andrew taped a flier to my door. I guess I’ll see you there.”
Blaine’s grin is small. “Perfect. I really didn’t want to go by myself. Do you mind if I go with you?” Kurt is a bit too slow in answering. “I mean, if you want to go just with Andrew, that’s fine, I just thought –“
“No, you’re right. It’s perfect. I definitely do not want to go just with Andrew.” Blaine slaps at his arm with the back of his hand, and Kurt smirks. “Well, I don’t. There is no way that would end well, all things considered.” Andrew is still always around, and Kurt can’t fault him for it – he isn’t doing a thing wrong, hasn’t taken a step out of line except for his lingering glances and doorway loitering, and Blaine has teased him about it before. “I think it’s a group going, anyway – the note on the flier said ‘we’, so I’m guessing it’s a bunch of people from East. You’ll probably know them, social butterfly.”
“And then by the end of the night, you’ll know them, too,” Blaine says as he holds the door for Kurt.
The lobby to the auditorium is already bustling, tables overflowing with a hodgepodge of accessories and items of clothing. Kurt scopes out the lay of the land, quickly itemizing each table for potential promise. He needs to piece together a costume, yes, but he also wants to look for interesting pieces to work into his everyday rotation, and this sale already has a ton of potential.
Blaine makes his way quickly to a table full of hats, scarves, and ties, scooping up a pair of fedoras and settling one on his head. He turns to Kurt and gives him a serious stare. “Clark Kent, intrepid journalist.”
Kurt smiles at him, bemused, and says, “What are you going to do with the other one?”
Blaine holds it out to him and says, “Jimmy Olsen?”
Kurt rolls his eyes. “Your clueless sidekick? No thank you. I look young enough already.”
“Oh come on. You’ll look amazing. With that bone structure? And besides, I like the idea of costuming together.”
Kurt’s belly rolls, slow and easy, at the hopeful look on Blaine’s face. “Well. Yes. You would.” And he knows that makes no sense, and just as Blaine’s brow furrows quizzically he adds, “Besides, I’m looking for something a little less… well. Pathetic, really.”
“Try the hat on anyway?”
He does, and Blaine brushes a little of his hair to the side under the brim once he settles it on his head. “Like I said. Amazing,” and Blaine’s smile is soft and so fond, and those butterflies are taking wing one more time.
“Fine. I’ll get the hat, but help me keep looking. I need something else.”
Twenty minutes later Kurt is standing in the middle of the room, his arms loaded down with checked suspenders and a purple brocade vest (Blaine says it makes his eyes look extra blue, so that’s a plus), and he’s just scanning the room one last time when he sees it. “That’s it,” he says, a little breathless.
He makes his way to the table full of jackets and digs for the flash of red nylon he saw disappearing into the pile. Blaine walks up behind him just as he unearths it and says, “What is it?”
He turns to hand his stuff to Blaine and slips on the jacket, and it’s a nice, close fit. He lifts his gaze and flashes Blaine what he hopes is a dangerous smile. “James Dean, of course. I can be a Rebel without a Cause, the not-just-subtext version. I don’t think I do subtext very well.”
Blaine’s eyes are wide. “Oh. That… yeah. Perfect.”
Kurt smiles brightly, because he knows it is. When it’s paired with a white t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, skintight jeans, and his favorite boots, it’ll be even better.
---
Three days later he finishes up the last of his costuming and knocks on Blaine’s door on Halloween at nine, pushing at his hair with his other hand to make sure the height is holding. When Blaine calls out and he pushes into the door, Blaine's standing by his desk, damp curls falling into his face to brush over his glasses and dimly lit in the light from the lamp. He's staring down at something and chasing the shuffle of electronic drums that's pouring low through the room with just his shoulders. Bare shoulders, tinted golden from the lamplight, and Kurt's mouth dries up when Blaine glances up at him over his glasses and smiles bright and sweet.
"Hey," Blaine says, his voice lazy and quiet. "Sorry I'm not dressed – I needed a shower after fencing and I was just making sure I had all my stuff together. I have a lot of work to do tomorrow morning."
Kurt closes the door softly behind him and then leans against it, trying not to stare at what the lamp light is doing against Blaine's belly, his hips. "It's your room," Kurt says, trying not to let his voice go high and shrill. "You should be able to wear whatever you want. You know how I feel about that," and wow that sounded far more principled and far less suggestive in his head. “We still have plenty of time. We’re not meeting Andrew until ten.”
Blaine's answering grin is a little dirty, Kurt thinks, but just then Blaine’s eyes grow wide as he takes in Kurt in his costume.
“Damn, Kurt.”
He grins and pops his collar, letting his lean devolve into the iconic slouch and his grin go sardonic. “Boy, this is gonna be one terrific day, so you better live it up.”
Blaine’s grin is edged with something, and he says, “Outstanding. Damn. You look… yeah. Hot.”
Kurt holds his eyes and lets his hips jut forward, lets Jim Stark take him over and make him bold, and the moment holds until Kurt grins wider and starts giggling.
Blaine turns to his dresser and starts rummaging through a drawer, and Kurt lets out a breath and lets himself look his fill at Blaine's back, at the way it tapers to his hips and the way his ass curves underneath soft cotton, and my god. Suddenly his own fingers are against his mouth, and he can feel the smooth curve of his own mouth and a warm gust of breath before he tucks his hands behind his back, pressing his palms against the door.
"Who's this playing?" he says, desperate for conversation to break up the tension that he's afraid only he feels.
Blaine pauses for a moment and then he says, "Röyksopp. Norwegian band, really old record." He pulls his Superman t-shirt over his head and then turns back to Kurt. "You don't know them?"
Kurt rolls his eyes. "You know I don't."
Blaine grins back. "Yeah, I probably did. Do you like it?"
Kurt pauses for just a moment and listens. "Well. It's kind of quiet right now, but I think so. Maybe?"
Blaine watches him for a moment, and then says, "Shoes off, and lie down. I'm gonna show you."
Kurt raises a brow, and Blaine just says, "Oh, come on. Live a little. Like you said, we have time."
He rolls his eyes but he obeys, toeing off his boots and pulling off his jacket and stretching himself out on Blaine's bed. The smell of him is the strongest here, woodsy and clean, and it's not like it's the first time he's sat here but now he's supposed to lie down, and every thought he's ever had about what it would be like to be here chases him all the way down. When his head hits the pillow he breathes deep, in and out, taking in the smell of Blaine's shampoo. He folds his hands over his belly and closes his eyes and tries to look a little less like a corpse.
The music cuts off abruptly, and then Blaine sits down on the edge of the bed and laughs, just a little. "I promise this won't hurt." When he opens his eyes Blaine is there, his hip so close to Kurt's elbow, and there's two small pairs of headphones dangling from his fingers. Blaine raises his brows and then tips his hand forward, letting one pair slide from his square fingers to land on Kurt's chest with a soft thud. "Put them on, budge over, and close your eyes. This is how this should be listened to."
Blaine drops his glasses on the desk and lies beside him, pressing his arm warm against Kurt’s, and as soon as his headphones are on Blaine's fingers start tapping along; the bed shakes just a little with the rhythm of it. Kurt can't help it – it's automatic to reach over and still his hand. He turns his head and raises a brow at him, and Blaine's mouth moves to say, "Sorry," and they're so close - Blaine is right there. The curve of his lip is so shiny, it looks so soft and wet, and he has to turn back and stare up at the ceiling.
He can feel the warmth of his body alongside his own, the way that his body wants to turn into the mattress, into Blaine's weight. Now that his fingers aren't moving he feels like Blaine is tight, tense, and far too still. Kurt hopes he's waiting. A sweet, slightly over-processed voice is singing about tiny little sparks, and Kurt thinks for just a second that this is what he's been waiting for, to feel just like this. He's breathless with it, with the chance to forget his own wounded heart and reach out.
It's the work of just a moment, a movement of only a few inches, but in the seconds before he does it Kurt lies very still and breathes, lets the music carry him along for a few more bars and a few more seconds of calm and safety. He takes one more deep breath and lets it out, and then he goes slow, letting the smallest finger of his right hand drift out and over and brush against Blaine's.
At first it's just the pure, simple warmth of his fingers. He thinks maybe he feels Blaine's breath hitch but he can't tell, so he keeps his eyes closed and he focuses on their hands, letting the world narrow until it's just the steady thump in his head and the more unsteady one of his heart, and the smooth glide of his pinky against Blaine's.
The music changes to something that makes Kurt feel like he's flying, and then he moves his ring finger against Blaine's, and he feels Blaine's hand jerk just a little. His heart stays lodged in his throat for three more beats, and then Blaine's fingers are sliding against his, too. It's a feather-light brush, just the pads of his fingertips sliding against Kurt's, but it's not a withdrawal, and when he lifts his hand from the elbow and lets it slip against Blaine's he can feel the back of all of Blaine's fingers, strong and square, from his knuckles down to smooth nails. He lets his fingers slide against and through where the skin is so soft, there in the secret spaces between his fingers, and keeps his eyes closed and listens to the music and learns Blaine's hand by touch. When Blaine turns his hand so that it's his palm Kurt's tickling against Kurt can feel callus there, strength and roughness just below his fingers that gives way to that soft smooth space in between when he curls his fingers up, and then Blaine's hand is curling around his, too.
It's a strange thing, being felt like this. He's held hands before, obviously – from his parents through his best girls, but it's never felt quite like this, like his hand is an object to be cherished. He can feel it, though, in the way that Blaine is touching him so gently. He wants to know everything about Blaine's hands, wants to read his palms and place soft, wet kisses there, and when Blaine's fingers circle the bones of his wrist, when Blaine squeezes at the pad of his palm just beneath his thumb, when he drags his fingers all the way down Kurt's hand until their fingertips are sliding together, his breath speeds up. Here in the darkness of his closed eyes, with that strange instrumental music holding him aloft, he feels stripped bare, vulnerable. And it's just his hands, but still. It's the most intimate he's ever been with somebody else, and it’s Blaine.
The music fades, and Blaine's hand closes over his, lacing their fingers together and squeezing tight, and then it sounds like electronic crickets are filling his ears, backed by a sweeping orchestra. He can feel Blaine leaning up on his elbow and he opens his eyes, scared for just a moment of breaking whatever is happening but dying to see.
Blaine is leaning over him, his eyes soft, and then he raises one hand to Kurt's hair, slipping his fingertips around the edge of the headphones where they rest against the bones high on his jaw. He meets Kurt's eyes, and Kurt gives him a small smile and then Blaine leans down to kiss him, soft and sweet, just as he hears, "where you'll be I'll go, where you'll be I'll find you."
The kiss is tentative, just a brush of lips, and when Blaine breaks it to breathe against his mouth Kurt raises his other hand from where it's wedged against the wall and curves it around Blaine's shoulder. He can feel the beginning of Blaine's smile against his mouth, and then they're kissing again, deeper and more insistent, and Kurt tilts his head and lets his tongue slide against Blaine's lips because oh, god, he wants to taste his mouth.
It's wet, warm, and toothpaste lingers there. He smiles into it, because he's seen Blaine's cinnamon toothpaste in his tiny ensuite for weeks, and now that taste is in his own mouth, and the warm feel and smell of Blaine surrounds him. Blaine's tongue is gentle, sliding against his own, and Kurt feels the tension from his body pooling in his stomach, leaving the rest of him loose and his arms heavy, and he squeezes Blaine's hand where he's still holding it, there trapped under the weight of Blaine's body.
Blaine moves closer then, and the music picks up, a steady driving beat that Blaine's mouth picks up as his hand comes to rest on Kurt's chest, holding himself steady while he tastes deep into Kurt's mouth. The kisses are getting wetter, hotter, and even while he's aware that he's getting hard it doesn't matter, because then he can feel a groan rumble through Blaine's mouth pressed over his own and his hand tightens against Blaine's t-shirt and runs down to squeeze his bicep.
The music is running directly into his brain and Blaine's tongue is sliding smooth and wet against his own, and Blaine's arm is strong under his clinging fingers and oh, god, this is why people want sex, this is why, this feeling he has right now. He lets himself ride that rhythm until his hand is sliding down Blaine's side to rest on his back, to pull him closer, and Blaine moves until one leg is laced between Kurt's and oh god he can feel Blaine hard against him, against his hip. The music never stops pushing him forward, and then Blaine's mouth is sliding wet and sloppy down his jaw to suck at his throat, to nuzzle and kiss and leave Kurt moaning into it and letting his hips slide forward, just a fraction, just because that's what his body wants to do, it feels so good to feel Blaine’s breath and mouth against his skin.
Blaine pushes the headphones back and away from Kurt's ear, and they pop off the top of his head and Kurt startles; he's been so deep into it that he had lost himself for a moment, and he panics as he emerges. But then Blaine's mouth is there, whispering hot, "oh my god, Kurt, you have no idea how much I –" and then his mouth is there, sucking on Kurt's earlobe, and all he can hear is tinny thumping from the headphones somewhere over his head and the harshness of Blaine's breath over the racing pound of his blood in his ears.
And then he hears his own voice, breathy and thready and so wanton, moaning high and whiny, and even though Blaine hums back at him it's gone – the moment is shattered, and suddenly Blaine's body doesn't feel welcome and warm and perfect – he feels like a threat, just for a moment.
"Wait, just… hold on," he stammers out, and Blaine pulls back and looks at him.
His eyes are dark in the dim light, and he whispers out, "No?"
Kurt squeezes at his side and then brings his hand forward to rest against the front of Blaine's shoulder. "I think… yes. But not too much. Not right now."
Blaine looks at him for a minute longer, and then rests his head on Kurt's shoulder, pulling his hips a little bit away and letting his hand settle on Kurt's chest. Kurt brings his hand to cover Blaine's again, and somehow the last few minutes have made it natural and easy for him to glide his fingertips across the back of Blaine's hand.
He lets his eyes fall closed and feels Blaine warm against him, the gust of his breath tickling his throat, his palm warm and firm against his chest. His heart rate slows, and he times his breath against Blaine's and against the music he can still hear, faint and thumpy with bass and the shrill occasional whine of a washed out midtone.
"I've wanted to do that for a while," Blaine whispers, and Kurt smiles and squeezes his fingers.
“Since when?”
Kurt looks down and sees the hint of a bashful smile when Blaine says, “I'm not completely sure when it started, but that night at the Feve, I was definitely all in. We were talking about that guy, and you were so shy. And then you were leaning your cheek against your fist, and looking down at your plate so that your hair was falling forward, and then you glanced up at me and... your eyes were so damn blue, and your face was soft and you had this little smile at the corner of your mouth and I just... god I wanted to kiss you so badly. And every day since then, I've wanted to.”
“Why didn't you?”
Blaine props his chin against Kurt's chest and watches him for long moments, lifting his hand from under Kurt's to trace his thumb across Kurt's bottom lip. “It's the first time since Sebastian. And... I don't know.”
Kurt watches him and waits, and eventually Blaine's eyes wander up from his mouth. His lashes are so long, and Kurt remembers the first time he noticed them, just across the room. It was just weeks ago, but it feels like longer.
“I wanted to be sure.”
“And are you?”
“Kiss me again,” Blaine whispers.
Kurt raises his hand to cup Blaine's cheek and cranes his neck to kiss him, but then Blaine is pushing himself up from the elbow to get closer. Their lips meet softly, and Kurt pours everything he has into it – Blaine has just confessed so much, so much that he never could, and he gives it right back to him with every soft swipe of his tongue, every whimper that he lets steal from the back of his throat. The kiss that begins tender and slow changes course when Blaine sucks at his bottom lip and Kurt's breath hitches. He has wanted him for what feels like forever now, and Blaine’s mouth is warm and wet and he can’t help letting his hand slide into Blaine’s hair to pull him closer, so that he can suck at Blaine’s top lip and let his tongue slide against Blaine’s a little dirty.
Blaine breaks the kiss to breathe against his mouth, hot and quick, and he mumbles, “Really sure,” and Kurt keeps his eyes closed and huffs out a whisper of a laugh.
"Me too. I had no idea you felt the same way," he says, and Blaine goes up on his elbow again.
"That's because you weren't supposed to," and when he opens his eyes Blaine's smile is awestruck, brilliant, happy, and Kurt's heart squeezes in his chest.
"I'm sorry that…. Well. It's just… this is all new."
"You've really never…?" and Kurt can't quite meet his eyes so he stares over his shoulder when he shakes his head.
"Of course not. I told you – only gay kid in school. You got lucky."
Blaine snorts against his shoulder and says, "I really prefer your version of events." He settles back down and lets his fingers pet at Kurt's shirt, and then says, "And DC? And since you got here? I always wondered."
Kurt smiles at the ceiling and says, "In DC I was licking my wounds and living with my dad. And then there was this very cute boy in my cinema class. He's been a very effective distraction."
And just like that Blaine's back up again, kissing him soft and sweet, and it's perfect. "We'll go slow," he whispers against Kurt's mouth.
And that's a comfort, it really is, but Kurt is almost 20 years old and he's ready, he's sure he is, and he wants it to be Blaine, so he whispers, "Not too slow," and slides his hand down Blaine's back in one long stroke.
Blaine raises his hand from Kurt's chest to slide into his hair and he pulls Kurt's head a little closer to him, sliding his tongue lush and wet into Kurt's mouth. The kiss is deliberate, intent, and when Blaine pulls away he says, "No. Just slow enough to make it last."
He tugs at Blaine, pulling him back up against him and rolling toward him and wrapping an arm fully around his waist, holding him like this for the very first time, and then he kisses him again. Now that he’s started, he can’t seem to stop. He wants to hold him close, to learn everything about him that he still doesn’t know, and he wants to start right now.
Blaine mumbles, “Skip the party tonight?”
Kurt sighs against his mouth. “If it’s okay with you. I don’t want to go anywhere else.”
“You know they’ll call.” His mouth is trailing soft, gentle, down Kurt’s jaw, tiny kisses in a curved line.
“I’ll text Andrew in a second.” His hand slides up and down Blaine’s back, feeling the way the muscle shifts as Blaine moves so that he can kiss soft and sweet along Kurt’s throat. He is solid, warm, so very wanted, and he wants to feel Blaine’s ass under his hand, the strength coiled in his thighs, but not yet. Maybe later.
Breath wafts warm against the skin just beneath his ear. “I think you’re right. We should stay here. But I have to admit – I kind of want to get you on a dance floor.”
“Later,” Kurt whispers. “Can you unplug the headphones and turn up the music? I want to hear the rest of this record.”