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Fall always used to be Finn’s favorite season. Colorful, crisp leaves turning soggy under your shoes after a long, sticky summer. Playing football and having less bugs surround your face. Apples. His mom’s apple pie, and his mom’s apple butter, and this weird apple pie Kurt makes with a name he can’t pronounce.
This year, though? It can fall right off the calendar.
Finn’s tired of apples, now. He’s tired of the November nights that are as dark as the thick crap Rachel’s painted around her beautiful eyes since she’s moved to New York City, and as cold as her admittance that she doesn’t even want him on her Facebook anymore. He hates the ‘new’ Rachel; it’s like she’s not Rachel at all. Brody seems to like it, though. Brody, the obnoxious beefcake who makes her cry, and Finn knows Brody’s just an excuse. He’s not the real reason Rachel’s tossed him aside like an old newspaper a dog peed on.
“Spiced cider?” Kurt offers, his voice breezy as his head pokes itself around Finn’s door. It doesn’t seem fair that Kurt’s flying out before six the following morning, because Finn was sort of hoping to spend some time with his busy brother. They’ve always seemed to know when the other needs them; Kurt puts this down to luck, but Finn’s convinced there’s some psychic brotherly bond at play.
Finn sets his phone face-down on the bed and away from temptation. “Sure,” he says, patting the bed beside him. “Thanks for letting me have your old mattress topper, by the way.”
“Don’t mention it,” Kurt says, handing him a mug. It’s been, what, two months since his brother left for New York? He already looks different. Wiser. He’s slotted himself into a fashionable, big city like he was born to be there while Finn’s excited about a mattress topper and the upcoming Lima Christmas Tree Festival.
“This smells so good,” Finn says, the mug warm and welcome in his grip. “New recipe?”
“I added a little something extra.”
“Like, maple syrup, or...?” Finn takes a sip, the back of his tongue tingling. “Oh. Like rum."
Kurt nods, his cheeks a little pinker than they usually are this time of year. “I liberated some from the pantry. Carole only uses it to make her rum chocolate balls, and speaking of? I hope she branches out into some new Christmas candy this year. The peppermint bark oeuvre, perhaps. Maybe I could hook her up with a Pinterest?”
Having no idea what Kurt’s talking about (and not for the first time) Finn sips the delicious, amber liquid; it’s not like Kurt to drink alcohol. He might have a half glass of wine with dinner, sometimes, but even that makes him into a giggly, blotchy-faced mess. Now, he’s coolly sipping on his own drink which is actually pretty strong, and Finn’s taken aback by the image that pops in his head. Kurt and Rachel are clinking glasses of wine, dressed like they’re guest stars in ‘How I Met Your Mother’ or something. The image morphs into Rachel and Brody, who’s holding her tiny hand. She’s wearing a little black dress, and has blacker eyes as she tiptoes up to kiss him, and Finn feels his eyebrows scrunch when he scowls.
“I didn’t realize you felt that way about Pinterest,” Kurt says. “Not a fan?”
“Look,” Finn sighs. “You know exactly what I’m thinking about.”
“I do. I’m thinking about it, too.”
“What, about how you’re this Lima Loser who’s hanging around High School like he never left it, and has less luck with girls than his gay brother?”
“Oh, please. Stop being so dramatic. Brody’s just a rebound; you know Rachel needs to find herself before she finds you. And look at you! I knew you were good at leading people, but you put together ‘Grease’ with nothing other than sheer enthusiasm and a talent for scoping out the boys’ locker room.”
“Great. I’m turning into Blaine.”
Flashing Finn a scowl, Kurt sits down on the bed. His cheeks are pink, and look all soft and silky and nice; Kurt’s pretty, and that’s not the first time that word’s popped into Finn's head when he looks at his brother. As he bites down on his lip, Finn hopes he can quash that thought. While Kurt’s pretty, he looks older all of a sudden. He’s wearing black, too. It must be a New York thing.
New York never has, and never will be, Finn’s thing. He fidgets a little until Kurt’s hand curls around his back, pulling them a little closer. Looking down, Finn sees the tips of his toes. His socks are threadbare, but they’re his favorite pair; he’d better hide them in his closet before his mom throws them out. And that, in a nutshell, is why Rachel doesn’t want him; how could he even think they could get married to each other when his mom still buys his clothes and his underwear has freaking cartoon characters on while Brody swaggers around in his Calvins.
The sound he makes is somewhere between a sob and a sigh; it makes Kurt cluck his tongue against the roof of his mouth and soon, he’s gently thumbing the fabric of Finn’s shirt. That feels really nice, and before Finn know it, his eyes are closed and he’s relaxed against Kurt’s shoulder, just listening to the plink of the rain outside.
“Don’t blame yourself, Finn,” Kurt says. “You always have the right intentions, even if they don’t have the right outcomes.”
“I don’t just blame myself,” Finn mutters. “I hate myself. But then, I think about her in that city, shining like the star this place wouldn’t give her the chance to be, and I know I did the right thing. Her happiness -- her future -- is everything to me. Even if I know I’m not a part of it,” he says, hoping that if he says it enough times, he might actually believe himself.
“You’re only nineteen,” Kurt points out. “Your future’s just beginning.”
“Blaine’s not even started applying for colleges. He might apply to NY--”
“We could be living in the same prison cell and he’d find a way to complain about the distance,” Kurt says. He removes his arm, and stands up, collecting both their mugs. When he waves them around a little, Finn nods; he wants another drink, mainly for the need to do something with his hands rather than the alcohol which doesn't even make a dent on a guy his size.
Kurt’s not gone for too long; he’s gone for just enough time for Finn to think about how due to his mom and Burt’s marriage, him and Kurt would be forced to be in each other's lives even if they hated each other. Finn couldn't even imagine feeling anything but gratitude towards Kurt, though; getting to know him beyond the exterior of snooty kid whose shoes cost more than my truck really didn't take much time. If only girls were as simple, he thinks, and suddenly he hears this loud clear voice.
Girls. They're your problem.
It sounds like Kurt did, back when he was sixteen and spoke in a high, lilting voice. He’s wearing a McKinley shirt that hangs from his narrow shoulders, and looking so earnest about it all. Thinking about the problems he’s had, Finn thinks that Kurt’s motives might not have been pure, but he wasn’t half wrong. He imagines Quinn telling some rich guy called Hampton or Elton or something about him and the hot tub or the Paul Anka, pretending she enjoys tiny portions of rich people food instead of a burrito from Taco Bell, and when Kurt re-enters the room, he finds Finn clutching his stomach, cheeks hurting because it’s been so long since he’s laughed like that he kind of can’t stop.
“It’s so good to hear you laughing again, Finn,” Kurt says. “Even if I do have no idea what you’re laughing about.”
“Girls. You were --” Finn tries to regain his composure, and just about manages. “You were right. Girls are my problem.”
“The girls you like certainly are.”
“Yeah, yeah. I just -- I wish I could have a relationship that’s like what I have with you. I mean we’re so different. We fight over the remote, and over who rides in the front seat even though I’m way taller, and the --”
“Great thermostat war of 2011,” Kurt finishes, sagely. “And I still maintain you’re part polar bear.”
“And you’re part lizard. But sometimes, I just wonder if we...”
“Oh, please. You’re straighter than an uncooked spaghetti noodle. Girls are only a problem because you like them too much. Seriously, you and Rachel had so much PDA in senior year I should have followed you around with a garden hose.”
“Yeah, but...” Finn takes a large sip of his spiced cider. “Maybe I shouldn’t, you know, knock it until I try it?” he says, voice wobbling a little. “I mean, how did you know you were gay when you never made out with a girl?”
“I did. Brittany wanted a perfect record, and I thought it would get my dad off my back. It wasn’t awful, but all it did was confirm the fact I was a very good friend of Dorothy.”
“Who’s Dorothy? Does she work at Vogue dot com?”
“Oh, Finn,” Kurt says, with the affection that’s only come from knowing his stupidity too well. “It means I’m gayer than a unicorn painted in rainbows. Why are you asking me all this? Did you want to,” Kurt stops to make air quotes, and looks like he’s trying not to laugh, “make out?”
Kurt’s joking, but hearing him say ‘make out’ in a voice a little deeper than his normal breezy, light tone makes Finn’s stomach flip a little. It’s probably because it’s been far too long since he made out with anyone; he turned down a bunch of girls when he was working in South Georgia the previous summer, because they didn’t help him figure out his future. (Neither did the poultry processing plant; the smell was so bad he can't even eat his mom’s pot pie anymore.)
“Actually, Kurt, I kinda do,” Finn says. His voice is as clumsy as the rest of him.
“Well then, big brother. Dim the lights, and put on the Al Green. I think Carole has a wine cube we could --”
“Shut up. It’s not that funny.”
“Fine. C’mere, you lug,” Kurt says, and without pause, his hands cradle the back of Finn’s head and turn their faces towards each other. Neither of them close their eyes, and Kurt just gives Finn a quick peck on the corner of his lips. “There. Can we watch a movie, now? You’re starting to scare me a little.”
“I’ve seen you kiss your aunt with more passion than that.”
Kurt actually rolls his eyes, and mutters something Finn doesn’t quite catch. He’s fluid as he drags Finn back in, one hand rubbing gently at Finn’s back. Kurt’s mouth is closed and a little unyielding at first, but it soon opens up against Finn’s lips. Kurt tastes like the spiced cider they’ve both been drinking, and Finn’s pretty lost in the sensation. So much so that it only registers he’s making out with a guy when he places a hand lightly on the body next to his to find there’s a flat, hard chest wearing a button-down.
Finn sort of wants Kurt to defend him if Rachel ever tries to claim he’s a crappy kisser, so he gives it everything he’s got, thumbing the buttons a little and sliding his fingers between the gap in the fabric to stroke at soft, smooth skin. When he does, Kurt moans into his mouth, clutching at him a little harder until Finn can feel the vibrations in his throat.
“Mm, you got yourself some skills, mister,” Kurt says as he pulls away, not seeming affected in any way. “Shame they gave half of McKinley mono.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Finn mutters, and he is affected. “You wanna, uh, watch a movie?”
“Bridesmaids?” Kurt offers, then laughs out the next suggestion. “Magic Mike?”
Finn knows that movie, because he remembers Blaine talking about it on Facebook like it was the gay Godfather. It’s nothing but man strippers, and Finn would really hate Kurt if he didn’t like his sense of humour so much. He’s snarky, but never cruel like Santana or Quinn. In fact, Kurt has a well of empathy Finn wishes that he did. Finn’s lips still sort of tingle, and okay, he sort of wants to kiss Kurt some more. It’s ironic, because when he was sixteen he thought it would gross him out, but now he realises he could really have used a friend with make-out benefits.
(All those dates with Rachel and Quinn, coming home to a cold room and an even colder shower, and the answer could have been at the other end of the hallway. Damnit.)
He pulls Kurt in for another kiss, and it’s maybe even more awesome than the first. Kurt’s tongue sweeps out this time, and Finn hears himself make this needy little groan when Kurt’s teeth tug oh-so-lightly on his lower lip. Out of needing something to do with his hands, Finn raises them to Kurt’s cheeks. It’s different, the slight scratch of stubble against his palms, but it’s not bad. Kurt’s cologne smells a little like the rain. Not the heavy sort when you’d need an umbrella, but like drizzle.
Drizzle.
Shit. Finn’s eyes fly open. No. He’s not into Kurt. He likes girls: Rachel, Quinn, Santana, and -- hell -- even Ms. Pillsbury. Hair long enough for him to feel silky strands through his fingers, and boobs pressing lightly against his chest through the gauzy fabric of a blouse or a sundress. The way they smell, and feel, and taste, which is nothing at all like the -- oh god -- the way Kurt’s almost aggressively clutching at his shirt and taking the lead, fingers dancing along the waistband of his jeans. Kurt’s so much surer than Finn would have expected, lightly teasing the skin just above the top of his boxer shorts, and he’s so hard he's --
Crap. It’s happened in a hot tub, and a theater, and even at the drive-in, but he’s not going to come in his pants on his bed with his gay brother.
Cheeks burning up, Finn pushes Kurt away. He’s not had that issue since Rachel was strangely patient about working through his problem, but his chest is heaving so heavily he’s sure Kurt can tell he’s turned on. The heat’s spread all the way from the small of his back down to his toes, and really, he wants to push Kurt Hummel down on the bed and find out if his butt looks as firm when he’s not wearing his ridiculously tight jeans.
“So, uh...” Finn looks down into his lap. “You wanna watch something, then?”
“Maybe I should go call Rachel and find out what she's watching."
“And you’re sure you two never made out?”
“Girls?” Kurt wrinkles his nose. “Ew. Look, Finn. That was an... interesting experience, but it has to be one we are never, ever telling anyone about. Okay?”
“Sure, fine. It wasn’t like it was bad, though,” Finn mumbles.
Kurt adjusts his bangs. “It?” he says, haughtily.
“You.” Finn sighs, wondering if he should just go downstairs and drink Carole’s cooking rum to drown his sorrows and confusion in, lest he say anything else stupid. “Don’t you ever feel like you weren’t good enough for him.”
“Hm. I feel good enough right now,” Kurt says. “But this was definitely a one-time only offer.” Kurt extends his little finger. “Pinkie promise?”
Finn extends his finger in turn. “Pinkie promise.”
“Okay then,” Kurt says, reaching across for the remote and turning on the TV like he hasn’t just kissed Finn so expertly his jeans are pinching against him uncomfortably. “Kitchen Nightmares time. Gordon’s gone to Brooklyn this week and -- get this -- the preview says a vegetarian guest found a bone in her pasta.”
“So tell Brody to take Rachel there. He can choke one for the team.”
“Believe me,” Kurt mutters. “I’m on it.”
They watch the show for a while, the opening scene showing a pot plant dribbling moldy water over the floor. A waitress wearing a tiny skirt nearly falls on her butt, and Finn feels vindicated for finding her hot, somehow. He wonders if that place is still open; really, though, the only place he thinks Brody should go is Russia, or Alaska, or swimming in shark infested waters full of blood.
“So,” Finn says through a yawn. “You home for Thanksgiving this year?”
“New York is home now, Finn,” Kurt points out. “And Rachel is my best friend. I don’t want her to spend the holidays alone.”
“Yeah,” Finn says. He tells himself it’s Kurt’s empathy, but it feels like betrayal, especially given his lips still tingle. “Uh, Kurt? Do you wear that venom stuff on your lips like Santana does?”
“No, why?”
“No reason. Must be the spices you put in the cider,” Finn says, because after all, kissing is just lips on lips. As the article in a copy of Cosmo he read at Quinn’s once told him, kissing feels good because of all the nerve endings. But then, the article also said a lot of kissing is about what goes on in your head, and Finn’s head’s definitely got a lot of stuff going on in it right now.
He really wants to ask Cosmo if it’s normal to lose your shit over kissing someone you didn't think you'd be into, because who else would he ask? His friends have such loose lips they might as well be made from Vaseline and there's no chance in hell he's asking Kurt, who's unaffected and watching the TV with rapt attention.
“Uh oh,” Kurt says. “Out comes the microwaved food, and -- wait, he stinks of plant juice? I take it back. Rachel would enjoy this sham of a restaurant. Let’s get Brody the Body to take her to the steak and soccer place near my office building instead.”
“You have an office building?” Finn grins, because he assumed his brother would mostly be doing things like carrying garment bags and memorizing coffee orders like they did in that ‘Devil Wears Prada’ movie Kurt made him watch once. “That is so cool.”
“I know, can you even believe it?” Kurt says, proudly. “Isabelle even gave me a desk.”
“There’s a photo of me there, right?”
“Of course,” Kurt says, and it’s oddly touching. “I wish I could come back for Thanksgiving. I do, but if he’s not there, I can...”
“Make new memories. I get it,” Finn says, but the cover versions never are as good as the originals. “Maybe you could set me up with a hot model or something?”
“Maybe,” Kurt says. “Or maybe love will surprise you when you least expect it.”
"I doubt it," Finn says, thinking that maybe it has. "Good job I got Glee to keep me busy."
"Indeed," Kurt echoes. "Good job."
Soon, the TV fades into the background and they talk, conversation flowing easily again. Really, Kurt and Blaine are endgame, and Finn and Rachel are endgame, and if kissing Kurt is nice? So is that giant jar of Nutella Finn's been eating his way through since he came home after washing out of the Army. Nice isn’t the same as wanting to fall into bed with someone; it’s not the sort of thing you write songs about, or take a bullet for.
Satisfied that at least Kurt's not feeling awkward, Finn makes light conversation about his brother's fancy new job.
Kurt tells Finn about this model he knows who'll only eat purple foods, and this restaurant that serves nothing but grilled cheese, and about the day he was convinced he was being photographed for ‘Humans of New York’ but it turned out his fly was open instead. He’s mocking himself, and then he’s mocking the show, laughing brightly and talking in this awful but sort of adorable British accent he does, his lips all pink and pretty, and so kissable and he just wants to --
Hide away until December, maybe, because Finn's pretty sure he wants Kurt even more badly than he wants this season to hurry up and end.