Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/655458.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Glee
  Relationship:
      Sam_Evans/Kurt_Hummel
  Character:
      Kurt_Hummel, Sam_Evans, Blaine_Anderson
  Additional Tags:
      Angst, Coda, Infidelity
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-04-15 Words: 11121
****** No Earthly Way Of Knowing ******
by Edwardina
Summary
     314 coda. Nothing ever goes the way Kurt imagines.
Notes
     This takes place during 314 but pre-Regionals, so it deals with some
     things in that episode. I expand on tension between Blaine and Kurt,
     so if you consider that Blaine-bashing and are uncomfortable with
     that, please take caution. (Also, this was written way before Dance
     With Somebody, so it's long been jossed.)
In Kurt's imagination, which may or may not have been heavily influenced by
taking in large doses of Grease as an impressionable child, senior year was a
magical time. It was his impression that this last year was the glory year,
where seniors who had been through it all and survived could just rest on their
laurels, waiting for college. They were practically already gone, after all.
They were ready to ditch the kiddie stuff and begin their lives, their real
actual lives, and they could cast off the shackles of being obsessed with
popularity and the regimented high school caste system and start over fresh
somewhere else.
But the reality, as always, was dim in comparison to Kurt's heavily embroidered
and bedazzled ideal.
So far, Kurt's senior year was kind of like one long panic attack, punctuated
with the shattering of various dreams and failed attempts to do something,
anything, to further his chances of getting out of Lima. February had proved to
be the worst month yet.
The spike of hope and adrenaline he got in becoming a NYADA finalist was the
silver lining to a pretty bleak 2012. Blaine's eye injury had taken up precious
weeks, even sopping up Valentine's Day until the eleventh hour. Valentine's Day
was kind of a big deal; it marked a year since Kurt had up and expressed his
feelings to Blaine. They might not have been actually together, but didn't
laying it all out on the line count for something? The anniversary was only in
his own head, he supposed. Either way, though, Kurt had spent that whole week
getting more attention from a guy in a gorilla suit than Blaine, swooning like
an idiot thinking the sweet and thoughtful declarations of affection were from
his boyfriend, when none of it had been. None of it. That kind of hurt.
And then... everything that had happened with Dave Karofsky... God, he didn't
want to think about it, but he couldn't will it or wish it away. It was just
this grim shadow cast over everything, all the time, darkening every corner. It
was so sobering, so scary that it had made the days that surrounded the news
feel unreal somehow, like the movie reel of life had broken at some point and
the soundtrack was off-time as the disjointed picture sped onwards without
Kurt's permission, leaving bits and pieces missing, the whole picture becoming
incomprehensible.
Throughout it all, throughout the entire school year, there was a sore spot
that just kept festering and getting worse and worse – Sebastian – and now Finn
and Rachel were alienating everyone with their insane teen wedding.
Meanwhile, the clock was ticking on Kurt's senior year.
He just wanted to do something. He wanted to put a stop to the wedding, but
nothing he did or said seemed to penetrate Finn's thick skull, and there was
just no reasoning with Rachel once she got some big idea lodged in her crazy
brain. She'd send you to a crack house if she was trying to hurt you and almost
get you suspended if she was trying to help you.
He wanted to rip Sebastian a new one, tear him apart for everything he'd done,
hurt him somehow. But he didn't dare. It wasn't him. He'd read through
Karofsky's entire Facebook wall and knew each of those foul, shameful, hurtful
words typed at him were the things he had been so desperate to escape from
rather than endure. He wasn't about to be cruel to Sebastian, even if he was
the most loathsome person Kurt had ever met. But the anger was there
nevertheless.
There was nothing he could do about David, except find a way to let him know
that there was someone in this world who didn't want him to leave it, though he
hadn't figured out how to do it without possibly triggering a relapse in the
way he thought he felt about Kurt. There was nothing he could do about
Sebastian Smythe.
But, Blaine... there was something he could do there. There was a lot he could
do there to get things on track again.
For, yes, things had kind of derailed. It wasn't that he and Blaine had gone
back to doing nothing, and it wasn't that Kurt didn't love the experiences they
did share, the touching they did do, the times when the stars aligned and
nothing got in the way of the two of them getting in a good grope-session.
There was nothing wrong with being a little PG/PG-13. Au contraire. But right
then things with Blaine somehow felt strange and tangled, just a big knot of
tension Kurt didn't quite understand how to unravel. He didn't blame Blaine for
feeling weird these days. Kurt felt weird, too.
But with his dad and Carole away on one of their many weekend trips in support
of his dad's newfound political career and Finn off with Rachel pretending to
be excited about not living up to his full potential, Saturday was obviously
the perfect time to lie around in his bed with Blaine, making out and getting
their pants down.
And they'd been well on their way. The lights were low, a tasteful playlist
(with just enough glam rock to appease Blaine, just enough romantic ballads to
keep it meaningful, and just enough slow R&B sex-jams to get the mood across)
was on Kurt's iPod, and he'd made sure to tell Finn to text when he was on his
way home so there wouldn't be any surprises.
Kurt was ready. He knew what he wanted.
He'd taken Blaine by the hand and led him directly upstairs to his room, where
the party had already conveniently started and was just waiting for them to
join. Blaine had smiled at the set-up, danced with him through a Bowie song
saucily enough, laughed and let Kurt get him out of his adorably stuffy little
prepster bow tie. Kurt was halfway through unbuttoning his checkered Brooks
Brothers shirt, revealing a dip of snowy-white undershirt that was Kurt's next
target, when Blaine said, "Wow. Kurt, what's gotten into you tonight? We
haven't even talked, and you're..."
"I'm not in the mood to talk," Kurt had returned flirtatiously.
"As much as I love the, uh... initiative, and the Keith Sweat – really, I
haven't heard this song in years – I kind of think we should, don't you? I
mean, it's been a rough few weeks. I know I could stand to talk."
Kurt had paused heavily, flashing back to how he'd tried to ask Blaine if he
had been upset by Sebastian repeatedly proving himself not to be the all right
kid Blaine had always insisted he was and getting snapped at about how he
didn't want to talk, then smiled and said, "Okay. Let's talk."
Talking, talking. Right. He could talk. He could talk with the best of 'em. A
little bit of back-and-forth wasn't going to distract him. It wasn't the
passionate fall-into-bed-and-rediscover-each-other scenario he'd been
envisioning, but if he could just move the discussion towards the bed, there
could still be some cuddling and flirting and maybe follow-up fireworks.
In the end, as offensive as Mr. Schuester's doomed rendition of "A Little Less
Conversation" had been, Kurt found that it did have a good point. All they did
was get in an argument over everything that came up.
Kurt didn't want to talk about Sebastian, who had been nothing but conniving
and cruel since the first second Kurt had laid eyes on him and whose penitence
Kurt doubted was anything but calculated. He didn't want to talk about Karofsky
– not with Blaine. It had been hard enough to spill his guts to the God Squad,
the confession literally painful in his chest and throat when he'd had to put
it into real words for them to hear and judge. Blaine didn't need to know about
Karofsky's many overtures towards Kurt before his attempt on his own life. Not
right now. Everything was just too weird and sensitive and he knew Blaine would
tell him it wasn't his fault and put the blame on David like Quinn had, and
Kurt just couldn't let it even go there. He felt so much horrified pity and
responsibility for Karofsky that it hurt in ways he couldn't even dissect.
He also didn't have it in him to say, Yes, Blaine, of course I agree we could
all benefit from letting you sing all the songs and come up with all the
choreography. You know how New Directions works so much better than my step-
brother, who was elected co-captain of the club two entire years ago and got us
through Sectionals completely unprepared, and the teacher who got us to
Nationals last year. And he wasn't in the mood to hear Blaine practice his rap
for Regionals. He was drained of all diplomacy, and sick of trying to support
both Blaine and Finn and ignore all the power struggles Blaine wound up in with
everyone.
He wanted to say, Blaine, I want to try it. I want to do it with my mouth, get
you off that way... Kind of coy, you know. But right then it was starting to
feel more like, Look, do you want a blow job or not? Because I've been
obsessing over it and tonight's the night, and I bet if Sebastian was doing
this he'd be on his knees in front of you by now, just going to town, and you'd
just love that, wouldn't you!
But he didn't. It didn't feel safe to have dreams or desires anymore.
It had been a bad month.
They agreed to call it a night; Blaine hadn't said good night angry. Kurt had
seen him to the door with a smile and a perfunctory good night smooch. He was a
bit angry. Not with Blaine – more just angry at life in general, and
disappointed.
He'd shut off the music, doused the tea lights on his vanity, despaired of the
thoughtful Kleenex close at hand. It seemed so dumb in retrospect, naïve. He'd
never been able to get any guy to succumb to his charms on purpose. What had he
been thinking? That kind of manipulation had only ever truly worked on Carole,
whose acid-wash jeans were long gone. And it really wasn't a lot better than
Blaine dragging him into the backseat, was it.
Kurt thumped sullenly down the stairs to go nick a piece of his stepmother's
stashed away Valentine chocolate, passing by Sam's door. It been left open just
enough that his light illuminated a stripe across the hallway floor and down
the stairs; Kurt could see him sitting on his bed with his legs crossed, a
schoolbook cracked open in front of him. He was reading, or maybe studying,
chin in one hand.
The dim realization that Kurt had forgotten to even inform Sam that Blaine was
coming over dawned, making Kurt stop abruptly on the landing and stare up at
the light of Sam's room. Jeez, he and Blaine could've been getting real and Sam
could've walked in on it at any time.
What would he have walked in on, though? Absolutely nothing but Boyz II Men
further ruining the mood by being all sexed up when he and Blaine were anything
but.
Kurt wasn't really used to Sam being in their house yet – he was still getting
used to running into Carole in the kitchen and sharing a bathroom with Finn,
and besides the disastrous splitting of a single bedroom with Finn sophomore
year (another dream gone awry in the cold light of reality), Kurt had pretty
much never had a male friend stay over for an extended period of time. And
also, he was seriously distracted lately. And also, Sam was really quiet.
Living with him was closer to what Kurt had stupidly thought living with Finn
might be like before they'd actually shared the same roof and Kurt had
discovered Finn's weird latchkey kid/gross guy habits – like taking off his
shoes and socks and leaving them wherever, stinking up the place till Kurt had
to go and get the Febreze and spritz the sweaty pile – and run face-first into
homophobia that had gone undetected till then.
But Sam was extremely polite. Sam never reached at the dinner table. Sometimes
he prayed, sitting there silently for an extra few moments before digging in,
but he never did that let's-all-pray thing some people did. And he said stuff
like, "Thanks for dinner, Mrs. Hummel." Or even, "You made this, Kurt? It's
really good." Always with a smile.
Never did Kurt hear the distracting banging of drums and wind up with a
headache while he was trying to mend a tiny rip on an otherwise pristine
sweater he'd bought for an insanely discounted price. Never did Kurt stumble
over gigantic Nikes left right in front of the door. Never did Kurt find
himself doing Sam's laundry or hanging up Sam's jacket so it wouldn't be
wrinkled the next day or ironing Sam's shirts for him. Sam never added fat-
laden things that might accidentally kill Kurt's dad to the grocery list – in
fact, he seemed to do his own shopping for nights when there were no dinner
plans, like he thought he was living on his own, and once, Kurt had caught him
coming back from the laundromat, carrying an armful of clean clothes into the
house without even the aid of a laundry basket or something.
"Whaaat are you doing?" Kurt had asked him. "We have a washer and dryer."
"I didn't know if I should use them," Sam had said blankly.
"Don't be silly. That's what we have a washer and dryer for. For laundry. You
can use whatever you want, Sam. Do you need me to show you how to work them?"
"No," Sam had huffed. "I'm actually really good at doing laundry."
"Well, do you need a hamper?"
"I'm good, I can carry everything I've got."
The only actual interruption Kurt had endured so far was when Sam had spent an
entire afternoon and evening trying to come up with choreography for their
Spanish assignment in glee and spent hours flailing around in the living room.
It was more of a hilarious distraction than an actual interruption, really.
Eventually Kurt had just barged in to take charge of the routine, which
desperately needed refining and that extra little bit of duende in the form of
appropriate costuming. Between them, Google, YouTube, Mike Chang on speed-dial,
and a fruitful trip to Lima Heights, boots and bolo ties and their own
miniature booty camp happened, and the grin and profuse thanks Kurt had gotten
was plenty reward enough for the evening lost. Not to mention the boots.
As far as living with high school boys went, Sam was pretty much painless. His
one fault seemed to be leaving doors open a crack, which wasn't even a bad
thing, really...
One Saturday morning, Sam had left the bathroom door open a good eight inches
while he was shaving. Kurt had walked by, distracted by a text from Rachel,
glancing in without thinking about what he'd see, and gotten a panoramic mental
snapshot of him shirtless, towel around his waist, damp hair not even combed
yet, a halo of steam surrounding his reflection in the mirror. Kurt had scooted
right on by, all hustle and bustle, but the glimpse of Sam peering at himself
and slowly, carefully drawing a razor across his jaw set up Kurt with nosy,
futile wonderings about what kind of shaving cream he used, what kind of
aftershave, if he moisturized or not, if he used sunblock or not, if he had to
manscape any since he was on the synchronized swimming team... things he'd
never really thought about before right then. He didn't want to actually ask
about Sam's personal grooming habits, of course, but it made him realize that
Sam never left his shaving cream and razor in the sink or his toothbrush in the
sleek toothbrush holder Kurt had picked out himself from Sheets-N-Things. The
medicine cabinet held mostly Finn's junk. The drawers rolled with half-empty
tubes of toothpaste, hair gel, Old Spice deodorant sticks. All Finn's.
Sam...
Kurt's head tilted.
Sam was a guy. A guy neither related to him nor dating his best friend, yet who
had dated multiple girls who seemed to play fast and loose with the sanctity of
the Celibacy Club – and he was living with Kurt. Living in the room right next
to him, in fact. Right there.
Kurt was rounding and climbing the stairs again with his eye trained on the
open crack of Sam's door before he knew it, his brain racing without his
permission. He rapped the knuckles of his door frame, then poked his head into
what was currently Sam's abode.
"Sorry about the music," he chirped. "I didn't know you were trying to study."
"It's Saturday night and it's your house," Sam responded, turning a page in his
book, followed shortly by another.
"Still, I would've notified you that I had plans to... listen to music."
Sam just smiled at him politely, the flip of his blond hair to one side making
him look like an Archie comics character. "You didn't have it playing all that
long."
"Well, Blaine had to leave early," said Kurt lightly.
He watched as Sam's mouth quirked in an understanding tug and he turned another
restless page. Kurt wondered if he was even really reading the book.
"Do you have a minute?" he asked.
"Sure," said Sam, so Kurt pushed the door open and invited himself into the
guest room – Sam's room.
In the two months Sam had been living there in the room between his and Finn's,
it had taken on the feel of him, going from an empty room with spare furniture
and bare walls that were just crying out to be decorated as a fun summer
project to Sam's space. It was still a little empty compared to Finn's
cluttered, grubby room and Kurt's every-inch-accounted-for space, but Sam had
taped up a few things: the Guppies' training schedule, a Michael Jackson's This
Is It poster, a 2012 calendar featuring colorful galaxies right above the bed.
His parents had sent him back from Christmas in Kentucky with some college-
y stuff like a lap desk, which was leaning unused against one wall, and a
bright blue collapsible hamper that was mostly full in the corner.
"Hey, you got a hamper!"
"Oh... yeah."
Kurt glanced around casually, taking in Sam's guitar case leaning against the
wall, gaze finally landing on the cluster of stuff Sam had on the bedside
table: he could immediately see deodorant and some kind of cologne lit up by
the lamp they were under, but there was other stuff, too, bottles and his
shaving kit and a picture frame and his cell phone and keys and lots of scraps
that were probably receipts or notes. All his toiletries and clutter, Sam kept
close by, out of anyone else's way.
"Is something up?" Sam asked.
"Oh, no, nothing. I just saw your door open."
Kurt stopped, hanging there in the doorway with his hand on the knob, and a
brief silence ensued.
"If I can help, I will," said Sam.
His voice was friendly, resolute. Kurt bit the inside of his lip; Sam clearly
thought he needed to talk about all the stuff he'd talked to the God Squad
about already. That was the last thing Kurt wanted to talk about right then.
Sam clasped his hands together casually, the red-striped cuffs on the sleeves
of his powder blue hoodie riding different spots on either forearm, and looked
at him with attentive eyes.
Kurt hesitated.
It made total sense to take advantage of his presence and impartiality. Kurt
wouldn't have to even call him up or suggest they meet somewhere like the Lima
Bean just so he could ask Sam awkward questions and probably have Sebastian
Smythe slide by and make some kind of oily remark about Kurt's lack of sexual
prowess.
"Are we... friends? Actual friends?"
"'Course," Sam said, the exaggerated 'o' his mouth briefly formed making him
look like Kurt had asked a ridiculous question.
"Cool. I'm glad," Kurt said casually. To fill time, and to complicate his own
escape route, he pushed the door shut again behind him, leaving it open a small
crack.
"Is something up?" Sam asked. With his hands folded like that, he looked like
he should be behind a desk making a business deal.
"Can I ask you something? It's kind of personal."
"Well, I don't know what business of mine you don't actually already know..."
Sam tilted his head, and Kurt mirrored the movement in apologetic
acknowledgment. So totally a valid point. Since Sam had moved to Lima (and
away, and back again) Kurt had seen him pretty much naked in the locker room,
visited the motel where he was secretly living while he was homeless and given
him discarded clothing, and been regaled with tales of Stallionz by Finn before
Finn had realized Sam might not want everyone to know he'd been working as a
stripper and put a cork in it. He knew Sam's clothing sizes, what kind of
underwear was in that hamper, and all about his dangerous love/hate
relationship with potato chips.
"It's personal," Kurt repeated patiently.
Sam just cocked a brow. "Okay."
Kurt pushed his hands into the pockets of his slacks, wavering between further
delicacy and just outing with it.
"You've dated plenty of girls," he said. "You don't have to tell me specifics,
but... have you ever... gotten a blow job?"
The word both felt and sounded funny in Kurt's mouth. It wasn't like he'd ever
talked about the act itself so directly, although he'd declared on numerous
occasions that Apple Tech Support could blow him. Sam leaned back, eyes staring
wide at Kurt for a moment before he transferred the startled owl look down at
his book.
"I told you it was personal."
"Yeah, you did," said Sam. "For a second I thought you were going to ask if
I've had sex, and I was going to say, 'I don't know if you know this, but I
gave one of those girls a ring and promised never to pressure her, and remember
how another one of those girls turned out to actually be a lesbian?'"
"Well, I kind of am asking, technically. After all, before you came along,
Santana had a long and storied history with Puckerman and one fateful evening
with Finn – and also, oral counts. I wouldn't be surprised if you told me she'd
tooted your horn regularly after Celibacy Club."
"Nope," said Sam, with some strange cheer.
"I'm just asking if you've ever been to that particular base, with anyone. No
names. Please."
"Ah... no," Sam repeated, and chuckled. "It's not even really on my radar."
"No?"
"Uh, to get past first base, I kind of need a girl to want to date me," said
Sam.
Kurt felt himself sway a bit in his spot.
"Not necessarily," he said, though he was short of breath.
He looked at Sam, and Sam looked at him, brows knotting slowly.
"Well, you're hardly alone. I've never gotten one, either," Kurt said, with an
air of commiseration. "Or given one. But I want to. Give one, I mean."
He watched Sam's eyes widen and then go wandering again, watched his fingers
awkwardly slide apart so he could thumb at the pages stacked in his book.
"I was kind of chickening out about it," Kurt continued. "I don't know why. It
just seemed like a big deal, and Blaine and I have been taking it slow. Think
glacial."
Sam's mouth tucked crookedly, but he stayed silent, his forehead set with
seriousness. He probably had no clue what to say in a sudden, uninvited
conversation about Kurt's sex life; maybe he was just determined to be there
for Kurt, with his own offer of help hanging over him. Maybe after Kurt was
finished, Sam would break out his bible and point out a relevant passage about
patience or chastity or something and offer to pray with him about it. After
deciding sticking through a reading from the Book of Awkward was worth it, Kurt
pressed on.
"But, I don't know. This past week... when Mr. Schue asked us something we were
looking forward to, I couldn't help but think about it. I mean, I am really
looking forward to my dad taking congress by storm, but when I asked myself
what else I want – besides NYADA and Broadway and eventually winning a Tony,
obviously – it just came to mind, and I've been thinking about it every day
since then, actually. But I think it's just me. I think I'm the only one
thinking about it and focusing on it. Is there something wrong with me? Like, I
should be happy with what I have. I mean, I am. Now is, like, the worst time,
there's so much other stuff going on, and it's not like it's important. It's
not like it's necessary – I just..."
"Look, nothing's wrong with you," Sam interrupted, seeming fully able to say
that much with confidence. "Uh, I think... every guy wants that stuff."
"Not Blaine," Kurt said petulantly. "He's a guy, right? Isn't that kind of a
thing with guys? Aren't they biologically programmed to want to get their rocks
off?"
Gamely, Sam said, "I dunno. Maybe it depends on the guy. He seems kind of... I
don't know. He seems like maybe he'd rather do stuff that's his idea."
"Yes, he is a control freak," Kurt grumped. "I know that's becoming
increasingly obvious in glee."
"Mm," Sam acknowledged in a low, wry hum.
"You weren't even here for Pep-Talk Gate. Trust me, Finn would've loved to have
been the one to make Blaine storm out of rehearsal. But you know, sometimes I
just don't get what I'm doing wrong. Get a beer in him and he'll make out with
Rachel or have the greatest night of his life dancing to the worst of the '80s
with other guys. Sober, I ask him if he wants to rip off my clothes and get
dirty and he says I wear too many layers."
Kurt crossed his arms and sighed, but weirdly, a weight had unexpectedly
evaporated from his shoulders, and the sigh felt deeply relieving, like he'd
finally let off some steam after holding it in for way too long and his body
could suddenly bend. He slumped and rolled his shoulders in the tide of the
abrupt relaxation.
Sam spoke up. "Is it really that you want to... get to the next base with
Blaine? Do you think maybe you just want to be close to someone right now,
'cause of everything?"
It was sweet – perceptive and wise and kind of faultlessly ignorant all at the
same time. Kurt managed to smile. However odd it was to even be having an
actual conversation with Sam that wasn't about Enrique Iglesias or whether or
not a jacket fit him, he did feel reassured that even a member of the God Squad
thought it was normal to want to get it on. And he wasn't beyond noting that,
apparently, he and Sam really were friends. He'd never had a conversation even
somewhat like this with a guy that wasn't Blaine. Finn didn't freak out and get
jumpy if Kurt reached out to adjust a tucked-under collar on his shirt anymore,
but Kurt couldn't imagine actually talking like this with him without there
being some obvious discomfort on both their parts. And the difference between
talking to Rachel or Mercedes about his relationship and talking to a guy about
another guy was so palpable, the air he was breathing in felt thicker.
"Yes, I do really want to be close to someone right now," he acknowledged. "I
want to just check out of the real world for a little while and be with the
person I love and – know that I'm that person that they want to be with, too,
all alone in our own little world. I want to love someone and have them love me
and want me."
"I get that," Sam said.
"Yeah," Kurt said softly. There was a good chance he would never be able to
watch The Bodyguard again without thinking of Mercedes breaking Sam's happy-go-
lucky heart in front of the entire glee club. "I know you do."
Kurt waited expectantly, but unlike just about anyone else Kurt spoke to on a
regular basis, Sam didn't take the ample opportunity to steamroll the
conversation towards his own pains or complaints. He merely returned the sort
of smile Kurt had just given him – tight and somehow sad, but sincere, too –
and fiddled with the corner of the page of whatever textbook he was reading. It
was starting to curl up from the way he was thumbing it. Kurt wanted to tell
him he was a great guy and that Mercedes would probably come around, but even
if she didn't, any girl would be lucky to date a guy like Sam and maybe someday
round the bases with him. It just wasn't right that Sam was sitting alone on a
Saturday, away from his family, not even able to text with his crush since it
was obvious that had come to a grinding halt.
"But I also really do want to do it," Kurt blurted instead.
Sam's lips pushed flat to each other and curled up on one side; his eyes seemed
bemused in how round they were when they focused on Kurt.
"Maybe try again after Regionals?" he proposed uncertainly.
That's probably what Sebastian Smythe would do, Kurt thought – he'd certainly
tried and tried again to get with Blaine. In fact, if Sebastian was standing in
Kurt's shoes, he'd probably be all over Sam, purring.
Kurt sighed again, stifling the part of his brain that wouldn't stop harping on
that shallow idiot. He needed to refocus. Do something comforting, like watch
Legally Blonde.
"I need chocolate," he said, thinking again of Carole's Valentine stash.
Sighing, Sam leaned over and groped under the dust ruffle that was on the guest
bed his brown plaid flannel duvet had mostly taken over, clashing with
everything ever. To Kurt's surprise, after some unsuccessful fishing Sam
finally produced a shiny red heart, one of the smallest-sized Russell Stover
boxes of candy that was nearly dwarfed in his hand, and held it out to Kurt.
"Here."
Kurt's brows shot up. "Oh-ho! Cheating on your diet, are you?"
Sam shook his head. "I was going to give it to Mercedes. I had one box a day I
was going to give her, leading up to Valentine's. But I didn't get the chance.
You can have it."
"Oh! Are you sure?" Kurt asked sympathetically.
"Take it," Sam said, leaning toward him. "Take it."
"All right! Twist my arm," said Kurt in a merry voice, taking the box before
Sam could fall out of his bed or something. "I should've known you'd never
cheat on your diet."
"Please don't eat them in front of me," Sam requested, expression resigned.
"You don't want a piece?"
"Nah."
"Not even one?"
"That's okay."
"One little tiny piece?"
"...Okay, I do want one!" Sam sighed. "But I really shouldn't. I'll get all
sugar-hyped."
"Half a piece?" Kurt coaxed. Something about just making off with every bit of
the chocolate and leaving Sam alone with his astronomy textbook seemed mean and
wrong, especially since Sam had intended to woo a girl with it, and giving it
to Kurt instead was probably pretty disappointing. "The label says zero trans
fats."
Sam groaned reluctantly, shutting his textbook. "Only because the past few
weeks have really sucked."
"Amen," Kurt sighed. The textbook was relegated to the bedside table (Sam
didn't seem to mind that some of his notes fluttered to the floor) and Kurt
took a seat on the edge of the bed, cracking the box open with absolutely no
reverence, attentions hanging for a long moment on the junk on Sam's bedside
table. The picture was of his little brother and sister, Stevie with his arm
around Stacey looking taller than Kurt remembered him. Sam had to miss them
like crazy. It was sweet he'd actually brought a framed picture of them with
him from home. Inside the little heart, three chocolates were nestled close
together in little paper cups, each shaped and tinted differently. "So what do
you like?"
"Uh, I dunno, they all look like about a hundred extra crunches," said Sam.
"Sheesh," Kurt lamented. "Work with me, here, Sam. Knock it down to fifty.
You're only having half and you'll just swim it right off Monday morning."
"Okay, fifty," laughed Sam. "And that's kinda the problem. I'll be wearing a
swimsuit Monday morning. A skimpy one!"
"I fail to see the problem," Kurt teased. "Okay, I'm just going to hazard a
guess on these, Forrest Gump. It seems like maybe this one's dark chocolate...
probably at least one has caramel... not sure about this mystery piece. Do you
like stuff like marshmallow or coconut?"
"Yeah. Whatever is fine. What do you only want half of?"
"Hm. Choices, choices. Usually if I indulge, it's white chocolate," Kurt said
thoughtfully.
He'd just decided on cracking open the mystery piece and plucked it from its
little ruffled paper cup when Sam said, "Uh, so Finn told you that too?"
An edge of concern rose in Kurt; there was so much going on lately that he
didn't know what Sam was talking about, but if there was news he'd somehow
missed because his step-brother was keeping him out of the loop for stupid
reasons, the way things were trending lately, it was bound to be bad.
"Finn told me what, now?"
"White chocolate," Sam repeated flatly.
"...What about it?"
"I mean, he told you a lot," Sam said. "But I thought maybe he didn't get that
far."
"Uh, Finn isn't exactly keeping me in the loop as of late, Sam," Kurt replied,
shifting his concentration back to dividing the chocolate into somewhat equal
halves. It was splitting easily enough, the thin chocolate coating housing a
thick golden caramel that stretched between the halves before breaking and
drooping silkily over his fingers. He offered the half that had managed not to
get all over his knuckles to Sam.
Sam took it slowly, looking like he was investigating the whole exchange
warily.
"So you like white chocolate, huh?"
"Well, I mean, chocolate is chocolate, I'm not exactly that picky," Kurt
answered, tilting his hand and mouthing the sugary-sweet caramel he could feel
melting on his fingers as it soaked up his body heat. "But yes. There's just
something about it that makes it taste sweeter. I'm probably crazy, it probably
doesn't taste that different. I just think of it as homey and comforting more
than, like, sinfully chocolatey."
After a moment, he glanced at Sam, who was just sitting there with the
chocolate in his fingers, staring with those round eyes of his, a vacant smile
on his mouth.
"What?" Kurt asked archly.
Sam shook his head once and bit into his chocolate, then moaned, "Holy shit,"
around his thumb and index finger, taste buds clearly startled.
"Good?"
"Mmm." Sam slouched back against his pillow, eyes drifting shut. "Hide the rest
from me."
"One bite and you want to go splitsies on everything," Kurt crowed delightedly,
sliding a knuckle into his mouth so he could lick the caramel out of every
crevice. "So, a box of chocolates a day for Mercedes, huh? You ate all the
other boxes, didn't you?"
"I'm not nuts," said Sam, licking his thumb matter-of-factually. "I gave them
away. I just kept this one in case."
"In case of what? Patches? 'Cause I know sometimes he doesn't go away till you
just give him something."
"Uh, no. I gave one to Rory to give to Sugar, one to Quinn, and one to
Carole..."
"What?" Kurt pulled his tongue from between his fingers. "And here I thought
that big box was from my dad! I've been nicking pieces for the last week!"
"Great, she's going to think I'm eating them!" Sam said. "Like, in secret.
Stealing back the chocolate I gave her!"
"Nah, she knows you calorie-count. She's so happy someone else is doing that
with her, by the way. She'll think it's Finn," Kurt dismissed. With his fingers
finally clean of the soft, sweet mess of caramel, he popped his chocolate into
his mouth, savoring it as it melted across his tongue and into his throat. He
divided the next, dark fudge-filled piece in half and handed it to Sam
wordlessly. Sam took it without protest or complaint, though he did look
slightly guilty. Kurt smiled at him, satisfied, and they sat in reverential,
well-deserved silence, cheating on their diets and eating their feelings. Kurt
noticed that Sam crossed days off his space calendar with bold Xs. February
14th had been circled in a pretty festive red, then marked out several times,
so the black lines across its box were even bolder and more dejected. Kurt's
mental calendar felt a lot like that – a countdown of day after day, the
universe hanging heavily over him as he lost time and opportunities.
They'd just polished off the final piece, which had some kind of mint-flavored
marshmallow filling, when Sam finally said, "I can feel myself getting fatter."
"Shut your pouty heathen mouth," Kurt shot back. "It's not polite to complain
about your perfect body when there are people with much less in the way of abs
around."
"I feel all weird already. I shouldn't have eaten more than a half."
"Relax! It's okay to indulge every now and then. You can't go through life
depriving yourself all the time, and you can be sure to eat extra healthy the
next few days. But I mean, if you really feel bad, I take full responsibility.
I've got The Tracy Anderson Method in my room. You can borrow it."
"Does that work?" Sam wondered.
"Are you kidding me? It kicks my ass harder than Cheerio practice and booty
camp combined. I can't even make it to the end most of the time. I hate it. I
have actively campaigned against violence and don't condone it, which you know,
but I have to confess, sometimes I have these rage dreams where I just bean her
with one of those five-pound weights."
"Oh, so Tracy Anderson's a woman?"
"Of course."
"It just sounds like a guy's name."
"Tracy Anderson?"
"Yeah, like Mr. Tracy Anderson. That doesn't sound like a guy to you?"
"She's very perky and positive and makes you wanna die."
"So it's a good workout."
"Highly recommended."
"This is just kind of making me want to watch Celebrity Fit Club or something,"
said Sam. "Or, like, one of those Dr. Drew shows."
"Yes, Celebrity Rehab!"
"Those shows always make me thankful, you know. I know that's not why people
watch them, but. They make me see the big picture. When things get tough, I
just think of people who have way more money than me and all these people
around them telling them how great they are, but their lives are just these
wrecks, and I think, 'At least I'm okay, at least I'm healthy. In the scheme of
things, I'm not doing that bad.'"
"Interesting," said Kurt, warming to the idea. "I think you're right. Things
are... incredibly tough right now, and I feel like I've been through a lot. But
in the scheme of things, my life isn't as bad as a lot of people's."
"I think you have a good life. Super nice stepmom, awesome dad who has a great
business, huge house, nice clothes... you're smart, you can sing and dance, you
know what you want to do, you have... your boyfriend. It's all about
perspective." Sam paused, then leaned forward, expression mysterious, and asked
lowly, "Wanna see something cool?"
Kurt's face felt warm. "Sure."
Sam grinned, then leaned back and reached for his bedside lamp. "Okay, get
ready. It's about to get dark."
With a click, the light went off, and the dark was like a deep navy blue
velvet, soft and subtle. It was immediately obvious what Sam meant to show him
by turning out the lights. A hundred or so tiny stars, yellow-green and giving
off a faint glow, dotted the ceiling.
"Oh, look!" Kurt let out, staring up at the ultra-fake night sky. It was kind
of mesmerizing.
"They're stickers. I got them in my stocking on Christmas and Carole said I
could put them up," said Sam, sounding happy there in the darkness. "They're
reusable, so they peel right off. Don't worry, I won't just leave them on your
ceiling forever. I'll take 'em back to Kentucky with me."
"They're cute," said Kurt nicely, pretending he hadn't thought about the paint
job and wasn't somehow jarred about the reminder that Sam was just a temporary
part of the household. "Is that the Big Dipper right above you?"
"Yeah, kinda. The best I could do. Little Dipper, too." There was a pause while
they both stared at the clumsy little constellations, then Sam continued, "I
used to have these in my room at home. I even had some at boarding school, even
though I had a couple roommates and I don't think they appreciated them. But
they remind me of when I was a kid."
"They remind you of home," said Kurt. He got that. Sam had made this room his
home not just by putting his stuff in it, but by bringing his memories with
him.
"Yeah. I always really liked space and stuff, even when I was little. My dad
says I used to watch NOVA instead of Sesame Street. So he put them up on my
ceiling in our old house, and I just started getting really into staring up at
them at night, thinking about space and the universe and time and, like, life.
How weird it is, you know, and, like, how small it is. That's kind of what I
mean about perspective. The average human life goes by like the blink of an eye
or something, compared to the universe. It makes me want to live life to the
fullest. That's why I'm here."
Kurt's eyes burned; the stars blurred, and warm tears dropped down his cheeks
so fast they hardly hit his skin before landing on his vest.
The stir was completely sudden and involuntary. All he could think was that he
was glad the light was off; he wasn't sure whether that weird little speech was
upsetting or inspiring, humbling or uplifting, disturbing or reassuring. He'd
cried in front of others so many times – including Sam just this week in the
God Squad meeting, and during every single performance of the reprise of
"Edelweiss" during The Sing-along Sound of Music (because when Captain von
Trapp cries, the world cries with him), countless times in glee club, at his
locker, on his dad's shoulder – that he wasn't ashamed to cry, or ashamed to
feel things and show it. But he was still glad Sam couldn't see him. He didn't
know how to handle people trying to comfort him. He wasn't sure he could be
comforted if he started to think about everything too much. He knew he was
upset because of Dave, but Sebastian and Blaine weren't far from his mind
either.
As stoically as he could manage under the onslaught, Kurt said, "I intend to
seize life, any way I can."
"Me too," Sam said. The mattress creaked, and Kurt could tell he'd shifted onto
his back – could feel the dip of his weight close by. "I mean, I know I'm gonna
get knocked down a lot. Everyone does. You see it every day. But I'm still
gonna do everything I can, 'cause that's all I can do. I don't want to let
anything stop me anymore. If something doesn't work, I'm not going to, like,
force it, I'm just going to find a way around it."
Eyes still overflowing with a thousand squashed-away feelings escaping in the
form of tears, Kurt ditched the empty chocolate box and leaned back till his
head hit the soft flannel duvet, tears crawling down his temple into his hair.
"Anything's possible, right?" he asked Sam breathily, reaching up to try and
quietly rub his eyes.
"Anything."
"Anything in the world can happen. Does happen."
"Definitely anything. All the time. Every day."
"Okay, well... this is not the conversation I came in here to have," Kurt
laughed, awkwardly sniffling. "It's getting very Oprah, and I just want to warn
you that we're about one set of pigtails away from doing cucumber and oatmeal
masks and watching Legally Blonde."
"Oh, well, uh – we can talk more about blow jobs, if you want," said Sam, in
such a serious tone it gave Kurt pause. Sam's shoulder suddenly felt very close
to his.
"Oh, no, no. That's okay."
"Actually, I can do some pretty good pigtails. I have pigtail experience. So...
I'm just saying, there's a lot of options."
"Yeah," Kurt huffed laughingly. "A whole universe of options."
 
Kurt came up out of consciousness with a neck ache. His face flinched against
what he knew, even with his eyes shut, was gray-tinged morning light. His skin
felt raw and tight. He hadn't moisturized before bed...
His eyelids pulled up; so did his head.
Brown. Plaid. Flannel.
Okay. He hadn't moisturized before Sam's bed. And falling asleep on it.
Apparently.
With a push of confused annoyance, Kurt pressed the heel of his hand against
one eye and rubbed the sleep out of it slowly, mind sifting on autopilot back
through his dreams to get to why he was where he was, fully dressed with his
legs hanging over the side of the guest bed.
Ah, yes. Chocolate was the culprit. And glow-in-the dark stars that had
completely faded at this point. And the universe in general.
He remembered talking idly through tears Sam hadn't seen, and way past them and
into hazy exchanges about staring into space and getting vertigo, and whether
or not they got sick on rides and stuff (no, rides were the best, sugar was the
worst); Sam's childhood love of M&Ms and Zoobooks; how Kurt always made his dad
have tea parties with him and how Sam had been to a few of those, hosted by
Stacey; how lucky Sam was to have siblings, because Kurt played by himself most
of the time because musicals were no one's cup of tea; how freaking scary the
whole boat part of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory was, complete with
hummings of there's no earthly way of knowing... which direction we are
going... with neither of them able to remember anything but that line.
He remembered each of their elbows hitting the other awkwardly as they talked
and the weird moment when he realized that their biceps were resting
comfortably against each other's and it didn't feel like he had to politely
move to keep from offending Sam or something.
He didn't remember what exactly they'd been talking about when he fell asleep;
he didn't remember purposefully closing his eyes.
A crick in his neck from sleeping without a pillow twinging in his muscles,
Kurt turned his head to peer blearily at Sam through his sticky-feeling lashes.
He was in pretty much the same position as Kurt, though at some point during
the night he'd tucked his hands across his stomach. The thread of his slack
fingers and the innocent tuck of his chin down toward his shoulder made him
look either extremely serious or contented. Kurt looked at the rasp of golden
hair on his forearm and over-popped knuckles. He eyed the light blue hoodie
wide open around his chest, watching him breathe in shallow, short pulls that
made his t-shirt stretch delicately over his ridiculously perfect pecs and
watched him drift, off somewhere in a dreamland, unaware, untroubled. He looked
at the slouch of Sam's knees over the mattress and the way his upper lip had
tucked itself over his lower lip.
Though he hadn't been aware he'd tensed until he actually felt himself easing
back down slowly against the mattress, Kurt realized he actually felt rather
comfortable, product in his hair and clothes a bit too tight to sleep in aside.
His eyes fell shut again; sleep felt nearby, as nearby as Sam. It was early...
Kurt was an early bird by nature and always had an extensive to-do list for the
weekends, even if the weekend was devoted to frivolous relaxation. But right
then it somehow felt better to lie there with Sam in a safe cocoon, arms
pressed together from elbow to shoulder again, warm. He turned his face toward
Sam's, as Sam's was tilted his way. It was just insanely comfortable. The most
comfortable. And strange to feel so cozy and so unwilling to head right for an
invigorating shower.
Maybe he did snooze a little, or maybe he just had his eyes closed for a
minute. Either way, when he opened them again, they found Sam's, hooded but
focused on him, and he stared – stared like he'd stared at the stars on the
ceiling, fixed and unblinking and seeing beyond them somehow and into other
things, mind wandering – and Sam stared back, unperturbed.
After an indeterminate, infinite-feeling stretch of time, Sam offered him a
slow, sleepy half-smile. Kurt's mouth twitched back automatically.
With an easy heave of shoulders, Sam pushed himself up onto his elbow, parting
their arms, and the quiet moment seemed to be hovering on the edge of its
destiny to snap and disappear like the delicate bubble it was.
But it hung on.
Sam stayed there in it with him, eyelids heavy over his gaze, mouth pressing
into itself then blooming pink again and parting the slightest bit as he took
in a soft breath. Kurt watched, disconnected from the way his heart was
rabbiting away, racing at top speed for some reason he didn't know, as Sam
blinked slowly and stared at Kurt's shoulder, the top button on his vest, stare
skipping uncertainly from Kurt's chin to his eyes.
Something in Kurt clutched; he knew what was coming before Sam seemed to, and
he didn't move, even though he could've, should've.
Sam dipped slowly, like sleep was still heavy in him, then Sam kissed him, the
heat and softness of his lips only just sinking into Kurt's and aching there
before Sam pulled back quickly, like a jolt had gone through him. His eyes were
squeezed shut.
"'M sorry," he whispered immediately.
"It's okay," Kurt whispered back gently, though he wasn't sure how his voice
didn't vibrate from how hard his heart was pounding, and it was definitely not
okay.
He turned his face into his shoulder, feeling the heat of his own flush through
his vest and shirt sleeve, struggling to take in air with constricted lungs
that had no room in his chest to work. No. No. No, no, no. Something was
unfurling, a monstrous supernova erupting from wherever he'd been stuffing down
all his feelings, and he grabbed desperately at Sam's arm, grappling over his
hoodie until he had it by the open zip and was tugging them back together.
Sam's mouth caught his, and Kurt was huffing, muscles roiling, thighs curling,
lips keeping Sam's startled moan for their own.
Kurt wanted.
He wanted to do something; he wanted so much. Too much.
His hands shook with desperation, excitement, determined rage as they grabbed
at Sam's belt and jerked it open with a light clank, and Sam huffed openly at
the ceiling, mouth suddenly freed as Kurt curled at the waist, not deterred by
the total indignity of his own want as he worked Sam's zip down. Sam's new
jeans fit him snugly, Kurt wasn't beyond noticing, but he attacked them with a
grip that surprised Sam enough to make him mutter, "Kurt!" like he was frankly
shocked as they were dragged down to his thighs.
Kurt's breath punched its way out of him in a harsh sigh; he'd fooled around
with Blaine, and all, but the differences between Sam and Blaine (and Sam and
Kurt) were so vast it was incredible. The thighs he bared were slim even though
he could see right where the muscle was packed on, undoubtedly from all the
swimming Sam had been doing since he joined the Guppies, and his boxers were
clinging at them. Sam was skinnier than both he and Blaine, something about him
so boyish Kurt felt starved – even just for the sight of something like Sam's
thighs, with his jeans opened up and belt gaping there around them – but the
most insane thing was that Sam was hard, so obviously boned he was tenting his
underwear.
Kurt went for it, grasping over the arch of his hard-on there in the stretchy
black boxer-briefs, and Sam's thighs tensed madly. Kurt heard him breathe out a
twisted-sounding, "Gah."
"You're gonna get a blow job," Kurt informed him.
Sam staggered down from one elbow to two, then collapsed back fully, chest
working for air, and Kurt shoved his t-shirt up his belly so he could see the
honey-blond happy trail creeping towards Sam's belly-button from the waistband
of his boxers, see his abs and the way his stomach dipped low from the rise of
his ribcage. To his surprise, Sam helped him, grabbing at the hem of his shirt
and rustling it up his ribs.
"Yeah, like that," Kurt breathed, surprised even further when Sam's other hand
then shoved down and wrestled one side of his tight boxers down. He could feel
the eagerness in Sam's muscles and it stabbed him low in the stomach, made him
moan right from where it hurt.
He let Sam do the work for him this time, stunned into a lull when Sam's dick
popped free from the push of the elastic waistband and leaned heavily up his
belly, throbbing there next to tawny pubes that matched his current hair color
way more than that white-blond did, the flush of it intriguingly red.
Biting on his lower lip, Kurt took Sam gingerly in hand and gave him a stroke,
feeling him stiffen even further right there in his fingers. He didn't even
bother to stifle his gasp at the blast of heat that hit him and practically
liquefied him to the bones. It was right, so right, holding a boy's cock this
way. Touching a guy, understanding like no girl could, pumping his cock slow
and admiring it. He liked it with Blaine, and he liked it now, but in a totally
different way, a far more flatly physical way. The fact that Sam was such a
handful was shamefully fascinating; the way his skin moved and clutched
prettily up around the neck of his dick hot because it was just so Sam, just
unique to him, like the way the head of his dick was flared and
disproportionate like his mouth was.
Kurt glanced up heatedly to find Sam staring down at him in much the same way,
jaw locked off to one side, brow furrowed, muscles tensed and uneasy.
"You want me to, don't you," he said as the realization swept over him,
thrilling.
Sam nodded, messy-haired and earnest, but Kurt wanted to hear it. He wanted to
hear that Sam wanted him to do this, wanted him to be the one doing this to
him, because for the rest of their lives, no one else would ever be the first
to have their mouth on Sam's gorgeous dick, just like Kurt would have done this
already, if he and Blaine ever got to this point.
"I want to," he assured Sam in a heavy sigh, "so bad... you know I do... and
you want me to, right?"
"Kurt," Sam breathed, short and pleading. The way his name was shaped in that
mouth, gentle from beginning to end, soft consonants and terrible enunciation,
was also just unbearably Sam-ish. Kurt's blood rushed and rioted just hearing
it.
"I really want to," Kurt whispered.
"I want you to," Sam groaned vulnerably, music to Kurt's ears.
Kurt closed his eyes briefly, rocked by the feeling that gave him and exhaling
slow and steady, like he would before a solo that filled the air with his high-
pitched voice alone. He wanted to soak in every smell, every feeling and
detail. He really had no idea what he was doing beyond his own distracted
fantasies as he let his nose brush against Sam's shaft, following it clumsily
up to the tip, palm spreading wide to support it. But Sam let out a pleading
noise, and confidence surged and mutated in Kurt like crazy, all in a split
second, the crazy hunger overwhelming. He forgot instantly about soaking it in,
taking it slow. He wanted to suck this dick, blow Sam right there in his bed
with Finn probably drooling in his sleep next door. He was all over it in a
heartbeat, licking right at Sam's slit, tongue sliding across the silky-smooth
head, and he could hear Sam's breath catch.
Frantic for more, Kurt slid his lips experimentally over the crown, holding
sweetly around it and letting them slide up and off again wetly and feeling
Sam's skin move, thin and satiny over the hardened flesh. His tongue flattened
itself to follow the flare of it to the tip and then down again as he sucked,
cushy, breathing in sharp, aroused pulls through his nose. The way Sam's knob
gave slightly to the pressure of his mouth had him moaning to himself because
it felt so slippery and tasted so sharp, like – God, it tasted like dick. He
couldn't believe he was actually doing this, finally, sucking off a guy – Sam,
of all people – and Sam was just clutching his t-shirt up and still had one
thumb tucked into his boxers and was perfect, bared for him, wanting Kurt to
worship his dick and not hiding it.
That's what it felt like – worshiping, God, getting to touch Sam with his hand
clutched and jacking, slow but restlessly excited, and with his mouth. Kurt
arched further, trying to fit a little more in his mouth, wildly responsive to
the way he could hear Sam's injured, shallow breathing.
"God," Sam let out, and Kurt had no idea he could sound that way, so low and
breathless and yet so completely at Kurt's mercy.
Kurt backed off slowly, getting hit with a strong whiff of spit and precome and
heated dick as his lips slid off Sam with a tiny wet pop. "Okay?"
God, his mouth felt stupid, swollen and wet; he licked at his lips clumsily. He
blinked at Sam, discovering it was brighter in the room and Sam's hair was lit
up in actual sunlight, shining against the plain but soft duvet, and that there
was a red flush down his cheeks and neck. His lips were drawn in a taut bow,
but they parted around a breath for him. "Kurt..."
"Do you like that, Sam?" Kurt asked.
"Fuck, I've never –" Sam twitched, right in Kurt's hand. He didn't seem to know
what he was saying.
"No one's ever sucked this pretty dick of yours, have they?" Kurt asked
teasingly, feeling stupidly superior.
Sam just shook his head, as if Kurt didn't know.
"You like it, though?" Kurt pressed, letting his hand glide, silky and wet, up
Sam's dick, pausing for a moment to let his tongue lick ticklesomely lightly up
its spine. "...You like me doing this to you?"
"God, yeah," Sam finally admitted, voice breaking.
"Yeah, I think you do," Kurt gloated, taking a deep breath before easing Sam's
dick into his mouth again, deeper, jaw stretching eagerly for it. His eyes
squeezed shut as he concentrated on trying to let it slide in smooth and deep,
like he totally knew what he was doing when he had no clue, vaguely aware his
own dick was uncomfortably trapped in the tight squeeze of his ill-advised but
flattering pants that he'd intended to have around his own knees at some point
last night anyway. He was somehow close to gagging the harder he tried, but the
sensation was almost more exciting than uncomfortable – the feeling of actually
sucking a guy's dick so much hotter than his mind could have imagined when he
thought of how it might be. He could feel his hair slipping across his
forehead, coif ruined, and the insides of his cheeks hollowing to drag along
Sam's cock as he craned to bob, to get it in his mouth again and again, so
slippery now that his chin was wet.
"Kurt," Sam breathed again, an apprehensive puff of air with his soft dopey
lack of shape. "'M gonna – if you don't stop –"
A shock of arousal tore through Kurt. He was just getting used to the feeling
and finding a rhythm, just figuring it out – he didn't want to stop – but the
idea of making Sam come from this right then was all he needed to groan in
response, huffing and greedy, jerking Sam off urgently right into his mouth.
He could feel it hit Sam, jerking in his belly and swelling in his dick before
Sam's come flooded his mouth, filling it in a few quick, sharp spurts. Kurt had
tasted his own before, but this was Sam's, this was hot and fresh and right in
his mouth, and Kurt shuddered, close to creaming his own pants just feeling Sam
give it up to him, pulsing in his mouth.
After a moment, heart thundering in his ears, Kurt eased back slowly, hearing
Sam grunt sensitively as his swollen, purpled knob slid through the ring of his
lips.
His mouth was full of Sam's load, and he wanted to swallow it, but he wanted to
see it, too, to see if it was as much as it felt like in his mouth, if it was
anything like Blaine's, or his own. In some way it was hot just to hold it
there on his tongue, too.
He slumped, only minorly aware of doing so, back onto his elbows, cock so hard
he thought he might die, face so hot and sweaty he knew he was a wreck. Through
his eyelids he could tell it was bright in Sam's room now, and Sam put a
comforting hand on his burning cheek.
A moment later, Sam was kissing him, arching up and drawing Kurt's face to his,
and Kurt squeaked in alarm, tensing, awareness crashing over him spectacularly.
His mouth tasted like dick, like bitter spit and come – his mouth was sloppy
and full of it, and Sam definitely did not want this on his lips, his soft
lips, slack and warm and dropping open to suck at Kurt's chin and lower lip.
His tongue touched Kurt's lip, licked down and capably cleaned where dribbles
of spit had slipped free.
Kurt's hand dropped helplessly to his hard-on and rubbed it without mercy – he
was so close, so close, and Sam's lips were persuading his to slip open – Sam's
tongue was in his mouth, sliding through his own load and shoving it, all heavy
and slippery, across Kurt's tongue. Kurt could feel his chest hitching
repeatedly over the choke of tension in his throat. For a moment he was caught
between the perfect feeling of Sam pushing his tongue into his mouth, deep and
unafraid and shockingly nasty, and the intense clench of his balls as he lost
it right in his pants. It was a feat he'd managed to avoid up to that point,
but even though it was smothering and far too tight, he was coming so hard he
was whimpering into Sam's mouth.
Clumsily groping its way to Kurt's, Sam's hand only made it in time to feel
Kurt's cock throbbing hotly in the mess of his own jizz. Still, he squeezed
eagerly, hand covering Kurt's, and made Kurt cry out weakly. The wet kiss broke
and Kurt gulped without a second thought, swallowing everything that wasn't
sticking to Sam's lips down and falling to his back, shoulder blades shaking,
belly quivering.
Sam licked his lips slowly, perched there on his elbow over Kurt like he had
been before, but this time he was tellingly half-naked and Kurt was trying not
to cry from the sheer intensity of it all.
He didn't think he was angry, or sad.
He was just amazed. Amazed at himself, and at Sam. It was a mixed, trembly
feeling. He let his eyes drift shut for a long minute, trying to pull himself
together – demanding that he be together, because Sam seemed pretty stoic.
"Okay, so," he spoke up tremulously, more out of breath than he'd realized. "I
believe... we've irrefutably proven that anything can happen."
Sam chuckled, but it sounded just as winded as Kurt felt, and instead of
answering, he simply flopped beside Kurt again, sighing.
"I mean, you kissed me," Kurt whispered.
"I know. I shouldn't've," Sam said, but he sounded like he was squarely taking
the blame more than he sounded regretful. Then he asked tentatively, the words
seeming more naked and strange in the daylight than they might have in the
darkness, surrounded by glowy star stickers, "Do you think that maybe sometimes
things happen the way they do for a reason? Like how some things don't work
out, but then that leads you around to... other stuff?"
Kurt thought of Mercedes, repeatedly refuting Sam's advances, the chocolate box
winding up in his hands instead of hers. He thought of Karofsky's texts he'd
ignored and ignored and what could've happened if he'd answered even one of
them. He thought of Sebastian's thoughtless cruelty and its ripple effects, and
how without Sebastian, he might have spent Valentine's Day canoodling with his
boyfriend and never had a reason to feel doubtful and irritated. If none of
that had happened, Kurt definitely wouldn't have woken up in Sam's bed, let
alone devoured him – even though it had felt so good to do it and was more than
he could have ever imagined.
He opened his eyes and looked at Sam, who was looking at him with a pull of
concern in his brow.
"Oh, yes," said Kurt, stretching luxuriously, then looping an arm around Sam's
tucked there next to him. "The universe conspires. It's probably good you're
keeping an eye on it."
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