Kurt/Blaine: Precipice (7/?)
Title: Precipice (7/?)
Pairings: Kurt/Blaine
Rating: PG-13 overall.
Word Count: ~3000
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: Brief mention of a sexual act and of a homophobic slur.
Summary: Blaine is a new student at McKinley. Kurt is the star of the Cheerios. When Kurt is failing AP Chemistry, Coach Sylvester hires Blaine to tutor Kurt in order to ensure that he earns a grade that will allow him to stay on the squad. What will happen when the supposed nerd and the head cheerleader are forced to spend time together?
A/N: A million thanks to my wonderful beta
gleekto.
There’s a shift in Blaine after the run-in at the mall. Things feel different. He’s more confused than ever, for one. Kurt Hummel has gone from distant occasional object of lust to forced and unwilling acquaintance to Saturday night pizza partner, but Blaine feels like he doesn’t know him at all.
A kilt.
Kurt had been wearing a kilt.
Blaine can’t wrap his mind around it, each area of his brain refusing to work with the others in order to make sense of it. Kurt, who always wears his Cheerios uniform, who even wears it on the evenings and weekends, owns a kilt.
The first thing he does at school on Monday is head for the library. In the reference section he finds a shelf filled with old McKinley yearbooks. Eyes darting both ways, he pulls the yearbook from the 2008-2009 school year off the shelf and flips through the pages until he finds the freshman class. One index finger extended, Blaine trails it down the list of names until he finds it:
Kurt Hummel
Blaine swallows and drags his fingertip across the page until he reaches the third photo. Breath caught in his throat, Blaine strokes over the picture before dropping to sit on the floor.
It’s a small photo-black and white and a little grainy the way yearbook photos always are. It’s four years old and Kurt is both immediately recognizable and terribly foreign all at the same time. The boy in the picture is obviously Kurt. Though the cheeks are fuller and hair is different, the beautiful vibrancy of Kurt’s eyes translates across years and through a camera lens.
What’s most striking, though, is what Kurt’s wearing. He obviously wasn’t a Cheerio yet. There’s a pattern to the button-up, probably a paisley from the busy looks of it, and some kind of broach or pin attached to the dark vest he’s wearing. But most interesting of all is the fact that wrapped snugly around his neck is a bowtie.
Blaine grins and can’t help but slide that same fingertip over Kurt’s face one more time, something trapped behind his ribs fluttering as he does so. It’s so strange, but seeing Kurt this way feels right. It’s like he’s seeing Kurt for the very first time. There’s no Cheerio uniform armor, no army of girls in short, swinging skirts surrounding him, and yet the look on his face says it all. This is Kurt, the same Kurt he’d seen the day before at the mall. This is the real Kurt.
He moves through the rest of his day with a smile, and true to Kurt’s word, he doesn’t get slushied.
Friday afternoon, he’s seven days slushie free. He’s not stupid enough to add his more cherished pieces of clothing into his school wardrobe yet, but he feels good. It’s not the same kind of light, effortless existence he’s afforded when he travels to larger city blessed with the benefit of anonymity, but it’s still better than usual. At least half of the jocks he passes don’t even look at him, let alone sneer or spit out a derogatory slur or fling a Styrofoam cup filled with ruining sugar and ice.
The wind outside is accompanied by the bite known specifically to chilly autumn days, and Blaine stands on a chair to watch the crispy brown leaves flutter by on the ground outside. No rehearsal had been called that afternoon, but he and Rachel have met to go over a song for their next week’s assignment. Why their focus isn’t being trained on Sectionals, he doesn’t know nor understand, but things are so different here that he’d given up on trying to make sense of anything during his second week as a McKinley student.
“I think this is the perfect selection to compliment both of our voices, don’t you think?” Rachel asks from her perch behind the piano.
“Definitely,” Blaine says, voice sounding distant even to himself as he catches a glimpse of red passing by. Kurt’s heading toward his car with Santana Lopez and Brittany Pierce in tow. He rolls his eyes at Santana before climbing into the driver’s seat, something that doesn’t surprise Blaine in the slightest because during Glee rehearsals Santana manages to be offensive more often than not.
Blaine climbs from the chair and makes his way back to Rachel and the music he’s supposed to be focusing on. Leaning on his forearms, he looks down at the sheet music while she plunks out chords and melodic lines with the hesitance of someone decent at piano but not wholly comfortable with the instrument.
“You haven’t gotten slushied this week,” Rachel states, concluding her sentence with a powerfully played resolution chord.
“No. Maybe they forgot about me,” Blaine lies, knowing that somehow Kurt Hummel is to thank for his lack of thrice-weekly physical assault.
“I hope so. Though, going through such adversity is the kind of thing that makes us better artists.”
“If that’s the case, I should be a Grammy winner by now,” Blaine mumbles, plucking at the corner of his music. “Should we run it one more time?”
“Yes, let’s,” Rachel says with a bright smile.
It’s after five by the time Blaine gets home because one more time had turned to five since Rachel insisted that they do it at least three times perfectly in a row in order to assure that they’d really nailed it down. His stomach is rumbling complainingly and he rubs a hand over it as he heads inside. The house is quiet in a telling way, the isolated feeling that comes with being truly and utterly alone. It’s not a feeling Blaine is unaccustomed to, but it isn’t one he particularly cares for. So he whirls to life, making himself a snack and starting his weekend homework before working out in the basement.
When his body is sagging with physical exhaustion and dripping with sweat, he trudges up the stairs and goes to the kitchen to fix himself some of the leftovers his mom had left before heading to the shift she’d picked up for a friend with a family emergency. The kitchen fills with the scents of lasagna and garlic bread and he leans against the counter, chugging a Gatorade and finding himself perfectly content to think about absolutely nothing at all. It isn’t until his phone gives two urgent buzzes on the counter that he allows his brain to jump to life once more.
Are you free tomorrow night?
Blaine blinks and shifts to hold the phone in two hands so he can tap out a reply.
Yes.
He debates adding something else, but can’t think of anything that won’t come off as rude or distrusting, neither of which he’s feeling, so he sticks with the monosyllabic choice and hits Send.
Can I come over then? Sevenish?
Blaine’s heart thumps exactly three times in rapid succession before leaping into his throat. With slightly shaking fingers, he answers.
Sure. Pizza again?
Less than half a minute later, a response arrives.
No. I’m bringing something. You’re not allergic to anything, are you?
Mushrooms.
You are not. No one’s allergic to mushrooms, they just pretend to be because they don’t like them.
My EpiPen says otherwise.
Fine, no mushrooms. I’ll see you tomorrow.
And that’s the last he hears from Kurt until the next evening.
The fact that Kurt had texted to ask if he could come over allows Blaine to inform his parents that he’s going to be having company while they’re at work. The talk he gets from his father about ‘appropriate behavior’ and staying in the living room makes Blaine flush pink to the tips of his ears and it doesn’t relent despite Blaine’s repeated attempts to make his father understand that they’re just friends and nothing of the sort will be happening at all.
Blaine has been working on a paper all day for his English class-a book report on The Great Gatsby-and his eyes are tired and stinging by the time the doorbell rings. He pulls off his glasses and presses a thumb and forefinger against his tear ducts as he shuffles toward the door, leaving his laptop and strewn notecards and books all over the coffee table.
When he pulls open the door, all of the air rushes from his lungs. Kurt is standing on the front stoop carrying a chestnut-colored picnic basket and wearing a decidedly un-Cheerios outfit. He’s dressed in jeans, a crisp white button-up rolled to the elbows, and a black vest wrapped snugly around his trim waist.
“Hi,” Blaine says, thankful that his brain’s reaction of ‘Whoa’ doesn’t come pouring out instead. “You’re not wearing your uniform.”
“How astute of you,” Kurt says, stepping over the threshold and brushing past Blaine, his bicep grazing Blaine’s chest, leaving a fiery trail of tingling nerves in its wake.
“I’m sorry, I’m just… surprised,” Blaine tells him, quickly locking up and following Kurt as he makes his way back to the kitchen.
“Well, there was no sense in it anymore,” Kurt says.
“You didn’t have to wear it over here every time you came. I wouldn’t have judged you, or whatever you were worried about,” Blaine offers, peeking into the basket as Kurt opens it and finding himself licking his lips at the delicious smells that escape.
“Of course you wouldn’t have. You would have been too busy perving over my legs like you were on Sunday,” Kurt says, pulling out a couple of Pyrex containers and setting them on the counter. Blaine sputters and grips the edge of the countertop.
He hadn’t been that obvious, had he?
“I wasn’t… perving,” he manages to get out without too much incident. Kurt laughs, loud and freely as he makes a sweeping gesture toward the cabinets.
“We need plates,” he tells Blaine, the words dangerously close to an order, but Blaine’s too embarrassed to protest. “And yes you were. Not that I can blame you. I happen to have spectacular legs.”
“I wasn’t,” Blaine repeats, more to himself that anything. Kurt ignores him and starts dishing up their supper.
“Coq Au Vin with garlic roasted red potatoes and grilled asparagus. I hope that’s okay,” he says. Blaine’s jaw drops.
“You made this?” he asks, smile tugging at his lips as Kurt huffs and looks mildly offended.
“Of course I did.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Why? Can’t you cook?” Kurt asks, carefully plating the spears of asparagus before putting the lids back on what remains in the containers and settling them back in the basket.
“I make excellent sandwiches,” Blaine nods seriously before laughing. “I do okay. I’m on my own a lot for meals so I’ve had to learn to be at least somewhat competent in the kitchen.”
“Why are you alone so much?” Kurt prods gently, picking up his plate and leading the way to the kitchen table.
“My mom’s a nurse and my dad’s a doctor. They try to arrange their schedules so one of them is always home, but they both always end up with a lot of weekend shifts,” Blaine explains, setting down his plate before getting them each a glass of water.
“My dad owns his own business, so he’s gone a lot, too,” Kurt says.
“What about your mom?”
“She died when I was eight.” Bile rises up Blaine’s throat.
“I’m so sorry, Kurt. I didn’t know,” he says quickly.
“Of course you didn’t. How would you?” Kurt says, raising an eyebrow at Blaine but responding with an uncharacteristically calm and soft voice. Blaine nods but wishes he had a time machine to go back one minute in time to correct his grievous error.
They eat in silence for a few moments. The food is delicious. Kurt is clearly a gifted cook and it really says something about him that when he was left to his own devices for supper, he learned how to make elaborate French cuisine instead of the boxed macaroni and cheese like Blaine usually prepares for himself.
“This is amazing. Thank you for dinner,” Blaine says.
“Sure,” Kurt replies, suddenly very interested in cutting a piece of asparagus into very small pieces.
“So…” Blaine trails off, the unease that always accompanies silences seeping into his pores. He wants to bring up what he saw in the yearbook on Monday morning, but doesn’t know how without it being completely obvious that he’d rather creepily picked up that yearbook for that exact reason. Finally, he comes up with something. “When did you join the Cheerios?”
“My sophomore year,” Kurt says, eating a bite of chicken.
“Why didn’t you join your freshman year?” Blaine asks, sipping his water and thumbing over the handle of his fork with his other hand.
“I didn’t need it then,” Kurt answers with a finality Blaine doesn’t dare challenge.
After dinner has been cleaned up and Blaine has thanked him again for the meal, they settle in the living room, Blaine hurriedly picking up the mess he’d left from working on his paper while Kurt sits there and watches with mild amusement.
“Did a tornado go through here?”
“Shut up,” Blaine blushes. “I was working on a paper.” Kurt bends forward to pick up his copy of The Great Gatsby and Blaine’s iPod falls to the floor from where it had been keeping his place inside.
“Sorry,” Kurt immediately apologizes, tenderly picking up the iPod and turning it in his hand.
“It’s fine,” Blaine says, shutting his laptop and stacking all of his materials on top of it. “It’s been through worse.”
Kurt sets the book on top of Blaine’s newly formed stack, but keeps hold of the iPod, pressing the right buttons to bring it back to life and settling back against the arm of the couch.
“What are you doing?” Blaine asks, feeling slightly nervous and mildly violated as Kurt looks through his music.
“Seeing if your taste in music is as offensive as your fashion sense,” Kurt tells him, batting him away without even looking as Blaine lunges forward in an attempt to snag it away from Kurt’s clearly judgmental eyes. “You’re so Top 40.”
“There’s other stuff on there, too,” Blaine defends, though he doesn’t know why he should have to. Musical taste is subjective. Incredibly so.
“Well, at least you have a respectable selection of Broadway musical soundtracks. You can keep your Gay Card,” Kurt says.
“The excessive amounts of Lady Gaga and Kylie Minogue weren’t enough for that?”
“No,” Kurt states with a firm shake of his head. Blaine relaxes into the arm of the couch, watching Kurt’s face as he reacts to the various things he sees. “Meredith Wilson is rolling over in his grave right now. I can’t believe you don’t have The Music Man on here.”
“It’s overrated,” Blaine counters.
“It’s a classic. You’re officially dead to me.”
“I didn’t know I ever wasn’t,” Blaine says with a laugh. Kurt doesn’t join him.
“Did you get slushied this week?” Kurt asks.
“No. I’m assuming I have you to thank for that.”
“You’re right you do,” Kurt says, still scrolling.
“And how did you make that happen?”
“I told Charlie Fisher that if he didn’t tell his idiot friends to knock it off, I’d tell everyone that he begged me to blow him at a party last summer.” Blaine somehow manages to choke on his own spit.
“What?” Blaine demands. Charlie Fisher is dating a Cheerio. He’s huge. He’s a football player. He’s the one who always calls Blaine a fairy princess in the hallway. “Did he seriously?”
“Of course he did,” Kurt says, sounding a little offended.
“Well… did you?” Blaine asks, not really wanting to know the answer if it’s affirmative.
“Of course I didn’t. I have taste. He has back hair, Blaine.” Kurt’s nose is wrinkled in disgust before his face blooms into a wide smile. Blaine’s breath lodges in his throat at the sight, hands going strangely damp all of a sudden. “You have the Wicked soundtrack.”
“Naturally,” Blaine grins, unable to help but smile when Kurt is still beaming. The smile doesn’t last for long though. It melts off his face as his mouth falls open, every inch of him strung taught like a rubber band about to snap. Kurt is singing.
It’s just a few lines from Defying Gravity, but it’s the most beautiful thing Blaine has ever heard in his entire life.
“Kurt,” Blaine says, his voice a little hoarse and faraway. “Your voice.”
“What about it?” Kurt snaps, startling Blaine out of his awed reverie.
“It’s perfect,” Blaine says. Kurt’s jaw sets and he stares at the coffee table. “You should join Glee.”
“Excuse me?”
“We need another member in order to be eligible to perform at Sectionals. Your voice is incredible and you can dance because you’re a Cheerio and-“
“I can’t.”
“Kurt, please. You’d be a great addition to the group and-“
“I can’t.”
“We really need you,” Blaine pleads.
“Blaine, drop it,” Kurt says, reaching forward to set the iPod back on the table before curling his legs under him. “So, did you want to watch a movie?”
Blaine stares at Kurt, at the elegant slope of his nose and the proudly extended jut of his chin, and he sighs. He should’ve known that Kurt wouldn’t relent. He really should’ve known better.
“Sure,” Blaine says, scrubbing both hands over his face in frustration before heading for their movie collection. He puts in a disc and settles in on the couch at the opposite end from Kurt, stealing glances every few seconds and hoping that just once he’ll catch Kurt looking back at him.
He doesn’t.
Blaine’s shoulders slump and he starts to pick idly at the knee of his jeans as the opening credits of The Music Man start to play on the screen.