On The Devil's Path

10

"Remy tells me you have a handgun of your own," Blaine said.

"I do. And I know how to use it," Kurt replied.

"He wants me to take you out to the range and make sure you're up to speed."

Which is how they ended up in earmuffs, goggles, and vests, shooting rounds at a private range thirty miles west of the house. It was the first time they'd been alone in days, and Kurt couldn't stop himself from intentionally prolonging Blaine's instruction. He didn't need it-he had always been good with the handgun-but Blaine's arms around him and Blaine's body against his felt wonderful.

After that, they bought hot dogs from a deli and went for a walk in a local park.

"I think it's amazing how one minute you're popping off bullets with flawless accuracy, and the next you're playing symphonies as delicately as any professional pianist," Kurt said.

Blaine laughed, choking on a bite of hot dog. "I'm decent with the gun, but I think you're being generous with the whole 'playing symphonies' thing."

They stayed out far longer than they intended to that day. Remy gave Kurt guff about it later, but it was worth it-and who was Remy to argue, anyway? He had assigned Blaine to be Kurt's personal bodyguard and escort, and they had only done as he had asked them to do.

A week later, Remy gifted him with a new handgun as one would present a bouquet of flowers. Kurt almost cracked up then and there-he wasn't sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry. There had been a time when he would have expected flowers, and now he was hardly surprised to be presented with a deadly weapon instead.

"You must be vigilant, Kurt," Remy said.

Later that night, Kurt put the new gun away in the lock box in his closet. He observed as he did that the ammunition inside was for the other gun he'd had, the one Blaine had taken away days ago.

"Kurt?" Blaine called, from behind his cracked open bedroom door.

"In the closet!"

"At your age? I hope not."

"Close the door and get in here, dummy." Kurt laughed.

He tightened the sash on his robe and the flaps over his legs as Blaine stepped inside the walk-in closet, gently rattling a box of bullets in his hand.

"Looking for these?" Blaine asked.

"Actually, yeah. I was putting my new gun away and realized I didn't have the right ammo." Kurt took the box, leaned up on tip toe, and missed the shelf by just enough to send the box tumbling sideways. The bullets scattered everywhere, tinkling and rattling across hangers and shelves and carpet. "Oh, damn." He bent down to pick them up, and only had to wince once before Blaine knelt and began doing it for him.

"Your ribs. Be careful."

"I'm fine." Kurt held on to some closet shelving. The overhead lighting was only partially turned on, so the closet was dimly lit, and Blaine's kneeling form cast strange shadows across the floor. Kurt stared at him shamelessly, struck silent and dumb by the sight of that neatly gelled head so close to his thighs, of those hands crawling capably from shiny bullet to shiny bullet.

A surge of greedy confidence lashed down Kurt's spine. He didn't understand it-everything he'd been through in the past year hardly lent itself to the construction of any kind of confidence. His husband had all but abandoned him as a lover and partner, and he couldn't remember the last time he had masturbated with any deliberation or appreciation for his own body. That part of his life felt exceedingly past tense.