Going for Broke

Chapter 14

For the second time in his life, Blaine wakes with Kurt in his arms. And this time, he can let it remain that way. He allows the knowledge to sink in, without even bothering to open his eyes. The memories of last night resurface: Kurt's body pressed against his own and cemented to him with sheets of cold water, the sight of the clumps of hair falling away, that first kiss—hard and needy and unwanted—and those later ones—sweet and soft and needed. Falling asleep to the steady rhythm of Kurt's breathing.

And it's all still there. He can feel it. Slowly, Blaine cracks his eyes open, waits for the blurriness to pass, and adds color to the pictures his fingertips have painted.

The soft light of winter morning stretches across the bed in flickering fingers of brightness from where it has peeked in through the shades, and the hazy glow of it casts everything into dream quality, insubstantial almost, but for the actual shape of Kurt's body secured against this own. He is real, and solid, tucked into Blaine's chest with breath fluttering softly against Blaine's neck. The sheets mold in and around their bodies, tying them together, and Blaine can feel the soft chill of Kurt's skin pressed against his own, from where Kurt has his nose pressed against Blaine's jaw, down the curve of his neck, the lines of his chest, the tapering of his waist, the weight of his cock, to the length of his legs tangled in Blaine's own. He's pale, like the feathers of a dove, and soft, so soft beneath Blaine's hands as they rub down his back, playing in the dip of his spine. Like this, he looks innocent, almost like a child. Because Kurt had his childhood stolen away from him when he was sixteen—maybe it's the moments like these where it seeps back in, all the forgotten laughter, the light in his eyes.

Blaine wonders if you can steal childhood back once it's been thieved. He'll do it. He'll do it an instant.

He kneads his hands into the muscles of Kurt's lower back, gentle but firm, and wonders how Kurt can carry so much tension even while asleep. How long his muscles been wound with worries and fears and other peoples' troubles, something Kurt seems to pick up wherever he goes.

Kurt attracts broken people because he is one—people like Santana, with her broken heart, and people like Blaine, with broken dreams. Sometimes it hard to notice someone broken, unless you've been there yourself. Sometimes you can't fix them unless you know what it's like.

Kurt fixed Blaine with paint and snowflakes and greasy fast-food French fries, before Blaine had even realized just how broken he was.

And all this time Blaine has been hoping to fix him right back, but now he realizes it doesn't work that way. He could give everything he has to Kurt—his money, his body, his love—but none of that can make a difference. In the end, Kurt will fix himself, because Kurt is an expert at gluing together broken pieces. All Blaine can do is stand below and catch him if he stumbles. And when Kurt is all sewn up, he'll have someone who loves him, stitches and all, and he'll have someone to love back, if he still wants it. If he needs it.

Blaine doesn't need to be a knight in shining armor. And while that realization stabs him in every ingrown expectation he's always had about love, he feels, somehow, that it will work much better this way.

Kurt stirs, stretching his legs and arching his back so he presses harder against Blaine, and hums happily as he repositions his head onto the pillow instead of Blaine's neck. He cracks open one eye and smiles sleepily. "Good morning."

"Good morning," Blaine whispers, raising one hand to brush at the strands of hair fluttering across Kurt's face. "Sleep well?"

"You're kind of like a human sauna," Kurt mumbles, shutting his eyes once again. "It's nice."

"Well, I strive for perfection."

"Oh is that what you call it?" Kurt smiles even as he teases, and lifts his head to press a soft, dry kiss to Blaine's lips. Blaine grins, and drags Kurt against him. He has the feeling he should be more turned on right now, but sleepiness and the great weight of contentment are enough—he's sated.