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or do you still wait for me?
Jan. 28th, 2013 01:03 pmIt's date night.
Which isn't to say that Kurt doesn't spend time with Blaine every night, because he does. They both make an effort to come home as often as they can for meals, even if it's just for five minutes, a hand-off of a paper bag and a soft peck of lips. They sleep together at night, both crowding on Kurt's bed, too large for one person, slightly small for two. If it's a question of devotion, or a matter of how much time they spend together, there's no lack of contact between the both of them, not in the slightest.
But sometimes, it's nice to celebrate the ordinary. To break out of habits, spend luxuriously, venture out and set aside their burdens for a day. Date night. With candlelit dinners, a cut flower or two, and dances to jazz music playing live in the background. Quiet, rushed laughter as they head home, because as eager as they are to head out together, it's coming home that they look forward to most, unraveling and reveling in one another.
Date night.
Kurt laughs as Blaine crowds him from behind, peppered kisses tickling the nape of his neck as he tries valiantly to jam his key into the lock, hands fumbling slightly and deepening the flush on his cheeks, and someone's going to hear, someone's going to complain, but it's date night, so Kurt can't bring himself to care.
Until he hears the click of the door, pushing it inside, just in time for a sudden vision to pass in front of his eyes.
Red. He was wearing red, and Blaine was wearing a checkered collar, no tie. His eyes, rimmed pink from that — piano keys tinkling in the background — and a question delivered with that slow, knotting sensation deep in his belly.
Kurt takes a step inside the apartment, and it's dark, but he remembers — the glow of his phone and the vibration signaling a text, and he — missed calls, messages waiting — no, Kurt, you shouldn't answer that, what good is it going to do?
I need to see him. Can't sleep, tossing and turning, waking up with a cold sweat and that unchangeable ache in his chest. Bright lights, glaring to look at, but eyes wide and watching his descent down those stairs, and he looks good, he always looks good, the type of face you could fall in love with over and over. The cutest.
He feels like he's about to die.
The worst thing is, as soon as he turns around, gaze dizzyingly landing on Blaine again, Kurt knows exactly what's missing.
The trust.
Which isn't to say that Kurt doesn't spend time with Blaine every night, because he does. They both make an effort to come home as often as they can for meals, even if it's just for five minutes, a hand-off of a paper bag and a soft peck of lips. They sleep together at night, both crowding on Kurt's bed, too large for one person, slightly small for two. If it's a question of devotion, or a matter of how much time they spend together, there's no lack of contact between the both of them, not in the slightest.
But sometimes, it's nice to celebrate the ordinary. To break out of habits, spend luxuriously, venture out and set aside their burdens for a day. Date night. With candlelit dinners, a cut flower or two, and dances to jazz music playing live in the background. Quiet, rushed laughter as they head home, because as eager as they are to head out together, it's coming home that they look forward to most, unraveling and reveling in one another.
Date night.
Kurt laughs as Blaine crowds him from behind, peppered kisses tickling the nape of his neck as he tries valiantly to jam his key into the lock, hands fumbling slightly and deepening the flush on his cheeks, and someone's going to hear, someone's going to complain, but it's date night, so Kurt can't bring himself to care.
Until he hears the click of the door, pushing it inside, just in time for a sudden vision to pass in front of his eyes.
Red. He was wearing red, and Blaine was wearing a checkered collar, no tie. His eyes, rimmed pink from that — piano keys tinkling in the background — and a question delivered with that slow, knotting sensation deep in his belly.
Kurt takes a step inside the apartment, and it's dark, but he remembers — the glow of his phone and the vibration signaling a text, and he — missed calls, messages waiting — no, Kurt, you shouldn't answer that, what good is it going to do?
I need to see him. Can't sleep, tossing and turning, waking up with a cold sweat and that unchangeable ache in his chest. Bright lights, glaring to look at, but eyes wide and watching his descent down those stairs, and he looks good, he always looks good, the type of face you could fall in love with over and over. The cutest.
He feels like he's about to die.
The worst thing is, as soon as he turns around, gaze dizzyingly landing on Blaine again, Kurt knows exactly what's missing.
The trust.