#randomactsofdouchebaggery

“We should–” Blaine stops.

“I want to… We should, yes, but I have to go right now; this weather coming in tonight, I have to be there for storm prep and evac. Blaine nods. He can’t think of how to begin anyway.

“They aren’t sure if this hurricane will turn at the last minute and nail us, or if we’ll just get the edge of rain, but– I’ll be back as soon as I can and then we can…” Kurt’s hands release and as he turns, they brush across Blaine’s chest in a way that can't be anything but deliberate. Blaine’s skin is on fire

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Kurt says quietly. As he opens the door and heads for his car, thunder crashes and the rain slams down in a wall around him. 

***

Blaine doesn’t hear Kurt’s car leave, but another blast of thunder and he finally snaps into actions. Were there towels still on the laundry line outside? And better bring in the barbecue and deck chairs, just in case. Rummaging to find candles and matches in the drawer in the kitchen and reaching down to get the aptly named hurricane lamps down from the top of the cabinets.

The wind is really picking up, a dull road outside. Every now and then a gust will slam the windows and Blaine flinches – he’s never been anywhere near a hurricane before and already this is the worst rain and wind he’s ever seen. He feels slightly anxious when he realizes it’ll only get worse. This is something he hasn’t trained for, there’s no manual to study or simulator to run.

He’s just decided to read, tucked up on the couch, a perfectly normal idea, further away from the seaside windows than may be strictly necessary– he may be a fighter pilot/astronaut, but he’s no fool. This is strictly about mitigating risk.

The roaring is getting louder and he notices there is a lot less beach between the house and the ocean now. He wonders uneasily if he should have gone to base– but he hadn’t been called in and..

He thinks maybe he hears a warning siren now, but it’s awful hard to hear anything about the wind and the rain pelting the roof and windows. This house is one NASA requisitioned - just took over when they built the rest of the base - it stands further out on the key all alone at the end and there is really nothing nearby, which is likely how Kurt wound up with it as his billet.

The lights abruptly go out and frankly he’s surprised the lines didn’t go down sooner. He’s just got a candle lit when the front door blows open, Kurt drenched and panting, slamming it shut behind him.

“The storm is headed right for us. We need to go now. The storm surge is calculated to..it’s going to be massive and we need to not be here when this thing hits. Grab whatever you can’t live without and we should get in the car ASAP.”

Blaine doesn’t really have much in the way of personal effects here – his civilian clothes fit in his duffel, his uniforms in a suitbag, and his few framed photos don’t fill up the cardboard box he’d kept stashed in his closet, so he drops the few books from his shelf.

Kurt is similarly quick to pack, his duffel and boxes already by the door. He snaps the covers over his record player and box of records. “We might as well bring them, we’ve got the room.”

They throw together a box of food - anything that will keep without being refrigerated, canteens of water, some cans of beer.

Less than 10 minutes as passed, but on their dashes out to pack Kurt’s car, Blaine feels like the wind is sucking the air out of his lungs. They jump in the car and set off slowly, the windshield wipers barely able to keep up with the rain, until they reach the end of the beach road.

To the right is towards the base – where they know they probably should go – too many people, too little space, safety and warmth and many distractions.

To the left is – no where in particular, except away from the storm.

Kurt hesitates, chewing on his bottom lip as he looks carefully at Blaine. That breathless feeling is back in Blaine’s lungs – he can’t stop looking at Kurt, his lips, his soaked shirt, so perfectly mussed against the fogging windows behind him.

“Where to, Flyboy? The base…” Kurt cocks his head to the right, then the left. “Or…”

“Or.” Blaine’s voice is hoarse. “Definitely or.”

Blaine gulps as Kurt wrinkles his nose in a quiet smile and turns to the left.

***

It’s still slow going, a line of other cars evacuating inland, but at least there’s a paved road. There are patches where it seems the wind is less but the rain is more, and vice versa. Blaine thinks they are outrunning the storm.

“For now,” Kurt cautions. “This one is pretty massive, so unless we drive all night, we’re going to get at least a hell of a storm.

Eventually, Kurt turns off the main highway and makes their way to a lowslung concrete motel at the edge of a small town.

“It’s not going to be great but it’s where I rode out the hurricane three years ago and that one was a more direct hit than this one and it’s likely to still have rooms available because it’s….well.” Kurt pulls in to a parking spot and puts on the hand brake. “Honestly, they usually rent rooms by the hour, but its clean and…it’s clean. That’s about all.”

Blaine licks his lips and makes the split second decision -not- to ask Kurt how he knows about it. Kurt throws his raincoat over his head and dashes to the office, returning in moments.

“We got the last room available. It’s around back.” he dangles the garishly coloured plastic keychain for Blaine to catch before starting the car and easing it around the parking lot.

Blaine grabs his bag and unlocks the door. The room is on the end of the building and “clean” seems to be about the only thing going for it. Tiny, with lurid red carpet and bedspread– and only one bed. Blaine wonders if the bathtub is an option and realizes he doesn’t want to ask because he…wants to be in the bed. And he wants Kurt there too.

Kurt stops in the doorway, rain beginning to pour. “We can…I can… the floor?”

“There’s no room on the floor. It’s really not a big deal – it’ll be like camping!” Blaine has no idea why he said that but Kurt seems to think it makes sense as he kicks the door closed behind him.

It’s getting darker by the second, it seems and Kurt announces he’d like to get out of his wet clothes, rummages in his bag and heads to the tiny bathroom to change before quickly turning around. “I’ll wind up putting my elbow through the door or out the window changing in there.”

They both quickly change out of their clothes, Blaine resolutely not looking at Kurt’s turned back – much. A few glances, that’s it, just to check– he doens’t know what he’s checking but he is noticing Kurt’s muscled back, his broad shoulders and fine line of hair dipping down from his chest to the waistband of his–

Blaine closes his eyes and breathes deeply, steadying himself. When he opens them again, Kurt is sitting with his back against the headboard, shuffling a deck of cards. Blaine piles the pillows behind him and sits down as Kurt deals a hand.

They are halfway through the first game when they begin to hear noises from the room next door.

Whomever it is is having an extremely satisfying, extremely vocal experience on the other side of the wall.

After they both pointedly ignore it for the next few minutes, pretending to be absolutely engrossed in their cards, Blaine decides he’ll take the plunge and be the first to comment.

“Did he just say ‘Oh, Barbara’?”

“Hmmm.” Kurt presses his lips together, amused. “I’m sorry, did you say something? I can’t hear a thing.”

A particularly loud and extended howl of pleasure has them both frozen in place, both grinning & embarrassed, just waiting until the silence returns.

“Oh well done, Barbara,” Blaine murmurs as he plays his next card.

“Indeed,” Kurt says gravely, and draws another card.

The wind and rain have been steadily increasing. Kurt gets up and pulls the curtains closed. They start another round of cards.

Barbara and her gentleman caller seem to have started another round as well, her voice, this time, rising and falling in pleasure. Blaine begins to giggle, and Kurt does his best to keep a straight face.

Blaine can’t pretend that he is not acutely aware of Kurt’s every breath and movement, shift of body and sigh. He feels his own breath coming a little faster. Barbara moans loudly.

“Kenneth? Did she say “Kenneth”?” Kurt whispers.

“I think so,” Blaine studies the cards in his trembling hands.

It’s at that point that the lights go out, Barbara shrieks and Kurt begins to laugh. The room is absolutely and entirely pitch black.

“Well, I guess cards is over,” Blaine sighs. Their fingers brush a few times as they both try to gather the deck back together. The cards thump to the floor as Blaine tries to place them on the nightstand and misses.

They lie down, ramrod straight, next to each other, not touching at all and listen to the rain and the wind howling outside.

Kurt clears his throat and says “it’s lucky Kate’s plane took off when it did – she’s home already by now, right?”

Blaine nods, then realizes it’s so dark, Kurt can’t possibly have seen. “She’s…home now, with her parents for a few days.”

One of the very last things on earth Blaine wants to talk about right now is his wife – though her acceptance and understanding and insight does give him strength. If only he could be as sure of Kurt’s feelings – and his own – as she had been.

Something smashes into the side of the building outside and they both startle, hands flying out towards each other. Kurt grabs Blaine’s fingers and holds them. Blaine doesn’t let go. Blind in the total darkness, wind like he’s never heard before, holding Kurt’s hand – he’s determined not to let go - not unless Kurt lets go first.

“She’s– ummm, Kate, she’s going to Paris soon,” he starts. “She’s always wanted to go and…” he trails off.

“That sounds lovely,” Kurt doesn’t let go of his fingers.

“She has…she says she has some things to figure out – we both do.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

Blaine sighs. “A good thing, I think.” He takes a chance and strokes his thumb on the back of Kurt’s hand. “I hope–”

The bed shifts as Kurt rolls on his side, now facing Blaine, still holding his hands. “Blaine, I–”

A loud moan from the other room, and Kurt stops to chuckle.

“Oh well done, Kenneth,” Blaine murmurs and they both dissolve into giggles.

Blaine rolls to face Kurt. Kurt’s thumb gently rubs against his.

Barbara and Kenneth’s growing passion blends in with the storm. Blaine is certain he will happily lie here for days, holding Kurt’s hand.

Barbara is getting louder now, clearly very much enjoying herself and Blaine can’t help but begin to imagine flushed skin and mounting tension, red lips and eyes hazy with desire. Kurt’s eyes.

He’s not certain of moving, or of Kurt moving either, but suddenly he can feel Kurt’s breath on his face and his whole body feels like he’s going to vibrate away, every atom in his skin alive and trembling at the nearness of Kurt. He wants to reach out his other hand to touch to feel to know.

Kurt huffs a quick laugh. “Well, now, that’s intriguing.” and Blaine is about to ask when he hears another, different voice in the other room, low and rumbling.

A slow thud against the wall begins and Blaine feels Kurt’s gentle fingertips slip up to find his neck, trace down to his collar bone, leaving a trail of want heat desire and Blaine thinks he has never been so turned on his life, just from the brush of Kurt’s fingers.

Maybe Blaine moved, maybe it was Kurt but suddenly, Blaine feels the heat of Kurt’s face near his and is about to close the distance to bring their lips together when three things happen in quick succession.

1 - the thumping of the headboard increases in intensity

2 - the voice they knew as Kenneth moaned “oh god, yes, George” and

3 a low and breathy moan from Kurt went straight down through Blaine all the way down to his toes.

Kurt has surged forward, his cheek just lightly rubbing against Blaine.

“Please,” he whispers. “Please tell me this is what you want.”

“You,” Blaine whispers back, bringing his hand up to cup the back of Kurt’s neck and crushing their mouths together. “You are what I want” 

Blaine whimpers at the taste of him, at the heat and strength of Kurt’s body pressing him down into the pillows, down into the bed, with the sounds of the wind at the windows, the sounds of all three people next door, the sounds Kurt is making and the sounds Kurt is making -him- make – in the dark, Blaine’s world goes quiet, as every fiber in his being understands – this. This is how it’s supposed to feel. This is what is should be. 

This. 

Him.

***

Later, Blaine doesn’t know what time it is, but the wind has quieted, the rain dimmed to a hard patter and a slash of lightening sky through the break in the curtains illuminates Kurt’s face just enough for Blaine to be able to kiss him gently on the nose as he lies on Blaine’s chest, Kurt’s chin propped on his arm.

Kurt starts to say something, then pauses. Starts again. “Should we…do we need to talk about anything?”

Blaine licks his lips, clears his throat and tries to decide what words will make their way out of his blissed out mind. “I don’t know if I can currently find a coherent thought in my brain, but I’ll give my best shot to anything you want to talk about.”

Kurt chuckles. “Lack of bloodflow to the brain, pooling in the extremities.”

Blaine clenches all his muscles and releases them, several times over - the same procedure he has to make in order not to black out when he’s in a jet pulling a highspeed turn. He bounces Kurt gently with each contraction.

“Hmmm. We can discuss -that- in detail a bit later,” Kurt murmurs.

“Mmmmm,’ Blaine agrees, eyes closed already, searching for Kurt’s lips again.

Kurt lays his hand on Blaine’s chest. “Will there be a later?”

Blaine’s eyes snap open. “Do you want there to be?”

Kurt smiles, a bit sadly. “I think I do. But I also….I also want to know what this– who you– how–”

Blaine curls to kiss Kurt’s forehead, and now suddenly he knows exactly what he wants to say.

“This is the first time my mind has slowed down, Kurt. The first time in my life, I have felt peaceful. I’m perfectly content to lie here with you until the cows come home. My mind isn’t rushing, or worrying, or tracking, or thinking seven jumps ahead. I’m here with you like this and maybe I’m supposed to be having a crisis, but I’m not. I just…-am-.”

“But you’re married,” Kurt blurts out.

“Katie is on her way to live in on another continent, and who knows if she’ll ever come back. I honestly hope, for her sake, that she doesn’t. She is meant for bigger things than being a shadow, being one step behind her husband, and that is all anyone has ever expected of her.”

He pauses. “Except me. It’s always been her and I against the world. I want her to have the life she deserves, and that is not back in Ohio with our families, kowtowing to her mother, yes mother no mother and drinking through garden parties and enduring the little ice pick stabs of genteel breeding.”

He swallows hard. “And it’s not here with me, waiting and waiting and shriveling away while she waits to see if I make it home or I wind up a burning smudge on a tarmac somewhere.”

Kurt closes his eyes and shakes his head, willing that awful picture away.

“Sorry,” Blaine shakes his head and takes a deep breath. “Kate’s the one who… she told me – she saw you and me together and she -knew-. She saw that I was happy in a way she’d never seen me happy before, and she told me I should–”

He breaks off and squirms

“You should what?” Kurt whispers

“Talk to you. And kiss you and–”

Kurt interrupts him with a gentle kiss.

“Will there be a later?” Blaine asks him, quietly.

At times, he did computer-y work for the US Air Force. At times, he drove a dumptruck and an excavator. At times, he wrote stories. He was a renaissance-man, whose curiosity was boundless.

He would want me to tell this story: One time, he got a congratulatory message on some of his astronomy work (and I find, to my chagrin, that I do not remember which of his projects it was.) Just a short e-mail from an astrophysicist, saying he'd found Lex's work very helpful. And it was signed “Dr. Bryan May.” Lex replied, thanking the man for his note, and, as it was Lex's penchant to do, he quipped “I bet you get asked if you're the guitarist from Queen all the time”, to which the man replied “actually, I am the guitarist from Queen.”

Lex would tell me that story any time Queen came up in our conversations, which was, not-so-surprisingly, quite often. And then we'd agree that “Fat Bottomed Girls” was a most excellent song, and that no one but Freddie Mercury could sing it without it being offensive (with all due respect and apologies to Glee and Mark) and then Lex would tell me Freddie Mercury facts that he had stored away in his mind. He'd bring up Freddie Mercury's birthplace (Zanzibar), or his religion (Zoroastrianism). And then talk would turn to Adam Lambert (the only acceptable replacement lead singer fit Queen, though Paul Rodgers in early '05 really wasn't that bad, either.) And then, inevitably, that would lead to Cheyenne Jackson.

I always had the feeling Lex took unspoken delight in bringing up Cheyenne Jackson in our conversations, if only to laugh at my baffled horror. He would send me the link to any number of Cheyenne Jackson videos, usually with Cheyenne in denim booty shorts. And I would express my disbelief at how anyone could be attracted to that man, and Lex would say “You are clearly not a gay man” and I would say “Lex, I think I'm pretty sure we confirmed that a long time ago” and he'd laugh. It was always the same pattern.

Lex had a great chuckle. He had a great voice. It was deep, with a slightly-Southern Midwestern drawl. It was soothing and comforting. He spoke slowly, and with gravitas, even when making an off-colour joke. He didn't speak often, but everything always seemed to pause when he did. You just wanted to listen to him. He was the calm spot in a frenzy of activity, a sure and fixed point in the whirlwind of creativity.

He was private, and laconic. He never wasted words, he never was overly descriptive or wordy. He didn't express emotions very often, beyond mild annoyance or frustration at what he was working on. Sometimes, he'd be wistful about romance and finding a good man, but he'd always change the subject whenever one of us would launch into matchmaking plans. He wasn't one for saying “I love you” to any of us, but he did go out of his way to show us he cared.  

Lex loved being a hub of information – he loved knowing things about people, so he could connect them. He remembered where people were from, where they lived now, their families, their hobbies or professions outside of fandom. He knew people's “secret identities”, lives or jobs or families they didn't talk about in fandom, and he relished keeping those secret – though he was not above saying “I'm not saying who, but I know for fact that we know someone who can confirm {such and such detail}” or “Let me consult my sources.”

I lived in a timezone 6 hours ahead of him, but he had strange sleep patterns, and so we often talked in what was the middle of the night for him. I'd frequently wake up to a message from him

“Uh-oh, I think my computer might be spouting random media files. You might want to check your email to make sure it didn't send you gay porn or something like that.”

And sometimes it was someone's book cover. Or a particularly exquisite paragraph or two that had struck him from the book he was working on. Or a set of fonts he was trying out for a particular book – he was determined each IP book would have a type face that was perfect for each book's content and feel.

And sometimes, it really was gay porn. Lex liked to keep me on my toes.

One week last summer, I had a really really awful week in my personal life. I was really very upset and I couldn't stop crying, and, as always, Lex was talking me through it & offering support. He happened to be in possession of my book cover, which I hadn't seen yet. And he told me I could choose just one little piece to see. He sent me just a slice of one of the small “photographs” from my book’s back cover, weeks in advance.

I knew I could ask him anything, and he'd help me. When my computer crashed and wouldn't turn back on while I was doing final edits on my book, he calmly talked me through the steps for to retrieve any cached information, how it was possible to restore my hard drive, and how I could get a portable hard-drive to save everything on before it happened again. When I had a conflict with someone, he listen to me freak out and then would calmly suggest some things I could try to resolve it. When I had myself convinced that what I was writing was god-awful, he'd read it and give his opinion. When I had a (still-unwritten) space story I was sketching out that hinged on a plot detail I couldn't figure out, he came back with 10 or 15 different ideas that would make it work. When I was upset, he'd talk me through.

If you're sitting there reading this, and thinking “I wonder if Lex and I were friends?” I can assure you, that yes, yes, you were, and he loved you fiercely. He was so proud of us, so proud of our stories and our triumphs and our hearts. He loved those of us that wrote stories, those of us that drew stories, those of us that read and appreciated stories. He loved us. If he replied to your posts with an irreverrant quip, if he sent you a message because you were having a bad day, if he helped you restore your phone when it froze, if he told you a story – he loved you.

Years ago, I was in a group chat thing with Annie and Girlie and Lex, and because we were all in different time zones, there would be a “sweet spot” where Girlie would be just heading to bed while I was waking up, and Annie and Lex were insomniacs. Inevitably the three of us would get winding each other up, with innueno and dick jokes, and like magic, Annie would appear online. It got to be a game for he and I, to see if we could start Annie's morning with an “oh my god I haven't had enough coffee for this.” He and I would often leave a good dick joke hanging in the chat window, and continue chatting in a private window, just so she'd be sure to see it first thing. It tickled him to no end to know he was making people giggle.

Lex loved decorating for events. His piano teacher (from when he was a kid) still came over to his house for most every major holiday, and brought with her her friends from church and assorted men she would not-so-deftly try to set him up with (which often produced absolutely hysterical texts from Lex “The Piano Teacher brought over a good-looking nice Hungarian boy. Sadly, she has not figured out that he's not gay, he's just European.” or “The 77 year old antiques dealer is not “available”. He is “still alive””) The day before Easter and he'd send me a picture of his dining room table, all laid out with the good china and fancily-folded napkins with placemats and tablecloth in coordinating colors. At Christmas time, he'd send me photos from around his house, showing me his enormous Christmas tree collection. (He was trying to figure out how many glass or porcelain or plastic or fake christmas trees  he had. Honestly, the man had Christmas trees of all different sizes, in every single room of his house. “Here's the hall bathroom.” In total, we counted over 41 “major” christmas trees, but we grouped the small ones, so I am unsure as to the final total count.)

It's strange, because I still find myself having conversations with him in my head. I can almost “hear” what he'd reply to whatever I sent him. I've found myself having to stop myself from messaging him, several times a day – with my usual daily mini-crises, or something funny that he'd get a kick out of, or questions to ask him. I guess it's a bit of a comfort for me that most of our interactions were via the computer. I always knew that he was a real person, living and breathing somewhere out there in the world. But, he was my delightful friend-in-the-computer, a devilishly funny supportive delightful friend who exists in my head first-and-foremost. I'm determined to keep him there, to keep his dry humor and his flair and his calm intelligence with me, to help keep me balanced.