they’re a mess of half-spoken words and lies.
i’m not gay, dave says.
it’s okay, kurt smiles.
when did they get so lost up in each other and the people they played at being. dave smiles easier with kurt and he sees emotion, real and rare, bubbling up like molasses. fingertips brush. there’s gin on his breath the first time they kiss. it’s there like a stain the first time he goes down on his knees and prays before kurt like he’s taking holy communion at mass. it burns the back of his throat the first time he catches him, all teeth and jealousy, fingers gripping them both and stirring madness with each idle stroke. gin is the regret and saving grace the first time he gets kurt on his sheets, spread out and aching before burying himself so deep there’s a moment he stops breathing.
it’s too real, too good, too perfect.
i’m not gay, dave says, kissing away shallow moans.
it’s okay, kurt sobs, gripping his shoulders too tight.
he lets himself get lost in uneven gasps, the planes of milky white that yield under heavy hands. he tells himself that this is alright, that he’s got time. and then he doesn’t because scott dredged up a hornet’s nest and luis bore the brunt of it.
‘Time to pay your dues’ they tell him, waving knowledge of kurt around like a weapon until he’s short of breath and putty in their hands. a soft kiss is pressed to the corner of kurt’s lips as he sleeps. there’s blood on his hands, staining the couch kurt takes without question at luis’ place. he’ll feel bad about it later but now— now there’s a lump in his throat and he can’t stop staring at kurt, can’t help but wonder if he’d stay, if he’d hate him.
i’m not gay, he almost says.
it’s okay, he knows kurt will whisper.
“I love you,” comes out instead.
