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Antiquated Notion of Love

By skwirelygurli


Antiquated Notion of Love

Antiquated Notion of Love, a Glee one-shot

I do not own Glee. I've been missing from the fandom for a while, but I hope you all enjoy this. Reviews and prompts are greatly appreciated.

This is not a relationship. It's an agreement, with no strings attached.

How can there be, when all their clothes are on the floor?

"I missed this," he purrs, wrapping his tongue around Blaine's ear like a Tootsie Pop.

He can never get to the center without taking a bite.

He nibbles, ever so gently, at his lobe.

Kind of makes it hard to respond.

Moaning, that he can manage. His brain cannot function to find the words. Ones that are already seeping out his pores, with the way he arches his back and shuts his eyes in pleasure.

If he opens them again, will the fantasy dissolve?

He's not taking the risk.

(the page breaks here)

The sun isn't up, nor the temperature, but he propels himself off the bed into the kitchen.

In the glow of the fridge light, he presses his head to the freezer. What had he been thinking?

It seems the more appropriate question would be to ask what he hadn't been thinking.

He hadn't been thinking about how they're just roommates. He hadn't been thinking about how those words 'no strings attached' meant that by morning he'd be in his suit and tie, out the door before he could ask for seconds.

All he had been thinking of was that antiquated notion called love.

The one where they held hands, and sang flirty duets. Now the only thing he's sing is Kurt's praises to the rafters as the bed shakes beneath him.




A noise once reserved for the pitter patter of his feet on the wooden floor, now a broken mattress on the floor of their apartment.

He grabs a can of ginger ale, hoping it will settle his stomach.

He lets the door slam shut.

(the page breaks here)

Falling back to the pillow, he lets out a breath.

"My God, you are fantastic."

"Thanks, but you can call me Kurt." He rolls onto his side, his stomach pressing into Blaine's side.

Now would be an opportune time to laugh, if his mouth wasn't otherwise occupied.

"If you insist." Another kiss.

"I do."

Words he'd rather hear at an altar, instead in a bed with the sheets cast aside.

He kisses him anyway.

Somewhere they could go in front of a church full of their closest family and friends.

"Who's that make me?"

"You're Blaine. This isn't role-"

His words get cut off. It's time to end this mindless banter.

That's what early morning coffee is for.

(the page breaks here)

He pours a second cup, resting it on the coaster. Kurt takes it.

"Thank you," he says, setting down his script.

His lips perch on the rim, and Blaine tries to forget how they felt gliding down his back last night.

Does he have time for a cold shower this morning?

Preferably ice cold.

"Your callback is this morning?" he asks, nodding toward the script. Anything to get those lips off that mug, off his mind.

"Yeah. I think I have a really good chance of getting it."

The coffee burns the roof of his mouth, but he sips it anyway.

Those lips are even more hypnotic when they're not hiding behind the cup.

"Good luck." He wants to kiss him on the cheek to further emphasize the point, but he really should get going.

As if he'd let him.

(the page breaks here)

He crawls onto the bed, clasping Blaine's wrists between his hands.

"I'm going to take you downtown." That sturdy voice, threatening him with words that he could only hope he'd follow through on.

"Next time, could you try saying that dressed as a policeman?" Blaine whimpers.

His voice could have been strong too.

Alas, as Kurt made good on his promise, his ability to make words fled. Up and left, with no sign of return.

He'll find it hours later, when he's standing in front of the fridge, trying to find something to fill that void. The one he desperately tries to pack with misplaced hands and kisses.

For now, all he can do is shiver under the touch.

(the page breaks here)

Teeth sinking into his sandwich, he lets the jelly drip down his chin. It continues its voyage, straight onto his chest.

He should have gotten dressed first.

Might as well finish the sandwich.

"You have a little something," Kurt points, walking over to him.

"What are you doing up?" Peeling back the crusts, he drops them onto his plate.

It tickles. That tongue, brushing against his skin, lapping up the leaked jelly.

Licking his lips, in a way that makes Blaine die inside, he responds. "I had to use the bathroom. I saw the light on."

"Oh. I'll be back to bed when I'm finished," he promises. It doesn't make a difference.

It's not like Kurt needs to curl up to him to fall asleep.

That's not to say it doesn't happen.

(the page breaks here)

He wakes, his face in his roommate's chest.

He needs to keep reminding himself of that. They are roommates, with one bed, who fulfill each others' physical desires and eat their crusts off their midnight sandwiches.

"You taste like jelly," Kurt says.

A good morning kiss?

To what does he owe the occasion?

"But not peanut butter?" This may be partly curiosity, but it's more of wanting to kiss him again than anything.

He takes the bait.

Pulling away, he reaches for the lamp. He needs to see his face.

A hand pulls him in, noses bumping. "Don't turn the light on."

Late nights make way for late mornings.

(the page breaks here)

His voice echoes against the walls of the shower. His lungs are sore.

The heavy breathing.

The kissing.

The note he hits, belting out an unreciprocated love song.

It's a good thing that he doesn't have to get to work today, and that he can let his jubilee pour off of him, swirling down the drain.

"Blaine, I'm back!"

He turns the water off. "Be there in a minute."

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he tucks the corner in. His hands run through his hair.

Entering the kitchen, he gets a pretty impressive view of Kurt, on the tips of his toes, stashing the macaroni in the cupboard.

"All the apples were bruised, so I didn't-." He stops, caught off guard by the way Blaine is blatantly watching him.

The towel starts to sag.

"You didn't?" he prompts, waiting for him to continue. He knows what he wants to say, but it's rare that he gets the upper hand anymore. Normally he's the one telling the shower head how he feels while his roommate keeps as cool and composed as a cucumber.

A fresh picked cucumber.

Not the week old rotten mess that Blaine has become.

"Your towel." He's been reduced to fragmented sentences.

He takes a bold step forward, letting his lips hover over Kurt's. "What about my towel?"

His throat shakes as he swallows.

"I've got frozens."

He tugs at his lip for a moment, playing with it between his teeth, and lets go.

"Need any help?" he asks.

"I'm good."

Blaine flounces away, letting his towel sag even further.

He's gotten him hooked.

(the page breaks here)

The one night that he finds his words, and they work against him.

"What are you doing tomorrow night?"

Kurt lifts his head, gazing into his eyes. "You're serious?"

Yes, he's serious. He'd seriously like to spend one night away from this bed, with this boy that drives him insane.

The couch is not an option.

Nor is the motel down the street.

"Why not?" he asks, receiving a big, hearty chuckle as his answer.

They agreed, long ago, that there were no strings attached. They were friends, the best, but he was not going to get his heart broken again.

A heart can't break if he never lets anyone get a hold on it.

But it's been months, and he knows that feeling has to be somewhere in him. Those things don't dissipate.

"Ask me again tomorrow."

(the page breaks here)

He scoops his soggy cereal onto the spoon. Disgusted, he dumps it back in the bowl.

"I'm so in love with you, I can't see straight."

"That's why you're gay," he quips, sticking his own spoon in his mouth.

"Kurt, I'm trying to confess my feelings here." He gives his breakfast a second chance.

They sit in silence for a few moments, eating their cereal.

After a long sip of coffee, he speaks up. "Well, don't leave me hanging here."

Things were so much easier when his body could do the talking.

"I thought I made it pretty clear."

What more could he say than 'I love you?'

"Then show me," he commands, setting his bowl in the sink. His spoon clatters, like the sound of a barrier breaking.

His walls, crumbling to the ground as he climbs over the rubble, back to that antiquated notion called love.

The same motions.

The same emotions, now on display, in the light of the sun, beating down on his naked back.

It's not a matter of how long it took, or how much grief he suffered.

It's a matter of casting that grief aside, taking his hand and walking out the door, down the aisle.

Not right this minute. They're busy doing other things. But someday, at some moment, yet to be discovered, they'll get there.

He's alright with that.

Their clothes are on the floor, yet the strings are still attached.

They always were.

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