A Kiss to Build a Dream On

Everything about it was wrong, including the day. His first kiss should have happened yesterday, when he and Blaine stood face to face next to his car exchanging numbers. Kurt's heart had hammered and he felt an odd hum that he would, in due time, learn to identify as the electric thrum of mutual attraction-of the second before someone kisses you. Properly.

But he hadn't. He'd pinned Kurt with his honey eyes, gently gripped Kurt's jacketed arm and, with a small stroke of his thumb, said "I'm here, anytime you need me. Be strong."

And that was that. Kurt drove home, dizzy with an infatuation that was so unlike his hopeless crushes. God only knew if he actually had a chance, but it felt like he did. Or at least he was being flirted with. Or at least he wouldn't be ridiculed for having the unmitigated gall to flirt back. And that was pretty spectacular.

He would have been perfectly happy with the giddy memory of actually fulfilling the (pathetic) dream he confessed to his dad of walking-no, skipping!-down the hall holding hands. And the out of nowhere text would have just been icing on an already delicious cake.

But then there was Karofsky.

He couldn't think about it without tremors of fear and shame pulling through him. He knew it wasn't his fault. So why did he feel so much like it was? He couldn't think about it, but he could replace it...

Kurt Hummel's first kiss did not happen in a locker room. It happened in the autumn bright parking lot of Dalton Academy, which smelled like moss and leaves and nothing like sweat socks.

Large, rough hands did not grip his face too tightly, did not still his struggling and most certainly did not hurt him. No, soft fingers smoothed then curled gently around his lapels and tugged him forward so lightly that, had he not been praying for it, he wouldn't have noticed the pressure. "C'mere, New Kid," Blaine murmured through a hazy smile. A gentle request, not a shouted threat.

The lips that hesitated toward his were not chapped; they did not crush into his teeth, leaving sharp indentions inside his lip; did not carry the sour, slightly rotted tang of chewing tobacco. They were soft and pressed so gently against his and tasted like expensive after-coffee mints and made a quiet sound in parting.

When the kiss ended, he was not relieved. He certainly didn't feel like running and probably didn't want to cry. And when he was approached again, he welcomed it, with his hands spread against Blaine's back, pulling him closer-not shoving him away, not recoiling in terror.

He'd keep some things, though. He'd still bring his fingertips to his lips afterward, he'd still be stunned, his legs would still feel numb. But it'd be different. The barrier of his hand over his mouth would not be to keep an intruder out, but to keep that sweet warmth in, just a little bit longer. He'd be stunned with the realization that this finally, finally happened, numb from excitement. He'd still be immobile with disbelief, but it would feel nothing like a violation.

As he took that awful moment apart piece by piece, polished it with the aching sweetness of his new friend's smile, and put it all back together again, Kurt finally felt sleep ebbing in on him. Just before he went under, the scene as it really had been flashed unwelcome into his mind, startling him awake. He knew then that he had to see Blaine again. He had to touch his hand and hear his voice again to make this go away.

It was too late to call tonight, he knew, so he steeled himself to just wait it out until morning. He knew he couldn't sleep, but at least he could dream.