DISCLAIMER: I do not own Glee, FOX does. Nothing really to warn about in this fic, just first-time mutual handjobs, a little misunderstanding at the end, teenage awkwardness.
Title is from "XO" by Fall Out Boy.

If there was one thing Kurt loved, it was Fridays. Fridays meant the end of a strenuous school week filled with the usual glee club drama, too-easy classes, and constant slushie-paranoia, and with Kurt as a newly-minted McKinley student—again—Fridays also meant that Blaine would be making the drive to Lima as soon as Dalton's classes ended, and that was enough to keep Kurt from going all Psycho on his unfortunate classmates.

Going whole weeks with only phone calls and texts was killer, especially with end-of-the-year finals coming up. Kurt misses Blaine's constant presence, how he was always there to escort him from one class to another with an easy smile and a warm hand.

McKinley is a lot safer this time around thanks to Santana, but even with the immediate threat of Karofsky gone there's still the puckheads, Azimio at their lead. He still keeps an extra change of clothes in his locker should his face suddenly and unexpectedly come into contact with a slushie of mystery flavor and his shoulders will probably never forget the pain of being slammed into various lockers.

The squeaky linoleum floors and echoing clangs of metal lockers are a far cry from the Versailles-esque feel of Dalton, where everything had felt subdued and hushed, like they were in the presence of greatness. And with the average IQ of the Dalton boys and their family's household incomes, greatness probably wasn't too far from the truth.

None of it matters as Kurt flounces at out of the school at exactly three-fifteen that afternoon, bidding goodbye to Mercedes and promising her that he'd tell her the steamy details of his and Blaine's movie night by Saturday afternoon at the latest. He's free for exactly fifty-seven hours before being forced back and he's not wasting a second of it.

Almost there is what Blaine's text says when Kurt's phone beeps. He has half a mind to fire off a reprimanding Don't text while you drive, please text but thinks better of it because "almost there" means that their two-week dry spell is nearly coming to a close and if that wasn't cause for celebration and the occasional "I'm a good driver so I can multitask" text then nothing was.

He drums his fingers anxiously on the screen of his phone as he gazes out the window and onto the ever-greening front lawn, holding his breath for the second that the familiar car would be coming down the street blaring some stupid Katy Perry song.

The clock clicks over to eighteen past five when Blaine's little Ford Focus pulls up into Kurt's driveway and he steps out, still dressed for school minus the blazer and tie and still looking as flawlessly gorgeous as ever.

Kurt opens the door before Blaine can reach it, smiling stupidly wide and squinting against the sun. Blaine returns the gesture, pulling Kurt close for a kiss that's maybe a little too intimate for the doorway of the Hummel-Hudson house but both boys are too lost in the taste and smell of each other to care who sees.

"Missed you," Kurt breathes against Blaine's lips, carding his fingers through the soft hair at Blaine's nape. One of Blaine's hands is a warm brand low on his back, searing past the cotton of his shirt, the skin and muscle and bone and just penetrating the very essence of him.

"You too," Blaine replies, breath ghosting over Kurt's lips, sweet and coffee-scented. "School sucks without you."

Kurt rolls his eyes. "Tell me about it."

Blaine knows that tone, the tilt of that head. He smiles to himself as Kurt grabs his hand and shuts the door behind them. He leads Blaine into the house, chattering along the way about New Directions and the stupid new weekly assignment Mr. Schue had them do this week and Blaine listens attentively, nodding his head and putting in his two cents where he deems necessary.

Kurt is just… He's home.

By seven that night, after a slightly-awkward family dinner that involved some ill-timed questions from Finn that resulted in a blushing Kurt and an uncomfortable Burt, both he and Blaine are sitting at the head of his bed, red cashmere blanket draped across their laps. Kurt leans in toward Blaine, resting his head on his shoulder, feeling the vibrations as he speaks travel up and through him.

"I mean, you don't get much more romantic than how Delilah appears at Chance's home to surprise him, and then, what she says…" Blaine's explanation of the romanticism in Homeward Bound II tapers off into a sharp, soft gasp, his hazel eyes wide as his spine stiffens in shock.

Kurt leans closer, rubbing the hand that had settled over Blaine's lap teasingly slow up toward the waistband of his jeans and then back down with an air of seductiveness that he wasn't aware he could conjure up. "Mm, go on," he says, feigning calm while his heart is actually beating alarmingly fast and his own jeans are tightening at the feel of Blaine's slowly stiffening cock under his palm.

Why am I doing this? This isn't me. I don't make the first move, especially this move.

"I—I," Blaine stammers, and Kurt feels a momentary surge of pride at causing his usually-articulate boyfriend to be at such a loss for words. "I… Kurt. Kurt," Blaine gasps when Kurt squeezes.

Those noises. That face. This must be why.

"Put your hands on me, Jack," Kurt whispers into Blaine's ear, grasping one of his hands and pulling it under the blanket to settle on his lap, feeling prickly sweat gather at his armpits from adrenaline and a sudden room temperature spike.

"Shut up, Rose," Blaine murmurs, and Kurt can't fight his smile. Blaine uses his free hand to tilt Kurt's face to him before pressing their lips together. It takes him a moment but when he appears to gain some control over his body he mimics Kurt's earlier movements and squeezes, taking Kurt's breathy moan as a good sign.

They kiss sloppily, as teenage boys sometimes tend to do, and even though they've gotten into some pretty heavy make-out sessions before the first touch of Blaine's tongue to his closed lips and then into his open mouth still surprises Kurt, sending little electric thrills down his spine.

It takes a second or two for Kurt to register that Blaine is now popping the button on his jeans, sliding down the zipper and oh god his hand is on only the thin material of his briefs, thumb rubbing against the damp head of his cock through the cotton.

"Blaine," Kurt gasps, hips canting upwards. He has to force himself to keep the rhythm going on Blaine's lap, but now it feels like it's not enough, that he should go further, and maybe he needs to man up and go that extra mile.

The blanket soon becomes impossibly hot on their laps but Kurt doesn't want to risk moving it, not with his door cracked the mandatory seven inches his father imposes upon him whenever Blaine makes a visit.

Blaine trails wet kisses interspersed with tiny nips down Kurt's neck; his own breath heavy and needy as Kurt rubs, digging his heel down occasionally. After one particularly desperate gasp Kurt finds the cool metal of the button on the slacks, drawing it open before pulling down the zipper.

Unlike Blaine, Kurt doesn't settle for over-the-underwear groping. He takes a deep breath, pressing his lips against the forming stubble on Blaine's cheek for a brief second, and delves into his underwear.

For all the bravado he's somehow managed to conjure up, Kurt is still freaking out. Sure, this is only another boy, and he's jerked off plenty of times, so it can't be that much different. But it's painfully obvious that the cock in his hand is not his own. It's a little thicker in girth and slightly longer and feels almost like Kurt needs to earn the right to have his fingers wrapped around it.

Kurt sneaks a glance at Blaine to see that his head is thrown slightly back, eyes closed and mouth open just enough to let out a few soft moans when Kurt's hand shifts. He looks absolutely sinful in a way that Kurt knows is unachievable for himself but is so uniquely Blaine and his brand of sexy.

He retracts his hand from under the blanket, ignoring Blaine's whine and puppy-dog eyes. He focuses only on Blaine's gaze locked on his own as he brings his hand up to his mouth to lick a long, wide stripe across the palm, tasting skin and sweat and musk and Blaine and oh god, what would his cock taste like in his mouth, filling him up, sitting hot and heavy on his tongue, pushing at the back of his throat.

Kurt moans

Blaine whimpers.

The hand disappears back under the blanket and then Blaine is moaning, accompanying it with a desperate rock of his hips, a push upward into the tight, slick circle of Kurt's fist. "Kurt," he whispers, his free hand coming up to fist in the front of Kurt's shirt, their movie long forgotten.

"Yes, Blaine," Kurt says, not asks, and speeds up his hand slightly. Blaine can only make a strangled little moan in response when Kurt's thumb presses right below the ridge on the underside of his cock before he's tracing slowly, too slowly, down the vein.

It's hotter than Kurt could have ever imagined, seeing Blaine fall apart like this, reduced to monosyllabic responses and unintelligible noises as Kurt alternates rhythms. He can even excuse Blaine's poor reciprocation, all in favor of those lust-blown hazel eyes, that reddened mouth dropped open, closing only when Blaine swallowed or rubbed his lips together to apply moisture once again.

Eventually Blaine pushes Kurt's briefs aside and his warm, dry palm is wrapped around his cock and Kurt's ministrations momentarily stutter at the unexpected sensation. Kurt presses their lips together, tangling his free hand in Blaine's curls as each stroke brings him closer and closer to the edge.

"Don't wanna ruin the blanket," he pants, though he's honestly so far gone that ruining the blanket seems like only a trivial problem. Blaine grunts and quickens his hand and Kurt can't hide his wince because ow, that's dry, even with pre-come. He bites down on Blaine's bottom lip as punishment and is rewarded with another moan and an equally-as-fierce nip back.

The credits are rolling across the screen by now, but they're so tuned in to each other, every movement and noise, every breath took, every jolt upward of someone's hips as a finger pressed just right or a grip became just this side of fantastic. Kurt was only aware of Blaine, Blaine was only aware of Kurt.

"Close," Blaine gasps, swiping his thumb across the head of Kurt's cock. "God, so close, Kurt."

His body trembles next to Kurt's, shaking like a wire ready to snap. Their crossed forearms occasionally brush as they change angles, adjust grips, and Kurt cannot believe that they're sitting on his bed, door cracked open, blanket draped not-so-subtly across their laps, and mutually jerking each other off.

In the end, he isn't sure if it's this thought, the idea that they could be caught at any moment, or Blaine panting hot and wet into his ear that sets him off, but suddenly he's coming harder than he has ever before, ruining the blanket and snapping his hips up a few times before collapsing, boneless, onto his decorative pillows.

He's barely conscious of Blaine coming a few moments later, his teeth a sharp fixation in Kurt's shoulder, moans muffled in a way Kurt's quite sure his weren't. They stay silent for a bit, catching their breath and staring at the vivid blue of the television screen.

"Well," Blaine says into the silence, sounding completely blissed-out, "didn't quite picture it like this."

Kurt tries not to blush or feel disappointment, but he does and suddenly he's aware that they're still residing, exposed, under a ruined blanket. He hastily tucks himself back in and zips up before pushing the blanket off his lap and standing up.

Blaine quickly directs his attention over to Kurt, eyebrows crinkled in confusion. "What's wrong?"

"'What's wrong?'" Kurt echoes in disbelief. "You tell me, Blaine. I'm sorry I'm such a disappointment." He's horrified to find that his eyes sting with tears and he tilts his head up toward the ceiling, trying his best to get them to go back where they came from. Clearly, his body hates him and doesn't listen because in the next second they're trailing hot and wet down towards his ears.

"I—" Blaine starts before snapping his mouth shut. He fumbles for a second or two under the blanket before pushing it unceremoniously to the floor, a soiled reminder of what appears to be a soiled night. Kurt crosses his arms over his chest self-consciously and avoids looking in Blaine's direction.

"Kurt," Blaine says, voice sounding closer. Kurt still ignores him, turning his head towards his door, suddenly praying for a dad-intervention. "Kurt." Blaine's voice is forceful yet gentle, and a finger catches under Kurt's chin, staying there motionless until Kurt gives in and lets his gaze be directed toward Blaine.

There's nothing but hurt and confusion in Blaine's eyes. "It was wonderful," Blaine says as a way of explanation. "I loved it. I really did. It's just, from you… I expected you to make the moves—if you ever did—with candlelight or some stupidly romantic movie. Not just out of the blue on a Friday."

Kurt tries to laugh but it comes out sad and pathetic and he hates himself for being so emotional and irrational and why, why can't he just enjoy what life gives him. "I've always found Homeward Bound II romantic."

Blaine chuckles and leans up to kiss Kurt soundly on the mouth. "Me too."

"Sorry," Kurt whispers, brushing the back of his hand across Blaine's cheek. "I really enjoyed it, too." He blushes again, this time for a very different reason as he catches sight of what was once his favorite blanket, crumpled in a heap on the ground. Blaine follows his gaze and smiles.

"You can ruin something of mine next," Blaine says, something in his voice challenging but yet shy, a juxtaposition Kurt has found that he loves in the other boy. He loves the other boy.

He fits his hand in Blaine's and says, "I'd have it no other way."