Adam Tremlock (tremlock) wrote,
Adam Tremlock

fic: playing with ice (quinn/blaine + background kurt/blaine, pg-13)

Quinn/Blaine + background Kurt/Blaine
She kisses differently to Kurt.

She kisses differently to Kurt. Tastes different, too—a combination of cherry and tangerine, sweet but with a hint of bite. She’s perfectly silent, too—where Kurt is all whimpers and groans, scraping his fingers through the short hair at the back of Blaine’s neck, Quinn simply pulls him closer with a hand cupped around his jaw and fingertips pressed into the dip below his ear, and kisses like she’s holding something back, like she’s just saying hello with her lips in the way way she links their fingers together only briefly before pulling away—a fleeting touch, almost scared to be followed through to completion.

He sort of misses the passion and heat in Kurt’s kisses, but this is good too—careful, restrained, in control. He doesn’t feel like he’s about to fly out of his skin with this kiss; his mind doesn’t go blank and his pulse doesn’t threaten to choke him.

When Blaine pulls away, Quinn doesn’t try to stop him. She just looks at him with quiet eyes, eyes pale and glinting slightly in the late-afternoon sun streaming in through Blaine’s window. “Still gay?” she asks, but they both know it’s really a rhetorical question. They both know that it isn’t about the physical, this thing between them; they’re still safe, Blaine still gay and Quinn still whatever she is (Blaine’s never pushed her for a label, although the way she watches Rachel in Glee sends suspicions flitting through the back of his mind).

“Still gay,” Blaine confirms all the same.

“No fireworks?”

He smiles. “No fireworks.”

She relaxes imperceptibly, and it’s only now that Blaine realises how dangerous it could have been, how close they were to shattering everything. They’re not playing with fire here; they’re playing with ice, a glacier of emotion frozen into place, something that might just crack at any moment and send them both sliding into black depths.

Blaine presses his lips together. He can taste her lipgloss, heavy and sticky on his mouth. He’s not entirely sure how he feels; he feels light-headed and slightly dizzy, the taste of berry lipgloss fogging his mind. So he pulls her close with a hand on her hip and kisses her again, pressing their chests together and feeling her soft curves beneath her softer blue, cotton dress. (It does nothing for him. He knew that already.)

He pulls her close, tastes cherry and tangerine and berry lipgloss, feels the smooth slide of their lips together, but he doesn’t push further. (Why would he?) They don’t use tongue. It feels too much like cheating. (Not that they’re cheating. They’re not in love. They’re not having sex. They’re just friends.) Without tongue, they can pretend that emotions don’t count, that this connection between them is simply one of friendship.

(They both know that isn’t true.)

“You need to get ready to go out with Kurt,” Quinn says, not dropping her hand from his cheek. “BreadstiX at seven, remember?”

“Help me choose an outfit?” (He doesn’t mean clothes. He means a persona, a way of existing away from her calming presence, when the hurt starts to burn and ache once more and he doesn’t know why, doesn’t understand why or know how to make it stop.)

Her touch is cool on his skin. (He sometimes wonders if she’s made from glass, cool and smooth and breakable.) She traces the line of his jaw, his cheekbones, the curve of his lip. Her eyes are unreadable, both present and so distant all at once. “Kurt likes your outfits.”

“He told me that I looked like the reject child of a zebra and a clown last week.” Blaine pouts slightly. (Performed emotions don’t hurt like real emotions do. He controls them, chooses how to let them play across his face, how much to let others see.)

She laughs slightly and drops her hand, taking a step back to perch on the egde of his bed. She smoothes her dress over her thighs, a small smile quirking her lips (he can still taste her lipgloss). “I’ll tell you if you look too bad.”

He smiles at her, relishing in the way he can smile without it feeling like it’s tearing his ribcage apart, joints popping and bones puncturing vital organs. He feels both less and more—over-sensitive like being out in the cold for too long, and numbed, like cool water on a burn—but he can handle it, now.

(He thinks.)

(He kisses her again, just to be sure.)

Tags: writing
  • Post a new comment


    default userpic

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.
  • 1 comment