Disclaimer: God, it's not even like the concept belongs to me =P
Rating: Mostly R, possibly NC-17 later, for general adult subject matter.
Warnings and spoilers: We are rewinding and bastardising season two; remember season two? Stuff happened, and now we have wolves around making some of it more intense. It will deal quite a lot with Karofsky and, god help me, it will later feature Sebastian (I know those are characters people aren't always comfortable with; for me, Sebastian's only redeeming feature is that he has no redeeming features and thus makes a handy pantomime villain). Some violence in later parts, sorry.
Summary: The gay teenage werewolf thing just got a hell of a lot more interesting.
Note: Been working on this on and off for *aaaages*, without really any clear intention of ever posting it, I just wanted to see what it was doing. Apparently I approach fiction the same way I approach my philosophy essays, I start out with a vague concept but I only understand what I'm trying to say as I understand how I'm saying it, and it was only this week that I realised where this was going (Seeing the Avengers film and remembering the importance of the Hulk as a metaphor helped; Joss <3). Werewolfism has stayed in the stories of humanity for a long, long time for a reason, because of what it means. Mashed up with a programme like Glee! what it means can be very, very interesting, so I finally got my direction and off we go <3 This may be slow to update because of work and the like, four other fics I'm writing simultaneous to it, but at least I know how it ends now! ^^
It's a clear cold February night, every scent crystal in the air. It smells like expectation.
Maybe he should stay in, maybe he should settle down and be a good boy (sit, stay, good boy Blaine), but the moon's a day from full and singing down his bones. He plays with every instrument he owns for approximately fifteen seconds each, checks twenty open tabs on his laptop, skips through the intros of thirty songs in a row and it itches between the knobs of his spine, maddening with want: the moon, the moon, the moon.
He's still in his school uniform, Friday night and the sky the glowing blue of dusk, and he can smell that something is going to happen. He doesn't know what (Tonight, tonight, he sings in his head, no way he can reach every note in that song out loud) but he knows that something is going to happen, and he knows that he should stay in, throw some old clothes over his face to drown out the scent of something something and just try to wait the night out. Full moon tomorrow, and no choice about it. Tonight he has a choice. Tonight he can choose to be a good boy.
Blaine's eye keeps drawing back to the window, to the high huge bulge of the moon, lightning-bright against the darkening sky.
He makes his choice.
He takes an empty bag with him for the uniform, to pick up tomorrow, he can't still be wearing his Dalton blazer on a Saturday morning - his parents don't notice much but they'd notice that, surely. There's a cubby at the back of Dalton gymnasium, lacrosse sticks and old footballs, dusty tennis balls too tempting at this time of the month. He undresses, folds his clothes neatly into a bag and slots it in with the other, behind a tangled pile of football padding, and his feet shift cold and naked on the concrete floor. He rubs his hair out, sniffs the dust and sour sweat and stale sneakers smell of the gym, and closes his eyes.
What it feels like -
It's hard to describe the between, because what the human understands and what the wolf understands are quite specific, and there's difficulty in overlapping those even without the between to bring into it. His body just - shifts. 'His body' isn't singular, his body comes in two shapes, and he just slips between them, his bones turning into other known places, his hair a fine spreading itch, and when he opens his eyes he drops to all fours and the colours are less but the scents are so sharp, nuances in the scent of simple dust like every infinite shade of blue in the ocean. He shakes his fur out, tongue hanging out to pant, and his claws click the concrete as he noses his way out of the loose air vent at the back of the closet. The hinges he put in last summer squeak with rust; the wolf never remembers to tell the human to bring oil, how can he think about that low shriek when all the air is full of the scent of grass and hours-past bodies, walking by at lunchtime Trent ate a Snickers bar, and Blaine barks at the sky in sheer elation.
He runs. His body knows running. He runs, the night rippling through his fur as cool as quicksilver. Across the grounds of Dalton and out into the countryside, woodland on the edge of the highway, half a mile away a twig snaps as a deer startles and his muscles bunch to follow but no, no prey, he doesn't. He doesn't. The wolf is still Blaine, and killing animals isn't sport. This is sport, running, stars coming out overhead and he can almost smell them, he can smell the moon like a song in the air, triumphant as trumpets, nothing so white in all of the world -
His nostrils flare, and his claws scrape the loam as he skids to a halt.
He can smell another wolf.
He doesn't even understand at first, paws skittering twigs, he's never smelt another wolf before, he's smelled dogs and humans and squirrels but - no, no, none of the above, a wolf, like him. Like him. A little whine escapes from deep in his chest and he paces a quick circle, seeking out the scent, a male wolf, somewhere, somewhere close, he can smell the skin under the fur.
Someone like him.
His tail wags, then stops, and he tries - he tries so hard, ears dropping - to think if this is the right thing to do, approaching another wolf the night before the full moon, but then he catches the scent again and the familiarity of it makes him dizzy, like he's known it all his life. He sets off at a head-down quick trot, following the hazy edge of it until he hits the trail itself, crossing and then hugging the wend of a creek, deeper into the nighttime woods, seeking seeking seeking, someone like him.
He smells it notice him before he sees the head raise, and the other wolf stands in the undergrowth and stares at him, its sides heaving in one quick huff. Its fur is as white as the moon. It smells like snow, like memory, like the moon, cool and white and clean, forever.
Blaine stares for two whole seconds before he just bounds forward, skidding to another quick halt as the white wolf's snout compresses into a snarl. Blaine quickly dips his head between his paws, tail waving high and nervous; Sorry, sorry, hi, hi!
The white wolf stares at him with odd pale eyes, and its tail whisks once.
Blaine risks lifting his head a little, sniffing in quick breaths at the black nose of the other wolf. The white wolf's nostrils flicker and it lifts its head so it's very much looking down on him, and it smells -
It, he, smells lost. The angle of his shoulder is remorse, his tail's particular tilt is worry. Blaine touches his nose closer, wet nose off wet nose for a fraction of a second; What's wrong?
The white wolf watches him with tense eyes, empty of trust. Mistake. Shouldn't have turned. Made a mistake.
Blaine rolls onto his back, grins at him with one paw batting at nothing in the air. I make mistakes all the time.
The white wolf's tail flicks, a very exact attempt at not smiling, and Blaine rolls back onto his front and wags his tail in the loam. I've never met another wolf before!
The white wolf tucks its head back for a second but then he does lean in, sniffing delicately at Blaine's snout. He communicates, Neither have I. Hi.
His whiskers catch in Blaine's, his breath is warm to Blaine's snout and Blaine breathes him in, scent of his fur, scent of the human he is underneath it, scent of the living body of him, all blood and sturdy beating heart and Blaine can smell the near-moon hormones a hot rush in his veins. Blaine tilts his head at him. Have I met you before?
The white wolf gives him an unimpressed look. Neither of us have met a wolf before.
But your scent. Blaine sniffs at him, and the white wolf rolls his eyes and strolls away a little.
I've never met you before. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be here.
Where should you be?
The white wolf swings his head away, ears lowering. Home.
Pack, Blaine thinks, and walks over, sniffs at the back of his ear - he can't understand how he hasn't met a wolf before when he knows this scent, not just a wolf's scent, his scent, like a memory. The white wolf curls one side of its muzzle up at him and Blaine ducks his head again, shuffling backwards through the loam, tail wagging apologetic and low. Play with me?
The white wolf stares at him. Play?
Blaine snaps playfully at his snout and the white wolf snorts, backs off, fur beginning to lift, wrinkled muzzle baring his teeth. Blaine rolls onto his back again, throat stretched long and open, waving his clumsy paws at his chin. Play with me!
. . . I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't have turned -
Blaine rolls onto his paws and jumps on him. The white wolf backs off in a snarling scramble and Blaine runs a circle around him, the scent of him is absolutely intoxicating like it's filled Blaine's veins with something wild with joy, he's high on hope, crazed him with discovery, someone like him.
Play with me!
The white wolf flashes his head left and right to follow Blaine's mad circuit of the clearing, leaping the creek each time, and finally his breath bursts loose white and his tail wags uncertainly. Blaine runs right at him and the white wolf dodges and snaps after him, angle of his shoulders a laugh, and Blaine turns a hairpin bend and leaps at him but the white wolf dives underneath him and sets off at a run, quick-left-right-dodge of his body as fluid as the bend of the river.
Blaine chases with a bark of delight, and he can feel the other wolf's laughter, can smell his wakening joy.
Blaine wakes up a wolf, sleeping with his head resting on another wolf's shoulders. He lifts his muzzle, blinks at the skittery light of dawn beginning between the leaves, and huffs a little breath loose. Curled in against his side the white wolf's muscles lift and loosen and he raises his head, shifts a foreleg, stares around the forest with his ears pressing back like he doesn't understand why he's there.
Blaine tilts his head as the white wolf stands and backs away from him, his scent all confusion and uncertainty and an underlying aggression, the smell of distrust. Blaine wags his tail in the loam and sneezes at how strong the scent of dawn is, the light waking all the leaves and making the sap sigh out. I have, it's strange communicating it as a wolf, what are clothes to a wolf? I have the needs of being human nearby.
The white wolf stares at him, then his stomach audibly growls and Blaine pants a laugh, the white wolf snorting haughtily at him, turning away. I'm going home.
As a wolf? Blaine hurries to follow him, at his shoulder like a shadow. Through the streets as a wolf?
He feels the twitch of the white wolf's uncertainty. Come with me, Blaine offers. I want to understand you as a human.
I have to go home.
Please. Blaine butts his head off the white wolf's shoulder. Please.
I have to go home.
Please. Blaine licks at the side of his snout. Please.
The white wolf swings its head to him teeth bared and Blaine ducks his head low again, tail wagging its apology; Pleeeeeaaaaassse.
The white wolf's tail flicks.
They run at an easy lope back to Dalton, the white wolf picking its way after him around the edge of the grounds, for the back of the gym and that loose vent cover. Blaine is very aware, even when he's not actually watching, of the way the white wolf moves, no wasted energy, every muscle's bend as exact and elegant as a bird's wing opening, while Blaine has a tendency to bound and lash his head about and get distracted by every scent and every bird's warning cry (wolves wolves wolves wolves!). Blaine catches the chicken wire in his teeth and pulls the cover up for the white wolf, he was brought up to open doors for people, and the white wolf gives him a quick amused glance and slips inside.
Inside the white wolf wrinkles his snout at the scent-echo of hundreds of boys' hundreds of days of gym class, mostly feet and sweat and raised testosterone, and the stale smell of the abandoned equipment. Blaine drags one of the bags out of its hiding place, pulls the zip down on the second attempt with his teeth; Dalton uniform. He drags the other bag out with his tail wagging and drops it for the white wolf, who looks at him uncertainly, strange pale eyes, and gives an uneasy wag of his tail.
For you. Blaine offers, nosing it closer to him. The white wolf watches him closely, then, with a gracious bend of his neck, picks the bag's strap up in his teeth and trots into the gym, for some quiet corner to change in.
Blaine stares at where he was for a moment, the scent-memory of him there so strong, fur and warm lived-in body and lovely wild wolf-scent, he smells delicious. Then he looks down at the bag in front of him, and closes his eyes to change. His body sneezes itself out again, limbs slotting back, muscles stretching out, he is now naked in a way he never can be as a wolf, and he pushes himself up on his hands, rocks back onto his heels, rubs at the dry dirt on his palms; he'll shower later.
He looks down at himself, begins rooting through the bag for his underwear in a hurry, because okay yes being this kind of naked in front of the other wolf is very very different to just being a wolf, and being right.
The other wolf. The other boy.
The other wolf. It's the day of the full moon, and tonight there's no choice, and the muscles in Blaine's neck are taut with knowing that the other wolf is so damn close, he can smell the scent trail he left behind of himself and the bag of Blaine's clothes he carried, there's a lunge of something in his stomach at the thought of whoever this boy is wearing Blaine's clothes, his body layered over with the scent of Blaine, something ancient and possessive in his gut that he tries to pretend away. He tries to slap some of the dirt off his feet before pulling his socks on, shoving his feet into his shoes, buttoning his shirt and his mind's suddenly running at twenty thousand miles an hour.
To the wolf it was simple excitement, another wolf! and no further thought, no idea of consequences. Blaine is aware of nothing but consequences in this moment. He has no idea who this kid might be. He knows the scent of him, he knows the way he moves as a wolf (the way the moon runs across the sky, curved like elegant glass) but he doesn't know who the hell he actually is. He could be anyone. The wolf trusts wolves, understands wolves, their interactions can only happen on known guidelines of power relation and pack relation but god humans make things complicated and Blaine knows too well how to get confused and hurt . . .
He drags his fingers through his hair a few times, trying to settle it back - no gel, god he is not about to make the best first impression - and he resettles his blazer on his shoulders, straightens his tie, squeezes his hands at his sides for a moment; time to do this.
He knocks on the ajar door to the closet before he opens it, morning sunlight casting thin through the high windows of the gym but there's no sign of wolf or boy. But it's the day of the full moon, and Blaine follows his scent, his lovely cool crisp scent, like he carries a piece of the moon inside him. Is that why Blaine knows his scent, because he smells of the moon that tugs at his blood like the tides . . . ?
His footsteps sound very lonely on the squeaking boards of the empty gym.
He knocks on the door to the locker room, and pushes it open a crack. He can hear a faucet running. "Hi, um, hi, may I - ?"
There's a nervous start of splashing water. ". . . su- um, sure. Um."
Blaine pushes the door nervously out of the way, and the boy runs wet fingers through his hair one last time and turns to Blaine, arms closing around himself, head a little ducked, looking warily back at him, one little twitch of his nose and mouth as he takes in Blaine's scent. Blaine - stares. His eyes are blue, dark and uncertain on Blaine's eyes, his hair a lighter brown than Blaine's but not light, not like he'd expected from a white wolf (his own fur, now he thinks about it, is paler than his hair, a shaggy grey-brown); he'd expected him as blond as bleached sand.
His skin is white like the surface of the moon, though. A little flush in his cheeks, his lips a deep pink as his nervous tongue flicks across them and oh god he's noticed Blaine noticing.
Blaine turns a smile on quickly. "So, hi. My name's Blaine, sorry, wolves aren't great at introductions."
". . . no," the boy says, his voice strangely soft and song-like. "My name's Kurt."
"I'd offer my hand, but, uh." Blaine wiggles dirty fingers at him. "Just let me wash up."
Kurt looks to the side, and rubs one of his arms in Blaine's old red sweater, hanging baggy around his slender throat. Blaine's jeans are too short on him, an inch of pale ankle and shoes that don't fit. Blaine tries to concentrate on washing his hands, smell of soap and water and the dirt coming off (the layers of scent in the dirt, the wolf catalogues the squirrel that ran over a slick of it yesterday, god his nose drives him crazy at this end of the cycle), but every breath comes with more of the boy - of Kurt - in it. Scent of his skin. The wolf is an underlying scent but Blaine can smell his skin.
There - it -
He should have words for this, but all he can do is become aware that oh god he can smell the beginnings of his own arousal and there is no way Kurt won't smell it -
"Two secs!" he sings, and flees into a cubicle to scrabble at his hair and hate himself, stop smelling him. But when he flushes and opens the door, heading to wash his hands again, Kurt's leaning against the tiled wall, arms around himself and elbows hugged in, staring sadly at the floor.
"I left my clothes at my school," he says, quietly. "Tore them, I really liked that shirt." He closes his eyes. "Maybe I can save some of the fabric. Thank you for the . . ." He shrugs a shoulder, a shoulder wearing Blaine's sweater.
Blaine busies himself with soap and water, partly just to try to obliterate a little of Kurt's smell from his nose. "Sure, it's fine. Are you okay?"
Kurt rubs his arms a little, swallows. "I . . . I turned into a wolf at my school. I - I chased off a bully and - and my bag's still there, I just dropped everything and ran off, if, if my dad -"
"Hey-" Blaine turns the water off, grabs a paper towel to dry his hands. "Tell me what happened, okay, slowly, start at the beginning. I can help."
Kurt's eyes flick up to his, and Blaine feels more than sees what's contained in them, the everything contained in them, fear and strength and loneliness and self-sufficiency straining its limits. He takes a little breath, settles himself, and Blaine smells his body relaxing. Forcibly relaxing. "My stepbrother convinced me to stay for glee practise last night, I let him convince me, because I hate missing it and I thought it'd be okay, and he would come back with me anyway so nothing could go wrong. Except that his brain is approximately the size of a kidney bean and he ran off after glee to deal with - with some stupid girlfriend problem, I can't even keep up." He squeezes his arms closer, squeezes his eyes closed, jaw tightening for a second. "My mind was scattered, you know what it's like, the day before, I couldn't - think -"
Blaine nods, because he does know, and Kurt checks his eyes, looks at the wall and wriggles his shoulders a little.
"I left my bag behind. None of this would have happened if I had just remembered my stupid bag. I was almost out of the school with M- a friend, and I realised, and she didn't want to wait up so I went back on my own for it and . . ." His breath sighs loose, and his scent runs out of high emotion, he just smells resigned now. "And this - this idiot jock who must've stayed late for extra football practise or some nonsense came out of the locker room, he stank, god he makes me-" He squeezes his eyes closed again, forces his breath loose like he's forcing that scent out of himself, and speaks between gritted teeth now. "He said some crap to me and then - said maybe I wouldn't talk back so much if he washed my mouth out down the toilet. And - the smell and the wolf wanting to just pull his throat out - I just, I ran. It was too much, you know what it's like, your brain just - just everything is too much, control just goes to hell when the moon -" He waves a helpless hand at the ceiling. Blaine nods, and keeps his body relaxed, his scent neutral, and watches Kurt's mouth tighten and twitch before he wets his lips again, and Blaine knows his scent like he knows his own bed, and he doesn't understand how he can know someone he's never met before.
"He was chasing me," Kurt says, touching his forehead for a second, struggling with it now. "I managed to get outside the building but it was too late, I could feel my body just going crazy, it was going to happen and I couldn't - all I could do was get behind the dumpsters to change, and then he came pounding out of the building and - and the wolf leapt at him."
Something in Blaine shrinks down pinprick small and painful, a gasp like his lungs just broke. He voice comes like air burst from a balloon, squeaking with too much feeling. "You-"
Kurt shakes his head quickly, arms pulled in tight. "I snapped at his heels, he ran, god, wouldn't you- ? But I didn't hurt him, I didn't bite him, I didn't. But - but oh god I just ran away afterwards, I just - I left my clothes there and my bag in the choir room, it's hardly like it's hard for anyone to - to work out -"
"No-one believes in werewolves," Blaine says, his voice not quite steady.
"No-one used to believe in werewolves, you know what it's been like since that attack at that school, every internet forum's screaming about it and I - I promised my dad -"
Blaine really needs to sit down, his knees have gone too weak, but he grips at a washbasin and hopes it doesn't show too much (smell too much) and says, "So we go back to your school and get your things and leave no evidence. That boy wouldn't have gone back alone in the dark to where he just saw a wolf. It's fine. We can fix it."
Kurt blinks quickly, his eyes darkened by held-in tears, and he says in a shaking voice, "My dad. He won't have known where the hell I went, the day before the full moon and that attack last year, I promised him I would always - he only lets me out on the day before the moon because I promised -"
"Wait, your dad - your dad knows?"
Kurt stares back at him, blinks once, everything happens with appalling clarity at this time of the month, Blaine can smell the salt tears caught on his perfect eyelashes. He says, his voice a little cracked at its low edge, "Yours doesn't?"
Blaine pulls his fingers back through his hair, then draws a breath in and wets his hands again, uses the mirror to actually comb it back into some semblance of order. "My parents have enough to deal with with a gay son. I really don't want to push it with the gay werewolf thing."
Kurt has gone very still behind his shoulder, and his voice is a little stilted. "They might be okay with the gay werewolf thing."
Blaine keeps his eyes on what he's doing. "Yeah."
". . . my dad's okay with the gay werewolf thing," very quietly. "Or he was until I turned at school and I don't even know what happens now, I promised . . ."
Blaine tries not to let it into his body language, though Kurt must be able to smell it anyway, the sudden awakening curiosity-surprise-hope.
Someone like him. Someone like him.
For a second they're both silent, aware of each other's scent, the wolves in them there in the way they hold their shoulders. Then Blaine looks to Kurt's face in the mirror and Kurt's eyes flick to his, Kurt's eyes pale like the wolf's again, calculating and quiet. Blaine breathes, steady.
"My car's outside. We can get to your school and get your things before anyone finds them, it'll be fine. Okay?"
Kurt's eyes flick to the side, and he rubs his arm through the sleeve of Blaine's sweater. He whispers, "Okay."
At Blaine's side he walks with a wolf's grace, perfectly aware of his own body, perfectly at home in it.
In the car Kurt flips through Blaine's CD case with his fingertips and murmurs down at them, "How do you hide it from your parents?"
Blaine tries not to look at him, it's hard enough driving with the moon like this, the car stinks. It's not that it smells especially bad, it just smells so much, oil and gas and hot metal and dust and just oh god why does everything have to smell so much - ?
"I got bitten a couple of years ago. When I realised what had happened I - I just knew I had to hide it." His mouth twitches. "Telling the truth had a bad track record for getting me in trouble. So I got a doctor to diagnose me with migraines, easy symptoms to fake, gets me nice days off school whenever I need them. Close my curtains and toss a couple of pills down the drain, and no-one bothers me."
"Don't they worry?"
". . . I think they worry about other stuff more."
Kurt puts the CD case back onto the dashboard and scratches the inside of his wrist, looking out of the passenger window. "I got bitten when I was eight. I . . ." He swallows, and Blaine can hear it so clearly with a wolf's ears. "My mom had only just died, and I was playing -" He pauses, and there's a little amused breath behind the next word - "alone, in the back yard, when a big white wolf jumped over the fence and I didn't even question it." He shrugs. "Nothing was normal anymore. I didn't see why this should be any different. It didn't even want to scare me, I think. It sniffed me for a bit, and I just sat and watched it, and petted it when it let me. Then it took my arm in its mouth and - it looked into my eyes the whole time, like it was trying to tell me to be calm - and it bit me." He sighs. "It was kind of a surprise for my dad come the next full moon."
"A white wolf."
"I - assumed werewolves were white, I'd never met another one since." Kurt looks across at him, smiles a slightly strained smile. "Until now."
"Wolf who bit me was brown," Blaine says, and looks back at the road, concentrates on his human brain, hold the wheel, focus, drive. "On a camping trip with my dad. The last camping trip we ever took, my mom yelled the hell out of him when he brought me back home with my ankle in bandages."
Kurt says, "You . . . you go out when you're a wolf?"
". . . you don't," Blaine says, and it's not a question. Kurt shifts in his seat.
"My dad's always been . . . wary, about what would happen if I met another wolf. I didn't know what would happen either." He runs his fingers down the strap of the seatbelt, Blaine feels every movement he makes in the skin of the back of his neck. "And then after that attack . . . it's not safe, being a werewolf in Ohio."
Blaine focuses on the road, says, "I keep hidden. The wolf just - don't you get bored, cooped up? The wolf just wants to run."
Kurt says distastefully, "The wolf also wants to eat raw meat and lick itself there. I don't usually let it have its way."
Blaine laughs, then struggles to concentrate on the road again while he can smell Kurt's scent bloom warm with pleasure, before worry sours it cold again. "He'll be worried," Kurt says, quietly. "I can't even call, I left my phone, I . . . he'll just be so worried."
Blaine feels - too much.
He can smell him, he's in the edge of his vision however he tries to stare straight ahead, he can hear the breath in his lungs and he makes Blaine laugh and the way he moves and really, really, the way he smells . . .
(The moon scratches down his spine, whispers behind his ear, and the muscles in his hands spasm on the wheel.)
He has to hold his jaw hard to say, "I'll get you back. It'll be fine."
Kurt's silent for a moment, while Blaine's wolf-senses can hear the troubled running of his heart. Then he says, soft as steps on snow, "Thank you."
Blaine's never been to William McKinley High. In the vague light of dawn it's any public high school, nothing of note, could be Blaine's old school with the science block and gym switched around, could be anywhere. They park near the cafeteria at Kurt's request and Kurt unsnaps his seatbelt, says, "My clothes should - if they're still there they'll be by those dumpsters. I need to find a way in to get my bag."
"Meet you back here?"
Kurt's eyes cling to the dashboard before he flicks them up to Blaine's, and Blaine can't move (blue as the rare moon). He says again, so softly, "Thank you." and opens the door, climbs out. Blaine swallows, and tries not to watch how his body moves in Blaine's clothes as he walks away.
The dumpsters reek. At least the putrid depths of it chase some of the Kurt out of his nose, and there are clothes left in the weak long shadows of the dumpsters, split-seamed and ruined. Blaine gathers them up and heads back to the car, shaking torn cloth out and trying to fold it as if it makes a difference now anyway. Nice shirt, dark paisley pattern. Nice pants too, which is a pity. The vest is pretty okay, just dirty and rumpled, and there's an undershirt torn right into two pieces. At least the shoes are unhurt. The shoes are particularly nice.
(No underwear, no socks. Turning in socks and underwear is a bitch and they usually take some running and yanking to dislodge entirely, they're probably scattered and lost along the route Kurt ran last night. Werewolfism: not always as dignified as you might imagine.)
Blaine makes himself stop contemplating Kurt's shoes, dangerous looking black wing caps. And he does know, staring at those shoes, he knows, that his parents struggle enough with the gay son thing. Gay werewolf son is just expecting far too much of them.
It's a few minutes before Kurt comes jogging back (easy-muscled loping of a wolf) with a satchel over his shoulder. "I don't think anyone's been in yet, not even the cleaners." he says, and he looks too pale and too flushed at the same time, his scent strung out with worry. There's too much breath behind his voice. "I need to get home."
"Are you okay?"
His breath sucks in. "I called my dad, I had to, he - he's not - okay with it." He turns his eyes to the yellowing sky, and his shrug comes tight and falsely light-hearted. "So I suppose this will be my first lycanthropy-related grounding. Oh god my shoes oh my god my clothes - do you mind - ?"
Blaine steps back, be my guest, and Kurt picks over the debris with just his eyes like he can't bring himself to touch the horror of it and looks so sad, then picks his shoes off the hood of Blaine's car and swaps them for Blaine's, which he lifts apologetically for him in one hand. "Thanks."
"No problem. I know what it's like."
"I need to - return these to you. Um. If . . ."
"I can drop you off at home. And we can always meet up again, right? I mean, not just for the clothes, we can -"
Kurt's scent does so many interesting things, odd loops of adrenalin and control. "That would be nice." he says quietly, and his smile is crooked, his eyes stay low, but Blaine can smell the honesty of the emotion. "I . . . I need to get home to my dad, he's . . ."
"Sure, of course. Before the janitor gets here and freaks out, anyway."
Back in the car Blaine tries not to look at him, shifts how he's sitting, tries not to think about it. He drives. Kurt mostly stares out of the window, arms folded, eyes distant, and the rising sun at this time of the cycle can burn as bright as it likes, it never can scour the scent of the moon out of the air.
Blaine arrives home just early enough to avoid his parents, clicking his bedroom door closed as his wolf-ears hear theirs open. He finally gets to change out of his uniform and wash, climbing back into easy jeans and a hoodie, he'll claim an oncoming migraine later in the day and close the door and curtains and try to be good. But right now he drops his uniform into the laundry basket, and slips something white out of the blazer pocket before dropping the lid on it.
He feels really weird and guilty and ashamed of this. He feels like a pervert, like he's committed a crime. And it could have been worse, it really could have been worse, it's not like he took his underwear -
Scrap of a white undershirt, a little sour with dumpster smell but mostly, when he raises it to his nose and god it's like inhaling alcohol, he feels the blood vessels in his head expand - mostly, mostly it smells of Kurt.
His hands can't grip it quite right, the muscles have gone weird like they want too much. Blaine licks his lips, and tries not to think about what he's actually just done. He met the guy last night, okay, they got introduced today but the wolves knew each other, and his scent - he needs to work out his scent. Blaine knows him. Haven't they seen each other before, somewhere, somewhen, they have to have, Blaine smells him and he knows him.
He remembers Kurt's father in the doorway, as Kurt let himself out of the car and mumbled his thank you again, his eyes meeting Blaine's quick as comets, he uses eye contact like he's too aware of what it means. Then he hurried up the path to his front door wearing Blaine's clothes and carrying his own torn up and balled up in his arms, and his father gave Blaine a look, Blaine has never received a look like that before in his life, and closed the door.
Blaine's car had still smelled of Kurt.
He rubs his hair out, climbs barefoot onto the bed and holds the scrap of undershirt like a baby's comfort blanket, rubbing the fabric with his thumb, Kurt's scent surrounded by bedding thick-sunk with his own scent. It smells right, the two of them together. He feels like a guilty bad pervert but mostly he just breathes in Kurt's scent and feels soothed, like all the world finally started making sense, now he's found this scent.
He'll nap. No reason not to. He has the cell number of a boy-wolf he knows like he knows the scent of coffee. He's sleepy and he has a bed underneath him. And he has the moon to look forward to, the moon sighing over his skin, the moon possessive in his blood, the moon crooning soon, soon, soon.
He naps. He dreams about moon-coloured snow, and a white wolf.