Title: Love The One You're With (2/?)
Author:
michygearyRating: PG/PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Kurt, Jeff, Nick, Blaine, others; various pairings.
Word Count: 4,930 (7,242 total so far)
Spoilers (if any): Takes place mid-season 2, just after Valentine's Day (2x12).
Warnings (if any): Multiship-friendly.
Summary: Kurt is in love with Blaine. Jeff is in love with Nick. The two of them team up to get what they want.
Author's Note: Kurt and Jeff are best friends. Kurt and Blaine are good friends. Nick and Jeff are acquaintances, sometimes friends, more often competitors. Diverges from canon mid-season 2. Without Sonja, I am nothing.
All chapters: One | Two | Three
Other Links: Tumblr | Scarves & Coffee | Quoth the Warbler
It doesn't take long for word to spread about Kurt and Jeff's new relationships status, due in large part to their demonstrative but tasteful displays of affection before class and their not-so-subtle flirtation during World History. By second period, they are the veritable talk of the school.
They lace their fingers as they meander down the hallway, relishing in the hushed buzz around them. Kurt isn't used to the positive attention and Jeff isn't used to the attention at all, putting a little extra bounce in their steps.
"Well, I think our public debut is going swimmingly," Jeff decides, just quiet enough for only Kurt to hear. Kurt smiles and tugs Jeff's wrist, pulling them closer together.
"I can't wait to hear what moniker people come up with for us," Kurt sighs dreamily, swinging their arms as they walk. "What do you think it'll be? Kuff? Jert?"
"Those are both pretty horrifying," Jeff remarks. "Maybe they'll go by our last names. Like Rammel. Or Humsey."
Kurt winces. "We'll work on it."
Jeff nods. "Hey," he starts quietly. "Thanks for... you know... your convincing performance yesterday."
"Well," he replies, "if you're going to take the plunge, might as well make a splash, right?"
"That's a good way to look at it."
Kurt nudges Jeff's shoulder with his own. "Soooo."
"So?"
"You know," he hums. "How was my form?"
"What, you want to play Monday morning quarterback?"
"It's Wednesday," Kurt points out.
"Good point," he concedes. "All right, well, in that case..." He clears his throat and puts on his best John Madden voice. "Things kicked off with a great play by number 17—Kurt Hummel packing a lot of heat right out of the gate behind those beautiful but piercing blue-green eyes..." Kurt barks a laugh that draws, if possible, even more attention from passersby. "It started off slow, but the end of the second quarter saw a great hustle from team Humsey, scoring the first major touchdown of the game and promising more spectacular plays for the rest of the season."
"Beautiful eyes, huh?" Kurt teases.
"What can I say? I know how to pick 'em."
They slow and turn to face each other as they reach the juncture of the hallway as the bell rings for their only disparate class of the day. "I'll meet you here after class and we'll head to English together, okay, pookie?"
"Don't I get a good-bye kiss?" Kurt asks, offering his cheek playfully. Jeff rushes in to peck him lightly along his jawline.
"Scamp," he mutters affectionately, squeezing Kurt's hand before heading off to his photography class. Kurt smiles wide, turns on his heel, and skips off to French.
They have a spirited reunion in the hall before third period in which Kurt expresses how much he missed his dear boyfriend in the 75 minutes for which they were so cruelly separated. They link arms and scurry off to English where they, sadly, have alphabetically assigned seats that put them across the room from each other. Jeff makes a show of walking Kurt over to his seat, pulling out his chair like a gentleman, and kissing the back of Kurt's hand before heading over to his own table. The boys around them buzz with excitement, giving sidelong looks and whispering behind hands to their tablemates.
Newton Russell, a lanky boy with teeth too big for his mouth, leans over to Jeff. "So," he singsongs, "you and Kurt?" A wide grin breaks out on Jeff's face. "About time," Newton says, nudging him lightly in the ribs. "If you two were any more obvious, you'd probably get arrested for public indecency."
"Thank you?"
"Oh, hush, you know what I mean," Newton says, nonchalantly pulling out his books from his bag and stacking them at the corner of his workspace. "Stevens and Gifford were taking bets over how long it would take you two to hook up. I'm pretty sure half the class was in on it."
"Good one, Newt," Jeff mumbled, laying out his own notebook and school supplies across the table. "And Hummel and I have a bet on how long it will take you to finish growing out that tail to go with your webbed hands and feet."
"Oh, ha ha, because I'm a newt, well-played, slick."
Mr. Palmer, a wizened old professor with a head of neatly-combed hair graying at the tips, arrives a few minutes later to interrupt the low rumble of well-mannered gossip mongering. "All right, settle down," he says, tossing his leather-bound briefcase onto the desk and fishing his bifocals from his breast pocket. "I know we're all very excited that Mr. Ramsey and Mr. Hummel have finally consummated their burgeoning desire for one another, but it will not be on the final exam. So let's get back to Gatsby, shall we?"
Something Jeff really appreciates about Mr. Palmer is that his old-school teaching regime has him reading the books aloud from his podium, which means he spends a great deal of time looking down at an open book and not too much at his students. Jeff often finds this to be a good time to send Kurt silly text messages about what they're reading or which fellow student has the best ass or what their plans are for that night. Today is like any other day with one minor exception.
From Jeff, 10:49 a.m.
Just go w/ it @ SU theatre 2nite, y/y?
As soon as he hits send, his eyes shoot across the room to Kurt. It's his favorite part of their clandestine in-class texting routine because Kurt is a ninja when it comes to checking his phone. Jeff smiles fondly as Kurt's hand slips into his blazer pocket to pull his phone into his lap without moving his head or taking his eyes off the professor. He blindly unlocks the phone and opens the text message while he furiously scribbles notes into his notebook with the other hand. As Mr. Palmer explains the significance of Gatsby knocking over the mantle clock, Kurt nods his head thoughtfully and turns his eyes down to his notebook as though to write. They flicker past the desk to his lap, though, where he quickly reads and then promptly taps out a response with impressive one-handed dexterity. Jeff smirks when Kurt's reply finally reaches his phone because it is full of exclamation points, capital letters, and palpable excitement that shows absolutely nowhere on his actual face.
From Kurt, 10:50 a.m.
OMG yes!!! I have been DYING to see that! Jennifer Aniston is my QUEEN.
Jeff hides his amusement behind his hand before replying, with a bit less skill and speed.
From Jeff, 10:52 a.m.
Had something a lil dif than our usual in mind tho
From Kurt, 10:53 a.m.
You have my attention, sir. Use it wisely.
From Jeff, 10:57 a.m.
Well since we ARE dating now I thot dress up & go 2 dinner after or s/t...good publicity
From Kurt, 10:59 a.m.
Fancy dress, dinner and a movie... why, Jeff Ramsey, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're trying to woo me.
From Jeff, 11:01 a.m.
Dont get ur hopes up hummel i have no intention of paying 4 ur movie or dinner
From Kurt, 11:02 a.m.
Gosh, you make it impossible to say no!
From Jeff, 11:02 a.m.
That a yes?
From Kurt, 11:04 a.m.
It's a date. I'll come by your room around 4PM to dress you.
From Jeff, 11:06 a.m.
I cant do that myself?
From Kurt, 11:07 a.m.
Probably not.
Kurt lays sprawled on his stomach on Jeff's bed, clutching a pillow, with his feet up and crossed at the ankles above him. Jeff stands in his closet as he pulls out shirts, sweaters, and pants of all different colors, brands, and fabrics. He is disheartened to learn that, despite their tastefulness, his funeral attire is not appropriate for a first date, which leaves him with very few options besides his school blazer.
"How about a nice button-down or a cardigan?" Kurt calls over.
"Cardigan...is that a type of top or bottom?"
"Okay, remind me that we need to add shopping to our list of future date night festivities," Kurt grumbles.
"Whoa, whoa, who said there will be future date nights?" Jeff asks. "You have to impress me on our first date first."
"Oh, Ramsey, I'm bringing my A game," Kurt promises, pulling himself up to sit cross-legged.
"I'm shaking in my boots."
"Uh-uh, sweetie, I'm the only one who gets to wear boots on this date."
Jeff's laugh echoes in the deep closet. "Okay, how about this?" He unhooks from the rod a grayscale striped cotton polo and holds it out for Kurt, who shakes his head.
"That makes my eyes hurt," he says, "and it would make you look like a fashionless zebra."
"Okay..." Jeff shuffles a few hangars around and then cries, "aha!" and pulls out a purple Burberry dress shirt. Kurt sighs.
"Jeffrey, that is hideous," he deadpans. "You can't wear that on a first date. In fact, you shouldn't wear that ever."
"You are so difficult," Jeff sighs, throwing the shirt onto the floor instead of back on the rack. He flicks through a few more before plucking out a warm-colored plaid shirt that clings loosely to its hangar.
"That's perfect," Kurt says.
"Really?"
"Sure, if we're going to a rodeo or a hoedown."
"Is this your idea of bringing your A game?" Jeff asks. "Because with that attitude, don't expect me to be calling you in three days."
"This doesn't count," Kurt dismisses. "Next."
Jeff groans and turns back to the closet, now significantly thinned out from Kurt's vetoes. "Oh, I've got it. You will love this." He reaches to the far side of his closet and pulls out a bright yellow turtleneck sporting an array of tiny dinosaurs with big smiles. Kurt visibly recoils.
"What is wrong with you? Why would you even own that?"
"My aunt buys novelty sweaters."
"That's no excuse!"
"I think it's fun," Jeff protests, waving it around. "Look, the dinosaurs are dancing!" Kurt crumples and dry heaves into the pillow.
"Don't make me come over there!" he threatens, voice muffled by the goose down.
"Okay, well, I've only got one shirt left," Jeff laments, "so be kind." He flicks a few hangars out of the way to extract a light blue, plaid Gingham shirt. "Ta da!" he sings, whipping the shirt out of the closet and showing it off. Kurt sits up, bringing the pillow with him, still clutched to his face.
"Is it safe to come out?" he groans.
"Didn't you do that ages ago?" Jeff teases. Kurt yanks the pillow from his face to give his scathing bitch stare, but his eye catches the shirt hanging loosely from its hangar.
"Oh," he breathes, scrambling from the bed to hurry over and examine it closer. He pinches the fabric, rubbing it between his fingers. "You'll knock me dead with this one."
Jeff grins. "You think so?"
Kurt snatches it from Jeff's grasp and holds it up to his torso. Jeff cranes his neck to get the hangar out of his face. "Blue looks good on you," Kurt smiles.
Nick throws his messenger bag into the empty recliner and drapes his blazer over the back. He spies David sprawled out face-down on the sofa, half-dozing with a notebook and pen below on the floor. "Hey, bro," he grunts groggily as Nick loosens the knot of his necktie.
"Hey," Nick sighs. "How was your trig test?"
"Oh, you know," David mutters, "cakewalk. Pretty sure I got a 105."
Nick snorts, unthreading the tie from around his neck. "Yeah, right, out of what, two hundred?"
"Three," David says, and they both laugh. "Hey, Anderson was here for you earlier."
"Blaine?" Nick asks, tossing his tie on top of his jacket. "What did he want with me?"
David makes a noncommittal sound. "Give him a call. I told him you'd be back any minute, and that was almost an hour ago."
"Ah, shit," Nick mumbles, pulling his cell from his pants' pocket. He hits 7 on his speed dial, and it doesn't even ring before Blaine answers.
"Nick, where you been?"
"Sorry, I went for a stroll in the courtyard after class," Nick says.
"For over an hour?" Blaine asks. "It's a small courtyard."
"Had to clear my head. What's up?"
Nick hears shuffling on the other end of the line. "Uh, can I come by to talk? I mean, you know, is the coast clear?"
"Ah..." Nick looks over at David, snorting into a throw pillow. "About 50/50. One sec." He pulls the phone down and covers the mouth piece with his other hand. "Oy, Dave, won't you be more comfortable in your own bed?" David responds by rolling off the couch and pulling up to a hunchback. He drags himself sleepily to his quarters and kicks the door closed behind him. Nick pulls the phone back to his ear. "Okay, the coast is clear, as you say."
In the time it takes for Blaine to arrive, Nick puts away the dirty clothes and throws out various plastic plates, bowls and utensils strewn about the common area—mostly David's doing, but Nick did contribute a fair amount with a late night.
"Ooh," Blaine notices when he arrives exactly ten minutes later. "You tidied up."
"Yeah, well, you know David," Nick says, waving a hand at his bedroom door. "Come on in, have a seat," he offers.
"Thanks," Blaine says. He walks over to the couch as though to sit, but he spins on his heel a foot from the cushion, wringing his hands and flexing his fingers. "Did you—I mean—" He sighs with frustration, blinks slow, and shakes his head before continuing. "Kurt and Jeff—"
Nick nods. "Yeah, I—I found out yesterday."
"Yesterday?" Blaine scoffs. "Wow, I really was the last to know."
Nick frowns, a swell of guilt hitting him hard. "I'm sorry. Ugh, I should have told you—"
"No, it's fine," he interrupts, waving his hand hurriedly. "It's not like I'm... I mean..." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'm just surprised, that's all. I don't know. It's big news, isn't it? I would have thought he'd tell me something like that himself before I had to find out in the taco line at lunch."
Nick watches him pace the floor between the furniture, scrubbing his face with the palms of his hands. He has never seen Blaine's posture so rigid. Nick remembers the first time he met Blaine, three days into his freshman year. Blaine had come upon him singing softly to himself in the courtyard and encouraged him to come by the senior commons at five the following day to audition for the school's glee club. He then spent the next three weeks rehearsing duets with Nick after school to make him more comfortable singing around others.
"At least they were good tacos," Nick offers. He wants to take it back the instant he says it at the look of frozen horror on Blaine's face, but then it melts into something softer, and he smiles.
"Really good tacos," he agrees, and Nick is relieved to see him shake with laughter instead of nerves.
"You want to stay a bit?" he asks, pointing to David's X-Box below the TV. Blaine hesitates, but at the wide-eyed, pleading look on Nick's face, he folds.
"Yeah, why not?" he says, finally dropping down onto the couch. "Have you got any snack packs?"
"Oh, dude," Nick says. "You know I'm always holding."
"The good stuff?"
"The best."
The line for tickets is surprisingly long considering Just Go With It is widely regarded as a chick-flick and the student union is located in the center of campus at an all boys' school. But Kurt and Jeff quickly realize that most of the guys in line seem to be in tow of their bubbly, dolled-up girlfriends.
"It must be date night," Kurt remarks under his breath as a blonde girl wearing far too much eye-make up and cheap perfume drags her reluctant boyfriend into the line behind them. Jeff pulls a hand out of his pocket and drops it to his side to slip it into Kurt's, nothing on his face indicating that this is out of the ordinary. Kurt glances at him sidelong and quirks an eyebrow.
"It's like you said," Jeff shrugs. "Date night."
"And might I say, you look fabulous tonight, dear?" Kurt says, tugging Jeff's hand affectionately.
"Do I?" he asks innocently. "I just pulled this together, barely even looked at it. You know me and my fashion sense."
"I do!" Kurt coos. "How about me?" He pulls out of Jeff's grasp long enough to do a runway-like twirl, showing off his Marc by Marc Jacobs ensemble, complete with a cotton navy sportshirt, a woven vest with a split silk backing, brown Harrington pants and a beige satchel. He does a little curtsy when he makes a full 360.
"You look equally fabulous," Jeff assures him, but Kurt looks affronted. "More! More fabulous!" he quickly amends, which puts a big, goofy smile back on Kurt's face.
They pay for their own tickets, as agreed, and Kurt stocks up on his usual movie sweets. Jeff gives him a bit of a hard time for having such an insatiable sweet tooth, but Kurt is unaffected. They choose a row in the back of the theatre since they are both too tall to sit any closer without getting neck cramps. Jeff graciously offers for Kurt to go ahead of him, and they shuffle in about mid-way.
"I can't remember the last time I saw a Jennifer Aniston movie in theatres," Kurt marvels, tearing into his Junior Mints box first.
"I can't remember the last time I saw an Adam Sandler movie in theatres."
"Ooh! Then this calls for a toast," Kurt declares loudly, proffering his candy box. Jeff raises his Pepsi. "To good movies, good times, and good company," he proposes.
"And first dates," Jeff adds.
"Hear, hear!"
They tap their snacks together and break them in. The movie is not scheduled to start for another ten minutes, but the screen flashes through various advertisements for other activities around campus. They point out which ones sound fun, which ones have grammar or spelling errors, and make snide comments about the rest. With just a few minutes to show time, a group of boys from Jeff's photography class appear through the door and make their way up the aisle. They spot Jeff in the shadows and wave. Jeff smiles and nods back to them as they pass and file into a row three back.
"I will never understand," Kurt gripes, digging his index finger as far into the Junior Mint box as it will go, "why they can't design these things in a way that doesn't make them all stick to the inside of the box. I mean, what do they want from me? I am but a boy."
Jeff looks surreptitiously over his shoulder at his friends, who seem to be arguing over who gets the aisle seat and who gets stuck with the middle. They shuffle around awkwardly and then finally settle into their seats, looking ahead. Jeff can't tell if they're looking at the screen or at him, but just to be safe he turns back quickly and glances at Kurt, still prodding hopelessly at his candy box. Jeff bites his lip, heart drumming all the way into his ears. He leans over as though to whisper, but instead he presses his lips into Kurt's neck, just at the base where it slopes into his shoulder. Kurt yelps, nearly choking on a mint.
"What are you doing?" he squeaks, thumping his sternum with his fist.
"Those guys back there," Jeff whispers against Kurt's skin, "they're in my photography class."
"What does that—oh," Kurt realizes. "A little show."
"Precisely."
"Well, in that case..."
He tips his head to the side as Jeff moves his lips farther up the stretch of his neck. Kurt lifts a hand to rest it on the back of his neck, moving his fingers similar to the way Jeff moves his lips. He smiles at the sensation, basking in the pleasant feeling of having someone so warm and close. But when Jeff starts adding teeth and a little too much tongue, Kurt squirms.
"Okay, sweetie?" he whispers.
"Hmm?"
"This movie is rated PG-13."
"So?"
"So let's try not to exceed the content approved for this audience."
Jeff pulls back with a laugh. "Fine," he agrees. "Then just put your head on my shoulder about halfway through the movie, and we'll call the night a success."
Kurt grins. "Sounds good."
"I just didn't know Jeff was his type."
For a second, Nick thinks he must be making a joke about Commander Shepard and the Joker because, for the last two-and-a-half hours, all they have done is talk about and play Mass Effect 2. But with glimpse at Blaine's distrait expression out of the corner of his eye, Nick recognizes what he really means. He returns his attention back to the TV screen as he boards the defunct Collector ship to investigate.
"What does that even mean?" Nick asks, mindlessly clicking through the dialogue options. "'His type'?"
"You know." Blaine pries the aluminum off another snack pack, spooning a glob of it with his index finger. "The tall, pretty blonde type... artistic... enigmatic."
"Enigmatic?" Nick laughs. "You make him sound like a foreign car, or a spaceship."
Blaine slurps the pudding off his finger. "Well, how would you describe him, then?"
"I don't know," Nick mumbles. "I guess I don't notice that kind of thing about guys."
"Well, trust me," Blaine garbles around a mouthful of pudding while scooping another heap of it onto his middle finger. "He's like a gay Adonis."
"I'll have to take your word for it." Nick reaches for the weapons at his feet and scrunches his face at the prompt. "Which training do you think I should go with?"
"Oh, sniper for sure," Blaine says, licking his second finger clean. "That's going to come in handy during the Sky High battle in about five minutes."
"Right," Nick concedes. Blaine tips his head back and taps the bottom of the cup with his fingernail to dump the remainder of the pudding into his mouth. "So, I mean..." Nick shifts on the couch. "If he's so perfect, as you say, then why don't you think he's Kurt's type?"
Blaine leans forward to drop his now-empty cup on the neat tower stacked sixteen high on the coffee table. Nick is responsible for about half a dozen of them, but only because he's been the one holding the controller for the last twenty minutes. "I don't know," Blaine sighs. "I just got the impression he was interested in... you know, something a little more real."
"Like what?"
"Well, like, the last guy he had a major crush on—this big tough guy on the outside, you know, football player, quarterback or something." Blaine licks the inside of the pudding pack cover. "But get him off the field and he's got a surprising amount of heart."
Nick smiles wide. "Are you sure you're not the one with the crush?"
"Don't look at me, I've never met the guy," Blaine says quickly. "I'm just using Kurt's words." He slumps back into the couch, still pinching the aluminum but dropping his hand to his lap. "I just assumed he went for the...loveable goofball type. Flawed, but chivalrous."
"Sounds like you've given this an awful lot of thought?"
"Eh, not really." He flicks the foil onto the coffee table where the rest are strewn. "You should save here."
"Oh, yeah, good idea."
They are quiet for a moment, with only the sound of gameplay as the mission becomes desperate and the enemy ships descend. "All right, this is where everything goes to shit," Nick remarks casually, clicking the buttons lazily as he prepares for the big battle. "Fun."
When Blaine doesn't respond, Nick looks over quickly to make sure that he hasn't slipped into a diabetic coma. Instead, he finds his friend clutching his cell phone, knuckles pale from the strength of his grip on it, eyes unblinking under a taut brow. "What's wrong?" Nick asks.
"Nothing, I—" Blaine stifles a grumble in the back of his throat. "It's...a friend of mine is at the student union theatre with his girlfriend."
Nick waits for him to elaborate, but Blaine is distracted tapping out a response on his phone. "Okay...?"
"Kurt and Jeff are there," Blaine adds. "Together. Apparently making quite a scene."
"Oh."
Blaine punches "send" and flings his phone on the empty couch cushion between Nick and himself, and his eyes dropping closed. "You okay?" he hears Nick ask.
"Fine."
The sounds of gunfire and dying enemies escalate as Nick's fingers quicken on the controller. "These guys move fast," he tuts, face contorted with concentration.
Blaine sits up straight. "Here, give me," he offers, holding his hand out. Nick shoots him an uncertain look but passes the controller regardless. Blaine snatches it and resumes play with impressive fluidity. His fingers strike the buttons and joysticks in a blur, face unflinching as bodies pile around him on the platform. "Yeah, die, you Scion scum."
"All right, easy on the aggro, grassfighter," Nick scoffs.
"Aggro is good," Blaine mutters. "Gets the job done."
"Right." Nick's gaze flickers between the screen and his friend. "You've got drones on your three."
"I know."
"Assassin on your six."
"I've got it!" Blaine snaps.
"Okay, sorry."
Nick falls quiet and watches with alarm and awe as Blaine rips through 200 enemies in record time, not once batting an eyelash, cursing under his breath with every kill. He bares his teeth as the final succession of enemies descends onto the map, and he shakes and throttles the controller. Then, all at once, everything stops—the heavy clack of buttons, the frenzied gunfire, the panicked orders from teammates under fire—and the last Collector falls. Blaine pitches the controller sideways onto the couch next to his phone. Nick flinches.
"Shepard, you must manually reestablish my link to the command console."
Blaine's hands are shaking as he stares at his knees, breathing heavy and loud through his nose. Nick hears disgruntled stirring coming from David's room and suspects they've woken him. He wants to reach out to Blaine, to say or do something that will mitigate the tension. Instead, he slowly gets up from the couch and starts collecting the empty snack packs and crumpled foil covers.
"Shepard, you must manually reestablish my link to the command console."
Nick makes a few trips to the garbage before he's got the last of the trash from the coffee table. He glances at Blaine, who now has his eyes closed and his fingers tented at his lips. Nick returns to the couch, brushing the controller and cell phone to the side so he can sit directly next to Blaine.
"Shepard, you must manually reestablish my link to the command console."
"I heard you!" Blaine shouts, eyes still closed but tighter now. Nick reaches behind him to hit the pause button, silencing the radio transmissions and soundtrack.
"Do you want..." he begins hesitantly. "I mean, can I get you anything..."
Blaine's phone buzzes persistently against the controller behind Nick. He picks it up to hand it to Blaine and notices that the screen displays three unread messages. Blaine takes it and stows it in his pocket without reading them. He clears his throat. "Thanks for, you know, the pudding and the company," he says without meeting Nick's eyes.
"You know you're always welcome here," he replies quietly. "And, I'm always around if you want to talk. Or just kill aliens."
Blaine nods. "Sorry about the..." He waves his hand vaguely.
"It's fine," Nick insists. "I just feel bad for the Collectors."
Blaine huffs. "They had it coming."
"Well," Nick sighs, "I learned an important lesson tonight about never, ever getting on your bad side."
"Hey, you handed me the sniper," Blaine says, holding his hands up in surrender. Nick gasps.
"I'm the enabler!" he cries.
"I don't have a problem!"
"Tell that to the Collectors!"
Nick's breath catches in his chest when he sees Blaine finally smile. He feels a huge relief and smiles back.
"Hey," Blaine starts after a moment, "listen, I know you don't like hugging guys, but...
"Whoever said that?" Nick asks, taken aback. Blaine shrugs.
"Well, I've seen Jeff try to hug you before, you never seem to keen on it," he says.
"No that's—" Nick shakes his head. "Hey, you need a hug, I'm your man."
Blaine grins and dives forward to wrap his arms tightly around him, pulling him close and ducking his head to lean into the shoulder there. Nick surprises himself by lifting his hand to rub soothing arcs across Blaine's back before resting his it on his shoulder blades. "Just go home and get some rest, okay?"
Blaine squeezes one last time before pulling back. "Thanks again."
"Don't mention it," Nick dismisses. "I'm always happy to jack you up on sugar and then sick you on an unsuspecting world."
"Careful," Blaine warns, grabbing his coat from the armrest and throwing it around his shoulders. "You make promises like that and I might be back tomorrow."
Nick feigns a sigh. "I'll be sure to pick up some extra pudding, then."