Kurt leaned against the bar trying to catch his breath as Blaine spun around to pick up their drinks, admiring his husband’s backside. His husband. Husband. They were married. Kurt ran his thumb across his wedding band, a physical reminder of their vows, and smiled.
Blaine was his and he was Blaine’s. And god how good did Blaine look tonight. Though Kurt was the one in the fashion industry, Blaine knew how to dress himself. The choice to go all black with a red belt enhancing his small waist was perfect. Kurt couldn’t keep his eyes off him, and neither could a good number of the men in the club that night.
“‘Scusi,” a voice behind him said, causing Kurt to turn around.
“Yes?” Kurt responded, cocking an eyebrow.
“Can I buy you a drink?” The man’s voice had a heavy Italian accent. He was tanned, with dark hair, and a heinous orange top.
“No thank you,” Kurt said, shaking his head, “I already—”
At that moment, Blaine spun around, coming up next to Kurt and giving him his drink. “I already have a drink,” Kurt finished, “And a husband. But thank you.”
Kurt put his arm around Blaine’s back, pulling him away from the bar. “He was gross,” he said, his arm not leaving Blaine as he took a sip of his drink, “Thank you.”
“Hey,” he added, gesturing to a small group of young gay men behind Blaine, “You have your own little fan club over there.”
As they both spun around to make eye contact, the boys flashed their matching mega-watt smiles and waved. “That’s all for you, big boy,” Kurt said, wrapping his arms around Blaine’s waist while gripping his glass.
“But I’m all for you, too,” he dipped down, capturing Blaine’s mouth in a sloppy kiss that shared a name with the country they were currently in.
Blaine reached up with his free hand and slid it up Kurt’s neck and into his hair, holding him into the messy kiss for a few seconds before releasing him and pulling away. To cover the deep blush that had bloomed across his cheeks, he took a sip of his drink, then looked back at Kurt, completely giddy.
“But I don’t want any of them,” he said, holding Kurt’s gaze. “Besides, I’m pretty sure they’re looking at you. Or,” he added, glancing at the small group out of the corner of his eyes lest they get the wrong idea, “they’re looking to get in on a threesome.”
But instead of feeling jealous, Blaine just laughed. Sure, part of it was the alcohol, but most of it was being here — in Paris — with the man he’d loved for nearly six years. The man he’d married. The man who bought him a condo in Paris as a wedding gift so they could escape their London lives and come here to feel young and sexy and spontaneous. Here, they could love each other with no responsibilities and no consequences. It was everything they needed, and amazingly enough, everything they had.
“Too bad for them,” Blaine sighed with affected sympathy as they finished their drinks and headed back out to dance, feeling electrified with music and maybe (definitely) some hormones. “If only they knew that Hummel-Andersons don’t share.”