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wowbright · 2 years

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Fic: Crazy for You

Challenge: For the Klaine/CC Valentine's Challenge. This vignette takes its title and inspiration from the Day 3 prompt song, Crazy for You by Madonna.

Words: ~2100 words

Rating: Mature? But not explicit. No actual sex.

Summary: Things get hot and heavy after Blaine confesses his secret to Kurt.

A vignette in my Mormon!Klaine universe. This one takes place directly after To Tell the Truth.

My Mormon!Klaine Masterpost.

Notes: This one is dedicated to @gleekto and her communication kink. Also, I'm pretty proud of the way I slipped in song references to this one. As always, let me know if you see typos or have any questions!

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The bedroom floor was more comfortable than Kurt would have expected. He'd never had occasion to lie down on it before, but right now, rolling his shoulder blades down onto the wooden floorboards, he found its cool hardness a soothing contrast to the heat flushing through his veins.

“Is this okay?” said Blaine, straddling Kurt’s lap and leaning forward until his face hovered just inches above Kurt’s. His lips were swollen and ridiculously pink, almost as if they’d been stained by strawberries, and his hair was coming loose from its gel in delightful curls. Kurt had never seen him disheveled in this particular way before, but he recognized the expression on Blaine’s face. It was singularly focused on Kurt, warm and gentle and giving, but with a contrasting undercurrent of need.

No, not need—desire. That’s what this expression meant. That's why Kurt’s skin prickled and his heart did somersaults under the weight of Blaine's stare. Because Blaine wanted Kurt. The same way Kurt wanted him.

And apparently, Blaine had wanted him that way for a long time. Because Kurt had known that look almost as long as they had known each other.

Kurt nodded stupidly at the revelation.

“I can— I can kiss you like this?” Blaine asked courteously.

“You better,” said Kurt, wrapping his hand around the back of Blaine’s neck and pulling him in.

Blaine tasted so good. He mostly tasted like skin and rain and warmth, but there was a little whiff of toothpaste and a hint of chocolate cookie that Blaine must have snuck during his personal study. And really, that should be completely disgusting, sticking your tongue into somebody's mouth and tasting the leftovers of their previous snack. But it wasn’t. It was hot. It felt intimate, to be able to trace part of Blaine’s path through the morning with his taste buds.

“I'm crazy about you, Kurt,” Blaine murmured into Kurt’s mouth. “Have been since the day I met you.”

“The day we met?” Kurt answered, half in disbelief and half in play. it made no sense, but deep in Kurt’s gut, right next to where the Holy Ghost usually spoke to him, it felt like the truth.

“Yeah. I was just too stupid or to afraid or something to understand.” Blaine trailed kisses over Kurt’s face. “But seriously, I thought you were the handsomest, bravest man I’d ever met. Still do.” The kisses moved to Kurt’s neck, soft and gentle but so, so good, and then—

“Whoa!” A current of pleasure shot through Kurt’s body, from the point just under Kurt’s ear where Blaine’s lips were planted, all the way down to his little toe.

Blaine jerked back. “Was that a good ‘whoa’ or a bad ‘whoa’?”

“Good. Definitely good,” Kurt answered breathlessly.

“So I can do it again?”

“Please do.”

Blaine dove back to Kurt’s ear, nipping and gently sucking on the lobe, and it took a massive feat of concentration for Kurt to undo his tie and the top buttons of the shirt to expose more of himself for Blaine’s lips. But the effort paid off when Blaine went for the juncture of Kurt’s neck and shoulder.

“Yes, that,” Kurt groaned.

Kurt ran his hands down Blaine’s back and stopped right at his waist, soothing small, repetitive circles to keep from wandering further down, to keep from pulling Blaine’s body flush with his. He wanted everything right now, but he also didn't want to try his luck. Blaine was a good Mormon boy. Kurt didn’t want to scandalize him.

“Oh, Kurt. That feels good. Love your hands. Love the way you hold me. Want you touching me all the time.” Blaine moved back to Kurt’s mouth and began rocking his hips to the rhythm of their kisses, their breath.

“Tell me how you knew,” Kurt said a few minutes later as he came up for air. He reached up to loosen Blaine’s tie and undo his collar. He needed to suck on some part of Blaine hard or he was going to explode. “About me.”

“Eight million different ways—oh!”

Kurt's mouth was on Blaine's collarbone, and he was pulling Blaine's skin up between his lips and against his teeth, feeling Blaine quiver against his tongue. It tasted like skin lotion but Kurt didn't care, not with the way Blaine was reacting, squirming on top of Kurt and muttering his name. Kurt. Kurt. Kurt. Is muttering got more and more excited, and he began shuddering, shuddering, and--

Wait? Was Blaine about to have an orgasm? If that was the case, Kurt should probably most definitely stop, except that he really didn't want to, he wanted to suck harder, he wanted--

"Hold on," Blaine said. "I need a breather."

"For how long?" Kurt asked, because he thought he might literally die if the breather was permanent.

Blaine lifted himself up slightly and stared at the wall. He took a deep breath. Kurt counted silently to himself. One, two, three, four, five ...

"That long," Blaine said, lowering himself back down and pecking a kiss to Kurt's cheek. "I'm good. Like ... Really good."

Their eyes met and they both burst into laughter. Laughter and kissing. Kissing, kissing, and more kissing. Kurt was swimming in kisses and it was glorious.

“How long have you known?” he whispered against Blaine's skin.

Blaine looked into Kurt’s eyes, his expression earnest. “For sure? Singing Circle of Our Love after that dinner for Schwester Rose. I mean, before that too, but— You move me, Kurt. And singing with you about eternal love— I realized I wanted that with you, Kurt. That I’d been wanting it with you, and just didn’t have the words to explain it.”

Kurt felt a deep, welling tenderness in his chest. This man. Wild, romantic, undoctrinal, beautiful Blaine. He just put everything out there, didn't he? Kurt had been running away from love for most of his life, but Blaine—it crashed into him and he embraced it. He held it in his arms and carried it to Kurt, showing him it was never anything to be afraid of in the first place.

Kurt loved him so much.

They kissed again. Kurt got lost in it, lost in lips and tongue and the ecstasy of being wanted. Or no, not lost at all, but found. Because here, in Blaine’s arms, Kurt was home.

Before this moment, Kurt had thought that tender feelings of romance and sexual desire were two different modes of being that couldn't coexist. But now, he understood the connection. When you opened yourself up to the yearnings of your heart, you opened yourself up to everything.

Kurt's desire bloomed to the surface. He wanted Blaine so badly, in every way possible. He wanted to kiss him and create a home with him and get married to him. But he wanted other things, too. His hands slid from Blaine’s waist to the curve of Blaine’s bottom, and Blaine let out a guttural moan. He tilted his pelvis, and Kurt could feel Blaine’s erection against his hip.

“Blaine, you feel so good, please—”

But Kurt didn’t know what to ask for, or if he was ready to ask. He just knew what his body was telling him— That he wanted to pull Blaine’s clothes off and feel their penises pressed together. He wanted Blaine in his mouth. He wanted to flip Blaine on his back and slide between his legs, to enter his body, to feel Blaine wrapped around him, to feel his heat everywhere. Kurt had never wanted anyone like this, had never let himself imagine it, had no idea how to get there. But he wanted it so badly. He wanted to taste and touch and feel every part of Blaine, inside and out. He wanted to drive him into ecstasies.

Kurt thrust up instinctively, his hard-on on jutting against Blaine’s groin. Blaine let out a desperate, hungry sound. It vibrated through Kurt’s mouth. He felt it in his teeth and tongue. He felt it everywhere.

Blaine liked the feeling of Kurt’s erection. It turned Blaine on.

“Blaine, I want…” Kurt panted.

“What do you want, Kurt?” Blaine said, his voice somehow gentle and patient despite his heavy breathing and that look in his eyes that said he was ready to be absolutely debauched.

“I want …” I want to take your clothes off, Kurt thought. I want to get naked with you. I want to make love to you, even though I have no idea how and I don’t know if we’re ready. But the words wouldn't come out of his mouth. It was like when he was first learning German, when he had moved past the phase of repeating stock phrases and had to form sentences on his own. He knew the words and enough grammar to piece them together, but somewhere between his brain and his tongue, everything turned into a jumbled mess and he'd be left there, repeating the same two or three words over and over again, hoping the person listening to him could figure out the rest.

It was the church, wasn't it? The church was knotted around his tongue like a rope—keeping it from moving, keeping it from saying words that Kurt knew in his heart of hearts were acceptable to God.

Kurt felt pressure build behind his eyes. He felt the sting of tears against his eyelids.

“Hey,” whispered Blaine. “You okay?”

Kurt nodded. “Yeah. I just got a little bit in my head for a second. It's nothing.”

“You sure?” Blaine pushed himself up a little, increasing the distance between their faces. “Maybe we should talk.”

“Isn't that what we were just doing? I mean, before we started …" Kurt drifted off. Apparently he couldn't say making out, either.

“Before we started what?” Blaine asked.

It was a test. Kurt knew it was a test. A gentlemanly test conducted out of consideration, but a test all the same. Kurt knew if he could say the words, Blaine might start kissing him again. But if he didn't, it was over.

And still, Kurt couldn't say the words.

More tears sprang from his eyes.

“Yeah. I think we should talk.” Blaine sat up completely, still straddling Kurt’s lap.

“I'm not crying about this.” Kurt gestured between them.

“What is it, then?”

Kurt lifted himself to his elbows and glanced surreptitiously at the bulge in Blaine’s pants. He might be slightly emotionally distraught, but he couldn't help it. He was still turned on like crazy, and frustrated in more ways than one. And if the church had made him incapable of saying what he wanted, at least he could say it with his eyes.

Blaine blushed and swung off of Kurt’s lap. He lifted Kurt to his feet. Their faces weren't much farther apart than they'd been before, only now they were vertical instead of horizontal. Blaine’s expression was concerned and loving, which made Kurt want to start kissing him again.

Why did he have to use words? Now that kissing was on the table, couldn't he just use that?

“I don't want to talk,” Kurt said—not stubbornly, but like a confession.

“Why not?”

“Because I don't know how to talk about this stuff. I've never— You know I've never done this with anyone before.”

Blaine nodded. He brushed the hair behind Kurt’s ear with his fingers. He looked suddenly vulnerable again, like he had right before telling Kurt he was gay.

Had that really only been this morning? It felt like Kurt had known forever.

“Are you— Are you feeling guilty?” Blaine asked sheepishly.

Kurt scanned his emotions. There were so many of them, all gathered in a tumult. But as hard as he looked, he couldn't find guilt among them. And that was odd, wasn't it? Guilt had been the driving force throughout so much of his life. But maybe love and guilt couldn’t dwell together. And Kurt loved Blaine. He knew that more than he knew anything. “No, I don't.”

“Okay. Are you feeling like we need to tell the mission president?”

Kurt gasped. He actually gasped. He'd been so focused on Blaine that he had honestly kind of forgotten that the mission president existed, or that they were on a mission at all. But even if Kurt had felt guilty, he wouldn't have wanted to tell President Steele. Falling in love with your companion would mean immediate separation at the least. And what they had done just now—if they told the president about that, they'd be back in the States in two or three days, at most. Kurt knew Blaine didn't come from the kind of family that would show unconditional love to a son sent home before his mission was complete. “Oh, gosh no. Are you?”

Blaine shook his head. “I feel the opposite of guilty. And I don't want to do anything that would get in the way of staying with you. Plus, I love serving here. So no, I don't want to tell him. Besides...” Blaine ducked his head and laughed quietly.

“What?”

“At the mission conference, when I met with President Steele, he told me—he told me that, when he decided we were going to stay together until you completed your mission, it was the result of one of the clearest promptings he’d ever gotten about a companionship. And he said the clearest prompting he'd ever received was about putting us together.”

“Do you believe him?”

Blaine shrugged. “I think God had something to do with it.”

Kurt felt his heart flip over in his chest. “You can't just say something like that and expect me not to kiss you.”

Blaine ducked his head and batted his dark lashes in a way that didn't make it any easier for Kurt to resist kissing him. He tugged on Kurt’s hand. “Here. Let’s go to the kitchen and talk.”

#klaineCCValentines2022 #klaine fanfiction #klaine fanfic #mormon!klaine #wowbright writes fic #my klaineccvalentines2022

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wowbright · 2 years

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Fic: Your Heart’s Been Aching

Klaine/CC Valentine's Challenge: Day 14 prompt song, Never Gonna Give You Up by Rick Astley

Words: ~10,600 words

Rating: Mature

Summary: Kurt has an explicit dream, Blaine gets sick, and new converts just keep coming their way.

A vignette in my Mormon!Klaine universe. This one takes place right after Flat Tire.

My Mormon!Klaine Masterpost. (Start with that if you’re new, not this.)

Notes: (1) Thanks to @gleefulpoppet for the beautiful mockup of Kurt’s consecrated oil vial! (2) Thank to everyone who answered my question about where Holly Holliday attended college! (3) I included a reference to every single line of the prompt. Some of the references are exact quotes, some of them are close, and in a few cases … you’ll see. (4) Mature because sexual fantasies, self-exploration, and shame. (5) Warning: a character gets sick to his stomach. (6) As always, I welcome questions, typo identification, feedback on German spelling/grammar, and encouragement!

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Kurt’s blessings just kept multiplying. At the bike shop, they got to talking with the mechanic, a French guy with prosthetic thumbs. He tolerated Kurt’s attempts to practice French with him, and was intrigued by the fact that kids their age were tooling around Ingolstadt in full suits—which opened the door to talking about the church.

Henri St. Pierre, as his name turned out to be, had somehow never met a Mormon missionary before. But he was intrigued by the idea that they had scriptures in addition to the Bible, and was stoked when they offered to leave him a copy of the Book of Mormon.

“Do they have this in French, too? I can read German, but it’s not as natural to me.” Henri asked, flipping through the pages. Kurt had marked the story about the Anti-Nephi-Lehis burying their weapons of war when Henri had mentioned his pacifist leanings, and the part about the Nephites and Lamanites sharing all things in common because of his socialist ones.

“Of course!” Elder Anderson said excitedly. “We have some French copies back in our apartment. We could drop one off your next shift?”

Henri genuinely lit up at the offer.

God truly didn't care what Kurt got up to in the shower, apparently.

“And here, for your bikes.” Henri jogged over to a large wooden workbench and opened up a drawer from the plastic hardware chest, withdrawing two small slips of paper. “You wouldn’t get this from any other guy at the shop.” He handed one slip to each of the missionaries. Kurt realized they weren't paper; they were stickers of bulbous-nosed characters from a comic book that he'd seen on newsstands: one short man with yellow hair and a winged helmet, and an enormous shirtless man in blue-and-white striped pants and orange braids.

“Who are these guys?” Elder Anderson asked.

“You don't know Asterix and Obelix?” asked Henri in horror.

“I've seen them around. But—” Kurt thought about how to phrase this. It didn't make for good proselytizing to tell people that you weren't allowed to read anything but scriptures and church publications. He'd made that mistake early in his mission, and it tended to freak investigators out. Their next question usually was Are you a cult? “I've never seen this comic in the United States.”

“What childhoods Americans must have,” Henri said. Kurt couldn't tell if he was joking or sincere. “It’s just silly stories about Gauls fighting against the Roman Empire with the help of magic. Read it, and you will understand Europe.”

Elder Anderson literally skipped next to his bike as they made their way back to the path. “Three new investigators already this afternoon! I never knew a tire blowout could be such a blessing. What do you think we should do with those stickers, though? I don't want to disappoint Henri and not put them on the bikes, because then he might notice the next time we come to see him. But we are supposed to keep them looking professional.”

“I'm not saying I condone this behavior, but I knew a missionary once who had an entire collection of vinyl stickers on the underside of his bicycle crossbeam,” Kurt said. “None of us even knew they were there until it was time for him to go back to the States and he had to spend the evening peeling them off one by one so he could sell it to the next missionary coming along.”

Elder Anderson grinned. “I like that. Like making your own private museum collection that only you know about. Everyone should be allowed to have a harmless secret like that.”

Kurt was glad Elder Anderson thought so, and when it came time to shower that night, Kurt was tempted to once again enjoy the benefits afforded by his companion’s blithe endorsement of personal privacy. But he had told himself, prior to his successful experiment, that he couldn’t immediately jump into doing it every single day. The act should be functional, not self-indulgent. And though this type of restraint might not keep every wet dream away—he'd been averaging five a week lately, which was just insane—he wanted to err on the side of caution.

His caution was not rewarded. By Murphy’s Law, Kurt had another wet dream that night. It started out benignly. The skylight was stuck and Elder Anderson, instead of standing on the bed, got the idea that Kurt should hoist him up. Only he didn't let Kurt hoist him. He started climbing him like a tree, wrapping his legs around Kurt and shimmying up with full body thrusts.

“This isn’t working,” Kurt said.

“Yes, it is,” said Elder Anderson, thrusting again.

“It’s not.”

“Don’t tell me you’re too blind to see.”

Suddenly, Kurt saw.

And then they were kissing, hard and desperate, and they were in Elder Anderson's bed, his warm body moving beneath Kurt’s, his legs wrapped tight around Kurt’s waist, his mouth murmuring sweet words, his pelvis thrusting, thrusting, thrusting.

Kurt was thrusting, too, but he couldn't tell whether he was thrusting against Elder Anderson or inside him. Not that it mattered. Elder Anderson was moaning and begging and dragging his fingernails down Kurt’s back and telling him how good he felt, his body and his cock and his everything. “I’ve gotta make you understand, Elder Hummel,” and with a sharp thrust Kurt was definitely inside him, everything so tight and hot, and Elder Anderson falling apart beneath him—“My heart’s aching, my heart’s been aching for you, Kurt, fix it, please”—and now they were somehow upright again, reaching for the skylight, and kissing, kissing, with teeth and tongue, and Elder Anderson spearing himself desperately onto Kurt’s erection. “Harder,” he murmured. “Harder, Kurt. Then we’ll reach the light.”

At least Kurt had been sleeping on his back when he came. His sheet didn't get wet, just his garments, which he stripped off and washed in the bathroom sink at 2 a.m.

Kurt’s priesthood leaders had always reassured him that he should never feel guilty for those dreams. And he didn’t, necessarily. The problem came when they seeped into his waking hours, when Kurt was standing in the bathroom with his soiled garments and still thinking about his companion's legs wrapped tightly around him and the bliss of being inside his body.

Kurt woke up groggy and crabby in the morning, and the day went downhill from there. If one were to judge proselytizing success on a scale of zero to ten, their morning felt like a negative seven. Their first appointment was with an itinerant investigator whose progress had been slow, but always forward. Today, however, before they even got to the prayer, he'd presented the missionaries with a ten-page handout on his investigations into church history. “I've decided not to get baptized, and this is why,” he said. “It's not personal. You've always been very kind to me, and I hope this information will help you the way it's helped me.”

After leaving, Kurt dropped it into the first recycling bin he could find.

“Elder Hummel, he worked hard on that!”

“And I've worked hard on my testimony. I won’t let some random investigator destroy it.”

“‘If we have the truth, it cannot be harmed by investigation. If we have not the truth, it ought to be harmed.’ J. Reuben Clark, apostle and first counselor.”

“Prophets sometimes speak as men,” Kurt answered crankily. He didn't have the energy to deal with new truth right now. He'd already been served up way too much of it in his dream the previous night. Sometimes a person just needed a break, an opportunity to float in their existing understanding before they reached for their next revelation.

They decided to do some dooring on the way to Henri’s bike shop. Somewhere around the second block, long before any missionary had a right to start wearing out, Elder Anderson began complaining about a “a mild stomachache” and kept wistfully declaring how a piece of gum would be the perfect thing to settle it.

“It might be,” Kurt snapped at the fourth mention of gum—possibly because he had been craving it on and off for almost twice as long as Elder Anderson had been a missionary. “But you know the rules and so do I. No gum.”

Instead of getting upset, Elder Anderson looked grateful for the reminder. “You're right. There's no point in lamenting about it. I'll grab some ginger ale on our way home if it's still bugging me by then.”

They were just half a block from the bike shop when Elder Anderson looked into his bag and went pale. “I grabbed the wrong one.”

“Wrong what?”

Elder Anderson pulled a Book of Mormon out of his bag. “I grabbed an Italian one, not a French one.”

Kurt let out a huff of annoyance. The day had been a complete waste so far, and now they had to waste more time by going back to the apartment to get the right scriptures for Henri. At least he wasn't expecting them at a specific hour.

“I’m so sorry, Elder Hummel.” Elder Anderson’s expression was like that of a puppy who had been scolded. “I never want to let you down.”

Kurt softened. “We’ve all made mistakes, Elder Anderson. We’ll just hurry as fast as we can back to the apartment and then come back here.”

Kurt tried to set a speedy pace, but Elder Anderson was dragging. The paleness that had washed over him when he’d realized he had the wrong Book of Mormon never quite left him. His skin looked sallow and ashen, even at the end of their ten-minute ride home and a walk up five flights of stairs. “It’s okay, Elder Anderson. Really. It's just a little more running around than we planned to do. But we're still fairly on schedule. We haven’t deserted Henri.”

“It’s not that,” Elder Anderson said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I think I have food poisoning.”

Blaine ran to the bathroom just in time for the entire contents of his stomach to land in the toilet.

“Elder Anderson? Elder Anderson!” Elder Hummel appeared in the doorway, his face wrinkled in concern.

“No,” Blaine muttered. Elder Hummel couldn't see him this way. He couldn't see what Blaine had just emptied into the toilet. He reached for the handle, but his arm suddenly felt like jelly and collapsed next to him before he could manage to flush the toilet.

It was so embarrassing. He was sitting on the bathroom floor with puke and tears on his face—because throwing up never didn’t make Blaine cry for some weird reason—and Elder Hummel was looking right at the whole mess.

Elder Hummel flushed the toilet without inspecting too closely, thank goodness. “I'm not going to ask you if you're okay, because clearly you're not—”

Oh, no. There was more. How could there be more? Blaine couldn’t tell Elder Hummel to go away because his esophagus was pressing too hard into his windpipe and—

He puked again.

“Oh, honey.” Elder Hummel kneeled next to Blaine on the floor and rubbed his back. “It’s okay. Get it out.”

Blaine could only nod his head and pitch forward again for one final hurrah. He heaved until nothing else came out. It was so gross. He was so gross. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed, trying to crawl away from his companion.

Elder Hummel grabbed him and reeled him in, offering his shoulder as a place for Blaine to rest his head. “Don’t say that, please. you're sick. Here, can you sit up on your own for a second?”

“I think so?”

Elder Hummel guided Blaine to lean against the wall, then got up and reached into the IKEA shelf unit under the sink for a washcloth. He wetted it under the faucet. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said, lowering himself to one knee and pressing the washcloth to Blaine’s face, wiping his disgusting mouth clean.

Apparently, Blaine must have muttered something to that effect, because, “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, elder,” were the next words out of Elder Hummel's mouth. “If anyone should be embarrassed, it's me. I clearly wasn't reading the signs. I should have been paying closer attention to you.”

“I didn't think it was this bad. Not until we were almost home.”

“Well, now we both know what’s been going on with you today. Next time you pine after gum three times in a row, I'll know it's an emergency.”

Blaine let out a weak laugh.

It was a struggle getting Elder Anderson to bed. He was woozy and needed to be half-dragged, half-carried to the bedroom, and he barely had the strength to undress himself. Kurt had to help with his jacket and tie and even the buttons on his shirt—though, fortunately, he was able to manage his own pants, which he wriggled out of unceremoniously and dropped to the floor.

Now he was in nothing but his garments, which were damp with sweat. At least they were the wicking kind and would dry out on their own soon enough, so they wouldn't give Elder Anderson chills. The last thing Kurt wanted to worry about was helping his companion change his garments. Things were already bad enough. His companion was sick and weak, and Kurt nonetheless had to remind himself not to look at the bulge in the shorts and compare it to what he had felt sometimes in in his dreams, or the dark patch of private hair made visible by sweat.

“I should have let you have that gum,” Kurt lamented as he tucked Elder Anderson into bed. It was a relief to have the garments covered up.

“I don't think it would have helped.”

“Still.” Kurt patted the sheets snugly around his companion’s chest. “I shouldn't have snapped at you. You never complain. I should have known something was wrong.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it.” Elder Anderson took Kurt’s hand and clasped it gently to his chest. “If there's anything to forgive, I've already forgiven you.”

With his free hand, Kurt stroked his companion’s hair back from his forehead. It was damp from sweat, but Elder Anderson didn't feel feverish. “How are you feeling now, anyway?”

“I think whatever was bothering my stomach is gone now. My digestion doesn't feel weird anymore. I'm just tired. And maybe a little thirsty.”

“I'll get you some water. Or diluted apple juice. Do you like that?”

Elder Anderson nodded solemnly. “That would be nice.”

Kurt moved to get up, but Elder Anderson held tight to his hand. “Kurt?”

Kurt should really tell Blaine not to call him that. It wasn’t P-day. But Blaine was sick and vulnerable, and Kurt didn't have the heart to correct him. “Yeah?”

Elder Anderson looked shyly at their joined hands. “Could I get a blessing, too?”

Something in Kurt’s chest went all fluttery and soft. “Of course.”

Kurt couldn't have been gone for more than a few minutes, but Blaine had already started to drift off by the time he returned. He blinked his eyes open at the sound of his companion’s familiar footsteps and smiled. “It’s you.”

“Who else would it be?” said Kurt, his voice as gentle and sweet as if he were singing a lullaby.

“I'm just glad it's you.” Blaine had felt so awful earlier, but now his heart felt warm. Kurt was so kind. Blaine should still feel embarrassed and like he was a burden for being sick, but Kurt made him feel like he was good and special and deserved to be taken care of.

“Here, let's see if you can sit up a little and have a sip, and then I'll give you your blessing.” Kurt sat down on the bed next to Blaine and propped him up, letting Blaine use him as a backrest, and held the cup to his lips. The cold, watered-down apple juice and the solidity of Kurt’s body felt like a balm.

A blessing of healing wasn't the same as a blessing of comfort and counsel. It had a more singular focus. But it still felt personal, being dabbed with the oil and with Kurt’s hands resting on his head. Blaine wished Kurt would put his hands there more often, not just when Blaine was getting a blessing or when Spinnenkatze moved back next door.

Kurt blessed Blaine with vigor and strength, with patience to heal, with wisdom to listen to his own body.

There was something about those words: “wisdom to listen to your own body.” They felt much bigger than this one illness. Blaine hadn't listened well to his own queasy stomach this afternoon; if he'd been paying better attention, he would have known it was bad as soon as he'd started whining for gum. And it felt to Blaine like maybe this was a pattern, though he couldn't put his finger on why. He just got the sense that ignoring himself, ignoring his discomfort, ignoring what his body was trying to tell him—these were old habits of his, so ingrained that he didn't even recognize them.

Patience, too—everyone thought Blaine was patient, but it wasn't true. He could be patient with cats and investigators and little children, but when it came to himself, he got so frustrated sometimes. He hated to disappoint other people, and when he failed them, he got so angry at himself for not being the man he ought to be, for not having progressed as far in the gospel as he would need to by the time he got to heaven. It was silly. He was only nineteen. He couldn't be perfect. But for some reason, he felt like he was supposed to be, that any failure meant he wasn't working hard enough or being valiant enough. He didn't give himself the same grace that he extended to others, and that he knew in his heart of hearts his Savior was willing to extend to him.

“In the name of Jesus Christ, amen,” Kurt said, and lifted his hands from Blaine’s head.

God had spoken to Blaine so perfectly through his companion. His perfect, worthy companion, so in tune with the Spirit and helping Blaine feel closer to it every day. “I love you, Kurt.”

Kurt smiled—that special smile he saved for when they were alone together, in private, in the presence of the Spirit. It was sweet, compassionate, and vulnerable, and it was only for Blaine. “I love you, too, Blaine.” He held Blaine’s gaze for a long moment, then patted his shoulder and stood up to go.

That was wrong. Kurt shouldn't go away. Kurt had blessed Blaine to listen to his body, and Blaine was listening, and what his body wanted now was warmth and security and comfort—the warmth of that smile made tangible. “Wait.”

“What, honey?”

Blaine’s heart warmed. Maybe he should be sick more often. Kurt had only ever called him that once before today, but today he had said it twice. It made Blaine feel all squishy inside and a little woozy, but not bad woozy like he got from throwing up. Good woozy, like you got from being on a tilt-a-whirl or rolling down a hill. “I haven’t gotten my bedtime hug yet.”

Kurt turned slowly around. “It’s not bedtime.” He pointed at the sunbeam streaming in through the skylight.

“It is for me.”

Kurt scowled at Blaine, but he didn't really seem annoyed. He returned to the bed, sitting down on its edge and leaning over to take Blaine into his arms. He tucked his chin over Blaine’s shoulder and his hands made soothing motions over the back of Blaine’s ribcage.

But Blaine had a hard time enjoying it. He kept worrying about the moment Kurt would pull away and say goodbye. I bless you with the wisdom to listen to your own body. “Stay?” Blaine said.

It was the wrong thing to say, because Kurt pulled away, his back ramrod straight. “Do you want me to sit with you?”

Blaine shook his head. He felt too shy to say it. He tugged the edge of his comforter, lifting it up. “I’m cold,” he said. “Keep me warm?”

Kurt gave him a worried look. “I should take your temperature.” And then he did the absolute worst thing possible, which was get up from the bed altogether and leave the room.

He was back half a minute later, but still. Blaine felt Kurt’s absence as surely as he felt the ache in his head.

“Open your mouth.”

Blaine obliged.

“Thirty-seven point five,” Kurt read the thermometer after the beeper went off. “You’re a little feverish. Not terrible, though. Do you want a Tylenol?”

Blaine shook his head pitifully. “I'd have to swallow it.”

Kurt looked at Blaine, and then at the thermometer, and then at the blanket that was still ruffled from Blaine having lifted it up earlier. “Oh, fine.”

He kicked off his shoes and took off his jacket and undid his tie. Blaine thought he saw a little blush form on Kurt’s cheeks, but it was probably because he was sitting directly in the path of the sunbeam coming in through the skylight.

Blaine turned on his side so they could both fit in the tiny twin bed. He felt the mattress sink under Kurt’s weight when he sat down on it. He reached behind him to take Kurt’s hand, guiding him to lie down, pulling his arm over him like a blanket, tucking their hands over his chest. He could feel his heart beating against Kurt’s loose fist.

Kurt’s breath was on the back of his ear; his long, warm body finding its place against Blaine’s, wriggling and then settling into stillness, warming his back and his butt and the back of his legs.

But it wasn’t enough. Blaine wanted to be safe in his companion’s arms. But he wanted something else, too. Something just on the edge of his imagination, something he was too groggy to think of.

As he geared closer to sleep, Blaine’s body thought of it for him. He moved his foot back and teased it between Kurt’s ankles. Kurt seemed stiff and unsure at first, but Blaine kept rubbing his toes against Kurt’s calf to let him know it was okay, to coax Kurt’s upper leg to where it needed to be: hooked over Blaine’s hip and thigh, embracing his lower body the way Kurt’s arms embraced Blaine up above.

Yes, this is what Blaine’s body wanted. Not just to be wrapped up in Kurt’s arms, but to be wrapped up in him. He was safe here. Everything was as it was meant to be.

There was hair in Kurt’s nose, tickling the opening of his nostril like a fine thread.

He should pick up Spinnenkatze and move her. He was spoiling her too much, letting her sleep on his pillow. All her little cat-fur oils couldn't possibly be good for his skin.

He didn't, though. He just wrinkled his nose and adjusted his position so the hair was no longer tormenting him. Maybe if he kept his eyes closed, he could fall back asleep. His hand was on his belly, rising and falling with each breath, his fingertip resting on the horizontal line that marked the navel of the garment. He reflexively ran his index finger over that line, back and forth, the repetition of the strokes soothing the anxiety running just under his skin. Constant nourishment to body and spirit, he thought, and that was soothing, too. God would give him what he needed.

Only … this was strange, wasn't it? Kurt could feel the warmth of muscle and belly through the garment. But his belly couldn’t feel his finger.

What time was it, anyway? Why could he see the sun through his eyelids?

Kurt blinked open his eyes to find himself exactly where he had been when he had fallen asleep: wrapped around his companion.

Beneath Kurt’s hand, Blaine’s stomach rose and fell with the steady breath of sleep. Kurt’s thigh was splayed over Blaine’s hip, the arch of foot tucked neatly against Blaine’s knee. Kurt’s penis was snug against Blaine’s buttcrack, so close to where it had been in his dream the previous night.

Time to disentangle himself.

Blaine fussed a little as Kurt did so, but never fully awakened. His coloring was already starting to look better. Kurt touched his forehead. He didn't think Blaine’s fever was going up, at least.

How had Kurt fallen asleep? His heart had started hammering as soon as he’s started taking off his suit jacket, and Kurt didn't remember it ever slowing down. But it must have at some point. After all, it wasn't like Kurt could think too many sexy thoughts about Blaine when his companion was sick as a dog. But still, it had been thrilling—the rightness of holding Blaine in his arms, the frightening intimacy of twining their legs together. If Kurt could never have sex, this would be enough.

Kurt walked quietly into the front room and checked the time. He'd only been asleep for an hour, though he felt much groggier than that. He checked his phone. There was a message from Henri, who Kurt had texted earlier to let him know Elder Anderson was sick and they would have to come by a different day. The message consisted entirely of a thumbs up emoji; Kurt wondered if it was supposed to be ironic.

Kurt sent a message to Elder Clarington and then called the mission president’s wife to let them know Blaine was sick, but it probably wasn't anything that would require medical attention. Elder Clarington immediately shot back with a text telling Kurt that just because its companion was sick didn't mean he could slack off, to which Kurt simply replied, I have no plans to.

Early in his mission, Kurt would have felt imprisoned by a companion’s illness—like Satan himself had thrown that specific obstacle in Kurt’s way for the sole purpose of preventing Kurt from reaching potential converts and earning his redemption. Now, it was an opportunity to serve.

Kurt looked through the cabinets and refrigerator for things that Blaine might be able to eat when he started to feel better. He got out rice and quick-set gelatin, and texted Dani to see if she had any bananas or ginger ale in her apartment.

Kurt was gone. How was Kurt gone? Blaine had only been asleep for a few minutes, and Kurt’s body had been so warm and wonderful, like a heavy blanket on a cold night. How could Blaine have missed his companion getting up out of bed?

Blaine’s stomach growled. Not the bad kind of growling, but the kind you got when you were hungry. He reached over to the side table and took a sip from the cup Kurt had left there.

Kurt appeared in the doorway. “You’re awake.”

“Of course I'm awake. I never really fell asleep.”

“Um, no.” Kurt sat down on Blaine’s bed, where he belonged. He turned the alarm clock around so Blaine could see the numbers on its face. But they didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be past nineteen hours already.

“No,” said Blaine, wondering if his vision had gotten messed up from dehydration or something. Or maybe he just couldn't remember how to read German clocks anymore?

“Yup,” said Kurt.

Blaine rubbed his eyes. “I guess that explains why my appetite is back already.”

“Yeah?” Kurt put his hand to Blaine’s forehead. “You feel a little cooler too. Let me take your temperature again.”

“You don’t need to do that. If you ask me how I’m feeling, I can just tell you that I am one-hundred percent better.”

Kurt studied Blaine’s face. “Sister Steele is going to ask about it, though. And I would feel better knowing.”

Blaine didn't protest further. It was kind of nice having Kurt dote on him like this, to be reminded how much Kurt cared about his well-being. It was even nicer to see the way Kurt smiled and did a little bounce on the edge of the mattress when he read out the results: “Thirty-seven!”

“It must have been the blessing,” Blaine said sanguinely.

“Maybe,” Kurt said.

Blaine really did feel a lot better. He could sit up in bed all by himself, and now he felt ready to jump out of it. Plus, he was hungry. He even felt a little horny, which was always a sign that he was on the mend.

“Can you dress yourself?” Kurt asked.

Blaine looked down and realized he was only in his garments. Had only been in his garments for the last several hours, including when Kurt had been lying next with him in bed and acting as his security blanket. He was as naked as Kurt had ever seen him. And somehow that felt a little exciting, which was stupid, because Blaine really needed to stop caring about whether or not gay guys were into his body, and also because Blaine in garments was not hot, and Blaine in his sweat-soaked, sick-person-smelling garments was objectively disgusting—which was why Kurt was clearly not eager to help Blaine peel them off and replace them with fresh ones.

But maybe that was okay, because Blaine was sporting a pretty significant erection, and it would be rude to expose his companion to that. “Yeah. I can get dressed.”

Fully clothed and half and hour later, Blaine clacked his spoon against the inside of his empty Jell-O bowl, as if more might magically appear. “I’m still hungry.”

“Do you feel ready for a little rice?” asked Kurt sympathetically.

Blaine shrugged. “Maybe. But I don't feel like making any.”

“You don’t have to. I already did.” Kurt stood up from his chair and walked to the refrigerator. “I made some plain and some with bouillon. I wasn't sure what you would want after being sick. I don't really know your comfort food repertoire.”

Blaine's heart warmed. “You didn't have to.”

“Rice not your thing when you've been sick?”

“No, it is. I just …” Blaine felt on the verge of tearing up. First the Jell-O, now this? Most missionaries would have handed him a box of crackers and let him fend for himself. But Kurt treated him like somebody important, somebody worth pampering and coddling back into health. “I'm grateful, that's all.”

Kurt warmed a quarter cup of rice in the microwave and set it on the table in front of Blaine. “Eat slowly,” he said, after Blaine scarfed down the first spoonful.

That was the downside to having Kurt as a nurse. You couldn't get away with anything.

“I wonder if I should have more,” Blaine said when he was done. This whole listening to your body thing was confusing. Was he supposed to be listening to the part of him that was hungry or the part of him that had thrown up a few hours ago?

“How do you feel?”

Blaine thought about it. His erection was distracting him more than his hunger now, so he could probably wait. “We should play a game.”

“Dictionary? Scripture Hunt?” Kurt asked. They didn't have any board games in the apartment.

Scripture Hunt might work. Reading scriptures was supposed to be a good way to drive away arousal, though in Blaine’s case, it didn't always work. But something spiritual—that was a good idea. “No, Hymn Feud. You know the game.”

“‘Hymn Feud?’ That sounds like an oxymoron. And a way to stir up contention.”

“No, it’s not. Maybe you don't know it by that name, but you must have played it before, and we're gonna play it now. You start.”

“How?”

“Sing a hymn. Any hymn.”

Kurt rolled his eyes but complied. “The spirit of God like a fire is burning, the latter-day glory begins to come forth. The visions and blessings of old are returning, and angels are coming to visit the earth.”

Blaine was so taken in by Kurt’s rendition that he momentarily forgot the aim of the game was to jump in as soon as possible with a related hymn, and not just sit there bathing in your competitor’s voice. If he’d been paying attention, he could have started right after the first line with any of a hundred hymns that mention the Holy Spirit, but now he should probably do something with angels … “Angels we have heard on high, singing sweetly o’er the plains—”

“Oh! Hymn Hoedown!” Kurt clapped his hands excitedly. “An angel came to Joseph Smith, and from the ground he took a sacred record hidden there, a precious, holy book—”

“Book of Mormon stories that my teacher tells to me are about the Lamanites in ancient history. Long ago their fathers came from far across the sea—”

“It may not be on the mountain height or over the stormy sea …”

Ten minutes later, they were still going, without a single hitch—unless you counted the times Blaine got distracted by Kurt’s voice and took a while to think of something to jump in with.

Like right now, when Blaine had let Kurt go through an entire verse of I Feel My Savior’s Love because he was lost in the lyrics and the sound, and now, on the chorus, “He knows I will follow him, give all my life to him,” it felt like some long-buried longing was being coaxed out of Blaine, like it wasn't just about the Savior, but something else, too.

It was like that feeling Blaine used to get when he'd watch romantic movies, where he’d feel this ache in his heart, and he wanted nothing more than to find someone he could give his full commitment to.

It felt like that with Kurt sometimes—like the Holy Ghost was calling Blaine to surrender himself completely to this friendship and everything it would teach him.

Kurt watched Blaine’s face curiously as he moved on to the second verse, about the gentleness of the Savior’s love enfolding Blaine, about his heart being filled with peace, and launched into the chorus again with “He knows I will follow him, give all my life to him…”

Blaine needed to sing something now or never. He couldn’t expect Kurt to sit here serenading him in the kitchen all night, even if that’s what he wanted. Life. Life. Life. Blaine sang the first thing he could think of that had the word life in it: “Before you met me, I was all right. But things were kind of heavy. You brought me to life—”

Kurt burst out laughing. “That’s not a hymn, Elder Anderson.”

Blaine felt his cheeks going warm. “It is if you change the words a little.”

Kurt raised an eyebrow in that exquisite way he had of showing he could not be fooled. “Oh?”

Blaine could do this. Back when Joe showed up and was trying to get Blaine to be his friend as well as Sam, he taught them a game you could play to make any pop song wholesome: just add Jesus. It had been a while since Blaine had done it, but he figured he could carry it off now, even if the sugar high from the Jell-O was starting to fade.

Before I met you, Jesus, I was alright.

But things were kind of heavy, you brought me to life.

Now every Easter, Easter, you'll be the one sacrifice, sacrifice.

Let's go all the way down the

Covenant path, it’s love.

We can dance until we die

then resurrect, we'll be young forever!

“I can’t believe you,” Kurt said, his hand pressed against his stomach because he kept bending over the table in fits of laughter, and his cheeks flushing that most handsome pink.

“This is serious stuff,” said Blaine, and Kurt laughed harder.

Blaine decided Joe maybe hadn't been as bad as Blaine had made him out to be, after all.

“If you have enough energy to be that ridiculous,” said Kurt, wiping tears from his eyes, “you probably have it in you to eat a little more. More rice? Or can you handle something with a little more flavor and electrolytes?”

“Like what?”

“Dani has provided us with bananas.”

Blaine clapped his hands. “Thank you, Dani!” Bananas were hands-down his favorite comfort food next to saltines, but you couldn't expect to find proper saltines in Germany. Bananas, on the other hand—the one that Kurt held out to him was very proper, plump and bright yellow with a slight tinge of green on the ends. Blaine actually moaned when he bit into it. It was like manna from heaven—or, wait, did manna actually taste good?

“So clearly, your appetite is back,” said Kurt. His cheeks were still pink from the laughing. Or maybe—

Blaine slid the banana back into his mouth. Back in high school, Tina used to do this thing at lunch where she would be pretending to give a banana a blowjob. It was funny and a little bit sexy. Blaine couldn't help but get at least half hard. It wasn't Tina’s mouth in particular that got him going, and he prayed to God she didn't want to do that to him. But the abstract concept of mouths on penises was hot.

Blaine wondered if Kurt thought so, too.

If anyone had ever played the banana game with Kurt.

If Kurt was thinking about mouths on penises right now.

Because Blaine was, and he was getting even harder than he’d already been.

“Are you going to eat that, or just hold it there?” Kurt asked.

It was almost exactly what Blaine used to say to Tina. And then she would answer, What, you’re not enjoying the show? Blaine knew better than to say that to Kurt, though. He reluctantly took a bite.

Apparently, he wasn't as sexy sucking on bananas as Tina had been.

Blaine’s face planted into the table almost as soon as he was done with his second banana. Which, thank goodness. Because he had eaten them so slowly and lovingly and with such gustatory relish that Kurt’s erection from earlier in the afternoon had returned with a vengeance.

Seriously. Was Kurt that far gone? That just watching his companion do something as innocent as eat food made Kurt think devious thoughts? Not that they had been thoughts, exactly. Kurt hadn't gone so far as to picture any sexual acts. But he felt them, almost, like shadows on his body—hints of warmth and pleasure that Kurt avoided entertaining outside his dreams.

Kurt coaxed Blaine awake and to the bathroom to brush his teeth. His companion insisted on taking a shower, too. Kurt worried Blaine was too weak and would fall over, but Blaine said he felt too gross to fall asleep, and despite Kurt’s logical protestations that Blaine had fallen asleep already at the kitchen table, Blaine won the argument. At least he let Kurt get out a clean set of garments and pajamas for him and hand it through the bathroom door.

Blaine survived the shower and prayers and hugs and being tucked back into bed by Kurt.

“You're not ready for bed yet,” Blaine said with a pout. “How will I fall asleep if you're not in here too?”

“I’m sure you will,” Kurt said, stroking the top of Blaine’s head. “And if you don't, I won't be that long. I just need to clean up and shower and stuff.” Kurt felt a little guilty about the “and stuff.” It wasn’t just some vague to-dos he wanted to accomplish. He wanted to touch himself. Had wanted to since Blaine had started going gangbusters on that banana. Since he'd woken up entwined with him. Since that hot, vulnerable dream of the night before. And since he had touched himself two days ago and it had been glorious.

And Kurt was determined to do it. If last night’s soiling of his garments and today’s utter failure at proselytizing had taught him anything, it was that excessive self-restraint in that area did not bear spiritual fruit.

“Do you want my MP3 player?” Kurt said, to assuage his conscience.

Blaine lit up in a groggy sort of way. He was going to be asleep within five minutes, no question.

And he was. Almost as soon as the earplugs were in and Kurt had selected his most calming playlist, Blaine let out his first snore.

Kurt went into the kitchen and cleaned up. He washed the dishes and thought about Fast Sunday, his and Blaine’s hands covered in suds, the reassuring warmth of Blaine’s wrist in his palm. It shouldn't have been an arousing image, just like lying with an ill Blaine shouldn't have been arousing, either. But those touches were intimate. When Kurt was close to Blaine that way, he felt like windows were opening all around him, letting light into his darkest recesses. That these unsettling parts of Kurt, in the bright light of Blaine’s affection, turned out to be no longer frightening, but beautiful.

Maybe Kurt’s desires were beautiful, too. Maybe the things he dreamed about, the erotic touch he wanted, were outgrowths of that feeling Kurt got when he held Blaine close.

It had been a long time since Kurt had consciously allowed his imagination to explore the deeper intimacies. And the act he had dreamt of the previous night—even during the early days of his adolescence, when Kurt had existed in that liminal space where the need to explore his fantasies outweighed any guilt he felt over doing so, he had rarely let himself travel there.

He’d known the act existed, of course. He’d first heard about it in elementary school through generic slurs, and later in middle school in ones directly aimed at him. Throughout those years, he’d thought the whole thing sounded repulsive, and also completely made up.

But later, in high school, he’d started to hear it spoken of casually and without shame by some of his peers. He’d heard straight Christian kids contemplating whether they could preserve their virginity by doing it that way instead of the other way, and Brittany extolling its unparalleled pleasures, and Puck wondering out loud if the fact that he liked Lauren to stick her finger up his ass and wanted her to do him with a strap-on made him a little gay—and if it did, then he guessed he was okay with being a little gay, because he really wanted it.

By that point in his life, Kurt understood the inclination to want to plunge into anything warm and tight, even if he was too righteous to actually do so. The act no longer seemed unquestionably gross to him. He liked thinking about the fact that Jacob Black had a penis that got erect like his, that responded to touch and attention, that would feel warm and heavy in Kurt’s hand. The idea of Jacob being inside of him, or him being inside of Jacob, became appealing, at least on a theoretical level, because penises and arousal and pleasure were appealing. But if Kurt thought about it too hard, he wondered how such a large thing could possibly fit inside such a small hole.

He gave into his curiosity and looked up “gay anal porn” on the internet. Okay. So it really could fit. And it didn't even seem like much of a struggle to get it in, after a little warm up. The guys on the receiving end sure looked like they were enjoying it, and Kurt guiltily got off on it, despite being appalled at their tattoos and worrying what their mothers might think, but still—even as it moved in and out and the receivers begged for more, more, more, it looked way too big for that tight space.

So then Kurt looked up “does anyone actually enjoy anal sex” and learned about anal nerve endings and prostates. It sounded intriguing enough that, after resisting the temptation for almost a month past his first reading, he had, in a fit of passion, pushed a spit-soaked finger into his own hole and gone searching around for his prostate. He wasn't sure if it felt weird and uncomfortable for physical reasons or because he kept thinking about the prohibition on arousing sexual feelings in your own body. Because if that prohibition was right, which it must be, because it was printed in a church pamphlet, then stroking your own prostate must be the worst thing you could possibly do, because it was an act that existed for the sole purpose of arousing a new kind of sexual feeling that his body had never yet experienced and never would experience on its own, even in wet dreams.

After that, Kurt had felt too guilty to try much more experimentation with his backside. And soon after, he tried to stop thinking about sex at all. Even his fantasies involving nothing but hands, rubbing, and Jacob Black in a field of lilacs started feeling too risqué.

But now, everything in Kurt’s life was turning upside down. So much of what Kurt had built his faith on was false. Brigham Young being a racist, Joseph Smith practicing polygamy, masturbation not driving the Spirit away—Kurt had always given lip service to the fact that leaders could be fallible, but with this new evidence, he had to give more than lip service. He had to admit it was true.

Kurt had built his faith on a scaffolding of weak assumptions. And now that scaffolding was starting collapse. He had to build a new one. But he wasn’t sure how.

All Kurt knew was that the cause-and-effect relationships he’d been taught throughout his life weren't real. That not everything labeled a sin was, in fact, a sin. Kurt had touched himself two nights ago, and had been rewarded with one of the most fruitful days of his mission. And if enjoying his own touch hadn’t harm his relationship with God, maybe enjoying thoughts of sex wouldn’t, either. Even if he could never partake in sexual relations with another person, was it necessarily wrong to imagine them? It wasn't sinful to daydream about being a dog or flying like a superhero or living on another planet, even though those things were impossible. Maybe fantasizing about sex, for Kurt, wasn't sinful, either.

Yes. That’s what he was going to do tonight. He was going to imagine the things he hadn’t let himself imagine in years.

Kurt felt a buzz of excitement as he undressed for the shower. His hairs were standing on end. He shivered at his own touch. He looked at his erection in the mirror and palmed it gently, as if it was something to be handled with love and care.

He felt like he was seducing himself, and was unashamed.

Under the steady thrum of water, Kurt rubbed soap over his shoulders and down his chest, letting the fingers of his right hand trail slowly down his belly and toward his erection. He closed his eyes and let himself imagine that it was another man's hand on his body, another man stroking him, another man desiring his pleasure and release. He thought back to his dream last night, of the way the imaginary man who’d looked so much like Blaine had wanted him, freely and without shame. How he had given himself over to his desires and Kurt’s passion, how he had opened himself to be loved.

Kurt imagined himself giving back the same way, here in the shower, under the warm stream of water, running his fingers through that imaginary man's wet curls, kissing his damp shoulders, and then down, down, to his nipples and his belly and then further down, taking him into his mouth, licking him and sucking him with glorious abandon, making this imaginary man feels so wanted, so adored.

He heard the imaginary man pleading the way he had in Kurt’s dream last night—for more, for healing, for love. Kurt couldn’t refuse. He took his lover into his arms and pressed him up against the wall of the shower, kissing the soft mounds of his buttocks and up to his shoulder blades, his neck, his mouth. He ran his hands over the imaginary man’s chest, his stiff nipples, the soft hairs on his belly, eliciting soft, needy moans. He held his lover’s hips firmly and guided him to the right place.

Kurt entered him slowly, surely, right where they both needed.

His imaginary lover pushed back onto him, begging to have all of it, to feel Kurt fully in him, for Kurt to know him.

Kurt wouldn’t refuse. He would give his lover his full length, but also more. He would give him his heart. He would hold him to his chest and whisper sweet promises into his ear. I’ll never give you up, honey. I'll never say goodbye. You have me. You have all of me.

He would touch this imaginary man’s most sacred parts, inside and out, stroking and loving him, running his hands over his chest and his leaking erection, kissing his neck, timing his thrusts for his lover’s pleasure more than for his own.

You feel so good, Kurt. I want you so bad. I’ll never hurt you. He would kiss Kurt sloppily, because that would be a sloppy position to kiss in, so maybe then he would turn around and Kurt would hoist him up around his waist like he had in the dream last night, and his imaginary lover would smile ecstatically and say You always know exactly how I want it. Now show me how much you love me. Make me come.

And they would kiss and thrust and grind, so in sync that Kurt wouldn't be able to tell who was initiating each movement—because neither of them was. Every breath, every stroke, every thrust was born of both of them, their bodies speaking to each other, their hearts as one.

I want to tell you how I'm feeling, but I can't, his lover would say, now desperate, panting, rising into ecstasy. So let me show you. And his brown eyes would roll back and he would gasp and from that most sacred part, held reverently in Kurt’s hand, the evidence of his desire would flow tangibly over Kurt’s fingers.

“I love you,” Kurt mouthed under the water. “I love you so much.”

Kurt came.

Kurt felt a little guilty the next morning when Blaine walked into the kitchen full of bright energy and gave him an ecstatic smile not unlike the one Kurt’s imaginary lover had directed toward him the previous night.

Kurt reminded himself that he hadn't been imagining Blaine, but the man from his dreams. He hadn’t violated the person standing in front of him. Not really.

Also, Kurt should probably stop thinking of his companion as Blaine. The name was Elder Anderson. They were colleagues. Professionals.

“I feel amazing this morning!” Elder Anderson said.

“Good. Perhaps that portends an amazing day,” Kurt said hopefully. If self-given orgasms correlated to high missionary productivity, the day should be record breaking.

But if the remorse Kurt was feeling right now was any measure, it was going to be a terrible day.

As soon as they hit the streets, the day seemed determined to defeat Kurt’s self-punishing predictions. Some random teenager walked up to them and asked for a Book of Mormon for a report she was writing for religion class—it wasn't a request for baptism, but it opened a door. Then her group of friends, catching up with her, were all struck by what a brilliant idea this was and decided maybe they could do their reports on the Mormons, as well. Kurt and Elder Anderson ended up leading an abbreviated version of the first discussion right there, and invited them to sacrament meeting so that they could see true religion in practice.

“I think they might actually show up,” Elder Anderson said with a bounce as the kids walked away.

“I get that sense too,” said Kurt, but tried not to get too carried away with the feeling. Intellectual curiosity wasn't the best basis for conversion.

At the bike shop, Henri seemed delighted to see them, greeting them with a hearty “Salut!” and waving them toward the maintenance counter as soon as they walked into the store. “I was telling my friend Howard here about you guys,” Henri said, patting a fellow mechanic on the back. Howard was at a bike stand, fiddling with the spokes on a street cruiser.

“Hello,” Howard said with a wave and a frown, then turned to Henri and asked him where some unintelligible word in German could be found.

Not as excited to see them as Henri, clearly.

Elder Anderson’s eyes lit up, though. “Oh my gosh, I think he’s Pinoy!” he whispered excitedly to Kurt as Henri and Howard went fishing through the hardware chest for the unintelligible German word. “I’m going to ask him.”

“We’re not supposed to ask people about their ethnicities like that,” Kurt whispered back.

“You’re not. But I can,” Elder Anderson answered with a wink.

Elder Anderson was right, and Howard revealed himself to be capable of smiling as they discussed their familial origins and where to ingredients for Filipino foods around there. They gave him a Book of Mormon, too.

“This is such a weird day. When is the other shoe going to drop?” Kurt asked after they left the shop.

“Did a first shoe ever drop?” Elder Anderson asked.

“Not today, but … never mind, I'm being negative. I'm just not used to things going so well. We've given out five books of Mormon already and it's not even lunch time yet.”

Elder Anderson patted Kurt’s shoulder. “It's because you're so righteous, Elder Hummel.”

Oh, the things Elder Anderson didn't know.

They were scheduled to meet with Andrea Carmichael and her husband that afternoon. They were staying with a friend from the States while they waited for their furniture arrive, so she would be there too.

“You must be the missionaries!” said the skinny blonde woman who answered the door. She looked an awful lot like Gwyneth Paltrow. “Oh my God, you guys look just like the ones in The Book of Mormon musical. Have you seen it? It’s so good.”

Ah. Here was Kurt’s punishment, finally.

“Anyway, I'm so excited to meet you!” the blonde woman thrust her hand out for shaking. “Holly Holliday. I used to live in Ohio, too. Andrea tells me one of you is from Lima?”

“That would be me,” Elder Hummel said, a fake smile plastered on his face. (Blaine was doing his best to think of Kurt as Elder Hummel again, now that they were out of the apartment.)

Holly scrutinized his face. “You’re probably too young to have ever met me. I was a substitute teacher, but I mostly did high school and I left ten years ago. I felt like I was getting too much consistency in my life, ya know? I became a substitute teacher so that I wouldn't have to see the same faces every day, but after a while in the same handful of school districts, you end up seeing the same faces over and over again, anyway, and then you start feeling attached, and I don't like feeling attached. But then I realized, ‘International schools! Kids rotate in and out of those faster than bread through one of those conveyor belt toasters, and if I become a substitute teacher there, it will be almost impossible to build relationships with the kids or their families!’”

Blaine was contemplating how he could possibly turn Holly’s desire for inconsistency into a pitch for the church when Andrea came to the rescue. “Holly, I told you not to answer the door. You'll scare them away!”

Blaine and Elder Hummel were ushered into the living room, and Holly disappeared to take a phone call, leaving the missionaries alone with Andrea and her husband, Dalton Rumba, who Elder Hummel also recognized. Apparently Dalton had directed a show choir for the deaf that competed against Elder Hummel’s glee club in his sophomore year, and lost. Dalton appeared to still hold a grudge about it, which Blaine could sympathize with. It was hard to spend life as the perpetual underdog.

But it was best to avoid contention. And Blaine had an idea of how to steer the conversation in a more positive direction. “So,” he said, crossing his legs and interlacing his fingers over his knees, “tell us a little about yourselves. You're newlyweds? How did you meet?”

“You know, we've known each other for so long, I’m not sure either of us remember the exact moment,” Dalton said.

“We met in kindergarten,” said Andrea, patting Dalton’s hand. “And we dated for a little in high school. But then we went our separate ways, and I got caught up in the glamour of television news, and I ended up in a string of affairs with pompous newscasters, and then I married the last newscaster, which was just insane, and he cheated on me, and I divorced him, and then Dalton and I reconnected at a support group for recent divorcees and … well. I finally found out what it was like to be in love for the first time.” Dalton squeezed her hand, and Blaine felt a pleasant squeeze around his heart. He loved when people were in love.

“Both of us have been through a lot,” Dalton said. “And frankly, I wasn't sure I wanted to risk having another relationship. But on our first date, Andrea said to me, she said, ‘I can’t promise you much, Dalton. I don’t know if this will turn into something or not. But I can promise you this: I’m never going to tell you a lie or intentionally hurt you. I'll always try to be as honest as I can be, and as kind as I know how.’ And I thought, ‘Well, I’ve got to give this woman a chance.’ And I’m so glad I did.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet.” Blaine thought his heart might melt into a puddle right there. He glanced over at Elder Hummel and wondered what his heart was doing. “Well, I suppose If you've spoken to the missionaries before, you know what the church teaches about marriage, right? Other Christian churches say we can’t know if marriage continues in heaven, or they teach that it definitely doesn't. But we believe married couples don't have to part at death. You can be together in heaven, also, married for time and all eternity.”

“Of course,” said Andrea. “That's one of the reasons we want to get baptized. So we can eventually go to the temple and be sealed to each other there.”

She beamed. Dalton beamed. Blaine beamed.

They talked a bit more about what Andrea and Dalton already knew about the church, how much of the Book of Mormon they had read, and any questions they had. It was wonderful. Blaine felt the presence of the Holy Spirit so strongly, and from the few looks he shared with Elder Hummel, he thought his companion felt it, too.

And then Holly Holiday came tornadoing back into the living room. “Sorry about that. Hope you didn't miss me too much. One of the jobs I applied to. I realized I have a problem with commitment, and maybe running Incessantly around the world isn't exactly a lifestyle I'm choosing, but just a sign that I'm avoiding deeper things. So I'm trying to get a permanent teaching job somewhere. It's weird.”

Huh. That was unexpected. The thing she’d said at the door wasn't the thing she believed now. Maybe her desire for baptism wasn't as bizarre as it had first sounded.

Elder Hummel had noticed this discrepancy too, judging by the way his eyebrow quirked in interest. “How did you become interested in the Mormons, Holly?” Elder Hummel asked.

“Oh!” she said, her face lighting up as she plunged down onto the couch next to Andrea. “It was when I saw The Book of Mormon musical in London. I mean, I know all those songs were supposed to be making fun of the Mormons, but that stuff about God living on a planet—well, that makes so much sense! I was raised Catholic and they're always talking about how God lives in heaven, but nobody can tell you where or what heaven is. Is it a physical place? Do people there walk on the ground or swim through the clouds? But a planet? I can wrap my head around that. Also, the garden of Eden being in Jackson, Missouri, makes way more sense than it being in the Middle East, because it actually rains in Jackson, Missouri. Like, way better conditions for growing a garden, am I right? But the thing that really got me was when Elder Price—wait, have you seen it?”

Blaine and Elder Hummel both shook their heads.

“Oh, well, you must. Because there's this part where one of the missionaries, Elder Price, decides to risk his life and go preach the gospeI to a bunch of warlords. And the moment I saw that—it was like a punch to the gut. Because, you see, my whole life, my motto has been to grab life by the balls. But when I saw Elder Price walk into that guerrilla camp—well, that was such a ballsy move! And I realized I've never come close to that. I've been spending my entire life running away from stuff I was afraid of, not toward it. Like the whole commitment thing. Why am I afraid to see the same faces year after year? That's a little weird.”

Huh. Blaine had worried Holly was trolling them with the planet and garden of Eden stuff. But that last thing … maybe she was for real. Blaine looked over at Elder Hummel to gauge his reaction. But Elder Hummel had his missionary face on, not his home face, and he was inscrutable.

Elder Hummel leaned forward in his chair. “Have you reached out to the missionaries before?”

“No. This only happened a few months ago. But I’ve read the Book of Mormon! And then Andrea called me and told me she was moving out here, and she'd been reading the Book of Mormon too, and, well, I was like, it’s a sign! And I went on the Internet and read all about the cool temple stuff and more about Kolob, and then mother in heaven—which rocks, by the way.” She shared a fist bump with Andrea. “I mean, I'm not crazy about the gay stuff, because I slept with plenty of women in college, or the law of chastity stuff, because, well, I'm no stranger to love on either side of the fence, but it's really all kind of hypothetical at this point, anyway, because I had my ovaries removed a few years ago and let me tell you, not a lot going on down there these days. But the Word of Wisdom? I can get down with that. Alcohol has gotten me in a lot of trouble, and clearly I don't need caffeine for energy, ’cause I'm not on it now. Plus, common consent and continuing revelation. And Relief Society just sounds so fun! So—basically, what I'm saying, is that as far as the church goes, a full commitment’s what I’m thinking of. Dunk me, give me the Holy Ghost, and teach me how to live a good life without constantly running away from everyone and everything.”

“Do you think she’s for real?” Kurt asked as they left Holly’s house.

Elder Anderson seemed to consider. “Yeah, I think she is.”

“Yeah, me too.” She was definitely weird, but she seemed sincere. “A little eccentric, though.”

“True. But I think the church needs a little more eccentricity, don't you?”

Kurt smiled at his companion. “I do.”

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