Work Text:
It’s one of those nights in August where school seems a hundred years away, and everything’s slow and lazy and every time Tina reaches out for Mike’s hand it’s a little too hot and his skin’s a little too dry and he mumbles something unintelligible when she leans in and kisses the corner of his mouth.
He tastes like sunshine and sweat, salty and warm, so she nuzzles up to him even though it’s way too hot for that and her skin and his stick together in a way that makes Mike mumble again, louder.
“Shhh,” Tina mumbles, reaching out to take the big glass bottle out of Blaine’s hand. He doesn’t notice, draped over Kurt’s chest and playing with the tie on his boyfriend’s way-too-fancy pajama’s like Mike and Tina aren’t sitting (laying, lounging, whatever) right there. Tina rolls her eyes and slurps loudly from the bottle of cheap champagne, not at all dignified, not at all caring that she can taste Kurt’s chapstick and Blaine’s cologne and Mike’s mouth on the rim.
Her boyfriend shifts against her and he’s solid and warm, muscles coils of heat against her shoulders, fingers skimming up under her shirt and tracing the curve of her hip. The moon is out but he reminds her of the sun like this, golden and soft-eyed, leaning in to kiss her temple, her cheek, to steal traces of champagne from her lips, hot and shining and hers. “You’re so cute,” he slurs against her lips, and she can’t remember if she’s tasting the alcohol or him, where the champagne bubbles end and his begin.
“Not,” Tina purrs, giggling and rolling closer to Mike on the air mattress, bare toes curling against the silky filmy tent fabric. One last sleepover, her and Mike and Kurt because he lives nearby and Blaine because he’s doe-eyed and sweet even before the champagne, curled around Kurt like something saccharine and sugary – syrup on pancakes, kittens on pillows, Mike’s hands on her back. “I’m fears…furs…fearschomes.” She gives up, letting the mostly empty bottle roll away to the corner of the tent, stretching to nibble on Mike’s ear.
He laughs and stretches out, shoulders rolling under his thin top. His hand collides with Blaine’s bare ankle in the cramped quarters of the tent and both boys sit up a little, startled. Tina just laughs, untangling herself from Mike and crawling over to Kurt, who is even more of a cuddly drunk than Mike is, because he opens his arms to her, batting his eyes and pursing his lips. “Come to my arms, my beamish girl.”
“Caloo, calay,” Tina replies, planting a champagne-sticky kiss on Kurt’s cheek and cuddling him to her chest. He immediately starts braiding the blonde parts of her hair, leaving them to unravel and tickle her neck, for lack of a hair elastic. It’s too warm in the tent by now, but Tina squirms and sweats and smiles when Blaine and Mike cuddle back up to them.
And somehow they’re no longer two couples but four people, drowsy and snuggly, bare skin slippery-wiggling against the sheer fabric of sleeping bags, pajama’s slipping down over shoulders and riding up to expose stomachs and hips and hugging the curves of thigh and chest and rear. Somehow Tina ends up in a Mike-and-Kurt sandwich, with Blaine on top, her leg hooked over Kurt’s 1000-thread-count pajama’s and her boyfriend’s hands in a place that would be indecent in any other location.
Then, somehow, she kisses Kurt’s other cheek and dares Blaine to kiss Mike goodnight – or maybe it’s vice-versa, but regardless of instigators, she’s fascinated with how Blaine’s long-long-long eyelashes flutter on his cheeks when he’s kissed and how Kurt bites his lower lip cherry-red when she wraps her arms around him, feeling the outline of his body against the softness of her chest.
When they wake up they’ll be groggy and cotton-mouthed and it’ll take them several moments to untangle limbs, but for now she can feel Mike surrounding her with warmth and she can smell Blaine’s hair and taste Kurt’s skin and there’s nowhere she’d rather be.