kurtbastian: this fire is out of control

part 3 of my kurtbastian ‘verse. parts 1 | 2 here. title is from the franz ferdinand song “this fire”. Special thanks to blaineyminaj for looking this over for me, and glitterdammerung for her input on what type of dude Santana and Sebastian would both find visually appealing.

Summary: Santana is annoyingly perceptive. Length: 1200 words

“Alright, spill.” Santana jabs the tip of a manicured finger into Sebastian’s chest, sharply lifting a brow.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sebastian counters, because he doesn’t.

“Something is up with you. I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s something.”

“And how’d you reckon that, exactly?”

“The waiter has been flirting with you so hard all night he practically has a big, flashing, neon sign over his head that says ‘please for the love of God just fuck me’. You haven’t even noticed.”

Sebastian darts a glance at the gentleman in question and… okay, he can tell by the come hither grin on the waiter’s face when he catches his eye that Santana may have a point there. But he’s easily able to shrug it off. “Not my type.”

“You’re kidding, right? He looks just like that broody dude in Buffy the Vampire Slayer. He is everyone’s type. Hell, I’d take him home if I didn’t think Rebecca would kill me.” She plucks the toothpick out of her empty martini glass and bites the olive off the end, waving it around for emphasis. “This whole exclusive relationship thing is really crimping my style.”

“You love it,” Sebastian says, because they both know it’s true.

Santana shrugs her assent, and waves the subject aside. “Whatever, my idealistic white bread relationship isn’t the point here. The point is that you’re unattached and free to sow your wild oats wherever the fuck you please. Under ordinary circumstances, you wouldn’t hesitate to hit that. So what’s up?”

Sebastian is a little bit irritated with her line of questioning, because the fact of the matter is he doesn’t have a good answer. “I don’t know,” he begrudgingly admits. “He’s just not what I’m looking for right now.”

“Ahh, I see. In the mood for a particular flavor, huh?” Santana’s brows lifts again and she leans forward. “I can respect that. What’s your dream man look like tonight?”

He’s quiet for a minute, fingers steepled, as he considers it. “Shorter than that guy,” he jerks his head in the direction of the waiter. “Slimmer, less overtly muscular. Different eyes, and… freckles, I think.”

“That sounds oddly specific.”

“What can I say?” Sebastian shrugs. “I am a man of particular tastes.”

Santana sips her drink and views him through narrowed eyes. “Mhm,” is all she says, noncommittal, and lets the subject drop.

—

Of course, that’s not the end of it.

He’s distracted. He knows he is. A night out with Santana is high on his list of favorite ways to kill time. She’s as brash and abrasive as he is, gives as good as she gets, and is always up for a challenge. Time spent with her is never dull. But tonight… for whatever reason, tonight Sebastian feels a little restless.

His phone buzzes for the third time in the span of five or so minutes. He barely has a chance to read the message before Santana reaches across the table and snatches it out of his hand.

The texts thus far have been fairly innocuous—

• S: up to anything interesting tonight?
• K: if you call sipping a cup of tea and catching up on work interesting.
• S: I think I fell asleep just reading that.
• K: jerk. what about you?
• S: out with Santana.
• K: and you took a break from wreaking havoc to text little ol’ me? I’m flattered.

—so he’s not too worried about Santana seeing them. Mildly irritated, yes, as anyone would be after having their private property so rudely snatched away. But not worried.

At least not until Santana lets out a disbelieving chortle.

“What?” he bristles and makes a grab for his phone.

Santana holds it out of his reach and the chortle develops into a full, mocking cackle. “Oh my God, it’s Hummel.”

“I’m texting him, yes.” He crosses his arms and no, thank you very much, he is not sulking. “So what?”

“So he’s your dream dude. Shorter, freckled… you were describing Hummel.”

He scoffs, rolls his eyes. “No, I wasn’t. Give me back my phone.”

“No.” She grins, scrolls through his phone. “How often do you guys text, anyway?”

“I don’t exactly keep track. We’re friends. Friends text.”

“You don’t text me just to see how my day went,” Santana points out.

“That’s because I don’t care.”

“But you care about Hummel?”

“If he has a bad day he whines, okay? It’s easier to just go with it.”

“You never put up with anything you don’t want to.” Santana slides the phone back across the table at him, and Sebastian itches to wipe the smirk off her face.

Unfortunately, he hasn’t quite figured out how yet.

“You’re reading too much into this.” He shoves his phone in his pocket and pointedly does not question why this conversation has him so flustered. “I’m willing to admit that there might be a certain amount of… attraction there, maybe. But come on. It’s not like I have feelings for him or anything. You know me.” He catches the waiter’s eye and motions for another drink, favoring him with a charismatic grin. (Hey, just because he doesn’t want to take the guy home doesn’t mean Sebastian’s going to refrain from utilizing his appeal.) “I don’t do that crap.”

Santana purses her lips and hmm’s, drawing the sound out. Her gaze is annoyingly perceptive, and Sebastian has the intensely uncomfortable notion that she can see straight through him. He’s having difficulties resisting the urge to squirm, and he hates her for that. He doesn’t squirm. He’s just not that kind of person.

Then the moment breaks, and her shoulders hitch in a careless shrug. “Sure you don’t, cupcake,” she says. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Sebastian rolls his eyes to cover up his relief and the subject, thankfully, drops.

—

The conversation lingers in his mind, however, even after it’s over.

Because the thing is, Kurt has been on his mind lately.

He meant what he said. He has no inclination to turn into a cliché chick flick protagonist for Kurt Hummel or anyone else. He doesn’t want to hold Kurt’s hand or cook him elaborate, candle-lit dinners. He doesn’t want to buy flowers or plan futures. Quite frankly, he’d rather die.

Pinning Kurt to the bed, however… pressing their bodies together and kissing down the long column of his throat, making his breath hitch and marking a path with his teeth, tongue, hands, rumpling up that polished exterior… that doesn’t sound so bad.

It’s sex, not love. And fortunately that is an emotion that Sebastian is well-versed in dealing with.

• S: are you free Friday night?
• K: think so. why?
• S: we should order in and hang out.
• K: really? I’m surprised you don’t have better things to do.
• S: I’m allowed downtime with my friends every once in awhile, you know.
• K: then I’d be honored.
• S: cool. let’s say 8-ish, my place?
• K: sounds great. see you then. (:

 He’ll have this out of his system in no time.