Archive of Our Own

when i saw you i fell in love
and you smiled because you knew
(william shakespeare)

One

Blaine doesn’t know how he’s ended up here again.

Well, not here, exactly. This particular sports bar is new, but everything about it feels old, recycled, the same as the eight or nine others he’s been to since becoming a junior broker at Franklin Brothers, Inc. Two or three times a week it’s the same deal: go out with the boys after the markets close and find some place to “get their drink on” (TM Puckerman). 

Blaine wishes he was programmed to enjoy this sort of stuff, but honestly, sports bars are not his cup of tea. Blaine likes football, but he’d be just as happy watching it from his living room couch in Tribeca, hanging out with a few friends and passing around a pitcher of mojitos, maybe chasing it all down with an episode of Project Runway.

But no, instead he’s here at Cheery-Ohs, which is - God help him - a cheerleader-themed sports bar. It’s like a slightly more high-rent Hooters: the girls wear cute little skirts and red and white sleeveless tops and their pens have pom-poms on the ends. It’s just...gross, and the rah-rah spirit seems to be making his buddies revert to their adolescent selves. They’re high-fiving each other and rating the waitresses on their various body parts and challenging each other to drinking contests, and mostly Blaine wants to strangle himself with his expensive tie.

“What can I get for you?” a waitress asks from behind him, and Blaine is trying to decide whether looking at her will make it more or less awkward to order when Karofsky grunts, “Hey, you’re not a chick.”

“Excellent powers of deduction, sir,” the same voice says, but with a slightly sharper edge. “Boys can be cheerleaders too, you know.”

Blaine has to turn now. Sure enough, the waiter behind him, holding a pad between his narrow fingers, is definitely a dude. He’s slender and his light brown hair is swept into a perfect, precise part. His uniform fits him to a tee - V-neck red and white short sleeved shirt, tight pants that accentuate his slim waist and nice—

“Fags can be cheerleaders, you mean,” Karofsky says.

Right, Blaine is here with assholes. He’d almost forgotten.

“Just order your drink, Karofsky,” Finn says, but he seems to be the only one other than Blaine watching the drama unfold at this side of the table. Puck is flirting with a dangerous-looking brunette, Mike is practicing some dance moves to the pulsating soundtrack, and Artie disappeared a few minutes ago with a beautiful, leggy blonde.

“Order the drink or leave,” the waiter says. His jaw is tight. 

“I’ll have a Corona,” Finn puts in.

“Get me one too, Tinkerbell,” Karofsky says. 

Seriously, not a day goes by that Blaine doesn’t want to punch him in the face.

The waiter jots something down on his pad and turns to Blaine.

“You want something more original, honey, or are you having what they’re having?”

Blaine gets distracted by the sharp angle of his cheekbones and the way his eyes change color like a kaleidoscope – green to grey to blue. He’s beautiful, but he looks tired. Blaine wants to rub his shoulders. His skin looks like it would be soft.

“It’s a drink, not Sophie’s choice,” the waiter says, his mouth curving up at one side. “Relax.”

“I’ll have a scotch,” Blaine says, and his voice shakes. Hell.

“A gentleman’s drink,” the waiter says, his smirk becoming a smile.

Precisely, Blaine thinks. He wants to hold out his hand and introduce himself, but he bites his lip and looks away instead.

“I think he likes you, B,” Karofsky slurs when he’s gone, and slaps Blaine on the back.

Blaine thinks: if only, if only.

&&&

“I don’t understand why you let these guys pressure you into these things,” Wes says after listening to Blaine complain bitterly for ten minutes about Karofsky and his merry band of dbags. “Blaine of Dalton Academy wouldn’t let anyone do that to him. Not Blaine Warbler.”

Blaine straightens his tie and leans over his computer. Wes is frowning at him from his screen.

“I don’t feel like Blaine Warbler anymore, Wes,” he says softly. “I feel like Blaine Anderson, Wall Street lackey.”

Wes shakes his head.

“That’s too bad,” Wes says, “because some of us really liked that guy.”

&&&

At work Blaine drifts off in the middle of a call thinking about the waiter at Cheery-Ohs: the way he arched his eyebrow when he delivered a witty retort, the sassy twist of his hips when he walked away, the way he said honey, low and with a quirk of his lips. 

God, Blaine’s got it bad. 

“We should go back to that cheerleader place,” he blurts out to Finn during lunch.

Finn fixes him with a wide-eyed confused look which is...well, how Finn looks most of the time.

“You liked that place, huh?” Finn says. “I’d be down. There was this blonde girl there - man, she was hot. And I didn’t even get a chance to ask her what her name was.”

Blaine is pretty sure that despite his tall, broad frame and boyish good looks, Finn is just as incompetent at chatting people up as Blaine is. If Blaine ever tried to chat people up, that is. In high school and college he mostly just sang to them, but out in the real world? People get restraining orders for stuff like that.

“I’ll tell Karofsky we should go there tonight,” Finn says, man with a plan, and Blaine thinks: awesome, fan-fucking-tastic.

&&&

The bar is even more crowded than it was before, teeming with brokers and bankers and businessmen and the scattered few women unfortunate enough to have dates who thought this was an appropriate place for a romantic evening. 

The cheerleaders move amongst the patrons with trays and steady smiles, unfazed by the occasional grope or lewd shout. The loud dance music blocks out most of the inane conversation, and for that Blaine is grateful.

For the first forty minutes Blaine doesn’t see the waiter at all. Karofsky orders shots for the table, which means Blaine can’t just pretend to sip those, his usual survival tactic. He’s tipsy by dinnertime.

Liquor makes Blaine bold, and by shot number three, he leans in when the blonde waitress comes around and says, “Hey. Hey.”

She’s the one Finn likes, Blaine knows – she’s willowy and gorgeous, with gentle eyes but a proud tilt to her chin. She looks at Blaine with an expression that he translates to half-judgment, half-apathy.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

She narrows her eyes and tosses back, “What’s yours?”

“I’m Blaine,” he says. “I’m a nice guy.”

Her mouth quirks. “I’m Quinn, Nice Guy Blaine.”

“You know - that waiter who works here,” Blaine says.

Quinn nods, and her eyes register something. “You mean Kurt.”

Kurt. Blaine nearly swoons.

“Is he working tonight?” Blaine asks.

Quinn smiles a Mona Lisa smile. She nods. “Kurt works pretty much every night.”

Kurt could turn out to be a very expensive habit, Blaine thinks, and also make him into an alcoholic. But Blaine’s pretty good at this stockbroker thing, and it’s not like he has anything else he’d rather spend money on.

“Okay,” Blaine says, and Quinn places one hand on his shoulder and gives him a sympathetic squeeze before she walks away.

“Dude, dude,” Finn says, falling into the seat next to Blaine, his long limbs spilling over into Blaine’s personal space. “Were you macking on that girl? That’s not right.”

“Just doing a little recon, man,” Blaine says, plastering on a fake smile. “Her name’s Quinn.”

&&&

By the time Blaine does run into Kurt, he is officially sloppy. Karofsky’s been ordering round after round, and Blaine was too nervous to eat beforehand. When he rises to go to the bathroom, he finds he can barely stand. Necessity fuels his pilgrimage to the men’s room, but when he makes his way back he has to use the walls for leverage.

Kurt is balancing several martini glasses on a tray and has to swing around to avoid dumping them on Blaine’s head.

“Whoa, there, cowboy,” Kurt says, and wow, he is cute when he smiles. “Try not to mow me down, okay? I am trying to leave no beverage behind.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Blaine apologizes, and tries to look nonchalant as he grasps the edge of the bar in an effort to stay upright.

“Are you okay?” Kurt says, concerned.

That is when Blaine loses his mind, reaches out, touches Kurt’s cheek and murmurs, “You’re beautiful. You are so beautiful.”

Kurt’s face runs through several emotions, first surprise, then confusion, then sadness. He feels sorry for Blaine, which makes sense. Blaine is feeling pretty sorry for himself.

“You should drink some water, or maybe some coffee,” Kurt observes.

Blaine wants to kiss him. He wants to push Kurt up against a wall and make him drop those drinks, and then he wants to kiss him until Kurt doesn’t care about this job, doesn’t care about anything but kissing him back. He wants Kurt to pull him closer by his tie, to undo the buttons of his shirt. He wants to feel Kurt’s fingers on his throat, and slide his hands under Kurt’s polyester shirt to feel the skin underneath.

Kurt blinks and backs away as if he’s been slapped.

“Do you need me to call you a cab?” Kurt asks.

Blaine’s stomach rebels.

He should be grateful he makes it as far as through the back door and out into the alley before he upchucks onto the pavement. It is possibly the most disgusting thing Blaine has ever done.

He’s doubled over and still heaving when he feels the cool press of a hand to the back of his neck. 

No, he thinks. Just leave me alone, I don’t want you to see this.

“Breathe,” Kurt says. “You’re okay.”

“I’m so sorry,” Blaine mumbles. “God, I am so-”

“I work at a sports bar downtown,” Kurt says. “You think I’ve never seen what happens to someone who’s had too much to drink?”

“I don’t usually do this,” Blaine whispers.

“Which part?” Kurt asks. “Hit on strange boys or throw up in back alleys?”

Blaine laughs in spite of himself. He feels a bit better now. He attempts to stand, but everything swims. He presses his back to the wall and closes his eyes.

“Neither, really,” Blaine says. “I mean - I’m not very good at romance. Clearly.”

“Was that what that was?” Kurt asks. “You could’ve at least brought me flowers, babe. I may be wearing a cheerleader uniform, but that does not make me a slut.”

Blaine looks up at Kurt, who cocks his head to one side. 

He attempts a smile, and Kurt smirks.

“I’m gonna get you a cab,” Kurt says.

He helps Blaine to his feet with a hand at his elbow, and though Blaine isn’t going to be walking a tightrope anytime soon, he does manage to make it to the street without falling over. Small victories.

Kurt hails a cab and even opens the door for him when one stops. Blaine’s heart feels like it’s grown three sizes.

“You’ll be okay,” Kurt says.

“Thank you, Kurt,” Blaine says before he can stop himself.

Kurt raises an eyebrow. “Maybe I’m not such a stranger, huh?”

“I’m Blaine,” Blaine says. “And I am really, truly sorry.”

“Nice to meet you, Blaine,” Kurt says, and shakes Blaine’s hand. 

His palms are as soft as Blaine imagined they would be.

Blaine rides back to his apartment with a lump in his throat, Kurt’s words echoing in his ears, hand still tingling from where it touched Kurt’s.

&&&

Blaine wakes up so hungover he feels like someone is stabbing him in the eye. He’s fairly certain he dreamt of Karofsky dressed as a cheerleader (in a skirt), and he doesn’t even want to begin to analyze what that might mean.

The evening comes flooding back to him: the many, many shots of tequila, his ill-fated trip to the bathroom, the being sick behind the dumpsters. God, Blaine feels like a tool. He hasn’t been that wasted since college.

But then there was Kurt. Kurt. Blaine has never been this instantly smitten. He realizes he doesn’t know Kurt yet in any meaningful way, but he wants to know everything about him. He wants to know what brought Kurt to New York, what he hoped to find here. He wants to know what dream keeps him waiting tables for idiots like Blaine’s friends, why he puts up with it.

He wants to understand, because Blaine doesn’t know why he’s doing this anymore.

But today is Saturday, and the bar is sure to be a mob scene. There will be no time to engage Kurt in any sort of real conversation, to show him that he’s more than some pathetic six-beer queer.

This is going to take some planning.

Blaine needs to buy some flowers.

&&&

Finn calls to check in that afternoon. He sounds wrecked, voice scratchy and low. Blaine takes some comfort in this.

“You just disappeared,” Finn says. “I’m sorry I didn’t try to find you, but I was…I don’t know what they put in those shots except...well, I guess tequila.”

Blaine smothers a laugh and assures Finn that he got home fine, that he was just beat. He leaves out the part of the story where he had to be physically assisted into a cab.

“Did you talk to Quinn?” Blaine asks.

“Yeah! She’s amazing. She’s so pretty and smart, but she is not easily impressed, man. She told me she’s celibate. Can you believe that?”

“In this day and age, really?” Blaine says, but Finn doesn’t seem to detect the sarcasm in his voice. He rattles on for a while before saying he’s got to go watch some game. Blaine hangs up and goes to lie down for twenty minutes just to recover.

When the pounding in his head lessens, he calls Wes, who informs him he’s on the treadmill in a cheerful voice that makes Blaine wish he could strangle him through the phone.

“I need your advice,” Blaine says.

“Oh?” Wes says, sounding hopeful. “Are you working on a song?”

“No,” Blaine says, “but I think I’m in love.”

&&&

On Monday Blaine is so wired he can barely sit still long enough to make the calls he needs to make. He drinks three cups of coffee before he considers this might be a bad idea in his current agitated state, and then spends the rest of the day trembling in his cubicle. 

When he checks his reflection in the bathroom mirror, though, he sees a precisely and well-dressed young man, curly hair tamed by gel, blue tie matching his expensive gray tailored suit.

“Hot date tonight, Anderson?” Puck asks him with a tilted smirk.

Blaine gives him a nervous smile. “Something like that.”

When the time comes to leave, Blaine falters. What, exactly, is he going to say to Kurt? There are so many ways he could do this wrong, and he’s done a lot wrong already.

Wes’s advice had been simple: be polite but direct, and don’t come on too strong. Blaine knows he has that tendency. Even sober, Blaine is not known for his subtlety in matters of the heart.

Kurt seems like he deserves someone with a little self-control. He spends his nights surrounded by people losing control, indulging their baser instincts - essentially, being assholes. 

Kurt has no reason to think Blaine is any different, but Blaine wants to prove him wrong.

He spends roughly half an hour at the florist trying to decide what to buy for Kurt. Is Kurt a roses type of guy? That seems so typical, so conventional. Kurt seems exceptional.

Blaine buys irises, a dozen of them - blue and white. White because they remind him of Kurt, who was so pale and flawless under the low bar lights that washed out everyone else. Blue because there is something sad about Kurt, a soft sort of melancholy in the curve of his shoulders.

By the time Blaine gets to Cheery-Ohs, it’s already buzzing with its usual crowd of men in suits, loosening their ties and rolling up their sleeves and draping their designer jackets carelessly over the backs of chairs. In one corner a bunch of guys cluster around a pool table, sipping their drinks and shouting insults at each other and jostling to take shots.

I am not like them, Blaine tells himself. He feels queasy.

It’s not hard to spot Kurt. He’s the only boy in a cheerleader uniform, for starters, and he’s standing by the bar, chatting with a heavyset, dark-skinned girl. She laughs when he leans in. He bends over the bar and his shirt rides up. Blaine’s pulse flutters.

“Nice Guy Blaine,” he hears behind him, and whips around to see Quinn, standing with one hand on her hip.

“Hi,” he says. Her unwavering gaze makes him nervous.

“Pretty flowers,” she observes, smiling her mysterious smile.

“Thank you,” Blaine says.

“You might want to go talk to him now,” Quinn says, “before it gets too crazy.”

Blaine hates himself for being so obvious and awkward. He doesn’t even wear his heart on his sleeve, he wears it on his face.

He wants to drop the flowers and run.

“Go,” Quinn says, and gives him a little shove.

Kurt’s loading drinks onto a tray when Blaine finally makes his way over. He perches on a stool next to him and waits.

“You,” Kurt says when he turns and spots him. His eyes shine with wry amusement.

“Me,” Blaine says, and gives Kurt his most charming smile.

“I hope you’re not planning to drink tonight,” Kurt says. “I just washed these pants.”

Blaine flushes. “N-no. No drinking tonight. Perhaps ever again.”

“Oh, but that’s no fun,” Kurt says, his mouth tilting. “Next time, stick to the scotch.”

He remembered my drink, Blaine thinks. 

He shakes himself.

“These are for you,” Blaine says, and pushes the flowers across the bar before he can wimp out.

Kurt’s eyes flicker down to the flowers and then up to Blaine’s face. His eyes shift color, and Blaine shivers. 

Blue was the right choice, he thinks, though blue is not the right word to describe the color of Kurt’s eyes. There may not be a right word.

“For me?” Kurt says. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I really did,” Blaine says.

Kurt holds his gaze for a long moment, biting his lip.

“What do you want from me, Blaine?” he asks.

It’s not the question Blaine was expecting, but Kurt deserves an answer. An honest one.

“Go out with me,” Blaine says, then adds, as a correction, “Please.”

Kurt blinks.

“You’re serious,” he says.

“Yes, of course I am,” Blaine says. Why would he be joking?

“Well,” Kurt says, and for a moment he actually seems at a loss.

“You should come out with us tonight,” the bartender puts in, and Blaine suddenly remembers they are not alone. They’ve been having this whole conversation right in front of her, so Blaine can’t really blame her for listening in.

Kurt is shooting her daggers, but she seems undeterred. 

“We’re going out to karaoke after closing,” she says. “Kurt and me and the girls. You should come.”

Blaine notices that Kurt is gripping the edge of the bar so hard his knuckles are white. He reaches out and places his palm over Kurt’s hand. Kurt flinches but doesn’t move away.

“I’d like that,” Blaine says.

“I have to go,” Kurt says, and turns. “Wouldn’t want Sue to get upset.”

“Come by later,” the bartender says, giving Blaine an apologetic smile and holding out her hand. “I’m Mercedes, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Mercedes,” Blaine says. “I’ll be over on that end of the bar, not drinking.”

As he moves away he hears Mercedes whisper fiercely, “Gurrrl, he brought you flowers and he is fine! What the hell is wrong with you?”

The music throbs and Blaine can’t hear Kurt’s answer.

&&&

Many hours later,Blaine has played every game he could find to download to his iPhone, and he’s heard the Cheery-Ohs dance mix three full times. He’s also run through every possible way he could screw this up. He shouldn’t drink. He probably shouldn’t sing. He should just sit towards the back and watch and hope that Kurt might actually relax enough when he’s off the clock to have a real conversation with him.

Well. At least Blaine has that worked out.

“Blaine, right?” A soft hand grasps his arm, and Blaine turns to see a pretty blonde he recognizes from seeing her work the floor. She gives him a sparkling smile.

“I’m Brittany,” she says. “Kurt and I are totally best friends. We even made out once.”

“Okay, Brittany,” Kurt says, sweeping in and steering her away. “That’s called an overshare. We talked about that.”

Blaine lifts his eyebrows and Kurt rolls his eyes. For a split second, Blaine actually feels like they’re sharing a moment, but then Kurt looks away.

If Blaine had ever had any doubts that Kurt could look as good in anything as he does in that uniform, they would be forever erased by Kurt’s current post-work ensemble. He’s clad in tight black pants and a long grey cowl-neck sweater made of soft wool. The best part, however, are his boots, which are bright red, come up to his knees and have complicated criss-crossed straps and buckles that make Blaine dizzy.

“Yes, I am that kind of gay boy,” Kurt says with a sigh, and slings a red leather bag over his shoulder. “Moving on.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Blaine says.

“Nice suit,” Kurt volleys back. “Armani, right? Last season’s spring collection?”

Blaine suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his hands. This is his best suit. It’s all downhill from here.

“It looks great on you,” Kurt concedes. “You could maybe have someone take it in here.”

He tugs on Blaine’s sleeve, his brow furrowing, and Blaine is hit again with an overwhelming need to move forward, to step into Kurt’s space.

“We should go,” Kurt says, letting go of his sleeve and taking a step back. He looks uneasy, and Blaine wishes again that he knew how to mask his feelings, how to protect the world from them.

He doesn’t get to dwell on that thought long. Mercedes and Quinn are dragging them into the frigid night air. They lead them laughing and stumbling down into the subway and onto the train, and Blaine can do nothing but try to keep up.

&&&

“Santana knows somebody,” Kurt explains as the lady in question tromps down an alley and pushes open a grimy door. There is no sign and no bouncer, just a long hallway with walls stained with history. Blaine thinks maybe they should leave breadcrumbs so they can find their way back.

“In case you’re wondering, that is always the answer to why we go anywhere after work,” Mercedes informs him. “Santana knows a lot of people.”

“That’s because I’m fabulous, bitches,” Santana shouts from somewhere ahead of them. It’s very dark, and Blaine almost trips over an uneven part of the floor.

“Bitches be crazy,” Brittany adds.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Mercedes says, and winks at Blaine.

Blaine likes this - he feels like part of the group already, even though he’s known most of them for barely a few hours. There’s an ease to their camaraderie that reminds him of his friendships with the Warblers. 

Santana slams open a door with a flourish, and the space transforms from dank hallway to a bar outfitted with glowing red lights and filled almost to capacity with a mixed, youthful crowd. Some are wearing the remnants of their work day - white collared shirts with black pants, a waiter’s uniform. Others are wearing as little as possible.

“I’ve got Gaga!” Santana shouts, and takes off for a booth in a corner where a DJ sits with a laptop and earphones. On stage, two drunk girls are struggling their way through a lamentable version of “Wild Horses.”

“That tart,” Blaine hears Kurt hiss as they settle into a booth, and Quinn murmurs, “It’s okay, Porcelain, she has more than one song. We can even sing together.”

Porcelain? Blaine thinks, but Brittany interrupts that dangerous train of inquiry by grabbing his arm and saying, “You’re going to sing, right? You look like you can sing. You look sort of like a model, too. But shorter.”

“Don’t pressure him, Brit,” Kurt says. “Not everybody likes to perform.”

Kurt’s lips twist upwards. Blaine knows a challenge when he hears one. He straightens in his seat and squares his shoulders.

“I’ll sing,” he says.

Mentally he’s already running through his repertoire, every song he did with the Warblers or his college buddies or the occasional random outside gig. Blaine used to sing a lot. He has many options.

But as his eyes meet Kurt’s, he can think of only one.

Santana does a fairly amazing version of “Bad Romance,” including some of the dance moves. Her voice is surprisingly soulful, and she sells it with slink and sass.

“I could have done that,” Kurt says when she’s done. “Even in the shoes.”

“We know, baby,” Mercedes says, patting his cheek. “We’ve seen you do it.”

“I need a drink,” Kurt mutters, but before Blaine can offer to buy him one, he’s got a Cosmo in his hand. These girls move fast.

“Kurt is less grumpy when he’s had some booze,” Mercedes explains.

Kurt pinches her arm viciously, and she retaliates with a hard shove that nearly sends Kurt sprawling.

“Don’t be a twat, Mercedes,” Kurt says, and Mercedes laughs.

“See,” she says. “It’s already working.”

“You should sing next,” Quinn says, poking Blaine in the side, and his stomach dips.

“Yeah, Blaine,” Kurt says, smiling in a way that doesn’t seem entirely kind. “You should sing.”

“What the hell,” Blaine says, and rises from the table.

Up on the tiny platform masquerading as a stage, Blaine has a blinding moment of deja vu. He remembers competitions with the Warblers - the shouts and cheers from the crowd, the slaps on the back, the butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

This is not the same, Blaine thinks. But it will do.

“You think I’m pretty without any make-up on...” he begins to sing, and the room erupts in catcalls and laughter.

As he keeps singing, though, the laughter subsides, and only the occasional cheer or whistle punctuates the sound of his own voice. 

It’s like riding a bike, like muscle memory.

He is faintly aware of Kurt standing a few rows back surrounded by the Cheery-Ohs, but mostly he is caught up in the song, in his own remembered teenage dream. 

Never look back never look back. 

The song ends and the room fills with applause. He can hear Quinn shout, “You go, Nice Guy Blaine!” When he looks up he sees Kurt staring at him, open-mouthed. He thinks: Yes.

He indulges in a quick bow before exiting to the side, but he’s immediately besieged by strangers - girls trying to touch him, guys shouting encouragement. Flustered, he tries to carve himself a path to the door. He needs some air.

“Blaine,” he hears, and there’s Kurt, beckoning. He pushes past a couple tipsy girls in near invisible short skirts, and Kurt catches his wrist and pulls.

A minute later and they’re out in the hallway. Kurt tugs him along like he’s got a destination in mind, and sure enough, soon they’re out the door and in the alley.

“Shit,” Kurt breathes as the door slams behind them. “It’s cold.”

It is indeed freezing, especially after the dense, humid heat of the bar. Kurt’s breath forms a cloud, and he moves to wrap his arms around himself. Blaine catches his hands, pressing them between his own.

“Blaine,” Kurt says softly, looking at the ground. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay,” Blaine says.

Kurt’s hands are so frigid. Blaine rubs his hands over the backs of them, trying to create friction. He feels a wave of longing wash over him, and sways slightly with it.

“Are you a performer?” Kurt asks. “I mean - do you sing professionally?”

Blaine laughs. “No. No, I’m a stock broker.”

“But you...” Kurt starts to say, then stops.

“What?” Blaine asks.

“You seem like you should be,” Kurt says. “You seem very natural.”

Blaine inhales sharply. It hurts from the cold.

“You were going to sing, weren’t you?” Blaine asks. “In there, I mean—”

“It’s okay,” Kurt says. “I sing all the time.”

“I’d like to hear you sing,” Blaine says.

Kurt’s mouth tips.

“Maybe next time,” he says, and it echoes in Blaine’s mind: next time next time next time.

&&&

The rest of the night passes in an exhausted blur. At some point when Blaine is starting to see stars, Kurt puts Blaine in a cab, but not before he leans in and presses a swift kiss to Blaine’s cheek.

“Thank you,” he says, and Blaine’s not sure what he’s thanking him for, but anything that leads to kisses is fine by him.

His loft apartment feels especially desolate when he gets home. It’s nearly 4 am and he has to be at work in 4 hours. He lies down on his couch and falls asleep in his clothes, waking up at seven to the sound of his whirring cell phone alarm with patterns from his sleeve imprinted on his face.

His phone beeps to indicate he has a message. It’s from Kurt.

Haven’t been to sleep yet, it reads. Bitches be crazy.

And then: I think we should go on a real date.

Blaine is more tired than he’s ever been in his life and he has a full day of work ahead of him, but he feels like he’s walking on air.

&&&

Blaine doesn’t see Kurt for a week. Work is insane, frantic and all-consuming and frustrating, and every time Blaine goes to call Kurt, he finds himself without the necessary words. He even wonders if maybe Kurt didn’t mean it, or that it didn’t actually happen, because he doesn’t text him again.

Come Monday, though, Blaine feels like he’s losing his mind. He cuts out of work early and stops by the bar.

Mercedes greets him with a hug, saying, “Baby, where you been? We thought you cut and run.”

“I do have to work for a living,” Blaine demurs.

“To keep Kurt in flowers, right?” Mercedes says, grinning. “I have to warn you – that boy is an expensive proposition. He would be happy to live in a higher tax bracket.”

“I would be happy to put him in one,” Blaine says, before he realizes what he’s saying, and flushes to the color of the Cheery-Ohs uniforms.

“Oh, honey,” Mercedes murmurs. “You got to be crystal clear about that shit. Kurt talks a good game, but he’s always had to fight for the spotlight.”

It takes Blaine a moment to process this. Watching Kurt walk around that bar with his head held high and spine straight, he never even considered that Kurt might be anything but supremely confident. 

You’re serious, he’d said. Blaine hadn’t realized that meant that people had treated Kurt like a joke.

“Hey,” Kurt says, flitting by and shouting to Mercedes, “two Jamesons on the rocks and three tequila shots, okay? Or I can get the shots, if you—“

He stops mid-sentence, noticing Blaine. Blaine gives him a wide smile, but Kurt just blinks.

“I—“ Kurt stops again and turns toward Mercedes. “Back in a few.”

He reaches for Blaine’s wrist and pulls him past the bar and into a hallway where the bathrooms are. The music is slightly less thunderous here, low enough for him to hear Kurt hiss, “What the hell are you doing here?”

Kurt’s got tension lines around his eyes and his voice sounds even higher than usual, strangled.

“I came to see you,” Blaine says, then swallows. “Was that bad? I thought—“

“The second I sent that text I felt like an idiot,” Kurt says, “and then I didn’t hear from you, and I figured I was some kind of…I don’t know, game for you.”

“I meant to call you,” Blaine says weakly. “I wanted to call you, but it was never the right time, either you were at work or I was at work, and I didn’t want to leave a message because I sound like an idiot when I leave messages, I babble and—“

“I keep feeling like this can’t be real,” Kurt says. “You’re just – you’re you, and I’m me, and you’re hot and you can sing and you’ve got a real job, and—“

“You’ve got a real job,” Blaine says. “You’re amazing. I know you’re amazing, I can tell you’re amazing—”

“You don’t even know me,” Kurt says. “Maybe this is a sign. Maybe we should just give up—“

Blaine doesn’t know why he does it, exactly, except that he can feel Kurt pulling away from him, and he’s not going to let that happen. 

He kisses him.

Kurt’s mouth is open when their mouths meet, and his lips are incredibly soft. Blaine can feel his breath hitch in surprise. His hand finds Kurt’s cheek, touching gently, not wanting to make Kurt feel boxed in, but Kurt doesn’t push him away. After a moment he kisses him back, a soft, shy pressure that becomes more when Blaine cups his chin in both hands. Kurt tastes good, minty sweet, and Blaine can feel Kurt’s hand flutter at his side before finding Blaine’s hip. 

Kurt’s cheeks are flushed when Blaine pulls back, his breathing erratic. 

“Oh my God,” Kurt says. “What was that?”

“I want to know you,” Blaine says. “I want you to let me know you.”

Kurt looks stunned. He lifts his hand to touch his lips, like he can’t believe this all just happened. It makes Blaine want to kiss him again, kiss him until he’s convinced this is real.

“I have Wednesday off,” Kurt says. “Can we…go somewhere?”

“We can go anywhere you like,” Blaine says.

“I hope you don’t take this as too forward,” Kurt says, “but if you really want to get to know me, you should come see where I live.”

Blaine’s heart flips. His voice flickers when he says, “Sure, that’s fine.”

Kurt’s mouth is a bow, and Blaine feels like he’s just been given a gift.

“You can find your way to Brooklyn, right?”

&&&

Even though it’s only two days, Blaine feels like he’s going to crawl out of his skin by the time Wednesday night rolls around. He checks the directions to Kurt’s apartment three times and texts Wes each possible outfit choice until Wes actually calls and says, “Blaine, I am not gay enough for this. Please call David.”

“You don’t understand, Kurt is like some kind of style icon,” Blaine says. “I don’t want to look like a slob.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever looked like a slob in your life,” Wes says. “Man up and get yourself together, brother.”

Blaine can’t even blame Wes for hanging up on him.

He settles on a pair of tailored black pants and a deep green sweater his mom bought him a while ago, a more expensive one than he’d ever buy for himself. He hopes it looks like something he wears all the time, despite the fact that he had to literally dig it out of the bottom of his closet.

He makes it to Kurt’s apartment in Williamsburg a half hour early, and spends most of that extra time in the florist’s near the subway. He goes with daffodils this time, bright, bright yellow, because he thinks the color will look beautiful with Kurt’s eyes. Daffodils always cheer Blaine up, especially in winter when everything is grey.

Outside the brownstone where Kurt lives, Blaine lifts his hand to ring the bell just as the door swings open and Mercedes bursts out. She’s carrying a small, pink duffel bag that she nearly drops when she sees him.

“Oh my God, I am so glad you’re here,” Mercedes says, placing one hand on Blaine’s shoulder and fixing him with wide eyes. “He is losing his mind. Please go and get him to stop, like, cleaning stuff.”

“You can join us,” Blaine says. “You don’t have to leave.”

Mercedes arches an eyebrow.

“Please. I hope you take advantage of my absence, if you know what I mean. That boy needs to relieve some tension.”

Blaine blushes and coughs into his fist.

“Buena suerte, baby,” Mercedes says, and trips down the stairs.

The apartment is on the second floor of the building, and the hallway smells like chicken soup. Blaine knocks softly on the apartment door but draws back when he hears a crash and clatter, followed by curses.

The door opens to reveal Kurt, wearing an apron over a tunic sweater and impossibly tight jeans. His hair is mussed, and he makes a last-ditch effort to smooth it down before gesturing for Blaine to come inside.

“Hi,” Kurt says. “Welcome to my very humble abode.”

The apartment is indeed tiny, but it’s also lovely - there are silky fabrics draped over the small couch and Chinese lanterns hanging from the ceiling, and the walls bear drawings and paintings and posters of singing divas, ranging from Judy Garland to Patti Lupone to Aretha Franklin. All the light is warm, it feels cozy, and it smells amazing.

“Wow,” Blaine says. “This is fabulous.”

“You don’t have to say that,” Kurt says. “I’m sure it’s not nearly as swank as your Manhattan loft.”

Blaine wants to reach out and brush the hair off Kurt’s forehead. He wants to hold Kurt’s hand and feel his pulse under his fingertips.

“This is so much more stylish than my apartment, trust me,” Blaine says, “and I can’t cook.”

Kurt gives him a hesitant smile.

“I do what I can,” he says.

“Thank you for going to all this trouble,” Blaine says. “I would have been fine with pizza.”

“I like to cook,” Kurt says, “and working in a restaurant, I don’t do it very much. So this is nice.”

Blaine holds out the flowers, and Kurt’s flush deepens.

“You don’t have to bring me flowers,” Kurt says softly.

“You deserve flowers,” Blaine says. “You deserve romance.”

He moves forward and presses a quick kiss to Kurt’s lips. When they separate Kurt’s eyelashes flutter, and he puts his hand on the kitchen counter as if to hold himself steady.

“You deserve dinner,” Kurt says, checking the oven timer, and Blaine wisely refrains from saying he wishes Kurt were on the menu.

Kurt pours Blaine a glass of wine and says, “The manicotti needs a few more minutes. You want the grand tour?”

“Sure,” Blaine says.

“Well, this is the living room/dining room/kitchen/library/conservatory,” Kurt says, gesturing widely. “A multi-purpose space, if you will.”

“Of course,” Blaine says.

“This is Mercedes’ bedroom,” he says, leading Blaine down the hallway and tapping on a closed door. “She requested I keep the door closed as it currently looks like a hurricane occurred there and left no survivors.”

Blaine nods, understanding.

Kurt has to put his whole weight into pushing open his bedroom door, which sticks. Once he has it open, he recovers his balance and gestures with a flourish. “And this is my room.”

Kurt’s room is something to behold, displaying a fusion of Turkish harem and gypsy chic. Blaine doesn’t even know how to classify it. There is a lot of shiny fabric and crystal and tiny figurines and candlesticks and it is maybe the most amazing thing Blaine has ever seen.

“This is…” Blaine starts to say.

“It’s sort of Marlene Dietrich-inspired, with some Laurence of Arabia,” Kurt says. “I’m kind of a whore for antiques. Anything old with embellishment or carving or pointless frills, sign me up. I am not so much an Ikea person. I went through a modernist period in high school, but it didn’t stick.”

Blaine definitely owns a higher-end Ikea living room set, laid out exactly how it looked in the store because he liked it and figured why mess with what works. He decides this is second or third date information.

“This is beautiful,” Blaine says. “Seriously, Kurt. It’s incredible.”

Kurt’s eyes are shining. “Th-thank you.”

There’s an awkward pause as Blaine holds Kurt’s gaze. He feels like Kurt is tugging him closer, but that can’t be real. They’re not even touching.

“We should have some pasta,” Kurt says. “I made a lot, and Lord knows my hips do not need me to eat all of it.”

Blaine follows Kurt back to the kitchen/living room, where Kurt seats him at the diminutive table and goes to pull a large tray of sauce-covered pasta out of the oven. Blaine sips his wine and takes the opportunity when Kurt’s back is turned to covertly check out Kurt’s ass in those jeans. Damn.

“This is my mom’s recipe,” Kurt says, untying the apron and hanging it on a hook next to the fridge. “She taught me how to make it when I was little.”

“Has she seen your place here?” Blaine asks. “Do your parents visit often?”

Kurt’s hand shakes as he serves Blaine a hearty portion. 

“My mom died when I was a kid.”

Oh. Blaine sucks in a breath. Barely half an hour into this date and he’s already rubbing tender spots.

“I’m sorry,” Blaine says, feeling like a tool and wishing he could reach out and touch Kurt, steady him.

“My dad’s visited,” Kurt says. “He helped me do some of the decorating, actually.”

“Your dad is supportive?” Blaine asks.

Kurt nods. “My dad’s one of my best friends. Since my mom died, it’s basically been the two of us against the world.”

When Blaine was fifteen, his father bought a classic Corvette in need of repair and set it up on blocks in their garage. Every weekend he would ask for Blaine’s help, and the two of them would spend three or four hours fiddling with it in awkward silence. His dad didn’t even like him to put on the radio because Blaine would hum along or harmonize without realizing he was doing it. He never said this, but Blaine knew.

“Did you come out here for – for something?” Blaine asks.

He means what did you dream? But he doesn’t know how to say that without sounding like an idiot, like the naive prep-school kid he is.

“How do you know I’m not a native New Yorker?” Kurt asks, but his eyes are laughing.

“I don’t,” Blaine says. “But if you’ve got a Brooklyn accent, you hide it well.”

“I’m from Ohio,” Kurt says. “I came out here for – what else? To become a star.”

“Actor? Singer? Both?”

“Both. I get to wear a costume every day at work,” Kurt says. “So in that way, I guess, I’m involved in theater. But mostly I audition for parts I don’t get.”

“In the meantime, you look damn good in that uniform,” Blaine flirts.

Kurt rolls his eyes. “You may be the first person to notice me in that particular room full of cheerleaders.”

“The first one you know about,” Blaine says. “Wall Street is full of closet cases.”

Kurt takes a small bite of manicotti, chews and swallows before saying, “So you mean those guys you walked in with that first night – they know you’re gay?”

Blaine curls his hand around the stem of his wine glass and looks down at the tablecloth. It has tiny blue and white squares.

“Touché,” he says.

“I don’t judge,” Kurt says, then puts down his fork and meets Blaine’s eyes. “You know what, that’s a lie. I do judge.”

“The finance world is full of frat boys,” Blaine says. “I just-”

“So you think you have to play by their rules?” Kurt says. “I may be only a waiter, but at least I don’t have to be ashamed of who I fuck.”

Blaine is caught up in the fire burning behind Kurt’s irises. His chest hurts.

“What do you want me to say, Kurt?” Blaine says. “You’re right.”

Blaine can see his father at his high school graduation, smile tight at the corners and no warmth behind his eyes. In the four years Blaine attended Dalton, that was the first and last time he’d seen Blaine perform with the Warblers. 

Now you can put all this silliness behind you, he’d said. His hand grasped Blaine’s shoulder and Blaine could feel that grip for hours afterward, seared in like a brand.

He’d gone to college with every intention of pursuing singing anyway, but after a few practices with the a capella group his school workload increased and began to take precedence over all else. He was good at his finance classes, could keep track of numbers and manipulate them without much effort. There was something comforting about the columns of figures, the stability of spreadsheets. He spent more time at business-networking events and career-planning seminars. All his life fit into careful boxes. It felt like preparing for a role, like playing someone else, and one day Blaine woke up and realized he’d become the son his father always wanted.

If he sometimes slipped up and got drunk and fucked some guy in a dorm room he’d sneak out of early in the morning, well – what his father didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.

Kurt makes a soft sound and lets his hand drop to the table with a thump.

“God, Blaine,” Kurt whispers. “Someone really did a number on you, didn’t they?”

Blaine is suddenly so tired of talking. He reaches across the table and takes Kurt’s hand. Heat travels up his arm from his fingertips, an extreme infusion of warmth.

“I wish I could be like you,” he says.

Kurt looks like a startled bird. His eyes shift from grey to green.

“You don’t understand,” Kurt says. “I’m not—”

Blaine doesn’t think; he leans forward and kisses him.

It feels like puzzle pieces sliding together, like working gears. Kurt’s cheek is smooth under the palm of his hand, and when Kurt whimpers he feels it along his spine, in the crook of his elbows, the inside of his wrists.

Kurt opens his mouth against Blaine’s, enough for Blaine to touch his tongue to Kurt’s bottom lip. The sound Kurt makes impossibly fuses dirty and sweet. His hand grasps Blaine’s wrist and tightens, his nails pressing into Blaine’s skin, but Blaine barely registers the pinch. 

Blaine is drowning, slipping, sliding, falling. He never wants to stop. He doesn’t want to have to stop to breathe, to eat, he doesn’t want to do anything but kiss Kurt forever, kiss and touch him until he comes apart under Blaine’s hands, until— 

“No, no, we can’t do this,” Kurt says, pulling back, and Blaine leans into his heat, chasing it, and nearly overbalances.

“Why can’t we do this?” Blaine asks. “We like each other, right?”

“It’s not about that, it’s...God.”

“It’s God?” Blaine says.

Kurt narrows his eyes. “No! No, it’s...look, there’s something you should know about me.”

Blaine’s stomach flips. Is Kurt going to tell him he’s a Scientologist? He collects children’s hair? He’s addicted to poppers? This is New York. The possibilities are endless.

“My mother was...fuck.” Kurt runs a hand through his hair. He’s flushed. “You’re going to think I’m nuts.”

Blaine is starting to think he’s going crazy. “Kurt, just say it. You’re making me nervous.”

“My mother was a faerie,” Kurt says, too fast, all one word. “There, I said it. Now you can run like the wind, as fast across the bridge as your legs will take you.”

Blaine’s brain is buzzing in and out like a bad radio connection. A faerie?

That is what Kurt just said. He just said his mother was a faerie.

What?

“Your mother was...like, with pixie dust and wings? That kind of faerie?”

“Okay, first of all, pixies are a whole other thing,” Kurt says with a dismissive hand gesture. “And there are no wings. It’s more...complicated than that.”

“More complicated than wings?” Blaine says. He struggles for a full breath.

“I mean - oh, you know what, I don’t even know why I told you,” Kurt says. “I never should have invited you here. I’m so - I’m an idiot, I keep doing this even though I know—”

“Hold on a second, Kurt,” Blaine says. He reaches forward and takes Kurt’s hands. “You have got to slow down. I want to understand this. I do.”

Kurt’s lips part. Blaine wants to kiss him again, but he pushes that feeling down. 

So Kurt might be crazy. Blaine can work with crazy, but he needs to know the parameters of the crazy, the scale and the extent.

“My mother was a faerie,” Kurt says, “so I’m half-faerie. Full faeries can do all kinds of stuff - disguise themselves, or manipulate people’s thoughts or feelings, and some can read minds. I’m not like that. I have...half-powers, I guess. It’s weird, and mostly it means I can’t do anything very well.”

“Kurt, you’re not just...” Blaine doesn’t know how to say, you’re an actor, are you just fucking with me? Up until this moment, Kurt hadn’t seemed like the type to randomly make stuff up. If he wanted to get rid of Blaine, there are certainly easier ways.

Kurt sighs, shoulders slumping.

“Here, look,” he says. “I know you don’t believe me, that I sound like a head case. But - okay, let me show you.”

Kurt squeezes Blaine’s hands, and Blaine feels it again, that click feeling – the satisfying slide of pieces locking. Kurt closes his eyes, and suddenly everything is warm around them, and sweet-smelling. Blaine’s eyes flutter closed. His whole body feels charged, now, like he’s conducting current, and it’s almost too much. He makes a soft sound, somewhere between a moan and a gasp.

Kurt lets go.

The second Kurt drops his hands, the feeling is gone. It’s like having the floor yanked out from under him. Blaine lurches forward. He can’t breathe.

“Holy...” he whispers, and Kurt says, “Keep breathing, Blaine. I’m sorry, okay? I’m not - I don’t always have the best control.”

He opens his eyes. Kurt is pale, eyes bright, and there’s a slight silver shimmer around him, as if he’s backlit by a full moon.

“I can’t...” Blaine starts to say.

“I know,” Kurt says. “It’s insane. I know, trust me.”

Blaine is scared. He can’t pretend like that didn’t just happen. He doesn’t know if it was faerie magic or pheromones or some sort of cosmic shift but it happened, and it was weird, and now...now what?

“I have to go,” Blaine blurts out.

He can’t help feeling like he deserves the bitter cold that awaits him outside, away from Kurt’s delicious food and warm apartment and hands that make Blaine feel like he’s glowing.

Two

Kurt has always liked the way his dad tells the story of how he met his mom.

I was working as a mechanic at this guy Bob’s shop, he would say. Bob was a slave driver, you know, like he didn’t like anybody to slack off. And then your mom walked in and she was so beautiful, Kurt. Her eyes were this crazy color, more like three crazy colors, and she was telling me about her car but I couldn’t pay attention because she was so damn pretty. And thank God Bob was there because after she left he was like, “Better get started on that fan belt, Burt,” and I nodded like I knew what the hell he was talking about when all I could think was how I wanted to see her again and for every day for the rest of my life.

Kurt has heard his dad tell this story many times, and every time it makes him feel warm inside, just imagining it.It’s like some fairy tale, Kurt always says, and his dad laughs and slaps him on the back and says, Har har har, son, very funny.

In so many ways, Kurt is lucky: lucky to have a father who loves him no matter what, who supported him through all the teasing and bullying he got in school, who would hug him close at the end of the day when Kurt broke down crying, rub his shoulders and say, It’s okay, buddy, they don’t know you. They don’t understand how special you are.

He’s lucky, too, that whatever freakish faerie genes he’s got in him allow him to be connected to his dad wherever he is. Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night and grasps for his phone and calls without thinking twice, knowing his dad will be awake, sitting in their kitchen drinking a beer and thinking about his mom. He calls and when his dad picks up he says, I know, dad. It’s okay. I miss her too.

Maybe this is the price he pays for being so lucky – that he’s permanently unlucky in love. 

He wishes Blaine were different. He’d thought, watching him sing in that hole-in-the-wall karaoke club, that maybe he’d found someone who wasn’t like all the others, someone who understood. Blaine sang that song like he knew what it meant to want something so desperately and feel it there, just out of your reach.

Kurt thought, You’re as much a stock broker as I’m a waiter. We’re both playing pretend.

As he puts away the manicotti in the fridge, his eyes catch on the flowers on the table, still in their plastic. He wonders if he should put them in a vase or throw them away. The yellow does sort of match the living room color palette.

If only Kurt could make decisions about his life the way he does about his decorating. Does it match or not? Does it clash?

He doesn’t know what color Blaine is, but all Kurt feels is blue.

&&&

“Girlfriend, you do not get to shut me out,” Mercedes says. “Roomie privileges. I want to know why Blaine’s fine ass was not here when I got back.”

Kurt hunches over his cup of coffee.

“Because Blaine didn’t want to be here?” Kurt says.

Mercedes waits for him to elaborate, and when he doesn’t, she huffs out a breath. “Baby doll, that is not an answer and you know it.”

Kurt usually tells Mercedes everything, but even she doesn’t know about…well, that. No one does, with the obvious exception of his dad. He’s still having trouble figuring out why he told Blaine. 

It’s just…he wanted it to be real. Sometimes he pulls people in without meaning to, and he wanted Blaine to come to him all on his own. No magic needed.

“I guess he just wasn’t ready for this jelly,” Kurt murmurs.

Mercedes snorts, but she’s still wearing that concerned look that means she’s about ten seconds away from giving him some advice.

“Look, Kurt, I’m not gonna drag it out of you, but if you want to talk, you know I’m always here for you,” she says. “And I’m sure you could talk to Quinn or Brittany or…okay, maybe not Santana.”

Kurt’s mouth pushes up at one corner, unbidden.

“What I’m saying is we all love you,” Mercedes says, and pats his cheek. “Blaine is just a man. Plenty of them in this town. Plenty who would be lucky to have you.”

“Damn straight,” Kurt says, though his heart’s not in it.

“Gotta go, class in a half hour,” Mercedes says. 

She’s a part-time student at NYU, getting her degree in communications with a minor in vocal performance. Mercedes is the only one of Kurt’s friends that he knew in high school. Senior year she applied to NYU and made Kurt apply too, but when he got his acceptance he decided not to go. I just want to do it for real, no school, he’d said, and Mercedes had squeezed his hand and said, Let’s find an apartment.

“Have a good day,” Kurt says listlessly, and Mercedes squeezes his shoulder.

“We’re going out tonight,” she says. “I just decided.”

&&&

This club smells like candy. Kurt tugs at the hem of his shirt, a v-neck Mercedes made him wear because she said it made him look “accessible.” Mercedes always does have the best euphemisms for slutty.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” Quinn asks, and Kurt shrugs. He doesn’t feel like dancing. He feels like getting under his heavily-embellished duvet and not coming out until Fashion Week.

“He’ll come back,” Quinn says, voice even. “He likes you, Kurt. He’s just an idiot.”

Kurt smothers a sigh. The bass of the club speakers is starting to make him feel like he’s vibrating. He wonders what frequency the human body has to reach before it explodes.

“That boy over there,” Quinn says, angling her head subtly to one side. “He’s been staring at you for the past ten minutes.”

Kurt’s eyes flick over to the corner of the club. There’s a tall, slender guy standing next to the speakers, drink in hand. He’s wearing jeans and a button-down, deliberately casual, and he certainly seems to be checking Kurt out.

“I’m tired,” Kurt says, and Quinn rolls her eyes at him.

“Go fuck Blaine out of your system,” Quinn says. “Maybe you’ll learn a few things, and when Blaine comes back, you’ll be totally ready to blow his mind.”

Back when Kurt first moved to New York two years ago, he’d indulged in quite a few club rendezvous, some of which never left the clubs themselves. He binged in a way he’s not proud of now, so eager and desperate after spending years dodging epithets in crowded high school hallways. New York seemed like a place of fantasies – boys, boys everywhere, boys like him, boys who liked him.

But they weren’t like him, not really. He’d approach his mark and smile and the boy would stare at him with hazy eyes. He’d touch his hand and tilt his head to one side and the boy’s eyes would go dark as his breathing sped up. They’d go somewhere – back room, bathroom, alley – and kiss, and everywhere Kurt would touch him he’d moan or shudder.

It felt like cheating. He knew he wasn’t doing anything as extreme as many faeries can do – from what he’s read they can basically hold humans in thrall, like vampires. But Kurt didn’t want that. He wanted someone to want him, to desire him in that throbbing, insistent way he desired those who drew him in first.

And God, he wants Blaine. He wants Blaine because his smile is a mile wide, because he’s awkward but impossibly elegant, because sometimes he moves like he has this itch under his skin, like he wants more from life than life will give him. He wants Blaine because he apologized for being a drunk jerk, because he brought Kurt flowers, because he is old-fashioned in a world of romantic underachievers.

It doesn’t hurt that when they kissed Kurt had felt something he’d never felt before, this bizarre alignment that made him want to roll his shoulders back and fall into Blaine, to close his eyes and let go.

Touching people always involves a certain amount of holding back for Kurt, but with Blaine, he wants more. He wants everything.

“I have to go,” Kurt says, and Quinn gives him her saddest smile. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Kurt—“

But Kurt is already turning, already escaping.

&&&

When Kurt was fifteen, a couple of football players stuffed him into a dumpster and spilled gooey red slushie all over his brand new Alexander McQueen sweater. Kurt had saved up his allowance for three months for that sweater, even worked some extra hours at the garage, and he would never, ever be able to get out the stains.

Someday you’ll all work for me, he’d snapped at them, but there was no satisfaction in that retort. He was sticky and smelled like rotting food, and he couldn’t miss Chemistry because he had a test and his teacher didn’t accept torture at the hands of athletes as an excuse. 

In theory, Kurt could have used his powers on bullies in school to manipulate them, to make them feel things they didn’t, to force them to see Kurt as desirable. But Kurt didn’t want those mentally undernourished gorillas to see him as desirable. He wanted them to see him as human.

Even though he isn’t.

He’s barely closed his apartment door behind him when he takes out his phone and calls his dad. Burt answers on the second ring with a gruff, “You know, not all of us are big-city party animals who stay up until the very early morning, Kurt.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

He tugs the sleeves of his plaid trench coat more snugly around himself and slides down the wall until he’s a pile of limbs on the floor.

His dad clears his throat. “So…how about them Yankees?”

Kurt sighs. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Is that Sue lady bothering you again? Because there are laws against that, you know.”

“It’s not Sue, it’s…” Kurt closes his eyes. “It’s about a boy.”

There’s a pause and some shuffling, and then Burt says sharply, “A boy who’s done something inappropriate?”

Kurt swallows a laugh. “No, no – I just – I told him. About…you know.”

“A very special boy, then.”

Kurt can’t deny it. His palms feel hot.

“Dad, how did you—” Kurt stops, then tries again. “With Mom, how did you know?”

“How did I know what, kid?”

Kurt should hate it because he’s fought so long and hard to not be a kid, to get people to stop thinking of him that way with his baby face and his high voice, but he loves when his dad says it. He knows it’s an endearment, a claiming: my kid, my son.

“How did you know that it was real?” Kurt asks. “That you were in love with her and that it wasn’t just something she was…doing to you?”

He can hear his father’s intake of breath. “It was something she was doing to me, Kurt. That’s what love is.”

“You know what I—”

“You mean how did I know it wasn’t magic?” Burt says. “How did I know she wasn’t messing with me because she could?”

Kurt looks down at his fingernails. One of them is broken, snagged on a plate from work.

“Maybe you don’t know this because nobody’s ever made you feel like this, son,” Burt says, “but whether or not someone’s special like you and your mom, they can still make somebody feel all…opened up. Vulnerable.”

“I don’t want to do it,” Kurt says, his voice shrill. “I don’t want people to like me just because—“

“There’s plenty of reasons for this guy to like you,” Burt says. “You gotta know that, Kurt.”

Kurt rubs at his eye with one hand. 

You’re beautiful. You are so beautiful.

“To answer your question,” Burt says, “I never knew, really. I just knew I loved her, and as for the rest of it – I didn’t care.”

“But that’s –“

“I don’t know what to tell you, buddy. I never had any regrets.”

&&&

Kurt wakes up in the middle of the night because his phone trills at him, indicating he has a text. He fell asleep in his boxers and the t-shirt he wore at the club, and he feels gross. He doesn’t even remember washing his face.

He rolls over and yanks his phone off the side table. The screen glow hurts his eyes, so he squints.

You probably hate me but – I want to see you again

Another: I am so sorry. I feel like all I ever do around you is say I’m sorry. But I am so, so sorry.

And another: if you get this, please call me. If you don’t, I won’t bother you again.

Kurt falls back on his pillow. His heart is beating quadruple time, and his palms are sweaty. Blaine isn’t even in the room with him, but he feels like he is, like he could be. It’s strange, that almost-presence. He shivers.

Are you awake? he texts.

The response is nearly immediate. Yeah. I can’t sleep.

Kurt inhales and exhales through his mouth.

He dials Blaine’s number.

“Kurt,” Blaine says, and his voice is soft but sad.

“I don’t know why I’m calling you,” Kurt says truthfully. “You made me feel like shit.”

He can hear Blaine take in a shaky breath.

“Ever since I met you,” Blaine says, “it’s been so hard to be apart from you. I feel like – it’s like missing something I didn’t know I needed. And when you were holding my hands, that feeling went away. It was perfect, and it was terrifying. I – I got scared.”

“The faerie stuff didn’t have anything to do with it?” Kurt asks. He can’t keep the skepticism out of his voice.

“I don’t know, Kurt,” Blaine breathes. “All I know is, whatever you are? I want it. I want you.”

Kurt’s hands shake. He places them on the bed in front of him and takes a deep breath. He can feel his mother holding him close, dragging her thumb across his cheek, whispering, You just know, Kurt. You just know.

&&&

Kurt feels like he loses some time. He knows he goes to work like he does most days, but when closing time rolls around he doesn’t change out of his uniform. He certainly wants to because he feels like he smells of alcohol and crappy dudebro cologne, but Blaine had said please don’t change, please. It made Kurt’s breath catch in his throat.

And that’s how he arrives at Blaine’s Tribeca apartment for the first time, feeling like an idiot in his twinky little cheerleader uniform with a red down jacket over it. He’s not about to risk contracting influenza on top of everything else.

Blaine buzzes Kurt in, and when Kurt steps into the lobby, he understands, for a moment, the appeal of the stockbroker life. This is the world of shiny floors and housekeepers, of doormen and PAs. It is the world, simply put, of money. It’s not a world Kurt has ever known, outside of his more vivid diva fantasies.

Blaine wrenches open the door so soon after Kurt knocks that he thinks he must have been standing there waiting. He’s flushed and breathless. He takes Kurt’s wrist and pulls him inside with enough force that Kurt knows he will bruise.

“I knew you were here,” Blaine says. “I mean, before—“

Kurt cuts him off with a kiss. It’s a test - he wants to see if Blaine will pull away.

Blaine slides his hand under Kurt’s jacket and curls his fingers in his shirt. He seems to realize, then, what Kurt is wearing, and his eyes go wide. “You’re actually—“

“You told me you wanted—“

“I didn’t think you would do it,” Blaine says, and pushes Kurt into the wall, crowding him against it. “Kurt. Jesus.”

The feeling that strums through him then is hard to describe. Kurt is turned on, yes, by having Blaine pressed so close, his breath in his ear and lips on his jaw, but he’s also feeling something else, a distant but not-so-distant sensation that doubles his arousal. 

It’s Blaine, he realizes. I’m picking up his emotions.

Kurt’s head swirls. He feels Blaine’s hand, strong at the small of his back, and then they are moving, moving. Blaine is saying, “Kurt, don’t—are you okay? I am so sorry, I am so—”

Blaine’s apologizing again, Kurt thinks, and there’s a solid surface beneath him now, a couch. Leather. He lets Blaine hold him until the room stills. Blaine pushes hair out of Kurt’s eyes and Kurt feels warm, his skin tingling as if he’s spent a bit too long in the sun.

Kurt’s not sure how much time passes before he opens his eyes. Blaine still has his arms wrapped around him, and his eyes are a golden-green. All the colors in the room seem brighter, somehow, candied Technicolor.

“Kurt,” Blaine breathes, and Kurt blinks a few times until he can focus. The colors dim, but only slightly.

“I’m okay,” Kurt says.

“Does this happen to you - often?” Blaine asks.

“Never,” Kurt says. “It’s never happened to me before.”

Blaine flushes. “If I made you—”

“Blaine,” Kurt says, “Don’t apologize again, please.”

Blaine shuts his mouth.

“I should thank you,” Kurt says.

Blaine’s eyes widen. Kurt wraps his hand around Blaine’s wrist. He feels the wispy sensation of invisible wings beating under his skin.

“You just made me realize something else faeries can do,” Kurt says.

He wants to kiss Blaine, so much. He’s staring down at him with his lips parted, eyes hazy and dark. But Kurt is still strung out and feverish, drained, so they lay on the couch, Blaine stroking Kurt’s hair, his fingertips leaving a low level thrum under Kurt’s skin.

“Oh, Blaine,” Kurt murmurs. “You need me so badly in your life. Look at this apartment.”

Blaine snorts. “How did I know you wouldn’t approve?”

“I think your home should look like you,” Kurt says. “Does your soul look like an Ikea living room set?”

Blaine closes his eyes and Kurt feels a wave of warmth wash over him. He clutches the armrest and Blaine shifts to hold him closer. He is going to have to get used to that.

“I think you know something about what my soul looks like,” Blaine whispers.

“Does that scare you?” Kurt asks. He hates how his voice shakes.

Blaine bites his lip. “Well - yeah, it scares me. But it would scare me no matter what. I mean, whether or not you—”

“—had superpowers?” Kurt finishes.

Blaine’s mouth turns up at one corner. “Yes. Whether or not you had faerie magical freaky stuff going on.”

Kurt shoves him with one hand, and Blaine grins. “Does this mean you’re getting stronger? Can I kiss you again?”

Kurt’s stomach dips. “I - what if I can’t handle it? I’ve never - I mean, I’ve hooked up with guys before and it’s never felt like this. It’s never been so...overwhelming.”

Blaine is very pink in the cheeks. One of his curls has gone rogue, unfurling over his forehead. 

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

He presses one hand to Kurt’s cheek, and the heat is more manageable this time.

“I’m afraid of what I can do to you,” Kurt says.

Blaine’s thumb strokes over Kurt’s cheekbone, down to his lips.

“I’m afraid of that too,” Blaine says. “But honestly, Kurt, I was afraid of that before I knew you were - what you are.”

Blaine holds his gaze for a few long, lovely moments before he leans in.

This time when they kiss it’s softer, a press of lips and Blaine’s hand warm along Kurt’s jaw. Blaine makes a low noise and energy prickles up Kurt’s spine. When Blaine bites Kurt’s lower lip, it stings at the same time as it sizzles. Blaine flips them so Kurt is under him and pushes up, the pressure enough to surprise a gasp out of Kurt.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Blaine says. “Everything about you, Kurt, you’re so—”

His hand slides between their bodies, cupping Kurt through his pants. Kurt thrusts up, seeking heat, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Can you feel it?” Blaine murmurs.

“Your hand is on my dick, so yes,” Kurt bites out, and Blaine chuckles, pressing down with the heel of his hand.

“You know what I mean.”

Kurt is having a hard time focusing with Blaine groping him and licking his neck and breathing against his skin. His body is so close, so everywhere, and Blaine smells like soap and aftershave and sweat and – and—

“Yes,” Kurt says, trembling. “Yes, Blaine, please—”

“I dreamed about you last night,” Blaine says, his voice strangely calm, a caress. “When I woke up I was so turned on it only took me a couple of strokes to come, kind of like—”

He slides his hand over Kurt through his pants, and Kurt arches off the couch and comes with a strangled moan.

“…this,” Blaine says.

Kurt is struggling to breathe, his heart beating so fast he can’t even begin to keep the rhythm. Blaine places his hand on Kurt’s stomach, spreading his fingers, and calm washes over him in a wave.

“God, Kurt,” Blaine whispers. “You are so, so gorgeous.”

Kurt grasps Blaine’s hand and says, “Give me a minute.”

“It’s okay,” Blaine says. “You’re tired, you don’t have to—”

Kurt wants to touch Blaine in so many ways, to kiss along his jaw and nip his collarbone, trail his tongue down his chest, tease his nipples, take his cock in his mouth and lick and suck until Blaine is bucking and cursing, all that polish and sheen peeling off as he loses control—

“Ohhh,” Blaine moans. “Kurt…”

Kurt doesn’t mean to do it, exactly, but when Blaine’s eyes widen and he shudders, he can’t say he regrets it.

“How are you—” Blaine gasps, and Kurt doesn’t know how he’s doing this, only that apparently when he opens up to Blaine’s emotions and energy, it’s a two-way street.

Kurt reaches for Blaine’s pants, grasping for his fly, but he’s barely gotten it open when Blaine’s hips stutter and he groans, mouth falling open.

“Dear God,” Kurt whispers.

&&&

“So,” Blaine says, sipping from his mug of tea (and if Kurt had any doubts as to whether Blaine was truly gay, he would have abandoned them after Blaine made them post-sex tea), “are your faerie powers useful for anything other than—” 

He stops, and Kurt smirks.

“Orgasms?” Kurt asks.

Blaine flushes. “Well, yes.”

“I don’t know,” Kurt says. “I guess I have used them to - I don’t know. To pull people in? But never on purpose, not really. And when we - it was never like—”

Now it’s his turn to blush. Blaine runs his finger over the back of Kurt’s hand, and Kurt shivers.

“What do you think that means?” Blaine asks.

Kurt can remember being curled up with his mother when he was little, about six years old. She would read him stories from books, and then she would tell him stories, stories about creatures who looked like humans but were more than human: more beautiful, more fearless. 

Faeries aren’t like the ones you read about in books, Kurt, she would say. They are more scary and ruthless, but they can love so much if they come across the right person.

How do you know who’s right? Kurt asked.

His mother brushed his hair off his forehead and her eyes shifted colors, grey to blue.

You just know, she said.

As a child, Kurt never questioned this, in the way that kids never question their parents, not until they’re older and the world begins to create doubts. Sometimes, when Kurt was sick, his mother would press her hand to his forehead and he would cool instantly, and he never questioned that either. She always knew when it was going to rain. 

He never wondered why his mother could do things other mothers couldn’t.

You just know.

“I...I don’t know,” Kurt says helplessly when he realizes Blaine is still staring at him, questions in his eyes. “There’s something about you that opens me up, I guess. It sort of levels the playing field, doesn’t it? Because you can affect me just as much as I can affect you.”

Blaine grasps Kurt’s fingers in his, and Kurt aches, feeling both hollow and full. 

Blaine doesn’t say anything, but Kurt closes his eyes and inhales, breathing him in.

&&&

Kurt wakes in the morning alone in Blaine’s bed. The sheets are wrinkled on Blaine’s side and everything smells like Blaine - not in a gross way, but in a familiar, comfortable way: spicy, woodsy, with a hint of too-sweet cologne.

He can hear sounds coming from the kitchen, and a minute later Blaine emerges with a cup of coffee in each hand. They’re steaming and they smell delicious. Blaine’s hair is sleep-rumpled, flat on one side and sticking up on the other, and he’s wearing loose pajama pants that rest just at his hips.

Kurt’s still wearing his stupid uniform shirt, though he does have on clean boxers which he remembers are Blaine’s, borrowed so Kurt didn’t have to sleep in the remnants of their...interactions last night.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” Blaine says, handing Kurt a mug. Kurt accepts it gratefully.

“I so need a shower,” Kurt says. “And, like, two hours of skin care.”

Blaine tosses him a crooked smile. “Well, I think you look amazing.”

“You need glasses,” Kurt says, but Blaine is already leaning forward to kiss him.

It tingles, Blaine’s lips against his. Being with Blaine is like constantly being revived, like moving a limb that’s been stiff and cramped for too long.

Kurt’s phone rings loudly from somewhere, Britney Spears’ Toxic, and Blaine arches an eyebrow.

“I should answer it,” Kurt says reluctantly. But Blaine’s lips are very red and shiny and right there.

Blaine leans down and unearths the phone from under Kurt’s shoes, tossing it to him.

“Bitch, where are you?” Santana’s voice comes over the line. “It’s Hungover Brunch, and you are missing mimosas.”

Kurt smirks. “The usual place?”

“You know it, princess. Get your cute ass down here.”

Kurt tosses his phone aside and collapses back on the bed. Blaine has a lot of pillows. Kurt approves.

“Hot date?” Blaine asks, his hand brushing over Kurt’s stomach where his shirt has ridden up.

“No one hotter than you, baby,” Kurt murmurs. 

Blaine’s fingers are feather light. Kurt inhales.

“You should go, then,” Blaine says, but his eyes say stay stay stay.

“Are you kidding?” Kurt says. “You’re coming with me.”

&&&

Kurt manages to find clothes he can wear in Blaine’s closet, which is, quite frankly, a miracle. The jeans aren’t tight enough and the shirt sleeves are too short so he has to roll them up, but all considering, it could be a lot worse.

Blaine looks flushed by the time they leave, and he can’t seem to stop touching Kurt. It’s really distracting.

“You have got to stop groping me,” Kurt hisses on the subway. “We are in public, and it’s not usually considered acceptable to throw someone down in the middle of a train.”

Blaine grasps Kurt around the waist the presses close to Kurt’s back. “You’re wearing my clothes, Kurt. You’re lucky I haven’t done something really inappropriate yet.”

Kurt shudders. Arriving at their stop is a blessing and a curse.

At the slightly dive-y diner where Kurt and the girls always go for brunch, Mercedes, Quinn, Brittany and Santana are clearly beyond their first couple mimosas. There’s a lot of loud conversation and gesturing and laughter going on. When he and Blaine approach, it takes them a moment to notice.

When they do, however, all eyes are on them as silence descends.

“Hi, Blaine,” Quinn says with a secretive smile.

“Get it, Kurt,” Santana says, grinning.

“This is why you didn’t come home last night, isn’t it?” Mercedes says. “You slut.”

“I don’t understand,” Brittany says. “Did Blaine make Kurt disappear?”

The table explodes with shouts, and Kurt is tempted to run, but Blaine is already pulling up a chair and he won’t let go of Kurt’s hand.

“So you only have bad intentions, right?” Santana addresses Blaine. “We only accept bad intentions.”

Blaine squeezes Kurt’s hand, and Kurt has a flash of Blaine holding him against a wall, one hand on his hip pressing into bone as he swallows him down.

Holy shit.

“I want what Kurt wants,” Blaine says.

“Bad intentions for sure, then,” Mercedes says.

“The worst,” Santana says gleefully.

&&&

“Your friends are really nice,” Blaine says, but Kurt is having a hard time paying attention because Blaine has his leg wedged between Kurt’s thighs and his hands under Kurt’s t-shirt.

“What?” Kurt asks, because seriously, what? 

Blaine nips under Kurt’s chin and sucks lightly at his pulse point, and honestly, Kurt does not care what Blaine is talking about, not even a little.

“Your friends,” Blaine says on a heavy exhale as Kurt scrapes his nails across his stomach, “are really—”

“—nosy,” Kurt says, his hand slipping down to the waistband of Blaine’s jeans.

“They care about you,” Blaine says. “You’re lucky. I don’t really have friends like that. Not here, anyway.”

Kurt suppresses a sigh. He would like to keep making out with Blaine and not talk about this, but he can appreciate how important this is, especially since Blaine’s stopped projecting waves of desire and started retracting like some injured turtle.

“Hey,” Kurt says, grabbing Blaine’s wrist and stilling his hand. “Blaine.”

“I’m sorry,” Blaine says, hunching his shoulders, and Kurt gets a flash of something, a burning underlied with a sharp, bitter taste. Shame.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Kurt says. “But if you want those guys at work to be your real friends, you’ve got to tell them the truth.”

“I have friends who know,” Blaine insists. “Back home, friends from college—”

“Do you know how crazy it is that being in New York pushed you back into the closet? That this city – this city where everyone has a place, where every kind of person exists—“

Blaine sighs, his head falling back against the wall. “It never seemed that important. There was never a right time...”

“So are you going to keep going to sports bars and pretending to check out chicks?” Kurt asks. “You going to get a fake girlfriend? How far do you want to take this?”

Blaine closes his eyes.

“How can you say it’s not important?” Kurt asks. “It’s about who you fall in love with, Blaine. Who you want to spend your life with - who you want to have kids with. How is that not important?”

He watches Blaine’s throat works as his swallows.

“Please don’t be mad at me,” Blaine whispers.

Kurt starts. He hadn’t realized how pointed his words had become, how sharp his tone.

He reaches up and presses a hand to Blaine’s cheek.

“I’ve never been able to hide,” Kurt says. “If this thing - whatever this is, between us? If we’re doing this, it’s going to be really hard to hide me.”

Blaine opens his eyes.

“You hide plenty,” he says.

&&&

Kurt is distracted at work that evening, so distracted that he drops a tray of drinks and breaks three glasses in the process. Usually Kurt feels like this job is just a drag, but today it feels like slavery.

“You okay, Porcelain?” Sue asks, approaching in her shiny blue track suit and grabbing Kurt’s shoulder in a way that feels half-comforting, half-disciplinary.

“I’m fine,” Kurt says.

“Don’t get snappy, princess,” Sue says. “I only hired you because the other girls like you, and in certain lights, you look like a lady.”

Kurt sighs.

“You seem preoccupied,” Sue says. “Nobody likes a tragic cheerleader. C’mere.”

Sue gestures to her office, and Kurt really has no choice but to follow.

“If you’re going to act like the lesser-known eighth dwarf, Mopey, then I expect delicious chocolate-covered graham crackers on my desk tomorrow,” Sue says.

“Those are elves,” Kurt says. “Not dwarves.”

“Oh, and there she is!” Sue says.

“I’m not going to talk to you about this,” Kurt says. “This is a pointless meeting. I promise I won’t break anything else, okay?”

“Except for hearts,” Sue says. “I’ve seen you fraternizing with that well-dressed, curly-haired gentleman. I despise curly hair, you know. He wears so much product that I’m sometimes afraid former President George W. Bush is going to show up one night in search of his missing oil.”

Kurt pushes his bangs out of his eyes. He is used to this. He’s worked here for two years. But still—

“You were spying on me and Blaine?” Kurt asks.

Sue rolls up one sleeve of her track suit. “Cool it, Porcelain. It’s not my fault if you choose to turn my place of business into a tawdry sex club. I didn’t fire you because having you on board keeps the EEOC off my ass.”

“Can I go now?” Kurt pleads.

“This is all I want to say,” Sue says, leaning forward and clasping her hands on her desk. “I hope things work out for you. You seem sad. If the greasy-haired, small fellow keeps you happy, that’s good for business. Just don’t damage any more property as a symptom of your lovesickness, or I’m going to start writing you off on my taxes as a loss of investment.”

Kurt simply raises an eyebrow.

“One last item,” Sue says, narrowing her eyes. “Don’t have relations in the uniform, okay?”

Kurt splutters. He totally washed it—

“I know these Wall Street types,” Sue says, waving Kurt away. “So predictable.”

&&&

Blaine texts Kurt late that night, just after closing time. He’s touched - he knows Blaine has to be up at the crack of dawn. 

Be at Cheery-Ohs tmrw after work w/the boys, Blaine says. Talk then? xx

The boys. Kurt slips his phone into his back and slings the bag over his shoulder. He wonders if anything in their last conversation got through.

Kurt always assumed if he found his soulmate (is that what Blaine is? Kurt doesn’t even know how he takes his coffee in the morning) that they’d be on the same page as far as being out. 

But Blaine - Blaine’s not just hiding his sexuality. He’s hiding his voice.

“Ready, babe?” Mercedes says, squeezing Kurt’s shoulder, and Kurt nods.

He loves that they don’t have to talk all the way home on the subway. He and Blaine may have some strange psycho-sexual connection, but sometimes humans can read their friends just fine, no magic needed.

&&&

He dreams about Blaine. He’s wearing some sort of prep school uniform, black and red and precise, and singing with an a capella group of similarly dressed boys. They move together and harmonize beautifully, and Blaine is clearly their leader. His voice is clear and pleasant and strong, and he’s magnetic in his openness, in how he holds nothing back.

Kurt wakes up trembling. His phone buzzes, and he rolls over and grabs it.

Oh, Kurt, Blaine’s text reads. I didn’t know.

Kurt shivers. He knows, without understanding why, that Blaine has been dreaming about him too.

You have all the pieces, he thinks. Why can’t you see?

But all he texts back is, You look really fetching in a uniform.

LOL, Blaine texts. Not as good as you, Cheery-Oh.

&&&

“A stockbroker, Kurt?” Rachel says, stirring her coffee and then tapping her spoon against the side of her cup with a clink. “That seems unwise.”

Kurt sort of wants to strangle Rachel right now, but then again, he always sort of wants to strangle Rachel. It’s part of how their relationship works. He and Rachel met when auditioning for this new off-Broadway musical about robots in space – yeah, Kurt didn’t quite get it either – and unexpectedly discovered a connection when they realized they’d both chosen “Defying Gravity” from Wicked as their audition pieces. 

I applaud your defiance of gender stereotypes, Rachel told him, though of course I plan to blow you out of the water all the same.

“Not all stockbrokers are awful,” Kurt says.

“Is it the sex?” Rachel asks. “You can tell me. I know how these things go. I often have inappropriate urges around men who aren’t good for me. I wonder sometimes if it’s symptomatic of not having a strong female role model, i.e. a mother. Of course, I love my dads, and I would never say their upbringing somehow ill-equipped me for—”

“No, Rachel, it’s not – it’s more than that,” Kurt says.

“But you can’t explain it,” Rachel says, pushing a strand of her shiny, brown hair back into place. 

“I like Blaine,” Kurt says. “We…we connect.”

“That is important,” Rachel says. “Especially in this city, where it’s so easy to get lost in the crowd. I often think of that when I’m at the bank, processing checks, how I see so many people every day and don’t connect with them. You must feel that way too, working as a waiter.”

Kurt honestly has no desire to connect with most of the people he meets at work. In fact, Blaine was the first, and even then – he had his doubts.

“Do you ever wonder if maybe…” Kurt sighs. “Do you ever feel like giving up, Rachel? This show biz thing – it’s such a crap shoot, and there are so many of us in this city, trying to make it. Do you ever think maybe it’s just not meant to be?”

Rachel puts down her coffee cup and purses her lips. “Is this something Blaine is telling you? Does he want you to quit?”

“N-no,” Kurt says.

He realizes, in that moment, that Blaine never even questioned Kurt’s ambitions, never said anything derisive or patronizing. He could have, but he hadn’t.

“I think you’re special, Kurt,” Rachel says. “You and I are a lot alike. People don’t understand us sometimes because we like to stand out when everyone else is only interested in fitting in. But the thing is—“

Rachel reaches across the table and takes Kurt’s hand, startling him. Her fingers curl into his.

“That’s what it means to be a star,” Rachel says.

&&&

Work is mostly uneventful, all the same crude jokes and leering. Kurt is so tired of this. He rubs his eyes and visualizes an open stage and a microphone and a band playing a song he knows all the words to. He soldiers on.

Blaine arrives around eight with his buddies. Kurt hates the big, angry one the most – he gets a definite secret, self-hating vibe off that one, and there is nothing Kurt dislikes more than people who project their fears onto the unafraid.

“You want to take them?” Quinn asks, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I can if you’d rather not – though the tall, goofy one is totally going to hit on me again, I can tell.”

“No, I’ll take ‘em,” Kurt says. “I can handle it.”

“Never doubted it for a minute, sweetie,” Quinn says, and pats him on the ass.

Kurt braces himself for it, but he’s still overwhelmed by the wave of Blaine’s emotions that hit him when he nears the table. It’s a mix Kurt’s not familiar with yet – sadness and anger and shame, and Kurt tastes it in the back of his throat, bitter, salty, sour.

“How are you gentlemen this evening?” he says brightly.

Blaine follows his movements with his eyes. Please, Kurt can feel him saying, though he doesn’t know what he’s asking for. 

“Hey, it’s Tinkerbell,” Kurt’s least-favorite frat boy says. Clearly the boys have been pre-gaming. He’s already looking unsteady.

“Dude. Karofsky…” another one says, but Blaine remains silent, his eyes flicking down to trace the table.

“Tell me, Tink,” Karofsky continues. “Is it hard being such a fucking fairy all the time? Do you have all kinds of fairy problems with your fairy friends? Do your wings get sore? Do you ever run out of glitter dust?”

“You know an awful lot about fairies,” Kurt says, “for someone who isn’t one.”

Karofsky sneers, his face reddening.

“You want me to fuck you up, you pansy?” he says. “Because I’m not afraid to hit a girl.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Kurt throws back.

Karofsky looks surprised, like he was expecting Kurt to crumple like a damp tissue. But Kurt just lifts his chin and fixes him with a hard stare.

“All right, then,” Karofsky says, pushing himself to his feet and lurching sideways.

“Dave, no,” Blaine speaks up, and he’s rising too, moving toward Karofsky’s side of the table, but seriously, what is he going to do? He’s like a quarter of Karofsky’s size. 

Kurt does not need his help.

Suddenly Karofsky is all up in Kurt’s space, towering over him, smelling like beer and sweat. He’s scared, and Kurt can feel it. His emotions hover just on the edge of Kurt’s radar, clouded by Blaine’s, but Kurt knows he’s scared, scared and also—

Oh.

“Kurt,” Blaine says, voice strained. “Don’t do this.”

“Wait a minute,” Karofsky says, turning to give Blaine a scathing once-over. “Are you one of this fairy’s friends? I always knew something was off about you, Anderson.”

“Just leave him alone,” Blaine says.

Kurt reaches out and grasps Karofsky’s arm. The second he touches his skin his emotions envelop Kurt, and wow, he was so right.

Karofsky is turned on.

Kurt’s stomach twists up, and he feels hot. His skin is too tight, his bones too loose.

“Oh,” Karofsky murmurs, turning his attention back to Kurt, and the next time he makes a sound it’s lower, more like a moan.

Kurt hasn’t done this in a long time, and he feels out of practice and sloppy. Karofsky is flushing and biting his lip, his eyes going hazy dark and unfocused. He leans down a bit, and Kurt can feel him exhale against his cheek.

“This is what you really want, isn’t it?” Kurt whispers.

Karofsky just stares, then licks his lips.

“Kurt, stop it,” he hears Blaine say.

“I can’t help it if he wants me,” Kurt says softly. Karofsky looks mesmerized, helpless.

“I want you,” Blaine says. “Let him go. Kurt.”

Please please please please Kurt hears, and Blaine’s emotions swirl with Karofsky’s, heat and bitterness, lust and terror, and Kurt can’t tell which emotions belong to who, can’t distinguish, can’t breathe.

He lets go.

Karofsky stumbles backwards, clutching at his chair.

The table explodes with voices. One of the guys helps Karofsky sit down while the others crowd around, shouting questions.

Kurt is gone before anyone can notice.

&&&

He doesn’t realize how fucked up he is until he reaches the bathroom. He slams himself into a stall and locks it. His stomach shifts and drops and suddenly he’s kneeling, heaving into the toilet. He feels vertigo, and presses his hand to the stall wall just to have an anchor, to know which way is the floor and which way is the ceiling. His vision blurs. He coughs just to keep breathing, just to feel air move in and out.

“Kurt?”

Blaine. He’s both the only person and the last person Kurt wants to see. Kurt crouches down and hopes Blaine won’t look under the stall doors, but then he realizes it doesn’t matter. Blaine can sense him whether he can see him or not.

“Kurt,” Blaine says. “Please come out and talk to me.”

“I can’t,” Kurt says, his voice choked, and he means I can’t do this, I can’t be the right person for you, but the words get stuck.

“Kurt,” Blaine repeats, and Kurt knows he’s standing right outside the stall, can see his shiny wing-tipped shoes under the door. “Please.”

Kurt flicks open the lock on the door and pushes it open. 

Blaine’s tie is loose, his shirt unbuttoned a couple buttons. He reaches out for Kurt, wrapping one hand around his forearm and pulling him in. Kurt resists at first, but Blaine is so warm and welcoming, his embrace like a salve. He hugs Kurt close and breathes into his ear, “It’s okay.”

The second Blaine wraps his arms around Kurt, Kurt understands what addiction must feel like. There are no words to describe it, no experience to compare it to. Everything is just…right.

If they keep doing this, Kurt may never be able to let Blaine go.

“It’s not okay,” Kurt snaps. “It’s not fucking okay, Blaine, none of this is okay—“

Blaine cups Kurt’s chin in his hand, brushing his thumb along Kurt’s jaw. “I don’t mean…I just mean…”

Kurt is shaking, and he is crying, and he doesn’t want to be doing either of these things. He wants to be tough and invulnerable and unstoppable. He hates this softness.

“I’m sorry,” Kurt says. “I know I shouldn’t have – it’s just – you don’t know, Blaine. People didn’t treat you the way they treated me in high school. Every day someone would say something, or push me around, or beat me up, and I am so tired—“

Blaine brushes the hair off Kurt’s forehead. “I know, Kurt,” he reminds him. “I saw.”

Kurt closes his eyes. He can feel Blaine there, so near, feelings hovering in his periphery. He can feel Blaine holding back, trying to protect him. But he wants to hurt. He wants to know what Blaine doesn’t want him to see.

“Before I went to Dalton, I went to a school more like yours,” Blaine says, “and when I went home at night, I didn’t have parents who told me it was okay to feel the way I did.”

He exhales.

“The way I do.”

Kurt opens his eyes. Blaine is staring at him with liquid eyes, worrying his lower lip.

He understands, all of a sudden, why Blaine slipped so easily back into the closet when he came to New York. For Blaine, hiding is a tolerable sort of smothering. When Blaine hides that part of himself – from his family, from his co-workers – it’s the only time he’s safe.

“People beat me up too,” Blaine says. “People beat me up and my parents ignored it, pretended they didn’t see the bruises. And when they did notice my dad told me to man up, that if I’d just stop with this faggy bullshit I wouldn’t invite all this hatred—“

Kurt tugs Blaine close, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and pressing his lips into Blaine’s neck. He feels Blaine slump forward and clutch at Kurt’s hip, shuddering.

&&&

Kurt goes home with Blaine. They hail a taxi outside the bar and get inside and Blaine never stops holding Kurt’s hand, never loses contact once.

They don’t speak the entire way there. Blaine projects a quiet, insistent comfort, his fingers laced tightly through Kurt’s. Kurt concentrates on breathing. His stomach still feels queasy, the memory of Karofsky’s anger burning under his skin.

Kurt’s phone buzzes constantly on their way back, but Kurt doesn’t answer. He knows it’s Mercedes or Quinn or Brittany or maybe even Sue, but he can’t talk to anyone right now. Finally he texts Mercedes am ok will call later to explain and turns off his phone.

At Blaine’s apartment he walks through the door and straight to Blaine’s bedroom and climbs into his bed. He doesn’t even care how forward it might seem – he’s exhausted and feels like his limbs can’t hold him up anymore.

Blaine follows him into the room and sits down on the bed beside him. He brushes Kurt’s hair out of his eyes and smiles, a faint, sweet curve of his lips.

Rest, Kurt thinks he can hear Blaine say, and he closes his eyes and does.

&&&

He wakes with Blaine pressed up behind him, arm curled loosely around his waist. He is breathing softly against his neck, and when he exhales, Kurt shivers.

He turns over onto his back and Blaine goes with him, boneless in sleep. His hair is curly and damp and smells like shampoo. Kurt leans down and inhales, his nostrils filling with the smell of apples.

“Blaine,” Kurt whispers, and Blaine twitches. He squeezes his eyes shut tightly and his lower lip curves into a pout.

Kurt kisses him and Blaine sucks in a breath. He slides his hand into Kurt’s hair and pulls him closer, pulls until Kurt is practically on top of him. They kiss and breathe together, inhale-exhale, inhale-exhale, and Blaine bites Kurt’s lower lip and moans, tucking his fingers under the waistband of Kurt’s pants.

Kurt presses a line of kisses down Blaine’s jawline as his fingertips travel over his chest and under his t-shirt. When he scrapes his blunt fingernails over Blaine’s nipple, Blaine arches his back and opens his eyes. His eyelashes are impossibly long, his eyes dark. Kurt kisses him harder, swallowing Blaine’s gasps.

He pushes Blaine’s t-shirt up to his armpits and kisses over his chest, mouthing one nipple and then the other. Blaine squirms and presses up to Kurt’s mouth, and Kurt rewards him with licks and light, sucking pressure.

He realizes that he knows what Blaine wants without him asking for it. He knows exactly where he wants to be touched, what spots will be ticklish when he brushes his fingertips over them, what pulse points will make Blaine groan when he licks at them. He slides his hand into Blaine’s pajama pants and finds him hard, so hard and warm, and watches Blaine’s chest rise and fall as he tries not to thrust up, tries not to be too greedy.

You can, Kurt tells him silently, and Blaine’s eyelids flutter shut as he thrusts up into Kurt’s hand. Heat infuses Kurt. The air around him feels heavy and smells of flowers. He is so turned on, so worked up because Blaine is worked up. Every time he touches Blaine it’s like Blaine is touching him.

Blaine sits up and tugs Kurt into his lap. He bites at Kurt’s mouth, licking at his lips, and Kurt feels like he’s falling, falling, falling.

Kurt eyes search Blaine’s, seeking direction. Blaine’s hands fall to his waist and Kurt can see what Blaine wants, so vividly it makes him blush.

He finds Blaine’s mouth and kisses him hard, thumbs pressed into Blaine’s sides. When he grinds down onto his lap, Blaine buries his face in Kurt’s neck and moans.

Sing sing sing sing, Kurt hears, even though Blaine’s not saying anything, and he wavers for a moment, unsure. But when Blaine’s fingers travel up his neck and touch his throat, Kurt knows he wasn’t mistaken.

So he sings. He doesn’t even know what he sings, exactly: scraps of songs, single notes that he can’t sustain when Blaine licks and sucks at his collarbones, melodies he forgets completely when Blaine slicks his fingers and pushes them inside of him. He sings softly, only loud enough for Blaine to hear with his lips pressed to his throat, voice breaking as Blaine thrusts, oh – ah – ah – ah – ohhhh. There are never words to the songs, only sounds, sounds that mix with Blaine’s gasps and hitching breaths like harmonies only they can create together.

When Blaine comes he’s beautiful, sweaty and flushed, biting his lower lip. He grasps Kurt’s hips and pulls him closer, holds him still and grinds up, kisses him as he comes, silent and shaking with his hands twisted in Blaine’s hair.

&&&

Blaine’s alarm goes off at 5:30 am, which feels like a cruel joke. Kurt pulls his pillow over his head and tries to ignore Blaine’s gentle laughter as he reaches over to turn it off, his other hand rubbing circles into Kurt’s lower back.

“I’m sorry,” Blaine says.

“You should be,” Kurt grumbles. “It’s not even light outside yet.”

Blaine tugs the pillow away from Kurt’s face and smiles at him, too wide and bright for the ungodly hour. “Today is a special day, though.”

“Is it the day where you leave me alone so I can go back to sleep?” Kurt says. “Because that would be so special.”

Blaine strokes over his cheek with two fingers. “Not a morning person, got it.”

“Why is today a special day?” Kurt asks.

“Besides the fact that you are here in my bed, and we totally had sex last night?” Blaine grins.

Kurt rolls his eyes, though it’s hard to be mad at Blaine when he’s like this, all cheerful and smiling.

“Okay, okay,” Blaine says. “Today is special because today is the day I am going to quit my job.”

Kurt blinks.

“Say again?” he says.

“I’m quitting my job,” Blaine says. “I think it’s about time I stopped pretending like this is what I want to do with my life. I hate that job, I hate everything about it, I hate the person I am when I do it.”

“But—“

“I have some money saved up,” Blaine says. “I’ll figure out a day job of some kind, but I want – I don’t know what I want, exactly. I’ll figure it out.”

“Blaine,” Kurt murmurs, looking up into his wide hazel eyes.

“Will you come with me?” Blaine asks.

Kurt doesn’t know what Blaine’s asking at first. Come with him where? Though truthfully, he would come with Blaine anywhere. 

It scares him how much he believes that.

“You mean your office?” Kurt says. “You want me to come to your office?”

“I want you to be there,” Blaine says.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Kurt says.

“Kurt, please,” Blaine murmurs, and grasps Kurt’s hand. Kurt can feel how vulnerable Blaine is, how scared, even as he’s trying to smile.

“Okay,” Kurt says.

&&&

Kurt doesn’t know what he expected Blaine’s office to look like – some kind of Satan’s palace with blood red pitchforks at the entrance? Disappointingly, it’s a typical New York skyscraper, glass and steel and men in suits, everyone too busy to talk to each other, punching away at their cell phones or growling into their Bluetooths.

Blaine takes Kurt’s hand when they exit the subway and doesn’t let go once they enter the building. In fact, he squeezes his hand more tightly. Blaine spent ten minutes smoothing down his hair and tying and re-tying his tie this morning until Kurt caught his hands between his own and murmured, no matter how straight your knot is, Blaine, it won’t make you less of a fag.

Kurt wishes he could do this for Blaine, or could at least make it easier somehow. Blaine’s grip almost hurts as the elevator climbs floors, and Blaine is looking everywhere but at him.

“Blaine, breathe,” Kurt says as they near their destination, and Blaine glances over with nervous eyes. “You’ll be okay.”

Blaine’s eyes brighten with recognition, and Kurt can feel the tension in his wrists lessen slightly.

“If you want me to, I’ll fuck you when this is over,” Kurt whispers in his ear. “Pin you down to the bed and see how you like to take it.”

And oh, the tension is back, but Blaine’s lips have shifted from a grimace into a smirk.

“You’re terrible,” Blaine mutters, and Kurt slides one finger under the cuff of Blaine’s shirt, making him shiver.

Everyone watches them walk through the glass doors and down the hall between the cubicles. People actually shift in their seats and crane their necks. It might be because Kurt is wearing the change of clothes he had at work, tight red pants and a tailored black shirt under a silver vest with his high lace-up black boots. 

It might be because they’re holding hands.

Kurt senses Karofsky before he sees him. He gives off an aura of fear and disgust that makes Kurt want to curl up in ball in a corner and never speak to anyone again.

“You,” Karofsky hisses, but he doesn’t even get near Kurt this time, because Blaine steps between them.

“Fuck off,” Blaine says. “Don’t even try it, you bigoted, ignorant asshole.”

Karofsky looks stunned. His shoulders hunch, and when Kurt moves closer to Blaine, he actually flinches.

“Your boyfriend is a freak,” Karofsky mumbles.

“My boyfriend is amazing,” Blaine retorts.

Kurt’s cheeks flush as he watches Karofsky curl his fingers into fists. He wants to kiss Blaine right there, but that might be going a bit too far. He has no love for Karofsky, but he doesn’t actually want to witness his head exploding.

“What’s going on over here?” a voice comes from behind them, and they turn to see a man with curly blond-brown hair standing there. Kurt wrinkles his nose. He’s wearing a vest over his dress shirt that is totally two thousand and late.

“Mr. Schuester,” Blaine says, “I’ve come to say I’m leaving.”

Mr. Schuester looks puzzled, his eyebrows climbing his forehead. “Well, this is – unexpected.”

“This isn’t the right place for me,” Blaine says.

“You were doing so well, though, Blaine,” he says. “You locked down that Rachman account, that was—“

“No,” Blaine interrupts him. “I don’t belong here.”

The office seems too quiet. Aren’t stockbrokers supposed to be a hectic, noisy bunch? They certainly are at Cheery-Ohs. Kurt’s stomach sinks.

Blaine slides an arm around Kurt’s waist, pulling him closer, and Kurt swallows a gasp.

“You think you’re part of the majority, the one in control,” Blaine tells Karofsky. “But at the end of the day? You’re the one who’s alone.”

He turns to Mr. Schuester, and his mouth tips down into a frown.

“I’m sure you’ll have no problem replacing me,” he says.

&&&

In the elevator, alone again at last, Blaine is on him in a split second, crowding him into the wall and kissing his neck. Kurt’s mind floods with sense memories from the night before: the way Blaine’s cheeks flushed when Kurt licked at his belly button, the way his palms fit along the curve of Blaine’s lower back as Blaine fucked him.

“You didn’t need me there,” Kurt mumbles, feeling dizzy with arousal and confused, too many emotions flooding his body and brain and heart. There has got to be some way to control this, he thinks, because control is always what Kurt wants to achieve, whether it be through creating immaculate outfits or perfect dinners or carefully-coordinated decor.

“I need you everywhere,” Blaine sighs, tugging Kurt into a blistering kiss that leaves him gasping.

Weeks ago Kurt would have laughed at that, the ridiculous romanticism of it, because above all else, Kurt is a pragmatist. He plans. He sets goals. He practices. He goes to audition after audition after audition. This is how it’s done, the way he understands it. This is how you become a success.

But Blaine - Blaine screws with all that. Blaine upsets his rhythm and fucks with his plans. Blaine is a variable. Blaine makes him wild.

Blaine is everywhere, everywhere, in front of him and inside of him, his nerves and his heart and his air.

Kurt exhales. The elevator dings and the door slides open.

“Kurt?” Blaine is saying, and he’s holding out his hand. “Are you—”

It was something she was doing to me, Kurt. That’s what love is.

Kurt steps forward and reaches out.