Anyone remember this fic where Blaine is in a frat and trying to woo Kurt?
http://archiveofourown.org/works/758664
Reading this again made me miss the days of having whole Glee club show up (in character) in a fic with cracky humor.
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Anyone remember this fic where Blaine is in a frat and trying to woo Kurt?
http://archiveofourown.org/works/758664
Reading this again made me miss the days of having whole Glee club show up (in character) in a fic with cracky humor.

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Klaine one-shot -Â âProcrastinationâ (Rated NC-17)
Kurt has an important project to finish on Blaine's one day off. When Kurt wakes up, he hits the ground running - but keeping running isn't as easy as it sounds. And his understanding husband wishes he could help.
(Assumes that after Kurt and Blaine got married and returned to New York, they lived in the loft, and Kurt pursued fashion as well as musical theater.)
4:59 a.m.
Kurt wakes exactly one minute before his alarm is supposed to go off, relieved since his alarm tends to be louder than hell no matter what volume he sets it at. He doesnât want to wake Blaine at this awful hour - not on his one full day off in weeks. Maybe Kurt has to be a slave to fascist work schedules and constantly changing deadlines, but he doesnât need to inflict that misery on his husband.
Kurt carefully unwinds tangled limbs, detaches from Blaineâs arms, and slips out of bed, leaning in slowly to kiss Blaine on the cheek. Today is going to be a good day, Kurt has decided. A productive day. Heâs going to start with fifteen minutes of yoga to get the blood flowing, take an invigorating shower, have a tall glass of chilled cucumber water (that he made the night before so it would be the perfect temperature to drink this morning), and power through his designerâs block. As plans coalesce in his head, he feels creativity percolating, swirling tendrils of fashion artistry coursing through his brain. He tiptoes out to his makeshift studio (behind the curtain of what was once Rachel Berryâs old âroomâ) to get his ideas sketched and stitched before he loses them.
Three minutes after five oâclock, and heâs already starting on a roll. Heâd be surprised if he isnât done before lunch.
âCome on, Kurt Hummel,â he thinks, dropping on to his stool, rolling over to his cutting table, and opening his sketch book. âLetâs see what youâve got!â
8:00 a.m.
âGood morning, beautiful,â a chipper Blaine sings to his husband as he skips past Kurtâs work space on his way to the kitchen for his morning coffee. âThank you for letting me sleep in this morning.â
âYouâre welcome,â Kurt chuckles, rubbing his bleary eyes. Only Blaine would consider eight oâclock sleeping in.
âHow are things going?â
âGreat, great.â Kurt straightens his slouch and brightens his smile to give the impression that heâs been hard at work when heâs really been staring at the same page in his sketch book for three hours straight - sans yoga or shower, cucumber water forgotten in its pitcher in the fridge - trying to make the image on the page translate to the dress form in front of him. The truth is, the design that came to him the second he woke up seemed like a great idea in his head. On paper, howeverâŚa total train wreck. âFantastic,â he lies, but heâd talked up how stressed heâs been about this project to Blaine so many times, Kurt doesnât want him to worry. âI might get finished early today.â
âThatâs wonderful! Maybe, when youâre done, we can go out and do something. You know, we havenât seen a movie together in weeks,â Blaine says, excited that, on this one day that Kurt said he was going to be swamped, he might be able to pencil Blaine in.
âSure,â Kurt says, his face tense from smiling. âSounds like a plan.â
âIf you need any helpâŚâ
âI wonât,â Kurt cuts in, hoping itâll be true if he says it out loud, âbut thank you.â
Kurt watches Blaine twirl on his heel and saunter away, whistling, of all things. Kurt waits till heâs out of earshot, looks back as his empty dress form, and groans.
âIâm screwed.â
8:09 a.m.
Relaxing on the sofa, a mug of Italian Roast sitting on the coffee table in front of him, Blaine catches up on his reading list, starting with Sphinx by Anne Garreta. Itâs not a long book, but heâd put off reading it till today when heâd have the whole day to devour it the way it was meant to be devoured. But he gets to page 56 and becomes stuck, reading the same opening sentence six times. Itâs strange, but he feels like someoneâs watching him - absurd seeing as his husbandâs hard at work and thereâs no one else in the loft. Blaine has always sworn heâs felt a presence lingering in the enormous space. A benevolent presence, but one tired of the strife of slogging through its dreary existence, carrying its burdens from life with it into the beyond.
Blaine changes positions, goes back a page, starts to hum an upbeat tune, but he still canât shake the feeling. He decides heâll take a peek up, and if he sees something spooky and ethereal, no matter how innocuous, heâll throw his husband over his shoulder and start running.
He counts to three, then looks up from his book.
A drawn face and bloodshot eyes stare mournfully at him.
âJesus!â Blaine gasps, scurrying back on the sofa, but stops when he sees itâs not an apparition, just his distressed husband standing in the doorway.
âKurt?â Blaine closes his book quickly, not even bothering to bookmark his page at the sight of frazzled Kurt â distraught, exhausted, violet bags peeking out beneath heavy lower eyelids. âAre you okay?â
Kurt slowly shakes his head.
âDo you need some tea?â Blaine asks.
Kurt nods wearily. Blaine smiles.
âIâm on it.â
10:17 a.m.
A clatter of keys and an optimistic, âHey!â announces the arrival of Kurtâs husband, back from his emergency shopping excursion. âSo, I got that Monkey Picked Oolong Tea you wanted from Teavana, though if you ask me it sounds like you should make sure youâre up-to-date on your shots before you drink that one.â Blaine balances several bags as he tries to pull his key from the sticky lock. âAnd the Triloka Feng Shui Incense you said wouldâŚwhat are you doing?â Blaine stops in the doorway when he spots his husband hanging from the ceiling in an upside-down lotus position. Blaine looks further up and examines the red straps attached to hooks embedded in the wood. They donât own a ladder and all of their chairs are Kurtâs strappy flea market things. How did he even get them up there?
âIâm letting the blood in my body flow to my head in order to fuel creativity,â Kurt replies.
âIs it working?â Blaine asks, concerned that Kurtâs face seems to be turning an unnatural shade.
âNo,â Kurt admits. âPlus, my left leg fell asleep half-an-hour ago.â He breaks from his graceful pose to wiggle his left leg, which starts him spinning like a ceiling fan. âAndâŚgrrrâŚI think Iâm stuck.â
âHold on,â Blaine says, rushing to the kitchen to put everything down. âIâll come give you a hand.â
âThatâsâŚthatâs okay,â Blaine hears Kurt grunt as he arranges the bags so their contents stand on the right ends. âI thinkâŚif I justâŚmove my arm hereâŚâ
âYou know, Kurt,â Blaine calls out, âI think you should just wait until IâŚâ
âAaaaahhhhh!â
Thud!
Something hard hits the floor and Blaine cringes, rushing back out to the living room area.
âKurt! Kurt, are you o---â
Blaine finds Kurt lying on his back, his cramping left leg stuck up, crookedly bent at the knee. From the looks of things, Kurt had prepared for such an eventuality by piling couch cushions and pillows on the floor, something Blaine missed with the paper bag of tea blocking his vision. The fall doesnât look as bad as it sounded from the kitchen, but it probably hurts like sin.
âWell,â Kurt says, face beet red from hanging upside down, hair sticking out on end, looking up at his husband, âI got down.â
âIs anything broken?â Blaine asks, sincere in his concern but a single sniffle away from laughing himself to tears.
Kurt shifts uncomfortably on the pillows and hisses.
âI donât think so,â Kurt says, âbut I think weâll be having sex doggy style for the next few weeks.â
Blaineâs eyebrows shoot up.
âOh, wellâŚcan we get started on that now?â
Kurt throws Blaine a look that makes him take a step back.
âWhy donât I go make you some tea?â Blaine suggests, heading for the kitchen.
âGood idea,â Kurt says, plopping down on the pillows to stare at the ceiling and await Blaineâs return.
12:07 p.m.
âLunch, Kurt. Time to take five.â Blaine strolls through the curtain to Kurtâs work space, carrying Kurtâs spinach salad with chicken - what Kurt calls his working lunch since he can eat it one-handed. âI brought you yourâŚhey, I thought you were working!â Blaine stops short when he sees his husband has relocated from his cutting table to the small futon by the far wall, DVR remote in hand, eyes glued to the mini flat-screen Rachel left behind.
âI am,â Kurt says, readjusting the cashmere blanket around his shoulders and lowering the volume on the TV. âIâm doing research. Looking for new, fresh trends in fashion.â
Blaine walks over to the futon. Stopping at Kurtâs side, he stays to see what exactly his husband is watching to find ânew trendsâ. He can picture Kurt garnering inspiration from Jack Falaheeâs character in How to Get Away with Murder â that mixture of Ivy League classic and laid-back business-ready chic that Kurt pulls off so well. Or borrowing from something Colin OâDonoghue would wear as Hook in Once Upon a Time â a tailored leather long-coat with pared down brass accents and a brocade vest underneath.
Kurt has a thing for vests.
Blaine focuses on the screen, his brows knitting together.
âKurt, youâre watching re-runs of Americaâs Funniest Home Videos.â
Kurt grabs his salad from Blaineâs hands and curls further into his blanket.
âYou donât get to judge my process.â
1:23 p.m.
Blaine is already more than halfway through his book and he canât put it down, but his eyes dart up at the sound of footsteps heading toward the loft door. Over the edge of his book, he raises an eyebrow at his husband, dressed in a black tank, and skin-tight bike shorts beneath a pair of looser black jogging shorts, earbuds dangling from his neck as he affixes his iPod into his arm band.
âWhere are you going?â Blaine asks. âI thought you still had a ton of work to do.â
âI do,â Kurt says, bending his right knee and grabbing his foot behind his back, stretching his muscles, âbut I thought, you know, fresh air, get the heart pumping.â He switches to his left foot. âI kind of flaked on yoga this morning, and thatâs always the thing that jump-starts my creative flow.â He drops his left foot and twists at the waist. âSo, Iâm going to go for a run, just a few miles, and when I come back, Iâll be zipping those designs out. Youâll see.â
âOkay,â Blaine says, smirking behind his book where his husband canât see, âbut you do know itâs, like, thirty degrees outside. You may want to take a jacket.â
âI know, I know,â Kurt says, waving Blaineâs comment away, âbut after I hit my stride, Iâll get warmed up. And besides, the cold will keep me awake.â
âAlright,â Blaine says, returning to his book. âMake sure you take your phone, and call me if you need anything.â
âI will,â Kurt says with a definite eye-roll in his voice. âLove you.â
âLove you, more.â Blaine listens to Kurt leave, down the hall, down the stairs, and out the front door. He looks at his watch, eyes following the movement of the second hand as it sweeps from number to number.
The hand doesnât even make it all away around the face before Blaine hears footsteps racing up the stairs, keys clanging together, turning in the lock, and the loft door slide open.
âCold, cold, cold, cold, coldâŚâ Kurt chants as he slams the door shut and races to the bathroom, the shower water switching on a second later.
3:56 p.m.
âYou knowâŚâ Kurt pauses, dropping to his elbows and lifting his ass higher in the air so Blaine can hit him deeper, âmaybeâŚmaybe I should have listenedâŚoh God!...to you earlier.â Kurt arches his back and moans. âI thinkâŚthis might beâŚthe best ideaâŚyouâve had yet.â
âDo you really think this is working?â Blaine asks, sweaty hands grabbing Kurtâs hips for leverage. âTechnically speaking, this is forcing blood away from your brain, not toward it. Isnât that the opposite of what you want?â
With a growl, Kurt slams himself back hard on his husbandâs cock. âLess talk, Dr. Anderson. More fucking.â
5:08 p.m.
ThunkâŚthunkâŚthunkâŚthunkâŚ
Blaine hears the rhythmic beat of something knocking against wood and wonders if Kurt has decided to try tribal drumming, maybe call up the spirits of ancient ancestors to help give him strength.
Not that theyâd be Kurtâs ancestors, per se, but he probably wouldnât turn anything away at this point.
Anything except for Blaine, which is slightly irritating, but Blaine can kind of understand. Kurt wants to do this on his own â or on his own with divine intervention.
Itâs admirable. Frustrating, but admirable.
Blaine peeks in to Kurtâs work space and sees Kurt bent over, knocking his forehead against the only uncluttered square inch of his cutting table.
âUhâŚKurt?â Blaine asks, hesitant to interrupt this episode. Who knows? Maybe minor blunt force trauma might actually help. âDo you needâŚâ
âNo,â Kurt says quickly, still rapping his forehead against the table. âIâm good.â
âOkay,â Blaine says. He leaves, but only for a minute, coming back with a glass of water and six aspirin (heâd started with four, but then the banging got louder). Blaine puts them on a steady corner of Kurtâs table, and with one last look at his poor husband, returns to the sofa.
8:13 p.m.
Kurt trades the persistent thunking of his forehead against the table for the hum of his sewing machine and the snick-snick of a pair of Gingher scissors about an hour later, and Blaine silently cheers. Thatâs the sound of his man getting back into the groove. Kurtâs pretty consistent with regard to his work, but sometimes, when he hits a slump, it goes like this â a full day of nothing and then, zoom! He takes off running.
Still, Blaine stops by Kurtâs work space to make sure his husbandâs okay. A silhouette against a white curtain as Blaine approaches, Kurt is a whirlwind, buzzing from one end of the space to the other, laying out fabrics, cutting patterns, pinning seams together. Blaine loiters quietly to watch his husband work. Itâs quite the turn on to see Kurt owning this talent he has for creating something out of nothing. The fabric, the needle, the thread, were there from the start, but what itâs about to become â thatâs all Kurt.
âHey, Kurt. Iâm throwing together some Fettucine Alfredo. Do you want some?â Blaine knows the answer, but he offers anyway. It would be nice if Kurt could take a break and share dinner with him, but Blaineâs not about to interrupt.
âI canât,â Kurt says, skillfully re-threading his machine. âI canât stop now. I think Iâve finally found my flow.â
âWell, good,â Blaine says, encouragement shoving aside his disappointment. âThatâs good. Go with that. And maybe we can still catch a late show.â
âYeah, yeah,â Kurt says, lifting his fabric off the bed of the sewing machine and snipping the thread attached to the bobbin. âYou look up times and listings. Iâll justâŚâ Kurt drops off mid-sentence. Blaine chuckles.
Another day married to Kurt Hummel, Designer Extraordinaire.
Blaine wouldnât exchange it for anything in the world.
11:56 p.m.
Blaineâs head nods. Heâd finished his book, and somewhere in the middle of a Greyâs Anatomy marathon, he started knocking out. Kurtâs sewing machine went silent sometime after Blaine finished his dinner, and Blaine hoped that was a good sign, that a satisfied Kurt would emerge from behind his curtain any minute to go out with him.
That was over an hour ago.
Gently snoring, his eyes shut but semi-conscious, he feels his hand lifted, his body being tugged upward. He opens his eyes a slit and sees a worn-out Kurt pulling him off the sofa.
âCome on,â Kurt says, âmy eyes are crossing. Weâre going to bed.â
âButâŚbut what about your project?â Blaine asks, rising to his feet.
Kurt says nothing, gesturing with an unenthused hand in the direction of his work space. The curtain drawn back exposes the dress form standing in the corner, draped in a mashup of tailored pieces and unfitted ones, coming together in an eclectic combination of Kurtâs signature couture style, and something else, something original - formless, flowing, and kinetic.
Blaine blinks his eyes, not fully awake, trying to comprehend Kurtâs stylistic vision. He takes a few steps closer, squinting to see it more clearly.
âItâsâŚitâs fantastic!â he says.
âReally?â Kurt replies with more than a subtle hint of sarcasm.
âYes!â Blaine fawns. âItâs bold! Itâs epic! Itâs so different from what you normally do! What do you call it?â
âI call it unfinished,â Kurt says, grabbing his husbandâs hand and pulling him toward their bedroom.
âThatâsâŚthatâs amazing!â Blaine gushes, glancing back at it as they walk. âSo, you mean itâs interactive? Oh, I get it! It changes from person to person depending on how they wear it or what they add!â
âI mean itâs unfinished,â Kurt deadpans, âas in Iâm not done with it yet.â
Blaine misses a step and stumbles, over his words and his feet. âOh,â he says. âIâm sorry. I thoughtâŚâ
âMeh,â Kurt says. âI have till tomorrow evening. Iâm not getting anywhere with it now. I think Iâm just torturing myself at this point.â
Blaine sighs, shoulders drooping, body succumbing to his own tired and the fatigue coming off Kurt in waves. âI know you wanted to do this alone, but I wish you would have let me help.â
âAre you kidding?â Kurt turns to face his husband, Blaineâs gaze cast down, looking adorably forlorn. âYouâve been helping me all day â going out to buy me tea and bringing me lunch, cheering me on and keeping me company. I couldnât have even gotten this far without you! I feel guilty that I took up your entire day off.â
âWell,â Blaine says, raising his eyes a smidge, âI couldnât think of a better way to spend it.â
Blaine moves forward for a kiss, but Kurt yawns, his sluggish hand barely making it in time to cover his mouth. As it passes, Kurt catches the slightly dejected expression on his husbandâs face.
âSorry about that,â Kurt laughs. âWhen youâve gotta yawnâŚâ
âItâsâŚitâs not that,â Blaine says.
Kurt tilts his head. âThen what is it?â
Blaine shrugs. âIâm happy knowing that I helped, but I wish I could have helped more. I mean, you wanted it done today. Itâs all you talked about. And we didnât get the chance to go out, which is also kind of depressing.â
Kurt thinks back over the day â a whole day he could have spent ravishing his husband wasted toiling away on that monstrosity, and itâs only partially done. Blaineâs right. That is depressing. As it is, they only got the chance to have sex onceâŚbut what a once that was.
Suddenly, Kurtâs not as tired as he was a second ago. He might be getting his second windâŚpossibly even a third. He gives Blaineâs hand a tug, tossing him a playful wink and a sultry (or trying to be) smile to go along with it.
âWell maybe,â Kurt says, dragging Blaine deliberately toward the bed, âmaybe you can help me with a little more inspiration.â
Arabian Nights
Kid!Klaine. A movie night. Written for prompt 1 of todaydreambelievers prompts, and the Klaine Bingo prompt sleepover. Rated G. Word Count: ~2500. Also on AO3 here.
âWe can eat in here?â
Burt nearly laughed out loud at the pure expression of shock on Blaineâs face. The kid was only in pre-K, but his sense of propriety seemed to have been instilled since birth.
âSure, buddy,â Burt reassured him. âPizza and movies go hand-in-hand, and we donât have a TV by the dinner table, so...â
âWeâll lay a rug out on the floor if you donât want to eat from your knee, Blaine,â Elizabeth offered kindly.
âWeâd have a better view of the TV from down there,â Kurt nodded, clambering up to stand on the couch. He tugged at the blanket which resided on the back of it, almost upending himself in the process before Burt stepped in to help.
âIâll call for the pizzas,â Elizabeth said, shaking her head and heading for the phone in the kitchen while the boys busied themselves getting the blanket into the perfect position.
Burt followed her in once Kurt and Blaine were safely back on terra firma. He collected some plastic cups and plates from their picnic basket, picking up a couple of bottles of pop from the cupboard, too.
Once they were all arranged on the table, ready to carry through, he waited in the kitchen until she was done on the phone, busying himself with clearing away some of the dishes on the drainer.
âBlaine seems like a nice kid,â he said. Heâd been working so much recently that he hadnât had a chance to make any of the parentâs days at school â missing the opportunity to meet his sonâs best friend. Heâd heard so much about Blaine over the dinner table, though, he felt like he knew him already.
âHe is,â Elizabeth agreed as she grabbed some napkins and placed them on the pile of items to take into the family room. Burt smiled sheepishly, and she rubbed his arm. âI think he could be really good for Kurt, you know?â
âDo you think that Mrs. Peterson knew that when she assigned Kurt to be his kindergarten buddy?â
Elizabeth deliberated for a few seconds, fiddling with a hand towel. âI think,â she said, carefully watching her husband. âI think she knows that Kurt is special. And I think that Blaine is, too.â
Burt nodded.
âHis brother dropped him off here,â she said, quietly, glancing over to check that the boys were engrossed in choosing their movie line-up. âI didnât see either of his parents at the open-days at school. It was his Grandma who called to accept Kurtâs invitation to stay over.â
âMaybe they were stuck at work,â Burt offered. He knew all-too well the crippling, soul-crushing guilt which accompanied missing important events in a childâs life. Work was a necessary evil, but even working a job you loved couldnât make up for all the things you only learned about through photos and reenactments
Elizabeth shrugged, throwing the towel she was holding toward the laundry. âMaybe. I just... I think he might need a bit of love, you know?â
Burt grinned. âWell, we have plenty of that to go around.â
âWhat if I spill my drink?â Blaine whispered, his eyes wide as they lay the blanket neatly on the floor.
Kurt smiled over at him. âMy mom says the more stuff which gets spilled on the floor the better â then sheâll be able to replace the carpet sooner.â
âReally?â
âYeah! Look at it, itâs horrible! She says the material is cheap, and that is clear when you walk on it and you end up with fluff all over your toes,â he said, matter-of-factly.
Blaine shrugged and reflexively wiggled his toes, his socked-feet shielding him from such apparent horrors.
âDonât worry about it, really!â
Kurt span around to the cabinet next to the TV, unconcerned with Blaineâs unease. âLetâs pick some movies out. We have a rule where everyone can say no to one movie each, so we need a selection. My dad will say no to My Fair Lady, so grab that one.â
Blaine frowned as he pulled the video carefully from the cupboard. âWhy do you choose it if you know heâll say no?â
Kurt looked out to the kitchen before leaning in close to Blaine, whispering conspiratorially. âBecause then he canât say no to anything else.â
Slowly, a grin appeared on Blaineâs lips. âYouâre so smart!â
Kurt nodded. âHere, how about The Lion King? Aladdin? Toy Story? The Sound of Music?â
âI love all those movies,â Blaine grinned, holding his arms out straight so that Kurt could pile the videos onto them. Videos were surprisingly heavy, and Blaine gritted his teeth.
âMy mom will probably say no to The Lion King,â Kurt grimaced as he stood back up, grabbing a couple of videos from Blaine, and putting them on the couch, motioning for him to do the same. âShe says itâs too sad,â
âThe others are good movies, too,â Blaine said. âI donât want to make your mom sad.â
Kurt smiled. âLetâs go and grab my comforter from my bed, then when weâre done eating we can sit on the couch under it. My mom and I made it earlier in the year; itâs super comfy. In fact, you get mine, and Iâll get my mom and dadâs for them. When it gets late we have hot chocolate, and my dad says it always tastes better when youâre snuggled under a blanket.â
âOkay, I love hot chocolate!â
âMy mom says itâs a movie-night tradition â thatâs something you do a lot.â
âBlaine?â Elizabeth called from the kitchen. Blaine hopped back from the couch and hurried over to her.
âYes, Mrs. Hummel?â
âIâve told you, you can call me Elizabeth if you want, Blaine. I was just wondering, do your parents let you drink Coke?â
âSometimes,â Blaine said, hands twisting together. âIf I promise not to spill it, and not to jump on the furniture after Iâve had it.â
Elizabeth smiled, ruffling his hair a little. âWell, we donât mind terribly if you do either of those things, but Iâd advise you not to jump too much when youâre full of pizza.â
Blaine nodded.
âYou and Kurt can have one glass of Coke, each. Then youâre back on juice for the rest of the evening, otherwise neither of you will sleep tonight. Kurt will have his with the pizza if you want to do the same?â
He deliberated for a moment, forehead crinkling as he did so. Elizabeth suppressed the urge to smooth it. âYes, please.â
âOkay. Now, did I hear you were on comforter duty?â
âYes. Kurt said that I could get his from his room while he gets yours for you and Mr. Hummel.â
âThatâs a good plan. Kurt has a spare in the drawer underneath his bed, do you think you could manage to carry them both downstairs?â
âI think so.â
âOkay, you can always make two trips. I figure that two blankets would be useful, though, just in case you both fall asleep on the couch.â She crouched down, leaning in close to Blaine, and whispered, âKurt is a blanket-stealer when heâs asleep.â
Blaine grinned at her, and she motioned zipping her lips, a gesture which he repeated.
Kurt appeared in the doorway, and she stood up and smiled at him. âWhat do you boys think about getting into your pajamas? Theyâd be more comfortable to relax in. Burt and I will do the same once the food has arrived.â
âOkay, mom,â Kurt grinned.
The boys dashed up the stairs, and by the time they were done with their jobs, the food was ready, the family room all set up (The Lion King safely back in the video cabinet), and Burt and Elizabeth were on the big couch in their pajamas.
The pizzas and sides sat in their boxes on the small coffee table, a pile of paper napkins next to them, plates resting on the blanket on the floor ready for Kurt and Blaine, small cups of Coke next to them.
Blaine hung back, only grabbing himself some pizza and fries after Kurt had picked his own food up. He sat carefully on the floor, balancing his plate on his knees.
âWe chose Aladdin, first,â Elizabeth said as the opening credits played out into the room. âI hope thatâs okay with you two?â
Kurt nodded, his mouth full of pizza.
âI love this movie,â Blaine said, grinning up at the adults on the couch.
Elizabeth watched fondly as he picked up his cup carefully in both hands, taking a small sip before setting it back down gently on the floor.
Eyes glued on the screen as the movie started, Blaine ate his food quickly, wiping his fingers on his napkin after every bite, mindful of keeping his greasy hands off the carpet.
They delighted in singing along with the music, regardless of whether or not they were in the middle of their food. Blaine was amazed that Kurtâs mom and dad joined in at times, too, even though Mr. Hummel grumbled a lot about it. He watched in disbelief as they proved time and time over that they knew all of the words â both sung and spoken.
Blaine found himself almost vibrating at times with the urge to get up and jump around when the music played. Heâd promised Kurtâs mom that he wouldnât climb on the furniture, though, and he didnât want to risk not being invited back.
Kurtâs house was fun.
Once all the pizza was finished off, the movie was paused so that everyone could clean up. Blaine washed his hands carefully, grinning up at Kurtâs mom as she squirted some liquid soap onto his palms.
Back in the family room, Kurt and Blaine moved to the small couch, blankets covering their knees as they pressed up against each other, clutching their hot chocolate. Blaine wiggled his toes excitedly as the movie started to play out into the room once more.
He made it all the way through Aladdin and the start of The Sound of Music, but dozed off sometime after Sixteen Going On Seventeen, waking only when the closing credits were playing and Mr. Hummel was picking him up off the couch.
âHey buddy,â he said quietly as Blaine blinked up at him. âYou guys both fell asleep. Do you think you can stay awake long enough to brush your teeth?â
Blaine nodded sleepily, rubbing his eyes and looking over to see Kurt being carried up the stairs by his mom.
Burt followed quickly, setting Blaine down in the bathroom before going to grab his bag from Kurtâs bedroom. Kurt was sitting on the side of the tub, leaning heavily against his mom, and he smiled lazily up at Blaine before turning his attention back to squeezing out some toothpaste onto his toothbrush.
Before long, both boys were curled up and ready for sleep â Blaine on a cot on the floor next to Kurtâs bed.
Kurtâs mom pressed a kiss to Blaineâs forehead, and he wrapped his arms around her neck, breathing in cinnamon, and soap, and love.
âSleep well, boys,â she said placing a plastic cup of water next to each of them, as Burt hugged them both.
âNight, guys,â Burt said.
Blaine was asleep before theyâd even left the room.
The next morning found him kneeling precariously on a bar stool, mixing a bowl of homemade cookie dough as hard as he could without wobbling off his perch.
Kurt was sitting next to him, alternately pouring chocolate and peanut butter chips in at regular intervals and generally cheering him on.
âGreat job, Blaine!â Elizabeth said as she came over to check on their progress. âAre you guys ready to spoon the mix out onto the sheets?â
Kurt hopped off his stool to grab some spoons from the drawer.
âThereâs a ton of mix here,â Elizabeth said. âDo you want to take some cookies back home with you? I bet your brother eats a ton â Iâve heard horror stories about teenage boys.â
Blaine laughed. âOne time he ate a whole loaf of bread in the afternoon and still had room for all his dinner and dessert.â
âReally?â Kurt asked, incredulous. He handed Blaine a couple of spoons and sat back on his stool.
âYeah, I saw him do it.â
Elizabeth laughed fondly. âI think heâd like some cookies then. How about your parents?â
âTheyâre not home,â Blaine frowned as he concentrated on dropping the mixture in neat balls onto the tray. âBut my Grandma might visit. I bet sheâd like some.â
Elizabeth nodded. âWell, weâll make sure you have enough to take back with you.â
âThereâll be enough to take to the garage, right?â Kurt asked, carefully filling the sheet in front of him.
âOf course â we need to keep the workers happy! And if you boys are helping out there this afternoon we canât have you collapsing with hunger. Cookies are a necessity.â
Thirty minutes later, the boys were sitting at the small table in the kitchen, warm cookies on a plate between them and a glass of milk each.
âThese are so good,â Blaine exclaimed. âI could eat a million of them.â
âMe too!â Kurt grinned, grabbing another cookie. âMy mom makes the best cookies in the world.â
âYou guys made these ones,â she corrected, taking a seat with them and picking up one from the plate for herself. She took a small bite and moaned appreciatively. âGood job â these are even better than the ones I make.â
Blaine smiled up at her, the beginnings of a milk moustache forming on his upper lip. âReally?â
âSure! Next time I make a batch, Iâll send Kurt to school with some extra so that you can compare â but trust me, these ones are better.â
Her sentiments were echoed by the mechanics at Burtâs garage. During a mid-afternoon coffee break, they all gathered in the office â Kurt and Blaine perched on Burtâs desk in their too-big coveralls, each clutching a juice box in one hand and a cookie in the other.
âHard workers and they bring in snacks for breaks â you need to hire these two already, Burt,â one of the mechanics laughed as he grabbed a second cookie for himself. âWho needs school, right?â
Kurt beamed up at him as Burt laughed.
âMaybe a weekend job for now,â Burt allowed, clasping both boysâ shoulders proudly. âI need them to get past second grade math first, and then they can do the books, too.â
Klaine - "Healing Hands"
After a string of horrible relationships and a year of therapy, Blaine Anderson goes to The Healing Hands Institute to get the confidence to enter the dating scene again. Will a mysterious man Blaine sees on the train there derail those plans, or will he be just the person Blaine needs?
Alternate Universe, crushes, romance, angst, anxiety, talk of PTSD, talk of therapy, future fic, sexual surrogates, implied Kurtbastian. Implies that nobody met in Ohio, that Sadie Hawkins never happened, and that a few teachers and students are close in age.
(This started as a one-shot, but I'm thinking of making it a fic, depending on what people think. So if you like it, let me know <3)
The announcement for the next stop comes over the loud speaker, but Blaine doesnât catch it, deeply enthralled in the chapter of the book heâs devouring at record speed. He didnât think that young adult fiction would be his cup of tea, but it came highly recommended by one of his regular students â a precocious young viola player whose bowing happens to be head-and-shoulders more advanced than some seasoned musicians Blaine knows. She speaks so passionately about these books every time she comes to see him that the only way to calm her constant chatter at the end of their lessons was to buy the whole series. Since then, he hasnât been able to put the books down. Heâs not usually into fairy tales. Mythical creatures and contrived happily ever afters donât appeal to him. Heâs long stopped believing in Fairy Godmothers and Prince Charmings. But these books have him hooked. Heâs even made plans to attend the authorâs book signing at Barnes and Noble in Times Square this summer.
Blaineâs not worried that heâs missed the final call. Heâs made this trip on the subway enough times that he knows this isnât his stop. As the train starts up again, the doors sliding shut and the car picking up speed, he glances over the edge of his hardcover book to look at the new passengers settling into their seats. A grand total of four people got on at the last stop, and Blaineâs glad. He hopes the train doesnât fill up too much before he reaches his stop. Heâs not fond of crowded trains - of closed quarters in general â where bodies get shoved together, inevitably touching when the train zips and sways, or how the temperature starts to rise slowly with each new person that joins the fray.
Two stops pass, more people enter, some people leave, but Blaine hardly noticesâŚuntil a man sits in the seat right next to him â a husky, somewhat ripe man, whose thick thighs bulging from his cargo shorts spill over the lip of the seat and meld against Blaineâs leg. Behind his book, Blaine scowls. He doesnât begrudge the man a seat, but he doesnât understand his need to sit next to him, as the train car is relatively empty, and last time Blaine checked, seats were not scarce. But Blaineâs only about five stops away from his destination, so he could just stay where he is and read, ignoring the manâs sweaty leg or the smell of b.o. making his eyes water.
No. Thatâs what old Blaine would do.
Part of Blaineâs trip to Lower Manhattan from his studio in Queens is about putting the flaws of old Blaine behind him and moving toward a future with new Blaine, a more assertive Blaine, one that sticks up for himself, one thatâs not as timid.
One that can put a bleak past behind him and move toward a shinier future.
Blaine gathers his coat, his messenger bag, and his book, and moves through a narrow forest of riders (the few who prefer to stand than sit as there are indeed open seats everywhere), walking to the far end of the train, to an area where thereâs more than enough open space for him to sit. He takes a seat opposite another man reading, deciding that this will be the book nook corner of the subway car â a thought that makes him chuckle.
His chuckle makes the other man look up from behind his book.
Blaine sits, opens his book, and from a simple matter of directionality and proximity, their eyes meet.
The man chuckles back at Blaine, whoâs captivated immediately by the blue eyes staring at him, and Blaine wonders briefly if this man â this gorgeous, fair-skinned man â read his mind. But then Blaineâs eyes flick to the cover of the book the man is holding up in his view, and he smiles.
Theyâre reading the same book.
But in that way that daily commuters acknowledge one another without starting a conversation lest it disturb their chosen ritual of getting lost in the journey, the man returns to his book, leaving Blaine to stare awkwardly at his beauty while he reads.
Blaineâs eyes drift back to his page. He starts over again where he left off. He reads the same sentence about twenty times before his gaze drifts back up to the edge of his book, and he stares at the man across the way.
Heâs exceptional. He could be a model. Itâs been known to happen, seeing models or singers or actors on the subway. Blaine sees their pictures in the society pages all the time. There was a Vine of Kanye West on a train going to Brooklyn, and Blaine swears he saw Christy Turlington on the L once.
If this man isnât a model, then he might have missed his calling.
Whoever he is, heâs stunning. Heâs sitting at an angle, caddy corner with the rail, his right leg crossed over his left, and those legs â they go on forever. His shoes and his clothes have to be designer something (Blaine gave up an interest in designer clothes when he traded a career in law for music and stopped being able to afford any), and look as if they were designed just for him. His walnut-colored hair defies gravity, and those eyes â if Blaine were more poetic, moreâŚbetter with words, he could describe them as luminous, shimmering with an inner light, holding the secrets to the true magic in the world.
Or just plain glorious. That works, too.
Heâs the kind of man Blaine would have dreamt about as a teenager. In fact, Blaine thinks he did dream about this man â back before a long slew of the wrong guy left a bad taste for fairy tales in Blaineâs mouth.
But maybe a man like this could take that bad taste away.
Blaine sits up straight in his seat, shifting his legs, trying not to look small and slouched. He blithely considers approaching the man, sitting in the seat beside him (or the next seat over, leaving one in between them out of respect) and striking up a conversation about the book theyâre both reading. From the amount of read pages on the right-hand side of his book, they seem to be at about the same place in the story.
Maybe Blaine could do this for himself, he thinks. Go over and talk to this man. Introduce himself. Maybe this ride downtown is unnecessary, and everything heâs spending his inheritance to re-discover is actually lurking somewhere inside him. Maybe he doesnât need doctors and psychiatrists to help him get his mojo back.
The manâs eyes shift up, probably at the feeling of Blaineâs eyes boring into his forehead, and Blaineâs gaze darts back down to his book, his breath racing, his pulse soaring, and a phenomenal amount of sweat pouring down his back in the space of a second.
Nope. He canât do this alone. He needs help.
PTSD. When his therapist told him he had it, Blaine couldnât believe it. Heâd never been to war, hadnât been abused by his parents. Heâd actually had a really good time in high school, which he knows is rare. When he came out, he wasnât bullied, wasnât attacked. He had more support in his life than most people could ever hope to have.
What he didnât have was a competent read on men. Not all men, just the ones he decided to date. The manipulation was subtle, the changes it made in his personality minor at first, until he started to doubt himself, every decision he made, every word out of his mouth.
His own self-worth.
It got to the point that he experienced major anxiety over little things, like trying to choose the white wine or the rose to go with his salmon almondine.
And he wasnât even dating anyone at the time.
He had vague nightmares. Heâd wake up feeling sad and scared, but with nothing to link it to. He became passive-aggressive. He let people walk all over him, even his students, and the oldest one he has is thirteen-years-old.
When Blaine had a level 100 panic attack during his first major audition in over a year, he knew he needed help. He found a therapist in the city, one who dealt specifically with victims of abusive relationships (though Blaine still wasnât willing to admit to having been in any, too ashamed to let that thought root in his mind), but most importantly, a therapist who was sensitive and supportive to issues that affect homosexual men.
After a successful year in therapy, Blaine decided he wanted to try dating again. But the idea of meeting someone, of letting them into his carefully constructed life still very much held together by hopes and dreams terrified him.
His therapist â Dr. William Schuester - recommended The Healing Hands Institute of Lower Manhattan, a place that specializes in advocacy, rehabilitation, interpersonal relationships, meditation, New Age therapy, a full spectrum of neuro- and psychoanalysisâŚ
âŚSexology.
Blaine wasnât even thinking of sex when he decided to rejoin the dating pool, but yeah, sure. He guesses theyâd have to include that since, at some point, heâd like to get back to that.
That thought, coupled with the man across the way uncrossing his legs and re-crossing them again, licking his lips then his fingers to turn the pages, makes several uncomfortable things happen in Blaineâs body. His chest tightens, his stomach flips, his legs become restless, and his cock throbs, all simultaneously.
When the train slows and the stop signal chimes, Blaine nearly jumps out of his skin.
The train comes to a halt. The doors open and a mass of people flood the car. Blaine scoots to the far end of the bench to avoid the commuters rushing in. A sea of bodies flow in front of him. A gaggle of laughing teenagers opens the end door to cross over to the next car. Why people do that is beyond him. The train is stopped, just get in that car from the outside. Blaine grumbles about it in his head, turning his body away from the crowd to keep from having his knees knocked. He closes his book with his thumb keeping his place, and holds it to his chest so that the dust jacket doesnât get ripped. He endures this tide of people until the final call sounds and the doors slide shut. Then he readjusts himself, settling back into his seat the way he was before. He peeks around the two men standing in front of him to the bench across the way. He knows the man, sitting closer to the doors, must have suffered a similar fate, and Blaine is eager to commiserate silently with him.
But heâs gone. He must have gotten off.
Blaine stands up to look out the window, ignoring the huffs and, âWatch it!â of the men he shoves out of his way. The train starts up again, begins to chug along, but Blaine doesnât see him on the platform - not a perfectly coiffed hair of his head, not his stylish, tailored suit.
Not those eyes that sparkle like theyâre full of stardust.
Heâs gone.
Blaine sits back down, broken hearted that heâs lost this chance. He swore after he flubbed that audition that he wouldnât let another opportunity pass him by, not because of self-doubt, and especially not because of fear. But he tries to look at the bright side. If he rides this train again at this same time, Blaineâs bound to run into him. Heâs going to be coming this way a few times a week for therapy. Or, he can find a reason. But for now, he has to face the facts. Heâs in no position to even think of asking a man like that out on a date. That kind of man probably has people throwing themselves at his feet all over New York. He doesnât want to be just another creepy random guy. No. Heâll work through the steps and get his groove back. Heâll change, for the better, then Blaine will work up to himâŚ
âŚprovided Blaine can find him again.
Blaine gets off the subway three stops later. The train lets off right on the street he needs, which is convenient and welcome since, after nearly a decade, he still gets lost when heâs going somewhere for the first time. Blaine is no stranger to the commute downtown. Subways he can manage fine â hop on the right one and get where you want to go. Itâs about as close to plug-and-play as you can get. But once he gets above ground with tons of new information thrown at him â people, busses, buildings, cars, noise - his mind becomes a mess.
Thank God for Google.
From the street view on Google Maps, the building heâs going to looked big, but in real life, itâs much larger than Blaine expected.
Blaineâs therapist rents a brown stone walk-up adjacent to a strip mall. Compared to him, Healing Hands must do an incredible amount of business.
Blaine walks into the lobby, takes the elevator up to the fifth floor, and there it is. The fifth floor. Healing Hands takes up the entire fifth floor. It looks more like a chic day spa than any medical office Blaine has ever been in â antiqued hardwood floors (probably for that trendy Cape Cod feel), distressed pearl-on-gold painted walls, soothing water features bubbling, accompanied by bamboo stems sticking out from cylinder glass vases, the bottom halves filled with colored stones, red upholstered club chairs set up to best take advantage of the row of picture windows, and to the far left, is thatâŚa juice bar?
Blaine smirks.
At least he can see where his moneyâs going.
It strikes Blaine that it seems kind of quiet for a Tuesday morning. When Dr. Schuester made the appointment for him, he said that they could just fit him in. But Blaine sees no one, not a soul milling about. He hears a door open and a phone ring, but otherwise heâs alone. Thereâs a counter a few feet in front of him, but no receptionist in sight.
âHello?â he calls out, making an effort not to be too loud and disrupt the peaceful atmosphere. He approaches the wrap-around desk, the thing an eyesore of gleaming white Lucite. His eyes sweep around, his mind considering whether this is really necessary or if it might be better to spend his $15,000 on a vacation in Malibu and a membership to Match.com, when a head of blonde hair appears behind the desk. Blaine leaps back an inch, startled, and she smiles wide.
âGood morning, and welcome to The Healing Hands Institute!â she says loudly.
Blaine looks left and right to see if anyone else might pop out of the woodwork.
âHello,â he says. He waits for her to ask him what he needs, but she says nothing. She simply smiles.
OkayâŚ
This woman, grinning fanatically at him, is also not what he expected. The receptionist at Dr. Schuesterâs office is a prim woman in her mid-thirties, with a bob of copper hair and a warm, delicate smile. Sheâs polite, quiet, and constantly cleaning. But this woman looks so excited to see him, Blaine expects her to leap over the counter to shake his hand. She has an earbud in her right ear, bright green shadow on her eyelids, and her lips are the color of bubble gum fresh out of the wrapper. Her long, wavy hair is pulled into a ponytail high-and-tight on her head, and the first impression Blaine has is that she kind of reminds him of a cheerleader.
âUm, my name is Blaine Anderson,â he says as she pulls out her earbud and looks him over with cheerful sky blue eyes.
Theyâre pretty eyes, but they come nowhere close to the man on the train.
âAh, yes. Blaine Anderson,â she says without consulting the clipboard of names in front of her. âYou have an appointment at 10:15.â She stands from her desk and comes around to the front, her billowy floral blouse and pink skirt shifting on her frame as she walks. âPlease, follow me.â
Blaine gives the receptionist a quick once over from behind as she leads him away, thankful that no one is around to see. He canât help it. The cut of her triceps and the way her calf muscles move when she walks is mesmerizing. Blaine tries not to judge by appearances, but she has an impressively athletic build for someone who spends hours a day behind a desk. He wonders briefly what she does after work. Cross training? Running? Zumba? Or perhaps sheâs one of those lucky few who just has good genes. Blaineâs older brother, Cooper, is blessed with the good genes in the family. He barely needs to lift a coffee mug to build muscle. Heâs tall, blue-eyed, with fabulous skin, enviable hair, and heâs an actor. That kind of shadow isnât easy to live under when youâre just a hair shy of 5â 8â, have curls that frizz out everywhere (requiring a gallon of rubber cement to tame), and a single cronut can make you gain fifteen pounds.
Blaine sighs. Heâs doing it again â acting like old Blaine and cutting himself down inside his head.
He takes a deep breath. He came to this place to leave old Blaine behind. From this moment on, he is new Blaine, and new Blaine doesnât put himself down anymore.
The receptionist takes him down a long hall, passing a line of doors on both sides but no windows. They could be offices or supply closets for what he knows.
âMy name is Brittany,â the woman says as they approach what looks like the double-doors to a conference room. âIf you need anything â water, tea, coffee - just peek your head out and holler. Iâll hear you.â She opens the doors. âWait in here, and your team will be with you in just a minute.â
âMy team?â Blaine asks in surprise.
âYup,â she answers with a nod, âyour team. Welcome, and let The Healing Hands take care of you.â She backs out of the room, pulling the doors closed.
Blaine stares at the doors, stumped, but not by that cheesy tagline. He thought this was going to be a private consultation. How private is it if a whole team is assigned to his case? He suddenly feels even less confident about this decision, if thatâs possible, but heâs already given them his charge card, and theyâve put a non-refundable deposit on hold. Besides, this is supposed to be for his own good, the solution to his problems. He has no intention of leaving.
Heâs just eager to get it over with.
Blaine turns away from the doors to discover heâs right. He is in a conference room, and itâs overwhelmingly blah considering the dĂŠcor of the waiting room â wood paneled walls, travertine carpet, an ovular wood table surrounded by high-back office chairs. He walks across the room and takes a seat at the far end, sitting in a plush brown chair that looks like it should be comfortable but is anything but. He reclines, but the chair pushes against him, resisting any effort on his part to relax, so heâs forced to sit bolt upright. He takes out his phone, opens his Flappy Bird app, and starts playing, mindlessly tapping his screen and focusing on the tedium of digital flying avian to relieve the anxiety he feels congesting his chest. Heâd return to his book, but he doesnât think he can concentrate on reading right now, because reading will remind Blaine of him, and thatâs not the kind of distraction he needs.
Heâs already antsy as it is.
Blaine doesnât have to wait long. His little pixelated bird has only died seven times before the doors open again. Four men and one woman dressed in white coats over stylish business attire walk in. Blaine watches them fill five empty chairs at the opposite end, talking in low voices to one another and taking glances at him. They wait till theyâre all seated, then the four men and one woman turn to look at him.
âHello, Mr. Anderson,â the first person to sit - a man with intelligent but judgmental green eyes - says. âMy name is Dr. Sebastian Smythe, and I am the director here at The Healing Hands Institute. Your therapist, Dr. Schuester, made this appointment with us because he feels you can benefit from the services that we offer.â
âDo you work with Dr. Schuester often?â Blaine asks, folding his hands, then unfolding them and laying them flat on the table. Three of the five doctors watch him. One makes notes.
âWe have a long-standing working relationship with Dr. Schuester, yes,â Dr. Smythe answers dryly, not sounding too impressed. âHe refers many of his clients to us.â He leaves it at that, cut and dry, as if the insinuation that he and Dr. Schuester actually âworkâ together is offensive to him. âLet me introduce some of my colleagues. To my left is Dr. Adam Crawford and Dr. Jesse St. James. To my right is Dr. Carl Howell and Dr. Holly Holiday. Weâre going to be your care team, Mr. Anderson.â
âWow,â Blaine says, fidgeting while fighting not to fidget, âthatâs a lot of people for one me and all my problems.â
âWell, weâre all experts in varying fields, as Dr. Schuester must have explained to you,â Dr. Crawford answers.
âHe did,â Blaine says, folding his hands again.
âWe like to treat the whole patient,â Dr. Howell adds. âConcentrating in different areas equally to determine the best course of action and the right treatment for each specific case.â
âWe use many traditional as well as unique methods,â Dr. St. James adds. âSome technics that many centers like us wonât even recommend.â
Blaineâs eyes open wide. That sounds interestingâŚand ominous.
âActually,â Dr. Smythe cuts in, âwe are expecting one more gentleman, but he seems to be running a bit late.â He takes out his iPhone as he talks and checks his messages.
âOh, really?â Blaine asks. âAnd who is that?â
âHis name is Elliott Gilbert,â Dr. Holliday answers. âHeâll be your sexual surrogate.â
âForgive me,â Blaine says, leaning forward in his chair. âMyâŚmy what now?â
âSexual surrogate,â Dr. Crawford picks up. Someone who will help you re-establish your connection with your body and your sexual self. Someone who will take what you learn in therapy and continue with the practical application of it.â
âPractical application?â Blaine repeats. âSoâŚdo you mean that Iâm going toâŚhave sex with this person?â
âYou and your surrogate will negotiate the parameters of your relationship when you meet,â Dr. Holliday says with a wink.
âDo IâŚneed that?â Blaine asks, instead of asking the question thatâs really on his mind, which is, âIs that legal?â
âYouâre definitely within your rights to refuse if you donât feel that youâll be comfortable,â Dr. Smythe assures him. âBut weâve found that many of our patients who suffer from PTSD do have a great deal of success dating after interacting with one of our surrogates.â
âYes,â Dr. Crawford says, his smile much kinder, much more genuine of the bunch. âTheyâre specially trained, theyâre professional, theyâre discreetâŚâ
âI donât know,â Blaine says. âIâm just not sure that Iâd feel comfortable withâŚâ
âSorry Iâm late,â a voice sounds outside the door before it even opens. A jingle of keys and the dull thud of a bag hitting the wood precedes the knob turning. âI got trapped a couple of blocks away when some guyâs scarlet macaw went crazy after it ran into another guyâs boa constrictor at Starbucks. Only in New York, right?â
Dr. Smythe turns quickly in his seat, obviously aware of the identity of the man behind the door before it opens, and he doesnât seem pleased. His reaction makes Blaine curious beyond belief, but when the door finally does open, Blaineâs jaw drops.
Itâs the man. The man from the train.
Elliott? That name doesnât really suit him, but okay.
âWe werenât expecting you,â Dr. Smythe says, glaring at the man entering the room. âWe were expecting Elliott. I specifically assigned Elliott to this case.â
The expression on Dr. Smytheâs face seems to communicate that he thinks what he says goes with this man, without argument, but the man smiles sweetly and rolls his eyes.
If Blaine had to guess, he would say that there was some history between these two.
Great, because this couldnât be any more uncomfortable?
âYeah, I know, I know,â the man says with a wave of his hand, âbut heâs stuck in the High Desert. Something about an extreme yoga retreat, the Four Runner he rented overheated - itâs apparently a huge mess. He called early this morning from a rest stop and asked if Iâd take his place. Do you mind?â
Dr. Smythe clenches his jaw - tendons standing out, a vein pulsing â and while the occupants of the room sit quietly and wait, he shakes his head. When he turns back to Blaine, he doesnât look quite as congenial as before, which, frankly, isnât much of a change.
âKurt Hummel,â Dr. Smythe says through white teeth and a strained smile, âthis is Blaine Anderson. Blaine Anderson, this is Kurt Hummel. And as of today, I guess, heâll be the surrogate assigned to your case.â
Blaine stands as Kurt walks around the table toward him, depositing his bag into a chair and his book on the table beside Blaineâs, purposefully lining them up together.
âHello, Mr. Anderson,â he says, extending a hand as he approaches. âMay I call you Blaine?â
Blaine looks at the hand, then at Kurtâs smile, and those eyes. How could Blaine say no to those eyes?
âYes, yes, of course,â Blaine says, taking Kurtâs hand and shaking it.
âSo, what do you say, Blaine?â Kurt asks, keeping a hold on Blaineâs hand, and God if his hands donât feel amazing? Soft and warm andâŚsoft. âDo you mind me being a part of your team?â
âActually,â Dr. Smythe says, rising halfway to his feet, looking like heâs about to come over and separate them, âMr. Anderson says he doesnât feel comfortable with the idea of a sexual surrogate, so we were thinking of just eliminating that from his treatment profile.â
âThatâs too bad,â Kurt says, lowering his voice. Behind them, Blaine sees Sebastian stand an inch more, leaning their way, trying to hear Kurtâs voice. âI know you must be nervous about all this, but I promise, I wonât do anything you donât want to do. Iâm not here to make you uncomfortable, Blaine. Quite the opposite. Iâm here to help you be more comfortable with yourself so you can get on with your life. And I have a feeling that you and I would work well together.â Kurtâs eyes dart over to the books sitting side by side on the table, then back at Blaine. âSo, what do you think? Would you be okay with me on your team?â
Blaine blinks at Kurt, stunned, floored, overwhelmed, but mostly with the thought of âHow in the hell did I get so lucky?â
âWill you let me help you?â
âYes,â Blaine says, barely glancing back at Dr. Smythe seething behind them. âI thinkâŚI would very much like to work with you, Mr. Hummel.â
âPlease,â Kurt says, stepping in close, so close that Blaine can see those magical blue eyes sparkle with hints of hazel and green, âcall me Kurt.â
Klaine one-shot "Just the Beginning"
Kurt Hummel doesn't believe in God. He doesn't believe in heaven. He believes that death is the end, and as he sits in the wreck of his Lincoln Navigator, he can't do anything but curse the universe for his life ending so soon. But sometimes death isn't the end. Sometimes, it's a new beginning.
Inspired by this vine
Okay, I'm not going to lie. This is angsty as hell, but it also has kind of a bittersweet happy ending. So, if you want to bypass all the heartbreaking angst, just go down to the page break (***) and read from there.
Warning for car crash, minor description of injuries, mention of blood, eventual character dying, talk of death, talk of religion, angst, angels, afterlife, mention of Finn. Sad but with a happy ending.
Read on AO3.
 Kurt didnât see the semi that hit him.
It seems idiotic that something that big could go unnoticed, but itâs not Kurtâs fault. He did a full-and-complete at the four-way intersection. Then, when it was clear, he eased on through. The semiâs driver, on a road he shouldnât legally have been driving and going way faster than he should have been in a quasi-residential area, hit his brakes too late and ran the stop.
Itâs ironic that one of the reasons why Kurtâs dad agreed to buy him the Navigator, despite the exorbitant sticker price, was itâs overall safety rating â 5-stars according to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, and Consumer Reports. It also happens to have one of the highest side impact safety ratings among SUVâs in its price range. Had Kurt been hit by a sedan, a 4X4, or another SUV, he would have come out of this with flying colors, probably even walked away. But the 10,000 pound semi, skidding to a stop at 45 miles per hour, practically bent Kurtâs Navigator in half. Kurtâs not walking away from this one. He canât feel his legs, and his arms - itâs like they never existed. His ears ring so loudly it blurs his vision. His head pounds like thereâs a pickaxe chipping away at his skull, blurring it more. And thereâs a sharp pain square in the center of his chest. He canât move his head or his neck to look, but he doesnât have to to know why that is. The airbag cracked his ribs, which he knew might happen. Heâd heard stories. But the SUVâs secondary impact with a telephone pole went a step farther and crushed his chest. A liquid heat started coating his skin, soaking his shirt straight through to his wool coat. For a second, he was afraid it was gasoline. When he figured out that gasoline wasnât what he was tasting, he realized it was something much, much worse.
Itâs ten oâclock at night. Kurt was on his way to his dadâs house to celebrate his dadâs second completely clean PSA â another year over with no trace of prostate cancer in sight. He had driven to Lima from New York the minute Carole told him the news â nine full hours. Kurt was just about to find a place to pull over, to call his dad and tell him that he was ten minutes away. He had originally wanted to surprise his dad, but he was running late (traffic in the Holland Tunnel keeping him locked under the Hudson River on the Jersey side for over an hour), and he didnât want his dad calling it a night before he got there. He decided to cross the intersection first and then find a place to park.
Kurt had been so worried that he wouldnât make it in time - that heâd have to enter the house after the lights were out, sneak up to his old room, and sleep off his excitement for the night. And now here he is, pinned behind his steering wheel, fighting to breathe, his cell phone lost somewhere on the seat beside him.
There seems to be about a dozen people outside his SUV, cupping their hands to the window, peeking in to look at him. Whether theyâre doing anything to help or just taking a look, Kurt doesnât know. He can barely see anything but colored lights through the dark fog growing, but he thinks he saw a camera flash. Morbid sons-of-bitches. Well, let them take all the pictures they want, as long as theyâre calling 9-1-1, too. He never held much faith in the collective intelligence of the people of Lima, Ohio, but he hopes somebody is trying to do something.
As the seconds tick, tick, tick by, a minute essence of calm in his head tells him that it wonât matter. Nothing they do is going to make a difference. And as numb as his body has started to become, in his head, heâs furious.
Thereâs so much he hasnât done. He hasnât graduated from NYADA. He hasnât been to Paris. He hasnât starred on Broadway, hasnât written and directed his own musical, hasnât ridden a float in the Macyâs Thanksgiving Day Parade. He hasnât designed his own fashion line, hasnât walked the runway during Fashion Week. Fuck, he hasnât been featured in an issue of Vogue, and he works there.
He hasnât fallen in love, wonât get to start a family. Hasnât had a kiss in the rain.
Hell, he hasnât even buckled down and gotten a cat.
But all of that is meaningless. Life is what happens while youâre busy making plans â isnât that the way the saying goes? As his mind scurries to make new plans, to see his life after this tragedy, to work toward how heâs going to recover from this, he knows heâs lying to himself. He knows thereâs nothing for him beyond this accident. Heâs not leaving his Navigator alive. And heâs not just being overdramatic. Heâs been in accidents before. Heâs been in pain. Heâs been beaten till his skull cracked, till he blacked out. But each time, there was a certain amount of knowing that things were going to be okay. Even if they seemed scary, even if they turned out to be completely life-altering, it was going to be alright because things get better.
Right now, heâs terrified, and thereâs no sense in him whatsoever that things are going to be okay. More than anything, he wishes he had something to hold on to, something that he believed in to give him comfort.
His mom was religious. While she was dying of cancer, she held strong to her faith in God and heaven. She had even taught him a prayer or two. He remembers some of the rosary, and two or three of the more popular Commandments â no killing, no stealing, no coveting. He canât see how those are going to help him. What did he believe in in life? He didnât believe in God or heaven. He kind of made it a point not to believe in those things. He was so angry at the universe for the unfair things in his life - for his mother dying, for the constant bullying he suffered, for his father being sick and almost dying so many times. The only thing he really believed in was his fatherâŚand himself. In his own ability to change the world.
Itâs a cold comfort for him now.
On some level, he really wishes he could have drunk the Kool-Aid, read the Bible and gone to church. It would have kept him locked in the closet for another decade, but maybe heâd be more at peace with this. Maybe heâd be ready to go, believing something was waiting for him on the other side â some kindly old man outside a set of pearly gates, who would look at him with a fatherly smile and say, âDonât worry what everyone else says. You can come in, too.â
But it would have only been a worthwhile trade-off if he knew that he was going to die this early, and even then, maybe not.
And his father. What about his father? Is he really going to leave his father now, after everything heâs been through, having himself been near death and back? Heâs already lost a wife and a stepson. Is he going to lose Kurt, too? Kurt had made a promise that his father wouldnât. He swore that if his dad woke from his coma, heâd be with him every step of the way, helping him through his recovery, standing by his side to face whatever else came at him. It was the one promise he was going to fight tooth and nail to keep.
He tries to picture his father the last time he saw him, but all he can see is the look on his face when he gets the call about this.
Kurt knows heâs crying, knows that tears are falling down his face. He canât feel them, but he knows theyâre there, carving paths in the dust from the broken air bag and streaking his skin.
Heâs going to die looking like shit. He could almost laugh, but he doesnât know how to anymore.
Knock knock knock
âSir? Are you okay, sir? My name is Pete Jackson of the Lima Fire Department. Weâre going to have you out of there in just aâŚâ
As sirens sound outside his window, as bright lights make their way through the haze and a voice calls out to him to relax, to stay calm, another voice â a softer voice, a more soothing, comforting voice â weaves into whatâs left of his consciousness, trying to be heard. Itâs a familiar voice, in that way that memories of lullabies, smells of home, and a long lost loved oneâs touch are familiar. Itâs printed somewhere inside him, and unlike the voice outside, demanding that he stay awake, he wants to listen to this one.
This voice calls him by name.
âKurtâŚitâs okay, Kurt. Youâre going to be okay.â
âWe have an emergency medical crew here, and theyâre going to break you out in a jiffy. So justâŚâ
âRelax, Kurt. Everything is going to beâŚâ
ââŚalright? Just listenâŚâ
ââŚto the sound of my voice, Kurt. Itâs time to let go.â
âWeâre going to do the best weâŚâ
âThey canât do anything else for you, Kurt. But itâs okay. Itâs all okay. Let go.â
As the back and forth chorus of voices continue, the quieter voice starts winning. Kurt doesnât want to go, but he canât keep fighting anymore. He doesnât have the strength, not this time. But all Kurt can think is he needs to get to his phone. He needs to reach his phone right away, because he feels it. He feels it going â life and time and future all slipping away, and he canât stop it. He needs to reach his phone and push the call button. He needs to talk to his dad one last time and let him know that right here, right now, the last person he was thinking about was him. How much he loves him. How he doesnât want to leave him. How heâs going to miss him.
How heâs so so sorr---
***
Kurt is cold. So cold. Heâs never been this cold before, which is strange because one winter, when he was six, he fell through the ice while pretending to be Dorothy Hamill and into the Auglaize River. He was so frozen after his father pulled him out that he thought he would never be warm again. He had blacked out the second his body hit the water. Being six, he thought he had gone into hibernation, and when he woke up, he was convinced it was spring. His mother handed him a hot chocolate and his father put a fifth blanket over his body, and a day or two later, the world became right again.
But Kurt shouldnât feel this cold.
He shouldnât feel anything.
Heâs dead.
That thought makes him shiver, something else he shouldnât be able to do, either, but there he is, shivering.
And nowâs the point when he goes hysterical.
âHey, hey.â Itâs the voice. âItâs okay.â That familiar voice. Itâs returned. âItâs alright.â And itâs coming from someone standing in front of him. âYouâre going to be fine.â Someone who puts a hand on his elbow and is helping him stand. âJust open your eyes, Kurt. Youâre going to be alright.â Kurtâs almost incredulous to the thought of opening his eyes, but they blink on their own, opening up at the request of that voice, and there he is, standing in front of him, in what appears to be a landscape covered in snow â a man with dark, curly hair, tan skin, and warm, caramel eyes. A man smiling like Kurtâs arrival here, in the distinct middle of nowhere, is the best thing thatâs ever happened to him. âThat wasnât so bad, now, was it?â
Kurt stands, straightens his legs (thank whoever, he can feel his legs again), and tightens his grip around the manâs hand (his hands â theyâre back, too.)
âNo,â Kurt says â a lame answer to a ridiculous question, âIâŚI guess not. Who are you?â
âMy nameâs Blaine,â the man says, brushing the loose flakes from Kurtâs coat. âBlaine Anderson.â
Kurt looks at him, tilting his head to one side, more confused by the appearance of this man in front of him than he is by ending up here, wherever he is.
âDo IâŚknow you?â Kurt asks. âYou seem awfully familiar.â Kurt corrects himself. âYour voice seems awfully familiar.â
A projection of images and a string of the same voice echoes in his head, memories of different dark times in his past â his life flashing before his eyes. During the trying times in his life, heâs heard it â when his mother passed away, when his father had his heart attack, when the jocks at school tossed him into the dumpster behind the parking lot.
It was the voice that promised him things would turn out okay.
It was the voice that reminded him that he was strong, that he could get through, that he would overcome.
It was the voice that once turned his hand away from a bottle of sleeping pills and toward his motherâs sewing machine.
The man smiles the kind of bashful smile with full lips, rosy cheeks, and downcast eyes that usually accompanies flirting. âSort of,â he says. âI was assigned to you a long time ago. Iâm kind of like your guardian angel.â
Kurt scoffs and shakes his head. âBut I donât believe in angels.â
âWell, just because you donât believe in angels doesnât mean we donât believe in you.â
Kurt frowns at that comment. Itâs witty and itâs dismissive, and itâs not what he needs. But Blaine smiles again. He squeezes Kurtâs arm and his body immediately becomes warmer, so Kurt thinks that for the time being he can forgive him.
âIsnât thisâŚI died,â Kurt says, still not grasping the concept. âIsnât that the end?â Kurt looks around him, at the miles and miles of white sky, white snow, and nothing else. There seems to be no here here, but heâs somewhere, and thatâs confusing. âWhy am I stillâŚaround?â
It has to be the end. Isnât that what heâs always thought? When heâs gone, heâs gone. Unless this is some kind of outlandish hallucination, and the fire department actually managed to get him out of his SUV and revive him.
No. They couldnât have. He died. Kurt knows that for sure. Or close to sure.
He glances down at his feet, at the indentations heâs made â visual evidence that he is, indeed, here. He looks up from his prints in the snow â prints that shouldnât be there and snow that shouldnât exist â to Blaine, patiently waiting for him, smiling so bright his eyes dance.
âDeath isnât necessarily an end,â Blaine says. âItâs another part of life. In fact, some people think of this as a beginning.â
âA beginning?â Kurt asks. Itâs almost too impossible, too absurd an idea to comprehend. Death is the black void, the great unknown. When the heart stops, the body no longer breathes, and the brain dies, thereâs nothing left. How can the shutdown of a human body mean anything but over?
âYes,â Blaine says. âAn opportunity to do the things you didnât get the chance to do on Earth. Do you have any of those?â
Kurt does â one in particular springing to mind when Blaine shifts his eyes down again, his cheeks turning slightly pinker.
âI do,â Kurt says, surprising himself for admitting it. âI definitely do.â
Blaine nods with a look of satisfaction on his face.
âWell,â Blaine says, reaching out a hand to Kurt, âmaybe you can tell me about some of them.â
Kurt looks at Blaineâs hand lingering in the air, waiting for him to take it. If Kurt doesnât take it, what happens? Does he disappear? Heâs pretty much done that. And why not go with the man with the divine voice and the welcome-home smile? What else does Kurt really have to lose?
He reaches out a hand to Blaine and takes his. Blaineâs palm is soft, and his fingers thread through Kurtâs, curl in, and hold on tight. Kurt looks at their hands, joined together, and he smiles. Holding Blaineâs hand feels like calm and solace and relief, and in an odd way, perfect - like his hand has been searching for this one hand to hold his entire life.
âNow come on,â Blaine says, catching Kurtâs eyes and holding his gaze. Kurt sees a new life flash before his eyes. A life he has yet to experience. A future, with his mom and dad, and Finn, reunited, and this manâs a part of it. âThere are some people who have been waiting a while to see you again.â

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Iâve read a ton of fic this week so now Iâm just trying to decide which one to tag for Klaine Fridays because weâve got a lot of great stuff going on and I keep finding more old things I hadnât read. Â Who knew fandom could be so busy during the end times?
Klaine one-shot - "The Perfect Blind Date" (Rated T)
Blaine's roommate Rachel sets him up on a blind date, but the man who shows up isn't what he expects.
Inspired by a prompt I saw posted on tumblr, that I can't find because I was on the phone at the time.
AU, alternate first meeting, blind date, romance, angst, a touch of insecurity, future fic, NYC.
âFor days Iâm hearing meow, meow, meow, like thereâs a ghost cat haunting my house. Itâs kind of spooky, and it starts freaking me out. I look and look, but I canât find where itâs coming from. And, I mean, I look everywhereâŚâ
Blaine covers his mouth and snickers. Ryan is such a dynamic storyteller, Blaine feels like heâs there with him, searching his house for the mysterious meowing thatâs plagued him day and night. Ryan pauses his story and chuckles, too, gorgeous green eyes glittering, and Blaine waits patiently to hear the rest of the saga.
âSo, to make a long story short, I take apart the entire cabinet, and finally I find the culprit â the cutest Manx cat I have ever seen. Sheâd made a nest in the insulationâŚand had kittens! Five of them! I couldnât believe it!â
âAwww! What did you do?â
âThe only thing I could do,â Ryan says, taking a sip of his wine â Justin 2014 Cabernet Sauvignon Rose Wine Paso Robles. It sounded so tasty when Ryan ordered it, Blaine couldnât help himself. He ordered a glass, too. And Ryan was not wrong. Itâs tangy and fruity, with hints of plum and raspberry. The alcohol doesnât overwhelm the palette, but itâs racy enough to bring color to Blaineâs cheeks. âI adopted her. I named her Rogue.â
âAnd the kittens?â
âI was going to find homes for them, but I couldnât part with them. Besides, I have more than enough room.â Ryan runs his index finger around the rim of his glass. âYou know, Iâve never owned a cat before, but now I have six.â He sighs, a fond smile crossing his lips. âAs silly as it sounds, I canât picture living without them now. They make everything so much more interesting.â
Blaine turns his head to hide his answering smile. He could listen to Ryan talk all night. But heâs not just a great storyteller. He happens to be sweet, funny, attractive (God is he attractive. But, of course, Blaine has always been a sucker for green eyes, though blue are really his favorites). And as if that wasnât enough, he works at one of the most successful banks in the city. But he doesnât wear his wealth on his sleeve, doesnât flaunt it like a selling point. His shirt is from The Gap, the wine he ordered costs $20 a bottle, and he came here on the subway. Personality, modesty, good looks, and a career. Blaine sighs. In his opinion, Ryan is close to the perfect guy, and this blind date is going amazingly.
Too bad it isnât his.
âOh my God, Ryan,â Serena â Ryanâs date â laughs, wiping her eyes with her napkin. She reaches across the table to touch his hand. Ryanâs eyes flick to her hand on his, and he smiles brighter.
Oh yeah, Blaine thinks, raising his wine glass and finishing the last of his Rose. Theyâre having a fabulous time.
Blaine rolls his wrist and checks the time on his watch. 9:45. Heâs been sitting at the table next to theirs for over an hour, waiting. Blaine figured out thirty minutes ago that his blind date wasnât coming. Heâs gotten no texts. No calls. No apologies. No explanation why. Ryan and Serena might have a glowing future together, but his date for the evening is most definitely a bust. The wait staff knows it, too. Every time the waitress stops by to refill his water glass, itâs with a small, sad smile, and a sigh. Sheâs long since stopped asking him if he needs more time to order.
Blaine reaches for his cell phone, but stops with his hand on his pocket. Heâs not going to be that guy. Heâs not going to send another text. Heâs not going to give this man an easy out, but he refuses to give him the benefit of the doubt and say, âWell, I guess you got caught up. Text me back and we can reschedule for another time.â But he wishes he knew why. Why doesnât dating work out for him? Heâs not a half-bad guy, if he does say so himself. Heâs reasonably attractive (at least, heâs always thought so), he has a good job, heâs pursuing his passion. And heâs not asking for much. Heâs not looking for the perfect man, just a nice one. One who might share some of his interests, like musical theater, exotic food, old black-and-white films, and the occasional Star Wars revival. But on the whole, he just wants to find a man who wants to spend time with him, get to know him, go to a movie with him, who maybe isnât ashamed of doing cutesy, romantic things, like hold the door open for him, pull his chair out for him, or offer to split half his plate â the way Ryan did with Serena.
Ryan.
Blaine peeks back over at the happy couple.
As Ryan stares into Serenaâs eyes and signals for the check, Blaine knows that he needs to face facts and get this over with. His roommate Rachel has, yet again, succeeded in finding him a date thatâs not interested in actually dating. Where does she even find these guys? More to the point, why hasnât he learned to say no? Unfortunately, he wonât get to gripe to her about it until Monday when she comes back from some live band karaoke cruise she went on with her dads, so Blaine has a long, lonely weekend of re-runs and cookie dough ice-cream to look forward to until then.
Blaine takes one last sip from the lukewarm water in his overfilled glass, and decides to ask for the check. He feels awful paying $7 for a single glass of wine, a half-eaten basket of rye rolls, and a wasted hour of their time. He plans on slipping in a $50 tip, hoping it will be enough that, if he ever does come back, they wonât remember him for not ordering and spit in his food.
He looks around the dining room in search of his waitress â a lovely young red-head with a permanent pout. He doesnât see his waitress rushing toward his table, but a man â a tall, remarkably handsome man, cheeks flushed as if heâs been running in the cold, and brilliant blue eyes aimed his way, along with a warm, inviting smile.
âOhâŚmyâŚGod, I am so sorry that Iâm late,â the man says, pulling out a chair and sitting across from Blaine. âI wish I could say that I was stuck behind a seven car pile-up, or something monumental, but I really have no exciting excuse.â
The man smiles at Blaine, and Blaine looks suspiciously back, turning his head left and right, searching for an explanation.
âIâŚIâm sorry,â Blaine says, addressing the man, mostly through side-eye glances. âAre you looking for me?â
âYes,â the man says, extending an arm across the table. âIâm your date for the evening. Iâm Rachelâs friend, Carl.â
Blaine raises an eyebrow.
âYou? Youâre Carl?â
The manâs smile becomes wider, but in a tense sort of way, and he nods.
âYes,â he says. âYes, I am.â Blaine looks left and right again, obviously skeptical, and the man sighs. He folds his hand on the table. âLook, Blaine, I know I was supposed to be here at a quarter to nine, and I know youâve probably called and texted a hundred times. Iâm really, really sorry.â He looks down at his thumbs, fidgeting as he speaks. âI know this is going to sound lame, but I got caught up at work, and then I missed my train. I wanted to call you, but I left my phone at the office.â The man sighs again, deeper, the air leaving his body causing him to flatten a bit. âThis has been a pretty awful day, all things considered, and I was really looking forward to this date tonight. I would like the opportunity to make it up to you.â The man looks up at Blaine through long, brown lashes, a sincere expression of regret on his face, eyes pleading for a second chance. âWill you let me try?â
Blaine doesnât quite believe that Carl ever intended on showing up at all. But then, why is he there? Did some other plans he made fall through? Did he feel guilty for blowing Blaine off and turn around at the last minute? Blaine knows he has every right to leave - to stand up, say goodbye, and go on his merry way. But Carl did show up â the first of about three blind dates to even bother â so maybe Blaine should give him a chance.
Heâs mulling it over when he catches sight of the man staring at him, a flirty smile on his lips that Blaine canât help finding positively alluring.
âPlease?â the man mouths, the hands he had folded on the table finding their way up to his chin to aid in his begging. âPlease?â
Blaine smiles back and rolls his eyes to pry his gaze away from the manâs mouth.
âAlright,â Blaine says. âIt sounds like you had a hard day. I canât fault you for that.â The man looks relieved, but his smile turns slightly impish, and Blaine finds himself giggling without meaning to. âWhy donât we have a bite to eat and get to know each other?â
âGreat,â Carl says. âThat sounds great. Thank you.â
Blaine opens his menu and looks over the names and descriptions of the dishes he practically has memorized.
âI was thinking about having the salmon burger.â
âOoo, that does sound good,â Carl says, opening his menu, âbut you know, I come here a lot and I have to say, the Fettucine Alfredo is to die for. I always order it.â
Blaine scans the menu. Fettucine Alfredo is usually his go-to dish at any new restaurant. How did he miss it?
âThat sounds good, too,â Blaine says with an indecisive whine.
Carlâs mouth twists at the corner while he considers those two options.
âIâve got an idea,â he says, âyou get the burger, Iâll get the Alfredo, and we can split. What do you say? Or does that sound too middle school?â
Blaine hides behind his menu, the smile on his face going from cautiously optimistic to ridiculous.
âThat sounds like a great idea,â Blaine says. âWe should totally do that.â
***
âOkay, so, weâre already running late, and itâs starting to rainâŚâ Carl says, gesturing with his hands as he gets more into the story heâs telling, and Blaine watches, wide eyed. If Blaine thought Ryan was a good storyteller, itâs only because he hadnât met this man yet. âLike Monsoon level downpour. Weâre supposed to be on stage an hour ago, and she texts me and says, âStall for thirty minutes.â And Iâm like, Stall? We were supposed to be singing the opening number already, how am I going to stall?â Carl pauses to catch his breath in the middle of a laugh, while Blaineâs already in tears, picturing Carl racing through the rain, trying to make it to the Gershwin Theater by curtain with his umbrella completely inverted, broken by an unforgiving gust of wind, and missing one shoe. âShe gets to the theater, finally, but before the rain started, she had just finished getting a $250 spray tanâŚâ
â$250!?â Blaine exclaims.
âOr something like that,â Carl says after a sip of water. âWhatever it was, it was insanely expensive.â
âAnd the rain ruined it?â Blaine guesses. Heâs leaning across the table now, captivated by Carlâs every word, and Carl notices with the same flick of his blue eyes that Ryan did when Serena touched his hand.
âNo,â Carl says, shaking his head, âher dog did. He got scared by the thunder and peed on her leg. She looked like an orange zebra! It was awful!â
âButâŚbut wouldnât the costume cover that?â
Carl, unable to say another word, puts a finger on his nose, indicating that Blaine is right, and they both start laughing. Carl wheezes and Blaine snorts, which makes them both laugh harder. The entire restaurant turns and looks their way, but neither one of them notices. Even if they did, they wouldnât care.
Blaine, having ordered a second glass of wine, takes a healthy sip, but the buzz he gets from the alcohol is nothing compared to the one he already has from this date with Carl.
âI have to say,â Blaine says as the laughter dies down, âI was a little hinky about being set up, but Carl, this is going so well.â
âYeah. Yeah, it is,â Carl agrees, becoming suddenly quiet.
âI mean, Iâve never met a real live Munchkin before.â
Carl laughs, but itâs not like before - not as effervescent and carefree. Blaine looks down at the empty plates on the table, at the stray pieces of pasta and the crumbs from the burger they shared, not a single full bite left. As it turned out, they both ordered really well. Blaine didnât think it was possible for two things to be so compatible.
âI know you had a rotten day, but thank you for showing up. This was probably the most perfect blind date ever.â Blaine watches Carl, concerned that his attention seems to be slipping away.
Before he gets to comment, Carl beats him to it: âBlaine, I have a confession to make.â
Blaine feels the butterflies that have been dancing in his stomach during dinner drop dead, as if hit by a sudden frost.
âYes, Carl?â
The man flinches.
âMy nameâŚisnât Carl,â he says. âItâs Kurt. Kurt Hummel. And I wasnât your blind date. Iâm not the man your friend set you up with.â
Blaine looks down at his hands, wiping them on the napkin in his lap.
âI had a feeling,â Blaine confesses. âI mean, you donât seem like the type of man my friend would usually set me up with.â
âWhat kind of men does she usually set you up with?â
Blaine chuckles. âI donât know, actually. They donât tend to show up.â Kurt gasps, but Blaine has to ask, âI donât understandâŚwhy? Why did you do this?â
âI came in after work for a drink, and I saw you sitting at this table, waiting for your date.â Kurt smiles. âI have to admit, I thought you were cute, so I kept looking. I heard you talking to the waitress and making jokes, and you sounded like such a nice guy. You told her about how your friend set you up, how excited you were. Then I heard you calling, saw you texting, and waiting and waiting andâŚ
âAnd you took pity on me,â Blaine says with a grimace.
âNo, I was angry,â Kurt says. âI was angry that some dumb fuck got the chance to have a date with such a great seeming guy like you, and he just bailed. Opportunities like that donât come by all the time, Blaine, and he threw his away. But I saw an opportunity, and I took it. And no matter what you think about me now, Iâm glad I did, Blaine. Because youâre great. Youâre really great. And I hope that youâll forgive me and let me take you out on a real first date.â
The table becomes quiet - Kurt watching Blaine, Blaine looking at his lap. The whole restaurant seems to have gone silent, as if everyone around them, who has listened to them laugh and talk and watched them share their meal, is waiting to see what Blaine is going to say. From somewhere off toward the kitchen door, Kurt thinks he sees a few of the waitresses peeking around a corner, watching their table a little too intently.
âWhat else was a lie?â Blaine asks. âEverything you said over dinner, was any of that true?â
âAll of it,â Kurt says. âEverything I said, about living in Ohio, going to NYADA, performing in Wicked, itâs all true, I promise. HereâŚwaitâŚâ Kurt opens his jacket and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. He touches the screen, swipes it a few times, and then hands it to Blaine. âTake a look. Iâve had this phone forever,â Kurt says as Blaine flips through the photos. âThere are some in there of me at NYADA, a couple from dress rehearsals at the GershwinâŚoh, and we were in the Macyâs Thanksgiving Day Parade. There should be a picture of me on a float.â Blaine swipes through photo after photo of Kurt performing on stage, taking a selfie with a group of guys holding prop swords and shields, dressed in a black leotard and doing something that might be mime â Blaine canât really tell. There are also pictures of Kurt standing outside the Gershwin Theater, of Kurt being fitted for his costume, having his makeup applied, and then thereâs the float â a big impressive contraption made to look like Oz, with Glinda in a bubble, Elphaba on her broom, and down among the crowd of Munchkins, Blaine spots Kurt, singing full voice in the middle of whatever song they are performing.
So, Kurt is telling the truth.
âI donât know, Kurt,â Blaine says, handing the phone back. âI mean, yeah, youâre telling the truth, butâŚâ
âButâŚâ Kurt asks, his smile fading.
Blaine shrugs. âI donât know anything about you.â
âFair enough,â Kurt says, slipping his phone back in his pocket. âBut can I ask you a question?â
Blaine nods. âI guess.â
âWhat did you know about Carl before you showed up here to meet him?â
âWell, IâŚâ Blaine sits there with his mouth open, expecting words to come out that donât exist, because he didnât know anything about Carl. Not even what he looked like. Rachel told him that he showed Carl a picture, and that Carl would know him when he saw him. But other than that, all he had was Rachelâs assurance that they would work well together. In reality, Carl could have stopped by at some point, seen Blaine waiting for him, and then turned around and left, and Blaine would have never known. But Kurt, on the other hand - heâs been talking to Kurt all through dinner. He knows where Kurt grew up, the name of his high school, that he lived with his father and his mother died when he was young, that he interned at Vogue when he first moved to New York City, and now heâs in the chorus of a Broadway play.
Blaineâs not sure he knows as much about his roommate, and he lives with her.
âYouâve got me,â Blaine says, shaking his head. âAlright, Kurt. Youâre right. I would love to go on a real first date with you.â
Kurt reaches his hand across the table and Blaine takes it, and Blaine suddenly remembers the look Ryan had in his eye before he signaled for the check.
Kurt has a similar look.
Kurt raises his hand for the check, but after not seeing her for most of their meal, their waitress walks by and puts a plate down in the center of the table - a slice of cheesecake smothered in strawberries, with two forks.
âUh, waitress?â Kurt calls to the woman before she can walk away.
âYes, sir?â
âWhatâs this?â he asks, confused by the sudden appearance of food.
âItâs cheesecake,â she says, as if that isnât apparent. âItâs the house special.â
âBut, we didnât order dessert,â Blaine points out, looking at the cake and then back at the woman who delivered it.
âI know,â she says with a wink. âItâs on the house.â
Klaine one-shot - "Spanking" (Rated M)
When the stress of work and life become too much for Blaine to bear, he goes to Kurt for help clearing his head.
Written as part of my more realistic D/s relationship storyline, this explores a different use for spanking. Many times when spanking is portrayed, it is written as either punishment, humiliation, or as part of sexual play. But impact and sensation play can be used for many more cathartic purposes. Warning for angst, anxiety, and spanking. ~1600 words
Taking a Journey Together D/s series
Sudden
Safeword
Hold You
Seeing Red
Read on AO3.
âSo, Anderson, how are your seniors doing pulling up their standardized test scores? You know, our school has certain goals set by the district that each graduating class is required to meet. I really hope your students are going to do better at reaching those goals than your seniors did last year, or we might have to discuss whether or not youâll be returning to us next semester.â
âDidnât anyone tell you, Blaine? The conference this weekend is mandatory. No excuses.â
âHave you been overusing the photocopy machine again? Remember, every teacher has the same limit - only 250 copies per month. Though youâre only part time, so really you should get half that, but, whatever. Anything else comes out of your own wallet.â
âBlaine, we got a call on Wednesday from a parent who claims that you were rude to their son with regard to a failing grade. Weâre going to need you to stay during your lunch hour for a parent-teacher meeting. Mom claims thatâs the only time she can make it.â
âWeâre going to have to add three extra rehearsals this week and next. I hope thatâs not a problem for anyone, BlaineâŚâ
âDid you actually take the time to practice the choreography for this number? I mean, what have you been doing this whole week? Sucking your thumb?â
âWeâre going to need you to start seeing a vocal coach. Your upper register just isnât as strong as it should be. Your falsetto is being drowned out by the chorus. I donât know where youâre going to find the time. Make the time. Itâs not my problem.â
âYou know, if you donât want to show more commitment to this production, I know about eight other guys I could call right now who would be happy to jump into your shoes at a momentâs notice. Look. I have them right here on speed dial.â
âI donât care that youâre tired. I donât care about your other job. I donât care about your boyfriend or your girlfriend or your pet cocker spaniel. This show is all I care about. This performance is my baby, not all of you. So, if youâre not prepared to leave your loved ones, sacrifice your first born, and abandon everything you know to make this production a success, then thereâs the door. Donât let it hit you on the way out.â
Itâs nearly the weekend, and Blaineâs home at a reasonable hour for once. He wipes the condensation off the bathroom mirror and looks at himself, his body stiff, hands gripping the lip of the sink, trying hard to remember how to breathe. His hair, still damp from the shower, clings uncomfortably to his cheeks, and he would brush it away if he could only convince himself to let go, that the world isnât going to crash down around him, or get sucked into a vortex, dragging him into oblivion. Heâs dressed in the monogrammed flannel pajamas his Dom bought for him, the ones that normally make him feel protected when Kurtâs not around, but theyâre not doing their job well tonight. Soft strains of calming classical music fill the air. The atmosphere of the loft as a whole is peaceful, at ease.
But that doesnât matter, because Blaine canât stop shaking.
A weekâs worth of stress, a weekâs worth of pressure, a weekâs worth of snide comments, complaints, condescension, and unnecessary demands squeeze Blaine like a vice. And now, Friday night, fourteen hours before the mandatory conference he canât make, no matter how many times his job is threatened, because it coincides with dress rehearsals (a conflict he had taken the initiative to iron out months ago), it all becomes unbearable. The strain is working inside his brain, inside his body, sanding his nerves raw, setting the ends on fire. All he wants to do is run and scream until the frustration leaves his body, and his mind can start over fresh.
But he canât do this alone. He needs help.
With the humid air from his shower covering his skin, he undresses, hanging up his shirt, then his pants, on the hooks behind the door. At the threshold of the bathroom, he gets down on his knees. He crawls the distance from the bathroom to the bedroom, and approaches his Dom, already lying in bed, getting ready to call it a night. Blaine stops when he reaches the damask dust ruffle and waits patiently to be acknowledged, whatâs left of his tears staining his cheeks.
Kurt has been watching, ever since Blaine crawled into view, but he waited, seeing what his sub would do. Kurt looks down at him, raising a brow when he sees Blaine. Itâs not unusual for Blaine to submit to Kurt in this way, itâs justâŚnot entirely normal. Not with Blaine as visibly upset as this.
âWhat do you need, pet?â Kurt asks, putting his work away and focusing on the man kneeling on the hardwood floor by his side.
âA spanking, Sir. Please,â Blaine replies, timidly, hopefully, and as quickly as if Blaine had told Kurt that he needed to go to the emergency room, Kurt gets out of bed and walks to his chair in the living room - a straight back leather and wood chair he owns for just this purpose.
âCome, pet,â Kurt commands gently. On his knees, Blaine follows, relief filling his body at Kurtâs agreeing to fulfill his request without question.
Blaine doesnât have to explain this need to his Dom. Kurt knows what Blaine is saying, what heâs asking for, without him going into detail.
Blaineâs not simply asking to be spanked. Kurt sometimes uses spanking as punishment. Sometimes he uses it as play. But this is not about any of that. Itâs about pure submission. Itâs about Blaine turning himself over to Kurt, putting himself in Kurtâs capable hands, releasing himself entirely in to his Domâs care in order to find an escape from the world for a while.
Because Blaine doesnât know any other way of saying that things are too difficult for him to handle right now.
That everything, even the things he loves and the careers he enjoys, are weighing him down.
That his head aches, his body aches, and everything from blinking to breathing, to just plain existing, is agonizing.
He feels scared. He feels lost.
And because heâs spent so much time at the theater and at school, so much time away from Kurt, he feels divided and alone.
Blaine needs to find his center again. He wants to feel whole. And that can only happen in the arms of his Dom.
It starts when Kurt pulls Blaine up by his arms, grabs him by the waist, and throws him over his lap. Kurt rarely just starts wailing away; not unless Blaineâs behaving like a brat. Thereâs a ritual to this, and itâs almost as sacred as the act of spanking itself. Kurt warms Blaine up, preparing his sensitive skin with rubs and light pats, working up from gentle smacks to blows with the flat of his palm, alternating sides to give Blaine a chance to recover in between. Steadily, Kurt quickens his pace, spanking harder, but maintaining a rhythm. With every swat â whether itâs barely noticeable, it stings, or it burns â each of Blaineâs problems melt away. The clutter in his head begins to clear. The worries that had bogged down his brain, messing with his memory so that heâd forget lines and entrances, the answers to proofs, or to buy milk on his way home, chip and shatter when Kurtâs hand connects with his skin.
Kurt didnât command Blaine to count for him, but Blaine starts counting in his head. Force of habit, but itâs soothing, too, and every number takes Blaine away from himself, to that secluded spot where everything is cozy and dark, where there are never any bad feelings, where he can think lucidly and breathe deep.
And he does.
Long drawn inhales that fill his lungs with fresh, sweet air, reaching as far down as his soul.
When his breathing evens out and his entire body relaxes, Kurt eases up and slows down. He keeps his rhythm, but he goes back to the beginning, to the gentle pats, and now, gentler rubs.
He hears Blaine sigh â a contented sigh â and he stops.
âHowâs that?â Kurt asks, running fingers through his subâs hair, massaging his scalp in circles, and then stroking down his back. âDo you feel any better?â
âYes, Sir,â Blaine mumbles, floating back to the world, reconnecting with his body, starting from his toes and merging on up. When the feeling returns to his ass, itâs hot and tender - perfectly sore.
âGood, pet,â Kurt says, rubbing Blaineâs shoulders while he talks, ânow why donât we get you in bed, get a good nightâs sleep, and in the morning you can tell me what this was all about.â
âYes, Sir,â Blaine says, surrendering those words to a yawn. And he will tell Kurt, because thatâs what he should do. He should tell his Dom everything thatâs bothering him. If he had told Kurt to begin with, when things had started getting rough, it might not have gotten this far. But it did, and thatâs alright, because Kurt was there to help him take care of it, the way he always does. And even if Kurt just listens to Blaine talk, even if he doesnât have any advice to give, thatâs alright, too. Because Blaine has his center back. He has his fresh start, and he knows that everythingâs going to be fine.






