#penewrites

The lighting in the bathroom is excellent. Kurt examines himself in the mirror one last time. Even to his own highly-critical eye, he looks good. His hair is flawless. The tuxedo jacket’s dragonfly print is a bold choice, but it’s perfectly fitted and Kurt Hummel has never shied away from making a statement. One way or another he’ll be on everybody’s best- or worst- dressed lists come morning.

He resists adjusting his bow tie, it’s impeccable. He tweaks his shirt sleeves so they sit precisely the right length below his jacket sleeves. His hands shake and he presses his lips together. He’s more nervous than he likes to admit.

There’s a ping in the sink. He’s dislodged one of his cufflinks. It spins around the plughole, loops and loops. Kurt slaps a hand over it, catching it. His exhale is unsteady and relieved. The cufflinks are silver cylinders pressed with tiny gold stars. They remind Kurt that he’s already a star. They remind him of Rachel, watching from London, and they remind him of Finn. They’re important.

He holds the cufflink between careful fingers. He needs to get back out there. The Tony Awards. He’s been knocking at this door since he was twenty-one and still learning his way around the subway map.

“If they don’t give it to you, they’re idiots. I’ll--I’ll boycott,” Rachel said on the phone earlier. She’s developed a touch of an English accent. “I’ll come back to New York and I’ll boycott. You’re superior to any of them. You deserve this, Kurt.”

“Thanks, Rach.”

“Oh! Are you wearing your sky blue socks?”

Kurt was touched she remembered. “I am.”

“Good. I put eighteen coins in the Shaftesbury fountain earlier. I’m crossing my fingers and anything else I can cross. Oh! And I’m wearing my knickers inside out.”

“Your knickers.”

“For luck. I’d wear other clothes inside out but I’m kind of famous here. I have to uphold my standards.”

“Wonderful.”

“You should do it too.”

“Rach!” he protested. But as he dressed for the night he couldn’t ignore her. He’d turned his black briefs inside out.    

He uses his left hand to thread the cufflink back through the cuff. He has to let go to twist the holder into place. The cufflink drops. Kurt’s not quick enough. It slips down the drain. For an instant Kurt stares. He tries to peer down the drain. There’s nothing there.

Kurt rests both hands on the sink and swears under his breath. He blinks back tears. He can’t afford to cry, it will mess up his whole look. This is not a good omen for tonight.

“Need a hand?” comes a voice.

Kurt doesn’t turn. “I’m afraid it’s beyond that,” he says. He straightens up.

The man standing there has dark hair and bright eyes and an immaculate classic Tom Ford suit. “Oh,” Kurt says, slightly foolishly. “You’re Blaine Anderson.”

Blaine Anderson smiles the famous Blaine Anderson smile that’s charmed legions of Broadway directors and theater-goers. Kurt can’t deny its power when he’s this close to it.

“And you’re Kurt Hummel,” Blaine says.

Kurt nods and blushes. It still feels new to be recognized outside his small circle of highly individual theater people.

Blaine looks between Kurt and the empty sink. “What happened?”

Kurt lifts his cufflink-less wrist.

“Oh no. No no,” Blaine says. “No. We can’t have you win your first Tony with only one cufflink. Nope.”

“I’m feeling increasingly skeptical about that winning thing.”

“Oh no. I saw the show,” says Blaine. He reaches out a hand and touches Kurt’s arm. Kurt glances at the spot he touches then back up to meet Blaine’s eyes. Blaine is in earnest. Kurt wonders how he has kept all of that engaging sweetness in the whirlwind of fame. “You were astonishing. I cried. Honestly. You’ve got this, Kurt.”

“Thank you,” Kurt says. He takes a look at his watch then lifts his chin. “Well, cufflink or not, I need to be out there if I’m going to learn my fate.”

“Okay,” says Blaine. There’s a hesitation. “It was nice to meet you, Kurt Hummel. And I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier.”

“You have no reason to apologize,” Kurt says. They look at one another. “It was nice to meet you, Blaine.”

“You can borrow my cufflinks,” says Blaine in a rush. “If you want.” Blaine offers his outstretched hands. Kurt holds still.

Blaine says, “You’re going to win. And you look--” he spreads his palms- “incredible. You’d hate to get up there with a cuff loose. It’d be the one detail that’s not quite perfect.”

Kurt looks at Blaine’s wrists, the creamy French cuffs, the silver and black musical note cufflinks.

“Here,” Blaine says. He removes the cufflink .

“I’ll just borrow one,” says Kurt. “This other has… sentimental value. I’ll keep it in.”

“Good.” Blaine takes Kurt’s hand in his, then carefully positions his cufflink. “They look good together,” he says. “Here, can I help with-?” He reaches to smooth his hands over Kurt’s jacket shoulders. Kurt meets his eyes in the mirror. “It’s beautiful. You are going to knock them all dead,” Blaine says. He sounds almost reverent.

Kurt smiles and turns away from the mirror. “I’ll see you afterwards.”

Kurt stopped believing in romance years ago. But he’s light on his feet as he walks back into the theater.

**

Kurt’s in his seat beside Mercedes. He clutches her hand as the nominees are read. He’s convinced Telly Leung is going to win. His Cheng Dieyi was extraordinary. Or possibly Jeremy Jordan. Or Leslie-

On the stage, Idina Menzel reads, “And the Tony goes to Kurt Hummel as the Oneiroi in Dreams and Darkness!” Time slows and hushes. Kurt stands. He’s in someone else’s body. He makes his way up the stairs and across the stage.

Idina’s hand is cool and dry. Kurt blinks under the spotlights, breathless. The room is full of faces and applause. The Tony Award is heavy, its base square in Kurt’s hand. Okay.

Okay.

**

The after party is dazzling. Kurt shakes hands. He smiles and nods. He bends down to be hugged by Kristin Chenoweth. He’s ogled by Nathan Lane. He tries not to look as overawed as he feels.

“Congratulations,” Bernadette Peters murmurs, her eyes flickering to his face.

“You were wonderful, honey,” says Audra McDonald. Kurt can’t even breathe to reply.

“Great speech,” says Aaron Tveit. It’s probably not sarcastic, but Kurt can’t remember a word of his speech so he can’t be sure. He knows he mentioned Finn.

Across the room, Kurt catches sight of Blaine’s effervescent smile. He meets Blaine’s gaze and lifts his arm to point to his cuff. Blaine gestures something that might mean he’ll come over, or possibly that Kurt should come to him. They move across the room toward one another.

A hand holds Kurt’s elbow. “Mr. Hummel, how is it that we haven’t met?”

Kurt looks around into June Dolloway’s face. He recovers. “I’m very honored to do so now, Ms. Dolloway.”

“Well aren't you charming. Please, call me June.” Ms. Doll-- June smiles at someone over Kurt's shoulder. “Blaine. Dear boy. Come here. Have you met Kurt Hummel? I feel sure you two will hit it off admirably.”

Blaine steps forward. “We haven't been formally introduced, ma’am, no.” He holds out a hand. His eyes sparkle.

“Kurt Hummel.” He takes Blaine’s hand.

“Blaine. Blaine Anderson.”

There’s electricity between them. It’s been a long time since Kurt’s felt that.

June Dolloway coughs drily. “Enough, boys. Kurt, I’ll take you away to meet some people. You don't mind, Blaine.” It's not a question. She grips Kurt’s elbow and turns to walk him across the room.

Kurt looks back. Blaine mouths, “Later.”

“Later” doesn't eventuate. Kurt moves and is moved about the room. He takes a call from Rachel. “Love you too,” he says. After several hours he’s battling exhaustion and the weariness of having been surrounded by people, most of them strangers. He finds Mercedes cosied up with Jennifer Hudson and sits with them until she’s ready to leave. As they walk out he scans the room but doesn’t see Blaine.  It was a magical evening. The sliver of disappointment is no match for Kurt’s elation.

**

The mid-morning sky is steely but the air is warm. Kurt lies on his bed and rolls Blaine’s cufflink between two fingers. There’s a knock at his bedroom door. He pops the cufflink in his bedside drawer.

“Come in, ‘Cedes.”

“Does our Tony Award winner want a celebratory brunch?” She tips her head at him. She's wearing pajamas covered in tigers and jungle vines.

“Does it involve coffee?”

“What do you think?” She grins. “I have actually met you, Kurt.”

“I’m in,” he says, thinking Tony Award winner.

“I know!” she says in a squeak. She knows exactly what he’s thinking.

Over coffee and corn fritters at their red lacquered dining table, Kurt says, “What do you know about Blaine Anderson?”

“Hmm. Not really my area, babe.” She runs with the hip-hop and pop crowds. “I only know the stuff that everyone knows.” Mercedes counts on her fingers. “One: He’s gorgeous. Two: He sang the hell out of that Disney musical, and the superhero one, and every musical he's been in, even the flop about early humans. Three: He’s gay. Or at least, he dates men. Four: Gorgeous.”

“You said that already.”

“It’s worth repeating.” She reaches out to slip him some skin complete with jazz fingers.

“Know what he’s working on now?” he asks.

“Nope. Oh maybe ask Unique--”

Unique glides in from the bathroom in a scarlet robe. The girl always hits her cues.

“What’s Blaine Anderson working on?” Mercedes asks her.

“He has previews at the Belasco this week,” Unique says. “I imagine they’re rehearsing there.” She peers at Kurt. “More importantly, though, why are we asking Unique?.”

“No reason,” says Kurt.

“Not good enough. Unique needs more gossip in her life. And you definitely need more boy in your life.” Kurt shakes his head. She won't push it. Third-person Unique never does.

It’s ridiculous, of course. He trusts the girls. They share everything. But Kurt’s meeting with Blaine had a magical quality. He’s too old for fairy tales or a meet-cute from a movie. But he and Blaine shared a moment. If he talks about that moment, it might all fall apart.

Kurt dresses carefully. He’s not sure what he’s looking for here, but there’s always time for fashion. Today he wears tight camouflage pants with laced up combat boots and a Henley and vest that cling to his shoulders and waist. The outfit is less dramatic but just as on point as last night’s was.  

He takes the F from Delancey to 42nd. The Belasco is mostly dark but the side door is open. There are a few people sitting in the first few rows. Blaine’s on stage singing about stardust. He does a tidy three-step into a pirouette. He shakes his head, does the same again. The pianist keeps up. Blaine’s stardom appears effortless, but up on stage he’s working hard.

Kurt stops. This is a ridiculous plan. He can't interrupt rehearsal. Blaine’s a stranger and there’s no real reason for Kurt to be here. He should have dropped the cufflink in an envelope and mailed it. He turns to walk away.

“Kurt?”

Kurt looks back. Blaine is shielding his eyes against the light. Kurt gives an awkward little wave.

“Take five, guys,” says Blaine. He drops easily from the stage to the floor as Kurt approaches. “I’m so glad you came.”

“Oh?” Kurt can’t help but feel hopeful. He meets Blaine’s eyes. “I didn’t want to leave it too long. I thought you might miss your cufflink.”

Blaine smiles.

“I really appreciated it,” says Kurt.

“I wished I got to congratulate you properly afterwards. Your speech was wonderful. I was so thrilled that you won.”

“Thank you.” The buzz of the win hasn’t died. Maybe it never will.

Blaine goes on. “But while I have you here, we have got to make plans. I can’t tell you how much I want to collaborate with you. The duets we could perform, Kurt.” He sighs happily and bounces on his feet.

“Oh.” Kurt shifts gears. While he was planning some sort of epic romance, or at least an enjoyable night between the sheets of the kind he hasn’t even wanted for a very long time, Blaine was clearly focused on business. Which is fine. Great even. A working actor always takes the meeting. Collaborating with Blaine Anderson could be incredible.

“Will you be around to meet me for dinner later?” Blaine asks. He scrunches up his face. “We start previews this week but I should be done by eight. That’s a while from now though.”

“That’s fine, I have things I can do for a few hours.”

Kurt steadies himself as he exits the theater. A professional collaboration is better than a romance. After all, it’s Kurt’s goal to be a star. Romances end with whole tubs of icecream, with tears over Moulin Rouge, with wanting to cut his heart out. Blaine’s saved him that.

Though truthfully, even though Kurt’s a grown-up his heart already hurts.

Dinner is three blocks from the theater. The walls are brick, the food is old-style Italian. The table is confusingly candlelit. The light flickers beautifully in Blaine’s eyes.

“I saw you perform,” Blaine’s saying “and-- I’m doing pretty well with the mainstream material I’ve been given. It’s- don’t get me wrong. I’ve been fortunate. Things seemed to drop in my lap and I have nothing against a Disney musical. You should have seen the kids’ faces! People came twice. They sang along. It was wonderful. Everyone loved it.”

“They loved you in it,” says Kurt. “And I completely understand why. You’re amazing on stage.”

“You’ve seen me?”

Kurt nods. “As Nightbird.”

Blaine blushes, pleased. “The thing is, I guess I’ve been mainstream for too long. And then I saw you a month back and it was revelatory. You were revelatory. I have so much respect for the choices you’ve made. You walk your own path.”

Kurt narrows his eyes. “Not all of that was by choice, Blaine.”

“No, of course. Sorry. But. I think there’s room to work together. So when I bumped into you last night.”

“It felt like it was meant to be,” says Kurt.

“Exactly.”

They sit in silence, just the two of them. The room is filled with conversation but they’re in their own space. Blaine takes a breath to speak. The waitress brings their food. Once she’s gone Kurt takes a bite of his fettucine and moans happily.

“Good?” asks Blaine, his eyes on Kurt’s lips.

Kurt nods. He feels self-conscious. He licks his lip, aiming for delicacy.

Blaine blinks and looks away. “So. Business. I’ve obtained some rights. For old musicals and plays. Romances. You’ll love it. South Pacific and The King and I and others. Um. The Philadephia Story. I’m working with, well, you wouldn’t know the writer but we’re looking at a rewrite with all queer characters. Not just gay men and I don’t mean simply changing the pronouns. Changing the sense of things, mixing it all up. Changing the politics and sometimes the heart of it. Alan Cumming-- have you met him? He’s a friend of mine and he’s eager to be involved. It’s- it’s a work in progress. But I’d love you to be part of that.”

“It sounds interesting,” says Kurt. There’s potential here, and not just for him. But he’s not about to commit himself with so little information.

They talk on, about casting and rewriting show tunes and audience members  falling in love with characters and with couples who don’t always seem reflective of themselves. They talk about Mercedes too.

“The Mercedes Jones?”

“The one and only.”

Somehow they end up shifting toward one another, their chairs pulled up close. Kurt’s knee brushes against Blaine’s under the table. Blaine shifts back a fraction. Kurt accepts it as a clear signal. This relationship is strictly professional.

It’s a shame. Blaine is sort of a dream come true. And the more they talk the more he feels like a real future. But then, most of the world thinks that about Blaine. Kurt can learn to live with the ache in his chest.  

The waitress delivers the bill to Blaine.

“What do I owe?” Kurt asks, reaching for it.

Blaine holds up a hand. “Please. Nothing at all. I invited you to dinner, Kurt. You have to let me pay.”

Against Kurt’s better judgment, he capitulates.

Blaine hands over a card to the waitress and glances at his watch. His jaw drops in surprise. “Oh no. I’m sorry Kurt. I can’t believe it. It’s 11:30.” Kurt looks around the room. It’s empty of everyone save them.

“I’m so sorry,” Blaine says to the waitress.

They step outside together. It’s cooled down now. The street’s brightly lit, it’s noisy and there are people everywhere.

“I’m so sorry you’re late,” says Blaine again. “Will uh- will your boyfriend mind? Is he waiting up for you?”

“Uh-”

“Oh I forgot. He’s away, isn’t he?” Blaine’s eyes are everywhere but Kurt.

Kurt holds still on the sidewalk. He moves aside, out of the way of pedestrian traffic. “Blaine. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“But--” Blaine stops too, thinking back. He shifts his eyes to Kurt’s face. “You mentioned him in your speech. Finn. You miss him.”

“I do miss Finn,” says Kurt. “But-”

“And then on the phone you told him you loved him.”

“On the phone-? Blaine. Finn is- Finn was my brother. He died ten years ago. And yes I miss him. Not just at the big events, but every day.” He thinks. “And the phone... that was probably Rachel Berry. She’s one of my best friends and greatest supports.”

“Oh,” says Blaine. “Oh. I thought. I heard you talk about the cufflink and its sentimental value and you were so calm and professional when I just wanted to-” He stops. He stands perfectly still. There are tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry about Finn, Kurt.”

“It was a long time ago,” says Kurt. He thinks of Finn. Finn would probably like Blaine. Maybe. Kurt takes a breath and reaches for Blaine’s hand. “There’s no one waiting up for me.”

Blaine exhales as he pulls him close. “I can’t tell you how happy that makes me. I mean-”

“I know what you mean.”

“Can I kiss you, Kurt?”

Blaine’s face is luminous. Kurt wants to see that face forever. He wants to hear everything Blaine says and know everything Blaine becomes. Kurt’s spent today coming up with a hundred reasons why this is a bad idea. He’s spent the past fifteen years coming up with a thousand reasons why he doesn’t get to have this. With Blaine’s clear eyes on him, every one of those reasons is unimportant.