#theinfiniteyet

The rush of people and his father’s gruff voice in his ear wakes Kurt from where he’s been almost sleeping; cut off from the world in tiredness, but the bluish light of the hospital crashing waves upon waves of thought across his skull.

“Kid, I’ve spoken to Blaine’s parents,” Burt tells him, sinking into the seat next to him, his boxy frame making the seat look childish in comparison, “look, don’t get angry ok, we all deal with this stuff our own way but Cooper’s coming down, he’s on a flight at the moment...”

“They’re not coming are they?” Kurt asks, his voice made childish by the presence of his Dad and the aftermath of rushed tears that he finally allowed to stream in Artie’s absence.

“Not until the weekend at least,” Burt replies, obviously disappointed in the apparent lack of parenting and that he has to express such things to his only son, curled into his seat like he might never move again, “But we’re going to stay here, ok? Me, you, Carole and Blaine and anyone who wants to, we’ve rented a house and we’re staying until Blaine can move.”

“Is it really...” Kurt starts, swallowing his words so he can rework them against his gums, catching them between his teeth, “his arm, is it?”

“Kid, I don’t know what to tell you,” Burt says, tiredly, slinging an arm around his son, until he lets his head flump against his shoulder, his soft tufts of hair reminiscent of those he was born with, tickling his throat as he screamed through those first few nights, “It’s not going to be the same, but he’s stable they’ve said, he’s lost about sixty percent of his blood so he might be out for a few days but Puck was really fantastic out there, he saved his life; you should go thank him.”

“Is he here?” Kurt asks, glancing around the room where his friends are scattered, smudged against walls, lolled in chairs, drifting, waiting for something to happen.

“He took Sam back to the hotel about an hour ago,” Burt explains, pointing out the scruff of a Mohawk jutting out from the corner of room, between the vending machine and the wall, head in hands, no shirt, only shorts, stained with something Kurt is trying not to think about, “he had a bit of a panic I think.”

“Sam just went?” Kurt asks, sitting up stiffly, feeling an anger well in him that he hadn’t felt yet, “just like that?”

“You can’t imagine what he might have gone through out there, kid needs his sleep, Kurt,” Burt explains.

“I know I can’t imagine,” Kurt replies, aggressively, before slipping back into his Father’s warm arm, “I should have been there, I knew there’d be something, it’s not safe out there out in the water, it’s...”

“This kind of thing really is very rare,” Burt tries to calm his son pressing a solid hand between his shoulder and rubbing like he did as they rocked together in those early days, trying not to wake an exhausted Elizabeth, “he was just really unlucky, Kurt.”

“He had his fair share of unluckiness,” Kurt whines turning his face into his Father’s neck, breathing harsh air through his teeth and trying to push the burning cinders of heartache out of his eyes and ears, “You shouldn’t get that more than once you know? You just shouldn’t.”

“Kurt,” Burt starts, taking his son’s chin so they can truly face each other, “I know this might be hard to understand but most people they get that ambulance call, that’s it, there’s no car out, to get that chance again and again, it’s a form of luck ok? He’s going to be ok. He’s not in pain any more. And he’s going to live for a really long time, no matter what.”

“Dad, I’m sorry,” Kurt responds, knowing they’re both picturing his mother’s drawn out face, the sirens that rang and rang out, the ones that trembles with hope, the one where he sketched out black suits in his head and the one she begged them not to call until it came only to take away a lifeless body.

“Just go and talk to Puck will you?” Burt continues, ruffling his hair, “give you both some distraction.”

Kurt nods and pulls himself up onto unsteady feet, one of his legs has gone numb and the cool floor feels unnaturally smooth under his bare feet as he shuffles towards Puck. He feels the silent eyes of his friends hard at the back of his neck.

“Hey,” he says softly, crouching in front of Puck’s bent neck before slipping into crossed-legged position. Puck lifts his head slowly, a panicked wild look on his face, cracking with the welts of red where his eyes should be. Salt and sand crust against his face. He scrambles further back against the wall, “Hey, it’s ok,” Kurt begins again, reaching out to press a hand against his sand crusted shoulder, “I’m not angry, I wanted to come thank you Puck.”

“For what,” the unfamiliar crunch of a voice responses, almost sarcastically, “For ruining your life?”

“For saving my life,” Kurt corrects him, earnestly.

“I could have done more, if we’d had someone with us,” Puck continues, disregarding Kurt, “We were so dumb to just go out there and I was just making stuff up, I don’t know anything.”

“He’s going to be ok because of you,” Kurt responds, hardly believing how quickly he can turn from smothering himself in anguish to coherently comfort another person. But it hurts to see Puck like this, broken and brave in so many ways, encaging himself so deep in the corners of his mind that he can’t see, like Kurt hadn’t seen, that despite no face being seen, no magnificent grin returning, Blaine’s heart is still beating behind closed doors and Kurt aches for it to beat next to his again, “Are you going to be ok?”

“I keep seeing it, it’s teeth,” Puck closes his eyes, “I mean I tore them from him, literally, they were still gripping him and that was attached to something you know. That’s the water we drink and wash ourselves with, that’s the same water I threw over Finn’s head at that Fourth of July Party, the same water I may have pushed Rachel’s head into when apple-bobbing on Halloween. We can’t escape it and I keep seeing them and I know that it’s not me that people should be thinking about. I mean, Sam practically chucked up his intestines into the ocean and you look like you haven’t breathed in hours and Blaine.”

A sob rips from his throat suddenly and terrifyingly, knocking Kurt sideways into the wall as Puck grips his hand and sobs ‘sorry’ over and over into it, rocking out desperate tears into puddles in his wrists, that drip into elbows.

“It’s all this fucking water,” he wrecks against Kurt’s skin, opening floods of it.

“It’s ok,” Kurt says softly, “It’ll dry, it’s ok, we need the stuff, let it out.”

“Kurt they’ve got to let you in there,” Puck responds, urgently, tugging Kurt closer to his face so he can breathe in his desperate words, “You’ve just got to tell them that you’re all he wants, you’re what will make him survive. I may have saved him but you’ve got to keep on, you’ve just got to.”

“I know,” he replies, “But I’m not family, so I’ve got to wait.”

“Only until they legalise that shit,” Puck adds, smiling slightly, enough to turn the corners of Kurt’s mouth too, a little light in the darkest corner of the hospital. Waiting is the cracks in the glass before it shatters or stays, the wobble of a child before it falls or mends, the sinking of sand under waves, dipping endlessly to the bottom of the earth and back again.

  Blaine sinks into the sandy subconscious, free of pain for what feels like final moments. He dreams he’s in a snow-globe, hands against the glass, the final twist of the music box key, slowly turning a frantic dance into slow measured movements, bumping him from side to side. The glass feels unbending but not hard, it feels cool to touch like the soft mill-pond of bathwater.

He dreams of ducking himself under frothy silken water, making waves for himself in pudgy hands tipping tsunamis against ceramic snow-globe edges. A plastic boat scuttles under hand and fearless sailors sing childish songs away on the ocean.

He dreams of wrapping towels, pulling him tight, in white smiles and motherly kisses to tender skin.

He dreams of a board against his hands, plunging to his feet and whipping around to grin and whoop in the nothing air of globes where, his hands are inches from the curved beginning.

He dreams that inky blotches could be wiped away and spilled red wine on white carpets could be covered over with music boxes and dancing feet across crusted sand carpets; that silt in slipping silent waves and green horses on horizons.

He dream-walks across glassy waters, gravity-less, upside down with sticky feet and hair can’t in unmovable breeze. He thinks of tipping things, weights crashing against each other, ticking clocks and blue eyes shuttering open.

It’s the blue eyes that make him want to shatter the glass, that grip tiny ice like splinters as he rams his fist again and again. He slams his feet too, pressing hard, crusted, and his starfish limbs are breaking into unmovable limbs, crunching with something that loosens his grip, dropping him through nothing air into hard plastic boards. His limbs become unbending and joints stiffen into nothing but curved bones.

The blue eyes still light up above him like fireworks, like T. J. Ecclesburg, pleading with him, splurging waves over him in endless tearful puddles, sweeping waterfalls over his unbreakable glass. He tries for tears too but they cannot come. He is dry, dusty with sand and salt. His perfect dreams of perfect water turn to glass memories, cutting, slicing at his skin, battering crusted glass froth, on sandy shores, grazes smattering him.

Blaine is still reeling from it a week later. The slap of newspaper upon the counter from a weary Daily Mail reader makes him jump and the presence of Mary in the corner does nothing to console him. He is waiting, for Kurt. The door roll open and Blaine looks up excitedly but instead of Kurt, there is a small aggressive looking girl with straight brown hair, an obnoxiously bright red coat and a walk so vigorous he can hear the tap of her shoes even through the carpet.

“Blaine Anderson,” she says outright, placing a fist on the counter in front of him.

Blaine looks stunned and glances to Mary in the corner, hoping that between the two of them they could at least hold this girl off if it came to that.

“Kurt finally told me and I thought it necessary to come scope you out,” she raises an eyebrow and looks Blaine up and down, obviously. Blaine shuffles nervously and readjusts his bowtie.

“Alright,” she says after a moment, “I suppose I can allow it, if you do me a favour.”

 Blaine had been unaware that it was necessary for him to gain this girl’s approval, who he can only guess is the notorious Rachel, but if it gives him more of a chance, he wants to be friends with Kurt’s friends no matter how terrifying, “What did you want?” he asks tentatively.

“I want you and I to be in cahoots,” Rachel explains, flattening her hands out on the counter dramatically, he eyes harden, “I need Kurt to come to New York with me.”

“Well, that’s really his decision to make,” Blaine says, shifting uncomfortably. The intensity of this girl’s gaze is bringing up a damp sweat on the back on his neck.

“Yes,” Rachel continues, “but I need you to make him make that decision.”

“I don’t think that’s appropriate Rachel,” Blaine says, playing at her own game, she blinks slightly and he rises on to his toes so as to seem taller, “Kurt is perfectly capable of such decision making were he ever to decide to move in that direction.”

“Why?” she asks, eyeing him warily, her voice wavers a little and the ends of her words flounce like she’s trying to control them but can’t, “Are you two planning something different? Are you going behind my back? Are you some dancer trying to steal my star?”

“I’m a mathematician,” Blaine explains, trying not to laugh, her face is scrunched up in mock authority. Blaine can certainly imagine her up on stage, “and I resent the implication that I would ever force someone to make choices for my benefit.” he adds, raising an eyebrow at her.

“You don’t understand,” She says quietly and intensely, “I need him there. This isn’t a puppet show, Blaine Anderson, this is real life. I can’t go without him, I just can’t.”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Blaine says, a little more tenderly, he can almost see the little rabbit patter of her heart behind that rabbit jumper, the flickering mess of fear behind her eyes.

“No, you don’t understand , I can’t,” she says, her voice a little cracked, she turns and flounces out of the library her hair flying over her shoulder. Blaine watches as her red coat flashes out of sight and then allows himself a chuckle.

Kurt comes within the hour, flushed and happy from his walk in the wind.

“Hi,” he says, ducking his head slightly as he enters.

“Good morning,” Blaine responds, smiling and tapping Kurt’s name into the system, “I don’t think your friend likes me very much.”

“Rachel was here?” Kurt hisses, smile dropping from his face.

“Yeah, she wanted me to blackmail you into going to New York with her.” Blaine says, honestly.

“Urgh,” Kurt slumps over the counter, his hair brushes Blaine’s wrist. Blaine rubs the back of his neck in comfort, “I can’t believe she’s still going on about that.”

“Why don’t you tell her about Guildhall?” Blaine asks.

Kurt lifts his head and leans his face on one hand, “if I don’t get in it’ll be even more incentive for her. I didn’t mean to tell her about you but she kept going on about how I didn’t have to go in every time to renew the books and when I got pissed that she called up about it she knew there was something going on.”

“It’s ok, Kurt,” Blaine says softly, leaning across his forearms so they’re face to face, “but just warn me about any crazy friends in the future.”

“Don’t worry,” Kurt says, a little wearily, “You’re done on the friends front.”

This comment catches Blaine a little off-guard, reminding him of how little he really knows about Kurt about his life outside the library. That, like many of his customers, he knows their personal details but nothing really personal, not what they might be having for dinner, how lonely they might feel, if they cry at the end of Love Actually, whether they like celebrating their birthday or not. He struggles to think if he knows those things about anyone.

“Blaine?” Kurt asks, “Are you ok?”

 “Love Actually, did you cry at the end?” He asks, without really meaning to.

“Every time,” Kurt says, wistfully, standing up a little straighter, “Now, Mr Anderson, any books on how to break to someone that you don’t want to go with them to New York?”

“Nothing that specific, I’m afraid,” Blaine grins at Kurt’s sudden confidence, “Now how do you feel about dinner, after I get off?” He eyes Kurt warily, aware that a kiss under a tree does not always convert to immediate relationship status. He feels kind of nervous, like the strings within him are pulled tight and tingly.

“Are you asking me out on a date?” Kurt asks.

“Oh no,” Blaine continues, tapping the keyboard of his computer absentmindedly and smirking slightly, “that would be against Library procedure, I was just wondering about how you felt about the concept and whether, were I to say accidentally book a table for two, say at Nino’s for 6 o’clock, whether I would be forced to awkwardly eat alone or if a tall handsome stranger might save me from my embarrassment.”

“I don’t know,” Kurt murmurs, blushing, his smile is radiant, Blaine can see the stardust; “I think something might be arranged.”

“So that wouldn’t be a stupid thing for me to do?” Blaine asks, smiling widely and biting his lip.

“No Sir, very smart I’d say,” Kurt says, “We wouldn’t want to share a seat.”

“Ok,” Blaine says excitedly, some of the coolness that came from executing his plan exactly has worn off and he can’t help jiggling a bit and grabbing for Kurt’s hand, “yes, ok, I will do that.”

“I’ll see you there,” Kurt winks, turning to walk backwards towards the door, “or will you?” he swings off the door frame and out of sight, leaving Blaine standing their stunned and warm with excitement. If he can just get through the rest of the day.

  ***

Kurt is the first to arrive at the restaurant. It’s a neat little place with shiny tables and shiny staff. The walls are littered with strange pieces of artwork that look like flattened pasta. It’s not very busy so a waitress sidles up to him as he enters.

“Hello sir,” she says brightly, “table for one?”

“No it’s for two, I think it was booked earlier,” Kurt explains, tugging at the corner of his coat and then shrugging it off, “I want to surprise him.”

“What’s the name?” The girl asks, grabbing his coat from him and a clipboard from a nearby desk.

“it’s Anderson, Blaine Anderson,” Kurt tells her.

“Oh?” the waitress’s eyes widen and then she grins, gesturing for her colleague to come over, “this is him,” she says excitedly, “the one that brought Blaine back.”

“Did he used to work here?” Kurt asks, confused by all the attention, though he’s grateful that the girls seem excited more than anything else.

“No he’s just our Lord and Saviour,” the other girl gushes.

“He did our accounts a few months back,” the first girl explains, “We royally screwed them up and he perfected them with his crazy maths brain.”

“So are you to like...” the other girl gestures with her hands, “together?”

Kurt blushes at the attention and the question, “umm, kind of yes,” he explains.

“I knew he was gay!” she exclaims, punching her friend in the arm, “he didn’t stare at my tits at all and I was leant right over the desk, didn’t I tell you Saskia, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” Saskia sighs, “yes you did. Ok sir if you’d like to follow me, I’ll put you guys in the corner,” she glances back at the other girl and mock whispers to Kurt, “as far away from Flo as possible.”

Kurt smiles and thanks her, taking his seat, “and your meal’s on us, ok? It always it, so feel free to splash out; go crazy.”

“Thanks so much Saskia,” Kurt says again.

“Hey, Blaine really helped us out in a tough time,” she says softly, “and he was really nice about it.”

“You have a really nice place,” he says, honestly.

“I’d try the food first, honey,” Saskia replies.

They both spot Blaine at the same time, he waves and marches over, his hair is softly curled up on his head rather than the tight gelled helmet Kurt’s seen him in before and he wears a warm purple shirt that makes his eyes look divine.

“I thought I was supposed to get here first,” Blaine remarks when reaching the table.

“I thought you said you were coming to claim your free food a little earlier than this,” Saskia cuts in before Kurt can, “It’s September Blaine.”

“Sorry,” he murmurs, kissing her cheek and slipping into the chair opposite Kurt, “I’m ready to gorge myself tonight, I promise,” he rubs his belly and licks his lips.

Saskia laughs and raps the back of his head with a menu before passing it to him and then one to Kurt, “No skimping on the puds tonight kids.” She says as a final comment before sauntering off.

“They seem nice,” Kurt remarks, opening his menu.

“Friends in strange places,” Blaine responds closing his menu as quickly as he opens it and pressing his knuckles against the table, “I hope you don’t think I’m skimping out on the free food thing, I promise it’s really good here.”

“Mmm, it looks it,” Kurt says, not looking up from the menu but sensing Blaine’s discomfort puts it down and reaches for him hand prying his fist open, “I’m serious it looks great. It’s nice to see you without being worried your boss will catch us.”

“So I want to know more about Kurt Hummel,” Blaine expresses, twisting their hands so they fit more comfortably across the table, where a single poppy adorns the centre.

“Nope, it’s your turn Mr I Know Your Library Card Number off by heart,” says Kurt. His voice is soft and teasing and surprisingly Blaine does not feel like he’s being judged as others have before for his creepiness in that area. It feels fond, like somehow he can relax a little, not worry about it all. Kurt softens the harsh light around them.

“Hmm, what do you want to know?” he asks as Saskia places some glasses of pink lemonade on the table which he takes a glug of.

“It’s his favourite,” she explains, “but if you want something else...”

“This is great,” Kurt says, taking a sip and nodding, she tiptoes off again, “Well how about Uni, I’m assuming you have plans, I mean I know you said you were good at everything...”

“No I didn’t mean it like that,” Blaine interrupts, putting down his glass, “no I meant that I didn’t feel that one thing that stood out for me, not one path you know, I don’t really know what I want.”

“So you haven’t decided?” Kurt asks.

“No, I have,” Blaine explains, tapping his fingernails against the cool translucent glass, letting the swish of the lemonade over ice fill him up, “Maths at Oxford, that’s where I’m going, I mean, if I get the grades.”

“But that’s not the problem,” Kurt says matter of factly, pulling Blaine’s hand off the glass and tracing his finger across the deep lines of his palm, “It’s not whether you get there. It’s whether it’s what you want.”

“Well, I’ve got to do something and it’s not exactly a hardship,” Blaine reflects, his hand trembling with the pressure to not move it under the delicate caress of Kurt’s fingers.

“I’m not saying that, only, well, I suppose,” Kurt murmurs, there being no need for them to raise their voices, both their heads bent forward enough to hear even the intake of breaths between them, “I want to know something more than that. I want to know something. What about the library? What about helping here? Is it all just out of morality? Following a path you don’t really understand? I suppose what I’m saying is maybe you don’t know what you want but what about the things that you do, why do you keep going?”

“For the smiles,” Blaine says after a moment’s thought, watching the ice melt into his glass, clinking against each other, “For the thank-yous, for the little pieces of your day people give you, for the little pieces of their lives, ‘for segments that curl off in the grind of life/ I take those pieces and treasure them’.”

“I see you’ve been reading more of that poetry,” Kurt breathes out, impressed with as much of Blaine’s heart that he can see through the dark awakening of his eyes, the flutter of his hands, the reddening of his cheek.

“I hear poetry is for expressing things you cannot yourself,” Blaine says.

Saskia arrives again and takes their orders, gently patting Blaine on the head for his predictability.

“What about your family?” Kurt asks on a change of tact, once she has gone.

“Elder half brother, two younger half sisters, very young, small enough to fit their feet in your hand, one father, one stepmother, one mother,” Blaine lists off.

“I’m not looking for your family tree, Blaine,” Kurt reminds him gently.

“I’m stuck in the middle,” Blaine admits, “there’s too many but I’m alone, there’s too much noise but at night I put my headphones next to my pillow so the hum of the music will cover the silence. We don’t have enough chairs around the table at my Dad’s for me to sit so I have to use a piano stool but I get lost in the labyrinth they call home. I can’t bear to be anywhere sometimes.”

Kurt is silent taking in the hush that Blaine’s admission has settled on the table, the weight of his words, how different this boy is from the boy so in charge, so knowing and calm at work, how the release of him has made him more real, glass that can shatter, glass that can melt.

“That’s why I knew what you meant,” Blaine continues, “about being alone when you’re not which is why I so desperately wanted to take that away from you so you didn’t have to feel it.”

 “You did, you know,” Kurt reminds him, “I don’t feel it anymore, not anything close.”

1/10/2011

HUMMEL, KURT

Phone renewal

Kurt doesn’t appear for two weeks. Despite understanding the stress of application time that Kurt had complained of briefly via text, Blaine is still worried. He’s worried that what he’d said had been stupid, or pretentious, or just so ridiculous that Kurt had been put off. He’s worried that Kurt is still dealing with his dreams by himself and is suffering because of it. He’s also worried that Kurt’s library books are due back to today and it’s seriously messing with his morals.

Technically, he could look Kurt up on the system and just renew them anyway, it’s perfectly fine to do so should the customer call up and ask. But he’s pretty sure it breaks the rules to do so without permission. He also feels guilty because a small part of him hopes they do go overdue because then Kurt will have to at least call and then come in to pay his fine off. But for a good three hours nothing happens at all.

It’s the slowest Saturday in a while. He’s stuck with walking back and forth to plug singular books into shelves, checking and rechecking request lists and looking up more often than necessary hoping he’s missed the ping of the door. Nothing. Nothing and dust. Nothing and dust and grumpy smelling men who grunt and ask to use the toilet.

One such customer leers at him as he follows him out back and Blaine feels distinctly uncomfortable waiting for him to return as he pretends to be taking note of back-stock.

“You’re out of paper,” the man grunts as he returns, shuffling past Blaine.

There’s a slight twinge of a headache behind Blaine’s right eye as he returns to the desk. For a moment he considers learning another section of the Dewey system just for something to do; but then the phone rings.

He answers quickly with his usual spiel, “Good Afternoon, Oxford Central Library, how can I help?”

There’s a pause at the other end of the line, “Yes, I’d like to renew my books, they’re going out of date today,” Blaine recognises the sharp voice but doesn’t comment, the man pauses and sighs lightly, “Blaine?” he asks, “Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me Kurt,” Blaine tells him, tapping his pen against the desk, “Are you ok? Only I haven’t heard anything and I thought maybe,” he stops himself, taking a deep breath and opening ‘find borrower’, “Don’t worry, you wanted to renew your books?”

“Blaine,” Kurt starts, rustling down the line suggests he’s sitting down, “I’m sorry I haven’t been there.”

“They’re going to be due back on the first of October,” Blaine states instead, keying in the numbers he knows off by heart, instead of answering Kurt properly. He knows if he does he’ll get too deep in it. He’ll start getting caught up in the things in his head that trip him up, “Is that ok?”

“Yes that’s fine, of course,” Kurt rushes; Blaine can hear the distant rumble of an engine in the background, maybe the crunch of gears, “Look Blaine, I really am sorry. I know it got kind of intense and I shouldn’t have left it like that but I had to talk to my Dad and it took me way too long to work up to it and I know it’s stupid to ever assume that no one understands you but I felt so alone. And for some reason I thought seeing you might make that worse.” The last sentence stumbles along but Blaine can gather it together anyway.

Blaine is about to respond when David, the man replacing Mary for today appears beside him on the counter to serve a customer.

“Mr Hummel,” Blaine starts instead, wincing, “I’m sorry that our services made you feel like that.”

“Blaine what’s going on?” Kurt starts, sounding a little angrily, “Don’t make me out to be the bad guy ok? You know I never treated you like a bloody service.”

“Mr Hummel,” Blaine starts again, his voice cracking with the tension that David’s presence brings. The stickler for rules would never allow Blaine to take a personal call on duty and is already side-eyeing him for being on the phone to long, “We value all our customers.”

“Don’t treat me like I don’t exist just because I had to take a break and sort out things, Blaine!” Kurt almost shouts, the line cracks against Blaine’s ear making him shiver. There is harsh breathing down the phone and Blaine wonders if Kurt’s crying or plotting his death.

“Please, sir,” Blaine pleads, before rectify his voice so no one guesses, “We do have those books you wanted on the system if you’d like to come and pick it up at a later date,” Blaine starts, glancing and David and nodding. He really hopes Kurt gets what he’s saying.

“’Workplace etiquette’ by Aino UrMad,” Blaine sounds out, before Kurt can word his confusion beyond the huff he lets out, “and ‘I’ll Call You Back Later: the Phenomena of our Modern World by A. Paul. O’Geese.”

There’s a pause and then Kurt huffs out a laugh, “Shit Blaine I thought you hated me, oh my god, don’t do that,” he exclaims between breaths.

“Yes Sir,” Blaine grins and then rearranges his face to look neutral, “I’m so sorry for the misunderstanding. Is that all I can help you with?”

“You can help pay for my therapy, you dick,” Kurt suggests, rather fondly, despite his crude choice of words.

“Thank you sir, have a nice day,” Blaine singsongs, smiling.

“Difficult customer?” David asks when Blaine puts the phone down. His voice is curt and judgemental and Blaine wonders if he’s ever considered the possibility that not everything works in the context of the library rules and regulations.

“No, sir,” Blaine says, smiling as he rolls up his sleeves, “He was very grateful for my help, he thought I was someone else when I picked up the phone, you see,” Blaine adds cheekily, well aware that David was the only other male employee of the library and that he could only be referring to him.

“Well,” David says sharply, “You better go for you break and you better refill the toilet roll in the bathroom as well. We’ve already had one complaint today.”

Blaine nods and makes a quick escape, despite the horrific smell of the toilet, his need to get to his phone to text Kurt improves his efficiency and the evidence of the old man’s inability to aim is wiped away quickly.

When he gets back to his locker there’s already a text waiting.

HUMMEL, KURT:  seriously though, are you mad? Because that wasn’t very considerate of me, I know.

Blaine texts back quickly, turning on the kettle, for once he doesn’t even take his Rubik's cube out of his bag.

ANDERSON, BLAINE: No, of course not; we barely know each other. You have no obligation to see me.

He winces when he sends it, knowing it’s a complete lie on his part. He feels like he knows Kurt more than most of his own friends, who simply text him for homework help or to ask if his house is free for a party. It never is, they know that. But Kurt would get that without asking, Kurt would ask about more that maths. Kurt wants to know whether he’s hurt or not when no one’s cared before.

ANDERSON, BLAINE: I’m sorry that wasn’t true at all. I do feel like I know you and I want very much to see you. Or even just hear from you. I want you to tell me all about how excited you are to audition for Guildhall. I want you to make up ridiculous plans or great plans or even mundane plans. I want to know about all of them. I want to understand you. I want you to come to the library and tell me that the dumb terminals are as dumb as their name. I want you to come and laugh at how I know the names of all the authors of Family Saga novels because I shelf them so often. I don’t even care if you come in and rearrange all the books so I have to spend hours redoing them. I don’t care if you come in and try and print of a PDF document and it takes hours because they’re ancient computers. I don’t care if you come and use the toilet and make a mess. I don’t. I just really like it when I see your name up on my screen. I just can’t explain it but I really don’t want you to feel alone when you come to see me. Blaine. X

By the time he’s finished typing this text, it’s the end of his break and he has to go back on the counter. The rest of the afternoon he feels on edge, jittery, like his bones are rattling around and not quite protecting him as they usually do.

Five minutes before the end of his shift, the phone rings again, he answers it his hand shaking slightly.

“Hello, Oxford…”

“Is this Blaine Anderson?” Kurt asks nervously.

“Yes,” Blaine admits, “Yes it is.”

“I’d like to make a complaint,” Kurt starts, “Your staff here are far to flirty and I’d appreciate it if they didn’t make declarations of that magnitude when I’m supposed to me helping out at my Dad’s boring garage all afternoon.”

Blaine giggles with relief.

“It’s not funny sir,” Kurt starts again, though Blaine can hear him holding back laughter, “I take this job very seriously. But before I go I have a ridiculous plan for you. Next week, I’m coming in and printing off a very important PDF document and I expect you to help me along every step of the way, no matter how long it takes.”

“My Liege,” Blaine says quietly, so David can’t hear, “It would be an honour to force technology to work beyond its natural abilities with you.”

“Until then, Monsieur Anderson,” Kurt flirts back, with a ridiculous husky voice, “p.s. I refuse to make a mess in your toilets, that’s a step to far, how could you even consider that to be within my capabilities? I have excellent aim, thank you very much.”

“I never doubted you for a second,” Blaine admits, “bonne chance dans vos etudes.”