Okay, so I basically only did two things today. The first was read an article about the Glee Cast in Toronto. And the second was re-watch Grilled Cheesus, which I haven't seen in ages, cos I can't stand that really awkward scene between Finn and Rachel (I know what you're thinking, 'Which really awkward scene? There were so many to choose from in that episode...' but I digress). And that got me thinking.

See, there are three reasons why I haven't written a Klaine drabble yet, despite being an avid lurker on more blogs, fanfics and tumblrs than I'm willing to admit:

1) I still hit a bit of a roadblock when I imagine writing slash. It's not something that I've done before, and honestly, it's really only something I've become comfortable with recently.

2) I don't think I can do justice to Klaine, and there is just so much shitty Klaine out there already that I don't want to add to the pile of rotting corpses of fanfics.

3) I have a terrible, irrational fear that one day I will somehow communicate with a celebrity and that will make my fangirlishness seem even more crazy than it already is. Because being creepy and stalking celebrities is all well and good, but that only works when the fourth wall is very firmly established, and their world is kept separate from mine.

But then today happened, and I decided I'd give it a go. So here it is.

"I know you don't believe in God... but you've got to believe in something. Something more than you can touch, taste or see. Because life is too hard to go through alone – without something to hold onto, without something that's sacred."

Mercedes, Grilled Cheesus

Friday night dinners had always been sacred. When Kurt was young, they were a time for him to laugh with his parents and whine to them about the kids at school and the dirt stains that stupid Stacey Parker had put on his new white shirt. Back then, Fridays had smelled of roast lamb and mint jelly and chocolate cake cooling on the bench. Before his mother had died, Friday nights had been a celebration, each week, every week, of life.

Afterwards, things were different. That first time, when the roast chicken was raw and the soufflé didn't rise, they could almost pretend it was just like before and laugh it all off. But it wasn't. The smells changed and the tastes changed and the conversation faded until it was barely two words passed back and forth between the father and son. Afterwards, Fridays were quiet. Fridays meant take out from the local Thai – Pad Thai, Teriyaki chicken and Miso soup, all slurped out of boxes with poorly-used chopsticks. Fridays were a sombre time, a quiet time. But they were still a sacred time.

Then Carole and Finn came along, and another change happened. Suddenly, Fridays were a responsibility, an obligation, a designated 'bonding time' for the nervous new group (could they use the term 'family' yet?). And suddenly, they were much less appealing. Finn was awkward and nervous at dinners. He'd drop his cutlery so it clanged noisily on the kitchen floor, and he'd talk sports with Burt, hogging the spotlight that Kurt hadn't realised he craved. Carole would touch Burt's shoulder, his knee, his cheek, his neck and it was all Kurt could do not to stand up and push her away, tell her No! He's my father, my family. You go make your own Friday night tradition.

So he started avoiding them. He started avoiding the smell of roast pork, apple sauce and caramel slice that somehow became associated with Carole and Finn. He started looking for excuses – musicals, movies, DVD releases, concerts, anything at all that he could fool himself into believing was important enough to break the sacred rule and go out on a Friday night.

Then the heart attack happened and the wedding happened and Karofsky happened and it was as if every force in the world was against that tradition ever being restarted. Just when Kurt had finally become comfortable with his new lot in life, his new family, he was pulled away from it.

Off to Dalton.

Off to Friday nights late back at school, bent over a history book as he tried to keep his eyes open and scribble down facts about the Civil War. Off to Friday nights driving home in his car, guiltily wishing he could board on campus like the other boys did, just to avoid making this trip every evening. Off to Friday nights with the Warblers, sitting around the fireplace on the expensive leather sofas, listening to Wes with his gavel and David with his kazoo and Blaine, Blaine, Blaine with his... Kurt always forgot to listen when Blaine started talking.

"I've met someone," he'd told Mercedes one night, finally finding a chance to go to a sleepover with the girls.

"Who?" she asked.

"Blaine."

"Why him?" she wondered aloud. "Out of all those fine Dalton boys, why did you pick him?"

"I don't know. I just know that when I look at him, or hear him speak or sing, it's as if there's nothing else there. And even though I don't believe in God or magic or fate or anything but hard work, I believe in Blaine."

"Hold onto that, Kurt," she made him promise in the darkness. "Hold onto your faith."

So he did.

There wasn't a plan to carry out. There was barely even a reason to hope. Kurt's faith was a microscopically fine thread of possibility, a wild improbability. Yet he had to hold onto it, had to grasp it tight. Because with Fridays now reduced to a screechy song that not even the New Directions could rock, there was very little left to remain sacred in his world.

"What are you doing Friday?" he asked one afternoon, oh-so-casually, as he and Blaine sipped their coffees.

"Going out with you?" his boyfriend guessed with raised eyebrows.

"Good answer."

Of course, 'going out' usually translated to something more exciting than chicken schnitzel and peas, but Carole hadn't been expecting company, and Kurt was glad for a new smell to add to his memories. The scent of Blaine – coffee, hair product and just a little cologne – mixed in with the slightly burnt chicken, the sweet chilli sauce and the custard bubbling away on the stove for desert to create something different, yet equally as pleasant as that fading recollection of roast lamb. The conversation was light as cheerful: natural, in a way that it hadn't been for far too long. And with the sound of Blaine's voice washing over him in waves in glory, Kurt didn't have any complaints to make.

Then, when dinner was over, there were more things to enjoy. Tastes and touches and sounds that were enough to make Kurt want to believe in God, because no mere mortal could make him feel so good. Skin sliding over skin, fingers catching, hair pulling... it was a ritual, a celebration of life, only in a vastly different way to before. But when he opened his eyes there was Blaine, only Blaine, and in that moment he discovered what divinity was. And suddenly, the sanctity of Friday nights had returned, and Kurt Hummel swore to himself to carry on this tradition until the day he died. To believe in this, in Blaine, forever.

I'm thinking of writing this again. Writing another version that's a bit less... creepy? and a little more fluffy. Please tell me if you'd enjoy that.

Now, I know no one wants to read the following rant, so hurry on over to that review button if the meaning (in my mind) of this story doesn't interest you.

Okay, rant time:

In case you didn't notice, the Kurt in this story is a little creepy. There's some transforming stuff going on, but basically he thinks Blaine is God. Which is y'know, whatever, but what I was actually aiming for there is a literal representation of the role of celebrities in modern society. The way that we elevate them, hero-worship them, to such as a point that they may as well be divine.
It's so easy today to think that people you see on the news or on the Internet or in newspapers and books aren't real, and there's so much going on that blurs the boundaries between reality and fiction that I think it's no wonder we're getting confused. Personally, I blame Sylvia Plath, but don't even get me started on her. I guess my problem is that I don't like that division, because it's a one-way screen. The celebrities can touch us, but we can't touch them (metaphorically - seriously guys, get your minds out of the gutter!), which is where the God-likeness comes in. I mean, people believe in God because they believe that He has a plan for us all, that he can help people in need and punish those who deserve it. Is it going too far to say that celebrities have that power too?
There's a stat somewhere that says that if every celebrity gave up, like, half their fortune, world debt could be eliminated. Now, I get why they wouldn't do that, but I sort of wonder what kind of world we live in where a few individuals can wield that much power. Can we honestly say they're not like Gods? Which is where this boundary, this fourth wall, this one-way screen gets in the way. Because it works the other way too - we can know them, know everything about every detail of their lives, but they can't know us. So it's easy for us to attack them and make them cry in the same way that they make us cry when we see the pathetic little lives we're going to live in comparison with them. And people can spurt all the crap they want about the little people being able to change the world, but when it comes down to it, I can't do shit to fix Lybia or Yemen or Afghanistan/Iraq/Pakistan or Global Warming or Global Hunger or the existence of Evil.
And so, I guess the thing is that I don't know if this celebrity=God thing is healthy or not. I don't think they can have it both ways - wielding His power without taking the crap He gets. But at the same time, they're humans in the end, just like us.
...So I don't know. I'm just one confused person stuck in the middle of a little country on a little planet in a little solar system in a little galaxy in a massive universe. Maybe this story means absolutely nothing, and I'm kidding myself thinking otherwise.

Anyway. Review if you want a less... weird... and fluffier version of this!