Notes: Written for the Klaine Advent Drabble 2018 prompt 'latke', but there are a couple of others in there as well.
Blaine takes a step out of the music store and squints at the white light assaulting his eyes. The sun sure is bright. Was it that bright when he got here? He can't remember.
He checks the time on his watch.
12:15.
Okay. That explains it. He's pretty sure he got here when the store opened.
That's a record, he thinks as he heads for his car. I was only in there what? Two hours this time? But it's his day off. It's not as if there's anywhere he's supposed to be right now, no one but his cat relying on him at home. He might just hang out at the mall and make a day of it - roam the shops he used to when he was in high school, maybe stop at the food court for something edible on a stick.
Cinnamon apple soft pretzel?
Yes, please!
He hasn't indulged in any retail therapy in ages, this morning's foray excluded. It might be nice, reliving his teenage years.
It might also be immensely pathetic, especially if he runs into anyone he knows ... like a student. The seniors get half-day privileges on Thursdays. And considering everyone in the world has a cell phone with a camera these days, that pic would spread across campus like Nutella.
Welp. There's that plan shot down.
Back to finding his car he goes.
The parking lot is blessedly empty for a Thursday afternoon, cars parked in patches further up but very little along the fringes. There is one vehicle within walking distance of his - a large, black SUV with an agitated man circling round it, peeking inside and huffing curses under his breath. Blaine doesn't know this man from Adam, but he looks as if his day is about to be ruined by whatever's going on with his vehicle. From where Blaine is standing, it doesn't look broken into, and none of the tires seem flat. He'd most likely be fine if Blaine went on his way, but he has a compulsion to help him.
Blaine's day has been good so far. He should spread the love.
Blaine approaches, assuming the man is the vehicle's owner and not a potential thief. Blaine thinks he can accurately interpret the face he's making. It's the face of a man who's locked his keys in his car. If so, maybe Blaine can help.
But he keeps one hand in his pocket, palming his can of pepper spray, just to be on the safe side.
Though the man pacing back and forth with his slim fitting slacks, tailored jacket, and chiseled cheekbones looks so much like a model, Blaine would probably hand over his wallet with barely a threat and then thank him for taking it.
"Hey? Are you alright?"
"Uh …" Blaine watches the man pause, searching for a face to match the voice, and Blaine gives him a little wave. When the man sees him coming, he smiles for a second, but that frustrated expression returns way too quickly. Too bad, Blaine thinks. He has an incredible smile. "Yeah. I guess I'm …" The man peers in through the tinted windows of his SUV, glaring at something inside, then suddenly jumps almost a mile high. "Uh, no. No, I don't think I am, to be honest."
"Is there something I can help you with?"
"I don't know." The man puts both hands to his temples and starts massaging. "Are you, by ay chance, allergic to bees?"
"Bees? Did you say … bees?" Blaine chuckles, but the man doesn't chuckle back.
He looks as serious as a heart attack.
"Yes," the man replies, gesturing to his SUV. "Bees."
Blaine steps forward, cautiously creeping towards the vehicle, unsure what could possibly be going on within. Did a bee get in his SUV and he can't risk getting stung because he's allergic? This seems like a bit of an over-reaction if that's the case, but who is Blaine to judge? Allergies can definitely be lethal.
He hears a low buzzing, like the hum of powerlines a distance away. He gets nose up to the window, but jumps back himself when a dozen bees ram the glass. He braves a second look and that's when he sees the bees – hundreds of them covering the rear bench seat.
"Oh my … oh my God! What's going on in there?"
"I don't know. I was picking up some latkes for a friend of mine. She's super pregnant and having cravings."
"That's very kind of you," Blaine says, but the man frowns.
"She's my stepbrother's wife. He's away for the week. I need to feed her constantly because she's eating me out of house and home! Thankfully, her favorite restaurant was willing to make me eight dozen at a moment's notice, with a bucket of honey applesauce to go with them …"
Blaine's stomach growls, reminding him that he'd changed his mind about going to the food court and how that was a mistake. "That sounds good."
"Doesn't it? Unfortunately, I wouldn't know. The bees got to them before I could get them home!"
"Did you leave a window open?" Blaine walks around the SUV, inspecting the windows and doors for a point of entry, but they seem to be shut tight.
"I must have. But I can't figure out where."
"Did you call the fire department? Or the police?"
The man takes Blaine's elbow and tugs him over to the driver's side. Before Blaine gets to the window, he can plainly see a cell phone resting on the seat.
"Oh. I see," Blaine says, shaking his head. God, this is awful! He's glad he decided to stop and help. "Well, Mr. …?"
"Hummel," the man says, sticking out a hand. "Kurt Hummel."
"My name's Blaine. And I'm not allergic to bees, but I don't think I'm qualified to wrangle hundreds of bees out of an SUV."
"Oh. No. You're … you're probably right," Kurt says, looking even more defeated than he had before. "I wouldn't want you to get hurt. Not over latkes."
"But," Blaine continues, "I have my cell phone with me. I can call 9-1-1."
"Could you?"
"Yup. And maybe, if you're not too busy, I could buy you some coffee? You know, while we wait for someone to come by and evict your bees."
Kurt looks at Blaine, at his warm and honest smile, and that incredible smile from before returns. "I'd like that."
"So, you boys met over latkes?"
"Well, technically, bees. But latkes, too," Kurt says, reaching across the table to put a hand on Blaine's, covering his new husband's wedding band with his own. "I know it must sound corny to you, Mrs. Anderson …"
"It's so sweet!" Blaine's grandmother coos, moving her hand to cover the both of theirs. "Considering some of the distasteful ways young people meet nowadays - at night clubs and on the Internet - it's nice to know that honest-to-God meet cutes still exist."
"Kurt's a hopeless romantic," Blaine explains, giving his husband a kiss on the cheek, "so I lucked out."
"You're darned right!" Blaine's grandmother gives their hands a squeeze. "That's a story you're going to be able to tell to your children … and your grandchildren … with no shame."
Kurt turns to Blaine and smiles. "That's what we're hoping."
The music in the hall transitions from the handful of fast-paced rock songs Blaine and Kurt decided to sit out to a slower Celine Dion number.
"Ah! Finally! Mr. Ander-Hummel," Blaine says, "since this is one of the songs you picked specifically for us to dance to, would you like to join me on the dance floor?"
"I would." Kurt winks at the older woman beaming at the two young man as they rise out of their seats and head for the dance floor. Other couples clear a path so husband and husband can have the center spotlight. Kurt puts a hand on Blaine's shoulder, and Blaine wraps an arm around Kurt's waist. They move together on the next down beat as polite applause travels around the room.
"You know, the speed in which you just lied to my grandmother is impressive," Blaine whispers so only Kurt can hear. "Should I be frightened?"
"You should be grateful. Unless you wanted to tell a 96 year-old-woman with a pace maker that her grandson met his husband in the glory hole of a gay nightclub." Kurt shakes his head, but he can't help grinning. "In retrospect, we should have planned ahead. We knew this question might come up. No one really knows how we met."
"We'd better remember that story then," Blaine agrees, resting his head on Kurt's shoulder. "It might come in handy later."