Kurt is a famous model who runs into someone in the supermarket...
So basically, canon stopped off at 2x05(ish) and went AU from there - meaning, yes, Blaine and Kurt never met - but there will be few spoilers up and through season 3.
Warnings: It is rated M for a reason. There is constant strong language, including instances of homophobic slurs, male/male sexual situations, (very) brief mentions of eating disorders, and one intense, violent scene.
Disclaimers: I don't own Glee, its characters, or any recognizable plot. Also, the title is taken from the song from Christina Aguilera and will include some lyrics, which I also do not own.
And here goes...
"Everyday is so wonderful
Then suddenly, it's hard to breathe"
Kurt Hummel absolutely hated himself. There was simply no other way to put it. Of course, it didn't start off this way. In fact, Kurt Hummel used to be wildly in love with himself, almost, if not all the way, to the point where he couldn't fathom ever loving anything or anyone more.
And somewhere, in between the modeling contracts, the magazine spreads, the terrible nose job he'd gotten at the age of eighteen, and the God-awful sculpture of himself in his own living room, he began to hate himself.
It wasn't just that he hated looking at himself, which he absolutely detested; it was almost as if he couldn't even stand being in the same room as himself. The way he treated everyone as if they were below him in some way came naturally to him, but when he was alone, he could almost feel himself being talked about behind his back. And he knew he deserved it. That made him hate himself more than anything.
But everyday, it only got worse. Because everyday, when Kurt got out of bed and stepped into his steaming hot shower to get ready for a day of photo shoots, runways, and paparazzi, he let himself become someone else. Someone who didn't care about other people because he didn't have to. He hired people to care about him.
And perhaps that's why, when Kurt met a boy who he didn't have to literally pay to give a fuck about him, he turned away. People didn't love him because he was a good person or because he made them happy. People loved him because he was beautiful. Hell, it was common that people loved Kurt until they met him.
It was a complete accident that they even met each other in the first place. Kurt didn't shop for groceries. His assistant had an assistant that did that for him. The last time he could even remember walking into a Trader Joe's was in high school, before Bernard Hennet from Elite Model Management saw him buying a pair of boxer-briefs at TJ Maxx and asked him if he'd ever considered modeling, (to which of course Kurt had responded no, that he didn't think he'd ever be good enough for it, even though it was something he'd dreamt about a few too many times. Hennet had smirked like he'd thrown the line in and already a 120 pound, 5'11 fish had grabbed a hold of the bait. He'd slipped a business card in Kurt's hand, made sure he knew that auditions were being held the following Saturday, and left the fish to suffocate.)
But Kurt needed his organic mango juice. And waiting three hours for Paul, his assistant to get back from his flight from NYC wasn't something he was willing to do. So he sucked up his pride, put on a Alexander Wang sweater, despite the early-August heat, and drove to the supermarket to buy his own damn juice.
When he got there, already in a terrible mood due to the lack of other people doing things for him, he stuck up his nose and mentally spat at the feet of anyone who dared look at him as if he were just another one of them. If there was anything Kurt hated more than himself, it was being treated like a working-class, low-income commoner.
But he was just a model, and even though in the fashion world, this meant fabulous parties and wines and butlers, he knew that not everyone recognized him all the time. He was no Tyra Banks to say the least.
Folding his arms across his chest, Kurt decided to buy some other things since he was already at the store anyway. But not having done anything like this in a good couple years, he wasn't exactly the most prepared to know what he was doing. His shopping sprees were usually limited to clothes, shoes and colognes.
"That's a tangerine, just so you know," Kurt heard a voice say next to him, and he flipped his head around to see a shorter, scruffier man with gelled back dark curls and vividly hazel eyes standing beside him.
"I know what it is," Kurt rolled his eyes adamantly before setting down the fruit that was in his hands and grazing over the others in front of him.
"I was just saying," the other man continued, not at all respecting the boundaries that Kurt had mentally set up between him and any other human being, "because as similar as they look, tangerines just don't taste the same as oranges."
Kurt rolled his eyes, not wanting to pay any attention to this person, but when he was annoyed, he made sure everyone that was annoying him knew. "How do you even know what I'm looking for?"
"Oh, well, from what's already in your cart, I was guessing that you're making a mimosa, and it's just not as good with tangerines."
Kurt gave the man a dumbfounded expression, not really believing that someone could be so nosy and inconsiderate to his needs to be left alone.
"Trust me. I've tried it." The man seemed too genuine for Kurt's liking, and it made him nervous just being around him. When he stuck out a hand, Kurt lost any power that was stopping him from turning into a total asshole. "I'm Blaine, by the way."
"Um," Kurt looked down at the fruit and back up to Blaine, his finger tapping on his chin. "Do you work here, Blair?"
"Blaine," he corrected him. "Anderson. And no. But I've been here so many times, I could probably help you out."
Kurt nodded, trying to look as if he actually cared, but knowing he was just setting the situation up for a sarcastic finish. "Could you? That'd be fantastic."
"Yeah, what do you need help with?" Blaine asked, his own grocery basket, empty save a loaf of bread, obviously neglected in order to talk to Kurt.
"First, and really the only thing that you could do is leave me the fuck alone." Kurt smiled, and grabbed an orange from a stack in front of him.
Blaine, who looked offended for no more than half a second, let out a laugh and nodded. "Sorry for bothering you, man. I just wanted to help."
"Yeah, well, don't." Kurt spun to walk away, and he didn't even feel bad about it until much, much later.
In fact, he didn't even feel bad about it when he'd checked out and was putting his bags into the backseat of his car and saw that the person in the car next to his, who was putting his own bags into the backseat of his own car was none other than Blaine, one of the many people he had never wanted to see again.
"Well, isn't that a coincidence?" Blaine leaned on the driver's side of his car, looking over it to see Kurt climbing into his. "I swear it is. I'm not following you or anything."
Kurt huffed, opening his car door, and climbed in. He would never be making an appearance at another grocery store in his life if he didn't have to.
"Maybe it's just fate," Blaine shrugged.
Kurt slammed his door shut and rolled his eyes even harder than before. There were a lot of things that Kurt couldn't bring himself to believe in, and fate was third on the list - right under God and magical creatures. It was a ridiculous idea, and Blaine was obviously just saying it to piss him off. Not that he knew that Kurt hated it, but because anyone above the age of 13 should know how stupid 'fate' is.
Meanwhile, as he stressed over something as stupid as annoying Blaine, he didn't realize how many times he'd tried to start his car. When he turned the key for the fifth time and heard the dying sound of the engine, he slammed his head back against his headrest in frustration. Someone - he didn't know who yet - would be getting fired over this. He was going to find out who took care of car problems, sit their ass down, and make sure they never worked for-
Blaine was laughing at him. Kurt had turned to the side to see what he could do to fix this problem, as if the answer would be written on his window, and Blaine was there, still not in his car, laughing hysterically at Kurt's misfortune.
And to be honest, Kurt had had enough. If he hadn't stumbled in Milan during Fashion Week a year back, this would've taken the spot as the worst day of his life. Considering whether to get out of the car and face his problems or sit and rot there forever, Kurt made up his mind to open his door when he truthfully could not take anymore of Blaine's tragic giggling.
"Now this is just ironic," Blaine continued to laugh as Kurt got out of his car, looking at it as if it were the biggest piece of crap he'd ever spent money on.
Kurt massaged his temples with his forefingers as he tried not to scream at the top of his lungs. He didn't know what he was more angrier about: the car not working, the car not working here, or having to come to the grocery store in the first place. Or, and he decided it had to have been this one, the fact that this guy he didn't even know was having the time of his life over this incident. He kicked the front left tire and groaned.
"Hey, I have some jumper cables if you need them," Blaine suggested, opening up his car door again.
And even though Kurt's dad had made a living as a mechanic, Kurt had no idea what a jumper cable was or how it could possibly help his situation. "What the hell is that?"
Blaine lifted his hand slowly, clicking the metal together on the cables. "To start the car."
"Oh," Kurt shook his head, understanding what Blaine was talking about, but not quite understanding what he was trying to do. "No. I think I'll just call a cab to come get me. I'll send someone out to come pick up this piece of shit later."
"I could take you home if you want," Blaine placed the cables back in his car and began to walk to where Kurt felt like his personal space was being invaded.
Kurt narrowed his eyes. He didn't feel like waiting for a cab, but he definitely didn't feel like paying someone to drive him around in a car from the 1990's.
"Listen, man. I'm just trying to help you out here."
"Why?" Kurt snapped.
"Because..." Blaine continued, "you're obviously in a bit of a jam, and I honestly have nothing better to do today than help out a stranger. You know the saying. Random acts of kindness go a long way, or something like that. There's a movie about it."
Kurt remained tight lipped. The more this man talked the more genuine he seemed, subsequently making Kurt more cautious of him. People were never who they said they were, if there was anything he'd learned in his line of work.
And then Blaine shrugged, and it started happening. Kurt began to hate himself all over again. It'd been at least 24 hours since he'd last felt like he was the scum of the earth, but as soon as the thought crossed his mind, it wouldn't leave. This guy was being nice to him, and he was acting like a complete dick, and it's not because he wanted to; that's just the way he was. He was a terrible human being, and he knew it.
He sighed, opened the door behind the driver's seat and grabbed the grocery bags that he'd placed there no more than five minutes ago. Turning around, he saw a quizzical expression on Blaine's face, and he bit his tongue to make sure he didn't say anything rude. After all, he was going to be spending the next twenty minutes with the guy, depending on Los Angeles traffic, and didn't want to make anything awkward. He got into the passenger seat of Blaine's car, and put his bags at his feet.
When Blaine was settled in as well, the working car ready to go, he asked what Kurt knew was inevitable. "So, uh, where are we headed?"
"North Beverly," Kurt answered. "Less than a mile from Hollywood."
Blaine nodded and put the car into reverse.
"I'm Kurt, by the way."
"Hm," Blaine grinned approvingly. "Kurt. That's a cool name. Named after Vonnegut?"
"Yes, actually," Kurt responded the edges of his lips tingling, like he wanted to smile, but he hadn't done it in so long, that he had no muscle memory to do so. "Most people guess Cobain since he died the year I was born."
And Kurt realized that was the first time he'd shared that with anyone since he was in high school, and that as much as he hated talking about himself, it was kind of cool to get a share a fact that so little people cared about.
"Yeah, I mean, I like Nirvana, but I would give it up in a heartbeat for a good science fiction novel," Blaine continued. "'94, right?"
Kurt almost had to ask what he was referring to, but he caught on, and nodded. "Yeah, but I was born in March, and Cobain died in April, so there goes that theory."
"Who knows? You're parents could be soothsayers," Blaine joked.
Kurt clenched down on his jaw. Number four on his list of things he didn't believe in was physic powers, but he pushed those thoughts to the side, and just tried to enjoy the conversation.
"1995 was better anyway," said Blaine, paying close attention to the road, and the insane amount of cars on it.
Kurt shook his head. "Not possible. Katherine DeMille died in 1995. The entire year was just tragic."
"Maybe that's why I came out of the womb crying," Blaine suggested.
"I'd put money on that theory," Kurt nodded, glancing out the window to his right. He didn't feel quite comfortable being in such a closed off space with someone he didn't know, but he did feel, if anything, at ease. His guard wasn't as high up as usual, which actually sort of scared him.
To be fair, Blaine seemed a little nervous and cautious about the whole situation as well. Not that Kurt was watching Blaine at all. Because Kurt didn't notice people. People noticed Kurt. But at the same time, Blaine was different from other people; he cared, or at least he was doing a damn good job of conveying that he did, and Kurt found that rather endearing. For a few seconds at least, before he could remind himself that no one was ever what they seemed, and he looked back down at his lap.
"So, uh, you know a lot of famous people?" Blaine asked out of the silence, and Kurt nearly choked on air before Blaine had a chance to clarify. "I mean, living in Beverly Hills and everything. You have to be like a billionaire to afford anything, right?"
"Oh," Kurt nodded. His pulse had jumped from the thought of Blaine knowing who he was, because Blaine, although not flaming with homosexuality, was definitely gay. (His dapper consistency and the Etta James album that was humming quietly in his CD player had triggered Kurt's gaydar, something Kurt took much pride in having perfected over the years.) And gay men just knew who Kurt Hummel was. Still, Blaine had made no remarks that proved or disproved this theory, so Kurt had just gone along with it. "I know some people from my neighborhood. They don't just flaunt their celebrity. Most just want to be left alone, to be honest."
Blaine seemed content with this answer, nodding accordingly, but Kurt was just waiting for him to ask who, where, or his favorite, can you introduce us? Really, the celebrities he knew, which were probably more than he'd made it sound like, weren't in it for the recognition. They just liked their work.
"I'm not a billionaire," Kurt shrugged. He never really knew his exact net worth, but it never exceeded a few million. Money was never problem, because he got most things for free. If he was caught wearing something, it was automatically worth more, making his face and body one big advertisement campaign.
"I didn't mean that," Blaine responded, almost apologetically.
"Most people don't."
Blaine began to laugh, never taking his eyes off the road. "Do you often get rides from strangers at Trader Joe's?"
"Surprisingly, no," Kurt shook his head, his lips begging to break out into a smile, but they just couldn't make it.
"Speaking of," Blaine continued. "Based on what you just bought, I'm assuming it's Mimosa Night for One rather than a cocktail party going on tonight."
"Well," Kurt cocked his head to the side so he could get a better view of the man driving the car. "That's a rather bold assumption, don't you think? I could be having a date tonight for all you know."
"Oh," Blaine grinned and finally made eye contact with Kurt for a moment. "And are you?"
"No," Kurt admitted with a sigh. "Not at all, actually. I'm single as fuck."
Blaine's puppy dog eyes narrowed as he went back to focusing on the traffic and he gave a half-smile as a general expression.
And Kurt coughed when he realized he was noticing these things. These were things he generally didn't care about when he met people. The shape of their eyes were always round with attentiveness and their smiles were always broad and false. Kurt had to admit he wasn't used to seeing someone with such a range of pure emotion, so it was only natural that every move Blaine's face made caught his eye.
"It's the, um," Kurt swallowed, not understand why he suddenly couldn't form a complete sentence, "the next exit."
As the car drifted in and out of traffic and eventually off the 405, the two in the car made awkward glances at everything but each other. The quicker he could get out of the car, Kurt thought, the better.
But he almost didn't want to get out of the car. He didn't want to go back to reality just yet. Especially a reality in which his only friend was the camera, and even that was more like a "frenemy," because, in the end, he despised his own appearance.
The first right, the second left, Kurt directed Blaine towards his neighborhood, almost pleased when they would hit a red light along the way.
"Kurt," Blaine began suddenly, minutes before they would reach Kurt's house. "I have to tell you something, but I don't want you to take it the wrong way."
Kurt's right eyebrow raised as he was reluctant to know what Blaine was talking about. "Go on..."
"I kinda don't know how to put this..." Blaine made multiple glances from the road to Kurt in a very brief period of time. "Um... I've been collecting Vogue since I was fourteen years old..."
Kurt was totally confused. Was he coming out to him or something? He already knew he was gay; how would he have taken this the wrong way?
And then, before he could ask what the hell he was talking about, Kurt understood. More so, he remembered. Every spread and article and photograph he'd had in Vogue magazine alone over the past three years came rushing into his memory, and he knew what Blaine was trying to say. He'd recognized him. No, he knew who he was.
Of course it made sense. Why else would he have been sucking up to him? Blaine wasn't a nice guy; he was just a guy who wanted a signed picture of Kurt Hummel.
Kurt was angry at Blaine, but more importantly, he was angry at himself. Nice guys didn't exist. People are not capable of caring about other people. People only want what's best for themselves. How could he have been so foolish to believe that maybe he'd met one person who just wanted to give him a ride because he needed one? Or the tangerine thing. The fucking tangerine. He didn't want to help him out with his groceries. He just wanted an excuse to talk to a famous model.
"Kurt?"
"That's disgusting. You're disgusting," Kurt grabbed his bags from the floor and folded his arms across his chest, not even giving the Blaine the pleasure of looking at him eye-to-eye. "Just stop the car." His house was right around the corner anyway, and it was not going to be a big deal to walk.
"Look, Kurt. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"
"No." Kurt looked at him like he was worth less than a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. "Fuck you. Stop the car."
God, he'd even known who he was named after. He probably had Kurt's poster on his wall.
Blaine pulled up to the curb, and Kurt bit down on his tongue, trying to control his rage. Opening his door, Kurt stepped out and slammed it shut. Blaine, who had rolled down the passenger window by then, looked up at him with sorry eyes.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you when I met you," he nearly pleaded, a vain effort.
"I really should've known," Kurt gave a sarcastic grin, the one time he was able to get his mouth to do that. "Every faggot I've ever met has wanted to fuck me. Why did I assume you were any different?" He made a dramatic effort in turning around and stomping off.
And then, out of nowhere, he stopped. Because after all, Kurt hated himself. He hated the way he never let people explain themselves when they did something wrong. He hated the way his eyes moved from object to person as if they were the same thing. And he particularly loathed how he assumed the worst in every single person he met, no matter saint or sinner. To him, everyone was shit. Even himself.
He honestly tried, but couldn't stop himself from twisting his neck around to see Blaine, rolling up the window in his car, looking tragically defeated. And he didn't want to, but he had to go back. If not to make things right, he at least had to apologize.
Blaine must've seen Kurt coming back, and Kurt was impressed with his bravery. If the tables had been turned, he wouldn't have stuck around to hear the second half of whatever he had to say, knowing it couldn't possibly have been good.
And Kurt's pride was put to shame as he leaned down and knocked on the window, disgusted that he was the one who was begging for attention and, soon enough, forgiveness. Blaine rolled down the window once again.
"I, uh," Kurt hesitated, hoping to sound as authentic as possible. "I never liked the word faggot."
Blaine blinked up at him, his eyebrows raised, waiting for every last drop of Kurt's dignity to combust, it seemed. Kurt somehow knew he would never ask for an apology, and it made him want to go through with it even more.
"Shit, Blaine," Kurt looked down at the sidewalk under his feet and suddenly felt how heavy the bags were in his hands. "I really don't know how to say I'm sorry."
Blaine shrugged. "Kinda sounds like you just did."
Kurt took a deep breath in and out, resting his hand on the area where the window would be coming out of if it was rolled up. "When'd you know it was me?"
"Pretty much the moment I saw you," explained Blaine. "But I swear to God I had no further intentions than to help you with the fruit. And then later, to help get you home. I never would've even asked for an autograph. I just..."
Even though he didn't finish, Kurt knew what he meant. Basically, it was nothing Kurt wouldn't have done if the tables had been turned and he'd met, say, George Clooney at the supermarket. But he still couldn't shake the fact that he had blatantly lied to him, when he ended up confessing anyway.
"You know you could've gotten away with it," Kurt suggested. "My house is literally right around the corner. I never would've known that you knew."
"Yeah... my conscience would've eaten me alive."
Kurt made up his mind, opened up the car door, and climbed in the passenger seat next to a very shocked and confused Blaine. "Well now you know where I live anyway," Kurt began, not really sure of why he was being so forgiving to someone he hardly knew, "so I may as well get a full ride out of this." He set the grocery bags on his lap. "Plus, these bags are fucking heavy."
And as quickly as he'd stopped the car, Blaine started it right back up, and took the first right into Kurt's neighborhood. Kurt felt it again: the want to stay in the car for as long as possible, to avoid his real life and responsibilities for as long as he could put it off. When he pointed out which house it was, he reached into his wallet and fished out a twenty dollar bill - surprised that he even had cash on him.
"This is all I have," Kurt held out the money for Blaine. "It probably would've been a bit more, but then again, you did lie to me for a while there."
"Oh, um, no thanks," Blaine refused. "I just did this to help you out. I'm no cab driver or anything."
"Damn it, Blaine. Take the money. I can't go off thinking that I owe you something. I won't be able to forget it for the rest of the day."
"The entire day, huh?" Blaine said smugly, almost as if he was trying to make Kurt feel bad about himself.
Kurt huffed and stuck the newly crinkled bill into Blaine's glovebox before making sure he had everything and opening the car door. If Blaine was anything, he was irritating. But he was also kinda cute when he laughed and rolled his eyes at this, knowing that there was no way Kurt was going to take the money back now. And he was probably going to regret this later, but it was worth a shot.
"I'm not bipolar," he started, "but do you want to come inside and share a drink with me? You seem to know your stuff, and to be honest, I haven't got a fucking clue on how to make a mimosa."
Blaine nearly choked on his own existence after hearing that. Kurt noticed how he began fumbling with his words, obviously not used to being invited into a famous model's multi-million dollar home for cocktails.
"I, uh, I guess, um. Are you sure? I mean, I would like, um, to do that but, uh, I mean. Is it, like, going to be a problem or-"
"Why would it be a problem? I just invited you," Kurt reminded him, trying not to pay attention to the fidget of Blaine's fingers as he tried to turn the key so the engine would shut off.
Blaine coughed, turning his car off, and obviously trying to remain calm.