"I don't care if you like the sequins, her new album is appalling, rehashed, tasteless drivel. Frankly, no matter how much glitter she puts on her belly-button is going to change that's she's being run dry. At her expiration date. The modern pop-idol is the prostitute and queen of America, neither of which is a profession renowned for its longevity."
Blaine took a sip of his latte, "Okay."
"You still like the sequins," Kurt accused.
Blaine shrugged, "Alright, okay, so maybe I'm a little bit into the cabaret-tackiness of it all. Don't you think there's something a little beautiful about those appalling, rehashed, tasteless lyrics?"
Kurt scowled, "No. They're just sad."
Blaine grinned, and reached across the table to play his fingers through Kurt's, "That's why they're beautiful."
Kurt stared at him for too long, his mouth a little open, before visibly shaking himself, "You're cheating. You can't do the hand thing every time we have an argument. It's distracting."
"Okay," Blaine agreed, with a little smile, and continued to do The Hand Thing.
Kurt forced himself to focus, "It's their last, desperate attempt to climb back up the Billboard charts, and everyone knows it's doomed to fail, but they do it anyway. And because they already know they're going to flop, they haven't got that—that energy, that hope, left about them. So they just crash."
"And you don't think there's anything noble or poetic about that?" Blaine asked, tilting his head, "You don't think that their bravery is commendable, that their subtext is a compelling commentary of soulless capitalism? Shouldn't every star have their death scene?"
Kurt stared at him, "I have zero idea of what you just said."
"It sounded pretty cool, though, right?"
"Why did you drag economic structures into it?"
"Because," Blaine laughed, and kissed him on the lips. It hit Kurt again, that slight fear of public opinion, the rush of unexpected contact, and the pleasure of kissing Blaine—a combination that never failed to make him dizzy. It took him a second to remember where he was.
"You can't pull that much meaning out of something wearing a sequined thong."
"You're impossible," Blaine told him.