Notes: I wrote this for the Klaine Advent Drabble challenge 2017 prompt 'performance'. But it's more relevant to me now than when I started writing it.
"Blaine?" A groggy Kurt yawns as he makes his way down the dark hallway to Blaine's studio, the light beneath the door a beacon leading him along. He's half asleep, but it's been a miserable sleep since his husband never came to bed, too wrapped up in something that's been occupying his mind recently.
Something that he has yet to discuss.
When Kurt reaches the door, he pauses before knocking to listen, trying to pick up a sound that would be a clue to his husband's strange mood and obsessive late hours over the past week.
He'd hoped to hear music - a new composition, or the fine tuning of an older song. But he hears clicking instead.
He raps on the door lightly with his knuckles, his head throbbing with the remains of a sleep hangover.
"Blaine? Honey? Can I come in?"
The rustling of papers greets him before his husband's voice.
That could be promising.
"Uh … yeah. Come on in."
"What are you doing up so late?" Kurt asks, opening the door in stages so the light doesn't spear his eyes. With it open a crack, he gets his first peek at Blaine, sitting on his futon with his computer in his lap, manuscript pages stacked haphazardly beside him, their corners poking this way and that as if they were tossed there in a hurry.
"I'm just … I'm writing," he says, absentmindedly tidying the papers with one hand and tilting his computer screen down with the other. It doesn't seem suspicious at first because Kurt's brain is bleeding with exhaustion, but he happens to catch the reflection of Blaine's computer screen in the TV behind him, and his eyes fly open wide.
"No, you're not! You're playing Farmville!"
"No!" Blaine closes his laptop further to shield the screen from view, but he gives up quickly. He knows he's been caught. He bows his head in shame. "Yes. Yes, I am. I'm sorry."
"How long, Blaine?" Kurt asks, arms crossed over his chest. "How long have you been playing?"
"Since … um … since I came home."
"Since you came … that was nine hours ago!"
"I know, I know …"
"Blaine …" Kurt covers his face with his hands, stopping himself from saying another word before he has a chance to catch his breath. This isn't a new behavior for Blaine. It's happened before. Blaine had become addicted to Farmville when Candy Crush got monotonous, but he only played them when anxiety got the better of him. It was his escape – an escape that occupied large pockets of Blaine's time, and that made it a sore spot between him and Kurt.
Because Kurt wanted to be Blaine's escape when his anxiety got bad. He wanted to be the thing Blaine ran to, that he poured his heart and his sadness and his stress into. But when they tried that, it never worked.
It stings less than Blaine's short lived porn addiction, but it still stings.
It's been six years, though, and during that time, Blaine even admitted he hated it. He swore he'd never go back, that he'd find a different, healthier outlet.
What could be bothering Blaine so badly that he'd break that promise to himself?
"I'm sorry," Blaine repeats quietly, moving his computer off his lap and onto the cushion beside him. "I didn't mean …"
"No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to overreact. I'm just … overtired. It's hard to sleep without you." Kurt joins his husband on the futon, rests his head on Blaine's shoulder. "I know this isn't about me. It's how you cope with stress. But remember, you're the one who said that Farmville is the devil."
"Facebook's the devil," Blaine corrects. "Farmville's only a minion." Kurt chuckles, but Blaine can't. "It's so damned satisfying. And it's much easier to organize things here than up here," he says, tapping his temple with his finger. "You know?"
Kurt nods, taking his husband's hand in his while he listens to him explain.
"And every time I complete a quest or unlock something new, it feels like I'm accomplishing something. That I'm getting closer to a goal. That I'm winning. Does that make any sense?"
"It does," Kurt admits. "But I've seen you on your computer every night this week. If you've been playing Farmville all those times …" which Blaine's sudden fidgeting with the knee of his slacks tells Kurt he has "… it's taking your attention away from other things. More important things. Work related things. Things you want to accomplish in real life."
"Actually, it's not taking me away from anything. It's helping me avoid something. Something I haven't told you about yet, and I'm … I'm really sorry about that, too." Blaine slips his hand underneath the hastily stacked pile of papers and pulls out his phone. He unlocks the screen and hands it over to Kurt. Kurt stares at it, full of messages outlining the secret Blaine had been keeping for close to a week now. Kurt scrolls through them, skimming them more than reading them, which causes him to need to scroll back when he misses a few key points. But by his third read thru, he's sure he understands, and he squeezes Blaine's hand in excitement.
"The record label blue lighted your album release!?" Kurt looks at Blaine for confirmation. He gives it with a shrug and a bashful half-smile. "That's wonderful!"
"No," Blaine says, smile gone. "No, it's not wonderful."
"Why is it not wonderful?"
"Because they want to send me on the road to promote it!"
"As we anticipated," Kurt says. "I already warned Isabelle that I'll need some time off."
"No, you don't understand. They don't want me to just go on a few radio shows. They want me to go back to my roots. To Starbucks and The Lima Bean! They want me to perform it live!"
"What's wrong with that? It'll be good practice, help you get back in the swing of things."
"But I haven't performed live in a small venue in ages!"
"That's the best part! It'll be gritty! And raw!" Kurt says, imagining his husband squeezing into the clothes he wore back in the day – tight jeans, artfully faded, ripped at the knees and under the butt; his black leather jacket; his thin, retro tank tops that showed off his bulging biceps. Why are they sitting on this futon arguing about this? Why aren't they grabbing his guitar and leaving now!?
"What if I mess up? What if I forget the lyrics?"
"So, what if you do?"
"People will throw coffee at me!"
"Are you kidding? For the price Starbucks charges?"
"Kurt!"
"Blaine! Your fans love you! When they come to see you perform, they know what they're getting. They're getting you, and that's what they want. And if you forget the lyrics, you can turn it into a thing. You can pull the old man card. Make it tongue-in-cheek. People will think it's cute."
"Or obnoxious."
"That, too. But who cares!? Your fans have been waiting for you to make your comeback for too long! You've been shelving projects left and right for almost a decade that you should have been jumping into with both feet! You post more ads on your Instagram feed than album updates."
Blaine flinches. "Now, that's a little harsh …"
"Blaine, you can't shy away from the spotlight because you don't think you're going to shine brightly enough! That's juvenile thinking! That's Blaine after high school, scared of breaking out into the world, not Blaine here and now, award winning songwriter and epic rock star, ready to burst back into the public eye! Because that's who you are. You're not a has been, not a quitter, and you're definitely not a farmer!"
"I mean, have you actually seen my farm …?"
"Blaine!"
Blaine sighs, looking from the phone in Kurt's hands to the computer by his side, and the stack of papers that represents over a dozen works in progress. Those are the real tragedy in this equation, the real addiction he needs to overcome. Every time the record label or his agent or his manager tries to convince him that his record - the one he's been working on for longer than he's been famous - is good enough to stand alone, he'd disagree, then return to this pile of slush and hammer away at these tired old rhythms and melodies, determined that what he had completed was nowhere near good enough. It needed something more, something he could only find here.
They're his safety net.
They're holding him back.
"I guess you're right."
"You guess I'm right?" Kurt huffs. "No, no, no. You know I'm right. So tomorrow morning, you're going to text your record label and tell them you're taking their offer."
"Well, why don't I do it now?" Blaine reaches for his phone, but Kurt keeps it out of his reach.
"Because then they'll call you back, all excited, wanting to schedule meetings and iron out deals … and I have plans for you."
"What plans?" Blaine watches his husband stand, tugging his hand to get him to follow.
"We're going to go to bed and play an adult game." We're going to see if you still fit in those torn-up jeans … maybe tear them up a little more.
"Okay," Blaine says. "Sounds good. Just … give me a second to clean up?"
Kurt raises an eyebrow. He doesn't like that answer. He doesn't like any response to his offer that doesn't include Blaine bolting off his futon and racing to their room, shedding clothing down the hall as he goes. "Alright. But don't take too long."
"I won't. I promise."
Kurt heads for the door with Blaine's phone in his hands to ensure his husband can't call anyone. He hears the shuffling of papers as he leaves, but once he's out in the hallway with the door mostly shut behind him, that stops. He hangs around, peeking in through the crack he left to watch what his husband is doing. There Blaine sits, staring at the door as if he can see Kurt's eyeball peeking in. But when he thinks the coast is clear, he grabs his laptop and puts it back on his lap. The second he straightens the screen, Kurt storms back in, a move that nearly makes a startled Blaine toss his laptop across the room. "Blaine! What the-what are you doing?"
"Kurt! I just have to do this one thing …"
"Oh hell no!" Kurt snatches Blaine's laptop and snaps the screen shut, which elicits a high-pitched yelp of distress from his husband.
"But, Kurt! My carrots! If I don't harvest them, they'll wither and die!"
"Something more important is going to wither and die if you don't get your butt in our bedroom right now!"