Blaine has dreamed of this life since he was old enough to pick up a guitar. He'd close his eyes and picture himself onstage, spotlights skimming along the sea of faces fixated on him. He'd lose himself in the fantasy for as long as he could, and then snap back into reality, pick up his most prized possession, and practice until his fingers felt like they could fall off.
Thumb running along the calloused pads of his fingertips, Blaine takes a deep breath and hops in place to shake the nerves out. In a locket bound by leather in the bracelet wrapped around his wrist, a picture of the people he loves most is pressed tightly against its heart-shaped frame. He kisses it twice for good luck and joins his band in the wings.
The audience cheers loudly from a hundred feet away, sending the adrenaline coursing faster through his veins. This is his dream. This is what he's worked his whole life for. He gets to live it every night.
The stage feels like home no matter its size. When he was fresh to New York, with overused, fraying notebooks, bouncing around knocking on any doors he could find, gigs came few and far between. Dues were paid on street corners, lunches bought with the change spared by strangers, before he took his act indoors. Were it not for the time Blaine spent in bars playing to unfamiliar crowds, humility may not come so easy. The challenge of holding the attention of strangers is trial by fire, and Blaine is grateful for the ones who weren't afraid to let him burn.
Audiences now, the kids helping him sell out arenas across the country, are much more forgiving of slip ups and shortcomings. The missteps he took with more discerning listeners have taught him to have a healthy, critical inward eye.
For six months, he's been on the road, far from his family and friends. The rush of nightly gratification in the form of thousands of voices singing his lyrics and chanting his name keeps at bay his ache to catch the next flight home.
Some nights are tougher than others. The first nights away are always the worst, it continues on until the number of days before he's back in New York are fewer than the number of days he's been gone. There's one more night and a couple hundred miles before he'll be back in the place he belongs. Then after a week, he's gone again. This time to Europe.
One more night. That's what matters.
His thumb passes quickly back over his fingers before he runs his fingers through his loosened curls. Touring has led him to embrace his natural hair. The amount of gel he'd have to use to not sweat through it every night would probably be toxic.
With one last kiss to the bracelet on his wrist and a twist of the ring on his left hand, he steps out onto the stage to the overwhelming roar of the crowd on its feet.
:: ::
Blaine talks a lot in between songs. He rambles about life on the road, about his inspiration behind lyrics, about what restaurants he's been to in the area or the first thought that pops into his head if he's feeling conversational.
Halfway through the show, Blaine is left alone on stage with a stool, a guitar, and a bottle of water. Halfway through a spiel on the advantages of loving clothes and having a husband who makes them for a living, another stool is carried out and dropped beside the other. Blaine makes a face and shrugs his shoulders, starting to joke that he's being replaced during his own set when the crowd starts clapping and shouting. Blaine takes a quick sip of his water and sets it down, looking out at the audience. They're all pointing behind him.
At Kurt.
The loudness around them fades into the background as Kurt bites his lip and leans in for a kiss.
Six months. One night sooner, he's home again. Nose buried deep in Kurt's neck, he's home again. The only thing that could make this all better would be to see – Alaina, running straight at him from across the stage. He bends down and lets her run into his arms, then scoops her up and hugs her tight, pulling Kurt in as well. They may've just shaved a few songs off of the set, but no one in the audience seems to care.
"I'm sorry, guys," he announces to the audience while fussing over Alaina's earplugs. She scrunches up her face and bats him away to the delight of their onlookers. "Someone's kept some secrets," he starts, kissing Kurt on the cheek and placing Alaina on a stool, "but he and I will discuss that later. How's about Kurt and I sing you a little something?"
Alaina jumps off the stool and tugs at Blaine's pant leg. When he crouches down, she asks, "Can I sing too?"
"Of course, baby." He kisses her hair and stands back up. "Alright, correction on the lineup. We three shall continue to be your entertainment for the next little bit."
When Blaine was young, his eyes closed tightly as he imagined himself plucking strings for a crowd larger than he could count at the time, he could hear the screams and shouts and chanting if he pushed himself enough. He hadn't considered the quiet comfort of loving another as he'd wished to be adored by many. He hadn't needed to then. Now, though. Now, his dream has tripled in worth. Now, with eyes open and gladly so, Blaine sees the bright lights shining on his husband and their daughter, and the rush of relief at having them close surpasses all he could have imagined.