A/N: NYADA AU. Blaine and Kurt never met in high school.
When Blaine saw the flyer for a beginners' drawing class in NYADA's extension department, he'd signed up for it with more enthusiasm than forethought. The thought of quitting crossed his mind, but the deadline to drop the class passed before he'd found the time to contact someone about it.
So Blaine resolved to make the most of it. It might be fun, and it could unlock some vault of creativity and depth of expression and emotion, and well, he might make more friends, too. Because Sam and Tina and Artie were his best friends and his roommates, but it was time to make new friends, NYADA friends, and he still missed everyone back at home.
So he made sure to sit near the front, with a snow-white pad of drawing paper and a set of freshly sharpened pencils. He smiled and nodded at the other students and at his teacher, a weird lady with a grassy odor wafting off her peasant dress. After the usual small talk about the schedule and a little demonstration on drawing technique, Blaine waited, pleasantly, for further instructions. He waited for some inspiration –
- and then inspiration walked in, wrapped round in a dark blue and gold robe, and stripped.
The fabric pooled around his feet with dramatic aplomb. Maybe it was the golden light delineating his smooth limbs, or the saucy twirl of his hair, or the slender muscles weaving underneath that skin as he stepped up on the podium: actually, all these things held Blaine's attention for more than one – two – ten open-mouthed seconds. But it was none of those things that made Blaine think this is inspiration standing here before me. (Well, all of that helped, too. Let's be honest.)
No, it was the faint gray shadows underneath his bluish eyes, and a little redness and wateriness that told Blaine he'd rubbed at them – allergies, maybe? Fatigue? Sadness? – and fingers that spread apart widely and curled, flexed: he was getting to work. Blaine knew that gesture. He'd done it himself, many times, before writing, or vocal warmups, or playing scales. Blaine liked that he was a study of contradictions: shadows and lights, texture and depth, theatrics and heart, warmth and cold, all the things he strived to put in his own work, into his own dream of performing and writing for the stage.
And then the model swiveled sharply, so his back was facing the class: his left foot planted behind him, his right foot just a step ahead, his right knee at forty five degrees, his ass – oh yeah, that, too (and Blaine just decided he'd just draw it instead of trying to describe it to himself; words failed him.) Just – oh.
The model – uh, Kurt, the teacher had said - turned his head to the right to show his profile. A grin flicked about his lips, and maybe it got wider when Kurt gazed back at him. And on his back, a dark tattoo: It's Got Bette Midler.
That finished Blaine off. He was going to ask the model out for a drink after class. For possible friendship reasons, of course. Kurt winked at him as he shifted for the next pose, and that's when Blaine knew the answer was going to be yes.