"Alright, Blaine, I cave. You're moping more than usual – what gives?" David, sans blazer and shirtsleeves rolled up, makes frantic hand signals to me, a look of panic on his face. However, as I'm not fluent in 'manic gesture', I ignore him. Blaine, seeing that I'm looking at him, takes a headphone out morosely. As David releases a heartfelt moan of genuine frustration, Blaine replies,
"Oh... it's nothing, Wes, don't worry." David has now added frenzied eyebrow waggling to his hand movements; what he reminds me of is a young child subtly trying to tell you that they really need to go to the toilet. I raise an eyebrow at him; he responds by widening his eyes to almost double their original size.
"Come on, mate," I say kindly to Blaine, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. "We're here for you, whatever the problem is. Right, David?" I look to David for moral support (I don't tend to do 'supportive', if I'm honest), but he's staring at the window contemplatively – almost as if he's plotting an escape route. This worries me for a number of reasons.
Mainly because we're three stories high, and cleaning David up from the concrete below is not how I had planned to spend my weekend.
"Well, if you're sure, I do need you're help with something..." I consider this for a moment. If David – compassionate, placid David (or at least more compassionate and placid than myself) – was looking out of the window like it was the better of two really dire situations, I'm not sure I want to get involved in whatever this 'problem' is.
But really, how bad can it be? And Blaine's eyes are like some beaten up puppy in one of those charity adverts... not, you know, that I would ever admit that out loud to him, of course.
How bad can it be? It's like something from a very gory film, where some character explodes messily over – well, everything. I stare at Blaine in horror as the torrent of previously unspoken emotion just keeps coming. And coming. And coming.
I kid you not, I have now found out more about Kurt in the last half hour than I have in the past few months of knowing him. For example, did you know that he prefers Lady Gaga to Katy Perry? I didn't, prior to this conversation. And now I do. I don't know what I'm going to do with this information – it's probably just pushed something incredibly vital out of memory. Thanks, Blaine. I blame you if I fail my exams, and therefore later fail at life.
"...and he sits there and pushes his hair out of his face, like," Blaine tries to demonstrate with his own, heavily gelled hair. I seriously consider copying David's excellent example by covering my poor, defenceless eyes with my hands. Fortunately, Blaine decides he has to give up when his hair isn't moving. "Well, it looks better when he does it." I should hope so. That was horrific to watch.
"And his eyes! They're sort of a..." Blaine pauses, and seems to mentally grope for a phrase suitable enough to describe Kurt's eyes. After a long pause, in which Blaine seems to search through his mental bank of love sonnets, David looks up and says, deadpanned,
"Happy-storm colour?" What. The. Hell. Now David's gone over to the love fool side. While I consider ways to bring David back to the side of the normal (because I can barely deal with Blaine's musings on love, let alone Blaine's and David's), Blaine glares at David.
"Yeah... how did you know how to describe them?" There is a flash of jealousy and anger in Blaine's face. I have to admit, at this point, I'm seriously thinking over how best to broach the issue of 'The Question' with David. No, not a proposal – the other Question. David finally looks out from behind his hands and mutters,
"You've used that phrase before. So. Many. Times."
"I have?" David nods, slowly and deliberately, as you would nod to someone particularly slow and stupid. Blaine pauses, shrugs, and then carries on with his Kurt related spiel.
Now, subjecting you to the rest of this torture would be the mark of an evil genius – which, unfortunately, I'm not. So, I'll sum up the next ten minutes by saying that, if I wanted to (and I'm nearly positive that Blaine has already done so), I can now write an essay on the subject that is Kurt Hummel. And it would be an especially good, analytical essay as well – not one of those narratives that my teachers frequently tell me off for writing.
Eventually, the door to the common area opens, and I almost run to the door to hug and inappropriately molest whichever guy has ended this horror story I seem to be trapped in.
Oh. I've obviously offended some higher being today, because none other than Kurt Hummel himself shuffles in, weighed down by about thirty books from the library. Blaine (thankfully) shuts up straight away, and dashes off to be all gentlemanly and take some of Kurt's books from him. David takes the opportunity to lean towards me and whisper furiously,
"You had to ask him, didn't you? I warned you. This can't be blamed on me."
"Oh," I say, glaring at him, "is that what the expressive eyebrow waggling was about? I thought you were trying to make a move on me. I was going to tell you you've got the wrong guy – Blaine and Kurt are the one's you need to be flirting with, not me." We both take the time to roll our eyes at Blaine, who's being frighteningly obvious, and – oh dear God, I've just noticed the Kurt Hummel Hair Flick. I'm never going to be able to stop noticing when he does that now. I turn to David, who, judging by his face, has just noticed the Hair Flick too.
"Let's... Let's never mention this again. Agreed?" He nods emphatically, before muttering,
"You need to get your internal, psychic ears cleaned. If you'd just heard what I was screaming at you in my head, we wouldn't be noticing Kurt's hair swishing now." I feel I should explain. David insists that we have a psychic connection, because we tend to be able to guess what the other is thinking. I'm not convinced – and even if we do, it has yet to prove useful. Take now, for instance. If there was ever a time for a latent, psychic power to manifest itself, now was it.
There's suddenly a loud sigh behind us, and I don't need to turn around to see that Blaine is back to his sulky self – Kurt has obviously left the immediate vicinity.
"Guys, help me!"
"Blaine, I'm sorry, throughout your speech I only noticed two problems, neither of which either of us can help you with. The first one is that you're a bit of a stalker, and the second," David, the sneaky thief that he is, holds up Blaine's iPod, "is that 'Teenage Dream' is at the top of your most played list, followed closely by 'Baby, It's Cold Outside'. Is there actually something wrong with you?" Blaine throws himself at David, who in turn throws the iPod to me. Sure enough, there they are, like flashing beacons of stalkerism.
"Okay, I'll admit it," Blaine says breathlessly after a few minutes of hitting David. "I've got a problem." He says the latter quietly, as if he's actually worried that someone will overhear our conversation. "But can you blame me? He doesn't even seem to notice! I couldn't be any more obvious, unless I wore a neon sign around my neck that said 'Kurt, I want in your pants now please'. Which I'm seriously considering as an option right about now." Oh, so the obviousness is all part of the game plan! That makes it a bit less pitiable. But not much less.
"There'll be no need for neon signs. Blaine, my friend, I think it's time for your lesson in 'Lockerisms'."
"How is staring at Wes' locker going to help me get Kurt to realise that I want to-"
"Sing corny love songs to him?" Blaine glares at me, although a glare from someone shorter than you isn't so much scary as freaking adorable. Bless him.
"It's not, stupid." And with that, David slams an elbow into my locker, forcing it to pop open. Blaine turns to me, open mouthed, and I shrug.
"I taught him that. I don't consider it an invasion of privacy, just a necessity in today's busy world."
"Now," David says, clapping his hands together like an eager child. "Tell me what you see, Blaine."
"Gym socks." He says promptly.
"Hey, not everyone has scarily neat lockers, Mr 'Oh Dear God, It's A Germ!'" Before he can retaliate (probably with something to do with hygiene), David holds up a hand.
"Blaine, focus! Now is not the time to lecture Wes on his inability to remove dirty gym socks. Examine the pictures on his locker door." Both Blaine and I stare at David as if he's finally lost all the normality that his parents prided in him before he came to Dalton. "Just trust me on this! Wes has the perfect example of what a locker should look like!"
"Right... Well, it seems to be split into two... Half of it is devoted to pictures of Megan Fox," he pulls an unimpressed face. "And the other half is..." Blaine looks at me with one eyebrow raised, and I flush in embarrassment. "A photo of the Warblers, with a quote from the local newspaper about how excellent we are; and they single Wes out in particular." He rounds on me, spinning on the spot in a very Kurt-like manner. David spots it too, and tries to mask his laugh as a cough. "Where am I? When was this performance?"
"You were ill. I got to be lead," I say simply, shrugging modestly.
"You're getting off topic, people!" David gestures to the locker. "What we have here is a typical locker door. Pictures of hot girls – or in your case guys – to get us through the day... physically, and inspirational stuff to get us through the day mentally. Think of your locker door as a cheerleading squad, designed just for you." David, bless him, looks so pleased with his analogy that I decide I need to go along with it, if only to prolong when he tries to give this pep talk to me.
"That's great, David, really – but how is this, in any way, helpful for me?" David holds up a hand.
"I was just getting to that." Rummaging through my locker, David re-emerges with a pen, and a piece of paper that looks suspiciously like the back of one of my homework sheets. He draws a big rectangle, looks briefly at Blaine, draws a smaller rectangle, and then a stick figure with a lot of very curly hair.
"Is that supposed to be me?" Blaine says, looking torn between amusement and horror.
"Look, I never said I was any good at art. You know it's you, I know it's you, let's just go with it." He carries on drawing, and Blaine turns to me.
"That seriously isn't what my hair looks like without the gel, right?"
"Of course not," I say kindly. He looks relieved, and I hold my hand a few inches above his head. "It usually stands up to at least here." He slaps at me in an irritated, and highly ineffectual, manner.
"Children, please! Okay, gentleman, marvel at my work." David holds up the hastily drawn sketch.
"What... what is it, David?" He sighs.
"I did some digging about Kurt at his old school – you know, went round his friends, asked them to describe him, made sure Blaine wasn't bringing a proper nutter to the school. You know, the usual. Anyway, one of his friends was emptying the contents of Kurt's locker, and I just happened to see what was hanging on the door." He gestures to his masterpiece again, and Blaine looks like Christmas had come early.
"Really? My picture?" David shrugs.
"Not just yours, but yes, your picture did seem to take up the majority of the locker door space. But wait, here's the kicker." He takes back the drawing (I swear to God, Blaine looked like he was about to reach out and cling to it for dear life), and scribbles across it, before handing it back sombrely. Blaine goes very still, so I have to peer over his shoulder to see what David has added.
"...'Courage'? What the hell does that mean?"
"I... I used to text that to Kurt. Back when he was at McKinley." I look at Blaine for a few minutes, expecting some sort of elaboration – I mean, you don't just text the word 'Courage' to people without some sort of context – but he goes quiet.
"Okay, David, what's so great about that?" David, suddenly the fount of all knowledge, smiles wisely.
"It means, Wes, that our dear Blaine is less 'Megan Fox', and more 'Dalton Warblers were spectacular'." ...No, I'm still not following. David spots this, because he carries on, very slowly, "Kurt doesn't see that Blaine wants in his pants, because all he is seeing is 'Kurt, have courage, I'll support you, and mentor you, like some old fatherly figure'. And really, who's expecting advances from a fatherly figure?" That's really quite grim, when it's put like that.
"So... What should I do, guys? I really like him. And yes, I realise I sound like a sissy, but to be honest, I'm a desperate man." David smiles sympathetically.
"Well, the good news is that there's a basis for reciprocated feelings from Kurt. You just need to change your approach. Be less spectacular, and more... Daaamn."
Where the hell is he? I've searched most of the school, and there's no sign of Kurt anywhere. Maybe he's actually a figment of my imagination – that would certainly explain why everything seems to be going wrong. It's all a dream, and I'm not really this socially inept.
Ah, wait, there he is, carrying yet another stack of books with him. He walks towards me with that oh so enticing hip swivel of his – I wonder if he knows he does it?
"Hey, Blaine!" I start to wave manically, and then stop abruptly when I remember one of David's Commandments (no word of a lie, that's the title he actually used).
"Stop being so damn eager to see him all the time! Make him think that you've got other people to see, other places to be."
"But," I'd said confusedly, "I am pleased to see him, and I generally don't have anyone better to see." Wes glared at me right about now, but I ignored him.
"Don't question me, just do what I say!"
So, instead of rushing to greet Kurt, I stop, and attempt that sexy hip sway he does. Okay, maybe I'm not pulling this off as well as he does, but I think I'm doing pretty well. Kurt raises an eyebrow.
"Blaine, what are you doing?" I stop, and try to lean casually against the wall - but fate is obviously not on my side today, because I misjudge the distance and stumble. Kurt, bless him, tries to remain poker faced at my lack of grace, but I think I see his lips twitch slightly.
Now, what do I say to him? According to David, I need to sound 'sophisticated, and almost like his presence doesn't affect me'. Right. I can do that.
"Oh, Kurt, I didn't see you there. Long time no see." That should do, right? Polite, yet with an air of indifference. David would be proud.
"Blaine... you saw me half an hour ago." Oh. Yeah. He puts a cool hand on my forehead, and I can actually hear my skin blushing. "Are you feeling okay? Do you need to go see Matron? You look feverish." I swat his hand away grumpily. Why isn't this working – he's supposed to be swooning at my feet, not treating me like some idiot of a five year old!
"I'm fine, Kurt." I suddenly grin at him in a suave manner, wiggling my eyebrows in a way I've seen David do when he's trying to pick up girls. "So, what're you up to?" He stares at me with his eyebrows raised, before gesturing slowly to the books stacked under his arm with an extravagant sweep of his arm.
"Homework? Blaine, we've had this conversation already – although, I must say, you weren't acting like quite as much of a tit earlier." Tit? Why does this work for Wes and David, and not me? "Unless you are genuinely ill, in which case I'll take care of you in your mentally addled state."
"I'm not – wait, did you just say you'd take care of me if I was ill?" That was another of David's Laws of Dating; notice the little things the other person says and try to twist it to make it sound like they care about you more than you care about them. Kurt starts backing away slowly.
"Well, yes. Listen, I'm going to go, uh, do something. That involves me being somewhere else. Preferably quite far away from you and your new idiotic behaviour." With that, he practically runs down the hall. I groan in frustration; David and Wes simultaneously burst out of the cupboard they were hiding in, identical scowls on their faces.
"What..." Wes says slowly, as if he's trying very hard not to explode. "Was that? Did you listen to a word we said?"
"Never mind," David says, dismissing my protests of how yes, I did listen, word for word, and look where it got me? with a wave of his hand. "We've got another plan."
"This is never going to work, guys. I'm a really bad actor." Their next 'brilliant' plan involves me being ill, so Kurt will rush to my bedside to play nurse, thereby realising his true love for me.
David grins at me in a very frightening way, gesturing to Wes, whose hands are held behind his back.
"Who said anything about faking?" Wes brings forward what he's been hiding behind his back – and I nearly throw up.
"What is that?" Okay, I admit it, there were a few more expletives in that sentence. But really... the Thing (because it can only be described as a capitalised Thing) on the plate is grey. What could possibly be grey that lives on a plate? Because it's obviously alive. It can't be food. Not that colour. I mean... it's grey.
"This is cauliflower cheese. From last week. When we had cauliflower cheese. Or," he gestures to the plate (why did they keep it, is what I want to know) "Didn't, as the case may be." They're both grinning at me inanely, bringing the plate closer.
"Oh. Oh, no. Hell no. I am not eating that... that creature, just so I can get sick, on the off chance that Kurt will decide he needs to wait at my bedside for when I finally stop puking up my internal organs." David just smiles knowledgably.
"But what if it does work?" ...Damn it, he has me there. I take the first horrific, slimy bite, David and Wes cheering me on, like two children.
Oh. Ooh. This is so much worse than any hangover. I've possibly died. And I'm so hungry. Oh, God, thinking about food is making me feel worse. What happened? Oh, yeah. The Thing. Quite possibly rendered all of my internal organs useless. May have to spend the rest of my life wired to a machine.
"...don't know what possessed him to eat it in the first place. I mean really..." I turn slowly to the source of the voice and see, through slightly hazy vision, a person stood by the door. Quite possibly an angel. Considering I'm dead and all.
"Whozzat?" The person walks leisurely towards the bed.
"Oh, you're awake. Matron said you should be waking up some time soon." That voice sounds familiar...
"K-Kurt?" I blink a few times, effectively clearing my vision in time to see Kurt grinning arrogantly.
"The one and only."
"You-" I cough suddenly and I catch Kurt leaning towards the sick bucket, but nothing comes up. I flop back on the bed and cough feebly before continuing. "You been here long?" Kurt looks at his watch, and there's a flicker of something in my stomach. Hope, that he's waited anxiously at my bedside for my recovery?
Or, you know, it could be another urge to vomit.
"About... ten minutes? I've been in Lima for the past week." ...Of course he has. It's Easter break. I can't believe I didn't think of that. Wait, so if he's been away for a week...
"How long have I been out?"
"I'm not sure, but I think Matron said something about how you got sick the day I went back home." I have just spent the worst week of my life in a sick induced coma, and Kurt wasn't even here to cry at my bedside? Well, maybe that was for the best. I mean, I can't be highly attractive and fanciable while my head is in a sick bucket, right?
"Are you going to stay until I get better?"
"That won't be necessary, Mr Anderson. I'm letting you out now – Mr Hummel volunteered to help you back to your dormitory." You have got to be kidding me. Kurt grins at me, and holds out his hand.
"Come on, Sleeping Sicky; let's get the invalid to his bed." Screw you, Hummel. He's enjoying this, you can tell – there's no sorrow there at all. Where was Nurse Kurt in all of this? Were all the fantasies of Kurt in a nurse's uniform... never mind, let's not go down that route.
"You know," he says while we're venturing slowly down the hall, with me holding onto his arm for dear life. "You didn't actually say why you ate the food in the first place." He's smiling, but there's something in his face that I, in my addled state, can't really identify.
"I... er..."
"It was a dare! Hi, Blaine, you're alive then. Hi, Kurt – have a good time in Lima?" Thank you, Wes, for coming up with that excuse. Kurt nods stiffly, before gesturing to me.
"Care to give me a hand? He's a bit of a dead weight." Wes scurries around to my other side and props me up. The rest of the walk to my room is in silence.
"Okay, Blaine, you going to be okay from here?" Kurt says once we reach my dormitory door. I nod weakly, but that doesn't seem to convince him because he says "I'll come in and check on you later – I just need to talk to Wes." I nod again, too tired and weak to care why Kurt needs to talk to Wes.
I can hear them both whispering when I shut my door, but before I can summon up the energy to lean against the door to listen in, there's an explosion of noise that almost makes me fall over. It takes a few minutes to realise that Kurt – delicate looking Kurt – is practically screaming.
"What the hell were you thinking, encouraging him to eat that death trap? You heard what matron said – he could have died. And nobody even thought to call me back from Lima... I can't believe you'd all be so irresponsible! Urgh!" I hear stomping of designer boots down the hall, and then Wes comes in, looking pale.
"Well, that went... Bloody hell, he's terrifying. Just to let you know, if you ever get into an argument with him when you inevitably get married, just accept the fact that he's right and move on." He rubs his hand vigorously over his left ear. "I think my eardrum has imploded."
"On the plus side," David says during lunch when I can finally manage normal life without vomiting, looking too cheerful for somebody who nearly caused the death of one of his best friends. "You now know that Kurt was worried about you." He pokes at a piece of lettuce dubiously, before sliding it on to Wes' plate.
"A lot of people were worried about me, retard. I was worried about me. I'm still worried about me. I'm living off energy drinks and supplement bars, I still can't stomach food, I've lost more weight than I care to admit, and Kurt isn't even speaking to me. What did I possibly gain from this experience, aside from the fact that I'll never be able to look at a cauliflower without throwing up – or the colour grey, for that matter?" Wes sighs and pats my hand patronisingly.
"Didn't you hear what he screamed at me outside your room? He was pissed off that we didn't call him back from Lima – and that we're irresponsible, but that's not the issue here. Most people wouldn't be angry to the point of hysterics that they weren't called back from their hometown just to see a mate in hospital. There's something there."
"That's great," I say, throwing a chunk of my nutritious bar (what's in these things, anyway? Cardboard?) at his head, "but you're missing something – he's not speaking to me." David tuts dismissively.
"All part of the plan, my friend, all part of the plan." Oh, God, there's more?
"Yes, there's more." Stop reading my mind, Wes. "The next step is for you to get some alone time with Kurt, and explain why you've been acting like such a prize knob recently."
"Wait... you've been deliberately making me look like an arse, purely to end up with me telling Kurt how I feel? Why couldn't I have just done that originally?" David and Wes shrug simultaneously.
"I don't know... chicks seem to dig the whole 'jumping through the hoops to get them' thing."
"Well, that's great... but Kurt's not a girl. He's most definitely male. Because, you know, I'm gay. The whole 'boob' thing doesn't really do it for me. I'm more of a-" They both cover their ears and start singing loudly. Good. Serves them right. "Now, dickheads, if you'll excuse me, I need to find Kurt."
I seem to be spending most of my time these days trying to find Kurt. It probably makes me look quite desperate. Surprisingly, he's not at the library or trekking back from the library, or in any of the music rooms – so he has to be in his dormitory. I knock hesitantly, and hear a stifled gasp from the other side of the door.
There is nothing worse than hearing a gasp from the other side of a closed door. All sorts of scenarios run through your head, getting progressively more and more X-Rated – Kurt being pushed up against the wall by some hot guy with straight, pretty hair (I'm not bitter at all...), Kurt moaning under his breath as the guy gently runs his hands through Kurt's hair, hands slowly making their way down his neck, down his torso... Focus, Blaine, damn it!
"Oh, Blaine, it's you, thank god," Kurt says, looking adorable in a pair of sunglasses, pyjamas, a loosely tied blue dressing gown and mussed hair. Oh, not the hair – who's he been letting touch his hair?
Kurt looks around the hall quickly, lunges forward, pulls me into the room and shuts his door, all before I can tell him that, if he's busy, I'll just go. I spin on the spot to see where he's hiding the hot guy, but there's no one in here – that I can see, anyway. The curtains are drawn, and Kurt's laptop is perched on the bed, giving off an iridescent glow.
"Where've you been? I haven't seen you in... ages, actually." I frown at Kurt, who's standing awkwardly at the door to the bathroom.
"Been sick. Confined to the dorms." He pauses, and goes very pale, very quickly. Taking off his sunglasses, he throws them to the floor and mutters, "'Scuse me-" and runs into the en suite. This is quickly followed by the sound of sick hitting the toilet bowl (a sound I'm very well acquainted with at the moment, believe me), and I instantly feel guilty, assuming that he was getting off with some randomer when really he's been in here, puking his guts out.
After a while, Kurt shuffles into the room, arms wrapped around his stomach. He looks up, and his eyes look bleary and red. I rush over, and help him to his bed.
"Kurt, why didn't you call? I'd have come over... made you some soup or something. You shouldn't have had to stagnate in here on your own." He glares at me and mutters something under his breath. "What?" He sighs and repeats himself louder for my benefit.
"Now you know how I felt. Not knowing. Not being able to help. Not nice, is it?" It takes me a while to realise what he's talking about, before I remember what he said to Wes.
"...No. Not really." He nods, looking somewhat satisfied.
"Do me a favour? Pass me my laptop. I was in the middle of a good crying fest over 'Romeo + Juliet' before you came rushing to my door." That explains the red eyes. I hand him the laptop and say,
"Really? Never seen it." He looks at me, horrified, before going back to the main menu.
"That's like saying you've never tried ice cream. I'm fixing this. Get yourself comfortable, Anderson, I'm giving you culture in the form of brilliant film, and Leonardo DiCaprio back in his prime."
"You watched Romeo + Juliet? Are you actually kidding me?"
"It was nice, actually. He got really cuddly and upset near the end – it was so cute..." Wes raises an eyebrow, and looks me up and down briefly.
"Did you tell him that you want him in your bedroom? Yes or no?" I look at my feet before shaking my head.
"In my defence, he was ill. He wouldn't want me to come on to him while he feels like his immune system is collapsing." Wes sighs.
"You're such a sissy. Confess to him, damn it, or David and I will have to do it for you. And trust me – it won't be pretty." Speak of the devil,
"Where is David, anyway?" Wes suddenly smirks knowingly. Oh no. He's not. Wes sees my face, and nods briskly.
At this point, I have two options – I kill Wes now, or kill him after he tells me where he is. He obviously sees the murderous intent in my face, because he starts backing away, palms raised in defence.
"I think he said something about going outside? You know, where Kurt is?" He pauses, looking at me sympathetically. "I did warn you, mate, that we'd do it for you if you didn't have the balls to do it first."
"Wes, you warned me about twenty seconds ago!" I take off at a run – I may be the biggest hypocrite in the world when it comes to courage, but I think I've got enough to stop David telling Kurt that I'm a crazy stalker. I'd rather that came from me, thank you very much.
After a good ten minutes of running (okay, two minutes of running, and eight of a very brisk walk), I finally come across Kurt sitting on a bench, smiling bemusedly at a very out of breath David. I don't know what happens, but I shriek (I actually shriek – that's the sign of a desperate man there) and tackle David to the ground.
"Blaine? What the hell?" Kurt, demonstrating his concealed strength, pulls me off David, who is glaring at me and pointing at Kurt.
"Okay, David, I get it. I'll tell him. Jeez." He nods in a satisfied way, flopping against the grass. "David? I don't want an audience – buggar off."
"God," he says, standing up rather fluidly for somebody supposedly tired out from running. "You'd think I'd get the right to watch this..." I widen my eyes and jerk my head in what I can only assume is a highly unattractive manner; he finally clears off, leaving me alone with Kurt.
"Uh, Blaine? Are you still acting like a prat, like the other day? Because, I'll be honest with you, that was terrifying. To say the least. You were worse than Finn."
"I-" I freeze, looking for inspiration around me desperately. Soft fingers intertwine themselves with mine, and Kurt smiles down at me encouragingly (curse you, Hummel, for being taller than I am. Just once, I want to be the tall one!)
"I'm listening." He says quietly. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Kurt starts to look at me as if he's seriously regretting being left alone with me – so I say the first thing that comes to my head-
"'My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready to- mmph!" Kurt leans down quickly halfway through and kisses me once, quickly, on the lips, before pulling away, his cheeks tinged pink. "I... uh... wow." He grins at me – one of his adorable, toothy smiles – and says,
"I know. Wes and David told me weeks ago. I've been waiting for you to make the first move. And, I gather, quoting Romeo and Juliet is good enough for me." He leans down again, and I know there's a massive, stupid grin on my face.
"Wes! David! My friends! My two, best friends, who are about to experience an untimely, very painful death. How tragic." Wes and David look at each other, look at me and Kurt (who is holding onto my hand tightly – I'd like to think he just likes the contact, but I know he's getting ready to hold me back from killing Wes and David), and then look at each other again.
"You think he knows?" Wes says. David looks at me and says wisely,
"Why yes, I think he does. Do you think he's grateful?"
"No, I don't."
"Oh. Well, that's rude."
"Yes, I thought so."
"Right. So, what do you think we should do?"
"Grovel?" Kurt, no help whatsoever, is quietly sniggering away to my left.
"David? Wes? I'm in a good mood at the moment-" They both breathe an audible sigh of relief "-so I'll give you a ten second head start, as opposed to five."