Chapter One: A Stranger in the Dark
Twenty-One Days Before Halloween
We tell ourselves there's nothing going bump in the night, and that the monsters we sense under our beds and the ghosts standing invisible just over our shoulders aren't real. We convince ourselves the only predators stalking us in the darkness are human, because then we feel like we can protect ourselves. If it's human, it's just as vulnerable as you are, bound by the same limitations. If it's human it can be discouraged by a group of your friends, a locked door, a weapon…even an alert manner. You can make yourself feel just that tiny bit better if you look over your shoulder and seem like you know where you're going, because conventional wisdom says that predators pick on the weak, and for a human you're pretty good at looking like one of the strong. At the very worst, you tell yourself, I'll see an attack coming and I'll be able to scream, or run, or fight it off.
But what if the predator isn't bound by your limitations? What if distance, locked doors, human strength in any numbers—all of the things we use to reassure and protect ourselves, in other words—mean absolutely nothing to the thing that's stalking you through the darkness?
What if those eyes you imagine you see gleaming out at you from the bushes are really there?
What if sometimes the thing that's following you down that dark, deserted road at night isn't human at all?
From the moment I looked into his eyes I knew there was something different about him, something dark inside that would rear its ugly head and try to swallow me whole if I gave it just the slightest sign of weakness. I told myself to stop so many times, to turn back, look the other way, don't get involved.
I often give myself very good advice, but I very seldom follow it.
The trouble is, he's really hard to say no to, and not just because he's naturally alluring. There's something inherently…sweet about him that makes him twice as dangerous as other—but I'm getting a little ahead of myself. I suppose I should start at the beginning, although you might wonder why. At the time, it all seemed so unimportant. It started out as such an ordinary day.
"So, Kurt, Brittany's hosting the annual Halloween Ball this year, and since she's in Glee I figure all us Gleeks will get an automatic invite to the illicit social event of the season. Which means—"
"—you don't even have to finish that sentence," I said to my best friend and partner in no crime (because really, what on earth is worth doing that's criminal in Lima, Ohio?), Mercedes Jones. "We need costumes. Epic costumes."
"Absolutely. What are we going to do?"
"Well," I said, shouldering my bag and shutting my locker after a last glance to make certain my hairstyle was still perfectly in place, "I propose we make our own. Not only would I refuse to be caught dead in most of the polyester nightmares they sell at costume stores, can you imagine showing up as one of many Pirate Wenches and Ghostface Killers?" I shuddered delicately at the thought, and Mercedes grimaced.
"Okay, so where are we going to get the materials?"
"Leave that to me," I said. "First, you need an idea. Meet me after school at my car with at least three rough sketches of costume proposals, and we," I motioned between us with two fingers, "will do some shopping tonight. Au revoir!"
I waved Mercedes into her class and continued down the hall toward French II, turning the corner only to be met by a wall of red letterman jackets. I nearly smacked right into Azimio Adams—oh wouldn't that have been a quick ending to a tragic tale—but managed to stop just shy of it, skittering back a couple of steps and turning to find that the hall had emptied of all but the most useless of bystanders: a redheaded girl I didn't know by name who backed into the girls' bathroom with a terrified look on her face, and Jacob Ben Israel, who for once didn't seem keen on getting a story as he turned one hundred and eighty degrees and started walking quickly in the opposite direction, glad to let me take the beating on my own.
I turned slowly back to the group of football players, most of whom were looking at me with varying degrees of—discomfort?
"Gentlemen," I said in my most dismissive voice, "If you'll excuse me, I really need to get to class—"
"You're not goin' anywhere, Hummel," said Azimio. "We need a favor."
"A…favor? What in the world could you possibly need from me?"
"We—" Azimio motioned nodded at the rest of the football players, "Need dance lessons. For the Halloween Ball. Pierce and Lopez talked all of the Cheerios into startin' off the dance with some kinda waltz or somethin'. So now all our girlfriends told us if we make them look stupid, we'll spend the rest of our high school lives flying solo…if you get what I mean."
I hate to admit it, but I blushed. I'm a teenage boy; allusions to…um…self-service (blush, grimace, cringe, ugh) should not make me feel so awkward. They do. Probably because I have never in my life been able to bring myself to do…that.
"O—kay," I said, hesitantly. "So, why are you asking me? Why not Mike Change, he's way better at dancing than...well, anybody."
"Mike's got the moves—no homo—uh…no offense. You know what I mean?" Azimio was looking more awkward by the minute, and I can't say I wasn't enjoying it just a little, even if the entire situation was perplexing. If you'd told me in my freshman year of high school that by senior year I'd have the entire football team begging me for dance lessons and trying not to be offensive about my sexuality? Let's just say I died laughing would be something of an understatement. Azimio was still talking.
"Anyway…Chang can dance, but I have it on good authority you taught Hudson to waltz for your parents' wedding. Man, if you can teach Hudson to dance without steppin' on his girl's feet, I figure there's no way you can't teach the rest of us, you feel me?"
"If you're asking whether I see your point, I do," I said briskly. "And I suppose since you have mysteriously refrained from ruining any of my ensembles thus far I am willing to let bygones be bygones in order to save you all from a future in manual labor. Meet me in the auditorium tomorrow after football practice. Now if you'll excuse me, I am late for French."
I moved to go around them, and this time they let me pass. I managed to make it all the way down the hall and around the next corner before I burst out laughing. Manual labor. I cannot believe I made a joke like that to half the football team! I pulled out my phone, intent on texting the whole bizarre experience to Mercedes before I headed to class.
Two classes, a coffee run, some fine-tuning of our costume concepts, and an obscene amount of fabric store perusal later, Mercedes and I collapsed into a booth at Breadstix and buried our noses in our menus. We'd reached that point where we'd had just about enough of one another for one day, and would be glad for the food as an excuse not to talk for a little while. It happens to the best of friends sometimes I guess, especially if you rarely spend time in the company of anyone else. Besides, we were starving.
The meal was a quick affair, and mostly quiet, although the silence grew more companionable and less testy once we got some food in us. We split the check right down the middle—a long-standing tradition—and then headed outside. Just as we got to the door, Mercedes' phone went off.
"Really?" I asked, raising an eyebrow at her, "the Avatar theme?" She waved me off and answered, a flush and a smile on her face. I rolled my eyes and continued out the door, calling behind me that she should come to the car when she was finished talking. I'm happy for Sam and Mercedes—especially since I didn't really expect the long distance thing to survive the end of summer—but is there anything more depressing than being single and trapped in a vehicle with your giddy best friend on the phone with her gorgeous boyfriend? No, there is not, and that was a rhetorical question.
I shivered in the night air, unseasonably cold even for autumn in Ohio, and slipped my hands into my coat pockets. The air had that crisp, earthy-but-clean smell of rain on dying leaves, and I could see my breath clouding the air in front of my face. I began a leisurely stroll in the general direction of the car, just enjoying the night air and the quiet.
"Hello."
The voice startled me, and I jumped. I also may have yelped, but I can't be blamed for that. One minute I was alone on the sidewalk in front of Breadstix, and the next I was clutching at my heart and staring, wide-eyed, at a boy about my age in a dark pea coat, red scarf and grey slacks, head cocked to one side and grinning at me like he knew the punch line to a private joke I'd missed the telling of. I took deep breaths through my nose and tried to force my gaping expression into a glare.
"What is your problem, sneaking up on a person like that!" I snapped at him. His smile faltered a little, and wide, dark eyes looked at me in such a way that I felt immediately as if I had kicked a happy puppy.
"I'm sorry," he said in the warmest, sincerest voice I had ever heard. I noticed he spoke with perfect diction. "I didn't mean to startle you. I'm Blaine." He stuck out his hand, smile threatening to sneak back onto his face already, as if it couldn't bear to disappear for long. I regarded him for a split second, really took him in. Incredibly long lashes framed those dark eyes, and his hair was black and curly, but neat, carefully styled. His smile was full of white teeth that were perfectly straight, although I thought they looked oddly sharp and pointed in places. That could have been the light, though. For a second, when I'd first noticed him, I'd thought his eyes were completely black, too—no whites to them at all. Clearly that was impossible. I willed my imagination to stop running wild.
I took his hand in mind and shook it, surprised at how warm his skin felt against mine.
"Kurt," I said, only a little breathlessly. It was just beginning to dawn on me that this random stranger on the street—Blaine—was absolutely gorgeous, and that he was smiling at me in a way that I could only interpret as delighted.
"Delighted to meet you, Kurt," he said, and wow—it was like he read my mind. Of course that's ridiculous, but it was how I felt at the time. The whole thing seemed surreal. Actually, it still does, no matter how many of the things I've learned since then I apply to what happened that night.
It suddenly occurred to me that I'd been much too quiet for a far longer span of time than was considered normal under the circumstances, and that my hand was still clasped in Blaine's. That warmth seemed to be intensifying and spreading all the way up my arm. I let go abruptly, and I could have sworn I saw those eyes flicker black as pitch for a millisecond before they were back to being just a pair of dark puppy-dog eyes, blinking up at me out of the most angelic face I had ever seen.
"It's nice to meet you, too," I said faintly, just as I heard the door to Breadstix open behind me. The sounds of people chattering over dinner drifted out onto the still air, and I heard Mercedes' voice over the low din.
"Okay, Sam, I'll call you tomorrow. I need to find Kurt before he leaves me here. 'Bye!"
"I'll see you later, Kurt," said Blaine amiably, although I thought something in his face had closed down as soon as Mercedes' voice had reached us. He turned and walked away quickly, turning down a side street and disappearing before I had time to think of anything else to say. I was still standing there, completely dumbfounded, when Mercedes caught up with me, rubbing her arms and shivering.
"Let's get to the car," she said, "I'm freezing. How on earth can you handle strolling around in this weather?"
I didn't answer. I don't think I said anything else to Mercedes for the rest of the night. If she noticed that I was behaving strangely, she didn't mention it. I think she was too busy regaling me with details of Sam's phone call, but I didn't really absorb any of what she said. It's like my mind had walked off into the night with a handsome, black-eyed stranger named Blaine, and never come back.
Author's Note: Much love to darrenlivesinmyhead from tumblr for inspiring me to write this. My goal is to finish it in time to post the last chapter on Halloween. As for my other fics: I am still working diligently on ALL of them. If it says incomplete, rest assured I am still writing on it. It's becoming more and more difficult to update regularly as I now have to write for classes again and I find myself out of my room more often than I'm in it, but I am not abandoning any of my fics. To the person who asked for more Music For A Song in lieu of the many drabbles and one-shots I've been posting (and then made a Tori Amos reference to boot!), I hear you. I really, REALLY want to post more Music For A Song, and more Ugly Duckling, but I want the things I post to live up to whatever expectations I've set with previous chapters, and right now they just do not. I have most of the next chapter of MFAS written, and about 1/3 of the next chapter of Ugly Duckling, and I still do have all the plotting planned out for both of those. All I can do at this point is hope that my muse starts sticking around for more than half an hour at a time soon, or that the return of Dave Karofsky to my television screen will inspire me, or something. Thank you to everyone who reads my fics and especially those of you who leave reviews, you are my inspiration and I swear to you, if I ever get something legit published, I will unabashedly thank you all on the dedication page.
Love,
~ The Raisin Girl