Chapter One
Kurt knew in an instant that this was going to end badly. As he felt his left foot catch the turn-up of his Marc Jacobs trousers, he just knew he was going to fall flat on his face. The Grande non-fat mocha in his left hand would have to be sacrificed because the phone cradled in his right palm had to be protected at all costs. But, just before he hurtled face forwards towards the bottom step, wondering foolishly about facial damage repair costs, Kurt registered the presence of a body in his way.
"Aaaahhhh!..." Kurt managed to yell before closing his eyes and crashing completely into a man who looked up from texting on his phone milliseconds before reaching out his hands to break Kurt's fall. Unfortunately, the momentum of Kurt's plunge together with the added attraction of gravity scoffed at the stranger's desperate, yet futile, attempt to stop the inevitable and pushed both him and Kurt over, spilling them callously onto the marble floor below the last step of the central staircase of the Hotel Conference Centre.
Blaine registered their landing with a blinding slam to his head and a powerful stab of pain in his ankle, followed quickly by a scalding burn on his chest. He tried to voice his indignation at the onslaught of pain but, lacking air in his lungs, he found he could not articulate the words.
"Oh shit!" Kurt managed to gasp when he opened his eyes to find himself lying sprawled on top of the stranger whose eyes were squeezed closed. Kurt's imprudent mind took a moment to notice and then admire the spicy saffron scent of the man before it bothered to check in with the rest of Kurt's body for damage control. Surprisingly, his body reported no pain from the extremities although his chest complained of damp warm liquid seeping through his shirt and soaking his skin.
"Oh shit!" Kurt repeated, scrambling to his knees while noting the distress on the inert man's face. Blaine, in turn, opened his eyes to find the most striking face peering down at him in concern. The colour of the stranger's eyes seemed to darken slightly as they studied Blaine and Blaine knew that eventually he'd find the right word to describe them – just as soon as his brain started to function again. He raised an arm towards his head but it collided against the other man's shoulder since Kurt was still sort of straddling him.
"Oh shit, I'm sorry!" Kurt apologised and moved completely off Blaine as Blaine tried again to lift his hand towards his head. He appeared to change his mind mid-journey as his arm dropped instead to his chest to tug away the drenched shirt from his body.
"Ouch! That's hot!" he exclaimed, glad to have his breath returned.
"It would be," Kurt noted dryly, sitting back on his haunches beside Blaine. "I just bought it at the Starbucks beside the hotel."
He stood up and held out his hand, offering to assist Blaine in getting up.
Blaine looked up at the brunette with interest and accepted the proffered hand but, as he placed his weight on his feet to become upright, he let out an agonised groan and settled back onto the floor, wincing in pain. Immediately, Kurt was on his knees beside him again.
"What is it? What's wrong? Where are you hurt?" he asked breathlessly. The thought that he had caused this handsome man untold agony was almost too much to deal with.
Blaine reached down towards his left foot, pulled up the leg of the blue denim jeans he was wearing and slid the sock down. An already puffy angry ankle greeted him. As Kurt looked down, he could see the purple bruising beginning already.
"Come on," he ordered. "I'll help you up. Lean on me; we've got to get that ankle iced immediately." Quickly, he slipped his arms under Blaine's armpits and heaved him to his feet – well, foot actually, as Blaine was definitely not placing any weight on the injured ankle. As the two of them stood still for a brief moment, arms awkwardly slung around each other, they noticed many an onlooker had now stopped to observe the scene. Kurt quickly lowered his head and prayed fervently that no one would whip out a phone to take a picture. His embarrassment would be all over the Internet within minutes. He pulled his arm where it was wrapped around Blaine's waist and tugged him towards the Authors' Restricted Area.
Blaine hobbled along next to Kurt, pleased that they were heading away from the small but very curious crowd. He looked down at the coffee mess on his shirt and grimaced slightly. Way to ruin a good shirt, he thought as he glanced over at the man who had caused his distress and pain. Kurt's brow was furrowed in concentration as he negotiated the hobbling man through the swing doors that effectively kept the general public away from the guest authors at the London Literature Festival.
"In here," he motioned with his head towards an open door on the right and guided Blaine in. "It's a rest room for the authors and I happen to know there's a fully-stocked First Aid cabinet and freezer." Once inside the room, he carefully settled Blaine onto the comfortable two-seater sofa and pulled the coffee table closer.
"Lift your leg up onto the table and I'll get some ice," he instructed.
Blaine reached down and gingerly stripped his injured ankle of the shoe and sock, again wincing at the pain of that simple action. He took a cushion from beside him and placed it on the table before gently placing his foot on it and was stretching back into the sofa just as Kurt returned with ice packs from the freezer.
"Shit!" Kurt exclaimed at the swollen ankle which was quickly darkening into a dark purple bruise.
Blaine laughed. "So you've said … several times." But, as Kurt began to place the icepacks on the ankle, it quickly became Blaine's turn.
"Shit!" he complained, "that's cold." Kurt looked up from his ministrations and fixed Blaine with a stern look.
"Language Mister!" he admonished. Blaine burst out laughing despite the pain throbbing in his ankle at that moment.
"How are you even real?" he asked, chuckling still.
Kurt checked that the ice packs wouldn't fall off and then sat down on the coffee table facing Blaine. He looked carefully at the curly-haired man in front of him and took in those hazel-chocolate eyes with flecks of green dancing in the overhead neon light. Blaine returned his gaze, steady and confidant, until Kurt shivered and glanced away.
"Look," he started, and then looked back into Blaine's eyes. "I am dreadfully sorry about this. I'm an awful klutz and anyone who knows me back home knows I should come with my very own personal disaster warning signal."
Blaine giggled at that comment and held up his hand to stop the man from continuing his apology.
"Hey, no; it was an accident. I get that. I'm sure you had no intention to throw your coffee over the first person who got in your way this evening."
Kurt shook his head sadly, for a moment mourning the loss of his Grande non-fat mocha.
"I was really looking forward to that coffee," he agreed, a slight smirk on his face which changed instantly when he realized where his coffee had ended up.
"Oh shit! Your shirt! It's ruined," he pointed out.
"Relax! Please; it can be washed and if not, it's easily replaced." Blaine raised his eyebrow at Kurt and then said, "It's not like this is the only shirt I own."
"I'll replace it for you," interjected Kurt decisively. "I will. As soon as you are back on your feet, I'll take you to the store and we'll get you a new one."
Blaine laughed at Kurt's insistence and something inside Kurt warmed at the sound. Something deep within him urged him to say something funny just so he could hear that laughing sound again and again.
"Now would be a good time to tell you that it's a Ralph Lauren special edition, eh?" Blaine quipped with a twinkle in his eye.
"Uh, no, actually it wouldn't be," returned Kurt, fixing his best 'bitch, please' glare on Blaine. "I know a Ralph Lauren special edition when I see it and despite your illusions of grandeur, Mister, that isn't one." Suddenly, Kurt gasped and clapped his hand over his mouth, his eyes wide with horror.
"Shit!" he exclaimed for the sixth time that evening. "That was unforgivably rude of me. I'm so sorry. My father says I have no filter. I don't even know your name, I haven't even thanked you properly for stopping my fall and now I've insulted you. Please, I'm dreadfully sorry."
Blaine studied the contrite man in front of him. His eyes were lowered in embarrassment and his hands fidgeted with the hem of his shirt where it lay in his lap. Blaine's heart fluttered a little at the sight of the man's discomfort.
Blaine spoke into the awkward silence. "My name's Blaine."
Kurt looked up at Blaine and smiled gratefully at the easy forgiveness and genuine kindness radiating from the man's eyes.
"Kurt," he responded in kind. "Kurt Hummel."
"Shit!" Blaine's eyes widened in recognition. "You're Kurt Hummel! – That's why you were able to bring me into this room. You're Kurt Hummel – 'children's novelist extraordinaire'." Blaine's hands went up into the air to indicate the quotation he was using from a Time magazine article he had read. "My children adore you – well, they adore your stories."
"At your service."
Kurt attempted to bow deeply from his seated position but then turned to check on the ice packs on Blaine's ankle determined to hide the disappointment that flittered across his eyes at the news of Blaine's children. When he had collected himself enough and was satisfied that the ice packs were doing their job in reducing the swelling, he turned back to Blaine and asked lightly, "Is your wife with you? Will she be worried about where you are right now?"
Blaine's forehead creased in confusion. "My wife?" he queried, surprised. "I don't have a wife, Kurt. I'm gay."
Kurt looked at Blaine in astonishment, his heart racing at the news.
"I'm sorry, you mentioned your children and I just … I'm so sorry; I should never have assumed. Oh shit! I'm such a …" Kurt stopped and looked at Blaine. "Why are you laughing?" he quizzed.
Blaine chuckled. "In all my life, I have never met someone who, in the space of a few minutes, has managed to use the word 'shit' so many times. And that's saying something, because Nick swears like a sailor."
"Nick, huh?" Kurt interjected quietly, holding his breath.
"My best friend from when we were just two bricks and a tikkie high. He and I teach together in the same middle school. His husband, Jeff, is forever fining him for his swearing. I reckon that's how they can afford their holidays each summer."
"You teach, huh?" Kurt repeated, a satisfied smile playing on his lips at the news that sailor-swearing Nick was married.
"Yeah I do; hence 'the children' who love your books," replied Blaine, grinning at the man in front of him.
"What do you teach?" asked Kurt, his heart beginning to swell at the thought of this attractive man surrounded by young children.
"English and Music to years 5, 6 and 7," replied Blaine and Kurt could hear the pride in his voice as he answered.
"Is that equivalent to our grades in the States?" queried Kurt. "I mean, are your years here the same as ours?"
"Yes, yes I think they are," confirmed Blaine. "Little critters aged between 10 and 12 are my special lot in life. Many of them chose to read your latest novel for their Summer Book Reports and they loved it. You truly are very talented, Mr Hummel."
"Don't you dare 'Mr Hummel' me, Blaine! I'm the guy who wrecked your ankle, destroyed your shirt and generally put his foot in his mouth each time he opened it tonight."
"Gosh, you have been busy, haven't you?" Blaine teased lightly, enjoying the blush that swept over the young writer's cheeks. Kurt turned away, ostensibly to check the ice packs.
"How is your ankle feeling?" he asked.
"Hmm," replied Blaine, "it's a tad difficult to tell now because I've lost all feeling in that foot."
Kurt was concerned. It was getting late and surely Blaine would be keen to get home.
"How far is your home from here?" he asked worriedly and Blaine shrugged his shoulders.
"About two hours and three minutes if you take the M3 or two hours and twenty minutes if you don't."
Under the full force of Kurt's glare, Blaine qualified his response with a grin, "What? It's true- you Google it and see."
"So you don't live in London," stated Kurt matter-of-factly.
"Nope – Southampton born and raised," replied Blaine proudly. "Where's home for you, Kurt?"
"Me? Oh, ..um… I was born in a town called Lima, in Ohio and got the hell out of there the day after graduation. Studied journalism and creative writing in New York whilst interning for and then, when my first screenplay was accepted for production, I moved to LA where I now live."
"Wow! Yours really is a 'small-town boy makes good' story isn't it? That's fantastic."
"Yeah well, anything is better than living in homophobic Lima," Kurt shrugged dismissively but Blaine didn't miss the hurt that laced the words and he was at a loss as to how to respond. He sat up and shook the ice packs off his ankle as he lifted his leg from off the coffee table.
"Wait, Blaine! What are you doing?" asked Kurt as he stood up.
"I guess I should get going," Blaine replied. "I've a long tube journey ahead of me."
"Where are you spending the night?" Kurt asked as he watched Blaine attempt to push himself off the sofa without putting weight on his ankle.
"I've got a friend in Morden." Blaine huffed in pain as he righted himself, looked at Kurt and continued, "It's the last stop on the Northern Line."
"Blaine," Kurt reached out his hand to grab Blaine's arm and steady him as the man wobbled uncomfortably on his uninjured foot. "I've got a suite upstairs in the hotel. Why don't you rather just stay here overnight? You really can't put any weight on that foot. If you travel uptown now, you are only going to make it worse which will ruin your whole weekend. I feel bad enough for your injury already, please allow me to make it up to you this way."
Blaine looked steadily into Kurt's eyes, reading the genuine concern there but also identifying the flicker of interest and hope. His heart plummeted.
"Kurt, that's a very kind offer and I am very tempted to take you up on it-"
"Then do," Kurt encouraged eagerly but Blaine held up his hand to stop the writer's enthusiasm and continued to explain himself.
"Not because you feel that you owe me at all, but rather because I don't think I can face that journey on the underground right now at all. I'm not even sure I can put my shoe back on net alone limp up to the tube station. It's just-"
"Blaine," Kurt interrupted again, his eyes imploring. "Accept my offer, please."
"Kurt-" Blaine struggled to find a steady voice. "Kurt, I'm married."