A/N: So this piece was written for the wonderful Lucy-Jane ( youmovemeblaine) and honey, I hope you enjoy my take on au Klaine.
I don't own Glee otherwise Blaine would so not be in Ohio right now and instead would be rocking it with his gays in NYC.
Kurt was running.
His feet sprinted away from them.
He'd admit it was not something he did often –the physical exercise or the quick escape –usually he would stand and fight but this time he failed to do so.
It had finally become too much.
The car park was deserted and Kurt could see his step-brother's car on the far side. God damn for car-sharing that morning; maybe his 'Save the Environment' speech did have a flaw; one that involved not having the keys for a quick getaway.
Kurt rattled the door handle to the driver's seat.
Firmly locked.
He briefly considered smashing the window but he did not have the engine keys either. He could try to jump start it? He knew enough about cars from years of helping his dad at the shop; but did he have the balls?
No.
He couldn't.
Instead he ran again.
He was rapidly becoming good at that. Running. Well, escaping. His lack of effort in gym was major evidence of his non-existent physical fitness.
Kurt did not slow, not once, as he sped out of the unlocked front gate. He had never been more grateful for McKinley's poor efforts at security. Well, when it came to the building anyway. The student security? Saying that could be improved was an insult to the word understatement.
Kurt didn't absorb where he was running to, he just had to get away. He couldn't go home; his dad may pop back from the shop and question his presence. His dad couldn't know.
Yet he would probably see the growing bruise on his face when he arrived home.
Was he hit by a locker? Did he walk into a door?
That wouldn't work, Kurt was a careful person.
Hit round the face by Rachel during Glee club?
That might be successful.
He nodded to no one in particular and headed in the opposite direction.
Minutes passed.
5 minutes.
Kurt did not stop.
10 minutes.
Somewhere within him he knew his legs were tiring yet his pace remained quick and his head stayed oblivious.
20 minutes.
Kurt had reached down-town Lima, he released, as he let himself slow a little at the familiarity of the area. He recognised this place. It was safe to him. He had spent many weekends here before. The café on the corner sells the only decent coffee in Lima. The shops are small, vintage, yet cheaper than the mall. The best shop though was the old-fashioned record store that sits in the middle of the street.
Kurt let himself grind to a halt in front of it. He knew his face was red and shining with sweat, and his clothes were rumpled, but for the first time in his life he did not seem to care.
He pushed open the door to the deteriorating, shabby store and heard the bell chime. He winced at the noise, like usual, and refrained from shuddering at the old, loud, arrival-notifying device.
Kurt looked around the store. From behind one of the shelves holding CDs, a man's head popped out. He was a grey-haired man who deteriorated along with the store. He wore grey slacks, paired with a faded white shirt, and a pair of brown leather shoes. Kurt did not admire his fashion sense, yet he did admire the man himself.
"Kurt?"
Kurt forced a smile onto his face.
"Mr Whitby," he greeted the man.
Mr Whitby's smile faded as he came closer.
"Kurt, what happened to your face?"
The teenage boy didn't bother to consider the 'I was hit in Glee club' story; Mr Whitby had known him too long. After all, he had been coming in since he was small with his mother. She used to take him every weekend and perch upon the old piano to play him a few songs. The customers would love it, Mr Whitby would applaud them, and the store was very popular and always appreciated a talented hand. Kurt's mother taught him how to love music. She began to teach him piano too when he was old enough. She would sit at the keys and, even when he messed up, she would never grow tired. He eventually grew into a talented hand himself; Whitby let him play the keys too.
When she had died, Kurt stopped coming. He spent 5 years of his life refusing to touch the piano as it only brought back memories. He couldn't do it. He gave up on music. It was only when he turned 13, and his father allowed him to take himself downtown to get out of the house for a while, that he rediscovered the old store. He rediscovered music. He listened to it. He bought it. He helped out around the store and Whitby paid him for his assistance; but never again did he touch the old piano. In fact, as Whitby could no longer play due to his arthritis and no other pianist wished to play the decaying piece, it had been untouched for the 5 years he had been here.
Whitby knew he could not play anymore, never again. He knew Kurt. This is why Kurt saw no point lying to the old man.
"Neanderthals," Kurt whispered, "Large, life-ruining bullies."
Whitby's face filled with the sympathy it often offered when Kurt's life was inflicted with trauma. He was also scared of how often that tended to be.
"Oh, Kurt"
Even though his voice was full of affection, he did not ask what happened – he knew Kurt would be uncomfortable sharing despite his close relationship with the man – but he did squeeze Kurt's shoulder: his way of showing affection. It always had been. The first time he had been acquainted with it was the only time he returned to the store after his mother's death. There had been too many times after that to count.
"Fancy starting early?" Whitby asked, pretending not to realise Kurt would be missing half his school day.
"I was going to close up to get lunch, but if you're here-"
"Go," Kurt interrupted, "I would love to."
Personally, Kurt was just grateful for the distraction.
Whitby grabbed his brown leather hat from the coat stand along with his cracked jacket and nodded once at Kurt over his shoulder before heading out of the door.
As soon as it closed, Kurt sunk to the floor. He knew there would be no customers; it was only when school kicked out that the customers came. Many were music students from the college down the road. There were always a few school students, but they kept to themselves and Kurt hardly noticed them.
Deciding he would not be interrupted, Kurt stood and headed out back towards the small stall Whitby installed during the store's younger days so he would not have to share with the customers.
It was as worn as the rest of the store.
Kurt psyched himself up to look in the small mirror and regretted it immediately. A large bruise already covered his left eye. He groaned out loud and lightly lifted a finger to touch the area below his eye that was thick purple already. He winced as he connected to the skin.
"Shit," he hissed. He really was done. He had had bruises before from them, but never this bad and always where they could be covered up. The ones on his back from the locker slamming were covered by his clothes, of course, and even the one where he collided with the floor had only earned him an elbow bruise; meaning long sleeves for a week. This time however, they didn't stop and…
Ding.
Kurt startled from his thoughts. The shop bell on a weekday afternoon? He was curious. He popped his head round the door frame slightly. He could see a boy in front of him. He was staring aimlessly around the store; Kurt didn't blame him. Once inside, Whitby's was a marvel of colour, music, and energy.
The boy had slick, black hair, gelled precisely to his head, and a light tan. Kurt noticed how his eyes shone in the store's dim light and scolded himself for picking up on such a thing. He wore a uniform, an obnoxious one, which brightly displayed navy and red, with a striped tie of the same colour, and a pair of grey pants.
The boy started to turn around, so Kurt ducked back behind the frame; safe.
"Erm, hello?" a voice called out. Kurt gulped. It was a clear, confident voice. It was cheerful and strong. Kurt shook his head. Voices couldn't determine a person.
Kurt took a deep breath and stepped out from behind the door.
"Hello?" he said, being unable to stop it tuning into a question and mentally scolding himself for letting his voice quiver.
The boy's eyes scanned over his face. Kurt knew he saw the statement-making bruise on his face, but he said nothing; the boy just continued.
"I'm looking for a Mr. Whitby?"
Kurt frowned. "He's not in trouble is he?"
The boy shook his head frantically, "Oh, god no. No, he's expecting me. You could say I'm… closely acquainted with him?"
The corner of the boy's mouth turned up slightly, and Kurt knew there was more to it than that, but he did not press the matter.
"He's on a lunch break. I'm covering for him," Kurt simply stated. He could not look the boy in the eyes for fear of intimidation. The boy was attractive. He was bold.
Kurt was just a bruised boy who hid from a customer due to his own cowardly nature.
Kurt felt the boy's eyes on him as he spoke, "Do you mind if I hang around here to wait for him?"
Kurt looked up.
The boy was gazing gently at him. His eyes were warm, open. He wore a small smile. Kurt let a little of the wall he put up fall. A little.
"I, erm –I don't see why not," Kurt recovered.
The boy beamed.
"Brilliant!" he hopped onto the counter in a single jump, letting his ass land neatly on top of the surface and twirled to sit cross-legged, facing Kurt. He stuck his hand out in front of him.
"I'm Blaine Anderson," he smiled warmly.
Kurt hesitantly shook the hand offered.
"Kurt," he said in a near whisper. "Kurt Hummel."
Blaine smirked, "Well, Kurt Hummel, it's approximately two hours until this place becomes crowded with students. Would you like to show me the music?"
Kurt smiled through genuine response as opposed to his usual polite smile. He gestured to the shelves immediately in front of them and let Blaine hop down and walk first.
"A real gentleman," Blaine said, walking forward with his eyebrows raised, "I like it."
Kurt blushed to his core, grateful that Blaine was now walking away from him and could not see his face.
"So what music do you like?" Blaine asked.
Kurt raised an eyebrow.
"Isn't that what I should be asking you, customer?" he questioned. Blaine only shrugged, picking up a CD to examine the content.
"I'm nosy?" he tried as an excuse, but Kurt knew that was not true. If Blaine was nosy, he would have questioned him about the bruise. He would have quizzed him on why he wasn't in school. He would have asked why Kurt was trusted enough to look after Whitby's pride and joy. Yet, he did not.
Kurt knew one thing; Blaine was not nosy. Not at all.
"If you say so," he said instead.
Blaine seemed to lead Kurt down the aisle, which Kurt found odd as usually customers waited to be shown the music, but Blaine seemed keen to discover it for himself.
Curiosity got the better of Kurt.
"Have you been here before?"
Blaine looked over his shoulder as he slowed.
"When I was younger and more naive," he seemed to ponder for a moment, "the music seemed to create itself back then."
Kurt cocked his head but Blaine didn't explain further. Maybe Blaine would have been here when he played along with his mother; he looked around the right age.
"Where is your older music?" Blaine scanned the aisles.
Kurt rolled his eyes as the vagueness of the comment.
"Era? Genre?"
"Late 60's artistic-rock," Blaine's eyes still scoured through each rack of CDs.
Kurt gestured to a rack further down and refrained from making a comment about his music taste. That was another thing his mother taught him: music can be sacred to a person and no one has the right to judge their choices.
Kurt never really understood until the moment someone taunted him for how high his voice range was, or the fact he listened to musical soundtracks and show tunes.
Kurt watched in curiosity as Blaine ran his fingers along the CDs before finally stopping on one and smiling slightly in achievement.
Kurt leaned in to get a better view of the CD.
Roxy Music.
Essential.
Kurt had never listened to it.
"It's expressive," Blaine shrugged as he watched Kurt's reaction.
There was a small silence, verging on awkward; it developed as the shop bell rang loud, announcing an arrival. The two boys took that opportunity to make their way back to the front of the store.
Whitby was hanging his jacket and hat back upon the coat stand.
"I'm back, Kurt. Hope the customers didn't wear you out," he called out, placing his hat upon the hanger.
Kurt smirked. He always did appreciate Whitby's sense of humour.
"I don't know if you would call me wearing, Mr Whitby, but then again you have known me well enough to know small details like that."
Whitby spun round as Blaine spoke.
"By hell, Blaine Anderson," Whitby exclaimed in shock.
Blaine seemed amused.
"Not hell, Mr Whitby. Maybe not heaven, but never hell," he spoke quietly.
Whitby's laugh rang as loud as the shop bell.
Kurt did not ask about the inside joke between his current company, he just watched the exchange they had as Whitby engulfed Blaine into a rib-crushing hug.
"How have you been? It's been what, 5 years?"
Blaine let out a laugh.
"Something like that."
Kurt frowned. Maybe he had seen Blaine before, when he was younger, but Kurt would have noticed him. He was sure of it.
"So what brings you here?"
Blaine seemed to freeze slightly, but it lasted for such a short second that Kurt could have imagined it.
"I'm 17 now."
Whitby nodded in understanding.
Kurt didn't have a clue what that meant, but he did not ask. Whitby kept looking at Blaine in awe, as if he could not get over the boy's presence.
Kurt coughed slightly, curiosity taking over. Both the old man and the boy turned to look at him.
"Ah, so I take it you met Kurt?"
Blaine smiled.
"Yes, you could say that. I think I may have startled him slightly."
Kurt raised his eyebrows a little too high and winced when his eye throbbed. He'd almost forgotten its presence.
"I wasn't startled! Just… amused?" he tried.
Blaine cocked an eyebrow in his own amusement.
"Ah, I understand. I'm… amusing, am I?" Blaine's tone was thick with something Kurt would mistake for flirting, if he looked into it too far.
Whitby coughed and the boy's eyes flew to him.
"So how do you know each other?" Kurt asked.
The two men shared a smile.
"Blaine came walking into the shop as a young boy and never really left." Mr Whitby explained.
"But what about your parents?" Kurt asked.
Blaine didn't miss a beat.
"I have none."
No parents? Did they die? Did they leave him? Kurt couldn't ask. He wanted to tell Blaine he was sincerely sorry, but he knew that was the worst thing to be told; after all, what do they have to be sorry for. It was his mother that died.
"I empathise," he says instead. "Well, kind of."
Blaine's eyebrows knitted in with questioning.
"My mother died when I was 8."
Blaine said nothing, but nodded once in understanding. He reminded Kurt of Whitby when he did that.
"Were you an orphan?" Kurt asked, surprised that Whitby had never told him about taking a little boy in.
"Something like that," Blaine said again. He held Kurt's eyes with his own. Behind them, Kurt saw something deeply hidden. The boy had a past. The boy had felt pain. The boy had been hurt. Kurt wondered what was revealed in his own eyes.
Whitby coughed and the two boys turned to look at him.
"So where are you staying now, Blaine?" Whitby asked.
Kurt wondered why Blaine left Whitby in the first place.
"Nowhere in particular," Blaine shrugged, gesturing to the small rucksack by the door; Kurt had not noticed it before.
"That's home at the moment," Blaine's voice was thick with self-taunt. Something told Kurt that the taunt was part of something bigger.
"Need a place to stay?" Whitby asked, sincerely looking at Blaine. "I'm taking it that's why you came here."
Blaine nodded.
"It's hard to find a place that understands."
Kurt frowned. Understands what?
The shop bell rang again, signalling the arrival of the after-school student customers.
"The placement of everything had changed a bit since you have been here. Kurt, will you show Blaine where the blankets and bedding are? I better stay down here to address the arrivals."
Kurt nodded and went to lead Kurt out-back.
"And Kurt?"
Kurt spun back-around.
"Get some ice on that," Whitby nodded to his eye.
Kurt nodded. He led Blaine though the kitchen, stopping briefly to grab an ice-pack from the freezer, and wrapped it in tissue to place on his eye.
"If I asked how you got that, would you answer?" Blaine seemed concerned.
Kurt shook his head, avoiding Blaine's eyes. He couldn't over-share. He never did. Not even to Whitby.
He took Blaine into the spare room and dug out some blankets and pillows as Blaine placed his rucksack onto the bed. He watched as Blaine looked around at the blue walls with black swirls. Kurt had never understood why Whitby put so much effort into a spare room. Now he knew it once belonged fully to Blaine.
"At least let me help with it."
Kurt realised he had been caught staring at Blaine. He immediately touched his bruise lightly with the ice-pack, wondering how Blaine could help.
The boy held out his palm for the ice-pack; Kurt reluctantly handed it over, still hesitant.
Blaine lifted it lightly to Kurt's eye as they fluttered shut and pressed it lightly into the affected area. He stroked his thumb slowly over a remaining part of the bruise and dabbed the ice-pack slightly. Kurt shivered, but Blaine continued.
Blaine moved Kurt to perch on the bed and took the space next to him. He resumed his dabbing and light touched of his fingers to Kurt's eye. Kurt would be lying if he said he didn't love every minute of it, despite being nervous of the foreign touches.
When Blaine finally lifted the ice-pack, Kurt was unsure of how long had passed. 10 minutes?
20?
Half and hour?
Blaine was gazing at him softly.
Kurt felt agitated by the intensity of the moment.
He shifted awkwardly. "We should get back downstairs," he said lamely.
Blaine sighed, nodding slowly.
"I suppose we should."
The two boys headed out the room, Blaine following behind again, and Kurt tried to breathe properly. When they re-entered the store, Whitby looked up and smiled at them, his eyes narrowing at Kurt's eye.
He knows, Kurt thought. Was he that obvious?
But Whitby said nothing, instead choosing to raise his eyebrows as Blaine.
"Room okay?"
"Just how I remember," Blaine shrugged.
Kurt noticed how he was much more reserved with more than one person there. Whitby looked from Blaine to Kurt and back.
"Mind if I speak to Blaine a moment about living arrangements, Kurt?"
"Be my guest," Kurt shrugged.
The pair of them headed out back as Kurt watched the store. A few students were on the sofas with headphones in listening to whatever CD took their fancy. Another was in the corner strumming on a guitar. The store always seemed much more alive when music-lovers were involved in it. Kurt let the corners of his mouth turn up into a small smile.
He tuned out of the happenings and let his ears find Whitby's voice speaking in the kitchen. It was muffled, but Kurt could tell it was frantic. He took a quick look around the store before stepping to the door to peer round. He saw the back of Blaine's head through the kitchen door gap.
"-what were you thinking? He's a very observant person. He will notice and he will question it himself as opposed to asking you. You won't get a chance to make up a lie, Blaine. He can see straight through them."
Blaine huffed.
"I know this is dangerous, but I can't just stand there and let it continue. He's a mess, for god sake, but what have you done about it? Nothing at all!"
Kurt frowned. Were they talking about him? What was there for Blaine to lie about? What was so dangerous?
But more importantly, Blaine thought he was a mess?
Kurt turned away and back to the counter. He slumped against it for the second time that day. He considered telling Whitby he felt light-headed and asking for an early get-away. He had to speak to his Dad sooner or later.
It was a short while before Whitby and Blaine re-entered the room. Both gave him a smile: Blaine's warming whilst Whitby's was his usual tight-lipped look. In comparison to Blaine, it looked too forced now.
"Mr Whitby, I'm not feeling too good. Would you mind if I got off early?"
Whitby scanned Kurt's eyes –Kurt cursed again for the bruise –but said nothing but a simple "okay".
Blaine, however, spoke.
"Kurt, are you walking home?"
Kurt could deny it, but Whitby would know his car was not out-front, and he refused to take the bus due to close proximity to strangers. So Kurt just nodded.
"If Mr Whitby lets me, I could give you a lift?" He looked to Mr Whitby, who nodded at him once.
Kurt couldn't refuse, he'd claimed to be ill (which was half-true) and he was far too polite, so he found himself nodding again and following Blaine, who had grabbed the keys from under the counter, letting Blaine open the passenger door for him.
The car journey was silent, but not tense. Kurt sat comfortably in Blaine's presence; despite his many reasons to be stressed right now, and listened to an old swing station play out through Whitby's aging stereo. He decided Blaine was easy company if Kurt didn't take the problem of his reaction to Blaine's attractiveness into account.
It wasn't long before Blaine pulled up at his house. Kurt thanked him for the lift and Blaine simply smiled.
Kurt climbed out, but before he could walk off, the window wound down.
"Kurt"
He turned to see Blaine handing his phone over.
"I haven't been in town for a while and Mr Whitby's the only person I know. I promise that asking for your number is an offer of platonic friendship only."
Kurt tried not to be disappointed at the last part, but typed his number in anyway. He noticed the lack of numbers but ignored his brain telling him to ask why. That would be rude. He handed the phone back.
"Goodbye, Kurt"
Kurt gave a small one-sided smile.
"Goodbye, Blaine"
Blaine rolled the window up and Kurt watched him drive away, only turning to face his house once Blaine had turned the corner.
He walked to the door and pulled out his phone with his house key. He brought up the reversible camera to check the strength of the bruise. The sight that met him nearly made him drop it all.
It was gone.
But not just faintly; the bruise had disappeared as if it had never been there.
Kurt stared at nothing, mouth gaping.
How?
Blaine said he could help, but some affectionate light touched couldn't help that much.
Kurt finally let himself in, and his Dad called out.
"Kurt, in here now!" His Burt's voice was stern.
Oh no, Finn had told his Dad about his disappearance for Glee club. He probably knew about last lesson being skipped too. Kurt walked into the front room to be greeted by an engulfing hug.
"Erm, hello?" Kurt offered.
His Dad remained holding him.
"I can't believe you didn't tell me!"
Kurt sighed. He went to speak, and explain about the bullying, but his Dad continued.
"Finn told me about your solo in Glee club," Burt was almost jumping as he stepped back.
Solo.
Glee club.
Oh.
Finn hadn't told his father. He doubted anyone had noticed his absence actually. He let out a sigh of relief. He had also forgotten the solo Mr Schue suggested earlier; mainly because he questioned its likeliness.
Kurt forced himself to smile.
"I can't believe it!"
His Dad frowned. Apparently, he wasn't convincing enough.
"Kurt, you're not excited?"
"I'm just nervous," he lied. Really, his head was too clouded with other things.
He ate dinner with the family and spent as long as possible avoiding his thoughts until he thought it was safe to be alone so sleep could claim him.
However, the moment he lay down in bed, he realised he had misjudged it. Sleep would not be coming anytime soon.
The gelled-boy. Whitby's hesitance. The bullies. The bruise. The intimacy by ice-pack. The lack of a bruise. The car-ride. The comfortable silence between him and the gelled-boy. Dangerous.
Blaine. Basically, his thoughts were invaded by Blaine.
How did his bruise just disappear? Who even was Blaine? If he had been at the store so much, why had Kurt never seen him? Where had he been before the last 5 years if not with Whitby?
Come to think of it, how did Blaine know Kurt's address? Kurt never told him, he just knew.
Kurt frowned. He must not let his curiosity get the better of him. There was probably a reasonable explanation for all of this.
Somehow, Kurt knew his curiosity would not be able to be contained.