I do not own Glee or any of its characters.
As Blaine sat down in the quaint little café, he breathed in the coffee aroma of the place and pulled out a journal out of his satchel. Blaine opened the new leather bound notebook, gazing at the lines drawn onto the page, waiting for a new story to unfold. He loved getting new notebooks. There was just something about a new place to write in, a new story to begin, that fascinated him so.
Sure. He had probably a thousand other notebooks sitting and just lying around his apartment, half full of his miscellaneous writings and stories. Blaine was just like that, though. He had a lot of new ideas, along with unfinished stories all inked into the pages of his notebooks, but he never finished a single one. He didn't consider himself a quitter, but he just… couldn't finish what he started, most of the time. If his heart wasn't into anything completely, he would just put it aside and distract himself with something else. But after getting this new notebook, within a month of being in New York, he made a commitment to himself, to finish that story, whatever it may be.
Blaine loved writing. It was just something that he always had a passion about. He loved being able to write his own world, to experience things through his characters, but pour all his emotion and experience into something as well. Which is why he decided to major in creative writing at NYU. Their newest and most current assignment was to write a story that could be about anything at all, but to write it out of passion, out of feeling.
He sighed and pulled out a pen, tapping it against the table. The boy was lost. He didn't have a single idea what to write about. Sure, his life hadn't been bad at all. He went to a school called Dalton, back in Ohio. He had friends, Wes and David. But in the middle of being the lead vocalist of their show choir, the Warblers, keeping up with the vigorous studies at Dalton and basically babysitting the boys in the dorm, he never had much time to think about love. He's always lived it through books and movies, but never had the full jist of it. So what could he possibly write about? A fight he had with his sister? Lame. Living with the boys of Dalton? It could work, but there wasn't much to say. He could write a few pages, but not a story.
Blaine threw the pen to the table in frustration and sipped at his coffee and started watching. He watched the world around him, he watched people live their lives. As a writer, Blaine was naturally an observant person. He saw the woman on his right talking into her phone while trying to jot down a few notes on her computer. The man behind him was playing on his phone with a half eaten biscotti sitting in front of him. He swiveled around to see the cashier looking frustrated with the machine that appeared to be malfunctioning.
Blaine didn't know what he was looking for. An idea? An inspiration? All he did know was that he would find a way to write his story, and that it would be great.
Blaine came to the coffee shop every day, just to watch and observe the world around him. After being there for two weeks, he started t recognize familiar faces, people who sat at the same tables every day, others who were too busy to stay and just ordered and left. All the while he just sat on the metal chair, quietly tapping his pen to paper, but still a blank page.
On one particular Wednesday, Blaine walked into the shop, ordered his daily medium drip, and sat again, opening his notebook to the first page. Sighing, he let his eyes wander, mind alert. He stopped when he saw someone who he didn't remember at all. The man's table was a couple tables away from him, but he was facing Blaine. This new figure, however, was occupied by what looked like a magazine, he allowed himself to stare, to take in this new person.
The male looked about Blaine's age, maybe younger only by a couple months. Blaine noted how his legs were crossed under the table, how he reached a hand up to touch his hazelnut brown hair to keep it in place every few minutes. He saw eyes flickering in… awe?... of the glossy pages of the magazine, how his pink lips sipped the coffee cup. Blaine squinted a bit to read the letters scribbled on the cup, making out "Kurt".
Blaine hummed to himself, and, as if feeling his gaze, the man named Kurt suddenly looked up. Blaine didn't look away, but instead, into those eyes. They were… ocean. Was ocean even a color? Blaine didn't know, but it was the only thing he could use to describe the blue green sea he never seen before.
Blaine smiled slightly. Because that was what you were supposed to do when you locked eyes with someone, right? Smile? So he did. "Kurt" returned with his own half smile, before returning to his magazine.
Blaine's stomach turned, but he didn't know why. It was probably from too much coffee. So he closed his notebook once again, tossed his empty cup into the nearby trash can, and walked out the door, ringing a bell as he did, the man's smile still on his mind.