A/N: This story loosely follows "All I Hear Is Your Gear." I'm planning to write a series of related Klaine fluff one-shots - and if someone thinks it would make more sense to release them as chapters under one story, please let me know! I'm new and still trying to find my way around here! That said, thanks for reading - and you'll make me incredibly happy if you let me know what you think! :) [Now edited for grammar. Thanks so much to heal my bleeding heart - I can't believe I slipped out of third person and didn't even realize it!]
Kurt had never understood Blaine's fascination with tropical produce. His boyfriend salivated over coconuts and mango. He would actually squeal if he happened to find pineapple salsa on a menu. Kurt had found it cute at first (even fueling the fire by whipping up pineapple macadamia nut pancakes and coconut French toast), but it was this obsession of Blaine's - a boundless hunger for papaya and plantains - that had landed Kurt in a seedy flea market across from Lima Heights Adjacent for three weekends in a row. His patience was starting to wear a little thin.
Today was worse than usual, because today Blaine was driving his new Mustang with the convertible top down.
Kurt sat in the leather seat pawing ineffectually at his hair as the black top hummed quietly back into place. The ride had been far less traumatic than he had expected. In fact – and he would never admit this to his boyfriend - once they got rolling and the wind was everywhere and they were belting out Queen songs with the radio, Kurt was left wondering when he had last felt so good. His hair had even stayed mostly in place. No, what made this car undesirable at the moment was the fact that it was a shiny new Mustang convertible parked on a street littered with used syringes.
"Blaine, we cannot leave the car here." Kurt whispers tersely against his boyfriend's curls. There is a big, vaguely Polynesian man in an overstretched wife-beater already eyeing them from the curb and, farther on, four Christian-Bale-circa-The-Machinist look-alikes are passing little baggies and wads of cash.
"Don't be silly, Kurt, how else will I get my guava fix?" Blaine answers at full volume, ignoring Kurt's attempt at subtlety and unbuckling his seatbelt.
Kurt rolls his eyes and mutters as he opens his door. "Yeah, you can get all kinds of fixes down here…"
"What are you saying? Come on, it is guava time, baby." Blaine massages Kurt's shoulders as they walk, then leans into the porcelain column of his boyfriend's neck. "I locked it, no worries," he whispers, pressing a fast kiss there before pulling away.
"You realize that if somebody wants in that car, they'll just slash the top, right?" Blaine's facial expression makes it clear that this wasn't something he had considered, and Kurt almost feels bad for bringing him down. Almost. But then they're in the produce area – Kurt forced to duck under the low-hanging tent – and Blaine is grinning like a fool again.
Blaine makes all his fruit purchases from a little Korean woman who peddles fake Coach bags in the other half of her stall. Kurt disapproves of the fruit-buying business on a number of levels – half this fruit isn't grown in the US, comes from who knows where and, Kurt suspects, has never touched an FDA inspection. He's not even sure it's legal. But Blaine is not to be dissuaded, completely buying into the old lady's story about her totally legit Bahamian contact who sends none but the best produce.
They have a routine at this point. Blaine labors over the fruit display, bruising mangoes and weighing pineapples and tapping coconuts, then shoving over whatever money the little Korean woman demands (although Kurt keeps trying fruitlessly to teach him about haggling). Meanwhile, Kurt is assaulted from all sides. The women running the adjacent stalls see a captive audience in Kurt, and they take it, offering him every item in the booths. There is a Mexican woman who shoves every wooden toy imaginable into his hand – armadillos, turtles, foxes – and then tries to force him to pay because he touched them. A tall Bahamian woman drapes scarves (yes, Kurt is sometimes tempted) and chains of seashells over his neck – all the while calling him 'pretty boy' and 'handsome man'. There's even an Appalachian booth, run by a white-haired woman with braids who, once or twice, has spooned some variety of homemade jam into his mouth when it opened in surprise. Today is no different – while Blaine deals on his fruit, the women descend like the plague.
Fifteen minutes later, Kurt has had a cheap replica Prada wallet stuffed into his pocket, been sprayed down with some sort of patchouli oil, and fended off the jam lady three times. Kurt really isn't sure why he puts up with it all. Then Blaine turns around, plastic bag of produce in hand, and says, "Come on, baby, we've got some cooking to do." And Kurt knows exactly why he puts up with it.
They arrive back at the Mustang to find it untouched, although the Polynesian man has moved suspiciously closer. "See, it was just fine. You're such a pessimist," Blaine scoffs, unlocking the top.
"You need my negativity to keep you from lifting off the face of the earth, Blaine," Kurt answers. As Blaine starts the car, Kurt lays back against his seat, closing his eyes with a melodramatic sigh. "You just love your damn exotic fruit, don't you?"
"You know what my favorite exotic fruit is, though?" Blaine asks.
"Guava? Mango? Come on, don't you love them all equally?"
Kurt feels lips brush against his forehead, and his eyes fly open. "It's you, of course. You're my favorite exotic fruit." Blaine gives a manic giggle as he guns the car back onto the open road.