Disclaimer: Not real, not mine, not making money from this
Kurt Hummel whiles the time away by humming a tune. He'd just received a text from Blaine (gonna be late sorry) that was stark by necessity, Kurt can see him as clear as day: Blaine at the wheel with the thumb of his less dominant hand fumbling out appropriate letters in staccato.
His tardiness is forgiven. This is the first time they've managed to cobble together a block of time decent enough to be called a date in three weeks and Kurt does not want to squander a second of it being annoyed. Technically they probably will not even have enough time beyond dinner and a walk, but Kurt does not mind. Blaine will whisk him away from the mundanity of life in Lima, fairy-tale style; they will go somewhere that belongs entirely to them and them alone. He will remember what it was like to be swept off his feet, serenaded by an angel etc etc. That's the idea.
As Kurt reaches the chorus he adds several embellishments and flourishes. He has no regrets that he has imagined all this (and a little more besides).
He spots the back of Kurt's vest, a pink so pale it's almost white but is pleasantly not, something Blaine finds out with the material creased under his right hand the same time he calls out, hey–, as Kurt spins around mid-word and sort of falls into him, into the picture of Blaine he has dreamed up in the last fifteen minutes of idle waiting.
Very carefully, Blaine pries him off and holds him at arm's length, and their eyes catch each other for the first time in more than a fortnight. Kurt waits for the obligatory peck on the cheek, the linking of hands and so on, but Blaine just stands there staring at him, grinning a little stupidly with his eyes fixed on some spot slightly to the left of Kurt's nose. The grip of his hands on Kurt's shoulders is starting to feel tiresome. Kurt shifts a little uncomfortably, waiting. It's as if Blaine's not really seeing the boy before him but more like soaking himself in the moment, unwilling and unable to resurface. If you were there you might have read the look on Blaine's face as a teenager's estimate of an absolute yet temporal bliss, as though he knows that this is the happiest he has been and will be this entire week, but beneath that there's this yearning to be just that little, tinier bit happier.
"So," Blaine says, cocking his head to the left in a way that makes Kurt dizzy, "dinner?"
"Table for two?"
They nod, and the girl gives them a knowing smile, like they're sharing a secret no one knows about. She isn't aware that they've long since gone past the initial clandestine stage of courtship (think Sam and Mercedes); with them it was a stage far too short for sweet reminiscence because they were both way too happy not to shout it out from a mountain top.
Now they've fit snugly into the spacious mid-section of a romance novel, sporting an affection that is sometimes misread as complacency. At least, this is what Kurt reads into Blaine's silence, his terse reply about how his day was (fine; tired,) and his interweaved fingers that are just beginning to separate into...
Blaine takes his hands into his own as his lips form the words, I've missed you.
Blaine shrugs his shoulders and eases them almost painfully from their day garb, all this while saying nothing whatsoever. Well, he is prone to bursting into song every few moments, but that's Blaine in Dalton, crazy grinning navy-clad Blaine who clambers onto tables and sofas and makes you think, that's what furniture was made for. Alone with Kurt he is suddenly conscious (is he too loud? is this what being in love should do to you?), the sharp, precise edges of his personality obtunded into an approximation of niceness.
By now Blaine has taken off his blazer, and begins getting down to the business of rolling up his white shirtsleeves. He takes longer than is necessary, his fingers mulling over the material. Kurt wonders if this is deliberate, Blaine folding his shirtsleeves up to the elbow, eyes kept down on them so that Kurt from across him can make out those soft eyelids overshadowed by his thick eyebrows.
Kurt waits for him to speak, but no sooner had he fixed on patience than he had given up waiting. It was time to kick in Plan B. He rummages in his bag and feigns an off-hand manner, "I've got something for you."
"Ta-da!" Kurt whips out a Gryffindor tie. Only Kurt can make ta-da revelations sound completely natural and in place. He loves him for that, no matter the appropriateness or inappropriateness of whatever that has necessitated said revelation.
Blaine laughs, "Where'd you get that?"
"Let me help you put it on," Kurt hurries out of his seat, and in no time his cold fingers are flipping up the starched white collar of Blaine's shirt. Blaine tilts his head back as Kurt eases the Dalton tie from his throat and lifts it above his head, replacing it with the red and gold one. He kneads the back of his neck, loosening the knots that have wound about themselves, and exhales audibly.
"How'd you know I was a fan?"
Kurt smiles what he hopes is his sultry smile, doesn't answer.
Blaine continues to expound on the awesomeness of it all, and Kurt commits this picture to memory, complete with Blaine's carelessly undone top button that makes him fond, even up till today.
"Ta-da! I know you're a fan!"
"But that's not–that's Darre–"
Kurt remains undeterred, smiling.
The people in the café begin to disappear one by one. It's not that they trickled out its doors in dribs and drabs but it's more like they began taking on a blurred aspect, starting face first, as they slowly melded as one with the café's furnishings. It doesn't take long for them to vanish altogether. Blaine wonders where all the people have gone. Their water glasses are half-empty and the waitress hasn't come by to top them up for a long time.
"You're not eating,"
"Mmhmm,"
"Is anything wrong?"
"No," Kurt says brightly. Above their heads the sound system is looping a dance remix, something odd for a weeknight. Every line is a repeated negation, a slew of names. Every 'no' actually means 'yes', yes, yes; that something was wrong, somewhere, in a place without coordinates.
The walls tremble very very slightly.
"Kurt."
He looks up from the plate he has been surveying for the past fifteen minutes. "Everything's fine."
They are both standing before the mirror. Kurt superimposes a sparkly new jacket on his own person; Blaine nods very off-handedly.
"It's great; it looks great on you."
They go past the record store. The store attendant is herding patrons out, but Blaine drags him in and they are swallowed into the streaming crowd.
"Blaine! What are you–"
"It's Disney!" Blaine states, self-evident fact acting as both reason and excuse.
"The store's closing! We can't go in there; they won't let us,"
"But it's Disney!"
Kurt pretends to roll his eyes and lets himself be dragged along as Blaine scans endless rows of record spines. The lights have begun to dim and the furthest reaches of the shop are doused in an inky black. Blaine is unfazed. His finger runs continuously along the soft plastic covers, pausing intermittently before he fishes one out between index and thumb and grins, happy as a child who has won a prize in a colouring competition. Kurt takes his other hand and they sneak into a listening booth. Somewhere in the distance, a pair of boots thunder its way towards them, dangerously close. Blaine draws the curtain on the real world.
It could, for example, have been from Beauty and the Beast ('there may be something there that wasn't there before', complete with Wes as Mrs. Potts), or Aladdin ('no one to tell us no, or where to go, or say we're only—'), or...Mulan (Blaine adores Mulan). Truth is, Kurt can't lay his finger on exactly which song was playing softly in the background. All he knows is that Blaine sang along to every verse, music and lyrics correct to a tee, and to hasten the advancement of plot, there was a key change somewhere (or at the very least, a shift in dynamics) when they just sort of stumbled into each other in the conveniently small space.
"What? Oh–"
The kiss is sloppy, clumsy. The region about Blaine's mouth is wet. Kurt makes little noises but isn't aware of it. His hands are bunched up against Blaine's chest, knuckles knocking something awful into sternum bone, forming a bruise that will bloom into a dull purple by tomorrow morning. When Blaine pulls away, he sees that Kurt's lips are swollen and red. Actually, his whole face is swollen and red. He's been crying.
"Oh shit, did I–I am so sorry–"
Kurt shakes his head, "No, don't, I, it's just what I needed,"
Blaine looks at him, a little puzzled, waiting for him to continue. Kurt wills himself to laugh; it comes out frightfully like a shudder. He rights his posture, puts on his brightest smile.
"But now, we've got to see if they'll let us out."
They go past the record store. The attendant drags down the corrugated metal shutters obscuring the shop front so that all they see is an old Disney poster that has seen far better days, the characters bleached of their colours but not their cartoonish outlines.
"It's Disney!" Blaine points out.
Kurt opens his mouth to say something witty about Blaine's inability to grow up, and closes it again.
"Kurt?"
He has slipped his hands into the back pockets of Kurt's best skinnies, one layer of fabric closer to skin and there is a collective gasp. It is altogether embarrassing and Blaine tries his best not to look into Kurt's eyes and focuses instead on the pressure and thump of each pulse against his temples which threaten to split his head in two any moment, and then where would they be?
"Kurt?" Blaine asks again, and Kurt can read the rising desperation in his voice when the ends of his words helplessly adopt the slightest quiver the way they do when Blaine is nervous and questioning but wants to appear sure and steadfast. His hands have treaded their way out and the fingers commanded themselves to undo the second last button on Kurt's dress shirt, palms dry and hot against the bare skin underneath, the tremors in his fingertips pronouncing themselves harbingers of wave upon wave of aftershocks radiating from the epicentre that has planted itself in Kurt's abdomen.
And Kurt nods (yes, yes, a thousand times—) and instantly feels lighter than air, full of the world and just as young, and there is nothing to fear (—yes).
Here under the night sky there are no theatrics. Blaine's proffered hand is a perpetual offer of unwavering support, valency of his outermost orbit forever kept vacant for the sole purpose of soundlessly being there for the one he loves. A halide with the valence of one contains an empty space waiting to be supplied with Kurt's flamboyance. Blaine is loud, but without that he is not vapid. Sometimes a void can present itself as silence.
For the first time this evening, Kurt understands. Gazing up to a sky unadulterated by stars, he lets his head dip (a little too far, but it's no matter) into the curve of Blaine's shoulder, as the press of Blaine's fingertips against his palm whisper to him a rumour of protracted constancy.