Summary: It's all Tumblr's fault. No, really. Trolling the tags can be a very dangerous thing.
Notes: Completely cracky and pointless fic, inspired by the lovely Sarah aka Hedgerose of (Def)inition fame. Unbeta'ed and written in the middle of the night so all mistakes, wildly OOC portrayals, and subsequent insanity is all mine. Which may or may not be a good thing.
In any case, enjoy.
Blaine had a dirty little secret, and that secret was knitting. He loved the feel of yarn slipping through his fingers, the swoop of the needles as something was made with two simple sticks and string. Or, alternately, five needles, a long circular needle, big or small needles. It didn't matter. He loved them all.
He was known at the yarn shop he frequented on the sly as the kid that bought the yarns most knitters wouldn't be caught dead buying. Most of the regulars smiled indulgently and shook their heads at him with a chuckle, but that didn't stop him from carrying his intended purchases to the counter with a mischievous grin on his face. It was completely a guilty pleasure and Kurt would be scandalized if he knew.
He looked at the small pile of objects he'd made with his own two hands, in a plethora of colors and textures. Squeaky cheap acrylic, funky laddered ribbon, wool that reminded him of sandpaper, eyelash yarns that drove him crazy but made him giggle. Every single thing was in the most hideous colors possible because something that loud and in terrible taste on such public display was hilarious. Grinning almost manically, he picked up his yarn needle and went to work.
He'd started in the choir room, naturally, initially decorating the legs of the piano with long tubes of plain stockinette in headache-inducing rainbow colors. Santana had declared it lame, Brittany thought they were made out of unicorn poop and put there by little gnomes, and Mercedes questioned the sanity of whoever put it there. Kurt had narrowed his eyes suspiciously, looking like he was trying to figure out the source. It took all Blaine had to keep his mirth off his face seeing all the reactions.
After that, he couldn't stop. Traffic cone orange and puke green ribbing decorated the handles on the doors leading to the gym, cozies in dizzying contrasting stripes with big fluffy pompoms covered the doorknobs leading to the classrooms, mauve i-cord wound in a spiral around the railings down the courtyard steps with little bows in various colors of the rainbow hanging merrily every few inches. He considered his best work, however, to be the kitty eared hat made out of the most nauseating yarn in his stash on the Titan statue on proud display at the front of the school, with a jaunty bowtie tied around the neck to match.
But his favorite were the little mohair bowties. They were his signature, the bowties. They were the talk of William McKinley because they showed up everywhere and in the strangest places.
He was plotting his next bombing one morning, completely embroiled in his musings when Kurt cornered him at his locker one morning looking almost accusing. "You. You're behind it."
Blaine blinked, confused until his brain kicked in. Oh. Oh shit. "Behind what?" he asked, going for clueless.
"The yarn displays," Kurt said bluntly. He swung the door to Blaine's locker open, revealing the incriminating stash of little bits and bobs ready to go for the next round. "See? Proof." He turned back to Blaine, looking confused. "What I want to know is, why?"
"It seemed like a good idea?" he offered, looking and feeling slightly embarrassed. He never thought he'd actually get caught, and definitely not by Kurt of all people. Then again, he shouldn't have been surprised it had been Kurt. "I've known how to knit since I was a kid, but I didn't pick it back up until recently. Then I saw yarnbombing displays in the knitting tag on Tumblr one night and I got the idea to do that here at the school."
"Just when I think I know you, you find something else to surprise me," Kurt sighed. "If you're going to do this, the first thing we need to do is fix is your color choices. You need something classier, like a lovely wine color or a quiet and understated navy. And for the love of everything, nothing in the school colors. That's terribly clichéd."
The grin Blaine gave his boyfriend was blinding.