Well…

"…But…but Mr. Clark—I play the piano! That's what you hired me to do, that's why I get paid, and that is my job! I'm not a bellboy!"

"My hotel can function without a pianist, Anderson. It cannot, however, do so short my best bellhop." The face of the short, round man across the desk from Blaine remained flat and expressionless as he folded his hands in front of him and looked up. "I'm sorry. I don't know how long Eric will be out, but until he's back, I'd like it if you could take over his position."

Blaine huffed indignantly, furrowing his brow. "And what are my other choices?"

"You can be a bellhop for a while and then return to your position as our wonderful pianist, or you can refuse this offer and try to find somewhere else that will pay you for sitting at a piano and playing whatever the hell you want to all day long." He blinked a few times and shrugged. "It's your choice."

Blaine stared at his boss for a few seconds more, before sighing and letting his head drop, saying weakly, "I understand, sir."

"Thank you, Blaine." He then pointed to a black suit jacket and red tie hanging on the back of the door behind him, and back to Blaine in his loose white button up shirt, sleeves rolled up and collar wrinkled. "Report to the front desk in fifteen minutes. I'll have someone there to clue you in a bit."

Without any other comments, Blaine grabbed the clothes off the hanger and walked out of the cramped office.

He dashed into the bathroom and began to unroll his sleeves, smoothing his collar as he went along. He slid the jacket on and fixed the tie around his neck, shrugging uncomfortably as he buttoned it up tight.

This wasn't right. He did what he did so he didn't have to do this. He was an artist so he didn't have to wear suits and ties and other uncomfortable things. He hated every bit of it.

Settled as he was ever going to be in his new uniform, he made his way to a sink and wet his hands, running them through his mop of hair, doing his best to change his usual, unruly mop into something becoming of a…bellhop.

When he finally looked up into the mirror, the first thing he noticed was the little gold name plate on his lapel that read 'Eric.' For a minute, he thought about storming back into Mr. Clark's office and demanding that at least he have his own identity…but then he saw himself.

It was not himself looking back, but rather what he had spent the entirety of his adult life—and the better half but rather what he had spent the entirety of his adult life—and the better half of his youth—trying not to be: someone somebody else made him be.

So he decided that, at least for now, he would just be Eric.

~x~

"…No, I just go here…no, I have not checked in yet…yes, it's lovely…yes, it is one you recommended…absolutely…of course…I hope for your sake it is…yes, I trust you…alright…just making sure…goodbye, Stacie." With a contented sigh, he slid his phone back into his pocket and stepped out of his car, handing over his keys to the valet and hauling two large suitcases out of the trunk. Smiling, he grabbed them each by the handle and headed inside, towards a long, almost vacant marble desk.

"Hello, checking in for Hum—" he began before being cut off by the woman sitting behind a computer.

"Name?" she said in a monotone, never looking up.

He huffed a little bit pursed his lips. "Hummel," he said slowly.

There was a round of clicking before, "Kurt Hummel?"

"Yes."

She handed him two keycards and a small map of the hotel. "Would you like some help with your bags?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone wearing a black suit and tie stand up straight from where he had been leaning against the wall on the other end of the desk, and with a pained expression, begin making his way towards where Kurt stood.

"Oh, um…no thank you. I think I've got it." And the figure stopped in his tracks. "Thank you again."

Kurt took his bags and his map to the elevator, where he quickly found his suit.

Once there, he promptly collapsed onto his bed, staring at the ceiling.

"Now what?" he asked himself. Slowly, he sat back up and looked around him. It was nothing extravagant, really: A small kitchen, a sizable television, a nice bed and a balcony overlooking the lobby of the hotel, all clad in standard hotel beiges and blues.

It was nice and comfortable and that's all he wanted.

Then his phone rang again.

"…Yes, Stacie, I'm checked in…!"

~x~

That night Blaine had to work until midnight as a freakin' bellhop. Usually, midnight isn't very late at all. At night, all of the drunken people from the bar on the far end of the hotel start their way back to their rooms, and he usually would be sitting at the piano, providing background music for their sauntering, or picking old songs they might know the words to. Most nights he would be just as entertained as the guests.

But tonight he would be going home tired and achy and unfulfilled as an artist and probably whiny to his roommates.

Or he would have if the lobby hadn't been completely empty and the piano completely unguarded.

So he slipped off Eric's jacket and he stepped over the velvet rope around it and he slowly lifted the lid and sighed. His baby-grand at home was his pride and joy: hours spent refurbishing it and even longer just…spending time with it, but this piano was something else. It was new and shiny and huge in comparison to his. It was perfectly in tune and everything about it was just perfect.

Slowly, he set his hands down and sighed. This is what he did. This was how he made his living. This is what he wanted to do.

So he did.

And it felt so good to be back were he belonged.

If just being away from this for one day left him feeling this drained and disconnected, he hoped that Eric would get over whatever was going on with him and get his ass back to work fast.

He never really liked Eric…and now he supposed he had a reason.

He kept playing for a long time. He never noticed anyone walk through the lobby, or bustle behind the desk, and it almost seemed like the universe was content with letting him be.

~x~

At one in the morning, when there is nothing on television and your vacation is already becoming more of a job than your actual career, there is not a whole lot you can do than pace up and down in your hotel room in your boxers and bathrobe, wondering why you're not tired.

So Kurt paced. And while he paced, he talked to himself, an odd habit one can form when they live alone.

"…Stacie planned everything, right? I should have gotten an email from her hours ago, right?" He pulled his phone from the pocket of his silk robe and checked his email again. Nothing.

Only more frustrated than before, he stormed across the room to the balcony and threw open the door. He leaned up against the railing and was seriously regretting not requesting a room with an outside balcony when something caught his attention.

Or rather, someone caught his attention.

Perched at the piano he had thought was just for show, was a man in a rumpled white shirt, playing along peacefully.

The tune was vaguely familiar, slow and easy and a little sad, and though he couldn't really see, the man seemed to be playing with his eyes closed.

Then he started singing.

"When you try your best, but you don't succeed…when you get what you want but not what you need….when you feel so tired but you can't sleep…stuck in reverse…" he sang, seemingly unaware of the world.

He had a nice voice. It was one of those voices that made it almost impossible to be anything less than happy while listening to it. It calmed him down and for a second, he almost forgot that he was on a forced vacation, waiting for his assistant to plan the next month of his life, standing alone on a balcony in a bathrobe.

It almost did. Until his phone made a sharp 'ding,' saying that he had received an email. A sharp, very loud 'ding.'

Abruptly, the playing stopped, and Kurt rand back into his room, closing the door to the balcony securely behind him. And even as he read down his itinerary gratefully, he hoped that there would be time at midnight for him to sit on the balcony and listen to the mysterious pianist.

Okay. Honesty time. I have another great idea brewing in my head right now, an idea that I like a whole lot better than this one. Do you like it? Honestly, is it something you're interested in reading more of or should I stop here and let my brain take over my better, more developed (possibly hotter) story? Because this is becoming more of a burden to me than anything else and it's only chapter 2.