Songbird
Summary: Blaine's a young songwriter who's stuck in a rut. Kurt's an independent cyborg with music software installed. Blaine knows that Kurt could totally be his meal ticket if he'd just freaking cooperate for once. Kurt just wants Blaine to understand that he's not just a machine, even if that means sitting back and letting him flounder. AU, Klaine.
Disclaimer: No, guys. No.
AN: Oh my lord, thank you so much for all the reviews and encouragement! They really made my day, and the more feedback I get, the faster I tend to write. I hope you all enjoy chapter two!
Chapter Two: Building a Nest
"I'm Blaine Anderson, by the way."
Three days after he moved in, Kurt's apartment was finally the way he wanted it.
He'd gotten permission to paint the walls (his father being so well-known probably had a lot to do with that, not that Kurt was complaining) and now the sterile white walls were now covered in color. He'd chosen colors that he would normally have been scared off by; combinations of blues and greens and yellows that made him feel less lonely when he looked at them.
His room at home had been a grey so light it had almost been white, now it was a bright sea blue trimmed in pale yellow and gold.
Kurt told himself that change was a good thing, and not just because he didn't want this place to remind him of home so badly that it hurt.
Sitting in the room he dubbed his library, Kurt knew that his father would be more than happy to have him home again. Finn still lived at home after being accepted into the local community college and not being quite ready to leave, but Kurt? After not being accepted into any college, the last thing he wanted to do was live at home and see what he couldn't have every day.
He'd seen Blaine twice since their first meeting but not long enough to talk. The older man (for he had to be older, even if Kurt looked about fifteen and almost everyone looked older than he did) seemed to be a bustling sort, always in and out but never giving any indication of just where he was going. Kurt wondered if maybe he went to college too, or if he just had an erratic work schedule.
Kurt's schedule depended solely on deadlines; when he had to have a particular web site designed for a client, when he needed to repair someone's machine that was on the fritz (he was particularly good at those jobs), and when, when he was asked, he needed to have that article on the latest collection of Marc Jacobs scarves sent in. No one knew, of course, that most of his work was done in his head, but they didn't really need to for his work to be quality, did they? Frankly, it wasn't what he wanted to do, but he was good enough at it and they paid the bills.
Kurt stilled, feeling the notification that he'd just gotten an e-mail. He'd discovered quickly that watching him check was disconcerting to watch if you weren't used to it –the first time, Mercedes had thought he'd gone briefly catatonic and was fairly close to trying to clobber him out of it- but he'd gotten better at multi-tasking over the years and now could at least carry on a partial conversation at the same time.
Not that it mattered, since Mercedes was in New York and he wasn't and good god, he was not going to let that hurt as much as it did. He loved her unconditionally and she accepted him and everything he was with no reservations and to not have her here was disconcerting at best and made him wish that he was just a little more robotic at worst.
Shaking his head, Kurt hoisted himself up off of his chair and headed towards the kitchen. His stomach was rumbling and he'd been tired lately and more prone to melancholy, so he really ought to eat even though it was earlier than he liked, if only to keep himself from hibernating at an inopportune moment.
"What to eat, what to eat," he muttered, going through the cabinets, "It kind of sucks to just cook for me."
He stopped suddenly, eyeing his front door and thinking of Blaine.
It wouldn't be terribly weird to offer him something, would it? Kurt was lonelier than he wanted to admit and Blaine didn't seem the type to cook all that much for himself, and frankly he found himself interested in him. The people who lived downstairs and above seemed normal enough; a middle aged woman with two kids, and elderly man on the ground floor who walked his Labrador everywhere, but Blaine filed himself in his head as interesting.
Kurt rummaged through the fridge and took out a package of boneless chicken thighs, along with an onion, a bell pepper, and some mushrooms. From the pantry, various spices and a can of tomatoes joined the fresh ingredients on the counter, and soon Kurt had the makings of chicken cacciatore braising happily on his stove. Closing his eyes, he sniffed appreciatively, soaking up the smells and sounds, already hungrier than he'd started just thinking about it.
And then there was the hard part.
There was no excuse to procrastinate; the food had been braising for over forty-five minutes now and would be done soon. If he was going to man up and ask Blaine over, he wasn't going to get a much better chance.
Kurt almost talked himself out of it.
Almost.
Finally though, he stood in front of Blaine's door, hand poised to knock. He bit his lip. Maybe he shouldn't bother. It wasn't too late to just turn around and go back in, eat his dinner, and get some work done. Maybe troll some forums, get his virus scan done early…
He turned around to leave.
"…Kurt?"
Kurt froze at the voice and about faced, eyes wide and surprised as if he were staring into a pair of headlights. Blaine stood in the doorway in a pair of sweatpants and a band t-shirt, head cocked to the side and an eyebrow raised.
"Oh… um. Hi, Blaine."
"Hi? What's up? You looked like you wanted something."
"Oh. Um… I just—uh…" Kurt couldn't believe this and he couldn't understand where the hell his words had gone. He'd had it all planned out too, what to say and how to say it and then without any warning, they were all gone. Blaine stayed quiet though, clearly waiting, and the younger boy fidgeted slightly, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. "I wondered if you wanted to eat!" He burst out, then realizing that oh god that sounded weird and elaborating, "In my apartment, I mean. I made too much food for just me. You don't have to eat with me though, I mean, you could just take some if you wanted and didn't want to…" he trailed off, suddenly embarrassed and wondering why he'd done this because he sounded like a total weirdo right now and he probably wouldn't have eaten with him either. "I'm sorry, I can just go—"
"No, don't," Blaine interrupted, stepping forward, smiling. "I'd like to eat with you, if you don't mind sweatpants."
Kurt could have fainted with relief and he relaxed, stilling his movements, letting himself smile.
"Oh, good," he said, stepping away and opening his own door, "Come on in, it's almost done."
He walked inside and Blaine followed him, gaping at the walls.
"Holy hell, how did you manage to get them to let you do this?"
"I may have given up part of my soul, but it's totally worth it," Kurt replied, gravitating towards the dutch oven and popping the lid to stir things around, before beginning to starting the making of boiling pasta. "Oh, crap. You're not vegetarian or anything, right?"
"No, not at all. Even if I was, I'd probably be okay with this, it smells delicious. What is it?"
"Chicken cacciatore," Kurt answered, "Do you cook at all?"
Blaine shrugged, looking sheepish.
"Not a bit. Never needed to." Kurt looked scandalized, turning and staring at him as if he'd suddenly grown an extra head.
"What are you living on? Fast food?"
"Close enough," the shorter man muttered, "Mostly ramen."
Kurt grimaced and was relieved when the water began to boil because that meant that he could toss in the pasta and not go on a full tirade about the terrible things that ramen did to one's system.
"How'd you learn?"
"My mother," Kurt answered after a startled pause, "I always used to watch her and then she…well, she passed away when I was young so I took over for her, for my dad. I always kind of thought that it made it just a little less hard, or maybe harder, I'm not quite sure. She was gone but her food was still around. Dad would live off of beef jerky if I let him." Blaine nodded, going quiet.
For the next few minutes, the only sounds were the noises of Kurt straining the pasta and putting it into a dish, then taking the cacciatore off the stove and putting that in a dish, then reaching into the oven and pulling out a loaf of Italian bread that had been toasted with garlic spread.
"Holy crap, Kurt. This is a feast."
The younger boy smiled enigmatically, the look on his face closed and secretive.
"I have to eat a lot, so I might as well eat well, right?" He set the dishes on the table and took a pair of plates out of the cabinet, matching it with some silverware and napkins. "You drink milk?" The look on Blaine face said definitely not, and Kurt couldn't resist throwing in a slightly teasing, "Maybe that's why I'm taller than you."
Now it was Blaine's turn to look scandalized.
"What? It is not—yes, please," he reluctantly consented, watching as Kurt poured two glasses, "Ahhh, I feel kind of bad now, I didn't even ask if there was anything I could do to help…"
"It's fine, I've got it. It's basically done anyway. Besides, I invited you. What sort of host would I be if I expected you to help?"
"What sort of guest would I be if I didn't offer, if belatedly?" Blaine countered, and Kurt made a shooting gun motion with his hand.
"Touché, Blaine Anderson, touché. Well played, sir." Kurt's eyes crinkled up when he smiled this time, and he made a sweeping gesture to the table, "Sit wherever you like."
"Oh my god. I don't think I can ever eat ramen again." Blaine's voice was breathy and astounded and Kurt seriously thought that he might choke to death on a piece of chicken if he didn't slow down. It was a good thing that Kurt had googled the Heimlich out of curiosity a while back.
"Oh, you caught me," he quipped, "It was all my secret plan to get you to starve to death by getting you so hooked on my food that you can no longer live without it."
"Culinary mind control?"
"Absolutely."
"I like it. Classy and yet creative."
Kurt took a bite and savored it slowly, reveling in the beauty of getting a piece of everything in every single bite, quietly watching Blaine across the table. Conversation had been easier than he'd expected it to be, to his pleasure and surprise. They stuck to light, simple subjects that mostly revolved around what Blaine referred to as turning rabbit food into something delicious.
"How old are you, Kurt?" Blaine asked suddenly, popping a bite of chicken into his mouth and chewing reverently.
"Just turned eighteen this May," Kurt answered, cocking his head. "Why? How old are you?"
"Twenty-one," Blaine replied, "And I was just curious—"
"It's because of the babyface, isn't it?" Kurt asked dryly, and was rewarded with a shamefaced smile.
"Guilty."
Kurt scowled at him, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest defensively. Beyond anything, he hoped that Blaine wouldn't ask that question. The where-are-you-going-to-school because everyone asked that and it hurt every time he had to answer that no, he wasn't going to be a college freshman in the fall, that he wasn't going to have a major, that he wouldn't have the chance to join school clubs and maybe the university show choir that he'd made sure that all of his top choices had. It never came though, and Blaine didn't apologize for thinking that he was younger than he was, and Kurt didn't comment on the fact that Blaine grimaced every time he took a drink of milk.
"You said you wrote music?" the taller boy asked, daintily twirling pasta around his fork.
"I, uh, try to write music. It doesn't work very well." Blaine shrugged, "I guess I just haven't found the right inspiration. Or maybe I'm just no good at it. I can sing okay, but when it comes to writing, I kind of flop." He winced a little and flapped a hand, "It doesn't pay the bills though, so I work at the record store and play the guitar for various local cover bands."
"You work with music though, that's a start," Kurt's was light, contrasting with the Blaine's weighted tone that seemed to include sighs with every sentence, "I'd still like to hear a song, when you write one."
When. Not if.
"It'd be easier if I could figure out how to work with my music programs though," Blaine continued, "I'm not too good with computers either and I can only play the guitar, so I thought I'd do better if I tried out some software."
"What do you use?"
"If you can call it using. I've got Fortissimo installed on my laptop, though I can hardly make heads or tails of how to work it."
"FortissimoBright or FortissimoBeta?"
"I've got the Bright version. You know how to work it?"
"Something like that," Kurt replied, mentally bringing up his program list and remembering that he himself had installed it behind Burt's back a year ago, "It's not too difficult to work with," It helped to have it installed in your head, after all, "And I've got some experience with it. I can give you some pointers sometime if you want. I'm kind of…good with computers."
"Apparently. Are you magic or something?"
"No, not at all," Kurt's voice went a little wistful, just enough for Blaine to catch and pay attention to, "Just a little special, I guess."
"Thank you so much for dinner, it was delicious," Blaine said cheerfully, tossing his keys from hand to hand. In the doorway, Kurt smiled back, hands laced behind his back.
"Thanks for eating with me," he replied, "Have a good night."
"You too, see you around, Kurt."
And then his apartment was empty again. Kurt closed the door with a click, sliding the deadbolt and turning the lock and made his way into his bedroom. They'd cleaned up the dishes together even though Blaine appeared to be a little bit clumsy and almost dropped their plates onto the tile, and the small amount of leftovers had been packaged up and put into the fridge for lunch tomorrow. It was nice to have a neighbor, and even nicer to have a neighbor that he got along with who didn't seem to immediately sense that he was different, even if those indications usually came from the way he dressed and the way he spoke.
A smile played across his face and he began to hum, absently sticking his iPod into the dock on his side table and setting it to random.
Kurt turned the lights down low and settled down at his desk to get to work, bringing up the layout that he was designing for a private company. The html and coding read like a book to him and he wrote it as easily as if he was writing an essay. Logo here, #3BB9FF for the main pages, no stupid animations, a photo of the facility appropriately placed.
Kurt felt like he could work all night, and he knew that it wasn't just because he'd eaten enough to give him an energy boost.
The cell phone in his pocket vibrated and he answered it without looking at the screen.
"Hello, 'Cedes."
"Hey, boy! You sound happier than you did yesterday. You can't possibly be working."
"Hush up, I'm totally working. I feel happier than I did yesterday. I had dinner with my neighbor tonight."
"Oooooh? The one named Blaine?"
"How do you do that? I'm the one with wifi in his head and I only mentioned him once to you."
"You think I don't listen when you talk?"
That was what was so different about Mercedes, Kurt thought with a smile. Most people just heard him. Mercedes listened. That was why he trusted her and why she was second on his speed dial second only to his father, and why he hadn't bothered to even try to hide the fact that he missed her terribly from her. She'd definitely know and be upset and Kurt hated it when he hurt her.
"Did you have fun?"
"Yeah, actually. I did."
Blaine's phone rang almost the second he got back to his apartment and he answered it after about four rings, debating on whether he really wanted to talk to Wes. Reluctantly, he flipped it open.
"Hello."
"Well, look who decided to answer. What gives, Anderson? We were supposed to go out to that sports bar you were raving about the other day."
"Yeah… I'm sorry. I meant to call you and cancel, I ended up having dinner with my neighbor instead."
"The cute one who looks about fifteen?"
"Shut up, Wesley, he doesn't look that young. And he's eighteen. But yes, I was about to walk out and call you, but I opened the door and he was standing there instead." Looking lost and in the middle of an existential meltdown, but standing there regardless. "So I went over there and forgot. I'm really sorry."
"Yeah, yeah. Blow us off for a boy you just met. I see how it is." Wes' voice was teasing, though, "We're only best friends from high school. Such a shallow relationship."
"I said I was sorry! What do you want?"
"I'm so glad you asked, Anderson. We're going out tomorrow and you're buying the first round."
"Fine, deal."
"Now, tell me about this snazzy dinner date you had with your new neighbor."
Blaine blanched, scowling at his phone.
"It was not a dinner date. Shut up. We just ate together because he made too much."
"Mhmmmm."
"Shut up. I'm hanging up now. We'll talk when we can have a mature conversation."
"We'll be going a looooong time without speaking then, Blainey bear. See you tomorrow."
Click, and the connection was cut. Blaine raised an eyebrow and shook his head, pocketing his phone and meandering over to his guitar. Time to try again.
AN2: And there's chapter two! Please let me know if you liked it, hated it, whatever. Feedback is an author's life blood.