READ ME: Your reviews have all been so lovely! I'm completely new to writing in the Glee fanfiction world and sort of pretty new to writing fanfiction in general, so all of your wonderful comments made me feel very welcome. :)
Keep the reviews coming! Reviews are, in the words of Kurt Hummel, "like crack to me."
Does anyone have any more Glee gossip? I cannot wait for this freaking hiatus to be over, so Klaine gossip is especially appreciated. Oi, Ryan Murphy, we can has canon!Klaine nao plz?
Also, thanks to BeRightThere for helping with the brainstorming of this fic.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Glee, etc.
WELCOME TO THE BRIGHT LIGHTS: CH. 2 "BRAND NEW"
By: paundromat
When Kurt finally came out of the bathroom, he was wrapped in one of those stark white hotel robes and his damp hair was slightly matted against his pale forehead. With his bangs in his face, he looked like he was five again. I guess that's why he insisted on gelling them up and out of his face all the time. Didn't want to get mistaken as, for example, a very tall, very attractive magical elf.
An elf? What the hell, Blaine?
"Blaine?" he asked, watching as I dutifully poured the steaming coffee into two mugs. He began to twirl a chunk of his wet brown hair in between his fingers deftly, continuing with, "You want to clean up in the bathroom or anything? I mean, you don't have to. But I dislike people who smell bad." Kurt leaned over a little bit towards me, and his warm breath skimmed over my skin as he sniffed at me. I flinched back a little bit on instinct, but Kurt didn't seem to notice. The sides of his lips turned up in a slight smile.
"You smell like the inside of a car," he accused teasingly, poking at my stomach with his finger. "And since I don't deem that scent particularly pleasant, you need to take a bath."
I gave a huge, exaggerated sigh, turning the Kurt and pouting. "I just changed into my pajamas, though," I replied, gesturing pointedly towards my fleece pants. Kurt rolled his eyes offhandedly, swatting at my shoulder. "Take a bath, Blaine," he commanded.
For a moment, I considered mutiny.
Finally, I threw my hands up in resignation and acquiescence. "Fine, fine, whatever the grand and endearing spy Kurt Hummel wants. Apparently I smell too vehicular for him. How shall I ever go on?" I proclaimed, waxing melodramatic and raising my thick, dark eyebrows up as high as they could go.
Kurt stuck his pink tongue out at me and grabbed his respective mug of coffee, taking a dignified sip before sitting down at the desk, cross-legged and solemn. His eyes followed me in between brief swallows of coffee as I shuffled to the other side of the room to the bathroom rather lamely. When inside, I undressed yet again, as per Kurt's instructions.
Kurt had an uncanny habit of acquiring whatever he wanted in the world: the newest spring fashions, a wonderfully whole and complete family, freedom from his oppressors...
...freedom from Karofsky?
Karofsky was a topic that had escaped most of our conversations at Dalton Academy. Kurt didn't like to think about it, so I didn't like to remind him about it. Whenever Wes or David brought up Dave Karofsky, Kurt's sanguine face would fall noticeably until it seemed haunted and slushied by the bullies of his old public high school again.
It was my responsibility to keep him out of the McKinley High blues. I hated seeing Kurt depressed. It was total a waste of his spirit and creativity.
So by the time that Kurt's own tragic sob story got leaked throughout the Warblers and later throughout all of the Dalton Academy, I began to elbow people very roughly in the ribs or possibly the spleen in order to get them to shut up about Karofsky and the rest of Kurt's old tormentors. As you might expect, the general anti-Karofsky sentiment soon spread throughout campus like wildfire, and that was the end of that chapter in Kurt's Daltonian life.
And once people stopped treating Kurt like some sort of delicate but flamboyant tortured plebeian-type kid, his life at school got much better.
For one thing, he started to make new friends outside of Wes, David, and myself. Kurt started to open up more about his life, and he poured every drop of his creativity into the classroom and into his own single-bedroom dorm room, which was by now laden with steel figurines and cultured, fancy wall art. There had been a slight incident wherein Kurt took the issue of not being allowed to paint over the beige walls of his room straight to the Dean. Kurt had lost that fight, but he soon dismissed it as trite and unnecessary. He ended up mumbling some sort of meaningful rhetoric about how true designers could create beautiful space without over-manipulation.
On the other, his unforgettable face and pleasantly catty personality began attracting some of the other gay guys at Dalton (read: Jeff Simon), which left me feeling undeniably uncomfortable. But no one was quite so uncomfortable as Kurt, who wasn't exactly used to all of the positive attention. Hell, I don't think he was even adjusted to the idea of males even coming within three feet of him. I mean, other than to push him into lockers on the way to his AP French class back at McKinley, or something.
Or, you know. Kiss him in the boys' locker room against his will.
Looking at you, Karofsky.
The culture shock must have been stark and definitive. Public school equals torment. Private school equals safe haven. And this mentality wasn't exactly fair, but it was the way life was playing out for Kurt.
I stopped my thoughts in their tracks, directing my attention to the ordeal at hand. I ran the bathwater, setting it to the highest heat setting, and ignoring the burning sensation I felt when the fiery droplets scorched at my skin.
In the shower, the bar of soap somehow transformed into a rather unconvincingly shaped, cucumber-melon-fragranced microphone.
Showers were funny things, really. Some people turned the heat way down low in order to...cool off. But for me? Showers were the perfect way to end the day by singing whatever I wanted loudly and obnoxiously.
"Show me your peacock-cock-cock, your peacock-cock-cock..." I sang loudly into the green bar of soap, gearing up for my ten-minute in-the-shower Katy Perry medley.
There was a clattering noise coming from outside of the bathroom, followed by a largely uncalled-for snort. Kurt was chortling to himself, obviously entertained.
"Come on, baby, let me see what you're hidin' underneath..."
The giggles that were coming from the bedroom stopped immediately.
Kurt's voice trailed in through the crack in between the door and the frame.
"Blaine Anderson, if I may? Not that I'm recording this with my phone or anything, but if Thad ever hears of this incident you're definitely not representing the Warblers during Nationals," he said, the lilt of a joke coming through in his voice very clearly. I could almost picture the little smirk that was blooming on his face.
I ceased in my Katy Perry peacocking efforts.
And Kurt's laughter resumed.
April 15, 2011. Ten-thirty P.M., The Hyatt.
Dear Journal—
Blaine's been singing Katy Perry all adorably in the shower instead of actually, you know, showering. It's endearing and, for lack of a better word, Blaine-y. He also sort of made me coffee, even though it's late in the evening. And even though the coffee is weak and watery, I appreciate the gesture. It's the thought that counts.
Argh, stop it, Kurt! Stop thinking about Blaine.
Lady GaGa. Lady GaGa and Marc Jacobs and New Directions.
And Jake Gyllenhaal.
...
Ah, much better.
Hot damn, he's out of the shower. Need to put iPhone back in pocket.
—Kurt
"Happy?" I asked, doing a 360-degree spin for Kurt to show of my newly-showered self.
Kurt nodded in approval after taking in another whiff of me. "Better," he replied shortly, getting up to put his empty coffee cup on the table with the brewer on it. "Now you smell like aftershave and cucumber melon soap."
I pointed at my already rapidly-curling hair sheepishly. "And now you get to watch this air dry. It's going to take forever."
Kurt shook his head quickly. "We're going to sleep anyway, Blaine." He padded on in his little light blue plush slippers towards the bed he had claimed earlier, and flopped down on it as if to prove a point. He pulled the linen sheets over his body and I watched, entranced as the fabric fluttered a bit in the air before settling down to encase his petite frame.
I scratched my neck sheepishly. "This is true. Point taken."
I stood up, put my still-full, abandoned coffee mug on the table, and sat down at the edge of the twin bed right across from Kurt's.
"So, Kurt," I began conversationally while I busied myself with turning over the bedsheets and sliding underneath without rumpling up the comforter too much. "Excited to see New York for the first time?"
Kurt hummed a little bit and then replied, "Mmm, I'm even more excited to just get out of Ohio in general. Two years ago, it seemed like I'd never even make it out of Lima."
I smiled at that. "Good to know you at least made it out to Westerville."
"Ha ha, very funny, Blaine."
"Hey now, the Warblers are of very high society."
Kurt paused for a moment before responding with a playful, "Never stopped David from spitballing the shit out of you."
There was a ruffling sound as Kurt shifted in his position so that he could face me rather than the ceiling. I reciprocated, turning towards him. He had the sheets pulled up tight against himself. Kurt looked kind of adorable.
Okay, maybe a lot adorable.
"Who said that members of high society were ever too good for spitballing?"
"I think that I'd direct all of that high society money to different things. Like various charities, for example."
"Well, that's very noble of you, Kurt Hummel."
There was silence for a bit.
And then, "Oh-oh-oh-oh-ohhhhh oh-oh-oh-ohhh...oh-oh-oh...Caught in a bad romance..."
I lifted my torso up from the bed slightly, wondering where exactly the loud Lady GaGa music was coming from.
Oh. Kurt's phone. He had set his ringtone to "Bad Romance". Of course he did.
Oh, the irony!
Kurt's hand was immediately to the bedside table, blindly feeling the space for his phone, which was buzzing quite rudely and obnoxiously. The pulsing rhythms of the song filled up the small hotel room, and I couldn't help but laugh at how awkward the entire situation felt, given the circumstances.
He finally picked up the phone right after GaGa's first set of "ra-ra-ah-ah-ah"s, and his face fell instantly after he held the speaker to the side of his face.
"What, Rachel?" Kurt snapped, looking visibly annoyed as he heaved a great sigh. Most of the New Directions had taken the loss at Regionals with grace and poise. But the little five-foot dynamo that was one Rachel Berry seemed to be living her life vicariously through Kurt's success as a Dalton Warbler; therefore, she was practically stalking him on his "Road to Nationals".
When the first Rachel Berry phone call had come just a week ago, I had dismissed the entire notion lightheartedly, pointing out that Kurt had finally won over his very first rabid fangirl.
Kurt merely shrugged, rolled his eyes, and proceeded to have a seemingly pleasant conversation with Rachel.
Only those pleasant conversations somehow managed to morph into intense diva-offs mainly fueled by Rachel's uncontrollable envy.
You know how she had magically improved in personality around time for Sectionals?
Those improvements? Gone. Zip, zilch, zero, nothing.
Vegan, kosher goose eggs.
"Yes, we're on the layover right now. The Hyatt. No, I have no idea where the hell we are—probably somewhere in Pennsylvania," Kurt continued, twiddling the strings of his Gucci cell phone strap in between his fingers.
Rachel was speaking so loudly and so excitedly that I could actually catch snippets of whatever she was talking about with Kurt.
"Are you rooming with Blaine?" she asked, or rather, demanded.
Kurt huffed out another sigh. "Yes, Rach. I am rooming with Blaine Anderson."
There was a sound of squealing from the phone and Kurt shuddered, holding it a few inches away from his ear before returning it to its original position once the shrill, girlish screams stopped.
When Rachel's voice went a little bit softer, I had to strain a little bit to pick up what she was saying. And even then I couldn't exactly hear everything.
"Kurt, I know (something) Blaine, but (damn it, Rachel, talk louder) because (something) Blaine (silence) Kurt, you need to (what's she saying?) oh, and (boo.) but I digress. Mercedes is here," Rachel was continuing blithely.
Kurt turned his head to me and gave me a look that said, "Shoot me now, please."
I couldn't help but feel just a little bit uncomfortable. Rachel was obviously talking about me on that stupid phone of hers.
Kurt brightened up considerably once Mercedes got on the line, and a smile appeared on his previously morbidly annoyed face. "Hi, 'Cedes! Yes, he's here. Oh, I'll put you on speaker, do you mind?" He took the phone away from his face and pressed something on its screen. Immediately, the warm tones of Mercedes' voice were amplified.
"Hey, Blaine," greeted Mercedes. I nodded and smiled, and then realized that Mercedes couldn't actually see me. Feeling like an idiot, I added an amending, "Hey, Mercedes. How's the boyfriend?"
Silence on the other line, and then a dreamy, "Anthony's been really good to me." And then, as if catching herself from getting too mushy, "Oh, and Kurt, your dad wanted me to decipher some mail that you got from Neiman. Essentially, Cathy says they found those boots you were looking for in your size, so..."
Kurt's posture perked up instantly. "I have three-hundred-and-fifty dollars hidden underneath the leg of the gray suede chaise in my room, Mercedes," he said brightly. "Go for it."
"Sure, boo. And so...that's pretty much all I have to say. I hope Rachel hasn't been getting too overzealous about the entire stalk-the-Warblers thing she's got going on. Actually, never mind. She's probably gone a little bit too overboard already. So I'm sorry about that," Mercedes trailed off a little bit, unable to find anything else to say.
Kurt propped his chin up with his palm. "Irrelevant. Oh, and Rachel can have all the fun she wants with this. I assure you that the Warblers are not going to throw Nationals just to heal her wounded ego."
Mercedes snorted loudly and shouted in the other direction (presumably Rachel's), "Rachel, you hear that? They aren't throwing Nationals for you, hell no."
Rachel seemed to be passing by the phone just in time to mutter a, "I never said they would. For the record, I do not care about Nationals. Mainly because I am not going."
"Sure you don't," Mercedes said emphatically.
"I assure you, Mercedes, that my two gay dads raised me with enough tact and poise in accordance to our Jewish family's traditio–"
Kurt rolled his eyes and interrupted Rachel with a, "Hey, Merce, it's late over here and we have an early start tomorrow on the bus. Right, Blaine?"
"Sure, Kurt. Bye, Mercedes. Say hi to New Directions for me," I said in order to spare Kurt from any more Rachel drama.
Mercedes chuckled warmly. "Sure thing, Blaine. I'll have to endure the night with Rachel, though, so I may not survive long enough to see to that."
Commotion on the other end of the line, and then an aggravated Rachel squealing, "I heard that!"
"Bye, Rachel."
"Night, Kurt."
"Good night, Mercedes."
"Same to you, white boy."
Finally, Kurt, shaking his head rather ruefully, hit the "End Call" button on his iPhone's screen.
"Night, Blaine," he murmured, leaning over a pillow to turn the light switch off.
I must have looked tired and distracted during breakfast the next morning, because Wes and David sat themselves down in front of me and slid a waffle-laden platter towards me in complete unison.
"Thanks, guys," I said gratefully, drizzling cheap maple syrup over the waffles lamely.
Wes nodded and smiled at me, and then left the table, a clipboard in hand. David stayed, albeit preoccupied with his own plate of food. Only instead of having waffles, he was eating a steaming mushroom-and-cheese omelette.
"So," began David as he prodded at a rubbery mushroom with his fork. "Where's Kurt? Did he sleep okay last night?"
Forking some waffle into my mouth and nodded, chewed, and swallowed. "Um, I think he did. He's just getting ready. Did you know that he has a–"
"–morning skincare routine that takes up the better part of an hour? Yes."
Thad pulled his chair over to us from the table that was standing three feet away. "I think all the Warblers know, but he had better not be late," he deadpanned, toying with the strings of his undignified, extremely casual navy hoodie. It was weird dichotomy, really, seeing Thaddeus Meyers, head of the Warbler council's "triumvirate", all dressed up like a normal civilian instead of a Dalton tie and blazer.
"He's not going to be late," I assured him in between sips of sweet Lipton tea.
"In fact," said David, pointing to the doorway that led to the room elevators, "Speak of the devil. Or," He flashed a winning smile in my direction, "the angel." He exchanged a brief fist bump with Thad.
"One day, you will all work for me," I forced out between gritted teeth.
Kurt strolled over to our table calmly, wearing an outfit that was thankfully much simpler than the one he had worn the day before—skinny jeans, a fitted, patterned sweater, and his peacoat draped over his left arm. "For the record, Blaine, that just so happens to be my line."
"What?" asked David, head cocking in curiosity.
"The whole 'one day you will all work for me' line? Mine."
"Oh."
I cleared my throat awkwardly.
"Anyway," said Kurt diplomatically, "I'm sure Blaine was just commenting on the fact that while you two and Wes are head Warblers, he just happens to get all of the solos."
"Not all of them!" objected Thad and David at the same time.
"Just the big song-and-dance numbers," Kurt pointed out.
My hand flew to my mouth, keeping myself from sputtering out mouthfuls of tea.
Once I had stopped my impromptu spit-take in its tracks, I wiped my lips off with as much dignity as I could muster.
"Actually," I countered, "Kurt was the soloist who got us to Nationals in the first place."
"Oh, cut the crap, Blaine," said Kurt. "It wasn't even a full-blown solo, I just got to sing a few lines by myself."
"That's considered a solo," called Wes from across the room.
"Irrefutably," added David.
Kurt pulled a chair into the table we were sitting at and stole a piece of buttered toast from Thad's plate.
"I rest my case," he conceded with a dignified sniffle and a bite of toast.
The remainder of the bus ride to New York City was a breeze, save for the whole hour it took for us to actually get into the city. The description of the Big Apple being a huge, sprawling, and congested with traffic was scarily accurate. And as much as the Warblers and I loved Pennsylvania, nothing was comparable with the vibe that New York gave us.
Pennsylvania flew by us like rain on a car window as we all sang grand renditions of classic songs.
Including Wes and Nick's spirited performance of "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall" that took us all the way from Pittsburgh to the borders of New York—that is, until Mr. Goolsby candidly told us all to stop singing about alcoholic beverages unless if we wanted to get sent back home to Westerville. As you can imagine, that shut us up pretty well.
Only...
I really was kind of preoccupied throughout the rest of the bus ride watching Kurt as he peered through the bus windows, his excitement clearly rising as morning came to a close and noon hit.
We had been sharing his iPhone to listen to music—I had the right earbud, he had the left—and he was subtly bobbing his head in time to the rhythms and beats in the midst of all the commotion that was Thad's impromptu rendition of "Bootylicious". His eyes were widened in an innocent sort of wonder as we passed through cities that were larger than any he had ever seen before. Not that he was some sort of Ohio bum, not at all. I'm guessing that he had done so much research and heard so many stories about the city of New York that seeing it all play out right in front of his eyes was a bit of a shock. And rightfully so.
I leaned over his shoulder and put my hand on his arm just a bit, watching him as he surveyed the new scenery.
"Fantastic..." he breathed out as he looked at a particularly minimalistically stylized building that we passed longingly.
"Even more fantastic than that?" I asked, pointing out the multitude of cars that were stuck in position all around us. "This traffic is insane."
Kurt smiled ruefully. "Of course it is. they're all trying to get to the greatest city in the universe." He paused. "I'm surprised there isn't more traffic than this, actually."
He turned to face me.
I'd hate to bore you all with winding descriptions of my gay hormonal teenage thoughts, but when Kurt looked up at me, I totally had one of those lame "his eyes are so preeetty" moments that happen in every romantic movie everywhere, rom-com and dramedy alike.
Green, gray, or blue? asked my inner monologue relentlessly.
"Glasz," I muttered to myself underneath my breath.
"Excuse me?" Kurt questioned, brow creasing in confusion.
You totally Wikipedia'ed that one, Blaine, my mind continued.
Instantly reddening, my body shot away from Kurt's. "Nothing," I said. "It's nothing."
April 16, 2011. Three-fifteen P.M., New York City.
Dear Journal—
Well, we Warblers made it to New York without getting ourselves thrown off any suspension bridges. That's really good.
On the other hand, now we've got to enter business mode. Rehearsals upon rehearsals. Which means that I won't really get to talk to Blaine alone during the day. But that's okay, since we're roommates, anyway. No one else would rather share a room with me than Blaine. Because I'm supposed to be "one of his best friends!". Even after the "Baby, It's Cold Outside" incident last year's Christmas.
That incident really did get my hopes up.
But then Valentine's Day came and left and he didn't do anything.
And there really just aren't any other romantic holidays directly after Valentine's Day.
St. Patrick's Day, therefore, does not count.
Argh, codependency sucks.
We're finally pulling up to the hotel! Damn, it's huge. (That's what she said.)
—Kurt
A/N: Well, they finally made it to New York City. Next episode: Warblers rehearsal and pre-Nationals NYC sightseeing with Klaine & Co. :) Don't forget to review, add to story alert, favorite, etc.!