A/N: Written for the prompt 'ice cream parlor'.
"I was wondering where you'd run off to yesterday afternoon. Just tell me one thing - are you overdoing the Sudafed again?" Santana, Blaine's roommate, asks, as she licks around the outside of her vanilla ice cream cone, stemming a stream of drips before they can make their way to her fingers. "Because you know what that stuff does to you."
Santana's presence in Blaine's life has been a relatively recent one. When he'd made up his mind to quit the jingle biz cold turkey after his final ad and devote all of his time and effort into launching his solo career, he figured he might need a little help covering the bills. Not right away. He was fiscally responsible, and had a decent amount of money saved up for a rainy day. Since he tried to live frugally, and had no social life to speak of, he actually had enough money saved up to pay his rent and his bills for about five years' worth of monsoons.
But he likes to plan ahead, and that's where Santana came in.
Admittedly, Blaine doesn't know too much about her other than she was the first, and only, person who answered the ad for a roommate that he'd posted on Oberlin's student bulletin board, which was strange since she didn't actually attend Oberlin. She didn't have an explanation for that. She simply dropped into his life out of the blue, kind of like the man on the rollerblades.
Maybe that was going to become a trend in his life now. He'd never had much luck making friends through conventional methods, so now the ones he'll have will just drop out of the sky like errant seed pods.
What he does know about Santana is she's finishing up some courses at a local university … and trying hardcore to get into the pants of some blonde in one of her classes. Blaine has only met the target of Santana's affections a handful of times. He thinks her name is Beverly, or Brittany - something along those lines. They usually hang out at her place, whoever she is. At first, Blaine feared this relationship would deprive him of his new roommate sooner than he'd planned, but Santana assured him she wouldn't do anything without giving him two months' notice first, and seeing as she paid the deposit he'd asked for, along with her first two months in advance, he had no reason not to take her at her word.
As long as he didn't have to listen to them moaning through the walls, find panties in his laundry hamper, or walk in on them doing it, he was more than supportive of their budding relationship.
It was because of one of their sleepovers that this was the first opportunity Blaine had had to talk to Santana. He'd invited her out to lunch, but when they couldn't decide between burgers or pizza, they skipped to the end and went out for ice cream instead.
"I have allergies, alright?" Blaine replies defensively, embarrassed by the mention of his last foray into over-the-counter medications, when he took one too many, followed by an unintended sip of beer, and hallucinated that he was Ben Vereen for three hours in the waiting room of the ER. "I'm using the correct dosage as indicated on the package … Santana!" he whines when she rolls her eyes. "I'm not high on antihistamines! He's real, okay? I saw him."
"Right. A mysterious sun-kissed Adonis who skates like the wind," she teases, quoting his words back at him. "You know, I think you should consider quitting music altogether and start writing Harlequin Romance novels. You have quite the knack for cheesy turns-of-phrase."
"I know he's real, Santana, because I … I touched him. Or rather, he touched me."
Santana stops eating mid-lick and raises a startled brow. "He did?"
"Yeah." Blaine sighs dreamily. "In fact … he kissed me."
Santana stares at Blaine in disbelief while Blaine's mind drifts off into hazy thoughts of yesterday when that man's lips met his. After that, Blaine couldn't hear anything over the music in his head – songs, lullabies, symphonies, like none he could recall hearing before. But as he walked home, trying to make sense of what had happened, he realized that the music he was hearing was every song he'd ever conceived, most of which he'd never written down or performed, save for one simple melody that he'd plucked out on his toy guitar for his mother when he was eight.
Santana laughs. It kind of erupts out of her, as if what Blaine said was the most impossible thing she's ever heard. He scowls at her, at her blasphemous laughter besmirching his beautiful memory, and she puts up a hand in surrender.
"Okay, okay. So you have a secret admirer who ding-dong-kiss-and-ditched you. What are you going to do about it?"
"Well, after we're done here," Blaine starts, looking pointedly from his own empty dish of ice cream to her barely half-eaten cone, "I'm going back to that spot in the park and wait him out."
"A-ha. And the rollerblades are for …?"
Blaine shifts his feet underneath the table at the mention of the skates on his feet. They're not the best fit. They were the last pair available at Dick's Sporting Goods, and, unfortunately, they're a half size too big, which makes his feet lean in every time he tries to stand up. Coupled with the fact that the last time he went rollerblading, he was ten, this may not be the most practical – or safe - plan.
It's not that Blaine's a klutz. He's actually quite athletic; even back then he was. For a year before his tenth birthday, Blaine had wanted to try his hand at extreme sports. His father had already gotten him involved in boxing, but Blaine thought that rollerblading would put him over the top. He could learn all sorts of tricks and show them off at school. Then he might be more popular. It's not like he could show off his boxing skills at school.
That would just get him sent to the principal's office.
He'd started out fine skating down the driveway of his house. But when he reached the end, he tripped over a crack and took flight, soaring across their narrow, residential street like an albatross. That was cool for about 4-point-3 seconds. Then he landed, on his side, sandwiching his arm between the cement and his body, breaking his wrist.
Blaine gulps hard when a phantom pain shoots up his arm and radiates throughout his entire body, making his head go cold and his brain momentarily numb. But he doesn't have any better ideas, so this is the one he has to go with for now.
And pray he doesn't end up back in the ER.
"When I see him, I'm going to chase him down."
"And then what?"
"Well, I … I'm going to ask him for an explanation as to why he kissed me." He had actually hoped that the man might kiss him again, but he feels that admitting that might make him seem creepy. "At the very least, I'm going to try and get his name."
"Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"Why? Do you think that maybe he doesn't want me to talk to him? That he regrets what he did, and he doesn't want to see me again?"
"No. But you don't look too steady in those things. You don't even have a helmet. You almost fell waiting in line for your ice cream and took out the three people standing in line behind us. If you kill yourself, I'm going to have to flip all the bills by myself until I find a new roommate."
"Nice."
"Hey. If you're going to put your life on the line after one kiss, I have the right to plan for the inevitable. Speaking of which, what's your blood type?"
Blaine scrunches his face in disgust. "Why in the world do you want to know that?"
"For your organ donor card. I know you don't have one. It's the responsible thing to do. Also, I'm taking out a life insurance policy on you."
"Man. You're really covering all your bases."
"A girl's gotta be prepared."
"Right. Well, while you're preparing for my demise, I'm going to toss my trash, and then we can walk over there," Blaine says, giving Santana a hint.
"Not until I finish my ice cream, hobbit," she says, not taking it. "I'm not dripping ice cream all over my new Manolo Blahniks."
Blaine slides to the end of the bench and turns his legs out. With a few deep breaths and a silent negotiation with God, he hoists himself to his feet. The skates beneath him roll forward and backward at alternating angles, almost forcing him back into his seat, but with a little help from the wobbly edge of the table, he keeps his balance. Encouraged, he gives himself a small push and rolls over to the trash can by the front door. He shoves his empty cup in, then checks the time on his phone. It's nearly one o'clock, roughly the same time he met his mystery man yesterday. If they don't get a move on, they might miss him.
Blaine looks out of the large windows that line the front of the ice cream parlor. The park is across the street, the spot where Blaine usually sits about a football field's length away, but what if the man doesn't pass by this way when he goes into the park? Of course, there's always the chance that he doesn't skate here every day. What if he's not even from around there? What if he's just visiting, and he's already gone? On a plane or a train bound for who knows where? That could be reason enough to kiss a random stranger. If you mess up and kiss the wrong person, that's okay, because you never have to see them again.
But what about that look in his eyes? As if he'd been searching for Blaine his whole life? Did Blaine just make that up? Was he seeing something that wasn't there?
Was he seeing something he'd wanted to see?
A knock on the window in front of him rouses him from his musing, and he huffs. Probably just Santana, he thinks, done with her ice cream and acting like he's the one holding them up. Blaine glances up, ready to mouth the words I'm coming! and there he is, smiling and waving at the glass.
Blaine's Adonis on rollerblades.
From what Blaine can see, he has them on today, along with the same white shorts and tank top from yesterday. Blaine stands there, mouth hanging open, but before he can say anything, the man takes off, zipping at incredible speed towards the park.
"Wait! Wait!" Blaine screams, taking off after him …
… slamming head first into the glass door, and falling backwards onto the floor.
The resulting wallop, like a boulder hitting a brick wall, attracts the attention of every patron in the place, and they groan sympathetically, with the exception of Santana, still licking her ice cream with a nonchalance that comes from having known better. But a determined Blaine rushes to his feet – which is less any actual rushing and more trying to remain upright for longer than five seconds. And when he accomplishes that, he takes off out the door, blissfully optimistic even though all available evidence tells him he has to have lost the man already, who had a head start, and is obviously a much better skater.
Blaine heads straight for the park, shooting through traffic without stopping for the light, almost causing a three car collision when he slides through the intersection like a bat out of hell. He stumbles over the curb but keeps his feet, missing the start of the jogging path and rolling for a few yards through the soft grass. But through all of that misfortune, luck still seems to be on his side as he looks up and sees him, leisurely blading through the park, slower than before as if he's purposefully waiting for Blaine to catch up.
Blaine puts on a burst of speed in an attempt to get to the man, clipping curves in the trail when his blades refuse to do what he wants, the bolts on the wheels gunked up with grass.
"Wait!" he calls after the man. "Wait! I need to know why …" He trips over a rock and nearly falls on his face. Anxiety lodges the question about the kiss in his throat, making room for a fear for his life. So he skips ahead to his next question: "I just … I need to know … your name. Just … tell me your name!"
"It's Kurt," the voice … that voice … that heavenly voice … says from suddenly right beside him.
"K-Kurt?" Blaine repeats, turning his head to look at him – so close, and yet, so far, since Blaine keeps moving and the man stands still.
"A-ha. Watch your step," Kurt says with a giggle.
A giggle because Blaine doesn't turn back in time to see where he's going, which ends up being over a small retaining wall and straight into the Auglaize River.