A/N: Written for the prompt 'carnival/amusement park'.

"Right, left, right, left, stroke, stroke, and hold … nice, guys! Very nice, Erick … Jamie … Ryan, raise that leg a little bit higher … Chelsea, good … Steven … and Mr. Anderson. You're doing beautifully."

"Th-thank you, Mrs. Gunderson," Blaine says, transitioning into crossovers. He checks his arms, barely getting his left foot over his right as he comes around the curve. He holds his breath, finally completing a lap without face planting into the grass, and from behind him, and small group of onlookers cheer.

It's another gorgeous, sunny afternoon, and once again, Blaine finds himself in the park. But this time, instead of sitting around, fists balled in frustration as he watches the world spin by, his one dream slipping farther and farther out of reach with every rotation, he's participating in life. No more riding a bench, waiting for inspiration to strike. He doesn't have to. Ideas flood his brain so rapidly that by the time he'd finished writing (starting the evening after he met Kurt, and continuing the following evening after his impromptu swim), he had five new songs and the full score to his musical almost completely written … and it had only been two days! He'd even managed to polish off that damned jingle and email it to the agency that handled Lysol's accounts. They wired him his money, and that was that.

He's officially off the jingle market.

All that's left for him to do is get an agent.

He'd sent out feelers, even going so far as to text his brother for some leads. (Cooper was the actor in the family, after all.) But in the meantime, he's taking up a hobby.

While he was floating in the river, trying to find his footing against the rocky embankment (not easy while wearing inline skates), he came across a neon yellow flier, soaking wet and plastered to a large rock. It wasn't in a place where anyone walking by could easily see it, and with the massive amount of sharp rocks lining this portion of the shore, no one would choose here to go for a swim.

Considering everything that had happened to him in the past couple of days, he could almost believe that it had been posted on that rock specifically for him to see.

Looking for a new way to exercise and have fun this summer?

Learn to skate!

Professional instruction in a fun and comfortable atmosphere!

Inline skaters and quad skaters welcome!

Ages 4 to adult.

Monday thru Friday from ten to noon.

Go to for more information!

Drenched to the bone and with flier in hand, Blaine went back to Dick's Sporting Goods. He returned the too big skates (which he was surprised he could do seeing as they were not only used, but saturated with filthy river water) and was preparing to go to another store in search of a pair that would fit when, as luck would have it, the salesperson – a flirty and accommodating young woman by the name of Tina – found a pair hiding in the back in Blaine's exact size. She also convinced him to buy a pair of wrist guards and a helmet to protect 'the adorable curls on his head'.

Blaine arrived at the park the following day right when classes started. He was torn between trying his hand at skating there to see if he really needed the lessons, or waiting till he got there to put on his skates. Skating was winning, but when he remembered his death-defying parlay with traffic between the ice cream parlor and the park, he decided he wanted to live instead. It shouldn't take him long to pick it up though, he reasoned. All he needed was a refresher on the basics – maintaining his balance, going forward, possibly turning around. Thirty minutes tops, then he'd be tooling around the park, searching for Kurt.

He ended up staying the entire two hours.

And by the looks of it, he's the only adult that signed up.

At the beginning, he got some suspicious looks from the parents gathered round to watch their children skate, certain that he was the man Chris Hansen has been warning them about on To Catch a Predator. But after he strapped on his birth control helmet, then promptly fell half a dozen times, they seemed confident he wasn't there to snatch one of their kids and make a quick getaway.

And they began cheering him on.

Blaine doesn't necessarily want to learn to rollerblade. With every bump on the pavement that he hits, with every stumble-and-catch, he has terrifying flashbacks. But he desperately wants to see Kurt again. He needs to see him. The man with the pinstripe skates and the disarming smile is the source of Blaine's newfound inspiration. Blaine is sure of that, and he doesn't want to let him get away. He's scared what could happen if he never sees the man again. Would the spring of ideas overflowing his brain dry up? Would he end up back where he started, sitting on a park bench, writing the newest catchy tune for Playtex's Sport Tampon campaign?

No. That he refuses to do.

Move forward. No looking back.

Blaine can't assume that Kurt would ever trade in his skates for a pair of jogging shoes just so that Blaine can keep up with him. If this was going to be a thing with them, Blaine might as well learn to skate.

"Okay, boys and girls … and Mr. Anderson … why don't we give three-turns a try?"

"Yay! Alright!" the excited kids whoop.

Blaine contemplates between giving it a go and cutting and running. He'd seen Mrs. Gunderson demonstrating these earlier, and they didn't look too hard. But, according to her online bio, she's been skating professionally for over seventeen years.

At the rate Blaine is going, he has a good chance of mastering this move some time after he's dead.

"Okay" - Mrs. Gunderson gets into position with her arms outstretched - "start out with your feet in a T, push off, ride the circle, then pivot and turn."

Blaine watches as ten fearless kids get into position, push off in unison, then simultaneously perform the turn as if they'd been doing it since birth. Meanwhile, Blaine had yet to get his feet to form a T. They're locked in a lopsided V, and they seem content to stay that way.

"Oh boy," he mutters, sliding his right heel to the instep of his left foot, his wheels scraping the ground. When he gets there, it puts an awkward bow in his knees and forces him to sit in his hips. The kids get into this position effortlessly, and look graceful performing it.

Blaine, however, looks constipated.

He pushes off, traveling at half the speed of everyone else. "Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy," he chants as supportive onlookers start a chorus of, "Blaine! Blaine! Blaine! Blaine!" But he has to block them out to concentrate on the move coming up, his body more prepared for it than his brain. Here it comes, he thinks, stiffening as he over-anticipates the turn. Pivot, and turn. Blaine makes a solid effort at pivoting, wrenching the lower half of his body in opposition to his upper half. And his hips actually manage to turn … but the rest of his body doesn't, leaving him to finish with his legs crossed one over the other, locked together at the ankles. He tries to pull them apart so he can put one foot securely down and stop, but he only succeeds in performing a wonky half turn, which would have been fine except that the second he loses momentum, he teeters over and ends up on his hands and knees in the grass.

"Oh!" his small crowd of cheerleaders groan, much like the patrons of the ice cream parlor the day before.

He's beginning to sense a trend.

"Oh, whoops, Mr. Anderson." Mrs. Gunderson laughs. "A little more pivot and a little less turn next time."

"Yeah, okay," Blaine mumbles bitterly, climbing to one knee. "That's super helpful advice there …"

"Here, let me help you," a voice says, and a hand reaches for his.

"Thanks." Blaine takes the hand without a clue to whom it belongs. He would have caught on if he hadn't been so humiliated - his ears ringing, his cheeks beginning to burn. It doesn't dawn on him until after he takes the offered hand and gets pulled to his feet, sparks igniting the moment their palms touch. Blaine looks up wide-eyed into the smiling face of Kurt. He looks just as radiant as he did the day before, his skin glowing in the sunlight. He's wearing a light blue tank top this time, the shade a paler reflection of his complex eyes.

Kurt dusts Blaine off – the grass from his palms, the dirt from his knees, some non-existent dust from his shoulders. Then he adjusts the helmet on his head, jarred slightly askew from the fall. "Nice helmet," he giggles, giving its smooth, black surface a soft knock.

"K-Kurt?"

"The one and only," he says, striking a pose.

"I've …. I've been looking for you everywhere!" Blaine says, in awe of the fact that they're speaking more than three words to one another.

"Have you?"

"Yes. I … I wanted to talk to you."

"Why?"

"I need to ask you something."

"Ooo." Kurt pulls a face. "I don't really do questions."

"Please? Just one? There's something I need to know."

Kurt taps a finger against his chin, rolling his eyes to the sky as if in serious thought. "Hmm … okay."

"O-okay?" Blaine chokes.

"A-ha. But you have to catch me first!" Kurt spins on the toe of his right skate and, with a flip of his hair, takes off toward the jogging path.

"What!?" Blaine takes off after him. He doesn't even think about it; his body just goes. He doesn't know if that's a good thing or not. "Not this again!"

"Come on, Blaine! Don't be a spoiled sport! You could use the exercise!"

Blaine's hands come up reflexively to cradle his stomach. Sure, it's a little softer now than it has been in previous years, but he's been in a rut, trading salads for burgers as he struggled to make sense of his life. "Hey! That's a low …" But in the middle of his defensive comeback, something strikes him like an ice cold brick to the brain. "You-you know my name?"

"Nu-uh! No questions till you catch up!"

Blaine follows where Kurt leads through the throng of afternoon joggers, a mass unusual for a Thursday afternoon. Blaine does his best to dodge and weave while simultaneously remaining upright, knees bent the way Mrs. Gunderson showed him. But regardless of his attempts at perfect posture, he hunches over, and his arms swing wildly at his sides. Every so often, he pops his head up to make sure he's still on the right path and catches a glimpse of the top of Kurt's head, his immaculately coifed hair unruffled by the breeze. Kurt spins around. When he sees Blaine, he smiles, waves, then turns back in the direction they're going.

Kurt veers to the left, down a narrower path that doesn't have as much foot traffic as the one they're on. The crowds thin as they skate further into the trees, towards a desolate area of the park that Blaine has never ventured into before. They must be nearing the end of their chase. Kurt must be taking pity on him. Blaine will get Kurt alone and then …

… who knows? He might be able to get a few questions answered. Who is Kurt? Where did he come from?

And how does he know Blaine's name?

Blaine doesn't realize how wrong he is until they pass through a dense row of elms. He loses sight of Kurt, but Kurt has to have gone this way. There's nowhere else to go. If he'd left the path, Blaine would have heard him. There's very little grass to the left or right of them. Dry, brittle leaves carpet the ground. But Blaine hears no crunching, so Kurt has to be somewhere ahead of him. The paved path ends, spitting them out onto a gravelly dirt road.

Or him since, when Blaine gets there, he's alone. There are no joggers, no skaters, no children …

… and no Kurt.

He stands stock still and silent, listening for any hint that Kurt might be around. But Blaine doesn't hear anything but the leaves rustling behind him as the wind moves through them, emphasizing a silence so deep, it's downright unnatural. Blaine moves forward slowly, walking since the ground isn't smooth enough to skate on. He sweeps his gaze around, trying to get a grasp on where he is. This ... wherever this is … looks more like an old abandoned parking lot than a part of the park. Trees shield his view on three sides, ushering him in one direction where strange, metal figures melt into the dirt, dragged to the depths by twining vines that have sprung up from the earth with the single goal of bringing them under.

He debates calling out Kurt's name, or even breathing too loudly. He feels like he's stepped into a scene from an eighties slasher flick. He needs to get out of there before a man in a hockey mask hops out from behind a tree and starts hacking him to death with an ax. But before he can turn around and go back the way he came, he hears a loud, sustained squeeeeeak come from somewhere amidst the twisted heaps and overgrown foliage.

"Hello?" he calls out cautiously. "Kurt? Are you … are you there?"

He picks his way past the metal forms, recognizing them for what they are as he comes closer.

Rides, like the kind he's seen at rickety pop-up carnivals as a kid, when he and his parents spent their summers roaming around the country, visiting the kitschy, touristy traps that everyone should see before they die.

He hears the squeeeeeak again, followed by a responding, rusty squiiiiirk. It's a sound that travels straight from Blaine's ears to his blood. He stops moving and gulps hard.

Squeeeeeak-squiiiiirk … squeeeeeak-squiiiiirk repeats like a morbid ditty. Blaine inches forward on resistant wheels, meandering through rotting tree stumps and stepping over decaying posts until he comes to the source of the sound – a rocking horse, swaying with the breeze. Blaine puts a hand on it to halt it, and the sound ceases immediately.

But another sound takes its place.

An odd shuffling, like feet sliding across a linoleum floor.

Blaine doesn't see Kurt anywhere, but he knows he's not alone. The hairs on the nape of his neck begin to rise, but he ventures on. He's come this far – for Kurt, for answers. He has to take the chance that the footsteps he hears belong to him. Kurt seems to enjoy teasing him. It would seem like him to hide out in this creepy amusement park, lie in wait, and then pounce on Blaine when he least expects it.

Then again, he could be long gone, and Blaine could be willingly walking into the lair of Michael Myers.

"Kurt?" Blaine tries again. He hears another shuffling of feet, but this time he's more confused than concerned. If eight years in show choir has taught him anything, it's to recognize the bouncy hop step of a shuffle-ball-change by ear.

Whoever is there with him, serial killer or not, they're dancing.

"Hello?" Blaine says, and this time, he gets an answer.

"Hello yourself!"

Blaine sighs, disappointed.

It's not Kurt.

"Who … who are you?" he asks, hoping the voice will continue answering so he can locate its owner.

"Who are you?"

"I asked you first."

"I asked you second."

"Everyone's a comedian," Blaine grumbles as he turns a corner and comes upon a narrow, rectangular stage at the foot of a small bandstand. The flooring is cracked in several places and looks dusty as hell, but the man tapping across its surface doesn't seem to mind. Blaine steps sideways over roots and branches, watching the man pivot on the ball of his left foot, spinning smoothly to rival Fred Astaire.

"Hey" – Blaine stops a foot from the edge – "you're pretty good."

"Why, thank you." The man stops with a flourish and takes a bow. "You must be lost. Most people don't end up here unless they are."

"I guess I am." Blaine examines the man discreetly, from his light brown hair, greying a touch at the temples; to his stylish sweater vest; and down his slacks to his brown and beige saddle shoes. If Blaine had to guess, he'd say this man was a professor of sorts, maybe a lit teacher, moonlighting as a tap dancer. "Did you happen to see a guy on rollerblades come through here?"

"As a matter of fact, I have," the man says, smiling warmly.

Blaine smiles. Finally! "Great! Where is he?"

"Standing right in front of me."

Blaine's smile drops. "Ha-ha," he says, trying to sound as unamused as possible, but when the man throws his head back and laughs, it's genuine, infectious, and Blaine can't help laughing, too. "I mean besides me."

"Nah. Sorry. Can't say that I have." The man steps forward, hand extended. "I'm Will. Will Schuester."

"Blaine Anderson," he says, shaking his hand.

"Well, Blaine Anderson, you're a bit far off the beaten path. What are you doing all the way out here?"

"I was following someone." Blaine takes off his helmet, feeling a bit like a toddler with it on. A chill skips across his scalp and he shivers. He hadn't realized just how much he'd been sweating. "I wanted to ask him a question, but he took off and … uh …" He cuts himself short when he realizes how little sense he's making "… it's kind of a long story." Blaine looks around, re-assessing the creepiness of his surroundings with the addition of this person there with him. "What is this place?"

"This," Will announces cheerfully with arms open wide, "is The Lima Showmen's Carnival."

"Really?" Blaine looks at the crumbling structures, falling to pieces in front of his eyes. "Was it a big deal or something? Because I don't remember ever hearing about it."

"It's been shut down for a few decades," Will explains, running the toe of his shoe through the dirt covering the neglected dance floor. "It may not look like much of anything now, but this used to be one of the hottest spots in Lima. When it first opened, people came from all over to see the attractions here. It helped put Lima on the map. You would think the historical society would want to preserve it, but ..." He shrugs as if the desolation surrounding him is a sign of his own personal defeat.

"It would have been nice to see this place open in its heyday," Blaine comments, looking over this forgotten playground and seeing it with new appreciation. "If anything, it would have been nice growing up around here with this in our backyard. The last time I went to an amusement park, I was sixteen, and dressed as a purple dinosaur."

Will chuckles – the kind, understanding laugh of a man who's probably worked around kids in some capacity the majority of his life. Blaine recognizes that laugh. His favorite teachers had it. "The rides were a death trap, to tell you the truth. Aside from the tried and true – the Merry-Go-Round, the Tilt-A-Whirl, and whatnot – they didn't get much better over time. But come look at this." Will leaves the stage, stepping onto the dirt as if stepping out of a different time.

Seeing him away from that stage feels stunningly incongruous.

He leads Blaine further into the park, pausing after a few steps to make sure Blaine can keep up in his skates. They eventually reach a gated-off area that has Blaine doing a double-take. How in the hell has he lived in Lima most of his life and missed this? "It had this amazing amphitheater," Will says, gesturing to a stage the likes of which Blaine has only seen visiting his brother out in California, when they went to see Kristin Chenoweth perform at the Hollywood Bowl. "And it held one of the biggest music festivals in all of Ohio."

Blaine frowns at the weeds growing up through the seats, the cracks in the cement, the fading paint, the signs of age and abuse. He can't imagine the money the city would need to fix this place up, but the revenue it could potentially bring in would be phenomenal. "Why did it stop?"

"Sue Sylvester," Will replies in a tight tone. "She used to be the cheerleading coach at McKinley High School back when I taught there. She hated Glee Club and theater with a passion, and did everything in her power to cut their funding. She went on to become principal, and then ran for Congress on a platform of cutting the arts in Ohio. I fought her tooth and nail, but it was no use. Arts programs in schools were already hanging on by a thread. She managed to convince people that the arts were a waste of time and money when it came to competing academically with other countries, and just like that …" He snaps for emphasis "… that thread was cut. When she won that seat, this carnival was the first thing she scrapped." Blaine watches Will's eyes go cloudy, and he can't help the feeling that the story of Sue Sylvester and this carnival … and him … doesn't end there, but nostalgia has taken hold. Will is seeing something that isn't there, that hasn't been for a long time, and he shakes his head at the pity of it. "I'll tell you somethin', kid …" Will puts his hands on his hips and sighs "… I'd do anything to reopen this place … bring the music back."

Blaine turns from Will to the stage in front of them, and suddenly he can see it in his head, the way he thinks Will is picturing it now – bright lights, an intimate ensemble, jazzy music, rides and games and laughter and just plain fun. But his brain adds a few details of its own – ones that Blaine doesn't intentionally include, but that pop into his head nonetheless. He sees himself sitting at a baby grand piano while Will performs, singing and dancing a retro Sinatra routine, while beside him on the piano bench sits Kurt, watching him tickle the ivories, that magical voice of his humming in his ear. In a flash, Blaine sees Kurt's blue eyes in front of him, but for only a moment, long enough for him to question whether or not he's there. And in that flash, Blaine hears the music. He smells the cotton candy and the popcorn. He sees an audience stretched out before him.

He feels Kurt's hand on his knee, feels his body heat as he leans into his side and whispers in his ear the words Blaine ends up saying out loud.

"Maybe I can help."