Disclaimer: Officially disclaimed.
More Than a Little Crazy
Ch. 3 Solace
Kurt waited patiently for death or pain, whichever came first. When a wave of warmth washed over his face, he thought for sure he had successfully entered hell – but then the snake hissed angrily in his ear and its weight fell away from his shoulder. Kurt's eyes snapped open.
Standing above him was a tall, dark young man, waving a lit torch at the snake. It shied, slithering back into its hiding place. Barely able to believe his luck, Kurt scrambled to his feet.
For a moment, the silence was broken only by water droplets dripping from his still wet clothes. Then a rather short man stepped around the tall one, flames from the torch causing shadows to dance across his handsome face and in his piercing hazel eyes. He looked from Kurt, to the hole in the wall, to the man with the torch and said, "Well, that could've been messy."
Kurt wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him. The prince had rescued him? The prince, who'd led his trial? The prince, who just earlier had more or less accused him of attacking Dalton?
Prince Blaine noticed Kurt's wide eyes and hurriedly said, "Allow me to properly introduce myself. I am Prince Blaine." He held out his hand and Kurt tentatively shook it; his grip was sure and strong, fingers slightly calloused.
"Kurt." Kurt turned his head to the man with the torch. "And you?"
"Knight David the Second," the man said, smiling cordially. "Pleasure to meet you."
"The pleasure's all mine . . ." Kurt allowed his voice to trail off when he suddenly noticed he was still holding the prince's hand. He hastily yanked away, dropping his eyes to his feet in both respect and humiliation. Men were being nice to him. Noble men. He wasn't about to scare them away because he couldn't keep his damned hands to himself.
Prince Blaine cleared his throat. "Um, shall we go then?"
Kurt's eyebrows shot up. "Go . . .?"
The prince smiled, semi-awkward and semi-endeared. "You didn't really think we would have you holed up in here forever, did you? Where poisonous snakes lurk in the walls?"
Yes. That was exactly what Kurt thought.
Not waiting for a response, Prince Blaine gestured for the other two men to follow him and led them out of the dungeons. The whole way, Kurt kept his gaze carefully focused on the ground, even as prisoners' jeers stung his ears.
The air lightened and his body warmed; they exited the dungeons and proceeded down numerous lengthy, immaculate hallways lined with doors, masterpiece paintings, and cool marble. Prince Blaine was short – shorter even than Kurt, who didn't quite meet average height for a sixteen-year-old boy – but his strides were purposeful and matched those of long-legged Knight David effortlessly. Kurt found himself skittering to keep up.
"Where are we going?" he blurted, when his curiosity became too much to bear. "You're not kidnapping me, are you?" He was only joking about that last part. You know. Mostly.
The noble men chuckled amiably.
"Uh, no," said Prince Blaine. "We're taking you to your new room." They trekked up a steep staircase before pulling to a stop outside a mahogany door that was identical to every other one in this castle. "Which is, coincidentally, right here. There's not really enough room in the servant's quarters, soit should have to suffice. For now, at least."
Prince Blaine wrapped his fingers around the brass handle and pulled open the door for Kurt and David to enter. Taking in the room, Kurt saw it looked rather generic: a big bed, eggshell walls and carpet, a wooden desk topped with writing supplies, a dark wood armoire, and several lit candles. He could appreciate its tidiness – but, still, the impersonality felt stifling.
"This is mine?" he asked. He plopped down on the bed; it was cushioned and ridiculously comfortable. "It's lovely . . ." He raised suspicious eyes to the prince. "What's the catch?"
Prince Blaine blinked; slowly turned to the knight. "Leave us, David."
David frowned, instantly wary. "Prince, I don't know if I feel comfortable with that . . ."
"I'm safe, David," Prince Blaine interrupted smoothly. "Now, please, go visit Wes. Make sure he's ok."
David opened his mouth to protest more.
"That's an order," cut in Prince Blaine, voice hardening.
A look of shock clouded David's face before his stance grew stony; he nodded tersely, spun on his heel, and all but stormed out. Vaguely, Kurt wondered who Wes was and what happened to him.
When the door slammed behind David's back, Prince Blaine faced Kurt again. Kurt allowed himself the briefest moment to marvel at those eyes; the sheer intensity of their honey-green depths. Wasting no time, the prince said, "You need to be my personal servant."
One instant for his bluntness to register. Another for the words to sink in. And then Kurt was on his feet and striding determinedly across the long expanse of fluffy carpet.
"Whoa!" Prince Blaine cried, following Kurt out the door and down the corridor. "Hey! Where are you going?"
Kurt saw no reason for dishonesty. "Away from here."
The prince ran to cut Kurt off before he could round the corner. "And how do you propose you get out of here? Past the guards and the townspeople? Near everyone will know your face by now."
Stubbornly, Kurt folded his arms over his chest. He scrutinized Prince Blaine; sure, the boy was small, but beneath his velvet waistcoat, his shoulders looked broad, arms muscled.
Figures.
"What's the other option?" Kurt asked, not bothering to mask the venom lacing his voice. "Stay here to be your slave?"
A kind of (sort of, not really) adorable crease appeared between Prince Blaine's eyebrows. "No one said anything about slavery."
Kurt couldn't believe this guy. "Oh, excuse me. Be your personal servant, who also happens to held captive in a foreign country and probably won't be receiving adequate pay? Yes, that doesn't sound like a slave at all."
Prince Blaine exhaled deeply, features remaining earnest. "Listen, I know the circumstances are less than ideal . . . but this is the best offer you have. You'll get a warm bed, good food. My last personal servant passed away nearly a year ago and since then everyone's been trying to get promoted to me because I treat them with the utmost respect. You won't even notice you're a prisoner –,"
"But the fact of the matter is, I am one," Kurt interrupted. So what if Blaine was royalty? Anyone wrongly thrown into jail had a given right to interrupt whoever they damn wanted to interrupt. "Nothing's going to change that. And so I refuse to be put to work by people who insist on punishing me for nothing."
He went to step around Prince Blaine – but the prince caught his elbow as he passed and Kurt automatically froze, lost in the sensation of the other boy's hand against the thin material of his sleeve, warm and gentle and reassuring. The simple touch didn't mean anything, not really; it was just a way of making Kurt stop in his tracks. But he couldn't help remembering how back home, only his dad and Mercedes ever dared to touch him so casually and with such kindness. Not even Artie or Finn, who were both pretty darn accepting compared to all the other guys, would risk something like this.
He wished he could tell them he wasn't contagious. That his personal brand of crazy couldn't be spread through casual contact, like the common cold. But no one seemed willing to listen long enough to find out.
Prince Blaine began to talk, bringing Kurt back to the present – to Dalton, to prison. "I'm not asking you to work as a punishment. I'm asking you to stay safe because I, personally, am not entirely convinced of your guilt yet."
Kurt's heart stuttered; at a snail's pace, he raised his eyes to meet the prince's. Did that mean he thought Kurt was innocent? Was getting him out of the dungeons and into glorified slavery the man's odd way of trying to help him?
All Kurt could do was say, "Oh," rather lamely.
A tiny smirk quirked the prince's mouth. "Oh, indeed." He gave the slightest of tugs on Kurt's sleeve, before beginning to leisurely stroll back the way they'd come, whistling a merry tune. Kurt looked from the now unblocked escape route to Prince Blaine's fast retreating back. And back again.
Grudgingly, he trudged to his room.
Upon hearing the door shut softly, Prince Blaine said nothing but, "Good of you to join me," as he pulled down the sheets on the bed
"I'll do that," Kurt murmured, yet he made no move to take over the job. "I'm the slave, aren't I?"
Prince Blaine cast a look over his shoulder: one part annoyed, two parts amused. "You're the servant. And I figure that you've been through enough – you get the night off."
"How generous of you," Kurt deadpanned, slipping into his bed when the prince finished. Encased by lush blankets and floating on a mattress of clouds, dead-tiredness hit him like a train on a track. His eyelids drooped and he even brushed away the thought of how badly his complexion was going to suffer from missing his nighttime skincare routine (if he wasn't so exhausted, he would feel appalled).
Prince Blaine diminished one of the candles, basking them in only a dim glow.
"Get a good night's sleep, Kurt," he said. "I'll show you the ropes tomorrow. I'm sure you'll fit right in."
"Prince?" Kurt blurted, words slightly slurred in his fatigue. Still, the notion nagged at him, pesky and aggravating like last season's trends in mittens. "I could kill you right now, you know. Pull out my hidden gun and shoot you to death. I'd be perfectly capable of it – more so, even."
Prince Blaine just smiled and snuffed the final candle, creating complete darkness. "I'm sure you could," he agreed. "I'll be in the room across the hall, should you feel the need to carry out that threat." Shuffling, a door swinging shut, fading footsteps . . . and then, nothing.
As tired as he felt, Kurt found he couldn't fall asleep right away, mind awhirl with the surreal tribulations of the past twenty-four hours: waking up to face another day, not unlike any other; getting trapped on the ships heading for ambush; being taken prisoner; the prince asking (or politely ordering – whichever way you chose to look at things) him to be his personal servant.
The prince. Despite everything, Kurt couldn't help feeling a certain . . . fondness towards Prince Blaine, buried deep in the pit of his stomach. In the biting winter of the Dalton Castle, he was summery, and affectionate, and much less standoffish than everyone else seemed to be. And he believed Kurt was innocent.
And, ok. His strong jaw line and million watt smile didn't exactly hurt his case, either.
-X-
Blaine woke to silence and shadows.
Stretching languidly, he tossed his feet over the edge of the bed and lumbered to the windows, where curtains were pulled tight across. Hoping for light, he dragged the drapes aside to overlook the beautiful back gardens; the luminescent moon was still suspended by thick storm clouds, blotting out a billion stars, much to his chagrin.
No longer even remotely tired, Blaine splashed water onto his face, straightened his hair, and changed out of his nightwear into some casual weekend clothes. Then, he tiptoed from his bedroom to the identical doorframe straight across the hall.
He hesitated, fingertips just grazing the brass knob. What if Kurt Hummel wasn't there? He could have run away, lost in the village and disguised as a townsperson by now . . . David and Wes always told Blaine he was too trusting. Such remarks weren't that big a deal from Wes, seeing as he thought any amount of trust was overrated, but David couldn't look at bunny rabbits without making ridiculous "Aww" noises. Frankly, it was offensive.
Bracing himself, Blaine gripped the handle and carefully creaked open the door a crack. He peered inside; could see nothing other than vague silhouettes in the dark. He quietly padded to the bedside, careful to avoid veiled obstacles.
This was kind of stalker-ish, Blaine realized. Very creepy. Normally, he wasn't into creepy, stalker-ish things, but for one reason or another he found himself kneeling next to the dozing prisoner, soaking in the smooth, untroubled lines of Kurt's face, blank and content and absolutely enthralling for reasons Blaine couldn't quite put his finger on. But as he watched, Kurt's delicate pink lips twisted into a small frown, his eyebrows furrowed, jaw twitched with the force of clenched teeth, and then, abruptly, his gorgeous eyes were staring straight into Blaine's.
"Prince . . .?" Kurt murmured, struggling to sit up. His breathing was slightly ragged and Blaine could almost hear the other boy's rapid heartbeat, speeding in time with his own. He felt ridiculous, being caught spying on a sleeping kid – but, somehow, Kurt seemed completely oblivious to their current compromising position. "Is it morning already?"
"Um, not quite," Blaine stammered. "Sun hasn't come up yet, but I don't reckon it's too early."
"Oh." Kurt propped himself up on his elbows. "Is something wrong, then?"
"No. I was just – just checking on you."
Through the shadows, Blaine made out a sliver of a smirk fixing itself on Kurt's face. "Ah. Worried about me sneaking off? Not as gullible as you seem, huh?"
Blaine blinked, frowning. "I do not seem gullible."
"Au contraire, dear Prince. You leave your raving mad prisoner alone in an unguarded room for the night – that looks kind of gullible to me."
Quirking an eyebrow, Blaine countered, "How do you know that you're not guarded? Besides, you're not exactly raving mad."
"How do you know that I'm not just a really good actor? I could very well be a rampant lunatic."
Cocking his head to the side, Blaine stated, "But you aren't."
"But I could be," insisted Kurt.
"But you aren't."
"But I could be."
"But –,"
"Ok, you are totally missing the point!" Kurt burst, voice coated with subdued laughter.
They remained that way for a minute, each basking in the fading sounds of happiness and reveling in the shadows. It felt completely strange to Blaine, laughing with some stranger in the dead of night.
Strange . . . and right.
Kurt cleared his throat and stood. "May I ask, where can I bathe? I might as well – I won't be able to sleep for the next week and a half . . ."
"Bad dream?" assumed Blaine sympathetically, as he, too, stood and remembered the way Kurt's face crumpled before he awoke.
"No, you're just obnoxious."
Blaine faltered. What the hell? Did Kurt really think that? He had never been called obnoxious in his life. Not ever by Uncle Edgar, whom Blaine presumed had called him every degrading word in the book.
"Prince." Kurt's soft fingertips interrupted Blaine, tentatively grazing his elbow. A jolt of electricity zapped through the nerve endings in his arm. "I was kidding. You don't get out much, do you?"
Trying to conceal his flushed neck, Blaine admitted, "Um, no. Not much at all. So, er – a bath, you say?'
Ignoring Kurt's snickers, Blaine showed him to the connected bathroom; it was smaller than the royal family's personal ones, but still rather extravagant nonetheless. Apparently Kurt thought so too. He gaped at everything from the marble and gold bathtub to the spotless, fluffy towels to the embroidered laundry hamper.
"This is the – oh my God . . ." he murmured, running a hand over a waiting robe, plush and beckoning. "Do I get to, like . . . use this stuff?"
Finding the utter awe glazing Kurt's face to be rather endearing, Blaine chuckled. "You think this is nice? Just wait until you see my bathroom." For reasons unknown to even himself, he blushed. "Not that you'll be seeing much of my bathroom, that is . . . I mean, you'll have to when you clean it, but other than that . . ." He coughed nervously, completely taken aback by these feelings: the urge to run under a rock and hide, the tenseness in his muscles, the flabbiness of his mouth. He prided himself on being smooth, dapper, was known for it even . . . What about this kid transformed him into an awkward, babbling mess?
Kurt hadn't seemed to notice anything, still preoccupied with the bathrobe. "This material is so expensive," he murmured. "Oh my god . . ."
"Oh, well, I'll leave you to it then," Blaine announced, desperately trying to salvage some of his dignity. "I bet clean clothes sound nice to you, huh?"
At the word "clothes," Kurt snapped to attention. "Do you think you'll have some that fit?"
"I'm sure mine will suffice, until we can go into town," said Blaine. "I'll leave them outside your door."
"Thank you," Kurt said, almost against his will. "Thank you so much."
Blaine smiled softly. "It's the least I can do," he said, before leaving Kurt to his bath.
And now he was picturing Kurt in his clothes . . .
For the love of Dalton, what was wrong with him?
-X-
Kurt allowed himself to soak in the clear, lukewarm water for about an hour before he heaved his body out of the bathtub and wrapped up in the fuzzy bathrobe hanging on a coat rack. The rare cotton felt absolutely heavenly against his hot skin.
He walked to the bathroom door and opened it a smidge; sure enough, just as Prince Blaine promised, a set of clean clothes lay folded and waiting on the floor. He quickly dressed; the clothes fit well enough, but not just right – they were wide in the shoulders and a little short at his hips and ankles. Still, the expensive fabrics smelled nice and he could move in them.
Kurt found a generic-looking comb and a tube of sunscreen. He'd have to remember to ask the prince if there were more efficient skin and hair products hidden somewhere in this massive manor.
Finishing his personal hygiene regime (or, more accurate, what it had been reduced to), he walked back into his bedroom. And stopped cold. Because lounging on his unmade bed with a blank look in her cerulean eyes was a fair-haired maiden he'd never seen before, still in her ruffled pink nightdress.
"Um, excuse me?" he asked, when she didn't acknowledge his presence. "Was there something you needed . . .?"
She looked up at him then. Her face seemed so innocent and unthreatening, if very perplexed, that he felt no harm in edging closer. He tapped his foot impatiently as she mulled over her words.
"I'm lost," the girl finally admitted matter-of-factly.
Kurt's eyebrows shot into his still damp hairline. "What happened?"
She continued staring. "I got lost."
Realizing that the maiden wasn't exactly the sharpest tooth in the sphinx's mouth, Kurt clarified, "I mean, what were you doing before you got lost?"
"Oh." She nodded; apparently, his explanation cleared up a lot. "I was trying to find the kitchens."
She left it at that.
"And . . . why?" asked Kurt.
"Why else? Because I was hungry."
"At this hour? You couldn't wait until breakfast?"
The woman's expression told Kurt that she found him to be a complete idiot. Oh, sweet irony.
"Hunger cannot be denied," she stated.
"Of course not, silly me." Kurt tried not to inject his words with too much sarcasm. He had a feeling it would fly over her head, anyway. "What's your name, miss?"
"Brittany. Brittany Pierce." She frowned, contemplating something. "Brittany S. Pierce. Princess Brittany S. Pierce." Satisfied, she smiled.
Kurt blinked. This was a princess? He swore politicians were getting dumber and dumber . . .
"I'm Kurt Hummel," he said, for lack of a better response.
"Do you live here?" Princess Brittany S. Pierce asked, taking in the decorations mildly.
"Not really. I'm just boarding until I can get back home."
"Me, too, until the storm clears up. I don't like my room, though. Or yours. It's too white. And clean. It reminds of that week I spent in the insane asylum . . ."
She trailed off and Kurt decided he needed to get her as far away from him as he could and fast.
"How about I help you find you way back to where you came from?" he suggested. Brittany eagerly nodded and he ushered her out the door. As soon as they reached the hallway, Brittany wrapped her hand around his; Kurt started. What was it with all the touching in Dalton? At first, with Prince Blaine, it was kind of nice, but now it was just freaky . . .
"Do you remember how where you came from looked? Before you got lost?" Kurt asked.
"Oh, yeah. I was in a hallway with cream walls that had paintings on them."
"Thank you, Princess," Kurt said. "That really clears things up."
The hallway they were walking down fit this description perfectly, as did the next, and the next.
"You know," said Brittany, "you have really soft hands. Like, baby soft."
Kurt paused. Was that a compliment?
"Wait . . ." she continued, peering at him. "Are you a baby?"
By this point in the conversation, Kurt was seriously confused. "No?"
Brittany visibly relaxed. "Ok, good. 'Cause that would be weird."
Not as weird as you, Kurt thought privately.
As they rounded another corner, Kurt heard the sound of rushed footsteps and frantic yells. Racing towards them was a pair of girls: the darker one dressed in mismatched slippers, mussed hair, and a wild expression; the one trailing behind her wearing a breezy frock and natural makeup that accented her features perfectly.
"Brittany!" they both chimed, upon seeing Kurt's companion. The dark, wild girl pushed Kurt out of the way as she threw herself into Brittany's arms.
"What did I tell you about wandering off, huh?" she grumbled, burrowing her head in the crook of Brittany's neck. If he hadn't been so rudely shoved, Kurt might have found it sweet. "Remember what happened last time?"
"Sorry, San," Brittany murmured, stroking her friend's raven hair.
Kurt looked to the last of the girls and was startled to see her olive-toned eyes glaring at him fiercely. Almost of their own accord, his feet shuffled backward.
"What were you doing with her?" she asked, voice too calm for her eyes.
"Helping her find her way back." He sneered. "Which , obviously, is more than you could do."
The girl ignored him. "Brittany? Did he hurt you in any way?"
Brittany immediately shook her head. "Kurt's really nice. And he has soft hands. And he's not a baby."
The girl furrowed her brow.
"Hey!" The dark girl – "San" as Brittany called her – disentangled herself from Brittany so she could glare at Kurt, too. They act as if glaring is the new is black, he reflected sadly. "You're that punk from the hearing! The one who said McKinley attacked Dalton . . ."
"That was mean, Kurt," said Brittany. "And almost as bad as being a baby."
Kurt stiffened his shoulders, readying himself to defend his and his kingdom's innocence when a new voice joined the party.
"Kurt? I was wondering where you'd gone off to . . ." Prince Blaine rounded the corner and frowned, taking in the scene. "What's going on here?"
The change in the girls was instantaneous. San tugged her nightgown to show more cleavage, Brittany hiked up her skirt, and the unnamed girl smirked seductively.
And people wondered why Kurt couldn't be bothered with women.
"Prince Blaine!" the third girl exclaimed. "Thank goodness you're here! The prisoner was just threatening Brittany."
"What?" Kurt gasped. He turned his eyes to a stricken Prince Blaine. "That's a lie! I swear, I was just helping her –,"
"Oh, likely story," she cut off. "See, Prince? He's a conniving little liar, just like when he said McKinley attacked Dalton! He can't be trusted –,"
"Please, Princess Quinn," Prince Blaine interrupted. He took a step toward the other two girls; San was whispering in Brittany's ear furiously. They immediately jumped apart when they noticed the attention focused on them. "Princess Brittany? Would care to tell me what exactly transpired between you and Sir Hummel?"
Brittany's doe eyes moved from her fellow princesses to the prince to Kurt. The latter gazed at her imploringly, willing her to tell the truth. At last, she sighed sadly.
"I'm sorry, Santana," she said. "But I can't say that. Kurt's too nice. He helped me find my way back to you."
Prince Blaine's gaze hardened, and Kurt relaxed. "So that was a lie?" the former asked, in a way that was both polite and eerily menacing.
Princess Quinn remained silent.
"I suggest you do not try something like that again, unless you should find yourself boarding with peasants until you can return to McKinley," Prince Blaine warned. He smiled warmly at Kurt. "Come on. We can start your training now."
Kurt nodded. "Be right there." The prince offered one last reassuring grin before he went back the way he came.
As soon as he felt confident the prince was out of earshot, Kurt turned to Quinn, stating matter-of-factly, "You're a bitch." Sure, she was royalty and could probably get him thrown out of the precarious solace he had established in Dalton with one flutter of her ridiculously long eyelashes – but, really, what more did he have to lose?
She shrugged daintily. Yet he detected the wicked glint in her eye, empowered set of her shoulders. "Maybe. But I'm guessing not any more so than you."
The sentence barely left her mouth, before Kurt was turning on his heel and storming after Prince Blaine. Maybe because Princess Quinn was so annoying, with her perky breasts and invisible pores. Or maybe because a part of him knew that what she said was ture.
-X-
Quinn watched the prisoner's retreating back through slatted eyes. Something was off about him. Very, very off.
When he disappeared from view, she sighed and sidled up to Santana and Brittany, whose pinkies were linked like always. She couldn't bring herself to be too upset that Brittany didn't play along with her little, impromptu plan – that was just Brittany. What was more perturbing was that her two "sisters" had allowed themselves to be seen by the prince in their nightclothes. Sometimes, it felt like they didn't even want to marry a fine noble man and escape Queen Sylvester, once and for all.
Granted, Quinn admired the queen. A lot. Sue Sylvester always pushed her to be her absolute best, no excuses. And Quinn suspected that, in her own little way, Sue secretly cared for her surrogate daughters. But that didn't mean Quinn wanted to be stuck with her for the rest of her life.
No, that would be torture. She needed a husband – fast. She needed freedom. She needed to rule over others, as she was always meant to.
She needed Prince Blaine.
"Did the prisoner seem a bit odd to either of you?" she voiced her suspicions.
"Other than being completely flaming?" Santana sniggered. "Nah, he seemed fine."
Brittany stared, mouth agape. "Kurt was on fire?"
"No, Britt. He likes boys," explained Santana, and Brittany nodded understandingly.
Though Quinn still couldn't shake her foreboding feelings about him; the flicker in his eyes, the smirk on his lips, his lilting voice . . . She thought back to Prince Blaine. More specifically, the way he looked at Prince Blaine.
"Do you think he likes the Prince?" she asked.
Santana rolled her eyes. "And they call you the smart one. Of course he likes the prince. Everyone likes the prince. The prince is, like, the hottest, richest man in Dalton, Glee, and McKinley combined. I mean, if I was a guy, one look at him would turn me faster than rabbits could do the deed and start popping 'em out."
Quinn blinked. "You've been spending too much time with Sue," she pointed out. But her mind was already traveling back in time to Prince Blaine's smile just a minute ago, more genuine than when he'd been presented with dozens of gorgeous, eligible noble women. When he'd been presented with Quinn.
Oh yes, something had to be done. And soon.
-X-
Later that night found Quinn sitting by the candle's dying flame, stationary ready, favorite quill poised in the tips of her fingers like a dagger.
Dear Queen Sylvester,
I need your help.
-X-
A/N: For the record, this is Awesome-Bitchy-Pre- Glee club Quinn, rather than Awesomer-Sweet-Still a bit bitchy-Post-Glee Club Quinn.
So, a new chapter should be out soon, to try and help you all through the long, dark abyss that a Glee-less Tuesday is sure to be. If I don't fill the night with writing, it will be filled with chocolate. And my hips just can't take that.
Thank you SOSOSOSOSO much, to everyone who reads this, and especially those who review! It means the world:)
Next Chapter: Kurt thinks that Sam Evans, the blonde elf with a tortured past, is H-O-T. Blaine thinks that Kurt shouldn't think Sam Evans is H-O-T.