Kurt was supposed to be writing a book. He was supposed to be writing a novel that would once again change the way people saw their lives. Unfortunately, Kurt had only written about two pages of usable material. Even with that, instead of taking every call that his publisher made, instead of trying to brainstorm, he decided to spend time in what was probably once a brothel before someone decided to try to assimilate into the changing culture in the city.
Kurt couldn't be blamed for trying to find inspiration outside of himself. La Belle Époque was a modern lounge with an old name, exactly like the people who came to it. It should have been a perfect place to find something to spark his interest. The people here were from families that everyone in Paris recognized, but they were the younger generation. They were born into money and were searching for a way to escape the uppity parents who were so stuck in their old ways. They sang and danced; they smoked cigarettes and drank champagne by the bottle. Most of all, they lived.
Kurt didn't really belong there. He didn't come from wealth, nor did he have any high expectations to escape from. That didn't bother him, though. Kurt never really belonged anywhere.
The best friends he had were Rachel and Elliot. Like Kurt, Rachel didn't originally come from money, but she was famous by the delicate age of 19. A model. After her original plan of becoming a movie star at 16 didn't pan out, she moved to Paris. Through a lucky turn of events she met Coco Chanel, who praised her "American Beauty" and helped her secure a job in print modeling. A couple years later she was at the forefront of the advertising revolution and was even starting to dabble in film.
Elliot was different. Officially he was Samuel Elliot Evans III, just like his American father. His mom though—still very proud of her French heritage—insisted that he go by his middle name while living in Paris. "It will make you fit in, people will respect you," she told him. Both his mother and his father came from wealthy families, and would pass it on to him when he grew up. He was born rich, and likely to die that way.
Of course the money didn't stop the scorn that came his way. Both Rachel and Elliot were often pushed out of the elite social groups because of their American roots, so they created an unlikely friendship. When Kurt first walked into La Belle Époque in a confused and likely drunk state, he was thankful when they invited me over to their table.
The three of them didn't go there every night, but often enough that the people began to look familiar. This particular night, though, something was a little off. Everything was slightly more chaotic than usual, and that was saying something. Rachel was busy flirting with a man in a very expensive looking suit and Elliot was deep in conversation with another someone I had never seen before. Not knowing what else to do, I tried to flag down a waiter for another drink.
It didn't matter how many waiters passed Kurt that night, each one glazed over him. There was one who finally nodded in his direction, indicating that he would be there shortly. He was short but well built with hair slicked back expertly. Kurt studied him as he attended to a woman at the table next to mine. As she addressed him, his eyes shone with her words. Mesmerized. He was probably new to the city. It was endearing at best, but a little too eager for Kurt's personal taste.
Kurt was snapped out of thought when Rachel leaned backward into him, laughing uproariously.
"Hey! Keep to your side. There's plenty of space for you and…who is this exactly?"
He extended a hand around the petite brunette, "Henri. I am sorry I startled Rachel."
Kurt harrumphed in response. It was rude, but he was already irritated to begin with. After Rachel gave Kurt a look, he checked himself and began again. "I'm sorry." I took his hand "Kurt. And how do you know Rachel, Henri?"
"She was modeling yesterday, and I am one of the junior artists. We happened to pass by each other yesterday."
Kurt raised my eyebrow at Rachel, and she shrugged in response. Kurt knew all too well that this one would likely turn out to be just another one of her pets. Most of the men here tried to take advantage of her, seeing her as a wide-eyed, flippant little model girl. In reality, Rachel was one of the strongest and most independent people Kurt knew, and she tended to turn the tables on the men who tried to take advantage of her.
As Kurt turned away from the two, the waiter Kurt had flagged down earlier was making his way over to his table. He approached with what appeared to be thinly veiled excitement. Kurt swallowed a smirk after seeing his eagerness, but held himself back realizing that he didn't want an upset waiter spitting in my drinks.
" Bonsoir Monsieur, Qu'est ce que je peux rendre pour vous?" He asked. The accent was strong and obvious. Kurt answered in English the moment he recognized it.
"You're American?"
He laughed nervously and wiped his hands on a cloth hanging from his back pocket. "Yes, is the accent that bad?"
Kurt shrugged lightly, his mood softening. "Not terrible, no. Try swallowing the words a bit more, and keep the sound in the back of your throat. It might help."
He repeated the sentence again, this time he didn't look at me and scrunched his forehead in concentration. "Better?" he asked afterwards.
Kurt nodded. He grinned in response and almost said something before remembering what he was doing in the first place. He straightened out, and cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. What can I bring to you Mr. Hummel?"
Kurt frowned, mildly upset that he was still being recognized by strangers. He was longing for his days of anonymity back, but every day it seemed further and further away. Kurt paused for a second, realizing he hadn't actually thought of what he wanted to order yet.
"I'm not actually sure. What would you suggest?"
The waiter looked slightly taken aback. He stood thinking for a moment, eyes down and the tip of his tongue barely visible between his lips. After a few brief moments he looked up, "I'm going to pick up a bottle from the back. One moment please, sir."
Kurt watched him go, picking up a few empty plates and glasses on the way. Rachel tapped Kurt on the shoulder. "Henri and I are going to go for a walk by the river. Will you be okay?"
He nodded, "Of course. I'll see you tomorrow, then?" Kurt asked as he stood up from his seat, making way for the two of them to get out.
"Tomorrow? Yes." She kissed him on the cheek, "Bonsoir, Kurt!"
Kurt waited until they were out of sight before he sat back down. It wasn't much later before the waiter came back, delicately handling a bottle of red wine and a glass. He presented the bottle to Kurt, who studied the label carefully.
"This is a red Bordeaux wine that was bottled in '25. Apparently that was a very good year. I haven't tried it yet, but I've been told that it's exquisite," the waiter told Kurt.
"Okay, I will take it… what did you say your name was?"
The waiter beamed at Kurt's question, "Blaine Anderson, sir," he said as he uncorked the bottle. He poured the wine into the glass with careful precision as he continued, "I am a huge fan of your work. Your book is what inspired me to move to New York before I came here."
"Mmm?" Kurt hummed as he took the glass from Blaine.
Blaine's face fell at Kurt's understated response, but he quickly recomposed himself and waited for Kurt to try what would be his third drink that night.
Kurt brought the glass to his lips and took a small sip. He sat for a moment, staring into the distance before he offered a small smile to Blaine.
"Thank you, this is very good."
"Of course, sir. Would you like for me to bring anything else out for you?"
Kurt shook his head. "No thank you."
Blaine opened his mouth as if to say something, but shut it again a second later. He offered a small nod and smile before turning around to see if there was anyone else that needed him in the quickly emptying lounge.
"Blaine?"
Blaine whipped around at the sound of his name. "Yes, Mr. Hummel?"
"Why did my story make you want to move to New York?"
Blaine lifted his eyebrows, not expecting such a personal question. He thought for a moment, trying to think of something intelligent enough to say to someone he admired so much.
"Well… I'm not completely sure. The book…it made me want to go and experience life in the way of the main character. He lived. My whole life I wanted something like that, but didn't know how to get to it. Once I read your book, it seemed like I could find it in New York."
"But you didn't stay there," Kurt answered automatically.
Blaine shook his head, "it didn't do for me exactly what I expected. I ran out of money. A few months ago I had the chance to come here, so I took it."
Kurt nodded, appearing to sink back into thought. There was a prolonged silence, and just as Blaine was beginning to question if he should leave, Kurt spoke up again.
"Do you think you are still living?"
Blaine hesitated. "I'm not sure."
Kurt looked directly at him, his eyes narrowing in interest. He looked at Blaine intensely, seeming to come to a realization.
"How much longer are you here tonight, Blaine?"
Blaine checked the clock hanging on the opposite wall. "Another twenty minutes and then I'm done tonight."
The corner of Kurt's mouth curved into a smile. "Okay. How about this: after you are done, meet me outside of the entrance. We'll see if Paris can offer more than New York did for you."
Blaine's mouth fell open. He was positively, absolutely sure that his mind was playing tricks on him. Kurt Hummel did not just ask him to meet outside of where he worked. The one person that had influenced his life more than anyone else was directly asking for his company. Blaine was speechless at first, but eventually managed to squeak out a small "Okay," before hurrying back towards the kitchen to collect himself."
Behind him, Kurt laughed to himself and finished off the glass of wine Blaine had brought him. He nodded a goodbye to Elliot, who was still talking to the stranger after all this time, picked up his jacket, and headed for the door.