Disclaimer: Not true, so don't sue.
Every time that Blaine came into Nora's office, Kurtney had a new magazine. After the eighth time that he had come in (his appointments were twice a week), he had narrowed down which magazines she seemed to prefer. She loved Vogue. Many of the covers he couldn't read, as they were in French, but his limited understanding let him surmise they were all fashion magazines. She usually had a stack of magazines by the phone.
She was a great receptionist, too. She confirmed every session with a polite text message and an email. When he wouldn't respond within two hours, she would call. He didn't know how she managed it if her nose was always buried within the glossy pages of her magazines.
Today he was watching her once more. She used to fidget beneath his gaze, her eyes darting towards him every time that she felt his eyes on her. But she seemed to be conditioned to it now, and she didn't glance his way when he came in other than to sign him in.
He was more comfortable this way, and she must have known it. It was lovely to be able to sit within breathing distance of another person and not feel that tug at the back of his neck - that little instinctual feeling to dash away and hide somewhere where he could curl up and lock himself away from the world.
She never did that finger-licking thing to turn a page that his mother would do. She would always separate the pages delicately. She could whip through a magazine, but when she stopped on an article she liked, it was obvious. Sometimes she would hum in agreement to a printed statement. She'd smile briefly. Her long, dark lashes skewed his view of her eyes when she looked downwards.
Blaine wanted so desperately to talk to her.
His brief words with her, those four weeks ago, weren't enough. He was drawn to her, and he couldn't explain why. He wasn't necessarily sexually attracted to her - such a notion sent shivers up his spine. It swelled his tongue until the thought of speech was far from him.
Each day she came in, she seemed to be a little more feminine, too. He noticed that. But that plaid skirt of hers was a staple of her wardrobe. He was surprised - such a woman obsessed with fashion magazines should have at least a bit of variety within her clothing, right?
She was wearing black skinny jeans today. He only saw them over the desktop when he checked himself in, because the desk hid her legs from his view when he sat down. Her knee-length sweater was bright red, and there was a pin of a tiny yellow bird above her breast.
He was watching her on this meeting too. She was reading Vogue Italia. Did that mean she could read Italian? Speak Italian?
Nora was always saying that to start conversations. He'd started the conversation before, hadn't he? He'd asked who she was. He'd nearly overwhelmed himself with anxiety after overanalyzing each word of their conversation that night at his apartment.
So here was his chance.
"Parli italiano?" he burst out. He clapped his hand over his mouth, eyes widening. She looked up at him, eyebrow quirked upwards. She smiled swiftly at him, all lip and no teeth.
"Mi parla un po, a causa del mio francese," she replied, her accent a little stunted. Her voice wasn't high like most women; it was rich, but not quite deep. Blaine nodded, glancing towards the open window.
"I learned Italian in high school," Blaine explained. "My family's Italian."
"I learned Italian in Italy," responded Kurtney. Blaine's head whipped back towards her, and her smile was growing slightly.
"You've been to Italy?" he asked quietly.
"I've lived there. I was an intern in Milan at Miu Miu for around a year."
Blaine sat back on the couch, raking a hand through his curls nervously. So she had travelled as well. He'd always wanted to travel. He tacked her traveling onto his mental list of her traits. "You love fashion," Blaine stated, and Kurtney nodded.
"Very much so."
Nora came into the lobby of the office at that moment to collect Blaine. She glanced between Kurtney and Blaine. "What's the conversation?" she asked, her voice soft as always.
"Italy," Blaine said, his response short as he remained gazing at Kurtney, whose cheeks seemed to blush with his continued staring.
"A lovely country. Shall I wait in my office for your conversation -"
"It's fine," Kurtney interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. "I have no wish to keep Blaine from his time with you, though it's been wonderful to speak Italian after so long." The smile she offered Blaine in that moment made a funny flutter fly up his esophagus.
"All right then. Blaine?"
Blaine followed Nora wordlessly to begin their session once more.
"So, let's discuss Kurtney."
Blaine's eyes shot up to meet Nora's, but she was gazing downwards at her clipboard. She put a thoughtful hand to her cheek. "Before today you haven't made any attempt at speaking to her. What changed?"
"I haven't... spoken Italian since I was in school," Blaine began, feeling that familiar self-consciousness creep up his spine. Nora nodded, her eyes locked on him but her hand scribbling furiously. He fidgeted nervously, something he never did around Nora anymore. "She was reading Vogue Italia."
"Thousands of people read Vogue Italia," Nora pointed out. Blaine nodded, looking towards his knees again. "No, try to look at me when you talk, please." Cringing, Blaine looked back at Nora. That was his most common mistake. "What makes Kurtney different, Blaine?" Nora asked gently.
"I don't know," he mumbled, keeping their eyes connected. His hands were clenched tightly over his knees.
"I think you do." The eye contact was unnerving now, because her look was so knowing.
After a moment had passed, Blaine tried to collect himself. "I... find her intriguing," he answered slowly. "It isn't... I don't..."
"You aren't interested in her," Nora completed for him, smiling gently. He nodded thankfully.
"I am interested in her, but... only in that she's the first person I've ever wanted to talk to," Blaine admitted, his gaze drifting from Nora's face. He glanced back at her, minutely panicking. "Not that I don't want to talk to you, necessarily, I-I..."
"I understand, Blaine," Nora said soothingly. "Can you identify why you want to talk to her?"
Blaine shook his head, his eyes closing in an attempt to regain a safe pace of heartbeat. "I just... it isn't that she's particularly stunning... she is beautiful, but... I-I don't think that's the reason why I'm drawn to her." He glanced at his hands, watched the tendons flex as he squeezed his knees. He pressed his lips together harshly. "Her eyes are..." He trailed off, unable to describe how he felt when Kurtney simply looked at him.
"I think this is progress, Blaine," Nora said softly. "Do you feel that you can continue speaking with Kurtney?"
Blaine raised his head to nod at Nora, his tongue strangled by his revelation. He wanted to talk with Kurtney. It wasn't so much that he wanted her to speak to him, though he wanted that almost as much.
"Our session's over, Blaine. I'll see you again on Tuesday, then?"
"Tuesday's great," Blaine said, his voice sounding a thousand miles away.
When he exited Nora's therapy room, he looked towards Kurtney again. She was at the end of her Vogue Italia.
"G-goodbye," he stuttered, cursing every god that could possibly exist for embarrassing him in that moment. She raised her head to look at him. She smiled widely and Blaine felt his heart stop. She spoke.
"See you Tuesday, Blaine."
The interior decorating in Blaine's apartment was bohemian at best and a pigsty at worst. He had hung paper lanterns throughout the apartment, placing them over each bulb he found. Stacks of books were laid about the floor, orphaned from shelves. The walls were papered with lyrics, each hastily scrawled and pinned with thumbtacks.
Blaine plugged in his electric kettle, settling himself in the lone black dining chair. Most of the apartment was dark, and the walls were tinged red from the light of the lanterns. A mobile of photographs from his youth dangled over his paper-cluttered desk in the corner of the room, a shaft of moonlight making the paperclips glint. He followed the turning of the mobile with his eyes for a moment before shaking his head. None of those photographs were relevant now.
He glanced about the room, wondering what Kurtney would say about such living conditions. He supposed that most people with severe social anxiety would live in a clean apartment, with stark white walls to make one think about nothing.
But he craved social interaction. The problem with this was his complete terror of it. Every tiny little interaction he ever had was something that reviewed constantly, both in the moment and later. His over-analyzation made him unable to speak two words to most people. It was a miracle that Nora got him to talk.
This terrible contradiction was a conundrum that plagued every inch of his life.
That wasn't even counting his paralyzing fear of - of his own Goddamn gender.
He buried his head in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. Kurtney wouldn't want to talk to him if she knew the depth of his psychological problems. She would act like everyone else did once they found out the truth: constantly walk on eggshells. He couldn't ever talk to her. She'd think that she was making him uncomfortable...
He pushed himself upwards from the chair, rushing to the counter where his kettle sat. Nora told him that he couldn't keep thinking like that. It wasn't healthy, nor realistic.
He poured his mug of chamomile and stirred it gently. He smelled it reverently, closing his eyes and feeling his nerves settle minutely. For a moment, he simply watched the steam from his tea rise in swirls and dissipate.
He walked over to the window, watching the train below rush by. The glass rattled a bit, and Blaine put his fingers to it. Whiteness burst from the heat of his fingertips, clouding the glass. He stood for a minute before pressing his forehead to the glass as well. Its frigidness braced him.
He stood with his forehead touching the cold glass of the window, the only light coming from the train's headlights and Blaine's red lanterns.
Tuesday would be the day when he could finally speak to her without stumbling. Without rethinking every word he spoke, or thought of speaking.
That was the first night that he dreamt about Kurtney Hummel. He dreamt of encouraging smiles, a quick wit and eyes that stopped his breath, and a place where he could speak as freely as he wanted with this fashionable, multi-lingual girl.