Disclaimer: I own nothing. Yet.
"YOU MAKE ME FEEL LIKE -"
Blaine Anderson leaped halfway out of his chair as music started blaring from his earphones, dropping the iPod and causing the sound to cut off. He took a deep breath in an attempt to calm his racing heart, and picked the iPod up from the floor, checking for scratches and plugging the earphones back in.
The thundering music was probably his brother's idea of a practical joke - Blaine made a mental note to check under his pillow and inside all of his shoes when he got home. Cooper had flown back to Los Angeles that morning after an impromptu visit, and it was anyone's guess what else he might have done to make sure Blaine didn't forget him while he was gone.
He took his seat again and turned on the music, lowered to a healthier level. Blaine was just glad the waiting room he was presiding over was empty of people to witness his shock - the fish in the tank next to the water cooler gurgled curiously at him, but that was the only thing they did anyway. Gills aside, Blaine wasn't sure there were any perks to being a fish.
Rest assured, it wasn't as though he spent a great deal of time weighing up the pros and cons of life as different aquatic creatures. There just wasn't a great deal else to do on Saturday mornings behind the front desk at Rowle and Austen Counselling, Westerville branch.
Blaine had got the job at the end of his sophomore year - Anthony Rowle's wife was the guidance counsellor at Blaine's school, and she recommended the boy when her husband was looking for a sensible junior for a long weekend shift as the practice's receptionist. It was a good position as far as Blaine was concerned - answer the phone when it rang and greet people as they walked in. Most weekends he kept a textbook or novel open under the desk and did his homework in between clients. The psychologists generally stayed in their offices, occasionally coming out to ask Blaine to run down to the Starbucks on the bottom level of the building for a coffee or slice of apple pie.
Blaine's math textbook seemed to be staring at him from its position atop his knee, so he sighed, picked up the pencil he'd thrown onto the desk when his iPod decided to deafen him and got back to work. He'd barely completed one problem, however, when the familiar sound of the front door opening reached Blaine's ears and he looked up, quickly pulling the earphones from his ears.
A bald man wearing a thick grey coat and scuffed boots was holding the door open, talking quietly to someone just out of Blaine's vision. Blaine sat up straighter, just in time to see a tall, slender boy bundled up in a short black coat and red scarf walk through the door.
Perfectly tailored, military- style black wool coat and luxuriously soft-looking burgundy scarf, Blaine told himself later. He didn't have three years' worth of Vogue magazines committed to memory for no reason.
His oversight could be explained for one perfectly logical explanation, however: the boy was beautiful.
He had light brown hair, clearly styled but in slight disarray, which was probably a result of the howling wind outside. His cheeks were pink from the cold and his eyes were large and hazel-ish (Blaine was pretty sure there were a few other colours as well - maybe flecks of blue and green). He looked as though he couldn't be far from Blaine's own age, though his skin seemed lighter, clearer (Blaine self-consciously fingered the spot he was sure was coming up on his chin).
The boy wasn't smiling.
The man - the boy's father? - shut the door behind the boy and they both stood still for a moment, taking in their surroundings. Blaine shut his textbook and put it on the floor, wondering if he should clear his throat.
Before he could, however, the boy bundled his hands into his pockets and dropped into one of the brown leather armchairs against the left-side wall. He closed his eyes, and Blaine saw dark circles around them. The boy seemed exhausted. His father approached the desk and fumbled in his back pocket for a worn black wallet and pulled out what Blaine recognised as health insurance cards.
"Hi," said Blaine, finding his voice at last. "Welcome to Rowle and Austen. Do you have an appointment?"
"I made an appointment for my son - for Kurt," he said, gesturing behind him to his son.
The boy - Kurt - looked up at the sound of his name and caught Blaine's eye. He gave a barely perceptible nod and dropped his gaze down to his knees.
"Sure," said Blaine, shaking the computer mouse to get rid of the bouncing tennis ball screensaver and bring up the appointment book. He scanned across the four psychologists' appointments until he spotted the name. "Kurt Hummel?"
"Yeah," the man said. He reached into a coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "They gave us a referral letter, or something like that. His school. Do I give that to you?"
He seemed doubtful of Blaine, but Blaine was used to it. There weren't many people who felt comfortable divulging concerns over their psychological state to a seventeen-year-old boy.
"I'll grab his folder for you, sir. You can keep the letter in there. We do need a few details from you and Kurt though." Blaine held out a plastic clipboard with a standard new client form and pen attached to it.
"Thanks," said the man as he took the clipboard and took a seat next to his son.
Blaine stood and moved around the corner to the rows of filing cabinets, searching on top of the nearest one for an empty folder labelled "Hummel, Kurt". He could hear mumbling from the waiting room - a one-sided conversation. It seemed as though Kurt's father was asking his son questions and Kurt was giving him one-word answers, though, try as he might, Blaine couldn't understand any of it. He waited another ten seconds before opening and closing a filing cabinet drawer loudly and walking back into the waiting room.
Kurt was leaning on the armrest of his chair, watching his father fill out the form. He made an impatient noise as his father crossed something out, and snatched the clipboard and the pen. His father put up his hands in mock surrender and sat back in his seat, twiddling his thumbs.
Kurt began filling out the form at top speed, barely pausing to check the insurance cards balanced on his father's knee, a small smile on his face.
Blaine felt something tingle pleasantly in the deep recesses of his stomach, and the feeling only intensified as Kurt stood up, brushed off his jeans and crossed the room to stand in front of Blaine's desk.
"Thanks," said Blaine, holding out his hand for the clipboard. He felt a sudden desire to be in a movie, for his hand to brush Kurt's, preferably in slow motion.
With dramatic music.
And replays from a dozen different angles.
No, Blaine hadn't spent too much of his last summer break watching "The Days of Our Lives". Of course not.
What really happened is that Kurt handed Blaine the clipboard and the pen and seemed to spot the nametag attached to Blaine's shirt.
"If you'd just like to take a seat," Blaine said, hoping his voice wasn't too scratchy, " Doctor Rowle should be out in just a few minutes."
Indeed, Blaine could hear the sounds of chairs scraping and a printer running in the nearest office.
He looked up at Kurt, who looked as though he was studying him. "Thanks … Blaine," Kurt said quietly, hesitantly, almost as though he was asking for permission, and he gave Blaine same slight smile he'd been wearing before.
Alright, it was well past a tingling feeling now. Maybe something akin to bubbling.
Blaine tried to school his features into an expression that didn't scream "I'm much, much too happy you smiled at me for it to be socially appropriate", and luckily for him, Doctor Rowle's door opened at that moment.
"Blaine," said the psychologist, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Make another appointment for Mrs. Richardson here in a fortnight, will you?"
Blaine smiled up at Mrs. Richardson, an elderly woman with fluffy white hair who inspired absolutely no bubbling feelings in him whatsoever. She scowled back at him, and Blaine fought to keep his eyebrows from rising too far from their rightful place.
While Doctor Rowle shook Mrs. Richardson's hand, Blaine busied himself by sliding Kurt's form from the clipboard and putting it in the folder with the referral letter, skimming the form for details: 1994, Burt Hummel and Lima, Ohio stood out.
He was right - the boy was his age.
Blaine closed the folder and handed it to Doctor Rowle, who checked the name and looked to the two men who were standing in the middle of the waiting room.
"Kurt Hummel?" he said, and Kurt stepped forward. "Come on through, gentlemen."
As the three of them disappeared into Doctor Rowle's office, Blaine looked up at Mrs. Richardson.
"So, does the same time in two weeks work for you?"
It was about half an hour later when Burt Hummel walked out of the office, gave Blaine a friendly nod as he sat down in the same armchair and picked up the month-old copy of Extreme Fishing Weekly from the table next to him. Blaine went back to his math homework, and had just finished the set of problems when the door opened again half an hour later and Kurt Hummel walked out, closely followed by Doctor Rowle. They both seemed to be recovering from a bout of laughter, Kurt letting out a tiny giggle before he could calm down completely.
Blaine shot Kurt a warm smile before he could help himself, and then turned to the computer so quickly he almost cracked his neck.
Not so quickly, though, that he missed Kurt returning the smile, broader than he'd seen it yet.
"Two weeks again, Blaine," said Doctor Rowle. "It was good to meet you both," he added to the Hummels as he shook their hands.
Blaine found the date in the appointment book two weeks ahead, typed Kurt's name in and wrote down the time on a Rowle and Austen business card. He watched Kurt and his father turn up the collars on their coats as they walked out the door, and then turned on his iPod again.
It was going to be a long two weeks.
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