And You'll Spread Your Wings and You'll Take to the Sky [B]
Part A
“You know you’re going to be fine, right?” Kurt lowers himself gracefully onto the sand next to Blaine, toeing off his plimsolls and handing Blaine an ice cream cone, which has already started to melt in the too-long walk back from the ice cream stand. They’re in a secluded corner of the already quiet Malibu beach on a day set aside just for the two of them. Kurt arranged last night to borrow Margo’s car and now they’re tucked in a corner under some overhanging cliffs because Kurt doesn’t want to be in direct sunlight; they’ve angled their blanket so Blaine can tan and Kurt can, well, not and it feels like the perfect compromise. The beach is like heaven after a week of madness: Blaine is having the best time, but it’s nice to be somewhere quiet, somewhere where it’s a little easier to pretend that the only people in the world are him and Kurt. He takes the ice cream from Kurt with a smile, flicking out his tongue to catch the drop of sauce that threatens to make a bid for freedom in the direction of his shorts.
“What?” Blaine replies, playing dumb.
“You think I don’t see,” Kurt says, shuffling a little closer so they’re sat touching, pressed together from thigh to knee. Blaine can feel the heat of Kurt’s legs against his own and it makes him feel safe, grounded. “You’ve made it your mission to be boyfriend extraordinaire - which I love by the way so please don’t stop - but I know it’s like, 80% about making me feel better and 20% about distracting yourself from thinking about me leaving.”
Blaine feels his heart drop into his stomach the way it does every time he’s forced to confront Kurt’s imminent departure. He closes his eyes against the onslaught of feelings which never fail to hit him too hard, too fast. He takes a bite of his ice cream to give himself something to do that isn’t talking and wishes (not for the first time) that Kurt was less perceptive; except, of course, that Kurt’s perceptiveness is one of the things Blaine loves about him, so what does that really mean?
“But I am leaving, Blaine.”
And great, like this is a conversation Blaine wants to be having on a California beach when the whole point was supposed to be getting away from it all. Ever since that day before Kurt's graduation, when he'd promised Blaine they’d be ok, Blaine's been trying to put what he has privately termed “Operation Ostrich” into play. Basically he tries not to think about the fact that soon he will be where Kurt is not, and he tries to tell himself that he believes every word of reassurance that Kurt speaks to him.
The problem is that “Operation Ostrich” depends entirely on everyone else in the world playing along, and it seems like everyone else in the world (Kurt, Cooper, Burt, even Santana) is determined to coach Blaine through the very events he is trying his hardest not to dwell on.
“Yes, Kurt.” It comes out snappier than he had intended, or maybe it doesn’t. “I am aware you're on your way out.”
Kurt doesn’t react, except to shuffle impossibly closer. “But I’m not leaving you,” he says, “and we are going to be fine. You are going to be fine. You’re going to be better than fine. You know why?”
Blaine shakes his head almost petulantly and takes another bite of his ice cream. Perhaps he can concentrate on how much better ice cream tastes when you eat it on the beach - and how blue the ocean is, and how you can see so far out he could probably be convinced the world is flat; it’s easy to imagine reaching that perfectly straight horizon and going into freefall. It's easy to just let Kurt talk at him rather than to him. Just for a moment.
“This year is going to be about you, Blaine, and you're going to be so amazing. Your senior year is going to actually be magical, instead of the train wreck mine turned out to be. You’re going to be Blaine Anderson, leader of the Nationals-winning glee club, which I suspect means you’ll totally get to sing Bryan Ferry at competitions. You might even win Nationals again, even without Rachel and me. Do not tell her I said that. You’re going to have a stellar GPA and prove to your dad that McKinley wasthe right choice and you’re going to speak to Miss P about that counselling through music idea you keep talking about - which by the way, I still think sounds awesome. Brittany hopefully won’t be senior class president this time around, so you’ll be able to wear as much gel as you want to your senior prom, where nobody will vote you Queen because you’re what my Dad would call Rock Hudson Gay and you don’t, again to quote the great Burt Hummel, dress like you own a chocolate factory although I’d like to take this opportunity to remind you that some of your knitwear choices are questionable. You’ll take that photography elective because you are goodat photography, Blaine, and I know you want to. You’re going to be fabulous and you’re going to do it all without wearing socks.” He pauses for breath. “On top of all that you’ll also have a hotshot college boyfriend.”
Blaine huffs out a laugh. “The last part is true at least.”
“It’s all true. Blaine,” Kurt pauses again, as though considering his words carefully before he continues, “and believe me, this comes from a place of love... You seem to have been a little less rockstar Warbler lately and a little too much Bella Swann. And while I know you’re going to miss me - I know this because I’m going to miss you right back, and just as hard - I also know that you are not as co-dependent as you’re kidding yourself you are. If you’re going to rule the world like I know you can and will, with me right by your side, then you need to channel Blaine Warbler a bit.”
“So basically, I need to man up?” Blaine swallows the last of his ice cream and turns, quirking an eyebrow at Kurt. A part of him feels hurt, can’t help wondering if Kurt’s telling him not to miss him so that Kurt doesn’t have to feel guilty about not missing Blaine, but their eyes meet and Kurt’s are so full of love and concern. He’s looking at Blaine so earnestly, looking right into his soul and damn if that isn’t the sappiest thing ever and somehow Blaine knows Kurt means it, that he feels bad for that year he has on him, for leaving. That he’s worried about Blaine for Blaine's sake. Kurt smiles a little, reaching out to thumb away a smudge of ice cream at the corner of Blaine’s mouth.
Kurt says, “In a nutshell, yes. I think you do.”
Blaine grins then, because only Kurt could tell him to grow some balls and snap out of it and manage to make it sound like the most sensitive, caring advice ever. Only Kurt. He rolls his eyes exaggeratedly and grins a little wider. “Thank you for the pep talk, then.”
Kurt grins back. “Always a pleasure, never a chore.”
“You know,” Blaine leans down, stealing the last of Kurt’s ice cream with a wicked smirk, “I do actually know I’m going to be fine.”
And he does, deep down, he does know that. He doesn’t expect his entire world to fall apart just because Kurt’s not there every day, he doesn’t, if for no other reason than Kurt would disown him if he went all Twilight on his ass. He doesn’t want his boyfriend to leave, and he is dreading it with every fiber of his being. He’s so scared (when he lets himself be) that he’ll miss Kurt too much or that Kurt won’t miss him enough, and that the distance will be more than they can handle.
He worries that he is so used now to Kurt being there that he won’t know how to deal with him being absent, but he also knows himself well enough to know that he will survive. No matter what he’ll put on his show face, which he can get reacquainted with by looking back at Warbler videos; he likes to think his gives Rachel’s a run for her money. He’ll just pretend to be fine until he really is. He knows he can do it because he’s done it before: he thought his life was over after Sadie Hawkins for example; after the fact, he painted on a smile every day until one day he didn’t have to. He survived. Missing Kurt is going to be shit - the very thought of it makes him want to wrap his arms and his legs around his boyfriend in a koala tight grip and force Kurt to navigate New York with Blaine attached, but he will survive because he is an Anderson and he is a Warbler and because he has no other option.
“However, I also know that I’m going to miss you terribly and I’d quite like to mope over the fact that my hot college boyfriend is going to be all, you know, in college. And I mean, most nights we’ll have nothing to get off to but a crackly phone line and I’m going to have to sleep in one of your t-shirts just so I can remember how you smell. For now, I’d appreciate you respecting my right to mope or possibly using your mouth for something other than speaking words meant to comfort me while we still have that option available whenever we want it.” He stops, takes a breath, grins, “All this comes from a place of love, Kurt.”
He gives an over-the-top lascivious wink then, and he moves quickly: swinging a leg over Kurt’s thighs and pushing him back into the sand, pinning his wrists loosely above his head. Blaine nips gently at his jaw, up to his mouth, running his tongue across Kurt’s lower lip.
Kurt tenses a little beneath him, and Blaine sees the flash of panic in his eyes - we're in public, Blaine, people might see - and he presses their lips together, squeezing gently at Kurt’s wrists, a silent “it’s ok Kurt, the beach is practically empty; nobody is looking.” Kurt is tense for a second longer and then he relaxes, lifts his head from the sand to meet Blaine’s kiss, his tongue flicking out over Blaine’s lips this time. Blaine lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding in a hiss, closing his eyes and leaning in farther.
Slowly, he feels Kurt wriggle his hands, breaking free, running the flats of his palms over Blaine’s shoulders, down his arms, ghosting over his sides before coming to rest at the small of his back. Long cool fingers find the dimples there by instinct and press in, pulling Blaine closer. Kurt’s hands are always cold and Blaine has no idea how that is even possible.
Blaine shifts, sliding a leg between both of Kurt’s, Kurt’s hands pressed into his back, grazing the top of his shorts and the curve of his ass. His own hands rest in the warm sand by Kurt’s head, holding himself up as they kiss, as he teases Kurt’s mouth open with his tongue, nibbling and sucking and licking his way in and around. Kurt tastes a little like chocolate, always tastes a little like chocolate and Blaine loves that. He whimpers a little into Kurt’s mouth; Kurt exhales sharply and suddenly the kiss is messy, all tongue and teeth and ragged breaths. Blaine drops from his hands to rest on his forearms, needing to be closer, needing more - he’s already forgotten where they are: he presses down as Kurt lifts his hips off the sand. Blaine is half hard, can’t hold back the moan as Kurt presses against him still closer before stopping suddenly. Kurt's hands moving lightning fast to Blaine’s shoulders, pulling him up. Blaine raises a questioning eyebrow, his breath coming in short gasps.
“S’up?” He leans back in, missing the heat of Kurt’s lips already. Kurt shakes his head, a flush high on his cheeks and his eyes shining.
“Really Blaine,” and his voice is a little higher than usual, a little more breathy and Blaine can’t help but press his hips down, biting on his bottom lip to stifle his moan. “That was decidedly un-PG.”
“Don’t care,” Blaine replies, shifts his hips, “That was kind of the point.”
“We’re on the beach,” Kurt huffs, pressing his lips together primly, but he hasn’t made much effort to move away. He seems quite comfortable laid beneath Blaine, hands resting cool and firm upon the younger boy's hips. Blaine sighs, drops his head onto Kurt’s shoulder and rolls off to the side just a little, reaching for Kurt's hand to lace their fingers together.
“You are such a killjoy,” he mutters into Kurt’s neck, flicking out his tongue to taste him; he loves the skin right there on Kurt’s neck, the salty tang of it that’s all boy, all Kurt. Kurt shudders.
“Am not.”
“Are too,” and he does it again, a flick of the tongue and a press of the lips and he can’t see Kurt’s face but can imagine the way his eyes are closing, the way he’s pressing his bottom teeth into his lip. “You are killing my joy.”
“You obviously haven’t noticed, but there is a middle-aged woman with terrible, awful hair several yards away who is watching us like all her Christmas wishes just came true at once. I do not wish to go to bed tonight knowing some woman is in her bed…”
“Oh my God," Blaine groans, “stop talking right now. What is even wrong with you, like as a person.” He rolls away from Kurt onto his back, covering his eyes with his arm, and kicking out, half-heartedly in Kurt’s general direction as Kurt laughs, the sound lilting and musical. “I think I’m the one who’s scarred. I hope you’re happy; you’ve killed my joy and my boner for, like, ages.”
: :
“We should go out,” Margo says, walking into the apartment and kicking the front door closed with her boot. Blaine places his paperback on the sofa arm, careful not to bend the spine, and smiles up at her. She grins back, an easy smile that lights up her whole face, her eyes twinkling behind heavy mascaraed lashes.
“You just got back from being out,” Cooper points out from his spot on the floor. He’s laid on his back with his legs bent, left ankle resting on right knee and his hands pillowed behind his head. He says he’s spent the day rehearsing, but Blaine is unsure exactly what it is he’s rehearsing for; he seems to be deliberately vague when anyone asks, which is absolutely not “Cooper” and Blaine can’t help wonder if he really is the superstar he seems to think he is. Besides which, he was laid right there when Kurt and Blaine returned from the beach an hour ago and hasn’t moved since so pardon him, Blaine thinks, if he’s not convinced. In fact, Cooper’s been so still and so quiet and so relaxed that if he hadn’t spent the rest of the vacation being so dramatically Cooper (and that might be an unimaginative adjective but this is Cooper; is there a better one?) Blaine might be worried his brother had become a directionless stoner. And that is a sentence he never thought would cross his mind. It’s weird, because Coop is always so switched on, all of the time - so aware of his surroundings, of making an impression, of being - that seeing him like this, totally unwound, is more than a little bit surreal.
“Hush.” Margo toes at him gently with a bare foot, which is confusing because she literally just walked in and where are her shoes? “Smart ass. I mean out out. For dinner and drinks. The boys have been here a week and we haven’t taken them out on the town. That makes us terrible hosts, Anderson. We could go to Boa.” She turns to the boys, “Best crab cocktail in Santa Monica. Fact.”
Cooper raises an eyebrow, the rest of him still remarkably still. “It’s a bit short notice. We probably couldn’t get a table.”
“Baby, you’re Cooper Anderson. Of course we’ll get a table.”
Cooper grins then, pushing himself into a sitting position and stretching. “You make a very good point.”
Blaine is sure he sees the ghost of a smile cross Margo’s face; his brother has just been well and truly played.
Margo is good for Cooper, Blaine thinks; she seems to know just exactly how to handle him, using his ego to get what she wants, somehow managing to manipulate him into thinking her ideas were his all along, but never detrimentally and often for Cooper’s immediate benefit. At the same time she seems to know exactly when and how to rein him in. Coop seems more like Cooper when she’s around; like the real Cooper with the heart of gold and the incredible sense of humor that Blaine rarely gets to see and less like the “look at me” Cooper who is all for show but no less annoying because of it. It’s like Margo gives him the confidence to just strip back and be himself and Blaine likes it.
“That’s ok with you boys, right?”
Blaine shrugs. He wouldn't say he’s bothered about going out. Kurt is sleepy from their day in the sun and is curled into him on the sofa: knees pulled up to his chest and resting against Blaine’s side, his head tucked into Blaine’s shoulder, long fingers gripped loosely round his forearm. It's just that a large part of Blaine doesn’t want to move. He loves Kurt like this, loose-limbed and lazy, affectionate in a way he never really is unless they are alone, which happens plenty but still never often enough for Blaine. He thinks he’d be happy here for the rest of the night, for the rest of forever with the familiar weight of a beautiful boy on and around him, the warmth of his breath ghosting against Blaine’s neck as he breathes in and out. Blaine presses a kiss to the head on his shoulder, inhaling deeply and taking in the comforting scent of tea-tree shampoo and the boy that’s his. Kurt shuffles impossibly closer, presses a discreet kiss to Blaine’s neck in return, tongue darting out to press at his skin and back in again so fast that Blaine wonders whether it even happened at all.
“Is there cheesecake?” Kurt asks drowsily, voice slightly muffled by Blaine’s neck though he's making no effort at all to move. “Because I think the only thing that could persuade me to move right now is the promise of good cheesecake.”
“Cheesecake,” Margo promises, without skipping a beat, “and cocktails, aaaaand...” she draws the word out, “karaoke.”
And oh! Blaine sits up a little straighter: karaoke. Maybe going out really is the new staying in. Or something.
He isn’t sure what to wear.
Kurt has gotten ready in record time and he looks perfect. Edible. Black skinny jeans and a black waistcoat over a fitted white t-shirt that emphasises both his perfectly toned torso and his almost-tan. His hair is beautifully styled in that just-so way that Blaine loves, slightly quiffed and slightly tousled. It’s making Blaine rethink his decision: karaoke might just be over-rated when this boy is his alternative.
Kurt is sat on the bed, back resting against the headboard, his long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles as Blaine pulls garment after garment from his case before groaning and dropping them right back in again.
“If you had unpacked…” Kurt begins, the sentence dying on his lips as Blaine fixes him with a bitch face to rival his own.
“You could just go like that?” Kurt tries a different tack instead, tapping out a message on his cell and darting a quick glance in Blaine’s direction.
Blaine huffs out a sigh. “Not helpful Kurt, I’m in my underwear.”
“It’s very becoming.”
“Kurt.” If he’s a little whiny, he doesn’t care; this is important. What is he supposed to wear to go out drinking in LA when he’s only just 18 and his boyfriend is Kurt Hummel, his brother Cooper perfect Anderson? ”I’m being serious.”
“So am I.” Kurt drops the phone onto the mattress beside him and moves on to his knees, shuffling to the end of the bed and reaching out, grabbing Blaine by the hips and tugging him forward to press their foreheads together, fingers still pressing into Blaine’s hips. ”Are you really questioning my fashion knowledge right now?”
He presses his lips to Blaine’s, the kiss closed-mouthed and dry but still enough to make Blaine’s breath catch a little in his throat. He runs his hands up Kurt’s arms, holding him by the biceps and leaning forward, pulling gently on Kurt’s lower lip ‘til he relents, and Blaine can feel him smiling against his lips. Kurt opens his mouth a little, Blaine’s tongue, flickering against his teeth and then past them licking into his mouth and loving the way Kurt’s fingers press that little bit harder, closer, until Blaine’s shins are pressed again the hard wood of the bed frame but he can’t find it in himself to care. Kurt’s tongue licks into Blaine’s mouth, devouring him, his breath deepening, like Blaine provides him with the very air he needs to survive. Kurt tastes like toothpaste and sunshine; Blaine thinks he could kiss him like this every minute of every day and never get bored of it. But there isn’t time for that now; Cooper is hollering at them to hurry up and Blaine is starving.
“I am totally going to remember this moment,” he murmurs into Kurt’s mouth, not able just yet to pull away fully, “next time you are having a crisis of fashion.”
Kurt laughs and squeezes Blaine's hips, planting one last, open-mouthed kiss to his lips before pulling back and looking Blaine up and down appraisingly.
“Those jeans,” he says finally, pointing to the dark blue pair Blaine has already pulled out and dropped on the end of the bed, “and that shirt I got you, the charcoal one with the really fine light stripes. Which I hung up by the way, if you’re wondering.”
Blaine nods, because that might work, and rummages in his case for a moment... “With this,” he says decisively, holding a cream and grey striped bow tie aloft and reaching for the dark jeans with his other hand.
“Roll up the sleeves,” Kurt advises, jumping to his feet as Blaine ties his tie. and standing, hands on hips and his head tilted to one side as Blaine adjusts his tie and smoothes down his hair in the mirror, eyes meeting Kurt’s and lifting in question.
Kurt nods. “You’d get it.”
And Blaine almost chokes, because it’s such an un-Kurt like thing to say, yet he says it so casually, as though he’s been tossing comments like that around his whole life. He doesn’t laugh, though; he knows Kurt’s picked the phrase up from Margo, is trying it on for size, trying maybe to fit into this world that’s so different to what they’re used to. And to be perfectly honest, this new, sexy confident Kurt really turns Blaine on, so he just winks at him through the mirror and says, “That’s the plan,” and delights a little in the flush that starts high on Kurt’s cheeks.
: :
They do get a table, but it's less to do with Cooper and more to do with a 45 minute wait. Nobody wants to burst Cooper's bubble and tell him that though, so they don't. Blaine holds back an eye roll as Cooper tells them (in what he would probably deem a whisper but what Blaine thinks is more akin to a yell) how fame has its perks and how he wouldn't normally pull strings like this, of course he wouldn't, but he's prepared to make an exception for Kurt and Blaine. Apparently being able to get a table like this at a moment's notice (does he actually believe what he's saying right now?) for them makes dealing with the paparazzi worthwhile.
(“It's a quiet night tonight, no paps around. You're lucky, usually it's a nightmare just going for a beer.”)
Blaine catches Kurt's eye, Kurt who still kind of looks a little awed when he's looking at Cooper... but whose lips curl upwards with a hint of a grin when he meets Blaine's eye, eyebrows raising imperceptibly.
Yes Blaine, you were right all along: your brother is certifiably insane.
Blaine has always loved that; how they can communicate without even talking, like words are a tool they have no use for; a tool for others who haven't fine tuned the art of communicating through expressions or gestures, through small smiles, raised eyebrows, barely-there shakes of the head in the way he and Kurt can. It's not that he thinks that he is in any way better than the rest of the world - though he can't really say the same for his view of Kurt - more that he is just so incredibly grateful for what he, they, have. He feels so, so lucky.
“I'm starving,” Kurt says now, stepping closer to Blaine to let a waiter pass. Their fingers brush together and Blaine can't help but grab hold of Kurt's for a second, squeezing gently. Kurt squeezes back and God, Blaine remembers an evening of them talking in the dark, naked and sated and happy, their voices low; his head pillowed on Kurt's chest, wondering how he'd managed to survive seventeen years without sex. Remembers how it had felt in those first days, when Kurt naked and glorious was the only thought that filled Blaine's mind; when it had all been brand new and Blaine had been finally finally able to touch and be touched. They'd laughed about that at the time: two boys discovering the intensities of sex for the first time and together, realising how much they'd been missing and how much there was left to explore. Now, months down the line, they’ve explored, oh have they explored, and yet there is still so much that they haven’t yet tried - but the knowledge that one day they will, that 'til then he has Kurt and Kurt has him, means that each brush of fingers feels like a suggestion, like a promise.
Blaine’s here in a Santa Monica restaurant with those cool fingers touching his - and maybe it's residual frustration from earlier at the beach but all Kurt did his squeeze his fingers and Blaine's heart is already racing. He needs to get a grip.
Margo is right: the crab cocktail is incredible and so is the steak. Coop and Margo order wine but Kurt and Blaine decline since they're going drinking later; the boys recognize the value of moderation, so they order sparkling water instead and drink it from wineglasses, chinking them together and taking tiny sips. Kurt holds his by the stem with his pinky finger pointing out and they pretend like this is their life: restaurants that aren't Breadstix and dinner dates that aren't with school friends and a town that isn't Lima. They talk and they eat and they laugh and Kurt is all smiles and expressive hand gestures, his foot hooked around Blaine's ankle the whole time. Blaine ponders briefly if his life has ever felt this right before.
Kurt orders cheesecake for dessert - he threatens Margo with actual bodily harm if it doesn't meet his expectations, then closes his eyes and actually moans around the first mouthful. His voice is a little breathier than usual as he declares it to be divine. He's such a tease, side-eying Blaine as he welcomes the fork into his mouth. It’s an echo of another dinner, a couple months ago, when Kurt had made the exact same noise for no other reason than his food was that good and Blaine had almost choked on his drink, his voice deep and growly as he muttered, “Fuck Kurt, you’re so hot” and Kurt had given him that wide-eyed stare, that “?I’m hot? Are you sure?” stare, that “Oh my God Blaine, you’re turned on by me eating” stare and yes Blaine had been affected and had gone down on him even more enthusiastically than usual that night to prove it. Kurt is nothing if not a fast learner and there’s a slight smirk on his face now as his tongue flickers out to catch a crumb from the corner of his mouth. He shudders, a barely there movement that Blaine only notices because he is so aware of Kurt at all times... and what exactly is the etiquette regarding getting off in restaurant bathrooms?
Cooper gets the bill, which is a relief because they're school kids, really, and their vacation allowance doesn't cover three course meals in relatively fancy establishments - even so, Kurt contributes a few bills to the tip. He links his arm through Blaine's as they leave the restaurant and walk down the sidewalk in the direction of Margo's bar, his fingertips pressing into Blaine's arm through his shirt and Blaine feels like every nerve-ending is heightened: he has never wanted to fuck his boyfriend so badly in his life and he has no idea what that is even about. He thinks there needs to be some kind of cheesecake ban. Kurt is oblivious, but then Kurt is almost always oblivious to his own appeal and that makes it worse somehow. They've arrived at the bar and he's slipped in front of Blaine now, nodding his head coquettishly to Cooper, who holds open the door. Blaine's boyfriend's hips are swaying, ass tight and so fucking perfect in those jeans and he needs a distraction, like, now.
: :
Blaine had worried a little bit about the bar. Sure, they have fake ID’s but they’re not exactly authentic, they’re not even good fakes and Blaine knows that when it comes down to it, they look their age. He was worried about looking like little boys playing dress-up, like not standing a chance of getting through the front door, about getting Margo into trouble because she works here and that wouldn’t be fair. They’d caught the eye of the guy on the door, he’d raised his eyebrows and Blaine had felt his stomach drop, but then Margo was there, enveloping the doorman in a hug, whispering something in his ear and looking back at Kurt and Blaine over her shoulder. The doorman had said something, his expression when he met Blaine’s eyes stern but Margo had said something else, squeezed his arms and the guy had laughed, told them to have a good night and that was that. They were in and Blaine doesn’t know what Margo said, whether she swore to look after them, or whether she convinced him they were 21 or whether, heaven forbid, she bribed him. Even if it had been blackmail he couldn't have brought himself to care because the bar?
The bar is awesome.
It’s like, possibly the most awesome bar Blaine has ever been to. And that is absolutely not because he’s only ever really been to two and one of those was the dive and fiasco that was Scandals. It’s also not because he’s on his third of these beers that Cooper keeps buying that have tequila mixed in.
Maybe he is a tiny little bit drunk, but this bar really is awesome.
Blaine can totally see why Margo loves working here so much: the bar is her. If someone with magical powers, like maybe Kurt - except that’s a different kind of magic that Blaine is totally not going to think about now because he knows he gets handsy when he’s been drinking - but if someone with regular, commoner magical powers cast a spell on Margo and turned her into a bar, then this would be that bar. It’s kooky, and that’s such an awesome word. Blaine mutters it quietly under his breath and giggles, earning him a soft sideways smile from Kurt which just makes him giggle even more and smile so wide his face hurts a little.
The bar’s wide and spacious, but at the same time it’s kind of cozy, and that makes no sense but it’s how it is. The walls are pale but the lighting is low, and there are old movie posters on the walls interspersed with photographs of people like Jimi Hendrix and Elvis and Britney Spears and that’s so awesome because everybody knows that the people with diverse tastes are the best kinds of people.
There are tables and chairs, hard-backed chairs and bucket armchairs and the occasional over-stuffed sofa against a wall or in a corner - nothing matches, it's like every item of furniture in the place was picked up in a thrift store or at auction, but it works somehow. “Garage sale chic,” Blaine calls it in his head, making a mental note to remember to tell that to Kurt later. He can already see Kurt taking mental photographs; he lets himself imagine their future apartment, which will be in New York and in Kurt's total control as far as interior decor goes, but Blaine won’t care at all because Kurt makes everything look pretty.
If Kurt makes their home look like this bar he will be more than happy because it’s awesome; Blaine wants to live here, and is it really bad that he thinks that about pretty much every bar he goes to? God, does he have a problem? Maybe he should stop, right now. He eyes his near-empty bottle warily and then focuses on the full part and the fact that he can count the number of times he’s been drunk on one hand. He has never ever smelled like beer in the morning and has never drunk wine from a paper bag instead of going to class. He absolutely does not have a problem. Blaine shrugs his shoulders and downs the last bit of his drink in one big gulp.
Awesome.
They're at a table with a sofa, on which Margo and Cooper sit side by side, with Cooper's arm thrown along the sofa back, his fingers lightly tracing a pattern on her bare shoulder. She's pressed against him, turning occasionally to whisper something in his ear or press a kiss to his jaw as she thumbs through the karaoke book that's resting across her knees. Blaine can't help but smile; they're adorable.
“Are you going to sing?” Kurt asks her, leaning forward on his chair and twiddling one of the old pens thrown haphazardly on the tables (for writing down song selections) between his fingers.
Margo laughs. “Are you insane? Like I'd even try to follow any one of you guys.”
“You haven't even heard Blaine or me sing properly yet,” Kurt points out.
She reaches forward to pat him on the knee.
“No, but I've heard enough about you both to know going up against you in the world of song is never going to be a wise decision. My voice is so awful I had to sign papers to say I wouldn't grace the place with my dulcet tones before they'd even let me on the payroll.”
The boys laugh, then, and when Kurt tries to convince her that she can't be that bad, Cooper shakes his head, makes a slicing motion across his throat with his finger. “Oh my God, don't encourage her. Margo's that drunk girl on karaoke who makes everyone in the bar die of second-hand embarrassment.” He pulls her to him as he talks, pressing a kiss to her hair and leering at the boys over the top of her head. “Her talents lie in other areas.”
He winks, and Blaine is absolutely not a prude but there is such a thing as over-sharing and this is so not a conversation Blaine wants to be having with his brother right now. Or ever. “TMI, Coop.”
“I always knew you only wanted me for my body,” Margo says affectionately.
“And your cherry pie.” Cooper amends and Margo laughs.
“I won’t sing,” she tells them, “That’s not my game, but I’m telling you, you want to keep an eye out for my moves. I am the queen of the dancefloor. People come from miles around to watch me get my groove on.”
“Moves like Jagger?” Blaine teases and Margo shudders, face still scrunched up in laughter.
“My God, darling, are you always so Top 40?”
Blaine can't wait to sing, has been trying to decide on song choices since the moment the word “karaoke” was uttered, and is practically bouncing in his seat now with impatience. He's handed in a handful of song slips, unable to narrow it down to one; it's
like someone took all his favorite songs and shoved them in a cheap plastic ring binder, giving him free rein to sing them all. Karaoke is awesome. He'd pressed one slip of paper in particular into the DJ's hand, fixing her with a winning smile and saying, “Please, please let me sing this one first.” When his name is finally called, followed by “Mona Lisa’s and Mad Hatters” he semi-dances his way through the bar to the stage hoping Kurt can see past the Elton John of it all and listen to the lyrics.
I thank the Lord there's people out there like you
Blaine launches himself into the song fully. He finds it easier to communicate through song most times; it’s easier to express himself through a melody than to try and find his way through the hodge podge of words tumbling around his mind and heart. His eyes find Kurt and come to rest there, head and foot moving to the beat as he curls his fingers into loose fists and sings a song across a bar to this boy who owns his heart.
While Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters
Sons of bankers, sons of lawyers
Turn around and say good morning to the night
Blaine sings to say that it'll be ok; to say, “Fuck NYADA, fuck everyone who dares to tell you no”; to say, “You're incredible, Kurt, incredible and invincible and beautiful and you are going to make it because you stand out from the crowd and not despite that fact”; and outright, “I thank the Lord there's people out there like you.”
This Broadway's got
It's got a lot of songs to sing
If I knew the tunes I might join in
I'll go my way alone
Grow my own, my own seeds shall be sown in New York City
Blaine grins through the claps and the cheers and can't help laughing in delight as he hands the microphone back to the DJ, who is looking at him, slightly agape.
“Wow,” she says, “You're- you're like, really good. Like, famous good.”
He plays the compliment off with a laugh and shrug of his shoulders, storing it away to come back to later; it feels good when people like what he does when they have no obligation to do so, and maybe next time he's having a bad day he can come back to tonight, to how he feels in this moment, and it will help him focus.
Kurt slips an arm around his waist as he returns to their table, pressing his nose to the hair at Blaine's temple. His “thank you” and “I love you” are barely audible, but they're the only words Blaine needs to hear and he's the only one who hears them - he squeezes back. He's not going to pretend he didn't sing tonight because he loves to sing, or that he didn't choose his song because Elton John - despite Kurt's protestations to the contrary - is on his own plane of awesome. When he has the freedom Blaine will always sing the songs that he loves, but this was a message to Kurt too, and he is so glad it was heard.
Margo doesn't sing, but Coop does, twice in a row: “Copacabana” because he actually believes Barry Manilow is cool (it's things like this that make Blaine question why he continues to look up to his brother), and Duran Duran, because this is Cooper and if there is ever an excuse to play Simon Le Bon he's going to take it. He sings “Girls on Film” with the same energy he'd possessed when he'd sung “Rio” and “Hungry Like The Wolf” with Blaine at school. He might not have the best voice in the world but he has the energy and the charisma to make up for it and the crowd cheers and claps when he's finished. Coop stops to shake a few hands and even sign the odd autograph as he makes his way back to the table.
“And that, kids, is how it's done.”
Blaine laughs at that because the girl on the mic is calling Kurt's name next. Blaine pushes at his thigh, a silent “get up there.”
“I think you'll find, dear brother, that this is how it's done.”
Kurt steps up to the microphone, smiling sweetly and nodding as the girl double checks his song choice and keys the code into her computer. He swallows hard and closes his eyes. Blaine knows he's psyching himself up: it might just be karaoke but every performance counts to Kurt, is a chance to either impress or disgust. And for all he loves it, for all he was born to perform, Blaine knows that the anonymous phone calls to his dad all those years ago, the slushies and the name-calling, the endless struggle for Glee club solos, the loss of Tony, even to Blaine, people questioning whether he’d be able to pass (and that had hurt Kurt more than he’d ever let on), the whole fucking NYADA disaster... all of it has left its scars. Those first notes, especially when sung without the comfort of Kurt's friends around him, are always akin to jumping off the high diving board: petrifying before they become exhilarating.
The opening bars to Gershwin's “Summertime” play through the speaker system and Blaine takes a sharp breath. He's heard Kurt sing this before, crooning in the car, and he loves it, loves how it fits Kurt's voice, how he sings it low, a little breathy, and full of confidence.
Summertime, and the livin' is easy
Fish are jumpin' and the cotton is high
The bar has gone quiet, conversations drawing to a sudden close as Kurt sings, one hand rested on his abdomen and his foot tapping, his eyes closing as the music takes him over. He leans into the breaks, his forefinger tapping out the beat against his stomach in time with his foot, singing through a soft smile as the music takes him over, and that’s always the thing about Kurt, he becomes the song each and every time. It's not a successful performance if the audience hasn't lived the piece. His voice takes everybody unawares and people are putting down drinks, turning to watch and listen, awed.
Ella has nothing on Kurt: the audience loves him.
Blaine's not even surprised. Even through poor quality karaoke speakers, Kurt's voice is out of this world. Blaine knows Kurt sees that as both a blessing and a curse; more of the latter, as of late. The Gershwin is perfect for him though, and he owns every note: belting low and soulful, gripping the microphone stand, swaying loosely in time.
Your daddy's rich, and your brother's good looking.
He catches Blaine's eye as he changes the lyric, smiling around the words and winking. Blaine huffs out a laugh. Kurt’s funny and adorable and hot as all get out - and he's Blaine's. He can't even bring himself to look at Cooper, is surprised his brother's not whooping in support: it's not like him to let anybody else have the limelight and being mentioned in song - no matter how tongue-in-cheek - will play right into his ego. Blaine mouths the word “rude” at Kurt, who gives a little shimmy in response. The lyrics couldn't be more perfect; yes, yes, one of these mornings Kurt will rise up singing.
“You're a talented pair of pups,” Margo says, leaning forward so as to be heard amid the claps and catcalls as Kurt finishes and takes a bow, cheeks flushed and smile wide. “Make sure to remember little old me when you're rich and famous.”
Blaine laughs - if nothing else, Margo is unforgettable. He raises his hands above his head to clap loudly as Coop pushes past the other patrons to pull Kurt to his chest in a bone-crushing hug.
“-pretty good...”' Cooper's saying as they slip back into their seats, “although your breathing could do with some work. My vocal talents haven't been properly showcased so you haven't really seen all that I can do yet but I'd be happy to spend some time with you before you leave? I'm sure Blainers will tell you how much I helped him train his voice and like I said, I've got your back, so.”
Blaine rolls his eyes. “Shut up Coop,” he says and pulls Kurt to him in an awkward half-sitting, half-standing one-armed hug. “You are incredible,” he whispers, pressing a quick kiss to Kurt's jaw before settling back into his seat.
: :
“You could always move west and live with us.” It's Cooper who says it.
Karaoke is still going strong in the background but they're taking a break; Coop’s been drinking all night, more than Kurt or Blaine, and since Blaine feels a little tipsy Cooper must be well and truly drunk. There's nothing like alcohol to make philosophizing seem like a great idea, and no matter how they try to deny it, there's no getting away from the fact that Kurt's plans for the end of the summer are the huge elephant in the room. Cooper sounds more earnest than Blaine has ever heard him as he extends this invitation, leaning forward and places a hand on Kurt's knee.
Blaine can't help wonder where this has come from, whether it is just the alcohol talking - because for so long Cooper was so wrapped up in himself that Blaine felt like he might as well not have existed and now there's this. It's like Cooper only exists in extremes.
“I could get you auditions, an agent... It's the city of dreams, Kurt! You could get jobs to keep you going 'til the real work comes in and you could live with us. Blainers could apply to colleges here. We'd be like one big, pretty, talented family.”
LA isn't the city of dreams though, Blaine thinks, not for Kurt and not for him, but he appreciates the sentiment, and he loves Cooper so much right now for even considering this an option, for being prepared to open his arms and his world for Blaine - and more importantly, for Kurt. He lets himself wonder if maybe they could do it; Kurt could find the theatre here and Blaine, he could teach all day and sing at night. It's not New York but it has his brother and if it has Kurt, then really it has everything. Who needs Central Park when you have the ocean on your doorstep?
“Coop. You're drunk,” Kurt says but he's smiling and his eyes are shining and Blaine knows he's touched.
“Maybe,” Cooper shrugs, waving a hand expressively in the air, “but I'm serious all the same. You'll be stifled in Lima. You'll shrivel up and die. And clearly you're not right for New York.'”
Blaine wants to stop him right there because how dare he? Kurt is right for anywhere he wants to go, and he squeezes Kurt's hand tightly. Kurt just looks at him and smiles, mouths, “it's ok” and turns, smiling, back to Cooper, who is still talking.
“…but LA is a different world. There's a space for everyone here.”
“What Coop means, I think,” Margo interjects diplomatically, “is that if you were to decide being in New York after the whole thing with NYADA was a little too much like salt in a wound, or, if you were to decide college wasn't for you at all, there is always a place for you here. You have options is all. If you still choose New York then you will be ready, whatever my oaf of a boyfriend might say to the contrary.” She gives Cooper a pointed look, and he grimaces sheepishly.
“I just meant...”
“I know, Coop,” Kurt interrupts gently. “It's ok, I know what you meant and I appreciate it, both of you. Thank you, really.”
: :
It's late by the time they get back to the apartment, having wandered home through the Santa Monica streets that are never quite dark, laughing and singing and chatting, Kurt's fingers laced tightly with Blaine's and Margo's arm around his own waist. Cooper had walked ahead, acting his way through town, using the three of them as a test audience for upcoming audition pieces. Nobody is sure if he's supposed to be funny but he is and they have to keep stopping so Margo can double over with laughter. Cooper fixes her with an exaggerated glare, pointing a finger at her and shaking his head with a dramatic “you mock me? How dare you!” which of course only serves to make Margo laugh harder and Blaine wonders again just exactly what it is about Margo that brings this out in Cooper, this ability to laugh at himself.
Blaine knows that Kurt isn't quite fine, that his laughter is forced and his smile isn't quite reaching his eyes. Blaine doesn't know whether he's just drunk and tired or whether something more is on his mind (the conversation with Cooper perhaps), but he knows better than to ask, knows that sometimes Kurt just needs to process, that he'll come to Blaine when he's ready. So Blaine just holds his hand, grip firm and constant, thumb tracing Kurt's wrist and sending secret code through his pulse.
Margo despatches them each to bed with a kiss on the cheek, a painkiller, and a glass of water into which she drops some kind of soluble vitamin tablet that fizzes wildly and turns the liquid sunflower yellow. “It'll make your pee luminous,” she says sagely, “but it's the best hangover prevention I know.” And the boys nod and take their glasses into their bedroom, pulling faces as they down the drink, clumsily ridding themselves of their clothes. It doesn't escape Blaine's notice that Kurt doesn't even bother to fold his clothes before he collapses backwards onto the bed, resting on his elbows. Blaine knows he'll regret it in the morning, so he crouches down and picks up the discarded items, folding them carefully, placing them on the chair in the corner of the room, and turning to see Kurt smirking at him from his position on the bed.
“What?”
Kurt pats the bed next to him, gesturing for Blaine to join him with a flick of his head.
“I was just thinking that there should be some kind of rule that forbids you from wearing clothes when we're alone together.”
“Why Kurt,” Blaine presses a hand to his chest, mock-affronted, “were you checking me out while I folded your clothes?”
“Yes,” Kurt says simply, moving fast and rolling so his body is over the top of Blaine's, his forearms muscled and strong in the corner of Blaine's vision as he lowers his head, closing his eyes and catching Blaine's mouth in a kiss that is at the same time tender and hungry. “Yes, I was.”
: :
The bed is cold when Blaine awakes and he’s not at all surprised to find Kurt gone. It’s funny how in such a short time he’s gotten used to sleeping tangled up in Kurt and being without the weight of his body is enough to stir him. It's not quite light outside and he rolls over, grabbing blindly for his watch and sitting up. This is early, even for Kurt, and Blaine is worried as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, curling his toes as they come into contact with the cool wooden floor. He reaches distractedly for his pajama pants.
He finds Kurt on the balcony, dressed in boxers and a t-shirt and shivering slightly in the cool morning air. Blaine pads lightly across the living room, slipping through the crack in the door to join him. He takes the blanket around his own shoulders and wraps it around Kurt's too so they're huddled beneath it together. The length of his body presses to Kurt's so they're touching from ankle to thigh to hip to arm to shoulder.
“What are you doing?” he asks softly. Kurt shrugs against him.
“Couldn't sleep.”
“What're you thinking?” Blaine has a feeling deep in the pit of his stomach that this could be something pivotal, and he moves his hand a little to thread his fingers through Kurt's. They haven’t seen Santa Monica this early in the morning throughout their whole vacation and it’s kind of peaceful to stand here on the balcony before the rest of the world has woken. The sun’s just rising, the sky a mixture of deep reds and oranges and almost purpley blues as the night disappears to let the day take over and it’s like they can see for miles: palm trees swaying gently in the breeze and the deep red of terracotta roofs, down to the ocean, golden sand and rising sun reflected against the sea that’s so calm there’s barely a ripple from this distance. It feels like they could be the only people in the world and it’s enough to take Blaine’s breath away. He inhales deeply, big lungfuls of air that taste clean and fresh and fill him with promise. He holds Kurt’s hand, waits for him to speak.
“Nothing.” A pause and then softly, “Everything.”
He doesn't elaborate and Blaine doesn't know what to say, really. He holds Kurt's face in his free hand, skin cool beneath bed-warm fingertips, and presses their lips together. “Go and get dressed.”
“What?” Kurt looks baffled.
“You heard me. Come on; we're going for a walk.”
: :
Blaine's never been as thankful for early hours coffee shops in his life as they duck in, ordering a medium drip and a non-fat mocha to go. The two of them begin to walk towards the beach, silent save for the swallowing of their drinks. The beach is deserted. Of course it is, Blaine thinks, the sane rest of the world is still tucked up in bed, and it’s different to how it’s been every other time, not just because it’s quiet, although that’s a part of it. It’s calmer, cooler, they can hear the waves rolling gently against the shore, as though they too haven’t quite woken up. There’s a mist still hovering over the sea almost ethereal, and a breeze in the air - it’s not quite cold but makes Blaine wish he had slightly longer sleeves - carrying a faint fresh but lightly salty scent. Blaine breathes deeply through his nose as they drop their empty coffee cups into the trash at the edge of the sand and toe off their shoes. He kneels in the sand to roll Kurt's jeans up past his ankle, leaning in to press a kiss to the bone there and smiling as Kurt huffs out a laugh above him.
“This is why you should wear capris,” he says as he pushes himself back up to his feet, the sand cool beneath his toes in the way it never is once the sun is high in the sky, and pats his thighs in illustration. “No rolling required.”
“If I was wearing capris,” Kurt points out, “then you wouldn't be down there kissing my feet.”
“Ankles,” Blaine corrects, “I kissed your ankles. There's adoration and there's adoration, Kurt, let's not get ourselves confused.”
Blaine's glad it's so quiet, he's wanted to kiss Kurt so badly and the deserted beach means he doesn't think twice about darting forward to press their lips together. One hand comes up to tangle in the hair at the nape of Kurt's neck, pressing him closer, and Blaine is breathing him in, tasting the mixture of coffee and toothpaste and Kurt that's so familiar and still so unknown. Tongues flick out to taste more, more, more, with teeth nipping and breath coming faster; Blaine doesn't think twice about kissing Kurt here like this, about walking with him on the sand, with shoes dangling from the tips of fingers, their free hands clasped loosely between them. It's peaceful, nice, and they walk like that quietly for a while until Kurt takes a deep breath.
“I have to get out of Lima, B.”
Blaine nods, exhales slowly. “I know.”
“I have to show...”
But Blaine shakes his head because no, you don't have to show anybody.
“I have to show myself,” he sounds a little desperate and Blaine wishes he could turn back time and stop it all from happening: grab that moment after Kurt's audition and let him keep that feeling, always. “God, Cooper's right: I'll die if I stay in Ohio forever. Hell, I’ll die if I have to stay even another year. I don't want to be a Lima Loser. I don't want to be Kurt Hummel who had all the dreams and couldn't make any of them reality. Being here, seeing all of this: Cooper, Hollywood, the bar last night... It just, I have to get out.”
Blaine knows, understands: he feels it too, this need to get out, see more, be more that crawls beneath his veins, never really going away. His grandmother calls it “wanderlust” and as long as “wanderlust” doesn’t mean trekking the world with their lives in a bag on their back, then Blaine’s inclined to agree with her; he can’t imagine a world where Kurt would travel light. Yes, Blaine knows. There’s a whole world out there - Blaine is determined to see more of it than just Ohio, has visions of him and Kurt taking it by storm hand in hand, perfectly styled and so in love.
“And LA?” he asks, remembering Cooper's drunken offer of the night before.
Kurt shakes his head. “. LA... it’s- I’m glad we’re here, glad we came. It’s been the best vacation ever but it’s just that: a vacation. New York? It’s hard to explain but it’s like it calls to me, like it’s where I was supposed to be all along. The fashion capital of the world, Blaine - God, imagine the sample sales - and people would- they’d understand the way I am there, appreciate the statement instead of being scared of me and of Broadway. There is nowhere in the world that compares to Broadway and its people and the culture. There’s every type of person in New York, a district for every culture, a place where you can be diverse and people appreciate it, yearn for it. And maybe I am naïve and maybe I am looking at it through rose-tinted glasses but I want to be part of that, it’s the only thing that makes sense for me. I do appreciate Cooper’s offer. LA is amazing, but it's not New York.”
“No,” Blaine says, because it's not, nothing is. And Kurt and him, they're well and truly destined for New York, somehow.
“Blaine?” He's stopped walking and he tugs on Blaine's hand gently, pulling him around 'til they stand facing each other. Kurt steps forward, pressing their forehands together; their intertwined hands hang between them. Blaine curls his fingers tighter, presses against the spaces between Kurt’s knuckles, leaves invisible fingerprints like silent reminders: ”I’ve got you, Kurt, I'm right here and I’ve got you.”
Kurt closes his eyes for a second, opening them and looking right into Blaine’s and it’s like in that moment Blaine feels as though he can see absolutely everything, like Kurt’s laying himself bare and open. He stares right back, trying to convey without speaking every single word, every single feeling that he wants Kurt to hear. Kurt leans in for a gentle press of lips, dry and closed mouthed.
“Blaine, shall we go home?”
Fin
“You know you’re going to be fine, right?” Kurt lowers himself gracefully onto the sand next to Blaine, toeing off his plimsolls and handing Blaine an ice cream cone, which has already started to melt in the too-long walk back from the ice cream stand. They’re in a secluded corner of the already quiet Malibu beach on a day set aside just for the two of them. Kurt arranged last night to borrow Margo’s car and now they’re tucked in a corner under some overhanging cliffs because Kurt doesn’t want to be in direct sunlight; they’ve angled their blanket so Blaine can tan and Kurt can, well, not and it feels like the perfect compromise. The beach is like heaven after a week of madness: Blaine is having the best time, but it’s nice to be somewhere quiet, somewhere where it’s a little easier to pretend that the only people in the world are him and Kurt. He takes the ice cream from Kurt with a smile, flicking out his tongue to catch the drop of sauce that threatens to make a bid for freedom in the direction of his shorts.
“What?” Blaine replies, playing dumb.
“You think I don’t see,” Kurt says, shuffling a little closer so they’re sat touching, pressed together from thigh to knee. Blaine can feel the heat of Kurt’s legs against his own and it makes him feel safe, grounded. “You’ve made it your mission to be boyfriend extraordinaire - which I love by the way so please don’t stop - but I know it’s like, 80% about making me feel better and 20% about distracting yourself from thinking about me leaving.”
Blaine feels his heart drop into his stomach the way it does every time he’s forced to confront Kurt’s imminent departure. He closes his eyes against the onslaught of feelings which never fail to hit him too hard, too fast. He takes a bite of his ice cream to give himself something to do that isn’t talking and wishes (not for the first time) that Kurt was less perceptive; except, of course, that Kurt’s perceptiveness is one of the things Blaine loves about him, so what does that really mean?
“But I am leaving, Blaine.”
And great, like this is a conversation Blaine wants to be having on a California beach when the whole point was supposed to be getting away from it all. Ever since that day before Kurt's graduation, when he'd promised Blaine they’d be ok, Blaine's been trying to put what he has privately termed “Operation Ostrich” into play. Basically he tries not to think about the fact that soon he will be where Kurt is not, and he tries to tell himself that he believes every word of reassurance that Kurt speaks to him.
The problem is that “Operation Ostrich” depends entirely on everyone else in the world playing along, and it seems like everyone else in the world (Kurt, Cooper, Burt, even Santana) is determined to coach Blaine through the very events he is trying his hardest not to dwell on.
“Yes, Kurt.” It comes out snappier than he had intended, or maybe it doesn’t. “I am aware you're on your way out.”
Kurt doesn’t react, except to shuffle impossibly closer. “But I’m not leaving you,” he says, “and we are going to be fine. You are going to be fine. You’re going to be better than fine. You know why?”
Blaine shakes his head almost petulantly and takes another bite of his ice cream. Perhaps he can concentrate on how much better ice cream tastes when you eat it on the beach - and how blue the ocean is, and how you can see so far out he could probably be convinced the world is flat; it’s easy to imagine reaching that perfectly straight horizon and going into freefall. It's easy to just let Kurt talk at him rather than to him. Just for a moment.
“This year is going to be about you, Blaine, and you're going to be so amazing. Your senior year is going to actually be magical, instead of the train wreck mine turned out to be. You’re going to be Blaine Anderson, leader of the Nationals-winning glee club, which I suspect means you’ll totally get to sing Bryan Ferry at competitions. You might even win Nationals again, even without Rachel and me. Do not tell her I said that. You’re going to have a stellar GPA and prove to your dad that McKinley wasthe right choice and you’re going to speak to Miss P about that counselling through music idea you keep talking about - which by the way, I still think sounds awesome. Brittany hopefully won’t be senior class president this time around, so you’ll be able to wear as much gel as you want to your senior prom, where nobody will vote you Queen because you’re what my Dad would call Rock Hudson Gay and you don’t, again to quote the great Burt Hummel, dress like you own a chocolate factory although I’d like to take this opportunity to remind you that some of your knitwear choices are questionable. You’ll take that photography elective because you are goodat photography, Blaine, and I know you want to. You’re going to be fabulous and you’re going to do it all without wearing socks.” He pauses for breath. “On top of all that you’ll also have a hotshot college boyfriend.”
Blaine huffs out a laugh. “The last part is true at least.”
“It’s all true. Blaine,” Kurt pauses again, as though considering his words carefully before he continues, “and believe me, this comes from a place of love... You seem to have been a little less rockstar Warbler lately and a little too much Bella Swann. And while I know you’re going to miss me - I know this because I’m going to miss you right back, and just as hard - I also know that you are not as co-dependent as you’re kidding yourself you are. If you’re going to rule the world like I know you can and will, with me right by your side, then you need to channel Blaine Warbler a bit.”
“So basically, I need to man up?” Blaine swallows the last of his ice cream and turns, quirking an eyebrow at Kurt. A part of him feels hurt, can’t help wondering if Kurt’s telling him not to miss him so that Kurt doesn’t have to feel guilty about not missing Blaine, but their eyes meet and Kurt’s are so full of love and concern. He’s looking at Blaine so earnestly, looking right into his soul and damn if that isn’t the sappiest thing ever and somehow Blaine knows Kurt means it, that he feels bad for that year he has on him, for leaving. That he’s worried about Blaine for Blaine's sake. Kurt smiles a little, reaching out to thumb away a smudge of ice cream at the corner of Blaine’s mouth.
Kurt says, “In a nutshell, yes. I think you do.”
Blaine grins then, because only Kurt could tell him to grow some balls and snap out of it and manage to make it sound like the most sensitive, caring advice ever. Only Kurt. He rolls his eyes exaggeratedly and grins a little wider. “Thank you for the pep talk, then.”
Kurt grins back. “Always a pleasure, never a chore.”
“You know,” Blaine leans down, stealing the last of Kurt’s ice cream with a wicked smirk, “I do actually know I’m going to be fine.”
And he does, deep down, he does know that. He doesn’t expect his entire world to fall apart just because Kurt’s not there every day, he doesn’t, if for no other reason than Kurt would disown him if he went all Twilight on his ass. He doesn’t want his boyfriend to leave, and he is dreading it with every fiber of his being. He’s so scared (when he lets himself be) that he’ll miss Kurt too much or that Kurt won’t miss him enough, and that the distance will be more than they can handle.
He worries that he is so used now to Kurt being there that he won’t know how to deal with him being absent, but he also knows himself well enough to know that he will survive. No matter what he’ll put on his show face, which he can get reacquainted with by looking back at Warbler videos; he likes to think his gives Rachel’s a run for her money. He’ll just pretend to be fine until he really is. He knows he can do it because he’s done it before: he thought his life was over after Sadie Hawkins for example; after the fact, he painted on a smile every day until one day he didn’t have to. He survived. Missing Kurt is going to be shit - the very thought of it makes him want to wrap his arms and his legs around his boyfriend in a koala tight grip and force Kurt to navigate New York with Blaine attached, but he will survive because he is an Anderson and he is a Warbler and because he has no other option.
“However, I also know that I’m going to miss you terribly and I’d quite like to mope over the fact that my hot college boyfriend is going to be all, you know, in college. And I mean, most nights we’ll have nothing to get off to but a crackly phone line and I’m going to have to sleep in one of your t-shirts just so I can remember how you smell. For now, I’d appreciate you respecting my right to mope or possibly using your mouth for something other than speaking words meant to comfort me while we still have that option available whenever we want it.” He stops, takes a breath, grins, “All this comes from a place of love, Kurt.”
He gives an over-the-top lascivious wink then, and he moves quickly: swinging a leg over Kurt’s thighs and pushing him back into the sand, pinning his wrists loosely above his head. Blaine nips gently at his jaw, up to his mouth, running his tongue across Kurt’s lower lip.
Kurt tenses a little beneath him, and Blaine sees the flash of panic in his eyes - we're in public, Blaine, people might see - and he presses their lips together, squeezing gently at Kurt’s wrists, a silent “it’s ok Kurt, the beach is practically empty; nobody is looking.” Kurt is tense for a second longer and then he relaxes, lifts his head from the sand to meet Blaine’s kiss, his tongue flicking out over Blaine’s lips this time. Blaine lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding in a hiss, closing his eyes and leaning in farther.
Slowly, he feels Kurt wriggle his hands, breaking free, running the flats of his palms over Blaine’s shoulders, down his arms, ghosting over his sides before coming to rest at the small of his back. Long cool fingers find the dimples there by instinct and press in, pulling Blaine closer. Kurt’s hands are always cold and Blaine has no idea how that is even possible.
Blaine shifts, sliding a leg between both of Kurt’s, Kurt’s hands pressed into his back, grazing the top of his shorts and the curve of his ass. His own hands rest in the warm sand by Kurt’s head, holding himself up as they kiss, as he teases Kurt’s mouth open with his tongue, nibbling and sucking and licking his way in and around. Kurt tastes a little like chocolate, always tastes a little like chocolate and Blaine loves that. He whimpers a little into Kurt’s mouth; Kurt exhales sharply and suddenly the kiss is messy, all tongue and teeth and ragged breaths. Blaine drops from his hands to rest on his forearms, needing to be closer, needing more - he’s already forgotten where they are: he presses down as Kurt lifts his hips off the sand. Blaine is half hard, can’t hold back the moan as Kurt presses against him still closer before stopping suddenly. Kurt's hands moving lightning fast to Blaine’s shoulders, pulling him up. Blaine raises a questioning eyebrow, his breath coming in short gasps.
“S’up?” He leans back in, missing the heat of Kurt’s lips already. Kurt shakes his head, a flush high on his cheeks and his eyes shining.
“Really Blaine,” and his voice is a little higher than usual, a little more breathy and Blaine can’t help but press his hips down, biting on his bottom lip to stifle his moan. “That was decidedly un-PG.”
“Don’t care,” Blaine replies, shifts his hips, “That was kind of the point.”
“We’re on the beach,” Kurt huffs, pressing his lips together primly, but he hasn’t made much effort to move away. He seems quite comfortable laid beneath Blaine, hands resting cool and firm upon the younger boy's hips. Blaine sighs, drops his head onto Kurt’s shoulder and rolls off to the side just a little, reaching for Kurt's hand to lace their fingers together.
“You are such a killjoy,” he mutters into Kurt’s neck, flicking out his tongue to taste him; he loves the skin right there on Kurt’s neck, the salty tang of it that’s all boy, all Kurt. Kurt shudders.
“Am not.”
“Are too,” and he does it again, a flick of the tongue and a press of the lips and he can’t see Kurt’s face but can imagine the way his eyes are closing, the way he’s pressing his bottom teeth into his lip. “You are killing my joy.”
“You obviously haven’t noticed, but there is a middle-aged woman with terrible, awful hair several yards away who is watching us like all her Christmas wishes just came true at once. I do not wish to go to bed tonight knowing some woman is in her bed…”
“Oh my God," Blaine groans, “stop talking right now. What is even wrong with you, like as a person.” He rolls away from Kurt onto his back, covering his eyes with his arm, and kicking out, half-heartedly in Kurt’s general direction as Kurt laughs, the sound lilting and musical. “I think I’m the one who’s scarred. I hope you’re happy; you’ve killed my joy and my boner for, like, ages.”
: :
“We should go out,” Margo says, walking into the apartment and kicking the front door closed with her boot. Blaine places his paperback on the sofa arm, careful not to bend the spine, and smiles up at her. She grins back, an easy smile that lights up her whole face, her eyes twinkling behind heavy mascaraed lashes.
“You just got back from being out,” Cooper points out from his spot on the floor. He’s laid on his back with his legs bent, left ankle resting on right knee and his hands pillowed behind his head. He says he’s spent the day rehearsing, but Blaine is unsure exactly what it is he’s rehearsing for; he seems to be deliberately vague when anyone asks, which is absolutely not “Cooper” and Blaine can’t help wonder if he really is the superstar he seems to think he is. Besides which, he was laid right there when Kurt and Blaine returned from the beach an hour ago and hasn’t moved since so pardon him, Blaine thinks, if he’s not convinced. In fact, Cooper’s been so still and so quiet and so relaxed that if he hadn’t spent the rest of the vacation being so dramatically Cooper (and that might be an unimaginative adjective but this is Cooper; is there a better one?) Blaine might be worried his brother had become a directionless stoner. And that is a sentence he never thought would cross his mind. It’s weird, because Coop is always so switched on, all of the time - so aware of his surroundings, of making an impression, of being - that seeing him like this, totally unwound, is more than a little bit surreal.
“Hush.” Margo toes at him gently with a bare foot, which is confusing because she literally just walked in and where are her shoes? “Smart ass. I mean out out. For dinner and drinks. The boys have been here a week and we haven’t taken them out on the town. That makes us terrible hosts, Anderson. We could go to Boa.” She turns to the boys, “Best crab cocktail in Santa Monica. Fact.”
Cooper raises an eyebrow, the rest of him still remarkably still. “It’s a bit short notice. We probably couldn’t get a table.”
“Baby, you’re Cooper Anderson. Of course we’ll get a table.”
Cooper grins then, pushing himself into a sitting position and stretching. “You make a very good point.”
Blaine is sure he sees the ghost of a smile cross Margo’s face; his brother has just been well and truly played.
Margo is good for Cooper, Blaine thinks; she seems to know just exactly how to handle him, using his ego to get what she wants, somehow managing to manipulate him into thinking her ideas were his all along, but never detrimentally and often for Cooper’s immediate benefit. At the same time she seems to know exactly when and how to rein him in. Coop seems more like Cooper when she’s around; like the real Cooper with the heart of gold and the incredible sense of humor that Blaine rarely gets to see and less like the “look at me” Cooper who is all for show but no less annoying because of it. It’s like Margo gives him the confidence to just strip back and be himself and Blaine likes it.
“That’s ok with you boys, right?”
Blaine shrugs. He wouldn't say he’s bothered about going out. Kurt is sleepy from their day in the sun and is curled into him on the sofa: knees pulled up to his chest and resting against Blaine’s side, his head tucked into Blaine’s shoulder, long fingers gripped loosely round his forearm. It's just that a large part of Blaine doesn’t want to move. He loves Kurt like this, loose-limbed and lazy, affectionate in a way he never really is unless they are alone, which happens plenty but still never often enough for Blaine. He thinks he’d be happy here for the rest of the night, for the rest of forever with the familiar weight of a beautiful boy on and around him, the warmth of his breath ghosting against Blaine’s neck as he breathes in and out. Blaine presses a kiss to the head on his shoulder, inhaling deeply and taking in the comforting scent of tea-tree shampoo and the boy that’s his. Kurt shuffles impossibly closer, presses a discreet kiss to Blaine’s neck in return, tongue darting out to press at his skin and back in again so fast that Blaine wonders whether it even happened at all.
“Is there cheesecake?” Kurt asks drowsily, voice slightly muffled by Blaine’s neck though he's making no effort at all to move. “Because I think the only thing that could persuade me to move right now is the promise of good cheesecake.”
“Cheesecake,” Margo promises, without skipping a beat, “and cocktails, aaaaand...” she draws the word out, “karaoke.”
And oh! Blaine sits up a little straighter: karaoke. Maybe going out really is the new staying in. Or something.
He isn’t sure what to wear.
Kurt has gotten ready in record time and he looks perfect. Edible. Black skinny jeans and a black waistcoat over a fitted white t-shirt that emphasises both his perfectly toned torso and his almost-tan. His hair is beautifully styled in that just-so way that Blaine loves, slightly quiffed and slightly tousled. It’s making Blaine rethink his decision: karaoke might just be over-rated when this boy is his alternative.
Kurt is sat on the bed, back resting against the headboard, his long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles as Blaine pulls garment after garment from his case before groaning and dropping them right back in again.
“If you had unpacked…” Kurt begins, the sentence dying on his lips as Blaine fixes him with a bitch face to rival his own.
“You could just go like that?” Kurt tries a different tack instead, tapping out a message on his cell and darting a quick glance in Blaine’s direction.
Blaine huffs out a sigh. “Not helpful Kurt, I’m in my underwear.”
“It’s very becoming.”
“Kurt.” If he’s a little whiny, he doesn’t care; this is important. What is he supposed to wear to go out drinking in LA when he’s only just 18 and his boyfriend is Kurt Hummel, his brother Cooper perfect Anderson? ”I’m being serious.”
“So am I.” Kurt drops the phone onto the mattress beside him and moves on to his knees, shuffling to the end of the bed and reaching out, grabbing Blaine by the hips and tugging him forward to press their foreheads together, fingers still pressing into Blaine’s hips. ”Are you really questioning my fashion knowledge right now?”
He presses his lips to Blaine’s, the kiss closed-mouthed and dry but still enough to make Blaine’s breath catch a little in his throat. He runs his hands up Kurt’s arms, holding him by the biceps and leaning forward, pulling gently on Kurt’s lower lip ‘til he relents, and Blaine can feel him smiling against his lips. Kurt opens his mouth a little, Blaine’s tongue, flickering against his teeth and then past them licking into his mouth and loving the way Kurt’s fingers press that little bit harder, closer, until Blaine’s shins are pressed again the hard wood of the bed frame but he can’t find it in himself to care. Kurt’s tongue licks into Blaine’s mouth, devouring him, his breath deepening, like Blaine provides him with the very air he needs to survive. Kurt tastes like toothpaste and sunshine; Blaine thinks he could kiss him like this every minute of every day and never get bored of it. But there isn’t time for that now; Cooper is hollering at them to hurry up and Blaine is starving.
“I am totally going to remember this moment,” he murmurs into Kurt’s mouth, not able just yet to pull away fully, “next time you are having a crisis of fashion.”
Kurt laughs and squeezes Blaine's hips, planting one last, open-mouthed kiss to his lips before pulling back and looking Blaine up and down appraisingly.
“Those jeans,” he says finally, pointing to the dark blue pair Blaine has already pulled out and dropped on the end of the bed, “and that shirt I got you, the charcoal one with the really fine light stripes. Which I hung up by the way, if you’re wondering.”
Blaine nods, because that might work, and rummages in his case for a moment... “With this,” he says decisively, holding a cream and grey striped bow tie aloft and reaching for the dark jeans with his other hand.
“Roll up the sleeves,” Kurt advises, jumping to his feet as Blaine ties his tie. and standing, hands on hips and his head tilted to one side as Blaine adjusts his tie and smoothes down his hair in the mirror, eyes meeting Kurt’s and lifting in question.
Kurt nods. “You’d get it.”
And Blaine almost chokes, because it’s such an un-Kurt like thing to say, yet he says it so casually, as though he’s been tossing comments like that around his whole life. He doesn’t laugh, though; he knows Kurt’s picked the phrase up from Margo, is trying it on for size, trying maybe to fit into this world that’s so different to what they’re used to. And to be perfectly honest, this new, sexy confident Kurt really turns Blaine on, so he just winks at him through the mirror and says, “That’s the plan,” and delights a little in the flush that starts high on Kurt’s cheeks.
: :
They do get a table, but it's less to do with Cooper and more to do with a 45 minute wait. Nobody wants to burst Cooper's bubble and tell him that though, so they don't. Blaine holds back an eye roll as Cooper tells them (in what he would probably deem a whisper but what Blaine thinks is more akin to a yell) how fame has its perks and how he wouldn't normally pull strings like this, of course he wouldn't, but he's prepared to make an exception for Kurt and Blaine. Apparently being able to get a table like this at a moment's notice (does he actually believe what he's saying right now?) for them makes dealing with the paparazzi worthwhile.
(“It's a quiet night tonight, no paps around. You're lucky, usually it's a nightmare just going for a beer.”)
Blaine catches Kurt's eye, Kurt who still kind of looks a little awed when he's looking at Cooper... but whose lips curl upwards with a hint of a grin when he meets Blaine's eye, eyebrows raising imperceptibly.
Yes Blaine, you were right all along: your brother is certifiably insane.
Blaine has always loved that; how they can communicate without even talking, like words are a tool they have no use for; a tool for others who haven't fine tuned the art of communicating through expressions or gestures, through small smiles, raised eyebrows, barely-there shakes of the head in the way he and Kurt can. It's not that he thinks that he is in any way better than the rest of the world - though he can't really say the same for his view of Kurt - more that he is just so incredibly grateful for what he, they, have. He feels so, so lucky.
“I'm starving,” Kurt says now, stepping closer to Blaine to let a waiter pass. Their fingers brush together and Blaine can't help but grab hold of Kurt's for a second, squeezing gently. Kurt squeezes back and God, Blaine remembers an evening of them talking in the dark, naked and sated and happy, their voices low; his head pillowed on Kurt's chest, wondering how he'd managed to survive seventeen years without sex. Remembers how it had felt in those first days, when Kurt naked and glorious was the only thought that filled Blaine's mind; when it had all been brand new and Blaine had been finally finally able to touch and be touched. They'd laughed about that at the time: two boys discovering the intensities of sex for the first time and together, realising how much they'd been missing and how much there was left to explore. Now, months down the line, they’ve explored, oh have they explored, and yet there is still so much that they haven’t yet tried - but the knowledge that one day they will, that 'til then he has Kurt and Kurt has him, means that each brush of fingers feels like a suggestion, like a promise.
Blaine’s here in a Santa Monica restaurant with those cool fingers touching his - and maybe it's residual frustration from earlier at the beach but all Kurt did his squeeze his fingers and Blaine's heart is already racing. He needs to get a grip.
Margo is right: the crab cocktail is incredible and so is the steak. Coop and Margo order wine but Kurt and Blaine decline since they're going drinking later; the boys recognize the value of moderation, so they order sparkling water instead and drink it from wineglasses, chinking them together and taking tiny sips. Kurt holds his by the stem with his pinky finger pointing out and they pretend like this is their life: restaurants that aren't Breadstix and dinner dates that aren't with school friends and a town that isn't Lima. They talk and they eat and they laugh and Kurt is all smiles and expressive hand gestures, his foot hooked around Blaine's ankle the whole time. Blaine ponders briefly if his life has ever felt this right before.
Kurt orders cheesecake for dessert - he threatens Margo with actual bodily harm if it doesn't meet his expectations, then closes his eyes and actually moans around the first mouthful. His voice is a little breathier than usual as he declares it to be divine. He's such a tease, side-eying Blaine as he welcomes the fork into his mouth. It’s an echo of another dinner, a couple months ago, when Kurt had made the exact same noise for no other reason than his food was that good and Blaine had almost choked on his drink, his voice deep and growly as he muttered, “Fuck Kurt, you’re so hot” and Kurt had given him that wide-eyed stare, that “?I’m hot? Are you sure?” stare, that “Oh my God Blaine, you’re turned on by me eating” stare and yes Blaine had been affected and had gone down on him even more enthusiastically than usual that night to prove it. Kurt is nothing if not a fast learner and there’s a slight smirk on his face now as his tongue flickers out to catch a crumb from the corner of his mouth. He shudders, a barely there movement that Blaine only notices because he is so aware of Kurt at all times... and what exactly is the etiquette regarding getting off in restaurant bathrooms?
Cooper gets the bill, which is a relief because they're school kids, really, and their vacation allowance doesn't cover three course meals in relatively fancy establishments - even so, Kurt contributes a few bills to the tip. He links his arm through Blaine's as they leave the restaurant and walk down the sidewalk in the direction of Margo's bar, his fingertips pressing into Blaine's arm through his shirt and Blaine feels like every nerve-ending is heightened: he has never wanted to fuck his boyfriend so badly in his life and he has no idea what that is even about. He thinks there needs to be some kind of cheesecake ban. Kurt is oblivious, but then Kurt is almost always oblivious to his own appeal and that makes it worse somehow. They've arrived at the bar and he's slipped in front of Blaine now, nodding his head coquettishly to Cooper, who holds open the door. Blaine's boyfriend's hips are swaying, ass tight and so fucking perfect in those jeans and he needs a distraction, like, now.
: :
Blaine had worried a little bit about the bar. Sure, they have fake ID’s but they’re not exactly authentic, they’re not even good fakes and Blaine knows that when it comes down to it, they look their age. He was worried about looking like little boys playing dress-up, like not standing a chance of getting through the front door, about getting Margo into trouble because she works here and that wouldn’t be fair. They’d caught the eye of the guy on the door, he’d raised his eyebrows and Blaine had felt his stomach drop, but then Margo was there, enveloping the doorman in a hug, whispering something in his ear and looking back at Kurt and Blaine over her shoulder. The doorman had said something, his expression when he met Blaine’s eyes stern but Margo had said something else, squeezed his arms and the guy had laughed, told them to have a good night and that was that. They were in and Blaine doesn’t know what Margo said, whether she swore to look after them, or whether she convinced him they were 21 or whether, heaven forbid, she bribed him. Even if it had been blackmail he couldn't have brought himself to care because the bar?
The bar is awesome.
It’s like, possibly the most awesome bar Blaine has ever been to. And that is absolutely not because he’s only ever really been to two and one of those was the dive and fiasco that was Scandals. It’s also not because he’s on his third of these beers that Cooper keeps buying that have tequila mixed in.
Maybe he is a tiny little bit drunk, but this bar really is awesome.
Blaine can totally see why Margo loves working here so much: the bar is her. If someone with magical powers, like maybe Kurt - except that’s a different kind of magic that Blaine is totally not going to think about now because he knows he gets handsy when he’s been drinking - but if someone with regular, commoner magical powers cast a spell on Margo and turned her into a bar, then this would be that bar. It’s kooky, and that’s such an awesome word. Blaine mutters it quietly under his breath and giggles, earning him a soft sideways smile from Kurt which just makes him giggle even more and smile so wide his face hurts a little.
The bar’s wide and spacious, but at the same time it’s kind of cozy, and that makes no sense but it’s how it is. The walls are pale but the lighting is low, and there are old movie posters on the walls interspersed with photographs of people like Jimi Hendrix and Elvis and Britney Spears and that’s so awesome because everybody knows that the people with diverse tastes are the best kinds of people.
There are tables and chairs, hard-backed chairs and bucket armchairs and the occasional over-stuffed sofa against a wall or in a corner - nothing matches, it's like every item of furniture in the place was picked up in a thrift store or at auction, but it works somehow. “Garage sale chic,” Blaine calls it in his head, making a mental note to remember to tell that to Kurt later. He can already see Kurt taking mental photographs; he lets himself imagine their future apartment, which will be in New York and in Kurt's total control as far as interior decor goes, but Blaine won’t care at all because Kurt makes everything look pretty.
If Kurt makes their home look like this bar he will be more than happy because it’s awesome; Blaine wants to live here, and is it really bad that he thinks that about pretty much every bar he goes to? God, does he have a problem? Maybe he should stop, right now. He eyes his near-empty bottle warily and then focuses on the full part and the fact that he can count the number of times he’s been drunk on one hand. He has never ever smelled like beer in the morning and has never drunk wine from a paper bag instead of going to class. He absolutely does not have a problem. Blaine shrugs his shoulders and downs the last bit of his drink in one big gulp.
Awesome.
They're at a table with a sofa, on which Margo and Cooper sit side by side, with Cooper's arm thrown along the sofa back, his fingers lightly tracing a pattern on her bare shoulder. She's pressed against him, turning occasionally to whisper something in his ear or press a kiss to his jaw as she thumbs through the karaoke book that's resting across her knees. Blaine can't help but smile; they're adorable.
“Are you going to sing?” Kurt asks her, leaning forward on his chair and twiddling one of the old pens thrown haphazardly on the tables (for writing down song selections) between his fingers.
Margo laughs. “Are you insane? Like I'd even try to follow any one of you guys.”
“You haven't even heard Blaine or me sing properly yet,” Kurt points out.
She reaches forward to pat him on the knee.
“No, but I've heard enough about you both to know going up against you in the world of song is never going to be a wise decision. My voice is so awful I had to sign papers to say I wouldn't grace the place with my dulcet tones before they'd even let me on the payroll.”
The boys laugh, then, and when Kurt tries to convince her that she can't be that bad, Cooper shakes his head, makes a slicing motion across his throat with his finger. “Oh my God, don't encourage her. Margo's that drunk girl on karaoke who makes everyone in the bar die of second-hand embarrassment.” He pulls her to him as he talks, pressing a kiss to her hair and leering at the boys over the top of her head. “Her talents lie in other areas.”
He winks, and Blaine is absolutely not a prude but there is such a thing as over-sharing and this is so not a conversation Blaine wants to be having with his brother right now. Or ever. “TMI, Coop.”
“I always knew you only wanted me for my body,” Margo says affectionately.
“And your cherry pie.” Cooper amends and Margo laughs.
“I won’t sing,” she tells them, “That’s not my game, but I’m telling you, you want to keep an eye out for my moves. I am the queen of the dancefloor. People come from miles around to watch me get my groove on.”
“Moves like Jagger?” Blaine teases and Margo shudders, face still scrunched up in laughter.
“My God, darling, are you always so Top 40?”
Blaine can't wait to sing, has been trying to decide on song choices since the moment the word “karaoke” was uttered, and is practically bouncing in his seat now with impatience. He's handed in a handful of song slips, unable to narrow it down to one; it's
like someone took all his favorite songs and shoved them in a cheap plastic ring binder, giving him free rein to sing them all. Karaoke is awesome. He'd pressed one slip of paper in particular into the DJ's hand, fixing her with a winning smile and saying, “Please, please let me sing this one first.” When his name is finally called, followed by “Mona Lisa’s and Mad Hatters” he semi-dances his way through the bar to the stage hoping Kurt can see past the Elton John of it all and listen to the lyrics.
I thank the Lord there's people out there like you
Blaine launches himself into the song fully. He finds it easier to communicate through song most times; it’s easier to express himself through a melody than to try and find his way through the hodge podge of words tumbling around his mind and heart. His eyes find Kurt and come to rest there, head and foot moving to the beat as he curls his fingers into loose fists and sings a song across a bar to this boy who owns his heart.
While Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters
Sons of bankers, sons of lawyers
Turn around and say good morning to the night
Blaine sings to say that it'll be ok; to say, “Fuck NYADA, fuck everyone who dares to tell you no”; to say, “You're incredible, Kurt, incredible and invincible and beautiful and you are going to make it because you stand out from the crowd and not despite that fact”; and outright, “I thank the Lord there's people out there like you.”
This Broadway's got
It's got a lot of songs to sing
If I knew the tunes I might join in
I'll go my way alone
Grow my own, my own seeds shall be sown in New York City
Blaine grins through the claps and the cheers and can't help laughing in delight as he hands the microphone back to the DJ, who is looking at him, slightly agape.
“Wow,” she says, “You're- you're like, really good. Like, famous good.”
He plays the compliment off with a laugh and shrug of his shoulders, storing it away to come back to later; it feels good when people like what he does when they have no obligation to do so, and maybe next time he's having a bad day he can come back to tonight, to how he feels in this moment, and it will help him focus.
Kurt slips an arm around his waist as he returns to their table, pressing his nose to the hair at Blaine's temple. His “thank you” and “I love you” are barely audible, but they're the only words Blaine needs to hear and he's the only one who hears them - he squeezes back. He's not going to pretend he didn't sing tonight because he loves to sing, or that he didn't choose his song because Elton John - despite Kurt's protestations to the contrary - is on his own plane of awesome. When he has the freedom Blaine will always sing the songs that he loves, but this was a message to Kurt too, and he is so glad it was heard.
Margo doesn't sing, but Coop does, twice in a row: “Copacabana” because he actually believes Barry Manilow is cool (it's things like this that make Blaine question why he continues to look up to his brother), and Duran Duran, because this is Cooper and if there is ever an excuse to play Simon Le Bon he's going to take it. He sings “Girls on Film” with the same energy he'd possessed when he'd sung “Rio” and “Hungry Like The Wolf” with Blaine at school. He might not have the best voice in the world but he has the energy and the charisma to make up for it and the crowd cheers and claps when he's finished. Coop stops to shake a few hands and even sign the odd autograph as he makes his way back to the table.
“And that, kids, is how it's done.”
Blaine laughs at that because the girl on the mic is calling Kurt's name next. Blaine pushes at his thigh, a silent “get up there.”
“I think you'll find, dear brother, that this is how it's done.”
Kurt steps up to the microphone, smiling sweetly and nodding as the girl double checks his song choice and keys the code into her computer. He swallows hard and closes his eyes. Blaine knows he's psyching himself up: it might just be karaoke but every performance counts to Kurt, is a chance to either impress or disgust. And for all he loves it, for all he was born to perform, Blaine knows that the anonymous phone calls to his dad all those years ago, the slushies and the name-calling, the endless struggle for Glee club solos, the loss of Tony, even to Blaine, people questioning whether he’d be able to pass (and that had hurt Kurt more than he’d ever let on), the whole fucking NYADA disaster... all of it has left its scars. Those first notes, especially when sung without the comfort of Kurt's friends around him, are always akin to jumping off the high diving board: petrifying before they become exhilarating.
The opening bars to Gershwin's “Summertime” play through the speaker system and Blaine takes a sharp breath. He's heard Kurt sing this before, crooning in the car, and he loves it, loves how it fits Kurt's voice, how he sings it low, a little breathy, and full of confidence.
Summertime, and the livin' is easy
Fish are jumpin' and the cotton is high
The bar has gone quiet, conversations drawing to a sudden close as Kurt sings, one hand rested on his abdomen and his foot tapping, his eyes closing as the music takes him over. He leans into the breaks, his forefinger tapping out the beat against his stomach in time with his foot, singing through a soft smile as the music takes him over, and that’s always the thing about Kurt, he becomes the song each and every time. It's not a successful performance if the audience hasn't lived the piece. His voice takes everybody unawares and people are putting down drinks, turning to watch and listen, awed.
Ella has nothing on Kurt: the audience loves him.
Blaine's not even surprised. Even through poor quality karaoke speakers, Kurt's voice is out of this world. Blaine knows Kurt sees that as both a blessing and a curse; more of the latter, as of late. The Gershwin is perfect for him though, and he owns every note: belting low and soulful, gripping the microphone stand, swaying loosely in time.
Your daddy's rich, and your brother's good looking.
He catches Blaine's eye as he changes the lyric, smiling around the words and winking. Blaine huffs out a laugh. Kurt’s funny and adorable and hot as all get out - and he's Blaine's. He can't even bring himself to look at Cooper, is surprised his brother's not whooping in support: it's not like him to let anybody else have the limelight and being mentioned in song - no matter how tongue-in-cheek - will play right into his ego. Blaine mouths the word “rude” at Kurt, who gives a little shimmy in response. The lyrics couldn't be more perfect; yes, yes, one of these mornings Kurt will rise up singing.
“You're a talented pair of pups,” Margo says, leaning forward so as to be heard amid the claps and catcalls as Kurt finishes and takes a bow, cheeks flushed and smile wide. “Make sure to remember little old me when you're rich and famous.”
Blaine laughs - if nothing else, Margo is unforgettable. He raises his hands above his head to clap loudly as Coop pushes past the other patrons to pull Kurt to his chest in a bone-crushing hug.
“-pretty good...”' Cooper's saying as they slip back into their seats, “although your breathing could do with some work. My vocal talents haven't been properly showcased so you haven't really seen all that I can do yet but I'd be happy to spend some time with you before you leave? I'm sure Blainers will tell you how much I helped him train his voice and like I said, I've got your back, so.”
Blaine rolls his eyes. “Shut up Coop,” he says and pulls Kurt to him in an awkward half-sitting, half-standing one-armed hug. “You are incredible,” he whispers, pressing a quick kiss to Kurt's jaw before settling back into his seat.
: :
“You could always move west and live with us.” It's Cooper who says it.
Karaoke is still going strong in the background but they're taking a break; Coop’s been drinking all night, more than Kurt or Blaine, and since Blaine feels a little tipsy Cooper must be well and truly drunk. There's nothing like alcohol to make philosophizing seem like a great idea, and no matter how they try to deny it, there's no getting away from the fact that Kurt's plans for the end of the summer are the huge elephant in the room. Cooper sounds more earnest than Blaine has ever heard him as he extends this invitation, leaning forward and places a hand on Kurt's knee.
Blaine can't help wonder where this has come from, whether it is just the alcohol talking - because for so long Cooper was so wrapped up in himself that Blaine felt like he might as well not have existed and now there's this. It's like Cooper only exists in extremes.
“I could get you auditions, an agent... It's the city of dreams, Kurt! You could get jobs to keep you going 'til the real work comes in and you could live with us. Blainers could apply to colleges here. We'd be like one big, pretty, talented family.”
LA isn't the city of dreams though, Blaine thinks, not for Kurt and not for him, but he appreciates the sentiment, and he loves Cooper so much right now for even considering this an option, for being prepared to open his arms and his world for Blaine - and more importantly, for Kurt. He lets himself wonder if maybe they could do it; Kurt could find the theatre here and Blaine, he could teach all day and sing at night. It's not New York but it has his brother and if it has Kurt, then really it has everything. Who needs Central Park when you have the ocean on your doorstep?
“Coop. You're drunk,” Kurt says but he's smiling and his eyes are shining and Blaine knows he's touched.
“Maybe,” Cooper shrugs, waving a hand expressively in the air, “but I'm serious all the same. You'll be stifled in Lima. You'll shrivel up and die. And clearly you're not right for New York.'”
Blaine wants to stop him right there because how dare he? Kurt is right for anywhere he wants to go, and he squeezes Kurt's hand tightly. Kurt just looks at him and smiles, mouths, “it's ok” and turns, smiling, back to Cooper, who is still talking.
“…but LA is a different world. There's a space for everyone here.”
“What Coop means, I think,” Margo interjects diplomatically, “is that if you were to decide being in New York after the whole thing with NYADA was a little too much like salt in a wound, or, if you were to decide college wasn't for you at all, there is always a place for you here. You have options is all. If you still choose New York then you will be ready, whatever my oaf of a boyfriend might say to the contrary.” She gives Cooper a pointed look, and he grimaces sheepishly.
“I just meant...”
“I know, Coop,” Kurt interrupts gently. “It's ok, I know what you meant and I appreciate it, both of you. Thank you, really.”
: :
It's late by the time they get back to the apartment, having wandered home through the Santa Monica streets that are never quite dark, laughing and singing and chatting, Kurt's fingers laced tightly with Blaine's and Margo's arm around his own waist. Cooper had walked ahead, acting his way through town, using the three of them as a test audience for upcoming audition pieces. Nobody is sure if he's supposed to be funny but he is and they have to keep stopping so Margo can double over with laughter. Cooper fixes her with an exaggerated glare, pointing a finger at her and shaking his head with a dramatic “you mock me? How dare you!” which of course only serves to make Margo laugh harder and Blaine wonders again just exactly what it is about Margo that brings this out in Cooper, this ability to laugh at himself.
Blaine knows that Kurt isn't quite fine, that his laughter is forced and his smile isn't quite reaching his eyes. Blaine doesn't know whether he's just drunk and tired or whether something more is on his mind (the conversation with Cooper perhaps), but he knows better than to ask, knows that sometimes Kurt just needs to process, that he'll come to Blaine when he's ready. So Blaine just holds his hand, grip firm and constant, thumb tracing Kurt's wrist and sending secret code through his pulse.
Margo despatches them each to bed with a kiss on the cheek, a painkiller, and a glass of water into which she drops some kind of soluble vitamin tablet that fizzes wildly and turns the liquid sunflower yellow. “It'll make your pee luminous,” she says sagely, “but it's the best hangover prevention I know.” And the boys nod and take their glasses into their bedroom, pulling faces as they down the drink, clumsily ridding themselves of their clothes. It doesn't escape Blaine's notice that Kurt doesn't even bother to fold his clothes before he collapses backwards onto the bed, resting on his elbows. Blaine knows he'll regret it in the morning, so he crouches down and picks up the discarded items, folding them carefully, placing them on the chair in the corner of the room, and turning to see Kurt smirking at him from his position on the bed.
“What?”
Kurt pats the bed next to him, gesturing for Blaine to join him with a flick of his head.
“I was just thinking that there should be some kind of rule that forbids you from wearing clothes when we're alone together.”
“Why Kurt,” Blaine presses a hand to his chest, mock-affronted, “were you checking me out while I folded your clothes?”
“Yes,” Kurt says simply, moving fast and rolling so his body is over the top of Blaine's, his forearms muscled and strong in the corner of Blaine's vision as he lowers his head, closing his eyes and catching Blaine's mouth in a kiss that is at the same time tender and hungry. “Yes, I was.”
: :
The bed is cold when Blaine awakes and he’s not at all surprised to find Kurt gone. It’s funny how in such a short time he’s gotten used to sleeping tangled up in Kurt and being without the weight of his body is enough to stir him. It's not quite light outside and he rolls over, grabbing blindly for his watch and sitting up. This is early, even for Kurt, and Blaine is worried as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, curling his toes as they come into contact with the cool wooden floor. He reaches distractedly for his pajama pants.
He finds Kurt on the balcony, dressed in boxers and a t-shirt and shivering slightly in the cool morning air. Blaine pads lightly across the living room, slipping through the crack in the door to join him. He takes the blanket around his own shoulders and wraps it around Kurt's too so they're huddled beneath it together. The length of his body presses to Kurt's so they're touching from ankle to thigh to hip to arm to shoulder.
“What are you doing?” he asks softly. Kurt shrugs against him.
“Couldn't sleep.”
“What're you thinking?” Blaine has a feeling deep in the pit of his stomach that this could be something pivotal, and he moves his hand a little to thread his fingers through Kurt's. They haven’t seen Santa Monica this early in the morning throughout their whole vacation and it’s kind of peaceful to stand here on the balcony before the rest of the world has woken. The sun’s just rising, the sky a mixture of deep reds and oranges and almost purpley blues as the night disappears to let the day take over and it’s like they can see for miles: palm trees swaying gently in the breeze and the deep red of terracotta roofs, down to the ocean, golden sand and rising sun reflected against the sea that’s so calm there’s barely a ripple from this distance. It feels like they could be the only people in the world and it’s enough to take Blaine’s breath away. He inhales deeply, big lungfuls of air that taste clean and fresh and fill him with promise. He holds Kurt’s hand, waits for him to speak.
“Nothing.” A pause and then softly, “Everything.”
He doesn't elaborate and Blaine doesn't know what to say, really. He holds Kurt's face in his free hand, skin cool beneath bed-warm fingertips, and presses their lips together. “Go and get dressed.”
“What?” Kurt looks baffled.
“You heard me. Come on; we're going for a walk.”
: :
Blaine's never been as thankful for early hours coffee shops in his life as they duck in, ordering a medium drip and a non-fat mocha to go. The two of them begin to walk towards the beach, silent save for the swallowing of their drinks. The beach is deserted. Of course it is, Blaine thinks, the sane rest of the world is still tucked up in bed, and it’s different to how it’s been every other time, not just because it’s quiet, although that’s a part of it. It’s calmer, cooler, they can hear the waves rolling gently against the shore, as though they too haven’t quite woken up. There’s a mist still hovering over the sea almost ethereal, and a breeze in the air - it’s not quite cold but makes Blaine wish he had slightly longer sleeves - carrying a faint fresh but lightly salty scent. Blaine breathes deeply through his nose as they drop their empty coffee cups into the trash at the edge of the sand and toe off their shoes. He kneels in the sand to roll Kurt's jeans up past his ankle, leaning in to press a kiss to the bone there and smiling as Kurt huffs out a laugh above him.
“This is why you should wear capris,” he says as he pushes himself back up to his feet, the sand cool beneath his toes in the way it never is once the sun is high in the sky, and pats his thighs in illustration. “No rolling required.”
“If I was wearing capris,” Kurt points out, “then you wouldn't be down there kissing my feet.”
“Ankles,” Blaine corrects, “I kissed your ankles. There's adoration and there's adoration, Kurt, let's not get ourselves confused.”
Blaine's glad it's so quiet, he's wanted to kiss Kurt so badly and the deserted beach means he doesn't think twice about darting forward to press their lips together. One hand comes up to tangle in the hair at the nape of Kurt's neck, pressing him closer, and Blaine is breathing him in, tasting the mixture of coffee and toothpaste and Kurt that's so familiar and still so unknown. Tongues flick out to taste more, more, more, with teeth nipping and breath coming faster; Blaine doesn't think twice about kissing Kurt here like this, about walking with him on the sand, with shoes dangling from the tips of fingers, their free hands clasped loosely between them. It's peaceful, nice, and they walk like that quietly for a while until Kurt takes a deep breath.
“I have to get out of Lima, B.”
Blaine nods, exhales slowly. “I know.”
“I have to show...”
But Blaine shakes his head because no, you don't have to show anybody.
“I have to show myself,” he sounds a little desperate and Blaine wishes he could turn back time and stop it all from happening: grab that moment after Kurt's audition and let him keep that feeling, always. “God, Cooper's right: I'll die if I stay in Ohio forever. Hell, I’ll die if I have to stay even another year. I don't want to be a Lima Loser. I don't want to be Kurt Hummel who had all the dreams and couldn't make any of them reality. Being here, seeing all of this: Cooper, Hollywood, the bar last night... It just, I have to get out.”
Blaine knows, understands: he feels it too, this need to get out, see more, be more that crawls beneath his veins, never really going away. His grandmother calls it “wanderlust” and as long as “wanderlust” doesn’t mean trekking the world with their lives in a bag on their back, then Blaine’s inclined to agree with her; he can’t imagine a world where Kurt would travel light. Yes, Blaine knows. There’s a whole world out there - Blaine is determined to see more of it than just Ohio, has visions of him and Kurt taking it by storm hand in hand, perfectly styled and so in love.
“And LA?” he asks, remembering Cooper's drunken offer of the night before.
Kurt shakes his head. “. LA... it’s- I’m glad we’re here, glad we came. It’s been the best vacation ever but it’s just that: a vacation. New York? It’s hard to explain but it’s like it calls to me, like it’s where I was supposed to be all along. The fashion capital of the world, Blaine - God, imagine the sample sales - and people would- they’d understand the way I am there, appreciate the statement instead of being scared of me and of Broadway. There is nowhere in the world that compares to Broadway and its people and the culture. There’s every type of person in New York, a district for every culture, a place where you can be diverse and people appreciate it, yearn for it. And maybe I am naïve and maybe I am looking at it through rose-tinted glasses but I want to be part of that, it’s the only thing that makes sense for me. I do appreciate Cooper’s offer. LA is amazing, but it's not New York.”
“No,” Blaine says, because it's not, nothing is. And Kurt and him, they're well and truly destined for New York, somehow.
“Blaine?” He's stopped walking and he tugs on Blaine's hand gently, pulling him around 'til they stand facing each other. Kurt steps forward, pressing their forehands together; their intertwined hands hang between them. Blaine curls his fingers tighter, presses against the spaces between Kurt’s knuckles, leaves invisible fingerprints like silent reminders: ”I’ve got you, Kurt, I'm right here and I’ve got you.”
Kurt closes his eyes for a second, opening them and looking right into Blaine’s and it’s like in that moment Blaine feels as though he can see absolutely everything, like Kurt’s laying himself bare and open. He stares right back, trying to convey without speaking every single word, every single feeling that he wants Kurt to hear. Kurt leans in for a gentle press of lips, dry and closed mouthed.
“Blaine, shall we go home?”
Fin