Come What May, Part 1

[coffeefuelled]

Title: Come What May
Part: 1/Probably 8
Pairing: Will be Kurt/Blaine in later parts
Disclaimer: I own zilch
Rating: G! ( for now!)
Summary: Glee/Moulin Rouge cross over! Blaine is a bohemian writer and a new arrival in Paris, where he meets a porcelain skinned courtesan.... Based on a prompt by indiearsonist

Blaine Anderson had what his father called “a ridiculous obsession with love.”

When the ageing accountant had told him this, he’d spat out the words as if they were poisonous. Like just saying that little four letter word was something he loathed.

Blaine just couldn’t see how love could ever be a bad thing. And for the record, he wasn’t obsessed with it. How could he be? The closest he’d ever come to being in love was an unrequited crush he’d had a couple of years ago.
 That had been on a sandy haired waiter named Jeremiah who worked in the village café, ‘La Gapp”. Oh, how infatuated Blaine had been. He’d spent so long pretending not to gaze adoringly at him over his coffee that he’d decided that enough was enough. He had to do something, to let his feelings be known or else he thought he might go mad. In the end he’d decided to go to the café to recite his poetry to this man, to confess his undying affections…And almost been arrested for his trouble.

People in the village he was from seemed to dislike people like Blaine. People like the waiter too, if they knew. Men who loved men. Women who loved women. None of them were welcome. Relations like that were… Unsettling, untraditional... Immoral.

Blaine’s father had been livid. It was bad enough to be obsessed with love. But… to love men? It was a disgrace. He didn’t think he would ever forget the way his father looked at him that day. Like he didn’t know his son any more, like he didn’t care to.

In fact, his father had seemed almost relieved when Blaine had announced over breakfast one autumn morning that he was going to go to Paris.

Blaine had read in the newspapers about the city. A place with lights and great stages and buskers on every street corner. Bars and clubs and coffee shops to sit in where he could write poetry to his heart’s content. A city filled to the brim with painters and poets and actors-
 With artists.

His father had surveyed him grimly from over the top of his half-moon spectacles. “And what, pray tell, will you do upon your arrival?”

“I’ll…”

He thought of the poetry he’d been so desperate to share, the notes hastily scribbled in secret underneath desks, the rows of shelved books in his bedroom. What could be more beautiful, more romantic than-

“I’ll become a writer.”

Yes. Blaine Anderson, the writer. He could picture it now. Introducing himself that way to the French friends he’d meet during his time there. Maybe one day, Jeremiah would even hear about him. His success. Maybe he would pick up a book by B. Anderson in the library and… Blaine didn’t know what. Fall in love with him? Who knew.

His father waved his hands at him, as if he could rub him out with his palms. He hadn’t even tried to stop him leaving.
He’d just said “Don’t come crying to me when it all goes wrong, boy. You’ll see. The world doesn’t work based on love and dreams and… and revolutions! You mark my words, you’ll be sorry.”

But so far, Blaine was not sorry.

He liked Paris. A lot.

He’d only been in the city for half an hour before he passed a man playing his guitar in the street, a battered old black hat lying upturned on the cobbles at his feet. Blaine had of course, thrown in a penny. It made a satisfying jingle as it hit the few other coins already in there.
Around him the air felt brighter, somehow charged. Just what you might expect from a city so colourful and loud.

Yes, Blaine liked Paris.

He even liked the tiny, plain room he had begun renting from a petite, auburn woman named Miss Pillsbury. Blaine had liked her instantly.
When he’d told her he was a writer, she had accepted it without question and had even offered, a little flustered looking, to help him find his way around the neighborhood. Blaine had declined her offer, knowing she was only asking out of politeness but he appreciated the gesture all the same.

“One thing I must apologise beforehand about,” Miss Pillsbury said “is your neighbours upstairs. They are… Bohemians.”

“Bohemians?”

Miss Pillsbury nodded. “Hmm. Actors. They tend to come in at odd hours of the night, always drinking or rehersing… Or both at the same time. I-I have asked them in the past to keep the noise down, but they never do. I’m afraid I can’t seem to deal with them. They are harmless though!” She added the last sentence quickly.

“So, would you like to take the room?”

What could be better than a room in Paris, with a view of La Seine through his little window? A room surrounded by free spirits? Blaine had signed the contract at the first given opportunity.

On his first morning waking up in Paris, Blaine had risen early to the sound of car engines and people talking and laughing and shouting in the street outside his window. Every noise imaginable. Blaine couldn’t help but feel excitement begin to brew and bubbled up in his chest.

After pouring himself a cup of coffee, he dressed in his usual shirt and trousers and sang under his breath as he toasted a couple of slices of bread on the cooker. He felt bright eyed and alive. This place that he’d only slept in for a single night felt more like home to him that the huge dark manor he’d lived in with his father for so many years.

He pocketed his wallet and keys before leaving the flat, still in high spirits. Spirits which only continued to soar as he walked into the closest shop and bought himself a type writer. His very first. No more writing in leaking pen on scraps of note paper and the backs of menus! A type writer. He headed back to his rooms and took it out of its box and placed it with pride on his little wooden desk.

I can see we’re going to have a beautiful and long friendship, thought Blaine as he ran his fingers over the smooth surface of his brand new machine.
He pulled up a chair and sat down. Inserted the paper. Yes, this was the life! He was about to make his fortune doing what he loved. What could possibly go wrong?

At least, that’s what he had initially thought. By evening he began to realize the problem. How did one write about love when all your experience lies with an old one sided attraction? Maybe that was good enough for poetry and a short story or two, but nothing more.

And then a second problem arose. At midnight, doors began slamming above him. This was paired with the sound of heavy feet running on the stairs, excited voices, music, clinking glass and laughing…

The bohemians.

Oh God, Blaine had been so naïve. When Miss Pillsbury had told him about them, he’d pictured them in his mind as being good natured; party animals maybe, but still considerate to a degree.

Already feeling worn down and disgruntled by his failed day’s work, Blaine found himself totally unable to concentrate.

Maybe I won’t write a love story, he thought darkly as he heard something smash against the ceiling, maybe I’ll write a murder mystery. It can feature a serial killer who stalks alcoholic actors and takes pity on their suffering neighbors.

At one o’clock a new sound emerged. It was the clang on someone playing the piano, or at least, trying to. But what Blaine heard sounded nothing like music. Just a sort of rhythmic crashing that wouldn’t even have passed for contemporary jazz.
It was that that finally, finally made something in Blaine snap.

He stood up, his chair legs scraping back on the floorboards and made his way up the staircase just outside his door. As he climbed higher the piano clanging only got louder, to an almost deafening point. How anyone could put up with that din was beyond Blaine.

On the landing above, Blaine hammered on the offending door. No answer. Just the ever present, merciless piano. Well, he couldn’t turn back now.

He turned the handle and pushed.

Inside was a room almost twice the size of his own, but far more cluttered. The walls were entirely covered by posters advertising plays and musicals and photographs of men in lipstick and huge wigs. From the ceiling long strips of exotic looking fabric hung like circus ropes.

In the center of the room was the piano. And Blaine couldn’t have been more surprised by who the musician was.
A pretty blonde girl about his own age. Her blue eyes looked far away and dreamy and on her lap sat a fat grey cat that seemed completely oblivious to its mistress’s playing.

On the floor, sitting on thin rugs and cushions were a number of other individuals, all of them wearing the same pained expressions that Blaine knew he must have been.

The one sitting closest to the door, a tall dark haired guy built like a boxer was the first to notice Blaine’s uninvited arrival. He leapt to his feet and squared his broad shoulders, as if sizing Blaine up. “Who the hell are you?”

“I-“

The others were standing up now too. A long nosed brunette. A slim Chinese guy. Blaine suddenly wished he’d brought something to defend himself with. A lamp, a kitchen knife, his ukelele, anything to make him feel less vulnerable. You idiot, Blaine.

“I’m sorry.” He said. Then he remembered that he did have one weapon left. One he took with him everywhere.
He’d learned this particular defense as a child. His father had scolded him after he’d stolen a book from his study, a thick leather bound Shakespeare volume. As his father’s voice had raised, Blaine’s had grown quieter. As his father’s face had contorted and flushed with rage, Blaine’s had smoothed into calm.

Politeness, Blaine had learned, was fantastic at diffusing situations. Perhaps the best weapon of all.

“I did knock.” He said apologetically, “I just… I just moved in in the room below and I was wondering if you’d mind keeping the noise down. Please.”

“It wasn’t noise.” The blonde pianist said, looking at Blaine reproachfully. “Lord Tubbington liked it. So it was clearly great music.”

“Lord Tubbington?” Blaine asked.

The girl nodded with a bright smile and pointed to the smokey ball of fur on her knees. “Lord Tubbington. He’d very talented, but he’s very shy about it. But lucky for us he’s also a brilliant critic. And he liked my song. So.”

“Brittany, it’s no good!” cried the brunette. She was by now, standing close to the athlete, looking exasperated and a little wild. “Your cat isn’t a real audience! It’s just… A cat!”

Brittany frowned. “That’s very rude, Rachel.”

Rachel ignored her and turned to Blaine. “I’m sorry!” she sighed. “I really am. It’s just… We were hoping to perform at The Moulin Rouge but to do that, we need something… Well, something good. And so far we haven’t even got our opening number. In fact, we haven’t got anything.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “We’ll never make it big like this…”

“You’re actors?”

Rachel nodded. “We would be if we could find something to act. So far all we have is Brittany’s song which I’m sure you can judge for yourself. We also have a very adequate song by yours truly about the heart break of being an attractive Jewish girl in Paris but…But it doesn’t stand alone very well.”

The athlete who had been watching Blaine closely all the time Rachel had been talking finally spoke up “You can see we’re in a bit of a bind.” He said “What did you say your name was?”

“I’m Blaine. Blaine Anderson.” He extended his hand and was met only by an icy stare. He was about to lower his hand when Rachel shook it instead.

“Blaine!” she trilled. “It’s lovely to meet you. I’m Rachel. And this is Finn,” she looped her arm through the athlete’s affectionately. “And Mike-“ the Chinese guy nodded cordially, his eyes as suspicious as Finn’s. “And Brittany.” At this, the blonde girl gave a little wave.

“So what is it you do, Blaine?” asked Finn.

“I’m a writer.”

“A writer?” A smile had suddenly snapped into place on Rachel’s face. “Would you excuse us for a moment please Blaine?”

Without waiting for an answer she turned her back to him and with a sweep of her arms, beckoned her fellow performers into a tight little huddle around the piano. A whispered conversation quickly ignited and despite Finn’s audible “You’re kidding me?” it was also quickly silenced. Blaine couldn’t remember feeling this awkward.

Then, the group turned to face him once more. “Blaine,” Rachel began, “Do you play any instruments?”

Blaine shrugged and thought back to his school lessons. “A little. Piano, mostly. Some guitar but that’s really all.”

“And have you… Written any of your own music?”

Blaine shook his head. “No. It’s never really occurred to me.”

Finn let out a breath. “Well, there you go Rach.” He said, “He doesn’t do music. So, he can’t help us. I told you it was no good asking.”

Rachel however, seemed less ready to give up on her idea. “Won’t you at least try?”

Blaine hesitated. “I don’t…”

“Please! We could help you start off.” She hadn’t even finished speaking before she began ushering him towards the piano. Brittany moved aside obligingly, bringing Lord Tubbington with her in her arms.

As he sat, Rachel laid her hands firmly on his shoulders. Why did he suddenly feel like a prisoner?

“In your own time.” She said it with a sweetness that Blaine found more than a little intimidating.

He stared down at the keys for a moment. He hadn’t played in so long… Years, in fact. But now here he was, expected to whip up a song out of thin air. Hesitantly, he let his fingers hover over the black and white bars.

It was then that it struck him how like a type writer a piano is.

Maybe he shouldn’t think about it as music. Maybe he should think about it as just like writing. But with a melody.
He pressed his hands down gently.

Paused.

Moved them again, to higher notes. And then plinked out a few more. He felt himself gaining confidence as he continued, allowing his hands to quicken as his memory of the notes came back to him. Lower now and… And what would he write? Something… Words, he had felt words brewing in him earlier but had never quite managed to get them down on paper. But what?

He remembered the morning at La Gapp when he first saw Jeremiah. He thought of the young married couple who lived down the road from his father and of the confetti he knew they still kept as a souvenir in a little box in their parlor. He thought of the elderly couple who owned a tiny convenience shop beside the village bank his father worked at and how they still held hands and kissed each other on the cheek as if for them, being in love was as simple and obvious a part of everyday life as breathing was.
His voice knew what it was doing before his brain had time to register it.

“….We built a fort out of sheets. I finally found you, my missing puzzle piece. I’m complete.”

Blaine let his hands dance, raised the notes. “Let’s go all the way tonight. No regrets, just love. We can dance… Until we die. You and I… We’ll be young for-ev-er.”

He let the last syllable ring out and glanced up… Only to find four faces staring at him intently, absorbed completely. When they realised he was done, they erupted into simultaneous applause.

“I think we’ve found our writer.” Mike said, stunned.

“Your writer?” Blaine blinked, couldn’t help but feel baffled. Where these people… Strangers… Offering him a job? “But I- I don’t know if I can. I mean, you’re… Bohemians, aren’t you? I wouldn’t know where to begin with writing your type of play.”

“Do you believe in Freedom?” asked Rachel, her brown eyes as wide as saucers.

“Yes..?”

“Do you believe in Beauty?” Mike spoke up from the other side of the piano.

“Yes?”

“Truth?” This was asked by Brittany, still cradling Lord Tubbington.

“Yes?”

“And Love?” Finn finished, arms folded and face serious, as if this was the most important thing of all.

“Love?” Blaine felt taken aback by such a silly, obvious question. “Of course I believe In love. Love… Love is like, like oxygen! Love lifts us up where we belong- All you need is love!”

Rachel gave a little squeal and bounced on her heels. “See!” she said smugly, “You’re a bohemian, through and through. You couldn’t fool us!”

“So, how about it?” Finn smiled, and offered his hand for Blaine to shake. Blaine hesitated. But really, what choice did he have?

“Okay. Yeah, I’ll do it.”