Fic: We'll Always Have Paris
Author: fides_rationem/cryblainecry
Artist: ineslovesdc
Rating (Art/Fic): G/PG-13
Word Count: 6705
Summary: Written for the Kurt_Blaine Reversebang 2012! Kurt Hummel, a recent college graduate, finds himself lost in a foreign city, unsure where to go next. Enter Blaine Anderson, an American living in Paris, who plays his way into Kurt's heart with his guitar and his love of the classics.
A/N: Wow, this thing is finally done. Thank you so much to the lovely ineslovesdc for putting up with my terrible work ethic and crazy schedule, and I really hope I've done her beautiful piece justice. Thank you to all of my followers who held my hand through writing this, and my lovely betas/readers/feedback givers (preciousmellow, momentsofweakness, bowtiesforbows and any I've forgotten). Thank you to all who helped me with the French, including but not limited to rnstudentandagleek, yourenotaloneinthis, peachoiulle, andiheardeverything, and others)
Enjoy!
Link to Art
Kurt Hummel has been a college graduate for all of two weeks when he finds himself hopelessly lost on the streets of Paris, the map he’s holding in his hands useless as he bites his lip, frowning. He’s a week and a half into his solo trip around Europe, one day into his stay in Paris, and he’s one-hundred percent sure that he’s not going to make it back to New York.
Flipping the map upside down, Kurt frowns again at the crisscrossing lines and the numbers indicating important landmarks and tourist sites. He’s not sure what he’s looking for-he hasn’t done much sight-seeing yet, his list of places he wants to visit tucked carefully in his breast pocket, but he’s hungry and lost and more than a little cranky. Folding the map in half, Kurt turns it again, trying to figure out where he is on the grid.
He looks up again, trying to determine his surroundings, and realizes he’s wandered fairly close to the Eiffel Tower. Smiling in relief and triumph, Kurt folds the map into fourths and slides it into his bag, adjusting the strap as he takes in the sights around him. There’s a group of tourists clustered together around a petite woman waving a bright blue flag, all of them hanging on her every word through the earpieces they’re wearing. Kurt darts around them, still somewhat struck by the grandeur of the structure, and nearly runs headlong into another tour group.
Mumbling apologies in both French and English, Kurt heads quickly for the courtyard beneath the monument, leans against a fence to regain his composure and his bearings. He’s about to retrieve his guidebook to evaluate his next move when he hears it, the gentle thrum of a guitar and a soft voice accompanying it. Turning towards the sound, it doesn’t take Kurt long to find the source, a young man around his age, curls falling over his forehead as he bends over a battered acoustic.
Intrigued, Kurt drops his hands to his side, watching the young man quietly. He’s dressed in black, leather jacket and dark-wash jeans, his eyes closed as he sings quietly in a language Kurt thinks might be Italian. There’s no open guitar case at his feet, nowhere for people to leave him money, but the man doesn’t seem phased.
He’s caught in the music.
Quiet, somewhat mysterious; Kurt finds he wants to know more about this stranger, wants to listen to his music and buy him a coffee, wants to sit him down and ask why he’s playing guitar on the streets of Paris, what brought him beneath the Eiffel Tower.
Pulling his map out again, Kurt takes a deep breath and starts towards the young man, unfolding the map as he goes. He waits for the song to finish, interrupts before another one can start.
“Excusez-moi, puis-je vous poser une question? Je ne sais pas où je vais et-“
He doesn’t expect the stranger to laugh at him, to shake his head good-naturedly.
Kurt stutters, and chews on his bottom lip to keep from repeating himself. The stranger turns back to his guitar, and Kurt wonders if he’d spoken incorrectly, wracks his brain for the correct words. Maybe the stranger really is Italian?
“Parlez-vous Francais?” Kurt asks, expecting nothing in return. He’s surprised when the stranger replies with a shrug, not looking up from the strings of his guitar.
“Not French,” the stranger says in an entirely American accent, picking out a few more notes on his guitar. He looks up with a smirk, continuing, “But that was cute anyway. Sounded accurate.”
Kurt flushes, stammering over his words as the stranger slings his guitar over his shoulder, offers his hand.
“My name’s Blaine.”
“Kurt,” he returns, shaking Blaine’s hand. Their fingers linger, the handshake a second or two longer than strictly proper, and Kurt blushes again, his skin tingling where it meets Blaine’s.
“So what brings you to this fine European city?” Blaine asks with a hint of amusement in his voice, his eyes skirting over the map in Kurt’s hands, the travel pack and the combat boots. “A few thousand miles away from home, aren’t we?”
“How do you know where I’m from?” Kurt sputters indignantly, crossing his arms over his chest, snatching his hand back from Blaine’s. “You don’t even know if I’m American.”
Blaine raises an eyebrow at Kurt, the corner of his mouth curling up.
“If the accent wasn’t a giveaway? How about the English map, the NYU pin on your backpack, and the American flag tattooed to your forehead.”
Despite himself, Kurt runs his hands over his forehead in a panic, straightening his bangs.
“Relax, Yank,” Blaine teases, resetting his guitar on his thighs, picking out a few more notes. “It was a joke.”
“It wasn’t very funny,” Kurt shoots back, his tone somewhat hurt. “Besides, you’re as American as I am.”
“Touché. So what I can do for you, Kurt? You’re lost, aren’t you?”
Kurt considers lying through his teeth, but the map in his hands reminds him that he is, in fact, confused, if not lost.
“I’m not lost so much as indecisive,” he confesses with a smile, shrugging.
“Can’t decide where to go next?”
“So many museums, so little time,” Kurt quips back, his smile growing with every bit of banter he and Blaine trade. The other American laughs, throwing his head back.
Kurt notices his smile, notes the way Blaine’s face seems to light up in joy, his eyes sparkling. It’s striking, Blaine’s smile, in ways Kurt hasn’t experienced since his sophomore year.
“Well, Kurt, how about a little tour of the city I call home, then?” Blaine offers, already placing his guitar back in its case, slinging it over his shoulder. He holds his hand out for Kurt’s map, folding it up and slipping it into his pocket.
“How do I know you’re not taking me to a back alley to do me in?” Kurt says, though it is a legitimate concern. He knows nothing about Blaine besides a name and a nationality; Kurt can almost hear his father’s words of warning in his ear, but he is all alone in a foreign country, and a friend would be nice.
“I guess you just have to trust me.”
Blaine winks, holding his hand out to Kurt. The gesture is somewhat forward, but Kurt slips his hand into Blaine’s, lacing their fingers together.
“Shall we?” Blaine asks, tugging his arm gently. Kurt follows, and suddenly, he’s being pulled through the streets of Paris.
- - - - -
“So you’re from the States?” Kurt asks as he follows a step behind Blaine, trying to keep up as they wind through side streets and tiny alleys, avoiding the main roads. Blaine’s been quiet, barely speaking except to give Kurt cursory directions. Now he turns back, regarding Kurt carefully.
“Born in Ohio, yeah.”
Kurt stutters to a stop, only half aware that he’s gaping. Blaine notices that he’s lacking his shadow, and slows, turning again.
“What’s wrong?”
“Where in Ohio?”
Blaine frowns, cocking his head to the side and fixing Kurt with a calculating stare.
“Westerville, why?”
“No way. I’m from Lima. Born and raised.”
“Lima? Lima, Ohio?”
“The very same.”
“We grew up less than two hours away from each other.”
“It would seem that way,” Kurt says with a quiet smile, suddenly much more comfortable with the situation. Blaine, too, seems to be more relaxed, the set of his shoulders easing with each step. They fall into step beside one another, their arms swinging almost in tandem.
“So what brings you all the way out to Europe? Lima’s pretty far from here, literally and figuratively.”
Kurt shrugs, eyeing Blaine from the side as they turn a corner onto a busier street, lined with residential buildings and the occasional sidewalk café. The faint aroma of baking bread wafts over them as they pass an open door, and Kurt closes his eyes briefly, breathing in deeply. He turns back to Blaine.
“I just graduated from the New School for Design in May, and I wanted to ‘see the world’ before I had to settle into a job, you know? The stereotypical college graduate route.”
“You’re a college boy then,” Blaine says quietly, and Kurt frowns at the statement, confused as to Blaine’s meaning.
“Is that a problem?”
Blaine shrugs, shaking his head.
“Not a problem, just-different. Never had the full college experience myself. It’s intriguing.”
“Exactly how old are you?” Kurt asks, because Blaine’s statement makes him wonder, confuses him. Blaine, for his part, smirks, his eyes crinkling with mirth as he looks at Kurt.
“Guess.”
“Are you older than I am?” Kurt starts with, watching Blaine’s face carefully for a reaction. Blaine shakes his head, and Kurt tries to hide his surprise, to guess again.
“Nineteen?”
“Not quite so young.”
“Twenty?”
“Twenty-one,” Blaine corrects, simultaneously directing Kurt around another corner with a hand on the small of his back. Kurt tries not to focus on the weight and warmth of Blaine’s skin where it rests against his, tries not to think too hard about how much he’d like Blaine to never let him go. After all, they’re still strangers.
These thoughts aren’t okay for strangers.
Shaking himself from his musings, Kurt turns to Blaine again.
“You’re twenty-one but you’ve never had the typical college experience?”
“I never really had what you’d call a typical childhood, either. And then I’ve just-I’ve been living here, alone, for nearly five years.”
“You live in Paris. Alone.”
“I live in Paris, alone. Yup.”
“Where are your parents?”
“Are you always so forward on a first date?”
“Is this a date? I thought this was just two American strangers lost in a foreign city, trying to become something a bit closer to acquaintances,” Kurt quips, but he knows Blaine’s not offended by the smile and the slight laugh Blaine offers him.
“Well, Kurt, how about we make this a date?” Blaine asks, holding out his hand for Kurt to take, lacing their fingers together. “Can I buy you a coffee?”
- - - - - -
Blaine takes them to a café in his neighborhood, shows Kurt the apartment building he lives in and leads Kurt to a table for two perched on the sidewalk, underneath a large umbrella. The café is everything Kurt dreamed of when he dreamed of Paris as a small boy, cliché and open to the street and bustling with waiters and diners, a pleasant buzz of chatter in both French and English drifting through the air.
They order their coffees, a regular drip for Blaine and a latte for Kurt, and settle in their chairs to wait, a gentle breeze kicking up through the street. Kurt finds himself looking down at the table, worrying his napkin as he wracks his brain for a topic of conversation. Blaine is sitting low in his chair, his guitar propped next to the table, his legs spread and his posture relaxed.
He looks entirely at home, like he belongs right on this street in Paris, like he’s always belonged there.
Kurt’s a little bit jealous of how at ease Blaine seems, how calm and collected he is, but mostly he’s in awe. He’s never met anyone quite like this, not in New York, and certainly not in Lima.
He wants to know more, more about this dark-eyed stranger with the melodic voice, this barely-an-adult whose been living on his own for years, much longer than Kurt has.
“So, Blaine, how did you end up in Paris? As you said, it’s a long way from Ohio,” Kurt starts with what he thinks is an easy question as their coffees arrive. He stirs sugar into his latte, licking the spoon when he’s finished, smiling when he notices Blaine’s eyes trained on the spoon, the way Kurt lifts it slowly to his mouth.
It takes Blaine a second to remember he needs to answer, and he swallows, cheeks reddening as he looks away quickly, stirring cinnamon and milk into his own coffee.
“ My parents and I never really saw eye to eye,” Blaine says with a shrug, raising his mug to his lips as he does. He sips at his coffee thoughtfully, looking over the rim of the cup at Kurt.
“So you ran away from home?”
“I left when I was sixteen to live with my brother in LA, graduated a year early from high school, and came here. I’m taking classes during the week, playing music on the weekends. It works, for me.”
Kurt regards Blaine carefully, worrying his bottom lip as he considers his next question. Blaine’s lips quirk up at the corners, a tiny smirk gracing his face.
“What?”
“I just-why did you leave home, Blaine? Why go to LA, why Paris, just-what happened?”
Blaine looks down and away, won’t meet Kurt’s gaze. His shoulders tense, his face darkening somewhat. Kurt almost regrets the question, but it’s burning in his mind, and he wants to know.
What made Blaine leave the States for France, what made him live alone, why is he here, so far away from everything he’d grown up with?
“Like I said, we just-we never saw eye to eye. My dad wanted me to play soccer and lacrosse, and I wanted to sing in show choir. They wanted me to marry a nice girl in the Church and give them four grandchildren, and I-didn’t. It wasn’t bad, per se, but it wasn’t the best way to grow up. After some things happened, I just-I wanted out as quickly as I could manage.”
“Things?”
“Just-things. But I don’t want to talk about me. I want to know about you, Kurt-from-Lima. What made you move to New York?”
“Things,” Kurt smirks, throwing Blaine’s words back at him. “Things happened, and I wanted the hell out of Lima.”
“So you made it into fashion?”
“I actually wanted musical theater first,” Kurt confesses, a wistful smile on his lips. “I applied to NYADA, the performing arts school in the city, and a few other programs, but I didn’t get in. I had to improvise at the last minute.”
“But still, Parsons. You must at least be talented.”
“I’ve been told I’m alright,” Kurt brushes the compliment away with a shy smile, dismissing the praise. Blaine reaches across the table, coffee mug forgotten, to rest his hand over Kurt’s knuckles.
“Don’t sell yourself short. I’m sure you’re incredible.”
“You don’t even know me, Blaine. You can’t know that.”
“I can read people,” Blaine says, voice light and teasing. “I’m pretty good at reading minds, too.”
“You’re teasing now.”
“Maybe I am,” Blaine winks, taking his hand back from Kurt’s and wrapping it around his coffee mug. “But tell me more about New York. I’ve never been.”
“You live in Paris.”
“Europe isn’t perfect, either, Kurt.”
Kurt chews his bottom lip thoughtfully, resting his head against his hand before he speaks. Blaine absently swirls a spoon through his coffee, working the cinnamon grounds back into the brew.
“New York isn’t perfect,” Kurt starts, sipping at his latte. “But it’s better than Ohio. It’s home, really. At least, it feels like home.”
“That’s how I feel about this place,” Blaine agrees, gesturing around him with one hand on his coffee. “I barely speak the language, the food can get a bit tedious, but this feels more like home than any other place I’ve lived.”
“It’s interesting, isn’t it? Both of us came from such similar backgrounds, and both of us ended up hundreds of miles away, in entirely different places, living city lives. I never really thought-back when I was younger, when I was in middle school and high school and dealing with all of the shit that comes with that-I never thought I’d get out.”
“Here’s to escaping the Midwest,” Blaine offers as a toast, raising his coffee mug to meet Kurt’s, the tiny clink of the china barely audible above the noise of the café. “And to bigger and better things.”
“Amen,” Kurt agrees, tipping the last of his latte into his mouth, swallowing thickly and setting his mug down. He fishes out his wallet, is about to take out a few coins to pay for the drink when Blaine stops him with a hand on his wrist, dropping his own coins over Kurt’s and pushing Kurt’s back.
“It’s on me,” Blaine explains, pushing the coins back more firmly when Kurt starts to protest. “Now, Kurt, how about I show you around the city of lights?”
- - - - -
Less than an hour later, Kurt finds himself in the entrance of the Louvre, a map to the museum spread in front of him, Blaine circling various things across it. Kurt is practically vibrating with excitement, the thrill of everything he’s about to see washing over him in waves.
It had taken some coercing to get Blaine to lead him here first (“I’ve been so many times, Kurt”), but now that they’re here, Blaine seems to be getting into the excitement as well. He’s prattling on about the various works of art and sculptures, his favorite rooms, and Kurt finds that he isn’t quite paying as much attention to the words Blaine’s saying as he is to the sound of Blaine’s voice, the way Blaine gets louder and talks more quickly when he’s excited about something, the way he’s a bit calmer when he’s not.
He’s so distracted by Blaine’s voice and the sheer fact that he’s sitting in the Louvre with a total stranger, that he misses the question Blaine directs at him, failing to answer until Blaine literally snaps him out of it with fingers in front of Kurt’s face, a smile on his lips.
“So it’s okay if with start with the Venus de Milo and work our way around from there? It’s not necessarily the best way to do it, but the Greek and Roman wing is by far the highlight, in my opinion, so I always like to start there with the sculp-“
“That sounds perfect,” Kurt agrees, folding up the marked-up map and tucking it into his pocket, standing. Their bags and Blaine’s guitar have been checked into a coat room, their essentials secreted away in their pockets. Kurt holds out a hand to Blaine, pulls him up off their bench and falls into step beside him.
“Lead the way,” he says with an overly grand gesture in front of his body, indicating that Blaine should go first. Kurt hesitates, wants to slip his arm into Blaine’s and walk in step with the other man, but it feels too forward, too strange for someone he’s just met (and he has to stop and remember that he’s just met Blaine, he hasn’t known him longer than a few hours). So he keeps his arms to himself, swinging his hands at his side as they walk through the museum, heading directly for Blaine’s favorite sculpture, dodging guided tours and families dragging small children by the hand.
Kurt lags a few steps behind Blaine after a few minutes of walking, too busy turning his head as often as possible to catch a glimpse of everything they’re passing. The museum itself is imposing and awe-inspiring, and Kurt hasn’t even contemplated the collection it houses. He’s struck by the impressive glass ceiling, the spacious lobby, the halls leading off to different wings and exhibits, the sheer number of people from every nation and every background simply milling around, all here to see the same things.
It’s so very different from Lima, from New York even, that Kurt finds himself slowing almost to a stop, Blaine leaving him behind as he beelines for the Venus de Milo. It takes Blaine several minutes to realize he’s alone, to double back and find Kurt standing beneath the pyramid and staring up, at the bright blue sky visible through the glass. He settles next to Kurt, looking up as well and brushing his fingertips against Kurt’s wrist, gaining Kurt’s attention.
“I lost you there,” he says, drawing Kurt’s gaze back from the ceiling, meeting his eyes. “You stopped following me.”
“It’s just so-it’s incredible,” Kurt breathes, gesturing around the lobby. “There’s so much to see, so much that’s in here-“
“A lot of Europe is like that,” Blaine teases, taking the map from Kurt and flipping it open, double-checking their path. “Most of the museums over here will blow you away.”
“I can’t wait to get to Rome,” Kurt says, turning to Blaine excitedly. “Have you been? I want to go to the Vatican museums, just the amount of art that’s in there-“
“Not to mention the Prima Porta,” Blaine interjects, a wide smile on his face. “The Greek and Roman materials there, and then the Forum-“
“I take it you’re a bit of a fan?” Kurt teases, his own smile growing at the look of pure excitement on Blaine’s face. “Don’t tell me you speak Latin?”
“Took it for three years back in high school,” Blaine says proudly, nodding. “I went to a private school, kinda prestigious. We all took it, actually. I fell a little bit in love with the culture when we read Cicero.”
“I never pegged you for a private school boy,” Kurt blurts before he fully thinks through his statement, clapping a hand over his mouth when he realizes what he’s said. “Oh god, no, I didn’t mean it like that, I didn’t-“
“There’s a lot you wouldn’t guess about me,” Blaine says evenly, not addressing Kurt’s comment. “But yes, private school. And I’ve been reading Latin on my own since then.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that wasn’t okay,” Kurt says quickly, suddenly afraid he’s crossed an invisible line or done something to offend. “It’s just-we didn’t really have Latin at my high school. All we really had was a two-bit Spanish teacher who couldn’t speak Spanish, but was my glee club coach.”
“You were in glee?” Blaine asks, and Kurt wants to laugh because all Blaine got from his mini-rant was that fact, but nothing about Mr. Schuester and his horrible teaching abilities.
“Three years. We actually won Nationals my senior year, that was a bit crazy. Awesome, but none of us know how we pulled it off.”
“Wait,” Blaine holds out a hand to stop Kurt, pulls him aside from the crowds in the museum. “You were in glee and you lived in Lima? Where did you go to high school?”
“McKinley, why? We were the New Directions, probably the laughing stock of all of the greater Ohio competition sector.”
“I went to Dalton, was in the Warblers.”
“The Dalton Academy Warblers? We competed against them a few times, how did we never-“
“I quit my sophomore year. I wasn’t really doing well at home, and then when I moved out here-I’d been in glee club in my old school, too, and Dalton was just-well, I mean, you’ve competed against them. You understand.”
“You left the Warblers for Paris, then?”
“I left a lot of things for Paris.”
Kurt opens his mouth to ask another question, but Blaine tugs on his arm to get them moving again, sets off in the direction they’ve been heading for the past ten minutes.
“We’re almost there,” he says, widening his stride slightly so that he’s a step or two ahead of Kurt, pulling away. Kurt frowns at Blaine’s sudden distance, at the way Blaine’s closed off every time Ohio or his family has been brought up since the moment they started talking early in the day. He has to remind himself that Blaine is still a stranger, that it isn’t his place to ask these questions or to push Blaine’s boundaries. Quickening his steps, Kurt catches up to Blaine just in time to see the statue they’ve been looking for come into view, set apart from everything else in a wide-open room, surrounded on all sides by children and their parents, tourists, art students with sketchpads.
“Oh my god,” Kurt breathes, his minor frustration with Blaine forgotten as he takes in the sculpture, the way the folds of her dress seem to flow from the marble, the features of her face crafted so carefully.
“You can see why this one’s my favorite,” Blaine offers from just behind Kurt’s shoulder, his own eyes sparkling as he takes in the statue. “And to think this is from thousands of years ago, that someone had the tools and the ability to carve this back then-it’s amazing, isn’t it?”
“It’s breathtaking. And it’s just-it’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“The drapery is my favorite part,” Blaine agrees, stepping a bit closer to the statue and gesturing to the folds of the dress, the way it falls off the curve of her back. “It’s so soft, but it’s carved from marble. The way it just seems to have slipped from her arms, the way it drapes across her back and over her knee, falls to the floor like that-it almost feels private, doesn’t it? Like you’ve stepped into some private moment, into her room as she’s getting ready for bed, for something more.”
Kurt has nothing to say in response to Blaine, whose voice has gotten softer and more reverent the more he’s spoken. Blaine’s voice is like honey, sweet and soothing and so, so wonderful, and Kurt wants to get lost in his description of Aphrodite and her clothing, in the way Blaine takes a marble sculpture and brings it to life with only his words.
“How do you do that?” Kurt asks, turning his head to face Blaine, who’s gotten surprisingly close as he’s been speaking, is hovering just beside Kurt’s shoulder. “How did you make that sound so-so sexy?”
“It’s a talent born of my love for the classics,” Blaine quips, and the spell breaks, Kurt laughing as Blaine slides away a few feet, walking around the sculpture, admiring. “I’ve never really gotten to try it on anyone else.”
“You’re terrible,” Kurt laughs, stepping beside Blaine and gazing up and down the marble, taking in the details he couldn’t see from far away, the intricate bits of carving, the chips and imperfections in the marble.
“You love it.”
And Kurt’s entire world seems to spin at the word, even though Blaine’s still, for all intents and purposes, a complete stranger.
He knows nothing about Blaine, besides a few simple facts and the way his voice sounds.
But he might have something of a crush.
- - - - -
They spend a total of five hours exploring the museum, Blaine explaining details of the Greek and Roman collection to Kurt, citing years of Roman history lectures and his study of Latin, but mostly admiring the aspects of the carving, the marble work, the mastery. They fall into a comfortable rhythm, discussing everything from the art to what other European cities are like, to life back home. Kurt avoids bringing up anything too personal, and Blaine seems to follow the same tact, so by the time they step out into the fading sunlight, it feels like they know everything about each other and nothing at the same time.
Kurt is somewhat surprised when they step outside and there’s still daylight, because they’ve been inside for so long that he’d lost track of time. The sun is less brutal than it had been, setting somewhat, a pleasant breeze skirting through the courtyard, the air light and easy as they walk down the street, Kurt’s fingertips skirting Blaine’s every so often, their arms so close together as they walk.
He feels incredibly at ease around Blaine, feels as though they’ve known each other much longer than half a day. Blaine, for his part, has grown visibly more comfortable as they’ve talked and walked, talking animatedly to Kurt about his background in history and his love of music.
Kurt’s startled out of his reflection on the day when Blaine jerks his hand away, checking his watch.
“What-?”
“Are you hungry?”
“What?”
“Are you hungry? It’s been awhile since we had those coffees, and I haven’t eaten anything today. Have you?”
“I mean, nothing except a croissant at breakfast, but-“
“I’ll make you a deal,” Blaine starts, and Kurt’s more than a little confused. Blaine smiles, his eyes crinkling in the way Kurt’s come to love. “I’ll make us dinner at my apartment-I bought a fantastic bottle of wine I’ve been meaning to open, and I’m not too shabby in the kitchen. I’ll cook us something to eat, and then I’ll take you to Notre Dame to see the stars come out. After that, if you’re sick of me, you can absolutely go back to your hotel and never see me again. If not, I’ll meet you tomorrow morning at the Eiffel Tower, same place, and we’ll see the rest of the city. Is that a deal?”
Kurt hesitates-he can almost hear his father berating him-but nods, accepting.
After all, Blaine’s had more than enough opportunity to do him in, and Kurt did come to Europe for an adventure.
“Let’s do it.”
- - - - -
Blaine, it turns out, is fantastic in the kitchen. In a matter of an hour he’s putting a salad on the table, grilled chicken and herbs on top, with a chocolate mousse chilling in the refrigerator for dessert. He pours two glasses of a deep red wine, handing one to Kurt, who’s browsing Blaine’s small bookshelf in the tiny living room, running his fingers along the spines of books.
“You weren’t kidding about the classics,” Kurt observes, pulling out a well-worn copy of Caesar’s de Bello Gallico and thumbing through the pages.
“I like older things,” Blaine says with a shrug, taking a long draw from his glass, savoring the taste. “There’s something beautiful about things that have lost favor, gone out of style. I like vintage clothes, books, music-all of it.”
“That’s actually really cool,” Kurt smiles, replacing the book and sipping from his own glass, the flavor a bit stronger than he’s used to from the cheap boxed wine he’d had throughout college. “I like how you put that-appreciating things no one else does.”
“It’s pretty easy to understand something you’ve grown up with,” Blaine offers bitterly, quirking up the corner of his mouth in a slight smile, looking at Kurt. “I know what it’s like to be under appreciated.”
Kurt isn’t sure what to say, so he doesn’t say anything, takes another drink from his glass instead. Blaine sighs, draining his own glass and moving back to his kitchenette to refill it.
“Should we eat?”
“I’d be happy to,” Kurt says, setting his glass on the table and taking his seat, looking over everything Blaine’s prepared with approval, his mouth watering at the sight of the chicken. “Where did you learn to cook?”
“I was home alone a lot, but mostly from my brother, when I lived with him in LA. He’s something of an actor, or he tries to be. One of his ex-girlfriends was a culinary student, she taught us both that summer.”
“Your brother’s an actor?”
“If you count TV commercials and a guest spot as a dead body on CSI, then yeah. He’s an actor. Whatever makes him happy, though, I guess.”
“My best friend’s an actress,” Kurt offers, chewing a bite of his chicken before he continues, sipping at his wine. “She actually got into that school I’d applied to-NYADA? She’s working off-off-Broadway now, in some show I can’t ever remember the name for but have seen at least twenty-two times.”
“That must be difficult, seeing her do what you’d always dreamed of,” Blaine says quietly, swirling the wine in his glass and watching Kurt’s face. The question should be offensive, but Blaine seems so genuinely concerned that Kurt can’t help but answer.
“I thought it would be, at first. It’s strange, sure, because I was so positive that was my dream for so long. But now-I love what I’m doing. I almost just fell into fashion, as an accident. But I love it. I love thinking about lines and silhouettes and patterns and colors. It’s really almost like-like creating art that people can wear, you know? Like the paintings we saw today. The way you talked about the Venus? That’s how I feel about my clothes.”
“I’d give anything to have half your passion,” Blaine says, almost wistfully, and Kurt frowns, sipping from his glass again before he speaks.
“What about you, Blaine? You came to Paris when you were barely seventeen. What’s your dream?”
“I want-I don’t actually know, really. I just want to be doing what I love, helping people in some way. I want to make a dent, make a difference in someone’s life. I never had-I never really had that growing up. I left home at sixteen, took the GED at seventeen and moved to a foreign country. I take art classes and creative writing classes here, but I mostly play guitar wherever I feel like, and I just-I sing.”
“It’s been so long since I’ve been able to really sing,” Kurt admits, eyes drifting to Blaine’s guitar where it rests in the corner. “I’ve been so busy with my capstone project that I haven’t been able to.”
“Then we should fix that,” Blaine says, voice heavy and intense. They’ve finished the bottle of wine between them, passing the night in easy conversation. Their plates are clear, and Kurt is more than willing to forego the mousse in favor of listening to Blaine play again.
“Play something,” he says, walking over to pick up the guitar from its case, handing it to Blaine. “Play something I can sing.”
“Hold on.” Blaine crosses over to the couch, leaving the dirty dishes on the table to be cleaned later. He settles himself on the cushions, bracing the guitar against his thighs and plucking a few strings, poking his tongue between his teeth as he fiddles with the tuning. “Do you know this one?”
He starts playing, quietly, the notes stringing together to form a melody Kurt recognizes, something he remembers from nights singing with his mom before she passed, singing with his dad for years afterwards. The words come easily, before he even thinks about it, and suddenly, he’s singing again, eyes closed, listening to nothing except Blaine’s playing and his own voice.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night//
Take these broken wings and learn to fly//
All your life//
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.//
Neither of them speaks; they’re too caught up in the music, the words, the sounds. Kurt lets it wash over him, lets the thrill of singing again carry him through to the end of the song, the final notes fading from Blaine’s guitar.
“You have an amazing voice,” Blaine says when they’re done, his voice rough and quiet, his eyes meeting Kurt as he keeps and holds Kurt’s gaze. “It’s incredibly unique.”
“It’s a gift and a curse,” Kurt shrugs, ducking his head to avoid looking at Blaine longer, breaking the eye contact. “It wasn’t exactly the best thing where I went to high school.”
“Tell me about your high school,” Blaine says suddenly, tipping Kurt’s chin up with gentle fingers, stopping him from looking away. “Tell me about growing up, about your family and your friends and the New Directions. Just-tell me anything.”
“My mom died when I was eight,” Kurt breathes, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he is to Blaine, how the air between them seems to spark. “It was me and my dad, for most of my life. Just us. I grew up in Lima, and I stayed in Lima until I graduated high school. There were no other-I was the only out, gay kid in school. There was this one kid-he turned out to be closeted the whole time, but it didn’t mean-he tortured me. He was always on my case, constantly arguing with me and fighting with me and pushing me into lockers. It was horrible, and no one ever did anything. No one cared.”
“I know what you mean,” Blaine agrees, shifting back on the couch but still managing to keep his proximity to Kurt, the warmth from his body practically radiating into Kurt’s. “At my first high school-not Dalton, Westerville High, it was the same thing. But I had a friend there, this other kid. We were both out, but we weren’t dating. We were just-friends. I asked him to the Sadie Hawkins Dance my freshman year.”
“What happened?”
“We got beat to shit outside the dance waiting for our ride. He was in a coma for three months, and I had to repeat freshman year because of a spinal injury. I transferred to Dalton that fall.”
“Oh, god,” Kurt whispers, his hand automatically covering his mouth. “Blaine-“
“It’s part of the reason I came here, left home. Neither of my parents did anything about it. Neither of them really cared. So I left, went to LA to live with Cooper, and then bought a one way ticket to Paris as soon as the paperwork on my high school degree was done.”
“I didn’t have nearly as bad a time, I can’t believe-“
“You shouldn’t need to minimize what you’ve gone through, Kurt. Please don’t. Not because of me. We’ve both been through a lot, it seems, and we both-we survived. You’re here, you’re in Paris. We both made it out of Ohio.”
“How do you know what to say, all the time? I just-I’ve known you less than a day, Blaine, and I feel like I’ve grown up with you. I just-being with you, being around you? It’s comfortable and terrifying all at once. How do you even manage that?”
“I’ve been told it’s a gift and a curse,” Blaine parrots Kurt’s earlier words, sliding an inch closer on the couch, resting his hand on Kurt’s thigh, its weight comforting and warm. He strokes a gentle thumb over the fabric of Kurt’s pants, a smile quirking his lips as he does.
“You’re an ass.”
“And you’re amazing, Kurt. You’re so wonderful, and I just-I don’t think I can keep myself from doing this any longer.”
Blaine closes the distance between them swiftly, his lips pressing against Kurt’s in an instant. Kurt’s eyes flutter closed, his breath catching as his hand clenches and relaxes at his side, the warmth of Blaine’s kiss washing over him, startling him.
“I’m sorry,” Blaine breathes against Kurt’s lips, pulling away to rest his forehead against Kurt’s, eyes hooded and the tiniest smile playing against his lips. “I couldn’t help myself.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Kurt whispers back, closing the distance between them again, chasing Blaine’s lips with his own kiss, opening his mouth to the kiss, a hand sliding around to Blaine’s neck to pull him closer, flush against his own body.
They fall to the ground, tangled together and giggling, but they don’t stop kissing, too busy exploring and tasting, Blaine’s tongue darting out to lick at Kurt’s lips, opening him up and dipping inside.
They’re breathing heavily when they part, both smiling and giddy, light-headed from the kissing. Blaine pulls back, brushing Kurt’s hair from his forehead with a gentle hand, pressing a kiss to Kurt’s forehead.
“I promised to take you to Notre Dame,” he whispers, kissing along Kurt’s jawline, pressing another kiss to the corner of Kurt’s mouth. “We should get up.”
“Forget about Notre Dame,” Kurt returns, pulling Blaine back to the ground, sliding his hands around to grip Blaine’s ass, settling him evenly on top of Kurt’s body. “We have tomorrow to go, and the next four days to explore Paris together. I think I prefer the view from here, anyway.”
Blaine snorts against Kurt’s skin where he’s pressing open-mouthed kisses against Kurt’s collarbone, his hands playing at the edge of Kurt’s shirt.
“Welcome to Paris, Kurt,” he whispers, working the shirt up and over Kurt’s head before shucking his own. They stand up, and Blaine leads Kurt by the hand to the bedroom, the door snapping shut behind them, their shirts left behind on the floor.
They never do make it to Notre Dame the next day.
Artist: ineslovesdc
Rating (Art/Fic): G/PG-13
Word Count: 6705
Summary: Written for the Kurt_Blaine Reversebang 2012! Kurt Hummel, a recent college graduate, finds himself lost in a foreign city, unsure where to go next. Enter Blaine Anderson, an American living in Paris, who plays his way into Kurt's heart with his guitar and his love of the classics.
A/N: Wow, this thing is finally done. Thank you so much to the lovely ineslovesdc for putting up with my terrible work ethic and crazy schedule, and I really hope I've done her beautiful piece justice. Thank you to all of my followers who held my hand through writing this, and my lovely betas/readers/feedback givers (preciousmellow, momentsofweakness, bowtiesforbows and any I've forgotten). Thank you to all who helped me with the French, including but not limited to rnstudentandagleek, yourenotaloneinthis, peachoiulle, andiheardeverything, and others)
Enjoy!
Link to Art
Kurt Hummel has been a college graduate for all of two weeks when he finds himself hopelessly lost on the streets of Paris, the map he’s holding in his hands useless as he bites his lip, frowning. He’s a week and a half into his solo trip around Europe, one day into his stay in Paris, and he’s one-hundred percent sure that he’s not going to make it back to New York.
Flipping the map upside down, Kurt frowns again at the crisscrossing lines and the numbers indicating important landmarks and tourist sites. He’s not sure what he’s looking for-he hasn’t done much sight-seeing yet, his list of places he wants to visit tucked carefully in his breast pocket, but he’s hungry and lost and more than a little cranky. Folding the map in half, Kurt turns it again, trying to figure out where he is on the grid.
He looks up again, trying to determine his surroundings, and realizes he’s wandered fairly close to the Eiffel Tower. Smiling in relief and triumph, Kurt folds the map into fourths and slides it into his bag, adjusting the strap as he takes in the sights around him. There’s a group of tourists clustered together around a petite woman waving a bright blue flag, all of them hanging on her every word through the earpieces they’re wearing. Kurt darts around them, still somewhat struck by the grandeur of the structure, and nearly runs headlong into another tour group.
Mumbling apologies in both French and English, Kurt heads quickly for the courtyard beneath the monument, leans against a fence to regain his composure and his bearings. He’s about to retrieve his guidebook to evaluate his next move when he hears it, the gentle thrum of a guitar and a soft voice accompanying it. Turning towards the sound, it doesn’t take Kurt long to find the source, a young man around his age, curls falling over his forehead as he bends over a battered acoustic.
Intrigued, Kurt drops his hands to his side, watching the young man quietly. He’s dressed in black, leather jacket and dark-wash jeans, his eyes closed as he sings quietly in a language Kurt thinks might be Italian. There’s no open guitar case at his feet, nowhere for people to leave him money, but the man doesn’t seem phased.
He’s caught in the music.
Quiet, somewhat mysterious; Kurt finds he wants to know more about this stranger, wants to listen to his music and buy him a coffee, wants to sit him down and ask why he’s playing guitar on the streets of Paris, what brought him beneath the Eiffel Tower.
Pulling his map out again, Kurt takes a deep breath and starts towards the young man, unfolding the map as he goes. He waits for the song to finish, interrupts before another one can start.
“Excusez-moi, puis-je vous poser une question? Je ne sais pas où je vais et-“
He doesn’t expect the stranger to laugh at him, to shake his head good-naturedly.
Kurt stutters, and chews on his bottom lip to keep from repeating himself. The stranger turns back to his guitar, and Kurt wonders if he’d spoken incorrectly, wracks his brain for the correct words. Maybe the stranger really is Italian?
“Parlez-vous Francais?” Kurt asks, expecting nothing in return. He’s surprised when the stranger replies with a shrug, not looking up from the strings of his guitar.
“Not French,” the stranger says in an entirely American accent, picking out a few more notes on his guitar. He looks up with a smirk, continuing, “But that was cute anyway. Sounded accurate.”
Kurt flushes, stammering over his words as the stranger slings his guitar over his shoulder, offers his hand.
“My name’s Blaine.”
“Kurt,” he returns, shaking Blaine’s hand. Their fingers linger, the handshake a second or two longer than strictly proper, and Kurt blushes again, his skin tingling where it meets Blaine’s.
“So what brings you to this fine European city?” Blaine asks with a hint of amusement in his voice, his eyes skirting over the map in Kurt’s hands, the travel pack and the combat boots. “A few thousand miles away from home, aren’t we?”
“How do you know where I’m from?” Kurt sputters indignantly, crossing his arms over his chest, snatching his hand back from Blaine’s. “You don’t even know if I’m American.”
Blaine raises an eyebrow at Kurt, the corner of his mouth curling up.
“If the accent wasn’t a giveaway? How about the English map, the NYU pin on your backpack, and the American flag tattooed to your forehead.”
Despite himself, Kurt runs his hands over his forehead in a panic, straightening his bangs.
“Relax, Yank,” Blaine teases, resetting his guitar on his thighs, picking out a few more notes. “It was a joke.”
“It wasn’t very funny,” Kurt shoots back, his tone somewhat hurt. “Besides, you’re as American as I am.”
“Touché. So what I can do for you, Kurt? You’re lost, aren’t you?”
Kurt considers lying through his teeth, but the map in his hands reminds him that he is, in fact, confused, if not lost.
“I’m not lost so much as indecisive,” he confesses with a smile, shrugging.
“Can’t decide where to go next?”
“So many museums, so little time,” Kurt quips back, his smile growing with every bit of banter he and Blaine trade. The other American laughs, throwing his head back.
Kurt notices his smile, notes the way Blaine’s face seems to light up in joy, his eyes sparkling. It’s striking, Blaine’s smile, in ways Kurt hasn’t experienced since his sophomore year.
“Well, Kurt, how about a little tour of the city I call home, then?” Blaine offers, already placing his guitar back in its case, slinging it over his shoulder. He holds his hand out for Kurt’s map, folding it up and slipping it into his pocket.
“How do I know you’re not taking me to a back alley to do me in?” Kurt says, though it is a legitimate concern. He knows nothing about Blaine besides a name and a nationality; Kurt can almost hear his father’s words of warning in his ear, but he is all alone in a foreign country, and a friend would be nice.
“I guess you just have to trust me.”
Blaine winks, holding his hand out to Kurt. The gesture is somewhat forward, but Kurt slips his hand into Blaine’s, lacing their fingers together.
“Shall we?” Blaine asks, tugging his arm gently. Kurt follows, and suddenly, he’s being pulled through the streets of Paris.
- - - - -
“So you’re from the States?” Kurt asks as he follows a step behind Blaine, trying to keep up as they wind through side streets and tiny alleys, avoiding the main roads. Blaine’s been quiet, barely speaking except to give Kurt cursory directions. Now he turns back, regarding Kurt carefully.
“Born in Ohio, yeah.”
Kurt stutters to a stop, only half aware that he’s gaping. Blaine notices that he’s lacking his shadow, and slows, turning again.
“What’s wrong?”
“Where in Ohio?”
Blaine frowns, cocking his head to the side and fixing Kurt with a calculating stare.
“Westerville, why?”
“No way. I’m from Lima. Born and raised.”
“Lima? Lima, Ohio?”
“The very same.”
“We grew up less than two hours away from each other.”
“It would seem that way,” Kurt says with a quiet smile, suddenly much more comfortable with the situation. Blaine, too, seems to be more relaxed, the set of his shoulders easing with each step. They fall into step beside one another, their arms swinging almost in tandem.
“So what brings you all the way out to Europe? Lima’s pretty far from here, literally and figuratively.”
Kurt shrugs, eyeing Blaine from the side as they turn a corner onto a busier street, lined with residential buildings and the occasional sidewalk café. The faint aroma of baking bread wafts over them as they pass an open door, and Kurt closes his eyes briefly, breathing in deeply. He turns back to Blaine.
“I just graduated from the New School for Design in May, and I wanted to ‘see the world’ before I had to settle into a job, you know? The stereotypical college graduate route.”
“You’re a college boy then,” Blaine says quietly, and Kurt frowns at the statement, confused as to Blaine’s meaning.
“Is that a problem?”
Blaine shrugs, shaking his head.
“Not a problem, just-different. Never had the full college experience myself. It’s intriguing.”
“Exactly how old are you?” Kurt asks, because Blaine’s statement makes him wonder, confuses him. Blaine, for his part, smirks, his eyes crinkling with mirth as he looks at Kurt.
“Guess.”
“Are you older than I am?” Kurt starts with, watching Blaine’s face carefully for a reaction. Blaine shakes his head, and Kurt tries to hide his surprise, to guess again.
“Nineteen?”
“Not quite so young.”
“Twenty?”
“Twenty-one,” Blaine corrects, simultaneously directing Kurt around another corner with a hand on the small of his back. Kurt tries not to focus on the weight and warmth of Blaine’s skin where it rests against his, tries not to think too hard about how much he’d like Blaine to never let him go. After all, they’re still strangers.
These thoughts aren’t okay for strangers.
Shaking himself from his musings, Kurt turns to Blaine again.
“You’re twenty-one but you’ve never had the typical college experience?”
“I never really had what you’d call a typical childhood, either. And then I’ve just-I’ve been living here, alone, for nearly five years.”
“You live in Paris. Alone.”
“I live in Paris, alone. Yup.”
“Where are your parents?”
“Are you always so forward on a first date?”
“Is this a date? I thought this was just two American strangers lost in a foreign city, trying to become something a bit closer to acquaintances,” Kurt quips, but he knows Blaine’s not offended by the smile and the slight laugh Blaine offers him.
“Well, Kurt, how about we make this a date?” Blaine asks, holding out his hand for Kurt to take, lacing their fingers together. “Can I buy you a coffee?”
- - - - - -
Blaine takes them to a café in his neighborhood, shows Kurt the apartment building he lives in and leads Kurt to a table for two perched on the sidewalk, underneath a large umbrella. The café is everything Kurt dreamed of when he dreamed of Paris as a small boy, cliché and open to the street and bustling with waiters and diners, a pleasant buzz of chatter in both French and English drifting through the air.
They order their coffees, a regular drip for Blaine and a latte for Kurt, and settle in their chairs to wait, a gentle breeze kicking up through the street. Kurt finds himself looking down at the table, worrying his napkin as he wracks his brain for a topic of conversation. Blaine is sitting low in his chair, his guitar propped next to the table, his legs spread and his posture relaxed.
He looks entirely at home, like he belongs right on this street in Paris, like he’s always belonged there.
Kurt’s a little bit jealous of how at ease Blaine seems, how calm and collected he is, but mostly he’s in awe. He’s never met anyone quite like this, not in New York, and certainly not in Lima.
He wants to know more, more about this dark-eyed stranger with the melodic voice, this barely-an-adult whose been living on his own for years, much longer than Kurt has.
“So, Blaine, how did you end up in Paris? As you said, it’s a long way from Ohio,” Kurt starts with what he thinks is an easy question as their coffees arrive. He stirs sugar into his latte, licking the spoon when he’s finished, smiling when he notices Blaine’s eyes trained on the spoon, the way Kurt lifts it slowly to his mouth.
It takes Blaine a second to remember he needs to answer, and he swallows, cheeks reddening as he looks away quickly, stirring cinnamon and milk into his own coffee.
“ My parents and I never really saw eye to eye,” Blaine says with a shrug, raising his mug to his lips as he does. He sips at his coffee thoughtfully, looking over the rim of the cup at Kurt.
“So you ran away from home?”
“I left when I was sixteen to live with my brother in LA, graduated a year early from high school, and came here. I’m taking classes during the week, playing music on the weekends. It works, for me.”
Kurt regards Blaine carefully, worrying his bottom lip as he considers his next question. Blaine’s lips quirk up at the corners, a tiny smirk gracing his face.
“What?”
“I just-why did you leave home, Blaine? Why go to LA, why Paris, just-what happened?”
Blaine looks down and away, won’t meet Kurt’s gaze. His shoulders tense, his face darkening somewhat. Kurt almost regrets the question, but it’s burning in his mind, and he wants to know.
What made Blaine leave the States for France, what made him live alone, why is he here, so far away from everything he’d grown up with?
“Like I said, we just-we never saw eye to eye. My dad wanted me to play soccer and lacrosse, and I wanted to sing in show choir. They wanted me to marry a nice girl in the Church and give them four grandchildren, and I-didn’t. It wasn’t bad, per se, but it wasn’t the best way to grow up. After some things happened, I just-I wanted out as quickly as I could manage.”
“Things?”
“Just-things. But I don’t want to talk about me. I want to know about you, Kurt-from-Lima. What made you move to New York?”
“Things,” Kurt smirks, throwing Blaine’s words back at him. “Things happened, and I wanted the hell out of Lima.”
“So you made it into fashion?”
“I actually wanted musical theater first,” Kurt confesses, a wistful smile on his lips. “I applied to NYADA, the performing arts school in the city, and a few other programs, but I didn’t get in. I had to improvise at the last minute.”
“But still, Parsons. You must at least be talented.”
“I’ve been told I’m alright,” Kurt brushes the compliment away with a shy smile, dismissing the praise. Blaine reaches across the table, coffee mug forgotten, to rest his hand over Kurt’s knuckles.
“Don’t sell yourself short. I’m sure you’re incredible.”
“You don’t even know me, Blaine. You can’t know that.”
“I can read people,” Blaine says, voice light and teasing. “I’m pretty good at reading minds, too.”
“You’re teasing now.”
“Maybe I am,” Blaine winks, taking his hand back from Kurt’s and wrapping it around his coffee mug. “But tell me more about New York. I’ve never been.”
“You live in Paris.”
“Europe isn’t perfect, either, Kurt.”
Kurt chews his bottom lip thoughtfully, resting his head against his hand before he speaks. Blaine absently swirls a spoon through his coffee, working the cinnamon grounds back into the brew.
“New York isn’t perfect,” Kurt starts, sipping at his latte. “But it’s better than Ohio. It’s home, really. At least, it feels like home.”
“That’s how I feel about this place,” Blaine agrees, gesturing around him with one hand on his coffee. “I barely speak the language, the food can get a bit tedious, but this feels more like home than any other place I’ve lived.”
“It’s interesting, isn’t it? Both of us came from such similar backgrounds, and both of us ended up hundreds of miles away, in entirely different places, living city lives. I never really thought-back when I was younger, when I was in middle school and high school and dealing with all of the shit that comes with that-I never thought I’d get out.”
“Here’s to escaping the Midwest,” Blaine offers as a toast, raising his coffee mug to meet Kurt’s, the tiny clink of the china barely audible above the noise of the café. “And to bigger and better things.”
“Amen,” Kurt agrees, tipping the last of his latte into his mouth, swallowing thickly and setting his mug down. He fishes out his wallet, is about to take out a few coins to pay for the drink when Blaine stops him with a hand on his wrist, dropping his own coins over Kurt’s and pushing Kurt’s back.
“It’s on me,” Blaine explains, pushing the coins back more firmly when Kurt starts to protest. “Now, Kurt, how about I show you around the city of lights?”
- - - - -
Less than an hour later, Kurt finds himself in the entrance of the Louvre, a map to the museum spread in front of him, Blaine circling various things across it. Kurt is practically vibrating with excitement, the thrill of everything he’s about to see washing over him in waves.
It had taken some coercing to get Blaine to lead him here first (“I’ve been so many times, Kurt”), but now that they’re here, Blaine seems to be getting into the excitement as well. He’s prattling on about the various works of art and sculptures, his favorite rooms, and Kurt finds that he isn’t quite paying as much attention to the words Blaine’s saying as he is to the sound of Blaine’s voice, the way Blaine gets louder and talks more quickly when he’s excited about something, the way he’s a bit calmer when he’s not.
He’s so distracted by Blaine’s voice and the sheer fact that he’s sitting in the Louvre with a total stranger, that he misses the question Blaine directs at him, failing to answer until Blaine literally snaps him out of it with fingers in front of Kurt’s face, a smile on his lips.
“So it’s okay if with start with the Venus de Milo and work our way around from there? It’s not necessarily the best way to do it, but the Greek and Roman wing is by far the highlight, in my opinion, so I always like to start there with the sculp-“
“That sounds perfect,” Kurt agrees, folding up the marked-up map and tucking it into his pocket, standing. Their bags and Blaine’s guitar have been checked into a coat room, their essentials secreted away in their pockets. Kurt holds out a hand to Blaine, pulls him up off their bench and falls into step beside him.
“Lead the way,” he says with an overly grand gesture in front of his body, indicating that Blaine should go first. Kurt hesitates, wants to slip his arm into Blaine’s and walk in step with the other man, but it feels too forward, too strange for someone he’s just met (and he has to stop and remember that he’s just met Blaine, he hasn’t known him longer than a few hours). So he keeps his arms to himself, swinging his hands at his side as they walk through the museum, heading directly for Blaine’s favorite sculpture, dodging guided tours and families dragging small children by the hand.
Kurt lags a few steps behind Blaine after a few minutes of walking, too busy turning his head as often as possible to catch a glimpse of everything they’re passing. The museum itself is imposing and awe-inspiring, and Kurt hasn’t even contemplated the collection it houses. He’s struck by the impressive glass ceiling, the spacious lobby, the halls leading off to different wings and exhibits, the sheer number of people from every nation and every background simply milling around, all here to see the same things.
It’s so very different from Lima, from New York even, that Kurt finds himself slowing almost to a stop, Blaine leaving him behind as he beelines for the Venus de Milo. It takes Blaine several minutes to realize he’s alone, to double back and find Kurt standing beneath the pyramid and staring up, at the bright blue sky visible through the glass. He settles next to Kurt, looking up as well and brushing his fingertips against Kurt’s wrist, gaining Kurt’s attention.
“I lost you there,” he says, drawing Kurt’s gaze back from the ceiling, meeting his eyes. “You stopped following me.”
“It’s just so-it’s incredible,” Kurt breathes, gesturing around the lobby. “There’s so much to see, so much that’s in here-“
“A lot of Europe is like that,” Blaine teases, taking the map from Kurt and flipping it open, double-checking their path. “Most of the museums over here will blow you away.”
“I can’t wait to get to Rome,” Kurt says, turning to Blaine excitedly. “Have you been? I want to go to the Vatican museums, just the amount of art that’s in there-“
“Not to mention the Prima Porta,” Blaine interjects, a wide smile on his face. “The Greek and Roman materials there, and then the Forum-“
“I take it you’re a bit of a fan?” Kurt teases, his own smile growing at the look of pure excitement on Blaine’s face. “Don’t tell me you speak Latin?”
“Took it for three years back in high school,” Blaine says proudly, nodding. “I went to a private school, kinda prestigious. We all took it, actually. I fell a little bit in love with the culture when we read Cicero.”
“I never pegged you for a private school boy,” Kurt blurts before he fully thinks through his statement, clapping a hand over his mouth when he realizes what he’s said. “Oh god, no, I didn’t mean it like that, I didn’t-“
“There’s a lot you wouldn’t guess about me,” Blaine says evenly, not addressing Kurt’s comment. “But yes, private school. And I’ve been reading Latin on my own since then.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that wasn’t okay,” Kurt says quickly, suddenly afraid he’s crossed an invisible line or done something to offend. “It’s just-we didn’t really have Latin at my high school. All we really had was a two-bit Spanish teacher who couldn’t speak Spanish, but was my glee club coach.”
“You were in glee?” Blaine asks, and Kurt wants to laugh because all Blaine got from his mini-rant was that fact, but nothing about Mr. Schuester and his horrible teaching abilities.
“Three years. We actually won Nationals my senior year, that was a bit crazy. Awesome, but none of us know how we pulled it off.”
“Wait,” Blaine holds out a hand to stop Kurt, pulls him aside from the crowds in the museum. “You were in glee and you lived in Lima? Where did you go to high school?”
“McKinley, why? We were the New Directions, probably the laughing stock of all of the greater Ohio competition sector.”
“I went to Dalton, was in the Warblers.”
“The Dalton Academy Warblers? We competed against them a few times, how did we never-“
“I quit my sophomore year. I wasn’t really doing well at home, and then when I moved out here-I’d been in glee club in my old school, too, and Dalton was just-well, I mean, you’ve competed against them. You understand.”
“You left the Warblers for Paris, then?”
“I left a lot of things for Paris.”
Kurt opens his mouth to ask another question, but Blaine tugs on his arm to get them moving again, sets off in the direction they’ve been heading for the past ten minutes.
“We’re almost there,” he says, widening his stride slightly so that he’s a step or two ahead of Kurt, pulling away. Kurt frowns at Blaine’s sudden distance, at the way Blaine’s closed off every time Ohio or his family has been brought up since the moment they started talking early in the day. He has to remind himself that Blaine is still a stranger, that it isn’t his place to ask these questions or to push Blaine’s boundaries. Quickening his steps, Kurt catches up to Blaine just in time to see the statue they’ve been looking for come into view, set apart from everything else in a wide-open room, surrounded on all sides by children and their parents, tourists, art students with sketchpads.
“Oh my god,” Kurt breathes, his minor frustration with Blaine forgotten as he takes in the sculpture, the way the folds of her dress seem to flow from the marble, the features of her face crafted so carefully.
“You can see why this one’s my favorite,” Blaine offers from just behind Kurt’s shoulder, his own eyes sparkling as he takes in the statue. “And to think this is from thousands of years ago, that someone had the tools and the ability to carve this back then-it’s amazing, isn’t it?”
“It’s breathtaking. And it’s just-it’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“The drapery is my favorite part,” Blaine agrees, stepping a bit closer to the statue and gesturing to the folds of the dress, the way it falls off the curve of her back. “It’s so soft, but it’s carved from marble. The way it just seems to have slipped from her arms, the way it drapes across her back and over her knee, falls to the floor like that-it almost feels private, doesn’t it? Like you’ve stepped into some private moment, into her room as she’s getting ready for bed, for something more.”
Kurt has nothing to say in response to Blaine, whose voice has gotten softer and more reverent the more he’s spoken. Blaine’s voice is like honey, sweet and soothing and so, so wonderful, and Kurt wants to get lost in his description of Aphrodite and her clothing, in the way Blaine takes a marble sculpture and brings it to life with only his words.
“How do you do that?” Kurt asks, turning his head to face Blaine, who’s gotten surprisingly close as he’s been speaking, is hovering just beside Kurt’s shoulder. “How did you make that sound so-so sexy?”
“It’s a talent born of my love for the classics,” Blaine quips, and the spell breaks, Kurt laughing as Blaine slides away a few feet, walking around the sculpture, admiring. “I’ve never really gotten to try it on anyone else.”
“You’re terrible,” Kurt laughs, stepping beside Blaine and gazing up and down the marble, taking in the details he couldn’t see from far away, the intricate bits of carving, the chips and imperfections in the marble.
“You love it.”
And Kurt’s entire world seems to spin at the word, even though Blaine’s still, for all intents and purposes, a complete stranger.
He knows nothing about Blaine, besides a few simple facts and the way his voice sounds.
But he might have something of a crush.
- - - - -
They spend a total of five hours exploring the museum, Blaine explaining details of the Greek and Roman collection to Kurt, citing years of Roman history lectures and his study of Latin, but mostly admiring the aspects of the carving, the marble work, the mastery. They fall into a comfortable rhythm, discussing everything from the art to what other European cities are like, to life back home. Kurt avoids bringing up anything too personal, and Blaine seems to follow the same tact, so by the time they step out into the fading sunlight, it feels like they know everything about each other and nothing at the same time.
Kurt is somewhat surprised when they step outside and there’s still daylight, because they’ve been inside for so long that he’d lost track of time. The sun is less brutal than it had been, setting somewhat, a pleasant breeze skirting through the courtyard, the air light and easy as they walk down the street, Kurt’s fingertips skirting Blaine’s every so often, their arms so close together as they walk.
He feels incredibly at ease around Blaine, feels as though they’ve known each other much longer than half a day. Blaine, for his part, has grown visibly more comfortable as they’ve talked and walked, talking animatedly to Kurt about his background in history and his love of music.
Kurt’s startled out of his reflection on the day when Blaine jerks his hand away, checking his watch.
“What-?”
“Are you hungry?”
“What?”
“Are you hungry? It’s been awhile since we had those coffees, and I haven’t eaten anything today. Have you?”
“I mean, nothing except a croissant at breakfast, but-“
“I’ll make you a deal,” Blaine starts, and Kurt’s more than a little confused. Blaine smiles, his eyes crinkling in the way Kurt’s come to love. “I’ll make us dinner at my apartment-I bought a fantastic bottle of wine I’ve been meaning to open, and I’m not too shabby in the kitchen. I’ll cook us something to eat, and then I’ll take you to Notre Dame to see the stars come out. After that, if you’re sick of me, you can absolutely go back to your hotel and never see me again. If not, I’ll meet you tomorrow morning at the Eiffel Tower, same place, and we’ll see the rest of the city. Is that a deal?”
Kurt hesitates-he can almost hear his father berating him-but nods, accepting.
After all, Blaine’s had more than enough opportunity to do him in, and Kurt did come to Europe for an adventure.
“Let’s do it.”
- - - - -
Blaine, it turns out, is fantastic in the kitchen. In a matter of an hour he’s putting a salad on the table, grilled chicken and herbs on top, with a chocolate mousse chilling in the refrigerator for dessert. He pours two glasses of a deep red wine, handing one to Kurt, who’s browsing Blaine’s small bookshelf in the tiny living room, running his fingers along the spines of books.
“You weren’t kidding about the classics,” Kurt observes, pulling out a well-worn copy of Caesar’s de Bello Gallico and thumbing through the pages.
“I like older things,” Blaine says with a shrug, taking a long draw from his glass, savoring the taste. “There’s something beautiful about things that have lost favor, gone out of style. I like vintage clothes, books, music-all of it.”
“That’s actually really cool,” Kurt smiles, replacing the book and sipping from his own glass, the flavor a bit stronger than he’s used to from the cheap boxed wine he’d had throughout college. “I like how you put that-appreciating things no one else does.”
“It’s pretty easy to understand something you’ve grown up with,” Blaine offers bitterly, quirking up the corner of his mouth in a slight smile, looking at Kurt. “I know what it’s like to be under appreciated.”
Kurt isn’t sure what to say, so he doesn’t say anything, takes another drink from his glass instead. Blaine sighs, draining his own glass and moving back to his kitchenette to refill it.
“Should we eat?”
“I’d be happy to,” Kurt says, setting his glass on the table and taking his seat, looking over everything Blaine’s prepared with approval, his mouth watering at the sight of the chicken. “Where did you learn to cook?”
“I was home alone a lot, but mostly from my brother, when I lived with him in LA. He’s something of an actor, or he tries to be. One of his ex-girlfriends was a culinary student, she taught us both that summer.”
“Your brother’s an actor?”
“If you count TV commercials and a guest spot as a dead body on CSI, then yeah. He’s an actor. Whatever makes him happy, though, I guess.”
“My best friend’s an actress,” Kurt offers, chewing a bite of his chicken before he continues, sipping at his wine. “She actually got into that school I’d applied to-NYADA? She’s working off-off-Broadway now, in some show I can’t ever remember the name for but have seen at least twenty-two times.”
“That must be difficult, seeing her do what you’d always dreamed of,” Blaine says quietly, swirling the wine in his glass and watching Kurt’s face. The question should be offensive, but Blaine seems so genuinely concerned that Kurt can’t help but answer.
“I thought it would be, at first. It’s strange, sure, because I was so positive that was my dream for so long. But now-I love what I’m doing. I almost just fell into fashion, as an accident. But I love it. I love thinking about lines and silhouettes and patterns and colors. It’s really almost like-like creating art that people can wear, you know? Like the paintings we saw today. The way you talked about the Venus? That’s how I feel about my clothes.”
“I’d give anything to have half your passion,” Blaine says, almost wistfully, and Kurt frowns, sipping from his glass again before he speaks.
“What about you, Blaine? You came to Paris when you were barely seventeen. What’s your dream?”
“I want-I don’t actually know, really. I just want to be doing what I love, helping people in some way. I want to make a dent, make a difference in someone’s life. I never had-I never really had that growing up. I left home at sixteen, took the GED at seventeen and moved to a foreign country. I take art classes and creative writing classes here, but I mostly play guitar wherever I feel like, and I just-I sing.”
“It’s been so long since I’ve been able to really sing,” Kurt admits, eyes drifting to Blaine’s guitar where it rests in the corner. “I’ve been so busy with my capstone project that I haven’t been able to.”
“Then we should fix that,” Blaine says, voice heavy and intense. They’ve finished the bottle of wine between them, passing the night in easy conversation. Their plates are clear, and Kurt is more than willing to forego the mousse in favor of listening to Blaine play again.
“Play something,” he says, walking over to pick up the guitar from its case, handing it to Blaine. “Play something I can sing.”
“Hold on.” Blaine crosses over to the couch, leaving the dirty dishes on the table to be cleaned later. He settles himself on the cushions, bracing the guitar against his thighs and plucking a few strings, poking his tongue between his teeth as he fiddles with the tuning. “Do you know this one?”
He starts playing, quietly, the notes stringing together to form a melody Kurt recognizes, something he remembers from nights singing with his mom before she passed, singing with his dad for years afterwards. The words come easily, before he even thinks about it, and suddenly, he’s singing again, eyes closed, listening to nothing except Blaine’s playing and his own voice.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night//
Take these broken wings and learn to fly//
All your life//
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.//
Neither of them speaks; they’re too caught up in the music, the words, the sounds. Kurt lets it wash over him, lets the thrill of singing again carry him through to the end of the song, the final notes fading from Blaine’s guitar.
“You have an amazing voice,” Blaine says when they’re done, his voice rough and quiet, his eyes meeting Kurt as he keeps and holds Kurt’s gaze. “It’s incredibly unique.”
“It’s a gift and a curse,” Kurt shrugs, ducking his head to avoid looking at Blaine longer, breaking the eye contact. “It wasn’t exactly the best thing where I went to high school.”
“Tell me about your high school,” Blaine says suddenly, tipping Kurt’s chin up with gentle fingers, stopping him from looking away. “Tell me about growing up, about your family and your friends and the New Directions. Just-tell me anything.”
“My mom died when I was eight,” Kurt breathes, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he is to Blaine, how the air between them seems to spark. “It was me and my dad, for most of my life. Just us. I grew up in Lima, and I stayed in Lima until I graduated high school. There were no other-I was the only out, gay kid in school. There was this one kid-he turned out to be closeted the whole time, but it didn’t mean-he tortured me. He was always on my case, constantly arguing with me and fighting with me and pushing me into lockers. It was horrible, and no one ever did anything. No one cared.”
“I know what you mean,” Blaine agrees, shifting back on the couch but still managing to keep his proximity to Kurt, the warmth from his body practically radiating into Kurt’s. “At my first high school-not Dalton, Westerville High, it was the same thing. But I had a friend there, this other kid. We were both out, but we weren’t dating. We were just-friends. I asked him to the Sadie Hawkins Dance my freshman year.”
“What happened?”
“We got beat to shit outside the dance waiting for our ride. He was in a coma for three months, and I had to repeat freshman year because of a spinal injury. I transferred to Dalton that fall.”
“Oh, god,” Kurt whispers, his hand automatically covering his mouth. “Blaine-“
“It’s part of the reason I came here, left home. Neither of my parents did anything about it. Neither of them really cared. So I left, went to LA to live with Cooper, and then bought a one way ticket to Paris as soon as the paperwork on my high school degree was done.”
“I didn’t have nearly as bad a time, I can’t believe-“
“You shouldn’t need to minimize what you’ve gone through, Kurt. Please don’t. Not because of me. We’ve both been through a lot, it seems, and we both-we survived. You’re here, you’re in Paris. We both made it out of Ohio.”
“How do you know what to say, all the time? I just-I’ve known you less than a day, Blaine, and I feel like I’ve grown up with you. I just-being with you, being around you? It’s comfortable and terrifying all at once. How do you even manage that?”
“I’ve been told it’s a gift and a curse,” Blaine parrots Kurt’s earlier words, sliding an inch closer on the couch, resting his hand on Kurt’s thigh, its weight comforting and warm. He strokes a gentle thumb over the fabric of Kurt’s pants, a smile quirking his lips as he does.
“You’re an ass.”
“And you’re amazing, Kurt. You’re so wonderful, and I just-I don’t think I can keep myself from doing this any longer.”
Blaine closes the distance between them swiftly, his lips pressing against Kurt’s in an instant. Kurt’s eyes flutter closed, his breath catching as his hand clenches and relaxes at his side, the warmth of Blaine’s kiss washing over him, startling him.
“I’m sorry,” Blaine breathes against Kurt’s lips, pulling away to rest his forehead against Kurt’s, eyes hooded and the tiniest smile playing against his lips. “I couldn’t help myself.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Kurt whispers back, closing the distance between them again, chasing Blaine’s lips with his own kiss, opening his mouth to the kiss, a hand sliding around to Blaine’s neck to pull him closer, flush against his own body.
They fall to the ground, tangled together and giggling, but they don’t stop kissing, too busy exploring and tasting, Blaine’s tongue darting out to lick at Kurt’s lips, opening him up and dipping inside.
They’re breathing heavily when they part, both smiling and giddy, light-headed from the kissing. Blaine pulls back, brushing Kurt’s hair from his forehead with a gentle hand, pressing a kiss to Kurt’s forehead.
“I promised to take you to Notre Dame,” he whispers, kissing along Kurt’s jawline, pressing another kiss to the corner of Kurt’s mouth. “We should get up.”
“Forget about Notre Dame,” Kurt returns, pulling Blaine back to the ground, sliding his hands around to grip Blaine’s ass, settling him evenly on top of Kurt’s body. “We have tomorrow to go, and the next four days to explore Paris together. I think I prefer the view from here, anyway.”
Blaine snorts against Kurt’s skin where he’s pressing open-mouthed kisses against Kurt’s collarbone, his hands playing at the edge of Kurt’s shirt.
“Welcome to Paris, Kurt,” he whispers, working the shirt up and over Kurt’s head before shucking his own. They stand up, and Blaine leads Kurt by the hand to the bedroom, the door snapping shut behind them, their shirts left behind on the floor.
They never do make it to Notre Dame the next day.