Vacation-inspired fic snippet
I'm (kind of) back home from vacation! I had a great time, and I've got a post/journal entries I'll likely share in a day or two, once I've got my photos sorted. In the meantime, the trip also inspired a crazy snippet of a fic I won’t write: Kurt getting the It’s a Wonderful Life (what life would be like if you’d never been born) treatment. I don’t think I could write the full version of this story, because I want to keep it funny, and there’s no way I could avoid mentioning Burt in a Kurt-less world. Since there is no way I could make that anything but really, really sad, I can’t see a way of the fic in its entirety ever happening. But this part stuck in my head and won’t let me go...
(No spoilers for anything; Kurt, Sue, and Blaine; PG-13 for language)
“Where are we?” Kurt asked, picking at the garish orange upholstered couch beside him. To his even greater shock, the floor moved beneath his feet.
“Don’t barf on the furniture, Porcelain. Even if it would more than likely improve the fabric color,” his spirit guide Coach Sylvester said. “We’re here to show you what would become of Prep School Ken Doll but for your interference in his life.”
“Who?” Kurt asked, though he probably would’ve gotten that one instantly had he not been working so hard on standing steadily. “Oh, you mean Blaine, okay. But you still haven’t answered where we are.”
“Got your sea legs yet, Porcelain?” Coach Sylvester said, wandering from the sitting area they’d arrived in and heading into an oddly sunny bar.
Kurt trailed after her. “Ye-es.” He was walking better now, though he still felt a bit off-kilter.
“Did wishing yourself de-born decrease your IQ, too? I always thought you were one of the smarter kids in Schuester’s merry band of misfits. You did have the sense to become a Cheerio, after all.” She pointed out the window. “Sea legs. That wasn’t a figure of speech.”
Outside, Kurt saw a lot more water than he ever had in Ohio. “We’re on a cruise ship?” Kurt asked. “But you said we were here for Blaine-what...? Oh. My. God.”
Coach Sylvester nodded knowingly. “Your little be-bopping boyfriend didn’t have much for ambition before he met you. He was content to just sing like the dork he was with a bunch of sycophantic prep school boys swaying to his beat behind him.” Kurt pondered that. Sue was right, of course. Blaine had just never sounded as sordid as when Coach Sylvester described him. “Without you pushing him not to rest on his laurels-without you goosing him in the rear to get said ass in gear, as it were-” why was Coach Sylvester making everything sound so dirty? “-not to mention scaling back his kitsch, well. There were only so many occupations that suited him.”
Kurt’s stomach flip-flopped, and the queasiness had nothing to do with seasickness. “Oh my god, he became a lounge singer for a cruise line?”
Coach Sylvester looked at Kurt with commiserating disgust, and also something vaguely like pity. “That’s what he does in the evenings...”
Before they rounded a corner in the bar, Kurt heard Blaine’s voice. He froze.
“B Eleven!” Blaine said.
Coach Sylvester physically dragged Kurt around the corner so he could get the full view. Blaine was decked out in nautical wear (and okay, the sailor look did actually work for him-something Kurt would have to keep in mind), hair as slick as ever, smile plastered on his face, and a “Hi! My name is Blaine!” pin on his chest. He stood beside a rolling cage full of bingo balls with an electronic board marking the called numbers behind his back. In front of Blaine sat a crowd of fifty bingo players, forty of whom had most definitely gotten the senior citizen discount for the cruise, about seven of whom were grandkids dragged along with Grandma or Grandpa, and three of whom were scarily competitive middle-aged men with special bingo-card stampers poised over their cards.
As the crowd searched their cards, Blaine kept up his patter. “For the music and Spanish fans among you, that’s what I like to call the ‘Single Ladies’ bingo space. B-Oncé. Because ‘oncé’ is Spanish for eleven. And Beyoncé sang ‘Single Ladies,’ so...”
Forty gray and/or white-haired heads stared up at Blaine in utter confusion.
His smile faltered for a second, then shined even brighter. “Once more, that’s B Eleven, folks! B Eleven! Also, if any of you are interested, I’ll be singing a little Beyoncé tonight.”
More stares, more grumbles.
Blaine’s smile really did go away this time. “And Barry Manilow.”
Approving murmurs circulated through the room.
“Just a reminder, my show in the Starbright Lounge starts at eight o’clock. Be there, or be square. Though we’re all squares here-BINGO squares, that is!”
Oh god, that one got a laugh. Blaine almost looked embarrassed that it did. The kitsch level had risen to the point that it was threatening to drown Kurt.
“Ooh, I’ve got a bingo!” an elderly lady in the front row said. The other players grumbled, and Blaine sprung from his spot to check her card.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mildred. I didn’t call B-Eight. I was saying I’d ‘be’ in the Starbright Lounge at eight tonight.”
“What?” Mildred yelled.
“YOU DON’T HAVE BINGO,” Blaine repeated loudly and slowly. “NO B-EIGHT.”
“They’re out of V-8? I don’t care, I won bingo!”
“NO, NO BINGO FOR YOU!” He gesticulated at the light board, and eventually Mildred got it.
“Oh, that’s all right, Sweetie.” She added in a voice too low for anyone but Kurt and Coach Sylvester to hear, “It was worth it just to get you down here near me again, Hot Stuff.”
And then Mildred deliberately put her hand on Kurt’s boyfriend’s ass. And squeezed.
Brittle bones or no, Kurt would’ve taken that woman down hard had Coach Sylvester not intervened and grabbed him by his collar.
Instead, Kurt had to watch Blaine sigh in resignation. “Look, you’re very sweet, and I appreciate how much bingo you play, but we’ve been through this, Mildred. I’m very young, but more importantly, I’m very, very gay.”
Mildred released her surprisingly strong grip on Blaine’s butt and patted his back. “That’s the spirit. You go on being so happy, Sweetie.”
Coach Sylvester snapped Kurt out of his state of paralyzed horror. “So what do you think, Porcelain?”
Kurt stared at Blaine as he continued to call bingo numbers. “I think I need to get very, very drunk.”
“Not a bad idea,” Coach Sylvester said. “Technically, you’re not underage. You’ve never been born, so you don’t have any age at all.” At least there was one perk to all this. “But it’s your treat. Alcohol costs an arm and a leg on cruise ships. Unless you want to ask your un-boyfriend if he gets a staff discount?”
(No spoilers for anything; Kurt, Sue, and Blaine; PG-13 for language)
“Where are we?” Kurt asked, picking at the garish orange upholstered couch beside him. To his even greater shock, the floor moved beneath his feet.
“Don’t barf on the furniture, Porcelain. Even if it would more than likely improve the fabric color,” his spirit guide Coach Sylvester said. “We’re here to show you what would become of Prep School Ken Doll but for your interference in his life.”
“Who?” Kurt asked, though he probably would’ve gotten that one instantly had he not been working so hard on standing steadily. “Oh, you mean Blaine, okay. But you still haven’t answered where we are.”
“Got your sea legs yet, Porcelain?” Coach Sylvester said, wandering from the sitting area they’d arrived in and heading into an oddly sunny bar.
Kurt trailed after her. “Ye-es.” He was walking better now, though he still felt a bit off-kilter.
“Did wishing yourself de-born decrease your IQ, too? I always thought you were one of the smarter kids in Schuester’s merry band of misfits. You did have the sense to become a Cheerio, after all.” She pointed out the window. “Sea legs. That wasn’t a figure of speech.”
Outside, Kurt saw a lot more water than he ever had in Ohio. “We’re on a cruise ship?” Kurt asked. “But you said we were here for Blaine-what...? Oh. My. God.”
Coach Sylvester nodded knowingly. “Your little be-bopping boyfriend didn’t have much for ambition before he met you. He was content to just sing like the dork he was with a bunch of sycophantic prep school boys swaying to his beat behind him.” Kurt pondered that. Sue was right, of course. Blaine had just never sounded as sordid as when Coach Sylvester described him. “Without you pushing him not to rest on his laurels-without you goosing him in the rear to get said ass in gear, as it were-” why was Coach Sylvester making everything sound so dirty? “-not to mention scaling back his kitsch, well. There were only so many occupations that suited him.”
Kurt’s stomach flip-flopped, and the queasiness had nothing to do with seasickness. “Oh my god, he became a lounge singer for a cruise line?”
Coach Sylvester looked at Kurt with commiserating disgust, and also something vaguely like pity. “That’s what he does in the evenings...”
Before they rounded a corner in the bar, Kurt heard Blaine’s voice. He froze.
“B Eleven!” Blaine said.
Coach Sylvester physically dragged Kurt around the corner so he could get the full view. Blaine was decked out in nautical wear (and okay, the sailor look did actually work for him-something Kurt would have to keep in mind), hair as slick as ever, smile plastered on his face, and a “Hi! My name is Blaine!” pin on his chest. He stood beside a rolling cage full of bingo balls with an electronic board marking the called numbers behind his back. In front of Blaine sat a crowd of fifty bingo players, forty of whom had most definitely gotten the senior citizen discount for the cruise, about seven of whom were grandkids dragged along with Grandma or Grandpa, and three of whom were scarily competitive middle-aged men with special bingo-card stampers poised over their cards.
As the crowd searched their cards, Blaine kept up his patter. “For the music and Spanish fans among you, that’s what I like to call the ‘Single Ladies’ bingo space. B-Oncé. Because ‘oncé’ is Spanish for eleven. And Beyoncé sang ‘Single Ladies,’ so...”
Forty gray and/or white-haired heads stared up at Blaine in utter confusion.
His smile faltered for a second, then shined even brighter. “Once more, that’s B Eleven, folks! B Eleven! Also, if any of you are interested, I’ll be singing a little Beyoncé tonight.”
More stares, more grumbles.
Blaine’s smile really did go away this time. “And Barry Manilow.”
Approving murmurs circulated through the room.
“Just a reminder, my show in the Starbright Lounge starts at eight o’clock. Be there, or be square. Though we’re all squares here-BINGO squares, that is!”
Oh god, that one got a laugh. Blaine almost looked embarrassed that it did. The kitsch level had risen to the point that it was threatening to drown Kurt.
“Ooh, I’ve got a bingo!” an elderly lady in the front row said. The other players grumbled, and Blaine sprung from his spot to check her card.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mildred. I didn’t call B-Eight. I was saying I’d ‘be’ in the Starbright Lounge at eight tonight.”
“What?” Mildred yelled.
“YOU DON’T HAVE BINGO,” Blaine repeated loudly and slowly. “NO B-EIGHT.”
“They’re out of V-8? I don’t care, I won bingo!”
“NO, NO BINGO FOR YOU!” He gesticulated at the light board, and eventually Mildred got it.
“Oh, that’s all right, Sweetie.” She added in a voice too low for anyone but Kurt and Coach Sylvester to hear, “It was worth it just to get you down here near me again, Hot Stuff.”
And then Mildred deliberately put her hand on Kurt’s boyfriend’s ass. And squeezed.
Brittle bones or no, Kurt would’ve taken that woman down hard had Coach Sylvester not intervened and grabbed him by his collar.
Instead, Kurt had to watch Blaine sigh in resignation. “Look, you’re very sweet, and I appreciate how much bingo you play, but we’ve been through this, Mildred. I’m very young, but more importantly, I’m very, very gay.”
Mildred released her surprisingly strong grip on Blaine’s butt and patted his back. “That’s the spirit. You go on being so happy, Sweetie.”
Coach Sylvester snapped Kurt out of his state of paralyzed horror. “So what do you think, Porcelain?”
Kurt stared at Blaine as he continued to call bingo numbers. “I think I need to get very, very drunk.”
“Not a bad idea,” Coach Sylvester said. “Technically, you’re not underage. You’ve never been born, so you don’t have any age at all.” At least there was one perk to all this. “But it’s your treat. Alcohol costs an arm and a leg on cruise ships. Unless you want to ask your un-boyfriend if he gets a staff discount?”