Too in Love to Let it Go, Chapter 28 cont'd
Kurt walked into Bean Me Up with his sketchpad, content to wait as long as Blaine required. They needed to talk, at length and openly. He needed to do things right this time around. Kurt's decision to return to work would affect Blaine eventually, if he ever moved back in - be honest, Kurt, if you ever let him move back in - and he deserved a bigger part in the decision than he'd been given before. Before, as Kurt was loathe to remember, he'd done everything wrong, pouncing when Blaine was weak and opinion-less after being so well fucked he could barely remember his name. It hadn't been fair, and Kurt hadn't even given him a chance to say no.
He wouldn't make that mistake again.
But before he got to any of that, before he whined about how bored he was lately and gushed over the hours he'd spent sketching in the last week, how the new designs were good and marketable and needed to be seen - how Kurt needed to be seen - he needed to make sure his husband was alright. An uneasy feeling was rolling around in Kurt's abdomen since that last phone call with Blaine. Rationally, he knew that going to the pharmacy could be as simple as "I have a sinus infection," but Blaine had seemed so skittish that it couldn't have been good news. He wouldn't feel better until he heard it straight from Blaine's mouth that there was no cancer diagnosis, no heart condition.
Kurt walked to the counter, placed their orders, found a table by the window and settled into a chair to wait, opening his sketchpad to try and pass the time. It was so easy to get lost in it, perfecting the contour of a sleeve, mixing the perfect shade of color with his Prismacolors. He was finishing the details on a ruffled dress, completely unaware of how much time had passed, when the bell on the front door jingled. Kurt looked up and there was Blaine, his hair a little windblown and his brow knitted tight.
"Hi, honey," Kurt said gently, packing his pencils away as Blaine approached. He nodded to the empty chair waiting for Blaine across the table. "Come sit." Blaine sat without speaking, a CVS bag clutched tightly in his fist. Kurt held up a piece of biscotti. "Want some?"
Blaine nodded, taking the cookie from Kurt's hand. He dipped it in his coffee cup, then looked up. "I didn't mean to be short with you earlier," he said, a slight tremor to his voice that only Kurt would ever recognize. "I was waiting, and they called my name …"
"It's no problem, Blaine; I didn't think anything of it. I don't mean to pry, but if you don't mind telling me - what were you getting at the pharmacy? Are you okay? It's just - if you have cancer or something -"
"Oh," Blaine interrupted, his eyes widening. "Oh, no, it's nothing like that … God, I feel so stupid now." Placing the biscotti on a plate, he opened the bag with a loud crinkle. He took out an orange prescription bottle and set it down in front of Kurt.
Kurt picked it up, his heart thudding in his chest as he read the label.
Fluoxetine. 10 mg. Take one capsule by mouth once a day.
"Fluoxetine?"
"Prozac," Blaine whispered.
"Oh," Kurt said softly, setting the bottle on the table and sitting back in his seat. This changed things. This meant Blaine was trying, really trying. This meant hope. It wasn't the pills as much as Blaine admitting he was sick, that he needed more help than either of them realized. And the prospect of something actually helping - it was like a light at the end of Kurt's very long, very dark tunnel.
"So, if this is gonna be a deal-breaker for you," Blaine was saying as he stuffed the bottle back into the bag and cast his eyes away, "can you tell me now so I can decide whether I'm taking them or not? I just - I need them, but if it means losing you -"
"Taking care of yourself will never mean losing me." Kurt reached across the table, slid his hand over Blaine's. His skin was smooth, cool to the touch under his fingers. "Blaine, this is huge. This is - it's good, it makes me feel better -"
"Really?" The disbelief written all over Blaine's face made Kurt's heart sink.
"Oh, honey," Kurt sighed, "of course it does." He paused, a little hesitant to ask the next question. "Do you maybe want to come home for a while this afternoon? I can fix us some dinner, and we can just talk?"
"You'd let me?"
"I want you to. It's felt so empty lately, Blaine - nobody fills the space like you do."
Blaine blinked at him. "Do you mean that?"
"I do," Kurt said, squeezing his hand hard. "I'm not - god, I feel like a jerk saying I'm not ready for you to live at home yet, but …"
"It's ok," Blaine mumbled, slumping back in his chair. "I understand."
Kurt didn't let go of his hand. "Just because I'm not there yet doesn't mean I won't be soon."
* * *
Kurt stood in the kitchen, slicing butternut squash to roast for a warm fall salad as Blaine plunked out a listless melody on the piano in the living room.
It wasn't until a few bars into the song that he realized what Blaine was playing, and he began to sing softly to himself as slid the squash in the oven to roast and grabbed a couple cloves of garlic from the vegetable bowl above the sink.
"Don't know why there's no sun up in the sky, stormy weather, since my man and I ain't together … keeps rainin' all the time …"
Kurt's voice was sad and a little hollow as he sang, matching the somber tone of the piano. He glanced out the doorway of the kitchen. Blaine's fingers were moving across the keys as if they were separate from the rest of his body, which was sagged over the keyboard like a lifeless ragdoll. His eyes were closed, but the bottle of Prozac sat on the cheek of the piano right in his line of vision, and Kurt knew he'd been staring at it.
Kurt sighed, still singing softly, and walked into the living room, straddling the bench next to Blaine, nearly stepping on Romeo, who was curled up at Blaine's feet. He wrapped his arms around Blaine's waist, tucked his chin over Blaine's soft, lambswool covered shoulder and sang into his ear.
"When he went away, the blues walked in and met me - if he stays away, ol' rocking chair will get me …"
"All I do is pray the Lord above will let me walk in the sun once more …" Blaine sang softly with him, lifting his hands off the keys. His torso twisted around as he gripped the back of Kurt's head with one hand and curled his other arm around Kurt's waist.
"Keeps rainin' all the time," Kurt whispered, pressing a kiss to Blaine's temple. "I've got to go finish dinner, honey, but -"
"Do you need any help?"
Kurt pulled back a few inches, studied him. Blaine's eyes didn't quite meet his own. "Sure," he said slowly, tracing his fingers over the outline of Blaine's face. "I'd like that."
Blaine untangled himself from their embrace and rose from the piano bench, wordlessly walking into the kitchen. Romeo whined and trotted in behind him, and Kurt glanced at the pill bottle one last time before following them both.
Blaine was already mincing the cloves of garlic sitting on the cutting board when Kurt walked in, reaching above Blaine's head to retrieve a bowl from the top cabinet. "I've missed this," Blaine said softly. "Being here. Cooking with you."
"I've missed it too," Kurt said, aching a bit with nostalgia. They were always impressively talented together, doing the Dance of the Tiny Kitchen… He grabbed a lemon and started squeezing it into a strainer over a measuring cup, glad to have something to do with his hands.
"So what's next?"
"I guess …" Kurt paused. What was next? Letting Blaine stay for more than just dinner? And how would that conversation even go? "Maybe we'll just wait and see? I know that's a terrible answer, but -"
"No, Kurt, I mean - I'm done with the garlic. What else do you need me to do?" Blaine asked, gesturing to the little pile of minced garlic on the cutting board.
"Oh." Stupid. Kurt wanted to thunk his head into the refrigerator door. Blaine must have thought he'd lost his mind. "Um - whisk the lemon juice and the garlic together in this bowl, and I'll get the tahini out …"
"Okay." Blaine did as he asked, the metal whisk making pinging sounds on the sides of the bowl. "I talked with Dr. Jacobson about my dad on Wednesday," he said, not looking up from what he was stirring.
"Oh yeah? How'd that go?" Kurt asked, trying to keep his tone light.
"It was hard. But good, I think? I - Kurt, I'm writing again. I can't stop writing, actually," he said with a little chuckle.
Kurt froze with the refrigerator door standing wide open. "Seriously?"
"Yeah. And it's helping? Maybe?"
"Oh, honey, that's wonderful." Kurt shut the fridge, beaming at his husband. If Blaine was writing again, it meant that things were falling back into some semblance of normal. That Blaine was trying. That the Blaine he'd always known was maybe, somehow, crawling back to him.
"Yeah, I read her part of what I wrote. It's sort of stream of consciousness right now, but … I don't know. It's bringing lots of things to the surface. And - I don't know how stream of consciousness is supposed to give you any sort of clarity, but that's what it seems to be doing for me." He stopped. "I don't know if I'm making any sense."
"You're making perfect sense."
"But - that's enough about me for one day," Blaine said, looking down at the bowl of lemon juice. "You said on the phone you wanted to talk to me about something."
"I do," Kurt said, turning to spoon tahini into the bowl. "Keep whisking, okay?" Blaine nodded, and Kurt's eyes darted to his forearm, which flexed appealingly with each turn of the whisk. "I want to do things right this time. I - I've been thinking about going back to work. I'm so bored here at home all the time. I've been sketching this week and - god, this sounds conceited, but I think my mojo is back. But it's not just about what I want, Blaine," he said, sliding his hand over Blaine's, stilling it on the edge of the bowl. "That was where I went wrong last time, and I won't do it again. If you aren't ready for me to be caught up in work, just say so. I have my job, regardless, and Marc said to take all the time we both need, and -"
"Kurt," Blaine said, his voice gentle.
"Yes?"
"You have my blessing."
"Really?"
Blaine grinned. "Really. You're the most talented person I know - it would be a waste for you to just sit at home and -"
And then Blaine wasn't talking anymore because Kurt was kissing him, pressing him back against the refrigerator.
"Wow," Blaine managed to get out between kisses. "Right answer?"
"No," said Kurt. "Just - thank you." He pulled Blaine into another searing kiss.
"Jesus, I miss you," Blaine sighed as Kurt moved down Blaine's jawline to his neck, letting the prickly stubble scrape against his mouth and cheek and god that shouldn't have turned him on as much as it did. Kurt nipped down the side of Blaine's neck, tucking his nose into the shawl collar of Blaine's sweater and sucking at the curve between Blaine's neck and shoulder.
"Miss you, too," Kurt mumbled against his skin, then looked up with a grin. "I have to say, I like this stubble thing you've got going on a lot better than the beard."
"Glad I shaved yesterday, then," Blaine grinned back. "Kurt - please?" he asked, his hands resting on the button of Kurt's pants. He stilled, waiting for permission.
But it was permission that Kurt couldn't give. He'd built it up in his head, how their first time together in over a month would go. Even though he knew it was stupid and shouldn't matter, he wanted romance. He wanted a date, he wanted wine and candles and, even as glad as he was about it, he maybe wanted not to have just been told that his husband would be starting on antidepressants.
"I -" he hesitated.
Blaine's face fell. "Never mind," he said, pulling his hands away and crossing his arms over his chest. "We need to finish dinner."
"I'm sorry," Kurt said helplessly, wanting to weep over how quickly the mood had changed. "But - soon, I swear. I know I -"
"No," Blaine interrupted. "It's fine. I can be patient." Kurt brushed his hand through Blaine's hair one last time and moved to kiss him, but Blaine shrunk away. "Kurt, I - it's not that I don't want to be close to you, but - it's harder, the more proximity -"
"Oh. Of course, I'm sorry," Kurt sighed, stepping away to retrieve the olive oil. "Here," he said, handing Blaine the bottle. "Measure out two tablespoons and whisk it in while I toss the squash and the chickpeas together." He paused. "Blaine, I -"
"Please don't," Blaine said, his eyes wide and pleading. "It's just - I've had a really long day. Can we just forget that happened and finish dinner and eat and pretend that things are normal for a while? Please?"
Kurt wanted to laugh. Everything had been so far from normal for so long that he barely even remembered what normal meant anymore. But he felt guilty for cutting Blaine off earlier, so he nodded. "Sure we can, honey," he said, reaching for Blaine's hand, feeling a little better when the gesture was returned. "I hope we won't have to pretend for too much longer."
* * *
Dinner was delicious.
Blaine's heart felt too big for his body as they sat at the table, butternut squash melting into caramelized velvet on his tongue. He listened with his chin propped on his hand as Kurt chattered away about how much better he felt, how proud he was of himself that Rachel had felt safe enough to move out. It was one of the loveliest things that Blaine had ever witnessed. He didn't believe in miracles, but he thought the little pill that Kurt popped half an hour before dinner might have been close to one - not once during their meal did Kurt turn pale, stop to swallow hard or push his plate away.
After dinner they moved to the couch to talk, the TV on low in the background, but within a few minutes their conversation faltered and an awkward silence fell over the room. Blaine shifted uncomfortably as they pretended to watch a house-hunter show on HGTV. There were too many ghosts in the condo - everywhere he looked, on the walls, at the ground, down the hall, at the bookcase, some memory of his life with Kurt would swoop in and make his stomach flip-flop. He avoided looking at Violet's room completely.
When the memories got to be too much and his knee started jiggling nervously, he reached out and took Kurt's hand. "Can I see those sketches? The ones you've been doing this week?"
"Oh," Kurt said. "Um - sure. Hang on; let me get them."
Blaine sat patiently as Kurt ambled over to the kitchen table, watching his long strides. It dawned on him that in spite of everything she'd said to him, he needed to write Rachel a thank-you note for taking care of Kurt and force-feeding him those protein shakes. If it weren't for her, he worried that he'd never have seen those long legs walk that way ever again.
When Kurt returned to the couch, Blaine tugged at the book in his hands, but Kurt didn't let go. "I have to warn you first …"
"Warn me? About what?"
"I just don't want it to be a shock." He paused, still refusing to relinquish the sketchbook. "They're baby clothes, Blaine."
"Oh." He sat back on the couch, feeling a little like someone had just knocked the wind out of him. But then he looked over to the piano where his Prozac bottle still sat. He thought of the thousands of words in his Word documents. He remembered the exercises in "self-soothing" that he'd learned in therapy, the fights he had with his inner voice on the pages of his notepad.
And he realized in that moment that Kurt was just doing the same thing. Blaine and Dr. Jacobson talked a lot about ways he could hurt himself versus ways he could help himself during his individual therapy sessions. It dawned on him that Kurt probably discussed the same thing with her, that Kurt needed ways to help himself as well. Sketching baby clothes wasn't meant as a personal affront to Blaine at all - it was just Kurt's way of dealing with the last four months, of trying to heal himself, just like taking the Zofran so he could eat and going to therapy.
Blaine wasn't sure how to vocalize his thoughts, so he wordlessly took the sketchbook from Kurt's hand and opened to the first page. He gasped when he saw them, the tiny, beautiful, stylish dresses clearly designed for tiny, beautiful, stylish babies. Blaine felt his heart stop momentarily.
"I -" Blaine swallowed. "Kurt, they're gorgeous," he breathed.
"You think so?" Kurt asked, clearly pleased.
"God, yes."
"I designed them for Violet originally," Kurt said softly, reaching down to trace his finger over one of the dresses. "But then - I don't know, I like it. It's different. So it kind of grew …"
Blaine turned the page, his eyes widening. "It's - it's like little me. And little you. Oh, Kurt -"
On the page before him were cropped yellow corduroys, tiny newsboy caps, miniature bow ties, saddle shoes, then lower, tailored pants and vests, skinny ties, skinnier jeans, and a tiny, tiny pair of Doc Marten-esque boots.
"For if we had a son. I know they're not practical, but I started with clothes that reminded me of you, because the world needs more little Blaines running around …"
Blaine took Kurt's hand and pressed a hard kiss to it. "You know how I said it would be a waste of your talent if you didn't go back to work? This is what I'm talking about. Waste of talent, Kurt." Kurt smiled above him. "Seriously," Blaine continued. "You're showing these to Marc, right? Like, the day you go back. You need to schedule a meeting with him because he needs to see them."
"Thank you," Kurt said softly. "I - they were just for me, starting out. It helped. It's helping - like your writing. I was afraid you might be mad."
"I - no. I think I just realized that a lot of the stuff I was mad at you for? You were doing just to get by. I think - I don't know why I thought everything you did was a personal attack on me, but -"
Kurt smiled. "We can talk about it in therapy tomorrow."
"Right." Blaine went quiet for a moment. "The only thing is - I just wish we'd had her long enough so that she could've worn stuff that you made her. It would've been so special."
Kurt sighed. "I do, too. I wish we'd had her long enough to do a lot of things, honey."
"I know." Blaine patted the couch. "Sit beside me?"
Kurt gave him a sad smile and dropped to the couch, tucking his arms around Blaine's waist. "I'm glad you're here tonight," he said. "Do you want to watch a movie before you go back to Nick's?"
* * *
Monday, October 9th, 2023
"Kurt, these are good."
It was Monday morning and Kurt sat in Marc Jacobs' office, his form fuller and his cheeks pinker than they were the last time he was there. "Thank you," he said, beaming. He was proud of his work, knew it was good, but there wasn't anything quite like hearing it from his boss.
"These are really good," Marc continued. "As in, I'm seriously considering scrapping the entire kids' line and starting over with these, kind of good. This is coming at such a good time, too …"
Kurt stared at him. "You aren't serious."
"I might be."
"But I've been gone -"
"Well, clearly the break did you well. You were fantastic before, but my god, Kurt, this makes me want to have babies just so I can dress them in your clothes -" He stopped, his eyes widening. "I'm sorry. Was that out of line?"
"No, no," Kurt said, shaking his head. "They're - it's sort of a tribute. To Violet. Or - well, I guess to 'my children' in the abstract sense, not that we'll get to have any," he said, using air quotes. "It's just - I don't know, it's what I would've wanted to dress my kids in."
"Well, whatever it is, it's working for me. Do you think you could do more?"
Could he do more? His head was swimming with pieces, onesies, sleepers, dresses, tiny little bow ties and miniature wayfarers. "I have closets full of ideas," he said.
Marc grinned. "That's what I like to hear. I'll have to make some arrangements, of course, so for right now you'll go back to Mens' Ready to Wear, but what are your feelings regarding upward mobility in this company?"
Kurt narrowed his eyes. "I'm a little confused."
Marc looked at him seriously. "Everything I'm about to tell you has to stay in this room."
"Of course," Kurt nodded.
"Jackie - the current director of the kids' line, as you know - gave me her notice three days ago. She's leaving in three weeks to go to Ralph Lauren and head up their girls' department. They recruited her pretty heavily, apparently, as well they should have, because you know she's very good. I was actually quite torn up about it, but after seeing this …" he gestured to Kurt's sketchbook.
Kurt blinked at him, his mind whirring. "So - what exactly are you saying, Marc?"
Mark smiled slyly. "I'm not saying anything right now."
"But, hypothetically speaking …"
"Well, if we're speaking hypothetically … if I were to hypothetically have an open position as creative director of the children's line, would you consider hypothetically stepping into it if I hypothetically offered it to you?"
Kurt's jaw dropped. "The director?"
"Hypothetically speaking, of course."
"I - but I don't have any experience with kids' clothes!"
"Clearly," Marc said, holding up a page in Kurt's sketchbook, "it doesn't matter."
"I -" Kurt couldn't think. He could hardly breathe - Marc Jacobs was practically offering him a director position in the company. Which would mean a hefty raise. Which would make the debt left over from their attempted adoption considerably easier to manage. Which would mean less stress, and a potentially happier marriage, and an even more stable work environment, and the potential of opening his own line being a bigger possibility, and - Marc was staring at him expectantly. Right. He was supposed to be answering a question. "Yes. Absolutely, I accept. Um, hypothetically."
"Good. We'll be in touch about this, Kurt - but until I can get things in order, I can't stress enough how imperative your silence is. No one else knows that Jackie's leaving yet, and I don't want this to be spread around the studio."
"Of course," Kurt said, his heart threatening to jump right out of his body. "I won't even tell Blaine yet."
Marc smiled. "How are you two, anyway?"
"We're - getting there," Kurt said, thinking of the increasing frequency of their kisses, of the fact that they were talking - really talking - to each other again.
"Is he back at home with you yet?"
"Not yet, but soon," Kurt answered. He was surer of it every time he said the words. "I've gotten to the point where I miss him more than I'm mad at him. We're in couple's therapy, and that's going well, and - things aren't quite good, yet, but they're definitely better."
"Sounds like you're going in the right direction, then. In many ways," Marc said, closing Kurt's sketchbook and handing it back to him. "I hope you're as serious about what we've discussed today as I am."
"I am," Kurt assured him. "Believe me - you've just made my entire year."
"Good," Marc said with a smile. "Now, go get to work - I know Tori's beside herself she's so excited to see you."
Chapter 29