fic: rumble, young man, rumble (boxer!blaine)
A/N: So I took a lot of artistic license with how boxers are selected to represent their country, but shh just pretend. The title is a Muhammad Ali quote. Also posted here at my tumblr.
London was nothing like Blaine had imagined. He’d seen the photos, heard the stories, crushed on the actors. It seemed smaller than he had thought, dirtier and more cramped. For some reason, his mind had bought in to all of the stereotypes and not many of them had turned out to be true. There was a lot of tea going around his British colleagues, admittedly, but after a couple of cups Blaine really couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. It was nice enough, a little bland, but he really preferred coffee. It was warm and sunny, not hot compared to the temperatures of around 100 he’d left behind, but everyone seemed to think it was hotter than the surface of the sun outside. He still saw a lot of people carrying umbrellas despite the lack of any mention of rain in the weather forecast, which suggested that the nice weather was a fluke. The underground was constantly rammed (although a British friend had told him that it was usually busy but not this busy, it was just over capacity with so many extra people in town), and Blaine couldn’t understand why everyone felt the need to run to get a train when an identical one would be along within three minutes. He couldn’t get used to pounds and he had to mentally convert the price of everything to dollars to decide if it was expensive or not.
It had all been a blur. Blaine had been hitting away at his favorite punching bag in the gym when a guy approached him and asked if he wanted to spar for a bit. Blaine wasn’t a huge fan of boxing with another person, but he accepted - mostly because the guy seemed pretty good from what Blaine had seen of him at his own bag and the thought of beating him sent a competitive thrill down Blaine’s spine. They fought for a while and Blaine gave his best, which seemed to impress the guy. In the locker room after, he revealed that he was actually a scout and he wanted Blaine to try out for the Olympic boxing team. It was an insane proposition, one that took a lot of thinking about and talking over with his parents and Kurt, but Blaine eventually realized that, even though he didn’t want to be a sportsman, he couldn’t turn down an opportunity to at least try out. He had expected to go along, be beaten and not make it onto the team but be able to say that he had done that. It would’ve been a good story for the grandkids. Now, he was living an even better story. He was in London, with journalists referring to him as things like America’s gold medal hopeful and USA’s young boxing prodigy.
Kurt’s face appeared clear and crisp on the laptop screen - clearly no expense had been spared on the quality of the Wi-Fi, and Blaine was thankful for that. He was grinning widely, with a little USA flag painted on his cheek.
“God, I miss you,” Blaine breathed, settling back into his pillows.
“I miss you too,” Kurt responded, his grin softening into a happy smile. “What time is it? I suck at keeping track.”
“Nearly ten,” Blaine said. “What’s with the patriotism?”
“Oh, that,” Kurt laughed, touching his fingers lightly to the flag before checking that he hadn’t smudged it. “Carole was helping out at a fundraiser for the hospital and she convinced me to go along and help. I ended up on face paints and the kids insisted that I needed to have something done as well.”
Blaine laughed, then his face dropped. “I hate that we’re spending this apart,” he sighed. “This is supposed to be our summer together before you leave.”
“Blaine,” Kurt said. “It’s only a couple of weeks. And it’s the Olympics. How many colleges are going to have actual Olympic athletes applying?”
“It will look pretty impressive, won’t it?” Blaine smiled.
“Definitely. How’s London?”
“It’d be better if you were here,” Blaine sighed. “The view from my room’s amazing. I’ve taken tons of pictures. And I’m bringing you gifts.”
“And maybe a medal?”
“And maybe a medal,” Blaine laughed. “I should go. Early training before the match tomorrow.”
“Good luck, honey,” Kurt said. “We’ll be watching.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
The commentator introduced Blaine by reeling off a list of facts. Seventeen years old, about to start his last year of high school, says he doesn’t want to be a professional athlete but instead a Broadway performer or, failing that, a music teacher. Has been providing entertainment in the Olympic village by starting impromptu sing-alongs with the other athletes in his building.
Blaine didn’t remember much after that. The crowd and the adrenaline and thinking of Kurt sat at home watching him. But he must’ve done something right, because nothing else was solid until he was stood on a podium with a bronze medal around his neck. He was crying, because this was so much more than he was expecting, more than he could’ve hoped for. He could imagine what Kurt’s house was like at that moment, full of cheers and whoops and hugs and probably tears. He held his fingers to his lips, then to his heart, then out, and hoped that Kurt wouldn’t be celebrating so hard that he missed the kiss sent across oceans and television signals.
He couldn’t wait until the games were over to leave. His coach understood, thankfully - seventeen, alone in a foreign country and just won an Olympic medal, of course the kid wanted to be at home to celebrate properly. A flight was booked and Blaine managed to get away with only giving one small interview before he left. He’d come back to London one day with Kurt, maybe on their honeymoon. After all, although he wasn’t planning to use it for a little while, but London was where he bought the engagement ring.