*take your powder, take your candle
GLEE FANFIC; KURT x BLAINE. RENT AU, and my apologies to Rentheads and Glee fans because I know my re-casting choices must seem a little wonky. For explanations, see the masterpost, because this fic is part of my RENT-themed Big Bang for the challenge at gleeverse. Or, um, you could always read the fic first.
This would be my first attempt at writing Klaine. Also, for Joachim ♥, who gave me the RENT movie, and who loves Glee, and who will never be ready to read slashy fic *g*
take your powder, take your candle
By hipokras
RENT AU; re-imagining of Light My Candle.
It's hard for people to come into your life when you're constantly trying to lock them out. Lucky (or not) for Kurt, Blaine is more than normally persistent.
There's usually protocol to follow when one greets new neighbours. Fresh oven-baked cookies, jug wine, or a whole basket hamper are sort of the traditional choices. When Blaine Anderson moved into 4B, the only neighbour he ever saw was the blonde who lived up in the loft.
"Quinn Fabray, ex-roommate of our lovable landlord," she'd said, leaning her hip against the wall as she sorted through her mail. She really was very pretty, if you were into that type... girls, that is. So that was how Blaine had appeared on her doorstep two days later, carrying a pizza and some flowers he'd plucked from the sidewalk weed.
Only Quinn hadn't answered the door, but a slight dark-haired guy, with a very fetching scowl. If Blaine has a type, it's small, dark, and snarky. The fact that it was apparently hate at first sight did nothing to deter him.
When the door was slammed closed in Blaine's face, (the guy not even bothering to ask what toppings were on the pizza,) he didn't give up. He climbed the fire escape all the way to the loft, and kept knocking on the window like a pigeon until Quinn hurried out of the shower, and Kurt threatened to call the police.
(It'd turned out that Quinn hated cheese burst, but Kurt loved it, "not that he's going to admit it." Blaine calls this sort of thing destiny.)
*
Santana cuts their power on Christmas Eve, because she's awesome like that. Numerous letters complaining about her abuse of landlordly powers do not help. She promises to turn it back on if Quinn will help her sabotage Rachel's protest, but Quinn snaps her jaws closed like a steel trap, and refuses to acknowledge anything that involves Rachel.
Kurt is still snickering at the fact that Quinn used to date Rachel, and that was enough to turn Rachel straight. (Her new boyfriend is as pompous and big-headed as she is, so they're really matched better that Quinn was.) He's not laughing anymore when he has to light five hundred candles in the loft just so that he can see which shoe he's putting on which foot.
"There's the Christmas spirit," says Quinn fondly, when Kurt starts tapping out a particularly vicious tune he calls Rent.
"Hello."
"Go away."
"That's no way to greet a neighbour."
"Please go away?"
It's pitch dark, and Kurt has already scorched his cuticles once trying to light the goddamned candles. The addition of Blaine Anderson of 4B staring in through the window is not helping matters in any way. Kurt doesn't want much out of life: a way to keep Santana happy, so that she'll stop cutting power as a blackmail scheme, and maybe some neighbours who use the front door instead of the fire escape.
(Not that Kurt is fond of neighbours who use the front door either, but- where the hell is Quinn, and why isn't she dealing with this fuckery instead?)
"We're not home," he shouts through the glass. "Go find a Santa Claus in a mall somewhere. At least those guys get paid to entertain you."
There's a suddenly awkward silence. Blaine Anderson of 4B clears his throat quietly. Kurt secretly hopes that Blaine is offended enough to leave, but the guy still sticks around, standing goofily on the fire escape. "I hope you didn't mean that like I think you did."
And then taking Kurt's surliness as some sort of invitation, Blaine starts pushing open the window and climbing in. "I'm out of matches downstairs," he explains, brandishing what looks like a candle stub. "Can I borrow a light?"
Kurt holds up his lighter, flicking it in the empty dark.
A cold hand cups his, Blaine standing very close as he tips his wick into the flame. "Thanks," he says, and his grin is impish in the feeble light. Kurt is vaguely aware that his hand feels like its shaking, but Blaine's steadying grip is hardly invasive.
"Merry Christmas," says the neighbour, still smiling.
"Bah, humbug," sneers Kurt, yanking his hand away.
Blaine grins to himself, even as his adorably cranky neighbour is physically pushing him out the door. The guy is surprisingly strong for his size, single-handedly evicting Blaine into the dark hallway. The loft is the only floor that isn't strung up with Christmas streamers, and the last thing he sees is Kurt's sardonic even-toothed smile.
"Please refrain from using my bit of the fire escape as your doorstep," is all he says, and the door slams shut.
"Thank you!" shouts Blaine anyway, looking fondly down at the candle in his hands. It'll be one of the few remainders he has to remember Kurt by, and he swiftly blows it out. "Hey, Kurt?" he shouts once more. "My light blew out again."
"If this is punishment for being an atheist, then that is one sadistic god."
The door flies open, revealing Kurt, hands on his hips, glare in place. Blaine puts on his most innocent look. "See? No flame. A cold draught caught me, and blew it out."
Kurt unblocks the doorway, and wordlessly points to the antique candelabra. It looks a little bit like a menorah, probably a leftover of Rachel's. 4B takes his time, virtually ritualising the lighting of a candle. In the shabby lighting of the loft, Kurt can't help but acknowledge that his neighbour has a really cute butt.
The curls, though, are a little too vain, but even so- wait, what is he doing, even considering this point? "Are you done?" he asks loudly, hoping that if Blaine Anderson of 4B leaves, he can get back some semblance of mental peace again.
Blaine freezes. In a gust of air sweeping through the open door, the candelabra goes out, and he curses in the dark.
"My lighter's on the coffee table," says Kurt, amused by Blaine's annoyance. Apparently, this guy is really new to living with no electricity. Most of the time, mother Nature is busy conspiring with Santana, and Kurt has resigned himself to his lot in life a long time ago.
"Kurt, don't move."
Sceptical silence. Then, "Why?"
"I dropped a contact lens." That must have been why Blaine had cursed. "Just be careful and don't move, alright? I'll find it myself."
"Do you want a light?"
"I'll make do."
"Are you sure? I... I can help." Kurt doesn't offer because he wants to be nice; he just wants Blaine out of his apartment as fast as physically possible. Because the guy annoys him. And uses too much hair product.
"Have you ever worn contacts, Kurt?"
"Uh, no." His family has a history of perfect eyesight, and he's proud of that. Whatever else is wrong with his body, his eyes are still absolutely perfect.
"Then stay where you are." Even on his hands and knees, Blaine is chuckling. Kurt watches warily as he neighbour crawls on the floor like a scrupulously careful cat, reminding himself to tear his gaze away when he catches himself staring.
"Are you sure you don't need any help?" He's just a little bit furious with himself, because he can't control how his voice has suddenly becomes hoarse and caught. Blaine is at his feet, smiling knowingly up at him with flashing eyes, and Kurt knows that it's not so dark that Blaine can't see that his face is flushed red.
"Found it," announces Blaine quietly, kneeling inches away from Kurt's bare toes. He raises his hand, clasping something tiny and delicate between his fingertips. It glints in the candlelight like an engagement ring.
"I should probably get out of your hair now," suggests Blaine, the perfect picture of innocence. If this is reverse psychology he's practicing, well, then, no one needs to know. He still holds up his candle stub, treating Kurt to his best I-don't-want-to-be-a-bother-really face.
(Blaine has numerous faces, and he loves trying out each one on Kurt in a game of hit-and-miss to see which one will work. Kurt is a puzzle it takes time to solve, but the finished picture promises to be worth it.)
"Yes, you should," agrees Kurt, which throws Blaine for a loop. Kurt's voice is flat and uninviting, not surly, and just a little bit... cold. Blaine raises his unlit candle fractionally under Kurt's nose. "Or not," says Kurt reluctantly. "Don't go yet. Wait."
Blaine obediently waits, fighting the smile off his face. Kurt moves deeper into the loft, unerringly finding his way to the coffee table in the dark corner. He comes back, motioning for Blaine to hold out his free hand.
"It's a little too early for exchanging gifts," he quips uncertainly, "but I guess I don't mind."
"You'll enjoy this one," says Kurt blandly, dropping his lighter into Blaine's expectant palm. Blaine's expression doesn't even flicker. "You can give it back when Santana gives the power back too."
"Sure." Blaine's smile is practiced, charming, and a little bit genuine. "Have a merry Christmas," he says again, and heads out the door.
I should tell you, I should-
"Blaine. Wait."
He turns. Still smiling.
Kurt stops breathing. - tell you. The words are distorted and unrecognisable as they come out of his mouth. "Merry Christmas to you too," he says instead. Blaine dips his chin, and smiles warmly back. And then he's gone.
*The first Christmas present he receives is at seven a.m. Blaine is out running in his knee-length shorts and knee-high socks, breath puffing out in white clouds. He notes, a little dispassionately, that his breath is catching sooner than it should (he knows it's time to kick his habits, but it gets a little bit harder each time he tries.) Resolutely ignoring that voice at the back of his head, he keeps on running.
He doesn't expect to turn the corner and collide headlong into Quinn. She shrieks something unintelligible, grabbing something black and metallic, and cradling it tight to her chest. Blaine jumps back in fright, afraid he's hurt her.
"Camera," repeats Quinn, lifting it to show him. "Sensitive equipment here."
Blaine knows he's staring, but he can't really help it. "You're a- I didn't know- are you?"
"An amateur director? Yes I am." Quinn is already putting away the camera into her messenger bag. Her footage seems to be as private to her as Kurt's life is to strangers. "Bit early for you to be up, isn't it?"
He explains that he likes to run, leaving out the part where his doctor told him it's the only natural hope he has. He's also not sure how it happens, but soon they end up having coffee and bagels together in a bistro called Life Café. Quinn is telling him about how she kicked to get out of Lima, Ohio, leaving behind her well-to-do suburbia dysfunctional family.
"I really don't know why I live in squalor up in the loft," laughs Quinn. "My parents keep insisting I stay in their New York apartment. Let to some friends, but I'm always welcome there, the same-old spiel."
Blaine wishes he had family tales to regale her with, too, but he really doesn't.
"This Christmas, my mom says take the piano. Like I could just walk into the apartment, and walk out with it like it's a piece of cheese. At least this way you'll practice, sweetheart! Kurt plays," she adds, looking up from her coffee, into Blaine's eyes. She's caught him off-guard, and he knows she's seen his naked reaction to the mention of that name.
"You know what," she says, suddenly excited. Blaine thinks his days are numbered. He doesn't want to be quizzed on his misplaced crush on Kurt right now.
"Er... what?"
"We should go get that piano."
"By... ourselves?"
"Yeah! Or we can call the movers, but I still need to go to the apartment. You can come with me."
"Why?" What Blaine really wants to ask is: What are you smoking right now, woman?
"It's going to be the perfect Christmas present," says Quinn as though this should be obvious. She jumps to her feet, throwing bills down the table. Latching firmly onto his hand, she all but drags him out on the street. "Kurt will love it. We could sell ourselves on the street for the rest of our lives, and still never be able to afford a piano."
"Don't underrate yourselves," protests Blaine mildly, jogging now to keep up with Quinn's brisk stride. "Or the going rate for prostitution."
Quinn ignores him. "Also, this way, I won't have to get you a proper Christmas present either. The look on Kurt's face when you give him his new piano is going to be my good deed for the year."
Her words are a forcible reminder of last night, and Blaine feels something icy trickle down his spine. "I don't think that's a great idea," he says quietly. "I doubt Kurt wants me to be involved in his Christmas in any way."
"Is it because he's being bitchy to you?" asks Quinn clinically. "Because don't worry, it just means he likes you."
Blaine doubts this. He doubts this highly. He's seen Kurt around Santana, when she drops by, or with their third wheelchair-bound room-mate Artie, who's some sort of an anarchist at NYU. Kurt is relaxed, he's pleasant, he laughs. Quinn seems to read his thoughts, because she gives him a sympathetic smile.
"He just has a lot of baggage," she says, like that is helpful. Blaine wants to say we all do, but can't. "It's his biggest roadblock to a relationship, or even admitting it when he likes someone."
"Oh...kay."
Quinn flashes him a look, and quickens her pace. He knows there's a hint buried somewhere in what she just said, but Blaine's head is spinning too fast for him to figure anything out.
*
Kurt has gone out by the time Quinn and Blaine reach the loft, leaving only a Post-It on the fridge. Gone out to breakfast with Artie and his new friend, Britt. They're a hoot.
This is rather anti-climactic for Blaine, not least because the movers are waiting impatiently outside, virtually occupying the entire landing with the piano. Blaine's hands, which have been shaking uncontrollably ever since he let himself imagine how Kurt might react, have gone cold again.
Quinn is already directing the movers inside, telling them where to place the piano. She squeezes his shoulder briefly as she passes, and tells him to hold on. Blaine can't. He's trying, but he really can't. He can't be idealistic and stupidly romantic and see Kurt doing anything more effusive than a polite thank you. The tiniest thought of concrete rejection makes Blaine quail. He's happy to do the annoying neighbour dance, always careful to not tread on Kurt's toes: it's fun, it's not serious, and it doesn't hurt him the way this will.
He chickens out the second Quinn's back is turned. It's instinct to flee through the door, like it's reflex to knock on the fire escape window.
*
Quinn was right. Kurt has no words when he sees the piano.
For a second, he's not even sure what he's looking at. His fingers skim the varnished wood, not new, but much-loved, stopping at the plastic ribbon rosette left on the lid. It's holding a card in place.
Happy humbug day, it greets him with annoying cheerfulness. Love, Quinn and 4B.
*
Kurt is usually not used to this kind of strange, practically felonious behaviour. Only two kinds of people use the fire escape, not the front door: creative burglars, and Blaine Anderson, 4B, who is obviously touched in the head. But hammering on Blaine's front door for a solid ten minutes produced no result, so Kurt tamps down the worry in his gut, and crouches down by the window sill.
It's dim and dusty inside the apartment, from whatever little he can see. Blaine doesn't even seem to be home. Wait... he can see a pile of blankets on the couch... covering what looks like an unmoving human shape... Santana's words about people peeing on your doorstep taking on a suddenly more sinister cast, and Kurt begins to frantically knock on the glass, just to check if Blaine is only just sleeping.
No response, no movement.
Apprehension swilling in his stomach, Kurt scrabbles to push open the window. It doesn't budge. For the first time, he appreciates Blaine's mysteriously skill in entering through firmly closed windows. This time, however, he's lucky enough to find a tiny gap between the pane and the metal, and he teases it open carefully, his hands starting to tremble. He's been working on it for an age (or really just several dark days) when the window finally pops open, and Kurt tumbles into the apartment.
He races to couch, dropping down on his knees, and placing a tentative hand over Blaine's blanket-wrapped, unmoving, unbreathing chest. Quietly, sick with dread, he whispers Blaine's name.
A startled shout as Blaine wakes up at the sudden contact, and Kurt sprawls back in shock. Blaine nearly falls off the couch himself, hair tousled, shirt riding up his ripped abdomen. Kurt is breathing so hard he has to clutch his heart to slow down.
"How did you even get in?" asks Blaine, staring wide-eyed.
Kurt just wordlessly points at the window.
"Oh yeah?" He's sure Blaine would trot out some snappy comeback, if he weren't so adorably disoriented just now. Kurt's saved from fielding any such comeback when his beeper emits its high-pitched three-beat reminder.
His blood turns to ice, and he glances furtively at Blaine, hoping Blaine didn't understand what that was. But Blaine is still sleep-confused, smiling genially at Kurt because that is his default expression, and he stumbles barefoot around, until he finds what he's looking for at his own side.
The pills in Blaine's hands are achingly familiar to Kurt. He's seen those pills before: cupped in his own palm, in Finn's, with whom he could have shared a lifetime if sadistic fate hadn't intervened. Reality is slowly coming back to Blaine, who is now standing frozen mid-motion, staring in complete horror at Kurt. Kurt knows that look very well: the look of a dirty, guilty secret exposed.
Wordlessly, he tugs up his own shirt fractionally, letting Blaine see the beeper strapped to his hipbone.
"You?" whispers Blaine, half-not-daring to breathe.
"Me."
He sees Blaine's throat move as he swallows, mirroring Kurt. He has a second to feel the medicine swilling down into him, swilling with the salty taste of regret and memory. And then Blaine's hands are cupping his face, running through his hair. Blaine's mouth is on his, and he tastes like a promise.
-- finis --
masterpost | fic | mix
This would be my first attempt at writing Klaine. Also, for Joachim ♥, who gave me the RENT movie, and who loves Glee, and who will never be ready to read slashy fic *g*
take your powder, take your candle
By hipokras
RENT AU; re-imagining of Light My Candle.
It's hard for people to come into your life when you're constantly trying to lock them out. Lucky (or not) for Kurt, Blaine is more than normally persistent.
There's usually protocol to follow when one greets new neighbours. Fresh oven-baked cookies, jug wine, or a whole basket hamper are sort of the traditional choices. When Blaine Anderson moved into 4B, the only neighbour he ever saw was the blonde who lived up in the loft.
"Quinn Fabray, ex-roommate of our lovable landlord," she'd said, leaning her hip against the wall as she sorted through her mail. She really was very pretty, if you were into that type... girls, that is. So that was how Blaine had appeared on her doorstep two days later, carrying a pizza and some flowers he'd plucked from the sidewalk weed.
Only Quinn hadn't answered the door, but a slight dark-haired guy, with a very fetching scowl. If Blaine has a type, it's small, dark, and snarky. The fact that it was apparently hate at first sight did nothing to deter him.
When the door was slammed closed in Blaine's face, (the guy not even bothering to ask what toppings were on the pizza,) he didn't give up. He climbed the fire escape all the way to the loft, and kept knocking on the window like a pigeon until Quinn hurried out of the shower, and Kurt threatened to call the police.
(It'd turned out that Quinn hated cheese burst, but Kurt loved it, "not that he's going to admit it." Blaine calls this sort of thing destiny.)
*
Santana cuts their power on Christmas Eve, because she's awesome like that. Numerous letters complaining about her abuse of landlordly powers do not help. She promises to turn it back on if Quinn will help her sabotage Rachel's protest, but Quinn snaps her jaws closed like a steel trap, and refuses to acknowledge anything that involves Rachel.
Kurt is still snickering at the fact that Quinn used to date Rachel, and that was enough to turn Rachel straight. (Her new boyfriend is as pompous and big-headed as she is, so they're really matched better that Quinn was.) He's not laughing anymore when he has to light five hundred candles in the loft just so that he can see which shoe he's putting on which foot.
"There's the Christmas spirit," says Quinn fondly, when Kurt starts tapping out a particularly vicious tune he calls Rent.
"Hello."
"Go away."
"That's no way to greet a neighbour."
"Please go away?"
It's pitch dark, and Kurt has already scorched his cuticles once trying to light the goddamned candles. The addition of Blaine Anderson of 4B staring in through the window is not helping matters in any way. Kurt doesn't want much out of life: a way to keep Santana happy, so that she'll stop cutting power as a blackmail scheme, and maybe some neighbours who use the front door instead of the fire escape.
(Not that Kurt is fond of neighbours who use the front door either, but- where the hell is Quinn, and why isn't she dealing with this fuckery instead?)
"We're not home," he shouts through the glass. "Go find a Santa Claus in a mall somewhere. At least those guys get paid to entertain you."
There's a suddenly awkward silence. Blaine Anderson of 4B clears his throat quietly. Kurt secretly hopes that Blaine is offended enough to leave, but the guy still sticks around, standing goofily on the fire escape. "I hope you didn't mean that like I think you did."
And then taking Kurt's surliness as some sort of invitation, Blaine starts pushing open the window and climbing in. "I'm out of matches downstairs," he explains, brandishing what looks like a candle stub. "Can I borrow a light?"
Kurt holds up his lighter, flicking it in the empty dark.
A cold hand cups his, Blaine standing very close as he tips his wick into the flame. "Thanks," he says, and his grin is impish in the feeble light. Kurt is vaguely aware that his hand feels like its shaking, but Blaine's steadying grip is hardly invasive.
"Merry Christmas," says the neighbour, still smiling.
"Bah, humbug," sneers Kurt, yanking his hand away.
Blaine grins to himself, even as his adorably cranky neighbour is physically pushing him out the door. The guy is surprisingly strong for his size, single-handedly evicting Blaine into the dark hallway. The loft is the only floor that isn't strung up with Christmas streamers, and the last thing he sees is Kurt's sardonic even-toothed smile.
"Please refrain from using my bit of the fire escape as your doorstep," is all he says, and the door slams shut.
"Thank you!" shouts Blaine anyway, looking fondly down at the candle in his hands. It'll be one of the few remainders he has to remember Kurt by, and he swiftly blows it out. "Hey, Kurt?" he shouts once more. "My light blew out again."
"If this is punishment for being an atheist, then that is one sadistic god."
The door flies open, revealing Kurt, hands on his hips, glare in place. Blaine puts on his most innocent look. "See? No flame. A cold draught caught me, and blew it out."
Kurt unblocks the doorway, and wordlessly points to the antique candelabra. It looks a little bit like a menorah, probably a leftover of Rachel's. 4B takes his time, virtually ritualising the lighting of a candle. In the shabby lighting of the loft, Kurt can't help but acknowledge that his neighbour has a really cute butt.
The curls, though, are a little too vain, but even so- wait, what is he doing, even considering this point? "Are you done?" he asks loudly, hoping that if Blaine Anderson of 4B leaves, he can get back some semblance of mental peace again.
Blaine freezes. In a gust of air sweeping through the open door, the candelabra goes out, and he curses in the dark.
"My lighter's on the coffee table," says Kurt, amused by Blaine's annoyance. Apparently, this guy is really new to living with no electricity. Most of the time, mother Nature is busy conspiring with Santana, and Kurt has resigned himself to his lot in life a long time ago.
"Kurt, don't move."
Sceptical silence. Then, "Why?"
"I dropped a contact lens." That must have been why Blaine had cursed. "Just be careful and don't move, alright? I'll find it myself."
"Do you want a light?"
"I'll make do."
"Are you sure? I... I can help." Kurt doesn't offer because he wants to be nice; he just wants Blaine out of his apartment as fast as physically possible. Because the guy annoys him. And uses too much hair product.
"Have you ever worn contacts, Kurt?"
"Uh, no." His family has a history of perfect eyesight, and he's proud of that. Whatever else is wrong with his body, his eyes are still absolutely perfect.
"Then stay where you are." Even on his hands and knees, Blaine is chuckling. Kurt watches warily as he neighbour crawls on the floor like a scrupulously careful cat, reminding himself to tear his gaze away when he catches himself staring.
"Are you sure you don't need any help?" He's just a little bit furious with himself, because he can't control how his voice has suddenly becomes hoarse and caught. Blaine is at his feet, smiling knowingly up at him with flashing eyes, and Kurt knows that it's not so dark that Blaine can't see that his face is flushed red.
"Found it," announces Blaine quietly, kneeling inches away from Kurt's bare toes. He raises his hand, clasping something tiny and delicate between his fingertips. It glints in the candlelight like an engagement ring.
"I should probably get out of your hair now," suggests Blaine, the perfect picture of innocence. If this is reverse psychology he's practicing, well, then, no one needs to know. He still holds up his candle stub, treating Kurt to his best I-don't-want-to-be-a-bother-really face.
(Blaine has numerous faces, and he loves trying out each one on Kurt in a game of hit-and-miss to see which one will work. Kurt is a puzzle it takes time to solve, but the finished picture promises to be worth it.)
"Yes, you should," agrees Kurt, which throws Blaine for a loop. Kurt's voice is flat and uninviting, not surly, and just a little bit... cold. Blaine raises his unlit candle fractionally under Kurt's nose. "Or not," says Kurt reluctantly. "Don't go yet. Wait."
Blaine obediently waits, fighting the smile off his face. Kurt moves deeper into the loft, unerringly finding his way to the coffee table in the dark corner. He comes back, motioning for Blaine to hold out his free hand.
"It's a little too early for exchanging gifts," he quips uncertainly, "but I guess I don't mind."
"You'll enjoy this one," says Kurt blandly, dropping his lighter into Blaine's expectant palm. Blaine's expression doesn't even flicker. "You can give it back when Santana gives the power back too."
"Sure." Blaine's smile is practiced, charming, and a little bit genuine. "Have a merry Christmas," he says again, and heads out the door.
I should tell you, I should-
"Blaine. Wait."
He turns. Still smiling.
Kurt stops breathing. - tell you. The words are distorted and unrecognisable as they come out of his mouth. "Merry Christmas to you too," he says instead. Blaine dips his chin, and smiles warmly back. And then he's gone.
*The first Christmas present he receives is at seven a.m. Blaine is out running in his knee-length shorts and knee-high socks, breath puffing out in white clouds. He notes, a little dispassionately, that his breath is catching sooner than it should (he knows it's time to kick his habits, but it gets a little bit harder each time he tries.) Resolutely ignoring that voice at the back of his head, he keeps on running.
He doesn't expect to turn the corner and collide headlong into Quinn. She shrieks something unintelligible, grabbing something black and metallic, and cradling it tight to her chest. Blaine jumps back in fright, afraid he's hurt her.
"Camera," repeats Quinn, lifting it to show him. "Sensitive equipment here."
Blaine knows he's staring, but he can't really help it. "You're a- I didn't know- are you?"
"An amateur director? Yes I am." Quinn is already putting away the camera into her messenger bag. Her footage seems to be as private to her as Kurt's life is to strangers. "Bit early for you to be up, isn't it?"
He explains that he likes to run, leaving out the part where his doctor told him it's the only natural hope he has. He's also not sure how it happens, but soon they end up having coffee and bagels together in a bistro called Life Café. Quinn is telling him about how she kicked to get out of Lima, Ohio, leaving behind her well-to-do suburbia dysfunctional family.
"I really don't know why I live in squalor up in the loft," laughs Quinn. "My parents keep insisting I stay in their New York apartment. Let to some friends, but I'm always welcome there, the same-old spiel."
Blaine wishes he had family tales to regale her with, too, but he really doesn't.
"This Christmas, my mom says take the piano. Like I could just walk into the apartment, and walk out with it like it's a piece of cheese. At least this way you'll practice, sweetheart! Kurt plays," she adds, looking up from her coffee, into Blaine's eyes. She's caught him off-guard, and he knows she's seen his naked reaction to the mention of that name.
"You know what," she says, suddenly excited. Blaine thinks his days are numbered. He doesn't want to be quizzed on his misplaced crush on Kurt right now.
"Er... what?"
"We should go get that piano."
"By... ourselves?"
"Yeah! Or we can call the movers, but I still need to go to the apartment. You can come with me."
"Why?" What Blaine really wants to ask is: What are you smoking right now, woman?
"It's going to be the perfect Christmas present," says Quinn as though this should be obvious. She jumps to her feet, throwing bills down the table. Latching firmly onto his hand, she all but drags him out on the street. "Kurt will love it. We could sell ourselves on the street for the rest of our lives, and still never be able to afford a piano."
"Don't underrate yourselves," protests Blaine mildly, jogging now to keep up with Quinn's brisk stride. "Or the going rate for prostitution."
Quinn ignores him. "Also, this way, I won't have to get you a proper Christmas present either. The look on Kurt's face when you give him his new piano is going to be my good deed for the year."
Her words are a forcible reminder of last night, and Blaine feels something icy trickle down his spine. "I don't think that's a great idea," he says quietly. "I doubt Kurt wants me to be involved in his Christmas in any way."
"Is it because he's being bitchy to you?" asks Quinn clinically. "Because don't worry, it just means he likes you."
Blaine doubts this. He doubts this highly. He's seen Kurt around Santana, when she drops by, or with their third wheelchair-bound room-mate Artie, who's some sort of an anarchist at NYU. Kurt is relaxed, he's pleasant, he laughs. Quinn seems to read his thoughts, because she gives him a sympathetic smile.
"He just has a lot of baggage," she says, like that is helpful. Blaine wants to say we all do, but can't. "It's his biggest roadblock to a relationship, or even admitting it when he likes someone."
"Oh...kay."
Quinn flashes him a look, and quickens her pace. He knows there's a hint buried somewhere in what she just said, but Blaine's head is spinning too fast for him to figure anything out.
*
Kurt has gone out by the time Quinn and Blaine reach the loft, leaving only a Post-It on the fridge. Gone out to breakfast with Artie and his new friend, Britt. They're a hoot.
This is rather anti-climactic for Blaine, not least because the movers are waiting impatiently outside, virtually occupying the entire landing with the piano. Blaine's hands, which have been shaking uncontrollably ever since he let himself imagine how Kurt might react, have gone cold again.
Quinn is already directing the movers inside, telling them where to place the piano. She squeezes his shoulder briefly as she passes, and tells him to hold on. Blaine can't. He's trying, but he really can't. He can't be idealistic and stupidly romantic and see Kurt doing anything more effusive than a polite thank you. The tiniest thought of concrete rejection makes Blaine quail. He's happy to do the annoying neighbour dance, always careful to not tread on Kurt's toes: it's fun, it's not serious, and it doesn't hurt him the way this will.
He chickens out the second Quinn's back is turned. It's instinct to flee through the door, like it's reflex to knock on the fire escape window.
*
Quinn was right. Kurt has no words when he sees the piano.
For a second, he's not even sure what he's looking at. His fingers skim the varnished wood, not new, but much-loved, stopping at the plastic ribbon rosette left on the lid. It's holding a card in place.
Happy humbug day, it greets him with annoying cheerfulness. Love, Quinn and 4B.
*
Kurt is usually not used to this kind of strange, practically felonious behaviour. Only two kinds of people use the fire escape, not the front door: creative burglars, and Blaine Anderson, 4B, who is obviously touched in the head. But hammering on Blaine's front door for a solid ten minutes produced no result, so Kurt tamps down the worry in his gut, and crouches down by the window sill.
It's dim and dusty inside the apartment, from whatever little he can see. Blaine doesn't even seem to be home. Wait... he can see a pile of blankets on the couch... covering what looks like an unmoving human shape... Santana's words about people peeing on your doorstep taking on a suddenly more sinister cast, and Kurt begins to frantically knock on the glass, just to check if Blaine is only just sleeping.
No response, no movement.
Apprehension swilling in his stomach, Kurt scrabbles to push open the window. It doesn't budge. For the first time, he appreciates Blaine's mysteriously skill in entering through firmly closed windows. This time, however, he's lucky enough to find a tiny gap between the pane and the metal, and he teases it open carefully, his hands starting to tremble. He's been working on it for an age (or really just several dark days) when the window finally pops open, and Kurt tumbles into the apartment.
He races to couch, dropping down on his knees, and placing a tentative hand over Blaine's blanket-wrapped, unmoving, unbreathing chest. Quietly, sick with dread, he whispers Blaine's name.
A startled shout as Blaine wakes up at the sudden contact, and Kurt sprawls back in shock. Blaine nearly falls off the couch himself, hair tousled, shirt riding up his ripped abdomen. Kurt is breathing so hard he has to clutch his heart to slow down.
"How did you even get in?" asks Blaine, staring wide-eyed.
Kurt just wordlessly points at the window.
"Oh yeah?" He's sure Blaine would trot out some snappy comeback, if he weren't so adorably disoriented just now. Kurt's saved from fielding any such comeback when his beeper emits its high-pitched three-beat reminder.
His blood turns to ice, and he glances furtively at Blaine, hoping Blaine didn't understand what that was. But Blaine is still sleep-confused, smiling genially at Kurt because that is his default expression, and he stumbles barefoot around, until he finds what he's looking for at his own side.
The pills in Blaine's hands are achingly familiar to Kurt. He's seen those pills before: cupped in his own palm, in Finn's, with whom he could have shared a lifetime if sadistic fate hadn't intervened. Reality is slowly coming back to Blaine, who is now standing frozen mid-motion, staring in complete horror at Kurt. Kurt knows that look very well: the look of a dirty, guilty secret exposed.
Wordlessly, he tugs up his own shirt fractionally, letting Blaine see the beeper strapped to his hipbone.
"You?" whispers Blaine, half-not-daring to breathe.
"Me."
He sees Blaine's throat move as he swallows, mirroring Kurt. He has a second to feel the medicine swilling down into him, swilling with the salty taste of regret and memory. And then Blaine's hands are cupping his face, running through his hair. Blaine's mouth is on his, and he tastes like a promise.
-- finis --
masterpost | fic | mix