Fic: And Sunset Adorned the West (1/3)
Title: And Sunset Adorned the West (1/3)
Author: amaXdear
Rating: G
Warnings: A little Edwardian-era angst
Word Count: ~5,600
Characters/Pairings: Klaine, Finchel (future installments include Santana, Jesse St. James, Burt, hints of Brittana, and an OC or two)
Author’s Note: This fic is dedicated to pawndilene, whose awesome Do You Remember the Time… series served as inspiration, specifically My Dear Mr. Hummel/Blaine’s Pocket Watch Locket. She also recommended two great movies, Maurice and A Room With a View (both based off of E.M. Forster novels) that provided most of my references. This is unbeta’d, although it should be because of the incredible length, but after three months of tinkering it really needs to be posted.
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything; besides of the characters, the lyrics are from “La Nuit” (from the French movie Les Choristes), and the 1899 song “She’s Only A Bird In A Guilded Cage.”
Summary: They meet for one night. Then he’s gone, an ocean between them, nothing but a few pictures and countless letters keeping them together.
“I don’t know how women do it, but Rachel understood her quick enough and said…”
Blaine blinked hard to keep himself from falling asleep, and took a hasty sip from his drink. He liked Finn, he really did, but sometimes the man’s stories were so deadly dull that it took all his charm to feign even mild interest. His eyes drifted, looking out over the crowd. It was a familiar, unoriginal sight. Dozens of wealthy people having boring conversations, many mean-spirited compared to Finn’s honest bewilderment.
“…well, there’s a reason she’s not here tonight, obviously.”
“Yes,” Blaine smiled. “I can only imagine how your wife would have reacted to that.”
“Oh, Rachel wouldn’t have done anything,” Finn said earnestly. “She would never-”
“I’m sure, I’m sure,” Blaine interrupted hastily. “Hudson, excuse me for a moment, won’t you?”
Blaine patted Finn’s arm in a friendly way, holding up his half-empty drink as if it were his excuse, and slipped through the crowd. It was not a pleasant trip. It seemed as though he couldn’t walk a foot without hearing a complaint, a catty comment, or an underhanded insult. Any other night, he would have ignored it and looked for someone he knew, someone he could speak to without openly weeping.
Tonight, that was impossible. Finn was kind, but stupid. Artie was out of town, Wes was ill, Miss Fabray hadn’t received an invitation and David was simply absent. He had nothing to do but retreat to a different floor and find an empty room.
Blaine leaned against the door with a heavy sigh. It was so-so useless, that was the problem. He wouldn’t be shocked if these people had been cruel in a business environment. It was expected there. But life, in a social context, was supposed to be enjoyable. Friendly, optimistic, open.
He missed his family, he realized suddenly. That was the problem. He hadn’t seen Andrea in almost two years, since her husband’s funeral, and he had moved away from his parents only months ago. Oh sure, he had been apart from them at college-but this was different, somehow. It felt-permanent, despite the fact that he had absolutely no intention of actually staying in New York.
Good Lord, no. Blaine was not a New York person. He wasn’t an anywhere person. He just liked people, being around people, friendly people, people who cared. Now he lived alone, away from relatives and with only a few friends. He had drifted from job to job since graduating, succeeding at everything but never finding that one thing that could anchor him somewhere. Something-someone.
Only a few more days, Blaine reminded himself. And I’ll be off to London. The thought of seeing Andrea again filled his heart with joy, but a small voice in the back of his head kept up a steady stream of insults. What the hell did he think he would find in London? He knew damn well the consequences of setting up permanently near his sister. That was why he had left home in the first place…
A shriek of (false) laughter reminded Blaine of where he was: at a party, with no one he knew. Not the place to have any sort of crisis. He drained his drink miserably and reluctantly exited the room. He was about to cross the threshold when he paused.
The din of conversation was loud, and he could hear a small band playing in the east drawing room-but beneath all that, there was something else. Music. He could have sworn it was Tchaikovsky but then it seemed to change slightly, into something brief that he didn’t recognize-and then, suddenly, it was Beethoven. Hardly appropriate, given the setting, but it was a masterful transition, and Blaine was interested.
Slipping through the crowds was difficult, and the soft strains had changed to Mozart before he gave up and looked for his host instead.
“Who is playing?” he asked, appearing at Finn’s side.
“I don’t know. One of Rachel’s friends, probably-they all play and sing. That’s why I invited you, actually; I’ve heard you love music.”
“Yes…” Blaine said distractedly, peering around the room. Where was the piano?
“I could introduce you, if you’d like,” Finn said, bemused.
“Yes, thank you.”
Finn led him through the room, maneuvering expertly through the crowd where he could and pushing bluntly through where he could. People turned with sharp words on their tongue, but their anger dissipated in a moment when they saw the friendly grin on their host’s face. Blaine tried to follow in the wake of this good will.
They entered the drawing room and the music swelled in volume. Immediately, Finn’s pace slackened.
“Oh, it’s only my brother. You might as well find other company. Kurt wouldn’t pause for the president if it meant stepping away from his instrument. Besides,” he added with a broad grin. “There are many more lovely faces here!”
Finn is an idiot, Blaine thought.
His legs moved of their own accord, pulling him towards the baby grand piano that stood in the corner of the room-or, rather, towards the vision that sat at it. The man perched, straight-backed, on the piano bench, fingers alighting lovingly on the ivory keys. The warmth of the drawing room prompted a light blush from his cheeks, but otherwise he was as pale as porcelain, and every bit as delicately formed. His eyes, a lovely sea-blue in the low lighting, were partly closed and his lips curved as he lost himself in the music.
Blaine had not seen a lovelier face all evening, and he chose a seat that afforded him an excellent view of it. The song ended soon after, and the player opened his eyes, which fell immediately on his lone audience member.
“Mr. Hudson-” Blaine stammered.
“Hummel,” the man corrected in a light voice. “Finn is my stepbrother; he kept his father’s surname. My name is Kurt Hummel.”
His gaze turned back to the piano, where his fingers fell on a lonely F.
“Well, Mr. Kurt Hummel, I wanted to congratulate you on a spectacular performance, which deserved a much more attentive audience.”
Mr. Hummel looked up, delight written in every line of his face.
“Thank you,” he smiled reservedly. “Mr.-?”
“Blaine Anderson,” he introduced himself. “You prefer the classics? That was Mozart, wasn’t it? The transition from Beethoven was excellent.”
Mr. Hummel looked at him with a restrained smile, but his cheeks flushed with pleasure and his eyes widened, filled with a brightness that communicated his delight more than any smile Blaine had ever seen. He was caught off-guard by his own pleasure at the sight, and almost missed Mr. Hummel's words.
“Yes! Yes, I adore old music-opera, castrati, the reign of the virtuoso-my stepmother tells me I was born in the wrong era,” he added self-deprecatingly. The momentary flash of excitement was stifled, and Blaine couldn’t resist the urge to chase it.
“Well, someone’s got to bring the joys of one era into this one,” Blaine smiled. “And you do it brilliantly.”
Mr. Hummel laughed, and Blaine’s heart thudded. Where his voice was light and high, his laugh was low, warm and too intimate for any public setting.
“Do you sing as well?” he asked hastily, in an attempt to distract himself.
Mr. Hummel’s fingers found the piano keys again, and he began to play a light, gentle melody that, while not revolutionary, was pleasing to the ear. A few young women who had been hovering nearby slunk away, disappointed that they wouldn’t get a chance to showcase their meager talents. Good riddance, Blaine thought cheerfully.
“Finn asked me not to,” Mr. Hummel said, doing a sterling job of hiding his bitterness. “I believe Rachel was jealous,” he added archly.
“No doubt,” Blaine said, and had the distinct pleasure of seeing a blush rise on Mr. Hummel’s cheeks and refuse to fade. “Will you sing something for me?”
“I don’t think so…” Mr. Hummel trailed off reluctantly.
Blaine leaned forward and touched the other man’s wrist. He stilled and looked up, startled. For a moment, their eyes met and it seemed as if the whole world fell silent except for the last notes of music that lingered in the air…
“Perhaps-one song,” Mr. Hummel relented.
He turned back to the piano and took a deep breath. The melody poured out, rich and deep, a song that Blaine didn’t recognize. The singer's voice was in direct contrast as it danced lightly over the piano's notes.
“O nuit! Viens apporter a la terre.”
“Ah,” Blaine sighed. It was just as he expected-Mr. Hummel had a smooth, high voice that slipped throughout the room, between the people and the particles of air, swelling to fill each space and rising until it hung like smoke above them. It was, in a word, exquisite.
This was a man, he felt, who knew how to live and love life.
“Le calme echantement de ton mystere.” Kurt’s voice climbed higher and Blaine leaned forward again. He didn’t know the song and had no idea when it might end, but the last thing he wanted to do was miss a moment of it. “L’ombre qui t’escorte est si douce-”
“Kurt!”
Mrs. Finn Hudson swept into the room in a whirl of lavender fabric and strong perfume. The crowd cleared a path for her instantly, and Mr. Hummel’s hands fell from the piano. There was a sour look on his face.
“You should have told me you were opening the piano,” she chided. “Mr. Puckerman has been begging me to sing for half an hour!”
Blaine, who was acquainted with Mr. Puckerman, doubted this very much.
“I was thinking of that lovely new one, the dance one-you know it?”
She positioned herself at the piano just as Mr. Hummel stood.
“I am not your accompanist, Rachel,” he said coldly. Mrs. Hudson’s face sank in a moment of genuine disappointment, before she rallied herself and prepared to give what was certainly going to be an indignant, guilt-inducing tirade.
Blaine’s eyes slid between the two worriedly. It was rude of Mrs. Hudson to have interrupted, but he knew instinctively that, if he allowed Mr. Hummel to leave now, their conversation would be sullied for the rest of the evening. And he really didn’t want to hear whatever sugar-coated vitriol Mrs. Hudson was about to spew forth.
“Allow me, madam,” he said hastily, standing. “I’m sure Mr. Hummel’s playing beats mine every day, but I know the song you’re thinking of.”
Mrs. Hudson agreed willingly enough-she was that kind of woman-but Blaine detected a hint of derision in Mr. Hummel’s face as he turned away. He reached out and grabbed the other man’s wrist.
“You’re not leaving, are you?”
“I was going to get something to drink, perhaps find my brother,” Mr. Hummel said stiffly.
“How will I find you later?”
He turned. “What?”
“It’s packed in here. I’ll be done in just a minute or two, and I’d like to continue our conversation. How will I find you?”
A slow smile spread across Mr. Hummel’s face, and his head tilted at such an angle that the light fell perfectly on his cheekbones, throwing his features into sharp contrast and causing Blaine’s heart to momentarily stop.
“You have an advantage over me, Mr. Anderson,” Mr. Hummel said in a voice that was positively sultry. “Having heard me play. I can’t even judge you, and I do so love to judge. So… I suppose I could listen to one song, and we could-proceed from there?”
“Excellent.” Blaine smiled warmly, and seated himself at the piano.
His performance was far from perfect, but it was energetic and Mr. Hummel wisely managed to drag him away from the piano before Mrs. Hudson could say a word about it. Mr. Hummel’s hand fell comfortably at the small of his back, guiding him through the room easily, and his breath was soft and sweet at Blaine’s ear.
“So, where were we?”
-+-
It was one of those clear, end-of-summer nights when the wind was warm and insistent, not as chill as it would be just a month later. Kurt suggested, after dinner, that they escape the oppressive heat and crowds of the party, and Blaine was only too happy to oblige. No doubt Kurt was vastly more familiar with his brother and sister-in-law’s property, but he didn’t say a word when Blaine pressed a hand to his back, dangerously close to his waist, to lead them towards his own favorite trail.
“You’ve kept me entertained so far, Mr. Hummel,” Blaine began with a friendly smile. He hoped his eyes were twinkling. “Now would you mind not avoiding my questions?”
“I don’t know what you could mean,” Kurt said lightly.
“Of course you do. So far, everything I’ve managed to learn about you is incidental, something I’ve picked up while you made witty observations on the world and those around us. Like I said, I’ve enjoyed it-but it’s a poor way to build a friendship, don’t you think?”
Kurt shrugged. “What have you learned about me?” he asked. “I’m curious.”
He shifted slightly, dislodging Blaine’s hand, and wandered off the path. He quirked a finger at Blaine, who followed despite his misgivings. He really wasn’t prepared for cross-country adventures.
“I knew from Finn that your father’s been in the auto industry since it began,” he offered hesitatingly. “And from you that you enjoy it as well, although you’ve never taken a job within it for very long. That would be too boring for you, wouldn’t it?”
Kurt was silent, but he nodded slightly. He pushed through a fern impatiently, and they found themselves on another, slimmer trail.
“What else?”
“You despise people acting falsely, unless they are doing it for love,” Blaine said accidentally. “And people who forgo style for fashion. You follow trends in clothes and accessories more than anyone I’ve ever met. You adore the theater and hate circus acts. You’re very well-read, mostly in English novels, poetry, and plays, and you also love the classics. You’ve never been to California, although you would like to go when you can find company. You like New York but prefer Paris, despite having been there only once, and also think you would enjoy Venice.”
“But my favorite place in the world is…?”
Blaine paused , wracking his brain. “I… don’t have any idea.”
Kurt looked over his shoulder and smiled at him, pausing so that Blaine could catch up. They weren’t technically touching, but they walked close enough so that their shoulders brushed occasionally. Kurt walked with effortless grace, but Blaine tripped often on the poorly-laid out path and found himself reaching out for balance more than once. The faint, wavering light of the harvest moon did a poor job of lighting the rocks and roots that sabotaged him.
“Ohio,” Kurt sighed. “Tragically, I can’t deny that home is where the heart is, even if home is oily and flat and dull.”
“Very true. My parents live very nearby-in Pennsylvania. My father is in the coal business, and he likes to be close at hand, but I always hated it. Nothing ruins a good day outside like coming upon a mine.”
“Well, Mr. Anderson, I believe you’ve earned the right to a few straight answers,” Kurt said cheerfully. “What would you like to know about me?”
“Tell me about your mother,” Blaine said, pulling a subject out of the air in an attempt to ease into serious conversation. Kurt looked at him curiously.
“My mother or my stepmother?”
“Either. Both.”
“My stepmother’s name is Carole. She’s a lovely woman-her father was a lawyer, I believe, and her first husband a soldier. I don’t recall how he died. She hasn’t been married to my father long, but she was very enthusiastic in my education and proud of both Finn and me. She plays tennis every weekend-Carole is very dedicated and a bit competitive, and protective as well. She’s like my father that way.”
“And your mother?” Blaine prompted gently. Kurt sighed, staring at his shoes.
“She died when I was a child,” he said slowly. “I don’t remember her much.”
Blaine stopped walking. It was as if Kurt had dealt a blow; this was the first lie to have been told between them. Kurt kept going for a moment, then paused and looked back.
“I think you do,” Blaine said frankly, and then hastily retreated. He really had no reason to feel insulted, and the expression on Kurt’s face was like a warning. “But if you don’t want to tell me, that’s all right.”
“Oh, fine. Although I don’t see why you’ve any interest. Not a single person has ever asked me about my mother, you know.”
“Oddly enough, I believe that’s why I’m asking.”
A smile flickered reluctantly on Kurt’s face.
“You are a very odd man, Mr. Anderson. Do you know that?”
Blaine grimaced. “Yes, I am rather aware of that fact. I’m trying to figure you out, Mr. Hummel.”
Kurt smiled wider and resumed walking, tactfully ignoring the faint blush on his companion’s cheeks.
“She was a teacher, before she married. She knew my father before he got involved in the auto industry and died before he ever profited from it. I remember her with-a child’s fondness, hero worship. Even so, I know she was a remarkable woman: strong, beautiful, and compassionate. My father told me so. I remember that she loved poetry, and French. There was a lullaby…”
The words trailed off in a sigh. O nuit, Blaine thought. Viens apporter a la terre.
“Where did you learn to sing?” he asked. He wanted to learn more about Kurt, yes, but he knew when the conversation was too heavy for casual acquaintance. Kurt brightened.
“Church choir. I stayed after service so often that the organist grew tired of me. He taught me to play piano so I could accompany myself. Very kind man.”
They talked for some time about music. Blaine was delighted to learn that Kurt was fully capable of complex, intelligent conversation about more than gossip. They were occasionally in conflict, but Kurt’s taste was exceptional, and Blaine found himself thinking that, if he played as well as he spoke, Kurt would be famous in his own right within a year. More so than Mrs. Hudson, even.
Eventually, Kurt turned the tide of conversation, claiming that he now had the right to learn about Blaine.
“Your piano playing isn’t quite professional, but it’s more than I would expect from the average person. You love music.”
“I do,” Blaine confirmed, nodding. “My family has always been a patron of the arts. I’m afraid I never put much effort into my own studies, though.”
“Do you sing, too? There-don’t try to deny it, I’ve seen it in your face. You must sing me something.”
“Must I?” Blaine smiled.
“You must,” Kurt said firmly. “I’ve sung for you already and it would be very rude of you to not repay the favor.”
“I’m sure your singing is infinitely preferable to my own.”
“Nevertheless,” Kurt said impishly. “Ah, here we are.”
They had slowed on their walk, and sometimes stopped entirely, but Kurt sped up slightly and Blaine followed until they turned a bend in the path and came up one of the loveliest views Blaine had ever seen. It was a small clearing, obviously unpopular, and grown slightly over with weeds. Small bursts of wildflowers were scattered around the edges. The warm light of the harvest moon gilded the leaves of an enormous weeping willow in the center. A stone bench sat there, embraced by the willow’s branches, slightly weathered and plainly carved. Still, the clearing held a kind of majesty that made up for any aesthetic flaws it might have held.
“Although I prefer Paris, would enjoy Venice, and love Ohio, this is my favorite place in New York,” Kurt said quietly. “Sit, sit.”
Blaine did as he was told.
“It truly seems as if we look out at the entire world,” he murmured, gazing up at the sky that seemed even blacker contrasting with the moon.
“Yes, exactly. At least, that’s what I’ve always thought. The destination is well worth the journey. Now will you sing for me?”
“Very well,” Blaine agreed, patting Kurt’s knee fondly. “In gratitude for this lovely view, I will sing a few bars if you will consent not to laugh at me.”
“I would never laugh at you,” Kurt insisted.
His pale skin shone in the dim light, and his eyes glowed with almost painful sincerity.
“Thank you,” Blaine managed to say, and looked away before he lost his composure. He cleared his throat and began a soft song. “She's only a bird in a gilded cage, a beautiful sight to see. You may think she's happy and free from care. She’s not, though she seems to be-”
“Oh, not that,” Kurt said, laying a hand on his arm. “No, please, I must object-I cannot abide sad music. Choose something else, won’t you?”
“No sad music?”
“None. I quite detest it. I can never keep myself from crying over a truly heart-wrenching song. It is so embarrassing, I prefer to avoid the whole thing altogether.”
“Mr. Hummel, I’m afraid we are stuck,” Blaine grimaced. “I don’t know nearly as many songs that include lyrics as you do. I know only the popular tunes such as that one, and none of the others seem appropriate for this peaceful setting.”
“I don’t believe you,” Kurt proclaimed immediately. “You-you seem so lively,” he said, fumbling. “I feel as though there is not a single moment when you have not felt more fully alive than most men ever do. An assembly such as this-idle chatter, distant politeness, so little true interest… it must be unbearable for you. It is difficult enough to be exposed to apathy, but to deliberately indulge in misery and know no other music-I cannot picture it.”
Blaine could not divert his gaze nor hide his astonishment. He hadn’t mentioned any of those thoughts all evening. Were his emotions so clearly spelled out on his face, or had Kurt been studying him as eagerly as he studied Kurt?
The other man was looking out of the clearing, eyes fixed on the orange moon. His jaw was clenched and his eyes glittered as if he was expecting rebuke, but a faint blush on his cheeks betrayed him. He looked terribly, terribly vulnerable.
Trembling slightly, Kurt turned. His eyes were impossibly dark, and Blaine heard himself sigh in appreciation. Kurt’s face softened and he leaned forward, almost imperceptibly, lips parting to speak….
“How perceptive you are, Mr. Hummel,” Blaine blurted. “Although I fear your underestimate my patience. In the right mindset, any occasion can be interesting-and this one more so than most.”
He looked up at the rising moon, and checked his pocket-watch. It was getting late.
“We should go back,” Kurt said quietly in a voice tinged with disappointment. “My brother will be looking for me.”
“Yes.”
They walked all the way back in a silence that soon softened, becoming companionable instead of tense. Within a moment, Blaine screwed up his courage and put his arm at Kurt’s back. It was an intimate motion and one that perhaps he hadn’t deserved, but Kurt leaned in and did not move away until the glow of the house’s windows was in sight.
“Kurt, Anderson, there you are!” Finn called, waving, from the back porch. “Party’s winding down now; most people have left. Are you staying the night, Anderson?”
“No, no, I’ve business in the city tomorrow morning. Call me a cab, won’t you?”
Finn nodded and disappeared into the house. Blaine, suddenly awkward in Kurt’s presence, fumbled for a cigarette. He offered one to Kurt, who quietly refused, saying he hated to smoke before bed and he would be retiring soon.
“I just wanted to thank you, Mr. Anderson. You have been quite entertaining and very kind.”
“Truly, it was my pleasure.”
“I thank you all the same. Good night.”
Kurt inclined his head and followed Finn. Blaine walked around to the front of the house. Finn was waiting there with a hired carriage.
“Mind if I bum a light?” Finn asked, and Blaine lit a match for him. “Just wanted to thank you,” Finn said, voice muffled by the cigarette. “For talking to Kurt like that. He doesn’t talk much at these things-well, he says it’s because people don’t keep up with him but personally I just think he doesn’t get on with people. I don’t know if he told you, but he lives with our parents in Ohio. They don’t get out much.”
It was the kind of speech typical to Finn, Blaine thought. Friendly and well-meaning, but completely off the mark.
“It was no problem,” Blaine said, offering a firm handshake. “You can tell Kurt so, and also that I’d love to further our acquaintance.”
Finn gave him an odd look, but Blaine simply nodded and got in the carriage.
As soon as they were a reasonable distance from the house, Blaine fell back against the cushions and rubbed his eyes.
“What am I doing?” he groaned.
Blaine knew how this ended. There were only two options: scandal, jail, newspaper headlines, disgust, family rejection, distant friends, and eternal misery; or heartache, begging, loss of dignity, betrayal… and, judging by the rapid pounding of his heart, eternal misery.
He had been here before. There was Jeremiah Ensler, in college, Jeremiah who married the first girl whose hand he could hold long enough. Jacob Flint, four months later, who was caught with a police officer and paid the price for it. Michael Banks, just three weeks after that, who fled to France.
Blaine had been lucky so far. The bitterness of Jacob’s betrayal had muted any pain or fear he might have otherwise felt, and he hadn’t really known Michael. Jeremiah-yes, Jeremiah had hurt, but he was also a weak fool with the brains of a woodlouse. Kurt was…
He sighed, hating the fact that the sigh was partly happy-blissful, actually. Kurt was intelligent, attractive, talented, entertaining, attentive, and modest. He possessed an extraordinary blend of naiveté and experience that was endearing, and-as much as he tried to hide it in a cutthroat world-he was kind. Had he been a woman, and Blaine normal, they would be married in the morning, assuming Kurt found him suitable.
But Kurt wasn’t a woman. He was barely a man; he was a boy, and seducing him would always be on Blaine’s conscience.
Further our acquaintance, he thought scathingly. What an idiot!
It didn’t matter anyway; he would soon be out of reach. But Blaine continued to berate himself the entire way home and further, as Kurt Hummel slipped, innocent and caring, into his dreams.
-+-
Four days later, Blaine stood in his hotel room, surveying his earthly possessions. He had brought very little with him, actually; most of what he had accumulated in his lifetime was sitting in storage at his parents’ house. The only things left were his favorite books and sheet music, a good amount of clothes, and a few other treasured possessions.
In the corner, Pavarotti chirped brightly. Blaine smiled to himself. Pavarotti hated to see him so forlorn. He turned and approached the little bird’s cage fondly.
“What do you think, Pav?” he asked quietly. “Have I forgotten anything?”
Pavarotti trilled, which he interpreted as a no.
At that exact moment, a sharp rap reverberated through the room, and Blaine jumped. He wasn’t expecting company, unless Wes had come early-which he doubted. Wes was a stickler for punctuality. Warily, Blaine approached the door.
“Ku-Mr. Hummel!” he stumbled, nearly forgetting himself in his shock. “What-are you all right?”
“Yes,” Kurt said, blushing. “Yes, I’m sorry if I startled you, but-my brother said you were leaving.”
“Oh.”
The word fell uncomfortably between them. Blaine opened the door wider and stepped aside.
“Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you,” Kurt said stiffly.
He really was flustered. As he entered the room, Blaine couldn’t help but notice that Kurt’s collar was ruffled, his tie was loosened, and his hat didn’t match his suit or his tie. Kurt seemed to be just coming to this realization, as he sat down self-consciously and avoided Blaine’s gaze.
“You didn’t tell me you were leaving,” Kurt mumbled in a voice that was equal parts reproachful and disappointed.
“It slipped my mind,” Blaine said honestly, sitting in the chair closest to Kurt, as opposed to the one across from him. He wondered if he should reach out, and decided against it. “I’m sorry. I was offered a position with the Times. My sister lives in London; I’ll be staying with her for eight months, perhaps, see if I’d be inclined to stay longer. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“There are newspapers in America,” Kurt pointed out rather hopelessly.
“The Times has a rich history; it’s a good place to start a career and build a reputation, and perhaps lend some credibility to American journalists. I’ve thought about it quite a bit. When I accepted… I had no reason to stay. And my sister is anxious to see me.”
“Yes, of course,” Kurt said reluctantly. “I apologize if my reaction seemed-unreasonable. Finn said-well, it’s nothing.”
Further our acquaintance, Blaine thought grimly. Oh well, I suppose it’s for the best…. Then Kurt looked up with a hopeful glance, and his stomach dropped.
“Can I write to you?” Kurt asked shyly. “I know we’ve just met, but I’d like to hear about London. Perhaps add it to my list,” he added with an uncomfortable laugh.
There was absolutely no way that Blaine would be able to refuse that laugh. After all, it wasn’t seducing if Kurt had asked him, was it? And besides, he was in much less danger this way, having the pleasure of Kurt’s company without the danger of his eyes and his voice.
“Of course! I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself-here, let me get you the address.”
Pavarotti chirped prettily then, and Kurt jumped.
“You have a bird?” he asked, standing and approaching the cage.
“Yes,” Blaine called distractedly as he flipped through his things, looking for a pen and paper. “His name is Pavarotti. My friend Wes will be looking after him, supposing he can get used to the noise. You can take him out, if you like. He doesn’t bite.”
There was the sound of the lock unhinging, and then a cry of surprise. Blaine turned just quickly enough to see Pavarotti beating his wings furiously-slapping the cage door, Kurt’s face, and the shuffle of papers on the desk.
“Pav!” Blaine said reproachfully. And then, “Drat,” as a pen and his pocket-watch slipped off with the papers.
“Oh, I’m sorry-”
Kurt knelt down, picking up the fallen items.
“I suppose he doesn’t like me,” he said self-deprecatingly.
“Oh, not at all. The foolish bird is just upset. I’ve kept him in the cage for the last few hours, for when Wes arrives. He’s a clever little thing-probably made all that pretty noise just to earn his freedom.”
Pavarotti had himself a cheery flight around the room, before alighting on Blaine’s shoulder. Kurt stood, placing the dropped things on the desk-except for the pocket watch, which he held out curiously. It was open, and a small portrait was fixed opposite the clock face.
“Is this your sister?” Kurt asked. “You look frightfully alike.”
“Yes,” Blaine said with a small smile, accepting the watch. “We’ve always heard that. Supposedly my nephew is the spitting image of me as well, except for his father’s eyes. I haven’t seen him or my sister in a year or two.”
He closed the watch with a soft click.
“Andrea gave this to me when she got engaged-claimed it was a late birthday gift. She says that, if there’s ever someone whom I want to see so badly that I’m counting down the very seconds, I should put their picture in here. Oddly enough, her image was already in place when I received it.”
Kurt chuckled. He stepped closer, hesitant, and held out a delicate finger. He stroked Pavarotti’s wing and, with a slight fluttering, Pav alighted on his hand.
“There we go,” he said with a satisfied air. Blaine tried to recover from the unexpected potency of his near presence, and cleared his throat.
“I’ve an idea,” he declared. “Would you mind terribly if I left Pavarotti in your care? He’s an excellent companion and a marvelous songbird-he has perfect pitch. I wouldn’t ask, but Wes hates birds, as much as he pretends otherwise. And I do feel bad for leaving so soon, without mentioning…”
“You haven’t done a thing wrong,” Kurt asserted. He walked back and sat in his chair, looking at Pavarotti all the while. “But I do believe I like your little yellow fellow. How often does he sing?”
“Oh, every day.”
Kurt smiled at that, and his gaze lifted to meet Blaine’s. His eyes were warm.
“Then I should be glad to keep him as long as needed. Although I’m sure he’ll miss you terribly. As will-all your friends.”
There was a long pause. Pavarotti chirped, and Blaine tried to maintain eye contact with Kurt. Tried to read his mind, really, and wonder if the stuttering in Kurt’s voice had been because he was hesitant to call himself friends with a man he had just met, or because he had meant to say “As will I.”
Either way, he wanted desperately to pull Kurt towards him and kiss him breathless.
Blaine cleared his throat again and looked away.
“I would appreciate it very much. Here’s the address. I hate that your visit must be so short, but Wes will be here soon and I must go over my packing once more…. You really must write, and often.”
“I will,” Kurt smiled.
Author: amaXdear
Rating: G
Warnings: A little Edwardian-era angst
Word Count: ~5,600
Characters/Pairings: Klaine, Finchel (future installments include Santana, Jesse St. James, Burt, hints of Brittana, and an OC or two)
Author’s Note: This fic is dedicated to pawndilene, whose awesome Do You Remember the Time… series served as inspiration, specifically My Dear Mr. Hummel/Blaine’s Pocket Watch Locket. She also recommended two great movies, Maurice and A Room With a View (both based off of E.M. Forster novels) that provided most of my references. This is unbeta’d, although it should be because of the incredible length, but after three months of tinkering it really needs to be posted.
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything; besides of the characters, the lyrics are from “La Nuit” (from the French movie Les Choristes), and the 1899 song “She’s Only A Bird In A Guilded Cage.”
Summary: They meet for one night. Then he’s gone, an ocean between them, nothing but a few pictures and countless letters keeping them together.
“I don’t know how women do it, but Rachel understood her quick enough and said…”
Blaine blinked hard to keep himself from falling asleep, and took a hasty sip from his drink. He liked Finn, he really did, but sometimes the man’s stories were so deadly dull that it took all his charm to feign even mild interest. His eyes drifted, looking out over the crowd. It was a familiar, unoriginal sight. Dozens of wealthy people having boring conversations, many mean-spirited compared to Finn’s honest bewilderment.
“…well, there’s a reason she’s not here tonight, obviously.”
“Yes,” Blaine smiled. “I can only imagine how your wife would have reacted to that.”
“Oh, Rachel wouldn’t have done anything,” Finn said earnestly. “She would never-”
“I’m sure, I’m sure,” Blaine interrupted hastily. “Hudson, excuse me for a moment, won’t you?”
Blaine patted Finn’s arm in a friendly way, holding up his half-empty drink as if it were his excuse, and slipped through the crowd. It was not a pleasant trip. It seemed as though he couldn’t walk a foot without hearing a complaint, a catty comment, or an underhanded insult. Any other night, he would have ignored it and looked for someone he knew, someone he could speak to without openly weeping.
Tonight, that was impossible. Finn was kind, but stupid. Artie was out of town, Wes was ill, Miss Fabray hadn’t received an invitation and David was simply absent. He had nothing to do but retreat to a different floor and find an empty room.
Blaine leaned against the door with a heavy sigh. It was so-so useless, that was the problem. He wouldn’t be shocked if these people had been cruel in a business environment. It was expected there. But life, in a social context, was supposed to be enjoyable. Friendly, optimistic, open.
He missed his family, he realized suddenly. That was the problem. He hadn’t seen Andrea in almost two years, since her husband’s funeral, and he had moved away from his parents only months ago. Oh sure, he had been apart from them at college-but this was different, somehow. It felt-permanent, despite the fact that he had absolutely no intention of actually staying in New York.
Good Lord, no. Blaine was not a New York person. He wasn’t an anywhere person. He just liked people, being around people, friendly people, people who cared. Now he lived alone, away from relatives and with only a few friends. He had drifted from job to job since graduating, succeeding at everything but never finding that one thing that could anchor him somewhere. Something-someone.
Only a few more days, Blaine reminded himself. And I’ll be off to London. The thought of seeing Andrea again filled his heart with joy, but a small voice in the back of his head kept up a steady stream of insults. What the hell did he think he would find in London? He knew damn well the consequences of setting up permanently near his sister. That was why he had left home in the first place…
A shriek of (false) laughter reminded Blaine of where he was: at a party, with no one he knew. Not the place to have any sort of crisis. He drained his drink miserably and reluctantly exited the room. He was about to cross the threshold when he paused.
The din of conversation was loud, and he could hear a small band playing in the east drawing room-but beneath all that, there was something else. Music. He could have sworn it was Tchaikovsky but then it seemed to change slightly, into something brief that he didn’t recognize-and then, suddenly, it was Beethoven. Hardly appropriate, given the setting, but it was a masterful transition, and Blaine was interested.
Slipping through the crowds was difficult, and the soft strains had changed to Mozart before he gave up and looked for his host instead.
“Who is playing?” he asked, appearing at Finn’s side.
“I don’t know. One of Rachel’s friends, probably-they all play and sing. That’s why I invited you, actually; I’ve heard you love music.”
“Yes…” Blaine said distractedly, peering around the room. Where was the piano?
“I could introduce you, if you’d like,” Finn said, bemused.
“Yes, thank you.”
Finn led him through the room, maneuvering expertly through the crowd where he could and pushing bluntly through where he could. People turned with sharp words on their tongue, but their anger dissipated in a moment when they saw the friendly grin on their host’s face. Blaine tried to follow in the wake of this good will.
They entered the drawing room and the music swelled in volume. Immediately, Finn’s pace slackened.
“Oh, it’s only my brother. You might as well find other company. Kurt wouldn’t pause for the president if it meant stepping away from his instrument. Besides,” he added with a broad grin. “There are many more lovely faces here!”
Finn is an idiot, Blaine thought.
His legs moved of their own accord, pulling him towards the baby grand piano that stood in the corner of the room-or, rather, towards the vision that sat at it. The man perched, straight-backed, on the piano bench, fingers alighting lovingly on the ivory keys. The warmth of the drawing room prompted a light blush from his cheeks, but otherwise he was as pale as porcelain, and every bit as delicately formed. His eyes, a lovely sea-blue in the low lighting, were partly closed and his lips curved as he lost himself in the music.
Blaine had not seen a lovelier face all evening, and he chose a seat that afforded him an excellent view of it. The song ended soon after, and the player opened his eyes, which fell immediately on his lone audience member.
“Mr. Hudson-” Blaine stammered.
“Hummel,” the man corrected in a light voice. “Finn is my stepbrother; he kept his father’s surname. My name is Kurt Hummel.”
His gaze turned back to the piano, where his fingers fell on a lonely F.
“Well, Mr. Kurt Hummel, I wanted to congratulate you on a spectacular performance, which deserved a much more attentive audience.”
Mr. Hummel looked up, delight written in every line of his face.
“Thank you,” he smiled reservedly. “Mr.-?”
“Blaine Anderson,” he introduced himself. “You prefer the classics? That was Mozart, wasn’t it? The transition from Beethoven was excellent.”
Mr. Hummel looked at him with a restrained smile, but his cheeks flushed with pleasure and his eyes widened, filled with a brightness that communicated his delight more than any smile Blaine had ever seen. He was caught off-guard by his own pleasure at the sight, and almost missed Mr. Hummel's words.
“Yes! Yes, I adore old music-opera, castrati, the reign of the virtuoso-my stepmother tells me I was born in the wrong era,” he added self-deprecatingly. The momentary flash of excitement was stifled, and Blaine couldn’t resist the urge to chase it.
“Well, someone’s got to bring the joys of one era into this one,” Blaine smiled. “And you do it brilliantly.”
Mr. Hummel laughed, and Blaine’s heart thudded. Where his voice was light and high, his laugh was low, warm and too intimate for any public setting.
“Do you sing as well?” he asked hastily, in an attempt to distract himself.
Mr. Hummel’s fingers found the piano keys again, and he began to play a light, gentle melody that, while not revolutionary, was pleasing to the ear. A few young women who had been hovering nearby slunk away, disappointed that they wouldn’t get a chance to showcase their meager talents. Good riddance, Blaine thought cheerfully.
“Finn asked me not to,” Mr. Hummel said, doing a sterling job of hiding his bitterness. “I believe Rachel was jealous,” he added archly.
“No doubt,” Blaine said, and had the distinct pleasure of seeing a blush rise on Mr. Hummel’s cheeks and refuse to fade. “Will you sing something for me?”
“I don’t think so…” Mr. Hummel trailed off reluctantly.
Blaine leaned forward and touched the other man’s wrist. He stilled and looked up, startled. For a moment, their eyes met and it seemed as if the whole world fell silent except for the last notes of music that lingered in the air…
“Perhaps-one song,” Mr. Hummel relented.
He turned back to the piano and took a deep breath. The melody poured out, rich and deep, a song that Blaine didn’t recognize. The singer's voice was in direct contrast as it danced lightly over the piano's notes.
“O nuit! Viens apporter a la terre.”
“Ah,” Blaine sighed. It was just as he expected-Mr. Hummel had a smooth, high voice that slipped throughout the room, between the people and the particles of air, swelling to fill each space and rising until it hung like smoke above them. It was, in a word, exquisite.
This was a man, he felt, who knew how to live and love life.
“Le calme echantement de ton mystere.” Kurt’s voice climbed higher and Blaine leaned forward again. He didn’t know the song and had no idea when it might end, but the last thing he wanted to do was miss a moment of it. “L’ombre qui t’escorte est si douce-”
“Kurt!”
Mrs. Finn Hudson swept into the room in a whirl of lavender fabric and strong perfume. The crowd cleared a path for her instantly, and Mr. Hummel’s hands fell from the piano. There was a sour look on his face.
“You should have told me you were opening the piano,” she chided. “Mr. Puckerman has been begging me to sing for half an hour!”
Blaine, who was acquainted with Mr. Puckerman, doubted this very much.
“I was thinking of that lovely new one, the dance one-you know it?”
She positioned herself at the piano just as Mr. Hummel stood.
“I am not your accompanist, Rachel,” he said coldly. Mrs. Hudson’s face sank in a moment of genuine disappointment, before she rallied herself and prepared to give what was certainly going to be an indignant, guilt-inducing tirade.
Blaine’s eyes slid between the two worriedly. It was rude of Mrs. Hudson to have interrupted, but he knew instinctively that, if he allowed Mr. Hummel to leave now, their conversation would be sullied for the rest of the evening. And he really didn’t want to hear whatever sugar-coated vitriol Mrs. Hudson was about to spew forth.
“Allow me, madam,” he said hastily, standing. “I’m sure Mr. Hummel’s playing beats mine every day, but I know the song you’re thinking of.”
Mrs. Hudson agreed willingly enough-she was that kind of woman-but Blaine detected a hint of derision in Mr. Hummel’s face as he turned away. He reached out and grabbed the other man’s wrist.
“You’re not leaving, are you?”
“I was going to get something to drink, perhaps find my brother,” Mr. Hummel said stiffly.
“How will I find you later?”
He turned. “What?”
“It’s packed in here. I’ll be done in just a minute or two, and I’d like to continue our conversation. How will I find you?”
A slow smile spread across Mr. Hummel’s face, and his head tilted at such an angle that the light fell perfectly on his cheekbones, throwing his features into sharp contrast and causing Blaine’s heart to momentarily stop.
“You have an advantage over me, Mr. Anderson,” Mr. Hummel said in a voice that was positively sultry. “Having heard me play. I can’t even judge you, and I do so love to judge. So… I suppose I could listen to one song, and we could-proceed from there?”
“Excellent.” Blaine smiled warmly, and seated himself at the piano.
His performance was far from perfect, but it was energetic and Mr. Hummel wisely managed to drag him away from the piano before Mrs. Hudson could say a word about it. Mr. Hummel’s hand fell comfortably at the small of his back, guiding him through the room easily, and his breath was soft and sweet at Blaine’s ear.
“So, where were we?”
-+-
It was one of those clear, end-of-summer nights when the wind was warm and insistent, not as chill as it would be just a month later. Kurt suggested, after dinner, that they escape the oppressive heat and crowds of the party, and Blaine was only too happy to oblige. No doubt Kurt was vastly more familiar with his brother and sister-in-law’s property, but he didn’t say a word when Blaine pressed a hand to his back, dangerously close to his waist, to lead them towards his own favorite trail.
“You’ve kept me entertained so far, Mr. Hummel,” Blaine began with a friendly smile. He hoped his eyes were twinkling. “Now would you mind not avoiding my questions?”
“I don’t know what you could mean,” Kurt said lightly.
“Of course you do. So far, everything I’ve managed to learn about you is incidental, something I’ve picked up while you made witty observations on the world and those around us. Like I said, I’ve enjoyed it-but it’s a poor way to build a friendship, don’t you think?”
Kurt shrugged. “What have you learned about me?” he asked. “I’m curious.”
He shifted slightly, dislodging Blaine’s hand, and wandered off the path. He quirked a finger at Blaine, who followed despite his misgivings. He really wasn’t prepared for cross-country adventures.
“I knew from Finn that your father’s been in the auto industry since it began,” he offered hesitatingly. “And from you that you enjoy it as well, although you’ve never taken a job within it for very long. That would be too boring for you, wouldn’t it?”
Kurt was silent, but he nodded slightly. He pushed through a fern impatiently, and they found themselves on another, slimmer trail.
“What else?”
“You despise people acting falsely, unless they are doing it for love,” Blaine said accidentally. “And people who forgo style for fashion. You follow trends in clothes and accessories more than anyone I’ve ever met. You adore the theater and hate circus acts. You’re very well-read, mostly in English novels, poetry, and plays, and you also love the classics. You’ve never been to California, although you would like to go when you can find company. You like New York but prefer Paris, despite having been there only once, and also think you would enjoy Venice.”
“But my favorite place in the world is…?”
Blaine paused , wracking his brain. “I… don’t have any idea.”
Kurt looked over his shoulder and smiled at him, pausing so that Blaine could catch up. They weren’t technically touching, but they walked close enough so that their shoulders brushed occasionally. Kurt walked with effortless grace, but Blaine tripped often on the poorly-laid out path and found himself reaching out for balance more than once. The faint, wavering light of the harvest moon did a poor job of lighting the rocks and roots that sabotaged him.
“Ohio,” Kurt sighed. “Tragically, I can’t deny that home is where the heart is, even if home is oily and flat and dull.”
“Very true. My parents live very nearby-in Pennsylvania. My father is in the coal business, and he likes to be close at hand, but I always hated it. Nothing ruins a good day outside like coming upon a mine.”
“Well, Mr. Anderson, I believe you’ve earned the right to a few straight answers,” Kurt said cheerfully. “What would you like to know about me?”
“Tell me about your mother,” Blaine said, pulling a subject out of the air in an attempt to ease into serious conversation. Kurt looked at him curiously.
“My mother or my stepmother?”
“Either. Both.”
“My stepmother’s name is Carole. She’s a lovely woman-her father was a lawyer, I believe, and her first husband a soldier. I don’t recall how he died. She hasn’t been married to my father long, but she was very enthusiastic in my education and proud of both Finn and me. She plays tennis every weekend-Carole is very dedicated and a bit competitive, and protective as well. She’s like my father that way.”
“And your mother?” Blaine prompted gently. Kurt sighed, staring at his shoes.
“She died when I was a child,” he said slowly. “I don’t remember her much.”
Blaine stopped walking. It was as if Kurt had dealt a blow; this was the first lie to have been told between them. Kurt kept going for a moment, then paused and looked back.
“I think you do,” Blaine said frankly, and then hastily retreated. He really had no reason to feel insulted, and the expression on Kurt’s face was like a warning. “But if you don’t want to tell me, that’s all right.”
“Oh, fine. Although I don’t see why you’ve any interest. Not a single person has ever asked me about my mother, you know.”
“Oddly enough, I believe that’s why I’m asking.”
A smile flickered reluctantly on Kurt’s face.
“You are a very odd man, Mr. Anderson. Do you know that?”
Blaine grimaced. “Yes, I am rather aware of that fact. I’m trying to figure you out, Mr. Hummel.”
Kurt smiled wider and resumed walking, tactfully ignoring the faint blush on his companion’s cheeks.
“She was a teacher, before she married. She knew my father before he got involved in the auto industry and died before he ever profited from it. I remember her with-a child’s fondness, hero worship. Even so, I know she was a remarkable woman: strong, beautiful, and compassionate. My father told me so. I remember that she loved poetry, and French. There was a lullaby…”
The words trailed off in a sigh. O nuit, Blaine thought. Viens apporter a la terre.
“Where did you learn to sing?” he asked. He wanted to learn more about Kurt, yes, but he knew when the conversation was too heavy for casual acquaintance. Kurt brightened.
“Church choir. I stayed after service so often that the organist grew tired of me. He taught me to play piano so I could accompany myself. Very kind man.”
They talked for some time about music. Blaine was delighted to learn that Kurt was fully capable of complex, intelligent conversation about more than gossip. They were occasionally in conflict, but Kurt’s taste was exceptional, and Blaine found himself thinking that, if he played as well as he spoke, Kurt would be famous in his own right within a year. More so than Mrs. Hudson, even.
Eventually, Kurt turned the tide of conversation, claiming that he now had the right to learn about Blaine.
“Your piano playing isn’t quite professional, but it’s more than I would expect from the average person. You love music.”
“I do,” Blaine confirmed, nodding. “My family has always been a patron of the arts. I’m afraid I never put much effort into my own studies, though.”
“Do you sing, too? There-don’t try to deny it, I’ve seen it in your face. You must sing me something.”
“Must I?” Blaine smiled.
“You must,” Kurt said firmly. “I’ve sung for you already and it would be very rude of you to not repay the favor.”
“I’m sure your singing is infinitely preferable to my own.”
“Nevertheless,” Kurt said impishly. “Ah, here we are.”
They had slowed on their walk, and sometimes stopped entirely, but Kurt sped up slightly and Blaine followed until they turned a bend in the path and came up one of the loveliest views Blaine had ever seen. It was a small clearing, obviously unpopular, and grown slightly over with weeds. Small bursts of wildflowers were scattered around the edges. The warm light of the harvest moon gilded the leaves of an enormous weeping willow in the center. A stone bench sat there, embraced by the willow’s branches, slightly weathered and plainly carved. Still, the clearing held a kind of majesty that made up for any aesthetic flaws it might have held.
“Although I prefer Paris, would enjoy Venice, and love Ohio, this is my favorite place in New York,” Kurt said quietly. “Sit, sit.”
Blaine did as he was told.
“It truly seems as if we look out at the entire world,” he murmured, gazing up at the sky that seemed even blacker contrasting with the moon.
“Yes, exactly. At least, that’s what I’ve always thought. The destination is well worth the journey. Now will you sing for me?”
“Very well,” Blaine agreed, patting Kurt’s knee fondly. “In gratitude for this lovely view, I will sing a few bars if you will consent not to laugh at me.”
“I would never laugh at you,” Kurt insisted.
His pale skin shone in the dim light, and his eyes glowed with almost painful sincerity.
“Thank you,” Blaine managed to say, and looked away before he lost his composure. He cleared his throat and began a soft song. “She's only a bird in a gilded cage, a beautiful sight to see. You may think she's happy and free from care. She’s not, though she seems to be-”
“Oh, not that,” Kurt said, laying a hand on his arm. “No, please, I must object-I cannot abide sad music. Choose something else, won’t you?”
“No sad music?”
“None. I quite detest it. I can never keep myself from crying over a truly heart-wrenching song. It is so embarrassing, I prefer to avoid the whole thing altogether.”
“Mr. Hummel, I’m afraid we are stuck,” Blaine grimaced. “I don’t know nearly as many songs that include lyrics as you do. I know only the popular tunes such as that one, and none of the others seem appropriate for this peaceful setting.”
“I don’t believe you,” Kurt proclaimed immediately. “You-you seem so lively,” he said, fumbling. “I feel as though there is not a single moment when you have not felt more fully alive than most men ever do. An assembly such as this-idle chatter, distant politeness, so little true interest… it must be unbearable for you. It is difficult enough to be exposed to apathy, but to deliberately indulge in misery and know no other music-I cannot picture it.”
Blaine could not divert his gaze nor hide his astonishment. He hadn’t mentioned any of those thoughts all evening. Were his emotions so clearly spelled out on his face, or had Kurt been studying him as eagerly as he studied Kurt?
The other man was looking out of the clearing, eyes fixed on the orange moon. His jaw was clenched and his eyes glittered as if he was expecting rebuke, but a faint blush on his cheeks betrayed him. He looked terribly, terribly vulnerable.
Trembling slightly, Kurt turned. His eyes were impossibly dark, and Blaine heard himself sigh in appreciation. Kurt’s face softened and he leaned forward, almost imperceptibly, lips parting to speak….
“How perceptive you are, Mr. Hummel,” Blaine blurted. “Although I fear your underestimate my patience. In the right mindset, any occasion can be interesting-and this one more so than most.”
He looked up at the rising moon, and checked his pocket-watch. It was getting late.
“We should go back,” Kurt said quietly in a voice tinged with disappointment. “My brother will be looking for me.”
“Yes.”
They walked all the way back in a silence that soon softened, becoming companionable instead of tense. Within a moment, Blaine screwed up his courage and put his arm at Kurt’s back. It was an intimate motion and one that perhaps he hadn’t deserved, but Kurt leaned in and did not move away until the glow of the house’s windows was in sight.
“Kurt, Anderson, there you are!” Finn called, waving, from the back porch. “Party’s winding down now; most people have left. Are you staying the night, Anderson?”
“No, no, I’ve business in the city tomorrow morning. Call me a cab, won’t you?”
Finn nodded and disappeared into the house. Blaine, suddenly awkward in Kurt’s presence, fumbled for a cigarette. He offered one to Kurt, who quietly refused, saying he hated to smoke before bed and he would be retiring soon.
“I just wanted to thank you, Mr. Anderson. You have been quite entertaining and very kind.”
“Truly, it was my pleasure.”
“I thank you all the same. Good night.”
Kurt inclined his head and followed Finn. Blaine walked around to the front of the house. Finn was waiting there with a hired carriage.
“Mind if I bum a light?” Finn asked, and Blaine lit a match for him. “Just wanted to thank you,” Finn said, voice muffled by the cigarette. “For talking to Kurt like that. He doesn’t talk much at these things-well, he says it’s because people don’t keep up with him but personally I just think he doesn’t get on with people. I don’t know if he told you, but he lives with our parents in Ohio. They don’t get out much.”
It was the kind of speech typical to Finn, Blaine thought. Friendly and well-meaning, but completely off the mark.
“It was no problem,” Blaine said, offering a firm handshake. “You can tell Kurt so, and also that I’d love to further our acquaintance.”
Finn gave him an odd look, but Blaine simply nodded and got in the carriage.
As soon as they were a reasonable distance from the house, Blaine fell back against the cushions and rubbed his eyes.
“What am I doing?” he groaned.
Blaine knew how this ended. There were only two options: scandal, jail, newspaper headlines, disgust, family rejection, distant friends, and eternal misery; or heartache, begging, loss of dignity, betrayal… and, judging by the rapid pounding of his heart, eternal misery.
He had been here before. There was Jeremiah Ensler, in college, Jeremiah who married the first girl whose hand he could hold long enough. Jacob Flint, four months later, who was caught with a police officer and paid the price for it. Michael Banks, just three weeks after that, who fled to France.
Blaine had been lucky so far. The bitterness of Jacob’s betrayal had muted any pain or fear he might have otherwise felt, and he hadn’t really known Michael. Jeremiah-yes, Jeremiah had hurt, but he was also a weak fool with the brains of a woodlouse. Kurt was…
He sighed, hating the fact that the sigh was partly happy-blissful, actually. Kurt was intelligent, attractive, talented, entertaining, attentive, and modest. He possessed an extraordinary blend of naiveté and experience that was endearing, and-as much as he tried to hide it in a cutthroat world-he was kind. Had he been a woman, and Blaine normal, they would be married in the morning, assuming Kurt found him suitable.
But Kurt wasn’t a woman. He was barely a man; he was a boy, and seducing him would always be on Blaine’s conscience.
Further our acquaintance, he thought scathingly. What an idiot!
It didn’t matter anyway; he would soon be out of reach. But Blaine continued to berate himself the entire way home and further, as Kurt Hummel slipped, innocent and caring, into his dreams.
-+-
Four days later, Blaine stood in his hotel room, surveying his earthly possessions. He had brought very little with him, actually; most of what he had accumulated in his lifetime was sitting in storage at his parents’ house. The only things left were his favorite books and sheet music, a good amount of clothes, and a few other treasured possessions.
In the corner, Pavarotti chirped brightly. Blaine smiled to himself. Pavarotti hated to see him so forlorn. He turned and approached the little bird’s cage fondly.
“What do you think, Pav?” he asked quietly. “Have I forgotten anything?”
Pavarotti trilled, which he interpreted as a no.
At that exact moment, a sharp rap reverberated through the room, and Blaine jumped. He wasn’t expecting company, unless Wes had come early-which he doubted. Wes was a stickler for punctuality. Warily, Blaine approached the door.
“Ku-Mr. Hummel!” he stumbled, nearly forgetting himself in his shock. “What-are you all right?”
“Yes,” Kurt said, blushing. “Yes, I’m sorry if I startled you, but-my brother said you were leaving.”
“Oh.”
The word fell uncomfortably between them. Blaine opened the door wider and stepped aside.
“Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you,” Kurt said stiffly.
He really was flustered. As he entered the room, Blaine couldn’t help but notice that Kurt’s collar was ruffled, his tie was loosened, and his hat didn’t match his suit or his tie. Kurt seemed to be just coming to this realization, as he sat down self-consciously and avoided Blaine’s gaze.
“You didn’t tell me you were leaving,” Kurt mumbled in a voice that was equal parts reproachful and disappointed.
“It slipped my mind,” Blaine said honestly, sitting in the chair closest to Kurt, as opposed to the one across from him. He wondered if he should reach out, and decided against it. “I’m sorry. I was offered a position with the Times. My sister lives in London; I’ll be staying with her for eight months, perhaps, see if I’d be inclined to stay longer. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“There are newspapers in America,” Kurt pointed out rather hopelessly.
“The Times has a rich history; it’s a good place to start a career and build a reputation, and perhaps lend some credibility to American journalists. I’ve thought about it quite a bit. When I accepted… I had no reason to stay. And my sister is anxious to see me.”
“Yes, of course,” Kurt said reluctantly. “I apologize if my reaction seemed-unreasonable. Finn said-well, it’s nothing.”
Further our acquaintance, Blaine thought grimly. Oh well, I suppose it’s for the best…. Then Kurt looked up with a hopeful glance, and his stomach dropped.
“Can I write to you?” Kurt asked shyly. “I know we’ve just met, but I’d like to hear about London. Perhaps add it to my list,” he added with an uncomfortable laugh.
There was absolutely no way that Blaine would be able to refuse that laugh. After all, it wasn’t seducing if Kurt had asked him, was it? And besides, he was in much less danger this way, having the pleasure of Kurt’s company without the danger of his eyes and his voice.
“Of course! I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself-here, let me get you the address.”
Pavarotti chirped prettily then, and Kurt jumped.
“You have a bird?” he asked, standing and approaching the cage.
“Yes,” Blaine called distractedly as he flipped through his things, looking for a pen and paper. “His name is Pavarotti. My friend Wes will be looking after him, supposing he can get used to the noise. You can take him out, if you like. He doesn’t bite.”
There was the sound of the lock unhinging, and then a cry of surprise. Blaine turned just quickly enough to see Pavarotti beating his wings furiously-slapping the cage door, Kurt’s face, and the shuffle of papers on the desk.
“Pav!” Blaine said reproachfully. And then, “Drat,” as a pen and his pocket-watch slipped off with the papers.
“Oh, I’m sorry-”
Kurt knelt down, picking up the fallen items.
“I suppose he doesn’t like me,” he said self-deprecatingly.
“Oh, not at all. The foolish bird is just upset. I’ve kept him in the cage for the last few hours, for when Wes arrives. He’s a clever little thing-probably made all that pretty noise just to earn his freedom.”
Pavarotti had himself a cheery flight around the room, before alighting on Blaine’s shoulder. Kurt stood, placing the dropped things on the desk-except for the pocket watch, which he held out curiously. It was open, and a small portrait was fixed opposite the clock face.
“Is this your sister?” Kurt asked. “You look frightfully alike.”
“Yes,” Blaine said with a small smile, accepting the watch. “We’ve always heard that. Supposedly my nephew is the spitting image of me as well, except for his father’s eyes. I haven’t seen him or my sister in a year or two.”
He closed the watch with a soft click.
“Andrea gave this to me when she got engaged-claimed it was a late birthday gift. She says that, if there’s ever someone whom I want to see so badly that I’m counting down the very seconds, I should put their picture in here. Oddly enough, her image was already in place when I received it.”
Kurt chuckled. He stepped closer, hesitant, and held out a delicate finger. He stroked Pavarotti’s wing and, with a slight fluttering, Pav alighted on his hand.
“There we go,” he said with a satisfied air. Blaine tried to recover from the unexpected potency of his near presence, and cleared his throat.
“I’ve an idea,” he declared. “Would you mind terribly if I left Pavarotti in your care? He’s an excellent companion and a marvelous songbird-he has perfect pitch. I wouldn’t ask, but Wes hates birds, as much as he pretends otherwise. And I do feel bad for leaving so soon, without mentioning…”
“You haven’t done a thing wrong,” Kurt asserted. He walked back and sat in his chair, looking at Pavarotti all the while. “But I do believe I like your little yellow fellow. How often does he sing?”
“Oh, every day.”
Kurt smiled at that, and his gaze lifted to meet Blaine’s. His eyes were warm.
“Then I should be glad to keep him as long as needed. Although I’m sure he’ll miss you terribly. As will-all your friends.”
There was a long pause. Pavarotti chirped, and Blaine tried to maintain eye contact with Kurt. Tried to read his mind, really, and wonder if the stuttering in Kurt’s voice had been because he was hesitant to call himself friends with a man he had just met, or because he had meant to say “As will I.”
Either way, he wanted desperately to pull Kurt towards him and kiss him breathless.
Blaine cleared his throat again and looked away.
“I would appreciate it very much. Here’s the address. I hate that your visit must be so short, but Wes will be here soon and I must go over my packing once more…. You really must write, and often.”
“I will,” Kurt smiled.