(i fucking love you babe)
Kurt meets Blaine Anderson on a rainy October day, the air freezing-cold and the raindrops falling from the leaves of the trees onto the asphalt.
On days like this, most people don’t stop to listen, rushing on with their umbrellas as shields and their boots splashing water everywhere when they step into puddles. On days like this, Kurt mostly plays for himself, notes fading into the air around him as he flows from one piece to another — but Blaine, he’s not everyone, and so he stops.
His nose is red from the cold, cheeks frostbitten — he has a ridiculously charming reindeer hat covering his head and forehead and a seemingly handmade thick scarf, covering the skin from his neck to his mouth — but the first thing Kurt notices when Blaine stops short in front of him are his eyes, wide and hazel and bright between the two articles of clothing. They stare at Kurt as he plays, not with confused wonder or curiosity Kurt’s grown so used to — but with admiration, as if he understands everything Kurt’s trying to convey through the music, and relates to every word.
Graduation is a collection of fake smiles and red gowns and stolen cigarettes behind the gym, hiding from no one and everyone at the same time.
They never show up for the ceremony. In a hidden room in the back of his heart, Kurt feels guilty about it – can see his dad sitting next to Carole in his mind, can see him watching her wipe the tears away while Finn receives the diploma and wondering where his own son is, if he’s even coming at all.
He ignores the guilt the way he taught himself to, kicks off his shoes and lays back on the dusty couch under the bleachers, listens to the springs crick beneath him and knows the couch won’t collapse, because it’s been dying for so long and it’d be far too poetic for it to break on the day they finally leave.
They don’t talk. Quinn leans her head against his thigh and he threads his fingers in her hair and they breathe together, watch the smoke fade from the air slowly as the minutes tick by. Kurt thinks there’s something metaphoric about it, the smoke that is heavy and unmistakable but ephemeral, there for a while but then gone with no one noticing it after. He doesn’t voice it, though – he likes the silence and his tongue feels heavy in his mouth and he thinks, it’s the last day, why share meaningful thoughts when nothing means anything anymore?
“I just wish I had someone to love, you know?”
And Kurt — he wants to scream, I do know, wants to shake Blaine by his shoulders and make him see, wants to smash their mouths together and breath each other rather than air; he wants, wants so badly, but the baby on the woman’s lap in the next table starts crying, and the manager is scolding the waitress in the back, and it can’t be the right time, can it? Not when Kurt’s been waiting so long, not when it’s hardly the romantic climax he’s been expecting.
And so Kurt takes a deep breath, and bites down his words.
Blaine smiles. Kurt nods.
And the moment, once again, is gone.
(It’s a story of maybe — and also, a story of the way maybe is a static state, a state that is easy to go into and very difficult to get out of).
“That’s… great,” he answers slowly, uncertain, and he knows it’s obvious and he knows he’s doing an awful job hiding it, but it’s mostly because he’s not trying — Kurt is his other half, can read him better than he can read books and knows him better than he knows the look of his own face; hiding a truth, lying to him, has never been much of an option.
Kurt nods, after a short pause. Purses his lips and says nothing, so Blaine says nothing in return.
The afternoon passes by quickly and the sun begins to set when Kurt rises up from the stair he was sitting on, offering Blaine a hand.
They walk back to Blaine’s house with their hands laced together and Blaine knows he didn’t ask if Kurt loves Felix, didn’t ask if Kurt is happy about it, didn’t even ask if Kurt is going to Hawaii.
But for the first time in his life Blaine can see that there is an opportunity standing on the doorstep, a chance that could make Kurt happy, and Blaine isn’t happy to see it; and for the first time in his life Blaine acknowledges the fact that not everything that can make Kurt happy is going to make him happy, and it feels like he’s been hit when he realizes he’s not sure how he feels about it.
So he says nothing, only squeezes Kurt’s fingers tighter when the dream seems to fade between the cracks of reality.
“Whoa —“ Kurt blurts, darts forward to grip Blaine’s shoulders, and Blaine does the same, fingers fisting around the blue fabric of Kurt’s shirt. “Easy there, Anderson. Pretty sure that if I get you killed I’d have a mob hit on my head.”
“How rich do you think I am?” Blaine grumbles, but says no more, focusing on pulling back from Kurt as slowly as he can, fingers still holding on to Kurt’s shoulders as a safety-blanket.
They’re close now, Blaine notices in a split of second where his attention slips, and for a moment he forgets to breath because Kurt smells like the ground and sun-washed asphalt and a hint of cologne, because his eyes are staring right at Blaine in a blue like the sky in its clearest day, because his shoulders are strong beneath Blaine’s hands and his muscles shift as he helps Blaine back onto a somewhat stable standing position on top of the board — because for a moment Blaine forgets that it can never be like that between them and sinks into a world where the color of everything is Kurt’s pale blue eyes and the smell of everything is his earthy scent.
“You okay, Anderson?” Kurt asks slowly, forehead furrowed, and Blaine snaps right into reality with a startle, eyes widening.
“I’m — fine,” he manages to piece together, and Kurt rolls his eyes and sighs.
(composer!kurt/lyricist!blaine, skank!kurt/badboy!blaine, unrequited love!kurt, dom!kurt/sub!blaine bffs [this verse], skater!kurt)