… No. It wasn’t? Couldn’t be? Kurt Elizabeth Hummel was amid riding his celebratory wave, one that only came with selling his very first play; one where he’d made a splash. One destined for Broadway and currently about to begin the beautiful pre-production stage, one that he was very much involved in. After all, BLOWING IT was far too personal a tale to send off into the night and hope for the best, and that it was executed properly. To the world, a tale of the underdog working through the trials and tribulations of life, dealing with an internal struggle in a very external world, one theme at it’s core; loss and regret. Relatable hotcakes that everyone could take stake in. Yet to anyone that knew Kurt Hummel? Well. The life he was supposed to lead, once upon a time. One he desperately clung to in the only way he could; within the pages of his next venture. Writing it had been cathartic in some sense, a coping mechanism before he realized he could spin it.
Yet, the celebrating had stopped because in the center of Little Italy, in a mess of post fruity drinks and cheesecake celebrations, he found himself stopping in the warm June breeze that tickled over his palms and through his hair, as if the past few hours of solo debauchery and socialization with friendly strangers hadn’t already done it’s number on his hairspray. To be fair, he’d been out since this morning, and the celebrations had promptly started after exciting the meeting an getting off the phone with his Burt and Carole to share the incredible news. Even after all these years, Kurt’s ears couldn’t
— wouldn’t deceive him. Two people had left the bar, opening the door as they went and six words had caused him to stop in his tracks. Looking slowly, eyes wide and oddly confused because … It couldn’t be. The front window wasn’t any help given the crowd but Kurt’s mind was already made up as he unglued himself from the street, and pushed his way in, thirsting to hear more than the brief snippet the door had since muffled when it had closed behind the escapees.
… It was. He couldn’t even see Blaine, but he heard him, and it was doing unmistakable things to his heart as he pressed deeper, the New York realness muting any apologies as he pushed through the crowd, almost in a daze. Really, he was, shrouded in disbelief too. Their fairytale hadn’t had a happy ending, and it was something Kurt had regretted every single day. The hurt had dulled over time, of course, but he had also stopped looking for Prince Charming and actively seeking out a relationship because every single guy fell short. His eyes fell upon Blaine when he made it to the front of the crowd and his heart followed suit, dropping from his chest as his mouth went dry. Blaine Anderson. The disbelief was wildly apparent, but all Kurt could do was watch in utter awe, lips parted ever so slightly with pink cheeks from hours of drinking. The top few buttons of his shirt had come undone throughout the evening, skin flushing in the same degree as his cheeks. His hand cradled his elbow as the other rested against his mouth, fingers finding solace gently pressed against his bottom lip as he took in the sight before him. Blaine didn’t look like Blaine, well no. Blaine looked like Blaine, just … Not the Blaine he once knew. The one he was in love with, and had planned on spending the rest of his life with. At least not until he’d ruined it all.
The source material was familiarity. Florence Welch, an ethereal goddess that had a tendency to find her way to his record player when he was drowning his sorrows with wine, and even she hadn’t ever brought him to tears so quickly. Well. Not tears, but there was emotion welled in his eyes, blurring Blaine as he sang, eyes focused on his fingers as they danced across the keys, so lost. Er, in the music. But … It was so much more, he was so much more and words were hardly something he could process. So instead he stood, eyes welled with emotion and locked on his just begging him to look up, utterly speechless with his heart beating a million miles per second in the pit of his stomach. Blaine Anderson had been a ghost. There had been no updates. Then again, there weren’t many to update him. And yet today, of all days, they crossed paths? None of it erased one little thing however. ‘I will never forgive you for this.’ or the fact that once upon a time, he had it all. They had it all.
Blaine had been going at this for hours now. Having decided to come in early just for something to do. Besides? Joe, the portly silver haired Italian with the thick white mustache speckled in remnants of the black it used to be needed a few things fixed inside the little bit run down and a whole lot of loved after piano bar in Little Italy Blaine started to call home a few years ago now. In that time, he’d managed to move closer just to be on hand for the man who felt a lot more like a father than his real one ever had. Older now and unable to do all the things he could when he was younger, Joe hated to ask for help so Blaine stopped waiting a long time ago. He’d spent the better part of the afternoon underneath the bar looking between youtube, google and ’I hope I’m doing this right’ but the new drink sprays were working like a charm by the time the crowds started to thicken up. Thank God, Blaine managed to pull that one off with minimal error on the trial and error part.
When the music started? His locals were already two sheets to the wind and having the time of their lives. His voice was just an added layer to their already loud laughter, singing and dancing. But as the night went on, the door had been propped open several times and the music brought more passerbys inside as it always did. Billy Joel, Coldplay, Michael Buble, his music and a virtual playlist of half routine, half ‘I haven’t sung that in a while’ poured out song after song until a random hair put a song in his head and until he sung it, it was going to be stuck there. Florence and the Machine wasn’t his usual go to but it was a random hit on his playlist somewhere between drip, drip, drip on his forehead and I don’t think that pipe is supposed to bend that way. Sleeping wasn’t going to happen until he got it out of his system. Strangely enough, the reactions he got with the first few notes had him grinning that two whiskey grin like he’d never would have thought this was going to work until it did.
Halfway through, his eyes were closed and the world slipped away as it often did when he was lost in the music. They opened to watch his fingertips dance across the keys, thick dark lashes a veil that blocked out the rest of the room covered half his gaze when his head turned to give the crowd a smile for the cheer from the back. One that faltered in mid-fruition when a ghost from his past stood in the middle of the crowd right near the center of the platform his piano was perched on. There was no way he was, actually, there. Not after all these years. The last he’d seen him, Kurt was standing at the top of the staircase that lead up to their his Bushwick apartment having come downstairs to collect the key Blaine handed over with a shaking hand. He waited when he told himself he wouldn’t. Two breaths to hear an, ‘I’m sorry. Please come back home.’ that never happened. Every step back down to the sidewalk felt like a thousand miles and a dozen broken promises. Then silence.
Handyman duct tape and the habit of cutting things off before they got serious (Joe was the only lasting ‘relationship’ he’s had..way to go Joe!) and a fondness for whiskey on the worst nights pieced him together. A lifetime later, he was different. Distanced from all things Ohio (except Sam, always Sam who never brought him up, Blaine asked him that on a rambling buzzed night and Sam promised thus remaining ‘clueless on all things Blaine’ if anyone asked). Now, he managed a normal that was routine, safe, comfortable. Kurt still stood there two blinks later and his heart felt like it was in his belly. His voice cracked from the surprise but their eyes met and could you blame him? Shell shocked and not looking away, brows creased together as if to say ‘is that really you?’, Blaine finished his song and promised he’d be back after a brief break. I see you.. The second time he met Kurt’s eyes after giving the patrons a wave of thanks for the bills tossed into his jar, his seven o’clock shadowed chin ticked towards the doorway underneath the glow of a red EXIT light he turned and walked towards right after.
pianokeysandbowties 