Boat Pants sidling up near his stool answered most of his questions. First, that this was the Blaine dude he was supposed to meet. Second, that those were indeed boats and he hadn’t imagined it. Miller’s throat emitted a low noise as he wrapped up the last of his cigarette so he could crush it out. He turned with a quick stream of smoke out to better assess the guy with a quick passage of dark eyes behind the darker rims of his glasses. “Yeah. I think I follow.”
“You play here often? Seems like the people know you.” His head jerked at the adoring fans still smiling and raising their glasses as if they were closely related. One woman even looked like a proud smiling parent. Jesus.
Not that Miller was here to judge. He lived a life of relative anonymity. It was precisely what he preferred. And he was pretty damned good at blending in when he wanted to. In fact, his ability to occasionally vanish into the crowd was downright supernatural. Not that he wasn’t without his own notoriety among his peers. The psychic emptied his shot glass and slapped it down on the bar.
“This bar is way less haunted than it looks like from the outside. Is it one of those new trendy places where they made it appear more vintage than it actually is? Because a place with this much weathering on the wallpaper normally has a spook or two attached.”
When he started talking about ghosts it usually turned off people’s interests fast. So it was often a tactic he used to test the waters. The worst that could happen was that Blaine would return to the piano and he would go find a cab. Either way, he got a couple of drinks out of the occasion already. “You ever seen one? A ghost?”
Yes. Those were, indeed, boats. Little white sailboats against a navy blue background. On his legs. Blaine hooked the edge of his shoes against the rung of the chair as he made himself comfortable by stealing the seat next to the tall, lanky guy he barely knew. Not one for cigarettes, he watched as the smoke disappeared overhead then glanced over his shoulder at the crowd.
A brow lifted and he smiled towards them before glancing back. “Five nights a week. Six if I have nothing else to do.” Which happened to be most of the time lately, but he wasn’t going to point that out just yet. Might as well not come off as a complete loner (as voluntarily as it was most of the time) right off bat. “So, yeah, a lot of them know me.”
Bewilderment filled his expression, turning his brows towards one another and his eyes squinted at their corners. A spark of interest lit them up at the peculiar question. “Um. I think it’s as old as it looks but far as ghosts?” Yes, his voice dropped a fraction when he said the word though he failed to recognize it consciously.
“I think Joe,” he gestured towards the old man with the round belly and thinning gray hair/mustache behind the counter who caught the subtle flick of Blaine’s fingers and shot them both a wave–and Miller a side-eye, “would intimidate them into staying away. If they aren’t a paying customer.”
Grinning as he shrugged Joe’s supicious glance off–a huff of laughter and a shake of his head later, he whispered a rushed apology. “Sorry. He warms up eventually,” then switched gears back to their conversation flawlessly, “Have a I seen a ghost? Umm..” Olive skin dusted pink over his cheeks and nose. “No? I don’t think so.. Why? Have you?” And look! Two sets of toes dipping in the water! But, like Miller thought, what was the worst that could happen?
Blaine wasn’t counting on an overly ornate answer to questions he purposefully kept as simplistic as possible, lest they be returned. Truly digging deep wasn’t a habit he let himself indulge in that much these days. Instead, he used his straw to poke at what was left of the ice in his glass of vodka and cranberry juice. The crimson barely tinted the liquor inside making it a dull pinkish mess of Grey Goose and what could have tasted good thirty minutes ago. Grinning, hazel eyes turned his attention back to the man beside him. “A pistachio ice cream loving Christmas guy. What brings you to New York? Or are you a local? I’m Blaine, by the way. I think Joe’s got some pistachios behind the bar if you need a fix?”
Moment after moment, Kurt fell deeper. The track of time had long since replaced him and he never fell back into the groove he’d clawed his way out of. At least that’s how it felt at the time, for a split second. The words had spilled out and he’d never been able to shove them back in his mouth, his own insecurities taking the wheel, foot heavy on the gas until they had him slamming against the wall of regret at a million miles per hour. The damage was done in seconds and it had seemed irreparable. Funny how when he finally had everything he’d ever wanted, it became a point of fear, second guessing. There were plenty of emotions running through him, humming under the surface, but all he could focus on was Blaine. Eyelashes resting against his cheeks as his soul poured over the piano, filling the room and sinking Kurt deeper and deeper. He’d regretted ending it, and yet he’d spent every day since then regretting doing just that. At the time it had felt right. He’d wanted to do anything to just get back to them or end the tension that was a suffocating noose that he couldn’t rid his neck of.
The noose would have been a comfort had he of known what it would be like without him, again. But if it weren’t for everything, chances are he wouldn’t have been out celebrating, wouldn’t have been here, having the first incredible day in years. Whether that persisted or not, well, time would tell, but all he could do was … Follow the drunken lead of his heart, or brain? Whoever was operating him at the moment, though it was really his feet that carried him in here. All it took for Kurt’s heart to lunge from his stomach up into his throat was Blaine’s eyes to find his, for him to finally look up
— voice cracking in surprise and recognition. The surprise was evident, clear as day on playwright’s face while his hand flipped around, falling from his lips in a dazed wave. Smooth. Kurt found himself nodding for a moment, before snapping out of the trance, reigning back the emotion and disbelief as best he could. There wasn’t a sliver of hatred (from what he could tell) present on Blaine’s features.
He had time to finish the song, and give his thanks
— to which Kurt clapped
— mostly on autopilot, mostly stuck in that same daze that had the moment slipping past and blurring all at once. He was trying desperately to take in as much of Blaine as he could, if only to memorize him before (if) he chose to disappear for good. But instead he was nodding to the back and Kurt was following as if a hook had been cast, caught in his shirt and tugging him through the crowd towards the exist on the ghost of Blaine’s heels. Truthfully, his mind had a million whirling at him all at once, demanding attention louder than the last that he couldn’t really process where to even begin in terms of a speech, a conversation starter
— as if he wasn’t a writer. In the business meetings it was easy to disconnect, take a breath and think WWCBD? Disconnect and write the moment,how it would look on paper, and project that confidence forth. It had done him well, but these were all people with little knowledge of him.
This was Blaine Anderson and he wasn’t so easily fooled. To even be dissecting the moment on this level as he pushed through the crowd, was too much, but it all silenced the moment he pushed through the exit door that had just closed after Blaine, and it was as if the world shut off for a second. The chatter of New York, broken down to honking horns and jovial yells or laughter of streets and blocks away, the jostle of manhole covers as tires rolled over them and the odd flutter of pigeon wings seemed both muted and immediately loud at once, only shoved away by the hinge of the door clattering shut as his feet hit the broken cement of the alleyway in Little Italy, rounding about to come face to face, one on one with Blaine.
Where did he begin? “I…
— that was beautif
— what are you
—?” Too much at once, and all of it sounded lame and had Kurt shaking his head apologetically, lips gaping in stilled disbelief, eyes glistening with the same emotion from before under the hanging lanterns from one of the tenants above. Kurt’s heart was pounding furiously and yet, it was the least distracting thing save for the blood it had pumped to every inch of his alabaster skin. “I’m sorry, it’s just really good to see you
—
“ and obviously he hadn’t been expecting it, “I was walking by and heard your voice and … I hadn’t thought it could be you
—
“ because the Universe seldom worked that way. “
—Wow, Blaine.” The alcohol curbed the embarrassment he would have had, and yet he was fully entranced, eyes locked on the other’s still
— though he had plenty of time to take him in, but that was before they were stood outside, facing one another in the startling silenceof New York, because it all fell away against him. “
— You . .. look
— er, sound
— you sound great.” I can’t believe it’s you was laced in every bit, mirroring back the surprise from earlier and yet, he was frozen, locked within the other’s presence as if Blaine had stilled quite literally everything but the heart that was about to leap out of his chest. “I didn’t think anyone could do Florence and the Machine justice
— but … You. Wow.” This wasn’t just about the music. No, not at all.
Through all of his disbelief, Kurt remained there. Not a ghost that disappeared the minute he realized he was staring too long at nothing. Because, even after all these years, after all the self-resolve he’d built up and the million hours spend telling himself how he’d react if they managed to run into one another in a city like New York filled with enough frenzied craziness that people who lived together barely saw one another? No amount for speeches or looks he gave himself in the mirror (in the beginning, he’d gone through some weird moments of coping, okay?) prepared him enough that they surfaced when it actually happened. On a night just like any other night for the past few years. With his sacred patterns and means of getting by that were an autopilot that became a lifestyle were thrown off with the barest look up and the barest glimpse into a set of eyes he’d often tell himself he couldn’t quite remember.
Tell that to the coffee cups in shades of green and blue that were his favorites. They were cheap. On sale. Part of an ocean collection at Target, see? Practical. Not for any other reason. Just like his blanket. Or how he often found himself bypassing navy and going for the color where the sky meets the grass on a sunny day in the middle of a suffocatingly hot Ohio Summer. Didn’t mean anything at all. Tastes change, right?
His wardrobe didn’t. But the things he surrounded himself might tug a certain heartstring he called style preference nowadays.
Now here they were. New York City pulsing around them. A blundering mess of noises that probably continued on past the blanket of silence he felt settling around them in the alleyway. His fingertips went like spiders legs, dancing near the sides of his thighs over the brownstone that stretched high above his head as he thunked the back of it against the roughness and stared at the patterns of it on the opposite side of the corridor. And he waited, staring up at the sway of a paper covered light threatening to bounce against the other one swinging so very close. Breathing in deep in spite of yesterday’s alcoholic trash a block away he’d become nose blind to. Mostly.. Cause you never get over the certain saucier nights when damn..is it garbage day tomorrow..? Thankfully that day was today. His throat felt like it was going to cave in. Breathing became difficult for a split second. The metal whine of the door swinging open stopped the increasing pressure in his windpipe. It threw him off the panic of thinking what he was going to do just in time for him to press his heel against the stone and give himself the momentum to stand up straight. His fingers brushed themselves off against his pants. By time Kurt came into view…?
Blaine’s smile was small but he meant it. His eyes softy glistening but there was a warm hello in them that everyone who knew him then and now would say was in his DNA. Regardless if he purposefully put it there or not. It was how he was wired. And he was too set in his ways for that to ever go away. In spite of who was on the receiving end. How long it lasted? That said more. The outburst from Kurt, his surprise and tongue twisted rambling made it grow and blossom. His teeth glinted white in the amber light. He knew Kurt. Knew that bouncy excitement made him unable to form complete sentences and nearly bounce off the walls. He remembered the days he was the reason for it. Bitterly at first. Then with a fondness that became a reason to chuckle when he saw something he knew would make the boy from his past lose his mind and got nostalgic. Turns out trying not to think of someone has them creep in in the strangest of ways. Lady Gaga and Tony Bennett Christmas Special, for example. What a night of remembering that was.
He, patiently, let Kurt work himself through it understanding that interrupting would hurt his his feelings or embarrass him for being caught so dangerously not composed. Was Kurt buzzed? He was! Wow. Okay. That was new. Blaine palmed over his mouth, scrunched a brow downwards and cocked his head to the side upon noticing that. But the look was gone and he was back to that non-judgmental smile once Kurt settled enough for him to get a word in edge wise. No his cheeks weren’t burning. No he wasn’t blushing at the compliments. Nah. “First? Thank you very much. I’m glad you enjoyed the music and passing your Florence critique has to rank up there with passing it by the queen herself.” It was small talk, something to soothe Kurt’s nerves because Blaine was still that person. To everyone. “How’d you end up here? By here–I mean.. Little Italy? What are you doing in my neck of the woods? It’s a pretty long shot from..” He pressed his lips together, held up a finger and motioned that Kurt didn’t have to answer that just yet.
Instead, he stepped forward and throwing caution to the wind.. Only hesitated one jerky motion before tucking himself against Kurt’s right side and giving him a lightly hug. “I mean. It’s good to see you. Really good to see you. You look good, too.” He stepped back but remained close leaving Kurt to be the one to let him go rather than pull out of his arms like it bothered him he was there. “How have you been? How are things? What have you been up to?” Cupping Kurt’s shoulders with a gentle squeeze, Blaine seemed to study him close. A connection made through unwavering eye contact and devoted attention that showed he really wanted to know the answer to his questions.
… 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.
HE FEELS LIKE this had been his worst night. It was never great, he never even got more than a half-hearted chuckle and one or two jokes in a ten minute set, but GOOD GOD, the silence had been deafening. Hell, he’d not even dragged his friends along to make comments and pretend that it ‘wasn’t all bad’ – in fact, Richard is almost certain one guy up and left, actually LEFT, midway through. The response earns a smile though, and a muted chuckle of his own. “Please god, yes. Something liver-threateningly alcoholic.” He smiles, swearing that he’s seen this guys face before but entirely unable to place it. It’s not like it could be from here. No person in their right mind would see Richard’s set once and then WILLINGLY come back.
“I’m Richard… you’re not the COUGHING guy are you?”
The poor guy was only doing what he loved to do. Regardless of how others might, you know, NOT? Richard was being his best self and that was what was important. So said the inspirational quote on the subway he read this morning. Whether or not it, actually, applied to the comedian’s situation? Well…. Maybe there were funny jokes hidden in there somewhere he hasn’t tapped into yet? On the plus side? He made him chuckle at the drink he wanted. “Okay then. Something that should come with a stomach pump for just in case situations. Got it.” Blaine shrugged at the bartender who lifted a brow giving him the okay to add it to his tab and his round two plus Richard’s turpentine-like mixture was on the way.
“Definitely not coughing guy. I’d point him out but he’s too busy trying not to make eye contact with you now that you’re not stuck up there. Rough crowd tonight. Sorry about that. I’m Blaine,” their drinks were slid across the bar, “Nice to meet you Richard.”
“LIKE ‘ARE GONE’?ARGON. it’s a science joke, people!” it’s common knowledge that jokes work better when they do not have to be explained. there’s no response from the crowd – with the exception of one pity laugh from the barman before he walks down from the stage. and as if by magic, the simple act of him stepping off of the platform has the entire bar filling with noise again. fucking typical. heading for his usual post-gig seat at the bar, richard’s head tilts back in a loud groan.
“like argon…. that’s fucking funny.” it’s said to himself, only adding as he looks over to the person beside him, “what a way to spend a saturday night, huh?”
Dead silence followed each joke. Cringe worthy silence. Complete with occasional cough to clear someone who was really trying to be a jerk’s throat. Blaine was perched on his stool listening, a half smile parted his lips and he wasn’t sure if it was the jokes he was cracking one at? Or having a sympathetic moment for the performer who wasn’t just bombing? But was taking a nosedive towards the ground at full speed. Something Blaine has watched him do before. Repeatedly. Though his presence was usually easy to blend into the background of the sparse patrons. Just another soul hunched over the bar enjoying a free poured drink that had enough alcohol in it for two. Probably to numb the pain coming from the stage.
“There’s worse ways,” Blaine huffed a real chuckle this time tapping the rim of his glass with his pointer finger. “Can I buy us a round? It looks like you need one.” Or four?
( mssg » kurt | sent) I thought it’d be a good idea to check on you. See how you were doing. ( mssg » kurt | sent) Last night was a rollercoaster for both of us. I want to make sure you’re doing okay. ( mssg » kurt | sent) Message me back when you can.
[Text]: … I’ll be careful where I tread around him, then. 🍺 [Text]: I’m nervous to answer now! [Text]: Yes. I love Wham! And I love George Michael. 🤞🏻 [Text]: I mean… only if you let me. 😉
( mssg » patrick | sent ) Good idea. You never know if you might become one of those guys who ‘sleeps with the fishes’. ( mssg » patrick | sent ) Don’t be nervous! I promise, it’s not as bad as it sounds! ( mssg » patrick | sent ) Yes! That was the correct answer! You’re still invited to the bar and I won’t tell Joe to nix the whole free beer thing.
😉 ( mssg » patrick | sent ) First thing’s first? Since this is going past the two week mark. First, you impress Joe. Then.. I guess we’ll have to see where tonight goes then. Won’t we?
pianokeysandbowties back up 