Fic: For Better or for Worse (2/4)
Title: For Better or for Worse (2/4)
Fandom: Glee
Rating: PG, this part
Characters: Kurt Hummel/Blaine Anderson, Rachel Berry, Mercedes Jones, Finn Hudson, Rory Flanagan, Lauren Zizes, every single glee kid (some are cameos and/or won't show up until the next part)
Count: 4640, this part
Summary: Kurt is an up-and-coming New York City wedding planner working on the biggest wedding of his career, and Blaine is the frontman of an unfortunately-named band from New Jersey. Booking an untested band with a distracting lead singer is either going to be the best or the worst decision that Kurt has ever made. He's not sure which, just yet.
Notes: For![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
unicorndust, because I was too slow to finish the entire thing on her actual birthday. I initially misjudged how long this thing was going to be and changed the number of parts accordingly; I think it will be three, but maybe four? Part 1 on Dreamwidth or on LiveJournal.
* * *
Kurt takes one look at the state of his kitchen, and then he shouts, "Finn!"
"I'm gonna clean it!" Finn hollers from behind his closed bedroom door.
Kurt puts down his bag with a heavy thunk and starts dumping used dishes into the sink as loudly as humanly possible. "I don't understand how you do this." He wrinkles his nose at a pot, which has what looks like leftover pasta and sauce crusted up the sides. There's even more caked across the burners on the stove. "This kitchen sparkled when I left this morning!"
Finn scrambles out of his room, and Kurt narrows his eyes at him as he shuts the door behind himself and finishes pulling his T-shirt down over his stomach. Kurt points at him with a filthy wooden spoon. "You are a one-man wrecking crew."
"Uh," Finn says, hushed, as he crosses the tiny living room, "actually, two-man." He stops; his eyebrows furrow. "Wait. No. One-man, one-woman?"
Kurt frowns prodigiously. "I thought we agreed to play 'Love Hangover' as a warning system whenever one of us has an overnight guest."
"Nnnno, we didn't," Finn says, not unkindly. "You agreed. I wanted to put a sock on the door." Kurt sighs sharply and drops a colander and handful of utensils into the sink. Finn continues, "I'm really sorry; I was gonna clean up, but--" He gets that half-proud, half-shifty-Finn look, and Kurt holds up a hand to forestall whatever TMI horrors are forthcoming.
"It's fine," Kurt says, "as long as you don't finish that sentence. But I refuse to be sexiled."
"Yeah, no, definitely," Finn hurriedly agrees. Kurt shoots him a long, unimpressed look, then shrugs his jacket off, hangs it on the tree by the door, and rolls up his sleeves.
"Thank you," he says fervently as Kurt goes for the rubber dishwashing gloves. "Seriously, Kurt, thanks; I owe you one."
"Next time, do the dishes first, and we'll call it even," Kurt says, and Finn nods vigorously and disappears back into his room.
Kurt glares at the faucet.
Three loads of dishes later, he lets himself collapse facefirst into his 900-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and lie there for a full minute, shoes still on (feet hanging off the edge of the bed) before slowly starting to move. When he plugs his iPhone into the charger, he sees that he has a bunch of new texts, and he unlocks the screen with his thumb to flick through them.
There's another from Rachel, apologizing profusely again for canceling on him (they're apologies that she doesn't need to make; Kurt loves Rachel, but he was frankly relieved to be able to take the Q train home at 9:00 after a long day instead of going back to Manhattan to put up with yet another of Rachel's disastrous attempts to set him up with an understudy or a lighting technician or viola player from her current off-off-off Broadway show), and one from Mercedes, confirming that they're on for tomorrow night. Tina texted to apologetically warn that she can't get her hands on the amount of out-of-season lilies of the valley that Patrick is insisting on, and Kurt puts the phone down and resolves to read the rest after he has done his nightly skincare routine, complete with calming aromatherapy.
It's not particularly calming tonight; there are suspicious noises coming through the thin wall that separates Kurt's bedroom from Finn's, and while Kurt is studiously ignoring said noises, he's still stuck on the lilies of the valley. Tina is the very best at what she does; if she can't get that quantity, no one can, which means that Kurt is going to have to reach out to four or five other florists to make up the shortfall, and--
He realizes belatedly that he has been rubbing moisturizer into the same two inches of skin above his cheekbone for at least a minute. He stares at himself in the vanity mirror, then takes a deep breath of lavender and geranium candle and reaches for his iPhone again.
Carole texted to ask if he's seen the latest episode of My Fair Wedding with David Tutera yet, because "it's a doozy." David Tutera and his seemingly-unlimited made-for-TV budgets are the bane of Kurt's existence, but he and Carole are addicted anyway. His college roommate sent an incomprehensible text for which Kurt is judging him, considering that it arrived at 8:15 on a Tuesday night. Another apology from Rachel, and -- Kurt slowly smiles at the last one.
Oh, I don't know, says Blaine's text. I'm convinced Gaga could do anything if she put her mind to it. And didn't she wear a spacesuit to the VMAs last year? She's good to go!
Kurt is trying not to let it get to him like this. They've barely known each other a week, and Blaine is a vendor. But Blaine's several-times-daily casual texts, as they keep up a wide-ranging conversation, make Kurt feel like he's 16 again, with a giddy, ridiculous first crush.
There are a series of rhythmic thumps from the room next door.
Especially since Kurt prefers to pretend that his actual first crush never happened.
Kurt writes back, You're thinking of the Met's Costume Institute Gala, but point taken. You live with straight men, right? Why are they constitutionally incapable of understanding the principle of leaving dishes to soak? You'd think it was rocket science.
He hits send, then texts Rachel to tell her to stop it, Carole to promise that he'll catch up with the DVR so that they can discuss, and is halfway through textually laughing at Keith when the next text comes in.
Baby, they were born that way? Blaine suggests, and Kurt laughs.
Another text pops up. Seriously, though, I don't know. Mike and Matt are pretty good about cleaning. I'm probably the messiest guy in the apartment.
Way to break the stereotype, Kurt says.
Ha! That's me!
One more: Long day?
Kurt scrolls up and down the row of texts, smiling, then he tells Keith to take a taxi home, Tina that he'll call her with a gameplan in the morning, Mercedes that he doesn't know the address of the bar where they'll be meeting, and he finally settles down to the very serious task of picking out a Lady Gaga lyric that is apropos to the day that he has had.
* * *
"Rachel, seriously," says Mercedes over the general hum of the bar. "What is your deal?"
For someone who is an actress by trade, Rachel is astonishingly awful at the outraged innocent act. "Wh -- me? Mercedes, just what are you implying??"
"No, she's right," Kurt pronounces, squinting across the table at her. "You've been much twitchier than usual lately."
"Well!" huffs Rachel, apparently still going with offended as her primary reaction. "I--" She points over Kurt's shoulder. "Is that him?" It's a blatant attempt at changing the subject. It's also, Kurt discovers when he turns in his chair, a valid question. There's Blaine Anderson, his face lighting up as he sees Kurt. He waves, and Kurt waves back as he starts making his way toward them through the Wednesday night crowd.
"I still can't believe you accidentally texted him about the show when you were trying to talk to me," Mercedes says. " 'M' and 'B' aren't even close to each other in the alphabet."
"I can't believe it either," says Rachel with entirely different inflection, and they both start laughing, because they are the worst friends in midtown.
Kurt hisses, "He doesn't know that I didn't mean to invite him, so zip it!" A half a second passes. "Besides, it was an understandable mistake. You were both texting me at the same time."
"He's sulking," Rachel giggles to Mercedes, and when Kurt rolls his eyes and takes a pointed sip of his mojito, she pats his hand. "Oh Kurt, it's all right; he's very cu-- hello, you must be Blaine." Kurt looks up from his drink, fast. Sure enough, Blaine is standing beside their table, dreamy as ever in a leather jacket and a smile.
"I am," he confirms, and Rachel is on a roll.
"I'm Rachel Berry; I know that Kurt has told you all about me by now," she says, offering a matter-of-fact hand. Looking both confused and bemused, Blaine shakes it, glancing at Kurt.
I'm sorry, Kurt mouths.
"It's always a pleasure to meet a fellow denizen of the performing arts," Rachel plows onward. "I've only h--"
"Hi," Mercedes interrupts. "I'm Mercedes. Pull up a chair, Blaine."
"Thank you," he says, his expression distinctly (politely) relieved as he shrugs out of his jacket. The loss of the jacket reveals that yes, Blaine does continue to have the world's most comprehensive men's knitwear collection. This sweater skims his trim torso beautifully, and Kurt is alarmed to suddenly realize that Blaine has sat down beside him and someone is saying his name.
"I didn't know Finn was coming," Mercedes says, now that she has his attention, and he follows her gaze to where Finn and an unfamiliar man are headed straight for their table.
He blinks. "I didn't, either."
"Hey!" Finn greets cheerfully. "This is Rory; he teaches geometry."
"Hullo," says the stranger, with a flick of his fingers.
"If we'd known you were coming, we'd have baked a cake. Or more relevantly, gotten a bigger table," Kurt says, eyes narrowed in suspicion. In all the years he's been coming to New York to visit, and in the more recent ones now that he actually lives here, Finn has never made a habit of showing up unannounced at Mercedes's gigs. If it's an especially important one or he has been specially invited, he usually makes an appearance, but without any reminder from Kurt, and with a fellow teacher in tow? It's unheard of.
"Last minute decision," Finn says, doing a terrible job of coming across as casual. "Rory's on exchange from Ireland for the year, and he totally wants to meet more Americans."
Rory looks earnest enough when he nods and says, "It's true," so Kurt doesn't point out that it's late February and thus that more than half of the year is already gone.
"Rory, this is Mercedes, Kurt, Rachel, and--" Finn stops. "Sorry, dude--?"
"Oh!" Blaine smiles and offers a hand, first to Rory (who shakes it) and then Finn (who stares at it for a second, like he's trying to figure out where he recognizes its owner from, then shakes it). "I'm Blaine."
"Mercedes, Kurt, Rachel, and Blaine!" Finn says, looking pleased with himself.
Mercedes gives a little wave. Kurt says, "Hello," and Blaine smiles encouragingly.
"Let's just--" Finn glances around, at the full-to-bursting bar. "--grab a few chairs."
"One of you boys can park your butt in mine," Mercedes says, rising. "I'm on in a couple minutes, anyway."
This is the first chance that Kurt has had to take in the entirety of her outfit, and he does it at a glance. The dress is a short, silver sheath, layers of hammered satin tiers fitted perfectly to her body. "Tahari?" he asks. "It's fabulous."
Mercedes shakes her head, but before she can correct him, Blaine says, "Definitely Adrianna Papell," and the entire table turns to look at him. Kurt is particularly aware of Finn's gaping. "My sister's a big fan of their dresses," Blaine adds. "It looks amazing on you."
"Thank you," Mercedes hums, pleased, and when Blaine turns to answer whatever it is that Rachel is asking him, Mercedes mouths something at Kurt over his head. He has no idea what it is, since he isn't a mind or lip reader, but it looks wildly approving and also wildly unsubtle. He furiously draws a finger across his throat, silently telling her to stop it, and then turns the gesture into an innocent touch to his hair when Blaine glances back toward him again.
Mercedes only laughs. "I'll see you guys later," she promises with a wave and a wink, and they chorus goodbyes and well wishes (Rory tells her 'good luck,' which earns him an instant horrified stare from Rachel) after her as she sashays over toward the band that's setting up on stage.
As Rachel lays into Rory about the proper etiquette for wishing a good performance on a performer, Blaine leans in, Kurt almost able to feel the warmth of his shoulder, and asks, "So how do you all know each other?"
Finn says abruptly, "I'm gonna buy a round. Kurt?"
"I'm fine, thank you," Kurt says, and turns back to Blaine. "Finn and Mercedes and I went to high school together, an--"
"I could really use a hand carrying," Finn says, making significant eyes at him and practically shifting from foot to foot.
"--Okay," says Kurt. "Fine." He takes a final sip of his mojito and stands up. "I'll be right back." The promise is primarily for Blaine, who is about to be abandoned at a table with Rachel Berry and a stranger who looks completely overwhelmed as she steamrolls him.
"I'll keep your drink warm for you," Blaine promises.
"Touch my mojito and you'll live to regret it," threatens Kurt, and Blaine laughs and holds up his hands in surrender.
Finn walks away toward the bar without actually taking any drink orders, because he continues to be the least subtle man in all of New York. Kurt rolls his eyes and trails along after him. "What, Finn?" he asks once at the bar, having followed the path that Finn genially shoved through the crowd.
"Is Blaine gay?"
"Yes, Blaine is gay. What does that have to do with anything?"
"Are you guys dating?" To his credit, Finn has apparently improved at recognizing the signs of an I have gay friends, Finn Hudson; there is such a thing rant when he sees one, because his eyes widen and he hurriedly adds, "It's just -- with basketball season and the school musical rehearsals, and those two weddings you're doing and everything, I feel like I don't really know what's going on with you, you know?"
Kurt softens. "No," he says, and pulls a face when some stranger's elbow hits him in the small of his back; "we're not dating." He raises a hand to try to get the attention of one of the bartenders. The harried-looking woman nods perfunctorily, which means they might get served sometime in the next century.
"What's his deal?" Finn asks, leaning on the bar.
He sighs, and gives Finn the Cliff Notes version. "His band is going to play the reception at the big society wedding I've been planning. We've been texting and I accidentally sent him 'so: Garage, tomorrow, 8?' instead of Mercedes."
"Oh man," says Finn, in a burst of perception that makes Kurt's heart sink. "Oh man! He's that guy! He's that guy from that band!"
"Yes, fine, fantastic," Kurt hisses. "Don't tell him that I YouTube-stalked him."
Finn shoots him a funny look. "Why would I do that?"
"Why do you do any of the things that you do?" Kurt asks, though he thinks it's a rhetorical question, because the bartender has finally come over and Finn is busy ordering a pitcher of pilsner with five glasses.
"He seems cool," Finn says once the bartender is gone again. The trumpet and trombone players are tuning up in the background. "And ... kind of little, but attractive. And stuff. Right?"
"You've never gotten better at lady-chats," Kurt tells him, and from the way that Finn smiles, he knows that he can hear the fondness in Kurt's voice.
Kurt glances back at the table. Rory has sat down, still looking shellshocked from Rachel's "break a leg" lecture, and Rachel is now very seriously monopolizing Blaine, her hands gesturing wildly. Blaine is blinking. Kurt plucks his phone out of his inner jacket pocket and texts Rachel: whatever you're doing, stop it right now.
He misses her reaction due to being drafted into helping to carry empty glasses back to the table, but when he and Finn arrive, Rachel only smiles sweetly at them. Rory is in the middle of a sentence.
"--say they can't understand my accent, but I think they really just don't want to take their quiz on congruent and similar angles."
"I can't blame them," Blaine says; "--no offense, Rory," but Rory is grinning. "I can't remember the difference between angles, either."
"I fear for the stacks of boxes that you arrange at your day job," Kurt says, setting down the glasses and sliding back into his seat, and Blaine laughs. The skin around his eyes crinkles when he smiles like that, and Kurt half wants to recommend a dozen serums and half just wants to stare dreamily.
"Thank you, Finn," Rachel is saying on his other side, sounding touched, and Kurt blinks and starts to glance over -- then the MC pops up onto the stage.
"Hi!" he says cheerfully into the mic, and a few rowdier customers at the bar shout back hellos. "We've got a real treat for you all tonight; Miss Mercedes Jones is here to sing your faces off." There are cheers; Kurt cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, "Ow-ow!" Standing back with the band, Mercedes laughs and preens. "So without any further ado -- Mercedes Jones."
She steps up to the microphone, hair and makeup flawless under the bright lights, and Kurt settles back in his chair and feels the same warm swell of pride that he always does while watching Mercedes do her thing. "I thought we'd start out with one of my favorites," she says, smiling, and the band launches into the intro to "Share Your Love with Me."
"It's an evil wind that blows no good; yeah, it's a sad heart that won't love like I know it should," she sings, full and deep and rich, and a hand grabs Kurt's elbow and holds on tight.
"Oh, my, God," Blaine says quietly, low and stunned, and Kurt isn't sure if it's physically possible to be any happier (or more smug) than this.
It turns out that it is possible; toward the end of her set, Mercedes finally laughs and says, "Okay, Rachel Berry, get on up here."
Kurt turns to look at Rachel. She's making an unconvincing display of surprised modesty, mouthing, Who, me?
"Girl, I can see you practically vibrating back there; I know you want to. Let's go, come on already."
Rachel beams, drops her capelet off her shoulders, and goes bounding up to the stage amid a smattering of applause. She hugs Mercedes at the microphone and they quickly confer, smiling, before Mercedes turns back to the crowd. "We're gonna switch it up now; you better be ready for this."
Kurt starts laughing before the piano player has even finished the split-second run right at the beginning of the number. Blaine does, too, a second later; when Kurt glances at him, he finds him watching the stage, enthralled and grinning fit to bust as Mercedes and Rachel vamp around each other, eyeing each other up and singing the initial yeah's and ooh-ooh's.
The whole place is in an uproar by the time they hit the chorus, circling each other and play-fighting. Rachel is bouncing -- and they're both fighting smiles -- just a little too much for the duet to come across as angry as Maureen and Joanne are supposed to be, but it's perfect just the same.
The solid wave of sound that erupts out of the crowd as they go up on the final "Take me, baby -- or leave me!" is incredible. Kurt can barely hear the sound of his own cheers. Blaine has two fingers in his mouth and is whistling ear-splittingly beside him; Finn has a familiar dazed, glazed-eye look on his face as he claps furiously, and Rory is smiling delightedly beside him.
Rachel hides her face with her hand for a second, laughing, and Mercedes grabs her other hand so that they can bow together.
* * *
"Wow," Blaine is still saying two hours later. "Just -- wow. I can't believe you hired Yo Mama when your best friends sound like that."
Boots crunching in the snow and ice and sand as they pick their way along the sidewalk, Kurt says, "1) I prefer not to mix my friendships with my professional life, 2) your sound is very different and equally nice, and 3) please, it's 'the artists formerly known as Yo Mama.' "
Up ahead, Rachel and Mercedes are singing again, arms linked as they all troop along toward the subway, and Finn and Rory are discussing something animatedly.
Blaine laughs, and Kurt -- not drunk, but pleasantly warm and buzzed -- turns around and walks backward for a few steps so that Blaine can catch the full force of his play-serious look. "You need to pick a new name."
"We're working on it!" Blaine says, hands in his pockets against the cold. "I promise!"
"I have yet to see any evidence of this."
"It's a very serious decision," he insists. "Don't worry; we're gonna come up with something that'll knock your socks off."
"Uh huh," says Kurt, and Blaine laughs again. They walk for a few seconds in companionable sentence, practically knocking shoulders, and then he hears Blaine draw in a breath.
"I know you grew up with Mercedes and Finn, but I've got to ask -- how do you know Rachel Berry?"
It's Kurt's turn to laugh now. "That is the question, isn't it?" he asks wryly. "I met her while on the audition circuit after college. The theater career didn't last, but Rachel did. I'm still not entirely sure how she managed to worm her way so thoroughly into our lives."
Blaine smiles. "She's sweet."
"She is," Kurt agrees. "She's also a holy terror, but she's an amazing friend." Their feet go crunch, crunch, crunch through the New York City Public Works Department's half-assed attempt at clearing the sidewalk after the last storm. "Mercedes has been my best friend since we were freshmen, and Finn is my brother."
He catches Blaine's sidelong startled look. "Really?"
He nods. "Our parents got married when we were 16." He wags an airy gloved hand. "I finally convinced him to move here from Ohio two years ago; he was visiting so often that my couch had a permanent giant-sized dent in it."
"So," says Blaine thoughtfully, and Kurt glances over at him to find that his face is alight, "then everyone here has heard you sing, except me? That hardly seems fair."
"It's perfectly fair," Kurt tells him lightly. "Rory hasn't heard it, either," and they jog across the street to the signs marking the N stop. Mercedes and Rachel duck down into the stairway right away, sheltering from the wind and impatiently calling to the rest of them.
"And this is where I leave you guys," Blaine says, stopping just at the top of the steps.
"New Jersey," Kurt scoffs, and Blaine only laughs.
"Don't knock Hoboken til you've tried it," he says, and they stand facing each other for several long seconds. The first of a few dirty snowflakes begin to drift down between them, because Kurt's entire life has decided to become a gay romantic comedy at some point in the last week. "Thanks so much for inviting me, Kurt; this was great."
"Anytime," Kurt says, and then Blaine is saying his goodbyes to everyone and is gone, and Kurt is forced to listen to breathless imitations of himself ("Anytime! Oh Blaine!") for the rest of the trip back to Queens, while he covers his face with his hands and tries his utmost to step on people's feet.
* * *
Dealing with Patrick's ultimatums is generally one of the worst parts of Kurt's day, but he really, really likes the one where he's supposed to class up the band formerly known as Yo Mama.
Sure, Puck and Sugar are quite possibly the crudest duo known to humankind, Sam walks around in what seems to be a constant state of goodnatured low-level confusion, and Artie takes every possible excuse to start rapping, but they're oddly sweet, Kurt likes them more than he would be willing to admit, and Patrick's orders mean that he has an excuse to have Blaine around all the time.
Like right now, while the band is struggling through a lesson on dining and silverware etiquette -- thanks to Tina, who is ostensibly here to deliver sample flower arrangements for Patrick and Robyn's approval but is really doing what she often does and cheerfully, efficiently saving Kurt's turkey bacon -- and Kurt is masterminding the all-important catering tasting.
At the moment, he's taking a three-second breather in the back of the hall, near the kitchen doors. He needed a moment away from the intensity that is Robyn and Patrick, and he genuinely did need to talk to the bride from the Julian-Chatterjee wedding that's coming up in two weeks. Phone call finished, he takes a deep breath, tucks his phone back into his jacket, and straightens his shoulders as he prepares to wade back into the fray.
One of the caterers is leaning just outside the kitchen doors, calmly watching Patrick and Robyn as they lean over a table of appetizers on the other side of the room. She's by far the most zen of the five caterers here; the others are all running around the kitchen, plating and biting nails, well aware of what being hired for this wedding could do for their businesses. Kurt appreciates a good suck-up every now and again, but the number of times that his boots have figuratively been licked today is bordering on the absurd.
He doesn't know this particular caterer well, but her no-bullshit attitude -- and her fillet of Scotch beef with celeriac and thyme puree, fondant potato, glazed carrots and truffle jus -- has endeared her to him forever. If he has his way, this will be the second of his weddings that she has worked, and it definitely won't be the last.
"Hey," she says, "Hummel."
Even if her idiosyncrasies are innumerable and her people skills could use some serious effort.
He quirks an inquiring eyebrow at her.
"Friendly advice?" (Kurt really raises his eyebrow now.) "Nut up or shut up."
"Excuse me?" he says.
"The little dude's following you around like he's eight years old and you're an ice cream truck," Lauren says matter-of-factly. Kurt feels his eyes widen prodigiously, and he pointedly does not glance over at the corner where he can hear Puck loudly saying something about shrimp and forking that doesn't bear repeating (Puck, who has already made lewd comments at Lauren today, in regards to her size and her occupation, and whose ensuing awe-inspiring, jaw-dropped verbal smackdown had Kurt struggling with every bone in his body to maintain a professional straight face). "Either hook up with him or put him out of his misery already." She ducks back into the kitchen, but her voice carries. "All the pent-up sexual tension's gonna kill people's appetites, and I'm not down with the hit my business will take from that."
Kurt stands gaping like a fish until Robyn calls for his opinion on caterer #3's mini leek tarts. Then he mutters, "He's not that little," and flounces off to taste watery tarts that are, unfortunately, vastly inferior to Lauren's.
"Is it that obvious?" he asks Mercedes that night, half-wounded and halfway through a bottle of chardonnay. "I thought I was cultivating a genteel air of mystery."
Mercedes laughs for so long that Kurt, who generally abhors violence, seriously considers hitting her with the nearest tastefully-upholstered throw pillow. "Oh honey," she finally says, wiping at the corners of her eyes. "No. The two of you are about as subtle as a car crash."
Kurt scowls, but has the grace to give a small laugh when his phone chimes Blaine's ringtone three seconds later.
Fandom: Glee
Rating: PG, this part
Characters: Kurt Hummel/Blaine Anderson, Rachel Berry, Mercedes Jones, Finn Hudson, Rory Flanagan, Lauren Zizes, every single glee kid (some are cameos and/or won't show up until the next part)
Count: 4640, this part
Summary: Kurt is an up-and-coming New York City wedding planner working on the biggest wedding of his career, and Blaine is the frontman of an unfortunately-named band from New Jersey. Booking an untested band with a distracting lead singer is either going to be the best or the worst decision that Kurt has ever made. He's not sure which, just yet.
Notes: For
unicorndust, because I was too slow to finish the entire thing on her actual birthday. I initially misjudged how long this thing was going to be and changed the number of parts accordingly; I think it will be three, but maybe four? Part 1 on Dreamwidth or on LiveJournal.* * *
Kurt takes one look at the state of his kitchen, and then he shouts, "Finn!"
"I'm gonna clean it!" Finn hollers from behind his closed bedroom door.
Kurt puts down his bag with a heavy thunk and starts dumping used dishes into the sink as loudly as humanly possible. "I don't understand how you do this." He wrinkles his nose at a pot, which has what looks like leftover pasta and sauce crusted up the sides. There's even more caked across the burners on the stove. "This kitchen sparkled when I left this morning!"
Finn scrambles out of his room, and Kurt narrows his eyes at him as he shuts the door behind himself and finishes pulling his T-shirt down over his stomach. Kurt points at him with a filthy wooden spoon. "You are a one-man wrecking crew."
"Uh," Finn says, hushed, as he crosses the tiny living room, "actually, two-man." He stops; his eyebrows furrow. "Wait. No. One-man, one-woman?"
Kurt frowns prodigiously. "I thought we agreed to play 'Love Hangover' as a warning system whenever one of us has an overnight guest."
"Nnnno, we didn't," Finn says, not unkindly. "You agreed. I wanted to put a sock on the door." Kurt sighs sharply and drops a colander and handful of utensils into the sink. Finn continues, "I'm really sorry; I was gonna clean up, but--" He gets that half-proud, half-shifty-Finn look, and Kurt holds up a hand to forestall whatever TMI horrors are forthcoming.
"It's fine," Kurt says, "as long as you don't finish that sentence. But I refuse to be sexiled."
"Yeah, no, definitely," Finn hurriedly agrees. Kurt shoots him a long, unimpressed look, then shrugs his jacket off, hangs it on the tree by the door, and rolls up his sleeves.
"Thank you," he says fervently as Kurt goes for the rubber dishwashing gloves. "Seriously, Kurt, thanks; I owe you one."
"Next time, do the dishes first, and we'll call it even," Kurt says, and Finn nods vigorously and disappears back into his room.
Kurt glares at the faucet.
Three loads of dishes later, he lets himself collapse facefirst into his 900-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and lie there for a full minute, shoes still on (feet hanging off the edge of the bed) before slowly starting to move. When he plugs his iPhone into the charger, he sees that he has a bunch of new texts, and he unlocks the screen with his thumb to flick through them.
There's another from Rachel, apologizing profusely again for canceling on him (they're apologies that she doesn't need to make; Kurt loves Rachel, but he was frankly relieved to be able to take the Q train home at 9:00 after a long day instead of going back to Manhattan to put up with yet another of Rachel's disastrous attempts to set him up with an understudy or a lighting technician or viola player from her current off-off-off Broadway show), and one from Mercedes, confirming that they're on for tomorrow night. Tina texted to apologetically warn that she can't get her hands on the amount of out-of-season lilies of the valley that Patrick is insisting on, and Kurt puts the phone down and resolves to read the rest after he has done his nightly skincare routine, complete with calming aromatherapy.
It's not particularly calming tonight; there are suspicious noises coming through the thin wall that separates Kurt's bedroom from Finn's, and while Kurt is studiously ignoring said noises, he's still stuck on the lilies of the valley. Tina is the very best at what she does; if she can't get that quantity, no one can, which means that Kurt is going to have to reach out to four or five other florists to make up the shortfall, and--
He realizes belatedly that he has been rubbing moisturizer into the same two inches of skin above his cheekbone for at least a minute. He stares at himself in the vanity mirror, then takes a deep breath of lavender and geranium candle and reaches for his iPhone again.
Carole texted to ask if he's seen the latest episode of My Fair Wedding with David Tutera yet, because "it's a doozy." David Tutera and his seemingly-unlimited made-for-TV budgets are the bane of Kurt's existence, but he and Carole are addicted anyway. His college roommate sent an incomprehensible text for which Kurt is judging him, considering that it arrived at 8:15 on a Tuesday night. Another apology from Rachel, and -- Kurt slowly smiles at the last one.
Oh, I don't know, says Blaine's text. I'm convinced Gaga could do anything if she put her mind to it. And didn't she wear a spacesuit to the VMAs last year? She's good to go!
Kurt is trying not to let it get to him like this. They've barely known each other a week, and Blaine is a vendor. But Blaine's several-times-daily casual texts, as they keep up a wide-ranging conversation, make Kurt feel like he's 16 again, with a giddy, ridiculous first crush.
There are a series of rhythmic thumps from the room next door.
Especially since Kurt prefers to pretend that his actual first crush never happened.
Kurt writes back, You're thinking of the Met's Costume Institute Gala, but point taken. You live with straight men, right? Why are they constitutionally incapable of understanding the principle of leaving dishes to soak? You'd think it was rocket science.
He hits send, then texts Rachel to tell her to stop it, Carole to promise that he'll catch up with the DVR so that they can discuss, and is halfway through textually laughing at Keith when the next text comes in.
Baby, they were born that way? Blaine suggests, and Kurt laughs.
Another text pops up. Seriously, though, I don't know. Mike and Matt are pretty good about cleaning. I'm probably the messiest guy in the apartment.
Way to break the stereotype, Kurt says.
Ha! That's me!
One more: Long day?
Kurt scrolls up and down the row of texts, smiling, then he tells Keith to take a taxi home, Tina that he'll call her with a gameplan in the morning, Mercedes that he doesn't know the address of the bar where they'll be meeting, and he finally settles down to the very serious task of picking out a Lady Gaga lyric that is apropos to the day that he has had.
* * *
"Rachel, seriously," says Mercedes over the general hum of the bar. "What is your deal?"
For someone who is an actress by trade, Rachel is astonishingly awful at the outraged innocent act. "Wh -- me? Mercedes, just what are you implying??"
"No, she's right," Kurt pronounces, squinting across the table at her. "You've been much twitchier than usual lately."
"Well!" huffs Rachel, apparently still going with offended as her primary reaction. "I--" She points over Kurt's shoulder. "Is that him?" It's a blatant attempt at changing the subject. It's also, Kurt discovers when he turns in his chair, a valid question. There's Blaine Anderson, his face lighting up as he sees Kurt. He waves, and Kurt waves back as he starts making his way toward them through the Wednesday night crowd.
"I still can't believe you accidentally texted him about the show when you were trying to talk to me," Mercedes says. " 'M' and 'B' aren't even close to each other in the alphabet."
"I can't believe it either," says Rachel with entirely different inflection, and they both start laughing, because they are the worst friends in midtown.
Kurt hisses, "He doesn't know that I didn't mean to invite him, so zip it!" A half a second passes. "Besides, it was an understandable mistake. You were both texting me at the same time."
"He's sulking," Rachel giggles to Mercedes, and when Kurt rolls his eyes and takes a pointed sip of his mojito, she pats his hand. "Oh Kurt, it's all right; he's very cu-- hello, you must be Blaine." Kurt looks up from his drink, fast. Sure enough, Blaine is standing beside their table, dreamy as ever in a leather jacket and a smile.
"I am," he confirms, and Rachel is on a roll.
"I'm Rachel Berry; I know that Kurt has told you all about me by now," she says, offering a matter-of-fact hand. Looking both confused and bemused, Blaine shakes it, glancing at Kurt.
I'm sorry, Kurt mouths.
"It's always a pleasure to meet a fellow denizen of the performing arts," Rachel plows onward. "I've only h--"
"Hi," Mercedes interrupts. "I'm Mercedes. Pull up a chair, Blaine."
"Thank you," he says, his expression distinctly (politely) relieved as he shrugs out of his jacket. The loss of the jacket reveals that yes, Blaine does continue to have the world's most comprehensive men's knitwear collection. This sweater skims his trim torso beautifully, and Kurt is alarmed to suddenly realize that Blaine has sat down beside him and someone is saying his name.
"I didn't know Finn was coming," Mercedes says, now that she has his attention, and he follows her gaze to where Finn and an unfamiliar man are headed straight for their table.
He blinks. "I didn't, either."
"Hey!" Finn greets cheerfully. "This is Rory; he teaches geometry."
"Hullo," says the stranger, with a flick of his fingers.
"If we'd known you were coming, we'd have baked a cake. Or more relevantly, gotten a bigger table," Kurt says, eyes narrowed in suspicion. In all the years he's been coming to New York to visit, and in the more recent ones now that he actually lives here, Finn has never made a habit of showing up unannounced at Mercedes's gigs. If it's an especially important one or he has been specially invited, he usually makes an appearance, but without any reminder from Kurt, and with a fellow teacher in tow? It's unheard of.
"Last minute decision," Finn says, doing a terrible job of coming across as casual. "Rory's on exchange from Ireland for the year, and he totally wants to meet more Americans."
Rory looks earnest enough when he nods and says, "It's true," so Kurt doesn't point out that it's late February and thus that more than half of the year is already gone.
"Rory, this is Mercedes, Kurt, Rachel, and--" Finn stops. "Sorry, dude--?"
"Oh!" Blaine smiles and offers a hand, first to Rory (who shakes it) and then Finn (who stares at it for a second, like he's trying to figure out where he recognizes its owner from, then shakes it). "I'm Blaine."
"Mercedes, Kurt, Rachel, and Blaine!" Finn says, looking pleased with himself.
Mercedes gives a little wave. Kurt says, "Hello," and Blaine smiles encouragingly.
"Let's just--" Finn glances around, at the full-to-bursting bar. "--grab a few chairs."
"One of you boys can park your butt in mine," Mercedes says, rising. "I'm on in a couple minutes, anyway."
This is the first chance that Kurt has had to take in the entirety of her outfit, and he does it at a glance. The dress is a short, silver sheath, layers of hammered satin tiers fitted perfectly to her body. "Tahari?" he asks. "It's fabulous."
Mercedes shakes her head, but before she can correct him, Blaine says, "Definitely Adrianna Papell," and the entire table turns to look at him. Kurt is particularly aware of Finn's gaping. "My sister's a big fan of their dresses," Blaine adds. "It looks amazing on you."
"Thank you," Mercedes hums, pleased, and when Blaine turns to answer whatever it is that Rachel is asking him, Mercedes mouths something at Kurt over his head. He has no idea what it is, since he isn't a mind or lip reader, but it looks wildly approving and also wildly unsubtle. He furiously draws a finger across his throat, silently telling her to stop it, and then turns the gesture into an innocent touch to his hair when Blaine glances back toward him again.
Mercedes only laughs. "I'll see you guys later," she promises with a wave and a wink, and they chorus goodbyes and well wishes (Rory tells her 'good luck,' which earns him an instant horrified stare from Rachel) after her as she sashays over toward the band that's setting up on stage.
As Rachel lays into Rory about the proper etiquette for wishing a good performance on a performer, Blaine leans in, Kurt almost able to feel the warmth of his shoulder, and asks, "So how do you all know each other?"
Finn says abruptly, "I'm gonna buy a round. Kurt?"
"I'm fine, thank you," Kurt says, and turns back to Blaine. "Finn and Mercedes and I went to high school together, an--"
"I could really use a hand carrying," Finn says, making significant eyes at him and practically shifting from foot to foot.
"--Okay," says Kurt. "Fine." He takes a final sip of his mojito and stands up. "I'll be right back." The promise is primarily for Blaine, who is about to be abandoned at a table with Rachel Berry and a stranger who looks completely overwhelmed as she steamrolls him.
"I'll keep your drink warm for you," Blaine promises.
"Touch my mojito and you'll live to regret it," threatens Kurt, and Blaine laughs and holds up his hands in surrender.
Finn walks away toward the bar without actually taking any drink orders, because he continues to be the least subtle man in all of New York. Kurt rolls his eyes and trails along after him. "What, Finn?" he asks once at the bar, having followed the path that Finn genially shoved through the crowd.
"Is Blaine gay?"
"Yes, Blaine is gay. What does that have to do with anything?"
"Are you guys dating?" To his credit, Finn has apparently improved at recognizing the signs of an I have gay friends, Finn Hudson; there is such a thing rant when he sees one, because his eyes widen and he hurriedly adds, "It's just -- with basketball season and the school musical rehearsals, and those two weddings you're doing and everything, I feel like I don't really know what's going on with you, you know?"
Kurt softens. "No," he says, and pulls a face when some stranger's elbow hits him in the small of his back; "we're not dating." He raises a hand to try to get the attention of one of the bartenders. The harried-looking woman nods perfunctorily, which means they might get served sometime in the next century.
"What's his deal?" Finn asks, leaning on the bar.
He sighs, and gives Finn the Cliff Notes version. "His band is going to play the reception at the big society wedding I've been planning. We've been texting and I accidentally sent him 'so: Garage, tomorrow, 8?' instead of Mercedes."
"Oh man," says Finn, in a burst of perception that makes Kurt's heart sink. "Oh man! He's that guy! He's that guy from that band!"
"Yes, fine, fantastic," Kurt hisses. "Don't tell him that I YouTube-stalked him."
Finn shoots him a funny look. "Why would I do that?"
"Why do you do any of the things that you do?" Kurt asks, though he thinks it's a rhetorical question, because the bartender has finally come over and Finn is busy ordering a pitcher of pilsner with five glasses.
"He seems cool," Finn says once the bartender is gone again. The trumpet and trombone players are tuning up in the background. "And ... kind of little, but attractive. And stuff. Right?"
"You've never gotten better at lady-chats," Kurt tells him, and from the way that Finn smiles, he knows that he can hear the fondness in Kurt's voice.
Kurt glances back at the table. Rory has sat down, still looking shellshocked from Rachel's "break a leg" lecture, and Rachel is now very seriously monopolizing Blaine, her hands gesturing wildly. Blaine is blinking. Kurt plucks his phone out of his inner jacket pocket and texts Rachel: whatever you're doing, stop it right now.
He misses her reaction due to being drafted into helping to carry empty glasses back to the table, but when he and Finn arrive, Rachel only smiles sweetly at them. Rory is in the middle of a sentence.
"--say they can't understand my accent, but I think they really just don't want to take their quiz on congruent and similar angles."
"I can't blame them," Blaine says; "--no offense, Rory," but Rory is grinning. "I can't remember the difference between angles, either."
"I fear for the stacks of boxes that you arrange at your day job," Kurt says, setting down the glasses and sliding back into his seat, and Blaine laughs. The skin around his eyes crinkles when he smiles like that, and Kurt half wants to recommend a dozen serums and half just wants to stare dreamily.
"Thank you, Finn," Rachel is saying on his other side, sounding touched, and Kurt blinks and starts to glance over -- then the MC pops up onto the stage.
"Hi!" he says cheerfully into the mic, and a few rowdier customers at the bar shout back hellos. "We've got a real treat for you all tonight; Miss Mercedes Jones is here to sing your faces off." There are cheers; Kurt cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, "Ow-ow!" Standing back with the band, Mercedes laughs and preens. "So without any further ado -- Mercedes Jones."
She steps up to the microphone, hair and makeup flawless under the bright lights, and Kurt settles back in his chair and feels the same warm swell of pride that he always does while watching Mercedes do her thing. "I thought we'd start out with one of my favorites," she says, smiling, and the band launches into the intro to "Share Your Love with Me."
"It's an evil wind that blows no good; yeah, it's a sad heart that won't love like I know it should," she sings, full and deep and rich, and a hand grabs Kurt's elbow and holds on tight.
"Oh, my, God," Blaine says quietly, low and stunned, and Kurt isn't sure if it's physically possible to be any happier (or more smug) than this.
It turns out that it is possible; toward the end of her set, Mercedes finally laughs and says, "Okay, Rachel Berry, get on up here."
Kurt turns to look at Rachel. She's making an unconvincing display of surprised modesty, mouthing, Who, me?
"Girl, I can see you practically vibrating back there; I know you want to. Let's go, come on already."
Rachel beams, drops her capelet off her shoulders, and goes bounding up to the stage amid a smattering of applause. She hugs Mercedes at the microphone and they quickly confer, smiling, before Mercedes turns back to the crowd. "We're gonna switch it up now; you better be ready for this."
Kurt starts laughing before the piano player has even finished the split-second run right at the beginning of the number. Blaine does, too, a second later; when Kurt glances at him, he finds him watching the stage, enthralled and grinning fit to bust as Mercedes and Rachel vamp around each other, eyeing each other up and singing the initial yeah's and ooh-ooh's.
The whole place is in an uproar by the time they hit the chorus, circling each other and play-fighting. Rachel is bouncing -- and they're both fighting smiles -- just a little too much for the duet to come across as angry as Maureen and Joanne are supposed to be, but it's perfect just the same.
The solid wave of sound that erupts out of the crowd as they go up on the final "Take me, baby -- or leave me!" is incredible. Kurt can barely hear the sound of his own cheers. Blaine has two fingers in his mouth and is whistling ear-splittingly beside him; Finn has a familiar dazed, glazed-eye look on his face as he claps furiously, and Rory is smiling delightedly beside him.
Rachel hides her face with her hand for a second, laughing, and Mercedes grabs her other hand so that they can bow together.
* * *
"Wow," Blaine is still saying two hours later. "Just -- wow. I can't believe you hired Yo Mama when your best friends sound like that."
Boots crunching in the snow and ice and sand as they pick their way along the sidewalk, Kurt says, "1) I prefer not to mix my friendships with my professional life, 2) your sound is very different and equally nice, and 3) please, it's 'the artists formerly known as Yo Mama.' "
Up ahead, Rachel and Mercedes are singing again, arms linked as they all troop along toward the subway, and Finn and Rory are discussing something animatedly.
Blaine laughs, and Kurt -- not drunk, but pleasantly warm and buzzed -- turns around and walks backward for a few steps so that Blaine can catch the full force of his play-serious look. "You need to pick a new name."
"We're working on it!" Blaine says, hands in his pockets against the cold. "I promise!"
"I have yet to see any evidence of this."
"It's a very serious decision," he insists. "Don't worry; we're gonna come up with something that'll knock your socks off."
"Uh huh," says Kurt, and Blaine laughs again. They walk for a few seconds in companionable sentence, practically knocking shoulders, and then he hears Blaine draw in a breath.
"I know you grew up with Mercedes and Finn, but I've got to ask -- how do you know Rachel Berry?"
It's Kurt's turn to laugh now. "That is the question, isn't it?" he asks wryly. "I met her while on the audition circuit after college. The theater career didn't last, but Rachel did. I'm still not entirely sure how she managed to worm her way so thoroughly into our lives."
Blaine smiles. "She's sweet."
"She is," Kurt agrees. "She's also a holy terror, but she's an amazing friend." Their feet go crunch, crunch, crunch through the New York City Public Works Department's half-assed attempt at clearing the sidewalk after the last storm. "Mercedes has been my best friend since we were freshmen, and Finn is my brother."
He catches Blaine's sidelong startled look. "Really?"
He nods. "Our parents got married when we were 16." He wags an airy gloved hand. "I finally convinced him to move here from Ohio two years ago; he was visiting so often that my couch had a permanent giant-sized dent in it."
"So," says Blaine thoughtfully, and Kurt glances over at him to find that his face is alight, "then everyone here has heard you sing, except me? That hardly seems fair."
"It's perfectly fair," Kurt tells him lightly. "Rory hasn't heard it, either," and they jog across the street to the signs marking the N stop. Mercedes and Rachel duck down into the stairway right away, sheltering from the wind and impatiently calling to the rest of them.
"And this is where I leave you guys," Blaine says, stopping just at the top of the steps.
"New Jersey," Kurt scoffs, and Blaine only laughs.
"Don't knock Hoboken til you've tried it," he says, and they stand facing each other for several long seconds. The first of a few dirty snowflakes begin to drift down between them, because Kurt's entire life has decided to become a gay romantic comedy at some point in the last week. "Thanks so much for inviting me, Kurt; this was great."
"Anytime," Kurt says, and then Blaine is saying his goodbyes to everyone and is gone, and Kurt is forced to listen to breathless imitations of himself ("Anytime! Oh Blaine!") for the rest of the trip back to Queens, while he covers his face with his hands and tries his utmost to step on people's feet.
* * *
Dealing with Patrick's ultimatums is generally one of the worst parts of Kurt's day, but he really, really likes the one where he's supposed to class up the band formerly known as Yo Mama.
Sure, Puck and Sugar are quite possibly the crudest duo known to humankind, Sam walks around in what seems to be a constant state of goodnatured low-level confusion, and Artie takes every possible excuse to start rapping, but they're oddly sweet, Kurt likes them more than he would be willing to admit, and Patrick's orders mean that he has an excuse to have Blaine around all the time.
Like right now, while the band is struggling through a lesson on dining and silverware etiquette -- thanks to Tina, who is ostensibly here to deliver sample flower arrangements for Patrick and Robyn's approval but is really doing what she often does and cheerfully, efficiently saving Kurt's turkey bacon -- and Kurt is masterminding the all-important catering tasting.
At the moment, he's taking a three-second breather in the back of the hall, near the kitchen doors. He needed a moment away from the intensity that is Robyn and Patrick, and he genuinely did need to talk to the bride from the Julian-Chatterjee wedding that's coming up in two weeks. Phone call finished, he takes a deep breath, tucks his phone back into his jacket, and straightens his shoulders as he prepares to wade back into the fray.
One of the caterers is leaning just outside the kitchen doors, calmly watching Patrick and Robyn as they lean over a table of appetizers on the other side of the room. She's by far the most zen of the five caterers here; the others are all running around the kitchen, plating and biting nails, well aware of what being hired for this wedding could do for their businesses. Kurt appreciates a good suck-up every now and again, but the number of times that his boots have figuratively been licked today is bordering on the absurd.
He doesn't know this particular caterer well, but her no-bullshit attitude -- and her fillet of Scotch beef with celeriac and thyme puree, fondant potato, glazed carrots and truffle jus -- has endeared her to him forever. If he has his way, this will be the second of his weddings that she has worked, and it definitely won't be the last.
"Hey," she says, "Hummel."
Even if her idiosyncrasies are innumerable and her people skills could use some serious effort.
He quirks an inquiring eyebrow at her.
"Friendly advice?" (Kurt really raises his eyebrow now.) "Nut up or shut up."
"Excuse me?" he says.
"The little dude's following you around like he's eight years old and you're an ice cream truck," Lauren says matter-of-factly. Kurt feels his eyes widen prodigiously, and he pointedly does not glance over at the corner where he can hear Puck loudly saying something about shrimp and forking that doesn't bear repeating (Puck, who has already made lewd comments at Lauren today, in regards to her size and her occupation, and whose ensuing awe-inspiring, jaw-dropped verbal smackdown had Kurt struggling with every bone in his body to maintain a professional straight face). "Either hook up with him or put him out of his misery already." She ducks back into the kitchen, but her voice carries. "All the pent-up sexual tension's gonna kill people's appetites, and I'm not down with the hit my business will take from that."
Kurt stands gaping like a fish until Robyn calls for his opinion on caterer #3's mini leek tarts. Then he mutters, "He's not that little," and flounces off to taste watery tarts that are, unfortunately, vastly inferior to Lauren's.
"Is it that obvious?" he asks Mercedes that night, half-wounded and halfway through a bottle of chardonnay. "I thought I was cultivating a genteel air of mystery."
Mercedes laughs for so long that Kurt, who generally abhors violence, seriously considers hitting her with the nearest tastefully-upholstered throw pillow. "Oh honey," she finally says, wiping at the corners of her eyes. "No. The two of you are about as subtle as a car crash."
Kurt scowls, but has the grace to give a small laugh when his phone chimes Blaine's ringtone three seconds later.
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I'm so excited for all the foreshadowing to be revealed!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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