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The Unnamed Klaine Fan-Fiction PART TWOOOO 

myrosetintedworld:

***Seriously guys… I need a name xD***

There was nothing special about the show. I got up, I sang… the applause was polite to say the least. I couldn’t see Blaine in the crowd… I guess he didn’t bother himself with supervising the acts. That wasn’t his job.

Just as I was packing up my bag, (A water bottle, towel and painkillers), the woman Jenny walked up to me. She was texting. “Mr. Anderson wants to see you in his office, to give you your paycheque.” She didn’t look up from her phone, or stop texting the whole time she spoke to me.

I raised my eyebrows. The other acts received their cheques differently, a woman handed them out. “W-why? Why do I need—”

“Don’t bother asking. Wendy over there,” she gestured to an empty space with her head, Wendy was on the other side of the room, “has been working here since it opened, and she’s never even gotten a glimpse inside. He must really like you…” she smirked and walked away, still texting away.

 ******************************************************

Blaine’s office was at the end of an empty corridor. There was no door plate, but I assumed this was the place. My body was shaking, my blood pumping. My knuckles rapped against the door, which speed up my racing heart beat.

“… Come in…”Blaine’s voice was quite and distant, and a little weak… he sounded ill. I pushed the door open, taking in his office with a quick glance. Black walls, red carpet, black furniture. But the weirdest part… Broadway posters, everywhere. Blaine was slouched on a plush chair, a glass of whisky in hand. His back was to me, but I could almost read his expression from the way he sighed as he spoke, “Great show…”

I glanced down at the floor, “Thank you. So… I was wondering about—”

“You want your pay-cheque…” his words were bitter, but his voice was just… so sad.

“Well… yes, I did the show, so…”

“Sit.” He beckoned me forward, “take a seat.” He gestured to the chair opposite him. I nodded (though he couldn’t see it), and sat down across from him.

He was a mess.

His tie hung limply from his neck, his blazer a crumpled heap on the floor. His hair, usually gelled to perfection, was curly, and un-neat. I liked it. I couldn’t help but notice the top four buttons of his starch white shirt were missing, showing a flash of his chest. It was smooth…

He was staring at me, with those endless, dark, oh-so-sad eyes. There was a piece of paper on the table beside him, along with a glass of whisky. He picked up the slip, and handed it to me. It was a cheque. I slipped it into my pocked without looking at the amount. He lifted the glass to his lips, and spoke to me over the rim, “I’ve… I’ve never heard anyone sing like you before…” his voice was a croaky whisper.

“Yeah… I… get that a lot.” I shrugged. Through out my whole life, my talent has been appreciated and envied, or hated and ridiculed. But what Blaine just said… even though it could be a criticism, filled me with something so strong, so wonderfully euphoric, that all I wanted to do was jump up and down and scream.

“It was… well, it moved me… Kurt.” His eyes were burning into mine, the glass still barely touching his bottom lip, “you… you’re so talented.”

I felt horribly uncomfortable, his compliments felt like a cool breeze washing through my soul, but the intensity of his eyes felt like they were burning through my skin. I glanced around his office again, taking in the posters: Wicked, Les Mis, Rent, West Side Story, Cats, Phantom of the opera…

“… I thought you hated it.”

“Huh?” he looked over me, “… hated what?”

“Broadway… you won’t let anyone sing it for auditions. I mean…. I know that hearing somebody attempting to sing Broadway and failing terribly is painful, but you really should give them a chance.” I looked back at him, and was met with a sight I never could have imagined. His face was red, his eyes were shining, tears were crawling down his cheeks. He took a shakey breath, his lips quivering as he downed the rest of his drink. He slammed down the glass, making me jump, and hid his mouth behind his hand, more tears falling down his cheeks. I didn’t know what to say.

“B-Blaine? I… erm, I’m sorry, I…”

“No… it’s not your fault…” his voice was strained, like he was trying to stop himself breaking down, “it’s mine… I failed…”

“What do you mean?” I asked, “Failed what?”

“The audition…”

“What—-” and then it hit me. The posters, he loved Broadway. These posters were obviously from over the years. An obsession, a dream… he can’t bare the music anymore. No… that’s not it. He can’t bare watching auditions anymore. No… Broadway auditions. Because he failed his. He worked and worked and dreamed and dreamed… but he failed.

Several, long minutes of silence followed, before I spoke, “… what part did you want?”

He scoffed, “What part didn’t I want… Tony, Jean Val Jean, the Wizard, Marius, Bernardo, Riff, The phantom… everything… anything… I wasn’t right,” he sniffed, his eyes closing as more tears streamed down his cheeks, “I wasn’t right, but they always said the same… ‘you were good but someone else was better’ or ‘we’re going in another direction’… they tried to let me down easy…” he poured himself another glass of whisky, his hands shaking and the drink splashing, “But I knew…” he took a sip, “I knew what they were saying…” his voice turned bitter, angry, his eyes filled with pain, “I. Wasn’t. Good. Enough.” he hissed, taking another gulp, “I couldn’t get the parts… I was delusional… and now… whenever somebody gets up on that stage and attempts to sing Broadway, I… I just think… was I this bad? Was I just this mediocre singer who thought I could pull it off? The way I see these people… is this how the directors saw me?” he downed his glass and slammed it down again, but I didn’t jump. I was frozen in shock, just watching him refill and take another sip.

“Blaine…” I whispered, tears springing to my own eyes.

“You should go… get away from me. God knows that… that I want you to stay. But… I will hold you back, Kurt. You can be big… you… you can be everything I could never be. Just go… go…” one arm hung by his side, the other, clutching the glass of whisky, was held against his forehead. The tears had stopped, but his cheeks remained wet and scarlet, his eyes were red and miserable.

I didn’t think about what I did next, I just… did it. I leaned forward, resting my hands on the rests of his chair. His eyes were staring into mine, filled with bewilderment.

“… I’m not leaving this room without you.” I whispered as I leaned in, and pressed my lips against his. He was warm. His cheeks were damp, but hot, his faint stubble tickling me. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, his hot scent of aftershave, cigarette smoke and whisky was… intoxicating. I could hear his every intake of breath. His lips began to respond to the kiss, I heard the glass smash against the floor, and the hand that held it ran through my hair, tugging hard. His breath tasted like booze, smoke and stale coffee… delicious. His hand moved from my hair to my waist, the other joining it. He pulled me down onto his lap, our chests and hips pressed against each other. He was so warm, the heat from his soft yet toned body engulfing me. I wrapped my arms around his neck, breathing in more of his scent as my fingers explored his mass of curls. We sat like that for what felt like hours, kissing, hands exploring each other, wanting to touch everything…

Eventually, we were out of breath. I remained on his lap, my arms resting on his chest as his were wrapped protectively around me. I buried my face into his neck, his cheek against my forehead. We didn’t say anything for a long time… nothing needed to be said.

“… Kurt… Kurt Hummel…” he whispered.

“I’m not leaving… not without you.”

“I’d hold you back…”

“I can’t live without you.”

“I love you.” His voice was barely audible, it was softer then his lips.

I moved my hands to where his heart was, feeling the gentle rhythm beneath my fingers, “I love you too, Blaine Anderson… I love you too…”

YES YES YES YES YES YES YES