HIGH OPERA

DISCLAIMER: I DON’T OWN THIS STORY. IT BELONGS TO TWITCHY SQUIRREL ON SCARVESANDCOFFEE.NET.

“Let me take that for you, sir.” The flight attendant put out her hand for Kurt’s carry-on and flashed a brilliant smile.

“Oh,” Kurt replied, taken aback. “Thank you.” He handed the bag to the flight attendant. He rarely flew first class, and he’d forgotten that it had amenities like customer service and politeness.

While he waited for the attendant to stash his bag, he glanced at the person that would be his seatmate for the next several hours. The man was slouched against the window wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his face.  Rioting from below the cap was dark, curly hair that was about a month past needing a good haircut. He had three days’ worth of beard (OK, three days for most men; two weeks for Kurt) and large dark sunglasses that completely obscured his eyes and a good portion of his face. He looked far scruffier than the other well-coiffed and business-suited passengers in first class, but Kurt had enough of an eye for fashion to recognize the man’s Earnest Sewn jeans and a Mihara Yasuhiro t-shirt, all this season. Kurt could probably make a couple of house payments with what the man had spent on this one outfit—an outfit clearly meant to convey casualness, or, perhaps, thug. The man was also sporting headphones plugged into an iPhone and a scowl that appeared to be a permanent part of this face—at least as much of his face as Kurt could see. He didn’t look friendly. In fact, it appeared like he worked hard at projecting an air of unapproachability.

Kurt gave a mental shrug. At least he wouldn’t have to spend the entire flight to Italy being regaled by some sweet old lady’s stories about her twelve grandchildren and thirty great-grandchildren.

The flight attendant moved out of the way, and Kurt slid into his seat and gave a small, closed-lipped smile to the man by way of greeting. He got no response, and he didn’t really expect one. Kurt stored his laptop case under the seat in front of him, first extracting his latest issue of Opera America Magazine.

He was a paragraph into the first article when the flight attendant returned.

“Mr. Hummel, may I get you something to drink?”

“Oh, um, a white wine would be nice. Any kind. Thank you.”

“And for you, Mr. Anderson?” she asked.

The man—apparently Anderson was his name—lifted one side of his earphones, and Kurt was surprised to hear faint strains of classical music emitting from the earpiece.

“Tomato juice, no ice, with a lime, thanks,” Mr. Anderson said flatly. Then he returned his earphone to his ear and resumed his slouch.

The flight attendant returned soon with their drinks, and Kurt listened while a crew member intoned, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Alitalia Flight number 151, with direct service to Milan…” He quit listening and returned to his magazine as the plane taxied down the runway and leaped to the sky. He tried to focus on an article about Francesca Zambello’s latest triumph. Half way through the article, however, his thoughts strayed to something long buried, and his vision blurred as his eyes filled with tears. Clasping his hand over his mouth, he was barely able to catch the sob that escaped his lips. He buried his face in both hands and cried quietly, willing himself to be quiet and hoping to pull himself together quickly before anyone noticed that he was making an embarrassing spectacle of himself. However, it seemed like the harder he tried to quit crying, the more he sobbed, and he finally simply let the misery and loneliness wash over him, hoping against hope that everyone around him was so absorbed in their own reading that they wouldn’t noticing the grief-stricken man sitting among them, or, if they did, they would simply think he was sleeping, bent forward with this face in his hands as his elbows rested on his thighs.

Kurt nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a warm palm touch his back and begin to rub slow circles on his spine.

“Hey,” said his seatmate quietly, “Are you doing all right, man?”

The shock of the touch was as though someone had turned off a tap. Kurt’s tears immediately stopped. Using the side of his hands, he wiped under his eyes and gave a small smile.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “It seems as though you’ve been stuck next to the sad widower. I bet you wished I was a screaming baby about now.” He tilted his head a little sideways. “Is there any chance you can just ignore me?”

The corners of Anderson’s mouth lifted, and he shifted onto one hip so that he could dig into a pocket. When his hand withdrew, it was clutching a handkerchief. An honest-to-goodness white handkerchief. Kurt was stunned.

Anderson held it out to him. “Here.”

Kurt was too surprised to refuse, so he simply obeyed. He used the soft cloth to dry his face. Then he clutched the now-damp item because he wasn’t sure of the protocol. Do you give it back used? Do you keep it? Do you offer to dry clean and return it?

“Um…” he started, but the man spoke at the same time.

“Did your wife die recently?”

“Husband,” Kurt corrected. “My husband, and, no, Adam died a little over a year ago.” He paused and realized that the man was looking for a better explanation for his crying jag, so he went on, “It’s just…” he gestured pointlessly with his hands and the handkerchief, “It’s just that the last time I flew to Italy he was with me. I just remembered something…something he did. It kind of set me off.”

“What did he do?” Anderson asked, and Kurt was a little surprised that the man didn’t seem to bat an eye at the mention of Kurt’s sexual orientation. Or maybe he batted his eyes a lot; who could tell behind those glasses? Still, it seemed like no big deal; it felt that way.

“Oh, he just…” Kurt paused a moment and blew out his breath in a gust. “He touched me. He used to push my hair away from my face. It’s never really in my face, but he’d draw a finger along my hairline anyway, like he was pushing it back. Anyhow, when we would take off, he would do that. He was deathly afraid of flying, but he would touch me, concentrate on me, and then he could handle the flight. I just remembered; that’s all. I remembered the touch, and I miss it so much sometimes it hurts. I miss being touched, and it feels like I’ll never be touched again.” Kurt suddenly realized he was seriously oversharing with a complete stranger, and he bit his bottom lip to make himself stop talking.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” was Anderson’s only response. Kurt couldn’t see the man’s eyes, but he sounded sincere and kind. It wasn’t just a perfunctory response. At least, it didn’t sound like it.  It was driving Kurt a little crazy that he couldn't really see Anderson's face.  

“Thank you,” said Kurt. “I’d like to promise that I won’t cry again, but I might. It just catches me sometimes, but it’s been better lately.”

“Well, maybe we can distract you,” there was a pause. “If you want.”

“You’re very kind, but I’m sure you’d rather go back to your music.” Kurt gestured to the man’s headphones that were now around his neck. “I’m sorry I disturbed you. Really.”

“I’d rather talk to you,” the man replied, and Kurt felt oddly flattered.

“Oh.”

“So, what brings you to Italy?” Anderson asked.

“Work.” That seemed like the simplest reply. Kurt was really trying to reign in the oversharing. He spent most of his days surrounded by divas who thought that everyone was interested in each and every detail of their lives. It made it hard to keep his perspective when around normal people.

“Work…?” The man let it linger.

“Um, singing, actually. I’m an opera singer. Not a really good one,” he threw out quickly. “I’m just...I’m doing an opera in Verona.”

“At the Arena?” asked his seatmate, sounding surprised.

“Yes.” Kurt nodded. “Do you know it? It’s my first time.”

“Then you must be better than you say.”

“Well, it’s just…they needed a countertenor. There aren’t that many of us.”

“What’s the opera?”

“Monteverdi. L'incoronazione di Poppea.”

“You’re playing the Emperor Nero.” Anderson set up straighter, appearing to be really interested. “That’s not a small part.”

Who was this guy? Kurt was clearly sitting next to one of the five people in the world who knew this obscure, seventeenth century opera, and knew it well enough to identify the countertenor part. Kurt felt like pinching himself. He briefly wondered if the plane was flying over the Bermuda Triangle.

“You know opera?” Kurt asked.

Anderson shrugged, “I went to college.”

“Oh-kaaay.” Kurt didn’t know what to say to that, but Anderson seemed intent on keeping the conversation going.

“What got you into opera? Did you always want to be an opera singer?”

“Oh, no. I started college for show choir. I wanted to be on Broadway. Still wouldn’t mind, actually, if you know someone,” he joked. “I took a class in operatic performance, kind of on a lark, and I fell in love. It’s worked out for me okay. Countertenors are kind of a hot property these days, and timing is everything.” God, he was talking too much again.

“Do you get a lot of work? Would I have heard you before?”

“I work pretty steadily. I get more work than a lot of talented people, because I can, you know, hit the high notes. Would you have heard me?” Kurt pretended to ponder this question, “Do you frequent a lot of opera houses in Knoxville and Oklahoma City? Because I play in all the best venues.” He smiled to indicate that he wasn’t serious. “Seriously, I’m small time. It’s not like I sing with the Met.”

“Hey, you’re playing Nero at the Arena. That’s not nothing.”

Kurt felt a blush beginning at his neck, and he knew his face would be flaming in no time. He looked down at his lap and issued a small, “Thank you.”

“What’s your name?”

“Oh.” Kurt looked up and put out a hand, “Kurt. Kurt Hummel.”

The hand with which Anderson clasped Kurt’s was warm and firm and…yummy, and Kurt’s eyes widened as a jolt went straight up his arm from the touch. He was never taking his hand away.  The hand he was clasping was his, and you couldn't make him give it back.  

Surprisingly, Anderson didn’t release Kurt's hand, either. He kept it clasped as he spoke. “Well, Kurt Kurt Hummel, it’s very nice to meet you. I’ll look for your name up in lights.”

Kurt thought he should be a little offended by the man’s slight mocking of the way he gave his name, but it seemed endearing instead of insulting. Then Kurt realized that Anderson didn’t offer his own name in return, and he reluctantly withdrew his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” he said softly. “I’ll let you get back to…” he gestured vaguely toward Anderson. “Thanks for talking to me.”

“Any time,” said Anderson, slipping his headphones back on. '

Kurt crossed his legs and opened his magazine again.

A few minutes later he felt a calloused fingertip on his forehead. It traced down his hairline and around his ear. Kurt’s eyes closed involuntarily, and he tilted his face slightly to press his cheek against Anderson’s palm. It felt wonderful.

Anderson left his hand against Kurt’s cheek for a moment. Then he withdrew.

Kurt turned his head, opening his eyes, and gave Anderson a small smile.

Anderson smiled back.

For the next couple of hours Kurt tried to read, but he was hyper-aware of the presence next to him. His mind relived the touch over and over. Anderson was clearly being kind. He was giving him the thing he missed so terribly, but it didn’t feel like just kindness. It felt electrifying. Thrilling at someone’s touch—someone who wasn’t Adam—felt strange, heady, and deeply unsettling.

As for Anderson, it wasn’t clear what he was doing. When Kurt would look at him from the corner of his eyes, he seemed to be simply sitting, angled in his seat, tucked against the window. Kurt wasn’t sure if he was sleeping or what. He couldn’t see anything behind the dark glasses, but it felt like Anderson was simply watching. Watching Kurt. Kurt’s body tingled all over from the sensation.

Finally, Kurt couldn’t take it anymore. He swiveled his body to face his seatmate and whispered, “Are you sleeping?”

Anderson's head moved back and forth slowly. No.

“Are you watching me?” Kurt’s voice was a little louder, but still not much more than a whisper.

Anderson’s mouth quirked up at one corner, and his head moved slightly again, but up and down this time. Yes.

Kurt felt his chest erupt into butterflies, and his mouth formed an O.

“I bet you’re amazing on stage,” Anderson said in a low voice. “You’re fascinating to watch.”

A blush crept up Kurt’s neck and flamed his cheeks. He felt awkward as he searched frantically for some way to respond.

“Who are you?” he finally blurted out.

Anderson tilted his head quizzically.

“I mean, I don’t know your name. What’s your name?”

The man seemed to consider this for a moment, and then he shook his head slightly as if coming to a decision. “I’m Blaine.”

“Hi, Blaine. It’s nice to…” His voice trailed off, and his eyes got wide. Blaine. Anderson. Blaine Anderson! Oh my God, he was sitting next to Blaine Anderson! His hand flew to his mouth and he sucked in a gasp.

Blaine pulled his sunglasses down his nose and winked at Kurt with one honey-colored eye. “You’re not going to start screaming and tearing off my clothes, are you?” he asked sardonically. "Because that's starting to get old."

“No! Oh, no,” Kurt was talking fast. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I’m just…oh.” He bit his lower lip again. Couldn’t he just shut up? What was wrong with him?

Blaine mumbled something which sounded to Kurt like too bad, but Kurt was sure he was mistaken. Blaine Anderson was a rock star. The lead singer for the band, Postmodern Tourist, he had played sold-out stadiums around the world. He was acclaimed for his charisma and his song-writing skills, although the critics were solidly divided about his singing ability, which was alternatively described as “warm and familiar” and “unspectacular.” But even the most ardent critics couldn’t argue with Tourist’s stack of platinum records. They were a sensation.

“What?” asked Blaine. “You’re too good to talk to me now that we've established that you’re an up-and-coming virtuoso, and I’m a lowly has-been?”

“You’re not a has-been,” Kurt corrected indignantly. Sure, Tourist had been in its heyday ten years ago, and they had produced fewer albums lately, but they were legends, and their concerts continued to sell out to happy fans.

“We saw you at the Fillmore two year ago. It was an amazing show.”

“The Fillmore?” asked Blaine. “Are you from San Francisco?”

“Sort of. I mean, I’m from Ohio, but Adam and I moved to San Francisco from New York when we finished school.”

“Do you live there now?”

“No.” Kurt said flatly. “Adam’s family had money. They owned the house. When he died, they just expected…They just…We were married for ten years, and they still thought I was just a phase. I was just something Adam had to get out of his system.” He affected a British accent, “Kurt, we are so glad that you were such a good friend to our Adam while he was sick.”

Kurt heard his own bitterness and apologized. “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to pile my angst on a perfect stranger. I don’t know when to shut up sometimes.”

Blaine pulled off his sunglasses and removed his ball cap, running his fingers through his hair. It was wildly tousled, and apparently it was too curly to succumb to the horrors of hat-head. He looked amazing. He leaned toward Kurt and his eyes smoldered. “I’m flattered that you think I’m perfect.”

Oh my God. What he flirting with him? Kurt thought he might burst into flames.

“Uh-uh-uh…” he stuttered.

“Where do you live now?” Blaine asked, sitting back and sounding very interested but no longer the least bit flirty.

“Oh. Atlanta.” Kurt answered, and he suddenly realized that Blaine was good. He knew how to instantly change the direction and tone of a conversation and how to make the people around him comfortable. It made sense. You didn’t get to be a media darling unless you could exercise some control over the discourses.

“Atlanta? The South seems like an odd choice for an out and proud gay man.”

“It’s not so bad. It’s less redneck that you might think. I travel a lot for work, and it has a major airport. Besides, I can afford to live there. It makes me a slightly less starved starving artist.” He patted his flat stomach.

Blaine seemed to considered this. “You said you moved right after school. So you met Adam in college?”

Kurt nodded. “First week of my freshman year.”

“So he was your first love?”

“He was my first…everything. My only everything.”

Blaine’s eyebrows rose. “He’s the only one you’ve ever…?”

Kurt flushed again. “Yeah.” He knew the same was not true for Blaine. Blaine Anderson was notorious for the string of broken hearts he had left in his wake. If he had a different sexual orientation, he would have been called a womanizer, but Blaine was one of the few openly gay rock stars. His highly publicized love affairs included a bevy of male models, actors, and, in one media storm, the son of a prominent Republican politician. Some of his conquests even claimed to be straight. He had brief affairs with all of them, and, if the tabloids were to be believed, he was the one who always broke things off.

“You never…?” Blaine seemed unable to take it in, and Kurt found himself getting angry.

“No, Blaine. I’ve never kissed anyone else, not anyone who counted. I’ve never shared a bed with anyone else, and I’ve never loved anyone else, and I’ve never sucked anyone else’s cock, and I’ve never fucked anyone else. I am thirty-five years old, and I have not spread myself around like I didn’t matter. I’ve left that to people like you.”

Blaine put up both hands. “Whoa. Sorry, man. I was just surprised.”

Kurt instantly deflated. “No, I’m sorry. I guess I’m a little touchy. I shouldn’t have said that about you. I don’t know you, and it wasn’t right.” Deep down Kurt knew that the underlying cause of his anger wasn’t Blaine’s words, but his own shame. Adam was the first person who ever paid attention to Kurt, who ever showed an interest. Kurt loved him, but a small part of him always wondered if he had settled. He wondered if he had stayed with Adam because he was afraid that there was nothing else out there for him, and he was afraid to be alone. Well, he was alone now.

“Can we just talk about something else? Or, maybe, not talk?” Kurt proffered tentatively. “Or maybe a hole can open in the universe and just swallow me.”

Blaine leaned toward him, “Oh, I don’t want to stop talking to you, Kurt Kurt Hummel. You’re a fascinating man.” Blaine reached out and took Kurt’s hand in his own. Kurt thrilled to the touch, but a small voice in the back of his head cautioned him that Blaine Anderson’s flirting was probably as natural to him as breathing was for other people. He couldn’t possibly know how much the brush of his thumb across Kurt’s knuckles was causing a low heat to settle in his belly. Kurt shifted in his seat and crossed his legs, but he didn’t take his hand away. He needed this, and he was going to keep it for as long as possible.

“So, tell me about you,” Blaine prompted.

They talked for several hours. Mostly Kurt talked, and Blaine listened. When Kurt asked questions, Blaine answered them quickly and immediately turned the conversation back to Kurt. Kurt realized that Blaine was the master of deflection. He got others to talk, so he didn’t have to. It was fine with Kurt. Kurt liked to talk.

He regaled Blaine with stories of the opera world, with stories of his best friend, Rachel, who was a rising star on Broadway and an over-the-top hysteric. He talked about his dad, Burt, and his step-mom, Carol, and about his stepbrother who had died tragically, but whom he obviously loved and missed. He talked about Adam, about chemotherapy and radiation and death and funerals. He talked about his cat and about disasters on stage in Charlotte and Fargo and triumphs in Omaha and Boise.

Blaine told him that he was going to Italy to play a series of concerts in Milan, in Venice, in Bologna. He didn’t say much else. He just encouraged Kurt to talk and talk, and he seemed to really like listening.

In the middle of yet another story about Rachel, Kurt’s jaw cracked with a yawn.

“Hey,” said Blaine, “You’re exhausted. You should try to sleep.”

“Sorry,” Kurt smiled sheepishly. “It’s been a crazy week with the preparations, and I don’t sleep well anymore, anyway. Not since…”

Blaine gave him a sympathetic smile. “When I was little, I used to crawl into bed with my mom every night. She would put me in my own bed at first, but I could never sleep. When I heard her go into her own bedroom, I would get up and go into her room and slip under the covers. When I turned five she finally had to lock me out of her bedroom. I cried and cried, and it was six months before I learned to fall asleep on my own.”

It was the first truly personal thing that Blaine had shared, and Kurt had the feeling that very few people knew that story.

Blaine unclasped his hand from Kurt’s and lifted the arm rest dividing their seats. “C’mere,” he said, patting his own shoulder.

Kurt’s eyes widened. “No, I..uh..”

“Kurt,” Blaine said soothingly, “You can’t sleep because no one is holding you. I want to hold you, because I want you to sleep. You look dead on your feet. And, also, I’ve got a Cassanova reputation to uphold, so I want to be the one who gets to hold the most beautiful man on the plane. So come here.”

“People will see,” Kurt pointed out, while the voice in his head was screaming Blaine Anderson said I was beautiful!

Blaine affected an upper class baritone, “People in first class make a point of not seeing. It’s simply not done, you know.” He sighed, “Just come here.”

Kurt exhaled in a gust and laid his head on Blaine’s shoulder, because he just really wanted to. Blaine’s arm wrapped around Kurt’s shoulder and his hand rested on Kurt’s arm. His other arm tugged on Kurt’s hand until his arm was wrapped around Blaine’s waist.

“Now sleep,” Blaine rumbled in Kurt’s ear.

Kurt let the warmth of Blaine’s body suffuse him, and he felt himself being dragged down by the undercurrent of sleep long deprived. The last thing he remembered before going under was the feel of Blaine’s lips brushing his forehead.

Kurt awoke to the announcement, “Ladies and Gentlemen, we are now beginning our final descent into Milan Malpensa Airport…” He had fallen asleep on Blaine’s shoulder, but now—from the feel of things—his head was clearly in Blaine’s lap, which was just embarrassing but also kind of hot. Kurt hoped for both of their sake he hadn’t been drooling in his sleep. Blaine was absently tracing and retracing the structure of Kurt’s face with a finger, moving from his eyebrow to his cheek bone and along his nose.

Reluctantly Kurt opened his eyes. “Hi,” said Blaine softly.

Kurt sat up and touched his hair, sure that it was a disaster. “Hi,” he whispered back.

Just then he felt a jolt as the wheels of the jet touched down on the runway, and he busied himself securing his belongings and preparing to disembark. Blaine did the same. When the captain turned off the fasten seat belt sign with a ping, Kurt turned to Blaine and extended his hand.

“It was really nice to meet you. Thank you for being so kind.”

Blaine enveloped Kurt’s proffered hand with both of his. “It was my pleasure, Kurt Kurt Hummel. Thank you for making my trip so…memorable.” He gave Kurt a look that was absolutely steamy, it spoke of lust and sex , passion and delicious filth. Kurt’s breath caught in his throat. There was no time to respond without holding up other passengers, and Kurt really didn’t know how to respond, anyway, so he grabbed his things and walked off the plane, berating himself for being such an unsophisticated dolt.

As he waited for his luggage at the carousel, Kurt felt strangely bereft. His inner voice lectured him. What did you think? Did you think that Blaine Anderson, international celebrity, was going to ask lowly old you for your phone number? He thought about the look that Blaine gave him just before they deplaned. It was enough to send a tremor through his body. But he knew that, right? He’s a performer. He probably gets off on knowing he’s provided a besotted fan with six months of masturbation material.

Kurt spotted his suitcase coming around the carousel and hoisted it off. He pulled up the handle and maneuvered it into place. As he turned and looked for the customs entrance, a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. Suddenly, he felt himself caught up in a warm embrace that squeezed the breath out of him. Blaine’s voice came into his ear. “Break a leg, my gorgeous songbird.” Then Blaine kissed him on the cheek, gave him a big smile with overly-bright eyes, and was gone. Kurt just stood there staring, still holding onto his luggage. Then he shook his head and joined the queue for customs.

After taking a bus from the airport to the train station, inadvertently buying a ticket on the local train that stopped at every town between Milan and Verona, taking a taxi from the Verona train station to his rented apartment, and climbing the stairs (no elevator) to what would be his third-floor home for the next two months, Kurt was hot, sweaty, tired, and in a bad mood. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into the absurdly small bed in the modern and bright apartment, but he knew that the sooner he got his body on the local time, the easier it would be in rehearsal.

After searching through his luggage for shampoo and conditioner, he stripped off his clothes and started the shower. For a while he just stood under the steam and hot cascade of rushing water, letting the travel grime dissolve. As he shampooed his hair, Blaine’s face appeared before his eyelids. He recalled the look on the plane with the promise of hot sex, and he recalled the look in the airport with Blaine’s warm smile and his eyes bright with what appeared to be unshed tears. It was the latter that made Kurt’s penis twitch, and he reached down with a soapy hand to fist his burgeoning erection. He gave one slow, strong pull from root to tip and then another.

In the course of his adult life, it wasn’t the first time he had imagined Blaine Anderson's hand on his penis, but it was the first time that he truly knew what those hands felt like on his back, on his arm, and on his face. He’d seen the length of his fingers and the bluntness of the well-manicured nails, and he’d felt the rough finger-tip callouses that are the trademark of all guitarists. As his strokes sped up and his grip tightened, Blaine’s face continued to swim before his eyelids, bright and shining, saying his name twice, Kurt Kurt Hummel, and Kurt came undone, coming hard and crying out as he sank to the floor of the shower, his legs no longer able to hold him.

After a time he recovered, stood up and rinsed once again, and shut off the water. Drying off, he wrapped himself in a robe excavated from his luggage, and he began the task of finding homes for all of the items he had packed. Once he had emptied his suitcase and stowed it in a closet, he began to unpack his carry-on items. When he pulled out his laptop and plugged it into the current adaptor to charge it, his eyes caught a flash of white at the bottom of his laptop case.

Peering inside he saw a crumpled white handkerchief. Kurt didn’t remember putting it in his case. In fact, he couldn’t remember what happened to it after his embarrassing crying jag. He retrieved it from the bottom of the bag and noticed a black smudge on the corner. He smoothed it out and saw writing that was definitely not there when he had used the cloth to wipe his eyes. He moved to the light to inspect it more closely.

Written in ink across the corner was an inscription:

To my virtuoso—

You’re in my songs.

-B

Kurt held the handkerchief to his lips as the tears of loneliness and loss began to course down his face.

I can’t do this.

Kurt looked into the mirror. The Emperor Nero stared back, wide-eyed and terrified. I can’t do this. This is insane. I’m going to go out there and embarrass myself in front of 15,000 people. No, not 15,000 people, 15,000 Italians who know opera. These weren’t Americans who came to opera because they were rich and wanted to be seen. These were spectators who lived and breathed opera.

Kurt knew that his characterization of American opera goers wasn’t entirely fair, but he remembered one Tennessee politician gushing to a reporter after a performance of Elektra that it was “pretty cool,” and “they put the words right up there in English so you can follow along.” Some people should stick to NASCAR. Oh God, Kurt, FOCUS!

He could hear the second scene commencing, and as he tried to run the first duet through his head, he began shaking harder and harder. Kurt always had some stage fright, but this was more like stage terror. He doubted he could squeak out a single note.

I can’t do this.

A voice called through the dressing room, “Signor Hummel?” It came out hoom-MAY-low, but Kurt was used to this particularly Italian take on his name.

“Si,” he replied, putting up a hand.

A boy appeared holding a massive bouquet of white roses, lavender, and lilies of the valley. He set it on the dressing table next to Kurt.

“Per voi, Signor Hummel.”

“Grazie.”

Kurt buried his nose in the bouquet and was assaulted by the calming scent of lavender. With a shaky hand he plucked the card from where it was nestled in the blooms.

Soon everyone in the Arena will know how amazing you are.

I am jealous of each and every one of them.

-B

Kurt’s face split into a beatific smile. He stood up and ran his hands down his toga.

I can do this.

He headed for the stage, and as the soprano called, “Pur ti miro,” he answered back, “Pur ti godo,” in a voice that was high, clear, and perfect.

Kurt gave the performance of his life.

Two days later Kurt was sitting on his balcony, feet propped up on the railing, enjoying a glass of Soave and a bowl of bright green, briny olives as he watched the Adige River float past his apartment. Suddenly, a voice he knew floated up from below.

“What if her eyes were there, they in her head? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars. As daylight doth a lamp. Her eyes in heaven would through the airy region stream so bright that birds would sing and think it were not night. O that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!”

Kurt sprung to his feet and leaned over the balcony. His eyes were swallowed by another's eyes, warm and syrup-colored, as Blaine grinned up at him.

“Blaine! Oh my God, what are you doing here?”

“What does anyone do in Verona? I'm quoting Shakespeare.  It is the city of Romeo and Juliet, you know.”

“I know,” laughed Kurt. “But you forgot a line.”

Blaine shrugged. “I’ll get it on the second take.”

“Don’t go anywhere! I’m coming right down.” Kurt turned on his heels and headed back through the balcony doors. He stopped long enough to check the mirror and grimaced at what he saw. Bringing his mouth to his hand he breathed into it. Olives. He grabbed a piece of mint gum from a drawer and shoved it into his mouth.

From outside he heard Blaine continue, “She speaks. O, speak again, bright angel, for thou art as glorious to this night, being o’er my head, as a winged messenger of heaven.”

Kurt smoothed down his pants and ran out the door, taking the stairs two at a time until he reached the first floor. He ran into Blaine’s arms, and they spun around, hugging each other with joy.

Kurt stepped back. “How did you know where to find me?”

“You told me on the plane that you had an apartment in the Residence all’Adige, so I took a chance that I could find you, and here you are.”

“But what are you doing here?”

“I did a concert last night in Milan, and I’m free until my next concert next week in Venice, so I thought I’d see what my good friend, Kurt Kurt Hummel, was doing.”

“Thank you! Thank you for coming to see me.”

“I read that you were a triumph in the Arena.”

“It was a good night. Thank you so much for the flowers. They’re beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful.” Blaine reached up and rubbed a hand on the top of Kurt’s head. “Kicky new haircut?”

Kurt made a face, “I’m playing Nero, Blaine. I’ve got to look like a Roman emperor."  He bit his lip, "They swear it will grow back. I’m not so sure.”

Blaine walked around Kurt, tapping his lips with his finger in mock consideration. “I like it,” he finally pronounced. “It makes you look…masterful.”

Kurt blushed. “I look like a sheep who’s just gone through the clippers.”

“Not at all,” Blaine retorted. He put his hand back up and rubbed back and forth on the short, short hair that felt both soft and bristly at this length.

“I feel naked,” complained Kurt.

“What a good idea,” Blaine answered.

They spent the day walking side by side through the streets of Verona, letting their arms brush occasionally, and pointing out objects to each other that caught their interest. Kurt was thrilled that this was one of his rare days off, as the Arena was being reset for a performance of Aida.

When they joined the crowd of tourists huddled under Juliet’s balcony, Kurt goaded Blaine into repeating the entire balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet. It turned out that Blaine had played Romeo in a high school production of the Shakespeare play, having to “borrow” a Juliet from a neighboring girls’ school, since Blaine went to an all-boys academy. He still remembered most of the lines, and Kurt teased him when he flubbed one or left one out.

After Blaine finished a completely cheesy rendition of the famous scene under the balcony with scenery chewing enthusiasm, complete with getting onto one knee, they walked along the wall reading declarations of love left on scraps of paper by thousands of tourists on the rock wall, each secured with chewing gum. It was both sweet and a little bit disgusting. Blaine turned to a couple and said something to them in rapid Italian that Kurt couldn’t hear over the crowd noise. Kurt has figured out a couple of hours ago that Blaine was nearly as good with Italian as Kurt was, Kurt, because he needed it for work, Blaine, just because he loved languages. Blaine turned back to Kurt flourishing a borrowed pen and a small piece of notebook paper.

“Turn around,” Blaine motioned with his hand.

Kurt turned his back to Blaine, and he felt Blaine place the piece of paper on his shoulder blade and begin writing. When he removed the paper, Kurt turned back to face Blaine who held his hand out, palm open, near Kurt’s chin. “Give me your gum.”

“No, Blaine. Gross. I’m not going to spit my gum into your hand.”

“Then you put it up.” Blaine handed the piece of paper to Kurt.

Drawn on the page in red ink was a big heart and an arrow with the words Blaine + Kurt scrawled on the inside.

“You’re not serious.”

“It’s Juliet’s balcony, Kurt. You’ve got to get into the spirit.”

“It’s not really Juliet’s balcony, you know. Shakespeare never traveled to Verona.”

“That’s not very romantic.”

“OK, fine.” Kurt pulled his gum from his mouth, stuck it on the wall, and pressed the paper into it. “I’ve put my disgusting, diseased gum on the wall. Is that romantic enough for you? Are you happy now?”

“Incredibly,” smiled Blaine, leaning in and kissing Kurt on the cheek. Kurt’s face turned pink and he stared down at his shoes. Blaine linked his arm through Kurt’s.

“Come on. I saw a great café where we can get some wine.” Then he pulled Kurt out of the courtyard and into the street.

Twenty minutes later they were sitting in a sidewalk café enjoying a carafe of house wine. Kurt was nibbling delicately on a carrot stick seasoned with olive oil and sea salt. The sun was warm on their faces and the air smelled of rosemary and ancient mysteries.

“What’s the best part of Italy?” asked Blaine.

“Well,” Kurt considered for a minute,” As a gay man, I would have to say…the shoes.”

Their eyes both went to the feet of the next man who passed on the sidewalk.

“Prada,” they both sighed in unison. Kurt giggled.

“The shoes are the best thing?” Blaine asked, “Not all the beautiful men?”

“The beautiful men are a bonus,” admitted Kurt. “And the fact that they’re all so well dressed. Look at them,” he gestured all around the piazza. “Every one of them is stylish. They would probably hyperventilate if you put them in a Walmart. But what’s with the women? They look kind of…trashy.”

As if to emphasize the point, a slender woman walked by, tottering on five inch stilettos. Her turquoise pants were so tight that you could see the outline of her thong through the fabric.

“Ewww,” both men said together.

“They’re not all trashy,” Blaine reasoned. “Some of them look very nice.”

“True,” Kurt admitted. “But the men look great.” He scanned the piazza.

“What else do you, as a gay man, love about Italy?” Blaine asked.  Kurt got a devilish twinkle in his eye as he considered this question.

“Well, as a gay man, you have to love all the bidets.”

“The bidets?”

“You know, Blaine, the thing in your bathroom that looks like a teeny, tiny urinal.”

“I know what a bidet is, Kurt. I’m just not sure how that’s the best part of gay Italy.”

“Oh, come on. You know how important it is to be…fresh.” Kurt continued to tease. “Or maybe you don’t worry about it so much, since you always bottom.” It was an outlandish supposition, even in jest, and Kurt couldn’t believe he was being so bold, but it was in fun, and it felt right to joke with Blaine in this way. Blaine, however, blushed a deep red and turned away, hand coming up to cover his face.

In a quiet voice he said, “I don’t, actually.”

Kurt was confused, “Don’t what?”

“I don’t bottom.”

“Oh.” Kurt was a little embarrassed but also intrigued. “You top exclusively? You don’t seem that…dominant.”  He gulped.  "No offense."

Blaine looked away and cleared his throat. “I don't top, either.”

Kurt’s eyes went wide. “You don’t…You never…Seriously?”

Blaine’s reply sounded a little defensive, “Not all gay men are into anal sex, Kurt.”

“Yeah, I know,” Kurt replied placatingly, “But you…you kind of have a reputation.” He paused. “God, I’m sorry. This is none of my business, and I’ve embarrassed you. Shall we change the subject?”

Blaine seemed to come back to himself. He took Kurt’s hand across the table. “No, I want to explain. Yes, I’ve dated a lot of men. I guess I have ‘spread myself around’ as you so delicately put it on the plane, but some things are…intimate. Some things require a real closeness, and I’ve just never felt that close to anyone. Maybe that line is arbitrary. Maybe once you get naked with someone, it doesn’t really matter what you do, but it doesn’t feel that way to me.”

“Oh.” Kurt didn’t know what to say. He just looked at Blaine for a long time. Finally, he spoke. “I’m sorry again for what I said on the plane. I was upset, and I got bitchy. I have no right to judge you."

"You weren’t completely wrong, Kurt. I have probably been with too many men, many for all the wrong reasons. Some of it was just…well, you were twenty once.”

“When I was twenty, I'd been in a committed relationship for two years.”

“Oh, right. OK, well, you skipped twenty and went straight to thirty. But for me, the band was taking off, and people were throwing themselves at me, both men and women, and it was flattering and intoxicating, and I was too immature to handle it in the right way. All these people wanted me, they made themselves available to me, and I was too stupid to say ‘no'.  I didn't get that meaningless sex kind of chips away at your soul. After a while, dating beautiful men, going down on them, pushing the limits…it just became a way of life. Something to do. A way to pass the time when I was on the road. Flirting and kissing and even sucking cock became like a hobby, like playing tennis or jogging. It wasn’t until I hit thirty that I really asked myself, ‘What am I doing?’ All the men didn’t make me feel fulfilled, or special, or happy. Just the opposite, they made me feel really lonely.”

“So, what, you’re looking to settle down now? Get married? Have kids?” The questions sounded more challenging to Kurt's ear than he intended them.  After working so hard to get the littlest piece of personal information from Blaine, Kurt wasn’t sure how he was supposed to respond to this revealing confession.

“I dunno, Kurt. I don’t know what I want. I just know that I don’t want more of what I’ve had.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Kurt's tone was now softer, and he squeezed Blaine’s hand. “Thank you for telling me that. I know you’re a very private person. I feel flattered that you trust me enough to share that with me.”

Blaine looked into Kurt’s eyes. “Maybe I’m finally growing up.”

“Maybe you are.” The silence between them felt heavy for a moment.

Then Kurt teased, “So, tell me some more about how sucking cock is like tennis.”

The rest of the afternoon was passed in pleasant banter. They window shopped and people watched and took in the scenery in Verona. Blaine revealed that he’d been to Verona a few times before, having played some intimate concerts at the Teatro Romano. They pointed out places that they knew, memories that they had of previous visits to the romantic city. By dinner time, they found themselves tucked into the corner of a medieval church converted to a pizzeria, sharing a meal over flickering candlelight. The food was delicious, the conversation was easy, and Kurt found that he didn’t want the evening to end.

“Where are you staying?” Kurt asked.

“Venice. I have some promos to do tomorrow morning for the concert. There’s a train leaving tonight at 11; it will get me to my hotel around midnight."  Blaine paused, "Any chance I can persuade you to come with me?”

“I can’t. I have rehearsal in the morning.”

“When’s your next day off?”

“I have another performance in four days. Then I have a day off the next day.”

Blaine leaned forward and took Kurt’s hand. He rubbed his thumb across the back of Kurt’s hand, then he pulled Kurt’s hand to his mouth and kissed a knuckle, then another one with a mouth that was hot and firm and promised an endless array of delights.

“I’ll come back for your performance. Will you meet me after and come to Venice with me? Spend your day off with me in Venice?”

“Where will I stay?”

Blaine paused, opened his mouth, closed it again, then said, “I’ll get you a room in my hotel. There’s no pressure, Kurt. I just want to spend more time with you.”

Kurt considered it for a moment. Then he nodded his head slowly. “OK. I’ll go. Thank you.” He smiled. “I look forward to it.”

“Me, too.”

Neither man wanted the evening to end, but Kurt needed to get up early for rehearsals, and Blaine had a train to catch, so after they paid the bill, Blaine walked Kurt back to his apartment building. They held hands and didn’t say much; they were just contented to be with each other.

When they reached the dark street in front of the Residence all’Adige, they turned to face each other. Blaine put his hands on Kurt’s shoulders and looked at Kurt in the moonlight, his eyes fixed on Kurt’s mouth. Kurt licked his lips nervously, and Blaine slowly lowered his mouth to Kurt’s.

Just as their lips touched, Kurt stepped back.

“Kurt? What’s wrong?”

Kurt opened his mouth to speak, but, instead, a sob escaped his lips. Try as he might, he couldn’t speak, and to his horror, tears were coursing down his face.

“Oh, Kurt, no.” Blaine stepped closer and pulled Kurt into an embrace, rubbing his back with one hand and putting the other to the back of Kurt’s neck. He held Kurt until he felt his crying subside.

“Listen,” Blaine said, “It’s OK. We can talk after I see your big triumph in a few days. Or we don’t have to. I’m serious about not pressuring you. We can take this as slow as you need to. Or we can just be friends. I just want to spend time with you, OK?”

He stepped back and took Kurt’s face in both of his hands. “OK?”

Kurt nodded.

Blaine leaned in and kissed Kurt’s tear stained cheek. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

Then he turned and disappeared into the night.

Kurt spent the next four days in turmoil. Blaine was gorgeous, sexy, and fun, and Kurt couldn’t help but be charmed, but he didn’t know if he could trust Blaine. Blaine admitted to having a lot of partners, and flirting seemed to be a natural part of him. Was he honest when he said he was looking for something more, or was this a tactic calculated to get Kurt to sleep with him, just like all the poor suckers before? There was no doubt that Blaine was charismatic: millions of screaming fans could attest to that. Was he also manipulative? Did he know that Kurt would find the turning-over-a-new-leaf story irresistible? Was Kurt being played?

But what if Blaine was being honest? Was that better? Kurt had made a life with the first man who ever paid attention to him, and although he had loved Adam—still loved Adam—was he now going to fall for the next man who was the slighted bit attentive? Was Kurt even in control of his life, or would he spend it simply bouncing from man to man with no will of his own? Wasn’t it important for Kurt to figure out how to live alone, to figure out who he was and what he wanted?

Sure, he had been alone for a year now, but it didn’t seem like it counted. It was too much a haze of grief and chaos and picking up the pieces. It wasn’t a real year, not one that counted.

And what if what was between Blaine and Kurt was real? What if it became an epic romance? What if Blaine was the great love of Kurt’s life, and they spent that life together? One day Blaine would die, and Kurt would have to watch. Did Kurt have it in him to relive his last four years of tending and nursing and worrying? Could he watch Blaine’s body be ravaged by surgeon's scalpels and chemotherapy and disease? Could he bear to feel his heart break into a million little pieces all over again and stand by completely helpless to prevent it?

It was too much.

When a courier left a package at the front desk of the all’Adige, everything went from bad to worse.

He opened it to find, among other things, a note from Blaine.

Dear Kurt:

Our publicity schedule has been changed, and I can no longer come to Verona to see your next concert. I am more sorry than I can say. Please don’t change your mind about coming to Venice. Please. I’ve enclosed train tickets for the last train to Venice after your performance, and I’ve booked a room for you at the Aman. Just tell them who you are when you get to the front desk. I want to see you. Please come.

-Blaine

Kurt paced his apartment while he considered, first deciding to stay, then deciding to go, then deciding to stay. When he heard a ding, he looked at his laptop and saw that Rachel was Skyping him.

“Hi,” he connected and smiled at her.

“How’s Italy?” she asked, dragging out the “how” in a way that only Rachel could.

“It’s…interesting.”

“Ooooh?” she cocked one eyebrow.

“I met Blaine Anderson on the plane.”

Rachel squealed and bounced up and down in her seat. “You did not!”

Kurt nodded, grinning. “I did.”

“Tell me everything, Kurt Hummel, and do not leave out a single detail.”

So Kurt did, ending the story by confessing all of his fears and his indecision about going to Venice.

“So let me get this straight,” Rachel recapped. “You’re worried that he’s seducing you, and you’re worried that he’s not seducing you?”

“That about sums it up,” Kurt agreed, biting his lower lip.

“Kurt, have you ever heard the old adage, ‘Don’t buy trouble’?”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you know as well as anyone that none of us can predict our future. Our lives are nothing like we thought they would be and they’re not going to be anything like we think they’ll be. Why are you stressing like this? Blaine freaking Anderson wants to spend time with you in the city of love, why not just go for it? Give yourself up to this. Don’t worry about ten years from now or next year or next week or tomorrow. Just go, and live in the moment. You can burn your troubled bridges when you get to them.”

“Venice isn’t the city of love, that’s Paris.”

“Do not change the subject, Kurt Hummel. Go to Venice.”

“Do you really think I should?”

“Kurt, if Blaine Anderson invites you to spend the day in Venice, and you don’t go, you’re going to have to learn to love women, because your gay card is going to be revoked. You’ll never be able to show your face in another bathhouse or Halloween parade again.”

“Those are some disturbingly homophobic stereotypes for a woman with two gay dads.”

“You know what I mean. Go...to...Venice.”

“OK. OK, I will.”

Then they both squealed.

The night of Kurt’s next performance it rained.

Opera at the Arena di Verona has a long tradition with regard to rain that Kurt had previously found charming, but now he found maddening. When it rains, the prima donna decides when it's too wet to continue. At that point, she may stop, mid-note, and walk off the stage, followed by all other performers on the stage and the orchestra. Once the rain stops or slackens to her liking, she will walk back on stage and resume the performance on the same note as though there was never an interruption. It’s not unheard of for an opera at the Arena to stop and start several times over the course of an evening.

Kurt’s Poppea to his Nero didn’t like to be even a little wet, so when the first drops of rain fell, she left the stage. They managed a scene or two between showers, but, by the time the opera had finished, it was nearly three in the morning, most of the audience had given up and gone home, and Kurt had long missed the last train to Venice.

Grabbing his travel bag, he trudged back to his apartment. He didn’t know how to contact Blaine. He didn’t have his email address or cell phone number, and he didn’t know where he was staying. Kurt tried not to think about what this meant. Maybe Blaine really was just using Kurt as his latest distraction, and he didn’t want to deal with any uncomfortable fall out afterward. Kurt shoved those thoughts away.

When Kurt arrived back at the all’Adige, thoroughly depressed, he checked the train schedule with the front desk and noted that there was an express train leaving at 6 am. He could catch two hours of sleep, and maybe he would get to Venice before Blaine noticed that he hadn’t arrived the night before.

When he got to his apartment, he didn’t even bother undressing. He was asleep the minute his head hit the pillow.

When he awoke, bright light was streaming through the window. He looked at his watch. It was noon.

Kurt jumped up with alarm. He ran to the shower and bathed as quickly as possible, for once grateful that he didn’t really need to shave every day. He threw on his clothes, taking far less care than normal. He grabbed his still-packed travel bag and was out of the apartment door in less than twenty minutes.

Thankfully, the local bus was chugging toward the front of his apartment building as he entered the lobby, and he didn’t have to wait for a cab. He hopped on the bus, and when he got within a few blocks of the train station, he exited and ran.

He burst into the terminal and quickly scanned the departures board, then he ran to the platform with the next train departing for Venice. By the time he collapsed into a seat he was sweating and out of breath. His heart was racing.

As the train pulled out of the station, he started to think through his actions. He didn’t know where Blaine was. He could go to the Aman, but his reservation was for last night. Would Blaine be there? Would he have left a message? He thought back to Blaine’s note. Please don’t change your mind about coming to Venice. Please. Blaine would just assume that Kurt had changed his mind. This was a disaster.

In the absence of a better plan, when the train arrived in Venice, Kurt took a water taxi to the Aman. His eyes barely took in the hotel's tasteful mix of gold rococo and stark black and white modernism, he was so fixated on finding Blaine and explaining. At the front desk, he told the receptionist who he was and asked if there were any messages.

“No, Signor.”

Kurt’s heart sank and he tried again, asking the receptionist in Italian if she would place a call to the room of Blaine Anderson. He didn't know if Blaine was staying at the Aman, but it was worth a try.  

“I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Anderson checked out this morning. I’m afraid you’ve missed him.”

“Oh,” replied a crestfalled Kurt in a small voice. “Thank you for your time.”

He started back toward the hotel’s entrance when he spotted someone he thought he recognized. He headed toward the man and asked him in English, “Excuse me, are you David Makin?”

“Yes,” replied Postmodern Tourist's lead guitarist cautiously.

“My name is Kurt Hummel. Blaine Anderson asked me to come here last night, but I was delayed. Do you know where I can find him?”

Kurt could see David weighing Kurt and trying to decide if he was telling the truth or if he was just some deranged fan. He decided to opt for something in between.

“If I see Blaine, do you want me to tell him you’re here?”

“You don’t know where he is?”

“Even if I did, it’s more than my life is worth to tell a complete stranger. So do you want me to tell him you’re here or not?”

“Yes,” then Kurt thought better of it. “No.”

“Which is it, man?”

“Would you please tell him that I’m sorry I missed him, that I was here, and I went back to Verona?”

“OK. I’ll tell him when I see him.”

After giving David a small thanks, Kurt returned to the train station the way he came.

He didn’t care that people were staring at him as he cried all the way back to Verona.

When Kurt arrived back in Verona, he was cried out. Feeling the need for physical release, he ignored the queue for the taxis and walked the three miles back to his apartment, the wheels of his travel case bumping loudly over the cobble stones. The noise acted as a balm to his battered soul.

By the time he reached the third floor of his apartment building, it was early evening. Stepping out of the stairwell into the dim light of the hallway he saw a figure sitting on the floor, legs straight out, back slumped against Kurt's apartment door.

“Blaine?”

Blaine swept a hand over his face and stood up stiffly as Kurt approached. Kurt couldn’t be sure in the dim hallway, but Blaine’s eyes appeared to be red and puffy.

“Blaine, I…”

“Kurt, I’m sorry,” Blaine interrupted. “I said I wouldn’t pressure you, but I couldn’t…”

“No, Blaine, I didn’t know how…”

“I couldn’t stay away. I’m so sorry, I just had…”

They were both talking at once, and suddenly Kurt lunged at Blaine, wrapped his arms around him and slanted his mouth to capture Blaine’s. He felt Blaine’s lips form a surprised O under his, then Blaine surrendered to the kiss, wrapping his arms around Kurt’s waist and pulling him closer. Kurt shifted his lips against Blaine’s, plundering their warmth and softness. Then Kurt caught Blaine’s bottom lip between his, and he felt Blaine’s mouth open slightly. Kurt took that opportunity to press his advantage, dipping his tongue into Blaine’s mouth, tasting the salt on his lips before feeling Blaine’s tongue tangle with his own. His whole body went up in flames.

It wasn’t enough.

Not taking his lips from Blaine, he fumbled in his pocket for the key, but he couldn’t slot it into the door without looking. Reluctantly, he turned toward the door and managed to open it with shaking hands. He stepped aside, holding the door to let Blaine enter, and he reached into the hall to grab his travel case, using his foot to prop open the door.

A very flushed Blaine said, “We should probably talk.”

Kurt pushed the door shut and slid the deadbolt. Then he grabbed Blaine’s hand and began dragging him to the bedroom. “Talking is overrated.”

He shoved Blaine onto the bed and fell on top of him. His hands tangled in Blaine’s hair as his lips swooped down to recapture his lips. A moan emitted from deep in Blaine’s chest, and the sound sent a shudder through Kurt right to his cock. He bucked against Blaine and discovered that Blaine was as hard as he was.

“Oh, fuck. Kurt.”

Kurt raised up slightly, mouth still on Blaine’s, and began fumbling with the buttons on Blaine’s shirt, his fingers moving so frantically that one button popped from his fingers and hit a wall. Oops. Oh well.

Blaine grabbed Kurt’s hands as Kurt finished the last button and was desperately trying to rip the shirt off of Blaine’s shoulders. “Kurt, wait.”

Kurt gave Blaine an incredulous look, but he paused, panting for breath.

“Kurt, are you sure?”

“I’m sure that you are not nearly enough naked.”

“But…”

“Naked, Blaine. Gah, why are you still wearing that shirt?”

Blaine chuckled and pressed lightly on Kurt’s chest. “If you want me naked, you’re going to have get off of me for a second.”

“Fine,” Kurt flounced off of Blaine’s body and stood, but as soon as his eyes raked over Blaine’s chest, they grew wide and he stopped breathing for a second. Blaine was mouthwatering. His chest was defined with rounded muscles and a light dusting of dark hair. His skin was smooth and olive colored, and his stomach was slightly rounded and begged to be bitten. Kurt didn’t usually bite things. He shrugged it off. He could bite things if he wanted to.

Blaine pulled off what was left of his shirt, and moved down to unbutton his pants, but then he paused. “Hummel, I’m not the only one who’s getting naked here.”

The words penetrated Kurt’s lust-addled brain, and he shook his head slightly to try to regain some focus. Then he reached down and pulled his shirt up and over his head in one quick motion. He looked at Blaine, expecting that he would now be removing his pants, but Blaine appeared to be frozen. And drooling.

“Blaine?”

“God, Kurt. You’re beautiful.”

Kurt’s whole body blushed.“You, too.”

Blaine reached out and grabbed hold of Kurt by his belt, dragging him over to stand directly in front of Blaine. Holding Kurt’s gaze, he unbuckled Kurt’s belt and thumbed open the button on Kurt’s pants before unzipping the fly.

Kurt came to his senses just enough to realize that he didn’t want to get caught in the sock zone. He stepped away from Blaine and reached down to remove his shoes and socks. Then he hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his briefs, intending to pull off both his pants and his underwear at once, but then he paused. “You’re still wearing pants,” he accused Blaine.

“So are you.”

“You go first.”

Blaine smiled, “Anything you want, beautiful.” Still lying half supine on the bed, he kicked off his own shoes, dragged down his socks, then lifted his hips to slide down his pants and boxers with one smooth tug. “There,” he pronounced.

“Oh my God,” was Kurt’s only response, as his eyes took in the beauty that was everything Blaine. He wanted to lick it all, and he wasn’t sure where to start.

“Pants, Kurt.”

Kurt kicked his pants off and was on top of Blaine before Blaine could get more than a glimpse of Kurt’s lithe figure, but the touch of skin to skin set both men on fire, and their mouths clung to each other as they both tried to touch as much of the other as possible.

The frantic fumbling went on for some time until Blaine tore his mouth away, “Kurt. Kurt. Kurt!”

Kurt realized that Blaine was trying to get his attention. “Mmmpf?” he asked while still sucking on the frantically beating pulse at the base of Blaine’s neck. It finally penetrated his brain that the hand tugging at the hair at the back of his skull wasn’t making a sexual advance; it was Blaine trying to get him to look up.

He stared at Blaine quizzically.

“I need to know what you want,” Blaine said.  

"Isn’t it obvious?”

“No, it really isn’t. Can we just catch our breath and talk for a second?”

Kurt opened his mouth to protest, but Blaine spoke first, “We can keep touching, but we need to talk, at least for a minute before this goes any further.”

“OK,” Kurt conceded, but he didn't like it.

Blaine repositioned himself on the tiny bed so that he was laying on his side, head on the pillow. He patted the space next to him, indicating that Kurt should lay beside him. When Kurt did, facing Blaine nose to nose with his hand on Blaine’s bicep, Blaine laid his hand on Kurt’s bare hip, tracing circles with his thumb. “I want to make love to you, Kurt, I do, but I don’t want you to rush into anything and regret it later. I want to only do what you feel comfortable with, so you have to talk to me.”

“Uh, Blaine, I think we’ve established that I’m comfortable with a lot more stuff than you are.”

“OK, true, but you need to know that I’m clean, Kurt. I’ve been tested, so you can go down on me or whatever you want without risk, but I don’t expect you to just take my word for that. So think about what you feel comfortable doing, and what you feel comfortable with me doing to you. I’ll respect whatever boundaries you put up.”

Kurt closed his eyes and took a breath. Then he opened them. “It’s been a lot of years since I had the awkward sex conversation.”

“We have to do it, babe.”

He considered for a while. “Maybe we should start with baby steps. Can I touch you?”

“Yeah,” Blaine breathed. “I’d like that.”

Kurt rolled away from Blaine and reached into the bedside table where he extracted a small bottle of lube. Blaine raised one eyebrow.

“A man has to, ahem, take things in hand for himself sometimes. This way, there’s no chafing.”

“You’re very wise,” Blaine nodded with mock solemnity.

Kurt poured some lube on his palm and let it warm in his hand. Then he reached down for Blaine’s cock, wrapped his hand around it lightly, and slowly pulled up Blaine’s full length. Blaine let out a hiss. Kurt pulled again, letting his wrist twist just before he reached the head. Blaine let out an absolutely filthy moan that made Kurt’s own cock twitch violently.

“Oh, I am not going to last long if you keep doing that.”

“Doing this?” Kurt teased, as he pulled and twisted once again.

“Oh, shit.”

Kurt let his hand trail down from Blaine’s cock to slide over his balls, squeezing gently. They were so tight Kurt knew that Blaine really was close, so he fisted Blaine’s erection again and began to stroke steadily with a firm hand, leaning back a little to enjoy the sight of Blaine’s body. A flush crept up Blaine’s chest and his nipples peaked as his moans grew louder.

“God, Kurt.”

Then Blaine’s back arched and he came, streaking across the bedspread and Kurt’s hand, shuddering violently. Kurt thought he had never seen anything so beautiful as Blaine shattering, and he stroked him through it, then slowed his hand when the shudders started to subside. Blaine lay there for a moment with his eyes closed, sweating and breathing heavily.

Kurt made to get off the bed to get a washcloth, but a strong hand encircled his wrist. “Let me touch you, Kurt.”

Kurt lay back on the bed, inwardly wincing as his back hit the wet spot, and tucking his head into Blaine’s shoulder. Blaine’s hands smoothed down Kurt’s chest, one finger circling around his navel, then traveling lower. His fingertips trailed down Kurt’s length with a light touch, almost ghosting over the skin. Kurt shivered. The hands moved lower to gently stroke Kurt’s balls, and then Blaine’s lips brushed over Kurt’s forehead. A finger traced more firmly up the ridge on the underside of Kurt’s cock and then up, pulling pre-come from Kurt’s slit and smearing it around the head. It felt both heavenly and somewhat too intimate for Kurt’s comfort.

“Make me come,” he whispered.

“I’m getting there.”

“Do it now.”

Blaine moved to protest, but something in Kurt’s eyes made him comply. He found the lube from where it had become lodged under his left hip, snapped the cap, and quickly coated his hand. Then he fisted Kurt’s erection and began to pull with a steady rhythm that soon had Kurt moaning, his hips bucking off the bed.

“Come for me, Kurt,” he breathed into Kurt’s mouth. “Come for me, my darling.”

The endearment was unexpected, but it dropped Kurt right over the edge. With a loud groan, his come pumped over his chest and Blaine’s hand as the waves of ecstasy washed over him again and again. His eyes flashed to white behind his eyelids, and he felt his body dropping and dropping until he finally came to settle in Blaine’s arms, with Blaine stroking his face and feathering his cheeks with small kisses.

Finally Kurt opened his eyes. “I am sending you the dry cleaning bill for this bedspread.”

Blaine just smiled.

Much later they were sitting on the sofa in Kurt’s living room, feet propped up on the coffee table, sharing a bowl of grapes. Kurt had explained about the delay in getting to Venice, and Blaine had explained that he had foregone traveling with the band to Bologna to prepare for their next concert, although he had to travel there first thing in the morning.

They had napped for a while after stripping the bedspread to the floor, and then each had showered. Blaine hadn’t brought any luggage, instead leaving everything with the roadies in Venice, so Kurt had lent him some clothes. The shirt was a little snug across the chest, and the pants were a bit too long, but everything was wonderfully soft and smelled of verbena—a scent Blaine now associated with Kurt, just as Kurt was beginning to association cedar and cloves with Blaine.

Blaine looked down to where their hands were linked, and he murmured, “You know, I’ve still never heard you sing.”

“There’s eleven performances of Poppea, Blaine. You can still make nine of them. The cheap seats at the top are only 24 euros. Let me know if you need a loan.”

Blaine chuckled. “What will it cost me for a preview?”

“You want a private performance?” Kurt pretended to think about it. “I’m not sure you can afford that on your meager income.”

Blaine stood and walked into the bedroom. He came back holding his pants, fishing his wallet out of his back pocket. He looked inside. “I have twelve euros. Do you take American Express?”

“I’ll take a kiss.”

Blaine leaned over the couch where Kurt was sitting and put both hands on the back of the sofa on either side of Kurt’s face. When he leaned in to kiss Kurt, Kurt put a hand up and pulled back.

“You realize that the song you get depends on how good this kiss is?”

Blaine put his mouth very close to Kurt’s. “Oh?” He arched an eyebrow. “What kind of kiss will get me ‘Al lampo dell armi’?”

“Oh, I’m going to at least require some tongue for that.” Kurt said softly, his eyes intent on Blaine’s mouth.

“And what kind of kiss will get me, ‘Il dolce suono’?”

Kurt raised his eyebrows in surprise. Blaine was shockingly knowledgeable about opera. One side of Kurt's mouth quirked, “That would require kissing some things that I might be sitting on right now.”

Blaine laughed, then swooped in to give Kurt a teasing kiss that left Kurt gasping for more.

Blaine stood, “Let’s hear what I've won.”

Kurt rose and stepped in front of the window so the light was creating a halo around his hair. He raised one hand and placed it on his heart. With the other hand he reached, arm completely extended, palm raised in a beseeching gesture. He cleared his throat, and Blaine sunk into a chair, expectant look on his face.

Kurt opened his mouth wide, and just before emitting a note, a devilish look crossed his face.  He began to twitch his hips fetchingly. “All the single ladies, all the single ladies, All the single ladies, all the single ladies, All the single ladies…” he sang.  

Blaine started to laugh.

By the time Kurt had finished the final verse of the Beyonce' hit—complete with absolutely absurd choreography—Blaine was doubled over.

“Here’s a man that makes me, then takes me; and delivers me to destiny, to infinity and beyond; pull me into your arms, say I’m the one you want; if you don’t, you’ll be alone, and like a ghost, I’ll be gone.”

Blaine was holding his sides when Kurt sang, “Now put your hands up, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh,”  turning slowly and pushing his hands into the air with each “oh” and shifting his hips for emphasis.

“Stop, stop, you’re killing me,” begged Blaine. He was holding his sides, doubled over in the chair. “Kurt Kurt Hummel, you have unsuspected depth,” he managed to wheeze.

Kurt gave Blaine a broad grin. He crossed the room and dropped to his knees in front of Blaine. Blaine looked at him curiously, still smiling. Kurt opened his mouth and sang, “Il dolce suono mi colpi di sua voce!”

As Kurt continued through the aria, Blaine’s eyes grew wider and his mouth dropped open a little. Kurt had clearly sung this aria before, although it was not meant for his voice. Blaine was familiar enough with Lucia to hear where Kurt was changing the notes to match his vocal range, but the change was beautiful and not jarring. The lower notes made it sound like a love song instead of a mad woman’s lament to the corpse of the husband she had just murdered.

Although he couldn’t catch all of the words, he understood and interpreted, “At last, I am yours, at last you are mine, to me you have been given by God. Every pleasure is more grateful to me, with you, more sweet.”

When Kurt finished, tears were streaming down Blaine’s face. “Never stop singing to me,” he whispered. “Never stop.”

Kurt slid into Blaine’s lap and wrapped his arms around Blaine and just sat there for a moment, his forehead pressed against the top of Blaine’s head. Blaine reached around and simply held Kurt to him, each man reveling in the other’s warmth.

Finally Kurt broke the moment. “I’m starving.”

Blaine smiled up at Kurt, “Well, I think you’ve sung for your supper.  Let’s go. It’s my treat.”

They walked hand in hand through the night past the Basilica di San Zeno Maggiore to the Ristorante Antico Tripoli, a favorite eatery of Kurt’s. Sitting in the moonlit garden, dining on roasted whole fish and asparagus, they shared wine and traded stories from their childhood.  They talked about their experiences in high school in Ohio. Kurt went to public school, but, Blaine, who was from New York, had attended an elite private boarding school in Westerville, not far from where Kurt grew up in Lima. They also swapped stories about college highjinx, Kurt at NYADA and Blaine at the University of Michigan.

Wine came out of Kurt's nose when Blaine admitted to being in a college band that did hard rock covers of Disney tunes.  

"You did not!" Kurt screamed, holding a napkin to his burning nose.  "Please tell me there are youtube videos."

"Nope, no videos," Blaine swore.  "And all the other band members?  Yep.  All dead.  There is no existing evidence of this band."

"Blaine, I will make it my life's task to seek out videos.  I know they're out there."  

As it neared midnight, and the waiters were clearing the last of their dishes, Kurt screwed up his courage and asked Blaine, “Will you stay with me tonight?”

Blaine looked at his watch. Then he faced Kurt, “I have to leave by six, but I would love to spend every minute with you from now until I go.”

Kurt smiled. Then something occurred to him, and his face clouded over.

“What is it?”

Kurt didn’t respond for a long time, so Blaine just waited him out, looking at Kurt and smiling encouragingly.

“I just realized something.” There was another long pause, as Kurt continued to gather his thoughts, “Um, I’m embarrassed to say.”

The blush on his cheeks punctuated his comment.

Blaine leaned forward. “Say anything, Kurt. It’s OK.”

Kurt focused his attention on the single rose bud peeking from a vase on the table. In a small voice he admitted, “I think we’re a little…limited…on what we can do.”

Blaine eyed him quizzically and waited for him to go on.

“I know that you don’t top, or bottom. But I think oral sex is off the table for me.”

Blaine tried to hide his surprise, but he wasn’t completely successful. “You mean, you and Adam never…?” His voice trailed off.

“No,” Kurt corrected, “No, of course we did. But earlier today you said that I should think about my boundaries. When you’re with someone for a long time, you don’t think in terms of boundaries, although I guess you build them mutually over time. I mean, there were things that Adam and I never did, never even considered doing, but you figure them out together. There’s no…formal negotiation.”

Kurt was talking slowly and considering his words carefully. “But,” he continued, “If I think about it, I don’t think that it’s anal sex that’s too intimate. I mean, it feels great, but you can still do it and be thinking about new fabric swatches for your curtains.”

Blaine choked a little. “Go on,” he croaked.

“For me, it’s oral sex that’s too intimate. Your face is right there. Another person is seeing things close up that you normally hide from people. And they can smell and taste the essence of you. And there’s trust, too. I mean, we all have teeth.”  Kurt's face was in flames, but he wanted to talk honestly to Blaine.  

Blaine sat back and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, wow. Put like that, maybe I’ve gotten it wrong all these years.”

“No. I don’t think it’s like that. It’s personal, where you draw your limits. But today—earlier—when you were touching me, it just seemed too much. It was like you knew me too well, and you don’t really know me at all.” He flapped his hands. “I’m babbling. Ignore me. What I’m saying is that if anal sex is off the table and oral sex is off the table, that doesn’t leave much, you know? So…maybe…I don’t know…maybe you want to just head to Bologna?”

Blaine reached out and pressed his palm against Kurt’s cheek. “Kurt,” he said softly, “It’s enough. With you, whatever you give me, it’s enough.”

Their lovemaking that evening was slow and exploratory in sharp contrast to the desperate fumbling of the afternoon. They took turns touching each other, kissing one another tenderly, as though they had all the time in the world. As they built to a crescendo, both sweating and moaning, Kurt reveled in the magic of Blaine’s touch. He didn’t want to compare Blaine to Adam, but it was unavoidable. While Adam’s touch was comfortable and predictable, Blaine’s touch was like fire, sending icy shivers of delight and blankets of warmth across his skin. Kurt realized that he was lucky to have experienced it all.

They came nearly together, one right after the other, and they held each other for a long time afterward, glued together with sweat and ejaculate.

When they couldn’t stand it any longer, Kurt disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a warm, wet cloth and a dry towel. He cleaned off Blaine, then handed him the towel as he rubbed the worst of it off himself.

“It’s not enough,” Blaine whispered into the dark.

Kurt froze, sure that Blaine was referring to their conversation at Antico Tripoli.  He had changed his mind.  

“Having you for just a day, here and there; it’s not enough,” Blaine elaborated.  

“Oh,” Kurt breathed, relieved. “I don’t think it can be helped. You have your concert schedule. I have mine. Then there’s rehearsals…”

“Yeah, I know.” Blaine sat up in the bed, leaning back against the headboard. He reached to the bedside table and grabbed his phone. He peered intently at some application for a while, occassionally poking at the screen.  Then he asked Kurt, “What do you have going on in August?”

Kurt fixed his eyes on the ceiling as he thought about it. “Well, I’ll be back in the States sweeping two months’ worth of dust out my house, convincing my cat to stop hating me, and looking for work so I can continue to eat and live indoors.”

“But you don’t have any concerts?”

“Sadly, no. Not until September when I bring down the house in Kansas City.”

Blaine reached for Kurt. “Stay with me.”

"I'm already here."

"No, stay with me in August.  At least for part of it."

“You want me to go with you on your concert tour?”

“No, not on the road.” He looked back at his phone. “I have the first two weeks of August free. Have you ever heard of Sirmione?”

“You’re asking a gay countertenor if he’s heard of the home of Maria Callas?”

“Oops. Sorry."

"I went for an afternoon five years ago.  I would love to go again."

"Look, I know someone who has a house there. Will you spend two weeks in Sirmione with me, just the two of us? We can have a real vacation and get to know each other better. Everything else…we can figure out later. Just say that you’ll go with me.”

Kurt hesitated, “I’m not sure…”

“Don’t say ‘no.'  Think about it."  He looked around the room,"Where’s your phone?”  

Kurt stood and went into the kitchen. He returned with his phone and handed it to Blaine. Blaine slid it to the on position and tapped on it for what seemed to Kurt like a really long time.

“Are you playing Angry Birds?”

Blaine looked up, puzzled. “What?”

“What are you doing with my phone?”

“Oh,” Blaine answered. “Here.” He held the phone out for Kurt to see.

“What is all of that?”

“It’s my email, my cell phone number, the number of my house in Malibu, the number of my apartment in New York, the number of my agent, and the number of my parents in Syracuse. I never want to take a chance of missing you ever again.”

Kurt looked into Blaine’s smiling face. “When do you have to leave?”

“In about an hour.”

“Then we better get right to it,” Kurt declared, launching himself full length onto Blaine's body.

Over the next several weeks, Kurt threw himself into his work, rehearsing relentlessly and working especially hard on his acting, which sometimes took a back seat to his singing. He thought about Blaine constantly no matter how hard he tried to distract himself. Most of those thoughts made him smile, but some set him to worriedly chewing on his lower lip until he tasted blood.

Nights were the worst. When he lay in bed at night, he was flooded with memories of Blaine. Blaine smiling and winking. Blaine warm and enticing. Blaine panting and moaning. His body yearned to be back in his arms.

At the same time, Kurt obsessed about what might happen if he agreed to Blaine’s request. They hardly knew each other, and two weeks was a long time to spend with someone with whom you’re not entirely compatible. The alternative--that they were very compatible--was almost worse.  Kurt would travel around the United States paying the rent by singing in one mid-sized town after another. Blaine would jet around the world playing concerts and doing television interviews and fending off the advances of one beautiful man after another. Or maybe he wouldn’t fend them off.

Kurt still wasn’t sure if he could entirely trust Blaine, and he wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted to.

The old worries were all still there, and every day Kurt invented new ones.

He had to admit to himself, though, that he liked being with Blaine. Blaine made him smile, he made his laugh. Blaine was sweet and caring. Kurt thought back to the time on the plane when Blaine reached out to him and gave him what he needed, even though he was a complete stranger. Shouldn’t you want to spend more time with someone like that?

Each time Kurt decided to forego the trip and simply go home, he got a message from Blaine. Few of the messages actually contained words, but those that did were simple observations (Saw the cutest squirrel at the gelateria!) or travel updates (Finally in Perugia); most were photos--photos of shoes.  

At first Kurt thought that maybe Blaine was sending pictures of his own feet, but he soon realized that Blaine was frequenting sidewalk cafés and stalking well-dressed men with his iPhone like a stealth paparrazzo. He sent pictures of A. Testoni blue fringed oxfords, Bruno Magli platinum wingtips, and Silvano Lattanzi lizard loafers. One particularly surprising and somewhat blurry photo appeared to be the Pope’s red Prada slippers.  When Blaine changed hotels as he traveled from city to city, he also sent photos of the bidet, which made Kurt giggle.  

Not once did Blaine press Kurt to make a decision about Sirmione, but when Blaine sent Kurt the photo of the handmade black and red Stefano Bemer dress oxfords with the message, “These had to be made for you,” Kurt decided he would have to be crazy to pass up any time he could spend with someone who understood him so perfectly.

He was going to Sirmione. He and Blaine could wander the cobblestone streets in the small medieval peninsula, smell the rosemary, and stare out at Lake Garda.

But when he picked up his phone to tell Blaine, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. He would tell him later.

The bed was massive and white and there were so many pillows that Kurt could barely see beyond them. Blaine laid a hand on Kurt’s face to stroke it, and Kurt wanted to reach out for Blaine, but he couldn’t move his hands. They were both naked, and Blaine’s eyes were intent on Kurt’s as he ran his hand down Kurt’s ribs to his hips. Strong arms circled Kurt from behind and a hand began to stroke Kurt’s cock. Kurt realized he wasn’t alone with Blaine in the bed; there were too many hands. “Come with me,” whispered Adam, stroking and stroking in that familiar way. Blaine reached down for Kurt’s balls and he squeezed gently, but Kurt felt it in his heart, not lower. Blaine’s lips captured Kurt’s, and Kurt found himself drowning in the kiss as Adam pressed against his back and kept whispering, “Come with me.” Kurt was right on the precipice, but he couldn’t come because there was too much noise and it was too wet. Blaine shifted away from Kurt’s mouth, and his eyes were white and his lips were smeared with blood. He fell away from Kurt, and Kurt saw that there was blood everywhere, staining the white sheets and puddling under Blaine’s body. He wanted to scream and reach out for Blaine, but he couldn’t move. Adam kept stroking relentlessly, chanting, “Come with me, come with me,” but it was too painful, and there was too much sound, and Kurt knew that he couldn’t. Then he realized the noise was his own maniacal laughter.

Kurt sat up sweating, his heart pounding. He pulled a pillow to his chest and waited for his breathing to calm. He looked at the bedside clock. It was just after eleven.

He threw off the covers and padded into the shower to wash the fear sweat from his body. By the time he was toweled dry, he was wide awake and still disturbed. He threw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, not caring much how he looked, then he grabbed his keys and wallet and walked out of the apartment.

He wandered the dark streets of Verona, not caring where he was going, at first, but as he approached the edge of the commercial district, he suddenly knew his goal. He turned down one street and then another until he saw the light spilling onto the slate sidewalk from a small wine bar.

As he entered the bar a swarthy twenty-something barista looked up and smiled. “Buona sera, Signor Hummel!”

“Buona sera,” Kurt mumbled, gesturing to the small, upright piano sitting in the corner.

The barista nodded happily, reaching over to switch off the stereo.

Kurt walked to the piano and sat down. He had taken up piano playing in college. It was required, actually, but Kurt was happy and surprised that he had a knack for it. He had come to this wine bar many times, and he had developed a rapport with the barista and his partner, the owner, who were young and beautiful and absolutely enthralled with opera. When they discovered that Kurt was a countertenor, they pestered him relentlessly to sing until Kurt finally agreed to sit at the piano and belt out an aria or two. After a while, it became a regular routine for Kurt to come to the bar and sing and play, and the baristas repaid Kurt by pouring him all the best wine and charging him house wine prices.

Kurt always sang classical pieces, sometimes opera, sometimes madrigals, but tonight there was something else he needed to play.

The barista looked up as he heard Kurt play the soulful introduction. Then Kurt sang, “A long December and there’s reason to believe; Maybe this year will be better than the last…” The song was mournful and slow and full of sorrow, and Kurt’s voice was filled with longing and loss. As he sang, “The smell of hospitals in winter; And the feeling that it’s all a lot of oysters, but no pearls,” tears began to course down his face. As he got to the end, his voice was cracking, and Adam’s face was swimming before his eyes.

“I can’t remember all the times I tried to tell myself; To hold on to these moments as they pass. And it’s one more day up in the canyon; And it’s one more night in Hollywood; It’s been so long since I’ve seen the ocean; I guess I should.”

When he finished, the barista sat a glass of Valpolicella on the piano and pulled Kurt into his arms. He whispered, “Mi dispiace,” into Kurt’s ear as he hugged him tightly. I’m sorry.

As Kurt left the bar, the final chorus repeated in his head, “It’s been so long since I’ve seen the ocean; I guess I should.”

Kurt realized that he needed to say goodbye to Adam. He would keep the memories; how could he not? But he needed to move on, and he owed it to himself to see what would happen with Blaine. As he walked home, his steps were lighter than they had been in a long time.

Days later, when Kurt returned home from his penultimate performance at the Arena, he was exhausted but triumphant. It had been his best performance, to date, and as the audience filed out of the ancient stone stadium, he caught sight of the eminent opera critic, Michael Tanner, among them.

Kurt had one last performance scheduled eight days from that night, and he planned to spend his time between rehearsals packing up his apartment, arranging for his house sitter in Atlanta to extend his stay, and finally letting Blaine know that he would meet him in Sirmione. He still hadn’t told Blaine, and he wasn’t sure what was holding him back now that the decision had been made. He knew his house sitter—a Georgia Tech graduate student—would happily stay in Kurt’s Decatur condo rather than return to the rundown apartment he shared with three Chinese engineering students, so he wasn’t worried that he had left these arrangements until the last minute.

Kurt still wasn’t entirely sure that two weeks with Blaine was a great idea, but he decided to throw caution to the wind and take a chance. Worst case scenario was that they ended up hating each other, and Rachel and Kurt could spend the rest of their days mocking Blaine bitchily every time his face appeared on television or in a magazine.

Tired, but too keyed up to sleep, Kurt flopped on his couch and turned on the television. After rejecting a re-televised soccer game, some bad porn, and a German talk show, he settled on BBC. He figured a nice, slow-newsday commentary served with a British accent was just the thing to send him straight to sleepy town. An incomprehensible story on the economy, complete with commentary from two World Bank analysts and someone from the G8 started his eyelids fluttering.

Then an announcement permeated his sleep-hazed brain and Kurt sat up straight in his seat.

“In Rome today, Postmodern Tourist front man, Blaine Anderson, was rushed to hospital after collapsing on stage at a concert in the Circolo degli Artisti. Hospital representatives have refused to comment, but a spokesman for the band told BBC-London that Anderson has yet to regain consciousness, and a serious illness is suspected.”

Kurt pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. He sat like that, rocking back and forth, until sunlight crept into the apartment.

Kurt dragged himself through the next day’s rehearsal in a daze.

Ghosts were everywhere.

In his head he saw Adam complaining about his back hurting, and Kurt rolling his eyes because a whole slew of doctors said there was nothing wrong with his back, and Kurt was ready for Adam to get over it already. He relived the moment he flew back from a performance in Salt Lake City to find Adam collapsed under a desk in their San Francisco home, conscious, but unable to stand. He recalled sitting in the emergency room and hearing doctors throw out phrases like, “severe anemia,” and “myeloma,” and “incurable,” while he felt like he was outside of his body, watching the scene from afar. He pictured Adam lying in their bed, face as white as the sheets, breathing so shallowly that Kurt had the urge to lean in to see if he was still alive. His body recalled the feel of Adam, so frail and shaking uncontrollably in his arms, afraid to hold him too tightly in case he might break. And he recalled the anguish of no long having him, of alternating between feeling nothing and feeling too much.

He couldn’t take it. Never again.

When he got back to his apartment he pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent a text to Blaine.

I can’t do this.

Then he stood in the shower and cried until the water ran cold.

The next day the newspapers announced that Blaine was out of the hospital. It was just a virus, and Blaine was right as rain after some IV fluids for dehydration. It didn’t change how Kurt felt. It was nothing now, but some day it would be something, and Kurt had no heart left to break.

He felt guilty for not checking on Blaine personally, but he didn’t have it in him to contact him. When Blaine sent texts to Kurt, Kurt deleted them without reading them. When Blaine resorted to calling, Kurt shut off his phone. When the landline phone in his apartment rang, he jerked it from the wall. He deleted all of Blaine’s contact information from his phone, and then he spent the rest of the day in a foul mood, snapping at shop clerks and scowling at everyone he encountered.

When his computer dinged, he expected it to be Blaine, but as he reached to shut off his laptop, he saw that it was his dad. He connected to Skype.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hey, there, kiddo. How’s Italy?”

“It’s fine, Dad. It’s nice to hear from you,” Kurt said in a soft voice.

“Don't tell me you're 'fine,' Kurt, when you don’t sound fine and you don’t look fine. Are they working you too hard there?”

“No, nothing like that.” Kurt looked at his dad through the screen. His dad always looked the same to him. Always steady, always there.

“Dad, can I ask you a question?”

“You can always ask me anything, Kurt; you know that.”

“After Mom died, why didn’t you date anyone? Why did you wait so long…”

“Oh, hey. Is that what this is about? Did you meet someone, because, Kurt, that’s great. You shouldn’t feel guilty about Adam. He’s been gone more than a year, and you need to move on with your life. Adam would want that.”

“No, Dad. It’s not like that. I mean, yes, I met someone, but I’m not feeling guilty.”

Burt paused to let that sink in.

“You’re feeling scared, is that it?”

“Yeah.”

Burt crossed his arms and took a deep breath. “Kurt, when your mom died, I felt like I died, too. You were the only reason I could drag myself through the days. I had to be strong for you. But I used you as a shield, too. I didn’t allow myself to look at other women—to think about other women—and I told everyone it was because of you—that I had too much on my plate being a single dad. But the truth, Kurt, is that I was scared. Losing your mother hurt so much, and I didn’t think I could ever face that kind of pain again.”

“So you waited to date Carol until after the fear went away?”

“The fear never went away. Kurt, it never goes away. Carol’s going to die, or I will. Maybe you will. Finn did, and that just about killed all of us. We don’t know what’s going to happen to us today or tomorrow, so we have to live our lives the best we can, and we have to take our joys where we find them.”

“I don’t think I’m strong enough,” Kurt said quietly, eyes downcast.  

“Hey!  You’re the strongest person I know, Kurt. You always have been. Sure, you’re scared, but you know what? Fear is just an emotion, it’s not an action.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“It means, Kurt, that if something is worth doing and it scares you, then you do it scared. You do it scared. You remember the first time you auditioned for NYADA? Weren’t you scared then?”

“I was terrified,” Kurt gave his dad a tremulous smile.

“Would anything have kept you from getting on that stage?”

“No.”

“You did it scared, Kurt. If this guy is worth it, then you have to go for it. Do it scared. You might just be surprised at how easy it is.”

“I’ll think about it, Dad.”

“OK, well, let me know how it goes. And Kurt?”

"Yeah?"

"He's a hell of a lucky guy."

The night of Kurt’s last performance he tried to focus completely on the show. The talk with his dad had unsettled him. His dad’s words sounded right, but he didn’t think he could do it. No, he knew that he couldn’t do it.

The audience was on their feet and Kurt and the other performers were taking their curtain calls amid a chorus of “Bravo!” and “Brava!” Roses rained down on the stage as the audience demonstrated their adulation in very opera-specific ways.

Kurt jolted when a large bouquet landed at his feet. He bent down to pick it up: white roses, lavender, and lilies of the valley. He buried his nose in its heady scent, then his eyes met Blaine’s over the blooms, bright and shining, two rows behind the orchestra.

A vice squeezed Kurt’s heart.

Panicking, he thrust the bouquet into the arms of his startled Poppea and bolted from the stage. Stripping as quickly as possible--much to the dismay of the scolding wardrobe mistress--he threw on his street clothes and ran from the Arena.

He heard feet pounding behind him in the street, then a hand wrapped around his upper arm and spun him around.

“Kurt, wait!”

“I can’t do this, Blaine. I said I couldn’t do this!”

“I know, Kurt. I know.” Blaine released Kurt’s arm and put up a hand. “Can’t we just talk?”

“We have nothing to talk about, Blaine. Nothing’s happened between us, not really. I need…we can’t…let’s just keep it that way.”

Blaine nodded. “OK,” he paused for a moment, catching his breath. “But I am going to Sirmione. I’ll be there all of August. Maybe I’ll see you there…if you change your mind?”  He smiled hopefully.  

Kurt bit his lip. “I won’t,” he whispered.

The next morning, Kurt stood on the train platform, waiting to board the local to Milan. His flight to the United States wasn’t for nearly twelve hours, but Kurt couldn’t stay in Verona. At least in Milan he could pace streets that weren’t full of memories and recriminations and demons. Dragging around his luggage would be a pain, but pain seemed like a welcome respite from fear and sadness and longing.

Besides, the train trip would take forever, since the train would stop at nearly every town, big or small, between Verona and Milan. Kurt could have taken the express train, but he wanted to leave now.

When the train pulled in, Kurt chose a second-class seat on the right side of the car and rested his forehead against the window. For the first time in his life, he was glad to leave Italy. He was relieved to be returning to Atlanta where there were no ghosts, just the drudgery of day-to-day life.

As the train rumbled away from the station, however, he found he had nothing to stop the onslaught of memories that assaulted him. Blaine taking his hand for the first time on the plane. Blaine stroking his face. Blaine laughing as Kurt sang “Single Ladies.” Blaine’s confession about his sexual limits. Blaine naked and warm in his bed.

He also heard voices. He heard Rachel saying, “You can burn your troubled bridges when you get to them.” He heard his dad saying, “You do it scared.” He heard Blaine saying “I just know that I don’t want more of what I’ve had.”

The loudspeaker cut through his reverie. “Desenzano. Desenzano,” the conductor announced as the train slowed to pull into the station of the small resort town. Kurt sat frozen for a moment. Then he stood, grabbed his luggage, and dashed out of the train car.

Kurt figured he must look like a mad man, running down the streets of Desenzano dragging a large suitcase and a travel bag, with his laptop case flapping at this side. He only vaguely knew where he was going. He had traveled this route once before, but it was five years ago, and he hoped that his subconscious would guide his feet. He rationalized that the water of Lake Garda was down the hill, so if he just keep running down, he would eventually see it.

He was right. As he emerged from between two buildings, the town piazza spread out before him, bordered on one side by brilliant, emerald water. Mountains rose around the edges of the glacier lake, and he could see Sirmione jutting out like a small gem in the distance.

Kurt’s eyes scanned the shoreline as he sought the ferry terminal. At last he spotted it and ran forward, suitcase wheels bump-bumping over the stone surface of the piazza. When he reached the front of the ferry queue, he purchased a ticket to Sirmione and was dismayed to discover that no boat was leaving for at least 45 minutes. He paced like a caged tiger, and he berated himself for the rash act that had prompted him not only to delete Blaine’s contact information, but also to clear his memory, so he couldn’t retrieve Blaine’s number from his sent or received files. He was such an idiot.

When the ferry finally arrived, Kurt was one of the first to board, and he tapped his fingers nervously on his thighs. The twenty minute ferry ride seemed interminable, and Kurt was completely unable to lose himself in the breathtaking beauty of the scenery that had so enthralled him on his last trip here. He didn’t even notice Maria Callas’ yellow mansion, winking down at him from its hilltop.

He worried that the waiting time might lead him to change his mind, but it was just the opposite. From the moment that he got off the train, all he wanted to do was see Blaine. That had not changed.  If anything, he was more determined.  How he was going to find him, he didn’t know, but he wasn’t above knocking on every door on the peninsula, if that’s what it took.

When the ferry finally landed, it was all Kurt could do to wait in line rather than push and shove his way to the front or—as briefly crossed his mind—jumping overboard.

However, once he got off the ferry, he was at a bit of a loss. He thought about Fate. She had been a bitch to him his whole life, starting with the death of his mother, then his step-brother, then his husband. Dammit, she owed him. This was not going to be Venice all over again.

He thought about how the town was laid out. Since it rested on a skinny peninsula, everything was just on a couple of roads. He would start with one, then the other, then the other, and he would trust to Fate—that harpy—to bring him his man.

If that didn’t work, he’d camp out by the ferry terminal until Blaine decided to leave, because there was only one way off the peninsula, and he planned to use that to his advantage.  Hopefully it wouldn't come to that.

Once he devised a plan, he felt calmer.  He started on the eastern shore, following the sidewalk along the water, inhaling the fragrance of lemons and rosemary. Cliffs rose up on his left, where beautiful villas perched precariously, but Kurt was scanning the people on his right who were enjoying Lake Garda’s only public beach, running in and out of the waves.

A voice called down from the cliffs, “My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.”

Kurt swiveled around and dragged his eyes up the bougainvillea-covered cliff until he spotted Blaine, smiling down at him from the veranda of a handsome pink villa.

“Blaine,” he breathed.

“I knew you would come,” Blaine shouted down.

“How did you know?” Kurt called up, laughing. “I didn’t even know until an hour ago.”

“Because,” Blaine smiled, “I’ve been looking for you forever.” 

Uno

It was close to midnight and although the bed was a dream—all baby soft sheets, fluffy comforters, and feather pillows—Kurt couldn’t sleep. The villa belonged to Tourist’s drummer, Wes, and although it was tastefully appointed in a classical Italian style, it also exuded comfort. Blaine and Kurt had explored every inch of it in the three days since Kurt had arrived, sharing meals and sipping wine on the terrace as they watched the water lap at the edge of the lake.

Unfortunately, that was all that they’d done.

Other than some hand holding and chaste kisses, Blaine hadn’t made even the smallest move on Kurt, and Kurt realized after about twelve hours of wondering what Blaine was waiting for that Blaine was waiting for Kurt. Unhappily, something about Kurt knowing that Blaine was waiting for Kurt to make a move made Kurt too nervous to make a move, so for three days Kurt had spent each night alone in bed knowing that just a few doors down was everything he had ever dreamed of, probably naked.

Well, in Kurt’s mind Blaine was naked. Even when Blaine was dressed and right in front of him, in Kurt’s mind, Blaine was naked.

It was maddening, and Kurt had only himself to blame.

His hand reached down to touch himself as it had the last two nights, and then he muttered, “This is stupid.” Throwing back the covers, he grabbed his silk robe from the end of the bed and quickly tied it around his waist. Then he threw open the bedroom door and flounced down the hallway.

When he got to Blaine’s door, he raised his hand to knock, but the door wasn’t shut completely, and it swung open, revealing a shirtless Blaine, sitting up in bed, Macbook on his lap, comforter pulled up to his waist. The skin on his chest looked burnished in the lamp light, and Kurt simply stood and gaped for a moment.

“Kurt?” asked Blaine, “Did you need something?”

Kurt walked over to Blaine and took the Macbook from his hands, “You won’t be needing this,” he declared, setting it on the nightstand.

“Wha…oh,” Blaine trailed off.

Kurt then stalked to the bottom of the bed and removed his robe, revealing a soft t-shirt and beautiful silk pajama bottoms underneath. Blaine stared wide-eyed at Kurt. With a swift motion, Kurt threw back Blaine’s comforter, grabbed hold of both of Blaine’s ankles, and in a surprising show of strength, dragged Blaine full length along the bed, until his legs were off the mattress from the knees down. Blaine squawked involuntarily.

Wasting no time, Kurt grabbed the waistband of Blaine’s boxers and tugged those down and off. Then he stood there, just taking Blaine in. He’d seen Blaine naked before, but it felt like he could never look at him enough. He was so well made. Kurt’s eyes roamed down Blaine’s body, and he saw that Blaine was already aroused. That was a good sign.

Groaning from want too long denied, Kurt dropped to his knees between Blaine’s legs and feasted his eyes on everything. “God, Blaine. Do you know how beautiful you look from this position?”

Blaine chuckled, “Um, no, Kurt. I’m not that…bendy.”

“You look amazing,” Kurt breathed, reaching out a hand to stroke along the silky skin on the inside of Blaine’s thigh. Blaine exhaled a long breath, and Kurt moved his hands slowly upward, then trailed a finger under Blaine’s balls and lightly stroked his perineum.

Blaine nearly came off the bed. “Jeez, Kurt, right to the…”

“Three days, Blaine. You’ve had three days of foreplay.”

“Good point. Shutting up now.” Blaine settled back down on the mattress.

Kurt took Blaine’s cock in his hand and licked up the underside, leaving his other hand to trail lightly below Blaine’s balls. “Shit,” Blaine uttered.

Then Kurt’s mouth was over Blaine’s cock, and he was swallowing him whole, stroking up and down Blaine’s length with his mouth, swirling his tongue around and around Blaine’s head. After that, Blaine quit talking and just made noises: wicked, dirty noises that had Kurt nearly come just from the sound.

He reveled in the silky feel of Blaine’s cock on his lips and tongue. The hand that wasn’t holding Blaine at his base kept moving, trailing over Blaine’s balls and down lower, then back up. Without warning, Blaine arched up and fell apart, pumping into Kurt’s mouth.

Kurt sucked and swallowed, taking everything as he continued to stroke, lick, and suck Blaine through his orgasm, slowing toward the end to adjust for the onset of hypersensitivity.

Blaine reached a hand down to grab Kurt’s shirt, and he dragged Kurt’s body up the length of his so that he could hold Kurt while his heart beat out of his chest. When he could talk, he panted, “That was amazing.”

They held each other for a while, not moving, simply feeling each other’s warmth and strength and softness. After a few minutes, Blaine opened his eyes, cleared his throat, and stroked Kurt’s face until Kurt opened his own eyes and looked at Blaine.

“Two things,” Blaine said. “First, I guess it’s too late to ask if you’re sure about this, so instead let me ask if you’re OK. Do you regret doing that?”

“Are you kidding me? Have you had you? I’d do it again in a second, except, well…you’re kind of old, so it might take you a few days, or maybe a week, to get it back up again.” Blaine playfully pinched the back of Kurt’s arm, and Kurt yelped.

“The second thing," Blaine intoned, as if giving a lecture, “The second thing is this: why am I completely naked and you’re still totally dressed?”

“Because you’re a shameless whore?”

“That’s it, Hummel!” Blaine rolled on top of Kurt and began tickling him mercilessly. Kurt screamed and writhed, giggling and swatting ineffectively at Blaine’s hands which were everywhere.

“Stop, stop,” he panted.

“’Stop’ is a lousy safe word,” Blaine grumbled from his position sitting on Kurt’s chest.

“Fine, how about “Canio”? Just stop tickling me.”

Blaine was now nosing along Kurt’s neck, licking and sucking and making Kurt gasp.

“Kurt?” Blaine murmured against Kurt’s neck. Then he grabbed a bit of skin and pulled with his teeth so that Kurt moaned. “Kurt?”

“Hmmm?”

“You’re still dressed.”

“Getting me naked, Blaine? Not my job.”

“Ah, I didn’t realize.” Blaine reached down and yanked Kurt’s shirt over his head. Then he kissed down the length of Kurt’s chest, stopping long enough to tease each nipple to erect peaks with his tongue. As he got lower, he hooked his fingers around the waistband of Kurt’s pajama bottoms, pulling out to ease the elastic over Kurt’s erection. Then he discarded the pants on the floor and settled on his knees between Kurt’s legs where he began licking and sucking on Kurt’s cock.

Kurt propped himself up on his elbows so he could see Blaine, who simply looked gorgeous going down on him. Blaine looked up at Kurt, slid his mouth off Kurt’s penis, and smiled,

“Do you have any idea how good you taste?”

“Uh, no, Blaine,” Kurt teased, “I’m not that…bendy.”

Due

Kurt and Blaine were entwined on Kurt’s bed, both dressed in pajama bottoms and t-shirts. It had been about a week since Kurt had stormed Blaine’s bedroom, and, since then, the two had spent a lot of time in bed, touching and kissing, but—most of all—talking. At first Kurt worried that they would run out of things to say, but now Kurt worried that a lifetime was not nearly enough time to hear all of Blaine’s stories and to tell him all of his.

“Kurt,” Blaine murmured against the sensitive skin behind Kurt’s ear.

“Hmmm?” Kurt asked, intent on feeling Blaine’s incredibly round and lickable ass through his pajama bottoms.

“Come inside me.”

Kurt’s hands stilled and he looked into Blaine’s eyes. “Are you sure, sweetheart? Because we don’t have to do that ever.”

Blaine nodded. “I want to.” His eyes were pools of melted honey. “I want to do this with you. I want to do everything with you. Will you? Please.”

Kurt kissed him tenderly. “Oh course,” he nodded, “but maybe you should be inside of me.”

“You don’t top?” Blaine sounded disappinted.

Kurt smiled gently, “Of course I do,” he stroked Blaine’s arm, “But why don’t we start easy, OK?”

Blaine looked only slightly consoled, but he nodded. "OK."

A little while later, Blaine had one lube-slicked finger in Kurt’s ass, and Kurt was grinding down on it and gasping, “More.” Blaine paused, and Kurt anticipated that Blaine would withdraw the finger so that he could insert two, but Blaine left his finger inside. Kurt felt movement and heard shuffling and the tell-tale click of the lube bottle. Seconds later, Blaine was inserting another finger from his other hand.

That was…different.

When Blaine started crooking the fingers in two different directions, simultaneously stroking Kurt’s prostate and other things that Kurt didn’t have a name for, he raised up and cried out, “Holy shit, Blaine!”

Blaine froze. “Oh, God, Kurt! Am I doing it wrong? Did I hurt you?”

Kurt flopped back down on the sheets. “No, no,” he said weakly, “It’s just…”

“I read that this was better than scissoring.”

Kurt covered his eyes with the back of his hand and moaned, “I can’t believe my virgin boyfriend is better at sex than I am.”

When he go no response, Kurt raised his head to look at Blaine.  

“Your boyfriend?” Blaine asked, wide-eyed.

“You have both hands in my ass, Blaine. You’re not the cabana boy.” Then Kurt saw the serious look on Blaine’s face and became sober himself. He reached down to stroke Blaine’s face. “Of course you’re my boyfriend, Blaine. If you’ll have me.”

“I’ll have you,” nodded Blaine, tears in his eyes.

Sometime later, Blaine froze again. He was shaking and sweating, his cock completely sheathed inside Kurt.

“Blaine,” Kurt instructed gently. “You can move, honey, you’re not hurting me.”

Blaine just shook his head slightly. He appeared to be gritting his teeth.

“Sweetheart, are you OK? Do you want me to move, instead?”

“Shit, Kurt, no!” Blaine cried out, but it was too late. Kurt had already started shifting his hips to move up and down Blaine’s length. Two pumps was all it took, and Kurt was a little startled to see Blaine come undone, his body writhing from orgasm. It was so beautiful that Kurt had to remind himself to keep moving, to stroke Blaine through it.

When Blaine finished gasping a blush crept up from his chest and traveled to the roots of his hair. He buried his face in his hands. “Oh, wow. I am so sorry. I’m not usually like that, I promise.”

Kurt reached for Blaine, who pulled out, pulled off the condom and tied it, and threw it somewhere in the direction of the wastepaper basket. He settled in the crook of Kurt’s arms. “God, I’m so embarrassed.”

Kurt chuckled, “My new boyfriend is a sixteen-year-old.”

Blaine wrapped his arms around Kurt and kissed along his jawline. “Do you know what’s great about having a sixteen-year-old boyfriend?” Blaine asked.

“The alluring smell of acne cream and Axe body spray?”

“Yes, that,” Blaine agreed, moving his head down to nibble along Kurt’s chest, “But also, a quick recovery time.”

“You’re not ser….oh.” And then Kurt smiled very widely indeed.

Tre

“Give it to me,” Blaine groaned, “Please.”

Kurt had three fingers buried in Blaine after a marathon session of preparation. Satisfied, he pulled his fingers out slowly, and Blaine made an unhappy noise at the loss.

“Roll over for me, baby.”

“But I want to see you. I want to touch you,” Blaine protested.  

Kurt smiled as he wiped his hand on a nearby towel. (Kurt came prepared. He was Kurt.) “Baby, I want to make love to you in every position on every floor and piece of furniture in this villa, and, when we’re done, I want to do it in every villa on this peninsula. But this is your first time, so let’s take it easy, OK? Besides,” he joked, “You are going to make some really weird faces in a minute, and I’m not sure I want to see that.”

Blaine rolled over, but he didn’t look entirely happy about it.

Kurt pushed a couple of pillows and a towel under Blaine, until his ass was pointed to the ceiling enticingly.

“And this way,” Kurt teased, “I can do this.” He smacked Blaine’s ass playfully.

“Hey,” Blaine raised his head from the pillow and waggled his ass, “That’s something else we can do.”

“Baby steps, Blaine.”

Kurt put a little more lube on his finger tip and pushed it just inside Blaine. Then he rolled a condom along his length and generously coated his cock with more lube. Lining up with Blaine’s twitching hole, he pushed forward with his hips, very slowly, using every ounce of his control.

As he got his head past the first ring of muscles he stopped and began to smooth a hand down Blaine’s sweating back. “How does that feel?” he asked.

“Huge.”

Kurt smiled, because what man doesn’t want to hear that?

“Weird; kind of sting-y,” Blaine continued, voice muffled by the pillow.  

“OK,” Kurt encouraged, “When you’re ready, you move back against me. I’m just going to stay still here. Do it at your own pace, OK?”

A second later, Kurt realized his misstep. Blaine pushed back hard, and then he pulled forward, and then he was off the bed.

“Shit that hurts!” he exclaimed at the same time that Kurt yelled, “Are you crazy?!”

Kurt had completely failed to account for Blaine’s…enthusiasm.

Blaine was hopping around the bedroom, shaking one hand at the wrist and rubbing his ass with the other. Kurt stepped off the bed and snagged him by the waist, pulling Blaine full-length and naked up against him, “I’m so sorry, darling. I shouldn’t have let you take control. We don’t have to do this; it’s OK.”

Blaine looked up into Kurt’s eyes. “No, I’m OK. I want to do this.”

“We really don’t have to.”

Blaine put a finger over Kurt’s lips. “Do you have any idea how much I want you to have this part of me? Do you know what it means to me?”

Kurt nodded.

Blaine flopped back on the bed and resumed his position. “Now get cracking, mister.”

Kurt snickered.

This time Kurt took control. He stroked Blaine’s cock (and his own) until it was fully erect, added still more lube, and held Blaine firmly by one hip while he guided himself back into Blaine with the other hand. Blaine hissed as Kurt reentered, but, once again, Kurt stopped just inside his entrance until he felt Blaine relax. Then he pulled out slightly and pushed in a little further.

“Are you doing OK?”

“Keep going,” Blaine panted. Kurt pulled out and pushed back in, again and again, gaining a little more entrance each time. Blaine was unbelievably tight, and it took every ounce of Kurt’s control not to reenact Blaine’s performance of his first time in Kurt. Eventually he was all the way in, and he stopped for a moment to lean down and kiss the back of Blaine’s neck.

Blaine shivered and whispered, “Please.  I need you to move.”

Kurt started moving in and out with a steady rhythm, and soon, Blaine started pushing back to meet him, moaning and urging, “Harder.”

When Blaine shouted, “Harder, I’m begging you!” Kurt pulled out nearly full length and then plunged hard into Blaine, as Blaine shouted, “Yes!” Then Kurt began to pound Blaine in earnest, his hand finding Blaine’s balls as Blaine rutted into the rough towel.

Kurt didn’t think Blaine could be any tighter, but when Blaine’s body seized up from orgasm, he clenched down so hard on Kurt’s cock that Kurt let out a scream. Then he pumped Blaine through it, watching the muscles ripple on Blaine’s back and his buttocks squeeze and release.

When Blaine was sated, Kurt pulled out, still hard, and flipped Blaine onto his back. He slid a pillow under Blaine, and wrapped his legs around his waist. Lining up again, he sunk full length into Blaine, and reached down to kiss him, as Blaine raised up to meet him half way. Blaine’s lips on his were all it took, and after a few hard strokes, Kurt was falling.  

Blaine kept kissing him as Kurt pumped and pumped until there was nothing left. Then Blaine smiled up into Kurt’s face. “I love you,” he said.

Kurt looked down at Blaine, so shining and perfect. “I love you, too.”

Quattro

The crowd erupted into applause as the last note from Kurt’s lips fell silent. Looking into the audience, he saw Rachel and Blaine jumping to their feet, their hands a blur from the clapping. The curtains closed, obscuring his view, and Kurt rose from his knees.

Afterward, Blaine and Rachel met Kurt in the dressing room. “I’m so happy you came,” Kurt declared, grabbing Rachel into a tight embrace.

“Are you kidding me?” Rachel chided, “Did you think wild horses could keep me from my best friend’s opening night at the Met?”

Blaine cleared his throat. “Actually, I’m his best friend.”

“Shut up,” Rachel scolded, smacking Blaine in the stomach playfully with the back of her hand. “You’re his husband. I’m his friend.”

Blaine chuckled. He leaned forward and kissed Kurt on the lips. “You were amazing, my darling,” he said, eyes shining brightly. “I can’t believe you’re mine.”

“Thank you. I feel the same way.”

Kurt couldn’t believe his life. A year after they met on the plane, Blaine anounced his retirement from the band. Kurt worried that Blaine would miss his life on stage, but after five years it was clear that Blaine had happily settled into a life as a house husband, following Kurt from town to town and generally being Kurt’s biggest fan. Blaine blithely—but accurately—said that he had already made enough money for three lifetimes, and he was happy to spend his days keeping Kurt in the manner to which Kurt was quickly becoming accustomed. Kurt loved the stage too much to quit, and his star kept rising and rising, which seemed to make Blaine even happier than Kurt.

There was a small knock, and then Burt and Carol came into the dressing room. Carol was resplendent in a red Dior gown (a surprise gift from Blaine), and Burt looked uncomfortable but happy in a Calvin Klein tuxedo. “That was a hell of a performance, kiddo,” Burt said.

He reached for Kurt to hug him, but Carol got there first. After happy hugs all around, Kurt stepped back and looked at all of them. They were the people he loved most in all the world, and he knew that somewhere, Adam was smiling down on him, too. He had experienced his share of pain, but he wouldn’t trade this love for anything.

Yep, it had been a pretty good life for Kurt Hummel.