4. SHOWTIME

Whenever Kurt and I dream and talk about our future careers, one thing is always certain: it won’t be easy. It takes years – many years, often – to get a chance, get discovered, appreciated, not to mention known in your field. Both fashion and music are highly competitive, cutthroat industries, but we’re both persistent and determined. We know we can do it – no matter how long it takes – but we have to be realistic. So the plan is simple: Kurt’s career goes first – finishing school, getting wherever he can with the internship, then trying to get his designs noticed. Maybe by thirty, he’ll be able to earn a living at some fashion house, on his way to making his name known in the business. And even if he doesn’t, yet, and he’s still interning or stuck being some kind of assistant, I’ll have the money from my trust fund then, so I’ll be able to leave banking behind and focus on my music.

The plan seems perfect.

Except it doesn’t happen that way at all. And it’s not a bad thing – not at all; it just takes us both by surprise.

The fashion world embraces and appreciates Kurt at lightning speed. It doesn’t happen, not in real life, it should be impossible – and yet here he is: young, fresh out of his last year of college after the break, and just where he was supposed to be all along. If I hadn’t seen it myself, I’d never believe he’s the same man who sat in my kitchen, lost and shattered, less than three years ago – there’s no sign of that hopelessness in him now.

It’s September, almost a year after our engagement, and I’ve just gotten home from the bank. I’m tired and hungry, but one look at Kurt tells me that removing my shoes can wait. He stands before me, barely containing his excitement, ready to explode with some news, so I just put down my bag, ready to listen.

“Okay. Spill before you burst with it.”

“Remember the club outfits I was playing with last month?” He actually bounces a little, clearly unable to stop himself.

I remember the designs – they were unique, a missing link between urban chic and club glamour. Kurt got the idea when he saw a group of girls changing from their business suits into more fun outfits in the coat room of the club we went to one night.

The clothes Kurt sketched looked toned down and classy – until you opened a few hidden buttons or zippers, or removed the outer layer; then they became glamour and classy, with splashes of color and teasingly located slits, lace and nets.

“I remember. I thought they were for fun.”

“They were, but Meg saw them, and now they want me to make a whole line of it. A line, Blaine. With my name on it, to be included in the January show. And if it succeeds, I’ll be promoted to a regular designer, with collections of my own!”

I squeal. Literally. Well, it’s not every day that one’s fiancé gets his big break, right? I hug him and laugh, so happy for him that I forget about my exhaustion and the bad day immediately. We go out for dinner that night, to that overpriced but excellent French restaurant that we’ve been promising ourselves to visit once we had a good occasion to celebrate. The food is delicious, the wine tastes like heaven and we spend the evening dreaming aloud, hopeful and happy, and return home to lose ourselves in each other for hours.

The three months before the show pass in a flurry of activity, with Kurt in constant inspiration mode, always planning, drawing, coming up with corrections and new ideas. I can see how happy it makes him – he’s literally sparking with it, glowing from the inside, and it makes me feel such a wave of affection every time I see it that he has no problem convincing me to be one of his models for the show.

Now, as I sit in front of a mirror with a make-up girl carefully tracing my eyes with black kohl, I can’t help wondering what I was thinking. I’ve never been up on a runway in my life, and the rest of the guys and girls are professional models. What if I trip and fall in front of the hundreds of people out there? What if I look like a fool and make Kurt ashamed of me? Hardly anyone knows I’m his fiancé, just the people from his company, but that’s more than bad enough. My nerves grow until the make-up girl tells me to stop fidgeting or I’ll have glitter all over my face.

Kurt appears a moment later, black high-waist pants laced at the back and a white short-sleeved shirt accentuating his chest and shoulders in a mouth-watering way, a smudge of pale blue glitter across his kohl-painted eyes striking against his perfect skin, and suddenly I’m calmer. I remember now. I’m doing this for him; because it was important to Kurt to have me here rather than on the other side, among the audience.

The girl pronounces me ready and reminds me not to touch my face before she moves on to the last model, and I slip off the stool. Kurt takes in my appearance and nods appreciatively.

“Perfect. You look amazing. Can I take you somewhere private and ravish you now? Maybe it would calm my nerves.”

I take his hand, ice cold like it always is when he’s stressed, and squeeze it reassuringly. “You’re nervous?”

“I’m terrified. What if the line is bad? What if nobody likes it? What if – “

“Hey, no. Remember what Meg told you? The line is sensational, and all your designs for the company so far were bestsellers. It’s going to be a huge success, I’m sure of it.”

He breathes deep and manages a weak smile before someone runs in to herd me with the rest of the models. It’s show time.

The show goes well. I don’t trip or lose my place, I manage to strut confidently like Kurt taught me, and my sultry look must be on, judging by the reactions of most of the females in the first rows – well, unless they’re all lesbians and salivating over the girl out there with me. I go through the three outfits I’m presenting – Kurt kept me in black and red, the glitter smudged across my eyes and the tiny details in the outfits golden – and then it’s over. The last two couples of models prepare to go out there, one in black combined with aqua, the other – blue with silver, and I go to the back room, looking for Kurt.

He’s waiting for me by the make-up table, looking horrified – and not the stage fright horrified, either. He grabs my hand as soon as I come in, and I notice that he’s shaking.

“Blaine, oh god, he’s here. Marcus is here. I can’t go out there, I can’t – “

Marcus? All my long-harbored anger at that bastard is suddenly back with a vengeance. No fucking way! He stole four years of Kurt’s life and now he’s trying to ruin his first show for him? Over my dead body. Kurt’s supposed to go out there in a few minutes, to be introduced to the crowd as the company’s new designer, and he’s a mess. I put my hands on Kurt’s shoulders, grounding him, look him in the eyes with all the love I feel.

“Hey, hey, listen to me. Marcus is no one, he means nothing. He has no power over you. You’re strong and amazing, and it’s your big night, and you’re already a better designer than he’ll ever be. And I love you, Kurt. I love you, and we’re together, and we’re going to be married in four months. Marcus doesn’t mean anything. You’re free of him.”

I can feel him relaxing, his breathing slowing down as he raises his head high.

“You’re right. Will you go out there with me?”

“What?” My eyes must be like saucers, or at least they feel that way, but there’s no time to protest as the announcer’s voice flows from outside the curtain.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please give your warm welcome to our newest and youngest designer, and creator of this fantastic line, Kurt Hummel.”

There’s a thundering applause from the crowd and Kurt’s pulling me by the hand, and the next thing I know I’m back on the runway, walking hand in hand with Kurt, who’s smiling triumphantly. I stay a bit behind him as we both bow at the end of the runway, leaving him standing tall and proud in the spotlight, and when I straighten, I see him – Marcus, right there in the second row. He looks a bit worse for wear, but mostly the same, and I can clearly see the moment he recognizes me – he frowns, mouth opening in surprise. And then it doesn’t really matter, because Kurt is turning and looking at me with love-filled eyes and whispering Thank you, and a minute later we’re back behind the curtains and he’s falling into my arms, ecstatic.

“They liked it! They did, right?”

“They loved it, Kurt. I told you they would, I knew it! So, are you ready to embrace your well-deserved spot among great designers?”

He grins. “I was born ready.”

By the time I change into my own clothes and we both wash off the make-up, it’s time for the after-show banquet. It’s crowded but classy, and everyone’s eager to meet the new talent of the company and congratulate him. I stick to Kurt’s side, happy to remain in his shadow, proud and beaming at all the praise he deserves so much. It’s almost midnight by the time we can finally sit down by ourselves. Not for long, though.

A voice from the past that I’d prefer never to hear again sounds over my head and the next instant Marcus sits down between us, not asking for permission. Seriously, who invited this guy here? Since he moved to try his luck in Paris, he’s basically been forgotten in the fashion world – I know, I’ve been keeping tabs on him.

He ignores me completely, directing his full attention – and his wide, toothy smile – at Kurt.

“Well well well, congratulations, my pretty thing.” His words are slightly slurred, betraying the amount of alcohol he must have consumed by now. “I’ve always known you’d go places. Now that I’m back, I could take you under my wing again, you know – I’m sure I could make a star out of you.”

There’s so much wrong with what Marcus is saying and the way he’s saying it that I tense on the spot. But I bite my tongue to stay silent – it’s Kurt’s moment, his confrontation, and he needs to do it by himself, for himself. Unless I see a sign that he needs help, I’ll leave the talking to him.

In the end, Kurt doesn’t even do much talking – his bitch face and the patented Kurt Hummel Death Glare are almost enough, even if Marcus is way too drunk to appreciate subtleties right now..

“No, thank you, I’m not interested.”

Marcus just smiles wider, which shouldn’t be possible without his face splitting in two.

“Oh come on, princess, don’t play hard to get. Are you still mad about my moving to Paris? I’m sorry, I was wrong to leave you. I’ve missed you all this time. Come on – let me take you to dinner.”

Seriously, how can anyone can be as stupid – or naïve – as Marcus? Kurt rolls his eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t rattle.

“I’m not interested in anything to do with you. And I’m neither single nor in desperate need of a job, but even if I were either of those things, you’d be my last choice.”

Marcus deigns to give me a cool look for the first time since he sat down. He arches his carefully waxed eyebrow at Kurt.

“So, I see you settled for your back-up boy, after all?”

I have to grind my teeth and clench my fists under the table to stop myself from reacting, but Kurt’s icy tone is more than enough.

“Careful, that’s my fiancé you’re talking about. Which you really shouldn’t do. I believe it’s time for you to leave, or at least get the fuck away from me, since I want nothing to do with you, ever again.”

Kurt’s eyes are flashing angrily. He’s flushed and holding himself royally straight, and even Marcus in his drunken blindness can’t help but notice the unshaken authority in his voice. He gets to his feet, swaying only lightly.

“Fine, fine. Whatever. If you think that this boy can ever satisfy you – “

And Kurt bursts out laughing. His bright, melodious laughter raises over the mutter of the crowd like music, as if he’d just heard the best joke in a long time. He’s still laughing when Marcus shrugs, confused, and makes his way back to the bar. Tears are streaming down Kurt’s cheeks and he can’t stop until he’s exhausted, gasping and clutching at his stomach, slightly hysterical.

Half an hour later I notice Marcus making his way to the exit, considerably more unsteady on his feet. Kurt is engrossed in a conversation with Meg and no matter how I try, I can’t stop myself. To be honest, I don’t try that hard, either. I excuse myself and follow Marcus outside, closing the door behind me. The street is dark and empty, and it’s cold, but I don’t care, anger heating up the blood in my veins. I call out after Marcus and he turns, only to give me an ugly smirk.

It’s quickly wiped from his face as I punch him square in the jaw with all the pent-up hatred I’ve been harboring all those years. My hand hurts like a bitch, but the satisfaction of seeing him on his ass in a puddle of slush works like a wonderful painkiller. I turn around and calmly return to the banquet.

Kurt is disappointed in me. Really, very disappointed. I know this because he tells me, in a very strict voice, and repeats it several times over the next month while my hand is healing.

It’s a good thing, too – that he tells me. Because I’d never know otherwise, with the way he dotes on me, providing food and drinks, making sure I don’t use my right hand for anything that could delay the healing of the cracked bones. And I mean – anything, since I’m right-handed.

“Blaine, for god’s sake, you’re a musician, I can’t let you ruin your hand just because you’re horny, can I? Come on, let me help you out.”

He must love me, I think.