Chapter Six

Yes.

Of course the answer is yes and Kurt is agreeing and saying tomorrow before he realises tomorrow is tomorrow. Blaine is then saying that his Friday night is miraculously free and he is saying seven and they’re both hanging up too quickly.

It’s approximately eighteen and a half hours of holding his breath, and Kurt doesn’t think about it because this is such a bad idea. He doesn’t think about it so hard that it’s after six pm the next day and he’s got pangs in his back from where he’s been leaning over the drafting table in his office for too many hours and pangs in his stomach because he hasn’t eaten since breakfast. When he looks in the mirror, he realizes he needs a haircut and a day at the spa and that there are red indents across the bridge of his nose from his glasses. But it’s after six so he pushes all of that to the side and then he’s scrambling.

He hasn’t even planned a proper outfit. What is wrong with him? He doesn’t have time for another shower, and as he tries to get his hair to sit as perfectly as it used to, he realizes he never got around to shaving this morning. Or yesterday. The still-in-vogue slightly-unkempt look it is then, he concedes, with a roll of his eyes. He gives up, rakes his fingers through his hair and then down over his faintly-rough chin. He pulls on his favourite worn-thin jeans and a dark blue Henley and wonders if Blaine will know him at all, wonders whether he will like him like this. Not that it’s important, he thinks, because this isn’t a date, it can’t be. It’s simply two people catching up to reminisce over the old days and home and their friends. 

This isn’t a date.

He takes flowers, though. He spends a ridiculous amount on a bunch of short-stemmed red and yellow roses because the florist on the corner has them sitting out front and that’s a sign, isn’t it? It must be.

This isn’t a date.

And then he has flowers and worn jeans and a dark blue Henley. Really, he should have grabbed a bottle of wine.

Before his brain has time to catch up, is knocking on the door of the fifth floor apartment, ten minutes early, and Blaine is opening it with damp, curly hair, a tea-towel over his shoulder and glasses. 

“When did you get glasses?”

“God, I remember those.,” Blaine says at the same time, reaching for the flowers and letting his fingers brush over the petals of one of the roses. Kurt smiles and opens his mouth to babble and blush andr12;

This is so a date.

“I’m going to London on Wednesday.” Kurt blurts it out and that’s not the plan.

What is he doing? What is he thinking? This is not a good plan. God, what is he doing?

Blainer12;beautiful, stunning, bare-footr12;looks bemused for a brief second, his brow creasing and then he sighs because he’d known this had seemed too straightforward. The same grin he used to save especially for Kurt slides easily across his lips and he steps back, tilting his head to usher Kurt through the door. When Kurt has his back to him, he asks, “London, England?” prompting for more.

“I can’t turn it down.“ He tries to remember what Blaine knows and what Blaine doesn’t. “The London store still needs a lot of work and I was planning another quick trip over anyway. But that’s not… New gen Vivienne Westwood wants me to work with them on a bunch of things. Fashion lines and shows and it’s not just some shitty job. It’s a collaboration. I still don’t know how I got it but it’s an insane opportunity.” He pauses. “I found out on Wednesday.”

Blaine’s eyes are wide and he hasn’t quite managed to pull himself back together. His thoughts shift back and forth between this beautiful man standing on his doorstep with a bunch of roses and a gorgeous smile to that same man leaving, again. Blaine hadn’t even realized this was a date. But it is, except for the bit where Kurt is leaving right after. “How long?”

He watches Kurt bite his bottom lip and his fingers itch to press against the soft redness there. His mouth goes dry when next, he realizes he wants his teeth there instead of Kurt’s.

“It’s a six month contract.”

They’re standing in the hallway of Blaine’s small apartment and the front door is still open. Blaine notices and pushes it closed slowly. “Six months?”

Kurt lets out a breath. “I’m hoping it’ll be more like a year. We could have a line out for Milan next spring.”

Blaine pauses and he feels hurt to have manifested hope and then feel it slipping away. “You probably didn’t need to blurt it out like that.”

“I justr12;“

Blaine waves it off and Kurt thinks for a moment that there are tears gathering in Blaine’s eyes. And it hurts, god it hurts, because Kurt didn’t think further than the moment and he refused to acknowledge that this could ever be anything more than emails and texts and maybe Blaine has been on another page the whole time.

Then Kurt remembers he brought Blaine roses and feels his stomach knot.

“It’s fine. We’re having dinner,” Blaine says and then he blinks once, slowly.

Kurt can hear Blaine’s breathing. He can hear every catch and shortening and the moment he stops, holds, and then breathes once deeply and smiles. “Anyway, congratulations,” he says and he means it. “You should have told me we were celebrating. I would have bought champagne!”

Kurt laughs and Blaine moves in and presses his mouth to Kurt’s cheek and it feels electric. Soft lips across scratching stubble and Blaine guesses that answers that question. He thinks he feels Kurt’s eyelashes flutter and then he pulls back. It’s over far too soon.

Following Blaine down the hall and into the open-plan living space, Kurt takes in where Blaine lives, the art on the walls, the throw pillows on the couch, the bookcases and lamps, and the delicate, subtly masculine touches to it all. It reminds him a little of Blaine’s room back in Ohio.

“It smells delicious,” Kurt says as he turns towards the kitchen where Blaine’s busying himself over the stove.

“Any excuse to cook,” Blaine says, reaching for a cupboard and thinking perhaps Kurt is watching the lines of his stretched out body. His emotions are a mess and his thoughts are worse, but when he peeks in the oven and the full force of the aromas hit him he thinks tonight will be fine.

Kurt has slipped onto one of the stools across the kitchen counter and is watching him, waiting for him to turn back before he fixes him with a stare and he is so judging him. “Cooking? Really?”

Blaine flushes and remembers suddenly the half dozen disasters at home-cooked date-night meals he’d delivered when he was seventeen. “I’ve learned how, believe it or not.”

“It smells like it.” Kurt licks his lips and nods when Blaine offers him wine. “When did you learn?”

They slip easily into conversation. They’ve had so much practice via email and they’ve always been able to talk about anything and everything, their interests and passions running close enough together for there to be lots of crossover but far enough apart for there to be intrigue. At least that seems not to have changed very much.

Except now they can see each other and there are obvious questions. Blaine got his glasses almost as soon as he got to Stanford, too many hours of reading giving him headaches and a quick prescription. Kurt doesn’t think to mention his since he only started needing them last year and only when he sketches. Kurt comments on Blaine’s hair and Blaine laughs and says Kurt was early and that usually it would be dry.

“I meant the curls,” Kurt says and resists the urge to reach across the table and tug on one just to watch it bounce back into place.

“Boyfriendr12;well not a boyfriendr12;a friend at law school hated the gel. And he didn’t hide it. Actually, he made me wash it out on more than one occasion until I worked out how to tame it andr12;“ 

Kurt interrupts him. “I like the curls.”

Blaine blushes and shrugs and mentally thanks Patrick for one more thing. “What about you? How has your skin not aged a day in ten years?”

It’s blatantly flirtatious and Kurt laughs and sips his wine and then rubs a hand over his chin. “Lots of hard work, I assure you,” he admits, but Blaine just raises his eyebrows a little and looks him up and down, still incredulous. “And yes, I kind of forgot to shave.”

Blaine laughs and shakes his head. “I didn’t mean I minded. I just never would have guessed you tor12;“

“Dress down?” Kurt shifts slightly, settled in his body. “I probably would have dressed up a little, I’ll admit. And these pants are still tailoredr12;“

“I can tell.” Wow Blaine, smooth.

“I have to dress up so much for work now that when I’m not working, the me you’ll encounter has kind of become the dressed down version of myself. If that makes any sort of sense. And time got away from me today, I was at home sketching, and this was all I had.” He’s watching Blaine with sharp eyes. “Sorry if it wasn’t the Kurt you were expecting.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all though and Blaine’s smile just grows wider.

“You look good,” Blaine says simply, and then diverts the conversation elsewhere.

~~*~~

Swallowing the last mouthful of wine from his glass and laughing at Kurt’s story, Blaine turns and checks the duck once more and then rubs his hands together, turning back to Kurt. “Ready for first course?”

Kurt grins. “There are courses?”

“Nothing special.” Blaine still has that air of self-deprecation about him, the flush to his cheeks, the small smile, and the dipped gaze. He looks ten years younger in spite of his curly hair and glasses and the way his face creases just a little differently when he smiles. 

First course is simple pork rice paper rolls, tightly wrapped and sitting on two plates in the fridge, ready to go. They sit across from each other at Blaine’s small dining room table and there’s more wine and no cutlery. “Fingers?” Kurt asks, strangely pleased with the idea. Blaine nods, watching as Kurt dips a rice paper roll into the bowl of homemade sauce and takes a bite, very aware of Blaine’s eyes on him, waiting for a reaction.

He moans around the mouthful because it really is good and Blaine deserves to know it, and once he’s swallowed, he starts to pick apart the rolled up mix of ingredients and dips his little finger in the sauce to taste again. “All from scratch?” he asks as he dips again.

Blaine nods. “It’s easier than you would think,” he says, and then takes a mouthful of his own.

The conversation flows again and Kurt has to stop himself from licking clean the little bowl of peanut sauce once he’s finished.

Blaine tops up his wine and then tells him to stay where he is as he clears the plates and crosses to the kitchen.

As he moves, Kurt watches him, the talk lulling for the first time since they settled and Kurt wonders. Then he smells and starts to salivate and tries to see across the room and into the kitchen. It’s duck and ginger and pepper, and the aroma of it alone is amazing.

He says so and Blaine chuckles and when he comes back his glasses are perched on his head, in amongst the curls, and the tea towel is over his arm. He slides the plate in front of Kurt with a mumbled, “Voila.” 

It is good. It’s so good it makes them stop talking altogether once Kurt has made sure Blaine knows it’s good. Rich and intoxicating and the second bottle of wine is a heavier, drier white that melds well with the lemon and ginger of the duck and steamed vegetables.

Their eyes flicker up at each other, smiles exchanged, soft music in the background, and Kurt’s not quite sure when it started. He hates to be getting full, sated, slowing down and picking the meat from the bones with his fork.

Blaine’s fork clinks as he leaves it across his plate. When Kurt looks up, Blaine holds his gaze and asks, “Why did you say yes to dinner if you knew you were leaving?”

Kurt swallows and his gaze drops and he doesn’t have a real answer. “I didn’t really realize it was a date.”

Watching him, Blaine’s brow creases and then he relaxes. “We never said it was a date.”

“It feels like one,” Kurt admits.

“It does.” Except dates lead to relationships and sex and love and happily ever after. “You brought me flowers and then you told me you were going to London.”

“I know,” Kurt admits, his voice small and careful, and it makes Blaine’s heart ache. They flick back into normal conversation too easily, sipping their wine and watching each other and feeling far too happy about nothing in particular.