Every year on his birthday, he would sneak out of his bedroom and open the northward window to gaze out on the yearly spectacle. Unlike every other night, where the stars were tiny, unmoving, and almost invisible twinkles in the inky sky, the stars on his birthday were big and bright navy and cardinal spheres glowing and ascending into his vision. He would stand on his tiptoes and reach past the windowsill to grab at the stars, each year hoping to catch one as a keepsake, a birthday present to himself.

But the stars never came far enough to reach him. And as the magic of the red and blue blinking sky faded and his birthday fell into another ordinary day, Blaine wished that for the next birthday, he would be able to leave and see the stars close up instead of so far away.

As he grew older, he began cursing the fact that he was trapped in a tower.

For most of his life Blaine didn’t mind living in the tower alone with only his father as a connection to the outside world. He warned Blaine of the dangers of the world outside the tower – poverty, disease, and even murder – and forbid him from ever leaving, keeping the key to the only door that led down from the tower hidden from him.

“But I don’t see why I can’t just stay right in front of the tower,” Blaine pouted before bed one night. His father pulled the sheets up to his tiny chin and swept back the curls from his face.

“The world is cruel place,” he insisted. “If they discover your gift, they’ll try to take it away from you.” The thought made Blaine shudder underneath the covers.

“But I won’t let anything like that happen to you if you stay here,” his father grinned, the lines around his mouth and eyes folding with age. “Now will you sing to your father one last time before you sleep?”

Blaine nodded enthusiastically and sat up, closing his eyes. His mouth opened and a small melody spilled out. It was wordless, a cascading run of “ahs” in a small treble that sounded like sunlight and honey. A faint ambiance seemed to radiate from Blaine as he sang, and as the music washed over his father, the wrinkles in his face began to smooth and the gray hairs changed to brown. His father let out a contented sigh, feeling instantly rejuvenated and fifty years younger. When he was done singing, Blaine beamed up at him with golden eyes and a delighted smile, proud of his magical gift and the happiness it brought his father, who returned his smile and ushered him back into sleep.

As a child, Blaine could understand his need for protection from the outside. His father would come home every night (from where, Blaine didn’t know) and would tell him of the people he encountered. He heard stories of old women with bony fingers, always clutching for his father’s money and of men seven feet tall with hair that covered their entire bodies. He told Blaine that everyone would want his gift in one way or another, and that once they found him, they would stop at nothing to take his voice from him. Too many nights he had found himself cowering in his father’s stiff arms, the slight comfort they provided shielding him from nightmares.

The stories and the nightmares grew far between over the years and were replaced with books that his father brought back from the outside world. Unlike his father’s stories, which Blaine preferred not to hear, he devoured each new book he received. He was fascinated by all genres – cookbooks, adventure books, nature guides, and romances. But by nearly eighteen years old, Blaine had reread every book within the tower four times or more, and as much as he tried to suppress his curiosity and make his father happy, he couldn’t help but wonder what else was out there. How could a world that was so awful write such magnificent things?

It was the eve of his eighteenth birthday and Blaine sat with his legs slung over the window overlooking the small valley of the tower. He glanced outward over the green surrounding him, but couldn’t see past the slate cliffs and trees that enclosed him on all four sides. He felt the hints of summer radiating from the sun above and wondered how warm the grass would be at the base of the tower as the season changed. Blaine wished he knew what the grass felt like at all. He had once asked his father who hastily replied, “It’s just a plant, Blaine.”

Blaine plucked at the strings on the guitar in his lap aimlessly, lost in the ramblings of his own mind. Since tomorrow was his birthday, he had to build up the courage to ask his father about going to see the lights (after reading about astronomy and discovering that they couldn’t be stars) sometime today. The anxiety made him twang out a note, and he sighed against the stone wall. There wasn’t much else he could do around the tower other than read, play music, or sing, and there was very little to keep him distracted from his thoughts. He whistled into the air three notes, the middle higher than the other two, and almost immediately a small yellow canary came into his vision.

“Where’ve you been, Pavarotti? Off having adventures without me?” Blaine called at the bird that flapped onto his shoulder and nuzzled his head into the crook of his neck. Because of his voice, Blaine was able to understand birds and vice versa. He smiled and offered his finger to the bird, which hopped onto it willingly. “It’s not fair that you get to fly wherever you want when I’m stuck in here all day.” Pavarotti chirped at him twice. Blaine shook his head in response.

“No, I haven’t asked yet.” Pavarotti bounced, annoyed, and chirped at him again. “I know, I know – but I’m going to ask as soon as he gets home!”

Blaine shifted his weight to the side and swung himself back inside the tower, his bare feet hitting the tile as Pavarotti flitted away to Blaine’s upstairs bedroom. Blaine unstrapped the guitar from around his shoulders and the bird returned, carrying a piece of paper in its beak. Blaine grabbed it as he hovered in the air. It was a drawing he made when he was little of his birthday lights - just a bunch of red and blue specks against a purple night sky. He had made it years ago, yet it brought hope to the surface that he hadn’t felt before.

“I’m going to do it, Pav!” He sang out, gazing down at the picture in front of him. “Today is the beginning of the rest of my life!”

“Today is the beginning of the rest of my life!” Kurt declared to himself atop the roof of the castle. Hands on his hips, he gazed over the entire palace and Kingdom in front of him, the vast immensity of it all turning over images of gold inside his brain.

“What did you say?!” Rachel huffed, pulling herself over the ledge and onto the rooftop with Kurt. He didn’t acknowledge her, still caught up in his thoughts.

“We’re going to have our own castle some day,” he announced without looking at her. Rachel panted, doubled over, and rolled her eyes.

“I just want to get the crown and get out of here,” she said, wiping the dirt off her pants. “We can indulge in your fantasies later.”

Rachel took off running and leapt across the roof to the next. Kurt’s eyes swept over the Kingdom once more and he turned around the follow her, jumping and landing softly in the soles of his silver boots. Unlike Rachel, whose plaid and tweed outfits made Kurt gag on a daily basis and whose clumsiness resulted in most of them getting stained or torn, Kurt couldn’t allow himself to ruin his impeccable wardrobe. After all, he had a reputation to uphold – he wasn’t known as the best-dressed thief in the Kingdom for nothing.

They walked across the flat top of the roof and knelt down in the middle. Kurt felt around for the edges of a large roofing tile and pulled up, easily removing the slab from its place. The entire throne room laid out beneath them, nearly empty besides several of the royal guards and their target – the Lost Prince’s crown. The Prince’s red and blue banners hung from every wooden beam crossing the ceiling and the King was absent from his place on the throne. Kurt nearly laughed at how easy it looked – they could get in and get out without anyone noticing they were even there.

“Get the rope from my bag and I’ll lower you down,” Kurt instructed to Rachel. She narrowed her eyes at him in a scowl.

“Oh yeah, let me risk my neck by going to get the crown,” she hissed, “I’m so surprised.”

Kurt arched an eyebrow and stared at her. “Would you rather have it the other way around?”

Rachel looked over Kurt for a moment and, realizing that there was no way her small frame could support his weight, grudgingly opened Kurt’s satchel, removed the rope, and began tying it around her waist. Kurt smirked at her and rolled his eyes; any other day he would’ve thought it hilarious to see her try such a stunt, but not today. They had been planning this heist for a while now, and neither of them could afford to lose something as valuable as the crown.

Rachel finished tying the rope and placed the remainder of the line in Kurt’s hand. Kurt silently hushed her with a single finger to his lips, and Rachel moved backwards to crouch onto the edge of the opening. She inhaled sharply and nodded once, signaling Kurt to loosen a foot of rope as she lightly jumped down into the room below. Kurt immediately felt her weight threatening to drag him down with her (who knew someone so tiny could weigh so much?) and planted his legs firmly against the roof for balance. His arms strained sorely against his white sleeves cuffed just above his elbow, and he prayed that his shirt wouldn’t be ruined.

He lowered Rachel down several inches at a time, his eyes flickering between her position and the guards standing in an arch several yards away from the crown. They remained completely still – not even the noticing the bandit descending just above them. Kurt scoffed at how simple it was, but the momentary distraction caused his foot to slip backwards an inch and the rope to start swinging from side to side, Rachel still dangling at the end. She shot a glare up at him and Kurt tightened his grip again, lowering her down further until she hovered just above the crown. Kurt stopped letting down the rope and Rachel looked up at him again, motioning for him to send her down further. The line was already dangerously unbalanced and Kurt didn’t want to risk it – but he figured if they didn’t get the crown, the entire thing was a bust anyways. He carefully let a few more inches on the rope go and Rachel was nearly sitting on top of the crown. She bent down to cradle it in her hands, turning it around in circles, in awe of how beautiful the stones were set against the immaculate gold. Kurt only saw that she had it in her hands and without warning, began yanking her up.

Unprepared for the sudden change in altitude, Rachel flinched, her legs knocking against the pedestal and emitting a small gasp. They both froze; but thankfully, the guards didn’t hear her. The pedestal, however, was rocking back and forth dramatically, and before either of the thieves could get a handle on their shock, it fell over and onto the ground, the loud thunk echoing throughout the entire room. Nearly synchronized, the entire guard whipped around and drew their swords to the panicking Rachel who was zooming back through the roof.

Kurt took the crown from her and thrust it into his satchel as she hurriedly shrugged off the rope.

“Go go go!” He yelled at her, running and jumping across the rooftops, trying to get away from the Kingdom as fast as possible. Rachel trailed closely behind him as they descended down the entire city and fled across the bridge into the forest. Kurt didn’t have time to be mad at her for getting caught. They had the crown, and as long as they could escape -

The sound of horse hooves and yelling encroached on them from behind as they ran deeper into the woods. Kurt thought he could hear more voices coming from their right, and began to flank to the left.

“What are you doing?!” Rachel shouted in between heaving gulps of air. “We have to go this way!” She came to a halt and began coughing, pointing to her right where their usual escape route was located. Kurt shook his head, cleaning a thin line of sweat off his hairline with his exposed forearm.

“Rachel, they have guards coming from over there, they - ” His eyes fixated on a poster pinned to the tree behind Rachel, and she looked over her shoulder, perplexed. After noticing what – or rather, who – was on it, she slapped a palm to her forehead and sighed in disbelief. Kurt snatched the poster free and stared at it, mouth agape in horror.

“I didn’t even know I had a new wanted poster up… and they can never get the collar right!” Flustered, he pointed to the poorly drawn cartoon of him from the waist up with the caption, “WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE” printed above his face. Rachel thought it was ridiculous how he chose to focus on the rendition of his fashion sense rather than the fact that the entire Kingdom wanted him rotting in the ground.

“Kurt we have to go,” Rachel said, beginning to jog away to the right. “Come on!”

Kurt shook his head furiously, pointing behind her. “They’re coming from over there! Rachel, listen to me, we - ”

The galloping horses and guards were only feet away and, panicking, the two took off in completely different directions.

Kurt bolted away from the guards and wordlessly thanked the years of being on the run for gearing him up for countless needs of escape. He kept running, adrenaline pumping through his limbs, until he reached a part of the forest he’d never seen before and stopped, feeling a bit more secure about his distance from the guards.

Kurt nearly collapsed as he sat down, forcing his aching knees up to his chest and leaning forward against them, exhausted from running. His calm didn’t last long; almost instantly he swung his satchel into his lap and breathed a deep sigh of relief seeing the crown inside, the gold, sapphires and rubies glistening and unharmed. He laughed, nearly a giggle, holding it up to the sun and turning it around in his hands, captivated by the beauty and richness in the object that he, Kurt Hummel, a silly thief, now owned. He studied himself in the reflective surface, fixing his hair back to normal, and caught a glimpse of white still inside the bag. He set down the crown and pulled out the piece of paper, and his happiness vanished, replaced with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t even realized he put his wanted poster in his bag, or that at the bottom it read: “OFTEN ACCOMPANIED BY BROWN HAIRED GIRL.” A sharp pain stung Kurt’s chest.

“Rachel…”

Before he could even consider ways of finding her, Kurt heard yelling and horses once again. Not knowing where to go, he spun around, his eyes finding a canopy of vines hanging down from the rock above. He checked his side once again for the satchel and ran blindly into the unknown opening.

Blaine lay down on his belly with Pavarotti on his shoulder, the two whistling a tune together while Blaine painted a song along the bottom border of his bedroom. The day was still early and the notes had just popped into his head as they usually did. There was barely any space on the walls now – nearly every space filled with an unnamed song painted in black like striped wallpaper. He couldn’t make sense of most of it, but after writing each line he played it back on his guitar, perplexed by the melody struck up out of nowhere.

Around lunchtime, Blaine heard the familiar footsteps climbing up the tower’s staircase. “Blaine, I’m home!”

Blaine hopped up to put his paint away and Pavarotti flew to the window, chirping at him. “I’m really going to do it Pav,” he said, smiling to reassure himself. “I’m going to ask him!”

“Blaine, come here!” His father yelled from below, and Blaine hurried down the stairs to greet him. He was standing in front of the large mirror in their living room, hands stroking his face and looking carefully at his skin, eyes, and hair. Blaine waited at the foot of the stairs, his hands behind his back shyly, knowing his father didn’t want to be interrupted. “Hi father.”

His father turned to acknowledge him, his hands still on his neck. He smiled and offered his arms open to him, which Blaine ran into gladly. After a moment his father pulled away, looking again into the mirror and holding Blaine by his shoulders.

“Blaine, do you know who I see in the mirror?” Blaine looked up at him with big, shiny eyes and shook his head. “I see a strong, handsome, dashing young lad…and his son with bed head even though I told him to comb it this morning.” His father let out a booming laugh at his own joke.

Blaine pretended to laugh, his words resonating negatively but he shrugged it off, knowing his father’s sense of humor was a little obscure.

“Um, father? There’s something I need to talk to you about. See, tomorrow’s a pretty big day, and - ”

“Blaine, dear, I am so exhausted,” he said into the mirror. “Will you sing for me and then we can talk?”

“Of course, father!” he said, running across the room to get a chair for each of them. He pushed his father to sit down and grabbed his hands in his own. Normally he would’ve spent a minute singing, but instead he rushed through the scale of “ahs,” a soft glow appearing around him for an instant and then disappearing immediately after he was done. Even though the song had done its trick, his father pulled away, angry.

“Blaine, what are you doing?!” He demanded. Blaine was practically bouncing in his chair.

“So I was saying tomorrow’s a pretty big day and you didn’t really say anything but…” he paused, seeing if his father would remember. “…tomorrow’s my birthday!”

“It can’t be, your birthday was just a year ago…”

“Yeah, um, they’re kind of an annual thing,” Blaine said nervously. “Father, I’m turning eighteen, and I wanted to ask…” He paused, running a hand through his hair. “What I really want for this birthday, and what I’ve wanted for several birthdays now, actually - ”

“Blaine, please, stop mumbling. You know I can’t stand it when you do that,” his father scolded, getting up and walking towards the kitchen. Blaine sighed and continued, straining his voice to say what he really wanted.

“Father, I – I want to see the floating lights,” he spat out, immediately cringing to prepare for his father’s reaction.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, I was hoping you’d take me to see the floating lights,” Blaine emphasized, smiling and trying to sound positive. His father turned around, shaking his head. “Oh, you mean the stars.”

“But I’ve studied the stars and these ones are different – and they only appear once a year on my birthday. And I can’t help but to feel like – like they’re meant for me, somehow. ” His nerves had faded and were replaced with the emotional assurance over the thought of seeing the lights once again. Whether or not his father believed him, he knew in his heart that the lights were his and his alone.

His father hadn’t turned around to look at him again, so he pressed on. “And I don’t want to see them from my window anymore. I want to see them, up close, in person. I have to know what they mean.” He bit his bottom lip in anticipation.

“You want to go outside?” His father laughed. “You wouldn’t make it five minutes!”

“But as long as you came with me - ”

“Blaine, come here.” His father beckoned him over with a finger, and Blaine reluctantly complied. He held Blaine by the shoulders again and looked him in the eyes.

“Do you know how much I love you?” Blaine nodded weakly, his mouth pulling up at the corner. “Then I want you to never, ever ask me to go outside again. Ever.” Blaine’s face fell, the hope he had from before draining from him in an instant.

“Yes, father,” he replied, his chin quivering as he was pulled in for a hug.

“There, there,” his father cooed, rubbing his back. “I have to go again, but I’m sure while I’m gone you can think up a…more suitable birthday present.”

As soon as his father left through the door, Blaine slumped against one of the kitchen cupboards and buried his face in his hands. He knew his father would be reluctant to the idea, but he hadn’t expected him to be so…cold. Blaine replayed his voice over in his head again, an icy pain shooting through him as the voice of his father saying “ever” engraved itself in his brain permanently. Any hope he had to see the lights on his birthday had disappeared, and he felt utterly defeated. Pavarotti flew in and landing by Blaine’s feet, nudging his foot with his beak and cheeping sympathetically.

“I tried, Pav,” he uttered with sad eyes. “Father won’t let me go.”

Pavarotti flew the door and fluttered beside it. Blaine shook his head. His father had taken the key with him and even if he hadn’t, there was so use looking for it. Blaine thought for a second about finding something to pick the lock, but shrugged the idea away.
“Pav, it’s just not possible. I - ”

A banging coming through the door silenced Blaine and the bird darted across the room to cower behind him. Blaine ducked behind the island in the kitchen, and peered over the edge of the counter to watch the door. As the banging subsided, Blaine could hear someone fiddling with the lock and instinctively, grabbed a frying pan hanging from above and clutched it to his chest. He kept watching the door until it burst open and he hid behind the counter once again. He heard large footsteps moving around the room.

“Finally – alone at last,” he heard a voice say. Despite it’s high pitch, he could tell it was distinctively male. Blaine heard the footsteps stop and peered around the corner of the island, seeing the back of the man standing across the room, looking out the window and away from Blaine. Quietly, he crept over, holding his frying pan above his head and before the man could even hear him, struck him once over the head with a loud pang. The man toppled over in front of him and Blaine let out a shriek, jumping backwards. He held the frying pan out in front of him for defense, but before he could think of anything else, a sudden realization hit him.

Someone from the outside was lying right in front of him.