Blaine Anderson hates flying. Literally hates it, with the kind of passion that most people (and usually him, too) reserve for things like spiders and neo-Nazis. And yet, here he is, on a plane. A plane that is about to take to the air, which, oh God, he totally didn’t think through before he did this. There’s no way he can do this. No way. He is going to die, because this stupid plane is going to fly across fucking oceans, and that is just not natural. It’s not. And not in the kind of way that being gay is supposedly not natural. Because this hunk of metal was not fucking born able to take to the sky, okay?
And yet, here he is. On his way Paris, and his asshole of an ex-fianc�’s new slutbag boytoy.
Oh, right. That’s why he’s doing this. Somewhat steeled, he drops into his seat, exhaling sharply and clutching his carry-on tight to his chest. “It’s only seven hours,” he mutters, as though that’s any kind of comfort. “Just seven…oh my God. Oh my God, I can’t do it. I can’t. We’re going down, this plane is going down, and I will die alone.” A song starts playing in his head, silently mocking him—one his mother sings at home all the time: “I love Paris in the springtime/I love Paris in the fall/I love Paris in the summer when it sizzles/I love Paris in the winter when it drizzles.” Mercifully, a small commotion ensues in the aisle just next to his seat, effectively ripping his mind back to the present. He glances edgily toward the source of the sound and finds himself staring at the most beautiful man he’s ever seen.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, though his body narrows to a trim waist. He is draped from head to toe in what is obviously designer garb, a cobalt blue scarf knotted around his pale, graceful neck. And his face—God, his face looks as though it’s been chiseled by the gods: high cheekbones, perfect lips, and eyes that look more like exploding supernovae than anything else. Blaine hadn’t realized that eyes could be so many colors all at once. The man, whoever he is, appears to be arguing with the stewardess about smoking. (Had he had a cigarette in his mouth? Funny, but Blaine hadn’t noticed.)
“Sir, you cannot smoke on this flight,” she presses. “I’m going to have to ask you to put that away.”
“I’m sorry,” he says placatingly holding out his hands in a peacekeeping gesture. “I did not think, I was not thinking—I never light them, you know?”
She doesn’t appear convinced. And neither is Blaine, for that matter. “Then why have it?”
“They have the power to ruin my career,” he murmurs, leaning forward conspiratorially, his thick French accent making the words seem all the more mysterious. “I start lighting them, and my voice? Pfft—gone.” His hand slices the air. “Eventually, anyway. So I do not take the risk, yet I keep them as a gesture of my power over them.” He slides the small cardboard box out of the pocket of his stylish jacket, pops the cigarette out from between his lips. “There we go. Done.”
She smiles, murmurs something in his ear, and continues down the aisle. Realizing abruptly that he had been staring at them unashamedly throughout the entire exchange, Blaine drops his gaze. But he’s not quick enough. “See something you like?” asks the man in a purr, sliding gracefully past him to get to the empty window seat.
Oh God. “I—um—not—I mean, I—”
“Coherent, aren’t you?” He leans back in his seat, crossing his legs in one smooth motion. “Where are you going that has you wound so tightly?”
And just like that, the crippling fear is back. Blaine’s hands curl anxiously around the arms of his seat, because this plane is going to be in the air holy shit. “Paris,” he says, gulping.
“I don’t think I like the way you said that,” he comments lazily. “Paris. What’s so bad about Paris, makes you twist up your face like that?”
“Nothing,” Blaine snarls. “Nothing at all.”
“Well, I’m convinced.”
The stewardess stands and begins her spiel about airplane safety, and Blaine instantly spirals back into blind fear. “I’m going to die,” he mutters, tightening his seatbelt to the point of pain, checking it over and over. She’s demonstrating the proper use of an oxygen mask now, and Blaine’s fingers are slipping over his own as he tries to imitate her movements.
“What are you doing?” the stranger asks, fingers closing over Blaine’s wrist and pushing his hand away from his face.
“I am practicing.”
“You are ridiculous.” His eyes widen. “You’re afraid of the plane, aren’t you?”
“Maybe a little, but—“ His eyebrows slam together in confused frustration. “Why do you care so much?”
He shrugs, “I don’t. I’m just curious,” and holds out one hand. “I’m Kurt.”
“That’s not French,” Blaine says dumbly, too astonished by his bluntness to realize what he’s saying at first.
“…your skills of observation are flawless,” Kurt replies, arching one eyebrow, and Blaine realizes abruptly that he’s still holding out his hand.
“Oh! Oh, I’m Blaine,” he blurts out, accepting the handshake.
“Blaine,” he repeats, and wow he was not expecting his name to sound like that on this man’s lips. Matter of fact, he sort of wants him to say it again, to maybe never stop saying it, and what the hell was he doing? He shook himself a little, trying to pull it together. Kurt seems to notice this none-too-subtle action—his lips curve up in a smirk, but he doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he asks, “If you’re so afraid of planes, why are you flying all the way to Paris on one?”
“That’s personal,” Blaine mutters, wishing he had thought to bring something to make this less unbearable. Like a book, or a magazine. Or maybe some Valium. He slumps down a little in his seat and tries to control his breathing. The little jolts of the plane making its way down the tarmac, unsurprisingly, are not helping.
“You’re a very tense person,” Kurt observes, almost too casually. “You spend a lot of time alone, don’t you?”
Predictably, Blaine tenses still further at his words. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Kurt laughs, a bit mockingly—Blaine has clearly done exactly what he had expected. “Nothing,” he murmurs, and then, suddenly, somehow, his hand is on Blaine’s knee. “Just that you need to relax.” The seductive croon makes no effort to conceal his true meaning.
Horrified, yet somehow a bit more flushed and flustered than he cares to admit, Blaine sits up sharply. “Excuse me, but I am perfectly capable of relaxing, thank you very much. And of relaxing, too.” He crooks his fingers in exaggerated air quotes, affecting Kurt’s accent. “Not that you’ll ever find out. Rude and offensive is not my type. If you really want to know, you’ll have to ask my fianc�. He’d sure as hell be able to prove you wrong—but oh God, wait, no, do not ask him, he’s the biggest asshole ever to exist.” Blaine is just talking now, just blowing off steam. Words pop into his head and out of his mouth without the benefit of a filter, and at this point, he doesn’t even realize what he’s saying. They’re just words, just so many therapeutic words: “…with his stupid fucking new boyfriend who looks like a fucking demigod and probably has the stupid accent to go with it—”
“Look out the window,” Kurt interrupts.
He jumps. “Excuse me?”
“I just think it might put some of your problems in perspective,” he says innocently, “to see the world from above like this.”
Blaine whips his head around, and—oh.
They’re flying.