Kurt arches one perfectly shaped eyebrow and snaps his fingers for the stewardess, who seems only too willing to ply them both with wine. The thing that Blaine managed to forget, though, is that he hasn’t actually eaten anything today, and alcohol’s always loosened his tongue. Which explains why, ten minutes and three glasses of wine later (what, it’s been a stressful day, okay?), when Kurt asks another question about his—well, whatever he is now—Blaine doesn’t tell him to fuck off, and instead gets kind of, um.

Well, weepy’s not quite the right word.

“I don’t know why,” he blathers. “I didn’t do anything wrong. We were supposed to be picking a house, Kurt. A house. And we were going to live together in it, you know. Forever. And then I didn’t want to go to Paris with him, and I knew he was upset but I hate planes, and I hate being up in the air like this, so I didn’t go. And then he met some stupid perfect guy who probably doesn’t freak out when he tries to fool around in the movie theatre or whatever and he probably looks amazing all the time, even when he first wakes up in the morning and oh my God they’re probably waking up next to each other right now and—”

“It’s not morning in Paris,” Kurt points out, which just snaps Blaine out of it. And now he’s really embarrassed, and still drunk, which only comes across in belligerence.

“Great. Helpful,” he snaps, slumping down in his seat again and shoving his glasses up so hard that they cut into the bridge of his nose.

Kurt says nothing, and eventually, Blaine drifts off to sleep, the heavy sleep of the just slightly inebriated who also hasn’t really been sleeping well, if at all, for the past couple of days. He doesn’t stir when Kurt shifts the carry-on he’s clasping in his lap so that the front pocket is visible, nor when he carefully slides the zipper open. Kurt freezes for a long moment, watching him, making sure he’s not going to wake up. When it’s clear that Blaine is sleeping like the dead, Kurt slides a diamond necklace, wrapped carefully in brown packaging paper, into the otherwise empty compartment and zips it shut.

“So, where are you going, to find this man of yours?” he asks in lieu of a greeting, when Blaine wakes up a few hours later.

Blaine blinks blearily, and then promptly rolls over to bury his face into the pillow he’d been using to prop his neck. Dimly, Kurt hears him mutter, “Oh, God.”

“Take all the time you need,” he says cheerfully, grabbing a magazine off the back of the seat in front of him and starting to flip the pages loudly.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice still muffled, and slowly sits up. “I overshared.”

“Clearly you’ve been through a lot recently,” Kurt replies, tossing the thing away from him and focusing his attention entirely on Blaine (which is, simultaneously, invigorating and a little terrifying—it’s all about the gorgeous eyes, is the thing, because Blaine can’t actually remember the last time someone this attractive focused on him that way. Besides The Douchebag, anyway). “So I have decided to help you.”

“…what?”

“I’m going to help you,” Kurt repeats, as though this makes complete and total sense. “Because you clearly want him back, and you don’t seem to know how to go about getting him.”

“Excuse me,” Blaine says indignantly, “but I am perfectly capable of getting my own fianc� to love me again.”

“Just like you succeeded in keeping him from straying?” Kurt asks, his eyebrows inching up again. He does that a lot, Blaine notices—it feels annoyingly condescending.

“I don’t need your help,” he repeats stubbornly. “Besides, it doesn’t even make sense that you want to give it to me.”

Kurt shrugs, apparently unfazed by this aspersion. “Maybe I’m just a goodhearted person, eh? Maybe I believe in true love and I think that by helping you find it—oh, God, I don’t know. I’m just spouting bullshit at you.” He laughs at the offended look on Blaine’s face and continues. “No, but honestly. There is something about you. You are like…what? A puppy, I suppose. Innocent. I feel like it’s my duty to help.”

Blaine just blinks at him, debating being offended. (And also, trying to figure out whether or not he should accept Kurt’s offer.) “And you would be getting what out of this?”

“I’m hurt. You have no faith in me.”

“I don’t know you,” he snaps. “And one of the first things you did was insult me.”
Another shrug. “Whatever. It’s no…how do you say? No skin off my back? I will leave you to yourself. You seem to think you can do just fine.”

Which Blaine is convinced will work out just fine, until he actually has to get off the plane, in a foreign country, and face the fact that he a) only ever took a year of French during high school; and b) failed it horrendously. He manages, somehow, to get through customs without a major issue (oh, right, most of them speak English anyway…), and then emerges into the street. The crowded street, down which cars are hurtling at whatever speed the drivers feel like going, in the wrong direction. One of them barely spares a careless honk before swerving around him, leaving the scent of burning rubber in its wake. Heart thudding in triple time, he has neither the breath nor the desire to protest when Kurt’s hand closes, vice-like, over his upper arm. “Come with me,” he says, in a strangely gentle voice that is at odds with the death grip he’s currently employing. “I’ve got a cab, come on.”

And the way Blaine sees it, he doesn’t have a whole lot of options. He tells Kurt to ask the driver to take him to the George V, and Kurt scoffs quietly as he relays the message. “What?” he asks defensively.

“Nothing.” He holds up his hands. “Absolutely nothing.”

Blaine dead-eyes him suspiciously, but drops the issue. Kurt pulls out a sketchpad as they travel through the streets and ignores Blaine entirely; he tries to sneak a peek at whatever Kurt is doing, but he’s positioned himself so that his work is entirely obscured. Eventually, Blaine gives up, mostly because he’s starting to get nervous. Like, really, really nervous. So he just stares out the window, trying not to think about what his fianc� is very possibly doing with another man at this very instant, and focusing most of his energy on not throwing up.

He can’t even appreciate the beauty of the hotel when they get there, and he trips over his own feet as they make their way through the huge, gilded doors. Kurt, in a rare moment of tact, decides not to mention this; and in an even rarer moment of…well, something…he waits outside with Blaine’s duffel bag allows Blaine to approach the concierge alone. “Hi, I need to know which room my fianc� is staying in,” he says, with absolutely no preamble. “The last name is Smythe. S-M-Y-T-H-E.”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” replies the man, who seems to be possibly the furthest thing from sorry Blaine’s ever seen, “but I am not permitted to discuss such things. The George V takes the privacy of its clients very seriously.”

“But you don’t understand,” Blaine presses, leaning across the desk. “I just—I really need to see him, okay? Please, it’s urgent.”

“If there is some sort of emergency, you can try his mobile phone, or I can call the telephone in the room and see if he is available.”

“Yes, do that, please,” Blaine pleads, remembering the tiny phone abandoned on the counter, hearing his voice as clearly as if he’s there, saying it all over again: “it’s Paris, Blaine! It kinda ruins the point to be tied to the rest of the world while you’re there. I’ll call you, baby. There’s pay phones and stuff, I’m sure there are.”

He complies, turning away from Blaine—but all too soon, he’s setting the phone delicately back in its cradle and saying three words. “Do not disturb.”

The world is ending. Everything is way too shiny, and the floor is tilting, and what does that even mean? “No, no,” Blaine says thickly, “I have to see him.”

The concierge looks disgusted by this unadulterated display of emotion. “Well, sir, I don’t know how you expect to do that, but I cannot help you.”

“Okay,” Blaine manages, barely hearing his own voice through the rushing in his ears. He pushes himself away from the desk (which is a lot harder than it should be) and stumbles over to the nearest couch).

There’s a man already sitting there—a man who eyes Blaine with interest. Not that Blaine notices that, seeing as he’s far too busy resting his forehead on his knees, silently coaching himself to continue taking deep breaths. “Are you alright?” the man asks finally, scooting closer and placing a gentle hand on Blaine’s back.

“Fine,” Blaine mutters, sitting up in one quick movement and barely registering it as his carry-on thuds to the ground. “I just—apparently I don’t have a place to stay.”

“I’m very sorry, mon ami,” he almost croons. “But do not let yourself be upset. I am quite sure someone like you should have no trouble here.”

Ordinarily, being in such close proximity to a stranger (the guy’s leg is pressed entirely against Blaine’s) would freak him out. But, well, he’s exhausted and overwhelmed, and maybe kind of starved for affection (it’s not his fault, they’ve both been so busy lately…who would have time for intimacy?). So he doesn’t move away. “W-why do you think that?” he asks instead, fascinated.

“There is something,” the man purrs, his face veryclose to Blaine’s now. “Something about you, some charm. But you are sad. You are lonely. And we Parisians, we will want to…take care of you.”

“I…um…”

Thankfully, Blaine is saved from having to offer what will probably be a deeply unsatisfactory response when someone nearby whistles, a long, low sound that effectively captures both of their attention. They turn toward it in unison, and Blaine’s heart drops to the ground. The first thing he sees is a shock of very familiar blond hair—the second, a suit that he himself had been instrumental in selecting. But that’s where everything goes wrong, because Sebastian isn’t alone in the glass elevator. No, instead, he’s pressed to the transparent wall, his arms wrapped tight around some stranger’s waist. His head is thrown back, his eyes closed, as this guy’s lips travel teasingly down his neck. He pulls back to smirk at Sebastian, who only allows him a moment of triumph before he fists his hands in the front of his t-shirt and drags him back in for a bruising kiss.

In Blaine’s defense, he still has yet to have eaten anything all day, and the wine is still making his head a little fuzzy. So really, the fact that he passes out isn’t shameful. It’s just…a blood sugar thing.

He wakes up to find Kurt hovering over him, looking inordinately worried. “Oh, you’re awake. Good, good,” he says, suddenly brisk, hauling Blaine up so that he’s sitting against the couch and pressing a still-warm croissant into his hand. “Eat.”

He does, mechanically, barely even tasting it. “Thank you,” he mutters.

“It’s nothing,” Kurt replies dismissively, waving one hand. “And you see? I am trustworthy. Your bag, your things—they are here. I did not steal them.”

“Thank you,” he repeats, stuffing the rest of his croissant into his mouth and getting unsteadily to his feet. “Not that it matters, because it’s not like I have anywhere to sleep, but at least I have clean clothes.”

“Right. And…whatever you had in your other case. You have that, as well.” Kurt is aware that he’s not being particularly subtle, but he’s banking on Blaine’s complete desperation to mask the fact that he needs that bag.

“Ri—where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“The other bag.” Blaine’s eyes widen, suddenly, in horror. “It’s not here.”

“What are you talking about, of course it’s here!” Kurt exclaims, an icy tremble of dread slipping down his spine.

“Do you see it?” Blaine demands, flipping the cushions of the couch everywhere, as though someone had simply hidden it, his voice ratcheting up an octave in his panic. “It had my wallet in it!”

“How could you let this happen?” Kurt shouts, all but flipping furniture over in his attempts to disprove what he already knows.

“Me? What do you mean, how could I let this happen? It’s not my fault some asshole stole my stuff!”

“It’s gone,” Kurt replies hollowly, sinking back down onto the couch. “Whoever he was, he took your bag when you fainted.”

“Oh, God,” Blaine mutters, for what feels like the millionth time in the past couple of hours. “It had everything. My passport. All my money…oh my God, what am I supposed to do?”

“We will find it,” Kurt says, but it sounds far more like he’s trying to convince himself. “It’s going to be fine.”