Blaine's eyes were huge, staring up and all around him in wordless wonder as he took in the bright walls and perfectly coordinated decor. "This - this is where you live?"

"I hope so," Kurt joked lightly, glancing back at him as he passed. "Otherwise this could get very awkward really fast."

Blaine blinked at him innocently.

It's already pretty fucking awkward, Kurt reminded himself.

"Joking," he said.

Blaine rocked on his feet, tipping up his chin in understanding.

Slipping into the open kitchen, Kurt found a bowl and a clean cloth under the sink and pulled out his first aid kit.

"There's…" Blaine breathed out shakily in awe. "There is no place like this, in Daltasia."

As he switched off the water, Kurt rolled his eyes. "What, no high rise apartments in Sherwood Forest?" he mocked quietly. "I'm stunned."

"And that magic box that flew us up here?"

"The elevator?" Kurt asked.

"Elevator," Blaine repeated to himself. "Incredible."

"It's just a lift," Kurt replied, wandering back out. He stopped by the dining space, bowl in hand, and pointed. "Sit."

Blaine followed Kurt's command, eyes still high and searching around the joined rooms even when he untied his cape and unbuckled his sword to put them down. He slid onto the table alongside them, expression lit with fascination and delight.

"Your world is truly amazing," he insisted, smiling brightly. "I'd never imagined I would see another kingdom. What is this place called?"

"New York," Kurt answered without meeting his eye, instead focusing on the antiseptic and water in his bowl. "Hold still, this might sting."

Blaine nodded seriously, bracing his hands either side on the wooden lip of the table.

Kurt's mouth quirked in amusement. You're like a giant twelve year old with a skinned knee at a birthday party. Shaking his head, he leaned in, dabbing along the graze on Blaine's hairline.

He didn't notice the silence at first, only when he wet the cloth again and the trickle of water punctuated the room.

"Do you have any family here?" he asked gently, trying to make conversation.

Blaine's mouth pressed into a thin line. "No. No… family."

"Nobody I can call?"

Blaine blinked, the now familiar confused expression flickering over his features. "I don't think they would hear you from here."

Kurt paused in disbelief, huffing out a laugh and returning to his task.

After a long pause, he wet his lips, and decided to try again.

"So how - exactly - did you get from... Daltasia," he hadn't meant for it to sound mocking, but he truly couldn't help it, "to New York in the middle of the night?"

After a few more moments of dabbing away dried blood, he realised Blaine hadn't answered, and looked down to check if he was still listening.

Kurt froze.

Blaine was staring at him, breathing very slowly, his eyes huge and framed by incredibly long, dark eyelashes. He was also barely an inch from Kurt's face.

His gaze dropped to the line of Kurt's mouth, and Kurt forgot to draw in air for a moment as his heart sped up painfully in his chest.

Wetting his lips slowly, Blaine trembled around a missing word, breath gusting warm on Kurt's skin. "I -" he managed to say, voice almost cracking on the air.

Kurt's body felt both numb and too hot all at once, and he closed his mouth and eyes sharply at the same time, stepping out of Blaine's personal space. "Sorry. I - I'm almost done."

Blaine was still watching him, eyelids lower now, his expression unreadable. "I've travelled most of my kingdom, but I've never seen anyone like you before," he said gently, his voice a little too raw.

Kurt swallowed to soothe his dry throat, cleaning out the cloth a second time.

Blaine's face fell into a sad smile. "You live here with your wife?"

He almost choked with laughter. "Oh, god no. No - I'm-" He caught Blaine's curious and amused expression, and tried to figure out how to say it without the inevitable discomfort that came after. Screw him if he has a problem. "I'm gay."

Blaine grinned, but his brow betrayed his puzzlement. "I'm … glad to hear it."

Kurt blinked at him. As far as reactions went, it certainly wasn't the worst he'd ever had.

"But - you live alone, in this great kingdom? Surely it's lonely up here," Blaine reasoned, eyes sweeping over to the tall windows. "There are castles and even great towers and spires in my land that don't reach this high. Yours is truly an incredible world."

Searching him for a moment, Kurt tried find a sane explanation for the unabashed wonder on his face. How can someone in the middle of New York City look out that window like they've never seen the skyline before?

Another, quieter voice piped up in his head: Maybe he really hasn't.

"I have Rachel," Kurt said suddenly, and clarified after catching Blaine's enquiring glance; "She's my friend. She lives here most of the time, when she's not off at parties and benefits. But for the most part, yes. I guess," he sighed softly, "I'm alone."

Blaine nodded, his feet swinging back and forth, hovering just above the ground. "I expect I would be too, if it weren't for Pav."

"Pav?" Kurt asked absently, dipping his cloth into the bowl again.

"My songbird, and dear friend," Blaine enthusiastically informed him. "He tells many wonderful stories. I am only sad he couldn't come with me."

Kurt let out a quiet laugh. "Songbird? What is he, a minstrel?"

"No, he's a canary," Blaine said plainly.

Turning very slowly, Kurt eyed him. "You-… of course," he laughed, rubbing at his forehead with his free hand. "Of course. You talk to birds."

Blaine blinked at him, stunned. "You don't?"

Kurt didn't know how long he let his mouth hang open, struggling to find the right response, but he finally managed to close it to keep himself from laughing.

"Not... often, no," he said, brushing a hand through his hair.

He winced in pain at the contact, and held up his palms to inspect the damage.

"You're hurt!" Blaine said suddenly, voice tinted with concern. He quickly peeled off both gloves and captured Kurt's wrists.

Kurt jerked forward with the soft tug, eyes wide as he let Blaine look over his injured palms. Blaine's fingers were softer than he expected, warm and strong as they slid down the backs of his hands and curled gently over the edges, thumbs grazing across his skin.

Blaine glanced up at him quickly, then over to the bowl, and he reached out to take up the cloth. "Hold still."

Stunned into silence, Kurt didn't move as Blaine wiped gently over both palms, clearing gravel and dirt from his skin. He was careful and gentle in a way Kurt didn't expect, and the tiny soothing sweeps of his fingers and thumb along the path of the sting stole the breath out of Kurt's lungs.

"Does it hurt?"

Kurt's brain finally caught up with him long enough to form an answer. "N-not much, I'll be fine."

Blaine settled back, putting the cloth down only to take Kurt's hands gently in his own. "Thank you," he said, eyes bright and sincere. "For saving me."

Lost for a moment in the feeling of two broad, warm hands in his own, Kurt stuttered between thoughts, trying to string words into a sentence.

With a quick nod, he withdrew himself carefully. "It was nothing," he said weakly. "Somebody had to help."

Blaine's eyes drifted closed. "I'm a fool for needing it," he said, his expression turning melancholy.

Kurt's head tilted in curiosity. "Why?"

"I'm the prince. The heir to my father's kingdom, he… expected more of me." Blaine told him, and the disappointment on his face was unmistakable.

"It was three to one. He'd understand," Kurt said.

Blaine's smile was sad. "Unfortunately, my father has passed," he said, adding quickly as an afterthought; "Long live the King."

Kurt's heart hurt at the look in Blaine's eyes. Suddenly Daltasia seemed so much more real, just for the pain there. Even if Kurt couldn't believe in it, wouldn't believe in it, he found he was almost certain that Blaine truly did.

The question was why.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, tilting to catch Blaine's eyes. "I really am. I lost my mother when I was very young."

"Me too," Blaine said quickly, but it was a measure of solidarity in his tone, of gratitude, that set Kurt at ease.

The moment passed, and Blaine seized a long breath before he began again. "My father re-married," he explained a little more brightly, but Kurt could feel he was forcing it. "My step-mother rules as Queen, for now. But soon… it will be me. And so I have to be," his face flashed with a telling spark of his turmoil, "more like my father."

Sympathy curled in Kurt's chest, helpless and heavy on his lungs.

After a moment, the voice of reason resurfaced, and he scolded himself silently. This man is insane, and you're not helping by humouring him.

He huffed out a silent laugh. "So you've got a step-mother?"

Blaine glanced up at him, surprised. "Yes. Why?"

"Just," Kurt rolled his eyes, his grip on reality taking over again as he gathered the bowl and headed back to the kitchen, "watch out for magic mirrors."

Blaine didn't pick up on his sarcasm. "I will," he said earnestly.

Kurt stopped in the archway of the door on his way back again, watching as Blaine slid off the table and took tentative steps towards the living room. His child-like, enraptured gaze drifted across the room incredibly slowly, searching the bookcases and wall decorations again with awe.

He was silent as he stared, and held himself tall in a way that few men Kurt knew ever had. There was something certainly regal about his bearing, but Kurt didn't know if that was just the costume creating the illusion.

It didn't add up. Either Blaine truly believed his fantasy was real, in which case he needed help, or he was the best actor Kurt had ever met.

Kurt tried to reason with the voice in his head telling him it was all a trick.

"You didn't tell me how you got here," he said very carefully, watching Blaine's face for a hint of recognition under the fantasy. "To New York, I mean."

"My step-brother," Blaine answered without looking back. "He's practiced in many magical arts, he promised he'd help me."

"Help you? With what?"

Blaine looked at him this time, his face serene and determined. "Find a princess."

"Ah," Kurt said, nodding. "I see. And why do you need to find a princess, exactly?"

Blaine's face fell, like he was suddenly reminded of something he didn't want to remember.

"My coronation is in twelve days," he said softly. "Sebastian discovered in his studies that I can't be crowned without a betrothed. He came to me right away, I was running out of time."

"Sebastian?"

"My step-brother," Blaine clarified, brightening. "He's very wise and a good friend, without him I would be lost. He risked a great deal, helping me."

"Helping you come here?" Kurt asked, trying to put the story together in his head.

"Yes," Blaine said, reaching out to stroke curiously along the back of a cat statue on the bookcase. "There are no eligible princesses left in Daltasia. I had to look elsewhere, so," he raised his arms in illustration as he glanced back to Kurt, "he sent me here."

"To help you?"

"Yes."

"Sebastian?"

Blaine narrowed his eyes. "Yes."

"He's not a talking crab, by any chance?" Kurt asked, leaning against the wall and folding his arms.

Blaine's face washed over again with innocent confusion. "No, he's… my step-mother's son. He came to live in the castle with us, when my father was married."

Kurt chuckled. "Never mind."

"You are… very strange," Blaine said, his bemused expression giving way to an impossible smile as he watched Kurt laugh. "And… wonderful."

Kurt's laugh faded in his throat, and he quickly looked away, avoiding the unreadable stare that was now fixated on him.

"It's-" he pulled himself away from the wall, "It's been a long day, I should - get some sleep. You can sleep on the couch…" he said, gesturing to it. "For tonight."

Blaine smiled. "I cannot thank you enough for showing me such kindness. Every other person I've encountered here so far has been …" his voice trailed off, and Kurt wondered if he could even say a negative word aloud. If knew any, at all.

He wondered if Blaine had said anything unpleasant about anyone, ever.

"Yeah, well, that's New York for you," Kurt finally answered with a shrug, moving across the room.

"But not you," he breathed. "You're… not like them."

The warmth in Blaine's voice made Kurt's stomach flip.

No, he thought, they were smart. I'm the idiot who brought a complete stranger home with him.

"I guess," he said softly, flinching. "Look, I don't- I mean. It's fine for you to stay here. One night. But tomorrow…"

"I will continue my quest," Blaine finished for him, pressing a hand to his heart in a gesture of promise. "I wouldn't dare to impose on you a moment longer, my dear brave knight, you've done so much for me without asking anything in return."

"I'm - not a knight." Kurt laughed breathily, embarrassed and flushing to the tips of his ears. "Let's just. Stick with Kurt."

"Kurt," Blaine repeated again, eyes flashing brightly as he smiled around the word. His lips lingered on the sound, like he enjoyed the way it felt on his tongue.

Kurt drew a shuddering breath. Stop looking at his mouth.

"Okay," he said, breaking himself out if it. "The - um - I should get a blanket for you for the- the couch."

Blaine watched him move with a grateful, doe-eyed stare.

Shivering lightly, Kurt ducked down to pull a blanket from a box by the bookshelf, trying to focus on anything but Blaine.

"Take off your boots, and I'll - I should get you something to change into," he stammered, dropping the folded blanket on the armrest.

Blaine bent to unlace and kick off his boots before he flopped down onto the couch, face suddenly child-like and thrilled at the spring in the cushions as he bounced twice and settled back. "This is wonderful!"

"U-huh," Kurt eyed him, baffled. "I'll be right back, just - stay," he instructed, holding up both hands before he turned and disappeared down the corridor to his room.

When he got through his bedroom door he froze, pressing both hands to his face in a sudden moment of stunned realisation.

Okay, so you've got a strange man on your couch, he thought to himself. It's no big deal. There's just a strange man who looks and talks and acts like a fucking Disney prince, and he's currently on your couch. Where he's going to stay. For the night.

He shuffled stiffly to his drawers, pulling them open one after the other without really looking inside.

It's no big deal. He'll go in the morning. He's harmless.

His eyes finally focused on his open underwear drawer, and he hissed out an annoyed sound, shoving it closed and finding the right drawer for his t-shirts.

Stop worrying. It's only a delusional stranger with a sharp weapon. No big deal.

Finally finding a pair of loose grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt, he tucked them under his arm, shoving the drawers back in.

He wandered out quickly, striding down the hall to the living room and turning through the archway. "You can use these, they might be a little snug but-" his voice cut off.

Blaine was lying, half on his side and half on his back, strewn across the cushions and soundlessly sleeping. His legs were bent slightly at the knee, resting together below the twist of his hips where his body turned so his shoulders lay flat, head tipped to the side, arm draped over his belly. His face was perfectly serene, breathtaking in the warm light, the angles and curves of his features too flawless to be real.

Either I'm dreaming, Kurt thought. Or he just walked right out of a fairytale.

Blaine's eyelashes trembled against his cheeks, long dark lines fanning out over the sweep of olive skin. His soft, pink lips twitched just slightly, betraying him.

Kurt couldn't help the smile that curled the corners of his mouth. Even Prince Charming dreams.

Before he realised what he was doing, Kurt had settled at the very edge of his armchair, dropping the spare clothes in his lap as he stared. He leaned on his elbow, resting his chin in his palm as his eyes trailed over Blaine's form again.

He took in the bony angles of his too-big toes, the curve of his heel and the ball of his slender ankles, wondering how it was possible that even his disproportionately giant feet seemed endearing. His eyes trailed up over the definition of Blaine's calves and the muscles in his thighs through the black fabric of his pants. The rumpled silver crest on his tunic shimmered in the light, and Kurt eyed it for a moment, making out the lines of two crowns linked together under the silhouettes of flying doves on a shield.

He kept moving along the same path, up over the rise and fall of Blaine's chest, to the smooth expanse of his throat and the curve of his jaw where he lingered a moment, wondering how it would feel under his fingertips.

With a slight jolt back to reality, he gritted his teeth. He's a delusional stranger, not a prince, he scolded himself. Don't be stupid.

The little voice, the other voice, came back again to argue. There is a beautiful, warm and kind man on your couch, who is innocent and rare. And he's going to get broken if you let him go.

Kurt shook himself from his own internal war, dropping the clothes on the armchair as he stood silently.

Fairytales aren't real, he told himself sternly. There are no far away kingdoms, no princes, white knights. Nobody's going to come for you. This is real life. Nobody's going to hold your hand.

He was two strides back to his room when he heard it, just that one little voice, in the back of his head.

He did.

Frozen to the spot, he let his eyes drift closed, seizing a deep breath and burying his face in his hand.

It took him another moment to look back over his shoulder, but when he did, Blaine was still there - just as real as ever. Still dressed in clothes that made no sense, still breathing, still the most beautiful thing Kurt had ever seen in real life.

He moved silently, gathering the blanket from the arm of the couch and letting it drop open before he gently lay it over the sleeping prince, drawing it up to his chest.

Blaine murmured and let out a blissful little breath, lips flashing in a tiny smile just for a moment before they evened out again.

He didn't know why he did it, what even possessed him to, but Kurt reached out and brushed the curls back off of Blaine's forehead sweetly, grazing over warm skin. His lip trembled on a shaky exhale. Oh god, what am I doing?

As silently as possible he retreated from the living room in a rush, flicking the light-switch off and gliding down the hall into his empty bedroom. He showered quickly and got changed, slipping into bed and screwing his eyes shut tight against the darkness, telling himself over and over again:

I do not believe in fairytales.