The pencil

Blaine was standing in front of the Face, those eyes, the very thing that had originally drawn him to the dream were even more perfect than they were on his portraits. The skin, he had imagined it so soft and warm and pliant yet it looked even more perfect. If only he could touch it. The detail that really convinced, what made him realise he was seeing the real Face though, was the voice. The same voice that sang to him, that mocked him, that laughed with him. He was there, in the middle of the market, among the vegetables as if he was not a part of Blaine's fantasies.

The Face was staring, maybe because Blaine was staring up at him from the floor, unmoving, for a suspiciously long period of time. He jumped quite awkwardly to his feet.

"Yeah, no, I mean. I'm fine, thanks." The Face quirked an elegant eyebrow. "I'm Blaine!" not his smoothest moment but he was meeting the man of his dreams, literally, so excuse him for that. At the very least he remembered to brush his pants after the fall.

"Hello, Blaine." Ah he even said his name the same, so beautifully enunciated. "Kurt" Now if he could just extend his hand, he would finally be able to touch that smooth skin. Yes! There was a hand. And no brush stroke would ever do it justice. Still, Blaine was so ecstatic at that moment that he couldn't even feel the failure.

"Hi, Kurt." God his name was like a purr, Kurt, Kuurrt. He would never get tired of it. "Sorry, I'm not usually this clumsy." The Face, Kurt, was looking amusedly at him, and apparently he wanted his hand back, Blaine's sadness at having to let go knew no end.

"Yes, we all have our moments. Well, I should..." and gestured vaguely at his half full shopping bag. No, he couldn't just leave like that.

"Yes, but wait, I was wondering if you could help me, I'm looking for... meat," Blaine would have slapped himself. "I mean steaks, yes, stakes. I don't know the store, could you tell me where to find it?" He never had such difficulties when acting, was never so nervous during recitals, then again he had never been around Kuurrt before.

His living portrait looked unconvinced, but agreed nonetheless, a soft OK that sounded ridiculously musical for such a short word. He didn't speak again; simply lead Blaine to the right place, looking almost as dazed as Blaine felt. Maybe Blaine had made an even bigger fool of himself than he had thought.

He refused to accept it. The situation was still salvageable, first he had to buy the steaks he wouldn't like, Tulip would eat them at least, and then he could find a clever way to make the moment last for ever. Simple.

"So, thank you so much for this. I really needed help." Too creepy Blaine, be more casual, "I was wondering if you'd like to have something to drink, my house is" Covered with you face, "being fumigated, but we can go to a café. If you'd like."

There was a long, mildly awkward pause before Kurt agreed.

Blaine replayed the event in his head yet could not believe it, he sang to himself in joy, the Face was real and even more perfect than he'd imagined him. He was back at his house, hurriedly taking down the portraits he'd hanged over the previous days. The one on his bedroom wall ended up in the basement wrapped and protected in old sheets; the one from the hallway, where the Face, Kurt, was dancing to some unknown music ended up in the attic, along with the first painting. Leaving them there felt like ripping a piece of himself, but he had to do it, he told himself. For Kurt.

The mirror went back to his place by the stairs, perfectly covering the most melancholic image of the Face, and during a very desperate and uncreative flash he hanged one of his curtains over the Mocking Face. He could always dismiss it as artistic quirkiness.

Resting on the, freshly cleaned, neon pink couch Tulip observed his master's moments of lunacy as he ran around the house relocating chairs, tables, vases and just about everything that was moveable. The piano was too heavy, still Blaine gave it a good try before declaring defeat. The attic became crowded with the things Blaine declared inappropriate or simply too much to be on display.

The kitchen was properly stocked for the first time in months, fresh fruit and vegetables, spices and bread. Milk and yoghurt, a bottle of the finest wine he could manage and some Coke, just in case. And the steaks he had bought, like an afterthought.

Several hours later his house was ready for Kurt's first visit.

After the met in the market, they had ended up at a small café, one that Blaine had never visited but which was, apparently, Kurt's second home. Because Kurt lived nearby and couldn't really concentrate at home, not to mention that he loved coffee. When Blaine asked what was it that Kurt did and required concentration, he realised there a greater power playing with their lives. Kurt, Hummel as he found out between sips of coffee, was a fiction writer.

The countertenor, and here laid the problem because while his voice, so dreamlike, was one of the things Blaine loved most about his Face, it was also the very thing Kurt had learned to hate.

Blaine had always suffered from a severe lack of direction in his life, a circumstance that still affected him even if he had tried, and managed to succeed in several different fields while remaining relatively apathetic. In contrast, Kurt had known what he wanted to do and how he wanted to do it since he was about ten years old, he had led his life with singleminded determination.

It was his voice that determined a lot of his life, his high school years for starters and his choice of college. Mostly it insured him a long series of bad experiences, constant bullying, a short list of acquaintances and even shorter list of friends. Regardless he had remained strong, hoping that in the end things would work out, because that what happened if you worked hard, right?

Well, it didn't. he managed to get a spot in his chosen college, completed three years of musical theatre education and got absolutely nowhere. Though Kurt was willing to take chances to get where he wanted to be, nobody else wanted that risk. And his voice, that quality that made him unique also eliminated his work possibilities. After twenty years of constant struggle he did something he had never considered before, Kurt Hummel gave up.

And in his giving up he found a different career path, not one he had ever considered, but one that shockingly suited him. At the age of twenty, Kurt had dropped out of NYADA, enrolled in NYU and began writing what would become his first book.

Not an instant success, nonetheless it did manage to pave the road for his next novel. A dark and gloomy tale that captured his feelings about his life in general and his previous dream's demise in particular in 150 pages. That one made it, and Kurt got his round of applause at last even if late at night during his book signing tour he still sang to himself in between sips of wine.

The doorbell rang and Blaine, having been waiting just behind it, had to count to ten before opening, so as to not look like the creepy guy Kurt must believe him to be. It was not easy.

"Hey, I'm glad you came. Come in" They wandered into the living room, Kurt observing the house with mild curiosity and only one raised eyebrow when he saw the main window. One curtain hanging from its place, the other covering some random patch of wall.

"Lovely place, interesting décor." Tulip approached the stranger in his house and proceeded to cover his light grey jeans in black fur. "Your cat is lovely too." Blaine took Tulip in his arms and with as much subtlety as he could manage, locked him in the coat closet. Five steps away and he could already hear his house mate's displeasure.

"Yeah, so sorry about that. He is usually well behaved." After the blatant lie, he started setting two cups for tea, and only after the bags were in the cup did he remember to ask. "Would you like something to drink?"

An amused sigh and Kurt was in the kitchen helping him prepare the beverages, things were surprisingly smooth after that.

"So Blaine, what is it that you do?" The large house and ridiculously expensive furniture couldn't pay for themselves.

"I, many things really. I sang for a while, particularly popular among teenage girls and their mothers." He let out a little laugh, he had done many things his very few years, but it all seemed meaningless. On the other hand he felt a bit guilty, the Face had always sounded a little sad, and after talking to Kurt the previous day, he understood why. "I also acted, just TV shows, I never did movies and now I paint. There's an exhibit running in the city, I go every Friday to see the people. That's about it."

Kurt was staring at him wide eyed, "It's, um, it's quite a lot really. I feel like I should have heard of you before now."

"Well, like I said, my audience were usually young girls, and not many people visit galleries nowadays." Besides, and this he would not say, you are one of my paintings; you are my Face even if you don't know it yet. "I'm not really that famous, I mean, I hadn't heard of you either."

Although probably nobody had heard of him before, because Blaine was not stupid, the same face, same eyes, same backstory and profession. Kurt was his, his Face had finally come to him, after speaking to him from his walls for so long. The Face was finally with him. Hopefully to stay for good.