‘...and at nine-thirty you have a meeting with Mr Kurt Hummel,' said one of Blaine's many assistants. He stopped trying to remember their names a long time ago.

‘Who is that?' he asked. Hummel...he didn't recognise the name. Nice name, though, Blaine considered.

‘He's the young man writing your biography? I told you about this a month ago, again last week, and again yesterday, Mr General,' the girl told him, trying not to sound too annoyed. Around here, that sort of thing got you fired.

‘Right. Yes,' Blaine said. ‘When do I have to see him?'

‘Nine-thirty...that's in ten minutes,' she told him, as they arrived at Blaine's office.

He nodded. ‘Get me a coffee,' he ordered, collapsing into his large chair and yawning. The girl nodded and left the room, glad to escape. Blaine knew he was mean. He couldn't help it. In this job, you couldn't afford to have a conscience.

His eyes drifted to the pictures of his family. His wife, Quinn, and their children. Blaine didn't even love Quinn. He'd married her for money and status. It was what he had to do in order to get ahead. He was a family man with traditional values. He had an enormous house and more money than he knew what to do with. On Sundays, he went to church, went hunting and bought something home for dinner. He'd partake in racist jokes if he needed to. He'd voiced his support for don't ask, don't tell and his opposition for gay marriage. He badmouthed Obama in public. He sent his kids to private schools. He held honorary degrees from six universities. He said homeless people were not people. He evaded his taxes. He'd never lifted a finger in his life. The country loved him. But all these things were not what he was really about. Truthfully, Blaine didn't know who he really was. He'd spent his entire life pretending and lying to get ahead. He'd been doing this for so long that he had no idea what was fake and what was real anymore.

His assistant came back with his coffee and Blaine drank it quickly. It was almost nine-thirty. He sighed and sat up in his chair, remembering that he ought to be on his best behaviour for Mr - Mr - well, whoever was writing about him. Blaine chewed a mint to kill the coffee smell on his breath, as someone knocked on the door.

‘Come,' he called out. A young man entered. Blaine was speechless for a moment, taking in the man's slim yet sturdy frame, his soft chestnut hair, his rosy skin and piercing eyes. He shook himself out of his daze. ‘Ah. Mr Hummel,' he greeted, holding out his hand.

‘Mr - I mean, General Anderson, it's a pleasure - no, an honour, to meet you. Sir,' the man stammered. Blaine smiled, finding his nerves somewhat endearing.

‘Likewise,' he returned, as Kurt took his hand. That first touch was like electricity to Blaine. He held on, for what was perhaps slightly longer than necessary.

‘Um,' Kurt murmured, feeling a little awkward. Blaine dropped the younger man's hand quickly, and walked backwards, away from him. There was a pause as the two stared at one another, unsure what to do. It was Kurt who spoke first.

‘Shall we get started?' he suggested. Blaine nodded gratefully.

‘Yes. I was about to say the same thing,' he said, even though that wasn't remotely true. He'd lost the ability to speak coherently upon touching Kurt.

‘So. General Anderson,' he began as he set a dictaphone on the table, but Blaine interrupted.

‘Please. Call me Blaine,' he said softly. Kurt nodded stiffly and Blaine could have sworn he was blushing.

‘Yes. Blaine,' he complied, loving the way the word tasted in his mouth. He idly wondered how Blaine would taste in his mouth...but snapped himself out of it. This man was the head of the CIA for god's sake. He was married, with kids. And he was a homophobe, Kurt reminded himself. ‘Let's talk about your childhood,' he began, retrieving a notepad from his bag.

***

Blaine didn't realise how much time had passed until Kurt began packing away the dictaphone. They'd gotten over the initial awkwardness and fallen into an easy conversation. He'd been worried about saying something wrong, but Kurt had explained how the dictaphone writing method worked - Kurt would go home and listen to the tape, only typing up the sections of conversation that was relevant. He would then show this to Blaine, who would have final say about what went into the book. So Blaine felt much more comfortable in that respect. However, he'd been feeling something odd in his chest the longer Kurt talked. It wasn't a pain or anything; it wasn't even bad, really. It was the way Kurt laughed, they way he would run a hand through his hair, the way his eyes sparkled with each smile. But Blaine was fairly certain that he wasn't meant to notice things like that.

‘We've been at this for nearly three hours, you know,' Kurt remarked, glancing at his watch.

‘Really?' Blaine replied, momentarily distracted by the way Kurt's shirt rode up slightly as he slung his bag over his shoulder. He could see pale flesh exposed, and in that moment he wanted nothing more than to touch Kurt, kiss Kurt...Blaine turned away and held his head in his hands. Why was he having these thoughts? He'd never had these kinds of thoughts. Ever. He suddenly realised how rude this must look, and turned back to Kurt, who was watching him worriedly.

‘Are you alright, Blaine? You're acting - strangely,' he said hesitantly.

‘I'm fine,' he snapped back, glaring at the floor. He couldn't look into Kurt's eyes. He couldn't.

‘It's just - I mean, I don't know you, but - ‘

‘Yes! Precisely! You don't know me, you know NOTHING about me, so why do I feel like this?!' Blaine shouted, frustrated tears beginning to fall. He'd really lost it. This was an entire life of holding himself back and closing himself off, twenty two years of false marriage and fourteen years of having the most stressful job a man can have. He was the head of the CIA...the head of the CIA. He ran an internationally recognised, prestigious company. He was one of the most respected men in the world, even though no-one truly knew him. Blaine didn't know himself.

Kurt slowly walked over to him, passing him tissues. As he took them, Blaine felt Kurt touch his arm, squeezing it gently in reassurance.

‘I'm sorry,' Blaine said, voice thick with tears. Kurt shook his head.

‘No. Don't apologise. We all need to cry sometimes,' he comforted Blaine. They sat in silence for a moment before Kurt asked him, ‘What did you mean before? When you said you felt ‘like this'? What did that mean?'

'That - that was nothing,' Blaine muttered.

‘Blaine,' Kurt said gently, tilting his chin up so they were eye to eye. ‘Blaine,' he said again. ‘Tell me,' he all but whispered.

Blaine opened his mouth to talk, but no sound came out. Instead, he found himself reaching up to Kurt and kissing him. He decided to stop thinking about what all of this meant. He just wanted to feel. He'd never felt anything. And now he was feeling everything.

should I continue?