“Let me take that for you, sir.” The flight attendant put out her hand for Kurt's carry-on and flashed a brilliant smile.

“Oh,” Kurt replied, taken aback. “Thank you.” He handed the bag to the flight attendant. He rarely flew first class, and he'd forgotten that it had amenities like customer service and politeness.

While he waited for the attendant to stash his bag, he glanced at the person that would be his seatmate for the next several hours. The man was slouched against the window wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his face.  Rioting from below the cap was dark, curly hair that was about a month past needing a good haircut. He had three days' worth of beard (OK, three days for most men; two weeks for Kurt) and large dark sunglasses that completely obscured his eyes and a good portion of his face. He looked far scruffier than the other well-coiffed and business-suited passengers in first class, but Kurt had enough of an eye for fashion to recognize the man's Earnest Sewn jeans and a Mihara Yasuhiro t-shirt, all this season. Kurt could probably make a couple of house payments with what the man had spent on this one outfit—an outfit clearly meant to convey casualness, or, perhaps, thug. The man was also sporting headphones plugged into an iPhone and a scowl that appeared to be a permanent part of this face—at least as much of his face as Kurt could see. He didn't look friendly. In fact, it appeared like he worked hard at projecting an air of unapproachability.

Kurt gave a mental shrug. At least he wouldn't have to spend the entire flight to Italy being regaled by some sweet old lady's stories about her twelve grandchildren and thirty great-grandchildren.

The flight attendant moved out of the way, and Kurt slid into his seat and gave a small, closed-lipped smile to the man by way of greeting. He got no response, and he didn't really expect one. Kurt stored his laptop case under the seat in front of him, first extracting his latest issue of Opera America Magazine.

He was a paragraph into the first article when the flight attendant returned.

“Mr. Hummel, may I get you something to drink?”

“Oh, um, a white wine would be nice. Any kind. Thank you.”

“And for you, Mr. Anderson?” she asked.

The man—apparently Anderson was his name—lifted one side of his earphones, and Kurt was surprised to hear faint strains of classical music emitting from the earpiece.

“Tomato juice, no ice, with a lime, thanks,” Mr. Anderson said flatly. Then he returned his earphone to his ear and resumed his slouch.

The flight attendant returned soon with their drinks, and Kurt listened while a crew member intoned, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Alitalia Flight number 151, with direct service to Milan…” He quit listening and returned to his magazine as the plane taxied down the runway and leaped to the sky. He tried to focus on an article about Francesca Zambello's latest triumph. Half way through the article, however, his thoughts strayed to something long buried, and his vision blurred as his eyes filled with tears. Clasping his hand over his mouth, he was barely able to catch the sob that escaped his lips. He buried his face in both hands and cried quietly, willing himself to be quiet and hoping to pull himself together quickly before anyone noticed that he was making an embarrassing spectacle of himself. However, it seemed like the harder he tried to quit crying, the more he sobbed, and he finally simply let the misery and loneliness wash over him, hoping against hope that everyone around him was so absorbed in their own reading that they wouldn't noticing the grief-stricken man sitting among them, or, if they did, they would simply think he was sleeping, bent forward with this face in his hands as his elbows rested on his thighs.

Kurt nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a warm palm touch his back and begin to rub slow circles on his spine.

“Hey,” said his seatmate quietly, “Are you doing all right, man?”

The shock of the touch was as though someone had turned off a tap. Kurt's tears immediately stopped. Using the side of his hands, he wiped under his eyes and gave a small smile.

“I'm sorry,” he apologized. “It seems as though you've been stuck next to the sad widower. I bet you wished I was a screaming baby about now.” He tilted his head a little sideways. “Is there any chance you can just ignore me?”

The corners of Anderson's mouth lifted, and he shifted onto one hip so that he could dig into a pocket. When his hand withdrew, it was clutching a handkerchief. An honest-to-goodness white handkerchief. Kurt was stunned.

Anderson held it out to him. “Here.”

Kurt was too surprised to refuse, so he simply obeyed. He used the soft cloth to dry his face. Then he clutched the now-damp item because he wasn't sure of the protocol. Do you give it back used? Do you keep it? Do you offer to dry clean and return it?

“Um…” he started, but the man spoke at the same time.

“Did your wife die recently?”

“Husband,” Kurt corrected. “My husband, and, no, Adam died a little over a year ago.” He paused and realized that the man was looking for a better explanation for his crying jag, so he went on, “It's just…” he gestured pointlessly with his hands and the handkerchief, “It's just that the last time I flew to Italy he was with me. I just remembered something…something he did. It kind of set me off.”

“What did he do?” Anderson asked, and Kurt was a little surprised that the man didn't seem to bat an eye at the mention of Kurt's sexual orientation. Or maybe he batted his eyes a lot; who could tell behind those glasses? Still, it seemed like no big deal; it felt that way.

“Oh, he just…” Kurt paused a moment and blew out his breath in a gust. “He touched me. He used to push my hair away from my face. It's never really in my face, but he'd draw a finger along my hairline anyway, like he was pushing it back. Anyhow, when we would take off, he would do that. He was deathly afraid of flying, but he would touch me, concentrate on me, and then he could handle the flight. I just remembered; that's all. I remembered the touch, and I miss it so much sometimes it hurts. I miss being touched, and it feels like I'll never be touched again.” Kurt suddenly realized he was seriously oversharing with a complete stranger, and he bit his bottom lip to make himself stop talking.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” was Anderson's only response. Kurt couldn't see the man's eyes, but he sounded sincere and kind. It wasn't just a perfunctory response. At least, it didn't sound like it.  It was driving Kurt a little crazy that he couldnt really see Andersons face.  

“Thank you,” said Kurt. “I'd like to promise that I won't cry again, but I might. It just catches me sometimes, but it's been better lately.”

“Well, maybe we can distract you,” there was a pause. “If you want.”

“You're very kind, but I'm sure you'd rather go back to your music.” Kurt gestured to the man's headphones that were now around his neck. “I'm sorry I disturbed you. Really.”

“I'd rather talk to you,” the man replied, and Kurt felt oddly flattered.

“Oh.”

“So, what brings you to Italy?” Anderson asked.

“Work.” That seemed like the simplest reply. Kurt was really trying to reign in the oversharing. He spent most of his days surrounded by divas who thought that everyone was interested in each and every detail of their lives. It made it hard to keep his perspective when around normal people.

“Work…?” The man let it linger.

“Um, singing, actually. I'm an opera singer. Not a really good one,” he threw out quickly. “I'm just...I'm doing an opera in Verona.”

“At the Arena?” asked his seatmate, sounding surprised.

“Yes.” Kurt nodded. “Do you know it? It's my first time.”

“Then you must be better than you say.”

“Well, it's just…they needed a countertenor. There aren't that many of us.”

“What's the opera?”

“Monteverdi. Lincoronazione di Poppea.”

“You're playing the Emperor Nero.” Anderson set up straighter, appearing to be really interested. “That's not a small part.”

Who was this guy? Kurt was clearly sitting next to one of the five people in the world who knew this obscure, seventeenth century opera, and knew it well enough to identify the countertenor part. Kurt felt like pinching himself. He briefly wondered if the plane was flying over the Bermuda Triangle.

“You know opera?” Kurt asked.

Anderson shrugged, “I went to college.”

“Oh-kaaay.” Kurt didn't know what to say to that, but Anderson seemed intent on keeping the conversation going.

“What got you into opera? Did you always want to be an opera singer?”

“Oh, no. I started college for show choir. I wanted to be on Broadway. Still wouldn't mind, actually, if you know someone,” he joked. “I took a class in operatic performance, kind of on a lark, and I fell in love. It's worked out for me okay. Countertenors are kind of a hot property these days, and timing is everything.” God, he was talking too much again.

“Do you get a lot of work? Would I have heard you before?”

“I work pretty steadily. I get more work than a lot of talented people, because I can, you know, hit the high notes. Would you have heard me?” Kurt pretended to ponder this question, “Do you frequent a lot of opera houses in Knoxville and Oklahoma City? Because I play in all the best venues.” He smiled to indicate that he wasn't serious. “Seriously, I'm small time. It's not like I sing with the Met.”

“Hey, you're playing Nero at the Arena. That's not nothing.”

Kurt felt a blush beginning at his neck, and he knew his face would be flaming in no time. He looked down at his lap and issued a small, “Thank you.”

“What's your name?”

“Oh.” Kurt looked up and put out a hand, “Kurt. Kurt Hummel.”

The hand with which Anderson clasped Kurt's was warm and firm and…yummy, and Kurt's eyes widened as a jolt went straight up his arm from the touch. He was never taking his hand away.  The hand he was clasping was his, and you couldnt make him give it back.  

Surprisingly, Anderson didn't release Kurts hand, either. He kept it clasped as he spoke. “Well, Kurt Kurt Hummel, it's very nice to meet you. I'll look for your name up in lights.”

Kurt thought he should be a little offended by the man's slight mocking of the way he gave his name, but it seemed endearing instead of insulting. Then Kurt realized that Anderson didn't offer his own name in return, and he reluctantly withdrew his hand.

“It's nice to meet you, too,” he said softly. “I'll let you get back to…” he gestured vaguely toward Anderson. “Thanks for talking to me.”

“Any time,” said Anderson, slipping his headphones back on.

Kurt crossed his legs and opened his magazine again.

A few minutes later he felt a calloused fingertip on his forehead. It traced down his hairline and around his ear. Kurt's eyes closed involuntarily, and he tilted his face slightly to press his cheek against Anderson's palm. It felt wonderful.

Anderson left his hand against Kurt's cheek for a moment. Then he withdrew.

Kurt turned his head, opening his eyes, and gave Anderson a small smile.

Anderson smiled back.