Kurt awoke to the announcement, “Ladies and Gentlemen, we are now beginning our final descent into Milan Malpensa Airport…” He had fallen asleep on Blaine's shoulder, but now—from the feel of things—his head was clearly in Blaine's lap, which was just embarrassing but also kind of hot. Kurt hoped for both of their sake he hadn't been drooling in his sleep. Blaine was absently tracing and retracing the structure of Kurt's face with a finger, moving from his eyebrow to his cheek bone and along his nose.

Reluctantly Kurt opened his eyes. “Hi,” said Blaine softly.

Kurt sat up and touched his hair, sure that it was a disaster. “Hi,” he whispered back.

Just then he felt a jolt as the wheels of the jet touched down on the runway, and he busied himself securing his belongings and preparing to disembark. Blaine did the same. When the captain turned off the fasten seat belt sign with a ping, Kurt turned to Blaine and extended his hand.

“It was really nice to meet you. Thank you for being so kind.”

Blaine enveloped Kurt's proffered hand with both of his. “It was my pleasure, Kurt Kurt Hummel. Thank you for making my trip so…memorable.” He gave Kurt a look that was absolutely steamy, it spoke of lust and sex , passion and delicious filth. Kurt's breath caught in his throat. There was no time to respond without holding up other passengers, and Kurt really didn't know how to respond, anyway, so he grabbed his things and walked off the plane, berating himself for being such an unsophisticated dolt.

As he waited for his luggage at the carousel, Kurt felt strangely bereft. His inner voice lectured him. What did you think? Did you think that Blaine Anderson, international celebrity, was going to ask lowly old you for your phone number? He thought about the look that Blaine gave him just before they deplaned. It was enough to send a tremor through his body. But he knew that, right? He's a performer. He probably gets off on knowing he's provided a besotted fan with six months of masturbation material.

Kurt spotted his suitcase coming around the carousel and hoisted it off. He pulled up the handle and maneuvered it into place. As he turned and looked for the customs entrance, a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. Suddenly, he felt himself caught up in a warm embrace that squeezed the breath out of him. Blaine's voice came into his ear. “Break a leg, my gorgeous songbird.” Then Blaine kissed him on the cheek, gave him a big smile with overly-bright eyes, and was gone. Kurt just stood there staring, still holding onto his luggage. Then he shook his head and joined the queue for customs.

After taking a bus from the airport to the train station, inadvertently buying a ticket on the local train that stopped at every town between Milan and Verona, taking a taxi from the Verona train station to his rented apartment, and climbing the stairs (no elevator) to what would be his third-floor home for the next two months, Kurt was hot, sweaty, tired, and in a bad mood. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into the absurdly small bed in the modern and bright apartment, but he knew that the sooner he got his body on the local time, the easier it would be in rehearsal.

After searching through his luggage for shampoo and conditioner, he stripped off his clothes and started the shower. For a while he just stood under the steam and hot cascade of rushing water, letting the travel grime dissolve. As he shampooed his hair, Blaine's face appeared before his eyelids. He recalled the look on the plane with the promise of hot sex, and he recalled the look in the airport with Blaine's warm smile and his eyes bright with what appeared to be unshed tears. It was the latter that made Kurt's penis twitch, and he reached down with a soapy hand to fist his burgeoning erection. He gave one slow, strong pull from root to tip and then another.

In the course of his adult life, it wasn't the first time he had imagined Blaine Andersons hand on his penis, but it was the first time that he truly knew what those hands felt like on his back, on his arm, and on his face. He'd seen the length of his fingers and the bluntness of the well-manicured nails, and he'd felt the rough finger-tip callouses that are the trademark of all guitarists. As his strokes sped up and his grip tightened, Blaine's face continued to swim before his eyelids, bright and shining, saying his name twice, Kurt Kurt Hummel, and Kurt came undone, coming hard and crying out as he sank to the floor of the shower, his legs no longer able to hold him.

After a time he recovered, stood up and rinsed once again, and shut off the water. Drying off, he wrapped himself in a robe excavated from his luggage, and he began the task of finding homes for all of the items he had packed. Once he had emptied his suitcase and stowed it in a closet, he began to unpack his carry-on items. When he pulled out his laptop and plugged it into the current adaptor to charge it, his eyes caught a flash of white at the bottom of his laptop case.

Peering inside he saw a crumpled white handkerchief. Kurt didn't remember putting it in his case. In fact, he couldn't remember what happened to it after his embarrassing crying jag. He retrieved it from the bottom of the bag and noticed a black smudge on the corner. He smoothed it out and saw writing that was definitely not there when he had used the cloth to wipe his eyes. He moved to the light to inspect it more closely.

Written in ink across the corner was an inscription:

To my virtuoso—

You're in my songs.

-B

Kurt held the handkerchief to his lips as the tears of loneliness and loss began to course down his face.