I can't do this.

Kurt looked into the mirror. The Emperor Nero stared back, wide-eyed and terrified. I can't do this. This is insane. I'm going to go out there and embarrass myself in front of 15,000 people. No, not 15,000 people, 15,000 Italians who know opera. These weren't Americans who came to opera because they were rich and wanted to be seen. These were spectators who lived and breathed opera.

Kurt knew that his characterization of American opera goers wasn't entirely fair, but he remembered one Tennessee politician gushing to a reporter after a performance of Elektra that it was “pretty cool,” and “they put the words right up there in English so you can follow along.” Some people should stick to NASCAR. Oh God, Kurt, FOCUS!

He could hear the second scene commencing, and as he tried to run the first duet through his head, he began shaking harder and harder. Kurt always had some stage fright, but this was more like stage terror. He doubted he could squeak out a single note.

I can't do this.

A voice called through the dressing room, “Signor Hummel?” It came out hoom-MAY-low, but Kurt was used to this particularly Italian take on his name.

“Si,” he replied, putting up a hand.

A boy appeared holding a massive bouquet of white roses, lavender, and lilies of the valley. He set it on the dressing table next to Kurt.

“Per voi, Signor Hummel.”

“Grazie.”

Kurt buried his nose in the bouquet and was assaulted by the calming scent of lavender. With a shaky hand he plucked the card from where it was nestled in the blooms.

Soon everyone in the Arena will know how amazing you are.

I am jealous of each and every one of them.

-B

Kurt's face split into a beatific smile. He stood up and ran his hands down his toga.

I can do this.

He headed for the stage, and as the soprano called, “Pur ti miro,” he answered back, “Pur ti godo,” in a voice that was high, clear, and perfect.

Kurt gave the performance of his life.

Two days later Kurt was sitting on his balcony, feet propped up on the railing, enjoying a glass of Soave and a bowl of bright green, briny olives as he watched the Adige River float past his apartment. Suddenly, a voice he knew floated up from below.

“What if her eyes were there, they in her head? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars. As daylight doth a lamp. Her eyes in heaven would through the airy region stream so bright that birds would sing and think it were not night. O that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!”

Kurt sprung to his feet and leaned over the balcony. His eyes were swallowed by anothers eyes, warm and syrup-colored, as Blaine grinned up at him.

“Blaine! Oh my God, what are you doing here?”

“What does anyone do in Verona? Im quoting Shakespeare.  It is the city of Romeo and Juliet, you know.”

“I know,” laughed Kurt. “But you forgot a line.”

Blaine shrugged. “I'll get it on the second take.”

“Don't go anywhere! I'm coming right down.” Kurt turned on his heels and headed back through the balcony doors. He stopped long enough to check the mirror and grimaced at what he saw. Bringing his mouth to his hand he breathed into it. Olives. He grabbed a piece of mint gum from a drawer and shoved it into his mouth.

From outside he heard Blaine continue, “She speaks. O, speak again, bright angel, for thou art as glorious to this night, being o'er my head, as a winged messenger of heaven.”

Kurt smoothed down his pants and ran out the door, taking the stairs two at a time until he reached the first floor. He ran into Blaine's arms, and they spun around, hugging each other with joy.

Kurt stepped back. “How did you know where to find me?”

“You told me on the plane that you had an apartment in the Residence all'Adige, so I took a chance that I could find you, and here you are.”

“But what are you doing here?”

“I did a concert last night in Milan, and I'm free until my next concert next week in Venice, so I thought I'd see what my good friend, Kurt Kurt Hummel, was doing.”

“Thank you! Thank you for coming to see me.”

“I read that you were a triumph in the Arena.”

“It was a good night. Thank you so much for the flowers. They're beautiful.”

“You're beautiful.” Blaine reached up and rubbed a hand on the top of Kurt's head. “Kicky new haircut?”

Kurt made a face, “I'm playing Nero, Blaine. I've got to look like a Roman emperor."  He bit his lip, "They swear it will grow back. I'm not so sure.”

Blaine walked around Kurt, tapping his lips with his finger in mock consideration. “I like it,” he finally pronounced. “It makes you look…masterful.”

Kurt blushed. “I look like a sheep who's just gone through the clippers.”

“Not at all,” Blaine retorted. He put his hand back up and rubbed back and forth on the short, short hair that felt both soft and bristly at this length.

“I feel naked,” complained Kurt.

“What a good idea,” Blaine answered.