The apprehension hung heavy on the air as the three of them gathered in the choir room, each holding their own envelope between their fingers, knuckles white with how tightly they were clutching at the thick paper. "You first," Rachel encouraged Finn, squeezing his hand and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

Finn took a deep breath and tore the envelope open without a word, opening the folded sheet and scanning slowly. "I didn't get in," he said softly, voice monotonous, dead to feeling.

Rachel's face fell and she wrapped her arm around his waist and squeezed tight in a shadow of a hug. Kurt's heart sank for his brother, so disappointed after he'd been so sure of his security in his place. "You next, Kurt," Rachel said quietly.

Kurt obeyed her thoughtlessly, withdrawing the paper from its envelope and opening it carefully, as reverently as a man might cradle his firstborn, eyes scanning past the addresses and professional waffle to find the words:Kurt Hummel, we were very happy to receive your application and reviewed your audition very carefully. However, we regret to inform you that you will not be joining us as a freshman at NYADA this fall.

"I didn't get in," he whispered, letting himself crumple the letter between his palms, rolling it into a ball, voice stronger when he said, "I didn't get in," once more, letting it seep into the air around them, become just a simple truth, like Newton's Laws and the notes of a song. "You go, Rachel."

Her eyes were dark with resignation as she opened her envelope and yanked the letter out with swift, eager fingers, scanning quickly, her expression neutral, telling nothing. Rachel looked up at them, Kurt with his arm around Finn and Finn's head resting atop his, squashing his perfectly coiffed hair, her eyes glazed with tears. "I got in," she gasped, shaking the letter in their faces, bouncing on her heels. "I got into NYADA! I'm going to be a musical theatre student under Carmen Tibideaux! I'm going to be famous!"

"Looks to me like someone needs tequila," Santana observes from her perch on the arm of the sofa, painting her nails with her feet resting on the table next to a pile of bills. Kurt just huffs out a breath in reply, pushing his glasses up his nose and continuing to read the score ofRENTheld in his lap.

Santana thumps the bottle down onto their coffee table and hands him a shot glass, filling it and her own and downing it immediately, face scrunching when the alcohol hits the back of her throat. "Dear God, Hummel, stop torturing yourself reading those scores, you know it only drives you to leave messages on Berry's machine, screaming at her seven damn years down the line, it doesn't make you look good," she says, snatching the bundle of papers from Kurt's lap and throwing it towards the trash can. "Drink and tell your Auntie Snix what's bothering you."

"It was seven years ago and it still bothers me," Kurt declares loudly, tipping back with his head in her lap, her fingers sinking into his hair and stroking, moulding it into a high quiff. "I know my audition was fantastic, better than hers, Carmen said so herself, and somehow Rachel got the acceptance and I got left in Ohio, working at the damn Lima Bean. And the way she'd call me every day and tell me how amazing New York was and she was so self-absorbed and so arrogant and every time she hung up I'd question why we were friends in the first place. God, I don't miss that bitch's friendship."

"You and me both, K," Santana says, and the words hang on the air around them, so much they don't want to say, so much to be bitter about, their situations never spoken but irrevocably set in stone. Neither of them will ever achieve their dreams. "Well, better get to work, Bryan will have my head if I'm late again. He needs his performer for his piano bar to work." Rolling her eyes, she kisses him square on the mouth, smearing his jaw with her crimson lipstick, and reaches into her dress to adjust her breasts in the plunging neckline. "I'll be back about four, don't wait up."

Kurt watches her go with a fond smile twitching his lips, and sets the tequila aside, pulling his laptop over and navigating to the listings of shows performing this month, looking for something to critique. He scrolls past several before something catches his eye and he clicks onto the header proudly proclaimingWEST SIDE STORY: 2018 REVIVAL.

His eyes narrow when he findsMaria - Rachel Berryin the cast list, glaring at her winning smile in the tiny headshot. This will be her third Broadway role in the seven years since she opened her NYADA acceptance letter and ran out on him and Finn for a celebratory dinner with her fathers and to start looking for an apartment in New York, which her fathers paid for until she was hired. Seven years since she parted ways with both of them, with their group who had once promised to stay in touch, turning conceited and independent and into someone for them to make fun of those few scant times a year when they manage to get together for a meal.

"NYADA is so amazing, Kurt, and everyone is so wonderful, they're really welcoming and they're already recognising my talent for what it is," Rachel continued, jabbering on and on as Kurt mopped the floor, phone cradled in the curve where neck became shoulder. "My dance teacher is Cassandra July, the one who ruined her career by screaming at some guy on his phone, and she works us hard but she says I'm progressing really fast and it's obvious that I've been in training for dance since I could walk and Carmen was very complimentary and people are saying I could be the first freshman in ten years to get picked up for the Winter Showcase and I ran into Jesse again the other day, he's working with a director who's trying to get Funny Girl revived and he said he'd recommend me for the part and-"

"That's great, Rach, can I talk about my life now?" Kurt asked with thinly-disguised contempt, and he heard Rachel's irritated huff before she obediently fell silent. "Let's see, I'm working at the Lima Bean in the lowest possible position, kids from McKinley are ordering me around all day, they make me close up every night so I don't get home until midnight, I didn't get into NYADA and I haven't got any way to get to New York because I can't afford it, my dad has cancer and my so-called best friend is actually a self-absorbed bitch."

"It's not my fault you didn't get into NYADA, I told you to stay withMusic Of The Nightbut you decided to go withNot The Boy Next Doorjust because your little admirer told you to," Rachel snapped venomously. "You wrecked your own chances, don't blame me for that."

"We're done," Kurt spat into the phone, vision flashing red, anger boiling up in his stomach. "Don't bother calling me anymore. I should never have let you befriend me in the first place."

"That's fine, I've had better offers anyway!" Rachel screamed, and hung up with a clatter, always determined to have the last word. Kurt slipped his phone back into his pocket and returned to mopping the floor, a weight suddenly removed from his shoulders and his heart feeling a lot lighter.

He didn't have to try and be just like Rachel Berry. Dreams could be reached without needing her or NYADA, true performers could be discovered just as well on the streets as in performing arts schools. New York would still be there when he had the money and his father was healthy once more.

Pushing his laptop away, confirmation email detailing where he can collect his ticket winking at him, Kurt drifts into his bedroom, changing into something more appropriate for the theatre than sweats and his oldLIKES BOYSshirt, as he thinks of where seven years out of high school have taken them all. Rachel is on Broadway, obviously, with a well-publicised volatile, on-again off-again relationship with Jesse. Quinn's currently acting as the doe-eyed girl who can do no wrong on a soap opera with rapidly growing popularity, and lives on her own in New York, often visiting them and enjoying their company on drunken nights out. Finn is teaching in Ohio, taking over New Directions from Mr. Schuester when he got married and moved to Washington, helping teenagers learn to perform and guiding them to achieve their dreams, and he's been in a steady, loving relationship for four years. Mike is dancing his way through Europe, with a pregnant Tina along for the ride. Puck is writing screenplays and living the high life in LA, and he and his current girlfriend have been living together for ten months, an absolute record. Mercedes is in LA too, with her second solo album to be out later this year, no boyfriend to speak of but absolutely happy being single.

And then there's him and Santana. Living together in a decent apartment, her a singer at a local late-night piano bar, him a Broadway critic. It seems like a lifetime ago that they were wide-eyed and innocent, wanting to be stars, acting and dancing and singing on Broadway, acting in blockbusters, getting married young and being happy in passionate relationships. Seven years from high school, and neither of them has had a relationship longer than four months since Santana and Brittany broke apart beneath the pressure of a long distance relationship. Neither of them has anything they wanted.

The city lies out like some fantasy before him, carpeted in lights, as he pulls his collar up against the November wind and follows the crowds to the theatre, collecting his ticket and taking his seat, bouncing out a nervous beat against the floor with his heel, footfalls dulled by the carpet. He's always wanted this, the crowds gathering for him, waiting for the curtain to rise and for his voice to soar to the rafters and awake a part of these people they never knew existed, and that Rachel has it so easily dropped into her lap while years of trying to claw his way into the business made no difference to his own career, ended with him being paid to blog on other people's performances while jealousy simmered through his veins.

The show itself leaves a lot to be desired. The sets aren't as beautiful as what Kurt has been led to believe was coming for him by other critics singing praises of the revival, the direction isn't as flawless as hearsay has lent to him and the lighting cues go astray for the entirety ofOne Hand, One Heart. He rolls his eyes over Rachel's Maria, not the sweet, shy woman awoken to love she should be, but eyes steely and voice soaring high above the rest of the cast, competing fiercely to be the one in the spotlight. How the director can let her act like that, he has no idea. But the Jets make him laugh, Anita is flirty and free and shoots telling smiles at the audience during her solo inQuintet, and Tony is wonderful.

Kurt watches him rather than Rachel during their scenes together, seeing the softness in his eyes and the slight flush in his cheeks and sighing in sympathy for another man falling for her charms, being reeled in by her appearance of sweetness and light only to be used as a pawn in her games with Jesse, have his heart broken and be remembered forever more in the reviews as the man who once lured Rachel Berry into infidelity. But when he catches them creeping out for a gulp of air not buzzing with nerves and theatrical tantrums, he sees none of the tenderness in his eyes, and is amazed by his acting. He's truly incredible, not just getting his lines right and making his expressions appear beautifully natural, but capturing and keeping the attention of the entire audience, captivating them all every time he opens his mouth, sending shivers down Kurt's spine when he sings.

DuringCool, he chances a glance down at his program to check who's playing Tony, readingBlaine Andersonand looks back up at the set of Maria's bedroom, Tony asking for her forgiveness and assuring her they'll find a place to be free. This is what he wants, performing in romantic leading roles to thousands who all revere him, for his praises to be sung across the blogs and newspapers and magazines, for people to line up to see him. Not to be stuck like this, making mental notes on what to critique, wishing that eight years ago he'd rejected Rachel's offer of friendship.

He leaves in a rush, straight into a rainstorm and loud exclamations all around him as umbrellas bloom out of the crowd like mushrooms, sliding his coat from his arms and pulling it over his head as he runs through the streets back to the still-empty apartment. Midnight is fast approaching as he tugs his laptop over and begins to write, fingers flying over the keyboard.

After it's been on Broadway nearly a year and a half, and its praises have been sung across the country, I thought I'd check out the revival of West Side Story that began its performances last year. It was a mistake. From start to finish, the show was lacklustre in every department, from the music to the set design to many of the main casting choices.

The only high points were the spark Rayna Goldman brought to the show in her free, flirty role as Anita, and the humour brought the the production by the antics of the Jets. And, of course, when lighting lost it a little duringOne Hand, One Heartand saved us all from the horror of the leading roles serenading each other in a scene that should have been tender but felt forced and contrived.

The casting choices for Tony and Maria, one of the most iconic leading pairs in musical history, were horrifyingly poor. Rachel Berry as Maria came across as whiny and annoying, and seemed only to snatch the spotlight from her fellow performers. Not only that, but one simply knew that everyone in the audience was wondering if she really is pregnant with her notorious, currently on-again boyfriend's baby rather than paying attention to a single screeched word coming from her mouth.

And her Tony, Blaine Anderson, was only okay, though certainly easier on the eyes and ears than her majesty Ms. Berry. It's certainly very ambitious for a first role to be attempting to play Tony, and I feel that he should be dropping down to a less iconic role. Might I suggest Chip in the currently touring production of Beauty and the Beast? His height would certainly lend a certain authenticity to the role, and his hair is already so shiny with gel they wouldn't even need to give him a costumed imitation of porcelain.

If you are looking for a show to see this month, I would recommend trying out Beauty and The Beast, introducing Marley Rose as Belle, rather than the revival of West Side Story. Berry will be incensed, no one's eardrums will burst due to the screeching she calls singing, it's a win-win situation.

- Kurt Elizabeth Hummel, 9th November 2019

Briefly, he wonders if he should feel guilty for being quite so unnecessarily bitchy when it comes to Blaine Anderson, but almost immediately he tells himself that he shouldn't. He's only being honest and giving his personal judgement of the production and its cast, it's what he's paid for. And if a little jealousy helped to work the cruel words from his fingertips, no one will ever be any the wiser.

Lazily looking through his emails, a mug of coffee steaming in his hands and a towel wrapped around his drying hair, Kurt reads through the comments on his latest review, some agreeing with him and many thanking him for driving them away from a show that would merely be an utter waste of time. He goes to respond to each one, fingers flying across the keyboard, before he comes to one that makes him stop and read through, a slight smirk twitching at his lips.

Posted by: blainedevon

Maybe I am tempting fate by looking through reviews of my performance in West Side Story. But I've been lulled into a false sense of security by the wonderful reviews I've been receiving for almost five months, and when I caught yours in a search, I thought I would read it. But your review is the first bad one either Rachel or I have received in our run of the show, and not only do you unnecessarily criticise our performances, you attack our characters and add to the rumour that Rachel is pregnant, which she is not, and it's unfair to keep spreading those lies. It is not necessary to attack our characters, our appearances and our talents because you didn't enjoy our show, and if you disagree with any of this, I invite you to come and speak to me about it in person.

Beneath the comment is an address, and Kurt smirks as he pulls the towel from his head and runs a brush neatly through his hair, intent on going to Blaine's apartment and telling him that he was only simply honest in his review, and if that offends him then he's in the wrong profession. "San, I'm going out, so take your key with you and don't wait up," he calls into Santana's room, to her door sliding open a fraction so she can reach out and give him a thumbs up.

Kurt arrives outside Blaine Anderson's apartment, seeing his door painted a bright yellow, forcing everyone around into his little circle of endless cheerfulness, and knocks three times, playing with the ends of his skull-patterned scarf as he listens to the sound of footfalls inside coming close, and the door opens to Blaine Anderson, looking even shorter when not on a stage placed six feet above Kurt's head and barefoot, hairy feet peeking out from beneath the hems of his insanely tight jeans, why the hell is he dressed like this at half past nine in the evening?

"You couldn't call ahead to tell a guy you were coming?" Blaine asks, lifting an eyebrow at him, a Chihuahua trying to fight with a Great Dane. "I guess you should come in, there's beer in the fridge if you want it, and some biscuits in the tin on the counter."

Unwinding his scarf from around his neck and letting his coat fall away from his body, hanging both on the polished wooden stand by the door, Kurt strides into the realm of a Broadway star, looking around. The apartment is small and cluttered and obviously lived in, welcoming and not as polished and perfect as Rachel's apartment always looks in her stupid magazine shoots that Kurt and Santana always join Quinn and Mercedes on Skype to make fun of. A stack of reviews clipped out of magazines and newspapers is lying atop one of the counters, three vases crammed with flowers are sitting on the low coffee table and a half-eaten box of chocolates is balanced on the arm of the sofa. "So why did you need me to come all the way out here to tell you exactly what I thought of your show?" he asks, tone dripping with condescension.

"What you wrote on your blog wasn't a review, it was a personal attack," Blaine says, eyes stormy with anger as Kurt leans against the counter, hands braced against the wood and legs crossed at the ankle, stretched out before him. "There was no reason for you to add fuel to the rumours that Rachel's pregnant when she isn't, or to be like that about how I look. That was just bitchy, and I've found that you're unnecessarily catty in a lot of your reviews. What exactly fuels those words, hmm?"

"All I do in my reviews is be honest and tell my readers exactly what I think of the shows and their casting," Kurt shoots back, bristling angrily. "That's all there is to my reviews, and if you're not happy about it, and you take it as a personal attack, then you're clearly in the wrong profession."

"Rachel's told me about you," Blaine begins, and Kurt sees the glint in his eye, and dreads what's coming. Rachel took to spreading the most awful rumours about all of them when they cut her out of their lives after graduation, from telling Finn's first girlfriend after they broke up that she was pregnant to breaking up Mercedes' relationship with her last boyfriend with blurry photos of Mercedes and Sam outside a motel when Sam had been visiting Puck, making it appear as if they had been in the place together.

"Everything she's told you is a lie," he says, voice dangerously cold. "All she does is spread crazy rumours about a lot of us who were all at high school together. All that happened was that she got into NYADA, I didn't, and the friendship ended due to her ego."

"I know you're a bitch in your reviews because you're jealous of anyone who's on Broadway, when that's all you wanted for nineteen years and you didn't even get into your dream school because you took a stupid risk that didn't pay off," Blaine says, voice coolly bitchy and self-satisfied, so much like Rachel's on those occasions when he's seen her around the city and she's asked him how his life is with a horribly knowing smirk twisting her lips.

"Stop it," Kurt snaps furiously, vision briefly flashing red, seeing Rachel vanishing from the room with her acceptance letter fluttering from her fingers, leaving him and Finn behind as she left them all behind for fame.

"Maybe if you'd just listened to her, you would've got in and you would never have been stuck in Lima and lost the one friend who helped you through everything, and ended up bitter at twenty-six, still living with someone you hated in high school, and working critiquing something you always wanted to do," Blaine continues, walking slowly towards Kurt, eyes gleaming with pride at making him so angry.

"Stop it stop it stop it stop it!" Kurt screams, barely able to hear anything past the rush of blood in his ears, the angry pounding of his heart, feeling the sweat gathering beneath his arms and at the base of his back, his face heating with a flush of anger. "Do you want me to make you shut up?!"

Blaine arches an eyebrow at him, simply daring him to try, and Kurt steps forward and smashes his mouth hard against Blaine's, feeling the scrape of Blaine's teeth against his bottom lip, digging his fingers hard into the small of Blaine's back to pull him closer, pressing their bodies together. He doesn't let go when Blaine pushes at his shoulders to detach their lips, staring at him with wide eyes. "Why are you...you just kissed me," he says softly, disbelievingly. "You're a critic."

"And you're an actor, now shut up and kiss me," Kurt snarls quietly, and presses his lips back to Blaine's, feeling his body relax against his, hot and hard and muscled, his arms rising to wrap around his neck as if it's the most natural thing in the world, holding him closer and swiping his tongue across Kurt's lips, asking for entry. With a moan, Kurt grants it, loosening his grip to slide his hands up between their bodies, yank Blaine's bowtie off and toss it aside, and tug frantically at the buttons of Blaine's shirt, sending several flying off and skittering away across the floor and throwing the now useless material aside.

"Where's your bedroom?" he asks softly, pressing his thigh up between Blaine's, feeling his erection pressed against his skin through their jeans. Kissing him again, Blaine's hands find his hips to steer him blindly around, backing him up and reaching behind him to turn the doorknob and push him backwards into his bedroom.

While Blaine pulls the curtains across the windows and divests himself of his jeans, Kurt perches on the edge of the bed and looks around as he slowly undresses, making sure to catch Blaine's eye as he slides his hands down his own chest and stomach to open his jeans. There are posters from musicals on the walls, a few photos of a family with Blaine in every photograph, and some of a very pretty auburn-haired girl. A girlfriend? Is Blaine one of those people who experiments with guys just to have a warm body for the night? "She your girlfriend?" he asks, indicating towards the picture, and Blaine tilts his head questioningly to the side.

"No, I'm gay," he says softly, and leans down to kiss Kurt, slow and deep. "Why else would I be here with you instead of meeting Rachel and Jesse for drinks like I said I would?" Satisfaction shoots through Kurt, and he smirks as he drags Blaine down on top of him, sweat-slick bodies moving together. Blaine's cock catches against Kurt's through their underwear, Kurt huffing out a whimper as his teeth clench involuntarily, and Blaine's face scrunching up in ecstasy, head tossed back, chest already shiny with sweat.

"This means nothing," Kurt pants out between them, arching up against Blaine as his teeth scrape against his neck, making his toes curl against the comforter. "It's just a hook-up."

"Absolutely," Blaine agrees, sliding his free hand down Kurt's chest to cup over his cock, straining against his briefs, a wicked gleam in his eyes as Kurt groans and bucks into the warm curve of his palm. "It's just relieving tension." He leans in close enough that his breath whispers hot against Kurt's lips as he breathes, "You know, I've come to understand that certain hook-ups don't come with kissing included."

"Shut up and kiss me," Kurt snarls, pushing himself up on his elbows to smash his mouth against Blaine's, shivering as Blaine's hands curl around his thighs, wrapping his legs around Blaine's hips and digging his heels into the backs of his knees to pull him closer. Smirking down at him, Blaine slides his fingers beneath the waistband of his underwear, teasing at his crack, and Kurt gasps, reality swimming around him before he comes back to himself and pulls at Blaine's wrist, planting his hand firmly against the small of his back.

"Too soon for that," he insists quietly, and Blaine just smiles reassuringly, lifting a hand to brush his bangs back from his face, far too tender a gesture for Kurt's liking. A smirk dancing at the corners of his mouth, Kurt inches Blaine's briefs down, leaving them hanging low on his hips, tracing his hipbones with delicate fingertips, watching Blaine's mouth fall open around a moan, eyelashes fluttering against his cheekbones and cheeks flushing bright. "You like that, baby?"

"Please don't tease," Blaine pleads faintly, and Kurt's heart almost jackrabbits out of his chest, he has such a gorgeous man on top of him, hot and hard and begging him, and no one's touched him like this in so long, and he's rolling them over so he's on top, rolling his hips in smooth, luxurious circles against Blaine's, once, twice, three times before Blaine moans, higher than Kurt would've thought his range could reach, and his hands land vice-like on Kurt's thighs, pushing hard. Kurt obeys the silent order, sliding sinuously down Blaine's body, whimpering at the delicious slide of skin on skin.

"You're so hot," Kurt murmurs against Blaine's hip, wrapping his lips over skin stretched across bone and sucking a deep red mark there, a talisman of their time together. "God, you look so much better when Rachel's not trying to outshine you."

"Could you not talk about her?" Blaine asks in a strangled voice as Kurt's lips move down, skimming over the deep grey fabric of his briefs, tonguing briefly at the dark spot where his cock is leaking to savour the bitter taste, and finding the tender skin of Blaine's inner thigh, scraping his teeth against the flesh and pressing a line of sucking kisses from his knee to the crease where his hip meets his thigh. "Kurt please, don't tease anymore, I need you."

Kurt thrills inwardly at the chokedfuckfrom above as he sinks his mouth around Blaine as far down as he can go, glancing up at him from beneath his lashes, over the slight softness of his belly and the planes of his chest and the graceful arch of his neck to his swollen lips parted around a moan and his eyes dark with lust, and giving him a wink before he pulls back a little, wrapping his hand around what he can't reach with his lips, and starts going completely to town. He uses every trick he's learned in years of one night stands, tracing every little vein and ridge with his tongue, hollowing his cheeks and sucking in earnest, shoving his free hand into his briefs and wrapping it around himself with a moan of relief at the friction, humping unashamedly into his own fist, Blaine shaking and groaning endlessly above him, long strings of praise and choked-back expletives and bitten-off gasps of Kurt's name.

The only warning Kurt gets is Blaine's body seizing up, his thighs quivering and wrapping tighter around his head, before he comes, hot and bitter into Kurt's mouth. Kurt swallows thickly, not giving Blaine a chance to recover before he's climbing onto him and rutting desperately against his stomach, hair bouncing against his forehead with every thrust, and Blaine's groaning and licking his lips, eyes dark and hungry on him. His hands lift from the bed to curve against Kurt's ass, squeezing and rolling, and it's when Blaine draws his hand back, a wicked smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, and brings it back to slap Kurt's ass, the sound echoing around the room, that Kurt comes, soaking the front of his briefs and collapsing against Blaine, their heavy breathing filling the silence.

Exhausted from sex, Kurt simply drifts as he rolls off Blaine. He vaguely hears someone walking away, feels someone edging his ruined underwear off and the cool touch of a flannel to sensitive skin, senses someone sliding in beside him and feels a hand spreading wide and warm across his chest. Blaine's breathing behind him is slow and soothing, and Kurt's eyes slide closed as he simply glides into oblivion.

Morning comes too fast, and Kurt jerks awake with panic constricting his throat, eyes wild as he looks down at his one night stand, searching for the telltale ache of a hangover. But nothing comes, and slowly the memories come back and the room stops spinning, and he can relax, knowing he didn't end up in some sleazy guy's bed again. Blaine is still asleep, face soft and smiling in slumber, and Kurt smiles affectionately despite himself.

His clothes are still on the floor, and he slips his jeans and shirt back on, kicking his ruined briefs beneath Blaine's bed and hoping he won't look. Feeling a little mischievous, he goes into the kitchen and grabs a sheet of paper from a stack, snatching a pen from a cup full of them and scribbling out a review.

As far as Blaine Anderson's performance goes, his technique was not the most graceful and he obviously had little experience in this art. However, his enthusiasm could not be faulted and made for a very enjoyable show. Perhaps I could be invited to a repeat?

Call me: 419-555-0172

K

Kurt leaves Blaine's apartment with a spring in his step, not even caring that his hair is certainly a mess and there's a trail of hickies across his jaw and neck and everyone can tell he's had sex. If they're going to judge him, they can try to resist a very obvious challenge such as Blaine offered last night.

"Somebody got laid last night!" Santana crows the second Kurt walks into their apartment, her eyes raking obviously over him, resting on his wild hair, his neck, and where his shirt is riding up to show the marks of fingers at his hips. "Don't tell me you hooked up with Anderson."

"We had a mature discussion about my apparent trashing of him in my review," Kurt says primly, and Santana arches a knowing eyebrow at him. "I may have to withdraw my comments about how small he is."

"I never knew you could be so crude!" comes another familiar voice, and Kurt whirls around to see Quinn walking into the room, dressed in shorts so tiny they may as well not exist at all and one of Santana's shirts. "You weren't the only one getting a booty call last night, Hummel," she says triumphantly, and bends to kiss Santana hard.

Kurt averts his eyes politely, and glances down at his phone to see there's already a text from an unknown number:It's Blaine. Last night was the best I've ever felt after a performance. I believe I could arrange a repeat this weekend, perhaps? ;)

Laughing, Kurt sends backI'll be there in the front row to review the star once again. We might even be able to arrange for an encore.

Hearing his phone blaring from his bedroom, Kurt casts a suspicious eye on Quinn and Santana and warns, "No funny business, I'm watching." Santana just waves an airy hand at him and nestles her head more comfortably in Quinn's lap, entirely focused on the TV. Grabbing up his phone, Kurt answers with a bright, "Kurt Hummel here, how can I help you?"

"It's Blaine," comes the voice Kurt last remembers yelling his name, and he smirks into the phone, sinking down onto the edge of the bed.

Affecting a coy tone, he says, "Well hello, Blaine. Are we looking for a repeat already? I always feel seeing the show live is so much better than hearing it through the phone."

"Kurt, I'm calling because we need to talk," Blaine says over him, and Kurt tenses, hearing the solemn tone in his voice. "There's a little coffee shop round the corner from my apartment where we can get a private table, can you meet me there in about twenty minutes?" He reels off an address and a list of directions, and Kurt nods slowly.

"Twenty minutes," he echoes, and throws the doors of his closet open, changing quickly out of his sweats and too-small shirt into his tightest jeans and one of his patented form-fitting sweaters in bright red, tugging on his boots and shrugging into a coat, belting it tight around his waist.

"And where are you off to looking like a high-class escort?" Santana asks as he slips back into the living room, tucking his phone into his pocket and casting a suspicious eye over the pair sprawled out on his couch.

"Just meeting the boss for coffee, I don't know what time I'll be home," Kurt answers airily, the lie falling easily from his lips. "But I expect Quinn to be out if I get home after eight. No way am I breaking out my white noise machine because you two value fucking over sleep."

He leaves without bothering to respond to Quinn's call of, "You're just jealous," running down the stairs and hailing a taxi once he gets outside, giving the driver the address Blaine gave him. Gazing out of the window all the way there, he can't help the knot twisting in his stomach, desperately hoping Blaine doesn't want to talk to him because he regrets everything about their night together.

When they reach his destination and Kurt climbs out, tossing the driver a tip as an afterthought, he finds Blaine standing just beside the door, umbrella shielding him from the rain pattering against the streets. "Hey," Blaine says, shifting nervously. "Inside, you can go order and I'll find a table. I'll drink a medium drip."

Nodding dumbly, Kurt stares around as Blaine beckons him inside, looking at the cosy booths filled with couples escaping the grim weather, the pictures of apple-cheeked children and ecstatic brides in wedding dresses crowding the walls and the cheerful smiles of the baristas in their red-and-white checked aprons. "Medium drip, grande non-fat mocha and a slice of cheesecake, please," he says to the middle-aged woman serving him, and looks anxiously around for Blaine while he waits, lost in this sea of family fun.

Blaine appears at his side from seemingly nowhere, taking the tray and guiding Kurt to a table in the back, dodging a pair of children playing on the floor and carefully lowering their orders onto the table, pulling Kurt's chair out for him and taking the seat opposite.

Minutes pass as they sit in uncomfortable silence, Blaine drinking his coffee and Kurt picking morosely at his cheesecake, stomach too unsettled to eat. Finally, he breaks the silence, Blaine looking up at him as he asks, "So, why did you want me to meet you here? And where exactly are we?"

"My friend's mom owns a huge chain of coffee shops, lets her name some of them," Blaine answers sweetly. "This one is called Mocha, Choco, Latte Ya-Ya." He laughs at Kurt's groan at how terrible the pun is, and says, "I know, I know, she was going through a bigMoulin Rougephase." He empties another packet of sugar into the remains of his coffee and says, "What happened between us the other night was a mistake."

Arching an eyebrow at him, simply daring him to go on, Kurt sips at his coffee as Blaine continues, "I don't want you to think that I'm the kind of guy who just leaps into bed with people like that. I've been with two guys my entire life, I was in a committed long-term relationship with both of them when we had sex, then suddenly you're there in front of me and we're arguing and then you're kissing me and I didn't have a clue what to do so I just...let you."

"Well, it's okay, your lack of experience didn't show up in what we did, and I'm very used to the one night stand way of life," Kurt teases, hoping to get a smile from Blaine's solemn, pinched expression. "I've never left my number for anyone before. Never wanted to see a," he slides his foot up Blaine's calf beneath the table, "repeat performance before you."

"I don't think we should do it again." The words spill from Blaine in a rush, and Kurt's foot freezes in its journey up Blaine's leg, sliding back down as Kurt stares across the table at Blaine, eyes lowered and slumped in his seat, looking miserable. "If we make it a regular thing, it'll ruin any chance of us being friends. And sometimes Rachel does say complimentary things about you. You seem like someone I'd want to be friends with, and I don't just hook up with my friends. I think it's a stupid thing to do and friendships can't survive it."

"Look, Blaine, if it makes you uncomfortable, we don't ever have to touch each other again, your feelings about physical intimacy matter," Kurt says softly, reaching across the table to raise Blaine's chin so he can look him in the eye. "If you want to be friends, we'll try that. I'll keep a lid on the flirting and I won't kiss you again. Just promise me one thing."

"Anything," Blaine says gratefully.

Kurt's eyes turn steely. "Don't believe a word Rachel says about me or anyone from McKinley. The ends of those friendships were not pretty."

"I sort of stopped believing everything she said after she told me one of the girls fooled her boyfriend into thinking he'd got her pregnant via hot-tub."

"No, that part's true." At Blaine's wide-eyed disbelief, Kurt laughs and explains, "My stepbrother never paid much attention in Sex Ed. classes."

Not once has Kurt ever been tempted to pursue a friendship with his one night stands. Most of the time, the harsh light of day teaches him what awful taste he has when his vision was blurred by too much alcohol and his blood thrumming with the bass. But Blaine's charming and sweet and looks at him so earnestly when he's talking about marriage equality or the unfair treatment of celebrities by paparazzi who only want to stir up trouble, he can't help wanting to be around him more.

Sometimes they push too hard at their boundaries. Blaine's hand lingers a second too long, low on Kurt's back, when he's steering him into another quaint coffee shop in a forgotten corner of the city, bringing back the stinging sound of a slap that bowed Kurt's back and brought Blaine's name spilling from his lips like a benediction. Kurt will tug affectionately at Blaine's tie and suddenly they'll both remember frantic fingers, clumsy in their lustful haste, pulling at a bowtie to drag it loose and leave dark bruises sucked into sensitive skin. They flirt, gently nudging at each other and teasing, Kurt always trying to make Blaine break with looks from beneath his lashes and knowing smirks and soft brushes of his fingertips against exposed skin. What he's trying to achieve, he's not quite sure.

Lying in bed, his white noise machine turned up full, trying to drown out the sounds of Santana's bed creaking next door, the headboard crashing against the wall and shaking the dust of years down like a frost onto his bed, Kurt reaches desperately for his phone and searches for the nearest gay bar, texting Blaine directions followed byMy roommate won't stop fucking her new friend with benefits, want to help me find someone to return the favour?

Blaine texts back almost immediately, a cheerfulI just got out the shower, give me twenty minutes and I'll meet you there.Kurt's mind flashes to Blaine naked, the muscles of his chest and the slight softness of his belly, his muscled thighs, a groan curling from his lips and heat simmering low in his belly, imagining a drop of water carving a path over Blaine's skin, following that path with his tongue.

Shaking his head frantically to dissolve the fantasy, Kurt stands and searches through his wardrobe for something to tempt hungry eyes to him, wanting to draw attention to his legs, his ass, his hips, give any strangers some idea of what they might have a handful of if they decide to take him home. He selects white jeans, so tight wearing underwear would just ruin the line, and a clinging black shirt, listening briefly to make sure Santana's still preoccupied and won't make fun of him before he picks out his favourite corset, silver boning patterned with intricate black swirls.

Bending himself over his nightstand to weave himself into the corset, pulling the laces as tight as he comfortably can, Kurt glances up at himself in the mirror and tilts his head consideringly. He looks almost dangerous, younger than his twenty-six, with the corset pulling attention to his broad shoulders and slim waist, his hair wild, a piece of forbidden fruit he knows strangers will be only too happy to sink their teeth into.

Lacing up knee-high boots, in white to elongate his legs even further, Kurt sends Santana a text of his whereabouts he knows she won't get until long after he's gone and strides out of the apartment. He hails a taxi once he's out on the street and reels off the address, smirking at the way the driver's eyebrows disappear beneath his hair and he clucks disapprovingly under his breath.

Body humming with anticipation, the excitement of the atmosphere thick in his veins, making his head swim and loosening his grip on his inhibitions, Kurt bobs on the balls of his feet while he waits for Blaine at the entrance. The familiar form appears at the end of the street after ten minutes of waiting, and Kurt beckons him closer with a crook of his finger, linking his arm through Blaine's, flashing his ID smoothly at the bouncer as they walk inside.

"You look incredible," Blaine murmurs as they slide into seats at the bar, nudging Kurt's ankle with his toes. Kurt smiles and gives Blaine a hot, stripping look, eyes flickering over his tight red polo tucked into black jeans, knowing exactly what is under every inch of that close-fitting material. Colour floods into Blaine's cheeks and he drags his eyes away from Kurt, keeping them on the shining top of the bar as Kurt raps his knuckles for attention and orders cocktails.

Kurt hopes he'll never be too old to be excited by this, feeling so many eyes on him through the alcohol-scented darkness, knowing so many people are staring at him and desperate to take him home, the very thought of it tugging hotly in the pit of his stomach as he downs his glass in three quick mouthfuls, craving the warm, buzzing feeling of release that comes with drunkenness.

Blaine turns out to be a complete lightweight. Really, Kurt is ashamed of how quickly Blaine gets drunk, swaying on his stool, his head falling onto Kurt's shoulder, mumbling about how warm and pretty Kurt is, like an embroidered pillow. Raising his shoulder to jerk Blaine's head up, unwilling to let him fall asleep and get drool stains on this corset, Kurt glances up at him from beneath his lashes, sucking his bottom lip briefly into his mouth for good measure, and innocently suggests, "Body shots?"

Kurt can feel the weight of a hundred eyes on them, smirking at the way the knowledges (knowledge?) sends shivers of pleasure down his spine, making sure to arch his back and spread his legs for Blaine to lean over him as he stretches out over one of the unoccupied tables, arms behind his head as Blaine clumsily shakes salt over his stomach. The lights in the room blur into a continuous whirl when Kurt's eyes fall half-shut at the warm, wet touch of Blaine's tongue to his skin, meticulously licking away every grain of salt despite his current state of intoxication.

God, it shouldnotbe this erotic, Blaine with his curls springing loose of their gel and his cheeks red with drink, laving roughly at his stomach, but Kurt can't help the way each lick seems to send a jolt of blood straight to his cock, hardening against the stiff material of his jeans, obvious with how tight the material is stretched over him. He watches with hungry eyes as Blaine finally pulls back, licking his lips with a loud smacking sound and downing the shot, sitting up and shoving his shirt back down into its rightful place.

"Dance with me?" he asks, offering Blaine a hand as the club shakes with an electric beat, imbibed with lust, the lyrics dripping with want. Eyes glittering, Blaine nods eagerly, and Kurt spins him around, plastering himself against Blaine's back and curving his hands around Blaine's hips, bringing him into a steady rocking rhythm, unashamedly grinding himself against Blaine's ass, pressing teasing kisses against the back of his neck.

"I thought we weren't going to do this any more," Blaine gasps, head dropping back against Kurt's shoulder, neck bared and tempting, olive skin glistening with sweat. His fingers slide between Kurt's at his hips, pressing Kurt's palms hard into the jut of his hipbones, unashamedly circling desperately into his touch.

"I've always believed that promises are made to be broken," Kurt murmurs wickedly, and spins Blaine in his arms to kiss him, frantic and messy, dirty and desperate, hands sliding down the curve of his spine to grab at his ass and pull him close, smirking darkly at the insistent press of Blaine's erection against his thigh. "My place or yours?"

"Yours," Blaine gasps as Kurt nips down his neck, and Kurt laughs, dizzy with triumph and lust and alcohol, as he grabs Blaine's hand and drags him out into the night, kissing him in the taxi, hand sliding up his thigh, tantalizingly close to his goal when the car slows to a halt and the driver gruffly orders them out.

Punctuating every word with a kiss as they stumble their way up the stairs, Blaine says, "I thought you said your roommate was in tonight."

"If I have to listen to her with her fuck buddy every night, she can listen to me with mine just once," Kurt says breezily, yanking the door to the apartment open and shoving Blaine inside, dragging him into his bedroom. "Clothes off, let me see your gorgeous body."

"Are you going to fuck me?" Blaine asks, eyes shining with excitement.

Kurt strips off his corset and shirt, crawling over to Blaine and straddling his waist, smirking wickedly down at him. "Not yet," he whispers. "Just be patient, baby." He leans down to kiss every new inch of exposed skin as he unbuttons Blaine's shirt, heart beating faster when Blaine moans and arches into his touch, fingers sinking into his hair.

Blaine pushes him back, tearing his shirt desperately off, rutting wildly against him until Kurt presses him into the bed, shoving his hands against the headboard and ordering, "Hold on to that, don't let go." Bright golden eyes gaze up at him as he slows their pace, rolling his hips in luxurious circles against Blaine's, squeezing his eyes shut and moaning as the swollen head of his cock nudges against his zipper. "God, you're sohot."

"Want you closer," Blaine slurs out, and Kurt leans down to kiss him, Blaine's hands snaking down between them to unzip him and shove at his jeans until they begin sliding off. "No clothes."

It takes a few minutes of frantic wriggling, but they're naked together in bed, moving together in slow, measured movements. Blaine smiles up at Kurt, dark eyes shining at him through the murky darkness, and it throws Kurt off for a moment, the rhythmic thrusting of his hips stuttering off-tune as he wonders on how that simple expression affects him, makes him consider whether this is a mistake.

Blaine doesn't leave when it's over. He stays in Kurt's bed, loose-limbed and half-asleep, while Kurt tiptoes around the apartment to get a wet cloth to clean them both up, the act feeling strangely tender with Blaine's sleepily half-lidded, deep gold eyes on him. His arms are open and waiting when Kurt returns, and he holds Kurt close, warm against him, peppering sweet kisses against his shoulder until his breathing evens out.

Kurt lies awake, staring up at the ceiling, the warmth of Blaine's arm slung casually across his waist feeling like a fire that he knows will burn him if he stays too long.

But he'd rather just let Blaine consume him than ever leave this moment.

BROADWAY STAR ADMITS TO PREGNANCY, ANNOUNCES EIGHTEEN MONTH SABBATICAL

Rumours have been flying for months that Rachel Berry is pregnant with the child of her notorious on-again off-again boyfriend, Jesse St. James. With her run ofWest Side Storyin its final week, the star has stepped forward and announced that she is currently twelve weeks pregnant with her first child and greatly looking forward to becoming a mother.

"Performing is my first love, but it would have to be a photo finish between my stage and my Jesse," the beaming brunette told this reporter, giving first glimpses of her slight baby bump. "We're both ecstatic to be bringing a life into the world, and we have made the decision to fully commit to each other." When I excitedly asked if wedding bells are ringing, she laughed and explained, "If we do get engaged, we're going to wait until I've recovered from the birth. I'm taking eighteen months away from Broadway, but that doesn't mean I'm going to stop being busy."

Upon pursuing the subject, this reporter was told by a grinning Ms. Berry, "Since he was in college, Jesse has been working on adaptingMoulin Rougefor the stage. Now he's finally finished, so we're going to work together to find a cast and get them onto stage. Obviously, he's going to do a lot of the grunt work, but I'll be there behind the scenes to keep it all running smoothly. We've already begun approaching people to be cast, and the wonderful Rayna Goldman [currently playing Anita inWest Side Story] has agreed to play Nini. We're hoping to start a trend of adapting wonderful musical movies to the stage."

"I don't know why you're making me come with you," Santana whines as Kurt tugs her down the street, not caring if she stumbles flat onto her face in her heels. "I want to see Rachel prancing about as the star of the show even less than I want to spend more time with your fuck buddy."

"Look, Rachel texted me for the first time in years to ask me to drag you there, because she wants to talk with you about casting you in her and Jesse's production of Moulin Rouge," Kurt says, to Santana looking at him with wide eyes. "She thinks you'd be a fantastic Satine, and she has a bunch of music producer friends she wants to invite to take a look at you and maybe give you a record deal or something."

"Huh," Santana murmurs, linking her arm through Kurt's and walking along beside him as they push through crowds into the theatre. "Guess she isn't a completely selfish bitch after all. But why are you coming? You've already seen this show."

"I want to support Blaine on his last night," Kurt says haughtily, ignoring her quirked eyebrow and suggestive smirk as he hands their tickets to one of the attendants and tugs her by the hand to the seats, shushing her harshly as the lights dim.

Watching Blaine move around the stage, eyes big and bright and face lit up with the exhilaration of performing and the lights falling prettily over him, Kurt can't help the way his heart warms him, out to the very tips of his fingers and toes. Blaine is beautiful on the stage, where he belongs, eyes finding Kurt for an almost imperceptible moment duringSomewhereand giving him a smile that makes Kurt's knees go weak. He knows he shouldn't feel this way, after knowing Blaine a matter of months and agreeing to stay strictly friends, with only the occasional benefit, but he does, and he doesn't want to change it.

As the magic of the show fades from the theatre, and Santana slips backstage to discuss her casting possibilities with Rachel, Kurt greets Blaine at the door, finding him drenched with sweat and trembling with excitement, wrapping him into a close hug. "I know you probably have some sort of wrap party to go to," he whispers into Blaine's ear, kissing his temple. "But I was hoping to go home with you. Just the two of us, completely alone."

Somewhere in the air, as Blaine's eyes glow bright and a soft, "Okay," falls from his lips, the energy between them changes. Their fingers and hands slide together through the ride home, memorising every whorl and curve and dip. They stumble up the stairs to Blaine's apartment, holding onto each other, anchoring each other as they drift into kiss after kiss, sweet and sensual and knowing, deeper than ever before, lost utterly in each other. As clothes fall to carpet the ground, Kurt lets himself fall into Blaine's warm mouth, his strong hands at Kurt's waist, easing him down into the bed with a tender smile on his lips.

Blaine makes love to him, there's really no other way to describe. His eyes are wet and wide in the murky darkness, hands gentle on Kurt's skin, opening him up with those careful fingers, murmuring nonsensical reassurance as he pushes slowly into him, until they're matched, hip to hip, nose to nose, heart to heart. And Kurt just lets it happen, curls his fingers into Blaine's sweat-damp hair and tugs him down to kiss him, caught up in the movement of their lips matching with Blaine's hips undulating into him, breaking him apart, Blaine's lips trailing over his flushed face to kiss away the tears he's not aware are falling.

Kurt's name falls from Blaine's tongue like a whispered prayer, a spark to light a flame, as he comes with his forehead creased and eyes squeezed shut and mouth hanging slack, lips swollen-wet with kissing. Blaine's name rests on Kurt's lips as the heat flares up his spine, consumes him, carrying a weight that physically hurts Kurt to acknowledge, so instead he only breathes as he comes in spurts, scattering his flushed chest with a constellation of white flecks.

The bedsprings squeak out as Blaine climbs up, kissing Kurt's forehead before slipping away to find something to clean them both up, leaving Kurt lying on the bed, aching with longing and confusion, utterly terrified of the enormity of the feelings weighing on his belly, keeping him from moving away from them, trapped like a bug, pinned helplessly as he has to face the truth: he's in love with Blaine.

Night presses in at the windows, the moonlight striping the bedspread silver, as Blaine carefully cleans Kurt's skin of tacky drying come, kissing his temple and wrapping an arm over his waist, hand against his heart. "You don't need to say anything," he murmurs against Kurt's neck, half-muffled. "You just need to know: I love you, Kurt."

It takes forever for Kurt to finally surrender to sleep, and when he wakes Blaine is still there, sweet breath against the back of his neck and mumbling indistinctly as Kurt gets up, pulls his clothes on and leans over to kiss Blaine's forehead sweetly, his hot tears falling onto Blaine's skin and making his face wrinkle momentarily with confusion. Finding a pen and a scrap of paper, Kurt leaves another note.

You were perfect.

I'm so sorry.

It's always a risk, to try something new. Standing at the edge of a cliff top, staring out over the ocean to the horizon far beyond, wondering if you can truly muster the courage to step out over that rock and let yourself fall. So many times people jump, and when they reach the ground, they find they should never have been so scared in the first place.

For months posters and banners have advertised the coming ofMoulin Rouge!to the stage, written and directed by Jesse St. James, co-directed by Rachel Berry, starring Blaine Anderson as Christian and introducing Santana Lopez as Satine. It's been so hyped up it seemed pride might come before a fall, and the production of the boyfriend-girlfriend team would end up a failure.

To anyone who took a bet with their friends declaring that outcome, I say, shame on you, and I pity your terrible waste of money. The show was an absolute triumph, from the haunting opening melody of Nature Boy to Satine's tragic end, played carefully and genuinely by Anderson and Lopez. Jesse St. James took the iconic film and made it into what could quite possibly be the best stage adaptation this century. The sets were beautiful, lighting and music flawless, and this group of actors captured the story so beautifully it brought tears to my eyes.

Rayna Goldman may only have had a brief role, but, as is her way, she made Nini shine for those brief moments she was onstage, vindictive and catty and free with her flirtations. Blake Montgomery also sent shivers of revulsion through the audience in his lecherous portrayal of the Duke, and Berry's decision to cast long-time darling of the stage, Marianne Hamilton, as Ziddler turned the role on its head, playing the character similar to the irritating nurse in Romeo and Juliet.

Santana Lopez lit up the stage, and I'm not just saying that because our apartment is in her name and she'll kick me out if I say a word against her. Despite being new to the stage, she listened to all critique with a tolerance and grace that I don't remember her displaying in high school, and certainly shocked the audience, expecting such a newcomer to be bumbling and learning on her feet, with her beautiful portrayal of Satine. Sensual, beckoning, vulnerable, emotional, ambitious, dreamy - she took every facet of Satine's character, spun a little of herself into it and came out with a glorious creation.

But, the true star of the stage, who uplifted the entire show, was Blaine Anderson as aspiring writer Christian. Much like the man playing him, Christian is seen as ambitious, creative, devoted, loving, melodramatic in his serenades, and a little naive. Blaine brought true comedy to the show with his confusion in the famous seduction scene, and his beautiful voice in each song, his passion throughout the wonderful show, was all so beautiful.

Blaine is someone who can make you laugh and cry. He'll teach you to live and laugh and love, and he'll work his way into your heart so slowly you won't notice until he's there for good. I know he reads his reviews, so I just have one thing to say: Blaine Devon Anderson, I am desperately in love with you. And I'm not afraid any more.

Please say I'm not too late.

- Kurt Elizabeth Hummel, 23rd September 2020