The bouquet of fuchsia stargazer lilies is enormous—possibly ginormous—half as tall as Blaine is himself. None of the other performers with whom he’s sharing the dressing room have received anything quite so ostentatious. Blaine’s pretty sure even the guy playing the lead didn’t get an arrangement like this. The card reads, “Break a leg, Squirt! Remember, there are no small parts, only small actors. Love, Cooper J. Anderson, SAG-AFTRA.” One of Cooper’s headshots is tucked into the tiny envelope behind the card. Of course.

“From your boyfriend?” someone asks.

Blaine shakes his head, replies with a surprisingly tetchy, “No.” He resists adding anything about his idiot brother who has an insane need to transform these moments into something somehow about him. Nor does he defensively mention that his boyfriend has far better taste than this. Just says, by way of explanation, “Family who couldn’t make it.”

“They must be proud of you.”

Blaine nods; it’s not impossible. He finds an out of the way corner upon the chipped formica counter between the sinks and his station to stash the ridiculous monstrosity, and he hopes the hot bulbs surrounding the mirrors aren’t so close they’ll wilt the blooms. Are lilies even the appropriate flower for this? It’s his Broadway debut, not his funeral. Or maybe that’s just white lilies. Or maybe Cooper has sent him a passive aggressive reminder that Broadway is dead, that Blaine’s wasting his time, and that Blaine should be in Los Angeles, not New York. It’s not an invalid sentiment, Blaine supposes; he’s had his moments of doubting the degree to which he’s truly advancing a future career by performing as Pink Elephant Number Three. No one will even see his face. He’s going be covered head to toe in a bulky, neon pink elephant costume. He’s only in the spangled bodysuit for now; the more substantial parts of his costume are waiting in the wings.

Not that he’s ungrateful or ashamed—and he knows he has to start somewhere—it’s just not what he had expected or planned. He’s learned though, through watching Kurt and Rachel, that New York dreams rarely manifest easily or in the ways one expects. But going from standing ovations as the star to one of an assortment of dancing pachyderms doesn’t exactly feel like progress. Cooper is right about one thing, however: there are no small parts. Blaine’s going to be the best damned pink elephant on parade he can be, without upstaging anyone. He was in the Warblers long enough before they invited him to lead them: he knows how to be a team player.

Blaine sits back down at his station and reaches for the pottle of hair fudge. What’s terrifying him most tonight is that his mother will be in the audience. She hasn’t come to one of his performances since he was… Blaine tries to remember the last time as he scoops out a generous fingerful of the mousse textured product. It was probably his middle school’s production of “A Christmas Carol” in which Blaine played Jacob Marley.

The other actors and dancers are leaving the dressing room, one by one, for the greater comfort of the green room. But Blaine lingers at his mirror, taking his time combing his curls straight, flat, and shiny, enjoying the gradual tapering off of chatter and bustle. The electric excitement of his cast mates is infectious, but Blaine likes to have some quiet to center himself.

He sent two tickets to his parents. His father texted him to say he wouldn’t make it because of work commitments (though Blaine remains skeptical of the excuse), so his mother gave the spare ticket to Rachel at Kurt’s suggestion. Which is great, because thinking about having Rachel in the audience on opening night soothes his nerves.

She’d been as excited as Kurt when he’d told them the news of his being cast. They’d gone out for celebratory drinks. Kurt ordered a bottle of pink champagne for the table—it was the only possible drink with which to celebrate, he maintained. And once the champagne was gone, Rachel had bought them rounds of cosmopolitans. Her toast had been, “I’m so unbelievably jealous, but you’re too awesome to resent. Here’s to well deserved success!” Kurt had followed with a drier, “May we all be seeing pink elephants before the evening’s done with us.” And then Kurt had grinned with a fierce and sincere joy, laughed, and said, “Blaine, I’m so proud of you!”

Blaine remembers well how Kurt’s lips had been cool and damp with condensation when Blaine had kissed him that evening; he remembers the sweet tartness of Kurt’s mouth and the smiling curve of his lips that Blaine couldn’t seem to kiss away. Yes, that was definitely joy.

But for all the happiness of their celebrations, by the time they’d fallen into bed at home, Blaine had grown somber if not entirely sober. “Should I invite my parents?” he’d asked Kurt.

Kurt paused in buttoning up his pajamas. Took a breath before replying. “Do you want to?”

“Honestly, I don’t know.”

“Well…” Kurt said slowly. “How would you feel if they weren’t there?”

Blaine fell back into his pillows with a sigh. “Don’t know,” he muttered. “Disappointed I guess.”

“Okay,” Kurt said. “And if they were there?”

That’s easier. “Terrified.”

“So which is worse, terror or disappointment?”

A shrug. “What if I invite them and they don’t come?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Kurt said as he lay down with a sigh of his own, rolled to his side facing Blaine, and took Blaine’s hand in his. “You can always invite mine.”

In the end, he decided he couldn’t avoid inviting his parents. So he did it by way of the tickets he sent, thereby minimizing the chance of rejection, he thought. When his father declined, the disappointment was sharp, but relief soon followed. His Mom coming would be all right. She and Kurt got along. There was mutual respect and a strange, if slightly strained, affection between them. Burt and Carole were coming too, but they couldn’t make opening night.

Blaine’s still caught in the memory, staring blankly at his own reflection, when the same, much beloved voice he’s been imagining comes from behind to startle him from his reverie. “Nice trunk,” Kurt drawls.

“Kurt!” Blaine blinks and smiles at Kurt’s reflection. “You’re not supposed to be back here. How did you—?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to.” Kurt says mysteriously and steps into the room. The bright warmth of the ranks of lights, amplified by the mirrors, shines gold and bronze in Kurt’s hair, makes his pale skin luminous against the modern black three piece suit he’s wearing. It’s tailored severely on his slender frame; the waistcoat has buckles, the jacket an asymmetrical zipper. The silk ascot tied snug around his throat is a print of electric pink elephants and tiny bubbling champagne glasses. It’s whimsical and unexpected, even for Kurt. Blaine still doesn’t know where he finds these things.

Blaine laughs and turns in his chair. Kurt is holding a tasteful vase of flowers: dark pink gerbera daisies and fragrant white gardenias. Blaine can just catch the syrupy scent of them over the lingering volatile mix of various hair products.

“I just wanted to see you before curtain,” Kurt says. “Rachel knew someone and did her best wide-eyed wheedling to convince them to let me come back for a minute to give these to you.”

“It’s great to see you. You look amazing.”

Kurt smiles and gives a short curtsy. He offers Blaine the flowers. “These are to…” He cocks his head, smile widening. “…celebrate you.”

Blaine gets up, sees how Kurt’s gaze tracks over his body in the hot pink lycra and sequins. Sees how Kurt bites his lips closed to resist comment, but there’s amusement and affection crinkling his eyes.

“Thank you,” Blaine says. He takes the flowers, and then he makes a point of kissing Kurt full on the mouth, which makes him unfurl his lips from the grip of his teeth, and the giggle he’s been holding in escapes.

“I’m sorry,” Kurt says, breaking the kiss.

“No you’re not,” Blaine says, and he gives in to his own grin. “It’s okay, I mean, this is ridiculous.”

“Little bit,” Kurt says. “But it’s wonderful. You’re going to be great. And probably also terrifying.”

“How’s my Mom doing?”

“She’s so excited. She’s been telling everyone who’ll listen about her youngest son having his Broadway debut tonight.”

“She has?”

“Yep,” Kurt says. “So relax. She’s so proud of you, honey. We all are.”

“She’s not even going to be able to tell which one’s me.”

“I’ll make sure to point you out to her,” Kurt promises.

“You shouldn’t be able to tell either. I’m meant to blend in.”

“Yes, well, I happen to be quite well acquainted with the way you move,” Kurt says, and there’s enough mischief in his voice that Blaine’s cheeks go hot as he laughs and glances away.

“Yeah, okay…” Blaine says, and then he can’t really think of anything else to say, but that’s all right. Kurt takes his hands and gives them a squeeze.

“You’re okay? I know stage fright isn’t really your thing, but this is…”

“Yeah. I’m… I was nervous, but not anymore.” Blaine swallows and nods; he feels his calm and focus returning. He raises his gaze to meet Kurt’s. “I’m going to kill this thing,” he says, his resolve freshly renewed.

“Of course you are,” Kurt says with such easy conviction it’s impossible not to believe it.

the end