Blaine has always enjoyed late night walks. Even in a big city like this, there’s some sort of underlying calmness that can never be described. The cool night air refreshing against his skin, on his face, clears away unnecessary thoughts; dead weight we carry around to burden ourselves.

He took out a cigarette, a seemingly new habit, and lit it up, taking a slow drag from it. Letting it fill his lungs, he inhaled deeply. The smoke burned slightly on along his throat, but Blaine liked it. It brought him back to reality, kept him grounded even when he so desperately wished to be someplace else and gave him a sense of control. People’s attitudes, people’s reactions, the way people could change over years; that was something he had no control over. But this; this short time, this moment with himself where he would control the smoke as it entered his body, manipulate it, that was something he had control over. It was one of the few things in his life he actually could have a handle on. It had sort of become his little daily ritual, calming relaxing and ever so pleasant in the way it showed him he still had something he could hold onto, something that wouldn’t change on him.

Bud perched between his lips, he continued his near-midnight stroll. Somewhere in the city he heard distant bells chime, but they’re drowned out by a louder noise. It’s a joyful, upbeat hum. There’s laughter and an exchange of reminiscent exchange of words that Blaine has only heard in old movies. Words like doll and attaboy and bee’s knees and gams and glad rags. Not even noticing the buildings that now surround him, he walks towards the sound; the energy in the air thickening as he approaches. He finally arrives. It’s just across the street from where he stands. He takes a moment to look from one side to the over and his mouth falls open.

“Wow.”

“Blaine! Where the hell are you taking me?” Kurt half stumbles behind Blaine, arms extended as he drags him along.

“I just need to show you something okay?”

“But I – ”

“It won’t take long!”

“Blaine, – ”

“I promise you’ll love it baby.”

Kurt jerks his arm out of Blaine’s grasp, an audibly annoyed huff escaping his lips. “Blaine Anderson, you will tell me where the fuck you are taking me this instant! I have a dress to finish for tomorrow, I’m tired and it’s nearly midnight. I did not come to Paris to have fun.”

“WE NEVER DO ANYTHING TO HAVE FUN ANYMORE!” Blaine yells at the top of his lungs, Kurt visibly flinching in response. “Kurt, baby, I’m sorry,” he stepped forward, taking Kurt’s hands in his and looking down at them in the contrast of the moonlight. “I just – I want to do this for you. You’ll love it. Just, trust me, okay? Remember when you used to trust me with everything?”

“I still do,” Kurt whispered, making Blaine look up with surprised, tear glistened eyes. “Lead the way, hun.”

“Blaine, I don’t understand – where are we?”

“You’ll see,” Blaine smiled. “Come one, I want you to meet someone.”

Blaine dragged him through the lavish apartment, tagging along behind a girl that had greeted them at the door. Kurt looked around in awe; it was adorned in gold and deep colors, plush chairs and grand figures.  It seemed like something out of a history book.

They entered a room, an elegant woman with short dark hair sitting behind a desk sitting behind a desk.

“Blaine, ma chérie. Tellement agréable de vous revoir,” she said, arms extending towards him.
Blaine, my darling. So nice to see you again.

“Mademoiselle Chanel c'est mon mari, Kurt.”
Miss Chanel is my husband, Kurt.

Kurt’s mouth fell open at the mention of the name. The fashion, the slang, the music. His eyes widened as he figured where – or when – they were.

“Kurt!” the woman exclaimed in a thick French accent, hugging him as well.

“A-agréable de vous rencontrer Mademoiselle Chanel.”
Nice to meet you Mademoiselle Chanel.

“S'il vous plaît, appelez-moi Coco.”
Please, call me Coco.

Later that night Kurt and Blaine found themselves in each other’s arms. They had wined and dined with Coco Chanel, had dessert with Salvador Dali and drank with Ernest Hemingway. They had laughed and then fallen silent in awe as they heard this people’s life stories, some happy but others wretchedly heart aching. They talked about love. They talked about loving people, loving what you do; loving something or someone beyond repair.  

I believe that love that is true and real, creates a respite from death. All cowardice comes from not loving or not loving well, which is the same thing.

They danced together, buoyant jazzy melodies filling the air and engulfing them as their bodies moved to the happy tune from a roaring era. Kurt was smiling, for the first time in months, Blaine thought. He pulled his husband closer, relishing in the contentment that ran through their bodies.

“Thank you,” Kurt hummed against his ear.

“What for?”

“Just thank you.”