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Kurt’s pretty much done with Matthew McConaughey.
And that’s because one morning, after taking the disgusting coconut water regiment Blaine had suggested, Kurt goes out for his morning run—just a quick four miles—and comes back feeling lightheaded, so much so that he crumples to his knees right in the middle of the kitchen, palms splayed on the floor, the room spinning.
He’s thankful no one is there to see it.
These days four miles should feel like nothing, given his physical condition. Probably, he’s just dehydrated. Except when he attempts to rise up on his knees again, warm morning sunlight streaming through the loft windows, he starts hallucinating.
At least, that’s what he thinks is happening.
Because what else would account for Blaine suddenly appearing, dressed in his crisp Dalton uniform?
Blaine’s sitting on the armrest of the couch, one leg crossed, his hands clasped around the knee. He’s just smiling at Kurt, who notes with curiosity the look in his boyfriend’s eyes—so happy, relaxed. It’s a look he hasn’t seen there, not to this degree, in a long while.
Blaine looks so young.
What the hell is going on? Kurt wonders, his knees finally starting to register the unforgiving hardness of the floor. “Blaine? You trying to tell me you want to role-play?” he asks, bemusedly. “Can I at least shower first?”
Kurt starts to stand, but the second he does Blaine hops up from his spot on the couch. “Don’t move so quickly, Kurt! You just had a dizzy spell. Best to go much more slowly.” Blaine holds both palms out as he tracks Kurt’s movement, poised to catch him, should he fall.
“I’m not gonna break, Blaine,” Kurt replies, dusting off his knees. He feels more solid now on his feet. “Seriously, though. What’s going on? Why the . . .” Kurt gestures vaguely at the uniform (and the wavy hair, he notes, doing a double-take), before turning toward the fridge, where he pulls some Gatorade out to rehydrate. He gulps the citrusy drink, eager to get back to normal already.
Blaine stuffs his hands in his pockets and, smiling and relaxed again, glances around the loft. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” he says, nodding with approval, until his eyes rest on the loft’s entrance. “Might want to get that sliding door checked though—is that really the only lock?”
Kurt, slightly annoyed now, lowers his drink and levels a glance at Blaine. “Blaine,” he says. “You know it’s the only lock. Also? You’re kind of creeping me out.” Kurt watches Blaine’s face fall, just for a second, before it quickly shifts back to a confident smile. Blaine straightens his jacket.
“He’s not going to tell you how he really feels,” comes a familiar voice from Rachel’s area of the apartment, startling Kurt all over again. It’s . . . Blaine. Only this one is striding into the kitchen wearing cuffed emerald jeans with a bright purple polo and gold bow tie—and cherry-red shoes. This Blaine’s hair is practically pasted to his head.
“You’re . . .” starts Kurt. “So . . . colorful.” Kurt doesn’t quite know what else to say, and he peers into the bottle of Gatorade he’s still holding, wondering now if maybe Sam and Artie are playing some kind of trick on him. What did they spike his drink with?
This Blaine stops in the middle of the room and puts his hands squarely on his hips before announcing, careful to enunciate each syllable, “He’s not going to tell you—not in this mad world . . .” Then he launches into a song and dance right there in the kitchen:
“All around me are familiar faces, worn out places, worn out faces . . .”
Kurt raises an eyebrow at the spectacle. Warbler Blaine’s smile looks merely polite—even his enthusiasm seems to waver. Colorful Blaine just keeps on going with his song. In fact he’s already standing on the couch, belting out notes into the loft’s acoustics:
“Went to school and I was very nervous—no one knew me. No one knew me. Hello, teacher, tell me what’s my lesson? Look right through me, look right through me . . .”
This has got to stop, Kurt thinks, his heart thumping. He yells, “I’m taking a shower!” then practically runs for the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. It’s like somebody just put a quarter in him, Kurt muses. He turns on the water, undresses, and steps in, but it’s not exactly enough to drown out Colorful—well, let’s be honest, Jukebox Blaine’s song:
“I find it hard to tell you ‘cause I find it hard to take. When people run in circles it’s a very, very . . .”
“Mad world,” Kurt sings along, into the stream of water. “Mad world.” He shakes his head and tries to relax. It’s all in his mind. It’s that stupid coconut drink, and maybe it had been a lot warmer than he’d thought outside. Maybe he’s simply coming down with something. Or worse: maybe he’s developed a brain tumor. A Blaine tumor. He lets the warm water wash over his back, and little by little, he quiets his body and thoughts, and even starts to laugh at what he surmises he imagined just a few minutes ago.
By the time he’s ready to come out of the bathroom, towel tied around his waist, he’s pretty confident he’s alone again. Just to be sure, before he opens the bathroom door he says, loudly enough to be heard on the other side, “I’m coming out of the bathroom now!” He pokes his head out. The loft is empty.
Kurt lets his head drop as he sighs. “Thank God,” he says, patting his hair dry with a hand towel as he pads across the loft to his bedroom space. Now he can get on with his day—he’s got unfinished homework and Monday night dinner to plan. He yanks the curtain back that divides the loft space, just before he hears himself scream the most blood-curdling scream he’s ever screamed.
He hadn’t been expecting to see someone there, let alone a masked someone.
And that someone is now screaming back.
They both stop, then Kurt takes a breath and huffs, “Who are you? Wait a minute—Blaine?”
The caped person standing there takes off the mask with a swift motion and says quietly, “Nightbird, actually.”
“What?”
Blaine shifts his eyes before making contact with Kurt’s again. “Secret Superhero Society, remember? It’s a club I’m president of? Er, was president of?”
“Okay,” Kurt breathes. He remembers Blaine was involved in a lot of activities last year . . . But honestly, right now Kurt’s mind is in overdrive, trying to piece together what’s happening, and more importantly, why.
A voice from behind speaks up, and this one’s so quiet Kurt barely hears him. “You don’t remember,” it says, almost an accusation. Or maybe it’s just resigned. “I know I told you about it,” it continues softly. “I’m sure you were just busy.”
Kurt turns to find Blaine, this one wearing simple jeans and a soft blue cardigan, looking an awful lot like he did last week after their fight: sad and vulnerable. Small. “Blaine?” Kurt asks. This is getting confusing. Alarming, really—so much so that Kurt can feel the prick of coming tears. He clamps his jaw tight, willing them to stop.
“It’s okay,” says Sad Blaine. “We kind of went our separate ways for a while then, didn’t we.” It’s not a question, and Kurt notices how soft this Blaine’s voice is, how defeated it sounds. Kurt steps forward to comfort him, like he did last week, only this Blaine gives him a look that says hold up. It’s Blaine, and it isn’t Blaine, somehow. At least, not the Blaine he spoke to last night over coffee.
All of a sudden the loft door rolls open and shut, the force of which rattles the pictures hanging on the wall. Kurt realizes he’s not quite dressed, not unless the towel counts, and quickly reaches for a pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt, shoving limbs into the clothing without a care for the audience he’s got going. Plus they’re all still Blaine, right?
When he strides from his bedroom, Nightbird and Sad Blaine in tow, he finds the Blaine wearing the Dalton blazer and Jukebox Blaine sitting together on the sofa, silently judging each other. And just inside the loft but still near the door, yet another Blaine paces back and forth, this one a bit disheveled looking, in sweats and a white tank, with a grey, unzipped hoodie hanging loosely on his body. He’s clearly agitated. Kurt figures he’s the Blaine who slammed the loft door so roughly. “It’s a door,” Kurt huffs at him, feeling bit worked up suddenly about all the chaos. “Not The Price Is Right wheel. You’re not trying for the Showcase Showdown, you know.”
Blaine stops his pacing, one hand encircling the wrist of another. Kurt’s seen the fidgety gesture before. That’s when Kurt notices that Blaine’s hands are taped, like he’d been boxing. This Blaine positively glares at him (which to Kurt is just odd, coming from his fiancée) and spits, “What is your problem with me, anyway?”
“Calm down,” says Kurt sternly, annoyed and feeling defensive. “You’re the one who barged in here—what are you yelling at me for?” Kurt folds his arms across his chest, his heart beating wildly, then really stops to think. There are five of them. Five Blaines. Without another word, he shoves on some sneakers and grabs his keys and phone.
He needs some air.
And even though his hands are shaking, Kurt does not slam the door as he rolls it shut.
He can handle this.
Whatever this actually is.
* * *
An hour later, Kurt finds himself in Battery Park, sitting on a bench overlooking the water, cell phone in hand. He glances down at the phone, at its record of messages to and from Blaine (the real Blaine? his Blaine?). He lingers over one exchange in particular, sent and received since he’s been sitting here:
From Kurt: Where were you this morning?
From Blaine: Sam and I were out running. Thought you were, too? Why—did you see me? :D
Kurt doesn’t quite know how to answer that.
Since reading the text, Kurt’s been rooted to the bench, watching water taxis ferry passengers back and forth, trying to comprehend his morning. It’s not like he’s never imagined strange things before. Or fantasized about singing with Blaine through the city’s streets. The big difference was, of course, that he controlled those fantasies. But those Blaines in the loft . . .
He replays what happened as, elbows resting on his thighs, he watches feet moving along the promenade. For everyone else, it’s just an ordinary day. But for Kurt? Well, Kurt’s fiancée has split himself into five copies. Ten feet, he thinks.
Kurt sits and grounds himself for a while, watching legs and wheels go by. There’s a group of men in suits—he can positively hear the cheap fabric as it swishes. There’s a gaggle of children trying to keep pace with their teachers. There’s the hollow thunk and click of pumps and slingbacks. He breathes. His mind emptier now, Kurt allows himself to think back to his morning at the loft. He has a sneaking suspicion that if the real Blaine knew about it, that he would think it was very . . . cool. He’d be flattered. And that makes Kurt giggle with appreciation and finally, calmly, answer Blaine’s text from before: I must have missed you, but we’ll grab a coffee later :)
Blaine has always just been Blaine, to Kurt, but thinking back to this morning, he knows that the Blaines in the loft weren’t just dressed differently. A Dalton jacket or tank—or superhero costume—wasn’t all that made them distinct from one another. And if he’s being honest with himself, some of those Blaines seem more familiar to him than others. Why is that?
And how can that be? Doesn’t he know his own fiancée? If he’s going to marry this man, then what does it mean if he doesn’t really know him? But that’s precisely what has been happening over the last few weeks, isn’t it? It had been frustrating to Kurt that Blaine was be going through some emotional turmoil, but hadn’t clued Kurt into what was happening until, having been finally pushed enough, it had exploded out of him. Kurt, as usual, had been left perplexed, trying to understand what his lover was going through. He had tried to assure him, but he’s starting to think that his promises never seem to be enough.
As he sits on the bench, he makes eye contact with a young boy across the street. Something about the boy’s forlorn look jogs Kurt’s memory. “This must be like The Sixth Sense,” Kurt muses, an idea suddenly occurring to him. “There must be something each of these Blaine’s wants.” It’s supremely weird, he thinks, but it’s the best theory he’s got. Maybe he could just fix things with the Blaines, they’ll go back to wherever they came from.
Assuming they are still real, and are waiting for him when he gets back home.
He stands and stretches, then starts to walk toward the nearest subway station.
* * *
“Okay. Okay, okay okay,” Kurt says, palms pressed to his eyes as he sits in the loft’s living room. Sitting opposite him are Dalton and Jukebox Blaine. “Blaine,” he says, removing his hands and looking at the Warbler, “tell . . . Blaine how you feel.” He nods in the direction of Jukebox Blaine, who looks about ready to burst into song again. The colorfully-dressed one is sitting with his arms crossed in front of his chest at the moment, though, looking anywhere but at his Warbler brother.
“I just really think,” starts Warbler Blaine, “that you’ve changed. What happened to blending in with the team?”
Jukebox Blaine, still avoiding the other’s gaze, rolls his eyes. “My team is different from yours, and besides, when have you ever truly blended in, seeing as you always lead the group?”
Warbler Blaine adjusts his tie, an impish grin on his face. “I never lead—“
“Oh, please, Blaine,” says the Jukebox, uncrossing his arms. “At least you were always accepted. You weren’t seen as a threat by your own teammates.”
“Excuse me, Blaine,” says the Warbler, earnestly now. “But you’re seriously the least-threatening-looking person I’ve ever seen.”
Jukebox Blaine finally makes eye contact, his expression open and kind. “I know, right?”
Kurt feels frazzled, like he’s taken a bottle of crazy pills. Or two. He’s not sure if this—fixing things with the Blaines—is helping. Since he’s been back at the loft, he’s already helped Blaine—well, Nightbird—repair the beadwork on the back of his cape. He’d listened and nodded as Nightbird recounted some of his adventures with Sam (er, Blonde . . . something). “You really made a family for yourself, didn’t you?” Kurt had said, appraisingly. “You thought you were going to be alone—but you made a family, of superheroes no less.”
Nightbird had looked at him, then, before saying, “It was really Sam—“
“No,” Kurt had replied, smiling, as he’d shook out the cape before handing it back to Blaine. “I have a feeling it wasn’t just Sam.”
Blaine’s smile, in return, had sparkled about as much as the glittery bird on the cape at that.
* * *
The Blaine who boxes proves to be a different kind of challenge.
For one, Kurt can’t get over the wifebeater tank he’s wearing. Kurt doesn’t want to laugh. Ok, he does want to laugh, but he knows better. This Blaine is still fuming as he stalks around the loft. The only time Kurt sees him stop moving is when he’d swung open the fridge and quaffed milk right from the gallon jug. When he’d looked back at Kurt, whose mouth was wide open in horror, Kurt could’ve sworn Blaine had had a triumphant gleam in his eye. It had been infuriating.
But Kurt’s not quite ready to face the melancholy, blue-cardiganed Blaine yet, so he steps right into the boxer’s path. Blaine stops, glares at him and says, “Oh, is it my turn now?”
Kurt sighs, then holds his hands up to placate this version of his lover. “Look, Blaine, I’m not sure what you’re angry about, but—“
“Oh, that’s perfect,” says Blaine. “Of course you don’t. Why would you?”
“You know,” Kurt says, frustrated now, “fine. Let’s just talk when you’re ready to be mature—“
“Uh-huh,” says Blaine, resuming his pacing. “Right. Because you’re always the mature one, and I’m just being irrational, I get it.” The boxer version of Blaine stops and shakes his head, his back to Kurt, and grits out, “You know, Kurt, sometimes you just don’t notice things.”
“Yeah, Blaine?” Kurt sneers, his hackles up. Well, he’s noticing plenty right now. Plenty of drama, he thinks. He really, really wants to roll his eyes. And yet, a tiny voice—granted, an exceptionally tiny voice at the moment—chides him from somewhere in his mind: help him. Kurt takes a deep breath. Focus. He tries to think about his history with Blaine, to remember this Blaine, but finds that he can’t place him. And that, he realizes, is disconcerting. So he walks toward this wifebeater-clad version of his fiancée so that he can look him in the eyes, then asks as levelly as he can, “What did—or didn’t—I do, that has you this angry?”
Kurt watches as Blaine seems to deflate a little, and he hopes he asked the right question. Kurt takes a breath, then waits.
Blaine regards him, then moves so he’s facing Kurt squarely. “Hold your hands out,” he says.
His eyebrows raised, Kurt holds out both hands, palms up. “You going to do a palm reading?” he asks, amused. “That seems like something you’d do. Well, maybe not you you,” he says, his voice fading. He looks at Blaine, uncertain.
Blaine rolls his eyes. “Not like that,” he says, grabbing his palms and turning them so they face out, toward him. “Hold them there, just like that.”
Kurt flinches when the first punch lands. Kurt knows his own strength; he tightens his core and takes the punches. “That it?” he says. “You wanted a sparring partner.” Kurt had thought when this boxer burst into the loft that he was like Finn—easy to read—but he finds this version of Blaine is just as perplexing as any other.
“No,” Blaine says, as he cross-jabs Kurt’s palms, right, then left. “But maybe it helps for you to know that this is how I let off steam.”
Oh. Kurt remembers sparring with Blaine in their weapons class a little over a week ago, and how it felt different. Kurt hadn’t been simply letting off steam that day; he’d been directing his frustration at Blaine. Maybe even showing off a bit. It had felt . . . cathartic, honestly. But he also knows it wasn’t the best thing to do to his lover. Kurt finds himself wondering now. Curious. Kurt knows when he’s angry, he can shoot daggers at others; he has his wit and words, and really, physical strength, too. But it’s clear as day now: Blaine doesn’t act that way when he’s angry, does he? It’s not like he hasn’t seen Blaine truly angry—but it occurs to him now that he keeps a lot of it to himself, like the boxer he never knew about.
“Ok,” Kurt says, “I get it.”
“Good,” says Blaine, who zips up his hoodie, and just like that, proceeds to walk out the door of the loft.
This time, he doesn’t slam the door shut. He doesn’t shut it at all.
Kurt shakes his head and laughs. This ridiculous man.
* * *
Sunlight warms the spot on the floor where Kurt now sits, his head resting against the wall. If he had a cat, he knows he’d be fighting it for this piece of loft real estate. It’s quiet, now that Boxer Blaine has left. The rest of the Blaines are gathered around the coffee table, amicably setting up a game of Tikal. Well, three of them, anyway. The one in the blue sweater walks hesitantly over to Kurt before leaning his back against the wall next to him.
Kurt closes his eyes. “I feel like I never know what to say to you,” he says.
“It’s okay,” says Blaine, before letting his body slump down the wall so that he’s seated next to Kurt. They sit next to each other in silence for a bit. Then Blaine says, “You don’t have to have some perfect answer to everything, you know.” He looks down at the floor, like he’s processing something. After another pause he says, “And you don’t have to promise me things.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” It’s a defensive response, Kurt knows.
“Just . . . you know, don’t tell me how you’ll always be there for me, or how you’ll never say goodbye, or . . .” he trails off. “Saying you’ll try is enough.”
“What are you saying?” Kurt asks. “Are you saying you don’t trust me to follow through? That you won’t—take my word, even? How I’m I supposed to react, then, whenever you fall apart?” Kurt can’t help feeling defensive again. He knows he’s not perfect; neither is Blaine.
“No,” says Sad Blaine. “No. That’s not. That’s not it.” Blaine wraps his elbows around his knees, then rests his head there. “But maybe I just put too much into those promises, you know? I make them . . . bigger, in my mind. I don’t process things the way you do, I don’t think.”
Kurt stops for a moment, remembering again the events of the last weeks. The cronuts. The porn, and long before that: the Incident he’d rather not remember. Even this boxing thing, come to think of it. Hmm. “Okay. I think I’m starting to notice,” Kurt says. “Is that why we fight so much?” he asks. He looks at Blaine, whose eyes have gone glassy. Blaine leans back again against the wall, tilting his head toward Kurt. “Honestly,” he says, “I don’t know.”
Kurt reaches out and takes Blaine’s hand in his. “Well,” he says. “Things will get better. We will get better at this. Okay?” He pulls Blaine’s hand toward him, and gives it a gentle kiss.
Blaine smiles, then Kurt finds himself pulling all of Blaine toward him for more. This time, this Blaine doesn’t hesitate. His lips are soft, and Blaine’s whole body seems to just melt into Kurt’s arms. Kurt wonders, vaguely, at the way the different versions of his lover—well, love.
When Kurt pulls away, he’s aware suddenly how quiet it is in the room. He looks searchingly at Blaine, who quirks an eyebrow in confusion. Are they gone? Kurt peers past Blaine, hopeful, before noticing that, in fact, the other Blaines are still there. The silence is . . . heavy. Apparently he’s got the attention of every Blaine in the room—they’ve clearly abandoned their game. In fact they’re all gazing at him now, looking at him like . . . like dinner is over and it’s time for dessert. No one’s speaking, but some of the Blaines shoot glances at one another, in silent conversation.
Kurt feels as if the world is tilting on its axis. He glances back at Sad Blaine, who looks less sad and more . . . hungry. Kurt does a double take, then holds up a hand. “Okay, now, wait. Wait.” His head is spinning and he’s not really ashamed to admit that he’s a little turned on. There are five of them, after all.
But just as quickly the silence ends—at least Kurt thinks it’s ended—there’s a faint buzzing noise coming from somewhere. Kurt shakes his head. Is it his ears ringing? The other Blaines are still regarding him, and Jukebox Blaine finally stands and says, “Okay, are we doing this? I can set the mood—“ But the ringing gets louder, and soon Kurt is back on his knees, cradling his head in his hands. He forces his eyes shut, and when he opens them again, he sees ten feet. One of the Blaines—is it Nightbird?—says, “Kurt? Kurt! Guys, we might need Blonde Chameleon to help us out here!”
Kurt clamps his eyes shut again. That incessant ringing, Kurt thinks. Make it stop! But when he opens his eyes this time, the ringing is softer. And there’s a banging at the door. The doorbell, he thinks. He’s on the floor, face down, in the middle of the kitchen, a puddle of drool next to his mouth. Yuck. The warm light from before is gone; it’s chilly in the loft. Kurt feels utterly disoriented as he pulls himself up to a kneeling position. He starts to stand, before feeling lightheaded; he’s got to take it slow.
“Kurt!” he hears on the other side of the door. “I lost my key!” There’s banging now, and more ringing. “I know you’re in there, Kurt!” It sounds like Blaine. But which one? Kurt can’t help but wonder.
Then he hears another voice. “Kurt, we’re gonna break this door down.” It’s Sam. Kurt hears a muffled conversation outside the door before Sam eventually pipes up again. “On three, Kurt! We’re gonna break the door down on three!”
On three. Move, Kurt thinks, trying to get his sluggish body to do what he wants.
“One,” both Sam and Blaine say on the other side of the door. Kurt’s moving. He’s moving . . . Move, dammit!
“Two!”
As Sam and Blaine yell, “Three!” Kurt slides the door open wide, and the two men barrel right into him. They end up in a crumpled heap on the floor. Ouch, Kurt thinks, his eyes closed as he waits for the other two to get off of him.
Kurt feels hands searching, searching, and Blaine’s voice saying, “Kurt, are you okay? Why didn’t you answer before?” And then he feels Blaine’s hands cradling his face. “Kurt, look at me, please!”
It’s going to be okay, Kurt thinks. He hopes. He opens his eyes.
And it’s Blaine—just Blaine. And suddenly Kurt sees it: the shades of that Dalton boy and his concern. The determination of the boxer. And looking past him at Sam then back again at Blaine, he sees the heroic Nightbird.
“Kurt?” asks Blaine. “You haven’t said a word.” Blaine’s fingers are gentle as they caress his face. “You’re not—you’re not still mad at me, are you?”
Kurt just smiles, then laughs. “That was quite the rescue. No, I’ve just had a very weird day.”
“Maybe you can tell me about it?” Blaine asks, helping Kurt to his feet. “I’m just so glad to see you—I was worried there for a second.”
Kurt reaches out and runs a thumb along Blaine’s check. “I’m really happy to see you, too, Blaine Anderson.”
"Ooh," says Sam. "Who started a game of Tikal without me?"
Kurt's head snaps toward the coffee table so fast it hurts. Sure enough, the game is set up on the coffee table. "Uh," says Kurt, amazed—and confused. "Just me and a few . . . friends. We were catching up. We're all caught up, now."
"Well," says Blaine, "then I'm sure they won't mind us resetting for a new game!"
"No," says Kurt quietly, smiling. "I'm sure they wouldn't mind at all."