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It’s eight o’clock in the evening, the Autumn sun just sinking itself into the horizon, nestled into the rolling hills. Not that Kurt could ever watch the sunset— or the sunrise for that matter— but the sliver of light that streaks beneath his heavy curtains during daytime has disappeared, leaving him in total darkness. He sighs in contentment, and reaches over to his nightstand to turn on the lamp, the warm glow filling the bedroom in an instant. It isn’t exactly necessary for him to sleep through the day, seeing as the curtains adorning his few windows are tightly woven to prevent any and all gaps, but he is the type of person who does not like to take risks. Exposure to sunlight will kill him, turning his pale flesh and bone into nothing but a pile of dust. And though immortality is lonely at times, he rather enjoys being alive.
Well, alive as a vampire can be.
Kurt smiles to himself, rising out of his coffin and slipping into the loafers set to the side. He shuffles his feet in the direction of his bathroom to start his daily routine. The life of a vampire can get monotonous, especially considering the fact that if he were to set foot out in town, anyone who caught sight of him would run away screaming. It’s not like he’s dangerous, at least not in the way they think he is. The stereotypes that vampires exist for the sole purpose of sucking humans dry is not only incorrect, but also exhausting. As if Kurt would enjoy drinking their blood. He scrunches his nose at the very thought.
No, Kurt’s tastes are much more refined than that. He doesn’t have to feed often, maybe once every twenty months. But when he does, he seeks out the highest caliber of humans, the ones filled to the brim with life and joy, their blood matured and tinged with an indescribable flavor. Kurt groans in delight, reminiscing about his most recent feed. The woman was a singer, a performer at a local jazz club. Her talent was extraordinary, soul and heart radiating from every pore in her body. He feels a little remorse for ending her life, but he would be lying if he didn’t admit that Mercedes Jones was the best meal he has ever had in his 150 years on Earth. He remembers how he captured her, following her as she sauntered out of the—
Kurt is startled out of his reverie by a knock on the door. An unusual occurrence— no one ever knocks on his door. Curious about his visitor, he slips on his wide-brimmed hat that lay on his bedside table as he quickly makes his way to the front of his house. Then, he takes the edge of the curtain and peeks through.
A boy stands at the door, illuminated by the beams of the moon hanging in the sky overhead. He’s classically handsome, dark hair swept back with some sort of grease, and sharply dressed in a grey sweater/slacks combination, accented by a red bowtie around his throat. The boy (man?) is smiling, bouncing slightly on his heels and fidgeting with the large envelope he is trying and failing to conceal behind his back. Just as Kurt is about to close the curtain, the male glances over, eyes widening comically and smile spreading into a grin as he registers the person staring back at him.
Kurt closes the curtain in a flash, concern and curiosity battling in his mind. If he opens the door, the boy might get scared and run away. Something about this boy’s demeanor tells him that this would not be the case, though, however much safer it would be. No, Kurt has a feeling that if he opens up his front door, he might never get rid of this boy. Which… well… might not be such a bad thing. Maybe.
He curls his hand around the doorknob and twists, opening the door.
As he allows his eyes to adjust to the outside, the first thing that Kurt takes note of is the boy’s smell. Crisp and light, just this side of delectable, and if Kurt hadn’t fed so recently then he would have made this man his next meal. But there’s something familiar as well, something that he just can’t put his finger on. The boy is speaking, well, rambling, words stuttering out of his mouth and piling on top of the other to form unclear, confusing sentences. Kurt clears his throat and sends him a look, alerting the mystery boy to his senses. Taking a deep breath, he blushes and shivers, straightening his spine and thrusting out his hand.
“Forgive me, sir. I seem to have lost my manners,” the man apologizes, his voice oozing with sincerity. “My name is Blaine Anderson.”
Kurt tentatively reaches out to meet Blaine’s outstretched hand. “Kurt,” he replies. He watches as Blaine starts at the cold temperature of Kurt’s hand but seems to think little of it, relaxing and shaking twice before slowly releasing his grip. The boy fidgets with the envelope hanging limp in his left hand, and Kurt is still having trouble deciphering what reason Blaine could have for coming to his door.
As if sensing his confusion, Blaine pulls out a bright blue flyer from the envelope he was holding. Kurt scans the words on the page— it’s an advertisement for something called The Warblers.
“Me and my singing troupe are in town for a one night only performance this Thursday! We’re from The Ohio State University, traveling all around the state performing to raise money for our program, and every penny counts,” Blaine explains, punctuating every few words with a toothy grin. “Each member is going door to door to try and spread the word and build the crowd. As one of the newest recruits…”
Well, that makes sense. There’s no way that Blaine would be anywhere near his door if he was a local. Kurt nods along and hums in recognition, self-consciously reaching up to adjust his hat that covers his large pointed ears. The boy is still talking, explaining the traditions and pride that he experiences as part of this group, things that Kurt really couldn’t care less about but this Blaine is just so cute when he speaks that he finds himself hanging on to every word.
“I have to say, it would be a sight for my sore eyes to look out and see your face during the performance,” Blaine finishes, bowing his head and looking up through his eyelashes. Is he… flirting? If Kurt could blush, he’s certain that his face would be matching the color of his guest’s bowtie at this moment. “Will you be there?”
Kurt wants to say yes. It’s not just that he feels his loneliness ebbing away with every moment in Blaine’s presence, it’s not the hopeless romantic side of him that he has tried so hard to suppress since he was turned. He feels connected to this man, in an utterly inexplicable manner, soul deep. He desperately wants to say yes.
But then he pictures Blaine’s face when the crowd sees Kurt and flees, when he asks someone what’s the matter and they tell him to run, when he suddenly can see Kurt as nothing more than a monster because that’s just how things work for him. He doesn’t get to have the fairytale.
Kurt would rather never see this man again than to see his face twisted in revulsion and dripping in fear because of him.
“No,” he says decidedly, retreating backward across the threshold. “I will not. Goodbye, Blaine,” he spits out, slamming the door in his visitor’s face with a dull thump. Inside, he tosses the flyer away from his body and turns his back to the door, sliding down as his gut wrenches and twists painfully. He sits for a couple of minutes, mentally berating himself for what he did. Would it really have been that bad to go and watch that sweet boy perform? Kurt pinches his nose and tries to imagine what Blaine’s voice sounds like. Probably like a dream.
A soft series of knocks nearly makes him jump out of his skin. Kurt feels the ghost of his heart thump, filling his chest with hope. “Shhh,” he says to his ribcage, furrowing his brow. He stands up slowly and habitually brushes off his knees, breathing deeply to center himself. Two more knocks. He spins around and twists the brass knob once again, pushing open the door to find the sharply dressed boy squirming in front of him, gnawing his lip red raw. Kurt raises an eyebrow, prompting him to speak.
“I, uh- I’m,” Blaine splutters, obviously struggling to find the right words. He clears his throat and swallows. “I’ve heard the st-stories about… I didn’t, um… none of my pals wanted— I’m n-not afraid,” he finishes, puffing out his chest.
Kurt barks out a laugh. Not afraid, and yet struggling to keep himself from soiling his underwear. He sighs heavily and steps out onto the porch, closing the door behind him. “You are quite the dedicated salesperson,” he quips. Blaine nods, his body visibly stilling but doe-eyed expression remaining.
“If you heard the stories, then what are you still doing at my door?” Kurt questions, tilting his head slightly. After all, if Blaine had heard any of the whisperings of the townsfolk, he would never have set foot in his yard, let alone instigate communication twice.
“Because you’re not a monster,” Blaine says, his eyes softening. Kurt gives him a wary look, unsure of where he could be taking this. Does he not actually know?
“I know this,” he continues, holding Kurt’s gaze, “because if you were, you would have killed me within ten seconds of opening that door. But you didn’t.”
Oh. Kurt feels that flitter of hope rippling through his chest again. He hums affirmatively and desperately tries to quieten it. “You’re right, I didn’t. I’m— not.”
“So then I thought, well that disproves everything I’ve heard from anyone else. But… ” Blaine’s eyes flick up to the hat still resting on Kurt’s head, rake down his body and back up to Kurt’s eyes. “I don’t think I ever really believed them. I wouldn’t be standing here if I did.”
“And, uh, to be honest… um,” Blaine says, his cheeks flushing red. He looks down and murmurs something, folding his arms across his chest. He takes a deep breath and steps forward, looking up at Kurt, who stares back at him, terrified, but hopeful (damn it). Blaine smiles and admits, “You are very beautiful, and something so beautiful could not possibly be bad. So I will ask once more, will you come?”
Kurt gives the man a steady look and folds his arms across his chest. He holds his gaze for a moment before sighing. Screw it. “I will try to keep in the shadows to avoid chaos,” he whispers, reaching behind him to find the door handle. Blaine’s face lights up, crinkles framing his eyes from the size of his grin.
“Truly?” the man asks, very pleased with himself.
“Indeed,” Kurt replies. In the distance he can see a group of people moving towards his estate, presumably members of Blaine’s troupe. Kurt points at them to get the boy’s attention as they begin calling out Blaine’s name, confirming his speculation. Spell broken, Blaine shakes his head, blinks, and begins to retreat.
“I must go, but thank you! Thank you so much!” Blaine turns around and starts running, calling back over his shoulder. “I expect to see you on Thursday!”
Kurt chuckles at his guest’s shrinking silhouette and opens his door, back into the comfort of his dwelling. It is not until he reaches his room that he realizes what he has just done. This innocent boy, this handsome, bubbly boy came to his door and treated him with kindness, with respect. He called him beautiful.
Beautiful.
This could either go horribly wrong or extraordinarily right. And he really, really wants this to go right, because if something goes wrong…
Shit.