Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Christmas is nearly here in Marth, Bohlsen County, and the air hums with the warmth of chestnuts crackling in the cast-iron pan. Their smoky scent drifts through the open windows, mingling with the crackle of the fireplace and the brisk, biting winter air.

The local bakeries are bustling, their ovens full, sending waves of chocolate, orange, and cinnamon into the streets. It’s a time when everything feels just a little bit better, a little bit brighter, and a lot more delicious.

The cool afternoon air nips at noses and makes cheeks glow. In a town usually so quiet and peaceful, Christmas works its magic. Streets are illuminated by twinkling lights that seem to glow from within, casting a warmth that’s almost tangible. The town is alive with energy and colour, especially in the vibrant coats of the local women, who, as tradition demands, compete each year to wear the brightest and most outlandish hues. It’s a striking contrast to the usual black, brown, and muted tones of everyday life.

It’s like something out of a film. Shops are lavishly decked out; garlands, bows, and glitter adorning every corner. The windows shimmer with festive lights, mirroring a velvet sky, while the unmistakable scent of fresh snow and spices lingers in the air.

The magic of Christmas isn’t just in the decorations; it’s in the feeling, the joy, the sense of togetherness. 

Blaine Anderson, however, doesn’t need any excuse to adore Christmas. 

As a freelance history teacher, Blaine enjoys plenty of free time throughout the year, with the Christmas holidays being by far the longest. When he’s not teaching, you’ll usually find him at his grandmother Susan’s cosy cottage, where he spends much of his time. Together with Susy, as she insists on being called, they meticulously manage every detail of Bohlsen’s most charming B&B, Susy’s Wonderland.

And it’s actually more than just a business; it’s a family affair, with all the Andersons pitching in, but this Christmas is different. Somehow, Blaine’s managed to convince his two long-suffering parents to take a proper break, leaving him to look after things with Susy in charge.

And Susy– well, she’s not just his grandmother. She’s one of his best friends, his partner-in-crime, and, at seventy-two (though she’ll tell you she’s only sixty-five), she's still as sharp as a tack, effortlessly stylish and as stubborn as a mule.

“You can’t be serious! I’ve only just got back!”

“Blaine, I asked for poinsettias, not roses! It’s not spring, darling!”

Blaine glares at the roll of fabric he’s just brought in five minutes ago, after cycling three miles in the cold. It doesn’t seem quite fair that Susy’s now asking him to take it all the way back.

“You can’t be doing this to me,” he mutters, flopping dramatically onto the couch, as if the weight of the world has suddenly settled on his shoulders.

“You’re twenty-eight, moonpie. Don’t you think it’s about time you got your licence?”

“But I like my bike!” he protests, crossing his arms and looking every bit the immature man he’s not supposed to be at his age. “And I loved roses… until five minutes ago.”

Grandma Susy shakes her head, amused, her perfectly styled hair barely budging, like always. Blaine, meanwhile, makes a futile attempt to tame his wild curls.

“Look,” she says, her red-lacquered index finger pointing towards the curtain behind her, the one that really needs changing. “Picture poinsettias. Festive. Jolly,” she says, almost like a poem.

“Hhm…”

“Now, look at this.”

With a dramatic flourish, she picks up the roll of ‘spring’ fabric, almost as though it’s a hot coal burning her fingers. Holding it up to the light, she turns to Blaine with an expression of sheer disbelief. “Does this look, in any way, like it has that Christmas... je ne sais quoi? ”

Blaine eyes the roses. And, well, Susy’s right. The living room is a riot of festive cheer; warm, twinkling lights and deep, rich colours everywhere. The grand tree stands proudly in front of the window, its branches gleaming with lights, red and gold baubles, and ribbons winding through the foliage. Susy’s even handmade the pine garlands that decorate the walls and the front door. With the crackling fireplace, the little cloth gnomes, and the scent of cloves drifting through the air from the diffuser, it all comes together in perfect Christmas harmony. But the roses? Ugh, no. Definitely not.

“Don’t answer that,” Susy says with a grin, her eyes sparkling. “Your face says it all.”

Blaine rolls his eyes. “If you’ve already made up your mind, why ask?”

“Because I like to involve you, moonpie,” she says with a wink. Then, her tone shifts slightly as she sits down next to him. She rests a hand on his knee, her deep, dark eyes locking with his. “Have I ever been wrong in my choices, dear?”

Blaine looks at her, and once again, he knows the answer already: no. The B&B does far better than his real job, and it’s all thanks to Susy. He remembers the day she said: “Marth is an oasis of peace and quiet, and it’s fast becoming a tourist destination. It would be a shame not to make use of Grandpa Ray’s old cottage, wouldn’t it?”

And so, from Susy’s keen intuition, Susy’s Wonderland was born; a picturesque B&B nestled at the foot of the greenest hill in the whole county , as their Instagram and website proudly claim.

At first, the Anderson family had their doubts, but they were quickly won over by Susy’s vision and soon found themselves sharing the workload.

Blaine’s father, George, with his natural knack for fixing things and his work at the town’s hardware shop, was assigned the role of maintenance man.

As for Blaine’s mother, Pamela, she made it clear from the outset that she would oversee the decorations, the seasonal setup, and, most importantly, gardening, her greatest passion. Right after Halloween, she had cleared away the pumpkins and scarecrows to make way for an enchanting Christmas wonderland. Along the driveway, she placed wrought-iron lanterns that cast a soft, warm light, gently guiding visitors to the cottage’s entrance.

The trees were adorned with decorations. Glittering fake snowflakes, large red and silver hearts, ornaments, and even ‘gift packages’ (or, more honestly, empty shoe boxes wrapped in shiny paper). All of this was surrounded by plump little elves, glowing reindeer, and a towering fir tree, meticulously decorated to match every hue.

It's a fairy-tale setting, calm and serene. A true corner of paradise.

And then there is Blaine, the youngest member of the team. His main responsibilities are managing the social media pages and, when he’s around, cleaning the rooms and serving breakfast. But his most important and, perhaps, most demanding role is simply to obey Susy’s orders, whether they are given with affection or with a certain edge.

“You need to go back to Ms. Lloyd and tell her that I don’t care if this fabric is cheap because it’s been sitting unsold since last season,” Susy declares, her voice firm and commanding, not even waiting for Blaine to respond. “For the curtains in my cottage, I want only the best. And because it's Christmas, I want poinsettias!”

Blaine mentally curses under his breath but gets to his feet, sighing just loudly enough to avoid the risk of Susy throwing one of her slippers at him. He presses a kiss to her forehead, the familiar scent of her powdery perfume lingering on his lips.

“I promise I’ll return triumphant with your poinsettia fabric,” he assures her, giving a dramatic bow.

Susy smiles warmly. “You’re my favourite nephew.”

“Why, do you have more?” Blaine teases, raising an eyebrow.

Susy lets out a small laugh at the joke, as she always does, and Blaine is reminded once again of how much he admires her ability to make light of moments that might bring others sorrow.

Without thinking, his eyes drift to the portrait of Uncle Greg, his young face captured in a painting hanging above the fireplace. People often say Blaine looks like him. It’s easy to see the similarities. The full lips, the defined jawline, and the eyes, strikingly similar to his own and his grandmother’s, with that unusual gleam of glossy white in the irises.

Nothing like the more delicate features of his father, George, Susy’s second son, who is far more like his grandfather Ray.

Sometimes, Blaine wonders if he had a brother who he might have looked like. But this is a question that will never be answered.

“I’m off,” he says, finishing the last button on his coat. “Did mom and dad call? They’re supposed to arrive in Tuscany today, aren’t they?”

Susy laughs heartily at the question. “Who, dear? Those two? With your father’s sense of direction, who knows where they’ve ended up. Probably in Greece by now.”

Blaine chuckles along, slipping his hat on as he imagines his parents wandering in confusion somewhere in Italy. Over the years, they had occasionally indulged in a little relaxation, but this year, after quite some time, they had treated themselves to a proper few weeks off. Blaine had practically begged them to go, even though he’s not much of a traveller himself. The only holidays he’d taken were to Scotland and Vienna with friends and, of course, the Sunday trips he’s quite fond of. He’s probably one of the few young adults who truly appreciates his hometown. Marth really is a lovely place, and since it’s already a popular holiday spot for many, he feels as though he’s on holiday all year round.

After a final farewell to his grandmother, Blaine mounts his bike and heads off toward Ms. Lloyd’s shop, The Little Silver Button , ready to get back to the task at hand.

Pedalling down Willow Lane, Blaine can’t help but admire the festive cheer that has overtaken the shops in the town centre. The boutique shelves are brimming with gift ideas; everything from quirky toys to chic accessories.

Each shop window is adorned with at least one giant bow or a beautiful garland draped across the entrance doors, adding a touch of holiday magic to the street.

The air is crisp and biting. Blaine feels his cheeks burning with the cold and his ears numbing, but he relishes the sensation. The fatigue of cycling fades under the sweet scent of hot chocolate with cinnamon, his favourite spice, as Silent Night softly plays from the town hall’s loudspeaker.

Yes, he feels content, almost as if the entire town is wrapped in a comforting holiday embrace.

He recognises many of the shopkeepers along the main street, each of them evoking memories of the past. There’s Mr. Roland with his antique shop; Blaine can still recall the time, years ago, when Susy managed to haggle with him over the price of an exquisite, massive baroque lamp she had her eye on for the living room at the cottage.

After a fierce back and forth, Grandma Susy came out victorious. The lamp now graces the B&B, and Mr. Roland still grumbles about how Mrs. Anderson’s tenacity got the better of him that day.

Next, Blaine passes the flower shop, bursting with gift vases, plants, and house ornaments. But what catches his eye the most is the large, plump mistletoe hanging above the door. He knows that shop like the back of his hand, having visited it countless times with his mother. Mrs. Scott, the owner and a dear friend of Pamela’s, has often enlisted her help to decorate the church for festive occasions or ceremonies. Blaine holds her in great affection and makes a mental note to stop by and say hello soon.

Blaine makes a quick stop at Mr. Harrison’s to get Susy's favourite butter, the one she always uses for her exceptional recipes, and after a few minutes he is back at Ms. Lloyd’s shop. The woman watches him enter, removes her glasses with a sigh, and then chuckles. “We didn’t convince her, did we?”

Blaine shakes his head, joining in the laughter. “No. She wants poinsettias, not roses.”

Ms. Lloyd slips the thick blue frames back onto her nose and reaches for a large register on the shelf. She flicks through it for a moment, then closes it with a soft thud. “No, Blaine. I’m afraid we’ll have to order them,” she says gently, placing the register back down. “And they probably won’t arrive until next week.”

Blaine shrugs with a smile. “That’s fine. We’ll wait.”

Ms. Lloyd picks up her notebook and starts jotting something down. “Right, we were saying... six metres for the salon curtains…”

After about fifteen minutes spent discussing fabrics and flowers, Blaine can finally move on to Mrs. Scott. She’s feeling a bit whiny from all the extra running around and the ache in her knees. “It’s the humidity,” she says, though, despite the complaint, she appears content. Blaine knows how much she loves her work. Before he leaves, she hands him a lovely little succulent seedling as a thank you for stopping by to chat.

Once Blaine has finished his errands, he heads back to the cottage. His hands are raw from the cold, but it's a small price to pay for the warmth of the cottage that awaits him. The familiar comfort of Susy's haven, warmth, laughter, and the soft crackling of the fire, fills him with relief as he cycles up the driveway, ready to escape the outside’s chill. 

He leans his bike against the wall and steps inside, immediately enveloped by the comforting scent of the cottage.

As he re-enters, his phone automatically reconnects to the Wi-Fi, and a notification pings through. It's a message, or various messages, from Unique and Marley, his best friends, engaging in a heated exchange in their private group chat. Unique, as usual, is venting about her “crazy clients”, though she uses a few more colourful words than that. She’s a renowned make-up artist, especially in London, and Marley, ever the voice of reason, is trying to calm her down with her usual nurse-like empathy. Blaine responds with a string of emojis and, when unsure, sides with Marley just to annoy Unique, who, of course, insults him. He loves these two. Sometimes, though, he wonders how three such different people can remain friends.

Not even two minutes later, his phone lights up again, signaling an incoming call from his mother.

"Hello, mom!" he greets brightly. It's always a joy to hear her voice.

"Hi, baby!" she squeaks cheerfully. "Your father says hello, too! Say hello, George," she hisses, clearly thinking Blaine can't hear her.

"Hello, B!" comes his father’s voice from a distance, sounding busy and– perhaps a little fatigued?

"What are you guys up to?" Blaine asks, his voice laced with concern.

Pam laughs. Too falsely. "Everything’s fine, honey. Your dad’s changing the tyre on the rental car! We got a flat!" 

Although Pam sounds calm on the phone, Blaine can tell she’s masking her stress.

“So everything is not all right,” he says, a hint of teasing in his voice.

“What are you talking about!?” Pam exclaims. “Now your father’s changing the tyre and– you know how to change a tyre, don’t you, dear? ”

Blaine hears his father let out a long, dramatic sigh, and has to hold back a laugh. It’s a sigh so loud he almost hears it over the phone his mother is holding.

“I can do anything with any tool, Pamela. Even change a wheel in the middle of the Tuscan countryside,” his father declares, the confidence in his voice almost making Blaine believe it. Almost…

“Hear that, honey? Everything’s under control!” Pam chirps.

Blaine suppresses a smile. He knows not to worry. His parents are grown-ups. Well, mostly. It’s his mother who tends to panic, while his father is much more laid-back. They balance each other out perfectly. Blaine laughs lightly, trying to keep the mood light for her.

“Can you put dad on, please?”

“Sure, honey. Sure. Bye, baby.”

Blaine hears a brief silence, followed by his mother’s exasperated sigh, “oh, my baby boy” before his father finally picks up the line.

“Tell me, B!”

“Are you sure everything’s okay?” Blaine asks, his voice laced with concern.

George chuckles, the familiar, warm laugh that always puts Blaine in a good mood. “I’m pretty much done. Your mother’s just nervous because it’s dark, she’s hungry, and she’s afraid we’ll be late for dinner.” 

And, from a distance, Blaine hears Pam’s offended “Hey!”

And then, “Put him on again–”

“Have a nice dinner!” Blaine says quickly before his mother’s loud voice greets him again.

“Hey darling, remember to place the wreath keychains on the room dressers along with Grandma’s gingerbread biscuits that I packed before I left! Oh, and remember to fill the juice jugs, tea jugs, coffee pots and– oh! Remember–”

“Mom! I know, relax! I’ve got it under control!”

“I know, baby, I know you’re good,” she says, her voice softening, just like when he was ten years old and would bring home the crafts he made in art class. “I’m just reminding you because the guests are coming soon!”

Blaine smiles fondly, shaking his head. He loves his mom, even if she’s a bit much at times.

“You guys have fun and send me lots of pictures, okay? And don’t worry about me and Grandma; we’re doing great!”

“I’m sure you will, hon–”

“Here we go!” George shouts in the distance, followed by the satisfying roar of the car starting up.

“Yes! Please! I’m starving! See, Blaine? As always, your dad did a great job!”

“I had no doubt. But now go! And remember the pictures!”

After half an hour, Blaine has warmed up with a hot shower and prepared a steaming cup of tea, accompanied by a couple of freshly baked pastries. Just as he’s settling in, his phone buzzes with a new message: a selfie from his parents. The photo is a blurry mess, and Blaine can just about make out the outlines of his parents with, in the foreground, a massive Florentine steak that’s making his mouth water.

But for the moment, he is more than happy to enjoy Susy’s homemade sweets. The ones that taste like family. The family he loves with all his heart.

Chapter Text

Ah, if there’s anyone who can make Blaine laugh more than his grandmother’s wonderfully warped sense of humour, it’s definitely her friends, the Clark sisters, Agnes and Emma. And it’s not because they crack clever jokes, absolutely no, they make him laugh because they’re just the strangest people he’s ever met.

Two ladies who look all posh and refined, but spend most of their time squabbling and taking the mick out of each other with a kind of sarcasm that’s absolutely priceless. It’s the funniest thing.

They’re always dressed like they’re heading to the opening night at La Scala in Milan. Today, Agnes is in a dark blue velvet dress that, Blaine’s fairly certain, could easily match the Christmas decorations. On her flaming red (definitely dyed) hair, she’s got a wide-brimmed hat that, if you ask Blaine, has no business being anywhere near that dress. Emma, on the other hand, is in a grey suit, with a pearl necklace that jingles every time she leans in to sip from her mug. And not quietly, either. It’s like a little bell going off.

Twice a week, the Clark sisters delight Susy with a visit to the cottage, bringing their homemade tea. The ingredients of which Blaine has absolutely no desire to know. They claim it’s all for the sake of his grandmother’s divine scones, which, of course, they pair with their lovely tea. But everyone knows the real reason they go is to gossip about the entire Marth.

A whole different kind of tea.

He loves sitting in his, which is actually not his, armchair, pretending to read a book while listening to them snipe at each other, all while the grandmother sighs loudly from boredom in the background.

Ms. Agnes is giving her tea a disapproving look. Blaine can tell she’s about to say something from the way she puffs out her chest and straightens her back.

“Emma, this tea is so weak I could practically use it to water the garden. At least that way, my black rose might actually make some progress.”

Emma gives a slight jolt as she takes a sip, which results in a small cough. She sets down her porcelain cup and looks at her sister with an eyebrow raised so high it practically touches her hairline. “My dear, it doesn’t take much to beat your roses. The only thing flourishing in that garden of yours is the moss. And sometimes, it seems like even that has no real ambition.”

Blaine lets out a long, shaky sigh, trying desperately not to burst out laughing, hidden behind the book. But the Clark sisters, of course, don’t even notice that Blaine is accidentally holding the book upside down, nor that Susy is rolling her eyes in exasperation. They’re too wrapped up in their own little show.

“Would you like some more milk, Emma?” Agnes asks, clearly irritated, reaching for the milk jug and, predictably, spilling a few drops on her sister’s suit.

Emma gasps. “Try not to make a mess like last time, Agnes!” she scolds before taking another sip.

“It was just an unfortunate mishap,” Agnes defends herself, doing her best to hide any sign of embarrassment.

“Oh, you have butter fingers, dear sister,” Emma continues, winking at the butter dish on the table next to the tray of biscuits.

Agnes’s eyes widen in shock. “Oh, really? Well, at least my butter hands are better than your arms. They remind me of the pudding Aunt Meredith used to make us on Sunday afternoons.”

Emma slams her cup down, causing it to clink sharply against its saucer. “You’re beyond rude! And my arms are not flabby!”

“Oh, yes,” Agnes replies, then leans toward Blaine, whispering, “and not just those,” causing him to almost choke on his own breath.

Emma gasps again. “Susan! Can you believe this? Say something!”

Susy rolls her eyes, again, then glances at Blaine, trying not to laugh at his face, which has turned a bright shade of crimson. Finally, she turns back to the sisters. “I’m done with you two, you’re exhausting.”

And there it is, the line that usually ends the Clark sisters’ banter. It’s funny how they only seem to let their sharp tongues loose when they come to have tea at the cottage.

Oh, they're not bad, of course not, just a bit... eccentric, shall we say. They're of noble descent, which could explain their rather frivolous and somewhat snobbish behavior. But… are they really nobility? Blaine and Susy often wonder this, especially after the two have left after having gone on and on about nothing. When the air is finally clear, Blaine and Susy will joke that they’re probably just telling a bunch of tall tales. 

The sisters claim to be descendants of the Duke of Lather who lived in the nineteenth century in The Capemont Castle, although, strangely enough, there is no sign of a castle nearby, but they do live in a rather elegant, historic home. And neither of them has ever gotten married.

There are rumors that under Agnes’s window, the younger sister, there was quite a bit of traffic, and a conveniently placed ladder for all the admirers. She claims, though, to never have had admirers or lovers because “who knows what people might think of me!” 

Ugh. Sometimes, Blaine wonders how the housekeeper, Mrs. Miriam, puts up with their endless whims. She’s even been nicknamed “the courageous Mimi” all around Marth for her patience. And the only other person who seems to manage them is his grandma. Maybe it’s because she’s known them for so long and has mastered the art of not indulging their every over-the-top behavior.

Blaine plays along with them, grinning through it all. He adores them, truly. He finds it absolutely hilarious how they believe they’re a cut above everyone else. Sometimes, they’re so annoyingly childish that he feels like screaming and walking out, but he knows Susy would give him a proper lecture. Well, after having a good laugh with him, of course. 

But, all in all, he enjoys watching them bicker. “If I may, Misses Clark, you look absolutely elegant today,” Blaine says, doing his best to hide a mischievous smile.

Emma perks up immediately, clearly flattered. “We’re always elegant, Blaine, darling,” she replies sweetly, fixing her hair. Her dyed hair, of course. “As Audrey Hepburn once said, elegance is the only beauty that never fades.”

“Wasn’t that Jane Austen?” asks Agnes, confused, turning to her sister.

Emma lifts her chin, glaring at her. “You are utterly ignorant.”

“Look who’s talking! You make up words when we play Scrabble,” Agnes snaps back, then turns to Blaine and Susy, lowering her voice as though someone else might overhear. “Do you know what she put down last time?” she whispers, her tone dramatic. “Bondage.”

Blaine spins around toward Susy, choking hopelessly on the lemon pastry he was eating, spitting crumbs everywhere. 

“What is this word? Bondage?” Susy asks, patting Blaine's back quickly, though he doesn’t seem to stop coughing. But the ladies, completely unfazed, don’t even bat an eyelash.

“Exactly, it doesn’t exist!” Agnes chimes in, her voice as smug as ever. “When I asked Emma to explain it, she couldn’t, so I won the game.” 

Emma shrugs nonchalantly. “I’m pretty sure I’ve heard it before. Maybe in a book.”

She turns to Blaine, who is still hacking away and has now turned a worrying shade of scarlet. “Do you know it? You’re young, you must have a more modern vocabulary.”

“Well–” Blaine tries to croak out, still fighting the crumb lodged in his throat.

“Or maybe it was a film…” Emma continues to ponder, totally ignoring Blaine’s near-death experience.

“Are you sure?” Susy asks, handing Blaine a glass of water. “Darling, are you alright?” she adds, gently taking the teacup from his hands before he drops it.

After a couple of agonising minutes, where the ladies sit in complete silence, waiting for Blaine to finish dying, he finally stops coughing.

He takes a few deep breaths, this time careful not to choke on air.

“Sorry, the meringue went down the wrong way,” he mutters, still a little shaky.

“We noticed, moopie,” Susy says, patting his back soothingly.

“Quite well, Susan, can’t you see? Like a flower,” Emma continues, clearly unfazed by Blaine’s suffocation. “Now tell us. Is it a real word?”

Blaine tries, unsuccessfully, to banish the mental image of Ms. Emma Clark tied up with a silk scarf on her nineteenth-century four-poster bed, using guillotine as her safeword.

“Well, it’s, uh, let’s say…” Blaine says, blushing deeply. Maybe choking to death would have been a better option. “We could call it…”

He turns to his grandmother for help, only to find complete calm and ignorance in her eyes. Saintly woman…

He clears his throat. “It’s a, um, a rather specific erotic practice, Ms. Clark,” he whispers, much like a schoolboy who just read the word penis in a science book for the first time.

The ladies nod in apparent interest. Old foxes.

“Do tell us more, dear. Is it something you do with your girlfriend?”

Blaine is really about to lose it.

“I… Ms. Clark–”

“Miss…”

“I believe that’s a, um– very private matter, don’t you think?!”

The ladies nod, but they’re not disturbed in the slightest. Susy scratches her neck and then resumes sipping her tea.

And Blaine, unable to keep quiet, adds, “And even if I did do it, it would most certainly be with a man. I’m still pretty gay. Exactly like the last time you assumed I had a girlfriend. And even the one before that,” he says, this time without a hint of embarrassment.

And here begins the chorus. “Oh my Lord, of course–”

“You’re right, darling!”

“What a silly mistake–”

“Oh please, forgive us! You already told us plenty of times!”

Blaine waves his hands in front of them, trying to calm them down and the boring shower of excuses that, he knows, he will hear again at the next tea, but they do not stop. Only Susy’s loud, commanding “We get it, enough!” finally makes them stop their strange excuses.

So another couple of long minutes go by, filled with the deafening ticking of the grand clock and the annoying clinking of teacups on saucers.

Then Emma Clark decides to open her mouth one last time.

“Well then, tell us. Is it something you do with your boyfriend?”

*

“The first Christmas guests, huh, Blaine?”  

Roderick’s voice, always upbeat yet tinged with a bit of absentmindedness, calls out as he carries in the clean linen. He’s the guy who delivers fresh sheets every week, and while he’s a genuinely nice person, his head is often in the clouds. Blaine’s learned to adapt, but no matter how many times he tries to greet him, Roderick always seems to be darting back to his van, bag of linens flung over his shoulder. The guy moves quickly, too quickly for Blaine to catch him, though Blaine has gotten used to playing catch-up.

Though they don’t get much time to chat, Blaine does see him now and then at the local pub, usually with a pint of beer in hand and headphones around his neck. Roderick’s love for music spills into every conversation, often turning their talks into spirited discussions about songs, bands, and indie genres. He plays in a local band, and whenever Blaine runs into him, he’s more likely to be wearing headphones than not. He’s a good guy, and his deep affection for music always makes Blaine smile. Roderick’s grandmother is an old friend of Susy, and whenever they meet, the two of them engage in that familiar, endearing battle of who can praise their grandson the most. Blaine secretly enjoys it. He’s a grandma’s boy through and through, and no matter how much he’s grown, he can never fully shake that affection.

But anyway…

As Roderick tosses the bag over his shoulder and hurries off to his van, Blaine grabs it, his teeth chattering from the cold. “The linen for the French couple on their honeymoon just arrived,” he says, carrying the heavy bag inside, the scent of freshly laundered cotton filling the air. “Well, more like it landed on me.”  

Susy chuckles from the other side of the room, recognizing the familiar frustration in his voice. “I can imagine.” She’s been around long enough to know the routine.  

“The honeymoon suite is ready for them,” Blaine continues, his voice a little softer now. “It’s nice that there are still people who decide to get married. You don’t hear about that as much anymore. It’s a rare thing nowadays,” he adds, almost wistfully. 

“Well, thank goodness for that!” Susy responds, her voice bright, as she moves to adjust one of the decorative cushions on the couch. “It’s good money, and as you know, it’s definitely not the first time our cottage has been chosen for a honeymoon.”

Blaine nods, glancing at the details of the French couple’s booking. “They’re even the same age as you,” he adds with a touch of reverence. “That’s so beautiful.”  

Susy’s lips curve into a small, amused smile. “Well, I don’t know about that. Getting married at sixty-five…”  

Blaine laughs, a short, soft chuckle. “Doesn’t matter. Love is beautiful, no matter the age.”

Susy’s smile falters for a second, and there’s a flicker of something behind her eyes, perhaps a trace of grief, maybe nostalgia. She had been deeply in love with Grandpa Roy, and though she doesn't talk about him much anymore, Blaine can tell that love is something she’s never fully let go of. Just as, of course, she never abandoned her affection for Uncle Greg. She lost a lot, but she learned to carry it with her, buried deep inside where it doesn’t overwhelm her. “Just make sure everything’s perfect for them tomorrow. The room needs to be spotless, and the diffusers need to be full, moonpie.”

Blaine leans over, planting a quick kiss on her cheek. “Of course, boss!”  

The rest of the day passes in a slow, almost ceremonial rhythm. Blaine moves through the motions with precision, each action methodical, a quiet testament to his devotion. He works, not just with his hands but with his heart, focusing on making everything perfect for the couple. He changes the bedsheets, fluffing the duvet until it’s smooth, ensuring every crease is banished like an unwelcome thought. He adjusts the curtains, letting in the gentle winter sunlight that casts a soft, golden glow over the room. Then, taking his time, he polishes the windows until they shine like mirrors, reflecting the tranquility of the outside world. He stands back for a moment, appreciating the view of the valley below, which, despite the overcast sky, remains breathtaking. The mist curling around the hills gives the landscape an ethereal quality, like a scene from a forgotten fairy tale.

His gaze shifts to the small poinsettia on the windowsill. He checks the soil again, ensuring it’s watered properly. It’s not the biggest plant, but it’s vibrant, with red leaves that contrast starkly against the winter’s gray. It adds a cheerful touch to the room, a symbol of life in the midst of the cold. There’s a poinsettia in every room, four in total, plus one in his own room, because Blaine simply can’t resist Christmas. It’s the one time of year where everything feels magical, where the world feels softer, kinder, and where hope, despite everything, is still possible. The poinsettias, small and bright, feel like tiny beacons of that hope.

Though Blaine focuses on the details, there’s a small knot in his stomach that he can’t ignore. He catches a glimpse of the worn wooden floors, faded with age and heavy footfalls. The chipped walls of the breakfast room, once vibrant, are now in need of attention. The cottage, though full of charm, is beginning to show signs of wear, and it makes him uneasy. He’s learned to overlook these imperfections over time, but deep down, he knows the cottage is in need of more than just a fresh coat of paint. It’s a place full of memories, yet it carries a weight, too, a quiet reminder of all the things that need fixing but can’t be fixed just yet. The kitchen fridge hums in a strange, unsettling way, an almost sentient sound, like it’s trying to communicate its last warning. Susy, ever the pragmatic one, just slaps it when it starts to shake. Blaine knows she doesn’t want to admit it’s on its last legs, but neither of them has the heart to replace it. And deep down, he knows that replacing it is out of the question.  

The idea of expanding the vegetable garden keeps creeping into his thoughts, like a dream that won’t fade. It’s something that excites him, the idea of watching the rows of crops grow, the satisfaction of feeding their own family with food they nurtured from the earth. But it’s a project that will have to wait until spring. It’s not something that can be rushed, certainly not without his mother overseeing it. 

But everything costs money. And, at the moment, money is something Blaine and Susy and all his family don’t have in abundance. 

He lets out a frustrated sigh, the kind that comes from deep within, and opens the window, hoping the fresh winter air will ease the tension in his chest. The cold wind brushes his face, sharp and invigorating, chasing away the weight of the day and clearing his mind. His other job, teaching, has its rewards, and he truly loves it; the quiet satisfaction of helping young minds grow, but it’s not enough to ease life’s financial burdens. It’s never enough. 

Despite that, he clings to the hope that Susy’s Wonderland will one day be enough. The bed and breakfast, their labor of love, will be their salvation. They pour their hearts into the cottage, caring for every detail, from the linens to the carefully tended garden outside. It’s their legacy, their love letter to the world. And when the tourists arrive, they can’t help but feel it; the warmth, the care, the story of a family that’s built something beautiful with their hands and their hearts.

Looking out at the horizon, the wind tousling his hair, Blaine feels a quiet surge of optimism. Something's coming. There’s a sense of purpose that settles over him, a certainty that, despite the odds, they’re still moving forward. Maybe things aren’t perfect. Maybe they’re not where they want to be, but they’re still here. They’re still standing. Susy’s Wonderland will make it, he tells himself. It has to. And despite the imperfections, the worn floors, and the chipped walls, he’s sure of one thing: it’s the most beautiful cottage in the world, and no one can convince him otherwise.

Chapter Text

“Love can’t cure a mental illness. There are lots of ways to help him, you can just be there. To listen. To talk. To cheer him up if he’s having a bad day. And on the bad days, you can ask what to do to make things easier. Stand by his side, even when things are hard. But also knowing that sometimes people need more support than just one person can give. That’s love, darling.”

Blaine sniffles, wiping his eyes. Well, when he decided to go to bed early and unwind with a soft TV show, he certainly didn’t expect to end up crying over Nick Nelson’s aunt. Even though he insists on calling her Agent Carter.  

He sighs deeply, drying his eyes. It may be crazy, but Blaine actually loves crying over a film. It makes him feel somehow fulfilled. Like, if you’re going to spend a good hour and a half staring at a screen, you might as well have a good emotional cleanse. He can’t quite explain it. Of course, it has to be a tearjerker, because he avoids anything too gory or depressing like the plague. Romantic tragedies are ideal. Even ones where someone dies but plenty of feelings are involved. Definitely no zombie apocalypses. Those are just a step too far.

Despite the tears, after a day of cleaning and chores, the closest thing to heaven for him is lying under the covers, watching his favourite show of the moment, nibbling on his grandma’s orange and chocolate biscuits. He’ll worry about his diet after New Year’s. That’s a future Blaine problem. After all, a biscuit a day keeps the existential dread at bay, they say. Or something like that.

Ideally, he’d have no headphones and the volume turned up to fully enjoy Heartstopper’s wonderful soundtrack, but it’s one in the morning, and he doesn’t want to disturb the guests. A couple of young lads had shown up unexpectedly around eight, just needing one night to rest. Blaine had panicked for a moment, as he always does when something unexpected happens. His ideal world is one of well-planned routines, but Susy calmed him down. The two twenty-somethings were sweet and charming, even apologising for showing up unannounced, and Blaine was touched by the gesture. 

But it’s probably Susy who shouldn’t be woken up. God, no. Absolutely not. He’s not that self-destructive. Waking her at one a.m. might result in a tragic story about her “morning grumpiness” that no one would survive hearing.

He takes a long sip of water, because crying always leaves him feeling dehydrated (a well-known side effect of feeling too much). He settles back, clicking play again.

He adores Nick. He’s his favourite character. Sensitive, kind, sweet. And his love for Charlie is so pure, so genuine.

...saying he’s jealous is an understatement.

His luck with men has always been... ugh. What’s a synonym for “completely nonexistent”? Best not to think about it. And yet, Blaine is so in love with love. He’s in love with beauty, with the little things, the unexpected gestures. He’s basically the human embodiment of romanticism, but with an occasional sprinkle of cynicism (and a dash of leftover pizza crusts). Some would call him naïve, but is he really?

What Nick feels for Charlie isn’t just romantic. It’s something deeper. It’s an act of acceptance and growth, both personal and shared. The kind of love Blaine wishes he had for himself. If only he could find someone who could accept his entire collection of embarrassing quirks. 

He wants to feel loved, to be seen for who he is. He wants to discover himself through someone who is willing to hold his hand, help him face his fears, and build a relationship based on respect, understanding, and compassion. And maybe the occasional awkward dance party in the kitchen. It’s important, really.

But why does he get lost in these thoughts while the show keeps playing? He groans, hits pause, and rewinds the last five minutes of the scene he missed while dwelling on his miserable love life. Classic Blaine. A man of deep thought, very deep thought.

But then, a thud.

Huh?

Blaine pulls off his headphones, sitting still with a vacant stare, trying to figure out where the noise came from. The familiar trickle of anxiety creeps down his spine, and he can feel his heart rate spike. But after a moment, when the sound doesn’t come again, he relaxes, settling back against the pile of cushions behind him, adjusting his headphones and hitting play. “Probably just the house settling. It always sounds like there’s a ghost here at night. Get a grip, Blaine,” he says to himself. 

Barely five seconds later, he’s startled by that same unnerving thud again. Actually, it’s not just one thud. There are several.

But they’re not thuds. They’re knocks! Someone’s knocking at the front door at one in the morning! Who on earth is knocking at one in the morning?

He rips the headphones off, tossing them onto the bed, and rushes to the window. It’s raining, and the droplets glisten under the streetlights, turning the alleys into shiny yellow streaks. It looks a bit sinister, of course. As if the situation weren’t already unsettling enough. Blaine mentally prepares himself for a horror movie moment. Could be a friendly neighbour? Could be a disgruntled ghost with bad timing? He’d put his money on the latter.

“Stay calm, stay calm,” he mutters to himself like a mantra. Then, he opens the window, and leans out to look below.

The first thing he sees, aside from a large car parked in front of the fence, is a shadowy figure wearing a raincoat, their face hidden beneath a hat. The figure doesn’t even notice him, focused on the glass door to the house. The ominous vibe is strong with this one. Blaine imagines the figure could either be a mysterious stranger or, God forbid, a door-to-door salesman. Either way, it’s going to be awkward.

Despite the rain, the mist, and the figure’s clothes that obscure most of their form, Blaine would bet his life it’s a man. A man who’s not giving up because he knocks again. And again. And again! At this point, it’s less “who is it?” and more “what does he want? A cup of tea? A philosophical conversation about the rain? Maybe a five pound donation to the Stop Blaine From Having A Panic Attack Fund?”

“Oi!” Blaine growls from the window, keeping his voice low. “Stop knocking!”

The stranger looks up at the sound of his voice and, unexpectedly, with an irritable tone, snaps back, “Oh, finally!”

Finally!? “What’s your problem?” Blaine asks, fighting the urge to shout. It’s one in the bloody morning, and this is the sort of inconvenience he didn’t sign up for when he decided to help his grandma at the B&B.

“This is a bed and breakfast, right?” the man asks, as though this is some sort of emergency inquiry.

“That’s what the sign says,” Blaine replies, raising an eyebrow. What, did he think he'd wandered into the set of Downton Abbey? 

“And you’re the owner?”

“Sort of. But what is–”

“Can you come down?” the man interrupts, sounding quite annoyed. “My neck’s killing me.”

Blaine is about to tell him exactly where he can shove his neck pain, but instead he grabs his thick navy bathrobe and hurries down the stairs, muttering under his breath as he heads for the door. “I swear, if he’s just lost his car keys or something equally absurd, I’m going to lose it.”

When he opens the door, the first thing he notices is that yes, this is definitely a man. A tall one, probably a few inches taller than him. The second thing: it’s definitely raining harder than he thought. The guest is soaked through. The only thing protecting his face is the wide-brimmed hat, which is dimly lit by the Christmas lights around the door. The man is standing still. Blaine can barely make out his expression. 

It’s a strange one, actually. Scowling. As if he’s trying to communicate that Blaine’s wasting his time, when really he should just let him inside because, well… it’s pouring.

But Blaine stands his ground. “Well?” he demands, clearly irritated. He’s sure the man can hear the sarcasm thick in his voice. 

“This is Susy’s Wonderland, right?” the man asks, showing Blaine his phone with the Google Maps directions. 

“Uh, yeah!?” Blaine squints, confused. “So?”

“You’ve got a room?”

The man asks this like he’s asking if there’s tea on the table at three in the afternoon.

But it’s not three in the afternoon. And Blaine can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Do you have any idea what time it is? Do you really think–”

Stay calm, Blaine. He could be a potential guest. Be polite, for heaven’s sa–

Shut up, Grandma!

“I wouldn’t ask for a room at this hour if I wasn’t desperate,” the man snaps back, brushing water off his face with what can only be described as ‘wet dog’ precision.

“Desperate?” Blaine asks, sceptical, glancing past him toward the large black SUV. “Car trouble?”

The man turns, checking to see if the shiny Lincoln Navigator is actually his. Then he looks back at Blaine. “Oh, no. My car’s fine. I just need a room to rest. I’ve been travelling for hours.”

Blaine is completely thrown off. And a bit lost. Who shows up like this in the dead of a cold, rainy night, dressed like they’re headed to a funeral? 

He pulls his robe tighter and steps back toward the door. “Sir, this isn’t a hotel and the reception is closed. Sorry, goodnight.” He grabs the handle to hurry and shut the door, feeling like he’s in some twisted version of The Twilight Zone. It might indeed be someone seeking shelter, as it might not be. With times being what they are…

The door is about to close, but the man suddenly stops it with his hand and, unexpectedly, says, “I’m Hummel!”

Blaine freezes. “Hummel,” he repeats, trying to grasp any familiarity in the name.

The man nods, his eyes full of clear panic at the thought that Blaine might not let him in.

“Kurt Hummel,” he adds, giving a smug little smile right after. 

Um, okay!? “And I’m Anderson. Blaine Anderson,” Blaine replies, unphased. “And after this James Bond-style introduction, I’ll say goodnight–”

“That Kurt Hummel,” the man says again from behind the door, blocking it once more after Blaine tries to close it for the second time. 

Blaine huffs in frustration and opens it again. He’s going to catch a cold, he just knows it. He hopes this guy at least knows how to dry off properly without staining Susy’ precious vintage carpets. 

They stare at each other in silence. The man is clearly waiting for some kind of reaction from Blaine, but it doesn’t come. Blaine’s brain frantically sorts through every possible reference he might have missed, but nothing rings a bell. His name and his face don’t tell him anything new. Should he know him?

The man, clearly annoyed and with, tsk!, quite a bit of audacity, rolls his eyes. “Never heard of The Land of Stories?”

Blaine stares at him. He thinks for a moment. “No. Actually, no.”

“Don’t you ever read?” the man snaps. “Books, I mean.”

Blaine recoils, taken aback by such presumption. “How dare you? Of course I read! What would you–” Then he has an epiphany. “You’re an author, aren’t you?”

“Ding, ding, ding,” the man sings obnoxiously, dragging the words out. “Got it! Ten points for you!”

Blaine raises an eyebrow. “And I suppose you’re famous, too.”

The man, who despite having revealed his name, Blaine still insists on calling the man because he’s not in the mood to be friendly, tilts his chin theatrically, extending two fingers as if deep in thought. “Let’s see. If selling two million copies and having nearly a million followers makes someone a famous author, then yes, I am,” he says, his tone dripping with vanity. In fact, a lot of it. “Except, of course, in this tiny little village, apparently.”

“Apparently,” Blaine repeats, trying to mask the growing nervousness in his voice. 

“Anyway, followers or not, the situation doesn’t change. Do you have a room? Yes or no?”

He pulls the robe tighter around himself. Again. Perhaps standing on the doorstep in nothing but this isn’t the best idea after all. “Well, actually, yes, I do have one, but check-in is closed for the night. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

The man widens his eyes. “Tomorrow? But I need it now!”

Oh Lord, he’s relentless. If Blaine was trying to play it cool, it wasn’t working. Not with this guy.

Blaine massages his temples, thinking. He could suggest a nearby hotel a few miles away, but Susy’s Wonderland has never turned away a guest. And not just that: the last room available is also the largest and most expensive, and with all the renovations needing to be done, that money certainly isn’t something he can turn down.

Blaine’s thousand thoughts are abruptly interrupted by a yawn.

“I do beg your pardon for the hour,” he says, barely stifling another yawn. “But I really, really need to get some rest.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Blaine mutters, finally swinging the door open fully and stepping aside to let the man in. “After you. The reception’s this way.”

The man lets out a sigh that Blaine can’t quite place, whether it’s relief or frustration. “You’re very kind,” the man says after the huff, his voice dripping with clear sarcasm.

With swift movements, he grabs his trolley and rushes into the house, as if afraid Blaine might change his mind and toss him out. He removes his hat and unbuttons his coat. Under the warm glow of the large chandelier in the hallway, the man, Kurt, as Blaine now knows, seems different.

His hair is light brown, with a few golden streaks here and there, slightly flattened from the hat. And the clothes he’s wearing... wow. Very sharp. Elegant. More business than writer, really. He’s dressed in a dark grey suit, charcoal, to be precise. A subtle play of light on the fabric highlights the fine wool, making it look so soft and warm that Blaine has to fight the urge to reach out and fee–

“Um–” the man coughs, snapping Blaine out of his reverie. “Shouldn't I, um, give you some documents or something?”

Blaine shakes his head, blushing. “Yes, of course. Right. So–”

Once he’s got everything he needs, Blaine prepares to jot everything down in the register. “I do hope you'll forgive the outfit I greeted you in,” he says, smirking, quickly finishing his writing. “I’m sure you understand the situation.”

When he looks up again, he finds the man staring at his pyjama top, now clearly visible thanks to his robe being open. And he’s smiling, of course. 

“What’s with the face?” Blaine asks. “Don’t you like cats?” he gestures to his top, which features a black cat wrapped in Christmas lights with the words Meowy Catmas written underneath.

The man shifts his gaze back to him, still smiling with amusement, though his eyes are half-closed and puffy with exhaustion. “Not at all! Cats are my favourite!”

Blaine crosses his arms over his chest, matching the man’s sarcastic smile with one of his own. “Same here. In fact, one of my favourite characters is Tom Kitten by Beatrix Potter. Have you ever heard of it?”

The man clicks his tongue, the sound sharp and dismissive. “Of course. Who doesn’t know Beatrix Potter?”

“Exactly,” Blaine replies, his tone a bit more serious. “Now she was famous.”

“Ouch,” the man mutters, wincing slightly. He doesn’t say anything else. Blaine watches him for a moment, wondering if he’s gone a bit too far with the sarcasm while waiting for a clever reply, but instead, the man just seems more tired than anything else. Blaine figures he’s probably had enough of this conversation.

He clears his throat, trying to ease the tension. “Right, so... registration’s done. I’ll upload the details tomorrow. This computer’s so old, if I switched it on, it’d probably make a noise like a dying animal.”

“Right, I get it,” the man replies, a small smile creeping onto his face.

“If it’s okay with you, I’ll keep your documents with me. You never know, do you?” chuckles Blaine awkwardly, trying to sound nonchalant, even though he is clearly out of ideas. And still slightly uncomfortable with the stranger’s presence.

The man raises his hands, like he’s surrendering. “Of course, no problem.”

“Because, you see, it’s one in the morning, and I don't–”

“I completely understand, don’t worry–”

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop, I promise–” Blaine laughs, embarrassed, realising he’s maybe pushing it a bit.

“It’s fine. It’s fine,” the man says, his cheeks turning pink. Though it could just be the warmth of the hallway. “Nice place, though.”

“Thanks,” Blaine murmurs, feeling a flush spread across his face. As he tucks away the document, which he had written in haste and with little care, he actually notices for the first time the man’s address at the top: London.

Not exactly surprising, but still, it makes him wonder. What’s someone like him, from London, doing in a quiet little place like Bohlsen County in the middle of the night? He ignores his doubts and curiosities. Now is clearly not the time for conversation.

“Please, follow me,” Blaine says, forcing himself to look more composed.

The house is quiet, the soft coolness of the stairs making their footsteps seem louder than they should be. They move in silence, mindful of the stillness of the night. As they pass Susy’s door, Blaine catches a glimpse of her figure peeking out, clearly curious about their conversation.

“Back to bed!” Blaine hisses, stifling a laugh. She must’ve woken up during their little exchange downstairs.

The man notices the door shut abruptly. “Do you have all the rooms occupied?” he asks, sounding a little curious.

“Not all of them,” Blaine replies without looking back, continuing towards the end of the corridor. There’s a slight edge in his tone, a hint of coldness, as if he did not want to go into details with a stranger.

They reach the end of the corridor and stop in front of one of the white doors, the one with a large red bow on it. Blaine opens it, and immediately, the warm scent of cinnamon, mandarins, and spices fills the air. He smiles, a bit involuntarily, swept up by the pleasant fragrance.

“Here we are,” he says, switching on the light. “Ninety quid a night, and breakfast will be served tomorrow morning, or later, depending on your point of view; between 8 and 10.”

The man nods, a flicker of approval in his eyes. “Sounds good.”

“I hope the room meets your expectations, sir,” Blaine adds with a small bow, trying to be polite.

The man, looking completely worn out, smiles despite his fatigue. “I’m sure it will. Thanks.”

They exchange a quick but very intense glance, which immediately makes Blaine's cheeks heat up. He shakes his head, loosening the contact and steps aside, but the sharp, intoxicating scent of the man aftershave washes over him. He’s no expert, but he’d swear it’s something high-end. Probably Dior. Sauvage, perhaps? Actually, no, scratch that. No maybes. It definitely is, because it’s his favourite. Damn… 

The smell lingers in the air, unmistakable and strong, and it’s all he can focus on for a moment, soon forgetting his spice diffuser.

“So, um… goodnight?” the guest murmurs, reaching for the door handle and starting to close it slowly, his exhaustion clear in his eyes.

Blaine shakes his head again, trying to clear the thought of the man’s, Kurt’s, cologne from his mind. “Yes. Of course. See you tomorrow.”

He turns back towards his own room, his mind racing.

Why on earth would a man from London, apparently a well-known writer, impeccably dressed, come to stay in a small B&B in a place like Marth, light years away from the hustle and bustle of the city, in the middle of the night without even booking?

He’ll ask Susy as soon as he sees her at breakfast. She’ll surely know. That woman is like Jessica Fletcher; she always knows everything.

Chapter Text

But actually, “I don’t know” is the reply Blaine gets from Susy when he asks her who Kurt Hummel is at the reception desk, after he tells her about the scene from the previous night. And, of course, since she doesn’t know who he is, she can’t even begin to guess why he’s staying.

“Maybe he’s here for some inspiration?” Susy suggests, sorting out the breakfast items Blaine needs to take to the room. “What did you say his name was?”

“Kurt Hummel,” Blaine replies, swallowing a mouthful of his breakfast: toast with pistachio cream and black tea. The breakfast of champions. “So, really? Nothing at all?”

“Nothing.” Blaine nods, then moves towards his computer to do some sleuthing. As he searches for the man’s name, the screen fills with links and images of him, along with what appear to be his books.

Susy approaches, looking puzzled. “Isn’t he the one who wrote The Pillars of the Earth?” Blaine smiles. “No, that’s Ken Follett. This Hummel chap writes fantasy books, apparently.”

They exchange a glance, and Susy still looks utterly lost. “What does that mean, exactly?”

Blaine quickly looks up the term “fantasy” and reads the definition aloud to Susy. “Right, here we go. It’s a genre of fiction full of supernatural, magical, and fantastical elements that don’t belong in the real world. Alternate worlds,” he glances at her again, shrugging. “So like– wizards, witches, dragons... that sort of thing.”

Susy nods, still not entirely convinced. “Hmm. So, like, Henry Potter? Or The Lord of the Wings?”

Blaine lets out a loud laugh, throwing his head back. “Gran! Oh my God!”

“What’s the matter?” Susy exclaims, clearly shocked and a bit irritated by his reaction. “What’s the matter?” she repeats. “Why are you laughing?” 

He adores her. “It’s Harry Potter and The Lord of the Rings!”

Susy rolls her eyes, completely unfazed by her little mistake. “I’m sure you got what I meant anyway.”

“Of course,” Blaine replies, leaving a trail of chuckles behind him. “But yes, gran. That’s the genre.”

As Susy walks away, muttering both about writing the shopping list and something like what do I care about this fantasy genre, give me a break!, Blaine, still not satisfied with his research into the mysterious newcomer, returns to Google to satisfy his curiosity. 

He clicks on the images tab to have a look at the covers of these books, and, to his surprise, he finds them... well, actually quite captivating. Definitely aimed at a younger crowd, but the style is appealing enough to grab anyone’s attention. They’re really well done! Come to think of it, he must have seen something similar in Madison’s bookshop. The only bookshop of the village, in fact. But he’s not entirely sure, since it’s not exactly his cup of tea. He’s much more into detective novels. Oh, and romance stories, ugh, he loves romance stories. Can’t live without those.

He continues scrolling, finding photos of the man, along with some conferences and interviews he’s given.

Maybe the photos are a bit retouched, or perhaps it was just the poor lighting the other night, and the man was looking more tired from stress or exhaustion. Because the one on the screen? Undoubtedly a handsome man. And younger, too, in some of them. He takes a deep dive into his social media, discovering that the man has even more followers than he claimed. But what if they’re fake? What if he bought them? Unique, who has seen her fair share of famous people through her work, says it is a very common thing; a ploy that certain influential people resort to in order to pad their accounts.

He scrolls through the Instagram feed, finding more interviews, some self-referential posts, and plenty of photos. Especially pictures of what appears to be his latest book.

So, he wasn’t lying.

But Blaine, by nature, is extremely curious, something Susy passed on to him, for better or worse, so, of course, he has to check the comments. And, to his annoyance, he finds that they’re almost all glowing and supportive. Some of them are even... quite something.

Women have no hesitation in telling him how attractive they find him, and neither do men. Some don’t even try to hide, among compliments about the plot and the cover, their blatant interest in him, which seems to have little to do with his writing.

I get lost in your books and I drown in your ocean-coloured irises.

Oh...

Huh, you write books? I would have said your main job was to be sexy. 

Well. These people are thirsty.

You are just like one of your books. I would like to open you up and explore your content. 

Oh, my giddy aunt–

“He’s definitely a heavy sleeper,” Susy remarks suddenly, startling Blaine as she re-enters the kitchen. “That much is certain. Look,” she points to the clock with the bread knife. “It’s past nine, and I still haven’t had the pleasure of meeting this elusive writer.”

“He’s not elusive, it’s really his job,” Blaine says, closing his laptop. “And I told you, he was very tired.”

He stands up, deciding it’s time to stop snooping on his guest. He puts on his Christmas apron and heads to the lounge to make sure everything is in order. The young lads from yesterday have already left, and the French honeymooners will arrive later today. For now, the room is all for the writer.

Blaine looks at the clock and shrugs. When he gets hungry, he’ll go downstairs. He certainly won’t be bringing him breakfast in bed. Might as well prepare the table in the meantime.

Then his mind goes back to thinking about his followers. Or rather, those of Susy’s Wonderland. They, too, have loyal followers who comment and interact. And they’re definitely real! No doubt about it. They work with professionalism and courtesy. They deserve it.

Of course, the numbers are laughable. The cottage’s followers are about one-fiftieth of his. Because... he’s not entirely sure why.

The follower count has been stuck for ages, and only the same people comment every time. Blaine and his family are grateful for them, of course, but the page is updated daily for every occasion or new development. Why can’t they gain more traction?

Feeling discouraged, he takes his phone from the pocket of his jeans and checks his profile, the one for the cottage, which he practically uses more than his personal one.

Photos of flowers. Photos of the garden with its current Christmas decorations or covered in snow. The reception with his smiling mother. Blaine’s bicycle, strategically placed, especially in spring, to set the atmosphere. Then the armchairs, the bookcase, the view from the rooms. And so on.

Hm. Sure, at first glance, someone unfamiliar might think it’s anything but a B&B.

Every now and then, there are photos of the cottage in its entirety, or even of his grandmother, who is usually reluctant to be photographed. These are the photos that always get the most attention.

But aside from that, it’s not very exciting. He has to admit it.

Disheartened, he puts the phone down, convincing himself he doesn’t need casual fans or big numbers. He needs real people, those who love the tranquillity of Marth and the countryside.

He pulls back the curtain of the bay window in the sitting room and looks outside. The wind seems to have calmed, and the rain has stopped, but the trees are still dripping, and the fabric decorations are soaking wet. But they’ll dry out.

In spring, Blaine has to admit it’s far more picturesque. Because during the warmer months, that corner of the garden becomes a haven for robins, goldfinches, and warblers; their chirping announces it’s April even before the calendar says so.

Right now, with Christmas just days away, however, you can almost forget about missing the flower-filled meadow or the lush branches, thanks to the decorations for the holidays.

Pamela had even set up several little birdhouses, complete with food and pinecones, decorated in a way that created a calm and inviting atmosphere for them, as well as giving them the chance to warm up and refresh themselves.  

And he should also–

“Good morning,” he suddenly hears from behind. Blaine spins around, startled, and finds the writer standing in the doorway.

He’s no longer wearing the pristine clothes from last night but has swapped them for something much more casual: simple jeans and a cream-colored turtleneck. The color makes his very blue eyes stand out.

Blimey. Blaine probably shouldn’t find such a detail this attractive, but— he really does. The man’s quite the charmer. 

Yet, the expression on his face doesn’t exactly match the admiration Blaine feels. He looks a little pale, as if he didn’t sleep too well.

Blaine tries to meet Mr. Hummel’s gaze, but the man is clearly more interested in the reindeer face printed on Blaine's apron. He seems amused by it. Like last night. Tsk!

“Good morning to you, too. Did you sleep well?” Blaine asks, clasping his hands defensively.

The man rubs his temples. “Not exactly.”

Blaine frowns, confused. What is that supposed to mean? “Was there a problem with the room? I can sort it out if—”

“Oh, no. No problem,” the other interrupts quickly. “My room is… lovely.”

Is Blaine sensing sarcasm? It’s like he’s just complimented the tutu of a little girl at her first ballet recital.  

Hm. Alright. He’ll give him that. The rooms are a bit much, but that’s the charm of Susy’s Wonderland! Otherwise, it’d just be Susy’s Beige Box.

“Can I sit here?” Mr. Hummel asks, pulling Blaine out of his musings as he gestures to the table by the crackling fire.

“Of course,” Blaine replies, guiding him over. “As long as you find this table suitably lovely.”

Okay, maybe the tone was a bit much. After all, he’s a paying guest. Blaine tries to salvage it with a smile. “Breakfast will be ready immediately.”

Without waiting for a response, he vanishes into the kitchen to regale Susy with the riveting conversation he just had with their guest.

“Maybe he was struck by inspiration and stayed up all night writing,” his grandmother assumes while toasting the bread, repeating her earlier theory. “Perhaps he wants to set his novel in our Christmas garden, with elves jumping on mushrooms.”

Blaine snorts. “I doubt it,” he says, cracking the eggs. “Honestly, I get the feeling he doesn’t even like this place.”

Susy suddenly spins around, and it’s a bit of an unsettling scene, considering the large knife she’s now holding. “Come again? Impossible, everyone loves our cottage.”

“He said the room was lovely," Blaine continues, air-quoting the last word with his fingers. Susy, however, misses the sarcasm entirely. “See? He likes it!”

“It was the tone, Gran,” Blaine comments, rolling his eyes. “He said it almost mockingly. Maybe the matching curtains and bedspread are too much? Or maybe he’s allergic to some spice I put in the diffuser?”

Susy slams the handle of that same knife on the table, startling him. This woman is dangerous.

“Moonpie, I chose the curtains and the bedspread for his room, and they’re both perfect,” she says, still wielding the knife with alarming precision. “And the spices are perfect, too, because most of them are from our perfect greenhouse,” she declares, picking up a red cabbage to chop. “Did you forget about the numerous positive reviews your spice mix always gets? Just because someone doesn’t like it doesn’t mean it’s not valid.”

Blaine thinks about it for a moment. “Yeah, you're right!” he says firmly, pounding his fists on the table. “Our cottage is perfect. My spices are perfect!”

“Perfect, my dear!” Susy agrees with a wide grin.

After a healthy dose of humility, it’s time for Blaine to deliver breakfast to their guest. Bacon and eggs, toast, and three little bowls of homemade jams: strawberry, blackberry, and apricot, all lovingly made by Susy, prepared in large batches and carefully stored to last the entire year.  

The jams are Susy’s pride and joy. Sometimes Blaine suspects she cares more for those jars than for him. “I wonder if these jams will be lovely enough for him,” Blaine says sarcastically, thinking he’s talking to Susy. But when he turns around, he finds her peeking into the breakfast room from behind the thick curtain.

“What are you doing?”

“Studying the enemy.”

Blaine rolls his eyes. No need to ask where he inherited his dramatic flair. “He’s not an enemy, he’s a guest.”

“I’ll downgrade him to enemy status once I see him approve my jams.”

Blaine stares at his grandmother, who is still eyeing Mr. Hummel with intense focus. He can’t believe it. Just as he can’t believe that Mr. Hummel, turning around, has just offered Susy the view of his chiselled jawline, to which she responded with: “Oh, Lord. He’s quite the looker.”

“Grandma!”

The exclamation doesn’t go unnoticed, because Mr. Hummel turns back again, this time deliberately in their direction.

Caught red-handed, Susy starts whistling and pretends to be dusting the curtain’s fringe. It’s like a scene straight out of a comedy.

“Do you want to bring yourself the breakfast to that handsome man?” Blaine mutters, his teeth clenched.

“Don’t be silly, moonpie. Breakfast has always been your responsibility.”

“Oh, bloody–” Blaine grabs the tray and hurries back into the sitting room, placing the dishes, teapot, and the mini box of assorted teas with as much grace as he can muster.  

He straightens up, crossing his arms, and meets Mr. Hummel’s scrutinizing gaze. “And what if I wanted coffee?”

Blaine scoffs. “We are in a cottage in the British countryside, not in a random bar outside the tube, for heaven’s sake.”

Mr. Hummel holds his gaze, raising an eyebrow. At that, Blaine starts to feel cold. He swallows loudly. “Oh. Oh dear. Do you really want coffee?”

From being all serious and cheeky, he suddenly becomes flustered, panicking that he may have annoyed his guest with his challenging attitude. He tries to find an excuse to make up for it or, if in doubt, as frightened bunnies do, run back to the kitchen, but a laugh stops him. Mr. Hummel is laughing. And probably at him.

“I’m joking. Of course I want tea,” he says, selecting the tea bag and pouring hot water into a Christmas-tree-shaped mug. A beautiful mug, Blaine’s favourite, found at a ceramics market in– “Coffee’s only for when I’m completely off-track and need to focus,” Mr. Hummel continues, interrupting Blaine’s thoughts about the mug. “Oh. Right. I see.”

“Yes…” says Mr. Hummel, taking a sip. Even the way he drinks is irritating to Blaine.

Irritating or attractive, moonpie?

He rolls his eyes, frustrated with himself, hoping the guest hasn’t noticed. “I’d like to let you know, Mr. Hummel, that the jams are homemade by my grandmother Susan, with fruits she grows and picks herself throughout the year.”

Mr. Hummel watches him as he speaks, propping his head up on one hand and nodding slowly. “Interesting,” he says quietly, studying the bowl of strawberry jam. “Interesting.”

Blaine is bewildered.

This is usually a detail that always impresses guests, and yet he just says “interesting”? Mh. For a writer, he doesn’t seem to have much of a vocabulary. Perhaps he used every word that exists in his novel. “Okay. I guess…” Blaine replies, confused, wiping off some imaginary dirt from his apron. Not knowing what else to say, he starts heading back to the kitchen when Mr. Hummel speaks again.

“Susan is the lady who was ardently pretending to clean the bristles of the curtain?”

Oh, fucking hell. “Please forgive her. She’s a bit… eccentric, at times.”

He laughs. “I’d love to meet her. Strawberry jam is my favourite, and this one looks great. I must say, the others too. I’d like to personally offer my compliments.”

“Thank you,” Blaine responds cautiously, though it sounds more like a question than an answer. “I’ll pass it on.”

He’s not sure if he’s being mocked at this point, and frankly, he doesn’t care. But let him not make jokes about the jams! They are their pride and joy, along with the sweet peaches stuffed with cream and the wine cake. So they can’t just be interesting; they have to be fabulous at the very least. “We’ll make sure to gift you a jar of jam, then,” Blaine says firmly, completely unfazed by his sarcasm.

“Ah, yes. This is fantastic,” Mr. Hummel says after sampling a spoonful of the strawberry jam.

“Thanks,” Blaine mutters again, almost inaudibly.

Then the man gestures to the chair in front of him. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“Oh, no. We don’t sit with guests. We don’t want to disturb you.”

“But I’m asking you, it doesn’t disturb me.”

“I have to prepare for the other guests, I’m very busy.”

Mr. Hummel fixes him with a stare. “I wouldn’t want to seem stubborn, but there’s only me here. I heard the others leaving early this morning. So,” he gets up, pulling the chair back to invite Blaine to sit. All of it accompanied by a rather irritating, charming smile. “Please, sit.”

Blaine hates to admit it, but he sits down only because he can’t resist a nice smile like that. Ugh.

“I wanted to thank you,” the man says once he’s settled back in his chair. “It can’t have been easy to welcome me in the middle of the night. A lot of people wouldn’t have done it, and rightfully so. But you did. And I’m grateful.”

Blaine blushes. “We’ve never turned anyone away from our B&B. We always do our best for our guests.”

“But I wasn’t one yet, and yet…”

Blaine bites his tongue to avoid telling the truth, that he did it for money. So he settles for a half-truth. “Let’s just say you gave me the impression you needed help, and I’m very charitable,” he smiles sarcastically, hoping to ease the tension between them. The man returns the smile. “And again, I’m grateful.”

Another couple of minutes pass while the man slathers some strawberry jam on his toast and takes a bite. Blaine watches him. “Are you leaving today?” he asks, trying to sound indifferent. Ninety pounds are better than nothing.

Mr. Hummel finishes the toast and takes a long sip of black tea. Then he looks at Blaine. “Actually, I was thinking of staying until Christmas Eve. Is that a problem?”

Chapter Text

Until Christmas Eve?

Blaine makes a heroic effort not to start dancing on the crystal coffee table. The week leading up to Christmas means double the price; unlike the spring period, when there’s more demand and prices are at least twenty pounds lower. People prefer to stay with them, or generally in smaller towns, during New Year’s, so they can easily reach cities like London to celebrate in style, while staying nearby and spending less.

It’s quite the bargain! Susy will be thrilled!

Blaine smiles at his guest, trying not to overdo it with enthusiasm. “You’re so lucky! Usually, at this time of year, we’re fully booked.”

And of course, Mr. Hummel must not know that this is, technically, a little white lie. “But we don’t have any other bookings for the next ten days,” he adds, which is actually true. “No problem. We’d be delighted to have you with us.”

Mr. Hummel takes a generous bite of bacon, and after chewing for several seconds, he finally speaks up. “Actually, there is a problem.”

Blaine feels the hairs on his arms stand on end. “I beg your pardon?” he croaks.

“I couldn’t find any Scotch in my room. Nor any wine.”

Blaine exhales a tremulous breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He relaxes. Just a little. “Ah, well– you see, we don’t provide alcohol in our guests’ rooms by choice," he begins, careful with his words. “It’s my grandmother’s decision, she’s the owner. But, if you’d wanted some, you could have asked," he adds with a shrug. 

“I thought as much,” Mr. Hummel comments. “But you know what? It’s probably for the best. I’d have gotten drunk and made a fool of myself.” He takes a final sip of tea and swallows the last bite of his jam-covered toast. Then, he wipes the corners of his mouth with the cloth napkin and fixes Blaine with an intense stare. “Believe it or not, I did it for you.”

Blaine gives a slight start. “For me?”

Ugh. Now he understands all those overly sweet comments filled with hearts and lovey-dovey emojis on Instagram. This man certainly knows how to wield words.

“Yes. You don’t deserve a drunk writer who feels sorry for himself because he feels like a failure in his thirties.”

Blaine raises an eyebrow, confused. “You? Finished? But people love you on social media. You’re doing brilliantly!”

And oops, maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say, because Mr. Hummel’s eyes light up, a glimmer of vanity flashing across his blue eyes. “How do you know? You are one of my followers, then!”

Blaine flounders for a moment, caught off guard. “I don’t follow anyone. I don’t even have an account!” Which is a lie. His account exists, but it’s completely inactive. It was only created to set up the cottage’s page.

Mr. Hummel doesn’t seem to buy it. He grins, shrewdly. “So, you’ve visited my profile!”

“No!”

They stare at each other. Mr. Hummel, with narrowed, curious eyes and a mouth curling into a mischievous smile. Blaine, on the other hand, is just pure panic.

“Alright,” Blaine admits, defeated. “I did it. But I only did it to make sure you were telling the truth.”

“Hhm…” Mr. Hummel mutters. “And what do you think of me? What’s your verdict?”

He’s really obsessed with himself, Blaine thinks. “Okay, but can I be honest?”

Mr. Hummel places both of his hands, warm, soft, smooth, and –stay focused, idiot!– over Blaine’s, completely covering them. “Please! Be honest. Go hard! Be ruthless! As someone detached, at least I’ll know your opinion is genuine.”

Does he really want to know what I think of him? “Okay,” Blaine says awkwardly after a brief silence. “I get the impression that success is absolutely crucial to you. Almost as if you’re obsessed with it.”

Mr. Hummel’s smile falters slightly. What did he expect?  

“It’s the first thing you shove in people’s faces. Just self-referential posts, only– you should try toning it down a bit, remember you’re not just a writer, but also a human being.”

Mr. Hummel rubs his chin, furrowing his brow. Blaine believes he’s genuinely thinking about his words, but the response is definitely not what he expected. “I’ll have to fire Adam, then.”

What? “Adam?”

“My social media manager.”

Blaine’s eyes widen. “A social media– Don’t you write those things?” The man shakes his head. “And– and that lovely post about the values of life? Gratitude, responsibility– all that from this Adam?”

Mr. Hummel smiles. “Nice, isn’t it? I approved it before he posted it.”

“But that’s not the point!” He just can’t grasp the concept! And Blaine can’t help but raise his voice.

“Then tell me what the point is!”

“You’re self-congratulatory! You only focus on what you want to hear.”

It feels like a typical scene where he’s explaining a history lesson to a kid who’s gazing out the window.

“You’re basically taking credit for a text written by someone else. Don’t you think you’re deceiving your readers this way?”

Mr. Hummel gives him a benevolent look. As if he’s pitying him. “Everyone knows that most famous people have a social media manager. How do you think I have time to follow all my social pages? Or to write little musings about love or how beautiful the sky is!?” he emphasises, as though stating the obvious. “I write novels, not dedications to be printed on Valentine’s Day chocolates.”

Blaine raises an eyebrow. “I’m starting to wonder, at this point, if it’s really you writing your novels, or if it’s always this Adam. Or someone else.”

Mr. Hummel straightens up, adopting an offended, detached air, almost mimicking the same expression from the night before outside the cottage door. “No. Absolutely not. Writing novels is my greatest passion. I don’t let anyone touch them.”

Blaine rolls his eyes, scoffing. “Admirable. But doesn’t it bother you that this Adam writes your posts, manages your socials, and interacts with your fans pretending to be you?”

The man shrugs. “One less task to deal with.”

Oh, come on, Blaine! Why are you getting so worked up? Why should you care?

He sighs. “You see?” Blaine says, trying to remain calm. “Managing a relationship with your community shouldn’t be a chore. You should take joy in it!”

“Take joy in it!?” Mr. Hummel chuckles, making Blaine even more irritated, but he doesn’t back down. “Yes! Having a community is a give and take! Your fans rejoice in reading your novels. You rejoice in reading their supportive comments. Your fans rejoice because you thanked them for those comments, and so on!”

Mr. Hummel stares at him. Arms crossed, a look of dissent on his face. “But what would you know about community if you don’t even have an active profile?”

“I personally manage the B&B account,” Blaine points out with some pride. “And everything I write comes from my own thoughts, feelings, emotions and– what are you doing?”

Blaine watches as Mr. Hummel pulls his phone from his pocket with force, doing so in a very dismissive manner.  

“Hmm,” he mutters, quickly tapping on the screen of his beautiful, shiny, expensive iPhone. “I’m very curious to see this feeling of yours.”

Blaine stays quiet, silently cursing himself for not leaving this conversation just when it started.

After a few moments of scrolling with his thumb, Mr. Hummel begins reading theatrically. “The sun always shines again after the storm,” he says, and Blaine recognises which post he is talking about. The one of their green benches all wet after the hail, then lit up by the sun. It honestly looked very scenic... 

He presses again. “We mix, we knead, we taste, we cook. And there’s a photo of a tray of cookies. Oh, wow! How touching.”

And again. “Every flower is a work of art that nature paints with patience and care,” he says finally, turning the phone towards Blaine and showing him his very own Instagram feed.

Mr. Hummel’s expression is somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “These are supposed to be sharp, profound, soul-stirring phrases that start deep conversations with your community?” he asks scornfully. “You’re telling me how to run a social profile?”

Blaine clenches his jaw, deeply affected. He knows he’s not great at it, but at least he tries. And most important, he’s the one writing those things! He tries to stay calm. He hates losing his temper in front of strangers. Mr. Hummel may have millions of followers, but to Blaine, he’s nobody.

Feeling both indignant and wounded in his pride, Blaine stands up, straightens his already-pressed apron with calmness, and then gives the man the most serious look he can muster.

“We’re simple people, Mr. Hummel. We don’t seek success or approval through likes. Susy’s Wonderland has always had many supporters, and above all, friends. Even before it had its own Instagram profile.”

He collects the man’s finished breakfast, carefully stacking every dish on the tray. “Our followers, as you call them, appreciate our photos and the short captions. We wouldn’t have time to write long-winded posts about good feelings, and we certainly can’t afford to pay someone to do it.”

“Mr. Anderson, I didn’t mean–”

“We work hard here, and everything you see is the result of our hands and our love for this place.”

Mr. Hummel remains silent, and Blaine pauses to catch his breath. “I hope this little disagreement doesn’t spoil your stay. I wish you a good day, sir.”

Blaine leaves the room with his chin held high and a quick pace, practically marching back to the kitchen. “Arrogant and rude, that’s what he is!” he hisses through gritted teeth.

So worked up, he doesn’t notice Susy standing behind him, eavesdropping with a glass pressed between her ear and the wall. She quickly puts down the rolling pin she had been wielding, and, equally irritated, she joins her grandson, gently massaging his tense shoulders.

“Well said, my dear! Well said.”

*

“Let me get this straight. You’re hosting Kurt Hummel, that Kurt Hummel, at the cottage and you don’t tell us?” Unique exclaims, her dark eyes covered in emerald eye shadow wide with shock.  

Naturally. As if she wouldn't know who Kurt Hummel is.

“It was after one o’clock! Should I have started a late-night debate about an author I’ve never even heard of?” Blaine tries to justify himself.

“Yeah, but when it suits you, you’re texting even at three in the morning,” replies Marley, pulling her little blue coat tighter around herself, with the pharmacist’s lab coat peeking underneath. He needed to talk, so he’d gathered them outside Marley’s work. “Remember when you asked me to dash to the pharmacy at night because you needed painkillers?”

Unique snorts. Blaine rolls his eyes. “The pharmacy’s yours. You could’ve done it,” he mutters, looking down. “I honestly questioned our friendship at that point.”

“But you weren’t even hurt!” Unique says, giving him a playful shove.

Marley chuckles. Blaine huffs.

“What happened!? Oh, right. You were going to get a glass of water but didn’t turn the light on, and when you got to the kitchen, there was Susy who didn’t notice you and, scared out of her wits, threw a slipper at your head?!”

Blaine watches his friends laugh at him. He’s genuinely stunned. “So what? I was hurt! I needed it!”

Unique looks at him. “Since when does slipper hurt that much to need painkillers?”

Blaine huffs again. “Alright, alright! I get it! I should’ve told you straight away,” he says, exhausted from all the teasing. “In my defence, I honestly had no clue who Kurt Hummel was.”

The two exchange a look, then turn back to Blaine. “You live in a whole different world, mate.”

Blaine is dumbfounded. “Seriously? Normally, I’m the one breaking up your squabbles, and now you’re teaming up against me? And besides, I don’t read that sort of thing. Simple as.”

“Look, darling,” Unique starts. “You don’t read anything other than Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, and The Lady of the Camellias, you don’t have a driving license– and that’s saying something, since even Marley’s got hers–”

“Oi!”

“–you don’t have a boyfriend, you don’t use Instagram, and you’re not even on Grindr. You’re missing out on so much!”

Blaine opens his mouth in shock at his friend’s brutal honesty, nearly spitting out his gum. “Did you have to go all savage on me like that?”

Marley gives her a stern look. “Well, that was a bit much…”

“Cheers! And anyway, the stuff you listed isn’t that important,” Blaine says, trying to defend himself. Although, if he’s being honest, the whole no-boyfriend thing isn’t really his choice.

“Of course it is, Blaine,” says Unique, ever blunt and too honest for her own good. “To keep up with the times, it is! Even Dr. Zigler, nearly seventy, now does diagnoses via WhatsApp after looking at a photo. Meanwhile, you’re still queuing up at his practice with the old ladies, probably just to show him a little pimple.”

“What’s the point of human interaction then?” Blaine huffs. “That’s how it’s supposed to work!”

“Human interaction, Blaine? That’s the future!” Unique replies with an eye roll.

Marley jumps in. “Don’t forget, Unique, you’re practically more in London than in Marth now, so it’s probably normal for you to be so ahead of the curve.”

Unique rolls her eyes, clearly annoyed.

“Ah!” Blaine responds.

“Doesn’t change the fact that you could try stepping out of your comfort zone sometimes, Blaine.”

“Ah!” Unique retorts.

“Hey!”

“Seriously, Blaine!” Marley jumps in. “It’s admirable how much you like keeping things old school and enjoy the warmth of going for walks in the fields with Susy, but… sometimes it feels like you’re her age, not twenty-eight.”

“Susy’s got a driving license…” Unique mutters under her breath. Blaine yanks a lock of her hair playfully.

“The point is, maybe you spend a bit too much time with your grandmother, and sometimes you come across as… well, a bit innocent?” Marley suggests.

Blaine wants to argue that Susy is far from innocent. In fact, she might even know a thing or two about bondage. He shrugs. “I like being with her.”

“And we all envy you for it,” Marley says, giving him a warm smile.

“Hm hm,” Unique nods. “I’d love to have a relationship like yours with my grandma. Instead, she pretends she doesn’t even know me.”

Blaine rubs her back. It’s part of the reason Unique decided to move and work outside Marth. Luckily, her parents support her choices, though it took some time. “You know Susy loves you both like you’re her granddaughters.”

The two smile at him. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry about what I said earlier,” Marley admits.

“No worries. I get what you mean,” Blaine says with a shrug.

The three friends fall into a quiet moment. Marley waves goodbye to a few customers leaving the pharmacy, Unique checks her makeup in her mirror, and Blaine watches the twinkling Christmas lights along the main street. Then Unique speaks again. “Well, when can we pop round for tea at Mrs. Anderson’s?”

“You know Grandma loves seeing you both, and you don’t even need an invite.”

Unique snaps her mirror shut with dramatic flair. “Oh, but I don’t want to sit and drink tea with Susy. I want to see Hummel.”

Blaine frowns. “Have you even read his books?”

“No, but he’s famous in London. And he’s quite the looker.”

Blaine bursts out laughing. He can’t even argue with that.

“I think I’ve heard my brothers mention him. Maybe I could ask for an autograph for them…”

But how does he explain that he and Mr. Hummel aren’t exactly on good terms? He’s about to reply when his phone rings.

“Oh, speaking of Susy, here she is. Hey, Gran!” he says, answering. “All good?”

“The French guests have arrived,” she whispers. Then he hears footsteps and the familiar squeak of the door to her room. What is happening? She speaks again. “If you dare say they look my age when you arrive, I’ll disown you.”

*

When Blaine arrives at the cottage, he understands what Susy meant. The newlyweds, Monique and Dominic, may be in their seventies, but they look like they’re pushing eighty. However, they move with such energy, holding hands like teenagers. Blaine is almost jealous. Of which one of the two things, he’s not sure.

Dominic looks like the typical nice, chubby uncle from TV shows, with glasses and a receding hairline. But he has a lovely face, and he’s clearly a good person. Blaine can tell just by the way he looks at his wife.

Monique, on the other hand, has short black hair framing her small, wrinkled face. She also seems incredibly kind and approachable.

“Did you have a good trip?” Blaine asks as politely as possible.

“Oh, oui. Perfect!”

Blaine smiles at the delicate accent, then steps out from behind the reception desk. “Right, if it’s alright with you, I’ll show you to your room. Please follow me…”

He leads the couple, taking their luggage, while Susy stays behind chatting with them, doing the usual ‘welcome’ small talk.

After showing them to their room, where they indulge in an over-the-top make-out session because Monique complimented the flowers on the nightstand and Dominic insisted she was far more merveilleuse than them, Blaine and Susy slip into the kitchen for a nice cup of tea.

“Wow. That was a scene,” Blaine mutters.

“I’ll be dreaming of it tonight,” Susy replies, cringing, which makes him laugh. “Where did they say they met? I didn’t catch it.”

“On a dating site.”

Susy frowns. “And what’s that, exactly?”

“Internet.”

“I still don’t get it…”

Blaine smiles. “Never mind, it’s not important.”

“If you don’t tell me, I’ll ask Mr. Hummel.”

Blaine jumps. Then he huffs. Blackmailing little minx. “It’s a site where you register and, based on your characteristics, you can meet your soulmate. In fact, Monique said they both ended up there after being widowed,” Blaine explains, taking a sip of Earl Grey. “Not sure whether I should feel sorry for their losses or happy for the whirlwind love they found.”

Susy stares at him, frowning. “But don’t people still go out to dinner? Meet at the cinema?”

“Of course, but what’s the difference? It’s just another way to meet new people, and, like in this case, maybe even find love. It’s how things are done now.”

Oh, he can practically hear Unique.

Susy continues to eye him suspiciously. “Are you on one of these sites?”

“Are you kidding?” Blaine says, laughing. “Do you really think I need that?”

She falls silent, then whispers, “Well, maybe…”

“Grandma! Do you think I’m that desperate?”

“Not at all, but…” she trails off, looking at him sadly. “I just don’t want you to end up alone, moonpie.”

Blaine’s heart aches. He knows exactly why she’s saying it. He rushes to hug her, and Susy returns the embrace tightly. “You’re beautiful, my sweet angel. Kind, gentle… why don’t men see it?”

Blaine smiles faintly. “It’s a bit complicated for me. When I like someone, there’s a high chance they’re not playing for my team.”

“Are you ready for something serious?” she asks.

“It’s not that,” Blaine replies, pulling away from the hug. “It’s just that I should probably have to leave Marth sooner or later if I really wanted to, you know, broaden my horizons.”

Susy thinks for a moment, then nods. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Take out the maybe,” Blaine smiles, returning to his seat. Just as he reaches for his cup of tea, Susy’s hand stops him.

“Promise me one thing, moonpie.”

“Anything,” Blaine says, worried.

“That whether you stay single or end up with eighty boyfriends and ten husbands,” Blaine laughs, covering his mouth with his sweater sleeve. “Just promise me you won’t turn sour and boring and pathetic like the Clarks.”

Chapter Text

Blaine has always thought that The Magnolia and The Bee is a name as unusual as it is delightful. The owner, Madison, a former schoolmate, would always answer the question of what she wanted to be when she grew up with “a librarian” and “a florist”, and clearly, Madison wasn’t the type to settle for just one thing, so she created The Magnolia and The Bee, a space inspired by the idea of merging a bookshop, where, as the plaque above the counter reads, “ideas blossom” like a magnolia in full bloom, while the bee, that tireless worker, flits about spreading pollen. In essence, it symbolizes the bookshop’s role in disseminating knowledge and culture to its visitors.

Blaine adores the place. The shop is a perfect reflection of Madison’s character, her vibrant spirit. From the walls painted in warm, radiant hues of ochre and soft coral, accented with the pale green of ivy creeping across the shelves, to the central area dominated by a large, light wood bookshelf filled with every kind of book; modern novels, timeless classics, mystery stories and autobiographies.

There’s a lovely corner dedicated to children, featuring yellow tables and small bee-shaped chairs, surrounded by potted plants in varying shades of green. Ferns and succulents fill every available space, their lush leaves creating a natural barrier that separates each little nook and reading spot.

For the adults, there’s a cosy, more secluded relaxation area: velvety sofas in gentle mauve and light grey, piled high with cushions, and boho-style rugs scattered across the floor. A large, sun-drenched window lets in the light, where trailing vines of ivy drape down, as if embracing the room. 

But the real magic, in Blaine’s eyes, comes from the fairy lights that cascade from the ceiling, each strand ending in a crystal ball that reflects the light in a mesmerising display. The lights hang like dew-laden cobwebs, flickering in the soft breeze that moves through the open windows. They add a delicate, otherworldly Christmas atmosphere, which Blaine is particularly fond of. Every detail just speaks to Madison’s love of literature and her deep connection to nature. 

After admiring the bookshop from the outside and braving the cold, Blaine decides it’s time to park his bike against the wall and head in, instantly enveloped by the warmth and the intoxicating scent of honey, sugar, and flowers. He can’t imagine a more fitting fragrance for Madison McCarthy’s bookshop. 

“Hi, Blaine,” the girl greets him cheerfully as he steps inside.  

Blaine smiles from beneath his woolly scarf. “Hi, Madison!” He removes his gloves and hat, stuffing them into the pockets of his coat, then immediately blows warm air into his cupped hands in a vain attempt to thaw them out. Madison hurries over with a steaming cup in hand. “Would you like some herbal tea?”

Blaine smiles, a bit awkwardly. “Oh, thanks, Madison, but I just had tea with Susy, I’m not–”

“Oh, don’t be silly! You can never refuse herbal tea! Take it!” she says, practically throwing the cup into his frozen hands. The sudden warmth makes his palms tingle. Quite a nice sensation, actually. And somehow, Madison always manages to get you to drink herbal tea. It’s just part of the bookshop experience.  

“It’s turmeric and orange,” she says suddenly, pulling him out of his thoughts. Blaine doesn’t immediately catch on, though it’s a pretty simple observation. "Your tea. It’s turmeric and orange," Madison repeats, smiling. “It fights free radicals and prevents ageing!”

Blaine blinks. “Oh, thanks…”

“Are you looking for a particular book?”

Blaine glances around, pretending to be lost and vague. “Hhm… actually, I’m not sure.” 

Liar. He came here for something very specific, but he’s not about to tell Madison that.  

“Indecision, then,” she says, tapping her chin. “Oh, wait here!”

Blaine watches her disappear behind the counter, only to return with a greyish jar containing some kind of liquid inside. Should he be scared? Madison opens it and holds it under his nose. “This is lavender oil,” she whispers, as though it were a secret and anyone might overhear. “It helps with concentration and improves mental focus,” she adds, beaming.  

Blaine still doesn’t quite get it. What’s he supposed to do with this? “Now, smell it and take a deep breath,” she continues. Oh. Okay, then.  

“Again, together,” Madison says, holding the jar with her right hand while urging him to keep sniffing with her left.  

Blaine goes along with it for a bit, but when he feels the lavender starting to cloud his vision, he pulls back. “Okay, that’s enough! I’m inspired enough already.” If he kept going, he might end up passing out from hyperventilation. He loves Madison, but sometimes she’s just a bit too much. “Make a good choice, then!” she trills, bouncing away happily. 

Blaine starts wandering around the bookshop, sipping his herbal tea and thinking deeply about whether it truly has the power to slow down the ageing process. He lets his gaze drift over the shelves, and then– bingo! There it is. Madison couldn’t possibly not have it. He sets his tea down on a nearby shelf and turns the book in his hands, recognising the cover from online. On the back, Kurt Hummel’s handsome (handsome?) face smiles at the camera. A slight grin, just enough to reveal a couple of adorable (adorable?) dimples, and his pale skin contrasts sharply with the dark background and his strikingly blue eyes.  

The sticker on the front screams 350,000 copies sold, and the biography paints quite the flattering picture. Blaine learns that Mr. Hummel is not just a fantasy novelist, but also the author of a book about a literary case that’s been optioned for film rights, and that he’s written four other books that have been translated into various languages. Oh, and he’s a finalist for a prestigious literary award and won a Booker Prize in 2021.  

All of this at only thirty-five years old. Impressive. But Blaine certainly won’t admit that he’s checked multiple times for signs of a wife and kids. Or a husband. Or a husband and kids. Well, if he had a family, they’d surely mention it, right?

“If I were you, I’d buy it. I’ve heard the author is a really nice guy.”  

Blaine spins around, almost bumping into the person who startled him. It’s a man wearing a wide-brimmed hat (hey, I’ve seen that before!), a long black coat (yep, that too), and sunglasses. Blaine really doesn’t want to think that this man could be so, well, pathetic, but he asks anyway. “Is it you?”

“Depends on who you mean by ‘you’.”  

Okay. Mystery solved. “Mr. Hummel, what on earth are you doing in a bookshop dressed like a Blues Brother?”  

Mr. Hummel looks at himself, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Are you in disguise? Hiding from someone?”  

“Nothing like that. I’m just enjoying this lovely herbal tea in the contemporary fantasy corner of this delightful little bookshop,” he says, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Cinnamon. Good for digestion. Or at least, that’s what that enthusiastic young lady over there told me.”  

Blaine rolls his eyes, not even remotely surprised by the man’s behaviour. “Mr. Hummel, indulge my curiosity. Are you dressed like a Man in Black because you’re afraid of being recognised? By whom? Screaming children trying to cling to your coat or tear out their hair for an autograph?”  

Mr. Hummel gives a small, tight-lipped smile, somewhere between embarrassed and pleased with himself. “Why do I always detect a hint of sarcasm when you talk about my work, Mr. Anderson?”

“I’m just returning the favour, Mr. Hummel,” Blaine retorts, grinning. “Do you realise where you are?”  

The man looks around, pretending to be confused. “Uh… a bookshop?”

“We’re in Marth, in the middle of the British countryside, two hours’ drive from the nearest city, and you’re acting like a big rock star.”  

Mr. Hummel smiles, taking off his sunglasses and hat. “Well, to my readers, I might as well be,” he replies, with just a touch of vanity in his tone.  

“And you think there are that many readers here?” okay, maybe Blaine’s exaggerating. Actually, without the ‘maybe’. But it’s almost fun to banter with this guy. Mr. Hummel shrugs and smiles again. “Maybe you could help me find out.”  

Blaine furrows his brow. “How?”  

“Simple. Ask the owner,” he answers calmly. Blaine raises an eyebrow. “You want me to ask Madison how many copies she’s sold?”

Mr. Hummel smiles openly, like they’re old friends. Not the same smile as on the cover, no, this one’s more intimate. They should probably add to his biography that Kurt Hummel’s smile is even better in person and makes your knees weak and bloody hell, Blaine did not just think that.  

“Aren’t you curious to find out?” Mr. Hummel asks, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world, distracting Blaine from his embarrassing thoughts.  

“Let me think. No.”  

“Lie,” Mr. Hummel says, his voice velvety, taking a slow, almost imperceptible step closer. Just enough that Blaine has to tilt his head back, his pulse quickening as he meets the man's gaze. “When you lie, your nose scrunches up,” Mr. Hummel murmurs, a slow exhale slipping from his lips.

Blaine flushes fiercely, hoping it doesn’t betray him. “I don’t scrunch anything!” His voice stutters, but it’s no use. Mr. Hummel smirks, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Oh, but you did yesterday morning. Right after you told me you hadn’t snooped through my Instagram profile,” he teases, the words laced with something far too knowing.

Blaine can’t help but grin back, the tension crackling between them. “You’re not just arrogant,” he shoots back, leaning in slightly. “You’re bloody pushy, you know that?”  

“I say two hundred copies.”  

“And you’re not listening to me.”  

“Maybe three hundred…”  

“Alright!” Blaine snaps. Maybe a bit over the top, but at this point, he’s just getting used to it with this man. “Which book do you want to know about? All of them? One in particular?”  

Mr. Hummel gestures to the book behind him. “That one. The latest,” he says, almost gleefully. “Worlds Collide.”  

Blaine sighs. He can’t believe he’s about to do this, but the sooner he does it, the sooner he can get back to the cottage.

“Hey, Madison,” he whispers to the girl at the counter, a little embarrassed. “Can I ask you something?”  

Madison smiles. “Sure, Blaine. But first, tell me, was the herbal tea good? Did you like it?”  

“Excellent, as always.”  

“Fantastic. Now tell me.”  

“Could I know how many copies you’ve sold of a particular book?”  

Madison looks a bit confused, judging by her furrowed brows. “Um, okay!? An odd request, but doable. Which book?”  

Blaine leans in closer to her, almost lying on the counter. “Worlds Collide,” he whispers, checking over his shoulder.  

“Kurt Hummel, if I’m not mistaken.”  

Blaine’s tempted to tell her that the man in question is in her bookshop drinking a tea that aids digestion, but if Mr. Hummel hasn’t introduced himself to her, there must be a reason for it. He refrains. Madison’s quick fingers tap on the keyboard, making her bracelets jingle. “Oh, here it is. And– It’s going well!”  

Blaine inhales deeply. Well, this is a fine mess. How many copies? One hundred? Two hundred? Five hundr–? “But not here in our county.”  

Blaine freezes. “Not here? What do you mean?”  

Madison shakes her head and reveals the actual number. Blaine jolts. Suddenly, he’s not so keen on continuing this banter. Although he had suspected it, it’s still a blow. No one should have to hear that their business isn’t doing as well as it should. Like that time someone left a bad review for the cottage, and he and Susy had been sad, disappointed, and heartbroken for almost a week. A guest had stayed with them two Novembers ago; it was especially cold, and apparently, “they could have conversed with penguins and polar bears in their room.” Immediately after reading the unpleasant comment, Susy rushed to order heavy Scottish plaids directly from Glasgow. She spent a small fortune, but at least no one’s complained about the cold ever since.  

Blaine returns to Mr. Hummel, more disappointed than satisfied. He feels embarrassed. He doesn’t want to play this game anymore.  

“So?” the man smiles, sitting at the table with that blasted herbal tea still clutched in his hands.  

“Well…” Blaine starts, trying to buy some time. “You know. Sales go up and down, and it’s definitely a great novel, and…” of course, when he’s embarrassed, his voice shakes. Perfect.  

Mr. Hummel smiles just a little, almost wistfully. “Mr. Anderson, embarrassment doesn’t suit you.”  

Blaine looks down. “I’m sorry…”  

Mr. Hummel is silent for a moment, then clears his throat and speaks again. “At least fifty? Am I getting close?”  

Blaine slowly shakes his head. “No. You sold five copies, Mr. Hummel. In the entire county.”  

Mr Hummel stares at the window for a moment, then clicks his tongue and stands up, putting on his sunglasses again. 

“I’m going for a walk, I need some air. Will you join me?”  

*

“You shouldn’t have bought it. The thought of making you feel sorry for me is embarrassing.”

“Actually, I’m quite interested. And you don’t make me feel sorry.”

Mr. Hummel gives a faint smile. “You wrinkled your nose again.”

Blaine laughs, looking down. “I didn’t wrinkle my nose,” he says, giving him a light shove on the arm.

They’ve been walking for ten minutes now, with no real destination. The December air is biting, numbing Blaine’s fingers as he clutches Kurt Hummel’s book. He steals a glance at him from the side, trying not to be noticed. The man’s nose is tilted upwards, towards the lights strung along the buildings. The chimneys release smoke, which to most people is the smell of something burning, but to Blaine, it’s almost comforting. It’s just after lunch, the sun begins to set slowly, and the streetlamps are flickering on now, creating a particular atmosphere, almost postcard-like.

“If you’d only told me, I would’ve given you a copy. Maybe even signed,” he says suddenly, though without much enthusiasm.

Blaine smiles, trying to downplay it. “I’m doing this to help the economy! And in the process, I’m making you a rich man!”

Mr. Hummel lets out a small chuckle. “I’m not rich. My publisher is, thanks to me.”

Blaine furrows his brow. “I don’t get it. You’ve got a nice car, good clothes. You don’t look like someone struggling.”

Mr. Hummel turns to look at him, a crooked smile on his face. “Are you counting my money?”

“I’m just making an observation,” Blaine responds quietly, embarrassed.

“You’re right, though,” says Mr. Hummel. “I have a nice car, a gift from my father when I was twenty-five that I’ve kept in pristine condition; good clothes? Of course,” he says, smiling smugly. “But honestly, fashion is another one of my great passions, and most of my clothes are just the result of good deals. Some, though, come from my damn hands that can’t stop when I’m in Harrods,” he chuckles easily, as if he’s speaking to a close friend. And Blaine really likes that. “But you should know that the percentage I get from sales is pretty insignificant.”

“Really?” Blaine asks, shocked, making Mr. Hummel smile. “It’s a world you know very little about. And maybe it’s better this way.”

Blaine shrugs. “Yeah, you’re right. I just read. Publishing’s not my thing.”

“And what do you read? Romance novels?” he asks, his voice showing genuine curiosity, no trace of sarcasm. Blaine smiles faintly. “Am I that obvious?”

“Let’s just say you might be disappointed with this read,” he says, gesturing to the book. “You won’t find love in there. At least, not the kind you like.”

Blaine flips open a random page, stalling. Then he closes the book again. “Would you like to write romance novels?”

“Why not,” he replies after a moment, looking ahead. “But I’ve never really considered it.”

“Do you think you could do it?” 

“Maybe.”

“Then go ahead! If it doesn’t work, you can always put it aside for better days.”

Mr. Hummel smiles softly. “It doesn’t quite work like that, Mr. Anderson.”

“Could you explain it to me, then?”

“Are you really interested?” Blaine nods.

Mr. Hummel pauses, standing still on the pavement. He takes off his sunglasses and places his hands gently over Blaine’s, still holding the book, and opens it. “This is the sixth book. The last of my first series, that is,” he says, glancing at the pages with a wistful look. “A story I didn’t choose to write, but one designed just to keep it going, and going, and going. My publisher was sure that sticking with it was the right move, but alas, as I feared, it’s turning out to be a flop.”

Blaine suddenly looks up at him. “A flop? It says here you sold 350,000 copies. I wouldn’t call that a flop!”

Mr. Hummel smiles, brushing a stray curl from beneath his woolly hat. “That’s what I like about you, Blaine. Your innocence. The way your hazel eyes widen in surprise... you’re a pleasure to watch,” he whispers, holding Blaine’s gaze, stirring a flutter in his chest. “It’s quite endearing,” Kurt adds, his voice soft as he briefly glances at him, a subtle smile tugging at his lips. For a moment, they stand there, as though waiting for something. 

Blaine’s breath catches as Kurt’s eyes linger just a fraction longer than usual, and in the brief silence, it feels like the space between them has narrowed, as if Kurt is holding back something unspoken. But then Kurt resumes walking, casting a glance over his shoulder, a knowing glint in his eyes. 

As Blaine catches up, still slightly dazed, he tries to shake off the warmth in his chest. It’s not from the cold. It’s something else. The sensation of being seen in a way that feels different. He can’t explain it, but the quiet way Kurt holds his gaze, the way his words carry a weight that feels like more than just friendly teasing, lingers in the air. Blaine quickens his pace, trying to ignore the rapid thrum of his heart, a feeling he isn’t ready to confront. Not yet. 

“So the blurbs aren’t true?”

“No. They’re just clever marketing, nothing more. Don’t believe everything you read. Go with your instincts,” he says, smiling at him. “Or let yourself be inspired by the teas from the lovely lady at the bookstore. But not the cinnamon one. Ugh, don’t tell her, but mine was dreadful.”

Blaine laughs along with him. Then, glancing around, he realises they’re heading toward the woods and gently urges Mr. Hummel, Kurt, to turn back. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“It helps me take stock of things. To face reality.”

Blaine shrugs. “It might sound strange, but from where I’m standing, it seems like quite a nice reality.”

“Maybe you’ve been charmed by the words and numbers I threw at you the night we met, but if you read between the lines, you’d see it’s not all it seems, Blaine.”

“I think you’re being a bit hard on yourself… Kurt,” he says, feeling his face warm slightly as he says his name, but liking the way it feels. Having a conversation without arguing is, honestly, quite nice.

“My success is a bit inflated. The likes, the reviews, the interviews. They’re all there to maintain the image of the busy writer. But in reality, the sales aren’t as great, and I’m at a critical point in my career. What I want doesn’t quite line up with what I have to do,” he says with a tinge of regret, kicking small stones along the road.

Blaine isn’t quite sure what to say. Anything might feel wrong. He simply tightens his grip on the book, matching Kurt’s pace. “I’m sorry. From here, it doesn’t seem that way.”

Kurt smiles, but it’s a bittersweet smile, more to himself than to Blaine. “I know.”

“And you can’t just do what you love?”

“Not when contracts are involved. Or big advances,” he murmurs. “I have basically trapped myself.”

Blaine nods, trying to understand. “Has being a writer always been your dream?”

“Yes, but this is not the scenario I imagined,” he says, looking down. “I’m grateful to my publisher for believing in me since I was twenty-two, but I’m paying for everything that followed.”

And then silence falls. Not an uncomfortable silence, though. Just a calm one. The two walk slowly, letting the cool air smelling of Christmas wash over them. It’s a special moment, and Blaine feels strangely at ease.

As they walk back toward the bookstore where Blaine needs to pick up his bike, they pass the old stone bridge over the river. The river that, as Blaine explains to Kurt, gives the town its name, Marth. The December sun sinks slowly behind the horizon, casting the sky in shades of orange and pink, while the river reflects the last of its rays, creating golden glows on the calm surface. The two men, or friends, Blaine’s not quite sure, walk on, silently captivated by the beauty of the fading sunset. Kurt, mesmerised by the view, pulls out his phone to snap a photo. “How beautiful. It doesn’t even need filters.”

Blaine smiles. “Are you going to post it?”

Kurt thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “No. Because you will.”

“Me!?”

“Hm hm, it’s time to bring that Instagram profile to life. And I know you’ll come up with the perfect caption.”

And Blaine really shouldn’t feel this… this way. But he can’t help it. He smiles, biting his lower lip to keep himself from being caught, and takes a photo, promising Kurt that yes, he will.

Just five minutes later, back at the bike, the two linger. Kurt watches Blaine closely, almost as if trying to keep him there with his gaze. And Blaine really wants to stay. To talk and nothing more. There’s one question that’s been buzzing in his mind, and he needs to know.

Clearing his throat, he looks Kurt straight in the eyes; eyes that he finds already completely absorbed in his. “When you arrived at the cottage, in the middle of the night… you were running away, weren’t you? What happened?”

Kurt thinks about it for a moment, maybe a little too long, then flashes one of his usual mischievous smiles. “I’ll tell you if you agree to have dinner with me, Mr. Anderson.”

Blaine’s stomach flips. “Is that a threat, Mr. Hummel?”

Kurt shakes his head. “No, Blaine. It’s a date.”

Chapter Text

Blaine returns to the cottage, his calves crying out in agony from the energetic ride he just did. He had wanted to make the journey back with Kurt, but he had apologised, saying he’d pop into the boutique across from the bookstore to pick up a couple of Christmas presents for his father and stepmother. And perhaps it was for the best, because all Blaine did was ramble aloud to himself about what on earth would be most appropriate to wear.

No one’s ever invited him to dinner. And the last, and also the first, person he went out with was Dave Karofsky from the sporting goods store. It was a... pretty normal evening. And Dave was really nice. But nothing more.

They had met at the pub down the street on a quiet Friday night. There was a bit of awkwardness in the air, as Dave was still trying to figure more about himself out, while Blaine, at the time a confident twenty three year old, was perfectly at ease, so he did his best to make Dave feel comfortable, too.

Dave often found himself looking down, stumbling over his own words. Blaine remembers that the boy’s cheeks would turn bright red every time he looked at him, so, with gentle care and a warm smile, he always tried to ease the tension by asking simple questions; his hobbies, the music he liked. At one point, Blaine even cracked a few jokes, which isn’t typically like him, and Dave tried so hard to laugh normally, but failed. He was so nervous, but Blaine still tried to smile at him reassuringly, as if to say it’s okay, there’s no pressure, everything’s fine.

When Dave realised that Blaine was calm and wasn’t judging him, nor expecting anything from him, he relaxed, though the thought of not knowing what he really wanted still made him feel on edge. And by the end of the night, both of them had realised that friendship was all they could offer each other.

“I had a good time,” Dave had said, a little hesitantly. “But I don’t think I’m ready for all this. I still need to come to terms with everything, and…”

Blaine remembers smiling, understanding. “Take all the time you need, Dave. There’s no deadline,” he said, looking at him gently, like one looks at a friend or a brother going through a delicate time and needing support. “We’re still friends, right?” Dave nodded, giving him a tight hug, and then they parted ways.

To this day, Dave is happily married to a wonderful man, whom Blaine has met, and together they run Dave’s shop. And Blaine is genuinely happy for him.

But back to the present, what on bloody earth is he going to wear for dinner with Kurt Freaking Hummel? Every item of clothing he owns and loves now seems completely inappropriate.

He sighs, nervous. Then he smiles.

Damn, a date!

He hurls his bike against the fence and rushes up the driveway to the cottage’s front door. Just as he’s about to enter, he hears Miss Emma’s shrill voice. And if she’s around, Miss Agnes is sure to be nearby. Ugh. Right now, the last thing he wants is to sip suspiciously coloured tea in their company.

He hides Kurt’s book in the basket by the door and tiptoes down the hallway, pressing himself against the wall, attempting to move as silently as a gecko. A loud, awkward giggle from Miss Agnes throws him off balance, causing him to trip on the rug. He tries to recover his composure, but it’s too late. He’s caught.

“Blaine, darling! Welcome back!” croaks Miss Emma, forcing him to turn around and enter the living room.

“All well, moonpie?” Susy asks, giving him a stern look.

“Yes, why?” Blaine replies, maybe a tad too hastily. He tries to distract them by fixing his wind-tousled hair and straightening his clothes, but that nearly manic smile? He can’t suppress it.

“You’re all… wrinkled. And strange,” Susy continues, her gaze piercing. It’s impossible to get one past her.

“He just rode in on his bike, Susan,” Agnes chides. “It’s normal to look that way. Though a young man like you shouldn’t look so… dishevelled. That bicycle’s to blame.”

“Don’t listen to her, Blaine. She’s stuck in the days of carriages,” Emma defends him, strangely. “We’re in the twenty-first century, Agnes. Are you aware of that?”

“Details, sister. Details.”

“Won’t you join us?” Emma asks again, turning back to Blaine. “The water’s still hot.”

Blaine hesitates. “Um, no–” he answers, looking around for a reason to escape. “No, I’ve got some things to do,” he says, slowly edging toward the stairs.

“Things? What things?” asks his grandma, holding her teacup mid-air with an arched eyebrow.

Blaine doesn’t know how to dodge this. “Well, um… I need to tidy my room and... download the latest episode of...” think of a name, for God’s sake! “Teen Wolf!”

The trio looks at him, bewildered. “Teen Wolf?”

“Yeah, come on. It’s a show about this… guy. Yeah, a guy. A teenager. Who, after being bitten by a werewolf, discovers he has superhuman powers and…” wow! They look absolutely mesmerised. He’s surprised. He doesn’t get this kind of attention even in class with the students.

But then he notices the look in their eyes, especially Miss Agnes’, and realises. They’re not staring at him, captivated by his rambling story. They’re staring at one Kurt Hummel, standing behind him, gift bags in hand and a sweet, amused smile on his face. “And then, Mr. Anderson? How does it end? I just love werewolves.”

Blaine swallows loudly, flushing. “Mr. Hummel,” he sighs. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Kurt smiles. “It would have been a shame to interrupt you.”

They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, both smiling, half warm, half awkward; a shy one. Blaine feels a sweet, nervous flutter spread through his chest. It’s a brief moment where it feels like only the two of them exist. “You… you’ve got all your hair messed up,” Blaine murmurs, making Kurt giggle as he sets down the gift bags to fix his tousled fringe. “We wouldn’t want to make a fool of ourselves in front of the ladies.”

Then Agnes Clark decides to pop their little bubble by coughing dramatically. “Blaine, darling!” she says with excitement. “Why don’t you introduce us to this handsome young man?”

Susy lunges at her, trying to stop her from getting up, but it’s no use. In a split second, the old woman is face to face with Kurt, extending her hand with a deliberate, almost flirtatious motion. And of course, it doesn’t take long before Emma Clark and her ample derrière join her sister.

Blaine sighs and rolls his eyes, utterly bored. He bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from shouting. “Mr. Hummel,” he starts, his enthusiasm about as low as the floor. “Allow me to introduce you to Miss Emma and Miss Agnes Clark.”

“Descendants of the Duke of Lather,” Miss Emma adds cheerfully.

Kurt, with impeccable charm, takes both ladies’ hands and, with a bow, offers them a classic kiss on the hand. The sisters nearly faint.

“What a gentleman!”

“And such an aristocratic air!”

“Is he perhaps related to the Baron of Capemont?”

“Stop it!” Susy interrupts, stepping between them. “Mr. Hummel is a writer and he’s our guest.”

The sisters melt into a puddle of admiration. “A writer!” Miss Agnes repeats, clutching her heart. “I’ve always been fascinated by literature. And what do you write, poetry?”

Kurt blushes. “Uh, no.”

“Romantic novels, then? I bet so much passion pours out of that quill,” Agnes continues, all fired up. She’s unstoppable now.

Emma slaps her with her own hat. “Ignorant! You don’t write with a quill anymore,” she scolds, then turns to Kurt. “Please excuse her, she’s stuck in the days of the Brontë sisters.”

Susy tries again to step in, attempting to rescue Kurt from the two harpies. “Mr. Hummel, come and sit down. I’ll make you a cup of tea,” she says, inviting him to sit on the couch. “And you two, leave him alone!” she barks at the sisters.

Blaine feels a hand grip his, and two pleading eyes look at him. “Please, don’t leave me alone with these two!”

So, they all settle on the couch now, happily (awkwardly) sipping the strange tea of the Clark sisters. And the interrogation continues.

“Tell us, Mr. Hummel,” Agnes resumes, her red lips smudged around the edge of her cup. “What kind of literature have you chosen to enchant your readers? If it’s not poetry, sonnets?”

Emma shoots her a glare. “Did he happen to mention his name is Shakespeare? Idiot!”

Kurt sinks further into the couch, clearly worried the two might end up slapping each other. “Actually, I write fantasy books…”

Silence.

“Oh,” Agnes comments, disenchanted. “What a… exquisite choice.”

“At least you know what they are?” Emma continues, provoking her. It’s like watching the bondage banter again.

“Of course, dear,” replies Agnes, snapping back. “But let’s let Mr. Hummel explain it to us and tell us about some of his prestigious novels.”

Kurt smiles, clearly amused, and throws a quick glance at Blaine before turning his attention back to the two madwomen. “I’d be happy to extol my successes in your presence.”

Susy, horrified at the thought of the two spending another three hours in her living room, gets up and pulls Blaine aside. “Why is he humouring those crazy women and talking like a dandy?”

Blaine looks at him, his heart skipping a beat. Despite the Clarks harassing him, Kurt’s patience and poise shine through.

He’s so… handsome. And gracious. And polite. “Because he’s a gentleman,” Blaine sighs dreamily. It must have been a while, because Susy starts waving her hand in front of his clearly entranced state. But Blaine doesn’t notice. He’s too busy admiring that messy hair, those blue eyes, those lips parted in a genuine smile. And those dimples. Kurt Hummel is a true gentleman.

And he invited me to dinner.

“Mr. Hummel invited you to dinner?” Susy exclaims. The literary trio turns towards him, caught red-handed. Oh. Oh shit. So, he didn’t just think it.

He actually said it.

*

This is very embarrassing. Honestly, this is really embarrassing. Normally, he’s much more composed, but the writer’s charm has obviously claimed its victims. 

For a few minutes, he stands frozen in the middle of the room, as red as a beetroot. Susy gives the Clark sisters a pointed shove out of the cottage, no doubt already planning to pay a visit to the hairdresser and baker, eager to spread the hot scoop that oh my God, Susan Anderson’s grandson is getting a little too friendly with the guests at their cottage!

The fact that Kurt asked him out on a date isn’t embarrassing, of course, but it shouldn’t be such a fuss. Damn little town where everyone knows everyone else…

Okay, they’ve only known each other for a short while, they’re not even friends, and he’s a guest, but they’re two adults, and this is just a dinner, right? Hell no. It’s not just a dinner. The one with Dave was just a dinner, but this one? Not quite the same. And maybe the real embarrassment isn’t all the chaos his anxious, self-destructive mind has conjured up, but rather how Susy reacted! God, what must Kurt have thought after being called “inadequate and hasty”?

He smiled after Blaine’s blunder, and tried to get closer probably to reassure him, but Blaine did what ostriches do: hide. In his room. The thought of talking to Kurt now, after practically moaning in front of him, his grandmother, and Anastasia and Drizella, is enough to make him want to die inside.

So, there’s only one thing to do in situations like this.

B: Mr. Hummel invited me out to dinner!

The exclamation mark is there not because he’s excited, but because it reads better stylistically.

And, sure, he’s excited, but that’s not the point.

U: Marley? Am I wrong, or did they just deliver a fresh pack of condoms to the pharmacy this morning?

Blaine stares at his phone, stunned.

M: Unique…

B: Condoms? Are you sure you’re not running a bit wild with your imagination?

U: You’re going out to dinner with him even though you’ve only known him for three days, and I'm the one who's rushing things? Girl.

M: She’s got a point, B.

U: *three eggplant emojis*

B: Nothing is going to happen! It’s just an invitation to dinner! Maybe he’ll talk to me about the book.

M: Yeah. The Kama Sutra.

U: ??? Marley??? Who is this diva???

B: I hate you both.

Okay, so messaging these two was a terrible idea, but at least their sarcasm managed to bring a smile to his face, calming his whirlwind of thoughts.

Suddenly, he hears a knock, and before he can respond, the door swings open, revealing a slightly downcast Susy. “I’ve made the chicken soup you like so much. I’m warming it up. Are you coming down?”

Blaine shakes his head. “I’m not very hungry. Do you mind if I stay here?”

She falls silent. A rare occurrence. “Go on, shoot,” Blaine comments.

“I didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable,” she says after a moment, wringing her hands. “The news surprised even me, and–”

“It’s fine,” Blaine interrupts her.

“Did I ruin something?” she asks anxiously. “Can I try to fix it?”

“There’s nothing to fix.”

Susy looks at him with an odd glint in her eyes. “But you will still go out with him, won’t you?”

Blaine blinks. “Grandma… Please tell me you’re not trying to set me up?”

“Set you up? What are you talking about?”

Blaine narrows his eyes. “I don’t trust you.”

“Have I ever meddled in your love life?”

Blaine goes silent. “Alright, maybe once,” she admits.

“Twice, and with two straight guys. One of them was Roderick from the launderette!”

Susy raises her hands in surrender. “Okay, fine! I’m guilty! But Mr. Hummel is different. I like him…” she murmurs the last part. “He still hasn’t appreciated my curtains, and he probably sneezes when he smells cloves, but he likes the jam and the rugs on the ground floor. He told me so himself,” she says proudly, lifting her chin.

“Oh, wow. Seriously!?” Blaine responds sarcastically.

“And he told me he put a heart on our social media page. And he’ll write a review. But I warned him, I won’t accept anything less than five stars.”

Blaine bursts out laughing. “You forced a guest to give the stars you wanted?”

Susy nods, unashamed. “And I promised him you’d return the favour with a review of his books.”

Blaine stares at her. “That’s unethical, you realise that?”

“It’s not unethical, it’s business.”

“And what if I don’t want to read them?” which is a lie, given the freshly purchased book still hidden by the front door. A book that, in any case, has to wait until after the five others in line.

“Make something up! Google it! You’re not exactly lacking in imagination.”

Cheeky old rascal. Blaine can’t quite believe it. His grandmother has a whole network of fake likes going on behind the scenes and is trying to set him up with the highest bidder.

“So, no soup?” Blaine nods, still bewildered. Susy then leaves his room with a forced smile, blowing him a kiss as she goes.

His mood darkens. The thought that Kurt might have called Adam, saying “give a few likes to this page, I promised an annoying old lady,” sends a chill through him.

Then he hears another knock. And it’s definitely still Susy with her soup. He strides towards the door, opening it with large steps. “I told you, I’m not hungry!”

“But the invitation wasn’t for tonight,” Kurt Hummel replies with a smile, leaning casually against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. Sexy. Damn. “I was actually thinking about tomorrow night. What do you say?” Blaine blushes.

“Sorry, I thought it was Grandma.” Tomorrow?

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I have a request.” Blaine swallows loudly.

“Oh... What kind of request?”

“Could I change rooms? I’d be fine sleeping in the garden shed, if that works.”

Blaine gets agitated. Oh my God, why does he want to change rooms? “Why do you want to change rooms?” Kurt hesitates, looking down. Is he... embarrassed? “Come with me,” he says simply, taking Blaine’s hand and pulling him down the hallway toward the room at the end. “Here’s why.”

Before Blaine can ask for clarification, he’s startled by a strangled scream coming from the other side of the wall, followed by some banging.

The French newlyweds are going at it. Oh my sweet Lord.

Blaine’s eyes widen in shock, and he immediately reconsiders his earlier thoughts. This is far more embarrassing than the whole tea incident with his grandmother. He tries to say something, but can’t find the words. Fortunately, Mrs. Monique steps in. What on earth is her husband doing to make her howl like that? Don’t think about it, don’t think about it!

“Let’s get out of here first. They need their privacy,” Blaine says, grabbing Kurt’s hand and dragging him away. Without thinking, he pushes Kurt into his own room, slamming the door behind them with dramatic flair. They look at each other and burst into laughter.

“I was working,” Kurt begins between laughs; anything but composed or elegant, but Blaine finds it absolutely charming. “But as you can see, or hear, it’s impossible to do that now,” he continues, his face turning red.

“You could seize the opportunity and write an erotic novel,” Blaine says, suppressing his laugh with his hand.

“Oh my God!”

The laughter continues for a few moments, non-stop. They look at each other, struggling to breathe. Their voices, so different, mix together, making the moment both ridiculous and unique. Eventually, their laughter fades into soft hiccups, then silence. Kurt stares at Blaine with a knowing smile and rosy cheeks. Blaine tries to hold his gaze but soon finds himself looking away. He clears his throat.

“Was... was it an important step? Do you think you’ll find your inspiration again?”

Kurt thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “Usually, yes, but tonight the world is against me,” he replies, looking around the room. “There are too many distractions,” he mutters, glancing at Blaine.  

Susy would have quoted Rosamunde here, saying very languidly, “And the distraction is me?” but now is not the time to think about the sitcoms his grandmother watches.  

Blaine tries to lighten the situation. “What were you writing about? A little jumping gnome who just left his tree trunk house to go take a bath?” but all he gets is a sharp look.  

“I don’t write about magical gnomes bathing in dewdrops. You have a distorted idea of fantasy,” Kurt replies, eyebrow raised.  

Blaine blushes, raising his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry. I guess you’re right. After all, I haven’t read a page yet, but I’m sure I’ll love it,” he says, perhaps a little too enthusiastically.  

Kurt gives him a crooked smile, smirking. He steps closer to Blaine. Too close. “You’re lying again,” he murmurs, barely an inch away from Blaine’s face.  

“Did... did I scrunch my nose?” Blaine stammers.  

Kurt nods. “Completely scrunched.”

“Well, let’s say I’ll try,” Blaine says quickly.  

“Much better,” Kurt replies, stepping back and resuming his casual perusal of the room. “But I insist on a dedication. It’s a matter of my writer’s pride.”

Blaine smiles, rolling his eyes. “Well, if you insist,” he says, just to please him. He might be developing a crush, but he still enjoys bickering with Kurt.  

Distracted by his thoughts, Blaine doesn’t realize that Kurt is flipping through the current novel he’s reading on his nightstand. “We Have an Unresolved Kiss,” Kurt reads aloud, turning the book over in his hands. Then he looks at Blaine, frowning. “Is it a good book?” 

There’s a hint of sarcasm in Kurt’s voice, which Blaine doesn’t particularly like, but probably deserves. “It’s notable,” Blaine says, grabbing the book from Kurt’s hands, causing Kurt to chuckle. “Notable? What a strange word to describe hearts racing, knees trembling, and princes in tights.”

“I don’t read about princes in tights,” Blaine retorts, offended. “You have a distorted idea of romance.”

Kurt smiles, putting his hands up in surrender. “Touché.”

Blaine turns to stack the book on the top shelf, but, being no basketball player, and without a stool to stand on, he’s now awkwardly trying to put the damn book away without it falling on his face. He hears a tongue-click and a puff of air behind him. “Hey Kurt, could you help me, please? Oh, of course I’ll help you, Blaine,” Kurt replies, mocking him, but Blaine ignores him. He has to do it on his own.  

As expected, he ends up losing his balance. Kurt tries to catch him by the waist, but the move is too fast, so he trips over Blaine’s foot and they both go tumbling, ending up in a pile of limbs and groans. Their heads knock together with a loud thud. Bloody hell, what a painful throb. After a moment of silence, Kurt tries to speak, his voice muffled. “Are you okay?”

Blaine mumbles something as he tries to shift and get up, but Kurt holds him down with an arm. Oh– this wasn’t part of the plan.  

Their faces are inches apart. Blaine can feel Kurt’s breath on his lips, and he could count the lashes on his eyelids. Really nice lashes, by the way. They should put that on the back cover of the book. “Are you okay?” Blaine repeats, gasping.  

“Don’t worry, my ego is intact,” Kurt smiles, gently caressing Blaine’s face. “Are you okay?” he says again, softly. Blaine is lost for words. “Yes…”

Kurt tightens his grip on Blaine’s back, never stopping the gentle caresses. “Is– Is that what happens in We Have an Unresolved Kiss?” he asks. “Do the two main characters argue, and then something happens that lands them in this situation?”

Blaine smiles, his heart racing a mile a minute and a pleasant chill starting in his stomach and rising to his throat. “This is very corny, actually…” he murmurs, brushing the tip of his nose against Kurt’s.

“Mr. Hummel!” they suddenly hear. Behind them, Susy stands in the doorway, holding a bowl of that damn chicken soup. “In my days, first you took them out to dinner, and only then to bed.”

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe it, you actually got caught,” Unique comments, lounging on the armchair in Blaine’s room. Marley, on the other hand, is sprawled on the bed, barefoot. Because Blaine insists on hygiene, thank you very much.

“We didn’t get caught. We weren’t doing anything wrong,” Blaine snaps, trying to make sense of his messy hair.

“For now,” Marley retorts, earning a dramatic gasp from Unique. “Who the hell are you and what have you done with my goody two-shoes friend?” she adds.

“You’ve both conspired against me, I knew it,” Blaine grumbles.

“No, it’s just that after spending so much time talking to this walking port authority–”

“Oi!”

“–and my teenage brothers, I’ve started to become insufferable too.”

“And we love you all the same.”

“I preferred you when you were half-hippie,” Blaine shoots back.

“No, you didn’t,” Unique replies.

Blaine thinks for a second. Okay, maybe not, but that’s not the point. “Anyway, he was just helping me sort a book, and we fell to the floor because of my terrible balance.”

“Uh, yeah,” murmurs Unique, filing her nails. "I’ve seen a porn video start like that."

Marley bursts out laughing. Blaine sighs, exasperated. “Please tell me when you start working again so I don't have to see you anymore?”

“You love seeing me here for the holidays, you little brat.”

“Sadly, yes.”

“But what did he say after your little close encounter?” Marley asks, her tone teasing. Blaine turns red just thinking about it. After his grandmother had left, he had stood up and reached out a hand to Kurt to help him. After a couple of apologies, Kurt had smiled and stepped closer, hands resting on Blaine’s hips, mouth near his ear. “Tomorrow, at six,” he whispered, sending shivers down Blaine’s spine. Blaine could only watch as Kurt walked down the hallway, until Kurt turned around, flashing one of his trademark mischievous grins and said, “Wouldn’t want to disappoint Miss Anderson, would we?”

“And that’s when you wet yourself.”

Blaine blushes harder. He wants to kill her, but she’s still useful. “We’re not here to talk about my sex life, we’re here to help me pick something to wear!”

“Less layers, he’ll take them off anyway.”

“Marley! Are you in on this, too?”

“It’s funny seeing you so flustered.”

“So it’s always fun to be around me, huh? Not because I’m such a laugh, but because of my anxiety.”

“Alright, alright, shut up,” Unique exclaims, jumping up from the armchair to rush over to the wardrobe. “I’ll handle this. Luckily, you have a best friend who knows all about style.”

“Hey! I’m good, too!”

Unique sizes her up. “Sure, Jenny Wilder.”

Blaine snorts. Marley rolls her eyes, subtly undoing her braids. She then gets up from the bed and walks to the window, leaving the two of them standing in front of Blaine’s pile of clothes. “Is that his car?”

“Yeah,” Blaine responds absently.

“It’s gorgeous. It’s rare to see a car so flashy around here. Where’s he taking you? Do you know?” Marley asks, turning to Unique for confirmation.

“Actually, no,” Blaine says, pondering. “But my gut tells me to trust him. He’s definitely a man of good taste.”

Unique chuckles. “Good taste for sure.”

“If you don’t stop, I’ll flush your makeup down the loo.”

*

“You need something that says, I’m here for you, but not too much,” Unique declares, tossing yet another blazer onto the bed.  

“How many of these do you have?” Marley interrupts, eyeing him with disbelief, but her comment is ignored.  

“Something that makes you look like yourself, but with a little extra,” Unique continues, her voice firm with purpose.

Blaine sits on the bed, still in his bathrobe, utterly baffled by what his friends are trying to achieve. Perhaps they’re on a quest for the Holy Grail of fashion. He sighs despondently. “Honestly, this is all pointless. I’ll just wear my usual jeans and–”

“Shut up!” Marley and Unique exclaim in unison. Unique then pulls a garment bag from a box, revealing a hint of something brick-red inside. Blaine stares at it, perplexed. “I don’t even remember what that is. Maybe a suit from some ceremony years ago?” Unique grins widely. “Who cares? It’s perfect!”

And it’s rare for Blaine to look in a mirror and actually appreciate what he sees. But today, he feels good. Almost like a star. And it suits him for an outing like this. The suit fits every curve, every detail; the colour makes his olive skin tone, though not overly tan, pop. Instead of his usual shirt, Marley’s chosen a grey turtleneck that softens the seriousness of the cut, perfectly contrasting with the deep red tone.

He barely recognises himself. And for once, he likes it. He just hopes it’s enough for Kurt.

Turning to his friends with a strained smile, he asks, “Are you sure we’re not rushing things?” Unique rolls her eyes dramatically. “You’ve never rushed a thing in your life. Don’t you think it’s time you started? Besides, you deserve this. Especially after the headbutt incident yesterday.”

Blaine grins, pulling them both into a hug. “I love you, girls.”

“Oh, we love you too, B,” Marley replies. Unique clears his throat. “Can we walk down the stairs with you or should we start practising our ninja skills and make a dramatic exit out of the window?”

*

Once the girls have exited through the back entrance, Blaine can finally reach Kurt, who is already waiting for him in the drawing room. He stands with his back turned, gazing out at the garden through the bay window, but Blaine is certain he heard him; it’s impossible not to make a sound in those moccasins. Indeed, after a moment, Kurt turns, and they both stand there, eyes locked, frozen. Blaine’s heart starts beating fast and he concentrates on Kurt’s suit to try to steady himself to avoid losing composure. He’s wearing a dark, elegant suit, softened by a white shirt left undone at the collar. He’s simply breathtaking. Blaine’s gaze moves to Kurt’s eyes, so strikingly blue, and finds them already fixed on his own. A soft, genuine smile curves Kurt’s lips, effortlessly natural, with no trace of malice. 

Kurt steps closer, each movement sending a tumult through Blaine’s chest; his fingertips trembling with the force of it. “In these situations, what do the characters in your beloved novels say, Mr. Anderson?”

Blaine moistens his suddenly dry lips, forcing himself to remain calm and keep up with the game. “Well... generally, they start with “you look stunning” and then follow with “shall we go?” before whisking them away to the city’s most exclusive restaurant for caviar and champagne.”

Kurt smiles. “Excellent. Well, I completely agree with the first part,” he replies, his voice softer than usual, devoid of its usual teasing edge. Then, without a word, Kurt gently takes Blaine’s hand. His eyes glimmer, making that blue even more vivid. With a slow, assured motion, he brings Blaine’s hand to his lips, kissing the back of it. It isn’t a grand gesture but a simple, elegant one, filled with meaning only they understand. At least, that’s what Blaine feels. What he hopes.

Kurt never takes his eyes off Blaine’s, and like every well-loved cliché that Blaine can’t help but adore, it feels as though time itself has come to a standstill. He feels his breath deepen, his face suddenly flushed with warmth. A smile tugs at Kurt’s lips as he lowers his hand. “I agree with the second part too. Actually,” he says, glancing at his watch. 6:13. “It’s time to go, or we’ll be late. But as for the third, I might disappoint you. I don’t think finding caviar and champagne in Marth is exactly easy. Unless...” A mischievous grin spreads across his face. “You’re willing to go all the way to London.” 

“That would be wonderful. I love London,” Blaine responds, dreamy-eyed. “But it’s a two-hour drive; it’s a bit mad.” Yet Kurt ignores him, first grabbing his coat, then the car keys, and finally taking his hand, leading them toward the door. “I’ve always loved doing mad things.”

*

“We’re in… a bubble!” Blaine exclaims for the third time since they arrived. Kurt smiles. “It reminds me of an igloo, actually.” 

Blaine’s been to London before, of course, but he’s never seen anything like this. They are on the rooftop of a building overlooking the Thames, surrounded by glass niches arranged like the petals of a flower, each one holding a table for two. Blaine is in awe. From there, they enjoy a magnificent view of the city, and the sparkling lights of London illuminate their entrance onto the terrace like a sky full of stars.

Before entering the bubble, Blaine had clung to the railing to take in the wonder before him. “The view of Tower Bridge as you requested, Mr. Hummel,” the maître, Paul, had said after shaking Kurt’s hand. Then Kurt had stepped closer, gently resting a hand on Blaine’s back. “Come on, we’ve got the whole evening to admire it,” he had whispered, and Blaine had let himself be guided to their table. Their bubble.

“What’s wrong?” Blaine asks, his cheeks aching from the sheer happiness. Kurt smiles. “I love watching you with that look of wonder on your face.”

Blaine blushes. He places his hands on the perfectly pressed tablecloth, pretending to smooth nonexistent creases just to calm his nerves. “If you were trying to impress me, you’ve succeeded,” he admits in a small voice, stealing a glance at Kurt. “This isn’t something the characters in We Have an Unresolved Kiss would do.”

Kurt shrugs. “I played my trump card.”

“On the first evening? Risky.”

Kurt looks at him. “Do you think there might be others?”

Blaine returns the look, but the words cut off in his throat. “I–”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got more tricks up my sleeve,” Kurt teases. Now it’s his turn to scrunch his nose. Blaine ponders what to say for a moment. “Do you come here often?” he asks in the end, trying to escape this dangerous exchange of banter.

Kurt rests his chin on his hand, gazing at him. “No, only on special occasions,” he smiles. And, oh. Bad. Very bad answer. He just called the waiter by name.

Blaine tries to ignore the slight pang of discomfort, which doesn’t even make sense to feel, and thinks of something else to say. “It’s a lovely place,” he finally concludes, hoping to sound convincing. Then he hears Kurt sigh. “I know what you’re wondering.”

“Can you read my mind, now?”  

“Yes, and I won’t lie to you, this isn’t the first time I’ve shared one of these tables with a man,” Kurt says, and Blaine feels again something tighten in his stomach. “But it’s only happened once.”

“And did you like it?”

Kurt leans back in his chair, staring at the table intently. “Far less than I hope I’ll like this one,” he replies softly, just in time for the waiter to bring the wine, preventing Blaine from responding. Whatever he might have wanted to say.

“You’re being very enigmatic tonight, Mr. Hummel,” Blaine admits after a while. Kurt takes the bottle, pouring more wine into both glasses. “Let’s make a promise then,” he says. “Tonight, no beating around the bush,” and he brings the glass to his lips, taking another sip. “This should help us relax.”

“Are you tense?” Blaine asks.

“I’m not. Are you?”

“A little, I admit.”

Kurt looks at him, tilting his head slightly, as if trying to study him thoroughly. Then he reaches for Blaine’s hand. “Tell me why, and I’ll do everything I can to make you forget it,” but Blaine doesn’t answer. Instead, he swallows more wine, feeling it tingle in his throat. He can’t tell Kurt what’s causing his nerves. He can’t reveal too much of himself, not tonight. And it’s not easy. It’s not easy to admit how much he likes this man, or how good that suit looks on him, or how beautiful the warm candlelight is, caressing his features, making him almost ethereal. Making him someone who, perhaps, feels out of reach. And it’s not, hell, it’s not easy to admit how much his appearance is turning him on. That open shirt button is enough to crush his self-control. All he can think about is how he’d like to open that shirt and caress his chest. And some other things the Clarks would call very obscene.

“It’s okay, now. I’m okay,” he says, lying. “Rather, I think you have some unfinished story to tell me.”

“You're right,” Kurt simply says, before falling silent to allow the waiters to set the plates down. “It might be boring, though.”

“I’ll take the risk.”

Kurt hesitates, just enough for them to finish their first course, and only after taking a bite of the second, a magnificent beef Wellington, does he take a deep breath and begin to speak.

“You were right, yesterday,” he says, locking eyes with Blaine. “That night, I had an argument with my agent, and in my anger, I threw some random clothes into my suitcase and ran away. Without a destination.”

“And you ended up in Marth.”

“Pure coincidence,” he admits. “I wandered for a while until I got lost. And tired. Then I took out my phone to look for the nearest place to stay, and I found yours,” he finishes, thoughtful. But then he offers a small smile. “Although, in hindsight, I think it was it who found me.”

Blaine smiles, mirroring Kurt’s expression.

“Don’t get me wrong, but I was in such a... strange place that I would have accepted anything. Even a broom closet. Anything to get away from this frantic city and the lies of that night. London forces you to stay on top of everything. Productive. And I was done.”

Blaine furrows his brow slightly. “I thought you loved this city.”

“I need it, it’s different.”

They fall into silence for a while. Not out of embarrassment, but more out of an attempt to understand. To process everything that has just been said. Until Kurt speaks again.

“So I think at this point, I should tell you about Spencer.”

Blaine holds his breath. Suddenly, the turtleneck no longer feels like the best choice. It’s suffocating him. But he forces a smile anyway, even if the reply comes out more sarcastic than he intends. “Oh, who’s Spencer? Your partner? Should I be worried he’s lurking nearby, waiting for your signal to have me crawl under the table?”

Kurt studies him for a long moment. Instead of his usual soft smile, there’s now a straight line. Perhaps disappointment? “Spencer is the head of my press office,” he responds, curtly. “A smart, ambitious guy. Arrogant, too. And yes, there was something between us. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“No?” Blaine asks, wiping the corners of his mouth with a cloth napkin, even though it’s been at least five minutes since he last put anything in his mouth. 

“No,” Kurt repeats. He gestures behind him. “We were sitting over there. The same surreal setting, when I realised he was only interested in the public figure of Kurt Hummel. Not just Kurt. And let’s just say “losing his temper” is a mild way to describe the scene he caused when I told him I was planning to step back for a while,” he continues, clearly upset by the memory. “One moment, he was ridiculously celebrating because some kids recognised me and asked for my autograph. The next, he was throwing a glass of red wine in my face out of anger."

So, Spencer’s not only an opportunist, but a brute as well? Blaine struggles to see things clearly, but can’t help but find the guy insufferable. “To him, like to the rest of my entourage, it felt like the house of cards built on my name was about to collapse.”

“How can he not understand? You’re human too!”

“I’m his job, Blaine. His project. Not his man. Certainly, not anymore.”

Blaine’s destructive mind can’t help but interpret these words as a form of regret, and a small but intense emotional tremor sweeps over him. Kurt should be angry, not saddened. And Blaine shouldn’t be so deeply affected, but it’s probably too late to stop it now. He sighs, trying to shake off the feeling and detach himself from the story.

“Have you ever thought about hiring a ghostwriter?”

Kurt’s eyes widen in surprise, almost popping out of their sockets. “Not even ten hours after we met, you almost threw jam on my head over the whole Adam and Instagram thing, and now you’re suggesting a ghostwriter?”

Blaine shrugs, blushing slightly. “Well, in light of everything, it seems only logical. If you’ve got a contract to honour but you don’t want to, or simply can’t find inspiration, it seems there aren’t many options left. It’s a possibility.”

Kurt nods, clicking his tongue; his expression shifting as though he’s just had all his problems solved. “You’re changing the way you think, and I don’t know if I like that. Because what I like about you is the exact opposite.”

Blaine tries to ignore the rush of warmth that this statement causes. Does he like me? “You mean my naïveté, my small town boy charm?” he asks, reminding Kurt of their walk the day before. “Is that why you brought me to a glitzy city like this?”

Kurt shoves the wine bottle away from the centre of the table with such force, as if it were obstructing his view of Blaine. “You think so? I invited you here for a romantic evening, not for a debate.”

“The–” Blaine swallows loudly. “Our dinner’s... a romantic dinner?” he asks in a barely audible voice. Kurt smiles, then places a finger to his lips. “Rule number one: never interrupt a writer when he’s inspired.”

“My apologies,” Blaine chuckles.

“Now,” Kurt continues, leaning forward, elbows on the table, his gaze fixed on Blaine. “This is perfect for a romantic dinner with the right person; a clean, genuine guy. Light years away from the dirty mechanisms of this machine that is my life–”

“But your life–”

“Shh,” Kurt whispers, still smiling. “Rule number two: don’t contradict a writer on the words he chooses to use.”

Blaine holds back a laugh, amused. “I wanted to see true wonder in your eyes. To give you a moment of magic that’s been denied to me, and share it with someone who isn’t enchanted by my name.”

Blaine feels his bottom lip tremble; a soft, comforting warmth spreads through his chest and stomach, as if something tender and alive is blooming inside him. He feels vulnerable, exposed, as though he’s standing on the edge of something beautiful but terrifying, and he can’t help but feel like a fool for being unable to gather his thoughts.

“I’ve tried in every way to impress you with my success,” he says, miming quotation marks with a playful gesture. “But you– nothing. You saw only the real Kurt, and treated me accordingly. That’s how it should be. It’s something I’ve truly appreciated, and it makes me feel good.”

Blaine holds his breath, his pulse racing as if each beat is reverberating through his entire being. His head spins, but it’s not the wine. It’s Kurt’s words, so raw and real you wouldn’t guess they came from a creator of fantastical worlds. He’s burning now, the heat spreads. “In this bubble– it’s suffocating,” he replies, fanning himself with a napkin. “Don’t you feel it?”

“Mhm,” Kurt murmurs, unbuttoning another button on his shirt. The bastard knows exactly what he’s doing. “You’re right. But bubbles have their charm, don’t they? Ever thought about that?”

Blaine doesn’t follow. Kurt presses on. “Inside them is a part of us.”

“A part of us?” Kurt nods. “Do you know, for example, what a soap bubble is?”

Blaine looks at him, amused. “What is it, a tricky question?”

“Go on, answer,” Kurt grins.

“I don’t know, a children’s game?”

“Wrong,” Kurt says softly, never breaking eye contact. That crooked smile and slight dimple present as ever. “It’s the transparent case for our breath.”

“Wow, Mr. Hummel. Impressive definition. Did you include that in one of your novels?”

“I wish,” Kurt says with a laugh, settling back into his chair. “But unfortunately, it’s not mine.”

“Oh, no?” Kurt shakes his head. “No, it’s from an Italian writer. Trilussa,” he adds, locking eyes with Blaine, a sly look in his gaze.

“Do you know him? Now, he was famous.”

Chapter Text

Blaine had always believed that walking along the Thames is probably one of the most romantic things in the world. A theory that had blossomed the very first time he watched Notting Hill and found himself daydreaming about swapping places with Julia Roberts.

Is there something inherently romantic in Kurt’s decision to take him on a walk by that very river? Blaine isn’t entirely sure, but it’s still a dream coming true. A quiet, gentle one that makes his fingertips twitch with excitement, as if his whole body is humming with happiness.

They’ve just left the restaurant, and those few glasses of wine have clearly worked their magic on Blaine. He feels light, carefree, as though the weight of the world has slipped away for just a few hours. Contrary to his usual fastidious nature, he now finds himself strolling with his coat undone, the soft fabric flapping gently in the breeze. The crisp evening air nips at his skin, but it’s refreshing, like the world is waking up around them, and he gets to be a part of it.

“Have you ever been on the London Eye?” Kurt asks suddenly, breaking into Blaine’s musings as he gestures toward the towering wheel, his hand slicing through the night air. In his other hand, Kurt clutches a paper bag, its contents a mystery to Blaine. Maybe it’s a surprise for regular customers? Blaine doesn’t press it.

“Yes, a few years ago,” he answers, his eyes drifting toward the glowing capsules in the distance, the lights twinkling like little stars. He can almost feel the thrill of the ride again, the slight sway as it took him higher above the city.

“And did you like it?” Kurt asks, his voice tinged with genuine curiosity, his brows knitting slightly as he watches Blaine.

“I loved it. It’s one of my fondest memories.” Blaine’s smile softens as he remembers, a warmth spreading through him, like the way the city lights glow against the night sky.

“Oh. I’m glad. I think.” Kurt’s voice takes on a teasing edge, and Blaine can’t help but chuckle.

He turns sharply to face him, a playful half-smile dancing on his lips. “What was that tone?”

“What tone?” Kurt asks, shrugging innocently but failing to mask the hint of mischief in his eyes. Blaine laughs, the sound light and easy. “I wasn’t there with a man, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Kurt says, trying and failing to sound indifferent. The way his eyes flicker with amusement betrays him instantly. Blaine raises an eyebrow, a knowing glint in his eyes. “You’re totally thinking I was there with a man.”

Kurt stumbles, caught, before a long pause falls between them. “Wasn’t it?”

Blaine laughs softly and gives Kurt a playful tap on the shoulder, feeling a surge of affection. “No,” he says, grinning as he looks back toward the London Eye, his voice light with nostalgia. “I was with Unique and Marley, my best friends. Nothing scandalous, I promise.” He chuckles at the image of them all, a little bubble of joy rising in his chest as he remembers the laughter and inside jokes they shared. 

It was a late spring evening, the kind where the air was just warm enough to be comfortable but still carried a hint of crispness, like the day was reluctant to let go of the cooler months. Unique had just landed her dream job at The Artist Network, and to celebrate, she took Blaine and Marley on a night out in London. The evening ended at the London Eye, because, as Unique had cheerfully declared, “we can’t miss a view like this!”

“You weren’t planning to drink up there, were you?” Marley had asked, narrowing her eyes with a mix of amusement and concern as she glanced at Unique.

“Relax,” Unique had grinned, her arms outstretched as if to embrace the entire city. “I’m used to carrying the weight of my great personality; I can handle one more drink.”

“I’m out of this one,” Blaine had joked, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “But... a small one wouldn’t hurt. Just a little. Please?”

“I knew you’d say that!” Unique had winked.

Marley had rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. “Ugh! One day, I’ll find you two in the middle of the street, singing God Save The Queen drunk as skunks, and I won’t be there to save you when a truck comes barreling down.”

Once they’d reached the London Eye, Unique had dashed ahead, her energy bubbling over like champagne, while Blaine had followed close behind, equally eager, the excitement of the night making him feel lighter than air. Marley, ever the worrier, had kept a careful watch over them, muttering under her breath, “I just hope this thing doesn’t suddenly stop and give us a live Final Destination experience.”

When they’d finally boarded a capsule, Blaine had rushed to the spot by the glass, pressing his palms against the cool surface and gazing out at the sprawling city below. Marley had settled next to him, her eyes flicking nervously to the sides. Unique, however, had stood directly in front of them, waving her arms around like she was on a rollercoaster. “It’s like being on top of the world!” she’d exclaimed, her smile mischievous and slightly tipsy from the beers at the pub.

Blaine and Marley had exchanged amused glances, their faces lit with quiet joy. After all the struggles and challenges she had gone through to get to this point, it was incredibly rewarding to see their friend finally enjoying a moment of peace and accomplishment.

“Unique, you’re scaring the tourists,” Marley had teased, pointing to a group of Japanese visitors who, to be fair, couldn’t have been less concerned about Unique’s exuberance.

“Am I?” Unique had laughed, her voice light and teasing. Then, with a glint in her eye, she’d turned to them and smirked. “Let’s make a bet. If you stand up and shout something, I’ll give you fifty quid.”

Blaine had shot her a look but couldn’t help grinning. “I don’t think I could shout louder than you; there’s no point trying.” She’d stuck out her tongue at him. “Grumpy cat.”

When the capsule had reached the top, Unique had flung herself against the glass, shouting dramatically, “I’m the queen of the world! I’m higher than Big Ben!”

Marley had turned to Blaine, chuckling softly. “She’s done it again.”

“Let her be,” Blaine had said with a fond smile. “It’s her night, she deserves it.”

Back on solid ground, still buzzing with energy, Unique had called out, “Another round? But this time, we add alcohol!”

Blaine and Marley had exchanged a long, resigned look. “Alright, it only lasts thirty minutes,” Blaine had sighed.

Marley had seemed to deliberate for a moment, then shook her head. “Fine, but I’m not cleaning up any puke or scraping tongues off the pavement!”

Together, they had watched their friend bounce around, gleaming with joy and carefree excitement. “Welcome to London!” Unique had shouted once more, now back at the top of the wheel. “This city now belongs to me!”

“Is your friend Marley always like this?” Kurt asks, causing Blaine to laugh. “Bit of a bore? Perhaps,” Blaine says with a teasing grin. “But she’s changed a lot. Her mom’s always worked a lot, so Marley’s basically been the maternal figure for her younger siblings. In fact, she’s like the mom of our group, too.” Kurt nods thoughtfully, a smile forming on his lips as he listens.

“They must be really lovely people,” Kurt remarks, his voice soft with understanding.

“They are, and they’re true friends. The kind who are always there when you need them, ready to solve things on the spot,” Blaine says, a fond smile tugging at his lips as he thinks of them. “By the way, they’d like to meet you, if that’s okay. Marley wants signed copies for her brothers.”

Kurt gasps dramatically, his eyes widening. “So I have fans in that godforsaken hole of a village?” he exclaims, an exaggerated look of shock on his face.

Blaine laughs louder than he expects, the sound bright and easy. “How rude! Don’t get too big for your boots now,” he teases, feeling the warmth of their shared moment.

The two of them stand in the middle of the street, still chuckling, and Blaine can’t quite figure out why it’s so funny, but laughing with Kurt feels so good, like a burst of lightness in his chest. As their laughter fades, his mind drifts back to the previous day, the memory of the intimate moment they’d shared in his room. 

Kurt moves closer, and his hand slips into the hollow at the back of Blaine’s neck; the touch electric. Blaine freezes, his breath catching in his throat. Kurt’s thumb brushes gently against his cheek in a slow, soothing rhythm, and Blaine can’t speak. His heartbeat is so loud, so fast, that it feels as if it might burst from his chest.

“You’re trembling,” Kurt whispers, his voice soft, a knowing smile on his lips.

“No, you’re wrong,” Blaine replies too quickly, his words almost tripping over each other.

“Are you sure?” Kurt asks, his voice gentle, coaxing, as though he’s waiting for Blaine to let down his guard.

“Yes,” Blaine says, but even as the word leaves his mouth, he knows it’s not true. His legs feel weak, like they might give way any second. A dizzying feeling overtakes him, his body trembling with anticipation. It’s like he’s drunk, and not from alcohol, but from the pull Kurt has on him, the magnetic presence that leaves him breathless and wanting more. 

Then, Kurt’s hand leaves his neck to take Blaine’s hand, and before he can fully register what’s happening, Kurt is running, pulling Blaine along behind him. 

“What are you doing?” Blaine calls out, laughing and trying to keep up, his voice full of surprise and delight.

“Don’t ask questions, just trust me,” Kurt replies, his grin wide and mischievous as he leads them toward the London Eye. He lets go of Blaine’s hand just long enough to buy the tickets and speak briefly with the attendant, before grabbing it again, the connection between them immediate and electric.

“Oh, I almost hoped for that,” Blaine mumbles, feeling his cheeks heat up. “But promise me you can handle your alcohol!” he jokes, pointing a finger at him. 

Kurt crosses his fingers over his lips, his expression playful. “I swear, and actually, I’m pretty good at it now. Not as a teenager, though. The victim of that was my school counselor’s shoes,” he says, throwing his head back in laughter, his eyes sparkling with mischief. 

Blaine’s eyes widen in shock, and he quickly raises his hands in mock horror. “I get it, I don’t want the details!”

A tall, slim guy opens the gate for them without a word, and Blaine steps inside, suddenly aware that they’re completely alone. He glances around, his curiosity piqued. 

“Did you bribe someone to have it all for yourself?” he asks, half-joking, his gaze flicking back to Kurt, who’s looking unusually pleased with himself.

“For us,” Kurt corrects him, his emphasis on the last word making Blaine blush deeper than he expected. “And no, I didn’t bribe anyone. They just returned a favor,” Kurt adds with a wink, then points at Blaine teasingly. “Don’t look at me like that. I just wanted to make sure we weren’t surrounded by people.”

Blaine’s heart skips a beat, a flutter of something warm spreading through him. There’s a sense of comfort and thrill all at once, and he can’t help but feel that, right now, this is exactly where he’s supposed to be.

Blaine decides to trust Kurt, letting himself relax as he moves closer to the glass, taking in the view. The city below sparkles like a thousand little jewels, infinitely more beautiful by night. A display of lights and magic that feels almost unreal.

“Wow,” Kurt breathes softly behind him, and Blaine feels the warmth of his body against his shoulders, a comforting presence in the midst of it all. “It’s really beautiful.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never been here before,” Blaine says, though he doesn’t turn around. It’s easier for him to speak when he doesn’t have to meet Kurt’s gaze, when it feels like the world can’t see the truth written in his eyes.

“No, actually,” Kurt admits, his voice a little shy but still light. “The London Eye’s for tourists, and I’m not particularly fond of those kinds of attractions. Let’s just say I prefer dry land more than being too high up.” Blaine finally turns to face him, raising an eyebrow. “Then why are we here? You’re not worried about feeling sick, are you?”

Without warning, Kurt’s hands cover Blaine’s face, his touch playful but tender. “I did this for you. I want tonight to be different. I want you to have a good memory of this, with me. Not just with your friends.”

Blaine stares at him, unmoving, his breath catching in his throat. There’s a sacred stillness between them, a moment suspended in time. No words are necessary. They share a knowing smile, an understanding that speaks of something deeper. Unspoken promises, quiet moments shared, and a feeling that’s starting to grow in ways he can’t ignore. Something pure and hidden from the eyes of the world, encapsulated in the little cabin of a Ferris wheel. 

And no, Blaine can’t hide this feeling anymore. Not even from himself.

After a moment, Kurt stretches his arm behind him, pointing to the city below. “Look, I live down there, not far from that skyscraper to the right; the one with the red sign.”

Blaine turns back toward the city, but as Kurt’s finger points out the direction, Blaine can’t help but notice how close their cheeks are. There’s something electric about it. And though Kurt’s voice leads him to the skyline, it’s Kurt himself who fills Blaine’s thoughts. 

Kurt’s home. A luxury apartment, most likely, filled with expensive art and the laughter of elite colleagues feels a world away from Blaine’s simple life. A life surrounded by rolling hills and quiet nights. He wonders if Kurt ever finds pleasure in the smaller, simpler things. A single rose blooming after a summer rain, or the joy of baking a cake with his own hands, completely free of pretense.

“You’re quiet,” Kurt says, pulling Blaine from his thoughts.

“I’m just watching your city,” Blaine says, choosing his words carefully. “Have you ever thought about living somewhere else?” 

Kurt pauses, considering the question. “Even though sometimes it feels a bit cramped, no. London is unique to me. It stimulates me, recharges me, inspires me. And it keeps me in its grip,” Kurt says, his voice tinged with something that almost sounds like longing. “Despite how it makes me struggle, I always end up coming back to her because I’m in love with it.”

His words hang in the air for a moment before he pulls back slightly, as if realizing he’s shared more than he intended. He shifts, his tone lightening. “Have you ever thought of leaving Marth?”

Blaine takes a moment to think. “Once, when I was about sixteen. More than leaving for good, I just wanted to experience something outside of the usual context. And I did!” he says with a small, amused smile. “For college. But then, like you said, I always end up going back because… it’s home. I love the countryside, the silence. The fact that in summer I can still see fireflies. I even love the sheep.”

“The sheep are cute,” Kurt says, his eyes glinting with amusement.

“Not always,” Blaine replies with a grin. He recalls the time he’d caught a couple of sheep munching on Susy’s garden salad. “In trying to shoo them away, I ended up flat on my back in the mud.” He pauses, smirking. “And don’t you dare laugh!”

“I’m not laughing!” Kurt protests, though the laughter in his voice is undeniable. “I would have loved to see it. Quite the sight, I bet.”

Blaine opens his arms wide, a playful expression lighting his face. “Welcome to my life,” he says with a grin. “It’s what I want, what I’ve chosen. Peace of mind. Sheep included,” he adds lightly.

Kurt watches him for a moment, his smile softening as he seems to absorb Blaine’s words. Then, without another word, he steps away from the window and reaches for the paper bag he’d set aside. With a swift motion, he gestures for Blaine to sit on the oval bench in the middle of the cabin.

“I hadn’t planned to do this here, but I think this is the right moment,” Kurt says, his voice warm with intention. He pulls a bottle of champagne from the bag, followed by two elegant glasses in a neat box. Blaine blinks in surprise. In the end, there was indeed alcohol.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Blaine asks, pretending to be reluctant, though the soft flutter in his chest betrays his genuine fondness for Kurt’s thoughtful gesture.

“Just a sip,” Kurt replies, winking as he pops the cork. He pours the champagne into both glasses, handing one to Blaine and he sits beside him. Kurt lifts his glass, a smile on his lips. 

“What are we toasting to?” Blaine whispers, his gaze captivated by the shimmering bubbles rising in his glass.

“To whatever you want,” Kurt replies, his voice light but meaningful.

Blaine lifts his glass to Kurt’s, and for a brief moment, it’s as if the entire world outside the cabin disappears. There’s only them, the city stretching out beneath them, and the quiet, delicate bond they’re building.

Blaine thinks for a moment. “What if we toast to the future?” Kurt raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “To the future?”

“Yes, to our professional futures. To your future books and my years ahead as a teacher, mixed with a bit of semi-cottage ownership with my crazy grandmother. Not bad in these uncertain times, huh?”

Kurt smirks, narrowing his eyes in playful challenge. “I think you can do much better. That’s a bit too predictable.”

Blaine looks at him, amused but determined to keep the game going. “You know what’s predictable?” He looks around, gesturing to their surroundings. “All this! The whole Ferris wheel thing, the champagne, the sweet words. It’s one of the most sappy, clichéd scenes you’ll see in a romance movie.”

“Nothing new for you, then,” Kurt responds, a familiar mischievous smile tugging at his lips.

Blaine returns the smile, taking a sip from his glass before standing up, unable to hide the spark of humor dancing in his eyes. “Seen it before, sorry. In at least four different films.”

Kurt’s gaze follows him every step of the way, unwavering. There’s something about the way Kurt looks at him. A quiet power, a knowing gaze that holds the weight of a thousand unspoken words. Blaine finishes his drink and sets the glass down next to Kurt’s, the soft metallic clink of the glass echoing in the air between them, like a marker of a moment shifting. Kurt rises slowly, with a measured confidence, moving toward Blaine with the quiet assurance of someone who knows exactly what’s about to happen.

Blaine feels the air around them thicken, an electric pull drawing them closer, each step Kurt takes feeling like a tug on his very soul. His body responds involuntarily, his heart hammering in his chest.

“You see, this is why I write fantasy,” Kurt says, the teasing tone in his voice now softer, more intimate, a playful challenge hidden beneath the words. “Because if I wrote romance novels, I’d be ridiculously predictable.”

Blaine smiles, feeling the heat of Kurt’s proximity but forcing himself to keep his cool. His gaze flickers toward Kurt’s lips for the briefest of moments, before he looks up to meet his eyes again. “Well, you could always find a way to surprise them. Shock your readers.”

Kurt’s smile widens, eyes flickering with amusement and something darker. Something Blaine can’t quite name but can feel in his bones. He steps even closer, his movements slow but deliberate. The space between them narrows with every passing second, until they’re nearly touching. Blaine feels the magnetic pull of Kurt’s presence, and for a moment, everything else fades away. The world outside the cabin, the twinkling lights of the city, all of it becomes a distant hum, swallowed by the intensity of the moment.

“How?” Kurt’s voice is barely a whisper now, his breath hot against Blaine’s ear as he closes the final distance between them.

Blaine’s hands move instinctively to Kurt’s warm chest, his fingers lightly brushing against the fabric of his shirt, feeling the heat of Kurt’s skin beneath. He feels a slight tremor, something deep and unspoken coursing through him. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, his voice dropping lower, more challenging now, as his pulse races. “I’m not a writer. You should surprise me.”

Kurt slips his hands into Blaine’s coat, his fingers brushing lightly over the fabric before settling on Blaine’s hips, pulling him in closer, the movement deliberate, slow. The warmth of Kurt’s touch burns through the layers between them, sending a shiver down Blaine’s spine. “You’re right,” Kurt whispers, his voice almost a hum as he inches closer, his breath mingling with Blaine’s. “But you’re the expert in love stories. So tell me,” he continues, his voice hushed. “What should happen now to surprise the readers?”

Blaine’s breath catches, his chest tight as his mind swims with the possibility of what’s about to happen. He forces himself to stay grounded, his hands still resting on Kurt’s chest, the heat of the moment building, thick and heady. He swallows hard before answering in a voice that feels barely audible. “Not this,” he breathes, his head pulling back just slightly, though Kurt follows every movement like a shadow. “Otherwise they’d expect a kiss.”

“Interesting perspective,” Kurt replies, his lips curling into a smile, his eyes glinting with mischief and something darker; deeper.

“But you wouldn’t be original, Mr. Hummel.”

The space between them is now so narrow that their breaths are shared, mingling in the air. They are close enough that Blaine can feel the thrum of Kurt’s heartbeat in the silence, his words nearly lost in the space between them.

“Do protagonists always talk this much in these moments?” Kurt asks, his voice low, his breath grazing the side of Blaine’s face.

Blaine shudders, his body reacting to Kurt’s proximity in ways that he doesn’t fully understand, his skin tingling, his heart beating faster with each passing second. “Only when they’re attracted to the man in front of them.” His words are laced with irony, yet there’s no hiding the truth in them. The warmth of his feelings for Kurt is undeniable now.

Kurt’s lips twitch into a smile, his voice dipping lower, teasing. “Are you trying to make a move on me, Mr. Anderson?”

Blaine chuckles softly, a breathless laugh. “You’re the one who got me with alcohol. I’m just an innocent country boy.”

Kurt laughs lightly, though there’s something in his eyes that betrays the playful facade. “I’ve heard that one before.”

“I’m afraid we’re both predictable,” Blaine murmurs, the words slipping from his mouth before he can stop them. A soft, involuntary whimper escapes him, his body now completely attuned to Kurt’s presence. He feels his pulse thudding loudly in his chest. He’s already addicted to him, every inch of him drawn to Kurt in a way that feels so familiar and yet entirely new.

Kurt’s fingers tighten around Blaine’s waist, and Blaine feels a shiver pass through him. “True,” Kurt murmurs, his eyes dark with desire. “And who are we to disappoint the readers?”

Blaine’s mind races, heart hammering as the space between them shrinks even further, the tension stretching taut. “Do you want to kiss me and give them the win?”

“What do you think?”

Kurt surrounds his face with both hands, taking possession of his mouth in a passionate, deep kiss. At first Blaine remains still, after all, it’s his first real kiss, the first one that counts, but then he lets go and surrounds Kurt’s neck with his arms, threading his fingers through his hair and squeezing, causing Kurt to react pleasantly. 

Everything becomes more intense, more vivid, and yet he feels so light. He feels as if he is suspended in a bubble of silence, and he knows it’s not a suggestion due to where they are at the moment. Blaine had never thought his heart could beat so fast, but now it feels as if it wants to escape.

The light gliding of their tongues and lips makes a gentle sound; a soft rustling that disperses through the air. Each movement is accompanied by subtle whispers and held breaths. Breaths that become heavier, alternating with short puffs of warm breath that caress the skin and fill the space around them. The skin is warm under their hands, and there is something so delicate about this gesture. As if each movement is laden with a meaning that Blair cannot yet comprehend. 

They have only known each other for a short time, yet this feeling seems to speak a language beyond words. As if they have always known how they would feel at this moment. It’s a kiss that tastes of discovery but also of something deeper and unique. And Blaine cannot describe it, but he knows it’s special. And he hopes it’s the same for Kurt.

Blaine pushes him towards himself urgently, this time without disguising the eager moan that escapes his lips. Was this what he wanted? Yes, and discovering himself this bold and this aroused, pleasantly surprises him. But as their breaths intertwine and the world seems to disappear around them, a sudden noise breaks the stillness. The cabin door opens, revealing a girl with a slightly bored expression. “Gentlemen, the tour is over.”

They pull away suddenly, caught off guard, and for a moment, neither of them understands. Their faces are still so close, a flush of embarrassment running across their cheeks. But then their eyes meet, and time seems to return to its normal rhythm.

They exchange a knowing glance, their smiles speaking volumes without a single word. The tension between them doesn’t dissipate; it shifts, morphing into something softer, something more profound. A silent understanding draws them even closer, binding them in a way that no words could ever capture. Kurt, his eyes still locked with Blaine’s, leans in again, his lips capturing Blaine’s in a final, tender kiss. It’s brief, but no less filled with emotion. A sweet promise lingered in the fleeting contact, something deep and lasting.

When they pull away, their eyes meet again, and Blaine feels the weight of the moment settle over him. He realizes, in that quiet instant, that he’ll never feel this way with anyone else. But for now, he keeps the thought to himself, unsure if it’s the right time to say it out loud.

They gather up the crumpled paper bag, slipping the glasses and the champagne bottle back inside, their movements clumsy but intimate in their shared silence. Hand in hand, they step outside, the world around them as alive and bright as ever, the night stretching endlessly before them.

“It’s so late,” Kurt murmurs, his voice soft and warm. He pulls Blaine close, his fingers gently grazing Blaine’s cheek before his thumb traces the outline of Blaine’s bottom lip; still swollen, warm, and soft from their kiss. Kurt’s smile is small but full of something Blaine can’t quite name. “I should take you home. I don’t want Mrs. Anderson thinking I’ve kidnapped her grandson.”

The playful note in Kurt’s voice draws out a smile from Blaine, who feels a slight flush creeping up his neck, their shared warmth filling the air between them. They both stand there for a moment, blushing like teenagers on their first date, the simple intimacy of the moment enveloping them. Blaine’s mind spins with a thousand practical thoughts, questions he knows he should listen to, but he pushes them away. Not now. Not with Kurt standing so close, not with this feeling that pulls at him. A quiet certainty that he doesn’t want to question just yet.

“We should go, then,” Blaine says softly, resting his head against Kurt’s chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the fabric of his coat. He inhales deeply, the scent of Kurt’s cologne, fresh and warm, mingling with the night air. “Otherwise, the carriage will turn into a pumpkin.”

Kurt chuckles, his laughter low and rich, and he lifts his chin, gently tilting Blaine’s face to meet his gaze. His eyes are sparkling, teasing, as he regards him. “I’m sorry, but I’ve heard that one before. It’s a bit famous and clichéd. You can do better than that.”

Blaine laughs, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep inside him. “Did I not manage to surprise you, Mr. Kurt Hummel?”

Kurt’s eyes gleam, his smile widening into something more playful. He leans in once more, as if he’s about to kiss Blaine again, but at the last moment, he pulls back just enough to let their noses brush. His voice drops an octave, smooth and almost teasing. “Not even a bit. You can do much better, dear.”

Chapter Text

“This is my room, yours is down there,” Blaine murmurs, trying to assert himself over Kurt’s mouth, but Kurt is quicker, silencing him with a kiss, nipping at his lower lip. “I know that perfectly well,” he responds, smirking.

“And it’s terribly late as well,” Blaine adds, his back pressed against the door as Kurt leans into him, laughing softly in reply. “I know that, too,” he says with a teasing tone.

Blaine grins. “You certainly know a lot of things, Mr. Hummel,” he murmurs, a playful edge in his voice.

“Wrong,” Kurt replies, eyes glinting with amusement. “I don’t know what’s running through this mind of yours right now, for example.”

Blaine places both hands lightly on his chest, giving him a playful shove that’s just enough to pull their face apart. “What exactly are your intentions, Mr. Hummel?” he whispers, glancing over his shoulder at his grandmother’s door, knowing she’s probably eavesdropping with her ear pressed to the door.

Kurt stares at him, smiling mischievously. He moves closer to his neck, leaving a slow, wet trail of kisses on it. “I’m not sure you’d like to know,” he whispers, holding him still by the hips as he continues the delicious torture under his right ear. “You’d risk blushing for the hundredth time.”

Blaine clenches his knees and bites his tongue to hide any kind of reaction, but he can’t help the shuddering, heavy breathing that escapes his lips as he unconsciously holds the short hair at the nape of his neck with his hand, forcing him not to stop. Or at least, he hopes he doesn’t. “Are you mocking me?” he only manages to say, and maybe that’s for the best, because he manages to dampen the tension and placate Kurt, who reacts with a soft laugh; his breath caressing the skin of his face.

“A little,” Kurt admits quietly. “But your beds creak, so I either make a bomb threat with an anonymous call to evacuate the cottage, or if I were to try and seduce you in your room, I fear we’d be discovered by everyone.”  

Blaine flushes bright red. “There’s not just the bed,” he whispers, his hormones running wild. Kurt is pleasantly surprised; a flicker of something mischievous in his eyes. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear," he says, diving back to devour his neck. But if they’d been clever, or just lucky, enough not to make a sound earlier, that grace is no longer on their side. Unbeknownst to both, Kurt steps on a floorboard that lets out a sharp creak.

Kurt stifles a colorful curse, rolling his eyes dramatically as he lets his head flop heavily onto Blaine’s shoulder. “Is there anything in this place that doesn’t creak or squeak?”

The simple question is enough to snap Blaine back to reality, the quiet tension of the moment suddenly grounding him. His gaze flickers to the floorboards beneath them. Would he have let it happen if the floor hadn’t betrayed them with that sound? In his room, with Susy just a few steps away? He gently pushes Kurt away, a small, embarrassed smile curling at the corner of his lips. Not that he was embarrassed a moment ago. Far from it. The spark of their closeness still lingers. “Maybe it’s time to go to bed. Goodnight, Mr. Hummel. Thank you for the most delightful evening.” His tone shifts in mock formality, almost as if he’s stepped into the role of a gentleman from the 1800s. He chuckles softly to himself at the thought. The only thing he’s missing is a bow and maybe a top hat.

Kurt pouts in response, his lower lip jutting out just enough to make Blaine’s heart ache a little, like a child whose favorite toy had just been taken away. “Just delightful?” Kurt repeats, his voice dripping with playful mockery.

“I’m dying of sleep,” Blaine replies with a sigh, his words a playful lie. “I can’t be more creative than this.” He shrugs, a teasing glint in his eyes. “You certainly know more vocabulary and synonyms than I do, Mr. Writer.” 

Kurt nods, his expression turning thoughtful. “Right. And you’ve just reminded me that I need to write something tomorrow. Assuming the French spouses allow me to. Can’t let them interfere with my literary genius, can I?”

Blaine grins, opening the door and gesturing for Kurt to go ahead. “Good luck with that, then.” But before he can close the door, Kurt’s voice stops him.

“Wait.”

Blaine watches as Kurt slips quietly into his room, the sound of soft footsteps growing fainter before he reappears, something in his hands. Kurt hands him a book with a worn cover with an almost shy smile. It must be his own. “You bought the latest in the series yesterday,” Kurt says, his voice laced with quiet thoughtfulness. “But I thought you might want to start with the first one, right? Or at least, that’s what I’d recommend. It’s more logical, don’t you think?”

Blaine takes the book from him, fingers brushing Kurt’s lightly, and his heart skips at the tender gesture. “That’s exactly what I wanted to do,” he says with a soft smile. Kurt doesn’t say anything more. Instead, he steps closer, offering one last, gentle kiss; slow, lingering, and filled with all the unspoken things between them. His smile, soft and unguarded, is enough to make Blaine feel like he’s floating.

“Goodnight, then,” Kurt whispers, his voice barely above a breath. His expression turns sombre and serious for a moment, but Blaine does not take the time to ask anything, because Kurt fastly disappears into the room. The door clicks shut behind him, and Blaine remains standing there for a long moment watching him; the book still pressed against his chest. After a while, he finally enters his, slipping on the floor; his back hits the wood with a silent thud as he sinks to the floor, still holding the book tightly in his hands. The room is silent now, but Blaine knows that the silence in his mind will not last. He’s fully aware he’ll be staring at the ceiling for hours.

*

As expected, it’s six in the morning, and dawn catches Blaine still wide awake. His mind buzzes with leftover adrenaline from the night before, and he finds himself unable to settle into the book. Instead, he’s replying to messages from Unique and Marley, trying to distract himself from the thoughts of Kurt that keep creeping in. Every page he tries to read reminds him of Kurt. His hands, his lips, those tender moments that still linger in his memory. Ugh, he had to read the first ten pages of The Wishing Spell twice just to make sense of it.

In their private group chat, his friends have bombarded him with regular messages, all asking the same questions: “So?” or “How did it go?” Blaine replies with a voice note, careful to keep his excitement contained, even though it’s practically vibrating off of him. They haven’t listened yet, but he knows they’ll wake up soon, and his phone will flood with more messages.

Finally, he gets a moment of peace to enjoy the first book of Kurt’s series. And it’s brilliant. He has to admit, he was wrong. Fantasy isn’t what he remembered. He had reduced it to little more than a fairy tale for adults, but he was mistaken. The storytelling is excellent, drawing him into a magical world effortlessly, with each page turning faster than the last. He might need to rethink his judgment of the genre. Or maybe it’s just the natural consequence of his feelings for Kurt...

A deep yawn escapes him, and he rubs his face in an attempt to keep his exhaustion at bay. He keeps reading, but the quiet is broken by the chime of a notification. It’s the girls, he thinks, they’ve responded. But when he looks at the screen, it’s not a message from them. The number is unfamiliar. And it’s a voice note.

Curious, Blaine instinctively presses the play button, but no one speaks. Instead, there’s an odd sound. An eerie, crackling melody, like long, unsettling notes playing in the background. He doesn’t understand what it is, and just as his sleep-dazed mind begins to question it, another message pops up.

As you can hear, it’s not just the bed creaking. This, for example, is the wardrobe door.

Blaine relaxes, a breath of relief escaping him. He stifles a laugh, shaking his head.

Who gave you my number?

He types quickly, heart pounding in his throat. It’s six in the morning, but as far as he’s concerned, it’s already the perfect day. The reply comes almost immediately.

An eccentric old lady, not sure if you know her.

Blaine snorts, unable to suppress the laugh that bubbles up at the thought of Susy. If she knew she’d been called an old lady, she’d likely be putting pins in his bed.

She really needs to stop giving out my private number to just anyone.

But I’m not just anyone. I’m Kurt Hummel, a two-million-copy-selling author! Want an autograph?

He adds a laughing emoji, which Blaine appreciates. Kurt’s clearly learning not to take himself too seriously, and that’s a good sign.

No, I’ll settle for breakfast. Want to have it together?

Blaine hesitates, his finger hovering over the screen. He feels an unexpected rush of shyness creeping in, despite everything that’s happened between them in the past day. He can’t quite put his finger on why, especially when less than ten hours ago, said Kurt Hummel had a foot of tongue in his mouth.

But Kurt’s reply is quick, and it’s followed by a sad face emoji.

I wish, but I’m finishing an important chapter. I’ll probably be at it all morning. I’ll have butter cookies and a cup of tea in my room.

Blaine feels a pang of disappointment, but he refuses to dwell on it. It’s better to say nothing than make it worse. He types a simple thumbs-up in response, but Kurt doesn’t stop there.

Oh, I wrote this. You might like to know.

A link follows, and Blaine opens it, curious. As he reads, his eyes widen. Kurt has written a review for one of the biggest accommodation websites. Blaine smiles, a little bit in awe, and a little bit proud, too. It’s just one of the many unexpected sides of Kurt that he finds himself falling for.

The picturesque cottage run by Mrs. Anderson and her entire family is the closest thing to fairytale you can get. Nestled at the foot of a lush green hill, it offers a stunning view of the surrounding English meadows. Every guest will surely appreciate the company of the hostess and her charming grandson and enjoy the peaceful tranquillity this place offers. The country-chic décor, carefully crafted in every detail, will make you feel welcomed and pampered. Additionally, you can expect courtesy, kindness, and Mrs. Anderson’s exquisite homemade jam. As for me, this is a place to consider for a peaceful getaway from the hustle and bustle of the city.

Kurt Hummel

Blaine scrolls through the page, his eyes catching on the five-star rating Kurt had given for everything, except for communication, where he had rated it four. Fair enough. It’s not a critique, really. It’s more of a challenge, a gentle nudge for Blaine to step up his game. Instead of irritating him, it motivates him to do better. He realizes, with a smile, that he needs to become more modern. More savvy. 

You didn’t have to, but thank you! he types quickly, adding a smiling emoji at the end. 

He closes the chat and opens his gallery, his thumb scrolling through his photos until it stops on the one he took with Kurt at the bridge. The image is truly enchanting. And it’s far too beautiful for the usual clichéd captions he tends to write. Still, in his sleepy haze, Blaine can’t think of anything clever. So, he turns to the words of poet John Keats. A thing of beauty is a joy forever. Its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.

After posting it, he tosses his phone onto the bed, stands up to change and heads downstairs. Today he has to betray his beloved Earl Gray and indulge in coffee. The morning haze still clings to him, and he feels the weight of sleep pulling at his limbs. But as he walks into the kitchen, the scent of honey and nutmeg fills the air, and it’s enough to make him feel slightly rejuvenated. The cozy warmth of it wraps around him, offering comfort.

He makes his way over to Susy, who’s bustling around the kitchen, and plants a quick kiss on her cheek. “Good morning,” he murmurs, still yawning, his eyes half-lidded. His gaze drifts lazily over to the calendar on the wall, and his jaw almost locks in shock. 

Oh, damn! He’d been so caught up in the recent events and his date with Kurt that he completely forgot they have a party to organize! The reminder hits him like a ton of bricks.

“Holy Gods on a bicycle!” he groans, his voice tinged with the beginnings of panic. “Sunday’s the eve party!”

Susy turns, her expression exaggerated in mock horror for a moment before she gives him an unimpressed look. “Welcome back to the real world, Blaine dear.” 

*

The Christmas Eve party at Susy’s Wonderland has become a well-established tradition, eagerly awaited by everyone in the neighborhood. It’s more than just a celebration; it’s a chance for friends, family, and even guests who have chosen to spend the holiday season with them, to come together, share food, and trade stories. The air is always filled with laughter and the delicious smells of good food. There will be a barbecue, handled by Blaine’s father, George, while Unique takes on the drinks, thanks to her parents’ business, which allows her to provide top-quality beer and spirits at reasonable prices.

Blaine and Susy will tackle the cakes, and Pamela will focus on the vegetable soufflés and stuffed sandwiches. It’s a perfect blend of everything that makes the night feel like home.

“Has Mum given any instructions for the vegetables?” Blaine asks, already feeling the pressure mounting. With only three days left until the party, he realizes just how much still needs to be done. His parents will be back in just over twenty-four hours, and they absolutely need to get to work on everything.

“We already talked about it last night, don’t worry,” Susy replies, nonchalantly. “She asked where you were.”

Blaine suddenly snaps into full attention. “And what did you say?”

“The truth,” Susy says with a mischievous glint in her eye. “That you were having dinner with a man.”

Blaine jumps to his feet. He quickly shuts the kitchen door, just in case Kurt decides to drop by unexpectedly. “And what was her response?”

“She wanted to know who this man was.”

“And what did you say?”

Susy shrugs, unbothered. “Oh, come on, Blaine. I told her you went out with an author. Who also happens to be our guest.” 

Blaine laughs, shaking his head, before filling his cup with coffee and a splash of cold oat milk. “Okay, but can I know what Mum thinks about it?”

Susy sighs dramatically as she arranges the freshly baked apple pie in its tin. “She seemed happy. Anyway, did you know we have a new review?”

“Yes,” Blaine responds simply, deciding to put aside the whole what does my mum thinks of my date conversation. Susy raises an eyebrow, her tone now tinged with playful reproach. “Blaine…” 

He looks at her, a little nervous. “What?”

“The date with Mr. Hummel has nothing to do with those lovely words in the review, right?” she asks, her voice filled with a knowing edge.

He turns sharply. “What do you mean?” he asks, already knowing where this is headed. But Susy shrugs again, pretending to be uninterested. “Well, nothing...”

Blaine watches her continue fussing around with that pie, clearly stalling. He sighs, pushing away from the counter to sit down and have a real conversation. He knows what’s coming, and, though she’s concerned, he knows he needs to put her at ease. No matter how grown-up he gets, Susy will always see him as that awkward little boy who still needs protecting.

“The review wasn’t a quid pro quo, if that’s what you think,” Blaine says, trying to make her smile. He pauses for a moment. “You’re the one who does those things, not me.” His voice lightens. “And before you ask any embarrassing questions, I assure you, Mr. Hummel did not threaten my virtue.” 

And it’s not even necessary to add that if the floor hadn’t creaked at that pivotal moment, his virtue might have been voluntarily surrendered. But Susy falls silent at his words, staring at him with an unreadable expression.

Blaine stares back at her, his voice slightly exasperated. “What?”

“Well, if it had been threatened... what’s the problem?” she responds matter-of-factly, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Grandma!”

Susy waves him off, as though she’s the one who’s been given the most sensible advice. “You’re old, get on with it, dear!”

Blaine groans, banging his forehead gently against the kitchen cabinet. “Oh my god...” He lifts his head, groaning again for effect. “Anyway, the review was all his idea.”

Blaine watches as his grandmother relaxes her shoulders just slightly, nodding with a small smile. “Okay, moonpie,” she says, but he can tell she’s not fully convinced. 

“Well, since you promised him, when I finish the book, I’ll leave him a review, too. That way we’re even.”

“You’re such a good boy, Blaine. Did I ever tell you you're my favourite grandson?”

“At least a thousand times,” he replies, giving her a tired smile. “Can I have a slice of pie?”

“No, it’s for the guests,” Susy says, a playful edge to her voice. “You can have two eggs.”

He slumps over the table in exaggerated exhaustion. “I’m so tiiiiired,” he groans, dragging out the words. “I barely slept last night to finish the book.”

She sighs, her tone full of affection and understanding. “I get it,” she says, before smiling and stroking his hair. “Boiled or omelette?”

“Omelette. Thank you.”

A few minutes later, a plate with two slices of toast and Susy’s famous, fluffy omelette appears in front of him. She sits down beside him, placing a napkin next to the plate with the care of someone who’s been looking after him for years. “Eat slowly,” she says gently.

That’s how it works between them. Susy waiting in the morning to hear the full report. It’s always been like this, ever since his school days. His parents left early for work, and Susy would make him breakfast, asking with quiet concern: “How did it go?” 

And Blaine, depending on his mood, would either tell the truth or spin a story to calm her down. Sometimes, the weather would dictate what they did next; Susy suggesting they go for a walk, clean the garden, or cook something together.

Susy had always said that when you’re having a bad day or suffering from heartache, the best remedy is to get moving. Whether to vent or simply clear your head. Blaine learned this lesson the hard way years ago when he caught Susy and Grandpa Ray in the middle of a heated argument. After the shouting match, she stormed into the kitchen and started kneading dough, working through her anger with each press of her palms.

As she worked, unflattering words about Grandpa Ray escaped her mouth and out of her frustration ten trays of twisters were born. The original name was supposed to be vipers, as she had shaped the pastries like serpents in her anger. One of the twisters ended up on Grandpa Ray’s head as punishment for daring to enter the kitchen while Susy was still simmering. There were so many biscuits that Blaine’s mother had to package them up, giving some to every neighbor and a few more to people around the village. To this day, whenever an Anderson shows up with a twister in hand, everyone knows something’s happened.

“It went well,” Blaine begins, snapping out of his thoughts and focusing back on his breakfast. “He took me to this amazing restaurant, you should have seen it.”

And so, he tells her everything. About the table in the bubble, the walk along the Thames, the view from the London Eye. Everything. Except for the kiss. That part’s still too new, too raw. Not the right moment for it yet. But as he speaks, Blaine feels lighter. Content. Like the weight of uncertainty has been lifted just a little bit.

“Mr. Hummel is truly a wonderful man,” Susy says dreamily, and Blaine mimics her expression. Because yes, he is. “Yes, he is,” Blaine agrees softly.

“Shame he decided to leave early, though. He won’t be with us at the party on Sunday,” Susy adds, and Blaine feels the blood drain from his face.

“What?” His voice is a whisper, the words barely escaping his mouth. He stares at her, stunned and completely bewildered. “That’s impossible! He booked until Sunday, I–I…”

“He did,” Susy corrects him, her voice gentle but firm. “But he came down about an hour ago to tell me he’s leaving today.”

Blaine feels the air leave his lungs, the world spinning in a way he wasn’t prepared for. What’s this? The review is done, and this is a goodbye? He can’t process it. It had to happen at some point, but why today? Why didn’t Kurt tell him? And what about yesterday? Was it all for nothing? His chest tightens with frustration. Without thinking, Blaine stands up abruptly, furious. 

“Where are you going?”  

“Stay here! No one leaves this cottage before it’s time, unless there’s a serious reason. And I doubt there is.”  

“Blaine, don’t be ridiculous!” Susy stands up too, her voice rising slightly. “It’s his right to leave whenever he chooses, and you can’t question his decision! Who taught you such nonsense?”

Blaine shoots her a sharp glance before storming out of the kitchen. “You, Grandma.” 

*

Blaine is out of breath when he reaches Kurt’s door. He almost had the eggs come back up, but he forces himself to ignore it. His knuckles sting from the force of his pounding knock. Moments later, Kurt opens the door, wearing a sly smile. 

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, my arse! What’s this nonsense about you leaving today?”

Kurt runs a hand through his already messy hair, the gesture telling Blaine he’s probably done it several times already. He sighs, his eyes momentarily flicking to the suitcase already on the bed. “Come in.”

Blaine pushes past him, slamming the door behind him with a sense of finality, his heart racing as he waits for an explanation. The suitcase. On the bed. “Would you like some tea?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Blaine says firmly, pointing a finger at Kurt. Even though just standing here with him is enough to short-circuit his brain, he forces himself to stay focused. “I want an explanation.”

Kurt’s eyes flicker for a moment. “Calm down.”

“I am calm,” Blaine fires back, his voice tight with frustration. “And I don’t want any tea, I just want to know why you’re leaving!”

“Do you always attack guests who decide to leave early?” Kurt asks, raising an eyebrow, but his voice carries no real challenge. Just something tired and resigned.

“No,” Blaine snaps, his voice sharp. “Only those I spent an amazing evening with, who charmed me with sweet words, only to run off without even telling me.”

Kurt stays silent for a long moment, his gaze wandering around the room, as if seeking an escape. He forces a tight smile. “I should feel flattered. Instead, I feel trapped.” He sighs heavily, sitting down on the bed and staring at Blaine with a weariness that catches him off guard. “Blaine, whatever happened, I had to leave eventually. My life’s in London. I was here for a holiday, or whatever you want to call it. But today or Sunday, it doesn’t make a difference.”

And Blaine knows it’s true. He knows it. But the bitter, betrayed feeling still churns in his chest. “You should have told me,” Blaine spits, his voice cutting.

“You’re right,” Kurt admits, standing up and walking toward him with a slow, purposeful step. “I made a mistake. I should’ve told you, not Mrs. Anderson. But I did it because I was afraid of this reaction.”

Blaine’s chest tightens. The words feel like a slap, and he can’t help but feel foolish for not seeing it sooner. He pauses. “You think I’m overreacting?”

Kurt gives him a soft, bittersweet smile. It’s tinged with melancholy, but there’s something more to it. An understanding, maybe even regret. “No, it’s not that. I’ve learned that it’s not an overreaction for you, Blaine. You feel everything so deeply,” he says, trailing his fingers lightly over Blaine’s arm, but Blaine pulls away just slightly. Kurt nods, retracting the hand. “I’m sorry for what I did to you.”

Blaine furrows his brow in confusion. “What you did to me?” he repeats, unsure of where this is going.

Kurt looks embarrassed now, his eyes dropping briefly before he looks back at Blaine. “Yeah. I got carried away in the moment. I guess I built up expectations for us.”

“Carried away... in the moment?” Blaine repeats, his mind reeling. He’s so stunned he can barely form words. What is Kurt saying? Where’s the man who kissed him under the London sky? The one who had seemed so eager, so... there? Oh. Suddenly, it all clicks, and Blaine feels a sharp pang of understanding. Kurt just wanted to have fun. And since things didn’t go as he hoped, he decided to bail. Just like that.

Blaine puffs out his chest, wounded by the realization. But he refuses to show weakness. Not now. Not after everything. “Well, there’s a first time for everything,” he says, his tone full of bite. “No guest has ever left before check-out.”

Kurt pulls out his wallet, his hand moving slowly as if he’s trying to avoid any further confrontation. He withdraws a few bills and holds them out to Blaine. “Here. The remaining days.”

But Blaine loses it. His heart thunders in his chest as he rips the money from Kurt’s hands and throws it onto the bed. “We don’t want your money. Nor your reviews,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “Take the money and go treat some of your thirsty readers to dinner in the igloo.”

He storms toward the door, but before slamming it shut, he turns back, fury flashing in his eyes. “And one more thing. Your novel is awful. Awful!” Then, without another word, he storms out of the room.

His heart is pounding in his chest, his breath coming in short bursts as he marches down the hallway. He’s not even sure where he’s going, but he knows he needs to move. The fury won’t subside. The kitchen. He pushes through the door, startling Susy as he enters like a storm.

“How much flour do we have?” he demands, his voice tight.

“Five kilos, I think,” Susy replies cautiously, brow furrowed. “Blaine, what’s happening–”

“Today, we’re making vipers!” he announces, his voice barely restrained. He nervously ties on his apron, not even noticing the shocked expression on Susy’s face.

“But Blaine–”

“No buts! Today, vipers!” He glares at her, his voice sharp and final. “And we’re clear on that.”

Susy pauses, her eyes narrowing in thought. Then, with a look of sudden understanding, she grabs her own apron. “I’ll get the raisins.”

Chapter Text

“Who argued with whom this time?” Unique asks, letting out an exasperated sigh as she watches Blaine get off his bike, looking like he’s just been through a battle: dishevelled and exhausted. He hands her the box of twisters as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I have,” he mutters, voice flat. “But it’s a long story.”

She murmurs something under her breath, but Blaine doesn’t catch it. His head’s elsewhere, lost in a sea of thoughts. Honestly, he’s not sure how he even managed to cycle nearly a mile in the cold, the chill practically biting through his clothes, but he did it, somehow.

“Come on in,” she says, pushing open the door. “Marley’s been here for about ten minutes. She’s by the fire; said it’s too cold to stand by the door.”

Blaine follows her through the narrow, yet comforting hallway. The Adams’ house hasn’t changed a bit over the years. Same piney smell in the air, same wood-effect wallpaper peeling slightly at the edges. It’s kinda familiar to him.

“Someone’s brought the treats,” Unique comments as they step into the sitting room, where Marley is curled up on the armchair, a steaming cup of tea cradled in her hands. She glances up at Blaine with an arched brow. “What’s going on?”

“Twisters.”

Marley lets out a soft whistle, her eyes narrowing with concern. “Did someone upset Susy?”

“No, not Susy. Me.”

The two friends exchange a glance, one of understanding. They both know how rare it is for Blaine to get genuinely angry, let alone bake twisters. That’s something almost unheard of. “Tell us everything,” they both say in unison.

Unique pats the couch next to her. “Go on then, sit down,” she says, gesturing for him to take a seat. Marley stays where she is, slowly unwrapping a biscuit and nibbling it. “Spill it.”

Blaine hesitates, chewing on his lower lip for a moment as he gathers his thoughts. “I told Mr. Hummel his novel is awful.”

The room falls into silence.

“Ah,” Unique raises an eyebrow, her voice deadpan. Marley blinks at him, her mouth slightly agape as she chews slowly. “Sorry, what?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s one way to make a friend,” Unique teases, pretending to be shocked. She dramatically rolls up her sleeve, holding her arm out. “Look. Goosebumps.”

Blaine shoots her a glare, unamused. “There’s more,” he adds, pressing on.

Both of them breathe out in relief. “Thank God for that. We were about to fall asleep.”

“We had an argument, alright?” Blaine starts again, his tone quieter now, more reflective. “No, I argued with him because he’s leaving, and then because he gave me money–”

“Wait a second,” Unique interrupts, holding up a hand as if to stop him in his tracks. “What money?”

“Did he pay you for sex?” Marley asks, her eyes wide, her face a picture of horror.

“No!” Blaine snaps, his voice sharp and defensive. “Do you think I’d do something like that? Jesus, anyway…” He lets out a frustrated breath and begins from the start, recounting the whole mess, including his regret that Kurt will miss the Christmas Eve party.

“How obnoxious,” Marley mutters, shaking her head.

“Amen to that,” Unique agrees. She taps her freshly manicured finger against her chin and gazes thoughtfully into the fire. After a moment, her eyes light up. “Wait, I’ve got it!” she says with sudden enthusiasm. “Let’s slash his tyres! Let’s make him pay for it!”

“Perfect! That’ll buy us a day,” Marley says.

Blaine jumps up from the sofa, looking at them both as though they’ve lost their minds. “No! I’m not slashing his tyres! That’s a bit criminal, don’t you think?”

“What an overreaction,” Marley comments, still munching on her biscuit with an almost puzzled look on her face.

“Do you want him to stay for a bit longer or not?” Unique presses, her face serious now, her voice quieter.

“Of course I do,” Blaine mutters, looking down at his hands. “But I’d rather he stayed because he wanted to, not because we’re forcing him to stick around.” He pauses, his chest tightening with the weight of the words. He doesn’t know why it stings so much, but it does. The thought that Kurt doesn’t feel the same way, or doesn’t want to stay, hits harder than he expected.

Marley gets up from the armchair and sits beside him on the couch, wrapping him in a tight hug. Unique joins in, squashing him between the two of them like a human sandwich.

“His life’s in London, B,” Unique whispers softly in his ear, her voice calm and soothing. “How long can you keep him here? He was always going to leave. But hey, London’s not that far, right? You can still see each other. I’ve got a tiny flat, but I’ll make room for you! My flatmate won’t mind.”

Blaine pulls back slightly, raising an eyebrow as he looks at her, his expression resigned. “And do what?”

The hug breaks, and Marley looks at him with a confused expression. “What do you mean? To keep dating, no? What else?”

“But that’s the problem,” Blaine says, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface, as he tries not to snap. He stands up from the couch and begins pacing in the sitting room, his steps quick, almost agitated, trying to work through his thoughts. His friends watch him in silence. 

“I don’t think it’s possible,” he continues, voice quieter now, though the weight of it hangs heavy in the air. “And it’s not just because of the distance.”

He stops pacing and takes a deep breath, the kind that feels like it should clear his head but only seems to make things murkier. He’s been turning over everything in his mind since last night. The way Kurt had pointed to the spot where his house was, as though the space between them was already vast, no matter how small it looked on a map.

“We’re different,” Blaine admits, the words coming out a little choked, both relieved to voice it and heartbroken at the same time. “We live in two entirely different worlds. He, by his own admission, could never live here. He’d miss everything he’s always known. Events, posh restaurants, the buzzing social scene...” He lets out a long sigh and drops back onto the couch between Unique and Marley. “Not to mention the convenience of a city like London. Tell me, where could you find all that in Marth? A village where they still card wool by hand!”

Marley pauses, clearly trying to think of an answer, but Unique shakes her head, cutting her off before she can even try. “Don’t stress yourself, Mar.”

“There’s none of that here,” Blaine continues, his voice heavy as he leans back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling like it holds the answers. “And, weirdly enough, that’s why I love it. Away from the smog, the traffic, the noise. This place... this is my life. I couldn’t leave my family, the cottage, Susy…” His voice cracks, and his eyes suddenly prick with tears. “It would be like asking me to give up a part of myself.”

“But no one’s asking you to do that, are they?” Unique asks, narrowing her eyes as she watches him, the softest hint of a challenge in her tone. “And as usual, you’re rushing ahead with everything,” she adds, almost chiding him gently.

“I’m not rushing! It’s just who I am. I’m always thinking about the future. My life’s practically mapped out by the calendar. You know I plan everything!”

“But you can’t plan your feelings,” Marley pipes up, her voice quiet but certain as she rests a hand on his knee. “You can’t schedule them like you do with your laundry pick-up.”

“Feelings are something you experience,” Unique adds, her tone softening as she looks at Blaine with understanding. “So he’s off back to London? Fine. That’s where his life is. You stay in Marth and keep living yours. If you want to see each other, you could meet on the weekends. He can come to you, or you could hop on a train. Think of the passion when you’ve had a few days apart.”

“And when it’s not possible, there’s always sexting.”

Blaine and Unique both freeze, staring at Marley with wide eyes. “Did you really just say that?”

Marley shrugs nonchalantly, her grin playful. “I was with Jake for three years, remember? Just because I don’t swear much or drink doesn’t mean I’m a saint.”

Blaine and Unique blink at her, completely caught off guard. “Ah. Right, Jake. Wonder what happened to him?” Unique says, trying to regain her composure.

“His mum told me he’s working in Berlin now–”

“Girls, please,” Blaine groans, whining like a child. “Can we talk about your ex later? And I really don’t want to have virtual sex!”

“You’re missing out on a lot of fun, mate.”

“But I don’t want to!”

“Oh my god! Then stop worrying about things that don’t need worrying about!” Unique snaps, refocusing him with a stern look. “Listen to me. You’ve got a crush, okay? Because calling it love is pushing it a bit, and now you’re already thinking you need to make these big decisions about where to spend the rest of your life. Tell me if that’s not rushing things!”

Blaine groans, his shoulders slumping in defeat. Damn it. Unique’s logic always has a way of making him feel like a fool. And Marley’s not wrong, either. Apart from the whole sexting bit, he needs to stop planning every bloody detail and start living in the moment. Right here, right now.

“Tell me what I should do,” he sighs, looking defeated.

Unique looks at him, her expression soft but serious. “If you’re not up for sabotaging his car, then you need to talk to him. Make a move. Worst-case scenario? He rejects you, and then we all go to the pub and get you so drunk you won’t remember a thing.”

Blaine stares at her, considering the suggestion. “Okay. But why do all your solutions involve alcohol or criminal activity?”

Marley smiles, her tone light. “Oh, so you’re not discarding sexting, then?”

*

It’s raining again. A thick, sticky rain that doesn’t show any sign of letting up. The garden decorations had only just finished drying, and now they’re soaked once more. The French couple had just set off for a day trip, and Monique nearly slipped on the damp ground before reaching the gate. She was rushing, trying to shield her hair with one hand, while her husband desperately tried to protect her with his coat. Ugh. They’re so in sync with each other. Sickeningly cute. Best not to dwell on it, then, and just get on with praying alongside Susy that the weather clears up before the party. They couldn’t possibly risk repeating the disaster of three years ago, when a storm hit mid-evening, so fierce it flipped the marquee over. The barbecue, soaked through, sent plumes of smoke so high into the air they couldn’t even spot poor George. Still, he’d managed to save the sausages, and they ate them in the kitchen with the few hardy souls who stayed, laughing and trying not to let the rain dampen their spirits.

“They should be here any minute now,” Susy’s voice cuts through his thoughts, as she rummages through the pantry, inspecting the expiry dates on various jars. 

“Mm-hm,” Blaine mutters absently, still staring out the window.

His parents are on their way, and Blaine has never longed more for his mother’s embrace. Maybe that’s why he’s gone to such lengths to set the table with care and asked Susy to make Shepherd’s Pie. He wants them to feel welcome, to feel how much they’ve been missed. The video calls and messages have been helpful, but they’ve never been enough. He’s tried to be as unobtrusive as possible, letting them enjoy their holiday without worrying about their son still holed up in Marth, doing his best to keep things ticking along. 

“These beans expired last month,” Susy says, eyeing a tin with raised eyebrows. “Why do we even have tinned beans, Blaine? I don’t use those. The dried ones from Mr. Laurie at the market are far better. He gave us some oats last time too, remember? Where are they... oh, here they are!” she exclaims triumphantly, pulling the bag from the back of the shelf with a pleased grin. 

But then her tone shifts, and he hears her sigh. “You know, they’re not going to get here any faster if you keep staring at the gate.”

Blaine doesn’t reply. He doesn’t point out that he’s not staring at the gate, but at Kurt’s car parked against the stone wall at the end of the driveway. The day before, Kurt hadn’t left, and he’d told Susy he was just going for a brief solo drive, only to return and lock himself in his room, specifically requesting not to be disturbed. 

Blaine shakes his head, trying to dispel the simmering anger that’s been building in him. It’s a feeling he doesn’t recognise, but it’s there all the same. He’s angry. At Kurt, yes, but especially at himself. At his age, it’s unhealthy to be infatuated with someone you barely know. And yet here he is, all knotted up in emotions he doesn’t know how to handle, dragging Susy and his friends into it all. He’s even questioning his own future now. He’d always imagined growing old here, running this place. If his teaching career didn’t take off, there was always the cottage. He can see it so clearly: him, with Susy, running the place just like Grandma. But then Kurt Hummel, with his perfectly coiffed hair and his effortless charisma and his freaking dimples, has come along and shattered all those certainties. And it’s left him feeling fragile, vulnerable, and full of doubt. 

Not to mention, Kurt had been right about the social media thing. That photo of the bridge at sunset had garnered hundreds of likes in just a few hours, along with countless comments about the poetry. Blaine had never seen so much interaction, and it was all thanks to Kurt. How annoying. Blaine doesn’t want to feel this way– like he’s chasing after something he doesn’t understand. But there it is, gnawing at him like a persistent, unwelcome thought.

But then, something catches his eye. “Here they are!” Blaine suddenly exclaims, his voice lifting as he spots his father’s blue car pulling up.

Susy tosses the cereal bag aside, and they both rush outside, eager to greet them. “There’s my beautiful baby boy!” Pamela exclaims with her usual exuberance, wrapping Blaine in a warm hug, regardless of the rain.

“What are you doing? Let’s get inside!” Susy laughs, pulling her own child into a tight embrace. “We’ll sort the luggage later.”

Once inside, the house fills with the familiar warmth of hugs, kisses, and chatter, as though it’s been months since they last saw each other, not just a few weeks. Despite their obvious fatigue from the journey, Blaine can’t help but notice how fresh and radiant they both look. They seem younger, even. His heart swells with admiration. Perhaps this is the secret, his parents should definitely travel more often.

“Look!” George exclaims, handing Blaine his phone as he takes off his damp jacket. “Have a look at these photos! Think I’ve nailed it? I even made a few videos!”

Blaine glances at the phone, scrolling through the images. From the previews, it doesn’t look half bad. “Brilliant, Dad,” he says with genuine appreciation.

“All thanks to your mother. Right, Pam?” George grins, glancing over at his wife, who’s already busying herself in the kitchen.

“Show him the photos from Verona, George!” Pamela calls out from the kitchen, her voice cheerful as she arranges things with Susy.

“Here we are! Isn’t it beautiful? Look at the decorations on the main street. And that enormous tree! It’s such a small city, but absolutely stunning. We nearly walked the whole thing!”

The conversation flows easily around the table during lunch. They chat about the warmth of Italy, the delicious food, Florence, Rome, and their detour to Arezzo for the famous Christmas markets. They laugh about the flat tyre incident and how George managed to fix it so efficiently.

“You always know how to sort everything out,” Blaine says fondly, watching his father with a full heart. George’s skin, even if it’s winter, still carries the light tan of their holiday; his cheeks fuller and healthier. There’s a new spark in his eyes, an energy Blaine hadn’t seen in him in years. It’s like the enthusiasm of a child on his very first school trip.

“It was a doddle,” George says modestly, his grin wide.

“But tell us about the new guests,” Pamela suddenly interjects, her eyes narrowing as she shifts her focus to Blaine. “Are they nice?”

Blaine lowers his head, passing the conversation to Susy, though he can feel his mother’s gaze resting on him. He silently prays she won’t bring up the dinner topic.

“Lovely people,” Susy says with a smile. “The French couple is just delightful, and next week we’ve got a family from Spain, of all places! Right, moonpie?” she adds, turning to Blaine.

“Yes, from Spain. And they’ve got a little one, so we’ll need to bring down the cot from the attic and set it up in the room,” Blaine says, grateful to Susy for steering the conversation away from the rather awkward “famous writer” topic.

“That’s right, the cot,” Susy agrees with a nod, happy to move on.

George rises from the table, clapping his hands together. “I’ll see to it,” he says in his usual serious manner, already getting up to clear the plates. “Holiday’s over, time to get back to work.”

“Miss Lloyd rang; the curtains we ordered are arriving this evening. A proper Christmas miracle!” Grandma Susy announces proudly from across the room. “And Peter, the gardener, left us some special products for the greenhouse. He wants to have a word with you about the dosage, Pamela.”

“I’ll give him a bell later,” Pamela replies firmly, as though already organising her day. “And is the fridge still making that funny noise?”

“Not after two solid knocks,” Susy answers, sounding completely unfazed.

George sighs, looking at her with a raised brow. “You know that’s not a long-term fix, Mum,” he says, walking over to the fridge and pressing his ear against it. “I’ll have a look at it later.”

“And the gate’s creaking as well,” Pamela adds, a note of concern in her voice. “I noticed it just now when we came in.”

And the beds creak too, did you know that? Blaine would like to add, but he keeps that to himself.

“I’ll handle the shopping and the menu for the party,” Pamela declares, taking charge as usual. “Blaine, you make sure Unique gets the drinks order to her father. And Susan, you’ll check the cutlery and tablecloths to see if they’re still in good condition. Oh, and I need to call Mr. Laurie for some pumpkins. I want the best, as always.”

Blaine smiles to himself, feeling a swell of affection for his family. This is them, he thinks. Hardworking, active, and always ready to entertain. They’ve just returned from their holiday, and yet here they are, already diving into preparations as if nothing had changed.

“As soon as the rain stops, I’ll sort the gate out,” George says thoughtfully. “I could even repaint it, what do you reckon?”

“It won’t have time to dry,” Pamela interrupts, always practical. “Instead, check the stability of the bench. The last person to sit on it was Reverend Robert, and it made a strange noise. I wouldn’t want to jeopardise my chances of getting into heaven.”

Laughter erupts around the table, but George grows serious again. “I’ve only got one day, for heaven’s sake. All these little jobs add up. We need to hurry. If only I had an assistant…”

“I’ll help, Dad,” Blaine responds quickly, eager to assist. “I’ll sort things out with Grandma, and when she doesn’t need me, I–”

“I can lend a hand, if you like.”

The words come out of nowhere, and they all turn in surprise. Blaine’s heart skips a beat as he looks up to see Kurt Hummel standing at the doorway. His sudden appearance knocks the wind out of Blaine’s chest, and he can feel his face flush, as the anger he’d felt earlier pales in comparison to the wave of emotions Kurt’s presence stirs in him.

“Mr. Hummel, what a pleasure,” Susy says smoothly, stepping forward with a welcoming smile. “Please, do join us. Would you care for something?”

Kurt looks every bit the picture of polished ease. “I wouldn’t want to be a bother,” he replies with that bloody perfect smile. “But I’d be happy to help. And it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. Your cottage is absolutely lovely.”

Pamela catches Blaine’s eye, a quick sideways glance, and then looks at George, who is completely still, looking somewhat stunned. “That Hummel?” he asks quietly.

“Exactly,” Blaine replies, his voice almost a whisper.

“Mr. Hummel is a very well-known author,” George continues, still processing the surprise, as he turns back to Kurt. “I saw your latest book in Madison’s bookstore, the one in town. Worlds Collide, if I’m not mistaken, is that right?”

Kurt nods, his cheeks flushing slightly as he smiles, clearly flattered. “You’re not mistaken. And I had the pleasure of meeting the charming Madison. Tried her herbal teas, too.”

Pamela grimaces. “Terrible, weren’t they?”

Kurt chuckles, the sound light and easy. “That’s not entirely wrong,” he says, and everyone laughs except Blaine, who can only stare, feeling the awkwardness coil tighter in his chest. Kurt in their kitchen, inside a space usually closed off to guests, is a sight that tugs at something inside Blaine. He feels warm, but there’s a strange ache that settles in his stomach. The thought of Kurt being here, a part of their world, feels almost too perfect to be real. It could be. But the feeling is so overwhelming, so fragile, that it almost hurts to imagine.

“Blaine?” His mother’s voice breaks his thoughts, and he looks up, slightly startled. “Yes?” he responds, shaking himself out of the haze of quiet yearning he’s slipped into. 

“Why don’t you offer Mr. Hummel something?”

Blaine swallows hard. “Of course,” he stammers. He turns towards the cupboard, his hands suddenly too fumbly as he searches for scotch or something stronger. He’s desperate to distract himself from the sudden rush of nervous energy, but the cupboard’s contents seem to mock him. Boxes of twisters threaten to spill out, and he quickly shuts the door, praying no one noticed his blunder. He tries to act casual, but his heart is hammering. He needs to calm down. A deep breath, and he spots the brandy. A quick motion, and he hands Kurt the glass.

Kurt takes it; his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary against Blaine’s hand, sending a jolt of heat through him. The brief touch ignites something deep inside, leaving his pulse quickening, as if the air itself had changed. “Thank you,” Kurt whispers, softly. The sound sends a shiver down his spine, and for a moment, his knees feel weak. He can’t let this happen. He rushes to take a gulp of water to steady himself.

“I was serious earlier, Mr. Anderson,” Kurt continues, turning back to George. “I’ll be here until Sunday, and I’d be delighted to help out with the party preparations for Christmas Eve. I’m very much looking forward to it.”

Blaine nearly chokes on the water in his mouth, his throat constricting with a sudden, desperate surge of excitement. He’s staying? He manages to swallow, barely keeping his composure. Kurt will be here for the party. At their Christmas Eve celebration. God. This is actually happening.

George, however, doesn’t seem entirely sold. “I wouldn’t want to impose on your generosity,” he says hesitantly, his voice a little cautious. “After all, you’re here to relax. Or have you come here to write?”

“I came for rest,” Kurt replies easily, his voice polite. “But I’ve tried to work, and to this day, I can honestly say I’ve done neither.”

“I do hope it’s been an enjoyable stay,” Pamela adds, her eyes soft but curious.

Blaine turns, and Kurt’s gaze is already fixed on him. For a brief instant, their eyes lock, and Blaine feels it like a shock, sharp and sudden, straight to his chest. Then Kurt looks back down at his untouched brandy, as if he’s unsure whether to speak further. “Illuminating, I’d say,” he says after a brief pause. “It’s been illuminating.”

“Illuminating?” George repeats, eyebrow raised, obviously bemused by the unusual description. “That’s an odd word to describe a holiday, but then again, your tools are words, just as mine are nails and a hammer.”

Blaine doesn’t know what to make of Kurt’s words. Illuminating. He stares at him, heart racing. Was Kurt talking about the view? The town? Or something else? Something deeper? Blaine can’t help but feel that every word Kurt says is somehow aimed at him, as if there’s a secret meaning only they share.

Kurt turns to George again. “Let me do something, Mr. Anderson,” he continues. “I wouldn’t be able to write anyway.” Kurt looks at him once more, this time holding his gaze with an intent so piercing it feels like time has slowed. “The beauty of my surroundings keeps distracting me from inspiration.”

Blaine’s breath falters, as if the weight of the moment has pressed the air from his chest, leaving him suspended in the intensity of the unspoken.

“Wonderful, then!” George says brightly, obviously pleased by the offer. He turns to the window, clearly eager to get started. “What do you say, Mr. Hummel? Shall we assess the situation together?”

Blaine watches them leave the kitchen together, his heart still racing. They look like old friends, but he’s not surprised. His father has that effect on people. It is not difficult for him to make anyone feel at ease.

Pamela, Susy, and Blaine stand still in the kitchen, the awkward silence stretching out between them like a heavy fog. Blaine is desperate to focus on something else, anything else. He turns to his mother. “Tell me more about Italy,” he says, his voice strained as he tries to pull himself together.

But Pamela isn’t fooled. She heads straight for the cupboard, her eyes narrowing suspiciously as she pulls it open, sending a few of the twisters tumbling to the floor. “What on earth happened here while I was away?”

Blaine and Susy exchange a knowing glance. Neither of them is ready to give Pamela any answers.

“Well?” Pamela presses, her tone sharp now. She narrows her eyes at both of them. Blaine bites his lip, trying to hold his ground.

“Well, you see…” he stammers, unable to think of an excuse. His eyes dart to his grandmother for help. 

Susy doesn’t miss a beat. She grabs Pamela by the shoulders and forces her to look out the window. “Look, Pamela! The sun’s come out! Let’s go check the greenhouse!”

And just like that, the topic is dropped, and the tension in the room shifts, if only for a moment.

Chapter Text

“You know, Blaine, your father never had it that firm.”  

“Mum!”  

“Nor did your grandfather, for that matter.”  

“Gran!”  

“But he made up for it in other ways.”  

“Jesus Christ, you’re all mad.”  

Susy lets out a deep sigh, then makes the sign of the cross. “Poor Ray, bless his soul.”

If there were a camera in the kitchen of the cottage right now, it would be filming two women and a very gay man all staring intently at Mr. Hummel’s backside, which is snugly wrapped in a pair of tight, faded jeans. He is bent over in front of the gate, and the constant bending and twisting as he fiddling with oil and screws is certainly offering a view worth admiring.

“You’re going to get us in trouble for harassment,” Blaine mutters, trying to scold the two women, but his eyes remain glued to Mr. Hummel’s rear end.

“In trouble for what?” Susy laughs. “For admiring a nice behind? It is a nice behind, and Mr. Hummel should be proud of it.”

Blaine doesn’t say anything, and eventually, they decide it’s time to tell Pamela the real reason behind all those twisters stuffed into the cupboard. No matter how many boxes they brought to Madison, Roderick and his grandmother, Dr. Zigler, and Reverend Robert to share with the parish, they still have plenty left.

Pamela listens with genuine interest and, laughing, points out that his friends’ plan to deflate the tyres of Kurt’s car would have been implemented, if only Kurt had not changed his mind and altered his plans.

“He certainly did the right thing, and I think it’ll look great on his CV,” Pamela says. “I can already imagine it on our website. The famous author Kurt Hummel chose Susy’s Wonderland as his vacation spot. Thanks to the inspiration he got from staying at the cottage, he wrote the great bestseller A Tea with Mrs. Anderson, a true masterpiece of romance and comedy,” she finishes, her eyes wide and her energy absolutely off the charts. “What do you think?” Blaine and Susy exchange a look before replying in unison “he writes fantasy!” not daring to tell her that, if anything, it reads more like a sad afterthought than a glowing endorsement.

Pamela huffs, rolling her eyes dramatically. “He could always change genre.”  

“Or job,” Blaine mutters, a bit childishly, glancing out the window with the corner of his eye. Kurt is now wiping his hands on his back pockets, leaving a nice smear of oil on his nice right cheek. Ugh.

They’re so absorbed in the spectacle and their own mental wanderings that they don’t notice Kurt, perhaps sensing he’s being watched, striding towards the entrance with purpose. The women scatter from the window like bugs caught by a sudden light.

“Oh my God! What’s gotten into me?” Pamela exclaims, scandalised, fixing her curls as though to regain some composure. “We can’t afford to waste time. We have an event to prepare!”

“Pamela,” Susy says in a reproachful tone, pulling out some tablecloths from a cupboard. “Since when did admiring a nice backside become a waste of time?”

Pamela raises an eyebrow, and Blaine chuckles, mentally agreeing with her. Then he hears the door open. “They’re coming back,” he whispers, pressing his ear to the kitchen door. “Invite him to dinner,” suggests his grandmother. Blaine turns sharply. “What are you looking at?” she says. “He’s worked hard, at least offer him a warm meal!?”

Pamela beats him to it. “But Susan, we’ve never allowed any guest to join us,” she murmurs, picking out herbs to use.

“But these aren’t exactly set in stone rules! And who made that decision anyway?”

“You did, Gran.”

“Oh.” Silence. “Are you sure?” she asks, with a cheeky grin. “Well, rules can be broken sometimes, can’t they? So go on, Pamela. Anyone who helps with the upkeep or beautification of Susy’s Wonderland deserves a meal.”

Blaine exchanges a look with his mother, frowning. Pamela then points a bunch of rosemary at him so strongly fragrant it almost knocks him out. “You heard that too, right?” Blaine nods, and as much as he thinks it’s a ridiculous idea, he can’t help but be pleased. Damn feelings.

“Alright. Her rules, not mine,” she mutters, heading out of the kitchen. She stretches her shoulders as if preparing for a boxing match. Blaine looks back at his grandmother. “You’re still trying to set me up, aren’t you?”

Susy snorts. “If I wanted to set you up, I’d have gone to him and asked him to take you out again.”

Blaine falls silent for a moment. Then he looks at her again. “Why do you think he stayed?”

“Maybe because you made him feel guilty. Throwing his money in the air was a stroke of genius.”

“But it wasn’t planned! It was instinctive,” he whines, dissatisfied with his grandmother’s response. He was hoping she’d say something like “He stayed for you”, but as always, the only hopeless romantic around here is him.

“Here it is!” she suddenly exclaims, pointing at the door. They lock eyes for a brief moment before both grabbing a glass and resting it against the wall.

“Mr. Hummel,” Pamela says in a solemn tone. “By defying the strict rules of this cottage, I’d like to offer you dinner. You’re not only a very welcome guest but also a capable and willing friend. Right, George?”

“Absolutely, Pamela!” they hear from the other room, followed by “You’re a good one, lad!” and then a hearty slap on the back that resonates through the walls.

“Did he just call him mad?” Susy whispers.

“Lad,” Blaine answers, sighing. She’s becoming deaf as a post.

“Lad? He’s a full-grown man!”

“Shh!” Blaine hushes, pointing to the glass.

“Thank you for your kind offer, Mrs. Anderson,” Kurt says politely. “But I have other plans for the evening.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he already has something to do for the evening,” Blaine murmurs, disappointed.

“Oh. So he turned us down?”

Blaine sighs. “Looks like it.”

“Oh…” Pamela stammers, clearly unable to hide her disappointment. Rejections don’t go down well here. “Well, um, I hope you have fun?” she continues, trying to sound polite, but it’s clear she’s frustrated, and unfortunately, she ends up venting it all on George. A moment later, in fact, they hear her ordering him to go take a shower. 

Blaine hears his father and Kurt walking up the stairs, the soft thud of the carpet underfoot, then Pamela storms into the kitchen, visibly flustered. She doesn’t even glance at them, as if it’s perfectly normal to find people eavesdropping with a glass pressed to the wall. “He turned us down,” she says flatly. “I hope he has a good evening, but I doubt it. As if anywhere else could possibly offer the same warmth and hospitality as here.”

Blaine smiles faintly. “Mum,” he begins, feeling drained. “Don’t you think he might want to go out and have some fun, being on holiday?” He doesn’t even believe what he’s saying, but trying to keep some emotional distance, pretending Kurt is just like any other guest, is his only form of self-protection. And he feels ridiculous.

“Maybe…” she mumbles, slamming the spices onto the table. “By the way. Does this man have a family? What do we know about him besides the fact that he writes books?”

Blaine sighs. Now Mr. Hummel has been reduced to “this man”. This is what happens when you turn down an Anderson invitation. His mother is as annoyed as if Kurt had destroyed the rose garden with a bulldozer. Blaine wonders for a moment if they’ve always been this over-the-top.

“His father and stepmother live in Greenwich, he has a half-brother the same age as him who teaches at college. He has no kids, but he’s an uncle to two little nieces he adores. He’s neither married nor engaged. At least, not to my knowledge,” he murmurs, irritated. “He’s never had a pet and he has an aunt in Wales who he hasn’t seen in ten years. Oh, and he’s a huge fan of Lady Gaga and musicals. Is that enough for you?” he replies sarcastically.

Pamela shrugs. “For now, yes,” she says haughtily. “But I don’t like Lady Gaga. I prefer Adele.”

“I’ll pass that along.” He deliberately didn’t mention Spencer, and to be honest, Kurt had avoided talking about him during the drive back from London the other evening. Blaine doesn’t know if he did it on purpose, but he’s grateful. Still, it’s Saturday night, and what if Kurt has a date with another man? The thought twists his stomach.

Seduced, rejected and abandoned.

If it weren’t for the party tomorrow, he might give in to temptation and drink himself silly with Unique.

“I’m done here. I’m going up to my room.”

Suddenly, he wants to be alone. He bolts up the stairs, two steps at a time, and reaches it quickly, then he stops. He walks slowly to Kurt’s door and listens, wanting to knock but doesn’t have the courage. He doesn’t even need a glass to hear the sound of the shower running. Blaine stands there, staring at the door, imagining what it would be like to step into the shower with Kurt, to touch his skin… he shakes his head violently, banishing the thought before it becomes too inappropriate. And as if that weren’t enough, he feels like an idiot, since Kurt is probably getting ready for someone else. He leans against the wall and picks up his phone.

B: He turned down our dinner invite at the cottage! He texts quickly to the girls, nearly breaking his screen. He’d already told them about it while they were eavesdropping on Pamela in the kitchen. In fact, Unique’s terse reply comes almost immediately.

U: Can’t blame him, he’s not your cousin.

B: What side are you on? He cannot believe that she is backing him.

M: We’re on your side, obviously!

U: Let me rephrase that: what a slap in the face! How dare he? And she adds two angry emojis.

M: Unique, stop being funny…

B: Thanks!

U: I thought about quitting fashion and going into cabaret.

B: I really wanted him to stay… he responds, ignoring the sarcasm.

M: Then why don’t you ask him to?

U: That’s an option.

B: No! I have dignity! I like him but I don’t want to ridicule myself anymore. 

U: You’re totally smitten, aren’t you? She writes after a while, adding a heart emoji. And here Blaine realizes that Unique has finally understood he’s serious and starts feeling sorry for him. Usually, she only sends skull and eggplant emojis.

B: More than you think. But right now, he’s getting ready, and the thought that he might be going out with another man is wrecking me. Why do I have to suffer like this?

This time, the girls take longer to reply. Blaine expects a more thoughtful response but is wrong.

M: Oh, Bee. Love is like an expiry date on medicine. Overrated.

U: Brilliant. I’ll use that. You sure you don’t want us to pop his tyres? I’m out walking the dog and I’m near you, I can come there immediately!

B: You’re no help. Give Pawcasso a pat for me.

M: We would love to help you...

B: Yeah, I know…

Blaine hears Kurt moving around in his room, and he quickly retreats, slipping into his own. He stays there until he hears the sound of a door closing. It surely took him a while to get ready.

Blaine follows the entire route in his mind: out of the room, down the stairs, the short stretch to the front door, then out through the gate. He watches, sniper-like, from the window. And as if he can feel himself being watched, Kurt looks up in his direction before getting in his car. Blaine jumps back quickly, pacing his room and glancing outside every now and then, but keeping a safe distance until he hears the engine rumble.

“Have fun, Kurt,” he whispers, sadly. He throws himself onto the bed and picks up the book. Which isn’t awful at all. In fact, it’s beautiful, and Blaine absolutely loves it. The really awful thing is what he shouted at Kurt’s face in a fit of rage. No one had ever been able to make him so furious in such a passionate, fiery way. He’s not the one with the rebellious, impulsive soul like his grandmother. Blaine is calm, collected. Discovering that he can be like that is oddly flattering, though right now, it just feels like a poor consolation. He sighs, without realising that he’s gently stroking Kurt’s face on the book cover.

Then he hears the gate opening again. It’s probably his dad coming back. With another sigh, he gets up from the bed before anyone comes looking for him for dinner, but when he opens the door, he finds none other than Kurt himself. And the smile from the cover is a far cry from the tense expression Kurt wears now. Blaine is surprised, he had already imagined Kurt sipping prosecco in a posh bar. “Can I help you, Mr. Hummel?”

“Back to formalities?” Kurt asks harshly.

Blaine furrows his brow. “I thought I understood that you wanted to keep your distance,” he responds, gathering some courage. “And, following our usual pattern, I assume there’s now a problem to be solved.”

Kurt doesn’t answer. He taps his foot on the ground, seemingly trying to stay calm. Then, he runs a hand through his hair and sighs, grunting. “You know what the real problem is?” he asks, clearly frustrated by Blaine’s boldness and amazed that he’s not stammering like usual.

Blaine crosses his arms. “No. Let’s hear it.”

“The real problem is getting away from this cottage!”

If it weren’t for Kurt’s scowl, Blaine would swear he’s referring to him. Like, “I tried to go out with someone else, but I only want you”. He stays silent, unable to bear the thought of being rejected again, so he figures it’s better not to get his hopes up. In fact, he gets confirmation of this as soon as Kurt opens his mouth.

“I have all four tyres on my car slashed,” Kurt spits out through clenched teeth. “Do you know anything about that?”

Oh, fucking hell.

*

“This is certainly an unfortunate situation!” Pamela exclaims, glancing at Blaine every now and then with sideways looks.  

“Absolutely,” George replies, visibly shaken. “But you can count on my help to sort this out, Mr. Hummel.”

The tension in the drawing room is palpable. It feels almost suffocating. Blaine had walked in, head low, to inform the family; Kurt had followed him with a stern look, like an executor leading a man to his sad fate. Now, they all look at each other with a mix of frustration.

“I’ll take you to get some new tyres, and we’ll have them changed in no time,” George continues, sounding certain. Pamela quickly interjects, trying to ease the tension. “You know, Mr. Hummel,” she says with a nervous chuckle. “When we were in Italy, we had a flat tyre, and George replaced it so quickly and perfectly!” Her voice shakes slightly as she tries to maintain her composure. “I’m so terribly sorry you’ve had this mishap. It really couldn’t have come at a worse time.”

Blaine can’t help but feel that mishap doesn’t quite capture the gravity of what’s happened, at least not when he sees Kurt’s face. And he can’t exactly blame him.

“I do hope this little incident won’t make you reconsider your stay with us,” Susy chimes in, clutching her apron with its embroidered little Christmas trees. “We’ll report it, and those hooligans will have to deal with me!” she adds, her voice filled with such resolve that even Kurt’s expression softens a little. There’s something endearing about Susy in this moment. She’s worried that things like this might ruin the peaceful atmosphere of their home, and Blaine hates seeing her so upset.

He hasn’t had a chance to write to those ridiculous, stupid friends of his yet, but honestly, they didn’t need to get involved. They’d definitely crossed a line.

“Mr. Anderson, I really don’t want to trouble you further, but I find myself in need of your assistance,” Kurt says, turning to George, breaking Blaine’s train of thought as he fumes over what to do with his friends. Blaine watches Kurt eye the car outside the window, running his hands through his hair in slow, heavy motions; the hint of discomfort clearly visible in his eyes. It must be weighing on him immensely to need help.

“Of course!” George exclaims. “Let me make a couple of calls, and you’ll have new tyres within hours.”

Blaine swallows audibly. “Dad, it’s the twenty-third of December. You sure anyone’s going to answer?” George chuckles. “At least half the village owes me favours for all the odd jobs I’ve done for them at the most inconvenient hours,” he says, flipping through his small pocket-sized address book. “It’ll be a piece of cake.” Blaine feels a little reassured by his father’s confidence. 

But then, his mother steps in. “Should we be calling the police?” she asks, clearly irritated, and Blaine braces himself, fearing she’s about to scold him for not choosing his friends more wisely. And honestly, at that moment, he can’t even fault her, even though the image of Unique and Marley in a police cell makes his stomach churn. What if someone saw them doing it? This village is crawling with passersby who notice everything and bored housewives peeking through windows. Oh God, he thinks, horrified, I’m going to be sick. “Police? Let’s not overreact…” he mumbles, trying to downplay the panic, and trying to keep himself from actually throwing up.

Kurt slowly turns towards him, fury in his eyes. “Overreact? I’ve got all four tyres slashed. Do you have any idea how much this is going to cost, Blaine?” he demands harshly. “Whoever did this isn’t getting off easy. And on top of all that, it stopped me from meeting a very important person for a work appointment! A contract, maybe. But I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation,” he finishes solemnly, giving Blaine a full, disdainful once-over.

Blaine stiffens, feeling stung by Kurt’s sharp voice. He must think Blaine definitely had something to do with this and would not hesitate to report him.

“I understand,” Blaine replies, struggling to keep his composure, though deep down, he really just wants to punch him. “But the report would be pointless. No one saw anything.”  

“Are you sure?” Kurt asks, raising an eyebrow in a way Blaine would describe as sexy, but right now, it just makes him angrier.

However, that last remark does lend weight to Kurt’s point; it almost sounds like Blaine is trying to clear himself with the whole witness thing. Thankfully, the moment is broken by George, who triumphantly returns to them after finishing a phone call.

“Good news!” he exclaims, beaming, though no one returns his smile. “Sean, from the garage, will swing by with new tyres as soon as he closes his shop. He’s giving you a good price. Actually,” he turns to Pamela, still smiling, though now it’s strained. “Since it happened right outside our cottage, I feel responsible, and I suggest we cover the cost. Is that alright, darling? Mum?”

Pamela and Susy exchange glances and nod in agreement, though a twitch of anxiety crosses Susy’s face. Blaine is completely ignored.

“That’s out of the question,” Kurt responds, visibly calmer now. “Thank you, but any offer you make on that front is off the table.”

Blaine’s parents try to protest, but it’s futile. “At this point, we should be thinking about installing some cameras, George!” Pamela exclaims, tapping her chin as if it’s something that should be done immediately. Susy gasps. “But it would ruin the façade!”

George doesn’t pay her any attention and becomes animated. “After the holiday season, I could call my friend Tony! If I’m not mistaken, he…”

Blaine stands off to one side, frozen, watching his parents talk about technician friends, security and crime. Kurt is part of the conversation but offers no more than a nod. Susy, too, remains passive, but Blaine wants to interject. After all, he doesn’t agree with the ridiculous idea of putting cameras up either. They’ve never been needed all these years! And, truth be told, he knows it wasn’t a criminal act committed by random people. “We don’t need to make any rash decisions!” he blurts out, raising his voice. Susy looks at him with gratitude and moves closer. Side by side, as always. In front of them, three adversaries. “Let’s all calm down,” he repeats. “Everyone.”

“It’s easy to stay calm when it’s not your car,” Kurt snaps.

“That’s exactly why I ride a bike,” Blaine retorts, matching his tone.

“My car’s essential,” Kurt replies, his teeth clenched.

“In London? I don’t think it’s that necessary. The city’s well served by public transport. It’s all about choices, Mr. Hummel.”

“I’ve made mine, and I’m not changing it.”

“Well, I’ve made mine too, and I’m not changing it!” Blaine asserts, firmly.

Between them, there’s an electric tension, so thick and furious that anyone walking through would be scorched in seconds. The car and the bike are just metaphors for their lives.

Susy interjects, clapping her hands. “Why don’t we sit down at the table and relax? In a minute I’ll be pulling out some ridiculously fragrant potatoes from the oven!”

They all turn toward her in slow motion, and she returns the gaze with a strained smile. For a few seconds, they stare at Susy as if she’s said something utterly absurd. She raises her thumbs. “With the skin!” and Kurt shrugs, finally giving in. “Why not?” he sighs, lowering the metaphorical war axe. “Guess we’re just waiting for this Sean, right?”

Dazed, they line up to head into the kitchen, but Pamela grabs Blaine’s arm and yanks him aside forcefully. “Nice job,” she says firmly. “Tell Unique and Marley I said so!”

*

In the end, what he wanted has come true, hasn’t it? Kurt is having dinner with them. A wish half fulfilled, because Kurt’s mind is clearly elsewhere. Every now and then, he checks his watch, and he stepped away for a few minutes before dessert to take a phone call. Then George delivers the grim news: Sean won’t be coming over until the following morning, despite it being Sunday and Christmas Eve. So, the tyre change is postponed. 

Pamela is trying hard to steer the conversation in neutral territory, but no one is engaging with any real interest. The atmosphere is forced, overly cheerful, and surreal. Far removed from the lightheartedness of the earlier meal.

Blaine, on the other hand, is feeling low, just like the wheels on Kurt’s car. It shouldn’t have gone like this, and he’s overwhelmed by a constant feeling: the guilt of having put Kurt in this situation, and the anger at the accusatory tone Kurt used with him. Moreover, his parents might even cover the cost if he hesitates just a little, and God knows they’d gladly do without it now. If only he could strangle his friends...

Blinded by rage, he excuses himself and grabs his coat to go outside. He sits on the newly repaired bench, counting to ten in a futile attempt to calm himself. Failing miserably, he grabs his phone, pressing the voice note button, trying hard not to shout. “What on fucking earth were you thinking!?” he starts, before going on for four minutes, unloading all his resentment, making it clear he dissociates himself from the vandalism. He repeats it at least three times, hoping the message gets through. He ends the conversation and slumps on the bench, defeated.

“I owe you an apology,” Kurt’s voice comes from behind him a few moments later, making him jump. Blaine turns around, but the darkness enveloping the hill makes it hard to make out his face. Kurt sits next to him and reaches out a hand, but Blaine, stubborn as ever, shifts away, irritated. At Kurt, at his friends, at the whole situation. Everything.

Kurt sighs. “Did you hear what I said?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Blaine replies, determined not to give him any importance.

“It does to me. I owe you an apology for the tone I used. I was out of line, forgive me.”

“You don’t have to feel forced, you know?” Blaine asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“I want to,” Kurt clarifies.

Blaine feels his lower lip tremble, and the tears well up, but he tries to steady himself. Kurt continues. “I admit it, okay? For a moment I thought you were the one who did it,” Kurt says, staring ahead. “Now, I don’t know what to think.”

Blaine stays silent, still biting his lip to stop himself from breaking down like a child.

“Blaine, say something,” Kurt pleads, taking his chin gently with two soft fingers and forcing him to look at him. They stare at each other for a moment without saying anything. Blaine with his eyes stinging, Kurt not removing his hand from his face. But when Kurt leans in, or maybe it’s just Blaine’s mind imagining it, he stands up, putting space between them and breathing heavily. It’s a new feeling for him, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it. He tries to focus on the hill, dotted with lights. At another time, he might even find it poetic. “Why didn’t you leave after all?” Blaine asks abruptly.

He hears Kurt shift. He would swear that he’s struggling. Maybe he didn’t expect that question. 

“Because I felt like a monster,” Kurt admits from behind him. “I asked myself, “can I postpone leaving and make him happy?” of course I can. And I stayed. But now, looking at you, you’re not happy at all. Something must have gone wrong.”

“Definitely.”

He hears Kurt sigh again. “Blaine, your shoulders are beautiful, but talking to them is difficult. Can you turn around? Let’s try to sort this out.”

And Blaine turns, thinking he feels strong, but he’s wrong. Because he’s not strong, and he doesn’t know how to deal with strong emotions. Especially when those piercing blue eyes are looking at him like that.

Kurt stands up from the bench, moving closer and taking a deep breath. “What I’m about to say is strange, because I’ve never felt anything like this for anyone, but…” he begins in a whisper, clicking his tongue. “I’ve thought about it. About us,” he shrugs, offering a small smile. “What we could be, how we could be together. I didn’t think a week would be enough to make me feel certain things, but…” he stops again, probably, Blaine thinks, to organize his thoughts and give Blaine a moment to absorb what he’s saying. But Blaine feels like a block of stone and stays silent, chewing his tongue with his teeth.

“It wouldn’t be that hard, you know? London and Marth aren’t that far apart, but maybe we are. I could never leave my city, I hope you understand.”

And Blaine doesn’t just understand; it feels like Kurt just stabbed him straight in the chest. Kurt could do his work anywhere, but Blaine can’t. He’s been clinging to that hope up until now, but it’s clear the real problem isn’t his job.

“I couldn’t leave this village either, I think that’s obvious," he murmurs, trying to sound tough.

“I know,” Kurt comments. “I’ve seen where you live and how you live. You are this place. You are the cottage. And honestly, I don’t understand why you waste time being a freelance teacher when you could be fully dedicated to this, because you do it so well.”

And Blaine hates it, but this is a thought that makes him smile. His teaching career stopped being serious for him long ago. Not compared to the cottage, at least. He smiles faintly, and Kurt smiles, too.

“You are the cakes you bake, the cinnamon stick you put on the pillows and the butter cookies on the breakfast plate. You are the smell of flowers, the chimneys smoking, the rabbits that cut across your path when you speed by on your bike. I’ve seen your eyes when you talk about this place, I’ve seen you care for it, and I look at you every time you’re lost in thought. And I can’t really tear you away from all this. You and your family are the heart and soul of this village. You’re generous, kind, and delightfully hospitable. This little town wouldn’t be what it is without you.”

Now Blaine is crying. His vision is blurry from the tears, and his face feels like it’s on fire. He sniffs and wipes his face with the sleeve of his sweater. Kurt’s words are beautiful, and they’re true. They are all of that. He is. But Blaine feels deep down that he could be something else, too. Kurt caresses his cheek, collecting the tears with his fingers.

“I can’t and don’t want to leave London, I’ll be honest. The reasons aren’t poetic, they’re very practical, but in the end, it all comes down to one simple thing, my life is there.”

It’s cliché, but it fits perfectly, Blaine thinks.

A few moments pass as Blaine tries to collect his thoughts, gathering them so he can express them without falling apart. “Funny, isn’t it?” he begins, sniffling. “I’ve always prided myself on being a man of the countryside, living a life that’s so... rooted. But then I met you, Kurt. And now I feel like I’ve become someone who doesn’t even know where home is anymore.”

He glances away, trying to compose himself, but his voice trembles when he adds, “I never thought I’d be torn between two worlds like this, but here I am. And, truth is, I’m not sure I want to let go of you. I don’t think I can.”

Kurt still caresses his face, offering a faint smile, tinged with sorrow. Blaine finds himself seeing a multitude of emotions in those blue eyes, and regret is undeniably one of them. “I was born and raised in the city,” Kurt continues, his voice soft but firm, as though trying to explain something essential. “I need it to fuel my imagination; the people, the bustle.” He pauses, then speaks again. “The days in Marth are endless, and I won’t lie, I’ve imagined myself here. I probably could get used to it, given time, but not straight away. But I cannot and will not give you false hope, Blaine. You don’t deserve this.”

Kurt doesn’t realise it, but with every word, he tightens his grip on Blaine’s heart, and with every sentence, it’s as if he’s squeezing a little harder. But it’s the truth. The painful truth. And Blaine can’t bring himself to argue. It would be childish to hold onto a kiss given in a moment of weakness and passion. They’re adults, after all.

“I understand…” Blaine whispers after a long pause. “So we’re clear, then.”

He makes a move to walk away, but Kurt stops him, wrapping an arm around his waist. It feels as though they’re back on the London Eye, except this time, it hurts a great deal more.

They look at each other, both unsure of what else to say. Everything has been said already.

“Tell me what you’re thinking. I can tell something else is weighing on you,” Kurt murmurs, not letting go.

Blaine clings to his arm and squeezes, perhaps to resist, perhaps for the last time. What do you want me to say? he thinks. If you asked me to try, I would. I’d run away with you right now. I’d go upstairs, pack my bags, and leave with you, if only I thought I could be part of your world. If you’d just give us a chance. But they’re not the protagonists of one of his favourite novels, so he smiles wistfully, lowering his gaze.

“I think you should let me go,” he murmurs, gently pulling Kurt’s hand off his back. “You city folk, you don’t realise how we small town boys start thinking funny, romantic things when someone tries to hold us like that.”

“Blaine…”

Blaine steps back, wiping his tear-streaked face and looking at Kurt with a composed but heavy heart. “It’s alright, Kurt. I’ll be glad to have you with us at tomorrow’s party. It’ll be like a collective goodbye. And maybe that’ll make it hurt less.”

Before Kurt can say anything, Blaine dashes inside without even removing his coat. He climbs the stairs quickly, headed to his room, hoping to collapse into an untroubled sleep. This week has been by far the strangest of his life.

Halfway up, he runs into Susy, descending the stairs with a basket of freshly washed laundry. “So, what’s the verdict? Is he staying?” she whispers, smiling conspiratorially. “Did he propose to you?”

Blaine wipes his eyes again, utterly confused. “Propose? What are you talking about?”

“What do you mean, what am I talking about?” Susy replies, setting the basket down and placing her hands on her hips, stunned. “Are you telling me that I slashed four tyres for nothing?”

Chapter Text

Even before he opens his eyes, Blaine can already feel the weight of his swollen eyelids. The tears, the sleepless night, he has them to thank for this. He’s barely managed to drift into a brief, restless slumber just before dawn.

Until only a few hours ago, the thought of the Christmas Eve’s party had always lifted his spirits. It had always been a grand event, something to eagerly anticipate, to cherish. But this year, it promises to be the saddest of the last decade. It might even become a farewell celebration. The thought alone is enough to make him want to crawl back into bed and disappear into the shadows. Yet, he knows he must push through. His family needs him, and he won’t let them down.

He steps into the shower, letting the hot water wash over him, before taking a few drops of valerian to soothe his nerves. If only it could also banish the exhaustion that clings to him like a heavy cloak.

Once dressed in the most comfortable clothes he can find, he heads toward the window. Outside, the hill is shrouded in a thin veil of mist, and between the drifting clouds, the sun shyly peeks through. The weather forecast had promised a clear day, surely far better than anyone dared to hope, and last night, they’d all gone to bed with lighter hearts. Everyone but Blaine.

Susy had stayed in his room for almost two hours, sitting on his bed, talking about what had happened. She made it clear that she had no regrets about her actions; in her mind, it had been a move worth making. Together, they decided to keep the real identity of the culprit a secret from Pamela and George. It would be their little secret.

Meanwhile, Unique and Marley had bombarded Blaine with voice messages, passionately declaring their innocence. For a moment, when Unique’s words grew sharp and threatening, Blaine feared she might say something irreparable. Thankfully, things had calmed down, and everything was sorted.

The sound of Susy’s footsteps and Pamela calling for George to start the barbecue brings Blaine back to the present. He knows it’s time to face the day.

As he enters the kitchen, the air is filled with a mouthwatering blend of smells. “Good morning, darling,” his mother greets him without even glancing up from the puff pastry she’s arranging with vegetables. “Hurry up and have breakfast, please. We need a hand buttering the tins.”

Without a word, Blaine grabs his apron, sipping the hot tea his grandmother had thoughtfully prepared for him. He gulps it down quickly, nearly burning his tongue, and rushes to butter anything that might offer a momentary distraction.

“Mr. Hummel’s car is as good as new!” George bursts in, his voice brimming with his usual uncontainable excitement.

“Great, all fixed! Did you see that, Blaine?” Susy calls out, her tone bright, directed toward him. Blaine doesn’t respond, staying focused on his task. “Why don’t you go outside with your Dad and hang the lights, moonpie? I’ve got this,” she says, swiping the butter from his hands and nudging him aside with a playful hip.

“Yes, Blaine. I could use a hand,” George adds, unaware of the underlying tension, his eyes bright as he gestures for him to follow.

Blaine follows George into the garden. As they untangle the string of lights, George watches him, the concern evident on his face. “You okay? You look exhausted. Normally on this day, you’d be grinning, buzzing with excitement. I don’t see that usual spark.”

Blaine forces a faint smile, looking down at the lights in his hands. “I didn’t sleep well,” he admits, the words slipping out with an air of honesty, though his mind is clouded. “It’s like this when I’m too tired.”

George sighs, his voice tinged with guilt. “It’s our fault. We shouldn’t have left, especially so close to the party. We could’ve waited.”

Blaine glances up at him, his heart twisting. “Don’t be silly,” he reassures, returning to the lights with a nervous energy. “Your trip had nothing to do with this. It’s definitely the weather. One moment sun, the next, rain, then snow, then gusts of wind… and then sun again. Honestly, I haven’t even taken the supplements Marley gets for me this year.” He lies through his teeth, masking the truth. He’s never taken a supplement in his life.

“Are you sure?” George asks, his voice soft, searching for reassurance.

“Sure,” Blaine replies, offering a forced smile.

George gives him a shy smile, the kind that suggests he senses something but doesn’t want to push. “Alright then. Let’s get this done!”

*

They say applying cucumber slices to your eyelids helps reduce swelling. Blaine removes them, glancing at his reflection in the little mirror. Nothing has changed. “Are you sure this works? Wouldn’t it be better to use something more specific?” he asks, his voice laced with exhaustion.

Without a word, Susy snatches the soggy cucumber slices from his hands and replaces them with a fresh pair. “Shut up and tilt your head back,” she instructs, her hands working deftly to place them over his eyes. “Old remedies are always the most effective.”

“But they’re also the slowest,” Blaine murmurs, feeling as if he’s just stepped out of a brutal fight, his body still aching. 

“Nature cures all our ills,” Susy replies with a knowing smile, as if she’s part of some ancient wisdom.

“The girls might not agree,” he mutters, adjusting the slice on his right eye, which keeps slipping off.

The sound of the kitchen door opening announces the arrival of his best friends. “Did someone call us?” Marley’s voice rings out as they enter, each of them holding a crate of beer. “Where should we put these?” she asks.

Unique’s voice cuts through the moment. “What the hell are you doing? Are we back in the eighties?” she says, setting the crate on the counter. Leaning against it, she takes in the scene with a critical eye. “There are some really good products for dark circles and bags, you know?”

“That’s what I said two minutes ago,” Blaine replies, though he can’t see her.

“Unique, darling, nature is the best medicine,” Grandma chimes in, her voice as warm and authoritative as ever.

Marley clears her throat, ever the professional. “Chemicals are the best medicine, Mrs. Anderson, ma’am,” she mumbles, her voice tinged with the unmistakable anxiety of someone who’s just corrected Susan Anderson.

“I don’t think it’s working,” Unique adds, eyeing Blaine as he keeps the cucumbers in place.

Susy freezes, her gaze snapping to the trio with a sudden intensity that makes them all go still. An air of tension builds as they wait, caught in the thick silence. Then, with the kind of precision only Susy can muster, she rips the cucumber slices off Blaine’s face and tosses them into the bin. “It’s because they’re out of season!” she snaps, storming out of the kitchen.

Blaine snorts in disbelief. “Don’t worry, she’s already over it.”

“Good for her,” Unique responds dryly, unfazed. “But you still have swollen eyes, and there’s no time left to fix it. They’re all out there.”

Blaine rises from the chair and walks toward the window. The sharp bite of cold air mingles with the scent of sizzling barbecue, striking him like a wave. Through the window, he sees his mother in her festive red coat, her arms wide as she ushers everyone through the gate with cheerful command. “Welcome to the Christmas Eve party!” she calls, her voice carrying through the crisp air.

And Blaine sees them all, as punctual as a tax. Roderick with his family and Grandma, the Clark sisters, Madison holding… a very large box in her arms!?, Reverend Robert, Dr. Zigler, Mrs. Scott, Monique and Dominic, Unique’s parents, Marley’s mum and brothers. Everyone has arrived.

Except for Kurt.

*

“And let’s be clear, we’re only here because you came up with such elaborate excuses,” Unique says, joining Blaine on one of the benches along the fence with a plate of appetizers in one hand and a beer in the other. The guests are gathered around the garden, with the barbecue and the large heater, which, after all these years, is still holding up and blasting out warmth. Everyone is smiling, eating, drinking, the atmosphere is light and cheerful, but not Blaine.

“The fact that you actually believed we were capable of something like that really offended us,” Marley adds, sitting beside him with a cheeky grin. “Fancy a bit of lemonade?” she offers, extending the bottle.

Blaine shakes his head. “No, and it’s your fault. You two were the ones who made it sound so convincing!”

“Do you believe everything we say?” Unique snaps, her tone teasing yet with a hint of exasperation.

“Unfortunately, yes. And look at the mess it’s caused.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Unique replies, nudging him lightly. “Look at this lovely atmosphere. No one would ever suspect Mrs. Anderson.”

Blaine can’t help but agree, though he raises an eyebrow. “But was it really necessary to invite Abigail and Amelia Gabble?” He gestures toward the Clark sisters, sitting primly on a bench next to the savoury pastry table.

Blaine chuckles and gives her a light shove. “Don’t call them that. Come on.”

Unique snorts. “We’re not doves, we’re geese. Never was there a phrase more fitting for them.”

“You’re dreadful,” Marley says, though a smile tugs at her lips.

“Wicked, not dreadful,” Blaine says, grinning.

“I’m a realist, darling,” Unique responds with a shrug. “And besides, it could be worse. It could rain.”

At that, both Blaine and Marley burst into laughter. Who cares about being too loud? The memory of the party of three years ago, as infamous as it was disastrous, still lingers. It’s the story they always bring up for a good laugh.

“Oh God, that bright red hair dyes they’d just got. They were dripping everywhere…” Blaine grimaces at the thought.

“How could we ever forget that day?” Marley says, covering her mouth to stifle her laughter, trying not to spit lemonade. “It felt like an episode of CSI.”

Unique gives her a look. “Oh dear, do you still watch that?”

“Nah,” Marley shrugs. “I’ve had enough of medical dramas. After a few seasons, it’s all about love stories and less about the actual cases. And right now, I’m done with love.”

Blaine’s gaze drops, and he stays quiet. He can’t say he disagrees, it feels daft to even talk about love. But still.

“By the way,” Marley continues, breaking the silence. “Did you hear Zigler’s retiring?”

Blaine turns, surprised. “Really? That’s a shame.”

“Tell me about it,” Unique adds, sipping her beer. “I quit smoking because of him. Though I’m struggling with alcohol, to be honest. But I get it, he’s getting on a bit and has his fair share of ailments.”

“My mum and I are really fond of him,” Marley says, a bit more sombre now. “When she was expecting the twins he practically saved her. She had so many complications. He’s bloody good.”

They all fall silent for a moment, watching Dr. Zigler from across the yard. Blaine feels a pang of sadness. When he first arrived in Marth, Blaine was a little boy, and he remembers the doctor as a gruff man with a deep, booming voice. Susy didn’t like him at first, thinking he was rather brusque and blunt, but her opinion quickly changed. When she fell seriously ill with pneumonia, Dr. Zigler not only treated her with the perfect remedy but also made thoughtful home visits that were so caring Blaine almost thought he might have fallen for her. She has always denied any involvement, but she’s clearly grateful, and since then, Dr. Zigler has had an open invitation to every Christmas party.

“Sausage, anyone?” George calls out, holding a tray of sizzling sausages on a fork, offering them to the group.

Unique chuckles, grabbing one. “Is that a culinary offering or an indecent proposal, Mr. A?”

George bursts into laughter, his face turning as crimson as the embers crackling in the barbecue. “I think the beer’s starting to take effect. I’m heading back to my post.”

Blaine raises an eyebrow and teases. “Oi! Are you hitting on my dad?” He nudges Unique lightly, but she doesn’t so much as blink.

“He’s a handsome man, what do you expect? That grey hair has its charm, trust me,” she replies, eyes twinkling mischievously.

Blaine pulls a face of mock horror. “Ew, please! He’s my dad!”

Marley, standing just to their right, suddenly exclaims, “Speaking of oddities, I’ve got a scoop I completely forgot about!” Both Blaine and Unique turn to her, intrigued.

“Girl, how can you forget a scoop? Spill it!” Unique urges, leaning in. Marley lowers her voice conspiratorially.

“Roderick and Madison are seeing each other,” she whispers. Blaine and Unique exchange a look of confusion. “Wait, do they even know each other?”

“I know!” Marley says, her eyes widening. “I thought the same thing. That chatterbox Miss Lloyd told me when I was buying spare buttons for one of the twins’ coats.”

Unique’s interest piques. “And how did she know?”

“She went to the bookstore for a gift for her niece and found Roderick behind the counter, fixing the stereo. And apparently, Madison offered him an aphrodisiac tea."

“Oh! That little bee wants to pollinate him…” Unique murmurs, impressed.

“And then?” Blaine presses, leaning forward with anticipation.

“Well, it seems Roderick said, I don’t need any reinforcements. Such savoir-faire!” Marley exclaims with a grin.

Blaine’s eyes widen. “I can’t believe it! He actually said ‘reinforcements’?”

Marley nods, looking giddy with the gossip. “Apparently so. And she blushed and said, But I can’t know that. To which he responded, Well, if you want to find out, you know where to find me. Cringe.”

Blaine and Unique exchange another look, mouths forming perfect O’s. “Wow, what a man! Forget cringe,” Unique says, snapping her fingers. “So that’s why she’s here, all dolled up. For Roderick.”

Blaine’s gaze softens as he reflects. “Oh,” he murmurs, a hint of disappointment creeping in. Madison had always been a regular at their Christmas Eve parties, but this time, she seemed far more enthusiastic. Did she not enjoy it before? But still. “Wow, Madison and Roderick,” he muses. Now that he looks at them, they do seem… comfortable. Intimate even. “They ignored each other until last year, and yet.”

“Yeah, because Madison was dating the mayor’s nephew, and Roderick’s just... too shy,” Marley adds.

“And yet apparently, he doesn’t need any reinforcements,” Unique comments, mimicking Roderick’s voice and making the others laugh.

“They’re so different,” Blaine observes, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “But I’m happy for them. They look really cute. And maybe now Roderick will be less distracted and stop throwing laundry bags around.” The girls burst into giggles.

As the sun begins to set, the guests begin to gather around the heater and the barbecue, which continues to roast bacon, ribs, potatoes and vegetables. Blaine and the girls shift positions, partly so Blaine can be more easily approached by his family if they need him. He’s grown tired of hiding among the garden decorations just to avoid having to interact with anyone. It’s not that he’s anti-social, but the energy required to keep up appearances is exhausting. He tries not to dwell on it, but the frustration sits at the back of his mind, waiting to strike.

“Look,” Unique murmurs, nudging him with her elbow. “The guest of honour has arrived.”

Blaine follows her gaze as Kurt steps out of the cottage and walks toward the gazebo, with the exaggerated and inappropriate sighs of the Clark’s punctuating each of his movements. He’s dressed casually in jeans and a sweater, topped with that stunning, long black coat that always manages to add an air of mystery to his presence. Blaine holds his breath, a rush of excitement coursing through him as he steels himself to face the rest of the day with as much poise as he can muster.

“Kurt Hummel!” they hear Madison exclaim from behind them, rushing forward with that bulky box clutched in her hands. “I knew I’d find you here! I’ve brought some of your books! The people of Marth will be thrilled to buy signed copies at my bookstore!”

Blaine crosses his arms, watching the scene unfold with a bemused expression. Madison, clearly enthralled by Kurt, gets lost in compliments about all the books by the author in front of her. An author she had in her bookstore just days ago and didn’t even recognise, Blaine would like to say.

“Do you girls think what I think?” Blaine asks quietly, casting a glance at Marley and Unique.

They both look over, crossing their arms in unison. Unique clicks her tongue. “Forget Roderick. That woman’s here for business!”

*

Kurt’s entrance is nothing short of dramatic, there’s no denying that. But as Blaine watches him from across the garden, he can’t shake the feeling that Kurt might not want to be here at all. His polite smile, though charming, is strained, the corners of his mouth pulling tight in a way that suggests he’d rather be anywhere but here. After everything they had said the night before, Blaine thought Kurt could easily have left that very morning, if not during the night; no one would have said a word, least of all him. And yet, Kurt’s here. Maybe out of some misplaced sense of duty, or perhaps to spare Blaine from the disappointment of his absence. But whatever the reason, it’s a meagre comfort. Kurt Hummel, to Blaine, remains an enigma. Like a half-open box, with no idea of the treasures or horrors it might contain. It could be the most beautiful gift, or something deeply unsettling, like that terrifying clown from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. 

Still, despite the uncertainty, Blaine would take that risk in a heartbeat.

As Unique and Marley wander off, with Unique heading for another beer and Susy promptly following her, tasking her with slicing more cakes, Blaine is left alone, in every sense of the word.

“Nice party, isn't it? As always,” George says, joining him on the bench and slinging an arm around Blaine’s shoulders. Blaine offers a weak smile.

“Of course, and it’s all thanks to you!”

George blushes modestly. “Oh, I’ve done the bare minimum. Those two,” he gestures towards Pamela and Susy, who are both effortlessly flitting around. “They’re the real queens of the evening.”

The two men watch Pamela and Susy, busy as ever, offering smiles, food and drinks to the guests with seamless grace.

“You’re really lucky,” Blaine says, his smile turning wistful. “You’ve got a fantastic wife and mother.”

“And you’ve taken after them, son,” George replies, giving him a warm, if brief, hug. Then, with a sudden shift in tone, he asks, “So, tell me why are you hiding over here?”

Blaine shrugs, a mock sigh escaping him. “Well, I was chatting with the girls, but they’ve abandoned me.”

George chuckles knowingly. “Ah, I see. Any fresh gossip?”

“You have no idea,” Blaine says, a mischievous glint in his eye.

George laughs heartily. “Got it! But no juicy details about anyone I know, alright?” He pauses, then lowers his voice slightly. “And the French? What do you think of them?”

Blaine glances over at the couple, Dominic and Monique, and smiles genuinely. “They’re lovely. Seems like they’re settling in quite nicely here at the cottage.” He conveniently leaves out the awkward incident where Kurt had caught them mid-performance, but mentions that they’ve promised a glowing review of the place. He goes on to say that despite their English not being perfect, Dominic doesn’t hesitate to throw himself into conversations, making the effort to speak without fear of making mistakes. Monique, on the other hand, is more reserved, speaking only in short phrases, as though she’s trying to master the language in three simple steps.

Their conversation continues for a few moments, until Pamela turns toward them, her smile radiant, and George grabs the large skewer. “She needs me.”

Blaine laughs softly. “She didn’t say anything.”

George winks, tapping his chest with mock solemnity. “It’s the power of love, son. I can feel her right here.” He stands, his gait slightly clumsy but affectionate. “I’m coming, darling!” he calls out as he ambles toward Pamela.

Blaine can’t help but smile as he watches his father, his heart swelling with a quiet longing. It’s impossible not to hope, even just a little, for a fraction of the kind of love that binds his parents together.

His gaze shifts back to Kurt, who, unsurprisingly, is surrounded by the Clark sisters, each of them bombarding him with compliments, punctuated by high-pitched giggles and shrill laughter. Kurt’s every attempt to steer the conversation or gracefully extricate himself is met with utter failure. Every now and then, he casts a glance in Blaine’s direction, and Blaine responds with a subtle lift of his chin. He doesn’t think Kurt is asking for help, but even if he were, Blaine stays rooted to his spot, offering nothing but quiet observation.

“But enough with the nonsense, I absolutely must ask you something very important, Mr. Hummel,” declares Agnes Clark, her tone as cheerful as ever.

Oh, hell.

“Important?” Kurt asks, frowning but still attentive, his curiosity piqued.

“Yes, my dear. Something has been buzzing in my head for the past few days.”

Kurt squints slightly, trying to gauge what’s coming. “I’m listening, Miss Clark.”

“Tell me,” Agnes continues, her voice adopting a mock-detective air. “Since you’re a writer and accustomed to wordplay, what can you tell me about bondage?”

Blaine, who had just taken a breath, is profoundly grateful that he doesn’t have a lemon meringue or tea in his mouth, because otherwise, he’d already be choking to death.

Everyone freezes. A thick, uncomfortable silence hangs in the air. Kurt coughs into his fist, clearly flustered. Unique steps forward, handing him a beer. “Drink. It’ll help,” she says, though her own grin betrays her amusement.

Kurt forces a tight smile, but Blaine can see his discomfort. The French couple stands stock-still, Monique’s eye twitching ever so slightly, and Dr. Zigler’s gaze flickers with something… what, exactly? Does anyone that old even know about bondage?

“Um–” Kurt starts, his voice higher than usual, before recovering. “What does it make you think of, Miss Clark?”

“I asked first, dear!” she presses, not the least bit bothered by his hesitation.

“Of course,” Kurt mutters, scratching the back of his neck. He gathers himself before speaking again. “I’m not sure... a game?” His voice weakens with each word. Pamela and George glance at Blaine, their eyes wide with shock and disbelief. Blaine can’t help but shrug. What do they expect from me?

“Go on, then?” Agnes prompts, her impatience growing.

“A game that’s played by two,” Kurt says, his voice growing quieter, seeking validation. No one speaks up. No one dares.

Agnes nods, her tone becoming even more haughty. “Interesting,” she remarks. “But tell me, how exactly do you play?”

Is she insane? Blaine wonders. Didn’t I already explain this, using terms like specific and erotic practice in the same sentence? Is she drunk?

Kurt looks around, his mind racing for a way out. “Perhaps now’s not the right time to explain,” he begins, but as he says this, he looks directly at Blaine, and Blaine feels a rush of heat flood his face. Of course, Unique doesn’t miss this exchange and immediately sends a message in their shared chat.

Even bondage? You told us it was just a kiss!

Blaine doesn’t respond. He shoves his phone back into his pocket, his mind momentarily spinning.

“Don’t be foolish, Mr. Hummel,” Agnes scolds, her voice tinged with mock authority. “We’re among friends here. Perhaps one of us has already played. Reverend Robert, have you ever played bondage?”

The Reverend pauses for a moment, clearly considering the question. “Not that I recall,” he answers, scratching his head. “Maybe they do it in the parish, but I’m always so busy…”

Pamela and George bury their faces in their hands, Susy looks as though she might strangle someone, Roderick and Madison are hidden behind the snowman, laughing uncontrollably, and Emma Clark remains unusually quiet, betrayed by her face flushed with embarrassment.

“Maybe it’s a French word? Mrs. Monique, can you tell us something about it?” Agnes presses, turning to the French couple.

Blaine wonders if it’s time to intervene. But, to his surprise, he finds himself actually enjoying the absurdity of it all. This kind of cynical fun is something he’s never experienced before.

The French couple exchanges a glance, pretending not to understand. “Je suis désolée, je ne comprends pas,” Monique says with a little smile, batting her eyelashes.

Another message from Unique pops up: AH!

Blaine ignores it, choosing to focus on the madness unfolding before him.

“Miss Agnes,” Pamela interrupts, desperate. “Would you like a slice of pandoro? It’s from Verona!” She places the tray right in front of Agnes, who remains clearly fixated on her line of questioning. Some powdered sugar even clings to her nose, but Agnes seems unfazed.

“Not before I know about this game, dear Pamela!” Agnes insists, her tone commanding. “If it’s fun, why not play it here together? Go on, Mr. Hummel, tell me how it’s played and let’s get it over with!”

Blaine casts a glance at Susy. She has fire in her eyes, and he knows his mother is begging her not to make a scene.

“Alright, Miss Clark,” Kurt says, clearly resigned to his fate.

Blaine is stunned. Is he really going to explain this to the old woman? And to everyone else, too?

Kurt takes a deep breath, ready to step into the absurdity with full force. “Well, bondage is a game that uses ribbons,” he begins, his voice taking on a serious tone.

“Oh,” Agnes responds, her eyes lighting up with intrigue. Kurt continues, clicking his tongue. “With these ribbons, you can tie your wrists, or let’s say... apply them to other parts of the body.”

Agnes thinks for a moment. “Even on the eyes?”

Kurt hesitates, then nods. “In a way…”

Unique and Marley are on the verge of losing it, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably as they teeter between frustration and amusement. Despite the chaos, they manage to hold it together, at least for now. Especially with Unique swaying a bit from the tipsiness.

“Oh, I get it!” Agnes exclaims triumphantly. “It’s like blind man’s buff!”

Unique spits out her beer, struggling to stifle her laughter. Kurt seizes the moment and gives an exaggerated cheer. “Well done, Miss Agnes!”

Blaine has to bite his lip to avoid laughing, and then Susy, clearly fed up, storms in and shouts. “Alright, that’s enough, for heaven’s sake!” She marches up to Agnes with a slice of pandoro and shoves it into her mouth, cutting off her sentence. “Shut up, you old hen!”

Agnes’s eyes widen in shock, and she flails her arms, choking on the cake. Dr. Zigler, moving as quickly as his age allows, rushes over to help her, while Reverend Robert frantically makes the sign of the cross in front of her face. Everyone freeze. But after a few tense moments, Agnes starts moving her mouth again, clearly chewing the pandoro, now soft in her mouth. She finally swallows and, with a satisfied grin, she exclaims, “Blimey! This is delicious!”

Everyone exhales in relief, especially Kurt, who slowly edges away from the scene of the almost-crime. And the party can carry on in peace. Or almost.

*

Another hour slips by, and Agnes Clark is probably on her seventh slice of pandoro, completely indifferent to the incident that occurred earlier. This is because yes, she was indeed drunk, as she previously indulged in a bit too much rosé wine. Dr. Zigler continues to scold her, reminding her that she also has diabetes, while Reverend Robert and Emma chat about alcohol and other deadly sins. Blaine’s parents have resumed their hosting duties, though it’s clear they’re keeping an eye on Susy and her short temper. The other guests are chatting, laughing, and generally enjoying the last remnants of the party. Blaine, on the other hand, feels drained, like someone has siphoned all the joy out of him. 

This was supposed to be his day. Christmas, with its sense of warmth and togetherness, has always been his refuge. But tonight? It feels wrong. The familiar peace inside him feels distant, unreachable.

He has hidden behind the cyclamen plant, whose buds are still tightly closed, but the fairy lights twinkling on it make it seem almost magical. He’s drinking a beer; the cold bottle in his hand offering some concreteness as he takes a slow sip. His mind spins, trapped in the storm of what has happened so far and all that he has not had the courage to say.

He watches his parents, engaged in conversation with Dominic and Monique. There’s laughter in their group, with Susy sitting beside Roderick’s grandmother, undoubtedly arguing over whose grandson is the best. Unique and Marley are talking to Mrs. Scott and Dr. Zigler, their voices light and easy. But Blaine can’t bring himself to join them. The peace around him only makes the dissonance inside him more unbearable.

“Do you mind if I hide here with you?”

Kurt’s voice breaks through the haze in Blaine’s mind, making him jump slightly. Kurt is standing there, holding his beer bottle aloft in a silent toast. Blaine hesitates but then gives a small smile, clinking his bottle against Kurt’s.

“I was hoping for a rescue from you,” Kurt says, his voice light but with an undertone that Blaine can’t quite place.

“You handled it pretty well, though,” Blaine replies, sincerity in his voice despite the knot in his stomach. He can’t quite hide the small smirk that forms when he remembers Kurt’s embarrassed expression during the chaos with Agnes.

Kurt laughs; a soft, relieved sound. “It was dreadful, God. Luckily, Mrs. Anderson ended the torture. She’s a bulldog when she wants to be. Authoritative and effective. Impossible to resist.”

Blaine’s lips curl into a smile, a momentary respite from the tension coiling inside him. “I’d say you’re not wrong there,” he murmurs, remembering Susy’s no-nonsense approach to dealing with anything.

“I would love to take her with me to handle some of my things,” Kurt continues with a faint chuckle. “She has the authority I sometimes lack.”

Blaine’s smile fades a little, the laughter caught in his throat. “Instead, you’ll have to learn to manage without us,” he says, not knowing exactly why he includes himself in it.

“Yeah,” Kurt responds quietly, his voice losing some of its usual warmth. He places his bottle on the nearby wall and takes a step closer to Blaine. “I could always call you, though?”

Blaine’s heart stutters, the warmth of Kurt’s proximity pulling him in, even as his mind screams at him to maintain some distance. “You could, yes,” he replies, but his voice falters.

“Would you answer?” Kurt asks, his gaze intense, searching Blaine’s eyes.

“If I’m not busy with, you know, gardening, cooking and other typical cottage things, I think I would,” Blaine answers, trying to sound nonchalant, though it feels like his heart is being squeezed with each passing second.

Kurt doesn’t respond immediately, but the slight curl of his lips suggests he’s not entirely convinced. “Sounds like a promise,” he murmurs softly, stepping closer until the space between them feels impossibly small. And Blaine’s breath hitches. He looks at Kurt, really looks at him. And for a moment, everything else disappears. The world falls away. The night, the party, the chaos. It all vanishes. It’s just Kurt. Just them.

Kurt gently takes the bottle from Blaine’s hand to place it next to his and bridge the small distance between them, clutching him by the waist. The touch feels electric, even as the world around them fades. “What would happen in We Have An Unresolved Kiss, now?” Kurt whispers, leaning in slowly, his breath warm against Blaine’s cheek before descending to his lips, brushing them with the softest of caresses and kissing them until they’re barely moist.

Blaine feels like he might break. The sob that rises in his throat is strangled, held back by his own fear. He raises a hand, trembling, between them, pressing it against Kurt’s chest, as though that one simple motion can create enough space to shield his heart from the weight of everything unspoken. 

“That wasn’t the deal, Kurt,” he whispers, his voice trembling with the effort to hold it together. Why doesn’t Kurt understand that by doing this, he’s only hurting Blaine? And yet, he can’t pull away. He desires him with every fibre of his being. 

Kurt’s eyes darken, and he places his hand gently against Blaine’s cheek, his thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “What if we write the last page together, Blaine?”

The words pierce Blaine’s chest like a dagger, sharp and unyielding. He swallows hard, trying to steady himself. “I’ve never liked the word end,” he admits, his voice barely a whisper, raw with longing and pain. His throat is tight with emotion, the words breaking free in a desperate breath. He can’t do this. He can’t let Kurt get too close, not now.

And then, before Blaine can say another word, a distant voice, not Kurt’s, cuts through the tension.

“Blaine–”

Unique and Marley stand behind him, expressions apologetic yet resigned. “Sorry to interrupt,” Unique says, her eyes flicking to the distance where someone is speaking with George. “There’s a man who insists on seeing Mr. Hummel.”

Blaine’s heart sinks as he stretches his neck to glance towards the gate, where said man stands before his father. The man’s presence is immediate, unmistakable. A mix of sarcasm and boredom on his face. His icy beauty is undeniable, with sharp features that contrast with his faint smile, both captivating and dangerous.

“Spencer…” Kurt mutters under his breath, his face betraying the sudden shift in emotion.

Blaine looks down, fighting the wave of hopelessness crashing over him. He knows why Spencer is here. “He came to take you away, did he not?” Blaine asks, the words tasting bitter in his mouth.

Kurt doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls Blaine into a tight embrace, burying his face in Blaine’s curls, breathing deeply as if trying to hold on to this moment just a little longer. Then he pulls back, cupping Blaine’s face in his hands. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to Blaine’s forehead. A sweet, painful kiss that feels like the end of something. 

“I have to go, Blaine,” Kurt whispers, his voice breaking just slightly, as he pulls away, leaving Blaine standing in the dim light of the cyclamen plant.

Blaine watches him walk away, his heart shattering with every step Kurt takes. The tears he’s been holding back flood his vision, and he can barely breathe through the ache in his chest. “Goodbye, Mr. Hummel,” he breathes into the night, just as Unique and Marley run to his side, their arms wrapping around him in a tight, reassuring hold.

Chapter Text

Four months later

“Look at this!” Susy says, throwing the newspaper under Blaine’s nose, her gestures nervous, and Kurt Hummel’s handsome face looks at him from a black-and-white photo. He’s pictured from the waist up, holding his latest bestseller. But the photo doesn’t do him justice; it looks fake, staged. The turmoil Blaine feels, on the other hand, is entirely real.  

Since Christmas Eve, they haven’t heard from each other. Neither of them made the first move, and of course, presenting his latest work to the world is far more important to Kurt. And Blaine certainly can’t blame him for that. 

“Come on! He won’t be there, I’m sure of it!” Susy exclaims, referring to Spencer.

“You can’t be certain,” Blaine replies firmly. “And anyway, I’m not interested,” he adds with indifference, not before glancing through the article. It’s everything he already knows, because news online comes faster than in print. Also, two weeks ago, Unique told him Kurt would be holding the book launch at Daunt Books in Marylebone near her workplace.

After the party, following the tearful goodbye with Kurt, Blaine had retreated to his room, apologising to his parents and Susy. Spencer Porter had confessed that he’d been sent there for a specific reason: to investigate why a prominent author like Kurt Hummel hadn’t yet returned to London to continue promoting his latest volume. He even let slip an unfortunate remark about country life, and Susy, offended, had invited him to see the greenhouse, pretending to show him their crops. In truth, she hoped he’d get his designer shoes dirty, and Blaine still remembers the smirk on her face when she admitted to having succeeded in her plan.

“It’s your chance, moonpie. Why throw it away?” Susy opens the newspaper again and puts on her reading glasses.

“I’m not going to the launch,” Blaine repeats. Susy lets out an exasperated sigh.

“When you set your mind to something, you’re more stubborn than your grandfather Ray! And that’s not a good thing,” she says judgmatically, pointing her fuchsia-painted finger at him. “It’s an opportunity, you could clear things up!”

“There is nothing to clarify. And I have forgotten about him.”

Susy looks at him, frowning. “And I’m Kate Middleton.”

“You could be,” Blaine responds sarcastically. “You’ve got her class, even if you’re a few years older.”

“Stop being so difficult!”

“I said no!” he insists firmly, perhaps too firmly, considering it’s Susy. “Besides, I have things to do today. In two days, that family from Vienna will arrive, and I need to sort things out. I remind you, this is my full-time job now.”

Blaine leaves the kitchen, feeling his grandmother’s gaze on him but ignoring it. He checks the time: in a few moments, Roderick will arrive with the usual bundle of linens and bed covers, strictly decorated with little roses, not poinsettias. He pulls his red cardigan tighter. It may be April, but it will still be a while before the mild sun of spring reaches the hilltop. He sighs. Thinking about last Christmas makes him sad and wistful, even though he tries to present himself as strong and resilient to the world. But when he’s alone with his thoughts, his mind can’t help but wander back to those moments. Sometimes, he feels like an idiot. In which universe can you fall in love with someone you’ve spent just one week with? And yet, here he is, grappling with his emotions, trying to rationalise something that can’t be explained. Time, after all, isn’t a measure that can limit what he feels. Blaine knows love doesn’t follow logic; it doesn’t need explanations or justifications. It’s like a sudden lightning strike, hitting you out of nowhere and leaving you speechless. And yet, despite the thousand questions that torment his mind, he can’t help but feel that force, that connection that seems to transcend all rationality.

Maybe that’s what makes him feel a bit foolish: the awareness that none of this makes any logical sense. But the heart knows no reason. And so, without meaning to, he lets himself be carried away by a feeling that has no time or explanations. It’s now just a bittersweet, beautiful memory.

He quickly wipes away a betraying tear that slides down his face, letting the gentle breeze dry it. Then he hears a familiar car horn in the distance. He walks over to the gate, hoping to grab the laundry sack as it arrives. Even Roderick’s relationship with the calm, placid Madison hasn’t changed this routine, but Blaine has grown used to it. He considers it a constant, like a routine. If that doesn’t happen, that would be strange. 

Roderick pulls up and gets out of the van, smiling at him. Blaine is happy to see the cheerfulness on his face. Perhaps it’s the detox teas, but it’s clear that things are going well between them. At least for others, love has been kind and generous. And despite everything, he still believes in love, no matter how much his head and shoulders ache at the end of the day from carrying too many thoughts.

“Where are these from, Blaine?” Roderick asks, tearing off the small invoice from the pad. Blaine smiles. “Vienna! I’m so excited; they said they’re bringing a Sacher Torte. Can’t wait to eat it.”

Roderick laughs lightly, attaches the receipt to the sack, and gently places it on the wall.

“Call us when they arrive, we’ll come over for tea! Madison loves Sacher. Have a good day, you and Mrs. Anderson!” he says, hopping back into the van and driving off quickly, leaving Blaine bewildered and perplexed at the gate. What just happened? Blaine wonders, staring at the neatly placed laundry sack. Okay, spring may symbolise rebirth, but this is going too far! What else is going to happen today?

Still puzzled by what had just happened, Blaine grabs the sack and turns back towards the cottage. He places it on the usual trunk by the entrance and he checks the schedule on the old computer to see what else he has planned for the day, but Susy interrupts him. Blaine looks at her and notices the sorrow on her face. “I’m sorry,” she says in a small voice.

Blaine gives a faint smile, pulling her into an embrace. “Don’t worry about it. I appreciate your good intentions, but really, I’m fine.”

Susy slowly pulls away from the hug, her gaze lingering on him. There’s concern in her eyes, regret. “I’m fine,” Blaine repeats, his voice weak and drained. And Susy nods, not saying anything more on the matter.

“I was just checking… it seems we don’t have anything else to do today. What do you think about having tea on the porch? Then we could roast some vegetables for dinner, make some hummus, what do you think?” Blaine asks, smiling at her, and Susy smiles back, still holding his hands tightly.

“That sounds perfect, moonpie. How about going to the Capemont market for the ingredients?”

“You want me to go? It’ll take me a while on the bike, but at least I’ll stay in shape!” 

Susy laughs. “In shape, ah, you’re a gem! No, darling. I feel like driving today, what do you say? It’s not far.” She ties her usual colorful scarf around her head and puts on her sunglasses. She looks like Susan Sarandon in Thelma and Louise. “I want to take advantage of it before my driver’s license expires. After that, I think I’ll toss that old wreck of a car and get myself an electric scooter, one of those modern ones you see on TV,” she explains, waiting for him on the doorstep. Blaine shakes his head, chuckling at the thought of his grandmother riding up the hill on one of those. He loves this crazy woman. “Let’s go, then. But please, drive carefully!”

“I drive perfectly well, it’s the reckless other drivers that distract me!” she retorts with a smile, striding out with a graceful sway.

*

The drive to Capemont is short, just ten minutes. Through the car window, Blaine watches the green fields stretch out, interrupted only by rows of flowering trees. The spring sun lights up the gentle hills, and patches of colourful flowers scatter the landscape. The air is fresh, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass. Every so often, a small group of animals can be seen grazing by the field’s edge, while farmhouses and cottages line the road. The peaceful rhythm of the countryside reflects the calm of the moment. This until Susy suddenly misses the turn for Capemont, and the serenity quickly gives way to anxiety.

“Gran, we need to turn around, we’re heading for the highway,” Blaine says, his voice rising with panic as he glances nervously behind them. But Susy doesn’t respond. “Gran? Did you hear me?”

“I heard you, moonpie.”

Blaine glances over his shoulder again, then at Susy, then back at the road, watching the green fields fade into the distance. “Gran, turn around! We’re going the wrong way!” But Susy doesn’t respond; her hands are gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles are white. Blaine takes a shaky, nervous breath.

“Gran, what are you trying to do?”

“I’m taking you to the presentation.”

“No!” Blaine exclaims, clenching his fists. “Stop the car right now!”

“Blaine, let me remind you that I once slashed a car’s tires with a hedge trimmer, don’t make me use violence on you!” she says, her tone threatening as she points a finger at him.

“Gran, for heaven’s sake, we’re going to London! You’ve never gone that far! Please, turn around!” he shouts, his voice cracking, almost whining.

“Don’t you trust your grandma?”

“Of course I trust you!” he says irritably, his chest tightening. At this point, he feels like he’s on the verge of a panic attack. “But I don’t want to go! Please!”

“Alright–” she snaps, yanking the wheel sharply to the left, the tyres screeching on the tarmac. Behind them, a chorus of honking horns blares, probably full of angry drivers, but Blaine couldn’t care less. He’s furious. Furious and terrified by Susy’s damn plan.

They pull over to a layby, panting and shaking. Blaine opens his mouth to speak, but Susy cuts him off. “Now listen carefully, Blaine Devon Anderson–” and Blaine knows very well that when his grandmother uses his full name, he has to shut up.

“You know I don’t like giving people a telling-off, but you...” she pauses, her voice faltering. “You need to understand that life is a stage, and we’re all just actors, darling. And you, my sweet boy, are still so young. You can’t walk off the stage before you’ve played your part! I know you’re angry and heartbroken and disillusioned, but this isn’t the time to sulk. The heart is fragile, I know that. But if you don’t find the courage to reignite it, you’ll miss out on the fireworks. And I won’t stand by and watch your fire burn out like this.”

Blaine feels the tears fall freely, overwhelmed by Susy’s words. His chest tightens with the weight of it all. He cries for the fear that perhaps all this might turn out to be useless. He cries because he doesn’t want to suffer the way she has, but even more, he doesn’t want to suffer from the regret of never even trying. But he’s not as strong as she is. The thought of facing yet another disappointment feels like too much to bear.

“Life isn’t just about everything you lose, moonpie,” Susy continues, her hand tenderly brushing his tear-streaked cheek. “It’s about everything you choose to follow. If fear keeps you frozen in place, you’ll lose every single time. And I don’t want you to lose, Blaine. Not like this.”

Her grip tightens on his hands, firm and warm, and in that moment, Blaine feels more loved than he ever has before. The strength she holds within her is so fierce, so unwavering, that it makes him feel small and yet, somehow, filled with a courage he never thought he had. He doesn’t have the words. He can’t speak through the lump in his throat, but his heart is swelling with a mixture of awe and hope.

“And remember,” Susy whispers, her voice now trembling with emotion as she wipes her own tears away, not caring that her mascara has run. “You’re my grandson. So, if you make a mistake, you make it in style. Understand?”

Blaine swallows hard, his breath shallow as he tries to steady himself. He can feel the weight of her words sinking deep within him. His heart races, and despite his swollen eyes and the ache in his chest, he tightens his grip on her hands. It’s as though he’s trying to hold on to her strength, to borrow even a fraction of it. He looks up, meeting her gaze with newfound resolve.

And with the tiniest of nods, he whispers, “Let’s go to London.”

*

After what Blaine would later call the journey of hope, the first thing he notices on the bustling London street is a long line of people, all neatly queued behind barriers outside Daunt Books. Right then, his stomach plummets. The adrenaline, Susy’s pep talk, and his lingering feelings for Kurt had convinced him to give it a go, but now? He feels utterly deflated. There’s no way that queue is shifting in less than four hours, and with stock running low, Kurt could leave, abandoning Blaine for the second time.

Susy manages to park not far from the bookstore, and Blaine doesn’t even dare to question if it’s a proper spot. “Worst case, they’ll toss this old chest in the bin before I have to,” Susy says, almost as if reading his mind. “Now, follow me.”

Blaine stares at her, completely baffled. He hasn’t a clue where his grandma’s headed, because all he can focus on are the loud shouts from people telling them to get in line, to respect the queue as one would expect. But Blaine feels so out of place, so lost, the only thing he can do right now is follow Susy, silently.

They arrive, breathless, at the front of the bookstore, where a couple of employees sporting badges, a bouncer, a woman with an earpiece who looks like she’s giving someone an earful, and a few photographers, and likely some journalists, are gathered. And Blaine feels like he’s stepped into the wrong film. “Please, let’s just go, I think I’m going to pass out,” he pleads, gripping Susy’s arm with his left hand. She swats him off without breaking stride. “Not a chance, moonpie. Leave it to me. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Blaine swallows hard, unable to muster a single word, too anxious to do anything other than watch as Susy marches up to the bouncer, tapping him on the shoulder. “Good evening, young man. Would you mind letting us through?” she asks, with just the faintest hint of smugness.

The man, who could easily be mistaken for a wardrobe due to his imposing stature, blocks the way without even flinching. “Sorry, ma’am, but I can’t let you through. If you’re not press or a relative, you’ll have to queue like everyone else.”

“You don’t understand, I absolutely must get in,” Susy insists, her tone unwavering.

The man’s patience is clearly wearing thin. “Ma’am, I don’t care to understand. I can’t let you in. Got it?”

Blaine notices the woman with the earpiece watching them with increasing interest, her expression somewhere between confusion and annoyance. She strides over, clearly someone who doesn’t suffer fools lightly. “What’s going on here?” she demands.

“This lady insists on getting into the event, but she has no pass, no confirmation of purchase and no proof she’s related to Mr. Hummel,” the bouncer mutters. “Should I call the police?”

Blaine jerks his head toward his grandmother, cringing slightly as his neck cracks from the sudden movement, but he barely notices, his mind stuck on the word police. “Please, no! We’ll go, just… just don’t call anyone!” he whimpers, tugging at Susy’s jacket sleeve. But she’s unmoved, standing firm as ever.

The woman with the earpiece lets out a derisive snort, stepping closer. “Granny, do you really want to do this?” she sneers. “Turn around and go home.”

Susy raises an eyebrow, completely unruffled. “Call me granny again and I’ll rip out all your extensions.”

The woman falls silent, taking a long, deliberate look at Susy, clearly impressed by the woman’s sudden shift in composure. And just when Blaine’s almost convinced that a full-on brawl is about to break out, the woman suddenly smiles, her lips curling into a grin. “Well, I’ll be damned. Is this the legendary Mrs. Anderson?”

Susy smiles back, smugly. “You’ll never meet anyone like me, sweetcheeks.”

The woman chuckles, shaking Susy’s hand firmly. “Took you long enough. Come on, let’s get inside! They’re all settled.”

At this point, Blaine feels like a complete fool. “Wait, sorry– no! Hold on,” he stammers, grabbing the woman’s wrist and spinning her round. “Who the hell are you? And how do you know my grandma?”

She turns slowly, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m the agent of that drama queen you’re in love with,” she says, rolling her eyes. She extends her right hand again, her long red nails gleaming. “Santana Lopez, at your service.”

*

Blaine is struggling. He feels completely out of place, especially with the way he walked in, and even more so with the way he’s dressed. In this small conference room with just a few people, everyone else looks so put-together and professional, while he feels miles away from all of it.

He shifts behind a wall, hoping to blend into the background a little, when Kurt’s voice reaches him, more melodious than he remembered. And the impact on Blaine is immediate; racing heart, wobbly legs, heavy sighs. He attempts to distract himself by looking around, his eyes landing on the large poster advertising the event.

“There you are. Drink this, relax,” comes a voice from behind him. Turning, he finds Kurt’s agent, Santana, handing him a cup of herbal tea. He’s familiar with this routine. She sighs dramatically, yanks out her earpiece and steps closer, clearly enjoying his discomfort.

“If you were wondering, yes, your grandmother and I planned this whole shindig. And Kurt has no idea,” she announces with a smirk that’s far too pleased with herself. “She actually told me she wanted to give Kurt a piece of her mind directly, probably a right telling-off, and I would have loved to see that,” she adds, winking as if this is some big joke. Blaine’s brain is still trying to process this new information, so he just takes the tea, hoping it’ll somehow calm him down. It doesn’t.

“I know the whole story, Kurt filled me in,” she continues, her voice dropping slightly, but still with that edge. “I’ve never seen him so… smitten. Properly enchanted. I asked him what happened, and honestly? At first, I thought, “You two are mad”, because you don’t just fall head over heels in a week, and you certainly don’t do it with a single kiss.” She eyes him pointedly. Blaine wants to argue, to defend his heart; wants to tell her that she doesn’t understand, but the words are lodged in his throat. Because, deep down, he knows she’s right. He feels like nothing but a fool. “But here’s the thing,” she continues, almost as if speaking to herself now. “Sometimes it just happens. It doesn’t make sense, but it does.”

Her dark eyes soften with something that looks like nostalgia. “Before that week, Kurt was a mess. Barely ate, hardly slept, always on edge. Then one evening? Poof. He vanishes. At first, we all freak out, but then he rings me up and explains, and I’m like, “Alright, that makes sense now, take all the time you need”, and I swear, for the whole damn week, all he talked about was Blaine. Blaine this, Blaine that. At first, he thought you were a bit of a weirdo, but then something shifted, and… well, he was starting to be himself again, you know?”

Blaine smiles wistfully. The memory of their walk across the bridge during that heart-to-heart conversation still vivid in his mind. “He always said he’d never write a romance,” she continues. “And suddenly, he wants to write a love story! Ah, the power of a nice, bubble butt. Truly.”

Blaine snorts, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile. “I think this is the book that most represents him. He’s always been a bit of a disaster at talking about his feelings. He was always more about the appearance, the show. The fantasy world he’s created, though beautiful, is just a shield. But this… this is the real Kurt. The boy I’ve known since we were sixteen who fought to get where he is. And if he’s here today, in this bookstore, after months of convincing himself to give it all up… it’s all because of you, Blaine.”

After this, Santana doesn’t seem to have much more to say, and Blaine tries to process every word. Did he wish he had talked more with Kurt about all this? About their feelings? Certainly. But life’s just like that. 

You fall in love with someone’s idea and try to follow it, hoping you’re not making a mistake. But understanding that mechanism is impossible because that idea might just turn into a firefly, and following it could lead you straight into a ditch. But if you don’t follow it, the thought of it being your star will haunt you forever.

Blaine remains still, listening to Kurt go on about the plot, and everything sounds so familiar that he feels compelled to peek just to make sure what he’s hearing is real. The moment he does, Kurt sees him and freezes. A soft, serene smile spreads across his face, and Blaine’s heart skips a beat. He finds him different. If possible, even more beautiful. Kurt’s wearing simple clothes, and his hair’s been slightly trimmed. And suddenly, everything halts. Time. Breath.

Next to Kurt, a slightly confused young moderator repeats the question to him. Kurt apologises, then continues, gesturing with a pen, as if it’s needed to help him concentrate.

“Ew,” Santana mutters behind them. “It’s disgusting the way you two look at each other. It makes me want to fall in love again, and right now, I really don’t!” she exclaims, adjusting her already perfect, tight-fitting clothes. “Anyway, take this,” she says, handing him a copy of the book from the table behind them. “The interview’s over, and the signing’s starting soon. Get in line. And that’s not a suggestion,” she adds firmly, walking off again after adjusting her earpiece.

Blaine clutches the book to his chest, shifting anxiously as he waits for the priority pass holders to go ahead of him. He already feels a pang of guilt for cutting in front of the people waiting outside, as if he doesn’t deserve to be here.

When it’s his turn in front of Kurt, Blaine almost forgets to breathe, the air suddenly thick around him. Kurt looks up, his gaze lingering just a moment too long as his hand rests on the book, fingers brushing against Blaine’s cold ones. Kurt’s face softens, his expression easing into something more relaxed. A faint glaze covers his eyes, as if he’s momentarily lost in thought, and Blaine feels his own heart skip a beat.

“I believe you were about to ask me something, earlier, Mr…”

Blaine clears his throat, his voice a little rough. “Uh, Anderson. Blaine Anderson.”

Kurt’s lips curl into a small smile; a sparkle appearing in his eyes. “I love this James Bond-style introduction. A classic,” he says, writing in the book with a casual flick of his wrist. Blaine stifles a laugh, the memory of their first meeting a few months ago slipping back into his mind, so bittersweet.

“Nice title,” he comments after a moment, gesturing to the book. “A love story, then?”

Kurt hums, not looking up as he continues writing, the pen moving steadily across the page. There is a lively murmur behind them, but he cannot decipher what people are saying. “What makes you say that?”

Blaine shrugs, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through him from being so close. “Intuition. I don’t know… I just imagine hearts racing, knees trembling, princes in tights.”

Kurt’s smile is soft, but there’s a hint of mischief as he hands the book back to Blaine. His fingers brush Blaine’s ever so lightly, but it feels like a spark. “Hmm, you seem to have a distorted idea of romance. Has anyone ever told you that?”

Blaine lets out a soft chuckle, though it feels more like a sigh. “Yeah. Someone I... really cared about.”

Kurt’s eyes flicker, his tone shifting, quieter now. “And what happened?”

The air between them tightens, a tension neither of them can ignore. Blaine looks down for a moment, as if searching for the right words. “They disappeared. Seduced and abandoned.”

Kurt’s eyebrow arches. A quiet smile lingers on his face, but it’s tinged with something deeper, more knowing. “They must’ve been a fool to let someone like you slip away.”

Blaine offers a faint smile. His gaze lifts again to meet Kurt’s, and there’s a flicker of something they both recognize too well. “I think so, too.”

Kurt’s hand leaves the copy, and Blaine pulls it back against his chest. “Enjoy the book, Blaine,” Kurt murmurs, smiling at him, before returning to autographs.

Blaine needs to sit down. Stepping away from the counter, he retreats to a quiet corner in the children’s book section, settling into a chair. Opening Echo of A Winter Kiss, the ink clear and elegant in the soft light, he reads:

To my dearest Blaine, 

with all my endless affection. 

This novel would never have come to life if I hadn’t met you, but it would be a shame not to tell you in person. I know of a magical place, far removed from this world that moves too fast, run by a wonderful grandmother and her handsome grandson who has utterly captured my heart. It’s called Susy’s Wonderland, have you heard of it? As soon as I leave here, I’ll cast aside all my obligations and head there, hoping they have a room for me. And if you’re willing, I’ll tell you everything. I need to speak to you, honestly, once and for all.

It won’t be a few bloody miles, a flat in the centre or pride that keeps us apart.

I am where you are.

Kurt

And as Blaine reads the dedication on the next page, printed in black and white, clear and permanent for all to see, not just him, his heart nearly bursts with joy and love. There’s no time to lose. He snaps the book shut, his breath shaky, his hands unsteady. He turns back to Kurt, only to find his gaze already fixed on his own. And he smiles. A full, genuine smile, one he hasn’t worn in far too long.

“I’ll wait for you,” Blaine mouths silently.

Kurt nods, his fingers brushing his lips in a quiet kiss, then placing them gently over his heart before returning to his work.

Blaine dashes out of the shop, finding Susy deep in conversation with Santana. 

“I take it all went well?” the woman teases with a knowing smile.

“How are you feeling, moonpie?” Susy asks, pulling him into a warm, tight hug.

Blaine laughs, holding her close. “We need to get a move on and make some strawberry jam!”

*

Eight months later

The room is wrapped in a thick silence, broken only by the soft hiss of the wind slipping through the cracks in the window. It’s December again, and the morning seems to wake up slowly, as if it doesn’t want to disturb anything. The pale light of the day, still shy, sneaks through the heavy curtains, tinged with a light grey, casting soft lines on the walls like fleeting caresses.  

Outside, nature, in the quiet of the morning, seems to whisper secrets only to those willing to listen, as if everything beyond is a prelude to something deep and intimate, something that can only truly be understood inside that room, between the shadows and the dim light.  

The heating hasn’t fully kicked in yet, and the room breathes in the cold air, which makes everything feel more intimate, more cocooned.  

The world outside, hidden beneath the white of the fog, feels distant and unreal. But inside, everything is so present: the warmth starting to spread, the soft rustle of a blanket shifting, sliding lower; the beating of two hearts in unison, held close in an embrace. Two bodies moving slowly, in perfect synchrony. Their breaths, sometimes close, sometimes separated by a delicate thread of distance, are the only sound that breaks the sacred silence. The cold doesn’t touch them. On the contrary, they warm each other with the simplest gestures: fingers brushing skin, breath mingling in the stillness.

Kurt’s fingers grip Blaine’s warm hips tightly, drawing him to himself as he, with slow, still sleepy thrusts, fills him. Again, and again, more.

“More,” Blaine gasps under his breath, placing his hand on Kurt’s and intertwining their fingers, bringing the back to his mouth to kiss it. Kurt dips his face into the crook of Blaine’s neck, breathing in the sweet scent of his love at the top of his lungs. “Yes…”

Kurt kisses his neck languidly, never stopping thrusting. Blaine’s skin fills with shivers and goosebumps, but the cold is not the culprit. 

“What do you want, love?” whispers Kurt in his ear, nibbling at the cartilage and making him moan again. He loves to rage on his soft spots. “Tell me.” Blaine responds by bringing Kurt’s index finger to his mouth, sucking it slowly between his swollen lips. “Make me come, please,” he replies, softly, pushing back into Kurt, indulging his thrusts.

Kurt smiles, and reluctantly, he removes his hand from Blaine’s angelic wet grasp; he slides it over his warm body, passing first by his hard, inviting nipples, which he caresses and squeezes, making Blaine tremble in front of him. If Kurt could see him from the front, he would see Blaine’s upturned eyes and his fleshy, plump lips open, slightly cracked under the cupid’s bow; in ecstasy. It drives him mad.

Kurt’s hand descends slowly, lower and lower, stroking the thin, wonderful path of soft hair that leads to his hardness. Kurt wraps it, barely squeezes it; he moves his hand deftly as only he knows how to do on Blaine. With his free hand, the one resting under Blaine’s head, he extends his middle and ring fingers towards his mouth; a silent invitation to resume sucking, knowing how much he loves it. And Blaine does so, greedily.  

And here Blaine finally loses control. Held in place by Kurt’s strong arms, it is so difficult to keep calm in these moments. He feels full in every sense. Behind him, before him, in his mouth, deep in his heart, with sweat glistening on his skin, Kurt’s moans filling his ears. Blaine feels he could die and he wouldn’t even notice, he is in complete, absolute bliss.

“God, how I love you,” he listens to Kurt speak, slowly driving him to orgasm, the way only he likes it. “I love to fuck you slowly, like this, ah– quietly, silently. It’s just us, hidden from everyone.”

Blaine whimpers and feels his body tremble. He is close, tremendously close and can’t speak, but he cannot and will not remove Kurt’s finger from his mouth, imagining it to be his cock. Imagining he can lower himself to his feet and take him in his mouth, but this is much better. Although, to be honest, Blaine doesn’t even know what actually is better with Kurt, because every moment with him feels like something new and exciting. It’s not about finding the “perfect” thing, it’s about everything they share. He loves how with Kurt he can be completely himself. There’s no pressure, no expectations, just the joy of discovering each other more and more every day. And imagining himself a year ago in a similar context would have excited him, of course, but also embarrassed him to death. But what really gets to him is how open Kurt is to trying anything, how he’s always willing to explore new things together. It’s the way Kurt makes him feel safe enough to be vulnerable, to try things he’s never imagined, all while feeling like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. It’s thrilling. Kurt’s not just someone he loves, but someone who challenges him, who makes him feel like he’s constantly growing, and that’s something Blaine never knew he needed until Kurt.

Kurt’s attentiveness blows Blaine away. So caring, so precise in how he loves him. It’s hard to believe someone could love him like this, with such depth. Blaine still catches himself, in awe, wondering if he’s dreaming. To feel these intense emotions, knowing Kurt feels the same, it’s overwhelming. He’s lucky, but it still feels unreal sometimes, like he doesn’t deserve it. But he’s determined to cherish every moment of it.

“Hhm,” he mutters, releasing Kurt’s finger as he turns his head toward him. With his now free hand, he grips Kurt’s hair, pulling his face closer, fingers tightening in the strands as though his position itself is a limitation to how hard he wants to hold him. Blaine kisses his lips in an off center, wet kiss, soaked with desire and choked moans.

Blaine’s back arches impossibly to accommodate Kurt in all his fullness, and he knows he will be in pain all day, but he is willing to face the sweet torture.

Kurt’s hand, warm and strong on his cock, begins to move in irregular motions, as does his crotch towards Blaine’s aching cheeks. Kurt’s breath quickens, frantic gasps escaping as his chest rises and falls sharply. He gasps into his mouth and Blaine remains motionless, holding him close, drinking in his breaths. Kurt is close too, he knows it, he feels it.

“You’re so beautiful,” Kurt whispers, giving a single, vigorous thrust, causing Blaine to risk screaming in pleasure, but he manages to avoid it. “More, please, more,” he sobs.

Kurt groans as he watches Blaine completely consumed by the pleasure. It’s such a captivating sight that it feels as though it’s enough to propel him toward the stars. In fact, Kurt’s thrusts become even more uneven, though deliciously powerful. Blaine feels Kurt’s sperm squirting inside him and Blaine’s hand, the one previously clutching the back of Kurt’s neck, instinctively reaches for his side, forcing him to stay inside during the last, glorious thrusts. “Oh my God… yes, yes, yes,” Blaine moans, trying not to cry out; their breathing laboured and shaky. He bites his lip when, finally, Kurt comes, releasing hot jets of pleasure inside him, then slowly stopping, tired and laboured. Before he gets too soft, Kurt pushes inside again, giving a sigh and keeping them locked together for a few more moments. But it’s not over.

Kurt, wavering exactly as Blaine does, with imprecise but firm strokes, squeezes Blaine’s cock one last time, letting his semen splash warm and thick onto his hand, enjoying the sounds and noises of enjoyment that come out of his mouth. “Oh, my love, my love,” Kurt whispers against the skin of Blaine’s shoulder, torn and bruised by his teeth; exhausted, he tries to collect every single drop. A few less fortunate land inexorably on the sheet, but they will deal with that later. 

Kurt slowly lifts his soaked hand to his own lips, savouring Blaine and moaning with pleasure. Blaine stares at him. Dull, trembling, drained; in contemplation. And he smiles when Kurt brushes his lips with those same fingers, wanting Blaine to lick them, making Kurt moan softly as he watch.

Then, with a quiet, tired laugh, Blaine shifts and turns into Kurt’s embrace. He lets himself fall into his arms, surrendering to the warmth and security of his touch. They exchange tired, moist, sweet kisses. Blaine savours himself on Kurt’s tongue, while Kurt languidly stretches his hands over his back, heading to his warm cheeks and barely spreading them apart, caressing the rosy, wet hole, making him slightly hiss.

Kurt loves him so much, so intensely. 

“I love doing it this way. It makes me feel so good,” Blaine whispers over him, descending to kiss his neck with gentle pecks. “It was amazing, thank you.”

Kurt squeezes him. “It’s always amazing with you,” he whispers, stroking his back. “Happy Christmas Eve, my love. Are you ready for the party?”

Blaine lifts his face to look at him intently, biting his lower lip while smiling. “You’ve split me in two and filled me from all sides, Kurt. More ready than that?” he puts his mouth to his ear, whispering. “I’ll be thinking about that all day. I’ll watch you talk to the guests and think only of your seed dripping and wetting me everywhere.”

Kurt responds with a guttural sound, deep and almost animalistic. His eyes darken, locking onto him. He squeezes him from the hips, kissing him ardently. Two fingers of Kurt’s hand inexorably return to caress Blaine’s entrance, sinking into the tender, dilated flesh. “If you say things like that, there will be no party for us,” Kurt blows on his lips, making Blaine moan, grinding into him. “I want you so bad…”

But just as if someone had overheard them, and Blaine fervently hopes not, they hear a knock at the door—firmly locked, thank goodness—making them both jump. “Good morning, darlings,” Susy’s voice echoes from the other side. “If I were your age, I’d genuinely hate myself for making you get dressed and come downstairs, but we’ve got a party to prepare. Have a shower, I’ll see you in the kitchen to get the pies ready,” she says, walking off, only to return almost immediately. “Oh, and for heaven’s sake, do something with your hair, moonpie. Otherwise, everyone will know what you’ve been up to. Though, I personally wouldn’t mind if they did… Anyway, hop, hop!”

Kurt and Blaine fall silent, stunned by Susan Anderson’s usual, unflinching honesty. They exchange a glance and burst into laughter, hauling themselves up and sitting down on the damp bed. 

Kurt stretches and pulls him into a warm, snug cuddle, pressing a gentle kiss into his hair. “How about a shower together?” he asks, caressing his back. “We can gear up for the day. And those wild Clarks. I’m curious what they’ll ask this time… maybe something like “what are the positions of the kamasutra?” Oh,” he says, glancing at his phone. “Dad just texted. He and Carole are on their way, with Finn and the family in tow. We’d better get a move on!”

Blaine laughs, letting himself be rocked in Kurt’s arms. “Please, don’t mention Burt while we’re naked.” Then he lifts his gaze to Kurt, drinking in every bit of his beauty, and smiles, fulfilled. “You go ahead and start the water, I’ll be right there. I’ve got my super personal ritual to take care of.”

Kurt meets his gaze and returns the smile, nodding. “Okay,” he whispers against his lips, kissing him one last time. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Kurt disappears into the bathroom, and Blaine lingers, listening to the soft, familiar sounds of him moving around. Each noise, each little shift, fills him with a warmth he’s missed more than he realized. It has been almost two weeks since they last saw each other, Kurt off at conferences for his new novel, and Blaine wrapped up in managing eight different bookings at the cottage. But now, with Kurt so close again, Blaine feels a deep, contented joy settle in his chest. This space, so sacred for him with Kurt in it, is exactly where he’s meant to be.

He reaches for the romance on the nightstand, opening to the first page. As always, he reads the handwritten dedication, the one from that spring day. Then, with fingers that tremble with emotion, he turns the page, letting himself sink into the words Kurt had written for him long before they even knew what they meant to each other. 

A quiet call. A promise.  

Blaine reads it again, and a deep, quiet peace fills him.

Echo Of A Winter Kiss

by Kurt Hummel

To my father, my steady rock in a constantly changing world, the unshakable foundation on which I can always rely, even when the path ahead seems uncertain.   

To my mother, who watches over me from above, my brightest star, my guardian angel who supports me with love that knows no bounds.  

To Carole and Finn, whose smiles and joy have brought light back into our days, colouring our home and our hearts.

And finally, to Blaine, my sweet, my one and only Blaine, the essence of every word in these pages. 

Blaine has taught me a lesson I never thought to learn: the greatness of the small things. A sprig of lavender on a pillow, the warm scent of a homemade cake, a kiss shared beneath the stars.  

He is the quiet presence that enters swiftly but silently, the unspoken force that changes you without warning, without asking. 

With him, everything felt simpler, yet immeasurably deeper.  

He is the shy sun of December, warming without burning. The soft touch of a hand finding yours without asking, without expectation. He is the warmth of the fire crackling in the hearth, offering comfort and solace.   

Blaine is the crispness of country air, the scent of the damp earth that brings you home and the fragrance of roots searching for their place in the world. He is my pansy, a delicate yet eternal flower, which I hold in my heart with the utmost tenderness and care and longing.

When I met him, I was distant from everything, even from myself. I had no desire to meet anyone, to talk, to listen. But then he came, shy and silent, not with force but with a presence that couldn’t be ignored. With his amber eyes and gentle face, he slowly brought me back to life.   

He challenged me, scolded me when needed, comforted me in moments of weakness. He laughed with me, touched something deep inside me that stirred me and put me back into the world. He was the one who reminded me of the beauty of life, of how it’s possible to feel truly alive once more.

I thought that a week could not possibly change anything, but Blaine has shattered every belief I held, as only a special person can. He was quiet, yet his silence spoke louder than words.  

With him, every moment felt eternal. His hands, his smile, his breath close to mine. Everything seemed to piece together the fragments of a heart I thought had been lost.

Thank you, Blaine. Thank you for bringing out a part of me I had forgotten, for breaking all my certainties and showing me that, sometimes, it’s in fragility that true strength lies.

With eternal love and boundless gratitude,  

Just Kurt.