"Are you sure you'll be okay?"
His voice comes in like a voice-over, some sort of heavenly, angelic, masculine thrumming to burst through the monotony of life in Lima, Ohio. Before I can fully register the shift in scene, the door to my basement bedroom comes into focus. His words also register, and I sigh. As if the exasperated wind carries all of the force lost to me, the door slowly shuts. Naturally, I watch it. Doing so means that I don't have to face him; I don't have to have this conversation yet again.
When I do turn, concern-drenched features greet me. Blaine rests against the wall parallel to mine. His question still swims around me, as it has for days at this point. Ever since Rachel told us of Mr. Schuester's ridiculous yet somehow ingenious idea to force camaraderie upon the neanderthals of WMH, Blaine has been hounding me. He asks how I feel about Karofsky performing in my half time show, being in my Glee Club, and now even singing with my friends. I always answer the same regardless. Honestly, I will be - fine that is. A true diva never falters, no matter who stands in his way. Even if the mere sight of the person brings phantom stings to his back and the undeniable urge to brush my teeth until they're dentist clean.
Anyhow, Blaine's supportive, like the perfect, romance novel boyfriend. He cares about my feelings, sends me adorable text messages, sings flirty duets with me, and he even talks sports with my dad. Now, if only he were actually my boyfriend.
(Now, I know what people would think. They'd say, "Baby steps, Kurt. He's the first gay guy you've come in contact with that isn't a part-time, homophobic sociopath. Don't scare away your only real friend at Dalton by batting those eyelashes and picking out furniture. You're not Rachel, and it's creepy either way."
Okay, so, Mercedes might have said something along those lines. Either way, I know that I can't just dive in. So, back to the point.)
It is oddly anti-climactic that the first thing I say is a measly, little "Yes." But, Blaine doesn't accept it anyway. He stares me down until I sigh again and revise my answer.
I say, "It's been a while. I can be there and be okay. Besides, there's rows upon rows of people between me and him, so there's no reason to feel threatened. I will be fine."
And his gorgeous, emotive eyes stay on me just a while longer before he deems that acceptable and pushes from the wall.
"Good because I have to say that I'm looking forward to hanging out with everyone. You've got some pretty cool friends over at McKinley," Blaine says. I quirk an eyebrow. He chuckles, answering the question I haven't even formed in my mind yet. "Yes, even Rachel," he adds.
He can see the fantastic person hiding behind the slightly deterring exterior of Rachel Berry; yet, he is oblivious to how I feel. Men. I cannot wait for girls' night. The weekly dose of Rachel and Mercedes keep me sane at a school with a bit too much testosterone and not enough aggressive outlets. Besides, they get me. They also don't distract me from serious conversations with their gorgeous, mind-melting voices, or wow me with some story of gallant bravery, or even just look at me and make me feel like all of the bad things don't matter because of the very good thing directly in front of me.
Okay, I'm whipped. Not even one date, and I'd crash my car listening to him. (Nearly did, actually. Newsflash that no one told me: hands-free is just as distracting while functioning a motor vehicle.)
Blaine chuckles, attracting my attention.
"Wow, one mention of Rachel and you're off in Dreamland. Do I have competition?" he jokes.
My heart skips a beat. Competition means he's interested.
"Never," I breathe.
He laughs, saying, "I better not. French Friend Fridays are so the highlight of my week."
Friend? Oh why did we put that in the alliteration? They could have just been French Fridays, filled with the most important aspect of the culture - the tongue. Okay, scratch that, far too vulgar. But, I do want to spend my Fridays doing more than just watching foreign films and improving Blaine's already impressive resume. I want romance. I want to be pampered and to do so in return. Am I really alone in that thought?
Oh well, only a few days until Valentine's Day. Maybe I can spring it on him then. A grin spreads across my face at the thought of it. Blaine and I, somewhere overflowing with hearts, as I open mine to him. I could sing him a song. Or write all of the reasons I like him on a coffee cup and have the barista at Starbucks use it. He would get his drink and at least fifty, warm, thought out compliments. Then, when he asks what it is, I will tell him everything and pray to every deity I don't believe in to let him say the same.
"Mine too," I tell him.
"Hey, shouldn't you bring your camera?" he asks me.
I shake my head. "Blaine, this is William McKinley football; nothing interesting ever happens."