Let me just begin by saying that this isn’t some fairytale where knights ride brilliant white stallions, huge lizards breathe fire, and poor, waifish and beautiful damsels sit locked up in towers for years waiting for someone to rescue them. Firstly because that’s all been said and done before, so there’s no need to repeat anything more. Secondly, this is the twenty-first century; the only white stallions you see people riding in nowadays are the ones with V8 engines, you can’t call any girl ‘damsel’ without either being extremely facetious or at a Renaissance Faire, and while dragons still exist, now they’re the lumbering, insult-spewing, Letterman jacket wearing type. And Thirdly, because out of all the reasons why this is not your typical fairytale this is the most important and deserves capitalization, this story is about something more than heroic deeds and fair maidens.
This story is about a boy and a cat. Well, sort of…really, you just need to follow along because I promise, I’ll explain everything.
Kurt Hummel was not having a good day. There were several reasons for this (the Neanderthals roaming the hallways who’d slushied him this morning and ruined his favorite McQueen scarf, the harsh grade he’d gotten back from his English teacher on a paper which told him Mr. Marco was having a ‘down’ day from his recent divorce, and of course Coach Sylvester making him feel fat in his Cheerios uniform…again), but currently it was because of Glee club. Kurt loved Glee, really he did, even with their insane amounts of drama, unrequited crushes and partner-swapping, but some days he felt like he was literally drowning in a sea of voices too consumed with themselves to even notice he was there. Today was one of those days, and per usual, it was because Mr. Schuester had a blatant inability to be fair when it came to song distribution.
Last week Mr. Schue had given them an assignment, as was his usual teaching method, to find a song that represented their ‘inner journey’ (Kurt was sure Mr. Schue has used the word ‘journey’ on purpose) as they prepared for Regionals. As someone who had been through quite the emotional and personal trip already in all his seventeen years, Kurt had actually been excited for this assignment, especially when Mr. Schue had promised that the winner would get their own solo at Regionals. Yes, Mr. Schue had used that particular lure on them before, but for some reason, Kurt thought that he might just be fair this round.
Sadly, he had not been fair. Everyone sang (and as they did have quite the talent pool, there were some very good performances to choose from) and Kurt had done an amazing rendition on Hugh Jackman’s The Boy Next Door—and still, there were Finn and Rachel standing up front, trying to defend why their songs had, yet again, awarded them two more solos at Regionals, on top of what they already had. Kurt knew he shouldn’t have felt cheated or more upset than usual (this was not the first or last time he would feel like something he deserved was ripped away from him), but on top of an already spectacularly shitty day, it was too much. He grabbed his bag, tried not to look at the ruined scarf he didn’t have the heart to throw away (and failed miserably), and rose from his seat, giving everyone in the room a disdainful glare before he stormed out of the room. He heard his name called out and ignored them, desperate to just get to his Navigator and for the whole, awful day to be over.
He didn’t make it even out of the school before a large, beefy shoulder checked him into a row of lockers with enough force he lost his footing. He grit his teeth and tried not to feel about an inch tall as a glance up told him Karofsky was the one smiling meanly down at him. Karofksy kicked his bag away and left with his cronies, all exchanging high-fives and victorious homophobic slurs loud enough for Kurt to hear on their way out. Kurt took a deep breath, ignoring the way his shoulder and arm stung from where they’d collided with the metal lockers, gathered up his things, and continued on his way to his car, his head down so he wouldn’t need to pretend his eyes hadn’t welled up.
It was a bad day, and the unfortunate thing was that it was also a normal day for Kurt Hummel—he blasted the Wicked soundtrack in his car, his go-to music whenever life in Lima, Ohio got just a little too rough, and made his way back home, wishing for the next day to be better.
Now, Kurt Hummel’s life isn’t all gloom and doom, though the snapshot we’ve just seen might suggest something to the contrary. That’s the funny thing about teenagers—they can make even a paper cut seem like an injury deserving of deep, introspective thoughts, if given the right mood.
Kurt Hummel was born different, but into a family that loved him. His father took some time to adjust, and he’ll be the first to tell you it wasn’t easy trying to find the middle ground between accepting your son for all he was while still reconciling how your own disappointments feel and can make your son feel. And then finding out those disappointments had never really mattered anyway—it was a complex thing to deal with. Luckily, Burt Hummel had plenty of time to do so because his son had never compromised who he was (save for that one moment when he first started dating Carole Hudson and there had been so much plaid). And as for his mother, well, Elizabeth Hummel was one of those rare, universally accepting souls who truly only wanted their loved ones to be happy. She had played dress up with Kurt, bought him that first pair of sensible heels, and told him stories that had brave knights finding princesses, brave princesses saving knights, and princes finding each other and how that was always all right.
Kurt’s mother died when he was eight and for a long time, he forgot those stories and the warmth his mother had given to him every day. But, lucky for him, the step-mother he got was just as kind and rare as his mother; Carole Hudson-Hummel made sure Kurt never felt unwanted and always right. She and Finn completed the hole in the Hummel family, and they filled their own gaping wound as well, and Kurt knew he was lucky to have such a wonderful family…even if one Finn Hudson was an obnoxious idiot whom Kurt tried to ignore he had once, for some reason, thought himself in love with.
Kurt’s friends were also not always so obtuse and self-involved. In fact, they were generally the best group of people one could hope to find, the type of people you remember years down the road with equal measures fondness and exasperation. They were the first group of people outside his mother and father who accepted him as he was, even if some took longer than others to realize that. And he loved them, even Santana Lopez (and you will see why this is said with a qualifier), and they loved him too. The problem with teenagers though is that they forget this detail when things get bad and unfortunately, as wonderful as some aspects of Kurt’s life are, things became very bad. Those dragons I mentioned earlier? Well one in particular had decided to focus his own rage and inner hatred on poor Kurt, and when no one seems to notice or understand, things get dark, no matter the bright spots.
But, remember, I mentioned this story is also about a cat, not just a boy—and that’s where things start to get interesting.
The next day proved to be slightly better than the previous, but Kurt still felt heavy and burdened; his shoulders were hunched in preparation of locker slams he knew were lurking around corners somewhere. He had not been slushied, which meant his vintage Marc Jacobs bag was still fabulous, and he probably wouldn’t be since he was wearing his Cheerios uniform today. Sue Sylvester was a terrifying woman, but she did provide protection for her Cheerios against the ignoramus idiots at McKinley. Mercedes and Tina had both had lunch with him and it was nice to gossip with both of them outside of Glee club, and Cheerios practice had gone perfectly—Sue only called them incompetent once and might’ve even smiled a little watching their routine.
By the time Glee club rolled around, however, Kurt had been shoved into a drinking fountain by Karofsky, likely bruising his hipbone, and was starting to feel the familiar, hopeless cloud wander back over his head. He hated that cloud and tried his best to ignore it, but once Rachel got up and started harping about people’s voices not blending well with hers in the background swaying, it was fully settled over him. He sighed and took out his design sketch book and began tracing out cuts for a jacket he saw in Vogue that he was pretty confident he could make for himself. He happily sketched and ignored how Santana nearly lunged for Rachel when the short diva made some disparaging comments about Santana’s personal life (which wasn’t anything harsher than the truth, but still, probably not Rachel’s smartest comment), but when Mr. Schue called out for their attention, he glanced up like the manners his mother taught him told him to do.
“Guys, guys guys! We are way too close to Regionals to be fighting like this—now, I know a few of you weren’t happy with how the assignment went yesterday, and maybe you’re right, maybe I am giving too much focus to some of the people in this club over others.” Kurt rolled his eyes and dropped his gaze back down to his sketch pad as Mr. Schuester uttered out his most predictable ‘we have to work together, I appreciate all of you’ speech. Kurt practically had this speech memorized with the number of times he’d given it out to New Directions. “So, I have a new assignment for you. I want each of you to find a song that fits the last assignment, but it can’t be in the same genre that you picked last time. So Rachel, no Barbra or Broadway, Finn, no rock, and so on.”
There was a moment of silence before everyone started talking at once—Kurt kept on sketching.
“I thought you said we have to pick songs that make us sound good, or whatever.” Finn sounded confused and a little worried.
“Broadway songs are the songs that most aptly portray the struggles and tribulations I have gone through all my life! Mr. Schuester, you can’t just—!”
“I am not singing some white-toast pop songs!”
“I didn’t know songs were animals and had groups…”
“That’s genus not genres, Brittany—how do you remember that but not how to tie your shoes?”
“—stifling my talent just because some people whine about not getting solos. Do you know how hard I work for all of my solos?!”
“I swear, Hobbit, if you keep whining about yourself I will personally show where I keep all the razorblades up in my hair!”
Kurt closed his sketch book, glancing around at the chaos that had enveloped the choir room yet again and Mr. Schuester looking lost at how to stop it. He huffed and set his things down on the floor before climbing up to stand on his chair; he took a deep breath and stuck two fingers in his mouth before giving a long and piercing whistle. The talking stopped again and Kurt glowered down at the other twelve pairs of eyes in the room as they all turned to look up at him. He tilted his head to the side and gave everyone his very best ice-queen stare and finally spoke his mind.
“Instead of yelling and complaining about the assignment, shouldn’t you all just be happy you have another chance to try and get a solo? Even though, I admit, it is incredibly unlikely the outcome of this assignment will be any different from the first, I’m sorry to say Mr. Schue, but at least he’s trying to show some semblance of equality. And, even though I think this is all a huge waste of time, I think all of our in-fighting is a worse distraction from winning at Regionals.” He took a deep breath and stepped down from his chair, grabbing his bag from the ground and daring anyone, even Mr. Schue, to try and say anything. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a song to find.”
And, not without a little bit of flair, he stomped out of the choir room for the second time that week—he actually felt a little better. It felt good to get out some of his hurt and frustration at his bullying situation with Karofsky and the fact that he was seventeen and felt as lonely as a pining widower. Even if that meant throwing Mr. Schuester under the bus—actually, that was a bonus. He had a slight bounce to his step and encountered no one on his walk back to his Navigator, which meant he was in a good mood as he drove to his favorite music store.
Rosie’s Records was an old store that sold just as many dusty records as it did CDs and tapes; it was in the middle of a strip of storefronts in Lima’s ‘old-town’ district; Kurt liked shopping at the different antique and specialty shops when he was looking for something unique, whether that was clothing or music. His mother had loved that record store and had taken him there hundreds of times when he’d been little; Rosie still remembered Kurt and his mother whenever he stopped in and would always give him a hug when he stopped in. There was a small area outside her shop that Kurt liked to sit in as well; he hesitated to call it a park because it was about as big as the record store itself, but there were a few trees, flowerbeds, and small walkways that had a number of benches to sit on. There was a half-hidden alcove off to the side of the record shop that he remembered eating ice cream with his mother as she hummed all different kinds of songs to him—it was a nice place to go and have quiet.
When he got to the storefronts and found parking outside one of the vintage collector shops, he saw that the record shop had a ‘be right back’ sign on the door; he debated going home and looking for something through his own music, but going home meant tomorrow would be here too soon. He grabbed his bag and headed across the street to the small park, nearly tripping over a cat as he went; he pulled out his phone and shot a quick text to his dad to let him know where he was before silencing the phone and shoving it to the bottom of his bag. He walked down the entrance pathway in the park and then hooked a right past a small, vine covered wall that partially hid a white bench from view. He sank down and was content to rest his head back against the honeysuckle growing along the wall, enjoying the quiet hum of the record shop’s air condition unit and a lone mockingbird up in one of the trees.
Kurt wasn’t one for pity-parties, but he indulged in a small woe-is-me tirade inside his head for a few moments. Woe that his mother was dead, woe that he wasn’t the son his father may have wanted (even though he was mostly over that one due to his dad’s amazing acceptance); woe that he was never going to have a competition solo with New Directions and woe that he was a gay boy growing up in Ohio. Woe that he was likely going to go his entire high school career without ever having a boyfriend or a kiss that counted (because Brittany’s kisses certainly did not count). That one stung the worst lately—it was hard sitting in the choir room during Glee rehearsals and seeing Tina wrapped up on Mike’s lap and not feel a twinge of jealousy. Quinn and Sam had been sickeningly adorable when they’d been going out, and now she was constantly draped over Finn as Rachel shot longing fazes their way, gazes she never had to worry the wrong person might see. Artie and Brittany had been sweet and Kurt was a little ashamed to say he was glad they had broken up because then there was at least one less couple he had to see—though, watching Santana not-so-secretly pine for Brittany wasn’t fun for anyone.
Kurt didn’t think he was one of those people who felt like he had to be with someone, but he still longed for it, dreamt about it, wished for it. He’d never felt the rush of realizing the person you liked, liked you back or the sparks of a first kiss that mattered. He comforted himself with the thought that he could have those in New York but…that was years away still. It wasn’t fair he had to wait until then to experience anything real. He sighed and started to dream of someone who would be as brave, like his dad said, who wouldn’t worry about what others would think and would be proud to be with him, and it was just starting to seem like a possible fantasy when he felt something warm and soft brush up against his shin.
He sat up and jerked out of his daydream and looked down, eyes wide as his surprise coursed its way through him. Down, sitting ever so politely by his feet was a snowy-white cat, maybe the same he nearly tripped over in the road, a fluffy tail twitching gently behind it and great golden eyes blinking up at Kurt. The cat was pure white, save for the black patches on its feet and some black markings alongside the top of its head—it had a bow-tie on for a collar, one that was dark blue with maroon trim all along it. Kurt smiled as the last of his surprise left him, and leant down to the bow-tie, fingering the name tag that looked like silver and was attached to the bow-tie. “Blaine?”
The cat purred in response to his name and nudged at Kurt’s leg again. Kurt laughed and started scratching along the cat’s ears and neck, his smile widening at the happy noises the cat made and how he tilted back his head to let Kurt scratch at his throat. “Where did you come from?”
Kurt peeked around the edge of the vined wall to see if any of the shop-owners were out and looking, but no one was. Blaine was obviously well cared for though, and his collar suggested a wealthy family—he knew engraved name plate collars weren’t cheap—but there didn’t seem to be anyone looking for him. He glanced back down and smoothed his hand down Blaine’s back, letting the cat’s smooth fur and rhythmic purring distract him. “Are you lost?”
Blaine meowed but didn’t have any other answer for Kurt. “Well, we can try and find your owner; I bet he’s worried about you.”
The cat flicked his tail and gave him the feline equivalent of rolling his eyes, which made Kurt laugh again as he stood up. He leant down and opened his arms jokingly, but Blaine meowed loudly and trotted out of the alcove and back towards the storefronts. Kurt grabbed his bag and hurried after him, not wanting the cat to get hit by a car in traffic. Blaine seemed to know exactly where he was going though, and looked back once at Kurt before meowing in front of the record shop. Kurt looked down at the cat and then back up to the store, noticing Rosie must’ve come back during his pity-session. Blaine came back and wrapped around his feet before heading back towards the shop’s front door, meowing again before pawing at the door. Kurt stared, a little dumbfounded at the cat’s behavior, before he hurried to comply with the cat’s demands and pushed the door open for him.
Kurt steeped into the store after him and looked up as Rosie, the sixty-five year old shop owner who raved about the days she was a hippie at Woodstock in the sixties and kept her silver hair long and braided. Kurt adored her hair, along with the rest of her. “Did you get a cat, Rosie?”
Rosie glanced down at Blaine before she cooed and picked up the cat, who did not seem to be as enthused about her holding him as she did. “No, he’s Annabelle’s down the street, but isn’t he just a darling? Apparently she got sick of keeping him cooped up at home when she went to work all day.”
Kurt knew who Annabelle was—she was the woman who ran the metaphysical store down the street and always wore an unfortunate combination of earth tone skirts. Kurt had tried to convince her to try some pastels to brighten her complexion, but she had just laughed him off and whipped her long braid at him. “I haven’t seen him before though, does he usually wander around?”
“I think she just recently began bringing him to work with her, I just let him in whenever he wanders by. What brings you here, sweetheart? Your daddy feeling any better after that scare of his?”
“Yes he is, thank you.” Kurt smiled at the genuine relief that passed over her face—he really needed to make a point of visiting her more often; his dad’s heart attack had been almost five months ago but the only time he’d seen Rosie in between was at his dad’s and Carole’s wedding. With Cheerios and Glee club on top of his school work though, he just didn’t have a lot of free time to visit her as often. “I’m actually here because of an assignment for Glee club; I was hoping to find a song to sing tomorrow, our director wants us to go outside our comfort zone.”
Rosie set down the cat and walked into the backroom, calling out to him as she went. “That fool of a man going to give you some spotlight finally?”
Kurt snorted a little darkly, but only Blaine could see so he didn’t care. “Unlikely—maybe if I find the perfect song to sing.”
“Well, what were you thinking? Blues? Jazz? Good old fashioned rock and roll?”
“I don’t know—I was thinking Beatles, but I’ve already—I don’t know.” The last time Kurt sang Beatles had been when his father had been in a coma…and the time before that it had been when he was eleven and missed his mother terribly after an awful first day of middle school. His face drew down and he thumbed listlessly through some of The Ramones vinyls, not really looking at them.
“Beatles were your mama’s favorite—I remember nearly every weekend you two would come in here that’s where she’d go without fail. Some music just speaks to you.” Rosie’s voice drowned out near the end as she shuffled farther into the backroom. Kurt smiled softly at the records and remembered her singing soft strains of Hey Jude or Eleanor Rigby. His leg was nudged again and Kurt looked down at Blaine’s big, golden eyes as the cat meowed at him. Kurt knelt down and pet the cat again, who did enjoy it but seemed only half interested this time; up close, his eyes looked more hazel than gold, the green flecks deep within the amber. Kurt didn’t know cats could have hazel eyes.
Blaine meowed at him a few more times before he pushed off Kurt’s knee and walked back after Rosie, tail flicking back and forth in what was clear frustration. Kurt smiled after the cat and got up from his crouched position. He turned to flick through a couple of older Broadway soundtracks, knowing he couldn’t chose one of the songs, when he heard Rosie make a victorious sound that quickly devolved into cooing noises as she headed back into the store, Blaine following close on her heels and meowing up at her, his head titled up so his bow-tie was in full view. He was unreal—Kurt had never seen a cat that was so chatty before. Blaine looked back at him for a moment before sitting down as Rosie continued forward, a cassette tape in her hands.
“I think this should do the trick, should work with your voice perfectly—your mama used to sing this all the time. And I’ll have you know it was this little devil,” she motioned back towards Blaine, who was cleaning his paw almost bashfully, “who came in and started scratching at this one. I swear, in all my days I have never met a cat quite as opinionated as this guy, but I have to agree with his excellent taste here.”
She handed the dusty tape over to him and when he looked down at the faded label, something warm and clenching gripped his heart and throat. He didn’t bother keeping the tears from welling in his eyes in the safety of the store, and they were good tears anyway; he remembered his mother singing this song. The lyrics rose in his mind effortlessly and they fit just a little too neatly in his life at the moment, like Beatles songs always did. Rosie squeezed his shoulder bracingly when his voice came out higher and wispier than usual. “Blackbird.”
“Now, that’s just the guitar, not Paul singing, but sometimes less is more.”
He nodded, his mind already going over how he could adapt the song to his range from McCartney’s, and he looked back up at Blaine, who had given up all pretenses of cleaning and was staring back at him cautiously. Kurt laughed in a breathless sort of way and nodded his head down at the cat in an exaggeratingly grateful nod. “Well, thank you Mr. Blaine. I agree with Rosie here, you have excellent taste.”
Blaine purred and nodded, graciously, back.
Into the light of the dark, black night.
Now, I know what you all are thinking. There is something odd about that bow-tie wearing cat. And you would be entirely correct, as I’m sure is of little surprise to any of you.
Blaine is not an ordinary cat, just as Kurt is not an ordinary boy. Blaine had listened to Kurt’s voice and had watched him in that record shop when he thought no one but a cat was watching. And while he was correct in that assumption, he was incorrect in assuming that Blaine was only a cat. Blaine had watched how Kurt’s shoulders had drooped, had seen how sad and lost he looked sitting in that alcove by himself, had felt an ache at how sure he was that he wouldn’t get a solo, which ate at him. He hadn’t heard him yet, but even then Blaine knew that Kurt had to have had a beautiful voice—boys who talked and looked like Kurt Hummel did could only have beautiful voices, Blaine knew that without a doubt.
Looking at Kurt was almost like looking at the moon, and while Blaine had only recently come into the disposition, being a cat gave him a certain affinity for the moon. It was as if Kurt didn’t, couldn’t, believe it of himself though—Blaine knew all too well what it felt like when you were at your lowest and just wanted one person to understand. It also helped that Kurt and Rosie struck up a conversation about the Beatles and Blaine had happened to listen to the album recently and knew the perfect song for Kurt. The smile and playful nod Kurt had given him in response to the tape had given him butterflies and made him feel better about himself, better than he’d felt in a long time.
Blaine was in a predicament, as I’m sure you’ve come to realize, much like Kurt was with all the worries and dragons that followed him. And what Blaine had realized, because he knew much more than Kurt did at this point, was that maybe they had each found what was necessary to save them.
But, alas, we’re getting ahead of ourselves. One thing at a time, and the time we must focus on now, is Kurt’s.
Kurt’s Blackbird performance reduced half of the choir room to tears (including himself, but if Rachel Berry is allowed to cry when she sings, Kurt Hummel sure as hell is too) and the other half to awed silence. It was the first time there hadn’t been a need for the traditional post-assignment vote—Kurt sat there stunned as everyone, Rachel included, agreed he should have one of the solos at Regionals. He’d laughed, cried, and maybe squealed a little bit, in excitement and gratitude, and later, when he and Finn broke the news to his dad and Carole later, who both decided a celebration as in order and took both of them out to dinner. It had felt wonderful, and his dad had been looking at him, so proud of him and what he’d fought for—Kurt decided then and there he owed certain someones big-time.
Which found him back at Rosie’s the following Friday with a homemade razzleberry pie for Rosie (her favorite) and a new bow-tie collar he’d made for Blaine, this one a lively poppy red with butter yellow polka-dots. He held it out for Blaine, who sniffed it curiously before nudging Kurt’s hand and purring loudly.
“I guess he likes it.” Rosie chuckled and went to put the pie in the backroom, leaving Kurt out front with Blaine. “Do you want me to swap out your old one for this?”
Blaine stopped purring and ducked his head down, his tail swishing a little quick, giving way to his nervousness; Kurt cooed and hummed a little, which Blaine listened to with rapt attention. Then, unmistakably, he nodded and tilted his head back, sitting prim and proper for Kurt to switch out his current bow-tie collar. Kurt stared for a moment, suddenly unsure himself and feeling as if he’d just been granted a large amount of trust he’d been unprepared for, before he unclipped the collar and set about attaching the engraved name tag to the new collar. “You know, you’re very dapper for a cat. I think you have better manners than most people do.”
Blaine purred in response and hesitated for a second before he gave Kurt’s wrist a small kitten lick. Kurt didn’t know why that felt so important, but it did. He let out a soft, happy laugh and scratched behind Blaine’s ears the way he knew the cat liked. “There, all set. I really like the way this one brings out the color of your eyes, really makes them pop, you know?”
Kurt giggled at his silliness and Blaine blinked up happily at him—if cats could smile, Kurt was sure that was what Blaine would be doing. He continued to sit on the record store and pet Blaine, letting the classic sounds of Ella Fitzgerald surround him and he felt more at peace than he remembered being in a long time. He was so content that he didn’t notice someone had walked inside until he heard a throat clear; he started and looked up, meeting amused green eyes. “Annabelle, hi!”
“Hi…Kurt, right?” Kurt nodded and hurriedly got to his feet; he didn’t miss the way Blaine growled unhappily up at Annabelle, who he apparently blamed for the end to the petting. “Nice to see you’re keeping this guy company. Hasn’t been bothering you too much, has he?”
“Blaine? Oh no, he’s perfect. Isn’t that right? I was just telling him how dapper he is for a cat, he didn’t squirm or anything when I replaced his collar.” Annabelle looked down and quirked a smile at the new bow-tie around Blaine’s neck; Blaine met her gaze and nodded up at her.
“Did you make that for him?”
“Oh, yes, I did. He ah, well, he and Rosie helped me last week when I was having a bit of a rough day. Just wanted to say thank you—he seemed to like it.” Kurt smiled before looking back down at Blaine, who had curled around his feet and currently had a tail wrapped around his calf almost possessively. Cats were odd animals, but Kurt could definitely see the similarities between himself and them. “I think it’s more he keeps me company.”
“Mmhmm. Well, he’s certainly taken a shine to you. Is Rosie around?”
“Oh, she’s in the back.”
“Thanks…keep an eye on this guy for me, Kurt, will you? He seems to like it much more over here than in my store anyway.” Kurt nodded and Annabelle gave them smiles, and reached down to, well, not quite pet, but more than a touch to Blaine’s cheek, around the whiskers. Then, she was gone; both Kurt and Blaine stared after her and met each other’s eyes. “Well, she’s a little odd herself, isn’t she? I see where you get it from.”
Kurt stuck his tongue out playfully between his teeth as Blaine meowed up at him, clearly not as amused.
If you think we are only at the beginning, you are correct, once again. But all things, good or bad, tend to come in threes you know.