Chapter Text
“This is unacceptable.”
“Wes—”
“No, Blaine, let me talk. This is… completely unacceptable.”
There was a time when all of this was easy, and if Blaine tries to put a timestamp on the exact moment that ended, he’d probably place his finger on Nationals five years ago. High school always came with its unique brand of drama, but hindsight is 20/20, and looking at his life now, there’s nothing that Blaine misses more than being part of the Warblers and having that unique ability to step right onto a stage and belt his heart out — no band, no frills. Just a captive audience and the support of a group of guys he came to see as his brothers.
“Mr. Anderson has all of two days to finish recording this album before he leaves on his tour. We waited months for an opening at this studio specifically because we were told that its recording equipment is top of the line and that the final turnaround is twice as fast as it’d be at a larger studio. Yet you’re telling me that we’re being held up because of a computer crash?”
“We are incredibly sorry for the delay, Mr. Montgomery,” the assistant apologizes, a young redhead with cheeks burning a splotchy pink as she toys with a stray thread on her sleeve cuff. Blaine can’t help but smile sympathetically; she looks fresh out of college, if that, with her pumps remarkably unscuffed in spite of being half a size too large.
Seeing Wes raise a thumb to his brow with a harried look, Blaine steps forward, hand raised placatingly. “C’mon Wes,” he nudges, offering a wide and winning smile as he claps his hands together, palm pressed to palm. “I will personally promise to knock it out of the park tomorrow. We’ve only got six songs left to go, so all we need to do is to wrap one every other hour, and then I’m still on the plane by ten to make the first concert out in Chicago. Everything will be ready by tomorrow, right, Marissa?” He looks to the assistant for support.
The young woman heaves a sigh through her smile, nodding quickly, a few strands of hair falling free from its loosened knot. “Yes, Mr. Anderson, yes. Definitely. Our lead IT is out on vacation right now, but he’s in tomorrow morning and I guarantee that we’ll be ready to go at eight.”
“You guaranteed that we’d have this studio booked through midnight tonight,” Wes mutters.
Grinning, Blaine claps a heavy hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Hey, let’s just call it a day. I can’t even remember the last time I had an evening off, and I’m sure it was twice as long ago for you.”
The furrow in Wes’ brow lessens a touch, and his shoulders relax as he nods. “Fine,” he agrees. “But I want you in here at eight sharp, and I would prefer if my morning isn’t spent putting out fires from tonight.”
Already, Blaine’s stuffing his arms in the sleeves of his olive-toned pleather jacket. “I’ll be in my room, making no noise and pretending that I don’t exist,” he promises.
He lied. But Blaine’s pretty sure that no one can fault him for that. New York is perfect around this time of year, the leaves of the trees in Bryant Park tinged with red and gold and the chill of the evening cutting through his fringed flannel scarf as he weaves through the crowd unnoticed. Al Hirschfeld Theater is only a couple of blocks away, and when he manages to pass by the Times without being recognized, Blaine decides just to go for it, taking the risk and turning a sharp right onto 8th Ave.
The line is impressive.
Simply walking the length of the sidewalk — which, interestingly, earns him any number of glares as people wonder why he doesn’t take the other side of the road — helps Blaine collect the most pertinent facts. First of all, the production is a revival of 42nd Street, which may have been before Blaine’s time, but that certainly never stopped him from listening to the original Broadway soundtrack repeatedly for Lee Roy Reams’ smooth tenor. Secondly, the person of interest in said production happens to be playing the very same part, some guy named Kurt Hummel who Blaine thinks he might have heard of before, although he can’t quite remember where.
“Are you kidding me? You can’t spare the — Finn, this is Kurt we’re talking about here, and he’s playing a leading role of the sort that no one thought he could play in high school. You remember the whole West Side Story fiasco, don’t you?”
Blaine’s gaze turns to the side, where a petite brunette seems to be arguing with someone on her cell phone, sighing loudly enough to be heard even several feet away. She has one of those memorable faces, doe-like dark brown eyes and full lips, and suffice to say that if someone put them side by side, Blaine gets the feeling that their noses alone might have others mistaking them for relatives. Awkwardly, she looks up in time to catch him staring, and with a quick and embarrassed raise of his brows, Blaine looks forward and starts to move on.
Her voice cuts crisp through the air even with his second’s head start. “Okay, you know what, fortunately I think I’ve found a replacement, so you go ahead and stay at the garage, but you are still going to owe Kurt big, and don’t think I’m going to let you forget that,” she quickly speaks into her phone, before Blaine hears a snap of plastic. He’d move faster if it wouldn’t look so conspicuous.
“Wait!” she calls out, and he winces from behind his sunglasses; already, he can hear Wes’ scolding in the background. Fortunately, her voice lowers slightly by the time she catches up. “Aren’t you one of the Warblers? Show Choir National Championship, 2013?”
Blaine freezes and slowly turns around. “How did you—”
“It’s the eyebrows,” the brunette replies confidently, grinning broadly as she folds her hands in front of her bright yellow peacoat. “Otherwise, the lack of hair gel would have thrown me.And… the rest of New York City, apparently.”
He laughs, threading his hand through his considerable curls with a bashful smile. “Been meaning to get a trim,” he admits. “But it does come in handy if I ever want to prowl the Big Apple incognito.”
Raising her chin, the brunette shakes her head playfully. “Well, you can consider my lips sealed, Mr. Warbler. I have no intention of revealing your identity when we’ve practically a waiting mob behind us. Granted, probably a slightly different demographic than what your agent has you aiming for.”
Wes comes right back to mind, as do plenty of photoshoots with Teen Vogue and Cosmopolitan.
“Probably not,” he agrees, running a hand over his lips briefly before his fingers freeze in thought and his eyes narrow. “I know you from somewhere, don’t I? You’re not just a fan who’s done extensive research, we’ve actually met before.”
“Rachel Berry,” she chirps, smile like a thousand watts again. “Formerly of the McKinley High New Directions.”
“New Directions — wait — you were that team who performed original songs at Nationals in New York, right? I remember there was so much buzz about the—” Blaine falls silent, not sure that there’s really a polite way to refer to the lengthy and, in his opinion, rather unnecessary kiss inserted between the two songs.
She looks slightly abashed. “We were young,” she says.
Blaine’s quick to nod. “Yeah, no, I totally understand.” When she doesn’t reply right away, he glances around at the bustling crowd, a few pair of eyes aimed their way. “So did I make you lose your spot in line? I thought I remembered reading some update on the SCC forum about a role that you’d landed on Broadway — is it this production?”
Smiling through his confusion, Rachel beams and shakes her head. “Oh no, no, if I was performing in 42nd Street they’d have my hide for mingling outside so soon before the show. I’ve actually been rehearsing for my first leading role, but today’s all about Kurt. He’s my brother-in-law—” Blaine’s eyes flicker to her hand, but strangely, he sees no ring. “—so I had front row seats reserved long ago. And hey, my date just backed out on me, so if you’ve got a couple of hours free, you should totally join! I promise that the cast will blow you away.”
Raising in brows in disbelief at luck and coincidence alike, Blaine exhales between his lips and shrugs with a grin. “Sure, why not?”