#Figureskating!Blaine/designer!Kurt Olympics AU

[wowbright]

Chapter 13: Feeling

Figureskating!Blaine/designer!Kurt Olympics AU for december klaine fanworks challenge. Also on AO3.

They didn’t end up at Garden of the Gods after their high tea. They toured the rest of Miramont Castle, Kurt expressing simultaneous delight and horror the building’s eclectic mishmash of Queen Anne, Romanesque, English Tudor, Venetian Gothic, Byzantine, and half a dozen other architectural styles. “I can't figure out any rhyme or reason to it. He just threw in whatever he liked with no regard for aesthetic unity. It's hideous. I love it! I mean, I could never live here. It's an architectural identity crisis. Two completely different styles of window in a single stairwell? It would kill me. But the audacity! The chutzpah! I hate his vision, but at least he had one.”

Just listening to Kurt made joy bubble up inside Blaine. Kurt was a delight. A force of nature. Blaine imagined how much more entertaining his visits to Turino and Vancouver, Tokyo and Sapporo and Nagano, Paris and Goyang and Gothenburg would have been with Kurt in tow, providing color commentary on all the sights and sounds and smells of each city, relishing even in the things that repelled him because their newness was enough to cause delight. He wished Kurt was going with him to Sochi. It was beautiful and strange and tacky and sad and utterly fascinating. Kurt would be so alive in it.

Almost a week later, they finally made it to Garden of the Gods. It had been a long week, the excitement of the looming games overshadowed too often by dull meetings, bickering between Sue and Sebastian, and that annoying young punk Sam Evans, who refused to let Blaine forget he had been named to the first spot, while Blaine only made it on the roster this Olympics because the third choice’s hip injury flared up after the nationals championships. Blaine tried to act like the adult he was and overlook the “gramps” and the “old man” and “Jar Jar” (because the first thing he’d said to Blaine upon arriving in Colorado Springs was “You’re kind of like Jar Jar Binks, though, aren’t you? Because nobody actually wanted you in the sequel.”) He kept telling himself that Sam was a kid who was clearly overcompensating for his insecurities about launching his senior career with the eyes of the entire world on him. Blaine had been sixteen once, and just as insecure.

On the other hand, Blaine hadn’t been an asshole. And he had never, ever thought it would be a good idea to waggle his hips on the ice like a second-rate nightclub stripper to a weird, saxophone-heavy instrumental mashup of Justin Bieber's greatest hits. When Blaine had politely suggested Sam tone down on the thrusting, the kid had come back with, “You’re not my coach, gramps. Sex sells. You’re just jealous because you’re an old geezer whose lost all his testosterone and his sex appeal.”

The kid was horned up and classless and, worst of all, rude. How was he competing for a spot in the team event with this brat?

But no. Blaine was not going to think about that. It was a perfect, sunny day, the light of the winter sun sloping through the red rock formations at low angles that painted crisp shadows against the snow.

Even better, he was here with Kurt Hummel: beautiful, delightful, amazing Kurt. They hadn't gotten nearly enough time together since the high tea—which means they saw each other every day but not all day, Blaine visiting the costume studio even when it wasn't strictly necessary, and Kurt hanging out at practices even when he might have been exploring the tourist spots, and eating meals together when they could (but very often not alone, thanks Sue and Sebastian and the entire U.S. figure skating team), and Blaine even inviting Kurt back to his apartment only to find that Mike and Kitty had formed an encampment in front of the television for a marathon session of watching the routines of every single competing pair they would face in Sochi. So he and Kurt had joined them instead of enjoying a quiet dinner like Blaine had planned and maybe, if Blaine was allowed to dream, enjoying each other in a different way that Blaine had to stop himself from imagining every time Kurt helped him remove the latest iteration of his costume.

“Thanks for bringing me here,” Kurt said as they made their way down the trail between two towering pillars of vividly striped rock. “I never would have thought to come on my own.”

“No?”

Kurt shrugged. “City boy. I forget it can be nice to be out in nature. I mean, I could do without feeling like my nose is about to fall off my face, but it really is pretty. And quiet. And …” he sighed contentedly.

“Here. I wouldn't want your nose to disappear.” Blaine tugged his scarf from his neck and draped it around Kurt’s, folding it gently to form a pocket of warm air over Kurt’s lower face. It felt both bold and easy—easy because they had stood this close many times as Kurt measured Blaine’s body or draped fabric over it or adjusted this and that bit of his costume, so that sharing such a close space had become second nature; bold because it was now Blaine doing the reaching out and touching.

“Usually, I would complain about this not coordinating with my carefully curated ensemble. But it's Burberry. And cashmere. So I’ll make an exception.” Kurt's eyes danced above the fabric, a dazzling contrast of blue and green above the pale yellows and grays of the checked scarf. “But what about your nose?”

In answer, Blaine reached into his collar and pulled the fabric of this turtleneck up over his chin. It was long enough that he could cover his whole face with it if he wanted to. He had, in fact, chosen it in the very hope that he might lose his scarf to Kurt. “I came prepared for every possibility.”

Kurt smiled. Blaine couldn't see his mouth of course, but he could see his eyes and the way they narrowed as Kurt’s cheekbones lifted, the skin on the outer edges crinkling into deep, happy furrows.

“You’re …” Blaine started to say, but the words caught in his throat. That’s how beautiful Kurt was. It made Blaine forget how to speak.

“I’m …?” Kurt said—curiously, not flirtatiously. He clearly had no idea what was going on inside Blaine at this moment.

Blaine shook his head to loosen his tongue. It only half worked. He couldn't get the words I out that he’d meant to. But the ones he spoke were perhaps even more inspired. “I want you in Sochi with me.”

Kurt stopped in his tracks.

“I mean, if you're free. If you want to. If you—” Was this another case of Blaine diving into concrete? It had really looked like water to him. “I fully trust you can get everything done before we go, but I think … I think I would feel better having you there. You're the only one who—”

“—knows the costumes well enough to fix them if you need any last-minute repairs?”

That was not what Blaine had been trying to say, but it was true. “Yes. And you understand my vision. Besides … seeing you at Miramont Castle, I couldn't help but think how much you would enjoy yourself there.”

Kurt’s eyes went wide. “You’ve been there before? And it’s transcendently tacky?”

“Only parts of it,” Blaine chuckled. “It’s mostly because you appreciate things that are … different, or— I don’t know. You just appreciate things in a way I’ve never seen anyone do before. And I … I just thought, we really should have you there anyway, because what if something changes? What if I hear something or feel something new and I have a sudden fit of artistic inspiration and you’re not there to help me bring it to life? And then I go do my programs and yes, of course the costumes are beautiful, because you made them, and they say most of the things I wanted to say, but there’s something else and … ” Blaine looked down at the dirt peeking through the tracks in the snow. He was so frustrated with himself. He wasn’t making himself clear at all. He probably sounded crazy. A needy prima donna demanding too much. “We’ll pay you, of course. And flights and lodgings and meals. An interpreter if you want. I know it must be an incredible inconvenience. But you’re so inspiring and …”

Blaine looked up. And Kurt was there, looking back at him. Blaine saw the answer in his eyes. Kurt was right there with him. He didn't think Blaine was crazy at all. “I'd love to go,” Kurt said quietly, his voice gentle and reassuring like the waves lapping up on Cabrillo Beach at low tide. He tugged Blaine’s arm, and pulled him forward, and Blaine’s heart started to pound out of his chest because he wanted to kiss Kurt so badly but also maybe he should have had a Tic Tac first and also would Kurt think that his bubble gum-flavored chapstick was gross and also there was a group of gruff evangelical conservatives just 50 yards ahead, and the one who looked like he was in the military was loudly explaining how the sedimentary lines were all formed in the great flood of Genesis 6 through 9 and—

It turned out Kurt’s face was not the destination he had intended for Blaine. Because Kurt stepped forward too, or backward—well, in the same direction Blaine was moving, so that they stayed the same distance apart—and Blaine realized that they were not kissing in the brilliant winter sun of the Garden of the Gods. They were walking again.

“So,” Kurt said. “How many times have you been to Sochi?”

It took a moment for Blaine to regain his bearings. He had to replay the question twice in his brain in order to understand it. “I've been to the Russia lots. But Sochi only once. The Grand Prix was held there last season.”

“Ah,” Kurt said with a tone of—disappointment? Not in Blaine, but like he had made some sort of faux pas. “I should probably know that.”

Oh. Blaine didn’t like the expression on Kurt’s face. It was almost sad. He never wanted Kurt to be sad. He stepped a little closer to Kurt, let their shoulders brush. “I kind of like that you don’t.”

Kurt still looked kind of sad. But also curious. “Is it hard?”

“What?”

“People knowing so much about you before you’ve even met them.”

It was and it wasn't. Blaine had spent so much of his life in the limelight that he had become used to it. And it wasn't like he was Brad Pitt or Obama or the Pope. He didn't get recognized by every single person every single place he went. The times when it was hard was when people thought they already knew him—when they filtered everything he said and did through the picture of him they had already built in their minds based on public appearances and TV broadcasts and news clippings—when nothing he said or did could surprise them, because they had already decided not to be surprised.

“Nobody knows who I am before I've met them,” Blaine said. “Sometimes they don't even know after they've met me.”

Kurt was silent. Blaine listened to the sound of their shoes crunching against the snow.

“I hope I don't make you feel like that,” Kurt said.

Blaine’s campaign to cheer Kurt up was totally failing. He could do better. “You don't make me feel like that at all, Kurt. You make me feel like … Talking to you, it feels like … like I’m new. To you. And to me, too. And you’re new, and fascinating, and … it’s like I'm discovering a part of the world that was always there but I never knew existed. Even myself, when we talk, when you ask me questions and you listen—you really listen, Kurt, you make me feel like the things I say are actually interesting and surprising and even delightful—it’s like I'm remembering things I forgot about myself or never even knew.”

Blaine looked at Kurt, and for the first time since he had draped Kurt in his scarf, he wished he could see more of Kurt’s face. There was something in Kurt’s eyes that Blaine felt like he would be just on the edge of understanding, if only he could see more.

“You are interesting and surprising and delightful,” Kurt said solemnly. “And you make me feel that way too.” He glanced over his shoulder before giving Blaine’s hand a quick squeeze, then let go. In a low whisper, he added, “I want it to be out in the open, though. I might not have been a super fan who tracked your every media mention in elaborately decorated scrapbooks and curated Delicio.us lists. But I did have some preconceived notions about you.”

A tiny flutter like panic quickened in Blaine’s chest. What if they were bad? No, he was being stupid. He knew it was stupid. Kurt's tone was soft, silky, alluring. That wasn't the voice of someone who was about to say something mean to you. And even if Kurt used to think bad things about him, it shouldn't matter, because Kurt certainly seemed to like him okay now. But still— Blaine made a quick verbal counter turn. “Well, I had some ideas about you, too.”

“You didn't know who I was.”

“Not for as long as you knew about me, but I saw your portfolio, and it spoke to me. And Sebastian told me some things.”

“Oh, Christ on a cracker. That couldn't have been good.”

“Quite the opposite. He told me you were dedicated and hardworking and witty, and that you always stuck to your principles, and that I should trust you, because he trusted you, and he does not trust very many people.”

“Really? Sebastian said all that?”

“Really. It was so glowing that—” Despite the cold, Blaine felt heat rising to his cheeks. “I asked him if he had feelings for you.”

The scarf loosened around Kurt’s face as he wrinkled up his nose. “Oh. God, no. It's never been like that with us.”

“That's what he told me. I believe the exact words were something like ‘Don't get me wrong, I would totally bang him if he would just uncross his legs for two seconds and let me, but the difference between you and me, Blaine, is that I know the difference between romance and sex.’”

“Sounds like Sebastian,” Kurt said. Well, at least the Sebastian he had known all his life until the previous Sunday morning. Apparently for the new Sebastian, romance and sex were starting to overlap, at least a tiny bit. “And I'm sorry he told you so many lies about me.”

“You know they aren’t, Kurt. You're all that, and then some.”

“Well, then.” Kurt looked away, his eyes batting like Bambi’s. He was so adorable when he was flummoxed. “You subject me to all that overwhelming flattery, but you won’t let me tell you my preformed impressions of you?”

Ah. So Kurt had noticed the counter turn. Apparently he was getting to know Blaine even better than Blaine had thought. Blaine momentarily closed his eyes against the bright sun and took a deep breath. “Okay, fine. Hit me with your worst.”

“Well, you're a wonderful skater, obviously. I mean, I know that can’t mean anything to you coming from me, I don't have the expertise to judge but ... I always feel something when I watch you skate. Figure skating doesn't always feel like art to me—maybe that's why I've focused more on costuming for ice dance until now—but it does, when I watch you. You have all this ... generosity and passion inside of you, and it spills out onto the ice. It's mesmerizing. And not just because you're incredibly good-looking.”

Blaine made a sharp inhale. “You think I'm good-looking?” He was not being coy. He was, on some level, honestly surprised. Even though they’d been flirting, even though he knew Kurt felt something about him on some level because he’d pretty much said so not three minutes ago, it felt revelatory. To have the words spoken—that made it real. Kurt Hummel, the most beautiful man the world had ever seen, thought Blaine Anderson was visually appealing.

Kurt laughed. “Well, yes. That's one of the other prejudices I might have brought into our first meeting.”

“I think I'm okay with that,” Blaine said, delight coiling his muscles. “Though you’ve seen me without make-up on now. And exhausted. And impatient with Sue. So I suppose I’ve managed to dissuade you a bit from your previous position.”

“Oh, no,” Kurt said—only it didn't really sound like words, but more like breath, or the sound of the air breezing through a crack in the rocks. “I find you quite attractive. Much more than I ever could have imagined anyone to be.”

[wowbright]

Chapter 14: Shatter

Figureskating!Blaine/designer!Kurt Olympics AU for december klaine fanworks challenge. Also on AO3.

Kurt missed Blaine. He missed his smile and his voice and the way he bashfully batted his eyelashes and his smell—oh, he smelled wonderful, like fresh air and ice and perfectly ripe raspberries with a dash of cloves and sandalwood, everything melding together into a distinctive blend that Kurt just wanted to bask in. Kurt could just be going along innocently minding his own business, and suddenly he would get a sweet whiff of something that reminded him of Blaine, blindsiding him, and he was left there, pining and desperate to touch Blaine, or at least to feel his presence.

Like just now, as Kurt guided a seam through the sewing machine, and a bit of Blaine’s scent wafted up from the fabric he had donned and doffed a dozen times now, each time imbuing the fibers with a little bit more of his heat and himself. It struck Kurt right in the center of the brain where the on-off switch for longing was located.

Kurt's mind flooded with images: Outside at the Garden of the Gods, Blaine’s body outlined against the pink rock, his eyes dancing, those nonsensical and beautiful words bubbling out of his mouth (You make me feel like I'm new) and everything inside Kurt that had ever yearned to be close to another person, and even parts of him that had never yearned for it, seemed to well up within him like a wave tumbling toward the shore. In the tea room, everything disappearing but Blaine’s face and his smile and his warmth—a warmth so strong it radiated out across the table and the silverware and the bergamot-scented air and nestled right around Kurt’s heart. And those eyes, once again, earlier this morning in the studio, watching with rapt attention as Kurt worked, as if there was something beautiful and exquisite in the way that Kurt thought and the way his hands moved.

This morning. It hadn't even been a full four hours since Kurt had seen Blaine, and he ached for him. They hadn't been able to have lunch together, that was all. Everyone was getting ready to leave for Sochi, and on top of that there were interviews and prerecorded television spots and photo shoots to contend with. If Kurt thought this was bad, it was going to be much worse in Sochi. But at least in Sochi he would have a dizzying array of landmarks and languages and street signs he was completely incapable of deciphering to busy his mind.

The door swung open. Kurt did not have to look up to know it was not Blaine. Blaine approached doors more cautiously, and he did not stomp his feet when entering a room. “Another package for you,” said the familiar voice,  world-weary and cantankerous. “What's with all these packages? You didn’t have enough fabric in that trousseau of yours? I needed two strong men to carry that in when you first got here. Gay Blaine is strong, but he can’t skate in all that.”

“Hello Becky.” Kurt looked up at Sue’s assistant. “You seemed to enjoy watching those two strong men carry in my ‘trousseau’ very much. So I don't see what you’re complaining about.”

“They were okay. My boyfriend’s hotter.” Becky threw a large envelope onto the table next to his sewing machine.

“Hey, careful! You never know what's in those envelopes. What if it was a package of custom-made glass sequins?”

“They would shatter,” Becky said drolly. “Duh.”

“Exactly. And it's not like I would have time to order new ones at this point.”

Becky huffed. “But it’s not sequins. It's fabric. See?” She grabbed the package, wriggling and scrunching it to demonstrate its malleability. “Also, one side of the envelope is clear. I can see what's in it.”

Kurt snatched the package away from her. He hadn't noticed that. “Well, it's the principle.” He opened the envelope and out slid three sheer yards of perfection. He didn’t realize he was audibly cooing until Becky asked him if he had eaten a pigeon for breakfast.

~~~

The rink was chaos. Cameras and reporters and complicated sound and lighting rigs were joined by sundry aides and assistants and managers and publicists zipping about, chattering, and making lots of racket. Stepping in from the outer corridor, Kurt felt like a mole who had been forced out of his underground burrow. The lights, the clashing colors, the noise—everything was so loud and blindingly busy.

He scanned the arena, hoping to find Blaine’s reassuring presence in all this mess. That's why he was here, after all. Becky’s package was potentially the final puzzle piece in Blaine’s free skate costume, and Kurt wanted to get Blaine’s thoughts on it before he started ripping apart the most recent iteration of the ever-evolving ensemble in order to incorporate the new fabric this into the back and arms. Well, technically, he was supposed to get Sebastian’s thoughts, too, and Sue always had an opinion, and if Mike and Kitty or the McCarthy twins were nearby, they would certainly wander over with their thoughts—

Kurt closed his eyes and took a deep breath. If he couldn't shut out the noise, at least he could make the room go dark and give himself a few seconds to adapt and gain his bearings.

“See, here's what's gonna go down, Mr. Ben Israel. Two choices: you stay here and I crack one of your nuts, right or left—that's your choice—or you walk away and live to be a douchebag another day.”

Kurt blinked his eyes open and turned toward the voice. Not even ten yards to his left, the McCarthy twins were sitting across from a bushy-haired reporter. He, in turn, was staring fearfully at a skinny, stiletto-heeled woman in a white Hugo Boss business suit who loomed over all of them.

“It’s a fair question!” the reporter squealed. “I was just giving them the opportunity to respond to the very real cultural phenomenon of McCarthy twincest fanfic and its implications for—”

“Out.” Santana Lopez said it calmly, quietly, pointing toward the door that Kurt had just walked in. It was the most terrifying he had ever seen her.

Kurt did a quick two-step to the side as the panicked reporter bolted past him. “Well hello, Satan!” he exclaimed cheerfully as he regained his footing. He would have said ‘hail Satan’ if he hadn’t been in such shock.

Santana's jaw dropped. “Lady Hummel! What the hell are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you.” Though as he said it, he recalled her drunkenly going on about ‘putting clients on ice’ more than once. He’d always assumed it was her way of wishing she could dispose of them like a mafia boss disposes anyone who inconveniences him, or at least shoving them in cryostorage with a note not to revive them until long after she was gone.

“You know Berry’s not my only star, right? If I had to spend 24-7 at her beck and call, one of us would end up dead, and it wouldn’t be me.” Santana eyed him suspiciously. “She didn't send you here after me, did she? Because she can’t stand me being away from her side for more than two minutes?”

“I’m not her errand boy,” Kurt said. “Besides, I haven’t talked to her in weeks.”

“How will you keep your spot as Rachel Berry's gay bestie with that attitude?”

“Oh, I resigned from that position long ago after all my workers comp claims for trauma on the job went unfulfilled. I'm here on my own. Working. Like you.”

Santana's eyes lit up. He could never trust that expression. It meant mischief more often than joy. “Come to think of it,” she said, her eyes wandering around the rink, “I do remember something about you being Blaine Anderson's sloppy seconds.”

“Oh no, Kurt’s not sloppy at all!” Mason popped up from his seat, bouncing on his toes and clasping his hands together in the tell-tale pose of someone wanting to dish. “Blaine adores him, and with good reason. Kurt is an amazing designer. I know you’ve been in talks with Johnny Weir to design our costumes next season, but we’ve been having second thoughts about that.”

“We have!” Madison jumped up beside her brother, her feet actually leaving the floor. “Kurt’s way more original.”

“What the hell, Hummel? Have you been blowing pixie dust up my clients’ asses when I wasn't around?”

“I know nothing about this pixie dust of which you speak,” Kurt answered smugly. “They simply recognize talent when they see it.

Santana huffed. “Next thing I know, they're going to tell me they want to defect to Sebastian Smythe like Chang and Wilde did.”

The twins wrinkled their noses in unison. “No, we need you,” said Madison, turning to her brother to continue the sentiment.

“The way you deal with all those creepy reporters, Santana. You’re perfect,” said Mason. “I mean, I'm sure Sebastian would do his best to defend us, but let’s face it—he’s aggressive, but you’re terrifying.”

 “And we’re neither, which is why you complement us so well,” added Madison.

Her brother looked at her. “You’re a little terrifying, Madison.”

“Only to you.”

~~~

When Kurt finally found Blaine, he was sitting next to Sebastian and talking to a reporter in a Sochi 2014 baseball cap. Blaine had his public face on—cheerful, but not in the unreserved way Kurt had become familiar with since his arrival in Colorado Springs. Sebastian, on the other hand, was scowling.

Kurt understood why as he got closer and caught the gist of what the reporter was asking. “As the first and only male figure skater to come out as gay during his career, how do you feel about the current Russian government’s new restrictions on public discussion of homosexuality and the environment that might create for you at the Sochi Olympics?”

“I—” was all Blaine got out before Sebastian reached across and pushed the microphone out of his face.

“You know you can’t ask him that, Cooper.”

Holy shit. Were they talking to Anderson Cooper? Kurt stepped a little closer to peer at the reporter's face. No. The reporter was a devastatingly handsome middle-aged man, but he was not Anderson Cooper.

“Rule 50 says ‘no kind of demonstration or political, religious or racial propaganda is permitted in any Olympic sites or venues,” Not-Anderson-Cooper said. “He’s not in Sochi yet.”

“We’re at the Olympic Training Center, you dumbass.”

“‘Olympic sites or venues’ means those operated by the International Olympic Committee. This is run by the US organization.”

“Which also discourages athletes from engaging in political speech while acting as Olympians. Seriously, Cooper, how many concussions have you had?”

Blaine's eyes moved back and forth between his manager and Not-Anderson-Cooper like he was watching a ping-pong match. The annoyance on his face melted away and was replaced by a no-holds-barred smile when he saw Kurt. He looked like someone who had just walked into Museum of Modern Art and seen Van Gogh’s Starry Night for the first time. Kurt’s heart flipped over in his chest.

Blaine jumped up from his chair and waved Kurt over. “Guys, the interview is done. Cooper, I want to introduce you to Kurt, the designer I've been telling you about. Kurt, this is my brother, Cooper Anderson.”

“Oh! I’ve heard so much about you!” Cooper reached out and shook Kurt's hand vigorously. “But not as much as you’ve certainly heard about me. Would you like an autograph? Or maybe a selfie with me?”

“I, um …” Kurt looked to Blaine in hopes of receiving a clue to what was going on, but Blaine was too busy shaking his head at his … brother … to notice Kurt’s need of rescue. “I'm sorry. Are you a … um, were you a competitive figure skater, too?”

“You're joking, right?” Cooper said, but his grin was fading. “Blaine said you were funny. That’s not funny.”

“Actually, it kind of is,” Blaine said with a quiet chuckle. He stepped closer to Kurt and put his hand on his shoulder, leaning close to whisper, “He was a seven-time MVP in the National Hockey League, and now he’s a sports commentator”—and it took all of Kurt’s concentration to focus on the meaning of the words and not the warm breath that puffed tantalizingly against his ear.

“Oh. That Cooper Anderson,” Kurt said, not because any of it rang a bell for him, but because it seemed wise not to get off on the wrong foot with the first member of Blaine’s family he'd had the chance to meet. “Sorry. I didn't recognize you. Maybe it was the hat?”

~~~

“You really didn't know about my brother, did you?” Blaine said later when they were standing alone—well, as alone as they could be in that chaos—at the edge of the rink, checking out how the fabric looked under its lights while cocky young Sam Evans showed off his tricks for the cameras as Santana watched on, frowning. (She was apparently his manager, too.)

“Well, I remember you mentioning that you started to learn skating because your family was really into hockey, and I think there was a mention of a brother in there somewhere? But I didn't make the connection because … well, I didn’t know there were any famous Andersons who played in the NHL. The whole ‘let's injure each other for an hour and call it a game’ genre of athletics has never really been my thing.”

“So, what is your thing?” Blaine said, scooching a bit closer so that their shoulders touched.

You, Kurt wanted to say. Instead, he said, “Athletics wise? I was a kicker on my high school football team.”

Blaine's eyebrows shot up. “Isn't that one of those ‘injure each other for an hour’ sports?”

“I guess, but I was literally just the kicker, and I didn't even watch the games. They recruited me out of drama club after the quarterback saw my audition for the fall musical. Apparently my high kicks were more impressive than anything any of the actual football players could do. So I’d sit on the sidelines doing my homework, and if they needed me, I’d come out there with earphones on under my helmet and “Rose’s Turn” on my Walkman, and when Barbra Streisand sang, ‘Everything’s coming up Rose!’, I’d wind up and kick the ball right over the post.”

Blaine’s face squinched up from smiling so hard. “That is the most adorable thing I have ever heard. You never cease to amaze me, Kurt.”

“I was a cheerleader, too,” Kurt said with more pride than was probably warranted, considering he was talking to a world-class athlete with the skills to make a much better cheerleader than he ever had. But Blaine was looking at him like he was the most amazing human who had ever walked the earth. He couldn't help preening a little.

Blaine brushed the back of his fingers against Kurt’s bicep. “With those arms, you could probably toss girls in the air like they were confetti.”

Kurt’s heart sped up. Blaine was touching his arm. In admiration. As if it were … sexy, or something. And sure, Kurt had shown up to the studio twice this week in extremely fitted, extremely short sleeves that showed his arms at their best in hopes of Blaine appreciating them. But somehow, he hadn't anticipated it might actually work.

Bang! They both jumped back as something slammed into the side of the rink just beneath them.

“Sam? Sam!” Blaine bolted over the wall onto the ice.

“I’m okay. I’m okay!” Kurt heard Sam protesting as Santana forcibly pushed camera operators away and threatened their tender body parts with violence if any of this aired.

“If Yuzuru Hanyu hears a word of this, I will Yakuza your asses!”

Blaine began to go through a list of questions he had clearly asked and been asked before about whether this spot hurt or this spot or this spot, and did Sam know where he was and the date and the time and the President and the canonical order of the Star Wars movies (okay, that last one did not sound standard, but Sam answered it without hesitation), meanwhile pressing the pads of his fingers to Sam’s knees and ankles to test for tenderness.

“Ugh, you’re not my mom,” Sam whined.

“Yeah, but I’m your grandpa. Close enough. And if you think this is too much attention, I’ve got worse news for you. The paramedics have arrived.”

Sam turned out to be okay in the end, with only his pride wounded—especially when he found out Blaine hadn't even seen the back flip that preceded the crash. “There's a reason they don't score those in competition, Sam,” Blaine said gently. “It's to prevent people from killing themselves.”

“I can't believe you didn't see it! You were supposed to watch and learn!”

Kurt thought Blaine showed remarkable restraint in not asking, Learn what? How to crash into the wall? Perhaps it didn't even occur to him, Blaine was that good of a person. Instead, he patted Sam's back and said, “I'm sure it was impressive. But maybe save those for the off-season. You can't afford an injury right now. We’re all depending on you to be in top form for the team event.”

Sam looked doubtfully at Blaine. “Figured you’d want me out of the team event.”

“No. We need the best. And you’re the best.”

“Better than you, gramps?”

Blaine smiled. “Guess we’ll find out in Sochi.”

“Oh, God, what is this?” Santana's voice interrupted the comfortable silence. “Why don't you two just go sit around a fire and sing kumbaya? Wait, no. There's no time! We've got too much shit to do before we leave for Sochi! Also, Sam, if you ever try a stunt like that again before a competition, you can find a new manager.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She turned toward Kurt and thrust a business card at him. “For you, Lady Hummel. Have your people call my people when this whole Sochi mess is done. Maybe we can work something out.”

“Or we could just talk it over at our gal’s next drunken brunch.”

“No, she’ll think I’m stealing her best gay—yeah, I know you reject the title—and I’ll never hear the end of it. Later, okay? Trouty Mouth and I gotta go.”

Sam stood up to leave with her. “Wait, Sam,” Blaine put a hand on Sam’s sleeve. “Did she just call you—”

“Yes,” Sam huffed.

“You don't sound okay with that.”

Sam shrugged.

Blaine stood up. “Santana, he’s a teenager. And he’s paying you. It’s not okay to talk to him like that.”

She threw her hands up in the air. “I have nicknames for everyone. And he's got to toughen up if he's going to survive a career as a senior.”

“Sam’s plenty tough. He’s made it this far, hasn’t he? I’m sure you have the capacity to come up with a nickname that doesn't sound like an insult and the ability to ask Sam first if he’s okay with it.”

Sam looked at Blaine with wide eyes. Clearly he hadn't expected this kind of defense or these kinds of accolades from the guy he spent his free time finding ways to annoy. But it didn’t surprise Kurt. It was completely consistent with Blaine’s character: generous, kind, noble, sympathetic. Blaine was such a good person, through and through. The affection Kurt felt crowded around his heart and made it deliciously hard to breathe.

Santana rolled her eyes. “Fine. Your choices are Blue Eyes, Kentucky Derby, White Chocolate, and Blonde Chameleon.”

“Blonde Chameleon, definitely!” Sam grinned.

“Okay, done with that. Let’s move. Good day, Lady Hummel. And Mr. Lady Hummel.” She nodded at Blaine as she turned away. A hint of pink flushed across Blaine’s cheekbones. He looked inordinately pleased.

~~~

“So,” Blaine said a few minutes later when they were back in the costume studio—just the two of them and Roxy Music playing in the background, Blaine swaying his hips to the beat as he ran his fingers over a piece of velveteen. There wasn’t even a pretense of them working on the costume together. They were past that stage in the design. Kurt’s work was solitary now, except for the fittings and the occasional consulting on a swatch. “I take it you and Santana Lopez go back a bit?”

“Sure. She manages one of my friends from high school. A singer named Rachel Berry.”

Blaine practically guffawed. “Wait. You’re friends with Rachel Berry?” And then his eyes went wider. “She’s the one who’s declared you her best gay?”

“Well, I did let her be the hag to my fag when we were younger. But I got tired of being called her ‘gay friend’ and her ‘best gay friend’ and basically a supporting character in the production of her life and … Well, I set some boundaries. We’re still friends, but more … with some healthy distance. Anyway—you’ve heard of her?”

“Oh, have I ever.”

Kurt tilted his head. There was some undercurrent in Blaine’s voice he couldn’t quite decode. “You’ve seen her in Funny Girl maybe?”

“Not Funny Girl. Though it was nice to see she got the Tony for it.” This seemed an honest statement, even if Blaine pressed his lips together in a way that almost looked like a grimace.

“The Hello Dolly revival then? Or maybe Spring Awakening?”

Blaine leaned forward against the table and shook his head, chortling. “Spring-Fucking-Awakening. You could call it that.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“Sorry. It’s her boyfriend. Partner. You know her partner, right? Jesse St. James?”

“Of course I know Jesse.”

“Well, so do I.”

A lightbulb went off in Kurt’s head. Jesse used to live in L.A. Blaine lived in L.A.—well, at least when he wasn’t zipping around the globe for competitions. And Kurt had always known that Jesse was bisexual, or heteroflexible, or … something. But what were the chances of this? L.A. was enormous. “Wait. Are you one of the guys that Jesse …?”

“Dated? Yeah. Before he figured out he was straight. Or … I’m actually kind of the precipitating factor in him realizing he was straight.”

“Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize—”

Blaine winced. “Crap! Did I just out him to you?”

“No. I mean, yes. I mean … I didn't know he was straight per se, but I guess I figured he might be—what’re the kids calling it these days?—heteroromantic? But you know him. He’s an open book. We’ve just never discussed it. I’m not sure I’ve ever told him I’m gay. But I was more concerned about you. Because I brought up Rachel and then I dredged up all this stuff from your past and … Oh my God, that must have been so traumatic.”

“Honestly, I think it was more traumatic for him than it was for me.”

“How is that possible?”

“Well, I wasn’t in love with him, so that helped. Infatuated, a little, yes, but I wasn’t in love with him.”

“No. I mean, how can he date you and not fall in love with you? It doesn’t compute.”

Blaine looked down at his hands, the blush from earlier returning to cheekbones, and shrugged. “It's fine. He wasn't the right guy for me. And I always knew there was something kind of off. We just never really had a spark. And I thought maybe that was kind of normal because honestly, I’m not sure I’ve had a spark with any of the guys I've been with—I mean, where you have sex and it’s like ‘oh my god I’m so in love with this person,’ and it’s overwhelming and wonderful and all the things you imagined it would be when you were younger and—Well. I'd started to wonder if I was just bad at romance. But with Jesse, at least I knew the problem wasn’t me. He was just constitutionally incapable of feeling that way about me. It was kind of a relief. And also … maybe this is weird, but it also kind of felt like an honor, in a way—to have someone be so open and vulnerable with you about who they are, and for them to let you accompany them as they come into their own. Maybe it's not normal to see things like that. I mean, Sebastian definitely thought I should be more bitter and angry about the whole thing. But for me, it was like a gift. I think it might be the best break up I’ve ever had. We couldn’t be lovers in a true sense. But being able to just be there as he embraced who he was—that’s another kind of love.  I don't think I'll ever forget how precious that felt to me.”

Blaine was sitting down now, his chair turned toward Kurt’s, their knees touching. His expression was open and unreserved and brimming with generosity, and he was so, so beautiful.

“Blaine,” Kurt said, swallowing hard to keep his heart from rising up into his throat. He put his hand on the back of Blaine’s and, just like that, Blaine’s palm turned to meet his. Their fingers intertwined.  “You’re not bad at romance.”

“I'm not so sure. I'm sitting across from this gorgeous, intelligent, artistic, kind, breathtaking guy who makes me feel more alive than I’ve felt in … maybe ever … and instead of telling him all the ways he’s already become so special to me even though it really shouldn't be possible because we’ve technically known each other for less than two weeks but also somehow it feels like I've known him for lifetimes—or that I want to know him for the rest of this lifetime, at least … Instead of telling him all that, I'm sitting here and telling him about my breakup with a straight guy.”

“Oh, Blaine. You really are the opposite of bad at romance.”

Kurt held both of Blaine’s hands, and he watched Blaine’s face, and Blaine’s eyes flickering to his lips, and he felt himself falling, falling, falling in the most delicious way possible.

Kurt had never been so scared to kiss anyone. He had never felt so sure of it, either. He leaned toward Blaine, heard Blaine’s breath hitch, saw his eyelids flutter slowly.

Blaine leaned toward him.

The door swung open. “There you are, my handsome young half-Filipino mustacheless Tom Selleck. Have you forgotten we have a meeting to go over the logistics for the teams event?”

Blaine blinked. “Um, yeah. Actually, I did. Sorry, Sue.” He touched Kurt’s knee as he stood up. “I'm sorry, Kurt. I'll connect with you later, okay?”

The door closed behind then. Kurt didn't know whether to scream in frustration or giggle like a schoolboy. He picked up the piece of velveteen that Blaine had been petting earlier and buried his face in its soft nap. “Oh, Blaine Anderson. You are so very much not bad at romance.”

[wowbright]

Chapter 17: Supportive

Figureskating!Blaine/designer!Kurt Olympics AU for december klaine fanworks challenge. Also on AO3.

Kurt arrived in Sochi in the middle of the night, exhausted from flight delays, air turbulence that shook him awake every time he’d just managed to fall asleep, and now the customs line from hell. At this rate, he'd be surprised if he got to the hotel before sunrise. The current hold-up was a media crew with cases and cases of equipment requiring a thorough poking and prodding by officials. Just Kurt’s luck, to end up behind these guys. People with that much luggage should have the courtesy to stand at the back of customs and let everyone else go through first. He scanned the luggage of the dozen or so parties between himself and the media crew and hoped against hope there was nothing interesting in their contents.

Kurt took a deep breath and reread the text from Blaine that had been awaiting him upon landing: Going to bed now so I guess I'll be asleep when you land. :( I miss you so much I’m stupid with it. xox

He smiled and texted back. Good morning, handsome. Landed safely. Can’t wait to see you. <3

Perhaps these kind of text messages weren't exactly what Sue had in mind when Kurt had promised not to be a distraction. But surely it would be even more distracting to Blaine if Kurt went cold. Not that Kurt could go cold if he wanted to.

“It’s a camera battery,” Kurt heard someone say in a familiar lilt. He looked to the front of the line.

Kurt cursed out loud. Fuck or shit or fuck me or fils de chien—he wasn't sure which one he'd said, only that a child who looked to be about eight years old (and was taking the whole standing-in-a-line-at-midnight thing with more aplomb than Kurt) stared at him with mouth and eyes wide open in shock.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Excuse-moi.” He turned away before the kid’s parent could stare at him too.

Nothing made sense. Kurt must be jetlagged and hallucinating. He'd heard of people having waking dreams when they were exhausted. Had reached that level of sleeplessness?

He shook his head and blinked. He looked front of the line again. Nope. It was real. Up at the head of the line, in one of his countless identical-except-in-color henleys and signature beanie, Adam Crawford was bickering with a customs agent.

This didn't make sense. It made absolutely no sense. Adam had moved back to England. Very dramatically, in fact, with a promise-threat that they would never see each other again as long as Adam had anything to do with it. Don't try to get in touch with me. I'm blocking you on social media. Don't ask my friends after me. I never want to see or hear from you again. Fuck, if I could keep you from seeing me on the telly, I would! Those had been, more or less, the last words Adam had spoken to Kurt. A slammed door had been involved, with a force strong enough to send the framed poster from Kurt’s production of Sweeney Todd careening to the floor.

So many fights. They had all started—or the last round of them had started—because Adam had been offered a job as a presenter for one of the big British TV shows (or maybe it was a small TV show on a big British network; Kurt never got clear on that amid all his willful avoidance of the topic). It wasn't a role on Downton Abbey, but Adam had resigned himself somewhere along the path of their acquaintance to the fact that he was better at lighthearted fare than drama, anyway. That’s why they wanted him as a presenter—because he was light and casual and funny in a non-challenging way and handsome without being threatening, which made him simultaneously someone to admire and someone viewers could imagine sharing a pint with at the pub. And being a presenter on one show could lead to being a presenter on another show, and, “Kurt, this is the break I've been waiting for. It’s not like my other television gigs, where I fly out for a few days or weeks and it’s over. It’s a steady paycheck. We’ll be filming most of the year. Come with me. The West End theaters will adore you, and the film industry is right next door—not 2,500 miles away like here. You could do it all!”

Adam had presented this like it was good news for both of them, with flowers and dinner and a three-star Michelin restaurant, the same as he’d done two years earlier when he’d announced he was ready to move in with Kurt—and Kurt had been so carried away by the gesture that he had somehow failed to notice the announcement sort of assumed that Kurt had been waiting for Adam to be ready, when in fact the idea of them moving in together wasn't even a topic that they had discussed before in any degree of seriousness. But it made financial sense, and it seemed like the next right step if Kurt was sincere about his high school bucket list item of Get married by age of 30, legally. Adam adored him, and Kurt loved being adored, and that had sustained their relationship longer than any of Kurt’s previous ones. It might not have been the all-encompassing romance Kurt had dreamed of as a lonely gay kid in Ohio. But at some point you had to learn the difference between fantasy and reality. Adam was real, and kind, and handsome, and hunky, and grounded and practical about things in a way Kurt just wasn’t. That pragmatism was a useful counterweight to Kurt’s doing things by impulse and gut feeling. It tethered Kurt to the ground.

Kurt knew Adam’s pragmatism was good for him. Even when it sent him into fits of panic, like the time—a year or so into living together—Adam had announced at another three-star restaurant that they should start planning for kids—“Not right away, our apartment’s too small for that, but maybe we could start looking at places in Connecticut, or a brownstone—and of course we’ll need to weigh adoption and surrogacy; I've never been clear on whether you have a strong preference”—and Kurt had run into the bathroom and lost all his exquisite dinner before splashing his face and telling himself he was being ridiculous. Hadn't Kurt always imagined kids as a possibility in his life? It was only logical of Adam to bring it up now. Taking care of infants was exhausting, if the co-workers who complained about it were telling the truth. Kurt shouldn't wait until some vague future a decade-plus from now when he’d have presbyopia and the sleep loss would be even more of a nightmare than it would be now.

That's what Kurt had told himself in the restaurant bathroom. Then, he’d gone back out and told Adam how forward-thinking it was of him to bring it up. But somehow over the following months, every time Adam suggested they go househunting or visit a surrogacy clinic or talk to an adoption lawyer, Kurt mentioned something else pressing that needed their attention or, if all else failed, distracted Adam with sex.

Now, in yet another three-star Michelin restaurant—this one specializing in molecular gastronomy and serving its exquisitely crafted works of art in tiny portions that left Kurt famished—he found himself unable to accede to Adam’s logic.

“I can't leave here,” Kurt had said.

“Of course you can, Kurt. You'll have no problem getting work on the West End. Actually, I already spoke to …”

Adam had connections. When those connections contacted Kurt, it was easier to send out his portfolio than not. He got lots of meetings out of it. A contract for a London production sat on his desk for weeks, even as Kurt made an impromptu weekend trip to Ohio for Father’s Day.

“You need to get that settled,” Adam scolded before Kurt left. “If there's a clause you don't like, get it fixed. But if you leave them dangling, you'll lose the job. I don't know why you're procrastinating.”

Kurt didn't know why he was procrastinating, either. Or rather, he did know, but not in any way he could explain to Adam. It was just that, every time Kurt thought about relocating to a place where everyone talked like Adam, his skin crawled. My skin is crawling, however, was not the kind of explanation Adam could understand. Adam understood things like pay rate and opportunity and weighing the pros and cons. He did not understand making life-altering decisions based on I just feel uneasy and I've developed a sudden revulsion for English accents.

In Ohio, talking with his father on a perfect June evening with, perhaps, one too many Yuenglings under his belt and the setting sun lighting up the backyard in vivid yellows and oranges and pinks as the first fireflies signaled from the grass, Kurt let it all out: how frustrated he was with himself, how terrible he was as a partner, how he knew he should be supportive and it was a great opportunity for them both, but still—he didn’t want to upend his whole life. Not for this.

“Not for what, Kurt?” his dad had asked.

“For any of it. It’s not worth it.”

“It’s not worth a future with Adam?”

The puzzle Kurt had been trying to solve for the last few years suddenly clicked into place. The reason he clammed up whenever Adam talked about the future, the reason he couldn't talk about kids or moving away from New York—it wasn't because Kurt was impetuous and impulsive and couldn’t deal with the choices one had to make as an adult.

It was because he didn't want to make those choices with Adam.

And it was bewildering. There was nothing wrong with Adam. He had come along at just the right time, right in Kurt’s mid-twenties as he was tiring of casual dating and fooling around. Adam wasn’t like the other guys. He believed in commitment. He’d swept Kurt off his feet, won Kurt over with flattery and genuine admiration, and Kurt had been so high from it all that he hadn't realized—he'd never fallen in love with Adam. He'd only fallen in love with security and the feeling of being loved.

Back in New York, Kurt looked up from the contract and said, with a decided calm and finality that surprised even him, “I've decided not to sign it because … I'm not going to England with you. I’m sorry, Adam. But I’ll never be what you want.”

It seemed gentler than saying I'll never feel what you want me to feel.

Adam hadn't left immediately. He tried to speak sense into Kurt. But Kurt held fast. Adam wasn’t used to that. I don't even know who you are, Kurt! he’d shout, and Kurt would just look at him sadly and say, I know.

Once or twice, after Adam left, Kurt had been tempted to google “Adam Crawford” in hopes of finding news of his success. Despite a resentment of Adam that had built throughout their breakup and sometimes flared up again out of nowhere, he wanted Adam to be happy. Kurt knew what it was like to have your heart broken, and he hated that he’d been the one to break Adam’s. But Kurt never followed through on the search. Adam wanted nothing to do with him.

Well, Kurt didn’t need to worry about googling or not googling now. Because here was Adam with a full media crew in the middle of a Russian airport. He must be doing okay in television, at least.

The line moved forward. Adam was out of sight now along with the rest of his crew, dissipating into the faceless masses on the other side of customs, becoming tiny contributions to the hundreds of thousands in Sochi. Kurt likely wouldn’t see him again. And if he did—well, certainly they’d be in a crowd. It would be easy to disappear.

“Thank goodness,” muttered Kurt, and the eight-year-old stared at him again. Huh. Maybe the kid didn’t understand a word Kurt said but just liked staring or, perhaps, was fascinated by Kurt’s stunning couture. Kurt smiled. The kid smiled back.

Kurt’s phone buzzed. It was Blaine. Good morning to you, too. I can’t wait to see you either.

Did I wake you up? I’m sorry.

No. Woke up because jet lag. Good dreams though.

Oh?

We were standing in the Garden of the Gods and I wanted to kiss you.

Heat rose to Kurt’s face. He forgot all about Adam. It wasn't possible to hold all those complicated memories in the same space as this bliss. Are you sure that was a dream? he texted back.

A memory, maybe. I always want to kiss you.

Kurt stared at his phone. Damn pragmatism. Damn Sue Sylvester. I always want to kiss you too.

[wowbright]

Chapter 15: Note

Figureskating!Blaine/designer!Kurt Olympics AU for december klaine fanworks challenge. Also on AO3.

Chapter Summary: Sue will not let anything distract Blaine from winning. Ever.

~~~

Sue Sylvester had only one Olympic medal to her name. It wasn't that she lacked talent. She'd been ranked among the world's top figure skaters for more than a dozen years running in her younger days. But back when she had entered the world of figure skating, the Olympics was for amateurs only. If you were really serious about figure skating, you did only one or at most two Olympics before the economics stopped making sense and you entered the professional realm (the Eastern Bloc excepted, because having the state pay for everything you could possibly want or need and then some did not count as being professional).

Sue’s years of dominance did not include 1976, when she had made it on to the Olympic team at the fresh young age of 16 and felt it was honor enough to be skating alongside the likes of Peggy Hamill and Dianne de Leuw. She wanted a medal, but she didn't commit herself to it. What a fool she had been. But when you’re young, time and glory both feel like they’re in unlimited supply.

With hindsight she knows she should have had more discipline. She had always been excellent in compulsory figures—in Innsbruck, she outdid both Hamill and de Leuw in that portion of the scoring. But that could not make up for her lackluster performance in the short program and free skate. Her problem, as a young skater, was failing to understand that she had an audience. It was not enough to be perfect at everything you were asked to do. You had to wow your audience, shock them with something they had never seen before, make their minds boggle upon discovering that a human body could do that and survive.

Dorothy knew that. She invented the Hamill camel and went home with the gold. She reassured Sue she could do the same if she could connect with the judges and the spectators.

How was Sue supposed to do that? She hated people. They weren't worth connecting with—except for one. Since she was a little girl, she’d had exactly one hero. Her big sister. It was because of Jean that Sue had gotten into figure skating. She’d toddled along to her older sister’s physical therapy sessions on the ice rink and was amazed. Jean was so graceful on the ice. Her smile was like the sun. Sue wanted to be just like her.

But Sue noticed other people didn't feel the way she did. People were rude to Jean. They were cruel. They laughed at her. So what if Jean wasn’t speedy on the ice or a quick study? She wasn't like other people. It was harder for her to build up her muscles, she had loose joints and terrible vision, and some of her vertebrae were misshapen. They should try skating under those conditions. They wouldn't make it more than two feet out onto the ice before falling on their faces.

And she was beautiful to watch. She had more artistry in her little finger than Sue had anywhere. More, even, than Peggy Hamill.

Sue couldn't connect with her audience because she hated them. But she knew someone who didn't. So she asked Jean to be her artistic coach. People thought Sue was crazy. But when she got to the Olympics, she and Jean made them take note. She beat that insufferable Anett Pötzsch and won the gold.

She would have liked to win more Olympic golds. But she had a career to attend to. She focused on other kinds of golds, and when that time was up, she switched her attention to coaching—not so much because she wanted to nurture the next generation of figure skaters, but because it was a way to continue her winning streak. She took unfocused talent and molded it into champion material.

Blaine Anderson had been one of her most lucrative proteges. But he was getting old and talking of retiring. This might be her last chance to add to her Olympic medal count through him. She wasn't going to throw it away like she had the 1976 Olympics.

She’d thought he was in this with her. Over the past couple weeks, he’d stopped boring her. There was an energy to his practices that she hadn't seen in a long, long time, and an artistry that she didn't remember ever seeing with him.

But being a champion wasn't only about what you could do in practice. It was about having the right mind set, being laser focused, and showing up when you need to show up.

Blaine Anderson had failed to show up today, and for a meeting he really couldn't afford to miss. The teams event was new at the Olympics, and Blaine needed to understand it top to bottom. He needed to be prepared. His spot was not guaranteed. He could always be swapped out for one of the other male single skaters at the last minute.

“This is unacceptable,” Sue said as she marched Blaine away from Pillsbury Legolas in the costume room and down the long the corridor. “You can't just not show up. Is that what you're going to do in Sochi? Get distracted by that handsome Hummel figurine and—‘Oops! I forgot to show up for the competition!’?”

“Of course not, Sue.”

“And what about the doping screenings?”

“Doping?” Blaine looked at her with an expression of utter confusion. He could be so naive sometimes.

“If that sweet porcelain statue injects you with his potent seminal fluid, your doping results are going to come back marked for exogenous testosterone and you’re out of the games!”

“I—” Again, that confused look on Blaine’s face, as if she weren’t being absolutely plain. “That’s not how that works.”

“Oh, my naïve young Bambikins. Do you remember when I found you? You’d already silvered in the Grand Prix, but you were on the edge of giving up because your second-rate loser of a boyfriend couldn’t handle your success. You were a freakish depressed kid, and I showed you what winning's all about. Have you forgotten about winning?”

“No, Sue.”

“Then focus, Blaine. You have one chance at this, and then it’s gone. Put Tickle Me Doughface on the back burner.”

“Tickle me… who?”

Seriously? Did Sue have to spell everything out for people? “Your porcelain savior. Your white knight in Alexander McQueen.”

“Kurt?”

“Is that what you call him? Then yes, ‘Kurt.’ He's not going anywhere. He’ll still be there after the games. You can go be the remora to his shark then. But not yet. After Sochi. I will not have you distracted.”

[wowbright]

Chapter 12: Primary

Figureskating!Blaine/designer!Kurt Olympics AU for december klaine fanworks challenge. Also on AO3.

Blaine wasn't an idiot. He knew he was developing feelings for Kurt Hummel. Not just feelings, but capital-F Feelings. He knew it was happening fast, and he knew he should be careful. That's what Sebastian told him all the time, and Cooper, and Mike, and every single other person who had ever had to sit on the sidelines and watch, helpless, as he courted one relationship disaster after another.

Blaine Anderson wasn't good at romance. He was terrible at it. He dove in head first without looking to see whether it was water or concrete that would catch him.

He had talked about it with his therapist, a lot. He had told her he was cursed by a tendency to follow his feelings without thinking. She had tilted her head, her chin on her hand and her index finger tapping on her cheek. After a long silence, she had said, “It could be that. On the other hand, when we’ve talked about you and your family, the issue has been more about you burying your feelings so deep that it becomes too hard to tell what you're feeling. Which is why we’ve been working on identifying the primary emotions.”

Happiness, sadness, anger, fear, surprise, disgust, trust, pride, shame, excitement. It was hard to remember them all sometimes. But Blaine was getting better at it. He was learning to tell the difference between a queasy stomach caused by fear and one caused by happy excitement. When he felt irritable and edgy and didn’t know why, he was learning to push away his father's and his brother's admonition that your problem is you think too much and instead close his eyes and ask himself what the feeling was underneath his agitation—and finding that it was a much simpler feeling like anger or sadness, but pushed deep down because he'd learned, as a child, that those were not things he was supposed to express.

Was he really following his feelings in relationships without thinking? Or was it the same as it had so often been in his family—that he couldn’t follow his feelings if he wanted to, because he couldn’t see them for what they were?

With his therapist’s help, things began to click in place. Conveniently, he was still dating Eli when this exploration started, so he didn’t have to go by memory only when describing his messy relationships with her. He was living one every day.

Of course, he hadn’t described the relationship itself as messy back then. He had described himself as the mess. “I don’t understand why I can’t just be happy with him. That's what's supposed to happen when you’re in love with someone. You're supposed to accept them as they are. When they make a mistake and they apologize for it, it’s time to move on. I do it with my friends. Sebastian is constantly pissing me off. But it doesn't hurt our friendship. He's Sebastian. He's bristly. Our personalities are not perfectly aligned. We know that about each other, and we accept it, and it's fine. And Mike is way easier to get along with, but there are still things we don't see eye to eye on. But it doesn't get in the way of the big picture. But for some reason, every annoying thing that Eli does stays annoying, and it builds and it builds and it builds, and there's something wrong with me because I just can't let it go.”

It took him session after session, and a lot of thinking in between, but one afternoon after a long, emotionally taxing practice, he got a text from Eli asking if Blaine had time to mess around that day. And when Blaine noticed the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach that he often got when Eli sent him suggestive texts, he identified it for what it was: disgust.

By the time he talked to his therapist a few days later, he'd had a chance to unwrap the new discovery and what it meant. “I'm not in love with him. I never have been. I don't even like him. And I feel bad about not liking him because I'm supposed to like people because that's what I do. I like people. And I thought I liked him because we have lots of things in common  and he's good looking and he flatters me and when we first met, he’d talk about how now that he had his trust fund, he was going to use it to finish his degree and create a foundation to support underprivileged artists, and of course that made my heart go pitter patter because I just want to make art and help people. Only I've been dating him for almost a year now and he hasn't gone back to school—he hasn't even applied for readmission or requested an application—and whenever I offer to connect him with someone who might be able to help him get the foundation off the ground he brushes me off and goes back to playing Grand Theft Auto. And it occurred to me that, that … Maybe sometimes people say things that they don't actually mean. That they don't actually intend to follow through on. And I don't know if he said those things about school and helping people because he wants to be that person, or if he just said those things because he thought I wanted to hear them—but it doesn't actually matter. Because he's not the person I convinced myself he was when we started dating. That imaginary person is the one I was attracted to. Not him. And I think, if I had known how to identify my feelings back then, I would have known it wasn't going to work out. Because even back then, I remember squashing down my doubts and all these little things he did that bothered me … I guess maybe I thought that made me a bad person, to not like things about another human being, especially one I was sleeping with. Or maybe I just wanted to be in love so badly that I thought I could force it to happen.”

Saying those words out loud, Blaine felt like he had his first time seeing the Milky Way—far out of the city, looking into the inky night and seeing the lights of it strewn across the sky from horizon to horizon and thinking, Oh my God. It's always been here and I never knew.

All of his relationships—the ones that hurt him, anyway—could be traced back to Blaine’s fundamental inability or refusal to let go when it became clear (or should have become clear, if he had understood himself) that this wasn’t the person for him. His problem wasn’t falling too hard or too fast. It was telling himself that he was falling when he was, in truth, standing perfectly still.

He hadn’t been with anyone since breaking up with Eli. It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried. He had flirted with attractive men. He had gone on plenty of first dates. But now that he understood himself, now that he could recognize his own feelings and trust them, it never went far. Some men he simply didn’t like. Others were smart or fun or interesting, but there was no spark. And he was done having relationships without spark. He was tired of sex that felt good but wasn’t part of forging or expressing a deeper connection. On bad days, he wondered if what he wanted was even possible for him, or if that kind of passion only happened when you were very young and very ignorant, and you were figuring things out with another young and ignorant lover for the very first time.

And then Kurt had walked into his life, and everything that Blaine had ever wanted felt not only possible, but right within his reach.

The things Blaine felt about Kurt were brilliant in their clarity. Excitement. Surprise. Pride. Even fear, whenever Blaine worried Kurt might not feel the same way with the same intensity.

But mostly, there was happiness. Blaine felt happy when he was near Kurt. Vividly, wonderfully happy. He wasn’t trying to like Kurt. It came to him easily, naturally, inevitably.

Blaine had known this man for a handful of days, and he was falling in love with him. And it was ridiculous and risky, but it was also good.

For once, Blaine was listening to his own heart.

[wowbright]

Chapter 16: Trench

Figureskating!Blaine/designer!Kurt Olympics AU for december klaine fanworks challenge. Also on AO3.

With Blaine’s meetings, Kurt didn't see him again until past the time Blaine would usually be back at his apartment tucking in for the night.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” Blaine said when he returned to the costume room, his eyes puffed from exhaustion but lighting up with new energy upon seeing Kurt.

“You should go to bed,” Kurt said reluctantly as he packed his last bit of sewing gear up for Sochi. He was leaving for New York tomorrow early in the morning to take care of a few things before heading on to the games. It would be at least two days until they saw each other again, and much more likely three or four. It wasn’t like Blaine was going to have time to pick him up at the airport when Kurt landed in Russia. Kurt had already started working on the Cyrillic alphabet so that he could at least decipher proper nouns on his own, if nothing else.

“You’re right. I should go to bed,” Blaine said. “But I don't want to. Not by myself, at least.”

Kurt’s inside swooped like he plunging from the top of a roller coaster. It was delightful. He put on his coat and took Blaine’s hand. “Me neither.”

Blaine made a sweet, sharp, intake of breath. It took all of Kurt’s strength not to press him against the wall and ravish him right there. He smelled so good, and his hand was so warm and strong, and he was looking at Kurt with wide, dark eyes that told Kurt he was experiencing the same thing—that all he needed was a nod of encouragement from Kurt and he would take him right there and then, against the closed door of the costume room.

“But I also—” Oh, it was hard to talk when all Kurt wanted was to feel. He pulled Blaine’s hand to his chest, let Blaine’s touch ground him. “I want to take all the time in the world with you, Blaine. And we don't have that tonight.”

“All the time?” Blaine said, ducking his head and blinking those dark, heavy eyelashes in astonished delight. Others might have mistaken the expression as coy and playful. But Kurt knew Blaine was as earnest as a person could be. “With me?”

“As much time as you’ll give me,” Kurt said quietly. It was a promise, if Blaine would accept it.

Blaine raised Kurt's hand to his mouth, kissed his knuckles. “I'll give you forever, when you're ready. Just ask.”

~~~

Kurt wasn't going to sleep at Blaine’s apartment tonight, but he could walk him there. The weather had warmed since Garden of the Gods, an overcast sky blanketing the Olympic training complex and reflecting back the earth's scant heat. They wore coats but no hats, their faces uncovered, their hands ungloved and locked together. Blaine spoke excitedly of the things he wanted Kurt to see in Sochi— Saint Michael’s Church, Arboretum Park, the tea plantation, the hideous casinos, Stalin’s Dacha—peppering in historical tidbits with such detail that Kurt finally went, “I know you speak a little Russian”—Blaine’s training with Russian dance coaches had come up in previous conversations—“but how on earth do you know all that from one visit?”

“Oh, I don’t,” Blaine said. “I studied Russian in college.”

“You went to college? When did you have time to do that?”

Blaine shrugged. “You can't skate fourteen hours a day. I mean, it was complicated scheduling things around the figure skating season, so it took longer than the standard four years, but it was nice to have something productive to focus on in my downtime. Besides, my parents insisted. I mean, my dad had wanted me to major in business, but they don't have undergraduate business degrees at Yale, so he let me do Russian as long as I double majored in economics with some pre-law work on the—”

“You went to Yale?”

Again, another nonchalant shrug as if everyone went to Yale. “They have a really good skating club, and they were willing to work with me around my competitions. That was really the deciding factor in me going there. It’s not like getting into Parsons. There’s no way I could have gotten in there. I can barely draw stick figures.”

 “You're something else, Blaine Anderson.” Kurt giggled and gave Blaine an affectionate nudge with his shoulder and then, because he couldn't help it, planted a kiss on Blaine's cheek.

Blaine stopped under a streetlamp, his cheeks flushed from cold or exhilaration—maybe both. “If I'd known that would be the result, I would have mentioned Yale earlier.”

“Hmmm. But I mentioned Parson’s and it didn’t get me anything.”

“Oh, I wanted to kiss you. But you were measuring me in my underwear and it was the first day I met you. It would have been too forwa … Oh.” Blaine's eyes caught on something behind Kurt and his tone went from flirtatious to concerned. “Is everything okay?” he called out over Kurt’s shoulder.

Kurt turned. The figure approaching them in the dark was tall, a shock of pale hair hovering above a trench coat. Scandinavian Columbo, Kurt thought.

“Hey guys. Mind if I borrow Tickle Me Doughface?” Sue Sylvester stepped out of the shadows into the light of the street lamp.

Kurt turned to Blaine in confusion. He’d heard a lot of new lingo over the past couple weeks, but Tickle Me Doughface was not among the items in his burgeoning vocabulary. Was it the name of some musical group he’d never heard of—perhaps some instrumentalists popular among figure skaters?—and she wanted her CD back from Blaine? Or maybe it was an unfamiliar entry in the endless lexicon of special code words she used when she wanted to hide information from passersby who might leak things to the media? That seemed unnecessary. The only people within earshot were a few bobsledders.

Blaine leaned into Kurt’s ear and whispered, “She thinks that's your name. I have no idea why.”

Sue was … strange. Kurt had come to understand that much during his time in Colorado Springs. But she was a good coach to Blaine. Kurt had seen it in their practices—the underlying concern under all that abrasiveness, the way Blaine responded to her guidance. Whether she had a few screws loose or was just eccentric, Kurt couldn't put his finger on. But it didn't really matter. She was important to Blaine.

“Sue,” Kurt said matter-of-factly, “I think there's been a misunderstanding. My name is Kurt.”

Sue patted Kurt on the elbow and chuckled as if he’d made a good joke. “Yeah, that's what Blaine said too. But I’m not an idiot. ‘Kurt’ is a name for little Austrian boys in lederhosen and grisly old men.”

Kurt had to admit there was an internal logic to her way of thinking, even if he found the logic flawed. “Well, I don’t want you calling me Tickle Me Doughface.”

“Have I been too formal? My apologies. Tell me which of your other names you prefer I use.”

“My other names?”

“You know: Porcelain, Pillsbury Legolas, or Vincent de Lioncourt.”

“I guess I'll go with Porcelain,” he sighed.

“Well, alright, now that we’ve cleared up your identity confusion—Blaine, do you mind if I borrow Porcelain? I’d like the chance for a word in private before we’re in Sochi.”

The two men looked at each other in silent communication. They were almost back at Blaine’s apartment. It would be difficult enough to say goodbye there. Maybe this would make the parting simpler. “Sure,” Blaine said finally. He leaned up to press a kiss to Kurt’s cheek. “Goodnight, Kurt. See you soon.”

Sue watched until Blaine disappeared around the corner, then took Kurt’s arm in her elbow and guided him back toward the skating complex. “Look here, Porcelain. This is not personal. It's politics.”

“I'm sorry. What is—?” How on earth did Blaine understand anything coming out of this woman's mouth?  Kurt didn’t see how it was possible, even after a dozen years of close contact. Then again, Blaine graduated from Yale in Russian. Clearly, he had a talent for deciphering unfamiliar language that Kurt did not.

Sue stopped and turned to face Kurt. Her voice grew stern, the way it did with Blaine when she knew he wasn't giving her his best. “You're a distraction, Porcelain. The last thing Blaine needs right now is a distraction. So here's what's going to happen. You're in Sochi to help him with his costumes, and that's it. He asks you to hang out, you're busy. He bats his eyelashes at you, you figure he's got a speck in his eye. He wants to be your personal guide and translator at every tourist site in Sochi, you defer and hire a professional. And above all, you keep it in your pants. Because if you do anything to get in the way of him bringing home one last gold, I will go to the animal shelter as soon as we're back in the States and get you a kitty cat. I will let you fall in love with that kitty cat. And then, on some dark night when you and your bride Blaine are sleeping in contented newlywed bliss at your Provincetown honeymoon getaway, I will steal into your beachside bed-and-breakfast and I will punch you in the face.”

Kurt was so taken with the thought of him and Blaine honeymooning that he almost missed the part about getting punched in the face. Almost, but not quite.

“You don't need to threaten me, Sue.”

“You sure about that, Porcelain? My boy almost missed a meeting today because you two were making love eyes at each other in the costume room.”

“I think he forgot about the meeting before we started …” What was Kurt saying? He was an adult. He didn't have to defend himself. But Sue was right. Blaine couldn't be distracted at the games. Kurt needed to step back a little, at least until all the medals were counted. “I'm glad you're watching out for him, Sue. I won't be a problem.”

[wowbright]

I'm soliciting thoughts about whether there are any canon characters that would make appropriate ex-boyfriends for Blaine in the Figureskating!Blaine/designer!Kurt Olympics AU -- he can be on good or bad terms with them. Sebastian and Sam are not options. Let me know if you have an opinion!

[wowbright]

Chapter 9 & 10: Snuggle

Figureskating!Blaine/designer!Kurt Olympics AU for december klaine fanworks challenge. Also on AO3 as Chapters 9 & 10 (especially if you want complete tags and warnings for this ball of fluff).

Notes: Sorry. Blaine is just a hopeless romantic. I have no control over him. Also, warning if you need it for Sebastian and Kurt being friends.

~~~

It had been a wonderful practice. Blaine felt a new energy crackling under his skin, and Sue had seen it all through his warmups and the repeated run-throughs of his programs. He hadn't messed up the quad Axel once—or the quad Lutz or the quad Salchow or anything else. It was all part of his body now, as second-nature as flight to a bird.

In that moment a few days ago when he had reached out and taken Kurt Hummel's hand, something had changed. In that small touch, in that brief exchange of body heat, Blaine had become hyperaware of his self and what he could be.

And he had taken that to the rink with him every day. He didn't have to struggle. It wasn't a matter of mind over body, because he wasn't a mind living inside a body. They were the same thing, all one. His body was his soul. His thoughts were flesh.

And that energy carried over after practice—not with the same degree of acuity and flow, but still. He felt alive in a way he hadn't felt in a long, long time.

Kurt’s continued touches were part of that. The measurings, the fittings—each brush of those long, deft fingers against his skin or through the fabric sent a jolt of electricity through him. Blaine wanted to give himself over to it, to get lost in the sensation and his gratitude for the sensation and the fact that human bodies could connect in such intimate ways. But he still had a sense of propriety, so he restrained himself.

He chatted instead, distracting himself (and, let’s be frank, his penis) with words.

He told Kurt about how he'd gotten into skating and the travel and the home schooling and the competition of it all, and how friendships formed and grew apart as careers went in different directions, but some of them stayed, like it had with his roommate Mike Chang, who had once been destined to become his competitor, except that when puberty hit Mike got tall with arms to kill for so he went into pairs skating instead.

And Blaine listened to Kurt’s stories about high school show choirs and stupid things Sebastian did as a teenager (none of them surprising) and auditioning for a summer job at a quaint Ohio amusement park called King’s Island (“I know Kings Island!” Blaine said. “I did exhibitions there as a junior!”) and Parsons School of Design and living in New York City, which sounded amazing and wonderful and Blaine asked a lot of questions about it, and yes, part of the reason he did so was to ferret out whether Kurt had a significant other, but the other part was that it was delightful to listen to Kurt to talk about things he loved.

Kurt was funny and sharp, and his voice was singularly beautiful, so rich and clear all at the same time, and he was so incredibly talented. It turned out that Blaine had seen his work long before that night earlier this week when he’d stayed up drooling over Kurt’s portfolio. He’d seen it in Wicked and the Guys and Dolls revival and Sweeney Todd and The Lion King. And maybe that’s why something about Kurt felt so familiar, why talking to him felt not like he was getting to know him, but like they were rediscovering each other after a period of separation. Kurt had spoken to Blaine through his art again and again over the years, and Blaine’s heart had responded every time.

“Have you had a chance to see much of Colorado Springs yet?” Blaine asked.

“What's there to see? The Focus on the Family headquarters? No thanks,” Kurt said dryly, managing to speak clearly even though he had three straight pins dangling from the corner of his mouth. He removed one to fasten two layers of fabric at Blaine’s waist.

“There's much more to Colorado Springs than Christian nationalism,” Blaine said.

“True. There's mountains. But I fear if I go a single foot higher than my current altitude, it will only result in a bout of unfortunate wheezing and vomiting. I already feel like I'm breathing pudding as it is.”

“Not mountains,” Blaine said. “High Tea at Miramont Castle. It’s a – well, it’s a historical building and in winter they have High Tea there every Sunday. Tomorrow is Sunday. I'll take you.”

Kurt arched an eyebrow. (Did he have any idea how seductive that was?) “Don't you have things to do?”

“I have the afternoon off.” Blaine could picture it now: High Tea at Miramont would turn into a leisurely stroll around the grounds and then maybe, if Kurt was feeling more acclimated to the altitude, they could drive out to Garden of the Gods to watch the sunset through the rocks. It would get chilly, and they would step closer to share their warmth, so close it was almost a snuggle, and Blaine would turn to see what Kurt's face looked like in the last glow of day - and maybe, just maybe, he would find Kurt already looking at him, wanting to learn the same thing about Blaine.

“Well,” Kurt said with a smile, “I am a sucker for cucumber sandwiches and tiny desserts.”

~~~

Kurt was not a morning person. But when his alarm went off the next day at 3:00 a.m. (he was trying to prepare for the time shift in Sochi), he hopped out of bed with a smile on his face. He was going to high tea today with Blaine Anderson. Was it a date? He wasn't sure, but if he played his cards right, maybe he could turn it into one.

As for the rest of it, things were progressing better than Kurt could have expected. The costume for the short program was coming to life, a subtle black-on-black that shifted into shimmering indigos and deep violets like a grackle’s feathers in the sun when Blaine turned this way or that. There was more work to do on the free skate costume—Blaine wanted fiery, bright colors, but Kurt had not yet figured out the perfect balance of tone and light that would serve as an extension of Blaine’s body, not a distraction from it. The answer would come to Kurt soon, though. Each moment he spent watching Blaine on the rink or getting to know him outside of it, the answer came ever closer.

He turned on the coffee maker and pulled on something fashionably athleisure. He would try a few minutes on the elliptical in the hotel gym—the air did not feel like pudding this morning. Maybe he was finally adjusting to the altitude. He grabbed his earbuds and plugged them into his phone. He noticed a message on the screen from Sebastian.

Are you awake?

Why? Kurt texted back.

A knock sounded at the door. Kurt almost jumped out of his skin.

“Kurt, let me in! Something terrible happened!”

Kurt swung the door open, panting. “Is Blaine okay?”

“Is Blaine—?” Sebastian tilted his head in confusion, “Oh my God, Kurt! You've known that guy for—what?, three, four days?—and you're worried more about him than you are about me?”

“You're standing right here. You're clearly alive and uninjured.”

Sebastian looked down at himself. “I guess.”

“So, what’s going on?” Kurt opened the door and waved Sebastian into the room. “Don't tell me that the international skating federation came up with some new interpretation of their fabric restrictions and I need to go back to the drawing board—"

Sebastian headed straight for the unmade bed, landing on it in a belly flop.  “What is my life, Hummel? I fucking hate Colorado Springs. I really should have thought about the lack of a gay scene here before I decided to start signing on Olympic talent.”

“Ah.” Everything was suddenly clear. This had nothing to do with Blaine or the Olympics. This was just the same routine they'd gone through several times in high school and once or twice in the intervening years at their Warbler reunions. “Have you failed to get laid?”

Sebastian groaned into the sheets. Kurt was suddenly grateful that he had jerked off in the shower last night, not in the bed. Of course, he was always careful with bodily fluids in a hotel, he didn't want to inconvenience housekeeping, but – “Sebastian, it’s the middle of the night! You don’t just barge into people’s hotel rooms during the hours when most people would be sleeping—”

“You have coffee on. Your hair looks good. You weren’t sleeping.”

“That’s beside the point. You need to go to your apartment and sleep it off, not come to me for sloppy seconds just because you can’t get laid.”

 “It's not that. I mean, I was at Club Buddies, for fuck’s sake!”

“Club Buddies?”

Sebastian looked up. “Yeah. Can you believe that Colorado Springs of all places is home to the only thriving bathhouse in the larger Denver metropolitan region?”

“I thought you just said Colorado Springs had no gay scene.”

“Yeah, I mean … Fucking hell, I’m so pathetic!” Sebastian rolled over, grabbed a pillow, covered his face with it, and let out a guttural scream.

“Sebastian! It's barely three! Quiet down.”

Sebastian tempestuously threw the pillow onto the floor, then sat up, his back against the headboard. “I hate myself. I'm so pathetic.”

Those were not words that Kurt, in his wildest imaginings, would have ever thought could come out of Sebastian’s mouth. Well. Perhaps this wasn't the exact same routine Kurt was used to. He put a timid hand on Sebastian's shoulder. “Are you OK? This doesn't sound like you.”

“I know, right? I don’t know what happened. I was at Club Buddies, and everything was lining up for a five-person gang bang and … I mean, who says no to getting it both in the front and the back while blowing off a guy with a nine-inch dick as another guy watches and comes all over your hair? Only an idiot would say no to that, Kurt. And I— I—” Sebastian whacked the back of the skull against the headboard. “I’m the idiot, Kurt. I said no to that. I just … wasn't in the mood.”

More words Kurt would never have expected to come out of Sebastian’s mouth. But they were both over 30 now. “You're under a lot of stress right now. It's okay to have an off night.”

For the first time since entering Kurt’s room, Sebastian looked directly at him. “It's not just tonight, though. It's been …” He covered his face with his hands. “I just wanna meet someone and fall in love and hold hands and have babies—babies, Kurt, what the fuck?— … Oh my God what's wrong with me?!?”

“Oh, kiddo.” Kurt sank onto the mattress next to Sebastian and pulled him close. It was good Kurt was in his athleisure and not anything he truly cared about, because Sebastian’s tears soaked his shoulder within a minute. “That's what a lot of us want. I mean, maybe not the babies part, that's a little extreme jumping right to that, but—”

“You're such a dick, Hummel.” Kurt felt something like a smile twitch against his shoulder.

“True,” Kurt said. “I’m a show-er and a grow-er.”

“And here I am, in your bed, and I'm not even propositioning you.” Sebastian looked up. “Wait. I should proposition you. That’s what I usually do in times of need, right? Maybe that would get me out of this—”

“You really shouldn't. Your ego is in a fragile state already.”

“I don’t know. It might disturb me more if you actually said yes. Obviously because of your usual layers of prudity, but also because it is not beyond my power of perception to note the way you’ve been eye-fucking Blaine.”

“Shut up,” Kurt said halfheartedly.

“If you two fall in love, I'm going to hurl.”

“Says the guy who wants to hold hands and have babies.” And then, because he couldn’t help himself, Kurt added, “Has he said anything about me?”

“Has he said anything about me?” Sebastian echoed back in a high-pitched squeal that made him sound almost exactly like a parrot before his voice plummeted back to normal. “Of course he has said things about you.” And then, breathlessly, “‘Oh my God, Sebastian, he’s so amazing, so detail oriented but he also sees the big picture, it's like he sees the forest and the trees when I can only see one except then he takes my hand and he guides me through it and suddenly I can see both of them too, all at the same time! He's such an artist, and he's so on point, and elegant, and mysterious but also familiar at the same time and have I mentioned how funny he is? Like in this whip smart kind of way where he doesn't even notice he's being funny and then I laugh and he looks at me like I'm a total weirdo but not in a bad way and then he makes this face, I can't describe it, it's like cute but also handsome and seductive though obviously he's not trying to seduce me—why would a man like that want to seduce me, I mean I stood in front of him in nothing but my skivvies and I might as well have been fully clothed, he was a consummate professional—anyway his face is all those things at the same time and he says, Why are you laughing? and I say, Because that was hilarious, and he says, Yeah, I guess it was all smug and stuff but it's not actually smug, because he can only hold his face like that for about two seconds and then he breaks into a smile and oh my God, Sebastian, that man’s smile, it’s so real and when he impregnates me with his supersperm I hope the babies that come out of my butthole have that same smile—’”

“He did not say that,” Kurt said disapprovingly, but at the same time his heart was pounding and palms were sticky and his ears were on joyful fire. Those Why are you laughing? conversations were a real thing that had happened more than once, and with nobody else in the room—except of course Kurt had never thought about what his own face looked like during them, because he was too busy focused on Blaine and how such a beautifully boisterous laugh could come out of such a demure smile. Sebastian was telling the truth, except for the buttbabies bit.

“He said most of it, more or less. The part about you impregnating him was implied.”

“Implied? Or inferred? I'm pretty sure you made that up in your head because you happen to have babies on the mind.”

Sebastian sighed. “I don't get it! I'm a man! My biological clock is not supposed to tick! So what's the explanation? I just … genuinely want—” Sebastian made an utterance that started out sounding like the word love but ended as a grunt of frustration. “How am I ever going to meet Mr. Right when I spend half my life in these godforsaken sports towns?”

“Well, Club Buddies doesn't seem to be the worst place to look.”

“Come on, Kurt. Have you ever even been to a bathhouse?”

“No.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not really conducive to getting to know someone on a personal level.”

“I don’t know. Getting it in the front and the back at the same time sounds pretty personal to me.”

“Yes, but – it's like pair skating. It's intimate, sure, but in a teamwork kind of way, not a soulmates kind of way.”

“Soulmates? Did Sebastian Smythe just use the word soulmates without gagging?”

“It's a figure of speech, gayface,” Sebastian muttered sleepily against Kurt’s shoulder.

“Sure, Craigslist.”

They shared a contented silence.

“Hey, Kurt … You won't tell anyone about this, will you?”

“What, that you have a heart? I wouldn't dream of it.” Kurt rubbed Sebastian’s arm. It was nice, in a way—the closest thing he’d gotten to a real snuggle since calling things off with Adam a year and a half before, if you didn’t count cats and girls. It felt kind of soothing.

The next thing Kurt knew, Sebastian was standing over him with two mugs of coffee. “I fell asleep?” Kurt said.

“We both did. But only for like an hour. It’s still dark outside.” Sebastian toward the hideous curtains Kurt had opened upon waking up the first time that morning.

Sebastian sat down next to Kurt and handed him one of the mugs. “The one you were making when I came in got cold, so I made you a new one.”

Kurt stretched. “That’s … oddly considerate. “

“People change over the course of fifteen years, you know,” Sebastian sulked. “And I have to practice if I’m going to have the handholding and the babies. Besides, I made one for myself, too.”

“I see that.” Kurt took a sip of brew. It didn’t taste like it was poisoned, so that was good. He looked around his room and its discordant aesthetics of exposed brick combined with gauzy curtains, oiled leather chairs and cultured granite countertops in dreadfully neutral tones. “Sebastian, did you put me up in the Mining Exchange Hotel because you knew how much I would hate the decor?”

The corner of Sebastian's mouth twitched. “Seriously? You’re complaining about being put up at a Wyndham Hotel? You're a working-class kid from Buttscratch, Ohio.”

“Who is known for impeccable taste. And the half-assed cowboy aesthetics of this place do not pass muster.”

“It’s also the closest hotel to the Olympic Training Center.”

“But most importantly, it’s a hodgepodge of selections from the Insecure-About-My-Masculinity Home Goods Store.”

Sebastian sighed. “I don’t know why you’re asking me when you already know the answer. You know I picked this over countless others for the exact reason that it would get your goat.”

Kurt laughed. “Well, at least some things stay the same.”

[wowbright]

Chapter 8: Fixture

Figureskating!Blaine/designer!Kurt Olympics AU for december klaine fanworks challenge. Also on AO3.

Kurt was settling into his makeshift costume studio—a commandeered meeting room in the Olympic Training Center he’d be sharing with a dozen other sartorialists until the athletes decamped for Sochi—when his phone chirped.

Unique Adams: Ooh, lookie! Our favorite gossip blogger has already caught on to your latest move!

Attached to the text was a link leading to the Tina Cohen Chats website and a post beginning, “Tony award-winning costume designer Kurt Hummel continues his lateral move into the world of sport couture. Five-time Olympic medalist Blaine Anderson, who became a fixture of the international figure skating scene with his stunning Grand Prix silver medal win at the age of fifteen, has recruited Hummel to design his costumes for the fast-approaching Sochi Olympics after his previous couturial consultant joined the small-but-growing ranks of professionals boycotting the games in protest of Vladimir Putin's anti-gay policies. While this blog despises Putin as much as the next gal, it cannot ignore the irony of leaving America's gay sweetheart high, dry, and potentially naked as part of that political statement. (Not that we would mind seeing him naked, but that is beside the point.) His choice for a replacement is risky, as Hummel’s only design work for the rink so far has been in ice dancing, which has a different set of guidelines and restrictions when it comes to costuming requirements. Nevertheless, we have always admired Hummel's pizzazz and suspect that Anderson (or his management) made a wise choice when deciding to tap this talent. Speaking of tapping …”

The article devolved into metaphors about Blaine Anderson's haunches approximating two plump and springy steam buns just removed from the heat and an avalanche of other picturesque innuendo about the athlete’s physique and abilities that, while difficult to argue with, were nothing Kurt needed to be dwelling on right now.

Kurt: Tina Cohen-Chang caught on to my latest move, or you informed her of it?

Unique Adams: All publicity is good publicity, honey.

He sent a disapproving string of emojis and slipped his phone back into his pocket. He loved Unique, but she never could quite digest his need to be out of the spotlight. Yes, he enjoyed getting accolades and attention, but as occasional punctuation to his work that affirmed he was on the right path. Any more than that and the attention became draining—another duty of the job, like invoicing and account balancing, that took time and energy away from the creative process.

There was a soft knock on door and it opened slowly. A damp mass of curly hair leaned in. “Is now a good time? I know I'm a little early, but Sebastian got another phone call and if I waited for him, I'd be late.” Blaine’s smile seemed almost shy, though Kurt was sure he was imagining things. If anyone knew anything about Blaine Anderson, it was that he had an easygoing gregariousness that turned even the most priggish Russian primadonnas into his friends. Of all the various descriptors Kurt had read of Blaine in the media, “shy” had never been one of them.

“Of course. I was just—” Kurt turned to his sketchbook and the pile of swatches he’d been sorting through prior to his phone buzzing.

Blaine's face fell serious, earnest. “I don't want to disrupt your creative process.”

Kurt laughed. “Don't worry about that. Unique Adams already did.”

Blaine’s face turned into a question mark.

“A friend of mine. She just texted me. Anyway, you’re the most— The client is the most important part of my creative process.”

Blaine ducked his head as he stepped into the room, his eyelashes once again forming two black smiles that echoed the one on his lips. He was wearing a fitted Team USA athletic top and sweatpants that, despite their bagginess, did not manage to conceal the alluring curves of his backside. He closed the door behind him and immediately tugged up the hem of his shirt, revealing light brown skin and a dusting of black hairs that rose from his waistband and trailed up toward his sternum, swelling into two smoky plumes that swirled across his chest and coalesced around nipples the color of caramels.

“Where do you want me?” Blaine said, the shirt now just a wad of fabric in his hands.

Kurt's mouth went dry. “Um … Over by the mirror,” Kurt said, not because it was strictly necessary, but because those were the only words he could think of. “There's a table there, too. You can put your clothes on— on the table. Just let me get my measuring tape.”

As he ruffled through his tool kit, he heard Blaine kick off his shoes and peel his pants away from his skin. It’s fine. It will be fine. Kurt was a professional. He had measured and prodded and manipulated countless semi-naked bodies over the course of his career. It was part of the job description. That's all it was: a body. Something to clothe. And Kurt could only clothe it properly if he knew its shape and its measurements.

He turned toward Blaine, who was wearing nothing but a very flattering pair of skinny red briefs.

It's just a body, Kurt reminded himself. Also—“Wait. is that official Team USA underwear?”

“Um.” Blaine looked down, as if he needed to remember what he was wearing. “Sort of? I mean, they're from sponsors. But it's not like, a special edition.”

“So that shade of red is totally unrelated the American flag? Because that can't be more than two shades off the red in your shirt.” Kurt, now standing beside Blaine, picked up the shirt and folded it so that the red was on the edge, then held it up against the fabric on Blaine’s outer hip. The tones were almost identical.

Blaine looked away sheepishly. Something like a blush appeared across his cheekbones. “I have a thing about coordinating in the little things, even when no one else knows I’m doing it. It makes me feel … grounded.”

Kurt laughed. “That’s cute,” he said, because he was the biggest dumbass who ever dumbassed. “I mean, charming. Or, well, I mean … I feel reassured knowing you have an appreciation for the finer points of aesthetics. It's a promising start to our collaboration.”

Blaine, whose posture was already impeccable, seemed to stand a little straighter. “Thank you,” he said. “I didn't know my underwear could tell you so much.”

“Everything a person wears tells a story,” said Kurt. He raised the measuring tape to Blaine’s chest, which felt a little less threatening than it had moments before. “Now, let me help you tell yours.”

[wowbright]

Any opinions on what the music for Blaine's free skate program should be? It's in early 2014 so technically the song shouldn't have lyrics but also I am putting multiple fictional characters in the Olympics so IDK how married I am to reality on that one.

Needs to be 4 minutes 30 seconds, plus or minus 10 seconds. Can be a mashup or medley.

You can answer privately if you prefer.

[wowbright]

Chapter 6: Observer

Also on AO3.

---

“You think a quadruple axle is hard? I’m passing a gallstone as we speak. That’s hard!”

“Sue, if your gallbladder is acting up again, you can take time off to go to urgent care.”

She stepped in so close Blaine could smell the protein shake on her breath. “I will never let anything distract me from winning. Ever. Now get back on the ice and do it again.”

They’d been at it all day. There was a reason no one had ever landed a quadruple axle in competition. Even in practice, Blaine was having trouble landing it consistently. It didn’t help that they had already been at this for 5 hours and his muscles and brain were both fatiguing. But Sue, of course, thought that was the best time to perfect the most difficult jumps. If she could get Blaine to do it when he was exhausted, then he should be able to do it after a time zone change with the eyes of the world on him and the rush of competition jangling his nerves.

“Okay,” he sighed. “Let’s run through this again.”

Blaine went back out onto the ice, letting his muscle memory guide him through the routine. He tried not to overthink anything, just listen to the music and the low hum of the compressors keeping the ice cold. He tried to connect with the sensations that had made him fall in love with skating back when he was a boy: the speed and momentum, the air gliding around him, the solid ice turning to liquid movement under the pressure of his blade. He used to imagine the ice pushing him along, like a dance partner guiding him through the steps, and that always made things easier, to feel that the weight of each jump wasn’t on his shoulders, but was a shared endeavor and he could rely on his partner to do its part.

Donut spin, scratch spin, glide, glide, triple toe loop, triple toe loop, double loop, glide, glide, glide …

He let the ice guide him through, forgetting to anticipate the choreography, forgetting to form the words for his movements in his head—forgetting all language and logic as he remembered his body and what it was born to do.

He flew.

“I told you!” Sue barked through her megaphone when he and the music came to a stop. “Quadruple axles are easy. Wasn’t that easy?” Blaine almost thought he detected a smile behind the mouthpiece. But when she lowered her megaphone, her face was all scowl. “Who let in the delicate porcelain love child of Legolas and the Pillsbury Dough Boy? I don’t remember anyone telling me we’d have an observer. Get him out, Sebastian. I don’t care if your new boyfriend looks like he won immortality in a three-way with LeStat de Lioncourt and a smolderingly sexy young Vincent Price. He doesn’t belong here.”

Blaine spun around. Behind him in the stands stood Sebastian and—

Oh. Blaine’s heart did a triple Salchow.

“Boyfriend?” Sebastian sneered. “Hardly. This is Kurt Hummel. He’s come to rescue Blaine from the costumeless abyss.”

Blaine didn’t notice himself start to move. Once again, it was as if the ice was guiding him along. And now he was suddenly at the edge, within arm’s length of the most handsome man he had ever seen.

Blaine reached out his hand. “My name’s Blaine.”

Kurt smiled softly and shook Blaine’s hand. (Somewhere in the background, like a fly buzzing in the distance, Blaine heard Sebastian snicker, “He knows that already, Blaine”—but it was inconsequential. Everything was inconsequential with those blue-green eyes looking down on him.) “Nice to meet you, Blaine. I’m Kurt.”

[wowbright]

Chapter 5: Contemporary

Also on AO3.

---

“Kurt Hummel! Great to see you again!” Sebastian was standing outside the airport next to black sedan with a smarmily large smile on his smarmy meerkat face, his hand outstretched in what Kurt supposed was Sebastian’s best attempt at feigned civility.

Kurt waved the hand away. He was not going to shake it. “If this story about Blaine Anderson needing an emergency costume designer turns out to be your idea of a practical joke, I'll kill you.”

Sebastian laughed as he took Kurt’s luggage and put it in the rear trunk. “Kill me? You can do better than that.”

“Fine. I'll persuade Rachel Berry to fire Lopez and hire you to transition her from Broadway star to dominatrix of the adult contemporary charts.”

Sebastian hissed. “Ow. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.” He gestured for Kurt to get into the back seat and slipped in next to him.

“Isn’t Lopez already your worst enemy?”

Sebastian shrugged. “We’re at a détente.”

“Hmmph,” Kurt muttered, but the sound was drowned by the engine’s purr as the driver steered the car into traffic. “I didn't know you were capable of détentes.”

“I am if you are,” Sebastian said silkily.

“I'm not sleeping with you.”

“That's not what I meant. What are you being so prickly about anyway? I'm handing you the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“You're not handing it to me. I've earned it. I'm good, and you know it. Otherwise, you wouldn't have called me.”

“Touche.” Sebastian looked out the window. “Well, if anything, you should get along fine with Blaine.”

Kurt felt himself relax a little. He had met enough semi-famous people by now that he knew it was silly to get nervous over it. He wasn't starstruck, even if he had been aware of Blaine and his prodigious talents for years. The difference was, he wasn't used to meeting people whose prodigious talents he had used for masturbatory fodder as recently as a few weeks ago. But that shouldn't matter. He'd fantasized about a lot of different people over the years. It wasn't like Blaine was a regular star in his fantasies or that Kurt had some weird skating fetish or that he had weird romantic aspirations of falling into Blaine’s arms and dancing around the rink like Ekaterina Gordeeva and Sergei Grinkov. It was just awkward timing. “That's good to hear.”

“Yup,” Sebastian said with an expression that made it clear Kurt had taken the bait. “He's a touchy little drama queen, too.”

Kurt scoffed. “I am not a drama queen.”

“You tried to get me kicked out of the Warblers just because I hooked up with someone you didn’t like!”

“That was in high school. Everyone's a drama queen in high school. Besides, It was clearly a violation of our team’s norms. We were supposed to hold to the Warbler spirit of brotherhood in and out of competitions and always demonstrate loyalty to the group first. What part of you fucking my ex-bully demonstrated a spirit of brotherhood?”

“But he was your ex-bully! And I fooled around with everyone. You of all people should know that.”

 “We didn’t fuck. And don't bring that up anyway. It doesn’t count. It was the high from winning regionals.”

“Well, it wasn’t brotherhood, either. I have brothers, and we don’t –”

Kurt silenced him with a single glare.

“Let's not do this, okay? As much as I love bickering with you, we have work to do.”

Kurt felt a smile fighting for ownership of his lips. He fought it. “Tell me all about Blaine’s routine.”

“We want you to see it first, see what ideas it gives you without prejudicing you with— Why are you grinning like that?

Crap. Kurt steadied his face. “You finally admitted it.”

“Admitted what?”

“The basis of our entire … friendship, or whatever. You love bickering with me.”

Sebastian laughed bitterly. “As much as I'm capable of loving anything, if you ask Blaine.”

“Oh,” Kurt said uncomfortably. “Are you two …?”

“No, no, it's not like that. I mean, of course I wouldn't mind hooking up just once, because that ass, but—"

Kurt felt his face redden. That ass really was a wonder to behold—prominent and muscular and round, and when Blaine Anderson moved in a certain way the muscles that formed the swell at the top became so defined Kurt swore he could set a tea cup filled with scalding brew on it and the thing would just balance without a drop spilling as Blaine flung himself around the ice.

“—we've just known each other a long time and he has a lot of opinions about how I live my life.”

Kurt frowned. He liked having opinions himself, but he was not fond of working with clients with strong opinions, because they usually didn't know what they were talking about—and the less informed they were, the more insistent they were with their stupid opinions. Kurt wouldn't have guessed Blaine Anderson was that type. He always seemed so sweet and humble in his interviews in a way that made Kurt have to remind himself he was over 30 now and too old to have crushes on people he did not know. “Controlling diva?”

“Oh, diva, definitely. But controlling? No. He worries about the people he cares about. That's all.”

Kurt felt relieved, and then wondered if that was worse. If Blaine really was as sweet as he appeared in the press and had a body like that, the next few weeks were going to be a struggle.

[wowbright]

december klaine fanworks challenge 2024

Ohh look I'm writing something for the December Klaine fan works challenge and it is not Mormon!Klaine! That does not mean I am done with Mormon!Klaine it just means that I had a dream about this last night so I decided to resurrect my WIP from 2014. I have no idea what I'm doing and also if you are a figure skating expert you will probably hate this but I am just here to have fun.

You can read what's on AO3 first if you want but all you need to know that this was inspired by a prompt from @rainbowrites: “Olympics AU where Blaine is the figure skater and Kurt is the emergency designer brought in after the first one refused to work in Russia because GAY RIGHTS” and it takes place during the 2014 Sochi Olympics.

Chapter 4: Scan

“I found someone,” Sebastian said when Blaine walked into the rink that morning.

Blaine did a double take. Sebastian was not the kind of person who willingly awoke before 5:00 a.m. Then again, maybe he hadn't gotten up early.

“Sebastian. You're not in your 20s anymore. You can't stay up all night partying like this and then show up at work without even sleeping first to … Wait. How much ecstasy have you had? We've been over this before. You always think you found someone when you're on ecstasy. You even started making out with Santana that—”

“That was our Yalta! Some people come to detente through talking, other people do it through—” Sebastian cleared his throat uncomfortably. It was rare to see him uncomfortable. “Other means. It was purely political. It wasn't love. Anyway, you'd been at me for ages about how unprofessional we were being with—”

“Your constant feuding and undermining of each other? Yes, yes. It's all my fault that you made out with a girl. Whatever. It still stands. Whoever you think you're in love with today, you’re not. It’s just that the only time you're capable of opening up your emotions to other people is when you’re high.”

Sebastian stared at him so hard, Blaine started to feel a tingle on the back of his neck that seemed more like the pricks of conscience than his hair standing on end.

But Sebastian recovered his tongue faster than Blaine could apologize. “Wow. Those are some sharp claws. Who stole your tuna, kitty cat?”

Blaine sighed. He sank down on the bench and began putting his skates on. “Sorry. It's not an excuse, but you know I'm stressed.”

Sebastian sat down next to him and patted his back. “Yes. And that's why I'm here period to make you less stressed. But you're too busy jumping to conclusions to hear what I have to say. The him that I found is your designer.”

Blaine looked up from his skates and started to scan the rink, as if somehow the man would be there already, kneeling on the ice like a white knight come to Blaine’s rescue with a fabric swatch instead of a helmet in one hand and a pair of sharpened shears for a sword in the other.

Sebastian gently tapped the side of Blaine’s head. “He's not here already, dumbass. You'll meet him this afternoon.”

“Who is it?”

“Well, it’s him, so obviously I wasn't able to rope in Lisa McKinnon or Katie Usha at this late stage.”

Blaine’s heart skipped a beat. “Wait. Did you get me Mathieu Caron?”

“Yeah, right.” Sebastian snickered. “I got someone you've never heard of. But he's great. I promise.”

“What's his name?”

“Kurt Hummel.”

---

Note: Apparently there's some pro ice hockey player named Mathieu Caron these days? Well, the one I'm talking about is not him. The hockey player was like 14 during the Sochi Olympics and I'm pretty sure he does not design ice skating costumes.