You are the girl that I've been dreaming of – ever since I was a little girl

I'm biting my tongue
of I'm Not Gonna Teach Him How to Dance With You
by littlemusings

Tour rehearsals and album recordings were extremely grueling and more hardcore than he had expected. It's just my first tour, so I guess it'll be easier the next time… These words ran through his head every day, like a continuous, never-ending mantra. He would wake up in the morning – four in the morning – to get ready to head to the recording studio early. He would be there until noon. After that, he would have a fifteen-minute lunch (kindly provided to him by his manager), and head straight to the local theater for tour rehearsal. Costume designers, his production managers, and people prodding him to test this microphone or that headset, or even that new guitar would then hound him continuously for hours.

He was incredibly happy he had Sundays off.

Usually on a Sunday morning, he would sleep in until eight, and go for a jog ("Just keep fit," his manager constantly told him), occasionally get stopped by a fan, grab a latte at Starbucks, and check out the small bookstore right next to the Laundromat on Fifth Avenue. He would usually purchase the latest issues of Vogue, Rolling Stone among others.

But, this Sunday, he couldn't believe what he saw.

He was merely looking for the latest copy of Vogue to devour for the afternoon when he stopped and stared at its latest cover.

He couldn't believe it.

Blaine Anderson absolutely couldn't believe it. His gaze lingered on the front cover of Vogue's latest issue, the bright-red embossed words sticking out to him like a sore thumb.

On the cover was a very, very familiar face. The face of an incredibly handsome, porcelain-skinned young man adorning a crisp black suit, legs crossed in a pose.

Kurt Hummel.

Fashion's best is getting married, the cover read. Special edition issue, 2nd cover.

Kurt Hummel…his ex-boyfriend. Usually, the magazine wouldn't have marriage announcements of fashion designers on its front cover, but apparently, Kurt Hummel was the only exception. He was, of course, Vogue's main fashion news contributor, the owner of the amazing, best-selling clothing brand Pavarotti (Blaine still snickered every time he heard Kurt say this in an occasional interview – then Blaine would change the channel quickly), and a favorite for this year's Tony Award for Best Actor in the Broadway re-production of Wicked (the first male Elphaba, could you believe it?). His story was legend, as well – the gay kid who suffered through high school was now the man who was now a major ambassador for The Trevor Project.

…And among all of these things, he was the singer Blaine Anderson's famous ex-boyfriend.

Getting married? Why hadn't he heard of this? Blaine quickly grabbed the magazine and brought it to the register, paying for it. Telling the woman at the register to keep the change, he ran out and hurried back to Starbucks, taking a corner seat. He quickly flipped through to the table of contents. Page 40. Ignoring the normal things he usually read, he found himself staring at a photo of Kurt with another man, who was – Blaine had to admit – pretty gorgeous himself, with dark brown hair, and a sculpted figure.

"Fashion's Best: Kurt Hummel, 25, is getting married to the love of his life, painter Anthony Marksman. Read on."

Blaine stared at the magazine in disbelief. Only three years ago, he and Kurt had broken up, and in the meantime, he found a partner. He scanned the article for any mention of his name, but Blaine couldn't find a thing. Of course he wouldn't mention me – or he probably told them to edit out any questions about me, he thought scathingly.

But…he was mentioned.

Interviewer: So, Kurt, are you still in contact with Grammy-award winning singer, Blaine Anderson, who you famously split with in summer 2016?

Kurt: No, actually. No comment. (Laughter) Next question, please.

No comment? "No comment." Next question, please.

Of course he hadn't kept in contact! After such a nasty break-up, why would they keep in contact? Wasn't that the case for most separations? Stupid interviewer!

Blaine stood up, slammed the magazine shut, and threw it in the nearest garbage bin, to the stares of curious coffee-drinkers.

Next question, please.

The boy he so desperately loved was getting married. And to a painter, of all professions and men possible! Blaine jogged down the street, and headed back to his San Francisco flat, frustrated. Married. And he didn't tell me. Ugh, stupid, of course he wouldn't have to tell you, you're his ex-boyfriend, and he doesn't care about you anymore. He broke up with you in the first place because of Broadway, distance, and everything in between, so you shouldn't care if he doesn't. You're in California, and he's in New York, so forget it, Blaine, forget it.

He flopped down on his couch, turning on the television, going straight to MTV. "Next question, please," he snorted, watching the latest MGMT music video. "Pathetic," he mumbled, lying down on the leather now. "I am so pathetic."

Ring, ring, ring. Groaning, Blaine stood up and walked to his kitchen. "Hello?" he answered the phone, teeth clenched.

"Hi, Blaine," came the comforting, familiar voice of his younger sister, Danielle Anderson.

"Dani, I'm glad you called," Blaine sighed in relief. "Did you see Vogue? Did you?"

"That's why I called," she mumbled. "I bought a long-distance card just so I could call you."

His younger sister, 20, was studying in a university in Canada.

"Shouldn't you be studying?" Blaine asked, leaning against the whitewashed wall of the kitchen. "Get crackin' on the books, kid, and don't mind me."

"But…he's getting married, Blaine. Aren't you going to call him or something?"

"Nope," he said through gritted teeth. "I don't need to – remember what he said? 'I don't need you in my life anymore,'" his voice a perfect imitation of Kurt's.

"You should really call him and everything just to see what's up, and I know this may be hard for you, but try to congratulate him. I think he needs more than just his fellow designers and Broadway people to applaud him."

"If you haven't noticed, Dani, I haven't forgotten a word he said to me three summers ago."

"Take this as a time of reconciliation."

"You sound so saint-like. So unlike you."

"Because as soon as I saw that cover, Blaine, I thought of you. To be honest, I don't condone things like this, but you…screw what I said earlier. Fuck that 'congratulations' shit. I want you to go to him and tell him you still love him."

"Uhm, I think that would be borderline awkward," Blaine snapped. "He and I are over—we have been over, Danielle."

"I think he still loves you. I think that deep inside he broke up with you just so that he could get over the pain that you were all the way in San Fran, and he was, or, uhm, is, in New York City."

"Yeah, yeah right. If he really cared, we would still be together."

"You're going to be in NYC next Friday for your first show, right? You'll be there for the weekend."

"What? Yeah, of course."

"I checked up your tour schedule with mom and dad. They said you'll be in NYC next Friday, and will be there until Tuesday."

"And you remind of me this, why?"

"You have a chance to redeem yourself with him. Tell him you still love him. Make it like the movies, where the desperately in love boy rushes to the altar, or the engagement party, to tell the boy he loves that he still loves him and wants to take him back."

"The engagement party is next weekend?" Blaine asked; his voice piqued.


"And you know this, how?"

"Through tabloids…and, well…I was invited."

"Wait, what?" he exclaimed, his eyes growing wide. "Why were you invited, and I wasn't, Danielle Marie Anderson?"

"OBVIOUSLY, Blaine, he didn't want to invite his ex-boyfriend in order to avoid awkwardness."

"Excuse me. So he invites his ex-boyfriend's sister."

"Don't ask me why!" Danielle snapped. "Maybe he wanted to avoid a fight between you and Anthony."

"See, and if I do end up gate-crashing the party, I'll cause a fucking media craze. I can see the tabloid headlines now: Grammy-award winning singer Blaine Anderson seeks to kill ex-boyfriend's fiancé! Violent tendencies, yes? Perez Hilton would be buzzing with gossip."

"There is tight security; no paparazzi is allowed inside, the invite said," Danielle said sourly.

"How can I get in if there's tight security? I don't have an invite."

"Blaine James Anderson, your sister is a tentative mass communications major and a pro at Photoshop. I'll just edit the invite so that it says your name," she said impishly. "I know all fonts and all kinds of paper types."

"No way," Blaine breathed. "No, no, no, Danielle, I am not going to cause problems, okay? This is madness."

"This isn't Sparta, either, buckeye. This is life, and if you don't take this opportunity and do what I say…as mom always said in Tagalog, bahala 'ka sa buhay 'mo. 'it's your life,'" she said, attempting to sound cold. "You won't get another boyfriend, and Kurt will be married to a hot painter."

"You amuse me," Blaine grumbled. He thought about it.

I could have Kurt back.

"This sounds selfish," Blaine finally said, "but…fine. I'll try. Send me the damn invitation."

"I already made it this morning when I saw the issue, and sent it right after."

"You crazy bitch," he laughed.

"Anything for you, my equally crazy bitch."

"When do you think it'll get here?"

"Tomorrow morning. Sent it via FedEx, so it'll be faster and get here before your tour starts."

"You are so prepared."

"Mom and dad's credit card always keeps me prepared, and anyway, I love you and Kurt together, so whatever, Bee. I'll talk to you later."

"I love you, Dani."

"I love you too, Bee."

He hung up the phone with a click. He was going to New York City for the start of his first tour, and crashing an engagement party. Blaine Anderson had a full schedule on his hands for the next weekend, and was almost prepared to handle it.

Kurt Hummel stared at two mannequins, one male and one female, in front of him – the male one was wearing a white polo and black tie, with a dark blue blazer on top. The blazer's collar was lined with red pipe, and an ornately stitched P was embedded onto the left breast pocket.

He had no idea why he had designed this specific outfit, but his hands just worked and worked until this came up as his result. It looked too much like something familiar.

It looked too much like Dalton Academy's uniform. A private school in Ohio's uniform.

"Too much red piping; I could do without it all," he muttered to himself, picking up his sketchbook and redrawing the sketch of the blazer. He looked over to the female mannequin, which was wearing a tube-top dress of the same color as the blazer. It was form fitting up to the waist, and then branched out in ballerina skirt-like layers from the waist to the knee. The layers of the sequined skirt were blue and red together.

"The dress, yes, the red piping on the blazer, no thank you," he said again, gesturing for his assistant to come forward

"Yes, Mr. Hummel?" his assistant and NYU intern, Jamie Lewis, asked, pulling out a notepad.

"I want to re-edit the entire male line. The blue and red aren't really working for me anymore," Kurt sighed, rubbing his temples with his hands. "Can you take note that I don't really want any more red piping on these blazers?"

"But, sir, the colours seem patriotic. Didn't you say you were going for a patriotic theme when Vogue interviewed you two months ago?"

"Dump the patriotic theme. It's too Betsy Ross mixed in with 'innocent little Ohio private school boy,'" the designer snapped, turning to face Jamie. Jamie blinked, backing up a little. Kurt softened his glance, and patted her shoulder.

"Sorry, Jamie," he murmured. "Didn't mean to get at you like that."

"It's all okay, Mr. Hummel," she responded, biting her bottom lip. "What do you suggest we do now?"

"I'll think of something tonight, I always do," he winked, putting his arm over Jamie's shoulders. "You see these two outfits?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," she responded curiously.

"These are sure-fire signs that I am starting to go mad," Kurt nodded, pursing his lips together. He patted her shoulder and walked off, leaving her with the mannequins in the bright, fluorescently lit studio, slamming the door behind him.

Once he was sure he was alone, Kurt ran to his bathroom and washed his face. He looked in the mirror and found that his eyes were red and stinging furiously.

Come on, Kurt, get a grip on yourself, he thought angrily. Of course he might have seen the magazine, you know he reads it. Why did you do something so stupid? And those outfits—stop creating things that remind you of him. Besides, you're the one who ended it, you extremely ignorant baby penguin. And, you have Anthony. Anthony loves you. Yes, he does, very much.

He pulled paper towels from the dispenser in the corner and dabbed at his face. "Now, get out there, and put on a happy face," he said to himself, and then walked out, and back into his studio, where Jamie was still waiting for him to come back.

"Sorry about that, Jamie," he cleared his throat. "Just needed to use the bathroom."

"Yes, sir," she said quietly. "I also wanted to, um, congratulate you on your engagement, by the way."

"Thank you," Kurt said, smiling brightly. "Now, my dear, would you like to help me start an entirely new line?"

Jamie could only stutter. "Y-yes, sir! Of course—I would love to!"

"Let's get cracking," Kurt grinned even bigger, handing her a sketchbook.

"Not quite yet," a voice piped up. Kurt's smile plastered onto his face as his fiancé – his fiancé – walked into the studio.

Anthony Marksman was statuesque, amazingly chiseled, with dark brown hair that could only have been dyed – Kurt knew this right away when they first met. Despite his 'fake hair,' Anthony was gorgeous; his dark brown eyes made him, Kurt, melt.

"Hey, babe," Anthony grinned, giving Kurt a kiss on the cheek. Blushing, Kurt kissed him back in response.

"You're early," Kurt breathed, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. "And what do you mean 'not quite yet'?"

"I thought we were going out for dinner," Anthony pouted. Jamie looked from Kurt to Anthony, and backed away onto the closest couch.

"I thought I texted you earlier, saying that I have to work late today?" Kurt sighed, gesturing towards his two mannequins and tables full of fabric and sketches.

"Take a break, Kurt," Anthony laughed, "I got us a perfect window-seat table at the new Italian Restaurant down the street from here."

"That sounds absolutely lovely, Anthony, but I really have to finish the concept for my new line by tomorrow so I can talk to marketing as well. You know how much this means to me," Kurt pleaded, taking his hands in his. "This new line will make Pavarotti earn millions! I'll even get to go to Paris Fashion Week for a second time, this time as a major designer!"

"Dinner," Anthony pouted once more. "Please?"

"This weekend, I promise, after I get this and all the PR stuff and sewing and all that done, okay? I promise."

"You're no fun," Anthony sighed. "Oh well. Fine. Go ahead."

"I'm sorry, babe," Kurt said sincerely.

"At least we have our party next week," Anthony sighed, and let go. "I'll talk to you later; I have to sell one of my paintings at the gallery on the Upper East Side," he added. "Call me when you need someone to pick you up."

"Okay. Bye," Kurt said, waving enthusiastically. Anthony walked out of the office, dejected. Once the door was closed and he heard the lift take his fiancé downstairs, Kurt breathed a sigh of relief.

"Boss, are you really okay?" Jamie asked, clutching her new sketchbook and her old notepad to her chest. "That was…tense."

"It's just one of those days," Kurt shrugged, beginning to compare fabrics. Jamie stood up and patted his shoulder.

"I know I haven't worked for you long, Mr. Hummel, but if you ever need anything, or need to talk, or whatever, you've got me."

"Thank you, Jamie," Kurt smiled at her. "Just call me Kurt. 'Mr. Hummel' is my dad, and that just sounds weird."

"Right…Kurt," she said happily.

"Alright, Jamie, I need you to check out that silk over there, and I'm going to get some of my old stuff and see if I can work from it."

"Roger that."

Author's Note: I hoped you enjoyed reading the first chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it! Sorry if it sounds very loose and whatnot, but I absolutely love Klaine, and I've been having random plotbunnies jumping around my head recently. I was obviously inspired by Blaine's "Prom Queen" performance pick.

And for those who are reading my Percy Jackson & the Olympians story, When We Say - I'm so sorry that I've been procrastinating on it. I've been busy with school lately.

Please review! Constructive criticism is welcome, but flames will be used to fry my chicken. Thanks!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Glee, because it's clearly Ryan Murphy's. If I owned Glee...let's just say there would be more Klaine moments ;P

- Sam