Title: Singin' in the Gore
Summary: Crack. Because the middle of a zombie apocalypse is the perfect place to start having your teenaged romance.
Pairing: Blaine/Kurt
Warning(s): Dark humour, kilts, zombies.
Word(s): 926
A/N:
This is for my darling Nezz – OhBreadsticks – who is tragically sick and had only two requirements of me. Zombies and crack. Go check out her Klaine fic, it has cowboys.


It was when Blaine was spit roasting Pavarotti over the smouldering remains of Wes' small intestine – at least, Blaine thought it was the small one, he didn't particularly want to stretch it out to find out – that he realised what a bizarre turn his life had taken.

If someone had approached him last month and told him all his friends, loved ones, and slightly less talented Warblers would start to froth at the mouth and demand a taste of his dapper, perfectly exfoliated behind he would have suggested – in the most dazzling song and dance routine possible – that they should see a decent psychiatrist.

Oh, how Blaine – now nicknamed the Dappernator – wished that a psychology student was all they needed to sort this mess out.

(As it was, the last psychology student at Dalton developed paranoia and tried to remove Blaine's brain with a set of tweezers. It would be ironically hilarious if the idiot hadn't almost ruined Blaine's perfect hair.)

Life was tough for Blaine – not because of the zombie, oh no, that was kind of standard and easy to deal with. This was America after all, guns grew on trees, and thanks to years of training on Call of Duty, Blaine was pretty much expecting it – but because he was gay.

A gay teenager.

A gay teenager in the zombie apocalypse.

A gay teenager in the zombie apocalypse who had just let the only other gay teenager saunter off into the intestine soaked sunset.

He was so screwed.


He had met Kurt Hummel amidst the wreckage of a personal hygiene aisle in Wal-Mart. Blaine was still pretty gore covered from pushing the former store manager into the meat grinder, but Kurt looked as though he had stepped straight off the cover of Zombie-Vogue.

"I hate store brands," was the first thing Kurt had announced, glaring at the hand sanitizer like it was about to grow teeth and an unhealthy interest in brains.

Blaine had nodded. "Yeah, the cheap stuff can really murder your pours." Kurt had glanced at him then, perfectly formed eyebrow arched in interest. Blaine supposed then was his moment, to take Kurt by the hand and show him that in this dystopian world material objects need no longer matter.

Instead he had swung his bloody baseball bat onto his shoulder and said – "I think I saw some No. 7 underneath some bodies back there." – which, really, was just as important as social commentary, especially when it got Kurt to grin like that.

(Mostly because it got Kurt to grin like that.)


Blaine learnt a lot about Kurt during their time together. He learnt he liked the Beatles, and Wicked, and had a crush on a guy named Finn – what ended it? Blaine had asked, acutely aware he sounded extremely needy, jealous and desperate at the same time. He was straight, Kurt explained, also, he tried to eat my face. And not in the sexy way – and could somehow dress himself like he was going onto the runway in the middle of the un-dead horde.

He also learnt Kurt could kick a zombie's head clean off, and preferred to shoot them from long distance because otherwise he got dirt on his clothes. And that was of course top priority.

What Blaine took the longest to learn was that he was sort of hopelessly, endlessly in love with him.


The kiss wasn't particularly romantic. Then again, nothing about zombies should be romantic, so Blaine supposed he had that bit right at least.

They were on the roof of McDonald's – Kurt had refused to eat anything that actually came from the fast food restaurant, so he spent an extra twenty minutes battling his way into Starbucks to grab a muffin – and Blaine had been making his way through his BigMac when Kurt abruptly declared he was in love with him.

After about five minutes of seriously unsexy choking, and Kurt performing an improved Heimlich manoeuvre so hard that Blaine thinks his may have crushed his solar plexus, Blaine was ready to do the whole confession thing properly.

"I love you too." He said, and then Kurt – probably swooning from Blaine's sheer manliness – had slipped on the regurgitated chicken and was in Blaine's arms, on the floor and, well, he was perfectly justified with making out with him tasting like slightly off chicken nuggets.


Blaine sighed, prodding Pavarotti's charred body to see if it was ready yet, and wondered how on earth he could have messed it all up so profoundly. Contemplating what he thought was one of Wes' ribs, he failed to hear the approaching footfalls, and nearly took Kurt's head off when he sat down next to him.

"You came back?" He asked – having apologised, and offered the remains of their bird friend, as only a polite host would – and Kurt nodded tersely. "Why? I thought, after what I said you would…"

Kurt held up a hand, his nails were flawless and Blaine really needed to ask him how he did that, and silenced Blaine easily. "I understood your concern Blaine, however I am old enough to decide these things for myself." Blaine wanted to protest, but Kurt wasn't finished. "Also, you are probably the only man left who knows a thing about hair products, so unfortunately we're stuck together."

Blaine smiled, threading his fingers through Kurt's and enjoying the quiet crackle of burning innards.

"Yeah, I guess you can fight zombies in a kilt then." Blaine agreed.

(As long as he wears them traditionally.)