Kurt stumbled to his feet, heading towards the still open window to close it. Feeling numb and with his eyes glued shut from crying all night, Kurt didn't see the shards of glass until it was too late and he had stood on some of them. Pain shot through his feet, instantly dispelling his dreamlike state and leaving only the cold, harsh morning light in its wake.
"Fuck, shit!" He hung his head and started to cry again as he looked at the floor where a small blot of red rested on a sharp splinter of glass. He bent down to pick it up, not even thinking of the danger it represented, but before he could he saw a newspaper clipping on the floor next to it. He must have thrown it there last night with the rest of Blaine's notes. Maybe it could tell Kurt something about why Blaine had crushed his heart so brutally?
His fingers gently grasped it and brought it up to his face. It was an obituary. Kurt's face lost all its color as his knuckles gripped the clipping tight in his hand, crumpling it up. Oh god, oh god. What had he done?
He quickly ran to the pile of papers on the floor heedless of the glass, picking up each sheet and glancing at it before throwing them to one side, until he found what he was seeking. Oh Blaine, honey, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry I was so oblivious, Kurt thought, before taking the sheet and the newspaper clipping and throwing them into his Versace clutch bag.
In only ten minutes, surely an all-time record for Kurt, he was dressed and out the door running to the nearest metro and praying to whoever would listen that he'd still be there, that he could find him, that he could apologise for being so oblivious to his needs; for only seeing the perfect front and not looking any deeper.
Twenty minutes of tapping his foot impatiently on the train, and scaring all of his fellow passengers, Kurt was running up the steps of Gambetta station and then towards the entrance of Père Lachaise Cemetery. If Kurt had been in his right mind he might have been able to admire the early morning crisp air, the line upon line of beautiful bowing trees marking his run. Instead, all Kurt could picture was the two pieces of paper he had with him. The first was the obituary of Mr and Mrs Michael Anderson. It was an old clipping and according to the writing on it they had died in a car crash one year ago yesterday; on Kurt and Blaine's anniversary. The other piece of paper had been a letter in a handwriting Kurt had recognised to be Blaine's older brother, James. It had stated what had happened in unassuming words, almost cruel in its lack of emotion.
It had been so sudden; they had been living in Paris for three years when it happened, having moved to an old Anderson family home after Michael, Blaine's father, had retired. Death had been instant upon impact and they had died on site. He hadn't sent word because he didn't think Blaine would care. After all, Blaine hadn't spoken to them or seen them in five years. Not since his wedding to Kurt when they'd finally had to accept it wasn't just a phrase he was going to get over. They had a family plot in Père Lachaise that went back five generations. It had been a large ceremony; they'd been much loved in their local community. He was sending this letter now as James had seen an article on Kurt's fashion show in Paris and had thought it would be a good time to tell Blaine about his parents since he was in town. How they'd died on his anniversary. How ironic it was and how maybe Blaine should spend it apologising to his parents' grave for causing them so much pain and grief. For being such a failure of a son. For not being there for them when they needed him the most.
Kurt really, really hated that despicable man. How Blaine could be related to such cruel men as his father and brother he would never know. Kurt remembered when Blaine's family had found out about them, how shocked he had been when Blaine had turned up to Mckinley High on the first day of their senior year. He had been too happy to question it at first, how the purple and red mottled bruise on his cheek was still visible even through the obvious attempts of hiding it with concealer. No, it was not till much later that he found out what had happened. That Blaine had been staying over at a friend's house. That he'd been thrown out and could no longer afford the Dalton fees with the meagre funds he had saved up in case such a situation should ever arise. He had been too proud to talk to Kurt about it, pride had always been one of his biggest downfalls, and Blaine had always managed to keep up his perfect front throughout those troublesome months before Blaine's parents had allowed him back home, although their relationship had never been the same again. Only Santana, whom he had become close friends with during his time at Mckinley, had understood what he was going through. She also used a façade to hide behind, a mask to protect herself from anyone that might harm her. Even Kurt broke his 'queen bitch' character from time to time; his first visit to Dalton when he'd realised his life could actually be different, watching his father lying so still in the hospital bed unable to hold his hand. Kurt wouldn't let Blaine block him out this time though, wouldn't let him hide behind his perfect façade like he had so many times in the past.
Passing the entrance desk of the cemetery Kurt asked for a map from the guard in fluent French before setting off for where he thought Blaine's parents had been buried according to the letter; hoping with everything he had that he'd be able to find Blaine in this morbid maze of gravestones, monuments and trees.
Head held high he strode down the avenue in front of him, glancing around before freezing in place only minutes later. Kurt blinked to make sure it wasn't just his imagination, but Blaine's curly mop of dark hair was still there, his body hunched over itself, sat down in front of a monument of a male angel covered in red lipstick and graffiti. Tiptoeing forward, as if worried he would scare him off, he reached down to place a hand on his shoulder.
"Blaine," he whispered with so much meaning.
Blaine slowly turned his face up to him, his deep brown eyes shimmering with unspent tears as he smiled waveringly.
Kurt tried to smile back, although it came out as more of a grimace, before he folded up his long jean clad legs and sat down next to Blaine on the cold curb.
Time passed slowly as Kurt simply stayed there, his right side pressed up against Blaine's left, and just took in the view. It had been less than two days but already Kurt knew he never wanted to leave Blaine's side for that long again. He reached out for Blaine's wrist and placed two fingers over his pulse, letting Blaine's natural rhythm wash over him. One, two. One, two. And he tried to show with his presence alone that he was here now, that Blaine could just be. There would be time for questions later; where had he been last night, why hadn't he called. But for now Kurt would love him and heal him, like Blaine had always done for him.
More time passed.
"We came here when I was eight." The sudden noise sounded loud in the near empty cemetery, most of the tourists still being in bed. "I remember. We celebrated my birthday at this small restaurant nearby. All of my dad's French relatives were there. And afterwards dad said we should visit my ancestors. That I should know my heritage." Blaine glanced down to where Kurt's fingers were still pressed against his pulse.
"We came in the entrance nearest Gambetta station and as we were walking down to the family plot we passed this grave, Oscar Wilde's grave. There were two men sat in front of it holding hands, writing a message on the base in bright red lipstick while some female tourists were kissing it, leaving lip imprints all over the angel's legs. Dad had tightened his grip on my hand and dragged me away muttering about how much of a disgrace it was that such a man as him was allowed to be buried amongst normal upstanding citizens, never mind being idolised and appreciated by other freaks. That people like him didn't deserve love." Blaine looked back at the monument. "I hadn't understood what he meant at the time, but the memory stuck with me and when I was older, when I looked back, I… I…"
"Shush, honey, it's okay." Kurt started to rub the small of Blaine's back with his free hand.
"I knew… I knew he could never accept me. Would never accept me. And I tried, I tried so goddamn hard to be who he wanted, to be who everyone wanted; to be perfect in every other way so maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't matter. But he couldn't see past it, neither of them could. And I knew that, I always knew that."
He wiped his tears away with his sleeve, smiled at Kurt. "I'm sorry..." he started and Kurt could already see the mask dropping back into place.
"Don't," Kurt said before kissing him hard, brutal even. "Don't do this Blaine. I adore it when you do and when you say the most perfect things. How much you give and give. How much you've always protected me, been there for me, and made it so easy to love you. But Blaine, I love you. All of you. And when you need me most, when you need protecting, when you need to take and not give. That's when I'll love you the most, because that's when you need it the most."
Blaine simply blinked up at him, his mouth open in a small 'o' of shock, before glancing again at the foot of the monument where he had placed the flowers he had meant to place at his parent's grave.
"I didn't bring a vase…"
Kurt started to unlace his left converse and began to pull it off as Blaine looked on in puzzlement.
"Kurt… what are you doing?"
"Well I'd thought that was obvious dummy, I'm giving you a vase. Two in fact if you stop sitting there all dumb and make yourself useful," Kurt said with a sardonic lift of one eyebrow as he tossed the shoe to one side and placed his right foot in Blaine's lap.
Blaine gave a soft smile as his hands fell to Kurt's ankle and he subconsciously started to stroke circles at either side. "But you love these Kurt."
"And I love you more, and if my husband wants a vase then I'll damn well give him a vase. Anyway, it's terribly apropos for a famous designer don't you think?" He flicked his hair and struck a self-important pose before both he and Blaine burst into giggles despite the situation.
Blaine undid the right converse and slipped it off before bending and kissing Kurt's bare ankle. "Thank you." He whispered as he looked up at Kurt adoringly through his eyelashes. "What did I do to deserve you?" He asked wonderingly.
"I could ask the same thing. Come on," Kurt rose to his knees and reached for the discarded shoe, placing it reverently before the base of the monument.
Quickly, Blaine placed the other beside it and then passed the flowers to Kurt.
Kurt raised an eyebrow.
"You're the one that's good at design," he said with a shrug of his shoulders
"Doesn't mean it extends to flower arrangements," Kurt shot back but took them and started to arrange them anyway.
Once everything was to his satisfaction he sat back next to Blaine on the curb just in front of the monument and bumped shoulders with him.
"You know, it's really quite a heterosexual monument all covered in red lipstick like that… can't say as a gay man myself I'd like thousands of women slobbering all over me. Especially in last season's colors. The least they could do is be in fashion. Now, a line of hunky men prostrating themselves at my memorial all dressed in the latest couture perhaps…" Kurt trailed off as Blaine gave a chocked laugh before tears started to fall again down his cheeks. "Oh honey, I'm here now…" Kurt placed his hands either side of Blaine's face as he pressed his forehead to Blaine's and stared into his eyes. "You don't have to be strong anymore Blaine, I'm here. You can cry, you can be sad. I'm here for you. I won't love you any less."
"I know you won't." Blaine gave a small hiccup. "I mean I'm not sad Kurt, I'm happy. I'm just so happy and… and…"
"Shush darling, it's okay. That doesn't make you a bad person, it just makes you human." He quickly pressed his lips to Blaine's, tasting the saltiness on them, before standing and pulling Blaine up with him. "Come on, let's go back to the room, watch all those films you wanted to, and see how far we can push room service before they crack!"
Blaine gave another snort of laughter as Kurt started to drag him to the exit and nearby metro. "We look ridiculous, you look ridiculous." He gestured to Kurt's bare feet and rather shocking fashion ensemble, considering he'd thrown it on in only minutes.
"I'm setting a new trend is all." Kurt gave a quick smile back at Blaine before starting to run while still holding Blaine's hand, reminiscent of a time years ago when Blaine had done the same to Kurt down an empty school corridor.
And this time Blaine's laugh was full bodied as he ran beside Kurt past shocked tourists and visitors, not caring what anyone thought, just caring that he was holding Kurt's hand and that everything might not be ideal or perfect but, you know what, neither was love. And that was just fine.
A/N: So that's a wrap, hope you enjoyed it! It would be lovely if you could review and tell me what you think. There was going to be a sequel looking at Blaine's point of view and where exactly he went on their anniversary but I don't think there's been enough feedback to think people might read it. Though I may do it anyway lol but not for a long time now.
Ta ta for now :-)
p.s. The last scene, with the converses being used as a vase at Oscar Wilde's grave, is true. I don't know if they're still there but they were the last two times I went.