Blaine woke the next morning with a serious case of dry-mouth and little recollection of what had happened the night before. He remembered playing the gig, and that it went well. He remembered applause and a decent sized crowd. Despite that, he knew he still didn’t want to join the band full time, no matter how many times Sam asked. (Okay good he remembered Sam asking again last night.) He remembered drinking a lot (too much), and his friends putting him into an Uber. He didn’t get sick in the car (but wasn’t so lucky once he got home).
courfeyrac that has a singing voice so immaculate that everyone who hears him for the first time does a complete double take and honestly really shouldn’t be surprised that the ball of sunshine can belt lyrics like there’s no tomorrow. give him almost any showtune and he’ll be the first on the stage playing every single part, singing every single high and low note, and drawing any audience in with the way he simply captivates an entire room.
you want some wicked? he’ll play both galinda and elphaba. chicago? he does a real mean billy flynn. phantom of the opera? you bet your ass he’s got half of a paper plate taped onto his face while he howls the music of the night
Because Blaine really needs a ring, too. PG-13, 1199 words.
Kurt pulled out his phone and triple-checked that Blaine hadn’t sent him an “I’m gonna be early!” text in the past fifteen seconds, unlocking the screen with one hand as he stirred the gravy on the stovetop with the other. The potatoes were already boiled and mashed and the roast was in the oven, so he was doing well for time, but he didn’t want Blaine to surprise him before he could put the finishing touches on everything.
The night had to be perfect.
Finally, the gravy was cooked to perfection, so Kurt put a lid on it and turned the heat down. He ran off to their bedroom, stripping out of his chore-appropriate clothing at light speed and putting on his carefully planned dinner outfit – a close-fitting peach button-down with little threads of gold that glinted in the light, dark wheat-colored pants that hugged his ass to perfection, and a bow tie with tiny lightning bolts. Checking his back pocket to make sure there were no tell-tale lines, he hustled back out to the kitchen to make sure nothing had caught on fire in the scant amount of time he’d been gone.
“Breathe, Kurt,” he said quietly after making sure the food was okay. “It’s gonna be fine. You already know how this will turn out, for God’s sake.”
“Don’t you just love those days where you can see the moon while the sun is still shining?”
There was a man standing there. Short black curly hair, brown skin. He was clad in an old, 1920′s suit. Red with black stripes and a golden bow tie. On his belt was an assortment of junk, ranging from jewels to dog teeth. Most noticeable, however, was a small black box.