Title: Synchronization: Prologue
Spoilers: For everything, just to be safe.
Warnings: Nothing triggering, but there is infidelity.
Word Count: 2,000 for this part.
Summary: In retrospect, he should have known better. Life is nothing like the movies.
Author's Note: This will be a multi-part story. I have it all planned out, and a decent bit has been written, but school had started up again, meaning I'll have to write this at a slower pace than my previous works. I hope you'll stick with me as I write and post it. I also hope it is enjoyable!
Kurt was just considering starting a conversation with the hunky bartender when his eyes found him. Him being Kurt’s high school sweetheart, Blaine Anderson, who was standing with a group of people by the piano across the room and laughing heartily at someone’s joke.
As it were, Kurt would not even have been at the penultimate party if hadn’t been for his co-worker, Max. Boyfriend to the host of said party, he’d invited Kurt during their shared shift at Betsey Johnson.
“I would have invited you sooner, but I thought you already had plans!”
Technically, Max been correct; however, Kurt’s date, Adam, had called the previous night to cancel. And since staying home on a Friday night was out of the question, Kurt gladly accepted the invitation. Truthfully, he probably would have said yes to a chess match.
And so, armed with his second glass of wine, Kurt had to admit the party was a good one. Max and Owen were an excellent couple-host, making the rounds in a way that didn’t look like they were making the rounds. The food was light, buffet style, and the alcohol tasty and seemingly never-ending. There was also the added bonus of the gorgeous guy manning the makeshift bar in a tight white shirt that hugged his ample amount of muscle perfectly.
Kurt was just considering starting a conversation with the hunky bartender when his eyes found him. Him being Kurt’s high school sweetheart, Blaine Anderson, who was standing with a group of people by the piano across the room and laughing hearily at someone’s joke.
Kurt turned hastily toward the bar, heart thumping in his chest like a drum. He downed his drink and walked briskly over, hot fuzz swelling in his brain.
It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be.
But it was. There was simply no one else it could be. He’d recognize that head of curls anywhere.
Placing his empty glass on the counter, he smiled grimly at the bar-tender. “Something stronger, please and thank you,” he said fervently.
The bar-tender grinned. “Coming right up,” he said with a wink, turning away to get to work. Half a minute later, he placed a glass in front of Kurt. “I’m Manuel.”
Kurt took a sip of his drink, which turned out to be a Gin ‘n’ Tonic. “I’m Kurt,” he said, allowing himself a small smile. “Listen, Manuel. Normally I’d be very game for you taking my clothes off once you’re finished for the night, but right now I have to focus on pretending not to snoop on my ex-boyfriend. My sincerest apologies, because you are undeniably gorgeous.” With that, he drained his drink and pushed the glass back across the counter. “And one more, if you would,” he added with his most winning smile.
Manuel threw his head back and laughed, showing sparkling white teeth. Kurt felt a pang of what could-have-been and cut off the mental image of that gorgeous mouth wrapped around his –
“I like you,” Manuel said over the music, grinning. “Brutal honesty is like foreplay to me.” He placed another drink in front of Kurt. “Now which one’s your ex?”
Kurt chuckled. “The one with the bird’s nest for hair.”
Manuel surreptitiously swept the room with his calm gaze. “It’s gotta be the cute one by the piano,” he said.
“Unfortunately,” Kurt agreed, sipping his drink.
Manuel leaned forward on the counter, his bulging forearms tightening enticingly on its surface. He plucked at the front of Kurt’s shirt. “Just brushing at some non-existent lint on your person,” he said, eyes shining with mirth. Then he grinned and used a pen from behind the counter to scrawl what could only be a phone number on a cocktail napkin, retrieved from the pile beside the beer tap.
“Good luck on your mission,” he said, pushing the napkin toward Kurt. “Feel free to use that anytime.”
Kurt pocketed the number with a smirk. “Thank you.”
“And heads-up,” Manuel added, “he's on his way over here. Goodnight!”
Kurt grinned. “Thank you again. Have yourself a lovely evening.” And with that, he grabbed up his drink and turned swiftly on his heel, and found himself face-to-face with the man he hadn’t seen or spoken to in roughly eight years.
Even with his advanced warning of Blaine’s presence at the party, Kurt could still feel his chest tighten as his eyes met Blaine’s wide-eyed ones. They stared mutually for about three seconds, and then Blaine’s face broke into a thousand-watt smile.
“Oh my god!” he cried. “Kurt!”
Kurt smiled back. “Blaine!”
“What the hell!?” Blaine spluttered. “What are you doing here, of all places?”
“I work with Max! What are you doing here?”
“You work with Max? I work with Owen at Langston!”
Kurt gaped. “Small fucking world,” he said with a disbelieving shake of his head.
“No kidding!” A sudden silence blossomed between them, and then Blaine echoed Kurt’s headshake. “This is insane! Let me grab a drink. We gotta catch up; this is just too weird.”
Kurt agreed, and he said as much, and pretty soon they were seated on the loveseat in the corner of the room.
“This is completely bizarre!” Blaine shouted.
Kurt nodded adamantly, unable to suppress a happy grin. "So you work with Owen?”
“Yeah, I’m head of advertising for his firm.”
“Advertising?” Kurt gasped, perplexed. “You went into advertising?”
Blaine laughed. “Business, actually. Advertising sort of found me.”
“Well, good for you!” Kurt said, finishing his drink and placing it on a passing waiter’s tray.
“What about you?” Blaine asked, scooting closer, ostensibly to be heard better over the music.
“Oh, you know, nothing special, just living in Manhattan,” Kurt said significantly.
“I know! It’s unreal!” Blaine finished his own drink and held on to the empty glass. “So you work with Max?” he pressed.
“At Betsey Johnson. He’s the manager, I’m the mannequin designer.”
Blaine looked impressed. He grabbed two glasses of champagne off a different waiter’s tray and handed one to Kurt. “Let’s toast! To successful lives in New York and random happenstance meetings!”
Kurt clinked his glass against Blaine’s and took a long sip. When he looked up, Blaine was in the process of swallowing his own sip of alcohol, and Kurt felt powerless to look anywhere but at the column of Blaine’s straining throat. His mouth felt abruptly dry at the urge to fix his mouth there.
Blaine caught Kurt looking. He swallowed. “You wanna get out of here?” he asked, eyes dark and ready to be fallen into.
“Oh yes,” Kurt breathed.
They hit the street in the direction of Kurt’s apartment, conversation fast and easy from their bizarrely crossed paths, and probably also from the alcohol. Soon they were kissing hot and heavy in the door of Kurt’s place and shedding clothes on the way to Kurt’s room. They hit the mattress and immediately fell together.
Kurt could barely form thought. There were at least a dozen sensations crackling through him as he stroked his hands along Blaine’s naked, decidedly adult body with curiosity and brimming arousal.
He reached for the condom under his pillow, ripped it open and spread it on Blaine’s cock. Blaine arched up and groaned unabashedly. Kurt added lubricant, steadfastly ignoring Blaine’s distracting moans.
Then Blaine said it. Kurt's name, for the first time in eight years.
Kurt scrambled to straddle Blaine and bore down, skin hot and feverish, heart swelling in his chest and his hands gripping Blaine’s straining shoulder blades. His hands mapped Blaine from memory, and his breaths came in short pants from heavy kisses as their movements became frantic.
Some time later, Kurt fell asleep with his head spinning from the seven or eight drinks he’d consumed, and undoubtedly also from the time warp to 2013. He could not fight the unmistakable feeling of his heart expanding in an attempt to reach out and latch on to Blaine’s. Again.
Kurt awoke the next morning with a mild headache and the odd sense that his life had become something out of a movie in the past twelve hours. After all, Kurt reasoned, people didn’t just reunite after eight years; not in real life. It had to mean something. It had to be destined.
Maybe he and Blaine were... it sounded ridiculous in his head, but maybe they were meant to be.
In retrospect, he should have known better. Life is nothing like the movies.
He was just contemplating coffee and breakfast (and vaguely wondering if Blaine still ate unholy amounts of bacon) when a tinny ring echoed through the room. Kurt raised his head and determined, after a moment, that the sound was coming from Blaine's pants, which were strewn on the floor by the door.
Blaine shifted and opened his eyes, blinking tiredly.
"Good morning," Kurt greeted warmly.
Blaine looked over at Kurt with some measure of confusion, then dawning comprehension. Then he covered his face with his hands and groaned deeply. Kurt frowned and pushed himself into a seated position, staring down at Blaine's shamed posture.
That was not the look of someone who was happy to wake up next to his high school sweetheart after nearly a decade.
Blaine suddenly threw the bed covers aside and got to his feet, padding over to his pants. He pulled them jerkily on, then reached into his pocket to retrieve what turned out to be his phone, and he squeezed his eyes shut with another pained expression at whatever was on the screen.
Maybe he was late for work?
"Do you want to stay for breakfast?" Kurt asked uncertainly, thinking Blaine might need to leave quickly.
Blaine glanced up from his phone and grimaced. "I - I can't." He looked around the room desperately, and Kurt realized he was looking for his shirt. So he could leave.
It was definitely not because he was late for work.
Kurt found himself feeling annoyed. If Blaine was so ashamed of falling back into old habits, he could at least have been kind about it.
"Pretty sure your shirt's in the hallway, where I left it after ripping it off last night. After you ripped mine off, remember?" Kurt said sharply. "You seemed pretty eager to fuck last night; what's with the morning after shame?"
Kurt expected an equally sharp response, not for Blaine to crumple inward with an expression of utter misery lining his face.
Now Kurt was starting to feel hurt. Was it really that bad?
Blaine turned away. "I have to go."
Like a switch, Kurt flashed to white-hot anger with a snap that seemed to vibrate through him. "At least do me the fucking courtesy of telling what the hell I did wrong!"
Blaine cringed back around and said, rather viciously, "Nothing! I have a boyfriend, all right? We've been together two years; he's sent ten frantic text messages since midnight, and I've just cheated on him. So I need to get the fuck out of here and do damage control."
Kurt's mouth fell open, and he gaped at Blaine, completely speechless.
Blaine's shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I made a huge mistake. I feel terrible about it, and I'm sorry." Then he turned and practically ran from the room. Kurt heard footsteps in the hall and, a few moments later, the sound of his front door closing quietly.
Sure that Blaine was definitely gone, Kurt cursed at the top of his lungs, giving into his profound disappointment and frustration, and his surprising guilt.