#TFT allusions

[wowbright]

Fic: A Misunderstanding

Klaine Valentine’s Challenge 2023: “Same Old Country Love Song" by Brian Falduto (Day 9 prompt)

Words: ~2000 words

Rating: Teen and Up

Summary: The missionaries have a double date with Chandler and his boyfriend.

I’m back with more vignettes from my Mormon!Klaine universe for Klaine Valentines 2023! This vignette takes place between Sweet to My Taste and Summer Skies.

My Mormon!Klaine Masterpost.

Thanks to @honeysucklepink for reminding me of Rumtopf! (And @gleefulpoppet and @coffeegleek for listening and brainstorming as well.)

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It wasn't Blaine's fault. Not really. It was a misunderstanding. Surely, God would forgive him for that.

Everything had started out so well. Ever since Blaine’s call to Chandler asking for help figuring out if he was gay, they had become fast friends and persistent texting buddies. Chandler had helped Blaine through his freak outs. Blaine had sent a coded announcement after coming out to (and kissing) Kurt, and Chandler had responded appropriately with heart and fireworks emojis.

It had been sweet of Chandler to invite them over for dinner. He’d done it before, of course, but now the invitation had no hidden motives, since he was no longer trying to get into Kurt’s pants. It was friendship and kindness and “a sort of celebration of the fact that you two are no longer being mutual idiots,” as Chandler put it.

His boyfriend Jean, whom they had met briefly at the quadruple baptism, was there. He was intense, and started the evening out on an uncomfortable note. “So, you're the famous Elder Hummel,” he’d said in his thick French accent, folding his hands together and cracking his knuckles with a grotesque a series of pops after Chandler had disappeared back into the kitchen to finish preparations.

“Famous?” answered Kurt, unperturbed. “If you say so.”

“I do. And I can see the allure—though I understood it a little better when you walked out of the baptismal font in your soaked whities. It's like a wet T-shirt contest, but with Jesus.”

“Hey!” Blaine snapped. “That is no way to talk to my boyfriend.”

"Calm down,” said Jean Baptiste. “It was a compliment.”

“Jean, are you being an asshole?” Chandler called in a singsong from the kitchen. His face appeared around the door jamb. “My little bear, this is not a competition.” And then, to the missionaries, as if Jean weren’t there at all, “He’s super competitive. Likes to psyche out everyone else at auditions, talent competitions, reality TV shows— Have I mentioned he was a finalist on France’s and Germany’s Got Talent? The tabloids couldn't get enough of him. Everyone loves a cocky son of a bitch with a heart of gold.”

“I don’t have a heart of gold,” Jean grumbled.

“Right, so that’s why you insisted your competitor get a retry after that technical failure, even though it meant she won.”

Jean crossed his arms. “Losing in a fair competition is no shame. Winning on a technicality would have been humiliating.”

“See?” Chandler leaned over Jean and hugged him from behind. “He's all pudding inside. And Jean, you don’t need to intimidate Elder Hummel. My interest in him was fleeting, and he definitely has no interest in me.”

Jean cocked an eyebrow at Kurt. “Why not? Chandler’s perfect. Are you blind?”

Chandler rubbed Jean’s shoulder. “Because his heart belongs to Elder Anderson, Jean. Now play nice while I finish up in the kitchen. Remember, not everything is a contest.”

That wasn't the misunderstanding. And it had quickly evolved into a pleasant dinner. Jean calmed down and proved not to be without charm. He warmed up as Blaine asked questions about the TV shows and his studies in Munich, and he became utterly entranced by Kurt when he discovered their shared interests in costuming and Celine Dion—and anyone entranced by Kurt was alright in Blaine's book, as long as they didn't take it too far. While Jean didn't ding any bells for Blaine, but he could see why Chandler was so enamored with him. They were both intense, all-or-nothing types, with Chandler’s cheerfulness smoothing out Jean’s hard edges, and Jean’s pragmatism balancing Chandler's flightiness.

They were cute. And gay. Blaine had to keep reminding himself of that—they were, all of them, gay. They were on a double date. He had to remind himself of that not because he might actually ever forget it, but because everything felt so normal, so comfortable—more comfortable turn all the double dates he'd gone on in high school. This was supposed to feel new and strange and different. But it felt like returning home.

The moment he realized he could hold hands with Kurt in front of them, and that Kurt would happily take it, brushing his thumb against the back of Blaine’s hand and letting Blaine run his fingers over Kurt’s CTR in unspoken gratitude—Blaine had never felt more accepted by a group of people than he did in that moment.

Dinner was wonderful: vichyssoise with crusty bread and so much delicious butter, with sharp spring greens with radishes on the side; watching Kurt come out of his shell, playfully dueting on Celine Dion songs with Jean, his face so relaxed, his smile so happy; seeing that other men could appreciate Kurt’s beauty, too; and Kurt looking at Blaine, like he lit up the room and the stars as well.

The misunderstanding came later.

Dessert was a luscious pound cake with the option of caramel drizzle and whipped cream on top.

“No Rumtopf?” Jean asked when Chandler set the dessert tray on the table. “But you like it so much with Rumtopf, mon chéri. Have you run out?”

“Me? Run out? Of course not, little bear. I make enough every year to last at least two years. But they”—Chandler glanced at the missionaries—“don't drink alcohol.”

“What is Rumtopf?” Blaine asked. “I'm not familiar with that drink.”

"It's not a drink,” said Jean. “It's a sort of fruit sauce made with rum alcohol.”

“And sugar,” Chandler said, his eyes wide with enthusiasm. “So. Much. Sugar.”

Blaine eyed Kurt, who showed no signals of being scandalized by the mention of Rumtopf. The opposite, really. He smiled sweetly at Blaine. He rubbed his thumb over the outside of Blaine’s thigh and said, “We Mormons do love ourselves some sugar.”

It felt to Blaine like Kurt was referring to something altogether more carnal than dessert. He turned back to Chandler, attempting to recover the ability to speak. “We— We drink— We don't drink alcohol, but it's fine to use in cooking. Do you want to try it, Elder Hummel?”

Chandler snickered. They'd sat through an entire dinner, and he still could not seem to get over the fact that the missionaries could hold hands in front of company, but were physically incapable of referring to each other by their first names under the same circumstances.

“Sure, I'll try it,” said Kurt. “If it’s on offer.” Those words, too, seemed to drip with sensual meaning. Yes, Kurt, I’m on offer. Anytime. Always, for you.

So Chandler got out the Rumtopf. Blaine had expected something like a raspberry coulis, but it was much more substantial than that. Large chunks of fruit floated in a rich, red syrup. There were tiny strawberries, whole red currants and raspberries, pitted cherries, halved apricots, sliced peaches—like a progression through the German summer, but instead of being separated out over weeks and months, the flavors merged together into a unified chorus. No, a symphony. A symphony like the one he had attended with Kurt, when they’d held hands in the dark and the world felt new and bright, and Blaine had watched Kurt lean back in his seat, his eyes closed in thrall to the music, and he was so beautiful, and Blaine felt an intense joy and also a longing—to be everything to Kurt, to be one with him, to carry him through the darkness and share a life in the brightness of the sun.

How had Blaine not known he was in love?

They all enjoyed some Rumtopf with their poundcake, and then Blaine enjoyed it on its own, in big spoonfuls right on his plate, because it was delicious and Chandler said to go ahead, there was plenty, it was meant to be enjoyed. Blaine searched for every fruit and tasted it individually, biting through the medley of flavors to find its unique voice.

And Blaine laughed. He laughed because the Rumtopf was so delicious and also because Jean was very funny. Blaine hadn't noticed this during the savory portion of their meal, but during dessert, it became obvious. If he stopped to think about it, he couldn't discern anything different in Jean’s tone or delivery. But it was true. He was hilarious, and Blaine could barely stop laughing long enough to take another bite of fruit.

Kurt was laughing, too, and he was so stunning, and Blaine didn't worry that he should look away or try to pull a poker face, because here, he didn't have to hide anything. “I love your laugh. Did you know that?” Blaine said, caught in the blue of Kurt’s eyes. “I love it because you’re amazing and you deserve to feel joy.”

“Awwww,” Chandler cooed from across the table and squeezed Jean's hand.

Kurt, however, did not coo. He eyed Blaine suspiciously.

Blaine, in turn, eyed Kurt’s plate. His beloved had consumed one slice of pound cake with a dab of Rumtopf. There was no way that little spoonful had contained all the complexity of the sauce. It hadn't even included a representative of each fruit. This concerned Blaine. His beloved deserved everything good. “You don't want more Rumtopf, Kurt? How can you not want more?”

“Finally,” Chandler sighed in loud relief. “This last-name-only business was getting creepy.”

But Kurt looked startled. Then worried. His long sexy eyebrows furrowed together. His delectable mouth pursed into a frown. “Do you think maybe the sugar is getting to you a little, Elder Anderson?”

“Call me Blaine, love. We can do that here! And, no, not at all.” Blaine scooped up a half apricot and spooned it into his mouth. The symphony exploded on his tongue. “It's like that time we went to the orchestra. It's complicated and sweet, and my heart feels like it's going to burst, I loved you so much back then and I didn't even know it. Isn't that a shame?” Kurt didn't answer. He looked like a cloudy day in winter. Blaine couldn't understand. Maybe Kurt didn't like to be reminded of Blaine’s stupidity. But somehow, that made Blaine want to confess it even more. “Isn't that a shame?” he repeated, turning now to Chandler and Jean Baptiste. “I mean, you, Chandler, you know how hot he is, and you haven’t even seen him in blue jeans. Or burgundy jeans. Or the white ones with tiny navy pinstripes that he bought in the Altstadt—the way they fit, he looks so fine. I mean, Kurt is always looking fine, but the first time I saw him put on those jeans, I got so many butterflies in my stomach they couldn’t fit in there so they flew down to my penis, and I got so hard I didn’t know what to do with myself. Well, not until we got home and I could finally get into the shower and—”

Now Chandler's eyes went wide. He seemed to be suppressing a laugh. Blaine didn't understand why Chandler would be laughing. This was serious business. This was the stuff of Blaine’s heart. “I don't think it's the sugar, Elder Hummel. I think it's the alcohol.”

A bit of chaos ensued. People talking over each other and around each other. Blaine did not like seeing Kurt angry. He kept reaching for Kurt to calm him down, and Kurt kept slapping his hand away.

“I wasn't even going to serve it to you two!” Chandler squealed in his own defense. “But you said it was OK!”

“It's OK if alcohol is cooked out,” Kurt said sternly. “How should I know that a fruit sauce isn't cooked?”

“How was I supposed to know that cooking was required?” Chandler retorted. “I'm not a Mormon!”

Jean rubbed soothing circles over Chandler's back. It wasn't fair. Why was Chandler letting Jean touch him, but Kurt wouldn't let Blaine touch him? Jean frowned. (Too much frowning going around.) “I feel bad now. I'm the one who brought it up.”

“It's not your fault," Kurt sighed, the wind blowing out of him. “And it's not your fault, either, Chandler. It was a misunderstanding.” The tension was gone from Kurt’s shoulders. Blaine thought maybe now Kurt would let him take his hand.

He didn’t.