Le nuove storie sono in alto.

Scritta con: Liz
Personaggi: Kurt, Dave, Blaine, Jesse, Rachel, Santana, Brittany, Sue, Shuester, Puck, Lauren
Genere: Avventura, Romantico
Avvisi: AU, Slash, Femslash, Threesome, Lemon
Rating: NC-17
Capitoli: 1/6
Note: Threesomes are always good things, everybody knows that. But we wanted to kick it up a notch, so we started talking about pirates. And battletrains. On tracks up in the air. With alchemy. You can't get any cooler than that. Except for dinosaurs. We'll be working on that next time.
With that said, we really, really had fun writing this, creating this world from scratches and having it masterfully drawn by kironomi who not only got exactly what we had in mind but delivered it in the best way possible. You will find her beautiful drawings inside the story, enhancing some part of it.
As usual, we tried to write as well as we could, but nothing changed from our last fic and we're still Italian. So, even though we hope we're getting better and better with every fic we write in English, grammar mistakes and horrors are bound to be there. Have patience.
~ reviews will be cherished, criticisms are welcomed, but please be gentle.

Riassunto: Since Queen Sue ascended to the throne of the Iron Lands, the war against the pirates of the Floating Lands got worse and worse with every year. The pirates claim the Midlands as their own, but the Steam Army of the Queen conquered them, and they're not going to let the pirates take them back again.
History seems about to change when Burt Hummel, a scientist living in the Midlands, works out a device that transmutes common dirt into iron. That way, it shouldn't be necessary to fight for the Midlands anymore, and the war could finally stop. Queen Sue asks him to bring the device to the Iron Palace, so that she can see it at work and, once it's proven working, stop the fighting. Burt, though, would be an easy target for anybody who wanted to steal the device, considering that he's very well known for having worked for the Queen for years.
For that reason, he sends his only child Kurt to the Iron Palace with the device, hoping that it could be safer with somebody who's not as well known as he is. Kurt accepts the mission and departs on his fiancée Blaine's train. He's one of the heads of the Steam Army, and his battletrain survived countless fights.
That's why Kurt feels safe.
Unfortunately, he's wrong.


The war predated everything Kurt knew, as well as the whole actual living population of the continent. There wasn’t a single alive person that was born before the conflict had started. After a hundred years of war, whoever was born before it was already dead, and in the meanwhile a lot of people were born while it was happening, and died before they could see its ending.

Kurt, for example, had lived his whole life, up to his seventeenth year of age, firmly believing the war would never stop. It would have gone on and on until the end of the world – or, alternatively, until the end of available soldiers.

If you asked history professors and learned people about the beginning of the war and its reasons, they always knew how to answer in details. They seemed to take delight in keeping you there as they went on and on for hours about this or that king of the Iron Lands and this or that pirate captain from the Floating Lands, the conflicts they had, the battles they fought, the tactics they went by.

If you asked normal people, though, those who lived in the country or in the iron cities, those who worked in the caves in the Midlands, they only knew the basics. Some of them didn’t even knew that. They knew a war had started way before they were born, they knew that war was all about conquering the Midlands and their mines and keeping them in control, they knew it had probably started when the Iron Lands first stepped into the Midlands claiming them as theirs despite them being considered neutral territories since the beginning of time, but that was all. They didn’t knew about people fighting on the front line, they didn’t knew about generals and commanders that were nothing but strangers’ names to them, they didn’t knew about all the money the war cost to the Iron Lands, or the multitude of lives it took.

They wanted the war over, but they didn’t care about what it really was, what it meant to the Iron Lands. Some of them even sided with the pirates, believing – Gods only knew why – that they were saviours, that they wanted to free them all from the Queen’s unfair treatment.

In Kurt’s opinion, they were fools. From where did they think the iron used to forge their tools, their utensils, even their money and the posts used to build their own homes came? Of course it came from the mines in the Midlands. The Iron Lands covered a huge territory through the whole continent, while the Floating Lands were nothing but a few little islands roaming around in the sky, always changing place with every month. They hosted not more than a hundred thousand people while the Iron Lands were home to billions. The pirates ruling the Floating Lands could have easily settled to buy a small portion of the iron the miner extracted from the caves in the Midlands, but no, they wanted the whole Midlands to be theirs, despite the little use they had for them, and still people really believed the war was some Iron Lands’ King’s fault.

Sure, Kurt hated war too. He hated waking up in the morning knowing people were going to die, he hated that there was a very little he or anybody else could do to save them or make the massacre stop, but he knew somebody had to fight that war, somebody had to kill and be killed to defend the Midlands and the Iron Lands’ wealth from the pirates’ invasion, and he wanted the war over, of course, but he wanted the Iron Lands to win it. Surely, he didn’t want some uncivilized pirates from the Floating Lands to sit on the iron throne and rule the whole land by his immoral and barbaric rules.

People didn’t know how pirates truly were. Kurt wasn’t exactly learned – he was the son of an alchemist, after all, he knew almost anything about basic alchemy processes, but he wasn’t really acquainted about history or sociology – but he had read some books about them, he knew how they lived by. They almost never left their battleships, they were known not to take any prisoners, and whenever they caught someone from the Iron Lands they always tortured them to death, even soldiers who clearly knew nothing about the Steam Army strategy, in an attempt to make them reveal Gods only knew which kind of secrets they thought they could use to their advantage on the battleground.

Pirates were cruel, ignorant brutes, and they only wanted the Midlands so that they could use the iron from the caves to enlarge their fleet and finally take a move against the Iron Lands, to conquer them, slaughter all the people who adverse them and enslave the others, and those who thought pirates were fighting this war to free the people of the Iron Lands from some kind of cruel and vicious queen, clearly knew nothing about anything at all.

“Kurt?” Burt said, waving a hand in front of his eyes to try and bring him back on earth from the stream of thoughts that had clearly brought him to some place else, “Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, dad,” he answered, turning to look at him with a little smile, “But you already told me everything a dozen times in the last three days. I think I know, now.”

“No, you don’t!” Burt insisted, placing both his big, calloused hands on his son’s shoulders, shaking him a little back and forth, “The mission you’re going to go on is a very difficult, very important, very dangerous one. We can’t risk for you to get caught, you will bring the philosopher’s stone to the Queen, and—”

“I know, dad, I know. If it can convince the Queen that the stone alone could provide the iron to sustain the whole land, the war will be over.”

His father had lazily searched for the philosopher’s stone for his whole life, just like every other man who considered himself an alchemist had done and still did since the beginning of the world. It wasn’t until he had found concrete evidence of his existence and utility that he told the Queen about it.

The stone had been working and improving non stop for the last eleven or twelve month, since Kurt’s dad and the Queen had last spoken about it, and Kurt had seen it at work a thousand times at least: it never transmuted into iron more than just a stone or something. And even then, the quantity of iron resulting somehow never managed to compare to the quantity of stone or dirt or even wood used at the beginning of the transmutation process.

Kurt had serious doubts that something like that could ever solve the Iron Lands’ problems to the point that the war would be useless, but his dad firmly believed that was what was going to happen, and after the countless years the old alchemist had spent working on that project he wouldn’t want to be the one to tell him “dad, no, this is clearly not going to work”.

“Exactly,” Burt said, nodding quickly. “You have to be brave and careful, son.”

“And you know I won’t,” Kurt chuckled, freeing himself from his father’s grasp, “That’s why you’re handing me over to Blaine, so he will be for both of us.”

Burt didn’t seem to find his son’s joke any funny, and frowned sternly as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Kurt, do I have to remind you about the crucial importance of this whole operation? How many lives we could save, how many battles we could spare the army with just one stone?”

“I swear, dad, if you remind me about it one more time, I’ll puke,” Kurt answered with a bright smile, “Dad, really, I know. And I understand. And I trust Blaine and his battletrain,” Kurt added, turning a bit to lovingly glance at his fiancée, waiting for him near the train, already ready to depart, “And so should you. He’s not a commander of the Steam Army for nothing.”

Burt sighed, passing a hand over his face. “Yes, and I do,” he admitted, gesturing towards Blaine to invite him to come closer. “Blaine, I entrust my son to you. Take good care of him and the valuable load he carries.”

“I will, mister Hummel,” Blaine said, smiling confidently at him. They shook hands, Kurt already by his fiancée’s side, an arm wrapped around his. Blaine turned towards him and smiled. “Now, shall we go?”


Blaine was a war hero whose name was known through the whole land. If there was one member of the Steam Army, only one, that commoners would have saved from the fury of the pirates’ fleets, that was him. He was a decorated soldier who had proven his value fighting bravery on the front line before he was awarded with the grade of commander, and he had the responsibility of the Warbler, the first, the biggest and the strongest among all the battletrains of the Steam Army.

At his command, the Warbler had won countless fights, shooting down dozens of pirate ships, and the soldiers he now commanded had captured hundreds of pirates that were now safely held prisoners into the Capital’s prisons, where they couldn’t hurt anybody anymore.

He was a well respected commander, a man about whom people could do nothing but talk with deference and admiration.

Yet, he clearly had no clue of what it meant to be a boyfriend. Three days had passed since they had left Lima, headed to the Capital, and Kurt had only seen him a couple of times tops. He had passed his days caged in a carriage equipped with all the comforts he might need, except of course for the strong arms of his boyfriend firmly wrapped around his body.

Blaine and Kurt didn’t exactly have a very close relationship, but that was only because they couldn’t see each other as often as they would have liked to. When they actually managed to finally spend some time together, they were always very close, and Kurt was hoping that this trip would have brought a lot more moments of intimacy between them, but it turned out that Blaine could barely leave the cabin, and in any way he preferred to have Kurt always locked up in his private cab, so to keep him safe and controlled day and night.

Kurt hated it. He was bored, tired, and missed his boyfriend. And he wanted to see the cabin, he had asked Blaine countless time to let him go there and watch him as he drove the train, but Blaine insisted it was safer to keep him in his room, and never let him out, and if he had to watch those same four walls for another instant Kurt was sure he would have gone crazy.

He couldn’t believe he had been so excited for this trip. What an adventure it will be!, he had thought while planning the departure; he couldn’t wait to be on that train, to pass through the Midlands with all their little villages, to see the high mountains on the horizon shelter the sun as it was setting while the rail led them straight to the Capital. And he couldn’t wait to see the Capital itself, with all his iron palaces, and the Queen, of course, oh, how he couldn’t wait to finally meet the Queen. He had always dreamed to just have a little taste of the adventures Blaine lived in his everyday life, and he couldn’t even look at himself, now, trapped in a stupid wagon with a stupid stone in a stupid box and nothing but the desert all around because Blaine thought it would be safer not to take the way through the Midlands.

He was sick of it all, and he was about to grab the phone hanging on the wall, the one Blaine used to communicate with him from the cabin without even having to move, to call him with the specific intent of fighting, when he heard a soft knocking on the door.

Finally! Something happening! Kurt could barely believe it, the knocking had been so soft it could have just as easily be nothing but his mind playing tricks on him. “Who is it?” he asked, standing up from the armchair he had been half-sleeping in boredom since he had woken up that morning.

“Private soldier Melchior Gabor, sir, serial number 114220316. I ask permission to come in, sir.”

Kurt chuckled lightly, covering his mouth with one hand as he tried to muffle the sound so the soldier wouldn’t hear it. He still hadn’t had the time to get used to how formal Blaine’s soldiers were. He really knew how to keep them in line. “Come in, please,” he said, smiling gently as the soldier opened the door and walked inside his room.

He was tall – at least compared to Blaine, after all – and kind of handsome, Kurt had to admit. He had pale skin and wavy light brown hair, and his eyes were a light, mysterious shade of a mixed tone in between green and grey. He was smiling warmly, standing there in his elegant uniform, as he politely saluted him with a little bow.

“I hope you’re finding yourself comfortable in here, sir,” he said. Kurt chuckled, nodding without hesitation.

“Of course, of course,” he answered, “But please, just call me Kurt.”

“I can’t, sir,” Melchior laughed a bit, “My commander would certainly reproach me if I dared.”

“Oh, but I won’t tell him, I promise,” Kurt insisted, playfully winking at him, “It’ll be our little secret.”

Melchior laughed once more, but he didn’t answer to that. He probably knew it wouldn’t have been proper for a soldier like him to play that way with somebody like Kurt. Blaine really knew how to handle his men, after all.

“Sir, I’m here because commander Anderson asked for your presence in the head cabin,” Melchior said, “Would you be kind enough to follow me?”

Kurt’s eyes immediately started to shine as a happy smile appeared on his lips. “Oh, my Gods,” he said, folding his hands over his chest, “He remembered! I asked him to let me see the cabin so many times!”

How could Kurt be so mean, how could he think Blaine had forgot about him, or was keeping him locked up in that room because he didn’t care about what he wanted? Of course Blaine cared! Of course he did, he was clearly just waiting for the right moment to call him! He was carrying the responsibility of his safety on his shoulders, and Kurt would have understood that better. He would have waited patiently for his fiancée to be sure there were no threats around, because, as it was obvious now, Blaine was just waiting for a safe moment when he could tell him to come without worry for his life.

His fiancée was a hero, a noble and honourable man, and Kurt loved him so much he couldn’t wait to finally see him again so he could show him.

“Commander Anderson also wanted me to ask you if you could bring that device you’re carrying with you on the cabin,” Melchior added, “He would like to watch it closely.”

“Of course,” Kurt answered without even listening to him. He was too happy to be concerned about that stupid stone or everything else in the world, for that matter. He was about to see Blaine! He was about to stand by his side while he drove the train towards the Capital in the blinding light of the day! He couldn’t imagine anything more adventurous or exciting.

He took the little velvet box the stone was kept in and followed Melchior out of the room.

“Weren’t there two soldiers here?” Kurt asked as Melchior led him along the wagons, walking slowly so to let him free to take a look around. He was grateful to Melchior to be so kind to him, he must’ve guessed or known that Kurt hadn’t really had the chance to explore the train before, but not seeing the soldiers he was sure Blaine had put to guard his door was kind of making him nervous.

“Yes, sir,” Melchior nodded, moving from one wagon to the other and keeping the door open for Kurt to pass through it, “Since I was going to take care of you here, commander Anderson asked them over to the head cabin. You know how it is on a battletrain, we can’t just leave men guarding an empty room.”

“Actually, I don’t really know how it is on a battletrain, since I had never been into one before three days ago,” Kurt chuckled, “But it makes sense. I guess you’re all very busy, all day long.”

“Constantly,” Melchior nodded, helping him into yet another wagon.

“Thank you,” Kurt said, actually looking around himself for the first time since they had left his room. “Wait a minute, isn’t this the end of the train?” he asked, looking outside the window.

“It would appear so,” Malchior nodded, opening the last door. Instantly, the wind started to blow inside the wagon so hard and fast Kurt had to grab one of the handles hanging down from the ceiling not to fall on the ground.

“What are you doing?!” Kurt screamed, terrified, “Weren’t you supposed to bring me to Blaine?!”

“Oh, was I?” Melchior asked, his formerly kind smile turning quickly into a way more wicked one.

Kurt felt his heart skip a beat and held on to the handle tighter. “Who the hell are you?” he asked in a breath.

He didn’t have the time to hear the answer, though. “Jesse St. James,” the man answered, hitting him on the back of his head and managing to grab the little velvet box he let go of fainting, before it could hit the ground, “Nice to meet you.”

Jesse opened the jacket of the uniform he had stolen from one of the soldiers he had found outside of Kurt’s room before throwing them both out of the windows, and put the box in one of the countless inner pockets it had, and then retrieved Kurt’s unconscious body from the ground, lifting him up on his own shoulders. He secured the sleeping boy on himself with a rope and then walked outside the train, jumping on the two-seater floating air-scooter tied to the iron handrail.

Whistling happily, perfectly satisfied with himself, he cut the rope and flew away.


The Warbler was the first train of the fleet and the first battletrain ever built, too. It had a body of iron, a steam turbine and four alchemy powered auxiliary engines. When it first came out, more than a hundred years prior, its only engine was coal-powered and it was replaced ten years after with a modern, more functional model, which was the one it had now.

Not the newest train of the fleet, perhaps, but the more reliable.

Blaine had driven it for five years and he wouldn't have changed it for any of those ten-engines monstrosities that industry was building nowadays. They were gorgeous and well armed, absolutely essential to fight the war, but they still couldn't compete with the flagtrain's stability. To date, the Warbler was still the best train, as far as the ratio between power, speed and endurance was concerned. Also, the flagtrain didn't need to be the best, but it needed to be indestructible because it was the only real reference point in battle. All the other conductors would look for it if they were in trouble, therefore it could not fall easily, for it was the sign that the army had still hope, that it was still fighting. And the Warbler, with his century of service, had never broken down but once, while Blaine had at least forty of the latest units in repair every week.

Blaine checked the pressure gauge and the levels of energy in the engine compartment through the control panel Hummel had installed on the bridge. Everything seemed perfectly normal. Cruising speed was good and at this pace he could hope to get to Capital City on schedule, given the pirates didn't decide to attack, which would have been unfortunate indeed.

Usually, it would have been reporting via radio to the command every twelve hours about his squadron's whereabouts and status, but the delicate nature of the current mission required total secrecy because communications between the train and the headquarters however coded could still have been intercepted, and he couldn't let it happen.

Therefore, left with really nothing to do, he realized this was a good moment to show Kurt the train, for he had been asking to visit it since their departure. He called an orderly and when he came, clicking his heels and giving a salute, he ordered him to fetch his fiancée from the cabin he had been locked in for three days and escort Kurt to him.

Knowing Kurt, Blaine doubted him would be in any way interested in what the Warbler was. Kurt wasn't exactly the kind of young man who fancied train or the art of war, in general. He was artistic, he loved art, singing and theatre. He would not understand the poetry of the pistons moving in perfect harmony, like the giant keys of a piano, pushing the train forward instead of making music. But that was one of the reason Blaine loved him so much. They were so different from one another, and still shared so much. Like a passion for music, Blaine himself used to sing from time to time, even though he was not good at it as Kurt was.

They were a strange couple, Kurt and him.

They had met by chance, in a moment when Blaine wasn't thinking about love at all. He had just been named commander of the royal fleet and he was determined to live up to the honour that had been given to him. All his efforts and energy were focused solely on lead a battle after the other and possibly to win the war as soon as possible, bringing the Iron Lands back to the peace they had long forgotten.

It was late April, some time after the fleet's victory at Kinley's point – one of the most strategic and important sites on the borders, that the pirates was about to take, opening a way not only between the fleet's lines, but to the Iron Lands as well – and a party to celebrate the astounding performance of the Queen's fleet had been thrown by a rich merchant of a city nearby. All the highest in command were there, together with all the personages of the towns all around. Mister Hummel and his son were invited to, in consideration of what the alchemist had done for the fleet.

Blaine and Kurt had never met before, but Blaine knew Burt. The two of them were talking about possible modifications on the Warbler, when Kurt had approached them, taking his father away from him with a polite apology in his direction. Blaine could honestly swear he hadn't be able to look at anything else but Kurt, that night. His eyes had followed him through the room, even when he had been expected to listen to his superiors asking about this or that detail of the battle. Every time he lost sight of Kurt's peculiar outfit, his eyes would look for it until they find it again. By the end of the night, he could recognize Kurt in the crowd by the mere sight of a button.

They didn't speak at all that night, except for saying goodbye.

Blaine had been pleased, though, to see in Kurt's eyes the same kind of longing desire that he was sure was in his own. For this reason, he had found the courage to try and court him, because all of a sudden, fight an entire fleet of pirate ships with one single battletrain left seemed easier than ask Kurt out. Blaine's visits to Burt's lab became quite frequent and so did the invitations to stay for dinner. After what felt the millionth time that he was invited to stay and he spent the time nodding politely to whatever Burt was saying while looking at Kurt and smile awkwardly every now and then, Burt had taken the problem in his own hand and asked abruptly – and a little bit sternly to add a touch of scariness – if Blaine liked his only son, for it certainly looked so. Blaine had turned red, and Kurt purple but Burt had stood his ground. “You two don't do anything but look at each other all day,” he had said. “I gave you plenty of chances to make a move, so now please do it or give up because I can't bare the lovey-dovey act any longer.”

And Blaine did it. He asked the man the honour to court Kurt and he said yes. They went out a couple of times, but it was clear since the beginning that they were meant to be together. Four years after, which means a year before this mission had became necessary, Blaine had asked Burt for Kurt's hand and they were now going to marry soon, possibly after the end of the war that both Burt and Blaine felt closer and closer with the discovery of the stone.

He was smiling stupidly at the window of the head cabin, looking not at the dry beauty of the desert but at his own mental images of how the wedding was going to be according to Kurt's fashion sense, when the door of the cabin burst open and his orderly run in, screaming his name.

“Commander Anderson,” he said, breathing heavily. “Mister Hummel is gone, sir. The room is empty and I couldn't find him.”

“What?” Blaine moved away from the window as all the wedding images disappeared from his head, his brain entering in a perfect emergency-mode. “What do you mean he is gone? Did you ask the men at his door?”

“They are gone too, sir.”

“Damn!” Blaine was already in motion before the orderly had even stopped speaking. He started running down the hall and the soldier run after him, awaiting orders. “He's been abducted. Call the security. Stop the train. Block all the exits. Now!”

The young orderly stopped and took out his radio, which frizzled a little as soon as he pressed the button. “Attention, to all units on board. We have a breach. Repeat: we have a breach. Suspected intruder. Train in red mode.”

The orderly didn't need to say his name or that it was Blaine's order. Whoever was accused of pretending a red code for a battletrain would go to the court-martial. Nobody would ever dream of playing like that, so if a red mode had been called, then it had to be real. The brakes were pulled a second after, while the orderly was still shouting about the state of emergency. The train screeched, a wave of sparkles washed over the windows as the brakes bit at the tracks. The train jumped to a stop and then, all together windows and doors shut down, leaving the whole train in the dark for a brief moment before the emergency light turned on.

Used to every single movement of his train in battle, Blaine was unaffected by its jumping and shaking, and he kept moving down the hall, avoiding things falling down from the highest shelves and soldiers throwing themselves out of the cabins and running to their duties. He shouted orders as he passed them by, taking some with him for good measure.

Kurt's door was open, obviously. He quickly checked the room but as soon as he saw his window was intact he didn't waste any more time and kept running down the hall. Whoever took Kurt had had to run that way, because they were coming from the other. He passed an awful numbers of intersections, scattering his men in each and every wagon to check for Kurt while he run forward.

There was a strange noise ahead. Some sort of enduring whistle with a knocking sound in the background. It took him a few moments to realize the whistle was strong wind coming in the train from outside, meaning that one of the exits had to be open. When he reached it, the last door was open. The shutter had closed too late and not completely. He knelt down to discover that the knocking sound was the end of a rope, slamming against the side of the train. Looking up, he saw a flying vehicle in the distance, the intruder and his precious load were gone.

“Flying vehicle, probably a scooter, going South-Eastwards” he said in his radio. “I want two squads after it.”

“Roger,” A frizzling voice said from the other end. “Squad one and two ready, sir.”

“Get him and take back Hummel and his load.”


The orderly caught up with Blaine as he put away the radio. “The train is clear, sir. What are the orders, now?”

Blaine sighed. There wasn't much he could do. There were no doubts Kurt had been kidnapped by the pirates, but he couldn't just turn the train around and go toward the Floating Lands. That constantly moving place was too dangerous to walk through without a map to follow. He had to hope the squads got Kurt back or at least catch up with the scooter and followed it, so to know exactly where he was heading to. “We get the Warbler ready,” he said as he walked back to the head cabin. Once there, he unlocked the system and cleared the state of emergency. “We leave as soon as we have the coordinates.”

“Yes sir,” the orderly said, nodding.

Around them the Warbler came back to life, roaring and ready to fight if necessary, as its conductor was.


Jesse had driven his scooter randomly for almost two hours before getting bored and nose-diving toward the ocean, run on the surface of the water for three miles and then literally disappear behind one of the many falls generated on the floated stones, giving the slip to Blaine's soldiers, running after him on their flying vehicles. He had confused them for a while, taking them away from the Warbler and right at the board of the pirates territory, where he could orient himself and they couldn't. The game was over.

He turned off the scooter's engine and waited, hidden behind one of the huge masses of rock floating in mid-air. He watched them search for him around, but not daring to cross the border. They could, of course, try and follow him, maybe they could even catch him – Jesse wasn't so sure about that but he was willing to give the poor guys at least that merit – but without a map of the rocks' migration, they were bound to turn around with their precious intruder and find themselves trapped in a labyrinth that wasn't there before. And in the land of pirates, being a group of royal soldiers away from their battletrain was never a good idea.

Jesse had to admit they were persisting, though. They searched for at least another hour, forcing him to check on Kurt and see if he was waking up, before giving up and preparing to go back to their commander to tell him he was lost.

In the beginning, the Floating Lands were attached to the continent, separated from the Iron Lands by that same Midlands that now were the reason of the war. Then various earthquakes opened a crack in the ground, that eventually resulted into big chunks of rock the size of cities to come off the land. But instead of staying where they were, they started floating due to the alchemical energy in excess, that was also the main cause of the earthquakes to begin with. Alchemists said those parts of the land were lost, because the energy was bound to run out sooner or later. The rocks would fall into the ocean, bringing the cities with them.

People left the rocks and their cities, and went to live in the Midlands or in the Iron Lands, if they had enough money. Many of them even faced the long journey to the Capital, hoping to find a job as servants and maids, there. The Floating Stones were abandoned, awaiting for them to fall and disappeared in the deep waters eight hundreds feet below them.

But it never happened.

Somehow, the energy that was keeping the rocks in the air started to interact with the energy on solid ground, creating currents that would keep these rocks floating but push them around in no predictable patterns. Because of its constantly changing geography, the Floating Lands became the perfect place to hide for runaways and criminals and people who needed to disappear from the face of the world for whatever reason. They started to live there and developed a way to understand the migration of the stones they lived on and they built ships that could fly, powered with little stones extracted from the floating rocks. And like sailors at sea, they learned how to orient themselves in a land with very few constant landmarks.

They built their own kingdom, mirroring the one that had turned them into outcasts and they took their revenge on it by attacking the people on the ground and stealing from them. They started roaming the sky in little fleets, they became pirates and the rest was history.

Jesse waited for the royal soldiers to fly away and disappear beyond the line of the horizon before turning on the engine again. Kurt was moaning now and stirring every now and then, he needed to get to the target soon. He came out from behind his hiding place and speeded up through the path of rocks without hesitation. Jesse wasn't born in the Floating Lands but he knew exactly how to move through them. A man with his kind of job needed to be able to find his way wherever he was, otherwise he wouldn't live very long. And since he planned to have a long, happy life and then retire at a very old age in one of the tropical islands in the South to enjoy all the money he would have had, he was very good at saving his ass in every possible situation.

It took him another hour to get to where he needed to be.

Eventually, the hugest rock he had seen so far slowly moved aside to reveal a pirate ship, glorious and shiny in the dying light of the day. And behind it, about other twenty ships, smaller and somehow not as impressive as the flagship but still visibly as armed. This fleet was huge, and it wasn't the only one. Jesse knew for a fact that, twenty miles East from there, there was another one, as big as this one, and the same went from twenty miles in every direction. The pirates were indeed a power to be reckon with, because they had done the only thing they needed to do: they joined forces and they were now many, angry and merciless.

Jesse approached the flagship slowly and stopped in mid-air thirty feet from it, knowing pirates tended to shoot at anything they didn't know and that moved around their ship. A man with a purple bandana over a ruffled head of blonde hair frowned at him and squinted his eyes as if he couldn't see very well.

“Who th' hell be ye?” He asked in a deep, throaty voice before coughing and then spitting in the ocean.

Jesse made a face at his astounding lack of grammar, but he smiled anyway. “Hello good sir, my name is Jesse St. James. Your captain is waiting for me. I have something he wants.”

The pirate looked at him very intently, as if he was trying to understand what exactly Jesse was saying, which was ridiculous since it should have been the other way around. Eventually, he seemed to give up on some of the words and focus only on the ones he understood, which were very few.

He nodded and then turned his head. “Avast, thar, Cap'n, thar be a scurvy dog here who says ye be waitin' fer him,” he shouted. “He says his name be Jesse St. somethin'. I shoot him?”

He was speaking to someone Jesse couldn't see, but he could hear the clear, stern voice answering him and recognize it as the captain's voice. “Of course you don't shoot him, you idiot. Let him on board.”

“Aye, Cap'n.” The pirate nodded again and then turned to Jesse again. “Th' Cap'n says ye can come on board. Leave that sailin' thin' thar 'n use th' ladder.”

After he said that, a rope ladder was thrown overboard for him. He got the scooter closer to the side of the ship and then climbed the ladder, with Kurt's sleeping body secured to his back. Once he got on top, the blonde pirate helped him out, almost dragging him on board. “Here, ye land people be not jolly at gettin' on a ship.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jesse said, dusting off his trousers. He carefully took Kurt off his shoulders and lied him on the planks, where he moaned a little and then curled up in his sleep. The captain came forward, taking a couple of slow steps toward him and stopping a few feet away, right next to the blonde pirate who obligingly took a step back. “Captain Karofsky.”

“St. James,” the captain grumbled.

Captain Karofsky was a big, sturdy young man, with dark brown hair and a constantly pissed off expression on his squared face that made him look like if he had just eaten something nasty. He hadn't missed any limbs yet and his eyes were a deep brown that matched the planks of his ship when they got wet at high tide. In his early twenties, he was quite young to be ruling a ship as big as The Fury but he was the son of a captain, the grandson of a buccaneer and the nephew of a corsair, so he wasn't expected to be less than a sea robber himself. He had got his ship and half the crew from his father, but the rest of his men and the other ships that followed his lead he had owned himself.

Jesse didn't like pirates too much – actually, he didn't like anyone in general too much, because liking someone required a certain amount of interest toward other human beings which he lacked by nature – but he found Karofsky amusing, and he enjoyed the brief moments they spent in civilities before their business.

As a pirate, he was quite peculiar. First of all, he wasn't cursed with the usual blatant ignorance. His notorious grandfather was the illegitimate son of a baron and had been educated in the finest school before going off roaming the sea. The old man was a true pirate, but he had as well the heart of a man of letters. He loved books as much as he loved treasures and he passed his passion to his son and to his son's son after that. Even though Karofsky had a lot of the restlessness of his father Paul, which made him a troubled soul, he was much like his grandfather as far as his education was concerned. Secondly, he followed no rules but his own, and that was something Jesse could relate to.

“I was starting to think you'd never show up. You're late,” Karofsky said.

Jesse smiled charmingly as he always did. “I have my reasons, sir. Men of the Queen were after me, I had to get rid of them in order to get here unharmed and with your requested goods safe and sound in my hands. So I did and here I am. I believe this should be a good enough explanation to be forgiven.”

“I suppose it is,” Karofsky granted. “Do you have what I asked?”

“As I said, I do,” Jesse smiled again and rummaged in his jacket's inside pocket, retrieving the little box. “This is the device you wanted and the kid here was the one who had it.”

Karofsky tilted his head, frowning as he watched Kurt. “This is not Hummel,” he said.

“Actually, he is. Kurt Hummel, only son of Burt Hummel and his late wife, died during a raid of your fellow pirates ships in Lima town, approximately ten, maybe fifteen years ago.”

The captain was totally unimpressed by Jesse's knowledge. “Still, the son of the alchemist is not what I asked you.”

“No, what you asked me was to bring you the box and who had it and that's exactly what I brought you, Karofsky,” Jesse said. “If you don't like it, that's fine. Feel free to lodge a complaint to the battletrain army of Her Majesty, but don't blame me.”

In the meanwhile, Kurt was finally starting to wake up. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the point of Karofsky's sword, aimed at his neck as the captain was arguing with Jesse over his body. “Are you trying to fuck with me, St. James?”

“For God's sake, no!” Jesse sighed. “He was on the train with the box. There wasn't anyone else. I'm sorry if you are disappointed, but let me tell you, you should get your information right next time, if you don't want this kind of unfortunate situations to happen. Now, if you'd be so kind as to pay me.”

“Who are you?” Kurt said as he tried to move away from both of them and failed because his hands and feet were tied.

“Avast, Cap'n, he be awake,” the blonde pirate said, drawing Kurt's attention toward himself and the dozen of other men on the ship.

“Oh my Gods, you are pirates!” Kurt screamed, hearing the way he spoke. He wiggled away and turned to Jesse, glaring at him. “You sold me to the pirates, you bastard!”

“At least I was trying to before you woke up and delayed this transaction even further,” he answered. Then he sighed, as if to regain his composure. “Captain, if you don't mind, it's getting late and I have other things that I need to take care of.”

Karofsky wasn't convinced about the whole matter and his crew seemed to notice that. His men came closer, all with swords or pistols in hand. Kurt started screaming even louder, accusing Jesse of treachery and ordering the pirates to stay away from him because he was the fiancée of Blaine Anderson, commander of the Warbler, first battletrain of the Queen and that soon the whole army of Her Majesty would fall upon them to save him.

Nobody listened to him.

“Dave, you wanted the thing. You have it,” the voice of a woman said, apparently out of thin air. “So, cut the bullshits and let's see if it works. The kid here is the son of the alchemist, he must know something. If he doesn't we will use him to get to the man himself.”

Kurt shut up immediately, terrified by the ghostly voice. He looked up at Jesse, but he was as calm as ever and nobody seemed to mind that a bodiless woman was speaking to them. “Did you hear it too?”

“What if he's screwing with us?” Dave said to the voice, showing that he had indeed heard it.

“He would never do that, wouldn't he?” the incorporeal woman said. “He knows that we hunt down, torture, skin and kill bastards.”

Jesse smiled as if that was a compliment. “I would never dare, miss Lopez. I swear to the Gods that this kid is Burt Hummel's son and the box he brings with him is the device you asked me to retrieve.”

“Aye, fine. Gimme that.” Karofsky reached out but Jesse shook his head. “What?”

“We are both gentlemen, aren't we, captain?” Jesse titled his head. “Let's do as gentlemen do.”

Karofsky nodded to one of his pirates, a beautiful young lady with a blonde pony tail on the top of her head who came forward, dangling her hips on a pair of staggering heeled boots. “If you are a leprechaun, why are we giving you money? Shouldn't be the other way around?” She said, giving him a sachet of clinking coins. She had the most beautiful blue eyes Jesse had ever seen. It was a pity they couldn't do nothing for her blank expression, probably mirroring a severe case of vacancy in her brain too.

“C'mere, me beauty,” the same pirate said as he grabbed the girl by her wrist and dragged her away from Jesse. “Ye need to sleep, Brit, ye be knowin' that.”

Britney nodded vaguely and walked away with the man, turning to look at Jesse every now and then, probably making sure he wasn't going to disappear. “Here is your device, Captain,” Jesse said, giving the little velvet box to Karofsky. “And the kid, of course, is yours too. I suggest that you treat him well. Anderson seems very fond of him and the man's got money, if you know what I mean.”

“This is none of your business, St. James,” Karofsky growled as he nodded to a couple of pirates who lifted a screaming Kurt from the ground and took him away. “Now, get lost. I've seen enough of you face for a lifetime.”

“I would love to oblige, but unfortunately there is something else I need to retrieve from this ship before I can consider myself excused,” Jesse said with a bow. “Now, I would ask you if you keep your marine charts in your cabin, Captain, and where it might be, but I feel you won't tell me, am I right?”

Karofsky frowned, not getting what was happening for a moment. “What are you talking about?”

“Someone else – I don't want to name names, let's just say he is a renown train conductor who happens to drive the same train that was transporting Hummel, what a coincidence! – asked me to get the charts and since he too was paying, I couldn't say no, could I?”

Karofsky literally growled, unsheathing his sword. “Take him! Take him but don't kill him,” he shouted to his men, scattered all around the deck. “I wanna do that!”

“There's no need to be so touchy!” Jesse said, swirling away from the grasp of a pirate and then jumping on a barrel to avoid the sword of another. “I'll find the cabin by myself, thank you very much.”

From the barrel, Jesse jumped up on the quarterdeck and then, he turned around to fend with two pirates from up there. While the entirety of his crew flocked toward Jesse and followed him on the quartedeck, Karofsky went the other way, knowing that St. James was going to jump down sooner or later.

Jesse didn't want to kill anyone, it wasn't his style. But he didn't have nothing against wounds, especially if they could help getting him out of bad situations. So he cut people open here and there and he scratched one pirate's face from cheekbone to chin, actually making him more handsome. He walked backward, looking back every once in a while to avoid a pitiful, totally not gorgeous fall.

“I appreciate your eagerness, gentlemen,” he said after a while, “but I need y'all to back off, now.”

Suddenly, he dove on the ground, propping himself up with his free hand as he swung the sword with the other. He kicked the first man in line in his shin and he fell to the ground, bringing with him all the ones behind him. Jesse took a moment to himself to watch the scene. “Oh, that's why I love bowling.”

Then he jumped off the quarterdeck, right in front of the door of the captain's cabin.

When he landed, Karofsky was there. “Where do you think you're going?”

“I get you feel violated by me entering your cabin. I know, everybody always does,” he said, as they started fencing. Like two trained dancers, they moved in circle, every hack and perry precise and graceful, beautiful to watch. Karofsky's men stopped where they where, keeping an eye on the intruder, in case he escaped from the captain. “But I swear to the Gods and to the soul of my poor mother, that I'll be as unobtrusive as possible.”

“Shut up and surrender!”

“I'm afraid this is not possible. Would you try and order me something else? Who knows, I might even like it!” Jesse didn't lose his smile as he looked around, searching for a way out. He found it when he saw the copper bracelet on the captain's left wrist glowing red. He avoid Karofsky's hack by bending down and then rolled on the ground. When he was ready again, he aimed his sword not to the man but to the bracelet.

“Dave, watch out!” The voice of the woman screamed.

Karofsky focused exclusively on avoiding the blow and saving the bracelet. He withdrew the arm just in time, so Jesse ended up only scratching the back of his hand, but the captain got distracted and when he looked up again, St. James had already locked himself in the cabin.

Once he was inside the captain's cabin and the door was locked, Jesse leaned against for a second, catching his breath. From outside, came the voices of the pirates, already re-organizing to knock the door down. He would have to search fast if he wanted to get out of there alive and with the charts. The cabin was huge, considering that the other hundred men slept all crowded in half the space. The captain had a four posted bed with an upholstered headboard, a wooden table that had to weight as much as the ship, more books that he would care to count and a chest in a corner that Jesse would have loved to empty if he had the time.

“So many robberies, so little time,” he sighed, dramatically as he went through the papers on the table.

“St. James, you are a dead man!” The captain shouted in a deep, angry voice.

“Aren't we all?” He answered, as he threw the log book behind his back. “You know, it's a mess in here. How are you supposed to find anything?”

Under the pirates' blows, the door was already cracked and twisted. Jesse could see their dark, sometimes missing eyes from a hole they managed to open. “Alright, it's time to get out of here,” he murmured to himself. That was when he saw the marine charts spread on the table like a tablecloth under everything else, and pinned down with heavy stones at the four corners. “Here you are.”

He moved everything else aside with an arm and he rolled the charts. By the time he was done, the door blasted open and a ridiculous number of pirates started coming in, Karofsky in the lead. Jesse was out of the window already, and climbing the broadside to get back on deck. Once there, he met Karofsky again. The bracelet was still there, but Jesse couldn't try the same trick twice, so he had to fence with the man for real, this time.

“You're not gonna leave my ship alive with those!” The captain roared.

“Come on, Capitain! I bet you don't even need them, anymore” he said, slowly moving around him to get closer to the shrouds. “Let's donate to the unfortunate people who don't know their way around here.”

Karofsky lunged but he missed. Jesse had jumped and grabbed the shrouds, heaving himself up with one arm. The captain growled and followed him, but Jesse was slimmer and faster, and he moved like a monkey. The sword back in its sheathe and the charts secured to his belt, he climbed the shrouds up to the top, with Karofsky on his heels and his crew climbing next to him, knives between his teeth and all.

He looked around, feeling Karofsky's grin of triumph on himself. “It's over, St. James,” The captain said. “Hand me the charts, and we'll be even.”

“I would, seriously, if I was trapped.”

“Well, I'm sorry to break it for you, but you are.”

Jesse's face lighted up and he smiled so graciously that for a moment Karofsky was confused. This man was trapped on top of the mainmast of his ship with his whole crew after him, why was he fucking smiling? Then Jesse jumped. He let himself go in the air, overboard. They waited to hear the splash but there was none. One moment, and the man showed up again, waving on top of his scooter.

“Thank you, Captain!” He shouted, giving him a salute. “It was a blast! We should really do it again another time.”

The crew looked at Karofsky, waiting for orders but he knew they couldn't follow him now, because the ship would never move fast enough to catch up with him. Dave took his time to calm down and then just turned around, like Jesse's escape didn't even matter. “We can do without the charts, but we need to follow other paths,” he said, serious. “Prepare the Fury, we are sailing in half an hour.”

As the crew run on deck to get everything ready, the bracelet glowed again. “What about St. James?”

“The tide will bring him back to us sooner or later,” he answered the woman.

Then, he entered the cabin and locked himself in.

Fandom: !Fanfiction, Glee
Personaggi: Klaine, Sebastian
Genere: Fantascienza
Avvisi: Slash, What if
Rating: PG
Prompt: Scritta per la quinta notte bianca di Maridichallenge su prompt di neera_pendragon: Glee - Blaine Anderson/Kurt Hummel + Sebastian Smythe - In realtà Sebastian è il figlio di Blaine e Kurt, venuto dal futuro.
Note: Fermo restando che il Klaine non è esattamente nelle mi corde, il prompt era troppo bello per non scriverci su. Sì, nella storia c'è il Klaine. No, non c'è bashing.
Il titolo è una citazione da Terminator. Ce n'erano molte altre più belle, ma erano sinceramente troppo epiche per questa storiellina.

Riassunto: In una corsa contro il tempo che potrebbe concludersi con la propria scomparsa, Sebastian deve convincere Kurt e Blaine che lui è il loro unico figlio dal futuro e che la sua sopravvivenza dipende dalla loro capacità di superare le loro divergenze adesso.

Dopo tutto quello che ha fatto – gli insulti poco velati e travestiti male da battute, il continuo tentare di rimorchiare Blaine e quasi riuscirci, per non parlare dell'atto di violenza gratuita con la granita che lo ha quasi accecato e costretto per una settimana intera a starsene coricato a letto come avesse una malattia grave – a Sebastian non dovrebbe spettare la grazia di venire ascoltato, ciononostante sia Blaine che Kurt acconsentono ad incontrarlo quando lui li invita al bar per un cioccolato espresso senza panna pacificatore, ed entrambi potrebbero anche morire prima di riuscire a capire perché lo hanno fatto.
Sebastian si presenta con la divisa dei Warbler, i capelli perfettamente pettinati e un sorriso che vorrebbe essere amichevole, ma del quale alla fine non ci si può fidare. Sarà che non ha mai mancato di sorridere prima di farne una delle sue, il serpente.
Kurt siede in cima alla sedia, la schiena rigida e le gambe accavallate, in quella che per lui è l'immagine perfetta di un professionista integerrimo al quale è stato fatto un grave torto che non potrà essere in alcun modo ripagato. Un giorno, quando lavorerà a Broadway e il suo cachet di una sera potrà sfamare l'intera Namibia, quello sguardo gli permetterà di farsi portare in camerino una pizza alle due di notte senza che nessuno batta ciglio, neanche il pizzaiolo buttato giù dal letto da un teatrino di assistenti, manager e stagiste che sanno di rischiare il licenziamento in tronco se solo non compiono la missione che è stata loro affidata. Ma ancora questo Kurt non può saperlo, fortunatamente il suo subconscio – o quella parte di lui che spera in questo futuro – già si comporta come fosse il contrario.
Accanto a lui, Blaine vorrebbe fare lo stesso, ma lui non è così. Il suo istinto primario è sempre quello di sedersi in un angolo del divano e incrociare le braccia al petto per abbracciarsi il più possibile senza risultare ridicolo, risultato di un'infanzia un po' infelice, all'ombra di un fratello più famoso, talentuoso e bello di lui che lo prendeva in giro qualunque cosa facesse e lo ha inibito fin da bambino. Blaine è quello più facile da piegare. Può essere molto severo, ma è debole di fronte al senso di colpa. E' un grande sostenitore della teoria secondo la quale ognuno ha diritto ad una seconda, terza, quarta, infinite possibilità se si rende conto di aver sbagliato. Sebastian è diventato bravissimo a fingere di essere veramente contrito – non c'è niente che Blaine gli neghi ormai – e vuole vedere se la sua abilità funziona anche in questa precisa situazione. C'è una possibilità – svariate possibilità, invero – di fallire miseramente perché non sembra aver fatto nient'altro in questi ultimi tempi, ma non è il tipo da arrendersi.
“Facciamola breve, Sebastian, perché siamo qui?” Chiede Kurt, rompendo il ghiaccio. Allunga una mano verso il suo bicchiere di carta ma non beve.
Sebastian sorride, ma poi si fa serio. “Devo parlarvi. So che non me lo merito,” dice guardando espressamente Blaine che, per qualche motivo che fraintende in maniera colossale, si sente stringere lo stomaco e tenta di farsi ancora più piccolo di quello che è, “ma è davvero, davvero importante e apprezzerei molto se poteste dedicarmi qualche minuto del vostro tempo.”
Blaine sposta gli occhi acquosi su Kurt. “Kurt, potremmo anche-”
“Parla,” taglia corto Kurt, senza nemmeno voltarsi a guardare il fidanzato. Il tremolio che ha intuito nella sua voce gli dà sui nervi e dal momento che sa già cosa dirà se gli permette di parlare, preferisce tagliare corto e sopportare una noia sola invece che due.
Sebastian si schiarisce la voce e beve un sorso del suo cioccolato. “Quanto sto per dirvi è una cosa davvero incredibile e so già che la vostra prima reazione sarà quella di alzarvi e andarvene, probabilmente prendendomi a male parole,” dice. “E, credetemi, posso capirlo. Per questo, prima di proseguire, lasciate che vi dica che cosa succederà nei prossimi minuti, così avrete una prova che quello che vi dirò non è una menzogna. Kurt, fra quindici minuti esatti, alle 19.17, il tuo telefono squillerà. Sarà Rachel che ti annuncia di aver trovato finalmente un abito per quel suo ridicolo matrimonio. E' bianco, naturalmente, con un velo di organza che tu disapprovi. Lei a quel punto ti dirà una cosa che sai soltanto tu.”
Kurt sbuffa una risata. “Oh ma per favore, Sebastian...”
“Blaine,” continua il ragazzo, “non appena la telefonata si concluderà, il cameriere biondo con i riccioli che somiglia incredibilmente al tuo primo amore Jeremiah, ti passerà di fianco, inciamperà nella borsa della signora e rischierà di farci il bagno col cappuccino. Fortunatamente riuscirà a deviare la traiettoria e la sciarpa di seta di Kurt sarà salva.”
“Questo è ridicolo,” insiste Kurt. “E la cosa più stupida che tu abbia mai detto. E ne hai dette tante.”
Sebastian si stringe nelle spalle. “Allora aspettare che tutto quello che ti ho detto accada non ti costerà niente. Tuttalpiù dimostrerai che sono un bugiardo.”
Kurt cerca quell'ombra di sfida che c'è sempre negli occhi di Sebastian, ma non lo trova. “E dimmi, perché sapresti quello che sta per succedere? Predici il futuro.”
“Ci sono stato,” risponde Sebastian, ma lo fa con la voce stanca di chi già sa che non verrà creduto. D'altronde come potrebbe essere altrimenti? “Anzi, a dire il vero vengo da lì. Sono nato il 15 marzo del 2032 e sono vostro figlio.”
Kurt scoppia a ridere e continua a farlo così di gusto che è costretto a lasciare il bicchiere di carta e a piegarsi in due perché proprio non ce la fa a stare in piedi. Blaine sorride, ma lo fa solo un secondo e in maniera nervosa e poi guarda Kurt, incerto. Sebastian lo sa che suo padre gli crede – non coscientemente, è ovvio – ma c'è una parte di lui sintonizzata su una certa lunghezza d'onda, evidentemente. Glielo avevano detto che sarebbe successo.
“So che suona strano, ma-”
“Strano?” Kurt si solleva solo per ridergli in faccia. “Tu questo me lo chiami strano? E' inverosimile Sebastian e io non so cosa tu voglia ottenere con questa scemenza. Che cosa dovremmo fare, esattamente? Sei qui per farci salvare il mondo? Cerchi Sarah Connor o cosa?”
Sebastian sospira e lo guarda ridere senza sosta, sapendo che non c'è modo di fermarlo, almeno fino a quando non si renderà conto che non sta mentendo. Così, quando risponde, lo fa guardando Blaine che è chiaramente diviso fra l'insensatezza della situazione e la vocina del suo sesto senso che gli suggerisce di credere. “Sono qui perché è successo qualcosa,” dice. “Non so esattamente cosa, ma di qualunque cosa si tratti ha cambiato il corso della mia linea temporale. In poche parole, sto scomparendo. Tutti i miei ricordi si sono fatti molto confusi e ci sono persone che conosco da anni che non hanno la minima idea di chi io sia. Mia nonna, tua madre, Blaine, mi ha buttato fuori di casa a calci e mi resta davvero poco tempo prima di scomparire io stesso. Questo significa che da qualche parte nel passato voi non vi siete incontrati oppure vi siete lasciati, non lo so. Questo è l'unico punto del passato in cui riesco a tornare, quindi dev'essere qui che le cose cambiano.”
“Ma stiamo insieme,” azzarda Blaine.
“Per ora,” Sebastian si stringe nelle spalle. “Potrebbe succedere fra un mese o fra sei, non lo so. Temo che questo abbia a che fare con la partenza di Kurt per New York, il che sarebbe da lui, per questo sono qui a dirvi: qualunque cosa succeda, restate insieme.”
Kurt scuote la testa, asciugandosi una lacrima. “Tralasciando il fatto che ovviamente io non ti credo e tu sei pazzo, se lasciando Blaine ottenessi di non farti mai nascere, lo farei.”
“Kurt!” Esclama Blaine, sconvolto. “Hai detto una cosa orribile.”
“Andiamo! Non gli crederai mica!” Replica Kurt, frugando nella borsa. “E comunque non ho detto che voglio lasciarti, solo che lo farei per liberarmi di lui.”
“E ti sembra una bella cosa?”
“Parlavo per ipotesi, Blaine,” sbuffa Kurt.
Blaine incrocia le braccia al petto e abbassa lo sguardo, ferito. “E' un'ipotesi che non mi piace, sia che lui sia nostro figlio sia che non lo sia. Tu dovresti dire che non mi lasci e basta.”
“Era una battuta!” Sbotta Kurt. “Cavolo, possibile che tu sia così suscettibile?”
“Io suscettibile?” Replica Blaine. “Io suscettibile? Ma se non ti si può dire mai nulla? Il minimo disaccordo e vai subito in escandescenze perché i piani perfetti di Kurt Hummel non possono essere mai messi in discussione.”
I lineamenti di Kurt si fanno più duri. “Non credo che sia questo il momento di discutere.”
“E quale sarebbe esattamente, Kurt, quale sarebbe?”
Sebastian li osserva discutere e per un istante il tempo rallenta, gli sembra quasi di vedere le lancette dell'orologio a muro che faticano a muoversi come fossero immerse nella melassa. Sbatte le palpebre un istante e quando riapre gli occhi si rende conto che sta perdendo altri ricordi, che c'è un nuovo buco nero nella sua memoria. Questo viaggio a ritroso nel tempo non sta funzionando. “E' qui!” Sbotta, a voce così alta che gli altri due smettono di litigare. “Succede qui!”
“E' qui che vi lasciate!” Esclama sconvolto, alzandosi in piedi in preda al panico. “Oddio, sono io che vi faccio lasciare. Voi litigate per colpa mia.”
Kurt inspira, infastidito. “D'accordo, adesso basta così, seriamente. Sono stanco,” annuncia, alzandosi e recuperando la tracolla. “Blaine, andiamocene per favore.”
“Stavamo discutendo, mi pare.”
“No!” Sebastian blocca la strada a Kurt e lo prende per le spalle. “Per favore, non ve ne andate. Se uscite di qui, finirete per lasciarvi e io non sarò mai nato.”
“Come ho già detto, tanto meglio.”
“Kurt, per favore!” Esplodono Blaine e Sebastian, con lo stesso identico tono disperato.
Kurt li guarda entrambi e solleva un sopracciglio, non sa se arrabbiarsi ancora di più o se aiutarli a trovare un bravo terapista. “Sentite, io non sto cosa sta succedendo, di che droghe si sia fatto Sebastian o che cosa sia preso a te, Blaine, ma voi non potete seriamente pretendere che io via dia retta.”
“Il telefono, Kurt!” Esclama Sebastian, quasi togliendogli la borsa di dosso per fargli notare la suoneria del telefono che va avanti da qualche minuto. “Rispondi.”
Blaine osserva l'orologio. “Sono le 19:17.”
Kurt sospira, quindi recupera il telefono. Ne segue un attimo di silenzio, poi Kurt sbianca e alza lo sguardo su Sebastian che lo osserva in trepidante attesa. “E' Rachel,” mormora con un filo di voce. “Ha trovato l'abito da sposa.”
Sebastian si stringe nelle spalle. “Ci credi adesso?”
Kurt non riesce a dirgli nulla, continua a fissarlo mentre parla con l'amica. “No, Rachel. L'organza assolutamente no,” mormora. “Non era di moda l'anno scorso. Non è mai stata di moda, a dire il vero.”
“Non è possibile,” sta dicendo Blaine.
Kurt chiude la telefonata qualche minuto dopo. “Mi ha detto che ha trovato una cosa che le avevo chiesto di cercare,” esclama, fissando di fronte a sé con lo sguardo un po' vacuo.
“Poteva essere qualcun altro? Con il suo telefono, magari?”
Kurt scuote la testa. “Riconoscerei quella voce ovunque e poi eravamo a casa mia quando le ho chiesto quel favore, non poteva saperlo che lei.”
Ed è allora che il sosia di Jeremiah inciampa a dieci centimetri da loro ma con un movimento secco del braccio riesce eroicamente a salvarli dalla pioggia di cappuccino. “Scusate, mi dispiace tantissimo,” esclama a ripetizione mentre Blaine lo aiuta ad alzarsi.”
“Mi credete adesso?” Chiede Sebastian.
Kurt torna a sedersi. “Anche se fosse...” e fa così fatica a dirlo che deve schiarirsi la gola. “Come avresti fatto a tornare indietro nel tempo?”
Sebastian alza gli occhi al cielo. “E' un po' lunga da spiegare, diciamo che tra trent'anni la cosa sarà teoricamente possibile. Cioè, ovviamente, se sono qui lo è, ma nel mio presente lo è solo in via teorica. Io sono il primo che ci riesce e loro nemmeno lo sanno.”
“Hai fatto la cavia?”
Sebastian fa una smorfia. “Preferisco pensare che mi hanno fornito un servizio che in quel momento era fondamentale per me e in cambio io sto facendo per loro ricerche sul campo,” commenta. “Comunque! Ho bisogno del vostro aiuto. Se quando me ne andrò di qui, voi vi lascerete, io smetterò del tutto di esistere. So che il nostro incontro in questo tempo non è stato dei migliori, che ho fatto una serie di errori e che per paradosso sto rischiando io stesso di farvi lasciare, ma sono vostro figlio, volete davvero cancellarmi dalla faccia della terra?”
Kurt sta per aprire bocca, ma Blaine gliela tappa con una mano. “Raccontaci com'è andata,” gli chiede.
“Non posso, sarebbero spoiler.”
Blaine lo guarda seriamente. “Potrebbero non avverarsi mai, ti pare?”
Sebastian lo guarda storto per un po', ma Blaine stavolta non cede. E' evidentemente una di quelle situazioni in cui punta i piedi a terra e fa di tutto per non dargliela vinta. E' successo – anzi succederà – una volta che voleva uscire ma li aveva fatti arrabbiare. “D'accordo, vi dirò qualcosa, ma non tutto,” cede. “Ad un certo punto avete deciso di volere un figlio, così vi siete organizzati per averne uno e sono nato io.”
“Fin lì c'ero arrivato anch'io,” borbotta Kurt.
“Ti abbiamo adottato?”
Sebastian scuote la testa. “No, sono figlio vostro, anche se non sappiamo di chi. Conosco mia madre, però.”
Incuriosito dalla sua stessa vita futura, Kurt si piega quasi in avanti. “Chi è?”
“Non posso dirvelo e comunque non la conoscete ancora. Vi posso assicurare però che quando la incontrerete saprete immediatamente che lei è quella giusta. O almeno è quello che ripetete ogni volta che qualcuno ve lo chiede e diventate tutti zuccherosi pensando a quanto fossi carino quando mi avete portato a casa dall'ospedale.”
Kurt fa una smorfia. “D'accordo, va bene, va bene, ora non abbondare con i dettagli.”
Sebastian guarda di nuovo l'orologio, ancora tre minuti e poi avrà esaurito le possibilità. “Vi prego,” mormora, guardandoli entrambi questa volta e cercando di fare appello a quell'oscuro filo rosso che dovrebbe legarli o li legherà in qualche modo prima o poi. “Mi resta poco tempo, poi tornerà nel mio presente. Se non avrò risolto questa cosa, non ci arriverò mai. Sappiate che siete fatti per stare insieme, dico davvero, di tutte le coppie che ho conosciuto, nessuna è durata quanto voi. Non so perché, non so per volontà di chi e non so nemmeno come fate a sopportarvi l'uno con l'altro perché vi giuro che... ma questo non è importante, ora! Il punto è che vi amate, lo fate abbastanza da volere una casa, una famiglia un figlio, ma tutto dipende da questo momento. Se non rimanete insieme ora, non solo non ci sarò io, ma perderete una versione di voi che è più bella ancora di adesso.”
Blaine cerca la mano di Kurt sotto al tavolo e intreccia le dita con le sue. Ha quasi paura che Kurt non ricambi la stretta, ma lui lo fa e allora il suo cuore si tranquillizza.
“Adesso devo andare,” Sebastian si alza e per un attimo esita chiedendosi se debba abbracciarli o meno – saranno i suoi genitori in fondo – ma poi si dice che non sarebbe appropriato, che se tutto andrà come deve andare li riabbraccerà tra trent'anni. Forse, se tutto va come deve andare, avrà anche evitato che Blaine firmi le carte del divorzio. Anzi, avrà evitato che anche solo ci pensino a divorziare – questo è un particolare che ha preferito non rivelargli, perché in fondo è meno importante. Quello che gli importa davvero è di continuare ad esistere. Si allontana salutandoli con la mano e una volta svoltato l'angolo della strada, scompare.
Blaine e Kurt lo inseguono ma non lo trovano più. “E' la cosa più assurda che mi sia mai capitata,” commenta Kurt, guardandosi intorno.
“Già,” annuisce Blaine. “Che cosa pensi di fare?”
“Che cosa vuoi che faccia? Non avevo davvero intenzione di lasciarti prima, adesso direi che ho un motivo in più per non farlo, che dici?”
Blaine sorride. “Siamo l'unica coppia al mondo che resta insieme per il bene di un figlio non ancora nato.”
Kurt scoppia a ridere, una risata rilassata e divertita, poi lo prende sotto braccio e insieme si avviano verso la macchina. Con tutta la paura che ha sempre avuto del proprio futuro, è bello saperne almeno un pezzettino.
Personaggi: Dave, Blaine, Santana, Sebastian, Kurt
Genere: Commedia
Avvisi: Slash, AU, Violence
Rating: R
Prompt: Scritta per far guadagnare punti alla squadra dei vampirli Blood Devils, nel Cow-T di MDC (Missione 3, Libro, NSFW).
Note: Io non so perché mi costringo a questi tour de force allucinanti per il COW-T. Credo che potesse venire molto meglio con un po' di tempo in più ma non ce l'avevo quindi ho fatto del mio meglio. Un giorno (neanche troppo lontano) riuscirò a scrivere di un pirata!Dave come si deve. Per ora prendetevi la follia :)

Riassunto: Sebastian Smythe, capitano della Dalton, ha rapito Kurt per usarlo come merce di scambio e recuperare un libro che gli appartiene e che ora si trova nelle mani del governatore Blaine Anderson. Per combattere un pirata ci vuole un altro pirata, e così Blaine è costretto a chiedere aiuto al capitano Karofsky.

Il Lima Bean è un buco infognato nella strada peggiore intorno al porto, ma è anche l'unico posto dove Dave Karofsky si sente a casa quando i suoi piedi non toccano le assi sconnesse della Fury. La sua nave ha bisogno di essere rimessa in sesto e di fare rifornimento, perciò si è fermato in porto, ha dato licenza ai suoi uomini e ha deciso che per un paio di giorni potrà ubriacarsi in un luogo che non ondeggerà davvero quanto lui il mattino dopo. Gli hanno appena portato una bottiglia di rum quando il tipo arriva.
E' sempre il solito, naturalmente. In dieci anni che lo conosce non è mai cambiato, ma d'altronde lo stesso si può dire di lui, quindi non può davvero fargliene una colpa.
Quando si avvicina proiettando la propria ombra sul muro, Dave lo riconosce prima ancora che apra bocca perché la ridicola piuma che porta sul cappello dà una forma ridicola anche alla sua testa. “Blaine Anderson! Che sorpresa, pensavo fossi morto di tifo l'anno scorso,” lo saluta senza voltarsi e buttando giù di un fiato il primo bicchiere. Se, come pensa, è venuto a chiedere un favore, ci vorranno ore per mettersi d'accordo e lui non ha intenzione di passarle sobrio.
“Come prego?” Chiede lui, colto di sorpresa.
Dave si volta con un ghigno divertito che mette in mostra il dente d'oro. “L'anno scorso sei sparito per settimane. Correva voce che tu fossi disteso sul letto di morte. D'altronde era quello o la dissenteria, non morite di nient'altro voi damerini.”
“Ero stato ferito all'occhio,” precisa, punto sul vivo. “Un delinquente, un... brigante dei vostri mi ha assalito lungo la strada. Sono stato fortunato a non rimanere cieco!”
Dave non ne è per niente impressionato, anzi continua a ridere. “E dire che la benda ti avrebbe fatto sembrare un uomo finalmente.”
Karofsky ride sguaiato e beve un altro bicchiere di rum, completamente impermeabile all'oltraggio che deforma l'espressione sul viso dell'altro.
“Posso sedermi?” Chiede Blaine, togliendosi il cappello piumato e indicando la sedia dall'altra parte del tavolo.
“E' un mondo libero,” replica Dave, versandosi altro rum
Blaine prende posto di fronte al capitano e solleva una mano per fermare la procace cameriera che è già pronta a servirgli qualunque cosa voglia, se stessa compresa. Scuote la testa e le sorride gentile, sostenendo di essere a posto così. Torna a guardare Karofsky che però lo ignora senza sembrare neanche troppo in difficoltà nel farlo, perciò alla fine si risente. “Non mi chiedi nemmeno per quale motivo sono qui?”
Dave scuote la testa, mentre solleva il naso dall'ennesimo bicchiere. “Non me ne frega niente,” risponde con sincerità.
“Ma dovrebbe, perché ho bisogno del tuo aiuto.”
Dave solleva un sopracciglio e lo guarda con genuina curiosità. “Dovrebbe fregarmene del fatto che ti serva aiuto? Seriamente, Anderson, essere diventato governatore di questo scoglio ti ha dato alla testa. Usa uno di quei simpatici ombrellini di seta la prossima volta, il sole picchia da queste parti.”
Blaine non è mai stato impermeabile all'atteggiamento di Dave, non è in grado di controbattere a tono, perciò si irrita. Anche se poi tutta la sua irritazione viene esternata solo agitandosi indispettito sulla sedia, dando semplicemente l'impressione di essere afflitto da un brutto caso di emorroidi. “Si dà il caso che io sia qui in veste ufficiale per richiedere il tuo intervento in una questione della massima delicatezza a nome mio...”
“Io lavoro su commissione solo se puoi pagare, Blaine, e non ho ancora visto nessun forziere.”
“...E del signor Hummel,” conclude Blaine con un certa soddisfazione, ben sapendo che quel nome zittirà qualunque protesta. Difatti Karofsky tace e rimane immobile a fissare il fondo del bicchiere vuoto. “Ho la tua attenzione, adesso?”
Lo sguardo del capitano si ammorbidisce e diventa malinconico e un po' triste. “Che cosa vuoi?” Borbotta, allontanando da sé il bicchiere. Adesso non ha più voglia di bere.
Dal momento che adesso il capitano Karofsky sembra più propenso a collaborare, Blaine torna a sedersi composto e, ritrovata la calma, recupera mentalmente il bel discorso che ha pensato lungo tutta la strada verso la locanda. “Quattro giorni fa una delle nostre fregate si è scontrata con una nave pirata ed è riuscita ad abbatterla, recuperando...”
“Quale nave?”
“Questo non ha importanza,” commenta stizzito Blaine.
“Quale nave?” Ripete il capitano, senza cambiare tono e senza imbestialirsi, come fosse talmente sicuro che quella discussione non andrà avanti se prima lui non ottiene quel nome, che non ha nemmeno motivo di preoccuparsi.
Blaine espira dal naso rumorosamente. “Si trattava dell'Adrenaline,” risponde.
“St. James è vivo?”
“Siamo riusciti a catturarlo e a portarlo a riva ma durante il trasporto verso la prigione è riuscito a fuggire,” risponde ancora Blaine sbrigativamente.
Karofsky si mette a ridere. “Questo perché voi siete degli incapaci e lui è un gran figlio di puttana,” commenta e poi batte una mano sul tavolo e si versa di nuovo del rum. Gli è tornata voglia di bere. “Sono contento per lui!”
“Come stavo dicendo,” sospira Blaine, “siamo riusciti a recuperare una gran quantità di oggetti che erano stati sottratti agli onesti cittadini di questa città nel corso delle ultime tre settimane. Fra questi, una copia antichissima delle memorie marittime del capitano Colombo.”
“Blaine, riassumere è un'altra delle innumerevoli doti che ti mancano, non è così?”
“Per farla breve,” lo accontenta. “Il libro era custodito in casa mia, in attesa di capire a chi appartenesse. Ieri un altro gruppo di delinquenti, e prima che tu me lo chieda, si fanno chiamare Warblers, si sono introdotti nella mia proprietà per impossessarsene. Quando le mie guardie glielo hanno impedito, hanno preso Kurt in ostaggio.”
“Cosa?” Karofsky alza così tanto la voce che tutti i clienti della locanda si voltano nella sua direzione per vedere se c'è motivo di scatenare una rissa. “Dov'è adesso?”
“Sulla loro nave, la...” Blaine agita una mano in aria, tentando di ricordare.
“La Dalton,” gli viene in aiuto il capitano.
“Esattamente,” Blaine si illumina. “La conosci? Sai chi la governa?”
Dave si alza in piedi, si fruga in tasca e lascia sul tavolo più monete di quante ne deve. “Smythe,” risponde, vomitando il nome come se avesse un cattivo sapore. “E' tornato dalla Francia l'anno scorso. Nessuno ne sentiva la mancanza.”
“Smythe?” Ripete Blaine, recuperando in fretta il cappello e calcandoselo bene in testa mentre segue il capitano fuori dalla locanda. “E' il nome dell'uomo che mi ha quasi menomato. Quel delinquente! Prima mi ferisce, poi tenta di derubarmi e infine si porta via ciò che è più caro al mio cuore! Deve avercela con me senz'altro.”
“Oppure vuole soltanto quel libro e l'anno scorso gli sei solo finito tra le palle,” conclude Karofsky, molto più sbrigativo e logico. “Ha preso Kurt in ostaggio per riavere il libro.”
“Esattamente!” Conferma il governatore. “Dice che ci dà tempo fino all'alta marea per portargli il libro, e poi lo ucciderà!”
“L'alta marea è domani, cosa state aspettando?”
“Non dipende da me,” sospira affranto Blaine. “Se spettasse a me decidere, avrei già preso il libro e sarei andato io stesso a consegnarlo nelle mani di quel furfante per riprendermi Kurt, ma sua maestà dice che non possiamo cedere al ricatto di un predone del mare.”
Dave fa schioccare la lingua. “Il nostro illuminato sovrano si chiede: come mai un pirata dovrebbe interessarsi ad un libro, quelli non sanno leggere! Evidentemente dev'essere un oggetto di valore. E quindi vuole tenerselo.”
Blaine sospira di nuovo affranto. “Credo che si tratti di questo, sì,” ammette. “Per questo sono qui a chiedere il tuo aiuto. Sua maestà interverrà allo scadere dell'ora ma per lui la priorità è il libro.”
Dave grugnisce qualcosa che ha a che fare con le madri incerte di teste coronate e quindi annuisce, mentre raggiungono la Fury. “Salpiamo stanotte. Tu vieni con me.”


Santana osserva il governatore riverso per metà fuoribordo che vomita l'anima come se il domani non dovesse mai arrivare e tutto ciò che gli restasse da fare fosse rimettere tutti i cibi ingeriti a ritroso fino all'inizio della settimana. “Ripeta un po', capitano,” commenta, le mani sui fianchi e lo sguardo corrucciato. “Perché lo hai portato a bordo?”
“Può darci una mano,” risponde sbrigativamente Karofsky, manovrando il timone. Il mare è calmo e si vede chiaramente per chilometri. La barca di Smythe è là fuori, da qualche parte, e intende trovarla prima che arrivi la notte e, con essa, l'alta marea.
“Quello non riesce neanche a stare in piedi. L'unico aiuto che può darci è buttarsi da solo in mare adesso, liberando noi dal doverlo fare poi, quando sarà morto di consunzione.”
Il capitano sospira, lo sguardo fisso sulla linea lontana dell'orizzonte. “Se conosco bene Kurt, non si fiderà di me. Il damerino garantirà per la nostra buona fede.”
Santana scuote la testa, agitando i lunghi capelli neri legati in una strettissima coda di cavallo. “E quale sarebbe il motivo per cui stiamo facendo tutto questo? Pensavo fossimo d'accordo sul fatto che non ci muoviamo nemmeno dal porto senza vedere moneta.”
Karofsky avrebbe preferito rimandare questo dialogo ad un momento successivo, quando avrebbe smesso di essere così teso per il destino di Kurt e l'obbligo di dire al suo vice quello che stava facendo non sarebbe sembrato più un onore di cui fare volentieri a meno. “Quando lo avremo recuperato, ci metteremo d'accordo sulla ricompensa. Suo padre e Blaine non lasceranno correre, non preoccuparti.”
Santana lo osserva a lungo, in silenzio. Il suo sguardo è così serio e concentrato che potrebbe passarlo da parte a parte se solo si concentrasse abbastanza. “Stai ancora cercando di riprendertelo,” sentenzia alla fine con uno sbuffo infastidito. “Non posso crederci.”
Il capitano fa di tutto per non scollare gli occhi dalla distesa del mare e spera che questo basti ad evitare anche il vago rossore che sa comparire sulle sue guance ogni volta che si affronta quell'argomento. “Santana, non hai qualcosa da fare altrove?”
“Certo. Volevo solo assicurarmi per che cosa stiamo andando a farci ammazzare stavolta.”
“Ce la caveremo,” risponde sbrigativo.
Santana allarga le braccia in segno di resa. “Va bene, d'accordo. Guardami, non parlo più,” commenta. “Ma dovresti davvero smetterla di prendere decisioni con l'uccello. Io e il resto della ciurma che non ne possiede uno stiamo cominciando ad infastidirci. Ti dico soltanto questo.”
Karofsky vorrebbe richiamarla all'ordine, ma la verità è che con Santana questo non si può fare. Lei non risponde mai agli ordini di nessuno, nemmeno a quelli del proprio capitano. L'unico modo che si ha per farla collaborare è trattarla da pari. E' per questo che il capitano l'ha resa il suo vice. Quand'era un semplice pirata, Santana era assolutamente intrattabile e rischiava di vederla fare accordi con ogni nemico che incrociavano sulla strada. Da quando sente la Fury anche un po' sua, invece, non passa giorno senza che la donna riconfermi una volta per tutte la sua fedeltà a quella ciurma. E comunque è un valido pirata, coraggioso, temerario e soprattutto spietato. Karofsky non aveva mai visto tanti arti separati dal corpo sul ponte di comando come da quando lei comanda le cariche. Se le loro preferenze non fossero così diametralmente inconciliabili, la sposerebbe. Comunque sono quanto di più vicino ci sia ad una vecchia coppia di anziani coniugi, e va bene così.
“Andiamo Anderson!” Urla Santana a gran voce, battendo una mano sulla schiena del governatore che è verde come un cadavere e ha delle occhiaie spaventose. “Vediamo di rimetterla in sesto.”
“Io non credo di poter lasciare il ponte,” si lamenta lui, reggendosi la pancia e cercando di combattere la nausea che da quando sono partiti non fa che tormentarlo.
“Non ha alternative,” Santana gli sorride spietata. “Ho bisogno di spazio per le esercitazioni, quindi può scegliere fra accomodarsi nella sua cabina e farsi curare dal nostro medico di bordo, oppure farsi issare in spalla e buttare in mare.”
Blaine deglutisce un rigurgito acido che gli è salito su per la gola. “Credo che proverò la strada del medico.”
“Saggia scelta. Ora capisco perché l'hanno fatta governatore. Signorina Pillsbury? A lei il relitto umano.”
La giovane signorina Pillsbury esce di corsa sul ponte, camminando a passi velocissimi come un topolino, animale che ricorda nell'aspetto e nella timidezza che la costringe a stare chiusa nella sua cabina tutta la giornata. “Che succede?” Chiede preoccupata, cercando di sostenere Blaine.
“Il governatore non è fatto per la vita di mare. Gli dia qualcosa che gli rimetta a posto lo stomaco e me lo rimandi indietro di un colorito che non faccia pendant con le vele.”
“Farò il possibile, Santana, ma non sono una maga, non faccio miracoli. Il mal di mare potrebbe anche durare dei giorni interi.”
“Oddio, ti prego, no,” si lamenta Blaine con voce spezzata, accasciandosi sul medico di bordo che vacilla sotto il suo peso.
“Allora lo sopprima. Non lo so, s'inventi qualcosa, adesso è un problema suo,” conclude Santana, allontanandosi ancheggiando.


La Dalton sta circumnavigando l'isola in attesa della risposta del governatore. La Fury la incrocia a sud, a qualche chilometro dalla baia McKinley, un tratto di spiaggia che prende il nome dal pirata dal quale – in un modo o nell'altro – pensano tutti quanti di discendere. L'uomo ha navigato i sette mari, derubato tutto quello che c'era da derubare e poi si dice che si sia innamorato così perdutamente di una sirena da gettarsi in mare per stare sempre con lei. Alcune leggende dicono che è morto annegato, altre che la sirena era magica e lo ha trasformato in una creatura del mare. In ogni caso la sua nave, misteriosamente priva di equipaggio, è stata trovata ancorata proprio presso la baia più di trecento anni fa. Adesso la baia è diventata il luogo di ritrovo più comune tra i pirati. E' lì che avvengono tutti gli scambi più significativi, quindi sembra appropriato che il fato faccia incontrare in questo luogo i due capitani.
La Dalton è una nave enorme, ben rifinita, con una donna alata come polena. Le sue grandi ali sono spiegate, ogni piuma scolpita con estrema precisione. Tutti sanno che il capitano Smythe ha l'abitudine di presentarsi in piedi tra quelle ali imponenti. Lo sta facendo anche adesso e sorride in direzione della nave di Karofsky che si avvicina.
“Smythe!” Grida il capitano, una volta che le navi si sono affiancate.
“Karofsky,” ridacchia l'uomo, la cui marsina è così impeccabile che sembra quasi più un marinaio del re che non un pirata. “Come mai non sono sorpreso? C'è qualcosa che il governatore riesca a fare senza correre a piangere da voi?”
“Cosa devo dirvi? Non può farne a meno,” Karofsky ride, sinceramente divertito. “Vi va di fare due chiacchiere?”
Sebastian Smythe china brevemente il capo. “Siete il benvenuto sulla mia nave, salite pure.”
Viene calata una scialuppa perché il capitano possa recarsi sulla Dalton. Molti uomini dell'equipaggio si fanno intorno a Karofsky prima che possa salirci sopra e gli chiedono se secondo lui sia una mossa saggia incontrare da solo Smythe sulla sua nave, ma il capitano li rassicura, dicendo loro che Smythe è un bastardo e come tutti i bastardi segue il codice del mare. Ad un capitano invitato a salire non può essere fatto del male, a meno che egli non decida di minacciare il proprio ospite.
Smythe, affascinante come sempre, gli va incontro non appena mette piede sulla nave. E' magro, ben vestito e non è rinomato per essere bravo con la spada, anche se questa gli pende fedelmente dal fianco. Il capitano Smythe è temuto perché è stato in grado di vincere battaglie senza muovere un dito. E' un ottimo stratega, abile negli scambi e Karofsky non spera affatto di vincere sul suo stesso piano.
“Da quanto non ci vedevamo?” Esclama il suo ospite, porgendogli la mano.
“Non ho mai tenuto il conto degli anni perché speravo di non rivedervi più,” ammette Karofsky, stringendola.
Sebastian annuisce. “Neanche io pensavo di tornare, ma sapete com'è: la corrente ci riporta sempre a casa,” si stringe nelle spalle e poi sospira, invitandolo verso un tavolo approntato per l'occasione direttamente sul ponte della nave. “Penso di sapere a cosa devo la vostra visita, ma l'etichetta m'impone di chiedervelo.”
“Avete qualcosa che appartiene al governatore.”
“E lui ha qualcosa che appartiene a me,” sorride Sebastian. “Direi che siamo pari. Del vino?”
Karofsky scuote la testa. “Non berrei mai dalla vostra bottiglia.”
“Né io dalla vostra lo capisco,” Smythe annuisce, comprensivo. “Ad ogni modo, a meno che non abbiate con voi il libro e siate autorizzato a restituirmelo, temo che siate venuto fin qui per nulla perché non lascerò libero il signor Hummel.”
“Quel libro non vi appartiene.”
“Al contrario, capitano,” dice Smyth, accavallando le gambe. “St. James lo ha sottratto a me, ma dubito che il governatore me lo avrebbe restituito senza fare storie pertanto mi sono, diciamo, tutelato.”
“Sua maestà è deciso ad intervenire,” gli fa notare il capitano.
Sebastian emette una risatina che finisce in un sospiro profondo e un po' paternalistico. “Sua maestà può intervenire quanto vuole, la mia nave è pronta a rispondere a qualsiasi attacco. Ma francamente credo che per lui abbia più valore quel libro che non il signor Hummel, dico bene?”
Karofsky è preoccupato per la piega che la cosa sta prendendo, ma tenta di non darlo a vedere. “Come sta?”
“Come stiamo noi, piuttosto,” risponde annoiato Smythe e con un cenno si fa portare un'altra bottiglia e un altro bicchiere, lasciando quella offerta al suo ospite assolutamente intatta. “Il vostro amico è, volendo essere gentile, insoffribile, viziato e in generale un perfetto esempio di come i nobili e i borghesi andrebbero eliminati in fasce prima che possano rendere la vita degli altri un inferno. Capirete quindi che non ho nessun interesse a tenerlo sulla mia nave più del dovuto. Restituitemi il libro e lo riavrete indietro. Tra le altre cose, mi dicono che sareste interessato a tenerlo voi o sbaglio? Si vocifera di una tresca.”
“Quello che si vocifera non ha nessuna importanza.”
Smythe ridacchia. “Tranne quando si tratta della verità. Ad ogni modo, credo che abbiamo raggiunto un punto di stallo, dico bene? Immagino che la signorina Lopez sia già pronta ad assaltarci. Sì pulì le mani con il tovagliolo e si alzò in piedi. “Vogliamo cominciare?”


La battaglia infuria quasi subito.
Karofsky voleva evitarla, ma Sebastian ha deciso di non cedere – come del resto c'era da aspettarsi – perciò il capitano non ha intenzione di andarci leggero. Ad un suo cenno, Santana e metà dell'equipaggio atterrano letteralmente sul ponte della Dalton, con la donna in prima linea che agita in aria due spade corte. I primi tempi, si parla di molto tempo fa, le entrate ad effetto di Santana si concludevano con i nemici piegati in due dal ridere perché lei è magrissima, è donna e dà l'impressione di non poter aprire da sola nemmeno un barattolo di sottaceti, figurarsi uccidere un uomo. Poi lei ha iniziato a sbudellare chi le si parava davanti e a contare in testicoli il successo di ogni attacco. Più alto il numero, più grande la vittoria. Prima che Karofsky le dicesse di smettere, la donna se li portava dietro in barattoli, conservandoli in formalina.
Anche se non può più farlo, perché il suo capitano ne era profondamente disturbato, può comunque avventarsi come una belva sui poveri malcapitati che ancora non la conoscono e quindi non fuggono di fronte alla sua persona. Mentre i suoi uomini le combattono intorno, lei si apre un varco, un colpo dopo l'altro fino a raggiungere il capitano. Uno dei marinai di Smythe le fa lo sgambetto e la manda a rotolare lunga distesa. Santana se lo sente addosso l'attimo dopo e fa in tempo a girarsi per fermare un colpo di spada con le proprie incrociate a qualche centimetro dal viso. L'uomo è più forte di lei, ma lei è più agile, così quando lui fa pressione sull'arma per tagliarle la gola, lei lo colpisce alla schiena piegando una gamba. L'uomo grida di dolore, espone il collo che la spada di Santana passa da parte a parte. Quando l'osso si spezza, l'uomo le ricade addosso come un pupazzo, riempiendola di sangue da capo a piedi. “Vaffanculo,” Santana spinge con tutta la forza che ha e rotola via dal cadavere, pulendosi la bocca con il dorso della mano, altrettanto sporco anche quello. Rabbiosa, tra un calcio al cadavere prima di ricordarsi che era diretta altrove. Ovunque sul ponte, la gente sta combattendo. Brittany, la sua bellissima e bionda Brittany, atterra su uno dei nemici appesa ad una delle cime. La sua spada trapassa il cranio da sopra ed esce dall'occhio. Anche da lontano, Santana lo vede letteralmente esplodere e spargere sangue ovunque. Brittany resta sul posto un po' più a lungo del necessario, nel tentativo di estrarre la lama rimasta incastrata. Poco più avanti, Puck sta mietendo vittime come non faceva da settimane. Dopo la morte di Lauren, la sua compagna, si era come spento ma, come Santana, la promessa del sangue lo ha risvegliato da ogni torpore. Santana sa che quando si avventa sul nemico e lo disarma tagliandogli la mano all'altezza del polso e quindi affondando la lama nello stomaco, girando fino a spegnere ogni luce negli occhi di chi ha per le mani, Puck si sente vivo come lei.
Qualsiasi tristezza possa averla colta, qualsiasi dolore può essere cancellato nel sangue altrui.
Quando raggiunge il capitano, non senza difficoltà, perché gli uomini di Smythe continuano a spuntare da tutte le parti, costringendola a fermarsi e ucciderli, lui sta giusto togliendo la spada dal torace di un uomo ai suoi piedi. “Dov'è Smythe?” Chiede.
“E' dentro, dobbiamo trovare Kurt,” sospira Dave.
Santana annuisce. “Pensaci tu, io trovo il bastardo.”


Kurt sta strillando da ore. Letteralmente da quando la battaglia è iniziata, e forse anche da prima. Solo che non lo sente nessuno perché il clangore delle spade copre qualunque cosa, perfino il disco che ha messo sul grammofono. Grammofono che quel bruto di Smythe pensava potesse essere una distrazione sufficiente alla sua prigionia, ma niente potrebbe esserlo! Il disco finisce e lui lo rimette, ma sono tutti troppo impegnati ad ammazzarsi tra loro per venire a vedere cosa succede.
Non è carino prendere in ostaggio qualcuno e poi ignorarlo, lo ritiene un atto offensivo. Non è così che si fa! Il braccio del grammofono torna a posto per la decima volta, così lui prende e lo rimette da capo mentre un uomo passa urlando di fronte al suo oblò e finisce in acqua con un gran tonfo.
“Mi scusi?” Grida lui, affacciandosi per quello che può – nessuno ha pensato a chiudergli la finestra tanto non ci passerebbe e, anche passandoci, di certo non può tornare a casa a nuoto – si sbraccia per tentare di attirare l'attenzione dell'uomo. “Mi vede? Sono quaggiù! La smetta di agitarsi! Vi stanno attaccando, vero? Potrebbe avvisare qualcuno che sono qui?”
Ma l'uomo continua ad urlare e a muoversi convulsamente finché poco a poco affonda, mentre una chiazza di sangue si dissolve nell'acqua.
“Che maleducato,” protesta Kurt, tornando a sedersi sul letto. Non poteva che essere altrimenti, d'altronde. Smythe è un uomo orribile e fastidioso, e la sua ciurma certo non può essere da meno. Kurt si sente oltraggiato, offeso e ritiene che una grave irregolarità sia stata commessa al codice cavalleresco. E' stato ingiustamente prelevato dalla propria casa e sbattuto in questa stanzetta del tutto priva di comodità per poi essere completamente ignorato. Smythe non si è neanche sprecato a venire di persona a minacciarlo, a fare sporche battute a doppio senso o a tentare di imporsi su di lui con la forza. Questo non è il modo di trattare con i prigionieri del suo livello.
E' allora, mentre sta per lasciarsi andare al dramma, che sente i passi nel corridoio. “Finalmente!” Esclama, lisciandosi la giacca sui fianchi e sistemandosi la sciarpa al collo. “Sono qua! Salvatemi! Aiuto! Fate presto!”
“Kurt! Siete qua dentro?”
Kurt si acciglia. C'è qualcosa in quella voce che gli suona familiare, così si ferma e resta in ascolto. “Chi è là?”
Dall'altra parte della porta, Karofsky alza gli occhi al cielo. “Allontanatevi dalla porta, sto per buttarla giù.”
“Guardi che le ho fatto una do–“ Kurt non fa in tempo a finire la frase che la porta viene abbattuta ed atterra, fra i suoi strilli, a pochi centimetri dai suoi piedi. “Ma siete impazzito? Ma cosa vi salta in mente? Voi siete.... siete voi!”
Karofsky alza di nuovo gli occhi al cielo e si chiede per quale motivo lo sta facendo. Poteva rimanere nella locanda, lasciare Kurt a Sebastian e vivere una vita felice lontano da questo strazio. “Sono io e sono qui per salvarvi,” dice, guardandosi velocemente intorno. “Possiamo rimandare la chiacchierata a più tardi.”
“Possiamo anche non farla mai, per quanto mi riguarda.”
“Ottimo,” Karofsky gli tende la mano. “Andiamo, vi porto via di qui.”
“Io non vado da nessuna parte. Sto aspettando di essere salvato da mio marito, il governatore Anderson.”
Il capitano sospira. “Sono qui per conto del governatore e di vostro padre.”
Kurt emette una risatina sarcastica. “E vi aspettate che io ci creda?” Chiede incrociando le braccia al petto. “Voi siete qui per vostro tornaconto e io non muoverò un passo se siete voi a chiedermelo.”
“Non ho tempo di convincervi Kurt. Posso dirvi questo, però. Il re attaccherà la nave tra poche ore, ma il suo obbiettivo non è salvare voi, bensì eliminare Smythe. Sono stato abbastanza chiaro?”
Kurt lo guarda con sospetto, anche se adesso c'è una vena di turbamento nei suoi occhi. “Il re non farebbe mai una cosa simile.”
“Il re farebbe questa cosa e molte altre, ve lo assicuro. Ora, volete per cortesia seguirmi? Che motivo avrei di rapirvi?”
“Per chiedere un riscatto! Devo dirvelo io?!”
“Io non rapisco nessuno!” Protesta Karofsky, il quale in effetti si guadagna da vivere come un pirata alla vecchia maniera: assaltando navi e rubando bottini, e lasciando stare le giovani donne o i giovani uomini che incontra lungo la strada.
Kurt batte il piede in terra. “Con me lo avete già fatto!”
“Stavo cercando di dichiararmi!” Sbotta Karofsky “Ma voi siete duro di comprendonio!”
“E voi siete un bruto!”
Karofsky ringhia, stremato. “E va bene! Come volete voi!” Sbotta, caricandoselo in spalla così velocemente che Kurt non può nemmeno reagire.
“Che cosa state facendo? Mettetemi subito giù!” Urla isterico l'altro ragazzo, tempestandogli la schiena di pugni. “Come vi permettete? Io sono Kurt Hummel-Anderson, degli Hummel di Lima. Mio marito è il governatore Blaine Anderson! Avete capito?”
Karofsky fa un respiro profondo per cercare di mantenere la calma mentre percorre a ritroso il corridoio della nave per tornare sul ponte e da lì alla Fury.
“Ve la vedrete con mio marito! Con mio padre!” Strilla Kurt, agitando le gambe e rischiando di scivolargli dalle spalle. “Con il re in persona!”
“Volete stare zitto un momento? Sto cercando di capire dove si trova Santana.”
“Lasciatemi andare! Subito!” Borbotta Kurt. “Voi state violando delle regole!”
Karofsky naturalmente lo ignora e continua a camminare finché non intravede un paio di lunghe gambe spuntare aldilà di una porta. Santana è piegata in avanti, un braccio sollevato dietro di sé e pronto a sferrare un colpo di spada.
“Santana ce ne stiamo andando,” Le dice sorpassandola.
Lei gli solleva addosso un paio d'occhi sconvolti e delusi. “E questo?” Chiede, indicando Smythe che tiene inchiodato al pavimento premendogli la punta dello stivale contro il collo.
“Lo avrai un'altra volta. Muoviti!”
Con un ringhio, Santana lascia andare il capitano, che non può fare a meno di ridere appena smette di tossire.


“Ho dovuto ritirarmi!
“Mi avete sollevato di peso, come un sacco! Siete un bruto!
“Io non so se hai una vaga idea di quello che sono stata costretta a fare!”
“Voi mi dovete delle scuse!”
“Tu mi devi un risarcimento!”
Karofsky si porta le mani alle tempie, massaggiandole. “State zitti! Tutti e due!” Urla all'improvviso, non riuscendo più a sopportare il cicaleccio continuo di Santana e Kurt che è iniziato non appena hanno rimesso piede sulla Fury. Solleva lo sguardo solo quando è sicuro che quei due hanno smesso di gridargli addosso come scimmie inferocite.
“Santana, vai a prendere il governatore, così che le due piaghe possano riunirsi,” le ordina.
Lei lo fissa intensamente per qualche istante, quasi fumando dal naso, ma poi cede. Anche perché una parte di lei non vede l'ora di liberarsi sia di Hummel che di Anderson.
Nell'attesa, Kurt decide che può mettere il broncio. Karofsky lo ignora, aprendo il diario di bordo per cercare di dare un senso a questa orrenda giornata. Per qualche minuto lo scricchiolio della sua penna d'oca sul foglio di pergamena è l'unico rumore nella stanza, se non si conta il rotolare avanti e indietro di una biglia sulla scrivania per colpa del movimento della nave. Kurt la prende al volo quando gli passa davanti per la quarta volta e comincia a giocarci. “Che fate?”
Kurt si sporge per controllare, ma al contrario non riesce a leggere niente della grafia dell'uomo, e forse non riuscirebbe neanche guardandolo per il verso giusto. “E' vero quello che mi avete detto?”
“Che cosa?” Karofsky intinge il pennino e continua a scrivere.
“Beh...” esita Kurt, strusciando un piede a terra e facendo girare la biglia sul palmo della mano. “...che stavate cercando di farmi capire qualcosa, quella volta.”
Karofsky sospira e alla fine alza lo sguardo su di lui. “Cambierebbe qualcosa? Siete sposato, ormai. Allora non lo eravate.”
Kurt sta per dire qualcosa, ma non fa in tempo. La porta si apre e un Blaine molto preoccupato fa irruzione nella stanza, attirandolo subito a sé. “Oh grazie al cielo stai bene! Sei tutto intero? Ti hanno fatto qualcosa?” Chiede a raffica.
Kurt annuisce, un po' distratto forse, ma poi alla fine riesce a scuotersi e a guardare Blaine, facendogli un sorriso. “Sì, sto bene. Non preoccuparti.”
Blaine lo guarda con occhi adoranti, gli accarezza una guancia ed emette un mugolio intenerito e innamorato che fa salire la nausea a Santana.
“D'accordo, abbiamo capito,” li apostrofa con disgusto. Quindi gli indica la porta. “Andate, c'è una scialuppa che vi riporterà a terra.”
Kurt si volta, prima di uscire. “Capitano Karofsky?”
Il capitano alza lo sguardo.
“Grazie per avermi salvato.”
Karofsky sorride, ma la sua felicità dura poco.
Appena la porta si chiude, Santana lo guarda come volesse scuoiarlo. “Bravo, ridi. Lo hai salvato, sei contento?” Esclama. “Ora quello può tornare con quello gnomo ridicolo di suo marito e tu puoi continuare a a viaggiare da solo come un cane.”
Karofsky sospira. “Non potevo fare altrimenti.”
“Oh, potevi fare tante di quelle cose, Dave! Ma fra le tante, potevi aspettare che finissi di fare il mio lavoro!” Protesta lei, le mani sui fianchi e il suo accento spagnolo che ogni tanto fa capolino fra una parola e l'altra, ora che è arrabbiata. “Stavo per ucciderlo e tu cosa fai? Tu mi dici che ce ne andiamo! Ma certo! Lasciamolo vivere! Sentivamo proprio bisogno di uno come Smythe in giro per il mondo. Ma mi stai ascoltando? Ho dovuto ritirarmi! Ritirarmi! Io! Io non mi sono ritirata nemmeno quando eravamo in svantaggio! Non mi ritiro mai io! Mi devi un risarcimento e–“
Karofsky solleva soltanto un dito ed indica il forziere alle sue spalle, dal quale escono monete, gioielli e altri oggetti preziosi. “Prendi tutto quello che vuoi, poi esci da questa stanza e ti prego, ti scongiuro, ti supplico, non farti vedere prima di domattina.”
Santana sorride, quindi gli lascia un bacio sulla tempia e si appresta a portar via tutto quello che è in grado di trasportare. Il forziere vuoto che si è portata dietro le tornerà utile.
Personaggi: Kurt, Dave, Blaine
Genere: Commedia
Avvisi: Slash, Threesome, AU, Crack!Fic
Rating: R
Prompt: Scritta per la quarta (e ultima) notte bianca del Carnevale delle lande, su prompt di Sango79 (CappuccettoRosso!AU) e per far guadagnare punti alla squadra dei vampirli Blood Devils, nel Cow-T di MDC (Missione 1).
Note: No, non lo so che cos'è. E' CappuccettoRosso!Kurt... porno. Più o meno.

Riassunto: Kurt attraversa il bosco per portare la spesa alla nonna.
Kurt osserva il proprio riflesso nello specchio dell'anticamera e si sistema il cappuccio rosso della mantella sulla testa, in modo che cada perfettamente. Ha la pelle bianca come porcellana e le guance rosse come due mele mature. Non c'è nessuno nel raggio di chilometri che sia bello quanto lui e questo, insieme alle sue straordinarie doti artistiche e al suo ineguagliabile senso dell'umorismo, lo rende la creatura più desiderabile di tutto il paese.
“Mi raccomando, non dimenticarti il latte,” gli dice suo padre dalla cucina, “tua nonna ne ha sempre bisogno e con questo freddo non potrà certo uscire.”
“Certo papà, non preoccuparti.”
Suo padre è un uomo apprensivo, perciò non lo lascia mai andare se prima non lo ha controllato dalla testa ai piedi. “Sei sicuro che ti va di farlo? Fuori c'è un tempaccio, la strada è lunga, potrebbe succederti qualcosa.”
“Non preoccuparti, papà,” ripete lui, prendendo il cestino intrecciato, coperto con un bel telo a scacchi rossi e bianchi in tinta con la sua mantella. “Starò via solo qualche ora.”
“E' carino da parte tua portarle la spesa senza che nessuno te l'abbia chiesto, sei davvero un bravo ragazzo,” mormora suo padre orgoglioso, dandogli un'amorevole pacca sulla spalla. Kurt si limita a sorridere, poi prende il cestino ed esce.
La casa della nonna non è molto lontana, ma per raggiungerla bisogna attraversare il bosco. Kurt lo ha fatto molte volte in passato, ma oggi ha un motivo davvero speciale, anzi due.
S'incammina lungo il viottolo canticchiando ed è così bravo che gli uccellini sui rami spogli degli alberi si riscuotono dal torpore invernale e cantano con lui una deliziosa melodia.
Passa un'ora, e Kurt raggiunge il cuore del bosco dove c'è una radura che d'estate è piena di fiori e d'inverno è una distesa morbida di neve bianchissima. Ha camminato così tanto che gli fanno un po' male i piedi. Così si siede e si toglie gli stivali di pelle che sono costati una fortuna. Alle sue spalle sente frusciare i cespugli, ma fa finta di niente.
“Dove vai tutto solo, Hummel?” Dice all'improvviso una voce e, dopo qualche istante, un'ombra immensa lo copre tutto e lui sorride.
“Dalla nonna, Dave,” risponde tranquillo, alzando maliziosamente gli occhi sul giovane che gli sta davanti.
Dave è alto e forte, ma ha gli occhi sottili e furbi, e un paio di orecchie pelose sulla testa che vibrano quando è emozionato. Vive nella foresta perché si vergogna di farsi vedere e ha paura del giudizio della gente, ma Kurt pensa che non ne abbia alcun motivo perché è affascinante e bello e di certo nessuno gli resisterebbe. Però, finché non trova da solo il coraggio di uscire allo scoperto, Kurt è ben disposto ad andarlo a trovare.
“E cosa c'è sotto quella mantella, Hummel?” Chiede Dave.
Kurt scioglie il nastro che tiene legata la mantella e gli sorride. “Perché non vieni a vedere?”
Dave lo stende delicatamente sul prato innevato e, un bacio dopo l'altro, passa un'altra ora.

Con il cappuccio della mantella un po' storta in testa e qualche filo d'erba tra i capelli, Kurt si mette di nuovo in cammino per raggiungere la casa della nonna. E' così felice di aver incontrato Dave e di aver passato del tempo con lui che si mette a ballare ed è così bravo che anche i cerbiatti e i coniglietti e tutti gli altri animaletti escono dalle loro tane invernali per ballare con lui.
Passa un'ora, e Kurt è quasi alla fine del bosco ma a furia di ballare si è stancato di nuovo, così si siede sulla riva del fiume e osserva il tiepido sole d'inverno riflettersi sulla superficie ghiacciata.
Il cacciatore, che a quell'ora passa sempre di lì, lo vede e gli si avvicina.
“Dove vai tutto solo, Hummel?” Gli chiede anche lui, una mano stretta intorno alla tracolla del fucile e l'altra sul fianco. Il cacciatore è molto bello. Ha le spalle larghe e gli occhi attenti, i capelli scuri un po' impomatati e la mascella volitiva. Anche se non è proprio altissimo, ha il viso gentile e delle braccia possenti.
“Dalla nonna, Blaine,” risponde Kurt, con un sorriso.
“E cosa c'è sotto quella mantella?”
Kurt scioglie il nastro che tiene su la mantella e gli sorride. “Perché non vieni a vedere?”
Blaine lascia il fucile, stende delicatamente Kurt sul prato e un bacio dopo l'altro, passa un'altra ora.

Quando Kurt arriva alla casa della nonna, ha le guance tutte arrossate, lo sguardo sognante e la mantella è tutta macchiata d'erba. “Nonna?” Chiama a gran voce, aprendo la porta. “Sono io, ti ho portato la spesa!”
La casa è silenziosa e sembra vuota, ma Kurt lo sa che non è così. Si toglie la mantella rossa e la appende con cura all'attaccapanni, quindi si avvia lungo il corridoio e chiama ancora. “Nonna, ci sei?” Ma non risponde nessuno. Quando arriva in camera, Blaine ha appena finito di legare Dave alla testiera del letto.
Kurt spalanca gli occhi, oltraggiato. “Potevate almeno aspettarmi!” Protesta fingendosi offeso e lasciando il cestino sul tavolo insieme a quelli delle settimane precedenti.
“Ci stavi mettendo una vita ad arrivare,” si giustifica Dave, mentre Blaine scivola con le labbra lungo il suo collo e lo fa rabbrividire. “Coraggio, vieni qua.”
Kurt finisce di spogliarsi e li raggiunge sul letto che è grande abbastanza per ospitarli tutti. Blaine si volta a dargli un bacio e, per un attimo, lui non capisce più niente.
“Glielo dirai prima o poi a tuo padre che tua nonna è partita tre mesi fa?” Ride Dave.
Kurt si stringe nelle spalle e si sistema tra di loro. “Forse, vedremo.”
E un bacio dopo l'altro, passa un'altra ora.
Fandom: !Fanfiction, Glee
Personaggi: Kurt Hummel, Blaine Anderson, Dave Karofsky
Genere: Commedia
Avvisi: AU, crack!fic, slash
Rating: PG 13
Note: The story you are (hopefully) about to read, more than being inspired by, actually follows word by word the lyrics of Skullcrasher Mountain by Jonathan Coulton, song you should know, if you don't know it already (lyrics and music here).
I knew I wanted to write something on this song the first time I heard it, but I couldn't find a way or the right characters to use. Then the third issue of Squee, whose theme was AU, came along and everything fell into place. Kurt turned out to be a perfect crazy evil overlord and Blaine... is always a proper gentleman.
Riassunto: After being assaulted by a stranger, Blaine finds himself in a strange castle, at the mercy of a madman determined to conquer the world - as every proper evil overlord should do - and his heart as well. Probably by the same means.

When he opened his eyes, Blaine had no idea where he was. The big white minimal couch, the panoramic window and the furry rug made no sense to him, especially when the last thing he remembered was himself singing happily in the streets.

He was going to the Warblers Guild, a very elegant and decent club, to which every boy should have aspired to be admitted, and had to be admitted to by the age of eighteen if he wanted to be considered a proper gentleman. Blaine had obviously received his invitation when he was six, being the only son of Lord Blaine Anderson senior, one of the greatest benefactors of the city of Dalton.
Therefore, he had been waiting his whole life for the moment he would have crossed the wooden carved door of the entrance to the marble-lined hall. His father had been telling him stories about the club since he was a little kid and he was oh so happy to finally be allowed in this place of wonders and fun!

But unfortunately, that never happened.

Someone – certainly an evil man with no respect for another fellow gentleman and actually no notion of how to be one himself – had hit him along the street, preventing him from concluding his happy and singing journey to the club house.

Blaine remembered the uncivilized blow, but not much more. By the time he had hit the ground, his eyes were already closing and all he had seen was a big, tall shadow.
He had woken up here, in this unknown room, with no clue of his whereabouts and an unfortunate headache driving him mad.

He took his time to look around, for a moment. The room was huge, with a big black wooden table on the left and a big panoramic window on the right. Through it, he could see a sweep of unfriendly mountains with dangerous looking peaks covered in snow, which was strange because the city of Dalton was nowhere near the mountains and he was quite sure it was a beautiful and sunny morning of mid-August when he had left the house this morning. Aside from the table, the white rounded couch and an awfully furry red rug, Blaine could see what he thought was some sort of counter with strangely shaped vases on it and an upright piano, which didn't work, as he discovered much to his dismay when he tried to draw some old little tune out of it.
Still, the room seemed almost empty, because there wasn't quite enough furniture for a room so big.

He tried the door, of course. But, as he had guessed, it was locked. It looked like a very solid door, the kind of door a man slightly build as himself could not hope to knock down with a strong push of his shoulder.
He hit it with his fists, then. And he called for help but no one came.

Looking at his turnip, that he always kept in perfect conditions as he was his great-grandfather's, Blaine discovered that almost three hours had passed since the sad accident that presumably had brought him here. He found highly discreditable that someone would take the trouble to knock him down and drag him here in this ominously cold, modern looking room, only to leave him there for good. It was unfitting for a villain to show so little interest in his own victim. Blaine felt greatly offended.

He was an Anderson, for the love of God, he deserved a much better treatment as a hostage than that.

Blaine had almost resolved to find a piece of paper and write down a note of angry discontent and completely understandable irritation to his defaulting abductor, when the loophole in the door slid open and a big, black box was pushed through it, not without some struggling as the slit was very narrow.

“Put'em on,” a low and barking voice said to him, as Blaine walked to the door to retrieve the box.

So, Blaine opened the squared and flat box and found out there were clothes in it, and some very disturbing ones to boot. He quickly pressed his face against the loophole but he couldn't see nothing but a bulky figure walking away.

For a moment, he thought about the consequences of obeying such an order. The mind behind his abduction was certainly one of an evil nature, possibly a very sick one too. Wasn't it ill advise for him to comply with what was clearly a clothes fetish of this perverted individual who held him captive? Wouldn't it have been a sign of surrender? Wasn't he giving to this evil creature permission to do with him whatever they wanted?
And most of all, could he really, in all fairness, wear a bow and suspenders?

He believed not so.

So, he came closer to the loophole again and called for the mysterious figure who bore this questionable present to him. “Excuse me, sir. I'm afraid I don't find these clothes to my taste. Would you mind bring me others, if your desire is to make me dress differently from what I do now? Though I must point out that this one you see is the precious and coveted uniform of the Warlbers Guild, which I'm sure you've heard about scores of times.”

“Put'em on. Quickly,” the voice said again. “He is waiting.”
Of course. He should have known this was no place of gentlemen.

Eventually, he decided to make the best of this bad bargain and put on those horrendous clothes. Also because, if he wanted to state his opinion on this awfully conducted abduction to his aggressor, he had to leave the room and apparently there was no other way to do it but wearing the most hideous textile artifacts he had ever seen in his short and yet already so fulfilling life.

The outfit consisted in a tremendous pair of white trousers that were clearly too short for him and left his calves at the mercy of the quite inexplicable chill air inside the place, a striped t-shirt with green suspenders and a pink bow that didn't match any of the other pieces of clothes the box contained, from which Blaine inferred his abductor had to be colorblind or otherwise completely oblivious of what was in fashion for a gentleman at the time. Possibly both of the above.
If that was the case, Blaine felt nothing but pity for the poor creature, because there was no greater grief for him than a man unable to sport a fancy blazer on a good and reasonably long pair of trousers.

As soon as he was fully dressed, he politely knocked on the door and told his warder he was ready.
Soon enough the door was opened and a bulky man entered the room, looking around to find Blaine in a corner, graciously waiting to be escorted wherever he was requested to be.
The man was taller than him and way more burly. He wore a red jacket and black pants that did nothing to compliment his body, which had to be at least quite interesting, judging by the girth of his arms.

“I assume my personal displacement requires for me to be handcuffed,” Blaine welcomed the man, offering him his wrists. “I feel confident that you will see to that with the delicacy a man of my lineage deserves.”

The bulky man looked at him for a moment and then grabbed him by the wrists he offered, then proceeded to unceremoniously drag and push him along fashionable and yet creepy hallways.


Welcome to my secret lair on Skullcrusher Mountain
I hope that you've enjoyed your stay so far
I see you've met my assistant Scarface
His appearance is quite disturbing
But I assure you he's harmless enough
He's a sweetheart, calls me master
And he has a way of finding pretty things and bringing them to me

Blaine and the mysterious bulky man reached a very big hall, where a long table was set for dinner.
The display was rich and very refined, but Blaine couldn't say to completely agree with the decoration's choice of his still faceless guest. In fact, he found it quite ominous and distasteful. Blaine fostered the strong belief that skulls, bats and very old-looking baroque sacrificial knives should be kept confined only to the day of Halloween and only sparingly used under very strict and precise circumstances. Instead, as far as glittered paraphernalia were concerned, such as some of the candlesticks he was looking at now, they had no place whatsoever in the perfect world he dreamed for himself.

Except for the excessively decorated table, the room was empty. Yet another sign of the questionable manners of his abductor and host.

Blaine was really annoyed, now. But losing his composure was not something he was often inclined to do, therefore he remained perfectly calm in front of what clearly was great disrespect toward his person. “Shall I have the pleasure to meet the master of the house?” He asked to the bulky man.
The man in question was standing right behind him with a very sulky face and apparently no intention of answering that or any other questions.

Time passed and nothing happened. “Is this some sort of practical joke that I should be aware of?” Blaine asked again, after a few minutes of total silence, with the only sound being the fire crackling in the very expensive looking black marble fireplace.

“I was about to make my entrance after what was, by the way, a reasonable amount of time lurking in the shadows, but I'm going to skip that part because apparently someone is so eager to know me that he can't wait ten minutes of breathtaking suspense!” A voiced said, echoing from above.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Blaine said politely, looking around and trying to see that elusive man who, judging by his shadow moving on the balcony above the room, was now walking toward a big staircase in order to reach the hall below it. “I didn't mean to ruin your entrance but this long waiting had eally upset me. I demand you to introduce yourself immediately.”

“And I will at once, my dear,” the man said, finally reaching the end of the staircase and revealing himself in the candles light. “For God forbid I leave you in such state of distress. I'm Kurt Hummel, evil overlord of this castle, this land and of the whole world as soon as I get enough financial backing. Banks are such morons nowadays.” He chuckled in a very studied way, almost covering his mouth with the back of his hand as he searched for sympathy in Blaine, whose face remained inscrutable. “You can call me my lord, for the moment. We will reach the intimacy of our first names soon enough, mister Anderson.”

Blaine had no idea what this man was talking about, besides he wasn't probably really listening to him, busy as he was taking in his appearance. Lord Hummel had some feminine yet quite beautiful features, a very slim and soft figure that he complimented with an all black suite with matching cape and shoes and a generally sassy attitude that made Blaine shiver both in irritation and vague attraction.

“Lord Hummel,” he said as he tried to step forward and was stopped by the huge and quite strong hand of the bulky man grasping his shoulder. He stopped in mid step and cleared his throat. “Would you mind telling me why I have been so violently abducted from the streets of my beloved hometown to be brought in this place?”

“Why don't you have a seat, mister Anderson,” Lord Hummel smiled as he pointed one of the chair to him. “Everything will be explained in due time. I personally dislike hasty conversations mainly arranged to reach one point of discussion or the other. I'd rather have with you a healthy and friendly exchange of opinions on several matters which will lead us to discover how similar we are and how much we can like each other if only we're given the chance to do so. Hence, please have a seat.”

The repeated offer was promptly accepted with the help of the bulky man who brutally pushed Blaine on a chair with disregard for whatever desire he might had on the matter. This was totally unacceptable.
He cast to Lord Hummel a very dark look fraught with all his disappointment in order to make clear to his host that he wasn't content with this outrageous situation at all.

Unfortunately, the master of the house was too busy taking his own seat to even notice that.
“So,” Lord Hummel said, pouring himself some red wine from a very fashionable but very impractical bottle with a black dragon wrapped around it. “I understand you met my assistant, Dave.”

“I wouldn't say that I had the pleasure. Your man barely spoke to me as he was dragging and pushing me along the corridors of your house, sir,” he answered, doing very little to hide his irritation. “What he has in strength, he surely lacks in good manners.”

Lord Hummel chuckles. “I'd rather say that what he lacks in good manners, he has in strength, my dear mister Anderson. Besides, I didn't choose him for his ability with words,” he said, looking at Dave who instantly looked down and blushed. “Anyway, he is harmless enough. You shouldn't be worrying about him. Actually, I confide you will find out how precious he is to me and you will share with me his preciousness in no time.”

“No offense, Lord Hummel, but I highly doubt so,” Blaine replied, with a certain composure that hid, as it often happens, thoughts of a very different nature. “I prefer the company of men who are well educated and whom I share various interests with, such as music, singing, dancing and all that society requires for a young man to like, nowadays.”

Lord Hummel looked at him with some sort of sardonic smile. “I used to think the same,” he said enigmatically. “But please, have dinner with me. There is so much else I want to talk you about.”


I made this half-pony half-monkey monster to please you
But I get the feeling that you don't like it
What's with all the screaming?
You like monkeys, you like ponies
Maybe you don't like monsters so much
Maybe I used too many monkeys
Isn't it enough to know that I ruined a pony making a gift for you?

Blaine was not used to accept any dinner invitation unless it wasn't written on proper letter paper and sent to his house at least two weeks in advance. In fact, it was common courtesy for a gentleman to give his possible guests enough time to revise all their previous commitments before they had to give a response.
Sometimes, depending on who was sending the invitation, Blaine was inclined to accept it even if the referred event was too close at hand, but he would only do that with very close friends and his lovely mother.

Anyway, he hadn't been given much of a choice this time, since the bulky man – who now he knew was named Dave – was already serving them the main course, which consisted in a very elaborate dish of what he supposed was grilled meat. “Lord Hummel, I hope you won't find my words harsh but I honestly feel I have all the rights to ask again. Why exactly am I here?”

The smile on Lord Hummel's face was everything but comforting. The long cut of his mouth was just slightly curled at the edges, either to show that he was really pleased to see him or really excited for things yet to come, Blaine was not sure. So he resolved to be scared anyway.

“I rejoice to find you so naive, mister Anderson, for your heritage and fortune with the ladies had me thinking you were one of those young men so full of themselves that there's not much room in them for intelligence or even some primal cause of entertainment.”

“I'm afraid I have to disappoint you, Lord Hummel, but I don't fancy women, even though I find them quite charming creatures. My fortune with them is only of an amicable nature.”

Lord Hummel's smile turned warmer and warmer with his every word. “No disappointment at all, mister Anderson. In fact, I'm happier than I was before of having you here with me. Now, the somehow dreadful task of opening my heart to you will be nothing but a mere formality.”

Blaine sighed as he politely cleansed his mouth with a napkin. “Then, speak,” he said. “Curiosity is quickly leading me to an untimely death.”

Lord Hummel cleared his throat, signaling that a major speech was about to take place, so Blaine stopped eating and gave the other man his full attention. “As you might or might not know, I am the master of this castle and my family has ruled the entire land for generations,” Lord Hummel began. “My great-great-grandfather was actually the first dark overlord who took this beautiful land of happiness and turned it into a reign of terror and despair, killing half the population by polluting the water supply with a poison he had created.”

Blaine's eyes widened. “How unfortunate for all those poor people, and yet quite brilliant of your ancestor,” he said politely.

“Oh, he had such a brilliant mind!” Lord Hummel said as he glanced at the portrait of his great-great-grandfather with pure adoration in his eyes. “I followed in his footsteps, did you know that? I wiped out my first little village when I was only twelve. It was a very ferocious, lab-created deadly virus, a variant of the plague I came up with by chance, during one of my many attempts to find a good receipt for chocolate chip cookies. But these are trivialities I am gonna tell you when we will be strolling down my winter garden, while everything in the valley will be on fire.”

“Fascinating,” Blaine commented, not sure about what he was supposed to say. Making conversation was one of his many gentleman abilities, but Lord Hummel was talking nonsense and he knew it was impolite to point that out to a perfect stranger.

“And quite so, you will see,” Lord Hummel nodded. “Anyway, not only I want to match my ancestor. In fact, I want to exceed him and put him in the shadow for good. And I have a plan for that. A great plan consisting in tactical and well thought schemes, complete with a certain number of alphabetically identified variants for emergencies and a quick five-steps procedure in case I won't have the time to make my major end of the world speech and I will need to quickly get it over with. They won't be able to stop me, in any case whatsoever.”

“Correct me if I am wrong, but do I sense an adversative preposition coming?”

“You sense correctly, mister Anderson,” Lord Hummel nodded gravely. “You see, my plan is flawless but, as numinous as my brain appears, I'm only human as the rest of you and therefore subject to the feebleness of my heart.”

“Are you by any chance in love, Lord Hummel?”

“To the point of shame. I'm constantly distracted by the thought of this person, often sighing at the memory of them in my head, always daydreaming of having them near me, so I can hug them, squeeze them, kiss them and do with them things that should be confined behind closed door. Being so distracted makes me unable to perpetrate my plan of conquer and enslave the world.”

“How unfortunate. And who would it be this charming siren who stole your heart and seems unwilling to give it back to you?”

“You, my dear,” Lord Hummel answered, in a very dramatic tone. A light, also very dramatic, came out of nowhere and floodlit him, throwing everything else into pitch black shadows. Blaine looked around with anxiety as some sad piano notes started playing. “You are my siren. I fell in love with you from the moment I first saw you on my monitors, thanks to various wireless cameras I had formerly installed all through the city to keep it under control.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Busy as he was confessing his love to him, Lord Hummel was not listening to Blaine anymore. He swirled around, closely followed by his own private light. “You are so gorgeous, always jumping on furniture, despising the mere act of walking and common sense as well. I love the way you're constantly embarrassing yourself by singing songs with very inappropriate lyrics without even noticing.”

“Now, that's not even true.”

“You're out of place half of the time and even when you actually are in the right place, you act as you were coming from another time. You're the most unsuitable creature I've ever seen – and I've seen and created a lot of them – but I love you. And I don't even know why.”

“Actually, it doesn't seem to me that you like me at all,” Blaine continued. “it must be some sort of obsession. I don't want to sound impolite or offensive, Lord Hummel, but I think it would be wise for you to seek medical attention.”

Lord Hummel came closer to him and gently stroked his face. He smiled and kept talking like Blaine was not even really there to listen to him. He was probably more used to make those kind of speeches when he was alone than it was normal. “You know, even my henchmen think I am crazy because there is absolutely nothing to love about you. I'm not even surprised that you agree.”

“You are now being offensive.”

Caught up in the bliss of what was probably mental illness, Lord Hummel just smiled. “But don't worry, my dear. My henchmen have no say whatsoever in the matter,” he said. “The voices inside my head say I shouldn't kill you yet, so I won't. They have always been a precious guide to me and I trust their wisdom. With their sage words they brought me where I am now, they molded me into the man I've become.”

“Now, about medical help...”

“Enough with such tedious chatters,” Lord Hummel clapped his hands with too much enthusiasm. “I have a very special present for you. Are you happy?”

Blaine was everything but happy and the only thing he wanted was to leave that creepy place and its creepy owner at once. But he couldn't. The door was too far away for him to pass through it before somebody stopped him. Running was definitely not his thing. He needed to convince Lord Hummel to let him go, that he had possibly nothing to give to him and they could never be happy together. He had a way with words, he could do it. Problem was, Lord Hummel seemed to like to talk by himself, so he had no chance to speak.

“Dave!” Lord Hummel screamed suddenly, turning to the bulky man. “Bring in my present! He wants to see it, now.”

Blaine had no desire to see anything, but he was forced to watch as Dave pushed a huge wheeled cart inside the room and stopped it in front of Kurt. “This, my love,” Kurt said, “it is something I made especially for you. I called it Pavarotti. Even though, as you will soon find out, I did it in an ironic way.”

Lord Hummel took away the veil that was covering Blaine's present and revealed a huge birdcage.
Inside, there was some sort of creature that Blaine could have not be able to describe for his life but that got a very scared and very girly scream out of him.

“What in the world is that?”

“This, my dear, is my latest creation,” Lord Hummel explained, proudly. “Half canary, half crow with some minor quantities of other animals here and there. But basically canary and crow, mixed together through a very complex procedure which is way beyond your ability to comprehend. So you can think of me gluing a canary to a crow and enlarge the result through a magnify lens of some sort.”
The outcome was a gigantic and very ugly bird who thought very high of himself and sung all the time; but instead of a tuneful song, he let out a horrific, ear-bleeding shriek of which he was really proud. Therefore the name, Blaine thought.

“Please, make it stop!” Blaine screamed, covering his ears and taking a step back.

“I can't. It would hurt his pride,” Lord Hummel screamed back over the sound of the creature, which swung his head back and forth and watched them with all his three and a half eyes.

“Then, take it away!” Blaine shouted.

“But Pavarotti is just arrived,” Lord Hummel said. “Don't you want me to open the cage? You can take a closer look if you want.”

“For the love of God, no!” Blaine screamed, when he saw that Lord Hummel was about to open the birdcage and let the monster out. “Keep it closed and take that thing away!”

Pavarotti stopped screaming his song to glare at Blaine and Lord Hummel raised an eyebrow, a little taken aback. “Alright, fine. Dave will take it away,” he said. “There is no need to be so rude and let yourself go to hysteria. It is just a little bird, Blaine. You really should consider to see a doctor for these little bouts of yours.”

Blaine breathed heavily and watched with relief as the birdcage and its horrible occupant were taken away.
An escape, as ungentlemanly as it was, had just been made necessary.


Picture the two of us alone inside my golden submarine
While up above the waves my doomsday squad ignites the atmosphere
And all the fools who live their foolish lives may find it quite explosive
But it won't mean half as much to me if I don't have you here

After the monstrous bird accident, the room was silent again. Both Blaine and Lord Hummel was looking at the door Dave had struggled to close behind himself with his free hand as he was pushing the heavy, wheeled cage with the other.

“So,” Lord Hummel suddenly turned to him and clapped his hand quickly. “It's just the two of us, now.”

Was it a threat? It surely felt so to Blaine. That man was insane and whatever was that he wanted from Blaine, it couldn't be any saner than him. “Apparently so,” he nodded, looking at him from a distance and keeping him under control, like he was some sort of feral animal ready to attack as soon as he lowered his gaze.

“It seems to me that we started off with the wrong foot,” Lord Hummel said, pouring himself some wine without bothering to ask Blaine if he wanted some. Such lack of education would have been looked down upon at the Warblers Guild where every gentleman, even the youngest one, would know better than leave a guest without a drink. “And I can sense my creature was responsible for that. I beg you to accept my apology, for I had no intention of scaring you in any way. Pavarotti was created at the sole purpose of entertain you and give you joy because I know how much you love to sing and listen to beautiful, cheerful songs.”

Blaine thought that one had to be crazy to consider beautiful and cheerful the cry of a creature as far from God's will as the one he had just saw, but a good gentleman knew that apologies must always be accepted because it took courage and bravery to make them. “Apology accepted,” he said. “But if I may, Lord Hummel, next time you want to impress me or any other gentleman for that matter, just open a good bottle of red, have a smart conversation and try not to kidnap me.”

Lord Hummel looked at him smiling and gave no sign of having heard a single word he had said. “Look at your eyes, they're green and gold like the meadow when you burn a witch. I can see the long emerald spread of the grass lit now and then by the sparks of yellow light from the heretic’s pyre. You are so very beautiful, Blaine,” Lord Hummel said in a dreamy voice. He sighed, a hand to his chest as he contemplated Blaine. “But please, allow me to make up for the horrible mistake I've done to you with my creature. I have a story to tell you and I am sure you will find it quite amusing and inspiring.”

Blaine didn't say anything, also because there was no need to. Lord Hummel had already run up on the balcony to better narrate whatever tale he had to tell. The dramatic spotlight was back again and cast its light on Lord Hummel alone, giving him a very dramatic note.

“You already know that I plan to conquer and rule this land,” Lord Hummel began, his shadow outlined against the yellow sphere of the full moon. “And I am sure you are dying to know how I think to achieve that. Well, my love, in five days my tailoring machine will be ready and so I will be able to create, sew and produce all the clothes I need to clothe every single man down to the last of the poorest beggar and finally – finally! - I will be able to call this land my own. Through the computers sewn inside the fabric I will have the entire population at my command. Everyone will buy my creations and will be ready to sell his family to buy even more of them. The ones who cross me will be burned alive, and their family will be burned, and their houses will be leveled until they will beg to wear one of my beautiful coats or put on an incredible pair of my softest pants, like the one you...”

When Lord Hummel finally bothered to turn around and give some attention to the man he was actually speaking to, he found out said man wasn't there anymore. The door of the room was once again open and ajar as if someone had just gone through it.

“Dave!” He screamed, turning red with rage as the bulky man entered the room, running. “He's gone. Find him. I need something for the migraine,” he shouted. “In reverse order.”


You know it isn't easy living here on Skullcrusher Mountain
Maybe you could cut me just a little slack
Would it kill you to be civil?
I've been patient, I've been gracious
And this mountain is covered with wolves
Hear them howling, my hungry children
Maybe you should stay and have another drink and think about me and you

Blaine didn't go too far because Lord Hummel's fortress was huge and full of secret passages.
Once he managed to get out of that room, he started wandering through several long and dark halls, lacking both in taste and sense. The place must have been built by a blind architect, or a drunk one. Blaine was also considering him being both. There was no way the people in this house could move around knowing where they were going.

Eventually, thanks to the goodwill of Lady Fortune – who, as much as any other girl around, found him pretty amiable and worth of trust and love – he found a way out. But as soon as he took one step out of the door, he realized he didn't know where exactly this fortress was located.

First of all, it was night. And not a simple one, of course.
It was the creepiest night of all nights, with no stars in sight and a big full moon hovering just above his head, as if it was ready to fall on him. One of those nights that give you the impression that every single evilness could have the chance to be happening right now in some place where you might o might not be heading. A night that invited him to stay inside, as crazy as the inside was.

Secondly, the ancient, scary, dark forest surrounding the fortress was not very inviting. And was actually very random too, because Blaine was sure no ancient, scary, dark forest happened to be anywhere near the city he was kidnapped from. He had been abducted no more then twelve hours before, which was a reasonable amount of time to reach some city about ninety miles away. He had traveled the whole land and there was nothing similar in a three hundred miles radius from his hometown.
All those tall, gloomy trees should have not been there at all.

He was pondering the whole matter when Dave found him and promptly lifted him up on his shoulders, deaf to his protests and the outraged flailing of his short legs in the air.
Despite his complaining, Dave brought him back in the room he had escaped from, where Lord Hummel was sipping his medicine, carefully massaging his temple and making soft, little noises.

“Is he okay?” He asked as he glanced over him. Dave nodded. “I hate when prisoners break or get lost, Blaine. Did you know that?”

“I'm afraid I wasn't aware of that,” Blaine answered, still perched as an old empty bag over Dave's shoulder.

“Well, you should have been. It was very inappropriate of you to run away like that while I was speaking to you,” Lord Hummel said. “Lack of education, to say the least.”

“I was just trying to go back home,” Blaine explained, while Dave gently let him down on the floor, “for I have been kept in this place against my will and I have no desire to stay.”

“You can't go back home,” Lord Hummel said, turning to face him. “Did you notice where we are?”

“Actually, Lord Hummel, this is something I wanted to ask you. Where are we and what is this place? It looks like nothing I've ever seen around Dalton.”

Lord Hummel let out a very resigned sigh. “That is because this place doesn't exists around Dalton or even far from it. This place doesn't exists at all and if you were just a little more patient, I would have explained that to you after the tale of my conquest plan,” he said. “Right now, we are inside my weather-sphere, which is in turn inside my location-sphere, in a very matryoshka doll-like fashion, given that you know what a matryoshka doll is, of course.”

“I know,” Blaine pointed out, frowning. “What eludes me are the spheres.”

“Of course they do, they are both pieces of extremely high technology that sometimes elude my genius too, so it is perfectly normal that they upset your simple mind with their complexity.”

“They actually don't,” Blaine pouted. “I just want to know what they are.”

“A location-sphere is a device that allows me to take a certain location and recreate it down to its smallest detail in another place, inside the confines of the sphere itself. So, what are you looking at now through my windows is the perfect copy of a portion of the Carpathian Mountains in Transylvania. But it could be every place I want. For example, the Hawaiian Island of Maui or the beautiful and historical city of Rome,” Lord Hummel said, pressing some buttons on an out-of-scale remote control. Outside the windows, the mountains became the Ocean and the spruces became slim palms. Then everything disappeared to make room for the Colosseum. “Or both, of course.”

Blaine watched as the palm raised all around the Colosseum and the Ocean started lapping against its crumbling walls. “So, it's safe to say that the weather-sphere controls the weather?”

“You are so very intelligent, my love. I was just looking for a beautiful lover, but I don't mind if you can also make logic connections,” Lord Hummel smiled proudly for no reason at all. “So, with my weather-sphere, I can have sun, snow and rain whenever I want. And intersecting the two spheres...”

“You can have whatever weather in whatever location, I understand,” Blaine cut short.

“That's correct,” Lord Hummel nodded, slightly offended because he could not finish his sentence. “This is why you can't go back home. You can't leave the sphere without turning it off, which can't be done without my codes.”

“I will try to escape again and I will live in the mountains, feeding on berries if it is going to be necessary.”

“That if the wolves don't feed on you first,” Lord Hummel said, totally unimpressed.


“These mountains,” Lord Hummel said and then changed the location because it was still Maui with a Colosseum out there, “are covered with wolves. Big, mean and very hungry beasts. Can you hear them howling over the sound of your nonsense babbling?”

They both stayed quiet for a moment and Blaine could hear the not-so-distant cry and growl of several wolves that made him shiver from head to toe. If Pavarotti was the size of hundreds of canaries and a crow put together, he didn't want to know how big those creatures were.

“So,” Lord Hummel continued, “If you want, you can try and run away again but you will probably end up scattered in pieces everywhere, which is fine with me because I need fertilizer but you would probably be very disappointed and dead. So, could you please have another glass of wine and just shut up?”

Blaine, as a matter of fact, shut up and drank.


I'm so into you
But I'm way too smart for you
Even my henchmen think I'm crazy
I'm not surprised that you agree
If you could find some way to be
A little bit less afraid of me
You'd see the voices that control me from inside my head
Say I shouldn't kill you yet

Now that Blaine was calm again, also because he had already drunk too much to even stand, so the only thing he could do was actually sitting, Lord Hummel turned back from being so generally evil overlording to his usual insane but cute self. He had changed the weather-sphere into soft snow, which matched perfectly the warm and cozy feeling of the fireplace and his outstanding but quiet incomprehensible audio system was playing a sweet almost Christmas-like song.

“You know,” he said as he watched the snowflakes piling up on the windowsill, “I think I really love you. Obviously I am making assumptions here, because love it's not my area of expertise, but I've never felt this way before, so maybe this is it.”

Blaine was barely able to say where he was exactly, so he nodded as if he was really understanding everything. Besides, he could not escape so his life was that, now. Never a member of the Warblers Guild, but forever the sweetheart of the evil, and most of all crazy, mastermind who was going to burn down the land he was born in. All said and done, that was a position of prestige too. Plus, he got to stay alive, which was more than everybody would be able to say in five days.

“Yes, I definitely love you,” Lord Hummel continued, clearly as drunk as Blaine was. “From what I heard about, people in love don't think according to logic processes but do what their heart says. My heart doesn't speak, but I've got voices in my head and I think it is almost the same.”

“I think that's called madness,” Blaine said.

“Poets say lovers are mad, don't they?”

Blaine had no option but to agree. “You have a point.”
After all, his last lover was not really normal either. Sebastian didn't burn people, but he hit on them so frequently it was almost compulsive. Wasn't that some sort of mental illness as well?

“You see, I'm quite the enthusiast but I'm not quite sure what I'm going to do with this love thing, since I'm not what you call the average suitor,” Lord Hummel pondered over another glass of good red. “Should I propose to you? Or should I marry you by force?”

“They are both equally disturbing options,” Blaine said.

“Thanks,” Lord Hummel answered. “I will think about it and then I will let you now. Anyway, whatever it is, this condition which gives me palpitations and interferes so much with my work, I'm willing to give it a try. What do you say?”

“I have a say in this?” Blaine asked.

“No, I was just trying to be nice,” Lord Hummel said as Blaine sighed. He clapped his hands twice. “Dave! Bring my entertainment supplies here. I want to show them to Blaine.”

Dave went away for a couple of minutes, leaving them contemplating the snow falling outside that was quickly turning into a blizzard. When he came back, he had a trunk with him and a pair of fluffy handcuffs dangling from his finger.

Blaine looked at them and whined desperately.
Great, it was Sebastian all over again.
Fandom: !Fanfiction, Glee
Personaggi: Kurt Hummel, Blaine Anderson, Santana Lopez
Genere: Comico
Avvisi: Slash, Follia, crack!Fic
Rating: PG
Prompt: Scritta per l'Arena dei Gladiatori durante la terza notte bianca di Mari di Challenge (I prompt erano quelli dei leoni Cinzia, Vinicio e Tessa, rispettivamente: inchiostro simpatico, colpo di scena da soap opera e un limite min di 560 parole e max di 650.)
Note: Questa storia è completamente folle, ma io le voglio molto bene perchè non ha fatto i capricci per essere scritta e tutte le limitazioni leonine si sono incastrate benissimo da sole. In più Kurt è ridicolo e Blaine è ugualmente idiota, perciò il mondo è bello.

Riassunto: Un sasso lanciato da una mano misteriosa conduce Kurt e Blaine alla scoperta di un segreto scandaloso.

Kurt si sta preparando per la notte quando il sasso entra dalla finestra e piomba sul tappeto. Lui sussulta ma non si affaccia, nel caso fosse un tentativo di lapidazione. Se vogliono farlo fuori in questo modo barbaro, non sarà certo lui a facilitargli le cose.
Raccoglie il sasso e nota che c'è un biglietto avvolto intorno. “Oh! Un messaggio,” esclama, spalancando gli occhioni, improvvisamente più estasiato di quanto richieda la situazione. “Che cosa romantica!”
Con il viso impiastricciato di crema al cetriolo, svolge in fretta il biglietto e lo stira bene sulle ginocchia. Tutto il suo entusiasmo si spegne quando scopre che il semplice foglio a righe è completamente vuoto sia davanti che dietro. “Chi si prende la briga di lanciare un sasso con un foglio vuoto intorno?” Pensa, rigirandoselo tra le mani.
E' alquanto perplesso ma poi, complice un lungo passato di romanzi d'avventura e languide storie d'amore fra uomini dalla vita dissoluta e ingenue signorine dell'ottocento, la soluzione gli appare improvvisamente chiara e, se possibile, ancora più eccitante.
Scende a trafugare una candela dal cassetto della cucina e quindi torna in camera sua, pregustando il glorioso momento che aspetta con un fervore quasi ridicolo. Avvicina il foglio alla candela accesa e, poco dopo, il calore della fiamma rivela un messaggio che prima non c'era. “Non solo un messaggio, ma un messaggio segreto!” Esclama, ancora più estasiato. La carta non è elegante e la scrittura è sgraziata, ma non ha dubbi che il mittente sia Blaine. D'altronde chi altri potrebbe avere questo fascino vecchio stile? Forse non aveva carta da lettere sotto mano e ha scritto di fretta, temendo che il padre malvagio lo scoprisse. Kurt si stringe il biglietto al cuore con un sospiro. “Verrò all'appuntamento, Blaine.”
Nella sua stanza al dormitorio della scuola privata più impomatata dell'universo, Blaine ha fatto la stessa scena; così si ritrovano sotto le fronde di un pesco in fiore, stringendo due biglietti identici.
“Non sei stato tu?” Si chiedono vicendevolmente in coro, scuotendo la testa subito dopo. “E allora chi può essere stato?”
“Sono stata io a chiamarvi qui,” esclama Santana, uscendo dall'ombra in cui era nascosta come l'intrigante donna latina che è.
“Se vuoi saltarci addosso per dimostrare di non giocare per l'altra squadra, hai scelto le persone sbagliate,” commenta Kurt, inviperito per il suo sogno romanzesco infranto. “Di nuovo, oserei dire.”
Santana lo ignora. “Sono qui per evitarvi lo scandalo,” spiega, consegnando un fascicolo pieno di documenti.
“Che diavolo è?” Chiede Blaine, sospettoso.
“Il motivo per cui voi due insieme siete sbagliati fin dal vostro concepimento, belli capelli,” replica Santana.
Blaine sfoglia una pagina dopo l'altra con Kurt che legge alle sue spalle. Più vanno avanti, più i loro occhi si fanno sgranati. “Non è possibile,” mormora Blaine. “E' una cosa quasi offensiva.”
“Togli pure il quasi,” gli fa eco Kurt.
“Ehi, non guardatemi così! Io ho solo raccolto informazioni,” protesta Santana. “Che colpa ne ho se ho scoperto che siete fratelli?”
Nella testa di Kurt risuona così chiaramente una sorta di drastico accordo di pianoforte che quasi si aspetta di avere un'orchestra alle spalle. Lui e Blaine non si capacitano ma, non importa quante volte lo leggono, quello che è scritto sui documenti non cambia.
“La signora Anderson rimane ferma con la macchina, un giovane e aitante meccanico di Lima la aiuta e i due finiscono a fare sesso selvaggio nello sgabuzzino dell'officina. Nove mesi dopo, nei quartieri alti di Westerville, nasce un bambino ingelatinato che renderà orgoglioso un padre non suo finché non dichiarerà di essere gay e bla bla bla. Il resto lo sapete,” conclude Santana, con una scrollata di spalle. “Vedetela così, nessuno potrà mai dirvi che non condividete qualcosa di importante. Il risultato del test di paternità è senza dubbio una cosa di un certo peso.”
Santana se ne va ancheggiando e li lascia lì a far distruggere la loro storia da una manciata di fogli falsificati a regola d'arte. Dave le deve un favore e dovrà faticare per restituirglielo.