do or do not. there is no try.

iconicklaine:

A quick follow-up drabble to Oscar Night, which I wrote earlier tonight, before the Oscars. 

They’re in the second row, center, behind Meryl Streep, Kate Winslet, and their respective partners. Every time Kurt shifts in his seat, Blaine leans over and pats him on the thigh, or rubs his thumb over the knuckles of his left hand, the one resting in Blaine’s lap. It’s his fault Kurt is so uncomfortable, but he can tell Kurt is more than okay with it by the small smile on his face. 

Everyone in their row is buzzing because their film, the little indie he and Kurt knew Blaine had to do, even when his manager and his agent both suggested otherwise, has already picked up awards for best cinematography and editing. When his category comes up he swallows, sits up taller in his chair and puts on his best game face. It’s the same face he used at Anderson gatherings, the same face he used fronting the Warblers, the same face he used when Kurt left for New York, the same face he used at audition after audition. Kurt squeezes his hand tightly and whispers in his ear, “I love you all the time.”

When they call his name, his name, he doesn’t hesitate. He leans in and kisses Kurt, holds his face in his hands and mouths the words, “It’s all you, baby” onto his lips. He knows the cameras are on them, and that some would prefer a simple peck on the cheek, or a hug, but he doesn’t care. This is his husband. This is them.

He sprints up the steps, takes the statue from Melissa McCarthy, kisses her on the cheek and faces the audience. “This is… this is… wow. Finally, a friend who is shorter than me.”

The audience laughs, and he pauses for a moment, looks directly at Kurt and then says, “I know it’s standard protocol to thank your colleagues and your team first, and your loved ones last. But I’m going to switch things up because, frankly, if it weren’t for my handsome, brilliant husband Kurt, I wouldn’t be here. I know that sounds trite, but really, what I mean by that is, without him I might have found success as an actor. But I wouldn’t be this man, the man I am today, if it weren’t for his unwavering love and support. I think if I hadn’t met him on a winding staircase when we were just kids, I might be lost; I might be half of myself, looking for him, forever. So I have to thank Kurt first, and last, and always. I love you. So much.”

Kurt is crying now, and Blaine looks away so he can quickly thank his agent, the cast and crew, the producers, a few friends, his parents and his brother, his in-laws. He can’t believe the music hasn’t kicked in yet, the proverbial “yank” off stage. When he looks back at him, he knows Kurt is willing him not to forget. How could he? 

Blaine reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper, folded so carefully by little hands. He unfolds it and holds it up for the audience to see. “And to our little girl who is staying up past her bedtime for the very first time, who drew this picture of an Oscar statue so I would have something to take home tonight if I didn’t win: We love you Annabelle. Goodnight, sweetie. And don’t wait up.”