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The first time they shake hands, it’s like stepping onto dry prickly grass; it sends a noticeable shiver tingling down their arms. For one surreal beat, Blaine wonders if the court’s net has some kind of weird static charge. But no. It’s just this man.
Kurt.
Blaine recognizes him, of course. He’s seen Kurt around the club more than a few times—always alone, just finishing a match or ordering an espresso at the patio bar. They’ve never spoken, but there’s been... something—a deliberate, unhurried game of noticing. Not quite on purpose, but their eyes never fail to find each other when they happen to be there at the same time. A flicker. A glance. A quiet query that never gets asked.
And now here they are, shaking hands at center court.
Brookraven Hills Tennis & Social Club has a long-standing tradition of Saturday morning singles rotations. Equal-level matchups, coordinated by the club director, open to members looking for a competitive workout without having to chase down partners themselves. Blaine signed up last minute, after a work trip got canceled. He expected the usual opponents he’s played before: decent rallies, minimal conversation, and a handshake out of courtesy.
He didn’t expect this.
He didn’t expect Kurt to be standing in front of him. God damn how can someone be so gorgeous.
They meet at the net like a formality, but when Blaine offers his hand, something tightens in his chest. Kurt’s grip is warm and grounded, with none of the bone-crushing bravado some players bring. Confident, yes—but... curious. Present. Their palms press together and hold, just enough for Blaine to register how soft his skin is and how strong his fingers are, the striped neckerchief around his throat, the vein pulsing at his temple, the crease of a smile that’s barely there but entirely earnest. The way his designer V-neck hugs him around the arms, the small embroidered bird, his navy shorts that fit oh so right… His perfectly coifed hair and those blue-green eyes.
“Blaine Anderson,” he says, his voice slightly off-balance.
“Kurt Hummel,” the man replies, steady and amused, as if he’s already figured Blaine out—or wants to. He squeezes once, and the connection zings again, and they let go, but their eyes catch, just for a breath too long, and Kurt’s eyebrow arches, breathless at the honey-hazel staring back. Blaine laughs, a single, startled exhale, and blinks away whatever that was.
“You want to take first serve?” Kurt asks, gesturing toward the ad side.
Blaine nods, heart thudding behind his ribs.
They split to opposite baselines, and the court goes quiet save for the occasional breeze teasing the trees beyond the fence. A few members sit under umbrellas by the clubhouse, but this game is for them, not the audience.
Blaine serves first. A clean, slicing motion. Kurt returns it effortlessly, and the game begins.
It's a tight match, the kind that makes their thighs burn and keeps the mind sharp. They’re both good—excellent, even. Kurt’s backhand is lethal; Blaine’s drop shots are criminal. And beneath it all, something else: a banter built in glances and grins.
"That one was vicious," Kurt calls, narrowly hitting a corner shot.
"So is your poker face. I was sure you’d miss that."
"You’ve underestimated me already? Tsk. Pretty sure the score is 30-Love, Anderson. In my favor."
Blaine pauses, racket tapping lightly against his shoe. "True. But maybe I’m not underestimating you as much as I’m being distracted by you."
Kurt smirks. "Careful. Give away your weaknesses too early, and I might get ideas on how to win every set." He bites his lip and turns unmistakably seductively, they both laugh, and the match continues.
They trade points like secrets. Competitive and cutthroat, yet somehow playful and flirty. Every serve feels like a conversation, every volley a dare. Blaine finds himself watching Kurt too long between plays—how he tugs at his sleeves and wipes his brow with the edge of his wristband, he… doesn’t miss how Kurt keeps watching him, too.
An hour in, they’re sweaty, breathless, and tied. Blaine wipes his face with a towel, meeting Kurt at the net again. They’ve been trading wins back and forth, neither able to pull ahead. The score sits stubbornly at 8–8, and the sun is climbing fast.
Blaine glances toward the court clock. “We’re out of time.”
Kurt nods, breath catching as he exhales. “Yeah. But… Club rules—win by two. No tiebreakers.”
“So we call it or…schedule more court time.”
“Hmm…” Kurt steps closer to the net and offers his hand, the barest flicker of a smirk in his eyes. “Let’s call it a draw. But a damn good one.” Their hands meet, both trembling from exertion, maybe, but more likely anticipation, making their hearts beat faster than the match did.
"Hell of a game," Blaine says, his voice low, searching Kurt’s eyes..
"Hell of a partner," Kurt answers, and then, as if realizing what he said, he lets go and clears his throat. “Mimosas at the bar?”
Blaine slings his towel over his shoulder with a broad smile. “It’s like you read my mind.”
They laugh, and it unwinds something easy between them, and they walk side-by-side toward the locker room, their equipment bags slung over their shoulders. They discover that their lockers today are only three down from each other.
"Serendipity," Kurt murmurs, shaking his head with a soft smile.
"Indeed," Blaine counters.
They don’t linger long and head to opposite ends of the shower room because there’s no need to make this awkward. Fifteen minutes later, they emerge fresh and clean, Kurt in a pale pink linen button-down and navy fitted slacks, Blaine in a dark green collared shirt, with rolled sleeves, the inner fabric a contrasting gingham.
—
They step into the sunlight of the clubhouse terrace, blinking as their eyes adjust. The white umbrellas are open, casting vast pools of shade across linen-covered tables. A light breeze carries the scent of fresh-cut grass and something buttery from the kitchen. Beyond the railing, the golf course rolls out in bright, almost absurd perfection.
“Good morning, Mr. Hummel. Mr. Anderson,” the hostess says, it’s her job to know the members. But there is no mistaking her delighted expression when she says, “Table for two this morning?”
Kurt answers without hesitation, “We’re tempting fate by changing up our routine, Lydia. So yes, please thank you.”
She laughs, nods, and shows them to a table near the perimeter of the patio, under a striped awning, where a bird is warbling in the nearby tree.
*
Kurt’s pancakes are half-eaten, their edges soaked in syrup and dotted with surrendering berries. Blaine’s eggs are nearly gone, with a piece of brioche pushed to the side of the plate, half forgotten. Between them sits a bowl of beautiful strawberries—marinating in balsamic vinegar and mint—that neither of them reaches for anymore—they're too busy talking.
Their mimosas sparkle in the sunlight, condensation slipping down the flutes.
It all started with some banter:
"So," Kurt says, drumming his fingers lightly against the condensation on his glass, "are you always that charming on court, or was it just for me?"
Blaine chuckles. "I like to keep my opponents guessing."
"I wasn’t guessing. I was hoping."
Blaine looks at him over the rim of his glass, eyes half-lidded. "Dangerous game."
"Most worthwhile ones are."
And now, they talk like they’ve been doing it for years. No rush, no panic when there’s a moment or two of silence. One story folds into the next—travel mishaps, music that used to mean something. They laugh when they share their age, 33, and realize they’re just six months apart. They talk about books and the best bookstores in cities they’ve lived in, travel, disastrous exes, and that one time Kurt ended up on a vineyard tour in Provence. The time Blaine drove seven hours to see his dog when he was in college. Names drop as they discuss their careers. References layer about the things they have in common and the things they don’t. They volley observations like they did points, alacritous, perceptive, and with meaning.
Blaine leans forward to make a point, fork gesturing mid-air. Kurt counters with a wry look and a story that starts cleverly and ends with laughter. It’s easy, and they don’t talk about the flirty way they played their match, not directly. But it lingers—like the heat of the sun that warmed up their muscles. It’s there in the way Blaine’s eyes linger a little too long on Kurt’s mouth when he laughs. It’s the way Kurt doesn’t realize he reaches over to brush his hand in comfort over Blaine’s when things get a bit emotional. It’s all very casual and subtle. But neither of them has looked at the time.
The world continues around them, and with a rather large tip, they say goodbye to their brunch waiter and somehow are chatting with the lunch waiter, ordering side salads and the club specialty to share: Smash Court Fries. Our club-favorite cheese fries, served post-victory or mid-defeat. Thick-cut russet fries, crisped to perfection, smothered in real freshly grated aged cheddar and pepper jack cheeses, applewood-smoked bacon, and fresh chives. Served with our signature house BBQ dipping sauce: sweet, smoky, and just a little cocky like you are on court.
Kurt spins the blue bottle of his sparkling water by the base, eyes narrowed in thought. “Alright,” he says, “something a little strange.”
Blaine gestures with his fork. “Please. Strange is my baseline.”
“Alright,” Kurt tilts his head at the answer and grins. “What’s something you believe in—quietly, stubbornly—even if no one else does?”
Blaine looks up, surprised by the shift in tone, but not unsettled by it. He sets the fork down slowly, brushing his thumb against the rim of his plate. “Give me a second…” He leans back slightly in his chair, eyes drifting toward the golf course, thoughtful.
Kurt watches him. There’s something about the way Blaine thinks that gets to him—the slight crease between his brows, the quiet stillness that settles over him, like he’s tuning into something just beneath the surface. It isn’t performative; it’s refreshing and honest, and the way he’s present in the moment, even now. And god, he’s beautiful like that. Not in the obvious way, the way his clothes fit, or how he seems to embody sunshine, or the easy grin Kurt’s already memorized—but how he disappears into thought and isn’t afraid. Kurt doesn’t interrupt, knowing this is the kind of moment people miss when they’re too busy filling silence.
And then Blaine suddenly looks at him and breathes a single word. “Joy.”
Kurt tilts his head. “Joy?”
Blaine nods. “I don’t think it’s a thing you obtain. I think it’s a skill.”
Kurt’s expression flickers—curious, a little taken aback. “Go on.”
Blaine shrugs, but there’s nothing casual about it. “People talk about happiness like weather—you get it or you don’t, and it changes outside your control. But I think joy’s something you learn. You notice it. You hold onto it. You let yourself keep it, even when it’s small. Especially when it’s small.”
Kurt is still for a moment. Then he murmurs, “Like it’s a muscle you train.”
Blaine’s eyes sparkle brighter. “Exactly. Like if you wait for it to show up perfect and obvious, you’ll miss all the times it’s just… someone making you laugh on a terrible day. Or warm fries. Or a really good shot down the line.”
Kurt smiles, slowly and a little stunned. “You’re trouble.”
Blaine arches an eyebrow. “Because I believe in joy?”
“Because you’re making me want to see the world differently.”
Blaine laughs, softer this time, and lifts his glass. “To trouble.”
Kurt clinks his bottle gently against it. “To joy in moments like these.”
They both take a sip, and then Blaine says, “Don’t think I’m letting you get out of answering your own question.”
Kurt groans playfully. “I was afraid of that, I should have been thinking of a better answer!” He doesn’t say he was too busy pondering how wonderful Blaine is.
“I don’t think you're capable of giving me anything but an interesting answer.”
Blaine says so sincerely that it makes Kurt’s breath hitch, but he answers something entirely different than he intended; it slips off his tongue. “That timing matters more than luck.”
Blaine tilts his head. “Explain.”
“I don’t think some good things happen randomly.” He tilts his head back and forth. “But aren’t fated or destined either…” He sighs, wishing he’d had another few seconds to think through this thought, but continues. “I think they happen when you’re simply—even if only barely—ready to let them, and we become who we are by the moments we choose to embrace fully.”
Blaine watches him for a moment, something new and auspicious turning over behind his eyes. “Like this one?”
“I think maybe… Yes… Like this one.”
“Indeed,” Blaine says, and they get lost in each other’s gaze for a long few seconds.
*
Eventually, they cannot sit for another minute. With another generous tip, they pop the mints that came with their bill and somehow manage to take twenty minutes to walk to the parking lot— which should have only taken two—because they keep stopping to talk. But now, they’re standing at Kurt’s car, and even though the late afternoon sun is beating down on them, they can’t stop chatting; the unspoken desperation that they don’t want this to be over wraps them tighter and tighter in its embrace. Without realizing it, they’ve eviscerated nearly all the space between them.
"It’s been an unexpectedly amazing day," Blaine says, voice quieter now. “I enjoyed this.”
Kurt nods, he can’t breathe, he hasn’t felt this way in so long. "So did I…"
Then there’s a pause that lingers so thick with desire and potential it’s almost suffocating.
Looking at Kurt’s lips for the dozenth time in the last few seconds, Blaine bravely blurts, "I want to kiss you."
"Thank god," Kurt leans in.
Their lips press into each other like a tender exhale, gentle at first, an unhurried exploration as if they both know there’s no need to rush what they’ve already waited for all day. Blaine’s hand finds the curve of Kurt’s shoulder, fingers curling there, steadying himself as Kurt deepens it just a little, enough to draw a sound from the back of Blaine he didn’t mean to make.
At the same time, they step even closer to each other; it’s sultry softness, and want, all at once—the faint hints of mint and the heat of the sun making their skin taste salty. Kurt shifts, just slightly, angling them together more completely. His hand slips around to Blaine’s lower back, pulling him closer— it’s not demanding, just experimental, as if he instinctively wants to feel where they fit.
Blaine responds without thought, his other hand rising to Kurt’s jaw, thumb skimming the edge, the texture of the barely there stubble is intoxicating. So is the way Kurt sighs into him, like he’s been waiting for a kiss to feel like this, in the same way Blaine has.
When they finally pull back, it’s not far. Just enough to rest their foreheads together, their breath shared in the narrow space between them.
Blaine laughs, a quiet, stunned sound. “May I articulately say…wow?”
Kurt’s lips curve into a smile, a small huff of laughter, still close enough to brush against his. “You found the perfect word.”
Blaine’s eyes flutter open, dazed and optimistic. “When can I see you again?”
Kurt’s smile turns into a full grin, hands still resting on Blaine like he never intends to let go. “How about…now? Dinner… Then… Maybe dessert and more at my place.”
Blaine blinks, then smiles slowly with a teasing glint in his eyes. "Are you asking me to stay the night?"
"I’m saying the court’s not the only place I’d like to keep playing."
He throws his arms around Kurt’s neck, laughing, and nods.
—
Later, when they find themselves in Kurt’s kitchen, freshly showered, barefoot in nothing but their underwear, laughing over leftover spiced apple pie, Blaine murmurs, "I want a rematch."
Kurt pulls Blaine into him and leans in, his voice a low rasp against Blaine’s throat. “You’re on. Because, damn, honey.” He drags his teeth up the vein in his throat and kisses his jaw. “Now, I know what it does to you when I win.”
Blaine’s answering kiss says everything else.