Huge, huge thank yous to my betas for listening to my 3am rants and my artist for such stunning art – I encourage you all to go and reblog it from Tallie, the link is on my profile. I don't own any of the lyrics; they, and the title, were taken from Imagine Dragons' album Night Visions. Writing this fic has been quite the unexpected journey for me (though there were, sadly(?), no actual dragons involved), and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. :)

Warnings: OC character death, grief/mourning, a passing mention to drug use/overdose but none of the characters take drugs, Finn is a minor character

PART ONE: WELCOME TO THE NEW AGE

who knows how long i've been awake now
the shadows on my wall don't sleep
they keep calling me
beckoning

Hummel Tires & Lube was barely a mile from McKinley. It wasn't the highest rated auto mechanic in Lima, but it did have a good average, the only negative ratings didn't have reviews attached, and it turned out that the owner had been the Congressman whose campaign platform last year was based on equality and fairness. Blaine had been having a crappy enough day – between his usual sleepless night, skipping lunch to look up mechanics and his car not starting this morning, he was unexpectedly relieved at discovering an LGBT-friendly garage.

It wasn't very busy when Blaine pulled up outside. He wasn't sure where to go or who to talk to, hovering by the driver's door. Then Burt Hummel himself came over, wearing a baseball cap and wiping his hands on a rag, and greeted him.

"Hi, I'm Blaine Anderson," Blaine said, holding out a hand. Mr. Hummel raised an eyebrow but shook Blaine's hand anyway.

"Burt Hummel."

Blaine almost said, I know, and I would've voted for you if I had been eighteen or in this Congressional district for the special elections. But he didn't want Mr. Hummel's first impression of him to be 'a possible stalker'.

"Alright, Blaine, what can I do for you?"

Blaine explained the problem from this morning, opened the engine hood, and tried not to think about how much it would cost to fix. His was pretty sure his insurance didn't cover engine replacement. He took a seat at Mr. Hummel's insistence, hand hovering over GQ Magazine (it was a new issue, one Blaine hadn't been able to read yet) before he decided on an old issue of Rolling Stone. It didn't hold his attention, so he soon abandoned it to watch the mechanics work. In particular, his eyes kept slipping to a younger guy at one of the car lifts and, embarrassed, Blaine hid behind the magazine again.

Mr. Hummel didn't take long to figure out the problem, and when he approached the waiting table, Blaine stood up.

"I'm afraid your entire flywheel needs replacing," Mr. Hummel said. "Your starter's almost completely worn out, and the ring gear ain't looking too neat, either."

The bottom dropped out of Blaine's stomach. "That sounds expensive."

"Not as bad as it could be. Your insurance won't cover it but I can work out a payment plan with your parents if you wanna call 'em."

Blaine's mouth went dry and pressure built behind hid eyes, and he struggled to keep his expression straight as he shook his head. "It's my car so I have to pay for it," he said; it wasn't exactly a lie. "I have some money saved up." Rather, he had a college fund, but he was planning on applying for scholarships anyway.

After a moment of uncomfortable scrutiny, Mr. Hummel just said, "Alright," and then turned to call into the garage. "Kurt! I need you to pull a car into the back for me."

They guy who had been working on the car lift looked over. He looked about college age, maybe a couple of years older than Blaine, but there was something ageless about his features. As he put down his tools and headed over to where Blaine and Mr. Hummel were standing, Blaine blushed; the guy's back was attractive, but the clinging dark gray T-shirt emphasized his already-defined biceps.

When Kurt reached them, he met Blaine's eyes and nodded in acknowledgement, before his eyes flicker down to Blaine's clothes. Blaine suddenly got the impression that GQ was Kurt's idea, and he wished he'd bothered to put on a tie this morning.

"Sure, Dad," Kurt said. He held out his hand and Blaine, caught by surprise (at Kurt's voice: it brought to mind an alto melody, with soft harmonies; by 'dad': though their names were similar, their physical appearances were not), reached out and took it, and stumbled over his own name. "Kurt Hummel," Kurt replied, a corner of his mouth turning up into a dimpled half-smile. "And not that I mind holding hands with a cute boy, but I need your keys."

"Oh, sorry." Blaine flushes, quickly removed his hand from Kurt's. "I'll, uh, get those for you."

"Kurt, stop teasing the boy," Mr. Hummel said, amusement clear in his voice, as Blaine crouched down to fetch his car keys from his bag.

Kurt took his keys with a wink and walked across the garage to Blaine's car looking every inch as though he belongs on a runway, and Blaine followed Mr. Hummel into his office. They checked whether Blaine's insurance covered engine replacement (it didn't), but Mr. Hummel offered him a discount as a McKinley student so the total came to just under $450, and they spread the payment over six months. Blaine absently wondered if he should get a job, since Cooper hadn't worked since the summer and they were running short on money.

"It's an easy fix," Mr. Hummel said as they leave the office, "should be done by Monday. If it's done any sooner, Kurt or one of my guys will call you."

"Thank you for your help, Mr. Hummel." Blaine smiled, shaking hands with Mr. Hummel again. Then he asked, "Just one last thing: could you point me in the direction of the nearest bus stop?"

"How about a lift?"

Blaine turned round at Kurt's interruption, stepping back to accept him into the conversation. His eyebrows were raised in surprise, and Kurt smiled that half-smile at him again.

"I'm pretty much at the end of my shift, and I don't mind taking a detour."

Mr. Hummel shrugged. "Up to you, Blaine."

With both men's eyes on him, Blaine felt unbalanced and uncertain. "I . . . I wouldn't mind a lift," he said carefully. Kurt beamed at him – Blaine was unable to stop himself from smiling back – but quickly schooled his features into a confident smirk.

"My ride's round back," he said mysteriously, and Mr. Hummel huffed a laugh in response.

"See you at home," Mr. Hummel said, moving further into the garage. Kurt returned the sentiment, and then beckoned Blaine to follow him, a mischievous light in his eyes; Blaine was helpless to follow. They went through a nondescript door bearing the sign 'Employees Only', into the break room. Kurt plucked up two sets of keys and dangled one on each forefinger.

"Now," he said, "would you rather take the car?" He raised one key. "Or the Hog?"

"You have a motorbike?" Blaine's mouth was dry, his blood was racing, and his knees were weak. He had always associated motorbikes with bikers and adrenaline junkies, and he'd never seen the appeal. Even now, he was more apprehensive than excited, but there was a glint in Kurt's eye that told Blaine which he'd prefer.

"And a spare helmet."

Kurt's expression was unexpectedly soft, and that was what made Blaine grin and say, in the most level voice possible, "Well, then, you've sold me."

"No, I think I'll keep you for myself." Kurt tossed the car keys back onto the counter and, while Blaine was still blushing and stuttering, took some clothes out a locker. He opened another locker labeled 'Burt', handed over a large parka for Blaine to wear, and told Blaine to turn around – "Unless you'd rather watch, of course."

"You can't just say that, Kurt," Blaine said, sure his face was bright red and growing only brighter at the sound of Kurt changing behind him. He laughed anyway.

When he was allowed to turn around again, Kurt was in full leather, with a faded blue T-shirt replacing the dark gray. Kurt preened in his stare for a moment before letting out a short laugh and throwing Blaine a helmet. "And here," he added, passing over his work boots, "your shoes are fashionable but will do nothing to protect your feet. Next time, come more prepared."

"Thank you." Blaine smiled gratefully, heart jumping at the thought of a next time. "But what if I don't like the motorbike?"

"Let's say that I'll owe you a coffee." Kurt winked, gently pulling Blaine's loaned helmet from his hands and settling it on his head. Blaine shivered when Kurt's fingers brushed against his chin to do up the strap, and Kurt's voice was a little muffled when he continued, "But you'll enjoy it, so you'll owe me instead."

Outside, Kurt stowed Blaine's satchel and shoes in one of the bike's saddlebags, pulled down the foot pegs, and pointed out the exhaust pipes with a warning not to touch them at all. He asked Blaine for his address as he put on his own helmet, and then swung himself onto the seat. Blaine, despite Kurt's guidance, wasn't quite as graceful.

"Put your hands on my hips," Kurt instructed, manipulating Blaine's hands into the right grip and then letting go to pull on a pair of leather gloves. "Grip the bike with your thighs, but keep your body loose. When we turn left, look over my left shoulder, when we turn right, look over my right shoulder – we'll lean to go round a corner. Don't dismount until I tell you to, and, most importantly—" Kurt paused, giving Blaine a moment to hear his heart pounding in his ears "—have fun!"

Kurt flipped down his visor and Blaine let out a nervous laugh, which was abruptly cut off with a squeak when the engine started; it rumbled between Blaine's legs, vibrating around his body, and he was struck by the realization that this was an incredibly powerful machine.

Over the noise, delight clear in his voice, Kurt shouted, "Relax." Eventually, Blain began to; and, though his nerves never quite settled, he was disappointed when they finally reach his house. Sliding off the bike was easier than getting on, and his legs were surprisingly shaky.

"Here," Kurt said. He kicked down the stand and swiveled round on the bike so both his legs were on one side, and then tugged Blaine in front of him to undo his helmet. Blaine could pretend his breath was still coming out short because of the ride, but then he saw his besotted expression reflected in Kurt's visor and looked away with a nervous laugh.

"I think I owe you coffee," he said, his voice still a little shaky from adrenaline.

"It's a date." Blaine couldn't see beneath the visor, but the curious breathless quality in Kurt's voice set his blood pumping again. "Don't forget your stuff."

Feeling warm under Kurt's hidden eyes, Blaine received his satchel and shoes, took off his loaned items, and carefully folded up the parka.

"Thank you for the ride, Kurt," Blaine said, reaching out to touch the other boy's arm. The leather was warm beneath his fingers.

"Believe me, the pleasure's been all mine, Blaine Warbler."

Blaine's eyebrows darted upwards but, before he could say anything, Kurt cheerily said, "Stand back!" kicked up the stand, and drove away.

run for cover
my sense of fear is running thin

The apartment block Blaine and Cooper lived in had a small parking complex for residents only across the street, so on any given day Blaine didn't know whether or not Cooper would be there when Blaine finished school. He didn't know what Cooper actually did during the day because, still, the only thing he talked about was which famous actors and directors he'd rubbed shoulders with in LA – but Blaine was quite certain that, whatever he was doing, it wasn't a job.

Today, there was a note stuck to the refrigerator that read, Blaine, I have an audition in Cincinnati! Great, huh? The process will take a couple of days so don't wait up! (And no parties, squirt, I'll know)

With a roll of his eyes, Blaine balled up the paper and threw it into the trash. His good mood from flirting with Kurt was soured by hurt and anger, despite how ridiculous it was to expect Cooper to have known Blaine would need to borrow his car.

There was twenty dollars beneath the note, which Blaine put in his wallet. This was probably the closest his brother would get to helping out with Blaine's bills.

Blaine fetched his iPod dock from his bedroom to the kitchen in an attempt to fill up the emptiness – they only had basic cable, which meant no decent music channels – and had a quick dinner for one. After, he carefully filed his copies of the receipts and payment plans for his car, did his homework, and watched a movie on his laptop. He considered getting out his keyboard but, he couldn't think of anything he wanted to practice, and it was buried behind out-of-season clothing and various miscellanies that didn't have a place elsewhere. He tried singing along with his music, but in his bedroom and without an audience he just couldn't seem to find the enthusiasm.

Eventually, he went to bed. As usual, he ran through his schedule for the next day (it was as boring a Wednesday as ever); however, as he tried to figure out what bus he needs to take to school, he got distracted by thoughts of Kurt. He wished he had a picture, to memorize the exact shade of Kurt's eyes, the angle of his nose, the streaks of pink and green and blue in his hair. It occurred to Blaine that it was completely absurd and a little pathetic to be so hung up on a guy he'd spent less than five cumulative minutes talking to, but then he remembered the motorbike ride, leaning against Kurt's strong back, his hands around Kurt's waist, the feeling of the engine rumbling everywhere in his body, and he began to squirm under his covers, flipping onto his side so he wasn't rubbing against his covers. He tried to think about other things, school and the Grammys and Neil Patrick Harris, but he kept coming back to Kurt and that damned motorcycle. The memories of sensation were potent, and Blaine came quickly. He finally fell asleep soon after.

The next morning, Blaine planned to have a short shower, eat breakfast quickly, and walk to the bus stop round the corner. Even if there wasn't a direct bus to McKinley, he was sure that the driver would help him figure out the route. Except, while he was having breakfast, he heard a faint, familiar rumble. He looked out the window with his heart racing, and a grin exploded over his face at the sight of Kurt pulling up to the curb outside.

For a few moments, he watched Kurt fuss over the bike and check his hair in one of the wing mirrors, and then he hurried to eat the rest of his breakfast, brush his teeth, and collect his things. He almost ran down the stairs – gave himself a moment to collect himself just out of sight – and his breath still came out shallow when he met eyes with Kurt, who was leaning casually against his bike with a pile of leather on the seat.

"Hey, Anderson." Kurt grinned at him impishly. "Need a ride?"

Burt Hummel was many things, but a fool was not one of them. He used to be, that he's sure of – no teenager is smart, and no twenty-something is wise; but Burt wasn't even a thirty-something anymore, and life had thrown enough curveballs at him that he knew that he could dispense good enough advice when it was needed but that he'd never know everything.

Burt Hummel may not have always known his son, or how to relate to him – God knows he'd always loved Kurt more than anything else in the world, but he reckoned there weren't many parents and children so opposite from each other. Even from when Kurt could barely talk, Burt tried, and his son tried to involve him every goddamn thing his toddler brain could think of, but Burt had never been the toy-weddings, afternoon-pretend-tea, and, frankly, gender-nonconformative kinda guy. Hell, he didn't even know what those words meant before Kurt came along, except in a vague Eddie Izzard sense.

It took Burt – and Burt's wallet – almost fifteen years to get used to Kurt's high-fashion wardrobe, and then one day he'd come home to bags of clothes in the living room and a son wearing ripped jeans and a leather jacket on the couch. He'd dyed his hair blue, and Burt had freaked the hell out when he'd seen the lip ring, grounding Kurt even after he'd proven it was just a fake. They'd had a serious conversation, full of misunderstandings and wrought emotions. "They don't mess with rebels," Kurt had said, and then, soon after, broken down in tears and come out. Burt didn't push him after that, but most of the bags had disappeared back upstairs and Burt still saw the occasional fancy top, even if Kurt only wore them around the house.

It had been almost twenty years since Kurt was born and they'd been through more than Burt would've thought possible, from Kurt's mom dying to sexuality crises to fashion 180s. And – as much as he wished he could've given Kurt the childhood he deserved – he was glad for all the crap they'd gone through together, because it led to today, with his son flirting with another boy right under Burt's nose. Or rather, just across the garage from him, Kurt finishing the car he was working on while he exchanged banter with the Blaine kid who'd come in yesterday. And Burt would be concerned – not because he got a bad feeling from Blaine but because it was his duty as a father – but he could see how honestly excited Kurt was. He'd tried to play it cool over dinner last night but even if Burt couldn't read his son as easily as The Little Engine That Could, his blush had been a dead giveaway.

Plus, Blaine had greeted Burt immediately after he'd shyly made his presence known to Kurt – his son had lit up then, too. So, no, Blaine wasn't a bad kid, or at least he was good at pretending not to be one.

(There was something off about Blaine's behavior yesterday, when he'd told Burt he paid for his own car. It stirred up echoes in Burt's memory, but he couldn't figure out what. Then again, maybe he was just a really independent kid and Burt was reading too much into it.)

He watched out the pair out of the corner of his eye as he unnecessarily tinkered with an engine, and held back a laugh when Blaine's face split into a grin. But the smile also eased his worry. Kurt had been up for hours last night making a picnic and Burt was glad to see that Blaine appreciated the sentiment, at least. Whatever face his son put forward, Burt remembered the hours spent watching Audrey Hepburn and Julie Andrews movies.

When Kurt disappeared to clean up, Blaine just stood patiently by the door with the 'Employees Only' sign and watched the garage. Burt straightened, ready to do some real work now, and caught eyes with Blaine. Burt smiled; Blaine, after a moment of surprise, smiled back.

The field Kurt took him to was technically within the city limits, but only, Kurt had said, because this road out of Lima didn't have a sign. There was nothing special about it, no personal attachment or decorative feature or interesting landmark: it was just a field. (It would become special, as they would later consider it the site of their first date, but the first time Kurt drove them there and Blaine dismounted on legs still unused to motorcycles, it was just a field.)

Blaine removed his helmet, handed it over to Kurt with a breathless laugh. "I don't think I've gone that fast since I went to Cedar Point."

"Honey, I can go much faster than that. I'm just starting you off easy." Kurt grinned, running a hand through his hair to stick it back up. Blaine's eyes followed the motion and lingered for a moment, distracted by the mess of color. It looked purposefully windswept, and Blaine had to suppress to urge to touch a hand to his own head.

"Here, lay this down," Kurt said, taking a blanket from a bulging saddlebag and holding it out to Blaine, and then moving the Tupperware boxes himself. "You're not allergic to anything, are you?"

"Only kiwis," Blaine assured him. His stomach fluttered at Kurt's relieved expression.

The wind had a slight chill to it, despite the weather being quite warm for October, so after Blaine had removed the heavy shoes he crossed his legs and hid his feet in the middle. Kurt slapped his hands away when he tried to open one of the boxes, so he sat there and listened to the older boy chatter about the ingredients of the various dishes and the general order in which they were supposed to be eaten. There were plain fruits, three types of sandwiches ("Smoked salmon and cucumber, chickpea salad, and plain cheese for if you turned out to be fussy." "I'll eat pretty much anything." "Good."), carrot sticks, chocolate-dipped fruit, plain fruit, and a small variety of carefully packaged cupcakes.

"Kurt, this is incredible," Blaine said, surveying the spread with astonishment. "Did you do all this last night?"

"When else would I have done it?" Kurt asked, raising an eyebrow. "And anyway, if I'm going to act as your chauffeur, I should know who you are. What makes you tick, allergies, all that jazz."

"Then shouldn't I have made the picnic?" Blaine grinned, and Kurt blushed and looked pleased.

"You can make the next one."

Blaine laughed, carefully holding up one of the sandwiches. "I don't think I'll be able to live up to this. How about I cover dinner?"

"Dinner?"

"Or, uh." Blaine ducked his head, embarrassed. "Well, it doesn't have to be dinner. A week's worth of coffees?"

"We'll figure it out," Kurt said. "Let's talk about something else."

Blaine's shoulders relaxed and he nodded, smiling. He had expected Kurt to push the subject.

"So." Kurt rested his chin on a hand, eyes twinkling with mirth. "Is it Blaine Warbler Anderson or Blaine Anderson Warbler?"

"Just Blaine Anderson now," Blaine laughed. "How did you know I was a Warbler?"

"I was in the New Directions. I know, I don't exactly look the part," he added, that half-smile appearing again, "but that's part of the fun. Don't you remember me?" He pouted, tilting his head down for the full breathless effect.

"I—" Blaine's voice cracked, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm not all that surprised, actually. You, you sound like a performer. Your voice is, uh—what's your range?"

"Hmm, I'm not sure exactly. But I'm yet to encounter a song I can't sing in its natural key."

Blaine's eyebrows rose in disbelief and Kurt grinned.

They talked about music for a while, which soon morphed into talking about their interests in general, about theatre and television and politics, about this and about that until eventually Blaine lost track. He didn't know when the last time was that he enjoyed a conversation so much, chatter interspersed with flirtatious asides and comfortable silences.

During one such silence, Blaine's eyes slipped once again to the motorcycle sitting just two feet away, and he asked, "Do you ever get scared? Going fast? Or just, I don't know, in general?"

"I used to be," Kurt said. He popped another miniature éclair in his mouth, a contemplative expression on his face, and Blaine helped himself to another grape while he waited for Kurt to continue. "Well," he eventually did, "yes, I was scared, but more of the people driving cars than the bike itself. I've always found riding them sort of . . . thrilling."

Blaine remembered the rush of feeling the wind pull at his clothing, of leaning to within an arm's reach from the concrete floor and being held up only by the strength and control of his legs, of the disconnect to anything real except the powerful presence of the motorcycle and the warmth of Kurt's leather jacket beneath his hands. His body was hot, his skin too tight, arousal rolling through his veins in waves; he shivered.

"Are you cold?" Kurt asked. His voice was low and his eyes were dark.

"Not really," Blaine said breathlessly. He barely realized as he went up on his knees, his eyes directly level with Kurt's. He looked down at Kurt's lips and then—

Later, Blaine would think back to when they kissed and wouldn't be able to remember who moved first, who first touched hands to bodies or lips to lips. It was gentle and rough and soft and hard, slow caresses to forceful pushes to moments of stillness; Blaine lay between Kurt's legs, hovering over him; Kurt knocked away the Tupperware boxes and rolled them over, and the ground was hard under his back but Blaine was more concerned with the tingling in his lips.

Heat bloomed outwards from everywhere Kurt touched him, whether it was steadfast hands against his waist or an incidental brush of a leg against his hip. It was a heat that caught on the sparks ignited by his earlier flight on the motorbike and waves of electricity raced around his body, wave after wave after wave until Blaine was hard in his jeans and shaking hard enough to fall apart.

Blaine wouldn't remember who was the first to begin, or when their kisses began to slow down; he would only remember the press of Kurt's body and wanting it to never end.