Hello! As little sense as this may make, I would like to add here that I am a method writer. I wrote the better part of this story—the beginning at least—with a paint brush in my mouth and a soda in my hand. If you're a writer and have never done 'method writing' I invite you to try it. You get a sense of what's going on in your characters' heads, and a feel for what they would actually be doing. Hence: AU Klaine.

Also, it's my first AU, so do be kind, please. I honestly have no idea where this takes place. I was thinking maybe Italy, maybe somewhere in New York, but since I have come up blank, I pass the decision on to you. Just know that we started in Italy because I find Italy very…alluring? Is that the right word? Yes, alluring will do. Come to think of it, this is definitely in Italy. Enjoy! Piacere!

He stood in front of the canvas, a brush clenched in his teeth, a can of soda in one hand and a tube of black paint in the other, staring into the empty depths of the off-white linen, his arms crossed in frustration. Grabbing the brush between the middle and forefinger of the hand holding the paint, and took a long swig of soda. Already it had gone warm in the heat of the day, so with an unsatisfied sigh, he threw the empty can into the trash can behind him with a low, metallic, plunk, no bothering to grab another from the cooler in the windowsill.

Once again, he stared at the canvas in front of him, chewing on the end of the brush, running his hands through his mop of hair, growing impatient with himself. To procrastinate more than anything, he trod to the other side of the cramped studio he had crafted out of the spare bedroom and turned up the volume on his music flowing steadily from a set of speakers in the corner. An eclectic blend of retro British rock, modern, mostly American pop, and classical Italian and Spanish opera hummed just loud enough to cover the sound of the street below him.

All of the windows in his apartment were open that afternoon, allowing the occasional breeze to sweep through and—even for just a moment—cool the stifling room, and chase away the smell of paint and coffee that hung heavy in the air.

He sat against the wall, a distance from the canvas, tilting his head left and right, searching the air for some kind of inspiration. When nothing but the sweltering heat settled on his mind, he wiped his brow with the hem of his shirt and sighed, leaning his head on the wall behind him.

Once again he sat in his apartment, having locked himself in the studio since sunrise, staring into space.

What was wrong with him! He thought angrily, dropping his head onto his knees and muttering a few swears to himself. Nothing, he tried to convince himself. It's just a dry spell…a four month dry spell. For the past two years, he had wondered silently to himself if going to school for painting was worth it. If having to sit in a crowded room examining 500 year old oil smears and scrawling naked people was really going to get him somewhere in life.

But then he'd get an inspiration, and he'd put paint to canvas, and he'd sell it, and he could eat well and be happy for a while.

The last time he'd eaten well and been happy was almost four months ago though, and this time he could see no end in sight of his days fiddling with his brushes and dusting canvases in mock preparation. This time he thought it was the end. This time he thought he'd finally have to give in and get what his mother referred to as 'a real job'. This time he felt that his days as an artist were coming to a close, and his days as a full-time, miserable, sub-par barista were just beginning.

He threw a stray, empty can of soda at the wall in protest of no one and everyone.

"...Un desamparado se salvo, por causa de una buena accion, y hoy ya nadie lo repudia, Aleluya..."

The music sang on, something about being deserted, but not rejected…the irony of that moment was delicious.

Deserted and rejected. To think of one without the other made him laugh sarcastically to himself. Going to art school over one thousand miles away on the other side of the continent had left him deserted from his homebody, 'blood-is-thicker-than-water' mother; going to art school at all left him rejected by his 'born in England, die in England,' farm-raised father.

…Hallelujah…

At that time, the born-and-raised Roman Catholic deep inside him somewhere sent a tiny prayer up for even the smallest glimmer of inspiration. The cynic radical beside it signed the message with a brief 'kill me now'.

He let out a noise that was somewhere between a moan and a whine and threw his head back again, shaking a bead of sweat from his eyebrow down the bridge of his nose. He went moved for the bottom of his shirt again, before a little, 'this is so stupid' flashed in his mind. He removed his shirt completely, wiping his face and letting out another exasperated sigh.

Rock bottom: alone, in a hot, humid apartment, staring at a blank canvas, probably having eaten half of his brush by now, his last clean shirt in a wad beside him, his mind completely blank.

Then a high-pitched horn honked outside. He stood abruptly; scooters weren't allowed down this street.

He leaned on his balcony, and through the crowd of grumbling pedestrians, he screamed. Figuring that if the driver knew Italian, he would have heard the people in the street, he tried once in English, his accent apparent among the mutters of the people in the street. "You can't drive that here!"

Then the driver looked up at him.

His startling blue eyes were wide, full of confusion and fright. "I'm so sorry!" he hollered. "Thanks for the tip." He swiftly kicked the vehicle around to face the other direction, and drove out into the main street.

Mumbling to himself about 'the excitement for the day,' he turned around and slogged back into his studio, but not before watching the scooter zoom out of sight, the clueless foreigner fading away.

Just a tourist, he thought laughing. Just a tourist…

"…Torna alla vita più serena, che rifiorisce come primavera, la vita grida a voce piena, dentro te..."

He needed to get more English music. From this nice song he only caught bits and pieces. It sang on about being spring once again, and how life inside you would shout again…

The tourist popped into his mind. Or rather, the tourist's eyes popped into his mind.

Without even thinking, he grabbed a palate and a less chewed-on brush, and began to mix paint. After a minute of fevered blending, he took the rush, heavy with an amount of paint any instructor would have told him to dab off, and streaked a line of electric blue across the canvas.

One-shot or continue? I really like this as is, just having them meet for a split second, but still having an impact on each other. Thoughts? Ideas? They're all welcome! I would like to credit 'Il Divo' and Andrea Bocelli for these fantastic songs. I also apologize to my fellow FanFictioners. I recently read a handful of Klaines about them being from different countries, and could not resist.