Blaine knew Kurt was out shopping with the girls - a little home retail therapy never hurt anybody but some wallets and bank accounts - but he thought he'd be back in time for the dinner they'd planned with his father. It wasn't even technically Father's Day until the following day, but Blaine felt like it should have taken precedent over a pair of "gorgeous Italian shoes, they're copper-colored and dark and glossy, oh my god I need them" - and maybe he also felt like a pre-planned dinner with his boyfriend ought to have been enough to drag Kurt away from the stores.

But no, of course not. And he didn't think that sarcastically; Kurt didn't trust him, and he couldn't forget that, especially when he was making it so obvious.

So when Blaine got Kurt's text at the restaurant saying he wouldn't make it to dinner and wouldn't be home until late, he wasn't surprised, but he wasn't pleased, either. And when he looked up and saw Burt walking toward him, he grimaced at the thought of the news.

"Hey, bud!" Burt called to him, keys jingling as he shoved them in his jacket pocket. "How long have you been waiting? Where's Kurt?"

"I've only been waiting a few minutes," Blaine lied easily, smiling up at him. "And Kurt's still at the mall. He says he won't be able to make it, but he should be home by tonight. I think."

"Oh." Burt's smile never faltered. "Well, that's alright, let's go eat anyways. I'm starving. I tell you, that garage is a right pain in the ass to take care of, especially with all these political trips to take to places." He helped Blaine to his feet, and once he was standing, looped his arm around the shorter man's shoulder with ease and comfort, walking inside the restaurant, oblivious to Blaine's surprise. "Carole's trying her best and Finn helps in his free time, but we all need to face that since Lizzie died, I'm the only one who really knows how to manage the place."

"Lizzie?" Blaine asked innocently, the name sticking. "That sounds familiar. Isn't Elizabeth Kurt's middle name?"

"Yes, it is," Burt chuckled, "He had me legally change it after his mother died. It was his mother's name, you know. That's who I was talking about. My Lizzie."

"Oh." Blaine wasn't sure how to respond. "Well, I - I'm sorry."

"We've all moved on by now," Burt told him earnestly, and without thinking Blaine pulled the chair out for him. The way Burt said it wasn't dismissive, or too light, but rather sober, and honest, and he wasn't telling Blaine that it didn't hurt anymore, he was telling Blaine that there were things stronger than the hurt. Blaine nodded and Burt sat. "Thanks."

"It's no problem," Blaine assured him, taking the seat opposite him. Breadstix was always nice to be at, and the familiar booths and smells and sounds were as welcoming as a warm bed. "So, I... I hope you don't mind me asking -"

"How did she die?" Burt guessed, picking up his menu. "Kid, if Kurt hasn't told you by now, I think that's something to bring up with him."

"Yeah," Blaine agreed absently. "I will." But he knew he wouldn't; he wouldn't dare bring up a subject so painful for Kurt when he already knew Kurt was withholding it along with his trust.

"And how are your parents doing?" Burt asked, his eyes raking over the menu.

"My... what?"

"Your parents," Burt repeated, raising his eyes and seeing Blaine's face and then raising his eyebrows along with them. "How are they?"

"Oh, they're..." Blaine cleared his throat, which was suddenly clogged by a lump. "I'm sure they're fine."

"Something you're not telling me?" Burt said, in the exact same tone. Not accusatory, not suspicious, just curious and slightly concerned.

"I - well, I have no idea how my mother's doing," Blaine confessed, "And the last time I talked to my father he was rather unhappy with me."

"Oh?" Burt set the menu down again. "And why is that?"

"I..." How on earth was he supposed to answer? Little white lies were fine - saying he'd not been waiting long, that he was fine, that it didn't matter when it did. But to lie to Burt about something so monumental was criminal, and Blaine would feel dirtier than he had in weeks if he did. Well, almost. Not quite as dirty as when he'd overheard Kurt say - "They kind of... um, right after graduation last year they disowned me."

"They what?!" Burt's voice rose and several people from neighboring tables looked over at them, judging them with their eyes before turning back and murmuring. Burt was glaring at Blaine, and even though he knew it wasn't meant for him, it was still difficult to be on the receiving end of such a look.

"Disowned me," Blaine repeated, in a whisper, leaning in, fingering the edge of his menu nervously. "But it's alright. They put money into my bank account each month to bribe me into basically denying I'm their son to people who don't already know. Every now and then I'll get a call from Cooper asking about why I don't talk with them anymore -"

"Wait, your own brother doesn't know?" Burt's astonishment was almost infectious; for a moment, even Blaine began to suspect he didn't deserve it. "That's ridiculous. It's been a year, how do you keep it hidden for that long?"

Blaine shrugged the matter off. "We don't interact that much anymore. I mean, we never really did when he moved away, but he's getting desperate to land a role and he's going crazy with auditions recently, so that's even less -"

"Let me get this straight," Burt cut him off, anger still clearly speaking for him. "A year ago, over a year ago, even, your parents disowned you and paid you to act like you'd never so much as laid eyes on them. You tell nobody, not even your brother, and manage to keep it a secret for such a stretch of time people just automatically stop getting curious about it. How do you stand that?"

"Stand what?"

"How do you stand being treated like crap like that?"

Blaine blinked a few times, not understanding. How could he at first? Him being disowned was almost an act of kindness, and not telling Cooper was something he'd agreed to. His parents didn't hate him and weren't saying they did. They were saying that they simply couldn't love him and couldn't live with the guilt of knowing that they didn't love their son - so they stopped letting him be their son. It wasn't all his fault and it wasn't all pinned to be but that seemed to be how Burt was taking it - and, to be completely fair, Blaine had treated himself in far worse ways far too often to even think of being disowned as being treated badly. "I don't know. I guess I'm not as proud as you and Kurt are."

"You should be, kid," Burt sighed, picking up his menu again. "You've got the talent, and the looks, and the intelligence, and the drive, but you've got absolutely no self-confidence to speak of unless you're faking it for the sake of someone else."

"That's not - that's not true," Blaine argued, averting his eyes.

"No, look at me, I'm talking straight to you," Burt insisted. "You've got all the reasons in the world to be the cockiest, most self-absorbed person ever, but you're the exact opposite. Trust me."

"Let's just..." Blaine shook his head. "Let's just change the topic."

"Alright, fine," Burt amended, sitting back. "Why did your parents disown you?"

"I don't think that counts -"

"Sure it does," Burt pressed on. "So why?"

Blaine looked at Burt closely, and at how worry and concern laced his gruff and angry voice, and how his eyebrows were furrowed and his cap was slipping and his cheeks were flushed and he didn't care at all. "I - because I - you know -"

"Because you're gay?" Burt prompted, and Blaine nodded. "God damn it," Burt swore under his breath, "I swear, I'll get my hands on these people -"

"No, don't!" Blaine urged him mindlessly, bending forward and stretching out his hand to cover Burt's without thinking. "Don't go looking for them or for trouble. They're not even my parents anymore, so it doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters, Blaine!" Burt seemed personally affronted by his words meant to reassure. "You need some parental figure in your life! Who's going to take care of you?"

"I've been doing that for years," Blaine told him, "And if I can't, I've got Kurt and Santana and Rachel all at the drop of a hat, and Artie and you all down here if I put in a little effort. I'm fine and I will be fine, Burt. Don't let it bug you. Please."

"And the others homophobes?" Burt's words seemed to enclose around him, suffocate him as Burt nearly spit them out. Blaine began wishing desperately for their server to arrive, but it was, after all, a Saturday evening, and Breadstix was always busiest then. "Don't they irritate you? Don't tell me they don't matter."

"I never said they don't matter," Blaine retorted, desperation kindling into a small flame of frustration, "I said their actions don't. And I stand by that. Prejudice is just ignorance, Burt. I will never perpetuate it or validate it, but I will refuse to be affected by it. I am not ignorant - and neither are you, so if you could please let it all go -"

"So are you saying that the man on the plane didn't affect you?" Burt demanded, trying with a significant amount of effort to elicit something from him, and Blaine wished he knew what it was. "Are you saying his words -"

"I'm saying his words were wrong and hurtful and yes, they upset me, but not because of the substance he was using but the reaction he received," Blaine rambled, trying to get Burt to frankly shut up. He looked around for an available waiter who hadn't seen them crammed into the small booth yet, but saw none that weren't working. "It bothers me that some people are perfectly fine with and may outright support such ignorance, and it bothers me that those opposed feel so offended and oppressed by it they feel it's necessary to scream simply to be heard over the hate. But I will never hold a human being liable for what their head was taught against their heart. At least not any more than I'd hold them liable for their heart's desires against their head. And I want you to drop it!"

Blaine hadn't meant to raise his voice at the end, but Burt kept opening his mouth to cut him off and he'd had to speak louder to make him close it again, and he was tired of the conversation they were having. He didn't want to discuss these things.

"But you still need a parent, Blaine, a guide, someone to look up to who's an adult and can help you through things other people your age can't," Burt said, much quieter, much calmer, after a moment of silence between them, his eyes much kinder when they met Blaine's again briefly.

"I thought I had you for that," Blaine confessed, sitting back in his chair and slumping down, not daring to raise his eyes.

There was another moment of silence before Burt spoke again, his voice so low even Blaine had to strain to hear it. "You do, kid. You've always got me."

"Wait, wait," Blaine chortled over his empty salad plate, "She - she stepped on it?"

Burt was roaring with laughter on the other side of the table, and Blaine had had to join in when he got to the punchline of his joke. "Yes!" Burt guffawed noisily. "She stepped - on the ball!"

"Oh my god!"

"I know!"

"What are you doing?" Burt asked, fondly but sternly, as Blaine pulled out his wallet.

"Um... paying?" Blaine was confused; they needed to pay and he always paid. What was unusual?

"Don't even think about it," Burt waved his hand away. "I've got it."

"Really?" the word slipped out before he knew it would, and after it did Burt looked at him quizzically.

"Of course," Burt said it as if it was the most common knowledge a person could have.

When Kurt got home, Blaine and Burt were watching the television, surfing channels and chatting, laughing often between things they said. Rachel behind him raised an eyebrow when he paused to smile at the scene. Santana was already with her parents, but Rachel had been Kurt's ride, and she was waiting for a few minutes before she took off for her dads' house. "What?" she asked.

"Nothing," Kurt responded, moving into the room, his shopping bags in his arms. Blaine and Burt both stopped and looked up at the sound of his voice, and both smiled. "Hello to both of you," Kurt greeted, smiling back, relieved they weren't angry they'd missed dinner. "Sorry about dinner, I -"

"No, it was good," Burt told him. "I did some talking with Blaine I've needed to do for a while."

Kurt felt his breath catch for a moment. What had they talked about that made him use those words? Had Blaine told them that they were engaged? They agreed to wait to tell people, even Santana and Rachel, until they'd been living with each other for at least a few weeks - he looked at Blaine, his panic of the quiet kind, and Blaine, seeing it, understood and shook his head the tiniest bit.

Kurt nodded in relief and turned back to his dad, who had missed the silent exchange. "Good, good. How was the food?"

"It's Breadstix, Kurt," Blaine answered teasingly. "How do you think the food was?"

Kurt grinned, matching Blaine's playful attitude, loving it. He didn't know what had brought it on, but Blaine like this was a Blaine he loved. Lately, he'd been so... on edge, even behind his calm exterior. It had made Kurt nervous. How he was acting then, however, set Kurt's worries aside, and he turned and wished Rachel a good night, and so did the others when she peeked her head in and waved goodbye.

Cold sheets. That's what Blaine felt. The sheets around him were clammy and cold, and not because nobody was in them, but because he was even clammier and colder. Kurt's bed wasn't ready to welcome him into warmth like it was Kurt, who laid beside him, his back to Blaine, curled tightly into a ball.

The sheets were as stiff and unforgiving as Kurt must have felt around him since he cheated. Every time he looked at Kurt now, it was a reminder that Kurt only pretended to be fine in the relationship, and he had to settle the discomfort in his stomach because he felt like throwing up, knowing he caused it. Knowing it was his fault.

He kept staring at Kurt's ceiling, like he had been. Blaine knew Kurt always thought he'd be in a relationship with someone taller. It was obvious in how he slept when he was alone; curled up tightly, as small as he could be, very much like the little spoon. It was just another thing Blaine had caused him to settle for - and he could do nothing about his height, but it was his fault he'd made Kurt go against what he'd wanted.

The waves on the ceiling were familiar by then. Not what Kurt wanted. Those words seemed written across the wall above his head he stared at. Even the corners of his eyes told him it was scrawled - in Kurt's own handwriting - everywhere. On the ceiling, on the bed, on him...

That was when he knew he needed to say something, to someone, and if it was for no other reason than that he'd left his journal in New York to try and force himself not to use it, so be it.

He rolled out of the bed and threw the sheets off himself. He knew it wouldn't wake Kurt - he'd been asleep for over an hour, he was deeply into it and wouldn't be dragged out easily. He shuffled off the bed, the unforgiving sheets left behind and the cold of the floor stinging his bare feet as he moved slowly and stiff-jointed to his bag by the dresser. His phone was resting on top of it; he grabbed it and moved as silently as he could to the bathroom, closing the door without so much as a click and leaning against it, the sound of Kurt's breathing now cut off, his ears empty.

He held down '2' and waited while it called Santana.

It only rang once before she answered. Her voice was grouchy and croaky with sleep when she said, "Hobbit, if you don't have a good reason for calling me right now, I swear..."

Blaine didn't know how to say it. He needed to say something, but what? "San, I don't... I don't..."

"What's wrong?" The voice was different; still croaky, but more concerned than grouchy. Blaine felt the guilt bubble up in his throat sickeningly, like bile, and looked down at his toes; though the darkness, he couldn't even see them.

There were several answers to that question.

For the first answer, he could tell her about overhearing Kurt's words that let him know exactly what went on in the other half of his relationship, and how badly he'd messed up. He could tell her about all the unspoken words than needed spoken and all the spoken words he wished had gone unsaid. He could tell her exactly for disgusted and estranged from Kurt it made him feel to live with it in silence.

The second answer stemmed from the first. That horrible sensation he suffered through as if swimming through maple syrup could be cured, he was certain, if he just tried enough, if he was just good enough. The surprise visit to Ohio had been spoiled by Santana. The dinner had been meant to be a time they could bond again, talk, and just be normal people, with no fear of homework or jobs or secrets, or anything. Kurt had missed it, probably because shopping was more appealing than looking at someone who broke his heart. He could tell her about how hard he was trying and how it was draining him and how he couldn't keep it up unless he actually became someone better, someone stronger.

He could tell her that Burt at the dinner had made him feel even worse. He could tell her about how he'd shouted and assumed and accused and glared, and even if none of it was for him, he was the medium it passed through, and it stung. He could tell her how it also stung that he wasn't even worthy of a response for him, just ones for his parents and his words. He could tell her how horrible he'd felt because he felt so greedy over that towards someone as loving as Burt.

He could tell her about how being so close to his parents, about being less than an hour's drive away, was making him itch to see them and itch to leave at the same time. He wanted his mom to hug him again, even if the last time she really meant it was when he was thirteen. His wanted his dad to smooth the sides of his hair over and tweak his bowtie before he went out like he used to. He wanted to go home and feel like it was still his. He could tell her about how it was his fault but not his fault, about how his father calling him to say that he shouldn't visit just made him want to fix, want to fix everything.

He could tell her everything. He could tell her about how Miss July worked him harder and with more menace than everyone else, and how his workload was killing him, and about how everyone from his past was showing up and it was like getting hit in the gut every time it happened, and how he was starting to hate so much of the mirror that even the edges of the reflection seemed tainted when he was in the picture. He could tell her that.

No, he couldn't.

He couldn't tell Santana that. Because as hard as she tried to listen, she wouldn't let him finish. She wouldn't hear him. She'd hear someone scared and pathetic and small and she'd treat him as largely as she could to show him he wasn't what she heard. She loved him too much to believe he could forever stay as pitiful as he was, he knew that, even if he didn't know why. And with how he'd snapped at her and sent her away the other night, and after how she'd stood up for him on the plane and he hadn't had the guts to say thank you, he wanted to tell her everything... but he couldn't.

"I... I need to - I don't think -"

"Blaine, you need to stop and slow down," she instructed. "Take a deep breath, organize your thoughts, and then tell me. I'll wait."

He couldn't tell her because he was scared and she didn't deserve to be.

"It's alright," Blaine found himself saying, and wondered who the stranger commanding his mouth was. "I just felt - I just -" and then he was in control of his lips again, and fumbled over them. "I think I just wanted to ask if it's - it's normal to... um, to..."

"Okay, B," Santana crooned, "Just take a minute, okay? Just take a minute. Compose yourself. It's alright."

He wondered what she thought had happened. He wondered what she heard. He wondered if it was him or what she hoped wasn't him or what she hoped was.

"I want to go home," was what surprised him the most. Did he really? Or did he just want to go away? And which home did he want to go to? He wasn't even sure.

"In what way?" Santana asked slowly. "In a way that makes you feel like you're going to cry, or a way that makes you feel like you're going to vomit?"

"In - I - yes. No, I mean - I don't know." But as he spoke, the guilt-bile seemed to become more tangible, and his eyes grew warm and thick, and he dared not blink. "Both?"

"Okay," Santana responded, sounding unsure. "Blaine, do you - you've been acting off lately, is this something to do with that?"

Great. So he hadn't even been able to hide it well enough to come across as fine. His acting was terrible, too. "Y- I... how... what does broken trust feel like to you?"

And though he hadn't meant to answer the question, he was suddenly dying to hear the answer. The words had slipped out past his head and his thoughts, unseen, unheard, until they were on the other side of his ears, and he knew that though it would be different for Kurt than it would be for Santana, if he understood even the slightest bit what Kurt might be feeling, he could make it up. He could try harder, he could have a goal.

"What do you mean?" she asked, and he could hear how glad she was to hear a coherent thought come out of him.

"What is trust like?" he elaborated. "For you. What's it like? And then broken trust, what about it? Can you tell me?"

"Why?"

"Please?"

He heard her sigh and mutter loosely before she truly replied. "Trusting someone is like putting your head on the guillotine and knowing they won't cut it off." Blaine nodded; it was a fair representation of how he felt around Kurt. "Broken trust is when they don't decapitate you and they plunge a knife through your heart instead." Blaine gave a start at her words - he'd have thought... "Though you'd have been disappointed and hurt that they chopped off your head if they had, you'd have at least been a bit prepared - but there was no way in hell you were expecting that knife." Santana concluded it with finality, and Blaine found himself wishing that he'd never asked, because the answer was so harshly real - even when delivered kindly - that he was terrified.

"Okay."

"Okay?" she repeated, confused.

"Thank you," he said, and he poured out all gratitude he had left inside his musty, dank chest. "For telling me that and for shouting at the man on the plane and for being my roommate and -"

"Okay, okay," Santana stopped him, with a slight chuckle, "You need to sleep, and I need to sleep, and while I appreciate the overdue thanks, you can deliver it at a time when you're more capable of doing so. Alright?"

Blaine smiled fakely and then forgot he didn't have to, so instead he made his voice maintain its sound, which was obviously convincing, at least over the phone. "Yeah, alright. Goodnight, San."

"G'night," she responded, and then there was a click, and a dial tone, and Blaine was reminded horribly of how his father had ended his call and how empty his ears had rung when he'd taken the phone away from it. Nevertheless, his hand pulled away from his head, his phone with it, into the distilled silence of the bathroom. And he recognized that silence that had been his best friend and his worst enemy before he found steel, and it was like Kurt wasn't speaking to him all over again, because neither of them were saying what they had to. The only difference was that what Kurt had to say was important; what Blaine wanted to say would only waste time and feelings that had begun slipping from him already. His heart was beating, maybe a bit faster than normal, but he felt like the silence was the only thing there was - no happy, no sad, just the silence and all it carried. Total apathy.

And he knew he was in trouble, but the silence didn't care - the silence cut. Just not enough to make him bleed out the emptiness so he could breath air full of something again.

When Kurt woke up, Blaine was fully on the other side of the bed, on top of the covers, socks on his feet, his back to his boyfriend, and he was still. Kurt smiled at the figure, though he wondered why he was so far away, before realizing that he was in the same position, just with his neck turned to look for the other. Blaine was sensitive to those kind of things - body language when sleeping seemed to be the one thing Blaine always took to heart more than anything else. Kurt wondered just how confused he was by it and if he'd ever considered that Kurt had gone to bed before him and that it wasn't because he didn't want to cuddle that he'd fallen asleep like that.

Kurt moved against the cold no-man's land of the sheets between them and smiled when he pressed his front up against Blaine's back. He moved his arm over top of Blaine and hoisted himself over him just enough to see his face so he could kiss his cheek.

He saw the tear stains on Blaine's pillow and the salty trails on his face, and the red, puffy rims of his eyes, and his smile faded. He kissed his cheek softly, and then lowered himself back down, tangling their feet together and hugging him as close as he could through the bedding. He wondered if Blaine's happiness had been an act, or if the tears had been him crying out the last of the unhappiness.

He hoped it was the latter and knew that it wasn't, but he just kissed the back of Blaine's neck tenderly and snuggled against him as best he could.

When Blaine woke up, he knew he'd had a nightmare. He couldn't remember it, but he knew he'd had one, because his face was tight with dried tears, and his pillow was wet and cold in small splotches, and Kurt's arms were around him. He'd gone to bed no wanting to cuddle, but Blaine must have been frightened enough to have guilted him into snuggling. And Blaine felt guilty. Guilty and terrified of whatever had been in his head.

Many people find it easier to recover from nightmares they don't remember than ones they do. Blaine was not one of those. Every time he forgot a nightmare, he spent all his time until the next one trying to figure out what it was based on how he woke up. It was an impossible task, but he felt he had to set at it; if he could figure out what was scaring him so badly, he could try to conquer it, or maybe stay away from things that would trigger it.

But Kurt was there. Kurt, with his lips on Blaine's neck, his arms around his chest, his fingers playing with the curls along his ears, his mouth moving in words of soft comfort as they touched chastely across his skin. It took a little while for Blaine to figure out what he was saying - and he was completely and totally shocked to find out that it was a prayer.

Not a deity, it seemed, but a prayer to the idea of someone who had the power to make things better. It made sense that Kurt, when looking for someone to helped, looked to someone he could see, could touch. It was a trait they both shared - and it was one that had ultimately led Blaine to the bed of someone else when he couldn't reach Kurt's. The reminder of that that his mind conjured up suddenly attacked him, and he fought to remain still and silent in Kurt's arms.

Blaine couldn't make out enough of the words to fully understand what he was praying for, but he knew that it wasn't just a peaceful night's sleep for him. Why should he go out of his way for that? A nightmare of Kurt's would be treated with a lot more care than a prayer, and that was certain, but the only reason Blaine could imagine Kurt was praying for was so that he could learn to trust his boyfriend or that he'd at least sleep easily.

Neither of those were what the tone implied, but then, Kurt thought he was sleeping. It was bound to be politer and quieter.

In the small window Blaine could see, the sky was still black. He felt as if he'd been sleeping for hours, and it hadn't been until well after midnight that he'd fallen asleep. How long could the hours be? It seemed like the night was dragging on and on and on, and it would never end, because they would continue to grow and learn and break and the night sky wouldn't lift until their eyelids sank. There is a rule that is universal that every person who has had trouble sleeping knows; waiting for the sunrise is a little easier when the sun hasn't set yet than it is when the sky is black.

Kurt obviously didn't know Blaine was awake, but what could he do? If broken trust was like being stabbed at the guillotine, he'd caused Kurt a thousand times more damage than Kurt had caused him, ever, or at least that Kurt had meant to cause him, or that he hadn't blown out of proportion. If he asked what he was doing, if he acted like he'd just woken up, he'd be lying. But if he said he'd been lying there, listening to him say things that were obviously personal... well, that wouldn't help anything.

On the other hand, it was honest, and Kurt didn't seem aware that he was awake, though his words had stopped and his lips had pressed themselves tenderly to his neck once more, in a kiss, not speaking as he had been. He seemed finished - 'please' seemed a fairly reasonable end to such a prayer - and so Blaine tried speaking.

But instead, something inside him snapped, and he realized that if he really broke Kurt's trust, gaining it would take more than surprises. It would take constant attention and respect when he needed space - it would take listening to his problems and not bothering him with his own - it would be weeks, months, of endless care and taking care, and Blaine had to do it. And he knew that once he started, actually kissing Kurt without making an opportunity for it first would be scarce, and there was Kurt, warm and flesh and blood and with a pulse and curled against him, and so he wriggled just a bit.

"Hey," Kurt greeted, his voice just as quiet, but clearly directed toward him, as he shifted in Kurt's arms so they were facing. "You're awake."

"I am," Blaine confirmed, and closed the distance between them softly, making sure that Kurt was alright with it, and only kissing him once his eyes were closed. And closed were his eyes after their lips touched, because he'd forgotten what slow, lazy kisses tasted like, and how they felt when they were just slow enough to not really be fast and just lazy enough to be completely natural. And Kurt responded more willingly than he'd dared to dream; his fingers pressed the back of Blaine's head more firmly to his and he opened his mouth, his breath hot.

But Blaine could feel more heat rushing downward than out of his lips, and he pulled back - if he did that, if he slept with Kurt, really slept, he'd be even more off-balance. Sex was what had broken Kurt's trust in him in the first place. Doing it with Kurt while he still felt like that would be... sickening. Blaine wasn't actually sure he could force Kurt to do that, no matter how much Kurt was obviously trying to reassure himself that it would be fine. Because he was trying to make Kurt trust him again, not force him to think he should.

"Baby," Kurt moaned when their lips parted, and Blaine wanted to cry again, because he was trying so hard to make himself feel okay. His eyes opened - his beautiful, gorgeous, hopeful glasz eyes - and he looked at Blaine with something akin to concern. "Why were you crying?"

"Crying?" Blaine repeated instead of asking.

"I know you know you were," Kurt murmured, averting his eyes, his fingers back to tracing small, pointless designs of swirls and dots on his neck, trailing down a bit before coming back up. "You always know when you cry." He brought his gaze back up, and it locked with Blaine's again, and he furrowed his brow. "B?"

"I'm not sure," Blaine admitted, and it wasn't a lie. "I think I had a nightmare and I just can't remember it."

"I'm right here," Kurt breathed, his arms tightening, warm, his pulse beating against Blaine's.

Blaine swallowed. "I know."

"Mm," Kurt hummed, not accepting or rejecting his affirmation before moving on to a subject Blaine didn't expect. "Do you trust me?"

It was a very simple question, and Blaine was stunned by it; if anything, Kurt had the reasons not to trust. Why wouldn't Blaine trust Kurt? Kurt was... well, he was Kurt. He wasn't always the warmest of people - in fact, he could be quite cold sometimes - and he had a habit of just emptying himself out so new thoughts and feelings could form without actually being aware of what he was doing, but he was loving, and passionate, and judging, and gentle, and fair, and brave, and talented, and devoted, and human, like anyone else, and his flaws were never going to be the kind of thing Blaine would say made him perfect, but Blaine loved Kurt's kind of imperfection, and only Kurt's. Never had he met a deformed puzzle piece that fit perfectly with him, another deformed puzzle piece. It was a twist of fate that they'd been warped and twisted into two people who fit together perfectly. Perfectly imperfect. "Of course I do," Blaine assured him, hushed with his voice, shifting to nuzzle him tenderly with his nose so he might feel it, too. "Of course I trust you. I trust you with everything, Kurt, you know that."

Kurt snuggled into the embrace of Blaine's cheek. "I know, but you're really sad lately, and I was wondering why you wouldn't tell me why."

"I... Kurt..." Blaine wasn't sure what to say. To ask to put it off would require Kurt trusting him to bring it up again, or Kurt thinking he was lying about trusting him... but he couldn't bring it up now. What would he say? I know you don't trust me and that's why but hey, it's okay, right? How could he possibly pin things on Kurt like that? It wasn't as if it was Kurt's fault. But there was something neither he nor Santana had spoken about since it happened, and so when Kurt sighed, Blaine let himself say, "My dad called me a few days ago..."

"What?!" Kurt's voice wasn't any louder, but it was sharper, and he jerked away in surprise. "When? What did he say?!"

"Nothing, really," Blaine shrugged. "He just said that he heard I was visiting and he wanted to make sure I wouldn't come to see them, and then that he didn't want to be involved in my life."

Kurt was frozen for a moment, and then sagged back into Blaine. "B, I'm sorry..."

"Hey, no," Blaine kissed his cheek without thinking. "It wasn't that bad. I just didn't expect it is all."

"But it's made you so sad..."

"No, Kurt," Blaine whispered, "I'm not sad, I'm not. I'm just tired."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"That's what you said last time."

"Last time?"

"When you came over, and Rachel was out, and you started crying and you told me that you were really upset that you couldn't do the dance routine well enough for Miss July's class -"

"That was different, Kurt, very different," Blaine told him earnestly, "Please believe me. I was tired. I'd been practicing for weeks and she still yelled at me for it, and I just couldn't get it right. It's not like I'm not used to not doing things right. I'm sorry that I'm worrying you, I really don't want to -"

"And now?"

"What?"

"What about now?" Kurt's breath was hitched and oh, god, Blaine had caused this, he'd made Kurt this upset. "You said last time you were tired, but what about now?"

"I am tired," Blaine told him, unsure of what else to say. "I don't - I don't know what you want me to tell you, Kurt, but if you tell me I'll say it."

"Oh, no, no..." Kurt murmured, dropping his head to Blaine's collarbone in dejection. "I really didn't want you to say that."

And Blaine dropped his head, too, and inhaled the way Kurt smelled in the morning, and how the freckled, pale skin on his shoulder was so soft, and how his pulse would change whether or not his voice did, and Blaine said, "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," Kurt's muffled reply escaped the confines of the pillow and Blaine resting on it. Blaine didn't believe him.