"You've got some explaining to do, boy."

Kurt holds the phone a little ways away from his ear from the unexpectedly harsh voice. "I'm sorry Mercedes, I honestly don't know what you're talking about."

Except he does, because more likely than not it has to do with the elegantly printed cardstock Kurt holds in his own hand.

"Don't play dumb with me, mister," she trills, and Kurt can practically hear the diva dripping in her voice. "I know yours came in the mail today, too."

"You know me too well," Kurt sights, tossing the card onto the island in the kitchen of his penthouse and slumping into one of the barstools beside it. He massages his temple with his free hand.

Mercedes senses his frustration and lowers her voice accordingly. "I have to admit, I'm surprised it's not your name next to Blaine's on this thing."

Kurt says nothing.

"Kurt," Mercedes says gently. "You never told me they were engaged."

"I couldn't," Kurt says stonily. "It's hard enough to admit it to myself, let alone anyone else." He laughs heartlessly. "Sorry." His voice is brave and hard, but Mercedes sees right through it.

"I understand that. But I could have helped you out. I still can. No one should have to go through that alone."

"It's not like anyone died," Kurt snaps sarcastically.

"No, nobody's dead," Mercedes admits, and hesitates before continuing. "But don't tell me a part of you wouldn't die inside when Blaine says his 'I do's' to another man."

Kurt wants to crumple into a heap. Crawl under a rock. Throw breakable things at a cement wall.

"I'm happy for Blaine" Kurt says, but in that whine that signals the threatening onslaught of a breakdown.

"I know you are, baby," Mercedes says softly. There's a silence in which Kurt swallows the lump in his throat and gives a clearing cough. This is no time to act like a child.

"So what are you gonna do?" Mercedes finally asks.

"I-"

But just then, the intercom buzzes. "I have to go. Someone's at the door."

"Call me later?"

"Of course."

Kurt frowns as he hangs up the phone. He hadn't been expecting visitors today.

He pushes the button and drawls, grabbing at any source for entertainment, "Who dares enter the Haus of Hummel?"

"O, most humble and generous one, Anderson the exceedingly ignorant and pleading had come to bask in your glory."

Kurt rolls his eyes after allowing for the ubiquitous heart stutter. He should have known that only Blaine would show up unexpectedly on a quiet Sunday morning.

"Proceed," Kurt commands, and buzzes him in. Seconds later the door bursts open and in galumphs Blaine, panting as if he's run ten blocks.

"It's called knocking," Kurt scoffs from where he's just settled himself on the couch in the living room. He gazes out the glass wall overlooking central park and idly flips pages in the Italian Vogue for next month. He's about to add something to the likes of 'Sit down before you drool on the carpet,' just because Blaine looks more like a dog than he usually does, but he can barely open his mouth before Blaine is already across the room, pulling Kurt up to his feet by his hands.

"C-careful," Kurt stutters, glancing at the fallen Italian Vogue but his attention is immediately captured by Blaine's earnest hazel eyes.

"Kurt, I'm an idiot."

Oh my lord.

"Blaine, you're the smartest person I know," Kurt chokes out past his heart, which has somehow inconveniently placed itself directly in Kurt's throat.

Blaine steamrolls on as if not hearing Kurt. "I know I'm scatterbrained and kind of clueless sometimes but this is just ridiculous, that I didn't think to- that I didn't realize-"

Kurt squeezes the hands still held in his. Go on, his heart urges wildly. Go on, Blaine. Say what I've been hoping you'd say for ten years. Tell me you're madly in love with me, that you've been stupid, that you've called off the wedding, that you've come to sweep me off my feet on your white horse-

"I should've done this a long time ago," Blaine is saying, and Kurt is melting, ears alert, willing his short circuiting brain to memorize this moment forever.

"Kurt," Blaine takes a deep breath.

Kurt is flying, flying...

"Will you be my best man?"

Kurt is falling, falling...

He clutches onto Blaine's arm for support, gulping for air because he's not sure whether to be crushed or overjoyed at the moment.

"Kurt?" Blaine clutches back at his friend's elbows in concern.

"Yes," Kurt chokes, and he's crying because it's a stupid question to ask, because Kurt's always been his best man, always been anything he needs. "Yes, Blaine, of course." He's laughing through his tears; strange because it feels a little like his heart is being ripped in two.

"Awesome," Blaine smiles, pulling Kurt in for a hug. And Kurt holds on tight; his halved heart is healing instantaneously, his tears are drying, his breathing is steadying, because this is where he's supposed to be, safe and warm and whole no matter what.

"I was afraid you'd be mad that I didn't ask earlier, as soon as all this was official," Blaine admits sheepishly, pulling away to keep only Kurt's hand. "I know you get touchy about these things, but in the back of my head it was such a given that somehow it didn't even cross my mind to ask you outright."

"What do you mean?" Kurt swipes at his eyes.

Blaine frowns with an incredulous snort. "Well I thought it was kind of obvious. I mean, who the hell else would I even consider? You're my best man."

Kurt's heart soars. He's Blaine's man.

"And you always will be," Blaine beams when Kurt is rendered speechless. Kurt can only smile in return; he doesn't trust his mouth to say anything but various forms of 'I love you, Blaine Anderson.'

"Alright. Well, now that that's settled, I'd better be going," Blaine sighs contentedly, releasing Kurt's hand. They walk to the door. "Only two months left but there's so much to do still!"

"You'll be busy up until the day before," Kurt smiles weakly. The melancholy undertone is already starting to settle in.

Blaine opens the door. "Try-ons at the tux shop will be sometime in the next two weeks. Oh, and also, I needed to ask you." He pauses in the doorway. "I know you'll do a toast as best man and all that, but could you also consider maybe doing a song to go along with it?"

It doesn't even register in Kurt's brain that he hasn't sung for years; Blaine's hopeful puppy face is that convincing. "Of course," he smiles breathlessly. "Anything you need."

"Thank you, thank you!" Blaine's grinning wildly, and finally shuts the door behind him.

Best man.

Kurt can't help but sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose because he just keeps digging himself deeper and deeper into his untimely grave.

Kind of ironic that, in reality, Kurt is second best.

The real best man is the name printed under Blaine's on the cardstock back in the kitchen.

Kurt doesn't know what's sadder- the fact that he's willing to put his heart through strain to be Blaine's (second) best man or that it doesn't matter who Blaine wants Kurt to be- that he's willing to be anything Blaine needs.

Kurt sighs and traipses back into the living room to push play on the large stereo system, blasting his iPod. Might as well start brainstorming.

Kurt collapses into an armchair, and that's when it hits him.

Kurt curses himself for being in Glee club for three years of high school and not realizing it before. The answer was in front of him all along, and Blaine's just practically handed to him on a silver platter. What do you do when you can't say the words on your mind?

Sing them.

So Blaine wants a song? Kurt thinks bittersweetly to himself. I'll give him a song.