Part Five: Blackbirds Fly and the Ice is Breaking
Friday 12 January, 2017

It had been a solemn day for the Warblers. Pavarotti had sung his last melody and taken his leave of the world with a typically hopeful chirp. Wes had dedicated their performance to their beloved canary, and Blaine had to admit that they had never sounded better, or more united. He had bowed out early, not wanting the rest of the group to see their unelected leader falling apart so close to competition. He couldn't help it; he'd loved their sweet, cheerful mascot as much as the rest of the team.

Blaine walked into the comforting and familiar surroundings of the student lounge, and caught that glimpse of chestnut again. He stopped short, staring hard at the table before him. He could have sworn... No. He was seeing things. There was no one there. Just a few sheets of paper left behind by the last student.

Bzzz! Bzzz! Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these bro—

That was odd. Blaine could have sworn he had just been dreaming about Kurt singing that song at Dalton. But it hadn't been him; it had been just another Warblers number. His dreams were only getting stranger and more unsettling. What disturbed Blaine the most, however, was not the fact that Kurt wasn't in them, but that in the dreams, Blaine was entirely unfazed by his absence.

That creeping tension in his neck was beginning to tiptoe back in. As quickly and quietly as possible, he got out of bed and dressed in sweatpants and a loose tee. Grabbing his iPod and a bottle of water, Blaine let himself out of the apartment and jogged softly down the stairs: he and the sidewalk had some unfinished business to attend to.

When he returned to the apartment nearly ninety minutes later, sweaty and disheveled, Kurt was on the couch, sipping from a steaming cup of coffee and already halfway through the dauntingly thick Stephen King novel he'd started only the previous evening.

“Hey, you,” Kurt greeted him without looking up. Blaine pressed a wet kiss to his cheek, and Kurt laughed, squirming a little. “What are we doing today?”

“Shower. Food. Bucket List day five,” Blaine answered, still slightly out of breath.

Kurt set his book down on the table, carefully marking the page. “Really?”

“Yep. But I'm not telling you what it is. You have to guess.”

*

“The library?” Kurt asked, confused as they stood on the steps of the grand building. Quickly yet meticulously, he began going through the list in his mind—no mean feat, considering it was made up of close to two hundred separate items—but not a single one stood out as having anything to do with the Stephen A. Schwarzman Building for which he had thoroughly exhausted his initial love during college.

Blaine simply wound his fingers through Kurt's and led him past the groups of students sitting on the steps, surrounded by books and papers held down by bottles of water and paperweights, into the familiar cozy warmth of the library.

They spent some time on each floor looking at the collections, discussing in fond, hushed tones Kurt's intense study sessions with Rachel (“If you thought she was insane back at McKinley, you should have seen her that first semester of NYADA. Unhinged doesn't begin to cover it...”), and the all-night study sessions the library had started hosting in their final year, none of which Kurt or Blaine had managed to make it to together, for one reason or another. All the while, Kurt was searching for clues and rattling off numbers from his list that could have had anything to do with the library.

“So everyone could—wait. One forty-three?” Kurt asked, sure this time that he had it. It would be an incredibly round-about way of fulfilling it, but at a stretch it worked.

Blaine shook his head. “Sub zero.”

After exhausting the collections on the second and third floors, they doubled back to Room 100 on the first floor, the periodicals reading room. Sitting opposite sides of a table with copies of Time and Harper's Bazaar (all of which they had at home but never found the time to read), they lapsed into silence. Kurt couldn't focus on the issue he was reading, instead finding himself thinking of the lion statues that guarded the building and how he could really use some of the patience and fortitude for which they stood.

“Seventy-seven?” he tried. It was an incredible long shot.

Blaine simply arched an eyebrow at him. “Liquid nitrogen.”

“Then what is it, you complete dork?” Kurt hissed, attracting sharp looks from the other quiet patrons. Blushing hotly at his own frustrated outburst, he leaned forward. “If you don't tell me right now, I'm going home. You know I hate surprises.”

Blaine set down his issue of Time, and stood. He leaned over Kurt to take from him the old issue of the Hollywood Reporter he'd been reading, and flipped through the first few pages, eyes quickly roaming over each. Finally, he seemed to find what he was looking for, and set it down in front of Kurt. It was open at a double-page interview with Andrew Garfield talking about his directorial debut, Theorem. It had been an overnight, worldwide success and was one of their favorite movies.

“Not... It can't be one-seventeen?” Kurt breathed hopefully. He felt himself deflate just a little when Blaine shook his head.

“No, baby,” he whispered, fingers snaking around Kurt's neck and lips brushing against his temple. “Look for numbers.”

“Numbers? Blaine, you've seen this,” he stated incredulously, feeling very much like a student disappointing his teacher as he gestured to the thick blocks of text and the movie poster made up almost entirely of the Pythagoras sequence.

“I'm going to the bathroom. Look for numbers,” Blaine repeated, before turning and striding out of the room with one last glance back.

Kurt slumped in his seat, biting back a howl of frustration that made his throat itch.

Long minutes passed, Kurt scanning the numbers. Methodically, he separated them out, crossing things off the list wherever he could. He strung them back together, reversed them, turned the damn things every which way until he had digits seared inside his eyelids and tingling where Blaine had kissed him.

It occurred to Kurt that Blaine had not yet returned from the bathroom, and a cursory glance at his watch confirmed that it had been at least fifteen minutes—plenty of time for Blaine to get up to the third floor and back down again. He scrubbed a hand over his face, sighing heavily and scanning the page from top to bottom one last time for good measure.

He almost, almost missed it. But realization hit him hard as his eyes rested upon the tiny twenty-nine in the bottom right corner of the page, and suddenly it made sense why Blaine hadn't come back.

Kurt was on his feet and moving quickly before he had time to really take stock, but it was about two-thirty and the library was fairly empty; workers were at work, students were mostly in class or elsewhere. He pushed the door to the bathroom open with a loud bang before whipping around and closing it behind him.

“Oh, thank McQueen there's a lock,” he muttered, the words coming out in a giddy, breathless rush as he slid the old-fashioned bolt across. He turned to face Blaine, who was leaning against the sinks with his arms crossed, grinning wolfishly. “Twenty-nine.”

“Warm,” Blaine answered, uncrossing his arms and holding out a hand. When Kurt took a step closer, he said, “warmer.”

They repeated the process until Kurt was pressing into him, hands either side of his hips on the sink. “Hot,” he whispered into Kurt's mouth, feeling him already half-hard against his thigh, “really, really hot.”

“Why the guessing game?”

“Would you really have agreed to it if I'd just said it? 'Hey Kurt, wanna go have sex in the library?'” Blaine mimicked himself with wide eyes, hands already working on the button of Kurt's jeans.

“Point taken. It is on the list, though,” Kurt conceded, mirroring Blaine's motions, “and I think I might have a Stockholm Syndrome kind of love for your dick.”

“Too much talking,” Blaine said, pressing his fingers to Kurt's mouth.

“Do you have—“

“Pocket.”

The second the word left his mouth, Blaine stopped, realizing exactly what he'd said. Kurt's ring was in his right pocket, the travel-size bottle of KY in his left. Unable to help it, he froze completely, and prayed that Kurt would read it as nerves.

His prayers were cut short as Kurt pushed his jeans down and wrapped his left hand around Blaine's cock, retrieving the lube with his other and slipping it into his own pocket. Blaine let out a low moan as Kurt jerked him roughly, sucking hard at his neck and yanking his scarf looser to get better access, before dropping his hand to rake his nails across the bare skin of Blaine's hip.

“Want you,” Kurt whispered, his breath ghosting hot and moist across Blaine's neck.

Blaine whimpered as Kurt pulled back, the loss of contact making his balls tighten painfully, but it was only moments before Kurt was on his knees and licking across the head of his cock before taking it in his mouth. Kurt had two fingers pushed against his entrance, and Blaine spread his legs wider even though it was becoming increasingly difficult to remain on his feet.

“God, Kurt, this was—mmm—supposed to be about you,” he managed. Kurt simply let out a throaty hum that reverberated through Blaine's entire body, pushing in deeper and crooking his fingers just so before easing in a third. Blaine almost lost it right there and then—Kurt could be surprisingly insatiable sometimes, and they'd had plenty of practice in building up their staying-power, but there was something so deliciously filthy and base about the semi-cleanliness of the bathroom (by which, amazingly, Kurt seemed unfazed) and the scratchy wool of his coat caught between the sink and his ass that was making his toes curl.

“Kurt, please,” he said brokenly, and Kurt pulled out slowly, releasing his cock with an obscenely wet smacking sound. He straightened up, and Blaine cupped his face in his hands to kiss him deeply, tugging hard on his bottom lip and swiping his tongue along the swollen flesh. Kurt grabbed the bottle from his pocket, quickly spread a generous amount onto his fingers and worked it along his length, moaning into Blaine's mouth at the first real contact with his aching erection.

“Turn around,” he murmured, voice low and gravelly. Blaine's eyes widened almost imperceptibly—they didn't do it like that very often, sharing a mutual preference to be able to kiss and look at one another—but he turned to face away, and his breath hitched in his chest as Kurt pushed inside. He braced himself with one hand on the mirror over the sink as Kurt began fucking him rough and fast, fingernails digging into his hip when their eyes met in the glass.

As good as it felt (fucking amazing, never want to stop), when Kurt saw the reflection of Blaine jerking himself in time with his own thrusts, he knew he wouldn't last very long. Though he'd wanted to do this for a long time, just for the experience, he couldn't deny that he'd been worried that it would end up being some completely emotionless, perfunctory act. But knowing that someone could come by at any moment, coupled with the sheer intensity of it all, gave Kurt a thrill that he could barely keep in check. He was close, and judging from the way Blaine had turned his head into his shoulder with teeth buried in his sleeve, he was too.

“Look at me,” Kurt ground out, and Blaine immediately returned his gaze to the mirror; autumn golds circling blown obsidian pupils.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Kurt,” Blaine cried out, repeating Kurt's name like a mantra as he came into the sink and over his fingers, Kurt following in the next heartbeat.

He half-collapsed on top of Blaine, feeling dirty and spent yet sated as he pulled out, hands crawling up Blaine's shaking arms. Their labored breathing was a sudden and stark contrast to the silence of the bathroom, and soon they were letting out loose and lazy laughs as they dragged themselves upright and set about cleaning up as best they could.

“That was...” Blaine trailed off, glancing at Kurt almost bashfully as he shucked his jeans back on and righted his coat, leaning over to wash his hands.

“Yeah. Different. Good,” Kurt said, biting his lip at his own inarticulacy.

“I wonder what tomorrow will bring,” Blaine said cryptically, shooting him another of those wolfish grins, and it was all Kurt could do not to demand a second round.

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. The music was playing in the background and he was singing with the perfect amount of flirtatious inflection. It was, however, a duet. Blaine was alone in the common room, yet there was that fleeting streak of chestnut, now only an unattached color upon which he fixated. And where was that voice coming from? Had he burned the wrong version to the CD, the one he used for rehearsing with when his duet partner was busy?

No. The voice was far too full of life—and far too physically close, wrapping him up like a blanket—to be coming from the stereo. It surrounded him; tingles and aches along his vertebrae.

Blaine was alone in the common room. ...Wasn't he?

Bzzz! Bzzz! And if you have a minute why don't we go, talk about it some—

Kurt lowered himself onto the bench slowly, handing Andrew a steaming cup of chamomile tea, which the other man accepted gratefully before slumping back into his seat with shaking shoulders. Tentatively, Kurt laid a hand on his back.

“It doesn't feel right, just sitting here while Toby does everything,” Andrew said, exhaustion and resignation evident in his voice.

“Andrew, honey, you weren't helping anyone,” Kurt intoned gently, shooting him a warm smile.

“Thank you, for being here. I know we haven't known each other for very long, but... It helps.”

“Of course,” Kurt replied, “you're our friend.”

The day so far had been eventful, to say the least. Blaine had been in the shower when his phone rang. Kurt answered and found himself talking to Lori, Blaine's boss, who explained that Toby and Andrew had been scheduled to work that day but had had a terrible house fire the previous night and were taking the day to try and figure everything out. After imparting the news, Kurt threw on some clothes and rushed out the door with Blaine, sharing only a quick peck on the lips before leaving in opposite directions: Kurt to Toby and Andrew's house, Blaine to the coffee shop. Kurt had spent the better part of the day helping them try to salvage whatever they could, and dealing with the nosy neighbors that didn't really seem that invested in helping, just finding out what had happened.

Everything was black with soot, and the scent of smoke still hung thickly in the hazy January air. Toby was caught up somewhere between meltdown and overdrive, sorting desperately through charred belongings and all the while blinking back tears that he was adamant were an effect of smoke irritating his eyes.

“If he stops, it'll hit him all at once. This house was all he had left of his grandfather. Such a wonderful man,” Andrew said absently. “It all just happened so quickly. When we—“

Kurt glanced across the space between them, and Andrew was biting down on his lip. He didn't know what to say; what could he say that would bring comfort to someone whose home lay in ruins?

“I've been talking about this all day,” Andrew said, shuddering and taking a sip of his tea. “Can we just... Subject change?”

“Of course. Let's talk about something else.”

“Thank you,” Andrew breathed, gratitude and relief layered in his tone. “Take my mind off it, tell me about your week.”

Kurt took a deep breath and immediately wished he hadn't as the acrid stench to which he'd grown accustomed assailed his senses all over again. “It's been amazing,” he began slowly, “but also kind of terrible.”

“How so?”

“Well...”

*

“So, let me get this straight,” Lori said, taking full advantage of the mid-afternoon lull. “You still haven't asked him?”

Blaine wiped his hands off on his apron and shook his head, avoiding her imperious gaze.

“What is wrong with you?”

For the umpteenth time that day—he'd lost count somewhere around fourteen—Blaine ran a hand through his hair. He could feel the way that his world was subtly beginning to shift back on its axis, righting itself once more. Something was off between he and Kurt—once they had returned home the previous day, he had cooked them an early dinner of chicken parmesan which Kurt had only picked at before shutting himself in the office for the rest of the evening. When Blaine had looked in on him before going to bed and asked if anything was wrong, Kurt had lied and said that he was just tired. It felt like the pedal being floored when the car was already accelerating in entirely the wrong direction.

“I know it sounds completely clich�, and... just cheesy but I haven't found the right time. It's Kurt; it has to be perfect.”

He had only one day left of their week together, and was single-mindedly determined that come Monday morning, Kurt would be styling himself with the label of 'fiance'. Taking stock of his attempts so far, he leaned back against the counter top, settling his elbows behind him. The zoo hadn't been the right time or place; he'd been too unsettled and lost in his own thoughts after meeting Nan at the Harlem Market; he was still licking his wounds over the failed proposals at Barney's and Coney Island (looking back, they were kind of terrible anyway); the library was only ever meant as a fun diversion and would never have been the right moment. But he still had tomorrow to sweep Kurt off his feet, and he wasn't going to waste a second.

“Honey,” Lori began, cutting through his whirl of thoughts, “trust me when I say that whenever and wherever you ask are both completely irrelevant. I've seen the way he looks at you when he comes in for his lunchtime coffee. Did you know that he only does that on the days you're working?”

Blaine just stared at her.

“Yeah, didn't think so,” Lori said knowingly. “Look, you're practically married already. The way you two move around each other, like... Like there's some thread connecting you. You anchor each other. It makes me feel like throwing up over you both.”

Blaine finally smiled, catching the wink she threw in his direction to make sure he knew she was joking. “I just can't wait to marry him,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Fixing him with one last gaze before turning to the customer who had entered the coffee shop with a tinkle of the bells above the door, Lori spoke softly. “Then ask him.”

*

“I just can't wait to marry him,” Kurt finished.

“You know, Toby was exactly the same,” Andrew replied, a small and genuine smile playing around his lips as he brushed across the ring on his finger. The sight of it made Kurt's heart ache just a little. “He spent an entire month doing all these things for me, big and small.”

“Like what?” Kurt asked, intrigued. Despite their numerous dinners spent together as a foursome, he still didn't know the couple all that well.

Andrew chuckled lightly; the first thing that had even come close to a laugh that day. “Breakfast in bed, taking me to my favorite places around Minneapolis, flowers, surprise coffees at work... But he was jumpy and distracted all the time, like he had something on the tip of his tongue but just couldn't get the words out. It was bugging me so damn much that I ended up starting a fight with him for the stupidest reason; I can't even remember why. It made sense at the time. Of course, I had no idea that he'd been trying to propose all month and felt like he had to make it perfect for me. Jesus, he could have asked me in the middle of a parking lot or behind a 7-Eleven and I would have said yes.”

Kurt smiled, setting down the cup of tea that had long since grown cold. “How did he ask you, in the end?”

Andrew paused for a long moment. “Behind a fucking 7-Eleven!” he burst out, laughter finally chasing away the haunted look in his eyes.

“How does that even happen?” Kurt asked, failing the suppress the giggles climbing his throat.

“I should have mentioned that we were in the car when we started fighting,” Andrew explained. “We'd stopped to get gas and I just needed to be away from him for a while, so I went across the street to the 7-Eleven. Next thing I know, he's dragging me behind it for round forty-fucking-six, screaming about how I'm so damn hard to propose to. So I told him that he could ask me right there and I'd still say yes, and then he just went down on one knee and said, 'so will you fucking marry me or not?'”

“And you said yes,” Kurt supplied, eyeing the engagement ring Andrew wore with not a little envy.

“Well. I kicked him for being such an asshole, and then I said yes.”

Kurt snorted and pulled his jacket a little tighter as a chill swept past them. “I always thought that it mattered. How he asked me,” he clarified, clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. “It still does. I've always wanted a big, romantic Central Park proposal. But that's all abstract. When I think about what's real... When I think about Blaine, all I want is to marry him.”

“You'll get there,” Andrew reassured him, placing a hand over his. “But maybe a nudge or two wouldn't hurt.”

Kurt smiled, squeezing his hand for a comfortable second. It was nice to have friends outside of work that were here; friends with whom he could arrange to meet for lunch, or bump into on a street corner and chat to for fifteen minutes on the way home. He liked his colleagues well enough, but they could tend to be more self-involved than Kurt on his worst days. As for his friends from McKinley, there was only so much time he could stand to be on his cell or Skype, especially after coming home from a long day of constantly ringing phones and memo after memo after memo.

A sudden crash from somewhere inside the house pulled Kurt from his thoughts, and he and Andrew raced inside, fearing the worst.

“Toby? Sweetheart?” Andrew called softly, spinning around at the answering sob.

Toby sat against the soot-streaked back of the couch, knees drawn up to his chest and shaking violently. Andrew immediately went to him, wrapping Toby in his arms and rocking him gently as Kurt stood awkwardly in the scorched doorway.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

Andrew shook his head, pressing a kiss into his fiance's hair, holding him tighter as he sobbed harder. “Thank you, though,” he said over his shoulder.

Kurt gestured behind him to the open and Andrew nodded once, then twice as Kurt motioned to call him if they did need anything. He turned and headed for the door, not wanting to intrude a moment longer. He was halfway down the street when his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he felt warm for the first time all day when he saw Blaine's face lighting up the screen.

“Hey,” he breathed.

“Hey, are you still there?”

“Just left. Toby kind of broke down and I just... I didn't want to intrude. We salvaged what we could, but...” Kurt trailed off, trying to swallow against the lump in his throat, overcome with a wave of sadness now that he no longer had to hold himself together for anyone. “Everything's just gone, Blaine.”

“Hey, shh, it's okay,” Blaine soothed. “Look, I'm almost done so get a cab over here and we'll go home and make a huge pizza. Low-fat cheese and everything.”

Kurt smiled in spite of himself. “Okay. Okay, I'll be there soon.”

“I love you.”

“I love you more.”

*

“Dinner's almost ready,” Blaine called, pausing midway through setting the table when there was no answer. Quietly, he approached the bedroom door that had been left slightly ajar, and smiled a little when he saw Kurt fast asleep on top of the covers. His chest was rising and falling steadily, and he looked at peace for the first time since he'd opened his eyes that morning and leaned across to press his face into Blaine's neck.

Quickly, he returned to the kitchen and switched off the timer on the microwave before it had a chance to go off. He took the pizza from the oven and covered it, then blew out the candles he'd set along the edge of the island.

After covering Kurt with the thick blanket artfully folded at the foot of the bed, Blaine slid underneath and burrowed into Kurt's warmth, breathing him in for a quiet moment.

“I'm gonna pick up the pieces and build a lego house, and if things go wrong we can knock it down,” he sang softly, barely above a whisper. Kurt smiled as he stirred awake, slowly turning over to face Blaine. “My three words have two meanings, there's one thing on my mind; it's all for you.”

Kurt opened his eyes, finding the rhythm of the song, and he continued the song in a sleep-choked voice. “And it's dark in a cold December, but I've got you to keep me warm. If you're broken I will mend you, and I'll keep you sheltered from the storm that's raging on now.”

Blaine wrapped his fingers around Kurt's wrist where it lay between them, pressing their foreheads together and harmonizing easily into the chorus of the song that had been the score of their year apart.

“I'm outta touch, I'm outta luck, I'll pick you up when you're getting down,” they sang together, “and out of all these things I've done, I think I love you better now. I'm outta sight, I'm outta mind, I'll do it all for you in time, and out of all these things I've done, I think I love you better now.”

Kurt blinked sleepily as Blaine brushed his thumb across the soft skin of his cheek. “Mmm... is it time for dinner?”

Blaine shook his head. “Time for sleep, baby. Big day tomorrow.”

Deep in his core, next to the piece of Kurt's heart he kept nestled against his own, he could feel it—tomorrow was the day that their lives were both going to change forever. Kurt's breathing evened out once more and Blaine let himself sink further into the soft pillow, his mind idly chasing the threads of their song as the day finally caught up with him. He happily welcomed sleep's embrace, a melody forming in his mind and following him down into his dreams.

Something was happening to someone he hadn't known for very long. He couldn't even remember what they looked like; the sound of their voice; the way they held themselves. But he knew that something was going on, something that this person wouldn't speak of to anyone else. It made Blaine hurt in a way that he hadn't for a long time—not since before arriving at Dalton. This person was scared, and felt alone in the world.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, typing out one simple word that conveyed everything he wanted to say. Barely having the time to make it to his next class, Blaine decided to be concise and sum up everything he wanted to say with one word: Courage.

When it came time to hit 'Send', however, he didn't recognize a single one of the numbers stored in his Contacts. Who was the message meant for?

Bzzz! Bzzz! If I could find a way to see this straight, I'd run away—

That fucking song. Blaine sat up and switched it off as hastily as he could; he couldn't even remember choosing it from the playlist when he'd set the alarm an hour previously with raw and aching fingers, new blisters forming beneath old calluses that had broken the strings of his guitar.

The apartment was completely quiet. There were no missed calls or messages on his phone; he knew without even having to look. Kurt hadn't answered any of his calls or texts since he'd left. Was this what life would be like without him? All-encompassing, suffocating, deafening silence that chewed its way inside him and lay like a lead weight deep in his very soul?

Bitterly sad and entirely alone, Blaine flopped backwards on the bed, promptly hitting his head against the headboard.

“Ow, fuck!” he shouted, much louder than was necessary. He squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his fists and unfurling them one finger at a time to a count of ten.

“Fuck you, Blaine.”

The words echoed in the whorls of his ears and he rubbed at the back of his head as he curled up on Kurt's side of the bed, knees drawn up and pulling Kurt's pillow close. How had today gone so absolutely, terribly wrong?

It must have started, he supposed, the moment they stepped out of their building and onto the street. Blaine was a few steps ahead of Kurt, who had briefly stopped to talk to the doorman. He heard the rumbling of a large engine, and in the next moment found himself soaked to the skin where the speeding truck had driven straight through a puddle that he could quite comfortably have bathed in.

Strike one.

Of course. Of course it had to be that day. Of course it had to be that particular dry-clean-only suit. And of course, Kurt had to be snickering into his gloved hand while trying to look concerned and entirely serious. Blaine sighed heavily, the shock of cold settling somewhere in his bones, and returned to their apartment to change into something slightly less perfect.

Then, he mused bitterly, the next thing to go wrong would—of course—be that he would spill coffee down his pristine white shirt. Not only that, but that it would be as a result of burning the roof of his mouth on a large gulp of his scalding medium drip. Whilst standing outside Tiffany's, holding a bacon and egg croissant from the Macaron Cafe. Which he dropped.

Kurt had simply handed him his own croissant and set about trying to fix Blaine's jacket so that the stain wouldn't show, eventually settling on draping his scarf around Blaine's neck, but Blaine could still feel the stain spreading and the scent of arabica seeping into his skin.

Strike two.

Blaine rubbed his hand over his chest, the still slightly reddened skin tingling unpleasantly.

According to Murphy's Law, it would certainly follow that the winds that had been lying mostly dormant for the week had kicked up with such ferocity that the private helicopter tour over Manhattan for which Blaine had tickets would be canceled. Somehow, there would be no cabs waiting around outside the Downtown Manhattan Heliport and they would be forced to take the subway back into the heart of the city; a staple of New York living to which neither of them had ever particularly warmed.

All of this, Blaine could deal with. He could deal with icy showers and coffee burns and high winds. Because the way Kurt kept glancing at him through his eyelashes—hesitant, expectant, like he was waiting for something—was making Blaine more sure than ever that despite everything, today was the day.

After a relatively pain-free walk around the city, falling in love with the cacophony of drivers swearing and honking their horns harmonized with a backdrop of multi-ethnic street vendors all over again, they shared a quiet and intimate lunch at Pastis. The day began to look up, and even seemed worth it at the expression on Kurt's face when they turned onto West 51st Street and arrived outside the Gershwin Theatre in plenty of time for the afternoon performance of Wicked.

But there was still something off. The way Kurt twisted his program between his fingers, the way he was so transfixed on the stage and seemed to almost forget that Blaine was even there until intermission, all of which he spent talking about the performance. It was that damning passion that Blaine had fallen in love with, but right then it seemed like an impenetrable barrier.

Maybe he wasn't so good at plans after all.

When they finally returned to their apartment, Blaine all but collapsed onto the couch, sad and frustrated with himself. It was the end of the week—three weeks to the day since he had asked permission—and he still hadn't found that perfect moment. Not for the first time, he wondered why finding this supposed magical moment was so important to him. But all he had to do was lose himself again in the memory of Kurt singing Blackbird and all of his stupid, illogical reasoning came back to him with full force.

“Kurt, there is a moment... when you say to yourself, 'oh, there you are. I've been looking for you forever.'”

It didn't do a thing to quell the utter frustration, though.

“And Defying Gravity, I mean, she wasn't as good as Idina but really, who could be?” Kurt was gushing as he arranged and rearranged the magazines on the coffee table in a fit of nervous elation. Blaine smiled half-heartedly, and he thought to himself that maybe he should just do it right there and then. No shouting from rooftops (or, as the case may have been, a theme park ride), no romantic helicopter tour, no bells or whistles... just them.

“Are you listening?”

“Sorry,” Blaine said, shaking his head a little.

“Seems to be a habit of yours,” Kurt muttered snippily, and Blaine drew back as Kurt stood up and paced around the coffee table.

“What do you mean?” he asked, carefully.

“You know exactly what I mean. No, wait. Actually, you don't. I forgot for a moment there,” Kurt said, his tone razor-sharp.

“Kurt, just stop. Please. Stop. There's something that I need to—”

“Why are you ruining this?” Kurt suddenly interrupted, perplexing him completely. “In spite of all the little mishaps, we just had the perfect New York date and you're acting like a complete asshole right now.”

“I'm acting like an asshole,” Blaine repeated incredulously, feeling that confusing, knee-jerk reaction in his gut and sighing heavily. “Look, can we just... Can we just go for a walk, or something?”

“No, Blaine, we can't. Because it's just going to be another excuse for you to avoid doing what you've been avoiding doing all week, let alone since fucking November,” Kurt retorted.

“And what exactly is that?”

“Proposing to me, that's what! Asking me to marry you!”

Blaine stopped short, taken entirely aback. He knows?

“I knew it. I fucking knew it. You weren't listening.”

“I wasn't listening? Kurt, I don't understand, what—“

“The Empire State Building, Blaine!” Kurt interrupted, throwing up his hands. “The night after we moved into our apartment, we went to the Empire State Building and we were standing at the top and I was saying to you that when they change the laws back home that you should ask me to marry you and you just hummed into my ear and I thought you were fucking agreeing with me! And when I mentioned it to you on Coney Island you got that look in your eyes, that confused puppy-dog look and I just knew you had no idea what I was talking about!”

Blaine was silent, his guilt all-consuming.

“And you had so many fucking chances this week, Blaine! What about this afternoon, after Wicked? Or at the Harlem Market?” Kurt barreled on, forcing his sleeve up to his elbow and pointing to the middle symbol, only a little faded. “It means readiness! And yours means commitment! What clearer sign could there be?”

“I tried to propose to you on Coney Island, Kurt!” Blaine yelled, standing up and crowding himself into Kurt's personal space. “When we were on the Sling Shot, and don't even get me started on how you passive-aggressively even let me onto that thing because that's a whole other issue. But I tried to propose to you and you didn't hear me!”

“You—you did?”

“Yeah, I did. I've been trying to work up the nerve to propose to you all day—no, scratch that, all fucking week. Everything I've done for you this week, every single thing, has been me trying to propose to you. And the fact that you're even standing there thinking that I need some conversation to dictate the rest of our lives is just, it's amazing to me,” Blaine continued, feeling himself getting hotter and angrier; closer to saying something he was going to regret for a long time. “I've wanted to marry you for so long, Kurt, but right now I can't think of a single reason why.”

And there it was. The thing he was going to regret.

There was a single beat of silence, the expression on Kurt's face rapidly transitioning from shock to outrage to utter defiance. “You know what? Neither do I. Fuck you, Blaine,” he spat, turning on his heel and sweeping up his keys from the end table. The front door slammed so hard behind him that it rattled in its frame.

Strike three: you're out.

Immediately, Blaine crossed the room and grabbed the handle with a mind to wrench open the door and demand that Kurt come back, but he felt the fight draining from him like a fire dying inside, and he slid to the floor in a mess.

Thinking back on it, Blaine couldn't really recollect how long he'd spent sitting behind the door. It was as if he'd been waiting for Kurt to come breezing back into the apartment like nothing had even happened. Only he hadn't.

Eventually, Blaine had dragged himself up from the floor and shuffled into the office. He paced around the room with his guitar haphazardly slung across his body, picking out melodies on the strings before finally setting at the desk and writing them down. Before he knew what was happening, he was scribbling down lyrics almost feverishly, like they would forever disappear from his mind unless he made them appear on the page in the same instant they came stumbling into his consciousness.

He played his guitar harshly, technique be damned, and sang until his throat was raw. Then he sang some more, until the walls themselves were composed of flats and sharps and the strings of his guitar were stretching and snapping under his bleeding fingers and it wasn't enough, wasn't anywhere close to enough because Kurt had walked out and after three unread emails, eleven unanswered texts and thirty-four rejected calls, he didn't even know if he would come back.

And then, as if the day wasn't already terrible enough in its own right, he finally found his lucky bow tie while digging out a spare set of guitar strings. It was the bow tie that Kurt had bought for him their first Christmas as a couple. He no longer wore it, but had still carried it with him during every important moment in his life. Blaine hadn't seen it since before they moved into the apartment, and had been convinced that he'd lost it—a fact he'd carefully concealed from Kurt. Yet there it was, mixed in with a box of guitar strings, plectrums and blank sheet music. He had crumpled it in his hand, breathing deeply, and it hung limply between his fingertips as he trailed into their bedroom and let himself fall into bed, too tired to do anything except sleep.

Three hours later and their bed was still cold; a stark, thousand-thread-count wasteland as Blaine found himself still alone, the apartment still empty. His mind in fragments, head and heart both aching and with the bow tie clutched tightly to his chest, he let himself drift once more into the beckoning arms of sleep.

*

Kurt's feet hurt, and he never thought he'd find himself cursing Marc Jacobs' very existence and wishing so vehemently for a pair of Caterpillar boots, or even Converse. He'd been walking for hours, almost jogging as the outrage worked its way out of his system and into the gray paving slabs of every sidewalk. Dark, thick clouds gathered overhead, and he heard two falafel vendors groaning over the scratchy sounds of a portable radio broadcasting snow.

Rounding the next corner, he gratefully made his way inside the nearest coffee shop, shivering in the sudden burst of warmth that blasted from the heater over the door.

Fuck you, Blaine.

Kurt closed his eyes, as if to block out the crestfallen expression on Blaine's face but it was right there in his mind's eye, and wasn't going away any time soon.

The coffee shop was quiet, and when he took his grande non-fat mocha from the barista, he found a table in the back. He slumped into his seat, resting one ankle on the opposite thigh, and rubbed absently at the inside of his aching foot.

He was standing on the observation deck of the Empire State Building, and felt like he was flying as he looked out at the city lit up from below the night sky, almost a reflection of the stars that were already long burnt-out. He stood with his nose almost pressed against the glass, and Blaine moved to stand behind him, arms wrapping around his waist and pulling him in tightly, a kind of close that was close to enough.

“I've been thinking,” Kurt murmured as Blaine's whisper of breath danced over his shoulder.

“About what?”

“About Ohio. I think that—that when they change the laws back home, we should get married.”

It didn't even take a second for the of hum his agreement into his ear; it was the perfect plan, and Blaine told him as much.

“I want to ask you, though,” he continued, nosing over Kurt's neck. “I want to see the look in your eyes when I ask you to be mine.”

“I'll always be yours.”

Kurt laughed bitterly at the memory that belonged only to him, and checked his phone for the umpteenth time in the last ten minutes. His phone had been silent for hours, now. Maybe Blaine had left. Maybe Kurt would return home to find his half of the closet empty, every second drawer cleared out, the office missing the guitars and the ukulele and the inexplicable trombone.

“Excuse me, everyone?”

Kurt's attention shifted to the dark-haired man now standing towards the front of the coffee shop, loudly asking for everyone's attention. The woman with whom he was sitting was looking up at him with wide eyes, a faint blush creeping up her neck as he took her hand with a wide smile.

“Um, I'm sorry to disturb you all, but there's a question I'd like to ask of this beautiful woman right here,” he continued, taking her hand. “You see, three years ago today, we met at this very coffee shop. And for some reason I still can't figure out, she agreed to go on a date with me.”

Tearfully, the woman laughed, and Kurt smiled despite himself.

“We've had our ups and downs like any couple, but I know in my heart that she's the only one for me,” the man said, taking a step forward and dropping to one knee. The woman placed a hand over her heart, letting out a soft gasp as the man produced a ring. “Heather Luccesi, will you marry me? Will you be mine?”

“I'll always be yours,” Heather laughed, before nodding and leaning forward to kiss her fianc�. Kurt's heart stuttered in his chest and for a second, for a single suspended moment, he saw himself in her place. He saw Blaine kneeling in front of him, eyes full of love and hope and promise. Everything he'd ever wanted, wrapped in amber.

I'll always be yours.

Kurt smiled, his coffee long forgotten. He stood, made his way through the tables and chairs to briefly congratulate the couple, and left the caf�. As soon as he felt cement beneath his feet, he started running.