I couldn't figure out what I was feeling after Kurt's text.

Sadness. I felt that. I felt a whole lot of that.

I wasn't even entirely sure what to make of the text.

I think Ced and I just made up.

He thought. Not they had. I didn't know whether that meant he had reservations, or if they'd broken up amicably, or if they were still together, but a little rocky and cautious. My mind is a prowling black hound. The kind that can do without the freedom to construct its own conclusions, but it was like it couldn't even find the strength to run wild. It just grimly settled on they must have reconciled.

Mostly, I felt like I'd missed my train. I was running down the platform, heavy suitcase in my hand, silently screaming for it to wait as it turned a corner and chugged out of sight in soot and coal, leaving me bent double, hands on my knees as I gasped to regain my breath and got left behind. Not even significant enough to be missed, or present enough to be forgotten.

Which was probably a great deal worse than I had any right to feel, but I suppose that's self-pity, isn't it? From the inside, from the sufferer's point of view, it's a crushing weight that multiplies and grows with inhuman speed, feeding itself like oxygen feeds a flame, while from an outsiders perspective, they're left wondering what all the fuss is about.

I've thrown enough pity parties in my life and am self-aware enough to tell when they're over the top, but funnily, that wisdom still never manages to lessen the sting of being let down.

On top of all that, Kurt wasn't even aware that he had let me down in not ditching Cedric's two-timing ass. How could he be?

I had no right to feel awful. But I did.

Immediately after I received his text I flopped back down on my bed, rolling onto my side and nestling my head in the crook of my arm.

I guess it was unhealthy, how much I'd fallen for Kurt. Just how much I'd let my future happiness hinge on him being single and unattached. It wasn't something I felt I could or should apologise for, and I sincerely doubt it was something I could even change if I wanted to, but in my new home in Albarn, where I knew very few people, I had depended on his personal actions to excess.

Amongst all that pity, I also found I still had a great deal of room for worry. I was certain Cedric didn't make Kurt happy and I couldn't see that in the future he would. Someone who'd gone behind his back so many times could never be enough for him. It was probably arrogant of me to think I would be able to make Kurt happy, but I wanted to. That had to count for something. That desperate want. If nothing else, surely he'd be happier without Cedric, the complicating, convoluting, chain smoking tool.

I think I hated Cedric then. An immature flash of it that simmered and scorched. The only other person I've ever hated was Malcolm's dad, so I suppose in comparison to that concentrated, warranted revulsion it wasn't genuine hate, but at that moment, alone in my dark room, it felt like it.

I buried my face in my pillow and sighed. Half of me really wanted to call Kurt and clarify what he'd meant exactly. The other half couldn't think of anything worse.

Except maybe that he wouldn't pick up, and then my bitch of an imagination would be left to wonder if it was because he was with Cedric, and wasn't able to talk. Whether because they were kissing, or talking, or fucking, or sleeping side by side, naked, tangled and sated. Kurt was so much more to me than a beautiful face and a lithe body, but the idea of Cedric's hands anywhere near his lovely pale skin made me clench my teeth and resist the urge to punch the wall. Absurd really, given that they'd no doubt had sex countless times in their relationship, but I felt sick for every abstract occasion.

Something else I've discovered over the years is how much easier it is to rebuild walls than it is to tear them down. That may have been what scared me the most. In a literal sense you'd think it would be the opposite. Aim a wrecking ball, let it swing and watch the labour of hundreds of hands crumble and be swept away as so much useless detritus.

In a metaphorical sense, all it would have taken was a hardening of my jaw and a tiny glimmer of self-doubt that I'd been wrong to allow myself to hope for anything from Kurt, and I'd been wrong to let him in.

For once, my resolve was strongly against that outcome. I'd built something in Albarn. I saw so much potential to grow and gain and improve myself, and the idea of those old walls slamming up, fortified and stronger than ever made me break out in a cold sweat. Now I had something to lose, if only Santana, Puck and Kurt.

If only. That was a joke. My parents aside (and they were more of rote importance to me; bound by blood and shared years and the odd love that came with that) after only a few weeks they were the most important people in my life, and I couldn't bear the thought of giving them reason to drift away and give up on me. It was easy enough to laugh and assume that Santana wouldn't leave me alone until hell froze over, but that wasn't a given, and surely even she had her limits.

I was stone cold petrified by it, but I wasn't going to tuck myself away and hide anymore. I wasn't. I didn't want the only emotions that came easily to me to be the ones that so consistently made me feel wrong. Twisted up and tied in knots. It felt like flinging the doors and windows open in an old, disused house, arrows of light sparking in and gusts of fresh air searching out shadowy corners to clear out the dank. I was going to cling to my friends for as long as I could, and if they eventually pried my hands from them and turned their backs, I wouldn't let it be through active fault of mine. Not anymore.

Even as I lay there I found myself wanting to reach for my discarded phone and dial Santana's number. That was… profound. I didn't even know what I wanted to say to her, or what I'd want to hear in return, but I needed a friend.

Not wanted. Needed.

I needed to hear her voice and her barbs and a string of excess swear words. I needed her to be indignant where I was too muddled to be anything but crestfallen. I felt so relieved to have a confidant that I'd never thought I'd appreciate, and for the first time since I'd met her, I was so, so thankful for her lack of respect for my privacy and my secrecy.

I scrolled through my contacts and dialled her number without hesitation, the glow of my phone leaving me momentarily blinded as the sun fully set and I held it firmly, almost painfully, to my ear. I exhaled in relief when she picked up on the third ring.

"Well, hello." She greeted, "You read my mind, I was just about to call you to see if you stuck to your guns, and make sure you weren't freaking out or anything."

"He took him back." I murmured, my voice coming out more strained than I'd have liked.

There was a beat, "He what now?"

"Kurt," I grimaced, "I think he took Cedric back."

"Oh, Blaine," she sighed, "Sweetheart."

I laughed weakly, barely a shudder of breath, "Sweetheart?"

"It's your fault," she said stiffly, like she really hadn't intended the pet name, "You're like a little orphaned duckling, it makes me maternal," she paused, "It's gross."

"Thanks."

"The baby animal is pretty interchangeable actually. Puppy, lamb. You're all weak and helpless and…" I heard her exhale heavily through her nose, "What do you mean, you think he took him back?"

"He texted me and said they made up. I'm too pathetic to dig for details."

"Idiot…" she mumbled, quickly adding, "Not you. Kurt." She was silent for a second before she asked, "This has hit you pretty hard, hasn't it?"

"Yes." I answered quietly, "Like I said, I'm pathetic."

"Wow… when you mope you don't do it by halves." Oddly, she sounded a little impressed, "I'm coming over."

I sighed, "You don't have to do that. I don't want to ruin your night, too."

"Blaine, my plans for this evening were painting my toe nails, texting Brittany, and eating my weight in Dorito's, which, completely awesome as that was going to be, isn't as important as making sure you don't go and curl up in a ball in a shower cubicle or… listen to Leonard Cohen or some hippy acoustic shit and drown in your own tears."

"I'm not even crying." I grumbled.

"Because you're the Tinman."

"Is that a Friend of Dorothy joke?" I asked dryly.

"Oh, shit, I didn't even think of that!" She crowed delightedly.

"I have a heart, Santana." I deadpanned.

"Well, it's defective." Worn was more accurate, but I wasn't about to correct her, "I usually try to convince people otherwise, but tears don't actually burn on their way out."

"I don't want to cry!" I snapped, accidentally petulant, "You aren't making me feel better!"

"Fine!" I heard a rustling and a shifting of breath, as if he was pushing herself to her feet, "But I'm still walking over to hang out and give you a shoulder to not cry on. Oh!" She chirped excitedly,
"If no one's stolen it yet, I have half a passionfruit cheesecake in the fridge that's so good it'll probably give you an orgasm."

"That's…" I wrinkled my nose, then relaxed a little as the less crass section of her announcement sank in, "Actually, that sounds perfect."

"Really?" She snorted loudly, "You do have a right hand, don't you?"

"I meant the cheesecake and company, Santana!" I paused, "Mostly."

"Well, I'm not opposed to you getting off with me in the room, I'm just saying it's a little kinky."

I took a deep breath and sat up, "You might be the strangest friend I've ever had."

"The feeling's mutual, duckling." She said warmly, "Text me your room number and put your PJs on. I'll be there in ten."

At a brisk knock, I opened the door to find Santana in grey sweats, Ugg boots and a green Albarn hoodie, looking ever so slightly wary, like she was concerned at the state she'd find me in. I reached out immediately and tugged her close, sliding my arms around her slim, fleece padded waist, and burying my face in her neck.

"Hey, hey…" she soothed, rubbing light circles on my back with one hand, holding the cheesecake box out of harm's way with the other, "Settle down."

"Sorry." I murmured, voice muffled against her skin, citrusy perfume and moisturiser. She was just shorter than me, and it felt somehow comforting to be able to fold my own compact body over hers. Mal had been taller than me, Kurt was taller than me, I'd never hooked up with a guy who was shorter than me, nor shared that many hugs with such boys that could be classed as innocent, anyway. Something about hugging Santana felt paradoxically consuming and gentle.

"It's fine." She reassured, "I think I can handle the embarrassing title of 'cuddle friend' when you give such good cuddle."

I hummed, waves of anxiety rolling off and away in her presence, "I actually haven't had that much practice at it."

"Then you're a natural."

She kissed my temple, a surprisingly tender gesture that made me want to hold on tighter, and extricated herself, standing back and looking me up and down, taking in the same jeans and polo combo I'd been wearing all day, with the addition of a thick, grey shawl-collar sweater that was so cosy it felt like a mother's hug.

She pursed her lips, and after a second, asked, "No pyjamas?"

I looked down at my attire, shrugging half-heartedly, "I don't own any."

She arched an eyebrow, and I briefly thought I was going to get away from that admission without comment, only for her to smirk, "Me neither."

I laughed and closed my eyes, "As oddly comfortable as I feel around you, I think stripping down to my boxer briefs for an evening of dessert and wallowing is kind of crossing a really obvious line."

"You're still not my type," she pushed me backwards into the room and closed the door behind herself, "But you're a pretty little thing, and I wouldn't be particularly upset if I happened to have that image burned into my memory."

"Stop," I shook my head, "You're making this weird."

"You're weird." She countered automatically, holding the cake out, "Do you have forks or are we going to eat this with our fingers like the tragic slobs we are?"

I'd gone straight to the kitchen for utensils after we'd hung up, and I picked them up off my desk, waving them in front of her face. I hesitated for a moment, gazing around my tiny, sparsely furnished room. It didn't have a great many places to sit.

"Do you… want the chair?" I asked uncertainly.

"Shut up," she rolled her eyes, "Get on the damn bed. We're doing this properly."

I crawled on top of my covers without argument, settling back against the wall, lengthways across the bed with my feet dangling over the side. Santana propped herself up on my pillows and draped her legs over mine, balancing the cake box on her knees as I passed her a fork.

We both stabbed at the dessert, and Santana casually said, "I may have slightly exaggerated this cakes ability to bring you to climax, so try not to be disappointed if you don't actually come."

"Oh my god…" I murmured, closing my eyes and shovelling a forkful into my mouth so that I didn't have to respond. After a couple of chews my eyes flew open at the incredible taste, "Oh my god." I groaned.

"I know, right?" she grinned, "Tell me you don't feel it in your cock."

I held my hand up and yelled, "Please stop."

She cackled, poking me in the knee with her fork, "In case you hadn't noticed, I'm being as inappropriate as possible to try to distract you from the fact that it sounds like Kurt's ruining his own life, and unconsciously disrupting yours." She cleared her throat, "You're gonna wish you'd called someone else by the end of the night. I've never really done this whole comforting thing before, and it's kind of the only tactic I could think of."

"Well… thanks. Really, Santana." I sighed, "But it's enough that you're here, you know? I … I already feel a little bit better having you here."

She nodded slowly and ate a bite of cake, "The minute I see Kurt, I'm telling him he's making a mistake."

I looked up through my eyelashes, "Don't mention me."

"God, I won't. I'd have thought you could trust me to keep your secrets by now." She traced the shape of an 'S' deep into the passionfruit glaze, "Speaking of which, did you come out to him?"

I nodded, "Yeah."

"How'd it go?" she prompted.

"Fine," I shrugged, "It went fine. Just like you said. And…" I scrubbed a fist at my temple, "And for a second, it felt like, I dunno, progress. And now I just feels like Kurt knows I'm gay, and is still unavailable, which I should have expected all along."

"He should have dumped Ced." She said shortly.

I gazed up, right in her cautiously watchful eyes, "I shouldn't have got to a point where I'm shattered that he didn't."

We sat in silence for a minute, digging away at the edges of the dessert, watching it shrink with every mouthful. It felt so companionable and comfortable, if I'd been willing to try, I probably could have diverted my mind from Kurt altogether. Unfortunately Santana seemed just as incapable of changing the subject.

She licked the tines of her fork clean like a meticulous cat, and cleared her throat, "You should call him."

My response was immediate and stern, and said with a half full mouth, "No."

Santana's lips twitched upwards for a second at my sudden lack of manners, before she asked, "Are you angry with him?"

"No." I wasn't.

"Disappointed?"

"No!"

"Not even in a really petty, superficial way where you know you shouldn't be, but you resent him anyway?" She wheedled.

I gritted my teeth, "Santana…"

"So you're just angry with yourself." She concluded, smirking in a slightly too self-satisfied way.

I glared feebly, "Get out of my head."

"You think it's fun in your head?" she quickly added, "Don't answer that." Her eyes shifted to sympathetic in that way that always came as a surprise on her normally shrewd face, no matter how often I saw it, "It's not healthy, Blaine. You're the only person who could possibly find a way to place all blame on your shoulders in this situation. You're like fucking Atlas. Only less naked. Kurt's being a dumbass, and you're allowed to be pissed at him"

"Can I be pissed at Cedric instead?" I grumbled, aware and totally unconcerned with how immature I sounded.

Santana chuckled, "Babe, that's a natural as breathing, but if it gets you to vent, then go for it."

Venting… I had a whole lifetime of that stored up. I gnawed on my bottom lip, trying to decide where to start, twisting my fingers in my bedspread to keep them busy.

"There's this… ingrained part of me that's screaming for me to ignore Kurt. Like, literally cut him off. Because that's what I do." I sliced my hand through the air in front of me, "Just, do anything in my power to take a step back and accept that we're probably never going to be anything other than friends, and give myself the time to come to terms with that. But I can't. It's selfish and it wouldn't be fair, and I don't think I can stand the idea of hurting him or confusing him. At all. He doesn't know how I feel for him, it just wouldn't be fair. I can't begrudge him anything."

"You could, but you won't," she shook her fork at me, "Because you love him."

"I still don't know if that's true." I could feel myself blushing, still uncomfortable with the topic, but unable to avoid it, "I… I adore him. Every second I'm with him, I'm just staring at him thinking, 'god, you're gorgeous, I could listen to you talk all day, please keep talking.' But…" I tilted my head, eyes to the ceiling, "Maybe I just idolise him."

"Maybe. You're in deep either way." Santana was doing a terrible job of hiding a delighted grin, "Have you been in love before?"

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

Malcolm.

As much as I wanted to become accustomed to sharing, we were venturing into dangerous waters, and I shifted awkwardly before answering, icy liquid filling my lungs.

"Yeah," I swallowed another mouthful of cake, tasting abruptly of ash, making me nauseous, my eyes averted and neck prickling, "Have you?"

She gave a careful one shouldered shrug, affected nonchalance, "Not yet." I could feel her eyes on me, waiting, and she tilted her head slightly, "Blaine?"

"It fucking sucked." I whispered.

Santana snorted, "They don't tell you that in the movies."

I sighed heavily, "Not to make you as jaded as me or anything, but love is the worst."

"No good parts at all?"

I ground my palm into my eye and let out a frustrated growl, "God, so many good parts. You know, just being able to say, 'I'm in love,' and know that you're loved back. It's just… indescribable. But it hurts Santana." I finally looked up, "When you give yourself to someone like that… there's so much to lose, but when you're young you just don't think about that, I was so stupid and naïve and young… and when it goes wrong… it's like having your chest torn open over and over again."

Her eyes widened, brows rising in unison, "Are you drunk?"

"No, I'm not drunk," I scowled, swatting at her thigh, "Unless you've spiked the cake."

"I haven't spiked the cake." She said patiently, "That just sounded… really dramatic, Blaine."

"I guess," I conceded, "Anything less doesn't feel strong enough, or I'd have toned it down."

She clapped her hands together in a tiny round of applause, like the fact that I wasn't sugar coating was something to celebrate.

I smiled weakly, not wanting to smile at all, and shook my head, "I'm just feeling… honest. I'm starting to feel like I need to be honest, and I'm trying it out on you. I'll stop if you like."

"Don't." She snapped, "It doesn't bother me, it just… kind of worries me. But if you're this honest with Kurt, I think it's more likely he'll want to wrap you up in cotton wool than sleep with you."

I cocked and eyebrow and smirked, "I know that you use sex as a metaphor for affection, you know. You aren't fooling me. Is it just easier for you to say you want to get in Brittany's pants than to say you want to have a relationship with her?"

"Hey, when did this conversation become about me?" She squawked, flipping the cake box shut and shoving it aside so she could jostle me with her feet.

"When I decided that this friendship is unhealthily focussed on me and my neuroses." I caught her ankles and held them, "And because you and I both know that neither of us are out for a quick fuck this time."

She stopped struggling , "This time?"

"It's been a while, but I'm not a monk." I murmured, "I quite literally love dick."

She threw her head back with one sharp, joyous Hah, "This Blaine's my favourite Blaine."

"Don't change the subject."

"Okay, fine." She folded her arms across her breasts and jutted her chin out sullenly, "I find it hard to reconcile feeling deeply for another human being with the fact that I'm generally considered pretty cold and promiscuous, and do very little to break that assumption because it's easier that way. I love sex, and I see no shame in having it when I can, and if anyone else judges me for it, they can fuck off." She paused for a second like she was waiting for me to take offence or tell her I was disgusted, which I didn't and I wasn't, and she continued, voice slightly softer, "But I still want to get down to some of this really fucking awful love you speak so highly of." She pouted, "There. Now you've made me admit something I never talk about. Happy, Doctor Phil?"

I nodded, adding, "I'd rather be Oprah."

She crumpled forwards, laughing, "You're so gay."

"Tell me you wouldn't rather be Oprah." I coaxed.

"Yes, I'd rather be Oprah, no I shouldn't perpetuate stereotypes, now eat your damn cake." She shoved the box back towards me.

I wrinkled my nose, frowning, "Nuh uh, I think I'm gonna puke."

"From eating too much, or from this heart-warming Brady Bunch moment we've just shared?"

"You started it." I cried.

She hummed, "If I'd known the monster I was creating, I'd have left you in your little emotional prison of one."

"I'm glad you didn't." I admitted, barely audible.

Santana wriggled and shifted, moving until she was sitting next to me, shoulder to shoulder, both of us staring ahead. It was another one of those occasions where I just knew she was on the verge of asking something significant, and my stomach filled with butterflies, unknown tension palpable.

"Um…" she said carefully, "This bad ending with… was it your last boyfriend?"

"Yeah." I croaked, my throat aching, "I've only had one."

"Okay," she continued, "So, what? Are you scorned, or whatever?"

"It wasn't like that."

"Then he broke your heart." She guessed, painfully straight to the point.

My eyes drifted shut, hands in loose fists as I struggled to push away a sudden cloud of familiar misery, "He didn't mean to. I think…" my voice cracked, "I… I probably broke his too. It was a long time ago."

"Well, is it still broken?"

"I dunno. No. No, probably not." I tapped my temple with two fingers, "I'm pretty sure most of my problems have been up here for a while now."

"Blaine, what happened?"

Her voice was so gentle, and I felt her fingers, dry, warm and tentative, curling around my own. It was too much. It was abruptly too, too much, closing in on me and pressing against my ribs. Her compassion for something she didn't know or understand wasn't unwelcome, but if she offered even a sliver more I would crack and topple and cry like all my insides had given way and hollowed out, and I had no idea whether or not I'd ever be able to stop.

"Can we please not talk about it, Santana?" I almost gasped, eyes still clenched, "I just… I really, really don't want to talk about it. I can't… I can't talk about it, okay?"

"Okay, fine, it's okay. Blaine…" She pulled her hand away slowly, and I was so grateful. It wasn't that I didn't want physical comfort, I just didn't want to lose myself, "Blaine? Hey. Hey, look at me."

I pried my eyes open and gazed up at her with barely dry eyes, probably looking like the most pitiful, tragic thing she'd ever seen. She in turn wore an expression of sweet, confused concern, lips pursed as she scanned my face and eventually sighed.

"What am I going to do with you?"

My heartbeat had mostly evened out, and I smiled as best I could, "If you can keep up what you're doing now, I can probably figure the rest out on my own."

"I hope so." She said, an unexpected slow and slightly wicked grin creeping across her face, her eyes sparkling, "D'you wanna hear about the time I accidentally walked in on Kurt jerking off in his bedroom?"

"What?" I spluttered, my mouth falling open, "No! No, no, I really don't! What the fuck?" I shoved her shoulder as she cackled, grateful for the blatant change in subject, but blushing scarlet.

"Are you sure? I'm pretty sure you'd like what I saw."

"Stop!"

We spent the next hour and a half trading wonderful, superficial facts and gossip about ourselves and our pasts, forsaking any talk of love and lost love and gradually slumping further down until we were both spreadeagled across my tiny bed, eyes to the ceiling as we spoke.

Santana told me about her abuela, the most important person in her life, who'd died three years ago and never learnt of her granddaughters sexual orientation. Santana visited her grave every year, and had told her since that she liked girls, murmuring to her tombstone, still torn between knowing whether she'd have been disgusted or accepting, but unable to find the heart to regret finding out.

I told her about the road trip my dad and I went on a month after Mal and I had split. How we'd inexplicably driven to Graceland together, sharing the wheel and staunchly avoiding the topic of my homosexuality and my breakup like my dad was attempting to relearn his son, while I was trying so very hard to relearn myself. It had been as strained as it was sweet, and I remember feeling affection for him in those couple of weeks that I never thought I'd have the chance to experience again. It should have been heartbreaking that he had to try to understand me, but the fact that he did was overwhelming. He didn't say a word about the nights on that trip when I'd lain awake, not-so-silently crying into unfamiliar, scentless pillows, but brought me black coffee without fail, and a 'you alright?' to which I'd always answer, 'fine, dad.' Strained smiles and stern palms clapped to my shoulders as we calmly accepted that we could never make everything alright for one another.

She told me about her birthday party the year before when Kurt had drunk jello shots, Quinn had passed out at eleven, and a game of truth or dare had resulted in David - reserved, formal David - giving Wes a shirtless lap dance that ended in them both toppling to the ground and splitting Wes' lip. She sat up and demonstrated with an obscene shimmy, and the both of us were in stitches laughing.

It was only when she left around eleven, kissing me on the cheek at the door and ordering me to call her in the morning, that I realised I hadn't thought of Kurt or Cedric for almost an hour. I'd been so relaxed and so at ease, and nothing had ever felt more like progress in my life.

I turned my laptop on, opening iTunes and clicking to a chilled out playlist of female artists - Joni Mitchell and Cat Power and Kate Bush - and lay on my back in bed, singing softy and twisting my hands absently in the hem of my sweater, sleepy and so blissfully, unexpectedly content.

I'd almost panicked when the subject of Mal had come up, and that made me worry for when the time came to tell Kurt about my past, like I'd said I would, and knew in my bones that whatever we were to each other in the future I still would, but… I felt that when the time came, there was a chance I'd be able to manage, and if not, then at least cope. That's all I'd been doing for years, anyway. Coping.

It wasn't until I allowed myself to forsake all my shields that I realised how heavily they'd been pressing upon me. It's such a cliché, but from my night of frivolous, jokey conversation with Santana, I truly felt like a weight had been lifted. It felt like I'd discovered that I could actually be happy being myself. Santana hadn't turned tail at the sight of the real Blaine, and the world hadn't ended because I'd let her see him.

I smiled a little, wrapping my tongue around a Joanna Newsom song, warbling in a shaky, weak falsetto.

… I was all horns and thorns, sprung out fully formed, knock kneed and upright

So enough of this terror, we deserve to know light, and grow ever more lighter and lighter…

My eyes were fluttering shut when my phone began ringing on my desk, jerking me from near sleep as I rolled lazily off my bed and picked it up, rubbing at an eye and freezing at the caller ID.

It was Kurt.

I steadied myself, paused my music, and accepted the call, holding my cell to my ear like a grenade.

"Hello?" I said cautiously.

"Hi, Blaine." His voice was tiny, a thready chirp of sound.

I swallowed, and ventured, "What's up? Are you okay?"

I heard him sniff quietly, "Are you in your dorm?"

"Yeah?"

"Come to the window."

I nodded, not remembering that he couldn't see me, and crossed my room, parting the curtains and squinting out into the night, gazing blindly for a second before I spotted him standing next to the same tree we'd huddled behind that very morning; a lifetime ago.

He waved his free hand at me for a second, and I could just make out his mouth moving as his words reached my ear, "I'm… I'm sorry it's late, but if you aren't busy, I could really use someone to talk to right now."

"Do you want me to come down?" I asked immediately, stepping back and sitting on my bed, pulling my shoes towards me.

"Please." He answered.

"I'll be there in a second." I swore, moving to hang up.

"Wait!" His voice was sharp.

I pressed the phone back to my ear, "I'm still here."

"Do you still have that bottle of Bourbon from last night?"

"Yeah…" I could hear Kurt breathing, slow and even, and when he didn't elaborate asked, "Kurt?"

"Just… can you just bring it down, okay?"

"Okay." I closed my eyes, "Stay where you are."