I avoided speaking to or seeing Santana or Kurt in the days that followed, and through some divine mercy I escaped any awkward encounters with Cedric in Grayson house's corridors. While at the time I'd felt a sense of relief in opening up to Santana, in hindsight, after a night of fitful, broken sleep and far too much opportunity to reflect, the thought made me unaccountably anxious. Enough so that I felt the need to creep back from her and take a breath. For the first time in about four years there was someone out there who knew more about me than I did about them. Santana Lopez, with her exasperatingly practical insight.

Surprisingly sage Santana.

She really was the last person I ever would have expected to make me question my long practiced standards and principles, yet headstrong as I am, all the things she'd said to me about Kurt were difficult to sensibly refute. My resolve had gone from conviction to uncertainty a handful of times in the space of a day and a dinner party, and now it hung in suspended animation for my review.

There were many facts in favour of abandoning my preoccupation in Kurt. Cedric had obligingly ensured that I had reason to dislike him, but he was still Kurt's boyfriend. Kurt hadn't dumped him, and as certain as Santana was of their relationships imminent expiry, I had no guarantee that Kurt would be a bachelor any time soon. I don't think any amount of infatuation could ever convince me to make an adulterer of someone, even if Cedric didn't seem to have the same qualms. On top of that, relationships are generally difficult enough without the addition of a scorned boyfriend.

A boyfriend who was probably a foot taller and weighed at least thirty-five pounds more than me.

Even the presumption that Kurt would have any romantic interest in me if he was single gave me an unusual feeling. As if I was straining at my ego. I've always dodged arrogance, even in private. I have no problem with pride and I see no error in self-worth (though I'll admit I'm sometimes slightly lacking in the latter) but I asked myself if it was immodest, even vain, to assume I'd have a chance with Kurt.

For the sake of my sanity I concluded that what I was experiencing wasn't over-confidence, but hope. Hope was innocent. Hope was honest. There was absolutely nothing wrong with hope.

I was equally discouraged by the possibility of failure. There's a reason poets, authors and filmmakers have such a monopoly on unrequited love. It's one of those central cogs making the world turn and turn. In my life I'd witnessed it in dozens of disappointed, pining friends. The way it causes fixation and distraction. What I was feeling wasn't love, no, but the symptoms were the same, and as consuming as they were, they weren't unpleasant. I'd enjoyed watching Kurt from afar and I couldn't deny that I'd also relished the few times we'd conversed, irrespective of disaster. If I were to get close to Kurt and alert him to my interests only to be met with rejection, I'd no longer even be able to sensibly entertain the fantasy of being with him. I couldn't help but think that that would be a terrible loss.

Oddly, my main argument for not backing off was a slightly double edged one. Not long after I'd transferred to Dalton I'd quite consciously come to the decision that from then on, no matter how I lived my life it would be a life without regret. For some reason I'd been under the impression that it was at the root of all of my unhappiness.

At some point in high school I remember learning that the word 'regret' came from a Latin term, meaning 'to cry out again.' I can't even recall if it was something I was told, or whether I'd read it somewhere, but it always stuck with me. That knowledge gave the word a sort of horrific quality. Instead of the simple definition, 'to express sorrow at loss,' regret took on a life of its own. It evolved in my mind and morphed into something far less basic and far more dreadful. Up until Dalton I'd experienced more than my fair share of that particular emotion, but after Malcolm and I parted ways I concluded that while in some sense it was human nature to regret, it wasn't something you were made to feel, but something you allowed yourself to feel. Something you permitted, or even subjected yourself to. A penance.

It was a resolution I'd made with the hope that it would reduce any limits I set for myself. If I removed that variable then the world was my oyster, right?

Unfortunately, it turned out that abandoning regret wasn't in my makeup, and instead of leaving me without fear of failure, as I'd intended, it stopped me from undergoing anything if I thought it might hold the chance of guilt. The other downside was a sometimes heightened sense of remorse whenever I inevitably did fuck up. Hindsight became a curse.

So, would I experience that overwhelming regret it if I went after Kurt? Inexplicable pills, mood swings, boyfriend, and all? No. I really didn't think so.

And if I didn't pursue him? Without a doubt. Not only would I be forced to wallow in my choice not to, but I wouldn't be able to escape Kurt for as long as I stayed at Albarn. He'd be in my lectures and tutorials. He'd be strolling across the commons outside my window. For all I knew he'd be down the hall in Cedric's bed.

Surely I couldn't help but regret that.

Returning from dinner on Tuesday night, I'd barely made it past the first step up to my room when I heard Rachel, Grayson's house supervisor, calling me.

"Blaine!"

I popped my head back around the corner to see her standing at her door, clutching a post-it.

"Hi." I smiled.

She bustled over to me and shoved the note in my hand, "You've had two missed calls on the house phone today. A Santana, and a Quinn."

"Thanks…" Of course, I hadn't given them my mobile number. I looked down at the little yellow square, on which was scribbled Quinn's name and number, "Did they leave any messages?"

"Only that they'd both like to hear from you." She sniffed theatrically, "The Santana girl called me a chipmunk."

I repressed a grin, "I'm sorry Rachel. She can be kind of… colourful, sometimes."

She flipped her hair over her shoulder, "That's not really the word I'd have chosen, but thank you anyway."

She turned and re-entered her room, and I continued to my own, instinctively speeding up as I passed Cedric's door.

I sat on my bed and turned Quinn's phone number in my hand. I checked the contacts in my cell and noted that it was the same number Kurt had given me for their land line. I really wanted to talk to Quinn. From what Santana had told me, she'd been upset by the events of the dinner party, and for some reason I was troubled by the idea of Quinn in any state other than the chirpy one I'd come to know. A part of me also assumed that that same cheery voice would go some way to soothing my nerves. Even so, I was far too concerned about the chance of Kurt answering to brave calling her.

Instead I took a deep breath and entered Santana's number, pressing the phone hard to my ear and counting every ring, half hoping she wouldn't pick up. I'd told her I would call her, but it was no fault of mine if she wasn't available when I did.

"Hello?"

Dammit.

"Hi, Santana? It's Blaine."

"Ugh, finally." She huffed, "Are you always this hard to get a hold of?"

"Only when I want to be."

"Huh. Honesty's a virtue I guess." She said "For some reason I like you, so I'll let you off this time."

I relaxed a little at those words. Whatever Santana's intentions it was probably safe to assume that she at least thought she had my best interests at heart.

"How've you been?" She asked.

"Fine."

"Yeah?"

"Yes, Santana."

"Hmm, there I was picturing you sitting alone in a candlelit garret somewhere overanalysing everything."

After slightly too long of a pause I said, "No. Totally fine."

"My mistake." She droned.

"Are we ever going to talk about you, or are you just going to sit on my shoulder and whisper in my ear?" I asked. Our fledgling friendship was beginning to feel a little one sided.

"Yeah, eventually." She dismissed, "Right now you're far more interesting."

I rolled my eyes, "So, what have I missed?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing."

I sighed, "Not much. Just been avoiding a couple of girls who seem to want to take me under their wings."

"Oh, really?" she snorted, "There I was thinking you were avoiding a certain erratic boy that you were head over heels for."

"I'm not 'head over heels' for anyone!" I lied.

"Sure." She said patiently.

We were silent for a moment before I asked, "How is he?"

"So, so." She said, "He's been quiet."

I didn't say anything, my stomach twisting briefly.

"He's still with Cedric if that's what you were wondering." She said coldly.

I groaned, "Tell me, is there some special reason Kurt forgives him every time he acts up?"

"I dunno. Maybe he has a huge dick."

"I didn't need to know that!" I yelped.

"Just speculation."

"Is Kurt really that shallow? 'Cause he doesn't seem that way to me."

Santana laughed, "Honey, that's because you've got a prescription for a massive pair of rose tinted glasses."

I furrowed my brow. Was it possible I'd read him wrong? "So, he is shallow?"

"No." She said warmly, "He isn't. I honestly don't know why he takes him back. Just one more reason to talk to him."

"Hmm." I hummed evasively .

"Uh huh." She said, "And as for Kurt 'forgiving' him, I'm pretty sure he never truly does. Somewhere out there is a merit board with Ced's name, and I bet Kurt's added a whole mess of black marks next to it." She coughed, "Which is why you should sidle in and sweep him off his feet."

I clenched my teeth, "Santana, don't."

"What? Not overthink this?" She asked.

"I'm not a knight in shining armour, OK?"

"Maybe, but as far as I can tell you seem like a steady guy. Do you think I'd be helping you if I didn't?"

I'd have pegged Santana as more perceptive than that. "Are you judging a book by its cover?" I laughed.

"What, straight-laced and gelled?" She snorted, "I'd have written you off if I had."

"That's nice." I murmured, "Remind me to look up the definition of 'help' when we're done."

"Shut up."

"So you basically think Kurt needs a 'steady guy'?"

"Yup."

"And you think that's me."

"Warts and all, whatever those warts may be."

"How do you know he wouldn't just be better off single?"

"Oh my god!" she said loudly and I held the phone away from my ear, "Blaine, I don't want to sound like a broken record, so this is the last time I'll say this, but you need to stop freaking out. This isn't a mountain, it's a little bitty mole hill and Cedric's an ugly ass mole. One of those ones with no hair and giant teeth. Talk. To. Kurt. Get to know him at least. Also, I might be wrong, but he'll probably need to know that you play for his team if you ever want to get with him."

I sighed, "Yeah, maybe."

"I mean, in your own time, but seriously."

I bit my lip, "Well, I have his number. I can reach him if I want to."

"Hey, you realise I have your cell number now?" She purred, "Caller ID."

"I'm quaking in my boots."

"That's the standard reaction. Mind if I give it to Kurt?"

"Uh, yeah, I kind of do." I blurted.

"What if he wants to apologise? I know how evasive you can be Blaine, I might be doing you a favour."

"Please don't." I pleaded.

"I can't make any promises." Her voiced was infuriatingly sly.

"I'm hanging up."

"See you in class."

"Yeah, whatever." My thumb moved to the 'end call' icon.

"Talk to Kurt!" I heardher yell just as I pressed it.

I keeled over sideways on my bed and shut my eyes. Before I met Santana I'd never assumed that a simple conversation could ever be so exhausting. It appeared she'd well and truly made me her cause.

I yawned and clutched to the notion that not only would I be getting a monkey off my back by catching up with Kurt, I'd probably shake Santana off too. I was growing to adore her, but there was only so much encouragement I could take.

The next morning, my satire lecture looming, I'd well and truly steeled myself to the knowledge that I'd no longer be able to doctor my exposure to Kurt. I'd take his lead. If he approached me, I'd submit, otherwise I'd keep my head down.

I entered the auditorium and was almost instantly hailed by Santana, waving from her seat. Next to her sat David, austere as a parson, and next to him, Kurt. He was slumped low, gazing sightlessly ahead while chewing on the end of a ball point pen. It would have been impossible to bypass them without resorting to an obvious and offensive brushoff, which edgy as I was, wasn't my objective. I'd just sit next to Santana, a shield of friendly bodies between Kurt and I.

I had an inkling that even if I had flaked on my conviction and was subsequently bold enough to ignore them outright, Santana would take it upon herself to make a loud example of me in front of all assembled students. Either that or throw me over her shoulder, a fireman with a damsel, and haul me to the seat next to her.

I really wouldn't have put it past her.

I sat as the lecturer began addressing us. Kurt made no move to acknowledge me, though he didn't really seem to be paying attention to any of his surroundings. I waved to David then sank back into Santana's shadow. She peered down at me, an eyebrow raised.

"What an impressive show." She drawled.

I elbowed her in the thigh.

"Did he call you?" she whispered.

"Does it look like he called me?" I tried to lace the question with all the ire I felt at the implication that she actually had given him my number.

"Did you call him?"

"Shh!" I hissed, staring at our lecturer and opening my notebook.

Thankfully Santana remained silent for the duration, only glancing down at me a couple of times. At one point she reached over and surreptitiously scrawled in the margin of my book.

Grow a pair.

I furrowed my brow and quickly scribbled under it.

Already got one, thanks.

She snorted loudly.

At the end of the hour I gathered my things and moved to leave, only to be pulled back down by Santana. I turned resignedly.

"What now?"

"He's right there!" she whispered, "Do your thing."

I glared at her for a second, "OK, I appreciate your concern Santana, but there's a fine line between supportive and irritating."

She smirked, "And I'm firmly on the supportive side of it."

I pried her hand off me and stood, "Take a breath. I can do this myself."

I hustled out without a backward glance, and returned to my room to study.

As I read I concluded that Kurt had looked just as in need of time as I was. He'd seemed absent and preoccupied. What good was speaking to someone who didn't want to be spoken to? Why bother him when he had other things on his mind?

Half an hour passed when I heard a soft knock on my door. I stood, opening it mid-stretch, hands to the heavens, expecting either Puck or Rachel.

I definitely hadn't thought Kurt would be standing there.

My arms fell to my sides and I stared as he awkwardly shifted from foot to foot.

"Hi." He croaked.

"Hey." My voice was void of inflection.

"I, um… I wanted to talk to you." He swallowed, "After class, I mean, but not with Santana and David there. You were gone before I could catch you."

Apparently I had been on his mind… he could have fooled me.

I felt a strange wave of anger and before I could stop myself I asked, "Is Quinn making you apologize again?" The defensive tone of my voice sickened me and I regretted the words as they fell from my lips.

He just blinked once, "Can I come in?" he lifted his hand a little, gesturing down the corridor, "I don't know if Cedric's in. I don't want to run into him right now."

I had the urge to ask if that was because he was on my threshold and he was afraid of Cedric seeing green, or if he was simply still sore at him from the drunken incident at the dinner party. Instead I stepped back and held the door open as he entered, pushing it to, but not closing it entirely.

Kurt perched on the edge of my bed and I propped myself on the desk opposite him, ankles and arms crossed. He was wearing an oversized grey sweater, loose sleeves tugged down over his knuckles and suddenly looking very small. His face bore a sort of ashen pallor. That unique tone of skin you only see in sickness or sadness or fatigue. For all I knew he could have been suffering from any, or all of the three. A soft light shone in the window behind him and further blurred his lines and features. Edges hazy and ill-defined, bleeding together like a watercolour. Lips into skin into scalp. At the sight every drop of irritation I felt retreated in a swift tide. This was what I had wanted after all. For him to come to me on his own terms.

I waited for him to speak, and after a moment he looked up at me through his eyelashes, almost transparent in the sun.

"I hope you don't mind that I came here." He said quietly, "A scary little brunette downstairs told me which room was yours."

"That'd be Rachel." I almost smiled at his ability to be humorous even when noticeably uncomfortable.

"Mm." he nodded, "She also said to tell you that she's 'happy to take any calls, but I'm not a damn answering machine.'" He mimicked her staccato speech pattern and voice flawlessly.

That time I did smile. "Oh… thanks."

"I'm guessing that has something to do with Quinn?" he asked, "She said she'd tried to get you a couple of times."

"Santana too." I shrugged, "It doesn't matter though. I know they mean well."

"A little too well." He muttered, "Sorry about Santana."

"I can handle her." I hesitated, "I think."

"I'm not here because of her." He said firmly, holding my gaze, "Or Quinn. I just want to make that clear."

I bit my lip, "Okay."

"Did…" he looked down, "Did she tell you anything about me?"

"No!" I said quickly, "No, nothing. She just…" I struggled to think of what to say without straight out lying to him about her interest in the situation, "I think she just wants us to reconcile."

He nodded slowly, "Good. I mean… so do I."

He spoke quietly, and I turned my desk chair and sat, my elbows on my knees.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you." He said, wringing his hands in his lap.

I exhaled, "Thank you."

"Every time I've seen you I've either been offending you or apologising to you." He laughed bitterly, "I feel like I should probably apologise for that too."

I shook my head, "You really don't need to."

As I said it I realised he didn't. His coming to my door had been enough of an apology. He had consciously run the risk of encountering Cedric when he'd clearly rather not, or having me turn him away. Still he'd come, and the words themselves now seemed fiercely secondary.

"Well, I won't then." He smiled sadly and cleared his throat, "I want to ask you to dinner tomorrow night though. Maybe we can do something novel like actually have a proper conversation." He said, "Assuming you still want anything to do with me."

"Um, sure." I blurted, surprised, "That'd be lovely."

His face noticeably lifted, eyes crinkling and shoulders relaxing, "Great. I'll be on my best behaviour."

I beamed, "It's Okay. I believe you."

"I want a chance to explain myself too." He said, "I think I owe you, and I need you to hear it from me."

"Of course." I nodded fervently. That was a concept I understood intimately.

"Thanks."

We both stood and walked to the door. I opened it and he looked at me somewhat sheepishly.

"Santana gave me your number." His tone was contrite, "Do you mind if I text you to let you know the details?"

I laughed, "That's fine."

"She's like a dog with a bone." He grinned, "I'll tell her we spoke. Hopefully get her to let up a little."

I raised an eyebrow, "I don't know her as well as you, but I wouldn't hold my breath."

He snorted, his face momentarily tranquil and free of tension, "I can dream."

He surreptitiously, but noticeably paused as he was leaving, peering down the satisfactorily Cedric-free corridor before exiting. He turned one last time and cocked his head.

"Why do I keep wanting you to forgive me?" He scrutinized me.

"Beats me." I shrugged, then added, "I am grateful though."

"Me too…" he said slowly, brow knitted, "See you tomorrow, Blaine."

"Bye."

I shut the door and leant my back against it, exhaling a breath I felt I'd been holding in the past five minutes. It was strange that my arguably cowardly tactics had resulted not only in the very thing I'd desired, but also an invitation to dine with Kurt. It was the kind of behaviour that probably could have done without positive reinforcement, though I wasn't about to argue.

Our exchange had undeniably been an awkward one, however when I let him in my room I'd fully intended to be at the very least standoffish. As childish as it sounds, he had hurt my feelings at the dinner party, and my equally childish plan from my overly busy brain had been to maybe get a little of my own back before granting him leniency. Observing him, as opposed to just thinking about him, altered things though. It was awful to see him subdued and upset, but it was worse to see him repentant. He hadn't even been that way the last time he'd come to apologise to me, and the change was startling. All of his sprightly cheek absent. I was incapable of wielding the power to remove some of that look and not use it.

And the expression he got when I did let him off without question... glancing-eyed and lovely, like a dark cloud passing, allowing the shackled sun to warm my clammy skin and make it prickle. The look that had first drawn me in and drew me again and again.

I was too scattered to go straight back to studying, so I lay on my bed and absent-mindedly skimmed a copy of Steppenwolf, by Hermann Hesse. It was a book I'd already been struggling to get into, and it was now almost impossible to pay attention. After a while my phone rang and I was unsurprised to see Santana's name flashing insistently at me.

I answered with a grin, "You just don't give up."

"What happened?" She asked.

"What makes you think anything's happened?" I teased.

"Don't make me come 'round there Anderson." She chided, "I have ways of making you talk, and none of them are painless."

"Fine." I groaned, "He found me, he said sorry, he asked me to dinner. No big deal."

"Bullshit!" She cried, "I'd put big money on you being on cloud nine right now."

"Cloud seven, maybe…"

"Wait." She cut in, "Dinner? Like a date? A dinner date? Where?"

"Bye Santana." I laughed.

"You suck!" she shouted.

I picked my book up again and immediately received a text.

Asshole.

It was telling of our curious relationship that I was cheered by the message as opposed to insulted.

Later still that night my phone buzzed again, and I gladly abandoned my readings to snatch it up.

Hi, it's Kurt. There's a nice, cheap Italian place on the main street I thought I could take you to. Seven o'clock?

I quickly typed a reply.

Seven is fine. Meet you there?

I waited a minute, tapping my pen impatiently.

Sure. I'm glad you have my phone number too now. I feel less creepy.

I smiled.

So are we equally creepy now?

An almost instant reply.

No, I think the creepiness cancels out.

I laughed and brashly typed.

That's a relief. By the way, I'm looking forward to it.

A buzz.

So am I. Goodnight Blaine.

I stared at the text and vaguely wished that were it not so clinical, conversation could be as shameless and simple when face to face. There was very little chance that our discussion the next night would be as light or laid-back.

I saw Kurt in our Satire tutorial the next day, but the extent of our interaction was him greeting me with a timorous smile and a 'hi.'

Afterwards Santana corralled me as I knew she would.

"Kurt won't tell me anything either." She half whined.

"Oh?" I raised my eyebrows, "And you're not taking that as a sign?"

"No, I'm not." She stated, "At least tell me if it's a date. Does he know you're gay?"

I lowered my voice, "No he doesn't. And remember Cedric?" I glared, "I don't even know how you're managing to pester both of us and not let on to Kurt that you're actually matchmaking. Uninvited matchmaking, just so you know. "

"It's a talent." She smirked.

"Yeah, well don't get your wires crossed." I urged.

She narrowed her eyes, all trace of amusement sliding from her face, "Are you dealing with this?" She asked sternly, "I mean, really Blaine. Don't just brush me off."

I ran a hand through my hair, "I'm freaking out a little bit." I confessed, "This is just… it's kind of a big thing for me."

"What is?" she asked.

I clicked my teeth a couple of times, choosing my words, "Getting emotionally invested."

She laughed shortly, "We're on the same page there." She breathed in deeply, "I dunno… don't shut yourself off. I think you'll be fine as long as you don't alienate him."

"It hasn't bothered you." I mentioned.

"You aren't that bad." She grinned, "I'm sure you'll charm the pants off him. I mean, that is your goal, right?"

I gave her a brief disdainful gaze, then said genuinely, "Thanks." I squeezed her arm, "I guess I'll see you later. I've got to go get ready."

She smirked wickedly, "Kurt's a pretty big fan of skinny jeans. Just saying."

I shook my head, eyes wide with exasperation, and exited the classroom.

I arrived at the restaurant, somewhat embarrassingly in my slimmest pair of black jeans, to find Kurt already seated, sipping water from a straw and fiddling with a laminated menu. He smiled up at me as I pulled my chair out.

"Hi."

"Hey." I sat.

"Have any trouble finding me?" He asked politely.

"It was the only Italian place I could see." I said, "I was sort of worried that maybe there'd be two and I'd pick the wrong one."

"Nope." He chuckled, glancing around at the stained wood and gingham furnishings, "Even with the population of the college I don't think Albarn's lust for pasta is that great."

I didn't doubt that. From what I could tell, the town centre consisted of two 'main' streets running parallel to one another, a dear little square and war memorial, and a few side streets occupied by hippy boutiques, a strip mall and several bars. To say it was quaint was a fair assessment.

He handed me a menu, "Want to share a garlic bread?" he asked.

"Sure." I grinned. There were two divine spots of colour high on his cheekbones and I was glad to have something to draw my eyes away. He appeared to be in better cheer than yesterday, though I thought there was still a slight dolorous lilt to his voice.

We were silent while we examined the menus. For me it was a comfortable silence though. Mutual and calm, while around us patrons murmured over meals, waiters danced, and plates clinked in the kitchen. A rich, still point in the clamour. Once we'd ordered, Kurt reached over and poured me a glass of water.

"What made you come to Albarn?"

I thought wildly for a second. I wasn't about to indulge my full reasons for leaving Ohio, yet I didn't want to lie to him as I so comfortably did to everyone else. On top of that, last time Ohio had been mentioned between us it had resulted in stony silence and necessitated his first apology to me. I settled on harmless truths and the hope that I'd be absolved by the fact that Kurt had been the one to bring it up.

"I was sick of it." I said, "I was studying law, and I hated it. Albarn took my fancy, and I was lucky they accepted me." I shrugged as if to say, and here I am.

"Hm." Kurt said, "I don't think many people would have the guts to just pick up and start again like that."

"Guts didn't come into it much." I confessed, "When I say I hated law, I mean I really… I just couldn't stand it."

"The promise of a lawyer's salary wasn't enough?" He grinned shrewdly.

"I'm a student." I put my palms up, "I've learnt how to do poor and happy."

Poor and acceptably content was probably more accurate, but I didn't want to overly complicate things. Besides, it's not as if any of my dissatisfaction in life was connected to wealth.

He laughed, "Do you still have family in Westerville?"

"Just parents. I'm an only child. What about -" I hesitated, then timidly delved, "Can I ask you about Lima?"

His eyes widened and he waved his hands wildly, banishing my query, "Oh my god, I'm sorry. Yes! I mean, I wish the place would be swallowed by the Earth, but I can usually talk about it without grinding my teeth." He paused, "Much."

"Oh." I said, "I was worried about -"

"Last time, yeah." He finished my sentence, "I told you, I was having a really bad night. Definitely not my finest moment. I'll warn you if the subject starts making me homicidal."

"That's good to know." I snorted, "So, what about you?"

"I don't have any siblings either. Just my dad and me."

His eyes grew discernibly warmer, and I asked, "You miss him?"

"I do." He busied himself straightening his cutlery, "If I could convince him to move here I would, but he runs a business. He's a mechanic." He smiled distractedly, then added, "However, unlike me, he loves Lima. He's lived there all his life, but I worry about him."

"Why?" I asked softly.

"My mum died when I was nine." He said quickly, "It was fine when he had me around, but I hate the thought of him getting older and being alone."

His mother was dead? I wondered if that was the reason he despised Ohio. I was unsure what etiquette dictated when someone mentioned a family member who'd been gone for over a decade, but from his air I was sure Kurt wasn't keen on dwelling. My answer was to try to organise my features in some sort of minimally condescending sympathy and leave it at that.

"I sometimes visit him on weekends, but it never really feels like enough." He sighed.

I had no idea what to say. It wasn't often that I got caught out when it came to conversation, but there were a few subjects to which I truly couldn't relate, and the issue of my idiosyncratic relationship with my parents made this one of them. Despite my experience in fabrication, the look on Kurt's face when he spoke of his father was impossible to fake. It was the unwavering love I'd seen on Malcolm's face a few times early in our relationship, and it was the most singularly pure thing I could ever recall witnessing. It was dazzling even now, when in relation to his dad, and my heart stuttered at the notion of maybe someday earning a similar precious look from Kurt.

He mustn't have been put off by my prolonged silence, as he asked "So, d'you have a girlfriend back west."

I started, "No! No, no, no."

"That's a surprise." He grinned.

I furrowed my brow, chest pounding, "Huh?"

His smile broadened, "I was just expecting you to have some doting grain-fed, blonde beauty under your hat."

Oh...

I laughed, exasperated, "Was that an insult?"

"Merely an observation." He pursed his lips to quell his obvious amusement, "I'd have thought it would be a compliment."

I flailed, "I suppose. I just mean… do I really come across that way?" I asked.

"No." He cocked his head, "Maybe a little."

"Is it the hair?" I tucked my fingers into the, gelled, intentionally neat curls at the base of my neck.

"The hair, the polo shirts." He listed, "The game show hostess laugh."

"Hey!" I cried, flicking a toothpick at him and missing by a mile.

"You're kind of spotless, Blaine." He reasoned, "I can't help what I see."

"Hmm, I guess." I shrugged. Was there a chance he had me figured out? If it were anyone else I'd be pleased that I was succeeding in maintaining my wholesome smokescreen, but in the case of Kurt I wasn't so sure. Maybe it would be a good thing if he were suspicious of my unwavering exterior. Frankly, I was too terrified to simply let it down completely, and definitely not all at once, but I sincerely hoped that maybe he'd be sharp enough to do some of the work for me.

For all the trouble I was having keeping myself from reverting to charming, mask-wearing Blaine, it was nothing compared to how much I was struggling to keep from flirting. I was forcing myself to staunch any dreamy stares and to keep my expressive hands safely out of sight under the table as he spoke.

"Did you play sports or something?" He probed, "Is there football coach out there who convinced you to live clean and set by example?"

"OK, that is anything but me." I waved a finger at him, "And no, I was in show choir, remember?"

He made a tutting noise, "That doesn't mean a thing."

"I was just a Warbler." I insisted, "And a slightly above average student."

"Who wore a tie and blazer five days a week."

"That's me. Nothing special."

"Don't sell yourself short." He wheedled, "You at least dress remarkably well for someone who lived in a fashion vacuum."

I told myself to thank Santana later.

"They didn't lock us up Kurt."

"Silly me." He smirked, "You just give off shining, prep-school prefect vibes."

"I'm far from perfect." I said earnestly.

"I never said 'perfect.'" He took a long sip of water.

I buried my face in my hands and covered my eyes, shaking with repressed laughter at the absurdity of the conversation. Did McKinley High hold classes in quick wit? If Santana and Kurt were anything to go by it didn't seem that implausible.

"Just give a yell if this starts feeling like an interrogation." He giggled.

"So, five minutes back?" I peered up at him.

"Sorry." He unconvincingly mimicked a guilty smile. A small child with a makeup plastered face, stonily trying to convince their parents they hadn't smeared mummy's lipstick all over the walls.

In short, painfully endearing.

I sat up straight, "It's fine." I gasped, "I'm having fun."

Just then our meals arrived, and for a while we simply ate. Eventually Kurt gestured at my plate with his fork.

"What did you order, again?" he asked.

"Pumpkin ravioli."

"How is it?"

"Incredible." I groaned, "Want some?"

"No, that's fine." He said.

"You sure?" I wheedled, "It really is good. I'm kind of having an experience here."

His mouth twisted and he crumbled, "OK then, gimme."

"Pass me your fork." I ordered, seizing it from him and spearing a piece of pasta as he patiently held his hands out to take it from me.

He stole a small bite and chewed, his shoulders relaxing as he let out a muffled sound of what I'd like to think was ecstasy.

"Oh my god…"

"I never lie." I lied.

"Feel free to have some of mine." He offered.

I eyed his vegetable strewn plate ruefully, "I don't like aubergine…"

His mouth fell open, "You don't… ugh. I am going to chain David to the stove and make him cook for you until you realise what you're missing out on."

"If his cooking the other night is anything to go by, that might just work." I admitted.

"Yeah, he's freakishly talented." He smiled forlornly, awkwardly shifting a little,"D'you mind if I talk about Sunday night now?" He asked.

I put my fork down, "Not at all."

He poked at an olive, "I'm just afraid it might be a mood killer."

"It's fine." I insisted, "Whenever you want to."

"You're being far too nice to me." He said sharply, "Considering the circumstances at least."

I wrinkled my nose, "It's all an act."

"Then you've got a hell of a poker face." He smiled.

"Kurt, we're square." I sighed, "You've brought me to dinner, and you really don't have to explain a thing if it makes you uncomfortable."

He shrugged, "Honestly, It'll probably be worse for you. I'm used to it."

I sat back, "Try me."

He swallowed, then nodded, "OK. Um… I guess you know what set me off?"

I cleared my throat, "Cedric."

"Yeah… Cedric." He said absently, "I don't know how to explain. It was just… there wasn't a single person at that dinner table who thinks I should be with him. Santana's the only one that says it out loud, but all of the others… I mean, I don't think they hate him, but they don't exactly like him."

I nodded, rapt.

"So… every time he does something to give them more reason to think he's wrong for me, or for them to feel even the slightest bit of pity for me for choosing to stay with him… it just adds insult to injury I suppose. I'm thankful that they care, but their judgment isn't really appreciated."

"Cedric behaving like that… it's common?" I asked.

He bit his lip, "I… I guess. It gets to the point where the frequency doesn't really matter." He sighed, "That sounds appalling… I'm not trying to make out that him getting off his face and disappearing isn't what bothers me the most. It really, really is. It's just so embarrassing, when it happens like that. And you having to see it too… it just feels..." He looked like he was searching for an appropriate phrase, "Honestly, it feels like shit. Like absolute shit."

"Fair enough." I agreed.

"So he came in, made a dickhead of himself and me, was awful to you…" he took a breath, "And then I was awful to you. And I feel even worse, because I was too busy feeling ashamed of him stomping all over you to take a second to, I dunno, offer some empathy or something."

"I told you, it's fine." I said quietly.

"Then I'm lucky that you're far too forgiving for your own good." He stared at me.

I held his forceful gaze for a second, then looked down, "Only if it's justified."

"That's arguable." He was silent for a full minute, then said with surprising calm, "I think he's cheating on me again."

I looked up sharply, "What?"

"You don't mind that I'm telling you this?" he asked looking hard at me, his face motionless.

"No." I whispered. His honesty was a little unwarranted. He was opening up to me, and divulging what I considered alarmingly base fears. It was something I would never dream of doing so early in a friendship. I mean, he wasn't even aware of my sexual orientation yet. Was there a chance that he trusted me?

"You're the kind of impartial ear that I haven't had for a while." He admitted, "I don't want to burden you just 'cause you're here, but I think even Quinn would take it the wrong way if I told her this. She'd try to give me advice or something… I don't really want advice." he murmured.

"You two are close, aren't you?" I asked warmly.

"She's my best friend." He smiled minutely, "I love her, but she tends to care too much. Which usually means she worries too much, and that's definitely the case where I'm concerned."

"Which is bad?"

"Sometimes, yeah. It's a beautiful thing to know there are people out there who care about me that much, but the novelty wears off when you know it's affecting their happiness too."

His voice was quiet, but stable, and he didn't seem distressed so much as melancholy. A tenor of voice subdued by a persistent weight. A weight that he appeared to have adapted to.

"Why do you think Cedric is cheating?" I asked carefully.

"I dunno…" He rested his cheek on his fist, "I'm probably being paranoid."

"I think it stops being paranoia after the first couple of times your boyfriend's unfaithful." I said brashly.

He blinked mechanically, "Do you think I'm an idiot for being with him?"

I exhaled through my nose, "Kurt, I don't think anything. Would it matter anyway? I don't know him and I hardly know you. If any decision made by you seems sound to you then I really don't have the right to give a fuck." I paused, lowering my voice, "I don't think you're an idiot though, no."

Though I was certain Cedric was one. I was finding it harder by the minute to keep that opinion to myself.

He stared at me again, expression indecipherable, "He wouldn't say where he was." He said, "The night of the dinner party. He could have been at a bar, or with friends, but I don't understand why he couldn't just say that. I mean, he didn't even lie, he just evaded the question completely."

"And you think he was with a guy?"

"It's crossed my mind." He deadpanned.

I picked at the table for a second, then with a perfectly measured voice said, "I don't want you to get mad, and I'm not trying to shit stir, but… why do you stay with him?"

He looked a little shocked at the question, though didn't raise his voice, "I suppose… I keep convincing myself he'll change. One minute he acts out and lets me down, and the next he turns around and is just so damn sweet." He said, "He'll crawl back on his hands and knees and I'll forget. I always convince myself that he's going to stay that way. Committed. Every single time. He even does for a while, but, hey presto. It never lasts." He scratched the back of his head distractedly.

There had to be more to it than that. I found it impossible to believe that Kurt could be disappointed by one person so many times and not bear a grudge. Maybe it was a matter of proximity and an inability to properly distance himself from Cedric, but that seemed like such a feeble bounds for a relationship that it couldn't have been the only explanation.

"He was different when I met him." He continued, apparently trying to clarify, "We were fine for about eight months before any of this started."

"That's not that long." I mumbled.

"So you can see how hard I've tried to convince myself otherwise." He said in a cold voice of deadly calm.

At that I froze.

Had Kurt loved him? Did he love him? Had Cedric broken his heart?

Maybe it was still breaking.

As we'd spoken, the atmosphere had become tangibly tense. I didn't think that Kurt would permit himself to become visibly annoyed with me, but at that instant I didn't want to push my luck by asking too many questions. I'd been optimistic that he might mention the pills he'd been taking. There had now been two occasions when he'd done so in plain sight, so he can't have been too concerned about me enquiring, yet I was hesitant.

Eventually he sat up, passing a weary hand over his eyes, "Anyway… I spend more time than I'd like debating whether or not to stay with Cedric." His eyes flickered uneasily between my face and my hands, "I know it's still inexcusable, but do you understand why I yelled at you?"

"Perfectly." I breathed. I contemplated offering myself as a listening ear if ever he needed one, but was worried it may sound twee or insincere. He'd said that he hadn't wanted advice, and it was possible that comfort was equally unwelcome.

The most surprising thing was that I'd had no idea that it would be so hard to resist offering it to him. I wasn't in the habit of doling out reassurance of any type, partly because people rarely sought it, but mostly because it was uncomfortable to me. Yet sitting opposite Kurt as he spoke of how badly Cedric treated him… I wanted to reach out. Take his hand or cup his cheek. Say something insignificant in a significant manner and see his body relax. Watch him unfurl in front of me.

Because of me.

Instead I kept my hands in my lap and thanked our waitress as she collected our empty plates.

Breaking the sullen silence, Kurt shook his head a little, and out of the blue said, "Look, there's a house party just a little walk from here. I think Quinn and the others are there. D'you want to go?" he paused, "I could use a drink."

I puffed my cheeks out, "You read my mind."