We exited the restaurant, Kurt shrugging into his navy coat as I wound my scarf around my neck. It was cool, but far from cold, the white glare from evenly spaced lampposts giving the street a ghostly, artificial look, like the set of a television show. I suddenly felt that if I were to push on the wall of the restaurant it would sway and topple backwards, taking the rest of the shopfront crashing down like dominos. All plywood and cheap paint. I found myself reaching out, just to be sure, and felt the reassuring chill of brick and rough grout beneath my fingers.

Kurt gave me a little quizzical smile, the beckoned back toward the college, "This way. It's only about a ten minute walk."

There's something in the word 'party' that latched onto me at childhood and never let go. It's in that first game of pass-the-parcel and your first triumph at musical chairs. A little twinge of innocent excitement. It was irrelevant that in the years since my infancy the alcohol content of the fruit punch, and the level of debauchery present had multiplied a couple of dozen times, I still loved a house party. From ice-cream cake to kegs. So many bodies, so much secrecy. A chance to either smear your name or melt into the crowd. I tended to do the latter, but over the years I'd had a great many interesting conversations with countless faceless students. There had been just as many occasions where I'd found myself subject to inane nattering from pretty, drunk girls (some of them, I think vainly looking to sleep with me) but tonight I hoped to stick to Kurt if I could. Now that we'd got apologies and reassurances of forgiveness out of the way I was looking forward to the prospect of a little bit of inconsequential chitchat.

After we'd been walking a minute, Kurt reached into the inside pocket of his coat and, with a flourish produced a small hip flask.

"Voila." He chirped.

"Well, that's handy." I remarked.

"I don't always carry it." He explained, "I just thought there'd be a chance we'd move on to the party after dinner."

"What's in it?"

"Vodka." He passed it to me, "I know what it's like turning up to these things sober, and it usually puts me off a little."

I unscrewed the lid, "Tell me about it." I took a swig, trying not to wince, "It's much harder to get started when you can see where you're about to end up."

"Puking in a bush or dancing on a table?" He smirked.

"Exactly." I passed the flask back to him, already feeling a hint of that characteristic blanket of warmth that comes with alcohol.

Kurt took a sip, then said, "You know, I'm finding it kind of hard to imagine you dancing on a table, Blaine."

I chuckled, "If tonight goes badly, maybe you'll see it firsthand."

"I suppose that depends on your definition of 'badly.'" He said cryptically, staring straight ahead.

I glanced across at him and swallowed dryly, "Um… bad for me." Was he flirting or just being playful? I reached for the flask again and took two quick, fortifying gulps, "I can't speak from experience, but I think I'd have to be pretty smashed to get to that point."

"Want me to keep an eye on you?" he asked earnestly, eyes full of mock concern. Or perhaps it was sincere. His attitude to alcohol seemed quite cavalier, but from what I'd seen of Cedric it didn't strike me as impossible that drinking to excess might trouble Kurt.

"I think I'll be right." I said, bringing the flask up to my mouth, only for him to pluck it from my hand, "Hey!" I laughed.

"It sounds like you really ought to pace yourself." He smiled at me for a second, before taking a deliberately long drink.

"Oh, you're so thoughtful."

"Uh huh."

He held the vodka in his right hand and I aimlessly looked down at his left, swaying casually at his side. I desperately wanted to take it. To wrap my fingers around his own lovely square ones and just keep walking without a word. I wished more than anything that I could do so without any questions from him. A hollow desire, that in my imagination would result in him offering me a small smile, a reassuring squeeze, and no need for any explanation of my actions.

Of course, that was impossible. I wasn't brave enough, and life would never be so ecstatically simple. That cruel truth aside, on a brash whim I strategically swung my arm just a little too close to his so that the backs of our hands brushed for a fraction of a second.

I forced down a bubble of joy at the brief thrill of contact, and murmured, "Sorry." As if it had been an accident.

He merely shot me a bright eyed look and shrugged, offering me another drink.

At least some things were simple.

I could hear the unmistakable sounds of partying from a block away. Throbbing bass and yelling and laughter echoing down the street. We entered the two story clapboard house through the front, pushing past groups of people chatting in the doorway, and came to a stop in the front hall next to the staircase.

Kurt leant close, cupping his hand to his mouth and yelling over the din, "I'm going to look for some cups and see if there's anything to drink." I could feel his warm breath on my ear and neck, "Stay here. I'll be back in a sec."

I nodded mechanically, and watched him disappear into a mass of students, his mouth moving soundlessly as he apparently ordered the assembled crowds to make way.

As I mentioned, I'm not a stranger to attending parties on my own, and subsequently tend not to feel uncomfortable when finding myself alone amidst multitudes. That fact aside, with no drink in my hand and no compulsion to seek someone to talk to, I felt obscenely conspicuous. And not in an eye-catching way so much as a 'stay away from that creep' kind of way.

I shifted my weight from one foot to another, purposefully examining the doorframe to the living room opposite me, when I felt something collide with my hip. I lurched a little, looking down to see Rose, Wes' girlfriend, stumbling backward. I threw my hands out and firmly grabbed her shoulders, steadying her on her impractical strappy wedges. Her red hair was dishevelled, falling in her face and sticking up at wild angles.

"You right?" I yelled, still clutching her.

She blinked at me, eyes unfocused for a moment before they flooded with comprehension.

"I know you." She slurred, evidently very drunk. The only time we'd crossed paths had been at the last house party I'd attended, and she'd been far more intent on ripping Puck a new one and making out with Wes to pay much attention to me.

"Yeah, a little." I loosened my grip and when she didn't topple, let go entirely.

"Your name's Ben." She shouted.

"Blaine." I corrected.

"Yeah, Blaine… starts with 'B'"

"Yep." I nodded, smiling bemusedly. She didn't respond, looking down sluggishly and taking a deep breath, "Do you want me to go find you some water?" I asked. She looked nauseous and a quick scan of our surroundings didn't reveal any of our mutual acquaintances.

"I'm fine." She urged, reaching out and grabbing my collar, fist tight, "Have you seen Wesley anywhere?" She bellowed.

"No." I placed a tentative hand on her waist to stop her from falling on me, "I just got here."

"If you find him…" she began, closing her eyes for a second before continuing, "If you find him, tell him I'm looking for him. Would you do that, Ben…?" she shook her head, "No… Blaine?"

"Yeah, sure." I said.

Rose didn't seem particularly distressed, but she was some way past three sheets to the wind, and I would have felt remiss if I didn't insist on taking her outside and getting her to drink something non-alcoholic. She remained clutching my shirt, now stock-still, resting her forehead on my shoulder. I patted her back awkwardly, praying for Kurt's return.

"Do you want to sit down?" I yelled quietly in her ear.

Her head snapped up, "No, I'm good." She stood up straight, "I'm gonna keep looking for Wes…"

Before I could stop her, she'd turned and tottered down the hall further into the house. I craned my neck, tossing up whether to go after her and risk losing Kurt when I spotted a familiar glossy raven head of hair in an unexpected situation.

Santana had a tall blonde girl with feline eyes pressed up against the wall in the raucous throng, whispering in her ear. The girl looked like she might have laughed breathily at whatever Santana said to her, but if she'd been planning to reply she was cut short as Santana covered her lips with her own.

"Our Santana likes cheerleaders."

I jumped and turned to see Kurt at my elbow, grinning. He moved to stand beside me and raised his voice above the crushing music.

"The blonder the better."

"Is she – "

"A lesbian?" he shrugged, "We've given up guessing. Give her a pretty face and a strong pulse…" he cocked his head, "Maybe throw in a shred of personality." He laughed, "I'm not sure if that last part is essential though."

As we watched, Santana's hand moved slowly down the girl's body, sliding over her hip teasingly and coming to rest on her denim clad inner thigh. She didn't pull away and Santana seemed to take it as an indication that she had free reign.

I swallowed hard and looked away awkwardly, just for a second.

"Does it make you uncomfortable?" Kurt asked amiably, blinking those sooty lashes.

"No! God no." I stuttered, "I… I… no… I mean… are they just going to stay there? Shouldn't they… I dunno, find a room?"

Kurt clucked his tongue, "I think where sex is concerned Santana is of the 'get it while it's hot' school. I'm sure they'll find somewhere more private if they need to, but from what I can tell she seems to worry that if they have to wait one of them might get bored."

"Right…" I said slowly, now unable to tear my eyes from the fascinating, provocative sight. Santana was brushing the girl's hair from her shoulder and focussing her slow mouth on the crook of her neck.

Of course, my single-minded romantic interest in Kurt had bred an equivalent level of lust. I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a significant amount of that brand of thirst at the best of times, and it was a desire that I found incredibly hard to contain. I'd simply been trying my hardest to ignore it, but such a task had never been particularly easy to begin with. Now it was almost unbearable. It was agonizingly hot in the house, Kurt right next to me. I swallowed dryly, still staring.

Kurt snorted, gaping at me, "God, Blaine really? I've never understood the appeal of this whole girl on girl thing."

"Huh?" I started, turning to him, "Me neither!" He'd obviously misread my detached yearning and roaring hormones as actual attraction to the girls, "I'm just kind of surprised."

"Hmm." He nodded, "It's been a while since Santana's 'surprising' became so predictable to me that it feels like an oxymoron to call anything she does unexpected."

"She's never boring." I murmured.

"Nope." He chirped grabbing me by the elbow and tugging me down the hall, "Let's go outside. It's too loud in here."

"Okay." I laughed, trailing after him and only just noticing the two cups and half full bottle of Makers Mark in his hand that he must have pilfered from the kitchen. He was obviously on a mission to lighten the mood since our conversation at dinner, and I was more than happy to submit.

"Evening!" Kurt cried merrily as we passed Santana, but she either didn't hear, or was too preoccupied to bother acknowledging us. I honestly didn't blame her.

Besides, it was nice to know that there was something in the world she appeared to enjoy more than meddling with me and Kurt.

As he dragged me through the kitchen to the back door, I spotted Wes leaning on the counter next to David, and waved my free hand to catch his attention.

"Hey!"

He looked up and smiled, waving back.

"Go find Rose!" I ordered.

"Shit!" He stood up straight, spilling his drink on himself and trotting out of the room just as Kurt and I broke into the comparatively fresh night air.

He finally released me, and we glanced around the back porch for a place to sit. In a large circle of revellers sitting cross-legged on floorboards, a pale hand shot up and wiggled it's fingers.

"Yoo hoo!" Quinn gestured.

"Hi hon'." Kurt called.

She blew us a quick kiss, turning back to the dark haired boy she was talking to, as two thick arms wrapped around my chest.

Alarmed, I twisted wildly, relaxing when I recognised the familiar dark Mohawk in my periphery, "Oh, hi Puck."

"Hey man!" he yelled letting go. He smelt strongly of beer and his face wore a blissful glazed expression, "Watcha doin'?"

"Just having a drink." I grinned, noticing his gaze had fallen on Kurt, who stood behind me smiling good-naturedly and blinking like a sparrow, "Um, this is Kurt." I explained, "Kurt, Puck."

Kurt took Puck's larger hand, "Like A Midsummer Night's Dream. Pleasure."

Puck shook back automatically, furrowing his brow at me, "Do all your buddies make references I don't understand?"

"Yeah, probably." I laughed, winking at Kurt who was eyeing me, magnanimously bemused.

"So… you guys are good friends?" Puck asked leisurely, "Like, close friends." He widened his eyes at me in a way he must have mistakenly thought was discreet.

"Yeah, Puck." I said through gritted teeth, punching his arm solidly. I hoped that to Kurt it came across as a chummy manner, "We're friends. How about you go find the guys, huh? Jeff? Sam? I'll see you later?"

"Oh… yeah, totally." He sputtered. I'm pretty certain I was grinning manically, all teeth, and he thankfully took the hint, "See you dude. Nice to meet you Kurt. Take it easy."

I didn't regret telling Puck that I was gay, but it was clear that he had a little trouble grasping the concept of secrecy.

He slunk inside, and Kurt giggled, "Okay then. He's interesting."

"He's drunk!" I blurted in panicked explanation. I think some of Puck's tactlessness may have rubbed off on me.

"Yeah, I got that." He smirked, "Um… want to go sit in the garden?"

"Sure." I breathed, following him down the steps.

The large yard was fairly uninhabited and looked as if it had once been magnificently landscaped, however at present it was mostly overgrown bushes and a few low stone walls zigzagging around at frenetic angles. We made for one over by the fence and sat, Kurt crossing his legs at the knee, plonking the stolen bottle between us and passing me a cup. The warm light from the house cast dull shadows over us, illuminated enough that I could still make out his face in the dark.

I didn't know if he was spending time with me because he was still trying to atone for yelling at me, or if he genuinely wanted to, but I was elated either way. In the space of two minutes we'd passed most of his close friends, yet here I was with him. Just the two of us.

I cleared my throat as he poured me a measure of amber liquid.

"So, Santana…" I began.

Kurt paused with the bottle at an angle, cocking his head and scrutinising me, "Look at you." He purred, "So curious."

"I just…" I could think of no excuse, "Yeah. Yeah, I am." I finished weakly.

"What d'you want to know?"

"Well, did she ever come out to you?" I asked, staring at my hands.

"Mm, no. Not really."

"Then how… how did you find out?"

Kurt sighed meaningfully, "I've known Santana for a long time, Blaine. All through high school and all through the whole awful identity crisis thing we go through. When I came out…" he paused and took a sip of his drink, "Well, for one I think just about all of my peers knew anyway, but I guess I basically did it all at once. You know, I told a few people, and I didn't really mind who found out after that. I was at peace with being gay, I knew who would support me, and I dealt with the people who didn't." He took a deep breath, "As best I could, anyway. But I consciously made a show of coming out. It was what I felt I needed to do, and so I did."

He stared at his feet as he spoke, and I followed his gaze to the matte black leather, stealing a look at his eyes from time to time.

"And Santana…" he shrugged, "Her sexual orientation has always just felt like a part of her. I suppose she is a lesbian, but she never went through the bells and whistles like I did. You know what I mean?"

"No…" I admitted. He was explaining it all to me in a charmingly straightforward way, as if I wasn't intimately acquainted with the stresses, joys and pains of the process. He was avoiding condescension, and wasn't sugar-coating. My heart ached at the grace of it. Even so, I wasn't quite sure I understood entirely.

"Okay." He turned to me, now holding my gaze, "There was no big ceremony. She didn't like, sit us down or anything, and she was perfectly happy not doing the small town, 'fuck you, deal with it,' like I did. She just started dating and sleeping with girls from time to time, without making any kind of effort to hide it from anyone. And I mean, none of us cared. Of course we didn't care. I suppose that's the benefit of growing up with the same few people. Having a level of comfort and an idea of who can be trusted. She must have decided she'd reached a point in her life where she knew that acting on her desires wouldn't be a big deal. Like, as long as she was being honest with herself then that was all she needed."

"So you've never even spoken to her about it?"

He let out a lovely, rough, brazen laugh, "This is Santana, Blaine. She talks about her sex life all too often."

I must have still look confused, as Kurt smiled sympathetically and nudged my elbow with his own.

"What I'm trying to get at is that her sexual inclinations are of so little consequence to her or anybody else close to her that the subject doesn't really come up. Obviously, she's not always forthright about it, but she never hides it."

"She didn't tell me." I muttered. I couldn't decide if it was hypocritical of her to not have told me, or hypocritical of myself to even care.

"Did you ask?" he raised an eyebrow.

"Of course not."

"I'd happily bet she'd have told you if you did." He stated, "Does it matter that she is?"

"No."

"Has your opinion of her changed now you know?"

"No!" I said, affronted.

"Exactly. That's just how she likes it." He said slowly, "It's not cowardice. It could be seen that way I guess, but it's not. I love her, and I'll never ever pass judgment on her for doing what she needs to do to be happy."

I took a quick gulp of bourbon, then reconsidered and drained my cup entirely.

After a moment I asked, "Do her parents know?"

"Probably not."

"Does that bother her?"

"I don't think so." He narrowed his eyes, and carefully said, "Look, Blaine, it's been a while since I assumed being gay came with an obligation to feel the need to tell everyone you know. I think there was a point when I did believe that, but not anymore. In my case, not telling my dad made me miserable. In Santana's case she's either incredibly well adjusted or doesn't care. Chances are she went through some kind of internal struggle or something at some point, but there isn't an all-encompassing Homosexuality for Dummies that determines how to behave." He paused, "Actually, there probably is, but I think I've seen a Scrapbooking for Dummies too, soI wouldn't rush out and buy it."

I laughed and swirled my drink. I understood the despair Kurt referred to in regards to not being out to his father. I'd experienced it firsthand, and I'd witnessed it in Malcolm, despite the fact that in his case his patriarch had been an oppressive, homophobic prick who successfully wore him down. At the time, living under my parents roof, I'd felt like I'd been hiding. Lying, and betraying myself. I had no idea where the feeling stemmed from, but I'd sort of grown to assume it was part of the course. Obviously twenty year old Blaine had very different ideas to sixteen year old Blaine, but I still doubted that I'd have got to where I am now, all measure and pretence, had I not come out to my parents and felt the initial gorgeous release that accompanied it.

Santana's approach was one that not only had I never witnessed, but one I'd never even considered. I suppose it's narrow minded of me, but in my limited exposure I believe I'd only ever been privy to two polar opposites. Out or closeted. Then there was Santana. Her, and no doubt a wealth of others.

And then there was me. Where did that put me? It's absurd, but I'd never really thought about it. Never thought I was anything but out, even though at any given time there was always a percentage of my acquaintances, even friends, who were unaware of my homosexuality. I have my reasons, but it seemed my calculation of image and self-preservation as a whole had blinded me to that little quandary.

"You okay?" I'd been quiet for longer than I thought, and Kurt was regarding me with faint concern.

I should tell him, I thought. Tell him now. Tell him I'm gay. My heart was racing, something akin to panic heavy in my veins. The bourbon and vodka had made me bold, but I still couldn't say it. My mind was rationalising at a break-neck pace, and it warned me I should wait until I was sober and clearheaded. Until I wasn't sitting in the dark out the back of some unkempt frat house. Until I wasn't hazy with drink, and out of character.

What of my character though? It had been so fixed for a long time, and nothing had ever caused it to budge before. Would Kurt? Could he? More importantly, would I allow him to?

Finally and unsurprisingly, I said softly, "Yeah, I'm fine. Just thinking."

"Well, don't think too hard." My palm was flat on the stone wall, and he put his own over it for a second, gripping reassuringly, "Santana never does, and I promise it's nowhere near as complicated as it sounds." He let go.

I've barely missed anything more in my life than I missed that trifling contact.

A boy and girl went running past us holding hands, giggling. A couple, maybe. They could have been complete strangers. We watched them dissolve into the deeper shadows at the back of the garden.

Kurt sighed, "I wonder if Cedric's here."

My stomach fell rapidly. This was a road I'd hoped our conversation wouldn't go down.

"Do you want him to be here?"

"I dunno." He said cautiously, "I don't think so."

"You'll have to face him eventually." I said flatly.

"I know." He huffed, "I know that. I'm just not sure I want to deal with him right now."

There was something about that statement that I found agonizingly frustrating. Apparently Kurt was intent on staying with Cedric, and yet he couldn't even bring himself to face him.

I looked straight ahead, and loudly asked the question I'd been wondering all along, "Why don't you just dump him?"

He gave me a withering sidelong glare of condescension.

"Thank you Blaine, that's very helpful." He spat, "I hadn't ever thought of that."

It was possible I'd deserved his scorn for asking such an obvious question, but the bitterness in his voice, and the now unpleasantly familiar turn of mood instantly pissed me off. I stood abruptly, glaring down at him and raising my voice, "What the hell happened to you to make you such an asshole?"

I wasn't what I'd meant to ask. I'd meant, 'Why do you do that?' or 'What's your problem?' But there it was. 'What happened…?' I'd had no idea a mere flippant choice of words could prove so fateful.

For a second he looked angry. I thought he was poised with a scathing retort, but instead he pursed his lips and breathed heavily out his nose as the intensity faded from his eyes. He looked down at his hands then back up at me, the resigned expression on his face inexplicably making my indignation falter.

"I was almost beaten to death when I was seventeen."

"What?" I blinked.

"Sit down, Blaine." He said quietly.

I just stared at him. He held my gaze unswervingly, and I just stared, mouth slightly open, arms limp like wilted lilies.

"Please sit down."

I whirred to life and turned, the muffled sound of my thighs on stone as I complied. Kurt busied himself opening the bottle of whiskey, resting his lissom hand lightly on my wrist to steady it as he half-filled my cup.

"I want you to hear this." He said calmly, "Do you want to hear this?"

I swallowed. I honestly don't think I've ever been more uncomfortable in my life. Coming from an out gay teenager who'd been privy to more than a few unskilled fumbling's in unfamiliar beds, and the backs of equally unskilled boys' cars (or worse, their daddies cars) that was a pretty big call. My hands were prickly and sweaty, and I was painfully aware of Kurt beside me, perfectly composed while I mentally kicked myself. What had I stumbled across?

"Fuck Kurt, I'm – "

"Sorry?" He finished my sentence, "You don't have to be. I can be an asshole. I'm not absolved just because I'm justifiably bitter. So, do you mind if I tell you this?"

I took a deep breath, "Why would you want to do that?"

"Because you're my friend." He poured himself an equally large drink, "I mean, you aren't about to go anywhere are you?"

"No."

"Uh huh. Whether I like it or not I doubt I have a more 'defining moment' than having my ribs kicked in on a sidewalk." He made sarcastic quotation marks with his fingers, "And you did ask."

I gave a solitary, wild laugh, "Believe me, I hadn't expected an answer."

"Hm." He nodded slowly.

"Okay." I faced him, "Okay, yeah. Tell me."

He laughed, "Now I've gone and built it up."

I gawped at how serene he was, given the ordeal he was about to recount.

He took a breath, "So, like I said, I was 'out' in Lima." He paused, "No, wait... I actually have no idea if I was beaten up because I'm gay. In a place as backward as Lima it's always struck me as the most likely explanation, but for all I know it could have been because I was an easy target, or just because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whatever."

The way he was speaking was unnervingly matter-of-fact. He could have been discussing the weather or some dull state of current affairs.

He continued, "It was around eleven, and I was walking home from a friend's place. I never thought I'd need to be careful… I'd lived there all my life; I walked the same route every other evening. Anyway, this night three guys were walking towards me on the opposite side of the road. They started yelling and crossed over… just started shoving me at first, you know? I was terrified, but I thought they'd eventually get bored and leave me alone. I'm pretty sure they were drunk. I'd like to hope no one in their right mind would behave that way… or at least I used to hope. One of them punched me in the stomach, then I got hit in the head a few times. I guess I fell, but I don't remember anything after that."

I had a lump in my throat, sort of like the welling sensation I feel whenever I'm about to cry. There were no tears though, and I wasn't so much upset, as disturbed and shocked. A hard ball of some sort of adverse emotion forcing its way to the surface.

"What happened?" I asked, rapt.

"Well, I was unconscious. I must have just been lying there for a while, and a young woman walking her dog found me and called an ambulance." He bit his lip, "It's funny, the first thing that came to my mind when my dad told me that, was that I glad that I was the one in hospital and not her. Like, would they have done the same thing to that woman if they'd come across her instead of me?" He laughed, "And then I asked him what had happened to the Paul Smith shirt I'd been wearing… so I guess it wasn't the weirdest thought I had at the time."

I could understand that. Shock, in my experience, always seemed to lead to the strangest coping mechanisms. Clinging to mundane details to avoid focussing on whatever horror was fighting for centre stage, making traumatic experiences comical in retrospect. When I was seven my dad had broken a crystal champagne flute washing dishes, and cut his hand deeply. The whole way to the hospital he'd lamented the loss of the lousy glass while the white towel wrapped around his wound bloomed scarlet and my mother's knuckles shone white on the steering wheel.

"How long were you unconscious?" I asked.

"Just a couple of days." He said.

"Just." I laughed incredulously.

"I'm glad I woke up at all." He reasoned.

"How bad was it?"

He looked up, as if racking his brain, "Four broken ribs, severe concussion, a fractured disc in my spine. Apparently I was lucky neither of my lungs had been punctured, but I didn't feel very lucky at the time."

"God…" I whispered.

He smiled wanly, "I said I was almost beaten to death, but I don't think I was really at that high a risk of dying. If I hadn't been found, maybe. I try not to think about that. All I really had to deal with was a whole lot of bed rest and a brace for my back. I didn't lose any motor skills, I only had short term memory loss. You read about far worse things happening every other day."

I couldn't help but think he was understating the whole affair. Physical injuries were one thing, but it was surely impossible to come out of such an experience emotionally unscathed.

He continued, "I split my chin too. I must have hit it on the pavement when I fell. They told me that was twelve stitches, see?"

He tilted his head back until it the underside was exposed, the pale column of his neck stretched taut and indecently perfect. If there was a scar, I couldn't see it in the dark.

"No." I admitted.

"Everyone says that." He sounded slightly disappointed, "Here."

He reached out and took my hand, raising it and dragging the pads of my fingers lightly across his skin.

"Feel it?" He asked.

"Yeah." I breathed. There was a slight ridge, furrowed and uneven, about an inch and a half across. As I reached the edge of the mark I felt the barely discernable beginnings of stubble. I couldn't help moving my thumb over it for a second before pulling away.

"Those pills…" I said carefully.

He laughed, "It's okay, Blaine. You can ask me."

"What are they for?"

"Pain, mostly." He shrugged, "I don't need them all the time. Every now and then my back plays up, or my legs and feet hurt. I've never really understood why, but I'm told it's normal. Sometimes it gets really bad when it rains too. I can probably tell you before any meteorologist if the weather's about to turn for the worse."

"They're just for pain?" I ventured.

"Now, yes." He said, no discernable inflection in his voice.

Did he mean to imply that he used to take them for additional reasons? I knew that after head injuries there was a chance of confusion and disorientation, but even after physical symptoms subsided there remained the possibility of post-traumatic stress and the like. No doubt Kurt would have had to deal with the resultant shock of being beaten, regardless of the motive behind it. Still, I hardly knew him. I was floored by how much he'd already told me, and I didn't want to push it, given how reluctantI was to confide in him.

Instead I asked, "Did they catch them? The three guys?"

"No." He shook his head, "They're probably still in Lima right now, happy and scot-free."

"That's awful." I growled.

He sighed, "I've had a while to come to terms with it."

It struck me then how much our definitions of that phrase differed. To come to terms. I'd spent my late adolescence repressing and internalising every negative experience; self-sufficient and in denial to a fault. Kurt, on the other hand appeared to have clung onto his tribulations. Shared them and experienced them and done nothing but feel. He was so open and so honest and, to my way of thinking alarmingly willing to recount and relive. It was possible that, like me, it was all a front, but his coping mechanisms seemed on the surface to be my complete opposite. I found it startlingly tantalising.

I also wondered why he was being so forthcoming. I wondered if this was something he did with every person he met, even if it was for a hopeful, drunken half hour at some dive, on-campus party. Whether I was no more special than the last or next acquaintance, or if he believed he saw potential in me to get him. Maybe I'm simply romanticising him, but if he wanted me to get him, it was nothing compared to how much I wanted to. And naively or not, it did make me feel special. I felt privileged to be a new friend, privy to what must have been the most horrific period of Kurt's life. To be trusted with that reminiscence.

I gnawed my lip for a moment, then looked up at him, "I'm pretty sure if that had happened to me I'd be a far more negative person."

He laughed, "I told you, it doesn't make it okay for me to be an asshole. For all I know I'd be just as volatile even if it hadn't happened. I get angry, I take it out on other people. I'm sure you do the same sometimes. You just don't have the wonderful excuse of grievous bodily harm to fall back on."

"No." I smiled, "Lucky me."

Kurt obviously couldn't realise that I'd rather some across as irrationally hostile than divulge my own demons.

"Are you okay?" Kurt asked warmly.

"Am I okay?" I snorted.

"It's not exactly Goldilocks and the Three Bears, Blaine." He said, "You're not upset or anything?"

"No." I said slowly, "I'm a pissed off that you had to go through that, but I guess I'm about three years late to be of any use."

"It's still gratifying." He smirked.

I tapped the side of my cup distractedly, "Thanks for telling me."

"Thanks for listening." He shrugged, "It's kind of heavy, as far as party conversation goes."

"Are you kidding me?" I scoffed, "I can't remember the last time I went to a party and didn't get roped into a deep and meaningful. It's like a breeding ground."

"I'm sorry if I bored you." He slapped my leg with the back of his hand.

I rolled my eyes sarcastically, "Yeah, because that's what I meant."

"Well, as long as we're still on that road…" Kurt cleared his throat, "I'm going to go see Cedric tomorrow."

"You decided that just now?" I asked, incredulous.

"Mm." He sipped his drink, "You were right. I should go and sort things out with him."

I held my breath, "Patch things up?"

"Maybe." He was quiet for a while, "Blaine, I don't know why I don't dump him, but I'm not going to pretend that I will. I doubt that I'll somehow come up with a concrete reason between now and tomorrow, and I think it's pretty clear that I'm not exactly decisive as far as he's concerned."

It was deplorable for me to want to see the end of a relationship for personal gain, but I honestly thought that Kurt would be better off without Cedric, whatever his motives for staying with him.

I reached out tentatively and squeezed his arm to get his attention, "I know you don't like advice. I don't like giving it either… but, from what you've told me you already have some pretty sensible reasons."

He gazed down at the spot where my hand had been, "Yeah. We'll see."

We were both silent for a moment, suddenly jolted back to our senses by a loud call across the yard.

"Well, well, hello boys." Santana leered, sauntering towards us, "Having fun?"

"I see you've come up for air." Kurt grinned as she stood in front of us.

"For now." She waved her cell phone at us, "I got her number though."

"Not a one night stand then?" Kurt asked.

"Kurt, did you see her." She pried my cup from my hand and drained the remaining inch, "I'm giving this one a trial run."

"Lucky her." Kurt shot me a sideways look, and I repressed a smirk, "What brings you out here?"

"Quinn wants you. She's leaving, and forgot her key or something. Wes already carried Rose out of here, and I'm sleeping on your couch tonight."

"Are you?" he deadpanned.

"Yes. Coming?"

Kurt turned to me, "Do you mind if I go?"

"What?" I started, "Of course not." I was thrilled that he'd asked.

We both stood, watching each other awkwardly for a second, before Kurt moved in the last couple of feet and loosely twined his arms around my neck. I stiffened, then laced my own around his middle, head spinning. It wasn't an affectionate hug. I think it was a grateful hug. A hug between friends. Nonetheless, it was a hug, and I swam in the warmth of his arms, and the scratchy wool of his coat on my skin. I smelt soap and the sweetness of grain, before forcing myself to let go and step back. It was only five seconds, but it was like an elixir. Perfect.

He smiled and handed the depleted bottle of bourbon to me, "For your liquor cabinet."

"You're too kind." I laughed.

"Don't drink it all at once." He warned.

"I won't."

"I'll see you soon then?" He said, with a trace of what I longed to be hope.

"Yeah." I nodded. "Call me."

He started walking back to the house with a wave, and I watched him go with a kind of empty sense of near satisfaction. As if I'd come so close to achieving something I desperately wanted, yet not quite close enough.

Santana took a few steps away from me, then turned and threw me an enthusiastic two handed thumbs up. I plastered a cheery grin on my face and gave her my middle finger, eliciting a loud dirty laugh from her as she cantered after Kurt, and up the back steps.