Chapter 11

Kurt had been reluctant to continue his relationship with Blaine, every breath in the man's presence an acute reminder that what they had was fleeting and precarious, to say the least. But lying in bed together, hundreds of miles from anyone they knew with Blaine's head resting on his chest as he made lazy patterns along Kurt's arm and hummed quietly, it felt like the moment would never end.

"How did you learn to do that?" Kurt asked.

"What?"

"That thing with your tongue?"

"Do you really want to know?" Blaine asked.

"No," Kurt said with a laugh. "I suppose not."

He ran his fingers through Blaine's hair, now a loose pile of curls without the weight of pomade to smooth it into submission. He watched the dark ringlets wind around his fingers as he twisted in tiny circles.

"So what would you like to do today?" Blaine asked, his words whispered into the skin of Kurt's torso like a prayer. It tickled a little, but Kurt didn't recoil from it even a little. He welcomed the sensation and treasured it for he knew it would not last.

"Everything," Kurt said, feeling like it didn't matter as long as it was with Blaine. "Nothing. Anything."

"That's a long list."

"Well, then," Kurt said, tilting his head down to catch Blaine's eye when he looked up, "what did you want to do?"

"Doesn't matter," Blaine said. His voice was sure and deep.

"And why is that?"

"Because I'm with you." Blaine pointed a finger at him and grazed the tip of Kurt's nose with it, a feather-light touch that made Kurt shiver with its intimacy.

"Ah yes, but you have to buy an engagement ring," Kurt said. Practicality wasn't really his best quality, but for some reason it felt necessary to remind them both of the situation at hand.

Blaine's lip twitched ever so slightly at Kurt's words, the only sign he was affected by it at all.

"Yes, but I still have four days," he said. "So what do you propose we do with them?"

Blaine nipped at Kurt's side, just hard enough to make Kurt jump, but not hard enough to leave a mark. Kurt's head dropped to the pillow as he arched into Blaine's touch, his eyes drifting closed. He let himself get lost in the sensation of Blaine's mouth on his skin, leaving a trail of reverent kisses that promised to lead to something more.

Suddenly Blaine's movements stopped and Kurt tilted his head down to find Blaine looking up at him, his chin resting on the arm he had draped across Kurt's midsection. His golden eyes were filled with admiration and desire.

Sighing contentedly, Kurt reached up to stroke Blaine's cheek, the roughness of his five o'clock shadow coarse and prickly beneath his fingers, a stark contrast to everything that Blaine was.

"We will have to get out of this bed at some point," Kurt said.

"Perhaps, but you are recovering from an illness, Mr. Hummel, and I would hate for you to have a relapse."

"Then perhaps we shouldn't exert ourselves," Kurt teased as he pushed Blaine away.

"Or you could just lie there, and let me do all the work."

Blaine's voice rang out seductive and deep, twisting something hot and urgent in Kurt's belly. He couldn't believe the desires Blaine had awakened in him; it was as if he'd never truly been alive until Blaine held him in his arms. Every touch was like flipping the switch on a dozen electric bulbs, every lingering caress the smooth feel of a velvet waistcoat, every longing gaze the sweetest ballad ever sung. But this — Blaine looking at him like he wished to devour him body and soul — well, this was something altogether different, and it blazed hotter than the sun on the warmest summer day.

Kurt raised an eyebrow, feeling emboldened by Blaine's searing gaze. "Do tell," he said, sounding far more breathless than he would have liked.

"Well, to begin with," Blaine began as he lowered himself over Kurt's body, "I'd kiss you here." He pressed his lips to the crease where Kurt's leg met his hip, causing him to moan softly.

"And then?" Kurt gasped.

"Well..." Blaine began.

But he didn't finish, choosing instead to roll away from Kurt, leaving him gaping like a fish in confusion.

"No, you're right," Blaine said with a smirk. "We should get out of this room. It's so stuffy."

He glanced over his shoulder as he climbed out of bed, winking at Kurt and expertly dodging the pillow Kurt lobbed at him in response.

They circled around each other as they dressed to leave the hotel, their morning rituals already a practiced routine that Kurt knew he would always remember with fondness. Somehow the memory of Blaine helping him with his cufflinks or the way Blaine's pomade smelled when he first applied it in the morning, those were the things Kurt knew he'd never forget.

He sat on the edge of the bed and watched Blaine shave with careful precision, his own hands itching to touch the skin of Blaine's neck, decorate it with kisses and feel the scratch of stubble against his own cheek.

When Blaine was finished, he wiped his face and put on his tie and jacket, and Kurt immediately hopped from the bed to assist him, knowing Blaine didn't need it, but unable to resist another opportunity to touch him before they were relegated to stolen furtive glances for the rest of the day.

"I'm going to make this quick," Blaine said, "and I can treat you to lunch afterwards."

"Don't rush on my account," Kurt said, smoothing out Blaine's lapels and straightening his tie before brushing off his shoulders. For a simple gesture, it was a shockingly intimate moment between the two of them as they locked eyes. Kurt could feel himself being pulled in as he always was by Blaine's liquid gaze, and had to shake his head to clear it of his wicked thoughts. "I can browse the other shops while you decide."

"I thought you wanted to pick out the ring."

"You're serious?" Kurt asked, incredulous. "That won't look suspicious?"

"No more so than usual," Blaine replied with a shrug. "And besides, it would mean a lot to me if you were there."

He encircled Kurt in his arms, pressing their foreheads together as if he were savoring the final moments as well. He inhaled deeply and placed a lingering kiss to Kurt's lips. It was chaste, but as nearly all of Blaine's kisses did, it only served to leave him wanting more.

"Come on," Blaine said finally. "We should get going."

Reluctantly, Kurt agreed, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair where he had left it the night before, and following Blaine to the hotel's lobby.

As much as Kurt never wanted to leave their bed, he had to admit he was enjoying Atlanta.

Strolling down the streets next to Blaine, it was easy to forget all that lay behind them in St. Augustine, and the looming specter of New York in two months' time.

"You always look so deep in thought," Blaine said, daring to brush his fingers against Kurt's wrist as they walked. Kurt resisted leaning into his touch, but only just barely.

"I was thinking about how much I'm enjoying this trip," Kurt said.

"Even though we've barely left our room?" Blaine whispered. "Or is it because of that?"

"Well, someone's impressed with himself," Kurt replied, even as he felt his face flushing.

Blaine wasn't looking at Kurt, his gaze resolutely toward the sidewalk in front of him, but Kurt could see that he was grinning broadly.

"I hope I've impressed you a little," Blaine said, his grin giving way to a slight vulnerability.

Kurt was thoughtful for a moment before replying, "I think it's safe to say you've exceeded my expectations."

Blaine's grin returned as he adjusted his top hat and said, "And you, mine."

Kurt pressed his lips together to contain the smile Blaine's words had drawn from him. It seemed every word that fell from Blaine's lips made Kurt fall more in love with the man, shoving thoughts of his impending marriage to Rachel further and further from his mind.

Even so, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd be able to go through with it, knowing now what real love was. Could he bind his best friend to a life that was only half full? Could he strive to make her happy while his own heart was breaking?

"I should probably buy something for Rachel," he blurted suddenly.

Blaine turned his head sharply, obviously surprised by Kurt's seemingly incongruous thought. But he recovered quickly, asking, "What did you have in mind?"

Kurt shrugged, shoving his hands deep in his trouser pockets. "I don't know. I just thought I should get her something."

"I think it's a lovely gesture," Blaine said, his stiff shoulders betraying his casual tone.

Kurt remained silent for the next three blocks, trying not to think of Rachel or the guilt that swelled up and crashed over him like a wave of regret and shame every time he did. It wasn't as if he could help that he had fallen in love with Blaine. But neither was it Blaine's fault he had promised to marry Rachel.

Kicking at a stray pebble on the sidewalk, he watched the dust billow up and settle with each step. He felt like that pebble. Every one of his actions kicked up dust and sullied everything around him. There was no denying how easily it could all crumble, and it would shatter everything in his life.

He glanced over at Blaine then, wondering if he could feel it too, the ever-present sinking feeling that settled in his bones every time something good happened, like he was waiting for the pendulum to swing back and balance it all out. Kurt's whole life had felt like that, and nothing good had ever come without a price.

"I wish we could be in London to see Oscar Wilde's new play," Kurt remarked, apropos of nothing. "It opens on Valentine's Day. Something romantic about that, I think."

Blaine hummed in approval, but didn't offer any additional commentary, leaving Kurt alone with his thoughts for the moment.

An advertisement glued to several of the buildings proclaimed the Cotton States and International Expositionwould be opening in September. "That must be what they're constructing at the other end of town," Blaine offered, gesturing to one of the advertisements. "In Piedmont Park."

Kurt nodded in agreement, but his eyes went to a young man walking on the opposite side of the street. He was wearing a vibrant butter-colored suit, distinct lace cuffs peering out at the end of his coat sleeves, a velvet overcoat flaring out behind him in a pronounced fashion thanks to a particular swish in his walk that was unmistakable even to Kurt's unpracticed eye. And of course his dark blond hair was longer than was the style, leaving no doubt as to the man's lifestyle.

"I can't believe he's wearing that," Kurt said, nudging Blaine's shoulder and gesturing for him to look across the street. The man he pointed at was so unbelievably stylish and brash, it intrigued Kurt in an unexpected way. "It's so... bold."

"It's idiotic is what it is," Blaine said, his upper lip curling in disgust. "He might as well be wearing a sign proclaiming 'I'm an invert.' "

Kurt halted his steps and stared at Blaine in shock. There was nothing inherently wrong with dressing boldly. He himself had long admired men and women who chose to follow their own muse rather than the styles of the day, meanwhile secretly wishing he was courageous enough to do the same.

"I think it's brave," he said, nose held high. "He's not afraid to be himself. What's wrong with that?"

Blaine, who was now a few steps ahead of Kurt, had to turn around to face him. "Kurt, you're not serious, are you?"

In many ways, Kurt understood the importance of appearances more than Blaine, having spent his life trying to appear to be more than he was. But on this matter he couldn't help but bristle at Blaine judging a man Kurt desperately wished he had the bravery to be.

"And what if I am?" Kurt challenged. "What if I were to start dressing like that man?"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Blaine spat. He began walking again, but Kurt didn't follow. He was glued to the spot in his distaste for Blaine's disparagement of the dandy so boldly walking down Piedmont Avenue without regard for public opinion.

Kurt had been honest when he said Blaine had more freedom. He exploited it, in fact, always using his status to secure him privileges most could only dream of. Kurt didn't have that leeway, and although Blaine's was a straighter line to toe, a more direct path to the same destination - marriage, family, obligation – Kurt couldn't help but feel that he still had the option to embrace the gay lifestyle of New York's fairies.

On the other hand, Blaine had more to lose. What he and Kurt shared could ruin Blaine; Kurt could simply leave and start over somewhere and no one would be any the wiser. But Blaine... everything he had was tied into his family, his name, and his status.

Kurt felt suddenly weary, and in that moment, trapped – by both his chosen lifestyle and the prospect of having a different one.

"I think perhaps I should go back," he said, swaying on his feet. "I'm feeling lightheaded."

Before he could finish his sentence, Blaine's hand was gripping his elbow tightly, grounding him and keeping him from collapsing on the pavement.

"Maybe we should rest for a moment," Blaine said. "We've been walking an awful lot, and you're not completely well yet."

"I'm fine," Kurt said, stubbornly yanking his arm from Blaine's grasp. He was still fuming from Blaine's rebuff and really didn't want to be seen as weak.

"Kurt, I'm sorry," Blaine said, his eyes pleading with Kurt as he stared back, unblinking. The vulnerability in his features gave Kurt pause, but the unsettled feeling didn't quite go away. When Kurt didn't respond, he added a broken, "Please... "

Heaving a sigh as he tried to compose himself, Kurt uncrossed his arms and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Having the time to finally relax into each other was a luxury they reveled in, so much so that they had hardly left their room since they arrived. Kurt didn't want to spoil it now.

"I don't want to argue," he said.

"Me neither," Blaine admitted, his voice a quiet echo of its usually bright tone.

"Let's just go see the jeweler so you can buy Quinn's ring, and then we can enjoy our few days here in Atlanta," Kurt said, finally smiling again, even as his insides roiled with warning that he wasn't completely over their disagreement. He could let it go for now – for Blaine.

The smile Kurt got in return looked a little pinched as well, but he chose to ignore it for the moment. They had business to attend to, and it would serve no one for them to be quarreling on Piedmont Avenue for the whole world to see. Kurt glanced around, furtively looking for the young dandy who had started the whole mess, but he was nowhere to be seen.

The pair walked on in silence for a bit, the tension still pulling them taut and thin, but neither chose to acknowledge it. There was no point at the moment anyway because they had reached their destination.

The jeweler, an old friend of Blaine's grandfather, had his shop on Piedmont Avenue not far from Kurt and Blaine's hotel, and the Andersons were able to buy on credit from him.

The bell on the door jingled brightly as they entered the shop, announcing their arrival and taunting Kurt with its cheery tone.

"Good morning," the salesman greeted. "What can I do for you gentlemen today?"

"Hello," Blaine responded politely. "I'm Blaine Anderson. I'm here to see Mr. Pratt."

"Oh yes, Mr. Anderson, we've been expecting you. I thought you were getting in to Atlanta a few days ago."

"I had some... unexpected business to attend to," Blaine said, shuffling nervously on his feet as his eyes shifted briefly to Kurt.

The clerk followed Blaine's eye line and looked Kurt up and down, his gaze curious and a little judgmental. "May I help you, sir?" he asked.

"He's—"

"I'm here with Mr. Anderson," Kurt said simply, and without offering further explanation.

"Very well, then," the clerk said, "I'll go get Mr. Pratt. You gentlemen wait here, please."

As the man disappeared behind a curtain, Kurt huffed out a frustrated breath.

"He didn't mean anything by it, Kurt," Blaine reassured, his voice a hushed whisper.

"I'm sure," Kurt gritted out, lifting his nose proudly into the air and squaring the set of his shoulders. He couldn't take back the man's obvious disdain, but he could protect himself from further discomfort by acting the part, something he had become well-practiced at over the years.

"Blaine!" a booming voice exclaimed. "I finally get to meet some of Andrew's brood."

Mr. Pratt emerged from behind the curtain where his salesman had earlier disappeared, a beaming smile on his face beneath a thick, honey-colored mustache. His suit was exquisitely made — a deep charcoal color with a faint pinstripe — and had likely been custom-fitted for the small, slender man, who seemed larger than life even as Kurt and Blaine practically towered over him. He didn't seem like the type of man who would associate with Dr. Anderson at all, and Kurt found himself curious about their relationship.

While Blaine talked to Mr. Pratt about the type of ring he was looking to purchase, Kurt browsed the cases, finding everything from match safes to hat pins. His eyes caught on a small brass brooch, a rectangular stone set between two embossed daisies amid a series of interlocking swirls. It was a beautiful pin, but the color of the stone was what captured his eye: a clear amber-colored glass gem, deep and honeyed against the bright metal.

"Would you like to see something?" Mr. Pratt asked, his attentions on Kurt now that Blaine was browsing the rings.

"I was just looking for a gift for my fiancée," he said. "She would love that brooch." He pointed to the glass case, and Mr. Pratt smiled, his pale blue eyes dancing as he pulled out the pin and passed it to Kurt.

"It's beautiful," Blaine said, his voice suddenly a mere hair's breadth from Kurt's right ear. "Rachel will love it."

Kurt turned the pin over in his hands, wondering how much it cost and if he had enough money on him to even attempt to negotiate a fair price.

"Have you decided on a ring?" Mr. Pratt asked, interrupting Kurt's thoughts.

"I have narrowed it down to two," Blaine replied, "but I was hoping Kurt here would give me his opinion on the matter."

Kurt tilted his head to look at Blaine fully, and saw that he was holding two small diamond rings. One was an elaborate setting with several smaller stones, but the other was a single diamond set in a simple gold band with a delicate filigree pattern adorning its surface. Kurt instantly knew it was the one Quinn would prefer. He glanced up at Blaine and smiled, pointing to the second ring. "That one."

"Are you certain?" Blaine asked, glancing back and forth between the two. "You don't think—"

"Blaine, trust me." Kurt closed Blaine's hand around the ring, squeezing it as he did so. He saw Blaine's eyes flutter shut at the touch, but he caught himself quickly and turned back to Mr. Pratt.

"The gentleman has spoken," Blaine said, handing the ring to the jeweler.

"Shall I wrap up that pin as well?" Mr. Pratt asked, turning to Kurt.

"Um... I—I don't think so," Kurt said, laying the pin on the counter. "I really shouldn't."

Kurt's face flushed with shame as he turned to exit the shop, but a firm hand on his arm stopped him.

"Kurt," Blaine pleaded.

"I saw a shop I wanted to visit," he lied. "I'll wait for you outside."

He heard Blaine begin to speak, but the cheerful bell masked every other sound as he exited the shop. Leaning against the brick façade of the building, Kurt kicked fruitlessly at nothing, his frustration burning brightly. He took out a cigarette and paced in front of the jeweler's shop while trying to light it, but his hands were shaking from anger as he attempted to strike the match.

Why did everything have to be so complicated? At least it was without money or status, and Kurt was sick of not having either. He couldn't even buy his fiancée a stupid pin. And to top it all off, Kurt had embarrassed himself as well as Blaine.

Throwing his third broken match into the street, he nearly shouted at the futility of it all. Feeling tears welling up, Kurt swiped the back of his hand across his eyes and took out another match, trying again to light the cigarette he had clenched between his teeth. When the head of the match struck the back of the package and erupted in flame, Kurt exhaled a shaky breath and let the small moment of relief wash over him.

The taste and scent of tobacco flooded his senses and instantly began to ease his tension. A light breeze wafted over him, cooling his overheated face and finally giving him some true relief from his anguish. He walked further down the sidewalk and allowed himself to wander absently along the street, watching his feet as he counted his own steps.

He felt blinded by his love for Blaine, and he was losing his battle against temptation. How would he tell Rachel? Could he tell Rachel? It seemed an insane notion to even consider it, but the thought of living a lie felt entirely wrong to Kurt. His keen sense of obligation forced him to honor his commitment even as it warred with his need to be honest with her.

Being an accomplice to Blaine's pretense was one thing; creating his own farce of a marriage was a weight he couldn't bear. The idea of breaking Rachel's heart to save his own seemed incredibly selfish, an action his father would most definitely not condone, but the thought of not having Blaine in his life was even more distressing than disappointing his father. There was no way to come out the victor.

Kurt was shaken from his thoughts by the shop's bell as it rung out again, this time the sound muffled by the distance and his own thoughts.

Even at a distance, Kurt could see Blaine exited the shop with a broad smile on his face, and Kurt watched him for a moment, content just to see him without any of his usual burdens weighing him down.

As he approached from up the street, he could see Blaine's brow furrow in confusion as he glanced around, likely looking for Kurt.

"What on earth has you grinning like a Cheshire cat?" Kurt called out.

Blaine's head swiveled to meet his gaze and the broad smile returned.

"I thought maybe I'd lost you to a fabric shop," Blaine teased.

"Never, my good sir. I was simply enjoying the midday breeze."

"It is a lovely day," Blaine agreed, tilting his head back to take in the practically cloudless sky. "What say you to lunch at one of Atlanta's finest cafes?"

"Lead the way," Kurt replied, his smile never leaving his face, even though his worry still tickled the back of his mind like a stray hair on the back of his collar. "Did you get Quinn's ring settled?" he asked, hoping to keep the conversation going to distract him from his more troublesome thoughts.

"I did indeed, and also another little bauble."

"You'll spoil her," Kurt admonished.

"It's not for Quinn," Blaine replied, smirking.

Kurt raised an eyebrow, wondering what on earth Blaine could have purchased and for whom, when he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small navy blue box and handed it to Kurt.

Stopping in the street, Kurt ran his fingers over the top of the box delicately, feeling the smooth grain of the velvet underneath his fingertips. He flipped the lid open to reveal the same brass pin he had been looking at in Mr. Pratt's shop. He glanced from the pin to Blaine and back again, still not understanding. Blaine's face was set in a wide smile, his golden eyes dancing with excitement as he awaited Kurt's reaction.

"What is this?" Kurt demanded.

"It's Rachel's pin," Blaine answered, as if it were obvious, and still with that absurd smile on his face.

"But why did you buy it?" Kurt could feel the anger begin to bubble up within him, it brought with it embarrassment and shame for good measure.

"I thought... Well, you looked like you wanted it, and since you probably couldn't afford—"

"You thought you'd buy it for me?" Kurt gritted out. "For my fiancée? Because you felt sorry for me."

"Kurt it wasn't like that."

"No, I think it's exactly like that," he said, tears stinging his eyes for the second time that day.

"Kurt, no... I just know what it's like for you, and I have a trust fund. What's the point of getting married to keep it if I can't spend it?"

"I don't need charity," Kurt spat.

"It's not... Kurt, you can't believe that."

"I don't know what to believe anymore."

"Rachel doesn't have to know."

"That's not the point!" Kurt shouted. "It would be a lie — another lie. And this," he gestured between them, "is quite enough to deal with already."

"So it's about lying to Rachel?" Blaine asked, his face twisted into confusion.

"It's about not honoring my promise," Kurt said. "Why can't you understand that?"

"I understand that you don't have to get married."

Kurt froze. "Yes, I most certainly do," he said.

"No, you don't," Blaine insisted. "What's the worst that will happen if you don't? Rachel will marry someone else?"

"I can't believe you're saying this."

"It's not like you love her."

"Of course I love her," Kurt said, his frustration forcing his voice to pitch higher. He needed to get out of there, away from Blaine and this infuriatingly confusing conversation. He felt as if the breath were taken from his lungs; he gasped for air as he felt his pulse quicken.

"I'm simply saying that if you weren't marrying Rachel, you'd be free to pursue your dreams, Kurt, and I don't want you to have to compromise because of some promise you made before you knew who you were."

"I don't know who I am?" Kurt questioned. "Me? Are you even listening to yourself?"

"We don't both of us have to be stuck in loveless marriages," Blaine insisted.

"Neither of us does," Kurt said.

"I do." Blaine's expression was defeated. His shoulders sagged heavily as he gave himself over to the inevitability of it all.

"Only if you want to keep the money."

"I can't do that to Quinn," Blaine said.

"So what makes you think I could do that to Rachel?"

Blaine looked dumbfounded at the revelation. "Kurt..." He reached out for Kurt's arm.

"No, I'm going to go for a walk. I'll meet you back at the hotel later."

Kurt turned heel and didn't look back even as he heard Blaine calling out to him. He couldn't bear to be in the man's company. Not now. He needed to think, to decide if he could really do this.

Blaine must have understood his need to be alone because he didn't follow him, a fact Kurt was grateful for as he dipped into the first saloon he saw. The barkeep was a weathered old man with thinning, white hair and a prominent gut, his large trousers held up by two worn leather braces, and his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. He nodded once to Kurt before waiting on a man already seated at the bar. Kurt took the stool to the man's left and waited his turn. The bar top was clean, but well-worn, with deep gouges in its wooden surface. The place itself was gloomy and dark, covered in a thick haze of cigar smoke, but it seemed the perfect type of place to forget himself and drown his sorrows in a stiff drink.

"What'll it be, sir?"

Kurt patted his pockets to check his financial situation and, finding he still had more than enough cash on him, he plunked down a few coins on the counter and said, "Whiskey, please."

The bartender nodded and returned with a bottle and a small glass, pouring out a fair amount of the deep amber liquid and leaving Kurt with his thoughts. He made a quick pass of the room with his gaze, noting there were few patrons in the bar this time of day; it was only just past noon, after all. But one gentleman immediately caught his eye, unmistakable in his butter-colored suit, sitting at a table in a back corner and watching Kurt intently.

When Kurt met the man's eye, he gestured for Kurt to join him. Not giving it a second thought, Kurt rose from his bar stool and headed for the secluded table, seating himself across from the dandy and setting his glass of untouched whiskey on the table.

"I saw you on the street earlier," Kurt said, without preamble. "Mr. ...?"

"Kiehl," the man replied. "I saw you as well. Lover's spat?"

Kurt bristled, his face growing warmer, and he still hadn't touched his whiskey.

"It's quite all right," Mr. Kiehl said, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Your secret is safe with me." He opened his coat to reveal a bright green carnation pinned to the inside of his coat just below the chest pocket. Kurt wasn't sure what the flower meant, but he could piece it together from the man's words.

Kurt cleared his throat self-consciously and took a sip from his glass. The liquor burned but also served to strengthen his resolve. Mr. Kiehl was the first man, apart from Blaine, who freely admitted his preference in front of him, and he couldn't resist the opportunity to know more.

"We were arguing about you," Kurt said finally, huffing out a laugh at the irony of it all. "I said you were brave for dressing so boldly. He thought you a fool."

"I'm not surprised," Mr. Kiehl said. "This gentleman of yours, he has money? A family name?"

"Both," Kurt replied solemnly.

Mr. Kiehl nodded knowingly. "I've been with that type of man before," he said. "They just don't get fellas like us."

"He's not—"

"Oh, maybe not now, or not all the time, but he will be. Eventually it all becomes too much and they run home to the missus."

"I was helping him pick out an engagement ring." Kurt said, dropping his head in his hands.

"Mister, you've got it bad."

"Hummel," he mumbled.

"Pardon?"

Kurt raised his head, and looked wearily up at the man sitting across from him. "My name is Kurt Hummel."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Kurt Hummel," Mr. Kiehl said, holding out a hand. "It's always nice to meet a fellow aesthete."

Kurt shook the man's hand firmly, taking note of how soft and delicate his hands felt, even softer than Blaine's, and he wondered how the man made his money if he wasn't a gentleman. It was obvious from his attire that he had quite a bit of disposable income, or at least some very wealthy benefactors.

"Mr. Kiehl, if I may be so bold, how does one come by such exquisitely tailored clothes here in Atlanta?"

"Gentlemen, well... let's just say, a certain kind of gentleman, might be willing to pay for the services of an expert in the 'aesthetic' movement." To punctuate his words, the man waggled his eyebrows lewdly, and there was no mistaking his meaning.

"So you're a..." Kurt leaned in and whispered just barely loud enough to be heard, "a rent boy."

"Yes, and proudly so."

Feeling his skin flushing with heat and color, Kurt took a sip of his whiskey, hoping the spirits would dull his senses somewhat and make him more comfortable having such an impolite conversation with a near stranger. The warmth of the drink traveled down his throat and coated his stomach with the low-burning fire he instantly appreciated; the bitter honeyed flavor saturated his tongue and his mind, making his words come more freely.

"Doesn't that make you feel... used?" Kurt wondered aloud.

"Quite the contrary, actually," Mr. Kiehl said. "I take money for something I would offer freely, and I don't have to associate with men I find unappealing."

"Yes, but what of love?"

"Love in the traditional sense is for the lower class, and certainly not an aesthete. I fall in love every time I take a new man to bed, and fall out of love just as quickly. It's far less complicated this way."

Kurt snorted into his empty glass. "I think I need another whiskey," he said.

Mr. Kiehl signaled for the bartender and soon they both had fresh drinks. Kurt's second one paid for by his companion.

"So tell me, Mr. Hummel, what brings you to Atlanta?" Mr. Kiehl pulled a cigarette from his brightly polished silver case and tapped it against the table, before pulling out a match and lighting it. He offered one to Kurt, who graciously accepted as he spoke.

"Blaine, he's my... well, he's the gentleman you saw me with," Kurt supplied. "He's here to buy his intended an engagement ring."

Kurt inhaled deeply from the cigarette, noting the quality of the tobacco was similar to Blaine's private blend. He held the smoke in his lungs for a while, content to savor it on the heels of the rich, soothing flavor of the whiskey.

"But I asked why you're here," Mr. Kiehl corrected.

"I'm convalescing," Kurt joked.

"Oh yes, I can see how green around the gills you look." Chandler chuckled brightly, a distinct musical lilt to his laughter. Kurt couldn't help but admire such a quality, and joined him, feeling freer than he had in some time. Strange that at 19 he should feel so caged, but he had grown so used to it, he knew no other way.

"Well, that's what we told my father, anyway," Kurt said, deciding he could trust this man with the truth. "We're both spending the winter in St. Augustine, but we'll be headed back to New York next month."

"I'm from New York as well," Mr. Kiehl said, beaming. "We should toast."

"To what?"

"Being fellow..." He paused and glanced from side to side, Kurt following his gaze. When they both spotted the bartender watching them, he said, "New Yorkers," and added a sly wink that was only visible to Kurt.

Kurt raised his glass with a smile and saluted his companion with it. "To New York."

"To freedom," Mr. Kiehl added.

When he set his empty glass down for a second time, Kurt could feel the alcohol buzzing pleasantly through him, warming his insides and taking away the tetchy feeling he'd been battling since he'd left the jewelers. A glance at his watch told him it was well past lunch time now, and his belly immediately reminded him he had yet to consume any food since the hurried breakfast he and Blaine had shared when they'd finally extricated themselves from each other's arms.

"Mr. Kiehl, might you know of a place nearby where we might take in a late luncheon? I'm famished and all this whiskey shall have me singing in the streets like a drunkard if I don't eat something soon."

"If you're planning to court me, Mr. Hummel, we shall have to inform my father," he teased. "And please, call me Chandler."

"I'm afraid I'm spoken for," Kurt said, standing up. He paused for a moment and then added with a laugh, "twice."

Chandler turned toward him, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Twice?"

"I'm engaged to be married as well."

"Interesting."

"That's one way of looking at it," Kurt said morosely.

"Well, how do you look at it?" Chandler asked as he gestured with his walking stick for Kurt to take a left out of the saloon. The cane had a silver knob at the top, embossed with swirls of botanical patterns. It likely cost a fortune, leaving no doubt this man made more than a decent living as a rent boy.

"I'm a caged canary," Kurt said. "And my only other option if I want to be free is to go back to being a common pigeon."

"Well, now that's not entirely true," Chandler replied after a moment of looking thoughtful. "You could always do what I do."

Kurt could see the appeal, and he had to admit, Chandler was a handsome man. The man had a boyish charm to him, even if his spectacles made him look bookish. His blond hair was carefully styled, and he had pleasant blue eyes and a charming smile. Would he be as charismatic a lover as Blaine? Did he possess skills and knowledge that Kurt's lover did not have? The thought was fleeting, but he couldn't say he wasn't intrigued by the possibility. His heart, however, was taken - no matter how angry he was, Kurt knew he would be returning to Blaine's bed that night.

"I don't think it's for me," Kurt said finally.

"We shall see."

Before Kurt could question him further, Chandler turned a corner and came to a stop in front of a small café a few blocks over from the establishment they had just left. When they entered, it seemed the plump matron running the place knew Chandler by the way she greeted him with a crushing hug and a wet kiss to the cheek.

"Mr. Kiehl," she said in heavily accented English. "You always bring such handsome young men with you. My husband, he will be jealous."

"I promise no one will besmirch your good name, my lady. Mr. Hummel and I lost track of time in the pub and missed luncheon. Might you be able to scrape up some fare for us?"

"Anything for you, caro."

"She seems to like you," Kurt said when the woman was out of earshot.

"I am a frequent customer," Chandler said with a shrug, "and she's Italian."

"And you bring her handsome young men," Kurt teased.

"Well, you are," Chandler said. He held Kurt's gaze for a moment, and Kurt could feel his heartbeat accelerating. It wasn't quite the same as how Blaine made him feel, but it was a pleasant reaction nonetheless.

"Thank you," he said, trying not to blush.

Thankfully, the matron returned just as Chandler was about to speak again. She carried a small loaf of bread and a bottle of wine that she set down in front of them.

"Eat," she commanded. "Drink the wine, and I will bring you something hot." And then she was gone again, back toward what Kurt assumed was the kitchen.

"So tell me more about this Blaine of yours," Chandler commanded, pouring them each a generous portion of the wine, and breaking off a piece of the crusty bread.

By the time they had eaten their fill and drunk two bottles of wine, the sun had long since set, and Kurt's tongue was loose from the drink as they stepped into the night.

"Oh my goodness," he said. "I haven't kept you from paying company, have I?"

Chandler laughed, and his words were slurred together when he spoke. Kurt wondered if maybe he sounded a bit like that too.

"I think I can afford one night off," Chandler said. "Unless you'd like to do something that would require payment."

He stumbled into Kurt and nearly toppled them both into the street. They both erupted into boyish giggles as they tried to right themselves. A passing gentleman gave them a stern, disapproving look that forced Kurt to bite his lip to keep from laughing harder. He dusted off Chandler's coat and nodded to the stranger.

"A little too much to drink," Kurt supplied, earning him a tut of disapproval as the man continued down the street.

"They're all just a bunch of snobs, who probably get drunker than I am and beat their wives," Chandler scoffed, just loud enough that it carried and echoed on the brick of the surrounding buildings.

"Keep your voice down," Kurt said, feeling a little sobered by the interaction; suddenly Chandler's boldness seemed a tad dangerous out on the darkened street.

"Where to now, Mr. Hummel?"

"You tell me," he said. "You've been in Atlanta longer than I have."

Chandler looked thoughtful for a moment and then tossed his walking stick in the air, catching it in triumph, albeit sloppily with his senses no doubt being dulled by the wine just as Kurt's were. The theatrical movement made Kurt laugh again, or maybe that was the wine as well.

"We should ride the street car," Chandler said. "There's a club on the other side of town that might be more our speed."

Kurt couldn't quite sort out what exactly Chandler meant by that, but decided, either through his own reckless nature or the liquid courage he had just consumed, that it was high time he found out.

Boarding the Nine-Mile Circle — the city's popular street car line — behind Chandler, Kurt suddenly felt a sense of discomfort that was at odds with the warm feeling in his belly from the combination of wine and good company. He glanced over at his companion, taking in Chandler's brash appearance for what felt like the hundredth time that day, and wondered what the rest of the world saw.

A cursory glance around the car revealed a handful of other passengers, most notably a young mother and her small child who glared at them down the bridge of her pointed nose. In an attempt to sway her, Kurt smiled warmly and tipped his hat, but the woman tugged her daughter closer to her and haughtily shifted her gaze out the window. Kurt recoiled in on himself and focused his eyes on his own hands, pulling at his fingers as he felt Chandler's eyes on him.

"Don't worry about her," he reassured, patting Kurt on the arm. "I'm used to it."

"It's just not fair that she'd judge us based on what she sees," Kurt challenged without looking up.

"But she'd be right."

Kurt looked up at Chandler, ready to refute him as he had so many times to strangers before, but he realized the man was right. Kurt was just like him, and it was blatantly obvious to anyone who looked at them. He couldn't decide if that bothered him or not.

Turning his gaze out the window, Kurt watched as they passed through a posh Atlanta neighborhood. His eyes lingered on the gentlemen in top hats and ladies in silk dresses as the street car came to a stop. The woman who had glared at them exited with her daughter, throwing a final admonishing glance over her shoulder, a muttered "dirty inverts" under her breath.

"Pay her no mind," Chandler soothed. He gripped Kurt's hand tightly in warning to keep him from hurling the retort that Chandler must have sensed was on the tip of his tongue.

Kurt seethed, all at once reminded of everything that Blaine was worried about — the judgmental glances, the rescinded invitations, the tarnished reputations — and found he was suddenly sick with how he had treated Blaine. It wasn't his fault that he was worried about being found out; they both were, and he had acted like a child. He worried his lip between his teeth as both anxiety and regret washed over him.

When they crossed over Ponce de Leon Avenue, Kurt was hit with a sudden and deep longing to see Blaine as his thoughts were turned to St. Augustine and the decadent hotel where they had met.

"I should get back," Kurt said abruptly.

Chandler's smile fell instantly, but he looked as if he understood when he said, "Of course."

Kurt held out his right hand, and as Chandler shook it firmly he said, "Thank you for a lovely afternoon, Mr. Kiehl."

"My pleasure," Chandler said, offering Kurt a small card.

Turning it over in his hand, Kurt could see it was a calling card that read "Chandler M. Kiehl, Orator & Aesthete, Columbia Hall, Bowery & Fifth St., New York."

"Look me up when you're back in New York," Chandler said, leaning forward and kissing Kurt on the cheek, not even sparing the other passengers a fleeting glance.

Kurt did not reply, simply smiling and shoving the card in his pocket. He jumped down from the street car and ran the remaining six blocks to the hotel.