Chapter 21

Blaine couldn't help himself, laughing at the look of shock on Kurt's face even as he longed to embrace him.

"You're alive," Kurt gasped, reaching out to touch him as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. His eyes were rimmed with red and his mouth hung open in shock. "You look terrible."

"Is that any way to greet your long lost lover?" Blaine teased, standing there shivering through his laughter on the sidewalk.

"I thought I'd never see you again," Kurt said. His voice sounded choked, and Blaine couldn't be sure, but he could have sworn Kurt was crying. The steady rain obscured any evidence that might confirm Blaine's guess.

"But I told you in my letter," Blaine said, wondering why Kurt seemed so sad, "we were destined to know each other."

"I thought that letter was a goodbye," Kurt said, his shoulders sagging under the weight of an unidentifiable emotion.

"Darling, how on earth could you think that?" Blaine reached out to touch him, but Kurt recoiled. It was slight, but just enough that caused Blaine to wonder what had happened to his love since they'd last seen each other.

"Your grandfather told me you had changed your mind," Kurt said. "At first I didn't believe it, but then I got that letter, and I knew it must be true." Kurt clutched at his forehead with his hand as if he were trying to make sense of it all.

"I wanted to come see you right away, but the old man was watching me like a policeman watches a criminal. I couldn't risk it. And when I went to find you, you were gone."

"I think I need to sit down," Kurt said, looking about him for a place to do so, confusion plain on his face.

"I wouldn't mind going somewhere drier," Blaine suggested, glancing up at the darkened sky. "Perhaps I could get cleaned up." He nodded toward the steps Kurt had been sitting on when he approached.

Kurt nodded slowly, and as he turned to go, Blaine followed. They were both unnaturally silent as they climbed the stairs to Kurt's apartment.

The room was cold and dark, dampness seeping through the walls and floor like the inside of a cave. The fire had not been lit — at least not since the night before — and so the room had an unnatural chill about it. Kurt's bed looked as if it hadn't been slept in for days, the sheets slightly rumpled in the middle as if someone had sat on the bed, but had not lain beneath them. Several empty wine bottles littered the floor amid crumpled wads of paper, which had mostly accumulated around a small writing desk covered in dirty teacups, scattered papers, and broken charcoal sticks. Combined with Kurt's gaunt face and haphazard clothing, the scene sent a chill up Blaine's spine.

"Kurt, what's happened to you?" he asked, reaching out to place a comforting hand on Kurt's shoulder.

He wheeled around to face Blaine, fire raging in his icy blue eyes. "ME?" he shouted. "What happened to me? I could ask the same of you, Blaine Anderson."

As Kurt began to pace wildly, his fury rising off him in waves, Blaine tried to piece the mystery together in his head. But nothing made sense. Why wasn't Kurt happy to see him? Blaine had practically killed himself getting to Paris and was anticipating a happy reunion. "Kurt, I don't understand," he said. Blaine reached out and grabbed Kurt's arm, bringing his pacing to a halt. "Will you please tell me what's wrong?"

Kurt turned to face him and suddenly his face softened. His hands came up to cup Blaine's face and his eyes welled up with tears. "Is it really you?" he said as he searched Blaine's face.

"I know I look positively horrid," Blaine said. "I just need a bath and a razor..."

"Definitely a razor," Kurt said with a choked off laugh as he stroked Blaine's thick beard.

"It's still me," Blaine whispered. He reached up and placed his hand over Kurt's where it cupped his jaw.

"This feels like a dream," Kurt said. "Tell me I'm not dreaming."

"If you are, then so am I," Blaine said. "And if we're both dreaming, then let's never wake up."

With that, Kurt surged forward and kissed Blaine so soundly that he was knocked backwards, nearly losing his footing in the puddle that had formed beneath him on the floor. When he pulled away, Blaine was breathless with relief. "Now that was the greeting I was hoping for," he teased.

"Shut up and get undressed," Kurt pleaded. His hands reached up and began to unbutton Blaine's waistcoat. It was so tattered and worn that one of the buttons fell off as he was pulling it through the buttonhole.

"I think I need a new suit," Blaine said.

"It is a bit... " Kurt paused to take in Blaine's appearance. "Blaine, what happened to you? Did you swim to Paris?"

Blaine glanced down at his front, the waistcoat loose and hanging where Kurt had unbuttoned it. "Not exactly, no." His mind flashed to the boat that had picked him up off the coast of New Jersey when he had gone overboard, without a penny to his name and only the suit on his back.

Kurt must have seen the faraway look in his eyes because he leaned down into Blaine's eye line and said, "It's not important now. We can talk later. If it's all right, I just want to touch you."

Blaine smiled and stroked Kurt's cheek. "Of course, my love. Whatever you wish."

Despite the chill in the room, they both undressed quickly, Kurt laying himself gently across Blaine on the still-made bed. He lowered himself slowly over Blaine's body, mapping out a trail of kisses along his torso; the touch of Kurt's mouth felt like the heated glow of a roaring fire, a gentle worship of warmth and love.

Every caress felt reverent, like Kurt was committing Blaine's entire body to memory, or perhaps worried he may never get another chance to touch it. His gaze lingered on Blaine longer than usual, his blue-green eyes focused and open in a way Blaine had never seen. Blaine's body felt electric with each touch, aflame under Kurt's heated glance.

"I still can't believe you're here," Kurt gasped.

"I can't quite believe it myself," Blaine replied, arching up to press their bodies flush. The firm outline of Kurt's cock against his own made him moan.

"Do you mind if we do it like this?" Kurt asked. "I just want to look at you."

"I'm always happy to gaze upon your face, my love, and never more so than when we are alone."

For a fraction of a second, he thought Kurt might cry, but then the look of sadness was gone, replaced by fervent passion and desire for release. As Kurt's weight settled over him, Blaine felt at peace, the war within him that had begun when he awoke alone and sweating in a darkened room now ceased.

"Kurt," he gasped. "Oh, how I've missed you."

The only response was a desperate kiss: a searching tongue and shaky breaths as Kurt's body shook above him.

Blaine ran his hands through Kurt's soft hair, savoring the feel of the familiar strands between his fingers as Kurt moved his mouth to Blaine's ear; the subtle brush of his tongue against the lobe sent Blaine's arousal into the stratosphere. A wayward moan escaped his lips as Kurt continued his path down Blaine's neck and onto his chest. He was in awe of the reverence with which Kurt worshiped his body. It felt as if every star in the universe were focused on this moment as Blaine lost himself to pleasure.

Before long their combined moans were so loud, Blaine was sure they could be heard from the street. His sweaty skin was cold where it was exposed to the air and burning hot where Kurt was pressed against him. The dry friction of their cocks against each other was just shy of painful and yet bordering on overwhelming bliss in a way that made Blaine's body ache for release. When it came, Blaine tried to make it last, holding back to the very last second and watching Kurt's face tense in pleasure, the warmth of his seed spreading across Blaine's chest. Only then did he allow himself to slip over the edge, closing his eyes tightly and sighing Kurt's name into the quiet room like a prayer.

Afterward, lying there with Kurt's head pillowed on his chest, Blaine felt like he could finally exhale, the anxiety that had been plaguing him since he left New York now a distant memory.

"You really do need a bath," Kurt said, lifting his head and resting his chin on Blaine's chest.

"I thought the vagabond look suited me," he said, rubbing a hand over his dirty beard.

Kurt rolled his eyes good-naturedly and poked him in the ribs. "I'll go downstairs and fetch some water for you so you can sponge off and have a shave," he said, and rolled off of Blaine.

As Kurt stood, Blaine watched him stretch his long neck, the taut lines of his naked body begging to be touched and adored. Blaine's eyes traveled down Kurt's torso to his perfectly formed backside and then lower to his strong legs, which flexed beautifully as he padded across the cold floor to slip on his shirt and trousers. "I'll only be a moment," he reassured, throwing a casual glance over his shoulder that set Blaine's desire aflame once more. How he had missed that face.

When Kurt closed the door behind him, Blaine dropped his head onto the pillow and stretched out his limbs, arching his back off the bed. He felt whole again, like an animal awakening from winter hibernation. Even though the room still held a chill, he felt warm from head to toe, as if Kurt's presence had thawed something within him. He knew he'd need to address the issue of New York eventually, but for now he would enjoy his time in Paris with the man he loved.

His stomach growled, interrupting his wayward thoughts. He stood up and began to rummage through Kurt's cupboard, hoping to find a scrap of bread or cheese. Finding none, he sat back down on the bed and waited for Kurt to return. Perhaps after he'd cleaned up they could find a café or market.

Muffled voices captured his attention, and he crossed the room to see who was outside. Looking out of the window, he saw a young man speaking to Kurt, looking more than a bit put out. For his part, Kurt looked contrite and kept nervously glancing behind himself. Blaine was about to call out to Kurt when he saw the young man turn, exposing his profile to Blaine's view. He recognized the man's face, but couldn't quite place it. Straining to listen to their conversation, he pushed open the window, careful to conceal himself behind the lightweight curtain, and pressed his ear to the opening.

"You said you'd be by this afternoon, Kurt. I'm not angry with you; I was just worried."

"And I told you, not to worry," Kurt said. "As you can see, I'm fine." Kurt sounded exasperated, but the man pressed on.

"So why won't you tell me where you've been?"

"Nowhere, Sebastian. I've been right here all afternoon."

Blaine stumbled backward into the apartment. Sebastian. How could he have forgotten that name? The second he heard it, he remembered the waiter who had propositioned him when he'd been in Paris on his honeymoon. But how had Kurt come to know him?

Spurred by his own curiosity, Blaine returned to the window. Kurt was still talking to Sebastian, his frustration plain in his body language. Unable to stop himself, Blaine called out, "Kurt, are you coming back?"

The two tilted their heads up to see Blaine in the window, Kurt's eyes wide and Sebastian's face pinched in confusion.

"Who's he?" Sebastian asked, returning his attention to Kurt.

Kurt's shock quickly turned to anger. "You don't even remember, do you?" he spat.

"What are you on about?" Sebastian asked, looking back up at Blaine and then down to Kurt. "If you wanted a little variety, all you had to do was say so."

"It's not very gentlemanly to shout into the street," Blaine said, hoping to diffuse the tension. "Why don't you both come up?"

Kurt looked as if he wanted to slap Blaine, but he obliged, Sebastian trailing along behind him. Blaine hurried to slip on his clothes, tripping on his own pant leg as he searched helplessly for his shirt. He found it and slipped it over his head just as he heard Kurt's footfalls outside the door, but when he opened the door, Kurt was alone.

"Where's your friend?" Blaine said, confused.

"I sent him away; I thought it best if we have this conversation in private," Kurt said, handing Blaine a pitcher of freezing cold water.

Blaine nearly dropped it in shock, his hands suddenly and inexplicably shaking. Setting the pitcher on a nearby table, he plopped himself down in a chair before his legs began to wobble. It felt like something big was coming, but he didn't know what, and his imagination was running away with him. He looked up at Kurt, hoping for a reprieve from the thoughts swirling through his brain.

"So I'm sure you've figured out who that was?" Kurt said.

"Sebastian," Blaine said. "I met him when I was in Paris. He wrote the note Quinn showed you."

Kurt nodded slowly, confirming Blaine's fears.

"You're in love with him," Blaine said, deflating.

"Oh God, no!" Kurt shrieked, looking horrified at the notion. "Decidedly not."

Blaine's head shot up. "Then what was that argument about?"

Kurt sighed. "When you stopped me on the street earlier, I was headed to Sebastian's apartment. He came looking for me when I never arrived."

"Well, surely he thought it possible you had been detained," Blaine said, not understanding why Kurt looked so serious. His heart raced as he waited for the other shoe to drop.

"Perhaps," Kurt said. "But I've been to see him every Tuesday for the past month. He had a right to expect me."

Swallowing heavily, Blaine asked, "Why do you go to see him?"

"Because I needed something to cling to," Kurt said. "Something that reminded me of you."

"So you went to the bed of another man?" Blaine felt his chest contract, as if something within him had cracked and his very essence was bleeding out through the chasm.

"I thought you were dead!" Kurt shouted. "Everyone thinks you're dead."

Blaine found himself unable to speak, his mouth hanging open like a fish too long out of water. "Everyone thinks I'm... dead?" he rasped.

Kurt collapsed into the chair opposite him. "Blaine, when you disappeared off that boat and they never found you..." He trailed off, unable to look at Blaine as he wiped a tear from his eyes. "They had a funeral for you; Quinn nearly lost the baby."

It was as if Blaine had been punched. He couldn't get a breath and his hands shook even more violently. The warmth that had radiated off him earlier was gone in a flash, his hands now icy and stiff, his feet numb and stony beneath him. "Is she— is the baby? Oh my God, Kurt. I have to go home."

"Blaine, did you hear me? Everyone thinks you're dead. You can't go home."

"I'll just explain what happened; it will all be put right. Quinn will understand. My parents... I'll just explain. But I have to get home." He stood as if going home were a simple matter of walking six blocks rather than the reality of the ocean that separated him from it.

Kurt laughed, his eyes focused on a stray crumb that he rolled beneath his index finger.

"What's so funny?"

Shaking his head, Kurt looked up and leveled Blaine with a steely gaze. "You haven't even explained it to me yet."

Just as quickly as his extremities had gone cold, Blaine's face suddenly felt warm, a rush of blood making his head spin. Or maybe it was because he hadn't eaten in two days. "Just tell me if Quinn's alright," Blaine pleaded, taking his seat again. "She didn't lose the baby?"

"She's fine," Kurt said quietly. "The doctor put her on bed rest, but Rachel said she's doing just fine."

"Rachel's seen her?" Blaine's head ached from a lack of nourishment and an abundance of extraordinary information.

"Apparently the two have become something akin to friends," Kurt said with a shrug. "It baffles me, but I'm glad they have each other." He was quiet for a moment, his face a solemn mask of contemplation. "How did you get here, Blaine? And why does everyone think you're dead?"

Blaine took a deep breath. "I was coming to see you," he said. "I knew my grandfather had told you I didn't want to see you, but I had written you that letter, hoping you'd realize it wasn't true. As soon as he was gone, I went to your shop to see you, but it was boarded up, and you were long gone. It took me a few days to work up the nerve to inquire about you from your father, and he told me you had gone to Paris. He wouldn't say why. I was beside myself; I thought you had left me."

"I thought you had left me," Kurt said.

"Darling, I'm sorry," he said. "I am so terribly and truly sorry."

Kurt nodded. "Go on."

"After that I booked passage on a ship to Paris as soon as I could. Quinn didn't want me to go, but I wanted to be back New York in time for the baby, and I had to see you." He reached out and took Kurt's hand in his. It felt like cold marble, and he noticed Kurt was shaking. "Darling, you're cold. We should light a fire."

"I'm fine," Kurt insisted, pulling his hand away. "Finish your story. The fire can wait."

Blaine looked down at his empty palm and curled his fingers into a fist. He didn't like the distance he felt between himself and Kurt, and he feared his story might widen that rift, but he had to get it out — every ridiculous detail.

"I fell from the boat," Blaine said matter-of-factly. "But you know that part." He paused; he could still feel the icy burn of the water around him, like a thousand tiny needles piercing his skin, and he shivered at the memory. "I was picked up by a cargo ship minutes, maybe hours, later — unconscious and freezing. The crew said I was feverish for several days, but that I kept mumbling something about Paris. So they kept me in bed and gave me water — and they kept their course for England. When I awoke, they told me what had happened."

He glanced over at Kurt and found him staring at his lap where he had placed his hands and was now pulling at his fingers while he listened to Blaine talk. He looked like he was fighting back tears, but Blaine didn't say anything, choosing instead to press on. He cleared his throat.

"They dropped me in Dover when they docked, but I had no money and no clothes, and I was starving... but I was alive. I decided pretty quickly that it would be easier to continue on to Paris rather than trying to make it all the way home, but without identification and looking like I do, well... I wasn't able to book passage to cross the Channel."

Kurt stood up suddenly, his posture stiff and unyielding. Blaine watched him cross to the fireplace and set about building a fire. When he realized Blaine had stopped talking, he said, "Continue," but he didn't glance up.

Blaine was unsure of what Kurt was thinking, but he kept talking, explaining how he tried to get work doing anything that could help him get to Paris. He recounted the night he hung around the docks begging for money like a common street urchin, which Blaine guessed he actually was, at least for the time being. But when he got to the night he finally figured out how to earn enough money to make the final leg of his journey, he couldn't find his words. His throat clenched tightly around his unformed syllables. The fire roared to life in front of Kurt and Blaine jumped, the sudden flash of color startling him.

"And then what happened?" Kurt said, warming his hands against the blaze.

"I met a gentleman by the name of Willoughby who said he would buy me a hot meal if I would perform a service for him and suddenly I had a way to earn money."

Kurt turned his head and raised an eyebrow. "Did he mistake you for a porter?"

Blaine almost laughed at the absurdity of the notion. At that point he'd been in the same suit for nearly a month and his beard had grown thick and matted. His hair hung in loose, messy curls that were greasy from a lack of washing rather than the slick weight of pomade. "No, Kurt, I doubt very much that he mistook me for a porter."

"Then what did he want?" Kurt asked, his innocence so overwhelmingly charming that Blaine had to practically restrain himself from walking over to him and kissing him until the innocence was gone.

Blaine closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "He thought I was a rent boy," he said. He waited for Kurt's response, but there was only silence. Opening one eye, Blaine saw a look of shocked amusement on Kurt's face. "What's so funny?"

"Just the notion of a gentleman mistaking you for a rent boy," Kurt said. "Looking like that? Chandler would roll over in his grave."

"Chandler's dead?" Blaine asked in shock.

Kurt nodded solemnly. "He was beaten to death by a client. I guess, in the end, that's why I came to Paris. With you committed to your family, or so I thought, and Chandler gone, I had nothing left. So I came here to start a new life." Kurt gestured to his surroundings before laughing sardonically and dropping his head in his hands. "Seems I should have waited just a bit longer."

"Darling, don't blame yourself," Blaine said, rising to console him. He pulled Kurt up on his feet and pulled him into a tight embrace. "We both did what we had to do, nothing more."

"All of those times I went to Sebastian," Kurt said, finally breaking as he sobbed into Blaine's filthy shirtfront. "I so wanted him to be you, but it never felt right. It never did." His tears soaked through to Blaine's skin almost immediately as they stood there clutching each other. "Promise me," Kurt said after a moment.

"Anything."

"Promise me you won't leave me again," he begged.

"Kurt..."

Kurt stiffened in Blaine's arms. "No," he said.

Blaine pulled back, keeping his hands on Kurt's upper arms. "I have to go back," he said. "I can't leave Quinn alone to raise the baby."

"Why can't you?" Kurt asked, his eyes a deep ocean of tears. "Everyone thinks you're dead already, so what's the difference?"

"The difference is I wouldn't feel right about it. It's not the honorable thing to do."

Kurt shrugged off Blaine's hands. "Damn your honor!" he shouted. "You've always done the honorable thing, and look where it's gotten you... where it's gotten us!" He was just shy of ranting, and Blaine could do nothing but watch the storm roll in. "You go out of your way to make your insufferable grandfather happy and all he does is work to make you miserable. You marry a woman you don't love — can't love — and she carries another man's baby! I break off my engagement to my best friend, nearly ruining her reputation and you leave me... for what? To uphold some ridiculous agreement you made to your family? I've had enough!"

"Kurt, please..."

But his words were cut off by a bruising kiss. Kurt's mouth was harsh, his tongue demanding, but Blaine just let him take. He needed this; they needed this. As he felt Kurt's anger begin to subside, the kiss transitioned to a sweeter, more subdued caress of the lips. Kurt's breathing slowed, and he collapsed into Blaine's arms, his head resting on Blaine's chest.

"I'm just so tired," he said. "So very tired of fighting the world when all I want is to be with you."

"That's all I want too, my love," Blaine said, stroking Kurt's hair where his head was tucked under Blaine's chin. "We'll think of something."

They didn't speak of it again for over a week. Kurt seemed preoccupied with showing Blaine around Paris, introducing him to friends and taking him to all his favorite places. Jean-Philippe seemed the one most excited to meet him, telling Blaine how Kurt had been devastated by news of his death. Kurt had blushed and looked away but did not deny it. It broke Blaine's heart to know how hurt Kurt had been by his actions, but it was an unspoken rule that they not speak of it. Someone should have told Jean-Philippe.

"So will you be staying here in Paris for the New Year, Monsieur Anderson?" he asked.

Blaine was sitting in the back room at the House of Worth, swinging his feet against the legs of a tall stool, as he watched Kurt work on a gown for yet another Christmas ball. At Jean-Philippe's inquiry, his legs froze in mid air.

"I... Well..."

"He has to get back to his family," Kurt said without looking up from the tiny stitches he was using to attach blue beads that sparkled in the light.

"What a pity," Jean-Philippe said. "Welcoming a new year in Paris cannot be matched."

"I would love to see it," Blaine said truthfully.

Kurt snorted.

"Perhaps I can stay a bit longer," Blaine added, his voice rising on the end like a question.

"Wonderful," Jean-Philippe said. "You must come to the ball my wife and I are hosting. Kurt will be there."

"Blaine isn't much for dancing," Kurt said. "Two left feet."

Blaine was about to object, but held his tongue when he saw the tension on Kurt's face. Kurt knew Blaine was an excellent dancer—had commented on it many times, in fact. Blaine bit his lip and smiled apologetically at Jean-Philippe.

"You won't need to dance," he said with a laugh. "If you are still in Paris on the thirty-first, I insist you come, and that is final. Kurt, you see that he has something to wear." And with that he disappeared into the shop.

Kurt continued stitching, and Blaine watched him in silence for a few moments. The steady motion of Kurt's deft fingers was hypnotic. It reminded Blaine of a dance, like the elegant dancers at the ballet who twirled and jumped on strong legs but landed like birds. Kurt was an artist.

And, oh, Blaine loved him so.

Suddenly Kurt's hands faltered and he missed the fabric, poking himself in the finger. "Damn!" he hissed.

The spell broken, Blaine felt free to speak. "Why did you tell Monsieur Worth that I can't dance?" he asked.

Kurt shrugged without looking up. "I didn't want you to feel obligated to stay for the ball," he said.

"I don't," Blaine said.

"Good," Kurt said and went back to sewing.

Blaine found himself entranced by his movements again, the way Kurt picked up each bead with the tip of the needle and slid it over the thread before pricking the cobalt silk and attaching it to the fabric. He made quick work of it, sewing faster than Blaine thought possible.

"You've gotten better," Blaine said.

Kurt shot him a sideways glance.

"You were always good," Blaine said. "Wonderful, actually... but now... Well, you're like a rose that's blossomed from what was once a tightly formed bud. You've opened up and unfurled for all the world to admire. I wish I could have witnessed it happening."

Kurt's hands froze, the needle between his fingers shook for a moment before he lowered it to the table. He looked up at Blaine with tears in his eyes. "Thank you," he said. It was a whisper that barely reached Blaine's ears.

He hopped down from his stool and approached Kurt carefully. "I meant every word, Kurt. You are a gift, and I'm glad you chose to share yourself with me."

"Blaine, I don't want you to go," he said.

"Darling, I know... and I don't want to go. But I must."

Kurt nodded slowly, a tiny sniffle belying his sorrow. "I know," he said.

Blaine smiled at him, wishing he could steal the sadness from Kurt's eyes. "I'd like to stay for the ball," he said, pausing to tilt his head and catch Kurt's eye. "Would you accompany me?"

A tiny smile played across Kurt's face as he leaned forward to press a kiss to Blaine's lips. "I'd love to," he said.

With plans to stay in Paris through the New Year, Blaine decided to delay the inevitable just a bit longer and put off writing to his parents until it was absolutely necessary. But when the day finally came, he asked Kurt for some privacy and seated himself at Kurt's tiny writing desk with a few blank sheets of paper, and a weight on his heart.

Words would not come to him, and even though his mind flooded with thoughts, he could not make them form a single sentence on the paper, let alone an entire letter. Something prevented him from confessing his continued existence to the very people who had given him life.

"Dear Mother," he said aloud to himself. "I'm alive."

He laughed bitterly. It felt completely ridiculous and yet somehow not dramatic enough. "What could be more monumental than life itself?" he asked himself in frustration.

He sighed and dropped his head on the table, realizing too late that he'd run his sleeve through the fresh ink. He laid his head there and stared at the grain of the wood beneath him, noting every scratch and stain, the tiny scuffs of charcoal from where Kurt had sketched his designs and missed the paper. A stack of drawings and letters took up a third of the surface, haphazardly organized by Kurt before he'd left, to give room to Blaine to write.

A sliver of newsprint stuck out from the pile, pin wheeling out like a child's plaything. Blaine flicked the edge of it, relishing the sharp snap it made. He did it again and again, letting his mind wander. How could he tell his mother that he had not only survived falling off that boat, but had been living comfortably in Paris for the last three weeks, letting them think he was dead?

He sat up and stretched his back, savoring the pops and cracks as his muscles loosened and his bones settled. He picked up the pen and dipped it in the ink, getting as far as "Dear Mother" again before he froze. Crumpling the paper tighter than was really necessary, he tossed it in the pile of discarded drafts that littered the floor at his feet.

"This is impossible," he said, dropping his head in his hands.

Unable to focus on his own task, he glanced over at the stack of Kurt's papers. The indiscriminate way that Kurt had piled them up suddenly frustrated him beyond belief, and he was overcome with the need to right it.

Blaine grabbed the entire thing, taking the drawing on top and placing it to the side. The next item in the pile was a letter from Rachel, a looping scrawl with ornate flourishes and several underlined words. Blaine smiled at the drama of it. He continued sorting the pile, placing sketches to his right, and letters to his left. When he reached the newspaper clipping, he created a third pile above the others. Just as he was setting it on the desk, his own name popped out at him.

ANDERSON – On Monday, Nov. 4, Blaine D. in the 26th year of his age, was lost at sea. He was the youngest son of Dr. Andrew and Helen of Manhattan and is survived by his wife Lucille and their unborn child.

Relatives and friends are respectfully invited to a funeral service at ...

Blaine stopped reading, unable to catch a solid breath. Blinking in disbelief, he read his own obituary three times before it seemed real. To everyone he'd ever known, with the lone exception of Kurt, he was dead — gone from this world and nothing more than a ghost. His wife would be in mourning, sorting through his things. Sam would have read his will, revealing that he'd left everything to Quinn and giving her complete control over his estate. His parents would have placed a monument in the family plot, next to his younger sister, who only lived to the age of three before succumbing to whooping cough.

Picturing his entire family sitting around the dining room table for Christmas dinner, all dressed in black and mourning his loss, made Blaine's heart ache. He longed to write to Quinn or his brother about the gathering at the Worths' and the decadent tobacco Jean-Philippe had given him, or the new cigarette case he had received from Kurt. But he had no one to tell.

"I'm dead," he whispered.

He stared at the paper for what felt like mere moments, but must have been longer because he heard Kurt's footsteps approaching the door. Hurriedly, Blaine restacked the papers and crumpled his last aborted letter. Turning just in time to see Kurt bursting through the door with several fat parcels in his arms. The smile on his face warmed Blaine's heart.

"You made quick work of your errands," Blaine said.

"I've been gone more than two hours," Kurt replied, tilting his head questioningly.

Glancing over at the clock, Blaine noticed that, in fact, two hours twenty had passed since Kurt had left him there. "I must have really gotten lost in my own head," he muttered to himself.

Kurt stepped closer to Blaine, but still looked at him expectantly. "Have you finished?" Kurt asked solemnly after a moment.

Unable to speak, Blaine simply nodded.

"Good," Kurt said with a smile. "We have a lot to do before the ball next week." He dropped the parcels he carried on the table and raised his eyebrows at Blaine.

"What are you planning?" Blaine asked, intrigued by the glint in Kurt's blue eyes as he forgot all about his unwritten letter.

"Making you a suit, silly," Kurt replied, untying the twine that held the brown paper around the fabric he had purchased. "You can't very well go to a formal ball in your own suit, and wearing my things is out of the question."

"Of course," Blaine said.

He pulled out a bolt of fabric dark as midnight; it looked finer than any wool or silk Blaine had ever seen — thick and heavy, a smoothly woven blank canvas that Kurt would use to paint a masterpiece.

Blaine ran his hand along the edge of the fabric; it was still cool to the touch from being outside in the crisp December air, but Blaine could tell it would make a warm and elegant suit.

"Kurt, it's stunning," he said.

"You shall be the most handsome man at that stuffy old ball," Kurt said, with a warm smile.

"Impossible," Blaine replied. "You'll be there."

Kurt lowered his head in embarrassment, but his eyes fluttered up to meet Blaine's. "I love you," he said.

"And I you."

Kurt worked on Blaine's suit day and night to get it ready for the Worths' New Year's Eve gala, and the result was a stunning formal suit that put all other suits Blaine had ever worn to shame. It was so perfectly fitted to his physique that it made him look strong and virile, which he hadn't felt since before Kurt had left New York.

Blaine had been adamant that Kurt not spend money on him, but he allowed Kurt to give him a few coins to visit the barber and have a proper shave and haircut for the ball.

The steady scratch of the razor against his cheek lulled him into a dreamlike state. He hadn't felt so clean in months. The scent of pomade was a welcome visitor to his senses as he allowed himself to be molded back into the gentleman he had once been.

Stepping into the crisp morning, with sunlight streaming down on his face for the first time in weeks, Blaine felt reborn, no longer burdened with the tale of his death. Even the sharp sting of the frigid temperature against his bare face refreshed him.

He hummed a tune to himself on the short walk back to Kurt's apartment, and was greeted with smiles and the occasional "Bonjour!" from the people he passed on the street. With his haggard appearance molded back into his usual distinguished form, he was able to freely engage with everyone, all remnants of his past transgressions removed.

He took the steps two at a time and burst through the door to the apartment with a broad smile on his face. Kurt's jaw dropped at the sight of him.

"Blaine, you look..." Kurt paused, his words halting on his lips as he gaped at him.

"I feel free," Blaine said. "As if I could conquer the world."

"I wouldn't be surprised if you did," Kurt teased, as Blaine stepped closer to him.

"You like it?"

"It's..." Kurt raked his eyes over Blaine's face, taking in his hair and the entire length of his body too. "Blaine, it's you."

Such a simple phrase, but it was as if Blaine's soul had been returned to his body with just one sentence from Kurt, and suddenly he knew.

"I'm not going back to New York."

Kurt's eyes flashed brightly as they went wide with shock. "You're... what?"

"Not going back," Blaine repeated. "Everyone thinks I'm dead, and going back now would just force me back into a lie, living a half life and hoping I could find a way to be with you. But this is my chance. It's a chance for us... to make a life together, Kurt. Here in Paris, where no one knows me, and yours is the name on everyone's lips. This is what we were meant for. I know that now."

Kurt remained silent, his eyes watery but his face an imperceptible mask free of emotion.

"Well, say something," Blaine pleaded, feeling a tear streak his own cheek.

"You're not going home?" Kurt said, sounding disbelieving.

Blaine shook his head firmly. "No, Kurt," he said, placing a hand on Kurt's cheek. "I'm saying I am home."

Tears fell from Kurt's eyes as a laugh escaped his throat, and he surged forward to capture Blaine in a firm embrace. "I can't believe we don't have to say goodbye," Kurt whispered, his words tickling the back of Blaine's neck as he held him.

"Never," Blaine said.

The ballroom was festooned with brightly colored garlands; the tables laden with decadent pastries and cheeses. A deep fuchsia punch stood out from the muted colors of the buffet, and, of course, wine and champagne flowed freely.

The partygoers were jovial and lively, waltzing and laughing as the night wore on. It was a vibrant party if Blaine ever saw one. The conversation tended toward artistry and invention, a refreshing change from the stuffy New York society parties that Blaine usually attended. He found himself fascinated with talk of a new device called the cinematographe that the Lumière brothers had revealed earlier that week at Salon Indien du Grand Café.

"The pictures actually move," one man said. "It was as if the photographs had come to life, people walking right out of the factory, plain as day."

An audible gasp rose up from the people listening to the man recount his story. Blaine leaned forward in excitement. "Will they show it again?" he asked.

"I imagine they must," the man replied. "There was such excitement about it. I expect it to be in high demand in short order."

Blaine caught Kurt's eye across the crowded room and they smiled at each other. He felt so proud to be Kurt's, to know that this man loved him in ways he didn't deserve. They continued to interact with everyone but each other until they could no longer avoid standing close and brushing hands intimately, resisting the urge to disappear into a darkened corner or an unused room.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Kurt asked, his eyes focused on the dance floor.

"Immensely," Blaine replied, following Kurt's gaze. "And you?"

Kurt nodded. "Have you not danced yet?"

"Not yet. I've been busy talking about this wonderful new invention and art and...poetry. Kurt, Paris is simply amazing," he gushed.

"I can't argue with that," he said, running his finger along Blaine's shirt cuff. "Shall we head home?" His voice was low and deep, a gentle seduction of words that tickled Blaine's spine.

"Let's at least stay until the clock strikes twelve," Blaine implored, unwilling to give up the gaiety of the evening just yet. "And then we'll rush out of here before the champagne begins to run out."

"As you wish, my love."

They stood there for a while, watching couples dancing and enjoying a glass of wine each. Blaine lit a cigarette and offered one to Kurt; the smoke curled about them in a seductive pattern that Blaine wanted to chase with his mouth, right across Kurt's cheek and onto his lips. He was about to suggest they leave, the New Year be damned, when the string quartet began to play the opening notes to a familiar tune. Blaine could just make out that Kurt was singing the words to "After the Ball" under his breath, and in a moment of unguarded spontaneity, he turned to him and held out his hand. "Dance with me," he said.

Kurt's head pivoted in his direction. "What... Here?" he asked.

"Yes, here," Blaine said, his hand still held in mid air between them.

"But people will talk," Kurt said.

Blaine leaned in to whisper in his ear, letting his extended hand drop and graze Kurt's shoulder. "Let them."

Kurt shivered at the contact, but he glanced nervously about when Blaine retreated from the ghosting touch. "I..."

"No one's watching, Kurt," Blaine interrupted. "Please. I'd like to begin the New Year in your arms." He held his hand out again. "May I have this dance?"

Kurt bit his lip, but it only took a moment for him to decide as he accepted Blaine's hand. "Yes, you may," he said with a flirtatious smile.

Blaine took the lead, waltzing Kurt around the ballroom as they had always wished they could. He could feel a few eyes on them, but no one was looking on with open disdain, simply what resembled mild curiosity.

"This feels right," Kurt said, breathless. "Just like I always knew it would."

"Dancing?" Blaine asked.

"Dancing with you," Kurt replied.

"You will always be my dance partner," Blaine said. "I swear it. "

"Shh," Kurt whispered. "Just dance with me."

"Fearlessly," Blaine said, "and forever."

~fin~