We dont speak on the drive to Kurts house.

Im overwhelmed. There are so many emotions coursing through my veins, its all I can do to keep the car moving in the right direction. The night is pitch black, and I keep slamming on the brake when I think I see shadows fluttering just beyond my headlights.

I pull into the Hummels driveway and dont move. All I want to do right now is climb up to the shelf in the closet of my bedroom, and pull my knees against my chest to make myself as small as possible. Going home still isnt an option, though — I cant face my parents yet. But at the same time, I cant possibly sit at Kurts kitchen table and make small talk with his family. Still, I know that if I leave him here and go back to Robs apartment alone, hell be devastated. I have three different options, and yet no options at all.

"Come on," Kurt says finally. "Lets go inside."

"Kurt—"

"Just trust me," he murmurs.

We all trudge toward the house. Finn and Kurt strip off their coats and hang them up on the hooks. I try keeping mine on, but Kurt extends his arm and wont drop it until I hand my coat to him. He hangs it neatly beside his, then takes my hand, whispering, "I want to show you something."

He leads me down the hall of the little house, coming to a stop near the back door. I glance around, but its just an empty hallway. Then he reaches up to the ceiling, pushing back a panel I hadnt noticed above our heads. An old ladder descends automatically, coming to rest on the floor.

"Its not the same as your closet," he says. "But it might help."

I stare at him, dumbfounded. "How did you—"

"Things werent always perfect, even before the attack. I got pretty good at recognizing when you needed to cocoon yourself somewhere." He gestures up the ladder. "Try it out."

Propriety would probably dictate that I should invite him up with me, but I dont. Instead, I ascend the ladder slowly, until I find myself in a tiny, dusty attic crawlspace. Its freezing up here. I cant fully stand up, and there are so many boxes that I cant move more than a few feet in any direction.

Its perfect.

I crawl away from the ladder, stopping beside a couple of boxes labeled Summer Clothing. I cant locate a light fixture, but its just as well. The darkness suits my mood.

Downstairs, theres the sound of the front door opening, then Caroles anxious voice calling out. Kurt answers her, and Im glad Im unable to make out their conversation. I cant imagine how rude she must think I am, hiding up here when theyve just treated me to dinner. Burt joins them, his voice a low murmur, and my cheeks flush with color. Last night I wept all over their dinner table. Tonight Ive sequestered myself away in their house.

So much for impressing Kurts family.

The low voices continue, and despite the soothingly tight confines of the space, I feel unsettled. All too soon, I can hear footsteps as someone approaches the base of the ladder. Theres heavy footfalls up the ladder, and a head of brown hair pokes up from the opening.

"Are you my attic buddy now?" I ask without humor, as Finn climbs out unsteadily, using his left hand for balance.

"Dinner," he says, holding up two foil containers in his right hand.

"Im not hungry."

"Cool, then Ill eat yours when I finish mine." He plops down next to me and peels open the lid of his container. The smell of chicken fingers and french fries is actually pretty mouth-watering. I try to remember whether Ive eaten anything other than a Pop-Tart today, but then I start remembering stale breadsticks and cold water and a figure looming over me—

"I dont even remember what I ordered," I admit, trying to distract myself..

Finn cracks open the lid of the second container. "Looks like chicken parm. Over spaghetti." He brandishes a fork and knife and raises his eyebrows until I accept them.

Sighing in concession, I pick up the foil container and open it, releasing an enticing aroma of garlic and tomatoes. We eat quietly, side by side, until the ache in my stomach starts to lessen. "So, who made you come up here?" I ask, spearing a glob of mozzarella. "Your mom?"

"Actually, I volunteered."

"You did?"

He crams a handful of french fries in his mouth and wipes his palms on his jeans. "Was afraid youd find these," he says, and reaches past me to grab a stack of magazines. I furrow my brow in confusion until I catch a glimpse of some of the covers.

"You read porn up here?" I ask, aghast.

"Uh... I wouldnt call it reading. I just look at the pictures. And... you know."

"Great."

"I didnt want you to find the magazines and get all upset."

I squint at him. "Boobs dont upset me."

"No?"

"No. I dont find them appealing, but theyre not upsetting." Unlike the thought that Im probably sitting on Finns dried fluids right now.

"Cool." He leans back against a stack of boxes and pops the last chicken finger in his mouth. "More than anything, I used to come up here when I needed to be alone."

"Dont you have your own room here?"

"Yeah, but..." He shrugs. "Kurts recovery after the attack took a while. Sometimes it got kind of loud downstairs."

"I dont understand. He said he wasnt injured that badly—"

"Im not talking about a physical recovery."

"Oh." I look down at my half-eaten dinner and set it aside, my appetite gone. He sets his aside too, and for several minutes, the only sound is the faint murmur of Kurt and his parents talking downstairs.

"I wish you wouldnt be mad at Kurt," Finn says quietly. "Things were bad after the attack, and even worse after you forgot him. Its been really hard for him."

"Im not mad at Kurt."

"Who, then?" he asks. "Karofsky?"

"Myself, Finn," I tell him, and he blinks at me in confusion. "Did you know that Ive been a boxer for years?"

"Uh... yeah, actually, I do remember that."

"I got beaten up at my public school in Westerville, back when I was a freshman. After that, my parents enrolled me in self-defense classes so that I could learn to protect myself. I ended up really loving boxing. They put a punching bag in my basement and I used to spend hours down there, working on my right hook and my uppercut."

"I dont understand..."

"My boyfriend and I were attacked and almost killed in our high schools parking lot last year," I say, my voice shaking. "A stranger shoved me up against a bar last week. And tonight, that same guy threatened me again." I wrap my arms around my knees, squeezing them tight. "My dad used to tell me One time is an accident, two times is a coincidence, three times is a pattern. Well, this is clearly a pattern: someone threatens my safety, and I cant fight back. I cant even move."

"So youre mad that you froze up tonight and I had to punch Karofsky for you," he deduces.

"Im mad because there was no point to all those lessons, all that practicing, if I cant even defend myself when push comes to shove."

Finn fiddles with his shoelace, looking pensive. "Well maybe thats because pushing and shoving arent your thing. Your first instinct isnt to hurt someone. Thats not a bad thing."

"It is when youre facing someone whose first instinct is to hurt you."

He nods sadly. Then he gives me a wry smile. "You know, Kurt took a self-defense class, back when we were in high school."

"He did?" That surprises me, for some reason.

"Yeah. Burt was convinced that he was too much of a target for bullies, so he brought home a brochure with all these different courses offered at the community college, and made Kurt pick one. After the semester was over, Burt asked him to demonstrate what hed learned for the three of us."

"And?"

"And lets just say he knew a lot of different ways to twirl sai swords." He and I grin at each other widely. Now that does not surprise me. "Burt couldnt even be mad. Kurt was walking around the room singing songs from Man of La Mancha, and spinning the swords all around, and I thought I was gonna pee in my pants, I was laughing so hard."

"Thats my Kurt."

We sit there for a while, listening to the faint noises of clinking dishes, until Finn speaks up. "He needs you, you know."

"I know," I sigh.

"Its special, what you guys have. Not everyone gets that chance." He frowns. "I thought I had something like that once."

"With Sarah?"

"Sarah? No, shes... no. It was a while ago. I thought she might be the one."

"What happened?"

"You know how when things got bad, Kurt gave up his dream to wait here for you?"

"Yeah..."

Finn shrugs. "Turned out her dream was more important to her than I was."

I try not to look pitying, but I know I must be failing. "Im really sorry. That sucks."

"It did suck. But life goes on, you know?"

The sliding squeak of chairs sounds from downstairs, and I know that Kurt and his parents must have finished eating. Finn looks at me curiously. "Id go down there," I tell him, "but Im afraid your parents might hate me."

"My parents could never hate you," he says, looking at me like Im nuts.

"Ive brought all this drama back into their lives—"

"You dont get it, Blaine," he interrupts. "Mom and Burt used to say that when Kurt and I were sixteen, they suddenly found themselves with two sons, and when we were seventeen, they suddenly had three." He shakes his head. "Youre acting like youve been a rude guest or something. I get that you dont know us, but we all know you. We all consider you a part of the family. So it doesnt matter if you cry during dinner or storm out of a restaurant or whatever. My parents will always love you."

My throat feels tight. I cover up my thick swallows by straightening his stack of magazines. "I need him, too, you know."

"Well, obviously. You two are Kurt-and-Blaine. Cant have Kurt-and-Blaine without both Kurt and Blaine."

Somehow, that almost makes sense to me.

I descend the ladder first, while Finn replaces his porn collection in the corner. Then he follows me down to the ground floor. I help him push the ladder back up, but Im too short to help him push the ceiling panel back in place. The sounds from the kitchen have ceased, and I know that Kurt and his parents must be listening to us. I hesitate, but Finn just pats my shoulder and heads in first. Im grateful for the gesture. When the stakes are high, it always seems easier to follow than to lead.

Burt and Carole are standing by the kitchen table, while Kurt has his sleeves rolled up and his hands in a sinkful of sudsy dishes.

"Dessert?" Carole asks, when she sees us. "I bought an Entenmanns pound cake the other day. And I bet we have some ice cream."

"Theres a basketball game on tonight," Burt says. "We could all watch it if you—"

I step forward and hug him hard, breaking off whatever he was going to say. He freezes for a moment, then hugs me back gently, his hands splaying across my back. "Thank you," I say to him softly. I pull back, and he just nods, his eyes bright. Then I turn to Carole, who is already starting to reach for me. We squeeze each other tight, and she ruffles the back of my hair. "Thank you, Carole."

When I turn to Kurt, hes already drying off his hands.

"Can you guys—"

"Well finish up," Burt assures him, and Kurt takes my hand, leading me down the hall to his bedroom.

Once were inside, Kurt shuts the door, and I open my mouth to speak. Hes too quick, though, pulling me into a tight embrace. We stand there together for what feels like hours, holding each other. "Are you okay?" he asks, and I nod silently. We sway back and forth, and it almost feels like dancing.

I open my eyes slowly, focusing in on the wall of photographs in front of me. There are dozens of shots of the two of us. Singing, dancing, laughing, kissing...

"I want to be up there," I say, and Kurt pulls back, blinking at me inquisitively.

"Up where?"

"On your wall." I gesture toward the photos. "Its all pictures of you and Old Blaine. I want to be up there."

He thinks for a moment, then his face lights up. "Hold that thought."

I immediately regret saying anything, because hes darted out of the room and my arms are suddenly empty and cold, my fingers curling inward as though to keep his warmth with me. But hes back before too long, holding an old Polaroid camera.

"Ive got enough film for twenty photos," he says. "Do you want to take them all now, or do some—"

"All now," I blurt out. Old Blaines smile is beaming down at me smugly, and I want to block out his face with my own.

Kurts arms are longer than mine, so he takes the pictures. I suppose we could call Burt or Carole in to play photographer, but this feels much more intimate. We press our faces together and make pose after pose as Kurt calls out directions. "Look happy! Seductive! Powerful! Now look confused! Now sneaky! Horrified!"

Im fairly sure Im just grinning in all of them.

When the twenty photos have been taken, we lay them out on Kurts bed, watching them develop. And then we laugh, loudly and riotously, because Kurt is just grinning in all of them, too.

I reach up to unpin a photo from his wall, but he stops me. "Those stay up there."

"You love me," I remind him — and myself — stubbornly. Me, me, me.

"Yes. But without him, thered be no you."

He works quickly, moving the location of some of the old photos and filling their gaps with our new Polaroid portraits. By the time hes finished, the photos have spread far enough to lick the corners of his room, and it feels like more than an array of snapshots. It looks like a life up there. And hes achieved something else, too, either on purpose or by serendipity. Every area where there is a gathering of Old Blaine and Old Kurt pictures, one of todays Blaine and Kurt is there, too, smiling in the center as if to say "We see you there, so happy and in love. And here we are, too."

Due to the lateness of the hour, the sheen of ice on the roads and the fatigue in our bones, we agree to spend the night here. Kurt assures me that his parents wont mind if we share a bed, but I get him to confirm with them anyway. He sits at his vanity, going through his nightly skincare ritual, while I thumb through a copy of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time that I spotted on his bookshelf.

"I love this book," I tell him. "One of my all-time favorites." He smiles sadly, and even before I check the inside cover, I know that Ill find an inscription in there. Im right. To Kurt— I would brave the most fearsome trains and strangers to find you, too. —Blaine

I set the book aside, still rankled by the inane jealousy of my former self. "Tell me something that he never knew," I say to Kurt.

"Who?"

"Old Blaine. Tell me a secret you never dared to tell him."

He pauses, holding a cotton ball doused in toner, and thinks. "I was always afraid that I loved him more than he loved me."

Thats not at all what I expected him to say. And it doesnt really make me feel any better.

I ask to borrow something to sleep in, and he gestures toward the bottom of his dresser. I pull out a faded tee shirt and flannel pajama pants, then excuse myself to go change in the bathroom. Its only after Ive pulled off my jeans that I think to check my cell phone for any missed calls. There are four new text messages from Sebastian:

8:11 PM — I wish youd talk to me. Please, all I want to do is talk.

8:45 PM — Call me when you get a chance. We can hang out. Go shopping. Get coffee. See what happens.

9:56 PM — Just opened the best bottle of wine ever. Come over and share it with me.

10:48 PM — Im soo fcking hard wish u where here want to fucku

My face is beet red as I delete the texts from my phone and sit down on the edge of the bathtub. Im ashamed to find my arousal stirring after reading that last text. How can I resent Kurts affection for Old Blaine, when Im getting turned on by someone who used to sexually harass me?

Because Kurt was in love with Old Blaine, I remind myself. Youre a hormonal teenaged boy, and youre just flattered by Sebastians attention, thats all. You know youd rather cuddle with Kurt in your pajamas than have sweaty monkey sex with Sebastian.

I head back to Kurts room, hoping he wont notice that Im half-hard. By the smirk on his face, though, I know he has.

"That reminds me," he says, coating his fingers with a thick white moisturizer. "You have to promise me never to say the words top or bottom when were about to see my parents. That is not an association I ever want to have in my head."

I duck my head in embarrassment. "Sorry. In my defense, you did ask."

"I did. Youre right. That was my mistake," he says drily, rubbing the moisturizer into his forehead. "As I recall, I did say wed talk about it later."

I look up quickly, my eyes widening. "You did. Yes." He keeps moisturizing, and I find myself holding my breath as I wait. Im not even sure which one Im hoping hell say. In all honesty, neither position seems terribly appealing. But its important to know what Im in for, whenever we do reach that point.

"You were neither," he says finally.

"What?"

"You werent a top or a bottom."

I gape at him in confusion. "So... I was both? We took turns?"

"Blaine..." He sets the moisturizer bottle aside and turns to look at me fully. "Gay sex doesnt have to mean anal sex. Most teenaged guys dont do it that way. A lot of adult guys dont do it that way. We talked about it, and we both agreed that we werent really interested in that."

"So then... where do you put..."

"There are lots of other options. Handjobs and blowjobs are quick and easy."

Im blushing so hard my face actually hurts. "Ah."

"But most of the time, when we said sex, we meant rutting."

"Rutting."

He holds up his hands, making two Vs with his fingers and rubbing them together. "You slot your legs like this, and line up next to each other until the angles just right, and youre grinding alongside each other."

"Isnt that uncomfortable? Like... isnt there a lot of friction?"

"You use lube." He smiles devilishly. "A lot of lube."

Im not half-hard anymore. Now Ive got an aching full-grown boner, and Kurt is grinning at it openly. "Im just gonna—"

"Uh huh. You do that." He turns back to his mirror as I flee down the hallway, calling after me, "Lotions under the sink."

Once Ive taken care of my pressing matter, I pull down his covers and climb into his bed. His sheets are so silky soft. I rub my cheek against a pillow, sighing in contentment. "I like it here."

"Where? My house?"

"Your bed. It smells like you."

Kurt finishes tidying up his vanity and gets up, untying his robe. "Are you saying I smell?"

"Mm, yes. I love how you smell." I watch as he drapes the robe over his vanity stool, before coming over and sliding into bed beside me.

He leans over me, running a thumb over my cheek. "I love you," he whispers, before kissing me lightly. I kiss him back slowly, carefully. Our tongues slide together, and my whole body starts to tingle. It feels as though the bed is adrift at sea, our own little floating island, unreachable by Sebastian or Karofsky or anyone else who might wish us harm.

When we finally separate, I feel boneless and liquid. Kurt turns and eases my arms around him, sighing in contentment.

"I love you back," I whisper. "And Im sorry about tonight."

"For what?" he murmurs. "You couldnt have helped that some guy I sort of dated for a few days half a year ago would threaten you."

"No, but I shouldnt have gotten so upset afterwards."

"Youre allowed to get upset, Blaine. We both are."

"Okay."

He tangles our legs together. His feet are freezing cold as he flexes his toes against my ankles. "Just as long as you come back to me afterwards."

"I think if this past year has shown us anything, its that Ill always come back to you." As I start to drift off to sleep, I think about love, and courage, and braving the most fearsome trains and strangers. I have to hand it to Old Blaine. He summed it up nicely.