College letters have started trickling in. He thinks he's supposed to be more anxious about it – Tina and Artie seem to be in competition over who can have the biggest public meltdown (so far, Artie is winning). The hallways are full of a tension that's plucked like a guitar string with every piercing squeal of "I got in, I got in!"

Blaine has spent most of the year very carefully not thinking about the future, so he supposes it's not surprising that he can't muster up that kind of excitement over a few letters.

He gets in to NYU, UCLA, Boston University, and OSU. He's wait-listed at Columbia. He's rejected from Harvard. He hasn't heard from Vassar or Yale.

His parents throw him a celebratory dinner with every acceptance and try very obviously hard not to pressure him into making a decision. He doesn't have to let the schools know until the end of April. He's not ready to think about it yet.

Artie approaches him one day and tells him he should try out for the drama department's spring production, for which he's scored a position as assistant director.

Blaine's never really considered just acting before. He's a singer at heart, defines himself through music – the thought of standing up on stage with nothing at all, nothing but himself...it would make him feel naked.

But then, maybe that's what he needs.

The show is Romeo and Juliet. He knows why Artie asked him to audition. He knows which part they're expecting him to try for. He knows he could probably do it, too, considering his experience and his stage persona.

He doesn't want it.

He tries for Mercutio instead.

There's something about his tragedy that resonates with Blaine. He dies defending his best friend, caught up in a fight that was never even his. The love between him and Romeo is epic, strong enough to turn the entire play on its axis. He just...feels for Mercutio in a way that he can't for Romeo or Juliet, who are cut down by nothing more than their own foolishness. He used to think that was sad. Now, he just finds it frustrating.

Artie does a double take when he sees Blaine's audition form. He takes over the mike and asks, very carefully, if he's sure he doesn't want to be considered for any other parts. Like déjà vu. Ms. Dietrich, the director, a middle-aged woman with a severe bun that she seems to use as a pencil holder and huge, thick-framed glasses, steers the mike back in her direction with a cool smile.

"I believe I'll ask the questions, Artie, thank you."

She looks expectantly at Blaine.

"Are you sure?"

"Tybalt would be fine, or Benvolio. Or Friar Lawrence, if you think I would fit best there."

Artie looks about a second away from pounding his head on the desk. Or maybe snatching the microphone back. Probably both. The director shoots him a glance.

"Shall we get started, then?"

He's always liked Shakespeare, the way it feels like music spilling off his lips. It's even better on a stage, where he has room to move, and the words can fill up the space just as well as any song. It gives him that feeling he loves, like the audience is with him, for better or for worse. They follow him through the highs and the lows, the swells and the retreats, trusting him to guide them safely through. Even if it is only two people.

Artie claps when he's done, relief and disappointment fighting for dominance on his face. The director smiles.

"Thank you, Blaine," she says. "We'll let you know."

He gets a call back. He's the only one there reading for Mercutio.

It isn't surprising at all when the cast list goes up, but that doesn't stop the grin from spreading like wildfire across his face. He may even pump his fist in the air.

Cooper goes wide-eyed with excitement when Blaine tells him over Skype and immediately starts babbling about "clearing his schedule" for the end of April.

"Coop, seriously, don't worry about it. It's not even a lead."

"I couldn't miss my little brother's first big role!"

Blaine doesn't bother reminding him about West Side Story. He knows it won't count to him anyway. Broadway is dead, after all.

He finds that he likes being in Mercutio's skin. It feeds that reckless part of him that he still has to fight back, sometimes, with his piano and his punching bag. He finds himself sleeping better, at night.

Spring break arrives. Blaine busies himself memorizing his lines and making pro/con lists to help with his college decision-making. Sam comes over almost every day. Blaine even invites him first, sometimes. They play video games and watch March Madness and brainstorm ideas for prom. It's fun, and it's easy.

Todd DeWitt, the guy playing Romeo, invites him over to run lines one afternoon. He's kind of intense, but Blaine's used to that, and he's nice enough. He makes a good Romeo, even if he has a few habits that make Blaine wonder if Cooper has started a side business making how-to videos.

At least he isn't pointing.

His mom bakes them cookies and invites Blaine to stay for dinner. Blaine's first instinct is to demure, but there's something in the wide-eyed way Todd is waiting for a response, like he's embarrassed that his mom even asked, but he's hoping the answer will be yes. Blaine remembers, then, the way Todd doesn't really sit with the other drama kids at rehearsal so much as near them. He accepts. The meatloaf is dry, but so is Todd's wit, and it's worth it.

They marathon I Love Lucy after dinner until it gets so late that Blaine knows his mother will be up worrying, no matter how many times he texts her that he's fine. They make plans to go bowling, which is awesome, because Blaine has never had a bowling friend before.

Brittany's parents are out of town for the last weekend of break, so she throws this huge, blow-out party that everyone, apparently, who is anyone is planning to attend.

Sam gives Blaine a ride in the (heavily used) car he's finally saved up enough to afford, proudly extolling the virtues of roll-up windows and a built-in cassette player for most of the fifteen-minute ride. When they arrive, the party is already massive and in mid-swing. It seems that Brittany really did follow through and invite the entire school, and it seems that most of them showed up.

There are jocks in letterman jackets and Cheerios in weekend clothes, almost unrecognizable with their hair down. The glee club is there, and a few alumni with overlapping breaks. The academic decathlon kids are doing tequila shots in the kitchen. The Skanks are sitting in a corner drinking straight vodka and looking surly (Blaine is pretty sure one of them snapped her teeth at him). The house is teeming with bodies, the kitchen stocked with booze and pretzels, and Blaine is not entirely sure how this hasn't turned into a brawl.

At least he was able to convince her not to serve alcoholic slushies.

Sam has agreed to be designated driver, so Blaine is free to drink, and, god, it's probably going to be necessary to make it through this mess.

He's downed two tequila shots and a warm beer when someone asks him to dance.

He's squished into the corner of the living room couch, nodding absently along as Artie and Sam argue over who would win in a battle between Batman and Captain America. Brittany's music has been spanning what sounds like literally every genre, with no theme in sight, and right now it's landed on a kind of amazing techno remix of "Oops!...I Did It Again." Blaine is thinking of getting up for another beer. Or maybe a gin and tonic, or a rum and coke, or some other alcohol-and-mixer kind of a deal.

"Shall we dance?"

The guy has his hand out, confident, almost teasingly gallant, lips quirked in a friendly smile. Blaine lets his eyes flick down, then up, a reflexive gesture. The guy is cute. Fit. Blond and blue-eyed, face built with a spark of mischief.

"Sure."

Blaine lets the guy pull him out of his seat and onto the makeshift dance floor. He doesn't exactly recognize him, but there's something about his straight-backed posture...

"You're on the squad with Brittany, right?"

The guy turns and winks, narrowly missing a collision with a very big, very meaty football player and his itsy-bitsy girlfriend.

"Guilty. I'm Chad."

"It's nice to meet you. I'm Blaine."

"I know."

He turns around once more to flash a grin. Blaine raises his eyebrows.

"You're student body president, Blaine. You're by far McKinley's most visible gay."

Chad stops and faces him, apparently satisfied with their corner of the floor. It's a little...conspicuous for Blaine's tastes, considering some of the other guests. Chad leans close to speak in his ear.

"Don't worry, they're too busy trying to get laid to put the homos in their place. But we can keep it PG if that would make you feel better."

His smile is dangerously close to a smirk, and Blaine finds himself huffing out a laugh. He leans in, too, and just slightly up, so that his lips brush against Chad's ear.

"That shouldn't be a problem."

The glint in Chad's eyes is loud and clear. Challenge accepted.

It turns out to be kind of great. Chad is as impressive a dancer as you would expect from a Cheerio, but not so wrapped up in looking good that he forgets to have fun. It's real dancing, between them, not just moving their bodies together to the beat– not just foreplay. They mouth along with the lyrics and laugh at each other, and they can't really talk with the music so loud, but it doesn't matter. Music, dancing, those are ways to communicate, too.

Blaine's pulse is starting to catch on the quick slide of Chad's smile.

And then. Then it stops, completely, or maybe it's just him. His stomach is flooded with sick, icy cold, his eyes stuck wide with shock.

Because there, across the room, laughing with Tina as she squeezes him tight, is Kurt.

"What's wrong?"

Blaine comes back to himself. He shakes the life back into his face. He smiles what is likely the least convincing smile he has ever attempted.

"Nothing. I'm just thirsty. I think I'll get a glass of water. Um. Thanks for the dance."

He slips past Chad with one last horrible smile and winds his way through the dance floor. He doesn't know what he's doing. He doesn't know what he'll say. He does know that he can't escape. He breathes in, breathes out, tries to calm the desperate pounding of his heart.

It's hard, so much harder than he expected, just seeing him.

He steels himself. He works out the strain in his smile.

"Kurt, hi!"

Kurt whips around, quickly relaxes his face into a carefully friendly smile.

"Blaine! It's good to see you."

He looks a little uncomfortable, if not especially surprised. Someone must have warned him.

"You too. You look, um – " The same. Older. Like you don't belong here, but then, you never did. "New York is still treating you well?"

"Oh. Yes. I'm just here for the weekend. It's my dad's birthday."

Blaine remembers. He nods politely. Their two-year anniversary would have been last Tuesday.

"How is your dad?"

"He's great. Busy, of course. He still needs to be bullied into eating his vegetables, but the doctor just gave him a clean bill of health, so it must be working."

"That's great."

"Yeah." Kurt shifts his gaze and fidgets his fingers, restlessly. "So, um. How have you been?"

"Fine. We won Regionals."

"I heard."

They stand there, awkwardly, looking at anything but each other. Tina has long since left the scene. Blaine clears his throat.

"I was just getting some water. I should probably – "

"Yeah, right, of course."

"Do you want anything?"

"No, no, that's okay."

"Okay. Well. Um. Enjoy your trip."

"Thanks, you – um. Enjoy the party."

Blaine smiles his politest of polite smiles and keeps it up until he's reached the kitchen. He gulps down a glass of water and chases it down with a double shot of raspberry vodka.

He's really glad Sam agreed to drive tonight.

He ends up, somehow, in this group that consists of Artie, some of Artie's friends from jazz band, and a couple of girls from the volleyball team who Blaine has never seen before in his life. They're talking about...something, some sort of gossip about people Blaine doesn't know, but he doesn't want to try to find other people who might maybe be gossiping about people he does know, because that sounds dangerous.

Someone sidles up to the group. His pulse spikes, but he looks up and it's only Chad.

"Chad! Hi!"

He'd forgotten about Chad.

Chad's face lights up with amusement.

"Blaine! You having a good time?"

"The best! You?"

"Definitely."

"We should totally dance again! That was awesome."

Chad readily agrees, and Blaine steers him over to an empty patch of floor. It doesn't seem nearly as important, right now, that there's a Cheerio and her basketball boyfriend grinding rather obscenely just to their left. Right now, it feels like no one can touch him.

Dancing with Chad is just as fun as it was the first time, maybe even better, because Chad is looking at him in this way that's sending curlicues of shiver through his stomach. They don't even know each other, but the way he's looking at him, it feels like they do. They aren't touching anywhere but the weave of their fingers. It's enough.

The song ends, and Chad retreats to the kitchen to get them both another drink. Blaine finds Sam, who looks at him with too-heavy concern and asks if he's okay, which is stupid, because of course he's okay. Sam gets him a glass of water, tells him they can go home anytime he wants to. Blaine doesn't want to. He gulps down the water and clasps Sam's shoulder, tight, when he thanks him. He finds Chad in the kitchen.

"I'm going outside," he says. "Do you want to take these outside?"

"Without a jacket?"

Blaine lets his lips twist up into a tease.

"Live a little."

Chad flashes that smile.

"Lead the way."

They slide through a sea of bodies and out the door to Brittany's back porch. It's cold tonight, and no one else is brave enough to face it. Blaine doesn't mind – the sharpness of the air feels good against his skin and in his lungs.

The porch is long and spacious, with a hammock at one end and a bench swing on the other. It's got wicker furniture of all colors and states of repair scattered haphazardly across. Lord Tubbington is lounging on the steps. He looks up when Blaine approaches, then lets his head slump back down, tail twitching lazily. Blaine settles two steps up and leans against the rail. The sky is cloudy, only a muted spot of pale light marking tonight's nearly-full moon.

Chad sits next to him. They sip at their drinks. Blaine's is a little heavier on the rum than he would have made it, but it's good, otherwise.

"How long have you been cheering?" he says. His voice sounds so loud, out here.

"Since sophomore year."

"Wasn't that the year Coach Sylvester tried to shoot someone from a cannon?"

"Brittany, yeah. She didn't, though."

Blaine snorts. He lets it sit for a second. It still sounds crazy.

"I thought about trying out this year."

Chad raises his eyebrows.

"Really? Why didn't you?"

"I got a little...overcommitted."

"You'd definitely have made it."

"Yeah?"

"Definitely. I've seen you perform, Blaine. I know how bendy you are." He winks a naughty wink. He clears his throat. His voice goes lower, more intimate. "I've also...seen you, you know...at Scandals." His hand settles deliberately high on Blaine's thigh, and he leans in so close he's breathing hot right into Blaine's ear. "I've wanted to fuck you for months."

It's so blunt, so crass compared to the gentle teases they've been trading all evening. Blaine recoils. This isn't what he was looking for.

"Wait. Stop."

Chad leans back, but his hand doesn't move. He studies Blaine, inscrutable. Something goes ugly in his eyes.

"What? Am I too young for you, Blaine? Is that it? Do you only fuck old guys who buy you drinks? Or is it that you get off on being a tease?"

His hand is still there, squeezing hard. The tips of his fingers are inching higher.

"Don't touch me." It comes out hoarse, and weaker than he'd like.

"Come on, babe. I've seen you. I know you like it."

"Not from you. Get off me."

Blaine grabs his wrist, bruisingly hard, and dislodges it from his thigh. He stands up, suddenly unsteady from head rush and from his fluttering pulse, paralyzed for a second while the black spots clear from his eyes. Chad rises up, too. He boxes Blaine in against the rail. They aren't touching, but their bodies are close, and Chad's face is looming over his, painted grotesque in the stark, low light.

"You little slut!" he growls. "Quit playing hard to get."

"I'm not."

His hands come up quick, to shove at him, probably, more of a reflex of panic than any conscious attempt at escape. His heart is pounding, his brain isn't working, and his body is running on autopilot. His muscles are spring-loaded and about to release when he hears a voice.

"Get away from him."

Icy cold, high and clear, brooking no argument.

Chad backs off, startled. He looks over at Kurt and down again at Blaine, lingering over the way he curls up his fists.

"Not worth it," he mutters. He picks up his drink and goes back inside without another word.

"I was handling that," says Blaine, when it becomes clear that Kurt isn't going to make the first move. Kurt pauses. He starts to come closer.

"I know. I just thought I would help."

"Well. Thank you."

He says it to the night sky. It's hard to look at him here, when it's just them.

"Did you...know that guy? Before tonight, I mean."

"No."

"Oh."

Blaine's heart is starting to slow. The alcoholic haze is burning off.

"I should probably – "

"Wait a minute, okay? Can we...talk?"

Blaine holds back a sigh. He nods and drops down onto the top step. Kurt settles beside him.

"What did you want to talk about?" says Blaine, when Kurt doesn't start.

"I don't know." He huffs out a dry laugh. "Everything."

"How's your job?"

"It's fine, it's good, it's – that's not – how are you doing? Really?"

"I told you. I'm fine. Really."

Kurt is looking at him carefully, eyes searching his face with laser beam precision.

"My dad told me he ran into you a few months ago. He said you didn't look too good. He wouldn't tell me any more than that. I wanted to call you, but he said maybe it wouldn't be such a good idea. Um. So, I just wanted to make sure you're okay."

Blaine can't look at him, he can't. His jaw has gone so tight it takes him a couple of tries to get the words out.

"Well, you have, so. Mission accomplished."

"Don't be like that. Please. I'm allowed to worry about you. I miss you."

Blaine glances to the side. It's a mistake. One look at that face, looking at him like that, and it's so easy to remember why he made Kurt the center of his gravity. He doesn't say anything.

"I...nothing feels real without you, Blaine. Nothing feels really important, unless I've told you about it."

"I don't know what you want me to say, Kurt."

"I don't know, either."

They sit in silence. There's something comfortable about it, beneath the tension. Kurt clears his throat.

"I, um. I heard what he said. That guy, I mean. I don't want you to think I was eavesdropping – I wasn't, I swear. I came to find you, and I saw, and it...looked like you had it under control."

"I did."

"Are you really okay? He was saying some pretty nasty things."

Blaine laughs, and it comes out bitter. He's done. There's no point in pretending, there's no point in hiding. There's nothing to protect.

"Nothing that wasn't true. Well, maybe the part about being a tease. That wasn't true."

"Blaine – "

"You want to know how your father 'ran into me'? I crashed into a tree in January and totaled my car." There's a sharp gasp from Kurt. "It was six AM, on a school day, and I was still drunk from the night before. I probably still smelled like the guy who brought me to his place and generously gave me a ride back as far as the parking lot at Scandals."

"Oh, god, Blaine – "

"I called AAA, and your dad was the one who came. He said he wouldn't tell you."

"Are you – I mean, were you – "

"I wasn't hurt. Just my car."

"Do you still – "

"No."

Kurt is silent, wide-eyed and stunned, looking at him like he doesn't know him. Blaine wants to roll his eyes because, really, is it that surprising? He doesn't. He looks straight ahead and lets Kurt process.

"None of that – I mean, it doesn't give him the right to say those things to you."

"It's not a big deal."

"It is, to me. Whatever you've done...you deserve more than that."

"It's really none of your business, Kurt."

He can feel Kurt's eyes boring into the side of his head. He waits for it – the final, angry word and the sound of Kurt's heavy boots stomping back into the party. Instead, Kurt sighs, long and hard, like it hurts.

"Blaine, I...I don't care. I don't care that you cheated on me with some guy you'd never met, or that you went through a...phase, after we broke up. I know I should – maybe on some level I do, I don't know. None of that changes...you. I used to try to make myself believe that you'd changed, somehow, while I wasn't looking. I figured you must have turned into a stranger, because you weren't capable of doing that to me. But I know that's not true. You're the same person I fell in love with. This is just...part of you. You're a person, and you're not perfect, and you're allowed to make mistakes."

"It wasn't just a mistake, Kurt." He spits the word, because it's so inadequate. A mistake is bubbling in the wrong letter on your Scantron. There isn't a word in the world that feels big enough for this. He's been trying to find it for months.

"Alright, fine. I forgive you, anyway."

"Don't. I don't want you to. You shouldn't."

"Blaine, stop. Can you please just stop? I'm trying, here."

He's pleading and soft, so vulnerable and steely strong, at the core. Blaine closes his eyes.

"I know. I told you, I want...if we could be friends, Kurt, I would love that. I can't do this."

"Do you not...?" His voice wavers. He stops, shakes himself, straightens his spine. He catches Blaine's gaze, eyes blazing. "I still love you, okay, and I still want this. I will fight for this, even if you won't. You need to stop torturing yourself."

"You don't understand."

"Then make me."

"I don't trust myself, Kurt. There's no way I could expect you to trust me."

"I do."

"No, you don't."

"We'll work on it, then."

"I can't."

"Blaine. Just tell me. Talk to me."

It's just enough, just the right nudge in just the right direction to tip him over the edge.

"If we got back together, it would just be the same, Kurt, and I can't do that. I can't."

"What do you – "

"I was alone, Kurt. I don't think you really get what that means. You have your family, and your friends, and I was alone."

"I was – "

"You were in New York, building a new life for yourself, and that life didn't include me. It's what happens. I get it. It's what I expected, don't you remember? It's just – I didn't have anyone else. There was no one in my life who knew me like you did, no one who really cared. And you promised me, Kurt, you said that I wouldn't be alone, you promised, and it didn't matter. You left me behind, and I was drowning, and you didn't even see it. I can't do that again."

Kurt breathes in, shakily. He's got his arms wrapped around himself. He drops his eyes to his knees.

"I didn't know."

"I know."

He looks up again, eyes bright with tears that Blaine knows won't fall.

"I'm sorry."

"I told you, I get it."

"No, you're right. I should have listened. I should have made more of an effort. But I know that, now, Blaine. We both made mistakes, and we've learned from them. We can do better, this time. I promise I can do better."

He's written all over with remorse and warmth and fierce, fierce love. He means it, it's so clear. It doesn't mean anything.

"I'm sorry."

"Blaine – "

"Please stop making me say no to you."

"Stop saying no."

Blaine doesn't say anything at all. Eventually, Kurt gets the message. He moves to stand up.

"This isn't goodbye," he says.

And Blaine is alone.