It's the light that wakes him rather than any sound, a brilliant light, pure and white, that drills through his closed eyelids, hard as diamond. He shoots up, panicking and disoriented, squinting against the assault. He scrabbles back against the headboard. One hand is thrust out in supplication.

"What the hell is going on?" he manages. "Who's there?"

The light dims to something duller, soft enough to look through.

"Look."

There's something familiar about the voice that makes the breath catch in Kurt's throat. It's soft, feminine. It scares him.

He looks anyway.

It's a face he knows from pictures more than his own memory. Sharp features, soft eyes, and a smile he's been missing so much longer than he had it. Her hair tumbles loose around her shoulders in waves lit golden by the pale light spilling down from the crown of her head.

Now he knows he's dreaming.

"Mom?"

His voice is little-boy tremulous, and he can't bring himself to care.

"Yes. And no."

"Let me guess – you're the spirit of my mother?"

Her smile quirks wryly.

"I am a spirit, yes. Who I am is entirely up to you."

Her tone is detached, almost warm enough to take on a tinge of amusement. It's enough to hold back the leap of Kurt's heart.

"What do you mean?"

"I am able to take many shapes. The one you see is thought to be the most...soothing, to you. We have a journey ahead of us."

"Journey?"

"Of sorts."

"So, wait. Who are you, then?"

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past."

Kurt laughs, short and hysterical.

"Of course. Of course you are. And you thought it would be soothing to me to be woken up by a ghost wearing my mother's face? God, I actually can't decide which of us belongs in the crazy house more."

Her expression doesn't falter, doesn't even twitch.

"Come. Take my hand."

"Okay, so we've established that it's you. No way. You stole my mother's face. I'm not going anywhere with you."

Her eyes flash.

"Kurt. We don't have time for this."

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just pull the covers back over my head right now and pretend that you don't exist."

"You will regret it deeply if you do."

"Are you threatening me?"

"No. Simply...informing."

"I thought you were the Ghost of Christmas Past. Isn't the future someone else's deal?"

"It does not take a forward-facing eye to see that you are miserable, darling."

Her smile is sad, and genuine, and Kurt finds himself once more at a loss for words. It looks so very much like her, just like she did when Kurt was six and came home crying over the destruction of his favorite Ariel doll at the hands of playground bullies.

Kurt hardens his heart. This is, after all, an imposter.

"I am not a little boy anymore, and you are not my mother. You do not get to call me that."

His words make not one bit of impact.

"Kurt. Take my hand. I have many things to show you, and our time together is running short."

The spirit holds out her hand, ephemeral and elegant.

Kurt hesitates. He looks up, into her expecting eyes, and he can't say no. Even if it is nothing more than a cruel trick. His father told him to listen. And those eyes, no matter who they belong to now, were once his mother's.

He breathes out the last of his trepidation. He reaches out and grasps her hand, surprised at the cool solidity of it beneath his palm.

The world begins to melt away.

The walls, the floor, the bed, all give way to snowy white ground, and Kurt is left to fall, ass first, into a drift. He scrambles to his feet, face hot with embarrassment more than with exertion.

"You couldn't have warned me?" he snaps. The spirit does not deign to answer. Instead, she smiles enigmatically and gestures at the house in front of them. Kurt huffs an inward sigh and turns to follow with his gaze.

The house is his. Or at least, it was. It's Carole's now, and Finn's when he comes to visit. Kurt hasn't been back since his father's funeral.

Someone's gone all out this year in the decorating department. Blue and white lights are strung carefully along the edges of the roof and around all of the windows, simple and classy. There's a wreath hanging from the door and garlands slung artfully over the railing of the porch and twisting up its columns. Best of all, there's a legion of snowmen greeting them along the front pathway - neatly formed, with cheerful button smiles and accessories that could have come from Kurt's own high school wardrobe. One of them sports a holiday-themed bow tie, complete with miniature Christmas trees printed all over.

It's then that he remembers.

He turns to the spirit.

"I know where we are," he says quietly, "But when are we?"

The spirit smiles, a real one this time, a smile that looks foreign on his mother's face.

"Oh, you are a clever boy."

"Well?"

"When do you think?"

"2011. It has to be."

"Of course."

He doesn't particularly feel the need to venture inside, but the spirit gestures again.

"Shall we?"

Kurt hesitates.

"Will they see us?"

"No. These are but shadows of the past. You may change nothing, and no one can detect your presence."

Kurt nods. He marches up to the front door and raises his hand to knock. Before he can, the spirit grabs hold of it and walks them through. Kurt expects it to feel strange - hard, or thick, somehow - but the door is no more material than the air surrounding it.

Inside is a scene so warm and so lovely that, seeing it, Kurt's throat tightens against his will. The air is thick with the scent of roasting ham and the lingering spice of gingerbread, bright with the glow of Christmas tree lights. The familiar sounds of a football game make Kurt roll his eyes reflexively, even as he smiles. And best of all, there, his three men lined up on the couch, alive and leaning forward with rapt attention as someone wanders into the room.

It's him. Himself, as he was at 17. Awkward in his body and covering it up so well he even fooled himself. So young, even though he never felt it at the time. Naïve, in spite of everything.

He settles in his dad's armchair, perched on the edge, legs crossed. He leans forward and watches the screen, just like the others. He uncrosses his legs. He glances at the couch. He turns his gaze back to the screen with attention so focused it furrows his brow. Finally, he slumps, settles back into the cushions, and grabs a copy of Vogue from the coffee table with a huff of a sigh.

Tradition.

His father glances over, a smirk of a smile on his lips, and nudges Blaine with an elbow. Blaine looks over and smiles, too. He's fond, and so young. His eyes are big and soft and almost glowing with the force of what he feels, so entirely open.

Kurt breathes in sharply.

He's forgotten what it was like. He doesn't know how, when he burned every look into the cold, starving corners of his heart, a talisman against the fear that he would never be loved. He remembers, now. He swallows.

Finn watches on, oblivious.

"Dinner's just about ready, boys." Kurt's head snaps over to Carole, bright and happy and wiping her hands on an apron that's seen better days. "Can I get some help setting the table?"

Blaine shoots to his feet.

"I'd be happy to help, Mrs. Hummel."

Carole smiles warmly and pats him on the cheek when he gets close enough to reach.

"Thank you, dear. I'll get the others to help with clean up." She winks conspiratorially and plants a hand on his back to steer him toward the cutlery.

"I don't mind helping, honestly."

"It's true," calls out Kurt. He doesn't look up from his magazine. "He lives for folding napkin swans." He's biting down on a smile. Blaine grins.

"I do love origami."

"Well then, we'd better get you to work."

The scene continues on like this for some time; Blaine and Carole bustle to and fro, Finn and Kurt's dad watch the game, rapt, and Kurt flicks lazily through his magazine. He and Blaine sneak glances and smiles when they think the others aren't looking, lovesick little things that Carole takes note of without a word.

Finally, she rounds up the troops and everyone takes a seat at the table. Finn is the last to make it, reluctant but not whining as he turns off the game (he knows better). He perks up when he sees the spread.

Once everyone is settled, Kurt's dad raises his glass in a toast.

"Here's to family," he says. "We all know better than most that family is a choice. And damn if we didn't choose right."

"Here, here," chimes in Carole.

"To family," chorus Kurt and Finn, as they all lean in to clink their glasses. Blaine just smiles, overcome, perhaps, with the way he was included so pointedly, or maybe with the way Kurt is squeezing his hand beneath the table. Either way, his eyes are big and shining and grateful, and it's hard to look at.

Kurt watches for a little while longer, unable to help the way his heart contracts to see himself fuss over his father's portions, all the while filling his own plate with an entire river of gravy. This Kurt, the one at the table, is so alive, so happy. He chatters a mile a minute, shooting Finn dirty looks when he talks through half-masticated ham, rubbing a hand over Blaine's back or his bicep when he says something that Kurt finds endearing. His eyes light up bright as the Christmas tree when Carole engages him in a conversation about the post-wardrobe-purge shopping trip they have planned for Boxing Day.

"He's happy, isn't he?"

Kurt starts. He'd forgotten about the spirit, who's suddenly appeared at his elbow. Her voice is soft, her expression unreadable. She's looking at the table, and she could be talking about any one of them, but it's clear who she means. Kurt can only nod.

"It's the best Christmas I ever had." It's barely more than a whisper.

He watches until it hurts. He turns to the spirit.

"Can we get out of here? Please?"

She inclines her head, a small smile on her lips.

"As you wish."

Her light glows suddenly brighter, and the dining room starts to melt. Kurt braces himself this time.

When the world rights itself again, they're in a spacious, shabby apartment that Kurt remembers so well it makes him wince. He'd done what he could, but nothing could take away the distinct feeling of drafty and drab that permeated the air in that loft when it wasn't filled with music and laughter. Now, it's dim with cheerful light from the candles scattered over the living area's sparse flat surfaces and the lamps that do little to ward off the night. The space has the distinct feeling of emptiness that indicates a party recently ended, the kind of loud silence that can only exist after a buzz.

Kurt sees himself flopped onto the couch, head tilted back and eyes staring at nothing. It's a good sort of looseness in his body, the kind that comes from satisfaction. He's a few years older, now, and it's obvious in the sharper lines of his face and the sure set of his shoulders.

It's a quiet, peaceful sort of moment that Kurt would be loath to interrupt, had he the capacity to do so.

"You know, I think we may have forgotten something this year." Kurt's younger incarnation flops his head to the side to look up at the speaker, eyelashes low and a small, coy smile playing across his mouth.

"What's that?"

Blaine leans down to press a button on the iPod dock placed conveniently on the side table in front of him. He smiles broadly.

"Sing with me?"

The opening strains of "Winter Wonderland" start to play, right on cue. Blaine offers a hand and Kurt takes it, making a show of rising gracefully to his feet.

"It is tradition," he says, once they're eye to eye. He doesn't let go.

Kurt remembers this night as clearly as if it were yesterday. It's happiness that's easiest to forget – the painful things stick with you forever. He wants to tell the spirit that he's leaving, with or without her, he wants to beg her to take him away, but even this cold sense of dread can't take away all of his reason.

He knows exactly what good it will do. He steels himself instead.

Kurt can see now what he didn't see then, drowning himself as he did in the romance of the song. Blaine means every single word, he always does when he sings, but he's also...performing. It's that thing that always drove Kurt crazy at Warbler rehearsal, the way Blaine could look into his eyes and sing like that and still, still, be so far away.

His younger self doesn't see it at all. He's singing now the way he learned to when he let himself open his heart. A way to communicate when words can't encompass the things that he feels.

...He sings a love song, as we go along...

It's the only way he's ever known to let Blaine see the fragile insides of his heart.

...We'll conspire, as we dream by the fire, to face unafraid the plans that we've made, walking in a winter wonderland...

They wander as they sing, improvising twirls and spins as they see fit. They end up by the tree, hands curled together, cheeks pink, bodies close as they sing the last, soft notes.

Kurt isn't thinking at all. It's obvious now, and he remembers the feeling so clearly. He remembers the strain of holding back the things that should be Blaine's, looking into Blaine's eyes and feeling a swell inside that leads them here, to this moment, when he lets go.

Kurt reaches up with a gentle, certain hand, and pulls Blaine in for a kiss.

Blaine's eyelids flutter down. His mouth responds immediately. His free hand stays clenched at his side.

Kurt pulls him in closer and tighter, hand scrabbling against the small of Blaine's back, mouth turning desperate after so long without. Blaine's hand twitches, tense, like he's holding back, until finally it breaks free and he's bringing it up to Kurt's shoulder, and – God, he has nightmares about this – pushes against him.

He's gentle, but it does the job.

Kurt pulls back with a soft whine that makes him cringe, now. His eyes, when they open, are almost eaten up by the black of his pupils. His chest is heaving, slightly, more from adrenaline than from exertion.

"Kurt."

"Please."

Kurt can't watch, but he can't look away. There's this stupid, stubborn hope that things will turn out differently, this time.

His younger self tries to lean back in. Blaine stops him with one word.

"Wait."

Kurt freezes. His eyes widen, and the fear creeps in.

"Don't you...?"

"No! That isn't - I – I mean, of course, of course I do, but don't you think we should talk first?"

Kurt blinks, confused and hazy.

"What is there to talk about? We've waited for this long enough, don't you think?"

"I just – it's been over a year, Kurt."

"Yeah, I know. But this is...a moment, Blaine."

Kurt's hand clenches into the material of Blaine's sweater. It's clear from the tension in his muscles that he's straining against the urge to pull Blaine's body to his. His jaw is nearly trembling with it.

"Kurt, please, we have to – I can't do this if we're not..."

Blaine's eyes are wide and nearly desperate for Kurt to understand. Everything else has been locked away.

"Blaine, of course I want to be with you – that's what I've always wanted, you know that."

From the look on Blaine's face, it's obvious that he doesn't.

"Kurt..."

"I trust you, Blaine, and I love you. Now, please, can you just kiss me?"

He wants to, God, it's so clear that he does. Every line of his body is pulling to Kurt. But still, he holds himself back. His voice has been scratched raw under the force of it.

"Can't we just talk?"

Kurt's brow pulls tight with frustration and, watching it, he's tempted to pull himself aside and give himself a shake, because he can see how much is hinging on this moment.

"I've told you – I forgive you, I trust you, I want this. What more do you need to hear?"

"That's not what I mean." Blaine takes a step back, folds his arms protectively across his stomach. The moment has passed. "I...I can't tell you how happy it makes me to hear all of that, Kurt. Honestly. It's just – it's not only about that."

"What more could there be?"

"Maybe I want you to listen to me, too."

"Alright, fine. I'm listening."

Kurt raises his eyebrows, gaze boring into Blaine expectantly. His eyes are a little wild with the feeling in his bleeding, open heart. It's too late, now, to close it off. Blaine watches him warily.

"Well?"

"I don't know if I trust you."

It bursts out of him. Kurt recoils, as shocked as if he'd been slapped. Blaine, too, looks uneasy, but he stands his ground.

"What do you mean?"

Blaine swallows.

"Kurt. You're so important to me. You're my family, and I'll always want you in my life, but...things were falling apart for us long before I cheated."

Kurt stares, mouth gaping.

"You can't be serious. That is actually insane. We were in a long-distance relationship, and it was hard, but I never – you were the one that cheated, Blaine, not me. I never lied to you, I didn't even flirt with other guys because it felt too... Unless – oh God." He narrows his eyes. "This isn't about Chandler again, is it?"

"What? No, of course not. It's not about anyone else, Kurt. It's about us. We started to go wrong the second you left for New York, and the fact that you never even noticed..." His voice cracks, and he looks away, steadies himself. "You were busy. You were building a new life for yourself. I get that. I even got it then. You just also made it really clear to me that there wasn't a place for me anymore." He looks up, here, and meets Kurt's eyes. "The way I reacted was...unforgivable. I know that, and I'm so grateful that you've found a way to forgive me anyway. But that doesn't change the fact that you made promises to me that you couldn't keep."

Kurt is thrown. He crosses his arms. His eyes go cold and snapping.

"Are you saying that it was my fault?"

"Of course not, no! I'm saying that I was unhappy, Kurt. I'm saying that we can't just fall into this, because nothing will change, and we'll have the same problems all over again. I'm saying we need to talk."

"Fine! Great! So, talk!"

He raises his eyebrows, expression painted all over with belligerent impatience. Blaine huffs out an unhappy laugh.

"That's not how this works, Kurt. I don't want you to humor me. I don't want you to placate me with an empty promise and leave me behind when you get bored, or busy, or when things get hard. I can't do that. I swore I would never do that again."

"Jesus. Is that really what you think of me?"

Blaine looks away, then back again. His eyes are bright with reflected light from the Christmas tree. His mouth is twisted up, bittersweet and sad.

"I think...you moved on. You may not have meant to, but you did. I think that maybe I don't fit into your life like I used to, even if there are still...feelings. And I think maybe it's better this way."

Kurt doesn't say a thing. Blaine looks at him patiently, waits. Kurt, watching, wants to scream.

"What are you doing?" he mutters, staring hard at his own impassive face. "Why aren't you saying anything?"

He knows why. He knows what happens. And yet.

Still, Kurt says nothing. His face remains carefully blank. Blaine takes in another steadying breath.

"I release you."

His voice is quiet and clear amidst the silence of stalemate.

"What?"

"From any and all promises you made to me when we were in high school. We were young, and we've changed. It's only right."

It should feel like cutting tethers. It should be freeing. That's how Blaine intends it, clearly. And yet, Kurt can bring himself, past and present, to feel nothing more than adrift. It's a horrible feeling.

His past self nods, stiffly. He averts his gaze. Blaine takes that as a cue to continue.

"So. We'll just start fresh, as friends. No obligations. Except our Christmas duet, of course. That's non-negotiable."

It's a feeble joke, and it falls flat.

"I'd like that," murmurs Kurt.

Kurt can almost see it now, the way the barriers rise between them in this moment. Blaine smiles, and it isn't remotely real, and Kurt smiles back, small and weak.

"I should probably go," says Blaine. "It's getting late."

"Yeah. That's probably a good idea. Who knows what kind of weirdos are out on Christmas?"

Blaine takes the opportunity to walk away, put some distance between them as he gathers his things.

"Will you text me when you hear from your dad? I felt bad about sending them out there to fend for themselves on the subway."

"Of course. But I think they'll be fine – this isn't their first time, after all."

"Right."

Blaine finishes buttoning up his jacket and flashes a big, blinding smile.

"Merry Christmas, Kurt," he says warmly. He leans in and gives Kurt a hug that he returns stiffly.

"Merry Christmas."

He knows what happens next, in the loft. Kurt will finish cleaning up, he'll get ready for bed, he'll text Blaine just like he said. He won't cry himself to sleep, no matter how desperately he wants to, because he's promised himself that he's done crying over Blaine Anderson.

He doesn't need to see any of that.

He follows Blaine instead. The spirit doesn't stop him, doesn't say anything, in fact, merely follows him as he follows his whim.

Blaine makes it out of the building and down the block, stride long and pace quick, as if to distance himself from the loft as quickly as he can. He stops, suddenly, and leans against the brick of a building on the corner. He tilts his head back and sucks in a breath. Kurt steps closer, he can't help it, and he sees the twin tear tracks winding down his cheeks. Blaine runs a hand over his face, wipes away the tears with a bitter scoff of a laugh.

"Come on, Anderson," he mutters, "get it together."

He stays like that for a moment, hands pressed to eyes. Then he shakes himself, seeming to come to a decision, and pulls out his phone. He scrolls through his contacts and, finally, presses a button. He brings the phone to his ear. He bites his lip as he waits, a tell that Kurt hasn't forgotten. He's nervous.

"Hey. Um. I know this is a weird time to call, but I just – does your offer still stand, for New Year's Eve? Because I think I've changed my mind."

Blaine pauses, listens. He smiles a little, and it's genuine.

"Okay, so I know I have. What do you say?" Another pause. His smile grows. "Perfect. Meet me at my place at 7. We'll go to dinner first. And, Sebastian? Just so you know, we won't be having sex, even if it is a date."

He laughs, loud and clear, at something Sebastian says on the other end, and Kurt feels sick. He breathes in sharply and turns to the spirit, who's watching him mildly.

"Okay," he says. "I get it. Can we please go now?"

He's almost ready for it, this time, when everything shifts around him.

He's back in Lima. The living room is dark, in spite of the light reflecting brightly off of the snow through the window. There's a Christmas tree in the corner that hasn't been plugged in. There are two silent figures on the couch.

He turns away.

"Why are you doing this? I don't see how torturing me like this is supposed to teach me anything."

She brings a cool, guiding hand to his cheek.

"Just watch."

He looks back.

He knows exactly what year this is. He doesn't need context clues to figure it out. He was 24, but he looks so much older than that. Rachel is watching him, wide-eyed, unsure what to do with the silence. She's dressed all in black, and she's sitting stiffly, as if she'll be called upon to get up and make a pot of tea at any moment.

"Are you sure there isn't anything I can do for you?" she says, finally, anxiously.

"No."

"I can make some calls, maybe. I know everyone will want to come by, if you'll let them."

"No, Rachel. If I wanted sympathy cards and tacky fruit baskets, I'd call them myself."

"Funeral arrangements, then? You shouldn't have to deal with all of that on top of your grief."

She's so eager to be understanding, so desperate to be useful, but Kurt isn't even looking at her.

"Carole and Finn are taking care of it."

"Do you maybe want to take a nap? I know how late you were at the hospital last night. You must be tired."

Finally, he turns to her.

"I'm an adult, Rachel. I can take care of myself. If you want to do something, you can leave me alone."

She freezes for a second, then picks herself off of the couch and smooths down her skirt.

"Okay. Just – please, call me if you need me? I just want to make things easier for you."

She waits, but Kurt doesn't respond. She gathers her coat, slowly, and shrugs it on, and it's obvious that she's hoping he'll call her back. He doesn't. She sighs, opens the door, and stops with a short, soft gasp.

On the other side is Blaine, hand poised to knock. The look of surprise on his face would be comical in any other circumstance.

"Blaine!"

She recovers immediately from her shock and throws herself into his arms.

"Rachel. What's – "

"Oh, thank goodness you're here! He won't talk to me, he won't do anything but sit there."

It's what Kurt knows is her attempt at a whisper, but the words carry clear as a bell. Blaine rubs a hand soothingly over her back.

"Are you going over to the hospital?"

"Of course. I'm sure there's something I can do to make this easier for Carole. She shouldn't have to take all of this on with only Finn for help."

"I'm sure she'll be grateful."

She smiles at him, briefly, and gives him one last squeeze. She hurries out to her car.

"She seems sweet," comments the spirit, voice fond. Kurt can't bring himself to look at her.

"She has her moments."

Blaine has made his way inside by now, hanging his coat in the closet and placing his shoes carefully by the door before joining Kurt on the couch. He, too, is dressed in black. His eyes are red with the remnants of tears. He waits for Kurt to make the first move.

"Aren't you supposed to be with your boyfriend?"

"He understands. I'm sorry I couldn't be there, last night."

"It's fine. He wasn't exactly lucid enough to know the difference."

"I meant, for you."

Kurt turns, looks at him. He swallows down the emotion that was threatening to break through his blank eyes.

"You're here, now."

"Yeah, I am. For as long as you need me."

Kurt nods, looks away. His hand creeps over to Blaine's, where it rests on the cushion between them. Blaine takes it, easy as breathing. They sit, for a time, in silence.

"He really thought he was going to make it through Christmas," says Kurt, eventually. "We were going to go over there this morning and surprise him with a tree and presents. We were going to sing Christmas carols and watch It's a Wonderful Life. It's his favorite. We thought we'd get a miracle."

"He had his family with him, at the end. That's all he really wanted."

"No. What he really wanted was to live to see his grandkids, Blaine. But that was never going to happen, was it?"

Blaine just squeezes his hand. He knows, just as Kurt does, that there's nothing he can say to that.

"I'll miss him," he says instead. It's soft, and earnest in that way that Blaine has. It leaves no room to doubt his sincerity. He blinks, hard. His tears don't fall.

"Me too."

The barest hint of a whisper. Kurt's don't fall either.

This time, when he looks at Blaine, something small and scared breaks through the surface. Blaine moves closer. Kurt leans in, rests his head on Blaine's shoulder.

They sit in silence until Kurt, ever so softly, starts to sing. Blaine swallows and squeezes his hand. He joins in.

...I'll be home for Christmas, you can count on me...

It's slow and shaky, and they make no attempt at harmony.

"Your last Christmas duet."

It's the spirit. Kurt's head snaps to her. She doesn't seem to fit in this room, whose warmth has been sucked so completely away. She shows up pale gold, shimmering and wrong against the palette of melancholy gray. Her eyes, on the other hand, match perfectly.

...I'll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams...

The melody winds down. Kurt closes his eyes and lets himself lean more heavily against Blaine's sturdy shoulder. Blaine rests his cheek against Kurt's hair.

"I've had enough."

Kurt's voice feels harsh against the delicate peace created by those two figures on the couch. The strain of it is painful around the lump he couldn't stop from forming in his throat. The spirit looks at him with her kind, sad eyes that do nothing to quench the feeling in his chest.

"Yes. I suppose you have."

Her hand is almost soothing when it brushes against his wrist.

The space around them reforms, and they're somewhere he doesn't immediately recognize. It's an apartment, a nice one, and he's been there before. The decorating scheme is extremely familiar - strong lines, masculine shapes, and lovely, dark colors. There are touches of whimsy sprinkled throughout, like the robots on the mantelpiece and the framed, vintage X-Men artwork on the wall. There is a Christmas tree in the corner, elegant and warm, with blue and white lights and colored glass ornaments in a multitude of shapes and sizes. A sparkling gold star rests proudly on top. The residue of opened presents is piled neatly on the floor nearby.

A photo on the mantelpiece catches Kurt's eye, and all becomes clear.

Of course.

It's Blaine's apartment. Well, Blaine's and Sebastian's. Kurt came to their housewarming party. He stayed for half an hour and spent most of it at the buffet table.

There are noises coming from the bedroom, murmuring voices and the light thumps of people opening closet doors and shutting drawers.

Kurt looks to the spirit. She nods softly.

"Go on, darling."

Kurt ignores the shiver that runs up his spine and moves cautiously toward the noises.

He sees Blaine first, standing in front of the full length mirror and running a comb through his hair. It's looser than it was when Kurt last left him, slightly waved in the front and on the sides, but still firmly under control. He looks older, something in the way he holds his body and the depth in his eyes. He's dressed for a night out, in a tightly tailored suit jacket and crisply ironed slacks.

Sebastian comes into view.

The animosity that once burned for him like fire in Kurt's gut has diminished over the years. He's mellowed since high school. He cares for Blaine. But Kurt will never understand their relationship.

He steels himself.

"Are you sure you want to go?"

Blaine cocks his head and smiles teasingly.

"I never thought I'd see the day when you turn down a night out."

Sebastian snorts. He ambles over to the mirror, slides his long arms around Blaine's waist, bends down to hook his chin over Blaine's shoulder. He crosses his hands over Blaine's stomach, pulling him lightly back until his weight is resting against Sebastian's body.

"I was just hoping to spend the evening with you. Alone." He presses a slow kiss to the side of Blaine's neck. "We haven't had much in the way of alone time recently."

Blaine's eyes flutter closed.

"I know." He turns around, hands drifting up to drape around Sebastian's shoulders. Sebastian's hands shift low over Blaine's back until his thumbs are hooked in his belt and his palms rest on the swell beneath. Blaine looks up at him through his lashes. "I've missed it, too, believe me. Maybe we should plan something special for Sunday, just the two of us. Or we could cancel our plans for New Year's, just stay in and watch the ball drop from the living room like they do back home."

Sebastian's gaze narrows, like he's searching for something that isn't obvious in Blaine's expression. Something he doesn't entirely want to find.

"Is there a particular reason you're so set on going to this party?"

He says it like he's teasing, but Blaine's smile goes slightly fake, and he stops his fingers from fidgeting at Sebastian's neck.

"I just thought it would be fun, that's all. Christmas is about spending time with loved ones, and it would be nice to see our friends. Besides, I already told her we'd be coming. She programmed the karaoke machine specifically with us in mind."

"Don't you see most of these people every day?"

"Some of them, yeah. For work. I don't understand what the big deal is."

Blaine's tone is still pleasant, but Kurt can detect the frustration beneath. Sebastian obviously can, too. He gets right to the point.

"Is this about Kurt?"

Blaine stiffens.

"Kurt? I don't even think he'll be there. He never comes to these things, anymore."

"But you're hoping. I know you, Blaine, I can tell. There's a part of you that's hoping he'll defy your expectations and show up for your Christmas duet like you're still starry-eyed teenagers."

"I haven't seen him for months."

"I know. Believe me, I know. He doesn't return your calls, he's always at work, he didn't even show up for the front-row opening-night tickets you had hand-delivered to his office. And still, you'd rather go to a party on the slim chance you might see him than spend time with your boyfriend."

Blaine's jaw is tense and his eyes big and shocked. He steps away from Sebastian's grip and wraps his own arms across his stomach.

"That is not fair."

Sebastian's eyes flare, and his fists clench at his sides.

"Isn't it? I've tried so hard to let it go. He was your first love, and your best friend, and I get that he's important to you. But I thought you told me that you let him go. I thought that was the point of this."

"I have."

"If you really think that, then you're delusional."

"You can't be asking me to cut him out of my life."

Blaine's tone is bordering on dangerous. Sebastian scoffs.

"I know better than that. And, clearly, he's already done most of the work for you."

Blaine sucks in a sharp breath, then looks away and lets it go, slow and easy.

"Come on, Sebastian. Don't do this. Don't turn into an asshole just because you're angry at me. You always regret it."

"I'm not angry, don't you get it? Blaine, you're my first love. You're the first guy I ever had any kind of serious feelings for. I changed because of you - everything about the way I saw myself and my life seemed so ridiculous and so small after we met that I literally couldn't help it. I tried to get over you so many times, in so many different ways, and it never worked. I never could. I don't know if I ever will. The day you called me and told me yes, finally, was the best day of my life." He stops, pauses, gathers himself. It's costing him, Kurt can tell, to expose his tender underbelly. "But the thing is, I've always known that you didn't feel the same. You tell me you love me, and I believe you, but it's not the same. You've never felt for me the way I feel for you because Kurt Hummel, of all people, is still taking up space in your heart that he doesn't even want."

Blaine is nearly trembling. His voice, when he speaks, is low and tight.

"That is ridiculous. I love you, Sebastian. I've told you and told you, a million times I've told you, and still. It is not my fault that you're still hanging on to some stupid schoolboy rivalry!"

Sebastian's eyes flash, but he bites back his retort. He closes his eyes for a second.

"What would you say if I asked you to marry me?"

The question catches Blaine off-guard. Kurt can relate.

"Is this – are you – ?"

"No, just. Hypothetically."

"I'd say yes. I wouldn't even have to think about it."

It clearly isn't what Sebastian wants to hear. He sighs.

"Come on," he says. "We're going to be late."

Blaine catches him by the elbow, tries to make eye contact. Sebastian shakes him gently off. Blaine clenches his jaw.

"Can we talk about this later, at least?"

Sebastian doesn't reply.

"They broke up later that night," supplies the spirit, helpfully. Kurt's heart plummets. He didn't even know they'd broken up at all, much less an entire year ago.

He turns to her.

"Why didn't he tell me?"

"He didn't think you'd listen. You can't tell me you blame him for that."

Kurt says nothing. She smiles knowingly.

"I think that brings our journey together to an end."

The room fades away in a manner that's become awfully familiar. He finds himself tucked up in his bed, when it's over. The spirit leans close to his face, smiling benignly. Her hair falls in loose, lit-up strands from behind her ears.

"You must be tired. Sleep well, darling. And remember what you've seen."

His reply dies on his tongue as her light dims to blackness and he's left to dreamless sleep.