“Kenmare Square, please.” Kurt threw his bag on the seat next to him and lazily used it as an armrest. The three Manhattans he had downed on the flight were hitting him like a speeding train, which worked out nicely. He was going for a fuck-I-can’t-feel-anything sentiment and once the plane landed, the alcohol started doing its job.

Unfortunately, the ache was still there. The anger. The confusion. The bitterness. The hostility. All still there, easing but somehow surviving under the liquid weight of the booze. Seeing the New York City skyline peek through the windshield of the cab didn’t even do its normal job of focusing his mind. Refreshing his heart.

Everything was muddy.

When the cab pulled up to his company apartment, his mind remained hazed as he fished through his wallet for the right credit card. “Does that say Marc Jacobs International on it?”

“Yep.” The cabbie swiped the card and held up an electronic clipboard to sign. “Have a good night, sir.”

“Too late.”

Kurt slipped out of the car and wobbled into the building, stunned at how hard the drinks were hitting him. Why didn’t flight attendants remind stupid passengers that booze doesn’t intoxicate in the air? Why was the inside of the building still inside and he was still out in the humid, acrid night air?

“Hello, Mr. Hummel. You’re in 3B this weekend.” The receptionist handed him his room key and gathered her things to leave.

“Did I keep you late, Colleen?”

“Yep. But, my date cancelled anyway, so whatever.”

“Seems to be the theme tonight.”

To call the company apartments home would be a stretch, but for now, for as long as he lived in Ohio, this was home in New York. A different studio every time he arrived, or at least one of three or four they seemed to rotate him through. It wasn’t bad. They were bigger than anything he could afford and he never had to bother cleaning – always a plus. For the moment, his only concern was whether they’d stocked the refrigerator like he’d asked.

And they had. After tossing his jacket, he poured himself a rum and coke going particularly heavy on the rum. He loosened his tie and top few buttons, kicked off his shoes and dropped his pants, kicking them across the wooden floor. Then he almost dropped his drink chasing them across the floor before they crashed into something hard. His phone was still in the pocket.

He turned on the TV, filling the room with mindless noise and clumsily pulled the bed back, grabbing extra pillows from the closet. Drink, noise, comfort and phone. He powered his phone on and took a few pulls from his drink as the missed messages loaded. And loaded. And fucking loaded.

He’d been in the airport for a total of four hours, keeping his phone off to wallow in his emotions. The flight was only two hours long and there were 15 voice messages and 31 texts. They would wait until morning. Instead, he made a call.

“I thought people in Ohio were in bed by 10pm.”

“I’m not in Ohio. I get a longer curfew.”

“You here?”

“I am.”

“Is this call to report your location or to beckon me like I had nothing better to do with my night?”

“I’m sure as shit not begging you, Mitchell. Do what you want.”

“What number?”

“3B. Bring take out. I’m drunk. And still drinking.”

“What kind?”

“Edible. Greasy.”

“Give me 20.”

Kurt tossed his phone on the small table and sunk into the bed to stare at the ceiling that was, interestingly enough, spinning. His phone buzzed and he grabbed at it absent-mindedly.

Blaine [7-21-23 12:16] Again. I’m sorry. I couldn’t end the day without saying good night. Even if you’re not listening.

“Jesus fuck. He’s still polite.”

***

Kurt peeled one eye open and shut it immediately, the pain of a thousand knives slicing through his head superseded only by the crashing wave of nausea that coursed through his gut. He swallowed the nausea down and tried opening an eye again, focusing on an empty rum bottle, one chopstick and a used condom on his bedside table. “Fuck.”

He flopped onto his back, taking his agony with him. His hand landed on a piece of paper where he thought, although he couldn’t be sure, Mitchell had been laying earlier.

He fought back another wave of nausea and brought the paper close to his face.

Next time you need to work out an anger issue, do it in someone else’s ass. I left you a bagel on the counter. –M

The combined message of food and shame sent him over the edge. He made a bee line for the toilet emptying his stomach, and with the force of it all, Kurt hoped, the misery he’d been carrying around for the past 18 hours.

“Kurt? Are you…oh Jesus.” Mitchell dug in the linen closet for a washcloth and quickly wet it, catching Kurt as he sat back from his final wave of sick.

“I thought you left.” Kurt wiped at his mouth and avoided Mitchell’s eyes, judgment, whatever emotion he might find there.

“I was on my way out and heard you.” He wiped Kurt’s brow and neck and flushed the toilet, joining Kurt on the floor. “What the hell is going on? I’ve never seen you do this before.”

“Just go. You’ll be late for your shoot.”

“Models are always late; the photographer can be late, too. It’s in the handbook.”

“Did I drink that whole bottle?”

“No. Almost. You were drunk when I got here, Kurt. And can I say? It does not suit you.”

“Fuck off.”

“Who are you right now? And who the hell is this Brock dude that after just a few weeks you’d completely fall apart?”

“Blaine, Ass. His name is Blaine. And you wouldn’t understand. You’ve never opened yourself up to anybody.”

“No. Because I’m not into vomiting my feelings and sitting naked on cold tile floors. Why don’t you just call him and get the story?”

“Because no story fixes it, Mitchell.” Kurt pointed to the wall. “Hand me a towel so I can have a little dignity.”

Mitchell got up and yanked down a towel hooked on the wall, tossing it to Kurt, shaking his head as Kurt covered his bottom half. “As I see it, your attempts to fix it have landed you with one hellacious hangover and my dried come on your stomach. I’m not seeing how it’s working for you.”

“I believe I said fuck off and leave. Why don’t you take care of those things, huh?”

“Are you done retching?”

“I think so.”

“How long are you going to be in the city?”

“Couple days? Budget crap cropped up, so I might as well deal with it while I’m here.”

“I’m not coming back, Kurt.”

“Probably a good idea.” Kurt watched Mitchell stand and averted his eyes again, the visible pity more than he could bear. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not doing this with you again. Comfort fucks are one thing, but…you’re better than this.” Kurt lifted his gaze, his eyes sunken and bitter. “I’m serious. You need someone real, not convenient and I have a feeling real is waiting in Ohio.”

“With a fucking child.”

“Oh, get over it.” Mitchell started out and stopped, looking back one more time. “Do you need help up?”

“No.”

“Fine. I’m out.”

Kurt waited until he heard the door close and gathered his strength to pull himself up. He relieved himself and stumbled back to bed face first, heart splayed, head throbbing.

***

Kurt woke to the incessant buzzing of his phone, this time with a little less pain and a lot more cotton mouth. He slammed his hand around the bedside table, first landing on the used condom. “For the love…”

He finally found his phone and sat up, his body still aching, his vision still cloudy from sleep and stupid decisions.

Dot [07-21-23 10:30]: I’m officially panicked, Kurt. We have a fire. You’re nowhere to be found. Answer me or I swear I’m calling the cops.

Kurt smacked his lips and chucked the phone long enough to brush his teeth and grab the bagel, ignoring the minty dough-y-ness of the combination. It had to be better than vomity dough-y-ness.

Kurt [07-21-23 10:32] Don’t call the cops. I’m in New York. I’m sorry.

Dot [07-21-23 10:33] Jesus, Kurt. Don’t do that to me again. I’m too close to heaven to play games.

Kurt [07-21-23 10:33] Who said you’re going to heaven?

Dot [07-21-23 10:34] Let me get a team together since you’re not here. I’m calling in 30 minutes. Answer when I do.

Kurt showered quickly and got dressed for work, feeling a little better, a little more in control, a little more like himself. Maybe a quick break, a quick fuck-you-very-much was all that was needed. He’d only known the guy a few weeks. Surely finding out Blaine was a lying sack of shit would be enough to make him forget he had been falling in love with him the entire time.

As he adjusted the pocket square in his jacket, Dot called, exactly 30 minutes after her previous text.

“Hey, Dot. Listen, I am so sorry.”

“…me that this has to do with Chief Anderson. He called yesterday, audibly upset.”

“It does, but it won’t affect my work, Dot.”

“It already has. There’s a fire. You’re in New York and I had to put a team together for you.”

“How many times do I need to apologize before you stop reminding me that I fucked up?”

“A few more, so just deal with it. What happened?”

“He has a son.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve lost me already.”

“I need to go to work. If this needs an explanation, it can wait until I get back in town.”

“Aaaaaand you hate children.” Dot sighed and Kurt rolled his eyes. “Really, Kurt? You’d honestly make this a deal breaker?”

“Yes, I would. I do not date dads. It’s just…it’s my line in the sand.”

“Sand shifts, Kurt. And you owe him an explanation. He was a mess on the phone.”

“Well, he can fucking wait a few days. It’s the only card I have right now.”

“You need a new deck. When will you be back, so I can notify dispatch?”

“Monday. Put me back on call Tuesday. And…I really am sorry. I just…took off. I didn’t think.”

“Forget it.”

“Is the fire in Lima City?”

“Ah-ha! See? You still care.”

“I never claimed otherwise. I wouldn’t be running if I didn’t give a damn.” Dot hummed in judgment and Kurt sighed at himself, still needing to know. “So, is it Lima City?”

“No, it’s clear out in Auglaize Township. He’s safe at home. Oh, and about eight of your voice mails are from me, so just delete them. I’m sure I sound like a raging lunatic.”

“That’s because you are. I need to head out, Dot.”

“I think he loves you, Kurt.”

“Goodbye, Dot.”

***

On his last night in New York, Kurt checked all of his messages from the flight over and since. A frightening number were from Dot, holy crap the woman was persistent. Two voice mails were from Blaine and hearing his voice sent shivers up Kurt’s spine. His voice shook in controlled anxiety, deep with shame and apology. He offered no excuse, just pleas to see him. To explain. The text messages were few and curt – making sure he’d received the phone messages and another good night text the previous night that Kurt had somehow missed. And then one more, sent as he was scanning all the others.

Blaine [07-23-23 11:46]: Going to bed, still thinking of you. Good night, Kurt.

Kurt brushed a finger over the words and sighed, turning the phone to its side to type a reply.

Kurt [07-23-23 23:47]: Good night, Blaine.

Blaine [07-23-23 11:47]: Kurt? Are you there?

***

By the time he was headed back to JFK to fly home, Kurt had regained his confidence, his stride, maybe even a sliver of his grace. Once he got home, he drove directly to his dad’s house irritated that in all of this mess, he’d neglected his visits. Neglected what really mattered. Neglected his whole reason for being in Ohio in the first place, too busy fooling around with this man who had melted his brain and his common sense.

Blaine had floated in and, with great skill and aplomb, gloriously screwed everything up.

“Well, there’s my son! It’s been months. What’s a dad have to do to get a visit, huh? Too big of a New York hot shot to bother?”

Kurt bent down for a hug and eyed Carole as she grabbed the calendar they used every day to help Burt keep track of time.

“Now, Burt…look here.” She laid the dog eared pages on her husband’s lap as Kurt sat on an ottoman shared with his dad’s feet. “Here’s today…”

“…and here’s Kurt’s name. So, it’s been…eight days. What did I say?”

“It doesn’t matter, Dad. It’s been too long and I’m here now.”

“That you are. How’s New York? Have you dressed every man there yet?”

“Not quite, no. How are you feeling?”

“Same as always. Finn won’t let me in the shop anymore. He says I’m too loud and I scare the customers.”

“Wh-…?” Kurt shot a look up to Carole.

“He got a little lippy with a Mr. Phelps the other day.”

“Tom Phelps is a jackass and it’s about time someone told him.”

“Maybe he likes being a jackass, Dad. He has been ever since we’ve known him.” Burt grumbled and took a labored breath, his lungs congested and rattled. Kurt scooted off the ottoman and looked at his dad’s ankles, pressing his thumb against the flesh and sighing when it left an indent. “Carole, what’s his blood pressure been?”

“A little high – 150’s over low 100’s.”

“Okay, he’s pitting, see?” He squeezed again and Burt yanked his leg back.

“Do you mind? Also, I can hear you know. Don’t talk over me like I’m not here.”

“Sorry, Dad. I’m worried about your breathing and swelling, okay? I want Carole to call the cardiologist tomorrow.”

“The cardiologist is an asshat.”

“You don’t like very many people lately, do you?”

Burt looked up at his son and smiled meekly, opening an arm up for him to come snuggle which Kurt did in an instant. “I like you.”

“I like you too.”

“I just want to go outside. Breathe in some fresh air. I’m sick of being in this house. But…I get too tired.”

“Would you go out if we got you a wheelchair?”

“Like some sort of invalid?”

“No, like a man who’s having trouble with his heart, but still wants to be outside sometimes.”

Burt kissed the top of Kurt’s head and in an instant, he was 10 years old again. Or 12. Or maybe 16. He was young and it was just the two of them, fighting through life, stumbling and twisting, catching each other, landing in a heap on the couch with only their love and their lack of knowing what the hell they were doing holding them together. Single fatherhood hadn’t been easy for Burt, but he’d done it with grace and style and beautiful human flaw.

Kurt leaned in closer and squeezed his eyes shut in humiliation of his most recent actions – they were not the actions of someone raised by this great man.

This withering, deteriorating man.

“I might consider a wheelchair.”

Kurt and Carole shared a glance and it was understood. One call to the cardiologist and one wheelchair were now on the agenda for the next day. But now, Kurt had one more reason for visiting.

“Carole, can I speak to you privately?”

***

“Can I confess something to you, Kurt?”

“Of course.” He and Carole had been sitting at the kitchen table for quite some time, Burt napping peacefully in the other room. Kurt dumped everything about his past few weeks, not necessarily looking for advice as much as for someone who would love him even if he was being a jackass. No judgments. No lectures. Just a listening ear so he could sort it all out.

“I didn’t want either son that I have. I had a line in the sand too.”

“Ouch.”

Carole smiled and squeezed Kurt’s hand. “Here’s the truth. I wanted sex more than I didn’t and I wanted to avoid an abortion more than I wanted to have a kid. So, Finn was born. It’s that romantic. But now? Can any of us imagine our lives without him in it?”

“No. And don’t ever talk to me about your having sex again.”

“Talk is all I get anymore, so deal with it Mister I’m-in-love-with-him-after-just-one-date.”

“You’re supposed to be making me feel better, Carole. Besides, it was five dates. Sort of. I’m not a troll.”

“And then there was you. I had already raised a son. Alone. I did okay by him, I think. But no. This man shows up – introduced by none other than his obnoxiously fabulous son. I didn’t date men with kids. I had my own. I wasn’t going to deal with anyone else’s. Period. Line drawn. Next candidate, please.”

“I’m…sorry?”

“Don’t you ever apologize for bringing us together, Kurt Hummel.”

Kurt had the decency to blush.

“So, again I was faced with wanting Burt more than I didn’t want you. And Kurt? Love? I didn’t want you…another son…another responsibility. I just wanted your dad more.”

“And what would our lives have been had you not chosen that?”

“Exactly. Now, I’m not telling you that you have to go be with Blaine. I mean, you have to go make it right with Blaine in a human-caring way. You can’t end it by running away to New York. That’s not who you are. What I’m saying is, sand shifts, Kurt. You can draw all the lines in it you want, but when the tide rolls in, you’re never going to draw them in the same exact place again.”

Kurt’s heart fluttered hearing Dot’s words repeated back to him. Sand shifts, Kurt.

“What if I draw them in a different place, but Blaine’s still on the other side of the line?”

“Then you say goodbye and thank him for the lovely time. Isn’t there a song in Wicked that talks about being a better person because you knew someone special?

“For Good. But because I knew you, I have been changed for good. It’s one of my favorites.”

“Yes. And this just might be one of those encounters. But, Kurt. I’ve never seen you like this. I’ve never known you to run. I’ve never known you to avoid a challenge. And…” Her eyes sparkled with orneriness. “…I’ve never known you to walk away from a beautiful boy without giving it your best shot.”

Kurt blushed and smiled, his chin resting on his fist as she spoke. “I love you, Carole.”

“I love you too, sweetheart. And I’m so glad I loved your dad more.”

“I am too.” He sat back and took a deep breath, unsure of his next step, but knowing it would never be decided sitting here. He had to go home. He had to face the bed, still unmade from lovemaking the morning he hastily left, Blaine’s toothbrush in his bathroom, his extra electric razor tangling cords with Kurt’s in his top bathroom drawer, the box of condoms still sitting on the nightstand because why bother putting them away when you were constantly digging in it for more.

If Blaine really meant to him what he’d been projecting to everyone else, then it was time to face it. It was time to deal with this like the man his father had raised him to be.