It would never need to happen again, for one thing. He had only been doing it to know whether the problem was Evelyn or was the fact that he was used to a personal three drink minimum. And now that he knew it was simply a matter of being used to the sensation of kissing a girl while drunk, he could kiss her any time he wanted without panicking. Kissing her wasn't bad, per se, it wasn't as though he would turn down kissing her again if she offered, it just wasn't what he had thought it would be.

He was pretty sure that explanation wasn't going to win back anyone, let alone a girl as incredible as her.

He found Peter's apartment easily, even in the dark, but he wasn't sure if that was a sign that the alcohol was largely out of his system or that he had much too good of a sense of direction when he'd been drinking. The knowledge that he had four years of practice at navigating Palo Alto in the dark in varying degrees of non-sobriety did little to comfort him. He really did need advice, didn't he?

BLaine rapped on the door. When no answer came, he knocked again - faster, feeling more desperate. He knew Peter was probably asleep - as well he should be, as well Blaine probably should be, and would be if he'd followed the advice in the first place. He would have walked Evelyn home after a lovely dinner and gone back to his own apartment, but no... That was why he needed Peter's help right away: the man might be eccentric and sick, but he had known what Blaine needed to do before. Hopefully now-

The door opened to reveal Peter, in pajamas and a matching bathrobe. His hair was perfectly in place, and his expression was more confused than sleep-foggy. Even so, Blaine began as politely as he could under the circumstances. "I'm sorry, I know it's late. I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No, I was just reading. Are you okay?"

BLaine wanted to be able to say yes so badly, but how could a guy be okay when he had just driven away the girl of his dreams with his own actions? "I need your help," he stated instead, feeling beyond pathetic to have to ask.

Peter looked him up and down appraisingly, and Blaine shifted under his scrutiny. "Come inside. Let's get you some coffee," he said finally, disappointment held in the even tone of his voice and the way he seemed resigned to the turn his evening had taken.

Great, Blaine thought dejectedly as Peter led him inside and pointed him into the living room while he went to the kitchen to make beverages. Even someone who proudly proclaimed his own psychosexual disease was disappointed in him. Evelyn was never going to forgive him at this rate. He sat in the wingback chair, sinking back and wishing he could just disappear until enough time had passed that he could be forgiven, or that he could transport himself back in time and never have those beers in the first place.

"Here we go," Peter said as he carried out the tray, setting it on the coffee table before handing Blaine's cup to him. Blaine held back a sigh as he sat forward enough to take the saucer. He started to lean forward to reach for the sugar bowl, but Peter shook his head and offered a casual wave of one hand, explaining, "It's already in there."

Blaine's eyes narrowed a little. "You remembered how I take my coffee?"

"It's amazing what one's brain can do when not steeping in grain alcohol," Peter mumbled against the rim of his cup as he took a sip of tea.

Blaine stared into his cup, ashamed that Peter was right. "I tried,"he stated sincerely. "I gave it up after last time."

"Of course." Peter's tone was patronizing, and Blaine felt his anger and frustration rising again.

"No," he stated emphatically. He had tried so hard, and Peter needed to know that. Someone needed to know how much he tried, how well he meant, what it felt like to be inside his head even if he could never tell the whole story. It needed to be relevant that he really had tried to do the right thing - that he was constantly trying and fighting to do the right thing, even if it never came out right. Effort and intent needed to matter, or what was the point? "I gave it up last Saturday, after I left here. And tonight was different. It ended just as badly - okay, or worse,"he admitted, "But it wasn't because I was out at some party."

Peter looked mildly surprised, though Blaine wasn't sure whether it was by the statement or the tone of his voice, and he leaned back a bit, crossing his legs as he regarding Blaine slowly. He took a long sip of tea, then asked, "Where were you, then?"

"On a date with the world's most perfect girl," Blaine stated dejectedly. She was never going to accept his apology, not with how mad she was when she left. And she definitely would never marry anyone who would behave like he had.

"Ahh," Peter replied, nodding as though he understood the problem exactly now. Blaine hoped that might mean he had answers and a way to fix this. "What happened?" he asked the question like he knew what Blaine would say but wanted to force him to admit it.

So he did.

"I met her on Thursday, and Ijust couldn't stop thinking about her. I took her out tonight, and everything was perfect. Until we kissed, and...nothing. But Ithought there was no way it could be something wrong with her - she's amazing, and Istarted to worry we weren't as made for each other as Ithought. A guy needs to be able to like kissing his wife, right? How else will there be kids and a family one day? So I thought maybe I was so used to being drunk that Ijust didn't remember what kissing a girl feels like, and-"

"And you drank," Peter concluded evenly, and Blaine nodded, looking away. "Because you wanted to be sure the problem wasn't with her." He nodded again - it sounded so dumb when Peter said it like that, so silly. "Did you kiss her drunk?"

"Until she got mad at me and stormed off."

"But it felt good kissing her until that point?" When Blaine nodded, Peter uncrossed his legs and sat forward, placing his cup and saucer on the tray to lean elbows-on-knees as he said, "That's because she isn't the problem, Blaine." His tone was even, caring, and so sincere - Peter really did want to help him.

Overwhelmed by both relief and nervousness at what the help might entail, Blaine nodded gravely. "The drinking, I know-"

"Is a symptomm, Peter concluded, and Blaine looked up in surprise.

"What do you mean?" he asked slowly, not u nderstanding but wary of the accusation of having symptoms. Any he had were pushed very far down and held in check. They didn't impact his life because he didn't let them - that way, even if he was sick, he could take solace in the fact that he was asymptomatic.

He knew it was a small thing, but it was the difference between a difficult case and one that had hope for a happy ending, and that was all the difference.

"I meant that the drinking is a problem, to be sure, but it's not the problem. The 'problem,' as I assume you understand it, is that you aren't interested in girls. At least not when you're not so drunk you can't stand up straight. So you drink a little, and you sing a little, and you drink a little more, and before the end of the night you're cuddled up against a half-naked girl and thinking everything is great." He said it all so calmly, as though he was almost bored by the facts he was laying out, but Blaine was fighting panic. How did Peter know all that? How dare he say- or imply-...or think he was so smart about-... When Blaine couldn't form a quick retort, Peter stated - lest Blaine have missed the point - "The problem isn't that you drink, or even how much. It's that you think you have to because otherwise you can't be the playboy you think you're meant to be."

Blaine swallowed hard. When Peter said it like that, it sounded both raunchy and deceptively simple, but it was neither; he knew that from experience. But that couldn't be all there was to it. It just couldn't be. Because if that were the case...he couldn't stop drinking without losing all ability to find someone else and be connected to other people, and he couldn't do that. Absolutely not.

"I wanted to marry Evelyn," he stated with absolute certainty. "I still do, but I'm pretty sure she'll hang up if I try to call her again."

"You wanted the things you thought she could give you," Peter concluded, his tone gentle but confident. Blaine hated how at-ease the man could look while he himself felt like he wanted to be anywhere but there. "Family. Normalcy. Not feeling so alone and different all the time."

Blaine swallowed hard. That sounded so callous, like he'd been using her - and he hadn't. "You're wrong,"he stated. "She's beautiful and witty and we understand each other. I would be happy with her - and proud to marry a girl like her."

"Except for the part where you'd have to be trashed for the ceremony so that when the minister said 'You may now kiss the bride,' you could actually go through with it," Peter observed dryly. Before Blaine could manage an indignant reponse, Peter asked, "Why do you need a girl, Blaine?"

Blaine blinked, eyebrows knitting together. On one hand, it was an incredibly simple question: He was 22, almost 23 now, and didn't have a wife or fiance or long-term girlfriend. Unless he waited until after he was out of school and took a wife who was younger by a couple years, he needed to start finding someone now. No doubt there would be girls waiting for him at his parents' Christmas party this year, and he guaranteed not oneo f them could hold a candle to Evelyn. They would all be from the same awful, cold layer of society from which he'd narrowly escaped, with fathers in suits and mothers in party dresses and an employee making Christmas dinner...and all of them would want to stay there while he wanted to run for the hills.

At the same time, the answer was even more complicated. How was he supposed to explain to Peter what having the right girl could do for him? Not just any girl, but one he could love the way he was supposed to? One who could make him feel like the luckiest man alive instead of a physically and morally ill degenerate? Of course he needed a girl for that - and one girl in particular. But Peter didn't seem like he would have anything to do with that answer, not the way he said people could say anything about him that was true - including the perversions.

All of which meant he needed a simple, more fundamental reply. "Because that's what all men need," he stated. It was true: all men needed a woman to share his life with. Men like him just needed one for a bigger reason as well, and it was harder to find one.

"Not true," Peter replied. "Some men need m-"

"How can you just say that?" Blaine demanded.

"Because it's true," Peter stated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Because some of the great men in the history of the world have needed, sought, and obtained the romantic and sexual love of a man."

"Thatcertainly isn't true," Blaine replied, rolling his eyes at the ridiculous, desperate assertion. "And even if it were-"

"It is," Peter replied.

"Even if it were," Blaine repeated, "something being true doesn't mean you should say it."

Peter rolled his eyes, the polite and dapper gentleman vanishing for a moment as he groaned. "I hate when people say that. Why shouldn't we? Why shouldn't people just be honest? You should be able to tell people how you feel - but no one does. We all dance around the truth like it'll burn us, like it's a field of hot coals. It's awful."

The way Peter said it - so genuinely frustrated at a basic reality of the world they lived in - was surprising but not nearly as surprising as the words out of his mouth and the conviction with which he used them, as though absolute honesty was an absolute right no matter the consequences. "Because sometimes - most of the time - it does more harm than good," Blaine stated.

"Who does it hurt to stay silent?"

"Exactly," Blaine replied.

"No, I meant-" Peter shook his head slightly. A faint bemused smile crossed his features as he leaned back on the couch, eyes roaming over Blaine as he observed, "You're from the Midwest."

Blaine's eyes narrowed in confusion and surprise. "Yes," he replied slowly, not sure what that had to do with anything or, more importantly, what Peter planned on doing with that information.

"Family's from a ritzy suburb, just far enough outside a big city to forget that there's more than just fancy parties and opera there?"

Blaine didn't know what the last part meant, exactly, but he admitted, "Just outside Columbus."

Peter smiled a little more, gesturing toward himself as he stated, "Outside Chicago. It's a very Midwestern thing, not saying what other people don't want to hear. Even the English are more blunt, and they like to make it sound as non-insulting as possible even though everyone understands what they're saying. It's so unhealthy. It leads to, well, people like you," he said with a piteous smile.

Blaine stiffened. "Why on earth would a person go around announcing that they're a sufferer of a psychosocial disorder that, if untreated and unsuppressed, brings nothing but unhappiness, institutionalization, and early death."

Peter's eyes widened as he sighed softly. "Oh, my dear boy," he murmured sadly, and Blaine wasn't sure which confused him more: the fondness and regret, or the way Peter sounded like he thought he was so much older than Blaine. "No wonder you're so convinced you need a girl, if that's what you think happens to men like us."

Blaine bristled, both at Peter's use of "like us" and at the way he so patronizingly dismissed everything Blaine had heard and seen and known for as long he could remember. "I don't just think it," he replied shortly. "My father treats them. I see it all the time."

Peter seemed surprised but tried to mask it, nodding as he acknowledged, "The old psychiatric guard. But you do know that's not all that exists for us, don't you? You only think there can't be anything else because your father tells you so."

"Everyone tells me so," Blaine corrected.

"Everyone can be wrong," Peter stated confidently, with a gleam of pride in his eye. "Fathers especially. Middle-age sets them in their ways and they think the world is the same as it was 20, 30 years ago. It's not, of course, and it never will be again, but they base everything they know on something that hasn't existed in decades. Wy do we listen to men stuck so far in the past? No wonder things like integration are so dangerous to them - they've been passing down a 30-year-old version o freality for centuries. It may as well be 1700 with fewer corsets down there. That's who 'everyone' is, Blaine. So the next generation grows up believing what their fathers say, and the next, and the next..." He shook his head sadly. "It's the same everywhere, too. No one decides for themselves what parts of our forefathers' views to throw out, everyone just inches toward it individually until eventually there are enough people to make up a new thing that 'everyone' believes. And so the world turns at a sickeningly glacial pace." He sighed deeply, staring absently into space as his finger slid along the rim of his teacup. "We have to decide it all for ourselves, Blaine. All of right-and-wrong, all fo truth and lies. It's all subjective, and it all changes too slowly to just follow the person in front of you. We have to be the ones who change it."

Blaine stared at him, trying to process what Peter was saying. "Isn't that kind of dangerous?" he asked. "If there's no agreement about what's right and wrong, it would be like anarchy."

"There is ground in between what we have no and a violent hedonistic wildnerness," Peter laughed softly. "But if people decide for themselves, there can be change - real change."

"Like desegregation," Blaine nodded.

"And repeal of the sodomy law."

Blaine laughed, and when Peter shot him a dirty look, he said, "I'm sorry, that's just pretty far-fetched, don't you think? No amount of people forming their own opinion is going to mean giving people with sexual diseases the right to do whatever they want."

"It's going to happen soon in the UK," Peter stated.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean they're going to decriminalize homosexual behaviour for everyone over the age of consent," he stated, and Blaine searched his face for any sign of humour or irony but found none.

"Don't be ridiculous. They don't pass laws letting the criminally insane do whatever they feel the urge to do. A schizophrenic still can't murder someone because their illness makes them think they've been told to," Blaine replied dismissively.

The piteous look was back again, but sadder this time. "Because we're not dangerous," Peter stated pointedly. He leaned forward to place his hand on Blaine's knee, and Blaine shifted uncomfortably at the touch. Peter tilted his his head until his eyes were locked on Blaine's, which made him even less comfortable. "And we're not sick."

Then why did he feel so sick all the time? He wanted to ask. If Peter - and the boy who had tried to convince him of the same thing once - were right, why did he always feel so awful and wrong? But instead he asked, "Then why is it in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual?"

"For the same reason that schools and doctors try to force children to stop being left-handed even though they can't help it and they're not hurting anyone," he replied with a hint of sarcasm but not much. "The same reason the Salem Witch Trials happened. Because people are afraid of what they don't understand, and so they try to force everyone to be like them. To walk like them, dress like them..." Blaine managed to choke out a laugh on that one because clearly Peter had disregarded that particular pressure. Peter smiled at the respons and continued. "In the UK, they had a growing prison population of men arrested on homosexuality and prostitution charges, including some high-profile men. Lord Montague was a member of Parliament. So they put together a committee to examine the law against buggery - that's what they call it there - and after interviewing witnesses over the course of something in the neighbourhood of two months - everyone from police chiefs to psychiatrists to people like us - the conclusion that 14 of the 15 members came to was that it should be decriminalized because-...oh, I forget the quote. Let me find it." He stood and moved quickly over to a shelf by the window, skimming the volumes with his finger a moment before plucking out a thin paperback. He flipped through dog-earred pages until he found what he was looking for. "Ah. Here it is. 'Homosexuality cannot legitimately be regarded as a disease, because in many cases it is the only symptom and is compatible with full mental health in other respects.'" Peter flipped the book closed. "You see? Just because people have thought it was a disease for the last hundred years or so doesn't mean it's actually an illness."

Blaine felt queasier than ever as Peter read the quote. He'd never heard of this committee, but it sounded like one of the reports Kurt had used to try to convince him that what they were doing - what they were - wasn't wrong. He had tried to believe it, if only because some part of him selfishly wanted to think Kurt was a beautiful, rare, amazing creature instead of being just as ill as the rest of them. Homosexuality wasn't beautiful; it was destructive. It ripped through lives like a tornado and destroyed everything it came in contact with - homes, lives, families, careers...and the other parts that remained intact were rendered empty surrounded by so much devastation. And Kurt was proof of that; how it had ended...

But he didn't know how to argue that to Peter. He didn't have the energy to try to combat whatever counterargument the book in Peter's hands would try to provide. So he went instead for the easier attack: "It's been a disease a lot longer than that," he stated, sitting back in his chair a little. "For as long as we've known it existed - and even before that, it was still an illness, just an undiagnosable one."

"Au contraire," Peter replied. "First of all, it wasn't always a disease. Before modern psychiatry, it was simply a crime; before it was a crime, it was a sin which was only important if you believed it impacted your imortal soul - or if you cared what the religious leaders said about you. Sometimes it's been an ethical issue, sometimes a practical population growth issue, and sometimes something open and notorious to the point of being almost celebrated." When Blaine looked down and scoffed, Peter asked, "Do you know what some people call it?" Blaine raised his eyebrows at the open-ended question. He knew plenty of things people called his condition, but none of them were especially relevant - or kind. "The affliction of the Greeks. The Greek Curse. Because in ancient Greece, people like us weren't pushed into the shadows or forced to be ashamed. Relationships between men and younger men were thought to be the most important because that was how teenage boys learned to become an adult Greek man. It wasn't just carnal, it was about love and trust. They even had an elite separate military unit, the Sacred Band of Thebes, just for the men and their lovers. Once the lover grew up, he took on a young lover of his own, and so it went - for centuries, Blaine. Generations after generations of Greek men loving one another openly, in front of and with the blessing of the entire polis."

Blaine tried to imagine it - he really did. He tried just as he'd tried to believe in Kurt's utopian New York fantasy, where homosexuals threw galas surrounded by family and friends and had marriages to other men and otherwise lived safe, open, happy lives. He knew it was silly - and dangerous - to get lulled into that sort of fantasy, but for a moment it seemed so nice to think of a picture as bright as the one Peter was painting: men embracing openly while still able to be brave warriors, heavily decorated and highly respected...of course, if Kurt were there, he probably would have made one of his awkward jokes about how the Greeks did create the sport in which naked men grabbed one another and rolled around together, so it shouldn't have surprised them...

He winced, trying to get the sound of the boy's adorably uncertain laugh out of his head. Most of the time he could go days - weeks even - without thinking of him, but today he just kept coming back to the face and voice he wished he could forget entirely. Between the song, the way Peter sounded like him now, making the same points and arguments and trying to make it seem so much more enticing...But sadly forboth optimistic boys, Blaine reminded himself, a bunch of stories about a civilization that had been destroyed some 2,000 years ago didn't do anyone any good. It didn't even mean that the Greeks were right about it being acceptable. There were civilizations that engaged in cannibalism. Most of the world had believed that slavery was a good thing, too. Greeks running around in togas had been influential on life in other ways, but that one...

Peter saw it differently, Blaine supposed sadly. He was studying classics; his whole life was in books - the same way Kurt's was in musicals and magazines. He didn't know what the medical profession held for them - neither boy could know. Blaine supposed he couldn't begrudge Peter's naivete, but instead stated reluctantly, "Unfortunately, unless the other room has a time machine, acceptance 5,000 years ago doesn't change things now."

"It's not just ancient Greece," Peter replied. "There have been kings throughout history - they called their lovers their 'favourites,' but everyone knew what they meant. Germans use the euphemism 'to Florence.' Martin Luther singled out the Turks, of all people. People like us are everywhere - artists and writers and rulers and scientists. You know, Alan Turing created computers - we couldn't have NASAwithout-"

"People like y-...like us, are sick," Blaine interrupted, frustrated. This wasn't helping him at all with why he'd come. "We end up in an institution, in jail, in therapy for the rest of our lives, or we find a great girl we can love. And I have to go win mine back, so do you have any advice for that?"

Peter paused in thought, then stood. "Do you need more coffee?"

"No, thank you."

Peter nodded and began to move around the living room, looking at each bookshelf and tugging out some of the titles, debating others aloud as he worked. "Hemingway, maybe? F. Scott- Blaine, have you ever read The Great Gatsby?"

Blaine blinked, not sure what the connection was. "Junior year of high school."

Peter considered, then put that one back, continuing around the room. "Marlowe is a must, and Dorian Gray, and-...hm, what else should we- Oh! Berlin Stories, of course!" As he moved around the shelves, his enthusiasm grew, smile lighting up with each book he pulled out. "Foucault may be a little much so soon, but can't hurt...let's see, what contemporary stories- this works well in the end, and the Gore Vidal..." By the time made his way around the room, Peter had an armload of books - Blaine thought at least 15, though the way they were stacked made it hard to count. He set them on the coffee table triumphantly with a broad smile as he said, "See? And this is just authors. If you give me a day or two, I can get you a stack of records at least this big of composers."

Blaine just blinked, not sure what to say, where to even begin. There were a lot of books there, to be sure, and if they were all like them, that would be impressive...but if they were like that, he would have heard about it by now. Hemingway most certainly had nothing to say on the subject, not as strong and manly of a war writer as he was. As for the rest, Blaine didn't really know who any of them even were. "I...don't know what to say," he admitted quietly. "I don't see how this is meant to help me win back the girl of my dreams."

Peter's grin faded, his mouth settling in a grim line. His shoulders sank in disappointment, and he began to straighten the books into a neat stack, fingers moving fussily over the spine of each with a sort of sad reverance for the pile. Blaine guessed he shouldn't have been surprised; books clearly meant a lot to the man. "They won't," he replied honestly, quiet and blunt, and Blaine nodded, holding back a sigh. Peter's flight of fantasy was well-meant but wasn't going to help him accomplish what he needed. Even if the Greeks and the Turks and a handful of Italians were like them, that didn't mean they were right...and it didn't mean he could afford not to win back the one girl he'd ever felt perfect with.

"I should go," Blaine said quietly, feeling utterly defeated. "It's late."

"Yeah," Peter replied just as quietly. "Are you okay to get home?"

Blaine nodded. He didn't feel drunk anymore, but he was still confident he could get home in one piece. "Thanks." He stood, straightening his sweater vest, and started for the door.

"Blaine?" He turned back as Peter called to him. "Take some of these, would you?" The look on the man's face was so eager, so...yearning to help. Blaine didn't see what good it would do, but he did at least owe the guy for not turning him away at whatever hour he had arrived. And for trying to help, even if he was tragically misguided. Blaine smiled faintly and nodded, and Peter picked the top five books from the stack, crossing to him and handing them over. Blaine took the books, pausing awkwardly as Peter gazed down at him with a look of undisguised pity and regret. "Come over anytime. If you want to talk about any of the books - or to get more, I have plenty." Blaine smiled as he looked down - that much was obvious. "Take care of yourself, okay? And stay away from drinking - it really will kill you one of these times."

Blaine shifted, not used to that kind of overt concern, certainly not directed at him. "I'll try," he promised sincerely, and Peter offered a weak smile in return. Holding the books closer, he turned and left to begin walking slowly home.

*****
He couldn't sleep.

It had been the longest day he could remember in a long time, and he knew that staying awake wouldn't help his outlook any. But no matter how long Blaine stared at the ceiling, it didn't seem to help.

What was he supposed to do now? He had hoped that if he went to see Peter, he would be able to leave with a strategy for what exactly he needed to change or do to get Evelyn back. Instead he had a stack of books on his nightstand, information about ancient civilizations that wasn't at all helpful, and too many memories of a boy he didn't want to think about.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd laid awake on a Saturday night. Actually, when he thought about it, he couldn't remember the last time he could remember a Saturday night - aside from the previous weekend, of course. Usually he was so busy being out at whatever the week's most raucous party was, drinking and dancing the night away, that by the time he got home he fell into bed and...well, okay, passed out more than anything. If he weren't so angry at himself for drinking in the first place...and if it weren't for the fact that the reason he couldn't turn off his brain was entirely because of alcohol...then he might have wandered out in search of the nearest liquor store. He knew of several in walking distance, though they weren't open this time of night anyway. If only Peter hadn't taken all the beer out of his fridge-...

No, he sighed to himself as he rolled over again, trying to get comfortable enough to fall asleep. That had been a good thing. The last thing he needed to do was fall back into that particular destructive pattern. Then nothing he could do would win Evelyn back.

For all he knew, that ship had sailed already. No amount of music could take back the way he'd pushed her - or fix the look on her face as she stormed away into the night. He could try, get the Mendicants together and find her on-campus somewhere...he bet one of them knew her, since she was in the music department. Surely one of the guys had a class with her and could track her down so they could perform for her-

He sighed again. She didn't want to see him again, certainly not soon. Though maybe if he gave her a few days to cool down...maybe the next performance could be for her. He did have a week to create a great arrangement and teach the group. If anyone would respond to a serenade that expressed his sincere regrets over the evening, it would be Evelyn.

Or Kurt.

God, there was that name again, that face, that boy he wanted so badly to never think about again- he turned over again, harder this time as he flopped down on his pillow, glaring at the darkness.

It didn't take a genius to know that he and Peter would have gotten along perfectly - they said all the same things, gave all the same justifications to explain away their illnesses as simply some difference that didn't carry any medical or moral deficit. And they would have spent a lot of time comparing wardrobes, Blaine thought to himself with a choked-off laugh; Kurt did love a good hat, and Peter's collection of fedoras alone would've been enough to pique his interest...plus all the wingtips and general sense of differentiating himself through clothing... They would have ganged up on him, he was sure of it. There was a feeling of regret that hit him suddenly, a sad smile creeping over his face; they would have ganged up on him to try to convince him. Even if he could never believe them, it would have been tempting - at least for a little while.

He wondered if Peter knew anything about what New York was like. If maybe anything Kurt had said could be real; if Kurt was living in some modern-day version of ancient Greece where strong, manly men took young, smooth-faced boys to mentor... Kurt wouldn't like that, he thought to himself. His fantasies all involved dapper dinner parties, not elite fighting forces. He wanted to sing and dance, to throw grand balls and be at home with a man who could love him.

When put that way, it did sound simpler than what the Greeks had, something that should be easier to obtain...except Blaine was sure it wasn't.

Was it?

Sighing, he reached over to turn on the nightstand lamp and pulled the stack of books into easy view. He still didn't believe what Peter said had an impact on the reality of their lives and their shared condition, but maybe...maybe there was something in there that would help. He couldn't help but be at least a little curious, with how eagerly the eccentric young man had whisked through the room, pulling book after book from the shelves to show him...something. Maybe it was worth taking a look.

He had no idea what any of the books were; Christopher Marlowe sounded familiar, he thought maybe he remembered from a lesson on Shakespeare and his contemporaries. He'd done well in English but iambic pentameter would never quite be his choice of reading material. Nor was French philosophy, whoever this Foucault fellow was. He had read Oscar Wilde before but didn't see what the playwright who had created "The Importance of Being Earnest" had to do with any of the things Peter had been trying to explain to him a few hours earlier. Which left him with two paperbacks: The Berlin Stories, and something entitled City of Night. He picked up the latter, flipping to see the synopsis on the back-

It was about New York.

Blaine swallowed hard. He should put the book down, he knew that, he was sure it wasn't anything relevant to answering the questions he had and would do nothing but lead him back down a road he couldn't afford to go down again. But at the same time, he was so curious. Was Kurt right about it all? Was the City of Night the same kind of beautiful utopian world the boy had sworn it would be?

...Was he happy there?

He flipped the book over and opened the front cover, spying the copyright date: it was only a year old. So whatever was in this novel was what he would have seen had he gone on the fool's errand Kurt wanted. He honestly wasn't sure whether he wanted to be right or not about it all.

Drawing in a deep breath, he settled in against his pillow and flipped to the start of the Prologue, then began to read.