Blaine had to hand it to his parents: �It couldn't be inexpensive or easy to buy an entirely new set of decorations every year. �

He had never been entirely sure how they did it, because everything seemed to just appear one morning. �The house had been devoid of any sign of the holidays when he arrived, but somehow the next day he had come downstairs to find a festive wonderland, with silver-glitter-encrusted garland across the mantle, evergreen-coloured candlesticks in elegant silver holders on the table, and all manner of Christmas foliage: poinsettias on the carved sideboard, holly draped across the banister, and in a foyer a grand pine towered above him, covered in silver and white balls, baubles, and tinsel. � He was used to the way his parents' house went from its usual standard of high-end showiness to an ostentatiously festive setting for the annual party, but so many years away had clouded his memories. �The space already felt far too large for him, now that he was used to dorm rooms and his tiny apartment that was smaller than any bedroom here. �The roaring fire did nothing to quell the drafty quality that had gone unnoticed when he was a child, and the settee in the living room felt too hard as he sat and regarded the tree. �

Blaine knew he wasn't an authority on Christmas decorations or anything, but it never looked like this in movies. �Trees came and went, of course, they were dead, but the decorations were meant to be hauled down from attics and garages instead of being purchased anew with every season. �He wondered if there was a box of ornaments he might recognize in one of the storage rooms upstairs. �He smiled faintly to himself and shook his head; nothing in any of those boxes would be recognizable. �None of it meant anything, and none of it had ever been displayed more than a few days - hardly enough to build memories from. � �

It didn't surprise him anymore, not really - not with the way his mother and her friends were about making sure they didn't wear the same party dresses to functions where people would have seen it before. �It was about making a statement, and just like the Mendicants wouldn't perform the same songs week after week, he guessed...at least to his parents...a new set of garland and fresh candles every Christmas was the least they could do to dress up the house for the annual soirre. �Still, it did nothing to make the enormous house feel any more like home. �

He wondered what Peter was doing right now- of course, checking the grandfather clock, he assumed the young man was probably sleeping. �It was only 6 on the West Coast, and while Peter didn't seem to keep any particular hours, Blaine guessed he probably wasn't awake yet; he envied him, curled in a warm and familiar bed, in a home that felt like his own, only a couple hours away from a place that felt like absolute freedom. �

Blaine's ears perked up as he heard someone humming, and his eyes widened as he realized it was his mother. �Was she different than he remembered, less trapped and devoid of any emotion? �But as he saw her swirl through the dining room, elegant as ever in her brocade house dress and heeled slippers even as she straightened candlesticks. �Her hair was up under a silk coif, probably already styled for tonight, and her humming flitted from one ubiquitous carol to another - the verse of "Jingle Bells," which she dropped as she moved to inspect sideboard in favour of "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas." �She clicked through the dining room into the living room, adjusting the garland. �

It felt wrong to be sitting only a few feet from his mother and not say something - not just wrong, but impolite. �"Good morning," he offered, and she looked over at him with something akin to surprise. �

"Oh - Blaine. I didn't expect you to join us so soon. �The time difference and everything." �

"I turned in early last night," he replied evenly. �He had tried, anyway, even if he hadn't been able to sleep much. �

"How was your flight, dear?" �

One day, Blaine swore, he would figure out how any person could use a term of endearment while still sounding less-than-dear. He had known plenty of people who did - all his mother's friends, for one - but he couldn't fathom it. Even Peter's clunky, antiquated phrases sounded more fond. �But he knew the rules of this game well. �"It was fine, thank you. �Thank you for the ticket." �

"Well, without it, we would never see you - would we?" �Her lips curled up in a fake half-smile, one that was equal parts passive-aggressive and completely empty. �She didn't object to never seeing her son because she missed him; she objected because his presence had gone unnoticed at too many functions. �He had exceeded the polite number of family obligations to skip, nothing more. �

Blaine swallowed hard, feeling queasy, and his mother let the conversation drop as she crossed the room to the tree. �The humming began again - "O Christmas Tree" this time - as she swapped a few ornaments to different branches for a more balanced appearance. � "I'll be upstairs if you'd like me to help with anything," he offered, unable to sit there and watch the rote display any longer. �He paused, then added, "What time is everyone arriving?" �

"Six," she replied. "The same as every year." �

How silly of him to forget, Blaine thought sullenly as he ascended the stairs toward his bedroom. �The only thing that ever changed here were the decorations. �

* * * * *

Blaine drew in a deep breath as he stepped in front of the mirror.� His charcoal grey suit was perfectly pressed, one button fastened; his white shirt had been pressed and starched since making the trip across the country so that the collar stood up tightly against his neck.� He fidgeted with his narrow tie – cranberry silk, in the spirit of the season – trying to get the knot to lay perfectly.� There was a bowtie he would rather wear, but he had left it at home so he wouldn’t be tempted.� He was going to have a hard enough time acting properly to please his parents without seeking comfort in a couple narrow loops of forest green silk with a semy of burgundy and cream crescents.� His black wingtips were shined – it helped that he didn’t wear them much in California.� No one out there did.� Not like here, where all men of any status or importance had a pair of shiny black shoes to go with their expensive suits.� Even professors and bankers were less formal in California.� That was part of what made Peter stand out so much.
�
Well…and the fedoras.� And his old-fashioned suspenders that didn’t look nearly so old-fashioned when stretched across Peter’s broad chest-
�
Blaine almost choked at the thought, coughing sharply, and he grasped the edge of the sink to steady himself.� Not tonight.� Not here of all places, where he needed to avoid the topic at all costs.� Not anywhere, really, because even if he wanted to admit to himself that Peter was not unattractive, his heart belonged to exactly one person, who happened to be even worse to think about tonight.
�
He grabbed his comb off the edge of the vanity and began the process of managing his hair.� After combing it into a meticulously neat part, he reached over, squeezing a glob of bryl from the tube and spreading it over both sections of his hair with a strong, smooth, well-practiced motion.� He set both hands to work slicking down the right side, where more hair meant more potential for an unruly curl to pop up during dinner, then studied his reflection again.
�
It was good to know that not all of his skills and tricks had fallen completely out of practice; for how miserable and nervous and stiff he felt, he didn’t see any of it on his face. �Under normal circumstances, he would try to remind himself not to be too animated or upbeat as both were the wrong attitude for a party like this, but he sincerely doubted that either would be a problem.� Not with how little he wanted to be here anyway.
�
With a final smooth-down of his hair, Blaine rinsed his hands and emerged from the bathroom, drawing a deep breath to settle his nerves as he descended the staircase into the foyer.� The first floor was abuzz with activity as servers scuttled from the living room to the kitchen and back again, making sure there were plenty of hors d’oeuvres ready for the soon-to-arrive guests.� An album of Christmas music played just loudly enough to contribute to a festive atmosphere, and Blaine wandered over to pick up the record sleeve.� Over a painting of a living room hearth in lots of deep crimson tones, white script read “Christmas Jazz.”
�
It wasn’t, Blaine thought sadly to himself as he set the album sleeve back where he’d found it.� It was too easy to find a melody, and none of it felt like anything except what it was:� the sort of wordless music a person played during a party where everyone was exactly the same.� A way to be educated and cultured without resorting to classical orchestral pieces.� It felt like being trapped in a room with dozens of people who could never know your secrets, not at all like something beautiful waiting to be discovered.
�
Even jazz here sounded devoid of emotion.
�
“Blaine.”� He froze as he heard his father behind him.� He subconsciously stood taller and straighter, shoulders stiff and even, back straight, neck held high.� He kept his arms locked at his sides, almost afraid to move.
�
What if he carried himself differently now?� What if he moved differently – or talked differently?� Four years away – not just away, but at college where he was one of the most formal people he knew because he was well-mannered – had left him incredibly out-of-practice.� He was certainly rusty enough to be reprimanded for something.� And how much had peter influenced him?� What if he sounded formal enough to border on sounding like a sissy?� Because it was a fine line, one Peter walked carefully, but he wasn’t nearly so skilled yet.� What if his lack of attention in the way he walked or moved meant he minced now?� His father looked for people like him for a living.� He had identified Kurt’s supposed malady in under an hour.� What if his father took one look at him and knew?
�
Blaine turned slowly to face him, keeping his face as expressionless as possible to prevent any nervousness from showing itself.� “Good evening, father,” he managed, watching carefully for a reaction.�
�
He found none.� “Come help greet our guests.� They’re starting to arrive.”
�
Blaine wasn’t sure why he expected something a little more personal the first time seeing one another after four years.� Maybe an acknowledgment, however hollow, that it was good to have him home.� A question about school, even one couched passive-aggressively among a bevy of reasons his parents disapproved of both his college and his field.� Something.� he knew he had no right to expect it, but he couldn’t’ help but feel a little hurt when his father turned to lead the way to greet guests Blaine barely knew instead of even asking how he had been for almost half a decade.� He followed anyway; that was his job here.� So he smiled politely and shook the hand of a friend of his father’s colleague, his lovely wife, and his college-aged daughter who was apparently doing well at Vassar.� He had no idea why they thought that was important to mention, but Blaine simply smiled, congratulated her, and moved on to the next.
�
He couldn’t put his finger on what was different about this round of introductions.� Form as far back as he could remember, he had been expected to greet guests and thank them for coming.� Maybe it was just so many years away, but it felt much more like an introduction of an heir to the family business than merely introducing a son who was rarely home.� To say his father was bragging about his schooling would be an overstatement, but the fact that he was getting his Masters was front and center – though, Blaine noted, his father was careful to never say in what subject.� It certainly seemed to impress the string of families he was being introduced – or, in many cases, reintroduced – to.
�
Well, maybe “impress” was a misstatement. �He had no idea whether any of them found his education laudable or were merely extending the appropriate polite congratulations and approval.� It was nearly impossible to tell with his parents’ friends.� Blaine tended to assume that every response was social grace and politeness; anything more would require a level of emotional engagement that he doubted they were capable of.
�
There was a look – a flicker, where just for a moment the fathers of daughters weighed him as a prospective son-in-law against the husband they really wanted for their little girl.� A Masters was impressive, but not as impressive as a degree in medicine or law.� The ambiguity of subject probably worked against him, too – no subject, no school…if it were an impressive degree being pursued somewhere like Yale, his father would say so, and everyone in that room knew it.
�
Perhaps that was why there were so few sons around.� Inviting primarily friends with daughters would certainly be less competition for his father’s honour.
�
“Joshua – thank you for coming,’ his father said as warmly as Blaine had ever heard him speak to anyone.
�
“Thank you for having us.� You remember my wife, Katherine?”
�
‘Yes, of course.� Lovely to see you again.”
�
Blaine was surprised how quickly the script came back to him.� He hadn’t heard it in four years, yet somehow twenty minutes in this world was starting to sound completely normal and as natural as a wholly stilted interaction could be.� He knew it shouldn’t surprise him at all considering how easily the training came back when he was first showing up at peter’s unannounced, but it felt strange to know exactly what would be said before it was uttered.� Next Katherine would smile winningly and say what a lovely home they had.
�
“Thank you so much.� Everything looks wonderful; you have a lovely home.’
�
“All my wife’s doing,” Blaine’s father replied, and Blaine realized that to a stranger unfamiliar with this type of platitude, it might appear for a moment as though his father felt something akin to genuine fondness for the woman to whom he had been married more than a quarter century.� “You remember my son, Blaine.”
�
“Yes, of course.”� Joshua held out his hand, which Blaine shook; his grip was firm and effusively distant.� “What are you doing these days, Blaine?”
�
Since the question had been addressed to him for once, Blaine replied evenly, “I just finished up my first semester of my Masters coursework.”� He wanted to say something about it – something real.� How much he loved what he was studying.� How much he looked forward to opening the world of music to kids who thought they didn’t have an outlet.� Where he was going to school and how much he loved it there and couldn’t wait to return.� But he knew better.
�
“Excellent.� Congratulations.� Michael just finished his degree in business at Princeton.� He got an offer with a firm in New York-“
�
Blaine didn’t hear whatever explanation came next; he was too busy noticing his father’s expression.� At a mention of his father’s alma mater and a degree in business and what Blaine was sure was a lucrative job, his father’s face tightened for a moment, smile widening as though pained, a flicker in his eyes as he compared the accomplishments of this man’s absent son to those of his own offspring…and found Blaine wanting.
�
Blaine didn’t just want to be back in California.� He wanted to be anywhere but here.� Instead, he listened with a plastered-on smile and empty words of congratulations as Joshua talked about the girl Michael was engaged to.� Apparently she was a great cook and a lovely hostess.
�
What was he supposed to do when he was dragged and guilted back for the holidays next year – or in five years, or ten?� What would happen when he passed the acceptable age for one to be considered studious and just become a bachelor, then a ”bachelor”?� that was certainly a euphemism enough of his father’s patients used.� So was the excuse that they hadn’t found the right girl yet.� His father knew every code phrase, every red flag…Blaine couldn’t just slip under the radar like some sons could.
�
What was he supposed to do?� Tell him?� Hope his bachelor story held up awhile?� Get a fake girlfriend like Kurt had had Rachel?� Was it fair to do that to a girl who could have a real boyfriend who liked her in the way a boy was supposed to like his girlfriend?
�
Get a real girlfriend?
�
The thought made him queasy, but his smile didn’t waver; it tightened instead as he politely excused himself to the drink cart.� A few waiters had circulated with champagne and wine and martinis, but he needed something more than that.� He needed something that would ground him – solid glass pressing against his whole hand instead of clutching at a delicate stem.� Warmth filling him to combat the block of ice lodging itself in his stomach.
�
No more feeling.
�
He fixed himself a scotch and bright it to his lips, eyes landing on his mother over the rim of the glass.� She stood among a group of women who were at all these functions, a glass in her hand that held at least her third drink of the day, smiling and laughing mechanically.� She looked more than merely robotic, detached from everything around her.� Was that why, Blaine wondered, lowering his glass.� Was that why he couldn’t’ remember the last time his mother had seemed like an actual person? – those birds at Disneyland were more lifelike than she was.� Was numbness what she craved?� Was that why- because though he had used alcohol to be able to feel things, he guessed a part of it had been about numbing the parts he thought were wrong.� Was she hiding a secret like his?� Or was this much alcohol just the only way to not mind feeling so- so damned trapped in here?
�
Would a drink stop him from feeling like he was suffocating on his own inability to draw in enough oxygen?� Would it help anything?� Or would it just turn him into her?
�
He remembered spending the Christmas of his last couple years in Ohio absolutely terrified he would become his mother – that his father would find out his secret and put him on the same sorts of numbing tranquilizers as this mother…and yet here he was-� He set the glass down, fingers still itching for the comfort of a familiar activity that he associated so strongly with relief.� He needed it.� He needed-
�
He needed to get out of here.
�
He could find keys and go somewhere, he realized, almost gasping in relief as he felt like he could inhale oxygen again.� He could slip off somewhere, if he could only find-
�
“Blaine,” his mother called quietly as she noticed him standing by the drinks.� “Come here a moment, dear, there’s someone I want you to meet.”
�
It took everything in Blaine not to take the scotch with him as he crossed to the other side of the couch where his mother and her friends stood.� “Good evening,” he greeted with the best smile he could manage.

“Darling, this is Linda,” his mother stated, touching his forearm as she indicated a young woman standing among the cadre of middle-aged housewives. She was tall with classic features, her auburn hair pulled back into an elegant updo. Her red wool dress hugged her curves perfectly, the sleeves adding class and demurring enough to make up or the act that the hemline had crept to several inches above her knees. Her smile tugged just slightly to one side but was bright and eager. “You two have a lot in common. You should talk – why don't you show Linda the tree?” It was a clumsier attempt at a ruse from his mother than most, but Blaine simply tried not to let his smile droop as he extended his arm to Linda, as if to say 'right this way.' He led her to the base of the tree, glancing up at the branches upon branches of matching ornaments.

“It's nice to meet you,” he offered, not sure what else to say to this girl he didn't know.

“Likewise. Judging from the way your mother called you over as soon as I mentioned it, I'm assuming you like music?”

That got Blaine's attention. His eyes widened, and he turned to look at her. “Yes. Do you-”

She nodded, brown eyes shining brightly. “I love it.”

His smile broadened, softening into something more genuine. That was promising. “Me too. It's what I'm studying.” It was so much more than that, but he could never put it into words. On the other hand, that did make it a useful test: anyone who could understand how much music meant and the impossibility of describing something as vital as life itself might be able to understand him.

Linda nodded. “Do you sing in a group, too? Or juts solos, like a rock and roll star?”

Blaine laughed softly, starting to relax a little. “An acapella group – the Mendicants. I also write most of their arrangements.”

“Acapella groups look so tough. It's tricky enough getting my whole choir to sing together at church, and we have a piano to help us.”

Something about her statement made him vaguely uncomfortable again, but in absence of knowing why he answered, “It takes a lot of practice and work. But I enjoy it. They're great boys to spend time with, too.” He missed them already, with the past few weeks off while everyone studied for finals... “What are you studying?” he asked politely.

“French literature. I'm a junior at Bryn Mawr.”

“What do you want to do when you graduate? Go live there?” Blaine had never been to France, nor did he know anyone who had – though maybe Peter? He knew his friend had traveled through Europe, but he hadn't heard stories specifically about France. Frenchmen, yes, but not Paris. But from what he had seen in movies, it looked sophisticated and incredibly romantic. He would love to-

She laughed, shaking her head. “Of course not. It's so hard to be away from my family to go to school in Pennsylvania. I miss my parents terribly, especially my mother – don't you? Or is it different for boys?”

Blaine couldn't speak for men as a whole, but for him...There were times California didn't feel far enough away, like when plane tickets arrived at his door, but for the most part it felt like a world away – and that was exactly what he wanted. Whatever the furthest point away from all of this was, was where he wanted to be. “It may be,” he offered, not wanting to be impolite but unable to fathom wanting to live closer to all of this.

“I'll move back after graduation. College has been wonderful, and the campus is beautiful. I've met amazing girls there, but...here is such a wonderful place to raise a family. I want my children to be as happy as I've been.”

The most off-putting thing, Blaine realized, was that it wasn't politeness talking. Linda wasn't just following an unwritten rule that commanded people to speak favourably about where they had grown up. S he genuinely felt every word of it. S he believed with her whole heart that this life was the best place for a person. If he could have run away gracefully, he would have; instead, he had to stand there and listen to a girl he didn't know talk about what she considered all the best things in life, all of which made him feel like he was suffocating.

He bet she thought this music was jazz, he thought sullenly. She probably wouldn't understand the way a musical could feel like time travel or change a persons entire outlook. She claimed to like music, but clearly she didn't need it like he did.

That wasn't fair to say, he admonished himself. He didn't know that for sure. After all, Kurt had wanted this life, too, and he certainly understood the power of a song.

No; that had been different. Kurt had been different. Kurt had wanted a mother who looked like Grace Kelly and a father who knew what pate was. To a boy from a blue-collar family in a small town, that was what all of this looked like. Blaine had no doubt that the world Kurt built for himself felt nothing like this. He wouldn't feel like a fish on dry land there, even if he were surrounded by men in suits while waiters passed by with trays of canapes and flutes of champagne. Things would mean something there, because things meant something to Kurt. It would all be honest, like the brave boy whose truth had scared him. And music wouldn't just plink along in the background; it would be everything. if anyone would create the life he needed, the life he craved like water in the Sahara, it would be Kurt.

He was only two hours away, Blaine realized suddenly. This could be his chance – Kurt was sure to be home for the holidays, he could drive to Lima and see him. Apologize to him for everything and start over, only better this time because he wasn't scared.

Blaine almost screamed as his mother announced dinner. If there were one time he could not sneak off unnoticed, it was at a five-course meal with placecards and an equal number of people and chairs. Everything in him was ready to snap, and the knowledge that there was somewhere worth escaping to within driving distance only made the tension more unbearable. He yearned to slip out the kitchen door and take a car – any car – and speed toward the boy whose heart he had wrongly broken five years before.

Instead, he filed in with the rest of the guests. If his polite company mask slipped, no one noticed; if anyone did notice, they were polite enough company not to say anything about it.

* * * * *

By the time Blaine arrived at the Lima city limits, he was starting to think he might have lost his mind.

Dinner had lasted for what felt like longer than he had been in college, even though he was pretty sure it had only been a few hours. His face ached from trying to paste on a smile while eating. His back felt like it would never un-tense enough to sit comfortably again. His eyes burned still from the smoke of the after-dinner cigars. And everything else just hurt.

He had to see Kurt. He just had to. He needed to explain, to tell him why he could believe all the things now that he couldn't believe at 18. He needed to apologize for all the ways he had hurt the boy he had loved so strongly – all the ways he hadn't understood until so much later. He had to see him, to touch him; the idea o even being physically near him was almost enough to make him fee like he could breathe again, for the first time in days.

Though Blaine had only been to Lima once, he remembered bits of it so vividly that he found his way without much difficulty; aside from doubling back to catch turns as he missed them in the dark twice, he thought he did pretty well. He pulled into the driveway, parking behind an old pick-up truck. Blaine smiled faintly, sure that belonged to Mr. Hummel. He had only met the man that one weekend and seen him in passing at Dalton a couple times, but he admired the way Kurt and his father interacted. They were close in a way Blaine couldn't imagine being with his family. Kurt actually missed his father when he was at Dalton. Which meant surely he was the type of son who came home for holidays.

Despite the late hour, the front window was illuminated by a tree strung with bright lights. It was a tiny bit lopsided beneath all those multi-coloured bulbs, and none of the ornaments matched one another. He could pick out a few made from popsicle sticks, a few doily-like folded crafts, ceramic figurines, and a bevy of glass balls in every hue. There was nothing designed about that tree, nothing that made it a show piece, and Blaine was sure none of the decorations inside matched any part of the tree, but it felt so perfect. Even staring at it from his car as snow drifted down, he felt warm just looking at it. He could imagine the whole family putting it up – Kurt, his father, his stepmother, and that really tall stepbrother, singing carols and drinking cocoa as they hung each child-hand-crafted ornament on a branch with the utmost care. This was family. This was what he wanted.

And the best part was, he knew without a doubt that Kurt wanted it, too. Because his fantasies hadn't just been about a beautiful apartment filled with important people; they had been about a beautiful apartment filled with friends, and then quiet evenings with a record player, a cozy fire, a copy of Vogue, and the man he loved. They could have all that now. Kurt had been wrong about the location, but Blaine had been wrong about all of it – so now he could show the boy everything. A place they could be together, be safe, be so happy together-

...If Kurt was here.

The thought occurred to Blaine suddenly. What if Kurt hadn't come back for Christmas despite loving his family? What if he had reasons to study in New York, like it cost too much to come back, or he didn't want to abandon friends who were trying to avoid their families, or-...a boyfriend? What if he had come all the way here only to find out that Kurt was still in New York?

...He could go there, he realized, hope springing again for a moment. He could take the car and drive straight through the night, be in New York in the morning. Or, if he were worried about his parents and the car, he could drive back to their house, get his things, take a cab to the airport and fly to New York. That would be best, he concluded with a nod. He wouldn't get in trouble for stealing a car, and he would have clothes other than this suit when he got there.

Assuming eh could find Kurt once he got there.

His father had to know, right? Blaine was absolutely certain Mr. Hummel knew where to find Kurt. But would he give that information out to a boy he had met once, who showed up on the doorstep at midnight the day before Christmas? Wouldn't it be kind of strange to just show up like that? And all of that assumed Mr. Hummel would remember him. He really didn't want to make Kurt's father suspicious, either, and risk him finding out why he wanted to see Kurt so badly. He had already hurt Kurt enough times without adding that type of betrayal on top of it all.

But even I he could go up to the door and convince Mr. Hummel – who remembered him enough to believe a word he said – that it was completely reasonable for a Christmastime drive down memory lane to end at the house of a boy he hadn't seen in half a decade, and none of that scared Mr. Hummel enough to stop him from giving the nervous kid on the stoop his son's address in a huge city 13 hours away...and even if he could afford a plane ticket or find a bus leaving over the holiday, then what? Take Kurt away from his dream city by promising there was a place that would be better and safer? Why would Kurt have any reason to believe that? To believe him? Unless New York was as awful as Peter made it sound, which made his heart ache just to think about it. Maybe, if New York was good enough that Kurt didn't want to leave, Blaine could move out there instead. He didn't now what he would do about school, but maybe it didn't matter. He didn't know if he even needed his degree, especially in New York, and if he did...there were other schools. Maybe he could even transfer to a program at Columbia, where he should have gone in the first place. The Mendicants would be fine without him, and he and Kurt could-

Assuming Kurt would even speak to him.

Blaine winced as the blunt reality began to intrude on his fantasy: Kurt may very well want nothing to do with him. After how things had ended...after the way he had just abandoned a boy who was completely in love with him, who had trusted him and made plans for them...Kurt probably wouldn't trust him ever again. And the worst part, Blaine knew, was that he couldn't even resent Kurt for that. Not with what he had done, the way he had one it...maybe if he could have talked to Kurt and explained it all then ultimately decided he needed to focus on college without the distraction of a long-distance boyfriend, that would have been different. He doubted Kurt could have begrudged him problems with timing. If he had been able to do things that way, maybe they could have a chance now. But he hadn't been able to do things the way he should. He could now, maybe, but he couldn't when it mattered, so he had sprung it on the unsuspecting, trusting, incredible boy who had never done anythin wrong but try to love him while he was still too busy hating himself.

So he could walk up to that front door and hope Kurt was home for the holiday. And when the boy he had loved to the point of abject terror turned out to be in New York, living his own life, Blaine could try to convince a man who barely knew him to give him the address were he could find Kurt in New York all without raising suspicions about the nature of their “friendship,” and then he could take the car back to his parents' house and catch a cab and fly all night and find his way downtown to Kurt's apartment-...but what good did any of that do him if, when he found Kurt, the boy rightly slammed the door in his face?

Kurt had absolutely no reason to trust him again. Blaine had no right to even ask.

Swallowing hard around the lump in his throat, Blaine eased the car into reverse and backed out of the driveway, driving slowly back toward his parents' house.