Blaine wasn't sure how he knew even before he opened his eyes. Maybe it was the way he stretched as he untucked from sleep and brushed against nothing but his own crumpled blankets. Maybe the stillness - no sounds from the living room, no fountain pen nibs scratching a notepad or drip of the coffee percolator or whistle of Peter's beloved tea kettle. No 'hmm' in deep thought over a book or turning pages or jazz music playing in the living room - quietly, so as not to wake him.

Mid-morning sun streamed through the bedroom window, but even the pools of light on the sheets couldn't create enough warmth to form the illusion of another person in bed beside him. All the warmth in the world couldn't fill the cold twist in his gut as he screwed his eyes tighter for a moment, trying to hold on...

Until his eyes opened, he could pretend none of it had happened. If he focused hard enough, he could tell himself that he almost heard the rustle of book pages turning and nearly smelled freshly brewed coffee wafting into the bedroom - a gift from his boyfriend, who made it for him even though he hated the beverage.

But it wasn't the same; it felt forced, artificial...everything Peter would hate.

Still, as Blaine unscrewed his eyes, he hoped for a moment that the still emptiness of the bedroom wouldn't mean anything. Peter could be plenty of places, and maybe- Because if they could just talk about all of this, he was sure they could figure things out and no one would have to go to Canada. There were bound to be other ways, if Peter could calm his own panic enough to listen. There were ways...

The suitcase from the previous night was gone, all its spilt contents gathered and carried away in the night. The closet door lay open before him, more than half the hangers swinging empty on their rod. The sizable collection of wingtips and oxfords and brogues had been pared down by about a third.

He wondered what would become of them now, where they would go...what his dapper young man would do without them... But then, he supposed, they couldn't possibly all fit in a suitcase or two. And Peter could make do - he guessed - on only a few pairs of shoes.

Nothing could put a damper on Peter's style, not even having to travel light.

His heart ached as he imagined the young man he loved sitting on a bus, book cradled in his hands, fedora resting on the seat beside him, northbound.

Still, maybe there was hope. There was still the possibility that his boyfriend was out in the kitchen making breakfast or-...something, anyway, maybe-

Drawing in a deep breath to steel his nerves, Blaine slipped out of bed and padded out to the living room. He could feel his clothes askew, tickets crumpled in his pocket - had that only been the morning before? - and shirt pressed into wrinkles he wasn't sure would ever come out. He could iron all day, but it wouldn't fix things.

Not that ironing ever fixed things that were wrong. Not really - not for anyone except his mother.

He let out a long sigh, heart sinking. There were traces of emptiness in the living room: empty places on the shelves that had once been packed to the brim, where Peter had carefully plucked reading material he couldn't travel - or live - without. A few from each shelf...that must have made the suitcase heavy, Blaine thought to himself with a faint, wry smile, but his boyfriend certainly couldn't just leave without any of his books. He had shipped all of them back from Europe, for goodness' sake, and that must have cost a small fortune. Anyone with that much devotion...

He should pack them up, Blaine thought to himself. Someone had to, and maybe if he asked around- someone would know where Peter was. Or Peter could contact him. He wasn't paranoid enough to be one of the activists who thought the government was tapping all their phones or anything, and if Peter had never been afraid of letting their relationship be obvious in their calls to one another before, Blaine doubted he would be worried enough to avoid calling now. He could send the books to Canada, to wherever Peter got settled, and then at least...

...At least the man he loved wouldn't be so lonely. At least the apartment wouldn't be so bare, with just a dozen books scattered around the room.

Besides, it wouldn't be fair to Janie, would it? Making her pack everything - he was sure that was what Peter had planned. She had cleaned up after him enough times, loaned him her car at a moment's notice, worked her schedule around someone bailing him out of jail...the least Blaine could do was help. It was the right thing to do.

He reached out and snagged the first book his fingertips touched, tugging it off the shelf - a worn, dog-earred paperback, someone with a Greek name he didn't readily recognize - and his breath caught. He couldn't- it wasn't his place to pack up. It was Peter's, and that was who should have been-

He swallowed hard, wishing it would help him not ache so badly, that there were something - anything - he could do to- Should he have gone with him? Gone along, with nothing but a bag full of shirts and bowties and a suitcase full of records? Was Peter right? Were they all foolish for staying in a place where they weren't safe from war? Wasn't love the sort of thing that was worth sacrifices? At least worth giving up a temporary home in exchange for all the security and peace-

He hadn't been able to give it up before. He had been too young, too scared, too sick...for months he had wondered if, had he been able to do things over again, whether he would go to New York with Kurt, or whether he would go inside on Christmas Eve, or any number of- If he could fix all of the poor decisions he had made, would he?

But this, the empty living room and abandoned bookcase...this was his answer, wasn't it? When it came to love and sacrifice, he was just as cowardly as he'd always been.

Maybe it wasn't cowardice, not really. He hadn't been afraid of going to Canada, there was nothing inherently terrifying about taking a Greyhound bus north along the coast or settling in Vancouver or Toronto or anywhere else Peter might make his way.

...He could still go, he pondered as his fingertips brushed the well-worn spine. Get a ticket, pack his bags, and be there within a day of when Peter arrived. They could have it all, he could make the leap he'd been too scared to make, risk it all for love, move away from everything - but this time for the right reasons.

Assuming he could find him.

That part might be tricky, Blaine acknowledged; Canada was a pretty big place. At least with Kurt he had known a destination, a city, a place with a single - though enormous - phone book where he could stand in a booth and dial every Hummel until he found the boy he had loved. With Peter that wouldn't be an option...at least, not until his boyfriend called him and told him where he had ended up.

He would call. They hadn't broken anything off, Peter would certainly call and at least try to persuade him to come up North once he was settled in. And when he did, Blaine would be ready.

With a renewed sense of hope, Blaine tucked the book back into place on the shelf. He could pack later, once he knew what he had space to take with him and what needed to be shipped. It would be expensive, but what was their perfect place worth to him? With its rooms full of books and albums - he'd sell off whatever he couldn't move to pay for it anyway. New students coming into town in the fall or moving off-campus for the first time were always looking for inexpensive used furniture. That should earn him plenty.

Blaine turned to move back to the bedroom, ready to clean himself up and go home to wait for the call - it would be at least a day, he was sure, because the bus ride had to be long...maybe a few more days, if Peter waited until he got settled before calling. He was probably just staying with friends of friends for a little while and might not want to use their phone to call all the way down to California. He stopped as he saw a book and an album placed in the center of the otherwise-empty coffee table. From their arrangement, he was pretty sure they weren't left behind accidentally - they hadn't been tossed aside or set down and forgotten, but stacked squarely. He approached, peered at the items, and picked up the book. The Berlin Stories, one of Peter's favourites, one of the ones he said he wished Blaine had started with - he loved the story of the three men at the beach house, even as ill-fated as they were, even as naive as the one man was about the rise of the Nazis and how dangerous the world was becoming for them...

Why hadn't he taken it? Blaine would have expected it to be the first one in the bag - it was one of the ones Peter had taken with him to England and brought back in his suitcase, and unlike a few books he'd ended up with duplicates of, Blaine had never seen a second copy around the apartment, not even when he'd borrowed it in his ill-fated attempt to see the good in his 'condition.' Of all the books to leave, this was the last one he would have expected.

That meant he had to plan on being reunited.

Blaine beamed, relaxing as he realized Peter's message. There was no way the boy would abandon his favourite book, certainly not the one he had dragged around the world with him, so this must be a promise. A guarantee that they would be together again because Blaine would have to bring him the book to go on a shelf in their new apartment.

Peter had always been romantic like that.

He flicked open the front cover and saw an inscription on the front page:

"That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you're not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong." -F. Scott Fitzgerald.

It was Peter's writing, there was no mistaking the elegant script made with long strokes of a nibbed pen, but it had never been there before. Blaine couldn't speak for every bit of marginalia in the book, but he knew that during the three weeks he'd had the book back in the fall, there hadn't been anything written on the first page. And though the quote was appropriate, he didn't understand why Peter would write it in a book by someone who wasn't F. Scott Fitzgerald. Why write it in a book at all, and not a notebook, if he just wanted to remember the quote that resonated with him? It certainly summed up the young man he loved, felt like trying to force his way through bleak stories before Peter had brought over jazz records to let him listen to what all of it meant, but it seemed an odd place to write something like that.

He set down the book, smoothing its cover closed, as he studied the album. Dusty Springfield; Blaine had collected a few of hers in the past few months - it seemed like she was starting to get popular enough in the US that her records were getting easier to find - but this was one he didn't have yet. He picked it up to see which songs there were, since bits and pieces of her UK hits were being released on supposedly-new albums a lot lately, and a folded piece of paper fell out. Eyebrows raised in surprise, he reached down and picked it up. His mind raced as he hurried to unfold it - he bet this was where Peter had hidden instructions for him, or the address where he would be staying, or some way to contact him - the name of the friend he had arranged it all through, so Blaine could call and get more information. Of course; because if Peter had left the book as a promise, he had to leave something to ensure that the logistics didn't fail them, right?

My dear boy,
Remember Dusty - and jazz - and me - always.
I am prouder of you than words could ever express.
I am so sorry circumstances were beyond our control.
All my love, fondness, and affection forever.

Blaine stared, not understanding. Why would he say- why did it sound like the end? Why would Peter write something that sounded like a Dear John letter when he'd left the book to-

...He hadn't left the book for Blaine to bring it with him when he came to Canada. He'd left it to remember him by.

To say goodbye.

He sat down hard in the wingback chair, grasping at the arm for balance. No. Peter couldn't have- they weren't supposed to end like this. He didn't understand how- they hadn't fought, they hadn't ended things between them, they hadn't said that the draft had to mean anything about the two of them, just that Peter was determined to go somewhere he thought was safer. They hadn't-

...He hadn't gotten to say goodbye. He hadn't known when he felt asleep in his love's arms that it would be the last time- and Peter, damn him for sneaking out and not even having the courage to see him, to say something to him, to say he loved him once more to his face, to-

Blaine dug at his eyes with his fist as tears began to sting. He didn't want to cry for him, he wanted to be angry, betrayed, indignant over the cowardly way in which Peter had fled. (Not that fleeing itself was cowardly, that was a product of Peter being afraid and being in what he had wrongly perceived as a hopeless situation that he could have helped if the boy had stuck around long enough to let him.) He wanted to be furious that after everything they had been through, after everything Peter had rescued him from, he hadn't even had the decency to let Blaine thank him. He wanted to be able to just be outraged that the boy who claimed to want a life with him hadn't done anything to try to make that happen, had just walked away - or that the person who seemed older than anyone else on campus could run away like a scared little boy and avoid having a real, adult conversation about what they both needed and how they could get it.

But instead all he felt was hurt - an unbearable pressure and ache in his chest, a sharp twist in his gut, and the prick of tears compounded by the hasty twist of his balled-up hand.

He missed him so much already, wanted him so badly- it hadn't even been half an hour, but the knowledge that he wasn't walking through the front door on his way back from the market any time soon - or ever again - was enough to make time seem vast, unending...just awful.

He knew he should get up or...or do something, go home maybe, but he couldn't bring himself to. Once he left, that would be it; he wouldn't be back to box things and send them, he wouldn't let himself in and pick another ton of books to take with him up to Canada. Once he left...

Once he left, it would be just him in his own apartment again, alone again, without even a bottle or six of beer to fill the gaping hole in his chest. He had thought those days were over, that he wouldn't have to feel so- so wrong anymore, but now he was right back where he had started.

...Well, not exactly. It wasn't like things had been. This felt almost worse, but not quite. The vast silence was unbearable, but at least he didn't want to crawl out of his skin and be someone else - anyone else, anyone in the world. Not that it was much consolation to feel not-sick when he felt so painfully empty. Lack of isolation was cold comfort to the lonely.

This must have been how Kurt felt.

The thought came to him suddenly, out of nowhere, and he immediately looked around guiltily, as though even the idea of someone else were betraying what he had lost today. He was greeted by nothing but silence and a room mostly-full of books that no one was around to read. As he settled back into his seat, the thought repeated itself, louder this time. This must have been how Kurt felt: alone, betrayed, hurt...and he'd had every right to.

This was different, Blaine knew. He had run away for his own sake, Peter had gone to do something-...well, something Peter thought was noble, anyway, even if he still thought it was the dumbest course of action the boy he loved could have taken. Even if he thought Peter had made a ridiculous, costly mistake, at least he had done so for a reason he thought was worth it. ...So had he, he guessed; at the time it had seemed like the only way to save himself, though now it seemed like the dumbest thing in the world, the most cowardly reason to hurt someone. He wondered if Peter would regret it later, the way he regretted moving to California without warning. Maybe in time Peter would wish he had done things differently and spend an entire holiday wondering about driving 10 hours across a couple states to try to find him.

Maybe he would be there. Maybe he would say yes. Because honestly right now, all he wanted was the man he loved back beside him.

...maybe Kurt felt the same way.

Was it wrong to even wonder that, after all this time? Did it betray what he felt for Peter to even think about whether Kurt might have said yes had he driven across Pennsylvania and New Jersey and found him on Christmas?

He started to ask himself whether that even mattered, but of course it did - it mattered whether Peter would feel betrayed even though he wasn't there to know. Besides - it wasn't as though either of them would be walking in the door any time soon. A little idle curiosity never hurt anyone, and at least it provided a minor distraction for a few moments, just a few seconds of hope before plunging back into loneliness in the living room of someone who had once loved him.

Who still loved him, he corrected himself. Who still loved him. Who was proud of him.

The words pierced him, and he felt the unbearable ache begin to overtake him again. He wanted Peter to be- he was so glad that the man was, but mostly he wanted him here to be proud. He wanted him to be able to say it aloud, to hear him, to feel his arms around him the way he had the night of the New Year's Eve party-

With a deep, mournful sigh, he reached over to pick up the album again, slipping it out of its sleeve, desperate for the soulful balm of a deeply sad chanteuse. He had a feeling that he'd be unearthing his Judy Garland collections when he finally decamped to his own apartment, lamenting along with her how the man had made him love him and then gotten away, but for now...Dusty would do just as nicely.

Peter had known he would need her music right about now. There was something about his choice of parting gifts that made even the opening orchestra sound more melancholy and more fitting all at once.

How many tears do you cry
If love should break your heart in two?
How many tears will I cry
Now that I know I'm losing you?

Blaine chuckled weakly as he settled into the chair, sinking deeper into the cushions. Peter had certainly chosen an appropriate one, hadn't he? If his goal were to say goodbye with song, then clearly he had done his job.

He had known... Blaine's heart twisted again, and he curled up a little against the arm of the chair. There was something oddly comforting about even such an uncomfortable style of seat: wingbacks felt closed-off, not just from people who might want to see you from across the room or something, but enclosed and private. Protected. He sighed deeply, closing his eyes and letting his chest ache along with the loneliness of the song.

I can't stop wanting you and no matter what you do
You're still a part of me, even though I'm losing you

He couldn't be angry, not really. Peter hadn't left him with cold words and broken promises, he'd left...lovenotes in the languages they understood the best. He cared that this would hurt and had tried to soothe it in what little ways he could. Blaine wished that would do anything to stop the thrum of longing that seemed to take over more of his body with every minute, but nothing anyone could do would make that end.

Hurting like this was normal - natural. He could try covering it up with distractions or - god forbid - more drinking, but it wouldn't make any of it go away. All he could do was wait it out and hope that, with enough time, it might hurt less.

How many years will go by
Before my heart begins to mend?
Waiting and wondering why
I never thought our love could end?

It would hurt less, one day. People said that, anyway, about time healing wounds, and he had no reason not to believe them. Time changed a lot of things. This year alone-...he didn't even remember last summer, except for feeling awkward at parties and trying to get a lot of girls' numbers and hating every moment that the girls couldn't fix him.

None of that would have been possible without Peter. Not one bit - he never would have been able to see things the right way, for starters, to see himself as anything but a walking affliction in need of a cure. Let alone having someone who cared enough about him to make him care about himself, even a little bit.

Peter was proud of him. And he was too grateful for words - or music - to ever express the debt he owed the man.

I try forgetting you but you're still here on my mind
It would take a miracle, but someday maybe i'll find
That I'm in the loving arms of someone
That I know, know is the someone
Who'll kiss all the heartache away
And on that day
I won't mind losing you

He had needed this year. He had needed Peter. Maybe now...well, not now, but one day in the future...he could have the apartment full of books and records with a man who cared about him even a fraction as much as Peter had. Or maybe a place like Kurt had described all those years ago - somewhere elegant, full of friends and music and conversation...he didn't want to run away as fast as his legs could carry him anymore.

One day he might find someone he could share things with. Or maybe he would move somewhere or do something and find one of those two again...after all, he had loved them both, it had just been a product of circumstances. Maybe in other circumstances, things could be right - they could work if things were different, if laws were different, now that he was different.

Or maybe he would find someone new. He hated the thought now, but he would have hated the idea of Peter six months ago and now he didn't want to live without the man. He wasn't even 26 and had been lucky enough to find two amazing men he had loved more than anything...surely the remaining 2/3 of his life would provide him with at least one, right?

It was what Peter would want - for him to be happy, find someone. It was what would make him proud.

Blaine shook his head, not wanting to think about any of that yet. He lifted the turntable arm and slipped the album back into its sleeve, gathered his things, and left.

* * * * *

Like clockwork, the Saturday before the start of classes arrived with block after block of raucous parties.

Blaine had fully planned on not going to any of them. After all, what good would it do him to be around people he wasn't especially close to, with things he really didn't want to start drinking, with girls he felt he should try to woo out of habit but had no interest in? But a few of the Mendicants were going, and the knowledge that this was his last year of school was starting to sink in. There wouldn't be any more first-week parties after this one, at least not for him, and he should at least put in an appearance.

Besides, it was always a good idea to meet the new crop of students. At least a few of them might have a great ear for acapella, for one thing, and he was kind of in the market for friends these days. Not going out with anyone except his boyfriend - his now-ex-boyfriend, he added glumly - had put a damper on his social life, and now that his now-ex-boyfriend was living...presumably somewhere in Canada, Blaine didn't know where exactly...he should probably find someone to spend time with outside his own apartment.

There was plenty to do at home, he supposed - there were always new songs to arrange, and the Beatles came out with a new album practically every month he could listen to for hours at a time, but Blaine guessed that maybe he should venture out every so often. Not to bars and parties all the time, but there might be someone else who would...he wasn't sure, exactly. Who might enjoy going and listening to records at the music store every week? Who might have a car and a desire to drive up into San Francisco to try to find all the places Peter had talked about but never actually taken him?

He wasn't really sure what he was meant to do with neither parties nor Peter to fill his time.

Blaine drew in a deep breath as he began up the front walk. The house hosting this year's music graduate students was smaller than last year's, people spilling out onto the front lawn. Luckily the music was plenty loud, even over the hum of conversation.

Just a couple hours. If it was really that boring or made him feel that much like drinking, he could leave.

He paused, shaking out his shoulders a moment before closing his eyes, drawing another deep breath, and getting himself into a performance mindset. His smile was broad, his eyes bright, his stance confident...just who people at the party would want to talk to.

He hoped, anyway. If all else failed, he was sure he could win at least some of them over with an impromptu performance; it had always worked before.

Blaine made his way inside, between the clusters of people conversing in varying states of non-sobriety in the living room, squeezed down the narrow hallway past the growing line for the bathroom, and into the kitchen. The table was full of every possible type of alcohol, most of it open and half-empty already, surrounded by a sea of discarded cups. He could feel the old queasiness creeping back in; he had passed what felt like a hundred people and not one face was friendly - not one person knew him well enough to engage him in conversation, and he was destined to spend the entire night plastered to the wall unless he figured out some way to appear a little more worth-knowing. A surefire way to feel - and be - less awkward sat right there, so close, and even though the last thing he wanted was to wake up feeling awful in the morning - alone, nauseous, with a throbbing headache and crippling shame - he wasn't sure there was any way to manage a party like this without at least a little beer to smooth down the rough edges.

Maybe he should just go, he concluded with a quick shake of his head. It had been dumb to come here; he had known exactly what it would be like, exactly what he would need to do once he arrived...what exactly did he think would be different a year later? Just because hewas different didn't mean the ritual was, and maybe-

Across the small kitchen, tucked back against the door to the pantry, a young man stood. He surveyed the room, eyes darting from group to group as though trying to figure out where he fit in and how to best approach people. He held a cup in his hand, fingers gripping the mystery beverage tightly, but he didn't raise it to his lips - he began to a few times but never quite got there, seeming unsure of every move he made, even whether to lift his cup.

He looked so achingly uncomfortable...Blaine knew that feeling all too well. Was that what he looked like, too? Practically trying to disappear into the wall?

Something else about him was familiar - not that Blaine knew him, he was sure he hadn't met the man before in his life, but he felt like he understood him completely. From the awkward angle of his wrist and hand as he held the cup, to the way he shifted his stance every so often while studying the crowd, to the discomfort in his eyes...

Blaine didn't know how he knew, but he knew. Knew the boy was like him - and not just because he didn't really want to be at the party. There was more to it than that. The guy was like him, like Peter, like Kurt though nowhere near as confident as either of the other two. It wasn't anything about the way he was dressed - not like Peter or Kurt who stood out in a crowd for their eccentric clothing - or any of the stereotypes his father derided as "classic symptoms" (he hadn't even heard the man speak, how could he know if he lisped? Who could see a mince when the man hadn't walked?), it was just...there. Hidden and completely obvious in the poor fellow's awkward misery.

He wanted to help. He could help. He had been that boy in the corner - though with his usual party strategy he tried not to be for long. He had been that uncomfortable in his own skin and felt so wrong and out-of-place among peers...but he didn't anymore, at least not usually, because of exactly one man. One man who had taken pity on him at an awful back-to-school party and decided to help him, because he knew things that Blaine could never have imagined back then.

The music changed, and the upbeat rock of the Rolling Stones gave way to strumming and lyrics of loss. A group of his fellow musicians who no doubt had the new album - and most of whom had probably been at the concert a few weeks earlier, too - began an impromptu singalong; Blaine's eyes remained locked on the poor boy in the corner whose mouth flicked into a sad smile at the song before he finally raised the cup to his mouth and took a long swig, eyes closed as though trying to lose himself in his surroundings.

Blaine could help him. He had to help him. After all, if Peter hadn't been there to help him, where would he be?

There was so much he couldn't do; he couldn't stop a war or a draft, he couldn't single-handedly bring down the San Francisco police or make them stop arresting people for doing completely legal things in private bars and parties. He couldn't change the past or fix his loneliness...but he could help show this boy that there were amazing things out there.

With renewed confidence, he slipped past the drink table and over to the young man by the pantry. His blue eyes were stunning at this distance, his hair streaked with blond from what Blaine guessed was time out in the sun all summer, and though he stiffened as Blaine approached, he didn't run away or try to excuse himself to another quiet corner. He offered a faint nervous smile and clutched his drink with both hands. Blaine took it upon himself to begin - the young man was probably too afraid to.

"My name's Blaine."