The airline ticket arrived on October 18.

The crisp white envelope itself had been enough to send Blaine into a momentary panic, gut clenching as he saw his father's familiar jagged print - easier to read when written quickly than proper script, which was of the essence when his job involved taking plenty of notes over the course of each session. He swallowed hard as he moved from the mailbox into his apartment, setting his bag on the floor beside his desk chair as he tugged his finger roughly across the top of the envelope, not sure he could trust his hands to hold a letter opener without piercing his own thumb, as nervous as he was. He reached inside and his fingers closed around a single piece of heavy paper.


He wasn't sure why he had expected a note of some kind, he realized as he withdrew the ticket. What would his father possibly think he needed to communicate to his son beyond what was right there in black and white beneath a PanAm logo: the date and time of his anticipated return to Ohio, and the unspoken consequences of his failure to do so. Unlike his mother, who would have enclosed a short missive full of effusive politeness saying how they couldn't wait to see him for Christmas, his father was never one for feigned sentimentality. And if, as Blaine was already worried it might be, this year was about checking up on him and helping him find a wife because he was already past-due for the kind of serious relationship that could lead to becoming a proper family man, a man as psychologically savvy as his father wouldn't risk ruining the element of surprise by alerting his son to that fact. As though he couldn't figure it out on his own, he thought bitterly. He had only been an Anderson for 23 years now, and keeping his guard up had been the first lesson of family dinners.

That there was no return ticket made him freeze, momentarily terrified that he would be dragged back to Ohio under the guise of being gone for too many holidays only to not be allowed to leave. That was ridiculous, he told himself firmly as he tried to shake the rising panic. For one thing, school had already been paid for through the end of the year, and he seriously doubted that his parents would keep him from completing it, especially when plenty of guys his age were having to contend with the draft once they were no longer enrolled. For another, he liked to think that sort of hostage-taking would at least include a note - something telling him to bring all his things back with him, at the very least. Although, with his father's professional appreciation for the element of surprise (even as much as he detested it in his personal dealings), maybe they wouldn't tell him- What reason could they possibly have? He tried to point out to himself.

Unless of course they knew about- He swallowed hard, feeling an icy chill in his stomach at the thought.

What if they had finally grown suspicious about his reasons for not having a serious girl to go with yet? What if they had either stumbled on the truth somehow or taken a guess that turned out to be right, and when he went back home he would be whisked off to one of his father's favourite and most reputable facilities, where-

No, he told himself sternly. That wasn't why. There was no way, absolutely none, that his parents knew. He hadn't done anything to make them suspect- they didn't even know about his newfound shut-in status,which might give a person pause, and they certainly didn't have any knowledge of Peter or his giant collection of books, or-...or jazz music. They couldn't possibly know the reason-

Besides. Even if they did suspect, his father had far too much wrapped up in his own pride to ever acknowledge the truth about his son. After decades blaming homosexuals' families for their condition, for perpetuating the illness if not causing it in the first place, Blaine knew his father would have to accept far too much responsibility and fault in order to admit that his son was like that. He would have to acknowledge being a cold and absent father - though Blaine wasn't sure how his mother could ever be called overbearing - or that he had made his son sick by exposing him to so many ill men when he was young, or...or any number of things that he knew his father would never admit to.

Not that Blaine blamed him for his condition. He didn't blame anyone except maybe himself. He knew Peter would try to convince him that even the 'maybe' was unacceptable, but Blaine saw it as an enormous step. A few weeks ago, it had been 'certainly,' with no potential or ambiguity about it. However small, it felt like progress to him.

None of that made him any less miserable, as he stared at an airline ticket and worried his parents might know his secret. Of course, if his parents had managed to go so long without knowing - when his father had pegged Kurt's illness from one dinner - Blaine seriously doubted that they knew now. And besides, if they really knew, why wait? Why not have a ticket sent for an immediate trip, or send a colleague out to knock on his door and catch him off-guard, or-...or something. Instead, all the envelope contained was a ticket for one Christmas obligation by a son to his parents. Nothing more.

A tiny part of him wondered what he would have to do for them to have any idea. He swallowed hard at his mind's own betrayal - was he crazy? That was the last thing he wanted. He knew exactly what would happen to him then. But at the same time...if his father was so used to homosexuals that he could diagnose and treat one practically on-sight, what was so wrong that he couldn't see his own son's misery? How many years had he spent feeling miserable under his parents' roof and wanting desperately to be able to say anything about his condition- how on earth could his father not know? Especially considering Peter had known almost instantly. Was the young man just magical in addition to eccentric? He doubted it, but all things considered-

With a frustrated sigh, he stuffed the ticket back into its envelope and tossed the packet onto the top of his dresser; it skidded past two bowties and came to rest against the brim of a hat he hadn't worn in years. He would deal with that later- as late as possible, and only if he couldn't manage to avoid the trip entirely.

A knock at the door pulled his attention from the envelope taunting him over on the dresser, and he swung his legs over the side of the bed. They felt heavy suddenly, as though things were quite literally weighing him down, but the knock came again. He pushed himself up and padded to the door, opening it partway to peer out for the source of the sound.

Peter stood on the other side wearing an easy smile and a bowtie Blaine immediately wished he owned: forest green with a small design in cranberry and beige, narrow and old-fashioned, just right to go with one of his favourite sweaters... "I'm not bothering you, am I?" Peter asked as he held up a notebook. "A classmate of mine just sent me these incredible articles about the impact of the election over there, and I thought you might appreciate seeing how things are playing out." Blaine didn't entirely understand what Peter meant - over where, for one,and why he might appreciate it in particular, but he smiled and stepped back to open the door and allow him in. He didn't especially care why Peter was there, if he was being honest with himself. He was glad to see the boy regardless. Any distraction from the looming trip was a welcome one, and there was something about talking to Peter that always left him-

He wasn't sure how to describe it. He almost never felt better after, so he couldn't really say that, but something about the conversations, no matter how full of things he disagreed with they might be, felt...amazing. Blaine tried to remember if he felt the same thing with other guys, if it was something new, but he realized he wasn't sure the last time he'd talked to anyone - really talked to them, about something more than what song might help win girls or when homework was due. Anyone except Peter, anyway. He'd had no idea he'd missed it that much.

He moved over to the tiny kitchen counter and began to heat water. The tea had been an impulse purchase his last time out at the store - after all, if Peter greeted him with warm beverages every time he showed up at a moment's notice, it was only polite to return the favour. "So what are these articles from?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder as Peter sat on the edge of his bed.

"The election," Peter replied, as though it should be obvious. When Blaine blinked at him, not understanding, Peter smiled faintly and shook his head with a warm chuckle, then began again. "They've just elected a new government in the UK," he stated. "The Conservatives prolonged calling it as long as they could, but with the Profumo scandal-"

"Was that the secretary who was involved with the prostitute?" he asked. The name sounded familiar, he was sure from one of the previous times Peter had tried to explain all this to him, but he wasn't sure. There were plenty of scandals to go around over there, it seemed.

"The Secretary of State for War, yes," Peter confirmed. "Labour won - the first time since 1951 they've held power- cheers," he smiled as Blaine walked over and handed him the steaming mug. "A former flatmate of mine sent these articles to me about what it would mean if Labour formed a government - obviously, these were written and sent before the win, since there's no way they would have gotten here from overseas in the three days since the election. Ours are far from the only issues they'll be addressing, of course, and there's more than enough political upheaval right now that I'm sure we won't be the first thing they address, but I've no doubt they'll repeal the laws now." He beamed over his mug as he took a sip, green eyes lit up in a way that made Peter actually appear his age instead of his usual, much older demeanor. "Just imagine: the police won't be able to arrest men just for private homosexual conduct. They can't barge into bedrooms anymore or prosecute based on love letters..."

Blaine knew Peter was intending to sell this as progress, to remind him that the world was changing, but all Blaine heard were the ways that people like them could be penalized for acting on their impulses, even in private. Could the police really- he knew they could arrest men for what they did in public and raid bars...and drive-ins, he thought glumly to himself...but could they really burst into a person's home like that? To use love letters as evidence not only of an illness as his father would have done, but of a crime- If he'd known any of that, he would have never let Kurt into his dorm, he thought with a choke of a mirthless laugh. He barely let Kurt near him as it was, and certainly not in a place where others could see, but the dorm had felt safe because it was his - it was private. Sure, technically as it was school grounds, any staff member at Dalton could have come in had they suspected anything dangerous or improper was going on, but Blaine couldn't remember a single instance where anyone had done so - the students took the Honour Code too seriously, and the teachers and administrators knew that. Could they have really been in as much danger there as they were in anywhere else? Could police barge into a home here, too, into a dorm or- or apartment...and prosecute based on what they found there? He'd never heard of such a thing, but he knew if someone were to knock on the door right now and find Peter - an unapologetic, unconcealed eccentric - on his bed, they could easily get the wrong idea.

No, he assured himself, swallowing hard to tamp down the rising panic. That sort of thing couldn't happen in the United States. Even criminals had rights here, and while he was certainly no expert on the British government, he did know from basic civics lessons that they didn't have a Bill of Rights over there. The Magna Carta granted some rights, but not in the same way. Surely they had to be at least somewhat more protected here - at least in private places, even if contrary to Kurt's assertions they weren't safe at a drive-in theater in the middle of a field in Ohio.

Slightly more at-ease, he ventured, "Do you really think they're going to do it? Hasn't it been awhile since that report was issued?"

"The Conservatives were hell-bent on pushing it aside and never doing anything about the recommendations in Wolfenden," Peter replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Labour isn't like that. And look at this." He set the mug of tea aside and opened his notebook, flicking past a couple sheets of newsprint before he found what he was looking for. With a broad smile, he handed it to Blaine. "Look at what Lord Arran says there. About how he intends to ensure that homosexual men are treated humanely under the law."

Blaine wasn't quite sure what to say to that. Peter was so excited by it, and mostly he just found it...unfathomable. Or perhaps more aptly, unlikely to change much. There were lawmakers in the United States who advocated for the humane treatment of criminals, who advocated compassion for the mentally ill, and even if Peter was right that they weren't the latter and shouldn't be the former - a position Blaine had been slowly coming to terms with for much of the previous two weeks - that was still what they were. At least as far as the law and the medical profession were concerned...and no amount of philosophizing or playing jazz music could change either of those definitions. Lord Arran could be on his way to it, or he could be simply speaking with the same polite pity that plenty of people had for people like himself and Peter.

"Does he really believe that?" Blaine asked, glancing up at Peter. The boy's eyebrows raised as he took a sip of tea, questioning, and Blaine continued. "I mean, does he actually believe there's nothing wrong with us and we're just as good as others, or is he saying it the way society people talk about compassion for people of all races? They don't actually do anything about it."

Peter thought a moment before responding. "I suppose it doesn't matter whether he believes it or not, so long as he acts upon it," he offered, eyebrows knitted together in thought. "Of course he could be trying to score points on the backs of people who don't have enough power to combat it...I hate when politicians do it, but I suppose any MP could be susceptible to that kind of logic. That said, I think we remain a difficult enough issue that I find it unlikely he would go out on a limb to change the law if he didn't genuinely understand that we're just as worthy of respect and proper treatment as everyone else in the UK - or anywhere. I think he's standing up for what's right."

"So you think he's admirable?" Blaine concluded, and Peter laughed.

"I wouldn't go that far. I think he's doing the least he can do. The least any of us can do is stand up for what we believe in. I think recognizing our humanity is a significant step, and having the courage to be quite so public about his intentions to change the law is admirable enough. But I don't believe in lionizing a person for standing up for what's right; that's such a fundamental obligation of humanity that it doesn't warrant special appreciation and approval."

"But no one does," Blaine pointed out. "At least not about people like us. ...Do they?" He had never heard of it, not the way he heard about people standing up for the rights of other powerless groups who were being mistreated - the Freedom Riders and everything... Which meant that either no one believed that treating homosexuals with respect and kindness - even compassion - was right, or those who did weren't doing anything about it. Blaine wasn't sure which option seemed to ring the most true, nor which was less depressing to consider.

Peter shook his head slightly. "A few, but rarely. Not nearly as many as should. But we can't control any of that," he added when he saw Blaine's pained expression. "We can encourage it, but really it's up to each person to take a stand for what they believe in - to protest against and violate unjust laws, to fight for lawmakers to change things, to force communities to adopt and enforce the laws that the government finally enacts after too many decades to address- Did you know that some schools refused to integrate even five years after Brown was decided?"

Blaine swallowed hard, remembering one such town - its backwards students that made Mercedes and Kurt leave dinner angrily, the court case that had forced them to finally obey federal law... The entirely separate school he would have had to go to, with its own glee club.... He remembered how absolutely thrilled Kurt had been when the decision had been rendered, how excited he was because it meant things were changing - for everyone- and that song- "Yes," he replied distantly.

"What's wrong?" Peter asked as he took another sip. "Oh- Was your school one of them?"

"No," he replied with a quick shake of his head. "My school was one of the good ones. People were people. Everyone was treated the same." It felt so hollow as he said it, but it had remained true; no one thought anything of the makeup of the Warblers. And they had stood up for right, too - they had given away their one chance at a National competition because they didn't want to go without the entire team.

At least one of them had known about him and Kurt, too, and Sam's non-reaction - at least, non-reaction as relayed through Kurt, though Blaine wasn't sure how much of that had been an attempt to placate him and soothe his fear about what would happen to them - gave him pause for the first time in years. Would the Warblers have stood up for the two of them, had they known? Would their goodness and strength have extended that far? He doubted even those boys, as good as they were - and as good of friends as they had been - would have gone quite so far as to support two Warblers kissing one another. No one could be that tolerant. And moreover, he was fairly certain they would have been kicked out of school once anyone in the administration had known. Between the illness that would have made them both mentally and psychologically unfit for school, the fact that either he or Kurt could have been sneaking into boys' rooms and doing vile things- attacking them, like some homosexuals his father treated had done...

No, he concluded. It was good that no one had known. Too much hell would have rained down on them both had anyone found out. Sam had owed them both too much to betray them, but no one else owed them anything. Standing up for what was right would have required any of them to believe that his conduct was anything less than sick, and he couldn't have asked his friends to do that. He wasn't sure he could ask friends to do that now, and at least here he didn't have to worry about them treating him differently once they knew where his father came from.

Not that he was about to go shouting that from the rooftops, either.

He sighed softly and took a long sip of his own tea, and when Peter spoke, it was in an exceedingly gentle tone. "Blaine. Do you have many people around?" Blaine blinked, trying to assess the question. "What do you mean?" he asked, eyebrows lowering. "To talk to. People you can lean on. People who know what you go through."

The only other person he'd told, he had also destroyed - but he wasn't about to say that. What would the point be? "There's you," he offered. "That's more than there's been in a long time. Who else would I need?" He cringed at the way it sounded as it came out, but Peter lit up for a moment, his broad smile warm in the late afternoon light. "Besides, telling anyone would just destroy everything. Why would I do that?"

Peter regarded him slowly, eyes peering at him intently in a way that made Blaine feel even more uncomfortable than the awkward silence that fell. "I know the pressures you're under," he stated, his voice gentle but firm. "The need for respectability, to be a proper member of society - let alone the need to carry on the family name and lineage. I understand why it wouldn't be easy to tell your family-"

Blaine almost choked at the suggestion. Never in a million years would that be who he would even contemplate telling. If he were given the choice between telling the two people who had created him, or introducing himself as "I'm Blaine Anderson, sufferer of psychosexual deviation" to every person he met for the rest of his life, he would have to think seriously about it before answering, and he was pretty sure the latter would win out. Telling his father would mean being whisked immediately to the nearest asylum - or being berrated into hours of hypnotic psychotherapy, or being carted off to whomever his father's favourite colleague was this month- It would mean the end of everything.

As many years as he had spent wanting nothing more than to be cured, to be rid of his affliction, never once had he admitted his feelings to his father. He had to believe it was because he knew the consequences would be so agonizing that they could never be outweighed by the devastation of being - and feeling - as wrong as he had for most of his life. That had to be why he'd never managed to be cured.

Telling his mother would be no better, he knew; she and his father didn't speak much, certainly nothing deeper than the social niceties that were required of a husband and wife, but they were still his parents and if she believed he was in danger he was certain she would tell his father. Besides, keeping secrets required a much more intense engagement with life than she was capable of.

"I have no intention of telling them," he stated unequivocally, and Peter looked surprised - though Blaine wasn't sure whether it was because of the sentiment or the vehemence.

"Of all people." Peter hesitated before he ventured, "Are they cruel?"

They weren't; it would have been easier to feel disconnected from them if they had been. But explaining why his family was more complicated on the issue of his homosexuality than the average cold society family would have required so much more than he could give.

"No," he replied shortly. "But they're not going to find out, and I really don't want to talk about that possibility anymore."

Peter held his hands up in surrender, then stood and took his teacup over to the kitchen. He turned on the tap and gave the mug a cursory swish of water before setting it in the sink. "So what would being open destroy?" he asked again over his shoulder. "If not your family."

It wasn't being open that was the problem - telling people wasn't what he had meant would destroy everything, though he guessed he hadn't made that clear. It wasn't just talking about it that would ruin his life, though he was sure it would, especially if what the articles said about life in the UK was true and anything like life in the US. He was sure being arrested and photographed for the world to see like those men at the drive-in had been wouldn't do him any favours for the rest of his life. But it wasn't just a matter of his secret being destructive because it was held in; it was destructive to everyone around him.

But when he couldn't say that, Peter prodded further, "No one's suggesting you should use it to begin every conversation," and Blaine managed a mirthless chuckle to himself, which prompted a grin from the other man. "But you need people around you, Blaine. Obviously I'm here for you and anything you need - and I'm happy to be. I don't want you to misunderstand. But no one should be limited to just one person to lean on. You should have friends who understand you - who know what you're going through, even if it's not something they experience. You should have a support system around you instead of being so lonely... No man is an island, you know."

"It's not that simple," he offered, but he knew that wouldn't be enough to satisfy Peter's curiosity. Why did the boy have to insist on prying into things he had no business knowing? Why did he try to worm his way past every defense and every barrier of polite conversation - but always in such a hard-to-deny way, with his encouraging smile and his well-mannered delivery and eager eyes...

"What do you mean?"

Blaine paused, wanting to choose his words carefully so Peter would take what he was saying seriously instead of writing it off as melodramatic. It wasn't being melodramatic, it was being honest, and he needed to understand- "I know you can feel all of this as jazz," he began. "You can see the beauty in all of it. But I-...I'm not saying it's wrong," he stated. It was beyond that. "But even when I try to make something lovely from it, all I end up with is noise. Not jazz - banging on a piano until it breaks, and all you're left with is a half-smashed wooden box with a lot of snapped strings."

Peter paused, trying to understand, and it was easy to see the precise moment he could see what Blaine was trying to tell him: his eyes widened slightly, eyebrows lowering in intense sympathy, mouth opening just a bit before he breathed out, "Oh, Blaine. My dear, dear boy- you didn't know what you were trying to play, that's all. You didn't-"

The music metaphors were nice, and it was something he could relate to, but the idea of trying to come up with something that would explain the number of ways he'd ruined the people around him-...there was only so much imagery for the destruction of musical instruments and butchering songs that he could handle, and at some point- "I knew what I was doing," he stated, because he had. He had known. He may not have intended to cause all the pain he had, but he had known exactly what he was doing when he walked away. "I knew, but I thought- I mean I justified-...I told myself that it was his fault for pushing me when I was the one who shoved him as hard and as far as I could."

Blaine wasn't sure how it was that he'd been able to almost forget about that face for years, but these days it was all he could see. Kurt's red cheeks and furious eyes brimming with tears as they stood in that hallway and he told him- He remembered it all so clearly in his nightmares: the smell of the smoke from the bonfire outside, the crumpled felt of the Stanford penant in his hand, and every insult he threw at Kurt about his dreams. Not just his dreams - his dreams for them, the things he wanted to be together for-

Sometimes he almost managed to stop himself from saying anything. Once he'd carried a second penant with him - one for Columbia, the one Kurt had gotten him - and he promised his then-boyfriend that he would march back out and announce his change of plans. He had woken up feeling like he couldn't breathe, but he couldn't tell whether it was from panic or crushing longing for a life he knew had never been real. But it hadn't just been Kurt's face haunting him. His had been the worst - especially those eyes, God those hurt - but every heart he'd broken had been lingering on his mind lately: Evelyn...Jean...that girl Freshman year who thought they could be something until he'd gotten so drunk he'd accidentally made out with her roommate instead of with her...the only people he hadn't managed to hurt in the name of romance had been people who knew there was no romance to be had. One-night stands didn't feel betrayed by him because there was nothing to betray. But anything deeper...

Was it just going to be him in a tiny, dark apartment forever? Because at this rate-

"I end up destroying everyone," he stated quietly, staring at his hands.

"What happened with him?" Peter asked gently.

"Not just him," Blaine tried to buy himself time. He didn't even know where to begin to talk about him...but it was true. "Evelyn and Jean and-"

"Yes, but I know what went wrong with them." Peter smiled as though he'd said something clever, and Blaine shot him a dirty look. It wasn't that simple, surely - he'd tried so hard and it had imploded, usually because of his own impulsiveness and need to try to feel things.

...And because of his condition, he supposed, but still.

"What happened with him?" When Blaine didn't reply, still trying to figure out where in the world to start unraveling a year of torture buried beneath five years of denial and Jack Daniels, Peter added, "Or with more than one him?"

Blaine choked out a laugh. "No - one. You think I'd go through all that a second time?"

"Through all what?" Peter prompted, and Blaine sighed before beginning to speak haltingly.

"I...shoved him away," he managed. "We'd been together five months - and flirting a lot longer than that, even if I tried not to. I couldn't help it, he had these eyes...and this voice...he was like a Disney princess, he literally sang to- we had a bird who was our mascot? Since he was newest, Kurt was charged with taking care of Fleta, and he would sing to him like Snow White. He had the skin, too, the perfect porcelain white..." He wasn't sure why he was smiling, it hurt so badly to say any of it, but he couldn't help himself - thinking about Kurt in the car back from Lima, whistling along with a bird on his lap.

"Was he handsome?" Peter asked, smiling, half-teasing gently to try to diffuse the tension.

Blaine nodded, adding, "And beautiful. Just...stunning."

"Good - with eyes like yours, you deserve stunning."

Blaine stared at him, not sure how to take that. He blinked, then went back to trying to explain why he needed to stay away from people romantically. "He had all these dreams. All these things he wanted us to be, and things we would do in New York... Soirees and a life together. I think he figured we'd be the party scene from Breakfast at Tiffany's even though the movie hadn't come out yet."

"Sounds lively."

"Yes and no. He also talked about things like quiet nights at home, reading Vogue while I read the paper and we listened to records, things that were....so impossible but sounded so good...and he lured me in-" He stopped, shaking his head. That was how he'd framed it in his head for so many years, but it wasn't true, and it made Kurt sound vicious when in reality- "I wanted those things," he admitted, chest aching as he said it. He had loved the sound of what Kurt promised. "But I knew they couldn't happen, and I was...scared. There was a raid at the one place he'd convinced me was safe, and college acceptance letters were pouring in, and my father wanted me to go to Yale and Kurt wanted me to go to Columbia so he could join me the next year, and I wanted to have five minutes to myself to breathe, so I came here."

Peter nodded slowly, then ventured, "I'm guessing from the way you talk about it, that he didn't take it well when you told him."

"I...didn't," Blaine admitted. That had been the problem, hadn't it? At least in part - going to California instead of New York would have made Kurt angry regardless, but the way he had done it had made it so much worse. In front of a group of people, throwing everything they had been working toward in Kurt's face- Could he have been more cruel? No wonder Kurt had delighted in kissing Rachel like that in front of him the last time they'd seen each other, he was so badly hurt by it all and wanted to get whatever revenge he could. "I announced it in front of the entire school, and when he confronted me about it, I..."

"...Destroyed everything in sight," Peter concluded, and Blaine nodded miserably. Peter waited for him to continue, but he couldn't. What else could he say? What else could he- describe the way Kurt had looked so betrayed? Ask if maybe Kurt was right after all about what New York was like, since he'd never been but he had a feeling Peter might know someone who had? The broad hand on his shoulder caught him by surprise, and he wanted to find it uncomfortable but couldn't - it felt warm, reassuring, supportive- He'd missed that so badly he couldn't say anything. "You made a mistake, Blaine." His tone was more tender than Blaine was expecting, though the words made him feel worse. Of course he had. Of course it had been a mistake, and certainly the way he had gone about- "You were young, you were afraid of who you were, and you didn't know what else to do."

"I could have done something else," he tried.

Peter laughed. "My dear boy, you spent the last five years drowning yourself in alcohol and a sea of attractive women to try to be something other than what you knew you were. There's no way you could have done anything else when you were 18. You didn't understand how to do anything but destroy the things around you. That doesn't make you an awful person." Blaine swallowed hard, nodding again. It felt like he was an awful person - and he was sure Kurt would have said the same thing. "It just means that now that you aren't so terrified, you can make good."

"I doubt he'd ever talk to me again."

Peter hesitated, then agreed, "Probably not, even if you could find him. But, believe it or not, the three of us and my two ex boyfriends are not the only homosexual men in the world. You'll find someone else - someone you can love and respect and have all those things with now that you aren't trying to beat the piano into submission." Blaine nodded, but he didn't feel so sure, and Peter smiled faintly in acknowledgment. "Here - let me make you a fresh cup." He took Blaine's mug and went to the counter, giving him a few moments and some space to try to sort everything out.

Blaine doubted a few moments would do nearly enough, but he took the respite gratefully.