He had thought that he had already gotten as bad as he could get, with the lust and the dreams and the things he did after the dreams...and the kissing, and the head-over-heels feeling like he couldn't get enough of just being around the boy who was going to be the end of him. He had thought that he was as sick as he could be, but he was wrong.

He had done the worst thing he could have done - save for one even-worse thing. There was only one thing he could do that was worse than what he'd already-

Blaine let out a strangled cry, the sound involuntarily ripping itself from deep within him as he felt the interested twitch at the thought of the even-worse thing. At the thought of doing the single most unnatural thing- the most-condemned, the most disgusting. the thing that, above all others, would mean he was unredeemable and had almost no chance of succeeding at recovery.

Because that was the thing - even among his father's practice, recovery was hardly a guarantee. There were certain indicators that made a man more likely to get better, just like with any other disease. For example, with schizophrenics - if after the first few sessions they could at least recognize that the voices they heard weren't real, that was a good sign. It meant that maybe in time they could be treated, they could learn. In depressives, if the person refused to get out of bed even for a constitutional walk no matter how much doctors tried to tell them it would be good for them and make things feel better, if they refused to see the good in things no matter what their family pointed out to them, no matter how many positive things surrounded them, then that was a sign that they probably weren't going to be treatable except by more extreme measures, by higher dosages of medications, and sometimes even then it might not help.

In the realm of sexual perversions, resistance of temptation was paramount. Because that was how a person could keep themself on track. Medications did some of the work, and aversion therapy - at least the kind his father did - boasted a higher success rate than most. But some patients still didn't get better. Unrepentant, difficult, severe cases stood the least chance of recovery. Men who didn't just think about other men, didn't just want them, but engaged in actual activity with them - especially repeatedly - were almost doomed to fail. They had to want to get well more than anyone else, more fervently, to be more guarded, to have more willpower...

...they were such severe cases that only his own father would even try to treat them. The rest of the doctors in town chalked them up to being lost causes.

How was he going to tell his father just how badly he had failed? Because if he hadn't been able to tell him back in December, when he was only a moderate case, how could he-

...How could he tell his father what he had done? Let alone that he wanted to do it again.

Another cry, this one more like a gasping whimper, as he raked his hands roughly through his hair. His fingers caught on the caked Brylcreme and tugged painfully, but he didn't care - he almost enjoyed it now. It felt better than everything else he was experiencing. Maybe he had other perversions, too, he thought with a despairful laugh. Maybe he was a masochist, too - wouldn't that just be great? Because he didn't have enough problems, enough sickness already. Because he wasn't already so fully immersed in illness, he needed to add more problems.

Something else had to be wrong with him, he concluded, because clearly he couldn't be sane. If he were sane, he would know better. if he were sane, he would be stopping this thing that was making him miserable. If he were sane...

...Then he wouldn't have this problem in the first place, would he?

The whirring of his thoughts stopped for a moment, the singular wrongness about him the only concrete sentiment as he sank down heavily on the bed. If he were sane, he wouldn't be like this. He would be able to get this boy out of his head. he would never have have the boy in his head in the first place. He would have known as soon as Kurt started talking about things he wanted, that he needed to either stay away from the obviously-sick boy, or to get him help. He would have introduced Kurt to his father and helped him get well because that was what a sane, compassionate person would do. Instead he let himself-

Let himself what? Was it just about the sexual act, the physical manifestation of his perversions come to fruition? Was that the problem? Or was it about the revelation before that, about the adoration and- and outright love he felt for the boy?

Those were the cases that even his father turned away now. Ones where the man admitted to falling in love with someone. Sure, there were ways to try to treat it, but they were almost never successful. Once the man's lust converted into some approximation of actual emotional attachment - however horribly inappropriate - there were only a few ways of even attempting to deal with it and almost no one was willing. That was the point at which the man was put on more tranquilizers than his mother and sent on their way to live a completely empty, robotic existence that made his father look effusive and happy.

No more feeling. No more agonizing twist of hot hatred and want in his gut every time he looked at that- that infuriatingly beautiful boy with his amazing eyes and his smile that could light up the room on its own. No more music and coming alive on-stage like the only thing that mattered in that moment was him and the sound and his voice and every emotion he couldn't put words to just pouring out of him. No more pain...but also no more joy, no more living, and that was so utterly depressing that he almost wished it would just come already so he could stop feeling so sad at the thought of not feeling sad anymore.

How wrong was that?

So it was a fistfull of tranquilizers, then - That was what he needed, and he knew that. He needed to be that empty if he was going to stop being sick, but the thought of-...the thought of not feeling anymore, of not singing or being a person at all, of just being another unhappy man in another ill-fitting suit-

He could feel tears welling up, burning and stinging at the backs of his eyes as he tried to process the sheer agony and frustration of it all. He shouldn't cry, he admonished himself as he'd been admonished his entire childhood; that was for the weak. A real man knew how to hold in his emotions, not to let them flutter out on a whim like an irrational woman. Men didn't cry - only sissies did that.

But wasn't that what he was? What he had always been?

What he would always be?

He drew his knees up tightly to his chest, arms clutching around him as he dropped his forehead to his knees and let out a shaky sob. He couldn't do this anymore. If that was his option, if that was the best he had a right to hope for given how sick he was?

That was assuming it even worked. So few of those patients came back to his father for long - most of them remained sick. Remained wrong. Remained, Blaine presumed, this miserable. Because there was no hope for any of them.

He couldn't do this anymore. Not when it hurt this fucking much.

That was another option, he realized. Not a good one, and one that was a sign of its own illness, but at least then it would be done. It would be better than having to try to tell his father, to try to explain what he'd done and that he wanted to do it again - and again and again and every day until he was too exhausted to sit up. It would be better than having to face all the people he would have to face if anyone found out what had happened. It owould be better than struggling for the next four decades until he finally, mercifully, dropped dead of more-natural causes. It would be better than feeling this for the rest of his life, because if there really was no hope for him-

This would be more painful still, he realized, because not only did he have to try to stop feeling the way he did about the physical, but if he was going to succeed then he absolutely had to stay away from Kurt and the way his body jerked and choked and sobbed at that seemed to indicate what he thought of that, the involuntary response scaring him all the more.

He couldn't keep playing slave to his instincts when to that boy. Not when it made him this miserable.

The showcase was coming up, he reminded himself dimly as he tried to get his breathing under control enough to stop feeling so dizzy. And even though there were certainly enough talented guys in the group that they could find other soloists, it wouldn't be fair to just leave them in the lurch like that. To...to make them try to cover his parts in the group as well as on his solos. All on top of the distraction that his untimely demise would bring. So that...that wasn't a good idea right now. Afterwards, maybe. If he could-...if he could hold on for a week, then he could...something.

That sounded responsible, he told himself with a very faint, very weak smile. It was indeed responsible, which he cared about only insofar as it meant that he wasn't entirely a lost cause. People who had lost all semblance of sanity couldn't be responsible, or loyal, or care about anyone than themselves. They couldn't understand anything outside the tiny, twisted confines of their minds, so that...that meant he was okay, right? Or at least that he wasn't quite as bad off as he'd thought.

At least not until he did the next Worst Thing.

His stomach twisted sharply, leaving him nauseous as he tried to draw in deep breaths. There was something he needed to do, even if he was suffering through this feeling for another week until after Founders' Day. Something that would keep him from crossing that absolute final line.

* * * * *

He didn't understand what had happened.

Even now, almost two hours later, Kurt found himself sitting on the bed and staring into space and unable to fully comprehend how everything that had happened could be anything other than a strange and intense dream. He felt distant, at once pulled deeply inside himself and looking at the world from six inches behind his eyeballs, yet outside of himself and looking on as life moved too quickly past him.

He had never given much thought to things, to- to those kinds of things. He hadn't sat around fantasizing about them, about what he would do with people...with boys in particular, really, but at all. Not the way he fantasized about other things, the way he fantasized about apartments and parties and singing on a Broadway stage, belting out the eleven-o'clock number. Not the way he fantasized about a boy pulling out a chair for him at dinner and sitting across from him and taking his hand and telling him he looked lovely in the candlelight.

He had never contemplated what might make him feel good physically. Not like everyone else. Maybe he wasn't like other boys, he didn't know, because Finn and Puck and the guys talked about stuff like that a lot - even a lot of the Warblers, even though many of them were far too proper and respectable for that. And Blaine had obviously thought about it. Blaine seemed to know what he was doing and what he wanted far too much to have not thought about it.

Only it seemed like Blaine had no idea. Because once again he had surged forward only to retreat a moment later, and it wasn't-...it wasn't just that Blaine had left that hurt, it was the look on his face...

He had looked sick. Like he was going to be physically ill. Like he found the sight of Kurt, on the couch with his pants half-off and covered in sweat and semen, to be fundamentally disgusting.

Kurt could feel the lump swelling in his throat again, and he swallowed hard. No, he told himself. He wasn't crying again. He'd done his fill of that in the shower, then again as he stood over the sink and tried to scrub his sweater clean, the rough wool chafing his hands as he tried to remove every bit of sticky white-clear stain from the garment. It hung now in the shower, drip-drying and ready to be worn another day. He could slip into it tomorrow and it would be like nothing had happened.

Everything had happened. But nothing had happened.

So no - he wasn't going to start crying again. Not now, not sitting in his room while he listened to Sam try to pick out chords from a song Kurt thought he might recognize but couldn't be sure. Sam was rusty and had different taste in music, but he thought it sounded familiar. But as Sam's fingers moved clumsily over the fret of the guitar, he looked so happy that it almost hurt to look at him.

Sam's problem was solved. It was fixed. He had gone and found what was wrong and was getting help and now he was happy. He could live a normal life. He could be like everyone else their age.

And Kurt was stuck sitting on his bed, wondering why he had ever let himself believe that he would be entitled to as much.

Maybe the book was right, he thought defeatedly. Maybe he was sick. That would make sense, why Blaine had looked at him with such disgust and fear and contempt. Maybe...maybe there was something wrong with him.

No, he answered quickly, firm in his conviction. Because regardless of what they had done, there was nothing wrong with him. He was fine. He was fantastic. And he would be beautiful like Hiram and Leroy, so help him. He would have every single stupid piece of that damned fantasy world, with the apartment and the parties and the elegant clothing-

...even if he had them alone, he would have them.

For the first time in weeks, being alone almost felt preferable. Simpler. Less vile.

It wasn't that he inherently disliked what they had done - it had felt so surprisingly, breath-takingly good that he could have enjoyed it very much. Under different circumstances, he might have wanted to do it again. But not now. Not after the way Blaine looked at him when it was over, like he was some disgusting piece of trash lying there on that couch-

Never again. Not when it hurt this much when it was over.

He understood now why people told girls not to be easy. It wasn't just about how the rest of the town saw them, because he knew firsthand it wasn't hard to disregard that. It was about how boys saw them. How boys didn't care. How they just-

He wondered if Blaine would have looked at Jean like that, too, or if he would have been a gentleman had Kurt been a girl.

He heard someone pounding on a door so hard in the hall that it almost echoed, and Sam stopped playing, lifting his head and looking around in confusion. Then another knock on another door, this time closer and proportionately louder.

"What's going on out there?" Sam asked. He lay the guitar carefully on the bed and stood, ready to go investigate.

"I don't know," Kurt replied quietly. He was curious but not curious enough; finding the energy to sit upright and appear as though he was okay was almost too much of a strain. He certainly didn't have the stamina to go investigating which crazy boy down the hall had gotten into a fight with which other crazy boy and was pounding on the door to demand he have his albums back or something.

As soon as Sam opened the door, they heard someone calling, "All Warblers please, to the Commons. There is an emergency meeting! All Warblers, to the Commons!" They exchanged a confused look and Kurt shrugged. While the Warblers had their eccentricities and were known for doing things oddly and with a bit too much throwback to the Colonial era, this band of Paul Reveres was new even for them. Two boys running around, knocking on doors and shouting to get the group together seemed a little too demonstrative and as though it lacked a certain amount of decorum, but now he was intrigued. The emotion was subdued, dulled by the pain of the day and the fact that he couldn't get the look on Blaine's face out of his head, but even in this state he couldn't help but wonder what in the world could have caused such a ruckus that Wes would permit Warblers to run up and down the halls acting like crazed town-criers to round everyone up for an unplanned, unannounced meeting.

He pulled his jacket out of the closet and shrugged into it as he toed on his loafers, and Sam looked at him curiously as he straightened his tie. "Are you okay?"

Kurt stood straighter, his shoulders already too tight. "I'm fine," he replied, his voice higher than he would have liked. That always happened when he was trying to forget that he was upset, but he wasn't sure if Sam knew him well enough to see the difference yet. He desperately hoped not; the last thing he wanted to do right now was try to summon the energy to falsify a story. Pretending he was moderately okay at a time like this was difficult enough when all he wanted to do was crawl into bed and turn off the lights and try to pretend the entire day ever happened as he curled tightly onto himself and let the silent tears fall.

Sam seemed to accept the answer with a shrug and a lopsided smile as they left the room. By the time they reached the lobby of Everett House, they were joined by five or six other Warblers, all murmuring excitedly about what had happened to bring about the meeting, what could be going on, what news there might be. Apparently someone's older brother had told him about the time that the Warblers were invited to sing for then-Princess Elizabeth and the news came in a meeting like this. Kurt had no idea how the brother would even know this because she had been queen for almost eight years already (eight years in a couple weeks, actually) and none of the current Warblers had brothers that much older than they were. He would have to ask Wes later if the story were actually true, but he was afraid of how long of a story he might get either way.

At least the thought amused him long enough to be distracting.

The Commons were bustling with excitement and confusion, speculation as two dozen boys with little imagination but a strong sense of protocol were left to devise for themselves the true purpose of the meeting. "Maybe it's a special performance."

"Maybe there's another competition."

"Maybe one of the Council's on probation - they can stay in the group but have to step down because you can't hold office if you're below a 3.0."

"Maybe one of them's graduating early."

"Maybe something's changed for Founders."

Kurt glanced around the room, looking for-...for something, he couldn't quite figure out why as he felt himself rise up on his toes a bit, looking through the crowd of boys in identical clothes for-

For a particular head of plastered-down hair.

He cringed as he realized he was looking for Blaine, falling back down to a flat-footed position heavily. He didn't actually want to see Blaine. He didn't want to look anywhere near him anymore, not now. Not after that look. He was grateful not to see any trace of the boy formerly known as his boyfriend.

Formerly? Maybe. He wasn't sure about the protocol in situations such as these, but he knew boyfriends weren't supposed to treat people like that. And he was fairly certainly Blaine no longer considered him his boyfriend, either. If he ever had, which Kurt doubted.

Maybe he really had made the entire thing up in his head. All the affection, all the tenderness he'd thought he'd seen there - it was all an act. All charm and smiles and musical interludes. None of it was genuine.

The Council entered in a row like judges, taking their place at the table. Wes banged the gavel, and there was silence only because the boys wanted to know what was going on. Even without speaking, there was an undercurrent of curiosity, of wonder, of anticipation. "Good evening," Wes began. "The Council would like to extend its appreciation to all of you for appearing at this impromptu meeting. It has been brought to our attention that there may be an issue regarding the Founders' Day Showcase. Senior Warbler Blaine Anderson, you may have the floor."

Kurt was surprised to see Blaine rise from a chair in the corner - he hadn't even noticed the boy there. Blaine looked at no one, staring instead at the top of Wes's hair with the occasional glance around the top of the room. He appeared calm, and his tone was even as he said, "Thank you. Fellow Warblers, members of the Council, I would like first to-" he cleared his throat, licked his lips as he thought for a moment over his word choice. Kurt hated that all he could think of was the feeling of that tongue on his own lips. "To express my appreciation for all of the confidence you have placed in me, as the lead soloist this year, as well as in my capacity as section leader in previous seasons. As we prepare for our annual Showcase, I understand that a duet is customary, but after having worked with Kurt-"

His eyes flicked down to the carpet, and Kurt almost wished he would look at him. Look at him so he could figure out what in the world was going through Blaine's mind, what he was going to say. Because they hadn't done much working together and both of them knew it. But what in the world did any of that mean?

"I believe he is ready for a solo of his own. He has proven his talent both in the group, and in our rehearsal sessions-" Kurt wasn't sure how Blaine kept from blushing as he said it; god knows he was, even as he sat a little straighter and stiffer on the couch. "-and I wish, at this point, to withdraw from the number. There's nothing I could teach him," Blaine stated quietly.

At long last, Blaine's eyes scanned the room, searching through the Warblers until he found Kurt and met his eyes. He looked dead inside, Kurt concluded with a nervous flutter in his stomach. Like he was waiting to just vanish off the earth and had stopped caring. It terrified him and left him feeling colder than the look of disgust earlier. "He doesn't need me to hold his hand. I would have nothing of value to contribute."

The room erupted around them, the Council included, and Kurt looked away quickly, unable to take the intense blank stare. "Are you joking?" Thad demanded.

"What prompted this?" Wes's tone was more measured, but still irritable. He didn't like being surprised.

"I just think that it would better serve the group to have Kurt perform on his own. While I understand that it's a tradition for the lead soloist to perform with the heir apparent, and while there is no doubt in my mind that Kurt would serve the Warblers well in that capacity, I don't think it would be wise. We're too much alike." The rest of the group may have been confused by that statement, but Kurt wasn't. While everyone around them chattered about the differences in their tone, their styles, their ranges, Kurt knew exactly what Blaine was saying.

Blaine was getting rid of his part in the duet because he didn't want to be around him. Not when he was...what he was. Not when Blaine was tempted or- or something.

"We're prone to making the same mistakes," Blaine added more quietly, meeting Kurt's eyes for a split-second, and now he felt nauseous. Mistake, it was a mistake chanted over and over in his brain, beating out a sick tattoo that, coupled with the look from before, made him want to sink into the couch and never be seen again. To take leave to his room and never return.

The mood was broken as David pointed out, "But there's no room for an additional solo, Blaine, you would-"

"I don't care about that," Blaine stated emphatically. "I don't need the spotlight in every performance. I am more than happy to give the song to Kurt and allow him to have the glory for himself."

Kurt didn't want glory - he wanted Blaine. He wanted sweet kisses and the Sound of Music in Blaine's dorm room and would gladly trade that for never performing on-stage again. But that didn't matter now.

"Shall we open the floor to nominations for a second Warbler to take Warbler Blaine's place?" Thad asked. "The arrangement does require two strong leads."

"Let Kurt pick a replacement song," Blaine suggested. "He'll...anything he does will be fantastic. I'm sure of it."

The Council looked at one another, oblivious to the hushed questions flying around the other hahlf of the room, and Wes finally nodded. "That's settled, then. Is there any further business?" When there wasn't, the gavel sounded again and the Council filed out. No one wanted to look like they were swarming Kurt to press him for information, but they all did.

All except Blaine, who slipped out unnoticed and disappeared into the darkened halls of Dalton.

* * * * *

Kurt felt like he should be nervous.

Standing behind the stage and hearing the applause for groups before the Warblers, he knew he should feel like he was going to do something stupid like forget all the words or trip over himself or open his mouth and have no sound come out. It was something he'd feared before when performing in a new setting - during his first competition with the old glee club, in his first competition with the Warblers, the first time he had gotten a prominent role in the community theater production.

The audience was interested, not like one of those groups that felt like they were killing time for the 'real' show to begin, even through a mind-numbing series of speeches by everyone from the Dean of Academics to the oldest living Dalton valedictorian (Jack Spencer, class of 1898; his speech was written in scrawl so large Kurt could read it from backstage and air whistled through the man's false teeth when he spoke). They actually wanted to be there, to celebrate their school and its lengthy - very lengthy - history, and Kurt gathered from the others that the Showcase was always the best-received portion...though on second thought the boys could have been biased. In any event, they were sure to get plenty of attention and pressure, and Kurt was now performing the penultimate number. A solo. His first solo with the Warblers, on an arrangement that they had largely been working on without him because he had been trying to be away from Blaine as much as possible over the previous week.

In fairness, Blaine had been avoiding him as well. It wasn't one-sided; this was definitely mutual.

Still, it felt like he should say something as he saw the Warbler milling around backstage. He had seemed distant with everyone, not just with Kurt, and maybe...maybe something was really wrong. Maybe he really was just scared. Maybe he needed reassurance and Kurt should be trying to help.

His stomach churned as he walked toward Blaine, who was bouncing a little on the balls of his feet as he always did before going onstage. It helped get him ready, get the adrenaline pumping; last time he saw it, Kurt had thought it was cute. Now he thought it was painful. It was painful to watch Blaine try to get ready to go onstage and be charming when Kurt knew how easily he fell for the charm, for the act Blaine could turn on and off like a switch. It was painful to watch Blaine stretch and adjust his uniform when all Kurt could picture was what Blaine looked stretched out over him with his uniform half-off...and what he looked like after as he dashed from the room, pants held up by his clenched fist. It was painful to watch Blaine, any part of Blaine, and know that-...that as much as he wanted the boy, it was never going to happen. Blaine was never going to be his boyfriend now, and that was...well, it was just something he was going to have to learn to live with.

He had lived this long without a boyfriend, he supposed he could survive another year and a half. Just long enough to get out of Ohio. He would get to somewhere safe, somewhere with other people, somewhere Leroy thought was a good place, and he would find someone. He would have what he'd been dreaming of forever, with or without Blaine Anderson.

...But his eyes looked so sad, Kurt realized as he approached. He looked so tired, so sad, and increasingly nervous as he realized Kurt was walking toward him. Maybe...

"Blaine," he murmured more than said, and Blaine shifted on the balls of his feet.

"Kurt," he replied, his voice low and tight.

"Are you...I know I haven't seen you much this week, but are you...okay?"

It was a simple question, a fair question, but one that held no easy answer. There was a pause, then an inhale as Blaine held himself a little straighter and pasted on his pre-show grin. "Fine," he replied, then turned and walked off around the back of the curtain to the opposite wing.

Well. If that was how he was going to respond to this sort of inquiry...that was that, then, Kurt concluded. Obviously they couldn't be friends, not if Blaine wanted that badly to get away from him. He wasn't going to keep chasing.

The Warblers were announced, and they filed on-stage from both sides as they took their places. Bill was so proud as he began "Cherie," a number he had apparently been asking to do for years, and Kurt let him lose himself in the music, in the carefully-layered harmonies and the precise melodic lines that required the utmost attention. Save the occasional glance in Blaine's direction, he kept his eyes where they should have been. There was no room for error, for feelings, in arrangements such as these.

By the time he stepped forward for his solo, he wasn't nervous anymore. For one thing, it wasn't nearly as hard to perform when he wasn't getting up there cold; performing the first two-thirds of the set had helped him get comfortable with the stage, get the audience warmed up, get his voice where it should be. But mostly...it was easy to not be nervous when singing from one's heart. That was the most natural thing in the world - opening up his mouth and singing exactly what he felt.

He carefully descended the risers as the other Warblers began with their background vocals, closing his eyes and drawing in a deep breath. It was a song he'd listened to on the floor of Mercedes' room so many times he couldn't even count, usually chattering through it while they waited to get to something more upbeat and fun, talking about the people they would date one day, about the fantastic places they would go together, about so many things...

...so many things...

When had Kurt started pasting the image of Blaine into all of those things? When had he started wanting to put Blaine in every single frame of his future? He had been foolish, falling so quickly, losing himself almost instantly in the fantasy. And this...this was a song of mourning, befitting the loss of things that never were. Of fantasies he never should have had in the first place.

It was easy to sing from the heart with something like that.

Maybe if I pray every night
You'd come back to me
And maybe if I cry every day
You'll come back to stay
Oh maybe

His tone was rounder than the original recording, and obviously lower, but no less soulful. No less mournful as he poured every regret, every rebuke of how stupid he'd been to ever think it was a possibility, every ounce of pain at realizing the things he'd thought he would finally have were merely illusions.

Blaine was captivated by the sadness. By how Kurt managed to sound at once empty and so full of sorrow and pain that he couldn't stand it. By the way the boy sounded as though every single word was being flung from his throat by the sheer force of what he felt as like, if he was forced to stop singing, he would explode from the pressure of all the things he couldn't say.

It was like Judy Garland but bigger. Like the dancers in West Side Story. Like the opposite of how he sang, acting out everything he thought he needed to feel, thought he should feel, trying to channel everything negative into something brighter so he could make himself feel better. This was just abject hurt and despair.

And he had done this.

Maybe if I hold your hand
You will understand
And maybe if I kiss your lips
I'll be at your command
Oh maybe

Kurt's voice faltered just a bit on the second verse as he thought about it. About holding Blaine's hand, about the way Blaine touched him like no one else had in his entire life. About how warm it had made him feel in his first days at Dalton just-

About how the kiss had made him feel the first time, lying on Blaine's bed and making him think that maybe...It was like all the things he told himself he was silly for wanting had gotten real again. All the things he'd thought he would never be able to have, or that he knew were theoretically possible because Man #16 had them but had no idea how to go about getting, had suddenly been moved to within arms' reach and he could start picturing it again.

About how the kisses on the couch had been, how alive they had made his body feel in ways he didn't even know existed. About how much he wanted them again, how desperately he wished that he and Blaine could go back to having whatever it was they'd started to have. Because they kept starting to have things. They kept beginning to have beginnings, only to have Blaine dash away and that was the part that was getting too tiring. The part where every start was so close to every momentary finish, and even when things stuttered back to life again because Blaine thought it was safe to inch forward, it wasn't the same.

About the look afterwards. After that, when he had felt so warm and close to Blaine, so nervous and exposed and trying to piece together what had happened and what it meant, and Blaine had looked at him-

Thinking about the last part was starting to eclipse thinking about the previous two, and that bothered him more than it should have.

I prayed and prayed to the Lord
To send you back, my love
But instead you came to me
But only in my dreams

He had done this to Kurt, Blaine realized as he watched the outpouring of emotion in the song. He had done this. He had made Kurt feel like this. This sad. This wrenching. This was his fault.

He kept changing the goalpost on what the worst thing he could do was. First it was existing - being sick, just existing, whether or not he did anything about it. Everything else was just filler, but the really bad thing was being that deviant. Then it was acting on it - being was okay, he couldn't entirely help how he felt, but he could help acting on it. Then wanting to act on it became a sudden line, with the realization that wanting to do things felt worse than doing them might. Then his ridiculous assertions that Kurt kissing him didn't count as long as he didn't kiss Kurt back, because kissing him back when he'd been kissed before would be the worst thing. Then what they had done.

Then loving him.

But none of those were the worst things he could do in all of these. None of those were signs of complete and all-consuming wickedness like the real worst thing:

He had done this to Kurt. He had made this beautiful, strong, amazing boy feel as horrible as he felt. There was no victory in that, no thrill of revenge as the one who had kept him awake nights in agony was in agony himself; there was no joy in seeing Kurt unhappy. Even if he didn't understand how Kurt could possibly be happy being this way, he wanted that for him.

He needed it for himself almost as much.

Where the sharp suicidal ideations had resided immediately after the tryst on the couch, an aching longing had taken place, one almost as strong as his longing for Kurt: to stop feeling this way. To start feeling better. To stop spending every day wishing the end would come so he could stop being so wrong. To stop hurting so damned much every single day from the time he woke up until the time he finally fell asleep, finding relief only in the dreams that felt good at the time but left him terrified, sick, disgusted with himself.

He didn't want Kurt to feel as bad as he did; he wanted to feel as good as Kurt. He wanted to ask Kurt why he didn't feel shame. Why he didn't run away. Why he could want this and not hate himself for it, because every time Blaine felt himself wanting, longing, wondering, it was quickly subsumed by uncontrollable amounts of rage and hatred and anguish that Kurt never seemed to feel.

What was his secret? Was he just ignorant to what it was he wanted and why it was so wrong?

Was there any way to recover that ignorance somehow, to set aside everything that hurt so badly?

Maybe if I pray every night
You'd come back to me
And maybe if I cry every day
You'll come back to stay
Oh maybe
Oh maybe

Kurt finished the song, his voice ringing out long and clear on the final note. He felt empty. Drained. As though every ounce of everything he'd been feeling had been holding him up and now that it was all out there he could barely stand. The enthusiastic applause reinvigorated him enough to retake his place for the final number - the Council leading them through "Come On Let's Go" (The arrangement was good, but Blaine would have sung it better; Kurt cringed inwardly for thinking that). He barely noticed any of it, fueled only by a combination of adrenaline and complete exhaustion that got him through the number but without any emotion or true enthusiasm.

The Warblers took their bows and rushed offstage, immediately hugging and high-fiving and congratulating each other. The first-time soloists got the bulk of the hugging, and Kurt found himself quickly swept up in a group hug.

"I'm sorry."

Blaine wasn't sure what made him whisper it in Kurt's ear like that other than the knowledge that no one would be able to hear him in all the post-show praising going on around them, but he had to say it. He had to say it and wanted to ask a thousand things after it, to ask why Kurt could like himself and why he couldn't; why he was such a horrible jerk that he had made Kurt feel like that; if Kurt would forgive him. But the words flew out in a hushed whisper as soon as he felt the boy's narrow torso under his arm and smelled the soft, familiar scent of Kurt's shampoo.

Kurt's eyes flew open, suddenly aware of his surroundings - and, more accurately, who was surrounding him - and he turned back to look at Blaine. The dead look was gone, but the disgust wasn't back. Instead, it was a peculiar combination of earnestness, fear, and sincerity that broke Kurt's heart and made him want so much-

Made him want apartments in New York.

And when in a couple days the look shifted again and Blaine looked at him like he was everything wrong with the world...or decided that he was too afraid again...or that he couldn't do this anymore...

Kurt looked him in the eye and shook his head. He wasn't doing this anymore. He couldn't. Not after everything the past three weeks had been. Not after the previous four months before that. Not after spending the past ten days trying to get that look of disgust out of his head and feeling like every bit of himself he exposed must be vile if Blaine, of all people, looked at him like that.

No. he wasn't doing this anymore.

With as much calmness and composure as he could muster, he extricated himself from the arms of the other Warblers and walked away.