"Hello? Kurt?"

The first words in his ear were of shear panic. 

"It's gone, Blaine. IT'S GONE."

"What's wrong, sweetheart? Slow down. Tell me what happened."

"It flew away. I couldn't catch it. Now it's gone."

"Shh. Shhhh," Blaine hushed him gently, hoping to calm Kurt down at least long enough to find out what had happened. "It's OK, Kurt. It's OK, whatever it is. What flew away?"

"Your ring. My ring. Our promise ring," he said, sobbing.

Kurt composed himself long enough to tell Blaine about the current heatwave, and the apartment's lack of air circulation, and how he had opened the windows in the bedroom and living area to try to create a cross-current in their stifling apartment.

For hours, it had little impact. Kurt had been cleaning the apartment when he stopped and opened the ring box containing his most treasured possession: The gum wrapper    promise ring Blaine had made for him for their first Christmas together. The ring with the little red paper bow tie to remind him of the boy who promised to always love him.

Kurt set the ring down on the dresser to answer the phone, just when the breeze he had hoped for hours earlier appeared at the most inopportune time.

He looked over just as the wind picked the ring up and carried it out the window.

He rushed to it, only to see the ring disappear westward in the late afternoon sun.

"I couldn't chase it, Blaine. It was gone too fast; I couldn't catch it. I tried to find it. I followed its path, I looked for hours, but I couldn't find it. It's gone for good."

The words tugged at Blaine's heart. That a little gum wrapper ring could mean so much, so long after he manipulated all those Juicy Fruit papers into a token of his devotion. He smiled to himself.

"Kurt, it's alright," Blaine said, trying to console him. "It was paper, just gum wrappers. Paper never lasts forever. It was going to fall apart someday. I can make you a new one."

"But I don't want a new one. You can never replace an original, Blaine."

"Kurt, maybe it's time for a different ring."

He was met with silence.

"Kurt?"

"What are you talking about, Blaine?"

Blaine paused. This wasn't a good time for the marriage conversation, not while he was sitting in an L.A. bar. Not with Kurt steadfastly refusing to leave New York, even for a weekend. He wanted to have the conversation, but he felt they had things to work out first.

"I'll make you a new ring, Kurt. This doesn't change anything. It's OK. It's not your fault. Everything's going to be OK."

His sobs now muffled to sniffles, Kurt heard the clatter, music and voices of a crowd in the background.

"Where are you anyway?"

"There's a little party for one of my co-workers tonight. Just out for drinks and dinner, but   the volume's definitely picking up."

"And where do they have you tonight? A chic little club? A trendy new restaurant?"

"No, it's kind of an older place, but it's really popular."

"And where's that, Blaine?" Kurt asked again, now sensing a little avoidance. And while Blaine was good at many, many things, the evasive arts were not in his wheelhouse. He had never been a good liar, so he never really tried. 

It's not that he was honest to a fault. He was honest out of necessity, and it had become his nature. If there was something he wanted to hide, he would usually simply stop speaking, or try -- awkwardly -- to change the subject. Kurt actually considered this one of Blaine's finer qualities, as well as his greatest tell.

"Um, we're over in West Hollywood. You know, restaurant central!"

"Yes, there are all kinds of bars over there, aren't there? Which one did you settle on tonight?"

All Kurt heard was laughter, music and the clinking of glasses.

"Blaine?"

"Kurt?"

"Yes?"

"I know you're not going to like this ..."

"Yes?"

"... but it was a group thing and I really have no influence over that and ..."

"Blaine?" Kurt prompted, though he already knew the answer.

Blaine looked around the bar, the dim lighting in the private cubby where he was celebrating with friends. Really, it was harmless. On one side, the room led to a restaurant, and a dining patio that resembled a lush Mediterranean villa. To the other side of  the bar, and open room, at its center a dance floor that in a few hours would be crowded with bodies and the thumping beats of disco standards mixed with a DJ's techno mash-ups. But Kurt had made it clear early on that he was uncomfortable with him visiting a gay bar in his absence. He drew a breath, anticipating the inevitable response.

"We're at The Abbey."

Kurt absorbed it for a moment, and tried to take time to collect himself before speaking. It didn't work.

"I thought we talked about this, Blaine."

"Kurt, it's a party for ..."

"I don't care who or what it's for. We talked about this. You knew how I felt. You went anyway."

"But Kurt, it's an ..."

"Let me guess. You were going to send me a postcard telling me all about it? Maybe a letter telling me all about how much fun I would have had if I'd been the one dancing with you all night, instead of whoever you're there with."

He aimed the words straight at Blaine's heart.

"I have to go," Kurt said.

Blaine heard the click of the disconnected line and stared at his phone for a moment. He knew he should try to talk to Kurt again as soon as possible, but he also knew that if he called right away, the background noise would just fuel Kurt's anger. Better to wait a while.

He pocketed his phone, and turned back to the table, nearly stumbling into a body.

"Everything OK?" Christian asked, catching Blaine by the arm.

****

Kurt sat on the couch, stewing, mad as hell that Blaine would ignore his early and clear concerns about one of them visiting a gay bar without the other.

That had scarcely been a part of their life in New York. He could count in single digits  the number of times they had visited gay clubs since the Scandals debacle, when they felt like dancing and getting sloppy drunk before stumbling home for a hard and fast fuck. And those times, it was as if they were role playing, pretending they'd picked each other up. They would dance and sweat, and grind and touch, then head home, where they wrapped themselves around each other before the front door was fully open. Those nights were not about romance, or about love. They served as a release, a way to exorcise pent up frustrations, and act on something purely physical: fast, intense and usually loud. But at its conclusion, they would caress and love as they would in their gentlest of moments.                                                   

On the rare occasion that they visited a club, it was merely the backdrop for a game, one that could stir a vivid enough memory to pique Kurt's interest in finding Blaine all over again, and ghosting his skin with his lips until they once again fell into each others' arms.

Don't even think about it, Hummel. Not now.

But it was too late.

Kurt felt a flush starting its slow crawl across his cheeks, and allowed himself to give in to it.

He drifted off to their last visit to The Ritz, when Blaine texted him from work, saying he was wrapping up early, and how they should meet up for a drink. Kurt would usually just join him at the piano bar, but Blaine had other plans: Meet up in the Ritz first floor bar? Come ready to dance.

He had climbed into the skinniest of skinny jeans -- a pair that on more than one occasion had caused Blaine to stare blindly at Kurt's ass as he walked from the room -- and a thin-as-a-spiderweb shirt in soft, sheer silk over a tank top. Paired with heeled boots, his look was long, lean and darkly ethereal.

He saw Blaine standing toward the back of the crowded bar, in a tight black t-shirt fitted so close to his body that it revealed every contour of his torso, and snug dark wash jeans that left little to the imagination. So many people thought of Blaine as a bit of a puppy -- loyal, enthusiastic and just this side of hyper -- but they clearly had ever met this Blaine, his dark hair, dark eyes, dark demeanor that screamed sex.

Kurt paused mid-way across the bar, already approached by another man offering to buy him a drink. Blaine looked up, keeping a laser focus on Kurt while he ordered a vodka-cranberry, and staring intently as he navigated across the crowded room. He approached from behind, hooking his arm around Kurt's waist to hand him his drink, and nuzzle his neck.  "He already has a drink," he said, deeply, possessively, shooing the other man away.

He molded his body Kurt's, slipping the tips of his fingers under the waistband of his jeans, exhaling into his ear, and beginning the sweet, slow grind that was a harbinger of things to come.  "Drink up," he murmured, beginning to move. "I want to dance."

No, they did not visit gay clubs for a brief drink and social hour with friends. Not ever.

****

He must have been staring at the wall for close to an hour before the thought struck him. He powered up his laptop and opened the web browser to a travel site. Could he get a last-minute flight using Orbitz or Travelocity? Could he even afford the sudden need to travel? Could he afford not to?

I can make this work, Kurt thought. Thirty minutes of searching confirmed it. He could do this.

He picked up his phone, made a couple of quick calls to his employers, and repeated his apologies and confirmed his contact information with them via text.

He grabbed his suitcase from the closet. Granted, he wouldn't have as much time as he usually allowed himself for planning a travel wardrobe. No spending hours mixing and matching possible combinations across his bed. He had to move efficiently, packing clothes that could multitask, and be suitable for hot summer days, up to two weeks' worth. Maybe one suit, something that could move from day-to-evening, on the off chance he would need it.

He methodically ticked off his mental checklist: Short sleeved casual shirts, long sleeve dress shirts, jeans, slacks, undershirts, shoes. There is never enough room in carry-on luggage for enough shoes for every outfit, he groaned. Loafers and Converse would have to do. Accessories. They always take the longest time to figure out. I'll have to streamline that, he thought. The toiletry bag. Was it still supplied from the weekend trip he and Blaine had taken to Lima? Toners, moisturizers, travel-sized toothpaste, a last condom. 

Good enough. 

He set the bags aside, readied himself for bed and for an early morning flight, and realized he wouldn't get a minute of sleep. As exhausted as he was, thoughts raced through his head.

Did he overreact? He knew he should have called Blaine back, should have let him explain. He should have apologized -- for hanging up, for jumping to conclusions, for ignoring the voice messages. Instead, he spent a few restless hours in bed and found himself the next morning on the M60 bus on his way to LaGuardia.

****

Having given up on trying to fly strictly carry-on -- Who am I kidding, he thought -- he struck a delicate balance between roller case, carry-on and satchel. Hard-side luggage is a bitch to carry, but it protects the wardrobe -- and one protects the wardrobe at all costs. 

He deposited the roller case with a skycap and made his way through TSA, through the terminal toward his gate,stopping at an airport sundry store for gum and the latest copy of Vogue. Near the cash register stood a display rack of postcards. He glanced at it blankly for a moment, then decided to take a look. Turing the circular rack, he looked at dozens of cards: Pictures of the Brooklyn Bridge, of the Chrysler Building. Cards commemorating the heroes of 9-11. Photographs of Times Square.

The he saw it. Simple, a classic image, and one that summed the city up for him. He added it to his purchase, along with a stamp.

I may regret this, he thought.