The combination of academic schedules, work demands and the sheer pace of New York set a hectic tempo that ultimately suited the couple well. By their third year in college, they had settled into a rhythm that felt normal, if not natural.

Cooper had finally acquiesced on letting them sublet the apartment, rather than borrow it. It had been a huge financial leg up to live rent-free for as long as they had, but the generosity weighed heavy on Kurt's conscious and on Blaine's want for privacy.

"Seriously Kurt, he could walk in here any time -- and he would, just for fun."

They had been able to save a surprising amount of money from Kurt's Starbucks job  and his low-paying but door-opening internship with Christian Siriano.

Blaine earned extra money as a rehearsal pianist at the vocal school, and occasionally got side gigs singing with a friend's band at weddings and bar mitzvahs. It wasn't exactly the Lincoln Center, but it paid the bills. He had long-ago rejected his parents' strings-attached offers of financial assistance.

With the passing of his 21st birthday, the couple could visit the city's clubs without having to use the old fake IDs, procured by Sebastian years before, that Kurt wished they'd torched immediately after their first use. 

Their favorite wasn't one of the city's countless dance clubs, but a piano bar on Restaurant Row. The main bar would fill up rapidly with the after-theater crowds on the weekend, but only the locals and well-acquainted seemed to know about the side room, a cozy bar tucked behind the main stage, frequented by a regular crowd of Broadway musicians, singers and actors. This was Kurt and Blaine's favorite after-hours spot, where they could relax, sing and enjoy Broadway performers testing their limits and pushing each others' buttons.

Patrons wandered into the room, music binders in hand, ready to offer up sheet music to the evening's featured pianist, who doubled, tripled, quadrupled as host-bartender-cheerleader. The music was a heady mix of Broadway standards and pop music classics. 

The twosome sometimes ended up at the mic, with Kurt happy to exercise his voice and once again share a moment on stage with the boy who once publicly wooed him with a breakup song. Rachel occasionally tagged along, never shy about taking a stage and eager to up her profile as she nervously approached her NYADA graduation.

Blaine was far more comfortable in the small darkened bar than he had ever been in the well-equipped rehearsal rooms of Juilliard.

So when one of the resident performer/bar tenders pulled him aside to tell him that he'd gotten a job playing for a new show that would force him to quit the bar, Blaine jumped at the opportunity.

Though he often came home smelling like a Long Island Iced Teas, Blaine treasured his new night job.

The musical selection for the bar was decidedly un-Juilliard, and gave him an

excuse to play and sing the Broadway and pop tunes that were his first musical love. He could even take advantage of the occasional quiet weeknight in the side bar to test his own material in front of a small and friendly audience.

Kurt would often drop by late in the shift, sometimes joining Blaine on the stage to take a pass at a pop song from their days singing along to the radio on their way to McKinley. Even though Kurt had long since turned his back on performance as a career, his soaring counter tenor could knock the breath from Blaine's chest. 

"You still know how to make me swoon," he would whisper to Kurt as the song ended.

****

Just as Kurt's ambitions shifted, unexpectedly and successfully, between high school and college, Blaine's goals also realigned.

His tepid 'maybe someday' stage ambitions had taken a decided back seat to music. And while performing had been his love since childhood, composing music had emerged as his passion in college.

He spent countless late night hours in campus practice rooms working on new music, or sat quietly on the couch, a guitar in his lap, testing new riffs. He carried with him, at all times, a tiny Moleskine notebook to capture a fleeting lyrical phrase.

With that passion grew an interest in learning the art of producing music. And while Juilliard had given Blaine a world-class education in music theory, composition and voice, it did not provide the basic job skills of the recording industry that Blaine felt he needed to reach his goals.

He would not be a concert pianist. Or an opera singer. Or a conductor.

He wanted, one day, to write and produce his own music. Hopefully with some success, at least enough to cover matrimony and mortgage ("And," Kurt would add, "minions").

He knew his education was somewhat off-track for his goals, but he would come home after a day of music theory lectures, or a night of juggling bar tending duties with leading a chorus of "New York, New York," and he would smile. 

He would smile when he looked up at the growing collection in the Museum of Fine Neckwear and Foldable Clothes, the adopted name for a glorified series of tie racks and shelves Kurt had built early on to accommodate their combined wardrobes in the minuscule apartment.  Over three years, it had become as much an evolving piece of seasonal art as a means of storing sweaters and bow ties.

He would smile as he listened to Kurt's regularly scheduled cajoling of his father to eat egg white-spinach wraps, not muffins, for breakfast. On the surface, it may have sounded like a father being harangued about his diet, but what Blaine heard was the deep love of a devoted son for his father.

He would smile as he sat awake in the middle of the night, watching the pale form next to him breath in a steady rhythm, or as he gazed into the bright blue eyes looking up at him as they made lazy love on a Sunday morning. 

Blaine Anderson had happily traded opportunities for smiles, and he had considered it a bargain. Career plans could be adjusted.

Life plans could not.

****

His first time at the bar, Cameron Elliott was with a lively group of friends, fresh from orchestra seating at a musical staging of Oh Brother Where Art Thou. The show became an unexpected smash and had recently swept 10 Tony categories. It was impossible to get tickets, unless you lived in the rarified air of a music mogul. 

The group, laughing loudly, took turns telling bawdy stories and occasionally joining in the sing-along songs.

"You recognize someone?" asked Angie, a lanky redhead who recently lost her job in the chorus of an ill-fated revival of Xanadu and now worked alongside Blaine in the side bar.

"That's the recording industry," Blaine said, sounding slightly dazed.

"All of it?" 

"Might as well be. In the middle? The guy in black? With the horn rims and Kangol cap? That's Cameron Elliott."

Angie looked at Blaine with a "Am I supposed to be impressed?" expression on her face.

"A producer. THE producer. The man behind NSO Music. If you don't know who he is, you should."

"Better be on your A-game tonight, handsome," she said with an uncaring laugh, grabbing her tray and hitting the floor.

Truer words had never been spoken. And Blaine didn't need to hear it. He repeatedly stretched his fingers. He wrapped his break, approached the piano and took a centering breath, closing his eyes briefly before rolling into his routine.

"Welcome to Mamas. Home of has-beens, wannabe's, never-beens and maybe somedays. But we have something in common: We live for music, and we smell like stale beer."

He dared a glance to the back of the room where the table erupted in laughter -- and Cameron Elliott sat still, glancing up at the stage, iPhone in hand.

Blaine reeled off a couple of quick, acrobatic scales and dove headlong into "As Time Goes By." The song was a classic, and a proven crowd-pleaser. The drunker the audience, the more vocal the sing-along. Tonight would not be a night for walkups and borrowed sheet music. This would not be an open mic night. This was the night Blaine Anderson had readied himself for, consciously or not, since childhood.

He dove deep into his repertoire of Broadway, classics and Top 40, even singing some of the Katy Perry songs that he had largely abandoned after high school, stripping down "Teenage Dream" into a slow, romantic ballad.

Cameron Elliott remained passive. Attentive, but unreadable. And after a couple of hours, he was gone.

****

Blaine saw him again two nights later, tucked discreetly by himself in a dark corner of the side room late in the shift. He answered texts or emails on his phone while he sipped a scotch.

Keep your cool, Blaine. Finish your set and just don’t screw up.

He tilted the scales a little heavy toward pop songs, with just enough Broadway to stay true to the bar’s roots:

Luck Be a Lady from Guys and Dolls, because Frank Loesser epitomizes Broadway music.

Paris Ooh La La, by Grace Potter and the Nocturnals, because damn, that’s just one sexy song, and he could get a crowd all in with it.

Tempted by Squeeze, because he felt it was one of the best crafted, underrated pop songs, ever.

Hey Jude by the Beatles, because not only did it have a lovely melody, but he knew he could rock those screams.

Ninety minutes later, with patrons beginning to trickle out for the night, he took a chance and played something no one would be able to sing along to. He sang one of his original songs, a song of love and determination with a mid-tempo pace that hinted of reason to be optimistic.  

After the bar had cleared, Cameron Elliott approached the piano as Blaine packed his sheet music for the night.

"Nice job. You mix it up well. Kept everyone engaged, but kept them on their toes, too," he said, extending his hand. "Cameron Elliott."

****

Blaine could scarcely navigate the road that led him to this awkward moment. 

It was 11am the next day, and Kurt had asked the standard "How was your night, honey?" question. Should he answer honestly? Completely? Tell him that the Saturday night shift may have been a game changer? That his set may have ended at 1 am, but his evening didn't wrap until long past 3. Because he was engrossed in conversation about music and ambition and the future with a person who could make those dreams come true, the dreams he hadn't even defined as dreams in several years.

Because he knew if he did answer honestly, he could end up with one of two dramatically different reactions.

"Close out the bar last night?"

"Mmmm. Kind of," Blaine answered, noncommittal.

The answer planted a seed of a worry line across Kurt's forehead, and Blaine quickly corrected.

"You know who Cameron Elliott is? He was in the bar last night, and a couple of nights before that."

Kurt may know not have known the particulars of Elliott's resume, but he knew this much: Blaine knew him by name, recognized that he patronized the bar -- twice -- this week, and seemed struck by it. This had to be big.

"Scouting?" Kurt asked.

"Maybe."

"Anyone in particular? Maybe looking for a handsome, stylish, curly-haired, swoon-worthy new singer? 'Cuz I don't know any of those," Kurt said with a sassified wink.

Blaine laughed, and the tension dropped from his shoulders.

"He introduced himself at the end of my set. We talked for a while."

****

"So tell me something. You write pop songs. You sings standards -- beautifully, by the way -- and let’s face it, you're interested in my job someday," Cameron had said, disarming Blaine with his bluntness.

Blaine looked mildly shocked, then dipped his head and chuckled quietly to himself. The old shy school boy still made an appearance from time to time.

"If I'm reading you right, if that's your ambition, what are you doing at Juilliard? And don't give me that world-class education crap. It's not world class if it's not what you need. What's your story?"

So Blaine told him, told him the entire thing, held nothing back.

"You're a natural pop star, and you're getting classical training ... because of a boy?"

Because of the boy, Blaine thought to himself.

"There's more to it than that. I have learned, I've learned so much ... composition ..." he stammered.

"Yes, yes, yes. You've received an outstanding, formal, theoretical education that few people in my industry have. But at the end of the day, what will you have to market yourself with after you graduate? Have you thought about it?"

Blaine's face dropped.

"You've got the skills. That last one was original, wasn't it? It might be interesting to see what we could do with that in a studio. With the right experience, the right contacts, you might be able to make something of yourself.  And I'm not talking piano bars and bar mitzvahs.

"If you can talk that man of yours into a West Coast break, give me a call."

Blaine took his card, and rolled it in his fingers.

"Think about it. I can't guarantee anything long term, but I could set you up with a summer internship, maybe a job as an assistant. It would be a chance to see the industry at work, and learn a little about working a booth," Cameron said. "And maybe we can try you out in a studio."

****

Blaine rolled the card through his fingers as he told the story, just as he had early that morning in the bar, unable to meet Kurt's gaze.

And when he finished, each was reluctant to speak first. The tension built with each second of silence.

"You haven't graduated yet," Kurt said.

"It's not permanent. It would just be an internship."

"In L.A."

"In L.A., for a few months."

"In L.A. That's 2,500 miles away, Blaine. Lima-to-New York was a morning commute compared to that."

"It's an incredible opportunity to learn the business, Kurt. To learn the things I'm not getting in college. To make contacts that could help me start my career."

Blaine rarely lost his temper with Kurt, but he could feel his blood pressure start to climb. He'd made compromises for years on Kurt's behalf, accommodations that he'd never thought twice about, because his boyfriend's happiness meant everything to him. But what was unravelling before him made him question whether Kurt was capable of a similar sacrifice on his behalf.

"I'm not you're pet, Kurt. I can't follow you around like a lap dog. I changed high schools for you. I was stuck alone in Lima for a year, planning how to follow you here. I chose a college that wasn't really right for me so I could be with you. I've never complained because I'm happy when I’m with you. I love you. I want to be with you for the rest of my life, but first I want to make something of my life.

"Don't I deserve a chance to define myself as something more than just your boyfriend? More than the guy that tags along? I want to be more for you. I want a career, and I've got a chance here. One of the biggest names in the music industry approached me -- he approached me, Kurt -- and offered me a chance to get my foot in that door. Can you give me this? Can you give me three months?"

Kurt was dumbfounded at the outburst.

"I've never treated you like a lap dog," he said, his hushed tone scarcely more than a whisper.

"I just want a chance, Kurt. That chance is in L.A., over the summer break. Then I'm back to finish my degree. Back to you."

"I see. This is about you making sacrifices and me being selfish."

"I didn't say that, Kurt..."

Kurt whirled around, ending up nose-to-forehead with Blaine. "You did! That's exactly what you said. You've given. I've taken. I get it."

"Kurt, it's temporary. It's an amazing opportunity. It's always where my life's been headed."

"I thought I was where your life was."

Blaine took a breath, and a moment. Then he shifted direction, looking to stop the downward spiral of the conversation.

"No. No, Kurt. You are. Always. Don’t. Please. Just don't. We can handle this. It was just an idea, Kurt. ... I don't have to go, not if it's going to do this to us."

"I'll never say goodbye to you, Kurt."

Kurt's expression appeared to soften, slightly. He looked away, sighed, held the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger and shook his head. 

"That's my line."

He glared at Blaine, picked up his keys and walked out.

****

Kurt sat on the couch, unloading his mind, his anger and his heavy conscience while Rachel dished out a truly awful vegan vanilla bean ice cream.

"He acts like going to Juilliard -- Juilliard -- is a sacrifice," he said, knowing he was bordering on whining. "He didn't have to go there. He could have gone to NYU, or taken the music circuit at Parsons, or NYADA for heavens' sake."

"You know he wouldn't have gone there. He didn't want to do anything that would hurt you."

"But that's exactly what he's doing right now," Kurt said, the tears starting to fall. "Why Los Angeles? Why is that necessary? New York has a music scene."

"But L.A. has the music scene, at least for what he does," Rachel countered. "The pop music industry is to Los Angeles what Broadway is to New York."

Kurt shot her a piercing stare.

"Oh, don't give me The Look, Kurt Hummel. I’ve known you far too long to be intimidated by that.

“Have you ever stopped and asked yourself what Blaine would be doing right now if you two had never met? Would he be at Juilliard? Would he even be in New York? I think he'd probably wound up at Berklee, or he'd already be in L.A. His brother's there, and so is the center of the music industry.

"New York's fine if he wants to be in a little band with cultish Twitter following. Maybe he'd even get a recording contract, but if Blaine's going to make a go of pop music, if he's going to produce, if he's going to be truly successful in a way that we all know he can be, it would be smart for him to try to make a go of it in L.A.

"And he'd be a fool to turn this opportunity down, Kurt. Would it be any different for you if the roles were reversed?"

Kurt bit his lip.

"He's here for you, pure and simple. And you know that, so what's all the fuss about?"

Her words stung like lemon juice splashing on a paper cut. Ultimately, they didn’t hurt him, but they caused a rapid jolt of awareness Kurt would rather do without.

He had difficulty summoning an honest answer, but ultimately caved.

"I don't want to lose him.”

"And who was it that walked out?"

****

Kurt returned after dusk to a darkened apartment. He wouldn't be surprised if Blaine had left, headed to the gym or a campus practice room. He used both in equal doses to work out his anxieties.

But when Kurt turned on the light, there sat Blaine, red-eyed and arms folded tightly across his chest, staring at the coffee table, rocking slightly. His eyes didn't stray, even as Kurt entered the room.

Moments of awkward silence eventually broke, with little acknowledgement or movement.

"How's Rachel?"

Kurt dared another glance in his direction.

"Smarter than me," he said, kicking at the floor. "Something I will never admit to publicly."

Blaine slowly raised his sight from the table to Kurt's face, his pained expression opening the door, only slightly, to an explanation.

"I'm an idiot," Kurt said, moving toward the couch. He stepped slowly and cautiously, like he was approaching an injured animal. "I shouldn't have reacted like that."

Blaine nodded, directing his focus just below Kurt's eyes. He remained silent.

"You're right. You've supported everything I've done. But when you asked me to do the same, I walked out. I shouldn't have reacted like that, Blaine. And I'm sorry. So very sorry."

Kurt moved closer still, reaching for Blaine's hand. He gently bumped their foreheads, then leaned in further, to kiss Blaine softly on the jaw.

It took a few moments before Blaine finally responded, turning and opening his lips slightly before slipping the tiniest of sighs into Kurt's mouth.

"No matter when happens, I promise to make this work, Kurt."