At the end of his first work week, Blaine felt like he was at the center of a vortex, like a kid trying to find his footing after twirling his body and twisting his head skyward until he lost balance. It had been a blur of people, policy and pop music.

He didn't expect to land an internship that had him working in the executive suite at NSO, located in the historic Capitol Records building in Hollywood.

He hadn't expected to meet four Grammy winners in his first week of work. 

He expected to be fetching coffee. Or lunch. Or the mail.

He didn't expect to be taking notes at strategy meetings, and assisting producers  -- sometimes by fetching coffee -- in production booths.

His life felt charmed, and he was convinced that he had learned more about the day-to-day workings of the music industry in one week on the job than he had in three years at one of the nation's premier music schools.

His first day at work, Blaine showed up at the NSO Human Resources office promptly at 8:30 am. “You’re early,” the clerk told him, shoving a clipboard of paperwork his way. “Fill those out, and I’ll need to make copies of your driver's license and Social Security card, then we’ll show you up to 13.”

His eyebrows shot up. Thirteen? If anything, he figured he’d be lucky to spend his days in the mail room, or in a reception bay. He did not expect the executive suite. He filled out form after form, verified that he was, indeed, himself and had his picture taken for his office ID. A little over an hour later, the HR clerk escorted him to the elevator and to NSO's 13th floor, the penthouse suite.

Blaine really had no idea what was in store for him, but he knew it was going to have a hell of a view. The offices in the circular building faced north, looking out toward the Hollywood Reservoir, Griffith Park and the Observatory. Just a little east, within the extended office window view, loomed the Hollywood Sign.

He didn't have much time to take it in. A towering, serious-looking brunette took him off the clerk's hands and gave him a swift office tour, singling out key executives' offices and introducing him to the collection of assistants. She dared a quick glance at her phone. "Cameron's in the building."

She directed Blaine to an extra desk in the assistants' pit, then grabbed an iPad and several file folders before meeting Cameron Elliott at the elevator bay. She immediately had his full attention, running through his schedule as she followed him into his office.  

Fifteen  minutes later, she caught Blaine's eye and waved him over. "He'll see you now," she said. Blaine detected the slightest of smiles crossing her face.

****

It was quickly clear that Blaine was to become Cameron's shadow, taking notes, running errands and simply absorbing everything going on around him.

It also didn't take long to decipher the upstairs power structure. If you wanted something done at the highest levels, get in the good graces of the executive assistants. Like many offices, the people managing the executives’ calendars and files had more knowledge, trust and power than was apparent to the eye. But Blaine recognized it, cultivated it and was thankful for the fact that they took him under their collective wing.

“You know, we don’t usually have interns up here,” said Stacey, the very definition of a beach blonde California girl, who also graduated with honors with a management degree from UCLA. “But I don’t think Cam thinks of you as an intern.”

“Personal assistant, I’d say,” said Christian, a highly regarded staffer who had become as well known for his work in support of LGBT organizations as for being the trusted right hand of NSO's chief financial officer. He was young, smart, fashionable and recognizable in some of the city's prominent circles, and clearly on the fast track.

“Protegé,” said Susanna, the brunette, ending the debate. "Otherwise, you’d be stewing in a file room all day.”

As Cameron's longtime executive assistant and considered by many as the power behind the Herman Miller suspension chair, Susanna Weston's opinion carried the weight of the highest level NSO executives, at least unofficially.  There was little doubt that the 40-something single mother could successfully manage her own company, but she was as loyal to her longtime employer and confidante as he was to her. She knew him almost as well as she knew herself. 

“To be honest, I’m not even sure how things all worked out like this,” Blaine confided to her later that week. “I’m not entirely sure what my role is. Not that I’m complaining. It’s just a lot to take in.”

“Whatever you two talked about in that bar left an impression,” she said, touching his arm supportively. “Good for you. He likes you. He sees something in you. Take full advantage, enjoy the ride, and let me know what I can do to help.”

Blaine understood the value of these connections. So he picked up their lunches, baked them cookies and brought a bouquet of flowers for the central staff pit. Sucking up? Maybe. But he liked them, they seemed to like him, and no one was complaining. 

Each day, he made sure he arrived early and left late, and made an effort to Skype with Kurt every night, or at least every other. On the latter, he knew at least that at least the time zone was on his side.

****

By Saturday night, he needed to catch his breath. With Cooper out of town on a shoot, and feeling a little lonely, he ventured to the Hollywood Bowl and bought a $10 nosebleed seat for the outer reaches of the hillside amphitheater.

Blaine bypassed the moving sidewalk and hiked the steep path to the highest reaches of the cavernous outdoor theater. He settled on a bench seat of section W with his small picnic: A chicken salad from a nearby gourmet sandwich shop, a split of Chardonnay and a sea salt-tipped brownie, an office leftover from a Sweet Lady Jane bakery basket.

The orchestra took the stage as the sunset cast a pink and orange glow across the white shell behind the Bowl's stage, as well as the tree-lined hillsides surrounding it. The sky gradually deepened to indigo, and the lights rose on the stage. 

That's all it took.

Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the Chopin. Maybe it was the fact that he was feeling so completely at ease with the music, the surroundings and the Bowl patrons, who freely shared picnic goodies with their cheap-seat neighbors.

He couldn’t pinpoint the moment. It may have been during the Nocturne, which had always thrown him for a loop. It may have been when the family behind him insisted that he share their birthday cake and wine. But something about the place, the moment, the music, the city ... felt comfortable.

Not that he wasn’t settled with his life in New York. He loved Kurt and would, he reassured himself, go to the ends of the earth to be with him. But he'd never felt entirely at home at Juilliard. His job at Mama’s was as much an escape from the campus as it was a means to a paycheck. Yet even there, whether behind the bar or the piano, he always felt like he had to be “on.”

Right now, he simply felt like Blaine, the kid who lived for music. It was as if his entire body exhaled. But he was also Blaine, the man who was desperately in love with someone utterly disinterested in the West Coast.

In that moment, a plan was hatched. Blaine snapped pictures and shot video on his cell phone of the romantic Chopin concertos.

At the end of the evening, as he strolled down the hill towards the shuttle buses, he stopped by the Hollywood Bowl store and bought a postcard.

Kurt,

My first visit to the Hollywood Bowl! Chopin with the L.A. Philharmonic tonight, & it was wonderful. Picnic, wine & the most beautiful sunset you can imagine. Text me when you get this, and I'll tell you more.

I love you,

B

Blaine knew that he Kurt would roll his eyes at his choice of postcards -- at the fact that he was mailing postcards at all -- but Blaine was enjoying himself, and felt it was a way to share even more firsts with Kurt.

And while everything he had told Kurt about writing letters was true, he now had a renewed purpose to his old fashioned correspondence. He wouldn't just share the events of his week, he would show Kurt why he needed to get on a plane. With any luck, Kurt would see what was rapidly becoming very clear to him.

****

Kurt changed into comfortable jeans and Blaine's old Dalton T-shirt before grabbing his laptop and curling into the couch, nonfat mocha at his side. Even the address line got his eyes rolling.

TO: Kurt Hummel

FROM: Blaine "You Miss More Than Just My Mouth" Anderson

Dear Kurt,

What a week! 

To be honest, so much of it’s just a blur, but every second of it’s been valuable. I’m not even entirely sure why or how this happened, but I’m happy for it, and grateful for it, and plan to learn from it. 

Some of the office assistants nicknamed me "The Protegé" the other day. Can you believe that? I'm not so sure. I'm only here for a little while, after all, and I’m really little more than a glorified gopher. But I learned that they don't normally take on summer interns, or interns at all, at NSO. At times I do think I'm doing the work of a personal assistant, not that I'm complaining. 

I may be following Mr. Elliott around like a puppy, but it means I get to watch him do his job, and I get to meet the people he works with: Artists, producers, technicians, the works. It's a lot to take in, Kurt, and I'm absorbing all I can.

I've learned so much in so little time. I can see how a career could be workable ... and it doesn't involve weddings or bar mitzvahs.

I've got so much to learn, but I can see that there's an intersection out there of the things that I'm good at and the things that I love. I haven't hit it yet, but it's down the road, and it can be reached. I'm pretty sure they meet up in my future.

We've talked about this already, I know. But as much as I miss you, I know that I've taken the right step. I know that I'm growing from this.

With the amount of time that I'm already spending at work, I haven't had much of a chance to breathe, let alone get to know the city. So with my first day off and Coop out of town, I decided it was time to do something iconic. Something very L.A. Something summer. (No, I didn't go surfing ... but I may have to tuck that idea away for another weekend.)

I went to the Hollywood Bowl. Of course, you already know that.

It wasn't just that it was beautiful (it was), or that the music was moving (it was). It was the experience of it all, Kurt. Think about your first Broadway show, or your first visit to Fashion Week. It was that for me, and I want to experience it with you. So, click the link, then let yourself drift off for a moment, and imagine yourself seated next to me, your hand in mine, in the hills above Hollywood, with a little wine and some truly spectacular brownies -- OK, cheesecake -- and a sunset to die for. This one's for you, Kurt.

The music is Chopin's Nocturne #9, Op.2. I think it's one of the most romantic things ever written. It's lovely, it's lonely, it's longing, it's love. It's us, Kurt. All the L's wrapped up in one piano concerto.

It's music to love to.

It was a featured piece tonight and it left me feeling something I can scarcely describe. It felt like home. 

But as wonderful as it may be, the music reminded me that this otherwise perfect evening was missing a critical piece that kept it -- and me -- from being complete.

You, Kurt.

Is it too early to tell you how much how much I miss you? Can I admit that without you I am not whole? Am I giving too much away to confess how much I would give to have you here with me?

Not practical, I know.

But every note, every stanza of that Nocturne reminded me of you. Of us.

I hope I can share this with you in person. Until then, a little something else, in case Chopin just isn't your thing.

Love,

B

Click here

****

"Dork."

Kurt laughed at the final addition, a YouTube link from a Star Wars concert at the Bowl, replete with thousands of waving light sabers, but the rest of the email hardly left him laughing. In the note, he saw something he hadn't seen in a while: The Two Blaines.

Blaine Number One: The cheerleader. The puppy. The overachiever. The Alpha Gay.

This was the Blaine that Kurt had met on that staircase at Dalton so long ago, who would bounce with joy at the prospect of a new Katy Perry single, then knock it out of the park when he sang his own cover of it.

This was the Blaine he'd crushed on, hard, from the moment they met, who was a natural leader, a talented entertainer and a handsome hyper-enthusiast. 

It was the Blaine that was almost too good to be true.

As he read on, he saw signs of Blaine Number Two. This was the more complex Blaine, the Blaine who, though enormously talented, harbored anxieties over performance and self-esteem. The Blaine who took up boxing after being beaten within an inch of his life. The Blaine who put his passions as well as his challenges under a microscope and puzzled them out, trying to understand them and determined to master them.

If he crushed on Blaine Number One, he fell in love with the addition of Blaine Number Two, because while the second Blaine was flawed, he was also oh-so-human, and those failings made him so much more real to Kurt.

Blaine Number Two understood there was darkness in the world, but focused on creating a bright future. Blaine Number One was confident that it already existed, a fact that sometimes worried Kurt.

Blaine Number Two openly and freely confessed his loneliness, and spent time analyzing a summer concert for signs of love.

Since the end of high school, Blaine had come to terms with these two distinct sides of his personality and fused them into one complete Blaine. To see these counterpoints so clearly on display sent a shiver of worry through Kurt.

As much as the second Blaine's romance and longing tugged at Kurt's heart, he could not get past one comment in the earliest part of the note: "I can see that there's an intersection out there of the things that I'm good at and the things that I love. ... I'm pretty sure they meet up in my future."

And the one that cut through his heart: "It felt like home."

Did he not think of New York as home? Blaine clearly never felt completely at home at McKinley, just as he lacked a sense of permanence at Juilliard. He never even felt completely comfortable in his own family home, preferring to spend his time at the Hummel-Hudson household.

But it was always Kurt's perception that their apartment had given Blaine that sense of home he so often lacked -- if not for the Museum of Fine Neck Ware, then at least for the fact that it was theirs.

It felt like Blaine might be slipping away, and not just for a summer internship.