A week had passed without a letter, an email or the package Blaine had mentioned in his last postcard. It was unlike him, and Kurt spent more time than was healthy wondering what might have happened.

Even the Skype dates had fallen off. The closest they had come to communicating was a series of hasty texts, most involving plans, then rescheduled plans, then canceled plans, to meet online. 

The end result was that for the first time since Blaine's departure, a week had gone by  where they had not spoken to each other.

It was probably something as simple as a chaotic work schedule, but Blaine had found ways to work through that before. It could be that he was spending less time at home in the evenings. Like so many cities, Los Angeles was abuzz with events during the summer, so many of them linked to the music industry.

But he suspected that it could also be that Blaine, so enthusiastic about postcards and letters and words such a short time ago, may be frustrated or even angry with him. And Kurt knew that an angry, frustrated Blaine often materialized as a silent Blaine.

"It can't be this hard," Kurt muttered to himself, picking up his phone. Here it was, a Saturday night in New York City, and Kurt sat alone with his sketch pad, waiting and hoping for the phone to ring.

Six o'clock on a Saturday? He should be home. Kurt thought, seemingly having a conversation with the sketched figure of his design. 

He grabbed his phone and opened the contacts app. Blaine.

****

The first sound on the other end of the phone was the huff, huff, huff of someone terribly out of breath.

'Ugh. Hullo?'

"Blaine? Are you OK?"

"Kurt! Hey! Ugh ... The ringtone ... didn't ... register ... sorry."

"Are you alright?"

"Just got in the door ... early run ... about to jump in the shower." Blaine's voice and breathing gradually settled. With a last gusty breath, his voice returned to normal. "Whew. How are you?" 

"I'm fine. I just hadn't heard from you...."

"I know. I'm sorry Kurt. It's just been so insane all week."

"You never followed up your postcard last week. I never got your note."

"Oh, the package. I've been meaning to mail it. It's right here."

"Not the package, Blaine. I mean, I'm looking forward to seeing it and all, but you didn't write this week, at all. And I thought ... I expected ... "

"I thought maybe you were tired of the notes."

"Blaine, I wait for my note every week."

"You like the letters?"

"I love the letters. I love that you take the time to do that, that you do that for me. I may not always show it, but I love them, Blaine. I do."

The phone went silent, briefly. Kurt could have sworn that he heard the familiar hitch of breath, little more than a tiny hiccup of air over the receiver.

"OK," Blaine said, his soft voice full of forced casualness, but it was really the sound of relief. 

"I just miss you, and sometimes that doesn't come out right," Kurt said, "and now I've called just when you were getting ready to head out for the night."

"Some friends from work were catching the movie at the cemetery movie and invited me along."

"Excuse me?"

"They show movies outdoors at a cemetery on the weekends. It's a big thing -- picnics, a DJ, photo booth. It's a singalong Moulin Rouge tonight. So, um, yeah, I'm going to a party at the cemetery tonight."

Kurt didn't know whether to be aghast about the whole 'party at the cemetery' idea or be concerned about who Blaine was sharing his picnic blanket with. He had always thought of Moulin Rouge as one of their movies, one of the handful of films that they would watch together with drinks and snacks, mainly as an excuse to spend two hours cuddled together. That he was going with friends, without him, just felt wrong. He decided to put it out of his mind, a worry and discussion for another time.

"I shouldn't keep you," he said instead.

"Kurt, I promise to catch up. Tomorrow? Are you going to be around? We can Skype, and talk and just be together for awhile. I promise."

"Sure," Kurt said, trying hard not to sound disappointed. "I'm around all afternoon."

****

The line of picnickers snaked outside the gates of the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. Beyond their queue, cars lined up along Santa Monica Boulevard, waiting for the gates to open for the weekly event.

Each summer Saturday, the aging cemetery hosted the film series to raise funds for its  upkeep. Located in an industrial neighborhood -- wedged between the Paramount Studios back lot and the local businesses that cater to it -- it was an odd oasis of ponds, trees and wide expanses of grass. It was the final resting place of some of the giants of old Hollywood, from studio boss Cecil B. DeMille to screen legend Rudolf Valentino and mobster Bugsy Siegel.

The film series featured classics of both Hollywood's golden age and of recent pop culture. Each week, a couple of thousand fans would jostle for prime position to toss a blanket, set out a picnic and -- depending on how much liquor they had packed -- dance to the mix of a DJ who had set up a custom playlist based on the theme of the movie.

Though the series, known as Cinespia, was well known both in and outside Hollywood, it largely attracted a crowd of locals and hipsters, of which Christian and his friends were both.

He had urged Blaine to show up with his Vespa -- scooters, bicycles and motorcycles got first access to the grounds, which would be key to securing a central picnic spot. He had also been warned: Don't be fooled by the warm summer day. Bring a blanket, and a jacket. The cemetery can get cold at night. A little bottle of something wouldn't hurt warding off the chill, either.

It ended up that they had plenty of bottles, and food, once Christian's friends showed up, ready for a casual night out in their Topman skinny chinos, Jack Spade T-shirts and classic Chuck Taylor Converse sneakers. Being casual didn't mean foregoing fashion, one of them explained.

To Blaine, who lived with the embodiment of individualized fashion, the costly interpretation of "casual" didn't look much different than a Dalton suit: They dressed alike so that no one would risk standing out.

The party of six nibbled on chicken and fruit and guzzled wine, beer and absinthe cocktails, sharing a bag of iced animal crackers with their neighbors. They danced -- in what little room they had on their blankets -- to the DJ's eclectic Moulin Rouge-inspired mix of David Bowie, P!nk, Tom Jones and Edith Piaf, among others.

Blaine had to admit: What Christian's friends may have lacked in depth, they made up for in fun. 

****

Blaine had always loved Moulin Rouge: The color, the romance, the music -- the fact that he normally watched it under a blanket with Kurt snuggled into his shoulder. It was their go-to 'Let's suggle on the couch and watch a movie' movie. They'd sing along with the characters, Kurt a chanteuse and Blaine a penniless poet. It was a film that was engrained as an irrevocable part of their coupledom.

As the movie began, he happily sung along with the crowd, earning nods of approval from Christian and his friends s he belted out Lady Marmalade and Smells Like Teen Spirit. But it wasn't long before Blaine realized that something just wasn't quite right. He stopped, listened for a moment to the laughter and the voices and the joy and realized that he was in the wrong place, at the wrong time, for all the wrong reasons.

He excused himself, and delicately navigated the sea of picnic blankets, wine bottles and legs until he was free of the crowd at the periphery of the mausoleum lawn. He followed a winding cemetery road to a nearby lake and settled on a curb near Johnny Ramone's memorial, a lifelike statue of the New York punk rock icon, his guitar slung at hip level and eyes downcast.

Blaine had no idea how long he'd sat in Johnny's evening shadow before a figure approached, wine bottle in one hand, jacket in another.

"Well, what have we here?" Christian said, handing Blaine his jacket.  

"Thanks, but you didn't need to do that," Blaine said. The sound of hundreds of drunken voices singing Roxanne pierced the night. "You're missing the movie."

"I've seen it before. What's wrong?"

"I didn't want to spoil everyone's night. I probably shouldn't have come." Christian looked at him incredulously, but said nothing. "I have an attachment to this movie that  may not be healthy right now."

Christian reached over and touched Blaine's forearm, stroking it lightly. "It's not easy being so far apart, is it? I swear it can destroy the most solid relationships."

Blaine's flinch at the contact would have been almost imperceptible to anyone but himself.

"I'm sorry Christian. I appreciate the invite and all, but I just need to be alone for awhile."

Christian sat down on the curb next to Blaine and pulled the cork from the bottle.

"I think you and I have a lot more in common than you realize," he said, haphazardly pouring the first glass.

****

Blaine and Christian talked through the rest of the film, and through much of the DJ set that followed. Only when the cemetery was nearly cleared did Blaine say his goodbyes, grab the key to his scooter, zip up his jacket and prepare to leave.

Then he felt it: The dulled point of a boxed corner hitting him in the upper hip bone. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out what appeared to be some sort of jeweler's box.

Walking toward a street light, he opened it. Inside, a streamlined black drusy quartz heart, ringed by white gold and tipped with a solitary diamond.

****

"I can't accept this," Blaine said, nearly storming the reception bay Monday morning. 

"What? No 'Good morning, Susanna? Did you have a nice weekend?'," she said, hardly containing the grin creeping across her face.

"I can't accept this."

"Maybe I bought it for myself and forgot it in your pocket."

"Either way, you're getting it back," Blaine said. 

"C'mere, Blaine. Follow me. Can't do this without caffeine," she said, pushing him forward by his shoulder and directing him to the elevators. "Cameron's out today. Starbucks, stat."

He walked quietly, his head low, until they ordered her soy latte and his grande drip. They settled into two corner seats and Blaine leaned in to make his case. He was promptly stopped by an upheld palm, Susanna stopping him until she'd had her first sips of morning coffee.

"I know what you're going to say. It's sweet. Really, it is, Blaine, but I'm not changing my mind. I saw how you looked at it -- like that pendant wasn't going to be complete until it was relocated to Kurt's lapel."

"It doesn't matter," Blaine said. "I just can't."

"If you won't accept it, then what am I going to do with this?" she said, pulling a second jewelry box from her Coach bag.

Blaine gave her a resigned 'now what?' look, then reached for the box.

"If you won't take that black heart, then will you at least consider this?"

Blaine opened the box: The missing puzzle piece brooch. He stared at it for a moment, thumbed over its surface. Then he looked up at Susanna, tears forming in his eyes.

"Oh, honey. That was the right one, wasn't it?" she said softly, reaching out to take his hand in hers.

Blaine could only nod.

"I'll make you a deal. I'll keep the drusy heart, because, to be honest, I think it's gorgeous and I'm delighted to have an excuse to keep it. You take the silver heart and send it to your man."

"I can't really afford this either," Blaine said. While the puzzle heart was considerably less expensive that the stone, gold and diamond brooch, it was still well outside his budget.

"I don't care, Blaine. Consider it my investment in your happiness."

He looked up to her, tears in his eyes, and nodded. "I'm paying you back. Some day."

"You don't have to," she said, "But if that's what  you need, then it's a deal. Pay me back -- some day.

"Would you tell me one thing," she added. "What's the significance? Is there something more to it than the missing piece of your heart?"

"Yeah ... there is, but it's going to sound a little...." Blaine rolled his eyes, and tried again. "Remember how I told you about how Kurt and I met? That day at Dalton? The Warblers were about to perform, and I led Kurt to the commons so he could watch. The song ... kind of became our thing."

"And that was?"

"... I finally found you, my missing puzzle piece ..." Blaine sang quietly.

If the coffee hadn't sharpened Susanna's senses, the song did. She beamed.

"Teenage Dream -- it's your song?"

"Kurt wouldn't be caught dead calling a Katy Perry song our song, but it is. It's how we met. It stuck." He shrugged.

"I think it's lovely," Susanna said. "It's sweet. And this?" she said, holding the hand where he held the puzzle heart, "is perfect."

****

Kurt came home Tuesday to a delivery notice. He had just enough time to pick the package up at the FedEx store a few blocks away before closing time. He signed for the box, and rushed home to open it.

Inside, a letter, the envelope marked "Read Me First" in tidy Sharpie letters. Then another box, small and wrapped in simple brown paper and a raffia bow. One last piece of paper rattled around in the shipping container. A program, a flyer, from the singalong Moulin Rouge.

Dear Kurt,

I usually do this by email, and I usually send a postcard. But a funny thing about cemeteries -- postcards aren't big sellers. For Cinespia, there is no gift shop at all. So I thought I'd send you a letter -- a real, authentic, genuine, written-on-paper letter. Sent overnight.

So I'm mailing you this flyer to show that, yes, they do show movies in the cemetery. No, you do not picnic on the graves. It's a big, open grassy area outside the mausoleum, and the cemetery's very careful to keep people off the graves. Yes, it's fun. Tombstones and potential for creepy ghost stories aside, it's the sort of thing I think you'd really enjoy. There's music, and food and a lot of quality people-watching.

And I know I've said this a lot -- maybe so much that you're starting to tune it out -- but I wish you'd been there. Moulin Rouge, Kurt. Sing-along Moulin Rouge. Imagine the a couple of thousand people sprawled around a park, eating, drinking, dancing and singing along to Moulin Rouge. This is what good times are made of, right?

The problem was, I got part-way through the movie and I just couldn't anymore. I don't know how many times we've watched it together, but no matter what the environment, no matter how great the picnic or how good the DJ was, no matter how good the company was, I just couldn't. I went and sat in the graves, Kurt. Talk about symbolism. I sat there at the Johnny Ramone memorial and listened to everyone sing and thought how wonderful it would have been if it had just been you and me, how this was a perfect night for us and how you haven't even really been willing to talk about even visiting me here ... and it hurt, Kurt.

And I know it's not all your fault.

The past week or two has been difficult. When I'm with you, it's like everything's in balance. But the more I see, the more I do, I'm just reminded that I'm not doing it with you, and it just doesn't feel right. It isn't complete.

I should have had a great time at that movie last night. Great food. Great company. Great movie. Great surrounding.

And I hated it. 

It's time for me to dig myself out of this hole. I came here to build a better future for      myself and for us, and that's what I intend to do. I may never feel complete without you, but I also know that I'll never be complete if I don't do this for myself.

So I'm going to keep going. I'm going to finish this, no matter how much I may miss you. And maybe I should stop asking you to come see me, but I'm not going to stop doing that, either. I'm going to write, and I'm going to hope and I'm going to keep missing you, but I'm not going to stop.

Because I'll never be complete without you, Kurt. 

With all my heart,

B

Feeling a little shell-shocked, Kurt picked up the neatly-wrapped box. He pulled at the raffia, peeled off the tape and worked the box from its brown-paper womb. A jeweler's box. 

Uncertain about Blaine's mixed signals, he opened it.

Inside, a silver jigsaw puzzle heart, missing its central piece.