April: Rio de Janeiro

It was happening again.

No phone calls, no messages, no texts. Absolutely nothing, except the short but sweet Did you land safely? once he was back at JFK airport.

And it crushed Kurt to know that he knew the reason why. He knew it deep within himself, in the very fibres of his body.

It was because he'd been stupid and reckless, and had emotionally confessed to thinking he loved Blaine minutes after they'd had sex.

Idiot, idiot, idiot.

Why had he done it? Why had he let his emotions get the better of him in the heat of the moment? Now, he'd been left with nothing. He'd scared him off and ruined his chances; he knew that he had. Why else would Blaine ignore him so absolutely?

Putting his head in his hands where he was sitting slumped over on his couch, a horrible realisation dawned on him. Maybe he only ever wanted me for sex, he thought. And when I told him I thought I loved him, he panicked. Panicked because I'd been naïve enough to fall for the first good-looking flight attendant I see.

Kurt was at a loss and had no idea what to do. He couldn't confide in Rachel about his failure; he certainly couldn't tell his father, or Finn. Perhaps Carole would understand, but he couldn't risk her repeating his woes to his dad.

It was ironic that the person he felt he would have confided in....was Blaine. It felt like a cruel trick played on his heart by the universe, a "Ha ha, you're a dumbass!" kind of joke, the one where the person was being pointed at by the fingers of a thousand laughing spectators as they sat and observed his humiliation.

Rubbing his face exasperatedly, he replayed those three days in London over and over in his head, looking for any sign he might not have spotted at the time that signified that this was all one big joke.

He found none, except the joke played on him when he'd said, "I think I love you".

He'd gone over and over his decision to blurt it out, searching for an answer that didn't involve him realising that he had been completely out of his own control. Or rather, he had been in control but simply hadn't exercised it at the right time.

Flopping backwards onto the couch, he let out a puff of air, frowning to himself and for once not caring about the development of premature frown lines. He'd have to intensify his nightly skincare ritual because of this. What am I going to do? He thought to himself. This is a disaster. I feel like I've been betrayed, like I've been lead to believe one thing only for reality to turn out to be another.

Had Blaine even wanted to be with him at all?

Kurt replayed every single moment they'd spent together in his mind. Their first meeting, their first kiss, the bath that they'd spent together in Rome, the nights they'd spent together in London....had it all been a ruse? Smoke and mirrors, to take advantage of him and leave him hanging like this?

It wasn't fair. None of this was fair.

He miserably thumped one of the cushions, watching as it bounced off the back of the couch and onto the floor. On any other day he would have picked it right up and put it back in its proper place, but not today. He even ignored the stack of order forms for various suit jackets in all colours of the rainbow for - ironically - Vogue's Pride issue. That particular task could wait.

In fact, he pretty much felt like staying on this couch for the rest of the foreseeable future.

But he knew that it would be impossible to do that, however tempting it may have seemed; he had work to go to, places to visit, people to meet with. He had to remember to buy groceries and feed the neighbour's cat, since she was on vacation in the Bahamas. He had to do a whole number of different things and do them all exceptionally, because that was what his work colleagues, friends and family expected of him.

So why did he feel so depressed at this one teensy, tiny little thing?

It's because it isn't just a teensy, tiny little thing. This is a huge deal and I have no idea what I'm going to do about it. What kind of guy just abandons someone after sex? What kind of guy just abandons someone, period? Have I been that stupid all along to think that this actually meant something?

It was at times like these that Kurt wished he had a pet to confide it, a  cat or a dog or even a goldfish, just for someone - or was it something? - to talk to. Somehow his favourite pillow wasn't the same, no matter the amount of nights he'd spent crying into it over the years for various reasons.

Looking for a distraction, he turned on the TV and began flipping through the channels, hoping that a re-run of Desperate Housewives or a show about animals doing stupidly entertaining things might pull him out of his despair. Sadly, there was no such distraction to be found. The far too energetic presenter on Animals Do the Funniest Things had teeth as white as milk and his curly hair reminded him of Blaine.

It was no use. He'd never be able to get this out of his mind. He'd never be able to get Blaine out of his mind. The way he'd felt, the way his lips had brushed his skin and the smell of sweat that had filled the room afterwards, when they were just holding each other, basking in what was generally referred to as the 'afterglow' - but it seemed like the afterglow had dimmed to a dull single bulb swinging from the bare ceiling, plunging everything into half-darkness.

Pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, Kurt turned off the TV again, the inane chatter of the people on the screen making his nerves stand on end. He'd been dumb and stupid and reckless and naïve and an idiot, and now he was paying for it. If you looked up 'dumbass' in the dictionary, you'd find the name Kurt Hummel.

He'd done a lot of regrettable things in his life, but this one hurt the most. The worst thing was, he'd meant every word he'd said and had, for once, not lied about his feelings, the way he almost always had done to avoid hurting the feelings of the other person. Pretty stupid mistake to make, isn't it?

The knowledge that he'd been honest should have given him some kind of comfort. Honesty was the best policy, after all - wasn't it? Or had he been wrong about that, too?

I just can't believe I've fucked everything up.

It didn't get any better over the next few days. Every morning, Kurt would check his phone before even getting out of bed, hoping against hope that there would be a message, any kind of message, with the ID Blaine attached to it. And, every time he checked, the screen of his cellphone remained blank. Nothing. No communication at all, whatsoever.

Not even a smiley face, which he had taken to texting to Kurt at various times throughout the day, a virtual pick-me-up that always put a matching smile on his face.

To make matters even worse, Rachel started asking questions. About his trip, about Blaine, about whether or not they'd spoken and how often and for how long; she even asked about the....intimate details of their 'relationship' as she dubbed it, and Kurt felt himself cringing painfully when she did.

Relationship. The word felt strange and foreign in his head. Was that what they had - a relationship? What was even considered a relationship? From Kurt's experience, he would guess that two people had to be dating for a specific amount of time before 'dating' became a 'relationship'. That logic would dictate that he and Blaine weren't. They'd spent two vacations together and that was that. They hardly ever saw each other.

Did that mean they were in a relationship? Probably not. But if they weren't, then what were they in? An arrangement? Friends with benefits? Casual fuck buddies? The very thought made Kurt's skin crawl. That was something reserved for the likes of Noah Puckerman, an old friend from high school whom he hadn't heard from for a long time.

When Rachel called one night and he forgot to reject the call, she pounced on him like a cheetah on a piece of meat.

"How are you?" she demanded before Kurt could take a breath.

"Fantastic." he lied as cheerfully as possible. "Everything is great."

"You're lying to me." she said. Dammit. He could hear Jesse moving around in the background, clattering pots and pans; a couple of weeks after Kurt had returned from London, she'd  moved back in with him.

"Rachel, I'm fine. Really. I'm okay."

"No, you're not. You're miserable and you've been moping." Rachel said.

"How could you possibly know that? You haven't seen me!" Kurt replied.

"I called your father after you refused to speak to me for three days." she said. "He said you've sounded distant lately."

"You....you called my dad?" Kurt asked in disbelief. How dare she! It's not her place to stick her enormous Jewish nose in my business.

"I was worried about you. I did you a favour." she said matter-of-factly. "Now, are you going to tell me what's wrong or not?"

"No." Kurt replied flatly.

"No?" Now it was Rachel's turn to sound disbelieving. "Kurt, I thought we were friends!" she wailed.

"We are friends, but that doesn't mean I have to tell you every single thing going on in my life." Kurt pointed out grumpily.

"So there is something going on!" Rachel cried. "I knew it! You're keeping secrets from me!"

Kurt let out an exasperated sigh.

"Rachel, I am not keeping anything from you. I just want some space, that's all. You're acting like I'm your fiancée and not Jesse. How are things between you now, by the way?"

"Don't change the subject." Rachel snapped. She's good, Kurt thought bitterly. Better than I give her credit for, actually. "I won't fall for that old trick.."

"Can we do this another time?" Kurt asked - no, pleaded - in an effort to get her off the phone.

Rachel huffed so loudly she sounded like the Big Bad Wolf who blew down the house of the Three Little Pigs. Well, the one made of hay, anyway. He smiled a little at the thought of the old story his mother used to read to him as a kid. He remembered sitting up in bed eagerly, hearing her voice as she imitated the low growl of the wolf.

He knew he was getting distracted and that Rachel would get impatient soon, so he shook himself out of the memory.

"Well? Can we?" he said.

"Can we what?" Rachel asked.

"Can we do this another time?" he repeated.

"Fine." Rachel said. "But don't think you're getting out of this one, Kurt Hummel."

Kurt put the phone down, annoyed and not feeling much better. Conversations with Rachel tended to have that effect on people and this one was no exception. Mostly he was annoyed that she'd related her worries to his father, who would no doubt now worry himself about Kurt's wellbeing, and he didn't want that to happen. The less his father worried about him, the better.

Sufficiently disgruntled, he decided that he might as well get round to those suit jacket order forms and carried them into the bedroom, intending to look over them before he went to sleep. He pulled off his clothes, grateful to be removing his formal pants and shirt, to change into his pyjamas when he stopped.

The unmistakable scent of Blaine's skin still clung to the soft, warn fabric, almost knocking him backwards and leaving him reeling in the lamplight. It was faint, but it was there, a lingering scent that made his eyes water with the memory of London and romance and disappointment.

Pushing the welling feeling of despair aside, he pulled on the pyjamas quickly and slipped into bed, covering himself up as much as possible. He tried not to dwell on the images and thoughts that floated to the forefront of his mind, concentrating instead on the order forms in his lap. But the words blurred and swam in front of him, making it impossible to concentrate on the task at hand. The letters jumped around on the page and made no sense. Eventually, he abandoned them and left them on the nightstand. I'll take them into work tomorrow.

He tired to sleep, but relaxation evaded him. He tossed and turned, trying everything he could possibly imagine to not think of Blaine but failing miserably. His smile, the way he laughed, the way his eyes sparkled when he was happy, filled his mind's eye as if imprinted onto the inside of his eyelids. It made his stomach tighten uncomfortably and his throat become dry, as real as if he really were in the room with him.

He didn't dream, but instead had a rather horrible nightmare in which he was back in London, with Blaine, only to be abandoned at the side of a dark street after being thrown from a taxi. He was also, for some reason, naked.

Needless to say, he'd woken in the middle of the night drenched in a cold sweat, his heart beating fast in his chest and his arms and legs shaking.

I can't go on like this. I have to call him.

But what if he doesn't want to talk to me?

What do I do then?

*************************************************************************************

He waited another week before attempting to call Blaine.

Spring was in full swing; daffodils had sprung up along the flowerbeds in the garden at the front of the apartment block, which was tended to by the elderly woman who lived on the ground floor. The air was warm and the sky bright, save for the odd cloud here and there. Every morning, Kurt was awoken not by the sound of his alarm clock, but by the birds twittering in the trees outside his window.

Everything was as it should have been, and yet Kurt still felt.....considerably low. The weight of Blaine's absence hung over him like a dark cloud, and knowing that Blaine was out there in New York somewhere made Kurt's heart clench painfully. Whenever he saw a plane streaking through the air, he thought to himself,  is Blaine on that flight? If he is, where is he going?

He was sitting in his office, chin in his hand, staring into space when he worked up the courage to do it. He had told Victoria earlier that he didn't want to be disturbed; no one would interrupt him.

He had to force himself to press the keys to dial Blaine's cellphone number, nerves closing around his throat like a vice. Kurt had no idea what he would say, but he knew that he just had to hear the sound of Blaine's voice.

He pressed Call. It started to ring. Oh God, what if this all goes wrong?

It rang several more times. Again, and again. And again.

The answering machine clicked on.

"Hey, it's Blaine here, I obviously can't get to my cell right now so leave a message and I'll call you back later!"

Kurt's spirits sank, but he still felt.....relieved? It meant that he wouldn't have to deal with talking to Blaine directly, but at the same time, knowing that he hadn't answered was usually a warning sign that something was up.

If someone didn't answer your call, it either meant that they were busy....or that they were ignoring you. Kurt wasn't sure which option was more true. He hoped it was the former, but there was a much bigger chance that it was the latter, and it made him feel used.

He didn't bother leaving a message. He hung up the call immediately.

Maybe if I pretend to be ill, my supervisor will let me leave early and I can just go home, he thought. He really didn't feel like staying here all day. Kurt usually loved his job; but he didn't right now. It just depressed him.

One more hour, he told himself. One more hour and then I'll make some excuse to leave. This wasn't like him at all, but he couldn't stand it. It was almost unbearable. He was itching to call Blaine's cell again, just to hear his voice on the answering machine whilst wondering why he was acting so strangely, so distant with him; as if he didn't even want to know him. Maybe Blaine really was one of those calculating guys in movies, the cad who slept with the girl - or in this case, guy - and never called her (him) again. The one that everybody hated because he was cold, clever and manipulative. He'd seen enough movies in his lifetime to know how it worked.

He just never expected it to happen to him, and certainly not from someone like Blaine, who had been so kind, so sweet, so caring and loving and gentlemanly and everything Kurt could ever have wished for - and more.

It just wasn't fair.

I officially hate men. I hate them. I'm better off spending time with women. Hell, I'm better off spending time with Rachel than I am with men.

This sucks.

If it was even possible, his low mood reached even lower and he eventually made up a lie to Victoria about feeling ill, telling her to push back his meetings and assignments to the following day because he was going home. She wished him all the best and hoped he'd feel better soon; he didn't return her optimism.

But then things got even worse.

First, he discovered that the kitchen sink had leaked and a huge puddle of water had accumulated on the kitchen floor, soaking the bottoms of his shoes and pants and making him curse out loud so loudly that the woman who lived across the hall poked her head around her door and asked if everything was okay.

Secondly, whilst trying to mop up said huge puddle with several kitchen towels, he slipped due to the fact that his (expensive) loafers had very little grip on the soles, landing hard on his left leg and feeling a sharp, shooting pain spread through his ankle.

Thirdly, he had collided with the kitchen cupboards when he fell and knocked off one of his best glasses, which then shattered on the floor close to his left hand.

With a leaking sink, sprained ankle and dangerously close to cutting his fingers on the shards of broken glass, he suddenly started to cry, not even knowing how or why the tears had simply welled up and spilled over, burning his cheeks.

He didn't care that the door to the apartment was wide open and that anyone could see in and spot him there, half-lying on the floor. In any other circumstance he would be severely embarrassed, or rather humiliated, and would attempt to get up on his injured foot and go about his business. But right now, none of that crossed his mind. Perhaps I'll just stay here until someone walks past the apartment and finds me.

It was almost comical; the scene something similar to something you'd find in the old black and white slapstick movies his dad sometimes watched. But it wasn't funny and it wasn't something that was staged in front of a camera. Kurt would actually say that it was quite possibly the lowest point in his life since he'd met Blaine.

He was vaguely aware of the water from the sink seeping into the fabric of his pants, damp and slimy against his skin. He was also vaguely aware that yet more water was spreading rapidly across the tiled floor, coming from underneath the cupboard where the plumbing from the sink was strategically hidden.

Oh, God. I'm living in a nightmare.

Gripping the edge of the counter as best he could, he tried heaving himself up, shuddering at the way his damp pants stuck to his legs. He gritted his teeth against the searing pain in his ankle, which now felt like jello and was probably already starting to swell. If I can just get over to the couch, I can assess the damage, he thought.

He gingerly took a tiny step forward, keeping tight hold of the kitchen counter and trying his best to avoid the growing puddle of water. The pain in his ankle had intensified; it was now a throbbing pain, the worst kind, and it seemed to pulse under the tender skin. Baby steps, Kurt, he told himself. Don't try and run over there at once.

He had no choice. He would have to resort to hopping on one leg in flamingo fashion if he wanted to get over to the couch without doing more damage to his foot.

This could not be any more humiliating, he thought as he began to hop towards the couch, throwing his arms out in order to keep his balance. There was a two-and-a-half metre gap between the kitchen and the couch and he hoped that he would be able to make it.

He did. Gripping the arm of the couch he deposited himself back against the cushions, carefully placing his injured foot straight out in front of him. In this position, it was impossible for him to sit upright and therefore he was lying lengthways across the couch. It was uncomfortable against his back, which was aching from sitting in an office chair all day - well, most of the day - but he'd take the discomfort if it meant taking some of the pain away from his ankle.

Unfortunately it meant that leaning over to untie his shoe was rather difficult from this angle.

Stretching his arm as far as he could manage, he tried untying the lace of his loafer one-handed, which proved as much of a challenge as he imagined climbing Everest would be. He eventually got the shoe and his sock off and then had to hold back a gasp as he realised that the damage was worse than he'd thought it was.

His foot was swollen and tender, the skin red and already starting to turn purple with bruising. There was a dark shadow of a bruise on his big toe which spread across the instep of his foot. It wouldn't be long before it turned purple and too painful to touch. Kurt knew that with a sprain this severe, he wouldn't be able to walk - let alone go to work - for weeks.

Why does everything bad in my life have to happen at once? He thought bitterly. If only I had Blaine. But he's ignoring me and won't call me. He must have known I called him, but he hasn't called back. Maybe on some level I knew he wouldn't.

I miss him already.

The truth of this fact hit him like a speeding truck; he did miss Blaine. He missed him terribly. Those three days in London had not been nearly enough time and he had left longing for more, wishing that their schedules were not so horribly conflicted so that they could see each other more often. It, to use the crude phrase, sucked. It sucked badly. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt such longing for someone, a feeling so intense that it both scared and thrilled him.

His foot suddenly gave a particularly painful throb, making his leg jerk with the force of it. He bit his lip to keep from crying out; the door was still open and he didn't want anybody to hear him. He wished that someone was with him, so that he wasn't stuck on the couch like an invalid, unable to walk the few steps to the kitchen or even to the bathroom.

Oh, crap, how am I going to use the bathroom? I'm going to need one of those Zimmer frames that old people have and I'm only twenty-three!

Feeling dejected, in pain and lonely, he pillowed one of the cushions from the couch under his head and rested on it. It made his shoulders ache, but he really didn't care at this point.

His eyes fluttered closed, and he dreamt of Blaine.

****************************************************************************************************

Sometime around 8pm, Kurt awoke with a stiff neck and cramp in both legs, and for a moment was too disorientated to remember where he was.

And then a dull pain from somewhere in the region of his lower leg brought him back to the present, and he remembered coming home and falling in the kitchen, spraining his ankle. He also remembered that the sink was probably still leaking and that he would have to call the landlord as soon as possible to arrange for it to be fixed.

Shit.

Then he remembered the broken glass on the floor.

Shit, shit.

It just wasn't his month, was it? Everywhere he looked, something seemed to crumble from beneath him.

Reaching behind his head, he switched on the lamp that stood on the table next to the couch to allow some light to see by. And yes, he was right; the sink was still leaking, he could see the lamplight reflected dimly in the puddle of water that had now spread the entire tiled kitchen area.

He also really, really needed to pee.

I need to do this carefully, he thought, manoeuvring himself into a better sitting position.  I'll just have to be really, really slow.

He set his good foot down on the carpet, swinging his body round so that he was facing forward. He was still wearing one loafer - he bent down to take it off, and his cellphone was knocked to the floor.

Is the universe conspiring against me? He thought sarcastically, reaching down for it with a loud huff of annoyance and general disapproval.

3 missed calls from Blaine.

Kurt's breath caught in his throat and his heart hammered hard and fast. 3 missed calls from Blaine. Blaine had tried to call him whilst he'd been sleeping. He'd tried to call him and Kurt hadn't answered.

He didn't know which was worse. Knowing that he had and he'd missed him, or that he had and Kurt had thought of him so badly for not calling him before now. But had he only called because Kurt had called him first?

There's only one way to find out, the little voice in Kurt's mind piped up. Call him back.

I can't do that.

Why not?

I just can't. What would I say? I've put my foot in it once. I'm not going to make the same mistake again.

If you really meant what you said to him, you'd do it.

I do. I do mean it. It's just a little more complicated than that.

Complicated how?

You wouldn't understand, you're just my annoying subconscious who thinks they're right all the time.

Yes, he realised that he'd just had a conversation with himself inside his own head about the matter but he was no longer surprised. Maybe he was going quite literally crazy. It would certainly take the edge off the heartache that he felt whenever he thought about Blaine.

Heartache. I feel like a teenage girl.

He stared at the little blue notification box on the screen of his phone, which still read 3 missed calls from Blaine. It felt like an accusation, but of what he didn't know.

If he called him back, it would mean that he was willing to accept Blaine's ignorance of him and his strange reaction in London to Kurt's confession of love. It would mean telling him that it was okay to just drop him, to avoid contacting him, to avoid anything to do with him. Which, of course, wasn't okay at all. And he would be damned if he let Blaine think that it was.

But yet....he cared for him, deeply. Ignoring him back would be just as bad, though a good form of revenge for his callousness. He cared for him too much to behave so ruthlessly, and yet.....his mind and heart told him different things. His mind told him to not bother with him, to ignore him if he attempted to call again. His heart, on the other hand, told him that if he really thought he loved him, then he would forgive him.

But was there really anything to forgive?

That was the question at the back of Kurt's mind. Was it so bad as to warrant mercy, or not? More to the point, did he really want to forgive him?

The answer was yes. Yes, he did.

And to be honest, if anything he just wanted somebody to talk to. If it was Blaine, it would be a thousand times better.

************************************************************************************

Kurt didn't need to call Blaine back. He called him, the following morning.

Kurt had managed to get to his bedroom the previous evening, hopping on his one good foot whilst keeping the injured one as elevated as possible. In the spur of the moment, he tore a strip off the bottom of the fitted sheet on the bed and wrapped it around his ankle as tightly as he could endure, a makeshift sling until he could call a doctor to come and examine it properly.

He now adjusted the extra pillow he'd placed under it to keep it elevated as he reached for his phone, which was buzzing incessantly on the nightstand. He had to perform moves only seen during gymnastics performances to get to it, but it became worth it when he saw who it was.

Incoming call from Blaine.

Once again, his heart beat like a hummingbird's wings inside his chest as he debated for a split second whether or not to take the call. His thumb hovered over the Accept Call button as it continued to ring, his mind torn but his heart telling him that he was doing the right thing if he pressed that button.

So he did.

There was silence on the other end of the line for a few minutes. He could hear the shallow sounds of Blaine's breath, the way he swallowed convulsively before speaking.

"Hello?" Kurt said, hopeful but reluctant. If he prompted him first, he could maybe get an explanation out of him. An admittance. Maybe even a confession.

Silence.

"If you're not going to say anything, why did you call me?" he asked, a little more impatient this time. He didn't understand it. Why call, and not speak? Was it some kind of trick, a prank?

More silence. He knew Blaine was there; he could hear him.

"I'm sorry." Blaine eventually said, so quietly that Kurt had to strain his ears to hear what he was saying. "I-I can't.....I  can't do it."

"Can't do what?" Kurt asked, gripping the phone so tightly against his ear that his palm had become sweaty, though he wasn't sure whether it was entirely from the grip alone or nervous perspiration.

"This."

One word. One single word and Kurt felt as though a ton of bricks had fallen on his head, crushing him into the mattress, right into the ground. Flattened, as if he'd been run over by a steamroller. Squashed like a fly.

"Why?" The demand was on his lips like a shot; tears pricked behind his eyes, and although he knew that Blaine couldn't see them, he hoped that he could hear them in the sound of his voice.

"It's too complicated, Kurt. I wish it wasn't, but.....it's....it's n-not going to w-work." Kurt noticed the way that Blaine stuttered over the words, but felt too numb, too hurt to truly register that fact at the given moment.

"What are you saying?" Kurt whispered, his voice thick with the tears he was desperate not to shed; he'd done his fair share of crying over the last day or so.

"I can't see you. I can't. I'm just not ready." Blaine explained, "I thought I was, but I'm...but I'm not. I'm not. I'm really, really sorry."

"You're not!" Kurt cried, "you're not sorry! I know you're not!" He was properly crying now, tears streaming hot and fast down his face and neck, down his pyjama shirt. He fisted the hem angrily, furiously, twisting the material in his hand as though it had caused him personal pain.

"I am, I really am." Blaine said. "I don't want to do this."

"Then why are you, Blaine? You can't just - you can't just get my hopes up like that, after so long.....seven fucking months....." Kurt was gasping for breath, unable to form words around the lump wedged at the back of his throat.

Something seemed to spark within him then; a rage of sorts, an anger incomprehensible to him at the time. He was clutching his phone so hard that his knuckles turned white with strain, matching the pallor of his face.

"You know what? Don't....don't bother calling me again." He said sharply. "I don't want you to."

"I won't, then." Blaine said, his voice soft, smooth. A voice that would normally have Kurt's legs turning to soup. "If you don't want me to."

"I don't." I do.

"Okay."

"And Blaine?"

"Yes?"

I love you.

"Fuck you."

*****************************************************************************************************************

He was being sent to Rio de Janeiro. Two days from now.

Kurt had picked up the call with swollen eyes and shaking hands, not having moved from his bed for the better part of the morning. He hadn't even gone to work, using the excuse he'd given the previous afternoon about feeling unwell to get him out of it. He'd felt too miserable to face the day and there was no point bringing his sprained ankle into the equation. It would only complicate things further.

But Rio de Janeiro. The heart of music, culture, colour and vibrancy. The heart of samba music and carnivals and the finest Portuguese cuisine.

He was going to one of the most exciting places on earth and he just didn't....want to.

The very thought of getting on a plane right now made him feel sick to his stomach, and the slightest chance of seeing Blaine was....well, it was too much for him to handle right now. It was ironic, this time around five months ago he was begging for an assignment that would take him abroad to another country in the hope that he would catch sight of the flight attendant with the nice ass that he had become so interested in.

How different things were now.

Because he and Blaine no longer had a ‘thing'. They didn't have any ‘thing'. Nothing at all. Not anymore.

He hopped into the kitchen and made himself some extra strong coffee, stronger than he usually took it, and then heaped in double the amount of sugar he would normally have. Unsweetened nonfat wouldn't help him now - he would have to pull out the big guns if he wanted his mood to resemble some kind of normalcy by tomorrow morning.

I might as well go all out and use full-fat milk, too, he thought. It's not going to get any worse if I do. He poured in said milk and took the mug to the couch, still hopping - albeit very gingerly to avoid spilling the coffee - on his good foot. It hurt less now, but was still a little swollen and extremely tender.  He took a sip and almost relished the way the too-hot drink burned his throat on the way down.

The trouble was, the more he tried not to think about Blaine, it was all that he could do. His face swam in his mind's eye as though burned onto his eyelids, a permanent tattoo that only reminded him of the emotional pain that he was feeling.

And the kitchen sink still needed fucking fixing.

At least most of the water had evaporated overnight, and it seemed like the leaking had stopped, so it was safe to go into the kitchen. He still had to avoid the broken glass, however.

He suddenly remembered that he couldn't go to Rio de Janeiro anyway - his ankle made him unable to navigate his own apartment safely without hopping like a flamingo, there was no way he'd make it around Rio on one foot. He would have to call the Vogue offices and tell them to send someone else, that he couldn't do it.

Screw them if they complained.

As he sat there drinking his coffee and hoping that the red swelling around his eyes would go down soon in case someone saw him, he let himself wallow in misery. If there was one thing he was good at doing when things were hard, it was wallowing. He'd wallowed quite effectively after being rejected from NYADA; he'd wallowed when Rachel announced her engagement to Jesse and he realised he would probably spend the next five years single.

When he thought about it, it was kind of foreshadowing the situation that he was in right now.

But he felt even worse when he realised that he wouldn't be able to drive to the store for cheesecake and no restaurants or bakeries in the neighbourhood did takeout.  Not that he really expected them to.

Maybe I'll just call Rachel and ask her to bring me some. She can call the landlord whilst she's here and get him to bring someone in to fix the sink because I certainly don't know how to. I grew up a mechanic, not a plumber.

Once he'd called her - dodging her questions for the time being about why he needed cheesecake at three in the afternoon and why he wasn't at work - she was knocking on the door within the hour.

She was also holding a deliciously tempting-looking cheesecake.

"Why is your floor wet?" she asked, standing on tiptoes to save her shoes - a birthday gift from Kurt last year - as she put the cheesecake on the table and rummaged in his cupboards for a plate and fork. She must have known instinctively that he wouldn't require just one slice - he had been known to eat a whole cheesecake by himself in times of sheer desperation. Sometimes even two cheesecakes.

She brought it over and plonked herself down next to him, unwinding a pale blue scarf from around her neck. She gasped when she saw the makeshift bandage around his ankle.

"What did you do?" she asked, peering close to inspect the bruised skin.

"I slipped in the kitchen." He said, his throat raspy from all the previous crying. "The sink leaked."

"Which is why the floor is wet?" she asked.

Kurt nodded.

She looked at his face critically, her eyebrows knotted in concern. He helped himself to forkful of cheesecake; strawberry and lime, his favourite. Just the right amount of creaminess in the texture to balance out the sweetness of the strawberries and the zing of the lime. He'd tried baking his own cheesecake once, but it hadn't gone so well.

"You've been crying, haven't you?" Her voice softened; it wasn't an accusation, just an enquiry. But Kurt wasn't sure he wanted to answer. He avoided replying by swallowing another forkful of dessert.

"You have." Rachel answered herself. "Your eyes are all small and piggy."

"Thanks, Rachel." Kurt said sarcastically through yet another bite of cheesecake.

Her face became serious, something that should have set off alarm bells in Kurt's head. It was the face she made when she was determined.

"Are you being physically satisfied?"

Kurt spat out the cheesecake he'd been in the middle of eating, his face turning a dark shade of pink.

"What?"

"Because, Kurt, I think you're lonely. And lonely people aren't physically satisfied, and when people aren't physically satisfied they become angry and aggressive and will eventually die alone." She concluded, leaving Kurt staring at her disbelief.

He'd called looking for some sympathy, and he gets this?

"That's none of your business." He said tightly, refusing to let the memories of a certain afternoon in a certain London hotel push themselves to the forefront of his mind; not now.

"Oh, but it is. You're sad, Kurt. I don't want you to be sad."

"Blaine doesn't want to see me anymore." Kurt said in a fast rush, in order to make it as painless as possible. "He called me this morning."

Rachel's mouth gaped open, giving her the appearance of a stunned goldfish.

"Oh, Kurt." She gushed sympathetically, rubbing his arm in what she probably thought was a comforting gesture. If Kurt was honest, it just made him feel worse. He hated pity.

"It's fine." He said, stabbing at the cheesecake with his fork and shovelling it into his mouth dejectedly. "I'm dealing with it."

"Clearly you're not, since I got you cheesecake and I know you've been crying." Rachel replied. "Don't you dare lie to me."

Eventually, Kurt had to give in. "Fine." He set the cheesecake aside on the table for later. He had a feeling he was going to need it.

"I feel like somebody's reached through my chest and crushed my heart in their first." He admitted, his head hanging. He folded his arms uncomfortably, a clear sign that he was upset. "I just can't believe I got my hopes up so high, only to be disappointed. Again."

"It can't all be bad. Can it?"

"He told me that it wasn't going to work and that he couldn't do "this" anymore, but he didn't even tell me what "this" was." Kurt sniffed, the tears threatening to return.

Rachel made her ‘focused' face, which meant furrowing her eyebrows until they became one brow and screwing up her mouth so it looked as small and puckered as a newborn baby's.

"I should have got you two cheesecakes instead of one." She announced a few moments later. "You'll need them."

"Is this supposed to help?" Kurt asked grumpily, resuming his consumption of the first cheesecake. "I can't work for six weeks because of my ankle. At least, I can't go into the office."

"You could work from home." Rachel suggested. "You've done that before."

"I don't want to." Kurt sighed. "I don't feel like doing anything."

Rachel shook her head. "You really have fallen for him, haven't you?"

"Yeah." Kurt wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. "I think I have."

She looked at him sympathetically for a few minutes, the same way a person might look at the last dog in the pound that nobody else wanted. Kurt wasn't sure if it was supposed to make him feel better or not. She gestured for him to move closer to her and, being careful of his injured ankle, she pulled him into a not unpleasant, rather comforting hug.

He'd forgotten how good her hugs could be.

Resting his head on her shoulder, he allowed himself at least to try and forget everything that had happened, and instead tried to think of what could happen if things did work out.

The following morning, he called work and told them he couldn't make it. They sent one of the newer interns, Jessica, to Rio instead.

He was relieved. The worst had been avoided.....for now, at least.