Blaine counted.

While watching the three men unload obscenely expensive, beautifully crafted rugs she pulled out the words "bastard," and the oh-so-eloquent "cocksucking bastard," several times (in reference to her husband).

Tensions are high now, all four of them still reeling from the emotions of the day. Antonio heaves exasperated sighs and glares at Deidre while she continues to talk trash and hurl obscenities at every single little thing, living or dead.

Blaine does his best to ignore it, choosing instead to watch Kurt move, make decisions, change his mind, give in to impatience, contemplate, hum and softly sing what sounds like an old Florence & The Machine song under his breath. Kurt mediates, keeping Antonio and Deidre at least five feet apart. Every so often he smiles apologetically at Blaine and mouths, "Sorry," or, "It's fine if you want to just go." Each time he does this, Blaine just shrugs his shoulders like none of it matters and shakes his head. He's not going anywhere.

They're hours into the rug relocation/optimal placement dance when Antonio quietly invites Kurt and Blaine to join him for Friday night dinner at Alex Marin House. Deidre must have supersonic hearing, because almost immediately she sidles up behind him and says, "Are you fucking serious, Kurt? I thought we were going out. Haven't we spent enough time with this judgmental asshole? You know he hates me. His wife will hate me even more, because that's what they do, jealous, prissy motherfuckers—"

Apparently, the word "motherfucker" is the last straw.

"That's it!" Antonio shouts, lunging for Deidre. She ducks behind Kurt; Blaine does his best to hold Antonio back. It's a bit like trying to wrangle a charging bull, but Blaine is strong, and Antonio doesn't really have it in him to hurt anyone, anyway. He just wants to scare the living crap out of her.

Kurt turns to face Deidre and grabs hold of her upper arms. "Now you listen to me, crazy girl. I'm going to tell you something that could probably cost me this contract, and many future contracts, but I have to do it, because otherwise I might slap you. And despite my commitment to pacifism, if I slap you, it will hurt. It will hurt like a bitch. And I don't want to hurt you, Deidre. I don't. I just want you to zip it. Zip it for all good people. Just bottle up all of your pain and keep it to yourself for one night like a good little socialite. Drown your neuroses in booze and pills, I don't care. Just shut. The fuck. Up."

Kurt's speech leaves Deidre stunned and quiet, Antonio amazed, and Blaine so turned on he has to literally step back, away from Kurt, so as not to maul him right there on Deidre's clay-colored rug.

"Antonio, Blaine and I would love to join you and Sarah for dinner with the kids. Right, Blaine?"

"What? Oh, yes. Of course. We'd be delighted," Blaine replies, staring at Kurt's ass. He can't help it—Kurt has been bending over and crouching down and scooting across the floor for hours.

"And Deidre, if you can tame your rage for a few hours, you are welcome to join us. Otherwise, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Only if he promises to be nice to me," Deidre says, in a soft voice.

"Kurt, are you serious with this?" Antonio is genuinely angry now, and Blaine wonders what Kurt is thinking, inviting her along.

"I'm not going where I'm not wanted," Deidre says.

"Good. You're not wanted," Antonio barks.

"Antonio, stop. It's fine. She'll behave," Kurt says, starting for the door. "And besides, if you just put out a swear jar, Sarah will probably have half her annual budget covered by the time we get to dessert."

Antonio stomps off, brushing past Kurt on his way to the car. Kurt motions for Deidre and Blaine to follow, and then shuts off the lights and locks the door behind them. He walks in step with Blaine and says in a hushed tone, "They're like bratty, neglected children."

"Will I get you alone tonight? Or are you on mom duty?" Blaine asks.

Kurt laughs and says, "Tonight, you get me any way you want me."

Blaine feels like he's seventeen, all hormones and nervous anticipation. How does Kurt do this? They were wrapped up in each other not fifteen hours ago, and still Blaine is almost desperate with want.

Blaine stops Kurt before he can slide into Antonio's backseat, and whispers in his ear: "I've been hard for you for hours. I won't make it through dinner."

Kurt kisses Blaine firmly on the mouth, causing Blaine to lose his balance. Kurt reaches behind and steadies him just in time, his hand on Blaine's lower back.

"You have a rental car, right? So we'll take your car and leave early," Kurt offers.

From the front seat Deidre says, "I can hear you, you know."

Forty-five minutes later, it's official: Kurt is driving him insane. Brushing up against him during Sarah's tour of Alex Marin House, resting his hand on Blaine's ass while they study the photo mural residents made for their rec room, eye-fucking him unabashedly while Blaine tunes his guitar. If they hadn't accepted Antonio's dinner invitation and promised to sing some songs with the kids who lived there, Blaine would have tied Kurt to a bed hours ago.

Blaine is singing a stripped-down version of the summer's biggest Top 40 hit when Kurt excuses himself from the group of enthralled teenagers and makes his way to the kitchen. Just before he disappears he turns to give Blaine one last look, a slow burn that lasts eight full seconds, causing Blaine to fuck up the song. Kurt giggles and ducks into the room to join the other adults.

He answers a few questions about Adele, about London, about the music business. He's grateful Kurt is out of earshot when Erick, a tall boy no more than sixteen with platinum blond hair, asks, "What's your boyfriend like?"

"He's cute. Sweet. Generous," Blaine replies, trying to end the Q&A as quickly as possible before he forgets and adds, "But he's not the one, not by a mile. Let me tell you about the man who IS the one. He's strikingly beautiful. He's brilliant and gifted, with an obscene amount of talent. He's layered and brave and his touch is addictive, like scorching desire and coming home all at the same time. No, my boyfriend is not the man of my dreams. The man of my dreams is standing in your kitchen."

He's saved from himself and the prying questions of excited teenagers by Sarah's call from the kitchen. "Kitchen duty, you're up. Who's cooking?"

Erick stands and holds his hand out to a shorter boy, also blond—Wyatt, maybe? They shuffle into the kitchen just as Sarah, Antonio, Deidre and Kurt walk out and sit down at the large dining room table.

Blaine excuses himself from the other kids, but leaves his guitar for them to "mess around" with. He pulls up a chair and Kurt scoots his own chair closer to him, takes his hand under the table and rests both of their hands in Blaine's lap. It reminds him of David's bachelor party, except this time, there's no desperation, no pretense.

"So this concert—" Deidre starts, looking at Sarah.

"Oh, you should join us! Antonio's sister was planning on coming, but her daughter has the flu, so she can't make it," Sarah says, ignoring Antonio's warning glare.

Blaine was right about Sarah: He just loves her. She is patient, and kind, and dedicated; and if he weren't so eager to get Kurt alone and naked, he'd want to sit and talk with her for hours, and then make plans to do the same thing again, very soon. He can see why Antonio is still so deeply in love with her—she glows with a light that only people who live in their purpose possess. She is not yearning for anything; she's right where she's supposed to be.

"I'm sure you couldn't possibly find me a ticket," Deidre says, in an affected tone.

"No, like I just said, I have an extra ticket in our row—"

"I'm sure it would be impossible to find a seat for me. Unless you have a VIP ticket. You probably have at least one VIP ticket left, but I'm sure it's very expensive." Deidre says.

"I don't understand... you can have the ticket—"

"How much did you say your VIP tickets are again? Twenty-five thousand?" Deidre pulls out her checkbook and starts writing, her handwriting the swift, strong strokes of someone accustomed to spending boatloads of cash on a regular basis.

Sarah gasps and Antonio's mouth falls open. Kurt reaches across the table to take Sarah's hand. "She's trying to make a donation, Sarah, but she doesn't want anyone to know she has a soft heart underneath her trash mouth and thick skin."

When Sarah jumps up and hugs her, Deidre's arms reluctantly reach around and hug Sarah back, and Blaine is stunned to see a small, genuine smile on Deidre's face. Maybe she's doing it for Jimmy. Or her guilty conscience. Or because she wants to help these kids. Whatever the reason, Blaine dislikes her a little bit less—though, unlike sweet Sarah, he cannot imagine ever being real friends with her.

Dinner is strange and wonderful. Not because the kids are boisterous and inquisitive and show off like peacocks—Were we like this, once upon a time, in our navy blue blazers and expensive shoes?—but because the grownups are treating them like a real couple. They don't bat an eye when Kurt leans in close and whispers in Blaine's ear, "Look at Erick and Wyatt. Aren't they darling? So in love." They smile knowingly when Blaine offers to trade plates with Kurt so Kurt can have more chicken and Blaine can have more pasta. And when Blaine starts to squirm in his seat, the proximity to Kurt too much to handle without kissing him, they rightly assume that the two lovers will soon make their excuses, express their thanks and slip out before dessert.

Which is exactly what they do.

Twenty-three minutes later, Blaine has Kurt panting, zipper down, legs apart, in the front seat of Blaine's rental. They haven't even made it out of the Eldorado's parking garage.

Blaine's hand trails down Kurt's stomach as he mouths at Kurt's neck, flushed red with want. He slips two fingers under the waistband of Kurt's briefs, rubs the pads of his fingers against Kurt's soft, hot skin. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Waiting.

It's everything he dreamed about all those years ago, jerking off in his dorm room, imagining Kurt in various states of undress as they gave in to the awkward, delicious, first-time moments of sexual awakening.

"Do something, god," Kurt says.

"Will you let me get you off?"

Blaine adjusts his hand so that his two fingers dip lower, his thumb rubbing along the outside of Kurt's briefs. He thumbs Kurt's cock, breathing into his neck, moving slowly, so slowly, waiting for an answer.

"We're steps... from the hotel—"

"Please. I can't wait. I need to see you come."

Kurt grabs Blaine's hand and pushes it down, under the soft cotton. Blaine takes hold of Kurt's cock with sure fingers, his own breath quickening at the feel of it.

"So hard for me," Blaine whispers.

"Yes."

Blaine strokes whimpers out of Kurt as he kisses confessions right into his mouth. "I wanted this. I wanted to reach over, unbutton your jeans, dip my hand into your underwear and touch you, feel you, have you all sweaty and relaxed and—"

"When?" Kurt asks, kissing back.

"After the movies. After coffee. After shopping. After any of it. After all of it."

Kurt reaches down and places his own hand on top of Blaine's, moving with him, guiding him to go faster, just a bit tighter, twist, now faster again, that's it, more, tighter, faster, more.

"I would have let you, would have shown you—"

"How you like it? How to make you come apart—"

"I would have done anything... please, shit... don't stop—"

"Would you have let me get you off every day, like this, just like this, my hand in your pants—"

"Yes, yes. Every day—"

"You'd trust me with your body, with everything new and confusing and hot—"

"Yes, everything..."

"—And you wouldn't even be scared—"

"Because it would be you."

Their hands move in unison now, driving Kurt perfectly, perfectly, and Blaine can see Kurt's orgasm build in him, see Kurt chase it, expect it, need it.

"Come on—"

"Blaine, Blaine—"

"I thought about this so much, Kurt... that's it, come on—"

Kurt arches his back and comes over Blaine's fingers, his own fingers squeezing down on Blaine's hand hard, like he needs him, like his hand is a lifeline. Blaine rests his head on Kurt's shoulder and looks down at Kurt's lap, at the trail of soft hair down his stomach, at his firm, muscled thighs spread out to the edges of the seat.

Suddenly he's crying again, his tears silent, warm and salty as they slide down his cheeks in single file, wetting Kurt's shoulder. He hears the song, his song, his song for Kurt, and remembers all of it. Every hopeful thought. Every wish. Every disappointed sigh. Somehow, all the mind-blowing sex they've had in the past two days pales in comparison to this simple thing. Because this is how he always pictured it, the first thing, the thing they'd do a hundred times before they did anything else, the thing that would start their forever.

He'd thought about giving this to Kurt every time they pulled into the Dalton parking lot, every time he dropped Kurt off at home, every time he pulled up to his parent's house with Kurt in the passenger seat, ready to jump out of the car and start their evening of platonic fun. And now they've come full circle, here in the shadows of this parking garage, surrounded by concrete and dust-covered cars.

Kurt moves their hands, zips up his pants and turns in his seat to face Blaine, gently knocking Blaine's head off of his shoulder. He takes Blaine's face in his hands and kisses Blaine's forehead, his eyelids, his cheeks, his lips. It feels a lot like love.

"Let's go upstairs. Okay?" Kurt says.

"Okay."

Kurt is silent as he leads Blaine by the hand, through the lobby and up to his room. Blaine wonders if he knows. He doesn't want to freak Kurt out before he's had a chance to make sure Kurt understands that he's serious. He wants Kurt to know without a doubt that Blaine chooses him, over everyone else, and always will. He won't stand a chance with Kurt otherwise.

Blaine is still feeling bittersweet, moving slow under the weight of memory, while Kurt strips off all of his clothes, sits down on the bed and pulls Blaine toward him. He wastes no time taking off Blaine's jeans and underwear, his face level with Blaine's cock. He tugs on Blaine's shirt and says, "Off."

His shirt is half off when Kurt takes him in hand, and it's everything Blaine can do to stay upright. He looks down at Kurt, adoring him, and feels the temporary melancholy leave him. Kurt is pressing hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses to his belly, working him over with intent.

"It's okay," he says. "I know what you need."

Blaine is all about one goal now, as he pushes Kurt back on the bed. He's on his knees, sliding his hands up Kurt's pale, strong legs, kissing Kurt's calves as they hang off the edge of the bed. Kurt lifts up on his elbows, looks down at Blaine and raises and eyebrow.

Blaine presses into Kurt's thighs with his thumbs and says, "Spread your legs."

Blaine holds Kurt open with both hands, licking, tasting, fucking into him with his tongue. He moans around him, in him, and Kurt babbles and curses, arching up off the bed and flopping down again, over and over again until he's begging, "Please, oh god, Blaine... Blaine... you're not going to do this for hours, are you? Just... please... I can't... so good... shit... Blaine—"

And then Blaine is pressing lubed fingers inside Kurt, and Kurt is hissing, pleading, thanking him. He was right: this is exactly what he needs.

Let me watch you fall apart. Let me take you there, out of time, to that place where you have nothing and everything and all you see is me, all you smell is me, all you know is me, and I am yours. Let me find you there, giving in to me, over and over and over again, until all that we have left is each other and this, this, this.

When Kurt is stretched, open, waiting, waiting, Blaine stands up, leans over and says, "Wrap your legs around me."

He reaches under Kurt, lifts him just a few inches up off the bed and moves them across until they are both fully on the bed, Blaine on top of Kurt.

He doesn't want to use a condom, not now, not ever, but this thing between them isn't settled. It may never be settled, so he forces himself to slip away for a moment. The condom in place, Kurt moves to turn onto his stomach, but Blaine stops him.

"You like this position, huh?" Kurt says, eyes dancing.

"I like looking at your face."

Kurt smiles, wraps his legs around Blaine again and arches up.

Blaine is fucking him slow and deep when Kurt says, "You wanted that for a long time... shit... in the car... your hand—"

"Since forever," Blaine says.

"You wanted me—"

"In so many ways, Kurt," Blaine says, trying to keep the same rhythm as he leans down to kiss Kurt, tongue on teeth. He thrusts deeper, a little bit faster, his head face down on Kurt's shoulder.

"What else?" Kurt asks, his mouth pressed up against Blaine's ear. "Tell me everything."

"I would sneak out after curfew, open your door and find you there, your back against the headboard, your pajama shirt open—"

"Yes—"

"—Pants pulled down to your knees, touching yourself."

"Yes, yes... yes, more—"

"—And you'd—"

Blaine stops, sucks a mark into Kurt's shoulder, feels the pressure pool at the base of his spine, like hot liquid, and climb up his back; bright, wide fire-licks of want. If he could just stay still for a moment, if he could hold this feeling back and stave off the inevitable, it could be the best ever.

"What? Please tell me. What would I do?" Kurt pants, his hips making small, tight circles.

Blaine kisses along Kurt's jaw, and whispers, "You'd let me watch."

"Holy hell, Blaine. Come on. Just fuck me, please."

"I am fucking you."

"No, just do it. Do what you need. It's okay, please, I want it," Kurt begs. "If you were seventeen, eighteen... if you could have had me then—"

And then Blaine is all in, pushing Kurt's thighs wider still and his knees further back fucking into him with such force they are both reduced to grunts. It's so base, so dirty, he has a fleeting thought that his teenage self would never allow him to do this, to let go and be this with Kurt, or with anyone... but he would want to.

Kurt comes without warning, without so much as a finger accidentally brushing on his cock, and then holds on to Blaine as he continues to pound into him with urgent, desperate thrusts.

"Do it. Yeah. That's it," Kurt commands, his voice disarmingly deep.

Blaine cries out when he comes—maybe he says Kurt's name; maybe he swears a blue streak, or thanks God; maybe he even confesses his love. He's not sure; whatever he said doesn't seem to upset Kurt, who is wrapping him up in his arms, his legs, his soothing voice, helping him come down.

After a few minutes, or maybe twenty, Blaine lifts his head and looks at Kurt with concern in his eyes.

"Don't ask me if I'm okay," Kurt says, rubbing Blaine's back. "I'm always okay with you."

In the morning they shower, dress and walk the few blocks to Pasqual's for breakfast, both with big days ahead of them. It's teeming with life, every table full and seemingly engaged in fascinating conversation. Blaine gulps down his glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice in one go and orders a second, which earns him a big smile from Kurt.

"You're feeling better, then?"

Blaine blushes and nods, runs his thumb over Kurt's cheekbone.

"You don't cry, not often," Kurt observes, sipping coffee.

"Not often, no."

They discuss their plans for the day over plates piled high with green chile and chorizo and sweet cornbread. Kurt will order a door today, while Blaine heads over to the Santa Fe Opera for sound check. Again, Blaine is struck with the realization that they are acting very much like a regular couple, and instead of pointing it out to Kurt he keeps it, like a tiny treasure, sewn into his pocket.

Maybe Kurt feels it too. Maybe he doesn't want to upend this beautiful thing between them, so he's keeping it to himself. Maybe he's keeping other thoughts and feelings and truths to himself as well. Maybe he's waiting for Blaine to get his shit together once and for all. Or maybe none of that is true. Maybe he's just doing what he said he would do: giving himself over to Blaine for eleven, now ten precious days, before he returns to the life he's made for himself.

Maybe.

"So I got you a key card, to my room," Kurt says, interrupting Blaine's thoughts. "I just thought, well, since we're both working during this... moment... thing... whatever... you shouldn't have to wait for me in your room. You could wait for me in my room. If you want."

Kurt slides the key card over to Blaine, and Blaine laughs, remembering what he did yesterday morning, just before they left for Chimay�. Kurt looks put out, but Blaine holds him off with a raised hand and reaches into his wallet.

"Here," he says, sliding an identical key card over to Kurt. "I got one for you, too. Now you can come up to my room whenever you like," Blaine says.

"Okay, then."

"Okay."

***

"Tailgating? At the Opera? Are you serious?" Kurt asks Antonio, his mind flooded with memories of boring Buckeye's games, watching Finn and his father inhaling bratwurst and hamburgers like they were in some sort of eating contest. The last thing he wants to do is wrinkle his two thousand-dollar suit sitting in a rickety lawn chair, drinking beer from a can.

"It's not what you think," Antonio answers, pulling into a parking spot marked, "Reserved."

"It sounds awful," Deidre says. "Why did I agree to this?"

"You paid twenty-five grand for the privilege of doing this," Antonio reminds her.

"Right. I'm a fucking idiot, apparently."

Antonio starts off toward the main parking lot, away from the amphitheater's main entrance. "This way," he says.

But before Kurt takes a step, Deidre grabs hold of Kurt's arm and tells Antonio, "We'll catch up to you."

Antonio waves her off, happy to be rid of her. When he's out of earshot, Deidre turns to face Kurt. "Look, I just want to say that I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to be such a bitch yesterday, I just—"

"It's fine. I know who you are. I get it," Kurt says.

"You make me sound so... Jesus, Kurt. I'm not a total bitch."

"Not totally, no," he says with just a hint of a smile.

"And you were right, about my rage thing. It's a bit out of control, I know. And that's my own shit, not yours. But still, I really think you need an intervention, Kurt. Someone has to tell you what's what," she says.

Kurt leans back against Antonio's car and sighs. "Just get it over with, then."

"You're in love with that man—" Deidre starts.

"Straight to the point, I see."

"—And you're dangerously close to blowing it with Paul, no matter what bullshit story you're telling yourself. And you would be blowing it, Kurt. I may only be a few years older than you, but I know what I'm talking about. What you're feeling... it's all sex and lust and unrequited hotness—"

"—Unrequited hotness?"

"Whatever. It's sex after pining. Lots and lots of pining. I mean, that song you sang. What was that line? 'You've got the kind of magic spell'—"

"It's, 'You've got the kind of magic spell, makes the wild, wild horses lay down on the ground'."

"Lord. I can't believe you didn't drop your pants and bend over the moment you heard him play it," Deidre says, fanning herself. "But it's not the thing you base a marriage on, Kurt."

"Do tell me what your marriage is based on, Deidre. Is it love? I think not," Kurt says. He's all hard edges and clipped tones, his body tense with anger.

"You can't let yourself get caught up in this. You can't let yourself make big, life-altering decisions while you're caught up in this—"

"Like you've ever made an emotional decision in your life—"

"I have. I did. There was... someone. Once," Deidre says, looking out into the crowd.

"Oh, dear, he's not here is he? Is he that janitor over there? Or the box office guy? Is he the valet, Deidre? This isn't your pathetic attempt to recreate a scene from The Notebook, is it?"

He's joking; she knows he's joking. And he's trying to hurt her, just a little bit, because she's getting to him. "Your life is miserable. You hate almost everything about it, except the money. Why would I ever follow your advice about love or marriage?"

"I'm not some cautionary tale," Deidre bites. She pauses and then says, "Okay, I am. But that doesn't change the fact that you are contemplating trading in a man who adores you and wants to marry you, a man who could very likely be the next governor of New York, for a man with whom you've had the best sex of your life. BUT—and that's a big juicy but, Kurt—you're trading in your future husband for a man who still loves you 'like a friend.' A man who is living with another man, in another country, on another continent."

Kurt can't help but wince. Future husband. It's all wrong, and he knows it, but what can he do? If he says anything—if he tells the truth, if he admits that when he hears the words "future husband" he really only thinks of one man, one gorgeous, soulful, ever present man—he'll likely break several hearts. Paul's, for sure. His own. And maybe Blaine's heart, too, when, for the second time in their lives he admits he can't love Kurt the way he wants to be loved. Because he'll have lost his friend. They'll all be losers. Lost. Broken.

"Remember that scene in When Harry Met Sally?" Deidre asks.

"There are lots of scenes," Kurt replies.

"The one where they're arguing about the ending of Casablanca. Sally argues that Ilsa was right to leave Rick and get on the plane with her husband, and Harry thinks she should have stayed back, because Rick was the love of her life—"

"—And the best sex she'd ever had. Yeah, I remember—"

"Right. Well I agree with Sally. I mean, what the hell was she supposed to do in Casablanca, anyway? Hang out at the fucking bar? Wait for Rick to come home? That place was a shithole."

"So you're saying I should forget about Blaine?"

"No. How can you?" Deidre says. "I'm just saying you should get on the plane, Kurt. Get on the plane."

"Is that what you did?"

"Maybe," she answers, avoiding his eyes.

"There are so many things wrong with everything, everything you just said, Deidre. First, Blaine and I have always been more than friends. We're just—"

Kurt hesitates, trying to come up with a short, articulate explanation for fourteen years of longing and missed opportunity.

He chuckles, remembering Antonio's words, and says, "We're just chickenshit, Deidre. And we have been for like, ever. And what you're seeing between us now is the opposite of that, or almost the opposite of that. And I know Blaine has a boyfriend and lives three thousand miles across a very big ocean. I know that Paul loves me and that to everyone else, we make sense. But I also know that while Blaine may not be in love with me the way I am so hopelessly in love with him, his love for me extends beyond friendship."

It's the first time he's said it out loud, and it shakes him to the core because, really, he doesn't know the full extent of Blaine's feelings. Sure, he'd seen him break down yesterday, twice, and that look Blaine gave him after he sang "All Kinds" was pure love, no denying it. But was it love, love, the kind that's worth wrecking your life over?

Despite all of the letting go, and giving in, and sharing of regrets and fantasies and tenderness, they're still playing that game, breathing in all that is left unsaid and letting it enter their lungs, their bloodstreams, their hearts. They're still unsure of themselves, and each other, and that—well, that could go on forever. It feels like it already has.

"And secondly, are you for real? Ilsa absolutely should have stayed back with Rick. Everyone knows that. She left because Rick forced her to go, not because she thought she'd be better off with what's-his-name," Kurt says. "And if they made an obnoxious sequel to Casablanca, it would have been all about Ilsa looking for Rick after the war and trying to get him back. Because they were meant to be."

She looks at him like he's speaking a foreign language and says, "If you tell Paul, you'll lose him."

"Probably."

"And Blaine? Has he said even one word about what will happen after you go back to New York?"

"No."

"Has he promised to leave his boyfriend for you?"

"No."

"Has he confessed his undying love for you and asked you to be his forever and ever?" Her tone is mocking, like he's some lovesick, clueless teenager who can't be bothered with reality.

"No, okay! No to all of it."

"Well—"

"Just shut up. Shut. Up. I liked this town much better when you were far away, ensconced in your penthouse, making out with a vat of gin."

"Ouch."

"That was low. Sorry."

"It's okay. I've said worse."

"Yes, you have."

They're quiet for a moment, staring out at the view of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, the desert sun softening into lavender hues. It's foreign to them, unsettling, all of this big sky and ancient earth. They both feel New York buzzing under their skin, beckoning them home. This place is crazy-making, the way it strips you down and leaves you bare, and they just want to get back to the noise of the city, let it lull them into a sense of calm, false or not.

"I hate this town," she says. "I can't believe I agreed to live here part-time."

"You'll get used to it."

Kurt extends his arm and Deidre slips hers through it. As they make their way through the crowd to find Antonio, Kurt says, "You know, Blaine and I once said we were like Harry and Sally."

"Teenagers say stupid shit."

"Is there anyone less romantic than you?"

"Sure there is. My husband, for starters."

"Ah, I see how it is. A match made in heaven," Kurt says. "I bet you hurl ugly truths at each other and then have loads of hot, angry sex."

She laughs, leans into him and says, "The best kind."

They wind their way through the throngs of Santa Feans dressed black tie and sitting next to their Mercedes and Ferraris at card tables covered in the finest linen, leaning up against luxury SUVs (dinner served from the hatchbacks) or standing next to decadent spreads laid out on the hoods of Range Rovers and BMWs. There are candelabras and elaborate floral arrangements, champagne and sangria and the finest tequila, tapas and filet mignon and the most decadent chocolates. It's absurd and wonderful and odd, and Kurt is a little bit giddy at the sight of it all.

They find Antonio and Sarah sitting at a table for twenty that is covered in a soft pink tablecloth. On it glow delectable appetizers and desserts, served on deliberately mismatched fine china. Dozens of tiny votive candles give off a romantic glow; the wine flows freely.

Antonio gestures to the chairs next to him and, despite his blatant hatred of her, stands until Deidre is seated. The party is made up of Alex Marin House board members and major benefactors, all relaxed and smiling, taking in the night like this happens every day. Just a few feet away, the residents of the house sit at a smaller table, laughing and trying to act like they belong here.

Kurt snaps a few pictures on his phone, and then leans over Antonio and says to Sarah, "My Dad will not believe this. It's not exactly his idea of tailgating."

"It's really an Opera thing. And yes, they really do love the Opera as much as your Dad probably loves football," Sarah explains, holding out her glass for Antonio to refill it.

"Thank you again, for inviting me," Kurt says.

Sarah beams at him and says, "I want you here. Antonio thinks the world of you, and it's an honor to have you with us."

Kurt relaxes in his chair and lets the conversation wash over him. He catches Mitchell, the producer and owner of the Galisteo studio, looking at him and smiles at him. Mitchell smiles back, and winks. At this point, he realizes, it would be a miracle if Paul didn't find out about this affair. Too many people know. Too much has happened. Too much has changed.

Through the toasts, and stories, Kurt slips into a nice warm buzz. It's not long before everyone starts to move toward the amphitheater. Volunteers stay to clean up as Sarah, Antonio, Kurt and Deidre make their way to their seats. They are in section F, three rows from the stage, and from here Kurt can actually see into the wings.

The venue is gorgeous, like nothing he's ever seen before, and he is overwhelmed with the rightness of the night. He feels lucky and proud to be here with everyone—even Deidre.

Mitchell takes the stage, says a few lovely words about his passion for Alex Marin House, and then introduces Sarah. The applause is deafening—clearly she is well loved and well respected. Kurt hears the boys calling out to her from across the aisle. As she speaks about the work she does, about the kids she loves, about the futures they now have thanks to everyone in the room, Kurt cannot help but tear up. If he hadn't had Burt, if he had been born into a frightened, ignorant family, any one of their stories could have been his story.

And because Sarah is awesome in so many ways, her speech is over before anyone can get too blubbery. She squeals when she thanks Adele, and Mitchell, and the band (Blaine!), and then she's off the stage and back in her seat in a flash.

"Was that okay?" she asks, reaching out for Antonio's hand.

"It was perfect, sweetheart."

The house lights down, Kurt notices lamps everywhere in yellow tones, the motif for the night. The band takes the stage, and Kurt strains to see Blaine in the darkness, but can't make him out.

Adele takes the stage to more applause, looking fabulous in a high-wasted black cocktail dress. She greets the crowd. "I'm just tickled to be here, and thrilled to have the chance to support Alex Marin House, a place that lights the way for so many kids who are lost in darkness."

The piano kicks in with the opening bars of "I'll Be Waiting," and Adele adds, "This is a rare fast one, so if you want to move, now's the time to do it."

She is in top form, and Kurt lets himself get caught up in the night, lets himself feel okay with his choices, lets himself stare unabashedly at Blaine. Blaine. Blaine, who looks like a fucking rock star up there in his black suit, pants tight, hair wild. He's playing guitar and singing backup vocals, and if Kurt weren't so madly in love with him already, he would fall for him instantly.

Kurt leans forward, his ass nearly off his seat when Blaine steps forward and starts in on the opening chords of "It's Alright" by the Eurythmics. Kurt doesn't know the song, but Blaine is killing it, and the song is gorgeous.

She sings her new song, "Forever Man" a cappella, and Kurt smiles, wondering if the decision was Blaine's idea. She's just reached the end of the song when his phone vibrates in his pocket.

Blaine:
Are you enjoying yourself?

Kurt:
You're texting me from the stage.

Blaine:
Obviously.

Kurt:
But aren't you supposed to do something with that guitar right about now?

Blaine:
Probably not. We're trying something different with the next song.

Kurt:
Still. This is pretty tacky, Blaine.

Blaine:
True, but necessary.

Kurt:
Necessary? How so?

Blaine:
I have to tell you something.

Kurt:
So tell me.

Blaine:
Adele and I worked out the set list for tonight.

Kurt:
Okay. Am I missing something?

Blaine:
Just listen to the song. I asked her to sing it.

Blaine:
For you. She's singing it for you.

He looks up from his phone and sees Blaine looking at him, smiling that all-over smile he loves so much. Kurt's pulse quickens, and even though it's probably the worst idea ever, he leans over to Antonio and says, "She's singing it for me. He dedicated the next song to me."

Deidre's eyebrows shoot up and Sarah squeals, while Antonio turns to look at Blaine.

PRESS PLAY

The piano comes in, and Kurt doesn't recognize the song at first. But then as soon as Adele starts singing, his breath catches in his throat and he grips his phone tightly, as if it were Blaine's hand, as if he could reach through the phone and grab him. He looks at Blaine, fights back tears and listens to every word.

"God only knows why it's taken me so long to let my doubts go. You're the only one that I want," Adele sings, pure and strong. Kurt can tell she's looking for him in the audience, and it seem so surreal, to have Adele singing to him, willing him to listen on behalf of Blaine, this boy, this man he's loved so long.

Holy shit. Is Blaine in love with me? Does he want to be with me? Is this for real?

"I don't know why I'm scared, 'cause I've been here before. Every feeling, every word, I've imagined it all. You never know if you never try, to forgive your past and simply be mine," she sings, her eyes landing on Kurt. She pours everything into the song, and Kurt's eyes dart from her to Blaine and back again, not sure where to focus.

"Well, shit," Deidre says. "I guess you're not getting on the plane."

He looks over at Blaine, who hasn't stopped staring at him, and lets the tears fall. Suddenly Kurt is that boy again, drawing their names in red hearts, fantasizing about Blaine Anderson: hero, savior, mentor, friend. He's that boy with a lonely heart, holding out for happiness, biding his time until he can escape to a place where people will accept him, befriend him, celebrate him. He's that boy who moons over his best friend, waiting for him to notice him that way, to claim him, to ask him, to want him, to fight for him, to declare his love and lay down his heart for him.

He's long since given up being serenaded by Blaine. Even when Blaine sang his own songs, even when it sounded like he might have written the song for him, Kurt never knew for sure. Because Blaine never said anything, and Blaine never sang to him, or about him, just with him.

And now this. It's not Blaine singing—it's freaking Adele—but this time Blaine was clear. I asked her to sing it. She's singing it for you.

Kurt wants to run to him, wring the truth out of him, kiss his palms and rest his head on his chest for years and years. He wants to hold him, to sway with him like they did that night that seems like ages ago. He wants to know, to hear it from Blaine's lips, to see the truth in his eyes.

Adele sings the chorus and it goes right through him, like a gust of wind. "I dare you to let me be your, your one and only. I promise I'm worthy to hold in your arms. So come on and give me the chance, to prove I am the one who can, walk that mile, until the end starts."

Can this really be happening?

What the hell am I going to do?

Why is he doing this now?

Antonio and Sarah are looking at him, smiling; Deidre pinches his arm. It's too much, the magnitude of the moment. It's the big reveal, Ilsa confessing her love for Rick at their clandestine meeting, Harry confessing his love for Sally on New Year's Eve. But instead of feeling joyous or even relieved, he suddenly feels trapped. It feels as if all of the air has left his body and he can't catch his breath. Everyone and everything is crowding him—the faces, the music, the promises, the stares.

Kurt can't believe he's actually feeling claustrophobic in an amphitheater, but he is. Rows upon rows of strangers unknowingly watching his life officially fall apart—or get made—it's too much. Everyone is smiling and happy and he just wants to run, run, run.

He's up out of his seat before he can think twice about it, his pace quickening as he makes his way to the end of the aisle. Within minutes he's back in the parking lot, doubled over, chest heaving like he's having an asthma attack. He can hear the song echoing in the desert, and in his heart. And he instantly regrets running because Blaine saw him.

He had to have seen me. What must he be thinking? He must think I'm crazy, or that I don't love him, and I do, I do love him. He owns my heart. He always has. And now this. It's a giant mess—

"Kurt?"

Kurt turns to see Blaine standing not five feet away, a bit out of breath.

"Did you mean it?" Kurt asks.

"Yes."

"You're in love with me?"

"Yes."

Kurt doubles over again, trying to catch his breath. Blaine crosses to him, rubbing his back, saying nothing. After a moment, Kurt straightens up and asks, "How long?"

"I want us to be together—"

"No. How long have you been in love with me?"

The answer to this one question is all Kurt needs to know. Because this man, this friend, this lover of his has always given in to whims and drama and intensity, and Kurt has to be sure that he is not that. He has to be sure that this is not new.

Blaine steps into Kurt's space, tilts his chin up and kisses him. The kiss is firm, an answer, a promise.

"I can't remember a time when I wasn't in love with you."