It was a good day. Adele smiled through half of the songs, her voice clear and pure. They were two, maybe three weeks out from completion, and then, after a brief stop in Ohio to see his parents, he'd be back in London.

He checks the time on the dash of his rental. It's too late to call Liam. He wouldn't mind if Blaine woke him up, would just be happy to hear his voice, but Blaine won't interrupt his sleep; Liam has enough trouble sleeping without him.

Tuning into KBAC Radio, Blaine counts the number of times he's actually spoken to Liam this trip, versus the number of times he's totally blown him off. However he does the math and whatever excuse he comes up with, Blaine still comes up looking like an ass.

Why not? I am an ass, loving him, but not enough; leaving him behind, letting him wait for me to catch up when I know I never, ever will.

The reasons are different this time. In London, where it's hard to hide in the everyday, he retreats on purpose, disappears and wanders, only returning when he's too tired to care. Here in Santa Fe it's easier to pull away because his reasons—time zones, long days in the studio, even the fucking altitude—are legitimate, or at least they could be.

It's not just the how. It's the why. In Santa Fe he's not distancing himself to get away from a lovely man who deserves better. In Santa Fe he's distancing himself from Liam to make room for something, something important. He's just not sure what it is.

As he pulls off the interstate onto St. Francis Drive and heads North to The Eldorado, Blaine thinks about the other days. Some days he loves Liam simply, without the shadow love, without the ghost; days in which he is grateful for him and accepts that their relationship is good and right. There are sweet days, with Liam's feet in his lap as they discuss the events of the day, the plans for the weekend. There are quiet days, with both of them puttering around the house, separately, but aware of one another. There are beautiful days, when they oversleep and call into work, have slow, easy sex and later, find a new haunt for lunch. Liam is up for all of it, all of the days—even the days that surely leave him feeling like he doesn't belong to Blaine, at least not in the way lovers should.

Pulling into the parking garage, Blaine thinks about canceling his plans. The gang is all assembled at the Agave by now, well into their second or third round. The last thing he wants to do is get drunk, but maybe it would help. Maybe he could drink just enough to stop feeling guilty for things he can't change and feelings that, no matter how hard he tries, he just can't conjure up.

They're sitting in their spot at the back of the bar, the band, Gretchen, a couple of local friends someone made somewhere; he can't remember their names. They wave him over and just like that he lets all of the worry go and turns it on. They're not used to lost Blaine, or anxious Blaine. They want the other Blaine, the one that knows how to talk to anybody and always makes everyone feel special. So he gives himself over to the group and settles in.

He's on his first drink, genuinely enjoying himself, when everything stops.

A man, the man, the reason for all of it, sits down at a table near the bar. "I'm losing it. It's not possible," Blaine mutters.

It is him. Kurt.

"God, he looks good," Blaine whispers, his fingers swiping at little beads of condensation on his glass.

Gretchen catches Blaine staring at Kurt, all strong back and broad shoulders, and asks, "Someone you know?"

"Yeah. Kurt. Kurt Hummel," Blaine stammers, slightly out of breath.

"How do you know him?"

Blaine swallows, finds his mouth is dry and takes a long sip of his drink. "He's my best friend."

Gretchen is bouncing in her seat, saying something about "calling him over" and pestering Blaine with questions like, "How long have you known him?" and "Why aren't you running over there?"

He pulls out his phone, finds Kurt's name in his contact list and then sets his phone down on the table.

Sober Gretchen is nosy; drunk Gretchen has no filter. Which is why he's not surprised when she asks, "Did you fuck him? Is that it? Did you sex him up and now it's weird and you don't want to say hello because he might still be pissed at you and throw his drink in your face? I'm right, aren't I? You're an ass, Blaine Anderson. A secret, first-rate ass." She's giggling, teasing him. She doesn't know any better.

How could she know? He is my love, my past, my holy regret.

Blaine looks down at his palm and feels Kurt's soft hand, like a phantom limb. The same hand that gripped his fingers as they ran through the halls at Dalton, the hand that squeezed his own before Blaine opened his acceptance letter from Berklee, the same hand that clutched his as he guided Blaine through the throngs of commuters exiting the Staten Island Ferry; the same hand that caressed his hand under the table as they let desire build up between them for the first and last time.

He looks at Gretchen and says, "I am an ass. But not that kind."

What he means to say, but doesn't, is that if he had had the privilege of having sex with Kurt Hummel, if they had ever so much as kissed for two seconds, he most certainly wouldn't go four years without seeing him.

If he had had sex with Kurt Hummel, neither of them would be here right now. They'd be off in some other life, doing different things, in different places, with different ambitions, and friends, and stuff, and changes, and memories, and plans—but together. They'd be together. He's certain of that.

"I just haven't seen him in a few years," Blaine offers, trying to sound like everything is incidental, when it's anything but.

"So go say hello. Go," she says, trying to push him out of the booth. She still thinks it's all in good fun. What could be dangerous about two friends running into each other in this unlikely oasis? What could be wrong about catching up with an old friend?

He looks at her then, the mask gone and the longing revealed. He has to tell someone, so he lets the fear show, too. He lets her see the pain, the desire, the weight of his profound grief. From the look on her ashen face, he knows instantly that he made the wrong choice, and curses himself for always letting liquor cloud his judgment.

She gulps, looks over at Kurt, then back at Blaine and says, "Does Liam know?"

Blaine shakes his head and says, "There's nothing… at one time I hoped, but—"

He's lying again. Hope is a tiny word compared to the truth.

Gretchen stiffens, and though she only shifts her body a few inches away from him, it might as well be miles.

"You shouldn't tell me. I'm not that girl. I sound like that girl, and I act like that girl, but I'm really not. I'm straight as an arrow, no gray. So if it's…. all this," she says, waving her arm in a circle, her hand landing on he heart, "—then don't tell me. Don't tell me a thing."

Blaine is all gracious smiles and confidence as he picks up his drink and walks toward Kurt, ready to shake Gretchen off and talk to his friend. This is like a little surprise gift, after all and he can accept it for what it is without hoping—yearning, wishing, begging—for more. He knows how to take what he can get and leave the rest alone. Hell, he could teach a class in it: "How to Pine for Kurt Hummel 101."

He's close now, just a few tables away, when suddenly he sees Kurt trying not to lose his balance on the Twister mat, laughing, looking up at Blaine from his contorted pretzel of a position, one knee pressed up against Blaine's stomach, his eyes dancing and lips curling into a knowing smile. The memory takes the wind right out of him. He has to sit, like, now, so he drops in the nearest chair stares straight ahead, straight at Kurt, Kurt who isn't that boy; Kurt who is a man with a life, and a fianc�, and a purpose that has nothing to do with Blaine anymore.

Fuck.

He could leave, sneak out the back entrance and never tell Kurt that they were in the same hotel, in the same town, at the same time. He could leave before he does something stupid, something wrong, something very, very bad. He could forget; he could walk up to his room and call his boyfriend, solidify their Portofino plans, dig himself deeper, name the cat.

He could do all that.

But he won't.

What he will do is talk to this friend who used to be the center of his universe. He will tell him he looks amazing, and smile at him, and laugh with him, and tease him, and find their old rhythm, and stop missing him every second because he's here. He's here.

Blaine pulls out his phone, finds Kurt's name and sends him a text.

From Blaine:
Hey, Kurt.