Blaine:
Turn around.

Kurt:
No way.

Blaine:
Yes, way.

Kurt is seconds away from full-on freaking out. Blaine is here. In Santa Fe. In this hotel. In this bar.

"Holy fuck," he whispers. His phone buzzes.

Blaine:
You're not going to turn around?

Kurt wants to look, has to look, but he can't make himself do it. He stares at his phone, wondering if Blaine is behind him and to the right, or behind him and to the left.

Has he been watching me this whole time? Why is he here? Is Liam with him? Oh my God, do something! You probably look like a nervous teenager. Turn around!

Suddenly Kurt senses someone standing behind him. He would know that earthy, slightly citrusy smell of Blaine's cologne anywhere. He wants to reach out and grab him, pull him close and tell him how much he's missed his dear, dear friend, but he can't; he's frozen in his seat.

"Kurt," Blaine says in a soft voice, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

And there it is: sparks. Sparks and electricity and butterflies and dear lord, why, why, why? Yup. That's why he's scared to turn around. Texts are safe, emails are easy and this is going to be both dangerous and really, really hard.

He decides to play it off.

Kurt:
I'm scared to turn around because I'm worried you're not pretty anymore. Do you still have your hair?

He hears Blaine's phone buzz, and then his hand is gone, and then he's laughing, and then he's just there, in front of Kurt, a smile lighting up his whole face. He grabs Kurt in a patented Blaine Anderson Hug and plops down in the chair opposite Kurt, sets his phone on the table and presents his head for inspection.

"See? No bald spots," he teases, and it's everything Kurt can do not to reach out and run his fingers through Blaine's curls. "We're not that old, Kurt. We're only thirty."

"You're only thirty. I'm still in my twenties."

"Barely. For a few more months."

"Still."

Blaine reaches across the table to grab Kurt's hand and squeezes. Kurt squeezes back and flashes Blaine a genuine smile.

"It's amazing to see you, Kurt."

"Thanks. You too."

Blaine is beautiful.

He looks the same--movie star-handsome, broad shoulders, tiny waist--but his style is relaxed. His clothes are expensive, though, the last vestiges of careful breeding and a private education. He looks happy, lit up, like he just found out he won a much-lauded prize.

"So what are you doing in Santa Fe? How long are you staying? Are you staying here at the Eldorado?"

"Excited, much?"

"Come on! Can you blame me? This is Santa Fe, Kurt. Santa Fe. It's not the last place I ever thought I'd see you but..."

"That would be a swamp somewhere in Alabama..."

"Or a blinker town in Texas..."

"Ugh. Texas."

"But Kurt, this is bizarre. Bizarre and awesome."

Kurt gives Blaine an affectionate smile. "I'm here in the hotel, for two weeks. I'm redecorating a home for Deidre and Clint Alexander," Kurt explains.

"Should I know them?" Blaine asks.

"Not unless you read Page Six," Kurt quips.

"Wow. Just, wow. I can't get over it. I saw you walk in and…" Blaine hesitates, looks almost sad for a moment, and then recovers and winks. "Of all the gin joints in all the towns..."

"Oh, no. Not the Casablanca line."

"What? It's a great, classic film."

"True. But that line is cheesy and overdone. And no matter how hard you try, you're no Humphrey Bogart."

"Not since I stopped using product in my hair."

"More like not since ever," Kurt says. And then, "It's... good. Your hair. You look good."

"Well, you look stunning. Really. Sometimes I forget how gorgeous you are," Blaine says.

Kurt looks down at his drink, rubs his thumb along the condensation on his glass and wills himself not to blush. Blatant, earnest flattery; this is new.

"Best last line of a movie, though," Blaine says.

"Huh?"

"Casablanca. 'I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.' Best last line."

"I'm partial to the last line of You've Got Mail," Kurt says.

"Meg Ryan over Ingrid Bergman? Say it isn't so!"

"Of course not. Ingrid all the way. Ingrid forever. But it is my favorite last line of a movie," Kurt says.

Just as the words are out of his mouth, he regrets saying them. Because now he has to recite the line. And it shouldn't matter; it doesn't mean anything. But it would sound like it might mean something, or maybe once did, and Kurt can't say it.

"I don't remember it. How does it go?" Blaine asks.

"No! Some Kind of Wonderful. 'You look good wearing my future.' Best last line. Or, almost-last line," Kurt says, in an attempt to divert Blaine's attention.

"That is pretty good," Blaine agrees.

"It's right after Eric Stoltz stands up to the bullies, ditches Lea Thompson and gives Mary Stuart Masterson the diamond stud earrings," Kurt explains.

"Wow. You remember all that? How many times have you watched it?"

"Too many to count. My mom loved that movie," Kurt says.

"You never told me that." Blaine smiles warmly at the mention of Kurt's mother, as if he knew her, as if it was Elizabeth Hummel, not Carole, who baked him brownies (no nuts) when he came over for football Sundays with Finn and Burt. "It's the under-appreciated John Hughes film," he says.

"We never did get our own John Hughes, did we?" Kurt asks.

"For our generation? No. But we got Harry Potter. I think we win."

"Definitely," Kurt agrees.

From its perch on the table Kurt's phone lights up with a new message. It's nearly midnight on the East Coast, but it could be Paul, so he checks it. "Sorry," he says. Blaine waves his hand to show he doesn't mind, and sits back in his chair.

Paul:
Just got out of a 6-hour meeting with Javanovich and Wilder. No movement yet. Back at it tomorrow. You get in okay?

Kurt:
Yes. Fine.

Paul:
Awake enough to talk? I miss you.

Kurt:
Miss you too. Okay if we talk tomorrow?

Kurt knows he probably should excuse himself to talk to Paul, and he probably should text, You'll never guess who I ran into. But he doesn't feel like talking and he doesn't feel like explaining.

Paul:
No problem. Call me when you wake up. Love you.

Kurt:
Love you. Goodnight.

"Paul," Kurt explains, tucking his phone away in his pocket.

"Oh, right," Blaine says. "Want me to give you a few minutes?"

"No, it's fine. We'll talk tomorrow," Kurt says.
Blaine tilts his head a bit and searches Kurt's face. "What?" Kurt asks.

"I thought you said you were getting married."

"I am."

"Nothing romantic about a goodnight text," Blaine teases.

"Maybe not if it's coming from you," Kurt quips.

"Hey! I've gotten better!"

"Really?"

"Really. I'm so much better at it now. I'm practically a romantic savant."

Kurt raises one eyebrow and says, "Practically?"

"Stop. I'm not totally inept," Blaine says.

"If you say so."

Kurt smiles and Blaine's eyes are dancing, and Kurt thinks this is just the right amount of tension and playfulness to be fun but not enough to ruin his entire life. He can totally handle this. It's just a game, a game they've been playing since they were kids and it always ends the same way, so why worry? Why not just have fun with it?

"You haven't told me why you're here," Kurt says.

"You didn't ask."

"Sorry. I guess I'm still a bit surprised to see you," Kurt says.

"We've been here a couple of weeks, recording in a studio out in Galisteo," Blaine says.

"Galisteo? The Alexanders have a ranch out there, but I've only seen it at night."

"It's very John Wayne out there," Blaine says, smiling again. "The studio is amazing. She stays out there, in the main house."

"Who's she?"

"Oh, I thought you knew."

"Knew what?"

"I'm working on Adele's new album, 35," Blaine says.

"What? Seriously?"

"Yeah, I uh, well, you know I was working for Sound Off in London, and she came in to listen to her friend record, and well, that's how it started. I've been working with her for about nine months now," Blaine explains.

"That's amazing! I'm so proud of you!" Kurt says. He is proud of Blaine, but he's also a bit sad. Why didn't Blaine tell him? Why didn't he call him first thing? They listened to her first two albums so many times they could sing her songs in their sleep. This was big news, and yet Kurt seemed to be the last to know.

"Thanks. I'm still not over it, you know? I think I'm always going to feel like a stowaway in my own life."

"I feel that way sometimes. About Paul. And New York. And just, all of it," Kurt says.

"Good. I'm happy for you. You deserve an amazing, epic life, Kurt."

"Of course I do," Kurt agrees. "Are you singing?"

"No. Producing."

"No singing? Blaine--"

"Are you singing?"

"You know I'm not. That subject is done and buried," Kurt replies. He knows he shouldn't push Blaine about this, but he does it anyway. "What about writing? Did you write any of her songs?"

Blaine looks away from Kurt. "No. I produce, play a little here and there."

"But that's not what you said you wanted. Blaine--"

"Another round?" The waiter asks, as if they've been sitting together all night.

"Not for me," Kurt says.

"I left my drink over there," Blaine says, pointing to the secluded booths in the back of the bar. "I should probably go get it."

"Do you want another?" the waiter asks again.

"No. Thanks. But let me pick up the tab for the group I was with in the back, and for this gentleman as well," Blaine says, handing the waiter his credit card.

"That's not necessary," Kurt protests.

"I know," Blaine says, again with the all-over smile. "Give me a minute?"

"Sure."

Blaine stands and pushes back his chair. "Don't go anywhere!"

Kurt nods and smiles, takes a sip of his drink. He turns and watches Blaine walk toward a smallish group of loud, happy people who get louder as he approaches. A stout blond man says something Kurt can't quite make out and Blaine reaches over and places his hand over the man's mouth to stop him. Everyone at the table erupts in laughter. Blaine is smooth, friendly, magnetic. Kurt can't take his eyes off of him.

Blaine says something to his friends, salutes them and turns before Kurt can look away. He watches Blaine come back to him, all smiles. Does he have a daily quota for smiles or something? When he catches Kurt's eye he mouths, "musicians" and shrugs his shoulders. And then he's back at the table, drink in hand.

Do you need something?

"Hey," Blaine says, looking down at Kurt.

"Hey. I should go."

"Go? But we just started--"

"No, I meant it. The text. I have an errand," Kurt says.

"At this time of night?"

"It's not that late. And it's not far," Kurt replies.

"Shit, Kurt, we haven't seen each other in ages, and now you're just walking out after fifteen minutes? This is... it's just so awesome to run into you like this," Blaine says. "Could we at least have lunch tomorrow? Or breakfast? Or coffee? How about coffee?"

There's something about the eager tone in Blaine's voice that makes him do it, even when he knows he absolutely shouldn't, not tonight. This much, he knows. He should wait to spend time with Blaine until he's had a good night's sleep, until Antonio's stupid question leaves his brain, until he talks to Paul and feels rooted again.

He should wait, but he doesn't.

"You could come with me," Kurt says softly.

"Yeah?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"Let's go, then," Blaine says, standing.

They pick up their glasses and down what's left of their drinks in one gulp. And then they giggle. It's another moment when they say nothing and yet know everything, and Kurt thinks maybe they can do this in person. Maybe the line will stay firmly in place, even though there's no Paul or Liam or gaggle of obnoxious former Glee-clubbers and Warblers to remind them who they are and who they never will be.

"Lead on," Blaine says, following Kurt out of the bar. They walk out the main entrance into the cool night air. Even after four trips to Santa Fe, Kurt often forgets he's in the high desert at seven thousand feet, where the temperatures drop considerably at night.

"So where are we going?" Blaine asks, as they make their way up San Francisco Street toward the Plaza. The streets are quiet, just a few tourists milling about, peering in shop windows. Several blocks ahead the Saint Francis Cathedral looms, its round arches and rose window lit up by artfully-placed floodlights.

"The Alexander house. It's just a few blocks off Marcy."

"This is the house you're decorating?"

"Yes. I have to check on the progress," Kurt explains.

"You seem to know the city well," Blaine says.

"Not really. Just here, around downtown," Kurt explains.

"It kind of looks like a movie set, or Disneyworld," Blaine says. "Everything adobe, even the Starbucks. I like it."

"It's fine for a weekend getaway, but I've had quite enough of the chile wreaths and earth tones, thank you very much," Kurt says. "And Blaine, have you not noticed all the women wear the same thing? It's matchstick skirts in hideous colors, wide belts and turquoise and silver squash-blossom necklaces. It's like a fucking uniform."

"Like I said... Disneyworld," Blaine says.

They catch up, and volley, and, for more than two blocks, walk a little too closely. They pass the independent bookstore where Kurt spent hours poring over photography books, looking for a gift for Paul; and the jewelry store where he found black pearl earrings for Carole's birthday; and the little folk art shop where he seriously considered buying a Day of the Dead nativity scene for himself, but decided against it when he realized he might be the only one who would appreciate the irony of skeletal Mary and Joseph in Mexican hats.

After they cut across the charming central Plaza, Blaine stops to read a sign outside the Palace of the Governors and Kurt takes him in again. He looks young, like he did in college: cuffed jeans covering his still-tight ass, v-neck t-shirt hugging his still-amazing arms, a light stubble gracing his still-gorgeous, wrinkle-free face. And just like that, the goosebumps are back, along with that old familiar want that took up residence at the base of his pelvic bone when he was sixteen and stayed there until he forced himself to get on with his life.

Blaine catches Kurt looking at him and smirks.

"What?" Kurt asks, trying for innocent.

"You can look. I don't mind," Blaine says.

"I was just thinking, I forgot how short you are," Kurt says. "You seem so much taller in your texts."

Blaine places both hands over his heart and steps back. "You wound me, Mr. Hummel."

"Whatever," Kurt says with a giggle, marching off toward Marcy Street.

They walk in comfortable silence for two blocks and then Kurt stops in front of a long, tall adobe wall rising up into a high curve at the entrance. "This is it," he says, pushing open a blue-painted wooden door. They walk into the hidden courtyard and follow a slate pathway to the front door of a large, traditional adobe home.

"It's historic, which basically means I have to wait for fucking ever to get permits," Kurt says. He digs in his leather satchel for the keys and opens the front door. "I'm replacing this door first thing tomorrow."

Kurt flips on lights in the foyer and the great room. Blaine walks around slowly, mouth agape. Somehow, Kurt's managed to create a clean, modern, sophisticated design while keeping the integrity of the Spanish and Native American cultural influences intact. "Kurt, did you do this. I mean, this is, how did you do this?"

"It's not rocket science," Kurt says, heading for the kitchen. "Just get rid of the kitsch, keep the palette simple and work with wonderful craftspeople and artists to--"

Kurt walks into the kitchen, finds it still unpainted and-- "Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!"

Blaine runs to the kitchen, shouting, "Are you okay? What...?"

Instantly exhausted and defeated, Kurt sits down on the kitchen floor and bangs the back of his head against charcoal-gray cabinets.

"Um... Kurt?"

"They didn't." Bang. "Paint." Bang. "The kitchen." Bang.

Blaine drops to the floor and sits, his legs outstretched and just an inch away. Kurt is wound tight. He feels like he's about to explode. This could set him back a week.

Blaine runs his thumb along the inside of Kurt's wrist to calm him; Kurt relaxes his shoulders almost instantly. It's a familiar gesture, one that takes him back to a time when Blaine was the only person who could truly find him under the panic, the only boy who could see him, and reflect that back to him to prove that he truly was okay.

He's torn between pulling his hand away and leaning in closer when Blaine says, "A friend of Adele's wanted to send her his piano to use for this album, don't ask me why. The friend lives up in Taos, so Gretchen--she's Adele's assistant--she scheduled movers to pick it up from his house and deliver it to the ranch."

Kurt pushes back against the cabinet, his breath slowly evening out. He listens.

"So while Gretchen is scheduling the movers, Mary, the girl who runs the office at the studio, she's looking over at Gretchen, kind of nervous. When Gretchen hangs up the phone Mary says, 'Call two more moving companies and schedule a pick-up for the same time, same day.' Gretchen looks at her like she's crazy," Blaine says, still rubbing Kurt's wrist.

"Then Mary explains that if we want the piano moved that day, we'll have to call at least three companies so that we can get one to show up. She says it's ma�ana, which means--"

"Tomorrow."

"Right. Tomorrow. Everything is tomorrow. It's the way they do things here," Blaine explains.

Kurt turns his head to look at Blaine. "I noticed," he says, with a rueful smile.

"You probably get more done in one day than most people here get done in a month. It must drive you crazy," Blaine says.

"You have no idea."

Kurt looks at Blaine, so open, so happy to see him, so willing to be here on this kitchen floor, and he can't stop himself. He rests his head on Blaine's shoulder and exhales. They're quiet for a moment, Blaine still rubbing Kurt's wrist. It feels natural, as if they've been doing this all their lives, and yet odd, as if they are out of time, living in some alternate adobe universe.

"We're sitting on the kitchen floor of a four-million dollar home in Santa Fe, talking about Adele's piano," Kurt says.

Blaine laughs. "It's an aerial moment."

"Explain, please," Kurt says, trying not to nuzzle Blaine's neck.

"You know, the moments when you suddenly see yourself from above, usually when you're doing something absurd, or embarrassing, or... unbelievably, unexpectedly... wonderful."

"Oh."

Compliments. Cuddling. Serious sentiment. What the hell is going on with Blaine? Kurt decides a change of subject is for the best. "So what happened with the piano?"

"Oh, well, Mary was right. The day of the move, only one company showed up, and they were two hours late," Blaine replies.

"Ma�ana."

Blaine is quiet for a few moments and then asks, "Kurt, you never did tell me… What's the last line in You've Got Mail?"

Kurt sucks in his breath. He wants to stand up and shake off Blaine's soft voice and the press of his thumb, clear his head and find his bearings. But that would be too obvious. Blaine would figure out that the words do have meaning, or did at one time, and they don't do that. They don't get that close to the truth. He could pretend he doesn't remember, but Blaine would simply look it up on his phone, and that would be just as awkward.

"Tom Hanks says, 'Don't cry, Shopgirl. Don't cry.' And Meg Ryan says, 'I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly.'"

Blaine's thumb stops but doesn't leave Kurt's wrist. After a moment he places his hand flat against Kurt's, palm to palm, fingers lined up perfectly, and says, "Yeah. That's a good one."