Kurt has texted and sent him pictures throughout the day: Kurt arm-in-arm with the Alex Marin lovebirds, Erick and Wyatt; Sarah in a white dress, winking at the camera; a vintage VW bus painted in crazy colors, leading the Hysterical Parade; Native American dancers in traditional costumes; a pile of hot-pink feather boas, abandoned on the sidewalk; Sarah kissing Kurt's cheek.

Blaine's texted back when he could, but the day was long and the work important, so he mostly just scrolled through Kurt's latest messages during lunch and dinner breaks, texting responses for each and every one.

It reminded him of college, both of them at schools they loved in cities that promised acceptance and adventure. They'd text each other several times a day, share photos of new friends and ridiculous strangers, of beautiful architecture and awesome bargains—pictures of life, a life that didn't seem real unless they shared it with each other.

His phone vibrates again as he pulls in behind a Range Rover on Canyon Road, just a block from El Farol. He's not surprised Shep wanted to meet here. Mitch had told him once that the restaurant and nightclub was a favorite hangout for local musicians—"Successful local musicians," he'd amended—but Blaine had yet to check it out.

After turning off the ignition, Blaine takes out his phone to read Kurt's latest text and give him his ETA.

Kurt:
How did it go? Will I see you tonight?

Blaine:
Just getting to the meeting now. Wait up for me?

Kurt:
Of course. Did you eat?

Blaine:
Yes. I'll just have one drink and head back. Maybe an hour?

Kurt:
Take your time. Just text me when you leave, okay? Come to my room.

Blaine:
:)

Kurt:
Really? I ask you to come to my room and I get a smiley face?

Blaine:
Do they have dirty emoticons?

Kurt:
I'm sure I wouldn't know.

Blaine:
I'm sure you WOULD know.

Kurt:
Just exactly who do you think I am, Blaine Anderson?

Blaine:
I can't say. My answer is too cheesy.

Kurt:
That bad?

Blaine:
So bad you might deny me sex.

Kurt:
Nothing is that bad. Tell me.

Blaine:
You're the love of my life.

Kurt:
Aww.

Blaine:
?

Kurt:
Is that your way of asking me if you can still sex me up tonight?

Blaine:
Yes.

Kurt:
Punctuation. Hot.

Blaine:
Call me Casanova.

Kurt:
8===> ).(

Blaine:
Wow. Does that mean what I think means?

Kurt:
Come knock on my door and find out.

Blaine laughs out loud. Here in the confines of the car, he can tell that his laugh is different, that it's a good laugh, the kind you only have with a lover or an old friend. That he is laughing at an exchange with a man who is both his best friend and his lover is not lost on him. This is how it's supposed to be. Deep affection; ease; a pure moment. He pockets his phone and makes his way to El Farol with an extra spring in his step.

He's on the verge. Everything is happening now, and it all comes down to Kurt. Kurt. Love. His love. His. He can't believe his good fortune; he thought for sure he'd used up all of his chances. It's enough to make him believe in God again like he used to; like a child believes, staring up at the night sky in wonder. He's giddy with it, with the sweet, unexpected delivery of all his dreams in one searing kiss.

Once inside, he spots Shep right away, his head bobbing along to the warm, complicated tones of the jazz fusion band just a few feet away. He's claimed what appears to be the best table in the house, upon which sits a bottle of Patr�n and two large shot glasses. Even in this ancient city of no more than eighty thousand people, Shep Vasovic knows how to VIP.

He wonders why Shep is going to so much trouble. Blaine is really more of a music producer now, his performing aspirations long tucked away into a box of old letters and dreams. He sings backup, and plays guitar and piano, and makes good songs better. His own melodies, the truths that run through him and scream to get out, they're for strangers, for fleeting connections and singular moments of understanding, not masses of people.

At least that's what he used to tell himself. Before. Now, he's thinking he might actually say "yes." What does he have left to hide? He's no longer running, or wishing for another life. If he can have Kurt, surely he can have this, too, right? Maybe.

Shep spots Blaine and waves him over, points to the empty chair and fills both shot glasses to the brim. The music is too loud for conversation, so the two clink glasses, down their shots and settle in for the rest of the set. The tequila goes down smooth, too smooth, and Blaine makes a mental note to cover his glass when Shep tries to refill it. He has plans for tonight, plans that do not include dragging his drunken ass back to the Eldorado only to pass out next to a very flirty, very willing Kurt.

Letting the music wash over him, he imagines what it would be like to move people with his own music, beyond the joints he wanders into every so often, guitar and heart in hand; to share something so deeply personal with the entire world. It's been so long since he's been in front, taking the lead. Now that his heart is right side up, he can admit that he misses it. Not all the time, not every day, but sometimes—often enough that he knows it's still in him.

Shep doesn't waste any time on pleasantries. After the cellist promises they'll be back in ten, he leans forward and says, "Just tell me when you can deliver twelve tracks, and I'll call legal."

It's too abrupt, too final, and Blaine shrinks back. He hadn't expected this. It's a big step, huge, The opportunity is so golden it feels like it could be too much, too fast. He really hasn't even thought it through yet.

"I haven't said yes yet," Blaine replies.

"So say it and let's do this," Shep counters. His smile is earnest. From his friends in the industry Blaine knows that Shep will treat him right, and that he has the best of intentions. Blaine couldn't find a better home for his debut album, really.

Debut album. It's been so long since he entertained the thought of recording his own music, much less aspired to make something great.

Before Blaine can respond, Shep chimes in again. "I told you I saw you perform at that dive in London, but what I didn't tell you is, I asked Curtis Fogg to track you down in the pubs, recording performances whenever he spotted you."

"Really? I didn't realize—"

"He's a sneaky little fuck, so I'm not surprised you didn't catch on. I'm not sorry about it, either, even though it does officially qualify me as a stalker," Shep says.

Blaine is reminded of Wes in that moment, of his eager request that Blaine join the Warblers immediately. It was their sophomore year, Blaine's first year at Dalton, when Wes stumbled upon Blaine in the kitchen after hours, looking for snacks. Being caught singing and dancing in the walk-in pantry was bad enough. Being caught singing and dancing to "Hot Stuff" was the absolute worst. But Wes never made fun of him, just made his case for the a cappella troupe and made him promise to audition the very next day. It was the first time Blaine had felt special, like he was more than his parent's projections, more than his family name, more than the gay kid who needed to keep it to himself or suffer the consequences.

Shep pours amber liquid into the glass in front of him. When Blaine shakes his head and covers his own glass, Shep sets the bottle down and says, "You kept saying no and I had to find out why. So I asked around, and when no one seemed to know, I sent Curt out to see if he could find the answer in your music."

"And did you find it?"

"I think I did," Shep replies, his expression softening.

Blaine looks at him, lets the silent stare between them go on a moment too long and says, "I don't want to leave Adele. Her album is my priority, and I'm supposed to tour with her next summer."

"Fine. Good. Anyone on deck to open?"

"Not yet."

"Why don't you open for her, then? Keep it in the family."

"It's not up to me."

Shep sets his glass down hard, like he's decided something. "Right. Listen, Blaine, I can get you all the way to Oz, but I can't make you knock on the door."

"I know."

Blaine is quiet again. He decides he can handle half a shot more, so he pours it and downs it, trying not to think about how—through practice, avoidance and denial—he'd taught himself how to hesitate. He's not that boy in the pantry anymore, thrilled to be noticed and appreciated. He's not the boy who sang to a beautiful stranger, full of hope and possibility. And he's not the young man who pined, and wished, and fantasized, thinking he had all of the time in the world. Somewhere along the way he learned how to let himself down.

But that was before—before the miracle, before I'm so in love with you and you're so in love with me. Now, now that he knows what it feels like to get everything he ever wanted, he's ready to reach out and grab the brass ring.

"I'll talk to Mitch, see if he'll help me with the demo," Blaine says finally.

"That's who you want, then? Because I can get any producer you want."

"I want Mitch. I'll record it here."

"Do you have enough for an album, or do you need time to—?"

"I have dozens of songs," Blaine interrupts.

"So we do a soft launch before the 35 release, and then push hard right before the tour," Shep says.

"I need to talk this over with a few people. Adele, and Mitch, and... someone very close to me."

"I'll send over the papers. I need the demo by the end of September," Shep says.

September. He promised Kurt he'd show up in New York as soon as they wrapped 35. Would Kurt come back to Santa Fe so soon? Would he understand if Blaine had to leave so soon after they were officially reunited?

"I'll let you know by Monday," Blaine says.

"I'll have my assistant email a contract to your manager in London, and overnight a hard copy to you. You're at the Eldorado, right?"

"Yes. Room 206."

"One more, to celebrate," Shep says, refilling their glasses. Blaine nods, decides to leave his car on Canyon Road and walk back to the hotel. He's only slightly buzzed, but not clear enough to drive.

Shep raises his glass and says, "Here's to finally saying yes to the best thing that ever happened to you."

"Finally," Blaine agrees, a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Blaine texts Kurt that he's on his way, but walking; and after shaking Shep's hand he heads downhill toward the Plaza. It's busy for a Wednesday night, with more tourists than usual and everyone in a celebratory mood. He picks up the end of the Old Santa Fe Trail, and crosses on to San Francisco Street when he reaches the Cathedral. He can see the Eldorado about ten blocks up ahead, and suddenly realizes he's walking the same path he took from The Pink that night that changed everything.

Has it really been a week? It feels as though it's only been a day since my life was officially made. No, that was days later, when I finally told him of my promised heart, and he took my hands in his and confessed he felt the same. Still, it's a week since we gave in, since I came for him; since we forgot about who we'd become and remembered who we once were, and what we wanted and would always want, no matter what. No matter what.

He sees the two of them everywhere on this street. He sees Kurt's face, bathed in lamplight that first night as they walked by darkened shops en route to Deidre's house. He sees himself, stepping off the curb to run down the middle of the one-way street to get to Kurt—faster, faster, hurry, faster, this is it, this is your chance, faster, don't fuck up, hurry, faster, faster. And again, the following morning, walking on autopilot, two coffees in hand, resolved to take whatever Kurt was willing to give. He sees the two of them walking on opposite sides of the street, aching, drawn to each other like moths to a flame.

He sees them everywhere: San Francisco Street. A path in Brooklyn, covered in cherry blossoms. A weathered dock in Red Cedar Lake. Mercedes' basement. A staircase. A dream.

His phone vibrates, shaking him out of his reverie. As he unlocks the screen he thinks, Hell yeah, I can write new songs—just you wait.

Kurt:
Come to my room, but don't knock. Use your key card.

Blaine's heartbeat quickens and he picks up the pace. He's past the front desk clerk in minutes, in the elevator in seconds, and at Kurt's hotel room door before he has time to wonder what Kurt has planned. Whatever it is, it will be hot, and amazing, and so, so right.

He swipes Kurt's extra key card and smiles when he thinks about this time last week, when he was stuck on the other side of the door, begging Kurt to let him in. Now, just seven days later, Kurt is waiting up for him, for him.

"Kurt?" he asks, slipping off his shoes in the hallway. He hears a soft moan from the main room, and the unmistakable sound of...

"Holy fuck."

Kurt is on the bed, his back up against the headboard, wearing navy and red-striped cotton pajamas. He's left his shirt unbuttoned and open, revealing his toned chest, and he's pushed the bottoms down around his knees. He's flushed, legs splayed as far as the fabric will allow, one hand working his hard, perfect cock.

"Is this how you pictured it? I wore silk to bed back then, but... mmm... but I found this today and... yeah... Dalton colors—"

Kurt notices that he's rendered Blaine speechless, so he slows up on his pace a bit, smiles wickedly at Blaine and says, "You said you wanted to watch."

Blaine swallows, his eyes fixated on Kurt's hands, as if he's sixteen and watching a man jerk off for the very first time. Kurt arches his back, lets his head fall back on the headboard and gives in to it, one hand on his cock in long, sure strokes, the other teasing one nipple and then the other. He's close, holding himself back.

After a few moments, Kurt sits up a bit. "What would you have done? What next? Shit, Blaine. Tell me. Tell me what you would have done if you found me like this, if I let you—"

"Take off your pants. All the way," Blaine says, his voice so desperate and gravelly he doesn't recognize it as his own.

There's that wicked smile again, and then Kurt is pushing his pajama pants down to his ankles, one hand on each leg. He pulls them off, tosses them to the floor, and then looks up at Blaine expectantly, as if to say, Tell me what's next.

"I... may I sit?"

"So polite. Yes. Sit," Kurt replies, hand back on his cock. Blaine unbuttons the top of his pants and pulls the zipper down before sitting on the very edge of the bed.

"No touching. Not yet," Kurt warns.

"Kurt—"

"Come closer," Kurt says. "I want you as close to me as possible."

"Without touching," Blaine says, crawling up toward Kurt.

Kurt's breath hitches. He watches Blaine's slow approach and says, "Without. Touching."

Blaine knows the game now. It's push-pull; no one is in charge. First Kurt leads, then he leads. They'll both hold back, and they'll both give in, taking turns, feeling their way. He can so do this. He's waited his whole life to do this—not just for Kurt (though, yes, always for Kurt, always), but also for himself.

He's wanted this all along, looked for it in others: an effortless sex life and a partner who is confident, dirty, a bit silly and so, so willing. He's wanted every intimate moment they've shared together so far, as if he's been checking off his fantasies one by one, as if he could see the future: deep, hot, desperate, profound. And silly, like friends, like best friends. He never doubted that he and Kurt would be compatible in every way, but he's so thrilled to find that he was absolutely right.

Blaine settles in on his knees directly in front of Kurt, his pants now riding low on his hips, revealing a pair of Kurt's dove-gray boxer briefs.

Kurt stares at Blaine's cloth-covered bulge, at the glimpse of trimmed black pubic hair peeking out over the waistband. His breath is so uneven now it sounds like he's panting, but somehow he manages to croak out "Mine" as he reaches for Blaine's cock.

"Yours? Oh, right. I, ah, borrowed these this morning. I hope you don't mind," Blaine teases. "Or were you referring to something else?"

Although it seems impossible, Kurt's eyes darken even further. "I want them back," he says, holding out his hand, palm up.

"Right now?" Blaine teases.

"Right now."

Kurt resumes stroking, spreading his legs wider now that he can. He watches as Blaine sticks his thumbs in the briefs, ready to pull them down, and whines when he stops.

"Come on," Kurt pleads.

"Kurt."

"Yes?"

"I want something."

"Anything, yes... what is it?"

"I want to watch you get off, and then I want to fuck you—"

"Yes, just, please—"

"No, listen. I'm not finished. I want to see your face when you come, and then I want to kiss you, cover you and let your come stain my shirt. Then I want to turn you on your side, open you up, press up against your naked body and fuck you with my clothes still on."

"Oh fuck," Kurt says, arching his back. "Were you always this dirty? Or is it... new?"

Blaine can tell Kurt wants to ask something different. Is it me? Do I make you dirty? Or have you said these words to someone, everyone, anyone else?

Blaine leans forward a little, drawing it out, careful not to touch, eyes darting between Kurt's neck, taut with pleasure, and the tight fist of Kurt's hand. "You remember, don't you?" Blaine asks. "That night, the winter before I left for London, the night you sent me a picture of the hot couple in front of the tree in Rockefeller Center..." Blaine looks for signs of recognition on Kurt's face. There's love, and desire, and promises of ever after, but he's still so unsure of so many things.

Does he remember what I remember? Were there moments that meant more to me than they did him? When the boys were sweet, and felt almost right, did he yearn for me in the same way, then? Or was my voice just an echo? Did he get lost in the skilled hands of other lovers, like I did, when not-right lips were less wrong, and the ache subsided long enough to forget?

"You walked me home," Kurt says, interrupting his thoughts.

"I... what?"

"You called me, right after I sent the picture, and I asked you to walk me home."

Blaine laughs—Kurt remembers it better than he does. He'd forgotten that part, the part where Kurt said, "I'm catsitting for a friend on 78th Street. Walk me home?"

They stayed on the line for twenty blocks, Kurt intermittently describing window displays, a bad fashion choice ("a bad life choice, Blaine—fashion IS life"), a restaurant he'd like to try. Every few minutes Blaine would say, "Where are we now?" and Kurt would rattle off the street number. Blaine had felt so close to Kurt then, despite the tension, the boyfriends, their looming futures.

Blaine says, "And it seemed like four minutes—"

"—But it was more than twenty-five—" Kurt continues.

"—And when you arrived at the building, you said you didn't want to stop talking—"

"—And I sat on the stoop and we talked for a while longer—"

"—And that's when you told me about your fantasy, the one where you're naked, and someone full clothed fucks you from behind," Blaine finishes.

Kurt stops, looks right into Blaine's eyes and says, "Not someone. You."

Blaine's eyes mist over, which causes him to snort at the ridiculousness of it all: he's getting emotional about one of Kurt's dirty sexual fantasies, simply because he's always wanted the starring role.

Kurt sees it all on Blaine's face and laughs. They're bound by the same story, the same thoughts, the same want. "So I give you one of your fantasies," Kurt says, thumbing over the tip of his cock for emphasis, "and you give me one of mine?"

"Fair is fair."

Kurt glances at his pajama top, most of it bunched up under his ass now, and says, "Do you want this off, too?"

"Leave it," Blaine says, his eyes on Kurt's cock.

"Okay," Kurt whispers. He seems to sink into Blaine's stare; it's everything Blaine ever wanted, to worship this man.

Kurt picks up the pace and settles into it, as if enveloped in the memory of dorm room fantasies and the promise of what's to come. He's full-on panting now, in between gasps and hmm and ahhh and Blaine, oh Blaine, and it's all Blaine can do to keep his hands to himself. It's the Blaine, oh Blaine, over and over again that really rattles him. If he could have heard those words slip out of Kurt's pink lips just once at Dalton, he never would have let him go.

"You like watching me... oh, shit... come apart," Kurt says.

"Were you thinking of me? At Dalton, when you put your hand down your pants, when you fingered yourself in the shower?"

"Always. Every time," Kurt replies, and Blaine can tell he's close—so close it will only take a few words, or his hot breath in Kurt's ear, to tip him right over the edge.

"And since?" Blaine asks.

"Yes."

"You still think of me when you get off?" Blaine asks, his hands in tight fists as he fights the urge to touch, grab, stroke, kiss, feel.

"You know I do. That night. Fuck. Our night, last week," Kurt pants, his hand moving furiously now. "I told you. It was you. You're my default, Blaine. I have to make myself... oh, oh shit... Blaine, oh Blaine—"

"You have to make yourself what?"

"I have to... close. Close, Blaine. I have to—"

Kurt lifts his ass up off the bed, and that's when Blaine sees it: his hole, glistening, dark pink, open. Ready.

"Kurt, did you... did you prep for me?"

"I thought, since it's our anniversary—"

"Kurt—"

"You seemed to like it. You seemed... Blaine, I can't... you were so hot for it, the thought of it, that you could just slide right into me—"

Blaine can't take one more second of this. "Come. Come now so I can fuck you. Come."

As if on command, Kurt tenses up, mouth slack, and comes all over his stomach. His thighs shake, his brow is damp with sweat. Blaine doesn't wait for him to come down. He quickly climbs up the bed, turns Kurt on his side and lies down behind him, arm wrapped over Kurt's chest. They stay still like that, listening to each other breathe, until Blaine trails his hand up Kurt's chest, his neck, his chin, and slips his thumb into Kurt's pliant mouth.

He turns Kurt's head toward him, fingers gripping his chin, and kisses him for the first time in fifteen hours. It's possessive, and a little sloppy, but Kurt doesn't seem to mind. "You taste like tequila," Kurt murmurs into Blaine's mouth.

The angle is awkward and when Kurt moves to turn around, Blaine stops him, pulls back from the kiss and whispers into his ear, "Let me fuck you, baby. Just like this."

Kurt just nods; he's too spent to answer. He lets Blaine maneuver him, lets him lift up his right leg and move it, positioning him just so. Blaine traces two fingers over Kurt's hole and then, without warning, he's inside, testing, teasing, making sure.

He pulls his pants down a bit, takes his cock out, so hard, so ready. He rubs its tip along Kurt's ass, his lower back, between his thighs. Kurt is moaning now, desperate even in his sated state. Blaine grabs Kurt's right cheek, then reaches his hand down and pulls it apart just enough to let his cock slide in between.

This time there is no talking.

Blaine molds himself to Kurt's backside and fucks him fast. He lets the denim rub up against Kurt's calves, makes sure Kurt can feel the metal zipper on the back of his thighs. Kurt, usually so full of praise and profanity, is reduced to whimpers as he reaches behind to grab Blaine's ass, urging him to fuck harder, or deeper, or stay still for a moment when it's all too good, too perfect, too agonizingly hot to move.

He pushes back to get Blaine even deeper, grabbing his hand and pulling it back over his chest. He intertwines their fingers and grips tightly, squeezing every time Blaine grunts into his ear, his hair, his shoulder. It's dirty, so dirty, the sounds of sex and the sight of Kurt's pale, naked skin against Blaine's nearly clothed body.

Kurt yanks their joined hands down to his cock, now hard again, and Blaine just hangs on as Kurt jerks himself with purpose. They're a mess—a sweaty, sticky, panting, grunting, beautiful mess. Blaine feels the heat build and buries his cock in Kurt's ass, and when he feels Kurt start to come, Blaine lets go and pounds into him until he comes, too, screaming into the back of Kurt's neck.

In a million years, he never would have imagined Kurt so free, so willing, so deliciously naughty. He would have taken him however he came, of course—restrained, nervous, vanilla, shy. But Kurt is none of those things. He's Blaine's very best match, the most perfect man in the whole wide world.

They stay in the same position for minutes, more, who knows how long, until Kurt turns to face Blaine, wincing a bit as he shuffles in and presses as close to Blaine as possible.

Blaine wraps both arms around him, rests his hands gently on Kurt's ass, and says, "You okay?"

Kurt snuggles in deeper and nods into Blaine's chest, and then he's shaking, and Blaine thinks he's crying, in pain, or overcome with something—sadness? Worry? Overwhelm? But then Kurt lifts his head and Blaine can hear it before he finally sees Kurt's face. Kurt is laughing, so hard his whole body is about to fold in half.

Blaine smiles, laughs a bit with him, but it's Kurt's moment; he'll explain when he comes down. After a while Kurt is calmer, still giggling a bit, but able to look Blaine in the eyes when he cups Blaine's chin and says, "Just so we're clear, you're the best I've ever had."

Blaine beams. "Thank you. I'm sure I don't have to tell you it's mutual."

Kurt giggles and says, "I mean—Blaine. We are having seriously amazing sex. I have never—and I do mean never—felt the urge to scream, 'Thank you, Jesus!' For obvious reasons. But I do now. I need someone or something to thank, because this is more than just good sex; this is life-altering sex. This is what people mean when they say ‘earth-shattering' sex."

Blaine is so proud he feels as if he could levitate right off the bed, his grin as wide as it's ever been.

"I used to tell myself that if I ever had sex with you, it would be a disappointment, because I'd built it up for so long," Kurt continues. "Like that time I met Zac Efron at this event at The Center."

"Was it post coming out, or—?"

"Yes, but before the hair."

"Ew. Okay. Not pretty."

"Right. Anticlimactic, to say the least. So many fantasies demolished in one handshake."

"Tragic."

"Quite," Kurt says, shifting up onto one elbow. "Sometimes I had to convince myself that there was no way we could be as hot as I imagined it, that it would be embarrassingly awkward, mediocre. Or just bad. But, fuck, Blaine. It's... I mean, you have to admit, it's almost unbelievably good between us. Like, no one should have it this good. Should they? It's almost unfair how good the sex is."

Blaine grins, kisses the corner of Kurt's mouth and says, "No it isn't. It's what it feels like when you love someone completely, without question."

Kurt looks worried. "And... you've never felt this before?"

"What? No. Of course not."

"You talk as though you speak from experience," Kurt explains, relaxing a bit.

"No. I just knew, that's all. I knew it would feel this way with you," Blaine explains, running his fingers along Kurt's arm. "I knew sex with you would be amazing, but I didn't know you'd be so fucking dirty, Kurt. God."

Kurt smirks. "You bring it out in me."

"I do? You weren't... you haven't—?"

"What? Love, let's not pretend we haven't both had plenty of great sex—"

"Of course not, I just wondered what you're into, what you've done before, and might want to do again," Blaine explains.

"We can get to that, right? I mean, just... just know it may have been wild, but it's never felt like this."

Kurt's kiss is sweet, and slow, and full of reassurance and shhh, let's not do this, I love you, it was always you, yes you, no more, shhh. And then he's singing low, just barely above a whisper, pressing the words into Blaine's lips. "I want you, I want you so bad."

Blaine wraps one hand around the back of Kurt's neck and kisses him fiercely, tongue fucking into Kurt's mouth and sliding on his teeth. He kisses his need, his love, his gratitude into him; it is his own song. When Kurt can breathe he sings again, one hand caressing Blaine's cheek. "I want you, I want you so bad, it's driving me mad, it's driving me mad."

They kiss again, and kiss some more, and only stop when they need air.

"The Beatles?"

"You know I grew up on their music. I told you about how they used to dance around the living room before dinner."

Blaine takes Kurt's hand, slots their fingers together. "Tell me again."

Eyes shining, Kurt says, "My parents, they listened to them every day. Sometimes they let me choose the song. I danced with them, but mostly I liked to sit on the couch and watch them, how they bounced round, happy, singing every word.

"After she died," Kurt continues, "Dad played Mom's old albums in his room. It meant something, to all of us."

"Sing more. Sing another."

"I will. Someday. My ‘Blackbird' will bring you to your knees."

"I don't doubt it. You just open your mouth and I go under."

They're quiet again, thinking, happy. After a while, Blaine cleans them up, takes off his clothes, pulls the duvet back up to the top of the bed and climbs in next to Kurt.

"I can't believe you prepped yourself for me again," Blaine says, eyes shining.

"Well, the first time was purely coincidental."

"And convenient."

"That, too. I thought it was appropriate, since today is our anniversary," Kurt says. He's drawing circles, or hearts, or maybe snowflakes on Blaine's chest. He plays with Blaine's nipples, the patch of dark hair just below his belly button, his hands.

"It's not our anniversary, by the way," Blaine says into Kurt's hair.

"It is so. I'm pretty sure it was a week ago today that you had me up against a wall."

"Yeah, well. I don't want to celebrate that."

"Why not?"

"Because I hadn't told I love you yet," Blaine explains, his voice soft and steady.

Kurt lifts his head says, "Saturday, then?"

"Saturday."

"What should we do to celebrate?"

"Maybe go back to Il Piatto and try to make it through an actual dinner?"

"Yes. I'll make the reservations tomorrow," Kurt says, snuggling in closer. "Oh, wait! How was Shep? Did you say yes? Are you Scout's hot new recording artist? Tell me!"

"I gave him a strong maybe. I need to discuss it with a few people, and with you. I'll tell you everything in the morning—it means I'll be busy, really busy, and we're just getting started—"

"Blaine, you can't—"

"Shh. We'll talk about it in the morning."

Kurt hesitates but quiets, planting a soft kiss on Blaine's chest. He mumbles, "Okay, rock star," and falls asleep within seconds.

Blaine drifts—to Saturday, to anniversaries yet to come, to someday. He briefly wonders if it's right to plan anniversaries when there is still so much unfinished, when there are still so many ties to break and amends to be made. It all feels so tenuous, fragile; he wants solid ground under his feet and a firm commitment from his love as to when, and where, and how. But he's too content, too stupidly happy to dwell on this for long. As his eyes flutter shut, his last thought is the same as it's been nearly every night since he was seventeen: someday.

---

On Thursday Blaine logs sixteen hours in the studio while Kurt, Antonio and Deidre drive up the Old Turquoise Trail to Madrid to pick up three small paintings he commissioned on his last visit. Kurt texts him photos of old mine shaft entrances straight out of a John Wayne film: Deidre perched on a motorcycle, clutching an impressive tattooed bicep; a wooden marquee next to a honky-tonk bar, on which a flyer promotes "Drag Bingo! Saturday Night!;" Antonio sitting on a too-small stool at a retro soda fountain; rows of mailboxes, painted fuchsia and dipped in glitter; a close-up of Kurt's face, pointed toward the sun.

He talks to Mitch and Adele after the dinner break. They are both overjoyed that he's finally decided to take Shep up on his offer, and suddenly there is a plan, and next steps, a path to something he's dreamed about since college.

By the time he makes it back to Kurt's room it's after midnight. Kurt is asleep, the room dark save for the soft light from the desk lamp. Blaine empties his pockets and notices Kurt's notepad, open facedown on the desk. He knows he shouldn't look, but picks up the book before he can stop himself. Kurt's been staring at the thing off and on for a couple of days—he just wants to take a quick peek.

The page is blank, except for the words "FRESH START" written across the top. Confused, Blaine flips through the remaining blank pages and notices a few pages have been torn out. His eyes immediately zero in on the trashcan under the desk, and now he's officially snooping. He's not even sure why he feels the need to do it—he could just ask Kurt—but something is pulling him forward.

He finds two crumpled balls and unfolds each one carefully so as not to wake Kurt. Right away he can tell that these are discarded drafts of his Zozobra paper. Blaine had dropped his final version in the box earlier that morning. Just three sentences encapsulated all of his regrets and his greatest fear:

Every chance I never took.
Every promise or declaration I made to anyone but Kurt.
That all of this is but a dream.

He felt better after placing the twice-folded paper in the box, as if he were already letting the regrets and fears go. But he'd shown his paper to Kurt before he left that morning. He'd let him read it, and accepted his kiss of reassurance. Surely Kurt would have shown him his paper as well?

His heart stops when he realizes Kurt has written only one sentence on each page:

Loving Paul.
Hurting Paul.

Paul. The papers were both rough drafts of a paper that went into the same box in which Blaine dropped his own regrets. What was on the paper that finally made it into the box? And why, after days of trying, had he found it so difficult to make one list that would get him closer to a fresh start?

For the first time in days, Blaine falls asleep with a troubled mind and a heavy heart.

---

They're not expected at Fort Marcy Field until three p.m., so the next morning after a shower and coffee and a late breakfast of eggs and red chile at Tia Sofias, they drive to Whole Foods to pick up picnic items to share with the group, then to Target for a blanket and a cooler. With an hour or so to kill, they decide to do the tourist thing for a bit, and drive back to the Plaza.

The last thing they expect to find at the Georgia O'Keefe Museum is a pack of kids running in circles in the lobby, but they are not deterred. Kurt wants to see O'Keefe's desert, her ravens, her sky.

Blaine pays their admittance fee as a tall, thin woman, probably the mother says to her harried husband, "It's just art. There's nothing here for kids."

Kurt rolls his eyes and digs his fingers into Blaine's arm.

"Don't bite your tongue so hard it falls off," Blaine teases.

They wander the minimalist rooms, sometimes lingering together to look at a particularly stunning flower, hands and shoulders brushing; sometimes apart, reading plaques and taking their time. Kurt has been sweet and flirty all day, but also distant and nervous. It's unsettling; it feels as though they aren't just killing time, but waiting for something, something terrible.

Blaine knows it's probably apprehension about telling Paul. Kurt's nerves are getting the best of him.

"Look, New York!" Kurt says, his expression wistful and still a bit closed off. "I thought she only painted flowers and desert things."

"I guess not."

Blaine lets his arm brush against Kurt's back, leans further into his space, breathes him in. They are alone in this wing, the obnoxious family long gone, and Blaine contemplates kissing the back of Kurt's neck, wrapping his arms around his waist and pressing his forehead to his back, pushing in, and in, closer, still closer until his forehead rests in that sweet, sweet spot between Kurt's shoulder blades.

Instead he slips his hand into Kurt's and says, "Do you miss it?"

"Every day."

"And could you imagine yourself living anywhere else?" Blaine asks, trying to keep the worry out of his voice.

"I don't know. I never tried, not seriously."

Kurt pulls him into the last room, effectively closing the subject. They talk of art, and rumors about O'Keefe's sexuality, and their favorite galleries. As they drive back to the Eldorado they trade stories about artists they've known, pieces they've loved. As they walk toward Fort Marcy Field, cooler and blanket in tow, they talk of the places they'd still like to visit while in Santa Fe—Taos, a return visit to Ten Thousand Waves, dinner at the restaurant at the Inn of the Anasazi. It's not strained, not at all, but there's a nagging feeling sitting squarely on the back of Blaine's neck—a worry, fear.

As they pay their entrance fee and walk onto the field, Blaine stares up at giant "Old Man Gloom," his black eyes and red lips, and remembers the last words on his paper: That all of this is but a dream. He'll watch it burn up tonight, and the worry and fear will be gone, along with his regrets. They'll get their fresh start, surrounded by their new friends and twenty thousand Santa Feans. And in a few weeks, once everything has settled down, they'll come back to each other free, and ready; they'll begin.

"Look, Blaine, he's wearing a bow tie," Kurt says, poking him in the side.

"Are you finding this at all bizarre?" Blaine asks.

"I think it's fabulous."

Despite the early hour, a large crowd of people mills about, looking for a place to squat, finding their groups.

"Antonio said meet them on second base. What on earth did he mean by that?" Kurt asks.

Blaine glances around and notices a baseball diamond close to the main stage. A quick scan of the crowd and he spots them: Antonio, Sarah and the Alex Marin kids, some in chairs, some sprawled out on blankets. When they arrive, Antonio gives both of them a big hug, nearly lifting Blaine off the ground. He looks ecstatic, like today is Christmas, at Disneyland.

"I'm so excited you came. You are going to have the best day. The best day," Antonio says, rubbing his hands together. "Can I get you anything? A beer? Sarah made sangria—"

"Don't mind him," Sarah says with a smile, kissing Blaine on his cheek. "This is his favorite day of the year."

"Oh, I don't mind. I'm excited, too," Blaine says, setting down the cooler.

"He's an enthusiast," Kurt says with a wink. "It's a way of life."

Blaine helps Kurt spread out their blanket and organize their snacks. He catches up with the kids, all of them disappointed he didn't bring his guitar. He watches the crowd swel, and is relieved when Adele and crew show up in time to commandeer a space right next to them. She's dressed down, a giant floppy hat on her head to block out the sun and hide from fans. He notices Deidre arrive with Mitch, and asks, "What's up with that?"

Kurt shrugs and says, "No idea."

After they're all settled, eyes glued to the darling Mini Mariachis—children dressed in full costume, performing their little hearts out—Blaine leans in toward Antonio and says, "Help me keep an eye on her, okay? This is a big crowd, and I don't want anyone to get to her."

"No problem."

After a while, Sarah pulls a lightweight easel from her giant bag of tricks, unfolds it, and places an easel pad, half-used, on the ledge. The kids gather close, familiar with the tradition, and Sarah assigns teams. Soon they're all crowded around the easel playing a rowdy game of Pictionary (without the board). Kurt sits in Blaine's lap, learning forward when it's his turn to guess, shouting answers and slapping his thighs when he gets it right.

Blaine wraps his arms securely around Kurt's waist, pulls him back, and whispers into his ear. "I adore you. And this. I love everything about this day." Kurt twists a bit to give him a kiss and then snuggles back in to watch Adele draw for her team. She seems to be drawing the same thing over and over again—a train, with two straight lines next to it.

Over the ridiculous guesses from her team, Deidre finally shouts, "Goddamn it, Adele, can't you draw something different?"

Adele glares at her, and finally starts to draw something that looks like a map, but Blaine's not sure; this is clearly not her game. Sarah calls time, and Adele throws her hands in the air.

"Orient Express!"

"What the hell are the two lines?" Deidre asks.

"Chopsticks."

They're all laughing now, even Deidre, Kurt doubled over in his lap.

"Oh fuck off," Adele says, reaching for her cup of sangria. "Talk to me when you have a dozen Grammys."

There is a collective, "Ohhh!" and then Deidre is clinking glasses with Adele, and Sarah is teasing both of them, and all is well.

They pass around salads in Chinese takeout containers, a bowl of fried chicken, garlic cheese rolls, freshly baked chocolate cake. It's a hodgepodge, but Blaine loves every second of it: the band, Adele, his new friends, and Kurt, always Kurt. It's as if they've built a little community in just a few short days and he never wants it to end.

By the time the sun sets, they're all mildly drunk and anxious for the main event to start. Their blankets an island in a sea of people, they stand to see over the crowd, laughing at the fire dancers and shirtless drummers. It's all very pagan, despite the priests standing off to one side, blessing the event. Blaine can feel the crowd pulsating in his own body; the anticipation is palpable.

Suddenly, Zozobra starts to moan, and growl, and flail his arms. The lights on the field go out and the crowd chants, "Burn him! Burn him! Burn him!" He notices Antonio wedge in close to Adele, standing over her protectively, as they all join in the chanting. Kurt is laughing and shouting along with everyone else, his neck and wrists adorned with glow sticks, a gift from the kids. And once again, it feels as if they are suspended in time, neither here nor there. He wraps his arm around Kurt's waist and tugs him close.

As the flames lick up the bottom of Zozobra's dress (it couldn't be called anything but), the crowd goes wild, screaming louder than he's heard at any arena. As the fire builds and crawls up the cloth body, stuffed with the worst of it, with everything that holds people back and haunts them and keeps them up at night; with everything wrong, and stupid, and worrisome, and bad; Blaine feels a calm wash over him.

As Zozobra wails and the fire consumes him, the crowd caught up in the crazy, dark joy of watching their troubles burn, the worry leaves him. The weight of regret disappears and he is suddenly both lighter and more grounded at the same time. He looks at Kurt, the fire casting a glow on his jubilant face. Does he feel it too?

After the fireworks, after they pack up their empty containers, and coolers, and chairs, and blankets, after they all walk the four blocks to Antonio and Sarah's lovely restored adobe, their crew expands to include other friends of their hosts, filtering in from the festivities. Blaine helps Sarah set out several kinds of homemade salsa and guacamole as everyone else lends a hand with chairs, with playlists, with drinks and a table of sweet treats.

The party is jumping, yet easy, as good people laugh and get a bit too drunk. There is dancing, Antonio's playlist a love letter to Sarah. It's her music—soul and funk and some Motown, and nearly everyone takes a turn dancing, even Adele. Blaine flows in and out of Kurt's orbit, standing close to him for long stretches, letting him mingle and laugh and shine in others. Most of the guests don't know their story, their past, their tangled web and plans unmade. They just see them as Kurt and Blaine, two men in love, and treat them as such. It's heaven.

But later, he notices Kurt off to the side, staring into his drink. He remembers the crumpled papers, Kurt's worst, the thing he wanted to see go up in flames. What had he written on the paper he dropped in the box? Maybe the magic of the night is lost on him. Maybe he's too burdened with the reality of breaking Paul's heart to let Zozobra do his job.

With the first few bars of "I've Been Loving You Too Long," Blaine pulls Kurt onto the dance floor and into his arms. Here, surrounded by Sarah and Antonio's friends, Blaine feels they are a part of something bigger than themselves, something outside of the two of them and their age-old dance. He holds Kurt a little tighter, lets Otis move them and tries not to think about all that's left to unravel and break, the blank pages, all the words unsaid. I've been loving you too long, long, and I don't want to stop now.

Blaine's love is a slow burn, hot, crackling under his skin like the small fire in the kiva not ten feet away. Are they all on fire tonight, all of these couples in and out of something great, dancing slowly, and slower still, letting the music glue them together when words fail? I'm down on my knees. Please don't make me stop now. Will all their regrets go up in smoke now, angry like Zozobra, wailing and fighting to hang on? I love you. I love you. I love you. Will they truly be able to wipe the slate clean and start over, or was it just a paper wish, a secret confession that cannot be absolved? And I can't stop now. Don't make me stop now.

They dance like this for two songs, and a third, a haunting, sexy version of "A Case of You," covered by Prince. Kurt laughs and says, "I think this is the only way Sarah can stand Joni Mitchell."

"Antonio likes Joni?"

"So much. It's disturbing," Kurt replies, cocking his head to one side. "Something wrong?"

"No. I'm good. I was going to ask you the same, actually."

Kurt looks scared for a moment, starts to say something and then grabs Blaine in a tight hug. "Just hold me close. Just dance with me and hold me as close as you can."

Most of their friends are dancing now, Antonio with Sarah, Erick with Wyatt, even Deidre with Mitch. Kurt presses his fist against the back of Blaine's shirt, lets Blaine lead their movements, follows his hips. It's not sexual, not yet. It's an exhale, a promise; the forging of two hearts.

Kurt sings—oh God, how he loves it when Kurt sings. "Oh, but you are in my blood, you're my holy wine."

"This is a good song for you. You should add it to your repertoire," Blaine whispers.

"I don't have a repertoire anymore."

"You could."

Kurt pulls back, slips his hand into Blaine's and says, "Let's go back."

Blaine nods, and they make the rounds, thanking their hosts and saying their goodbyes to the rest. They leave the blanket and the cooler, buried deep in the stack of Zozobra supplies, and make their way back to the Eldorado. They're quiet, the song still on their minds as they approach the Plaza. Picking up San Francisco Street again, Blaine has the beginning of a new song: a song about this street, this city, this gift to his heart, this chance.

They're still holding hands as they enter the lobby, happily buzzed, Kurt mumbling something about which room they should stay in tonight, when a voice stops them cold.

"Kurt! I've been waiting—you look—God, I missed you. You look amazing. Where have you been? I've been texting you for hours."