Author's Notes: "Paul."

As Kurt's hand slips from his grasp—fast, like it's on fire—Blaine can actually feel joy leave his body. It shoots out from the marrow of his bones and through his skin, every inch of it, disappearing into air, leaving him with the terrifyingly familiar ache that he'd thought gone forever.

Paul.

Paul isn't some abstract concept, a man he knew for an evening, a man he envied. He isn't Kurt's biggest regret, someone to whom Blaine will apologize sincerely and profusely and eventually forget as he and Kurt walk off into their preordained life. Paul is a man with a platinum band on his ring finger and Kurt's promise in his heart. He's real and standing right in front of them, jubilant.

Suddenly Blaine feels as if he's watching his love slip away from him in slow motion, as if he's drowning, as if he's a spectator in his own life. Every gesture is exaggerated and every moment takes too long: Paul's face breaking out in a radiant smile; his arms opening wide and wrapping around Kurt. It's the end of the movie, the last scene, as Paul squeezes Kurt hard and lifts him up off the ground like two lovers reunited. Because they are. Kurt and Paul are lovers.

Without Blaine it's just the two of them, undeniably a couple, certainly friends. Between them are midnight confessions and shared plans and sweet, silly moments stacked up like bricks, fortifying. He stares as they hug and Paul chatters and Kurt whispers back, and Blaine realizes that the wall between him and his happy ending is much stronger than he had anticipated. They are; they are lovers.

Paul is here. Paul. Smiling, handsome, travel-rumpled Paul, who seems too focused on hugging his fianc� to notice that Kurt was practically glued to Blaine when they walked in the door. It's the proverbial slap that wakes him up to reality, to old doubts and new fears.

"We did it! Wilder caved and then Peterson had no choice but to agree and now it's done. It's done!"

Kurt pulls back from the hug, grips Paul's forearms and says, "As in, done, done? As in they won't go back on their word?" Paul nods, and Kurt sways a bit. "We're—that's it? It finally happened?"

Paul's face is lit up like Christmas. Kurt's return smile hits Blaine like a bucket of cold water. That smile, shining at him over coffee; on the dance floor; under a blue, sun-bleached sheet drying on Carole's backyard clothesline, his face turned away from too-fat dragons and cotton candy wisps floating across the sky.

It hurts too much to see that smile directed at someone else.

Paul takes Kurt into his arms and lifts him up off of the floor again. Kurt squeezes him back, laughing. The sight of his love in the arms of another is too, too much, and Blaine has to fight the urge to punch Paul in the face. In all the years he pined for Kurt, he'd never wanted do harm to one of his boyfriends, not even when he was spitting mad at that cheater Caleb. Annihilate them through song, yes. Humiliate them with his vast knowledge of the many layers of Kurt Hummel, absolutely. But tackle them to the ground and beat the living shit out of them? Never. The desire to rip Kurt from Paul's grasp and do just that is more than a little disconcerting.

"I had to see you. I had to come straight to you," Paul says, his body buzzing.

"But how could you leave? You must have so much to do—"

"Clark is bringing the vote to the floor as soon as we're back in session, but that's not until after Labor Day. Andy told me to take the weekend."

Weekend? He's here for the weekend?

Kurt goes white, but he doesn't say, "No, no. You can't possibly stay. I'm in love with Blaine, and we promised each other all of the days. All of them."

What he does say is, "You remember Blaine."

"Of course! Kurt mentioned you two ran into each other," Paul says, extending his hand. The sight of Paul's earnest face is enough to make Blaine want to vomit all over the Navajo rug beneath them, but he shakes his hand anyway.

"Small world, and all that," Blaine says, failing at everything. Paul's grip is strong, his skin warm.

"Come celebrate with us!" Paul exclaims. He is all trust and happiness; Blaine can feel the bile creep up his esophagus.

"Yes! That's exactly what we should do," Kurt replies. "Together. All three of us. They're still serving at the Agave."

Blaine thinks Kurt may have temporarily lost his mind.

"I don't—"

"Marriage, Blaine. It means we're as good as everyone else, in every state."

Kurt looks at him with pleading eyes, as if to say, "Don't leave me." But the urgency and precariousness of their situation is lost on him now. All he can see is Kurt in a tux; Kurt leaning into him as music plays and their nearest and dearest dance; Kurt whispering into his ear, This is how it always was, as he slips his hand into Blaine's pocket and pulls out the key to their room, his heart, their future.

"Please join us, Blaine. I'd love to catch up with you, and share a toast to our new civil rights."

Blaine gapes. A toast to our new civil rights? Is he for real?

"Of course. I'd love to. Thank you."

He knows that if this were a normal situation, if he weren't in love with Kurt, if he weren't fucking Paul's fianc�, he'd politely decline and let the lovers escape to their room for the private celebration Paul no doubt had in mind. But this situation is anything but normal. This situation is pure hell and it doesn't come with a rulebook.

The Agave is buzzing with post-Fiesta revelry. Kurt leads them through the maze of tourists and the occasional group of suits caught up in the citywide celebration, toward the back of the lounge. He zeroes in on a group of middle-aged women standing up to leave and claims their table. There is small talk as the women gather their things, talk of mariachis, and rebirth, and crowds and fireworks. Paul is rapt, asking questions about Zozobra while Blaine merely nods and smiles in what he hopes are all of the right places.

"—And I really felt it, you know? The release? What did you burn?"

It takes him a moment to realize that the short, slightly plump woman is talking to him. She's glassy-eyed and bouncy and a bit too loud.

"Sorry, what?"

"What did you burn? You did write down your fears and regrets, didn't you?"

"Yes, I—"

"Wasn't it amazing? Watching it go up in smoke? Just poof! All of that ugly stuff gone for good—"

Before Blaine can spit out an answer the woman is pulled away by her friends, en route to another bar. Paul settles in on the butter-soft oversized settee. He pats the cushion, urging Kurt to sit down next to him. Blaine sits in a chair opposite them, glaring at Paul as he tugs on Kurt's waist to pull him closer.

A busser swoops in and clears their table, the server right on his heels. Paul orders without consulting them. "Veuve Clicquot and three glasses, please. We're celebrating!"

Blaine tries to pay attention as Paul weaves his tale of how he pulled off the civil rights miracle of the decade, but finds it difficult to multitask—how is he supposed to keep up with this important conversation when he's busy counting the number of times Paul touches Kurt?

One, the back of Kurt's hand. Two, his forearm. Three, a shoulder squeeze.

"And you're sure Wilder won't back out this time?" Kurt presses.

"I may have convinced him we had enough votes to kill his farm bill and make it look like his overzealous strategy was to blame," Paul says.

Four, the back of his hand again. Is that their thing? Is that how he calms Kurt down? Does it work faster than my thumb on his wrist?

"But doesn't Andy support the farm bill?" Kurt asks.

"He does."

Paul smiles at Kurt, shrugs his shoulders. Kurt frowns. "And Peterson? Why did he fall in line? You said he had no choice."

Five, hand squeeze.

"He wants that farm bill just as much as Wilder, but he doesn't want to alienate his voters," Paul explains. "I may have had a hundred or so kindergartners with same sex parents draw pictures of their families and hand-deliver them to him to his office... just as Natalie Morales showed up to interview him for a Today Show segment about his experience growing up in the foster care system."

"Ha! I wish I could have seen that," Kurt exclaims.

"You will."

Six, kiss on the cheek.

"So you think a bunch of kids with sweet pictures will change his mind about ‘dirty queers?'" Blaine asks, remembering Congressman Peterson's easy dismissal of gay rights in years past.

"No, he still hates us," Paul explains. "I just handed him a very public reason for changing his mind, one that will appeal to most of his almost-moderate constituents, and made sure Ms. Morales was there to witness it. He gets his farm bill, secures some votes and gets media points for his ‘heartfelt transformation.' Everybody wins."

Kurt smirks at Paul; he knows and appreciates his ways. Blaine tries not to roll his eyes. They've only been sitting at the table for ten minutes—how is he supposed to get through the rest of the night without revealing their secret to Paul or knocking that satisfied smile right off his face?

"You are brilliant," Kurt says fondly, as if he's reminding himself that it's true. Blaine shifts in his seat.

"It was you. Your belief in me, and in us, it carried me through and inspired me," Paul says, his hand on Kurt's cheek.

Eight.

Blaine tries not to vomit on the table. Paul's smooth is too smooth, as if it comes from a can. Maybe I could just accidentally kick him under the table—repeatedly.

Kurt looks down at his hands, folds the corners of his cocktail napkin down, one at a time. If Blaine ever wanted a direct line to Kurt's brain, it's now. He is at his mercy and he has no idea what Kurt could be thinking.

Just then, Kurt looks up at Paul. Behind his eyes there is sadness, but Paul's smile remains. Kurt tries to smile back, says, "I can't believe you're here."

"Good surprise?" Paul asks.

"Of course."

Paul relaxes his shoulders. "Good."

Kurt turns his attention to his champagne glass, spinning it to catch the flickering candlelight. Blaine knows Kurt likes the patterns the glass makes on the napkin, and because he knows this, he smiles.

From across the table, Paul offers Blaine a toothy grin. "So Blaine—"

"Hmm?"

"Wedding bells for you any time soon?"

Kurt's gasp is nothing, almost silent, but Blaine can hear the plea of oh God, not now, this is too hard underneath it. As Kurt drinks down a glass of water, Blaine takes a long sip of his champagne, thinks about how to answer. He wants to follow Kurt's lead, to make this easier on everyone, especially his love, but he can't give up all of the control. It's maddening. And it's making him feel hot and cold all at once.

Kurt gulps too fast, and then coughs, sounding as if he's struggling for air.

"Okay?" Paul asks Kurt, rubbing his back.

Nine.

"Fine. Just wrong way and all that."

Paul turns his attention back to Blaine. "So? Any marriage plans for you and your—I'm sorry, I don't recall your boyfriend's name."

Paul takes Kurt's hand and places it in his own lap, under the table.

Ten.

Shifting his gaze to Kurt, Blaine says, "I haven't proposed yet."

Kurt's eyes go wide, but Paul doesn't notice.

"But you want to," Paul says.

"I do," Blaine replies, eyes still fixed on Kurt. Between them is a trail of promises unspoken, like a thousand tiny boxes waiting to be opened. He holds Kurt's gaze, willing him to open one. Just one.

"And now you'll be able to get married anywhere you want in your own country," Paul says proudly. "Just don't do it this November. We've got dibs."

At this Kurt breaks the spell and turns to face Paul. "Wait—no. We said May, or possibly June—"

"Why wait? It's perfect. We'll marry in Ohio, make a statement in one of the holdout states," Paul says.

"We can't... I can't get married in November," Kurt says.

"Why not? You already have everything planned out in that book of yours."

"I just can't."

Paul seems surprised to hear Kurt's sharp tone. He leans in closer, as if he wants to hug him, soothe him, love him up. But before he can, Kurt slides away and gets up from the table. "I need the restroom. I'll be... I'll be back."

Kurt checks his pockets, offers both men a small smile and then, as he walks by, a barely-there brush against Blaine's back. It's nothing, but enough to bring a blush to Blaine's cheeks. A blush is all it would take for Paul to pay attention, to assess Blaine. And he can't have that, not until he knows how Kurt wants to handle this.

Paul may be watching Kurt, or watching him watch Kurt, so he won't look. He won't look at him as he walks away, as he has watched his every move since that first Tuesday, more than a week ago; since the last chance, the one that fate gave them because they couldn't get there on their own; since before then, and every day; since the beginning; since the day he turned to answer the question of a beautiful lost boy, when he was deaf to his own heart but looking, always looking; since what feels like forever; since... November. He won't look. He won't.

Except he does look, for just a moment, mere seconds but long enough to see Kurt wind his way through the tables as he did that night at Il Piatto. And then he's still looking, eyes on Kurt's back, his shoulders, his graceful stride.

When he turns back to Paul he is composed, all Anderson, his forced smile masking the raging volcano in his gut. Paul is focused on his phone, texting a reply to someone.

Paul turns his phone over on the table. "Sorry. Bad habit."

Blaine shrugs. "Work is work. Yours is more important than most."

"It's not, not really," Paul says. He leans back, rests his arm on the back of the settee. "We all need teachers, and scientists, and skilled labor, and music, and design—I could go on, of course. The list of admirable and necessary professions is long. I'm just a guy with a dream who won't give up."

The worst thing about Paul is, he's almost impossible not to like. Everyone likes him. Loves him. Even Kurt. Kurt.

Paul is passionate as he speaks about the inherent value of each and every person on the planet, wide-eyed and talking with his hands. Blaine listens, and nods, and smiles; his mother's best prot�g�.

"Liam! That's his name," Paul says, interrupting his own monologue. "Your boyfriend. Kurt mentioned him."

"We broke up."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. But I thought Kurt said—"

"We broke up."

Blaine may be okay with using everything he learned at his mother's knee to hide the tension and turmoil inside of him, to keep him from claiming Kurt in some ridiculous display, but he'll be damned if he's going to lie.

"You said you planned to propose. Someone new then?" Paul asks.

Blaine looks directly into Paul's eyes and says, "Someone perfect."

"Whirlwind romance?"

Blaine chuckles. "Depends who you ask."

"Hmm, you're holding on to that story pretty tightly," Paul teases. "Maybe we'll get it out of you with the next round."

Paul pulls the bottle from its icy bath and tops off all three glasses. Blaine sneaks a glance toward the direction of the restrooms. No sign of Kurt.

"So, Blaine, what do you know for sure?"

Really? The Oprah line? Blaine tries not to laugh. "I know the Buckeyes can't defend against a long pass because their wideouts aren't fast enough."

"Buckeyes, huh? I'm not a football fan, though Burt has taught me enough that I enjoy it somewhat. You know Burt and Carole, right?"

"Very well, yes."

Paul's phone vibrates on the table. He flips it over, looks at the screen and says, "Shit. I have to respond to this email. Do you mind?"

"Go right ahead."

With Paul engrossed in composing his email, Blaine pulls out his own phone, intent on texting Kurt to make sure he's okay. When he unlocks his phone he sees that Kurt has already texted him from the bathroom.

Kurt:
I'm sorry. I'm in shock. Don't be mad.

Kurt:
Please look at your phone.

Kurt:
I'm not in the bathroom. I snuck off to the bar. I'm drinking tequila. The bartender is teaching me things.

Blaine cranes his neck, looks around the room, but the bar is out of his sight line. He immediately types a reply.

Blaine:
This is crazy.

Kurt:
I know. I know. I panicked.

Blaine:
He's quoting Oprah. You need to come back.

Kurt:
?

Blaine:
What do I know for sure? I know for sure that this is hell.

Kurt:
That's just his standard opener. He thinks he made it up.

Blaine:
Seriously? Doesn't she have that trademarked?

Kurt:
Blaine! Focus!

Blaine:
Yes. Shock. Got it. Are you ever coming back?

Kurt:
Will you help me tell him?

Blaine:
Of course.

Kurt:
Right now?

Blaine:
Yes.

Kurt:
Oh god. He'll hate me.

Blaine:
He won't.

Kurt:
You don't know him.

Blaine:
I know he loves you.

Blaine:
And I love you.

Blaine:
And I could never hate you.

Kurt:
Deep breath.

Blaine:
Baby. Come on.

Kurt:
Follow my lead. I may not be able to do this.

Blaine:
You can. You will.

Kurt:
I'm walking back now.

Blaine:
I don't want him to think we were texting while you were gone, so I'll keep texting until you come out. I love you.

Blaine:
I love you. I love you. I love you.

Blaine:
Remember that night, after the Spring Break Eve Party when we snuck out of the dorms with Thad's stash and walked out to that tree in the back field?

Blaine:
You said you wanted the kind of love that could break your heart. You said you wanted to be at someone's mercy. And I didn't say anything. I held my breath because you were daring me to love you. To be that person. Or I thought you were.

Blaine can feel him return, his love, but he keeps texting; he does not look up.

"I see you both are enjoying each other's company," Kurt teases.

Paul holds up two fingers, his attention focused on his phone. Kurt sits down next to him, sips his champagne.

"Almost done," Blaine says.

Blaine:
The way you looked at me. You were daring me, Kurt. I wasn't sure then. I was never sure enough to try. So I let the sun come up and that was that.

Blaine:
I am that person.

Blaine:
Don't forget that, baby.

Blaine sends the last text, slips his phone into his pocket. He looks at Kurt. "Sorry about that."

Kurt smiles nervously, glances over at Paul. He waits; he does not fill up the space between them with small talk, or pretend. Blaine steels himself for what's coming. He studies Paul, his entire being wrapped up in somewhere else, some plan, and wonders if he'll go down lightly. Will he let Kurt go without a fight? Will he unravel before them, his shiny brass armor falling to the hard Mexican ceramic tile floor? Or will he recognize the truth, that there will be no compromise, no negotiation?

There will be no deal.

When Paul finally looks up from his phone he doesn't pocket it or turn it off. Instead he slides it across the table and over to Kurt, a giant grin on his perpetually photogenic face.

Kurt covers Paul's phone with his hand and says, "Paul, I need to tell you something—"

"Read that," Paul interrupts, gesturing toward his phone.

Kurt squares his shoulders. "Something's happened, and it was... it was bound to happen eventually, I think. I know. I couldn't—"

"Kurt, whatever it is, I'm sure we can handle it. Please, just read the email on my phone."

Blaine stares at Kurt, at the way he grips the phone, his palm still covering the screen; at his somber face, his watery eyes; at his fear.

"Paul—"

"Darling, please."

Kurt sneaks a quick glance at Blaine and then, shoulders slumped, lifts his hand off Paul's phone and begins to read. It's only seconds before Kurt's eyes bug out.

"What the fuck, Paul? Tell me this is just a draft," Kurt says, his finger scrolling through whatever it is Paul wants him to read. "Tell me... Paul. Are you—tell me this is just a fucking draft."

Paul sits back a bit, smile faltering. "You're not happy?"

"You didn't even talk to me about this," Kurt fires back, eyes still on Paul's phone.

"I thought—"

"You set a date?"

"It was hard enough to find a date that would work with Andy's schedule—"

Kurt slams the phone down on the table and shifts in his seat to face Paul. "I don't give a fuck about the President. Just tell me, yes or no—is this press release a draft, or have they already sent it out?"

Paul frowns, then looks over at Blaine and says, "Would you give us a few minutes?"

"He's not going anywhere," Kurt says. "Answer. The fucking. Question. Paul."

"It went out a couple of hours ago."

Kurt stares at Paul, silent, jaw set. It's only a few seconds but it feels like minutes, minutes that feel like hours, Blaine's heart threatening to beat right out of his chest until Kurt finally says, "You couldn't find another way to get a prime spot on the morning news? A hundred little valentines weren't enough?"

Paul reaches for Kurt's hand, but Kurt pulls back, folding his arms across his chest.

"I wanted your approval, but I couldn't find you—"

"And it couldn't wait one day? Just one fucking day?" Kurt asks.

"I thought you'd be happy," Paul says. "I thought—you wanted to set a date, we've been putting it off for so long."

Kurt looks at Blaine then, eyes filling with tears he seems determined not to shed. Then he looks up at the ceiling, pressing his fingers to the corners of his eyes. He turns to Paul and says, "You should have talked to me first, even if you had to wait."

Paul leans in, takes Kurt's left hand and kisses the ring on his finger. Eleven.

Blaine stares, notices how the firelight hit the ring just right; how it's special; how it fits Kurt's finger snugly, as it should.

God, I'm an idiot.

I haven't even noticed the ring. That hand has gripped my hip, pressed love into my spine, caressed my face and spread me open. I saw nothing but his elegant fingers, strong; the life lines on his palm telling me hopeful stories. It was there all the time and I saw nothing.

Blaine turns away, focuses on the din in the room, the too-loud stories about forgiveness and rebirth, the laughter. He counts the vigas above him, Ponderosa pine beams stained dark. Purely ornamental, they bear no weight. He tries not to think. He won't think at all.

"We need to—let's go up to your room. We can talk this out. I'm sorry, I didn't want to—please let's—we haven't been alone together in so long. Blaine won't mind," Paul says.

"You won't mind if I steal my guy away, right?" Paul asks.

Blaine is on a rogue rollercoaster. He is careening down a deep gorge on a runaway train. He is falling, falling, miles beneath him and only sky above, sure to crash.

There will be no deal.

"Actually, Paul, I do—"

"No!" Both men look at Kurt, surprised by his panicked tone. "Let's... not. We're here to celebrate," Kurt says, too sing-song to be trusted.

No, what? Let's not, what? Tell the truth? Go upstairs? What?

Kurt raises his hand high in the air, fingers wiggling like he's waiting for someone to call on him. As he waves the server over to their table, Blaine is reminded of a younger Kurt, his Kurt, raising his hand at Warbler practice, risking the ire of tradition-obsessed council leaders and a handful of lemmings to bring possibility, and new, and joy. He remembers calling on that same excited hand, Kurt bouncing in his seat, ready to support Blaine's ridiculous scheme to woo a boy through song, thinking he was that boy. He won't give up on that this boy now, his boy. Never again.

"Kurt," Blaine presses, "you said you had something you wanted to tell Paul."

Kurt ignores him, smiles at the server approaching their table. Tall and rail-thin with blond dreadlocks pulled back from his face, he looks every bit the part of the young Santa Fe, the picture of wide-eyed contentment.

"What's your name?" he asks the server, his body turned away from the table.

"Daniel, but my friends call me Dano," he says. He can't be a day over twenty-two.

"Daniel, I need you to set us up with six tequila shots, two for each of us," Kurt says with a wink.

"Right away," Daniel says, before shuffling off to the bar.

"Kurt—"

"Paul?" Kurt replies, one eyebrow quirked up in challenge. He shifts back toward the table, pours the last of the champagne into his glass and drinks it down.

"Never mind," Paul says, settling back in his seat. He glances at Blaine, a slight blush on his cheeks. "I swear, he knows the name of every person who has ever waited on us."

Kurt leans back against the settee, arms folded, glaring at Paul. Blaine forces a smile. They're off the rails. He should say something, say the thing Kurt needs to say, anything to get them back on track, but the tension is thick, a knotted rope tied ‘round his throat.

Paul fidgets with his glass, and then tries again. "Blaine here was telling me that he broke up with Liam. But he said he's not single, so I'm—"

"Really, Paul? Really?" Kurt interrupts.

"What? He said he wanted to propose. Am I wrong? Are you single, Blaine?"

Blaine shifts his gaze to Kurt. "Not remotely, no."

"See? He doesn't mind talking about it," Paul says.

Kurt rolls his eyes, stares him down. The silence is brief, but painfully awkward, both Paul and Blaine trying to find their footing. Why doesn't he just tell him? Why bother fighting over a wedding that will never take place?

From under the table, Blaine can feel Kurt's leg bouncing up and down, a nervous tic. He watches as Kurt's face heats up, his lips pursed together in a thin line.

"Darling—" Paul begins.

"All these years I've just been another item on your to-do list. Moving me around like a fucking intern. A fucking intern, Paul."

"That's not true—"

"It most certainly is true."

"Couldn't we go upstairs? We haven't been together in weeks," Paul pleads.

"Whose fault is that?"

Paul smiles nervously at Blaine and says, "I'm sure Blaine doesn't want to hear us fight."

Kurt glances at both of them, then up at the ceiling again, his voice a loud whisper: "This is a fucking nightmare."

Let me climb across the table, to you, for you. Let me sooth your worry with reminders—a look, a nod, a thumbprint on your wrist. Let me get to you. Keep you. Let me try.

"Kurt—" Blaine starts, but before he can get another word out, Daniel returns carrying a tray laden with six generous shots of tequila, a dish of lime and lemon wedges and three tiny personal saltshakers.

"Blanco," he informs them, as he places everything on the table.

"Blanco? Is that a brand?" Paul asks, jumping on a chance to diffuse the tension.

"No. Blanco means it was bottled immediately after the distillation process," Daniel explains.

"It preserves the agave flavor," Kurt adds, licking his the back of his right hand.

"You know your tequila," Daniel says.

"I'm learning," Kurt replies. He sprinkles salt on his hand, licks it, and downs his first shot without sparing the rest of them a glance.

Daniel clears all evidence of their first round. "Flag me down for the next round."

Kurt pulls a wedge of lemon from his mouth, wipes his lips with the back of his hand. Back straight and brow furrowed, he looks like a hurricane waiting to happen. He says, "You two better catch up."

Blaine and Paul follow suit without question, their faces grim as two soldiers about to be sent off to war. Kurt wastes no time; he licks his hand again, readies the salt.

"Let's toast. Tonight is the beginning of the story, isn't it? The story we tell our grandchildren, about how this battle finally ended," Kurt says, sprinkling more salt.

Blaine follows on automatic pilot, stunned. Kurt is angry, and buzzed, and on his way to blitzed. There's no telling what he'll say, or do.

Kurt raises his glass high, a cue. He waits until the other arms are up and then looks at Blaine, eyes beginning to mist. It's only two seconds more, but in that moment, in the waiting, is a longing Blaine had thought was gone forever. There is want, and the cage around it. There is hope, waning. There is despair.

And then, when the old familiar pain is almost too much to endure, Kurt simply says, "To love."

Blaine holds his gaze. "To love."

Kurt brings his glass to his lips, offers Blaine a sad smile. Paul mutters something about "the sweetest toast" as Blaine chokes down his second shot, leaving the citrus in the bowl. Let it burn. It's nothing compared to this.

He lets his eyes wander around the room, everything turned up and everyone a bit off thanks to Old Man Gloom and third, fourth, fifth rounds of liquor. He lets the sound of Kurt and Paul fade into the background as Kurt bites and Paul works his charm—too smooth, too shiny. Blaine lets his heart swell, bolstered by belief and sheer will, by ten thousand memories and days unspent.

The tequila races through his veins, settles into his face, the tips of his fingers. Silently he wills Kurt to look at his phone, to come back to the task at hand, to remember. He's a witness to the drama of a relationship that should have been over by now. They should be up in Blaine's room, his arms wrapped around Kurt. They should be falling into sleep, his hand rubbing calming circles onto Kurt's lower back, whispering, "Baby, I love you" over and over again into his hair.

It's a hideous feeling, waiting for the end.

Blaine is drawn back to the table when Daniel appears again, saying, "What's up? Do you need something?"

Kurt stares at him for a moment and then inexplicably starts to laugh. He flops back on the settee, his body loose and sideways.

"What'd I say?" Daniel asks.

"I have no idea," Paul says. He sighs, opens something on his phone and begins scrolling through it.

"Could you bring us some water?" Blaine asks.

Kurt sits up, still giggling. "And tequila!"

"None for me, thanks," Blaine says.

Kurt points at Blaine, then Paul, and then himself. "Two, two, two. Set us up, Dano."

"His name is Daniel," Paul says, still looking at his phone.

"But we're friends. Aren't we friends, Dano?"

"No worries, man. You can call me Dano. I'll be right back with your drinks."

As soon as Daniel is out of earshot, Paul sets his phone down and turns to Kurt. "You seem determined to do this here, in front of your friend, so I'll say this now before you drink so much you black out, " he says. "It's not like you to hold on to your anger like this, and it worries me. This crusade—isn't it ours? Aren't we together on this? I'm surprised you've taken this so badly, and I want to make it right, if I can."

"You can't—fuck, I'm all fuzzy. Just because I believe in your work doesn't make what you did okay," Kurt says.

"You're right. I apologize for jumping the gun, for acting without your approval. I want you to be happy. It's all I've ever wanted. Please forgive me?"

Kurt licks his lips, considers Paul. His face softens. "I wanted—I do believe in you. You know that, right?"

"Yes."

"And I'm so very proud of you," Kurt says, his words slurring.

"I'm proud of you, too—"

"No, I—don't be. You shouldn't—"

"But I am proud of you, darling," Paul says. "This victory is as much yours as it is mine."

Kurt's face falls. "Oh. I, uh... never mind."

Watching Paul miss the point is almost as painful as watching him touch Kurt. He wants to fill Paul in, give this to Kurt, help Paul get it just to see Kurt smile at something true and beautiful, just to see Kurt feel loved in all the ways that matter.

Kurt is shredding the napkin now, no pristine folds, no pretty patterns. "I am angry. But I—we set it up this way, and I was okay with that, because—sometimes—I shouldn't have. Oh, fuck, this is hard."

"What's hard?" Paul asks.

Blaine braces himself, lays his palms flat on his thighs to keep himself from jumping out of his chair and climbing into Kurt's lap to block out the world, keep him safe.

Kurt huffs out a little self-conscious laugh. "I'm—I'm a little drunk."

"It's okay. Could you—you know I meant well, don't you?"

"You always mean well, Paul. It's your best quality," Kurt says.

"You'll see. It will be beautiful—a winter wedding. In your home state. And then we can finally get on with it."

Kurt looks at Paul. His face is so sad, Blaine can hardly take it. "We have a lot of plans, don't we?"

"Yes. Yes," Paul says, leaning in.

Kurt looks down at the napkin again, now strewn about in tatters. His voice is soft and liquor-lazy when he says, "Do you need something, Paul?"

"Sorry? I don't—"

"Something... else?"

"I have you, why would I need—?"

"Because I do."

Blaine sucks in a breath, wishes for arms long enough to reach under the table so he can steady Kurt's knees, hold his hand.

"I need something, Paul, and... and I didn't want to tell you like this, or ever, really, but—"

"Whatever you need, we'll get it. Okay? I know I've been gone a lot and maybe haven't noticed—"

"No, it's not about—oh god, I'm a little too drunk for this," Kurt says, his face pale and flushed.

"Let's get you up to your room, okay? You need to sleep it off and then we'll start fresh in the morning. It'll be a new day. Because it is a new day, Kurt. It's a beautiful new day in our country and we're going to be married and you did that, you're part of that, the way you loved me and supported me—isn't that something to shout from the rooftops? Isn't that something worth telling the world, even if it means answering a few interview questions?"

Damn. "A hundred little valentines," Blaine mutters.

"Hmm? I didn't hear you," Paul says.

Blaine looks at Kurt, growing paler by the second, and says, "It was nothing. Doesn't matter."

When Daniel arrives with the drinks, Paul drops a wad of cash on the tray. "Thank you. This should cover everything, but we won't be needing the last round," he says, and turns to Kurt. "Come on, let's get up to your room. We have a lot of catching up to do."

Kurt stands up abruptly, a look of panic in his eyes. "Wait," he says, his hand on Daniel's arm. He picks up one of the shot glasses and swallows the tequila, without ceremony. Very quickly, he moves on to the next. He's on to his third before either of them speaks up.

"Whoa, Kurt—"

"That's enough," Paul says, stilling Kurt's hand with his own. Twelve.

Kurt shakes off Paul's hand off and downs the shot. "You both just spin move me where you want me, don't you? When and where—everything is you, you. Everything."

"Come on, let's get you upstairs," Paul says, nodding at Daniel in an effort to get him to leave.

One arm around his waist, Paul guides Kurt to the door, Blaine trailing close behind. Kurt struggles a bit and then gives up, makes an effort to walk straight. "I'm fine with it. I'm so good at that," Kurt mumbles.

When they reach the lobby Paul says, "Are you on the same floor—?"

"No, I'm on the second floor. He's on the fourth," Blaine says. "Let me help you get him to his room."

"No, thanks. I've got him."

Paul starts to make his way to the elevators, and then turns to look over his shoulder. "I don't know his room number—"

Blaine wants to keep Kurt with him so badly he has to practically spit the words out. "Room 416."

Paul nods, whispers something in Kurt's ear. He walks Kurt past reception, past the giant fireplace, past the coffee-colored armchairs arranged in a square. There are too many touches to count, now. He's all over Kurt, protecting him, keeping him safe.

Blaine is underwater. He is sinking, sinking fast. He watches as Kurt's knees give and fights the urge to rush to him, to hold him up, to swim to the surface. Let me. He watches as the elevator comes down, the numbers lighting up at each floor, each second stretching out as though he still has a chance, as though he could make this right; as though he isn't at the bottom of the sea, tangled up in kelp, praying to be rescued himself. Let me. He watches as the doors open and then close again, this time with his love inside. Let me. He can't hear him, he can't see his face; he is drowning.

By the time he makes it back to his room Blaine is beside himself with worry. His mind swims with too many questions, fueled by ancient insecurities he's slipped back into like a second skin, as if Santa Fe never happened... as if his worst fears did not burn up in flames tonight, but came true, instead.