"It's not a good idea," Blaine replies.

"Barry says he's a stunner," she adds, poking him in the side.

"Never trust drummers." He pauses, looks at her sheepishly and then adds, "But yeah, he is."

"Angel said you were flirting with him." She wants to play; he can tell.

"Never trust guitar players either."

"You're the most untrustworthy of all," she teases.

"Am not!"

"Bring him 'round, then," she says.

"No."

"Gretchen said after you spotted him, you were fucking mute for ten full minutes."

"For that matter, never trust assistants. Or anyone you know. Ever. I was not mute. And it was not ten minutes. I was just surprised," Blaine says.

"Let me ring him. He'll probably piss his pants—"

"Not Kurt. He's unflappable," Blaine says.

"Ask him. I'll sing all of the old stuff you used to moon over in between studies." She's full-on teasing him now; Blaine can't help but smile.

"Adele, please. I really shouldn't."

"Ah, so that's how it is. You want to, but you shouldn't, so you won't," she says, getting up off of her stool. "In a bit of a mess then, are you?"

"What? Because of Liam?"

"You said it, not me."

"It's nothing to do with Liam. Kurt and I, we have... unfinished business."

"A big mess, then."

"It's just better if we meet for coffee, or something," Blaine says.

"So that's how it is? You can't trust yourself around this stunner of yours?"

"I can. I do. I just... it's better this way."

"What did you get up to last night, then? A bit of--?" Adele makes a bizarrely crude gesture with one hand while shaking her hips.

"Stop. No. Of course not. He showed me this house he's renovated for a client, and then we walked back to the hotel. Simple."

Except it wasn't simple. They'd been doing their thing, and it was kind of delicious the way they slipped back into it like no time had passed since their last meeting. They were catching up and teasing each other and Blaine was super excited about spending as much time with his friend as possible. But then Kurt shifted closer to him, rested his head on Blaine's shoulder and suddenly everything became very complicated.

At the mere memory of Kurt's soft exhalation, of their fingertips pressing together like leaves under glass, Blaine feels the ache. The ache almost killed him twelve years ago, as he watched Kurt go off to New York with so much left unsaid. He'd been able to keep the ache at bay for years, talk himself out of it, had moved across oceans to avoid it, but it had never really left him. The ache remained, dulled over time, but ever-present. And last night, in Kurt's presence, away from the familiar and the shared, the ache had taken over and spread through his entire body, leaving him frustrated beyond belief.

So no, inviting Kurt to an exclusive performance in a private room, in a tiny nightclub, thousands of miles away from Liam, and reason, and the promises he'd made to his boyfriend in earnest, was not a good idea.

"It's not a good idea," Blaine insists.

"Don't care," Adele says. She pecks him on the cheek, hands him her sheet music and says, "Invite him. I just want to meet him. I'll keep watch, don't worry. I won't let you do anything I would do."

"Gee, thanks." Blaine says, watching her bound out of the studio in search of lunch.

They've been at it all morning, laying down tracks for what Blaine hopes will be her first single, "So New." She's writing about love again, but this time it's about her loving husband, not some "rat bastard." She's writing happy these days, and that's why she chose Blaine to produce. He's talented, smart, earnest and good. But she chose him because, for the most part, he's a positive guy. Even with the ache, quiet and awful, pressing hard into his spine, he's happy—or as happy as he hoped to be. And he's good at it. Which is why he's recording with Adele. In this happy, contented, settled life of hers, Blaine fits.

If you were to ask his friends (namely Wes and David), they'd say he was pathologically happy, that it wasn't real; that underneath his eternal optimism was a desperate need to please, to be polite, and that in seeming happy all of the time, Blaine was just doing what was expected of him. Could he really blame his whole approach to life on good manners?

"I could blame a lot on good manners," Blaine mumbles.

Kurt, for instance. He could blame his relationship with Kurt on good manners. The day he met him Blaine knew Kurt was a spy, but he couldn't help but show him around, offer him kindness and coffee, dry his tears. That had been the beginning, a beginning he could have avoided if he had simply been less polite, or if he had called him out, or if he had let one of the others handle him.

Despite how things turned out, he wouldn't change a thing about that day.

Later, after Kurt entered his bloodstream and staked a claim on his heart, his need for decorum would keep him from doing anything about it. Because it wasn't just his heart. Oh, no. It was something powerful and raw and needy that kept him up at night, trying to ease the pain of want until he was so sore he wanted to cry. He could never risk his friendship with Kurt just to satisfy his teenage hormones. He knew Kurt felt something similar, or had at one time, but they never found the right moment. He never found the right moment.

Midway through college, he convinced himself it just wasn't meant to be. And even if they did get together, they were still so young. It wouldn't, couldn't last. But their friendship would stay pure, and it would last. It would outlast the boyfriends, and the distance, and maybe even a husband.

Except their friendship didn't last, not really, not in the way he wanted it to. The want between them grew into its own thing, and then it became their thing, and soon they couldn't interact without the teasing and the "what if" looks and the "you know you want it" subtext. And when the ache became unbearable, Blaine began to drift. And when Blaine began to drift, Kurt began to pull away. And they both went on to find other confidants and friends. Every once in a while, they took the want out for a ride with the help of modern technology. And it was fine... mostly because they hadn't really been alone together in years.

He could have avoided Kurt last night. They were in the back, Adele's musicians and Mitch's engineers and Gretchen. He could have just watched him from afar, never said a word, and let it be one of those movie moments, two friends who keep missing each other—sometimes by chance, sometimes by choice. He could have continued to watch him, let the ache come alive at the sight of him, wind its way up, vertebra by vertebra, until it burned hot at the back of his neck.

He could have let him go again. But he couldn't help himself.

Besides, he had better manners than that.

****

"Could you line them up next to each other so I can compare them?" Kurt asks the frustrated, sweaty workers at Santa Fe Entrance. His request earns him a series of groans before a tall-ish worker calls for an extra pair of hands to help out.

Kurt watches as four men move three giant, hand-carved doors to lean against a wall. He's done with doors, absolutely done, having spent the better part of the day roaming around the massive outdoor showroom looking for the perfect front door for Deidre's perfect adobe home. He is in no mood. He's hot, he's dusty and he forgot his sunscreen. And he may be just a little bit annoyed with himself for his behavior with Blaine last night. Just a little.

"It's not as if I slept with him, or even kissed him," Kurt mutters, staring at the doors. Still, he did let his guard down. He let Blaine in. Just a bit. Not too much, but enough that he can't stop thinking about him when should be thinking about doors and rugs and unpainted kitchens and guest lists and honeymoon plans and Paul.

After Kurt gave Blaine a tour of the rest of the Alexander house they simply walked back to the hotel and said goodnight, promising to get together again at some point in the coming week. It was innocent. Polite. Friendly. "Call me. I'm in room 415," Kurt said, regretting it almost instantly.

Why did you tell him your room number? He has your cell. Now he probably thinks you want him to—

"Can we eat yet? It's almost two-thirty," Antonio asks, interrupting Kurt's internal rant.

"Thank goodness you're back," Kurt says. "I have to get out of the sun. I need air conditioning, and liquid something, and food."

"Definitely food," Antonio agrees.

"Let me just take one last picture of all three lined up together," Kurt says, motioning for the workers to step out of the way. Two of the men glare at him, the new helper just stares and the tall-ish one surprises him with a wink.

"Really, now?" Kurt says just loud enough for Antonio to hear. "Didn't peg him for family."

"New Mexicans are never what they seem," Antonio says, smiling.

"As lovely as you all are, and I do appreciate you so very much, I need you to move. Step away from the doors. Yes. Just like that. A little bit further. Little bit... further. There! Thank you!" Kurt snaps one more photo and then turns on his heels to go back to the car.

"He'll call you," Antonio says, nodding to the group of men, spent from their day attending to the demanding Kurt Hummel.

Antonio turns to leave and then turns back, adding, "About the doors. He'll call you about the doors." The tall-ish man frowns and kicks up dust with his boots.

As he gets in to his Range Rover, Antonio chuckles. "You could have worked that to your advantage," he says, turning on the car. "Maybe you could get free delivery or something."

"What are you talking about?" Kurt asks.

"The tall one. He likes you."

"So?"

"Oh, I see. You're so used to being an object of interest, it bores you," Antonio says.

Kurt laughs. "I like that, 'Object of interest.' It makes me sound like a spy."

"Maria's, or that soup place you like?" Antonio asks, pulling out into lazy midday traffic.

"Maria's. I need a drink."

"Maria's it is."

It's only two miles to the restaurant. They sit in silence while Kurt sends dozens of photos of doors to Deidre. It's nearly six o'clock in New York, and he knows she's busy getting dressed for this event or that fundraiser, so he doesn't expect a prompt reply. She won't want any of the options he sends her anyway. He'll probably spend another long, hot day hunting for just the right door, dripping in sweat and covered in desert. Just the thought of it makes him want to guzzle tequila like a college freshman.

Maria’s is quiet, its yellow vinyl tablecloths wiped clean and shiny. The sign near the entrance warns, “The Chile is HOT today,” the word “HOT” filled in with white chalk. They're settled into a nondescript booth, margaritas ordered, Antonio shoving chips and spicy homemade salsa into his mouth, when Antonio asks, "What's with this housewife stuff?"

"Speak English, Antonio."

"Drinking in the middle of the afternoon."

"Since when is that the domain of housewives?" Kurt asks.

"I don't know. Sarah watches that show. They all drink in the afternoon, before their kids get home from school."

"Charming," Kurt says, sipping his water.

"Real Housewives of something."

"Right. Which city are they tarnishing now? Des Moines? Saskatchewan? Somewhere on Guam?"

"Hell if I know," Antonio replies. "So why the need for alcohol, my friend?"

"I might have... run into someone last night who makes me feel... uncomfortable."

Antonio sits up taller in the booth, his expression serious. "Somebody giving you a hard time?"

"No, no. Nothing like that. I just ran into an old friend at the Agave," Kurt explains.

"Small world."

"Isn't it just?"

"Okay, fill in the blanks. I'm no good at guessing," Antonio urges.

"We're friends, right? You and me?"

"Well, you've said 'no' to every dinner invitation..."

Kurt frowns. He has turned Antonio down in favor of pushing on with work, or hiding out in his hotel room, pretending he's on East Coast time. "I know I haven't been social, but—"

"Shit, I'm just teasing. Of course we're friends."

"I didn't mean to assume—"

Antonio fixes him with a stern gaze. "I let you pick out my boots. Boots are sacred, man."

"Right. So we're friends, and you wouldn't betray a friend's confidence, even if said friend wasn't technically doing anything wrong but still didn't want anyone to know about it?"

"I work for Clint Alexander, Kurt. Friend or no friend, I'm fucking Fort Knox," Antonio assures.

"Got it. Good. Okay, I might have, at one point in time, harbored unrequited feelings for this friend, and may have, over the years, indulged in a bit of... flirting with him, nothing major, nothing untoward, but still very... intense. And he may have, from time to time, flirted back. And it's been five years since we saw each other and even longer since we were alone together... in the same room... until last night, when I may have had a fit on Deidre's kitchen floor and then possibly... rested my head on him for comfort. Literally."

"Huh."

"Huh? That's your only response? Huh?"

"I'm not used to 'Nervous Kurt,'" Antonio says. "You're not telling me something."

"No, I—"

Kurt is cut off by the arrival of their gigantic margaritas. Kurt thanks the waitress and sucks at least half of his down like it's his first drink in months.

"Yeah. You are definitely leaving something out," Antonio says.

"I'm not."

"Give."

"There's nothing more to it, really."

Antonio raises one eyebrow and folds his arms, not willing to budge.

"Okay, fine! I was in love with him when we were kids, and I'm not anymore, I'm not. But he's insanely gorgeous and so charismatic—I mean really, he's magnetic—and he knows me, and we get each other and it's kind of... he just does something to me..."

"Something no one else does?"

Kurt looks directly at Antonio, then down at his hands, unable to admit it to his face. "Yes. And it's just a bit dangerous to be here, with him here, and our boyfriends not here. You know?"

"Fianc�. You have a fianc�."

"That's what I said."

Antonio chooses to ignore Kurt's slip and takes another sip of his margarita. "Don't be so hard on yourself. You love Paul, right?"

"I do, yes."

"And this guy—"

"Blaine. His name is Blaine."

Antonio doesn't miss the way Kurt's eyes twinkle and the corners of his mouth turn up when he answers, his voice soft and reverent.

"And this guy Blaine, he has a boyfriend or someone he loves?"

"He does."

"So don't worry about it. We all have old flames and people we were once crazy for who pop up every now and again. It's part of this complicated life we live. You never pursued more than friendship before. Why would you cross the line now?"

"I wouldn't."

"Right, so stop worrying." Antonio reaches over to pat his hand and Kurt downs the rest of his drink. He motions to the waitress to bring him another.

"You're right. You're right. I know you're right," Kurt says. "We're friends. We're just good friends."

Kurt turns to look out the window, but not before Antonio sees the look in Kurt's eyes. He knows that look.

Antonio relaxes his shoulders and sinks into the booth. "So what's up with this Blaine guy? Is he in town on business?"

"Oh, you'll love this. It proves your small world theory," Kurt starts.

"It's not really my theory, it's pretty much agreed upon by the masses," Antonio interrupts.

"Must you?"

"Sorry."

"He's producing Adele's new album at a studio out in Galisteo. How's that for a coincidence?" Kurt is so excited he's bouncing in his seat.

"That's Mitch's studio. He's on the board at Alex Marin House, remember?"

"See! Small world!"

"Or something."

"Explain," Kurt says.

Antonio doesn't want to explain. He doesn't want to tell Kurt what he knows to be true, knows in his bones: Kurt will never marry Paul because this Blaine guy, he's the one. He's Kurt's Sarah. Antonio could see it all in that one moment. He saw the longing, the truth, the entirety of it all in that one fleeting look, the look Kurt didn't want him to see.

The look is never wrong.

That, and Kurt just lied to him for the first time. And Kurt never lies.

Antonio has a knack for spotting what he calls "soul love." His friends give him shit about it, tell him he let too many of Sarah's new-agey woo-woo friends "freak his mind." But he's always been able to see it, the look, since he was a child. His grandmother, the one with Namb� blood, told him it was a gift passed down from her family.

So he knows. He knows Kurt and this Blaine guy are tethered to each other, and no other love, no matter how right or good or seemingly perfect, can break it. But he won't explain this to Kurt, because though he and Blaine are tethered to one another, it doesn't mean they will ever accept it. Being tethered doesn't outweigh free will.

So instead of telling Kurt all he knows, he simply says, "Maybe it's fate."

Kurt turns back to him, very interested but trying to pretend he's anything but. "Fate? Try coincidence."

"No. It's fate."

"Antonio, really. What the hell are you talking about?" Kurt demands. "If it's fate that Blaine and I meet here in this tumbleweed hellhole, what, pray tell, is the purpose?"

"No, no. I'm not telling you your whole life," Antonio says. "You've got to figure some of this shit out on your own. If I tell you, you'll just toss it aside. But if you figure it out yourself, you'll believe it."

"You're seriously freaking me out, Antonio."

"Sorry. Wanna split some tableside guac?"

"Absolutely not."

"Okay." Antonio smiles at Kurt and then looks down at his menu. "How about spicy shrimp? Will you split that? Then I'll get the bean burrito with posole."

"What? Are you seriously changing the subject?"

"We can talk about it, if you want, but it won't change anything," Antonio says.

Kurt stares at Antonio, mouth open. He wants to say something, anything, to refute Antonio's confident yet totally ludicrous (ludicrous!) proclamations about fate, but words fail him. He doesn't believe in fate any more than he believes in God, or angels or the fucking tooth fairy. But then again, he had no reason not to believe.

"I can see you working it out," Antonio says. "Good."

Kurt's phone buzzes on the table.

Blaine:
Come out tonight. Adele is giving a private concert at The Pink Adobe.

"It's from Blaine. He's invited me to a thing with Adele," Kurt explains.

"At The Pink?"

"The Pink Adobe."

"Locals call it 'The Pink.' You should go," Antonio says.

"How do you know about it?"

"Mitch invited us."

"The coincidences are really starting to stack up, aren't they?" Kurt says, staring at his phone.

"Concentric circles, man. Concentric circles."

"I'm not even going to ask what that means," Kurt says. Antonio laughs and waves the waitress over to take their order.

Blaine:
Please come. Adele wants to meet you.

Kurt:
I'm saving this text forever.

Blaine:
So you'll come? She's sort of being annoying about it.

Kurt:
I'll meet you there. What time?

Blaine:
Ten-ish. I'll put you on the list.

Kurt:
This is all a bit New York for the land of shitkickers and ten-gallon hats, isn't it?

Blaine:
You just said shitkickers. I'm saving this text forever.

Blaine:
And you're a snob.

"I ordered you the chile rellenos," Antonio says. "Kurt?"

"What? Oh, sure. Yes. Thank you."

Antonio grins and goes back to attacking the chips and salsa.

Kurt:
I accept that about myself.

Blaine:
AND I haven't seen that many cowboy hats, actually. We're not in Texas.

Kurt:
Thank heaven for small mercies.

Blaine:
You don't believe in heaven.

Kurt:
Touch�.

Blaine:
What is it with you and Texas?

Kurt:
If Louise didn't want Thelma to take a shortcut through Texas, she must have had a good reason.

From Kurt:
Also, George W.

Blaine:
And that's a good reason to avoid an entire state? Austin is pretty fantastic.

Kurt:
If you say so.

Blaine:
Gotta run. See you later?

Kurt:
Yes. Thank you for thinking of me.

Kurt holds on to his phone, wondering if Blaine will respond. He feels a bit silly waiting, like he's sixteen again.

"Are you done?" Antonio says, a playful smirk at his lips.

"Stop. It's nothing."

"Oh, it's something, all right," Antonio says.