He can't face it now, either.

Kurt looks down at Blaine, the duvet just barely covering his ass, and despite his lack of sleep and a nagging sense of apprehension working its way up his spine, he feels happy. Giddy, even.

They're on borrowed time. Stolen time, really. They're stealing moments from Paul and Liam and probably making a huge mistake, but he doesn't care. He'll worry about it when he gets back to New York, when this affair (shit, is that what this is?) is but a memory.

Kurt is ten minutes into his long, hot shower when he realizes he's humming "Get Happy" from Summer Stock It's such a Blaine thing to do, so corny, so clich�, so not Kurt. Well. So not Kurt circa 2025. He certainly belted out his share of show tunes in the shower, in the car, at school, in Rachel's basement. But he doesn't sing anymore, not seriously.

"We're headin' cross the river, wash your sins away in the tide. It's quiet and peaceful on the other side." The sound of his own voice, scratchy from crying, from a lack of sleep and from giving one seriously intense blowjob, surprises him. He used to sing every day. He sang alone, and with friends, always, always with Blaine. Not anymore.

When did I give it up? When was the last time?

Maybe he sang along to the national anthem when Paul, with a nudge and a million-dollar smile, forced him to join in while visiting then-Governor Cuomo's box at Yankee Stadium. He can't remember. There have been too many tiny, perfectly reasonable compromises and sacrifices, too many subtle shifts away from himself, to count. They all run together now, like a watercolor in the rain, and he can't put his finger on the exact moment when he stopped believing his own hype and acquiesced to a different life, a life that many envy; a life that he still can't imagine for himself, even though he's living it.

Kurt finishes his shower, wraps a towel around his waist and walks back into the room to get ready. He goes through the motions, deep in thought, his movements slow and methodical.

Did I sing "Happy Birthday" to Meg at her last birthday party? When was that... wow, was that two years ago already? Or did I sing it into the phone last year? I've never even sung for Paul. Not one song. He'd probably be too embarrassed, anyway. It's been so long since...

I forgot. I've forgotten so much.

He's half dressed, slipping one arm into his button-down shirt, when he notices Blaine staring at him from the bed, arms curled around the pillow under his head. Kurt blushes, wondering if Blaine heard him sing in the shower.

"I like watching you," Blaine says.

Kurt smiles. He sits next to him on the edge of the bed, shirt open. "Hey," Kurt says softly. He runs two fingers through Blaine's wild mess of curls.

"Hey." Blaine pulls one hand out from under his pillow and reaches for Kurt, placing it flat on Kurt's belly.

"I have to go see a woman about tile," Kurt says.

Blaine presses Kurt's skin, feeling his abdominal muscles. He slides his hand up Kurt's chest, presses two fingers into Kurt's collarbone and reaches up to cup his chin. "Okay."

Kurt leans down and presses his lips to Blaine's. It's a soft ghost of a kiss—he's not starting something he can't finish—but Blaine gasps nonetheless. Maybe this is how it will be every day until they part: heightened reactions to every little thing, panting and gasping and tugging and pleading and grabbing and holding on just a little too long. They've spent far too much time building up to this, or avoiding it, or both. Probably both. Definitely both. Everything is urgent now, the clock is ticking and Kurt is damn sure of one thing: they will never be satisfied.

Suddenly it occurs to Kurt that they're not stealing moments from anyone, not really. They're reclaiming the moments they left behind.

"Do you have to work today?" Kurt asks.

Blaine nods and stretches, his toes pointing toward the television. The sheet slips off, covering just the tops of his calves. Kurt can't help but look at Blaine's body, olive skin and soft dark hair over compact muscle. His thighs are strong; his chest and abs toned; his interested cock thick and perfect. So perfect. He wants to take Blaine into his mouth, work him over until he's mad for it and then ride him until they both scream.

Kurt licks his lips and looks back at Blaine's face. Blaine is smirking now, his eyes dancing. "You know you want to," he teases.

"True. But if I miss this appointment I won't get another for weeks, and I'm not coming back to Santa Fe just for tile," Kurt says.

The words are out of his mouth before he realizes what he's saying, before he can figure out a better way to say he just wants to be done with this job, not Blaine. "Sorry. That didn't come out right. I just meant... I didn't mean I don't want to come back... to you. Not that we have that option—"

"It's fine. I'm fine. We probably wouldn't be here anyway," Blaine explains. "We'll finish up in a couple of weeks, I imagine. Unless she changes her mind about something."

Kurt takes hold of Blaine's hand, intertwines their fingers and places their palms together, flat, as Blaine did the night before last.

They've held hands before, many times. That first day they met on the Dalton staircase, when Blaine pulled him from one life into another. The night he moved into the dorms and Blaine held his hand through two episodes of Project Runway, just because Kurt was nervous about being away from his Dad so soon after his heart attack. They had made a habit of holding--gripping--each other's hands as they waited to hear the results of each competition. They held hands to offer each other comfort, reassurance, an anchor.

And sometimes they held hands because they couldn't bring themselves to do anything more than that, like that night at David's bachelor party when they held hands under the table, thumbs rubbing over knuckles, wrists, palms, keeping their attraction a secret from the group and themselves. That was five years ago; the last time they saw each other in person. They had never spoken of it.

Blaine watches Kurt's face as he reminisces. He must look pained, because Blaine asks, "Are you okay? You look sad."

"I think maybe we're insane," Kurt replies, staring at their hands.

"But not wrong. Never wrong."

"That's debatable."

Blaine pushes back on Kurt's hand a bit and says, "It can't be helped, Kurt. You know that."

"I do, yes."

Kurt pushes back on Blaine's hand one last time, and then swoops in for a brief, hot kiss. He stands, buttons up his shirt, puts on his shoes and packs his phone and wallet in his bag, all while Blaine's follow him.

"See you later?" Blaine asks, like it's normal, like this thing they're doing won't wreck everything, like it won't kill them.

"Of course. When?"

"Dinner? I'll be done around eight, I think. Maybe earlier. Adele's husband is flying in for the benefit, and she'll want to break to have dinner with him."

"Great. See you," Kurt says, leaning down to give Blaine's thigh a quick squeeze.

He's halfway to the door when it hits him: he doesn't really know how to do the next twelve days. Will they spend every spare moment in his hotel room or Blaine's? Will they behave as two old friends would, except more (so much more)? Will they have a chance to be together, to really be together, if just for a few days? Or is that asking too much?

Kurt turns back and stands at the edge of the bed. He tries to get the words out, but so much has changed between them, cracked wide open and set on fire, that he can't remember the rules anymore—what can be said, what must remain unsaid.

He's silent, fiddling with the strap on his messenger bag, trying not to look nervous, when Blaine says, "Tell me."

Kurt exhales. "So can I take you on a date, or is this strictly a hotel thing?" he asks.

"We didn't cover that this morning, did we?"

"We didn't cover much."

"Is that something you wanted to do? Before?"

"Of course. But that's not really a secret, now, is it? I mean, I told you how I felt about you, once upon a Valentine's Day," Kurt replies.

Blaine's smile is rueful, but he doesn't explain it. Instead he crawls over to the edge of the bed and pulls Kurt down to sit next to him. "What about now? That was just a crush, right? And you're not in love with me, now; you're in love with Paul. So, would you... is that something you want to do now?"

Kurt wants to tell him it wasn't just a crush; it was everything. It was everything and it was too soon and he was so fucking angry about it, because who gets to keep everything at seventeen? Why couldn't it have happened later, when he knew more about himself, when he'd seen enough and loved enough and discovered enough about himself to say, "Yes, I'll have this, I'll take this everything and keep it forever?"

Instead, Kurt says, "Maybe we can... just for these days we have left—" Kurt sighs, unable to say what he means because he's not really sure himself. "I don't want this to feel like an affair... even if that's exactly what this is."

"That's not what this is."

"Okay, so—" Kurt stops himself from asking, so what is this then?

Blaine lets the silence fall between them and then grabs Kurt's hand again. He leans in, hot breath on Kurt's neck, and kisses him in the spot right under his ear. Kurt turns his head to look at Blaine, who offers up one of his all-over grins and says, "I'd love to go on a date with you."

"It seems so wrong to call it a date," Kurt says.

"You asked."

"I know, I know, but, hearing you accept, it sounds so—"

"Stop. Seriously, just stop. I don't want to spend all of our time together worrying about what's right or if we should go to the fucking movies or not, or hold hands in public or not, or anything else we want to do. I'm in this, and I'll accept the consequences when it's over. Until then, I want to just do whatever we want to do, whatever feels right."

Kurt sucks in a breath, because this is Blaine, wanting to be with him without limits, even if just for a few moments, and he can't walk away from that now.

"Okay. I'm in," Kurt says.

Blaine holds Kurt's face in his hands and looks right into his eyes. "No rules."

"No rules," Kurt agrees.

"No worries."

"No worries," Kurt agrees.

"No regrets."

"No regrets," Kurt says, giving Blaine a quick kiss on the lips. "For now."

*****

Blaine takes another sip of his energy drink and tries to decide if he should just tell her the truth, or let her wonder forever. Everyone saw their intense make-out at The Pink last night—the band, Gretchen, everyone. And they all know Liam. Gretchen adores him, in fact. But Blaine knows that if he asks them to, they'll keep their mouths shut. They probably wouldn't say anything to Liam even if he didn't.

But still.

It's not over yet. So there's that. He can't pretend it was a one-time thing, something his friends can easily overlook. And he doesn't intend to cheapen what he has with Kurt by sneaking around as if what they've done is wrong or shameful. Because it isn't. At least, it doesn't feel that way. Not yet. And his friends are bound to see them together at some point, they'll get to watch it unfold and come apart, so what's the point of lying now?

"I was worried as fuck, Blaine," Adele continues, mid-rant. He had tuned her out five minutes ago, trying to sort out a reply to her earlier question. "Answer your fucking texts, why don't you?"

"I'm sorry. Really, I am. I didn't think to check my phone," Blaine replies.

"So did you or didn't you?" And there's the question again, so bold and finite.

Did I let myself be, for once? Did I give in? Did I do what I should have done years ago? Did I finally learn what it feels like to lose myself in someone completely? Did I have the most amazing night of my life with my dearest friend in the whole entire world?

"Yes. Yes, I did."

"Fuck."

"I know," Blaine says. "But I'm not sorry."

"Are you a thing, now? Finally? Or what?"

"Yes. For twelve days."

Blaine explains their agreement to her, lays it all out for her. He tries to make it sound sensible, but it's difficult, because he knows their situation is anything but.

Adele listens carefully, and then says, "Cheating on Liam—"

"I know--"

"Hold up. Listen. Cheating on Liam is the least of it. Last night... you weren't just dancing with Kurt. You were clutching him, Blaine. And you weren't just kissing. That was pure worship. That was an embrace."

Blaine lets out a heavy sigh and sinks down into the leather couch. There's no one in the studio but the two of them—the others are out to lunch—so he lets himself fall to pieces under her watchful gaze.

"I'm so fucked," he says.

Adele slips off her stool and sits next to him. She bumps her knee against his playfully, letting him know she's not judging him, that she's just his friend, just here. This is major, and there will be casualties. Everyone will be worried about Liam, but she's worried about Blaine. She knows that his heart is about to break into countless tiny pieces, so many he'll never find all of them; so many he'll never be whole. And it won't be because he'll lose Liam. It's Kurt who will break him, and there's nothing anyone can do or say about it, least of all her.

"What the hell are you going to do?"

He looks at her now, jaw set, his eyes wet with unshed tears. "Take everything he'll give me until the very last second."

She doesn't try and talk him out of it; there's no point. She just leans into him again and says, "Oh, Blaine... how are we going to put you back together again?"

"It doesn't matter. He's worth it."

They both lean their heads back on the couch. They're quiet for a few minutes, contemplating ceiling tiles, listening to the low hum of the electronic equipment, and then Adele kills the moment, saying, "It was that fucking song, wasn't it?"

And they laugh—big, full-body, silly laughs, feeding off of each other, stupid with it, rolling around on the couch until they make themselves stop.

When they calm down, Blaine looks back at the ceiling and says, "You're my favorite."

"I know, dear one. Fancy a burger? My salad is for shit."

*****

"So she says, 'But Kurt, we've done this all wrong. Trinity Stupidbitch insists that in Santa Fe you start with the door FIRST, and then build the house AROUND it.' God. Is this my life? Because if this is my life, I want a do-over," Kurt says.

"Trinity Stupidbitch?" Antonio asks, trying not to laugh.

"Whatever. She's stupid and she's a bitch. I can't be bothered to remember her actual name, so I made one up that suits her better."

"Yeah, but... Trinity?"

"Oh I didn't make that part up. That is her first name," Kurt says.

"I can't imagine Deidre Alexander hanging out with anyone who has conviction, much less someone who comes from a family so devout they named their kid after the Holy Trinity," Antonio says.

They're killing time in the FedEx line, waiting for an obnoxious woman to finish harassing the poor college-age kid behind the counter about missing boxes. She's screaming about small claims court, and something else about "the hand of God" when Kurt's eyes fixate on the small gold cross hanging from Antonio's neck. Suddenly he's very embarrassed.

"I didn't mean to offend you," Kurt says. Antonio looks at him quizzically and Kurt explains. "About Trinity. I mean, you're... well, I don't know what you are, exactly. But you seem to be... are you Catholic? I mean, are you religious? I probably shouldn't even ask. I mean, we've never talked about this before."

"You can ask. I was raised Catholic, yes. But I only go to mass when my mother asks me to now, holy days, family celebrations, that sort of thing," Antonio replies. "The cross is from my grandmother. I wear it mostly for sentimental reasons."

"Why don't you go to mass anymore?"

"Well, some say all religions are imperfect in some way, that I should just overlook the things that piss me off and focus on what's really important, but I just can't do that," Antonio explains.

"What pisses you off, exactly?"

"Hypocrisy. The Pope's stance on birth control, abortion, homosexuality. The massive sexual abuse cover-up. Should I go on?"

"No. I get it."

"I do miss the ritual of it all, though. Sometimes I go to the Cathedral—"

"The one off the Plaza?"

"St. Francis, yes. Sometimes I go there and light a candle for my grandmother and just sit in a pew and pray. It's simpler that way. It's just me, and God. It's nice."

Kurt is quiet for a minute. He never had any use for God or religion or prayer—he had music. Music had been his religion. Music and art and aesthetics. He wonders if Antonio misses his religion like he misses music.

"Catholics have confession, right? Did you ever go?"

"Every Wednesday."

"And did you... did you feel better, after confessing your sins?"

"It always feels better to talk to someone about your problems, sure. But I don't really believe in sin the way my family believes," Antonio says. "I believe sin is acting against your own truth."

"Like knowing what's right and doing the opposite?" Kurt asks.

"Sort of. It's more like, knowing what's right for you, and going against that. I'm oversimplifying, but you know, that's the basic gist of it."

A supervisor ushers the irate woman off to the side and the shell-shocked kid waves Antonio and Kurt forward. Antonio's words hang heavy in the air as they step up, setting their two boxes of tile samples on the counter. Kurt knows Antonio and Sarah saw him dance with Blaine, saw him give himself over to the moment like they were the last two people on earth. He wants to tell him he's in trouble, he's headed for a breakdown and he can't stop. He wants to tell his friend he had it all figured out until last night, until Blaine uttered those four simple words: "I've always wanted you."

He wants to tell him everything because he needs a friend, someone who won't judge him, someone who didn't know them before, when they were kids and made all the wrong choices...

"Kurt? Overnight?"

"Hmm?"

"You want these boxes to go overnight, right?"

"Oh. Yes. Morning delivery, please."

Kurt decides to keep his confession to himself for now. He smiles at Antonio and says instead, "It's a beautiful necklace, Antonio."

"Thanks."

Kurt texts Blaine on their way back downtown. There's this little Italian restaurant he's been meaning to try, just a short walk from the Alexander house. It has a New York feel, small, with clean lines, white tablecloths on square tables, simple flower arrangements and an excellent wine list.

To Blaine:
Meet me at Il Piatto on Marcy Street at 8:30?

Kurt tries not to look at his screen. Blaine is working; he won't get back to him right away. He's busy.

His phone buzzes not thirty seconds later.

To Kurt:
Yes. Perfect.

Kurt imagines the two of them eating and talking and staying too long, and then walking back to the hotel, hand-in-hand, sneaking glances...

"You know what I think is the worst possible sin?" Antonio asks, interrupting Kurt's daydream.

"I'm afraid to answer," Kurt teases. "Faux leather? Wearing a cowboy hat from Target?"

"Chickening out."

"On what?"

"The life you were meant to live."