All through high school, Kurt held out hope Blaine would get his shit together. After that day Kurt claimed the Meg Ryan role in their When Harry Met Sally relationship there were three overnight bus trips to competitions and hundreds of "just the two of us" outings to the movies, to plays, to the mall, to the Lima Bean.

They had taken at least a dozen day trips to cute little homophobic towns with antique shops and cherry festivals and pie, and had spent countless hours in each other's dorm rooms, cars and other intimate spaces. They had wandered off from at least seven New Directions blowouts and four Warbler's Official Mixers so that they could gossip or just talk about whatever crucial revelation one of them had in the four and a half hours they hadn't seen each other.

And of course, there was Jeff's Stupid Camping Trip.

Through all of the moonlight and darkness and quiet, the firelight on young faces in the common room, the haze of Puck's mystery drink, the accidental brushing of legs and stocking-covered feet on double beds, the cloud formations and piles of autumn leaves and the sweet-smelling rain, the proximity, Kurt had expected Blaine to take advantage of one, just one of those "movie" moments and kiss him senseless. But he never did.

The way Kurt saw it, these were Blaine's wasted moments, not his. He stated his intentions and played along and waited patiently for the big moment, the revelation, the declaration of love that never came. Wisconsin was the end of that, because in Wisconsin it was Kurt who wasted the biggest moment of all.

Uncrossing his legs and bringing his knees up to his chest, Kurt remembers water lapping against the sides of a dock in a lake far away, a pink, green and yellow glow reflecting in hazel eyes on a night long ago.

It was the moment to end all moments. They were skinny-dipping in a lake, under the northern lights, a short walk from a parent-free cabin; it was a now or never moment if there ever was one. And Kurt blew it. He took one look at Blaine's expectant gaze, placed two hands flat on the dock and pulled himself up out of the water and away from any chance that they would finally get what they both wanted.

It wasn't the last time Kurt wasted an opportunity to reach out and grab this thing between them and hold it steady, to let it land and settle between them and allow it to ripen and grow and shape them into the men they were always meant to be. But it was the last time he hoped they would get their own movie ending, because for the first time, he was the coward.

It was the realization that they were both cowards that inspired Kurt to make a decision: he would learn how to be happy living a different life, without Blaine.

From that moment forward, he held them both equally responsible for the wasted moments. And soon enough, the business of growing up eroded their everyday familiarity and these moments wound together and formed the DNA of their relationship; these moments defined them, in the same way their love should have defined them. And it all felt wrong, so very wrong.

Until they actually did the "wrong" thing and everything felt so very right.

Kurt shakes off the memories and pulls his phone from his pocket. He's been avoiding Paul all day, afraid to let reality seep into the lovely awesome that has enveloped him ever since Blaine showed up at his hotel room door. His finger skates through the texts, expecting to find a dozen or more anxious messages, but there are only four; just the regular kind.

Paul:
Did I miss you again? Still burning ALL of the candles at both ends here. We may have a deal with Tobias. Not sure yet. Love you.

Paul:
Damn. I keep forgetting the time difference. You're probably still sleeping. Call me when you get this.

Paul:
Forgot to ask about work. How is Mrs. Crazy? Are you done yet?

Paul:
Just tried to call you. Dinner break. Thought I'd spend it with you. What are we doing for Christmas? Can we be in NY on the 27th? I might have a thing.

He knows he should call Paul, even if it's just to leave him a voicemail, but he doesn't want to hear Paul's voice. He's afraid that even his short, businesslike recorded message ("If this is an urgent matter, please contact my assistant, April Clark at 917...") will be the pinprick that bursts the highly inappropriate, delicious bubble he's been living in for the past twenty-two hours.

It's not like they haven't gone weeks without talking before, what with Paul's commitments to President Cuomo and Kurt's willingness to let him disappear into his work without complaint. Paul can wait. As long as Kurt sends him a text, Paul won't miss him much; and even if he does, he'll be too busy to do anything about it.

Kurt:
Got your messages. Working hard to get this done to avoid a second trip. Dinner meeting tonight, sorry. Good luck with everything. Keep me posted via text, if you can. Yes, NY on the 27th is fine. xxoo

And there it is: the first outright lie.

Dinner meeting.

Since when do I send little x's and o's? Trying to get my fianc� to text me so I don't have to hear his voice. I'm a liar. A liar and a cheat. And a liar.

Kurt stands and makes his way through the house, touching walls, brushing fingertips on polished wood, the backs of chairs, the dining room table. He's reminded of a conversation he had with Carole just before Finn's wedding. They had stayed up until the wee hours, rethinking the seating chart longer than was actually necessary, Carole nervous about letting go of her son and Kurt nervous about seeing Blaine in a tux. Somehow they ended up talking until dawn, two empty wine bottles and a half-full bowl of pita chips between them. It was the kind of intimate conversation Kurt had always hoped to have with his own mother.

He didn't talk much about Blaine that night, though he did discuss other boys he dated and liked and kissed, the boys with whom he had shared firsts. Carole didn't discuss her true feelings about Finn's milestone either, instead choosing to match Kurt's stories with her own dating adventures. It was somewhere around four a.m. when she admitted to once cheating on one of her boyfriends, a tallish firefighter she once loved enough to practice saying her first name with his last.

At the time, Kurt was shocked; her secret seemed incongruous with the warm, pleasant, unwavering loyalty of the woman he had come to know and love. When he asked her if she had ever come clean, Carole looked right at Kurt and said, "Honey, confessing to an affair that's over, well, that's just selfish. Sleeping with Steven didn't change my feelings toward Brian one bit. Telling him would have made me feel better, sure, but it would have broken Brian's heart unnecessarily."

She smiled at his wide eyes, then, adding, "It was my mistake, so I chose to live with the guilt. And believe me that stuff eats you up inside. It's a harsh punishment."

Looking at Deidre Alexander's still-unpainted kitchen, Kurt wants to call Carole and tell her everything. He wants to lean into her soothing voice, rest his worries on her wisdom and let her unconditional love wrap around him and shield him from the guilt rising up in his gut. He knew it would show up eventually, because as much as he is part of Carole, influenced by her example and sage advice, he is, above all, his father's son.

And Burt Hummel never lies.

Kurt closes the blue door behind him and makes his way from the Alexander house to Blaine. Blaine. Blaine who is on his way to meet him. Blaine who is his date. Blaine who is not his fianc�. Blaine who belongs to someone else.

How can two cheaters go on a date? Is that even possible? Is it called something else? Is it a rendezvous? A hookup? A big fat lie dressed up to look like something normal, something real?

Kurt's thoughts overwhelm him, churn in his belly and twist up his spine until he feels a little bit sick. It's only a short walk to Il Piatto and he's early, so he decides to do the only thing that will make him feel better. He thumbs through his contacts, brings up the familiar face and presses "Call."

The phone rings twice and then, "Kurt? What's up, buddy?"

"Hi, Dad."

"Hi. You okay?"

"Sure. Yes. I just haven't talked to you much lately, so I thought we could catch up."

It's almost ten o'clock in Ohio, and Kurt knows his dad is sitting in the family room in his giant brown leather recliner, trying to stay awake long enough to greet Carole after her three to eleven shift. The fact that his parents haven't altered their routine since he and Finn lived at home is more than just a comfort for Kurt; it is the constant that keeps him from feeling lost, even when he is.

"Something's bugging you," Burt says.

"Not at all... I—"

"Kurt, just tell me. What's going on? What do you need? Do you need something?"

Do you need something?

"Why would you say that? I'm fine," Kurt says, hurriedly. There is a short pause and then he asks, "Why did you say that?"

"I don't know. You just seem... not yourself," Burt says in a careful tone. "Do you need something?"

Do I need something? Fuck yes, I do. I need to feel like this is all okay, that I'm not a total and complete bastard. I need to confess. I need forgiveness. I need more than twelve days. I need—

"Kurt, I can't help you, buddy, if you don't tell me what's up," Burt says.

"I'm in Santa Fe," Kurt starts.

"Yeah? You're still working on that job, then?"

"Yes... Dad—" and he can't say what he needs to say, so he diverts. "Did you know that you can see four mountain ranges from here?"

"No kidding? I'd like to see that."

"I finally get that whole 'purple mountains majesty' thing," Kurt says.

"Nice sunsets, I suppose."

"Yes. And sunrises." Kurt pauses, takes a deep breath and lets out a heavy sigh. "I ran into Blaine."

"Where? In Santa Fe?"

"Yes. We're staying in the same hotel," Kurt explains.

"You just, ran into each other? I thought he was living in England or something," Burt says.

"How do you know that?"

"Finn."

"Oh."

"So I'm guessing there's a problem somewhere in this story, or you wouldn't be calling me. Is Blaine okay?"

"Yes, yes. He's fine. He's good," Kurt says. "It's, uh, complicated."

Kurt hears his father sigh and move about in his chair. He imagines him there, in that room filled with family pictures and framed football jerseys, sitting up and forward in his chair as if Kurt were right there in front of him, just as he did whenever Kurt was in trouble.

"Just how complicated are we talking here, Kurt?"

"Um... very?"

"Christ."

"Dad, I—"

"Now, Kurt? After all these years, you two decide to do, whatever it is you're doing, now?"

"I know, it's crazy, we're crazy—"

"Does Paul know?"

"No, god no. Never," Kurt insists.

"Never, huh? Exactly what are you and Blaine doing here, kid? Because if it's what I think it is, you have to tell Paul. And if it's what you have convinced yourself it is, you still have to tell him. You can't be a liar, too, Kurt."

His father's words are like a blow to the gut. Kurt stops and grabs hold of the nearest wall for support. He doesn't say anything for a moment, just lets the silence and the weight of his deeds hang between them as, fourteen hundred miles apart, they both swallow, take a breath, and swallow again.

Just then, he spots Blaine not a block away, walking up Marcy Street toward Il Piatto. Kurt slips into the entryway of a shop and tries to mold himself against the blue door—always the same Santa Fe blue—as he watches Blaine look up and around and finally notice the restaurant.

Blaine looks gorgeous in his dark denim, a crisp, soft pink button-down and a brown, tailored leather jacket. He watches him take a moment to look at the menu posted on the glass outside and has to look away so he doesn't shout out to him, run to him, grab him in a crushing embrace and never let him go.

Kurt looks up and notices the Marcy Street Card Shop sign. He peers in the window at the darkened store, at shelves of greeting cards and love notes and handmade paper, and says the thing he hasn't told a living soul.

"It is what you think it is. I'm hopelessly in love with Blaine, and he came for me, and I couldn't say no," Kurt says. "I couldn't say no."

"Jesus. I should have locked you two in the basement years ago," Burt says. "But somehow I think even if you were stranded together on a friggin' deserted island, you still wouldn't man up and do what needs to be done."

"I'm not going to argue with you, Dad. You're right, of course. I've spent the last few hours running over every time... well, it doesn't matter. What matters is we were both stupid—"

"—And chicken shit—"

"Yes, that too. But we're not doing that anymore. Now we—"

"Now you're engaged, Kurt. And Blaine, is he screwing around on anyone?"

The words cut right through Kurt's heart. But he deserves it. Every bit of it. So he fights the urge to hang up and answers: "Yes. A boyfriend."

"And he loves him?"

"Yes. I think so."

"And you still love Paul?"

"I do love Paul, but—"

"Never mind. I know it's not the same. Anyone who ever spent even five minutes with you two together knows you and Blaine have that star-crossed chemistry thing going on. How is Paul supposed to compete with that?"

"He doesn't have to. As soon as I'm done with this job, I'm going back to New York, to Paul. Blaine and I agreed."

"So you're just going to mess around on your future husband for a few days and then never tell him?"

Kurt can hear the disappointment in Burt's voice, and he wants to reach through the phone, get on his knees and beg for his forgiveness.

"Dad, I don't know what to do. I just... I can't stop. Not now. I just... I need this."

Burt heaves a big sigh and Kurt imagines him rubbing his jaw, his face stern and his eyes filled with anger.

"Look, kid, you know I love you no matter what, but you have to do the right thing here. And I can't tell you what that is. I know you called me because you want me to tell you, but you're a grown man, Kurt. You need to figure out what's right for you, and have the courage to make it so. Even if it's the hardest thing," Burt says. "Except that part about telling Paul. Whatever happens, you owe it to him to tell him the truth. All of it. Not just this Santa Fe stuff. All of it."

"Okay, Dad."

"Okay, then."

"I love you, Dad."

"So much, kid."

"Don't be worried, Dad."

"Fat chance."

"Thank you. Bye."

"Bye. Take care of you."

****

Blaine sits at the table Kurt reserved, a small square table for two in the corner near the window, feeling at once seventeen and ancient. He's nervous, and it's more than just first-date nervous, it's first-date-ever nervous. But after a long life of dashed hope and longing, he's also weary. Without Kurt next to him, the flood of hell-to-pay creeps in and even though he can't—won't—do anything to stop it, it's there, right there, at the base of his skull. He wants to jump around and take a nap.

But isn't that how it always is with us? Aren't we always two things, or many things, or everything all in one moment? Will this ever make sense? Could we ever just be? After this... even after this?

Blaine fiddles with his phone and calls up Liam's email for the third time that day. He'd canceled their Skype date, knowing full well he'd probably be tangled up in Kurt's sheets by midnight and wouldn't want to stop in order to have Skype sex with his boyfriend. It felt wrong, the thought of leaving one man for another in the same night, but not in the way he expected it to feel wrong. He canceled his plans with Liam because it felt oddly like, if he went through with this very simple thing he often did with his boyfriend, he would be betraying Kurt.

Blaine,

Why do I get the feeling you're out there, lost in the desert, and may never come home? Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me I'm just missing you and freaking out for nothing.

Call me when you can.

Liam

It wasn't the first time Blaine had canceled something with Liam. He made work his priority, often staying late at the studio or playing an extra set at the tucked-away pubs he frequented. He reasoned that he was just one of those people who needed a lot of time alone, who was dedicated to his work, who liked to keep some things to himself. But deep down, he knew it was more than that. He'd never really given himself over to anyone, not really.

He loved Liam, partly because Liam was the first guy who accepted his inherent distance, the first guy who just let him go off and do his thing without grumbling about it, or questioning his fidelity or interest. It was easy. They had fun. The sex, while not satisfying, was regular, and they rarely argued. Their relationship was comfortable, but he never felt that all-consuming, hot, firework kind of love with Liam, not even in the beginning. If he were brutally honest with himself, he would have to admit that he got more goosebumps after receiving a text from Kurt than he did while receiving a blowjob from Liam.

Sex with Liam was like getting off with a friend.

Sex with Kurt was like setting his soul on fire.

Sitting in this tiny Italian restaurant, waiting for this boy he's always loved, Blaine knows now that his relationship has worked so far in spite of him. Liam always compromised and waited patiently without protest. He took what he could get from Blaine and never asked for more. That which is good between them is all Liam, and he's starting to feel mighty guilty about it.

His entire time in Santa Fe, Blaine had been pulling away from Liam, beyond the norm. He used everything as an excuse—Adele's whims, his muse, the demands of the record company—but he knows now what kept him from truly engaging with Liam these past few weeks. He was preparing for this, for Kurt. Now that they are wrapped up in the tether that binds them together, he knows that he has been waiting for him here, in this enchanted, dusty city, all along.

Liam deserves more, so much more, and Blaine doesn't want him to worry unnecessarily. So he shoots off a quick, short email. Liam will receive it when he wakes up.

Liam,

I haven't been myself lately. I've had a long day and I'm turning in early. I'll call you tomorrow and tell you everything.

Love,

B

Blaine regrets sending it almost immediately. He didn't address Liam's concerns, and he outright lied about going to bed early. And "everything?" He doesn't even know what that means. Is he going to tell him the whole story, or just portion it off, leaving out the stuff that would kill what they have?

Is Liam my backup plan? Was he always? Can I spend the rest of my life with a backup? Doesn't Liam also deserve this mind-blowing, life-defining love?

He wants to call Liam and confess, promise to work on their problems when he returns or set him free, but he knows he can't do either of these things. Liam is sleeping, but that's the least of it. How could he tell him any of this without sounding like a prime asshole, without breaking his heart?

Just then he hears a familiar voice in the main dining room near the entrance. "Hummel. But I'm meeting a friend—"

Kurt's body is stiff. Blaine knows he's stressed about something. He watches Kurt weave his way through the tables, smiling down at other diners as he shimmies through the tight spaces.

Blaine's heart races; his palms sweat. He's known this man for more than a decade, known him since before he needed to shave, before he fell in love with furniture design and sushi and Patsy Cline, before he discovered Armistead Maupin and Bombay Sapphire gin and Yaz, before he could vote or make lobster bisque or navigate the subway without a map. He's had sex with this man, but still, still, he feels the same heady anticipation he's felt ever since he sang Teenage Dream to a perfect stranger.

Kurt makes his way to their table and Blaine can see the precise moment when his shoulders relax and he lets go of the worries he carried in with him. Blaine stands, ready to hold out his chair for him, but Kurt stops him cold with a raised eyebrow. He hangs his bag off his chair and sits down, eyes locking with Blaine's. Their grins take the place of words and they stay like that, staring, smiling, the air between them charged and thick with promise. Out of the corner of his eye, Blaine sees their server start toward them, size up the scene and then step back and lean against the bar, waiting.

Blaine reaches over and takes Kurt's hand in his own, his eyes fixed on Kurt's lips, the faint red mark just below his left ear, the blush on his cheeks. Kurt squeezes and thumbs the back of Blaine's hand, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, and it sends a jolt of amazing and holy shit you're gorgeous straight to Blaine's heart. They stay like that for a few minutes, long enough for the nearest diners to notice.

Then, just when Blaine wonders if they should just ditch the restaurant and make a run for the hotel, Kurt leans in to whisper, "I already love this night."

Blaine gasps. He gasps. Like a teenaged girl.

Kurt squeezes Blaine's hand one more time and then leans back in his chair, his smile almost a smirk, but not quite. Blaine laughs and nods at the server. She bounces over, all blonde hair and brightness.

"I'm Gloria. May I take your drink order, or would you like to hear the specials now?"

"We'll take a bottle of Prosecco," Blaine replies.

"And water," Kurt adds.

"Perfect. I'll be back in two shakes," Gloria says.

"Who says that?" Kurt asks, after she scurries away.

"Gloria, apparently."

Kurt licks his lips. It's an absentminded gesture, one that reassures Blaine. Kurt is nervous, too. They're quiet again, not sure how to start. They both look down at their menus—just meaningless letters floating on paper the color of wheat—searching for something to say.

Gloria returns before long, opens the Prosecco, splashes the first taste into Blaine's glass and offers it to him. He's practiced in his inspection and appreciation of the Italian wine, drawing on his country-club-prep-school-garden-party upbringing with ease.

Blaine doesn't like to call attention to this aspect of his past, and does his best to avoid any and all functions where he would be expected to behave in a way "befitting the Ohio Andersons." He left that behind when he said "no" to his father's Harvard dreams and followed his own.

This is the sort of thing a first date wouldn't know. He'd have to work up to it, peel away layers slowly until the real Blaine Anderson was revealed. But Kurt already knows the real Blaine Anderson. He knows that proper etiquette is second nature to Blaine, but that he really doesn't give a damn about tasting the wine before they actually drink it; they ordered it, so they'll drink it.

As Gloria recites the specials in minute detail, Blaine pretends to listen attentively; he's just going to order the steak, anyway. He steals a glance at Kurt, who isn't listening at all. He's staring at Blaine, a knowing smile at his lips, making it very difficult for Blaine to keep up his good manners. Gloria somehow manages to get their orders out of them. As soon as she leaves, Kurt leans in again.

"I knew you would order the steak," Kurt says, adding, "You're so poised tonight, so dapper. You know it's just me, right? You can tuck the breeding in your back pocket, if you like."

"I know," Blaine replies, looking uncomfortable.

"Manners are important, of course, but you're holding yourself like you're on display at one of your mother's fundraisers," Kurt chides.

"Sorry, I—" Blaine offers.

"What?"

"It's just, I'm sort of at a loss here. You already know everything about me," Blaine says.

"And?"

"And it's messing with my first date game," Blaine replies, a twinkle in his eyes.

Kurt laughs and says, "Since when do you have game?"

"Hey, now—"

"You want to tell me all about your childhood, your hopes and dreams?" Kurt asks.

"Stop teasing."

"Come on, give me your best first date story. I want to hear you tell it," Kurt says.

"No way. You'll laugh."

"Probably. Do it anyway," Kurt says, fixing him with a darkened stare. "Give it to me."

And then it hits Blaine—oh yeah, this is them. This is Blaine and Kurt volleying, pushing the limits, getting off on getting each other riled up. Except this time is different. This time, there's no pulling back. This time, all of their play will lead to something. Something awesome. It's just them, minus the hellish sexual frustration. He sets his first date jitters aside and relaxes into it.

"Shit. Okay. I used to be the lead singer of this all boys singing group, the Warblers," Blaine begins.

"All boys? Do tell."

"We were prep school kids, Dalton Academy, never out of uniform—"

"Are you sure you're not confusing your life with porn?"

Blaine glares at Kurt, but there's no heat behind it. He's fine with the teasing, more than fine with it. He's happy to let Kurt tease him for years, decades even, all the way to the old age home.

He teases back. "This is how you would genuinely respond to my story on our first date?"

"If I didn't know you? Probably. Maybe. Go on," Kurt urges.

"We had this bird, a canary. We named him Pavarotti, and we made all of the initiates take care of him, and carry him around in this bird cage," Blaine continues, eyes gleaming.

"How bizarre," Kurt says, feigning shock.

"As hazing goes, it was pretty tame. Anyway, one spring, our newest Warbler decided Pavarotti deserved a better life, a life outside of the cage—"

Blaine watches as Kurt's eyes get big and his cheeks flare up.

"Oh, no—" Kurt says.

"Oh, yes. So this Warbler, a stunning countertenor—"

"Thank you."

"Well, you were."

"I know. Please don't go on."

"This stunning countertenor takes it upon himself to set the bird free at our Regionals performance, not realizing that there was no way for Pavarotti to actually exit the auditorium. So the bird is flying overhead, frantic, and the audience is going nuts—"

"Stop, just stop—"

"—and suddenly we hear this bang! This giant woman in a red tracksuit shoots the poor bird with her pocket pistol. The New Directions girls—our competition—start screaming, 'murderer!' The Warblers are freaking out—my friend Wes actually vomited on the stage—and the judges are wrestling the track suit lady—"

"Coach Sylvester—"

"Right. They're wrestling her to the ground, the littlest one shouting all of this stuff about the right to bear arms. It was mayhem. Pandemonium."

"Seriously, Blaine? This is the story you tell all of your dates?"

"No. Not really."

"I still feel badly about that. It was horrifying! I played 'Blackbird' over and over in my room for days after that," Kurt says.

"Really? I didn't know that."

"I wanted to sing it for all of us, with the Warblers, but I just felt so bad I'd killed that poor bird, I couldn't come to practice for days. Remember?"

Kurt holds his hand up to his mouth, and for a minute Blaine thinks he's upset, thinking about causing the death of his beloved bird. But then he notices Kurt's shoulders jiggling and he realizes Kurt is trying not to laugh. He decides to push him over the edge.

"And then, then... oh god, remember Rachel carrying the dead bird over to Finn, shrieking at him: 'Mouth to mouth, Finn. Mouth to mouth!' The. Best."

Kurt nods, but keeps his hand over his mouth, holding steady. "Whatever happened to that bird, anyway?" Blaine asks.

Kurt removes his hand and says, "Brittany snuck it into her purse and brought it home to Lord Tubbington."

That's it. Kurt loses it. He laughs so hard he throws his head back and clutches the table. And Blaine loves this—Kurt, unwound over a shared memory, loose and happy and silly. All too soon, though, he remembers his surroundings and calms himself down, wiping tiny tears out of the corners of his eyes.

"I haven't thought of that in years," Kurt says, taking a drink of wine.

Gloria returns to the table with two Caesar salads and a pepper mill. She lingers too long, clearly wanting in on the joke, but Blaine shoos her away with a kind, "Thank you, Gloria."

"So what else?" Kurt asks.

"What else what?"

"What else do you talk about on a first date?"

"I don't know. I don't really plan these things," Blaine says.

"Sure you do. You've got this whole relaxed, musician-slash-record producer, expat thing going on, but you're still a planner, Blaine Anderson."

"Okay. I like to do the 'proudest moment, deepest regret' bit," Blaine starts.

"Very 'job interview,' Blaine. Hot."

"I ask first, of course."

"Of course."

Blaine puts on his earnest face and interview voice and asks, "So, what is your proudest moment, Kurt?"

Kurt tries not to giggle. "Proudest moment, proudest moment... the day Dad, Carole and Finn signed a note—in blood—that they would never, ever shop at Wal-Mart again."

"Good one. And your deepest regret?"

And oh, maybe this wasn't the best idea Blaine's ever had, because Kurt is frowning now. He looks worried and sad and somehow smaller than he did just one minute ago.

"Kurt, you don't really have to—"

"Wisconsin."

"Sorry?"

"My deepest regret is Wisconsin."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh," Kurt says, lifting his eyes up from his lap as though they weigh ten pounds.

With that one word, Wisconsin, Blaine is transported back, not just to the day and the dock and the boy, but the feeling. He had pushed past their boundaries and outright asked Kurt for his virginity in exchange for his own, and it was one of the stupidest things he'd ever done. Because when he said, "We could, you know, be each other's first," what he really meant to say was, "Could I be yours, and would you be mine, first and last, in everything, for as long as we both shall live?"

"For a moment there I thought you were going to say yes," Blaine says out loud.

"I was. I would have. But—"

"Kurt, wait. We said no regrets and we need to stick to that, or this is just going to suck for both of us," Blaine interrupts.

"Of course. You're right."

"I know I asked. I wasn't thinking," Blaine says, reaching across the table to thumb at Kurt's wrist.

"No, it's fine. Really," Kurt says. He takes his hand back and smiles to let Blaine know it really is okay. He takes a few bites of his salad. After a moment he pushes the plate away and says, "I do want to talk about some of it, though. I want it to be okay for me to ask you a few things, to tell you a few things. Because we have this brief time together when we can just tell the truth, and I don't know, clarify things, and I want that. I want clarity, Blaine."

"About the past?"

"Yes."

"Not about the future?"

"No. I think we're pretty clear on the future."

Blaine looks down at his plate and marvels at the way they manage to jump from joy to sadness in a heartbeat. Maybe clearing the air about a few things would help even things out, unravel the tension and give them the freedom to enjoy each other until they can't anymore.

"This isn't some 'Choose Your Own Adventure' game, is it? We can't go back to page thirty-seven and make a different decision to get a different outcome, Kurt."

"Of course not. It's just… don't you want to know things? Haven't you always wondered what I was thinking in... certain situations? I'll give you an example," Kurt says, taking another drink of wine. And then he leans in again and whispers, "That night I caught you jerking off in the communal showers not five minutes after we got back from the midnight showing of Rocky Horror—"

Blaine's breath catches in this throat and his cock twitches under his napkin. Shit.

"You said you were getting off on Rocky in his gold shorts, but were you... were you getting off... on me?"

Kurt bites his lip, and because of this Blaine knows that he's not trying to turn him on; he really does want to know. Except that Blaine is turned on. Incredibly so.

"Yes," Blaine answers.

"I knew it!" Kurt says, sitting back in his seat. He's triumphant, shoulders squared and mouth set in a satisfied smile. He reaches behind him to rummage through his bag, digging out a small tube of lip balm.

"It's so dry here," Kurt says, like the fact that he just unlocked one of Blaine's secrets is nothing, like his own dick isn't bothered by it one bit.

He opens his mouth and rubs the waxy substance into his lips. Blaine's eyes follow Kurt's index finger as it rubs first his bottom lip, and then the top. Blaine realizes has to even things out or he's going to be stuck here for hours, eating fucking tiramisu and drinking tawny port until he wants to cry.

"I was thinking of you, Kurt," Blaine starts. He's using his lower register, which gets a raised eyebrow from Kurt but nothing else, so he presses on.

"I remember exactly which part of you I was thinking about: your thighs. That night you had kind of scooted your ass down in the seat next to me, letting your thighs hang over the seat a bit and part, just slightly. I was so used to your legs, one crossed over the other, and that was bad enough, but that night you scrunched down and relaxed and—"

"It was preemptive ducking, Blaine. I didn't want bread or water in my hair," Kurt says. There's a slight hitch in his speech, and Blaine knows he's getting to him.

"Your jeans, they fit your thighs like a glove, and I kept imagining running my finger along the inside seam, unbuttoning your fly—"

"Uh, Blaine, this isn't really the best time to—"

Kurt is fidgeting now, playing with his fork and looking around nervously, one ear trained to Blaine and the other to the nearest conversations.

"—Pulling down your jeans just a bit, just enough to—"

"I get it—"

"—But not enough to uncover your thighs. And then I would kneel down, and feel the denim straining over your thighs as I dipped my face between your legs—"

"Gloria!"

Kurt is breathing heavily now, glaring at Blaine with a smile in his eyes. He was too loud, calling their server over, but neither of them seem too worried about it. Without a word from Kurt, Blaine has his wallet out before Gloria arrives at the table.

"Everything okay?" she asks.

"Perfect. Can we get our entr�es to go, please?" Kurt asks, his voice strained.

Gloria looks confused, but agrees and rushes off to the kitchen, Blaine's credit card in hand.

"Do we have to wait for the damn food?" Blaine asks. "We can order room service."

They look at each other, and then back at Gloria's retreating form, and then at each other again. In a flash they're both up and out of their chairs, making a beeline for the bar.

"Do you run the cards? I need to sign. Can I sign?" Blaine asks the bartender.

They're out of Il Piatto in three minutes flat, walking briskly up Marcy Street, toward the Eldorado Hotel.

"I hate that I can't just hail a cab in this town," Kurt says.

Blaine has his hand on the small of Kurt's back, and he's not trying to rush him, he really isn't, because they're only a few blocks away, but he does give him a little push. Just a tiny one. And then his hand is on Kurt's ass.

Oh God, Kurt's perfect, perfect, perfect ass.

He needs it. He needs to see it, and touch it, and taste it and fill it.

Kurt groans. Blaine reaches around and palms Kurt's cock through his jeans as they walk.

"Blaine! Fuck!" Kurt bats Blaine's hand away. "Are you kidding me right now? I am not coming in these jeans in front of all of these tourists!"

"Sorry, sorry. I don't... I've never done that before. I don't know what—"

"Just keep walking."

Blaine knows Kurt is just frustrated with the four blocks between them and their hotel, at their lack of wings, at their inability to teleport directly to Kurt's bed. Or his. Maybe his.

They're both rock hard and finding it difficult to walk quickly, so Blaine takes Kurt's hand and gives into the stroll. But not a minute later he's sliding his hand up Kurt's arm, down his back, under his shirt, and into the back of his jeans, trying to get at that perfect, perfect, perfect ass.

"Jesus, Blaine! Go. Go to the other side of the street," Kurt demands.

"What? No."

"You're like a fucking animal, Blaine, and I'm good with it. Believe me, I am, but you can't keep your gorgeous hands off my ass or my cock, so we need to be separated. Like unruly children," Kurt says.

"Or horny teenagers."

"Whatever. Go."

Kurt folds his arms and waits until Blaine crosses to the other side of San Francisco Street. Blaine turns to face him, holding his hands out wide and says loud enough for Kurt and several bystanders to hear, "Really, Kurt? Really? This is silly."

"Just walk!"

They mirror each other as they walk, sneaking glances, trying to keep up with each other. Kurt's hands are in his pockets, and Blaine wonders if Kurt can feel the throbbing of his own cock through the fabric. He wants to be Kurt's hand, his pockets, the boxer briefs he knows Kurt is wearing. Blaine stops for a moment to steady himself and sees he's steps from the Starbucks, where just this morning he made the decision to give in to this beautiful thing.

Across the street, Kurt stops and waits. When Blaine finally gathers his wits, he falls into step with him. Blaine picks up the pace, and Kurt follows. They both stop at parallel curbs, waiting for two lazy cars to slide by, and that's when they both turn to look at each other in the same moment. Their eyes lock, and then they are walking fast, the Eldorado in sight, taking their eyes off of each other only long enough to make sure they don't run straight into a pole. Blaine is eye-fucking Kurt from across a street and Kurt is giving it right back to him. The energy between them is tight. Crackling. Bright.

They're almost running when they reach the steps of the hotel, taking two at a time and bursting through the heavy lobby doors as if the doors were fakes, as if they were paper. They don't touch; people know them here. Blaine slows, eyes still on Kurt, as they make their way to the main elevators.

As they pass the front desk a clerk calls out, "Mr. Hummel, I have a message for you—" but Kurt keeps walking, eyes focused straight ahead. Tapping his foot, he pushes the "UP" button three times too many. Blaine wants to say something, anything, but he's afraid it will be like a match to gasoline, so he keeps quiet.

In the elevator, he wants to push Kurt up against the wall, shove his knee between Kurt's thighs and let Kurt grind down on him until he can't help but come in his jeans. But he settles for standing one inch apart, intertwining fingers, as they both watch the numbers light up like a slow-motion replay. First floor. Second. Third. Fourth. It's only when the elevator dings and the doors fly open that Blaine realizes they've both been holding their breath.

Kurt is shaking, so he hands Blaine his key card and with one swipe they're in, back in the same hallway where they fucked the night before. Blaine grabs Kurt's ass before the door closes, and Kurt whines, "Please let me get to the bed."

They're stripping now, a trail of clothes and shoes and underwear behind them. Kurt pushes Blaine down onto the bed and crawls on top of him, straddling his thighs. Blaine bucks up, looking for anything, but Kurt leans down and stills him with a brush of his fingers through his curls. He touches Blaine's cheek, gentle and soft, and then sits back up. There is silence then, like earlier at the restaurant, like the last minutes in Kurt's apartment before Blaine left for Europe, like the first time they woke up together in Blaine's dorm room, still in their uniforms, hazy and at a loss as to why any of their rules or boundaries mattered.

"This is going to kill us, you know," Kurt says, pushing his thumb into Blaine's mouth.

Blaine nips at Kurt's thumb. He whispers, "Shh. Shh."

Kurt pushes two fingers in now, letting Blaine suck and bite and suck and bite until they're both moaning.

"Let me ride you," Kurt says.

Blaine pulls Kurt's fingers from his mouth and says, "God, yes."

Kurt lifts up a bit and reaches two wet fingers around behind him. Blaine wants to see. He has to see. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabs the lube and sets it on his own belly. "I want to watch. Please."

Kurt palms the lube, climbs off of Blaine and says, "Switch. I need to lean against something."

Moments later Blaine is at the edge of the bed, facing Kurt, one hand holding him up, one hand on his dick. Kurt is up against the headboard, thighs spread wide on display, two lubed-up fingers pumping in and out of his ass. He groans and adds a third finger, never taking his eyes off of Blaine.

Blaine asks, "Is this where you were... last night... before—?"

"Yes," Kurt squeaks between pants.

Blaine inches closer and stares at Kurt's fingers, his hand, the flexing of his thigh muscles as he readies himself for Blaine's cock. "You were thinking of me?"

"Yes. Yes. But I couldn't—"

Kurt cries out and Blaine watches his body contract for a moment, and then he's back at it, working his fingers in deeper, stretching, pushing.

"Couldn't what, baby?"

Kurt looks startled at the endearment, but doesn't object. "I couldn't get off. I tried. I tried so hard I actually cried."

Would I call him baby? Or honey? Or sweetheart? Would I call him darling, or beautiful, or love? If we had a thousand days, if we had forever, would I give him secret, sweet names that twist his insides when I whisper them in his ear? Would I have a look, just for him, a look that told him it was time to go, time to leave this party and get lost in each other until the world's protests grow loud enough for us to hear?

Blaine finds the last condom from the night before. He slips it on and then reaches over and grabs Kurt's wrist, pulling his fingers out with a gentle tug. Kurt wipes the leftover lube on Blaine's dick and pushes Blaine back on the bed. He straddles him again, placing Blaine's hands on his thighs.

"Why couldn't you get off?"

Kurt places his own hands on top of Blaine's and leans back a bit, pressing down. He lets Blaine's cock brush against his entrance and says, "Because it wasn't you."

Blaine leans up as far as he can go, and Kurt meets him halfway. Kurt's lips are warm and firm and taste like Prosecco. He hangs on to Kurt's waist for support as he fucks his tongue into Kurt's mouth and then it's hands in hair and little moans and cock against cock and he never ever wants it to end. Never.

When Kurt can't wait anymore he pushes Blaine back on the bed again, positions himself over Blaine's cock and sinks down, down, down. He holds still, eyes closed, and they wait.

"Remember the graduation party?" Blaine asks, trying to keep still.

"Which one?"

"The Warbler party. At Nick's house. You invited everyone from McKinley," Blaine says, thumbs digging into Kurt's inner thighs.

"Yeah. That was fun," Kurt says, resting his hands on top of Blaine's and pressing in, willing him to grip tighter, tighter, tighter.

"You got a bit drunk and... God...shit, Kurt... you did that dance with Tina and Brittany," Blaine says, his voice soft and desperate.

"Single Ladies?"

"Right. That's the one."

Blaine feels Kurt relax around him, but still he waits.

I'll wait forever for Kurt.

Wait. What?

"What about it?" Kurt asks. He tilts a bit, sinking down even further, and lets out a low whine.

"Were you doing it for me? Was the dance for me?"

Kurt opens his eyes and looks down, a sweet smile on his face. "Yes."

"Do it again."

"Do what again?"

"The dance. Now. On my cock."

Kurt sucks in a breath, flashes Blaine a wicked smile and starts moving his hips in slow, tight circles. His muscle control is nothing short of amazing. He picks up the pace but keeps a steady rhythm as he grinds down and lifts up a bit, returning to his circles each time he bottoms out.

"Fuck, that's good. Yeah. That's it."

"Is this what you wanted? I saw you and Jeff watching me. Your eyes were glued to my hips, and my ass. Were you imagining me riding you like this? Even then?"

"Yes! Fuck."

Kurt plays with his own nipples, pinching and twisting, and it drives Blaine absolutely mad. He thrusts up, meeting Kurt as he slams down, and they're good together in all the ways he knew they would be, and in ways he never imagined.

Kurt's riding him hard now, whispering lyrics every so often.

"I need no permission, did I mention, don't pay him any attention."

Kurt is in his own world and Blaine knows he's close, so close, so he thrusts harder and gets to work on Kurt's cock. Hips swiveling, ass pressing down and lifting up, thighs trembling, Kurt is so beautiful Blaine can barely breathe.

"'Cause you had your turn, but now you gonna learn what it really feels like to miss me."

Kurt tenses up and Blaine lets go and they come, following each other like two singers in a round, Blaine's fuck, fuck, fuck followed by Kurt's high-pitched oh, oh, oh, oh, yeah, more, oh, oh, yes, yes.

Kurt collapses on Blaine. Blaine, loose-limbed and moments from sleep, wraps his arms around Kurt's back and holds him there, dick still inside.

"Don't pull out," Kurt whispers into Blaine's chest. "Let's just lie here, for days, until they find us shriveled up from lack of food—"

"Hey, you started it," Blaine teases, nipping at Kurt's earlobe.

"No, seriously," Kurt says. "Just stay. Stay in me forever."