As he caresses the base, he imagines it in the homes of various clients, in his apartment, as the chef's table at the new restaurant opening he'll start on after the holidays. He wants to ask the artist who made it to teach him everything he knows. Or she. It could be a she, but somehow Kurt knows a man designed this, made this with his tools, his hands, the muscles in his back, the beauty in his heart.

He feels a hand snake up the inside of his thigh—When did I get naked?—and squeeze. He senses someone behind him, someone important, someone who could change everything.

His pulse quickens and when he whispers, "Love, I know it's you—" his voice surprises him. It booms and echoes back to him, like he's standing inside a bell.

The hand squeezes again, and then it's all feather-light touches, brushing up his belly, over his nipples, down his chest and back again. In the distance he hears someone call his name, but he can't stop looking at the metal base, as if it is somehow connected to the hand, to the caress, to the love.

He hears a phone ring. It's a foreign sound, not his cell. He ignores it, covers the hand with his own, and now he's sure he feels someone breathing behind him. The ringing stops, starts up again moments later.

Suddenly Kurt is awake, in his hotel room, no table base to be found. He was dreaming of furniture again, and something else, someone else, a hand—

"Make it stop—" Blaine mumbles into the space between Kurt's shoulder blades. Kurt shifts in Blaine's arms and pushes him back flat against the mattress as he reaches across his chest to the nightstand.

He picks up the phone, but before he can spit out a greeting a voice says, "You're in trouble."

Instantly alert, Kurt rolls halfway onto Blaine for a better reach, his mind racing with thoughts he never imagined he would have.

Who saw us? How much do they know? Who else knows? Will they tell Paul? How could they possibly know anything? Wait—

"Who is this?" Kurt asks.

"It's your fucking client."

Oh. Damn.

"Deidre. Hi."

Relieved, Kurt relaxes and wiggles so his body is flush with Blaine's. Eyes still closed, Blaine wraps his arms around Kurt and pulls tight, cracking his back. Kurt's on alert now but still melts a little, his body slack.

"Wow," he exclaims.

"Wow? Wow? You didn't answer your cell last night, so I left a fucking message for you with that useless idiot at the desk. Gawd, his FACE! Bastard prick. He wouldn't tell me which room you're in. Can you believe those assholes? I'm paying for the fucking room, fucking tell me the goddamn room number."

Kurt offers up a silent thank you to the Eldorado Hotel's policy manual and then snaps to attention. "Wait, did you say 'his face?' Are you in the hotel?"

"Yes I'm in the fucking hotel, Kurt. What's your room number?"

"I'm in 415," Kurt replies, regretting it immediately. And before he can ask Deidre if they could just meet in the lobby, he hears a click and then a loud, annoying dial tone.

"Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit!"

Kurt tries to wiggle off of Blaine, slapping at his hips to get him to move. "Get up, get up, get up!"

Blaine reaches out to still Kurt's hands, grabs his wrists in a tight hold, and then opens his eyes. He speaks in even tones: "Stop. Breathe. Explain."

"My client, Deidre, she's on her way to the room. Why did I give her my room number? It's you and your face and your body and your face. You distract me! She'll be here in seconds, Blaine! We have to get up," Kurt says, trying to ignore Blaine's solid grip, the rise and fall of his chest, his drowsy, soft expression.

"Just put on a robe, answer the door and don't let her in. Tell her you need five minutes," Blaine reasons.

Kurt laughs and wrenches his hands free. "You have no idea, Blaine. No idea."

Kurt hops off the bed and struggles into his discarded jeans. He jumps up and down as he tries to wedge himself into the jeans that went on so easily the night before. Well, more easily.

Blaine stares at him and laughs, cheeks pink and lips swollen. "This is awesome."

"Shut up."

"Would you like some help? Or did you want to just keep jumping?"

"Ugh! All of that salt and booze and... fuck!"

"—'Cause I like the jumping—"

"Why? Why don't I think before I speak?" Kurt says, stopping himself from falling back onto the bed. "And why did I let you talk me into nachos—nachos!—and champagne? Who drinks champagne with nachos, Blaine? Hmm? Who?"

"We do."

"I don't, Blaine. Or I didn't. Shit," Kurt says, still trying to wiggle into his jeans.

"Our choices were limited. We didn't stop fucking until after midnight, and by then—"

"What is happening to me? Nachos. Cheating on my perfectly respectable boyfriend. No sleep. Lying to my perfectly respectable boyfriend. Nachos. Nachos, Blaine—"

"Perfectly respectable, huh? That's hot."

"We're not doing that," Kurt says, still trying to twist into his jeans.

"Right. That was rude," Blaine agrees, reaching out to fondle Kurt's ass. "So perfect. And by the way, he's your fianc�."

"That's what I said," Kurt insists. "Isn't it?"

"No."

"Well I meant that. Fianc�. WHY AREN'T YOU MOVING?"

"Don't panic. You don't have to let her in, you know," Blaine says.

Kurt glares at Blaine, but Blaine just smiles up at him, his hand reaching out again. "Kiss?"

Jeans finally on, Kurt slips on a shirt and starts pulling on Blaine's hand. "Get up! You have to hide."

"I have to what?"

Kurt lets go of Blaine's hand and lifts the duvet up to look under the bed. "Shit! The frame is too low, there's no way you'll fit under the bed—"

"Like I would get under there anyway—"

"Why not? You like to jump on furniture. Why not crawl under it?"

Blaine sits up and watches Kurt flit about the room, picking up condom wrappers and clutching Blaine's clothes to his chest. "Is this a fight? Are we fighting? Because if we are fighting, I should probably tell you that I'm really turned on right now—"

"Blaine!"

Blaine rubs the sleep out of the corner of his eyes, barely moving as Kurt scrambles. "I've seen this before. This is like a bad episode of... something—"

"Are you a sloth? GET UP!"

"And when I get up, where do you want me to go?"

There is a loud knock and Kurt's hands fly to his mouth, smothering his own scream. Blaine starts to giggle and then Kurt's hands are off his own mouth and covering Blaine's.

"Coming!" he shouts.

Blaine licks Kurt's palm, looks up at him with those eyes and it's all Kurt can do not to cry out, push him back into the bed and do his best to forget all about Deidre Alexander and whatever hell she brought with her.

"Not. A. Word," Kurt whispers, slowly removing his hand from Blaine's mouth.

He pulls Blaine to his feet, picks up Blaine's jeans, underwear, jacket, shirt and shoes, drags Blaine to the bathroom and pushes him inside.

"Kurt! I can hear you! Open the fucking door!" Deidre shouts from the hallway.

"Shower!" Kurt says, as forcefully as he can manage with his whisper-soft voice.

Blaine shakes his head, and then Kurt is in the bathroom with him. He tries to yank the linen shower curtain back one-handed, his clothed body pressed up against Blaine's amazing naked amazing naked naked naked self.

Blaine's hands instantly encircle Kurt's waist as he struggles with the curtain. "Let's just stay in here until she gives up," Blaine whispers, his lips ghosting Kurt's cheek.

Kurt gives Blaine a gentle push, and Blaine steps into the shower. Kurt tosses Blaine's clothes at him.

"Really, Kurt?"

"Shh!"

Kurt closes the bathroom door halfway, smoothes down his hopelessly wrinkled clothes and opens the door for Deidre.

"Hey, Deidre. Sorry. I wasn't really awake when you called—"

"You're always up early," she says, pushing past him into the room.

Deidre Alexander is tiny, blonde, just over five feet tall and, thanks to her liquid diet and endless Pilates sessions, way too skinny. Underneath her impeccable five hundred-dollar dye job and three thousand-dollar ensemble, she is a too-smart-for-her-own-good brunette from Paramus, New Jersey.

Her eyes sweep the room, look him up and down, and before he can interrupt her train of thought she flops down on the unmade bed, the bed where he's had the best sex of his life. He's worried she'll sit in something she really shouldn't, or just smell something she really shouldn't, like sex. Hot, awesome, record-breaking sex.

"Apparently that fucking front door is a life-or-death decision, so I'm here. Get dressed and let's go."

"You flew all the way here because you wanted to pick out a door? I just overnighted you a box of tile for your final sign-off."

"So I'll have Janet overnight them back here," she says. "I like it better when we're looking for tile on 16th Street, together."

"You mean checking out one store and then drinking four Bloody Mary's at The Coffee Shop until I call your car service to take you home?"

"Yeah, that. I just like it better when you're in New York. I missed you. Fuck. Why do you make me say these things?"

"I'm choosing rugs today, Deidre. Antonio and I are driving up to Chimay�. No doors today."

"So I'll come with you."

"So you'll come with me. Great. Why not?"

"Get dressed, already. I'll just flip through the channels," Deidre says.

Kurt winces as he watches her search for the TV remote in his rumpled bedding. What if she finds the wet spot? What if there's more than one wet spot?

Then he remembers: There is definitely more than one wet spot.

"Deidre, stop. I'm not that friend, okay? I'm not going to get dressed in front of you and let you look at my ass and dish with you about all of your former men and listen to you tell me how you can't orgasm on Vicodin. Just give me an hour and I'll meet you in the lobby—"

"Forty-five minutes."

"Fine. Forty-five minutes."

When Deidre stands to leave Kurt lets out a sigh of relief he hopes goes unnoticed, but he panics when she says, "I have to pee," and pushes open the bathroom door.

"No! Deidre!"

"What the fuck, Kurt?"

Kurt braces himself for the questions, the lashing, the shattering of this private, beautiful thing. He hopes Blaine has clothes on, at least.

"You scared the shit out of me! It's not that messy, Jesus!"

Kurt peeks around Deidre into the bathroom. Thankfully, Blaine is hiding behind the shower curtain.

"Just, can you use your room, Deidre? I'm sort of private—"

"I'm not staying here. I'm up at Ten Thousand Waves, where I can get a proper facial and some fucking peace. I need to pee. I'll do it with the fucking door open, I don't care. So if you don't want to see my Brazilian, just keep standing there," Deidre says, marching into the bathroom.

Mortified, Kurt looks down at the carpet as he slowly closes the door behind her, sending silent, urgent messages to Blaine: Quiet as a mouse. I'm so sorry. Quiet as a mouse. Please don't be mad. Quiet as a mouse.

When did his life become a bad rom-com, complete with (gorgeous) secret lovers hiding in bathrooms? And nachos?

He wants to listen at the door, but that's just beyond creepy, so he tries to spray the sex out of the room with a few spritzes of the latest Tom Ford cologne.

Kurt holds himself very still, bracing himself for Deidre's scream. After three minutes, which feels like three hours, his mind starts racing.

What if she finds out? She can probably tell I've had someone in the room. But would she even care? She's not exactly a walking example of moral fortitude. Maybe she'll let it be our secret... and hold it over me for the rest of my life, forcing me to remodel one Southwestern monstrosity after another. Maybe even in Texas.

Kurt shudders and sits down on the bed, legs crossed, his foot bouncing nervously. He'd bite his nails if he could find a decent manicurist in Santa Fe to fix the damage. The toilet flushes. No screaming yet. The faucet turns on. Still no screaming. The faucet turns off. Still nothing.

Finally Deidre pushes the door open and says, "You've got forty-one minutes. Don't be late. I'm already bored."

And with that she opens the door to his room and leaves without a backward glance. Kurt can't believe they got away with it.

"I can't believe we got away with that!" he exclaims, racing into the bathroom.

Blaine pulls back the shower curtain. He's in his boxers now, his clothes and shoes in a pile in the bathtub, arms folded.

"She peed, Kurt. She peed in the bathroom. With me. In the bathroom."

"Oh my God, Blaine! I'm so sorry! I didn't know what to do!"

Blaine is clearly pissed. It reminds Kurt of that time David pantsed Blaine while he was dancing on the Council table during a particularly crazy rehearsal. They were rehearsing "Moves Like Jagger" for sectionals, all of them in workout attire, and David suddenly came up behind Blaine and pulled down his hunter green sweatpants. If looks could kill, David wouldn't have made it to graduation.

Kurt has never been able to take Blaine's pissy look seriously; it just looks so wrong on his face. Sure, he'd seen him genuinely angry—after he found out that David Karofsky threatened Kurt's life. And during that infamous dinner, when Blaine and his father had argued about his father's refusal to stop donating to politicians with homophobic policies, even after Blaine practically begged him to do so.

And there was that time the former members of New Directions (and Blaine) met up at a club in New York, each visiting from their respective colleges. Blaine discovered Caleb, Kurt's first boyfriend, "kissing" another guy, and pushed him out of the bathroom, past their table, out of the bar and onto the street.

It took Blaine forever to come back inside, and when he finally slid in next to Mike, he looked like he'd seen a ghost. Everyone tried to get Blaine to tell them what he and Caleb had talked about, but they never could pry more than, "I'm so sorry, Kurt," out of him. He looked really angry, then.

But this isn't angry Blaine. This is super-annoyed, put out Blaine. And it is hilarious.

Within seconds, Kurt is doubled over laughing—at Blaine's expression, at the absurdity of the morning, at the reality of their situation. It's another one of Blaine's "aerial" moments, but this time the image of the two of them, standing in this bathroom, in this swank Southwestern hotel, in this tiny, dusty, ancient little freakshow of a city, is somehow hysterically funny.

"Not. Funny."

"Come on, Blaine," Kurt says, still laughing. "You never peed in the same room with one of your girlfriends? They're always following me into the men's room at clubs because the line to the women's is too long—"

"That's not the same, and you know it."

Kurt crosses to the tub and runs his arms over Blaine's taut shoulders. "Are you scarred for life now, Blaine? Is that it?" he teases.

"I just... I don't like all of these... shenanigans."

Kurt giggles and kisses Blaine on the mouth, all while trying to get Blaine to unfold his arms. "Shenanigans? You're adorable when you're annoyed. Your inner grandpa comes out."

Blaine finally releases his arms and wraps them around Kurt's back. Standing in the bathtub/shower gives him a two-inch height advantage over Kurt, which Kurt revels in as he rests his head against Blaine's bare chest. He listens to his heart, still beating fast from nerves and total irritation.

Blaine slips one hand up to the back of Kurt's neck and holds his head there, almost cradling Kurt against his chest. It takes him back to the dance that triggered this heavenly mess, to the song that carried them right to the edge, drew their hearts out from separate places of deep slumber and reignited a flame that had been slowly burning for nearly half their lives. Kurt sways a bit, or maybe Blaine is rocking him gently, he's not really sure.

He can hear the echo of Adele's haunting voice, and remembers how she sang them right out of the ache and into something even more dangerous. Nothing compares, no worries or cares. Regrets and mistakes, they are memories made. Who would have known how bittersweet this would taste?

Kurt knows he is on a runaway train, and there's no stopping it. He knows Blaine wants him. He knows Blaine loves him, too. But he also loves another, in a way he never loved Kurt and most likely never will.

He's almost thirty years old, and the single most important lesson he's learned is, life is not black and white. There is so much gray area—He wants me, my body, my laughter, my touch, he may even love me more or differently than I realize, but I'm not his, I was never his, because if I was ever his, he would have told me so—and you have to learn how to live in that gray space, where you can't have it all and everything is complicated. You have to be okay with it, to find happiness in it, even if your heart yearns to hear the words, "It's you, it was always you, and no matter what you do, or say, or decide, no matter how much you change or don't change, it will always be you."

But I can't think about that now. In this moment, and for a few precious days, I still have Blaine, complicated or not, and that's all that matters.

"I like you flustered," Kurt says finally, kissing one nipple, then the other. "I like you human."

"Can't get more human than us right now," Blaine says. "I just... don't want to be that guy who has to hide in the shower, you know? I don't want us to be that."

"But we are... that," Kurt says, burrowing further into Blaine.

"But that's not all we are. It's not like we're two lonely strangers who met in a hotel bar and decided to hook up for a few days. There's miles of us before this, Kurt."

"I know."

Blaine kisses Kurt's forehead and pulls him closer, closer, closer. He whispers in his ear: "Last night you said... you said—"

"Stay inside me forever," Kurt whispers back.

"Yes."

"People want things, Blaine. It doesn't mean those things are actually possible," Kurt says, his sigh heavy with the end that is still days away.

"Are we talking literally or figuratively here, Kurt? Because I'm quite aware of the fact that, as much as the idea appeals to me, I can't actually keep my dick in your ass for all of eternity," Blaine teases.

"Both."

Blaine is quiet for a few moments, then gives Kurt a gentle squeeze and then says, "Okay, Kurt. Okay. Shower?"

"Yes, but just that. I really do have to make it out to Chimay� today and spend tens of thousands of Clint Alexander's dollars on rugs for a house he'll most likely never visit."

"Fun."

"If you say so."

They shower together, taking turns washing each other's backs, hair, thighs, shoulders. They kiss each time they shift positions, never saying a word, just washing and kissing and moving like this is a well-practiced dance, like they've done this everyday thing together for years. Kurt wants, and Blaine wants, and if there were no rugs to buy or songs to record they'd give in again, and again, and again. Instead they wash, and kiss, and caress, and move around each other, behind each other, lean against each other, until they are both clean and warm and buzzing with thoughts of later, tonight, tomorrow and tomorrow.

After they dry each other off and Kurt starts pulling on a fresh pair of vintage straight jeans, Blaine slides into his "date night" clothes and says, "I have to change and make a phone call. I'll see you tonight?"

"Yes," Kurt says, with a kiss to Blaine's jaw.

Blaine turns to leave and then turns back. "Last night, you were talking in your sleep. What were you dreaming about?"

A hand. A voice. A love.

"Furniture."

Blaine laughs and kisses him again, this time a bit dirty, and strong, like he's trying to push him over. After a few minutes he pulls his away and says, "I'll call you," and then makes his way to the door.

Kurt watches him go, his jacket draped over his arm, and feels his heart tilt. He laughs, remembering his mother's warning whenever he twisted his face into a pout: "Be careful. Your face might stay that way forever." Will his heart stay this way forever, tilted toward someone he cannot have?

Twenty minutes later, he's dressed and coiffed and ready to face Deidre and the day. He's at the elevator with two minutes to spare, not that he's genuinely concerned about being late. His phone rings, and he smiles at the sight of the caller's name.

"Tell me it's not true," Antonio says, before Kurt can say hello.

"It's not true?"

"I'm not her goddamn servant, Kurt—"

"I know, I know. It's just for a few hours—"

"If she pulls anything I will stop the car and kill her, Kurt, with my bare hands—"

"Just—can't you ignore her? I'll keep her occupied, I will. Besides, she'll get sick of rugs and want to come back to Santa Fe to drink and talk trash for hours, so really, it's me that gets the short straw. Not you."

"Kurt—"

"Are you out front?"

"Yes, goddamn it," Antonio says. He hangs up without saying goodbye.

Kurt finds Deidre perched on a bench in front of a large fireplace in the lobby, arguing with someone on the phone; Clint, most likely. He doesn't want to hear one word of what is likely a rant about Antonio, who probably refused to let her come with them today. So he wanders around the lobby, picking up brochures and putting them back down again.

He finds one about Chimay�, the little town where the Ortiz family weaves their highly sought-after rugs. He reads about the chapel there, about the dirt that is supposed to have healing properties, and about the thousands of devout Catholics who make a pilgrimage to Chimay� every Easter, some walking hundreds of miles with wooden crosses on their backs. He doesn't get it—the closest he ever came to a pilgrimage was a visit to Coco Chanel's Paris apartment—but he slips the brochure into his messenger bag anyway. Maybe this trip will help him clear his mind; maybe, even though he doesn't believe, Chimay� will heal his heart before it breaks.

Kurt catches Deidre's eye and points to a large clock on the wall, willing her to get off the phone. When she nods and marches out the front door, cell phone plastered to her ear, he walks over to the front desk and surprises himself when he says, "Hi. I'm Kurt Hummel, in 415. Could I possibly get an extra key card?"

"Certainly Mr. Hummel. Do you have a guest arriving?" the cheerful girl asks.

"Guest? No. I just... well—"

"It's no problem at all, Mr. Hummel," she says, saving him.

She hands him a key card, which he slips into his wallet. But instead of closing the wallet, he stares for a moment at the edge of the key card peeking out of a pocket, thinking about what it means. If this thing with Blaine, this affair, were something else, if it were true and unfettered, this key card would be a real key, and it would signify a change, a commitment.

If, instead of eleven days, they had a few years, or a lifetime, this would be the point in their relationship when Kurt would hand Blaine a little box with a key to his apartment tucked inside. And he'd say something like, "It's not the key to my heart, because I gave that to you ages ago. It's a key to my everything." And Blaine would smile too big, and press the key into his palm and say, "I'll carry it with me forever." And it wouldn't matter that they were both ridiculously cheesy in their sentiment and optimistic in their promises; it would be a milestone, with the intention of someday having more milestones, bigger milestones, the biggest.

But they'll never have those normal, sweet, breathtaking moments—the first "I love you" without the implied "as a friend, of course;" their first place together, their first "someday" conversation ("Someday, would you like to have children? Someday, would you like to buy a little summer place in Montauk? Someday, would you like to vow to love me in sickness and in health?) There would be no exchange of rings, or promises, or last names. No, this is just a key card so Blaine can let himself in to Kurt's room, so he can wait for him and come and go as he pleases. It's a convenience. That's all.

Closing his wallet, Kurt tries not to think any further about how it could be so much more, or how he's already had so many of those "someday" moments with Paul, or how those other "somedays" are like a popular song played on an out-of tune piano.

Realizing he's been staring at his wallet longer than one would deem normal, he smiles at the girl behind the desk, looks at her name tag and says, "Thank you, Amy."

He's still thinking about key cards, and Paul, and what it all means, when he walks out into the blaring New Mexico sun and gasps at the sight before him. Antonio and Deidre are standing next to his Range Rover, talking to Blaine. Blaine. Gorgeous, clean-shaven, sexy-hot Blaine who should be in his room, or on his way to Galisteo, or anywhere but here, really.

Kurt straightens his shoulders, slips on his sunglasses and walks over to the trio. Blaine notices him; his smile is part smirk, part apology, part "help me," but only Kurt would know that. To the rest of the world, Blaine is the picture of composure.

"I ran into Antonio on my way—" Blaine starts.

"He's coming with us," Deidre says.

"Deidre, meet Blaine, my friend—"

"I know who he is. He told me. Best friend. High school. Got it. He's going to keep me awake by telling hilarious, embarrassing stories about you," Deidre says, slipping into the front seat. She shuts the door before Kurt can argue with her.

"You're not coming," Kurt says emphatically.

"I think I am."

"But you have to work—"

"Gretchen texted me. Adele is spending the day with her husband, and since she's not available, Mitch decided to go see his friend in Corrales, so I have nothing else to do anyway," Blaine explains.

He looks absolutely determined, and Kurt should be happy to spend more time with Blaine, and he is, but not like this. Not with her. And besides, he kind of needed the break from Blaine. Every minute with him eats away at his resolve, and now there is no hope for a reprieve.

"But you said you had to make a phone call—" Kurt starts, and then regrets it. Antonio probably figured they were up to something, and now he has them figured out for sure.

"He, uh, wasn't home," Blaine explains.

"We could use the backup," Antonio says.

"This is not a good idea," Kurt pleads.

"Just let me run inside for a minute. I need to... just hold on, okay?" Blaine says, darting off without waiting for an answer.

Antonio waits until Blaine is inside before he says, "Kurt, I didn't want to say anything yesterday, but—"

"Stop. I can't. I just can't, okay? Can we just, not?"

"Whatever you say."

"Thank you," Kurt says, smiling up at him. "You're a good friend."

"Fort Knox, remember?" Antonio says, tipping his hat. "You know I'm going to kill her, right? I know places. They'll never find her body."

"Ugh. Maybe it is a good idea for Blaine to come along. He can charm anyone into submission," Kurt says.

"Apparently," Antonio teases with a wink.

"Shut up."

After Kurt and Antonio get in the car, there is an awkward, too-long silence before Deidre says, "So how come my fucking kitchen still hasn't been painted?"

Kurt groans. He is trying to come up with an answer that will placate Deidre, when she inhales and starts clicking her tongue. She's looking at the hotel entrance; Kurt turns to see Blaine walking toward the car.

"Yes, that man is definitely worth the risk," she says.

"Deidre, do not try to fuck him," Kurt warns.

"Wasn't planning on it. I don't shit where I eat."

Before Kurt can ask her what she means by that, Blaine opens the door and slips into the backseat, next to Kurt.

"Ready when you are."

Kurt thinks Blaine, with this expectant expression on his face, looks like a five-year-old who has just been told he's going to Disneyland.

Antonio starts the car and pulls out. Deidre reaches to fiddle with the radio and he says, "Don't touch that. My car, my music."

She huffs and turns in her seat, and just as Blaine inches his hand over to cover Kurt's, she turns to face them and says, "So, Blaine, now that I've peed in your presence, don't you think we should get to know each other a little bit better?"

"Oh fuck," Kurt says, hiding his face in his hands. Blaine is speechless, his face as white as Kurt as ever seen it. Kurt wants to vomit, to run screaming from the car. Suddenly the trip to Chimay� feels less like a pilgrimage and more like a death march to hell.

Antonio changes lanes and says, "Remember, I know where we can hide the body."

***

After Deidre teases Kurt and begs for details, after Antonio tells her to shut up and turns off the radio, after Kurt bites back at her and squeezes Blaine's hand so tightly it hurts, they settle into a prickly silence.

As the landscape rolls by, bleached dirt on rolling hills and round, green, short trees that look more like bushes poking up here and there, Blaine silently counts the number of people who know he's having sex with Kurt. Adele. Gretchen, probably. And if Gretchen knows, maybe the entire band. And Mitchell. And if the entire band knows, then maybe friends and acquaintances back in London. Maybe Liam.

He tried to call him this morning, but Liam didn't answer his cell or show up on Skype. So Blaine changed and left his room in search of coffee and a New York Times, something to take his mind off of Liam. And Kurt. And what he might say to Liam about Kurt.

He doesn't know; he really doesn't. They made a deal, and it was evident, even after last night, and the first night, even after Kurt whispered, Stay inside me forever into Blaine's skin and straight through to his heart, that Kurt had every intention of seeing their deal through. Kurt was settled. Content. This thing between them, would it... could it change that?

I'm completely at his mercy. I'll happily take everything he's willing to give me, every scrap. June was right. I am his. But he's not mine. So do I let go of Liam, knowing I'll never have Kurt?

It's a ridiculous question, for which Blaine doesn't have an answer, so he keeps counting. Adele and Gretchen make two. Deidre. And now Antonio, though Kurt might have already told him. That's four. And the bellhop from last night. That's five.

Blaine looks over at Kurt, who is staring out the window looking at his own set of brown hills and shrubby green trees, and chuckles at the memory of last night. Kurt had lifted his head off of Blaine's chest with a start and said, "We're out of condoms!" Somehow they had both forgotten to buy any, and suddenly the situation became desperate.

"I don't want to get dressed," Blaine said.

"I don't want to move," Kurt replied.

And then Blaine said, "Hold on to me, okay? Don't let go."

He rolled them slowly, careful to stay inside of Kurt, careful not to crush him, until he was on top and could reach the phone on the nightstand.

After the front desk clerk forwarded him to a bellhop, Blaine said, "I'm in room 415 and I will give you two hundred dollars cash to run out and get me a pack of condoms—"

"Large," Kurt interrupted.

"—Large condoms. Now. Like, right now,' Blaine said.

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir," the bellhop replied, as if Blaine had asked for a pizza or something.

Blaine hung up the phone, looked down at Kurt's flushed face and said, "I can't believe I just did that."

And then they both got the giggles and started laughing until they were shaking from it, Blaine with his head buried in the crook of Kurt's neck, each trying not to move too much for fear of hurting the other. Soon it was too much, and they both winced at the pain.

"I have to pull out. I'll come back, I will. Just let me—"

Kurt nodded and Blaine watched his face carefully as he slowly pulled out of him. Blaine pushed a few strands of Kurt's hair back from his face and kissed his forehead. Kurt wrapped his arms around Blaine's neck and pulled him in for a kiss that was all gratitude and heat.

Now, sitting in the back of Antonio's car, Blaine wonders if five people is too many or not enough.

"I said I won't say anything," Deidre pleads.

"You're not getting the story, Deidre. Tell Paul, tell your friends, tell the goddamn gossip queen from hell—"

"Who? Marjorie Willhelm?"

"No. Barbara Davies," Kurt replies.

"Oh, no. I loathe her," Deidre says.

"Who are these people?" Blaine asks.

"Harpies. Or friends. Whatever," Kurt says.

"I hate New York," Antonio says.

"Of course you do. You're just like him, with the horses and the space. All that space," Deidre says.

Blaine is thoroughly confused now. The three of them seem to have their own language, and he's reminded how little he actually knows about Kurt's life now.

"Will you tell me all about it later? After?" Deidre asks, her voice so small she almost sounds contrite. Blaine wonders if she feels badly about calling them out, but he can't really imagine her feeling badly about anything.

"Probably not," Kurt says, arms folded.

They settle into yet another awkward silence as Antonio turns off of the main highway onto a winding, two-lane road. Blaine notices more green in the landscape as the hills come in close and bank them in. The history of the place surrounds them; they pass adobe buildings that appear to be as old as time. They're just twenty minutes outside of Santa Fe, but it feels like they've entered another dimension entirely. Gone are the beautiful iron gates and dripping bougainvilleas adorning well-kept historical homes. Here, they see cars upon cinder blocks and bars over windows and crumbling, ancient walls. Many people struggle here, that much is clear.

"See that house?" Antonio asks, pointing to a small, single-story adobe house that looks just like all of the others. "I met my wife because of a boy who lived there."

They're all content to let Antonio diffuse the tension, so he does. "His name was Jimmy Padilla, and he was gay, but that's really not okay up here, you know?"

Kurt and Blaine look at each other because, yes, they do know.

"Sarah knew him. He came to Alex Marin House when he was twenty, a bit too old for the place, but he had nowhere else to go. He'd been up to Vegas, I think, or maybe it was Reno, trying to be himself and make a go of things in a place where people wouldn't judge him. He never found that place. Instead he got sick. I guess he must have had HIV since he was a kid, which really pisses me off, thinking about what he got into up here, but by the time he made it to Alex Marin House, he had full-blown AIDS."

Blaine takes Kurt's hand and leans into him a bit, listening.

"See, Jimmy never had the money for the drugs or treatment he needed to fend off the virus, so he really didn't have a chance. Maybe he didn't want to live anymore, who knows. Anyway, it was Thanksgiving morning, and my grandmother was in the hospital, recovering from surgery. I came in early to sit with her for a while, and when I left, I ran right into this beautiful girl in the lobby. Sarah. She was crying her eyes out. She said, 'Excuse me,' and I don't know what happened to me, but I knew. I knew right then that she was all I would ever need."

Excuse me... Excuse me, I'm new here...

Blaine slides even closer to Kurt, wraps his arm around him and pulls him closer still.

"And I don't know why she thought I was okay to talk to, but all of a sudden she's telling me Jimmy's story, and I'm holding her hand in the waiting room. She tells me she tried get his family to come, that he didn't have much time left, but they kept saying no. I guess they knew he had AIDS, or had been told, but couldn't accept it because that meant he was gay. So they acted like he, I don't know, had a bad flu or something. Like he'd be just fine."

Deidre leans back against the headrest and turns her head toward Antonio. They're all focused on him now, eager to hear the end of his story.

"Sarah kept saying, 'They won't come. Why won't they come?' It broke my heart, it really did. She told me she couldn't leave him alone. She said, 'Nobody deserves to die alone.' And then she thanked me, you know, for letting a total stranger cry on my shoulder, and went back to sit with Jimmy. But I couldn't get her out of my head, or him, so I went up to the nurse's station and asked this girl I knew, Maria, if I could get his address. She shouldn't have done it, but she kind of owed me one, so the next thing I know I'm skipping Thanksgiving and driving out here to Jimmy's parent's place."

"What did they say? Did they come? What happened?" Kurt asks.

"They were sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner, like nothing was wrong, like they didn't have a son dying not half an hour away. I begged them to come. I didn't even know Jimmy and there I was, begging these people I didn't know to come and visit someone I had never met. But they refused."

Antonio is quiet for a moment, and then continues with his story. "I dropped by my mom's and packed up some plates, and then drove back to the hospital. When I walked onto Jimmy's floor, Sarah was holding a phone, I guess maybe getting the courage up to talk to Jimmy's family again. She looked up at me, kind of surprised to see me, and I said, 'They still won't come. I tried, but they won't come.' And then she smiled at me, which I didn't expect. I guess she was happy someone else cared enough about Jimmy to try. And then I sat with them, in his room, and we tried to eat some Thanksgiving dinner and pretend that he had all the time in the world, that he'd get better."

"What happened to Jimmy?" Deidre asked. "When did he die?"

"That night, after I left. Sarah held his hand until the end, wouldn't leave his side," Antonio replied. "And you know what, I couldn't have asked for a better way to meet the love of my life."

"But it's so sad," Kurt says.

"It is, but I met her at the same moment I realized life is precious and short, so I never hesitated. I never pretended not to be interested in her or played games. I just went after her like she was the best thing that ever happened to me, because she was. And Jimmy did that."

They're quiet again, except this time the silence is reverent, for Jimmy. Blaine decides that maybe he loves Sarah; that maybe, even though they only just met, they could be best friends. He vows to make it over to Alex Marin House the first chance he gets. Maybe Kurt would come with him. Maybe they could go tonight.

"This is it," Antonio says, pulling into a parking lot. "There's a little chapel down the hill. It's kind of a tourist thing. Blaine and I will be down there."

Antonio gets out of the car. Kurt looks up at Blaine with a question in his eyes.

"It's fine. I don't really want to look at rugs, anyway," Blaine says.

"I'll try to be quick."

Blaine watches Kurt and Deidre disappear into a large, whitewashed adobe building and then follows Antonio down a gentle hill, into a little valley. The trees grow tall here, and there's a tiny village, which he assumes is Chimay�. He sees a chapel, with a courtyard in the front and tourists milling around.

"This is a holy place," Antonio says. "People come here for healing. Go through the chapel and into the back room and you'll find offerings, candles and prayer requests and little pictures of people who need something. Inside the room you'll find a hole in the ground. That's holy dirt, or so they say. You can take some. They have little containers, or you can buy a locket or something up at the store over there."

"I'm not Catholic," Blaine says, entranced by the simple beauty of the building.

"Doesn't matter. You can still go in. Unless you're good. Maybe you don't need a miracle," Antonio says. "It never worked for me, anyway. It's just something to do while the two of them argue about color palettes and whatever the hell else they talk about. I'm going to go buy a candle for my grandmother at the store. Do you want to come?"

Blaine eyes the chapel and decides to go with Antonio instead. The store is full of kitsch and postcards and little self-published books about the area. He looks at silver jewelry in glass cases, at woven baskets and little clay dolls. Antonio buys two tall votive candles and then finds Blaine.

"Milagros," Antonio explains, looking at the basket of tiny silver charms next to Blaine's hand. The old woman behind the counter smiles at Antonio knowingly. Blaine is so out of his element here and yet so entranced by it all: the ritual of everything, the sacred quiet, the vibrant colors.

"Miracles?" Blaine asks, remembering his high school Spanish.

"Yes. They're offerings. You see how some of them are shaped like body parts?"

"Yes."

"You choose one that represents that part of you, or someone else's, that needs healing. Then you place it in the candle and leave it at the altar, inside," Antonio explains, gesturing toward the chapel.

Blaine runs his fingers through the bowl of tiny charms and, without thinking, picks out four hearts. He doesn't believe in this, he doesn't. But what does he know about miracles, really? Except that yes, he probably could use a miracle today... or eleven days from now. Or anytime, really. Like, right now, even. Yes, now would be good.

"I'll take these, and three candles, please," he says, handing a few dollars to the old woman.

They walk to the chapel and slip into the dark room with the other tourists. Antonio dips his fingers in a bowl of holy water at the entrance and crosses himself. The chapel is tiny, handmade, quiet. Antonio stops but does not sit; Blaine waits for him. He notices a poem on the wall and reads it, silently.

"If you are a stranger, if you are weary from the struggles in life, whether you have a handicap, whether you have a broken heart, follow the long mountain road, find a home in Chimayo."

After a few moments they walk up to the altar and turn left, through an even tinier door and into a room no bigger than Blaine's en suite bathroom back home in Ohio.

There are votive candles everywhere, milagros of every kind, letters and photos, little stuffed animals offered up in hope or remembrance. He follows Antonio's lead, lining his three candles up next to each other. He places one heart in one candle and lights it in memory of Kurt's mother. He places one heart in the second candle and lights it in prayer for Kurt's father, for his continued good health. And then places the two remaining hearts in the third candle and lights it for two of them, for this love he feels for Kurt, for their hearts. It is a wish, a deep and profound wish for a miracle he can't ask for out loud.

He notices the hole in the dirt floor. People are digging, placing dirt in plastic baggies, in paper cups and small boxes. Antonio hands him a cup and again, Blaine finds himself moving without thinking. Using a small shovel, he digs up a little dirt and places it in the cup. He's overwhelmed by all of the desperation and hope in the air, and the room starts to close in on him.

He doesn't deserve this—this room, this dirt, this place, this moment. He's nothing but a coward; even in finally giving over to his feelings for Kurt, he's a coward. He comes to this moment unclean, burdened by too many betrayals of self, and heart, and friendship, and truth.

"I have to get out of here," Blaine says suddenly, ducking out of the exit door. He walks out behind the chapel, finds a bench and sits down. He looks out at green, so much green it's startling. There is life here—trees, and grass, and more trees dotting the creek bed, now dry in the summer heat.

Blaine sticks his fingers into the dirt in his cup. It's just dirt, but in his hands it somehow it feels like so much more. The feel of it grounds him, and just like that, he knows what he must do. Maybe it's Antonio's story about Jimmy Padilla and the fragility of life, echoing in his heart; maybe it's the landscape, the valley dipping from high desert into this tiny oasis; maybe it's the Santuario, the dirt healing not his wounds, but his regrets.

Whatever it is, Blaine has never felt more sure of anything in his life: he will break things off with Liam, and with every other man who tries to be his everything. He will spend his life saying "no," waiting for Kurt to say "yes."

When Antonio finds him, Blaine says, "You lit two candles."

"One for my grandmother and one for Jimmy."

They sit together for an hour or so, staring out at the green and brown, watching tourists order flavored tortillas from a nearby stand. They exchange easy conversation and benign facts, until they hear the fast-paced walk of two New Yorkers approaching behind them.

"We have rugs! Can we go?" Kurt says, eyeing them warily.

"I'm ready. You ready, Blaine?" Antonio asks.

"Yes. Absolutely."

Antonio turns the radio on for the drive back and Blaine listens to Deidre and Kurt talk about tile and glassware and a party they both have to attend in October. The largest rug is too big to fit all the way in the trunk, so part of it rests on top of the seat behind them, between him and Kurt. Blaine wants to curl into Kurt, kiss his neck and earlobes and tell him what he plans to do, but the rug is in the way.

"Kurt tells me you work with Adele," Deidre says, shaking him out of his thoughts.

"I do in fact work with Adele, yes."

"You write songs?"

"Sometimes. I used to," Blaine says.

"He writes beautiful songs," Kurt insists.

"Sing something for me," Deidre commands, because she is just that gauche.

"Antonio's car, Antonio's music," Blaine quips.

"Hey, I'll turn it off if you want me to," Antonio says. "Or not."

"It's been a long time since I wrote anything," Blaine stalls.

"Kurt, I've never heard you sing. Do you remember any of his songs?" Deidre asks.

Blaine wonders how Kurt could possibly remember any of the songs he wrote in high school and college. He remembers Kurt poring over his journal, reading the lyrics in blue ink bleeding through and onto the back of the page. That was years ago, a decade ago. How could he remember? Surely he doesn't—

PRESS PLAY

But Kurt is singing, that song he wrote his first year at Berklee, before he let other boys in, before they grew up, before he gave up.

"You've got the kind of beautiful makes the boys want to give up running all around."

It's amazing and perfect and Blaine wonders if he's ever actually heard Kurt sing this song before. He remembers singing it himself in the showcase, remembers Kurt and Rachel's rapt expressions as he strummed and sang his heart out, hoping Kurt would understand that he could sing what he could not say.

Kurt's voice is otherworldly, haunting, pure. With the rug in the way, Blaine can't look at him; so he slides his hand across the seat and places it on Blaine's thigh. They haven't said a word to each other about this morning, or this day, or about why Blaine is holding a paper cup half-full of dirt. But somehow this is all that needs to be said, this song. And somehow this is all that needs to be done, this hand on his thigh.

Kurt sings, and the words, his own words, are like a revelation to him. He barely remembers writing them, but he definitely remembers the feelings that inspired him to write the song.

"One life is all we ever get, and all we ever give up for it in return is all of the ones we might have been, just one kind of beautiful each in our turn."

When they pass by Jimmy's house, they all turn to look; and, each in their own time, Antonio first, turn back to look at the road ahead of them. Blaine takes Kurt's hand again.

Will I always take it? Will I always reach for his hand, wrap it up in my own, hold it tightly, again and again? Will I always have the chance to hold it and never let go?

He lets Kurt's voice wash over him, lets a tear fall, and then another, silently, so silently, like he's sitting in the Santuario, praying.

"You are, true improbability. You're the proof of when they say, you never know what's going to be."