We Aren't Who We Were

Chapter 16

One month later…

Blaine stared around the small, very empty, San Francisco home, brown boxes piled around him. The decision to leave New York was quick. He'd made it almost as soon as he picked up the phone to call to Michael Sampson. In one short 20 minute conversation, Blaine's entire life had turned around. He would move to San Fran, leaving behind everything he'd had in New York, including the building of his new art studio, and start anew. Sampson seemed to be so confident in his art that he promised to organize a gallery dedicated to all his pieces—even offering to have all the art shipped from New York, straight out of his own pocket. He'd even referred Blaine to his realtor and landed him an affordable two bedroom home in the heart of San Francisco.

It all happened so fast that one month later Blaine was here. Sitting in the middle of his new house—not apartment, not a cheap Brooklyn loft in a compromising neighborhood—but a home.

Blaine got to work with Sampson as soon as he'd arrived, cataloging his art pieces, picking which ones to be showcased, and getting settled in the downtown studio they'd set up for him, and adjusting to a completely different city.

He'd been rather lost his first few weeks in the new city, even contemplating asking Sampson if he could get Danny's contact information, but Blaine knew it'd be for all the wrong reasons—Danny had even rather clearly that he didn't want much to do with Blaine anymore now that he was—supposedly—with Kurt.

Blaine shook the thought out of his head. He wasn't in New York anymore, and it didn't matter where Kurt was—he'd been clear about what he wanted as well.

This was the next step he needed to get over Kurt. He needed to move on with his life. He wasn't going to waste time on someone who obviously didn't waste any running from him. He was going to be happy. He was finally beginning to get the career he'd always wanted, in this new, beautiful city…and he was having his first show case at the City Art gallery—all dedicated to hiswork in about a week. There wasn't even time to wallow over Kurt and the explanation he'd probably never get.

Blaine groaned as he stared around the house again, trying to focus his mind on something other than Kurt.

He'd only had time to unpack some clothes, and his toiletries. Everything else was still sealed in their boxes, fresh from Brooklyn. Blaine smiled a little—that and the new studio he'd set up in the extra bedroom. It was bigger than the one he'd had in Brooklyn—better lighting too. Blaine had spent hours unpacking all his materials, easels, paints—even his old Brooklyn stool came with him—the very first day he'd moved in.

He grinned as he walked up the stairs, his smile lighting up as soon as he opened the door to the studio—looking like a child who had just unwrapped the biggest box under the Christmas tree. Blaine glanced back to the banister and the stairs that led to the enormous amount of unpacking he had yet to even touch.

He could always pack later, Blaine thought to himself, before smiling again and walking into his new studio.

"No, just have it sent here. I'm in LA, and I'm going to stay in LA okay, Lucy?" Kurt snapped into his phone, sitting in a bathrobe and attempting to pour his cereal into his bowl with one hand, while trying to open the flaps to the milk carton with his other, all while balancing the phone between his shoulder and ear.

Mercedes rolled her eyes as she strolled into the kitchen, grabbing the milk from Kurt's hand, and pouring it into the bowl for him, and taking a spoon from the counter and setting it next to him.

Kurt mouthed a 'thank you' before taking the phone back into his hands. "Yeah it's fine, just fax it here, and I'll review it—and please tell me you told Kevin to go over last week's editorial before publishing…"

Mercedes looked at Kurt with an amused expression as she poured herself a cup of coffee, and took a seat across from Kurt at the table.

"Yeah, okay, that's fine—that's fine. I'll make do. Maybe I'll just go down there myself. It wouldn't make sense for him to fly over to New York anyways—wait where is he now anyways?"

Mercedes raised an eyebrow, what was this boy talking about?

"Well okay, just call me when you figure out where he is—it can't be that hard to get an interview from a designer who's entire fall line failed miserably at last month's fashion week—he's probably hiding away in France of something, trying to avoid the critics," Kurt continued, "Just let me know—please keep in mind I'm 3 hours earlier over here—I don't want to be interrupted halfway through my smoked salmon bagels again."

Mercedes smirked as Kurt threw his phone down onto the table. "Smoked salmon bagels?"

Kurt shrugged, "I need to keep up appearances don't I?" looking down miserably at his soggy cereal.

"Are you going to leave the house today then?" Mercedes asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

Kurt pulled his bathrobe closer around his chest, "What's the point?"

"Come on boy! You can't just sit around mopping and working all day. You're in Los Angeles. We're like an hours drive from Hollywood! Why don't you go check it out? Come and check out Rehearsals? I worry about you at work you know?"

Kurt grinned at Mercedes—she loved bringing her work into any conversation she could. Mercedes had landed leads in several musicals in her time in LA, and was now currently staring at Nikki in a new musical Beautiful that was having its successful run in Hollywood's Pantages Theatre.

"No thank you, my jealousy can only contain itself for 3 matinee performances. You are amazing, but I refuse to watch you sending me gloating looks in the middle of one of your solo numbers," Kurt said with a laugh, standing up to pour himself a cup of coffee as well.

Mercedes smiled, playfully batting the air in Kurt's direction. "Oh please, says the founder, and head editor of Vain magazine…you know I have to see those at the supermarket, and the dentist—even my damn hair stylist subscribes…"

Kurt took a big sip of coffee, letting the warm liquids spread through his body, and shrugged. "I guess…"

"Kurt please," Mercedes said, sounding more serious this time, "don't stay around the house anymore. It's been a month, go outside, make some friends, and discover LA. There's a lot more to it than the Starbucks a block away."

Kurt's eyes fell, and he traces his fingers around the edge of his mug, "Look, I'm just not feeling…I'm not feeling up to it right now. I mean after that phone call with Josh the other night—explaining everything to him—I feel like crawling into a hole and just staying there forever."

Mercedes reached across the table to rub Kurt's arm, "Did you contact Blaine yet?"

Kurt's eyes shot up, staring at Mercedes in shock, "What?"

"Blaine…" Mercedes replied slowly, raising her eyebrows.

"Mercedes, please drop it." Kurt said quickly, pulling his arm back, "I—I can't okay?"

"Kurt, the boy deserves as answer as much as Josh did, you owe him that much…" Mercedes said sternly.

"Look, its better if I don't…I wouldn't even know—I just…" Kurt took a deep breath, "I can't."

Mercedes pursed her lips together, and turned away, "Fine. It's your call, but…I really think that you should—"

"I know, I know," Kurt cut in, "It's just…too hard. What I did was just...I can't."

Mercedes got up from her chair, and grabbed a bagel from the counter. "Well, I have to go okay? Please don't just mope around the house all day—it's starting to depress me."

"Don't worry, I might be flying back to New York for a day or two next week—I need to interview Jean Claude the Third…" Kurt rolled his eyes as the name rolled off his tongue, "about his disaster of a fall line, and since he's in hiding, my best guess is that he's either hiding in France—or the more likely possibility, visiting his mistress—his fashion muse—in New York."

Mercedes laughed as she walked out the kitchen, "Good luck with that!"

"No one should base fashion lines off hookers they meet on the bad side of Manhattan I tell you!" Kurt yelled as Mercedes disappeared around the corner.

Kurt smiled as he heard Mercedes burst into laughter in the other room, and then the click of the front door closing.

The smile faded along with the fading echo of the door, and Kurt was left alone, for yet another day in Mercedes' empty house.

Kurt couldn't even begin to describe how grateful he was to Mercedes for helping him—trying to help him through this rough time. But no matter how hard he tried, he still couldn't manage to get Blaine out of his mind. As much as he didn't want to, Kurt usually ended up spending his entire day either working on his laptop, and Skyping with the New York office—or the more popular pastime…thinking about Blaine.

Kurt was jolted out of his thoughts with the sudden sound of his phone vibrating against the kitchen table.

"Lucy?" Kurt asked, resting his elbow against the table, and running his hand through his hair.

"We got word of where Jean Claude is!" Lucy replied cheerily.

"Yes?" Kurt asked flatly, squeezing his eyes shut.

"His publicist said he'll be in San Francisco next week, he'll be staying at the Fairmont Hotel around Union Square, you know, near all the convention centers and art halls. You won't miss it, I already booked your flight from LA, and I'm faxing the online boarding passes to Mercedes' place now. Have fun!"

"Perfect…" Kurt groaned, hanging up the phone, "Just Perfect…"

It was perfect, Blaine concluded as he walked through the art gallery. One glorious week later and here he was. Finally standing at his own art showcase for later that evening, and surrounded by people hanging up his art…it was unbelievable. The gallery was two stories, with blinding white walls, and large glass windows. The walls were lined—every foot of it—with his work. Never in his life did Blaine Anderson think that he would proudly be able to showcase his most prized work, for a city's top artists, and art critics—even landing himself a small article in the San Francisco Examiner—well…ever. He couldn't even dream of this happening to him.

Blaine was startled out of his thoughts as he felt a strong hand clasp around his shoulder.

"Looks good doesn't it?" a tall brunette asked, squeezing his shoulder gently.

"I—Michael…" Blaine began, a grin spreading across his face, "I could have never imagined something like this in my entire life. I can't believe this is happening. Thank you so much!"

Michael Sampson smiled, "San Francisco's your city Anderson. I see big things coming your way."

"Big—big things? This isn't big to you?" Blaine asked, hardly believing what the man was saying to him.

Michael laughed, "You're too modest, son. This is just the beginning. Now I have to go deal with some stuff for this afternoon, there'll be workers in here all day setting up, so don't be shy if you want them to arrange your pieces in any particular way—this is your event after all."

Blaine's hand flew up to his forehead, as he tried to get a grip on everything that was going on.

"I—I can't thank you enough for this Michael," Blaine said humbly, the smile on his face growing. "I could never, in a million years find a way to express the gratitude I feel—" Blaine began.

"Blaine, I'm going to stop you right there." Michael said softly, patting Blaine on the shoulder, "I know you and uh, Danny, aren't really on friendly terms—or any terms—I don't know the situation, and I never want to—but he's to blame for all this inevitable success. You're talented you know? You just needed someone to push you in the right direction…my direction."

Blaine smiled and watched Michael walk away, the feeling of excitement and nerves still swimming around in the pit of his stomach. Yeah, it was Danny who got him here, and for that…Blaine would forever be grateful. Blaine chewed on his lip—but it was clear that that was Danny's final testament to him and through all the guilt and gratitude—he needed to accept that.

Blaine caught a glance of a pair of movers moving by, carrying a familiar painting, "Hey! Wait!" he called after him.

The stunned movers paused, turning around the face Blaine, "I'm sorry Mr. Anderson, is there a problem?" one of them asked.

"Where did you get that?" Blaine asked frantically, his eyes glazed over the portrait.

"The framers just dropped off a couple more paintings, we just move them," the other mover replied, shrugging his shoulders.

"No—it's not even finished, why would this be sent to get framed?" Blaine barked a little too harshly.

The movers shifted uneasily from where they stood, the painting balanced between them.

"Sorry, you're just the movers. I shouldn't have—I shouldn't have yelled." Blaine said apologetically, eyeing the painting with a grimace, barely able to look at the half completed painting of Kurt staring back at him, "I just…this can't be put up, okay? Can you guys just—load it back into the truck or something? I don't—I don't want to see it," Blaine said finally, pressing a finger to his forehead. What a great beginning to his day…

Kurt had never been so irritated during an interview in his entire career. Jean Claude the Third was a piece of work. Whoever is responsible for throwing him into the fashion world should be forced to wear potato sacks or something for the rest of their life, but in Kurt's opinion, they'd still probably look better than anything Jean Claude will ever design.

Kurt had flown his ass to San Francisco, and met the arrogant prick at his hotel, and was forced to sit through one of the most grueling interviews of his entire life. He listened to Jean Claude blame everything from the weather to his hooker muse for his recent fall line flop—when honestly…who brings back animal print and clashes it with something as horrendous as neon leggings? Kurt shuddered at the thought. That muse must have an interesting wardrobe.

After about 2 hours of getting barely enough printable material from the man who Kurt truly believed only achieved the success he did from his infamous scandals, good looks, and European accent—none of which made up for his atrocious taste in fashion.

Kurt trudged through the hotel lobby after nearly reaching his breaking point with Jean Claude, and literally had to force his legs from not just standing up and just walking his ass out of that ridiculous interview.

Through gritted teeth he thanked him for his time, and promised to have lunch with him again the next time they were in the same city together and somehow managed to leave without slapping the jerk in the face.

Kurt pushed the hotel doors open and faced the brisk San Francisco breeze. He wanted nothing more than to catch the next flight out to Los Angeles and go back to burying himself in his room, and back to now daily routine of waking up, moping around, and sitting in front of the TV watching old movies—but Mercedes was out of town for the next few days for a press thing for her musical, and suggested he take some time for himself, and stay in San Francisco a few more days—"get out of his depressed funk" or whatever.

Kurt groaned as he wrapped the scarf around his neck tighter and walked down the street, absent mindedly looking around the strange new city.

Kurt figured that he'd come to California one day—San Francisco was always at the top of the list, it was known for its theater after all. Kurt had just thought he'd come when he was forty and had time to spare to go to small theater productions and things like that. He never expected his first time to be alone, on business, stranded in a city he barely knew, with no one he did know.

The Fairmont Hotel really was surrounded by several convention centers that Kurt figured were of great importance to the city and whatever—but he just wasn't really in the mood to sight see.

He walked around for what seemed like ages, before he stepped onto a less busy street, with modern looking buildings widely spaced apart from each other. Kurt crossed the street, in curiosity, wondering if they could perhaps be a nice boutique or something where he could just splurge on some retail therapy.

As he approached the cluster of buildings, he realized that they were art galleries. His heart began to thump in his chest as the thought of Blaine flooded into his mind. Kurt chewed on his lip as he walked past the buildings, there were several. Kurt peered into the windows as he walked past, noting the mostly empty space, and the few pieces of art hanging on the walls. There were only a few people inside, staring intently at the work, as if expecting something to jump out at them if they stared long enough.

Kurt shook his head and continued walking. The building near the end of the street caught his eye though, unlike the others around it—it seemed like some sort of event was happening at this one. The glass front of the tall two story gallery was filled with people, and Kurt could see people walking around with wine glasses in their hands, and waiters going around with little things with toothpicks stabbed through them on their plates.

Blaine would love this sort of thing, Kurt thought to himself as he walked closer. He paused in front of the building and caught a glimpse of some of the art hanging from those walls. Kurt smiled, when he spotted a painting of a little house off on the wall nearest to the entrance.

It was so familiar. Kurt pushed open the gallery door, moving past a few of the other art enthusiasts.

"Yes, the artist is new, this is his first showcase in San Fran, can you believe it?" a woman said to her colleague as he brushed past Kurt.

Kurt could hear the mumblings of everyone around him, saying something about the new artist, but Kurt didn't mind them—instead he walked toward that painting that was oh too recognizable.

Kurt's heart nearly stopped when he finally reached the painting, his mouth falling open as he realized that it was the exact Staten Island house Blaine had painted months ago, also recognizing the familiar signature at the bottom.

Kurt spun around in a panic, his heartbeat thudding in his chest. Nearly all the paintings around him were, or were at least somewhat familiar to him. Kurt wasn't exactly the greatest art fanatic, so the fact that he recognized even one painting in the damn place meant that—that…

Blaine happily shook hands with critics and other guests who'd come—invited by Michael, who'd proudly been promoting him as San Francisco's next big artist.

His heart felt like it would burst from pride as he watched people crowding around his work, commenting on its brushwork, and creative outlook. Blaine was practically beaming as other gallery owners patted his shoulder, and asked if he'd like to showcase a few paintings in their own galleries.

"Blaine!" Michael exclaimed, throwing his arm around Blaine cheerfully and handing him a glass of wine, "I'd say this was a success wouldn't you? My clients have never loved any other artist I've showcased here better than your work. I've even gotten quite a few bidders—and might I tell you, were very generous—wanting your work!"

Blaine smiled, his mouth open in shock, "It's unbelievable. It really, really is."

"Especially that piece over there, that one is pretty popular among buyers," Michael said pointing to a painting over by the corner.

"The Central Park one? I didn't think…" Blaine trailed off as his eyes caught onto a familiar head of perfectly gelled hair standing in front of one of his paintings. It couldn't be…

"Yes! Apparently San Francisco loved New York!" Michael said happily.

"I—um—could you excuse me for a minute?" Blaine asked, his eyes not tearing away from the familiar figure. He handed Michael his glass of wine, and patted him absent-mindedly on the chest, and walked in a direct bee-line to the brunette.

"Kurt?" Blaine called out, narrowing his eyes as he weaved through the crowd, dodging waiters holding hors d'oeuvres and people crowding around paintings, mingling with each other.

Kurt could feel his heartbeat freeze in his chest momentarily, recognizing the voice immediately. He whipped his head around to see the familiar curly hair moving though the crowd from across the room towards him. Kurt was frozen where he stood, before finally jumping to his senses and bolting toward the door. What the hell was Blaine doing here in California? He was supposed to be in New York—he was supposed to be on the other side of the country!

"Kurt!" Blaine yelled out again, this time louder, and more aggressively as he pushed past people in pursuit of the taller brunette.

Kurt pushed open the glass gallery door, into the cool San Francisco air, and ran down the street as fast as he could. He could practically hear his pulse pounding in his ears as disappeared around the corner of the art gallery, his eyes darting back and forth for somewhere to go.

He ended up in an empty square behind the gallery, and spotted an alleyway leading to the main street, heading toward it as quickly as possible—when he felt a strong hand grip around his wrist, and pull him back, spinning him around until he was face to face with…Blaine.

They stood there, both breathing heavily, eyes locked on one another's. Blaine didn't let go of his tight grasp on Kurt's wrist, as if letting go would send him flying off again.

Blaine narrowed his eyes, his eyebrows knitting together in frustration.

Kurt attempted to pry his arm out of Blaine's hold, but Blaine only held on tighter, pulling him closer to him. He could see Blaine's chest rising and falling, despite being buried beneath his finely tailored suit, while his piercing hazel eyes stared daggers at him.

'Why are you always running from me Kurt?" Blaine asked icily, his eyes never peeling away from Kurt, who was squirming where he stood.

"I wasn't running—" Kurt squeaked.

Blaine let go of Kurt's arm roughly, and stepped back, raking his fingers through his gelled back hair.

"You weren't running? Really?" Blaine spat out, looking at Kurt incredulously. "You're kidding me right? You made a freaking dash for the door as soon as you heard me calling your name!"

Kurt bit his lip, and hugged his arms around his chest, staring down at the ground. He could still feel Blaine look fiercely at him, hazel eyes blazing.

"I should go…" Kurt whispered, turning around slowly, and walking away in the opposite direction.

"I deserve an explanation! I mean…above everything else, what the hell are you doing in San Francisco anyways? Don't tell me this is where you ended up running off to—of all places!" Blaine yelled out, as Kurt walked away.

Kurt paused, feeling tears starting to sting at his eyes.

"You just…you left, Kurt. You left without so much as a goodbye or anything…just gone." Blaine stood his distance, from his voice didn't falter. "Do you know how that made me feel? Do you know how confused…how hurt I was?"

Kurt turned his head glancing behind him.

"Don't leave again without an explanation…" Blaine said again, standing his ground.

Kurt stood there, not knowing whether or not he should turn around. He could feel his lower lip starting to quiver. He couldn't do this right now, he just—he couldn't. He needed to walk away right now or else…or else...

"I loved you." Blaine said, his voice softer this time. "I guess you just…didn't feel the same way…"

When Kurt still refused to reply, Blaine turned to walk away first—before his temper got the best of him. He'd always been a calm person, very collected, and generally cheerful but...it'd been a tough couple of weeks and everyone around Blaine who knew him at all could tell he'd been irritable and bitter for a while.

"You think I didn't love you?" Kurt whispered, barely loud enough for Blaine to hear, turning around to look at Blaine.

Blaine narrowed his eyes, and spun around quickly, striding up to Kurt angrily, "What else was I supposed to think?" He hissed. He was so close to Kurt, Kurt could feel his breath on his cheek.

"I loved you more than you could ever imagine, Blaine," Kurt replied, his eyebrows furrowed together in disbelief, "How could you ever think I didn't? I know what I did was bad, but I did itbecause I loved you. Couldn't you understand that?"

"No! I couldn't fucking understand that!" Blaine shot back angrily, his face still barely inches away from Kurt's. "How does leaving without a trace count as an act of love—for some reason that just doesn't register in my mind. Fucking enlighten me!"

Kurt flinched at the remark, stepping back a few steps—the words stabbing through him like knives. He'd never heard Blaine curse so much, especially in such a nasty context. He could feel his body trembling as Blaine pressed his body closer to his, while his eyes stared darkly at him, as if demanding an answer. But beyond the look of sheer rage in his eyes, there was a soft, barely noticeable twinge of sadness beyond the hazel irises—that tiny look of pain, and desperation, masked behind anger—and that itself almost made Kurt's heart drop to the floor.

"I—I…," Kurt stammered, trying to find the right words.

"You…" Blaine repeated, stepping forward, forcing Kurt to step backwards, "…What?"

Kurt's breath hitched as Blaine continued to walk forward. Blaine could be backing him up into a trash can or toward the main street traffic for all he knew.

Kurt kept taking steps backwards as Blaine moved closer, until he felt his back hit the cool hard surface of a wall, his hands immediately falling to his sides and pressing against the building.

"Kurt…," Blaine growled in warning.

Kurt's eyes fell to stare down at the concrete floor, biting his lower lip to keep some sort of restraint on his quivering mouth, and avoid the hard glare of Blaine's burning eyes.

"Do you know what it's been like for me these past few weeks? Do you?" Blaine murmured dangerously low, "I was a mess…I couldn't even continue living in the same apartment because I kept thinking about you. All the time…I kept thinking about you."

Kurt slowly brought his eyes up to stare into Blaine's.

"You never called. You never warned me. I didn't even know where you were for god sakes. All I got was a little note…I'm sorry, but I could never say goodbye to you." Blaine repeated, "What the hell did that even mean? And how could you just leave like that? You left everything. There was no trace of you left in New York. I just—" Blaine continued, his voice getting louder and louder against Kurt's ear.

Kurt pushed back against Blaine's chest, distancing their two bodies from each other. "Stop it!" Kurt burst out angrily, heat starting to rise to his chest. He couldn't stand the way Blaine was talking to him—so cruel and ruthless.

"Why should I?" Blaine spat back, his eyes narrowed. "I don't understand! I mean—why the hell are you even here?"

"I don't know…I saw the open gallery and I—I just…" Kurt's voice trailed off, "I didn't know it was your gallery okay? I mean why would you be in California anyways?"

"I asked you the same thing…" Blaine replied flatly.

They stood there in silence, neither knowing what to say next. Kurt leaned back against the wall wondering if he should just walk away, or wait for Blaine's next move. He was beginning to notice Blaine's eyes softening, and his once strong gaze faltering. He looked tired, there were dark circles beneath his eyes, and his skin looked a few shades paler than he last remembered.

Kurt stared down at the ground, "I loved you too…I don't know why you would ever think otherwise."

Kurt waited for another heated remark from Blaine, some comment that he probably deserved, but would kill him inside to hear it. He braced himself, squeezing his eyes shut as he waited, feeling tense from the silence wavering between them.

When he opened his eyes again, Blaine was still close, but standing at a reasonably polite distance.

"Then why did you leave?" Blaine murmured, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion, his eyes no longer trying to mask the pain he'd had shielded up behind his anger earlier.

Kurt took a deep breath, "I saw you…that evening before I—before I left," Kurt began, "You looked so…broken to me. I could see how much pain I'd put you through after all those weeks. It was…" Kurt paused for another breath, "It was the same look you got every night before I said I had to go home, or that I couldn't stay the night or…whatever."

Blaine listened silently as Kurt spoke, his soft voice was barely audible with the evening San Fran winds beginning to blow.

"I hated myself for making you look like that. I hated how I made you wait for me, I hated how you still saw me after all those broken promises I'd said…I hated what you'd become because of me."

Blaine's eyes fell to the pavement.

"I was a coward. I was afraid to leave Josh. He was safe. He loved me, and he took care of me, and he was just…always there I guess. I think somewhere down the line I loved him too…but the feelings faded when we began—maybe even a little bit before that, but I couldn't admit that to myself." Kurt was practically shaking as he said this, his hands pressed against the wall so hard they were trembling too. "I wanted the courage to just tell him everything, so that one day…you and I…we could finally be together without all of these obstacles in our way."

Kurt could see Blaine's distant eyes avoiding him as he spoke, but he didn't interrupt, instead he nodded, signaling Kurt to continue.

"I'll never forgive myself for what I did—especially what I did to you. I…I called Josh about a week ago, after calling all of my family and stuff—informing them about the wedding cancelations. I think it's safe to say he never wants to speak to me again…" Kurt's eyes fell, "But I just…I couldn't call you."

Upon hearing those last few words, Blaine lifted his head, staring curiously at Kurt.

"What do you mean?" he murmured, his eyebrows knitting together.

"I was worried that if I called you—if I heard your voice again…I'd go running back to New York." Kurt said with a bitter smile.

Blaine shook his head in disbelief, "You keep saying that you aren't good enough for me, or that you leaving was better for me…whatever." Blaine said, taking one step closer to Kurt, "But did itever occur to you that I had feelings too? Did you consider how I'd feel once I found out you left, without a trace or a sign about why?"

"I just thought that it'd be better for you if I just—" Kurt began.

"How would it better? How would losing the one person I was ever truly ever in love with…better?" Blaine cried out, moving another step closer to Kurt.

"All I did was hurt you Blaine…" Kurt whispered, his eyes widening as Blaine took yet another step towards him, resting his hand above Kurt's head against the wall, leaning dangerously close.

"Kurt…" Blaine said desperately, his voice tone weary, "You hurt me by leaving. Why won't you understand that? Sure I was mad, and upset that you still hadn't left Josh yet, but I was happy that I still had you—granted it was just a part of you, but I had hope that soon we'd—we'd be together…but you didn't did you?"

Kurt could feel his eyes starting to fill with tears.

"You did choose him. You were willing to go to Paris with him. You were going to marry him, weren't you? That…hearing that…killed me inside." Blaine said, his voice cold and distant. He stepped away from Kurt, and raked his hands shakily through his hair.

"I thought I could…" Kurt whispered, "But I couldn't…all I could think of was you. So I just left…I left everything behind." Kurt stood silently for a moment, "I did love you Blaine. I hate knowing you thought differently."

Blaine turned his head away, "I guess it just wasn't enough though, was it?"

Kurt pushed off the wall, and took a step toward Blaine, gently taking Blaine's hands in his.

Blaine's eyes fell onto his hands as Kurt's wrapped around them. He felt a jolt of electricity go up his arm and through his entire body. His heart started to pound in his chest...he shook his head vigorously. No—he wasn't doing this now. He slipped his hands out of Kurt's grasp and slid them into his front pockets.

Kurt bit his lip at Blaine's sudden reaction.

Blaine looked up into Kurt's gleaming blue-green eyes, glazed with forming tears. "You know what sucks about this whole situation? Me, here, standing in front of you?" Blaine stared away, his voice dropping softer—a more pained tone, "Seeing you again after all that's happened?—I realize that I'm still fucking in love with you, and I can't stand that."

Kurt's mouth fell open in shock—did he just say that he was—

"I have to go…" Blaine said heavily, his body turning to walk back toward the front of the gallery, his eyes being the last part of him to peel away from Kurt.

Kurt just stood there, frozen to his place, unable to remember how to move his arms or legs—or even how to speak. He watched Blaine disappear around the corner, his head ducked down, with a hand resting in his front pocket, while the other wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.

He could feel the tears starting to sting behind his eyes. With one blink, the dam broke, and the tears flowed shamelessly down his cheeks. His knees finally gave out, and Kurt slid down the wall, his head falling into his hands.