If I came to you empty handed,

A barren ocean with nothing at all.

And if I came to you empty hearted,

Searching for the pieces after the fall.

            It was around 1 when Kurt finally texted him back. His stomach twisted, voice squeaking with the startled noise he made at the vibration, and his heart was just pounding. Would he ever admit any of those things? Of course not.

            Merry Christmas again to you, too. Are you up for getting coffee? Counter Culture at 2p.m. It was such an innocent sentence; there was no reason for Blaine's nerves to go through the roof. But even despite that, they still did. He couldn't help the little jolt his heart gave when he realized that Kurt never even addressed his other smaller message. Maybe Kurt just wanted to talk about it at the coffee shop, it wasn't really something to discuss over text. Blaine stared at his phone probably a lot longer than was really necessary before finally summoning up the courage (hah, funny that he was the one needing to be courageous now) to answer.

            I'd love to. I'll see you at 2. And then it was gone and fuck, now he had to go. Blaine cast a look at his half-dressed torso, emitting another high noise he would deny to anybody that called him out on it. What was he even going to wear? Was this a date? Was he supposed to dress for a date? Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. And what if Blaine didn't want it to be a date? Just because they did whatever they did last night didn't mean that he was just going to throw himself right back into Kurt's arms. And yet here he was, seeming to do just that. Fuck.

            Blaine threw his phone onto the couch before bolting (literally) down the hallway, bare feet slipping on the hardwood outside his door and nearly sending him crashing into the wall at the far end of the hallway. Why the hell was he given such short notice? How long had Kurt been planning this? There was no way that he would be able to be completely ready in an hour, especially if this was, in fact, a date. But who's to say it was? Kurt was so meticulous that he spent an hour at least planning an outfit for just the next day.

            People change. Blaine sucked in a slow breath, bracing his arm against the wall beside his closet. Get it together, Anderson. Kurt didn't say it was a date. So it wasn't. He'd tell him if it was, right? Right? Fuck.

            In the end, he settled on something simple. Well, relatively simple. The mustard yellow jeans that Kurt always said he was iffy about but in the end admitted to loving them, and a black polo accompanied with the little bowtie Kurt gave him for their one month anniversary. The bowtie was an afterthought and somehow still seemed to work with the rest of the outfit. It was yellow and black; Kurt had giggled as he opened the gift, snickering about Blaine being his little bee.

            He looked in the mirror for what felt like the three hundredth time, eyeing his hair sceptically and wondering if it was worth gelling. The last few times Kurt had seen him, he'd been product free. But what if it was a date? Fuckity fuck.

            Needless to say, the gel-helmet was back in style.

            It was 1:53p.m and Blaine was fucking cold. The subway heating must have went out or they must have turned it off or done some bullshitwith it because he froze the whole way to the little café. There was way too much snow for it to be normal. The snow in New York hardly ever eventouched the ground due to buildings keeping the heat in or some whacky science-y thing (Blaine didn't know, he didn't really make a show of paying attention) but here it was being an asshole and freezing his feet once again. Maybe eventually he'd learn that loafers weren't for the winter time, but today would not be that day.

            Blaine paused outside the little shop, sucking in a deep breath with his hand on the pull bar. And then he saw him. Kurt was sitting against one of the farther windows, one leg crossed over the other with coffee cup already in hand that would no doubt be only the first of several he'd consume over the course of the day. With a cup across from him.

            And Blaine was frozen. He wanted to just go in and sit down across from that beautiful man and laugh and smile and live and he couldn't. His fingers felt like they were locked around the pole, feet stitched right into the pavement, and he was stuck. Fuck.

            Just fucking go. He invited you here. He wants you here. Just go in, you fucking pussy. Blaine wrenched his hand away from the door, taking off down the sidewalk. He couldn't breathe. The entire world seemed to tilt off its axis, making a valiant attempt to throw him down against the concrete and make him feel it. Force little stones into the palms of his hands, tear up the knees of his jeans; rip up the outside as much as the inside was already torn.

            Blaine knew that running away wasn't going to solve anything but he just didn't care. Because maybe if he ran far enough, it would at least give him a hint to the solution. The people swarmed over the sidewalk all gave him scathing looks as he pushed past them, fighting to get into an open space where he could breathe because there was too much and he was drowning in it.

            Blaine broke through the throng of people, tripping off the edge of the curb and careening into the side of a taxi. His hands smacked against the door, causing a shout from both the driver and the passenger, the car jolting forward half a foot. Today was decidedly not his day. First running from a date (was it a date? Did he just stand Kurt up? Fucking fuck.) and now he was nearly causing car accidents. Splendid.

            He pushed off the vehicle, slipping behind it and running for the park. Once he got there he knew he'd be able to breathe. There was so much more room, even on a crowded day. He wouldn't feel like he was choking on the air around him.

            And almost as soon as his toes touched the sidewalk, the oxygen wasn't clogging anymore. It didn't feel heavy with something that wasn't there, with something he couldn't explain. Maybe it was regret, or guilt, or longing. Whatever it was, it was gone. Blaine was safe.

            He fell into a slow jog, finally tapering into a steady walk the further away he got. And then he started to cry. Blaine slid onto the bench at the side of the path, snow-free from what had to have been more than one person using it for one reason or another. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, leaning his elbows on his knees. He couldn't explain himself if he tried.

            He couldn't decide if what he was doing was a good thing or if it just made him even more of a horrible person than he already was. Fuck.

            “Blaine, where the hell have you been?” Kurt's voice was frantic from where he was seated at the table, fingernails digging into his thighs and looking like he was ready to bolt at any second.

            “I'm sorry, I got held up by something.” Blaine sunk down across from his boyfriend, quickly picking up the coffee cup on his side of the table and downing half of the nearly-cold drink in one go. “Sorry.”

            “You couldn't have texted me or anything? You couldn't have let me know? I was worried sick. You could have been in a car accident or taken hostage or—“

            “Taken hostage?” Blaine quirked an eyebrow, fighting to keep the smile off his face.

            “It's you. Anything could happen.” Kurt slid deeper in his chair, relaxing visibly (although barely).

            “I'll give you that much.” Blaine swirled the remains of his coffee around the bottom of the cup, eyes following the lazy liquid carefully. “I am sorry, though. Something got in the way and I had to take care of it first.” He finally brought his eyes up to land on Kurt and the knife in his heart twisted. He had this beautiful, fantastic man that loved him and he couldn't even call ahead to tell him that he would be late. What kind of boyfriend did that make Blaine? A shitty one.

            “Did you want to talk about it?” Kurt's voice was so soft he could have imagined it. But he didn't.

            “No, no. It's nothing important. Would you believe me if I said traffic?” Blaine gave him a little hopeful smile, fluttering his eyelashes innocently.

            “In this town? Not at all,” Kurt snorted. And then he got serious again. “You don't have to tell me now, but I'd really appreciate it if you did one day. To ease my conscience at least.”

            The corner of Blaine's mouth twitched. “One day.”

            He lost track of how long he sat on the bench. Lost track of the amount of people walking by. Lost track of how many seconds his ass had officially been frozen to the metal. Blaine finally sat up, almost absolutely positive that there were hand shaped depressions in his face, and reached for his phone in his pocket. He'd been sitting there for an hour.

            His phone vibrated in his hand, lighting up with a text from Kurt. Is everything alright? I'm at CC. No. Everything was definitely not alright. Why else would Blaine be sitting in Central Park crying himself into a headache, with an ass literally stuck to the bench? His fingers hovered over the keys before he stuffed the device away again and slowly peeled himself out of his seat. His legs ached from the cold and he felt like taking a step forward would send him into the sidewalk.

            Blaine was such a failure. He was such a fucking fuck up. God, he stood Kurt up. He ran like the little bitch he was and left Kurt in the dark. He could always show up now. An hour later. Blaine drew in a shaky breath as he began his way back toward the road, tucking his frozen fingers into his pockets. He told himself that he would get it together for Kurt. That he would pick himself up off the floor and sort his shit out because Kurt fucking wanted him and he failed.

            Blaine pulled up the hood on his coat before returning his hands to his pockets. If he had to walk past the shop again, Kurt would definitely be looking for him now. The fact he even waited an hour was what Blaine wished he could call surprising. But it wasn't, it was exactly something that Kurt would do.

            When Blaine passed the coffee shop again, he risked a glance inside. The other man was still in the same position, one leg crossed over the other, although now he stared unseeingly at the phone sitting on his thigh. His eyebrows were drawn together almost carefully, as if they'd shifted there slowly in an attempt to not disrupt the endless perfection of his porcelain visage. And then his eyes drifted to the coffee sitting across from him with a pained look.

            He let Kurt down. Blaine turned and disappeared into the crowd of people again, heading for the steps down to the subway. He let him down, he let him down, he let him down. Blaine was almost positive that he was going to throw up and actually debated just walking home. Except that was really fucking far and he wasn't sure if he felt like freezing his toes off all the way there, even though he deserved it.

            The painted steps were slippery and it was a scene for disaster, but he managed to make it down without falling and breaking his ass.

            The entire train ride back to his stop was a ride filled with self-hate. Failure. Piece of shit. Loser. Moron. Idiot. Fuck up. Douche bag. Dick head. Everything that he was now had a name, they weren't just feelings anymore. He didn't feel like shit, he simply was it. Blaine pushed open the lobby doors, marching across the foyer with squeaking, soaked loafers and heading straight for the elevator. The doors squealed their way open, thankfully leaving the lift empty.

            Blaine felt like if there was somebody else on their way up, he would have broken down. He would have grabbed their shoulders and sobbed out all his problems as if they cared. He jabbed the little circle button for the sixth floor that just never seemed to stop fucking blinking. But it was a distraction. For each time the key flashed, it was another second that Blaine held it together. And by the time he counted approximately 21 flickers, the doors dinged open with their signature wail of unhappiness.

            The walk down the hallway felt a lot more like a walk of shame. The fourth light was still burnt out while the seventh buzzed with a noise that it definitely shouldn't make. The carpets were still grimy and worn, un-cleaned for who knew how long. And then there was his and Christian's apartment. Theirs was the only door that still held the golden leafed unit numbers and that was only because his roommate was stupidly set on keeping them there.

            “What if we invite someone over and they can't find it? Image is important, Blaine.” Christian's voice rang in his ears as Blaine turned his key in the deadbolt. And then he was home. He stepped in the doorway, quickly slamming and locking the door shut behind him before sliding to the floor, fingers breaking through the gel holding his hair. If he was being dramatic, he'd say it was the most he cried at one time ever. But that would have been a lie. It definitely didn't stop him from feeling that way, though.

            Blaine must have fallen asleep at some point. He didn't know what woke him up but there was a sharp pain in his neck when he moved and his ass was numb from something that wasn't the cold. He didn't know what time it was, only that it had gotten significantly darker in the room. Blaine pulled out his cell phone again, turning on the screen and revealing no new messages. 5:12 p.m. Shit.

            Blaine vaguely heard the elevator ping down the hallway and footsteps against the creaky hardwood under the shitty carpet. Maybe it was Christian coming back from wherever the fuck he was last night. The feet stopped outside the door except there was no hand on the doorknob, no key in the lock. There was a shuddering breath on the other side of the thin wood and immediately Blaine knew who it was. There was only one person who inhaled like that when he was worked up and that was Kurt.

            The floor creaked in protest under what must have been a shifting of weight. Part of Blaine wanted him to knock, wanted him to bang on the door and plead to be let in. Beg to help, promise that he could. Promise that Blaine wasn't alone and that he was there. Blaine squeezed his eyes shut as they welled up once more, gushing out and over his cheeks and dripping onto the knees tucked into his chest.

            “I don't know if you can hear me. You probably can't.” I can. I can. Please knock. “It doesn't matter.” Yes it does. “I'm not sure why you didn't show up today but I just—you could've called, you know?” No, because then you would have known how broken I was. You would have heard it and I don't know if I could handle that. “You could've at least texted me to tell me you didn't want to see me.” I did want to see you. I wanted to so badly. “Break my heart, Blaine, throw me out on the cold streets and leave me, but don't give me hope.” There was another shaky inhale and the shift of fabric. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Because that's the worst kind of pain you can give me.” And then the footsteps started back down the hallway and Blaine let out a sob, hugging his legs somehow closer to his frame.

            Get up you fucking useless asshole. Get up and open the door and call him back. Don't let him walk away from you again. But the farther Kurt got, the more Blaine rocked on the panelled floor. He was too late. He was always too late. Too late, too late, too late.

            And then he was getting up, fingers fumbling with the lock as tears blurred his vision and stung his eyes and wrenched open the door. To a coffee sitting on the stupid, shabby looking ‘Welcome' mat. Blaine picked it up, noting that it was still warm and the cardboard cup was sticky, probably from a train ride filled with bumps and sloshes. And the elevator door dinged shut.

            Too late.