I'm in too deep, Blaine thought.

Let's face it, that has been the case all along. It's Kurt. It's always been Kurt.

Blaine sat at the edge of the bed, his face buried in his hands. A faint glow streamed into the room through a slight gap in the motel room curtains.

Kurt slept peacefully in the bed next to him. For a while, Blaine searched the lines of his face, highlighted by the play of dim light and shadow.

Kurt looked so innocent. Untroubled, pure and gentle.

Blaine wondered what he looked like when he slept, now.

Sobs began to echo through Blaine's body again, unbidden and unwanted. He had been wrestling with his thoughts the entire night, sleeping little until the daylight began to creep into the room. At that point, he'd given up on rest.

However, he still had to control his emotions if he was to avoid waking Kurt. Try not to sob, to mourn, to scream, to rage.

He couldn't help but compare the moment to losing his virginity. It was a point in his life, a moment in time, when everything changed. When he, himself, changed. But at the same time, he felt like he ought to be more different than he actually was.

Murderer.

* * * * *

Kurt cheerily sang along with the radio as he drove, occasionally drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Blaine leaned his head against the window and let his eyes drift closed, trying to get a bit of rest. He had been too tired to take the wheel of their rental car, and besides, Kurt was the one making up their itinerary.

“Come on, vogue

Let your body groove to the music, hey, hey, hey”

Kurt accompanied the song with the hand motions, briefly driving with his knees.

Blaine lifted his head and glared at Kurt. “Drive now, dance later,” he huffed.

“Oh, shush. It's fine. Help me watch for the ramp to I-85?”

Blaine grumped in his seat, but when he saw Kurt's eyes sparkle with excitement his mood softened. “So, Florida, huh?”

“Yeah! I've always wanted to visit! Have you ever been? It's lucky we could get some cash back on those return flights,” Kurt chirped.

“It never really interested me,” Blaine replied, sleepily adjusting his sunglasses to better block the late morning sun. He was beyond trying to persuade Kurt to change their plans, and the minute Kurt woke up that morning with a desire to road-trip through the South, Blaine knew they would wind up in that rental car.

“Why not, baby?” Kurt asked.

“Humidity.”

The song on the radio changed, causing a smile to form on Blaine's lips. He sat up a bit, buoyed by the familiar, cheesy tune.

When Kurt moved his hand to switch the station, Blaine caught it midway. “Don't,” he said.

“You must be joking,” Kurt responded with a lifted eyebrow. “This song? Really, Blaine?”

“Here is a little song I wrote,

You might want to sing it note for note.

Don't worry, be happy.”

Kurt rolled his eyes as Blaine launched into the chorus with enthusiasm. “You know I love you, Blaine. A lot. For better or for worse, and all of that. But sometimes I wonder about you.”

Blaine only grinned in response, alternately whistling and singing the “oooooh” parts of the song with a newly brightened mood.

When the song faded away, Kurt reached again to change the station. “But the song's over...” Blaine protested. “I don't care, this station is tainted now,” Kurt snarked.

As he recognized the song playing on the next station, Kurt's face broke into a grin and he began to sing along, giggling as he modified the lyrics.

“I just died in your arms tonight, must have been something you said. I just died in your arms tonight, couldn't walk away. Because we cut your KNEEEEEES.”

* * * * *

Kurt pulled up behind a short, gray cinderblock building and put the car in park. The fading sunlight reflected off of the windows and illuminated the interior of the car. They sat for a while, saying nothing, as Kurt watched the building intently.

“To think,” Blaine said, finally breaking the silence, “All those nights, lying in bed, dreaming of the day I'd visit Tallahassee. I can't even believe it, we're finally here. At this... warehouse? Office building? DMV?”

“Shhh, it could happen any minute,” Kurt said, waving Blaine's remarks away without lifting his eyes from the back of the building.

“All rightie then,” Blaine said, getting comfortable in his seat.

After twenty more minutes, Kurt perked up. The back door to the building swung open, and a pair of arms stuck a full trashcan outside, propping open the door.

“Five... four.. three... two... one... let's go!” Kurt said, unbuckling his seat belt and hopping out of the car. Blaine, startled from his reverie, rushed to follow him. He caught up and took Kurt's hand halfway across the parking lot, and together they walked swiftly into the building.

Kurt led them down a carpeted hallway, the generic color scheme and lack of adornment still giving no clue as to the building's purpose. He pulled Blaine into an empty room and carefully shut the door, moments before footsteps could be heard softly padding down the hall.

A vacuum roared to life, roamed around the halls, then fell silent again. After a few more minutes of footsteps and shuffling, the back door banged shut and Kurt let out a heavy breath. He opened the door and strode casually out into the hallway again.

Blaine followed, staring curiously at the back of Kurt's perfectly coiffed head. “All right, Sherlock, do I really want to know?” he asked.

“What's that, baby?” Kurt cooed absently.

“How you know so much about the janitorial routine of this... porn studio? Sure, let's say porn studio... in Tallahassee of all places, to sneak in flawlessly like we just did.”

Kurt spun around and blinked. “Oh, I was just going to break a window. But I saw the janitor's truck and knew we had to wait for them to leave.” Kurt turned and kept walking, intent on his unspoken destination.

Blaine sputtered and stood stock-still. “But, we only barely made it into that room. We just assumed that the janitor wouldn't come back after taking the trash out. We... KURT!” Blaine shouted down the hall at Kurt's retreating form.

Kurt twisted again to look at Blaine. “Shhh! Do you want her to hear you?”

“Her?” Blaine replied, a sickened expression forming on his features. “Oh, right. That.” He trotted to catch up.

Kurt peered through a square window near the top of a sturdy door at the end of the hallway. Blaine reached up on tiptoes to look as well.

A brightly-lit, windowless room with a smooth, shining wooden floor stretched out before them. Mirrors lined the far wall, with an attached ballet barre. The remaining walls were stark white, and fluorescent bulbs in unadorned fixtures hung from the ceiling.

A young woman twirled slowly into view, to music that seeped faintly around the edges of the door. She wore a black leotard, her legs and feet bare, with a white chiffon wrap skirt around her waist. Her long, light brown hair was loose, and fanned out around her. As the music heightened, she lifted her arms and spun faster and faster, then collapsed purposefully with legs folded under her and palms splayed out on the floor.

She popped up effortlessly and flipped around into a series of sideways, twisting leaps in time to the quick beat of the music, which Blaine now recognized as “Man in the Mirror” by Michael Jackson.

The girl spun in place with head stretched back and arms out, slowly lifting her head and slowing as the song wound down. Her eyes sparked in confusion when they met Kurt's cool gaze.

Kurt opened the door and stepped inside, Blaine following silently.

“Don't let me interrupt,” Kurt said. “Isabella, right?”

“That's right,” she said, with a hint of caution in her voice “How do you know my name?”

“I'm Kurt Hummel, and this is my boyfriend, Blaine Anderson,” he said, gesturing to Blaine, who had backed himself into the corner of the room. “I came to see you dance.”

“Last names, Kurt, really?” Blaine whispered miserably, drowned out by the music.

Isabella locked eyes with Kurt, seeing something in them that terrified her. Kurt began to casually roll up his sleeves.

“Why don't you take it from the top, Isabella? Blaine, do you mind getting the music?” Kurt said, kneeling to unlace his boots.

Blaine obediently moved to the sound system and fiddled with the docked ipod until “Man in the Mirror” started again.

Isabella stood, trembling and staring openly at a now-barefooted Kurt. Eight bars of the music passed with neither of them moving a muscle.

“I came to see you dance, Isabella,” Kurt repeated steadily. “Blaine, do you mind?” Blaine restarted the music, shooting a cautionary look at the shaking girl.

The opening notes chimed again through the studio, and Kurt nodded cooly in time. Isabella backed away from his stare, knocking against the mirror and sliding to the floor. She began to cry silently.

“I'll tell you what, Isabella,” Kurt said, with hard emphasis on the third syllable of the name, “I'll start the music a third time, just for you. But no more do-overs. Blaine?”

As the music restarted, Isabella clambered to her feet and stood with her head down and one foot to the side. This time, as the first beats echoed out across the floor, she lifted her head and shrugged her shoulders, swinging her arms through their range of motion before twisting into a series of twirls with one leg held high.

She was beautiful, a picture of ease and grace. The choreography expressed the sweet optimism of the lyrics perfectly, and her long limbs and hair complemented the smooth and steady flow of the song. Her sniffling and strangled sobs could barely be heard over the backing choir that started up on the track.

Isabella lifted her hands above her head as she began the dramatic twirl sequence she had been doing when Blaine and Kurt watched the first time through the window. Her arms were not quite as strong, her hands not lifted quite a high as before.

Blaine sat and watched with his back to the mirror, tears streaming down his face. He longed to be able to sing something, anything else, to drown out the lyrics that echoed through his skull.

“If you wanna make the world

A better place,

Take a look at yourself

And then make that change.”

Blaine tapped his head against the mirror softly, wishing he could knock out the guilt and self-loathing that washed over him like a wave, one that had been building over the previous months and crested over his head the night before.

Blaine considered himself irredeemable. Unable to change himself or the world except for the worse. Helping Kurt to snuff out beautiful, promising points of light in the universe, one after another.

He had a feeling that Kurt would not appreciate the irony of the musical choice, and he was proven right as Kurt began to move quietly towards the twirling girl. A hand slid under his vest to his pants pocket and withdrew a metal wrench.

Kurt stretched out a leg and began to follow Isabella in her twirls, an act which did not go unnoticed by the girl. She deviated from her choreography, taking larger leaps in an attempt to put more distance between herself and Kurt.

Without having to be told, Blaine walked to the door and stood there, arms folded as he watched his boyfriend do his work. Isabella faltered briefly as she caught Blaine's eye, but was able to carry on with her routine.

She moved into her spiral sequence, arms flung back and hair flying. Kurt stilled his dance to watch her again, twisting to a halt in fourth position.

Kurt scrutinized Isabella's spin, flipping the wrench lightly in his hand. Finally, he gripped the wrench in both hands, squared his hips, and struck the oblivious girl's head like it was a baseball.

Blood arced across the golden wood and misted the mirror. Isabella spun into the floor like a wounded bird, cradling her head.

Kurt stepped towards her and held out his left hand. “Get up.” He growled. “Keep dancing.”

Isabella sobbed and shrunk away from his reach, dripping onto the floor as she went.

“What's wrong with you?” Kurt hissed, “Is dancing your dream? Is it what you were born to do?” He punctuated his words with a crack of the wrench across her cheekbone. She collapsed onto her chest and spat blood onto the floor. Kurt reached down and tore the wrap skirt from around her waist, balling it up in his fist as he shouted at her.

“Do you really think you deserve this? Deserve to make art? If you did, you wouldn't let anything stop you.” Kurt stalked away from the girl, shutting his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Blaine,” he hissed through his teeth, “Change the music. She clearly isn't going to dance anymore.”

Blaine pressed a button on the iPod, causing a faster, darker song to ring out. Kurt narrowed his eyes and smiled maliciously, turning again to Isabella and singing along softly.

“Annie are you OK,

Say, Annie are you OK,

Are you OK Annie?”

The bright lights glinted in Kurt's eyes as he swung again and again, punctuating the music. Kurt began to twist and flip in time to the music between blows, darkly mimicking Isabella's choreography.

He didn't slow his work until rivulets of blood stained the wood and the girl was perfectly still.

“You've been hit by,

You've been hit by,

A smooth criminal.”