Right now Blaine Anderson knows nothing. Well, that is not entirely true. He knows this is most likely a bad idea and, by the single arched eyebrow stare that Mike Chang is currently portraying, the others think it is a terrible plan. Blaine knows that he should be spending his free time editing his manuscript -- the one that he is supposed to be submitting to the Yale Series of Younger Poets contest by November 15. It has been weeks since he has attempted to read through the sixty cumulative pages that survived his time at the Iowa Writers' Workshop. He knows that he has at least sixty more essays to grade from the composition classes he teaches at San Francisco State University and the Introduction to Creative Writing classes at the University of California -- Berkeley Extension. He knows that he probably shouldn't proceed down the center isle of the North Reading Room in the Doe Memorial Library singing an a cappella rendition of a song he wrote last week but his band mates, for a band he probably shouldn't be investing his time to form, are gathering around him waiting, patiently, for his signal to start. But Blaine Anderson also knows the natural acoustics in the airy grand hall, with its vaulted ceilings and stone walls, are phenomenal. So he smiles tight, bounces on the balls of his feet, nods at the five men around him, and allows them to build the rhythm. Notes rise and fall with weaving harmonies and space that expands in the recesses of the room. When Blaine sings, he thinks of nothing except the song. They soft walk down the aisle, voices carrying over the white noise clack of keys, coming to stop in a semi circle somewhere near the middle of the room and, with his head tipped back, body itching electric, he gives in and lets go.

Sometimes, the best part of a song is letting it absorb in the navel, feeling it tug and expand outwards, and getting lost in that intangible connection that makes the song bigger than itself. Slowly, his eyes open, he comes back, centers himself, and chances a glance at the curious people. The younger man sitting directly in front of him, with his knitted brow and red smear of a mouth tipped down, does not look amused. Blaine shrugs, smiles slightly at the boy who has resigned himself to setting his book aside and watches with his arms crossed over his chest, and falls back into the comfort of the rhythm. He forgets about the angry boy sitting in front of him with the scattered mess of books and research articles littering his workspace. He doesn't sing for anyone but himself. The song climbs higher, building tension as it crescendos, words echoing the personal revelation.

He knows these words, feels them behind his eyes, sways to them. "A seizure coming like a rush of blood / the pressure breaks and you start to black out. / Wake up 'cause you're mad at time. / No one else sees a black hole like you do."

When Blaine returns his gaze to the man, he is softer, head resting on an open palm, frown lines gone, eyes, a wide blue, follow his movement. There is something like understanding behind those eyes and it is too much so he skitters away, closed eyed for the rest of the song. It ends in a soft, bluesy refrain. A kind of stillness creeps in comfortably charged with the remnants of a shared experience, before a smattering of applause breaks through. Blaine ducks his head, rubs the warmth from the back of his neck, and meets the boy's gaze once again. Head cocked to the side and resting on the palm of his hand, a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Blaine runs a hand through his hair, wild curls only slightly tame-able on a good day, before shuffling forward and reaching to brush his thumb over the cover of the well worn book on the table.

"This book is gorgeous," he says, retracting his hand and glancing up at the boy, voice loud in the settled space.

The boy shrugs. His fingers trace a similar path over the dark silhouettes on the cover before meeting Blaine's gaze. "It's sad."

"Devastating," Blaine says, "but there is a certain kind of beauty in sadness."

The younger man blinks, owl-eyed, and straightens in his chair.

"Dude," a voice, probably Nick, calls from the other end of the hall. "We need to go."

Slowly, Blaine steps away, a lopsided smile on his face, and leaves.

The orange house is all peeling paint, a drooping gray porch, and narrow hallways. For whatever reason, it inexplicably smells like soup and is perpetually too small when the six of them lived together with their collection of found furniture. The tartan plaid couch (twenty bucks at a garage sale) ate up the majority of the living room and one of the legs on the kitchen table (free) was a good three inches short and had to be propped up with the yellow pages. The heat is sporadic at best and, when it decides to work, comes alive with a screech and a haze of smoke. But it had a basement big enough for the band. Blaine had found the apartment on craigslist (Shared room in an old Victorian house. Located in the Elmwood district. Fifteen minute walk to the Cal campus. Male roommate preferred. $650 per month plus P/G/E and internet (usually $45). Must love music.) and moved in at the end of July. When the taxi eased to a stop, the house was vibrating with noise -- all erratic guitar lines and discordant bass. It was beautiful and chaotic. They bonded over a mutual love of Leonard Cohen and Tom Waits. Music pulsed everywhere and songs began to emerge from their fingertips. The next year, Nick and Jeff replaced John and Aaron who up and left for real jobs.

The door sticks when they reach the house, uncomfortably damp and cold from the ever present fall drizzle. With a practiced shoulder shove, Thad wrenches the door open and they tumble into the drafty house.

"I miss it here," Blaine says flopping down onto the lumpy couch, artfully avoiding the exposed spring near the middle.

Trent rolls his eyes slouching down into the bean bag (a little flat but the newest thing in the room). "Is the luxury condo life not comfortable enough for you, princess?"

"Does that make him the princess in the Princess and the Pea?" Jeff asks from the top of the stairs.

Blaine groans and flings a random throw pillow at Trent. "I hate you all. I miss this house. It has personality."

"Unlike the pretty man," Nick says under his breath from the overstuffed chair shoved into the far corner.

The room falls quiet save for the sound of the pipes protesting the request for water.

"How is Scott? We haven't seen much of him lately." Mike says ignoring Blaine's glare and flying elbow as he shoves the shorter man's legs off one end of the couch.

"He is good. Just brought in a big client for the firm and is on track to make junior partner soon." Blaine shrugs picking at a loose thread in the couch. "He works a lot, you know, so we don't have much down time, but everything is great."

Thad moves about quietly in the kitchen, most likely boiling water for tea, and Jeff is clomping back down the stairs, guitar in hand as he settles on the floor with his back against the chair. He missed this ease, a natural rhythm they cultivated from too many hours spent in this exact arrangement.

Jeff plucks some random chords on the beat up guitar. "You know there is always a spot for you here, Blainey."

He nods and knows it's a self-evident truth. Thad comes in and hands everyone a cup of mint tea, regardless of whether they actually wanted it. Their conversation is nonlinear, nonsensical in several moments, as it jumps and skitters between the six of them before landing briefly on their gig that night.

Tina is easy to spot in a bright red dress standing on the tiny stage, hands on hips, as she listens to the sound person. At eight-thirty, the Starry Plough Pub is already packed with its usual mix of townies and college students.

"Did you forget to send me the memo on the dress code again?" Tina says, dryly, as she stares at the six men in front of her. "I didn't know plaid could be a uniform."

Jeff steps forward, grinning, and wraps his arm around Tina's shoulders. "You know that we are inbred descendents of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox's love child. Don't criticize our predisposition to wear flannel."

Tina shoves an elbow into his side and shrugs his arm off her shoulders. "You guys are only slightly late, this maybe a new record."

Blaine smiles and shrugs. "One day we could actually be considered responsible adults."

"Blasphemy." Tina says, rolling her eyes. "Lost boys never grow up." She climbs down from the stage, guitar pick necklace swinging as she bends down to tuck her guitar case into the corner. She checks her watch and smirks. "You boys should start setting up. You have half an hour before I go on and, knowing your packing skills, you probably left half the equipment at the orange house."

"Yes, ma'am," Nick says, saluting to her retreating back before heading to the back door.

They set up with what looks to be professional ease. In reality, it is probably the first time that none of the chords were tangled or missing. At one point, they thought they left Thad's drumsticks at the house but found them in Nick's guitar case. The stage is small, raised about three feet off the ground, pushed against the back wall. Mike's keyboard barely fits, angled slightly forward, with just enough room for the lanky man to fit and move a foot in each direction. On the other ledge, Trent's xylophone is precariously balanced in the tight space.

"Dude," Thad says turning to the taller man, "don't take an accidental stage dive. I don't do blood or hospitals."

Trent whacks him on the back of the head. "Don't jinx us, man. If he falls, I probably will, too. "

"Last time we played here no one fell." Jeff says joining everyone in the corner.

"But there is always that possibility." Thad glares as he crosses his arms over his chest.

Blaine raises his hands, placating. "We need beer and no one is going to fall off the stage this time. I am certain."

With that said, he is snaking his way through the thick crowd and randomly placed tables.

The bar is people thick and beer damp when Blaine worms his way up to the front. Both bartenders move in a synchronized dance, pulling heady drafts and sloshing them down in front of the people. Rinse and repeat. Blaine waits, quietly avoiding the flying limbs of various people before Jack, the regular bartender, makes his way over wiping his hands on the towel thrown over his shoulder.

"Its hella crazy in here," Blaine says leaning slightly over the bar.

Jack nods his agreement. "Starting a tab?"

"Of course. How about a Guinness, a Smithwicks, a couple of Newcastles, and a couple of Sierra Nevadas -- the pale ale." Blaine squints at the list of beers on tap. "No Stone tonight?"

"We actually sold out last night at the Berkeley Slam, believe it or not." Jack says sliding a beer his way.

Blaine nods. "It's good beer. Can get kind of hoppy, though."

"I like their specialty recipes but they are hard to get." He finishes pouring the last of his order. "Have a great show tonight. You guys always rock."

"Thanks," he says with a smile and turns his back to the bar searching for someone to help him carry the drinks.

Thad bounds towards him, bouncing on his toes slightly as he settles by Blaine's side. "We stole a table in the corner. Tina is about to go on."

Blaine gathers the last three mugs and grins. "Let's get this night started."

Tina's voice is low and sensual as it comes through the sound system. "Hello, you beautiful people. How is the night treating you?" She pauses as the room erupts in shouts and the energy simmers just below surface tension. "I am so glad that I get to play for you tonight. My name is Tina Cohen-Chang and I hope you have an awesome time."

Blaine has always known that Tina was a ballsy artist. She doesn't rely on the proven formula of vocal run after vocal run with the predictable glory note at the end. No, her songs are simple, infused with emotion and smart lyrics. Sometimes, Blaine or one of the guys accompanies her on stage. Usually, it is just her and the guitar lighting up the stage with the kind of power that comes with being alone, being fearless. Right now, her guitar is turned with the back parallel to the ground, her fist setting tempo against the hollow wood.

When she sings, her voice is raspy, full-bodied, and powerful. "I will close my eyes in three, two, one / the guilty hide; the guilty run / I'll make you fly until the day I'm done. / You're a marked man brother, you're a marked man, hey."

His table has fallen quiet, for once, captivated by their friend on stage as the song continues to build, tension cresting in the space between notes. The metronome beat of her fist stills, her voice cracking as the song breaks, and the release, the last lines, are sung a cappella. Thad is the first to react, jumping to his feet, and wolf whistling over the raucous applause.

"You're so sexy, Tina," Jeff says, hands cupped around his mouth to amplify his voice, from Blaine's other side.

Tina speaks again, voice washing over the applause and clatter of the bar. "Thank you so much. The reason I am here tonight is because of those weirdoes in the corner. They are wonderful and are letting me steal this stage for a little bit. Remember, buy a drink, order some food, and tip your bartenders for dong a great job. This one is called 'We're All Gonna Die."

The rhythm is infectious; people are crowding in the tiny open space, bobbing to the beat, not caring when they bounce off each other and Tina sings to them, for them and the night.

The looseness is what Blaine likes best about alcohol. His limbs float, unencumbered but the normal perception of gravity, slightly sloppy. There is a lovely collection of glasses at the table, which has been abandoned by everyone save for Mike. If he squints, he can make out Jeff's blonde hair bobbing in the masses but he has given up on keeping track of everyone -- they will regroup before they go on stage. For now, he watches in a slow haze.

Mike leans towards him, shoving his shoulder a little to get his attention, and nodding at the lone man sitting at the far corner table. "Isn't that the guy you were staring at earlier today?"

"Hmm," Blaine says, squinting, "he was reading Justin's book and Foucault. I applaud anyone who reads Foucault."

Mike rolls his eyes. "Maybe you should go talk to him. You could have social theorists in common."

"You are right, my friend." Blaine pushes himself out of his seat. "No one should be alone on a night like this."

He has his trajectory through the bar planned. He really does but he gets sucked into the vortex in front of the stage, beer raised above the contact zone as he slams between people. A girl, all square framed glasses and ripped tights, grimaces and mouths an apology as she topples into him hard. These small instances, when he jostles into another person and, for a few seconds, a connection is formed, is what he likes best about nights like this one. So he continues to sway and pulse with the crowed slowing moving forward. When he finally emerges from the masses, sweat is accumulating at the nape of his neck and a giddy high is catching between his ribs. The younger man is staring at him, color high on his cheeks, finger idly tracing the rim of his mostly empty cup, when he slouches into the empty chair.

"Hi," Blaine beams at the man across the table from him.

The man takes a sip of his drink, arches an eyebrow. "Hello."

"So," he starts, resting his chin on his upturned palm. "I think that it is slightly tragic that a person as awesome as you is sitting by himself and I was hoping you would join my friends and me at our table. I am Blaine, by the way."

He leans back in his chair. "Tell me Blaine, do you always hit on guys by asking if they want to join you and your friends?"

"Would it make things better if I told you it worked about 99% of the time?" Blaine says, brow knitting.

"It would but I am not that easy." He smirks.

"What if," he says, leaning across the table, voice dropping low, "I buy you another beer?"

The man tips his head back and laughs bright in the dim slur of words around them. He stretches his hand across the table. "I'm Kurt."

"Kurt," Blaine says, enjoying the way the closed syllable of his name is crisp off his tongue, "who reads Justin Torres and Foucault. It is wonderful to meet you."

"Queer lit," Kurt shrugs, "although I did enjoy both books. Now, Blaine, do you make it a habit to break into library reading rooms and disrupt students?"

Blaine steeples his fingers together, nods slowly, "that is my only real talent."

Kurt stares at him a grin stealing over his features. "Singing?"

"Nope." He stands, holding his hand out to pull Kurt out of his seat. "Disrupting, of course."

This time, he takes the direct path back to the table.

If anyone is surprised that Blaine brought a stray back to the table, no one says anything. Mike and Thad are arguing about the state if music in the bay area -- an argument that has been set on repeat throughout the three years Blaine has known them -- and whether or not San Francisco should be considered part of the Pacific Northwest sound along with Seattle, Portland, and the smaller towns that have shaped the indie music scene. Blaine has always thought the conversation was a bit on the pretentious side. Music is music. He doesn't care where it comes from or who it is performed by as long as he can connect to it. Kurt is quiet by his side as he watches the back and forth between the two dark haired men.

Kurt leans slightly into him. "Are they always this enthusiastic?"

"It's kind of like watching a tennis match." Blaine nods as Thad slams his beer down onto the table. "When I first moved in with them, I thought they hated each other. They just like insulting each other."

Trent meanders back to the table, trains his eyes on the bickering men. "Who is winning this time? Are we going to have to initiate a time out again?"

"Mike told Thad that he sucked at life," Kurt says before Blaine had a chance to evaluate and decide on the leading argument. "I don't know where that sits on severity of insults but it was said pretty early on if that counts for anything."

Trent shrugs and turns away from his friends. "That sounds about right. Hey! You are the library guy, aren't you?"

"There were quite a few guys in that library." Kurt smirks over his beer glass.

"No," Trent shakes his head. "You were the one Blaine was staring at the whole time. He was absolutely smitten."

"Kurt," Blaine says, dryly, as warmth creeps slowly up the back of his neck, "meet Trent. He thinks he is hilarious and, if he wasn't a decent percussionist, I would disown him."

"Using you for your talents, I see." Kurt says, arching an eyebrow.

He shrugs. "I am used to it."

Blaine, laughing, clinks their glasses together before downing the rest of his drink and heading back to the bar.

Jeff shimmies back to the table, hips swaying to the beat, shoulders shaking in a counter-rhythm. He plops down onto the chair, breathing heavy, face flushed, and laughing. Nick slides into the last empty chair, quietly, a dark counterpoint to the loose-limbed energy of the blonde. There is a kind of tension in Nick's face, carried around his eyes and in the drumdrumdrum of his fingers, which Blaine is not used to seeing in the younger boy. Smiling slightly, he meets Blaine's gaze, holds it for a few long seconds, and rolls his eyes before turning back to the blonde man staring unabashedly at Kurt.

"Ooh Blainers, you found a stray." Jeff says, staring at the younger man. "I think he maybe prettier than the pretty man, Blaine."

"Just to clarify," Kurt says, ignoring the bass player to address the group, "I am not a pitiful loner that Blaine rescued. I am actually Tina's roommate, thank you very much."

Mike snaps his fingers. "I knew that I knew you from somewhere, man. I think we met in passing at your apartment a couple of weeks ago."

Jeff grins. "You have more spunk than the pretty man, too. I approve, sir."

"Why, thank you," Kurt says turning his attention back to the blonde, "but who is this pretty man?"

"Scott is a robot." Jeff, wide-eyed, mock whispers across the table.

Someone's hand slams down on the table, loud against the jumbled background noise. Blaine ducks his head, breathes deeply. He can feel Kurt's stare, the perplexed furrow of his brow hot on the back of his neck.

"God damnit, Jeff," Nick says, voice low and rough, as he stares at the blonde. "Do you ever stop pushing?"

Jeff jerks around, mouth gaping, before his face collapses tight. "This is not about you, Nick."

"Hey," Blaine has a hand on Nick's bicep, feels it clench and release under his fingertips, "it's alright. Jeff's just joking."

Nick nods, eyes never leaving the blonde man. "He is always just kidding, isn't he?" He pushes away from the table, shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. "I need another drink. Anyone want anything?"

The table remains silent; Nick shrugs, and stalks away. His gaze remains trained on Nick's retreating back until the crowd swallows him whole.

"What just happened?" Kurt breaks the silence

He glances quickly at the younger man next to him before turning back to Jeff. "My friends have very loud opinions about my boyfriend. We are not usually this emotional. I promise."

Jeff leaves, mumbling an apology under his breath, which is mostly lost in the swelling noise. On stage, Tina is singing about all the same mistakes.

She sends them on stage with a kiss on their cheeks and they go, quietly, checking equipment and sound levels. Aaron, the sound tech, is efficient and the crowd is too drunk to notice the silence steamrolling the group flat. Blaine slings his guitar over his shoulder, already hot under the stage lights. A bead of sweat rolls between his shoulder blades and he turns his back to the crowd, eyeing the ragged fragments of his band. Mike shrugs, his lanky body contorted behind the keyboard. He stands in the middle, a barrier between the bassist and lead guitarist, and the tension radiating off of them makes him sick. Nick catches his eye, a slight, tired smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, and nods.

Blaine turns, slides the guitar around until it is resting flat on his back, and steps up to the microphone. "Hello out there. You guys look incredibly sexy tonight. Let's hear it one more time for the mystifying Tina Cohen-Chang." He pauses as the crowd surges forward, loud and intoxicated. "We are Crossing Nation and we are ridiculously glad that we are here at The Starry Plough with all of you tonight. How many of you out there are Cal students?" Blaine waits for the rising cheer to die down before continuing. "Today, we invaded the North Reading Room in the Doe Library and taped an a cappella arrangement of one of our songs. Thankfully, we didn't get chased out by security. It should be up on Facebook and Youtube by Saturday so look for it, share it with your friends, and help us get the word out because we love making music for you guys. Enough of this talking shit. Let's get our dance on. I want to see everyone out there shaking your asses out here in front of me. This is called 'Up All Night.'"

Blaine sinks into the swinging beat, body buzzing uncontrolled. Most of the crowd is lost behind the wall of too much light and too much noise and that is how he likes it. Sometime, during the first set when nothing matters except for the merging of sound and the loose limbs of his body, Kurt slips through the door. He doesn't notice. Later, in the short break between sets, under the puckered irritation scrawled on Tina's face, he will ask for Kurt's number.

The morning is new, a damp dove gray, when he finally opens the door to his apartment and pads soft across the living room. He hesitates at the doorway to their bedroom. The blonde man sleeping is all angles and planes, softened young by the elongated shadows slashing over any exposed skin. The first time Blaine stayed at the apartment, he didn't sleep; instead, he traced the geography of Scott's body, feather light, until he knew the exact slope of his cheekbones, the contours of his sleep slack mouth, and how the notches of his spine rose and fell underneath his fingertips. This man is familiar now and he can find every ridge and dip in the long length of his body with ease. He can set his pulse by the steadiness of his breath. It's familiar, easy, now. Blaine strips, stale clothes thrown haphazardly near the vicinity of the laundry basket, climbs under the slate sheets, and curls into his side. The older man shifts, hums low under his breath, and pulls him closer.

"It's late, baby," Blaine says, lips brushing the turn of Scott's jaw, "go back to sleep."

Scott burrows closer, breath ghosting over Blaine's ear. "You reek of beer."

"I'm sorry." He slips his hand under the worn, gray undershirt.

"I wish you would stop." He exhales turning onto his side.

Blaine turns with him, pressing his forehead in the space between shoulder blades. "I know."

Kurt does not meet him at Caf� Milano. Blaine arrives early and waits, papers on line breaks and syntactical manipulation in contemporary poetics spread out in front of him. His phone remains silent, a paper weight on the Manila folder slashing across one corner of the little table. Cold coffee sits stagnant and thick in the bottom of the delicate glass cup and he hasn't done much more than skim the first essay. Instead, he is hunched over the little notebook, fingers stained with blue ink, and he is writing. It started with a line, a single clausal statement, which became a full sentence, a question that created a landslide: What does a bee look like naked / down to its bones? The next lines are choppy, unexpected muscles being asked to stretch beyond set limits and hold the position. It hurts as the poem builds stacking hypothetical questions on top of each other without answers because he has none. Is there room, a hollowed nave between / pinstripe bones to build a bed some / bookcases? He sees it now, Scott's loft with its high ceilings, the cool greys and blacks emphasizing the minimalistic furniture, and how the worn spines of his books looked haggard against the newness of everything. I moved in with some things / a pile of clothes and art prints I hung / on vertebrae. I made my home in the navel of the bee / surrounded by sun dried skin, singed fibers. The poem doesn't provide him answers nor does he write to find answers. It breathes and becomes him at this moment and that is all writing is supposed to do. He finishes the poem (Is the bee still a bee when the bones/ break? Do I still have a home when the bones / turn to dust?) as the coffee shop is closing and he quietly gathers his stuff, jostles it into his messenger bag, and heads back to his house.