Major Rift Records is a blocky building that sprawls the corner of Melrose Avenue and La Brea Avenue in West Hollywood. A blood orange fa�ade slashes boldly, almost flamboyantly, across the front of the build and curvy chrome lettering hangs over the black tinted double doors. Sandwiched between the Bodhi Tree New Age Bookstore and Fred Segal, it clashes unceremoniously, almost whimsically, with the other brash storefronts that meander up and down the length of the infamous street. Two palm trees stood sentinel outside the flashily pretentious building whose exterior gives away to a reception area full of modern textures and the juxtaposition of black on white which jars cool appreciation from visitors. A tall, waifish woman, blonde hair pulled tight into a harsh bun and clingy a-symmetrical cut dress, stationed behind the swirling black and white marble desk beckons them to wait with one raised, perfectly manicured finger. Her smile is warm and laughter genuine when she finishes her call and waves them through with a few murmured words of welcome. They pass from the aloof submissiveness of the lobby into the split-level hospitality room which, seemingly, hums with a certain controlled chaos. He pauses just inside of the door which closes with a whispered swoosh behind him and lets his eyes tumble over the open space– mapping, planning, absorbing. A pair, sprawled across a blood orange sofa tucked away in the far corner, laughs loud echoing over the flux of conversation as it bends around the room. He watches as the lanky red head picks out a staccato beat on the Gibson resting casually in his lap and the stocky blond to the right mimics a fractious air drum solo, complete with a symbol crash, with a pair of chopsticks. A girl, hair spiky and aqua streaked, a silver loop through her bottom lip, dances over to join the pair on the couch, bottles of water clutched in her hand. It is then, with the constant flow of people, that he realizes it is not a buzz of organized chaos but creativity that crackles into the pulse of the room. He feels at home in this room.

“Dude,” Nick shifts, shoulder colliding with his hard enough to ache dull for a few moments, “are you going to remain standing here or run because, evidently, moving forward is not even option C in this scenario.”

“Shut up,” he muttered sparing a cursory glance at the grinning boy before pushing off into the stream of people and sinking down onto an unoccupied over-stuffed couch near the stairs which lead to the loft like row of glass fronted offices.

“There’s no need to snap.” He said, hands rising in mock defeat. “I’m just trying to make us not look like creepers.”

Blaine rolls his eyes, hands running up and down the length of his thigh. “Your kindness astonishes me.”

Nick shrugs, his own fingers drumming a jerky rhythm against the arm of the couch. “Why so nervous, Rock Star?”

“I don’t – “he started words stuttering awkwardly, “This is what I have always wanted and I don’t know what I would do if it didn’t work out.”

“Touch�,” Nick smiled gazing at Blaine in contemplation, head tipping to the side. “I understand how much you want this, you know I do, but promise me one thing.” Blaine shifts under his direct gaze, incisors worrying the tender skin of his bottom lip before sucking in a deep breath and meeting his gaze. “Promise me that you won’t change yourself to fit with what they want because the Blaine Anderson that I have known for all of my rememberable life is kind of incredibly special.”

“Rememberable is not even a real word, idiot.” He said ducking his head in embarrassment.
“However, I will kill myself before the man or in this case, woman, changes me. I swear.”

“That’s taking it a little far, don’t’cha think?” Nick asked, eyebrows pitching towards his hairline, “But it will work.”

It is his laughter, this time, that makes people jump and slide curious, slightly amused, looks his way but he pays them no notice; instead, he redirects his gaze to the partial level above him in time to see Shelby Corcoran, sleek and authoritative in a form fitting black dress, and a Latina woman push through the glass door and onto the platform. The Latina, all bright red lips, flowing inky curls, and gauzy, see through blouse, gesticulates wildly as she and Shelby make their way down onto the main level never stopping their perusal of the think manila folder splayed open in their hands.

“Are you shitting me?” The Latina muttered stopping in front of the couch, Nick and Blaine rising in greeting. “He’s a hobbit stuck in some weird cross-generational vortex of 1950s grandpa chic and preppy hipster. I can’t work with this, Shelby.”

He blinks once, twice, mouth falling unhinged, hand coming up to run unconsciously over his gelled mass of hair, as he glances over the simple saddle shoes, red skinny jeans, and black v-neck that he had pulled on in haste after sleeping through his alarm.

“Blaine Anderson,” Shelby said, voice dry, colored slightly by amusement, “Meet Santana Lopez, stylist and PR guru. Please do not take anything she says to heart. Tact is not listed on her resume.”

He rocks forward onto the balls of his feet, a crooked smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, eyes darting between to two women (Santana is still muttering expletives in Spanish, forehead furrowed in a scowl).

“How about we start again, Blaine Anderson,” She said, offering her hand to Blaine, gaze wondering over to Nick, “and friend. Welcome to the Major Rift family.”

Nick grins dragging a fisted hand out of a front pocket waving awkwardly. “Nick Duval, best friend since forever.”

“Nice to meet you Mr. Duval.” She turns back to Blaine handing him the manila folder, “Here is your official copy of the contract that you and your father signed on Sunday.” She paused as he tucks the papers into his beat up messenger bag before continuing. “Today we just want to informally welcome you and introduce you to the producer that will be working on your record so that you have a chance to become comfortable before recording. Any questions?”

Excitement dances across Blaine’s face, eyes glowing bright with barely contained energy. “Is it Michael Stipe from REM?”

“Or A.C. Newman from the New Pornographers?” Nick added clutching at the back of Blaine’s shirt.
Shelby traded a look with the now smirking Santana. “Actually we were thinking more along the lines of Kurt Hummel.”

“Like clich�d boy bander from the early 2000s, member of the now infamous New Directions, Kurt Hummel?” Blaine asked, voice pitching higher in disbelief.

“He is so lame.” Nick groaned a half step behind him.

“I know that he is still in and out of the tabloids,” Shelby placated, “but he has really grown as an artist.”

Blaine snorted. “Does he even play an instrument or is his repertoire limited to step-ball-change?”

“Actually,” a clear, demanding voice called from the platform snapping their attention upwards where a man stood, arms akimbo, jaw clenching as he surveyed the room, “I am classically trained on piano and can hold my own on the guitar and bass, or so I have been told.”

Long, lean legs clad in black skinny jeans carried the man with an impenetrable air of confidence over to their little conference circle.

He stops, hands tucking into back pockets, and levels Blaine with a look of indifference. “If we are done slaughtering my perceived character, can we actually get some work done?”

The boys shift, chins dropping, as the question falls heavy around them.

Shelby sighed. “Blaine Anderson meet Kurt Hummel, your producer.”

The silence settles self-consciously even as his gaze shifts over the lace-up Doc Martins, up the jeans, lingering on the waist coat and black satin skinny tie, smoothing over the white oxford rolled up to the elbows, before meeting burning blue eyes almost uncertainly.

“Who is the sidekick?” Kurt asked, a condescending eyebrow arching upwards, chin jutting towards Nick.

“Not a sidekick. I’m his people.” Nick huffed as Santana snickered, amusement highlighting her face.

“Oh, of course,” Kurt said slowly, extending the syllables as he redirected his gaze towards Blaine.

“So are you going to continue standing their looking like I killed your puppy or are you actually going to show me why Shelby thinks that you are the best thing since sliced bread?”

“Alright boys,” Shelby said clapping a hand down on Blaine’s shoulder, “how about we finish this conversation in the studio.”

Playing to record is entirely different than performing, he soon realizes as he settles onto the round stool in the middle of the studio, headphones around his neck, microphone stationary in front of him. There is no energy to pull from, no audience, except for those staring at him expectantly through the thick glass partitioning the engineer room from the recording booth, to interact with. Even with the people staring, conversing amongst each other with unheard words, he feels utterly alone. Performing might have made him physically ill with nerves and fear but, this, sitting alone in the silence of the studio with his guitar and the oddly shaped pieces of equipment that he cannot even begin to name, makes him feel too awkward to play for the first time. He hates it.

“You can start anytime, Blaine.” Shelby called staticky through the headphones.

So he takes a deep breath, fingers brushing over the slow opening chords almost hesitantly. And then he sings:
“Every time I go, she dies.
Every time she comes, she cries.
I was her long, bright future
In the middle of a wrong, dark road.
I loved her but I wasn’t too sure
If I could return the love she showed
When she said my love extends
Beyond the realm of being friends.
I kissed her head
And quietly I said,
It’s not that you’re not beautiful,
You’re just not beautiful to me –“

Kurt’s voice cuts harsh and unexpected through the headphones. “Stop, just stop. You sound like you are singing a funeral dirge.”

Blaine freezes, fingers still pressed into the strings, hand raised in mid-strum, as Kurt stalks into the recording booth.

A frown etches severity into high cheekbones and strong jaw. “Give me the guitar.”

Wordlessly, Blaine hands the guitar and hot pink pick, cheeks blushing hot.

“Sing,” Kurt demanded foot coming to rest on the side bar of the stool, fingers strumming a passable approximation of the chords.

He shifts angling his body away from the man, arms crossing over his torso, and sings, voice catching soft with uncertainty.

Fingers continue pushing the tempo until the notes fall smoothly into a graceful sweep. “Faster, Blaine.”

Gritting his teeth, Blaine follows the command until his words, his melody flows strong, secure in the body of the song.

Kurt continues to strum allowing the song to build and fall naturally before stopping. “Now that is something we can work with but those words need some work.”

“I’m not changing the words.” He insisted softly, eyes burning, hands clutching his guitar back to his chest.

His face softens as he studies the boy whose shoulders hunched over and gaze had fallen to the ground. “Look, Blaine that song was good enough for you to win but it isn’t ready to be released.

“I can’t,” he swallowed thickly. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”

And he ran; weaving through the main room, feet loud on the tile of the lobby, not stopping until the LA heat hits him like a brick and he can breathe again.

He doesn’t go into the studio the next day and no one calls to berate him for the unexpected exit from the studio. The taxi ride back to Santa Monica was a quiet affair as was the rest of the day spent hiding in the quiet hostility of his room with the drapes drawn and no music to drown our his thoughts where he stays until the next morning. He was done even before he started and he knew it. It made him sick in the slam of his heart to the ground, can’t breathe because it’s not necessary anymore, kind of way. A thick, dense fog settles sticky in his mind, his tongue is cotton in his mouth, and skin stretches too tight across his bones. It’s the morning after failure, after disappointment, and he knows how it echoes in the hollows of his bones. It is not his first time he feels this ache of resignation nor will it be the last time, he is certain, but he still does not know how to deal with it. So he folds in upon himself, arms circling his torso, knees rising to his chest, and hides beneath the roughly worn quilt that Nick’s mom made for his sixth birthday. It is too hot with the summer heat pressing in hard and the stifling weight of the blanket but he accepts it, he drowns in it. It centers him. His phone vibrates, hop scotching across his nightstand with such intensity that he jumps, pushes his way out of the layers, and stares at it before turning over even as the phone continues to rattle, skip, and jump. It isn’t until call number ten that he T-Rexes his arm out of the covers and grasps the offending piece of technology.

“‘lo,” he groaned, voice thick and uncooperative.

“Get yourself uncacooned from your pod of shame and get yourself down to Peace.” Charlie commanded loud and harsh through the ear piece.

He pulls the blanket back over his head. “Nice to hear from you too, Charlotte.”

“Blaine Anderson,” she escalated to yelling, “get your scrawny ass down here or I am going to leave my shift, probably get fired for leaving my shift, and drag you out of your damn room.”

“Need to shower,” he grunted.

“Half an hour or else I am coming to get you.” She hangs up.

Peace coffee shop is one of those trendy organic places located on 5th Street a couple of blocks away from the promenade. It may be trendy but it is ragged, worn out in a way that suggests life happened within the graying steps and peeling paint. It has heart and it is also bright purple with turquoise trim. Although those are not correlative elements, they go hand in hand because they work to cultivate stories under the pitched-roof – like the hand in heart mural tagged on the west side by an unknown street artist or the always changing black and white pictures that hangs slightly askew on the rust walls. Mrs. Rhodes, the proprietor, collects stories like some people collect scarves or other novelty items. She also lets Blaine play on Sunday afternoons when everything is slow and lazy. It becomes their sanctuary of sorts long before Charlie is employed and he is allowed to mindlessly strum in the corner. Charlie is humming a catchy little tune that scratches at the back of his head when he finally creeps to the front of the queue. She quirks an eyebrow, taps the chunky face of her wristwatch, hands him a medium drip with, what smells like, cinnamon sprinkled on top, and motions to a two person table tucked away in the far corner. He sighs as he darts through the solid press of the lunch rush and sits sipping his coffee amidst the crescendo of conversation that builds around him.

“So,” she started plopping down apron less across from him a mere twenty minutes later, “what the hell happened?”

He shrugged, eyes darting around the room searching for a painless exit. “Don’t you have to work?”
She ignores him fingers clacking relentlessly on the table top. “Nick said you ran. You didn’t even get through one song.”

He finally looks at her, studies the forehead scrunched in confusion, the weariness that drips out of her eyes, the corners of her mouth stretching down into long lines of worry. “They want to change the song, change me. I couldn’t breathe in that fucking recording booth, Charlie. I wasn’t good enough and I didn’t know what to do.”
“So you left.” She repeated.

“So I left.” He said, eyes dropping down to watch his fingers circle the smooth rim of the dark blue mug.

“I am so going to need more coffee for this conversation.” She muttered pushing away from the table and coming back a few minutes later with a steaming latte. “OK. You are going to listen to what I have to say without interrupting me.” She paused long enough for a slow nod of consent. “Did you ever consider that they might actually improve the song? Believe me; I know how much that song means to you. I am connected to that song too, Blaine, and it makes me hurt every time I hear it. That will never change. But their job is music. They know how songs work and how to manipulate them so that they can get the most out of it. Yeah, maybe, they will change the structure, edit some words, play with the tempo, but they are not changing the heart of the song. You will never change from that song. It is you.”

“I don’t know how to be me.” He said quietly, voice catching, shuddering.

“You will figure it out. You always do.” She smiled reaching over to pry a hand from where it is fisted over his eyes. “So is Kurt Hummel really your producer?”

He rolls his eyes laughing weakly as he slouches back into his chair, “Unfortunately.”

“God when Nick called and told me, ‘Pick Up the Pieces,’ automatically forced its way into my brain and has been set on repeat ever since.” She grinned.

“That’s what you where whistling when I first came in. I haven’t heard that song in forever.” His eyes light up in realization, humming the easy melody under his breath, before gesturing to the big round table by the door. “Since when has Peace become the lacrosse team hangout?”

“Don’t remind me.” She groaned falling backwards in her seat in exaggeration. “They are assholes and they don’t tip.”

Laughing, he submerges himself in the quietness that has just been restored to the little caf� (with the exception of the gaggle of wannabe frat boys). Its times like these, when the coffee shop rocks in a slow, loose rhythm, the low rumble of the grinder replaces the dull throb of too many conversations, and people are drowsy with contentment, which he likes best. The stress melts away in slow rivulets until it pools at his feet. Charlie’s head ends up braces on a palm and his eyes fall half-mast.

“What are you going to do now?” She asked, free hand spinning her cup in lazy circles.

“Probably should go and beg for forgiveness.” He said pressing his forehead to the dark, heavy wood of the table.

“Probably should,” she agreed, straightening in her chair, eyes widening almost comically, “but I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“Huh?” He grunted, head never leaving the cool surface of the table.

Reaching over, she taps him on the back of the head with enough force to warrant a squawk of protest. “See for yourself.”

He drags himself into an upright position, blinking as brightness invades his senses, and looks around slowly. There, standing by the door, is Kurt Hummel surveying the little shop with dripping disdain.

“What’s he doing here?” He mumbled ducking low in his chair.

Her eyes map his progress to the counter. “Don’t know but you should go find out.”

Patting his cheek, she sends him a mocking half smile before disappearing behind the counter. Kurt turns slowly away from the counter, two cups and a pair of sunglasses balanced precariously in his hands, meets Blaine’s reserved gaze, and gestures towards the door. He can feel the burn of people’s stares when he slowly gathers his belongings, throwing the garbage away, and heads to the door where Kurt was waiting, hip cocked, and a look of haughty indifference painted over his face.

“Oh good, the fag is leaving,” a voice shouted over the din of the caf�.

A smattering of laughter follows immediately. The words slam into the back of his head, reverberates, the force of which makes him stumble. It’s hard to keep his shoulders from hunching forward, to keep his face from reacting, and his pace steady as he continues on his path hesitating at the door long enough to collect the offered coffee.

“Let’s go Kurt,” he muttered, eyes never leaving the freedom of the door.

They don’t talk when Kurt merges onto I-10 or when they exit onto the 405. It isn’t until they were cruising at speed on the 101 towards Ventura that he lets his gaze wander over the sharp profile of the man weaving too fast through traffic.

“Where are we going?” He asked after they pass out of LA proper.

“Somewhere you can’t runaway.” He said, half smiling, while fidgeting with the satellite radio until piano heave blues falls seamlessly from the speakers.

Blaine twists in his seat until he is facing the man driving. “Are you planning on killing me or something?”

“Well, that definitely was an option but, ultimately, I decided that it wasn’t a viable solution.” He said casually, eyes never leaving the road. “Besides, you own me a song.”

“Is that right?” Blaine snorted.

“Yup.” Kurt said hesitating long enough to shift gears as the car accelerates along the flat stretch of highway before redirecting his attention back towards Blaine. “So how long ago did you come out?”
The off-handedness of the question is shocking and it makes his mind swim with the hum of the tires.

He tenses, shoulders falling forward, arms encircling his waist. “Who said that I am gay?”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed,” Kurt smoothes a hand down his face, a frown echoing in his voice.

Blaine stares at the summer burned scenery that flashes past his window and shrugs. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone was called gay for being different.”

Kurt remains quiet, thumbs tapping time on the steering wheel, for the rest of the drive. They exit the highway somewhere near Oxnard and weave their way through back roads littered with little ranch style homes that actually have acreage before pulling into a barren, dirt parking lot.

“Well are you coming?” Kurt asked slipping out of the low slung Audi, cup in one hand, and Blaine’s guitar in the other. “Will you grab the blanket behind the passenger seat? We’ve got a little bit of a walk.”

With a sureness born of many visits, Kurt finds the narrow path that snakes away from the parking lot, meandering through sand dunes decorated with clumps of yellowing prairie grass, before opening up to a small, pebbled cove scattered throughout with misplaced boulders.

He pauses besides Kurt losing himself in the metronomic crash and recession of the waves. “It’s beautiful.”

Kurt turns, facing him fully, smile pressing insistently across his face, happiness radiating loose and comfortable. “When I first moved out here, I didn’t have anywhere to go where I could be by myself so one day I got in my car and found myself here. Not many people come here because the beach isn’t sand but I like it.”

They step carefully across the rocks, slippery with seaweed left from high tide and the film of the ocean, round a slight bend to a flat, table rock a few feet from the ocean. It’s a scramble to get to the top but they eventually settle themselves cross-legged on the plaid blanket that spreads the width of the rock.

“What now?” Blaine asked setting the guitar case at that top of the rock and carefully pulling the instrument out.

“You play.” Kurt nodded at the guitar before stretching out on the rock, face tipping towards the sun.
So he plays the song they way he wrote it full of long wavering chords that drift without direction and his words echoing the melancholic mood.

Kurt hums when the last slow phrase comes to an end. “Again, please.”

And he plays. Chords grow thicker, louder, grinding against the roar of the ocean, voice vibrating through the rock and in his ears. It is not still nor is it quiet when he finishes but he is.

“Why do you sing like you are apologizing for something?” Kurt asked shifting until he is sitting upright.

Fingers continue to pick out silent, wisps of notes attention focused solely on the horizon. “I wasn’t raised on spoonfuls of acceptance, Kurt.”

It’s an explanation of sorts and Kurt takes it, absorbs it, and paints it into the rock without pretense. “You should never have to apologize for being yourself, Blaine.”

“I wrote it after I came out to Charlie. She told me that she loved me and I told her that I was gay. It is an apology. I don’t know how to sing it any other way.” Blaine said setting the guitar back into the safe confines of the case before drawing his knees to his chest.

It is easy to lose yourself within a song, Kurt knows this, has experienced the overwhelming feeling of submerging yourself completely in an inconsequential three minute segment, but Blaine is just figuring it out.

“Writing a song is a lot like life. It’s hard and painful and sometimes you have to take yourself out of the equation, even just temporarily, so that it doesn’t feel so daunting.” Kurt said softly, body mirroring the younger boy’s. “And sometimes you have to walk away but there are instances when you work hard revising, editing, and rewriting for what seems like an infinite number of variations but, when it is finally finished, you are left with something beautiful.” He paused, thin cotton shirt stinging with the relentless heat of the day, white crests of the waves glaringly bright even through the tinted lenses of Kurt’s sunglasses. “Your song, Blaine, is rough. I mean, really rough, but it has the chance of being truly beautiful. You have to stop apologizing and look at it from a different perspective.”

It is a slow reaction, the unfolding of the body until joints can move again, hands grabbing for the guitar, fingers picking out the same notes again and again until he stops thinking. Then the words come, different, altering the song except not really. Kurt sits silently, sometimes commenting, offering suggestions when necessary, gaze alternating between the ocean and the dark haired boy trying to figure out how to accept himself. When they finish, Blaine is slightly sunburned, but happy. Kurt offers his hand, warm and firm, and pulls him onto legs that are numb with sleep. The sun is a faint afterthought in the horizon and shadows have grown long bruising the ground with the promise of night.

Kurt regards him with a soft smile as they pick their way back through the rocks. “You feel up to some dinner?”

Blaine pauses, head tipping in contemplation of the man whose hand is still clutched in his. “I know a great Tai place.”

“Lead the way, bright eyes.” Kurt laughed dropping his hand in order to sweep forward in some hyperbolic version of a grand gesture.

And they went vibrating in the afterglow of something beautiful.