There is a moment when that scene replays and gets set on repeat and he thinks he is going to be sick again but his mind moves on to the loud, topsy-turvy confusion of the party. He does dash not that much later, feet catching, tangling, his bedroom tilting and shifting beneath him, when he remembers the cold calculation in Nick’s stare as he spits venom in the form of words. He stops revisiting past mistakes when the metallic taste of illness clouds his mind and clutches his body tight. The roaring noise dulls to a ring as he presses his forehead against the cool ceramic of the toilet basin and his knees ache with the imprinting of the diamond tile pattern. He finds peace kneeling before the hands of regret and sorrow. A metronomic beep is the first tangible evidence of today that can achieve some sort of reaction. Blaine stands with the splash of the flushing toilet legs wobbling and shivering with the effort of moving forward (and, most likely, low blood sugar but he likes the symbolism of the former reason) away from the remnants of last night. He will shower later when his knees are no longer attempting to buckle and his stomach no longer feels like it is trying valiantly to jump through his throat. The bed welcomes a fetal position and he lets his miserable body sink into the cradling comfort. A hand reaches upwards and out searching for the phone bleeping and shuttering the heartbeats of the room that tie him to now. His fingers ghost over fluttering paper, instead, and he pulls it down to eyelevel focusing on the words swimming before his eyes,

Blaine,

Drink both bottles of water and take four Ibuprophan – it will help. We need to talk.

-- Kurt

Blaine sighs, eyes closing against the wincing light, and lets the paper, a scrap ripped from somewhere with uncaring, jagged edges and enough blank space for the conciseness of the words, glide to the floor to be interpreted later. He slips through the folds of consciousness throbbing head consuming the persistence of the chirping phone. He will uncover the twenty-five texts and ten phone calls when the sun has firmly placed itself in its afternoon setting and the sharpness of everything has dulled to a comprehendible level.

“And the prodigal son has returned,” Santana yawned when he finally walks into the kinetic energy of the recording studio. “You look like you were hit by a mack truck on the 10, Frodo.”

“Something like that,” he muttered sweeping his gaze past the immovable force of Santana to the now familiar landscape and organic shift of the main room. “Have you seen Kurt?”

“Studio 4 with an artist,” she said dismissively, “however, you and I have a scheduling date. Comprende?”

A slim hand clenches tight around his bicep and tugs him forward to a table tucked away from traffic in a relatively quiet corner.

A thick, paper clipped mass of paper laden with fine print, dates, and expectations whacks down in front of him. “For the next week this is your bible. Read it, memorize it, incorporate it into your daily prayers, and you should be fine.”

It is easy enough to tune her out as she shuffles her copy of the packet and starts with the first sub-category. He knows it is important to pay attention, he really does, but his mind is still clouded and pulsing out of sync so he melts into the chair, head propped on an open palm, while her voice rolls over and through him without comprehension. He focuses a slow, lazy gaze over her shoulder and hums an affirmative to a posed question that may have been rhetorical. He stretches, bones cracking, lengthening, and sees Kurt shadowed in the tinted glass of studio four, bottom lip drawn into his mouth in concentration, as he bends over the control panel tweaking knobs and adjusting levels. A soft grey, newsboy cap is pulled low over his forehead but it does nothing to hide the half-smile threatening to overtake his face or the way he throws his head back and laughs, full bodied and long, at whatever Finn, the sound engineer, had said. Kurt is a study of lean lines and sweeping motions and Blaine wants to learn how long, nimble fingers extrapolate details in order to meld them into the bigger picture or how the length of his spine bends into a question mark of everyday suppleness and grace. He wants to touch and learn and create with the man whom hides behind an air of pretention and acidic wit. He sighs, long and without any effort to hide the sense of longing that infiltrated the common act, before allowing his attention to shift back to the woman frowning at him.

She cracks an eyebrow and levels him with a condescending glare, “is your bowtie so tight that it is hindering the oxygen saturation to your brain which, in turn, makes it impossible for you to pay attention, Anderson?”

“No, I just – I can’t stop thinking about this song that Kurt and I have been working on.” He stuttered shifting under her scrutiny.

“Uh-huh,” she said rolling her eyes, “go talk to the princess so that maybe we can get some work done?”

He watches her gather her things and rise from the table, “sorry, Santana.”

“Stop with the ‘gee shucks,’ routine, already. It doesn’t work on me and makes you sound like a pathetic pushover.” She snapped pivoting on her heel and strutting away to the rhythmic clack of stilettos hitting the ground.

He doesn’t have a reason not to go sneaking into studio four as the band trickles out heading towards the hospitality area. But he remains at the table, slumped in upon himself, thinking about the conversation that needs to be held.

He feels depleted, drained of what little energy he had conjured with four cups of coffee, by the time he slowly rises from the table and finds himself hesitating outside the control room. Kurt is still in there, alone now, head lulling against the back if the rolling chair, eye lashes fanning thick against the infrastructure of high cheekbones, over sized headphones curling around the back of his neck, thumb sweeping over the swirling black ink of a tattoo printed into the sensitive skin of his inner wrist. Let it out and let it in are the words that Blaine has only seen in snatches etched dark and seemingly out of place in parallel lines heavy with the sanctity of an idolized song and a hidden meaning that Blaine has yet to learn. He knocks softly hesitant to disturb the unguarded man before him.

Kurt stirs, blinks slow and hard, straightening his spine in one long stretch, “Blaine.”

“Hi,” he murmured stepping just inside the door and into the stillness of the little room. Kurt studies him, eyes squinting over his features in an unnervingly slow sweep. “I am so sorry, Kurt.”

“You look like hell,” he said, hands clasping together in his lap.

Blaine shuffles forward slightly, smiling weakly. “So I have been told.”

Kurt hums a low, noncommittal sound, corners of his mouth curling down as his hands break apart to rub at the raised skin of his tattoo again.

“What does your tattoo mean?” He blurted partly because of the silence and partly due to curiosity.

His frown deepens, hands stilling, disengaging, before coming to rest flat against the length of his thighs. “I wanted to inform you that, after we complete this most recent track, I am resigning as your producer. Shelby has already been informed and Finn is slotted to fill the producer position for your CD.”

Something clutches, an invisible hand or steel band, around his chest cavity compressing choking air out of his lungs in a hissing stream. His stomach heaves. The hot burn of stomach acid scorches a trail up his esophagus and he gags.

“No, don’t leave . . . “ he trailed off stumbling backwards until his back hits the sharp edge of the doorframe and he sags against it in an effort to remain balanced. “I don’t think I can do this without you.”

“I’m freelance, Blaine, and I cannot afford to remain solely connected to Major Rift.” Kurt said steadily fixing him with a gaze that he cannot read. “I am done here.”

It is hard to look at him now that Kurt has retreated to rigid lines of forced posture, jaw clenching, eyes dulling to a listless blue, but he does. He stares until Kurt starts to fidget readjusting the silver summer scarf wrapped delicately around his neck, heel jostling sporadically against the ground. His fa�ade is slipping snatches of uncensored emotions flash through the thick veneer of his practiced mask. Maybe, Blaine cannot convince him to stay but, at least, Kurt’s decision is not as black and white as it appears.

“I am very sorry that I have become a burden, Kurt. I will see you tomorrow to finish the song.” He said without breaking eye contact before turning and exiting into the pleasant loudness of the main room.

It isn’t until he reaches the base of the stairway that he releases a shuddering breath, pauses, right foot resting on the bottom step, and waits until his body stops shaking before proceeding to Santana’s office for more verbal abuse. He cannot wait. There are four unexpected, slightly familiar people lounging in the office when he slowly enters.

“I see that your lady chat with the ice queen didn’t go well.” She remarked dryly. “Sit down and pretend to listen to me, Anderson.” Blaine nodded taking a chair by her desk that was vacated by a lanky red head. “First of all, these sickening sweet faces that you see before you are the members of Slightly Toasted whom you will be opening for on Saturday at the Troubadour. The Ginger is Liam McMahon, the guitarist, the dark haired one that looks like he is about to cry is Ezra Parish, the bassist, the dorky one with the glasses that should be banned in every country is Jamie Quincy, the drummer, and the girl with the unfortunate haircut is Ingrid Andrews, the keyboard player. You can create a mutual admiration society once I am finished and I cannot see any displays of sickening cuteness. Secondly, you have rehearsals with the studio band Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday evenings. Thirdly, a photo shoot with Chris Owyoung for the cover of G-Major magazine is scheduled for Friday morning.” Santana pauses arranging the various piles of papers and folders on her desk before pinning him to the seat with a penetrating glare. “Now that we have finished the cliff notes version of what I started telling you earlier, I do not want to see your face again until you can recite the packet of information that I gave you verbatim. Please disappear now.”

He remains seated as tension builds between his shoulders and Santana turns back towards her computer already muttering about various inconsequential things. A hand clamps down on his shoulder startling him out of his apparent gaze and he twists around tilting his head up in order to look at the kind faced girl with aqua streaked hair.

“Come on, Ducky, it looks like you could use some greasy comfort food and I know just the place to go.” She said, voice colored by a softly lilting east coast accent.

He allows her to guide him out of the office, down the stairs, and to the parking garage.

That evening, sitting tucked against a wall with a purple octopus that stretched its length, sipping the thick, bitter sludge of coffee out of a chipped “I Heart NY,” mug, he laughed more than he has in awhile. The next morning he had woken, body buzzing with not enough sleep, smiling and needing to write something, anything that he could put to music. A new optimism makes him itchy in his skin and his house is still devoid of any comforting warmth so he leaves, Ipod in hand, letting his feet find a thumping rhythm against concrete and dense air burns bright in his lungs. His muscles cramp slightly, legs feel rubbery, and there is a stitch in his side that is more painful than annoying but he reveled in this physical exhaustion that made him stop thinking. Temporarily, at least. But now, the lightness he felt this morning has faded into something to vague to recall and his body feels heavy, stiff, as he sits in the recording booth preparing for take number fifty-three. His voice is stinging hoarse, raw from overuse, when Kurt cuts him off mid-way through the first chorus.

“Rhythm, Blaine, is a good thing. You should try it sometime.” He said dryly, “again. Try not to be so sloppy this time.”

Without breaking eye contact, he slips the headphones off. “Fuck you.”

“Five-minutes, Blaine. And I expect you to stop trying to imitate John Mayer when you get back. Raspy does not work for you.” Kurt called to his retreating back.

Water slips cool down his throat and he drowns in the sensation as he drains the bottle.

“You can’t kill Hummel,” Santana said leaning against the counter in the little kitchen. “I maybe good but I don’t think I could get you off murder charges. Besides, I’ve heard that prison acoustics are horrendous. You could never record there.”

He cracks open another bottle and reclines opposite her. “Come on, it would totally be justifiable homicide. I saw it on an episode of Bones.”

It takes him by surprise when she tips her head back and laughs, long and loud, eyes squinting shut with the effort.

“Still don’t think it will do much for your career.” She said, laughter still trembling in her voice before she sobers. “Look, Blaine, I have known Kurt for a long time and he has reasons for leaving. Remember that it is never black and white, ok?” He nods dropping his eyes to the plastic top that he cannot seem to twist on correctly. “Good. Now get your ass back to that recording booth and record that damn song.”

Kurt is waiting, guitar across his lap, slumped on the stool when Blaine reenters the sound proof room a good ten minutes after his allotted break time. Long fingers coax out random notes and the slide of fingers over nylon fills the little room. He steps further into the room, into Kurt’s line of sight, and the music stops, reverb lingering, before fading completely.

“Santana cornered me,” he offered as an explanation.

Kurt nodded, “She’s good at that.”

“Shall we start,” Blaine asked stepping around him in order to grab the headphones.

“Look, Blaine,” Kurt hesitated, repositioning the microphone, turning away from the younger boy, “I just want this song to be perfect.”

“Why do you even care?” Blaine asked as Kurt makes to leave the cluttered room, “it’s not like this song means anything to you. You are still going to leave.”

Kurt stops, fingers brushing the chrome door handle, spine stiffening. He sighs, turning back to the boy sitting on the stool waiting, always waiting for the next blow to land, and steps in closer.

“I care, Blaine,” he murmured reaching out to trail his fingertips across Blaine’s knuckles, fingers wrapping lightly around his wrist for a second. “Please, believe me.”

And then he disappears out of the recording booth leaving Blaine swallowing around a lump lodged in his throat. It takes thirty or so more takes before Kurt calls it a day and they both leave quietly, side by side, lost in thought and worn weary.

The rest of the week passes in tidal waves of resentment and anger and sadness that he sometimes cannot be distinguished from hope especially when feelings are mixed with exhaustion and frustration that continuously roll over him without a chance to breathe. It is almost cathartic when they finish the song sometime on Thursday but he doesn’t feel that spark of elation like he did when they finished his first song and nothing could go wrong. But things go wrong. It’s a guarantee. He knows this, expects this now, but it doesn’t make letting go of what could have been any easier. Sometime in the middle of the week when days bleed into night and nights bleed into mornings and he cannot remember what it was like before everything, his parents come home with cold glances and a list of complaints prioritized by severity (the article is at the top of the least and they do not cede to reasoning). Acceptance comes late Thursday night long after he and Kurt part ways without a word, after practicing with a band that is beyond proficient but lacking any real connection to him or his music, after Ingrid and Ezra drag him to the little caf� in Venice Beach with the horrible coffee and the octopus on the wall, when his house is quiet and his body is claiming sleep but his hand is still jotting words that turns into lines, that build and sustain a heart of a song. It’s a song for him and him alone. He loves it. Sleep overtakes him when it is not quite night but not yet morning and it is blissfully absent of everything. The blare of the alarm clocks jolts through the fogginess of a mind not use to waking in the early hours of the morning and it is a fight to drag and stretch his body into functioning movement. There is not enough time to do his hair when a persistent knock echoes through the empty house.

Santana hands him an extra tall coffee and a smile when he creaks open the door. “Good Morning Frodo, I am glad to see that you have forgone the helmet of gel this morning and decided on the �ber stylish poodle look.”

“Only for you Santana,” he muttered after a long draw of fresh coffee.

“Cool it Dapper Dan.” She said rolling her eyes.

He smiles softly settling into the cool leather seats of the town car and sips is coffee in silence as the driver pulls out into traffic.

One Louder photography studio is all exposed brick and high ceilings with an unassuming black on white sign proclaiming its existence over large double doors that look out onto Venice Boulevard in downtown Culver City. Too loud music leaks out onto the sidewalk when Santana knocks twice and then pushes her way into the lofty, softly lit interior of the building. It’s a large, rectangular mass of a floor plan, almost warehouse like in structure and suitability, with large skylights filtering, softening dusty light onto the various backdrops littered around the open space. A handful of people quietly move about the workspace dismantling and reassembling various pieces of equipment. He tucks himself away in a corner and watches as Santana disappears from his side and into a small corner office. A temporary silence falls unnoticed amongst the carefully controlled people that pass with pleasant smiles aimed in his general direction as one song fades into the next. But then the loose rhythm of the guitar swells around him and he starts to hum the slightly familiar melody before the words spill out of speakers hidden in the rafters. The voice that sings to him is soft, passive in a melancholy way and the words float down and around him in the particles of dust dancing in the air. He listens in that building with worn brick walls and a concrete floor with people moving about in an entirely predictable manner and those words mean something more than a collection of sounds that intertwine with chords that bounces off of the soft percussive heartbeat beating tempo with the rumble of bass. He feels a connection that twists in his gut and settles in his mind to be kept for reference and reverence.

“The days are long and they sing you a song
About how all your troubles have come.
We hold it all inside, our sunlight ends.
We’ll never let it go, I think you will understand.”

The music twists and resonates and makes him feel when he doesn’t want to and that is why he loves music. He sags against the worn rough wall and lets his gaze wonder through the streaks of orangey light over the sleekly mounted pictures of faces freezing on one large print mounted near the far corner. Its halos of morning colors, the juxtaposition of silhouettes, and the interaction of natural shapes paired with the images of finite things such as the profile of a woman, a microphone, the large, looming presence of a piano. It’s simple and intense, perfect. He hears Santana approaching before he sees her and the angry clack of heels shakes him out of thought.

“You ready?” She asked without stopping the flicking of her fingers over the face of her phone.

Blaine nods and follows her into another side room teaming with clothes and gossiping woman. Then it is a rush of picking and discarding outfits before settling on items that are not unlike what he is already wearing and then it’s the snapping orders to stay still or else he will be stabbed with a straight pin. Hands push-pull him away from the wardrobe section and deposit him into a make-up chair set in front of a large mirror. He inhales sharply when skilled fingers smear the cold thickness of foundation across his face in light, steady strokes and fingertips dive into his hair attempting to coax his curls into submission. His face feels heavy, foreign with the amount of product that the beauty team piled on before pushing him out of the door and back into the main room once more. Santana is waiting for him besides a tall man with too long hair curling over a plain gray t-shirt.

“Ah, you must be Blaine, my victim for the day.” He said, a full smile sparking across his face. Blaine feels a smile spread uncontrolled across his face as he grasps the proffered hand. “Don’t worry; I am not going to Gaga-ify you today.”

The day progresses in shouted instructions and the permanent presence of black spots fluttering in his vision. The theme is simple with its white backdrop and he doesn’t ask when they settle a pair of headphones on his head and wrap the length of cord around his forearms nor does he question the wardrobe department when they hand him a red cardigan to pull over the white v-neck and hand him an acoustic guitar. Chris directs him frame by frame with minute, sometimes subtle changes and his muscles scream in protest from holding unnatural positions for far too long. But then Chris calls a wrap and he is melting into a computer chair flicking through proofs. He doesn’t recognize himself. That’s a lie because, in the literal sense, it is the same map of features and lines that appears in the mirror on a daily basis. It’s not the flawless composition that steals his breath, makes him blink hard. The photos expose him more than any song he had ever written and it makes him feel fragile, close to breaking. But fragile things are beautiful. Those photos are beautiful.

“All of you out there are beautiful, beautiful people,” Blaine rasped into the microphone, arms stretched wide embracing the room of screaming people. “Thank you so much for welcoming me here with open arms and open hearts. I fucking love all of you.” He smiles a thank you to the stage technician that hands him his electric guitar and turns back to the audience securing the strap across his shoulder. “So this is going to be my last song for the night before the incredibly talented Slightly Toasted takes the stage and blows our minds with utter amazingness. This song is for all of you who don’t know how to be yourself but keep trying, anyways. Oh, and this will be approximately the third time I have played all the way through so if I fall on my face don’t laugh to hard.”

With that, he turns towards the band, bare toes curling into the area rug stretched over the exposed cords, and counts down. He can’t help but move, sway, and bounce on his toes to the rhythm that flows around him in crunchy distortion that pings off walls and echoes back complete. His body vibrates with sound, with energy as he carves out time in the form of an electric heart and then lets it shatter raining jigsaw pieces that float down to the lower stratosphere so the audience can absorb it and radiate it back into the atmosphere. The crowd stands, sways, and embraces him with arms raised in solidarity and he etches his heart onto the sleeve of his shirt before oozing his soul into the hands of strangers to be examined, passed around, and, with a certain trust cultivated within the moment of connectivity, returned. They cradle his heart in cupped hands of acceptance and place it firmly back on the stage so that he can sing his emotional upheaval with only partially remembered words and the strength of memories.

“It takes four days to get to like me
But two days to wanna leave.
But the part that really gets me
Are the moments in between.
Now I lie to get a little
And laugh at every little thing.
They’re high on information
But I am low on self esteem.
I’m gonna try, try.
Gonna try.
Try to be myself
Although myself will wonder why
I’m gonna try, try.
Gonna try.
Try to be myself this time."

He climbs on top of the monitors, closes his eyes, and breathes when the first instrumental break brings the low rumble of bass and the steady reminder of drum beat. It is easy to get lost in the beat, the rhythm of the instance, and he does. He lets it take over, lets it control his fingers and his body, at least for a little while. But then he is stepping down, singing the last stanzas of the song staring directly out at the audience, and then the song is ending – after all, good things have to end – with a crash and a dull throb. There are two heartbeats of silence and he breathes, calms his body, before the crowd erupts and he feels complete. He floats off the stage, guitar slung around his back, ears deafened by the noise, and mind buzzing. The bassist claps him on the back and offers a smile in passing as the stage crew moves in the break down and set up for the next band. Someone hands him his shoes and he slips them on, comes back to himself a little in an anticlimactic burst of normalcy. The guitar is gently tucked away in its case and he is alone in the dark wings of the stage with the audience chanting praise audible through the walls. He collects himself, pieces everything back together in a way that resembles order with a roll of his shoulders. Everything is hazy after the overwhelming brightness of the stage lights but he can still recognize their silhouettes as they slip through the darkness. Charlie breaches the distance with a hug and whispered sentiments that mix with the echo of the crowd and renders them incomprehensible yet sincere. He can feel Nick’s gaze, hunter green and guarded, on him as he releases Charlie. She squeezes his hand and retreats into the shadows.

“You came,” Blaine said leaning against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest.

“wouldn’t miss it,” Nick said meeting his gaze briefly before returning it to the floor. “I’ m sorry for everything.”

Blaine regards the boy fidgeting with the hem of his shirt movements made disjointed by nerves and regret. “OK.”

Nick chews on the inside of his cheek, brows furrowing, head tipping upwards to meet Blaine’s gaze through a shield of eyelashes. “Can we talk?”

“Not tonight.” Blaine said decisively straightening from the wall, “but, maybe, tomorrow.”

Nick nods, shoulders sagging, body caving in, “ok. Tomorrow.”

Blaine watches the careful way Nick walks away with heavy, choppy steps, like the weight of the world is bearing down upon his shoulders, and let’s himself forgive. The band passes in the aftermath of Nick’s appearance in a procession of jangling limbs and tight smiles.

Ingrid throws a smile and wink over her shoulder. “After party at our casa, you better be there with your party hat on, Ducky.”

Blaine laughs and follows them to the edge of the stage where he hides in the curtains and watches them transform from musicians into performers. They steamroll; energy building and building, self contained without the threat of spontaneous combustion, but snap, crackle, popping as they flex, shift, and mold themselves into a single entity that solely exists for this stage and this night. They leave nothing behind. A body slides into his space and he feels his breathe hitch before slowly turning and finding stormy eyes. Kurt jerks his head toward the far corner and picks his way towards seclusion with his hands tucked into the pockets of fitted plaid trousers.

“Thought you were leaving,” Blaine half-yells over the crescendo of the band.

“I was,” Kurt said stepping closer, thumb sweeping over a cheekbone before trailing a path down to his shoulder. “You are incredible, Blaine.”

Blaine smiles timidly, a hint of tiredness seeping around the edges. “Did the last song have enough of a hook for you?”

Kurt purses his lips as if weighing his answer, forehead scrunching slightly in mock concentration, eyes flickering, “I suppose we should probably record it on Monday before the novelty wears off.”

“Really?” He asked, voice slurring up the register with poorly disguised hope.

“Five o’clock,” Kurt nodded with a grin before stepping backwards, “don’t be late, Anderson.”