Time ticks away to that odd intersection of both day and dusk. People line the subway car to capacity, either making their way back home or finally heading out. With priority seating filled at the entrances of the car, both men manage to sit far in the back, not only because it’s available, but because they have a while before their next transfer.

Blaine sits on the unforgiving plastic seat, both knees tucked up to his chest and heels resting on the edge. It’s slick with his wet shoes, but he holds himself in place by gripping his legs at the ankle.

To his right, Kurt seems more comfortable now than when they were in the coffee shop or walking to the terminal; Blaine feels it too. There’s something peaceful about the dingy fluorescent-green lighting, the rattle of the tracks, and the shaking of the car. They’re surrounded by people, but most of them are hiding behind newspapers, listening to music with white earbuds, or scrolling through their phones. Everyone around them is consumed by their own individual worlds, which means that Kurt and Blaine are free to be devoured too.

“I’m sorry if I was too bold earlier,” Kurt says. He sweeps the bangs off of his forehead, gracefully ensuring that they haven’t flown away from their hold. “I’ve been worried about you, and when I commit to worrying about something, I really commit.”

“You were.” Blaine wants to make the words sound better, but he can’t. While he wants to be unfailingly kind, he’s resigned to the fact that whatever conversation that he and Kurt have, it’s going to be awkward. There’s no way that they can navigate each other’s feelings without bruising them. They’ve already jumped in; from here out, it’s sorting out which bones belong to whom. “I just don’t know why you care, Kurt-- do I want to?”

If Kurt were to say no, Blaine would drop it. It’s not as if he doesn’t understand what it’s like to care about the problems of people he doesn’t actually know. Far from it. Blaine is a professional at butting into the heartaches of others: Greg, Beiste, homeless women, cashiers at the supermarket. He is the reigning king of unsolicited advice and inappropriate worrying. It’s only that, so often, others don’t invest the same care in his troubles.

The thing is, Blaine isn’t coming apart at the seams. His problems, in the scheme of the universe, are so infinitesimal that it’s mindboggling that someone would look his way and notice, let alone care.

“When I was in high school, my friend danced,” Kurt starts. “His dad lost his job and then their house-- and Sam did what he thought he had to do. If it’s easier for you, you can assume that I’m coming from the selfish place of wanting to make myself feel better. Or you can accept that I want to help you because when you took off your coat at the coffee shop, you reminded me of an old friend in a bad situation.” Kurt pauses, head lolling toward Blaine’s conspiratorially, expression turning impish, “You also don’t have to pick one, because it’s a little bit of both.”

Kurt seems to be gauging Blaine’s reaction, and Blaine doesn’t know what to say. He says what’s easiest, “I’m not in high school, Kurt.”

“Obviously,” Kurt tuts.

“So you think I’m like Sam?”

“I’m working with a very narrow window of understanding here, but it’s the only window I have. Your situation may not be the same as his, but I’m looking at you right now and I see the boy Sam was. I can see what he was afraid to lose.” Blaine’s next breath is sharp, and either Kurt doesn’t notice the change, or he ignores it. “I’m thinking that when you were a little boy, you had dreams of becoming something other than a stripper,” Kurt says calmly. “Besides, ‘doctor’ suits you better. Hell, ‘troubadour’ suits you better.”

“You don’t even know me,” Blaine tips his head back, resting it on the wall. Kurt isn’t trying to shame his choices; weirdly, it’s like Kurt’s trying to understand why he made them. Blaine doesn’t know which would be worse.

“You say that like this isn’t me trying.”

Blaine bites back a scoff, because Kurt is being earnest right now. Part of Blaine wants to chafe against that sincerity because he’s afraid of what it means. For whatever reason, he doesn’t think Kurt’s role in his life is passing anymore. No matter what Blaine says, he doesn’t seem to be chasing Kurt away. There’s something freeing in it, because Kurt is still looking at him with an invested expression. Kurt’s trying so hard, because he seems to see this as an uneasy beginning. Given how much he’s struggling, Blaine doesn’t think that he tries for a lot of people, either. Blaine releases the lip he’s been chewing.

“We all tried to help Sam after his dad lost his job. We babysat his brother and sister, gave him clothes... and the one thing he did to contribute to his family, we undid. He sold his guitar-- we bought it back for him. When he started dancing, I think he was happy to be able to help his family the way his friends had been. The money was good, but he hated what he was doing.”

“I’m not Sam,” Blaine says carefully. “-- and I don’t hate it.” Kurt raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow, mouth opening to disagree, but Blaine laughs dryly. “I don’t. Kurt... last year, I worked three nights a week and still made a hundred thousand dollars. I'm independent. I have clothes on my back that I've paid for, a full stomach, and somewhere to sleep tonight. Do you know how many people in this city can't say the same?” He doesn't need to say, 'Do you know how close I was to not being able to say the same?'

“I started dancing for the same reason your friend did: I needed to find solid ground. I didn’t come to New York City only to go back to Ohio a semester later.”

“Yeah-- well, trust me. I get that,” Kurt says. “When I got here, New York was everything that I’ve ever wanted. If I’d had to leave, I probably would have sold my kidney just to stay.”

“I actually know a guy who specializes in kidneys,” Blaine jokes. “So, if cash is ever a problem, let me know. His bathtubs are the cleanest in the city.”

“Do I have to bring my own ice?”

“It’s provided. Also, he medicates with whiskey.”

“If you tell me that he uses rubbing alcohol and a lighter to sterilize his instruments, I’m sold.”

Blaine clamps down on his smile, trying not to grin like an idiot. The effect leaves much to be desired.

Blaine lets the silence fall, feeling comfortable in it. The train slows from it’s breakneck speed, opening the series of double doors once they reach the platform. For every person who exits, another enters. Blaine rests his elbows on his knees. He feels different after laughing; there’s a complete release of tension that he knew he’d been holding in, but couldn’t overcome on his own. It’s not that he feels airy, that things are perfect, he’s just relieved. On an emotional level, he needs to believe that he and Kurt can laugh. They can talk about awkward and painful things, but they have something else too. “I didn't start where I am now. If Sam started in a place like I did then I do feel sorry for him. I can understand why he hated it, but not all strippers are miserable."

“What do you mean?”

"I think that a dancer’s level of happiness depends on where they’re dancing,” Blaine starts. He’s thinking as he’s speaking, which doesn’t often work for him in the long run. "Think of it this way: you could be in a dirty bar with a guy who can't touch you, telling you how worthless you are-- or you could be in a club with top shelf liquor and with a guy telling you how much he wants you. There are some clubs where you get to feel how rare you are, and in those clubs you can feel safe.

“That first night-- I can't even think about it, not even in an abstract way. I was embarrassed, the guys were just... ugly from the inside. I felt cheap and like I was one in a very long string of commodities. I hated that feeling, and I hated that place. But where I’m at now, it’s good. I like what I do. I’m good at what I do.”

Kurt still looks stricken, “What changed?”

“Nothing, I guess. I'm not nineteen anymore.”

The look on Kurt’s face doesn’t dissipate, if anything, he only looks sadder. “Look- don’t, okay? I’m not a pity case. It’s a job, and one that lets me live the life I want to live.”

“And what life is that?”

“I want to help people, so I do. I have a safety net for myself, I spend what I need, and I donate the rest. No excuses.”

“And you’re helping someone now?”

Blaine nods.

Kurt folds his hands over his knee, cupping the joint. “God- I find the only heart of gold left in New York... dancing in a strip club.”

Blaine does laugh at that. While he’d been trying to sell Kurt friendly that night, Blaine likes to think that’s who he is, rather than who he pretends to be. “And I managed to net the only guy in New York who gives a shit. We’re quite the pair, Kurt.”

The train stops again, exchanging a dozen faces. Blaine thinks it might be easier to start explaining things to Kurt now, especially because Kurt has been downright saintly for not pressing for more details. Had their roles been reversed, Blaine’s not so sure that he’d have been able to keep from asking a dozen questions by now.

“Oh,” Kurt stands up. “Here,” he gets the attention of a woman. Her pregnant belly looks ready to burst through her coat. The buttons are adorably strained over what must be her bellybutton, and she looks grateful. She rests her grocery bags at her feet and flashes him a smile, easing herself into the seat beside Blaine.

Blaine isn’t sure when random acts of kindness started surprising him, but they do. Blaine doesn’t know what to say, and Kurt acts like nothing happened-- he only cocks his head at Blaine, apologetic for the break in conversation. There’s a quiet beauty in humility, and Blaine finds himself shaking his head.

“I’m not really studying to be a doctor.”

Kurt shrugs one shoulder, hand reaching out to grip the steadying bar, “I’m a Gemini.”

Beyond the broken link fence and overgrown tufts of dead grass, the center itself is built from proud strong brick. Ivy and moss have wormed into the building’s porous facade, but to Blaine, it’s only discernible flaw is a faded square where a business placard used to hang. The plot occupies half the block, and on some level, Blaine can see how it might be perfect for a parking garage. Given the closeout signs in the business windows beside the center, it seems that the other merchants are already conceding defeat.

The snow spits in clumps, catching on Blaine’s eyelashes and soaking into the shoulders of his coat. It’s cold enough to wet the streets and to dust the sidewalks, but not enough for the snow to accumulate. The sun set during their commute, and in the dark, car headlights gleam in spears against the mirror-like surface of the road. The city hasn’t slowed down at all, and they have to pause for traffic before half-jogging to the center’s double door entrance.

Inside, the hall smells of paint. There’s shouting ahead, teenaged and lively, paired with raucous laughter that seems out of place in the otherwise abandoned corridor. There is a trail of puddled footprints leading to the noise’s source, but neither man goes any further than it takes to shut the door behind them.

Kurt briefly looks toward the distant sound of the shout, face slackening in attentive curiosity. He angles his head toward the sound, but there is no other outburst-- just the indirect idling of a radio. Whatever the music is, it’s contemporary. Blaine vaguely recognizes the beat, but that’s not saying much. Most of the current Top 40 singles share the same electronically engineered Four-on-the-Floor beat.

Kurt tugs off his gloves and folds them into his pockets. “This is what you wanted to show me?” he prompts, refocusing his attention on Blaine.

He gives up trying to name the song, reaching out to lightly touch Kurt’s elbow. He timidly uses the touch to turn Kurt to face the left portion of the mural. “This is what I wanted to show you,” he says, dropping his hand back to his side.

The hall isn’t long enough for it to have a vanishing point, but the mural sprawls on parallel stretches of concrete, down to where the building breaks into a ‘T’. Blaine knows the mural well, but part of him is curious to find out what Kurt sees in it. Bringing him here was a huge leap of faith, because this place is one of the few things that Blaine can take unabashed pride in. Blaine doesn’t know if he wants to pause Kurt’s silence and hide in it, or if he wants to know everything that Kurt is thinking. It’s frightening-- because once again, Kurt has the keys to something that Blaine holds very dear. Kurt has all the power here; he can either condemn the center, or worse, judge Blaine for the lengths he was willing to go in order to save it. “I know it’s probably out of your way, but when you were talking, I knew that I really wanted you to see it.”

“I don’t mind,” Kurt reassures him.

Blaine watches as Kurt steps closer to the wall in order to trace a ridged brushstroke, and then steps back to survey the whole picture.

The mural is comprised of thick lines of mixed media: spray paints, acrylics, and the faded lines of both charcoal and pastels. Some of the artwork is as crude as one might expect from teenagers: there’s street tagging, profanity, a crass image of a cock peeping from beneath a waistband. But there’s an analogous daintiness to be found in it too: there’s birds, power-lines, song lyrics and poetry. Together, they’re a dozen metaphoric self portraits.

Sometimes Blaine takes it for granted, but seeing it with Kurt, watching him sort out the disjointed imagery and come to his own conclusions, is like recapturing the moment he first saw the mural during it’s infancy. He’s not in a hurry to get to Beiste’s office, he’s not carrying art supplies, and he’s not distracted by conversation-- Blaine can linger in front of it, steeping his footsteps so that when Kurt moves forward, Blaine does too.

Kurt is looking at him, arms crossing over his middle as the heat starts to soothe away winter’s sting. “You don’t live here, do you?” he asks, voice unsure.

“No,” Blaine says. The word borders on affectionate, if only because it’s accompanied by a disbelieving smile and the slight tilt of Blaine’s head. “I don’t live here.”

“Oh thank god,” Kurt actually laughs, his face scrunching in relief. “I was terrified for a second you were going to show me a room in the back full of sleeping bags or something.”

“It does have that... transient squatting feel to it, I guess,” Blaine concedes. The building is old, and now that Kurt has painted that picture in Blaine’s head, he can imagine curling up on the rec couch and eating out of a can with a plastic spoon.

They’re nudging forward in small steps, taking the mural in, and Blaine reacquaints himself with the kids he used to know. Most of the ones who drew here have moved on. He flat out laughs when he sees an outline of Marvin the Martian, and he sees something of an old friend in the gestural portrait of a French Bulldog smoking a cigar. Fifteen feet from the entrance, the Morton’s Salt Girl idly kicks out from beneath the protection of her umbrella. “Someone was painting this when I walked in for the first time,” Blaine says, knocking on the girl’s yellow shoulder.

Kurt comes to stand shoulder to shoulder with him, careful not to touch, but lingering close. “I’m years away from being able to appreciate a pair of Mary Jane’s. In high school, my friend Rachel was into the whole ironic school girl look, except she wasn’t being ironic.”

Blaine smiles at that. “Bobby socks?”

“And animal sweaters--” Kurt leans in, playfully narrowing his eyes. Blaine groans in sympathy, despite his private collection of sweater-vests. What Kurt doesn’t know, he can’t judge Blaine for.

Kurt eases further along the wall, “Are any of these yours?”

“Here,” Blaine points a few feet away from the salt girl. “And here-” He bends down a few feet further. Both images fade into the mural as a whole, and it takes Blaine a few seconds to even find them. The doodle of the baby bird isn’t realistic at all, neither is the guitar; their outlines are swoopy and inelegant, insides crosshatched in Sharpie. “I haven’t contributed much out here. Around the corner, there’s more- bu--”

“Wait, around the corner?” Kurt interrupts, sliding away from Blaine and around the corner. The corridor stretches, cinder-block on one side, sanded drywall on the other. The mural continues endlessly, and Kurt doesn’t look like he can actually believe it.

“Oh my god, Blaine,” Kurt gapes, looking more than overwhelmed.

“They want to tag every surface of the building, I think.”

“This is insane. I feel like I just met the illegitimate love-child of Salvador Dal� and Banksy. You know, if that love-child was also the bastard of Andy Warhol.”

“'Cause I guess with Dal� you just never know,” Blaine jokes.

Not all of aspects of the mural are masterpieces. Some strokes are so unsure, some drawings half started and unfinished. There were scribbles, layers where other artists incorporated the old with their new, building over top and using the old as a foundation.

“What exactly is this place?”

“My friend runs it in her free time,” Blaine starts. “A few years ago, she realized that the kids she coached needed more than what they were getting. I think it really frustrated her to see so many of them falling through the cracks, and she wanted to give them a place where they could figure things out.”

“So they come here to... paint?”

“Or draw. Or sculpt. Or talk.” The mural isn’t all the center does, but it is a large part of it. The kids have nurtured and developed their own community here, built on self-expression and the desire to leave their mark somewhere in the world, no matter how small. “You and I were born lucky. Both of us can sing... not everyone gets to have that outlet.”

“Do you think it’d be bad form if I took some pictures before I go?”

“Not at all,” Blaine says. “In fact, you’d better take them while you can.”

“While I can?” Kurt asks, rifling through his satchel and rooting around for what Blaine assumes is a camera.

“Unless we come up with an insane amount of money before January, we’re going to lose it. They want to level the entire block.” Blaine pauses, letting Kurt turn on his camera. “I-- this place means a lot to the people who need it. This city has a hard enough time giving every teenager a textbook-- music and arts get cut back every single year, and it really sucks. When I was a kid, arts were what got me through. What else are kids supposed to turn to, you know?”

“Well, I guess there’s always drugs,” Kurt jokes lamely.

“I always wanted a place like this growing up,” Blaine says. “I don’t think things would have been so hard if I had a place where I felt safe.”

Kurt’s half smile is empathetic, and it twists Blaine’s stomach.

“Anyway,” Blaine exhales.

Kurt takes a few pictures as they walk; he doesn’t seem to zoom in or out before taking them, choosing instead to move closer and record at full resolution. The concrete, viewed that close, is streaked with color and popcorn speckles.

“This is just a thing we did at Parsons,” Kurt says sheepishly. “It’s... this place has so much texture. Some of the coloring could use some work, but I really- this is amazing, Blaine.”

He photographs a stenciled, roaring, King Kong. The image itself is neatly transferred to the wall with black acrylic, but to it’s right, it’s been splattered by neon pink, as though bombed by an exploding flamingo.

“I think I understand why you did what you did,” Kurt says, switching camera modes to ensure the photograph is exactly what he wants.

“It probably sounds really-- really-- painfully stupid to you, Kurt,” Blaine’s face falls, already expecting the worst. “I thought things were bad when I was in high school... I figured that I’d grow up and the world would be better, because I was actually out in it instead of dreaming about changing it. Now that I’m here, though? A lot of the time, I feel as powerless as I did then, and nothing... pisses me off more than feeling like there’s nothing I can do. But here? Here-- I can help. They’re counting on me.”

Kurt looks up from the camera, vehemently shaking his head. “I don’t think it’s stupid.” He cuts Blaine off before he can say anything else, “I don’t. I want to help, however I can.”

“Kurt...” Blaine looks pained, eyes squeezing shut as he gathers the courage to say what he needs to say. “I don’t know if there’s anything you can do. I’m not sure if there’s anything you should do.”

Blaine doesn’t want to turn down an ally for the center, but he also can’t bear to have Kurt in his life if the man is going to be tethered there by guilt. Blaine can’t live with a constant reminder of what happened between them-- he can’t live with money haunting them like a ghost, either.

“No, but if you paint yogurt on it, you can grow moss in whatever shape you want.”

“That’s nice and all...except for the fact that it’s fucking yogurt. Rotting. In the hall. Do you really wanna smell that shit for weeks?”

“Do I want to know what they’re taking about?” Kurt’s voice wavers as he tries to reclaim their tentative ceasefire.

Blaine hates that he was the one who ended it. He shakes his head, stomach turning at the imagined smell of sour milk. “It sounds like Casey and Fitz, so probably not.”

“They sound like the name of a bad sitcom.”

“They are a bad sitcom.”

The mural begins to thin out, the closer they get to the boys.

“What would you add to it, if you could?” Blaine asks.

“The mural?” Kurt’s eyes widen a little at the prospect. “I’m not much of an artist-- I mean, I draw for work, but those are sketches. They aren’t this. I’d be going for the Mona Lisa and end up with hieroglyphics.”

Blaine reaches into his coat pocket, “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m sure you’re great.” In his second pocket, he finds the blue pen he was looking for. He offers it up, twirling it between his fingers. “Come on, I know you have a vandal in there somewhere.”

“I’ll have you know that I am a stone wall when it comes to peer pressure,” Kurt challenges him airily.

“I’ll have you know that I’m a great influence,” Blaine reaches for Kurt’s hand and drops the pen into Kurt’s loose grip. “You don’t have to be good at art, you just have to do it. I promise I won’t make fun of you.”

“I can’t draw on concrete with a pen, Blaine.” Kurt huffs, but gives in. He uncaps the pen with a jerk, crossing to the opposite wall. The drywall isn’t nearly as marked there, and it takes only a second before he scrawls a loose doodle of a man in a baseball cap, above the initials ‘K.H.’.

Kurt caps the pen and hands it back to Blaine, stepping back to view his handiwork. The lines aren’t clean, the drywall dipping with the pressure of the pen. Some stripes of blue are darker than others, particularly those where he started.

“Someone you know?”

“My dad.”

Blaine returns the pen to his pocket, taking in the doodle with a flourishing grin. “So I’m guessing you look like your mother then?”

“Shut up,” Kurt laughs.

Kurt’s laughter amplifies Blaine’s amusement. Emboldened, he leans forward, hands stuffed in his coat pockets. When he points, the bottom of his jacket lifts like a wing. “No, seriously. You don’t even look like you have Sasquatch genes.”

Kurt’s smile doesn’t bare any teeth, but that doesn’t make it any less joyful.

When they part ways at Clark St. Station in Brooklyn, Blaine promises to meet Kurt for coffee again in two days. The drama-hound in Kurt wants to watch Blaine’s retreating back from the moment he exits the subway, until the train pulls away from the platform. That desire goes unfulfilled; after Blaine steps into the throng of people, Kurt can’t distinguish him at all. Eventually, he stops trying.

Kurt goes on to Columbus Circle. As much as he needed to see the center, Kurt’s an Ohio-born Manhattanite. He’s only been parted from his one bedroom, fourth-floor walk-up for sixteen hours, but he misses it. If he’s being completely honest, he’s worried about it.

He spends the commute texting Tina, going so far as to send a cursory hello to Santana. The center drummed up a parade of memories and old faces. For the first time in a long time, Kurt really thinks about glee club-- not just reminiscing about a performance, but about what it was to him. His friends and the club aren’t mutually exclusive entities. Kurt thinks about the friends he hasn’t talked to in weeks, months, and years even though there was a time he could never have survived without them.

At home, he hangs his keys on the hook below his intercom. His apartment, once a beautifully designed hideaway that Carrie Bradshaw would have writhed in envy upon seeing, has been invaded by two bachelors who don’t even know how to put a new roll of toilet paper on the chrome holder. His apartment no longer smells like his; he’s blown back by the scent of socks, stale clothes, lo mein, and cheap cologne he doesn’t wear. Kurt slides the deadbolt and the chain into place, taking a much needed second not to rage.

He’s a good brother, but a man has his limits. Kurt’s been flirting with his for at least three weeks. He doesn’t know if this is Rachel and Finn’s final breakup, but it’s already been longer than the last five. When he opened his home to Finn, he knew it was probably going to be a prolonged stay. They’d lived together before-- he had known what he was getting into, and accepted whatever reality came hand-in-hand with being Finn’s roommate. The only problem was that Puck came too, whether it was to comfort his friend in an hour of need, or to finally have sex with Rachel.

“You’re late,” Finn doesn’t look up from where he’s sprawled out on Kurt’s couch. His legs rest over the arm, jutting out a few feet. His arm dangles listlessly, he’s not even lifting the remote to change the television channel, just pressing the button and hoping the signal communicates across the room. It doesn’t.

“It’s nine, that’s not late. It only seems late because you’ve been parked on that couch for two days, and your sense of time has become understandably warped.”

Puck sits on the divan, clad only in a towel. Judging from the dry skin of his torso, he hasn’t been in the shower for at least an hour. “We thought you were out getting some.”

Kurt drops his bag onto one of the living chairs, turning to face his friends. Puck’s feet are propped up on the coffee table, clean toes spreading and wriggling in time with the infomercial jingle he’s only half watching. Kurt looks imperious, despite being shocked that they thought of him having sex at all. Ten years ago, Finn probably thought gay sex was a firm handshake. A handshake that Kurt would never, ever, have. “I was out.”

“With a friend.”

“Not yet,” Kurt says uncharitably. “Though, if my record is anything to go by, we could recover from our rocky start. I mean, you two are practically squatting here and Puck used to nail lawn chairs to the roof of my house, and you-- well... Finn.”

Finn eyes an egg roll, turning his cheek on the throw pillow so his chin digs into the fabric. He looks like he is trying to mentally will the egg roll into his mouth without actually lifting his arm for it. Kurt thinks it’s pathetic, but walks over to the coffee table and hands it to his stepbrother anyway.

“Your voice is doing that... breathless pitchy thing.” Finn says around a bite. “You’re upset.”

“My voice does not do a breathless pitchy thing, it’s called diction-- you should try it sometime. It’s easier without a mouthful of food, too.”

“He so is,” Puck agrees with Finn, narrowing his eyes and summing up Kurt with a firm nod. Like he’s been professionally watching Kurt for years.

“You like him?” Finn asks.

“It’s more complicated than that.”

Finn gives up on the egg roll halfway through eating it. Distastefully, he chucks it onto the coffee table, missing the napkin Kurt would like to think he was aiming for. When it bounces, a few pieces of cabbage break loose, and Kurt’s nostrils flare.

“You like this guy--” Puck eyes widen, impressed. “That’s crazy, considering how much you wanted to bone that stripper the other night. I kind of thought you were a one guy at a time sort of dude.”

“WHOA-- what stripper?” Finn asks, looking at Kurt like they haven’t been brothers for ten years. Like the revelation that Kurt had gone to a strip club with Puck has suddenly changed the way the earth rotates on it’s axis. Finn is actually pushing his weight up on one elbow, head lifting up off of the pillow which may never get rid of the Finn-shaped dent in it’s center.

“His name is Blaine, and it’s not a big deal,” Kurt lies. “We met up tonight and things got heavy, that’s all.”

Finn’s reaction is more tempered than his outburst might suggest he’s capable of. He only explains once Kurt exasperatedly demands an explanation. "Dude, Burt's a senator."

"Thank you for reminding me...?" Kurt was a campaign consultant for each election. He knows.

"You can't go around dating strippers and stuff, it would look really bad."

"Oh my god, Finn! I met Blaine for coffee. He's not 'strippers', he's Blaine."

Puck’s silence pisses Kurt off more than Finn’s talking. He throws up his hands in Puck’s direction, “And what exactly is it that you have to say? Cause I’m sure that the insight is priceless.”

“Dude-” Puck says, mouth dropping in awe. “You netted the uncatchable. I have nothing to say except for: ‘teach me what you know.’”

Kurt drops his hands to his side, “I should have known better than to ask.”

“Don’t be mad,” Finn starts. “You’re my brother. I worry about you.”

Kurt shakes his head, wishing this could be the part where he asks both of them to leave. He could, but he can’t. “It’s fine. I need to call dad-- clean up in here before you guys fall asleep. Even Manhattan gets mice, and I will kill both of you if Mickey scurries over my kitchen counter in the morning.”

“Dad?”

“Kurt!” The buzz of background chatter serves to let Kurt know that he’s interrupting something. It sounds like Burt’s in a roomful of people, and given his profession, those people probably command six-digit salaries and a world of influence. Kurt tries not to give into the instinct to apologize and hang up, because his father is laughing. Not only does Burt sound relieved and overjoyed to hear from him, but his father is saying his name like he’s been waiting to hear from Kurt for weeks, even though they spoke a few days ago. Burt shushes someone beside him, before excusing himself. “Hang on, buddy. Let me step outside.”

“How’s your brother?”

“His symbiosis with my couch is nearly complete.”

“Whoa-- that’s some tone you got there, kiddo.” Before he gives Kurt the chance to respond, he’s pressing on bluntly. “Are you okay, or what?”

Kurt toes out of his shoes, reaching down to hook them by the laces and hang them on his closet rack. Tonight is one of those nights where he misses his old bedroom, and the houses in Lima. Both have fond memories, one for being where he grew up with his mother, the second where he grew up with Finn. He’s lived in several places, but none of them have been home yet.

He wonders if the key is his dad. Because as much as he loves his apartment, home still feels like an empty house in Lima.

He wants to flop onto the bed, instead he sits down on it, slowly leaning back so his feet dangle over the edge. His fingers tap over his stomach, tracing the crisp material of his vest and fingering the gold chain that pools over his ribs.

“Ignore me, I’ve had a long week, and I’m pretty sure that Puck is considering making this living arrangement permanent. Finn too. They both seem impressed with my magically refilling refrigerator and the invisible maid service that picks up their wet towels from my Van Der Rohe divan. How’s Carole?”

“Kurt.”

“I promise I’ll tell you everything, okay? I want to hear you talk for a little bit.”

“Carole’s great. I’m great. From what I hear, the garage is doin’ great... politics though, those still suck.” Burt rattles off like rapid-fire. “Now that we’re caught up, what the hell is eating you?”

“Why does something have to be eating me?”

“Kurt, I can count on one hand the number of times you actually wanted to sit back and listen to small talk. You’re a guy who’s gotta lot to say, so you tellin’ me that you suddenly just want to hear my voice... ? I have half a mind to go inside and get my keys, because it sounds like something’s wrong.”

Kurt smiles, because as frustrating as his father’s no-nonsense can be, he really does miss him. As much as Kurt’s life has changed in the last week, Burt is a constant. “I went out with this guy. Not out, but he showed me something today, and it was really important to him.”

“Keep talking... I’m sure you’ll eventually get to the point.” Somehow, Burt’s voice sounds warm. Any other man saying the same thing would be written off as rude, but Kurt hears only affection mired with slight irritability. No matter how old Kurt gets, Burt is always insisting that a four hour drive is nothing on the turnpike.

“He’s going to lose it-- the thing he showed me? We’re in this weird place where he can’t decide if he wants me gone, or if he wants to ask for my help. I’ve offered, he’s said no... and you know what? I don’t think he’s ever going to ask for my help. I think I have to Rachel Berry myself into his life and drain out every ounce of his resistance until he’s powerless to do anything but accept my help.”

Burt’s voice softens, familiar with Kurt’s drama. For all that Burt hems and haws that people don’t make sense, he understands them a lot better than Kurt thinks he’ll ever give himself credit for. “Well, when he’s ready to ask for help, he will. There’s nothin’ you can do.” His insight is generally spot on, and there’s no one whose opinion Kurt values more.

That doesn’t mean that Kurt always likes his father’s answers. He immediately clucks the tip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“Whaddya want me to say, Kurt? Men are stubborn. You’re stubborn. He probably knows by now that you won’t give up until you’re ready to, and he’s damn lucky that you care.”

“We’re meeting for coffee again in a few days. I have no idea what I’m going to say.”

“Who is this guy, anyway? He sounds like a friggin’ idiot.” The words lack bark. Burt sounds resigned to the fact that any man Kurt invites into his life is going to be an emotionally stunted moron.

“I don’t really know him, dad.” This is the part where he can elaborate or clam up. “Things are complicated because we’re both apparently friggin’ idiots.”

“This conversation is about to become a whole lot harder, isn’t it?” His father sighs raggedly, but otherwise doesn’t stop Kurt from continuing. It seems like it’s his father’s invitation to elaborate.

“What do you mean?” Kurt freezes, crushing the chain between the pad of his thumb and forefinger.

“I think there’s only a few reasons for you to care this much for some guy you just met. And because you’re not being completely forthcoming, which you normally are, it’s pretty clear to me why. Am I wrong?”

Kurt flushes hard, tears prickling in his eyes for the first time since the night he met Blaine. He sniffs, wiping his eyes before they even fall. He can’t help but think that his father would be ashamed if he knew. Kurt’s ashamed now. Sex has always been easy to come by, but Kurt had never thrown himself away. He knows now what his father meant by sex doing something to his heart, to his self esteem.

“I didn’t think, I wanted to- so I did.” Kurt is vague, because his father can only handle vague. They never dealt in the graphic details of Kurt’s sex life. Never. They only had the sex talk after Santana had made some crass intimations over spring break their freshman year. He’d heard it before he needed it, though. He still has the pamphlets, because he can’t bear to throw them away-- the thought of his father asking for them in a free clinic makes him smile in a place that’s both humbled and sadistic.

“You uh... you used...” his father stammers, and Kurt can imagine him pacing up and down a sidewalk somewhere in D.C., cupping his mouth around the receiver of his phone so no one can hear.

Kurt laughs at that, a wet noise coughing out of his throat. “It didn’t come to that, but I still think I need your help."

“What the heck is going on up there, Kurt?”

“My life isn’t out of control if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m not throwing myself around, I just made a stupid mistake.”

Burt exhales heavily into the receiver, not sounding comforted by Kurt’s reassurances at all. “Tell me what you need me to do. Whatever it is, we’re gonna get through it together, like we always have- okay?”

Kurt wants to be relieved, but all he hears is Finn’s comment about how Kurt’s actions reflect on Burt. What happened at the club may be a private scandal, but it’s one that could have a greater cone of influence if that secret got out. He didn’t think. "I'm sorry."

“Hey, come on. Don't do that, don't apologize for asking for help. It makes you a good man-- and if you care about somethin', I care. So, tell me what it is that needs to be done, and I'll make sure it's done."