"My my my Mister Anderson, don't you scrub up well?" Kurt said breathlessly as he sauntered into Blaine's room. Blaine was standing in front of his full length mirror, staring at himself in the classic black tuxedo Kurt had presented him with and fiddling with the silk of his bowtie, trying to tie it for the forth time. "I tried," he replied dejectedly "Tonight of all nights I can't tie my tie and my hair is a mess as usual. I'm going to look terrible compared to everyone there, compared to you." Blaine raked his eyes across Kurt's form taking in the slim cut of his grey slacks and the cinching waist of his teal suit jacket, the perfect coif of his hair and the neatness of the knot at his throat.

An indignant huff escaped him as his head thumped against the glass. Kurt chuckled at Blaine's petulant behaviour, smile broad as he turned him around to face him. "You look breathtakingly handsome Blaine." He said sincerely, taking his hands "I'll help you with your tie and your hair and as for the others at the gala, none of them could ever compare to you tonight." He tugged Blaine into the bathroom, and Blaine hopped up onto the counter without the elegance his fine suit would suggest he possessed.

Blaine tipped his head back obediently, baring his throat as Kurt tied his bowtie with apparent expertise. Peering down at him with crossed eyes he watched Kurt, concentrating adorably hard, with the slightest sliver of pink tongue poking out between his lips. He let out a small chuckle as Kurt took a step back and reached for the product. "You look about five years old when you concentrate" he said fondly and Kurt glared at him playfully, "and you look about five years old whenever."

Despite valiantly trying to look affronted Blaine laughed heartily, throwing his head back as Kurt came toward him with hands doused in hair mousse. "Yes very funny Borat," Kurt said grinning "now stay still."

~*~

"Kurt!" Mathew, Kurt's agent, whispered harshly as Kurt was subtly trying to walk past him to obtain another glass of Champagne. Rolling his eyes and gritting his teeth Kurt made his way toward the stout man with a somewhat pleasant smile fixed firmly in place. "Mathew, nice to see you" he tried jovially, but his pleasantries were not returned. "Cut the crap Hummel," Mathew said sharply "can you please explain to me why you bought some fucking kid to the literary event of the year?" His disgusted tone made Kurt's blood simmer but arguing with the guy that called the shots was never a good idea. "You asked me to bring a date so I did."

"You're not actually dating the kid are you?" He asked, incredulous.

"Well um no well- sort of- I don't know it just-" Mathew cut him off.

"You know what; I don't want to know if you're fucking him just tell me where you found him, he looks like he's still in school."

"He's my roommate and he's an art student at NYU." Kurt gushed proudly in the face of Mathew's scornful scrutiny. "That's all we need," he muttered in reply, rolling his eyes obnoxiously "some talentless doe eyed ‘bohemian' following you around like a lost lamb." Kurt clutched his Champagne flute so tightly he was surprised it didn't shatter in his palm. He turned on Mathew, agent and industry big shot be damned.

"No, you know what I don't need?" He asked eyes blazing as he towered over the portly man "I don't need some fake, narcissistic snob telling me what to do with my personal life as well as my career, and if you're really such a literary connoisseur then I'm sure you'll have no problem perfecting your résumé."

"Y-you can't be serious!" Mathew all but screeched back "All this for a fuck toy!" Kurt grabbed him by the lapels of his god awful aubergine double breasted suit jacket. "If I so much as hear another utterance of your vile you cantankerous asshole I swear I'll have you blacklisted from every publishing agency, news outlet, writer and journalist across the whole of North America."

"You can't- wouldn't-"

"You fucking try me Hawkes!" Kurt pushed him roughly back into the stone pillar before stalking off. He swapped his empty glass for a full one, flashing a tight smile at the startled looking waiter and waded his way though various writers and critics that vied for his attention.

He was caught suddenly by an old college friend who he tolerated enough to decide that he probably should talk to someone that night. As he chatted noncommittally his eyes drifted across the crowd until they fell on Blaine, standing alone on the outskirts of the party, inspecting the hall's vast array of sculptures and paintings. He smiled around his next sentence, excusing himself to join him, still fiddling with his bowtie and daintily clutching the same Champagne flute he'd been given once he'd arrived in slightly shaking hands.

It was mediocre at best, the painting Blaine found himself appraising as Kurt came up beside him, taking his hand away from his tie and holding it in his own. He directed a twitchy smile up at him, nerves and a giddy excitement bubbling inside him. "You are positively shaking are you okay?" Kurt frowned, concerned, still feeling the remnants of the fury Mathew's words had incurred within him rumble like distant drums. "I'm fine" he replied brightly, squeezing Kurt's hand in reassurance "just a little anxious with all these eyes on me, it's like I can barely move without someone following my every step, and I can barely breathe without hearing someone whisper behind my back."

"We can leave you know," Kurt nonchalantly suggested "I hate half the people here anyway." Blaine chuckled, smiling slightly.

"I doubt your agent would be very fond of me whisking you away."

"He's not my agent," Kurt said, terse and clipped "at least, not anymore." Blaine raised an eyebrow as if to ask what had happened but he knew better than to bring it up. Judging by the sharp set of his jaw, the issue was best left alone. "Anyway, I'm sure no one would miss us."

They made their way along the wall, staring distractedly at the pieces of art that lined them. The collection was unimpressive but enough to distract them from all that was left unsaid, unasked. "Everyone would miss you here" especially me "you're the guest of honour aren't you?"

"How did you-" stuttered Kurt.

"I may be young Kurt but I'm not stupid. It's not hard to eavesdrop at events like this, I speak from experience." Blaine cut him off quietly, his demeanour eerily calm. He took a deep breath, staring forward at the simply framed watercolour ahead of him "I know about Chicago." Kurt opened his mouth to speak but he found it dry, the lump in his throat burning and unmovable. His first instinct was to offer reassurances, ease the look of steely resolve shadowing Blaine's sweet face. He could offer none however; anything more would be a lie, a hasty placation that wouldn't fool anyone, least of all Blaine. Blaine who had been lied to one too many times, loved so deeply, trusted too easily.

"Blaine I-" but Blaine silenced him with a look, eyes resolute but beginning to betray him. "It's okay." He whispered, smiling gently and tangling their fingers together he let out a breathy laugh as he looked down at them before closing his eyes. He took a breath in and then out slowly and Kurt knew that the wounds he'd so desperately tried to help heal had begun to tear at the seams, stitches fraying slowly. "Blaine..." He choked out willing time to rewind, stop or at the very least slow for him, give him time to figure it out or spend just one more minute with him, blissfully happy for once in a lost boy's life.

"Just dance with me." He said simply, gently pulling him onto the dance floor and wrapping himself around him. Kurt could feel the tremors running through Blaine's body, buried under extravagance that stifled him and made him shrink. Blaine's face was buried in his neck where Kurt couldn't see. He shut his eyes, clutching Blaine tight as the guilt and frustration sunk deep in his chest, burrowing its way through his ribcage like a parasite, straight to the heart.

They danced until the night came to an end, wrapped up in each other as the quartet played pieces that they neither knew nor paid any heed to. Dozens of people started to approach them but Kurt's tempest eyes kept them at bay, scurrying back to their canapés and caviar with their tails firmly between their legs. On and on they danced until Blaine became heavy in his arms and the only people who remained were themselves and the wait staff. They shuffled out of the venue discarding Blaine's half empty Champagne flute on their way out. They kissed sweetly, arms slung around waists as they made their way to the cab, bundling in and slumping against the leather seats. Unsurprisingly, Blaine fell asleep in a matter of minutes, cheek resting on Kurt's shoulder, his soft breaths warming his skin. Never before had Kurt gazed at the second star to the right and wished so hard for Neverland.

~*~

Blaine stood quietly at the fire escape, bundled up against the night air in pyjama pants and a sweater that swamped his form but he was warm and content in that moment. He had expected a sense of panic to overwhelm him but it seemed that years of exposure had desensitised him to such disappointments as the unexpected departure of a lover, if that was indeed what they were, lovers. He felt strangely calm as he watched over the city that never sleeps, breeze tousling his curls into further disarray, the bustle of city life a stark contrast to the stillness he felt inside. Supposedly it was the calm before the storm, or the eye of the hurricane where he could not sense of feel beyond the paralysis that had seized his heart and mind.

It was on the roof of a house, a house far from New York that Blaine lay under the gaze of stars that had long since died, his brother at his side. They had escaped from the annual Anderson family reunion and taken refuge on the roof top, frostbitten air burning their lungs as if in punishment for their avoidance of the equally cold Anderson clan.

"What is love?" Blaine had blurted and Cooper had given him that look, the one that somehow managed to convey affection and condescension in a  simple arch of an eyebrow and jut of his chin. "It is a gift," he said plainly, his gaze steady with the certainty his twenty one years of wisdom and maturity had afforded him "it's euphoria and it's paralysis and..."

"And?" Blaine had urged, wide eyed and awed and so young.

"You will always be happily terrified to give and receive it."

Blaine didn't flinch as he heard the metallic sounds of Kurt making his way onto the fire escape. He looked up as Kurt once again wrapped himself around him. He looked up at the stars a fond but bitter smile gracing his lips and thought oh how painfully right you were.

~*~

As much as Blaine adored the mornings, nothing could compare to talking into the night and falling asleep, bodies entwined, with someone you cared about. They chose Blaine's bed that night, it was smaller, an excuse to be closer, and Blaine felt much more sane in his own bed, safe in the knowledge he would not get lost in dreams and stray from what was real. Kurt lay curled tightly around him, strong arms around his waist and head resting on his chest. His fingertips grazed along Blaine's ribs, tracing the tattoo that adorned the skin there.

"Is there a meaning behind this particular work of art?" Kurt whispered as he brushed back and forth reverently over the ink stained skin. The design was simple, beautiful black feathers falling from his chest across his ribs to gather in a pile at his right hip. The feathers were far more intricate than Kurt would've assumed possible to be etched into skin. In each feather hid a word, just noticeable enough to serve as a reminder, words such as fight, create, live, courage, hope and love. "They're all things I want to do and possess" Blaine said quietly, smiling down at Kurt's gentle hands "They were added at different points in my life, things I needed after failures and things I had gained after triumphs."

Kurt stayed silent contemplating so Blaine continued. "Of course you don't have to have some deep story behind a tattoo. What would you get if you were to get inked?" Kurt deliberated for a moment, placing a kiss over the feather that read ‘hope'. "I would get a compass and then the words ‘second star to the right and straight on till morning'."

"Peter Pan? Any particular reason?" Blaine asked, fingers playing with Kurt's slightly damp hair. "It was my favourite bedtime story when I was young." Kurt explained "My mother used to read it to me. When she died, when I was eight, I used to wish that I had been a lost boy and grown up without a mother instead of having to lose one. I wanted to be Peter, even though he could be cruel and heartless. I wanted to be a boy forever and never have to care about loss or loneliness again."

"I'm so sorry Kurt." Blaine whispered, tears burning behind his eyes as he thought of Kurt, scared, young and lonely. "It's okay. As I grew up I learnt that losing her was so much better than never having heard her laugh or seen her smile, or helped her bake on Saturday's. If I had never known her, then I'd truly be lost." Kurt spoke through the lump in his throat and simply shuffled closer, fingertips still tracing Blaine's right side. "I think you should get it." Blaine said adamantly "for your mom and for yourself. I'll design it for you if you like."

"You'd do that for me?" Kurt leaned up on his elbows and looked down on Blaine. "Of course, I'll even go with you to get it. How's your pain threshold?"

"Don't you worry Anderson, I'm tougher than I look." Kurt grinned, before settling back on Blaine's chest. "I'm just asking because I seriously underestimated how much getting a tattoo across my ribs was gonna hurt. I don't think I stopped swearing once and it took a long time to finish."

"I don't mind the pain," Kurt mumbled against his skin, eyelids beginning to droop slightly "it'll be worth it in the end."

"It will." Blaine muttered drifting off to sleep quickly.

"Dreams do come true, if only we wish hard enough. You can have anything in life if you will sacrifice everything else for it."