"Are you going to tell me what happened?" Blaine asks across the dinner table.

It's been four days. Four days and the mirror has been replaced, Kurt's cut bandaged and disinfected, the carpet stains are gone, and the phone is repaired, the beer bottles have been recycled and the bed is righted. Four days and neither man had brought the incident to light. There used to be a time when confessions were superficial, a concern of high school relationships or ripped clothing. There was a sense that nothing hung in the balance, everything equal and sweet.

Four days. And Blaine has been working extra hours, while Kurt stays at home...waiting.

Blaine works at a recording studio across town: "Blackbird Records." In fact, he's the head boss. It was always his dream to make music, and now he can sufficiently say he has succeeded. At least to the public eye; for in reality, Blaine did not account for what his dream job would entail. True, he assists in making music, but most of his hours are ingested by paperwork. Never did he suspect the equipment to need constant replacement, or for bickering musicians to require a new salary every month, or rent to steep with their growing success.

He supposes he should feel elated, they are finally on the map; producing tracks for R&B artists like Mercedes Jones and rock bands like Pedestrian. They have achieved recognition and are slowly, but steadily, gaining more and more hits.

But Blaine doesn't make music, does he? Truthfully, he watches others perform and write, sing out their souls and produce magical crescendos. He provides the stage and they make the show. He is now a part of the shadows, where only Kurt can see him.

Kurt, who after being an assistant designer for Vogue.com retired at the young age of 26. Age was a funny thing in the fashion business. Apparently, to outlive the models one either needed to be a true fashion designer, or a titan in skin. Which, unfortunately, was not Kurt's title. Hardworking? Prompt? Creative? Sure; but overall he lacked an apparently required spark of attitude. A ruthlessness that didn't affiliate with colors and patterns, it dominated everyone else and neglected the more romantic connotations. Kurt, much to his own chagrin, was unable to develop said characteristic and reluctantly stopped after receiving a handsome check of $15,000.00.

He spends his days writing a blog, something to tide the more ludicrous musings of his mind. It garners at least $300 per month, but pales in comparison to his glamorous vogue job. In all actuality, Kurt feels...hollow. He misses the adrenaline rush and ceaseless movement. Now he's stationary; an eclipsed moon. He watches Blaine go and come, whilst remaining at the unsteady desk in their living room.

"I got a call from Lima." Kurt states quietly, throat clogged.

"And?" Blaine inquires, fear beginning to thrum with each drawing minute Kurt remains silent. "Tell me."

"...Sebastian Smythe died." Kurt utters, tone scratched with melancholy.

Blaine stares back, perplexion and shock draining his face.

"He...He was beaten, gay-bashed. Trent, he um, called me." Kurt whispers. His eyes remain vacant, focusing on his reflection in the glassy tabletop. His expression carries a dead frown, heavy on the once passionate porcelain.

"Why?" Blaine finally says.

"I think he was trying to reach y-"

"No...why did you react the way you did?"

Kurt's voiceless, incapable of meeting Blaine's intimidating gaze. He feels hot and guilty, as if he had done the beating. Wooziness peeps behind his eyes, a familiar disorienting feeling.

"Kurt, why?" Blaine says firmly. "Please tell me." He concedes a minute later, now desperate for Kurt's attention.

"I-I, um, I don't know...I'm sorry."

With finality Blaine pushes his half-full plate away. A dish Kurt had spent 2 hours preparing, out of boredom and, admittedly, shame. He wipes his chin with the table napkin and stands up, walking across the table to Kurt's bent form, curled into him. Gently he kisses Kurt's head.

"I love you" He says, concern shining behind the pools of honey-brown.

"I love you, too" Kurt whispers back, voice now cracking with unshed tears.

"Let's go to bed."

"'Kay, I'll be there in a minute. Have to clean up the table."

"Okay."

They both move away quietly. An awkward-worried hush has fallen upon them.

***

As Blaine climbs into bed he releases a content sigh at the cooling fabric against his bare back. Arms outstretched, they glide underneath Kurt's pillow, only to be met with a plastic container. Confused, he extracts a small bottle from it's hideout. And there, printed on the label reads:

Kurt Hummel

Benzodiazepine. 25ml.

Take by mouth once everyday.

Complete and utter shock.

At the creak of a floorboard he quickly hides the bottle back, just as Kurt enters the room with an unaware smile. As Kurt rounds the corner into the bathroom, Blaine can't help but stare. For the first time ever, he does not know who Kurt is, or more so, what he's become; what they've become.