Later that morning, Blaines sprawled face down in his bed. Kurts left for work, and the bang of the door still hangs in Blaines ears.

Kurt was flushed and frazzled, adjusting his scarf as he skittered out Blaines bedroom door and pelted down the hall—all the while grousing about being in imminent danger of missing the train. The last thing Blaine heard from him was one last apology to Blaine for having to run out on him so utterly appallingly rudely.

"Its fine, Im good, I promise!" Blaine called back, but the door had already slammed shut, and Kurt was gone.

And now Blaine is alone. His lungs release a long sigh of their own volition, and Blaine stretches tentatively. He aches this morning: not much and its the good kind for the most part, but he notes a handful of less friendly twinges. Still, hes got no cause for complaint. The tension hed sensed at breakfast evaporated as the morning passed. How much of it was within him and how much in Kurt, Blaines less sure, but its been easier since he established his intentions for himself more explicitly: clear, uncomplicated, safe.

Through his high window, the sun shines a steep beam across his bed and his body. It heats the backs of his thighs. Under his arms his t-shirt makes an uncomfortable wadded band, and in the dip of his lower back Kurts semen pools. Blaines buttocks hum with the memory of recent friction and grow tacky as his lube-mingled sweat dries.

Overall, its a lovely sensual squalor in which to dwell. Blaine relishes the unsatisfied throb of his cock beneath his belly. Since Kurt hasnt asked him to save his orgasm for later, Blaine tucks a hand under his hips and cups himself with his open palm. Lazily he swivels his hips and lets his eyes close. Thats good.

He replays the confidence of Kurts hands on his body, settling him into place just how Kurt wanted him; the pressure of Kurts fingertips boring into the flesh of his ass cheeks, spreading him before settling his cock between them. And then holding him snug around his shaft and sliding, sliding, sliding. Blaine shuddered in sympathetic satisfaction when Kurt came, long and hot and wet upon his skin. He shudders again now at the memory.

But then Kurt caught sight of the time and scrambled off the bed. "Shit. I needed to go, like five minutes ago. " He yanked his underwear and trousers on together and shrugged on his shirt. "Im sorry, I cant—"

Blaine pushed himself up to his elbows and handed Kurt his phone. "Its all right," he said. It was.

"Im not that guy," Kurt insisted while tottering on one leg as he yanked and wiggled a gray canvas derby over his heel. "Rutrunner? Rub-n-run?" He flashed a self-deprecating grin. "Frottage-and-flee? I dont want to be that guy."

"I know. I know, Kurt. Youre not."

Kurts smile morphed into his familiar one: relieved and grateful. And that was all Blaine required. Simple.

Thus its Kurts smile that fills Blaines mind when he comes, grinding into his open hand and releasing all his pent up want into the slow shivering strain of completion.

Again, Blaine sighs all the air from his lungs and sinks into his mattress, spent and content. Nothing urgent compels him to get up. He could let himself drift off—deal with the mess later. But the fatigue in his muscles tells him he should summon the energy to stretch while hes still warm, lest he grow too stiff. His bodys overtaxed, unused to this kind and frequency of use.

And really, the rational part of his mind knows hell also regret falling asleep without cleaning up. With a sigh of less contentment, Blaine reaches for the wipes with his clean hand.

His phone vibrates, abrupt and muffled from the pocket of his jeans, which are crumpled on the floor just beyond easy reach. Kurt mustve forgot something in his rush out the door. Blaines phone buzzes an impatient two-step.

"Just a sec," Blaine mumbles as he rolls to get up. Wetness creeps down his back. He scrubs his palm and hooks a toe into a belt loop to drag his pants closer. Bends to fish out his phone. He answers warmly, "Forget something, Mr. Hump Hustler?"

"Excuse me?" says a voice that most definitely does not belong to Kurt. "Blaine? Is that you?"

Crap. "Hey... Mom. Hi! Sorry, I was expecting someone else." Blaine prays his mother didnt make out much of his greeting. Crap.

"How are you, dear?" she says. "I got your email."

"Oh, right, good! Im fine, I just, uh..." Blaine reaches for his briefs and cranes his neck to trap the phone against his shoulder while he pulls them over his feet. He cant talk to his mom while hes naked. "I just got back from a... a run. I was about to hit the shower. Can I call you b—"

"Ill be quick," she says, though she rarely is. "I wanted to let you know our anniversary plans."

"Okay," Blaine says. He winces as he stands and pulls his underpants over his ass. Today is destined to be a laundry day.

"Were coming to spend the weekend in New York!" she says.

"Oh, thats..." Blaines stomach knots. "...great."

"I got tickets for your father and I to see The King and I revival. The Hendersons saw it last month and cant stop raving about it. I thought wed make some reservations at Tavern on the Green for a romantic dinner in the park and—"

"Tavern on the Green closed in 2009. I think its a visitors center now?"

"Oh, really? Thats too bad." She pauses and Blaine awkwardly tries to wipe up the mess at the small of his back. "Where would you recommend?"

"Uh," Blaine says. "I dont know. Its not like Im spending a lot of my evenings at New Yorks four star restaurants. But theres a lot of pre-theater prix fixe options around Broadway."

"No, no. Well be attending a matinee, and I want dinner to be spectacular and unhurried afterward. Something romantic. Memorable, you understand."

"Right, romance in New York. Of course."

"Well, hey, darling, you could scout something out for us. Take a friend and put it on the American Express."

Thats his card for school related expenses and emergencies only. Of all the things for her to offer to pay for—its rarely ever been something he actually needed or especially wanted. "Cant you just look up reviews on Yelp or Grub Street or something? Ill send you some links, okay?"

"Mmm, no, I dont think so," she says. "Well only be celebrating this milestone once. I want the night to be absolutely perfect. Id rather get a recommendation from you than from random strangers on the internet. And really, Blaine, when was the last time you treated yourself?"

"Okay, fine. Sure." Blaine relents, for she has that tone of voice against which hes learned not to push. "I can do it."

"Oh, good heavens, Blaine, dont make it sound like a chore. I need your help."

"No, Im not, I just—Im tired after my run and—"

"Right, well, let me go ahead and give you our itinerary anyway. Do you have paper and pen? Well be staying at The Beekman and flying into JFK—"

"Mom, really, I need to hit the shower and get something to eat, okay? I dont have anything to write with, can you email it to me?"

"Hmm," she says. The click of her mouse and the tap of her keyboard is audible over the line. He hopes shes not planning on typing it while on the phone.

"Just find the email from your agent and forward it to me, all right? You dont have to type it out."

"Oh, right," she says. A few more clicks and she asks, "Do you have it?"

"Yes," he says without checking. "Thanks, Mom, but I need to go."

After hes hung up, Blaine tosses his phone to the bed and says, emphatically, "Well, fuck."

##

After a shower and two curried chicken salad sandwiches, Blaine strips his sheets and takes them down to the laundry in the buildings basement. Kurt assured him that the laundry is secure; hes never lost anything, so Blaine sets a timer on his phone, leaves the sheets to wash and goes back up to the apartment.

He stands and stares at his keyboard and evaluates his present level of motivation and energy for sitting down and working. Its honestly not much. Outside its sunny and breezy with low humidity. Hed maybe feel better working in the living room with more light and air. Its surely no accident Kurt works from the dining table.

So he lugs out his keyboard and its stand. Shifts a chair to make room to set himself up facing the window with the breeze from the river wafting in to gently sway and tap the blinds against the open windows.Today he doesnt want to work from a film clip. Hes got a snarl of emotion to untangle, and that should be enough to fuel a days work. But when he sits and lays his hands upon the keys, despite his best intentions, his mind resolves into nothing more useful than paralyzed psychic static. He doesnt hear the music to accompany the creep of dread.

Its not like his life is a horror movie anyway. He doesnt want his parents to come to New York. Thats the largest portion of the mental noise. New York has become his personal haven. His life here is wholly his own, unencumbered by his past—or as close as it can be. Having his family come to the city? Its an intrusion. Especially now that hes living with Kurt. If hes still living with Kurt in three weeks time.

Regardless, he doesnt want his parents visiting him here. He doesnt want to have to explain or hide or lie to their faces. He doesnt want them looking at Kurt and looking at him and speculating. As far as Blaines been able to tell, his mothers lived for years with the belief that all hes ever done with a boy is hold hands and share chaste kisses. And his Dad? Who knows. He just doesnt want Kurt in the same place as his parents, or his parents in the place where he lives and relaxes and smiles and... happily fucks his roommate several times a day.

His parents have a way of causing him to doubt his choices even when Blaine knows better. Its exhausting and unsettling and not even something he can rail against or address with them, because it happens in the lacunae of their conversations: the things that go unspoken, unheard, or forgotten; a detail wrongly assumed or glibly elided; a too long pause or an averted gaze; a subject changed or retelling of the past in a different hue. Just a little skew of interpretation to erase some smidgen of conflict or tension or misalignment of expectations, so that everything can be—always—perfectly, tidily fine.

Blaine stands and walks around his keyboard to be closer to the window. From his back pocket his phone chirps, just once. A text.

Its from Kurt. "I forgot to say thank you this morning. So, thank you :)"

Thats a nice salve, reading the words and understanding their gratitude is meant. One person he hasnt let down. "Youre welcome," he types, and then—in a little burst of rebellion against his whole upset mood—adds, "Of course, youre welcome to me anytime." It is, despite his resolution this morning, flirtatious, but only as an anodyne reassurance: a simple statement of truth. In case Kurt needs to hear it again. Still, Blaine adds a more prosaic counterpoint, to keep it lightweight and simple: "Did you catch your train?"

"I did, barely." Kurt sends back.

"Im glad. Ill set an alarm tomorrow."

"Good idea. See you tonight. Ill text again when Im omw."

"OK. Enjoy your afternoon!"

Fortified by Kurts appreciation, Blaine decides he doesnt want to channel frustration into his work today after all. A phone call from his mother shouldnt have that much power. But he stills feels blocked, so an afternoon of woolgathering may be more fruitful than plinking about uselessly. He charges his phone while he checks in on his laundry and washes up his lunch dishes. He searches for nearby spots of interest: a local gym that offers Hatha yoga classes, a comic book shop, and some options to scout as potential lunch spots with Sam tomorrow. He puts from his mind both his anxiety and what his mothers tasked him with, grabs a light jacket, and heads out into the gleaming summer day.

As Blaine walks, he watches people, and lets himself absorb the energy around him. He seeks and finds the beauty in the cityscape and her inhabitants. The sun on his face and the breeze on his skin are easy companions to the rugged music of the urban landscape itself: the heartbeat pulse of the traffic and the mass transit, inhaling and exhaling people at each bus and subway stop.

The gym offers free tours, so he does that. An intimidatingly buff and spray-tanned guy in red spandex shorts shows him around. Tries to sell Blaine a personal training session, and when Blaine declines then offers him a complimentary one with a membership sign up. Blaine smiles, shakes his head, and asks, "Do you have an up-to-date schedule for the yoga classes?" He leaves equipped with a yoga schedule and a lingering, too green taste of a freebie wheat grass shot in his mouth. Wonders if its true that it makes semen taste better, but doesnt expect hell ask for feedback. That would probably be weird.

On his way from the gym to the comic shop, Blaine checks out diner and cafe menus. He makes notes on his phone for the ones that would appeal most to Sam. He detours past the Navy Yard and considers going in to see if he can find Arties studio space, but he doesnt want to turn up without asking Artie in advance. So he carries on.

Squeezed in between a pharmacy and a bike repair shop, the comic shop is narrow with hand painted signage. Its brick interior is whitewashed and the newest and hottest releases are in a glossy black display. Blaine smiles at the girl behind the register. She glances up at him with a nod. Her braided hair is aubergine purple and on the side of her neck is a tattoo of an origami unicorn. Under a fuzzy crocheted cardigan, she wears a Lego Batman t-shirt. Bowies "The Man Who Sold the World" plays loudly enough Blaine doesnt attempt any conversation.

As he makes his way deeper into the store, it becomes more cluttered with precarious stacks of board games, a small section selling vintage vinyl LPs, a locked case of various collectible figurines, a rack of t-shirts, a Darth Maul cardboard standee, shelves of manga, and finally the wide tables of older comics. He browses idly, but nothing really catches his eye until he spots a 1988 Graphitti edition of Watchmen gathering dust on a narrow ledge. Blaine lifts it down to check its price: a steal for eighty-five bucks. Carefully he slides the book from its faux leather slipcase. It doesnt have a signed book plate, which may explain the relatively low price. He gently opens it to admire the panels in their original colors.

He doesnt need it; his paperback edition remains in perfectly good shape. This isnt the sort of book you necessarily buy for reading anyway. Furthermore, hes not got the cash on him and god knows hes got more important things to spend his money on, but...

He slips the American Express out of his wallet and takes the book to the counter.

With the new book tucked under his arm, Blaine heads toward Cadman Plaza Park, following the directions his phone gives him. On the way he buys a scoop of pistachio gelato, and finds a bench under the shade of the London planetrees on which to sit with it. Some kids play Frisbee on the green with the World War II memorial as their backdrop. The traffic going up the ramp to the bridge sets a grumble beneath the rustle of summer leaves.

His mind strays to his parents visit, and Blaine catches the tension in his jaw and the furrowing of his brow. He watches the people in the park and takes a deep breath, releases it. Repeats that until hes shed the tension from his body. Then he reminds himself, softly but out loud, "Im living the life I want, and Im proud of the person I am." Its simple enough to then list a handful of things for which hes grateful today: pistachio gelato, living in this city, making a new friend in Kurt, and looking forward to lunch with Sam tomorrow. He sets aside the empty cup and plastic spoon, verifies his hands are still clean, and slips Watchmen first from its paper bag, and then from its slipcase. He skims through, looking for the extras, and pauses to take in Dave Gibbons early character designs.

As the sun dips westward, Blaine slides the comic back into its slipcase and paper bag and makes his way home. He makes his bed, moves his keyboard back into his bedroom, and indulges no guilt for not composing anything today.

##

At roughly the same time as yesterday, his phone chirps with Kurts expected text: "Be there in 15. I'd like to find you the way I left you this morning. If I may?"

"Oh," Blaine says to himself, reads the text again, and flushes hot. He types a reply: "Ill make sure you find me wanting."

So Kurt has a plan, and Blaines intrigued. He goes to the bathroom to tidy up and then, back in his room, he strips down to his t-shirt, unmakes his bed into a careless rumple, and arranges himself just as he was when Kurt left, although the t-shirt bunched up under his arms is fresh, and his skin is dry and clean.

Blaine closes his eyes and waits, lets the anticipation build, slow and sweet.

When Kurt comes in, he doesnt speak. The sounds are ordinary enough and expected—the rattle of keys and the clunk of Kurts shoes coming off, his light tread down the hall, the babble of water in the bathroom—but they serve as wonderful foreplay. Lazily Blaine rubs his growing erection against his sheets.

The quality of sound and air pressure shifts when Kurt comes through his door. Blaine opens his eyes and watches Kurt, the nimble work of his fingers at the knot of his tie, then descending the buttons of his shirt, and, most tantalizingly, slipping the tongue of his belt free of the buckle. Its only when Kurt stands, naked, that he finally speaks. "Hi." Kurts lips broaden into a smile.

"Hey," Blaine replies.

Kurt comes to the bed, and the heat in his gaze is as naked as his skin. The stroke of his hand is warm down Blaines spine. "Close your eyes, please," Kurt says, and Blaine does.

This time when Kurts hands settle on Blaines backside and spread him open, its not his cock he lays there, but his mouth.

Blaine flashes hot in an instant. Its such a shocking tease. Brutal for his nerves, even though Kurts mouth is so soft and mild. The labile slip of his tongue, the tender press of his lips soon has Blaine gasping. "Please..."

"Hmm?" Its half-amused, and Kurt changes nothing of his present technique.

Blaine groans and squirms—which only makes Kurt tighten his hold on Blaine.

Relentlessly, he plies Blaine open with his mouth.

"Kurt... please."

A pause. "Please, what?" Kurt asks with a frayed whisper that betrays his seeming patience. But he resumes unhurried, the touch of his tongue tip now faint enough to be little more than ticklish. Less satisfaction only results in more wanting of it.

"Fuck," Blaine says. "Please, just... unh... fuck me. Fuck me."

"Oh," Kurt says, and presses a slow, maddeningly chaste (if anything about such an action could possibly be described as chaste) kiss to Blaines hole.

"Kurt," Blaine whines.

And, ah, there! Kurt rewards him with a tiny push into his yielding center.

Its not much, but Blaines strung so tight. "Oh god... oh, please, can you? Fuck me?"

Then Kurts mouth is gone, replaced with a fingertip that skates down Blaines cleft. "I can, but... youre not too sore after yesterday? I was going to get you off like this, and then ask you to blow me."

Blaine grunts and gets his knees under himself, but he keeps his eyes closed. "Dont care," he says and pushes his ass up. "Want it, want your cock in me, so bad, please?"

"Jesus," Kurt says. "You do want it, dont you?"

"Yes."

So Kurt fucks him, deep and achingly raw. And yes, Blaines a little sore, but he can ride that brittle edge of discomfort right through to the swelling pleasure that swamps every other thought or sensation. Kurt fucks him until hes driven dumb and incoherent, and Blaine comes, sobbing and softly wailing through it.

And Kurt mustve come too, because hes pulling out carefully straight away, and thats the worst part. Blaine winces at a sudden pang. His ass will need a break after this—a good twenty-four hours at least. Still, it was worth it. "Ow," he says before he cracks his eyes open and rolls over. "Thank you."

"Youre thanking me for ow?" Kurt asks. Hes smiling, but the wrinkle of his brow is concerned. "You sure youre all right?"

"I am, Im good, but I might need a day or two... off."

"Thats not a problem. Theres always options. Your ass can have a holiday."

"But Labor Days not for months."

Kurt laughs but wrinkles his nose. "Thats not even funny."

"But youre laughing, arent you?"

"Only out of pity."

"Ouch." Blaine laughs and arches his back so he can tug his t-shirt down. Then he adjusts his pillow behind his head. Kurts making no move to leave. Instead hes sitting and watching Blaine with an intensity thats got nothing to do with unfunny attempts at humor or overworked backsides. "What is it?" Blaine asks before he can stop himself.

Kurt presses his lips together and cocks his head, considering. When he speaks, he speaks slowly. "You do like it when I make you beg, right? Its not a fantasy only thing for you." Kurt says. His curiosity is somber and without any quality of judgment. "Because I know, sometimes, at least for me, there are things that turn out to be better in theory than in practice, and I— Sometimes its hard to tell the difference between the good sort of sexy frustration and the sort thats just flat out frustrating."

"Kurt, yes," Blaine whispers. His voice is suddenly full of static; he clears his throat to speak more clearly and with more volume. "Yes. I like it."

"Good. Okay. I wanted to be sure."

A trace of hesitancy remains in the flicker of Kurts gaze. Blaine asks, "Do you? Like when I beg for you?"

Kurt flushes and bows his head. "Actually? I really, really do." He drags a finger down Blaines breastbone to his navel. "And I really like it when you come around my cock while Im fucking you," Kurt says. "Like you just did."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Its so hot." Kurt peeks at him from behind bangs long gone floppy. Its a little shy when he continues, "But I dont..." He bites his lip as he trails off, frowns.

"You dont...? You dont like something? Something I did?"

Kurt shakes his head quickly; his shoulders stiffen. "Not you, but I dont like being made to beg, myself."

"Okay," Blaine says. "You told me you dont like being teased."

"No, I dont," Kurt says. "Some people—" Kurt pauses; his jaw clenches. He huffs an exhalation through his nose and then speaks. "I had a boyfriend. Who thought it was fun. Funny even sometimes? To see me desperate. He really got off on it, and I—" Kurts throat spasms and mutely he shakes his head.

"It wasnt fun for you," Blaine says softly. He catches Kurts restless fingers with his own.

"No."

"Im so sorry, Kurt."

"Please, I dont need you to be. I just wanted you to know why."

"Then thank you for telling me."

Still, theres little strength in Kurts smiled reply, and Blaine wants to be able to ease the affliction behind it. But Kurts made it clear thats not entirely Blaines role here, so Blaine tamps down the impulse. When Kurts gaze ticks away, Blaine squeezes his hand once and gently lets go. "Can I help you with dinner tonight? You need a sous chef?"

"Actually—I forgot to stop at the bakery. Would you mind running down to the corner and picking up a ciabatta? And maybe some sourdough, the pandoro? Oh—or their olive loaf. Eithers amazing. Your choice. Maybe a couple cornetti for breakfast too? Ill give you some cash."

"Id be happy to."

Sunnier now, Kurt says, "Thank you."

##

Its after dinner, and Kurts streaming the first season of Downton Abbey on the TV—its one of his go to comfort shows, he says. Makes for good background company. Blaines pleased to be able to say he enjoys it too, though he has to admit, "I didnt watch past the end of season three."

Kurt nods, "Yeah, losing both Sybil and Matthew was rough."

So they chat about the show while it patters away on low volume: their most (or least) favorite characters and story arcs, the thematic tension between past and future, and how the shows narrative presents the inevitability of change while exploring how humans choose to face it. At the dining table, Kurt is back at his pattern making, and Blaines folding laundry on the sofa.

Watching the servants do their work is the aspect of the show that most fascinates Blaine. The detail and precision and striving for perfection, the professionalism and seriousness of the servants in their vocation (for the most part, anyway), and the respect and gratitude they receive from their charges—it inspires him to take more care with his own folding, seeking symmetry and crisp folds in each t-shirt. He admires Mr. Carsons meticulous eye and Mr. Bates stoic determination.

Its the work of the valets and ladies maids thats especially captivating, for their intimate service—helping their lord or lady with bathing, dressing, and grooming—doesnt, to the best of Blaines knowledge, really exist in America. Maybe its just fond cross-cultural nostalgia, but he cant help but compare it, in some small—likely inappropriate—way, to the care he provides Kurt. Radically different, but still a personal service. Its a nice way to think about what hes doing here, to set himself alongside the dignified servants of a more sedate antique time, though he can only vainly aspire to their level of skill and excellence.

In the lull, "So how was your day?" Kurt asks.

"Oh," Blaine says. Kurts stretched across the table with his pencil and ruler and his eyebrows raised, looking genuinely interested to hear an answer. "Um, well..." Blaine wont mention his mothers call. Thats not anything he wishes to unpack with Kurt. "I went out exploring—found a gym with a good schedule of morning yoga classes, a neat little comic shop, and a great gelato spot—"

Kurt wrinkles his nose. "Yoga? Really? You do yoga?"

Blaine blinks. "Is that a problem?"

"No, just—you dont seem the type to go for the New Age fads," Kurt says.

"But its not really New Age, its an ancient practice."

"A spiritual one, somewhat misappropriated by soccer moms and celebrities."

"I get what you mean, but doesnt have to be like that," Blaine says. "Its good exercise, and the psychological benefits are real and rooted in neuroscience."

"Maybe. Its just not my thing, I guess?" Kurts grin is wry. "Despite the veneer of big city sophistication, sometimes I think Im still too much of a mechanics son from the Midwest. But mostly Im just not one for mysticism."

"No?"

"No. Though, I will admit—I did nearly take a yoga class at school just because the fundies were so against it, with all their yoga lets Satan in hue and cry. As an atheist I felt obliged to consider anything that bothered them that much, but then... well, it involved taking one gym class more than I was legally required to take to graduate. I took advanced sewing instead."

"Youre an atheist?"

"Is that a problem?" Kurt echoes, but with warmth.

"Not at all."

"Good."

"I was just surprised," Blaine says, and he cant help but add, "You dont seem the type, not being some kind of middle-aged evolutionary biologist. Isnt that the stereotype?"

"Or, you know, sexist libertarians," Kurt jokes. He sets down his ruler, and his fingers idly twirl his pencil. "Are you religious?"

"Not really? I went to an Episcopal church when I was growing up, but it wasnt something very serious for me. I liked the singing and the spectacle, but when I was old enough to opt out, I did."

Kurt bends back over the table. "Do you believe in God?"

"Im not sure? Definitely not the interventionist judgmental sort." Blaine says. He finishes folding the last t-shirt and sets it aside with the others. "I dont believe theres some old bearded white guy sitting up there watching us masturbate."

Kurt laughs. "Just tell me youre not a young earth creationist and well be okay."

"Oh, god no."

"And you believe in evolution."

"Of course."

"And the Big Bang."

"Well, sure," Blaine says, and he goes to lean against the back of the sofa, facing Kurt. "But theres still some mystery there, dont you think? Like, what caused it—something had to have caused it. Causality, thats pretty fundamental to the laws of physics."

"Except the laws of physics came into existence at the same time as the universe, so no, there doesnt need to be a cause in that sense."

"What I mean is, whatever triggered the Big Bang—maybe thats all God is. Some force that just set all this in motion. Maybe the laws of physics themselves are God? Does that make me a Deist? An agnostic Deist? Is that a thing?"

"I have no idea, but God of the Gaps is the worst God," Kurt says. "And its intellectually lazy. Whats wrong with something like vacuum fluctuations?"

"Vacuum fluctuations?"

"Its a quantum physics thing—in a perfect vacuum, particles will randomly burst into and out of existence." Kurt's eyes are bright, holding Blaine's. "The universe could be like that. A kind of bubble that spontaneously formed and expanded, and now here we are, talking about it. Its one idea, anyway."

"Quantum physics, huh. Is that a hobby of yours?"

"Goodness no, I don't have the right kind of brain for it, but I read."

"Well okay, so maybe thats God making those vacuum fluctuations? Hes out there somewhere blowing cosmic bubbles." Blaine gestures with one hand, miming little bursts. "Each one a universe."

Kurt rolls his eyes and straightens. "No points for that one. Youre not going to find a credible argument to convince me that God or any other god-like entity exists and created the universe, Blaine. You end up with the same problem: what created God?"

"Maybe God doesnt need to be created?"

"Ditto the universe. Turtles all the way down, Blaine. Not God, turtles."

Blaine laughs. "But you cant prove me wrong, can you?"

"Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence," Kurt says tartly, but hes still grinning. He points his pencil at Blaine. "And since youre the one making an extraordinary claim, the burden of proof is on you. Prove to me theres not a teapot orbiting Jupiter."

Blaine blows a raspberry at Kurt and then tilts his head; a smile tugs the corner of his mouth. "Or, you know, maybe were all just brains in jars and this is a pointless conversation because were stuck in a simulation. We have no idea what reality actually entails."

"Like The Matrix?"

"Mmhm, except fewer bodies and more sense-making plot. The machine overlords have harvested our brains for bonus processing power."

"But surely whatever bonus processing theyre getting from our networked brains is negated by the amount of processing power it takes to run the simulation."

"I'll concede that point," Blaine says.

"For what its worth, I abhor that kind of epistemological nihilism."

"Big words."

"Abhor only has five letters, its not that big."

"But look, everything we think we know comes through our senses and gets processed by our brains. We dont perceive reality directly, right? So in a sense, even if our understanding of our own brains and bodies is correct, we pretty much are brains in jars."

"Thats depressing. The idea we can't truly know anything?"

"Yeah, it really is."

"Its horrible. But I think the idea of God is horrible too. Maybe not your agnostic notion, but the omnipresent omnipotent guy who is supposed to be all things good and virtuous, but who advocates beating children and stoning women and condemning gays? I cant accept thats anything but absurd."

"Sure, but dont confuse the specific oppressive beliefs of some humans with the metaphysical question."

"But the metaphysical question at that level—calling the Big Bang event God? Seems kind of pointless? To me, anyway. Its just using different words for the same thing, and why choose to make it a supernatural agent just because we dont have a single, clear scientific answer yet?"

"Youre probably right, I just dont feel like I can claim certainty about some fundamentally unknowable things. Part of me at least wants to believe there's some kind of benign wish or intention binding all of this together, even if I can't prove it."

Kurt inclines his head in acceptance if not agreement.

"At any rate," Blaine says. "I do think you can have spirituality without a belief in a literal God. Were all connected to each other and to the universe by virtue of being made of it. You could come to yoga class with me and maintain your staunch atheist cred."

"Nice try. But, really, Blaine I prefer to do my Richard Simmons Sweatin to the Oldies workout in total privacy."

Blaine ducks his head as he laughs. "Right, okay, suit yourself."

"Id say you know me well enough by now to know that I indeed will."

##

Wednesday two oclock, Blaine waits on the street outside the little Dominican diner where hes meeting Sam for lunch. Its a triangular brick building perched on a tiny wedge of land between three streets. Its expansive plate glass windows reveal sunny yellow paint and stainless steel cafe chairs around wood topped tables. Blaine fiddles with his phone, and is in the middle of scrolling through silver service restaurant reviews when "Boo!" comes from over his shoulder.

Blaine pockets his phone and turns. "Hey, Sam."

"Hi!" Sams grinning and out of breath. Hes still in makeup from the shoot and his hair is fluffed up and styled into windswept waves. Hes in his street clothes: jeans that ride low and loose around his hips and an old Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt that still bears the faded ghost of a salsa spill. Blaine remembers both the outing where Sam bought the t-shirt and the night it acquired the stain. It pricks his heart with nostalgia for those early days in the city with Sam.

"Hungry?"

"Famished."

Inside the diner, the atmosphere is heavy with the smell of slow cooked chicken, peppers, and oregano. Sam gets a bowl of spicy chunks of fried chicken and Blaine a shrimp salad. They share a plate of fried eggplant.

"So how was the shoot?"

"It was cool. First thing, they had us up on the rooftop farm? The Brooklyn Grange. Posing with beehives and stuff. Rustic Urban Modern." Sam rolls his eyes. "Once the sun was up, they took us out on this antique fire tug on the river with the Navy Yard behind us. That one was, um, Maritime Vintage Industrial? They finished up in the park by the bridge. Classic NYC. The photographer said the light today was brilliant."

"Sounds like a fun shoot."

"Yeah—and just so you know—fisherman sweaters are going to be the big thing this fall."

"I bet you looked great." Its not hard to imagine it.

"Well, you know, thats my job," Sam says with a grin. "And hey, I got you some honey, honey." Sam bends to dig in his messenger bag and pulls out a squat glass jar. Sets it on the table between them.

"Why, Sam, what a sweet gift!" Blaine amps up the sentimentality.

"Anything for you, babe," Sam says with an exaggerated wink, before he digs into his giant bowl of chicken with the enthusiasm of a starving basset hound. In advance of the shoot, Sam will have been subsisting on unsweetened chia, almond milk, and raw cocoa smoothies.

Blaine picks at his salad with more delicacy.

"So hows it going with Kurt?" Sam asks around a mouthful.

Its the inevitable question, and Blaine should have prepared an answer. But he hasnt, so he just manages a mumbly sort of, "Oh, fine, good, its fine."

Sam stops chewing, swallows and gives Blaine a level look. He speaks more slowly. "How is it going with Kurt?"

"Really, it is fine. Better than fine. Really good even."

"Buuut?"

"I dont know?"

"Yeah you do."

"Sam—come on."

"Is he screwing you around, dude? I mean, I know the screwing is part of it, but—"

"No, nothing like that."

"Blaine."

"What?"

"Is there a problem? Cause, man, if youre not, like, 180 percent cool with whats going on with him, you need to get out of there."

"Chill. Theres no problem beyond the hiccups of getting to know each other so fast. Too fast, probably. Mostly, if Im worried about anything, its that I..." Blaine takes a long blink and forces out the rest with his eyes still closed. "I care about him. More than I should."

"Oh. I see."

"People have hurt him, because of..." Blaine lowers his voice more. "Because of his condition, right? And Im doing my best to be uncomplicated and easy so he can feel safe with me, but sometimes? I just want to..."

"You want to wrap him up in your arms and make everything all better for him, huh? Yeah, I know what thats like."

"Thats... probably a lot of it. And I know I cant fix any of that stuff. I just wish wed met... differently, so there wasnt this built-in expiration date and set limits on whats even possible... I dont know. Im being stupid."

"Nah, but are you in love with him?"

"Love? No. I dont think—its too soon to even think that way, isnt it?"

"Like thats ever stopped you. Im not talking about what youre doing in your head." Sam taps the center of his chest. "But whats going on in here."

"Pot, kettle?"

"Fair point," Sam concedes. "But Im not wrong."

"No." Blaine sighs. "The worst thing is? I think he maybe? Maybe feels the same way, like in different circumstances, he and I could have been... more."

"Parallel universe."

"Yeah." They eat in silence for a bit while Blaine thinks about all the other universes held in their cosmic bubbles, bobbing around in whatever it is thats outside spacetime.

Then Sam asks, "Are you going to stay after this week?"

"I want to, I want to so badly, but..." Its not a thought Blaines let himself complete, even in the privacy of his own head. "But Im worried that because I like him too much, Im just going fuck it all up for both of us." Blaine drops his fork with a clang and reaches for his soda. "Thats not what Kurt needs."

"Its not what you need either."

"Not really."

"And so youre scared of that? Caring about him."

"Im not, but he is, Im pretty sure. And so I guess—maybe I am too in a way, because I want this to work out. I dont want to make his life more complicated."

"Complicated isnt necessarily bad though. Its just complicated."

"But he doesnt want complicated, so I cant. I cant. Its not fair."

"To you or him?"

Blaine ignores the question. "But I think— No, I know. I know I can do this right. I can be his friend, I can be a safe person for him. Cant that be enough? If I care for him, thats what I should do, right? I cant walk away because I like him too much. That just seems ridiculous and kind of mean."

"Dude, are you forgetting yourself in all this?"

Blaine shakes his head. "Im not. Being with Kurt is, I mean he is, uh." Blaine has to stop talking for a moment to swallow and blink.

"Hes what?"

"I know its supposed to be just sex, and it—um, sometimes it is? But other times, the way he is with me, it feels like..."

"Lo~ove?" Sam smirks.

"I didnt say love! Its more like, he gets me? Or he wants to. Ive never really had that with someone before."

"Or maybe youre just stoned on oxytocin from having so much sex."

Blaine laughs. "Yeah, okay, maybe thats all it is."

"But seriously, if hes treating you right and you like him? Why not stay? Even if its just for the summer." Then Sam puts on his Sir Patrick Stewart voice, "Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all."

"Well, its futile to argue against an impression of Captain Picard quoting Shakespeare, so Ill just give up now."

"Excellent," Sam says. "You know Im always right."

"Uh huh, sure," Blaine says, and then asks, "So are you coming to the potluck on Friday?"

"Definitely," Sam says. "I promised Mercedes Id be there."

"Oh? So is that a thing now?"

"Maybe? Shes so great. We were up till midnight Monday talking about—get this—Star Wars. The Original Trilogy. Dude, she went trick-or-treating as Princess Leia in her Bespin get up when she was seven. How cute is that? I dont know, man, but she might just be the one."

Its hardly the first time Sams made such a hopeful declaration. Blaine grins and raises his glass to toast their two ridiculous hearts: "To daring to love, even when we might lose."