This is it, Kurt thought, dropping his bags on the floor next to him. He watched, amused, as Rachel started talking a mile a minute about the space in front of him.

"I know it doesn't look like much right now but I think with your eye for interior design and my rock-solid determination we can turn this place into one of New York's finest," she said, walking around the empty loft. "What do you think?"

"I think I'm just amazed to finally be here. Rachel, we're actually in New York. You're going to NYADA, and I'm going to NYU, and it's almost everything we've ever dreamed of."

"I still wish you would have gone through with applying for NYADA," Rachel said sadly, returning to where Kurt was standing to take one of his hands. "I'm sure you would have made an impression."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Kurt said dismissively. "I didn't have enough extracurriculars for it." Or enough confidence.

"Kurt."

"Come on, Rach, we've talked about this. We're here now, that's all that matters, okay?" Rachel watched him for a few moments before she gave in with a shrug, smiling.

"Let's build our dream loft!"

Kurt and Rachel set about painting the walls first, though it was slow going since Rachel seemed determined to get paint on Kurt's skin. He dodged the brush again and again, performing a few evasive maneuvers that he's sure even Coach Beiste would be proud of.

"I am not a canvas," he said, avoiding her again. "You're the worst painter in the world." There was a thump above them and he looked up; Rachel took the opportunity to swipe her brush across his arm, from the heel of his palm up to his elbow.

"Aha!"

"Oh my god, you are so lucky I'm not wearing anything valuable," he muttered, examining the white streak on his left arm.

"Wait. Kurt, where's your cuff?" Rachel asked, confused.

"Oh, I took it off so I - or you, apparently - wouldn't get paint on it."

"It's just weird. You never take it off, and you haven't even told me what your Letter is."

Kurt considered that for a few seconds, then grabbed the roll of paper towels they had set aside for emergency cleanups. He rubbed the paint off of the inside of his wrist and tilted it so that Rachel could see.

"B... How long have you had it again?"

"Since sophomore year," Kurt sighed. He'd been trying to avoid talking about the Letter ever since the flight, when he'd noticed the tug growing stronger. Now it was clearly defined, Kurt feeling as though he was on a leash and he was straying just off the path. He could still ignore it, but it was easiest when he kept himself from thinking about it. "It's more annoying than anything."

"Can you feel him?"

"More so now that I'm out of Ohio."

"What?" Kurt looked at Rachel, who was wearing an appalled expression. "You mean your soulmate is in Ohio, and you never looked for him?"

"What's the point? I'd never have found him, and the whole thing is ridiculous anyways."

"Finding your other half isn't ridiculous," Rachel said softly, touching her wrist absently. She had yet to get her Letter, but she was old enough to be getting it any day now.

"It's perfectly possible to live a happy life without finding your soulmate. Love isn't defined by a Letter."

"But-"

"I'm sorry, Rach. I know you're excited to get yours, and I'm excited for you as well. I just don't think any of this really matters. How can I trust some stranger to bring me happiness when I can find it in what I already know?"

"I just don't think you really are happy, Kurt. Not as much as you could be." Rachel took the paper towels and started to wipe the rest of the paint off of his arm, giving him a look that could only be deciphered as You know I'm right.

"We should keep painting," he said.

"You should learn to trust your instincts," she said, clearly unable to drop the subject. "That's all this is, anyways. Instinct, and impulse."

"If I say you're right and that I'll think about it, will you let it go?"

"Fine. I'm sorry for painting your arm, by the way."

"Apology accepted, Ms. Berry." Rachel laughed as she put her brush back in one of the paint trays.

"Mr. Hummel, shall we take a cheesecake break?" she asked, a knowing look in her eyes.

"You know me too well. Let's go," he said, pulling off his old McKinley High T-shirt before walking off to find something decent to wear among his still-packed luggage. "You know, we don't have anywhere separate to change."

"Oh, you can change here, I don't mind."

"Rachel."

"What?" she asked, genuinely curious.

"Turn around."

"Oh. Oh. Yeah, I'll just- Sorry." She turned to face the wall, humming something that sounded like For Good. In spite of himself, Kurt joined in, the memory of their first Nationals trip still fresh in their minds. Pulling on one of his nicer pairs of jeans and a comfortable-yet-fashionable shirt, he edged over to Rachel, giving her a hug from behind and laughing when she squeaked in surprise.

"Cheesecake time."

"Finally."

As they left the apartment and climbed down the stairs - the elevator seemed a bit too rickety for either of them to dare to use it - Kurt started thinking about his Letter again. He'd have to learn to stop rubbing at it by habit and start finding new ways to occupy himself now that the pull was stronger and more insistent.

He knew that Rachel wondered why he never took off his cuff. It wasn't like he was abnormally young to have the mark anymore, after all - he was nineteen. His excuse was that it was easier to ignore the sensation when something was covering it.

If he was completely honest with himself, however, he kept it hidden because every time he saw that little red B on his wrist, he was reminded of something that had slipped away from him. Kurt knew he'd never find B, not now that he was in a different state, and it hurt too much to wonder about what could have been. And what will never be.

Blaine was having a terrible day.

No, actually, he was having a terrible week.

It had started on a Saturday, when the tickle in his right wrist gradually grew stronger until it was a steady tug. Far from it being a lot harder to keep from continuously adjusting his cuff - simple, thin-cut brown leather - he knew that the growing intensity of the dragging sensation meant that his soulmate (who he'd taken to calling "angel" due to the way the mark reminded him that he wasn't alone) was moving away from him.

Even though he'd long since given up on actually finding his soulmate, his angel, the tug of the Letter had been grounding for him. Something to hold on to when his parents left him home alone for days on end to go on a cruise, or when his brother called to tell him all about himself, or when the Warblers ignored his protests to return to song choices that retained their traditional classiness.

But now it just reminded him that K, whoever he was, was farther away now. Most likely he'd left the state itself, and gone who-knows-where. It wasn't comforting, regardless of how many times Blaine told himself that they'd never meet anyways.

The week had gotten progressively worse after that. There was a new Warbler, Hunter Clarington, and he was Blaine's polar opposite as a leader. Condescending, outspoken, and careless, his personality was the icing on top of Blaine's terrible week. At first it seemed that Hunter wouldn't be too much of a problem - he generally listened to Blaine and went along with him, clearly relying on Blaine's honorable reputation. But he was restless.

"Warblers! We need something to tip us over the edge at Sectionals this year," he'd announced during the third meeting of the week.

"Uh, I'm pretty sure the Council needs to know what you're planning first," Blaine said, nonplussed.

"It'll be fine. We just need to step up our dancing game to give us a surefire advantage over those McKinley people. That means we need more strength and endurance. That means we need this." Hunter had pulled out a small needle, and Blaine had been completely clueless.

"What-"

"Steroids, Blaine," Sebastian said. "I'm in."

Blaine glared at Sebastian, earning a noncommittal shrug in return. The previous year had been a bit of a roller coaster; he and Sebastian had had a bit of an on-and-off... thing. Blaine didn't think he could call it a relationship, exactly, as their contact had been limited to dancing at Scandals and getting each other off in one of their cars afterwards.

He'd thought that maybe Sebastian wanted more - sometimes he caught an oddly tender expression on his face - but then something would snap and Sebastian would return to his rude, insulting self. They were friends to some extent, but sometimes it was just too much for Blaine.

"That's cheating and we aren't going to resort to it," Blaine said firmly. The next day, however, Trent had met Blaine in the hallway with news.

"They're doing the steroid stuff behind your back," he said. "They tried to get me into it, but I don't think it's right."

One thing led to another, and now Blaine was storming away from the senior commons, having tried and failed at putting the rest of the group off of the drug. His own statement rang through his brain, playing on a loop.

"I quit."

He never thought he'd actually quit the Warblers. They were almost like family.

No, he thought, closing the door to his dorm behind him. The Warblers from two years ago were my family.

He didn't think it was wrong of him to quit, but Blaine started to regret letting go of something that had at least held some semblance of togetherness for him. He knew that many of the guys would defend him in a heartbeat, even - no, especially Sebastian. With the Warblers, he was a part of something.

Now he was floating free, and it seemed like the tugging in his wrist was only serving to pull him further away from himself. He was lost.

"Hey, are you okay?" Blaine looked up to see Trent standing in the doorway, looking timid.

"I'm fine," Blaine answered automatically. Trent looked at him doubtfully and he sighed, resigned. "No, I'm not."

"I quit too, by the way. They're all being assholes." Blaine laughed in spite of himself, patting the space next to him on the bed for Trent to sit.

"It's just... why do they feel like they have to do all of this? We're fine sticking to the clean and honest stuff. They're just going to get themselves caught."

"Honesty is pretty hard to come by these days. It's like chivalry."

"The Warblers of Dalton Castle, saving the fair maidens of Allen County with song," Blaine said, grinning at Trent, who laughed.

"Or the fair knights," he said, winking. "Do you think you'll ever find your guy?"

"You mean any guy or him?" Blaine asked, indicating the cuff.

"No, the janitor. Of course I mean him."

"You're hilarious. I don't really think so," Blaine said. "I thought there was a chance, but now it's just easier to pretend that there isn't a hope for me because my chances are way too slim."

"You've got the same odds as everyone else," Trent pointed out.

"And they don't look too good."

"Point taken."

"I'm just tired of being alone," Blaine muttered, mostly to himself. There wasn't anyone he could give himself to, body and soul, and he despised it. He had plenty of time, of course, but he doubted he would find anyone that would deal with him. Emotional baggage drags everyone down with it, he thought bitterly. Clingy and needy and desperate - god, he was a wreck.

"Blaine?"

"Hm?"

"I just want you to know that I'm up for listening if you need someone to talk to. Even if you think it's stupid," Trent added when Blaine opened his mouth to respond. "Look, I gotta go, but I'll talk to you later?"

"Sounds great. Thank you," Blaine said honestly, hoping that he came off as sincere.

"No problem."

Once Trent left, Blaine changed into a pair of lounge pants and a T-shirt, content to turn in early or at least take a nap. He locked the door and took off the cuff, staring at the red mark that appeared as though it was drawn neatly with a red pen. There was nothing he could see that indicated the pull he felt; the Letter sat there on his wrist, as innocuous as ever.

For a moment, he hated it. He hated the way it tried to take him somewhere he would never be able to find. He hated the way it reminded him that there was someone out there that was meant for him. His angel, about as accessible as Heaven itself.

Blaine sighed, running his thumb over the Letter. He had to resign himself to life on his own, there was no avoiding that fact. Not unless he wanted to scour the country - maybe even the entire world - for a single person. One among millions. It was impossible.

Maybe he'd find someone else, someone that could make him happy and be his future even without the added connection of the Letter. The thought put a bad taste in his mouth, and he turned off the lights.

You're never going to find him, he told himself. Get over it.

However, how he could get over the loss of an entire half of himself - one he'd never found in the first place - was a mystery.