There are times when Blaine wants to ball his hands into fists and throw them at everything around him. At the walls until his skin is torn and the amount of craters outweigh the amount of flat surface it’s meant to be, at the mirrors until each one is shattered and in pieces on the floor, at each and every meaningless object that litters his apartment until it is far beyond repair. He wants to curl his arms around his legs and scream and sob in the middle of the mess with his hands bleeding and aching until he falls asleep. Now is one of those times. Because how is it fair? How is it fair that Blaine should have to push away someone that makes him smile as much as Kurt does? Why doesn’t he get a choice?

Sebastian’s caring words are accompanied by worried eyes and Blaine hates him for it. Hates that he can’t blame his boyfriend for everything, that he can’t simply say: “I found someone else” and move on, because Blaine doesn’t get to say that to anyone anymore.  Blaine loves Sebastian, the way his arms curl around his shoulders when he’s sad, the way he presses his lips to Blaine’s forehead whenever he’s stressed or sick, the way he introduces him as “my boyfriend” to his friends and family, beaming with pride. Sebastian is much better than the others, much better than most of Tate’s ‘possibilities’ and you can learn to love someone simply because they treat you like a person. Sebastian treats Blaine like a person, and sometimes, like he’s the world.

“I’ll cancel if you really want me to, Blaine. I will.” Sebastian says, thinking that his boyfriend’s tears are still about the dinner he forced him into a few weeks ago.

“It’s okay, Bas. You want to meet them, I understand. I don’t want to hide you.”

Sebastian smiles a crooked smile and presses his lips to Blaine’s cheek.

“I love you, you know.”

“I love you too” Blaine responds, his voice breaking as tears threaten to spill once again from his tired, golden eyes.

“And I won’t ever.” Sebastian says looking directly into Blaine’s eyes.

Blaine gives a small smile and nods.

“Kurt Hummel?” The strange voice asks, distorted through the phone.

“Yes?”

“Hi, this is Carmen Williams, I’m calling about your audition for the Elves and the Shoemaker?”

“Oh?” Kurt responds, surprised. It’s unusual to be directly contacted from a producer; generally everything goes through your agent. They’re very impersonal in showbiz.

“I wanted to congratulate you. Also, as you can imagine with workshop, we’re going to be in a hurry. I need all your measurements and everything as soon as you can get them to me. Now we won’t need you all the days, but you can just look on the schedule to know which day you’re coming in, we might, however call you in if there are some changes. Now have you got the address and everything?”

“I’m sorry, I’m a little lost. Have I… got the part?”

“Oh! Gosh, I’m sorry. Hasn’t your agent contacted you? You were meant to get an email as well. Yes! Everyone agreed, congrats.”

“Oh. Wow. Thank you. Thank you so much. No I haven’t got anything, but I’m sure I will.”

“We’ll re-send to be sure. Well, yes. If you could get me your measurements that would be fantastic. We start workshopping on the 9th. I’ll see you then! I’m afraid I’ve to run. ‘Bye.”

“Bye.” Kurt said softly.

He waited for his alarm to blare and wake him from this dream, or for the woman to call back and say that she’d made a terrible mistake. Neither happened. ‘A part!’ He thought to himself, ecstatic.

His first thought was to call Blaine, but the lack of communication since Blaine’s confusing and somewhat hurtful text led him to believe that perhaps it would not be welcomed. Instead he called Rachel who responded with the appropriate amount of excitement and happiness that anyone would expect from a friend. As per usual Rachel-style she demanded that Kurt throw a party and invite everyone to his opening night. Though, as Rachel went off on her tangent about the social gatherings she could squeeze out of this news, all Kurt could think about was a short boy with golden eyes and an infectious smile that he yearned to see every day.

His next call was to his parents, Burt’s voice cracked with pride and he told Kurt to get them tickets, “because they would definitely be there”.

“We’re so proud of you, Kurt, honey” Carole chimed in on the second house phone.

“You’ve earned it, kiddo.”

Burt and Carole Hummel-Hudson were potentially the greatest parents anyone could ever ask for, and even though Carole was technically his step-mom, it was impossible not to love her as if she were the real thing. Excusing a short period where Kurt was fantasizing about her son, Finn, and a bad experience with a room re-decoration and moist towelette, they were the perfect addition to the family.

Kurt thanked them, told them he loved them and hung up the phone. And for the first time in his life, he found himself missing Lima, Ohio. New York moved at such a pace, there was never any time to stop and think about anything before moving on to another task. There was absolutely no way that Kurt would even consider moving back, even if for a brief period of time, but still he longed for a space where he could clear his head and think things through. But, he had three assignments for school, a workshop coming up soon and bills and dinner to think about, and that was excluding the only real things (or rather person) that played on his mind.

Every 3 months there was a phone call. Santana called ‘damage control’, Tate Bailey called it a ‘check in’. Basically it was to make sure that rules were being abided by, that no plots or plans were being hatched, that no-one was being mistreated, or was being abusive. Of course, Tate never made these phone calls himself, rather one of his minions did. And it was always the same questions, formal and cold.

“How are things?” – which did not mean ‘how are you’

“Are there any complaints we should know about?”

“Are you at all looking into applying for termination? Why?”

“Any personal comments that I should pass to Tate?”

Then a short goodbye with a reminder to call if any conditions were being violated, and then you could forget about the conditions of your life for another 3 months.

Santana hated these phone calls for more than the fact that they were an inconvenience, but mainly because they reminded her that she wasn’t loved. She couldn’t call it love when she was applied for, rented, like some cheap car that you use on holidays and return without a glance back. No matter how often she would hear those three words, no matter how much she wished for them to be true, she couldn’t believe that they were. And the smile on Brittany’s face was innocent and beautiful as she asked: “who was it honey?”, as if she’d forgotten.

Santana wishes she had.