"Hey, look who it is," Finn yawns, nodding tiredly out the window.  "Brit's home.  Looks like she brought a friend, too."

Blaine scrambles off the couch to join Finn.  Sure enough, Brittany and some pretty Latina girl are waving eagerly at them.

He throws the window open and returns the gesture.  "Hey, Brit!  Who's the stranger?"

"Hey there, hobbit!" she calls back, bouncing excitedly on her toes.  "This is Santana!"  She grabs the other girl's shoulders and jostles her around a bit.

"Nice to meet you!" Blaine calls.  He grabs Finn's sleeve and pulls him to face their friend.  "I'm Blaine and this is Finn.  You guys want the key?"

"Sure thing, babe!"

Chuckling a bit, Blaine reaches deep into his pocket, feels for the key, and tosses it down, not even blinking when it hits the concrete and she has to bend over to get it.  "Hurry up!  It's cold."

Slamming the window shut, Blaine rubs his hands together and smiles at Finn.  "Merry Christmas, man."

Grinning back, Finn slaps a hand on his back before heading towards their make-shift kitchen. "Merry Christmas."

In no time at all, the door is sliding open, and Brittany is running straight for Blaine.  "Hobbit!  I missed you, oh, I missed you!"

They spin around a bit, laughing into each other's hair.  "Missed you too, Brit."

"Hey," Finn whines.  "What about me?"

Brittany rolls her eyes before cracking a wide smile and running to throw her arms around his tall frame.  "Missed you, Finny-bear."

Finn pouts good-naturedly before pulling her into a tight embrace.

"Care telling us where you were last night?" Blaine asks, glancing quickly at Santana in the doorway.  "I was worried."

"I was at Tana's house.  She saved me."

Finn's eyebrows furrow.  "From what?"

"Muggers," Santana answers, stepping into the room with her arms crossed across her chest.

Blaine's jaw falls slack as he suddenly notices the scratch across his friend's cheek.  "They do that to you?"  He nods at the cut and curls his fists angrily.

Despite his worry, Brittany smiles.  "Yah, but it's totally good now.  Tana had it all covered.  Hello Kitty Band-Aids and everything."

"Like I'd give you anything less," Santana says fondly.  She turns her attention to Finn and Blaine before nodding at Brittany.  "Something else happened, too.  Yesterday."  Seeing Blaine's anxious expression, she smiles.  "A good something."

Reaching into her purse, Brittany pulls out a large stack of fives and presses them gingerly into Finn's hand.  "Should cover you for a while, right?  At least with the heat."

Finn takes a step back and gasps a bit in surprise.  "H-how did you...?  Brit?"

"Did you get your job back at the university?" Blaine asks, reaching forward to examine the bills closely.  "I mean, I know you said they'd never take you back after the explosion but...where did you get this?"

"Tana," she states very simply.  "She's rich."

All eyes turning to Santana, the girl ducks her head and shrugs her shoulders.  "Some rich lady was sick of hearing a dog bark, so I pushed it off a railing.  She paid me a thousand dollars, plus a bonus for...some other service of mine."  She winks at Brittany, who giggles in turn.

"You pushed a dog off a railing?"  Finn asks in disbelief.  "A dog?"

"Yah, well, a loud one."

Still a bit shocked, Finn actually laughs, gripping his stomach when the giggles start to cramp.  "Damn, B-Brit...you sure pick the good ones, huh?"

Blaine sighs contentedly, suddenly extremely pleased with the way things have turned out.  "Sure is a pretty good Christmas, if you ask me."

Santana smiles.  "And it's about to get better."

"Do tell."

"There's a support group meeting over at the community center.  Brit says you might be interested, and the people there are totally cool. Like, friends-for-life and all that shit."  Her eyes flick to Blaine but land on Finn.  "Only if you're up for it, though."

Looking over at the couch where his camera sits, Finn nearly faints at all the possibilities this could pose for his film.  "I have to help a friend with some technical stuff, but that shouldn't take too long.  Blaine?"

There's a flash of something almost vulnerable across the other man's features, but it's gone just as fast as it comes.  "Thanks, but I kinda wanted to work some more on my song."

Before either Finn or Brittany can complain, Santana clucks her tongue interestedly.  "Song, huh?  You a writer?"

"Mediocre."

Finn scoffs.  "He can't write one measly little song and he thinks he's not good anymore.  You should read some of the poetry he used to write.  Short stories, too."

This makes Blaine blush and look the other way, but Santana doesn't say anything about it.  "I'm sure you'll get it.  Inspiration always comes when you least expect it."

Brittany reaches for Blaine's hand, squeezing it reassuringly.  "Sure you don't wanna come, hobbit?  It's fun."

He laughs a bit, hoping it doesn't sound as flat to them as it does to him.  "I'm sure, Brit.  You gonna spend the night with Santana?"

"Yah, I think so."  She has to bend a bit to peck him on the cheek.  "See you tomorrow."

"See ya."

Before he can go with Santana and Brittany, Finn has to stop at Rachel's stage to help with some technical issues.

On his way there, he records his walk, catching a couple mid-kiss and snatching a close-up of a man sleeping on trash bags.  Everyone that passes greets him with a crooked smile and a lazy wave, meeting his "Merry Christmas" with a just as cheery "And a Happy New Year, too!"

Rachel's place isn't technically hers.  It belongs to Jesse's wife, along with at least twenty other abandoned buildings in East Village.  It's a small warehouse complete with hand-made stage, decorated earlier that year by Finn himself.  She's allowed to use it whenever she pleases, but only if she can keep it clean and free of any trouble.

Slipping out of the empty street and straight into the messy throng of busy workers, Finn finds himself weaving through a small mass of chattering street performers discussing the pros and cons of the upcoming protest.  He bites his lip nervously and looks around, taking in at least thirty familiar faces, none of which belong to Rachel.

Asking around gets him nowhere.  Most people say they haven't seen her all day.

One girl actually rolls her eyes when he asks.  "Sorry, babe.  She hasn't been around.  Try..."  She trails off and swerves to look around him.  Nodding at a pretty blonde girl in a fancy-looking skirt-suit, she says, "Try asking Quinn.  She seems to know what's up."

Finn's eyes practically pop out of his head.  "Wait, wait - Quinn Fabray?  Rachel's...Rachel's..."

The girl raises speculative eyebrows.  "Girlfriend?  Yah, that's her."

"O-oh."

"You alright, man?"

"Fine, fine."

She snorts in disbelief but starts to walk away, anyway.  "Good luck."

"Thanks," he sighs, even though she's already out of earshot.  "Gonna need it."

While Quinn is busy talking animatedly to some man carrying wires, Finn starts towards her with a resolute shake of his head.  "You can do this.  You can do this."

Quinn sends the man away with a quiet "thank you" before spinning to face Finn, blinking green eyes and flashing flawless teeth.  "And you are?"

Sticking his hand out a bit jerkily, Finn flashes his own awkward smile.  "Finn Hudson."

Recognition lights her features, and her smile widens a bit.  She grabs his hand and gives it a surprisingly firm shake.  "Right, right, Rachel said you'd be stopping by. I'm Quinn, by the way."

"Yah, I-I've heard a lot about you.  Lawyer, right?"

"Public interest.  You know, it's really nice to meet you.  You're the only decent ex I'm met so far."

"Rach doesn't always make the best decisions as far as who she...uh, shares a bed with."

Quinn laughs while resting a hand on his arm, and the whole thing isn't nearly as uncomfortable as Finn feared it would be.

"I kind of kicked Rachel out when she wouldn't stop yelling at people.  I already have the whole thing set up; I hope you didn't have your heart set on helping."  She frowns, but her eyes are alight with apology.

Finn shakes his head.  "No, no, I actually have a meeting to make.  Tell Rach I said hi, though."

The community center is probably the nicest place in a twenty mile radius, which is really saying something considering its concrete walls and eerie lighting.  Any other day, Finn wouldn't touch the place with a ten-foot pole - it creeps him out, honestly - but the allure of footage for his film is just too strong to ignore.

There's nobody at the desk when he gets there, so he strides right through to the main room.  It's spacey and kind of chilly, but the small snippets of conversation warm it up considerably.  Someone even laughs.

Santana is the first to see him, nodding in his direction and motioning to the empty seat between her and Brittany.  "Guys, this is Finn."

This is met by a simultaneous group "hi, Finn" that most people end up giggling at.

"He's not one of us, but he knows what it's like through his friends.  He's here to see what it's like, maybe in the hopes of convincing a friend of his to come."

Brittany grabs Finn's hand while she says this, shooting him an unreadable glance.

Finn nods at Santana with a somewhat nervous smile.  Around him, people nod encouragingly, and he really could use their strength as inspiration for his own.  "Also, I-I was kind of...kind of hoping to film some stuff here, for my documentary."

One of the men sitting across from him practically jumps out of his seat in excitement, clapping his hand together and forcing a band of incredibly noisy bracelets down to his elbow.  "Documentary?  On what?"

"East Village, I guess."  He has to swallow a bit before saying, "The homeless and...the AIDS epidemic."

Surprisingly, this doesn't deflate the man's excitement or that of anyone else in the room. 

"Well, it's about time."

While the group goes off on the limitless means of awareness this could produce, Finn unhooks the bag and pulls the camera out.  He winds it slowly before setting it straight on the man with the dangly bracelets.

Kurt hates his job.

The skimpy outfits, the constant touching - he hates it.  The only upside is getting to sing, because even the raunchier stuff is at least an excuse to use his voice.  Other than his body - specifically his hips and ass - it's his best asset; the thing that keeps people coming back.

Tonight, though, even the thought of using his voice isn't all that enthralling.

His mind is all caught up in hazel eyes and gel-slicked curls and a smile that makes even the sunset an eye-sore...

"How's my angel doin'?"

Kurt jumps, startled by the sudden hand on his shoulder.  He meets Mercedes Jones' eyes in the mirror and places a hand over his heart.  "Jesus, Mercedes.  You scared the shit out of me."

She chuckles a bit before moving to grab a free chair and plopping down beside him.  She smells like cinnamon and cheap lipstick, surprising since she's not a dancer, herself.

In fact, she owns the place.

(Through marriage, of course.  A place like Pavarotti's wasn't really her style.  Her husband, on the other hand, once made a living off the bills stuffed in the waistband of his underwear.)

"You seem sad," she muses.  "Something wrong?"

"Just...tired, is all."  He looks down and reaches for his comb, swiping it through his hair a few more times than necessary.  Any excuse not to have to look Mercedes in the eye.

"Kurt, how long have we known each other?"

"Four years, right?  No, five.  Yah, five.  Definitely five.  Your point?"

"My point is that I know you well enough to tell when you're lying.  And when you're sad."  On that last note, her voice takes on a sickeningly soft edge.  "Tell me what's up."

Kurt finds himself swallowing past a hard lump and fighting the irrational urge to cry.  "Y-you won't hate me?"

He doesn't have to look at her to know that she's probably shocked, slack jaw and all.  "Kurt, never."

"No, you have to promise.  It's not exactly...easy to digest."  He coughs bitterly while another dancer slinks past them with a sloppy, apologetic smile.

"You know I wouldn't - "

"Promise me, Mercedes."

Taken aback by the wild, almost desperate tone to his voice, Mercedes leans back in surprise, but she corrects herself and moves to overlap their hands.  "I promise."

Catching his reflection in the mirror, Kurt reaches up to hastily wipe at his watery eyes.  "I'm sick."

The words hang in the air, heavy and solid and hauntingly real.  Two very simple syllables that could mean nothing but that mean everything. 

Kurt doesn't have to say anything more; Mercedes knows.

"Oh, Kurt..."  She pulls away to cover her mouth with a shaking hand.  "H-how long?"

"I've got three years.  If I'm careful."

It doesn't take a keen sense of noticing detail to see the sorrow scrawled across Mercedes' features.  Somehow, it makes her seem older.  But watching himself in the mirror, Kurt finds the words seem impersonal, like he's talking about a complete stranger.  Cold, harsh, unmoving.

"Because of the drugs?"

A bitter laugh, short and choking.  "Well, it's hardly because of all the crazy sex I'm having."

He sees her head shaking from the corner of his eye.  "Kurt, this isn't...this isn't a joke!"  Pushing away from him, she slips out of the chair and wipes furiously at her eyes.  She doesn't look at him when she says "Look, Kurt, you know I love you, but it's gotta stop."

"Mercedes - "

"Look at what it's done to you!"  When a couple girls turn to face her, she lowers her voice but doesn't stop.  "You're killing yourself, Kurt."  He knows it.  He thinks about it every day.  "Think about it."

Part of him wants to pull her back when she stomps away, but the bulk of his thought process is just to let her go. 

Someone shouts out the five minute warning, but Kurt barely hears it.

He closes his eyes and sucks in a sharp breath, suddenly anxious to still the quiver in hands.  People like him don't make it very far by falling apart.

Curling his hand around an overused brush, Kurt pops open a small container and sweeps it across the blush.  He swipes pink across his cheekbones while wiping as discreetly as he can at the tears that absolutely refuse to stop welling.

That night, he'll sing a soft song.  About sex, sure, but it won't be the words that matter.  His voice will move with the ache in his heart, a bittersweet croon that everyone in the crowd will find themselves drawn to.  When he slides his knees across the stage and reaches to pop a button, at least a dozen hands will reach out to touch him.

But he won't feel them - not on single finger.

His heart and mind will be miles away, racing towards the boy with the hazel eyes, driven by the thought of getting to live the life he's yet to live.

The life he's always wanted.

Blaine folds and refolds the corner of his notebook, tearing it a bit in the hopes that the sound will provide some sort of inspiration.

It doesn't.

His muse is miles away, now - wrapping delicate lips around dirty words and sliding paper-smooth fingertips across the rough edge of its own skin.

Just the thought makes him sick, so he tosses his notebook to the side and gets up to head straight for his guitar.  The sight of it calms him a bit, enough to even his breathing and slow his pulse.

"No use," he whispers to himself.  "No use."

Essentially an extension of himself, the instrument feels nice in his grip - an anchor in tossing waters.  He falls back on the couch and strums his fingers across taut strings, smiling at the sound.  He plays a few simple chords and hums along before closing his eyes and tipping his head back with a quiet sight.

And still, the words refuse to come.

When the window cracks open, followed by the unmistakable sound of bare feet sliding across the carpet, he doesn't even bother to open his eyes.

He knows its Kurt.

"Blaine?  You asleep?"

"No, just trying to write a song here."

He imagines Kurt ducking his head, heading his blush with a self-righteous smile.  "The fire's out, you know.  I had to borrow a candle from next door."

"Yah, forgot about it."

"It's too dark to write, Blaine.  You'll hurt your eyes.  Here, let me - "

"What are you doing here, anyway?"  Blaine opens his eyes and sits a bit straighter, fully aware of the edge to his own voice.  He points to the room hidden by a wave of beads and says "Your room's that way."

If Blaine was better at taking in the tiny details, he'd see the shift in Kurt's face, the rigid hold to his shoulders. 

"Well, its Christmas and - "

"You thought I needed the good cheer and merry company?"  He didn't used to be this bitter, this cold, this prone to taking his emotions out on the people he cares about.

On the people he loves.

"Save it for someone else, Kurt.  I need to finish this."

"Bl - "

"Go."

Kurt takes a step back, causing the small flame in his hands to flicker.

He almost runs.  Almost turns his back on Blaine like he has every time before.

But something won't let him.

Eyes trained on the candle, Kurt takes a step closer to Blaine.  And another.  And another.  Until his toes are brushing the other man's and Blaine is looking up at him with enough hatred, longing, and love to burn an entire city to ashes.

Kurt very carefully sets the candle on their makeshift coffee table and, with as much confidence as he can muster, crawls into Blaine's lap.

Keeping eye-contact, Kurt grabs the guitar and gently pulls it away, setting it on the empty cushion beside them. 

He settles with his legs on either side of Blaine's thighs and rests their foreheads together, close enough to count Blaine's eyelashes and to notice the flecks of green in his eyes.  Their noses bump but Blaine turns away, even as he settles his hands on Kurt's waist.

Kurt rests one hand on Blaine's chest and the other on his cheek, trying not to cry at the contact, trying to keep himself put together.

"You only live once," he whispers.  "And life's so short..."

Blaine turns back to face him, brushing their noses together while taking in as much of the other man as he can in the dim lighting.  Almost instinctively, his grip tightens around Kurt's waist.

"So let's live it together."

Blaine remembers a day almost a year ago.  Cold and gray but otherwise nothing special, nothing worth a memory.

Until he stumbled into his apartment and there Kurt was, small and weak and falling apart in his step-brother's arms.  Until he found those needles hidden in the boy's one suitcase. Until he wiped Kurt's tears and he knew...

He knew...

"No," he whispers, dropping his hands and looking away.  "Not with me, Kurt.  I won't put up with someone who can't even love himself."

And Blaine has no idea, no idea, that Kurt is dying, that he's waking up and breathing again, to make up for lost time.  He has no idea that his pain is Kurt's, too.

Kurt pulls his hands away but doesn't shift his gaze, refuses to give up completely.

"Blaine, I am trying here."  Despite himself, he actually smiles a bit.  There's a whole world out there, far away from East Village, big and ready for change, and Kurt wants to experience it all.  With Blaine.  Holding Blaine's hand.  "I'm ready to change.  Life is way too short - "

"Says the man who uses a needle to waste it away."

Kurt's smile falters.

His entire being falters.

Here he is, trying to make a change and to make it with him, and Blaine won't even hear him out. He refuses to look past what he already knows. 

He doesn't think Kurt can do it, and maybe that hurts a lot more than thinking he can't do it, himself.

"Blaine..."

"Just...come back another day.  Another day."

And even though he's tired of running, sick of wasting away, Kurt slides back until his feet hit the floor.

The first thing he realizes is that it's cold.  Away from the Blaine, the whole world might as well be a freezer.

"Merry Christmas," he whispers.  Walking away, he drags his feet a lot more than usual.

"You left your candle."  Blaine's voice is flat.  Lifeless.

Kurt doesn't turn around, won't let Blaine see him cry.  "It'll burn out eventually."