Kurt stared at the bathroom floor, the broken mirror, and the open window with a streak of blood on the pane. He KNEW Blaine had been here, he just knew it. But he didn't know what to do about it, or how to find him. He had so many questions, now that he was convinced that Blaine was real. Kurt should have been terrified, he realized this logically. But he wasn't. All he felt was this stab of longing that spanned his entire body, a type of pain he had never experienced before. It was worse than his broken nose, and vaguely reminiscent of his mother's death.

As the day passed, he barely noticed the people around him. In between unusually graphic memories of last night's dreams, all he could think of was, "how do I find Blaine? I have to find Blaine." His art teacher, clearly concerned about his odd behavior and lack of recent comic submissions, handed him a flyer about a drawing contest. The winner would have their work displayed at a local gallery along with other new artists. Kurt decided he would enter, and was rewarded with a look of relief from his teacher.

Kurt skipped his last class that day to start sketching. He wasn't going to enter this contest with comics, he was going to make these sketches as realistic as possible. One by one, he translated every comic he had found on his bed, every dream memory, into a sketch using pencil and ink. He hung the finished ones on his walls until every spare space in his room had a picture of himself and Blaine. There was a progression of the two of them as teenagers, in their twenties, and their thirties. He idly wondered why it ended there.

He drew Blaine nude, marveling at the way his mind knew exactly where the birth mark on his neck was, and precisely how jiggly his stomach was while being tickled. He drew Blaine's look of deep concentration as he stared at the piano keys while he played and sang a ballad, and drew a similar look on Blaine's face as Blaine was about to go down on him. And oh wow, the sex dreams. They were so graphic and his memories caused such intense arousal that he had to purposely not think about it at school.

He also drew words sometimes, incorporating them into the picture. Sometimes they were words he knew, like love and soulmates and dreams. Then there were other words, that though he knew them, he didn't quite understand why he was using them. The word Attrition came up in his head a lot, though it didn't make sense. He knew about attrition rates of colleges, he had looked it up when he was scouting schools for himself. But that meant how many people dropped out. The word attrition that he felt himself drawing went along with a sense of joy, of accomplishment. He didn't understand it, but it felt important so he let it drift into many of the sketches.

Kurt's parents were a bit worried about his reclusive behavior, but he tried to assure them it was just until the contest was over. He had no idea if that was true, though. Ever since Blaine had come into his consciousness, the rest of his life looked dim and colorless by comparison. He gladly let the blind passion overtake him.

The day his teacher told him he won the contest, Kurt took his first deep breath in weeks. This would be the way to find him, Kurt was mad with hope and expectation. And he wasn't disappointed.

The night of the opening, Kurt went outside for a breath of fresh air after shaking hands with people and introducing his work. Blaine was leaning against the side of the brick building that housed the gallery, and Kurt's breath caught in his throat. Blaine was unbearably beautiful. His hazel eyes, tanned skin, and dark hair all seemed brighter than in Kurt's memory, and he was afraid to blink in case it disappeared.

"Come with me," Blaine said. Kurt followed him without a word. He would have followed him anywhere, he felt like a satellite and Blaine was his center of gravity. There was no escaping. They walked in silence for about ten minutes until they came to small park, mostly abandoned at this time of night.

"You shouldn't have drawn me," Blaine said.

"I had to," Kurt replied.

"You weren't even supposed to remember that much. I have no idea how you remembered all of those things," Blaine said.

"Didn't you want me to remember you?" Kurt asked.

"Yes," Blaine answered. "Yes I did. I shouldn't have, but I did, so much. I...I think I want to be with you. Do you...do you want to be with me? I will uh, I'll answer any questions you have. God, you must have so many, this must have been so hard for you. I don't understand how you remembered so much, but I am so sorry, I never wanted to hurt you, you are my....I mean, I have always...." Blaine didn't seem to know how to continue. So instead of words, he took Kurt's hand and looked into his eyes, silently begging to be forgiven.

Kurt took a few cleansing breaths, which did not have the desired effect since the smell of Blaine's hair gel evoked pleasant memories he would rather not think about just now. "How about I start with a question. Blaine, are you real?"

Blaine nodded, though he looked quite afraid of what he was about to say. His voice came out a little shaky. "Yes, I am real thanks to you."

The two boys talked well into the night. Kurt got home at 3AM, halfheartedly nodded as he let his father yell at him for not calling, and went to bed in his clothes. He had a lot to think about it.