Blaine met Kurt a few months into his sophomore (take two) year at Dalton. He'd say that he was just settling in at the time, but that would be a lie. There had been no settling in at Dalton because there hadn't been a need for it. Starting school there had been like entering a magical realm—everything came to him so easily: friends, acceptance, and even a lead role in the Warblers, once the group of boys had heard him sing.

He might have been suspicious if he hadn't had all of that before. Blaine had always been popular at school, right up until the day he told his [ex] best friend he was gay. Blaine was polite, charming, handsome and talented, always eager to please, and navigating the social world had come simply and naturally for him since childhood, be it peers, parents or teachers. But to be out and popular—well, that was a completely different kind of miracle.

The kind of miracle that an expensive all-boys prep school with a strict no-bullying policy afforded, it seemed.

It was exactly what Blaine needed after the attack, and not what he needed at the same time. While he could be his real self there (his real public self, anyway), attending Dalton felt a bit like playing a role on TV. He was always painfully aware that while Dalton was real, it wasn't reality—at least not the reality of the larger world. But Blaine was okay with that, at least for the time being.

Even among Dalton's abundance of boys, Blaine failed to encounter anybody who sparked romantic interest in him. Sexual, yes—he was only human. But that was all on the surface, and Blaine, by his very nature, craved something deeper. He certainly hadn't come across anyone he had any desire to dominate.

And then he met Kurt.

When it happened it shook Blaine to his very core, because it was so much more and less and different than what Blaine had expected. It wasn't quite love and it wasn't really attraction and it definitely wasn't a burning desire to see the other boy on his knees or tied to Blaine's bed, though that would all come with time.

It was belonging, and it was connection. Most of all, it was a fierce need to protect. From that very first day, all Blaine wanted was to somehow cover Kurt's body with his own and hide him from the rest of the world; he wanted to wipe away Kurt's tears and make him smile.

Over time, Blaine learned that in many ways Kurt was the exact opposite of submissive. He was headstrong and witty and so, so very brave, even in ways that Blaine himself wasn't. He also seemed to have a need for control in his life that rivaled Blaine's own—his self-presentation always flawless, his care for his father always doting but stern, and his defiance of social norms resolute, often in the face of what Blaine knew firsthand to be a very real danger.

But underneath all of that, Kurt was lonely and scared. Sometimes his blue-green eyes held such sadness and longing that Blaine wanted to weep for him, though he always settled for coaxing a laugh. Kurt needed Blaine—it was there in the words they exchanged, present in each fleeting touch, overt when they locked gazes and held them for seconds too long. It only made Blaine want him all the more, made him more desperate to be there for Kurt and keep him safe.

Blaine fell in love slowly over the many memorable moments they spent together, piece after piece falling into place. He admitted it to himself in a single moment, and it was the most overwhelming thing he had ever felt. Confessing his feelings to Kurt was easy by comparison. It was nearly compulsory, as if Blaine was driven by some foreign source to tell him, tell him, tell him. The moment he did—the first moment Kurt was his—was the most perfect of them all.

Kurt was perfectly imperfect in every possible way, and he was perfect for Blaine; Blaine was sure of it. He was fairly confident that Kurt felt the same way, although the other boy was often less demonstrative about his feelings. Blaine loved that about him, too—loved that Kurt was such a private person because it meant that so many parts of Kurt were only for Blaine.

But how to tell him?

It was a concern that lingered throughout much of their early relationship. Blaine was consumed with the fear that Kurt would somehow figure it out. Baby penguin or not, Kurt was perceptive. Blaine worried that his sexual discomfort might mean that he was even more aware of every move that Blaine made, could somehow decipher the impurity of Blaine's thoughts and analyze them.

Blaine was not ashamed, but he was apprehensive. Because this was Kurt.

They didn't have sex for a long time. (Ok, for eight months—but Blaine was a teenage boy, so it was a long time.) Kurt wasn't ready, and Blaine was scared. He wasn't scared of having sex, per se, but he was scared because it was sex and it was Kurt, and that meant something, and what if Blaine couldn't control himself? What if he got caught up in the moment and Kurt found out in the worst possible way?

Then they made love, and it was beautiful, and it was perfect (ok, yes, a little awkward), and it was completely vanilla, as far as Blaine could tell.

After that, Blaine relaxed and he forgot about telling Kurt, because things were so nice the way they were that maybe Blaine didn't need the rest after all. Maybe he was normal now, or could pretend to be, and it would just go away.

It helped that Kurt seemed to fall so naturally into letting Blaine take the reins, at least most of the time. It was Blaine who usually initiated things in and out of the bedroom, Blaine who would sing to Kurt and say and do sweet things to make him blush and lead when they danced. Kurt seemed to respond well to Blaine getting a little bossy when Kurt had had a hard day, to Blaine pressing him into the mattress with a bit more force, his words just on the respectful side of dirty and inching towards possessive. It was enough. Blaine tried to appreciate it and note it and not let it mean more than it did.

He was happy and in love and Kurt was his and... Kurt was going away.

To college. In New York City.

Ever since Blaine had figured out he was a dominate, he'd thought of relationships in terms of what he could do for his partner, how they would be his and he would take care of them. How they would need him, and he would always be there. He'd never considered before that it might go both ways. That he might need them too, and that they might, in their own way, take care of him.

Perhaps that's why he was so clueless at first as to why the thought of Kurt leaving made him so sick inside. It was natural, of course, that he would miss Kurt, that there would be some pain in the adjustment. But he couldn't explain the dread, not to himself, and certainly not to Kurt. It wasn't like they were breaking up, wasn't like they wouldn't make it.

It was puzzling, to say the least, when he finally figured it out. That he needed Kurt, despite what unspoken roles he'd assigned them in his head. He needed Kurt's love, Kurt's affection and concern, needed Kurt in his arms and in his bed. Kurt kept him grounded and gave his life purpose. Kurt was his, and really, Kurt was all he had.

He figured out the last part far too late—that all the sacrifices he'd so gladly made for his relationship had left him with little else: no friends, an absent family, and few ambitions that were solely his own. Blaine had no other place to belong; he only had Kurt.

And Kurt was already gone.