“Hey Rachel, what're these?”

Rachel spins around from where she stands by the counter to see what Blaine is referencing. In his hands, Blaine holds a stack of papers, a haphazard collection of notebook pages, scraps of paper, sticky notes stuck to random pieces of construction paper.

After a sip from the wine glass she holds in her hand, Rachel motions for Blaine to spread the stack of paper over the countertop, her fingers automatically dancing, hovering just over the surface, eyes reading the neat handwriting and artful, elegant drawings. Words, some individual, some hooked and woven into fragments, sentences, others wrapped around scrawling shapes and doodles of clothing.

She picks one up, one of the full notebook pages, …caught somewhere between rapturous and reverent, lips—pink, succulent, just on this side of plump—slide effortlessly, slyly into a pout, teeth sink into flesh, a nervous, self-conscious habit, self-consciously aware of his own skin, his own self-consciousness, slipping, surrendering to the dance of his own molecules, flesh hot and searing and sweaty scrawled beneath the sketch of a dark-gray slim fit tuxedo jacket, thin contrasting lapels, chest pocket, two front pockets with flaps, adorning buttons on the cuffs and a vented back.

“They're Kurt's. He um – he writes and sketches, a lot. Compulsively so. His – his doctors say it's an um, it's some sort of coping mechanism, making sense of the nonsensical. He keeps paper with him all the time but he um, he's usually extremely fastidious about keeping these locked in his workspace. He very rarely ever lets people see this stuff. Where'd you find these?” Rachel explains quietly, eyes still dancing over words and sketches.

Blaine looks back down at the pieces of scattered paper, eyes peering at the chaotic mess of words and shapes like it's the first time, like he's finally seeing it all, fresh and painfully, tragically beautiful. Drawn, almost magnetically so, to a pastel pink Post-It note attached to a ripped notebook page, Blaine picks it up, the paper smudged and wrinkled and rumpled – rasp, rough: velvet on silk, stretched and taut, smoky-sweet; tongue, rebellious and wanton, darting, slicing, wet-slick over the seal, Velcro undone just so and the sketch of a vintage-style black motorcycle jacket with a zippered front, snap band collar, quilted stitching, and two lower inset pockets.

The words and accompanying sketches read like observations, keen, careful glances, darting over an image, memorizations scrawled down to remain, to cement themselves into existence. Deliberate yet scattered, the words and sketches indicate pieces, single items spread out and over to be plucked and manipulated, to be appreciated or puzzled over. They are plot points, warps and wefts of a visual and mental tapestry, chaos made organized around the complex themes of a person's heart, soul, mind.

“The bathroom, believe it or not,” Blaine answers gently.

Rachel chuckles lightly, “Not surprised. Kurt, he likes the vibrations of the jets in the tub. He's the only person I know that draws a bath but doesn't actually get in the bath. I have, on more than one occasion, found him asleep on the floor by the tub. It's actually kind of adorable.”

Another note, this time a scrap of paper, a torn corner of an old electric bill: a folding in, a deep, smooth bow into surrender, in and in and in and in, a satin curve of flushed skin next to a rough sketch of a dark green bow tie decorated with flecks of gold and music notes.

“All of these,” Blaine begins, voice hushed and low, a whisper, awed and appreciative, “all of these, they're like snapshots, pieces of a montage or something. They're beautiful. Who are they about? Because they're clearly written about someone.”

Rachel opens her mouth to say something, closes it and thinks, thinks about deflecting this question, the innocently probing, inquisitive question, thinks about sidestepping and sashaying around Blaine's round eyes, curious glint widening his pupils. While random strays of thoughts and ideas floating around Kurt's head, hidden and obscured and floating up, up, up into consciousness, unbidden and stuck in gray matter until pens hits paper, they are indeed representative of Kurt's state of mind. Representative of how he makes sense of the world now, locked inside the thunderous, often self-imposed silence of his head; they are hints, tantalizing hints of the person Kurt is now, has been and is working towards.

Controlling the controllable and the uncontrollable, a teetering seesaw that bobbles but eventually balances – that's what these pieces of paper are, what they indicate.

“You,” Rachel responds without thinking any more about it.

Blaine deserves to know. Rachel tries not to let herself feel the full weight of betrayal because that is, essentially, what she's doing right now, betraying Kurt's trust, Kurt's conditional confidence. In the two months since Kurt and Blaine started this strange thing of theirs, Kurt has made extensive strides in revealing faint traces of the Kurt Rachel knew before The Event, each small victory a step towards reclaiming his life, reclaiming the desire to actually live his life and not merely exist in it.

But Blaine does deserve to know.

Yet Rachel realizes too late that she probably should have given Blaine more context because now Blaine is looking at her, all wide eyes and searching, searching and scandalized and worriedly alarmed. Beneath that though, a warm glow, barely working itself into life, but there nonetheless, a warm glow of delight, of submitting, ever so partially, to the heady, potent intoxication of being desired, wanted, known.

“Me?” Blaine inquires briskly.

“Kurt, he's not some weird pervert, Blaine. He just – he needs to hold onto something sturdy, familiar. He thinks in words and fashion, always has to some degree, and aside from liking the way you sing and play the piano, he finds you, well, beautiful Blaine. Kurt is a designer by trade. He notices lines and curves and you honey? You own everything you wear – like some sort of second skin. To a designer, that's money in the bank,” Rachel responds, a soft smirk playing at the corners of her lips.

Blaine falls back from the counter, world shifting beneath his feet. He knew even bringing these to Rachel, asking questions violated the contract he shares with Kurt but the words, the sketches were so beautiful, so jarringly evocative that he just – he had to ask. But this answer?

It demolishes him. In a manner that is both unexpected and wholly violent. Nerves firing, muscles tensing, breath coming in quick succession, he knows the signs of an impending panic attack and attempts to clamp it down. It's one thing to know that Kurt wants him, desires him. It's something else entirely to be Kurt's inspiration, to be the one thing Kurt finds stable and consistent and dependable. It's something else entirely to want to be that.

Under Rachel's intense, watchful gaze (and really, the woman has an uncanny knack for looking deliberately and knowingly), Blaine struggles to control his breathing. He really does not want to fall apart in front of Rachel Berry.

She seems to know this so she says sweetly, “Can you really blame him, Blaine darling? If you were straight, I'd be all over you.”

Blaine chuckles, “Flattery will get you everywhere, Rachel Berry.” And then, “Thanks, you know, for that. I just – Kurt would never tell me any of that and I don't – I don't really know how I feel about it.”

“Eh, it's no big deal. Kurt's never been a big one for sharing and well, after Chandler and The Event, he basically never shares – with anyone, including me.” Rachel comments lightly, almost dismissively, words tumbling out before she consciously realizes she's really saying anything at all.

“Wait. Chandler? The Event? What're you talking about? Does this have to something to do with the scars on Kurt's face?”

Shit. Fuck. Okay. Because seriously. What. The. Actual. Fuck. Rachel? Blaine's face, awash with overwrought confusion, reflects Rachel's wide eyes and frantic, shit, fuck, damnit all to hell expression. She shouldn't have said that. She can't believe she actually did say that. She never slipped, not once, ever.

Hell, she prides herself on her ability not to talk, not to ever slip. She is discreet, damnit. Fiendishly, feverishly discreet (well at least when it comes to Kurt anyway but honestly, she's not nearly as bad as Tina). It's why Kurt trusts her, why she's the only one that knows the truth. About The Event. About everything.

But she'd been careless just now, not particularly paying attention to her surroundings, to what Blaine actually said and the intention behind the words. She answered out of sheer habit, a reflex learned over time. How to get out of this? How to divert focus?

With a quick assessment of Blaine's wide, probing eyes and stern expression, Rachel realizes she can't divert it. Blaine is a quick study, adept at reading through bullshit and superficial attempts to dissuade, to curb the topic of conversation. She slipped and now she must face the consequences.

“Oh um – Chandler? Well he. He's Kurt's ex, Blaine.” Rachel responds slowly, testing the weight and feel of the single syllables of her reply.

Deeper confusion roots itself in between Blaine's brows. His eyes scour Rachel's face, searching, searching for anything, even the most minuscule of tells because this doesn't make sense. He steps back towards Rachel and the counter, feeling like if he doesn't, he'll lose the open pathway Rachel suddenly unblocked. Whatever is about to be said, to be revealed, Blaine feels deep in the fabric of his cells that it's heavy, heavy and burdensome and impossible to grasp.

“You only answered one of my questions Rachel,” Blaine sternly states. “What is The Event? Does it have something to do with Kurt's scars? Does it have something to do with Chandler?”

Rachel abandons her visual dance of Kurt's words, Kurt's sketches that litter the countertop and stiffens the posture of her shoulders, straight and rigid and one hand gripping the edge of the counter for support. Kurt will surely chastise her for her slip, will surely slink off to his workspace, sink into his pencils and sketchpads, the sound of some Broadway musical soundtrack echoing throughout the apartment for the umpteenth time.

Rachel inhales deep, exhales a steadying breath, “You may be a little too young to remember this fully, but do you happen to remember hearing about the gay bashing attack about ten years ago?”

Blaine frowns, crossing his arms petulantly over his chest, “Rachel, I was ten, ten years ago. I may be gay but at the age of ten I barely understood what the word gay meant, let alone remember or understand the complexities of homophobic attacks.”

Palms lifted in defense, Rachel speaks quietly, “You're right. I apologize.”

“So what gives Rachel?”

“Chandler does have something to do with the scars on Kurt's face.”

Blaine grows increasingly frustrated with Rachel's vague, veiled responses. He can't get too mad because she is answering his questions. Yet she's doing so partly so, which only serves to actually make him angry.

“I don't – ” Blaine inhales deeply before continuing, “I don't understand Rachel. How does Chandler have something to do with Kurt's scars?”

“Chandler caused them,” Rachel whispers, voice strained and tight, eyes glassy and wet from unshed tears.

Blaine stumbles backwards, slides into one of the kitchen table chairs, steady in its absent-mindedness, hands nervously clenching and unclenching on the tops of his denim-clad thighs. He'd been right. This is heavy, more weight than he anticipated. Perhaps too much weight yet with just a passing glance he knows it's not the whole story. There's more. It's in the stiffness of Rachel's shoulders, the set of her jaw. It's in the tight clench of Rachel's muscles, pulled taut by the tension of the truth.

“Holy fuck. That um—I still, I don't,” Blaine fumbles to find purchase of his thoughts.

But Rachel infers, reading between the scribbled lines of Blaine's fumbling words, “Chandler and Kurt went on a few dates. Kurt, he um – he broke things off because he found Chandler forward, too intense. But Chandler? He just – he grew obsessed, eerily so. Kurt is,” Rachel licks her lips, wetting the dry, parched flesh, “he is my best friend, Blaine. But he can be – difficult and he didn't handle Chandler's continued advances well. He threw myriad dalliances in Chandler's face, humiliated Chandler publicly, more than once.”

“Your point Rachel?” Blaine prompts tentatively.

“That upon seeing Kurt with another guy, Chandler reacted. By taking away Kurt's most treasured possession: his control, particularly the control he holds over his appearance.”

Blaine swallows thickly. Tears, hot and burning, sting in the corners of his eyes, salty and wet and hot, so hot in his sockets. His breath catches in his throat, chokes him, pulverizes him while his mind races, attempting to process and understand.

“How did he cause the scars?”

Blaine has an idea, some slippery sort-of grainy pixilation. It flickers on the backs of his eyelids, flashes in the rugged crags of his consciousness. He just needs Rachel to reply, to strike with the last decisive blow to smelt the assumption into solidification.

“He tossed acid in Kurt's face,” Rachel affirms solemnly. “It – it wasn't a lot, just enough to do permanent damage. He spent months undergoing plastic surgery to repair the damage but you see it. Kurt will never be rid of the damage. Some of the acid – it even got in Kurt's ear, caused some hearing loss.”

Blaine exhales slowly. Running his hands over his face, he gives in, totally and completely, to the onrush of surprise, of heart wrenching shock, of tenuous understanding, of abstract, irrational anger. It's that – the last one, irrational anger on behalf of Kurt, of what Kurt's lost, that continues to bombard Blaine's veins, clench his muscles. Sure, he doesn't know Kurt the way Rachel did, the way any of Kurt's friends and family did, but Blaine did know Kurt: a flirty smile, flashing mischievous eyes, and fierceness underlined by whiplash-like intelligent wit and retorts.

Kurt is a force, an invisible series of gravitational pulls. One can't help but find Kurt intriguing in his eccentric idiosyncrasies and various facial expressions. So yes, yes Blaine is angry, more than irrationally so, because now, now he is being told that that person he'd come to know is a crude creation, born of random violence and fermented in the netherworld of traumatic injury.

Later whilst seeking comfort in the tickle of ivory keys, Blaine finds one more Post-It note, this time without any accompanying sketch, pressed to the confirmation of a flight purchased an hour prior: My prison. My property. Until I deem otherwise, I no longer require your services.

The anger returns because maybe, Blaine does know Kurt after all.