His lips tingle still; his skin is stubble-scraped, and the wind is a bitter slap against his cheeks – it is enough to keep him grounded, for now anyway.  Blaine shakes his head lightly, scattering water droplets around like a wet dog, and closes his eyes against the stream of ice rain that has long-since freed his hair of its pomade-hold.  He is not wholly sure of the time thanks to his lack of watch, but if he were to guess he would bet on it being some time in the early hours of the morning – but he has no way to check as the clouds bar any threat of seeing the sun today.  It is oddly fitting.  At least this time he has shoes.

His hand still feels warm with the ghost of Kurt's.

He must be sick.  That has to be it.  He's ill…  There is no other explanation.  There cannot be.

Kurt still loves him. 

Such a simple statement. 

But he keeps waiting for that moment where everything snaps into high definition and the path he needs to take is clear and in focus.  That is how it happens in the movies after all.

It never comes.

The bow-wave of a passing taxi barely misses him and his first thought is how mad Kurt would be at him having ruined his coat and suit in all this rain. 

His laugh is caffeine-bitter.

-+-

            The loft had been cold and empty when they had finally arrived after managing to successfully negotiate their way there from the coffee shop without actually letting go of each other.  Kurt's pulse had ramped – torn between his heart singing “yes-yes-finally-Blaine-Home-yes!” and his head's berating “Rachel and Dad could be there!  What are you doing?  How are you going to explain this?  This is wrong!  Cheater!  Cheater!  This is how this all went wrong to begin with!  This is not how this is meant to be.”  Blaine's lips on his pulse and his hands on Kurt's waist mutes one of the voices and Kurt slams Blaine backwards onto the couch. 

-+-

            Charlie is out when Blaine arrives, sodden and dripping, at his building, but the doormen know Blaine by now and simply wave him on in anyway.  Blaine thanks them, but turns around and heads back out into the ever-amplifying bustle of the city.  The last thing he needs right now is to be alone with a seemingly unlimited supply of alcohol.

Recognising that is progress, yes?

Out of options and excuses he hails a cab, rattles off his address, and tries not to inhale the stench of liberally applied Axe wafting from the driver.  He feels sick enough already without needing to accelerate the process.

-+-

            In so many ways they are just the same Kurt and Blaine they always were – a little more jagged perhaps, a little rough around the edges, but they still slot together perfectly.  Kurt's skin hums with anticipation – gooseflesh creeping down his arms with the journey of Blaine's mouth.  Shirts and ties and belts and under-shirts lay discarded about them, but as flesh is revealed it becomes harder (no pun intended) to maintain the delusion that Blaine is his and always was and always will be.  The boy – no, man - beneath him is firmer than before – more toned – the last of his puppy fat melted away and Kurt will never again have the chance to appreciate it.  He missed that boat. 

There are other changes too – a little more chest hair (though he is pleased to notice that it is well groomed); there's a strange desperation to Blaine's kisses that is also new.  Details that feed the pit of churning unease that simmers in Kurt's gut.

A hand threads its way through Kurt's hair – gently massaging his scalp then tugging lightly – and once more his thoughts are derailed.  But the disquiet lingers.

Kurt's hands roam Blaine's bared chest and he tries to focus on the familiarities and the now.  He used to know each of Blaine's plains and dips by heart.  He used to know.

Blaine's mouth is hungry – his lips claim Kurt's as if ownership was never in question.  He can feel Blaine in the urgent press against his hip – Blaine tilts his pelvis slightly and Kurt can feel the other man's smile against his own as the action elicits a moan from Kurt.  Hands roam thighs and ass and creases and curves. 

It has been so long for Kurt – he feels half-crazy and touch-drunk - but there's the constant thrill-threat that they could be disturbed at any moment.  Rachel could come back.  He left his dad with her back at NYADA… 

            ‘Stop thinking, Kurt.'  Blaine's voice is wrecked – whiskey and gravel.  His pupils are blown; his lips spit-slick and full – the embodiment of his every fantasy for the last 3+ years of his life (or forever…) and Kurt wants to fill him up so badly that it physically hurts.  He wants to take this man and claim him and love him and make love to him…with him.  But this is wrong. 

Kurt kisses him then, as chastely as he can manage.  He deserves some sort of medal for self-restraint (or personal cock-blocking).  He sits back onto Blaine's thighs and resists as Blaine tries to follow with a gentle hand. 

            ‘Blaine – I love you – but we can't do this.  Not like this.  You need to work out what you want.'

            ‘Want you.'

            ‘I know, baby, I know.  But just – stop – stop – please.  Just think for a minute, okay?'

Blaine stops trying to sit up and flops backwards onto the couch, eyes rolling in clear frustration.  Kurt draws himself up and manages to untangle himself from Blaine's legs relatively elegantly.  He collects strewed clothing to have something to occupy his hands.  Blaine throws an arm over his face.

Kurt pulls his under-shirt back on hurriedly.  He feels too exposed – a raw and bloody nerve – and it is utterly unsettling.  He locates his shirt over by the door and tries to smooth out the worst of the creases with trembling fingers.

A hand on his shoulder helps him keep breathing - when did that become a thing?

            ‘Kurt, stop - just come here a minute?'  Blaine's voice is soft as he guides them both back to the couch.  Kurt sits and Blaine drops down beside him.  Their thighs touch like they had in the coffee shop, and Kurt manages to shuffle slightly to maintain a little distance as if it would help him keep his thoughts in order.  ‘What's wrong?'

‘I love you -'

‘I know, Kurt.'

‘Do you?  I know what it feels like and I can't do it.'

            ‘What do you mean?  What what feels like?'

            ‘I can't be the other guy, Blaine.  I just can't.'

            ‘God, I need a drink.'  Blaine stands and makes towards the kitchen.  Hovering as if he does not quite know what to do.  There's something in the image of Blaine standing, shirtless, in Kurt's kitchen that settles heavily in Kurt's chest. 

            ‘Blaine, don't shut down on me, okay?  I can't…  Just…  What does this mean to you?'

            ‘What does this mean to me?  Do you have any idea what you do to me?  What this does to me?  I don't know who I am anymore.  I don't know who this person is.  So, don't go all ice queen on me, Kurt – you were fine with all this a minute ago.'

            ‘Is that why you drink?  Don't think I can't smell it on you.  Is that how you run away now?'  Blaine rolls his eyes, his eyebrows drawn into thin lines; one hand grasps at the back of his neck as if he were holding his own head in place.  Kurt spies a bruise forming just under Blaine's jaw.  ‘No.  You're right.  That was uncalled for.'  Kurt takes a deep breath and gently pats the seat next to him.  ‘Talk to me, Blaine.  I'm right here.'

            ‘What do you want me to say?'

            ‘Start simple.  Do you love me?'

            ‘How can you even ask me that?'  Blaine turns his back then and resumes riffling through cupboards.

            ‘Because you haven't said it.'

            ‘What are you, six?  I think actions were pretty loud, Kurt.'

            ‘It's pretty simple, Blaine.  You either love me or you don't.'

            ‘I'm not playing games with you.'

            ‘Dammit, Blaine.  This is not a game.  This has never been a game to me.  I've been completely honest with you – this… you are really important to me.  I want you back, Blaine.  I –'  He pauses then and actually looks at Blaine - striped of the fancy clothes he looks so small and lost.  Blaine who used to command attention when he entered a room now curves in on himself and fidgets like a cornered animal.  ‘I'm not fixing you a drink, Blaine, stand still a minute!'

The other man straightens a little at the command and Kurt glimpses his Blaine again.

            ‘You are a terrible host, Kurt.  I was looking for the coffee.'

            ‘Oh…'  A glance to the now-steaming kettle confirms Blaine's statement.  ‘Oh!'  Flustered, Kurt rushes over and manages to pull himself together enough to pull the can of coffee grounds out of the correct cupboard.  Blaine takes them from Kurt gently before shoeing the other man back over towards the sofa. 

Kurt's mind is in a whorl from the emotional whiplash, but he takes comfort in the knowledge that he was right to stop things before they went too far. 

When Blaine returns, it is with coffee, and Kurt forces himself to meet the other man's eyes as he resumes his seat – carefully maintaining the distance Kurt fabricated between them.

            ‘Does this look like I am “running away”, Kurt?'

            ‘Blaine – I didn't mean –‘

            ‘- Yes you did.  It's fine.  Really.'

            ‘It's not.  It was an awful thing to say and I'm sorry.'

            ‘It doesn't change anything though, does it?'

They fall into silence.  Kurt watches tiny bubbles swirl on the surface of his coffee.  He has so many questions – so many things he wants to know and to ask and to share with the man next to him.  Kurt cradles the mug in his hands like a caress; as if the warmth could sustain him. 

Blaine is quiet beside him, watching – always watching.  Kurt wants nothing more in that instant to press the other man back down into the cushions, but he knows he did the right thing – even if he did not handle it exactly as he should have.  He manages to place his own mug on the coffee table without spilling it everywhere – he instantly misses the warmth – but he feels like it was a barrier (a comfort blanket) and he needs to be sure he is honest and open now.  Kurt needs Blaine to understand.

            ‘I feel like I've done most of the talking here, but I just wanted to be clear with you –‘

            ‘- I'm going to China for a couple of months.'

            ‘Months?'  It sucks the breath from Kurt's lungs.  Blaine nods.            ‘When?'

            ‘We leave next week.'

            ‘We- a week… Okay.  So…tonight was?'

            ‘I was going to let you know, Kurt.  I didn't plan for this.'

            ‘What's the plan now?'

-+-

            The penthouse is silent as Blaine drips his way like a sodden burglar towards a guest room.  He tells himself it is so he does not wake Douglas. 

Blaine strips in the dark – if he ensures that his coat and suit are hung up correctly to dry, rather than draped unceremoniously over the back of a chair, it is purely co-incidence and has nothing to do with that evening's events. 

Soul-tired, he finds a towel in the linen closet at random and roughly dries his hair.  He almost misses the slip of paper that floats to the floor.  It was already rose-stained.  He adds tears to the letter.

-+-

Blaine:  Are you around?  I need to talk. - B

Charlie: With MissD, Felix, and a stunning young thing called Elliot (I think) in the Village.  What's up?

Blaine:  I've really, really messed up. - B

Charlie:  OK.  Remember to breathe - I'm sure it's not that bad.  Want to join us?

Charlie:  Miss D sends “smoochies” to you btw. 

Blaine:  Wouldn't want to bring you guys down…or take you away from “Elliot” - B

Charlie:  You're a good friend.  What happened?

Blaine:  I kissed him. – B

Charlie:  Pretty sure kissing your “fiancé” is not gonna mess anything up. ;-P

Blaine:  Kurt.  Not Douglas.  I kissed Kurt.  I'm a terrible person. – B

Charlie:  You said things weren't great in that department with you and D recently (color me unsurprised).  I don't see the issue, Anders.  It's not like K and D are in the same circles.  Hell – sounds like best of both worlds to me.

Blaine:  I'm not that person!

Charlie:  Evidence to the contrary, Anders.

Charlie:  Look – I know you love D (pun intended – who doesn't!) but this was always gonna happen.  Dating older guys is great – but you need a little relief on the side.  Let D look after you and make him happy in return.  Let K take care of the other stuff.  No problem.  B)

Blaine:  I need to tell Douglas what happened.

Charlie:  Will it change anything?  Will it take it back?  No.  All you'll end up doing is hurting him.  Trust Uncle Charlie here, OK?

-+-

            He does not sleep.  He cannot – his mind will not give him peace especially after Charlie's “advice”.  Blaine feels sick and alone.  Between his fingers, the dried rose is unbearably fragile – he twirls it absently.  His eyes rest, unfocused, on the letter in his lap; he does not sleep.

-+-

            The mirror betrays him.  Well, technically he betrayed himself – but he was hoping that there would be no visible markers to point guilty fingers towards his activities the previous evening beyond evidence of his lack of sleep.  The part of him that loves that Kurt claimed him with his delicious lips is overwhelmed by the sick-guilt-horror of his betrayal of Douglas - the only one who had really been there for him.  He manages to mask it by wearing a turtleneck and for once he is thankful for winter.

Douglas is waiting for him in the kitchen – shielded by newspaper and blue-and-white coffee mug.  Blaine braces himself for a berating he wholly deserves, but it never comes.  The other man merely smiles at him softly and nudges a second mug towards him.

            ‘I…thought you'd be at work.'  Blaine feels the need to fill the silence.

            ‘Look, I thought about what you said last night, Blaine.  I've not been fair to you - I'm sorry, darling.  I promised I would never put work before you…  I want to make it up to you if you'll let me.  So I called Penny at the office and I told her I'd be taking this week off to spend it with you before we head out to China.  I'm all yours.'

            ‘Wow, Douglas.  That's…that's really great.'

Blaine's heart hammers in his chest, but Douglas' smile is so brilliant Blaine cannot bring himself to say any more.  He takes the proffered coffee and cradles it as he heads to gaze out on the park from the windows – he does not trust himself to hold it together in close proximity to the other man quite yet.    

            ‘How was Kurt?'  The question blindsides Blaine, and apparently his acting capabilities are impaired by the lack of sleep because his inability to form a coherent answer makes Douglas look at him with a questioning tilt of the head.  ‘You went to his performance last night…'  He prompts.

            ‘Yes!  Kurt's performance.  He was…it was great.  He was really great.'

            ‘What did he sing in the end?  Sondheim, right?'

            ‘Yeah.  Uh.  He sang “I'm Still Here” from “Follies”'.

            ‘Wow - tough choice.  I'm inclined to agree with Elaine Stritch - '

            ‘- You don't think he earned the right to sing it?'  Blaine does not want to argue - he has no right to argue - but the criticism rankles and he snaps. 

            ‘I think she was on to something when she said you had to reach 80 first, but he's been through a lot – and if you think his performance was great then I have no doubt that it was.'  Douglas placates. 

            ‘I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to snap I just –'

            ‘Late night.  I know.  I didn't get much sleep either…'  Douglas makes his way over to where Blaine stands, and casually rests against the frame beside him.  Blaine notices for the first time that Douglas is still in his pyjamas and for some reason it makes him feel worse.  ‘Alright – I'm going to promise something, and I need your help with this: no arguing today.  We just talk, and relax, and -'  Douglas peers out the window at the dismal weather and laughs slightly, ‘- we don't go for a walk in the park today.  Tomorrow maybe?  If it's dry?  A picnic?' 

Blaine manages to nod and smile.  Douglas smiles back and gently takes Blaine's empty cup from him with a light kiss. 

            ‘Good.'

-+-

            ‘I am a terrible, terrible person, Elliot.  I am a hypocrite.  I am worse than –'

            ‘- Hey, stop that.  Alright.' 

Elliot puts a hand on his friend's shoulder in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture.  The rain has not let-up and he is more than a little hung-over from that evening's events.  Kurt gives him a look which could likely slice through metal, and Elliot manages not to laugh.  He leads them both through his apartment building and lets them in.  It's tiny really, but it is home.  Kurt wanders over to the nearest chair and flops unceremoniously into it without even removing his soaked overcoat.  Elliot bites his lip slightly and manages not to comment. 

            ‘What am I going to do?'  Kurt groans.

Elliot grabs a glass of water and takes a couple of Advil before heading over to join his morose friend.

            ‘Right.  So, let me get this right.  You told him you still love him.  Then you both kissed.  Things got a little heated.  And then…'

            ‘I stopped it.  I mean – It's wrong!  He's engaged!'

            ‘Yes.  He's engaged.  He's not married, Kurt.'  Elliot takes another sip of water and watches as Kurt starts absently organising fabric swatches that Elliot had left strewn on the arm of the chair.  ‘You heard from him since?'

            ‘No.  Not since I asked him to leave.'

            ‘Right.  So – you need to give him some time.'

            ‘I know.  I know.'  Kurt sounds so downtrodden that Elliot wants nothing more than to pull the other man into a hug, but he knows that if he tries to move right now he may end up vomiting all over his friend instead.  The effect would not quite be the same.  ‘What if…  What if he doesn't choose me?'

            ‘You love him.  He obviously loves you, Kurt –'

            ‘He didn't say it.'

            ‘Did he need to?'  Kurt's eyes remain on the small squares of fabric on his lap, and Elliot sighs loudly.  ‘Look – there is absolutely nothing you can do right now and dwelling on it is just going to make you ill.  So, here's what we're going to do: we're going to practice that song you wanted to do with the band, and then we're going to take you to your check-up.  Alright?'  Kurt nods, his eyes flicking up to meet Elliot's.  They're red-rimmed – Kurt looks how Elliot feels.  ‘“Love is a Battle Field,” right?'

            ‘You're a good friend, Elliot.'

            ‘It'll all work out, Kurt.  You'll see.'

-+-