‘You can't just lay there, Anders.  As cute as your ass is in those tight trousers of yours – you need to get up.' 

            ‘Why?'  Blaine's voice is muffled by the leather of the sofa and he swears he can hear Charlie chuckle.

            ‘We have visitors.'

Blaine groans – he really does not feel up to seeing anyone, but at the sound of other footsteps, he resentfully pushes himself up into a seated position.  He scowls like a petulant child at his friend and Charlie simply laughs at him.  Blaine frowns.

            ‘Blaine Anderson may I formally introduce the one and only Miss D'Rection known to her friends as Miss D. and my dear friend Felix Gaade.' 

Blaine takes in the newcomers slipping too easily into host mode.

            ‘Anders, your manners are showing.'  Charlie jokes as Blaine shakes Felix's hand. 

            ‘One of us has to be a gentleman, Charlie.'  Blaine returns.

Miss D. raises an eyebrow when Blaine kisses her hand.

            ‘Oooooh, isn't he adorable.  Such a sweetie.  You never said he was so darling!  Where have you been hiding him, Charles?'  Miss D. sweeps her eyes over the young man before her and gestures for him to spin for her.  Blaine complies and Miss D. smiles.  ‘Yes.  He's perfect.'

            ‘Perfect for what?'  Blaine queries, but receives no response but a bark of a laugh from Felix.

            ‘Tonight, Mr. Anderson.  Perfect for tonight.'  Felix's voice is deeper than his face would suggest – his accent is a strange mix of French creole and Jamaican and is at once surprising and completely perfect for him.  He reminds Blaine of Baron Samedi.  ‘You see, Charlie-Boy here called us because he said you were feeling a little lost and lonely so Mommy and I decided to come and help immerse you in the life.'

Miss D. drapes an arm around Blaine's shoulders and turns him to inspect him again.  Felix grins flashing perfect white teeth.

            ‘The life?'  Blaine feels like a parrot.

            ‘We have to do something about this.'  Miss D. says to Charlie as if Blaine were nothing more than a doll.

            ‘I know, I know.  He scrubs up well though.'  Charlie replies and Felix raises an eyebrow.

            ‘You were right to call us.  Come one now, honey.  Let Momma D. see what we can do, hm?'  She marches Blaine into Charlie's room and immediately begins rifling through Charlie's wardrobe.  Blaine crosses his arms across his chest self-consciously, feeling embarrassed, frustrated and unnerved as the drag queen picks out an outfit for him before leaving him to change.  His head is spinning and, honestly, he feels a little cross – he had expressly told Charlie he just wanted to hangout.  Apparently he had not been clear enough about the reasons behind his current urge to shun all of humanity.  In retrospect, perhaps Benedict Charles was the last person on earth he should have turned to in his self-loathing state, but he had no one else.

He dresses in the tight black jeans and blood-red linen shirt Miss D. had selected, fumbling a little with the studded black and silver belt as he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror – black and red like the Steinway he has never played.  Blaine quickly cuts the thought off before he falls back down into that personal pit of inadequacy and forces himself to re-join Charlie and his friends.  He takes a moment to appreciate Miss D.'s make-up – it was only her name that had really told Blaine that she was a drag queen – and he idly wonders whether Charlie will make her attack him with an eyeliner pencil as he seems keen on the look, at least on Blaine anyway.  He makes a note to ask Charlie what Miss D.'s boy-name is at some point – not that he would be able to recognise her out of drag anyway.

Blaine finds himself twirled physically as Miss D. appraises him and he seemingly passes whatever inspection she was giving him as she smiles then links arms with both him and Charlie, leading them out into the New York evening as Felix holds the door for them.

-+-

            They had dinner at Lips on East 56th – the evening's headliners had been Willam Belli, Detox Icunt, and Vicky Vox (names Blaine knows from hours of watching RuPaul's Drag Race and their WDV music videos on Youtube) – and had ended up somehow on West 22nd at a club called BPM. 

The club is packed and Blaine endeavours to “relax” and “let go a little” as his companions keep telling him to.  He tries not to think about blue eyes, or black and red pianos, or whispered promises…  He pushes his previous club experiences out of his mind together with all of the worries and fears stacked upon him like bricks – college, Sebastian, his family, Douglas, engagements, Kurt – each the size of a planet. 

‘Drink this.'  Charlie offers him another shot glass and Blaine shrugs a little before downing the burning liquid. 

The alcohol helps and Blaine tries to be there in the moment with Charlie and his new-found friends.  Friends who were presently surrounding him like a pack of wolves. 

Felix's dark skin is offset perfectly against his deep-purple silk shirt; he positively glows under the lights of the club.  Somehow Blaine had found himself in a dancing-sandwich between Felix, whom he was facing, and Miss D. - who alternated between dancing behind him and dancing back-to-back (well technically, ass-to-ass, would be more accurate) with him.  Charlie had danced with the trio for a while but at some point had disappeared and Blaine had no clue where the other man had gone until he returned with a wicked smile on his face and something in his hand. 

            ‘Oooooh, let's be wicked.'  Miss D. half-shouts half-breathes into Blaine's ear as her hands slip around his waist.

Blaine's skin is thrumming from the music and alcohol coursing through his veins and it takes him longer than it should to realise what Charlie is offering to him – in fact he only twigs as he watches first Felix then Charlie take hits.  Poppers.  His mind whirrs as he feels Miss D. slide beside him, feeling rather than seeing her inhale sharply from the tiny bottle held by Charlie before it is held out before him.  He shakes his head and Felix raises an eyebrow.

            ‘He really is a baby-gay, Charlie.  Think you're wasting your time with this one.'

Blaine glares and Felix's laugh bowls into him – it is only Miss D.'s calming touch on his back that prevents Blaine from squaring up to the much, much taller man.

            ‘All they do is give you a little buzz, honey.  They're not like coke or anything.  Nothing to be scared of.'  She's slipped behind him again.

            ‘Not scared.'  He huffs, turning slightly to ensure she can hear him.  She runs her fingers down over his defined biceps making him shudder involuntarily.

            ‘I know, baby.  I know.  It'll make you feel relaxed, and you're so tense.'He huffs, turning slightly to ensure she can hear him. She runs her fingers down over his defined biceps making him shudder involuntarily.

 ‘ I know. It'  Her hands are magic on his shoulders; deftly massaging the top of layers of rigid muscle, as she purrs into his ear.

Charlie offers him the little bottle again, but it is Felix whose eyes he catches – the dark orbs are black in the strobe lights and Blaine swears they are twinkling with laughter.  The alcohol in his veins flushes his skin and he stumbles when a muscle-bound god of a man in a white tank top that is at least one size too small pushes by their small group.  The bottle is so small and insignificant looking and Felix's grin is all tombstone-teeth; mocking. 

His mind is racing, but he can honestly not think of a person he would upset if he let go and tried it – he has disappointed his family, Kurt, the Warblers, Sebastian, and Douglas – all the people that matter to him already.  He's a fuck-up – might as well act like one.  What has he got to lose? 

His mind pulses with the light.  He watches as Felix takes another sniff.

Blaine had been around drugs before – some of the Warblers had tried to convince him to try pot but he had been the alpha then – the leader; nothing to prove and above peer pressure.  What was he now?  What had happened to that Blaine?  Strong, confident, mentor Blaine who had known with all his heart and soul that he loved Kurt Hummel and had been born for two things: to love that man and to perform on stage?  When did it all go so terribly wrong?

He felt like the lead in his own personal nightmare.

At Dalton they had had classes on drugs – a local police officer had come to talk to them about substance abuse and had talked about having to break the news to families of kids who had overdosed.  Blaine recalled that a light-haired boy had burst into tears when the officer had explained that the chemicals in magic mushrooms stayed dormant in the base of your brain and would trigger randomly at some point in the future –

            ‘You could be driving the kids to school one minute and away on a high the next.'

Blaine had frowned at his classmate's reaction – it shocked him he could not recall the other boy's name…  He had known everyone's names.  He had made a point of it.

            Big fish, small pond.

He racks his brain for information on side-effects of poppers as Charlie takes a second hit.  Miss D.'s long fingers stroke his biceps again and Blaine stumbles over his own thoughts as his body reacts.  He feels her breath against his neck as the little bottle ends up in his hand. 

            ‘Go on, honey.  It'll make you feel so much looser.  Momma D Momma D'll look after you – you're with family, baby.  You're with family.'

-+-

            Santana's whistle did nothing to slow the creeping panic in Kurt's spine.  He re-read the address on the scrap of paper once more before Santana swiped it from his fingers.

            ‘Remind me again why you're here.'  He glowered.

He glowered.

            ‘Because it was me or Berry, and you really don't want her brand of crazy with you right now.  Also – have you met me?  There was no way I was passing up an opportunity to scope out this place!  This is the Upper East Side!  Right there – that's Central Park.  I didn't believe it but you gotta admit – this explains a lot.'

            ‘Blaine's not like that ‘Tana.'

            ‘Oh, really?  ‘Cause it certainly looks like he might be to me, Kurt.  Think about it okay.  The boy was born for this lifestyle.  He's a privately educated polished pocket person and there is no way in hell he was brought up thinking he'd ever live in Bushwick.'

            ‘He's not like that.'

            ‘You're telling me that this isn't the kind of life his parents thought about when they sent him to that pretentious clone school?  That they didn't see Ivy League schools and prestigious jobs when they paid for that tuition?  Come on, Kurt.'

            ‘Yeah, well – that's not who Blaine is.'

            ‘Who is Blaine, Kurt?  Because I sure as hell don't know.  I thought he was this tiny puppy dog – disgustingly cute but loyal, you know, then he cheats on you, then on the New Directions, and now…'  She gestures to their surroundings and Kurt feels his shoulders tense.  He gives his companion a look that he hopes translates that he does not want to talk about it and heads towards the massive doors of the building. 

Santana only hesitates for a moment before following, and though Kurt cannot see her he can feel her roll her eyes at him.

The doorman holds the door for them and Kurt is marginally surprised that he does not detect any judgement from the older gentleman.

            They really are well trained…

He walks up to the desk, his leather soled shoes sliding a little on the marble, towards one of the forest green felted and brass studded men he hopes may be manning the Reception.  The desk is slightly curved, marble like the floor, and inlayed with brass lily pads.  The effect is as if the whole piece has been carved from a frozen pond during a sunset – beautiful, but Kurt feels uncomfortable and does not know whether to lean on it or to stand back and use it as a shield.  Fortunately the man behind the desk smiles at him.

            ‘Good evening, sir.  How may I help you this evening?'

            ‘Uh.  Thank you,-‘  Kurt glances at the man's name tag.  ‘-Markus.  I am looking for a Mr. Anderson – Blaine Anderson?  I believe he lives here?'

            ‘Mr. Anderson is not at home at present.  May I take a message for him?'

            ‘Oh.  Um…that's okay.  Do you know where he is?  Or, have a contact number or anything?  It's…it's really important that I talk to him…tonight.'

            ‘I'm sorry, Mr…'

            ‘Hummel.'

            ‘Mr. Hummel.  I don't have a contact number for Mr. Anderson, and Mr. Chambers is away on business presently…'  Markus glances down behind the desk at what Kurt guesses must be an inlaid monitor.

            ‘Do you know when Mr. Anderson will be back?'  Kurt cringes a little at the formality.

            ‘I'm sorry –‘

            ‘Hi, Markus.  I'm Santana,' the dark haired woman interrupts, gently pushing Kurt aside.  ‘Kurt here's Blaine's best friend – in fact, he's more of a brother really - and we desperately need to get a hold of him tonight – right now actually.  You see, his mother's really sick and it's not looking good…' 

Kurt watches, incredulously, as his friend leans over the desk, displaying her cleavage and twirling a lock of her long hair around her finger.  She looks like something from a terrible porn movie, or one of those abysmal spoof-comedies that were popular a couple of years back, and Kurt feels second-hand embarrassment for Markus.

            ‘I had no idea.  I'm truly sorry to hear about Mrs. Anderson.  I really don't have any information for you though.  I can certainly give Mr. Anderson a message for you –‘

            ‘He didn't mention where he was going when he left earlier?'

            ‘I wish I could help you – I really do.'

Kurt rolls his eyes as Santana thanks him profusely and then takes his arm as they head back out into the brisk evening.

            ‘Well that was a waste of time.'

            ‘I'll try again tomorrow, I guess.'  Kurt feels deflated – he had been running on nervous energy since he had received the address, and now…now he feels…well, lost. 

            If he's not friends with Sebastian any more, and Douglas is not in the country where would he go?

            ‘I can't believe he wouldn't help us!  I gave him the full treatment!  I bet they're all gay.'

            ‘Yes – that must be it.  Blaine lives in the Gaylord Arms where they only hire gay doormen so that they cannot be swayed into giving away personal and sensitive information about the gay private lives of their rich, gay occupants.'  Kurt gives Santana what he knows is his bitchiest face, but his friend is seemingly immune.

            ‘You should have tried to flirt with him.'

Kurt raises an eyebrow and Santana laughs.

            ‘Come on, Lady Hummel.  Let's head back – it's freezing and being out here is making you look like a jack o'lantern.'

            ‘Gee, thanks.'  He huffs his annoyance but takes her proffered arm as they head towards the nearest subway station when the realisation smacks him across the face.  ‘Shit – we should have told Markus not to tell Blaine that stuff you made up about his mother!  What if he flips?!  What if he thinks it was true?' 

Santana rolls her eyes and holds his elbow firmly, stopping him from turning and rushing straight back to the building.

            ‘Relax, Lady.  He didn't buy our story for a minute.'

            ‘Your story and how do you know?'

            ‘Because he is immune to the girls.'

            ‘Just because he was not distracted enough by your cleavage to give us a number or a lead on a location does not mean he thought we were lying!'

            ‘Anyway – it's not like Blaine's actually talking to his parents at the moment anyway.'

            ‘That's not the point!'

            ‘Calm down.  You're going to pop something.  It'll be fine, Kurt – worst case he rings his parents and they actually talk.  Alright?  Come on – let's get back to the loft and I'll pour you something to relax you, okay?  Auntie ‘Tana'll look after you.'

            ‘Why does that scare me?'

Santana's laugh is genuine and Kurt marvels at how he came to be living with the woman – a couple of years ago he never would have imagined this turn of events.  Placated he follows her onto the platform and they wait in relatively amicable silence for the train. 

            One.  Two.  Three.

Time passes with each flick of his tongue stud against his teeth, and with it his thoughts.  If Santana notices she says nothing.  In fact, Kurt barely notices now – the tick has become a part of him, like his tattoo and his clothes – an external display of his internal self. 

            One.  Two.  Three.

            Where are you, Blaine?

            One.  Two.  Three.

            ‘Kurt?'

He turns to face her, expecting…he is not sure what he was expecting but genuine concern was not it.  Kurt stumbles for words and Santana's eyes soften.

            ‘You love him.'

It is not a question and his previous conversation with Elliot pops up behind his eyes like an unwanted spam window.

            ‘It's not about me.'

            ‘Bullshit, Hummel.  You and Berry – it's always about you.  It's not a bad thing, necessarily, but it is about you.'

He frowns slightly – Santana has always been able to knock him off-guard when she is in one of these insightful moods.  There is a warmth to her – a fierce loyalty – that she reserves for a very select few.  Kurt is not sure when he earned it, but he is so glad he has it.

            ‘So, spill.  Is it because he's in a relationship?'

            ‘I don't know.'  He shakes his head, because, though he will never admit it out loud – Blaine did hurt him, he hurt him beyond words, but Kurt still loved him.  He loves him with his entire being, and deep down, he had believed Blaine's apologies - he had believed Blaine's confessions of love and sorrow, puzzle pieces and soul mates.  Hell, he had believed so deeply in that forever that he had known in his bones that they would eventually be together.  They were supposed to be each other's firsts, lasts and always, and now Blaine was going to marry another man. 

            ‘Hey, Kurt.  Hey, it's okay.'  Santana's embrace surprises him – he had not realised he was crying.  She rubs his back and he feels the bone-deep ache ease a little with the contact.  He clings to her awkwardly as she soothes him.

            ‘I just.  I don't understand.  You don't stop loving someone overnight.  You don't just stop loving someone!'

            ‘I know.'

            ‘You still love Brittany and Rachel still loves F…Finn.  Rachel will always love him, but he's gone – and Brittany's at M.I.T., and Blaine's getting m…married.  He's getting married to someone who isn't me and, god, it hurts so badly.'

            ‘You need to tell him, Kurt.  You need to tell him.'

Her hands stroke his back and he tries to take deep breaths to calm himself down.  His vision is blurred through his wet eyelashes and he notices too late that they missed their train.  For some reason he cannot find it in himself to care.

            ‘Thank you.'  He whispers it into her hair.  ‘Thank you for being my friend.'

            ‘Tell Berry we had a moment and I'll gut you in your sleep, okay?' 

            ‘Your secret heart is safe with me.'  He feels her smile against his damp cheek.  ‘We missed our train.'

            ‘I know.'

They are shaking with laughter and it is euphoric. 

            Catharsis.

The word falls out from somewhere and makes him start giggling all over again.

Many uppity looks from the locals of the Upper East Side later and finally their breathing has calmed enough that they stop setting each other off.  Kurt feels as if he is floating somewhere along the disgusting ceiling of the subway – his lungs feel like he has survived a drowning, and he knows without needing a mirror that his eyes will be red, puffy and bloodshot, but he cannot find it within himself to care.

They board the next train and sit beside each other in comfortable silence.  They make their connections lost in their own thoughts, and it is only as they exit the subway that Santana releases his hand again.