He meant to talk about it – he really did, but since their first fight things had started going wrong at work and Douglas had found himself falling back into old habits.  The fact that Blaine was so easy to live with did not help matters.  Since he had gifted the guest apartment to the younger man, a part of Douglas had been concerned that Blaine would choose to move in there – but his need to ensure that Blaine never felt trapped with him won out over his own insecurities.  The hours he had spent pathetically fretting turned out to be wasted anyway – since Blaine's disagreement with his parents, the young man had exclusively stayed in Douglas' penthouse with him.  The fact that, since then, they had also shared the master suite was an added bonus and meant that the awkward sleeping arrangements conversation had never been broached. 

Living with Blaine was actually easy – Douglas had struggled, before, living with other people.  He had, of course, had no choice with Roger, but since then, a series of disastrous flat-shares and half-attempts at living with boyfriends had left him disillusioned and convinced that he was born a perpetual bachelor.  Like in all things, Blaine had proven him unequivocally wrong.  The younger man was neat and unobtrusive, he had a sixth sense for when Douglas needed to be left alone, or when he needed a good distraction.  Unlike others before him, Blaine never complained about the hours Douglas kept with work, and never seemed at a loss for something to do – so, when it came to the day-to-day it seemed that their dry-run over the previous winter had not been a fluke. 

The months passed by so quickly – Douglas had helped Blaine choose his college courses, spending hours with trash television on in the background together with a binder and piles of papers playing top-trumps with electives.  Work had picked up dramatically and the likelihood of a second trip to China was looking more and more like a reality.  The building stress levels had started to take their toll on Douglas and he was certain that their second argument had been escalated by that fact.

It had started with an envelope.

            ‘I had to guess an amount.'  Blaine's eyes flicker to where the offending object lies before Douglas at the breakfast bar.

            ‘What's this?'  He does not touch it.

            ‘For bills and stuff.' 

Blaine looks away – they never talk about money; it is an unwritten rule – a product of their upbringings: talking about money is crass.

            ‘Blaine, you don't –‘

            ‘I know.  I want to.'

Their eyes meet and Douglas finds himself fascinated by the way the strong summer light touches the little green and gold flecks suspended in the Manuka honey of Blaine's eyes.  They are dark today he muses.

            ‘How can you aff-‘

            ‘I got a job.'  It is flippant, as if it is nothing, and it is the tone that surprises him more than the four tiny words.

            ‘Where?'

            ‘Playing piano at one of the jazz bars down on 90 West between Laguardia and Thompson.'

            ‘You said you were out with friends.'

            ‘I was.  Charlie –‘

            ‘Blaine, you know how I feel about you spending time with Benedict Charles.'

            ‘We've been through this – he's a friend.  It's not like I know people here, Douglas.  Wouldn't you rather I have fun with people I know?  Hm?' 

Blaine has a point, Douglas knows he does, but for some reason the younger man's choice of words strikes a deep fault line within him and something rumbles.

            ‘Because you don't have fun with me.'

            ‘Come on, Douglas.  Don't start.  I didn't say that!  You've been busy with work and –‘

            ‘You're young.  You want to party and have fun –‘

            ‘Don't.'  Blaine's eyes darken and Douglas forces himself to try to be rational – pressing back against the overwhelming urge to give into the clawing insecurities fracturing down like shards of glass, deep within his core.

            ‘You're right – you're right.  So – tell me more about this piano bar.'

He does not respond immediately – he studies Douglas, and not for the first time, he wonders what Blaine actually sees in him.

            ‘It's called Bar Henry Bistro – you'd like it actually – and I play there on Monday and Tuesday nights.  They asked me to do Fridays as well but that's one of the only evenings we get together anymore, and once college starts in a couple of weeks…  So, I said no.  OK?  Because you -,' Blaine moves around behind Douglas' perch on the bar stool and drapes his arms around his shoulders.  ‘Spending time with you is the most important thing to me.'

He knows he should drop it.  He knows he should.  But it is an itch and he cannot stop himself.

            ‘You don't need to work you know.'

            ‘I want to.'

            ‘Alright.  But you don't need to.  I can –‘

            ‘So help me, if the next word that leaves your lips is support I will leave.' 

Blaine's arms around his shoulders disappear and Douglas finds himself annoyed by their loss.

            ‘I can though.'

            ‘I don't need you to support me, Douglas.'

He should have dropped it.  He really should have dropped it.

            ‘So, how much do you make playing piano two nights a week?'

            ‘We're doing this now?  Really?'

He watches Blaine pace away from him to glare out of the window down on the avenue below.  Douglas turns a little to watch him – he knows he won, but he still needs to scratch.

            ‘I'm being serious.'

            ‘So am I.  I'm not stupid – I know I can't afford to pay my share of this, but I want to contribute what I can.  Why is that so hard to understand?'

            ‘Keep it.  Get yourself some-‘

            ‘Say “something nice”, Douglas.  Go on.'

            ‘-books.  For college.'

Blaine rolls his eyes and glares.  Douglas cannot help the small chuckle that escapes him at the overly dramatic reaction.  He may as well have lit touch paper.

            ‘Oh – so I'm funny now.  Blaine's hilarious.'  The smaller man throws his hands up in the air and Douglas is gone.

            ‘Darling, no – I didn't mean –‘  He can barely get the words out between fits of giggles.

            ‘You don't mean a lot of things do you?' 

Douglas feels the air swirl around him in Blaine's wake as he storms his way to the door.  He slams it.

            He feels Blaine slide under the covers beside him and tries to get his bleary eyes to focus enough on the digital clock to work out the time. 

            ‘I'm sorry I stormed out.'

            ‘I'm sorry I was an arse.'

            ‘Old git.'

            ‘Whippersnapper.'

It's three in the morning.  He guesses Blaine must have been at work – not out partying as he had imagined oh so often over the past weeks, riling himself up into a jealous and bitter frenzy.  Douglas rolls over to face Blaine's back and gently slides an arm around his partner's waist.  He encounters no resistance but Blaine does not relax.  Douglas frowns.

            ‘How was work?'     

            ‘Busy.'

            ‘Tell me about it?'

            ‘Not much to tell – an older lady tipped me a hundred.'

            ‘What did you do?'

            ‘I have a nice smile apparently.'

            ‘That's definitely true.'

Douglas presses a kiss to Blaine's shoulder and listens to his breathing start to even out.

            ‘I really am sorry, Blaine.  I just…'

            ‘You don't have to explain.'

            ‘I feel like I do.'

            ‘I know that feeling.'

            ‘I know you do.'

Blaine moves his arm then and for a terrifying moment Douglas expects Blaine to leave him, but instead he rolls to face him.

            ‘You're all I have.'  The admission is shaky and a silent tear rolls down one flushed cheek.

            ‘Oh, sweetheart.  That's not true.  That's not true at all.' 

Douglas holds him then. 

Eventually Blaine's arms wrap around him in response. 

Douglas' shirt is wet by the time Blaine's breathing calms.

            ‘…sorry.'

            ‘You have nothing to be sorry for.'

            ‘'m though.'

            ‘Get some rest, darling.  It's late.  I'll still be here in the morning – I'm not going anywhere.  I'm not going to leave you.'

            ‘Promise?'

            ‘I promise.'

-+-

            ‘It's not healthy, Kurt.'

            ‘I am sure I have no idea what you are talking about.'

He busies himself with the dishes as the brunette watches him cautiously from the sofa. 

            ‘Ku-r-t!'

She draws the sound out in that way that, seemingly, only she can.  He had thought that particular skill was reserved for siblings only, but Rachel always manages to prove him wrong.  He restrains himself from mimicking her – instead focusing on the task at hand.  He had taken over the chore exclusively since he had tired of re-doing the job every time the girls had done it after finding their work was not up to scratch.  Oddly enough, neither had complained.

            ‘Tell me, Kurt.'

            ‘There's nothing to tell.'

            ‘You went out on a date.'

            ‘It was not a date.'

            ‘Sure looked like one.'

            ‘It wasn't.'

            ‘Did he pay?'

            ‘Yes.'

            ‘Then it was a date.'

            ‘It was coffee.'

            ‘A coffee date!'

He throws up his hands in frustration and almost drowns himself with suds from the spatula he had been cleaning.

            ‘Damn it!'  Grabbing the nearest tea towel he manages to blot the worst of it from his favourite summer-weight vest before too much damage was done, ignoring the high-pitched giggle from the living area. 

Fortunately, Rachel knows him well enough to know when to stop – at least until he finishes up and takes a seat beside her at least.

            ‘So – what was wrong with him?'

            ‘Nothing, because it wasn't a date!'

            ‘Too tall?  He couldn't have been too short because…well – you know.  Or was it the dinner conversation?'

            ‘If I tell you will you please just drop it, Rachel?'  He turns to face her, and she must have seen the thinly veiled edge beneath the surface of his eyes because she nods silently, smile fading into a look of quiet confusion.

            ‘It was Sebastian.'  He stands, unable to look at his friend's shocked expression for a second longer and spins to stalk off to his own “room”.   ‘That look – that look right there is exactly why I didn't want to tell you.' 

            ‘Kurt.  You said you'd leave things be!'

He ignores her and instead starts putting away his carefully and precisely folded laundry from earlier, flicking his tongue stud against his teeth in patterns of three.

            ‘Kurt – talk to me?'

            ‘I'm busy, Rachel.'

            ‘Kurt!'

            ‘Not now!  Why can't you just leave things be for once in your life?'

            ‘Because I care about you, Kurt.  You're my best friend.  And you had coffee with Sebastian which can only mean one thing –‘

            ‘Please.'

-+-

            ‘Never figured you for the piercing type.'

            ‘Yes, well – I always knew you'd end up studying to be a lawyer – some of us have better perception skills than others.  You might want to work on yours if you want to be successful, by the way.'  Kurt tries not to click his stud, self-conscious of it now that Sebastian had noticed and judged him for it.  He takes a sip of his coffee instead - desperate to do something, even though it is still too hot.  ‘I got a tattoo too.'  He has no idea why he said it but he dares the other man to say something with his eyes.

Sebastian raises an eyebrow, his green eyes flashing with curiosity, but he remains silent.

            ‘So – did you find a place yet?'  Kurt finds he needs to say something to break the quiet.

            ‘Yes actually.  I couldn't stand the idea of living in halls.'

            ‘I bet you couldn't.'

            ‘Can we not do this?'  Sebastian looks pained and it sets alarm bells ringing in Kurt's head.

            ‘Do what?'

            ‘This - this ice-queen routine.  We're not kids anymore and I'm not after your man.'

            ‘I'd have to have one first, right?'  It's self-defence.

            ‘Kurt.  Please?' 

Something in the other man's eyes, the line of his mouth, the set of his shoulders – they scream at Kurt.

            ‘Fine.  What did you want?'

            ‘I'm guessing you know Blaine's starting Columbia with me next week?'

Kurt's eyebrows shoot into his immaculate hairline.  He did not know that.  He had assumed Blaine would be sticking to plans and looking at performing arts schools.  Kurt had spent nights dreaming of accidental meetings in corridors at NYADA.

            ‘We've not exactly been on speaking terms.'

            ‘Yeah.  I know.'

            ‘How…'

            ‘How is he?'

Kurt manages a nod.

            ‘He's…he's fine, I guess.'

            ‘Good.'

            ‘Don't “good” me, Hummel.'

            ‘What do you want me to say?  He made his choice.'

            ‘No – you made the choice.'

            ‘He cheated!'

            ‘You ignored him - he was miserable!'          

            ‘I'm not doing this.'  He makes to stand but there is something in Sebastian's eyes that make Kurt sit back down.  ‘What?  What is it?  You called me to ask me to meet you for coffee, Sebastian.  We're not friends.  We've never been friends.  Coffee is something friends do so there is something you wanted to talk to me about, and it wasn't to tell me about Columbia.'

Sebastian looks down at his coffee and stirs it before looking up again to meet Kurt's eyes.

            ‘You're right.  Look, Kurt – I was terrible before.  I know.  I'm not that guy anymore.  Blaine's been a really good friend to me…he's my best friend and I'm…I'm worried about him.'

            ‘Why?  You said he was fine - he's living with his boyfriend…'

            ‘Fine isn't happy.'

            ‘What does that even mean?'  Kurt huffs in frustration.

            ‘He called the other day – do you know what he said?  He said nothing.  Nothing about himself – just wanted to know about me: what I was doing, where I was going to live, what the place was like, whether I was seeing anyone…'

            ‘That's…'

            ‘That's not happy, Kurt.  Something's wrong.'

            ‘Have you tried asking him?  Sometimes you need to be direct with Blaine – he can be oblivious.'

Kurt takes another gulp of coffee and watches as Sebastian digs out his phone, then scrawls a number down on a napkin.

            ‘This is his number - I think.  He calls me on it, anyway.'

            ‘That's great, but you're his best friend-‘

            ‘No.  I said he's my best-friend.'

They finish their coffee in relative silence; stilted snippets of conversation about life in New York – where to eat, shop, etcetera.  Both dawdling in their own thoughts.  Sebastian leaves enough money on the table to cover them both, eventually making an excuse about needing to sign contracts for his new place, or something.  Kurt barely hears him – his eyes trace hastily scrawled numbers on cheap tissue. 

-+-

            The letter arrives, scented, on heavy, headed linen paper.  He leaves it, unread, against the skeleton clock on the mantelpiece and it stares at him through the walls.  Blaine knows who it is from and knows why it is addressed to Douglas and not him. 

He calls Sebastian but only gets the other man's voicemail. 

He does not leave a message.