Over the remainder of the week and into the next, Blaine's machine has become an addiction for him, more than any other toy he's ever owned, but that's because of its association to Kurt. Which means that Kurt, in essence, has become an addiction for him, too. Blaine knows there's something wrong with all of this – he feels it in his body when he wakes up in the morning. It's moved from his chest and his heart to reside in other spots – his hands, his knees, his throat, his tongue. It stems from those dreams of someone lying by his side, holding him through the night, waking him with kisses and with songs, and the gap in his heart becomes just that bit wider. But he figures that if someone is getting hurt, it's just him hurting himself, and he's fine with that, as long as he gets to be happy for a little while, too.

Blaine starts going to Kurt's spot a half-an-hour earlier than normal, when there aren't as many people in line, and asks him a new question off of his list every time. While he waits his turn, he observes Kurt, listens to the inflections in his voice when he speaks, the different ways he laughs, the several ways he has of flipping his hair or rolling his eyes. He watches Kurt's hands, the gestures he makes when he points something out or when he talks animatedly, the way he handles the pastries and hands over the coffees, the way he waves goodbye to his regulars or hello to Blaine when he sees him on line.

Those hands – Blaine can't remember ever being captivated by anyone's hands the way Kurt's hands have so thoroughly captured his attention. They're as much a contradiction as Kurt is himself. His long, graceful fingers, pianist's fingers if Blaine ever saw, perfectly manicured nails and strong digits with what has to be a good octave-and-a-half spread, but on the underside, callouses that Blaine can tell Kurt's worked to smooth, probably daily, with moisturizing creams and a pumice stone. He has a few nicks, a couple of scars that are healing, a burn or two on his palm and his wrist from baking and working with the Panini grill. His hands speak volumes, the same as his eyes, of a young, lonely man, whose pain throughout life has not made him bitter, but fed his patience, and have made him incredibly kind.

When Blaine comes home in the evenings, sometimes he chooses to daydream, enjoying the act of setting up a scene, preparing the mood, laying out his props, going through the motions of foreplay, pretending Kurt is there to spend the evening with him, watching a movie, sharing a meal, even reading out loud, sitting beside Blaine on the sofa with his head on his shoulder. But mostly, Blaine goes straight for his machine, as if it's a lover waiting for him, completely undressed, having prepped for hours at the thought of fucking him, and more than ready to go. On a few occasions, Blaine has even started wearing a plug in the afternoons, inserting it before he leaves NYADA and heads for the train, letting himself fall into fantasies of his handsome barista on his ride home. The vibrations from the train jarring against the plug in his ass are blithely excruciating, and by the time he's through the door of his apartment, he can barely hold back.

But inevitably, as much as those fantasies fulfill him, slivers in other places disappear, and he needs something to fill them. And he fills them with pieces of Kurt - his favorite color, his favorite musical, his favorite author, his favorite food, stop gaps of information to plug up the holes. Those are fine for the shallow cracks, but there are deeper ones, and those require more than just what Indie band Kurt saw performing at NYU, or the epic sale he hit over at Neiman Marcus (though that one did make Blaine jealous).

Kurt tells Blaine about when his mother died, how all he had left in the world at that point was his father, how, for a brief period of time, his father had started to pull away, and an eight-year-old Kurt, sad and scared, thought he would lose, him too.

He tells Blaine about the boy he fell head-over-heels in love with in high school, who ended up becoming his stepbrother a year later…and then passed away after Kurt left for college.

He tells Blaine about the relentless bullying he suffered at the hands of jocks, the never ending daily slurs and locker checks and ice cold drinks thrown in his face. He tells Blaine how, years later, he discovered that one of those bullies ended up being gay, and got bullied himself. That boy tried to hang himself, and Kurt visited him in the hospital every day, regardless of their appalling past together, until he was released, trying to make him realize that things do get better.

He tells Blaine about his father's heart attack, and how it changed the direction of Kurt's life, how it made him reconsider pursuing a degree in musical theater (Blaine called it!) at NYADA of all places. Instead, Kurt opted to open a nice, safe business, so that his father could retire from his automotive shop while Kurt covered his medical bills.

In Blaine's effort to fill the crevices forming in his own fractured heart, Blaine asks all kinds of questions with few holds barred, but Kurt offers a lot of information without having to be asked, and has been vastly more forthcoming than Blaine. Blaine has only told Kurt the things that are comfortable for him on the surface.

Blaine tells Kurt about his older brother who struck out to become an actor, and that he actually made a commercial that aired nationwide, but that the two of them don't really get along. He doesn't tell Kurt about the years of constant vicious teasing he endured at the hands of a conceited sibling who repeatedly told Blaine that Blaine would never measure up, never be as talented, never make it on Broadway.

Blaine tells Kurt about his mother, and how supportive she's always been. What he doesn't tell him is about the long period of time when his mother suffered from alcoholism, or the times she blamed his father's leaving on him.

He tells Kurt about going to Prom with the boy he lost his virginity to, but not the fact that they were jumped after the dance and beaten by homophobic jocks, how Blaine went to the hospital with a concussion, a gash over his left eye, and a broken wrist.

In so many ways, Kurt and Blaine's lives mirrored one another. They followed paths so similar, it's really no wonder that Blaine feels this tremendous attraction to Kurt, why, even when he's leery of most men, he feels so comfortable around him. The only difference is that Kurt isn't afraid to share his pain with Blaine.

Blaine is terrified of opening up to Kurt.

But the more questions Blaine asks, the more Kurt becomes curious.

“Blaine, I need to ask you a question,” Kurt says, toying with the cup in his hands when he would usually just slide it across the counter to Blaine.

“Okay,” Blaine says, fishing out his wallet. “Fire away.”

Kurt smiles. “I'm just going to come right out and say it because I'm not a big fan of beating around the bush, but…if tomorrow when you come in I asked you to have dinner with me, what would you say?”

Blaine freezes with his fiver half way out of his wallet.

“Oh,” Blaine says. The world around him suddenly stops, as if time has folded itself in thirds, stuck itself in an envelope, and shipped itself away. He can't stop staring at Kurt, unsure what to say. Of course, his heart and his head both know that he should say yes. Say yes, he tells himself. Just say yes. Say yes. But Kurt's question throws Blaine off. He hadn't made a decision on this yet. He'd made a decision about Kurt, yes, just not about whether he was ready for this step. Was he ready to date? Was he ready to take a chance at getting hurt, of losing out on a good thing if everything goes wrong? Because Kurt is a good thing, even at this point where they're just friends, his presence in Blaine's life is irreplaceable. If Blaine's going to date, Kurt is the one, no doubt about it. But he's still frightened. There's still something that has a hold on him, that he hasn't exactly worked through, so it hasn't let go.  “Oh, uh…Kurt, I…”

“No, no,” Kurt cuts him off. “I get it. I mean, you told me the first time I asked you out that you weren't looking for a relationship, and I agreed. It's just, you've been really flirty lately and talkative, asking all sorts of personal questions, and I…I guess I thought you'd changed your mind.”

“Kurt…I…” Blaine sees in Kurt's eyes for the first time what Blaine's attention has been doing - giving him hope when Blaine hadn't realized that anything about him had changed. But it did, not just the slivers that were falling away when he woke in the morning, but good changes, positive changes, a brand new enthusiasm, a confidence, an ease, and most of that had something to do with Kurt – “I'm so sorry, I...”

“No,” Kurt says, waving his hand, dismissing Blaine's worry even when his cheeks start flaming red. “No, it's okay. That's on me. This is our thing, right? This is how we talk to each other. I mean, I started it, right? All those months ago? I shouldn't have assumed…”

“Kurt” - Blaine tries to get a word in, but an uptight man behind him speaks up.

“If you've paid for your coffee, can we move things along, young man?” he barks. “I'm late for work!”

Blaine shoots the man a look, but he doesn't comment. The man's right. Kurt's got a line practically circling the shop. Blaine's wasting Kurt's time. He's wasting everyone's time, and he shouldn't take any more of anything, not after what he's done.

Blaine puts the five on the counter and picks up his coffee without Kurt sliding it toward him.

“I'm…I'm sorry,” Blaine mutters to the man while looking at Kurt. Kurt rings up the irritated man's order, takes his money, and hands back his change. He doesn't look at Blaine after his apology, nor after he gives the man his change. He retreats to the far end of the counter to make the man a sandwich, and Blaine, feeling more than a dozen pairs of eyes on him, slinks away.

***

“There was love, all around, but I never heard it singing. No, I never heard it at all, till there was…Mr. Anderson…Mr. Anderson…Mr. Anderson!”

Blaine's head pops up where it's bowed over his piano keyboard, fingers resting on the keys in the position of the last chord he played – sitting there and doing nothing else.

“Huh?” He blinks at the young girl staring accusingly at him, her hands on her hips, tapping her toe. “Yes, Rachel?”

“That's the fifth time you've zoned out and stopped playing, Mr. Anderson,” she scolds. “How am I supposed to go into my next audition and wow them with my talent if you keep falling asleep at the keys?”

“I…I didn't fall asleep,” Blaine says to the girl's sharp eyes. “I was just…thinking.”

“Well, can you think on your own time?” Rachel asks. “Because I need you to play. Now. Right now.” She taps a fingernail on the piano several times, then pulls up her posture, preparing to sing. When Blaine doesn't immediately play the chord, Rachel glares at him, at his fingers slacking off, and she sighs dramatically long. “What is it?” Rachel asks, knowing they won't get this rehearsal back on track if her unprofessional teacher is determined to mope and be gloomy.

Blaine looks at Rachel, taking a second to fully assess this twelve-year-old girl asking him to unload his problems for the sole purpose of returning to her audition piece. It might be an easier decision to make if she dressed in jeans and a dress shirt like a normal college student, but she's wearing a burgundy sweater with a white reindeer on the front (which she must have at least thirty of because she wears one every day, except in a different color, the picture on the front changing from a reindeer, to two reindeer, to a moose, to a carousel horse…one might even be a unicorn), a plaid skirt, and knee high white socks. She's only a kid, regardless of the fact that she's currently a college sophomore. Should he really consider divulging any details of his life to her?

Then again, she's the only one asking, even if her motive is completely selfish.

Huh, he thinks to himself. That's something he can relate to.

Okay, so maybe he doesn't go into the gritty details. Maybe he can approach it in a roundabout way.

“Rachel,” Blaine says, looking away from the keys, “would you mind if I asked you a question?”

“Will we get back to rehearsing if you do?” he asks sternly.

“Absolutely,” Blaine assures her. “In fact, I'll give you an extra half hour if you want, to compensate you for your time.”

Rachel raises a brow. Blaine isn't the most focused music teacher she could ask for, but he is one of the highest in demand. Fiscally and professionally, it makes sense to take him up on his offer.

“Okay then,” she says, crossing her arms in front of her. “Deal. Ask away.”

“The first time you auditioned for Les Mis,” he asks. “How did that go?”

“What do you mean, how did that go?” she asks, scrunching her nose. “You've been to auditions before, I trust. You know how they work.”

“Yes, I have,” Blaine says, ignoring the sass. “But you were about five or six, weren't you? I mean, at five, I already knew that I wanted to be a musician, but I don't think I would have actually had the guts to go out on a Broadway stage in front of top-level producers and directors and showed them what I had.”

Which wasn't very much at that point, if he's being honest. But from what he's heard, Rachel's parents (two doting fathers and her biological surrogate mom, also a musical theater prodigy in her youth) have been prepping Rachel to be a performer from the zygote stage, playing various genres of music against her mother's stomach, and acting out the works of Shakespeare well before she even showed.

“Weren't you scared?” Blaine asks. “Being so young, going up there, knowing you were going to be judged, maybe even harshly?”

Rachel pulls back and makes a face, as if that's the most ludicrous question anyone could ever think to ask ever. But she sighs, her eyes drift up, and her face softens back to normal. Instead of the annoyingly precocious diva she usually is, she looks much more like a plain, ordinary twelve-year-old girl.

“Yes and no,” she replies in an unfinished tone, as if she actually has a longer answer in mind.

“What do you mean?” Blaine asks, turning on his piano bench to give her his full attention in the hopes that she'll give it.

“I mean, yes, I was nervous. I always get nervous when I have to perform. There's a lot of things to think about – posture, breath control, diction, intonation, so much you have to juggle and do perfectly. But, also no because singing is what I do. It's inside of me, always has been. And when it comes down to it, I know that if you give me a stage and an audience” – Rachel shrugs – “there isn't anyone in the world who can do better than me. You don't get what you want by not taking risks. What you will get is the chance to watch somebody else do it while you sit in the audience.”

Blaine nods. Of all the answers he expected Rachel to give, that definitely was not one of them.

But it was the best one.

“That's very wise,” Blaine says. “And an important lesson to remember. Thank you for giving it. I think it's something I forgot.”

Rachel smiles. “You're very welcome, Mr. Anderson,” she says sweetly, but too quickly, the Rachel he knows snaps back into place. “Now, can we get back to practicing? I have to meet my vocal coach at three, and at this rate, I'll have to warm up all over again.” And she taps on the piano again.

***

With the exception of his practice session with Rachel, Blaine's conversation with Kurt at The Hot Shot that morning was the start of a day that progressively went downhill. Three blocks away from The Hot Shot, he tripped on a raised lip in the sidewalk, and spilled his coffee down the front of his coat. He missed two trains, and his connection was late. He left his portfolio on the platform and had to go back a stop for it. After a lengthy argument with the security guard at Lost and Found over whether or not it belonged to him (even though it has his name embossed across the top left corner in gold letters - Blaine showed the man his driver's license, two credit cards, and his library card to prove it) Blaine chalked it up to karma biting him on the ass for the way he's treated Kurt. He definitely agreed that he deserved it.

He was about to call it a day and cancel his classes.

After his conversation with Rachel, he was glad he didn't.

On the train ride to his apartment, he stares out the window, watching his own reflection in the thick glass. It becomes cleared when the train enters a tunnel and the glass goes dark, and changes colors with the lights flashing by. He meditates on that and tries to make sense of his life. He knows why he did what he did – with Kurt and with The Fuck Machine. Blaine had gotten stuck in a rut, and he couldn't think of any other way to fix it. He didn't want to add another person to the mix, and make his problems their burden.

Plus, he was scared.

But knowing Kurt better now, the struggles and trials that he had to go through, Blaine can't imagine Kurt thinking of him as a burden. Dating Kurt would be like a meeting of lost souls, two halves of a similar tapestry knitting together.

Why the fuck didn't he just say yes?

Things can't stay this way, Blaine knows that. He thought it would be alright if he was only hurting himself. He didn't know that he was unintentionally hurting Kurt, too. It never dawned on him that there would be any residual effects, that anything would show. He has to stop, but he doesn't want to stop, and that frightens him.

He'd hate to believe that he's the kind of person who would jeopardize something real, something good, for a fantasy.

Blaine comes to understand these rational, logical arguments, and agrees with them wholeheartedly, but old habits die hard, especially when he gets off his train at the wrong stop and has to foot it the rest of the way home. A homeless guy yells at him for walking through his front yard, and he gets chased a block-and-a-half by a stray dog. He wants to stare up at the sky and yell to the universe that he gets it, he did a bad thing, and he's had enough, but that's not how the universe works.

By the time he gets to his apartment, after the day he's had, he can't help himself. It's like he's not himself.

He doesn't know the person that he is.

One more time, he thinks. He'll indulge just one last time. He's already lost his chance with Kurt. What else does he have to lose? He might not ever go back to The Hot Shot again. It wouldn't be worth hurting Kurt. He could keep this to himself, and Kurt can find someone else. Someone who deserves him. Someone who will treat him like a king.

Blaine opens his apartment door, and this time, without a conscious switch into this world he's created, it begins the moment he walks over the threshold.

Arms catch him and hold him.

Lips kiss him.

A voice in his ear tells him that everything's going to be alright.

Hands shove the coat off his shoulders and drop it to the floor. Fingers unbutton his shirt, peel it off his skin, then run up his neck and card through his hair. Those same phantom hands take his and lead him through the living room, into the bedroom. They shove him back on to the bed. Blaine laughs once, but another mouth covers his, swallowing his laugh while a body grinds against him. Blaine tries to roll over onto his dream man, but something keeps him pinned beneath his fantasy. His head thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut, he kicks off his shoes. His slacks tug off his legs, and his briefs roll down his hips. Blaine is so at one with his fantasy, he doesn't feel like he's moving at all. He's being moved, hands manipulating him, fingering him, stroking him, making him hard, enticing him with a heat that doesn't exist. He's gotten so good at fooling himself into believing Kurt's there, he isn't even touching himself. He gets this far, hard and panting and begging to cum, with his mind alone. He's conditioned himself for it, to feel Kurt's hands on his skin when it's his own fingers undoing the buttons to his shirt, Kurt's lips kissing him when it's his own mouth brushing along his arm. He's lying on his back, already so close, throbbing with an image of Kurt riding his cock, and he hasn't even touched that part of his body yet.

If he actually touches his machine, if he ever reaches for his fleshjack, if he does anything more than writhe on his bed and mimic the motions of fucking his forbidden fantasy, he consciously can't tell, and that's because none of that matters. Not anymore. The façade of love making, Kurt's voice in his head, Blaine's incredible orgasm – none of it.

It's what happens after he's done, after he's cried Kurt's name into the dark and cum over his abs, when the carefully plugged holes and filled cracks break open, bleeding out like water through a sieve.

“Oh my God!” Blaine gushes, smiling so wide that, for the moment, not a single shred of remorse can work its way through, though it's already there, hanging in the distance, waiting its turn. “That was…that was just…oh my God!” Blaine pants, scooting away from the machine he didn't touch, taking a second to mourn the loss of physical human contact that was a figment in his mind. “That was amazing, Kurt! Beyond amazing! I'm so glad we did that. I needed you so much. It's been such an awful day…such a horrible, awful day.” Blaine's chest shudders when he stops for a breath. “I don't think I've told you how long it's been since I've been with anyone, that I've really…you know…connected with. I don't…I'm not sure that I actually have, to tell you the truth. Connected with someone…” Tears start in the corners of his eyes. “I know what I said when we first met, about not wanting a relationship, but at the time, I…I wasn't in the best place. I haven't been in the best place emotionally for a long time. But the truth is, I wanted to say yes. I've wanted to say yes for so long. But relationships are messy, and complicated, and my own have been just…just terrible.” Blaine sniffles, and the first of many tears begins to fall. “And…I was so scared, Kurt. So scared that I was going to fuck things up, because I always seem to fuck things up, or things get fucked up around me. I…I don't want you to get to know me, the real me, and then start to hate me, because you're so wonderful. So amazing and wonderful and kind and selfless and…and I would be so lucky…so incredibly lucky if you would…”

Blaine turns his head on the pillow to finish his sentence, to look in Kurt's eyes when he asks him, but there's no one there. There was never anyone there. He has to face the reality that the arms around his torso are his own. They've always been his own, no matter what he let himself imagine.

He's using Kurt - Kurt's face in his mind, Kurt's voice in his ears, Kurt's gorgeous eyes looking at him with love and admiration, but none of it's real. Blaine had considered picturing someone else - a regular on his commute, the T.A. in his masters class, or a random porn star from the website he used to frequent, Frat Boy Physicals. But he can't bring himself to do it. It wouldn't be the same, wouldn't feel the same, wouldn't be as passionate or intense. And, in a weird, unnatural way, even considering it feels like he's cheating.

What the fuck is wrong with him!?

He's masturbating to an image of Kurt, a fantasy he's created using a living human being, and yet, he's so opposed to an actual relationship, he won't even take the man out for a cup of coffee.

Or…something else, considering Kurt probably gets his fill of coffee.

All this time he spent imagining he was with Kurt, all the money he spent on this machine and on attachments, all the times he rushed home for this experience - it was all time he could have spent wooing the one person who already wants him.

This isn't what he wants. He never expected this to turn out this way. He has the physical, but he always did. He didn't need this machine, or his fantasy, to get it necessarily.

What he wants is the emotional, which only comes from one-on-one interactions with real people.

No. That's therapist talk. Sounds too clinical and isn't exactly true.

He wants someone, but he doesn't just want any someone.

He wants a particular someone.

He wants Kurt.