Kurt sniffles in the dark. Candles flicker on around him, called to light themselves by his presence in the room.

“Goddamned motherfucking son-of-a-bitch!” he mutters as he walks through his living room and into the kitchen, tiny flames springing to life all around him. “I should have known this would happen. I should have … ugh! I should have just known …” Kurt storms into his pantry, one hand dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief, the other knocking aside bottles and jars on the shelves, reaching between to grab this and that - a wax bag filled with dried herbs, a root hiding among his box of Rooster-O's cereal and his bamboo basket of Belladonna, some jezebel oil handed down to him from his mother.

Two mewling cats, ebony coats brushed to a glossy sheen, rush to his side. They circle his feet as he walks, barely missing the pointed toes of his shoes, singing their concern.

“Oh, Tabitha, Esme, I'm such an idiot,” he laments to the persistent creatures as he carries his wares to the granite-topped island in the kitchen. “I know I'm an idiot. This is the third time. The THIRD TIME I fucking forgave him! I can't believe I forgave him!”

He blows his nose in his handkerchief while he lays out his ingredients, barely paying attention when he snaps his fingers and his topmost cabinet bursts open. A bulky leather book shoots out and flies across the kitchen, landing heavily amid the bottles, tipping a few of them over. Kurt snaps again and the book opens, pages flipping back and forth till it finds the hex he's looking for. Both cats jump up on the counter, leaping straight from the floor as if the four feet up was simply a skip. Esme glances over the pages, then meows to Tabitha. Tabitha looks it over, too, and meows worriedly at Kurt.

“I know, I know.” Kurt reaches for an abalone shell to mix his ingredients in. “No hexes. Mom said they eat at the soul.” Tears roll down Kurt's cheeks. He bows his head in anger, in sorrow, and in shame. Shame at letting himself be lead on. Shame at not seeing the man he was nearly engaged to for the jackal he is. Shame at being driven to this point. “But … but you weren't there, Tabby! You didn't see! He deserves it!”

Tabitha and Esme curl up to him, each taking a side, licking his tears as they roll down his cheeks. Esme nudges Kurt under his hand and leads it to his forgotten handkerchief. Tabitha nudges the opposite hand and leads it to the book.

Esme has always been the more compassionate of his two familiars.

Tabitha has always understood him the most.

“Right.” Kurt wipes his eyes and his dripping nose one more time before he gets started, needing a clear head if he's going to get this right. With his ingredients lined up in order on the table, he needs only two more items. He leaves Esme and Tabitha so he can go get them - a picture of his ex-boyfriend, and a live, white dove. He only keeps one dove in the house. He hates to do this to her, but he swore when he bought her that she wasn't a pet, which is why he never gave her a name. He carries her into the kitchen in a tiny wooden cage, which he hangs from a hook overhead.

Tabitha, on the other hand, has always had a name for her Master's white dove.

Tabitha calls her lunch.

Kurt pulls up a stool and sits, propping the photograph – the only one he could find without himself in it – against the knife block where his ex's treacherous face can stay within Kurt's view. He needs to keep a firm hold on this spell's direction. Hexes are powerful, but they can also be tricky. They can take on a life of their own. If this one gets away from him, he doesn't even want to think of the damage he might unintentionally cause. Kurt tries to find his center, quiet his mind and focus on the picture in front of him, but he doesn't want to look at it. He doesn't want to see the face of this lying, cheating, no good, fucking son-of-a …

Kurt takes a breath in and lets it out slowly, erasing those thoughts from his mind.

Part of his brain begs him to stop, take a bath, have a glass of mulberry wine, head to bed, and reconsider this in the morning. But that part gets stomped flat by Tabitha rubbing up against his arm, her quiet purring encouraging him on.

Kurt takes another deep breath and starts over again.

He puts a few drops of rose water inside the shell, then strikes a match and sets the liquid on fire. He reads out the spell from the book – his mother's book, an heirloom of witches from her side of the family, only children for generations, of whom he's the sole male – adding each ingredient one at a time and speaking words over them so that their purposes may unfold.

“Pain of my pain …” He adds a pinch of Belladonna.

“Sorrow of my sorrow …” He adds a drop of jezebel oil.

“May you never know peace. May you never know joy …” Another root, another herb, a dried flower from the grave of an unrequited lover (not his, but someone's), crushed between his fingers, all make it into the fire.

“May the other half of your soul never make itself known to you …”

He stands and takes the dove from her cage. She flutters, trying to escape his grasp, but his calm becomes her calm, and she folds her wings, settling into his cupped palms. Kurt sits with her, staring at the photograph, a lump growing in his chest.

“May there never be love enough to fulfill you …”

He holds the bird gently in his hands, preparing to wring her neck, a splinter of his soul loosening to fall away once he does.

As the fragrant smoke from burning herbs and dissolving oils fills the air, his mind starts to wander - not a good thing when a witch casts a spell, but he suddenly can't stop it. The smell of the cedar that he added makes him think of the man he'd hoped to find someday – the man he'd dreamed of finding his entire life. A man Kurt knows can't exist.

A man who can sing like Elvis, and dance like Fred Astaire.

A man dark and mysterious; with raven hair; eyes like golden honey; and a voice smooth as satin, that can touch Kurt inside and out, even to his very bones. A voice that can make him swoon. A voice that can make him fall to his knees, his heart aching to serve.

A man who deserves him – who is loyal and caring, but maybe a touch on the dangerous side.

Okay, more than a touch.

A man Kurt can watch musicals and old movies with, who wouldn't make fun of him if he started to cry.

A man Kurt can spend all weekend in bed with, reading poetry to, talking to, making love to …

A man with confidence, with power of his own so that he would never ask Kurt for any favors.

A man who would protect him.

Maybe a man who might hear about the evils Kurt's exes had done to him and go on a massive killing spree.

Kurt laughs when that thought enters his head. He doesn't know where it came from. He's never even considered that before. But it's enough to break the tension, enough to make him fully comprehend what he's doing. He looks at the dove in his hands and sighs.

“He's not worth it, you poor thing,” Kurt coos to the confused creature. “He's not worth this type of sacrifice, or any sacrifice. Not yours, and definitely not mine.” Kurt runs his fingertip over the dove's feathers, regretting even entertaining this. “I've given him two years of my life. That's enough.”

Kurt drops a kiss on the dove's head and stands to put her back in her cage, but Tabitha, watching the bird with intense yellow eyes, has other plans. If her Master has no use for a perfectly good dove, then Tabitha doesn't see why she can't have it instead. The cat leaps for Kurt's arm, paws outstretched and claws extended, swiping for her snack, but she slices Kurt across the face instead.

“Tabitha!” Kurt yells, losing his grip on the dove. She flies to the hanging light fixture above Kurt's head and perches there, cooing with relief. Tabitha makes to leap to the top of Kurt's head in pursuit, but he grabs her in time and drops her to the floor with a scolding hiss.

The inopportune struggle causes Kurt to become sloppy, to forget for a single second that his spell is still being cast as long as the violet fire within the abalone shell burns. He misses a drop of blood falling from the scratch on his face and into the potion before it burns completely away. When that drop of Kurt's blood, a token of his power, hits the purple flame, it ignites … and then it explodes. A bright red fire sputters, spitting sparks of every color in all directions. It scares Esme out of her wits and knocks Kurt to the floor. He lands on his back with Esme square on his chest. She comes to her senses and races out of the room, knowing full well that she's not prepared for whatever might come next.

“What the living …?” Kurt coughs, curling on his side and covering his head with his hands as bottle after bottle from the island flings itself to the floor and shatters on contact with the tile. “Jesus H. …”

“Well, well, well …” A voice, but not Kurt's voice. A low voice. A smooth as satin, undeniably sexy voice. A voice from out of nowhere. “That was … impressive.”

Kurt pushes against the tile with his feet and scrabbles to stand, putting his hands up in defense. He accidentally knocks the shell of ashes to the floor in his haste, and with it, any hope of an easy counter spell lost amidst the mess and chaos. Kurt peers through the haze of colored smoke and sees a man.

A man with raven hair and golden eyes, marred only by the red pupils dimming steadily into black.

“Who … who are you?” Kurt asks, his voice unsteady. He's sure he's been knocked stupid by the fall, or unconscious because of the explosion.

Or maybe he's just plain dead.

Regardless of the circumstances, there's a man in Kurt's kitchen – a man who wasn't there before. The man brushes at the sleeves of his sports coat as he walks through the broken bottles and their spilled contents, around the kitchen island, eyes honed in on Kurt, and only Kurt.

“Please, forgive me.” The man smiles as he comes closer, reaching out to take Kurt's hand. The sound of his voice makes Kurt feel helpless to pull away. “Where are my manners?” The man lifts Kurt's hand to his mouth and kisses it, his lips lighting fires along Kurt's skin where they touch. “My name is Blaine. Blaine Anderson. And I believe you summoned me.”