He was forbidden. I had white boots up to my knees and he had too long of sleeves. We were hiding. We were playing games of hide and seek with people and objects. He was forbidden, but we kept finding each other, because our hiding places always seemed to be the same.     

                I originally had different plans for college. I lived my previous life with dreams that were so big that I could never wrap my arms around them, my grip loosened and I lost my dreams. When I lost my dreams, I became depressed. I was familiar with the feeling, but this was different. I opened a letter, I got a paper cut, and I read words of rejection that stung more than the prickling sting of the cut on my finger. I had to make up a new dream, a small dream, one that I could hold in the palm of one hand and never lose. I thought of New York, everything that made it what it was, and I thought of words. I thought of how simple a word could be with such complex meaning behind it. I choose journalism. I hated myself. For that and for many things.

                My father did not understand. My step mother smiled like she always did. My step brother asked me what journalism meant. I shrugged them all off, laced up my boots, and I went on train. Chicago was more beautiful than I expected it to be. It wasn’t New York. It wasn’t even that close. It was a city, though, and it felt like a city. It had a pulse, one that never raced, but it thumped like the faintest and most overjoyed heart. It should have made me happy. I should have walked through the streets with my suitcase and a smile on my face. I didn’t. I don’t know why I didn’t. I should have been proud of myself in that moment. I was going to a university, one that I had competition to beat out to get into; one that was top rated for my major. I didn’t want this for myself. That was all it was. I got to my dorm, I saw the shadow of a roommate on the other side of the room, I unpacked and I collapsed in bed with my clothes still on. I thought that nothing could ever get worse. I decided I wouldn’t let it get any worse. I broke my own promise.

                It was the second day of classes that I saw him. He stood with confidence that radiated off of him before the class, his sleeves rolled up, with a smile that left me feeling warmth in my chest that reminded me of the flutter of my heart beating quickly as the lights rose up on me before a performance. I resented him secretly and silently just for that. He was my professor. I gulped, readjusted my scarf, and tapped my boots together underneath my desk. His name was Mr. Anderson. I closed my eyes, it was the briefest moment, and I whispered his name under my breath. I did it so quietly that nobody noticed, but I felt it in my heart. I felt his name attaching to me. I wanted to make it a game. I could possibly make him notice me if I tried. I could seduce him. Then I laughed, right there, in the middle of class as Mr. Anderson wrote in chalk on the board. My eyes bulged, my heart cracked, and the whole room looked at me.
  “Is something funny about my curriculum?” He asked, searching me for answers with his eyes. “What’s your name, anyways?”

“No, no. I’m – just - I’m Kurt. Kurt Hummel.” After I had spoken, a realization hit me. I looked down at my clothes. I looked at my hands. I was shaking. I was underdressed. I could barely say my name. That was when I noticed I had changed. I had changed because of a letter and a paper cut.

 “Okay then Mr. Hummel; please keep your spontaneous laughter down while I’m teaching, alright?” I nodded to him. He turned around and kept writing on the board. Class ended, eventually. I walked out of the classroom with my head held low while Mr. Anderson sat on his desk watching the students leave. He stopped me, a touch to my arm. My head shot up. My whole body was too warm; I swore I was drowning in my scarf.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, Kurt.” He began, “You had such touching letters of recommendation. The admissions board kept ranting about you, talking about how you were this outstanding student with all of this confidence in yourself and your beliefs. I see you now and I don’t see that there. I mean - I’m sorry to – wow, I really overstepped didn’t I?” I think he said that because of the look I had on my face. I reached inside myself then, grabbing a hold of the little confidence I had left.

“People change, Mr. Anderson.” I couldn’t say anything more.  

  There was one day, a month later, where I gave myself a paper cut on purpose. I had just hung up the phone after a conversation with my dad. I held a letter from a friend in my hand, running the corners of the paper across the tips of my fingers. I inhaled deeply. It stung for days.

And I kept doing it, until I turned to something a little sharper.

  Mr. Anderson’s class grew to be the only thing I looked forward to. I spent the entire hour coming up with ideas, playing a game in my mind, one that ended with him wanting me. It was nice to think that someone could for a change. I thought about making it a reality. I would have, but there was a photo on his desk and a ring around his finger that pushed the thought out of my mind. He was married. The worst part was it was to another man. I think I could have been easier if he was married to a woman. I most likely would have gotten over my crush a lot faster. It kept growing, with every class, every good grade I received from him. I bit my lips so much in that class that it was beginning to show. I had forgotten how to fix my appearance. Slowly, parts of my wardrobe that were always staple pieces were pushed to the back of my closet. My roommate, Wes, who I soon discovered was not looking for friendship, even asked me if I was okay. The problem was that I was okay. I had settled into becoming the person I never wanted to be. I was ordinary.

But so was he. I figured that out, soon enough.

I walked to class feeling like an explorer of the arctic, it was December. It was a tough walk, the sidewalks covered in snow, and the wind blowing on my face most likely making my lips more chapped than they previous were. I had forgotten gloves and shoved my hands into my pockets, shivering until I reached the building. I opened the door, stood in the doorway and stomped my feet on the rug, walking through the halls. It was empty, I noticed, and I instantly felt like an idiot. I was about to turn around to make the trek back to my dorm, when I noticed the light on in Mr. Anderson’s room. I walked as quietly as I could manage, my boots squeaking on the floor beneath me, and stood in the doorway. He was sitting there, still wearing his winter jacket, opening his desk drawer. He pulled out a flask, silver and shining, putting it to his lips. He tilted his head back; eyes closed, and downed it. I watched his throat move, unsure of how I should have felt about what he was doing. He put the flask down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and turned his head. Our eyes met.
“Mr. Hummel, class is canceled for today.” He didn’t slur.

  “I realized.” And I should have turned away, but I didn’t. “You know, you’re really one to talk about confidence, Mr. Anderson, especially because you seem to get most of your confidence from a bottle. Practice what you preach.”  Then I did, I turned away, and I got halfway down the hallway before his voice softly echoed throughout the building after me.

“He hits me.” I stood, looking towards the door and not behind me, my hands shook. I hoped with every piece of me that he wasn’t saying what I thought he was. I should have left. I couldn’t move.

“Who hits you, Mr. Anderson?” I managed those words, I managed to turn around. I took in the sight of him, wrecked and drunk. His hair a mess, his jacket now off to show his shirt with sleeves that pooled around his hands. I bit my lip. It bled a little, I saw him wince. “Does your husband hit you?”

  “I – I shouldn’t be telling you this.” Now he was slurring, my eyes prickled with tears. “He, yes, he – yes.”

  “He hits you.”

“Pushes me, mostly.” I just stared at him, standing in the empty, long hallway that was glowing from the bright white of the snow through the large windows. “I deserved it. This time, I deserved it.” There was so much space between us, yet it felt like I was holding him in my arms. It felt too intimate. It no longer felt like winter where I stood, but summer, I was sweating from the heat building up inside of me. I was angry, I was angry because I thought Mr. Anderson was in love. The ring on his finger and the photo on his desk were misleading, I had discovered the meaning of "everything is not like it seems." And it isn’t, I can tell you, it just isn’t.

 “You don’t deserve that.”

 “Kurt, you don’t know me!” He yelled it, it echoed around us, and I took one step forward.

“Shhh.” Another step, another, another.

 “Don’t touch me, oh god, please don’t touch me.” I was watching a man cry, a drunk, hopeless, broken man. He was my teacher. He was forbidden. My hand touched his shoulder. He gasped, his eyes looking up into mine. His whole face seemed to be wet with tears; I had never seen someone cry like that. Just from being touched. I wondered what would happen if I touched his entire body, if I broke him in other ways, if I fixed him, too.

The snow lasted awhile, but classes started again two days later. The other day was the only thing I could think of. I had left after that moment we shared, making up a fumbling excuse and running back to my dorm as quickly as I could. Even before my dreams were crushed, I was never good at dealing with emotions. I only knew how to comfort myself, and I still struggled with that at times as well. I had no choice but to go to class, so I threw on an outfit and mixed my hair to at least look presentable and hiked out into the Chicago snow covered streets. I made it to Mr. Anderson's class a little bit early, walking in and hesitating at the door. He looked different. It was the sleeves again, his hair ungelled, his smile lost. I walked past him, seeing his eyes drift towards the window as I moved across the room. I sighed, wondering if he was actually going to behave immaturely about what had happened the other day. He taught the class and my mind began to fall into its regular daydreaming state. I imagined what it would be like to kiss him. I wanted to kiss him until he forgot about all of the bad things in his life, until the image of his husband was erased, until he wanted me so bad he was aching. These thoughts made it hard for me to sit still. Suddenly, class was over as soon as it began, and Mr. Anderson stood by the window, his breath creating circles of fog on the glass. His hand touched the fog, tracing a pattern with his finger. I waited patiently for him to turn around and notice me. He didn't.

 A week passed and winter break finally came. I was going home in two days to visit my family, something I had been dreading, and figured that I should buy some new clothes to at least look like I had been doing something in Chicago that I usually would. I was scared to show them how much I had changed. So I decided to explore the city a bit, and I found some beauty within it. There was a vintage shop three blocks over, it appeared small from the outside, but it went on forever. I suddenly drifted back into my old ways and began rummaging through the store, finding treasures and smiling at how I hadn't lost my good taste. I placed my few items at the counter to be held, and went downstairs. That's when I saw him. There were shelves of bowties along the wall he stood before, his eyes scanning over each one. I stayed put on the creaky staircase, moving just enough for it to creak loudly. His head turned.

"Hello, Mr. Hummel." He said, turning around and reaching out to grab a bowtie. He walked over to the mirror beside them, holding it up to his collar and frowning. "I really hope you aren't following me."

"Of course not! I'm just shopping. Are you okay?"

"Way to cut to the chase." He put the bowtie back on the shelf, exhaling and staring forward as I walked down the rest of the stairs and towards him. "I'm sorry I ignored you."

"You don't have to apologize to me. I'm just a student." I shrugged, watching as he reached for another one off of the shelf, "I like that one. It would look nice on you."

"I like it too." He held it in his hands, "I'm honestly embarrassed that you saw me like that. Nothing is what I made it sound like. My husband is a great guy."

"That's bullshit." My hand shot up to my mouth in shock of my own words, I backed away from him.

"Don't act like you're wrong, Kurt." He whispered it, gulping, "Sometimes I think if I say it enough I'll start to believe it."

"Why don't you leave him? If he is hurting you...why would you stay? Why would you stay if you know that you deserve better?"

 "Do I deserve better? It is so much easier to say than to do. I've packed my bags so many times, but I never get out the door."

You deserve so much better, Mr. Anderson." My voice deepened as I stepped back to where I once was beside him. I saw him shiver. I wondered if there was a breeze.

"You really think that?"

"I know it. Let me...” I choked, so aware of everything I was doing and not even caring, "Let me show you."

"What are you saying, Kurt?" He was whispering, so small sounding, and so eager. His words were flowing through my veins, giving me confidence, making me want him even more. I leaned closer to him.

"I'm saying that you could leave this store with me. I'm saying...I'm saying that I want to help you forget." My last word left him in shock, his body swaying when it hit him. He licked his lips, reached into his wallet, and handed me a slip of paper.

 "Meet me here." He looked at me, his eyes huge, and walked away with the bowtie in his hand still. I didn't move until I heard the final creak of the stairs. My heart was racing, my legs shaking, as I circled the downstairs of the store once and ran up to the top floor, going to the counter and making my purchases. I looked down at the piece of paper and typed the address into my phone's GPS; it was only a few blocks away. I started walking, trying so hard not to run, but my body was aching with desire. I wanted to see him. I wanted to kiss him, to hide him away and make him safe. I had to show him that he was more than what he thought. I had to.

I got to the address, realizing that it was an office building. I looked at the paper again, seeing the floor and room number scratched on the back of it. I walked inside curiously, finding the elevator and clicking the button for the third floor. I tried to come up with a plan, I wasn't sure of what I would do first. I wondered what he would let me do. The elevator doors opened and I looked side to side, seeing the door on the right with the correct room number. I paused before it, knowing that once I knocked on the door, a lot would be changing for me. But wasn't that the current theme of my life already? I knocked twice, hearing some shuffling until the door opened. He stood there, mouth slightly opened, and moved out of the way to let me in. 

"I have never invited anyone here before." He said, leaning again the wall. I took in the surroundings. It didn't look like an office, but more like an apartment. There were two rooms; the one I stood in had the features of an office, a mini fridge, a futon. But, the other room looked slightly like a bedroom from where I was standing. Confusion swept across my face, and he noticed. "This has always been my office, but more recently it's become...a hiding spot."

"Oh." I hated the idea of him being alone here, drunk and crying, hurt from his husband. My eyes welled up with tears at the images I imagined, and I turned away before he could see, focusing on the view from the window.

"What did you say before? Something about showing me what I deserved?" I froze, my breath hitching.

"You make it sound so...dirty."

"Is it not?" He stood beside me, his eyes incredibly dark and overwhelming.

      "It isn't. You deserve...love, Mr. Anderson. You deserve someone who will make you feel so good about yourself. Someone who will make you feel nothing but the best feelings."

      "Kurt?"

       "Yes?" He grabbed at my arm, turning me to face him, he didn't let go.

      "Can you call me Blaine?"

      "Of course. Anything you want." I watched how my words affected him, his quiet hums under his breath, and the tiniest smirk across his face.

      "Anything I want...that's really putting it all out there."

       "You deserve it." His hands crawled up my stomach, one of them fisting my shirt and pulling me close to him. My heart began to race even faster, to the point where my ears were thrumming along. He leaned in, his free hand touching my jaw, his thumb running over my lips. He closed his eyes, but I couldn't do the same. I didn't know how to stop watching him, even when he leaned in to kiss me, so sweet and passionate that my entire body reacted. I now was so close to him that we were nearly one person, our mouths connected, our tongues slowly finding a rhythm, his gasps and my moans swirling to combine and make a symphony of sound to bounce off the walls around us. I closed my eyes, finally, and my body took over the kiss. He was no longer in control, but he didn't seem to mind. I wondered if that was because he was used to be being the one who was dominated, and that thought alone made me calm down. We separated and I think the world may have done the same, too. It was just that much. I had never been kissed like that. It wasn't even the newness of it all, but the fact that it seemed so right and so good. I now understood every romantic movie I had ever seen.  I understood the powerful, life changing want that felt like fire and all of the things that are bad for you but look so beautiful from far away. I wanted to kiss him again, ignite myself, and know that if someone was to be watching us right then and there that I would look like the most beautiful disaster. Wasn’t that what I was? What I am? I couldn’t kiss him again, not then. Because no matter how much I wanted to, I wanted to protect him even more.

                “Maybe we could just stay here forever.”  I don’t know what possessed me to say the words I did, but after I said them I realized how true they really were. Blaine stared at me, not in an angry or sexual way, he just stared. His eyes had melancholy shades of brown and serene specks of green. He was a contradiction. He was a lot of things.

“I like to think sometimes that the most beautiful things in the world are hidden away, it makes me feel good. That would mean everything that is beautiful that you see day to day, even the things that seem so exquisite are nothing compared to what is hidden behind closed doors. But, I have to be wrong, because if I were right – and that were true all along, I don’t understand why someone with such a beautiful soul like yourself could ever be walking about. You would be hidden. Maybe…maybe that would have helped this situation.” I listened to his words, I tried not to cry, and I watched him. I wished he could say those words on repeat for the rest of my life. No one had ever said anything like that to me. At that point, I didn’t even care if it were true. It was something. I was something – something beautiful.

      “How would it have helped? What is this situation?”

“I want you so bad, Kurt.” He shivered at his own words, “I shouldn’t for so many reasons. But I do. Do you want to know why?” I nodded. “Because my own goddamn husband for going on five years has forgotten how to treat a person. It was never like this before. We dated for 3 years before we got married. Two years ago, something happened. I’ll never fully understand what triggered it, but he pushed me. He pushed me and hit me. And you know what? He never apologized. I figured he would the next morning. He didn’t. We never talked about it. We still don’t talk about it. The first year, it was never frequent…there were never any warning signs. But last year is when it got bad. I don’t want to scare you away from relationships, Kurt. I don’t want to explain every time he’s hit me and why. But, I guess this shows you that even the most confident people from the outside, can be completely fucked up on the inside. I would never be in the hiding spot for the most beautiful things. I would be the one trying to knock the door down so I would have somewhere to hide where he could never find me again.” And he was crying. With his last word came a giant breath, he exhaled tears, and let them roll down his face. It was settled. I was going to change this. I was going to save him. I was going to show him that he would be hidden away, we could be hidden together, and nothing could touch us. Not even razor blades or abusive husbands. In the room of the most beautiful things, we would be safe. We would only touch each other. We could touch each other’s hearts, bodies, and minds.

Nothing could be more beautiful than us.