Kurt spent the next four days in turmoil. Blaine was gorgeous, sexy, and fun, and Kurt couldn't help but be charmed, but he didn't know if he could trust Blaine. Blaine admitted to having a lot of partners, and flirting seemed to be a natural part of him. Was he honest when he said he was looking for something more, or was this a tactic calculated to get Kurt to sleep with him, just like all the poor suckers before? There was no doubt that Blaine was charismatic: millions of screaming fans could attest to that. Was he also manipulative? Did he know that Kurt would find the turning-over-a-new-leaf story irresistible? Was Kurt being played?

But what if Blaine was being honest? Was that better? Kurt had made a life with the first man who ever paid attention to him, and although he had loved Adam—still loved Adam—was he now going to fall for the next man who was the slighted bit attentive? Was Kurt even in control of his life, or would he spend it simply bouncing from man to man with no will of his own? Wasn't it important for Kurt to figure out how to live alone, to figure out who he was and what he wanted?

Sure, he had been alone for a year now, but it didn't seem like it counted. It was too much a haze of grief and chaos and picking up the pieces. It wasn't a real year, not one that counted.

And what if what was between Blaine and Kurt was real? What if it became an epic romance? What if Blaine was the great love of Kurt's life, and they spent that life together? One day Blaine would die, and Kurt would have to watch. Did Kurt have it in him to relive his last four years of tending and nursing and worrying? Could he watch Blaine's body be ravaged by surgeons scalpels and chemotherapy and disease? Could he bear to feel his heart break into a million little pieces all over again and stand by completely helpless to prevent it?

It was too much.

When a courier left a package at the front desk of the all'Adige, everything went from bad to worse.

He opened it to find, among other things, a note from Blaine.

Dear Kurt:

Our publicity schedule has been changed, and I can no longer come to Verona to see your next concert. I am more sorry than I can say. Please don't change your mind about coming to Venice. Please. I've enclosed train tickets for the last train to Venice after your performance, and I've booked a room for you at the Aman. Just tell them who you are when you get to the front desk. I want to see you. Please come.

-Blaine

Kurt paced his apartment while he considered, first deciding to stay, then deciding to go, then deciding to stay. When he heard a ding, he looked at his laptop and saw that Rachel was Skyping him.

“Hi,” he connected and smiled at her.

“How's Italy?” she asked, dragging out the “how” in a way that only Rachel could.

“It's…interesting.”

“Ooooh?” she cocked one eyebrow.

“I met Blaine Anderson on the plane.”

Rachel squealed and bounced up and down in her seat. “You did not!”

Kurt nodded, grinning. “I did.”

“Tell me everything, Kurt Hummel, and do not leave out a single detail.”

So Kurt did, ending the story by confessing all of his fears and his indecision about going to Venice.

“So let me get this straight,” Rachel recapped. “You're worried that he's seducing you, and you're worried that he's not seducing you?”

“That about sums it up,” Kurt agreed, biting his lower lip.

“Kurt, have you ever heard the old adage, ‘Don't buy trouble'?”

“What are you saying?”

“I'm saying that you know as well as anyone that none of us can predict our future. Our lives are nothing like we thought they would be and they're not going to be anything like we think they'll be. Why are you stressing like this? Blaine freaking Anderson wants to spend time with you in the city of love, why not just go for it? Give yourself up to this. Don't worry about ten years from now or next year or next week or tomorrow. Just go, and live in the moment. You can burn your troubled bridges when you get to them.”

“Venice isn't the city of love, that's Paris.”

“Do not change the subject, Kurt Hummel. Go to Venice.”

“Do you really think I should?”

“Kurt, if Blaine Anderson invites you to spend the day in Venice, and you don't go, you're going to have to learn to love women, because your gay card is going to be revoked. You'll never be able to show your face in another bathhouse or Halloween parade again.”

“Those are some disturbingly homophobic stereotypes for a woman with two gay dads.”

“You know what I mean. Go...to...Venice.”

“OK. OK, I will.”

Then they both squealed.

The night of Kurt's next performance it rained.

Opera at the Arena di Verona has a long tradition with regard to rain that Kurt had previously found charming, but now he found maddening. When it rains, the prima donna decides when its too wet to continue. At that point, she may stop, mid-note, and walk off the stage, followed by all other performers on the stage and the orchestra. Once the rain stops or slackens to her liking, she will walk back on stage and resume the performance on the same note as though there was never an interruption. It's not unheard of for an opera at the Arena to stop and start several times over the course of an evening.

Kurt's Poppea to his Nero didn't like to be even a little wet, so when the first drops of rain fell, she left the stage. They managed a scene or two between showers, but, by the time the opera had finished, it was nearly three in the morning, most of the audience had given up and gone home, and Kurt had long missed the last train to Venice.

Grabbing his travel bag, he trudged back to his apartment. He didn't know how to contact Blaine. He didn't have his email address or cell phone number, and he didn't know where he was staying. Kurt tried not to think about what this meant. Maybe Blaine really was just using Kurt as his latest distraction, and he didn't want to deal with any uncomfortable fall out afterward. Kurt shoved those thoughts away.

When Kurt arrived back at the all'Adige, thoroughly depressed, he checked the train schedule with the front desk and noted that there was an express train leaving at 6 am. He could catch two hours of sleep, and maybe he would get to Venice before Blaine noticed that he hadn't arrived the night before.

When he got to his apartment, he didn't even bother undressing. He was asleep the minute his head hit the pillow.

When he awoke, bright light was streaming through the window. He looked at his watch. It was noon.

Kurt jumped up with alarm. He ran to the shower and bathed as quickly as possible, for once grateful that he didn't really need to shave every day. He threw on his clothes, taking far less care than normal. He grabbed his still-packed travel bag and was out of the apartment door in less than twenty minutes.

Thankfully, the local bus was chugging toward the front of his apartment building as he entered the lobby, and he didn't have to wait for a cab. He hopped on the bus, and when he got within a few blocks of the train station, he exited and ran.

He burst into the terminal and quickly scanned the departures board, then he ran to the platform with the next train departing for Venice. By the time he collapsed into a seat he was sweating and out of breath. His heart was racing.

As the train pulled out of the station, he started to think through his actions. He didn't know where Blaine was. He could go to the Aman, but his reservation was for last night. Would Blaine be there? Would he have left a message? He thought back to Blaine's note. Please don't change your mind about coming to Venice. Please. Blaine would just assume that Kurt had changed his mind. This was a disaster.

In the absence of a better plan, when the train arrived in Venice, Kurt took a water taxi to the Aman. His eyes barely took in the hotels tasteful mix of gold rococo and stark black and white modernism, he was so fixated on finding Blaine and explaining. At the front desk, he told the receptionist who he was and asked if there were any messages.

“No, Signor.”

Kurt's heart sank and he tried again, asking the receptionist in Italian if she would place a call to the room of Blaine Anderson. He didnt know if Blaine was staying at the Aman, but it was worth a try.  

“I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Anderson checked out this morning. I'm afraid you've missed him.”

“Oh,” replied a crestfalled Kurt in a small voice. “Thank you for your time.”

He started back toward the hotel's entrance when he spotted someone he thought he recognized. He headed toward the man and asked him in English, “Excuse me, are you David Makin?”

“Yes,” replied Postmodern Tourists lead guitarist cautiously.

“My name is Kurt Hummel. Blaine Anderson asked me to come here last night, but I was delayed. Do you know where I can find him?”

Kurt could see David weighing Kurt and trying to decide if he was telling the truth or if he was just some deranged fan. He decided to opt for something in between.

“If I see Blaine, do you want me to tell him you're here?”

“You don't know where he is?”

“Even if I did, it's more than my life is worth to tell a complete stranger. So do you want me to tell him you're here or not?”

“Yes,” then Kurt thought better of it. “No.”

“Which is it, man?”

“Would you please tell him that I'm sorry I missed him, that I was here, and I went back to Verona?”

“OK. I'll tell him when I see him.”

After giving David a small thanks, Kurt returned to the train station the way he came.

He didn't care that people were staring at him as he cried all the way back to Verona.