For the next couple of hours Kurt tried to read, but he was hyper-aware of the presence next to him. His mind relived the touch over and over. Anderson was clearly being kind. He was giving him the thing he missed so terribly, but it didn't feel like just kindness. It felt electrifying. Thrilling at someone's touch—someone who wasn't Adam—felt strange, heady, and deeply unsettling.

As for Anderson, it wasn't clear what he was doing. When Kurt would look at him from the corner of his eyes, he seemed to be simply sitting, angled in his seat, tucked against the window. Kurt wasn't sure if he was sleeping or what. He couldn't see anything behind the dark glasses, but it felt like Anderson was simply watching. Watching Kurt. Kurt's body tingled all over from the sensation.

Finally, Kurt couldn't take it anymore. He swiveled his body to face his seatmate and whispered, “Are you sleeping?”

Andersons head moved back and forth slowly. No.

“Are you watching me?” Kurt's voice was a little louder, but still not much more than a whisper.

Anderson's mouth quirked up at one corner, and his head moved slightly again, but up and down this time. Yes.

Kurt felt his chest erupt into butterflies, and his mouth formed an O.

“I bet you're amazing on stage,” Anderson said in a low voice. “You're fascinating to watch.”

A blush crept up Kurt's neck and flamed his cheeks. He felt awkward as he searched frantically for some way to respond.

“Who are you?” he finally blurted out.

Anderson tilted his head quizzically.

“I mean, I don't know your name. What's your name?”

The man seemed to consider this for a moment, and then he shook his head slightly as if coming to a decision. “I'm Blaine.”

“Hi, Blaine. It's nice to…” His voice trailed off, and his eyes got wide. Blaine. Anderson. Blaine Anderson! Oh my God, he was sitting next to Blaine Anderson! His hand flew to his mouth and he sucked in a gasp.

Blaine pulled his sunglasses down his nose and winked at Kurt with one honey-colored eye. “You're not going to start screaming and tearing off my clothes, are you?” he asked sardonically. "Because thats starting to get old."

“No! Oh, no,” Kurt was talking fast. “I'm sorry. I didn't realize. I'm just…oh.” He bit his lower lip again. Couldn't he just shut up? What was wrong with him?

Blaine mumbled something which sounded to Kurt like too bad, but Kurt was sure he was mistaken. Blaine Anderson was a rock star. The lead singer for the band, Postmodern Tourist, he had played sold-out stadiums around the world. He was acclaimed for his charisma and his song-writing skills, although the critics were solidly divided about his singing ability, which was alternatively described as “warm and familiar” and “unspectacular.” But even the most ardent critics couldn't argue with Tourist's stack of platinum records. They were a sensation.

“What?” asked Blaine. “You're too good to talk to me now that weve established that you're an up-and-coming virtuoso, and I'm a lowly has-been?”

“You're not a has-been,” Kurt corrected indignantly. Sure, Tourist had been in its heyday ten years ago, and they had produced fewer albums lately, but they were legends, and their concerts continued to sell out to happy fans.

“We saw you at the Fillmore two year ago. It was an amazing show.”

“The Fillmore?” asked Blaine. “Are you from San Francisco?”

“Sort of. I mean, I'm from Ohio, but Adam and I moved to San Francisco from New York when we finished school.”

“Do you live there now?”

“No.” Kurt said flatly. “Adam's family had money. They owned the house. When he died, they just expected…They just…We were married for ten years, and they still thought I was just a phase. I was just something Adam had to get out of his system.” He affected a British accent, “Kurt, we are so glad that you were such a good friend to our Adam while he was sick.”

Kurt heard his own bitterness and apologized. “I am so sorry. I didn't mean to pile my angst on a perfect stranger. I don't know when to shut up sometimes.”

Blaine pulled off his sunglasses and removed his ball cap, running his fingers through his hair. It was wildly tousled, and apparently it was too curly to succumb to the horrors of hat-head. He looked amazing. He leaned toward Kurt and his eyes smoldered. “I'm flattered that you think I'm perfect.”

Oh my God. What he flirting with him? Kurt thought he might burst into flames.

“Uh-uh-uh…” he stuttered.

“Where do you live now?” Blaine asked, sitting back and sounding very interested but no longer the least bit flirty.

“Oh. Atlanta.” Kurt answered, and he suddenly realized that Blaine was good. He knew how to instantly change the direction and tone of a conversation and how to make the people around him comfortable. It made sense. You didn't get to be a media darling unless you could exercise some control over the discourses.

“Atlanta? The South seems like an odd choice for an out and proud gay man.”

“It's not so bad. It's less redneck that you might think. I travel a lot for work, and it has a major airport. Besides, I can afford to live there. It makes me a slightly less starved starving artist.” He patted his flat stomach.

Blaine seemed to considered this. “You said you moved right after school. So you met Adam in college?”

Kurt nodded. “First week of my freshman year.”

“So he was your first love?”

“He was my first…everything. My only everything.”

Blaine's eyebrows rose. “He's the only one you've ever…?”

Kurt flushed again. “Yeah.” He knew the same was not true for Blaine. Blaine Anderson was notorious for the string of broken hearts he had left in his wake. If he had a different sexual orientation, he would have been called a womanizer, but Blaine was one of the few openly gay rock stars. His highly publicized love affairs included a bevy of male models, actors, and, in one media storm, the son of a prominent Republican politician. Some of his conquests even claimed to be straight. He had brief affairs with all of them, and, if the tabloids were to be believed, he was the one who always broke things off.

“You never…?” Blaine seemed unable to take it in, and Kurt found himself getting angry.

“No, Blaine. I've never kissed anyone else, not anyone who counted. I've never shared a bed with anyone else, and I've never loved anyone else, and I've never sucked anyone else's cock, and I've never fucked anyone else. I am thirty-five years old, and I have not spread myself around like I didn't matter. I've left that to people like you.”

Blaine put up both hands. “Whoa. Sorry, man. I was just surprised.”

Kurt instantly deflated. “No, I'm sorry. I guess I'm a little touchy. I shouldn't have said that about you. I don't know you, and it wasn't right.” Deep down Kurt knew that the underlying cause of his anger wasn't Blaine's words, but his own shame. Adam was the first person who ever paid attention to Kurt, who ever showed an interest. Kurt loved him, but a small part of him always wondered if he had settled. He wondered if he had stayed with Adam because he was afraid that there was nothing else out there for him, and he was afraid to be alone. Well, he was alone now.

“Can we just talk about something else? Or, maybe, not talk?” Kurt proffered tentatively. “Or maybe a hole can open in the universe and just swallow me.”

Blaine leaned toward him, “Oh, I don't want to stop talking to you, Kurt Kurt Hummel. You're a fascinating man.” Blaine reached out and took Kurt's hand in his own. Kurt thrilled to the touch, but a small voice in the back of his head cautioned him that Blaine Anderson's flirting was probably as natural to him as breathing was for other people. He couldn't possibly know how much the brush of his thumb across Kurt's knuckles was causing a low heat to settle in his belly. Kurt shifted in his seat and crossed his legs, but he didn't take his hand away. He needed this, and he was going to keep it for as long as possible.

“So, tell me about you,” Blaine prompted.

They talked for several hours. Mostly Kurt talked, and Blaine listened. When Kurt asked questions, Blaine answered them quickly and immediately turned the conversation back to Kurt. Kurt realized that Blaine was the master of deflection. He got others to talk, so he didn't have to. It was fine with Kurt. Kurt liked to talk.

He regaled Blaine with stories of the opera world, with stories of his best friend, Rachel, who was a rising star on Broadway and an over-the-top hysteric. He talked about his dad, Burt, and his step-mom, Carol, and about his stepbrother who had died tragically, but whom he obviously loved and missed. He talked about Adam, about chemotherapy and radiation and death and funerals. He talked about his cat and about disasters on stage in Charlotte and Fargo and triumphs in Omaha and Boise.

Blaine told him that he was going to Italy to play a series of concerts in Milan, in Venice, in Bologna. He didn't say much else. He just encouraged Kurt to talk and talk, and he seemed to really like listening.

In the middle of yet another story about Rachel, Kurt's jaw cracked with a yawn.

“Hey,” said Blaine, “You're exhausted. You should try to sleep.”

“Sorry,” Kurt smiled sheepishly. “It's been a crazy week with the preparations, and I don't sleep well anymore, anyway. Not since…”

Blaine gave him a sympathetic smile. “When I was little, I used to crawl into bed with my mom every night. She would put me in my own bed at first, but I could never sleep. When I heard her go into her own bedroom, I would get up and go into her room and slip under the covers. When I turned five she finally had to lock me out of her bedroom. I cried and cried, and it was six months before I learned to fall asleep on my own.”

It was the first truly personal thing that Blaine had shared, and Kurt had the feeling that very few people knew that story.

Blaine unclasped his hand from Kurt's and lifted the arm rest dividing their seats. “C'mere,” he said, patting his own shoulder.

Kurt's eyes widened. “No, I..uh..”

“Kurt,” Blaine said soothingly, “You can't sleep because no one is holding you. I want to hold you, because I want you to sleep. You look dead on your feet. And, also, I've got a Cassanova reputation to uphold, so I want to be the one who gets to hold the most beautiful man on the plane. So come here.”

“People will see,” Kurt pointed out, while the voice in his head was screaming Blaine Anderson said I was beautiful!

Blaine affected an upper class baritone, “People in first class make a point of not seeing. It's simply not done, you know.” He sighed, “Just come here.”

Kurt exhaled in a gust and laid his head on Blaine's shoulder, because he just really wanted to. Blaine's arm wrapped around Kurt's shoulder and his hand rested on Kurt's arm. His other arm tugged on Kurt's hand until his arm was wrapped around Blaine's waist.

“Now sleep,” Blaine rumbled in Kurt's ear.

Kurt let the warmth of Blaine's body suffuse him, and he felt himself being dragged down by the undercurrent of sleep long deprived. The last thing he remembered before going under was the feel of Blaine's lips brushing his forehead.