. . . In the old stories, angels are sometimes accompanied by animal-like creatures, though it is unclear if these creatures are actual animals or some form of ancient d�mon. Dr. Emma Pillsbury, recently of Cambridge University, has commented that the old stories give these d�mon-like creatures to the angels in place of their wings, which calls into question if they're actually angels at all. Wings, she explains, are the symbol of angelic spirituality, much in the way d�mons signify human spirituality. An angel cannot have both wings and d�mon—indeed, Dr. Pillsbury speculates that if angels were to fall, they would lose their wings entirely and gain a d�mon instead . . . .

--Fringe Studies of Theology and Philosophy, Dr. Suzie Pepper

-

Blaine tucked the box more securely under his arm as he ducked into a back alley. It had rained earlier that morning, leaving tiny puddles splattered across the ground, and Blaine was afraid he’d drop his package. It had happened more than once before, and he doubted Mistress Schuester would be happy with him if he arrived back home with wet hats.�

Well, they were supposed to be the new kitchenware Master Schuester had told the Mistress to order a month ago, but Blaine had sneaked a peek and the box was definitely full of hats--at least three, all of them ruffled and brightly colored. Blaine wondered what the Mistress was going to say when Master Schuester asked where the new cutlery was. Doubtless Blaine would be blamed. Mistress Schuester loved to blame Blaine for everything, and though the Master didn’t always believe her, he often ended up punishing Blaine for it anyway.�

Blaine jumped over a large puddle, barely avoiding getting ankle-deep in muddy water. He stopped when he heard a yip behind him and turned to see Carmen jumping in the water, mouth open in a doggy smile. Blaine rolled his eyes and jogged back.

“We need to hurry,” he reminded her.

Carmen stared up at him with huge, mournful eyes. “Mistress won’t mind,” she said.�

“You know she will,” Blaine said. “She’ll probably try and persuade the Master to whip me again.” Master Schuester had always drawn the line at whipping--his usual punishments for Blaine were usually extra chores or a night without supper, all things he was more than used to.�

Carmen growled. “She can try,” she snapped, jumping out of the water. She shook her paws dry, getting tiny water spots all over Blaine’s trousers.

“Carmen!” Blaine protested, though he couldn’t help but laugh when Carmen stared up at him, huge puppy eyes reappearing.

“We really do need to be getting back,” Blaine said, turning to head down the alley again. “Besides, if we’re late, Matt might not let us in again.” Matt wasn’t Blaine’s best friend or biggest fan--if he had any excuse to lock Blaine out, such as him coming home past curfew, he’d take it.�

Carmen growled again, but trotted along at Blaine’s heels. “Matt’s mean,” she announced with a sniff.�

“He’s just really good at holding a grudge,” Blaine muttered, tucking the package more tightly under his arm.�

"Considering you took his job, I can't say I'm that shocked," Carmen said. "But it's been three years, you'd think think he'd be over it by now."

"Matt is really good at holding a grudge," Blaine repeated wryly. "Honestly, he—" He broke off when he heard a sound down the alley. He exchanged a look with Carmen and hurried down it, breaking into a run when the sound came again—definitely a moan of pain.�

The alley divided into two up ahead and there was some sort of strange light at the end of the left fork. Blaine paused, slowing a bit and wondered if this wasn't some kind of elaborate trick. However, when he heard another moan, he hurried forward again, hoping he wasn't being played for some sort of fool. The left fork was surprisingly long and it wasn’t until he was nearly at the end that Blaine saw the figure lying on the ground. He slowed to a halt, eyes wide with surprise. He could see that the person--the man, he thought--was naked, and--

Blaine stared, wide eyed, at the narrow wings fanned out beneath the man’s unconscious body, white and huge and nearly translucent against the dark concrete. They glowed softly, as if they possessed some inner light. Blaine noticed distantly that the man’s skin glowed in a similar way.

“Blaine--” Carmen started in disbelief.

“I know,” Blaine breathed, staring.

Wings. Wings. No human being Blaine ever knew had wings.

Blaine knelt down by the boy's side, taking him in more carefully. He was pale as moonshine, and he glowed just as brightly in the night. His hair was the only dark thing about him, though Blaine couldn’t make out the color. He had a sharply planed face and if he wasn’t lying down, Blaine thought he’d be rather tall. His modesty was barely protected by the twist of his hips--Blaine flushed hotly and took off his jacket, laying it across the boy’s midriff.�

Blaine couldn’t even tell his age, not really--he was hairless as a young boy, but his shoulders were as broad as a man’s. He could have been Blaine’s age or older or just a boy coming into his own.�

“What is he?” Carmen asked, trotting up to the man’s side and staring. Blaine could feel her curiosity--really his own, thrumming both of them. “Blaine, d’you think he’s--”

The boy groaned, low and heavy for someone so fragile looking, and blinked his eyes open. Blaine froze, holding his breath. His eyes were hazy but the iris was an arresting, electric blue. The color shifted almost immediately into a smoky grey and Blaine gasped without meaning to. The boy’s strange eyes swung to his, confusion written all over him.

“Who--” he said, voice light and musical. He shuddered and, without another word, passed out again.

Blaine could barely think. “We need to get him out of here,” he said. Blaine couldn’t see any wounds on him, but unconsciousness, in his opinion, was rarely the effect of good health.�

"And bring him where?" Carmen asked, sniffing at the air above the man's head. Blaine tensed and Carmen withdrew.�

"Mistress will probably be asleep by now," Blaine said slowly. Rain was starting to seep into the knees of his trousers, but he ignored it. "If we're quiet, we can probably sneak him into my room before anyone notices anything."

"What about the guards?" Carmen asked worriedly.�

Blaine carefully put the hat box on the ground and, with a moment of hesitation, scooped the boy up over his shoulder. The wings fluttered around them and for a moment Blaine couldn't see. Then they snapped closed, narrowed against the boy's back. Blaine readjusted his jacket around the boy's waist with one hand and a blush. He was surprised that the boy didn't weigh more — he was certainly taller than Blaine. Even over Blaine's shoulder, his feet came down past Blaine's knees.�

"We'll go in through the back," he said finally. "Can you grab the box?"

Carmen circled it for a moment before grasping it carefully in her mouth. It dragged a little bit, but they were close to home and Blaine doubted it'd get too bad. He took a deep breath and hurried down the alley, boy slung over his shoulder and Carmen following at his heels.

-

Blaine's room was quiet and dark when he arrived home. It was a tiny thing, barely enough room for one person, but Blaine had done his best to make it cozy, home-like. Carefully, he put the boy on his bed. His legs dangled off the end and one wing drooped over the side. He still had Blaine's jacket tied around his waist, but he still looked—

Blaine turned away, flushing.

Quietly he snuck back out, Carmen at his heels, and dropped the hat box off in front of the housekeeper's room. She would make sure the Mistress got it in the morning, though Blaine was sure he'd still get a punishment for not delivering it to her tonight.�

When he came back to his room, the boy was still asleep, though he'd shifted so his wings were so awkwardly bent. Blaine sat down on the floor, the only available space, and, for the first time since finding him, allowed himself to stare.

Wings. Blaine had never heard of people having wings, except in fairytales. Beyond them, the boy looked human enough, but there was something off about him. Wings, the pale glow his skin gave off, the strange way his eyes changed color in the seconds Blaine had actually been able to see them and—

Blaine sat up straight, shudder growing through him.

He didn't have a d�mon.�

Blaine couldn't help the wave of revulsion, though he immediately shoved it to the side. No d�mon. What did that mean? Blaine had heard stories about witches, that they could separate from their d�mons. Perhaps the boy was a witch of some kind? Magic could explain the wings, the strange eyes and skin. But what if he wasn't?

Blaine had heard stories of experiments, of horrible, grotesque practices that took place not even a hundred years ago. Children being experimented on, being separated from their d�mons in the name of science. Blaine wondered, bile rising in his throat, if this boy was a byproduct of that, if maybe in addition to taking his d�mon away, someone had decided to give him wings.

The boy shifted again, groaning. Blaine tensed, but he fell silent again almost immediately and Blaine relaxed again.

He needed to decide what to do. He hadn't been thinking, not really, when he decided to take the boy with him—there was no way Blaine could hide him forever, not in this place. He hated to think what the Mistress would do with this boy, or even the Master. No, the boy couldn't stay. But Blaine couldn't shove him out in the world like this, naked and injured in some invisible way. Not if he was a victim of some vile practice, not even if he really was a witch.�

He'd wait. The boy would hopefully wake up sometime soon, perhaps tomorrow, and then Blaine could find out his name, who he was, and they'd go from there. If he didn't . . . Blaine sighed heavily and settled down on the floor, tucking his arm under his head. Carmen curled against his side, silent and warm. If he didn't, Blaine would figure something out.

-

Morning light filtered across Blaine's face and he groaned, loud and heavy. He felt Carmen unfurl from his side, heard her give her own doggy version of a yawn. He jumped awake when she nipped hard on his hand.

"Ow!" he yelped. "Damnit, Carmen, what—" She was staring up at his bed and Blaine had a moment of sleepy confusion as to why he was on the floor before he remembered—

His head snapped up and he met bright blue eyes. Blaine froze.

The boy stared down at him, wide-eyed and pale in the morning light. He was sitting up and his wings were pulled in tight behind him, quivering. Blaine's thin blanket was curled around his shoulders.

"You're awake," Blaine said, a little stupidly. Carmen huffed.

"Who are you?" the boy said, voice light and musical as Blaine remembered it being last night. "You—What's going on. Where am I?" He sounded half-crazed with panic. Blaine was surprised that he hadn't tried to run away yet.

"I'm Blaine," he said, slow and careful as if dealing with a wild animal. "Blaine Anderson. You're in New York, in my house. Well, not my house, but I live here. I work here, I mean, it's actually Master Schuester's estate—"

His babble was cut off by the boy's horrified whisper of, "New York?" Blaine watched with fascination as his eyes changed again, back to the same cloudy grey as last night. "How can I be in New York?"

"I found you in an alley," Blaine offered. The boy started, as if he'd forgotten Blaine was there. "You were, um." He blushed and gestured to his body. The boy took a moment to catch on, then he blushed as well. Blaine watched as it spread down his chest with fascination. "What's your name?" he asked.

The boy hesitated. "You may call me Kurt," he said at last.�

Kurt. Not an unusual name, but it suited him well. "Nice to meet you, Kurt," Blaine said, smiling and extending a hand. Kurt stared at it like was some sort of alien appendage. "You shake it," Blaine said with some amusement.

Kurt took Blaine's hand in his own, skin warm and dry. He was much paler than Blaine, who spent a lot of time outdoors and in the sun, and Blaine had to swallow around a sudden lump in his throat at seeing Kurt's pale, slim fingers curled around his palm. It took Kurt tugging out of his grip for Blaine to remember to release his hand.

"You found me in an alley?" Kurt asked, looking away. His eyelashes were extraordinarily long.�

"Yes, a few blocks from here," Blaine said, trying not to let his distraction show. He paused, then asked, "Kurt, may I ask . . . ." He hesitated. "You have wings," he blurted out.

Kurt blinked, looked back over at him. "Yes?" he said, as nonplussed as if Blaine had just commented that he had feet or hands.

Blaine waited for it to sink in that having wings wasn't exactly normal. When Kurt continued to blink at him curiously, he threw up his hands in exasperation. "Wings!" he said again, more loudly. "How do you have wings?!"

Kurt frowned, furrow forming between his brows. "You don't," he said curiously, eyeing the empty space over Blaine's shoulder. "But that's to be expected, I suppose. Most humans don't."

Blaine froze, though he had already half-expected it. "You're not human?" he asked, slow and quiet. "Are—Are you a witch?"

Kurt's frown deepened. "No," he said, then hesitated. "I don't know if I'm . . . ." He bit his lip and looked between Blaine and his hands. "I'm an angel," he said finally, so quiet that Blaine barely heard him.

Blaine stared. "An angel," he said, flat and disbelieving. A witch was more likely.

Kurt shrugged, movement so effortless and beautiful that it dizzied Blaine's mind. An angel. "Until yesterday, I resided in the heavens," he said, a little forlornly.

It was harder to just write off Kurt's angel idea as a delusional fantasy baked up in an insane mind when Kurt actually did have the wings and the pale glowing skin . . . Hell, all he needed was a halo and a—a flaming sword of some sort, and he'd be the picture definition of an angel. But Blaine didn't—couldn't—

Blaine didn't care much about the Church, despite its influence in his life. His parents, when they'd been alive, hadn't been particularly religious or devout and they hadn't, from what Blaine had heard, cared much for the Church's politics. Blaine hadn't really believed that angels existed since he was a small child—at least, not with the same fervent devotion that many of his more religious friends did. He liked the concept of them, even admired the idea of becoming one if he went to heaven, but they were never more than a passing thought for him.�

To be face to face with a person who claimed to be one, and had the wings and everything was—was—

More than a little mind-boggling.

"Prove it," Blaine blurted out.

Kurt paused. One of his eyebrows rose in a flawless arch. "You really need more proof than the wings," he said, and wow, Blaine didn't know angels could be sarcastic.�

"You could be a demon," Blaine pointed out, though he didn't really believe it. "Or you could be lying. Maybe you have some sort of voodoo magic and you're making me hallucinate your wings!"

"While I was unconscious?" Kurt asked doubtfully, his other eyebrow joining the first.�

Blaine frowned. "Well, how come you're on Earth, if you're an angel?" he demanded, crossing his arms.�

Kurt's shoulders drooped and his eyebrows dropped as he scowled. His eyes changed again to green, the color of fresh moss. "I was sent here," he muttered, all petulance.�

"Sent?" Blaine asked. "By who?"

Kurt sighed. "The Voice," he said.

Blaine waited for him to elaborate. When no further explanation came, he sighed and said, in his most patient voice, "The Voice? Who's that?"

Kurt blinked in surprise, eyes switching back to blue. "Don't humans know?" he asked with confusion.

Blaine shrugged. "Maybe some," he admitted. "But I've never really been interested in that stuff, so I don't."

Kurt pursued his lips. "The Voice of God," he said. "He speaks for the Father, most of the time, and his word is law. He said . . ." Kurt shook his head. "He said the Father wanted me to come to Earth. I don't know why."

"They didn't think to hide the—" Blaine gestured to Kurt's wings, which fluttered slightly.�

"I don't know," Kurt said, quiet and uncertain. "The last thing I remember is speaking with the Voice about traveling to Earth—after that, everything is dark. I don't know why you found me like you did . . . My wings should be gone, or hidden. That's what's supposed to happen when we come to Earth."

"What about the last time you were here?" Blaine asked, stroking over Carmen's head.

Kurt blinked at him. "Last time?" he parroted, nonplussed.�

"Haven't you been here before?" Blaine asked, honestly curious.�

Kurt shook his head. "I'm—" He frowned, searching for the word. "I'm too young," he finished, after a moment. "Older angels can travel to Earth as they please, on Father's orders, but the younger ones stick to the sky."

Blaine's brow wrinkled as he looked Kurt over. In the daylight, it was easier to see that he was at least Blaine's age, if not older. His face had no baby fat in it, and his shoulders were broad and lightly muscled. His hairless face was disconcerting, but Blaine knew many men far older than him who had trouble growing a beard, so he supposed it wasn't that unusual.�

"How old are you then?" he asked.

Kurt frowned, thinking it over. "I died when I was eighteen," he said. "But I've lived as an angel for . . . oh, at least three hundred years, maybe a bit more. Not for very long."

Blaine stared at him, then dropped his face into Carmen's soft fur. "This is ridiculous," he muttered against her ear, and she yipped in agreement.�

"I can hear you," Kurt said dryly and Blaine lifted his head again.

"Well, it is!" he half-yelled, waving an arm. "Yesterday I was just minding my own business, trying to run errands, and now I'm harboring a—a—fallen angel in my bedroom who's got wings and glowing skin and you're at least three hundred years old—"

"I'm not a fallen angel," Kurt said, a little irritably. He brushed strands of hair out of his eyes. "Fallen angels are the ones who turn their back on heaven. I'm just . . . a visiting angel." He sighed, the annoyance fading. "I can leave, if you like," he said, already half-resigned to the idea. "It was very kind of you to take me in, but I don't expect—"

"Oh, shush," Blaine said, rolling his eyes. "What're you going to do, wander the streets of New York looking like that?" He waved a hand over Kurt's half-naked, winged body. "That's too strange, even for here. No, you can stay with me. We need to figure out a way to hide your wings if you want to go outside . . . ." Blaine sighed. "And you can't be seen in the house, at least not while the Master and Mistress are awake. They'll throw you out on the streets, wings or no."

Kurt nodded in understanding. "Thank you," he said, eyes blue again. "I don't—Thank you."

Blaine shrugged. "It's no problem," he said. Carmen nipped at his hand and he looked down at her. "This is Carmen, by the way," he said, belatedly realizing that he'd yet to introduce them.

Kurt stared down at Blaine's d�mon with the strangest look of mixed fascination and longing. Blaine suddenly remembered that angels didn't have d�mons, that d�mons disappeared at death, never to be seen again. He cuddled Carmen to his chest and tried not to shiver at the thought of her disappearing into thin air. He wondered what Kurt's d�mon had been, whether Kurt remember its name still.�

"I'll go and get us some food," Blaine said quietly. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Kurt nodded without saying a word, eyes still fixed on Carmen. Blaine glanced down and was surprised to see Carmen staring back. Standing, he slipped out of the door.�

-

Kurt woke with a start. For a moment, he couldn't remember where he was and panic set in—then he heard soft snores coming from the floor and he relaxed a bit. He was with Blaine, he was on Earth, amongst humans. Not safe, exactly, but—

Kurt sat up. Moonlight was coming through the window, shining a bit above the space where Blaine had curled up, his dog d�mon tucked in the crook of his arm. Carmen, Kurt remembered. Her name was Carmen, that was right. Kurt wondered how d�mons were named. He couldn't really remember from his time as a human, although he was fairly sure no one had explained it to him then either. Perhaps the parents named both the child and the d�mon at the same time, or the d�mon simply knew its name upon birth. He realized with a pang that he couldn't remember his own d�mon's name, or what she had been even.�

Kurt sighed, and curled in on himself, tucking his chin against the top of his knees. Sleep had deserted him for the moment, though his eyes still felt gritty and he knew his body would welcome more rest. It was so strange, needing sleep so earnestly. At home he barely needed to rest his eyes before he woke again, rejuvenated. Here, fragile humans needed so long to regain their health, and they became delirious if they went too long without sleep.�

He stared down at Blaine's curly head and wondered if this strange human boy with his bright smiles and kind eyes knew what he was doing. Kurt, for as long as he'd watched them, had never known humans to do anything without ulterior motives. They were greedy, selfish. Kurt had seen them be kind with each other, love each other, but it always seemed to come at some sort of cost. His brothers and sisters told him that this wasn't always so, but Kurt found that hard to believe. He still remembered his own time as a human fairly well—even then, three hundred years ago, people were cruel to each other. Or, at least, they'd been cruel to him.

Kurt's mouth tightened. And now he was back on Earth, vulnerable beyond belief. He couldn't stop wondering what had happened. His brothers and sisters were always sent to earth in vessels, in disguises. As far as he knew, their wings had never been exposed for every human to see. And it bothered him that he couldn't remember anything beyond talking with the Voice. It made him suspicious.�

Heaven, according to humans, was supposed to be a place of peace and happiness. Most of them would be very disappointed when they actually got there, in Kurt's opinion. Heaven was peaceful, for the most part, but angels had their own share of drama, same as humans. They had their own groups, their own friends . . . and they had enemies. Kurt frowned.

The Voice wasn't a particularly special friend of Kurt's, though the Voice tended to stay away from most angels. Kurt couldn't think of any reason the Voice would want to sabotage or hurt Kurt—unless one of the angels who disliked Kurt managed to persuade him to do so for some reason. There was David, who had disliked Kurt for years, though Kurt had never been able to figure out why. Or Jacob, who was the bane of many angels for his overzealous gossip. But they hadn't shown any sign of a bigger plot—there hadn't been any smirks across clouds, any whispered conversations that stopped when Kurt entered a room. In fact, he'd been sure David and Jacob had been avoiding him in the days leading up to his trip to Earth. Strange.

When he went home, he'd have to investigate further. Kurt sighed against his kneecap. If he went home. He wasn't sure how long he was going to be down here—he had no idea how to travel home on his own. If he wanted to get back to the sky, someone would need to come and get him, and he had no idea how long that would take. He shuddered at the thought of being stuck on Earth for months, for years. What if they let his human body die again before taking him home?�

No, that couldn't happen. Living on Earth had been hard enough the first time—it would be even worse if he had to go through it with his wings, forced to stay in hiding to avoid being captured and shown off like some sort of freakish animal. Blaine hadn't outright said that was what would happen, but Kurt had been watching Earth for a long time and he wasn't stupid. If no one would come and get him, he'd just have to figure out how to get home on his own.

Not that it would be easy. The thrum of his brothers and sisters had been absent from his head ever since he'd woken up in Blaine's bed, and he had no other source of knowledge, really. He'd hoped it was just some sort of traveling sickness, that they would reassert their presence once he got used to his bearings. But days passed and still his head was silent. It was disconcerting. Kurt was so used to hearing the constant murmur of voices in the back of his head that their absence made him anxious. Without their knowledge, he was blind in the world, especially cooped up as he was.

Blaine shifted in his sleep, muttering something under his breath. Kurt looked down at him and smiled a bit when he noticed Blaine had shifted in his sleep onto his back and Carmen was now curled on his chest. Kurt didn't think it could be comfortable, sleeping on the floor like that, but Blaine looked perfectly untroubled. Kurt envied him for that.

The moon had moved a bit and now shone slightly on Blaine. Kurt studied his face—the curve of his cheekbone, half in shadow, the dip of his eyelashes, the generous curve of his mouth. Blaine was beautiful, Kurt could admit that. And beyond kind. Kurt didn't know many humans who would take a stranger with wings off the street and then keep him hidden and safe despite the claims of being an angel. Kurt had resigned himself to being thrown out for who he was, or being proclaimed insane or mentally unstable. Instead, Blaine had patiently listened to his explanation, had a small outburst, and then casually accepted Kurt's status as if it was nothing. Day in and day out, he came back to the room and regaled Kurt with his daily adventures, eyes bright and smile wide. It was extraordinary. Blaine was extraordinary.

Blaine shifted in his sleep again and Kurt pulled his eyes away, cheeks heating as he realized he'd been staring. He settled back against the bed again, closing his eyes. With any luck, he'd be able to get a little bit more sleep before dawn came.

As he drifted off, he didn't notice that his wings shivered quietly—and shrank, ever so slightly.

-

"I need to get out of here," Kurt said as Blaine entered the room.

Blaine paused and looked at Kurt, whose face was flushed, eyes bright blue. He was standing, wings extended, and Blaine, as always, was amazed by how big they were, how tall Kurt was.�

"You know you can't," Blaine said, actually remorseful. It was too dangerous for Kurt to go outside.�

Kurt pulled his lips back in a very impressive snarl. "I'm going insane!" he proclaimed, throwing his hands up. "I need fresh air, Blaine, and I need it now!" Blaine bit his lip and glanced at the tiny window. Kurt noticed where his eyes went and snorted. "And that tiny little thing doesn't count," he said scathingly. "I can barely get a breeze from that."

Blaine sighed. "You know how dangerous it is," he tried.

Kurt stared at him. His eyes wavered between grey and blue. "I do," he acknowledged, calming down a little bit. "But I need to go outside, Blaine. I'm too cramped here. I—" Kurt cut himself off, shook his head.

Blaine looked him over and sighed. "We'll have to wait until nightfall," he warned. Kurt immediately perked up. "We can go out into one of the back courtyards . . . They're usually empty by then. And we won't be able to stay for long."

Kurt took a step towards him and for a moment Blaine thought Kurt was going to hug him. But Kurt stopped mid-stride and settled instead for a broad smile that showed his teeth and crinkled the corners of his eyes. Blaine's heart flip-flopped and he froze. Kurt chattered about his plans for the night, but Blaine barely heard him over the pounding in his ears.

Oh no, he thought with horror. Oh no.

Blaine had a bit of a problem. Santana, one of the kitchen maids, liked to refer to it as romantic fucking stupidity, but Blaine thought of it as more of an unfortunate love problem. He liked people too easily. He'd had, in the past year, over a dozen crushes, and all of them burned out within a week, sometimes two. Blaine always ended up doing something stupid and extravagant to get his crush's attention, ranging anywhere from showering them with freshly picked flowers to serenading them in a public place. Blaine didn't seem to come down from his haze until after the crush passed—and then, of course, he was faced with the overwhelming embarrassment at how silly and stupid he'd acted. It was a cycle he'd gone through many, many times, and it always started with the flip-flopping heart, the butterflies in his stomach, the blush curling around his ears—

He couldn't have a crush on Kurt. He couldn't.

Not because Kurt didn't deserve someone crushing on him because—Well, he was gorgeous. Tall, broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist, dark, thick hair, amazing eyes . . . The wings just added to his allure. And, Blaine had discovered in the past few days cooped up in the same space with him, Kurt was kind, ridiculously smart, and had a snapping, sarcastic wit that made Blaine laugh out loud more than once. Kurt was amazing, in every way, so Blaine supposed his crush shouldn't come as a surprise, but—

Kurt was an angel. Literally an angel. And he'd talked about going home so often in the past few days, with such longing . . . How could Blaine even hope to compete with that? They'd know each other for four days, barely. How could he ask Kurt to stay when Blaine's love burned out so quickly? What would Kurt even be staying for, the joy of having to stay indoors at all hours of the day, cooped up like some sort of pet?

Blaine's throat burned. He would never ask that of Kurt. Just seeing the look in his eyes as he was allowed to go outside, the plain happiness at finally getting fresh air and the ability to stretch his wings and legs to their limits—

Blaine stared at Kurt's happy half-smile and vowed silently that he wouldn't speak of his feelings. Kurt deserved so much more than him.

-

Kurt breathed in the night air with a happiness he didn't even know he could possess. It was strange, being in the same room for days on end, and Kurt found with every hour spent there that he hated it more and more. His only reprieve was Blaine's company, but even that couldn't stop the itch that had been gathering under his skin for the past day for a breeze on his skin and sunlight on his head. Moonshine wasn't exactly what he'd wanted, but seeing the stars through more than a tiny window made up for it. They were dimmer here, but Kurt could still pick out constellations.

At his side, Blaine was talking quietly to Carmen, who was look-out. Kurt glanced over at him and smiled a little bit. Blaine was adorably serious, a frown of concentration on his face as he spoke with his d�mon. It was strange to see that on him—Blaine was normally cheerful, always smiling. It was something Kurt liked about him.

Blaine looked up and met Kurt's eyes. In the moonlight, his iris was nearly golden. "Enjoying yourself?" he asked, smiling slightly.

Kurt, for some reason, felt flushed. "Yes," he answered. "Fresh air has never felt so good."

Blaine laughed. "We can't be out for long," he reminded Kurt. "The guard will be coming back this way in twenty minutes."

Kurt nodded and turned his attention back to the sky. "This is a large estate," he murmured.

Blaine sighed. "Master Schuester holds one-third of the McKinley fortune," he explained. "He shares with with Master Figgins and Mistress Sylvester, though they live on the other two estates."

"Why is it divided into three?" Kurt asked, not moving his eyes from the stars. He'd been up there, not even a week ago.�

"It was held by triplet brothers, originally," Blaine said. "They decided to divide it instead of having the eldest triplet own everything. It's been divided that way ever since."

"You humans put a lot of stock into those things," Kurt said, glancing at Blaine out of the corner of his eye. Blaine was staring at the sky as well, sharp jaw exposed as he tilted his head back. Kurt swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat.

"Estates? Inheritance?" Blaine shrugged, an easy, fluid motion. "Not all humans."

Kurt turned to Blaine, suddenly curious. "You never mention your parents."

Blaine tensed, jaw clenching. "They died," he bit out, a little sharp.

Kurt reached out to put a hand on his shoulder then hesitated, pulled back. Angels didn't touch each other often, and it felt so strange to want to comfort a human that way.�

"I'm sorry," he said. He looked at the tightness around Blaine's eyes and mouth, then sighed. "My father died before I did," he confessed. Blaine's eyes snapped up to meet his. Kurt smiled wanly. "Heart attack. It was three years before my accident."

Blaine bit his lip. "And your mother?" he asked, eyes soft and genuinely curious.

"She died when I was eight," Kurt murmured, brow furrowing as he tried to remember. "Or maybe ten. I can't really remember anymore." The thought saddened him. "She used to wear a special perfume," he continued quietly. "She had this . . . vanity that smelled of it for years after her death. Sometimes I would lay in front of it and close my eyes and she would be alive again." He met Blaine's eyes and blushed, looking away, embarrassed at revealing so much.

He jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. "My parents died when I was nine," Blaine said. Kurt looked down at him, but Blaine was looking away, his eyes distant. "They were pretty wealthy, but my uncle, he . . . well, let's say he wasn't a nice man. He took their money and estates and left me to rot on the streets. It was years before I could find a decent enough job to have a bed again or a room of my own." Blaine sighed. "I'm lucky Master Schuester took me in, to be honest."

"It must have been very hard," Kurt murmured hesitantly, struck by the image of a child Blaine, lost and alone after the death of his parents, forced to take care of himself. His heart hurt. Was this sadness, then? It had been so long since Kurt had felt it that it was hard to tell.�

"Yeah," Blaine agreed, voice far away. "But the hard things make you better, right?"

"Or they break you," Kurt amended. Flashes of memory came back—the fire, the jeers, the angry yells. He shoved them all away. His human life had been miserable, but it was over three hundred years behind him now, and it should no longer haunt him. "I believe the guard will be here soon," he said, a bit reluctant. He didn't want to go back to the stuffy, cramped room.

"We'll come back out tomorrow," Blaine promised, looking over at him. The distant glassiness in his eyes melted into honest warmth. The tightness in Kurt's chest eased and he smiled as they turned to sneak back into the house, Carmen following behind them closely.

-

Fire. The scent of blood in the air. Angry yelling, voices overlapping so much that it was like the roar of a giant rather than a mob of humans.�

Kurt huddled further back into the barn, staring out into the dark wide-eyed and trembling. The barn door was partially open and he could see his house burning beyond it—his father's house, really, the one Burt had built with his own two hands when Kurt was little more than a distant plan for the future. Rage climbed through his belly and sat hot and heavy in his throat. They had burned the one place Kurt had ever felt safe, the one place full of nothing but happy memories, and they had done it because they were stupid and small-minded and feared Kurt. Hated him too, but there was mostly the fear.

The yells were getting louder. It wouldn't be long until they were on him, until they realized that he might've hidden in the barn. The rage faltered in the face of terror and Kurt wondered where he could run where they wouldn't find him, where he could go—

"Kurt?"�

Kurt cried out, thrashing, and felt his fist make contact with flesh.�

"Ow!"

Panting, Kurt opened his eyes and sat straight up. Blaine was sitting next to the bed, one hand held up to his cheek, eyes wide and confused. Kurt realized, shame curling in his belly, that he'd hit Blaine, still drunk on the panic from his nightmare.

"I'm sorry," he said, reaching out. His fingers dropped away when Blaine flinched.

"No, it's fine," Blaine insisted and, to Kurt's shock, took Kurt's hand in his own. "Nothing I can't handle. You're talking to a street kid." Blaine smiled at him. Kurt sometimes wondered whether Blaine was either the most forgiving person in the universe or just a little dense in the head. "What was that about? You were yelling in your sleep."

Kurt flushed and dropped his eyes to their joined hands. "Nightmare," he muttered.

Blaine was silent for a moment. "I didn't know angels had nightmares," he said softly.

Kurt shrugged, uncomfortable. "We don't, usually," he admitted. "I never had them back home. But here . . . ." Earth was a different question altogether. Earth brought back too many bad memories.

"Oh," Blaine said, apparently understanding. "You don't have to tell me, but—was it about your dad?"

Kurt laughed, though he realized it wasn't a very happy sound. Blaine's hand tightened around his. "No," he said. He paused, wondering if he should actually talk about it. He looked up and met Blaine's concerned eyes. Behind him, Carmen was staring at them both. "It was about my death," he confessed before he could stop himself.

Blaine's eyebrows shot up with surprise. "Your death?" he asked, gentle despite his confusion. "Did you—"

"I lived in a small village," Kurt continued, heart racing. He'd never told anyone how he'd died before, not even any of the other angels. Your human death just wasn't discussed, not ever, and it wasn't like Kurt had had a particularly gentle one. "It was some time ago and there were certain things about me that they found—disquieting." He flushed. He knew that the world was more forgiving of Kurt's way of thinking than it had been in the past, but it was still so taboo to humans.�

"Certain things?" Blaine asked with curiosity.

Kurt bit his tongue. He didn't want Blaine to look at him with disgust or shock, but they had become something like friends over the past weeks. And it would be harder to explain his story if he left it out. Kurt took a deep breath.

"Certain things like my romantic preference for boys instead of girls," he said, crisper and more confident than he actually felt. He couldn't look up to see Blaine's reaction, couldn't bear to see disgust there—

Blaine laughed. Kurt's head jerked up at the honest amusement there. "Who would've thought I'd have something in common with an angel?" Blaine said, smiling so widely that his teeth flashed. For a moment, Kurt couldn't think beyond the smile and then Blaine's words, their meaning, hit him and—

His heart jumped in his throat. Blaine liked boys too, Blaine was like him—

Kurt shook his head. Was like who he'd been. Angels didn't love anyone, not like that. They weren't supposed to.�

"In any case," he said, clearing his throat a little. "My village, once it learned of my . . . preference, persecuted me for it. I got hateful messages, my father's business dwindled, our farm was desecrated every time we left it. After my father died, it just got worse and worse."

"Why didn't you move?" Blaine asked, thumb moving absently over the back of Kurt's hand. Kurt wondered if he even realized he was doing it.�

"I didn't have the money," Kurt admitted, still bitter about it. "No one would buy the farm from me and my father's business had completely died in the years before his death. I was lucky to afford food and warm clothes for the winter." He shook his head. "No, I was forced to stay. And then, after my eighteenth birthday . . . The villages rallied and came to my house when I was in the barn, feeding the last of my chickens." He caught Blaine's grin out of the corner of his eye and scowled. "What?"

"Just the thought of you feeding chickens," Blaine admitted, smile widening.

Kurt glared. "I also know how to milk a cow," he said haughtily and Blaine choked on a laugh. Kurt rolled his eyes, but smiled a bit. "Do you want to hear the rest or not?" Blaine nodded and Kurt's smile slipped a little. "The villagers came at night and they set my house ablaze." Blaine's humor dropped immediately and his eyes hardened. "They were determined to find me, and though I hid in the barn for some time, they managed to collect me. I was told my crimes—sodomy, moral bankruptcy, defiling young men left and right . . . . And then I was told my sentence was death."

Blaine tensed, his hand tight and warm around Kurt's. Kurt sighed.

"I don't know exactly how they did it," he admitted tiredly. "But I think they hanged me. I remember going to the gallows—" Kurt stopped with surprise as Blaine pulled him forward in a tight hug. His entire body was tense but very warm and solid, comforting. Kurt relaxed against him. His wings fluttered, surrounding them both and for a moment, Kurt felt safe.

Then Blaine pulled away and Kurt was left with such an overwhelming sense of loss that he almost didn't hear what Blaine was saying.

"—bigots," Blaine was practically hissing. "How dare they—I'm so sorry that happened to you, Kurt, by God—"

"It's over and done with now," Kurt told him, warmed despite himself at Blaine's defense of him. "It's been years. I guess being back here has just brought it all back to the surface again."

"That doesn't matter," Blaine said. His hands were shaking, Kurt realized with surprise. Kurt tightened his fingers around Blaine's palm, holding him steady. "They shouldn't have—God, to—" His eyes were huge and wet. Kurt reached out to touch his cheek before he realized what he was doing. Blaine blinked and his eyelashes dragged against the top of Kurt's fingers. Kurt drew back like he'd been burned.

"Thank you," he said, meaning it. "But it is over now. I just . . ." Wanted you to know. He didn't know why.

Blaine managed to dredge up a smile for him. "Thank you for telling me," he said. His shaking started to abate. "I can't imagine how horrible that must have been."

Kurt thought about his last, gasping moments before the darkness had taken him over completely and shivered. "No," he murmured. "You really can't."

"I'll get you home," Blaine said and Kurt was surprised to see the determination in his face. "No matter what, Kurt."

Kurt smiled, his heart warming. Blaine hadn't been disgusted, hadn't even been disquieted. Instead, he shared Kurt's preferences, had felt angry over the way he died. He'd never had someone be angry for him before, not since his father passed away so many hundreds of years ago. Even the people he'd considered friends at home had never defended him so passionately. And yet Blaine, a human he'd known for little over two weeks, had nearly come to tears over his story.�

If Kurt was human, he wouldn't have minded spending the rest of his life with Blaine. But you're not, a voice in the back of his head reminded him. You're an angel. You'll be going home soon.

Kurt took his hand from Blaine's. "We should get some more sleep," he said quietly.

"Yes," Blaine said, sounding confused. "Yes, of course. Are you sure you're well now?"

"Yes," Kurt muttered, though he didn't really feel it. "I'm fine. Goodnight, Blaine, Carmen."

The two spoke together, one entity: "Goodnight." Blaine turned away to go to his makeshift bed on the floor and Kurt laid back down, staring at the ceiling.

As he fell back asleep once more, he noticed an unusual pain in his back, but thought nothing of it.

Part Two