Kurt was putting the finishing touches on his first writing assignment for Critical Reading and Writing 1 when he heard the Skype notification—it always reminded him of raindrops. Blaine’s icon—a red, white and blue bow tie—faded into view and Kurt smiled. He had been editing this damned essay for hours and did not think he could bullshit anymore about the “signs and symbols” embedded in ancient fashions. He appreciated vintage as much as the next boy, but he didn’t see how interpreting the societal impact of symbols in 1880s fashion was going to help him become the next great American designer. None of the Project Runway contestants had to write essays. Kurt hastily saved the document, closed the window, and double-clicked on Blaine’s icon, glad that his reward for completing that damned essay would be a chat with Blaine.

“You sure are a sight for these sore eyes,” Kurt said smiling at Blaine’s bright eyes, which were shining with that I-never-have-and-never-will-love-another-the-way-I-love-you quality they always had when they were fixed upon Kurt. Blaine was the only person who had ever looked at him that way and Kurt figured he would be the only one that ever would, which was okay, because it was Blaine. Blaine Anderson—possibly the most perfect boyfriend to ever come into existence. Not only was he absolutely dreamy—and by dreamy, think 50s movie star dreamy, Gene Kelly dreamy, slicked back hair, sweater vest, cuffed slacks and all, dreamy—but he was also adorably witty, perfectly mannered, immensely loving, and so talented he could probably single-handedly bring back the movie musical with a few falsetto notes and a twirl.

But the best part about Blaine was that he was his and Kurt was never surer of that than when Blaine was looking at him the way he was now. Blaine’s hair was wet, and his curls were plastered to his head, the ends of his tendrils framing his face. In an hour, his hair would air-dry into an adorable mess of dark tresses that Blaine would insist on gelling down “to maintain proper decorum.” No one else got to see Blaine like this—completely natural and unguarded. Blaine was wearing Kurt’s Wicked t-shirt, which Kurt had accidentally-on-purpose left at Blaine’s after their last night together. Kurt’s stomach flipped and a smile overtook him at the sight of the boy he loved so clearly missing him—needing him. Even across miles and through a computer screen, the intensity of Blaine’s love tinged his porcelain skin pink with warmth.

“Bad day?” Blaine asked, tilting his head to the side with an empathetic grin.

“Bad semester is more like it.”

“But it’s only just started. Are you hating Parsons already? Because now would be a bad time to ask me for advice. As you can see,” he said, gesturing to his (Kurt’s) shirt, “supportive-boyfriend-Blaine has been replaced with evil-boyfriend-Blaine, and right now he wants you to come back to Ohio for the most nefarious of cuddles.”

“I miss you too,” Kurt breathed.

“And what about cuddles?” Blaine teased lightly.

“I especially miss cuddles.”

“Virtual cuddle time?”

“I think so.”

They had stumbled upon virtual cuddles accidentally during the first weekend into their attempt at making this long-distance thing work. That past January, Kurt had suffered a mini nervous breakdown due to the stress of awaiting the NYADA decision. Kurt already had a flare for the dramatic, but Blaine thought the theatrics that Kurt displayed during what Blaine affectionately titled “Kurt Hummel’s Great Break With Reality of 2011” may have been severe enough to rival a patented Rachel Berry diva fit, and that was saying something. Once Blaine was able to help Kurt restore a tentative, one-handed grip on reality, they had taken out Kurt’s bucket list and distilled from it all of Kurt’s most realistic career paths.

Career Options for Kurt Hummel’s Fabulous Life:
1. The next Patti Lupone (a.k.a. Broadway star)
2. The next Alexander McQueen (a.k.a. Fashion designer)
3. The next Anna Wintour (a.k.a. fashion editor)

Kurt had dictated the list, and Blaine, ever the practical one, had added the parenthetical information – Kurt should not strive to be the next someone else and deprive the world of the first and only Kurt Hummel. With the possible destinations laid out in front of them, they plotted the course.

Kurt and Blaine took to Google to assess what kind of education the next Lupone, McQueen, or Wintour would need. A BFA in Musical Theater or a BFA in Vocal Performance coupled with a Masters in Fine Arts a la Kristen Chenoweth was clearly the route for Hummel–Broadway star. He would need a BFA in Fashion Design or he would have to win Project Runway if he wanted to see young, fashionable men wearing his creations. And if Kurt decided he preferred to grow horns and wear Prada in order to dictate the direction of fashion, he would need a BFA in Fashion Editing, Merchandising, or Management.

Armed with real, tangible options, Kurt restored his grip on reality. Kurt was set on New York and Blaine was set on Kurt fulfilling his dreams, so New York it would be. With that decided, Kurt and Blaine composed a new list of schools.

Schools That Will Soon Recognize the Genius of Hummel:

Musical Theater/Vocal Performance
Tisch School of the Arts NYU - Drama
NYADA

Fashion Design
Pratt
Parsons The New School for Design

Fashion Editing/Management
The Art Institute of NY
Parsons The New School for Design
FIT – Jan 1 deadline

With Blaine’s help, Kurt assessed what each application entailed and began on his portfolios in earnest. All were fairly standard if time consuming.

Parsons’ design program required a portfolio of 8-12 pieces, which Kurt easily gathered, considering he had been designing and creating his own ensembles since he was five. The Parsons Challenge was an entirely different beast, however.

The challenge: Explore something usually overlooked within your daily environment. Choose one object, location, or activity.

Glee.

The answer had come to him immediately. The problem came in the execution:

Using any medium or media, interpret your discovery in 3 original pieces. Support each piece of art with an essay of approximately 250 words. The series you create should convey a conceptual and creative response of the subject matter you have chosen to discover. Acceptable media are any—drawing, video, photography, sculpture, 3D work, collage, digital images, etc. You may choose to work in a consistent medium or vary the media.

He had a vision. Could he make it work?

Two weeks later, he sat with all of the Glee club—all of his friends—gathered around, Blaine’s fingers intertwined with his, as they all watched as clips of each of them being slushied, verbally harassed, and bullied (JBI had finally made himself useful) were interlaced with their most heartfelt performances. Each performance was embodied in and coupled with a flawless ensemble, drawn, created and photographed by Kurt. Each piece was overlaid with his words encapsulating the impact and importance of each design, as their harmonies played like a whisper, reminding the viewer of what must not be overlooked. It was an achievement in visual presentation, and representation, but most of all in self-determination. It was a manifesto, a declaration that they should not and would not be ignored. They had meaning. They had voices. Kurt would make sure that they were not only seen but also heard.

Kurt had put his heart and soul into that project and had come away realizing that fashion design was indeed his heart and soul. It allowed him to express his own, unique voice in a way that all would hear, see and adopt. When his acceptance letter from Parsons arrived, there was no question in his mind where he would go.

Now, as he picked his computer up from his desk and walked toward his twin bed to engage in virtual cuddles, the bittersweet taste of success rose in his throat. The pain of being so far from the person he loved was only dulled by the knowledge that he was pursuing a career which was sure to be a success if he loved it even an iota as much as he loved Blaine—which he must since he was here and Blaine was there. May 15th, he thought. Just until May 15.

Kurt placed his laptop on his pillow and shimmied beneath the covers. Once under the soothing layers of sheet and comforter, he rested his head on his pillow and adjusted his laptop so that he was looking into Blaine’s warm hazel eyes. Blaine was snuggled beneath his covers, his still wet curls dampening his cool pillow, staring longingly at his laptop resting on Kurt’s side of the bed. Blaine had deemed it Kurt’s side of the bed when Kurt had dozed there after their first time, and Blaine, unable to bear any distance between their still love-warm bodies, had pressed himself against Kurt’s back and enveloped him in his arms, never wanting to let go. Now, he could not stop himself from reaching toward the screen in an attempt to caress Kurt’s face the way he longed to—the way he would if Kurt were there with him.

Kurt, seeing Blaine reach for the screen, closed his eyes, trying to feel Blaine’s fingertips on his skin. “I wish you were here.”

“Mmm, but you should be here. My bed’s bigger.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know, Kurt.” Blaine paused, the emphasis on Kurt’s name transforming it into an endearment. “So, tell me about this bad seme—er, five weeks.”

“The work load,” Kurt sighed. “I thought 18 hours of coursework wouldn’t be a problem, especially since I’m working at something I really care about but between my studio and lab classes, I’m having trouble finding time to write these mind-numbing essays for Crit and Perspectives. I guess I just thought there’d be less writing about fashion and more doing fashion.”

“You’ll adjust,” Blaine encouraged. “When I transferred to Dalton, I thought I was going to drown in the course work, but I got used to it in time.”

“Evidenced by your homework tossing tendencies.”

“Yes, well, that had more to do with my passion for performance than with my mastery of material. But you get the point. You’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

“Thank you,” Kurt said. It was sincere. “But it’s not just the work. I also don’t have any time to actually talk with anyone long enough to get past awkward small talk and actually make a friend.”

“What about your roommate?”

“Jermane is fine. But he’s a little too high strung for my taste. His intensity puts me even more on edge. I’m afraid that if we were in this room together for more than 15 minutes doing anything besides sleeping that our combined mania would morph into a black hole into which all remaining sanity in a three-block radius would be irretrievably sucked.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Blaine agreed. Blaine put his elbow on his pillow and propped his head up on his hand in a way that he hoped seemed nonchalant, before he took a shallow but noticeable breath and asked, “What about Timmy?”

“Who?” Kurt’s brow furrowed with confusion.

“Timmy. Kurt. The guy who’s been all over your Facebook wall.”

“You sound jealous.”

“Should I be?”

“No,” Kurt said with a roll of his eyes.

“So he knows you have an impeccably dressed, devoted boyfriend who has this thing he can’t talk about that means he is capable of incapacitating him in seconds if he tries anything with you?”

“Oh, stop it. He’s nobody. He’s barely even a friend.”

“Does he know that?”

“He knows,” Kurt said, adjusting to mimic Blaine’s posture. “And besides, he’s probably not even interested.” Kurt was doing it again. Blaine could find Kurt’s self-deprecation as adorable as his other quirks if Kurt weren’t always so wrong about himself.

“Kurt, your inability to recognize and accept your overwhelming sexiness boggles my mind.”

“You’re the only one who sees me like that.”

“That is not true,” Blaine said sitting up all the way, shaking his head. “You’re incredibly attractive and lots of people notice. You just don’t notice them noticing. Trust me, I’ve side-eyed more than a few guys and girls who were giving you the eye. And right now, I’m giving Timmy the side-y-est of eyes.”

“’Side-y-est,’ really? Very eloquent of you.” Kurt sat up with a smile, leaning his back against the wall and placing his computer in his lap.

“Forgive the lapse of dapperness, but the fact remains that Timmy is interested in you.”

“And how do you, with your unmatched inability to recognize attraction until it storms into a room crying and singing about a dead bird, presume to know such things?”

“He’s liked all of your Facebook statuses and written on your wall five times in the last three days,” Blaine tried to say as casually as possible. It wasn’t Facebook stalking if the person in question was your boyfriend…was it?

“That doesn’t mean anything, Blaine.”

“Funny. I recall it meaning a lot when it was you and my Facebook wall two Novembers ago.” There was an edge to Blaine’s voice now.

“Well then,” Kurt huffed, crossing his arms, “we’re fine because you didn’t pick up that hint.”

“Well, I’m picking it up now and you should as well.” He knew when he said it that it was too much. His tone was curt, short. He had messed up. Blaine was not frustrated with Kurt; it was the situation, the distance, both between he and Kurt and now and May 15th. Blaine pursed his lips and glanced away as a tense silence spread between them.

“Just be careful, Kurt,” Blaine breathed—his apology in his tone. “You remember Sebastian.”

“Do I ever.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Blaine said, finally looking into the camera again, the closest to eye contact they could come.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know. But the fact remains that I’m sorry.”

“I know.” This time it was Kurt who reached for the screen. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

“Can we cuddle a bit more?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

They had “cuddled” for another 30 or so minutes, Blaine remembered, until Jermane had returned in a haze of fabric swatches and sketches and Kurt had to go. Blaine had struggled to cope with that suffocating feeling of distance, like the miles were weights applied to his chest, collapsing his lungs. He and Kurt had nearly crumbled under the weight of it. Now, as he drove away from the home, the life, and the love they had built together, with Bertie’s empty car seat staring back at him in the rear view mirror, Blaine could not take a breath.

He had barely made it three blocks before his grief steered him onto the side of the road and engulfed him. There, under the harsh glare of the streetlight, Blaine came undone. Sobbing and clutching at his collar, trying to take in air, Blaine yanked his sweater from his heaving body and savagely threw it aside. Finally, with breath in his lungs, the dam broke and he was convulsing with it, as if the pain were a parasite, trapped inside and fighting to escape. It left him in wails and moans and filled the space where his family should have been and suddenly he was trapped in his car, with his anguish as his only companion. The car was filling up; there wasn’t enough space for him and the remnants of his shattered life. He would suffocate—choke on it. He pushed and lashed out wildly against the seats, the dashboard, the windows, before finding the lock, pushing the door open, and throwing himself bodily from the car. Blaine found the ground with his hands and knees and it was cold. He gulped in the chilled air to feed his sobs and found himself vomiting the contents of the last meal he had shared with Kurt into the street. He heaved until he was empty and dry and he collapsed backward against the side of the car, holding his knees to his chest.

Blaine’s hands shook with the shock of his utter loss of control, and his mind filled with a voice that was not his own—the voice he always heard in his moments of weakness, of failure. This is not acceptable behavior, Blaine. He tried to block out the words, but his mind was too fragile. You simply cannot behave this way. It is improper and unbecoming of an Anderson.

Blaine stood up and shakily brushed off his hands and knees. He got back into the car, retrieved his sweater from where it had fallen, and pulled it back over his head. He shut the door, buckled his seat belt and with a glance into the rear view mirror, smoothed his hair. He started the car and drove away, leaving the only remnant of a broken Blaine pooled in the street beneath the glare of the accusing streetlight.

When he got to the gate, he gave Jim, the security guard, a winning smile and waved as he passed.

He was going to be fine. He was fine. He was Blaine Anderson. He had no choice but to be fine. He had done this before. He had the strength to wait. Again.

When had he started believing his own lies? Probably around the time Kurt had started telling them.