“He still won’t answer.” Blaine was distraught; his head rested despondently against his locker, his conspicuously silent cell phone clutched in his hand dangling defeated at his side.

“Maybe he’s busy,” Tina offered, reaching out to give Blaine a friendly pat on the shoulder. She had always been the optimistic type.

“For four days, Tina? Four days?” Blaine wanted to believe Tina was right, that Kurt was just busy, but even he, who tirelessly looked for the bright side, had begun running out of plausible, worriless explanations after Kurt’s 52nd hour of silence.

“College is rough, hun. I don’t get a chance to talk to Mike every day,” Tina explained, locking arms with Blaine as she led him from his locker and toward class. “Kurt’ll call soon. He probably just doesn’t have the time.”

“He found the time to call Burt,” Blaine muttered.

“That’s his dad, it’s diff—“

“And Finn,” Blaine interrupted.

“That’s his broth—“

“And Mercedes,” Blaine sighed.

“Oh,” Tina whispered, darting her eyes, clearly searching for something to make this okay…or at least less awkward.

Blaine hated pouting, but Tina was one of the few people he could talk to about this. She might have been the only one who really understood, what with Mike away in New York at The Ailey School. Blaine was separated from a piece of himself and Tina knew how that felt. It was not just an emotional pain—it was physical. The ache radiated out from the open wound of want in his gut, throbbing out a steady, incessant beat, a reminder of the distance, a distance he feared was growing.
Relationships, after all, were simply an agreement that each day two individuals would choose to be one. Blaine feared Kurt had awoken to another choice and there was nothing Blaine could do but wait. Fear had compounded the pain. Even still, Blaine did not want to be a burden.

“It’s okay, Tina,” Blaine muttered, unable to mask the defeat in his voice. “I’m sorry I’m like this…that I’m bothering you, it’s just…I’m worried…I don’t understand why he’s ignoring me.”

“He’s not ignoring you.”

“I haven’t heard from him since Monday morning. He hasn’t returned any of my 17 texts or 13 calls and he’s missed our last four Skype dates.”

“Blaine, it’s noth—“

“Tina.” Blaine stopped so suddenly that Tina--her arm still intertwined with the now immobile Blaine--almost toppled backward. Blaine steadied her and then focused his gaze on her eyes. “Would it be nothing if it were Mike?”

Tina sighed heavily before softly admitting, “No…I’d be terrified.” Realizing what she said, Tina hastened to add, “But that doesn’t mean something is wrong. He’ll call soon. He has to call.”

“I know, I know,” Blaine said, rejoining the crowd milling about them. “I just don’t understand. We always talk about everything. If Kurt feels like he can’t talk to me, then we should talk…” he trailed off, shaking his head and lightly chuckling at the irony of his words. When the pair reached Blaine’s calculus class, he glanced inside before looking back to Tina and confessing helplessly, “I just want to talk to him.”

“And you will. Because he’ll call.” Tina wiggled Blaine’s elbow. “You know how I know?” she asked playfully.

“How?”

“The same way I know Mike will always call me,” she began. Then, soothing and serious, Tina placed her hand on Blaine’s cheek and reminded him of a fact more reliable and useful than any he had or would ever learn in a classroom: “Kurt loves you, Blaine. He will call.”

Blaine let the truth wash over him, nodded, and allowed himself a small smile, then turned to go to class. Alone. He was still getting use to this.

Blaine and Kurt had never had classes together; seniors and juniors rarely did. But having an upperclassman for a boyfriend had had its perks. Kurt had periods off and he would walk Blaine to class, discreetly peck him on the cheek, and then dash over to Breadsticks to pick up a to-go order that they would share in the backseat of Kurt’s Navigator during the following lunch period. It was the best, especially the pasta flavored kisses they would share before they both had to rush off to class, still flushed and blushing from the heat they had shared in the afternoon sun.

Blaine often joked that if he had known going to school with his boyfriend would be so incredible, he would have come to his senses about Kurt sooner. Blaine would never forgive himself for squandering days, months he could have been making out with Kurt in his Dalton dorm room. Time he wasted on a drunken make-out with Broadway Berry--in his defense, he had been aroused, just not by Rachel…turns out it had been Kurt’s safety-pin pants (Yep. 100% gay). Then there was the ridiculous pining over Gap guy who Kurt still referred to as “The Bullfrog.” And of course, there had always been Blaine’s need to play mentor and protect Kurt from the world’s harms…harms he knew all too well, harms that were the reason he was here alone.

Time was not all Blaine had lost that night in his old high school parking lot.

Blaine had just started his freshman year and he was eager to make the most of it. Coop had always told him that high school was a time to take risks, to experience new things, to find out who you were. So, Blaine decided to take the risk of actually being himself: he came out. His mom had taken it fairly well, although she had cried a lot…something about “grieving over her grandchildren.” His dad however, just pretended like the conversation had never happened. So when the winter Sadie Hawkins dance came around and Blaine told his parents he had asked his friend Dale to go, his mom had briefly looked up from her catalog and said, “Have fun, sweetheart,” with forced cheer. Blaine’s dad had not even tried, but just kept pretending, never looking away from the television. Blaine told himself it was because the Buckeyes were playing. The truth would hurt too much.

Thankfully, Dale’s parents were much more accepting and had agreed to drive them to and from the dance. Blaine’s first dance. Sure, Dale was not Blaine’s boyfriend, but he was a boy, and that made this the closest to a date Blaine had ever come. He and Dale had an incredible time, enjoying the punch, the dance floor, and the company. Sure there had been a few stares and questioning glances; but nothing worse than he was normally subjected to in the halls of his school. If that was all there was to this being out thing, Blaine thought he could certainly handle it, especially if he did not have to do it alone. He had been so na�ve.

They were in the parking lot waiting for Dale’s dad when it had happened.

They stumbled out of the gym door into the moonlight, sweaty and giggly from the dancing, Blaine’s arm draped playfully over Dale’s shoulder. Perhaps Blaine was emboldened by the post-dance euphoria. Perhaps he was eager to pursue the promises of high school lore. Perhaps it was the way Dale was looking at him. Or maybe it was the seeming privacy afforded by the nearly empty parking lot and the few dim street lamps. More than likely, it was probably that Blaine just wanted to know what it felt like. Whatever the reason, Blaine watched as his own hand, seemingly by its own volition, slid across Dale’s neck, down his arm, and intertwined with Dale’s. It was happening. Blaine was holding a boy’s hand.

Then he was not.

Dale’s hand was ripped from his like the pin from a grenade. Explosions of fists and yells of “Faggot!” forced him to the ground. Blaine was lost in the debris. Feet. Buttons. Blood. Screams. His voice calling Dale’s name. His name on Dale’s lips. The sound hung thick in the air, billowing out like a cloud of smoke, until it dissipated and all was silence.

Blaine lay there on the cold concrete in a growing pool of his own blood, his breathing shallow and labored, limbs akimbo, face bruised, swelling and tacky with the blood of a broken nose. As he drifted into the healing safety of unconsciousness, Blaine’s eyes registered something pale and trembling. Dale’s hand lay just out of reach, at the edge of Blaine’s periphery but the center of his mind.

Blaine Anderson’s eyes opened three weeks later to the stained ceiling tiles of Mount Carmel St. Ann’s and his brother’s face. By that time, Dale was gone. According to Cooper, Dale’s family had packed up two weeks before when the school’s administration said there was nothing they could do about the attack. As soon as Dale had been released from the hospital, they had gone. All that remained of Dale was the card sitting beside Blaine’s hospital bed. It was generic, some pith about getting well soon, but Blaine had kept it anyway because it too had been held by the first hand that held his.

Blaine wanted to run as well, but he could not. He could not even stand. It took months of recovery and physical therapy before he was even able to walk without assistance. When Blaine learned that he had missed too much school and would be forced to repeat his freshman year, most of which had been spent in the hospital or a therapist’s office, he had initially wanted to give up, stop trying. Then he realized that maybe this was what he needed, a truly fresh start. So, the following August, he donned a blazer and walked confidently, if a little pigeon toed, into the halls of the esteemed Dalton Academy. No one needed to know the real reason he was there: that he had been a coward, a victim—something he would never again allow himself to be.

It had taken Blaine too long to regain his courage and dignity. There was something crippling about never knowing the identity of his victimizers. Every stranger could be the one that had grabbed him from behind, the one that had kicked in his ribs, or the one that had spat on him—the final act of degradation. Kurt had been one of the first strangers he had not had to remind himself to look in the eye.

The old Blaine had been weak, vulnerable, scared, and as far as the new Blaine was concerned; he had bled out on the concrete.

Now, parked in Kurt’s old McKinley parking spot, lying prone in his backseat, staring at the upholstered roof, hiding from the world, he felt the old Blaine resurrecting inside of him. He was terrified. Those bastards had already stolen so much. To this day, Blaine was still trying to win back his father’s respect – he had given up on his love years ago. Blaine had managed to recovered his courage, and survived a real first date, but what he wanted back most was his time: time he had not missed until he had found his courage in the boy he hoped would be his last date; time, if not stolen, he would be spending,--should be spending--with Kurt. In New York. Now. If they again took his friend, his best friend, his Kurt, he would never recover. There was no rehabilitation for a broken heart.

Blaine’s phone buzzed and his heart stopped. He rolled onto his side, fumbling his phone from his pocket, nearly dropping it in his haste. Disappointment. Again. “Just Tina,” he sighed.

Tina 1:36pm
Where are you? Artie and I saved
you a seat.

Blaine fell back onto the seat with a humph, dropping his phone onto his chest. He loved Tina, Artie, and the rest of the glee club, but he did not feel like being sociable. He just did not have it in him to fake a smile, and he did not want to feel any worse than he already did about it, and even more so, he did not want to make others feel bad. He needed to leave. He needed to go some place where he was the thermometer and not the thermostat: if he set the mood, no one would be happy and he could not be responsible for that. Not now. Blaine climbed clumsily into the front seat, started the car, and drove toward the only place that remotely fit the bill.

~

Blaine pushed open the door and approached the counter. He smiled. Sheila was back. Black and spunky, Sheila’s customer commentary always made him laugh. Blaine thought they could have been friends if she were not thirty and he nearly nineteen. Of course the age difference did not matter to him (he had always been told he was mature for his age), but he thought a beautiful, hilarious, adult female probably had better things to do than hang out with gay teenagers. So, Blaine settled for sipping the coffee she made for him while listening to and laughing at her banter.

“Hey, Preppy. Medium drip?” Sheila asked, glancing around quickly before adding, “Where’s Pretty?”

“Actually, may I have a nonfat mocha? And…umm…he’s not here…he left,” Blaine’s eyes fell to the side as if following his drifting voice.

“Well shit, that’s too bad. I thought this place seemed a little less colorful. Those outfits…” Sheila chuckled. “That’s what I get for goin’ on vacation. I sure am sorry to hear that, you two were cute together.”

“Are, not were,” Blaine blurted, “and…and thanks.”

“Ahh, so you’re trying to make the long distance thing work,” she said. It was not a question, but Blaine nodded anyway. “Well, good luck with that, honey. I’d ask how it’s going but I can guess by your coffee order…”

It took all of his effort, but Blaine kept his head held high, though he could not hide the pain in his face.

“Aww, I’m sure it’ll be alright. That Pretty couldn’t get enough of you. I’m a sure a few miles won’t change that.”

“I hope you’re right,” Blaine stated matter-of-factly, trying to keep his voice free of emotion.

“Sure I am. Now go on and sit while I get this mocha.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t you ‘ma’am’ me, boy, or I’ll put more than milk in your mocha,” she warned.

“Sorry, Sheila!” Blaine said, managing a smile and taking a seat in the corner to await his name.

Blaine was on his phone, thumbing through Kurt’s Facebook profile, checking for any pertinent status updates when his name was called. Unfortunately, it was not Sheila’s voice.

“Hey, Blaine. I thought that nonfat mochas were Miss Hummel’s drink.” Sebastian smirked as he sat Blaine’s coffee down on the table and pulled back the empty seat across from Blaine and sat.

“Leave,” Blaine commanded firmly.

“Aww, come on, Blaine. Mama’s gone. We can play now.”

Blaine found it hard to believe that he had ever considered Sebastian harmless. After last year’s slushy and surgery, Blaine had been ready to fight. But then Sebastian had surprised everyone and shown he was capable of even the most basic of human emotions. Blaine had wanted to believe in the good in people, especially a fellow Warbler, but Kurt had been right: they should have waited for the punch. It always came. And it had.

“Sebastian, I’m not going to say it again.”

“Oooh. You’re all pissy because Prissy is ignoring you?” Sebastian taunted.

Blaine’s eyes flashed dangerously, but he said nothing. Under the insults there was truth.

“Silence is compliance, isn’t it Blaine?” Sebastian thrice clucked his tongue in time with his slowly shaking head. “I never thought he’d leave you. Just as well. You were too good for him anyway.”

“Go to hell.” Blaine’s rage was just below the surface, seeping out in the harsh whisper of his voice.

“Fiesty. I like it.”

“Why don’t you understand ‘no?’”

“Uhh…” Sebastian screwed up his face in mock thought, “how about because you never mean it?”

Blaine had never been closer to losing all sense of decorum and throwing his scalding coffee into Sebastian’s smirking face. Blaine settled on the verbal equivalent: “Fuck you.”

“Mmm, is that an invitation, Anderson?” Sebastian was insufferable and Blaine had had more than enough months ago.

“Yes, it’s an invitation,” Blaine spat. “It’s an invitation for you to get it through your poorly styled head that I am with Kurt. I love Kurt. And even if Kurt and I were not together, you and I never would be for a multitude of reasons I do not believe your demonstrably limited intellect capable of comprehending in the miniscule amount of time I’m willing to waste on you.”

Sebastian was apparently stunned into a silence interrupted by Blaine’s suddenly vibrating phone. Blaine’s eyes locked on to the screen lit with a notification:

Kurt
Text Message

Blaine stood up, threw on his jacket, and scooped up his phone and bag. He grabbed his still-full nonfat mocha and placed it deliberately in front of Sebastian, leaned down slightly, and nearly whispered, “You can keep the mocha. It’s good, but it tastes better on Kurt’s lips.”

Blaine straightened and headed purposefully for the exit, hoping no one noticed his trembling hand on the way out.

~

Blaine did not start the car. He just sat there staring at the dimming screen of his phone. He had been waiting over three days for this, and now that it had happened, he was not sure he wanted it anymore. Why was Kurt texting? Why had he not just called? What if it was some long message that meant nothing, or worse, a short one that meant everything? Giving his head a shake, Blaine took a deep breath, and slid his thumb across the screen to reveal the text:

Kurt 3:09pm
Skype tonight? Usual time?

Blaine thought about sending something snarky and sarcastic seeing as though the past few nights he had sat up waiting for hours staring at his computer screen, waiting for Kurt’s icon to pop up. Instead, Blaine settled on his customary response to any of Kurt’s suggestions:

Honey B 3:12pm
Of course.

Blaine checked his watch and sighed. Five hours to kill until 8 o’clock. Time keeping him away from Kurt was time he did not mind losing.

The engine came to life with a roar and Blaine pulled cautiously out of the Lima Bean parking lot and onto the road. The drive was both too long and too short. Blaine had done his best to drive as slowly as he could without angering other motorists, but he still found himself pulling into his driveway all too soon. Time was a jerk like that: when Blaine wanted it gone, time decided it had no place better to be.

3:56pm

Blaine trudged into his empty house, grabbed two pieces of chocolate biscotti from the kitchen, and climbed the stairs to his room. Depositing his bag in his large red leather chair, he shrugged off his jacket, left it atop his hamper, opened the blinds of his windows, sat down at his desk, and turned on his computer.

4:01pm

Skimming through his Hulu queue, Blaine stopped briefly and absently scratched the back of his hand. After mindlessly perusing the available selection, he settled on the most recent episode of SMASH. He had missed it Monday night because he had been sitting here staring at his computer screen instead of lying on his bed, chin in hands, shaking his head in disbelief at both Ivy’s talent and her na�vet�.

4:47pm

The Broadway and New York references became too much and Blaine had to turn it off. Plus, Blaine’s fear found a companion in his latent resentment every time Blaine wondered what Kurt thought of each new development, or if Kurt had watched the show alone…or with someone else.

Blaine needed something funny and lighthearted. He needed Modern Family.

5:06pm

Note to self: Do not watch adorable gay couple when your adorable boyfriend may no longer want to be a couple.

Television was clearly not the answer. Maybe he could find solace in video games.

6:23pm

Wii Jeopardy was always fun, but it was a lot easier when Kurt helped him with some of the categories. Blaine always dominated the sports categories, classic entertainment was Kurt’s forte, and they both had a solid command of literature. They made an incredible team.

Are we still a team?

No more Jeopardy.

6:54pm

“Blaine, dear?” His mother knocked twice and opened the door. Blaine hated when she did that. Who does not wait to be invited into a room? He told himself it was because she cared. That, he loved. If he was honest with himself, he wished they talked more, that she would come into the room instead of lingering at the door like she always did, as though she would fall over a cliff if she ventured in too far.

“Yes, Mom?” Blaine said, looking up from where he had been fiddling with one of his toy robots to look at her. He always marveled at her beauty: her small, elegant frame, which he was sure was the cause of his; her round face perfectly complimented by her ebony tresses which fell gracefully at her shoulders; her light brown eyes set gorgeously against her almond skin. His father had certainly done well for himself…too well, in Blaine’s estimation.

“I was thinking of ordering take-out. Did you want anything?” she asked.

“I’m not really hungry. Thank you, though.” Blaine turned back to his trinket; sure that was the end of their interaction. However, after a few seconds he still felt her presence in the room, and he turned slowly to find her lingering in the doorway, fidgeting. Her face was crinkled in the way that indicated she wanted to speak but was unsure of what to say. When she found the words, they came out weakly.

“How is…umm…how is he?” Was his mother, Camille Dilag-Anderson, who had never once asked him about a boy, especially Kurt, his boyfriend, in his entire out gay teen life, actually finally doing so at likely the only time he wanted to talk about anything but? Blaine appreciated her attempt, more than she could probably know, but he was already hurting and he did not have the strength to watch his mother struggle awkwardly through a painful conversation about his boyfriend.

“I rather not talk about it, if that’s okay,” he muttered.

“Yes, yes, that’s fine,” his mother hurried, obviously relieved, and changed the topic with remarkable alacrity. “Your father will be home tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Blaine nodded.

“Well…let me know if you need anything. I’m ordering pad thai, no onions, just like you like it.”

The conversation was obviously over, but Camille delayed for a moment, her hand on the doorframe for support. She took a steadying breath and said, “I love you, Blaine.” It was not just a passing statement of love used as a common bookend to a conversation: the Andersons did not operate that way. Instead, it was as though she was simultaneously trying to refute any doubts they both had about the truth of her declaration with the purposefulness of her words and the clarity of her tone.

“I love you too, Mom,” Blaine returned, his lips curling inward and disappearing in a sad half smile. She gave a swift nod and turned to go. The door was almost closed when Blaine called out, “Mom?” Camille pushed the door open a few inches and peaked inside. “Thank you,” Blaine whispered. She smiled indulgently at him and then left, closing the door behind her.

7:32pm

A perfectly appetizing piece of chocolate biscotti sat on Blaine’s desk completely untouched. Blaine was lying on Kurt’s side of his bed, Kurt’s pillow clutched against his chest, his pillow pinned to the bed by his head as he stared unseeing at the ceiling. Adele’s “He Won’t Go,” on its sixth consecutive play, blared from his computer speakers.

Blaine could no longer pretend he was calm. His brain had become a frightening and confusing place.

We belong together. Kurt’s the one. Sure, it’s not like him to not call, but he did text, we’re going to talk, it’s going to be fine. There has to be a reasonable explanation.

What time is it? Oh god, I’m a mess. I can’t even watch TV or play video games without being reminded of Kurt. It’s just Jeopardy, Blaine! Ha, that’s probably what Kurt would say. Oh god, I’m losing it.

You can say that again, girl. Dignity? What dignity?

I’m in this. Kurt’s in this. We love each other. He texted. We’re going to talk. He cares. It wouldn’t if I didn’t love him. I can do this. We can get through this.

7:57pm

Okay, Blaine needed to pull himself together. He could not let Kurt see him like this, not right now. Kurt need not know that four days of radio silence had reduced Blaine to literally rolling in the deep. Blaine got hastily to his feet and turned on his bedroom light. On the way to remake his bed, he passed his mirror and did a double take. He looked like hell: wrinkled sweater vest, lopsided bow tie, hair more akin to Alfalfa than his usual dapper self. Blaine might not be okay, but he would not allow himself to look it.

Blaine ran to his closet, stripped off the untidy vest, and donned another. Thankfully, with all the red, white and blue he owned, it was not difficult to find something to compliment his newly straightened navy and red bow tie.

The wardrobe was simple enough but his hair was another matter. He sprinted from his room, down the hall, and slid breathlessly into the bathroom he had shared with Coop. Gel, the gel, where was his gel? He fished out the container of his favorite brand, grabbed a comb from the drawer, and proceeded to quickly, yet meticulously rectify the Little Rascals situation that had broken out on his head. Once his locks were again tamed, he threw the comb aside, did not even bother putting the gel away, and ran full stop to his bedroom. He had to grab the doorframe to prevent himself from ramming into the wall during his uncontrolled reentrance to his room.

Ringing. There was ringing. Shit, he was late.

“I’m here!” Blaine shouted breathlessly, forgetting Kurt would not be able to hear him until he actually accepted the incoming call. Blaine sat down at his desk, maneuvered his mouse to accept the call, and used the seconds it took for Kurt’s face to appear to steel himself, smooth down his vest, and affix a mask of calm. Then, Blaine was looking upon Kurt’s face for the first time in over four days.

“Hi,” Kurt breathed. He was so beautiful. Somehow Kurt’s eyes were bluer and brighter than Blaine remembered, the incredible flecks of yellow still obvious and brilliant even when pixilated. But there was something else there, something Blaine could always recognize: sadness.

“Hi,” Blaine returned, anxiety coating his voice.

“Is that music?” Kurt asked.

“Oh, yeah…” Blaine tried for nonchalance as he fiercely tapped the volume down on his keyboard.

“How are you?” Kurt’s voice was nearly trembling. Blaine would have usually loved the adherence to the niceties of polite conversation, but not now. Not when there was so much unsaid, so much he desperately needed to hear.

“Honestly, Kurt? I’m not too good,” Blaine began, trying to keep his tone level so as not to make Kurt feel guilty…yet. “I’ve been worried.”

“I know and I’m sorry,” Kurt rushed, breathless and sincere. Blaine visibly sagged with relief. Kurt knew. Kurt was sorry. Maybe they were still Kurt and Blaine. But Kurt was still speaking. What was he saying? “It’s just…it’s just…” Kurt was stammering now, stumbling over his words in a rush to get them out, “I didn’t know how to tell you…and Mercedes was no help, and I knew I needed to do this face to face—well as close to face to face as we--”

“Kurt! Kurt, babe! Slow down.” Blaine’s hands were up as though, if Kurt were in front of him, he would put them on Kurt’s shoulders to steady him. The gesture seemed to work. Kurt took a breath, then another, and he looked into the camera, searching for Blaine’s eyes.

“You were right,” Kurt finally said.

“About what?”

“Timmy wasn’t harmless.”

“Oh, Kurt,” Blaine breathed. A montage of possibilities played through Blaine’s mind, all evoking the same response: concern. Blaine leaned in, his eyes darting across Kurt’s image on the screen, checking for bruises, anything, signs of what may have happened. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Kurt assured, realizing immediately what Blaine assumed. “It was nothing like that.”

Another sigh of relief. “Oh, thank god,” Blaine said, his hand falling heavily over his heart. “Okay, so what did happen?”

“Well, you remember when we Skyped last week and I told you about that essay I was writing for Crit and Perspectives?” Kurt began.

“Of course.”

“Well, I turned it in the next day and I thought it was wonderful, because it was wonderful,” Kurt said the last part with a pointed finger and eyes looking directly into his camera. “But Professor Caldwell apparently thought ‘my analysis was too narrow’ that I was ‘only seeing fashion from my narrow perspective’ and the ‘purpose of the course is to analyze fashion from a multitude of viewpoints,’” Kurt was warming up, air quotes in full display, twisting his voice into what Blaine surmised was supposed to be an imitation of Professor Caldwell. “And then, Blaine, and then, he said to my face that if I don’t get out of my own head and ‘see other perspectives’ that I’ll never make it in fashion! I mean the audacity of this man to—“

“Kurt,” Blaine said softly, shutting his eyes and bringing his palms together and to his face so that his index fingers brushed against his lips and his chin rested on his thumbs, trying for patience. “Babe, I love you. And I’m trying. But I really need you to sort of get to the punch line here, or did you really need to wait four days so you could talk to me face to face about an essay?”

“I’m sorry,” Kurt said, realizing he was rambling.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Blaine reassured. “Just please tell me what happened.”

“I’m trying,”

“I know.”

Kurt took a deep breath. “We were drunk.”

“What? Who?” Blaine interrupted, his hands falling from his face to lightly grip his desk.

“Blaine, please. I’m trying.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, go on.”

“We were drunk --Timmy and I. I got a ‘D’ on that damn paper, a ‘D,’ Blaine, and I don’t get ‘D’s, I’ve never gotten a D. And I was livid and…and…and terrified…and…”

“You could have called me, Kurt,” Blaine could not stop himself.

“I know, I know, and I wish I had, but after I got the paper back, I was in the lounge talking about it,” Kurt had actually been yelling and on the verge of tears, but he did not feel those details were pertinent at the moment, “and Timmy was there and he said I needed a drink, and I wouldn’t normally, but I was just so upset, and he said he would invite some people over and I don’t really know anyone so I thought it would be a great opportunity to make some new friends because I—“

“Kurt, babe, we’re veering…” Blaine strained to keep his voice soft, soothing.

“I’m sorry. Umm…okay…so, Timmy invited a bunch of his friends over to his room and we all drank, and of course I drank too much, but everything was fine until the next morning…”

~

Tuesday, October 23, 2012 (Three days ago)

Kurt leaned back into the warmth of Blaine’s firm body. Kurt loved waking up with Blaine’s muscular arms wrapped around him. Flesh on flesh. Kurt still marveled at the contrast between the tones of their skin, a visible reminder that someone else was holding him, loving him. When the orange and maroon of the rising sun began to diffuse the black of his eyelids, Kurt finally opened his eyes and ran his fingertips along the arm draped across his hip.

Panic replaced pleasure.

This was not his room. This was not his bed. This was not Blaine’s arm. Not Blaine’s skin. Not Blaine.

How had he gotten here? What had happened? Kurt mentally surveyed his body – he could feel his jeans still up around his waist and his shirt was wrinkled and damp against his chest. The man behind him, however – and it was definitely a man – was not as modestly clothed…or clothed at all. From what Kurt’s hyper aware senses could tell, the man behind him was definitely shirtless and the fabric from his waist down was so thin it could only be pajama pants…or boxers.

Kurt could not move, he could not breathe, but apparently the body behind him could.

“Morning, you,” the man behind him whispered, squeezing Kurt a little tighter. It was Timmy. It was definitely Timmy. Even masked by the distortion of a night’s sleep, Kurt knew that voice. “Crazy night, huh?”

“Yeah…” Kurt offered cautiously, afraid the act of speaking would move his body in any way that would signal to Timmy that this was okay or wanted.

“You feelin’ any better? You got pretty sick,” Timmy cooed, stroking his arm.

Kurt tensed immediately. He wanted to throw Timmy’s arm off of him and bolt from the bed, but he could not. If he did, it would be awkward forever and then Kurt really would have absolutely no friends. Kurt could do this. He could get out of this. Just a little small talk and then he would stretch, get up, go back to his dorm room, and they would never speak of this again. “My head hurts,” Kurt offered, trying to sound as distressed as possible. “I think I’m hung over. I should probably go.”

Breath rushed hot on Kurt’s neck as Timmy softly whispered, “You don’t have to go.” Kurt clenched his eyes shut, literally trembling with the effort as his mind tried to will his body to stay still, to not thrash, to not fight. He had to do this gently. Timmy was a friend. This was a misunderstanding. Kurt began to shift away, lean forward, anything to get space between his and Timmy’s bodies. Then everything happened all at once: Timmy slipped his arm all the way around Kurt’s abdomen, pulled Kurt’s body flush against his own, ground his hips against Kurt as he placed a kiss on the crown of Kurt’s head, and whispered, “I want you to stay.”

All rationale was erased from Kurt’s frantic mind. He had to get out. Now. Kurt was unsure how, but seconds later he was on his feet, scrambling to find his shoes and shawl in the dim light of the room. Timmy was up too, hands up as if in surrender, hurt, fear, and something else Kurt could not quite place, evident in his eyes. “Did I do something wrong? What’s wrong?” Timmy stammered.

“I have a boyfriend; that’s what wrong!” Kurt screeched, hopping on one leg in an attempt to get on the one shoe he had managed to retrieve from under Timmy’s bed.

“I know that; I just figured…” Timmy’s voice died.

“Figured what, Timmy? That you could climb into bed with me, we’d spoon all night, and I would love you in the morning?” Kurt spat, bending to grab his other shoe.

“I don’t know what I figured,” Timmy admitted, shrugging his shoulders. “I came up here and you were…you were…in my bed…and I just thought…” Timmy looked away, stuffing his trembling hands into the pockets of his pajama pants.

“Thought what, Timmy?” Kurt inquired harshly, his back to Timmy as he yanked his shawl off the back of Timmy’s desk chair. “God, it’s not like I know my way around here anyway, or that even if I did I was in any state to know what I was doing. I slept in a designer shirt, Timmy! What could you have possibly thought?” Kurt yelled, turning to face Timmy. But, the look on Timmy’s face drained all of Kurt’s anger.

“I thought you liked me back,” Timmy whispered at the ground. “I mean…you knew…that I liked you…still like you.” Timmy, shoulders slumped, watched his own foot as he kicked it nervously back and forth.

“Fine,” Kurt breathed, deflating still more. “Yes, I knew—I mean, I had been told as much—but that doesn’t mean that’s why I came over,” Kurt said, using his explanatory tone in an attempt to not hurt Timmy’s feelings. “I have a boyfriend. I’m with Blaine.”

“I know that,” Timmy nodded, seemingly to himself.

“Good,” Kurt huffed. “I have to go, Timmy,” he finished, slipping on his shawl and moving toward the door.” Timmy made no move to stop him, but simply took a few steps backward toward the wall opposite the door. Just as Kurt reached the door and turned the knob to leave, he heard Timmy mutter from the corner, “I really am sorry, Kurt.”

“I know,” Kurt assured, not turning from the door.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, or hurt you or anything…I would never…” Timmy still would not look up.

“I know, Timmy,” Kurt sighed.

“Blaine…umm…he’s really lucky to have you.”

Kurt slowly turned to see Timmy’s brown eyes glancing toward him from beneath his still bowed head, and Kurt was finally able to identify the other substance residing in Timmy’s eyes, the name that had alluded him earlier: regret.

“Thank you, Timmy, but I’m the lucky one.” Kurt gave a final nod, turned, and left.

~

Friday, October 26th, 2012

One breath in, one breath out, Blaine was reminding himself. It had been bad, yes. It had been difficult, painful, and at multiple points terrifying to hear. But he had come out on the other side. They had come out on the other side. Kurt had gotten drunk, a silly mistake – one Blaine himself had made before – and gotten into a misunderstanding that was clarified by Kurt’s love for Blaine. Everything was fine. Everything would be fine. It had to be fine.

But the longer Blaine stared at Kurt’s image on his screen, the longer the silence went unbroken, and the longer it took for Kurt to look up and meet Blaine’s eyes, the clearer it became that everything was not fine.

Blaine could no longer prevent the unspoken yet certain truth from invading his mind – the truth they both had known from the moment Kurt had uttered the word “harmless,” from the moment Blaine had recognized the sadness in his lover’s eyes, from the moment Kurt’s guilt had silenced his phone, ignored Blaine’s texts, and driven him from his computer for the past three nights.

Blaine shut his eyes and dropped his head under the weight of the oncoming fact that would crush all others into lies. For Blaine knew he only had the courage to ask, but not to see. With the voice of a rumor, Blaine uttered the question to which he already knew the answer: “There’s more isn’t there?”

Kurt did not speak. Blaine refused to lift his head, forcing his ears to strain against the silence, trying to hear what he would not let his eyes see. The still playing music rose gently through the murky silence like the pieces of a once forgotten dream:

In the end, Blaine did not have to look up to see, for each slow nod of Kurt’s head was a blow to Blaine’s swiftly shattering heart, and each splintered shard pierced his very being.