Blaine runs a finger over the grain of the wood; smooth and varnished beneath his hands. Once, he would have barely registered the texture beneath the callused pads of his fingers, but now his hands are soft. It's been years since he played. The last time he tried was their wedding. He hadn't been able to finish. "Too overcome with emotion," the guests had murmured to one another; moved by the display. They were right; it was too much. He sold the guitar for the price of their shiny new coffee table.

It's silent on the other side of the polished wood—he knows the door isn't locked. He could go in if he wanted to, but he doesn't want to—not yet. He can't yet. He goes to the kitchen; pulls open the top cabinet and removes the bottle. He pours himself a small glass—even now, thirty-five years old… or is he still thirty-four? He can't quite remember… yeah, still thirty-four; his birthday is still a couple months away—he doesn't much care for sipping on hard liquor the way his father did; a few beers here and there, sure, but the shiny amber liquor burns his throat.

Tonight, he likes the burn just a little bit.

Kurt stands with his hand on the doorknob, curving his palm to fit the cool metal of the handle. He has everything he ever wanted, so why does he feel so unhappy? He lives in the best city in the world—he can window shop of fifth avenue; he can take a book to Central Park and read for hours, he can walk down a public sidewalk hand-in-hand with the man he loves without anyone giving them a second glance.

He does love him… right? Yes, of course he does. They've been together for years; they have an entire life together for Christ's sake. He looks down at the ring—it's cold silver contrasts against the gold of the handle. He lets his hand fall away. He'll go out in a minute; suggest they watch a movie and fit himself into his lover's side.

But not yet.

Blaine moves from the kitchen to the hall; cat-like in his silence as he slips through another door. Pink walls turned coral in the soft glow of the nightlight in the corner. He expertly navigates the toys on the floor so as not to wake the other occupants of the room. He presses a kiss to the soft curls of his oldest little girl—seven years old just last week—before tucking the blankets up around his five year-old—excuse me, five and a half as she would haughtily remind him if she were awake. He stands quietly between their beds; touches a hand to the youngest one's soft hair. He couldn't stop the smile if he tried; even tonight, he can only feel happiness at the sight of his daughters. But there is some sort of longing there, too, some sort of dream realized too late. He kisses them both again and moves back to the hallway; careful to leave the door ajar. He returns to his own bedroom door but remains just outside. He touches his cheek to the wood- it is silent on the other side, but he knows the room is not empty.

He looks toward the window; the moon stares back. "I miss you."

Kurt sits down on the edge of the bed; runs a finger along a seam in the comforter. He should buy fabric and make them a new one—it would be a lovely surprise. He could sew while he is away at work and then one night just have it there. He contemplates colors and patterns; maybe he could just redo the entire room… he is not new to these kinds of projects—he's already invested himself in redoing their family room and kitchen; this would be the natural next space to move onto. The projects were fun—he has always liked going out and selecting new furniture; taken pleasure in the clean smell of fresh paint; and of course it gives him something to focus on—a place to keep his mind when other things won't do. He wishes he could go out that very moment and buy the fabric; the paint; fill his mind with nothing but room layouts and color swatches—but it is far too late and nothing would be open.

He can hear him on the other side of the door—he's been doing that a lot lately; looming just outside the door—Kurt isn't sure if he's deliberating coming in or waiting for him to come out.

He turns his head; studies the moon outside the window. "I wish we could go back."

Blaine sighs; he shouldn't still be standing here. Things won't change just because he remains motionless; time won't stop—words can not be unsaid; actions undone.

Still, he wonders what he had been thinking. Remembering it now, he doesn't understand—hadn't his lover's tears meant something? Kurt always said less than he meant; why hadn't he tried harder to understand?

He moves away from the door again, this time to drain his glass in the sink because it's not just burning his throat; it's choking him. When he returns to the door, he is still hesitant to go in, but he doesn't have to choose a side in the war going on inside his head; it's decided for him. He has to take a step back so as not to be hit when the door swings open.

Kurt moves to study the wall—a montage of frames cover it. If he does redo the room, he decides, he won't get rid of this. Years of the life they've built hang in those frames—chemically captured milliseconds of events; special occasions; quiet moments snapped by the shutter of a camera to let everyone see how happy they are. 'Just look at us!' They shout at Kurt, 'See us? See how wonderfully we've done? I bet you're all jealous of what a lovely set we make.' He wishes he could feel as happy as the pictures tell him he does. He wishes he could take those frozen seconds and turn them into drawn out events; transform them into some sort of tangible reality. Sometimes he just wishes it were someone else seated beside him in those—no, he doesn't wish that. That can only lead to bad things.

He needs to get out of their bedroom; shake it off; escape those terrible thoughts.

He exits quickly.

"Honey, why are you standing out here?"

"No reason; I was just coming in… why are you out of bed?" He returns. He feels like he'd been exposed somehow. Caught in his sin—is it adulterous to have a silent longing he could never act on? Maybe… He isn't sure, so he smiles to try and make up for the discretion.

"To tell you to come to bed."

She loves him, he is sure of it. Every fiber of her being exudes it—the way she smiles at him; helps the girls make art projects to give him to hang in his office at work; the way she rests her hand on his knee underneath the dinner table when they go home to visit his parents. He wonders sometimes, though, if maybe she knows. There is a quiet urgency to the way she squeezes his hand in church; a certain desperation to the way she kisses him when he leaves for work. Or maybe he imagines it.

He kisses her quickly and follows her back into the bedroom. He knows it will be one of those nights when she will slip off her nightgown and curl into him, murmuring all the things she thinks he wants to hear. Still, he presses a hand into the small of her back, guides her into the room, and closes the door behind them.

"Why are you standing out here?" Kurt nearly jumps at the sight of his lover just outside the door.

"I was just going to come in and check on you; are you all right?" He looks just as startled as Kurt feels.

"Of course," He smiles brightly, "Just coming out to see what you were up to."

He shrugs. Smiles. He smiles a lot. Kurt met Henry only two weeks after he'd left Ohio. When Henry had asked him to coffee, he had firmly said no, but when Henry had called that same evening and asked him to dinner, he had agreed immediately. Tall and blonde; bookish and reserved—he was exactly what Kurt needed.

Things hadn't been complicated until recently. Why did Henry have to sing when he made breakfast? Why did he have to squeeze Kurt's shoulders like that? And why the hell did he have to wear that navy blazer to his new job?

He isn't wearing it now though, and Kurt feels guilty for being upset about it. Darling Henry—he puts up with Kurt's abrupt bitchiness; his bouts of locking himself in their bedroom. He didn't take it personally when Kurt turned his face away when he leaned in to kiss him, nor did he question why Katy Perry was never to be played in their apartment. He just…smiled. Kurt felt a twinge of remorse, "Do you want to watch a movie?"

Henry looks pleased. They sit on the couch together—Kurt studying his profile in the blue glow of the television. He'd made his decision in a partner carefully; wisely, but those little bits and pieces, no matter how small, screamed in Kurt's face and kept him awake late into the night. He leans in closer and presses a kiss against his lover's neck.

Henry isn't reacting fast enough—he touches a hand to Kurt's neck and plants a soft kiss on his temple, but Kurt does not want tenderness or intimacy. He wants to be distracted. He tangles his own fingers in Henry's hair; presses a hot kiss against his mouth; parts his lips with his tongue. Henry moans into his mouth, finally pushing his body close.

Despite the heat, despite Henry's face so close to his, Kurt does not close his eyes. He needs to stay focused on blonde hair; short, fine eyelashes. If he closes his eyes he knows what he will see.

He pulls Henry closer.

The room is hot and humid. She has drifted off; their bodies still entangled, and he is left feeling the heat radiating off her body—flames licking his skin as a reminder of the hell he has created for himself. No… not hell. She is a good wife; his children are beautiful; his life is not unbearable.

So why does his soul get ripped apart every time he thinks about him? Why, on this same night every year, does he relive it? Kurt's quiet voice when he tells him he's leaving—the way their eyes don't meet; the way he slapped him when Kurt tried to kiss him goodbye... Yes, this was hell—reliving that final conversation in the dark places of his mind.

If he could do it again… if he could rearrange history; break fate down and run screaming back into that scene, he knew exactly what he would do; he's known every minute of everyday since exactly what he would say. He turns his head away from his wife; whispers secrets to the moon, "I love you; I'm sorry."

Henry's head is cradled in his lap; the credits have long since rolled on their movie, and the room is lit blue with artificial light. Kurt runs his fingers through Henry's thick hair. And just for that moment, because it is that day, he lets himself feel someone else.

His fingers no longer touch fine blonde silk—he feels unruly curls; that particular curve to Blaine's ear he has never forgotten. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets the hurt wash over him.

How could he have ever been so fucking stupid? Why did he believe he couldn't have both dreams? So what if Blaine wanted to spend a year in California—couldn't they have tried it out? Or done something long distance? But Kurt had heard none of it; he had seen only one truth: he was never meant to have everything he ever wanted; he had to choose before he lost it all. He had told Rachel she would have to choose between her two great loves; why should he be exempt from the same fate?

This, this path he had chosen, was exactly what he had wanted—a great apartment, a gorgeous boyfriend, and a life in show business—but his life; what of his life? It was as shallow and artificial as one of his roles—a skin he put on and lived out as he felt he was supposed to…A life covered in a cheap layer of cellophane—pretty and shiny but without taste; without the rawness of something real and delectable and true.

He slides himself down beside Henry, but he can't pretend anymore—Henry feels nothing like Blaine—his frame bony; his limbs too long and his hands… his hands do not slip into Kurt's like that is exactly what they were made to do.

Kurt looks out the window again; he doesn't believe in God, so instead he offers a message to the ethereal face of the moon and hopes it might somehow be delivered, "I love you; I'm sorry."

End