If it were up to Blaine, the entire concept of dreams would be completely eradicated. No more wishing and wondering and aching for something he'd spent his whole life working for, because life had a funny way of throwing it right back in his face.

He knew he shouldn't complain. He never did out loud, at least, because there were plenty of people who would've killed to be in his position. And who was he to complain, really? He was touring the country with an Off-Broadway troupe, acting and singing his heart out in front of sold-out theaters in places he'd never been before. Hell, he was the goddamn lead of the whole production, a role that was hard-earned and widely envied by some who thought he had yet to pay his dues. That was the other thing. Blaine was still so young, just barely out of college, and all of a sudden he was on this whirlwind adventure that should have left him breathless and amazed in the best possible way.

The standing ovations should've be filling him up with the kind of joy he'd only ever found on a stage. The opening strains of the orchestra tuning and launching into the overture should've zapped him with the addicting combination of nerves and adrenaline. Nights out with his castmates should've had his sides splitting with laughter and too much food and alcohol.

But they weren't. Not when he felt so hollow and alone among all these people. Sure, it was an incredible experience, something that would most certainly be considered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Blaine just couldn't bring himself to be happy.

Not when he'd left his heart back home.

Kurt understood. At least, that's what he kept telling Blaine, but Blaine was pretty sure he didn't believe him anymore. He missed Kurt, right down the very core of himself - to his fucking soul - and he knew that Kurt had to feel the same way.

It was the clashing careers that kept them apart. They'd been able to make it work when Blaine was doing small, shit for pay shows at tiny community theaters. Kurt was working his way up at Vogue after dropping out of NYADA and picking back up at Parsons to get a degree in design. Somewhere amidst all the dancing and stage fighting and singing scales until his vocal cords went numb Kurt had realized that being Isabelle's assistant was what truly made him happy. He still loved performing, but even at a school like NYADA, he had been slapped in the face with the cold reality that he was just shy of too unique to really make it as an actor and a singer. His voice was rare, and it wasn't leading man material. Neither were his looks. Fashion didn't care about that. As a matter of fact, the fashion industry welcomed someone like Kurt with open arms. He sought his solace among velvety fabrics and bright colors and found his calling.

So Kurt loved his job. He loved it so much that when Blaine landed the tour and asked Kurt to come along with him , he'd gently refused. And Blaine understood. Or at least, that's what he said.

Long distance was hard. It was something both of them were all too familiar with, and something they were terrified of. It hadn't worked out for them before, and even though they'd grown up and developed much better communication skills, neither of them wanted to go through something like that again. Kurt trusted Blaine, he did, but there was still a voice niggling at the back of his brain that wouldn't shut the hell up. It kept telling him that Blaine would get lonely again. That Kurt would forget to call one night or miss a Skype date and Blaine would go running into the arms of someone else to seek the comfort and contact that he so desperately needed to function. But Kurt trusted him. He'd given him everything, and he trusted him not to break it again.

They were barely through the halfway point when boredom set in along with everything else. Blaine couldn't deny the rush of a performance, but it was hard to feel the same way when he was doing the exact same thing every single night. He was worried that his portrayal was going to become too robotic, but there was almost no helping it. He knew every dance, every song, every line, and every piece of blocking down cold. Hell, he even knew everyone else's lines and blocking. He'd stand backstage during costume changes mouthing the words along and imagining the other actors moving around on stage. The songs were drilled into his head so thoroughly that he sometimes couldn't sleep at night because he couldn't get them to stop playing over and over through his mind.

Some of the other cast members started to notice. It was inevitable, Blaine supposed, especially since most of them had experience with this. They'd done tours before. They'd been away from the people they loved, and they had figured out an exact formula to make it work. Most of them sympathized with Blaine, remembering their first tours. Some of them had the gall to tease him about it, slipping cutting remarks masked with laughter about the long and often tearful phone calls he made to Kurt and sometimes Cooper in his dressing room. Unfortunately, the walls were too thin to warrant real privacy.

And he was tired. Dear god, he was exhausted. It seeped slowly into his bones after every performance like molasses. On stage, he was somebody else. Despite his personal problems, he still managed to get his head into the show and into his character. Sleep and relationships didn't matter when he was on that stage, but the second he took his bow and the lights went down, he felt himself grow heavier and heavier as he went through the motions of changing out of his costume and washing his face of stage makeup. He'd stumble back to the hotel or to the bus and collapse and sleep for as many hours as the schedule allowed.

The schedule didn't allow for a lot of room outside the show. Sometimes it was easier, when they were in one city for a whole weekend, but most of the time they were on the bus, driving through the night to get to the next place. Once they were there, they didn't have a lot of time to explore or relax. They had to be at the theaters by late afternoon to run last minute bits of rehearsal, get made up, change, and get into character. And then the cycle repeated again. And again. And again.

Blaine was starting to worry about himself. He craved actual contact beyond the friendly hugs and casual touches he shared with his friends in the cast, and the rare and brief times he was able to keep Kurt on the phone long enough to get off together just weren't cutting it anymore.

There was a dancer he didn't know well who he often found staring at him if he let his eyes wander during rehearsal. Blaine wasn't sure what the boy's name was, but he was attractive enough. And willing, if the looks he shot Blaine were anything to go by. Blaine steered clear of him like he had the plague.

He couldn't let himself do that to Kurt again. Kurt deserved so much better than that. Kurt deserved the goddamn world, and Blaine was going to do his best to give it to him. He'd stumbled before, and he'd broken the one thing that he'd held most dear. He wouldn't do it again.

Of course, there were dark times when Blaine shamefully let the voice at the back of his mind tell him that Kurt was probably fucking guys left and right back in New York. I wouldn't wait for me either, he thought miserably to himself. Those thoughts usually happened on the days that both of them were too busy or tired to even text, and Blaine hated them. He hated the clouds that invaded every good thought he had and made his outlook turn sour. It would last until his phone rang, and then the clouds would miraculously clear and he felt as better as he could feel.

There was a pathetic collection of postcards shoved under a pile of socks in his suitcase. He had one from every place they had been so far. Each and every single one of them was addressed neatly to Kurt, but barely any of them had been filled out further than that. Blaine blamed it on the tiny amount of space he had to put his feelings down on paper, but he knew that the real reason was that he couldn't bring himself to write them out at all. Putting pen to paper and spilling his thoughts out onto the cards would have made it real. Despite the number of times he got choked up and teary talking to Kurt on the phone, they were both operating under the guise that everything was fine. They kept their talks light and largely avoided the gaping canyons of longing they were both feeling in order to keep each other sane. Blaine knew that he would get on a plane the second Kurt asked him to, even if he only implied it. So they steered clear, and the letters Blaine tried to write just weren't good enough. He couldn't find the right balance of feeling and nonchalance, so more often than not, they were shoved below his socks - crossed out, smeared where the ink had mixed with his frustrated tears, or completely blank.

It was California, and it was officially the farthest he'd ever been from Kurt.

Kurt: Break a leg tonight (:

Blaine: I will. Miss you

He tried not to let the lack of response get to him.

Two more sleeps, baby. The words Kurt had murmured softly into his ear as they both fell asleep had seared themselves into his brain and become his mantra. Two more sleeps. Two more sleeps and this would all be over. He'd be home.

That night he felt more alive on stage than he had since the beginning, and he barely even acknowledged the bone-deep tiredness as he hopped back on the bus that would take him one step closer to Kurt.

Blaine woke early, his neck cramped from falling asleep oddly on the bus, and smiled. It was like his body had felt the shift in the air that meant he was so close to New York he could feel it tingling his skin. If he had the timing right, they were in New Jersey and would make it to the city just in time to be at the theater for their last show. He could hardly believe that that night he'd be sleeping in his own bed. That he'd see Kurt. He grinned as tears filled his eyes, and he stared up at the ceiling to blink them away before anyone else noticed.

His castmates were grinning and thumping him on the back as he made his way through the throng backstage, some of them smirking knowingly as they got out of his way. Blaine felt strangely bittersweet about it all ending. His eyes were still glossy with the tears that had gathered as he had taken his last bow to a standing ovation. His heart was light and relieved to be finished, but there was a part of him that knew he would miss it.

And then he was opening the door to his dressing room, and his eyes had just barely registered the red and yellow bouquet of roses lying on the vanity when there were suddenly strong arms crushing him against another body and a gloriously familiar scent invading his senses. He buried his face in Kurt's neck, hands immediately fisting in the back of his shirt to force him impossibly closer. It wasn't enough; would never be enough. He needed Kurt to melt into his skin and stay there forever. But he'd take what he could get. Blaine barely registered the broken sobs; he couldn't tell which one of them they were from. He just clutched tighter, desperate to feel again.

Kurt choked out a wet laugh, bright and beautiful in Blaine's ear. He kissed the shell of it, his jaw, his chin, before finally landing too hard on Blaine's mouth, a constant pressure that grounded them both and felt like everything good in the world. He pulled away, hands still tight around Blaine's waist, eyes even bluer from the tears. He grinned, unable to hold it back any more with Blaine warm and solid and wonderful in his arms. "Welcome home."