… … …

Give me love like her
cause lately Ive been waking up alone

… … …

Every Tuesday night at 8pm, Kurt Hummel walked from his dingy, dilapidated apartment—if you could even call it that—to Murphy's, a 24-hour diner seven blocks away, to get a cup of the best coffee in all of New York City. It was always worth the walk, and since Kurt lost his job at Vogue dot com after dedicating two years of his life there, he hardly ever left his apartment and this was about the only exercise he got anymore. All of the employees at the diner knew him by name and had his coffee to him in less than thirty seconds every time. It was nice to escape from his apartment every week. The four dirty walls with cracks and holes and stains everywhere were starting to make him lose his mind.

That evening when he walked in, his cup of coffee was already at his regular table waiting for him. He sat down in his usual chair and took a sip; it was still scalding hot and burned his throat on the way down, but that was how he liked it. When one of the waitresses walked by his table, he caught her forearm and thanked her.

“You're welcome, sugar.”

Shirley always called him something literally sweet. Pumpkin, sugar, sweetie pie, cupcake. She was in her mid-50s, a classic diner waitress. There was always a slightly dirty white apron tied around her body, right under her bosom and covering her rounded stomache. The first time Kurt came into the diner, he assumed Shirley was pregnant, even though she seemed too old to be. When it had been three months of his weekly visits and Shirley still hadn't given birth, Kurt realized she was just overweight. He would have felt bad, but he never said anything to her about it, so she would never know.

Kurt grabbed a sugar packet and emptied it into his coffee mug, then glanced around the restaurant from his table in the centre of the room as he stirred. There was a brunette woman and her young daughter in the corner booth by the front window, a businessman in a navy pinstripe suit at a table against the wall on the opposite side of the room from the mother and daughter, and a young man at a booth by the kitchen.

The young man looked to be about Kurt's age in his early to mid-twenties. He wore grey jeans and a cerulean hoodie with a white t-shirt underneath. He had black curls and a small amount of facial hair—enough to make him look sort of gruff but not enough to be considered having a beard. The man looked up at him, and Kurt wished he were closer so he could tell what colour his eyes were. Then, when Kurt realized he was staring and had just been caught, he quickly looked down.

After half an hour of people watching, Kurt slapped a ten dollar bill on the table to cover the coffee and left a pleasant tip for Shirley, then stood to leave. He pretended not to notice the young man in the blue hoodie watching him go.

… … …

Paint splattered teardrops on my shirt
Told you Id let them go

… … …

When Kurt returned home that night, he threw his keys on his desk and then stood in the room, contemplating what to do. It had been almost a year since Kurt stopped living with Rachel. Well, not exactly stopped living with her. She kicked him out. They hadn't spoken since.

Now, Kurt had his own tiny, clich�, shoebox apartment in Queens. Tiny was not an exaggeration in the slightest. Really, Kurt considered it an understatement. There was no living room, his kitchen and bedroom were the same space, and the only separated part was the bathroom, which had barely enough room for a toilet and sink, let alone the shower. The end of his mattress sat three feet away from his refrigerator. He had a desk by the door, but he rarely used it. It was cluttered with his old art supplies, like an X-acto knife, some coloured pencils, wooden human form models. Things he used to use on a daily basis but now hadn't been touched by his hands in over a year.

He shook off thoughts of what his life used to be like and took the eight steps to reach his kitchen. In the refrigerator, there was a jar of mayonnaise, a bag of shredded cheese, a half-empty carton of expired milk, and leftover takeout from the cheapest Chinese place he could find. In the cupboards, he found a moldy jar of crunchy peanut butter and a box of cereal. He grabbed the cereal box, but when he opened it, he saw a few bugs crawling inside. He quickly shut the box and dropped it into the garbage. Leftover takeout for dinner it is, he thought to himself.

Later that night, as Kurt lay awake in bed, he couldn't help but resent where his life had gone. Three years ago, he had a job at Vogue dot com, he lived with his best friend in a nice apartment—well, nice compared to this one—and he had hope for his future. Sure, his job at Vogue mainly consisted of answering phones and fetching coffee, but you have to start somewhere. Now, it felt like he had nothing. No job, no friends, no future. The only reason he was able to afford his current residence was because his dad sent him checks in the mail. How pathetic.

Kurt huffed at himself and rolled onto his side, scratching his back. There was an itch near his shoulder blade that had been bothering him for the better part of an hour. When he lay down on his back again, it still itched. He rubbed back and forth on the mattress trying to achieve some relief, but to no avail. The unscratchable itch plagued him for another hour before he fell into a restless sleep.

… … …

And that Ill fight my corner
Maybe tonight Ill call ya

… … …

“Kurt?”

Kurt looked up to see Tyler, one of the other Vogue assistants. “Yes?”

“Mr. Tomland wants to see you in his office.”

“Who's going to answer the phone if it rings?”

“It'll be fine, I'll cover for you. Mr. Tomland wants to see you right away.”

Already, Kurt had a bad feeling about this. Mr. Tomland was his new boss. Well, not that new. Kurt had been working for him for a few months now, after Isabelle left. Mr. Tomland was not nearly as nice and caring as Isabelle was.

Kurt knocked on the glass door. He saw Mr. Tomland glance up from his desk and wave him in.

“Have a seat, Kurt.”

Kurt sat down in one of the soft, blue chairs in front of the desk. Mr. Tomland continued reading over whatever was on his desk before finally looking up at Kurt and taking off his glasses.

“Alright, I just needed to finish reading that article, but now you have my full attention,” Mr. Tomland said.

“I'm not really sure why I'm here,” Kurt said. He began wringing his hands in his lap.

Mr. Tomland took a deep breath. “I'm sorry, Kurt, but we're letting you go.”

“Wait, what? Why?”

“Most young men and women who work here want to be journalists or designers. They bring in their articles or portfolios. You've brought in nothing. You have shown no initiative and I'm not sure if you really have the drive to be here.”

Kurt felt like the ground had been pulled out from underneath him. “Yes, but I—I'm just an assistant. I answer phones, I make coffee runs. I thought I'd have to work my way up, I thought I was paying my dues.”

“How do you think you work your way up? By answering phones, or persistently bringing in your work?”

“I didn't want to bother you or overstep any boundaries. I've been working on a portfolio of my designs—”

“Have you brought it in? Have you asked one of the higher-ups to look at it?”

“I didn't know that was allowed.”

Mr. Tomland put his glasses back on and started to look through the papers on his desk. “I'm sorry, Kurt. Please take home all of your personal items from your desk.”

… … …

After my blood turns into alcohol
No, I just wanna hold ya

… … …

The following Tuesday, the itch in Kurt's back had gotten worse. The second Kurt sat in his usual seat at Murphy's he was fidgeting in his chair. His coffee wasn't already there for him this time, but he knew it was on his way. A moment later, he felt a figure come up behind him. When he looked up, it wasn't Shirley or Diane or Micah, but the guy in the cerulean hoodie he noticed last time.

He looked much different today. Instead of the grey jeans and well-worn hoodie, the man had on a much nicer pair of tight-fitting dark wash blue jeans and a snug black polo. The mess of curls that sat atop his head last week were now slicked back and gelled into submission, and he was completely clean-shaven.

Kurt saw that there was a cup of coffee in his hand. The man awkwardly set it down in front of Kurt.

“Do you work here now?” Kurt asked.

“No. I asked Shirley if I could be the one to bring it to you.”

“Oh,” Kurt said, confused. “Why?”

The man fidgeted for a moment. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

Kurt shook his head, gesturing to the seat across from him. The man sat down and for a minute, they sat in silence. Finally, Kurt asked, “What's your name?”

“Oh, sorry. Blaine. It's Blaine. I'm Blaine,” Blaine answered. He floundered and stuttered in his reply and then looked down at his lap, obviously embarrassed.

Kurt nodded slowly and took a sip of his coffee.

Blaine looked up at him. “And uh, yours? I mean, what's your name?”

“Kurt.”

“Kurt,” Blaine repeated.

The way he said it felt different. It made Kurt feel something he couldn't explain, so he took another sip of coffee. They sat in silence again. Blaine was obviously uncomfortable and Kurt wondered why he even sat there to begin with.

“I don't mean to be rude, but is there some reason you wanted to bring me my coffee and sit with me?”

Blaine sighed and reached for the sugar packets and started organizing them. “Sorry, I know I must seem crazy.”

“Not crazy, per say…”

Blaine huffed an awkward laugh but otherwise didn't reply.

“You look different,” Kurt stated, trying to alleviate some of the awkwardness.

“What do you mean?”

“Last week you were in a hoodie, and your hair wasn't so…”

“Tamed?”

“Caged.” Blaine gave Kurt an odd look, so he added, “I liked the curls.”

“Oh,” Blaine said. He had finally seemed to be getting a little comfortable but was quickly beginning to deflate.

“Not that you don't look nice today. You do.”

Blaine offered a small smile. “Thanks.”

Blaine continued to mess with the sugar packets while Kurt stirred his coffee. Kurt wasn't really sure what to say, or what to do, so he turned his head around to look at the other patrons in the diner. He was just taking note of the strange attire of the teenage girl with pink in her hair at the table by the door when he heard Blaine sigh loudly and start to get up from the table.

“I'm sorry, this is really weird. I don't know what I was thinking. You're probably completely freaked out and think I'm some kind of stalker. I'm just gonna go.”

Kurt opened his mouth to tell Blaine to stay but he was already out the door. Instead of leaving the money on the table, Kurt headed over to the kitchen entrance and called out for Shirley. She came bustling out with a plate of eggs and bacon in her hand.

“You need something else, honey?”

“No, I just had a question. Did you see the guy I was just sitting with?”

“Blaine? Oh yes. He came up to me after you left last week and asked me about you.”

“What'd you say?”

“I told him you were a regular and that you come in every Tuesday at 8pm like clockwork. Today he came in at 7:30 and waited for you. When he saw you walk in he stopped me while I was on the way to your table and asked if he could bring it over to you.”

“Why did you let him?”

“The young man seems sweet. I think he just thinks you're cute. What can I say? I'm a hopeless romantic.”

Kurt nodded. “Alright. Thanks, Shirley.” He slipped a ten dollar bill into the front pocket of her apron and started heading for the door.

“Anytime, sweet pea,” he heard Shirley call after him.

Kurt decided to take his time on the walk home. He wasn't sure what to do with the information Shirley had given him. If Blaine was interested in him, surely he would've said something more than stuttering out how crazy he thought he seemed. Though his encounter with Blaine was odd, Kurt couldn't say he didn't find it a little endearing, especially if all the fumbling was because Blaine just found Kurt attractive and didn't really know how to go about asking him out.

When Kurt rounded a corner, the sight of a couple embracing closely against the wall caused him to stop in his tracks. He stood out of sight, peeking his head around, watching them. Thankfully, their moment had not been broken. They didn't notice him. The woman took a step forward, leaning closer into the man as he leaned against the brick wall behind him. They were smiling and laughing softly, not for one second taking their eyes off of each other. They looked so very much in love.

Kurt's heart ached in his chest. Looking at the couple, he knew that would never be him. He would never find a love like that. He thought he could, back in high school, but those idealistic thoughts had long since died. Kurt used to be a dreamer, but not anymore. Even if he saw Blaine again, and they maybe went on a few dates, it probably wouldn't amount to much. His dating never had, though there wasn't much of it to speak of, anyway. The couple adoringly playing against the wall before him was a picture of something Kurt desperately wanted, but knew he would never have.

With a heavy heart, he pushed off of the wall and took a different route home.

… … …

Give a little time to me or burn this out

… … …

Once he'd reached his apartment, Kurt was in no mood to sit around and contemplate his life or make any sort of attempt at pretending to actually do something. Instead, he slipped off his pants and all top layers except the white tank undershirt and fell onto the mattress on the floor. The second his back hit the bed he shot right back up.

The itch that had been bothering him had gone to the back of his mind with the strange conversation with Blaine and the depressing thoughts on his walk home, but now it had become even worse. When he had laid down, it felt like something was poking through his skin. The pain immediately made him sit up, frowning. He reached his arm around behind him, feeling the area of his back with his hand. Just inside his right shoulder blade, almost in the center of his back, he felt a bump. He scratched at it, which hurt like hell, but then he felt something poking out. It was a tiny something, no bigger than the head of a ballpoint pen. He picked at it and pulled at it. It started coming out of his back, pulling through his skin.

The more he pulled it out, the bigger it felt. After some grunting and painful stretching of his skin, it came out fully. He exhaled, relieved, and brought it to his face to see what had come out of his body.

A feather.

Between his index finger and thumb, Kurt was holding a white feather. It was bloody, probably because it was inside of his body. To say he was a little frightened and weirded out was an understatement.

Why was there a feather in my back? He thought to himself.

He reached around with his arm again and felt his back, but it felt normal. The skin was smooth again, even the place where he'd just plucked a feather through his back. Everything felt normal.

Kurt sighed. He must have been hallucinating. If he was hallucinating, though, he wouldn't have physical proof in his hand. There wouldn't be a bloody white feather in front of his eyes. Or maybe even the feather wasn't real.

Obviously, Blaine had drugged his coffee. That's why Blaine wanted to be the one to bring it to him. He probably wanted to take Kurt out into an alley and rape and murder him, but got nervous and backed out. That's why he was acting so weird at Murphy's.

If Blaine thought he was going to get away with this, he had another thing coming.

… … …

Well play hide and seek to turn this around

… … …

Kurt awoke the next morning feeling even more tired than he did the night before. It had been a restless night full of changing positions every hour because none of them felt comfortable. The thought of Blaine drugging him seemed more ludicrous than logical in the light of day, so upon waking Kurt immediately dismissed the idea as crazy brought on by exhaustion. He was ready to dismiss the whole night, really, until he sat up and noticed the bloody feather still lying on the floor by his bed.

Kurt sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don't know what it is happening, I don't know why it's happening, but until I wake up with full wings sprouting from my back, I'm not going to think about it,” he said out loud.

That was the attitude he adopted throughout the week. There were no more feathers; there was no more itch or pain, so Kurt just ignored it. He couldn't deny it had happened, there was a white feather on his desk as proof, but he could pretend to forget. For a few days, everything was normal. Kurt was even able to put aside all thoughts of the enigma that was Blaine. Kurt knew that there was a good chance Blaine would come to Murphy's on Tuesday night again, probably stutter his way through an awkward apology for his awkward behavior during their last encounter, and until then Kurt would focus his thoughts on other things.

Like his art.

Kurt decided that maybe if he stopped feeling sorry for himself and started actively trying to get his life together, he could make something of himself. Sure, Vogue didn't work out, but that was only one avenue for Kurt. His love for the arts didn't stop at fashion and performance. Maybe if he tried his hand at other skills, like drawing or sculpting or painting, he could find a new passion. He lived in New York City, for Christ's sake. The city where dreams come true. He just needed to find a new dream.

That was how Kurt Hummel found himself sitting on a blanket underneath a tree in Central Park on Sunday afternoon sketching the view before him. He picked a perfect spot, giving him several different options for drawing. He could draw the bridge that went over the body of water to his left, or the skyscrapers directly in front of him, or the open field with colourful flowers and children playing to his right.

Kurt liked the way the pencil felt gliding over the page. He liked the scratching sound it made. He really liked stopping every once in a while to take in his drawings. He loved the way he could transform a blank sheet of paper and turn it into something of his own creation.

In that moment, for the first time in a very long time, Kurt felt empowered.

“I see you've found my spot,” a vaguely familiar voice said. Kurt looked up to see Blaine taking slow steps towards him, smiling shyly and gripping the back of his neck with one hand. “I knew it was only a matter of time until someone did. It has a great view, right?”

Kurt narrowed his eyes. The ridiculous suspicions of Blaine being a psycho-drugging-rapist-killer had evaporated completely by now, but Blaine mysteriously finding Kurt in a random place in Central Park was still odd. “Are you stalking me?”

Blaine dropped his hand and laughed nervously. “Uh, no. I can understand why it seems that way, though.” After a moment, he gestured to the area on the ground beside Kurt. “Do you mind if I sit with you?”

Kurt hesitated for a moment, deliberating. He really just wanted to be alone, but he also wanted to figure out who this Blaine guy was and why he kept following Kurt. So, Kurt scooted over on his blanket to make room for Blaine and patted the space next to him.

Blaine smiled again as he sat down next to Kurt. “Thanks.”

Kurt nodded and looked down at his drawing. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't his best. He'd been focusing on the bridge over the water, but it just wasn't inspiring him like he wanted it to. He supposed he could try the buildings next, but something told him that wouldn't exactly make his heart sing either.

“That's a nice drawing,” Blaine said.

“Thank you.” Kurt closed his sketchbook and set it aside.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Kurt watched the children playing in the field and wondered what it must be like to grow up in the city. All Kurt had ever known in the first 18 years of his life had been the tiny confines of Lima, Ohio. Even after living in New York City for 3 and a half years, he still couldn't shake the feeling of being caged.

“Look, I'm sorry about the other day. I'm sure I seemed like a maniac.”

Kurt pulled his knees up to his chest and leaned his head back against the tree trunk. “Only a little.”

“And now I've shown up here and that's probably not helping my case.”

“Not so much,” Kurt agreed. He looked over at Blaine, who was biting his lip and fiddling with his hands in his lap. “But hey,” Kurt added, “at least you're not stuttering and jittery today. You almost seem like a halfway normal human being.”

Blaine laughed lightly. “Yeah, sorry about that, again. I'd been awake for 36 hours and had had about seven cups of coffee at the time. It wasn't my most shining moment, I know.”

“Why had you been up for 36 hours?”

“My job. I work crazy hours sometimes.”

“Are you a male prostitute? A stripper?”

“No,” Blaine laughed again. “I'm a paramedic.”

Kurt paused for a second, studying Blaine. “Really?”

“Yes. Is that really so surprising?”

“Kind of.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. I just didn't think of you as a paramedic.”

Blaine met his gaze and said, “You've been thinking of me?”

“Uh…” Kurt looked down and shook his head, trying to gather himself.

What was he doing? Not ten minutes ago he was still wary of Blaine being some kind of stalker, and now they were having a conversation with vaguely flirtatious undertones?

“Sorry, that was weird,” Blaine rushed to say. “I came over here to try to have a normal conversation with you this time around, but every time I try to talk to you I say the wrong thing, it seems.”

“Why are you so nervous around me?” Kurt asked. He knew it was strange to ask, but if he was going to keep talking to Blaine, he needed to stop with the flirting and get the information he wanted.

“You're beautiful,” Blaine said. Something about the way he said it struck Kurt. Blaine made it sound so simple, so obvious.

“What?”

Blaine laughed and shook his head at Kurt's confusion. “Oh, come on, Kurt. There's no way you can look like that and be completely unaware of the effect you have on people. You're inhumanly stunning.”

Kurt opened his mouth to reply but shut it again, realizing he had no answer to that. He wasn't supposed to be flirting, that was his resolution, but here he was blushing and flustered because Blaine called him pretty. He needed to get back on track.

“So is that why you wanted to talk to me? Because you find me attractive?”

“No! I mean, yes, you caught my eye, but that's not why I keep trying to talk to you.”

“Then why?”

Blaine looked down at the ground for a moment. Kurt watched Blaine fiddle with his hands again. Suddenly, Blaine stood up.

“I should get going. It was nice speaking with you, Kurt.”

“Wait.” Kurt rose, too, frowning. “Why do you keep trying to talk to me?”

But Blaine was already walking away. He called back over his shoulder, grinning, “I'll see you Tuesday!” before disappearing around the corner of some trees.

Frustrated, Kurt plopped back down and began sketching what he could see of the New York City skyline.

… … …

All I want is the taste that your lips allow

… … …

A loud slam jarred Kurt from his nap. He immediately snapped awake, rubbing his face, and looked up to see Rachel fuming above him.

“Kurt, get off of the couch.”

“I'm sleeping. Or at least I was until you so rudely woke me up.”

Rachel huffed and crossed her arms. “When was the last time you left the apartment?”

Kurt grabbed the pillow from under his head and pulled it on top instead, shoving his face into the couch cushions. When it was ripped from his hands, he groaned. “Rachel, come on. I'm in mourning. I lost the perfect job and any shot I may have had at making all of my dreams come true. If you were in my position, you know I'd be forced to cater to the Rachel Berry Pity Party for at least a year.”

“It's been six months, Kurt.”

“So I still have six months left.”

He heard Rachel sigh. “You still have a shot at reaching your dreams. When one door closes, another one opens.”

“Gee, thanks. Where'd you find that piece of wisdom, a bumper sticker?”

“A fortune cookie, actually.”

Kurt scoffed and sat up. “Look, if this is about the rent, I'll find another job, okay? I know I've been kind of mooching off of you, but I'll find something. I'll even be a waiter if I have to. I will give in to the New York City clich� just for you.”

Rachel sighed again and sat on the coffee table in front of Kurt. He could see in her eyes that she was about to tell him something he really didn't want to hear.

“Kurt, it's been six months…”

“So you've said.”

“Do you remember when Santana moved out?”

Kurt's heart dropped to the pit of his stomache. “You mean when we kicked her out because she couldn't pay rent?”

“No, we decided that a little tough love would be the best way to get her back on her feet, remember? We were being good friends.”

“She hasn't talked to us in a year.”

“She just needs some time to accept that we did what was best for her. Look, I've talked it over with my dads, and—”

“Rachel, please don't do this to me,” Kurt begged, closing his eyes.

“—And we've decided that maybe some tough love is what you need right now.”

Kurt couldn't reply. What was there to say? Once Rachel made a decision, she stuck with it. If she spoke to her dads, that meant she had already made her mind up. There was nothing Kurt could say. He was out.

“Where am I supposed to go?”

“I know you don't want to disappoint your dad or jeopardize his health, but I think it's time you told him the truth about your situation and asked him for help.”

Kurt shook his head and opened his eyes, glaring hard at Rachel. “No.”

“Kurt, you've been lying to him for six months. You can't keep doing this. He needs to know what's going on with you.”

“I can't.”

Rachel stood up and started walking towards her bedroom. “Either you call him, or I will.”

“No you won't.”

“Try me.”

She disappeared behind her curtain. Kurt snatched up one of the pillows on the couch and threw it at the wall. After a minute he stood up and stomped to his room.

“I guess I'll just start packing then!” Kurt yelled.

“I believe that would be in your best interest!” Rachel called back.

“Bitch!”

That was the last thing Kurt ever said to Rachel.

… … …

My, my, my, my, oh give me love
My, my, my, my, oh give me love

… … …

After another hour trying to sketch the skyscrapers in Central Park, Kurt started to lose his light—and his patience—and left. When he got home, he made dinner and collapsed onto his bed. Kurt spent all of Monday replaying Blaine's words in his mind. “I'll see you Tuesday!” Did that mean Blaine would be joining him at Murphy's on Tuesday again? That was the only logical implication of his words. Was that a thing, now? Was Blaine going to show up on Tuesday's at Murphy's from now on?

By early evening on Tuesday, Kurt was buzzing with anticipation. No, he wasn't excited to see Blaine. He was… Well, in all honesty, Kurt didn't know what he was. He didn't know how he felt. All he knew was that if he stayed in his apartment for a second longer, he'd go insane. So, he headed out.

He would be a couple hours early if he went to Murphy's now. Kurt needed to find something else to do. He could stop into a bar, maybe have a drink. He hadn't done that in ages, and meeting someone and having a casual, meaningless flirtation with a stranger could rid him of whatever this was that he was feeling towards Blaine.

Yes. That's exactly what he'd do. He actually knew of a bar a couple blocks away from Murphy's that wasn't too bad. He'd been there a few times before with Rachel and Santana and vaguely remembered it being fairly decent.

The second he set foot in the bar, he noticed one thing above all else. It wasn't the rowdy group of college guys in the corner, or the couple of women eyeing him from the bar, or the cigarette smoke being blown in his face by the seemingly homophobic prick by the door. No, it was the bartender.

It was Santana.

He made a beeline for her and sat in the stool directly in front of where she was cleaning a glass.

“Pick your poison,” she monotoned, not even bothering to look up from her glass.

“Hey, Santana.”

Her head immediately shot up. Her jaw dropped for a second before she quickly composed herself, eyes going hard. “Leave.”

“Santana, come on.”

“No. Leave. You and Berry put me out on the streets. I'm doing the same to you.”

“That's not what we were trying to do.”

“Right. You fed me that ‘tough love' bullshit. Real sweet.”

Kurt sighed and looked down at the bar. “Yeah, Rachel convinced me at the time that it was what was best for you, but after she did the same thing to me, I'm starting to think that Rachel just wanted the apartment to herself.”

“She kicked you out too?”

“Yep.”

“When?”

“About a year ago.”

“Where do you live now?”

“Trust me, you don't want to know.”

Kurt heard Santana snort and looked up to see her turning around. He watched her grab a glass and pour a few bottles in it before handing it to him. “I live upstairs.”

He eyed the glass warily before taking a sip. It wasn't bad. “You live here?”

“Yup. When you and Berry kicked me out, I came here to get wasted. The owner recognized me, asked me where the two of you were. When I told him my situation he offered me the apartment upstairs if I worked every night for half the pay.”

Kurt nodded and took another sip of his drink. “Doesn't sound too bad.”

“It could be worse.”

“It could be worse,” Kurt agreed.

Santana walked away to help the couple of women down the bar, refilling their martini glasses, before returning to Kurt.

“Why'd Berry kick you out?”

“I lost my job at Vogue and never got a new one. After six months of moping around the apartment, Rachel gave me that stupid ‘tough love' spiel and I was out on my ass.”

“If you don't have a job how are you paying rent at your new place?”

“My dad.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

Kurt took a gulp of his drink, draining the glass to half empty. Santana refilled it.

The night played out much the same. Every time it looked like Kurt's glass was getting close to being empty, Santana refilled it. Honestly, Kurt couldn't tell you how much alcohol he drank. He doubted Santana would be able to tell him either. He had the good sense to ask what she was giving him about two and a half glasses in. She brushed him off by telling him it was some kind of new concoction she was trying out on him. He had a feeling it was probably three different types of alcohol masked by one sweet mixer. Whatever it was, after a few hours, he felt good.

They spent those few hours catching up on their lives. Santana was being surprisingly friendly and open to Kurt after what he and Rachel did to her, but Kurt wasn't going to question it. He figured Santana was probably just as lonely as he was. Of course, Santana still had to serve all the other customers, and the bar—he thought it may have been called On the Rocks—was a lot more busy than Murphy's ever was.

Shit. Murphy's.

“What time is it?” Kurt demanded, slapping a hand on the wooden surface.

Santana frowned and looked at the clock behind her. “A quarter past nine. Why?”

“Shit. I have to go.”

“Where?”

“I just have to go.”

“You're drunk off your ass. You won't get very far.”

“I only need to get two blocks from here.”

Kurt didn't take any more time to explain. He was out the door and headed down to Murphy's. His equilibrium was way off and he knew he was running into people left and right on his way there, but he couldn't get his brain to give him the proper manners to apologize.

When he reached the diner, he spotted Micah through the window.

“Micah! Hey, Micah!” Kurt giggled and grabbed Micah's shoulder. “Your name is so funny. Micah. So weird!”

Micah frowned and shrugged Kurt off his shoulder. Kurt knew that Micah had never liked him that much, but in his drunken state, he couldn't bring himself to care.

“Yeah, isn't it a little late for you to be here, Kurt? You're usually gone by the time I start my shift.”

“Hey, yeah, is Shirley here?”

“Yeah, she's in the back. She's about to head out.”

“Oh!”

Kurt staggered towards the back, but noticed the person who he was looking for on his way there, seated at a table in the back corner.

“Blaine!”

Blaine's head shot up. “Kurt.”

“Hey! I was just about to ask Shirley if you'd come in!”

“I haven't left yet.”

“Hey, that's so awesome!”

Kurt made his way to Blaine's table and fell into the chair.

“Kurt, are you drunk?”

Kurt giggled and nodded. “Yeah. I went to this bar down the street; I think it's called On the Rocks. Isn't that so clever? My old friend, Santana, she works there! She gave me lots of drinks. I never really questioned what they were. I probably should have.”

“I see.”

“I'm sorry I wasn't here. We had kind of an implied meeting, didn't we?”

“You have no reason to apologize to me, Kurt. Maybe I should take you home, though.”

“No, it's fine! I'm okay! I need to get my Tuesday Murphy's coffee!”

“You can get it next Tuesday. Come on.”

Blaine stood up and walked around the table, grabbing Kurt's arm and pulling him up too. Kurt sagged against him, pouting, but allowed himself to be dragged from the diner. He was getting kind of tired, anyway. When Blaine asked for directions to Kurt's apartment, Kurt pointed in the proper directions, giggling the whole way home.

Inside Kurt's apartment, he started to toe off his shoes, then lost his balance and almost fell onto the floor. Blaine caught him at the last minute and led him over to his mattress.

“Here. I don't want you to fall over and hit your head and get a concussion.”

“Hey, aren't you a paramedic, though? You could fix me up real good!”

“I don't have my kit, Kurt.”

“Oh.”

Blaine looked around Kurt's apartment. It made Kurt uncomfortable, like Blaine was scrutinizing and judging him.

“Look, I know my place is kind of a shit hole,” he said. He felt really warm so he started taking off his shirt. “You don't have to say it.”

“No, it actually kind of looks like my first place in the city.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Blaine looked at him but seemed unperturbed by his sudden half-nakedness.

“Your first place was a dump.”

Kurt dissolved into giggles and fell back into his bed. He felt a dull throbbing in his back, similar to the pain he felt a week ago. The pain he'd resolutely pretended never happened.

“I don't feel so good,” Kurt moaned, rolling over onto his side.

“Yeah, alcohol does that to you.”

The coldness in Blaine's tone made Kurt flinch, but he was actually too drunk to protest to it.

“Well, you look okay, so I'm going to go. Make sure you drink lots of water. Do you have aspirin here?”

“Probably.”

“Then it looks like you're all set. I'll see you around, Kurt.”

Kurt wanted to say something, wanted to ask Blaine when they'd see each other next, wanted to tell him goodbye, but the pain in his back had quickly increased from a dull nuisance to a sharp stabbing.

He cried out, curling into a ball and then stretching, arching his back. He sat up, but the alcohol and pain worked together to make him lightheaded and he quickly fell back onto the bed.

The last thing Kurt registered was a searing, white-hot pain in his spine before he blacked out.

… … …

My, my, my, my, oh give me love
My, my, my, my, give me love

… … …

A shrill ringing woke Kurt up the next morning. He thought it might have been the smoke alarm at first but even in his half-asleep state knew that he hadn't used that stove in three months, so it was unlikely that was the cause. It dawned on him after the stove idea that it was probably a cell phone. His cell phone.

He'd forgotten he even had a cell phone, quite honestly. He patted his hand on the floor next to him where he thought the noise was coming from and found the phone, answering just in time.

“H'lo?”

“Oh good, you're alive.”

“Santana?”

“No, it's your dead mother.”

“Not funny. How do you have my number?”

“Were you really so drunk you can't remember? I guess that drink is stronger than I thought. Hmm. You gave it to me last night.”

“What a bright idea on my part.”

“Don't pretend like you haven't missed me.”

“Why are you even calling me this early?”

“It's one in the afternoon, Kurt. God, and I thought I was a mess.”

Kurt rolled his eyes. “Thanks.” He started to roll over onto his back from his stomache to get more comfortable when he heard a fluttering noise and felt something in the way. Frowning, he rolled back onto his stomache and sat up.

There was something on his back.

Kurt heard Santana say something on the other end of the call but he was distracted by the strange sensation in his back. He didn't even know how to describe it, exactly. It felt like his back had grown—

No. No freaking way.

“Kurt? Did you hang up on me?”

“No, I'm here,” he managed to reply.

Kurt tentatively began turning his head and the second he saw a flash of white gasped. “Oh, my god.”

“What? What happened?”

He didn't have a mirror. The one that was supposed to hang above the sink in his bathroom was mysteriously absent when he moved in. There was no way he could check for sure and he really didn't want to turn his head any further.

“Kurt, Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Santana. Maybe Santana could help him. “Um, Santana?”

“What?”

“Could you come over? And, uh…bring a mirror with you? Preferably one bigger than a handheld.”

“You sound fucking insane. I'm not dragging a full-length mirror to your apartment. Seriously, what is going on?”

“Oh, my god, Santana, will you just do it? Look, if I could ask someone else, I would, but up until last night I had nobody. I have nobody. And I could really use some help right now.”

Of the psychiatric variety, he thought to himself.

Santana was quiet on the other end of the line. After a moment, she said, “I'm on my way. Text me the address.”

After they hung up, Kurt stood and began pacing.

There was no way this was possible. This stuff wasn't supposed to be real. A quick glance to the feather on his desk, though, and the flash of white in his peripheral vision told him that it was, indeed, incredibly real. If he had a computer, this would be the type of thing he'd be Googling right now, though he doubted he'd get very realistic results. Still, the point was moot anyway, seeing as how Kurt barely had two cents to his name, much less a laptop. He supposed he could go to a library but that would just lead him to ancient mythology books and this wasn't mythological. This was happening.

He didn't know how, he didn't know why, but for some reason, this was happening.

For the next ten minutes Kurt tried to come up with any reasonable explanation but failed every time. There was no logical answer why someone would just randomly grow—

No. He wouldn't think about it anymore. Not until Santana arrived and he could get a second opinion.

Knock, knock.

Kurt practically flew the two steps it took to reach his door and cracked it open, peeking his head through.

“Hummel, what are you doing? I didn't come over here for you to stare at me through a crack in the door.”

“Shut up. I need you to not freak out when I let you in.”

“Why would I freak out? Is your place really that much of a shit hole?”

“No. I mean, yes, but that's not—”

Kurt sighed, closed his eyes, and braced himself as he opened the door fully. He paused, waiting for Santana's reaction. He expected a gasp, or an outburst, or a string of expletives in Spanish, but what he didn't expect was Santana's total silence.

He opened one eye slightly and found Santana staring at him blankly.

“Are you going to let me in or what?”

Impossible. Santana wasn't reacting at all. Her bored expression confused Kurt more than the actual situation did. He jerked his head around, fully looking at his back for the first time, and gasped. They were bigger than he thought. He snatched the medium-sized mirror she held in her hands and raced over to his desk, setting it to lean against the wall, and then took a step back and turned around. In the mirror, he could see them fully.

He had to admit, they were beautiful.

“You're acting insane,” Santana stated plainly, strutting into his apartment.

He tore his gaze away from the mirror and gawked at her. “You're seriously not seeing this?”

“Seeing you act like a maniac? Yeah, I'm seeing that. Do you have health insurance?”

“What? Why?”

“I'm about to take you to a nuthouse and I want to make sure your dad won't be stuck with the bill for it, since he's already paying your rent and all.”

Kurt huffed and started pacing again, glancing at his back in the mirror every time he passed it. “I can't believe you're not seeing this.”

“Seeing what?”

“The wings! I have wings that have mysteriously sprouted out of my back! Overnight!”

Santana began nodding slowly then burst into laughter. Eventually she sobered up and rolled her eyes. “Oh, you've got to be kidding.” Kurt glared at her. “Okay, not kidding. Um, Kurt, I tried to keep an eye on your drinks last night, but it was pretty busy. Do you think maybe someone could have slipped something into your glass?”

“No! That's what I thought the first time this happened!” He gestured to the desk where the feather lay.

Santana quirked an eyebrow. “All I'm seeing is a set of wood carving tools, which is seriously strange, even for you.”

Kurt frowned and turned back to his desk. Sure enough, there was a set of wood carving tools, all laid out in a canvas case. Kurt had no idea where they'd come from. He doubted there were criminals in New York City going around and breaking into crummy apartments to leave expensive sets of tools.

“Kurt.” The softness in Santana's voice caught Kurt's attention.

He looked up at her standing just inside his doorway. “Yeah?”

“Are you sure no one put anything in your drink? You kind of bolted last night before I could make sure you got home okay. Did you go meet up with anyone? Did they bring you back here?”

Kurt frowned. “Just Blaine, but I barely spoke with him for a minute. He was acting kind of strange last night, come to think of it.”

“Who's Blaine?”

“This guy I met at Murphy's. I go there every Tuesday night and I met him a few weeks back. He likes me or something. I don't know.”

“So you let a random guy you barely know who seems interested in you take you home while you were drunk?”

Kurt shook his head, staring at the wood carving tools again. “No, it's not like that. I already ventured down that train of thought and came up with nothing. Blaine's a good guy. A paramedic, actually. He saves people, he doesn't hurt them.”

“Uh huh…”

At Santana's tone, Kurt glanced up at her. “What?”

“Nothing. It's just interesting how you said he was just some random guy when that interest you mentioned goes both ways. You clearly like him.”

Kurt scoffed. “I do not.”

“My abuela taught me how to convincingly lie before she taught me how to speak at all. Don't bother lying to me, you're totally into him.”

“Okay, can we please talk about Blaine later and focus on the wings that have mysteriously sprouted on my back?”

Kurt still couldn't believe it. He returned his attention to the mirror, studying his new wings. It was actually a shame Santana couldn't see them, they really were beautiful.

“Fine, alright, let's say that I believe you. Why would you suddenly have invisible wings?”

“I don't know, Santana. That's what I need your help to figure out.” Kurt's eyes fell from the mirror down to the surface of his desk, to the wood carving tools. “I have a feeling these may help though.”

He stepped closer to the desk and examined the set, stroking them carefully from left to right. The wooden figure models he used for drawing were still on his desk, and underneath one of them was a small white card. He frowned and lifted the model, picking up the card.

“Aim well,” Kurt read aloud.

“What does that mean?” Santana asked.

Kurt flipped the card over, looking for any other words, but it was blank. He tapped the card against his palm. “I don't know.”

They both fell silent. Kurt twisted his head a bit, looking at the wings again. He still couldn't believe it. Yet, there they were. He extended them a little, surprised at how easy it was. The wings were naturally a part of him. It was as easy as lifting his arms or wiggling his toes. They weren't really that big. Fully extended, they probably wouldn't even reach his fingertips if he held his arms out. They certainly wouldn't carry him in flight, and if they weren't for flying, then what were they for? He read over the card again. Aim well. Aim what? Was he supposed to be throwing wood carving tools at people? No. That seemed silly. He was meant to use them. For what?

He began looking around the room, searching for anything he may have been missing. There was the set of tools on his desk, the card, the first feather… There had to be something else.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for the next clue.”

“The next clue? Kurt, do you even hear yourself right now? Wings and clues?”

“Will you just shut up and let me concentrate?”

“You're such a pain in the ass. I should've stayed mad at you.”

“But you didn't and now you're stuck with me again so get over it and be quiet for a second. There's something we're missing.”

“No, there's something you're missing.” She muttered under her breath. “Your sanity.”

“Santana.”

“Fine.”

Kurt's eyes roved over every inch of his apartment. His desk, his mattress, his kitchen. It wasn't until he'd almost made a full circle, when he was surveying the doorway, that he saw it.

He frowned and stepped over to his door, picking up the wooden bow that was sitting beside the frame.

“Bingo,” he said.

He looked up to see Santana frowning at him. “When did you pick up archery?”

“I didn't. This isn't mine.”

“Then what's it doing in your apartment?”

Kurt stroked the wood, examining the bow in its entirety, looking for any signature marking that might tip him off as to where it came from. Nothing.

“Probably the same thing as the wood carving tools.”

“And what's that?”

Kurt sighed. “I don't know, Santana. That's what I'm trying to figure out. They've got to all be connected somehow. These things didn't appear in my apartment until these wings grew from my back.”

For a minute, Kurt thought to himself in silence, trying to find the connection and failing. He was staring at the ground, lost in thought, when he heard Santana shuffle her feet and laugh to herself.

“Hey, wings and a bow? Maybe you're Cupid or something.”

Kurt's heart stuttered in his chest at Santana's words. A chill ran up his spine and his wings fluttered.

That was it. That had to be it. Whoever it was who left Kurt the bow and wood carving tools had chosen Kurt to be Cupid. But why? How could someone just make another person sprout wings from their back? Surely, not any human.

“Santana, what do you know about Cupid?”

He looked over to Santana, who had moved and now sat on his mattress on the floor. She rolled her eyes at him.

“Oh, come on, Kurt. I was joking.”

“Seriously. What do you know about Cupid? Is that Greek mythology?”

“Roman, actually. His Greek counterpart is Eros. Cupid is the god of desire, love, attraction, affection, ya-da, ya-da, ya-da. He's said to be the son of Venus, goddess of love. And a person wounded by Cupid's arrow is filled with uncontrollable desire.” Kurt stared blankly at her. “What? I took a mythology class in college. The professor teaching it was hot.”

Kurt ignored her last comment and nodded his head, pacing back and forth, wings softly folded behind him. “That's it, then. That's got to be it. I'm Cupid.”

“You seem to be forgetting one important fact, Kurt. You're human.”

He stopped for a second. “What if I'm not?”

“You are! I can't believe you're actually entertaining this idea! I was joking. It's mythology, as in not real. There's no such thing as Cupid.”

“You're Catholic, aren't you?”

Santana's body stiffened. “Loosely.”

“Yeah, I know, the whole gay thing doesn't bode well in that particular faith, but you believe in God, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“So, you do believe in something you can't see, hear, or feel. Why don't you believe in this? I know you can't see them, but I have wings, Santana. They're there. This bow, these tools, they didn't come from me. I didn't leave myself a note telling me to aim well. As incredulous as this is, it's happening. I'm Cupid.”

“Okay, let's say you are. Then why you?”

Kurt stopped pacing and frowned. Why him? He'd never been in love. Not even close. Why was he suddenly armed with the ability to give people something he'd never had? It was like he was an amateur in the field and someone decided to give him a PhD. It didn't make any sense.

He sighed and met Santana's eye. “I don't know.”

… … …

Give me love like never before
Cause lately Ive been craving more
… … …

There were a lot of things Kurt didn't know yet. He didn't know how to ride a bike, how to count to 100, which colour was red and which one was orange, or how to spell his name. What he did know was that his kindergarten class was having a tea party for all the kids and their mothers next week and he wanted to go. But there was one problem.

Kurt didn't have a mother.

When his dad picked him up from school that day autumn day in 1999, Kurt climbed into the backseat, dropped his backpack onto the floor of his dad's pick-up truck, and crossed his arms, pouting.

“Seatbelt, buddy,” Burt reminded him.

Kurt remained unmoving.

His father twisted around in his seat and frowned. “What's wrong, Kurt?”

Kurt huffed and said, “They're having a tea party at school next week for everyone to bring their mommies and I don't have one so I can't go!”

“I could go with you.”

“No! It's for mommies only!”

With a sigh, Burt turned back around in his seat and started driving home. Kurt pouted the whole way. At dinner that evening, Burt brought it up again.

“Look, Kurt, I know this is really gettin' to ya. I'm sorry your mother can't be there.”

Kurt pushed his asparagus around his plate with his fork. “Why not?”

“What'd'ya mean?”

“Why can't Mommy be there?”

Burt scratched his head and leaned back in his chair. “Well, uh…Your mom, she's in heaven, buddy.”

“Why?”

“We've talked about this, remember? When you were a baby, your mother passed away and went to heaven.”

“Yeah. I know. I just wish she could visit us sometimes.”

“It doesn't work that way, kiddo.”

“I wish it did.”

“Me too.”

Up until Kurt turned fourteen years old, that had been enough. He'd accepted the fact that his mother was dead and all he had in this world was his father. It was sad, but it was his life. Over the years, he'd matured enough to live with it and not feel so upset about it.

Then, Kurt took biology his freshman year of high school. They were assigned to bring in pictures of their mother and father for a project over heredity and genes. When he returned home from school that day, he made his usual afternoon snack of apples and peanut butter, then sat at the kitchen table and worked on his homework until his father got home. He knew that he would have to approach the subject of his mother carefully, because ever since that day during his kindergarten year, his father hadn't spoken a word of her.

Burt came home at his usual time. “Kurt! Where ya at, bud?”

“Kitchen table, Dad!”

Burt entered the kitchen and ruffled Kurt's hair. “Whatcha workin' on?”

“Homework.”

“I don't know any other parent that comes home to their kid doing homework without being told. You make my life easy, kid.”

“I try.”

Kurt gave it a second before breaching the subject, but starting with homework was exactly what he was hoping his father would do. It made for an easy lead-in.

“Actually, speaking of homework, I need a little help with something.”

“Oh, yeah? You never need my help. What's up?”

“It's for a biology project. We're starting the chapter over heredity and genes, and we're supposed to bring in pictures of our parents.”

“That's not a problem, kiddo. We've got a few pictures of the two of us somewhere around here. I'm sure one will be good enough to bring in for your old dad.”

“Well, we're supposed to bring pictures for both of our parents. Do you think I could have one of Mom, too?”

Burt fell quiet. After a tense couple of minutes, he cleared his throat and walked away, mumbling, “You know, that's just insensitive and disrespectful to ask that of you kids. Not everyone has two parents. I may head up to that school and give that dim-witted principal a piece of my mind.”

Kurt heard heavy footsteps up the stairs and sighed, knowing it was a lost cause. He had to wonder, though, why Burt wouldn't let him have any pictures. He didn't think it was asking a lot. It wasn't like when he was five and asking for his mother to visit. This was something manageable. Surely, there were pictures of his mother somewhere, weren't there?

Though, now that he thought about it, Kurt couldn't recall ever seeing a picture of his mother. He stood abruptly and headed into the living room. All of the picture frames housed photos of Kurt throughout his childhood with featured guests like his father and grandparents, but never his mother. When he pulled the photo album from the shelf in the corner and flipped through, he found nothing useful but his mother's absence.

Why were there no pictures of her?

Kurt knew it was risky, but at dinner that night, he brought it up again.

“Why are there no pictures of Mom?”

Burt froze with his burger half-way to his mouth. “What?”

“I looked. There are no pictures of Mom anywhere. Why?”

“Why couldn't you just take no for an answer?”

“Technically, you never said no.”

“Kurt,” Burt said sternly. “Let it go. Now.”

“I just don't see what the big deal is. I know Mom died when I was a kid. We never talk about it, but you told me when I was younger.”

“Kurt.”

“I know. It's okay. I just want a picture of her, I'm not asking for much. It's not even for me, it's for school. And really, I think I deserve to see what my own mother looked like, don't you? Isn't strange that I've never—“

Burt slammed his fists down on the table, stunning Kurt into silence. “That's enough, Kurt!” He sighed and propped his elbows on the table, letting his head fall into his hands.

Kurt sat in silence, staring down at his plate, willfully ignoring the rock sitting in his throat threatening tears. He knew it was stupid to get so upset about this, but he just didn't understand.

“I'm sorry,” Burt muttered finally. “I didn't mean to yell. I know you have questions. I just need you to accept that I can't answer them. Alright?”

Kurt nodded and said a quiet, “Yeah.”

“Alright.”

Kurt never brought his mother up again.

… … …

And its been a while but I still feel the same
Maybe I should let you go

… … …

After their talk, Kurt asked Santana if she still had her textbook. When she confirmed that she did, he sent her to go get it so they could look over the parts about Cupid and figure out what he was supposed to do next. She returned and they looked at the few pages about him, but Kurt already knew what he was supposed to do the second Santana had said “Cupid.”

He had to give love to people. That was his calling, his purpose. The wood carving tools were given to him to make his arrows and choose his victims—so to speak.

Still, he had to wonder why. Why was he given that power? He, who had never even been close to falling in love? It made no sense. Until he thought of his mother, that is. He knew it was farfetched, but the textbook said that Cupid was the son of Venus. Kurt had never met his mother, his father refused to speak about her, there were no pictures of her… It was improbable, but so was the pair of wings that had grown from his back.

Santana stayed for a couple more hours, pretending to humor Kurt's idea that he was Cupid, before she had to return to On The Rocks and start her shift. Once he was alone, he decided to test out the wood carving tools. Kurt grabbed a rotted wooden plank that had popped out of his floor in the kitchen and studied it, rolling it around in his hands. If the wood was rotted, was it still usable? He picked up one of the tools and experimentally dug at one of the four edges of the wood. It rolled off easily, falling to the floor. He repeated the motion, amazed at how easy this was for him. Again and again, he dug and carved and scraped at the wood, leaving a big block at the top to make the arrowhead.

Kurt hadn't even realized he'd zoned out until a knock at the door startled him. The tool fell from his right hand, and in his left, was a perfectly carved arrow.

“Kurt? I think I remembered the right place. It's kind of unforgettable in its…character. Are you home?”

Kurt frowned and made his way over to the door. He opened it a sliver like he did for Santana and peered out. “Blaine? What are you doing here?”

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay after last night.”

“I'm fine. Thank you for bringing me home.”

“You're welcome.”

They stood in awkward silence, Blaine looking at the ground and Kurt looking at Blaine. Finally, Blaine cleared his throat and said, “Uh, could I come in?”

Kurt hesitated. What if Blaine saw his wings? But if Santana couldn't, surely Blaine couldn't either. Maybe humans couldn't see them. Kurt slowly pulled the door open, stepping aside to allow Blaine in. When Blaine didn't gasp or jump back, Kurt knew he was safe.

Blaine stepped over to Kurt's desk and picked up the arrow, eyeing the tools among the desk and the curls and chips of wood on the floor. “Did you carve this?”

“Yeah, I um… It's a new hobby of mine. Wood carving.”

“Why?”

Kurt shrugged. “Why not?”

“Touch�,” Blaine said, half-smirking.

They fell into silence again, Blaine glancing around Kurt's apartment and Kurt still wondering in amazement how he could stand there with a pair of wings on his back and act completely normal.

They both tried to break the silence at the same time.

“So what was it that you—”

“I just wanted to come by and say—”

They laughed awkwardly. Kurt wanted nothing more than to escape the awkwardness of the moment and go back to when he and Blaine had a semi-normal, almost-friendship.

“You go first,” Blaine said.

“No, that's okay, you go ahead.”

“Well, I just wanted to come by and say I'm sorry for last night. I was kind of rude to you and you didn't really do anything wrong.”

“Thanks, but I'm sorry too. I totally lost track of time, I didn't mean to stand you up and then walk in an hour and a half late.”

Blaine cocked his head to the side. “Was it a date?”

Kurt could feel his heart stutter in his chest. “Was it?”

They stared at each other before Blaine chuckled and looked away. “Um, not really, I guess? I mean we never stated…”

“You said see you Tuesday, so I guess I just kind of thought…”

“Right, that would make sense…”

“But maybe we should have clarified…”

“Yeah…” Blaine paused, then smiled and met Kurt's gaze again. “Why is this so awkward?”

Kurt laughed, and the heavy feeling he'd had in his chest since Blaine knocked on the door lightened. “I don't know.”

“How about this,” Blaine started, walking closer to Kurt and taking one of his hands. Blaine laced their fingers together and said, “Kurt, would you like to go to dinner with me?”

“Now?”

“Why not?”

Again, Kurt hesitated. It was obvious from his interactions with Santana and Blaine that he was the only one who could see his wings, but going out onto the streets of New York City was a completely different story. Then again, he was going to have to sometime, wasn't he? He wasn't going to give love to people from his apartment. He'd have to go out, observe people, shoot arrows at the couples he saw fit.

And maybe going out with Blaine could lead to something good, something more.

“Sure,” Kurt smiled. “I'd like that.”

They stood smiling at each other for a moment longer before Blaine turned and headed for the door, never letting go of Kurt's hand.

The awkwardness they'd been feeling in Kurt's apartment quickly faded away as they walked down the street. Kurt had no idea where they were going; he allowed himself to be steered wherever Blaine saw fit for them to go. He glanced around at everyone who walked by, wondering when one of them would stop and stare at him, but it never happened. His wings were folded closely to his back behind them, and it felt like they weren't even there.

Eventually they came upon a small Italian caf�. Blaine opened the door for Kurt and then followed him in.

“I hope you like Italian food,” Blaine said as they stood waiting to be seated. “If not, we can go somewhere else.”

“No, this is great,” Kurt replied. Internally he was rejoicing at finally having better Italian food than Breadstix.

When they were seated and given the menus, Kurt couldn't help but gawk at the prices.

“Blaine, this place is kind of expensive.”

Blaine smiled and reached across the table to take Kurt's hand. “Don't worry about it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. This is one of my favourite restaurants in the city. It's as much a treat for me as it is for you.”

Kurt blushed and glanced back down at the menu. The waiter came to take their drink orders, asking if they'd like to take a look at the wine menu. Blaine dismissed it immediately and ordered a glass of water, so Kurt followed suit. Their waiter soon returned with a pitcher and filled their glasses, then took their food order.

“So how did you decide to be a paramedic?” Kurt asked after the waiter left.

Blaine frowned and looked down at the table. “Uh…”

“I'm sorry,” Kurt rushed to say. “I was trying to start with an easy question. I didn't mean to go into something deeper.”

“No, no, it's okay. That's just a, uh… It's a complicated story. It's actually tied into why I was so rude to you last night.”

“You don't have to tell me if you don't want to.”

“I do—want to, I mean—but at the same time…”

“I get it,” Kurt assured him. “We don't have to talk about it. New topic.”

Blaine caught Kurt's eye and made a grateful smile, then asked, “So, how did you get into wood carving?”

Kurt's wings fluttered a little as he shifted in his seat. How does one explain a sudden interest in wood carving? Of course, Blaine hardly knew him. It didn't have to be sudden to Blaine. It could be normal. It could be something Kurt's been interested in his whole life. Kurt didn't really want to lie about it, though.

“That is also a complicated story,” he finally answered.

Blaine laughed a little. “Okay. Why don't you just tell me something about yourself? You pick.”

“I wouldn't even know what to say. I'm not a very interesting person.” I just have wings and I think I'm Cupid and I'm supposed to go around shooting people with arrows of desire.

“I'm sure that's not true. You're a great artist.”

Kurt made a face and shook his head. “Oh, gosh. Those drawings you saw at Central Park were not my best work at all. That's hardly anything to judge my abilities off of.”

“If that's your version of bad I'd love to see something you've drawn that you're proud of.”

“Maybe I'll show you one or two. Maybe.”

“I'll take a maybe.”

They smiled and gazed at each other for a minute before Kurt said, “Okay, now tell me something about you.”

“Now that's not fair! You didn't tell me anything!”

“So?”

Blaine shook his head and laughed. “Fine. I'm not actually from here.”

Kurt rolled his eyes. “Well, that's not surprising. Less than half of the city is actually from here. The majority of the population is a bunch of wide-eyed people from out of state who moved to the Big Apple in hopes of becoming stars.”

“Is that what brought you here?”

“A long time ago, yes. Those dreams have long since faded. What brought you here?”

Blaine's face fell; Kurt took the hint.

“Bad territory again?”

“Kind of.”

“Well, where are you from?”

“Ohio.”

“Really? Me too.”

Blaine smiled a little again. “What city?”

“Lima.”

Blaine squeezed his hand. “I'm from Westerville.”

Kurt's heart skipped a beat. “We lived like two hours away from each other.”

“I know,” Blaine laughed. “Our paths could have crossed.”

“They probably did.”

The waiter came by and with their two plates of food, so Kurt reluctantly let go of Blaine's hand. They thanked the waiter and Blaine immediately speared a piece of ravioli with his fork, shoving it in his mouth. Kurt probably would have rebuked his table manners had it not been so amusing.

“You're going to burn your mouth,” Kurt laughed.

Blaine closed his eyes and moaned, and Kurt tried very hard not to react to that whatsoever. “Oh, but Kurt, it's so good.”

“I hope you're enjoying that one bite because it probably burned off all your taste buds and you won't be able to taste the rest of it.”

“Worth it.”

Kurt laughed again and cut off a smaller piece of his manicotti, blowing on it carefully before eating it. “Oh, wow. This is good.”

“I told you.”

Conversation slowed a bit as they ate, but Kurt couldn't get Westerville out of his mind. He knew he recognized the town name from somewhere; he just couldn't put his finger on it. A few minutes later, it dawned on him. Glee club. The Dalton Academy Warblers were from Westerville. He didn't remember Blaine being in the club, but there was a chance.

“Westerville, right? Did you go to Dalton Academy, by any chance?”

Blaine paused. “Yes, actually. Why?”

“Were you in the Warblers?”

“Uh, I wanted to be, but my dad wouldn't let me.”

“Why not?” When Blaine didn't answer, Kurt added, “Another complicated story?”

“Something like that.”

“Consider it forgotten.” Kurt offered Blaine a small smile, and when Blaine looked up and returned it, they both went back to their meals.

They continued to chat about surface things, finding a lot of common ground and sharing interests. Still, Kurt was curious. Blaine seemed to have a lot of things that were “complicated stories” and Kurt really wanted to know what they were. Of course Blaine wouldn't tell him yet, this was only their first date and they didn't know each other that well, but that didn't stop Kurt from wondering.

The mystery of Blaine's past was on Kurt's mind for the rest of the date, but when Blaine laced their fingers together on the walk home, those thoughts evaporated to give way to thoughts of how nice it felt to walk down the streets holding hands with a guy Kurt liked.

Blaine walked him up to his front door then paused. “Thank you for coming to dinner with me.”

“Thank you for asking. I had a great time,” Kurt said.

“I'm glad. Would you like to go out again sometime soon?”

Kurt smiled and squeezed Blaine's hand. “I'd like that very much.”

“Good,” Blaine smiled.

Kurt knew what came next. The kiss goodnight. Kurt had kissed plenty of guys, simple little kisses at the end of dates before he never saw those guys again. He knew that wouldn't happen with Blaine—they'd just confirmed a second date, after all—but what if the chemistry wasn't right? Then this whole date would be for nothing and their second date would either be cancelled or awful. Lack of kissing chemistry was one of the major reasons Kurt hadn't had more than one date with the same guy.

Oh, but then Blaine was leaning in, and he smelled like cinnamon and raspberries, and their faces were mere inches from each other, then centimeters, and Blaine's hand was on Kurt's cheek, and their foreheads were touching, and he could feel Blaine's breath ghosting over his lips.

“This is okay, right?” Blaine murmured.

Kurt melted a little, sighing against Blaine's lips, “God, yes,” before closing the distance.

Any worry that Kurt had about their kissing chemistry was completely dissolved the second his lips touched Blaine's. The hand Blaine had cupping Kurt's cheek moved to the back of his neck, pulling Kurt closer to him. Kurt responded immediately, placing one hand on Blaine's chest and grabbing a fistful of his shirt, then putting the other one on Blaine's lower back to pull them even closer. Their lips moved together effortlessly, like they'd spent their whole lives kissing each other and becoming attuned to what they both liked. Blaine caught Kurt's bottom lip between his teeth and bit lightly before tugging away.

It was the single most erotic thing Kurt had ever experienced.

When he opened his eyes, Blaine was staring at him, smiling softly.

“I'll see you soon,” Blaine said, dropping his hands and stepping out of the embrace.

Kurt immediately missed the warmth. “Yeah. Definitely.”

“Goodnight.”

Kurt watched Blaine walk away. When Blaine was out of sight, Kurt said quietly, “Goodnight.”

He turned around and went inside his apartment, feeling lighter than he had in years. When he spotted the arrow on his desk, and looked at the bow by the door, he smiled and said to himself, “I suddenly feel a lot more qualified to aim well.”

… … …

You know Ill fight my corner
And that tonight Ill call ya

… … …

The streets of New York City at 11 o'clock at night were not known to be the safest. Yet, here Kurt was, on the busy streets of the city that never sleeps with his one perfect arrow and his bow to shoot it.

After such a perfect date, it seemed only right that he would venture out and see if he could find someone to give love to. Maybe he wouldn't shoot the arrow tonight at all, maybe he'd decide that he didn't see anybody who looked like they were meant to be together, but he wanted to try.

How was he even supposed to know? The note said to aim well, but it didn't tell him how. Not only had Kurt never shot a bow and arrow in his life, but how was he supposed to pick his targets? Sure, he had a wonderful date with Blaine—magical, really—but that didn't make him an expert on love. Who gets to be deemed worthy of love, and how was he supposed to make that choice?

A person came to mind. A person Kurt knew had been in love before and would be able to help him. A person that just so happened to work not far from his apartment.

Santana.

Kurt changed direction and headed for On The Rocks. The smell of beer and body odor hit him the second he entered the bar. It was packed, crowded with rowdy men, and women dressed like prostitutes. Kurt spotted Santana and folded his wings closely behind him before heading towards her, pushing past a sea of sweaty bodies until he found an empty bar stool.

“Santana!” He called out, trying to be heard over the noise of the crowd.

She turned when she heard her name and nodded her acknowledgement before finishing the drinks she was making for a group of women at the end of the bar.

“Hey,” she greeted once she made her way over to him.

“Hey. Busy night.”

“It's always a busy night. What's up? You still convinced you're Cupid?”

“Yep.”

“Want a drink?”

“No, thanks. I actually came for your advice.”

“On what?”

Kurt lifted his bow and arrow that he'd been carrying at his side and set them on the bar. “Aiming well.”

Santana's eyes widened. “You're actually going to shoot someone with that? Hummel, you're going to spear someone's gut, not make them fall in love! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“No, I'm not! It'll be fine. This is what I'm supposed to do. The arrows will dissolve or something.”

“You're insane.”

“Whatever. Look, I need your help. You loved Brittany, didn't you?”

Santana tensed immediately, staring at Kurt with hard eyes. “Love. Yes. I love her.”

“How did you know? What was it that told you she was the one for you?”

“She's obviously not the one for me. We're not together.”

“San. Come on. Please.”

“I don't know. It's complicated.” She sighed and ran her fingers through her hair, preoccupying herself with wiping down the bar in front of him. “It's hard to explain. I just knew. The first time we slept together, it was an accident. It started as two friends experimenting, just having fun. We were both curious about what it was like to kiss a girl, and we were close enough that we trusted each other with that curiosity. It started as kissing and somehow, it went further. Before I even realized what was happening, our clothes were off, and she was touching me in a way I'd never been touched before. Her skin was soft and she was gentle.

“Afterwards, I remember laying there next to her, my mind reeling because I couldn't believe I'd just had sex with a girl. It went against everything I'd been taught. But she was so sweet, and her hair looked so beautiful with the blue tint of moonlight, and she looked so content. I ran my fingers down her arm and she immediately curled into me in her sleep. Like it was natural for her to want to be near me even in her subconscious. I remember getting this overwhelming feeling that washed over me from my head to my toes, settling heavy in my chest, that if I could freeze time, it would be right then. I'd have spent my whole life in that moment.”

Kurt sat still, completely stunned by the story. Santana's eyes had glossed over and she looked far away, the story obviously pulling her into the memory. Then someone to Kurt's right shouted for another beer and she snapped out of it, realizing where she was. Without a word to Kurt, she went over to the man and handed him another beer. She took care of all the customers at her bar, leaving Kurt to sit and think for a while.

Ten minutes later, she returned to him. She didn't say anything, just waited for his reply.

Finally, Kurt met her gaze and asked, “If that's how you feel, why aren't you two together?”

“I don't think that she feels the same way. Brittany loves everyone. She's the kindest soul I've ever met. But I don't know if she knows what it means to really love someone.”

Kurt nodded his head, looking down at the bow and arrow before him. “If you could be with her again, would you?”

Santana paused, considering the question. “I don't know. It hurts to not be with her, but it hurts more to be with her when I don't know if she's really in it, you know?”

“Yeah.”

After a minute, Kurt stood up. “Thank you, Santana.”

“Uh-huh.”

She seemed in a different mood than when she came in. Kurt felt bad for making her so upset. He reached across the bar and grabbed her hand, squeezing it until she looked up at him. “I'm sorry.”

“Me too.”

He offered her a small smile and squeezed her hand once more before releasing it. “I'll come back and see you soon, okay?”

“Okay.”

Back on the street, Kurt felt much more melancholy than he had when he'd first been out there. After his date with Blaine earlier, he felt much more hopeful about love. He thought maybe it wasn't as unachievable as he'd thought. After his talk with Santana, though, he wasn't sure he wanted to fall in love at all. What if he fell in love—maybe even with Blaine—and something happened? One of them fell out of love, or they just grew apart, or they weren't as compatible as they seemed, or one loved too much while the other didn't love enough?

There were too many variables. Kurt wasn't sure he wanted to give love to anyone. It seemed to him like it was much more trouble than it was worth. He wouldn't wish the pain he saw on Santana's face when she talked about Brittany on anyone.

Just as he was about to reach home, though, he came across two women walking with their arms linked. One of them wore a white fur coat over jeans and a dressy shirt, the other a dark purple dress. They were stumbling a little, laughing, enjoying each other's company. They were obviously very close with each other.

They looked happy.

Kurt's heart stuttered in his chest as he watched them together. The one in dark purple dress had this secret smile; she'd look at the girl in the white fur coat, and then when her friend met her eye, she'd look away.

They reminded him of Santana and Brittany, in a happier day.

That rush Santana mentioned washed through him from his head to his toes. His wings extended of their own volition and before he even knew what he was doing, he lifted the bow and aimed the arrow, then released it.

He watched in wonder as the arrow hit the girl in the fur coat on the back, then poofed into thin air, leaving a pink smoke in its wake. She stopped suddenly under a fire escape and turned to her friend. Kurt watched as she gently pushed her friend against the metal construct, leaned in, and kissed her. The girl in the purple dress wrapped her arms around her friend, kissing her with so much passion that Kurt had to look away. He glanced back at them just in time to see them separate and share a smile—the same kind of smile only one of them wore before.

Kurt knew he'd picked the right person, the right couple. He'd given love to someone and it felt better than anything he'd ever experienced.

As he walked home, he tried to ignore the melancholy thought that was telling him that though they seemed happy now, that could change in a heartbeat. He didn't want to think about that. Love was supposed to be a good thing. Love was a gift. And Kurt was going to give it to as many people as he could.

… … …

After my blood is drowning in alcohol
No, I just wanna hold ya

… … …

A couple weeks passed, and Kurt gave love to almost 30 couples. He couldn't explain how, but he knew when he saw someone that he was meant to release an arrow to them. Sometimes, he'd walk around aimlessly with a few arrows in his hand; a couple times, he hailed a taxi and rode around the city, aiming as well as he could.

The wings that he'd been so afraid of before, now gave him a sense of power and purpose. He felt like he wasn't just some bum without a job in a crappy apartment doing nothing. He was doing something good, something meaningful. It gave him joy to give love to people and to see them happy.

At the same time, though, with each arrow Kurt shot, his own heart eroded a little. He longed to have the love he so readily gave to others. There had been more dates with Blaine, and things were going well, but Blaine still had all of these complicated stories that were off limits. The more he got to know about Blaine, the less Kurt felt like he really knew him. Their conversations were trivial, their relationship based purely on surface information.

One Tuesday evening, they were lounging on Kurt's mattress on the floor, discussing Sondheim musicals. Blaine was going on and on about West Side Story and Kurt just snapped.

“I don't know you at all,” he said, blinking as he stared at Blaine.

Blaine stopped his speech and returned the stare. “What?”

“I don't know anything about you.” Kurt stood up, pacing in the tiny space of his kitchen.

“Sure you do.”

“No, I don't. I know your taste in musicals and television shows and movies and music, but what does that even mean, really?”

“I think that says a lot about a person.”

Kurt paused in his pacing to give Blaine a look. “You know what I mean, Blaine. Why don't I know anything about you? Your parents' names, if you have any siblings, what made you decide to be a paramedic, why you came to New York. All of these things that have come up in conversations with us, but you've always shied away from. Why can't you just tell me?”

Blaine dropped Kurt's gaze and looked down at the floor. “It's complicated.”

“Life is complicated. God, I've never even seen where you live. I've shown you my crappy apartment, I've told you about my dad's heart attack and his cancer, about the last few disastrous years of my life—losing my job, my best friend, everything.”

“And I'm grateful for that, I am. I love getting to know you. But sharing doesn't come that easy for everybody.”

Kurt stepped over to Blaine and kneeled down in front of him, tilting his chin up. “Don't you trust me?”

“You know I do,” Blaine answered, bringing his hand up to cup Kurt's cheek. “But we've only known each other for, what, a little over a month? Maybe a month and a half? The things about myself that I haven't told you, I haven't told anyone. They're difficult for me to talk about.”

Kurt rose on his feet again and walked away, towards his desk. He traced the wood of one of his arrows. “I thought we were creating something good, here. Something special.”

“We are.”

“Then why can't you tell me?”

“It's not that simple, Kurt.”

“It can be.”

“Look, you can't force someone to share something they're not ready to,” Blaine said. Kurt turned around to see Blaine standing up too. Kurt could tell from Blaine's facial expression and tone of voice that he was growing frustrated. “These things I'm keeping from you, they're not easy for me. They're really dark parts of my life that I wish every day I could forget about.”

“Maybe if you talked about them, it could help.”

Blaine shook his head and looked down. “You're just not getting it.”

“Because you're not giving me anything!”

“And I'm not going to! Not right now. Can you please just drop it?”

Kurt remained silent, considering. This conversation was obviously putting a strain on their relationship—whatever their relationship was—but so was the unknown. Kurt couldn't just let this go. He wanted so badly to trust Blaine, to move forward, to be his boyfriend, but Kurt couldn't give that level of trust to someone he didn't even really feel like he knew.

Finally, Kurt sighed. “I can't.”

“You asked me if I trusted you and I said yes,” Blaine said, walking over to Kurt. He took Kurt's hands in his and stared directly into Kurt's eyes. “Do you trust me?”

Kurt didn't want to say no, but he couldn't say yes. His silence was answer enough for Blaine, he could tell. Blaine dropped his hands and stepped away, heading for the door.

“I'm sorry,” Kurt murmured, because the moment felt too fragile for normal tones.

Blaine paused with his hand on the doorknob, looking back at Kurt. “Me too.”

The hard sound of the door shutting behind Blaine made Kurt flinch. He suddenly regretted even bringing it up at all. He should've left it alone, let Blaine tell him things in his own time, when he was ready. Instead, Kurt was impatient and demanding.

He knew the only thing that could make him feel better was his bow. His bow, and a pep talk from Santana.

… … …

Give a little time to me or burn this out
We'll play hide and seek to turn this around
All I want is the taste that your lips allow
My, my, my, my, oh give me love

… … …

On The Rocks was crowded again, but it was especially loud that night, too many people with too much to drink. He knew Santana had a lot on her hands, but when he approached the bar, it became even more obvious. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and there were several pieces that had fallen down in her face. Her very irritated-looking face.

“Santana!” he called out.

Her head whipped around. When she saw him, her irritated expression didn't change. “You here for a drink?”

“No, I need to talk to you.”

“Is it this Cupid shit still? Kurt, it's been two weeks. When are you going to wake up and realize that you're not some goddamn love fairy?”

Kurt's jaw dropped. “That was a little harsh, Santana.”

“Look, I don't have time for your fantasy bullshit. Some of us have real lives and real jobs.”

“Why are you being so mean to me?”

“What are you, 5 years old? Get over yourself. Not everyone's lives revolve around you.”

Kurt was just about to tear into Santana and give her a taste of her own bitch medicine when he saw her. Brittany. Her blonde hair caught his attention out of the corner of his eye, across the bar with some guy. They were standing closely, talking and laughing.

When Kurt turned back to Santana, he saw her staring in the same direction.

“Now I get it,” he said.

Santana snapped her eyes to him and glared. “You don't get anything.”

“What's she doing here?”

“I don't know.”

“She staying with you?”

“No. Her…boyfriend got them a hotel room. He's loaded.”

Kurt swiveled around again to stare at Brittany and her boyfriend. It seemed surreal to see her again after so long, especially not latched to Santana's side.

Wordlessly, Kurt lifted up an arrow and raised an eyebrow to Santana.

Her eyes widened and she shook her head. “No way. As much as I may want to, you're not killing him.”

“No,” Kurt rolled his eyes. “Not murder. Love. For you.” He gestured towards Brittany.

“Even if you were Cupid, I'd say no. Look at her, look at how happy she looks. I can't destroy that for my own selfish reasons.”

Kurt nodded thoughtfully. Santana went to go fill a few people's drinks, serve a few beer bottles. When she came back, Kurt said, “I think Blaine and I broke up.”

“Were you guys an item? Did you neglect to tell me that part?”

“No. I guess it wasn't really a break up. It was just…a fight. But I don't think I'll see him again.”

“People fight, Kurt. He'll come back.”

“What if he doesn't?”

Santana shrugged. “Then he doesn't. What did you two fight about anyway?”

“I don't know anything about him. We barely ever talk about anything real, and when we do, it's always me sharing stuff about my past. He never talks about his. How can I trust someone and enter a relationship with someone I barely know?”

“Isn't that kind of the point? You take a leap and you give a part of yourself to someone based on blind faith, because you feel a connection with them. You may not trust them, but you have to trust that connection. Sometimes it turns into something more and it develops and sometimes it just fades away. It's worth a shot, though. Brittany and I, our connection may have faded, but I wouldn't trade the time we had for anything.”

Kurt mulled that over while Santana made a round of margaritas for a group of college girls. When she returned, he slapped a 10 dollar bill on the table.

“What's that for?” she asked.

“Aren't you supposed to tip your bartender?”

“You didn't order anything.”

“You gave me good advice. Just take the money.”

“I'm not sure I should. I've seen where you live.”

“I'm sitting in your living room.”

She paused, then grabbed the money and stowed it in her bra. “Touch�.”

“Thank you, Santana.”

“Yeah. Hey, sorry for being an ass when you first walked in.”

“It's okay. I understand why.” He glanced behind him at Brittany, who was now dancing with her boyfriend. He winced. “I'll see you around.”

“See you,” Santana said.

Kurt headed back out into the less-than-fresh New York air and sighed. The bow was practically humming in his hands, waiting for use. The arrows he brought with him tonight felt heavy in his hand. His wings fluttered behind him, expanding a little.

Something felt different. There was a woozy feeling in his gut. This arrow, this night, something was going to happen. He couldn't tell if it was good or bad, but he knew that it would be important. He told himself it was good and headed down the street.

… … …

Give a little time to me or burn this out
Well play hide and seek to turn this around
All I want is the taste that your lips allow

… … …

Kurt hadn't planned to go to Murphy's, but it was a Tuesday, and after his fight with Blaine and his talk with Santana, he didn't know where else to go. He couldn't shake the feeling he got outside On The Rocks. Subconsciously, he ended up at the diner, the only place he felt he could really take a second to breathe and think.

Before he even entered the diner, though, he saw him.

Blaine.

He was sitting at a table by the kitchen, looking much like the first time Kurt saw him. He was in the same cerulean hoodie, his hair curly and unkempt, his jeans loose and unironed. He was hunched over a cup of coffee, stirring slowly but not drinking. He looked like he didn't even realize he was stirring his cup, but he was so lost in thought that his hands were acting of their own volition.

Kurt's wings flapped once. He placed his hand with the arrows to the glass window, wishing so much that he could go in there and comfort Blaine. And really, he could, so why didn't he?

Because Kurt was selfish. He did this. He ruined the good thing he had going with Blaine in a conversation that lasted no more than 5 minutes and was the direct result of his own relentless prying.

He should've left things alone, they were fine before he opened his big, prying mouth. This was why Kurt was only allowed to give love, yet never experience it. He didn't deserve it.

Blaine looked up suddenly and caught his eyes. The sadness Kurt saw there broke his heart.

He dropped his hand from the window and ran.

… … …

My, my, my, my, oh give me love
My, my, my, my, oh give me love
My, my, my, my, oh give me love

… … …

The smokey atmosphere made it hard for Kurt to see, but then, so did the darkness. His only lights were flashing, cool, fluorescents, providing just enough for people to see each other but not nearly enough to see well.

Kurt had found it. The rumoured abandoned warehouse. There had been talk of it among his friend circle at Vogue. They said if you were lucky enough to find it, there was always a party in the underground basement there.

They were right.

M-my my, m-my my, m-my my, give me love, lover

Kurt walked lazily through the crowd, allowing the atmosphere to consume him. The steady bass line and minor chords of whatever song was playing carried him through. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to just feel.

M-my my, m-my my, m-my my, give me love, lover

When he opened his eyes, he stopped cold. He saw someone he didn't think he would ever see again after high school.

M-my my, m-my my, m-my my, give me love, lover

David Karofsky. He was up against the wall, talking intimately with some guy. That feeling Kurt got when he saw a couple he was meant to give love to washed over him.

M-my my, m-my my, m-my my, give me love, lover

He choked it down resolutely. No. He would not give love to David Karofsky. Not after everything he did. Not after everything Kurt suffered because of him.

M-my my, m-my my, m-my my, give me love, lover

Kurt stared, transfixed. He was lucky that everyone there was so out of their minds they didn't pay any attention to a guy with a bow and arrows.

Against the wall, Dave kept leaning into this guy, who kept leaning away. They knew each other well. Kurt didn't know how, but he could tell. He could feel their history.

M-my my, m-my my, m-my my, give me love, lover

They met in college. They became best friends quickly. This guy helped Dave, helped him to become more brave, more sure of himself.

Dave had fallen in love with him.

The other guy had no idea.

M-my my, m-my my, m-my my, give me love, lover

Kurt tilted his head up and closed his eyes.

What gave them the right? Why did it have to be them? Him? This guy who had tortured Kurt for four years, who had—who had abused him, physically and emotionally—even sexually. Why did Dave deserve love?

Why was Dave worthy of love, and Kurt wasn't?

M-my my, m-my my, m-my my, give me love, lover

Kurt felt tears sting his eyes as he lifted his bow, aiming the arrow for the guy next to Dave.

(love me, love me, love me)

He shook his head, allowing a couple tears to fall. It wasn't fair.

M-my my, m-my my, m-my my, give me love, lover

When Kurt released the arrow, he felt it tug at his own chest. His torso hunched over, and he clenched his chest. He didn't see it, but he knew the arrow had done its work.

(give me love)

He couldn't bear it. There was a pain in his chest that rivaled that of the pain he felt the night his wings grew.

M-my my, m-my my, m-my my, give me love, lover

With closed eyes, Kurt began walking again, taking one slow step in front of the other.

He allowed the music to wash over him, to overtake him.

Kurt couldn't stand to think about what he'd done, about the love he'd given. In his heart, the heart he wasn't even sure he had anymore, he knew Dave didn't deserve love.

But who was he to make that call?

(give me love)

If David Karofsky was deemed worthy of love by whoever was making him do this, then wasn't everybody?

With that idea in mind, Kurt dropped his bow to the floor, clutching his one arrow in his other hand. It was his last arrow of the night.

In a daze, Kurt lifted the arrow and turned to the person on his left, stabbing them in the back. A puff of pink smoke emitted from it, but the arrow didn't disappear like it usually did. The person immediately started kissing the other person they were talking to.

M-my my, m-my my, m-my my, give me love, lover

Kurt let himself be carried through the crowd by the smoke and the music, the low thrumming in his ears and the bass that matched his pulse.

No one noticed him as he went through, stabbing random people as he went with the same arrow as before.

Fuck the rules. Fuck aiming well. Dave Karofsky deserved love and Kurt didn't.

Kurt would give love to whoever the fuck he wanted.

(give me love, love me)

Couple after couple, Kurt made his way through. The pink smoke he created was mixing with the regular smoke that already hung in the air. The atmosphere was growing warmer each time Kurt jammed his arrow into someone's back.

Still, he went on, dragging the arrow across people's stomaches, their backs, their arms. No one noticed. No one noticed him.

M-my my, m-my my, m-my my, give me love, lover

The buzz he'd gotten from environment and what'd he'd been doing was fading. His daze was waning.

The reality of his situation, of what he'd done, of Dave, of Blaine, it all came crashing down on him.

(give me love)

He had to leave. He had to escape this place. He couldn't stand to be among all of the love he created, unable to feel it for himself.

Kurt shoved through the crowd, pushing people away and trying to make it out of there.

He just had to get out of there.

… … …

My, my, my, my, oh give me love
My, my, my, my, oh give me love

… … …

Back at his apartment, Kurt stared at his arrow, the last arrow he'd made. The arrow he'd used to give love to all those people.

He turned it over in his hands, allowing the weight of it to become familiar to him.

Was the love in the arrows? Or was it in Kurt? Each time Kurt released one, was he releasing a part of his heart?

Maybe that's why he felt so empty. Maybe that's why he wasn't allowed to have love. He gave all of his to others.

It wasn't fair. Kurt deserved love too. Whether it was with Blaine or some other guy, Kurt deserved to have love.

He deserved to be loved.

Kurt knew what he wanted to do. He sat on his mattress, staring at the arrow, considering the ramifications, what might happen. It was risky, it wasn't guaranteed, but he had to try it.

He shut his eyes and tilted his head up, raising his hand holding the arrow to point the sharp tip of it at his neck.

Without another second of hesitation, he plunged the arrow into his throat.

… … …

My, my, my, my, oh give me love
My, my, my, my, oh give me love

… … …

Blaine hadn't been sleeping well. The fight with Kurt earlier was getting to him more than he thought it would.

He liked him. He liked Kurt. He wanted them to be something, to be more, but his past was too much. It overwhelmed him to think about.

That night, the night he came to New York. It was the reason he became a paramedic. It was the reason he didn't drink. It was the reason he was who he was.

Blaine's father was an alcoholic. If Mr. Anderson was black-out drunk, it was just another day in the Anderson household. Blaine would've accepted this—he would've just ignored it—had it not been for the fact that when his dad was wasted, he became violent.

He hit his wife.

One December night when Blaine was 17 years old, his father got wasted and started beating Blaine's mother. Blaine came downstairs just in time to stop his father from kicking her in the stomache again. When he tried to intervene, his father smashed the whiskey bottle on Blaine's head, knocking him unconscious.

When he awoke, his mother was being whisked away on a gurney and his father was being handcuffed.

A paramedic was kneeling next to him, helping him. Blaine tried to sit up, but the paramedic urged him back down, telling him that they had another gurney for him. When Blaine asked about his mother, the paramedic informed him that she'd been beaten within inches of her life, but the 911 call had come just in time for them to arrive on the scene and save her.

The paramedics saved his mother's life and his own.

The paramedic who had been working on him told him to stay put while he got the gurney, because it was likely Blaine had a concussion. The second the paramedic turned his back, Blaine bolted.

He used the last money he had in his wallet to buy a plane ticket to New York and never looked back.

Blaine worried about his mom every day, but he didn't know what he'd say to her. He couldn't shake the feeling that she was responsible, that if she had made their father go to rehab, things would've been different. Instead, she let him drink. She even bought his liquor when he was too drunk to go out and buy it himself.

How was he supposed to explain all of that to Kurt?

The call came in at 1:30am and brought Blaine out of the past to present day.

“Hello?”

The voice of his partner, Brady, came in through the speaker on his phone. “Sorry to call you in so late, but we need you. Lauren called in sick. Think you can cover?”

“Sure,” Blaine said, rubbing his eyes and sitting up in bed. “I'll be at the hospital in 10 minutes.”

“No time. There's an emergency not far from your apartment. Bring your kit and meet me there.”

“Alright. What's the address?”

The address his Brady gave him sounded awfully familiar.

Blaine hung up and threw on his uniform, grabbed his kit, and headed out the door. The closer he got to the address, the faster his heart raced, because he recognized this block. He recognized this apartment complex.

Kurt.

Blaine slowed as he reached the stairs. It was stupid, but he thought that maybe if he took his time, things would change. He would wake up. This wouldn't be real. This would all be a dream.

But it wasn't. Brady was already there, trying to explain the situation, but Blaine didn't hear a word he said. All of the sound left the room and all he could hear was his own pulse thumping against the walls of his skull. He stepped further into the apartment, one foot at a time, prolonging what he knew to be inevitable. Then he reached the bed and saw it.

Kurt's body lying, right next to a pool of blood.

No.

Blaine got closer and knelt down, staring. There was an arrow in Kurt's throat, blood still trickling out of the wound. Blaine choked back a sob and reached out a hand, laying it on Kurt's arm.

He closed his eyes, willing himself not to cry.

All of the things Blaine had wanted for them, all of the things he wished he'd said, the potential future of their tentative relationship, it all raced through his mind. He felt stupid for feeling so heartbroken by a man he'd barely known, but there was an undeniable connection between them that would never get the chance to develop now. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. He couldn't—

“Oh, my god.”

Blaine opened his eyes at Brady's gasp to see the arrow gone. The arrow that was just lodged in Kurt's throat not two seconds ago was now gone. The pool of blood was still stained into the white mattress, but the wound was closed.

“Kurt?” Blaine whispered.

Blaine watched as slowly, Kurt's eyes opened. “Blaine?”

Blaine choked out a sob, the tears he'd been holding back finally escaping. He leaned forward fully, allowing his body to fall on Kurt's, his forehead resting against Kurt's temple.

“I thought I'd lost you,” Blaine gasped, struggling to speak as his body was wracked with sobs. “You were gone and there's so much blood and—and—I just—Kurt.”

Kurt lifted a hand, cupping Blaine's face. “I'm here. Hey, it's okay. I'm not gone. I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here.”

… … …

My, my, my, my, oh give me love
My, my, my, my, oh give me love

… … …

“So you don't remember anything?”

Kurt shrugged. “No.”

“The bow, the arrows, the invisible wings, Cupid? Nothing?”

“No.”

Santana leaned back on her hands on Kurt's bed. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“What do you remember?”

“I remember meeting Blaine, and thinking he was crazy, but then liking him. I remember seeing you again and visiting you at the bar. I remember fighting with Blaine, seeing him at Murphy's, and then it all just gets kind of…hazy. And the next thing I remember is waking up to Blaine sobbing over me, telling me I had an arrow lodged in my throat.”

“Yet here you are.”

Kurt shrugged again. “Here I am.”

“Weird.”

“I know.”

They were quiet for a moment before Santana asked, “You really don't remember?”

Kurt laughed and shoved her back. “No! I told you! I don't remember anything!”

“But you remember Blaine and me.”

“Yeah. I remember you guys.”

There was a knock on the door that made them both turn their heads.

“Your boyfriend's here for your date.”

“Yep.”

Kurt stood up and headed for the door, opening it to reveal Blaine. “Hey, you,” Blaine smiled.

“Hi.”

They smiled dopily at each other in the doorway before Santana sighed and ruined the moment. “I guess that means I'm out.”

“Unless you want to hang around my dingy apartment staring at the wall.”

“I think I'll take a raincheck. See you later.”

She squeezed past them and left.

“So, where to tonight?” Kurt asked.

Blaine inhaled deeply and said, “I thought I'd take you over to my place and cook dinner for you.”

Kurt's eyes widened. “Really? I get to see where you live?”

Blaine nodded. “Yes sir. And there is a conversation I'd like to have with you that's long overdue.”

Kurt could tell from the way he said it that Blaine was finally going to open up, finally going to tell Kurt about his past. Kurt refrained from squealing his delight. Instead, he took his boyfriend's hand and stepped outside, shutting the door behind him.

“Lead the way,” Kurt smiled.

Blaine tugged on his hand to stop him. “Wait. There's something I want to tell you first.”

“Before we have our other conversation?”

Blaine smiled softly at Kurt's confused expression. “Yes. There's a question you asked me a while ago, at Central Park. You asked me why I wanted to talk to you, why I came over to you that night at Murphy's.”

“Oh.”

Blaine pulled Kurt into him, wrapping his arms around Kurt's waist. “I came over to you because you looked like the loneliest, saddest person I'd ever seen. I saw you over there at your table, just people watching, and I thought how familiar you looked. I tried to place it, and then I realized, you reminded me of myself. I looked at you and I saw myself when I first came to the city. You broke my heart that night, Kurt.”

Kurt frowned and brought his hands up to cup Blaine's face, kissing him softly. “Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because you were gone. I thought I'd lost you forever, yet here you are. And I don't want to hold back anymore. I don't want to leave anything unsaid.”

Kurt tilted his head and smiled softly, bringing one hand down and laying it over Blaine's chest. “How's your heart now?”

Blaine smiled and stared into Kurt's eyes. “Fully mended. And how is your heart?”

Kurt paused and thought for a moment. He thought of the time he took getting to know Blaine, of that awful night that almost ripped them apart before they were even together. He thought of how desperate he used to be, how lonely he was. He thought of the first night he'd spoken to Blaine, and the couple he'd seen flirting playfully against the wall. He thought of all the dates he'd been on with Blaine since then, how each one of them felt like they gave him a little bit more hope.

Love was something Kurt never dreamed he'd achieve. Now it seemed possible. Now it felt real.

“Full of love,” Kurt replied, leaning in for a kiss.

… … …

My, my, my, my, oh give me love
My, my, my, my, oh give me love
My, my, my, my, oh give me love

… … …