“Yes, Sam, I understand,” Blaine says, rolling his eyes as he walks up his porch steps. “Yes, I do think that’s a good idea.” He holds his phone up to his ear with his shoulder, singling out his house key and putting it in the lock. “No, I can’t think of any superheroes that are homeless either.” His door clicks open and he puts his keys in his bag, using his elbow to close the mahogany door behind him.

Sam keeps prattling on in his ear, impressions weaving levels of conversation. “I just thought it might be cool, you know?”

Blaine thinks briefly about suggesting Iron Man and Captain America, feeling very much the less-than-perfect Tony Stark, but he can’t imagine the number of hours Sam would try to put into the costumes, so he lets the idea die. “I’ll keep thinking about it and if I think of anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Awesome. See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, tomorrow,” Blaine replies, already dreading the next day. He ends the call and listens carefully to his house for signs of life. When he receives none, he assumes his parents decided to stay in Germany the extra week after all and climbs the stairs to his room.

He can’t imagine starting on the tedium that is his busywork for U.S. History. People had complained about Mr. Schue as a Spanish teacher, but he can’t imagine it being any worse than this. Kurt had once—

Blaine lets that idea die too, even more pointless than the one about Tony Stark.

He goes into his walk-in closet in search of Halloween inspiration, the right hand corner holding a rather large Tupperware container labeled, “Costumes.”

He’s sort of a holiday hoarder when it comes to Halloween, his costumes never getting thrown out or given away, always painstakingly managed and packed away. He still has the first costume he ever picked for himself kept safe and clean in the box, a children’s sized Luke Skywalker with a lightsaber that actually lit blue. It’s not like he’d ever repeat a costume, the shame of that would be too great to consider, but it’s nice to know that they’re there, still in his closet, untouched by time or the corruption that came with it. Peeling the lid back on the box and releasing the memories is so refreshing, the pop much more satisfying than the echoing click of his front door opening.

But the bliss of the box opening is dampened slightly by the costume at the top.

Let’s face it, the Situation’s abs glaring up at him might as well have poured a bucket of ice water over his head. His whole body jolts away from the offending outfit, shoulders rising up tight around his ears and a gasp rasping up his throat.

They had—

Kurt had—

He—

Everything was wrong; no thought could be completed.

He remembers the smile on Kurt’s face when Blaine broke out his Jersey accent, his struggle to maintain composure at the reaction at every door. The image breaks through his lock down on Kurt-related thoughts and like that, the floodgates open.

He closes his eyes and imagines Kurt’s hand on his lower back, Kurt’s arm resting on his shoulder, Kurt’s lips pressed against his jaw, Kurt’s teeth on his earlobe, Kurt Kurt Kurt.

His whole body aches, muscles clenching at the onslaught of sense memory. He slams the closet door, leaving the box open to torment him another time.

How can he enjoy the opening of a box, the almost newness of every costume, the decorations? How can he derive happiness from a holiday when he’d ruined the very best thing in his life?

Who is he to deserve any happiness at all?

Blaine broke Kurt’s heart. He destroyed their relationship, he’d thrown everything away.

And for what? A chance at validation? Some recognition that he was worth the effort? A reminder that he was still a person when Kurt wasn’t around?

Because if being without him proved anything, it was that Blaine wasn’t a person without Kurt.

Blaine is a shell. A hard, lonely piece of exoskeleton that used to be part of something living until he allowed the soft parts to rot, leaving him empty.

He’s been empty and alone before, but he had bravado to hide behind then. He rose above uncertainty and fear and became the face of the Warblers. But he thought he didn’t need bravado anymore, that he was safe from uncertainty. Even if he didn’t know where he would be or who he would need to be, he knew who would be there with him, and that was enough.

And what does he have now?

A sense memory of a comforting hand when he’s not sure he’s doing right at McKinley, the soothing sound of a voice in the background of terribly shot videos, the warmth of a phantom kiss to his shoulder.

He has a bunch of gestures without meaning, the shells of his former contentment and security, the mussel eaten out of the bivalve, his happiness scooped out of him and devoured.

He stares at his closed closet door for a few moments, contemplating facing the memories to throw out the cheesy, airbrushed t-shirt, sunglasses, and chain necklace that he’ll never wear again. When he closes his eyes, though, he knows that it won’t help. Kurt’s face is printed on the back of his eyelids no matter if the costume is in his closet or not.

Blaine lies back on his bed and remembers Kurt hooking his chin over his shoulder in front of the mirror after he’d fixed Blaine’s hair, smiling fondly at their reflection. At the time, Blaine couldn’t imagine being more happy. It was so domestic: Kurt fussing with his hair in the bathroom, carefully applying gel and hairspray until he got it just right. When Kurt just held him for a few seconds to inspect his work, it felt like Blaine could count on that embrace for the rest of his life. It was the one he’d get a lot of mornings in tiny New York City apartments. He curls into a near fetal position, holding onto his knees. Nights would be spent in their bed, Kurt curled around him, legs tangling. He feels Kurt’s instep hooked around his ankle, dragging against his skin in an almost stroke.

He knows Kurt isn’t actually pressed against his back, but he imagines it all the same, refusing to speak and allow the illusion to shatter when Kurt doesn’t answer. Kurt’s fingertips brush against the dip between his collarbones, his arm hooked under Blaine’s arm, his face nestled in the nook between neck and shoulder. The slight pressure against his chest soothes him, his brain going almost blank. Kurt is here; everything is fine.

Blaine revels in the feeling of Kurt surrounding him, making him feel safe.

“I love you,” Kurt whispers softly into his ear, his breath brushing tantalizingly against his neck.

Blaine turns in his arms to find Kurt smiling drowsily. “I love you too,” he replies, leaning forward to press his lips to Kurt’s cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

Kurt just smiles, hand coming up to cup his cheek. He kisses Blaine with familiarity, making the domestic feeling seep into his bones. When Kurt pulls away, Blaine chases after his lips, pulling him into a deeper kiss by opening Kurt’s mouth with his own. When Kurt’s tongue curls into his mouth, he feels a tug in his stomach. Kurt abruptly pulls away, eyes wide, and Blaine realizes the tug isn’t from arousal but from gravity pulling against him.

There’s a gaping chasm in the center of the bed, and suddenly, Kurt’s gone and he’s tumbling on his own, bile rising in his throat. He lost Kurt again and there’s nothing to hold onto and he’s falling and he can’t breathe and he keeps waiting to stop falling, for the bottom of the canyon, for the end of it all. He just wants the impact, the pain, everything he deserves.

His eyes open before he realizes that he’s done so, a gasp rasping in his throat. The chill of the room saturates his skin in the tear streaks and spreads along the rest of his body, causing him to shiver. His vision is blurry but when he sits up to look around the room, he knows no one’s there.

Kurt isn’t with him, touching him with soft hands and love shining in his eyes. Kurt is still in New York, still heartbroken.

He’s alone.