For years, Blaine wanted the life of a careless artist, flitting from place to place with nothing but the clothes on his back and a lucky charm in his pocket. The heavy gold pocket watch weighs him down, keeps him grounded when his flights of fancy almost spirit him away, and on days where the hours seem endless and each step is like moving through drying clay, he watches those thin golden hands move around and counts the seconds in soft separate breaths until serenity finds him once more.

He's still taking steps towards becoming a careless artist. Being an art student doesn't so much hold the freedom he wanted as a young boy chalking hopscotch grids into dingy grey driveways, but he can spend his days and nights piecing together his life, an intricate jigsaw puzzle. He has friends, his own apartment, an ambition, the talent for it, and it seems as if there are a mere few pieces he just can't seem to find. They may not exist yet, but he knows deep within himself that he needs to find them before he can be truly content. People tell him he should choose a single medium to work with, bring the images that waltz in his head to life by brushstroke or the sweep of a pencil.

But how can he? There is so much to be discovered, to be crafted in so many different ways. He could work with photography and film, capturing a love story in soft light with a quiet piano medley soft in the background. Or capture the warm russets of an autumn's day in strokes of a brush. Sometimes he wants to bring vibrant eyes and the curves and angles of a human face to life with indistinct sweeps of a pencil. There's no way set out for him to simply choose, and he will continue to work between every medium until one captures his attentions.

The day his instructor, a short woman by the name of Helen, with a constant smear of pale blue chalk across her cheek and fine lines sketched in at the corners of her mouth and eyes from years of laughing, walks into their classroom and announces they'll be sculpting for the next few months, is a day just like any other.

"Okay, my darlings, you all have enough clay and the necessary tools in front of you to sculpt the bust of the most beautiful person you can think of," she says in a her sweet voice, smiling around at them all. "They can be real, they can be imaginary, they can be an idealised version of someone real, anything you want. It can be someone you see romantically, as a friend, as part of your family, even someone you hate with a passion. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

Blaine glances around as he automatically takes up his chisel, hoping that someone else might be having a problem with this sudden assignment. He thinks people are beautiful, his friends with their vitality and laughing eyes, but they're not the most beautiful to him. But everyone else already seems absorbed in their own visions, heads and necks and shoulders beginning to coalesce from simple blocks of clay. It strikes him then, how lonely he's been his whole life, without someone to wrap an arm around him and press a gentle kiss to his lips and tell him that everything can untangle itself and he'll be alright.

Determined not to droop into self-pity, Blaine simply lets himself sculpt, everything falling away around him into only the soft sounds of him chipping at the clay, the figure forming beneath his skilled hands. Each morning for seven days, he arrives in class and pulls the work in progress from under its damp cloth to continue working, watching this man emerge beneath his reverent touch.

They begin early on the eighth day, but it seems like only seconds later that Helen returns to the quiet studio and calls for a halt, and Blaine lays down his tools and pushes his hair back from his sweat-glazed forehead, standing back to look at his creation.

To a first glance, this sculpture appears a mere man. But, to Blaine, he's a perfect, beautiful man, his pale lips frozen in a half-smile that makes Blaine's heart flutter like a hummingbird's wings against his breastbone, eyes as blank as any statues but somehow still boring into Blaine, tugging at something deep within him. He simply can't tear his eyes away, though he knows Helen will take this beautiful creation away to be graded, and he won't get it back.

When she bustles over to him, smiling eagerly, he lies through his teeth as he says, "My sculpture smashed, can I take another block and some tools home and work on another sculpture over the weekend?"

"Of course, you can collect another block from storage room B," she says sweetly, giving him a small smile. "That's awfully sad, your first sculpture seemed to be coming out beautifully." Blaine just nods as she clucks sympathetically and moves on.

It takes an age to carefully carry the statue out to his car and tuck him securely into the backseat, find another block of clay and the necessary tools to work on a lacklustre sculpture to hand in as this first assignment, drive achingly slowly back to his apartment to avoid jostling the angel forming beneath the touch of his fingertips, and transfer everything into the tiny studio, concentrating the bright lights on the clay as he takes up his tools and begins to sculpt once more.

But it's worth it as the statue forms beneath Blaine's fingers, elegant neck and broad shoulders emerging from the silver-grey clay until the coming of the dawn creeps into the studio and Blaine turns in for the night. His dreams are entangled and confused, filled with images of the beautiful man, pale lips cool against Blaine's, voice soft and lyrical, hands and words chasing away the bitter loneliness burnt deep into his heart.

Tuesday comes, and he hands in another statue, a woman with the features of the friends and family he holds dear joined in perfect harmony within her, and Helen looks it over with a sceptical eye. "I have to admit, Blaine, I expected more of you," she says softly, her eyes heavy with disappointment. "I just don't see your passion in this piece, and I'm so used to it from you. There was clearly so much vitality in your first piece, I am truly saddened that it smashed and you couldn't reproduce that raw style."

Blaine nods, bows his head and promises to do better, but he cannot truly find it within himself to be disappointed in his lacklustre performance. She doesn't see raw passion or blazing vitality in this sculpture that he spent minimum time on because it just isn't there. It's with the angel rendered in ethereal silver-grey, standing in his studio, blank eyes gazing longingly at the door, waiting for Blaine to walk in once more, bring that beautiful man to life with the reverent touch of his hands.

The sun rises and falls, the moon waxes and wanes, and Blaine continues work on the angel, forming slender fingers, shapely legs, a narrow waist, every feature something he's once dreamed of finding in a daydream of perfection. The sky is dyed with blood red on the tenth day of his conception when Blaine looks into the eyes that dig into the deepest parts of his soul and slowly unravel him and hears, "Kurt," spilling from his lips like a benediction. It's beautiful, glowing in the darkness of his mind, heavy with echoes of tenderness, as if he loved someone with that name in a life long forgotten, the tendrils of it still twining into his skin.

Years of longing for such a man pour out through the skilled movement of his fingers, the soft chink of his chisel in the early hours of the morning as the moon gazes balefully down, her sweet face shrouded in pale cloud. Hope for such a man flows into the slight smile on Kurt's face, the elegant sweep of his hair, his cocked hip where he stands confident. Salt slicks the smooth curve of his waist while Blaine works tirelessly through the night, loneliness weighing heavy on him, his tears darkening the clay as he leans his head against Kurt's side and cries. Love dictates the precise work as he carves Kurt's face, soft lips and a sharp jawline, eyes gazing steadfastly at Blaine, pleading with him to make Kurt utterly perfect, so no other creation of man will compare to his beauty.

He begins to talk with Kurt on the eighteenth day, hands moving gently over his arms and chest and face, shaping each perfectly, touch delicate, so as not to ruin him, as he tells him stories from his childhood, fragments of colours and sounds in his memory that he fills in with fancies, leaning his forehead against Kurt's as he finishes each tale and wishing desperately that Kurt could smile sweetly back at him and kiss him softly. Those blank eyes gaze on him as he weaves fantastic tales, every silent gap in the conversation weighing heavy on Blaine's heart, making him wish fervently that Kurt could slip an arm around him, kiss his forehead, respond with a biting wit to make Blaine snort out a laugh and silence musical giggles with a kiss.

Kurt twines through his dream, large, pale palms skimming across Blaine's skin, lips warm and sweet against Blaine's, morning seeing Blaine awake with an erection straining against his boxers and sweat cooling on his skin. He's calling out for Kurt with groans on sleeping lips every night, cheeks burning with shame when he curls his hand around himself gazing at the perfect lines of the body that mocks him because he knows Kurt is just a fantasy, and he needs warm flesh moving beneath his hands, Kurt's pale body matched to his, both of them able to give everything to each other.

On the twenty-fifth day, Blaine adds a few finishing touches to the sleek length of Kurt's foot, lips stretching wide around a yawn, and lays down his tools, scratching lazily at his stomach beneath his shirt as he tugs the blanket over himself on the sofa bed in his studio, sinking into the soft material as his eyes drift closed. His dreams are bright with Kurt, his eyes very blue and lips swollen and wet with kissing, voice soft and lyrical as his mouth brushes the sensitive skin beneath Blaine's ear and he whispers promises of forever to him, hands stroking in gentle circles over the thin skin stretched across his hipbones. They're skin to skin, cocooned in the solid warmth of each other's bodies, hearts and souls bared, nothing but love reflected in brightly shining eyes.

When the darkness of the studio summons Blaine back, he awakes with a groan, trying desperately to cling to the tendrils of his perfect dream, even as they escape him like water running from cupped hands. He finally opens his eyes, surrendering to a life not half as beautiful as his dreams, to feel a soft touch ghost across his cheek, slender fingers tracing the line of his cheekbone, curving against his jaw, turning his head to press lips against his. Smooth, hard, cold lips, moving against his as if they have been all his life, and Blaine's eyes fall shut of their own volition, his hands rising to cup the face of the man kissing him.

The kiss finally breaks, Blaine's head spinning and his heart fluttering hummingbird-quick against his ribs, and he looks up into blank eyes, a faint smile on silver-grey lips, strong arms holding a beautifully carved body suspended above his own. Kurt, come to life, lowering his body onto Blaine's and simply lying there, head pressed against Blaine's chest. His skin seems to glow ethereally in the darkness, alight with the force of Blaine's passion, as Blaine's hands caress reverently over all the skin he can reach, pressing a soft kiss to Kurt's still lips and murmuring, "Kurt...you're beautiful in the dark."

Kurt doesn't say anything back, can't say anything, just looks up at Blaine with his eyes boring into him, the tenderness Blaine imagines in his gaze rushing through him as he wraps himself in those arms, kissing aimlessly at Kurt's fingers as sleep finds him again. It's a peaceful, dreamless sleep, the first for days, feeling Kurt's breath warm against the back of his neck and his hand solid at the notch of his waist.

When sunlight sears across Blaine's face, and he awakes, Kurt is back on his stand, frozen once more, his eyes staring ahead. But Blaine knows it wasn't a dream, his entire body still tingling with Kurt's touch, and he takes up his tools and goes to work, sweat shining on his twisting limbs as he shapes Kurt's throat so he may speak, and carves a deeper line between his lips, parting them slightly, enough to tempt him to press a sweet kiss to grey lips. He wants to go deeper, carve out a perfect mouth, but he can't figure out how to do it without breaking him.

Yet it doesn't matter. With the moon pale in the sky that night, her innocent face shrouded in cloud, Blaine awakes again to lips against his shoulder, moving meticulously across every inch of his neck before finding his mouth. Kurt smiles, showing off small, neat teeth, and brushes errant strands of hair back from Blaine's forehead. He whispers, "Hello," and Blaine nearly weeps, overjoyed as he pulls Kurt down to kiss him, combing his hand through Kurt's unbelievably soft hair

His cheeks are damp when Kurt's pulls back, and he tentatively brushes the tears away with gentle fingers, asking, "Why are you sad? Does this not make you happy?"

"I'm crying because I'm happy," Blaine promises, and reverently cups. But Kurt tilts his head, obviously unable to hear him, and just leans down to kiss Blaine's salt-slick skin.

The days pass on like that. Each morning, Blaine awakes to find Kurt back on his stand, frozen in place, and spends all his time from morning to night working on him, making him perfect. He carves him ears and a nose, so he can hear the sweet words Blaine murmurs to him as they lie together in the moonlight. It takes him days to finally complete his angelic face, debating whether he should make his eyes obsidian or jade or smoky or aquamarine or champagne, and finally chooses a mingled canvas of blues and greens and greys, painstakingly painting in eyebrows and eyelashes. The hours pass in the rise and fall of the sun and moon as he carves Kurt fingerprints and lines of muscle, paints freckles and skin so he can feel Blaine's gentle touches on him. Every day he evolves, and every night they find new ways to be together.

Blaine sits at Kurt's side while he curiously peruses atlases and history books and encyclopedias, in awe of the world he's being introduced into, exploring every inch of the apartment, amazed by colours and dust motes dancing in streaming moonbeams. He aches to make Kurt flawless, an angel to be his for all eternity, and life seems to melt away. It doesn't matter anymore. Nothing does, but for making Kurt perfect.

Then the inevitable happens, something Blaine had dreaded. They're lying in bed in the early hours of the morning, the cool tips of Kurt's fingers exploring Blaine's hand and arm, gliding gently against his skin, completely absorbed in their task, when Blaine kisses Kurt's shoulder and whispers, "I love you."

Kurt glances up, eyes bright, and leans his cheek against Blaine's bare chest, curling like a cat into his warmth. "I love you too," he replies softly, and Blaine leans down to kiss him, pulling him into his arms.

He honestly never meant to. But Kurt feels so real against him, his solid body pressing Blaine down into the mattress, that he just wants more, and he loses himself for a moment, clutches Kurt a little too tight. Kurt pulls back with a hiss, and when Blaine looks down he sees five small cracks on both of Kurt's arms, haphazardly zig-zagging out from beneath his fingers. "Kurt, I'm so sorry, did I hurt you?" he asks, snapping his hands back as if he's been burned, eyes wide and guilty tears on the brink of falling.

"No, because I'm not real!" Kurt snaps, and wrestles himself from the tangle of blankets, standing before Blaine with only the sheet wrapped around his waist, eyes blazing dark with anger. "I can't feel pain, Blaine! I can't cry the way you do, or be overjoyed the way you always are when I wake up for you, and I don't understand what love is! It's killing me that I can't give you everything you need, and I want to scream every time you try to keep making me perfect! I'll never be perfect, Blaine!"

"I can try harder, you will be perfect one day," Blaine promises, reaching for Kurt's hand. He pulls it away, and Blaine's heart breaks, a tear spilling down his cheek as he stares up at Kurt. "I love you. You're everything I need."

"Whether you admit it or not, you know that's not true," Kurt says softly, reaching out to ghost his hand against Blaine's cheek. "You need someone real, someone warm and soft, who won't break when you hold them too tightly. I need to be finished and marked, and you have to let me go, and love someone who knows how to love you back." He wipes a tear away, and kisses Blaine forehead, lips lingering a second too long before he pulls away. "Please, Blaine, do this for me. I don't want to be trapped like this, only able to be with you in the night. Finish me, and let me go."

"I don't want to," Blaine murmurs petulantly. But, looking at Kurt's stricken face, his eyes heavy with a sadness he doesn't understand, he knows what he must do. Kurt can never truly be happy as long as he's forced to live this way: trapped in limbo in the daylight, only able to live and learn and love under cover of nightfall.

So, as soon as the first pale light of morning strikes the window pane, and Kurt freezes once more to his stand, Blaine takes up his tools for the last time. He makes Kurt perfect, and carves a neat BDA against the fine bones of his ankle. Tears slip down his face as he lays down his tools and washes the thin layer of clay dust clinging to his skin away, and watches Kurt set. Watches the sculpture set. Love peels away in painful strands, and he becomes nothing more than dry clay in the sunlight streaming through the windows.

And Blaine accepts it, slowly letting the reality seep into his skin. Kurt is gone, and Blaine has let him go.

Tossing and turning relentlessly in bed that night, lost in what could have been, his heart unable to understand what his head knows is right, crying out for Kurt's cool touch and sweet lips on his skin, Blaine feels the bed sink a little beside him, and a warm touch against his temple, breath against his hair. He rolls over and finds those beautiful eyes gazing at him, such warmth and tenderness in their depths, and has to viciously bite the inside of his cheek to keep from crying.

"You're supposed to stop this," he whispers, feeling broken up inside, as Kurt's arms slip around him and pull him closer, holding him in the cradle of Kurt's slender body. "The magic was supposed to stop when I finished the sculpture, you can't keep coming back to me."

"Oh, Blaine, I thought you would understand," Kurt whispers, and leans over Blaine, warm and soft against him. "Can't you see that I'm not a statue any more? You sacrificed your happiness, keeping me close, by letting me go, and that brought the magic full circle. As long as you tried to make me perfect, I could never be real, because no one is perfect. But leaving me unfinished, and imperfect, that made me real. You brought me to life the moment you put your mark on me." He brings his knees sliding up the mattress, the sheets rustling beneath them, to show Blaine the slight silvery lines on his ankle, not spelling out anything specific, but there andbeautiful.

"I love you," Blaine whispers, taking Kurt's face between his hands. "It's like flying and falling at the same time, and I never want to hit the ground or the sky, because that would mean leaving you, and you're the most perfect thing in this imperfect world."

"I know, Blaine, I understand," Kurt soothes him, smiling down at him with a sweet smile on his lips, ghosting his fingers over Blaine's chest and stomach, down his arms, memorising every inch of him through the flat pink palms of his hands. "I love you too."

And now, on the fifty-seventh day, Kurt leans into Blaine, concrete and warm and soft and there in Blaine's arms, and presses a halo of kisses to the skin beneath which his heart beats fast, pressing his hand flat to Blaine's cheek and drawing him in for a kiss.