It's been a long time since Kurt has been here: Blaine's bedroom. The honey gold of the afternoon sun is always warmer here. Dust motes swim in the parallelogram of light upon the plaid duvet. Hunter green striped wallpaper follows the odd geometry of the space. Reflected in the mirror is the bed, the room, himself. Familiar spines of books, arranged in the same order as always, ranks of colors, authors, and titles. Toy cars, old cameras, trophies with horses, and wind up robots. An old map. Men fencing. Men playing polo. Old friends. Beside the bed, upon the night table, is an hourglass, resting. There's also the Blackglama photo of himself, near the clock like a mid-century satellite. In the quiet, Kurt hears it tick. He picks up the hourglass; it's fragile: the shell of it cool and thin in his hands. He turns it over and sets it back down, leaves his fingerprints upon the glass, and watches the sand fall. It looks like it's trying to race the sound of the clock.

He's still feeling like the wrong shape on the inside; his heart still feels like it's out of time, too fast, missing the right rhythm. As he lets himself inhale the familiar fresh linens scent of Blaines room, he places his bag on the chair where it's always gone, and then he sits on the bed and bends to untie his shoes. Blaine is downstairs, talking to his mother. She's going out soon. They'll be alone here, and Kurt has no idea what to expect. The week has been hard, and while they seem to be through the worst of it, it's still not easy. Everything feels so delicate.

Blaine's eyes were still watery in the car; his lips still threatened to twist with sadness though he smiled for Kurt. Kurt's never seen Blaine like this, so raw edged, sniffing back his unshed tears and unable to hold Kurt's gaze for long. Kurt's promise in Emma's office this afternoon—”You're not going to lose me”—was spoken with all the truth of Kurt's heart, but he worries that for Blaine, the words are less than Kurt wants them to be. He's not sure Blaine feels it, but he doesn't have any better words to give him other than “I love you” and “I promise you”.

But it's words that they've lacked. They've both been keeping secrets, trying to avoid some smaller pains only to accidentally cause a bigger one. But they're not broken. Bruised maybe. Kurt certainly feels it inside, the tender hurt of the impact, the things Blaine said to him in anger earlier in the week, but even more, the things he confessed in anguish today. Kurt's said some unkind things this week, too.

His phone hums from the outer pocket of his bag. Kurt gets up to check it, thumbs the volume back on as he does. It's a text from Blaine: “Mom's gone, but I'll be a few minutes. Making snacks.”

“Okay,” Kurt texts back. “I'll be here.” He goes back to his bag and digs out his notebook and textbooks. He'll aim for as normal as possible, so Blaine will know they're okay. Maybe he can get a start on his English essay: Poetry During the Industrial Revolution in England. He tosses his study materials onto the bed.

Then he unbuttons his suit jacket, slips it off, and hangs it on the coat rack near Blaine's door. His fingers find the familiar texture of Blaine's winter coat hanging there too, his scarf, as well as the green cardigan he wore yesterday when Kurt sang to him. It's soft in Kurt's hands, and he can smell the warm citrus spice traces of Blaine's cologne as he bends his head near. He closes his eyes and stands there for a time, breathing, concentrating on the fine knit between his fingers, trying not to think too much about how close he came to losing this. Reminds himself they're okay. They are. That doesn't mean his eyelashes aren't damp when he opens his eyes.

He goes back to the bed, lies upon his stomach with his feet kicked up behind him, and pulls his books near. The clock ticks counterpoint to the scratch of his pen. Kurt loses himself in his concentration, the sweep of his pen, the shape of each letter and thought. He doesn't notice how long Blaine's been gone until he's dragged back out of his own mind by the sound of Blaine's tread upon the stairs. He looks up from the several pages of notes he's filled. Blinks at the door before it opens. Has a weird sudden flashback of lying in a similar position wondering, “Don't you ever get the urge for us to rip each others' clothes off?” answered by an emphatic, obvious, “Well, yeah,” and the hot stomach-knotting declaration, “That's why they invented masturbation.”

Kurt exhales shakily and sits up, folding his knees beneath himself. It feels like million years ago he was caught in that ambivalence: wanting so badly and afraid to want. Blaine comes in, carefully balancing a tray on one hand as he turns the door knob.

The scent of fresh baked cookies, of vanilla and caramelized sugar and rich melted chocolate, comes in with Blaine. “Oh,” Kurt breathes. There are two mugs upon the tray. Kurt smells coffee, too, sharp and bitter.

“Sorry,” Blaine says, “for taking so long.”

“Don't be,” Kurt says. “You baked cookies?”

Blaine smiles, a little tight and nervous. “I promised you at Christmas I would.”

“They smell amazing.”

“I didn't want you to think I'd forgotten,” Blaine says.

“I didn't,” Kurt says. “Think that.”

Blaine sets the tray on the bed between them. Kneels as he turns one of the mugs—the one with milk—so the handle is angled toward Kurt. Blaine's gaze comes up to meet Kurt's. It's steadier and calmer than it has been. The light of the sun is behind him, limning the edges of him, the sleek shine of his hair, the fine fuzz of his sweater, the strong shape of his jaw. “Do you remember what else I promised you?”

Kurt nods and wraps both hands around his cup.

“I meant it, all of it. I still do.”

Kurt nods again, sips and swallows. “Okay.”

“I'm sorry if you felt like maybe I didn't.”

Kurt lets his gaze rest on the surface of his coffee. “I'm sorry for not talking to you when I felt...” Kurt can't help his lip curling with distaste around the word. “...unwanted. I just thought, maybe, the shine had worn off. Maybe I wasn't as interesting to you anymore, and I. I didn't know what to do. You kept blowing me off and not wanting to—”

Strange echo again, of the time before. Kurt bites his lip, looks at Blaine. These were the things he couldn't say in Emma's office. They need to be said. “I was afraid it was because I'd become boring to you. Sexually.”

Blaine looks stunned. “Kurt, no, that really wasn't it.”

“I thought...” Kurt sighs. “I worried I wasn't satisfying you any longer, maybe I didn't really know how to. Maybe I was selfish, or just incompetent.” Kurt sets the mug back down on the tray. “I didn't know why, Blaine, but it felt like you didnt want me anymore.”

“Kurt,” Blaine says sadly.

“It just. Blaine, you're the only person who's ever wanted me. Like that. Physically. But then I thought maybe you didn't after all, not really, not once I'd run out of tricks, or whatever.” Kurt shrugs.

“Of course I still want you,” Blaine says; theres strange note of almost panic in his voice. “God, Kurt, most of the time I worry that I want you too much. That I shouldn't actually want you as much as I do because it's too much to need you like I do sometimes.” Blaine presses his hands between his thighs, and his shoulders hunch up as his gaze glances off Kurts. “Its like I have to learn how to go without, because I dont know if I can survive your being gone if I can't learn how to get through a day without you being there to look at me and speak to me and... and touch me and—” Blaine breaks off with a distressed hiccup, but he doesn't seem finished so Kurt doesn't interject.

Blaine calms his breathing, speaks more softly. “Sometimes I feel like, if you're not here to look at me, I'll just... disappear. Like if you're not able to talk to me and touch me and fill me up, I'll...” Blaine makes a helpless gesture with his hands. Bows his head for a moment. When he looks back up, Kurt can see all the desire and all the fear in his eyes. “When you're with me, Kurt, like really with me, during sex. It makes me feel real in a way I never have before. It makes me feel like—”

"Like what?"

"Like Im precious. To you."

All Kurt can think to do is reach out for Blaine's hand. All he can think to say is, “Oh, Blaine. You are so precious to me. Youre the best thing in my life.”

Blaine turns his hand in Kurt's, squeezes around his fingers. “You are for me, too.”