Early Spring 2013

The first text vibrates Kurts cell phone while hes on the office line with Helen, a buyer at Bloomingdales. He watches his phone buzz its way across a stack of glossy printed photos while Helen tells him about the trials of paper training her new puppy. Kurt stares out his office window, tracing the bright shapes of the afternoon light upon the buildings across the street while backtracking through the conversation to determine how exactly an inquiry about which dyes the Italian wool makers are using this coming winter ended up turning into the details of her puppys personal habits.

Then his attention drifts to the stack of reading waiting on his desk at home. He needs to start his research paper for Acting Class on the classical origins of theater.

His phone buzzes again, within a minute, and then again within seconds. With a frown, Kurt swivels his chair, reaches for it and turns it over. Three texts from Blaine. He taps through to read while offering affirmative comments to Helen on the other end of the phone.

"there were 2 gunshots at school," reads the first text.

Then follows, "pls dont call or txt back we have to stay quite."

"quiet," reads the third.

A fourth arrives shortly after: "were ok locked in choir room w mr s and coach b but idk where tina or britt are."

Whatever is left of Kurts lunch petrifies in his stomach and sinks, dense and cold. "Im sorry, Helen," Kurt interrupts. His voice sounds distant and robotic to his own ears. "Something urgents come up. Ill call you back." He disconnects the call before she can reply.

With numb fingers and his heart cringing on the verge of panic, Kurt dials his Dad with one hand and wakes his computer with the other.

.

Isabelle sends him home with a hug; Kurt is grateful that she insists, for he cant tear his attention away from Twitter and the local news live blogs. He plants himself on the couch with Rachel, his laptop and phone, with MSNBC on the television. Neither of them talk much, just lean against each other while picking distractedly at a bowl of Doritos. Kurt spends a lot of time remembering how to breathe and forcing his muscles to unclench.

His Dad is on a plane back to Lima already. There are S.W.A.T. Teams, room by room evacuations, and no reported injuries or deaths. In the local aerial footage, they think they spot Tina among the students outside. Kurt sends her a text, but he gets no response.

The perpetrator remains unknown. No one finds a gun or a gunman. As soon as the all clear is given, Kurt calls Blaine, but it goes straight to voicemail, so his phone is off—flat battery maybe—or hes talking to someone else. Kurt leaves a garbled message, mostly consisting of relief and concern and, "Ive been watching the news. Please call me when you can," and too much hesitation over the urge to say, I love you so much, and saying instead, "Im so glad youre safe."

Blaine doesnt call him back that day. Or the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that. Kurt gets a few texts, explaining Blaines tired and feeling off, just trying to get through the rest of the week, but hes okay. Hes okay; he just cant talk yet. Kurt tells him thats fine, even though his need to hear Blaines voice crawls within him like an urgent unreachable itch. But he tells Blaine, of course its fine. He just wants to know Blaine is safe and okay. If theres anything Kurt can do, anything at all, at any time, let him know. Just call. Hell keep his phone on.

The five hundred miles between them feels like five hundred light years. And Kurts never been less certain about their friendship. Which feels selfish, because Blaines the one whos suffered the trauma, not Kurt. And yet, theres a brand new horror prickling in Kurts chest. It tangles up his innards and has him restless, anxious, and tearful when hes not distracting himself with work, study, or practice.

Because losing Blaine like that? Just the few hours where it felt like a possibility, made Kurt rage inside, made him want to fly, like a superhero, back to Ohio and tear down the bricks of William H. McKinley High School with his bare hands, made him want to scream at the injustice until his throat bled. Made him want to find the gunman and dash his brains out on the pavement and do unspeakable things to his corpse.

And then it made him want to find his friends and find Blaine and never let him go. But all Kurt could do was sit on the sofa silently and hold too tightly to Rachels hand.

When its over, they together cry in relief. But Kurt still has the flaccid, ugly shape his anger has left, and nothing to do with it but try to swallow all the reasons for it having been there.

Adam texts him, concerned, offering to bring food and distractions—or to take Kurt out for food and distractions. Kurt only replies once, to say hes fine but busy, and hell be in touch on the weekend. Theres nothing else he can think of to say to Adam, nothing at all, not even the most banal pleasantries. More than that, he doesnt want to be feeling the way hes feeling in Adams company. Avoiding him in the NYADA halls makes Kurt feel like a fugitive, but he doesnt want to see Adam at all, doesnt want to have to talk to him. The realization isnt one he relishes, but he cant think what to do with it yet. He likes Adam, doesnt he?

Even when Sue Sylvester turns herself in, explains to the press with uncharacteristic sobriety, that the gun was hers, the firing was accidental, it doesnt change much of Kurts internal landscape. He isnt even all that surprised.

.

Its Friday afternoon and his father is on C-SPAN, on the floor of the House, giving an impassioned speech advocating for the passage of a new bill to ban teachers from keeping firearms in public schools. He looks tired, and Kurt knows his treatments are going well. But, god, he looks so tired.

It goes about as well as Kurts expected, when the gun lobby owns the majority of the politicians voting.

Later, that same evening, in an interview on Fox News (and Kurt had called his Dad begging him not to go on Fox, but his Dad had insisted, said going into the enemy camp was the only chance he had at changing minds). His Dad has to fend off attacks accusing him of too much personal bias on the issue because this happened at his sons old school.

His father explains that his personal bias is exactly the right amount for him to speak for any parent in America. His bias is important and essential because this isnt an issue to intellectualize away, not when our children are at risk. Of course its personal, theres little more personal than the lives of our families. His sons friends are still in that school, among them a boy whod lived with his family for a year and his sons boyfriend. All of our children deserve safety, and its the responsibility of the adults making the laws to bear that responsibility, not to let their consciences be bought by the NRA.

The Fox interviewer isnt kind. The pettiness, the fallacies, the abstraction of issues so far beyond their actual human relevance reignite the slow burn of Kurts anger. He takes to the internet, stays up until one AM, arguing under various aliases that cant be attached to his real identity or to his father, only to stop when he realizes its not making an iota of difference. Opinion polls already show widespread support for his Dads bill, but itll never pass, even though the list of willing co-sponsors contains nearly every Democrat Kurt can recognize by name and face. It doesnt matter. His father cant win this fight; it was over before its begun. Kurts anger burns down, snuffs out into resignation. Its time for bed.

And though hes watched the recording of his Dads interview several times that night, Kurt doesnt once notice his Dad had left the ex- off "boyfriend".

.

Kurts cell phone rings shortly after hes crawled into bed; its just after two in the morning. Kurt squints at the screen, bright in the dark. Then his eyes widen, and he quickly taps the screen to answer.

"Blaine," he says before hes got enough air for volume. "Hi."

"Did I wake you?" Blaine asks. His voice is soft down the line, tentative in a way Kurt cant identify.

But it doesnt matter: the sound of Blaines voice sinks warm relief into Kurts body, settles the restlessness thats been crawling beneath his skin for days. He sits, pulling his covers up to his shoulders and adjusting his grip on the phone. "Gosh, no actually. Its fine, Im fine, um, wow, its so good to hear from you. Ive been so worried. How are you?"

"Im... Actually, I dont know," Blaine says, wry and still quiet, almost as if hes afraid someone might overhear him. "Im not really fine, but Im okay. I saw your Dad on TV tonight."

"Oh, yeah, well, that was..." Kurt trails off with a resigned sigh.

"He was amazing, but those guys are jerks, and theyre wrong," Blaine says with more volume and startling fierceness. Then more quietly again: "Im sorry they were so awful to him."

"Me too," Kurt says. Works his jaw against the tension growing there. He doesnt want to indulge this frustration while talking with Blaine. It doesnt seem fair. He just wants to... What does he want? The longing in his chest is strong, but unspecific. Hes got no clue how to satisfy it, or even if its something that should be satisfied. Hes quiet for too long.

"Are you okay?" Blaine asks.

Kurt laughs at that, after Blaines week, that hes so sweetly asking Kurt this. "Ive got a surplus of impotent anger, but what else is new?" Kurt tries to settle more comfortably into his pillows. The window in the living room is open a few inches to allow the spring breeze in. It lets in, too, the rhythmic rumble and swoosh of the street sweeper. Kurt watches its flashing golden lights strobe across the curtain of his room.

Its several long moments before Blaine speaks. When he does, he says simply, "I love you."

Kurt cant rally a response quickly enough before Blaine continues, "Thats why I called you, Kurt. I just... needed to tell you."

"I love you, too," Kurt finally says, but it sounds too glib, less than it should. Means even less than he wants it too, after this week, because letting it mean everything he wants it to in this moment is more feeling than his heart can channel. Its like hes run out of emotional bandwidth, all the nauseating anxiety of the week, the despair of his own impotency in protecting the people he loves. He does love Blaine, and right now thats making him exhausted and confused and weirdly lost.

"Yeah," Blaine says, "but..."

Kurt hears him let out a shaky breath. "But?"

"Its not the same is it?" Blaine asks, a fragile thread of sadness in the tentative words.

"The same as what?" Kurt asks, because he doesnt want to assume.

Theres a soft, exasperated huff from Blaine. "Are you still seeing your New York guy?"

"Yes," Kurt says, though it feels like a half-truth; trying to explain all of that mess to Blaine is the last thing either of them need. "But I dont want to talk about him with you."

"Of course not," Blaine says with unexpected rancor. Then he sighs, and Kurt imagines Blaine closes his eyes. He continues in a gentler tone. "I just... I need to know, Kurt, what am I to you now? When you say you love me, what does it mean? When you took me to bed on Valentines Day, what did that mean to you? Because I know you well enough to know that it didnt mean nothing."

"It means... It meant—" Kurt breaks off, twists his fingers into the bedding tight enough to ache, and he tries not to remember too much about that night (but remembers it anyway). "Blaine," he tries to start again. Hes ill prepared for this conversation, but he tries to find words for things he only knows by feeling, not by logic. "Youre... so special to me. I care about you."

"Then why are you still dating him?" Its accusatory enough, Kurt flinches.

"Look, if youre jealous, I cant do this with you."

"Im not jealous, Kurt. I have no right to be jealous, but I am confused."

"Is this really what you want to talk about tonight? I thought we were okay?"

"No, god, I thought we were too, but lately. Well, this week—"

"Whats this about, Blaine? Its not really about Adam, is it?"

"Um," Blaine says, and theres a tremor in his voice.

Kurt asks, "Are you okay?"

A sniff. "No, not really."

"Honey—"

"Dont call me that if you dont mean it." The words snap sharp down the line between them.

Kurt chews his lip. "Are you mad at me?"

"No, Im not mad. Im—"

"Hey," Kurt says, and he pulls his legs up, tucking his knees up as close to his chest as he can. "Blaine, whatever it is..." he says and trails off, uselessly smoothing the blankets over his bent knees with his free hand. He cant say its okay—he cant even say we can talk about it, because didnt he just say there are things he does not want to talk about? "Blaine," Kurt tries again. "Im here for you, okay?"

"Monday," Blaine says so softly.

"Do you want to tell me about Monday?"

"I wish I could just forget it ever happened. Even knowing now that it was Coach Sylvesters gun and no one got hurt, that we werent ever in actual danger— It doesnt make it all okay. I keep thinking about the other, worse scenarios, and I—" Blaine breaks off with a hiccup.

"That makes sense to me," Kurt offers.

"But some people are just like, get over it, no one got hurt, and I just... none of us really are? Over it. I mean, like Sam, hes really struggling, and I dont know what to do to help him, and I feel so inadequate, just within myself, not being able to do anything to help him."

"You are helping him," Kurt says, and his voice has gone thin and high. He sounds too young to be offering wisdom or comfort. "Im sure you are, just by being his friend, right?" Kurt tries to think of what his father used to say to him when he was mired in sadness and doubt. But none of it seems to fit this. And it doesnt seem appropriate to tell Blaine hes been feeling so powerless too. "Hindsight doesnt change what you experienced," he says. "Whatever you felt then is real, Blaine."

"Yeah," Blaine says. "Ive never been more scared in my life. I dont even know how to describe it. I honestly believed someone was going to die. Violently. That I was going to die, and part of me hoped Id be first so I wouldnt have to watch my friends—" This time Blaines sob is unmistakable.

"Oh, Blaine..." Tears of sympathy well up hot. Kurt closes his eyes and listens to the growl of the sweeper outside, and inside his ear, Blaines ragged breaths. He wishes it were possible to wish himself home in this moment, by virtue of wanting it so badly. But the world has never quite worked that way.

"Everyone was so scared, Kurt. And then someone, um, Artie maybe? I cant remember. But they started making recordings for their families, to say good bye, you know, and talk about the things they were leaving behind, the secrets their families should know. And then all I could think about was how much I didnt actually want to die at all, and how I still had so much I had to do and how sorry I was... I didnt want to make a video of that. Saying good bye and apologizing for my mistakes.

"I kept thinking about all the ways Id let myself down and the people I love most, how I hadnt managed to become the person I want to be yet. All the things Id never have a chance to fix or finish."

Kurt wishes he could tell Blaine hes never let him down. But Blaine would know it for the lie it would be. "Youre too hard on yourself," Kurt says.

"No, Im really not," Blaine says, and its said with more conviction than self-pity. "I know what I did to you, Kurt." And the bitterness in Blaines voice is tinged with such vehemence, Kurt realizes, oh, thats it. Thats why Blaine called, seeking some kind of greater absolution from Kurt than hes already got.

Kurt meets Blaines words with a firm tone of his own, because he doesnt want Blaines guilt any more now than he did back at Christmas. He never truly wants it, and Blaine doesnt need to do this to himself. It doesnt help either of them. "I know what you did to me better than you do," Kurt says, "and Im telling you its not something I want you feeling guilt over. If Ive forgiven you, surely you can forgive yourself."

A humorless puff of laughter rustles down the line. "If youve forgiven me, then why arent we boyfriends again?"

Kurt stares at the dark angles of the ceiling. "Because, its not that simple."

"Is it because you dont love me anymore?"

"No," Kurt cant keep his irritation from prickling over his tongue. "Dont be ridiculous."

"But you dont love me the way you did, when you told me wed grow old together."

"I trusted you, and you broke my heart, do you really expect it to be the same? And how I feel about you doesnt matter when I dont know what I believe in anymore. I dont know if love is enough, if I can put myself through that again—not with you, not with anyone."

"Then why are you dating him?"

Kurts anger deflates. "Because hes kind, and hes patient, and because I dont know, and I want to find the answer. If its possible for me."

Silence for several long breaths. "And you think hes possible for you, but Im not?"

"Im telling you, I dont know."

"Will I ever be possible again for you, Kurt?"

"God, do we really have to talk about this again?"

"Again?" Blaine asks. "Weve never talked about this, Kurt. Its a simple enough question. Do you think we can ever be together again? Because you know thats what I want. I want to be with you, and I need to know if its possible, or if I should just... stop."

Kurt wants to say no, they cant be together again like Blaine wants, and maybe Blaine should stop hoping or waiting or whatever hes doing. But Kurt knows he cant say it and mean it, nor can he kill with words the persistent longing in his heart for Blaine. If it were that simple, hed be over it by now. He sighs, and speaks more gently. "I just dont know, Blaine. Maybe?"

"Maybe," Blaine echoes bitterly. "And if Id died on Monday, how would you remember me? As the boy who broke your heart and made it so you could never trust anyone enough to let yourself be in love again?"

"No," Kurt whispers.

But Blaine doesnt hear him. "You wonder why I cant forgive myself? When you tell me I damaged you like that? Youre the person I love most in the world, how could I? Kurt, I dont understand how I could do that, how could I leave you this way?"

"Blaine, Im not damaged," Kurt says, its the wrong word entirely. "Im—"

"I want to make it better, somehow. I just dont know how. But the thought of no longer being able to love you, to try to rebuild what we lost? To have left you with the memory of me as someone who hurt you so badly... I couldnt bear it."

"Blaine." Kurt cant hold his tears back any longer. "That isnt how I would remember you." Memories of Blaine are among the most carefully curated in Kurts collection.

"How would you then?" Soft and miserable, beseeching.

"Id remember you..." Kurt turns his face to his shoulder to wipe his tears. "Id remember the warmth of your smile and the love in your eyes." He sniffs and blinks, and he does remember as he speaks. "Id remember your hand reaching out to me, over and over again. Id remember how brave you were, and the way you held me." He doesnt want to think about this, the unthinkable possibilities this week has made him face, but he goes on anyway. Its what he does. Kurt even dredges up a weak smile. "All the times you surprised me."

"Really?" Blaine asks.

"Yes. Id remember the way you sang, how joyful you were, how bold and bright, and how it changed me. How passionate and generous you were, and how you made me feel so safe and alive." Kurt has to reach for a tissue to dab at his nose. "Blaine, Id miss you every single day of my life."

Blaine doesnt speak then, but Kurt can hear him crying softly. He pushes his hand through his hair, clenches his fist and tugs to find some relieving distraction from the way he aches with this inconsolable emotion. Its kin to grief, but thats not what it is. The terrible instinctive urge to reach out to Blaine is knotted so hard in his body, it feels impossible to endure it. How can it be so deeply rooted, like its always been a part of his make up, he just didnt know until he met Blaine. Blaines pain echoes in Kurts chest, wraps tight in his throat, stings and blurs his vision.

The silence drags too long, so Kurt says, his voice watery and wavering over the deeply felt truth of the sentiment: "I wish I could hold you, then maybe youd believe me. I want only good things for you, Blaine. I love you."

Theres a puff of breath in his ear followed by a wet sniff. "Do you know what I wish? I wish you could fuck me," Blaine says, low and soft and certain.

Kurt tips his head back until it collides with the unyielding wall behind him. He shivers. "Blaine." He cant tell if hes endorsing or protesting.

"Would you? If you were here? Kurt?"

And its like all the crazy emotion surging in his body just careened to a sudden halt. Kurt fumbles with the phone in his hand. Flushes hot with the flash of the thought, the imagining of it colored in with sharp, bright spiking memories of heat and laughter and ecstasy. But the sadness clings too, the terrible void of missing a lost thing never to be reclaimed in quite the same way. And its overlaid with the ghost of this weeks loss that, blessedly, fortunately, did not come to pass. But the visions playing across the eye of his memory overrun those bitter things. "I—" Kurt says, and he feels it, the tidal upsurge of the desire he cant banish. "If I were there, and you truly wanted it, and you asked me? Tonight, I would."

"I wish you were here," Blaine says fervently, though his voice is still thick with tears. "God, I just want to feel you, Kurt. Your skin, your heat, your hands on me. I want to smell you and taste you and feel you inside. I want you so much, sometimes I cant breathe. You have no idea how much I miss you."

"You can tell me, if you want to," Kurt says, scarce breath of his own, and he ventures cautiously, but with determination, because maybe he can give Blaine something tonight, something more than sadness and regret and persistent guilt. "What would I be doing with you if I were there?"

"Um," Blaine says. Kurt hears the rustle of sheets. Blaines breath. "Youre here, in my room, and its really dark. Theres no moon."

Kurt closes his eyes in the darkness of his own room, shuts out the street sweeper, and he imagines it. Blaines bedroom in the deep of the night. Hes been there before, its not a long journey back.

"Weve been sitting on the bed while we talk, like weve been talking. But were not touching, and I havent turned a light on. Were both crying, but Im crying more, and its getting hard to stop, so you lean over and you kiss me. I cant stop crying, but you keep kissing me anyway, and touching me, and youre moving closer, and it feels so good, to have your mouth on mine."

"I can taste your tears," Kurt says.

Blaine continues. "You unbutton my pajamas and get me naked. Then you undress too, and you tell me youre going to take care of me, that everything will be okay. You say you want me to lie down, on my belly. So I do that, and then... youre right there over me, and you dont—"

"Go on," Kurt encourages. "Tell me what Im doing."

"Theres no foreplay. You just... uh, lube up and push in, like, really slowly, so I feel all of you, everything. And, god, youre so huge pushing into me, I cant feel anything else but you."

Kurt believes every word of it. "God, you feel so good," Kurt says, and the memory of sinking into Blaines body flutters wildly in Kurts veins, timed to the pulse of his heart, and the heat runs heavily to his groin. But he doesnt touch himself; he listens. "You always do."

"Once youre all the way in, you dont move. You just settle your weight, your hands are on my shoulders and in my hair, your lips on my neck and cheek and mouth, and you hold me, and you talk to me, and I keep crying. You stay like that for a long time. Youre so warm and solid, and your skin is so smooth, and you keep talking to me as you start to move, like just barely, and I want more, but youre just holding me and moving slowly, and Im still crying a little bit and begging you, but you just... hold me like that, and you start to fuck me so gently even though Im aching for you to just drive into me so hard I cant think. And I keep asking you, Please, Kurt, please."

Despite himself, Kurt groans, and squirms down into his bed until hes flat on his back and his hand has drifted down to rest on his belly. "Youre so hard to resist when you beg so sweetly. Do I give in and fuck you as hard as youre wanting it? I know exactly how you like it."

"I know, but no, you wont let me go like that. You hold me back from it for so long, and the way youre holding me, I cant move, and youre so thick and hot, sliding so long and easy, and I can feel every inch of you. I cant quite come like this, but it feels so good, oh god, and I—"

When Blaine doesnt continue, Kurt prompts him again, "What?"

"Im not sure I even want to come, because I dont want it to be over. I want to keep feeling like this as long as possible, connected and held and..."

"And?"

"Cherished, like youll never let go of me again."

Kurts heart misses a beat, then pounds again hard, with strange urgency. "Oh, honey. I wish I could give you that." And he does wish for it, for the belief this will be possible again with Blaine someday. He wants it to be, and he cant deny it to himself tonight. Hes too tired of the fight. The counterpoint comes in a rush behind, unwanted yet unsurprising: hell never feel this way about Adam.

"Do you mean it?" Blaine asks.

It takes a long time to bring the word up from his lungs. Even longer to trust it upon his tongue as an assurance to Blaine. Its not even a promise; it cant be. But it is, no matter how Kurt resists it, true: "Yes," Kurt says.