“No…no…no…no…definitely not…hmm, maybe…on second thought, nope…”

Blaine looks at the bottom of his screen, at the number of photographs he has left to approve (or scrap, as he's done nine photos out of ten so far).

227.

He drops his head on his desk, knocking his forehead – bang, bang, bang - whining like a constipated toddler. Blaine's official title at Vogue is Assistant to the Senior Editor of the Trends Division in the Fashion Department…and he's throwing a tantrum. 

He can get away with having a childish fit like this, he thinks, because there's nobody else frickin' here!

He smacks his forehead a few more times until it really starts to sting, and then he stops, groaning progressively louder, close to screaming.

He leans back in his chair, pushing down on the floor with his heels and stretching his arms over his head, reclining as far as the chair will go. He rubs his tired eyes hard with the heels of his hands, then stares up at the ceiling until the pops of light and color flashing in front of him disappear. He runs a hand through his hair and looks over at the clock on the wall.

1:15.

And not the good kind of 1:15. Not the 1:15 in the afternoon that means he's just a little late for lunch, and if he runs out now he'll miss the rush and get his favorite table at his favorite deli – the one right by the window where he can people watch over a club sandwich on rye and a cherry Coke. No, this is the 1:15 that means he's been up for nearly twenty-four hours, that he should have been in bed hours ago, that he missed the season finale of his favorite show and will have to watch it on DVR after everyone in the office has already spilled all the spoilers.

Blaine has never been in the office this late and he doesn't particularly like it. During the day, Vogue is a bustling hive with people everywhere, talking and laughing and sometimes arguing, a world unto itself, buzzing with life. The whole building breathes with it, almost like it never sleeps.

But it does sleep, after nine p.m., when the last of the copy editors leaves for the night. For the first time ever, Blaine, pulling in extra hours to redo the centerfold layout at the last minute when the Chief Fashion Editor decided to go with a new angle to incorporate a hot new trend that blew-up via Internet yesterday, gets to see life at Vogue after hours.

Dull. Dull, dull, dull-ity dull as dishwater.

Blaine doesn't want to be there, but he can't really complain. His boss would have normally jumped on this grenade, but tonight is the first time the poor woman has had a date since her divorce was finalized three years ago. He wasn't going to let somebody else's whims stand in the way of what could be true romance. Besides, it's not like he really has anything better to do. Still, he doesn't want to spend all night looking through a whole sheaf of new photographs when the original layout took long enough to put together.

This new layout might end up being ahead-of-the-trend, but it's probably going to look like crap.

Blaine's beyond caring, too busy feeling bitter for not having anything better to do, no plans he needed to cancel, nowhere else he was expected to be.

No one who cares that he'll be home late.

Blaine sighs, lifting his heels and letting the chair bounce him back upright so he can return to his mundane work. Maybe if he can get it done in the next hour, he can get to his apartment before he has to be back at work again in the morning.

But he doubts it.

Thank goodness he keeps an extra pair of slacks and a shirt along with a toiletry kit in his office closet in case of an emergency, like a spur-of-the-moment luncheon or an impromptu meeting with an important designer.

Though his last clothing related emergency involved spilling mustard on his navy blue Marc Jacobs button down and not having a cardigan available to conceal the stain.

He really thought working at Vogue would be much more exciting than it actually is.

Blaine returns to his laptop, but the screen has gone dark.

“Ugh,” he grumbles, personally offended that his computer would go to sleep in the midst of his pouting. He reaches out for the touch pad to bring the photos back up, but he stops, his index finger paused an inch above. In the black of his screen he sees a reflection – a reflection he hadn't noticed with the pictures filling the screen. Behind him, out the window, sitting on the ledge, Blaine sees a man - his legs drawn up to his chest, staring off into the distance, dangerously close to the edge.

Blaine leans forward to take a closer look at the reflection, debating whether or not his exhausted mind is playing tricks on him. Realizing he can simply look out the window, he spins around in his chair to take a peek and sure enough, there's a man sitting on the ledge. The ledge looks rather wide – about five feet – but as Blaine watches on, the man inches a closer and looks over, looks down, leaning so far that Blaine is sure he's going to fall any minute.

What if that's his intention? What if he's come up to the roof to jump? They're nearly a thousand feet up and it's a sheer drop! It's a foregone conclusion that he wouldn't survive.

“What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?” Blaine mutters, turning frantically in his chair in search of a solution, some way to get help. He grabs his phone off the desk and makes the split decision to dial 9-1-1. He keeps his eyes glued to the man out the window as the phone rings, hoping he doesn't do anything hasty. “Pick up, pick up, pick up, someone please pick up.”

Blaine hears a click…and then his call gets disconnected.

“Fuck!” he yells, dialing 9-1-1 again. He sees the man stand up and walk further down the ledge, down to an area of the roof Blaine can't see from his office. “Shit!” He grabs his peacoat and throws it on, racing out of the office with the cell phone to his ear, waiting for a dispatcher. This time he hears a click…and gets a busy signal. “What the hell?” he yells at the phone, as if being angry with it will make the call go through. He goes from office to office down the line, looking out the windows to try and catch a glimpse of the man who keeps moving, keeps walking calmly like he's strolling through Central Park on a sunny afternoon. Blaine reaches the end of the hallway and can't go any farther. But the man crosses on to another ledge and passes completely out of Blaine's sight. Blaine punches the up button for the elevator and jumps on when the doors slide immediately open. He dials 9-1-1 again, and again he gets a click and a busy signal. He remembered reading on CNN.com that 9-1-1 offices in the city were understaffed and overworked, but he didn't think that would actually stop him from getting help when he needed it. What should he do? He has no clue how to talk down a jumper. Don't police officers get special training for that? Should he even try? What if he says something stupid and makes it worse? He has to do something. He at least tried to contact someone from 9-1-1, but that didn't work. He can't just leave the man up there to jump. He couldn't live with that on his conscience.

The elevator spits Blaine out into a white corridor - dimly lit and creepy, very industrial, with various sized pipes climbing up the walls and stretching across the ceiling - the kind horror movies throw their protagonists in to show the audience that they're in danger. His first instinct is to get back in the elevator. He's never been to the roof. Heights aren't really his thing, and by not really his thing, he means he has a blinding, paralyzing fear of someday plummeting to his death from the top of some place very high.

The elevator doors slide shut and Blaine feels trapped. It's cold and intensely quiet up here, as if these walls in this small space are made to block out all sound. Standing here alone he gets an overall uneasy feeling, a feeling that repels him, but he has to keep going. He focuses his thoughts on the man outside, struggling with real issues, a man who may have already jumped while Blaine stands here cowering. He climbs the final staircase – ten narrow metal steps - to the roof door.

The door feels heavy when Blaine pushes it, but as soon as it's cracked an inch the wind grabs it and forces it open. It slams against something metal behind it, clanging loudly, but that harsh clatter is muted by the whistling current of cold air.

Blaine steps out onto the roof. He looks around, keeping his eyes shielded from the wind with a hand to his brow. The current spirals around him, then drops, and the door behind him slams shut.

Everything around him goes eerily dark.

There is light coming from the office windows and from buildings all around, but in this covert between the main body of the building and the tower of offices above, this area is mostly made up of shadows, thrown around support structures and stanchions. Blaine looks up at the mass of metal and glass soaring above him, the apex lost somewhere above the clouds. This is the first time Blaine has seen the building from this perspective. As high up as he is, from inside his office, it's sometimes easy to forget that there are around 900 more feet of building above him.

If he falls from this level, he's not falling from the way top of the building. That's reassuring to know.

Blaine hears a crunching noise, like the sound of gravel crushed underfoot, and he catches a glimpse of the man walking by him to his left, still out on the ledge. The man finds a spot between two outer support structures, probably blocking him from the wind, and sits down, leaning his back against the metal wall.

Blaine heads toward him, stepping mostly on the balls of his feet, not sneaking up on the man per se, but stalling to find a way of introducing himself that won't be too startling.

He's taken five steps so far and nothing has come to mind.

The closer he gets to the ledge, the sound of the wind dies down, until it fades into the background, present but not overwhelming. The man must hear him approach because his head snaps in Blaine's direction. Blaine stops short, afraid that his unannounced appearance might trigger the man and make him jump, but the man stares at Blaine, unmoving, smiling sadly.

“Hey,” he says with a nod in Blaine's direction.

“Hey, yourself,” Blaine replies, taking a step forward, figuring he can inch his way to the ledge as long as he keeps the man talking.

“I didn't know anyone was still here.” The man keeps smiling, but he sounds tired. Completely, utterly, deep down to his bones and soul tired.

Blaine can relate to that kind of tired, and it gives him hope that maybe he can find a way to help.

“What's your name?” Blaine asks, sounding as nonchalant and conversational as he can while he takes another step, his entire body screaming at him to stop! For heaven's sake, stop walking toward the edge!

“Kurt,” the man answers. If he happens to notice the look of extreme fear in the depths of Blaine's eyes, it doesn't show on his face. “What's yours?”

“I'm Blaine.” Another step. “Nice to meet you.”

Kurt's smile grows at the edges. “It's nice to meet you, too, Blaine.”

Blaine nods, holding his breath, preparing to dive into this conversation.

“How are you doing, Kurt?”

Kurt frowns. “Not too good.”

Blaine's stomach flips at Kurt's answer. Kurt might have blown Blaine off and said something along the lines of, “Can't complain,” but he didn't. So Blaine takes another step – forward and in the conversation.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Kurt opens his mouth slightly, looking like he's on the fence between blurting out an answer and shutting down completely, but then he shrugs and says, “It's nothing really. It'll be over soon, anyway.”

Blaine swallows hard. Oh my God! He is going to jump! Keep him talking, Blaine. Keep him talking!

“You know, sometimes it's good to tell your troubles to a stranger. Makes it easier.” Blaine takes a step, his knee wobbling as he moves forward. He takes a breath to fortify himself. He's held it so long that if he doesn't, he's going to pass out.

“But we're not strangers,” Kurt says with a new smile that borders on flirtatious. It curls at the right corner and adds light to his piercing blue eyes. “I know your name.”

Blaine chuckles. “But you don't know my last name.”

Kurt rolls his eyes. “I think that's a matter of semantics, Blaine. Don't you?”

“True, but…” another step “…talking about what's bothering you might help you feel better. It might help you see that things, maybe, aren't as bad as they seem.”

Blaine exhales, his lungs burning as the air leaves him completely, and he waits to see what Kurt will do with his last comment. Blaine's gotten closer, but he's still a distance away. If Kurt jumps now, Blaine wouldn't reach him in time.

Kurt looks at Blaine, looks at him hard, searching for a reason to disagree, but he doesn't appear to think of one. He sighs.

“Okay,” Kurt says, turning to face Blaine fully with his back to the skyline, a bold move that makes Blaine shudder. “I went home for a week to visit my dad. I just came back, actually. Landed at JFK a few hours ago.”

“How was it?” Another step.

“My dad…he went to the doctor for his annual check-up. Last time he went, we found out he had cancer.”

Kurt lowers his eyes to his hands, picking at his shoelaces, toying with the aglet on his left shoelace.

Blaine takes two more steps.

“That's…that's awful, Kurt. I'm sorry.”

“Luckily, the doctor caught it early,” Kurt says, shrugging with one shoulder. “He's been in treatment since then. This time around, we found out he's in remission.”

“Well, that's good news, isn't it?” Another three steps and Blaine has made it to the ledge. He keeps his eyes glued to Kurt's face. A single peek down will stop him breathing for certain.

“It is,” Kurt agrees, the sad smile returning. “It's the best birthday present I could ever hope for.”

“Your birthday?” Blaine asks brightly. “When's your birthday?”

A flush of red rises to Kurt's cheeks. “Today.”

“Well, happy birthday then.” Blaine scoots up on to the ledge, nowhere near brave enough to sit the way Kurt does, but trying to appear more relaxed with being up there.

“It should be.” Kurt's smile fades.

“Why isn't it? What's going on?”

Kurt readjusts his seat, scooting back to his original spot, staring out at the horizon. Blaine calculates quickly, wondering if he would be able to leap forward and grab Kurt without falling himself.

“I came home, ready to celebrate, and my boyfriend…had moved out.”

“Oh.” Blaine winces. ‘Oh' sounds so lame, but nothing more appropriate springs to mind.

“Yeah. It seems he's been sleeping with someone else and they decided to get a place together. The funny thing was, I thought he was getting ready to propose.”

“Ouch.” Another wince. Man, he hopes he isn't too awful at this. He has to stay positive. Didn't all his friends say he was a good listener? Maybe that's all Kurt needs – someone to listen.

“You know, I thought we had such a great relationship,” Kurt says, sniffling. “We shared a lot of the same interests, we liked the same movies, the same music, the same food, we both traveled a lot for work. I thought we understood each other so well. And we were compatible…you know…physically.” Kurt laughs, bringing the blush back to his cheeks. Blaine likes that. He likes it when Kurt blushes. It's sweet and endearing and seems so private. Kurt glances at Blaine's face, catching his curious gaze, and he starts to giggle. “Let's just say he was very much my type.”

“What…what is your type?” Blaine asks, aching with curiosity.

“Well…” Kurt's eyes drift up, his face taking on a dreamy cast as he thinks, “tall, blond, light eyes, muscular…” With every word out of Kurt's mouth, Blaine's smile tightens. He feels slighted, though he doesn't know why. When Kurt looks back at Blaine, his dreamy expression becomes awkward. “But, you know, that could be subject to change.”

Blaine bites his lips, feeling his own cheeks redden when Kurt makes that shift.

“But, as it turns out, he wasn't really traveling,” Kurt continues. “He was lying and cheating the whole time we were together.”

“I'm really sorry, Kurt,” Blaine says, reaching out and touching Kurt's hand, his skin cold from what must have been hours up on that roof. Kurt watches Blaine's hand touch his, an unreadable haze obscuring his expression, but it slips away.

“You know, I'm not really all that upset about it,” Kurt says with a sense of resolve in his tone. “If you want to know the truth, I'm kind of relieved. I don't think I'm ready for marriage, and besides, there were other things about him that kind of bugged me.”

“Like what?”

“Little things. Things that might sound petty and stupid from the outside, but when you live with them, they start to get on your nerves.”

Blaine raises an eyebrow. “Can you give me an example? If it's not too personal, that is. I mean, I don't want to pry.”

Kurt's eyes roll up again while he thinks and Blaine watches him, noting the way he chews on his lower lip while his mind works, the way his brow wrinkles in the center, the way he breathes in deep before he speaks.

“When I was little, my parents had a system – if you cooked you didn't clean up and vice versa. Well, with my boyfriend, I always cooked and I always cleaned. I mean, I know it was only one other person. If you can cook and clean for one, you can cook and clean for two just as easy. It was just…”

“Inconsiderate,” Blaine finishes.

Kurt's eyes light up when he nods in approval of Blaine's word choice.

“Yeah. Inconsiderate,” Kurt says. “And, like…okay…” Kurt scoots in toward Blaine as he speaks, and Blaine's hand moves subconsciously to cover Kurt's hand more completely. “I have this obsession with these marble Belgian chocolate truffles. I don't know if you've seen them but they make them in the shape of seashells.”

“Yeah,” Blaine says. “They sell them at this little chocolatier in SoHo.”

“That's the only place in the city that sells them,” Kurt supplies. “Anyway, he was always down that way and I'm never down there, but he would never think to buy them for me. Even when I asked, he always seemed to…forget.”

Kurt stares at Blaine's hand on his. A tenseness builds between them, a connection that Kurt doesn't seem ready for. He pulls his hand out from underneath Blaine's and pushes the tension aside with another shrug. “Like I said, it's a little thing. In the large scheme of the universe, it's really unimportant, but…I don't know…”

“It's not unimportant,” Blaine says, “if it meant something to you.”

“It did,” Kurt admits softly, lifting his eyes. “It did mean something to me.” Kurt's gaze drifts for a moment to peer over the edge, straight down to the growing traffic below. But he comes back quickly to the present, to Blaine sitting in front of him. “There are other things, but they're pretty much the same. I wonder if he was kind of a jerk to me because he was being such a good boyfriend to…well, his other boyfriend.”

Blaine doesn't know what to say. Anything he can think of wouldn't fit this situation because he's only known Kurt for half-an-hour at the most, but regardless, he can't picture anyone in their right mind giving him up – this handsome, sensitive man – for any reason. Blaine knows he wouldn't. What blaring sin did Kurt commit, what horrible hidden habit did he have that would drive anyone away?

Blaine wants the chance to find out. First he needs to get Kurt off the roof.

“So, today is your birthday,” Blaine says, switching the subject.

“Yup,” Kurt says, “and I have no one to celebrate with. Aside from my asshole ex, I don't really have any friends in New York, and my friends from back home, well, they're all over, living their own lives.”

Blaine peeks over the edge, shivering as a passing breeze shimmies beneath his jacket, getting ready to take a leap himself.

“Yes, you do,” Blaine says.

Kurt frowns. “Who?”

“Your handsome new best friend, that's who, Kurt.”

Kurt looks at Blaine, stunned, then laughs out loud – unexpectedly and long – and Blaine prays that's a good sign. Kurt shakes his head, looking amused with the man in front of him.

“Hummel,” Kurt says, extending a hand to Blaine in an official introduction. “If we're going to move ahead to best friend status, you should know my last name.”

“Anderson,” Blaine says. “My last name is Anderson.”

“Anderson,” Kurt repeats. “Blaine Anderson. It's nice. It has a ring to it.”

“Thanks,” Blaine says, upping his daring. “So, since we're best friends now, can I ask for a personal favor?”

Kurt pulls his legs in tighter, moves a bit closer. “Sure.”

“Can you get down off this ledge with me?” Blaine watches Kurt's expression go from lighthearted to serious, a seriousness born from confusion. Blaine's hand, wrapped around Kurt's, tightens when he thinks Kurt is considering breaking away, possibly in anger, but then Kurt's whole face changes, and something dawns in his eyes.

“Did you think…you thought I was going to…no!” Kurt puts his free hand to his mouth and laughs. “No! I wasn't going to jump or anything.” Kurt shakes his head. “This is my thoughtful spot. I come up here every night just to take a breath, gain a little perspective.”

Blaine chuckles, too, a dueling sensation of relief and foolishness wrapping around his chest from the inside, slowing the racing of his heart, which has been racing nearly out-of-control since the second he stepped foot on the roof.

“The city looks so beautiful from up here,” Kurt explains, inhaling a breath. “So clean, so peaceful, so carefree. It's something I do to ground myself before I head back home, especially lately with all the…but like I said, that's over now. I'm sorry if I made you worry.”

“You kind of did,” Blaine says, unable to let go of Kurt's hand, even when he knows he's held on too long. “But it's alright. You come up here every night? So, do you work for the magazine?”

“Yeah. I'm a photog for the City Guides section. I do those photos for the column Wish You Were Here. Have you seen it?”

“Are those the crazy photos of people eating their lunches at the way tops of tall buildings and statues and stuff?”

“That's right,” Kurt says, a proud smile blooming at having his work recognized. “When you see a pair of shoes in those pictures, that's me.”

“Those pictures are amazing!” Blaine gushes. “I could never do that. And you have great taste in shoes.”

“Thank you. I guess it helps that I'm not afraid of heights.”

“Really?” Blaine asks, his jaw clamping tight as he suddenly remembers how afraid of heights he is, his eyes darting over the side to reinforce that knowledge – a huge mistake. “Because, I'm…I'm t-terrified!”

Kurt stares at Blaine, not grasping his meaning right away.

“Oh my God!” Kurt leaps down from the ledge. He grabs Blaine's arms and turns him away from the open air above New York. Kurt holds Blaine tight as he helps him, his whole body shaking as Kurt leads him onto the roof.

“Thank you,” Blaine mutters, his knees buckling when his feet hit the ground, but Kurt keeps him upright. Blaine concentrates on standing, on remembering what it feels like to not be scared for his life, and only when his head stops pounding with panic does he realize that he's standing in Kurt's semi-embrace.

He expects Kurt to let go right away, but he doesn't, staring at Blaine as if he's some Spandex-clad superhero.

“You're terrified of heights, but you came out here to help me anyway?” he asks, walking Blaine away from the ledge, putting as much distance between this incomprehensible man and danger as he can.

“Uh…yeah. Yeah, I did,” Blaine chuckles, letting Kurt pull him. “I just…I couldn't watch you jump.”

“Well, that's extremely gallant of you,” Kurt says with a giddy laugh, “but if I were you, I might have called 9-1-1.”

“I did that, too,” Blaine admits sheepishly. “I just…got here first.”

“I'm glad you did.”

“So, as your self-appointed new best friend, do you think maybe I can take you to breakfast?” Blaine opens the roof access door, ready to leave this roof behind him, not looking forward to ever coming out here again.

Unless Kurt is here. It might be nice to sit on the ledge – or stand somewhat in the general vicinity – and watch the sunrise with Kurt.

Kurt walks through the door, smiling at Blaine as he walks past. “I'd really like that.”