Blaine paces outside the run-down, red-bricked, residential loft that he had to bribe a taxi cab driver to take him to. He can honestly say that he has never feared for his life before tonight, so he can chalk this up as a first on his list of life experiences. He runs his hands up and down his arms while he tries to decide whether he will push the buzzer for the door or not. No matter what happens, he came here willingly, so he has no one to blame but himself.

The loft is located on a filthy side street in Bushwick – a neighborhood in Brooklyn that Blaine didn’t even know existed until a few months ago. He looks around at the stacks upon stacks of black trash bags, some brittle and disintegrating in the cold, piled up along the curbs, left to degrade as the garbage trucks seem to have forgotten that Bushwick exists. Blaine side-eyes a multitude of young men in black jackets with their faces covered, all shooting him curious looks. He had tried his best to dress down in an effort to blend in, but in his khaki pants and Burberry peacoat, he sticks out like a sore thumb. Blaine is neither too proud nor ashamed to admit that this is definitely not his element. Yes, Blaine could have probably lived happily the rest of his life having never come here, but now that he’s here, he’d feel like a coward if he backed out.

Blaine hears footsteps race down a staircase beyond the metal door in front of him, and he pauses in his tracks to see who comes out. Maybe he can slip through the door quietly when whoever on the other side leaves and continue his pacing inside.

But the door only opens a crack, big enough for a man’s face to peek out – an unnaturally pale face with a shock of teal hair sticking up from his forehead, and piercings on almost every conceivable piece of skin. His lipstick is dark purple, nearly black, though it’s difficult to tell the subtle differences beneath the orange glow of the arc sodium street lights. He stares at Blaine – icy blue eyes ringed in black liner – not blinking for nearly a full minute, which Blaine finds alarming.

“Are you coming upstairs?” those dark lips say in a high-pitched voice that Blaine did not initially expect, but which fits the face. “Or are you going to pace back and forth out here all night? You’re making my neighbors nervous.” His eyes look past Blaine to the group of young men in the black jackets that Blaine had been wary of. With a nod and a smile, he says, “Don’t worry, guys. This one’s with me.”

“Cool.”

“Alright.”

“Later, dude.”

The men wave their way, giving Blaine one last judgmental once over before turning down the street and disappearing around the corner.

“Why?” Blaine asks with a twist to his lips. “Did they think I was casing the joint?”

The pale man’s right eyebrow shoots almost as far up as his teal hair, the smirk on his lips mirroring Blaine’s.

“Sort of.” He opens the door wider and steps aside to let Blaine in. “You look like a fucking narc.” Blaine walks through the door, shivering the moment the heat of the hallway hits him, and catches the pale man shaking his head. “Casing the joint.” He chuckles as he closes the door, throwing about fifteen bolts to lock it tight. “Who the hell are you? Columbo?”

“I’m Blaine, actually,” Blaine replies lamely, following the man as he leads him up the stairs.

“I know that,” the man says, throwing a look over his shoulder. “I was keeping an eye out for you. You’re not the kind of man who usually comes all the way out to Bushwick looking for my particular services.”

“Really?” Blaine asks, intrigued. “And what kind of man am I?”

“Privileged,” the man answers quickly. “Private school boy. Artsy type, but you can afford to be. You have more money than you deserve.”

“Wow,” Blaine says with a dry, unamused chuckle. “You definitely don’t pull punches.”

“Don’t need to.” The man turns a corner and starts up another long staircase. “You’re paying to be here, and your credit card’s already cleared.”

“Wait” - Blaine finally catches on to something the man said before - “you were watching me for the last half hour while I was outside, freezing my butt off?”

“Yup,” the man says unapologetically. “From my fire escape.”

“Why didn’t you let me in earlier?” A latent chill runs up Blaine’s spine to remind him how cold it is outside.

“Because I wanted to see what you’d do.” The man turns another corner to yet another staircase. “Besides, our appointment is for eight, and it’s eight right now.”

Blaine looks up past the man at the remaining stairs and groans internally. Who the hell lives in an apartment with this many stairs and no elevator?

“Do you know who I am?” the man asks when Blaine goes quiet.

“Your name’s Kurt, right?” Blaine hopes he’s right. He has the feeling that this man - who he’s about to become very intimate with in the next few minutes - will be extremely offended if he’s not.

“Very good,” Kurt says with a smile that the devil himself might wear on Sundays. It makes Blaine nervous.

It almost makes him miss the time he spent waiting outside.

“Are … are you allowed to be doing this out of your loft?” Blaine scans the staircase around them, the awkwardly long steps and the antique scrolled wood railing an odd contrast to the otherwise industrial feel of the building.

“These are working lofts,” Kurt explains. “The people who live here are artists who conduct their business out of their homes. And since what I do qualifies as an art, so do I.”

“You think so?” The words slip out before Blaine can stop them, and he mentally slaps himself.

Kurt walks up to the next landing in silence and leads Blaine down a hall to one of the only two doors on the floor. Blaine waits for the fall-out from his arrogant remark, but Kurt smiles wider and winks at him.

“I know so.”

He grabs the handle and slides the immense door open. He gestures for Blaine to enter, following behind to secure the door.

Blaine turns a circle as he walks, looking the loft over. It’s a dark space – oppressively dark, a reflection of the unsafe atmosphere of the street outside. The walls are brick, but painted in abstract swirling patterns that fluoresce under the numerous black lights hanging from tracks installed along the beams of the ceiling. Art prints hang everywhere, alongside mirrors that make this enormous space seem even bigger. Kurt owns a whole lot of nothing furniture-wise. Blaine sees a kitchen with no table, a living room with no sofa. The only furniture in the whole loft, it seems, are two chairs over by the window, and a king-sized bed off to the far end.

It’s the bed that has Blaine captivated. It looks pristinely made, with a designer comforter tucked in above crisp, white sheets, and a mass of pillows in all sizes stacked neatly along the headboard.

Kurt snaps his fingers in Blaine’s face as he passes in front of him, drawing his attention to the two chairs by the window – one a regular rolling stool, and the other a large, vintage barber’s chair. Kurt settles down in the rolling stool and pulls up to a black counter, which had been obscured from view originally by the shadows in the room. Kurt flips on a few lamps, and bright white light floods that corner of the loft.

Blaine approaches the barber’s chair, peeling off his peacoat and swallowing hard. He has sudden flashbacks of an old CSI episode he once saw where some mob guy would castrate men in a chair just like this one. As he gets closer, he notices that it looks impeccably clean. Castration would probably leave a lot of blood stains – stains that even a really thorough person might miss - so the fact that this chair looks brand new has to count for something.

Blaine drapes his coat over the back of the chair and sits down, the thick, red vinyl cushions sucking him in, squeaking loudly as it accommodates his weight. It’s the kind of chair you have to recline in, and the moment his back touches it, he feels himself relax, even though his mind is still a whirlwind of alarms.

It’s the same reaction he gets when going to the dentist – knots in his stomach as he checks himself in, a momentary façade of calm as he sits in the chair and makes himself comfortable …

… then the dentist walks in, the drill comes out, and all he wants to do is scream and run.

Blaine watches Kurt set up his station – laying out inks and making adjustments to his tattoo gun – feeling less inclined to scream or run than he thought he would. Kurt steps on a pedal and listens to his machine buzz, then shuts it off and makes more adjustments.

Blaine’s brain aches with a need to interrogate this man on everything from his stark apartment to the color of his hair, but only one question burns to be asked.

“Are you really psychic?”

“I have a reputation for having certain abilities.” Kurt steps on the pedal again. “But no answer I give you will matter if you don’t think I am.”

Kurt glances at Blaine, his brief stare a challenge.

“I don’t believe in psychics.” Blaine folds his hands in his lap and looks up at the ceiling, where a row of black bulbs glow a metallic purple, lending color to Kurt’s skin when he rolls in and out of their light.

“Then why are you here? There are tons of tattoo artists in this city. I’m sure you could find one closer to you or, at least, in a safer neighborhood.”

“Because, like you said, my credit card already cleared,” Blaine replies, being as evasive as possible. If Kurt really is psychic, then he should know why Blaine is there, waiting to be tortured.

“Why are you here?” Kurt repeats, paying no mind to Blaine’s snarky remark. Blaine frowns. He was trying to prove a point, which he may have well proven, but he’ll feel like an ass making an issue of it.

“You came highly recommended,” Blaine says, which is as close to the truth as anything else.

“By Andy, right?” Kurt puts his gun down and pulls out a box of latex gloves. “The chick with the circular rainbow on her shoulder?”

“Yeah.” Blaine nods, not wanting to sound impressed that this man seemed to know off the top of his head who Blaine had mentioned recommending him when he made this appointment over six months ago. “She said you gave it to her for good luck.”

Kurt looks up at the note of derision in Blaine’s voice. “What? You don’t think the poor woman deserves a little luck?”

Blaine agrees in his mind that she does. After three failed marriages and two miscarriages, the woman deserves all the luck she can get, but Blaine doesn’t see how a tattoo is supposed to give that to her. Blaine stays tight-lipped about it as he watches Kurt prepare. Kurt sees the determined set of Blaine’s mouth and rolls his eyes.

“What were you thinking about getting?” Kurt turns in his stool to face Blaine, giving him his complete attention.

“Aren’t you supposed to tell me what I want? Isn’t that your shtick? My body is your canvas or something like that?”

Kurt chuckles. He sits with his back resting against his counter and looks at Blaine again, this time taking particular interest in Blaine’s eyes. Kurt stares until Blaine feels uneasy with this man’s eyes on him, staring like he knows too much – staring like he knows everything. Kurt licks his lips, reaching to his counter and grabbing a bottle of water.

“You don’t really want to get a tattoo,” Kurt starts, taking a drink from the bottle before he continues. “That’s why you’re so willing to put the decision into my hands. Not because you think I have any real psychic talent. And you’re right. I don’t.”

“So, what am I …?”

“You’re paying for the benefit of my expertise.” Kurt stands from his stool and walks over to Blaine. Placing one knee between Blaine’s legs and leaning in close, he grabs Blaine by the jaw and tilts his head down so he can look deeper into Blaine’s eyes. Again he stares, the blacks of his pupils wider now, pushing the blue of his irises aside, making his eyes look very much like an owl’s – dangerous and unreadable. “You’re changing lives,” Kurt whispers, his breath ghosting over Blaine’s lips at this close distance, “job, address, the whole shebang. And you’re here because you need to cover up some … scars …” Kurt’s eyes drift down to the long sleeves of Blaine’s dress shirt, pulled down to his wrists and buttoned tight at the cuffs.

Kurt looks back up to Blaine’s face, but instead of inscrutable and cold, his eyes are sympathetic.

It’s a sympathy that borders on pity, and Blaine doesn’t want pity.

“So, you’re a good guesser.” Blaine darts his eyes away, feeling exposed and violated that this man figured him out so easily when his closest friends and family haven’t even tried. “Besides, everybody’s got scars. That doesn’t make me any different.” Kurt pulls away slowly, standing up straighter, his fingers trailing down Blaine’s arm, brushing his wrist before they disappear. Kurt stares again, and Blaine feels as if another layer of his soul is being stripped bare. He’s about to give up, stand from the chair and leave, a thousand dollars be damned, but Kurt’s eyes drop back to Blaine’s cuff and, with swift fingers, he starts to undo the buttons.

“This one’s the worst,” Kurt mumbles as he works the buttons open. “Your left wrist, because you’re right-handed.”

Blaine’s rational mind thinks he should pull his wrist away before Kurt sees, but his heart – which has been screaming out for weeks for someone to notice that nothing is okay in his life, that he’s in unbearable pain – wants Kurt to see.

He wants someone to share the burden of his secret.

Kurt undoes the last button, but the marks had been visible after the first, and Kurt looks at the silvery shadows of these violent, angry scars with regret in his eyes.

He doesn’t like uncovering people’s secrets – he just happens to be good at it.

“I … I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” Blaine says, his hand trembling slightly beneath Kurt’s fingers.

“I know,” Kurt says softly. “I can help you with this.” The caress of Kurt’s eyes on Blaine’s skin is soft, but his fingertips are softer. “What did your wife say when she found out?”

Kurt doesn’t look at Blaine’s face when he asks his question, working now on the buttons of his right cuff to see the matching marks. He doesn’t need to look at Blaine to see his wide eyes and his jaw hanging open.

“How did you …?”

“The tan line on your left ring finger.” Kurt undoes the last button and runs his fingers delicately over the scars he uncovers there. “It’s narrow, part of a matching set, but not something a man would normally choose for himself unless he had small hands, and you …” Kurt lets a smile slip as he opens Blaine’s curled fingers “… definitely do not have small hands.”

Blaine’s return smile wobbles at the corners.

“She hasn’t yet,” Blaine admits. “I left her. I didn’t give her a reason.”

“But the reason is you don’t love her. You never did,” Kurt declares boldly, and even though it’s true, Blaine flinches. “You had to marry her” - Kurt laces their fingers together - “but your heart never beat that way.”

Kurt looks even deeper into Blaine’s eyes (and how that’s possible, Blaine doesn’t know), trying to unearth more, but Blaine can’t imagine there’s anything more there for Kurt to see. It’s true, all of it, but it doesn’t feel like truth because Blaine hasn’t confessed it.

He needs to start speaking for himself.

“I married her because I was expected to.”

Kurt unlaces their fingers, stepping away to take his seat. He rolls Blaine’s sleeve up to his elbow and grabs his tattoo gun. He turns the machine on and dips the needles in a cup of ink. The machine buzzes like an angry wasp in Kurt’s hands, but he holds it still, the needles barely an inch above Blaine’s skin.

“Keep talking,” Kurt commands, waiting patiently for Blaine to continue.

“My father …” the words come out, then a hiss as Kurt touches the machine and their driving needles into the sensitive skin of Blaine’s wrist.

“Yes,” Kurt says, concentrating on the mark he’s made, blending the red ink with a silver scar.

“My father is new money, so to speak, so he’s always afraid of losing it,” Blaine grinds out between his teeth, scolding himself in his head for being a wuss. “He’s also an asshole, a misogynist … a homophobe …”

“A Republican?” Kurt gives Blaine only a moment to breathe while he switches inks.

“My dad makes Republicans look compassionate.” Blaine bites his tongue to keep from embarrassing himself by whimpering.

Kurt whistles low. “Jesus. That sucks.” Blaine makes a fist and Kurt looks at his face - squinting into the darkness, his jaw locked, his face tense, his breathing coming a little too fast. “Try to relax, sweetheart,” Kurt says in a soothing voice, “or you’re going to pass out before we’re even halfway done.”

Blaine takes in a huge lungful of air and lets it out slowly.

“That’s better,” Kurt says, assaulting Blaine’s skin with the gun again. “So, tell me more about this asshole father of yours.”

“Well …” Blaine searches for a good place in his story to start. If he starts at the very beginning, then he’ll have to mention the constant badgering he got to strive for good grades and the threats if he didn’t succeed, if he didn’t become the captain of his school’s nationally ranked show choir or the head of the debate team, and the emotional manipulation that led him to Harvard instead of NYU. So he decides to start with his wife, Quinn. “My dad wants Anderson money to stay in the family – to be passed down from generation to generation. For that to happen, he needed his sons to get married and have kids. My older brother, Cooper, did his part, but he’s not exactly responsible in my father’s eyes. He dropped out of college after two years, married his first girlfriend, has more kids than he can handle. So my dad put more pressure on me to fulfill his wishes. ”

“Did you ever tell him the truth?”

Blaine looks at Kurt, hoping to see those icy eyes trained on him, but Kurt’s total focus is narrowed to the image erupting beneath his gun.

“No,” Blaine admits, scowling at his own weak voice. “He started pressing me to find a wife since the day I started college – which was about when I had finally become comfortable with the idea of …” Blaine stops mid-sentence, not yet comfortable with speaking his own truth out loud. Even now, as he is beginning to realize what is right for him, it still sounds wrong to say.

The gun stops biting into his flesh, and Kurt does look up, tilting his head as he reads Blaine’s eyes.

“The idea of exploring your sexuality?” Kurt asks.

“Yeah.” Blaine looks away. “Exactly.”

“Did you ever?” Kurt’s voice is strangely shy when he asks, though it could be the buzzing from the tattoo gun, Blaine thinks, distorting the timbre of Kurt’s voice.

“A few times. But you know, I felt so Goddamned guilty that I didn’t even enjoy it.” Blaine laughs out of anger, then hisses when the needles find another sensitive area of skin.

“That’s a shame.” Kurt stops to grab a paper towel. He wets it, then wipes down the image so far. The soothing sensation lasts only a second before Blaine’s skin ignites beneath the tattoo gun again. “Did you meet your wife in college?”

“No, she’s a … friend of the family.” Blaine’s description is vague, and Kurt leaves it. “She was kind of chosen for me, so to speak.”

“Was it an arranged marriage?” Kurt asks incredulously without lifting his eyes from Blaine’s arm.

“No, not arranged.” Blaine laughs. “It was greatly encouraged.” Blaine sighs. “It might have well been arranged. By the time I asked her to marry me, I couldn’t care less either way. I had been hounded and threatened with everything from being disowned to being locked away. She was as good as anyone else.” Blaine shakes his head. “The worst part is she’s such a lovely woman. She deserves so much better.”

“You both do.” Kurt sighs, wiping the tattoo down again. He returns to his work, and the studio goes silent, the buzz of the machine filling the air with its constant drone. Blaine keeps his eyes fixed to the ceiling, intent on not peeking at the image until Kurt is done with it. He feels Kurt finish with his left arm – over three hours’ worth of work – and spin the barber’s chair around so he can move on to the right.

“Where were you thinking of running?” Kurt pipes up halfway through the right arm.

“Hmmm?” Blaine asks. His mind had started wandering – going over all the details, all the moments that had led up to this point. Was there ever a time where 5-, 10-, 16-year-old Blaine could have stood up to his father? In retrospect, there were times where he might have been able to confront his father and act braver than he felt, but the reality is no. His father is a man that most grown adults don’t like to talk to – not because he’s so intimidating, but because there isn’t any point in it. His father doesn’t listen to anyone.

Blaine let himself think about those boys he experimented with in college.

Sebastian – Blaine’s first, and by far the most sexually aggressive of the bunch. He was handsome, exciting, and inventive, to say the least, but not what you would call a one-man man.

He’s the one who broke Blaine’s heart.

Elliott –poli sci major. Energetic. Dreamer. Determined to make a difference in the world, both politically and with the help of his punk rock band. Blaine was certain that Elliott, with his glam leather outfits and glitter rock vamp make-up, was the edgiest man he had ever met, but he’s sure that Kurt could give him a run for his money.

Hunter – the only one of the bunch who had any chance of understanding what Blaine was going through. He had a strict, conservative upbringing; a father he could never make proud; and a trust fund whose existence hedged on his constant obedience. But unlike Blaine, Hunter had the balls to spit in his father’s face and split – and the business-minded brilliance to siphon away his trust fund from underneath his dad’s nose without the man being any the wiser.

Could any of those men have been the love of Blaine’s life? If he had sacrificed a little here, compromised a little there, would any one of them have made him happy enough to bid his family and his inheritance farewell?

He even let his mind drift to another universe where he and Kurt could have met a long time ago, maybe even gone to the same school together. Kurt is so easy to talk to. Maybe it’s an occupational hazard, spending so much time with people, listening to their life stories. Tattoos are very personal, or so he’d always been told by the few people he knew who had them. In order to dish out a thousand dollars for a custom tattoo, sight unseen, from a man with “psychic abilities”, you have to have one hell of a story to tell. Kurt must have heard them all. Blaine would think he’d get tired of listening after a while, but Kurt doesn’t seem to. He’s worked hard to reveal Blaine’s story, though he probably doesn’t have to do that with everyone.

The one thing that Blaine has noticed the entire time he’s been in that barber’s chair is that Kurt hasn’t revealed a single tidbit from his own life, not a morsel of his backstory. Blaine is dying to get to know him better.

What would it take to get Kurt to reveal his secrets?

“You’re running away,” Kurt says, his comment bringing Blaine back to the present. “Do you have an idea which direction you’re headed?”

“No, not really,” Blaine admits, which is one of the flaws in his plan. He took back his freedom, took control of his life. Now he needs to figure out what to do with it. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“Well” - Kurt rolls back to his counter to change inks - “I think I would just travel America. Don’t look for any one particular destination. Make the whole country your destination, but,” Kurt says pointedly, returning to Blaine’s arm, “I would definitely start in California.”

“California?” Blaine asks.

“Yeah,” Kurt says, finishing up the shading on Blaine’s tattoo. “Start off in San Francisco and start your own sexual revolution.” Kurt gives Blaine a wink before he continues. “Then hit the beach, get some sun. Head out to the desert. Glory in the big blue sky and all the quiet. Sleep in your car. Make friends with the locals. Eat some peyote. Find some enlightenment.”

“It sounds like you’ve done it once or twice.”

“Loads. As often as I can get away.” Kurt turns off his gun and sets it down carefully. He wets another paper towel and pats down Blaine’s tattoo. He pulls Blaine’s arms together to get a look at the images side by side, giving them a final review. “There.” Kurt gets up and turns on a few more lights. “Take a look.”

Blaine looks down, absorbing the image now permanently etched on his arms. The colors are vibrant – that’s the first thing that hits him – more vibrant than he would have chosen if given the option. On his right arm, Kurt has tattooed a rose in black and white. It looks hyper-real, like it was printed from an old photograph, but the rose itself is withering, curling at the petals, drawing back toward itself as it begins to die. The stem of the rose goes from brown to green and seems to weave through his skin, breaking in and out of his arm, leaving drops of blood in its wake – drops that look suspiciously like musical notes. The stem becomes a vine, and the vine grows thorns – horrible, sharp thorns. The vine continues on to the next arm and becomes wire – razor wire, that curls and coils. It spirals at his forearm around a heart – an anatomically correct, extraordinarily authentic looking human heart. Blaine stares at it, and the more he does, the more it looks like it’s pulsing, thrumming on his skin, trying to break free from its metal cage. The heart bleeds, but it still beats in protest, and in the very center where the heart bleeds most, Blaine can see the razor wire starting to break.

But most importantly, the stem and the vines and the notes and the wires perfectly cover the scars that ran down Blaine’s skin. Nothing of them remains.

“It’s … it’s perfect.” Blaine turns his arms to catch the way the colors light up his skin. “How did you …?”

Kurt taps his finger against his forehead.

“Intuition,” Kurt says. “That’s all.”

“Well, you’re an amazing artist.” Blaine can’t stop smiling at the art on his skin, but he’s still a bit unsure. “It’s just …”

“Just, what?” Kurt asks as he starts putting his inks away.

“It’s so personal. What do I tell people when they ask me what it means?”

Kurt lifts his eyes to meet Blaine’s, his gaze unforgiving.

“You got that tattoo for you, Blaine.” Kurt walks up to him and puts his hands on his upper arms, pinning him to the chair with the intensity of his stare. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation.” Kurt’s lips crinkle sideways as he goes back to his counter. “Besides,” he says, not meeting Blaine’s eyes again, “the guy you’re going to be thinking about your entire trip, the one that you’ll come back to when you decide that New York will always be your home, he’ll understand what it means.” Kurt returns with a handful of black pads and surgical tape. He spreads a light layer of clear ointment over Blaine’s tattoo, then covers it with the pads, layering them so that the tape doesn’t touch the healing skin. He pulls Blaine’s sleeves down to cover those areas, and does the buttons up again.

The entire time Kurt stands in front of him, dressing him, Blaine holds his breath, trying to decipher what man? Who could Kurt mean? Could he possibly be referring to …?

“Now, if you go to my website,” Kurt says, giving Blaine a hand up, “I have all the information you’ll need for taking care of that tattoo.” He reaches past Blaine to grab his coat, opens it up, and helps him into it.

“How can I repay you?” Blaine asks, at a loss for how to express his gratitude, but he’s also hoping he can parlay this into a roundabout way of asking Kurt out to dinner.

“Technically, you already paid me.” Kurt takes Blaine’s hand and leads him from the loft. With every step toward the exit, Blaine feels his chance with this man slip away, and he realizes that regardless of his “taking charge of his life” and his painful tattoo to the contrary, he’s still a coward.

Otherwise, he would just open his mouth and ask Kurt out to dinner.

But he doesn’t.

He steps outside, and the cold air hits him hard. He turns to face Kurt, and the man with the icy blue eyes smiles.

“Thanks again,” Blaine says, stalling for time.

“You’re welcome,” Kurt replies, the door creaking slowly shut. Then it stops. “Actually, there is one more thing.” He walks out the door and into Blaine’s space, quickly threading his fingers into his hair and fitting their mouths together.

It’s not a long kiss, but it’s a powerful one. It warms Blaine straight to his feet in his shoes and to the roots of his hair where Kurt tugs lightly. Blaine’s arms come up to hold him, winding around his narrow waist, hands crawling up his back, begging for something more. But suddenly Kurt steps away, leaving Blaine to chase his lips.

Blaine opens his eyes and looks into Kurt’s smiling face. “Why … why did you do that?”

Kurt shrugs.

“Because I wanted to. Because you needed me to.” Kurt backs away toward his loft door and slips through. “Call me when you get back. You can take me out to dinner.” He closes the door for good this time, leaving Blaine out in a cold he no longer feels.