Blaine grows accustomed to being alone the fortnight after he comes back from New York; the fortnight after broke he the best thing that has ever happened to him. His parents are away on business trips, nothing unusual there, and whereas before he used to go and hang out at the Hudson-Hummels at least twice a week, he's now lost that privilege for obvious reasons. His friends were sympathetic, but they'd soon grown bored of his wallowing and left him to it; even Sam would rather hang out with the ever-cheery Brittany. Plus, although they'd never say anything to his face, he doesn't miss the looks they exchange behind his back sometimes, or the way he's included in conversations less and less.

He's no longer just Blaine, the friendly, ultra-polite prep-school boy with a bowtie obsession. No, now he's that boy who cheated on his boyfriend for no good reason; the little slut who couldn't go another month without getting laid. The new kids in glee club are even worse; they aren't close enough to Blaine to feel obligated to pretend and they all pointedly move away if Blaine tries to sit by them in the choir room. Kitty even went so far as to call him out on it last Tuesday, proclaiming loudly that she ‘didn't want to sit next to a cheating whore like Blaine'. He doesn't blame any of them, not really; he doesn't want to be anywhere near himself either. But, unlike them, he doesn't have the luxury of escaping by merely switching seats so, instead, he has to sit by himself in the top row and allow the self-hatred to buzz, undistracted, through him.

He grows accustomed to coming home alone and doing his homework, before cooking himself a microwave meal, occasionally throwing a pizza in the oven or mixing up a salad, only to pick at it and then give up and go to bed, despite it only being eight in the evening. Not that he sleeps. In fact, when his alarm clock blares at six o'clock each day, he's lucky if he's had four hours. Slowly, the dark circles have etched themselves into the skin under his eyes, looking so permanent that Blaine is unsure they'll ever leave, much like the shadow of guilt and self-loathing that is hanging over his head.

He grows accustomed to this routine, resigns himself to it, and after that first fortnight, he's perfected the art of fake-smiling, gotten remarkably good at feigning interest and enthusiasm. It's not until the fourth week, the Thursday of his eighteenth birthday, that Blaine feels it wearing him down. His parents had left him a message the day before saying they were regretfully unable to make it home and Blaine knew they had timed it specifically so that he was at school and they didn't have to speak to him. Still, the house seems emptier than usual when Blaine wakes up that morning. He showers and gets dressed as usual, almost putting on the bowtie Kurt had got him for his birthday last year, but not quite able to take it out the drawer. He goes to school, where no one, not a single person, says happy birthday to him. Sam opens his mouth as if to say something when he meets Blaine at their lockers, but when Blaine remains silent, he seems to think better of it and walks off to his first class without so much as a backward glance. Blaine tries not to be disappointed, he knows logically that he doesn't deserve any birthday wishes and he certainly isn't expecting presents or cards, but it is his eighteenth —it would've been nice to at least get a smile from Tina or have someone sit next to him in glee.

After a long day, Blaine wearily trudges home and completes his homework; it seems like he had even more than usual, though he is certain it just feels like that. Cooper has sent him a birthday postcard; apparently he's really busy shooting a new commercial in LA and hasn't had time to ‘pop to a store and buy a card'. Blaine supposes it's a nice gesture anyway—hey, at least he remembered—but he hates the way his stomach twists when he props the postcard up on the otherwise-empty mantel piece in the front room. He has to physically blink to dispel the sudden images of younger, happier birthdays when there were too many cards to fit and his dad had placed some on the windowsills instead. That was back before he came out; back when his dad actually loved him.

He eats his dinner (a microwaved lasagne) on the couch while watching the Lion King as a birthday treat, but finds he can't concentrate on the movie at all and gives up as soon as he has finished eating. He goes up to his room and checks his phone, feeling a jolt of disappointment when he sees he has no new messages. If he's being honest with himself, he had hoped that Kurt would text him—nothing fancy, of course, just a simple ‘Happy Birthday'—but why would he? Kurt has no obligation to send birthday wishes to the person that destroyed his trust, shattering his heart into pieces in the process.

He thinks about just going to bed right then, at least then the day would be over and he could stop feeling quite so pathetic. But there is something so fundamentally wrong with going to bed at seven fifty on your eighteenth birthday so, sighing, he gets up and goes downstairs to look for some sort of dessert. After rooting through all the cupboards for anything resembling cake, he gives up, and settles for toasting a piece of bread and spreading some Nutella on it (the only vaguely sweet thing they have in). He sticks a left-over candle from the last birthday party Cooper had before he left home into the middle of the toast and carries it back upstairs.

Happy birthday, Blaine, he thinks bitterly, hope you had a fucking fantastic day, just like you deserve! He checks his phone again and hates himself a little more when he feels another swoop of disappointment at the blank screen. He nibbles at the corner of his toast but barely manages to swallow that before he gives up and turns the light out, throwing the duvet over his head and half wishing it would suffocate him; he's lost his appetite anyway.

                                                                          *                              

He wakes up the next morning with dry, slightly red eyes from the miniature breakdown he had at 2 am in the judgemental silence of his room. He hadn't meant to cry, he really hadn't. In fact, despite how much his chest ached, he hadn't let himself shed a single tear since he'd returned from New York. But there was only so many times he could swallow down the lump in the back of his throat and watch people's eyes slide over him, as if he were invisible, while his head screamed insults at himself before he gave in and broke down. At least it had been in the solitary confinements of his room; only his pillow had heard him sob with the anguish of a broken heart. The problem is that he shouldn't have been crying at all. He brought this on himself and he has no right to start blubbering about it.

He makes his shower colder than usual and turns his face up into the spray, hoping the tear tracks and puffiness will wash away. He wishes he could be washed away; how lovely it would be to simply fall down the drain and drop out of sight. Sighing, he steps out of the shower and gets dressed—once again he can't face putting a bowtie on. He knows it's cowardly but, really, what difference does it make at this point? He doesn't realise he's left his phone on his bedside table until he's half way down the stairs and almost goes back for it, but then he remembers that no one texts him anyway. He decides to skip breakfast—his stomach is churning enough as it is—and heads to school. He can always spend some time in the library before first period.

On the bright side, his day is uneventful and passes marginally quicker than the previous day. Not that it is any less hellish, but he gets through it with his signature fake smiles and doesn't feel too much like he's drowning in last period as he waits for the bell to signal his freedom. Except he isn't free, is he? He's never free anymore. 

He goes home and sits at the kitchen table, and is halfway through his calculus assignment, wondering whether it's too early to start dinner just to make bedtime come quicker, when the doorbell rings. It makes him jump; no one's called round his house in months. He wonders who it could be—probably one of his father's business associates, unaware that the man in question is at some conference half way across the world.

Reluctantly putting his pen down, he walks the short distance into the hall to the front door, forcing his fake smile into place as he does so. It drops right off his face in shock as soon as he opens the door though. Because stood on his front porch, wearing far too much Marc Jacobs and a shy smile, is the one and only Kurt Hummel.

“I—er—what?” Blaine stammers, completely thrown.

“Hi,” Kurt laughs, in that breathy way he does that always makes Blaine's heart turn to mush in his chest.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, glad that he at least sounds coherent this time.

“Didn't you get my text?” Kurt tilts his head to the side, his eyes roaming Blaine's face.

“I—no.” He suddenly remembers his abandoned phone in his room; he hasn't checked it since last night.

“Oh.” Kurt seems thrown for a second but then he shrugs. “Well I'm home from New York for a few days and I wanted to wish you happy birthday and—” He pulls an envelope out from behind his back. “—give you this. I would've come round yesterday, but I figured you'd be out celebrating or whatever…so yeah, here you go…” He trails off, handing Blaine the envelope.

Blaine blinks at it for a long moment before he realises he's meant to open it. It's a simple enough card and the message inside just reads ‘Happy Birthday, Blaine! Love, Kurt'—Blaine definitely does not notice the absence of ‘x's—but it makes him feel warm inside for the first time in months.

“Th-thanks,” His voice breaks and, damn it, he knows he can't cry. Not now. To distract himself, and Kurt for that matter, he wonders into the front room to put the card up next to Cooper's postcard. To his relief, Kurt follows him, chattering away about how hard it is to find un-cliché greetings cards nowadays. But then he seems to notice the lack of other cards and stops short. He looks around curiously as if expecting to see them hidden somewhere, and when he realises that they aren't stashed behind the sofa, his gaze flicks back to Blaine.

“So, did you have a good birthday then?” he asks, smiling at him with an emotion Blaine can't place.

“Yeah. Yeah, it was…nice.” It sounds flat to his own ears, but it's the best he can do.

“Again, I'm sorry I didn't call round last night, but I knew you'd be out with the New Directions.”

“I wasn't.” He doesn't know what makes him say it; he should have played along, but he never has been able to lie to Kurt.

“Oh. Well, you were still probably busy with your family…”

Blaine doesn't answer, suddenly unable to hold Kurt's gaze.

“Blaine?” Kurt presses when he doesn't look up again. “You did celebrate your birthday with someone, right?”

He shrugs, burying his hands in his pockets. “Not really.”

“Blaine,” Kurt says and he sounds so sad and Blaine really didn't want to make him sad, but he always does, doesn't he? He always screws everything up and—

“Come out with us.” Kurt says, more a statement than an invitation and Blaine's head snaps up. “Dad's just in the car, we were about to head to Breadsticks. I know it's nothing fancy, but it's your eighteenth birthday, Blaine. You can't not celebrate your eighteenth.”

He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world but Blaine's shaking his head before Kurt's even finished. “No, thank you, but I couldn't.”

“Come on, I'm not taking no for an answer.” Kurt's smiling again, a little hopeful quirk in the corner of his mouth and Blaine hates that he's made Kurt feel obligated to do this. Of course he doesn't want to take Blaine along to dinner, it's meant to be his catch up time with his dad—God, Burt's waiting in the car and Blaine's sure he hates his guts, of course he does, it's perfectly understandable.

“He's missed you too, you know,” Kurt breaks his mental panic; he just knows Blaine far too well. But Blaine doesn't even know how to process that sentence because it not only implies that Burt would be happy to see him, but also that Kurt himself has missed him. And that's just far too unbelievable; a beautiful, maddeningly appealing idea, but completely unbelievable.

And then Kurt's hand is on his arm—no, not they're not holding hands and their skin isn't touching, but it might as well be for the way Blaine's arm is now tingling—and he's being pulled out into the hallway again. Kurt throws some shoes at him and gestures to the coat on the banister and Blaine mutely puts them on, everything in him soaring at the prospect of going out with Kurt, while his head keeps up a continuous chant of no, no, no, no, say no, no, NO. It's sort of like being on a ride and knowing that he ought to get off and go home, that it's someone else's turn now, but having way too much fun to do anything but go round again and again.

He closes the door behind them, fumbling with his keys as he tries to lock it and not missing Kurt's raised eyebrow at the very un-Blaine like lack of composure. As soon as he turns round and sees Burt climbing out of his truck, looking confused and what Blaine decides must be annoyed, he wishes he hadn't locked it so he could quickly get back inside. He takes an involuntary step backwards.

“Kurt?” Burt asks in his are-you-going-to-tell-me-what-the-hell-is-going-on voice.

Kurt walks over to him, lace-up boots crunching on the gravel, and proceeds to tell his dad something in hushed, firm tones. Burt listens quietly, his only reaction the steady narrowing of his eyes. Then Kurt says something that upsets Burt because he exclaims, “What the hell?” in a near shout.

Blaine doesn't realise he's still backing up until his back hits the door with a dull thud. Crap, Burt hates him. Of course he does, why wouldn't he? There's clearly no way in hell Blaine's coming to dinner with them, and he needs to get back inside, out of sight where he belongs. This is such a mistake, he thinks as he spins around and frantically tries to jam the key in the door, you shouldn't have listened to Kurt, he was only trying to be polite, you aren't welcome here. God, it's one mistake after another with you, Blaine, isn't it? Why can't you just get the hint and leave everyone alone? 

He doesn't realise that the reason he can't get his key in the lock is because tears are blurring his vision, or that Kurt and his dad have finished their conversation, until he feels someone touching his arm softly and looks up to blurrily see Kurt next to him, looking at him with concerned eyes. Blaine pauses, taking a shuddering breath, and realises how tightly he'd been holding onto the key; the jagged edge has cut into his palm slightly, just enough to draw a few beads of blood. Kurt's hand gently moves down his arm until it reaches his hand where he strokes over the tense muscles so that Blaine uncurls his fist and drops the key. He then turns Blaine's hand over, cradling it in two of his, and runs his thumb around the angry red mark.

Blaine feels his heartbeat slowing, his whole body reacting to Kurt's touch as if it's the most natural thing in the world. But his calmness his short-lived when he spots Burt walking over to them.

“I—I should—I need…” He stammers, tugging his hand out of Kurt's and dropping to his knees to pick up the fallen key, much to Kurt's bewilderment.

Then he feels strong, un-Kurt like hands on his shoulders and he's pulled upwards to find himself face to face with Burt Hummel. He closes his eyes tight, his whole face scrunching up as he leans back as far as Burt's tight grip allows, preparing himself for the inevitable blow. There's a hiss as Kurt inhales next to them, but no punch comes so Blaine cracks one eye open and sees Burt's horrified expression.

“I'm not going to hit you, kid.” He says, his voice simultaneously firm and soft. “I would never hit you, you hear me?”

Blaine lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and nods slowly, grateful that he hasn't just had his head smashed in, even though he knows he deserved it, like the coward he is. He moves to pull back but Burt's grip tightens again and before he knows what's happening, he's being pulled into a huge hug. He instinctively tenses (he realises somewhere in the back of his mind that Kurt and his dad are the first people to touch him in weeks) and then relaxes when he feels a large, firm hand rubbing up and down his back and pushes his face further into Burt's flannel shirt. He feels safe, in that way that only parental hugs can induce, and a large part of him wants to stay here forever, in the warm confinement on Burt's arms where no one can see him, or judge him, or hate him.

But Burt pulls back all-too-soon, giving Blaine one last pat on the shoulder and Blaine feels the cool November air hit him as the protective heat vanishes. He only feels it for a moment, though, as the next second Kurt's arm is around his shoulders, pulling him against his side as he guides him to the parked truck.

“You—You still want me to come with you?” Blaine asks, hating how pathetically hopeful he sounds.

“I'll always want you with me.” Kurt replies, holding Blaine's gaze, and Blaine shivers with the intensity of it, even though he's aware Kurt didn't mean it like that. Kurt seems to take it as a sign that Blaine is still cold, and tugs him closer so that they're hip to hip.

Kurt lets go of him when they reach Burt's truck and although, yes, Blaine immediately misses the feeling of his warm body pressed against his, he doesn't feel empty like he would have a few minutes ago. Kurt sits in the back with him and includes him in the conversation he's having with his dad. He manages to flinch only slightly when Kurt touches his shoulder to make him look up and, well, that's to be expected. Because it suddenly occurs to Blaine that he's grown so accustomed to being alone, he's forgotten how to feel loved. And that's ok; it might take a while, but Kurt will teach him again.