When Blaine feels like he's losing control, he counts. Calories are the easiest things to track. The have a direct impact on the way he looks, the way he feels. He keeps a mental catalog of his caloric consumption, enjoying the sick satisfaction that comes with a low number at the end of the day.

Kurt and their little coffee dates were becoming an issue for him. He enjoys the company and their conversations, of course, but he isn't quite sure how many calories are in that nibble of biscotti.

The other boy teases him when he sees him glaring at the treat and asks what the biscotti had done to displease him, and Blaine groans internally. If he only knew the half of it.

He won't, of course. Blaine vows to never let the newest Warbler see that side of him.

He asks Kurt to share that stupid cupid cookie with him because he knows he'll eat it all himself given the chance. In return, Kurt looks at him with those wide eyes like it was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for him.

A few days later, they're in the same exact spot, except this time, Kurt confessing his feelings and Blaine's pretty much knocked on his ass. He hasn't even begun to consider the extent of his feelings for Kurt, and he can't pretend it has anything to do with junior managers from the Gap.

"I really, really care about you."

That, he's sure of.

"And I don't want to mess this up."

Because if Kurt sees the real him, flaws and all, he'll take off running in the other direction. That, Blaine is also sure of.

The only person he knows at Rachel's party is Kurt, so he sticks close. Sure, he's friendly with the rest of Kurt's old glee club, but that doesn't mean he feels any more comfortable.

People keep passing him drinks and he loses track of the ever present number in his mind. There's an awkward moment where Kurt catches him fumbling with his Blackberry and trying to google the amount of calories in a screwdriver.

"Depends on the type of orange juice," Kurt says, leaning his head on Blaine's shoulder to get a better look at his phone.

Blaine starts to wonder if they have more in common than he initially thought.

The next day, he wakes up with a hangover. He tries to piece together the previous night, but he keeps getting distracted by the ongoing drumming in his head. Kurt's looking at him with this concerned glance and it makes his stomach churn for reasons that have nothing to do with the alcohol.

He says nothing, instead taking a seat beside Blaine on the bed and wrapping his fingers around his wrist.

His fingers overlap.

Somehow an argument in the coffee shop takes a vile turn.

"You don't even know how to take care of yourself, Blaine. Questions of sexuality aside, it's not right to lead Rachel on when you're clearly not in a place to enter a relationship," Kurt scoffs. Even the way he holds his coffee cup is condescending.

"Yeah, well you're one to talk," Blaine shoots back.

"And what, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?" Kurt says, leaning over the table to Blaine can feel the full brunt of his glare.

"I know how you operate. You're no different than me," Blaine says, feeling pleased. He has evaded the topic of his own issues, and shifted the blame.

"Don't you dare try to compare me to you," Kurt hisses, not breaking his stare. "You are just a scared little boy who is too busy being concerned about the image he presents to the world, and not just physically. You're fake, Blaine." He gets up and out of his chair, looking down at Blaine with disappointment shining in his eyes.

In the end, he politely declines Rachel's invitation to the revival theater.

Blaine knows the judges at Regionals probably aren't looking for sex appeal. Regardless of that fact, he sees the performance at the warehouse as a fun distraction. Something to shake things up from the usual Warbler shuffle. A break from the dull, repetitive rehearsals they had been powering through day in and day out. Plus, the rest of the guys usually seem to be in better spirits after their various mixers with the Crawford girls, so really his suggestion of performing for their sister school is simply a favor for his fellow classmates.

And yes, he really did just use the phrase 'bobby socks' in a sentence.

The air starts to feel heavier throughout the duration of the song. He knows he sounds flat, he's not deaf. His feet are unsteady, and it has to be because he hasn't broken in his new shoes yet. There's no other explanation for it.

Or maybe it's the fact that he's not much of a dancer, aside from the Warbler shuffle. The unfamiliar exertion has him feeling it from his fingers to his toes.

Whatever the reason is, a few seconds later his world goes black.

When he comes to, the music has stopped. He sees Kurt's face hovering over him, but everything sounds muffled. He can almost make out Kurt barking an order at Trent, and he must be because Trent runs off with his phone in hand without so much as a complaint.

It's such a cliche, but his coiffed locks make him look like an angel. A very pissed off angel.

"You're an idiot, Blaine," he mutters as he presses a cool, damp cloth to his forehead. "A first class idiot."

They don't talk about it after that. Blaine knows things like this usually call for an awkward confrontation and a half, but the Warblers have always been excellent at sweeping things under the proverbial rug.

"I trust you're feeling up to performing at Regionals?" Wes asks, shuffling a few papers on the council desk.

Of course not, Blaine wants to say. Instead, he smiles. "Just try and stop me."

"While your enthusiasm is appreciated, a simple yes would have sufficed."

It's a new day. The number in his head resets and life goes on.