As it turned out, Blaine Anderson lived in a surprisingly modest two-bedroom apartment on the ground floor of an (admittedly expensive-looking) complex in the middle of Manhattan. They arrived a little past one in the afternoon and, though fully intending to make his way to the hospital after Wes, Blaine did clamber out behind Kurt in order to show him inside – the taxi driver opened her mouth to protest but was quickly silenced by a fistful of twenties being thrust in her general direction, along with the instruction to "Just wait – wait here a minute, I'll be back." He confiscated one of Kurt's suitcases and led the way with absolute confidence; sometime during the ride over he'd slipped his sunglasses back on and, it seemed, it was for good reason, because they were not even three feet out of the taxi before the cameras started to flash.

"Oh, no," Blaine said.

"Mr Anderson! Mr Anderson, is it true your friend –"

"Over here, Mr Anderson!"

"Blaine! Blaine Anderson – who's that with him? Dave, who is that?"

"I don't know. Mr Anderson! Who's your friend?"

Kurt had never bothered to invest time into discovering where Blaine lived, but it seemed he was the only one. Half of the paparazzi population of New York seemed to be there, waiting to welcome Blaine home with a barrage of questions about the latest, riveting rumours currently ravishing the modern New Yorker's mind: was it true? Had a bizarre twist of fate really almost left Blaine a friend shorter than he had been this morning, had Blaine really just watched one of his best friends collapse as his heart had stopped beating? Nobody knew for certain, yet, but if they shoved their microphones in his face hard enough, they were sure he'd spill the beans. Except rather than doing that, Blaine had stopped just long enough to realise Kurt hadn't moved, and returned to put an arm around his shoulders so he could usher him forward.

"They don't even know your name – just walk through them, I'm sorry – " he muttered in a low voice, a breadth too close to Kurt's ear. He stumbled forward, dumbly, but once he'd taken the first few steps into the sea of people he began to get used to the way they parted to make way for him: this had been his fantasy. Reporters, cameras, photos, questions hurled at him in increasingly louder voices as they overlapped one another, struggling to be heard… It had to be at most another few metres to the door, and the security of the place seemed to be keeping the people out of the lobby, at least. "I forgot they'd be here," Blaine told Kurt, which probably would've made him laugh (who forgot they were an international celebrity?) if he'd not been too busy hurrying towards the doors. Hands grabbed at them from all sides. At least once, he unthinkingly took a microphone from someone and had to tuck it back into their pocket as he passed.

"Mr Anderson, do you have a comment?!"

"Blaine! Blaine, over here, Blaine!"

"Ignore them, Kurt, just ignore them –"

"Blair! Blair!" someone had gotten the name wrong -

"Mr Anderson, is your friend dead?!"

"Oh my GOD, can you STOP?!" Kurt yelled, and if it hadn't been for the fact literally everybody in the area was waiting for him or Blaine to speak, he probably wouldn't've been heard above the roar of the crowd. At the outburst, though, they all fell silent; he could feel Blaine pushing at his back, trying to get him to move, muttering something under his breath. Kurt blinked around at the microphones, stunned by his own audacity.

To their credit, the reporters seemed to realise that saying or asking anything else would just stop him talking. The tense silence stretched on for maybe three seconds, in which Kurt considered precisely what he was going to do and decided that yes, it did in fact need to be done.

"He's a human being! So what if his friend had a heart attack or not, what's it to you? He's up to his eyes in your business cards and you're drowning him for some vicious, gross curiosity – are you really so dense you don't see how wrong this is? Wouldn't you want some privacy?"

"Kurt –"

"No, Blaine! Any question you've got for him right now, the answer is no comment. It's been a rough day, you can't take his right for privacy away from him as well. Just get out of here. All of you! Skedaddle!"

Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. Kurt became suddenly away of the fact that, while the talking had stopped, camcorders were still rolling, microphones were still listening. He hardly knew Blaine Anderson and had just caused a scene for him in the middle of a media frenzy. Kurt seized the closest microphone (the reporter gave it up easily, exchanging a gleeful look with his colleagues) and looked straight down the lens of the camera that happened to share the same News logo.

"No goddamn comment."

And with that, he thrust the microphone back at its owner, seized Blaine's hand (cameras clicked wildly, at that) and walked into the hotel lobby; with every step he was feeling increasingly nauseous, aware that he had probably just given the media precisely what they had wanted. A scandal. Blaine Anderson's New Friend With A Lot Of Luggage Loses It At Reporters. It was definitely going to get him noticed, that was for certain, though having his name attached to a massive New York scandal was not going to win him any sort of favour with his future agent.

They made it as far as just-out-of-the-reporters'-eyesight before Blaine burst into laughter.

Even with his best friend in hospital, that man didn't stop laughing.

"What?" Kurt asked, defensively swatting at Blaine's arm – they'd dropped hands once they'd gotten inside but the personal contact seemed to be something they were both perfectly comfortable with, and Kurt wasn't going to be drawing any boundaries. Blaine shook his head meekly, unable to answer through his mirth.

"I just – was that your first time?"

"Did I do something wrong?" Kurt could feel a smile creeping up on him.

"No – oh, god. I should hire you as a full-time reporter-deal-wither, that was fantastic. Wes won't believe…" Blaine came up short. At once, he looked choked for words, utterly lost inside his worry – for a split second Kurt was certain he was going to start crying, and with that hauntingly familiar sensation of missing the last step on a staircase Kurt realised that he'd not even thought of the fact Blaine must've been putting this on, that the cheeriness was charming but also utterly false, that he must be worried out of his mind about his friend… and then the look was gone. "Anyway!" Blaine had clapped a hand to Kurt's shoulder again and was now digging 'round in his pockets as he led him towards his apartment door.

"You did fantastically. It should keep them sated for a while, at any rate, and that…" he pushed his door open, "is something I have yearned for since they first opened their mouths. Come in, come in. I'm gonna grab some supplies and head out again. I'll have to call his parents. Help yourself to anything – there's food, drink… I don't know how long I'll be staying there. They said it was New York-Presbyterian Hospital, right?" Blaine led the way into his home with little more than a backwards glance in Kurt's direction: now that he'd reached his own place he seemed a lot more comfortable, only now actually making plans regarding what ought to be done. He moved as he spoke, grabbing bottles of water from the fridge and fetching keys. Kurt hovered uncertainly just inside the doorway, looking around.

His first thought was that Blaine's riches were going to waste if they weren't being spent fixing the place's colour scheme. The walls were an unattractive off white and the furniture seemed to have been selected more for function than for stylistic purposes; good quality, certainly, but that chocolate brown Theodore Alexander had no business being in the same room as the admittedly luxurious purple drapes Blaine had undoubtedly found bathing in all of the money someone like Kurt couldn't afford to pay for them. The air conditioner mounted on the wall kept the room at a comfortable 70 degrees. Kurt deposited his coat and hat on the hooks beside the door and slid the packed luggage under the entryway table, intending to leave it that way so as to save the effort of repacking in the morning. It had occurred to him, in the past few minutes, that he probably could've just asked Blaine to pay for an overnight stay somewhere in a decent hotel; might have been expected to, in fact… but it was too late now. He shut the door behind him and joined Blaine in the small kitchenette, all stone-top counters and stainless steel appliances.

"Nice place," Kurt said, suddenly aware of the fact Blaine had been watching him take in his surroundings.

"You're a bad liar," Blaine told him, both eyebrows raised, but he didn't seem to mind; he passed Kurt one of the bottles of water he'd pulled from the fridge and Kurt took it, suddenly aware of how thirsty he was. "It does the job, though. And it's got a piano – had to beg for a ground-floor apartment, I couldn't get them to agree to carrying it up the stairs." He gestured with a nod of his head and Kurt, following his gaze, realised that this was indeed the case: a black, baby grand piano stood, unassuming, in the corner of the room that he would have thought had been dedicated to a television, the way the furniture was arranged around it.

"You play?" Kurt asked, dumbly.

"Sometimes," Blaine said, modestly. Thankfully, he did not mention the fact that Kurt had at least half of the songs Blaine had not only played, but also composed and sung, sitting at the top of his favourite playlist. Of course Blaine had a piano in his apartment – Kurt would have expected no less of him. In fact he was a little awed, now, staring at it: that was where some of his favourite top-100 songs had been composed, he was sure of it. Right on that bench at that piano in this little corner of New York. He had not been paying enough attention to remember the address and that was probably a good thing, because Kurt could not imagine walking away from this building without rushing back to see if the piano that had so enchanted America could play as well as it boasted. He'd have to try it sometime today. Probably while Blaine was out.

Blaine retrieved some sort of remote from a kitchen drawer and pressed a button – the wall beside him started moving. Kurt spun, startled, and found himself faced with a mirror… except the Kurt in the mirror was moving when he didn't. Film, he realised. It was film of him. Blaine pressed another button, and the TV was no longer on mute.

"… one thing for sure: if you travel with the stars, prepare to get burned," a woman he didn't recognise was yelling into a microphone – the very same microphone he'd used to declare they had no comment. Her voice was grating. "Wes Warbler, Mr Anderson's self-proclaimed best friend, today collapsed of a suspected heart attack while in Anderson's company – Anderson, however, has just been seen entering his apartment complex holding the hand of another young man known only as Kurt. Is Wes Warbler in for a platonic heartbreak? Has his position as Best Friend already been filled – and hasn't his heart had enough?

"This is Rita S. Keyta reporting live from downtown Manhattan. Updates –"

Blaine hit the button again, and the TV fell back into silence. The remote clattered to the counter and Kurt turned back around just in time to see a frustrated hand shoot through his hair, tugging at the curls. Angry, Kurt thought. Blaine was angry, because as hilarious as Kurt had apparently been, being seen with Blaine at all had given them reason to make up some rubbish news story to tug at the gullible's heartstrings.

"It's all garbage," Kurt ventured, "you won't ever see me again after tomorrow, anyone with half a brain knows Rita's just full of –"

"I know!" It was yelled. They stared at each for a moment – a long moment – and then Blaine shook his head and licked his lips, righting himself: "I know, Kurt. I'm sorry, I just… I'm so worried. You're right, I don't need the media all over this on top of everything. Make yourself at home, okay? I've got to go. Guest bedroom's the second door on the right, bathroom's the first. Don't wait up." He grabbed his keys from the counter, though of course there was a taxi waiting right outside for him. The hurriedness of his movements gave Kurt the distinct impression that this was Blaine's own unique form of running away. He made for the door.

"Blaine!" Kurt called.

Blaine stopped in the doorway. He did not turn around.

"Good luck. For Wes. I really hope he's okay."

The head of curls nodded in acknowledgment without turning around, and the door clicked closed. Kurt was left alone.


If he had wanted to, Kurt was sure, he could have looted that apartment for tens of thousands of dollars before Blaine got back. The couch alone had to be worth thousands and the piano, good lord, he didn't even want to think about it. But it was because he had thought about just how much something like that might cost that Kurt had elected to stay away from it: once Blaine had left he'd taken the liberty of making himself a salad from the highly inventive (this was an adjective he'd settled on after a good few minutes of thought) selection of vegetables and flora in Blaine's fridge by way of a late lunch, and was just now finishing his bathroom routine. Usually he'd've waited until just before bed for the skincare regime and full-on spa treatment, but in this case it was probably better to avoid demanding full control of the bathroom facilities over a celebrity who had been gracious enough to host him for the night.

Which was another thing, too. Now that he was left alone, Kurt could hardly believe it was real.

He'd called Mercedes, of course, the moment Blaine had left, and the two of them had spent some time trying to predict the other's movements because they both kept calling each other at precisely the same time: Mercedes had seen his face on TV. Beside Blaine Anderson's face. She did not hesitate to demand an explanation, and she quickly received one in full; Kurt spared her none of the details. She proved to be a very good audience, gasping and shrieking at all the right parts of the story.

One Disney film later (he'd chosen Mulan – General Shang was easy on the eyes), Kurt checked his watch: 8:30PM. In all honesty he really ought to sleep soon if he wanted to get to the airport early tomorrow – he'd have to speak with the airline and see if they could give him a seat on a later flight by virtue of the good publicity they'd get out of it; airlines didn't often advertise miss a flight to save a life? Fly home free the next day!, so it would at least make for a unique billboard. He pushed himself to his feet and even got so far as halfway across the room before he stopped, halfway towards the second door on the right, halfway towards the room without a baby grand piano in it.

But he had to, didn't he?

If he left here without playing it, just once, he would never forgive himself. He hadn't even told Mercedes about it because she'd never forgive him. Kurt stared at the piano stool. It looked comfortable. He'd just sit down on it, just feel what it was like to sit there, to know how the ivory keys felt beneath his fingertips. And then, since he was there anyway, he would play a note. Just one. He pressed down on middle C and listened to it echo around the room; the acoustics in here were fantastic. How had he not noticed that until now?

Another. He'd play another note. He moved up to a G.

"One song," he whispered aloud to himself, unable to resist. He played the first chord without knowing what song it was going to be, but once he'd played it he realised of course it would be that. It was right. Kurt Hummel opened his mouth, and got lost in the music.

"When I find myself in times of trouble
Mother Mary comes to me
speaking words of wisdom,

"Let it be."
And in my hour of darkness
she is standin', right in front of me
speaking words of wisdom,
"Let it be."

And when the broken-hearted people
Living in the world agree
There will be an answer, let it be
For though they may be parted
There is still a chance that they will see
There will be an answer, let it be

Let it be, let it be
Let it be, let it be
Yeah, there will be an answer, let it be
Let it be, let it be
Let it be, let it be

Whisper words of wisdom, let it be

Let it be, let it be
Ah, let it be, yeah, let it be
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be…"

But here Kurt closed his mouth, preferring to just listen to the song, to just play the notes and hear them reverberate just so, just perfectly, just because for all of Blaine Anderson's failings in interior design, that kid really knew his music. His fingers found the keys and just as the next lines opened, a voice chimed in to finish the song – but it most certainly wasn't his.

"And when the night is cloudy
There is still a light that shines on me
Shine on until tomorrow, let it be
I wake up to the sound of music,
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be

Let it be, let it be
Let it be, yeah, let it be
Oh, there will be an answer, let it be
Let it be, let it be
Let it be, yeah, let it be
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be."

The last note hung in the air. Kurt had stopped breathing.

He knew that voice. Of course he did, it was the one with its own dedicated session on his iPod. And Blaine must have opened the door without him hearing – how long had he been standing there? Had he heard Kurt sing? Yes. If he hadn't, they wouldn't be in the middle of this long, stretched-out silence at the moment.

"Blaine," Kurt said.

"Kurt," Blaine said.

Kurt spun around, as though startled to find him there. "I didn't think you'd be –"

"Visiting hours end at 8:30."

"Oh." Kurt swallowed. He should have looked that up. Should have thought of that. "I – your piano is beautiful, I just… it was only one song, I just wanted to know what it was –"

"Your voice is beautiful."

If Kurt had not been watching Blaine as he said it, he might not have believed him. As it were, the very obvious stunned look Blaine had fixed him with was enough to make Kurt blush right to the tips of his ears, verbal compliments or no.

"You…" Blaine Anderson liked his singing. Kurt blinked, rapidly, mind still reeling from this little revelation, and lifted a hand to straighten his hair, suddenly extremely self-conscious. "You've got good taste," is what he settled on saying, eventually. To Kurt's great relief, Blaine took only a half second to absorb this comment and then threw his head back and laughed – real, proper laughter, laughter that he threw his entire body into the effort of just because he could. Wildly attractive laughter, not to mention contagious; the moment Blaine started Kurt had joined in and there they were, two 19-year-old kids in the middle of New York playing grown up with their fantastic voices: this wasn't famous and non-famous, just acquaintance and other acquaintance. Easy. Comfortable. But Kurt had never not felt that way around Blaine, which was saying something, given they'd only met nine or so hours ago.

Kurt was the first to calm down – Blaine seemed to have gotten as lost in the other man's laughter as Kurt had with his. Are you gay? Was what Kurt wanted to ask, except that would be highly inappropriate and definitely was not what was appropriate right now. Instead, he smiled warmly.

"Wes is doing better, then?" nothing else could have put Blaine in such a good mood, he was sure.

"He's fantastic! Woke up in the ambulance on the way over, they think he'll be fine – they're keeping him a couple of days, for surveillance, but he should be going home by the end of the week. I'm not buying him another hamburger in his life." He paused long enough to grin a thoroughly infectious grin. "You like Mulan?"

The DVD was still sitting in its case on the kitchen counter; he'd been planning to put it away, except a piano had distracted him. "Of course I do," Kurt told him, "it's Disney. And the songs are well within my vocal range."

Blaine pulled a face. Perfectly good reasoning, really.

"It's still early. D'you wanna watch Mulan 2?"

He had to get up early in the morning. Kurt still didn't even find himself hesitating. "Sure. D'you mind if I bake something first, though? I ate your microwave popcorn. It tasted like warm cardboard."

Blaine laughed again.


A/N: I wrote two chapters of this in the space of 24 hours. C'mon, guys, that was PRETTY cool. Let me know if you've got any wishes/desires for the later chapters! Otherwise please R&R, because it's 5:14AM, guys. I do so much for you people. 3