I am so, so, so, so sorry.

I mean it, too.

I really am, you guys. I'm really sorry! It's been way too ridiculously long in me getting this story up. What, about a month? Seriously, I'm awful. This is about the seventh version of this chapter I wrote. The other six just didn't get across what I wanted to happen, you know? But this version finally got everything I wanted to happen. Feel free to send me dozens of angry messages, I promise I won't cry too hard. Unless you want me to.

Next chapter's in Kurt's perspective, and then I switch over to Blaine for 3 or 4. Then Mike for 2, maybe, and then their perspectives get muddled together for a while. This story's going to be rated M later on.

Please review? I'd 'preciate it, yo.

It had been over two weeks since Blaine had called off his and Kurt's romance at the Lima Bean, and a little over a week since the "Intervention". The past nine days, Kurt had accomplished quite a bit. While he hadn't expected himself to spin around right onto his feet in a snap, he was honestly pretty proud of how far he'd come since the Lima Bean Incident. Restoring his self-confidence and dignity proved to be simpler than he'd thought. There had been a part of him, a small strutting butterfly of devotion to himself that had reminded him that while he might still love Blaine, no amount of amour can overcome your respect for yourself. He'd been too busy being heartbroken that he'd forgotten to listen to the voice inside of him that craved inner happiness.

The first night after the "Intervention", he'd lain in bed, staring at the glow in the dark stars on his ceiling. For the first time in what seemed like ages, he wasn't crying, and there wasn't depressing love songs or dreadful movies playing on his television. In the midst of the silence, he'd caught himself listening to his conscience. Thought after thought, by morning, wide-eyed Kurt had remembered the things he was, independently. Truthfully, remembering who he was had been something that he'd had to train himself to do again.

Physically, Kurt had been improving noticeably quickly. He'd started eating again, and no longer looked like he could be the third Olsen twin. His basement bedroom had been restored to order (his half, at least. Finn's still resembled a locker room/fast food joint/island of misfit toys.) He'd quickly picked up on his old personality, his sarcastic laughs, and air kisses to his girls when he passed them in the hallway. The pictures and silly novelty gifts Blaine had left Kurt sat in a shoe box on a shelf in his closet. He hadn't touched a single one of them since he'd thrown them in.

At home, even his father had noticed. As he'd been running out the door to get to school a few days before, Burt had stopped him. "It's nice to have you back, son. For a while there I thought you'd lost yourself for a long time to come," Burt had admitted from the breakfast table. Kurt hadn't known what to say back at the time, but his dad's uncharacteristic confession had meant a lot to him.

Kurt was currently lying on his bed listening to Finn's Trace Adkins album playing from across the room. He wasn't a country kind of guy, but in the spirit of the evening, the two of them sang along with Trace's deep, rumbling voice anyways. Both Finn and Kurt didn't have plans that night, which was something that was unheard of for a Friday at the Hudmel house. They didn't talk much between the two of them, but their voices rang together to the stereo. He thumbed through the latest Italian Vogue, his phone suddenly buzzing in his pocket. Sliding his hand down to pull it out, he got a hold of it and checked the caller I.D. The number wasn't recognized in his contact list, which had been happening a lot lately. "Wes, David, what the Hell do you two want?"

"Is this a bad time?" a familiar voice queried after a short pause.

"Oh, God. Sorry, Mike," Kurt frantically apologized, "Two of Blaine's friends keep calling me, saying "Hello? Sorry, wrong person," every time from a different number. I don't have you programmed into my phone, so when I couldn't distinguish the number, I figured it was them again."

"That's bizarre of them," Mike commented over the phone, not sounding as if he really knew what to think about it, "Anyways, if you're not too busy being stalked by two private school boys, want to come check out the new Will Ferrell comedy playing over at the cinema with Artie and me? The film starts in about half an hour, but we can come pick you up right now."

Kurt stared into the glowing screen in his hand. A boy, a straight, male, actual boy had asked him to a late Friday night movie. Not a date, just a friendly invitation. He knew he shouldn't be making a big deal out of this, but Kurt's insides flipped over like a rambunctious dolphin at Sea World. Secretly, Kurt had never been invited to hang out with just the guys before. He had been marked since birth as One of the Girls. He'd never really minded, of course, but fantasies of elbowing each other in the side and throwing Cool Ranch Doritos in each other's faces filled many spots in his mind. Kurt didn't want to offend them, but he'd never considered Blaine and the Warblers' to be guy-guy friends, since even the straight ones were as flamboyant as Liberace. The boys of Dalton Academy were swell, but much more feminine that what Kurt had in mind.

This was his chance. The last step in getting over Blaine Anderson was clearly finding something new about himself that he'd never experienced before. Man Tribe certainly qualified in those regions. So what if he hadn't really expected Mike to follow through with his conversation nine days before? Mike had shown his true colors, and Kurt was going to accept.

"Kurt?" Mike hummed from the speaker. "Should I take this as a no?"

"No! I mean, sounds good!" he grinned, trying to contain himself. "I don't have any plans tonight."

"Great, 'cause we already checked you in on Facebook." A ping on his Mac across the room notified him that Mike was telling the truth. "We know your address from picking up Finn, don't worry. See you in fifteen." Before Kurt could reply, Mike had already hung up.

"FINN HUDSON!" A frantic voice screeched loudly from across the room. Finn jumped in surprise, clumsily falling off his mattress onto the itchy carpet. Whacking his forehead on the edge of the frame, he rubbed his throbbing eye with his hand.

"What the Hell, Kurt?" he groaned irritated. As much as he liked his step-brother, Kurt had a tendency to be a little…absolutely annoying. If he wasn't gay, he'd suggest Kurt hook up with his girlfriend, Rachel, because they had such similar personalities that it was eerie to be in the same room with them sometimes. Neither would ever admit it, however, as their rivaling talents kept them constantly bickering at each other. Even their friendship was annoying in Finn's eyes.
He pulled himself up, as a quilted sport coat smacked him on the face. "Sorry!" Kurt apologized lamely, his normally smooth face scrunched up in frustration and nervousness. "," he whimpered, biting the bottom of his lip as he stared at the vast piles of clothes that had been strewn out of his closet. "I have polo's, and kilts, and oxfords, and pinpoint regents, and poplin estates, and crewneck sweaters, and cardigans, and shawl turtlenecks, and pleated chinos, and hound's-tooth corduroys, and Durango wash jeans, and boat shoes, and ankle boots, and I have absolutely nothing to wear! You have to help me, Finn. You just have to. You're a boy, you know what to wear!"

The expression on Kurt's face made Finn want to giggle; his desperation to impress these simple high school boys was kind of adorable, in a non-creepy kind of way. So much time spent trying to one-up the girls in their fashion choices had left him striving for perfection. He was pretty sure that his stepbrother knew that the boys wouldn't care an ounce about what he was wearing, as long as it wasn't a ball gown or his Gaga costume. But Kurt's need to show off with his normal crowd also pushed him to blend in with the contrary. His want to disguise himself was less of trying to change himself; he knew Kurt wouldn't ever try to go down that route again. It was rather wanting to be One of the Guys for the night that had pushed him into dressing the role of Average Teenage Boy Number Three.

Once last glance at the puppy-dog face, and Finn sighed. "Alright, just this once," he caved in, already digging through Kurt's couture mountains.

Fifteen minutes after Mike's phone call, and Kurt had been decked out in the things that had been sitting dustily at the bottom of his wardrobe. Gracious for Finn's opinion, his upper body was covered in a vintage New York Yankee's t-shirt, a charcoal-colored windbreaker, and a pair of casual dark wash jeans. While he felt more comfortable in paisley and satin, the cotton and denim was kind of an interesting look on him. He appeared almost…rough. Almost…sexy, even.

While he fiddled with the idea, a handicapped-accessible van crookedly pulled up in front of the Hudmels house. A heavy sliding door opened as it parked automatically. Trying not to look like a fool running out his door to the car, he nonchalantly strode to the curb, stretching his gangly arms.

"Get in, loser. We're going shopping," Artie yelled out his rolled down window, nodding his head in a pair of Kanye West red aviators.

Kurt threw his head back as he cackled at the reference. It was exactly something Mercedes would have said. "I'm impressed you've even seen that movie. Isn't it a chick flick?" he laughed, hopping into the back seat.

"Oy, you're one to judge?" Artie snapped, but his smile as he turned around let Kurt know that the remark was good-hearted.

Kurt shook his head, as if he were disappointed in him.

Artie scowled into the rearview mirror as he took off forward. "Boo, you whore."

Mike stuck his head around the passengers' seat, coming face to face with Kurt. His royal blue sweatshirt was unzipped far enough for him to reveal his distressed Green Lantern tee. His eyebrows rose as he smiled at the boy behind him. "I'm glad you could come, man," he grinned, "I'd have figured you'd have plans or something, on this exciting night in the heart of Ohio."
"Oh, you know how I roll," he kidded, slapping his hand in the air as if he were dismissing the thought. "This town just isn't big enough to handle me."

Mike chuckled, turning back around. "Well, I'm happy to know the company of Artie and I is sufficient to your needs." As he spoke, the formerly commercial-packed radio switched to a song Kurt hadn't heard in ages. Mike seemed to be thinking the same thing, as he exclaimed, "The Killers! Hot damn, I forgot how much I liked them."

Artie rolled his eyes, "They're so two thousand and late, bro. alternative 80's style bands are so Neon Trees nowadays."

"But the Killers are the closest thing we have to good rock that isn't ruined by Mr. Shuester," Kurt pined from the backseat.

"Since when do you like classic rock?" Artie asked in surprise, furrowing his brows. "I thought you were more into Broadway and Top 40. Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course," he interjected quickly, "but it just doesn't seem to be up your alley."

"Since Finn and I became stepbrothers, I've been opened up to many sides of music that I'd never thought about before. Country, classic rock, alternative," Kurt explained, understanding their confusion. It'd only been since the last few months that he'd developed an appreciation for things other than soundtracks. "The Killers included. Believe Me, Natalie was my song of choice for ages."

From the front of the van, Mike and Artie nodded, obviously impressed. Kurt could feel the apples of his cheekbones become tinted with lollipop red. "Aw, Kurt, you're blushing!" Mike laughed, his smile flashing again. At the sight of it, Kurt was subliminally urged to grin as well. It was as if his characteristic beam was contagious. "It's alright, Kurt. I appreciate your twist in music taste. They can be our band," he giggled, batting his eyelashes flirtatiously. If he hadn't made it clear the week prior, Kurt would have questioned if Mike was coming on to him.

That time, all three of them laughed. The sound of the Killer's Glamorous Indie Rock and Roll soon enveloped the car, occasionally Mike and Artie commenting on the last football practice and what they'd need to fix if they'd have a chance against Waco High, Dalton Academy, and Carmel High School. Kurt fiddled with the steel buckle on his seatbelt, not quite sure how to join into the conversation. He didn't say much until they parked under a moth-flooded light post outside of the theatre.

As Artie took the key out of the ignition, Mike leaned over to press the door opener button. The door creaking open, a steel contraption that vaguely resembled a bridge lay out from the edge of the van to the black asphalt. "You get out first, Kurt," Mike said expectantly as he undid his own buckle.

"Right," Kurt said quickly, a tad embarrassed that he'd been staring at the metal too long to figure it out. "Do I walk on the ramp, or…"

"It seriously doesn't matter. You can jump over it or walk off it or call up your hot air balloon from Narnia," Artie informed, sounding slightly impatient. "If it can hold my weight and the chair, I'm pretty sure it can handle all 120 pounds of you." Kurt whipped his head to the right to glare at Artie for the snide comment about his small size, but Artie's face looked more anxious to get out of the car than scurrilous.

One leap into the handicapped parking spot and a few minutes later, the trio entered the heavily air conditioned building. Mike led the pack towards the queue between the red velvet ropes. "The 8:15 showing, right?" Mike asked, peering up at the long list of "Now Showing" titles.

"It's only 7:45, so yeah, that should work," Kurt replied after checking the time on his limited edition platinum Tiffany's watch.

"Bitchin"," Mike reached into the back pocket of his fire truck red skate shorts and grabbed a pleather wallet that had the British Union Jack printed on the front. Presenting it to Kurt, "I'm going to go run off to the Little Asian's Room for a second, buy my ticket for me? Oh, and if you guys go to the concessions before I get back, grab me some Red Vines and a medium Cherry Icee?"

"No problem," said Kurt as he took the wallet. Mike scampered off towards the restrooms, leaving Kurt pushing Artie's wheelchair through the thick stained carpet. Kurt rubbed the back of his own neck, not quite sure what he should say.

"So…how about them Cavaliers?" Kurt sputtered.

Artie rotated his torso in his chair to look Kurt eye to eye. Kurt recognized the look; Mercedes and Artie both did it quite well. With Mercedes, it was more, "Girl, you bitch best know what you be doin'." But with Artie, it matched closer to, "Boy, you hella trippin'."

"It isn't basketball season, is it?"

"So what's going on with you and Blaine?"

The randomness of the question caught Kurt off guard. His blinking faltered for a split second, "What do you mean?"

Artie shrugged casually, "Just wondering if you two were still talking or anything."

Why the Hell would Arthur Abrams care in the least about Blaine? Kurt asked himself mentally, a quizzical look on his face. "No, I haven't seen a hair of him since he bro-we ended things," Kurt said slowly, choosing his words carefully.

Artie nodded, as if he accepted that answer. "I'm sorry, man. Not that I pity you or anything-nothing sucks more than getting pitied. I should know," he laughed, a sardonic tone poorly hidden in his throat. "So I'm not going to bullshit you or anything."

"Well...thanks, Artie," Kurt stumbled, feeling the blood rush to his face.

"Quick question, though, then I'll completely drop the subject," Artie quipped. Kurt rolled his eyes, not quite keen on continuing the conversation, but hey, two more seconds couldn't hurt.

"No problem, go ahead," he sighed, wheeling the chair up to the scratched surface of the ticket counter.

"What were those names of those two guys he hung out with most of the time? I've overheard you talking about them to Mercedes a few times, and I'm curious," he explained as he dug in his billfold for a ten or a twenty, eyes locked on the coins and lint that littered the bottom of it. His face turned burgundy as he realized that he was coming up short.

"I'll take care of it," Kurt offered, producing a pair of twenty dollar bills. That was all the money he'd made babysitting the Levitt boys, six hours of chasing after a pair of red-headed triplets that lacked the ability to sit down or talk below the audible range of an opera singer. He hated to part with it, but the pimply faced teenager in the crimson vest had already begun to stare the pair down.

Artie looked up at him with gratitude, mouthing an "I Owe You" appreciatively. Kurt smiled modestly, as if to say that it wasn't a problem. "Oh, and Wesley and David?" he proposed cautiously as the currency was torn away from him by the cashier's dry, greedy hands.

"Theatre seventeen," the cashier grumbled, voice cracking as he sniffed loudly and wiped his running nostrils with his hands. With the same fingers, he clumsily gripped the tickets and handed them to his disgusted customer. Kurt flinched in appall as he picked up the three tickets at their corners and shoved them into his pocket.

"Ahh," ended Artie, the thought to explain to Kurt why exactly he'd needed to know the head Warblers' names clearly not crossing his mind. Kurt bit his tongue, forcing himself not to say another word about the subject. As well as he was dealing with the brea-their ending things, and really wanted to get on with his life, he was a bit anxious when it came to the topic of Blaine.

Everyone had been very tight-lipped when it came to discussing Blaine in front of Kurt, obviously not wanting to bring up anything that could send the emotional teen running to the choir room in tears. Secretly, though, he'd love one of them to slip up and say his name at least once. It was hard to be independent when you knew that there was something missing from your former self, and no one was willing to speak of it. Well, besides Artie, now.

Kurt had been the first one to change his Facebook relationship status to "single", but Blaine was still on "in a relationship". He dug his clear-polished fingernails into the palm of his hand, trying to distract himself from his unwise thoughts. On the inside, though, he was dying to know if Blaine just hadn't gotten around to changing it, or if he really was already in a relationship.

Kurt quickly whacked his left Prada fall/winter collection tennis shoe into the other one. Now, none of that, Kurt. We've come too far to run back into our little Blainers safe spot, he barked at himself mentally. The imaginary Broadway audience in his mind applauded him.

"Am I right, man?" Artie chuckled, snapping Kurt out of the clouds.

"Oh, yeah," he agreed, not having the foggiest of what Artie had just said. If he ever intended on having friends, he'd have to learn to actually focus on one thing for more than 30 seconds at a time.

The rest of the wait for the concessions stand consisted of the two divulging information on glee club members. Nothing too harsh, just simply typical church ladies talk. Kurt'd had always had a feeling that Artie was as bad at keeping a secret as he was, especially someone else's.

Once they got to the front of the line, they began piling their food onto the flimsy plastic tray Artie had slid onto his lap. Mike's Red Vines (Kurt felt a twinge of irony when he thought of how the first time he'd gone to the theatre with another guy, and he'd gotten Blaine's signature treat), a Cherry slushy, Artie's cheddar-and-ranch-seasoned popcorn that reeked of spices overload, a Code Red Mountain Dew, and lastly Kurt's dainty Diet Coke and salt-free popcorn. They exited the line to see Mike waving them down from the other side of the theatre. Kurt wheeled over Artie, dodging spilled drinks and dropped concessions buckets.

"Ticket, bro," Mike ordered, thrusting his nicely tanned arm into Kurt's chest.

Kurt smiled snarkily, jutting his chin prominently. "A little bit grabby, there, Mr. Chang?"

Mike put his hands on his protruding hip bones in a very Santana-like fashion. "Who you finna think you's talking to, boy? No me gusta your tone."

"Them's fightin' words," Kurt growled back, baring his teeth.

"We don't have a problem, here, now, do we, boys?" Artie interjected in his best Principal Figgins impersonation. He had everything down pat, from the crinkled eyebrows to the arms crossed firmly over his torso, even the accent.

Kurt was the first to break down into giggles. "You two are deranged," he concluded, rummaging in his pocket for Mike's ticket. He wrapped the flossy paper in between his fingertips and passed it over to Mike.

"Now, that wasn't too difficult, was it, Kurt?" Mike purred, handing it over to the theatre usher like an assembly line. The gawky dirty blonde ripped it into two halves, handing one side back over. He repeated the action twice more, and the idiosyncratic trio headed into theatre number sixteen.

They had to sit in the very front; of course, so that they could get Artie's wheelchair in. the showing room was almost completely packed, not surprisingly for Lima on a weekend night. The two front-and-center rows behind them were fairly empty as expected, save for a ginger couple who obviously didn't come for the public entertainment and two odd fellows in dark sweatshirts, hoods raised indoors. Peculiar, and tacky, Kurt noted.

As the lights dimmed in the theatre, a thought struck Kurt's mind. He whipped his head around again, eyes darting from tier to tier. There was a lack of large groups of people together. It seemed to him as if everyone in the room was either a cuddling couple or a handful of college/high school age guys.

Maybe girls weren't really into Will Ferrell, Kurt considered, and then decided against it. Tina and Mercedes quoted Anchorman as if it was their actual life. Zizes had been the first to announce to prospect of a Stepbrothers 2. Most notably, Brittany had shown up to school once last winter bearing striking resemblance to Ferrell's infamous Buddy the Elf costume, and had asked everyone who walked by her lunch table their favorite color while pouring maple syrup onto her ham and cheese sandwich. Anyways, Kurt was the closest you could get to two X-chromosomes without pulling a Bono, and he respected Stanger than Fiction and Talladega Nights highly.

Kurt slowly turned back around in his seat, careful to not make an obnoxious squeak in the process. What kind of film is this? Soon, the Sundance logo shone from the projector at the back of the theatre.

"What?" Artie said under his breath, popcorn kernels stuck between his teeth.

"What?" Kurt whispered, leaning in towards him. Prickles of electricity had already started to form on his spine, something that occurred when his gut was telling him that something unsettling was coming.

"This is supposed to be a Paramount Pictures movie, isn't it?" Artie recalled, the stench of cheddar-and-ranch radiating from his mouth. Kurt fought the urge to plug his nose.

"Are you sure we're in the right theatre?" Mike hissed from Kurt's other side.

On the screen, a gloomy road appeared, lightening flitting across the ominous sky. With every roll of thunder, a foreboding glow was cast of the audience spookily. "Doesn't look like the previews to me." Mike fumbled his hands into his sweatshirt, grabbing an already crinkled stub. He held it up to the screen, squinting his eyes at the smeared digits in the middle. "This is seventeen, right?" The tone of his voice told the other boys that he already knew the answer.

"I could've sworn he said sixteen," Kurt objected soberly, tight lipped.

A scrawny tree covered in rainy mist and cobwebs passed them, making Kurt feel ill. Slowly, the words The Mausoleum sunk into the picture forbiddingly.

"Shit," Artie exclaimed, "this is that new indie horror flick!" His outburst broke the tension the morbid film had worked hard to produce, generating him plenty of "Shhhh!"s from the crowd. He flicked the bird at the red-headed pair who had yelled "Shut up, bitch!", and turned back to his seatmates. "What are we going to do?" he pleaded, cobalt blue eyes dour.

"Get our skinny white arses out of here?" Kurt offered immediately, careful to keep his voice low. He could feel his chest strain as the dissonant chords of the orchestra crept out of the speakers surrounding him.

"I wanted to see this anyway," Mike countered casually, reclining back in his chair. Oblivious to Kurt and Artie's horrified expressions, "If that doesn't bother you guys."

Kurt gulped, alarmed eyes dilating past their normal limits. There were few things Kurt hated. He hated knock offs. He hated the Southern Baptist Church. He hated feeling irrelevant in comparison to other people. Everything else, he could kick himself in the back and out up with it for an extended period of time. Besides one emotion.

Surpassing all of that, Kurt detested, abhorred, despised, repelled, derided, loathed, flat out spit upon, fear.

Fear of bullies. Fear of the dark. Fear of abandonment. Fear of superstitions. Fear of insanity. Fear of spiders. Fear of hospitals. Fear of being buried alive. Fear of being robbed while he was home alone. Fear of speaking in public and stumbling. Fear of losing everything in a natural disaster. Fear of the going to the dentist's. You name it, and Kurt had experienced a fear of it at some point in his life, including horror movies.

He had no interest in being here, especially without the comfort of a familiar hand or a fleece blanket to cover his eyes with when the chainsaws and demons came out. Oh, God, he moaned to himself, feeling the shivers vibrating across his skin already. There isn't a man in the world that could get me to sit here and take this.

Mike interrupted his thought, taking notice of the look of sheer terror plastered across Kurt's pale face. "Scary movies aren't your thing?" he ventured cautiously.

Kurt shook his head violently, panic stricken eyes locked on the red door with peeling paint and grime-covered scratches on its panel. Creeeeaaaak, slam! Creeeeaaaak¸ slam! The door rode with the wind in the dark, as if they were both personified objects premeditating the unpreventable eeriness and sudden leaps of petrified horror the film was soon to include. Kurt's heart beat heavily in-between the rattling bones of his ribcage.

"If you get frightened, just grab me. I don't care if you care me so hard you break skin," Mike offered, taking Kurt's stare off the screen. He met Mike's nerve-settling brown ones weakly, unable to nod or shake his head.

"Face your fears," he said, as if he'd known exactly what Kurt was thinking. The power lines on the screen rattled like a skeleton. "If it's unbearable, run like a bat out of hell. But you faced Karofsky and the football team last year, didn't you? That guy beat the shit out of you on a daily basis."

"Yeah, but Sam, Puckerman, Artie, and you had my back,-" he tried to snap, but it ended up as more of a pitiful whine.

Mike ignored his protests, and smiled patiently. "And two of those four are still here. I swear, nothing horrible is going to happen that will scar you for the rest of your life. You can take on a handful of bad actors and a few gallons of fake blood and body parts."

Kurt pondered over his new companion's argument as the movie's soundtrack began with a few plunks on an unturned piano in a minor key. It was a new feeling, this being pressured to do something he didn't have any desire to do, or really, any need to. It wasn't exactly peer-pressure; but-actually, it was exactly that. Mike was trying to get him to do something he didn't want to do, just for the Hell of it.

It wasn't like he was trying meth or running away to Mexico, though. It was simply to sit next to him in a crowded theatre, eyes partially open to bear witness to the gruesome murders of innocent characters. It wasn't hurting himself, or his family, or his life, or anyone. Mike wasn't being unrealistic in asking him to stay.

If this had been a movie date with Blaine, his ex-boyfriend would have soothed him with a simple, "It's all good, baby, we can leave right now. No need for courage all the time," and escorted him from the theatre nuzzling his shoulder and hand-feeding him Red Vines.

What Mike was telling him bluntly, was "You're no wuss. You've reigned victorious from battles far more severe than this. Take it like a man," and kicking him in the rear and into his red velvet seat.

This was the difference between Blaine's Kurt, and New Kurt. One whispered, "You have to believe in yourself," and the other cheered, "I believe in you!"

Mike wasn't leaving him to face this on his own. He wouldn't have told Kurt to tough it out if he knew he couldn't do it. This was nothing he couldn't handle, and he knew that. He could do this.

"Alright," Kurt sighed faintly. Mike's mouth grinned giddily as he ate a red stick of licorice, openly excited at the prospect of getting to see the film. After the vine had been completely swallowed, he lowered his hand to the armrest, nudging Kurt so that he subliminally knew he could grab onto it all he wanted.

Kurt smiled half-heartedly. "You owe me." That very second, the scene shot to an overhead view of the storm, turning the whole theatre almost purely black. He grab Mike's limb instantly, and stayed that way for the rest of the film.

Like he'd formerly though, there was a reason horror movies were named as such. He screamed high than some of the girlfriends behind him, all diving in simultaneously to the men next to them. Forgetting who he was holding onto more than once, Kurt shoved his face into Mike's shoulder. Artie snorted twice, until the part where the schizophrenic serial killer popped onto the screen unsuspected, and he found himself in the arms of Mike, too. For the rest of the picture, Kurt and Artie claimed Mike as their snuggle pillow they could turn to when they couldn't bear to look anymore.

By the time the end credits crept forth, Mike had been beaten around pretty badly. "Somehow, I didn't expect my night to end like this," Mike hummed calmly as the lights flickered back on. "And I hope a love fest on me wasn't on the menu for you two, either."

The pair glared at the dancer's amused expression, not answering him.

"Oh, come on. It wasn't that bad," Mike scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"At one point, I though Kurt had been murdered," Artie crowed.

"He was looking straight at me, through the camera. He saw my face, and I'm next. I'm next, and we all know it," managed Kurt, still shaking fiercely.

"That movie was sick," Artie insisted.

"Demented," Kurt bleated.

"Schizoid."

"Wrong."

"Sick."

"Sick as Hell," Artie finished. He fiddled anxiously with his fingers in his lap, and Kurt could see the sticky sweat glistening on his damp palms.

"Neither of you left, though," Mike reminded them, grabbing the last fistful of Artie's popcorn. He ignored the slow burn of Artie's eyes, directed at his chewing jaw.

"Shut up," Artie and Kurt moaned simultaneously.

Despite his protesting, Kurt had actually enjoyed the movie. A part of him was starting to distinct the kind of fear brought on purposely for amusement, and the kind forced on him by his deepest phobias. Being scared stiff here had a certain amount of…refreshment in it, he supposed. His mouth getting dry when the four-year-old girl had been trapped at the top of the stairs, heart pounding when the shadows extended past the crumbled gravestones, nails digging into Mike's skin when the teenagers became trapped in the crypt in the last fifteen minutes of the film.

It all gave him a wicked sort of adrenaline rush that hadn't turned out to be half bad. Screaming and clinging on for dear life to someone you hardly knew gave him a feeling of mental, physical, and emotional stimulation. It was the reason some people went cliff diving, or traveled into places that were declared unsafe. Kurt was infatuated with the idea of it.

Ten minutes later, Kurt, Artie, Mike, and two more bags of Red Vines (something Kurt was starting to chuckle at) were in the van and skidding across the highway. The moon hung from the sky like it had been stapled on a black curtain, the first hints of autumn stars twinkling. It was hard to admire the night, though, with Mike singing very off-key to Human by the Killers.

"Are we hooo-miiin, or are we daaaaaaan-ser," he belted, straining Kurt's ears. He was almost glad to see his familiar doorstep once they reached his house, but a twinge of sadness developed in his chest as his feet met the driveway. This really had been his first night out with only guys, and he'd really enjoyed it. He'd always said that his dedication lied with the girls, but now, he really wasn't too sure. It was easy for him to find things in common with Mercedes, Rachel and Santana, but Mike and Artie…this was a side of him he hadn't been able to exercise before. They'd been hilarious in a way that Kurt hadn't experienced, apart from Finn's sleepovers from across the bedroom. A change from the usual romantic comedy on Ladies' Night, too. If they'd gone to a horror flick with him, he would have been the protector, not the protected. He wasn't one to be a damsel in distress, but it was nice not to carry the burden of responsibility for once in his life.

The three of them had talked about cars, music, and even some more typically-feminine topics, from gossip to the one Blaine conversation with Artie. He certainly hadn't expected it to be this easy to get along with two straight guys. Maybe he'd been wrong to automatically assume that he'd only be comfortable in the company of girls and the Blazered ones. He definitely wouldn't mind hanging out with them again, he pondered, as he gave a wave and headed towards his breezeway.

Question was, did they want to? He asked himself, turning around one last time to look at the van's passengers. Was I too out there, or quiet, or awkward, or scared, or dramatic, or girly, or-

"Catch you later, Kurt!" Artie shouted out his unrolled window. "To be honest, I wasn't expected it to be this fun. Glad you came along, man. Do it again sometime?"

Well, there's that answer. "Just say my name, and I'll be there!" he yelled back, grinning from underneath his porch light as moths fluttered around his glowing face.

Mike leaned across Artie and stuck his head out. "That wasn't a question. We're hanging out again, soon. Right? Thought so. See you around, bud." His grin matched Kurt's, until Artie slowly stepped on the gas. Sitting up, his eyes kept in contact with Kurt's, and smiled gently as he waved goodbye.

Artie's van was soon on his way down the street, and Kurt in his bed. His hand-sewn Yankee's shirt was wrinkled, and the jeans had started to rub at the knee. He didn't even give it a second thought, though. Screw Blaine Anderson, he giggled, sticking in his headphones to drown out Finn's Trace Adkin's, setting the iPod to his Killer's playlist. This Is Your Life blared first, the plucking of guitar strings filling his ear buds. This is my life, he reminded himself as he closed his eyes. Screw Blaine Anderson. I can live my life damn well, and tonight proved it. So what if I don't have a handsome prince to rescue me? Why can't I be happy with Ariel's fish, Cinderella's mice, and Snow White's dwarfs? They were real friends, who stuck by their girl no matter what. No reason for happily-ever-afters. The drowsiness that had resulted from his ecstatic behavior during the film was catching up to him, and he snuggled into his pillow.

Wait for something better

No one behind you

Watching your shadows

You gotta be stronger than the story

Don't let it blind you.

He knew he was seconds away from sleep, and smiled to himself for the last time that night. I don't need my fairy-tale ending. My story's only beginning.

Me and reviews are like Rachel Berry and applesau-applause.