A:N Do not own! I only Watch, with a mug of hot cocoa, and a lot of warm fuzzy blanket.

Hope everyone is staying inside and safe with the snowstorm today! Here's the last chapter of this reaction fic! It's twice as long because I couldn't find a good place to cut it, and I didn't want to give you a short chapter.

thanks for sticking with me! Much love to all my reviewers, and followers!

Kurt would say he floats through the door, but that would mean he couldn't feel his feet, and he very much can feel his feet. He can feel every part of his body, and they all feel really great.

On the way in he waves to his father and Sam in the living room, watching a late night football game, and Sam whistles and says, "There's the man of the hour! Didn't know if you'd be home tonight! Those moves on Blaine tonight—bow chicka wow wow! So hot! Nice rolling hip action on the dance floor!" Sam demonstrates, with grunts. "You totally got laid, didn't you? I was going to tell you, next time, I have condoms on me at all times. You don't need to go to the convenience store down the street—I got'ya covered." Then he gets up and comes real close to Kurt so that Burt can't hear, "But look, Blaine was really broken up about that thing in the fall, so if you hurt him, or if you know, this thing of yours gets kinky, I'm going to have to side with him. Even though I'm living in your house. It'll get weird, I know, but he's my bro. Just warning you." Then he steps back and says, loudly, "Oh, and jeez, I have something for sore lips. Kissing's a bitch. I'll go get it. Hold on." And then he's out of the room, and Kurt is staring at his father, who's staring back.

"We'll talk in the morning," Burt says.

"I'm an adult."

Burt puts his hands up. "Sure are. But even adults get advice from their Dads," just as Sam comes back, half jogging, with a tube of something that Kurt will absolutely never use.

"Thanks, Sam," he says, and almost but not quite slams the door of his room.

But then he's in his room and today he and Blaine were here, dancing, laughing, and he inhales and falls into bed and he's twisted and confused and good and everything's right but also not right, too.

At breakfast the next morning Burt finds him. He says, "Hey, help me in the shop this morning, Kiddo."

He pauses, for just a second, and then says, "Sure. Sure."

He puts on his overalls and gets into the truck with his Dad, who doesn't say a single word about Blaine, or the wedding last night, or anything, on the entire drive over.

When they get in Burt says, "You still remember how to change oil?" and Kurt lazily hums, "of course," so Kurt does that while Burt works on something else in the engine.

The silence isn't terribly companionable.

When Kurt is done he gets out from under the car. "You know, you could just ask. 'How's Blaine,' you could say. And I would say, 'he's probably happy as a clam, today, actually, thanks for asking.'"

"Ok," Burt says with a straight face, "How's Blaine?"

Kurt blanks his face. "Funny."

Burt's eyebrows lift. "No, really. I've learned that Sam is less than reliable. So if you say that Blaine is happy, than I'll take your word for it because you're my son, and I trust you." He gives Kurt a gasket to switch out as well, and Kurt slides back under.

But Kurt slides back out again after less than a minute. "That's bull dad. That's bull. You brought me out here to talk, so fine. Let's talk."

Burt braces his hands against the car. "Ok. Let's talk. What happened last night?"

Kurt makes an open gesture with his hands, opens his mouth trying to figure out where to begin. They had sex last night. Hot, glorious, wonderful—he can't tell his father about this. He half smiles and feels his face heat up. "You know what happened last night. We. Well. Well I don't want to talk about what happened last night."

Burt shakes his head. "I don't really want to talk about what happened last night, either."

"Good."

Kurt slides under the car again.

"Have you talked to Blaine about what happened last night?" Burt asks, through the engine.

"It just happened."

Burt wrenches with a pipe. "I'm not so old that I don't—there's pillow talk and car talk—there's talk. You can talk."

Kurt's quiet, delicately maneuvering the gasket into place. "I guess we haven't. I mean. He wants more than I can give."

Burt is quiet, and Kurt knows that that's not good. "I know. I know."

"No, Kurt, I feel you. I know. You're young, in New York, you don't want to be tied down by an old flame back home. I understand."

"God Dad, you make me sound—"

"Like what?"

"You make me sound like a straight guy."

Burt laughs, and reaches into his tool box for a pair of pliers so that he can unscrew a screw. "Well, if the shoe fits—"

Kurt groans.

"Let me guess, you just came back, hoping for a little fun on your break?" when Kurt doesn't say anything he laughs again. "God. Priceless."

"It wasn't just—It wasn't just for fun. I mean, it was. It was Blaine. He had fun too. It wasn't just me."

"I'm sure he did." He can see Burt shaking his head through the twist of tubing. "You and Blaine. You and that kid got something. Do you know he takes me to doctor's appointments? And he's been coming to Friday night dinners?"

Kurt lets out a soft whine, and then says "I'm not trying to hurt him-everyone does it this way in New York. That's how it is. And I'm trying to make sure that I know that when I do make a choice that it's the right choice. That I've explored my options—I want to make sure. That's the way people do things."

"Fine. Their decision. Maybe your decision. But when you're dealing with Blaine there are different rules. Maybe with anyone else it could mean less, but that guy—that guy came and told me to talk to you about sex even before you were dating."

"He what?" Kurt has stopped any pretense of putting the gasket in.

"He's been trying to be part of your family, this family, since before he knew what it was. And so I talked to you about it, because he was right. He thinks the sun shines out of your ass, Kurt."

Kurt reaches both hands up to the bumper, slides himself out from under the car, and looks his father directly in the eye, "Yeah, you think I don't see that? You think I don't see—" he reaches for a rag and blows his nose into it, and then doesn't look at his father when he says, "He needs so much, and I'm in New York. I'm swept up so often, and I don't know when he's going to need me and I'm not going to be there. In the fall—I just, I couldn't be there and by the time—I mean I didn't even realize he was so upset. I knew he was upset but I didn't realize he was so upset. It's so easy to hide things over Skype, on the phone, or to just not see them. I can't be what he needs in a long distance thing like this."

Burt leans against a car, crossing his arms over his chest. "So what, you're just going to be with him when you're here, but not with him when you're in New York?"

"No, I—I don't know. We weren't supposed to be anything until summer, or next fall. When we're both in the same place. But he doesn't want to not be anything. And then yesterday he came over to practice our duet for the wedding and—and I. I just." He finally turns to his father, and finds that Burt doesn't look mad, or angry, just probing. Maybe a little sad. "I'm so lonely, in New York. It's good, there are good things, and there are times when I'm happy, and it's getting better, I think, but I'm also—I'm so tired, and so sad, sometimes. And Blaine is just." Kurt looks down at his hands, already smudged with oil. "When he's there I just feel—" but he doesn't know how to finish that sentence because there is so much to say that he doesn't even know where to start.

"Blaine is just Blaine," Burt says.

"Yeah."

Burt wipes his hands on a towel. "Look. Kid. No one can promise that they'll do everything right, especially in a situation like yours, where everyone's at a disadvantage. You know that you're prone to getting swept away, and Blaine is prone to needing too much and hiding it. Ok. But that's life. That's the way things shake out. You can't skip around it. You have to work through it. You have to do right by them. Otherwise there will be a day when you come home and there won't be any one there and you'll realize that family isn't blood relatives at all."

Kurt clenches his fist and turns to look at the car. He lets his Dad's words sit for a minute, and then he rubs his forehead and says, "Last night was a mistake."

Burt turns back and keeps working on the rusty screw. "I don't think you believe that. And I don't think Blaine thinks so either."

Kurt rolls his eyes. "Blaine thinks this means we should be together."

"Well? Why don't you listen to him?"

Kurt frowns, thinking of Adam, of the distance, of what Blaine needs, how much Kurt can screw up in just the span of a few short months. "I just don't think—now's not a good time. Maybe if we're both in New York. But now's not a good time."

Burt shrugs. "Well, then get back under that car. We've got four more to do this morning. You're not off the hook yet." And Kurt blows his nose and gets back under the car, because there are four more to do, and that's somehow comforting.

In school that day Blaine knows Kurt's in the building even though they didn't plan it. He straightens up in history, turns towards the door and says, "Oh, Kurt's here." He can't see Kurt, but he knows he's coming closer.

Tina's like, "That's ridiculous, it's still school, he'll meet us afterwards—"

But then Kurt appears in the doorway, in a red sweater that hides all the hickeys from last night and also makes Blaine want to snuggle up to him with a movie and simultaneously strip him down to his bare skin and cover him in more hickeys, and then Sam says, "Holy shit, man, you really ARE Nightbird!"

Blaine just shrugs and smiles.

The bell rings and Kurt walks them to Glee, where they're performing in the auditorium for last period. Tina's told him about the vapo-rub incident, and he's feeling totally ok about it, probably because he came his brains out last night and everything feels really great. The cafeteria food today? His favorite. Reviewing the life cycle of leeches in enviro-science? Fantastic, fascinating, freaking-awesome. Tina telling him in person that she vapo-raped him in a fit of hag-lust? Not a problem at ALL.

Tina noticed. She said, "Kurt was really mad at me. I thought you'd be more upset."

What was he supposed to say? He couldn't tell her about the coming-his-brains-out with the love of his life part of the equation, so he said something gentlemanly about knowing she only meant to help him, and wanting to put it in the past. Then he could get back to smiling.

And now they're walking side by side, Kurt holding himself several inches away so that their hands absolutely will not touch.

Tina apologizes for attacking Kurt at the wedding—he looks over at Kurt, who gives him an I'll tell you later, it's over look, and then Tina says, "I saw the old, legendary chemistry. I saw two soulmates rediscovering each other—" she keeps talking but Blaine feels a swell of roses and hearts welling up inside him, he knows he's a sap, he knows it, ok, he knows it—he chances a look over at Kurt and Kurt has a tight, Fine, maybe, I just don't want to talk about it look on his face, and then Tina demands his attention when he whirls around again. "Why can't I have that?" she says, as if she doesn't have Mike Chang's name tattooed on her ass. Mike was giving her looks last night, but did she notice? No. She did not.

"You will," he says, "Just not with me." He feels bad for her, he really does, because not everyone can be fucked silly by this man in the giant crochet stoplight sweater to his right.

She apologizes again, but Blaine feels that he should say something for everyone in the hallway to listen and understand, "It's ok Tina. The truth is, we've all experienced unrequited love before." Once, I attacked a man at the Gap while Kurt pined for me. Now, both Kurt and I are pining for each other at the same time and only last night did we do anything about it. It's the suck, Tina, It's the suck. "And we've all done things we wish we didn't, and we all just want to get back to being friends."

Kurt bursts in at that moment, gesturing with that silly, holey sweater of his that makes his skin look so delicate and lickable and pale—anyway, Kurt gestures between himself and Blaine, "and that's just what we are, I mean, we're just friends," and Blaine bites his cheek for giving him the opening.

Blaine lets his head drop, his lips curl up into a half smile. A half dozen images in his head—his body mirroring Kurt as they sing "I just can't get enough;" Kurt above him in the car in the church parking lot, saying, "I love it when you talk fratty," which he couldn't have said if they hadn't admitted their mutual love of Jersey Shore last year; Kurt with his eyes closed, swaying with him during Rachel and Finn's number last night; Kurt's eyes intense, almost angry, as he thrust into him, asking about why he wasn't in New York yet, saying he didn't want to be alone anymore; and today, just now, as Kurt knew what class he would be in, even though the administrative ladies aren't supposed to give out that information to non-students, and yet there was Kurt with his head in the doorway, looking right at him. Just friends. Sure.

Kurt plows onward and invites Tina to come with them to the movies, and it probably would make her feel better to be among friends. He feels so great about him and Kurt that it doesn't even bother him that the date he proposed for them is being interrupted by his vapo-rapist. He can wait to tell Kurt the things he wants to tell him. Things like, "I just want to start my real life," and "If most things come easy for me, and if I'm happy doing a great variety of performance related things, and don't happen to be choosey, then really you're the deciding factor," and "sometimes I sit by myself and I can't stand it." There will be time. He can see time stretching in front of them, now. Finally.

Kurt comes to Glee Club's big group performance and sits in the back left of the auditorium. Blaine makes faces at him pretty much the entire time, and whirls Tina around when they don't have set choreography, and has a fantastic time. He always loves performing, even when he doesn't have an audience—something about just singing, just dancing, is great—but knowing Kurt is watching him makes him feel like yes, anything could happen.

Afterwards Kurt says, "You guys were great," but he's looking at Blaine. Then he looks away and says to Marley, "Excellent singing. Really." When they split up and the group goes its separate ways, Kurt says, "Was Mr. Shue looking at his phone the whole time?" They amble backstage, through the folds of black curtains.

And Blaine grimaces, and Kurt says, "Now that I'm graduated, do you think I could call him 'Will' and get away with it? Like, hey, Will, how's it hanging?"

Blaine laughs and picks it up. It feels weird and blasphemous to call their teacher by his first name, even more so than making out in a church parking lot. "Yo, Will, you wanna play B-ball on the weekends?"

Kurt squints at him, jutting his chin forward a little and stopping in the area of backstage beyond the black curtains, where there's a blank part of back stage, where they normally load sets or costumes or props, but is now empty. "What the hell was that?"

"No?" Blaine turns around from a pace in front of Kurt. "What?"

"B-ball on the weekends?" Kurt shifts onto one hip, trying hard not to laugh.

Blaine grins, bending his knees a little into a squat. "I see how these guys do it," Blaine nimbly leaps away from him, miming dribbling a basketball, pretending to evade a couple guys, and shouts, "I could play B-ball on the weekends, Kurt! I could!" He evades a few more, and then leaps again, jumping up to slam dunk an imaginary hoop.

When he looks back he sees Kurt folded at the waist, his hands on his knees, laughing. He comes back to him and Kurt takes his hand and kisses it, almost without noticing what he's done. "You could play B-ball on the weekends," he says, "With Will. The two of you would be the whitest B-ball players in history but you could do it." Kurt smiles at him, smiles the same kind of smile that he did in the car last night as they were singing on the way home. So Blaine slides his arm around his waist, spinning him around and hums the first song he can think of, which is actually "Anything Could Happen." Kurt puts a couple jaunty pieces of footwork into their two step, and they don't stop until Tina texts them, asking where they are.

Kurt grumbles and rolls his eyes, and Blaine mimes a basketball until he giggles again, and they collect their bags and coats and then walk out into the February sunshine smiling at each other, trying to push those smiles down and failing.

Tina's waiting for them in the parking lot. She's never seen Showgirls, so while Kurt's talking with Finn about something to do with their mutual parents, and while Blaine is watching Kurt talk to Finn about something, Blaine tells her the basic plot—new performer in town, ends up being a callgirl tries to get promoted, deals with awful men, drugs, etc.

Tina's eyes get wide, as he knew they would. "Drugs?" she says.

"Oh, yeah. Cocaine, I think? Drinking, too. It's rated NC-17." He wrinkles his brow. "How's your cousin, by the way?"

"Lindy's fine. Just fine." Her voice is high and tight and she runs a hand over the bottom of a curl. She really does have lovely hair.

Kurt's walking back to them, and Blaine resists the impulse to hold out his arm. "Ready to go?"

Tina is excited to see their secret sneaky way into the theatre. They always pay for tickets, but then they sneak around, find the stage door, and climb to the balcony, which is technically closed to the public. It has plush red seating and it's still structurally sound, as far as they can tell. It's just that the theatre doesn't want anyone throwing popcorn down on the people below, so the main lobby doesn't have upper floor access.

But the back alley way does.

Tina says, "I feel like a ninja! Or like a real fifties girl! Like before the movie we're going to see an update on the war!"

Kurt and Blaine trade amused glances behind her. Mostly they used to come here to make out.

She sits in between them, and sucks on her soda loudly whenever Bette Davis says something interesting. Blaine can hear Kurt grinding his teeth. There is a reason he and Rachel are friends, he thinks; Rachel would never have stood for any behavior that interrupted something she was interested in, and she would find an excuse, a reason to make that behavior go away.

After the movie, during the intermission, Tina begs off like she thought she would. She calls her Mom for a ride, which apparently is no problem, and Blaine waits outside with her until Mrs. Cohen-Chang comes to pick her up. They don't say much, but Tina hugs him goodbye.

When he gets back into the top row of the theatre, Kurt is watching the screen with a disgusted look on his face because there is both drugs and female nudity going on at the same time. Blaine laughs, softly, and then strides down the aisle. Kurt looks up.

"Took you long enough."

Blaine makes a humming noise and then instead of going back to his own seat, eases himself down onto Kurt's lap, so that they're face to face.

Kurt says, "Blaine, what are you doing?"

Blaine laughs. "We're not watching this movie." And then he kisses him, and Kurt kisses back.

Kurt didn't know how it happened. He thought Tina was going to stay with them for both movies, which would have been safer, and kept their attention focused on something other than their hormones—that's what this is, their hormones—but she left after the first one, saying something about her mother, and Asian Friday's, and then the movie in question was gross—which he half expected, but still—and then Blaine strode in looking so definitive, so decided, so confident, and now.

Now they're overwhelming each other, consuming each other.

Kurt pulls back.

"Blaine! We're friends! We should be—we shouldn't be!" He pushes on Blaine's chest a little.

Blaine's face is half glowing in the light of the movie, and he flutters his hands uselessly at his sides. "That's—Kurt. Don't you think it's a little hypocritical that you can make out with me whenever you want to, but I can't just make out with you whenever I want to? If we're going to be friends with benefits, then it should be a two way street, don't you think?"

"I'm leaving tomorrow morning, early. I don't think this is a productive discussion."

Blaine hisses, "I think this is very productive. I want to make out with you whenever I want, since you seem to be able to make out with me whenever you want."

Kurt crosses his arms over his chest. "And when, exactly, are you going to make out with me?"

Blaine's lips twitch. "Right now, actually."

"I mean—"but Blaine has already nipped at his lower lip again, sucked it into his mouth, and Kurt's letting out a moan. He thinks, Blaine has a point. But doesn't he understand how much harder it will be-but then Blaine shifts and grinds down a little, and Kurt thinks it doesn't matter, because everything about this feels good, and he lets go.

When the credits roll they've gotten into a nice rhythm of lazy kisses and half hearted pelvic thrusts, and Kurt is mostly just enjoying having Blaine on top of him, feeling the heat of him radiating through his shirt. Blaine seems to concur, because when they have to separate, when the lights come up, he pushes away, standing up, and says, "cold," shivering a little, and Kurt frowns, remembering his own half comment from last night, about how the lobby was colder than the room.

They get down the stairs and open the door to the alley, heading towards the car, the winter wind hits him like a singsong chant. You could have him all the time, you could have him all the time, you could have him all the time.

But he can't. It's not true, so it's not even worthwhile to dwell on it.

Blaine still feels like his lips are red and chapped when they burst into the alleyway that the door the upper level of the theatre leads too. They walk to their car, parked in the CVS lot next door, but a group of men, joking and laughing, pass right by the mouth of the alleyway as they're walking through, one of whom looks in, sees them and stares, nudging his friends. Blaine remembers that this is not a good place for them to dwadle. Kurt seems to think about that, too, and they pick up the pace.

Blaine releases something of a breath when they get to the big glowing orange lights of the store, but it's not until they get into the car and lock the doors that he releases his fists. Kurt turns on the ignition and Blaine says, "I guess you just have to worry about people stealing your stuff—not really anything worse," he says.

"In New York," Kurt says, and he pulls out of the parking spot, his jaw clenching, a little. "That's one good thing."

Kurt turns on the radio, but Blaine turns it back down again.

"So, tell me about it," he says.

Kurt wiggles in his seat. "What do you want to know? You were there at Christmas."

"No, I mean, your classes. Your friends." He's pretty sure this is the right question to ask, because Kurt's evading it already.

Kurt stiffens his jaw and pulls out of the parking lot. "You know all about them. We text all the time."

"I know. But that's over skype. It's different in person. Is New York everything you thought it was going to be? Is it different? If I go there next year, what should I know? What should I look out for?"

Blaine crosses his legs and looks out the window at the streets, the small shops, the slushy snow.

Kurt turns his head at a stoplight before the main road to consider Blaine. He worries his lip a little. His eyes are dark, which means he's unhappy, he's considering. "New York," he pauses, and then says again, "New York makes you feel smaller than you thought. Like. On the one hand, that's good. And on the one hand, you know that's going to happen, because all the movies, all the tv shows say it will. But then it does happen and it feels weird."

He pulls out on the green light and Blaine lays his hand on the middle console, where they would normally fit their coffees. He nods, and Kurt continues.

"And the people—in Ohio you could just look around and say—aha," he jabs the air, pointing, "there's a person who stands out, who's being bullied, who's fat, who stutters, who's in a wheelchair. They've been through what I've been through. Chances are, we could be friends. But in New York, everyone stands out, so no one does."

Kurt watches the road for a while, and then signals to turn onto the exit for the highway, heading back towards Lima. "And everyone's a bitch, too."

Blaine smiles. "Not as much as you are, though."

Kurt rolls his eyes. "Oh, I don't know. Santana gives me a run for my money. I think the city's going to be good for her." He lets his hand rest on the inner console too, and Blaine takes a risk, takes a chance, and twines their fingers together. Kurt doesn't object, but he doesn't participate, really either—he just lets his fingers stay where Blaine's put them.

Kurt lets out a sigh. "I don't know, B." Blaine feels a small thrill whenever Kurt calls him that, but he tamps it down. "I keep trying to talk to people about this. It feels strange. I know I went to New York for a reason, and now I'm there, at NYADA, and that makes sense. Fall was—" he stops. "Fall was like Sex in the City. There were parties—not like, weird bad parties, but parties with fancy clothes, and I was going into Manhattan all the time and getting cocktails and Isabelle was like Carrie Bradshaw except without the voiceover and also less frazzled and more of an artist and more of an adult—I just sort of got swept up in it, which was easy, and awful, I know, for you."

Blaine can see him gripping the steering wheel tighter, and he lets his thumb press and sooth against Kurt's skin.

His cheek clenches, and he releases it. "But now. Now this is what I want. This is what I asked for. This is the type of thing I do and yet there are some days that I can hardly get out of bed. And I—I don't know who to be friends with and who to not be friends with," he says in a rush, "Rachel says the Adams Apples are dumb but at least they're underdogs, I understand underdogs; I feel like an underdog; and Adam's like the head underdog—"

He stops speaking, just staring at the road. He shakes his head and huffs out a sigh. "I don't know how to say it. I feel like I'm whining. I've been given this great opportunity. I know that."

Kurt turns, suddenly, and Blaine blinks. "I'm sorry," he says, "am I babbling, do you not want to hear any of this? We should talk about you. Tell me about being president. You did it, you did what I couldn't do, of course, you did it, I knew you could—"

Blaine puts up his hand, the one he doesn't have interwoven, still, with Kurt's. "Kurt. Stop. We'll—" he pauses, thinking for a half second, staring out at the snow over the fields of broken off bits of corn stalks, and then says the most obvious thing. "Let's go get coffee. We'll have time before Friday night Dinner."

Kurt stiffens, momentarily, and then slumps a little and says, "Yeah. Yeah. Ok. Yes. That sounds. Good."

Blaine squeezes Kurt's hand, his thumb picking up the soothing motions he'd been doing before. "So why are there some mornings you can hardly get out of bed?"

He sighs and takes his right hand out of Blaine's to smack it against the steering wheel. "I don't know. I don't know; I don't know. Everything's supposed to be right. I'm not being bullied, except for NYADA bitches, but I can handle them—it's just trash talk. But people—I guess people are mean everywhere. Adam's an ally but I just—I just. I just."

And he's breathing through his nose and won't say anything else. A truck passes them on their left, blaring down on them, and Kurt frowns, looking up through the window, edging further over to the right of the lane until the truck passes.

Blaine stays quiet until Kurt's breathing settles a little, thinking about what to say. Kurt says, finally, "I know, it's stupid. I need to just deal."

"No, No. Hey. I've just been thinking. Look. You're in a new place, right?" and Kurt looks at him, back and forth from the road to him. "I was thinking about when I first got to Dalton. Do you know how long it took me to really feel comfortable there? I felt awful, too, because here was this great place, this bully-free zone, and Wes was so kind to me, inviting me to hang out with him and Jeff, but I just couldn't like, get in the groove or something. I couldn't like, accept that we were actual friends. I kept thinking about my old friends, even though my old school had been horrific—" he's watching the skeleton trees go by, the fields, the barns, some of them collapsing, decrepit. He's reading the billboards and the speed signs, the sun glinting off the metallic guard rails, off the snow cover that's thicker in some places than others.

Kurt makes a noise, and Blaine continues. "It took me a good year to feel comfortable there. To feel like I had friends there. And I was in the Warblers, I was the lead Warbler, and I know they accepted me, they loved me, but I felt like maybe they shouldn't, like I was false, somehow, like one day they were going to see that I was this scared little kid."

"So what happened? How did you snap out of it?" Kurt's biting his lip again, and Blaine turns and sees the kid on the stairs, the kid about to cry about the bully at school—his skin red and a little patchy, his nose flaring, his eyes red rimmed, but the blue of the irises brilliant and startlingly bright.

"Time," he says, although his voice is rough, and Kurt looks back at the road, "Time. It takes time to get comfortable. And it takes trust, too. You have to feel comfortable and confident where-ever you are. It takes small steps, like winning Midnight Madness" He pulls Kurt's hand off the steering wheel and kisses the back of it. "Congratulations, by the way—like finding people like Adam, like the other people to add to your group. And then there will be more days you want to get out of bed for. And if there aren't—then you need to tell me. Or tell someone that you're still feeling that way. Because that's a bigger problem."

Kurt nods, and says in a small voice, but slightly relieved, "So I'm not crazy."

"I sure hope not. I mean, is it excessive? Can you get things done? Are you able to go out and have fun with people?"

Kurt frowns, nodding. "I think so. Yes. It's just that sometimes I'm by myself, on the street and I just feel so gloomy. But then I'll have a fun movie night with Rachel, or I'll do something right in dance class, or I'll skype or text with you and things will be good again."

Blaine breathes out, a soft sigh. "Kurt." He wants to say something about how he's ridiculously in love, still, with this man, who for some bizarre reason needs him just as much as he does. "You're. Jeez."

"I'm a mess, I know." Kurt takes the exit for Lima.

"Not what I was going to say," Blaine hums as they take a couple turns to get to the Lima Bean.

Stepping out of the car with Kurt, at the Lima Bean, seems fresh and memory all at once, and Blaine sucks in his breath against the onslaught of every feeling hitting him together. He looks over at Kurt but he's composed, scuffing his boot against the asphalt.

It's nice to not talk for a minute, to let the smell of salt and snow, of fresh air, and then of warmth, of coffee beans, of people, settle into their conversation. It's nice to just be them, without talking. Kurt chuckles softly and bumps him lightly on the back when he orders their coffees without asking what Kurt wants, because he already knows, and then goes and grabs their normal table.

Once they're seated Kurt cocks his head to the side and Blaine thinks, here it comes. "So—what about you?"

"hmm?" he looks up from adding cinnamon to his coffee see Kurt looking at him, his skin even again after the high emotion of the car ride, smooth and silky. "What about me?"

"Is senior year everything you wanted it to be?"

He's out of his mind. Senior year's been awful. "What? How is that even possible?" Kurt lifts his shoulders. "No, it's not," Blaine clarifies, setting his coffee cup down precisely, on the table, trying not to sound bitter. "We—You're not here. And then we lost sectionals because we don't have the voice power—I don't care if Marley did pass out on stage, we just weren't as good. And yeah, the Warblers were on," he brushes his hand in the air "whatever they thought they needed to get by, but even if we'd somehow beaten them—we're just not as good this year, without you and Rachel and Mercedes and Santana. God, even Quinn."

He feels something nudging against his foot. It's Kurt, who won't really hold hands with him here, but can accidentally rub ankles. He lets their socks rest together.

"But you're president. That's something."

"They don't listen to me. I—I. They all wanted to throw a Sadie Hawkins dance; well, Tina wanted to throw a Sadie Hawkins dance, so that she could ask me, I guess, and I didn't want to, but they bowled me over. I have very little say, ultimately." He rubs the pad of his finger against the fake wood grain of this table.

Kurt says, "What?" and Blaine looks up to see Kurt looking appalled, "You don't' get to like, bang on a gavel or something and just lay down the law?"

Blaine squinches up his eyebrows and rubs his finger a little bit harder against the grain—really, this is probably just plastic. "This isn't Dalton. I'm not Wes. Or—I'm not you. I can't just shriek 'we will not do a Sadie Hawkins Dance! Rah!' and have that be it. I like agreeing with people too much. Or—something. I don't know. It's really frustrating. Because on the one hand, people listen to me, they follow me, but then on the other hand they—"

"They blow right past you and do whatever the hell they want anyway. I know." Kurt's nodding.

Blaine pauses. "Yeah. I even. I even said no to Tina. I said no, that I didn't want to go to the dance with her, but then we went together anyway. She like, made it just friends, but obviously now I know she wanted it to be more. It's like I can't get people ever to just listen to me, and do what I want them to do." He looks at his lap, feeling hot and choked for the first time in a long time that he can remember at someone other than his family. He's used to feeling this way about his family—at his mother, and father, and brother—his fucking brother. But not other people.

Kurt says, "Blaine, look at me."

When he does he realizes he's almost folded completely in half in his seat. He straightens his back and smoothes out his face. "I'm not angry. I'm not—"

"It's ok to be angry about it. I was angry for you. I was so—" Kurt cuts off, but makes an aggravated growling noise.

Blaine gives him a twist of a smile. "I'm only—ok, maybe I'm a little bit. But that's only because I feel like I'm just waiting for the year to end. Once the year ends I can—" he pauses. They haven't discussed whether it would be all right for him to actually go to NYADA since Christmas. "I can go to New York. And start my adult life. I like Marley and Jake," he leans forward, resting his chin in his hand, and his other forearm on the table "—not really Kitty but I don't think anyone likes Kitty, but it's hard to care when you know that you're going to pack up and leave soon." He pauses and Kurt doesn't say anything. He doesn't say anything positive or negative about New York, so he continues. "And on the other hand I'm not angry about it because I'm waiting for the year to end, too, because they don't—err, really matter. Tina's not really my Rachel."

He feels Kurt make slow rubbing motions against his foot. "Rachel is something all her own."

Blaine snorts. "Yeah. You're really the only one—You're the only one." He says, on the end of a breath, and then he straightens up, dropping his hands to his lap.

Kurt doesn't say anything for a while, and then he inhales deeply. "You and Sam, though?"

"Oh! Oh. Yeah. Yeah. He's great." Blaine nods, tucking his chin into his chest. "I rely on him a lot. but I don't know if that will end after this year-I mean, I think we'll have different lives. That's ok, but I don't know if we'll stay best friends. He's not my Rachel, either."

Kurt's quiet for a minute, gently rubbing their socks together. Then he says, "I had a crush on him when we first met, did I tell you that?"

Blaine whips his head up. "What?"

"He was so cool, and he dyed his hair, and he was fine with dueting with me—and those lips. God, those lips."

Blaine lifts his hands up. "Right? I know! When they do impressions? Did he ever come to school in nothing but board shorts? My god I almost came in my pants."

Kurt lifts his eyebrows, "Something you want to tell me, Blaine?"

Should not have said that last part, probably. "What? Oh. Nothing. Nothing I want to tell you. Absolutely at all."

Kurt's got a funny smile, now, and Blaine's not sure if it's an upset smile or an 'I actually find this funny' smile. "Come on, this is share and care time."

"I don't think this is relevant, we were talking about you not getting out of bed."

"I may not get out of bed," and here he leans forward and hisses, "if I'm imagining you jacking off to fantasies of Sam."

Blaine rolls his eyes, "Oh yeah, Mr. Adam's Apples. That's a real threat. What I do and who I fantasize about are apparently none of your concern."Kurt tries to pull his food away but Blaine reaches out with his foot and snags it back quickly, drawing it under the center of their table. It makes them both look like they're struggling a little bit to stay afloat, to stay in their chairs, and when they're through Blaine gives a triumphant smile. Then he lets out a breath. "You had a crush on him, I had a crush on him. That's all. He was close by, and we were getting to be good friends, and he's attractive. Sam couldn't possibly hold my interest in the long term, but he's a good friend, and I'm lucky he's around because I was a mess when. Well."

Kurt makes a noise in the back of his throat and turns to look out the window.

Blaine thinks he said something wrong, but it was the truth and he can't help it. "Kurt. Look. You're with Adam. You're exploring. And that's good, I think, ultimately. I think—I think it's been good for me, this year, being apart from you, even though I hate it. Because I am attracted to Sam. Because now I know that he's not enough. That in fact no one is enough. In fact," Blaine takes a deep breath, "I don't know if you want to hear this, but you're really the only one who's enough."

Kurt's still doing that angry hissing thing. "But Blaine, Sam is—Sam. He believed in the Mayan Apocolypse. Of course he isn't enough. What if you find—I mean, there are a thousand me's. You get to NYADA and you find out that there are a—" Blaine can't help himself. The idea of a thousand Kurts is laughable, so he starts laughing, and Kurt gets this confused and suspicious look on his face, all narrowed eyes and pursed lips, like he thinks Blaine might be plotting. "What?"

Blaine is still chuckling. "Kurt?" he says, "That's ridiculous. Are there a thousand kids who know as much about fashion and singing and car maintenance as you? Who can sing high and low? Who are as comfortable being silly as you are? Who are as flexible and demanding as you are? Who are as loving as you are? Who love me as much as you do?" Kurt does not answer. "No. No. There are not. There is only one man like that, and he is right here."

Blaine realizes that Kurt might turn away from him for this. He's never been very good at taking compliments, even though he craves them. But it's just—after last night. How could he not. How could he not. How could he not.

Blaine comes to Friday night dinner, and fits in like he always has. It's a boisterous meal, with Kurt and Finn joshing each other, and Sam and Blaine throwing inside jokes around (Kurt eyes Sam and Blaine and sees the straight-boy bro-mance way they interact. He's surprised by the flare of possessive happiness that he doesn't see anything else). The whole time Kurt can feel a tight, knowing energy between himself and Blaine even though they don't speak to each other much; they're sitting next to each other, like they always used to, and that's enough. Burt doesn't say very much, but he does say, "It's great to have all my boys together again, at the same table," about half way through, and a minute later Blaine sneaks a hand to Kurt's, under the table, and squeezes it.

After dinner's over, when he's about to leave, Blaine puts on his jacket at the door while Sam and Finn are cleaning up the dishes, and Burt and Carol are in the TV room, and says, with that low, earnest, baritone rumble of his, "Things that are worthwhile are going to be hard," It comes almost out of nowhere, a reference to their earlier conversation. "And they're going to feel uncomfortable. I think it's ok that you're not completely happy in New York, yet." He brushes some lint off Kurt's sleeve, and runs a hand up his arm to settle it around his neck, thumbing gently at the skin just at his nape. "I mean," he says, softly, "I want you to be happy there, and I think you will be, but I think it's a gradual process. But you're so strong, Kurt. You're lonely, now, but that—that won't be forever."

Kurt looks at Blaine's soft, brown, almost hazel eyes, and kisses him softly, softly, just a pale ghost of their touches earlier that afternoon in the theater. When he pulls back he says, exhaling through his nose, "I'm messing everything up with you, I think, but I don't know how to stop." He kisses him once more, and then says, "Take me to the airport tomorrow morning?"

Blaine clenches his jaw once, then nods, and presses a hard kiss to his lips. Then he's gone, leaving a blast of cold air in his wake.

They get coffee before they hit the airport. It's not the Lima Bean, it's some chain, so they feel like they can't have a private conversation. They find the most tucked away corner they can find and it still feels like all eyes are on them. They chat for a couple minutes, but then they fall silent.

Blaine swallows, then asks, "What did you mean, you're messing everything up with me?"

Oh. Kurt didn't expect him to ask that. "Oh. I don't know. Were you up wondering all night?"

"No—What did you mean? You meant something." Blaine is frowning.

Kurt idily spins the wooden mixer for his coffee. "I mean-You and I. You know that I love you, but I don't know if it's enough." He looks out the window.

"Kurt—"

He snaps his head back, and says in a rush, "What if I go and start this all back up again and then it's not enough and you feel—and then it happens all over again? What then? I don't think I could handle it again. I couldn't. I couldn't; it would—"

Blaine says, through clenched teeth, "It's not going to happen again."

"Maybe not that thing, particularly, because I'm not asking you to keep defending yourself, I'm not, really, but those feelings, feeling left behind, feeling like I'm not hearing you—feeling like I didn't care—what if those feelings come back? Like last year, when we stopped talking, before I graduated—especially when we're not in the same place, I can't even try to help, even try to make it better."

Blaine takes Kurt's hand, patrons of the chain be damned. "Kurt. Do you know what makes me feel kept in the loop? When you text me about how you feel about, I don't know," his other hand flutters toward the window, "someone's shirt, or the something your professor said. Last fall you stopped doing that. And when you did talk it wasn't to ask me for my opinion, or asking about my day, it was just a steam rolling train that I could either be flattened by or let pass me by. Do you know how we've been talking recently?"

Kurt shakes his head, and Blaine takes his phone out and scrolls through his recent texts. "'Oh god, please tell me you have five minutes to talk, I just got done with the worst class and I need you to help me feel better," he raises his eyebrows at Kurt.

"Well, I think that's explanatory." Kurt lifts his chin, a little.

"Here's another: 'Why is Finn the one telling me about you in Adam Lambert clothes? Pictures, please! Also—any word on that Calc test yet?' or how about, 'How cold does it have to be for long johns to be required?' Kurt—" he holds his phone screen up to Kurt, almost as evidence, "these are texts asking for my opinion first, coming to me first, making me feel like I'm someone important in your life, even though I'm ten, fifteen hours away."Blaine's eyes soften. "That's what all I want. That's what didn't happen last fall."

Kurt looks down at the table, feeling even more frustrated. "But I don't know when I'm doing it! That's—it's not conscious!"

"Yeah. But they never said that relationships didn't mean work, that communication didn't mean work. I have to sometimes remember to compliment you more, because while I may think those things, I don't always say those things out loud."

And Kurt pushes grains of sugar around on the table, thinking, wondering, confused. Love should be, sometimes is, a brush of the finger tips. Or it should be, sometimes is, a hot sweaty roll in the hay. So what is it now?

In the car they're silent, but when Blaine puts his hand on the center console Kurt entwines their hands immediately, as if he were waiting for it.

At the airport Kurt parks them in short term parking and Blaine comes into the front terminal with him, helping him with his bags, fussing with his coat, looking like he's trying not to focus too hard at anyone thing. He's also running at the mouth, talking about the new show about three guys looking for love, and how it's really just a classy version of The Bachelor, and who do they think they're kidding, and you don't just find love that way, it's not about looks, or abs, or a few lousy dates, loves about something more, something deeper that can't really be found on camera like that, right, c'mon-At some point Kurt stops him, pulls him over to where there's a corner and a fake ficus tree in rough proximity, and puts his hands on his shoulders.

"Ok. Ok. Ok. Blaine." Blaine exhales, roughly, and he continues. "I can't, I can't make any promises, and I can't start anything now. That's not fair to you, and it's not fair to me. I think we were gloriously stupid this weekend, even though I wouldn't take it back—" he grins and Blaine grins too, shifting his weight onto the other foot and blushing a little. "But we are friends. We're friends first. Best friends. Always best friends. And I think. You're right. About those texts. I think that's important."

Blaine nods, he nods like his head's on a spring, and Kurt finally catches his chin in his hand and lifts it so they're looking each other in the eye. Blaine's eyes are glinting, glimmering, like he's close to crying, so Kurt closes his eyes and presses their foreheads together.

"Jesus, Blaine. Jesus."

And Blaine wraps his arms around Kurt, and they stay that way for a good thirty seconds until a family, the mother in a brown spangled sari and the smallest daughter in a pink spangled dress, wander maybe ten feet from them, and they step back, flushed. The two sons are arguing about which ninja turtle is better, the mother is telling everyone to keep hold of their own things, and the daughter is saying, "Look! Look!" before she does a cartwheel. The father says, exasperated, "make her stop that right now, we are in an airport."

The daughter says, "But Dora does it all the time! In the jungle, in the desert, EVEN in the airport!"

The mother shakes her head and leans close to her to whisper something and the girl pouts and folds herself into a bizarrely twisty position on the ground, and the mother huffs out a sigh before collecting her and trying to keep everyone together, despite their disparate desires.

Blaine shakes a little before stepping back, hands going to his pockets, to his coat. "Right. You have your tickets."

Kurt looks at Blaine, remembering him dribbling an imaginary basketball, and thinks that Blaine would let his daughter do cartwheels pretty much anywhere—in the jungle, in the desert, probably in the airport, too. "Yeah."

"And. And you have your wallet. And your coat. And you brought three bags and you are taking away three bags—" Kurt can see him counting, just to make sure, "And you have the Simone Rocha scarf, right? I saw it in your closet the other day. But if you don't have it, it's ok, I'll send it to you. If you forgot anything I'll just send it to you, so don't worry, just don't worry."

But Kurt lifts up his chin again and folds him once more into a hug, a tight embrace, burying his nose into Blaine's neck and squeezing him. "Blaine, Blaine. When am I going to see you again?"

"Soon, I hope, soon."

"Soon."

Blaine watches Kurt walk away—he's checked one bag and is taking two carry-ons with him—and lets the knowing where Kurt is feeling stretch out as long as possible before it fades, snaps, and then he's just sitting in an airport with no one around.

He gets up and forces himself to walk back to the car, the car that smells like Kurt. When he's home he lets himself cry, a little, and then he does some homework, even though most of that time is spent daydreaming, remembering.

But half way through the afternoon he gets a text, and then another, and then another.

Sat near a woman who smelled like feet, and not the nice kind. Am buying both of us pumice stones ASAP JIC—O.O

Wait. You never explained WHY Sam came to school in board shorts? Pictures?!

Btw: your workout regime is doing incredible things for every part of you. It's no wonder I couldn't keep my hands off. ;-)

And Sam said you can do a full lotus? Pictures?!

We didn't talk about Santana and Quinn at all. I heard they hooked up at the wedding! (Not as hot as us.)

P.S. you were wondering about trade secret dance moves. I haven't learned any. If I do I'll get back to you.

Oh and—you talked to my father about sex before we were dating? What the WHAT?

So Blaine calls him and says, "Which do you want me to answer first?"

And Kurt says, with the sound a loudspeaker blaring and honking horns in the background, "Oh god, clearly the Santana/Quinn thing—I'm not sure I'm ever ready to know how you talked to my father about sex. Ever."

And Blaine laughs, and homework is forgotten.

There it is! Happy reading! Let me know what you thought in the comments!