content warning: strong language, homophobic slurs, misogyny, mentions of sex/conversations about sex, offhand comments about sex workers (specifically male)

Chapter 7: Tales of San Francisco/I Hold It Above My Head

The exhaustion creeps up on me slowly but surely, sucking away the energy I try to preserve for the evenings. It's like sleepwalking, dozing off in dressing rooms and the bus lounge, constantly having someone shaking me awake. And the first small break I get, when I can lie down on a hotel bed, Quinn finally decides to call me. I listen to her stories of parties and mutual friends with a half-interested ear, eyes drooping and the hotel bed beneath me feeling so inviting. I was waiting for her to call me. She knows all the hotels we're staying in and the name I go under: Angel Eyes. I liked that movie. And I've got fairly pretty eyes.

It took Quinn weeks to call. I counted the days.

"Seems like he's made an impression on you," Quinn says after I've done my part of vague, abbreviated sharing. My eyes flicker on the hotel room's TV screen, a cartoon on mute as I wait for Ryder to come get me for another radio interview that I will probably fall asleep during.

"Huh?"

"This Kurt."

"He's a nice guy," I amend, and Quinn admits that she forgot to go to my place to water the plants and now they are all dead. The conversation feels like my now former plants, dry and resentful because she didn't call me and I didn't call her, and when she finally called, her timing was wrong and just ticked me off.

She says Los Angeles seems to be waking up to The Warblers frenzy, that she keeps getting outed as my girlfriend. That it will be insane when we finally play the West Coast. That I better not forget about her.

She has to go before I do, the line clicking dead but the phone still pressed to my ear, and that's two weeks of waiting for her to make the first move for a lot of nothing.

Nick's right. Maybe I need a new girlfriend, someone who dotes on me more than she does. But that'd never work either, because fuck anyone who thinks I can't take care of myself.

Ryder knocks on the door, and, half-asleep, half-awake, I force myself out of bed.

Nick and I are doing an interview plus one song for a campus radio station, and the amateurism shows in the arrangements as the guy that walks us through campus just fusses and claims that he is our number one fan. Luckily, he has to go to his Psychology 101 class after we arrive to the radio headquarters. Nick scribbles postcards as we wait in the lounge, the crackling speakers in the corners carrying the host's voice on how their team lost in the final round of the North American Debating Championship and that Swan University's team won yet again. Echoes from a life I never had any interest in living.

Nick bought two postcards from the hotel lobby, and he offers me one, so I take it and contemplate on whom to address it to. Dad, definitely not. Probably doesn't even know I'm on tour. Quinn, maybe, but I don't want to give her the pleasure. I could send it to myself, but that'd be sad. I could address it to 'Kurt Hummel's dad's and write Your son is alive and well, but it's not like I know where he lives.

It's weird now that I know so much about the roadie, and he doesn't know that I know. I won't tell him I know either, since he clearly doesn't want to talk about it. I look across the room at Matt and Kurt, who came with us. Matt is getting one of my guitars out of a gig bag, and Kurt is playing around with Nick's tambourine.

"Here you go," Ryder says, offering me a mug of black coffee. I push hair out of my eyes and take a long sip, the porcelain hot beneath my fingers. "You got my order wrong," I say unhappily, Ryder blinking at me. God, he can't even do his job.

"We need stamps," Nick says and keeps scribbling, and Ryder makes Matt go get us some. My eyes focus on what Nick is writing on the back of a card, curiosity getting the best of me as I snatch it from his fingers. "Hey!" he protests.

"I hope you know that I think about you every day, from sunrise to sunset," I read skeptically, eyeing the address line and mouthing 'Suzie Duval', who apparently lives in Westerville. Nick takes the card back, glaring. "Who's Suzie?"

"My cousin."

"Well, that's fucking creepy."

"Fuck off, Blaine."

Nick punches my shoulder, and I grin and punch him back. "Hey, if incest is what it takes for you to get over Victoria..."

Nick groans loudly. "Ryder, get this moron away from me, please?"

"Who's Victoria?" Kurt asks. We all freeze. My eyes fly from him to Ryder to Nick. Nick's smile is gone, and Ryder is trying hard not to look at the drummer, instead examining his nails. Kurt's realized he has said something wrong. I remember when Ryder told Nick the news, and if I stopped Nick from punching Ryder a second time, it wasn't for Ryder's sake. Kurt mutters a confused, "Sorry, uh..."

"Not at all. It seems she is out, anyway, and this Suzie, Nick's hot cousin, is in," I say, trying to turn it into a joke. I get up and walk to the couch Kurt is on, sitting down and taking a pen to my still empty postcard. I clear my throat and start writing. "My dearest beloved. Being on the road is lonely without thee here. My heart aches to be with thine, my soul only complete when blessed by thy presence. Thy silky, brown hair –"

"Quinn's blonde, you idiot," Nick laughs, and I grin at him, glad that he is letting it be.

Kurt, apparently not having learned that sometimes silence is golden, asks, "Who's Quinn?"

"Blaine's better half. If he has a better half," Nick says, giving me a cruel smile, and I stick my tongue out. If the immature schoolboy part of me manages to make Nick smile, then I'll let it roam free.

"I didn't know you had a girlfriend," Kurt says, sounding genuinely put off. "You've never mentioned her."

"Not much to mention," I shrug, finishing the card with an 'BA xxxxxxxx'. I look at the ridiculous love letter on the back of the card and throw it on the coffee table. "Besides, she's not a girlfriend in the traditional sense. She's a girl and she's a friend, you know? I'm telling you, in the future, there will be no such words as 'girlfriend' and 'boyfriend'. They sound so goddamn archaic to me."

Kurt looks at me in amusement, and yeah, he would be surprised to hear Quinn exists. I'm pretty sure Kurt knows I haven't exactly been living like a monk on this tour so far. Sex and affection are two completely different things, though. Quinn knows that. Sex is just sex; you can have it with just about anyone. Affection, well. I'm fond of Quinn. It doesn't mean I'm telling her the shit I've done, and in return, she's not telling me the shit she's done.

"You're a pioneer," Nick mumbles and finishes writing the card. "No one talked about this free love idea in the sixties."

"Smart."

"That I am," he admits and grins at me.

The radio host walks out, just another kid, and we make the introductions and head over to the broadcast studio's side with the guitar and tambourine while Ryder and the roadies stay behind. I've finished my cup of coffee, but I desperately need another one. "If you fall asleep, I'll poke you awake," Nick promises, and I nod tiredly and rub my eyes, perched on one of the stools with microphones set around us. I spot Kurt behind the glass window and I motion at my mug, and he nods and gives a thumbs up.

"Okay, okay, okay! This is Nelson and you're listening to the best, and well, only, Toronto University radio station, Radio Varsity!" He presses a button, and we hear a theme tune. "And we've got some special guests here with me. Remember how I told you there'd be something big happening today? We only kept it secret so that you crazy kids wouldn't bombard these rockers as they made their way to the studio just a minute ago! So in the studio with me are Blair Anderson and Nick Duval of The –"

I bury my face in my hands and let Nick correct the clueless fucker as the interview kicks off. Nick answers the questions, and I nod and hum.

"What do you think of Toronto?"

Kurt carefully slides into the studio, handing me another mug of coffee. He mouths 'medium drip', and I smile, mouthing 'Thanks'. He makes a show of bowing and tipping a hat he doesn't have as he exits the room.

"Your tour is called Lucy, Me and This Lady, and I read in your recent Creem interview that these are real people. So, who's Lucy?"

By now, Lucy has become an on running gag. All interviewers ask it, and we've picked up the joke, going around the bus and venues while yelling "Hey, you seen Lucy around?" at each other.

Nick shrugs and gives the kid an easy smile. "Lucy can be whoever you want her to be."

"That's really interesting. Now Blaine, how do you see the future of The Warblers?"

I tear my eyes off of Kurt and look at this college kid instead. "Um, I don't, really. Just taking it a day at a time. We'll be touring well into September, then we're probably taking some time off before recording again."

"No long term plans?"

"Nope."

You can't make long term plans for a rock band. Will we still be recording and touring in thirty years' time? God, I hope not. Three years into the future, okay, I can swing that. But who would want to live this life forever? Well, apart from Jagger, but he's a crazy son of a bitch, anyway, and he was on heroin when he told me he'd still be jumping on stage when he's sixty.

It's harder getting out of the building than it was coming in. We end up delayed by an hour as Nick and I patiently sign records and magazine covers for all the students who have turned up outside during our interview. There's a guy who tells me he's been to a number of shows already, and then he says, "Hey, Kurt and Matt!" really loudly, and the two roadies lift eyebrows and awkwardly wave back, and the guy looks pleased.

When we finally get back to the van driving us to the venue, Kurt grins. "I'm famous by association. This is awesome."

"Uh huh," I mutter and settle to sleep with my head against the window, the exhaustion finally taking over, and I have weird dreams of Quinn, but she's headless and floating; weightless, not anything I could touch, but I don't have hands anyway, I don't even have arms –

"Blaine, wake up!"

I open my eyes and realize we're at the venue. The van is parked in the back. Kurt is quirking an eyebrow at me. We're alone. "Soundcheck."

"Riiiight," I mumble tiredly and frown. "What city are we in?"

"Toronto. Still. Come on, I'll lead the way," Kurt offers, and I follow him out of the van and into the venue, rolling my shoulders and trying to shake the exhaustion off. Kurt glances at me quickly. "So hey, I just, uh, did I say something wrong back there? About this Victoria or whoever?"

We snake in the crowd of venue workers, lights people, sound techs, cleaners, promoters. They blur together in my tired eyes, and I have to rake my brain to catch myself up with Kurt. "Nick's ex-girlfriend. They split up a long time ago, but he's still on the broken heart wagon."

"That it? Ryder just looked kinda..." he trails off.

We stop to give way to the support band's dancers. The band's local, and they think it's great to have the stage full of crap like half a dozen chicks dancing to their music. Sure, the girls are hot, but why try to draw attention away from the music? The girls all bat their eyelashes at me, someone giggles, and someone says, "Come on, Rachel, let's go warm up!"

The girls are gone in a flash of blonde and brown, leg warmers on their perfectly shaped legs. I stare after them absentmindedly and address Kurt. "Tell you what. I'll spill all about Victoria if you give me a story of your own in return."

Kurt frowns as we reach the stage, the rest of my band and crew already setting things up. "I don't have any stories."

"Let me be the judge of that," I say firmly. Kurt looks surprised but nods anyway before he begins pushing one of the amp cases on stage.

I say, "So you go first."

It's quarter past four in the morning and I'm digging into my early-breakfast cheeseburger, fries, and strawberry milkshake. I haven't gone to bed yet. I'm awake whenever I could be asleep, and I'm sleepy whenever I need to be awake. The fluorescent lamp hanging above our booth is nearly hurting my stinging eyes, its light shooting back up at me from the table's black surface. I know that I look like a goddamn mess, and I sigh, taking another bite of the tasteless burger. I'm too tired to care. Kurt looks slightly nauseated as he sits across from me in the roadside diner. "What?" I ask, still chewing.

"Your mother ever taught you any table manners?"

"I'm hungry."

"I can see that."

I suck the straw, and Kurt watches. Yummy strawberry milkshake is yummy.

Kurt laughs. "Any idea how many calories you're consuming before it's even dawn?"

"Calories? What are those? Look, man, I'll tell you a tour secret: whenever you've got the opportunity to sleep, you sleep. Every chance you get to eat, you eat. Fries?"

He shakes his head. His loss.

We're the only ones awake. Kurt's driving the rest of the way and we pulled over to refill the tank. The support band imitated us, and their bus is parked next to ours outside. It's a weird type of night this far north, where it doesn't get dark properly. The world outside is light blue, like the sun is wrapped up in a shroud and is hiding just behind the corner somewhere.

On the other side of the diner are the support's dancers and a few guys from the band, too excited about being on the road to sleep. It's easy for them, doing a handful of shows with us. It's not long enough for them to learn or to relate, not that I wish more people could relate to me.

Twelve down, forty-three to go.

I focus on Kurt again, who is sipping his coffee slowly, waiting for it to cool down. "You should tell me something about you before I tell you about the Vicky business."

"See, I've thought about it, and I honestly have nothing interesting to share."

"Nothing's ever happened to you?" I ask skeptically, and he nods. Well, that's a fucking lie. How about his disappearance? Or even his childhood in Catholic paradise? But he doesn't know that I know about any of that, and it's more than clear that he doesn't want anyone asking about his past either. I tried already. "Well, what kind of things do you know about?"

Kurt laughs. "I know the good bars in The Castro."

"Okay, tell me about those, then. But you better be honest."

He hesitates. "Don't know, man. It might, uh... upset a straight man of such upstanding morals such as yourself."

I wave him off with my left hand. "Please, I have no morals. I once had a thing with a girl who wanted me to choke her until she passed out. And, for the record, I did."

Kurt's eyebrows go up to his hairline. "Well, okay then."

And he begins telling me tales of San Francisco, a potential promised land for guys like him. I can't picture it in my head, though I try. More and more homosexuals move there all the time; every week there are new faces in the area. Some are young kids who have run away, some are older, in their thirties or forties who only now have had the courage to admit who they are. Kurt says that his last apartment was on Castro Street, right at the spot where it all comes together. ("Where do you live now, then?" I ask, and he shrugs, a faint blush on his cheeks as he looks out of the window. "I'm kind of in between places right now. What with this tour and all, I'm living on that bus this summer.") You can walk down the main street and see men kissing. Sometimes women, they do get some lesbians too. But sometimes you leave your apartment only to hear that someone got beaten up last night, not two blocks from where you live. And you get the occasional Christian trying to give out flyers on the street, screaming that you're an abomination and sick and twisted. Kurt's politically active, but not everyone cares. Most guys there don't bother looking at the bigger picture at all.

He describes the street where the young hookers are. New in town, no money, they'll sleep with anyone and do anything. And despite what they're doing, they are good kids, but too many disappear with a client and never come back. Married middle-aged men pick them up and fuck them in dirty motels and feel guilty that God hates them for wanting young boy meat. The boy gets twenty bucks and a load up his ass, bruises on his waist. But those boys, those hookers, are for the closet cases that aren't a part of the community. If you want sex, you can get it. Anywhere. Anytime.

"We call them glory holes," he explains, and I stare in disbelief as he describes a bar that is no bar at all, just a place to go and have sex. And they don't even keep it to the back rooms, no. There's one bar, loud music, dim, dim lights and plenty of dark corners and couches. And there are these mazes that you go into with holes in the walls, and you can just put your dick through one of them, and some guy on the other side sucks you off. You've no idea who it is. Kurt knows a guy who accidentally blew his brother.

"That is disgusting, you know that, right?" I deadpan, genuinely disgusted as he laughs hysterically.

"Yeah, I know, man, but it was all anyone talked about for weeks! Seriously, it was the funniest thing!" He wipes the corners of his eyes. "Ah, where was I? Yeah, the sex. Right, okay. I mean, I've never been down the heterosexual path, but I've seen plenty of that side. And straight people have these ridiculous courting rituals. If you're gay, it's easy. You see a guy you like, you look them in the eye and nod towards a corner; if they're game, they come with you. You don't even need to speak, man."

"Fuck." Why aren't girls that easy? "Is there, like... a certain thing you do with your eyes or...? I mean, how do you do it? Give me the look."

"Uh, okay." He glances down and clears his throat. He lifts his gaze, and oh. Oh. His eyes are staring right into my goddamn soul, or maybe deeper than that, soft and inviting, his plump bottom lip playfully between his white teeth, lips curved in a suave smile, and that's seduction. Right there.

No wonder they go with him.

"Huh," I manage.

Kurt breaks into laughter, seduction evaporating in an instant, and he's back to his usual self. He snatches one of my fries. "I don't go to those places. Been once or twice, but that was enough, you know? I mean, the focus tends to be on the sex because that's the thing that separates us from you. But that doesn't mean it's all to do with sex. There's love and friendship and partners too."

"Except for you, of course. You're too cute to settle down."

"You remember," he grins. The dancers giggle loudly, and we look their way. They giggle even louder when they notice. Kurt sighs. "I think that blonde has got a crush on me. Poor girl, no gaydar."

"Sure," I chuckle. It's obvious that it's me she wants. Just then the girl stands up and makes her way over to us. Kurt and I exchange glances.

She beams. "Hi. I'm Tracy. I'm one of the dancers?"

"Yeah, I know," Kurt smiles back. "I saw you on stage back in Toronto. You're very flexible."

"It's a gift!" she laughs, squeezes to sit next to Kurt without an invitation, and adds, "Though, honestly, it's hard work, you've no idea." She's drunk. I'm sobering up from the night before. What a perfect balance.

"I'm sure it is," I grant her and finish my milkshake. I'm pathetically homeostatic – now that I'm full, my body is telling me to sleep.

"You guys taking off soon? I know we are. But I was just thinking if maybe you two would want to give me a tour around your bus? It's so shiny and new! I bet it, uh, would be just magical. If I would come along... with both of you. The three of us. Going back to your bus."

Kurt pales visibly, but Seb and I get threesome offers all the time. I would never, nuh-uh, not with Seb. God, that is a million times wrong. And there was that one girl who wanted me and Nick, which is even more wrong. With two girls, sure, and I have been down that road before. I have also had sex when my band members have been in the room, but we certainly weren't having sex together. Tracy is smiling drunkenly. For a guy who has visited glory holes, Kurt shouldn't be so shocked.

"Thanks, Tracy, but that's never gonna happen," I laugh. "And it's not me or Kurt, by the way. It's you."

She frowns. "Well, you're a jerk."

"And you're a slut, so what gives?"

Tracy shoots up, clearly angered. "You should hear the shit they say about you, Blaine Anderson! You're in no position to judge me! I was homecoming queen!"

One of the other dancers has hurried over and is gently trying to take a hold of Tracy, beckoning, "Trace, come on! Please? Sorry, you guys, she's had a bit too much –"

Tracy huffs and swirls around, snapping, "Don't touch me! Rachel, don't touch me!"

The other girl sends another apologetic look our way, her eyes lingering on me for a while as she and the rest of the dancers leave the diner, and Kurt hums loudly under his breath. "Awkward."

"Bitch," I remark, gathering the last bits of ketchup from the plate with my thumb and lick it off. Kurt is staring. "I can eat my ketchup if I want to! Fuck!" I stand up and head for the door, and Kurt follows me.

The things they say about me. Who's "they" and what do they know, anyway? No one's perfect. No one's goddamn perfect, and, who cares, they can say what the fuck they want. See if I care. What have they accomplished? Have they given their life to music like I have? Sacrificed as much as I have? That stupid, drunken bitch.

"Blaine, you okay?" Kurt asks as we reach the bus, his face disbelieving. I ignore him. He rolls his eyes. "Look, don't give me an attitude if –"

"Technically, you're working for me, so I can give you an attitude if I want to. Got it?"

Kurt doesn't back off. Everyone I know, except for Nick and Quinn, would back off.

"Dude, who cares what she said? Are you really that sensitive to criticism? I bet you can't even read the album reviews –"

"Oh, I can, that's no problem. They always praise us, anyway."

Kurt makes a 'tut' with his tongue, and it speaks more than words would, meaning I'm spoiled, self-centered, arrogant, acting like a bit of an asshole right now, and who cares what Kurt thinks either? He's just some homeless fag.

He opens the door to the bus, and I hurry inside, shrugging off my jacket and throwing it on the couch of the messy lounge, beer bottles and setlist sketches lying on the floor. Kurt follows me, lowering his voice so that he doesn't disturb the rest of the guys sleeping in their bunks. "You still owe me your story, but we'll save it for another time when your ego's in check."

I pull my shirt off and throw it on the floor, shaking my head at him. "You're this close to losing your job, Kurt. This fucking close."

I go to my back lounge nest without another word to him, kicking off my jeans and sliding under the covers. The bus takes off a minute later, and I wait for sleep to finally take over as I watch the light coming from the windows, creating changing, eerie shadows on the walls.

But sleep doesn't come.

The audience roars like a starving dragon, and the stage lights hit my skin, being the flame that scorches me. My fingers ache as we launch into our last song, my shirt glued to my back. Puck walks over to me, moving with the music, his bass pressed to his lower stomach and crotch. I flip my head and try to get wet curls off my forehead.

Seb yells, "Yeah!" into his microphone. We don't have any fucking "yeah"s in this song.

The lights keep changing, bright yellow and red and blue, and I move to sing into the microphone and the audience sings back at me. Everyone knows the lyrics now. I stop playing the guitar after the second verse, and we kick into a new part. I catch the tambourine Beiste throws me from the side of the stage. I hold it above my head first and then start beating it in front of my chest, smacking it to my open palm so that the microphone will catch the sound.

Eventually, the drumbeats stop, leaving only the bass, tambourine and guitar. Then the bass stops, and eventually Seb plucks the last string, and it's just me and my voice and the tambourine, and the audience sings the final line with me as the guys stand around me, taking in the moment, and the edge of the tambourine hits my palm one last time. I close my eyes. A drop of sweat drips off my nose. One, two –

They start screaming and applauding. I step away from the mic, out of the spotlight, a wounded animal taking a step away from its predator. Seb is speaking to the crowd. "Thank you so much, Ottawa, you're beautiful!"

We leave the stage, high five the crew, who are waiting around to start packing everything up. My gaze meets Kurt's. "Meet me by the bus in twenty," I say, and it sounds like an order without me having to try. He looks surprised but nods, and Ryder shrugs as an okay that Kurt will be sliding from his duties prematurely. The audience is now trying to leave, thousands of feet moving restlessly.

After I've had a quick shower and have put clean clothes on, I throw my duffel bag over my shoulder and go outside to smoke. The rest of the band hasn't even gotten out of their stage clothes as they buzz with adrenaline from the show. They enjoy playing live, the rest of them.

Kurt shows up as I'm halfway through my first cigarette. The tour buses are in a fenced area in the back, and I don't have to worry about getting targeted here. I lean against the silvery metal side of our bus, my bag at my feet and hair wet from the shower. Kurt looks at me cautiously, a hint of resentment in his eyes. I cough and wipe my nose. "Hey."

"You wanted to see me?"

I nod to confirm it.

"You're gonna fire me, maybe?" He sounds mocking. I force myself not to think about the shitty things he said to me, because if I think about them, I'll just get pissed again. I've spent the entire day trying to forget about it.

"It was a few years ago, before we were famous like this," I kick off, and he instantly silences, interested eyes fixing on me. "We'd just released the second album, and I think Vicky came to a show with a friend of hers, who was a big fan. And it was more relaxed back then, I mean, I never liked talking to fans, but it happened more back then, kids just sticking around while we packed up our gear. And Victoria and Nick got talking, sparks flying. She drove to the next town to see us again. I mean, I figured she was just another groupie, but then Nick fell for her."

"Was she a groupie?"

"No," I laugh. "Not that girl, not ever. She's far too respectable for that. Or so I thought." I finish my cigarette quietly, scraping the asphalt with the soles of my shoes. There's something about Kurt that makes me nervous. "She never liked me. Thought I was kind of a bad influence on Nick. She's known Nick for, what, a few months and she concludes that? I've known Nick since he was a kid. But I still know that she got to see sides of Nick I never will, that's to be expected. I mean, Nick changed during that time he was with her. We kept getting more and more famous, and this is where Ryder comes in. The thing you gotta understand is that this band is a product. That's the first thing Ryder said when we signed to Capitol and he became our manager. And we gotta make sure that kids want to buy us, and a lot of those kids are female with these fantasies of us, so girlfriends? A bad idea, will damage the band. So we don't want that. And that's why Victoria had to go."

Kurt frowns. "Nick dumped his girlfriend because Ryder told him to?"

"No. Nick refused to do it. He was in love, remember? Love of his life, wanted to marry her and grow old with her, all those things. So Ryder made her an offer that she could have refused, but she didn't. She took the money, and when Nick went home after a day of recording, she was gone. Even took their dogs with her."

"So it wasn't love."

"And she wasn't that respectable either," I conclude, lighting a second cigarette. I smoke like a chimney, but so what? It's not like smoking damages my health. Kurt looks upset, but what I told him is the truth. Yes, it was an asshole move from Ryder, but she could have told him to fuck off, couldn't she? And Nick threatened to quit after that, but he made the right decision and stayed. I need him in this band.

He's not the same anymore, though. I feel like Nick shut me out after that, and I didn't take sides, not really. I was happy that Vicky was out of the picture. Nothing against her, but she never fit into this world of ours. She was too uncompromising. But I didn't exactly tell Ryder to go to hell either, just shrugged and concluded that it was just how things were now. And some six months down the line, Nick still keeps his secrets to himself, and he won't come to me if something's wrong. Probably doesn't trust me.

"That's horrible," Kurt whispers eventually. "That you... share so much with another person, give your heart to them, and they – they accept a bribe to leave. That you didn't even matter?"

"And still Nick won't say a bad thing about her. Love is not only blind, it's stupid as well. And we've all made sacrifices to be in this band, you know? His was just a bit more personal."

"But what about Quinn? Why can you have a girlfriend?"

I shake my head. "Totally different thing. Victoria and Nick were like the super couple, attached from the hip, finishing each other's sentences, googly eyes, future plans. Quinn is a girl and a friend. The end."

"So you said," Kurt recalls, extending his arm with a questioning eyebrow, and I pass him my cigarette. He takes a deep drag.

"I'd never let her get in the way of the music. She doesn't pose a threat to the band. And I know Nick's still angry, but he's young! He's a famous drummer. He should enjoy his freedom, you know?" Except that Nick's not living it up in any way, and Kurt probably knows that too if he has paid any attention. "Anyway, that's the story. You're better off not mentioning Victoria. I've kind of been trying to help him move on, to get him laid, but it's been to no avail."

Kurt nods and tips the end of the cigarette. "Getting laid on this tour is damn difficult. Everyone's too straight."

I smirk. "What about the party in Cleveland?"

Kurt shrugs it off, doesn't ask how I know about that. "That was days and days ago. Who remembers Cleveland anymore? I should've known better. Prog rock, but no one's that progressive."

"Aw, the poor gay kid, stuck with chick loving rockers," I laugh, and he glares at me before rolling his eyes. "You might have some luck with Tracy the dancer."

He winces. "Let's not go down that road. Ever. I mean, I know that our generation is the reckless one that's doing all the insane shit our parents never even dreamed of doing, and I want to have all kinds of life experiences, too. I could kiss a girl. I've kissed girls; that doesn't gross me out. But Tracy? No, that's where I draw the line."

"If you're desperate," I suggest, but he shakes his head like he will never be that desperate. He flicks the cigarette onto the ground and steps on it, and I watch him, feeling suddenly playful. "Come here," I say, and he lifts an eyebrow as I step closer.

"What?"

"I was a dick to you last night. Believe it or not, I do know when I'm being a dick."

"Count me amazed."

I take another step and am in his space. Kurt is looking at me with a puzzled expression. I begin to lean in as I whisper a teasing and smug, "Let me apologize."

Kurt freezes slightly, eyes widening. "What are you doing?"

"Pitying you," I shrug with a smirk, amused by the thought of all the action he thought he'd be getting on this tour, leaning in the rest of the way until my lips find his. It doesn't gross me out either, a kiss one way or another has never meant anything. Just skin on skin. That's what I expect, and I have already visualized his snappy comeback and me laughing at him some more after this. But then the joke is gone. Our lips touch, and it's not funny anymore.

The touch is barely there, but I feel his warmth, the smell of cigarettes in his breath. And maybe, maybe if his lips weren't slightly parted like they are, I wouldn't notice the slight moistness of his lower lip. But I notice it, and I recoil in surprise, but only an inch, if even that. It shoots straight through me. My eyes are focused on his cheek as our breaths mix together.

Kurt swallows. My stomach twists.

And that. That was. That –

I move towards him as he moves towards me, his head tilting slightly, our lips hovering, trying to find something, searching, then it fits – it must fit, because our lips press together again. I feel the kiss in all of my body. My hand curls around his hip, and he fists my hair and pulls my head closer, our lips suddenly bruising together. Jolts of excitement fly up and down my spine, all from the hungry movements of our mouths, and his lips, god, they are so soft. My stubble scratches his chin, and my hand comes up to caress his neck, all calloused fingertips.

His tongue swipes over my lower lip before going in deeper, and I don't object. Maybe I should. I don't. This isn't pity anymore. No, pity, definitely not.

His hair is short as it swipes beneath my fingers, our bodies pressing together. A shuddery breath from my throat gets lost as our tongues move together, so dirty and willing. Kurt moans, a short, aroused sound, and my crotch is pressed to his, our stomachs together, our chests. His body mirrors mine in a way that terrifies and fascinates me. I keep kissing him, pulse picking up, my thumb brushing his jaw line as he opens up for me.

What am I doing? What the fucking fuck do I think I'm doing?

His hand moves to the small of my back, to the top of my jeans where his nails dig into my skin. A sudden wave of heat washes over me from the touch.

Then I hear high heels against the ground, a distinctive click-click-click sound from somewhere close by. I pull back from the kiss, or kisses, kissing, the battle of our mouths, a strand of saliva stretching from my lower lip to his before breaking off.

I step back, horrified. Kurt looks as shocked as me.

Click-click-click –

"Kurt?"

Kurt flinches, wipes his mouth, and I focus on the girl who has just rounded the bus. The tiny brunette dancer who took Tracy away last night. She looks hesitant. I hurry to get out a cigarette to give my hands something to do, but I know I just fumble aimlessly.

"Yeah?" Kurt asks. His voice is rough.

"Ryder sent me to get you? Puck won't let the other roadies pack up his bass, so they need you." She smiles expectantly. My heart races, trapped in my ribcage with no hope of escape. What the hell did I just...?

"Oh. Yeah. Course." Kurt looks at me. I avoid it by lighting the cigarette and taking a deep drag.

I watch his shoes walking away and vanishing around the front of the bus.

A distancing click-click-click and her annoying voice chattering, and Kurt makes no sound at all as he walks, no, he wouldn't. He's the kind that sneaks up on you, and then he's on you, you're on him, before you even had the tiniest fucking clue that it was going to happen.