content chapter: alcohol consumption, drugs/mention of drugs, mentions of overdose, sexual content (oral sex)

Chapter 9: The Disappearing Act

I remember the first time I visited New York back in the summer of 1969. I was eighteen, Nick was seventeen. I had already erased high school from my brain, and Nick wasn't sure if he'd go back for his senior year. He didn't in the end. I was going away for the summer, anywhere and everywhere. Nick wasn't sure if he could, though he had saved up money like I had. His mother did the whole 'if you're going to go down that road with that no-good Anderson boy, then don't you dare come back' speech. We left the following day and hitchhiked across Pennsylvania to stay with a girl Nick had a thing with back then.

They had met during spring break. Carla was older than us, had just turned twenty, and she lived in a nice apartment in Soho that her dad had paid for. I spent my summer circling the New York music scene, staying in the guest bedroom, doing local mic nights and busking for pocket change. I just fucked about, no idea what to do with the sudden freedom. No Dad watching over my shoulder, no Dad for me to keep an eye on, no school, no expectations, no responsibilities. No one cared what I did. It was just me and the world and one beaten down guitar.

I had no idea who the hell I was, so I figured I could be just about anything.

When Nick and Carla broke up loudly and irreparably in early August, we both got kicked out as plates came flying from the kitchen. I was bored of the city at that point, convinced I had grown past it, so when we heard of the music festival upstate, we left. Woodstock. The music clicked in the back of my brain there. I could see everything that was being played in a mix of colorful flashes, with shades and swirls, and the music was alive.

I finally got laid in Woodstock, which was a nice change. I got laid beyond belief, but so did everyone. I had wasted my own summer trying to woo a friend of Carla's, this posh Upper East Side girl, who I should have known from the start would never give it up to a wannabe rocker from Westerville with no life ambitions or short-term plans, not even to cover the next ten minutes. In Woodstock, we met Puck, and he said that he was moving to Los Angeles, that it was the place to be right then. Nick and I got a lift as far as Canton, and we hitchhiked back to Westerville from there. We packed our stuff and bought a '56 van with our last cash. We had to live in it for a week before Puck found an apartment for the three of us.

Three months later, Puck, Nick, Seb and I sat down at Chuck's and decided on a band name.

I came to Radio City Music Hall a handful of times over our New York summer, always stuck on the third mezzanine somewhere, which was the best ticket I could afford. It's a hell of a lot different headlining here – it's a different world now, a different life, a different me.

Our gear is on stage, facing an empty venue. I gaze down from the first mezzanine, counting seats to give myself something to do.

"Hey." I look to my side and spot Kurt smiling at me cautiously. "Everyone's looking for you."

I turn back to face the floor and the empty stage below. Beiste crosses the stage, carrying guitar cables in his arms. He looks small from over here.

"Let them look."

Kurt sits down next to me without an invite. I go back to counting seats. One, two, three – "I'm sorry," he mutters – six, seven, eight... I lean back in my seat and shrug, lifting my legs on the railing. Kurt's fingers nervously flex on his knees. "I didn't want to be the one to tell you."

But he did, anyway. Maybe because he was angry with me. I still didn't deserve it, though.

"So what did they say?" he asks, and I quirk an eyebrow at him. "Quinn and Puck."

As if this were her cue, I hear Quinn's voice echoing from somewhere far away, from the stage. I don't crane my neck to see her, and she probably can't spot us among the thousands of seats waiting for tonight's crowd. Last night in New York, and I feel the need to get the hell out, just like I did six years ago.

"Nothing," I shrug, and when Kurt looks scandalized, I add, "They don't know I know."

"You did nothing?"

"It's not my place. I know she's not faithful. I'm not either," I recap. Quinn is not tied down to me.

I've been trying to figure out which surprises me more, Puck's recklessness or Quinn's. This thing could end up in a shit storm. Is that how little Puck cares about the band? That he has to go and screw the one girl I'm involved with? Maybe that's the exact reason why he's done it. More rivalry, my own bandmates giving me the middle finger behind my back.

As for Quinn... I always knew what she was like. But this past week, I so desperately wanted to love her. And now I know why Puck was trying to kill me with an icy glare. I hope Puck hasn't been stupid enough to actually fall for her. I was never that stupid; I merely hoped I'd be.

"So who knows about them?" I ask Kurt.

Kurt hesitates. "Just you and me, I think. Matt would notice if he wasn't high all the damn time, and I think Beiste suspects it, but that's only because he keeps an eye on Quinn. He thinks she's hot, so... But I figured it out. Call it an outsider's intuition, I guess. And they're not as subtle as they think."

It was subtle enough for me to be blind to the fact. But it's comforting to hear that not everyone's known this entire time and haven't all been laughing at me behind my back.

"So what are you going to do?" he asks, and I give him a blank look. "With all this hermit-like contemplation you're doing up here, I figured you must've been thinking about what to do next."

Call them out on it, make a scene, watch Quinn yell and cry, punch Puck, quit the band, call her a whore, call Puck a backstabber, pretend to care. But the thing is that I do care.

"What to do now, what to do now..." I mumble in a wondering voice. I look at Kurt and cock my head to the side. "I was thinking I could let you blow me."

Kurt stares at me in disbelief before scoffing loudly. His soft and concerned tone vanishes as his eyes narrow. "Contrary to what you might believe, I don't wake up every day with an overwhelming desire to get on my knees and suck you off."

"You sure about that?" I ask playfully, faux confidence he can probably see through.

What does he want me to say? That it hurts?

Fine, fuck. It hurts.

He shakes his head and stands up, and the dark cloud above me gets darker. He begins to walk away. I can't win with anyone, moping around, being an asshole, trying to be okay, trying to change the subject.

"Hey," I call after him, and Kurt stops reluctantly, his arms crossed over his chest. I take a deep breath and sit up straight, eyeing the stage where I will bear my soul in a handful of hours. "It's just that..." I swallow and close my eyes. "You have this sudden realization that you have no one you can trust. No one at all. Do you have any idea what that's like?"

Kurt's arms drop to his sides. I look at him, needing for him to understand. "I do."

Once he is gone, I go back to counting seats.

Quinn leaves New York on the same day we do. We are now swirling down south and waiting for Florida, where we will finish the east leg. I kiss and hug Quinn, tell her I love her and wonder if Puck did the same ten minutes before I did.

Puck clearly wants to be alone as he volunteers to drive us to Philadelphia. It's rare for us to be driving during the day, but we waste time in the lounge, Nick and Mason playing cards by the small table. Like the world is moving on and nothing is different now.

This feels a bit like drowning, watching this charade. Ryder is complaining about beer stains on the couches, reminding us how the bus cost a fortune, and Seb is smoking a joint languidly, occasionally eyeing me like I'm a cockroach. Nick moved to live inside his head approximately six and a half states ago, so he doesn't even notice. Puck is most likely in love with my girlfriend, and Kurt. God, I don't even know where to start with that guy.

Matt tries to start a conversation with me, but I snap an abrupt reply and hide behind my notebook, scribbling furiously.

I have no friends left on this bus. No one's looking out for me; it's every man for himself. I'm not stupid. I always knew Puck wasn't a guy I should trust too much, but I still thought that, beneath all of his bullshit, he considered me his brother. Or even a distant fucking cousin. They all secretly despise me, so I despise them back.

But, of course, they don't understand this, too wrapped up in their pathetic, meaningless lives to even suspect that I'm onto them. Seb has the nerve to ask if I'm feeling alright, and Ryder eyes me worriedly, asking if I've caught a cold. And Puck asks me to go out for a beer with him once we get to our hotel. We're doing another row of shows in Philly and are leaving the bus to wait for us to be done with the place. I don't want to go for a beer with Puck. Does he want to compare notes, determine which one of us gets Quinn off quicker? I'd rather stick nails into my eyes.

So I find the nearest liquor store, buy four packs of cigarettes and two bottles of vodka, find my goddamned hotel room, and I successfully avoid all human contact until the next day. I do the soundcheck on automatic, the show on automatic, the after-gig high-fives on automatic, decline the afterparty invite on automatic, and go get drunk in my room on automatic.

On our second day in Philadelphia, Beiste is sent to drag my ass to the venue. I'm late for soundcheck when I walk on stage, the rest of the band and crew ready. Beiste had to knock and yell for a good twenty minutes before I opened the hotel door. The world is still spinning. Good.

Nick's talking to Puck, but he stops at the sight of me. "Fuck, Blaine, what happened? You look like shit."

"I'm peachy," I say, shrugging my jacket off, letting it fall on the stage floor. I grab a guitar from Matt, plug it in, switch the amp on and go to my mic. The buzz of the guitar fills the air. The venue is empty except for a few cleaners. They'll do as a crowd.

Ryder hurries over to me. "Have you slept?"

"No."

"You want me to get you sleeping pills?"

"I think they'd go well with the vodka," I muse. "You know, that sounds good. Yeah, please give me some."

All the respectable musicians are gone anyway: Alan, Jim, Duane, Danny, Janis, Jimi, Berry. Dying young is the newest fad. I sure as hell don't want to miss the boat.

Ryder glances at the microphone, which has carried our voices for everyone to hear. He covers it with his hand, a metal screech echoing through the PA. He lowers his voice. "Blaine, look. If you're going through some shit... Or is this about Quinn leaving? I'll get her on this tour, man. I'll call her, fly her over, you say the word. Whatever it takes for you to pull your shit together."

As he's been babbling, I've gotten out a cigarette and lit it. He stares at me expectantly, and I blow the smoke in his face. "Like I said, Ry-ry, I'm peachy. Now let's play some fucking music!" I snap, already strumming a few chords impatiently.

The soundcheck ends when I'm pleased with the result and walk off stage without any proper warning to the others. Kurt is standing backstage with a half-finished beer bottle in his hand, and I take it from him, mumbling, "Thanks." Kurt stares at me like I'm trouble embodied. Ryder calls after me, but I find my way out of the venue without stopping.

I'm not pushing them – they have pushed me to push them.

I stop outside, blinking at the sun and fumbling my pockets for sunglasses. God, the sun is way too bright today.

"Blaine, would you slow down?!" Nick's voice comes demandingly, the venue backdoor slamming. I'm still looking for sunglasses as he glares at me. "Look at me! Jesus, look at me when I'm talking to you!" he complains. "What the hell is this, coming for a soundcheck late and drunk?"

"Are you Ryder now?"

"I'm your friend! I'm just about the only person who hasn't given up on you, but for some reason you want to change that!"

I try to think of something Nick's done, but can't think of anything. Surely, he's done something. Well, he's shut me out, I could be mad for that. But he chose me, chose this band, so maybe I don't have the right to tell him that I miss him. I fucking miss him. I know he doesn't have his heart in this anymore. "If you're my friend, you'll let me be," I tell him instead.

"Sometimes, I don't even know who you are anymore," he whispers sadly, and the backdoors open as the rest of my band comes out with Ryder on their heels.

"That's my cue," I tell him, sliding the sunglasses on. I disappear in between tour busses and finish Kurt's beer as I go.

I don't show up until fifteen minutes before we go on that night. They're furious, but at least I show up and play the songs and sing my words, and then I take off again, having found a good bar down the road, so sleazy no one would ever look for me there. I go to the payphones around one in the morning and call Dad. He's not home, of course; he's in a bar of his own. What the hell would I say to him, anyway? I'd probably just call him an asshole and hang up. Unproductive, but satisfying.

They throw me and Andrew out of the bar when it closes. Andrew's had a fight with his wife and doesn't want to go back to his house, and I don't want to go to the hotel where they will find me. We find a park and sit on a bench, sharing stories about our lives. I make mine up as I go along. I always do.

"My wife, I tell you she'll be the death of me. That- that bitch! Only married her because she said it was tying the knot or breaking up. You know what that is? Blackmail! That's blackmail, right? Right?" Andrew demands to know. "So you've been married four times?"

"Five, but I don't count that Vegas one. Got it annulled," I tell him.

"Oh, wow."

"Yeah."

Then someone is pointing at me with a bright light, a cop telling us to move along. It's a public park. We're not even drinking anymore, which is a shame, all things considered. Andrew tells the cop to fuck off, so I do too. Then there's another cop, and they're talking big and making threats.

I stand up. A bit wobbly, but I manage it. "You two, officers of the law. Listen, okay? Just listen. Me and my good, good friend Andrew are just... having a good time. A good time right here in –" I take a look around and start laughing, "– whatever city this is. But you won't let us. So... So the thing I want to say is..." I hold a dramatic pause until I just snicker. "That you can suck my cock."

Andrew howls in laughter, hand on my shoulder, slurring, "Good one, oh man, good one!"

I wipe my eyes and laugh uncontrollably. I focus my eyes on the cops and frown. "Hey, what do you need the handcuffs for?"

Ryder hands me my sunglasses, and I put them on, needing something to protect me from the sunlight. Ryder keeps a guiding hand on my shoulder, and a simple thank you dies in my dry throat. I only feel nauseous and achy from spending my night on a jail bed. My stomach burns from last night's alcohol, even more so than usual.

"You missed soundcheck, but you'll be alright for the show," Ryder smiles in a friendly, confident tone. A car is waiting for us outside the police station, and Ryder hands me the cup of coffee he had with him. Black, and I scrunch my nose. "It'll sober you up," he explains. He gives me a few painkillers.

When we get to the venue, I sulk behind Ryder, wanting to go sleep this off. Venue workers and members of the support band are waving and greeting me with obvious curiosity. Everyone knows I went MIA. Everyone knows of the huge search party. I know nothing, I was passed out.

The dressing room quiets down when Ryder and I walk in. I slowly remove my sunglasses, taking them in. Nick is standing by the mirrors. Puck and Seb are on one of the couches. Half-eaten food lies on the table, and my stomach grumbles at the sight. I have no idea when I last ate.

"So, Blaine is back, alive and well. We don't need to cancel the show. Everything's fine," Ryder announces calmingly. "Anything you need, B?"

"Fries?" I ask hopefully.

"Mason?" Ryder asks.

"I'm on it," Mason says slightly grudgingly and leaves the room. I go to an unoccupied couch and sit down, finishing the coffee and battling my hangover from hell. They are all staring at me. Kurt is in the far corner, silently cleaning Puck's bass.

"How about you, uh... go for a shower?" Ryder suggests, handing me my toiletries bag.

I spend a good five minutes brushing my teeth, getting off the layer of shit that is covering my mouth. I shower off the cigarettes, alcohol, Andrew – a good guy, really – last night's show, the stale smell of piss that lingered in the jail cell. Ryder's picked out clean clothes from my bag, and I pull on a pair of black jeans, a brown button-down shirt and throw a vest on top. The guys are talking in argumentative tones when I re-enter from the bathroom, but they quiet down instantly.

A full plate of fries is on the table by one of the couches, so I sit down and start munching. Fuck, I'm starving. "What's tonight's setlist?" I ask distractedly, and Matt passes me a tiny piece of paper with a list of songs in Nick's messy handwriting. I take a quick look through it. "You guys sure you want Go to the City after Alienation? I think that might create an anticlimactic moment." I lift a questioning eyebrow. My bandmates look at me disbelievingly.

The tension breaks when Seb snaps, "That's it? That's all you have to fucking say?!"

Ryder intervenes with, "We talked about this, guys! It happens! It's no big deal! What matters is that the show goes on!"

"He got fucking arrested! Are we going to sit here and pretend that's okay?!" Seb demands and stands up, cold, green eyes piercing through me. "Look, I drink and take drugs just as much as the next guy, but I never disappear or jeopardize a show! This entire tour we've been keeping our mouths shut like we don't know, but I'm done! We know, man! You can't fucking handle the pressure! You're just not cut out to be a professional musician –"

"Are you saying I'm not professional?" I ask. Seb quiets down, a finger still pointed at me and hovering in the air. "At least I don't go around acting like I'm the greatest gift to music since Elvis Presley. You think that the crowd out there has come to see you? It's the music that matters! The fucking music, Seb! But your ego has inflated so much that you can't see past it anymore! You love yourself more than this band or the music, and I have to deal with that! If I go on stage drunk, then take a look in the mirror and ask yourself why!"

"Oh, it's my fault?! Someone needs to entertain the crowd, and guess what? You don't. Unless this is your entertainment value, the attitude, the martyrdom, the disappearing act and then coming back here and bitching about the setlist when you fucking well know we've been obsessing over the tracks like we do every night!"

"Just chill," Puck says.

"No!" Seb refuses while I stare at Puck in disbelief.

"Chill?" I repeat, astonished. "You've got some nerve to tell me what to do, you backstabbing piece of shit."

"Okay, time out!" Ryder yells as Puck looks at me in surprise.

"I'm not finished!" Seb objects. "You fucking left last night! We've been calling local hospitals, not sure if you bailed on us and took the first bus out of here! Not sure if this tour is over! Not sure if you're lying somewhere, suffocating on your own vomit! You don't just walk out on us, you arrogant prick!"

I stand up so fast that the plate of fries gets knocked over when my shins bump against the table. "You'd want me to go, huh? Maybe then you could sing the vocals too and play the frontman of my band!"

"This band is collective! It's not yours, man! Fuck!"

Nick sighs audibly. "We don't really have time for this."

"Oh, like you even care anymore," I spit angrily.

"Excuse me? I'm here, aren't I? Don't start with me, Blaine. I've given up so fucking much for this band."

"My god, here we go with the Vicky thing again!" I laugh. "Here's advice for you: get over it. This sad puppy thing lost its charm months ago! She used you! She fucking used you, and you still think she was the love of your life! Wake up and smell your own bullshit!"

"You have no right to talk to me that way! You know nothing about her, and if you don't stop now, I swear to god –"

"Oh, please," I snort.

"I'm fucking tired of you getting special treatment!" Seb barks. "I've had it up to here with your own room on the bus, your holier-than-thou attitude, letting you get away with all your fuck ups. Nick might be doing his sad puppy thing, but it's a fucking lot better than your tortured artist act! Look around! We've got it all! And yet, you don't get it. You just don't."

"Okay, alright," Ryder rushes out, "let's get that negative energy out! Good, good!"

"I try to enjoy being in this band, but you make it practically impossible," Seb states.

"Then I quit," I reply.

"Whoa! Too much negative energy!" Ryder says, slightly panicked.

"Then quit! It's what you've wanted to do for the past year!" Seb snarls.

"And I'm finally doing it. Good luck trying to conquer the world without me," I spit and walk out, the door slamming into the wall as I go. Ryder is yelling how we all need to calm down and how no one is quitting the band, but I am.

I am done.

One of the sound engineers walks past me, saying, "Yo, Blaine, forty minutes before you go on!" He gives me a thumbs-up. I can hear the crowd that I will never see.

I get to our bus outside the venue, but realize I have no means of getting inside the vehicle. I swear and kick the bus. Fine, I don't need my stuff. I will hitchhike back to Los Angeles if I have to, or I'll steal a car, or something. I look down at my tour pass hanging around my neck, and I quickly take it off. I throw it onto the ground and stomp on it. Fuckers, fuckers, fuckers –

"That's mature."

Kurt is leaning against the bus with his arms crossed over his chest. He's got an eyebrow cocked, and he looks highly unimpressed.

"What do you want?" I snap.

"I'm making sure you don't leave. Ryder's orders. He's doing damage control at the other end."

"You got a fucking key for this thing?"

Kurt goes through his pockets before pulling out a bundle of keys, and I motion for him to open the damn bus. He obeys, and I hurry inside, through the lounge, the bunks and into the back nest.

I stop and look around. "Shit!" I groan. My stuff is in the hotel. I still have clothes and books and drugs on the bus, though, but no bag to throw them in. Plus, I want to take my guitars too, all of my equipment to the last goddamn bridge pin. It's my stuff, not theirs. I can carry it all with me somehow. Kurt has followed me, and I squeeze past him back to the lounge where I find a plastic bag. He remains by the door when I return and start collecting my belongings.

"Don't try talking me out of this! It's final!" I bark, though he hasn't said anything. He closes the door, though, maybe thinking that he can lock me up in here until Ryder comes to try and make me change my mind.

I stuff shirts into the plastic bag. Kurt places a hand on my shoulder, and I try to pull away from the grip. But he's strong because suddenly he's got me pressed against the wall by the door. I stare at him, confused. His eyes fly over my face, the blue of his eyes darker than usual. "Get off me," I snarl and try to push him, but he slams me right back to the wall. Air escapes my lungs.

Kurt launches forward and kisses me. My stomach flips, a burning desire to kiss him back taking over. His lips over mine, aggressive and demanding, coaxing my mouth open. I respond without thinking, attacking his mouth fervently, still so goddamn angry.

Here I am again. Fuck, I –

Our tongues brush unapologetically, a jolt of electricity running up and down my spine. I push him off me violently, and he stumbles backwards. "Don't," I command, but he takes a step towards me. "I'm not like that. I'm not into this stuff."

"I didn't say you were," he says simply, his voice rough and pupils blown. I lick my lips, trying to regain control.

Fuck it.

I fist his shirt and pull him back for a kiss, our tongues pressing together. His hands are instantly on my belt, unbuckling. He whispers, "Can you get hard for me?" That's a useless question because my dick has been very intrigued ever since his lips first met mine. He cups my half-hard cock and smiles against my mouth wickedly. "Good."

No, this is fucking bad.

And then he's pulled my jeans down. I'm not wearing underwear. I stop to consider this, to take a moment, but he nips at my jaw before he sinks down onto his knees. He's not actually – Guys don't do these things to each other, so there is no way that he –

"You're beautiful," Kurt says, addressing either me or my cock, I'm not sure. His fingers dance over the length, one hand curling around the base and squeezing. I bite on my lip so as not to whimper. His other hand is brushing the inside of my left thigh, incredibly distracting. He wraps his soft lips around the tip of my erection, tongue flicking over the slit. I grunt, trying to catch up, my bones instantly melting. He takes more of me into his wet mouth, so clearly used to doing this. He sucks hard, and my hands move to his short, soft hair. Okay, yeah. I can live with this. I can – No. Fuck, fuck, what am I doing?

He takes me in deeper. God, his mouth feels amazing. My body relaxes into it, fire flickering at the pit of my stomach as my entire body feels overly sensitive. I wanted him on his knees for me, and he is. Fuck, he's so hot.

Just when I think I'm used to the rhythm and suction he is applying, he removes the hand he has at the base and swallows me down. "Shit," I hiss, and my grip of his hair tightens. Holy fucking hell. His head is moving steadily, taking me deeper, pulling back, then deeper again. I stare down at him, amazed, and he's got his eyes closed, long lashes against flushed cheeks. His lips are stretched around my cock, shiny with his spit. I try to remember how to breathe.

"Fuck," I practically whine, the back of my head banging against the wall. He opens his eyes and looks up at me, and I swallow as a flame flickers in me violently. I grab the back of his head with both hands, and he lets me, my hips trying to move to his rhythm. My cock just slides into his wet and hot mouth, and he doesn't gag at all. His hands settle on my thighs where his blunt nails dig in. My hips are working, small movements but enough to be fucking his mouth, and he meets my thrusts with his mouth, my thick cock sliding between his swollen lips.

My breathing is shaky, and my body is trembling. Fuck, fuck, fuck, that's good. Kurt's hands move to my ass, gripping the flesh, kneading, and I moan helplessly and begin to fuck his mouth with more force.

A dirty feeling keeps flashing in my head, having Kurt on his knees for me here. I still hear the echoes of the fight in my head, and how they don't understand, no one does. But Kurt might. He's gotten on his knees for me, mouth full of my cock, and he just might understand.

He pulls back, though, having to push my hand away from his head. His hair is a mess, his eyes wide and dark. My cock slips out of his mouth, and his pink lips are swollen and slick. He grabs the base of my cock, giving me a few strokes that make my toes curl. "You taste good," he whispers, lips brushing over the head with a moist slide. His lips feel fucking soft. His voice is rough and thick with want, and it hits me how turned on he is from this. Fuck, he shouldn't be. I, at least, have the excuse of getting head, and of course I get off on it, regardless of who is doing it. Even if it's another man doing it. But Kurt is getting off on having my cock in his mouth, and I can't wrap my head around it, what the appeal is, what turns him on about it.

Kurt places hungry, wet kisses along the shaft. Fuck, it's like he is taking care to worship every inch of me. He licks up a trail before slipping his mouth over the swollen, leaking head. I groan, hips automatically thrusting forward. He responds with a moan that vibrates around me and flies up and down my spine, and then he takes me in all the way again, hands on my hips.

It doesn't take me long to come. It's not sexual frustration, but somehow, it is. Finally, he's where I wanted him a dozen shows ago, and he's loving it. I fucking knew he'd love it, but I didn't realize how much I'd love it. "Kurt, fucking hell," I rasp. "I'm gonna come, gonna come..."

He pulls back, hand curling around the base, quick strokes there, sucking the tip of my cock into his mouth with hollow cheeks, his tongue licking and brushing over the slit. I come with all of my body, nearly doubling over and with my hips thrusting, holding his head still as the rush takes over. My cock twitches, and Kurt moans, tongue still moving, swallowing. And I come and come and –

"Fuuuuck, fuck," I pant, finally coming to a stop.

I let go of him, absolutely wrecked. He pulls back, my spent cock slipping out of his mouth. He moves to place small, wet kisses on my stomach where the muscles are still quivering, tongue tracing my hipbone. My arms hang by my sides as I lean against the wall for support, trying to come down. I'm weak at the knees. His mouth. Fucking hell, his mouth.

Kurt zips me up and buckles my belt before standing up. His cheeks are flushed, and I grab him, pulling him in for a kiss. His mouth is still so slick, and he responds, hot and pliant. I can taste myself on his tongue and lips, I can smell myself on him, my crotch and come, mixing with his own scent in a perverse way. His erection presses against my thigh. A slight sense of panic flies in me from it, but at the same time, my guts twist with the excitement of it. Something new, something I shouldn't do.

Kurt breaks the kiss, but our foreheads keep touching, our noses brushing together. We're both equally out of breath. "You're going to go to the venue and get on stage. Okay?" he whispers. His tone is firm but gentle, and I find myself nodding.

"Okay." If he says so. Okay.

"Good," he says with a small smile, kissing me again, and I hungrily pull him closer.

If we keep kissing, I'll get hard again, and I can't come again this soon, not after that. No way after that. I break the kiss and press my face to his neck and breathe him in, hanging onto him. I have to let go of him. Just a fucking blowjob, I need to get a grip. Now. Okay, now. Fuck. One, two, three –

We break apart, and Kurt wipes his swollen lips and wet mouth. "Your clothes," he says, and I look down, confused, brain not working. Then I start straightening my disheveled shirt and vest, realizing how obvious that'd make it for the others. "I need a minute," he says roughly. My eyes land on his crotch. I can see the outline of his cock through his jeans.

"Yeah, sure," I swallow, wondering if he is going to jerk off – he probably is – if he'd let me watch, would I want to? And I somehow feel stuck to where I am, but once I've walked out, it's easy.

I get out of the bus and let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. Fucking hell.

My backstage pass is still lying on the ground. With shaking hands, I pick it up and put it around my neck.

Kurt plays it off better than I do. I'm not pretending it didn't happen, but I don't plan on letting the others in on it either. Kurt, though, acts exactly like he did before. I try to go for the same effect, but my thoughts are so muddled that I can't.

The guys assume it's because of the fight. We all mumble bitter and forced apologies, and Ryder goes around patting shoulders, convincing us that we all need each other.

The only thing I feel sorry for is saying the things I said to Nick. I can't be angry with him just because we've grown apart. It's not like he has done anything like Puck and Seb have. I try to apologize, but he brushes me off.

We get to Pittsburgh in one piece, but with a deafening silence on the bus. Puck is counting days until our break with his fingers. I haven't gotten drunk since the night I got arrested, followed by the day Kurt... I can relive the incident better when I'm sober. And maybe I do feel bad for the guys. I'm not completely heartless. I disappeared, and they freaked out. But I had my reasons. I had my rights.

Nick is helping the roadies on stage when I walk over to him. "So we're leaving for Cincinnati tonight?" he asks Kurt, who nods. "How long that'll take us?"

Kurt stretches, a pondering look on his face and arms raised above his head. His t-shirt lifts up, exposing a slice of his stomach. "Like, six hours?" I focus on the exposed V of his hips.

"If we manage to leave around midnight," Nick muses thoughtfully.

"What's the hurry?" I ask him, and he flinches, clearly unaware I was present. "I think we've got a day off after tomorrow. What the hell is there to do in Cincinnati?"

Nick shrugs, and Kurt goes back to putting together Nick's drum kit. "Can I talk to you?" I ask Nick, who takes his time before reluctantly nodding. We walk to the edge of the stage, and I lower my voice. "Look, I'm sorry about the things I said. You know I didn't mean them, right? I was just pissed off."

"Sure," he nods.

"You're still my best friend, despite everything," I add with just slight desperation. "I'd want to... talk to you. When you've got time." We both have plenty of time right then, but he just nods again.

"What do you want to talk about?"

My eyes land on Kurt behind his shoulder, now talking to Mason animatedly and laughing brightly. I tear my eyes off of him. "I just... feel like I'm being sucked into this thing. And I don't know if I should because, no matter what I tell myself, I just know it can't end well. But despite that, I want to. It's kind of terrifying, actually," I laugh nervously, but Nick seems unaffected.

"Sure, when we've got time," he shrugs, concluding the conversation. I have no idea how to make it up to him. I probably just can't.

I cross the stage again, and Kurt says, "Hi." I stop in my tracks, overly aware of the people around us. He is setting up the hi-hat, sitting on Nick's stool behind the kit. "You okay?"

"Yeah, sure." I pause. "You?"

"Just fine," he smiles. Unlike after the kiss in Ottawa, I haven't been avoiding him. We haven't talked about it, but that's because we haven't had the opportunity to. Kurt is eyeing me up and down slowly now, and I can feel warmth at the back of my neck.

"What?"

"You just..." He bites on his bottom lip and laughs slightly. "You just look cute today, like, dirty cute."

Obvious flirting. Walk away now before this gets even worse.

"You too," I say casually. I'm flirting back. God, my mother must have accidentally bashed my brain in when I was a baby.

"We get to stay in a hotel in Cincinnati. That'll be good," he comments.

"Never nice when we have to stay on the bus for a long time."

"I completely agree. Hey, uh, when we get there, I could drop by your room," he suggests. "Just like to hang out or whatever."

Or whatever.

"Um, yeah, I don't know what our schedule is gonna be, but, uh, I'll let you know when I know?"

"Okay," he says, and I'm trying to determine whether he's pissed off. He doesn't seem to be.

"But I'll probably have time," I blurt out. He smiles. I smile back and walk away, trying not to notice how my fingertips are tingling.

What the hell am I doing?

I finally understand why the boys were upset when we get to Cincinnati. Nick vanishes. Most of us were asleep when he left, but Kurt drove us here, and he says that Nick left the bus the second we arrived, hailed a taxi and was gone. Nick said to tell us that he'd be back later.

"Now I know why you were so pissed," I tell Seb, who is gritting his teeth and looking around like he wants a knife so he can cut his wrists open because he has given up on this band.

"You, I can imagine taking off, even Puck, but Nick?! He's already missed soundcheck! We've got a show in two fucking hours!" Seb complains, walking in circles in the dressing room. "That's it, I am so quitting this band."

"Seb, just sit back, have a drink, snort some coke," Ryder offers hurriedly, sitting him down. Seb groans, and Ryder starts rubbing his shoulders with steady circular motions. "I'll find him, no worries."

The radio in the corner is playing CCR, and Kurt is singing along quietly. "I like the way you walk, I like the way you talk," he hums in his perfect voice, creating a surprisingly soothing effect for the rest of us. I feel myself split in two: worry and nervousness. Nick's missing, and it's hotel night. Everything is falling apart, falling on me, and I can't stop any of it. Kurt looks at me, heat in his gaze. He wants me. I know he does.

I can't think about it now. I have to focus. And besides, I'm not going to. I might let him blow me again, but that's as far as that'll go.

"I'll go see if he's around. You never know," Matt offers. As he exits the dressing room, I'm pretty sure he only wants a stress free environment.

"Baby, I love you," Kurt sings, drumming against his thigh, "Suzie Q."

I stop. I blink at him.

Shit.

"Be right back," I hurry to tell the others and run after Matt. I find him eventually in the canteen, smoking a joint with the support's bassist. "Matt! Dude, fuck, remember when we were in, uh... Toronto! Remember Toronto?"

"Vaguely," he agrees.

"Remember we sent postcards?" I go on urgently, and he is quirking an interested eyebrow at me. "Nick sent this postcard! To Suzie Duval in Cincinnati! His cousin? You put the stamps on, remember?"

His expression brightens. "I remember! Give me a minute... Hang on..." He closes his eyes, and I hold my breath. He's got a photographic memory. He must have read the address line. He must have. Matt opens his eyes. "3 Eliza Street."

"You sure? You really fucking sure?"

Matt nods in confirmation, and I feel relieved. "Tell them I've gone to get Nick, alright?" I ask him, my eyes spotting an exit sign.

"What if he's not there, man?" he asks as I'm already heading out.

"He better fucking be!" I tell him, and Nick will be. I've known that kid since forever. I've got him figured out.

But when the taxi stops outside 3 Eliza Street twenty minutes later, I no longer feel too sure. It's a small, cozy looking house in an area of small, cozy looking, family friendly houses. I get out of the car, feeling as out of place as a Satanist in Sunday mass.

The mailbox next to the driveway says 'The Duvals'. It's the right place. If Nick wants to visit family, then fine, but it's not cool to just disappear on us.

I firmly walk to the steps of the house, ringing the doorbell. Maybe they'll invite me in for dinner, too, seeing as I'm technically Nick's family. I haven't had a homemade meal since Chicago, since Cedes fixed up something for me and Sam. But mostly, though, I plan to scold Nick and then drag him back with me before we all lose our minds.

A young woman opens the door with a bright smile, an apron around her, shiny, brown hair hanging to her shoulders, and my voice dies in my throat. She sees me and freezes. Blood leaves her face as her expression goes from friendly and inquisitive to shocked.

What is she doing here?

"Blaine," Vicky manages, voice alarmed.

"Hi," I spit out. I push past her into the house without an invite. "You think this is fucking funny?" I snarl, spinning around to glare at her, and Nick's ex-girlfriend is at a loss for words. I look around the small entrance hall, seeing pictures framed on the wall – Nick and Victoria, Victoria's parents – And then. Then there's one of Nick and Victoria. He's in a tuxedo. She's in a white dress. She's holding a bouquet of red roses. "What the hell is going on here?" I ask in astonishment.

"Honey!" Nick's voice comes from the next room over, and when Vicky is too afraid to move or even speak, I follow the sound. I walk into a kitchen that is decorated in bright yellow and smells of apple pie. Nick's got his back to the door, his messy and dirty on-tour hair sticking out in places, everything in him not fitting in this picture. "Come look at how natural your husband is at feeding our little girl!"

"What?" I whisper quietly.

Nick spins around and sees me. He is holding a newborn baby, a bottle of milk in his hand. His eyes go wide, and his mouth drops open. The baby lets out a cry.

My best friend is speechless. That makes two of us.