content warning: explicit sexual content, homophobic slur, alcohol consumption, minor character death (kind of graphic, toward the end of the chapter)

Chapter 10: If He Can Feel My Heart

"Blaine! Would you just wait up?!"

I ignore the request and keep heading down the street. Two blocks isn't far enough from that house, three blocks isn't enough.

"Okay, you're mad! I get that!"

Mad? Nick thinks I'm mad? I'm leaving in an attempt not to goddamn kill him, but no, now he is concerned, now he wants to talk.

Nick finally catches up with me, blocking my way. I round him, but he only blocks me again, now taking a hold of my shoulders. I snap free and punch him, my fist flying forward on its own accord, my knuckles hitting his jaw. It's a lousy punch, but I wince and protectively pull my hand back. Nick is holding his jaw with a pained expression. "Fuck, man! Was that necessary?!" He looks up at me, meets my gaze, and instantly adds, "That was necessary." I try to get past him again, but he stops me. "Let me explain, would you? It's not what you think it is!"

"So you haven't married Vicky behind our backs? You don't have a fucking kid with her?!" I ask pointedly.

"So maybe it is what you think it is."

"Fuck you! You know that? Fuck you!" I snap, spotting a taxi coming down the street and hailing it over. It drives past me. I swear more, going through my pockets hastily. Nick offers me a cigarette, and I snatch it, bringing it to my lips hastily.

I light it as Nick whispers, "I'm sorry." He looks sorry. He sounds sorry too, but it's not good enough.

"You've had all this time to tell me, but you haven't. Instead, you've lied. Constantly. To my face," I recap furiously, not sure what pisses me off the most. The betrayal. The wife. The kid? Lying to the band, lying to me. I'm his best friend. I thought I was. "I knew something was up, but I never," I snarl.

I thought they broke up months ago, last goddamn year. Months of lying? It sickens me. He's an actor, nothing more.

"I had no choice," Nick hurries to say, and my hand curls into a fist again, wanting to take another hit. Had no choice? No one forced him. Whatever decisions he made, he made them willingly.

And a kid is for life. What was he thinking? Was he thinking? Nick's not in my world like I thought. All this time he has been living here instead, down the road in that shitty house with that slice of picket fence America, a wife and kid and a handful of values that would never survive in my world.

I lost my best friend months ago and didn't even know.

Another taxi is coming down the street, and it slows down as I hail it over. "Look, let's talk about this!" Nick says hurriedly.

"We've got a show in an hour. I don't have time to talk about it; I only came to get you." The car stops in front of me, and I open the back door. Nick is looking over his shoulder worriedly. "Oh my god," I whisper, closing my eyes and trying to calm down. "You go say goodbye. I'll wait in the car. Two minutes."

"Okay," Nick mutters, probably realizing that he shouldn't argue with me right now.

I try not to look to the door of the house when Nick comes out, but I do, anyway. Vicky's there, the picture perfect wife holding a baby. That baby can't even be a month old. Nick kisses them both before he jogs to the taxi, knowing the schedule we're on. Vicky waves. I don't wave back.

We take off. I'm too angry to speak, so I focus on grinding my teeth together and staring into the distance. Nick sighs once, maybe trying to get my attention. He sighs again, louder. Finally, he says, "I didn't want you to find out like this."

"No, no – You didn't want me to find out. Period."

"Because I knew you'd react like this!"

"Don't! Don't turn this around and make it my fucking problem!" I growl, and the taxi driver starts eyeing us through the rear-view mirror with a worried expression. I don't plan to bleed on his backseat. "How old is it?" Nick lifts an eyebrow, and I hiss, "The baby."

"Suzie," he says with this messed up, proud dad voice. "Three weeks. We were, uh... We were in Cleveland when Vicky..."

"And the wedding?"

"In January."

One blow after another. I was with Nick when his daughter was born. He didn't tell me. I try to think back to January, but can't. We were busy finishing recording, so I have no idea when he found the time to elope. They had already split up then. They must have planned it all. Victoria bought a wedding gown with the money Ryder supposedly bribed her with. Ryder was happy she was out of the picture. So were we. She was pregnant. Nick knew. Nick pretended to be heartbroken.

It's too much deceit and betrayal for me to handle. All those months of faux-moping around, pretending to be upset? And I bought it. All of it. And the Oscar goes to –

"You son of a bitch," I snarl just as the taxi slows down in front of the venue. "He's paying," I tell the driver and get out, not even caring that I'm right in front of the fans queuing to get in. The support's on; I can hear them all the way here.

Someone spots me. "It's Blaine!" They start screaming, even louder as I head straight for the doors, haphazardly feeling my neck and finding the strap of my pass. "It's Nick!" And they scream louder. The security is confused as I impatiently show them my backstage pass, shoving them out of the way, pushing off the few girls who have grabbed onto me, screaming. The security intervenes, and I manage to untangle myself.

Nick is right behind me as we flash our passes to get to the employees-only areas, and I begin heading down a long corridor without actually knowing where the hell I am.

"We gotta talk about this! Just yell at me and get it over and done with!"

"Like that will make me feel better," I point out venomously. "Like that will change anything!"

"Blaine –"

"Don't talk to me!" I snap just as my eyes finally spot a dressing room sign. I come to an abrupt stop, and Nick nearly slams into my back. I make sure to shove him away. He looks hurt by the gesture. "I don't want to see you, I don't want to talk to you, so you stay the fuck away."

His guilty expression changes to worry. "Are you going to tell the others?"

"Wouldn't you love to know," I spit, feeling triumphant that I can hold this sword above his head.

I leave Nick in the corridor, alone and miserable and so fucking caught in his web of lies. And if I feel sorry for him, only for one second, I push the thought out of my head and focus on the numbing hurt in my chest.

Nick plays the show, apologizes to the guys for vanishing like that, and disappears afterwards. To go to Vicky's, of course. Or maybe he bought the house, so he is going back to his own place. To watch his daughter sleep. To sleep by his wife for the first time in however long.

He didn't bother talking to me again. I didn't tell the others. It was a mess as it was with Seb and Puck's accusations and Nick's apologies.

After I've showered and changed, I gather my shit and find my way out of the venue, a sympathetic security guy showing me to a second back entrance to avoid the waiting fans. We have nothing tomorrow until the evening when we get back on the road and leave this miserable place. Nick's probably counting the hours, dreading the moment of departure. They're probably running around with a camera and taking pictures of the happy family, united for the first time.

Nick's got a kid. I can't believe it. We're too young for that.

I don't want a family. I don't think I want one, anyway. I've never thought about it. In its own way, it would be interesting to pass on my shit genes, see what kind of chaos that would create. To have this one thing to call my own. My son. My daughter.

I can't keep plants alive, let alone children.

And then I'd walk around with a ring on my finger, arm wrapped around my wife's shoulders (not Quinn, that has been established clearly enough), and then I can say, "Oh yes, this is my youngest, named him Blaine. Blaine Anderson IV. No, you're right. I am just one more cunt who has never had a single original thought. I'm very proud, thank you. Yes, he is in the chess club, how did you know?" and then we will all chuckle and invite each other over for Sunday roast dinner, and exclaim, "Well, maybe this once I'll have a second glass of red wine!" And my wife and children smile at me adoringly.

But where's the sweat? The blood? Life isn't about smiles and forced politeness. Life is raw, it's meant to leave marks on you. If you can't remember anything from the last two years, it's because you've done nothing memorable during them. Fuck that. Fuck my imaginary wife and my bastard children. I want loud music, so loud it hurts my ears, and I want sincerity and vomit and honesty.

If only Nick hadn't lied. It somehow feels worse because he lied. He could have told me, and then we could have kept the lie together. If he had let me in just a little bit, but he shut me out, threw me out, closed the door and wiped his hands.

If only he hadn't lied.

There's a knock on the door of my hotel room. I look at the vodka bottle on the table. I haven't opened it yet. I'm about to, and then I will drink myself into oblivion, but now someone wants to take that away from me, too. Seb detests me, Puck is fucking my girlfriend, Nick is worse than the two combined. Friends, best friends, childhood friends, all vanishing, so what the hell is left?

I open the door.

New friends.

Kurt is standing in the hotel corridor, clearly nervous, and my stomach twists almost painfully. He said he'd visit. Hotel night. He said he'd come around for whatever.

To have me fuck him. Potentially.

"Hey," he smiles, and I stare at him stupidly. I forgot. I was somewhat preoccupied. Kurt lowers his gaze quickly and rubs his nose. "So you alright? You were acting... weirder than usual tonight." His hair is wet from a shower. It's pretty amazing how much roadies can sweat during the shows even though they're not on stage.

"Yeah, just – I just. Things on my mind."

Kurt looks over his shoulder and down the corridor. I can hear the sounds of a party not too many rooms away. Seb and Puck for sure. They didn't even bother inviting me.

"I could help you take your mind off of those things," Kurt says calculatedly, and when he looks at me again, my brain stops working.

The Look. He is giving me The Look: long lashes, soulful eyes, rosy bottom lip snugly between his teeth, and right then rationality evaporates, and I want to fuck him. Pull him into my room and fuck him, and I wouldn't even care what it'd say about me, as a person, psychologically, sexually, permanently, temporarily.

Kurt probably knows I'm under his spell as he takes a step closer, the tips of his shoes pressing against my bare toes. "You should invite me in," he whispers, and I can feel his breath against my lips. It'd be so easy to reach out, curl my hand around the Jack Daniel's t-shirt he's wearing, and pull him in.

It'd be so easy. Too easy.

"No, yeah. I mean yes. No, I mean – Fuck, I don't know what I mean," I laugh slightly hysterically.

He blinks and steps back, clearly confused. "You don't know?"

"I don't." I'm being honest with him. I hope he can figure out how rare that is, how it means something.

But he doesn't get it. His smile turns into a stony expression of barely hidden anger. His jaw line tightens. "Right."

I try to keep it simple: I'm just not inviting him in. That's all I'm doing. Though we both know it's me turning down whatever we had going on. I just can't. I've got too much on my hands without him, his mouth and lips and smile confusing the hell out of me. I've never been attracted to a man before. What does it mean? Sure, Will claimed that it doesn't mean shit, but I just don't find it in myself to believe him. I've got no one to talk about it with, either. God, I can't believe I wanted to confide in Nick of all people.

I'm too messed up to start screwing around with Kurt.

"Goodnight," I mumble and close the door to his face. I exhale shakily once I have something between us, my forehead pressing against the smooth wooden surface. I wait until I hear him walk away. And he will go back to scolding me instead of undressing me with his gaze, but it's what we've been doing the entire tour so far, circling each other in some fucked up way.

A few more shows, and then we'll finish the East leg in Florida. If I can remain sane for that long, avoid Kurt, Nick too, then I don't have to see any of them for four sweet weeks.

I sulk back into the room, my steps taking me to the vodka bottle. I could have chosen Kurt's body. I could've chosen his companionship. I could've chosen forgiving Nick, or Puck, or Seb, or myself. But I choose the bottle instead.

Like father, like son.

I don't have anything to mix the alcohol with, so I drink it straight from a small plastic cup I find in the bathroom, meant for water or to hold a toothbrush or something slightly less depraved.

I drown the second shot and feel the alcohol welling at the pit of my stomach. Tonight was the first time on this tour that I went on stage completely sober. It was just as scary as I thought, but I could only focus on Nick behind me, the way he drummed, effortlessly, brilliantly, like nothing was wrong, and I hated him.

I've never hated him before.

A knock on the door again. I put my plastic cup on the nightstand next to the bottle. It aches somewhere inside, but Kurt can make me forget about that. I can let him in, sit on the edge of the bed, push his head down, and focus on his talented tongue and moist mouth. Neither of us would have to talk.

I go to the door, still unsure whether to tell him to come in or not. I had the strength to turn him down once. Twice, though? I feel a jolt of lust settling in my gut. No one can expect me to do the right thing twice.

The door reveals Nick, and I freeze, not having expected him. "Hey," he says tiredly.

"What are you doing here?" I ask sharply because he should be curled up with his wife right about now. He left the venue straight after to do just that.

"I couldn't sleep," he informs me and pushes past me into the room where I don't want him. He looks at the vodka bottle on the nightstand, then at me, and he has that goddamned look in his eyes like he can read me perfectly. He can't. No one can. I'm keeping secrets too, and it feels oddly satisfying.

"I'm gonna say what I have to say, regardless of what you want," Nick says and sits on the edge of my bed. I slowly close the door. He can talk, sure, but I don't necessarily have to listen. Defiantly, I fetch my vodka bottle first, dangling it in my grip easily as I go to the big armchair by the window, kicking my feet up on the small coffee table next to it. Nick doesn't wait for me to signal him to go on as he launches into it himself. "I didn't choose Vicky."

Thank god.

"She blackmailed you into it, didn't she? Because of the baby," I say, because this has been the only even half-sensible scenario I've come up with.

"No!" Nick says, horrified. "No, nothing like that. I mean, we didn't mean to have Suzie. She was purely accidental. I don't regret it, though." He has that proud parent smile on his face again. "I knew Ryder wanted her gone, but I refused. You know that, you were there. And then she found out she was pregnant, and we were trying to figure out what to do. I mean, when she gave me the news, I proposed to her on the spot."

I try not to snort. How valiant of him. How stupid.

"Then Ryder went to her with the money. She refused, of course, and she told me what had happened, and it was... an eye opener for me. That Ryder had the fucking arrogance to try and do something like that. The music world is so ruthless. It's not an environment for a family. For a little baby."

"So you and Victoria came up with this master plan," I supply for him, my tone bitter.

"I came up with it and talked her into it. The shittiest thing I've ever had to do," he mumbles, and I would strongly like to disagree. "She called Ryder and said she'd agree, and then you know the rest."

"Yeah, I do. The way you pretended that you were heartbroken. You even punched Ryder," I recall.

Nick sits up straighter. "I had every damn reason to punch him! After what he did? Believe me, I had the right! And I've been heartbroken. My pregnant wife moving to Cincinnati where I have to pretend she doesn't exist? Missing her, wondering how she's doing? I've been fucking miserable. When our break starts, I'm coming right back here. But you gotta understand that I didn't choose her. I chose both."

"Well, maybe you can't have both. You ever thought about that?" I snap.

Nick looks older than he is as he whispers, "I've been slowly coming to terms with that, yeah. But..." His voice fades away, and his hands twist in his lap restlessly as his eyes nail to the floor. "I don't know if I'd make a very good husband. Or if I'd make a decent dad." He has that tone of intimacy he uses when he is voicing a thought he's had for the very first time. He swallows hard and tries to smile. "But I know I'm a brilliant drummer. That's something I know I can do. She wants me to quit the band, but I feel like I'll only disappoint her more if I do. That I won't be able to be the guy she wants me to be, the guy she needs. This part, being on the road, nightly shows, the fans, this part I know I'm good at. But I don't know if I'm good at anything else. What if she only loves me because I'm gone?"

Nick looks at me with big, sorrowful eyes, like he wants my advice or a brotherly hug or just even a bit of sympathy. I only focus on Victoria wanting him to quit the band. Bitch.

"So that's why you're still here? Because you feel sorry for yourself?"

Nick laughs, shaking his head. "God, I keep forgetting how you've become so goddamn cruel."

"I was always cruel."

"No," he smiles sadly. "You just wished you were." He stands up and runs fingers through his hair. I hold my vodka closer to my chest and refuse to look at him. Nick's just there, but he's never felt further away. I love him, despite everything. He has been the only constant thing in my life since the age of seven, but now, he is slipping through my hands.

The only things I've ever loved have been things that are bad for me. Not necessarily at the time, but in the end. The idea of Quinn, then Nick, Lucy, me and this lady.

Nick stops pacing. "I'm sorry I lied to you. I was in a situation where I didn't know what the right thing was, and I made some bad decisions. You have the right to be angry with me. But just twenty hours ago, I finally got to hold my daughter for the first time, and I... I did right by her. You know that the fans and the press would harass Vicky if she was public knowledge, and I gotta protect my girls. They deserve their privacy. My little girl isn't for sale, not to Ryder, not as a publicity stunt or for anything. So I made the right decision. And I think that, that after you get to think about it, you'll understand where I'm coming from, and, and maybe after that... you won't be so angry with me anymore."

"I'm glad you feel that way. It must make it easier for you to sleep at night telling yourself all those useless justifications." I sit up straight and let my eyes focus on the view out of the window, facing the inner court where the pool is, and people are by it even at this time of night. I feel Spencer's eyes on me, and he's sorry. I know he is, and I want to forgive him and get him back on my team. I want to. "If you're done, feel free to show yourself out."

My voice manages to break on the last syllable. But it's not that easy as just forgiving him. What does it change, anyway? Nick loves his family, more than he loves this band, and I can't blame him. I don't blame him for not liking me much anymore.

For the first time, I realize that The Warblers will be over sooner than I ever thought. After this tour, Nick will quit. He didn't even hint he might, but I know him. He hasn't changed quite enough for me not to know him.

Give it time.

The door closes behind Nick.

The East leg finishes in Tampa, hot and humid in the July weather. It feels like a miracle that we have made it this far, and everyone's packing up and getting ready for our break. The bus looks clean for the first time since St. Paul, and Ryder beams from the achievement as we try to figure out which bit of clothing belongs to whom.

We have two shows in Tampa, but as I gather my bags and walk into the hotel from the bus, briefly signing a few albums for fans waiting outside, I know I won't be getting back on that bus until weeks from now, and it feels freeing. My nest was not that comforting in the end, just more room for me to label as absence of people. My hotel room is one of the best ones yet with an enormous bed and a small welcome gift bag on the table next to the mirror, inside of which I find two mini whisky bottles. Excellent.

Soon, I will be going back to Los Angeles, to my own place. Quinn is in Paris, I think, but she should be in LA in a week or two. I don't remember why she went to Paris. Someone asked her to. Nick is off to Cincinnati, and I already know I won't see either Seb or Puck during the break. The roadies will go to their respective homes, Beiste to San Diego, Matt to Milwaukee, Mason and Kurt to San Francisco. And Ryder will probably go back to his place of origin: hell.

It's the penultimate show, and even I have the energy for it. It's so close to the end. I don't usually pay attention, but I'm pretty sure it's the best gig we've done on this tour, or maybe they just really, really love us here. After we're done, even I say, "Thanks," into the microphone.

It's also surprising that I'm sober. I can't drink with Nick in the room, the way he silently signals that I am turning into my father. Well, what else is new? What more did anyone ever expect of me?

Seb's hotel room turns into party central with girls and roadies, and we're all there, celebrating that tomorrow is the last show of the leg. Twenty-nine down, twenty-six to go.

I sit on the couch and talk to Matt, who is high as a kite but still pleasant to talk to. But I find myself scanning the room for Kurt. He's with Mason, always with Mason. Kurt doesn't handle rejection well, I've learned that since Cincinnati. His pissed off bitch act is in no way endearing, not with how he ignores me, addresses me with short, blunt sentences, and occasionally glares.

Kurt clearly has some growing up to do.

"So," Nick's voice comes from behind me when Matt goes to the bathroom, and I turn to see Nick leaning over the backrest of the couch. "You ever going to talk to me again?"

"Not if I can help it," I shoot back instantly.

Nick's small smile falters. "Look, man, I'm so –"

I get up before he gets the chance to finish. I don't care what he has to say. Nick lets me walk away, doesn't even have the decency to try and stop me. I find myself a girl, who is immediately taken by me. Of course she is. We start talking, and Kurt keeps shooting us death glares from across the room. Like I let him down too.

"Nick, you're not leaving already, are you?" Beiste calls out, and Nick is already at the door.

"Need some sleep," he replies, wary eyes landing on me. "Got a phone call to make."

He's going to call Vicky, of course. He waves us goodbye, leaving me. The girl comes back with new drinks, but my eyes keep returning to Kurt, who now leaves the crowded room, heading towards the bathroom. For no particular reason, I decide to follow him. To give him a piece of my mind.

Kurt is leaning against the wall next to the bathroom door, arms crossed and a bored expression on his face. He gives me a side-glance as I approach him, his lips forming a thin line. I don't say anything, just keep my eyes on him.

I lean casually against the wall opposite him, our shoes almost touching in the narrow space. He persistently keeps looking away. "I'm not flattered, just so you know," I tell him flatly, and he casts me a look like he supposes he must acknowledge my presence. "That you're upset I'd rather fuck that girl than you."

Kurt scoffs. "I'm not upset. It's your loss." He stands up straighter. "I'm a better fuck than any boy – or girl – you'll ever meet. You had your chance, and you missed it. So I'm not upset."

His ranting suggests the opposite. He also has got balls for saying something like that. What if I made him prove he is as good as he claims?

The chattering from the party around the corner seems to fade away. Kurt has this way of making the rest of the world disappear for me.

He bangs the bathroom door impatiently, but gets no response. Maybe someone's passed out in there. "So did you and Nick break up, or what?" he now shoots at me, and I feel like he has just plunged his hand into my guts and ripped them out. "I pay attention," he says obnoxiously.

"You know nothing about that."

"Funny thing is that you're so blatantly heartbroken over it, yet Nick seems to be doing just fine."

Without thinking about it, I curl my hand into a fist and punch the wall right next to his head. His eyes widen in surprise, but he stands his ground in defiance. That's his problem. He doesn't know when to back off. He stares me down, and I have never met anyone who has been able to read me as easily as he does.

The space between us is minimal, and my blood boils. "Fuck you."

"Fuck you," he counters just as venomously.

I close the gap between us and kiss him hard. He responds with a desperate sounding grunt, and my hands fly to his hair, fisting forcefully. I don't care who might come around the corner, who might emerge from the bathroom. Let them see, I don't care anymore. No one has the moral upper hand around here, and no one certainly has the right to tell me what to do. And screw all the decisions I've ever made so far. They've only made me miserable. And fuck Kurt and the way he makes me feel, restless and unsettled, on the brink of something I should leave undiscovered. Fuck him. Just fuck him.

I will.

My other hand finds the hem of his shirt, and I pull up the fabric, fingers sliding on smooth, warm skin. He arches into it. God, he's so desperate for me.

But then Kurt pushes me off him, and I stumble backwards, my back hitting the wall. He is wiping his mouth, his neck flushed. He shakes his head quickly, breathing fast. "Oh no, you had your chance."

I scoff. "You wanted me, remember?"

"I've since seen the light."

"You don't say no to me," I laugh disbelievingly, stepping right back into his space. My hand curls around his left hip, thumb brushing the skin. Kurt's lips are a gorgeous red, and I admire them. Our breaths mix together. "If I want to fuck you, I'll fuck you."

Kurt's breathing hitches, and I press my crotch right against his. He looks so angry, nearly livid, and his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are dark and swirling with emotions I don't want to read. Is he going to punch me or not?

He launches forward and kisses me, desperate and rough. I bang him back against the wall, our hands everywhere, bruising and needing to touch. I suck on his bottom lip too hard, then push my tongue between his parted lips and fuck his mouth. It feels so heavy and hot all of a sudden. He's all I can think about, all I can feel.

God, I'm going to fuck him until he passes out of exhaustion.

The bathroom door opens right then, and we pull apart instantly, a wet smack sounding from our starving mouths. Kurt is trying to pull his shirt down a bit, and I just focus on breathing. Seb pokes his head out, too drunk to have noticed anything. It takes him a while to focus on us. "Oh. Hey, guys."

"Hi," Kurt replies breathlessly. His voice is low, and I feel my skin crawling with want. I don't look at Seb at all. Instead, I keep my eyes on Kurt.

"I'm, uh, probably gonna be in here for a while," Seb explains, and I hear giggling coming from behind him. A girl. Possibly two girls. "Sorry," he says sheepishly, though he is blatantly enjoying himself.

"That's okay," I say, not taking my eyes off of Kurt. "I think we were just leaving anyway."

"Far out. Have a good night now," Seb grins, and the door slams shut.

Without a word to Kurt, I begin to walk away. I know he will follow.

We snake through the party, and I don't even care if they see us leaving together. Let them draw their own conclusions if they dare. No one would even suspect that I'd fuck a guy, anyway. It wouldn't occur to them.

Once we're out of the hotel room and in the deserted corridor, we walk two steps side by side, and then I have him against the wall again. I push him back from one shoulder, snatching one wrist and feeling his rapid pulse between my fingertips. He fists my hair and groans against my mouth. So hot. Everything feels urgent and rushed. He grinds up against me. Want him naked on a bed, want him begging for it –

"I'm gonna fuck you so hard," I mumble against his swollen lips. Kurt groans and tilts his head back in surrender, and I attack his neck, biting on the skin. He smells of sweat and cigarettes and him, that underlining scent that is just him. Something about it is helping my cock get hard really damn fast. "Your room."

He swallows, I watch his Adam's apple bob and give into the urge of sucking on it. "Just a few doors down, but it's with Mason. Wouldn't yours –"

"No," I interrupt him. "Can't have people hear me fuck you."

Two men moaning in Kurt's room? Nothing out of the ordinary. My room? No.

Kurt's jaw tightens slightly, but I simply let my nose trace his jaw line. He is breathing heavily, and I smile against his cheek cruelly. "God, it pisses you off, doesn't it?" I ask quietly, shamelessly moving to cup his cock. He gasps and pushes against my hand. He's a good size. All of that, every inch – "It pisses you off that I make you this hard."

He grits his teeth. "Just shut up."

I attack his mouth again, a wet slide of tongues. I tighten my grip of his wrist and guide his hand between us, onto my erection. I want to feel his hand there, want him more than I've wanted anyone. He rubs me through my clothes, a small whine escaping his throat. I could push him onto his knees right here, and he'd do it. "Room," I order.

We manage to make it to his room, and he digs out the key. He suddenly takes off his shoe, though, pulling a sock off. I stare in confusion as he puts the sock over the doorknob. "So Mason knows not to come in," he explains.

They have a system. I scoff.

Then I instantly forget all about it.

The hotel door slams shut behind us, and I'm on him, all over him. Kurt groans against my mouth, undoing my tie and pulling it off. We crash against something, a side table. I pull him closer from the belt loops of his jeans, wrapping my arms around his narrow waist. It's not close enough.

Our noses press together, the stubble on his chin scratching against mine. I let myself have this without any analysis. I can process it all later, what this means, if anything. Now, though, now I know what I want, and I don't give a fuck about anything else except getting it.

I pull his shirt off, hearing the tearing of fabric, but not caring what got damaged. He doesn't seem to care either as he goes for my shirt, the top button coming loose. Our mouths smack together loudly, wantonly, and he unbuttons from the top as I unbutton from the bottom, and our rushed hands meet in the middle. His palms press against my bare chest, and I wonder if he can feel my heart.

We fight the shirt off me, stumbling towards the bed closer to us. We go for each other's zippers at the same time. The kiss breaks, our foreheads still pressed together. Kurt's hands are shaking. So are mine.

"Fuck," Kurt manages, sounding wrecked already. "Fuck, fuck."

I get him unzipped, shove his jeans to mid-thigh and wrap my fingers around his cock. A barrier of some kind dissolves in me: another guy's cock. The air feels too hot to breathe. Kurt rocks into my hand, pressing his face into the crook of my neck, panting. He's as thick as me, but maybe an inch or two. He's rock hard.

"Jesus," I manage, feeling him hot in my hand. I move to cup his balls, the skin tight, run my hand over his length again. Kurt latches onto my neck, muffling a groan. He's pushed my jeans down, and my cock brushes against his.

I want to try and jerk us off together, I want to watch him jerk off, I want to watch him finger himself, want to see him come, his hips snap, his cock twitch. Want every little dirty thing my vivid imagination has been able to come up with on the occasions I have not been thinking about this.

"I'll have you know I like foreplay," Kurt pants heavily, a hint of desperate amusement in his tone, "but we're just skipping it this time."

"You fucking bet we are," I agree, finding his lips again. "Off."

We part only to undress all the way, and I'm far too focused on him to be self-conscious. I've stood in front of the mirror naked, I know what I look like. The hungry look on Kurt's face suggests that I don't know, but I merely focus on him.

I snatch his wrist, pull him to me, his naked skin against mine, and then I shove him backwards onto the bed. The mattress bounces; it's not meant for two people. I straddle him, and his hands are on my hips, warm and firm. Our cocks brush, and the rush in my veins just gets worse. I feel dizzy as the world seems out of focus and surreal.

Then the nervousness hits. Fuck, I don't want to feel nervous. I had a plan: fuck him long, fuck him hard, but the anger that supported the notion is fading away. My chest feels constricted as we keep kissing, him laid out beneath me, hungrily reaching up to touch me. I keep cupping his cock, trying to familiarize myself with it.

I've got all night to familiarize myself with his body if I want to. Now I need to focus on the actual point.

Kurt clearly agrees as he says, "The lube's in the bag." I take bites at his mouth and keep him where he is. I make the rules here. He does what I say.

He would do anything I say.

It takes me a while to find the lube from the mess of clothes in his bag, but then it's in my hand. It's half-empty, and Kurt automatically spreads his legs as I get back on the bed. "How much?" I ask, already pouring some on my palm. I throw the lube on the floor, dipping two fingers in the cool substance.

"Not too much. I prefer less, so I can really feel the burn."

Fuck, my cock throbs at his words, just picturing him.

I move over him, leaning down to suck on a nipple. No idea what kind of a reaction that will get me, if any, he's not a chick, and his body is still driving me insane in all the ways it mirrors mine. But it's more the fact that it's him, it's Kurt, and all the things that he keeps to himself, all the fight in him, all the things I can't figure out, and yet, his body is at my disposal. I need to find at least one way to break his spine and make him sweat.

My fingers clumsily reach between his legs, pushing between his ass cheeks. I don't look, my coordination is definitely lacking, but I find his hole, a tight ring of muscle. I press two fingers against it, and his body tenses in anticipation. He's fucking wanton.

There's no going back from this.

I push my fingers inside. He jerks and pushes into it, a choked, "Fuck," sounding in the room. God, he's tight.

I focus on the rhythm, slick fingers tentatively moving in and out of him. Kurt's fingernails dig into my back, and I keep studying his face: the closed eyes, knitted eyebrows, open mouth, tongue licking his lips. I've never seen such concentration on his face, and when I push my fingers in deeper, his features flash with pleasure.

"Just a- Ngh, a steady rhythm will- Fuck, your fingers," he pants. I push them deeper, and he groans helplessly. I keep the rhythm as steady as I can, in and out, a slight twist to make him tremble, in and out...

"Tell me when," I manage, my throat feeling dry. "Say when you're ready to be fucked."

He groans, head twisting backwards into the pillow. I watch the way his body arches, chest flushed, the muscles of his stomach quivering, legs parted wide, all this from my two fingers in him. His other arm is flung over his eyes now, and he is biting on his bottom lip. His hips are thrusting against my hand. This is nothing like I thought, nothing like I –

He cries out suddenly, body freezing up, the muscles around my fingers squeezing. "God, right there. That's the spot, that's –" he babbles incoherently. The spot? There's a spot?

He sounds more aroused than I've ever heard him, and I decide he's ready because I need to do something about my own aching hard-on. I pull my fingers out and find the lube again. I take care not to put too much on. If he says he wants to feel it, then I'll let him feel it.

I place a hand on his hip, let my nails dig in, and I attempt to guide him a little. Kurt looks at me, clearly not getting it. "Don't you want to get on your hands and knees?" I ask impatiently.

"No," he replies simply, eyes dark. He spreads his legs further. My stomach drops. My scenarios never included us face to face, no space between us, me deep inside him, him watching me, tangling together.

I take a hold of his hips and pull him closer, and he wraps his legs around my waist automatically. My lube covered cock slides against his ass cheek as I settle, balancing myself with an elbow next to his head. He instantly turns to kiss my arm, tongue tracing my skin wantonly. His entire body is in constant motion, turned on, sex in itself.

"You gotta tell me if I'm not doing something right," I say, hating having to admit it, but he just nods. I already know that I'll get off, no problem there, but him?

Kurt fists my hair and brings me down to kiss him. His other hand flies down my spine, over the vertebrae, and settles on my lower back. He whines against my mouth and applies pressure just above my ass. I get the hint, grab my cock, and guide it to his moist and hastily stretched entrance.

The fit in itself is already off. The flushed and red head of my cock is too large for the hole it's pressing against, and I try to keep my head. "Don't be a jerk," Kurt pleas urgently, tone desperate. Is he sure? Do men actually do this with each other? "God, just– just do it, fucking need you, I –"

I push into him, forcing my way inside. Air escapes my lungs. Kurt's mouth drops open, and he moans. He just – He moans loudly, back arching, looking straight into my eyes. His nails are clawing my back as his body trembles.

I fucked Quinn up the ass that one time, but that has got nothing on this. Nothing. Fucking nothing.

Kurt is hot and tight, squeezing every inch of me. I look down to where we're joined, trying to regain control. Holy fucking hell, I didn't think it'd feel like this.

Kurt keeps staring at me, pupils blown, and that's the worst part, how I can't look away once we lock eyes. I thrust experimentally, and he moans, breathing labored. "God, you're so tight," I groan helplessly, dropping my head against his shoulder.

"You're fucking huge," he counters, voice raspy. "Filling me up, you– And fuck, you're so hard," he moans, tone helpless and wretched. We both catch our breaths, but I guess I miss my cue because he asks, "You gonna fuck me or what?"

"Until you can't fucking walk," I snarl, but I need another minute to feel like I can move without instantly coming. I keep my thrusts steady but hard to start off with, seeing how he'll react. I snatch his wrists and pin them above his head, using my weight to keep him trapped. He clearly gets off on being held down, his moans even more guttural. He sounds so fucking dirty when he's getting fucked, his uneven breathing, the hitches in breath, and then he moans and groans and hisses and gasps –

"Try-" He stops to groan. "Try aiming up when you – Fucking hell, fucking fuck –"

"Try what? Tell me how you want me to fuck you," I order, and he likes that too. His body shudders, and his cock twitches, brushing against my stomach on each thrust. "Tell me."

"The angle," he tries again, licking his swollen and red lips. I have to interrupt him then, just to kiss him. I fuck him hard as our tongues battle fervently. My nails dig into his wrists, and he thrusts up against me. I suck off the sweat that has gathered on his upper lip before pulling back with a wet smack. "Aim up when you push in, just a- God, just a little."

He's the expert, so I do. Nothing changes, though, so I keep trying, unsure of what he wants. Then it happens, and his body jolts so violently I have to use force to keep him pinned down like I want him. His muscles quiver and squeeze around my cock, pure fucking bliss, and he nods hurriedly.

"Yeah, like that, like – B, you just- Please, don't stop. Don't fucking –"

"Not gonna," I interrupt him, making sure to keep my hips working at the right angle. Kurt is leaking between us now, and I let his wrists go. I curl my fingers in his damp hair, our foreheads pressed together. We pant against each other's mouths, lips touching every now and then. He meets my thrusts, and I slide so fucking deep into him. He just takes it. He fucking loves it. I don't know if I've ever felt this far gone.

He fists the sheets as the headboard bangs loudly against the wall.

I find his hand, our fingers lacing together. This is nothing like I had planned, but I had no idea how intense this would feel, being with him, being in him. I guide his hand between us, and he instantly starts to stroke himself.

"Can I come inside you?" I groan hurriedly. We're both drawing close now. I've been close since New York.

"Please," he says, choking on the word, and I kiss him. God, he wants me to. My imminent orgasm is pounding in my veins, heavy in my brain, my chest, my stomach, heat curling up, and it's all him now, all him and this burning –

Kurt comes with a sudden groan, body seizing up, jerking. His muscles all contract at the same time, squeezing me, even tighter than before. My entire body feels it, and I have never felt anything like it. I keep fucking him, pounding into him, and he rides out his orgasm, his body radiating heat against mine. My eyes take in the mess, the white substance now rolling down his flushed cock, over his fist. I pinned him down, pushed inside him, fucked him, made him come and lose control.

I climax instantly with such a force it takes me by surprise. My mind blacks out, but then it's taken over by a bright light, and my hips snap and snap, and I keep coming, keep coming. My toes curl, and I tremble. Oh god. Kurt murmurs something into my ear. I can't understand what he says.

I'm surrounded by a haze when I'm finally done.

I'm completely out of breath and worn out, muscles aching, covered in sweat, my body tingling from the orgasm. Kurt is staring up at me, also trying to catch his breath. I try to say something, but my brain won't work. Instead, I pull out. He winces, his legs loosening their deadlock around me. I will have bruised hips tomorrow. So will he.

He is still close to me. We're now pressed together, crotch to crotch, stomach to stomach, chest to chest. It feels comfortable, and I want to tangle onto him, fall asleep, wake up and do this again. Our legs begin to entwine. I want to kiss him, slow and soft. I –

I snap into reality. I roll off of him onto the limited space between him and the wall. The pillow and the duvet are now on the floor. Kurt exhales loudly, wiping his stomach with his hand, but only ends up smearing his semen on a wider surface. He makes a face and retrieves a pair of boxers from the floor, cleaning himself up.

"Those are mine," I manage to say. My boxers now covered in his come. I notice that I've got some on me too.

"Sorry," he mutters, clearly not bothered. His hand is trembling slightly, still from the aftershocks. I stare at him, feeling fucking shaken up. I don't – I was just gonna fuck him. That is all I had planned, I swear. He smiles to himself. "You just broke the law, you know that?"

"What?"

"This is illegal. Two guys fucking."

"That's ridiculous," I say. How could that be illegal?

He drops the boxers back onto the floor, lying back down, gorgeous, naked and glowing. I wish I could smirk, make a sleazy comment, brush this off, but it feels so heavy.

"Fuck it," I whisper, and Kurt quirks an eyebrow at me. I reach over him, snatching the corner of the duvet on the floor. I pull it over us and pull him to me, thinking for a second that maybe he will push me off. He doesn't.

He smells like me.

My heart swells up.

He doesn't speak, but neither do I. But our hands keep moving, tracing patterns until I've fallen asleep, curled up in him.

I'm sleepily moving my hand on the sheets that are still warm, cracking open one eye. Light has flooded the room. I'm alone in bed. God, I feel so well rested.

I roll onto my back, sighing quietly and feeling content. The shower is running. My cock is half-hard, and I absently reach down to grab it, letting my fingers move on it. This is going to be a good day, I can already tell. Quinn can blow me once she comes out of the shower.

My head rolls to the side, and I breathe in the sheets. They smell good. But they don't smell like her. It's better, it's...

Kurt.

I jerk to sit up on the bed, bewildered. The shower keeps running. Kurt's in there. My back feels sensitive. His fingernails. My hips feel sore. His hands. My fucking mouth feels raw. His lips.

Our clothes are scattered across the floor. The sheets are a mess.

He's in the shower. Naked. I'm here. Naked.

We fucked.

I'm fucked.

Last night plays itself in my head in flashes of hands and lips, our bodies tangling, moving, but most of all I remember him. I feel short of breath.

I need to get dressed so I can get the hell out of here.

My boxers are covered with dried come – I remember him wiping himself off, his lower stomach, white streaks decorating, his cock softening, how he looked, how it made me feel. I pull them on, ignore the dried come on me. Clothes. Need more clothes. Can't come out of his room half-dressed.

My shirt is next to a knocked over side table. I manage to get it on, and it's hanging off me when the bathroom door opens. Kurt is toweling his wet hair. His eyes land on the bed first before spotting me. "Hey."

He's absolutely naked and clearly not even the tiniest bit self-conscious about it. I don't know if I've ever seen anything as attractive.

"Morning," I manage.

His eyes take me in silently. I can't read his thoughts. I really wish I could.

"Your tie's over there," he says in this annoyingly neutral tone, and I spot my tie next to his suitcase. I quietly retrieve it, twisting it in my hands. Kurt sits on the edge of the bed and keeps toweling his hair. "So are you leaving already?"

"I was just..."

Running away.

"You got interviews today?"

"No," I rush to say, glad to have something tangible. "No interviews. Last show tonight. Insane, huh? Can't wait for the break, a whole month without shows. Sounds like heaven right about now." Pause. "God, I'm starving. Breakfast's included, right? I could really do with some bacon and egg scramble."

Kurt smiles to himself, a hint of a smirk in it. "I knew it."

"Knew what?" I ask, now buttoning my shirt hurriedly. A few are missing. They must have come off when we...

"You're freaking out." He stands up, wrapping the towel around his waist where I just manage to catch a few bruises. He has bite marks here and there on his chest and neck. I really fucking went for it, didn't I?

"I'm not freaking out," I scoff. He rolls his eyes. "Hey, we fucked. I'm completely fine with that. I'm not freaked out."

"No?" he asks disbelievingly.

"No."

"Well, then we should do it again. You've got nothing to do, I'm always horny in the mornings..." he trails off, and I am relatively sure I gulp loud enough for him to hear. He shakes his head, scorn in his eyes. "Such a typical conflicted faux heterosexual."

"Don't try and analyze me," I snap. Something keeps beating wildly in my chest, a yearning, a burning sensation. I want to touch him. I want to take him up on his offer. And fuck him, I'm totally not gay. "I gotta go," I mutter before we start fighting again.

Kurt shrugs like it's all the same to him. The thought pierces through me painfully. Last night wasn't just –

It should matter. That's all.

I find my jeans and pull them back on, and he turns the TV on, not paying attention to me. I see the tension in his shoulders. I could make it vanish with one kiss to the nape of his neck. The sunlight hits his pale skin, making him glow.

He's not looking my way as I tie my shoelaces, finally good to go. "I'll catch you later," I mumble more to myself and finally head to the door.

"Blaine?"

I pause with my hand on the doorknob. My heart is racing.

"Just that," he begins and pauses. "If you change your mind or whatever, I've got nothing to do until soundcheck. Even if you want to just hang out." He finally looks at me.

I made him sweat, broke his spine. I got under his skin.

I nod in response and leave. I do a paranoid check to make sure no one I know sees me coming out of his room, but there's only a hotel cleaner down the hallway. I don't remember my room number and initially get the direction wrong.

My bed hasn't been slept in. It feels empty. Hotel rooms always feel clinical somehow with the tailored sheets, the mint on the pillow placed just in the very middle. Like anyone would actually live here.

Kurt's room felt different. It felt lived in.

I should be over it now. Will said it'd be out of my system.

I go for a shower to get his smell and come off me. My cock's been hard since Kurt said we should do it again. He probably noticed, but was kind enough not to say anything. I jerk off in the shower, biting my own arm to keep quiet as I fist myself with the other. I can't believe how hard I come, the fresh memories still playing in my head.

The TV entertains itself as I get dressed. It's the same channel Kurt had on, some local one. They promise hot, humid weather, a lovely summer day in Florida. I sit on the edge of my large, cold bed and stare at the screen.

If I go back, what then?

Maybe it'd be like this: I go back, knock on his door. He is waiting for me. I fuck him again, but now the room is full of light, now I can see him better. I see him for the second time. The first time was last night. I saw him.

And then we lie there, basking in the afterglow, and it's insane how I'm instantly ready for more. His body is amazing, is hot and willing. Then we have to head for the venue, and I play the show, and he smiles at me from the side of the stage. Afterwards, in the midst of the party signifying the end of the first leg, I lean into his ear and say, "You want to come to LA with me?" He is currently homeless, after all, sleeping on people's couches. And he comes with me. I show him all the places I go to, take him out to my favorite bars. We're just hanging out like he offered. Nick tries calling me, but I'm so busy with Kurt that I don't have time for him. Nick ceases to exist. Then Quinn flies in from Paris, but I don't want to see her because all I can think of is Puck fucking her, so we leave for San Francisco. Quinn and Puck cease to exist. I get us a room in an expensive hotel, and then it's his turn to show me all the places that make up his life. This new one he has made up. I want to see it in detail.

And he sees all the fucked up baggage I carry around, but he doesn't mind. He doesn't try changing me, because he gets it. He's the only one who gets it. It's worth more than gold. And knowing that, I hold it somewhere safe where no one else can see it. We'd be the only ones who'd know.

I burst out laughing at my own scenario. What the hell has gotten into me? I barely know him. He's just some arrogant, lying faggot of an ex-Catholic, who has to use fancy foreign words to give himself a personality. And there's me: a fucking star.

And yet...

And yet.

I look to the door of my room. My feet are already anticipating my decision, tips aimed towards my way to him.

What should I do? What do I do now that I've gotten myself into this?

My eyes land on the TV screen. The anchorwoman is talking about a restaurant shooting. Kurt is watching the same thing, probably waiting to hear a knock on the door. What's the worst thing that could happen?

"You are going to see another first," the news anchor says. "Attempted suicide."

On screen, a young anchorwoman takes out a gun. She shoots herself in the head. It happens fast. She falls forward onto the table, and the camera films her twitching body.

She just blew her brains out on live television.

I can't breathe.

The program switches to a public service announcement.

I'm shaking violently.

The worst thing that could happen.

End of Vol. I Part I