Content warning: homophobia, strong language

Chapter 5: Immortality

We get to Denver just as the sun is setting in the horizon, the bus coming to a stop outside the Cosmopolitan Hotel. We cram into the lounge and wait for permission to go. Puck's got pillow imprints on his cheek and Seb's eyes are unfocused and sleepy as Ryder goes to get the hotel keys and ask where Beiste can park the bus. I lean into the lounge couch, feeling like a zombie.

Matt's sudden burst of laughter attracts the attention of the entire crew, and he keeps peering outside one of the window. "Dude, there are two girls outside with a sign that says 'The Smythe Twins'," he grins, and Seb instantly perks up slightly.

"Oh, that's gonna be Kirsten and Kirstin," Seb grins. "Always on time! Amazing girls! There's a party we're going to. Anyone coming?"

Puck and Matt instantly volunteer, which is hardly surprising. What is a surprise, however, is Kurt saying, "Sure, I'll go." He's leaning against the bunk area door, his hair tousled, and his clothes wrinkled from sleeping in them.

I focus on my bitten and sharp-edged nails, studying them quietly. Mason instantly asks, "Yeah? Because I'll go if you go."

Kurt fell asleep before we even reached Lincoln. I listened to him breathing for a while, losing track of time. He sighs in his sleep sometimes – these peaceful, deep sighs, and then he shifts slightly. I managed to untangle myself a hundred miles before the state line, grabbing a book and moving to the lounge where the guys who hadn't moved onto the bunks were dozing off.

He looks well-rested now, soft and warm. I think back to the party in Cleveland, him doing coke and ending up in a corner with some guy all over him. I smirk to myself a little. It's amazing how many different sides he has to him.

"Far out, man. Anyone else?" Seb asks, and I shake my head. I'm going on my forty-sixth hour of being awake, and we're outside a hotel and don't have a show tonight. I know what my plans are.

When Ryder comes back, handing us all our room keys, we finally get permission to leave. I keep waiting for some kind of an indication that shows Ryder knows, a knowing look or a smirk, his eyes piercing through my skin in disgust, the way Nick's did at first. There's nothing there. It's like Ryder's made out of stone, and it's unnerving beyond belief.

What else does he know?

I've stuffed semi-clean clothes into a small suitcase, gripping onto the handle as we pour out of the bus. Kirstin and Kirsten instantly rush over, giving Seb a hero's welcome. I head straight for the revolving hotel doors as Seb calls out that the party people should be waiting outside in half an hour. We cause a commotion in the lobby – or not us, the tired band and crew, but the few kids that appear out of nowhere, waving LPs and posters around like maniacs when Ryder said that the coast was clear.

Ryder groans, "These two again, for god's sake."

I hear my name called out several times with slurs of, "I'm your biggest fan! Blaine! Nick! I love you guys! Puck! PUCK! Remember me?!"

"Hi, Walter," Puck says with a wave that says 'I don't give a shit'.

"Chandler! But you remembered! Oh god, you remembered!"

I promptly ignore the boy and his thankfully more silent friend, impatiently pressing the elevator button up as Ryder and Beiste step in to kindly ask the kids to go. When the elevator doors open, my band rushes in first, clearly desperate to get away from the stalkers. There's no room for me, Seb saying, "Sorry!" as Kirsten and Kirstin press to his sides, Nick shrugging apologetically.

"Thanks, you guys," I remark, giving them the middle finger as the doors slide shut.

Beiste and hotel security are in the process of kicking out the fans, and the kids are now putting up resistance and persistently calling my name, and I stab at the arrow up until I hear another soft 'bing'. I look at the hotel key in my hand – 532.

When I step inside, someone follows me. I don't realize it's Kurt until the doors close and the sound of the commotion fades, leaving us two in the relative quiet of the confined space. "Which floor you on?" he asks as he presses for the fourth floor.

"Fifth," I say blankly, and he presses it for me, smiling with his eyes. I smile back tiredly.

"Didn't you sleep at all?" he asks after a pause, and I shrug and then shake my head.

"Am about to."

"You're not coming to the party? I thought it'd be a nice change."

"No."

Too tired to. Besides, it's better this way. He should go and fuck someone, throw the rest of them off the scent. It's not like he shouldn't fuck. He should. He's goddamn good at it.

The doors open to the fourth floor. He looks hesitant, stepping out slowly, and I lean back against the elevator wall, willing myself not to collapse right there. I'm too tired to say a simple 'bye' or 'have fun'.

Just as the doors begin to close, Kurt pushes between them and holds them open. "Hey, what's your room number?"

I dangle the key tiredly so he can see the number engraved on the key ring.

He grins. "Got it."

I smirk at him, though it's probably only half a smirk. Exhaustion is setting heavy in my limbs.

He steps back, and we keep eye contact as the doors close. He mouths 'bye' at the last second, and there's something incredibly free about him in that one blink of an eye, the capability to do as he pleases, a youthful power to walk into any room and make it his.

I've never met anyone like him.

The door closes.

My hotel room is beige and brown with an orangey carpet. It hasn't got several rooms, lounge and bedroom, like the nicer hotels we've stayed at, but it's still spacious with an extremely promising looking bed. I go and pull curtains to block out the setting sun, switching the TV on and finally sitting on the edge of the bed, feeling the mattress bounce. I feel dirty and sweaty and tired. I absently pull at the collar of my shirt and take a whiff of myself: Kurt, sweat and sex.

As much as I'd want to go to sleep, I can't. I wait for half an hour or so, wanting to make sure that those of our crew who wanted to go out have long gone. Only then do I call reception and ask which room Ryder Lynn is staying in. I don't ask for Ryder Lynn because even he needs a codename these days. I'm Angel Eyes, still, though honestly my eyes are just bland. I should change it, come up with something more sincere. Devon Hummel. Now there's a name they'd never figure out was actually me.

Ryder goes by Barbi Benton. It's the kind of name I'd have expected Seb or Puck to pick out, but if Ryder's not trying to hide his Playboy addiction, then good for him.

Turns out that Barbi Benton is staying in 531. Right opposite me.

It takes a moment for Ryder to open the door, and when he does, he looks surprised, telling me to come in and excusing himself as he's on the phone. He's obviously planning to catch up some sleep – or so I think at first because he's stripped down to boxers and a tank top – but then I notice the massive amounts of paperwork spread over his bed. He goes back to the phone on the desk, continuing the conversation and sucking on a cigarette. He hums and nods, saying 'yes, of course' and 'that's the plan'. I look at the papers, the scribbled notes – phone numbers, addresses, interview times, merchandise orders, budget estimates, all with small markings in a tiny, miniscule scrawl.

Ryder has practically single-handedly organized this tour, and when we go to bed, he's still working.

When Ryder finally ends the call, I ask, "The label?"

"My mother."

Huh. That's even worse.

"So what can I do for you?" he asks, walking over and organizing his papers into a pile. It seems like he sees order where I only see chaos.

I take a step back, feeling the silence land on us. There's a lump in my throat, and I try to focus on anger because that's easier than the uncertainty. "I've been... I've been sleeping with Kurt."

He slows down – doesn't freeze, but slows down – and turns to me, expression blank. Then realization seems to hit him. "Ah. So he told you."

If he had faked ignorance, I would have been less angry than what I feel now. He's playing me. Fuck. And he's succeeding. "Yeah, he told me," I note angrily.

Ryder sighs dramatically. "I was gonna give him a bonus for it, you know. It's not like I was being unreasonable!" He shakes his head and adds, "Well, if he thinks he doesn't need the money, then whatever."

"How much?"

"Three hundred bucks."

We make three hundred bucks approximately every five hours with the album and ticket sales. God, Ryder's cheap.

"That's it? No wonder he told me," I note sarcastically, though of course he was going to tell me, whether it be three hundred or three thousand. He was going to tell me.

Ryder shrugs like it's not that big of a deal. "You want a drink?" he offers instead.

At this point of this disaster, I need ten drinks, so I nod. Ryder goes to his bag, packing his paperwork and getting out a half-finished bottle of Jack as he tells me that it's so much cheaper than going for the hotel's mini-bottles. Yeah, no shit. He's already threatened Seb with less interviews if he doesn't stop emptying the mini-fridges because Ryder doesn't want to be paying for that.

Ryder finds paper cups in the bathroom and pours us drinks. He motions me to sit down on his bed so I do. He makes himself comfortable on a chair, taking a sip, nose scrunching as he swallows some whisky down. "So," he says at long last, "I think we should talk about Europe."

I glare at him. "I think we should talk about the gaping holes of mistrust in this manager-musician relationship and how you try to go behind my damn back to –"

"Make you happy," he says before I can finish. I scoff because that's a laugh. Does he think I'm happy right now? He leans forward conspiratorially. "Let me tell you where The Warblers is at right now, and you better listen to me. You are half an inch away from it."

"It?"

"Immortality!" he enthuses, his eyes suddenly lighting up. "This album is your big break and we need to use the momentum to push you guys into superstardom! You're everywhere – nighttime radio, music magazines, doing a huge North American tour, and you need to keep pushing! You do know that Led Zep had their own airplane for their last tour, right? You can have that. I swear, you work with me here, I can give you guys all of it: limousine rides, free champagne, fuck, anything! I can get you out of that bus and up into the air, but you need to stop swimming upstream and work with me! I can't get this band there if you don't let me!"

"But I don't want that!" I argue, causing him to snort.

"You think you don't. Once you have it, you won't be able to picture your life without it. We need to go to Europe now when the kids are all dying to follow The Warblers! Make sure that the other side of the Atlantic is eating out of your hands! One tour, Blaine, and I promise that the world is yours! It's the last thing standing between being a shooting star and being the new sun of rock 'n roll!"

I can't take it in, can't wrap my head around it. I nervously drink all of the whisky in one go. A crowd of twenty-thousand people. Body guards. Airplanes. Photographers at our tails.

Immortality. Is that worth fighting for?

Ryder sighs and leans back in his chair. "What will it take? Kurt?"

I glance at him briefly, feeling the hairs at the back of my neck prick up. "Meaning?"

He shrugs. "You want Kurt there? Consider it done. I can get him on that tour and you know what? He won't answer to Puck, won't have to set up the gear, he won't be a roadie. He'll just hang around, and he can dedicate every second of his time to you. Because if that's what it takes, then I can make it happen."

"When did you become God?" I ask him quietly, feeling my chest expand at the thought. Kurt in Europe. It didn't occur to me, probably not to any of us – Kurt is still Artie's replacement, and Artie's leg will have healed by November or whenever this European tour is meant to get going. Kurt's a part of the crew on this tour, and after that he is sinking into oblivion. We've had plenty of crew guys, temps and techs, who have come and gone. I don't think the rest of the band is expecting Kurt to stick around after Lucy, and I doubt they'll miss him.

Ryder shrugs easily, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips. Is Kurt all it takes?

Well, I'm not this easy. He can't throw Kurt into the mix and make the thought of a European tour suddenly seem plausible.

And if the tour doesn't happen, then in less than three weeks, it's over. Kurt will go to San Francisco and I will be in Los Angeles with Quinn, and we will no longer have any good reason to see each other. San Francisco is full of men, and LA is full of women.

Whereas if we go to Europe and he comes along...

"I've been thinking," Ryder says in his business tone of voice. "I'll give him some kind of a nominal job, like make him my assistant. You think Seb or Puck will notice he's not actually doing anything? Highly unlikely," he notes with a scoff.

I stare at him. "Do you spend hours figuring this shit out or do you make it up as you go?"

"I wing it," he grins, going back to his drink.

Kurt might want to go to Europe. He's never been. He might like that. He did say he was French…

"Think about it," Ryder says eventually.

"Sure. I'll think about it," I grant him eventually, and he grins at me like I'm exactly where he wants me.

When someone knocks on my door in the middle of the night, it can be one of three things: a groupie, a stalker or a fan. All three are different things, and they all want to sleep with me.

I ignore the knocking the best I can, groaning and placing a pillow to cover my head. I've been asleep for hours, but I'm not done yet. It's still the middle of the night, and I haven't slept in days. No, I have plans, important plans to sleep until soundcheck tomorrow. God, if only I could do that...

The knocking intensifies. For fuck's sake. I lift the pillow and shout "GO AWAY!" before collapsing back onto the mattress.

"No!" comes a persistent reply, and I stir awake slightly. Oh.

A warm buzz sets in my stomach as I roll out of bed clumsily, dragging the sheet with me and wrapping it around my waist to cover myself up. Sleep is still clouding my mind as I fumble with the lock, managing to get it open. The lights of the corridor hit my eyes, and I squint slightly.

Kurt stands in the corridor, a pleased smile on his lips. His hair is a mess and his posture slightly wobbly. "Heeeello," he purrs, breaking into a grin as his eyes roam over my form.

I roll my eyes and lean against the doorframe. "Well, someone's drunk."

"No!" he denies, but then grins, clearly pleased with himself. "You're wearing a sheet. I like it. The sheet thing."

God, he's an idiot. I quickly glance to the corridor, checking both directions to make sure there's no one there. "Where are the others?"

Seb's room is right next to mine – I would've heard him coming back because he never returns alone and he is never quiet when he fucks.

"That's... that's a good question. I lost them. I think I lost them?" he asks himself now, brows furrowing in confusion. Seb and his friends and their stupid parties.

"How did you get back to the hotel?"

"Oh! We got a ride!" he recalls, expression brightening up. "And then, yeah, I think they're in Matt's room downstairs, but I sneaked out and came here because I just- I don't remember anymore, but now I really, really want to suck you off." He licks his lips and steps closer. "And you're only wrapped up in a sheet. Fuck. Fuck, are you trying to seduce me?"

"I clearly don't have to."

"'S true," he nods. "I'm easy."

"You're drunk and need to sleep it off."

He shakes his head vigorously. "I could suck cock unconscious. Trust me."

I can't stop the laughter that erupts from my throat. He looks pleased, and fuck, he's a charming drunk. "Get in before someone sees you," I tell him, and he smiles brightly, snaking in when I hold the door open for him.

He's on me before I've even turned around, starving hands on my bare skin and a moan escaping deep from his chest. Our lips crash together. He tastes like alcohol, a mix of vodka and beer. He instantly pulls the sheet off me, right there next to the door.

"Fuck," I groan, finding it hard to breathe when he presses against me, the denim of his jeans rough against my legs. He is fully dressed and I've got nothing on me. My mind is clouded by the control it gives him. His hands run up and down my naked form as we stumble towards the bed. I choke on my breath when he grabs my ass with no shame whatsoever, mouth hungrily attacking my neck. He's also a horny drunk.

We crash on the bed with me beneath him, and he groans, hands in my hair as he pulls me closer to deepen the messy kisses. God, his hands on me, his stupid hands feel so –

I flip us over and pull his Jack Daniels t-shirt up, taking bites at his chest, licking his stomach, sucking on his nipples, and fuck, fuck. I practically tear the shirt off him and throw it away.

"You sore?" I ask in between kisses, partly hoping he is. God, that'd make him so much more sensitive when I fuck him.

"Yeah," he admits, a sigh against my lips. "But I like it."

I lose my breath instantly. Fuck, how does he manage that?

I try to unzip him in the dark, wanting him to be naked too because I feel too self-aware, even if he's too drunk to notice.

Just as my hand awkwardly reaches into his pants, finding his hard cock – god, he's so hard, shit – someone knocks on my door. The kiss breaks, and we pant into each other's mouths in the dark. I can only see Kurt's outline in the slight moonlight coming in through the blinds.

"Who's that?" he asks me, trying to catch his breath. "Is it morning?"

"What? No, it –" I sigh and shake my head at his drunken incomprehension. "Maybe they'll go away," I offer hopefully, leaning down to press a needy kiss to his lips. His tongue pushes into my mouth forcefully.

Someone keeps knocking. I pull back with a wet pop and curse. Do I really need to send groupies on their way so that I can have my cock sucked? And since when did I start living in Opposite Land?

I groan as I get off the bed, locating boxers on the floor and grabbing a t-shirt, pulling it over my head. I'm still fucking hard. If it's those two stalker kids that have followed us from town to town, I will call Beiste's room and have him beat those bastards up. I don't care if they adore me.

I find the light switch and flick it, letting the yellow glow of the lamps illuminate the room. Kurt is lying on the bed, zipper down and shirtless. He mutters, "I'm just gonna get these off, gonna take 'em off," trying to inch his jeans down.

"Quiet," I tell him, and his eyes widen and then he nods, comically serious. When I get to the door, I call out, "Who is it?"

"Seb."

Oh. Not a groupie.

I look over my shoulder to the bed that's not in direct view. I take a quick look at myself from the mirror next to me, trying to flatten my hair since Kurt loves messing it up. My lips are slightly swollen. There's a bulge in my boxers. Goddammit.

"Can't it wait until morning?" I call out hopefully. Kurt is in my hotel room, drunk and mostly naked. Not a good time for Sebastian to pay a visit.

"Blaine, open up!" Seb's voice says impatiently, and I mutter silent curses as I take another look at Kurt, whose jeans are down to his ankles. He presses his finger against his lips, indicating that he'll be quiet.

I unlock the door reluctantly and open it the little necessary, making sure I block the way in. Seb stands in the corridor, his long hair all over the place and his shirt hanging on him unbuttoned.

"What's up?" I ask, making sure I sound slightly annoyed. It's in the middle of the night, after all, and he and I have not gotten up for nocturnal chats since '72. We used to, though. We'd talk until morning, but those were different people entirely.

He asks, "You got extra condoms?"

Oh.

"Yeah, sure," I nod, relieved that's all he wants. "How many?"

"Say about... ten?" He counts with his fingers. Girls or rounds or what? Don't know.

"Uh huh," I grant, feeling on edge. Don't want him here when Kurt's in the room. "Just give me a sec." I close the door and hurry to my suitcase, rummaging through it in search of condoms. I find three opened bottles of lube, one of which is definitely Kurt's. Not what I need right now.

At the bottom is an opened pack of Trojans, and I instantly fish it out. Kurt says, "And done!" I look up to see that he's managed to fully undress himself. He's clearly proud of himself as he lies on the bed blissfully, naked and hard.

"Seb's out there, so just –"

"Oh!" he gasps, pursing his lips and nodding again.

I hurry back to the door. I pause for a second before opening it, taking in a calming breath.

Seb is waiting impatiently on the other side, and I hand him the pack. "Have a good –"

"Don't you have the extra large ones?" he asks me, sounding annoyed.

I keep myself wedged between the door and the wall. "What am I? The fucking pharmacy?"

"I'm just saying," he grumbles.

I hear high-pitched laughter, and I lean forward slightly to see to the end of the corridor where Kirsten and Kirstin are walking towards us and supporting each other. Oh god, Kurt and I will have to listen to Seb's threesome? Fantastic. Just great.

I have to tell Ryder to make sure my room is far away from the rests' when we tour Europe.

I rush out, "Seems like you've got your hands full, so I'll just –"

"Do you have someone in there?"

I flinch. "No."

Suspicion has taken over his features, his voice slightly alarmed. "I thought you were talking to someone."

"Just myself. Inner monologue."

Seb's eyes thin as he stares at me. He gives me the once-over, stare scrutinizing. I clear my throat nervously and bring the door even closer to me.

"I..." He pauses. Thank god just the mere sight of him has killed my erection, otherwise he'd think I want to screw him. "I didn't interrupt anything, did I?"

"No. I was sleeping."

He keeps staring, eyes flickering over my shoulder. He focuses on me and half-smiles. "You really need to get laid. I know you like Quinn and all, but tour rules, man."

"Girlfriends don't exist, I know." Everyone knows that rule. It's the most fundamental rule there is and one I abide by religiously. Would abide by right now if he'd fuck off.

"Well, thanks for the –" Seb begins, stopping when a sudden thump echoes from behind me. I flinch without meaning to, freezing up entirely, my heart jumping to my throat as my ears catch the quiet 'ow' coming from behind my back. Seb arches an eyebrow at me.

"The TV," I explain.

"Said you were sleeping."

"With the TV on. I need background noise."

"Right," he nods. "Thanks." He lifts the Trojans appreciatively, clutching the packet.

"Sure thing."

He backs away and notes, "Nice t-shirt."

"Uh huh. Goodnight," I say again and quickly close the door. I exhale in relief once I have the door between myself and my guitarist. I hear the girls' voices coming closer, one of them giggling.

Kurt is on the floor by the bed, blinking at the ceiling uncertainly. "What are you doing?" I ask pointedly when I walk over.

"The bed moved." His face scrunches up. "I don't think I feel good."

Great.

Kurt manages to get up and even finds the bathroom by himself. I sit on the edge of my bed and sigh, now hearing Seb, Kirsten and Kirstin starting their party on the other side of the wall. Puking sounds carry to my ears from the bathroom.

I sigh and crash against the mattress.

One of these nights.

"I'm honestly really sorry," Kurt says for the hundredth time. "I –"

"It's okay. I told you that Nick's thrown up on me once, Puck vomited in my suitcase on our first tour and Seb once puked all over my guitar on stage," I tell him patiently. Considering how familiar I am with my bandmates' bodily fluids, you'd think I'm fucking them and not the roadie.

"It's just embarrassing," Kurt mumbles as he goes back to replacing the broken string of Puck's red bass. The support band is on stage and their music echoes to the dressing room. The other guys are still doing interviews, but mine was short because I kept it short.

"I've seen worse things," I tell him, smirking from across the room. My hair is goddamn annoying and all over the place, and I'm trying to fix it but my reflection tells me I'm failing. Maybe I should just go with one of Quinn's hats.

"At least I didn't scare you off, I guess," he concludes, now tuning the instrument. He tunes by ear, concentrating, and then he starts playing for the hell of it. It wasn't particularly scarring to tell him to get dressed and then send him off to his room. I've kicked out girls in the middle of sex just because I no longer felt like having it.

The dressing room door opens. The rest of my band sans Seb pours in, and Puck notes, "Don't break it now."

"Yeah, no. Sorry," Kurt mumbles, offering the bass to Puck, who takes it lovingly.

Kurt shifts to give Nick room on the couch with him, and Nick looks slightly self-conscious but sits down anyway. Puck grabs a chair and begins to fiddle with the bass, humming quietly to warm up his voice. Puck does backup vocals, so it's not uncalled for, but it's managing to tick me off, anyway.

"Puck," I interrupt harshly after two-minutes, catching his attention. "Do you have to?"

"I'll be needing my voice tonight."

"What for?" I mutter under my breath.

"Hey, I sing out there too!" he objects.

"If you count a few choruses."

He glares at me, and I glare back through the mirror. "Why do you have to belittle the rest of us all the time?" he snaps angrily. "There are more people in this band than you, you know, so –"

"Oh, really? Because your nagging led me to the illusion I was by myself."

"Screw –"

"Do you have to?" Nick now cuts in, sounding tired. I feel vaguely like Puck and I are the parents fighting in front of the kids. Kurt is trying not to notice. I forgot he was in the room and feel vaguely embarrassed. I'm not like this. It's just- Puck's an asshole. He is. He fucks my girlfriend and makes jokes behind my back about me fucking Kurt, so do I have a single good reason to be nice to the guy?

Puck shoots me a glare and goes back to vocal warm ups, which I know I should be doing too. But I'll be fine. I do these shows nightly, I've got it in the bag. Really, no big deal. Could do it in my sleep.

Ryder shows up when we hear the support band finishing off, and Kurt instantly hurries off to set up our gear with the rest of the roadies. Ryder starts talking about his European plans now that he has my consent, or well, I'm not completely against the idea. Nick is complaining about the setlist, and Puck is still jamming by himself and singing and looking at me with a smirk. God, he thinks he's so mighty just because he's fucking Quinn. Been there, done that, was nothing extraordinary.

Speaking of sex, I could do with a pre-show blowjob right now. "Blaine, no, no, wait!" Ryder says the second I try to leave, and I grudgingly sit by the dressing table. "I've been thinking about where we should record the live album. Paris has class. You think Paris?"

"I thought Berlin," Puck interrupts.

Nick frowns. "Why would we do Berlin? 'The Warblers, live in Berlin'? That has zero glory."

"I thought London," I note, not that I've actually given a live album much thought because I object to the entire idea. It feels even more like soul robbery when the songs are live and not fine-tuned in a studio.

"We'll vote!" Ryder offers. "A democratic vote! We'll do that in the meeting."

"What meeting?" I ask, still annoyed that I'm being held up when I could be with Kurt somewhere. If we do Europe, I am definitely taking Ryder up on his offer: Kurt for me only, all the time.

"Seb wants to have a meeting before the show," Nick informs tiredly. Great. I know Seb's meetings – it's either going to be demands for more complimentary dressing room snacks or his choice of beer or, most likely, he will bitch about my nest and try to get it for himself. He can't deny the fact that I'm the star of this band. I try denying it more than he does.

When someone wants to put you up on a pedestal, it's useless telling them that you don't want to be there. They've already made up their minds.

The roadies come back after having set up our gear, my eyes following Kurt and Mason who stay by the door. Beiste looks around wonderingly. "Where's Seb?"

Ryder checks his wristwatch, and we all end up waiting for him to come and present his list of demands. He does this same thing five times a tour, Seb meetings where Seb talks and Seb demands and Seb bitches.

Seb finally decides to show up fifteen minutes before we're due to get on stage. "Ah, everyone's here!" he says brightly as he enters, and we all sit or stand up straighter. I rest my hands on my knees, fingers flexing and preparing for two hours of guitar playing.

Seb easily takes the floor, not even waiting for anyone to ask him to start the meeting. "So!" he says, addressing all of us. Matt clearly senses that this will take a while as he flops down to sit on the couch with Nick. "I know that we, the band, and you, the crew, and then you Ryder, have our problems. We're not perfect, but I say –" He holds a dramatic pause and lifts his palms in front of his chest, "– show me a band that is. You know what I'm saying?"

"Sure," Puck sighs, clearly bored. Glad I'm not the only one. The crowd is chanting for us now, on edge after the 'one, two, three' checks when they know that the band is going to come on stage any minute now.

"Some things we should let slide. Like, Puck, you know how you messed up the bridge part of The Diplomat in Kansas City, right?" Seb asks, and I remember it clearly too, when Puck switched from bass to keyboards and had to take a good half a bridge to recall what he was supposed to be doing. Puck looks like he's about to snap something back, but Seb cuts him off with, "But that's okay! It's not a big deal! I mean, that one time I slipped on stage and knocked myself out! Remember that? Or how Nick once got into a fight with that one venue worker in Tallahassee on our first tour?"

Nick laughs slightly. "They threw us out and refused to pay us."

Puck chuckles, but I say, "Memory lane, I get it. So our perfection is in our imperfection, is that it, Seb? Because we kinda have a show to play."

He looks at me for the first time since he walked in. The first time the entire day, actually.

"That's not it. My point is that some things you can let slide, but some you can't. So we're having this meeting because everyone on this tour has the right to know what Blaine and Kurt are up to."

Suddenly, Seb has all my attention. Ryder looks alarmed and, over his shoulder, Kurt has frozen up. Nick mutters a disbelieving, "Oh, fuck."

"What?" Matt asks, clearly confused and looking around.

"Nick actually supplied it there for us," Seb smirks. "They're fucking. As in fucking."

I'm quick to stand up, feeling such hatred towards him that I feel like I could rip his heart out. "Where the hell do you get off saying such bullshit about me?!"

"Seb," Puck laughs slightly, "I know we all say they're at it, but come on."

"I'm not kidding. They disappear together all the time, always shut up when someone else walks into the room, they're fucking glued to each other!" he rants, and my palms are sweating. My eyes locate Kurt, who remains by the door, not moving, not looking at anyone, and Mason is next to him, eyes wide as saucers and looking scandalized.

"That's not proof, that's paranoia! There's nothing going on!" I retort.

"Then why was he in your room last night? Why was he in your room in the middle of the night?!" he barks, now pointing at Kurt. When I open my mouth to tell him to go fuck himself, he turns to me and snaps, "No! I am done with your bullshit, Anderson! You think I don't know what you look like when you fuck? I've seen you fuck. And you stood there with your sex hair, wearing Kurt's t-shirt, the same shirt I saw on him just twenty minutes before! The one he wore all night! And I saw this glimpse in the mirror, I swear, I saw the bed and someone on it and I thought that no, no way, not Blaine, who I've known for years, not him, but you stood there and lied to my face like I was gonna believe it, all the time having the queer freak in your room so you could fuck the guy! And that I cannot let slide!"

A deafening silence lands in the room, disturbed only by the distant echo of the crowd.

"When you –" Mason's voice starts. I'm breathing hard, my insides twisting together in a sickening burn. I'm being outed. "Is that where you vanished to last night?" Mason asks Kurt quietly. He sounds hurt. "All those nights?"

"I'd say it's a safe bet," Seb notes.

Kurt lifts his gaze, and our eyes meet. Fear. A paralyzing fear in his eyes. I can't breathe.

"Well?" Puck now barks. "Aren't you gonna say something?"

"What can he say?" Seb snaps. "Nothing! Turns out our frontman's a faggot."

"What did you just call me?" I ask quietly, my voice trembling with rage.

"You heard me! You're going around frolicking with that obscene little pervert, and I can't be in this band when something –"

"Does Quinn know you're fucking around with him?" Puck asks demandingly, which has got to be the most irrelevant question of all time because who cares what Quinn thinks or knows or does? She is in no way connected to any of this.

"Is it actually true?" Matt now asks, sounding genuinely puzzled and baffled more than anything else.

I scoff. Deny, deny, deny. Seb was drunk. No one was in my room. For crying out loud, I have to get out of this one. I shake my head and shoot Seb a disgusted look. "Of course no –"

"It's true," Nick says, and I stop short. He's staring at his shoes, shoulders slumped as he sits on the couch, like he hopes it will swallow him whole. "I walked in on them once."

A painful ache enters my chest. I stare at him in utter disbelief. Did he – How could he... Did he just –

"You knew?" Seb asks, and I'm not sure if he's surprised to get ratification or that Nick withheld information.

I stand where I am, mouth open, mind racing with explanations, anything, I could come up with some amazing lies to explain this away, but then Nick, my best friend, confirmed it, is sitting there and now gives me a defeated and disappointed look, like he somehow thinks that this is what I need, an intervention, his sympathy, their rejections, their objections –

He thinks he's well in his right to do this.

Everyone seems to realize at the same time that Seb wasn't lying. The room bursts into life as everyone speaks over each other, yelling, arguing, demanding the truth, apart from Kurt who seems to fold in on himself, looking disbelieving and mouthing 'fuck' to himself, and Mason is interrogating him, a scandalized, "How could you not tell me?! I'm your best friend!" snapping out of his mouth while Ryder stands still like it's all over now, a dead expression on his face, he's gone, he's given up, and Seb and Puck are shooting more accusations at me, and Nick's slumped on the couch, head drooping low, and Beiste just stares at us all like he is stuck in some kind of a nightmare.

"How can you do this to Quinn?!" Puck barks furiously. "With him?!"

"I knew it!" Seb declares. "Fucking knew it, first time I saw you two off on your own, knew you were a fag just like him –"

"Okay!" I bark, just wanting them all to stop. Seb stops his slew of insults, catching his breath. "Okay, I've had sex with him. But you call me a fag one more time, Seb, and I swear I'll kill you."

"I'm gonna be sick," Puck announces.

The way they look at me – like vermin. I know. I know it's wrong, I know I should be disgusted, but I'm not, even when I pretended to be.

"You're going through some shit," Nick, of all people, says. He was the one to put the last nail to my coffin. "We just want to help."

"Help me? You want to help me?!"" I yell at him. I'm not sick. Sleeping with another guy isn't sick – they only say it is because they haven't done it, but I swear, if any of them ever got Kurt Hummel into their beds, they'd change their fucking minds. "How could you rat me out like that?" I hiss at Nick.

"Don't blame him if he chooses not to support your lies!" Seb demands.

Lies. I know about those.

Nick's looking at me, and his eyes widen. "Blaine. Blaine, don't do it. Fuck, man, you can't –"

"You know, I'm not the worst one here," I say with sudden clarity, feeling my mouth twist into a cruel smile. "At least I'm not married or a father."

Magically, the room quiets down again. Ryder, who has been silent throughout this entire mess, asks, "What?" His voice is wearing thin.

Nick's eyes are pleading, but I promptly ignore him. "Nick never broke up with Vicky. He married her, and they have a kid. So I suggest that if we're gonna talk about lies and deception and who's screwing up this band, then let's talk about that."

I take a step back and let the scene unfold, watching the beautiful way in which the blame now flows away from me. Not all of it and only temporarily, because they will remember and come after me, but no one can tell me that I'm the screw up in this room.

Seb wants to destroy me. I've known that for years.

What he doesn't know is that I always knew this day would come, when he decided to take the fatal blow, and I've been ready. I have no plans except to drag him and everyone else down with me.

I announce that I'm quitting this shitty excuse of a band before any of them beat me to it.