Before You Read:

Welcome to Volume II! This one is also a rollercoaster so strap in. Once again, this work is not mine, it is basically the Glee version of the original work. This volume deals with a lot of drugs so please read at your own discretion. Unlike last volume, I will not be including content warnings for each chapter, only those that require it.

That being said, please remember BLAINE IS GAY! I feel like I shouldn't need to say that but I'm saying it anyway. He's so far in the closet, he made it all the way to Narnia.

Alright, I'm not gonna keep you guys any longer. I hope you enjoy this as much as I did!

Here's Volume II!


Volume II:Hearts vs Wolves

"These former things have passed away, and have not passed away.

They are out of hand, but not out of mind.

What has been done cannot be undone;

that does not pass with time which passes all times."

- St Bernard of Clairvaux


Chapter 1: Room for My Lovers

The radio is playing, and I almost growl when I recognize the tune, glaring at the radio over the newspaper.

"Here it comes!" her voice calls out from the living room, sounding amused.

"Don't you think I'm well within my right here?" I ask demandingly. "They're mixing Beethoven with disco music! I mean, nothing in this song is original but was written by a guy who died centuries ago! And here these bastards are making money out of it! How can they sleep at night?" I glare at the radio that's perched on the windowsill of the kitchen. I know she's heard this rant more than once lately.

"I think it's funky," she says as she walks into the kitchen, quickly tying her brown highlighted hair in a pony tail. She's running late, a bag flung over her shoulder. Her eyes locate the piece of toast I made for myself, and she snatches it quickly. I lift a disbelieving eyebrow at her. "Sorry, but I don't have the time!" she says as she takes big bites before taking my cup of coffee and drinking it down quickly, a bit too quickly as she makes a face and pulls back. "Ow, my tongue!"

"That was my last piece of toast. Thanks for that."

"I'm hungry!" she laughs, eyes sparkling as she tries to eat my breakfast in record time.

"I suppose I am the executive manager of the Starving Dancers of Manhattan Inc.," I sigh, going back to my paper, not caring it's old.

She finishes eating, takes another sip of my coffee, and then says, "Alright, I have to run. I'll bring you bread next time, I swear." She steps closer, and I look up from the paper as she leans down, our lips meeting halfway, my hand on her hip. It's more of a peck, habitual and warm. Her lips are gone in the next second as she stands up straight, stretching her lean limbs. One of her legwarmers is lower than the other. It gives her a slightly wonky appearance that she somehow manages to pull off, wearing black hot pants with a simple white halter top. I can see the green leotard through the fabric of the top. She picks up her orange rabbit fur jacket that was hanging on the back of one of the chairs around the breakfast table, sliding it on and zipping it up. There is no way her clothes are practical for New York in November, not to even mention that it's raining outside.

Doesn't seem to slow her down, however. "I'm late, I'm late, I'm late!" she mutters as she half-runs out of the kitchen. "I'll see you at the restaurant then! Love you!"

"You too," I call out and turn to the next page, eyes landing on an article about the presidential election, speculating who wins. The election was last week, meaning that the paper is even older than I realized, so why am I even reading it? I don't even care what changes Carter would bring. Change. How do you measure that? What does it take? A new wardrobe? A new name? Different labels and cover-ups for the same person. And sometimes you try to change, and it's a conscious effort to, but they won't let you. They know who you were and cannot accept that you no longer bear resemblance. They tackle you. Drown you. And then you think the person you are is all you ever can be.

I push the paper away from me, hearing the song coming to an end. Thank god. I eye the fridge skeptically, wondering if anything edible's in it. Probably not.

"And let's listen to a bit of an older tune from a few years back," the radio presenter says. "Everyone, of course, remembers Blaine Anderson and The Warblers, and let me tell you a story of when I went to see them on their last tour back in –"

I've already made my way over and turned the radio off. Don't want to hear that. Don't need to hear that. The radio presenter is one of them.

I wander back out to the spacious living room, snatching the phone on the side table before flopping onto the couch, placing the device on my lap. "What was...?" I mumble, trying to remember the number as the receiver's pressed between my shoulder and ear. Rain keeps drumming against the big windows of the living room as I start rolling the numbers in.

I get the number right, pleased with myself as a groggy voice answers, "Yello, this is the love machine."

"Keep talking dirty to me, Jeff," I say, having helped myself to a cigarette that's now snugly between my lips as I keep the receiver between my head and shoulder, fiddling with the lighter.

"You couldn't afford me, Anderson," he returns, but it's not his usual good-hearted comeback but an unfocused one. "Oh, man, I don't remember anything of last night. What did I take? Were you there? No, you- Shit, that was crazy."

"Devastated I missed it," I note and roll my shoulders.

Truthfully, there is nothing to be devastated about. There's a party going on every single night: jazz clubs, rock bars, coffee houses, all over Greenwich Village and SoHo. Starving artists, poets, writers, painters, musicians, some established, some fucking famous, some infamous, some destined to die in obscurity. I've got my regular bars and cafés already and I make infrequent appearances when I feel like it. On the nights I go by unnoticed, I feel victorious. Most of the time it can't be done, and I know I've been spotted when I render a busy room quiet, and then someone jumps up to buy me a fucking drink, man, I really just want to buy you a drink. From there, it can go either way. I decline, buy my own drinks, cause disapproval for my anti-socialism while secretly they're in awe, or I might actually feel like socializing, and then we talk about politics and the world and the nature of existence, drinking up and assessing the impact of the 60s folk revival. Some have the balls to treat me like an equal – a more talented and famous equal. Jeff was one of them. I instantly liked him.

"So listen," I say, taking a deep drag, "Rachel just stole my breakfast. How about we meet up for a bite to eat before practice? Say... the café across the original Will's?"

"I can be there in an hour."

"Make it forty minutes," I say, hanging up on him to stop the protest that half-leaves his lips.

I finish the cigarette before heading to the bedroom to put clothes on, then stopping in the music room to choose a guitar to take with me. I stop by the entrance, flicking lights on in a room that is almost the size of my living room. Thirty odd guitars hang from the walls, a piano in the back corner by the window. That's why I bought this apartment: room for my lovers. I choose one of my older Gibsons, mostly out of nostalgia, and then pack her up. I stop by the mirror next to the front door to check my reflection, snatching a hat from the side table, placing it on the mop of unruly dark hair. Rachel doesn't like the hat because it was made by a girl I was with before her. The hat used to have plastic flowers attached to the side. I've since taken them off.

Light shining from the ceiling lamp catches the thin silver chain around my neck for a second, and I remove my gaze from my reflection as I button up my jacket.

Time to go. Change some more.


The rain's gotten worse, now lashing against the windows of the café, creating its own kind of music. I lean over my table and scribble lyrics in the New York Times' margins, stray thoughts and short notes, anything that could be developed further and put into a song.

"Excuse me," a male voice comes, and I brace myself as I look at the middle-aged man in a suit now standing by my table. Doesn't matter he's too old and clearly a part of the system – there are no more rules to who recognizes me. Here it comes. The 'oh you are Blaine Anderson's, the intrusive questions, the gasp when they then recall that, yes, they heard about that, twenty miles outside Seattle where bones were broken and metal turned into scrap metal. I look at the guy, knowing there's no escape. "I'm trying to find this place," he says, handing me a small business card to an accounting firm. The address has been made illegible by a coffee stain. "I know it's close by, but..."

"Sorry, man. I'm not really local." I hand the card back. "Ask the waitress."

He mumbles a thank you, and I try to calm down from my moment of slight panic. I've been in New York for some months now. I moved in the summer, but not because of the girl. Rachel thinks it's because of her, but had she lived in, say, Knoxville, Tennessee, she could have kept on wishing. The California air was just getting too dry for me, turning my throat into a desert. I traded it for the occasional bursts of summer wind from the Atlantic that blew in through the open windows of my SoHo apartment, ruffling my hair, smelling of pollution, cooling a drop of sweat on my upper lip as I clumsily handled my guitar. Being famous here is different from LA where people were likelier to come up to me. Here, New Yorkers have got a sense of pride to themselves. They might just walk past me and hide their 'holy fuck' expressions. They're important too. They are all someones; the world just might not know that yet. In LA, adoration was expressed with more immediacy.

I prefer New York for it. I like the maze-like nature of the scene, the smoky bars on 52nd Street and everyone knowing everyone through someone. The basics are the same: sex, drugs, music and dreams. Especially dreams. Plenty of those around.

I did the right thing when I packed up and got on the plane. Rachel didn't suggest living together. I was worried she might.

Besides, Sam had moved to New York from Chicago, and Will called me up, saying that I'd been an elusive fucker with my extended stays in London, and only then did I meet Rachel, and she had the brightest smile that made me stop and stare. It also had to do with men I no longer see: Nick, Seb, Puck... It had a lot to do with them.

The bell rings as the businessman walks out and a bleach-blonde-haired man enters in dark blue bellbottom jeans and a black leather jacket, instantly spotting me and heading over. "Here I am," Jeff announces, taking a seat by the round table and shaking his jacket a little, water dropping off it. He looks hungover, but he always does. "Coffee!" he says as he spots my cup and snatches it from me just like Rachel did earlier.

"Hey!" I say, trying to snatch it back, but he waves me off, slurping it in loudly. "Fucker," I mutter and let my eyes stare across the street and at the shop with Will's Record Shop written on the window. I see a man walk into the shop – a guy in his late twenties with brown hair almost to his shoulders. Not Will. The jacket looks familiar, though. I wonder if Will ever even goes to this branch of his record store chain anymore. Probably not. Are there even enough of the shops to call it a local chain?

"Jeff, get us coffees and something to eat," I request, and he nods and heads over to the counter as I light a cigarette. I look back down to the paper and my attempts at lyrics. They seem artificial and juvenile. I cross them out again and again until they're illegible.

"Un café para vos, y un café para mi," Jeff says when he comes back, adding, "El revuelto de huevo está en camino."

"You know that I don't speak Spanish," I note. "And you were brought up in New Jersey."

"But I was born in the humid, sexy and mysterious jungles of South America!" he insists, and I roll my eyes. Sure, he looks like he could be from a Spanish-speaking country, his skin naturally tan, blonde hair, light brown eyes, but he only speaks Spanish to get laid and I tell him as much. He grins. "Trust me, foreign languages get people going."

"Doubt it," I say and then smile. "Though I used to know this guy who never said thank you because he thought knowing it in a dozen different languages was cooler." I chuckle, just for the sake of conversation. "Anyway," I push the thought out of my head, "what did you get up to last night?"

He quickly leads my thoughts elsewhere as he begins a blow-by-blow account that gets hazier and hazier the further the night goes on. He ends up with a story of how he almost managed to get Maria Muldaur into bed with him. "I mean, I managed to cop a feel," he says wistfully. "Should've been there, man. You?"

"Just stayed at home. Rach came by."

"Couple's night in. Fuck, I had no idea Blaine Anderson could be so boring."

"Boring? You've seen me popping pills and snorting shit as much as the next guy."

"But you're a legend. I thought you'd do more."

I sip my coffee. "You're three years too late, man."

Jeff sighs dramatically and pretends to be upset. Our food arrives quickly, and he starts asking me about this guy Sam knows. I don't have much to tell him as I'm skeptical about our meeting. Not that I don't trust Sam, but he said that the guy he found works in a bookstore. Definitely not very rock 'n roll. The radio is playing that Beethoven homicide again.

We step outside to the cold weather, and when I try to hail a taxi, Jeff grabs my arm and pulls my hand down. "Isn't that Will?" he asks, peering across the street at a curly-haired man entering the record shop. It is Will, and Jeff is instantly on the move. "Let's go talk to him. Fucker owes me twenty bucks."

"Poker?"

"Poker," he confirms, and I laugh as we wait for the right moment to cross the street.

The original Will's Record Store is tiny and crammed, but I prefer it to the bigger ones spread across Manhattan. The windows could do with a wash, but I guess the rain helps with that. It's a narrow space stuffed with LPs and tapes, walls covered in music posters, and it's empty except for Jeff and I and the man behind the counter at the back.

"Hola, amigo," Jeff says, and I try not to roll my eyes as I grip the handle of my guitar case tighter. "Did I just see Will walk in?"

"Yeah, he's in," the man nods, his eyes moving from Jeff to me. He's got brown hair unevenly cut, some slightly falling in front of his eyes that look green, then brown, a mix of the two, a bit of stubble on his chin. He's tall and muscular with broad shoulders, roughly my age or a bit older, and I think he might be the guy I saw walk into the shop earlier. He's got a kind and friendly face. Handsome.

He doesn't seem to need a minute to take me in, however. "Fuck," he swears. "Fuck. You're Blaine Anderson."

"And I'm Jeff Sterling. Hi." Jeff waves a little, but the guy's not interested.

Instead he breaks into a big, excited grin. "Holy shit! Blaine Anderson of The Warblers! You – My god!" He launches into a ramble of my music, when he saw us play, what he thought of it, every little thing, and then he's calling out, "Will! Come out here!"

The bead curtain rattles as Will steps out of the back, a bunch of papers in his hands. He spots us and smiles. "B! Jeff! What's up, guys?"

I lift a hand habitually as it's not been that long since I last saw Will. Jeff instantly starts whining about his twenty bucks, and Will looks unhappy about it.

The guy keeps beaming at me. "God, Will's said a dozen times that he knows you, but we all thought he was kidding and trying to impress us!"

"Yeah, Will and I go way back. We both used to live in LA."

"I used to live in California too!" he says, like that should give us common ground, make us friends, help us relate. "God, I'm sorry! The name's Dave."

He offers his hand. Will is now grudgingly pulling a twenty out of his pocket, Jeff holding his palm open and ready, and I quickly shake hands with Will's overly enthusiastic employee before pulling my hand back and wiping it on my pants.

"Oh, could you sign something for me?" Dave now asks, rummaging through the papers and LP stacks that are on the counter he's behind. "Hang on." He rushes past the counter and me, and I see him heading to the F section. Great.

"Blaine, I'm throwing a party tonight," Will now tells me. He's eyeing Jeff scornfully, but Jeff's grinning. "You guys should come."

"What's the party for?"

"Opening the fifth Will's Record Shop. There'll be musicians and actors and artists..."

"In other words, unknown fuckers and no stars, and this is where Blaine steps in, am I right?" Jeff says. Will refuses to confirm or deny Jeff's accusation.

Dave's back with the first Warblers album, The Warblers, and my eyes flicker over his shoulder to see Boneless there too. Huh. Didn't go for the best selling album. Okay, I can respect that.

He seems to read my thoughts as he says, "Oh, I've got Boneless signed at home. Got two copies, actually. Her House too, but not this one."

"You're paying for that," Will says sharply, and I snatch a marker that's lying on the counter, signing the cover quickly.

On some days, I think I'm doing well, and then I have days like these, when it feels like I'll never be able to shake it off me. But just they wait. I'll show them. I can rise from the ashes of a band that ceased to exist over two years ago. I've moved on, but the world's slow on the uptake. My new band's it, ten times better than The Warblers ever was. It's going to be huge.

"So you're coming, right?" Will asks demandingly, and I agree since I have no plans after dinner. Will tries to get a rematch going with Jeff, and Dave is trying to converse further, but he's just some Warblers fan. I've had enough of them.

Will disappears into the backroom as we leave, and Dave says, "Maybe I'll see you tonight then! Buy you a beer! Really amazing talking to you, Blaine! Bye!"

I lift an awkward hand to signal our parting of ways. It was beautiful while it lasted.

When we step back out into the rain, Jeff says, "Well, he wanted to get on his knees and suck you off."

"Shame that you're in the queue before him."

"Fuck off."

We grin at each other and get a taxi.


Our practice space is a spacious, windowless room below ground in an inconspicuous looking building on 3rd Street. We're late since we got stuck in traffic, but we were late even at the café – sometimes Jeff and I can talk bullshit for hours effortlessly – and Sam is already there with an average-height and chubby bespectacled man, who is wearing a knitted vest over a dress shirt and a black cap on his head. "Oh, you're here!" Sam greets us, motioning us over. "Guys, this is Roderick! Roderick, this is Jeff, the bassist, and well, this is Blaine Anderson."

Roderick and Jeff shake hands before Roderick turns to me. He's got a good-natured face, and the first thing that comes to my mind from his clothes and his appearance is harmless. He's utterly harmless, and my skepticism grows. If you want to be in the music business, you have to be willing to break some bones.

"Blaine Anderson," he says, grabbing my hand. "Really pleased to meet you. Wow."

"Nice to meet you, Roderick," I say, letting my tone convey that I'm not very impressed. I give Sam a long look before pulling my hand back. Sam narrows his eyes at me like I better keep my snobbiness to myself right now. Sam never lets me get away with bullshit, and that's why I need him around. Jeff gets me into trouble, and Sam pulls me out of it. It works as far as I'm concerned.

I throw my jacket on the one couch we've got in the windowless room, sitting down on it and opening my guitar case. This is essentially a job interview, so that's how I'll approach the situation.

I glance at the newcomer. "So. You're a drummer."

Roderick nods. "Yeah."

"But you work in a bookstore."

"Part-time. I've been, um, trying to hit some mic nights and stuff. Get into the scene. Met Sam at the store last week. Both Chicago boys."

Chicago. Right. What wouldn't Sam do for one of his home boys?

"Alright. Show me what you've got," I say, leaning into the couch, prepared to be underwhelmed. Roderick rolls up his sleeves as he goes to the drum set in the corner, sitting on the stool and swirling drumsticks between his fingers.

He looks up nervously. "So what happened to your last drummer again?"

"Blaine fired him," Jeff supplies. "Wasn't good enough."

Roderick pales. "Oh."

Finding a superb drummer is surprisingly difficult. I was spoiled at an early age, being in a band with Nick, though his skills have probably waned since, wasting his life with whatever shit he's up to now. I don't know. Haven't talked to him in well over a year. Better that way.

Roderick starts playing. Okay, he's pretty good. Not bad. Alright. I'm listening. He plays a five-minute set, just going through different techniques to show us what he's got, and he seems to get really into it because after he's done, he says, "I can also play other instruments." Without any of us asking, he picks up one of Sam's basses and fiddles around with it for a minute, then snatches a guitar and says, "I once worked out an acoustic version of Sore Skill," and starts playing a Warblers song, and Sam tenses up a little, but Roderick does it so well that I don't even mind. Then he says, "Oh, is that a trumpet?" We've got a shit load of instruments lying around.

Roderick goes through the piano, has a bit of fun with the violin, and he's trying to find a stool so that he can have a go at the cello, when I say, "Okay. Welcome to the band, Roderick."

He stops, looking at me with big eyes. "Fuck. Really?"

Sam grins broadly, clearly pleased. I say, "Yeah. Really."

"Holy crap."

I suppose if this was 1971, it'd be a bit like Paul McCartney just having recruited a part-time book salesman to play in Wings with him. No wonder Roderick looks like he's dreaming. I could make a few calls, get someone to play drums for us easily, but I'm sick of big rock stars, guys who think they're the shit. Roderick's fucking talented. It hasn't gone to his head one bit. He has no idea what he's getting into. He's hired.

We drink a few beers, play a few songs, try and get a feel for each other, and before one of us knows it, it's six hours later. I leave my guitar there as we head out together, and we invite Roderick for dinner with us. He's a part of the band now.

Mercedes and Rachel are already waiting for us at the busy restaurant, seated around a large table reserved for our party, and I kiss Rachel on the mouth, Cedes on the cheek, and she goes stiff but smiles my way anyway. I don't think that girl is ever going to like me.

When I sit down, Rachel leans over and asks, "He's your new drummer?"

I take one look at Roderick sitting between Mercedes and Jeff, looking like an overzealous door-to-door Bible salesman, and say, "Yeah."

Rachel shrugs. The waiter comes over, and I order three bottles of wine to kick off the evening.

I spend most of our dinner drinking up, smoking cigarettes, eating the steak I ordered and talking to Sam on my other side, now properly scheming our album. We're the driving force behind this show – Jeff and Roderick play what they're told to play. Roderick seems like the kind of guy who might have some amazing ideas of his own, and I look forward to bouncing ideas off of him, but still: I'm the songwriter, Sam is the second in command. This time I want to make damn sure everyone in the band knows where they stand.

Sam says, "I see us maybe getting into the studio in January."

"Really? Not any sooner?" I ask, sighing. He's probably right, though. Sam's always sensible about these things. Rachel's got a hand on my thigh under the table, deep in conversation with Cedes about clothes or fashion or some other feminine thing that I don't get.

The two disappear into the bathroom, women always going together for some reason, and when I announce I'm out of cigarettes, Roderick offers to get me some from the bar next door. "The least I can do, right?" he asks, and he's still nervous, not used to me yet. In a few weeks' time, he'll stop treating me like a god. Better enjoy it while I can.

The three of us watch Roderick snake his way through crowded tables – crowded because it's a small restaurant full of faux bohemians, not really because it's the most popular in New York – and Sam says, "He's fitting in nicely, right?"

Jeff hums thoughtfully. "He looks like a virgin. Do you think he's a virgin?"

"It's 1976, Jeffrey. No one's a virgin," I say with a roll of my eyes. "You guys want more wine?" I start signaling the waiter, and Sam gets up and announces he's going for a piss. The table next to ours has been empty, but now two men sit down at it. A father and son, by the looks of it. The son looks like he's in his early twenties, skin like porcelain, big, innocent eyes, blonde hair. Jeff's staring.

The waiter's made his way over, and I say, "Can we get... two more bottles of this?" I point at one of the empty wine bottles at random. He instantly nods and hurries off.

From sucking tequila shots from the belly buttons of groupies to sipping French red wine in mediocre restaurants with what's essentially a double date with Rachel and I, Sam and Mercedes, plus Jeff and Roderick as a slightly awkward extension. It's different. It's a statement. We're all grownups now. We've got life figured out. We know what we want. We've got friends and holiday plans.

Right now, Jeff's got it figured out too, what he wants. He's still staring at the kid. "Jeff. Jeff."

My friend flinches and looks back to me. "Shit," he laughs. "Too much wine." He sneaks a glance at the kid. "I'd fuck that." He leans over the table conspiratorially. "Wouldn't you fuck that?"

I take another look at the kid. I like my women blonde – men, not so much. It's weird how that's worked out. Light brown hair. Blue eyes that sometimes look gray. The best combination on a man.

I shake my head, and Jeff says, "More for me then."

We both know he's kidding. Public restaurant, a kid who's damn good-looking but most likely straight, with our bandmates and girlfriends present? No. Neither of us is going to show any indication that a man has caught our attention or, well, Jeff's attention.

I had no idea he swung both ways when we met. It's the kind of thing you shut up about for your own good. It was only when we were at a party and both tried to get the same guy that we realized we had more in common than our Gibson Thunderbirds. Jeff was drunk but kept grinning and mumbling, "Now I've got a partner in crime! You dirty little fucker!"

Sam doesn't know. Rachel doesn't know. No one knows.

Fuck, that's the last thing I need.

It's not like it's a big deal, though. It's a secret, but one that I'm at peace with. So I fuck men. There really are worse things happening in the world than that. Besides, I'm taken. I'm not taking off with Jeff during the weekends to disappear into sleazy clubs where no one knows us and where everyone's after one thing. It's easy to find – all the people present are men. No, I've stopped that. Never liked it. Never frequented either, just... maybe sometimes. When I felt lonely or was so drunk that I didn't care.

I try my best to deserve what I've got. Spoil Rachel because I can, though she objects and says she wants to be independent or some other crazy shit that Quinn used to say. What's happened to the women who only wanted to meet a nice, rich man? Still, Jeff doesn't let my attempts at monogamy stop him. He tells me stories of the men and women he fucks. Especially the men.

Rachel and Mercedes return. I keep my arm resting on the back of Rachel's chair, my forefinger absently drawing circles on her back as we drink the rest of the wine. Jeff's telling stories and making the girls laugh. He's got a way with women. And men. Hell, everyone.

Rachel declines my invitation to Will's party, which I suppose I am now forced to go to.

"Aw, you're going already?" Cedes asks, and Rachel nods, putting her jacket on.

"The Thanksgiving Day Parade is just a week away! We're practicing all day every day!" she says, sounding stressed.

Roderick looks curious, so I say, "She's a Rockette."

"Oh! You dance! And stuff!" Roderick says. He's had too much wine. I light a cigarette. Rachel looks slightly offended – she's not a dancer, she's an athlete. She tells me as much all the time.

I escort Rachel outside, get her a taxi and kiss her goodbye in the rain. Her brown eyes sparkle when she smiles at me.

All hope is not lost when you've got smiles like that.


But there are smiles, and then there are smiles, like the one this blonde girl is giving me: danger, excitement, probably a dozen filthy tricks she can do in bed. I'm tipsy enough to feel good, a tunnel of nothing but feeling good, endlessly, effortlessly. I can like myself. I'm under the radar. I doubt Rachel would ever find out.

It's turning out that Will's party is not half bad. Cedes didn't come with us, neither did Roderick since he's got a morning shift, but Sam, Jeff and I came. If we thought we'd liven up the party, we found out we didn't have to. Will's hired a small club – cheap git – with bad PA, and the sounds of people talking are louder than the music. It looks like it normally operates as one of those damn discos that persistently keep popping up like mushrooms after rain. That's not music. That's not rock. It's noise. It's a crime. The kids these days are all heading down the wrong path.

Jeff's on the dance floor already, clearly not giving a damn that this club should be spat on, and Sam is talking to Will and some girls that are quite clearly flirting. Mercedes doesn't have to worry; Sam would never stray.

But I know neither will I. This girl isn't worth the risk. That's what I always have to ask myself – is it worth it? So far, no. It's like living on a podium, and all these girls are jumping around it, hands lifted to the sky, and I look down occasionally, smirking at their efforts. I pick and choose. I'm in control. They squirm. Sometimes they don't give a shit that Rachel's with me, and they try to hit on me anyway, with looks like I could do better than her. She hates it when that happens. Makes her feel bad. She cried about it once. I can't help what other people do. It's beyond my control.

Instead of casting suggestive looks around, I spend my evening talking bullshit. Always a valid option as people want to hear me talk about me. It's good we've got something in common. Crowds appear around me without me having to try.

I retell the story of that one time me, Bob Dylan and Iggy Pop got horribly drunk in Baltimore and started a band, but broke up the following day due to artistic differences. I launch into my favorite part of Bob getting pissed off and storming out of the room and –

There's a man. On the other side of the room. Talking to a girl. Smiling.

There are all kinds of smiles in this world, but some you memorize. Some you learn by heart.

Words die in my throat. The people around me disappear. The music fades out like someone's twisting the volume button down.

He's not gone in the next second. He's still there. He's smiling in a way that reaches his eyes – blue, a gorgeous mix of colors, not that I can see it from here, but I remember, I still – nodding energetically, and then he laughs, bright and happy, a drink in his hand.

I can't breathe. I can't think.

Someone blocks the view, taking him away from me, and the world kicks back into motion.

"So what did Iggy- Blaine, where are you –"

My steps are rushed, panicked. My hands are sweating, ears pounding with a rush of blood, and I don't believe that I really saw what I saw. This party. This day. All these people. Me. Him.

And then I'm there, and he hasn't changed shape, hasn't transformed into someone who merely looks like him. It's Kurt. It's my –

He looks older. His hair is longer. He's more stunning than any of my bleated and worn out memories of him, the ones I've twisted and turned in my head night after night.

I stare at him. "Hey." My voice comes out breathless. If he doesn't react, then this is just a mirage, some fucked up combination of false hope and Umbrian red wine, make '74.

But he does react. He turns his head, sees me and stops. Shock flashes on his features, and he actually takes a step back as if he's been hit by surprise, the smile vanishing, mouth remaining parted, eyes widening.

The lights of the club change for a second, shadowing his face. I remember that, the way we stood in the dark hallway in the apartment of a Castro freak. He was in the shadows. I couldn't see his face. He told me to leave. My lip was bruised. Not by him. I left and ached all over.

He looks completely thrown off as he takes me in. He can't believe his eyes either.

"Oh my god!" the girl says, and I look at her, a busty brunette. "You're Blaine Anderson!"

I don't let her distract me but focus on Kurt. He seems panicked, like he now realizes he has to say something. He says, "Hey."

His voice. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His voice. His eyes.

The girl looks between us and asks Kurt, "You know him?"

Kurt drops his gaze from my face. It feels like rejection. It's hard to swallow, a painful knot inside my guts. An urgency. My heart's beating fast, like it's going to pass out from the shock, the excitement, the disbelief.

Kurt looks at the girl. "I was a roadie for The Warblers one summer."

She laughs. "You're shitting me! You toured with The Warblers?"

Her tone is skeptical, like now she's being tricked, but I say, "He did."

Kurt flinches. He looks at me again. I'm buzzing. Everything. Blood. Adrenaline. Memories. Him.

It's not rejection because he's now looking at me, engrossed. He's taking in my face. I've got an insanely strong urge to run my fingers through his hair. The brown strands are longer now. It looks so good on him.

The girl looks between us, and no one says anything. Kurt holds my gaze, but he's nervous. "Well..." the girl says. She sounds uncomfortable. She motions behind herself randomly. "I think I'll just go and..."

And then she's gone.

I step closer to Kurt, occupying the void she left. Someone walks by me, pushing me forwards, and we both step closer to each other in the crowded room. I could reach out to touch him – sparks, warmth, magic –

"What are you doing here?" I ask. Pick one out of millions.

"The party?" he asks. He looks pale and put off. He didn't know I'd be here. "Was invited."

"New York," I correct. This party. My life.

"I live here."

He lives here. "Me too."

"When did you move?"

"Three months ago."

"Oh."

"You?"

"A year now."

"Oh."

We both stop to breathe.

A year. He's lived here for an entire year. God, where have I been for most of that? Wasting my time. I always thought that he was still in San Francisco. He wasn't. Hasn't been. I knew he could be anywhere, but I wanted to pretend that I knew. Keep him tangible. I could stroll down Castro Street, ask someone for Kurt, and find him. I always knew it was bullshit, borderline pathetic. I knew I wouldn't be able to find him anymore. He was gone for good.

But now we've been living in the same city for months. Months. Fuck, I could have passed him on the street, walked into the same bar... I could have lived here for twenty years and still never have known. But that didn't happen. I met him tonight. It's destiny. Fate. That's what it is. That our paths are crossing, colliding. That we were meant to meet again.

I ask, "Where are you staying?"

"Brooklyn," he says, but not dismissively like I would because, fucking hell, all the way there? "You?"

"SoHo." He looks slightly surprised. "The Village is so 1972. SoHo's on the rise, trust me," I smirk. Try to be charming. Right now, trying to be charming would be a damn good plan. My SoHo apartment was damn cheap and a good investment. I had to have it completely renovated, but it was worth it. I told myself that if I made an effort and built myself a home, I'd really have one. It's been another failed attempt.

The initial shock seems to have faded. He's talking to me. He might be angry. I don't know. He might not give a shit. I've only pictured this a thousand million times. Now I let myself smile and chuckle, indicating 'oh wow, it's a small world'. He's not relaxed. He's on edge. What did I really expect?

"God, it's been a while, huh? Man." I shake my head in disbelief. "So how you been?"

"Good. Really good." He's nodding like he's busy agreeing with himself. "Just great."

"That's good," I force myself to say. Fantastic.

But he looks great. Smart clothes, good hair cut, in an exclusive NY party? He's clearly doing alright.

He always was a survivor. Even survived me.

His expression changes right then to something that has a hint of sadness in it. I brace myself.

"I read about the crash in the papers." Oh. That. I look down to his shoes. "Later Mason told me about it, but... I'm sorry about the band. You guys made great music."

It sounds rehearsed. In his one thousand million versions, he's always told himself to say he's sorry. Why? It's not his fault. He was there; he saw the state of the band. Why be sorry? The car crash just gave us the much needed excuse to announce our tragic death. Nick chose picket fence America in Cincinnati, telling me to stay out of his life, and when Seb got out of the wheelchair, he came to my apartment, smashed my Fender and called me a cunt. He's going solo now. Puck... Fuck, I have no idea what the hell Puck even does these days.

"Yeah, how is Mason?" I ask, looking back into his eyes that are alive, unsure but alive. Fuck, he's breathtaking.

"He's good. Lives in San Francisco with his boyfriend." I feel an involuntary smile tug at my lips, and he frowns. "What?"

I break into a grin. "I knew he was gay. I fucking knew it."

Somewhere out there in the world, Noah Puckerman now owes me fifty bucks. Kurt shrugs, and the conversation seems to die, like he doesn't want to talk about his friend's sexuality or the denial there of, like he's said what he always meant to say – give his condolences – and he never really pictured what would happen after that. But I have.

He's talking to me.

I scratch the side of my head and look around casually. My heart beats fast. Fuck. This is it. That moment. Kurt's here. With me. This is it.

"Hey, you wanna get out of here? Catch up over a few beers."

Speak fast. Convince him. Confuse him. Don't let him think. Get him out of here. Get him to come with me. Don't let him replay it in his head, all that happened, what he said, what I said, what he did, what I didn't do, because if I let him think about it, I've lost.

Speak faster. Convince him.

It flashes before my eyes: slamming him against the wall, the starving kisses, the way we desperately pull each other's clothes off, the way he groans, "Blaine." And I'll explore every inch of his skin, kiss and lick and suck, before even thinking about pushing inside him. I'll leave him wrecked. Leave us both wrecked. Take all night.

I add, "I know a bar just around the corner."

That's currently closed. That'll be a shame. Better to just go back to my place for a few drinks.

He seems slightly taken aback, but his eyes, god. They darken slightly, the way they used to that summer. My pulse picks up, my palms begin to sweat. The rush I used to feel at the sight of him has changed. It's even worse now.

He clears his throat. "Look, I –"

He shuts up the instant that guy from the record store walks over, smiling his blissful puppy smile, looking at us both. Kurt's tensed up. The spell's been broken. I want to tell the guy to fuck off.

"Shit!" the guy – Dan? Damon? – laughs, smiling at us. "You guys already met! Aw, man, I wanted to do this big reunion thing!"

Kurt smiles and keeps his eyes on his beer bottle, taking a long, long sip, like he really needs alcohol right now. Why isn't he looking at me anymore?

"You two know each other?" I ask while Kurt asks, "You know Blaine?"

"He came to the store earlier today! Will invited him to the party. And yeah, we're roommates," Damon now informs me, still smiling brightly. "See, I always told Kurt you'd remember him! He said that the band hardly mingled with the roadies, that you two barely knew each other, but Kurt makes an impression, right?"

Kurt shoots me an alarmed look. Oh. I see.

Two years on, and I'm his dirty little secret.

I know I should be pleased that Kurt's not telling everyone he knows that he had a fling with Blaine Anderson, damaging my reputation by spreading rumors that I like cock. I should be pleased, but I always knew he'd keep it to himself, anyway. I trusted him.

But there's a difference between omitting our affair and claiming that we hardly ever spoke.

"Kurt makes an impression," I nod agreeingly. Damon offers to go get me a beer, and Kurt starts saying that's really unnecessary, Blaine can probably afford his own beers, but I tell Damon that really, I'd love one. Anything to make him fuck off.

"You want one?" Damon asks, hand on Kurt's shoulder.

"No, I'm good."

Damon disappears into the crowd.

"Your friend's very... enthusiastic," I note.

"Dave's a big Warblers fan," he shrugs, smiling like he thinks it's almost too ironic. The joke is lost on me.

I try to get back into it, pick up where we left off – me and him getting out of here, that bar, my bed, his skin – but Will's arrived with a few guys, and then Dave's back with beers, and there's a crowd around me again, and Kurt remains silent, looking uncomfortable standing there, and I'm on edge, not knowing how to make these people leave us alone.

I blink, and he's vanished, slipped away masterfully. I try to relocate him, almost frantically, throat tightening because how can he be gone again, already? But then I see him on the other side of the room where the coatroom is, and he's putting his jacket on. Dave's there, they're talking, and Kurt shakes his head dismissively and motions back to the room. Dave looks hesitant, like wondering if he should go too, but Kurt seems to convince him to stay.

Kurt's eyes sweep back towards us, but I don't think he can see me from the masses. It aches and burns and is suffocating, and he's clearly intending to leave when we just met for the first time. This is the only first time that will count.

But the club lights flash on his face, and then he's gone.