Chapter 2: A Golden Opportunity

Sam tells me I've lost my focus. He's probably right.

Brittany remains seated by the baby grand piano in the music room, playing I Only Have Eyes for You to keep herself entertained. Sam and I lean back into the corner couch we've taken over, feet on the round coffee table. Sam looks unhappy, but at least we've got one song figured out, Brittnay's backup vocals finally in place. We could have done it in an hour, but it took us four.

Brittany isn't bothered, singing, "You are here, so am I, maybe millions of people go by –"

"She can play piano so much better than you can," Sam notes. Well, of course she can – I'm a crappy pianist.

"– and I only have eyes for you."

Britt's lost in her own world, swaying to the music. It has a soothing effect on Sam, the tension seemingly draining out of him. Doesn't soothe me at all. My mind wanders, going in circles and creating infinite loops, the way it has been all week. It doesn't matter what I do – write music, get some sleep, drink with Jeff, have sex with Rachel, liven up a drug-hazed party in one of the bars on my block – it's constantly there. That feeling. Like someone's taken a blunt sword and stabbed it into my guts and now expects me to carry on like nothing's happened.

Brittany finishes the song, and we clap accordingly. She turns around in the stool, the long locks of hair moving with her sudden movements. "I love your piano," she tells me with a big smile.

"And it loves you," I say, or rather my shell says automatically.

I shouldn't have let him slip away. I should have made him stay. It's like I've finally placed him on a map, and now I am terrified he is going to vanish again. Maybe he went home and started packing. That's what he plans to do with his life – hide from me. Drive me insane.

"Do you think I should wear gold or green tonight?" Brittany now asks, like Sam and I would somehow know. Britt does that all the time – assume we're her girl friends. We're really not. "It's our third anniversary," she explains with a dream-like look. "We met around eleven o'clock, and our first kiss was at one..."

Sam looks astonished. "How can you remember something like that? I have no idea when Mercedes and I first kissed."

"Because you two were drunk and too young," I supply.

Sam casts me a side-glance. "Yeah, we were kinda drunk. And young."

I'm not sure how old Sam must have been when that happened. Fifteen, maybe? They've been together forever. More than a decade. A decade, and they still aren't bored of each other, are still in love. I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it myself.

"When you meet your soul mate, you remember," Brittany says simply, and Sam looks insulted, but Britt always says things that she doesn't realize offend others. Sam knows she doesn't mean it. Britt's now staring into space, eyes unfocused like she sees things the rest of us can't. "Planets align... the universe pauses... your lips hover over theirs, and you can almost taste them already. You almost know how soft those lips are going to be... full. Perfect."

I feel myself slipping into her daydream. A voice rings in my head, an alarmed 'What are you doing?' and then my own voice, trying to be cocky: 'Pitying you.' Right there next to the tour bus. The urgency of our lips, the barely controlled want, the –

"See, he remembers," Britt says, smirking. I snap out of it. They're both staring at me. I feel like I've been caught red-handed.

"I don't remember my first kiss with Rachel. I was thinking about something else." My tone is defensive for no reason.

"I'll go with gold," Brittany then concludes, probably having realized that we're no help with this. "Now I only need to buy Santana a record. Should I go for Frank or Otis? What's more romantic?" Britt's a free spirit who swings both ways but she met Santana when she was young and they both discovered their preferences lie with each other. No one minds it since they don't advertise it.

She turns back around and starts playing Sinatra, and I go get us all some beers from the kitchen, the music echoing all around my apartment. I open a beer and lean against the kitchen counter, gulping it down thirstily. My skin feels itchy.

I should have asked him where in Brooklyn he lives, what he does. His phone number. But no, I stood there, engulfed by the crowd, letting them swallow me down as he did the smart thing and took off.

And Sam asks me why I can't seem to concentrate.

My fingers tap against the counter, creating a nonsense rhythm, irregular and frantic. It doesn't matter that it's a city of millions when it feels like the only existence worth acknowledging is his.

I open a second beer, and I'm halfway through it when Sam walks into the kitchen, eyebrow quirked. "So it's self-service around here, then?"

"Shit. Sorry."

Sam grabs the one beer left on the counter, originally meant for Britt, who seems to be having a go at the mandolin right now. Her voice competes with the soft melodies. Sam pulls one of the chairs from the round kitchen table, taking a seat and keeping his calm, blue eyes on me. His hair is almost down to his shoulders, stubble decorating his chin. For a second, I feel like he knows, but then I realize that Sam is clueless. I haven't known him for that long, after all. I flew to Chicago for a beer when I got the news about his band having split, and we ended up writing fourteen songs in nine days. Most of the songs that we've written we've scrapped as not being good enough, but now we finally have twenty or so songs we think have potential to be magnificent.

But Sam still can't read me like Jeff does, and I've only known Jeff half the time I've known Sam. I hope it's got nothing to do with our shared tendency to practice sodomy, that if Sam fucked both sexes, then he'd read me as easily as Jeff. But Sam knows why I'm here. For the music. And if the music's not working, then something is up.

"What's on your mind?" he asks.

"No one. I mean nothing."

Kurt didn't seem mad. That's important. I was in there, I was in the game, and then that annoying –

"Shit," I blurt out.

Sam looks baffled. "Shit's on your mind?"

That guy. Kurt's roommate.

"No, I –"

I'm an idiot, having spent a week wondering how to find him again, if I need to wander around Brooklyn in hopes of just running into him magically. God, I'm an idiot. I forgot about that guy.

"I need to get going," Brittany informs us from the doorway, buttoning her long winter jacket. "I need to go buy Santana her present."

I ask, "Which record shop you heading to?"

"One of Will's, of course."

Will's. I finish the rest of the beer in one go.

Ten minutes later, Britt and I wave Sam off, and he looks after us like he really can't figure out what on earth is happening. We get a taxi in the corner, and Brittany spends the ride talking to the driver about the negative energy his honking creates and how he should maybe whistle instead to create positive vibes. It doesn't seem to sink in with the guy, but Britt isn't dispirited, and her smile is so contagious that the guy lets her get away with it.

I pay for the cab, seeing as I'm not a starving artist like Brittany, and she links arms with me as we walk towards the record store. I said that we should go to the original, even though there's one newer store that's closer to my place.

"It's so nice of you to help me choose," she beams.

I remain neutral. "Anytime."

The bell above the door rings. The stuffy record store is surprisingly crowded for a late Wednesday afternoon, kids pouring over LPs, flipping one after the other. Technical Ecstasy is blaring in the background, a kid nodding his head to the beat as an aggressive guitar solo erupts. Brittany and I make our way towards the counter. I hang my head in an attempt to hide. I shouldn't walk into a place as potentially dangerous as this on my own; I should call Lauren and have her take care of security measures, or at least ask Jeff to tag along. You write some music and spend the rest of your life apologizing for it.

I don't recognize the guy behind the counter, just some kid that I know I could see a dozen times but never remember the look of, but he recognizes me instantly. I told Seb it was a stupid idea to have our faces plastered on the back cover of Her House, but no, wouldn't listen. And then the fame happened, and then our faces were everywhere, anyway, so it didn't matter anymore. I still blame Seb for it. It's easier to have a focal point.

"Hey," I tell the guy before he can speak. Sometimes, it's better to take control of the situation before it escalates and he blurts out who I am to the entire shop. "You got any Otis in here?"

The guy blinks, pale and shocked. "In the R section."

"I'll go have a look!" Britt says and marches off to check the R's.

"A-Anything else I can do for you?" the kid asks nervously, blinking too much.

"Yeah, actually," I say, lowering my voice and making sure Brittany is out of earshot. She thinks I'm here for her, after all. "I'm looking for a guy that works here. Kind of tall, broad shoulders, brown hair chopped weirdly?" I say, motioning. The guy shakes his head with a frown. "He looks like a puppy when he gets excited."

"Oh! Dave!"

"Yeah, that's the guy. He's not working today then?"

"No, afraid not. He used to be full-time, but he's only part-time now. Sorry. He dropped by earlier, though, to leave these." He motions at a pile of flyers on the counter with a trembling hand. "You want to leave him a message or...?" His tone is breathy like he can't believe he's talking to me, but it's also skeptical like he can't believe I'm asking after Dave.

I've picked up one of the flyers: an exhibition. David Karofsky. A gallery I've never heard of somewhere in the Lower East Side. Opening tomorrow.

"He's a painter?" I ask incredulously.

"Photographer. Takes pictures. And stuff."

He sounds awed. I wonder if he has Dave's address or phone number. He probably shouldn't give me that information even if he had them, but he just might to avoid saying no to me.

Brittany comes back before I can ask, holding King & Queen in one hand, Songs for Young Lovers in the other. She looks torn, and I say, "Get San both." When she seems to hesitate, I snatch them from her. "I'll pay."

"No, you really –"

"End of conversation."

She looks guilty but then flashes a grateful smile at me. She doesn't admit that she might not have money for both. I found her in a smoky jazz bar one night, singing to a half-empty room, and most of those present weren't listening to her at all. But I saw her, and I listened to her, and I was captivated by her. The only people clapping in between songs were Santana, a drunken girl and me.

She might not have the money for both albums now, but I'll make a star out of her. When we get the new album out and go on our first tour, she's coming to support us, opening every show with her angelic voice. She says the only good thing that has happened to her in New York has been that time Paul Simon fucked her, because the next day when she was coming down from the acid trip, panties lost in the rough and tumble of the night, one shoe missing, she decided to just go sit down in Central Park and calm herself down. Santana was drawing caricatures by the Reservoir. She drew one of Brittany and walked over to give it to her. They went back to Santana's place, Britt showered, and they spent the next two days making love. She never left.

A few months ago, Santana's friend of a friend hooked Brittany up to play at the Blue Note. I walked in, searching for liquor and solace. I heard her voice, saintly and pure.

It's all connected. That's what she says, anyway.

Two years, and she'll be swimming in money. As for now, I've got her covered.

"Thank you," she says when we walk back outside. "Tana's going to love these!"

"Don't mention it," I tell her, and she gives me a big hug as a goodbye. For no rational reason, I look around after we pull back, like somehow Rachel's standing somewhere near-by. I know she'd get pissed about Brittany hugging me. We have a musical connection that Rachel can't compete with.

A stupid thing, being jealous of Brittany. Her heart's completely taken, and if anything, I think I've started viewing her as my non-blood related, lost in her world sister. She waves me goodbye, two records snugly under one arm, and I stuff my hands in my pockets as I slowly start heading back home.

In my pocket, my thumb and index finger trace the folded flyer for an exhibition of some random guy who happens to know another guy who in turn is not random in any way.

It's stupid being jealous of Brittany.

"The Fall of Brooklyn," Jeff says, sounding skeptical. "Isn't Brooklyn depressing enough without this guy dedicating an entire exhibition to it?"

"Maybe. Just found the flyer in the coffee shop this morning, thought what the hell," I shrug, eyes flying over shop fronts, trying to find the gallery. It was either this or a Rockette performance, and I saw one two months back, anyway. Fine, it's a new routine now, but I've seen Rachel doing half of it in my living room, pushing the couches out of her way and making the entire world her stage. She has shows all the time, and she knows I'm busy. "I think that's it," I finally say, pointing across the street.

The gallery turns out to be a spacious room with high ceilings and white walls, framed photographs all around and a buffet table at the back. A dozen people are examining the art on display. Jeff stops in the doorway next to me. "Blaine. Dude. Let's just go get pissed at that bar we passed."

I card my hair quickly, hoping it's not too much of a mess. "No, let's check this out. I'll buy you a drink later, I swear."

Jeff sighs dramatically, but I don't actually need to bribe him. We do most things together, anyway. People are calling Jeff my sidekick. He doesn't mind. On the contrary, he takes pride in the fact that I've become dependent on his company. I can count on him to keep my secrets, to drink up, get fucked up, to have my back if shit gets rough. I can't trust many people anymore. Jeff has become irreplaceable in a matter of months, but it feels natural. If Jeff wasn't accompanying me to an art exhibition, he'd be accompanying me to some other event.

We leave our coats on the stand by the door. Jeff heads straight for the buffet table where wine glasses stand in a row. A guy, who is clearly a critic, is by one of the pictures with a small notepad, glasses low on his nose. He is mumbling to himself, staring at the frame in deep concentration and clearly feeling important. Then I see Dave on the other side of the room. He's eyeing the critic, looking pale and nervous and approximately forty-seven seconds from vomiting.

Then he sees me, and his nauseous expression mixes with an astounded one. "Blaine! Hey!" he says, waving, and I try my best to look surprised as I walk over.

"I know you," I say vaguely.

"Yeah! Dave! I work for Will! Remember?"

"Ah! Right! I remember now! What you doing here?" I ask with innocent curiosity, and he starts explaining how it's his exhibition, stumbling on his words from excitement, trying to find out how on earth I'm here. I say that it's pure coincidence, happened to walk by, always liked photography, nice black and white shots, and oh, the title is a pun – most of the pictures are of falling leaves, rotten leaves, puddles filled with leaves – a fall, ha ha, how witty, of course I'd like a glass of wine, thank you, that's thoughtful, oh hey, is Kurt here?

"He's supposed to be, yeah," Dave says, looking upset.

He hurries to get me a drink, and Jeff returns, looking after Dave. "I know him. He's that guy from Will's, the one with heart eyes for you. What's he doing here?"

"He's the photographer," I supply, and Jeff freezes. I busy myself avoiding his eyes. The critic's spotted us and is now looking at me instead of the art, scribbling more furiously into his notepad.

When Dave comes back with a drink, someone calls him over to presumably discuss his art, and he looks devastated to leave me but reluctantly does, telling me to enjoy the show and that he'll be back shortly. "Just don't go anywhere," he adds nervously.

Jeff takes my wine glass from me and finishes it. He wipes his mouth to the back of his hand and says, "Why are we actually at the exhibition of your latest fan boy?"

I try shrugging in a c'est la vie, crazier shit has happened way, but Jeff isn't buying it. I make sure no one is within earshot when I lower my voice and say, "Okay, so Dave kind of knows a guy that I... want to see. I figured he might be here."

I try to be vague and not insinuate too much with it, but Jeff instantly looks intrigued. He probably sees it as a big game. "So you're chasing a guy," he says, sounding surprised.

Fuck it. Maybe I am.

"He and I –"

"No, no, don't spoil it!" he stops me, and I'm relieved I don't have to try and explain what the deal there is. Even I don't know. There are only two options: seeing Kurt again or never seeing him again. I can't choose the latter. "Look at you scheming," Jeff grins. "Clever little thing."

I'm not scheming. Going out of my way to be here and coming up with transparent fabrications do not count as scheming. That makes it sound like I've got a choice. I don't.

"I need a drink," I conclude. We start peering at the pictures, seeing as that's the point. I look to the door whenever I hear it open, hoping that my cover is convincing enough for Kurt. I know what he's like, or what he used to be like, anyway. To this day, he is still the only person I've met who'd choose not to have me. It might happen again. And if he tries to run for it, I'll be the first to remind him that there was a time when I didn't have to chase him, when I had him good and proper. When he was asking me to choose him.

I've been thinking about it ever since. He claimed that I was confused and didn't know what I wanted. Fuck him. Fuck that. He should look in the mirror – what the hell did he want? Pushing me away one minute, asking me to stay the next. I was confused? He should talk.

Kurt needs to think that it's coincidence. He needs to fall into my trap without realizing it. Then, when he awakens and realizes the mess he's gotten himself into, namely me, it'll be too late.

As for now, I have to wait.

The pictures are good, but dull. Dave's clearly talented, but how many drooping leaves do I need to see against ugly Brooklyn facades?

One catches my attention. It's one of the rare ones with a person in it – bits of a person, anyway, half a face that the frame cuts off, a face that's looking down, hair messily everywhere and over the eyes, lips twisting upwards shyly. Beyond Kurt's shoulder is an out-of-focus street. It's a black and white shot. It's also the best picture of Kurt ever taken. There's something so familiar in it, something tangible, and I feel like I could step into the picture, lift his chin with one finger, make his eyes meet mine, lean in and –

"Is that the same guy?" Jeff asks, motioning between the photograph and the doorway.

My eyes instantly fly between the two, as if to compare, before taking a step backwards to hide behind Jeff. "Looks like it," I say with as much composure as I can. Kurt doesn't even know how easy he's making finding him.

The dreamlike feeling of seeing him hasn't gone anywhere. I was pretty drunk the last time, and I was in shock, but now I'm sober and nervous as hell. It's not a scared kind of nervous but an excited one. Kurt's stepped inside, and he's looking around the gallery quickly, getting his jacket off with swift movements.

"Let's play the Who You'd Fuck game," Jeff then says, relying on his ultimate source of entertainment when he's desperately bored. He nods towards Kurt. "Him."

"Can't have him."

"Well, I know that," Jeff says with a roll of his eyes. "Men don't tend to swing that way, that's why it's called a game. Jesus, don't rain on my parade."

Dave's now going over to Kurt, and I have a few seconds left before artist of the week there blurts out that Blaine Anderson is present. Kurt looks stressed out, an apologetic look on his face, and I hurry my words as I say, "He's gay." I finish my drink in one go.

"He is?"

"Yeah. And also mine."

Realization dawns on Jeff's face. He gives Kurt a quick check, and Kurt's talking to Dave, who seems jumpy and nervous, and then Jeff turns back to me and glares. "Screw you, Mr. Rockstar. Always have to take the best ones."

"One of the many afflictions that come with my hazardous lifestyle," I say mournfully before walking on to the next photograph, trying to look like I'm transfixed in the art. I don't need to look over to know Kurt's been informed of my presence when I can practically feel his eyes on me. Jeff follows my lead, pretending fascination in a picture of a puddle, and I ask, "What's he doing?"

Jeff takes a casual look around the gallery before looking at the photograph again. "Talking to your wannabe groupie and trying hard not to look our way. He looks kind of tense."

Good, that –

"Oh, they're coming over."

I flinch despite myself and then put on a cordial smile when they reach us. Dave's leading, and Kurt looks uncomfortable. I try to look surprised and say, "Oh. Hey, there." Kurt's face isn't tainted by disco lights this time – his face is manlier than it was two years ago. Older. More mature. There's not as much sparkle in his eyes as I remember there having been, but I'm not sure if that's age or my presence.

"He decided to show up after all," Dave laughs, nodding at Kurt.

"Nightmare getting here," Kurt says simply, a reserved look on his face. He didn't seem mad last week, but he definitely isn't dying from excitement either.

Jeff is staring at Kurt curiously, like he's trying to figure out what it is about him that has me coming to some shitty gallery in the Lower East Side in hopes of arranging a chance meeting.

"Oh, this is Jeff, our bassist," I quickly say because Jeff is staring in a rather unsubtle way. "Jeff, this is Kurt."

"Encantado," Jeff says, offering his hand. Kurt shakes it quickly, and Jeff grins broadly.

"A step up from Puck," Kurt notes coolly, and I hold back a scoff. Puck spent the summer treating Kurt like a servant there for his convenience, Kurt's sexuality only adding to his pre-existing inferiority. Don't think Puck ever said one nice thing to Kurt. And then when Seb told the entire band that we... Well. Puck lost the little bits of courtesy he still had.

Dave, however, looks unnerved, like he's petrified Kurt had the guts to criticize my former bandmate to my face. "I'm sure Kurt didn't mean that, he –"

"That's okay," I say easily, shrugging. "Between you and me?" I ask, glancing around conspiratorially and lowering my voice, "Puck's a cunt."

Jeff lets out a burst of laughter, grinning, and Dave looks confused but laughs forcedly, anyway. Kurt smiles down at his shoes. I'm making him smile. One defense at a time.

"So you've got a new band then?" Dave asks excitedly, but still with an edge to his words. Oh, right. He's a fan. He lives in the illusion that bands are divine matches, living together in perfect harmony. I might just have fractured his heart. He explains, "I read your interview in The Rolling Stone in the summer. It said you were writing music, but it didn't mention a band. I thought you'd push out a solo album."

"I thought about it," I admit. It seemed like a safer option – I don't get along with people when it comes to music. But then I heard about Canadian Experience splitting up, and I remembered Sam, and I could still even remember the few songs we wrote. They were still as good. Tried calling him, but someone else picked up and said Sam no longer lived there. They had Sam's new address, though, so I flew up to Chicago. We settled on starting a band roughly a day later. Mercedes didn't look too happy. She clearly had hoped that Sam was done with music.

"What are you called?" Dave asks, and I shrug. I have no idea. Instead I look at Jeff.

"Eh," Jeff says, "we're still debating about it. I mean, you've got Blaine, then Sam, Roderick and I kind of form the band. We're gonna be called Blaine Anderson and something. Roderick liked The Pips."

"Really?" I ask because they haven't kept me up to date. Blaine Anderson and The Pips. Sums up my life rather eloquently. "Oh, I get it. Warblers. Pips. Sounds chirpy."

Jeff grins broadly at my stupid pun, but Kurt is now looking at me like he can't believe what he's hearing.

"Sam Evans is in your band? Canadian Experience Sam Evans?"

"Yeah. Plays guitar. And then Roderick's the drummer."

"Technically," Jeff adds in. "You should see this guy – he plays any instrument known to man. Doesn't look like much but give him a violin or a banjo, and he just goes off like –"

"Wait. Roderick as in... Roderick Meeks?" Kurt asks, and now is my turn to look surprised. Dave looks like he's equally unaware and confused, and Kurt says, "I know him. From around, I mean. Music stuff. He's in a band with you?"

"For eight full days now," Jeff says. "Great guy."

"But- Last month, he was stuck doing mic nights!" Kurt objects, like Roderick has risen above his station, which is exactly what he has done. It's not like Roderick has never been in bands – he says he's been in at least a dozen. Those bands have just never gotten anywhere, and now he's gotten to join my crew. He was this close to giving up and sticking to the bookstore for the rest of his life. I swooped in and saved him from mediocrity.

"I recognized his talent," I say simply. "And that one, Dave? It's really good." I point to the frame that has Kurt in it. Dave beams at me. He gets called over by someone else just then, leaving Kurt behind as he goes to talk to a woman, who seems to be thinking about buying one of Dave's works. "So you know Roderick from music circles?" I ask Kurt because he looks like he's searching for a quick escape.

"You write music?" Jeff asks with genuine interest. He's still giving Kurt this look, and then he keeps glancing at me, and he's got a glint in his eyes like he's figuring this out.

"Oh, yeah. Guitar, bass, drums, piano, this and that," Kurt shrugs. "I've been writing some songs. I've got a friend helping me out, and we're just kind of messing around. It's going really well. Open mic nights here and there. Still really casual. There's potential there, though."

"Huh," I note, unable to hide my surprise. Kurt's jaw sets tight, and I explain, "I just never got the impression you wanted to pursue music. That's all."

"You guys seem to go well back," Jeff says, and Kurt quickly corrects him and says that not really, we barely know each other at all, he was just a roadie for us once. If Kurt was hoping to avoid speculation, he just fucked it up. He might pick up on it, not sure. Either way, he quickly says that he could really do with a mini-sandwich and heads to the buffet table. Like he doesn't want to talk to me. Jeff watches him go. "I guess he made being on the road a hell of a lot more fun, am I right?"

I smirk. "You have no idea."

Jeff laughs, and I ignore the momentary flash of annoyance. It's not Jeff's business what happened that summer and definitely not what Kurt was like in bed either. Jeff understands sex, though, so I'll speak his language. And it's not like Jeff's far off – I want to fuck Kurt. Monogamy is one thing, Kurt another. I can get away with it. It's Kurt.

I try not to look at Kurt too much as he's now pouring himself a glass of wine, but instead I try to come up with a reason to go talk to him. He doesn't want to talk, that's for sure. He's just forgotten what we had, how we – He just needs to be reminded. That's all. Then he'll realize it's fate that we've met, a golden opportunity, and we can't let that slide. He can't let it slide. I just need to get through to him while letting him think he's making the calls.

But suddenly, Kurt seems to have vanished. The glass he was using is now empty on the corner of the table. He drank fast. Jeff's staring at a picture of a dog pensively, and Dave's talking to the critic, a handful of people chatter here and there in the gallery, nodding their heads thoughtfully like assessing the art on display, but Kurt's nowhere. His coat is still hanging on the coat stand, though, and then I see him outside through the gallery window, shoulders drawn up and hair messy in the wind.

"Jeff, I'm going out for a smoke."

"Yeah, sure," he returns, not looking at me. He points at the picture. "I like this one. That dog is cute."

I pass Dave on my way to the door, ignoring how he stalls slightly like he wants to talk or make sure I'm not leaving but then doesn't have the balls to say anything. I throw my coat on, get out a cigarette and step outside. Kurt's on the other side of the window, leaning against the brick wall and smoking. It's late November, and the sun has set, and he's wearing a black dress shirt that cannot be keeping him warm.

I try my best to look taken aback by his presence. "Oh. Hey."

He glances at me. He's smoking the cigarette energetically, sucking on it like his life depends on it. His hair falls over his eyes a lot more than it used to. Looks good on him. His blue/grey eyes give nothing away. It's a wall that he had when we met, but I broke through it. Since then, he's thrown me out and rebuilt it, twice as thick this time. Clever boy.

He says nothing.

"You got a light?" I ask and make my way over. Silently, he gets out a lighter, igniting a flame that flickers, and he protects it with his hand as I lean in to light the tip of my cigarette. It's an excuse to stand too close to him and not to step back once the job is done. "Thanks, man."

He pockets the lighter and looks down the street, two fingers firmly holding the cigarette to his lips. Just as I think he has no plans of saying anything, he asks, "What are you doing here?"

I blink. "Where? Oh. The exhibition?" His silence answers for him, and I shrug. "We were just walking by with Jeff, and he loves photography and shit, so I decided to indulge him. Small world, right?" I chance a look through the window and into the gallery where Jeff is yawning and heading for the buffet table for more booze. "That's Jeff. An art lover."

"You don't seem surprised to see me," he says, still just as scrutinizing.

"Well, no. Dave told me you were coming." I leave it there, not wanting to push my luck. Refrain from a B class line like 'Guess the universe wants us to meet' because he wouldn't buy it. Kurt's not that type of a romantic, if at all, and the universe doesn't give a fuck. "Still kind of weird, right? Bumping into each other."

"Yeah." His voice doesn't show any enthusiasm, interest or excitement over the thought. He's making me work for it. He always did. Fucker.

"You disappeared pretty fast from the party last week. Didn't get the chance to catch up properly."

He shrugs nonchalantly, and he's getting pretty damn good at this not-looking-me-in-the-eyes thing he's got going. He's almost done with the cigarette, so I offer him another one, and he accepts it silently, lighting it up and going back to what I think he plans to develop into chain-smoking. I smoke my own languidly, in no rush at all. He's the one that's probably freezing.

Kurt says, "I heard you moved to London."

"Never officially. I spent a lot of time there. On and off, back and forth..." I trail off, shrugging. "Then I decided to move to New York."

"Why?"

"Felt like I needed a change. Met some people."

"Like Sam Evans," he says, and he almost spits it out, and I can't figure out why. The first time I met Sam, he was looking for Kurt because they planned on getting trashed together. Sam was teaching Kurt to play poker. Kurt kept laughing and smiling so fucking brightly, and I have seen that only a few times since. Kurt looks at me in disbelief. "You don't remember." He flicks hair from his forehead and stares across the street. "After a show, I don't remember what city we were at, they all blurred in together. But their drummer? The –"

"Of course I remember. St. Louis." I stare at him solemnly. "I remember."

Blood. Crimson. All the yelling. Kurt was angrier than I've ever seen him, even more so than he ever was at me, and that's saying something. Blood dripping from his nose, bruises the next few days. Spent my time watching them fade and change colors. I don't mix well with blood anymore. It's too messy. Blood, broken glass, rain, flashing ambulance lights, Nick unconscious and not waking up, Mason in shock and shouting that Nick was dead, and it was dark and in the middle of the night, and I could barely see the thick, red liquid rolling down my arm, but I could smell it. The iron. I could taste it.

Kurt took a punch from Sam's former bandmate. He'd seen nothing. But I can't judge other people's misgivings based on the gravity of my own, and the memory of St. Louis has somehow gained weight over time, affecting me more than it ever did when it really happened. I just forgot that Kurt never found out that Sam had nothing to do with it.

"Sam's a good guy," I say defensively. I haven't started a band with a homophobic asshole, though I honestly have no idea how Sam feels about things like that. Sam is a pretty traditional guy, but he's been on the road and he's seen plenty of crazy shit. There's still a massive difference between strangers doing something and your own friend doing it. Doesn't matter what Sam thinks. It'll never affect the band because no one finds out about my sex life. Simple as that. "He had nothing to do with that asshole having a go at you. Puck's the one who told their drummer in the first place."

"Does it matter?" Kurt counters. "Sam just stood there and let it happen."

"The guy was Sam's friend. You were just an acquaintance," I point out, but Kurt's expression darkens further. I probably can't win on this one. He's too unconditional, is what he is. When it comes to gay rights or all that nonsense, he gets defensive. He knows he can't expect the world to ever accept him, and that's precisely why he tries so hard. I try to direct the conversation elsewhere with, "So you're writing music, huh? I'd love to check it out."

"We do mic nights every now and then," he says dismissively.

"What do you do the rest of the time?"

He glances at me quickly. "Gig promoter. Yeah, I – It's this company, organizes concerts. I work for them. I call managers and set things up. Mostly book bands for smaller venues around Manhattan. Great job. Plenty of fun. Making valuable contacts." That's the only world I could ever see him in, anyway. Hanging out backstage, dirty clothes and tour weariness all over. He's still lingering around. "I'm just really busy with everything. My music's not been a priority lately. The past month, we've been trying to get Dave's exhibition ready." He nods towards the gallery. "He's really talented."

I look through the window to see Jeff and Dave talking. "He's alright," I shrug. The artwork is hardly awe-inducing.

"He's a visionary," Kurt says firmly. He's got defiance in his tone for a reason I can't figure out. "He does short films too, not just photography. Our apartment's full of his cameras and things. He did documentaries back in San Francisco."

"You guys moved out here together?"

Kurt nods. "I followed him here."

"You're a good friend." Kurt gets a twisted smile on his face. He knows something I don't. "What?"

He takes a deep drag and exhales before saying, "He's my partner."

I keep staring. Have they co-founded a company or what?

"As in my boyfriend. Lover. Whatever you want to call it, that's what he is."

"What?" I laugh. He's bullshitting me now. My eyes find Dave inside the gallery again, trying to visualize him with Kurt but can't. "That guy?" I clarify, trying to find the joke, but Kurt just nods. "He said you're roommates. Several times."

"This isn't The Castro. Landlords don't want fags living in their apartments," he says with a roll of his eyes. "We say we're roommates. We keep the second bedroom for clutter and try to keep it quiet at night. We're not really roommates."

My immediate response is 'fuck you', but I bite it back. His tone is obnoxious, his choice of words deliberate. Not roommates, keeping it quiet at night. Okay. Got it. No need to fill my mind with images of them fucking, tone full of insinuation. That guy? That guy? Mr. 'Oh My God, Blaine Anderson' with the puppy look of the month, the guy who snaps pictures of puddles and calls it art? Dave's handsome, I took note of that the first time I met him, but looks aren't everything.

That guy's not right for Kurt. Anyone can see that.

"I thought you were too cute to settle down." Kurt quirks an eyebrow, and I say, "One of the first things I ever heard you say was that you were too cute to settle down." My words are an accusation. In my thoughts, he was fucking every guy in San Francisco, living it up and causing a riot, not playing house with some part-time record store employee.

"I met the right guy," Kurt says simply, now finishing his cigarette and stubbing it against the wall. He steps forward and looks into the gallery. He smiles when he spots Dave. "Dave's amazing. He's funny and he's smart and he's kind and he's loving..." he lists, then turns to me. "I'm really lucky. We're really happy."

Throw it in my face, then. Immature brat.

"Sounds great. I'm in a relationship too, actually." I accompany my words with a modest shrug.

"You are?" he asks, smiling like he's expecting an amusing punch line. "Don't tell me you and Quinn are still together."

"Please." One of the first things I did at the hospital was call Quinn and tell her not to bother rushing up north to check up on us. It was over. I didn't want to see her. It wasn't that easy, and it got ugly and stuff got thrown around, us name-calling each other through gritted teeth. She and Seb had a fling the following spring, or so I heard. Both just wanted revenge. "No, I'm seeing this new girl. Have been since this spring, actually. Rachel's the real deal. She's a dancer. She's just, god, she's just gorgeous, you know? Dancers. Their bodies are just – There are muscles you didn't know existed. Brown hair with blonde highlights, pair of brown eyes... Fantastic girl."

I can't read his expression at all.

He says, "I'm happy for you."

Fuck you.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm happy for me too," I declare. "I'm doing really well. Who says people can't change, right?"

"Agreed," he says, like it's that simple. "I know I'm a different person now." He sounds contemplative but matter-of-fact. Defiant, almost.

He looks different, sounds different, acts different. But he's not.

He, if anyone, should know that you can never actually leave your past behind, but here he is, the epitome of self-improvement, like I knew a more primitive and lesser form of him. He wasn't a full person then, but now he's complete. Not completed by me, not at all. He's making damn sure I don't accidentally think that. He nods at the building. "I better head back inside. Chilly out here. But good, you know. Knowing that you're doing well."

"Yeah. You too."

And he smiles at me, the way you'd smile to a stranger, or to someone you know you're never going to see again, awkward but comforting like the encounter was not as unpleasant as it could have been. I want to snatch a hold of his shoulders and ask if he's fucking kidding me here. If he's done. Because it seems to me like he is, but he's not allowed to be if I'm not.

He goes back inside, and I stand where I am, mind racing. My throat feels tight, an angry burn deep in my guts. Through the window, I see Dave smiling at Kurt warmly. They keep their hands to themselves, but I can't unsee it now – the two of them together. Going back home tonight and cuddling in their bed. Kurt with his nine-to-five job, mingling with music industry bastards, demonstrating his talent in mic nights. Going places. Happy and content.

The last time I saw him, he didn't have a job. He didn't have a place to stay. He owned a guitar, some clothes, a boxful of crap, and he said no to me, like he knew that some day he would achieve things far greater than me. And not greater in terms of fame or prestige or legend, because only a handful of living musicians are competing with me in those categories, but greater in terms of what really matters. Love, friendship, loyalty... Home. The things he didn't think I'd give. The things he thought I didn't include in my offer of letting him be my dirty secret. He was right. Those things weren't included, but I thought it should have been enough, anyway.

Here he is, telling me that he made the right call when he told me to leave. That he's so much happier for it.

Jeff comes outside, looking puzzled. "You okay?" he asks, buttoning up his jacket. I say nothing, but he looks inside where Kurt and Dave are. "You two rendezvousing later then? There's that shitty hotel around the corner that we passed." He wiggles his eyebrows at me.

"I don't want to talk about it."

He stares at me in confusion before his expression clears. "Ooh!" he laughs teasingly. "Blaine Anderson got turned down!"

"I said I –"

"Oh, come on! Cheer up!"

I stuff my hands in my pockets and hurry down the street because I refuse to stand outside the gallery, knee deep in rejection. I could fuck half of New York if I wanted to, I could sleep with most of my friends' girlfriends or wives, I could rob a bank and still get votes of sympathy because I'm not just anyone. I mean something to everyone. But not to him. He brushes me off and goes back to his boyfriend.

Jeff says, "I'm sure he'll come around. Even I'd fuck you. I just worry it'd ruin our beautiful friendship."

His voice is still grinning, and I snap, "Fuck off."

It's not that funny that I got turned down. And not just by some chick or some guy, but –

Jeff sighs, now falling into step next to me. He is quiet for an unusually long time for him, like he grasps the gravity of the situation a little. "I bought that print of the dog, by the way. It was cute. Dave seemed really happy about it."

Fucking fantastic. Now Dave's making money out of me trying to hook up with his boyfriend. All that time Dave was talking to me, nervous, shy, excited... All that time he had one on me. Going home to Kurt. Slipping into bed with him. Lazy Sunday morning sex. Kurt's smile. Dave doesn't even fucking know what he's got.

"You still owe me a drink for going," Jeff says, reminding me of my earlier promise.

"I owe myself a drink for going."

We head to the bar we passed on the way, and I keep my fists shut tight, pissed off at everything and everyone.

So Kurt's found love.

Well, I'll drink to that.