Chapter 3: Someone Else's Dream

"Oh my god, get off me!" Rachel laughs, shoving me backwards half-heartedly.

"No," I say simply, still trying to make her put down the newspaper and have sex with me. Takes two to tango. My attempts are proving fruitless, though. She's in my bed, under the covers with me, and she's only wearing a white top and pink panties, which is a hell of a turn on, and she is honestly expecting me to accept the fact that she'd rather read the paper than fuck me. Should we not be worried?

I go back to kissing her neck, one of her weak spots, but she squirms, still holding her newspaper with one hand, pushing me back with the other.

"Blaine, we had sex twice last night," she protests, and I can feel the way her body is saying no to my advances. I let myself slump against her, draping over her a little, but she doesn't seem to mind. She only readjusts the big glasses on her nose and keeps reading, the newspaper folded, her hand moving to my hair and carding softly as she reads. I try rubbing her left breast, see if I can get a reaction, but she smacks my hand away even though her nipple hardens. I'm not hard, but I could be, and we could kick off this day with some decent, half-assed sex, and then we could walk around all day with that 'I've gotten laid' glow about us, pissing off single people.

"This is sad," I argue.

"There, there." She pats my head. "I am sure we will have more sex some day. Do not lose faith."

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. She's focused on the culture section, but I'm restless. I'm always restless. "Would you say we're happy?"

She lowers the newspaper. "Huh?"

"Like, if someone asked you about us. Would you say we're happy or would you say that we're really happy? I mean, if you say you're really happy, do you think that implies you have more sex than just normally happy couples?"

She keeps staring at me. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Nothing." I suck in a breath. "Never mind."

She gives me a confused look and then goes back to reading. I'm not mad at her. It's not her fault.

"You're in the paper," she then informs me.

"Yeah? What this time? That I moved to New York to pursue a modelling career, intent on leaving music behind?"

"No, listen. 'Rock icon Blaine Anderson –'" I snort, but she keeps going, "'– was the most eye-catching piece of art present.' It's a review for an exhibition. Did you go to this thing? It says that – Wait, here. 'As a pioneer of modern music, it is clear that Anderson sees the potential that may escape a less observant eye.' Guy's called Karofsky." She lowers the papers and peers at me. "I didn't know you liked art."

"Jeff and I accidentally stumbled into that place a few nights back. The photography wasn't even that good."

"Well, he's going to be selling them now. The critic concludes that it had to be good stuff since you were there."

How fucking nice.

I get out of bed, crossing the short distance to the bathroom door. Rachel stays in bed, and I leave the bathroom door ajar, a slight invitation. She should come in and distract me. I pull my boxers off and hit the shower.

She probably won't take me up on my silent offer because we did have sex twice last night, which is pretty okay for a couple that's been together for... um... She keeps track of the anniversaries, not me. Seven months, maybe? So if we still fuck twice a night every now and then, that's a decent score.

Okay, twice is laughable. Rewind a few years, and it was nothing.

Seb and I had a pretty fucked up competition going on our first headlining tour. I'm pretty sure I was winning, but then Nick said that he would not live in a bus filled with dirty panties, Jesus Christ, and he threw our hard earned trophies out of the window somewhere between Wichita and Kansas City.

I never beat Seb's record of five chicks in one night, excluding threesomes and foursomes because those were considered cheating. It was fun at the time, but then it lost its meaning, and girls changed from something to chase into predators, and suddenly, I was the one being chased, and they weren't satisfied with a quick fuck either. They all wanted songs written about them.

And then Kurt came along. Or the old Kurt, it seems. It would have been gracious of him to let me know that he decided to become a new person. Send a postcard, call me, use Mason as a middleman. Inform the world that he was done fooling around and wanted to settle down. Because I would have talked him out of it. I would have been there in time to stop this. He never stopped to ask for my permission. I wouldn't have granted it.

He keeps doing this, starting a new life every three or four fucking years, disowning what came before. Life doesn't work like that. I bet anything that he still avoids that small town from Ohio like the plague, still loves David's Changes the best, still sings in the shower... Still fucking loves riding cock.

When I met him, I realized that I hadn't actually explored sex as much as I thought I had. Fuck, he made me feel so insatiable all the time, even more so because I couldn't have him whenever I felt like it. But I wanted him. All day, all night. His lips and his ass and his gasps – And he was insatiable. We never got to know each other for more than a few months, but I am sure it wouldn't have changed. Seven months down the road, we still would have been fucking as often because Kurt, well, he's a cockslut if there ever was one. I think he had a kink for virgins too. That summer, the guys I saw him with? A few of them definitely looked like they had no idea what was happening. They were just spellbound, because there was this guy, this gorgeous fucking guy that was with the band, all sexy smiles and flirtatious eyes and a damn amazing body, and no, no, they didn't swing that way, it was just this one guy and a night of sinful pleasure. I'm sure he managed to fuck a few sexually confused guys. Managed to fuck me too. Fucked me and then fucked me over.

And now he's playing house with Dave. Who the hell's he kidding?

Not that he's a slut. I'll punch the lights out of anyone who says that. He just knew what he liked and went for it, and Dave hardly looks like the guy to keep Kurt satisfied. They're so happy, though, all sunshine and puppies and confetti and rainbows, and now Dave's sad little exhibition is a success on my account. Fuck them. I had sex twice with my girlfriend last night. I wonder what they got up to. If they fucked. If Kurt rode Dave's cock, or if Kurt was flat on his back, legs bent over his stomach to keep himself exposed, or maybe he was on his hands and knees, back arching, muffling moans into the pillow because they have to keep it quiet, just like we had to most of the summer, him biting on pillows, his hand, my tongue –

"Well," Rachel's voice comes, and I open my eyes, standing under the showerhead, trying to get water out of my eyes. The bathroom's misty, a distorted and unrecognizable reflection of me in the mirror. She's in the doorway; I didn't bother pulling the shower curtain closed. She's eyeing my crotch with a quirked eyebrow, and I look down. Oh. Well.

Rachel smirks and pulls her shirt off.

"Sing it like you mean it," I tell her, and she rolls her eyes and pushes her panties off before stepping into the shower. I feel victorious.

Morning sex. Picture perfect couple. We are happy.

She hisses when I press her against the tiles that must be cold. I lean down, kiss her breasts, suck on her nipples, one hand between her legs where she's warm and soft and inviting.

Sex isn't a novelty when you can have it on a regular basis. It's just something we do, something I try not to do with anyone else. Twice last night, now in the morning... That hardly makes us sex crazed. I've only felt like that once in my life. One summer. With him. It's a stupid feeling, the want, dark and dirty, impatience even when he's there, even when he's beneath me, responding to every light touch.

But I'm happy. We're happy. We're happy, we're happy, I'm content, I don't need to see him ever again, I can forget, I know the score, and 'We're really happy together', he said, 'I found the right guy', he said. Good. Fuck off to Brooklyn, then, with your shitty art and your handsome boyfriend and your musical talent and decent job and valuable contacts. Fuck off, fuck off, and don't come into my SoHo cafés or Village bars. I eat my girlfriend's pussy in the mornings before calling the label big shots that bend to my will, and after that, I have lunch with Cat fucking Stevens and Pete fucking Townshend, so screw him. Let him sink into oblivion because he's too small on my map.

No one in this world says no to me, no one except him.

By the time Rachel comes, I'm hard again. The water's turned cold, but my skin feels electrified. Can't stop fucking thinking about him.

I stand back up and kiss Rachel, my erection pressing into her stomach. Her breathing hitches – she didn't realize I was hard again.

"What's gotten into you?" she asks, voice full of wonder, awe almost.

Nothing. No one. I just need to fuck her to get Kurt out of my system. That's all.

"I know how important artistic integrity is to you," Lauren says, nodding with serious eyes. "Really, you take two years on that album if you need to." She's got her long, brown hair loose, perfectly shiny. The restaurant is expensive, but Lauren said on the phone that business is business and ill-suited for cafés or bars. She's still dressed like a rocker, though, black jeans, a leather jacket and a plain white t-shirt under it, but no one should think she's strolled in from a smoky bar – she's the best and most efficient manager I've ever had. Ryder could hardly do his fucking job compared to Lauren. Glad I changed management, changed labels. Glad the car crash made me immortal.

"There's a but," I tell Lauren, trying to focus on this. It's hard to.

She nods, pursing her lips together. "But when was the last time you released new material?"

"Boneless."

"Exactly. It's been two and a half years, Blaine. And I know, I know, Boneless has stayed in the charts since its release, and we both know how talented you are! You're not hard to sell. It's just that," she pauses and sighs. "Where are you? You gave one interview last summer, and I had to twist your arm for that. You're not touring. You're not recording. People are forgetting to expect new things from you. We need them to expect."

I frown solemnly. This part of advertisement, trying to sell yourself, I detest. "We're recording late January or early February. The album will be out by May. Then we'll tour, like we agreed. I'm doing things." My tone is defensive for no reason.

She looks around thoughtfully, and I turn back to the food she ordered, fried fish lying on a salad bed. She said something about fatty acids and how I don't eat like I should. When I signed the contract with her, she said I no longer had to worry about anything: bills, money, food, sleep, PR. She's got me covered down to vitamins.

She's holding a silver cigarette holder to her lips, brows furrowing. "We need a bang."

"A bang?"

She nods. "So that when you do release the album, the world stops. Something new. Something innovative. Something that will bring you into the consciousness of every single person in this country, from an ugly toddler to a brainless housewife." She blows out cigarette smoke, eyes nailed to the distance. Two young women sitting next to our table are looking at us, having recognized me.

I shift uncomfortably. "Isn't it your job to figure out how we do that?"

She snaps out of her daze and gives me a bright smile. "Of course! I'm just thinking aloud here, never mind me. You just write your music; I'll take care of everything else. All I'm saying is that if you've got any ideas, then run them by me. That's what I'm here for. I can make anything happen for you."

"I know."

Sincere gratitude is obvious in my tone. It's her job, but god, I'm fucking happy she's here, taking care of everything for me. She's swamped making calls and negotiations on my behalf every day, talking to the team that revolves around me even when I don't do anything: a lawyer, an accountant, song royalties, ongoing post-mortem Followers management. I don't need to worry about any of it. I can stick to my friends, the bars, the rehearsal space, the band, have a good time. Being a successful musician is a lot of paperwork.

The women next to our table now stand up and take steps towards us, but Lauren notices them instantly, her eyes thinning. "Excuse me. My client is not signing autographs or giving statements at this time."

I take a sip of my wine, not even bothering to look at the women. Lauren shoos them away with the authority I've invested upon her. Then she turns back to me like nothing's happened. "You want to shake off The Warblers ghost, that's all. Like Sebastian did."

She means nothing by it, but I lose my appetite and let the half-eaten fish filet lie forgotten.

Seb's everywhere. The fucker. Trust him to call me a fag and then put make-up on and start a glam rock band. I've seen him on the LP covers – blood red one piece suit, sparkling, too tight and leaving very little to the imagination. I know he's got a big cock – I've seen it – but he wants the entire world to acknowledge it too.

It doesn't make up for his musical mediocrity, but people lap it up, anyway. The former guitarist of The Warblers. Now that's something. That's important. Good for Seb. Good for him. He's finally the star he wanted to be. Asshole.

"Did you sort things out with Roderick yet?" I ask to distract myself, using her lighter to light my own cigarette.

"Oh, yes. I did. He's wet behind the ears, isn't he?"

"Don't tell me you screwed him over."

"Wish I could've," she sighs. "Jeff came with him, went through the contract for Roderick and explained everything. Made me change clauses. God, I'm ashamed to admit it, but I couldn't fuck that newbie over at all." She sucks the end of the cigarette holder, looking genuinely upset. "I blame that Jeff of yours."

Jeff and Lauren don't exactly get along, probably because Jeff is always trying to get Lauren into bed with him. He's managed, actually, but Lauren's told me that she was drunk and that I am never, ever to bring it up. Jeff persists in his efforts, however, pissing her off frequently. First and foremost, Luaren's a professional. You don't mess with her. All Jeff wants to do is mess with her.

She says, "Roderick's signed the contract. It's all good. Don't you worry about it." I see her hesitating before she says, "You know I could have gotten you anyone. Could've gotten you Ian Paice."

"He's a rock drummer. I've had enough of rockers."

She shrugs like if that's how I want it, there's nothing she can do. I keep smoking, and we finish the bottle of wine standing on the table.

"Oh, there's something I need," I then say, digging into my pockets and handing her a crumpled up flyer. She takes it, lifting a perfectly trimmed eyebrow in interest. "There's a frame in that exhibition I want. The only one with a guy in it."

"Done." She folds the flyer and stuffs it in her bra. She doesn't ask why. She never does.

Before our lunch meeting is over, she goes through her bag and gets out five different contracts for me to sign. I do without reading any of them.

"Are you busy tonight?" Jeff asks me, looking earnest.

Over his shoulder, Sam looks appalled because we got to the practice space half an hour ago and Jeff's already talking about what comes after. Jeff's a fantastic musician and he loves what he does, but he also has the attention span of a five-year-old.

I shrug. I make my plans as I go. When I wake up in the early afternoon, I have no idea what I'll do before it's morning again.

"We should really figure out Rampant first," Sam argues. I keep tuning the guitar, perched firmly on one of the stools. Roderick's behind the drum kit, twirling drumsticks and adjusting his cardigan. Jeff's got his bass hanging around him, and he looks hungover but he also manages to make it appear charming somehow. We form a circle in the practice room, an empty space between us, room for ideas to flow back and forth.

It's a nice practice room, and I would expect nothing less, considering that Lauren found it for us. There are plenty of lights in the ceiling, always giving the impression that it must be day even if it's night, and the walls are thick and sound-proofed, covered with an Indian rug-like wallpaper, psychedelic patterns curving and circling in dark colors. The place had cement flooring at first, but I said that it wouldn't do, and now we've got light maple flooring. We've still thrown rugs of various types on it to make the room more homey, and the space is hopelessly cluttered but we always manage to find what we're looking for.

"We should really discuss what we do tonight," Jeff argues.

"It'll be fun," Roderick says, smiling at me. "I mean, it's just going to be me and a few of my friends, no one famous or anything, but you should come. If you want to."

"You're coming too, you know," Jeff now informs Sam, and when Sam looks confused, Jeff says, "Last night. At the bar. We talked about this, and by 'we' I mean Cedes and I." Jeff grins at me. "Ice skating."

I now join Sam in staring. "Ice skating?" I repeat. "As in... the thing where you put on skates and go on ice?"

"Precisely! Mercedes thought it was a great idea! Roderick's going and then Cedes said something about Chicago and how she misses it, and she's having lunch with Rachel today and said that she'd invite Rach so I assume she's coming too, and we can all go." Jeff grins like a maniac, staring at me expectantly. He has to be high. No one in their right mind would think that is a good idea. It's cold out there, it's early December, and it's ice, and I was brought up in Westerville. Although the weather's about the same, I have not ice skated in my life and don't plan to. I've already broken bones.

"Does the guy who runs the rink sell drugs?" I ask, trying to figure out what's really going on, and Jeff rolls his eyes.

"Think how fucking badass our bookworm here will be when he shows up with Blaine Anderson. Come on, help Roddy get some cool points so that he can finally get some Class A pussy." Jeff nods like this is what he's after, and Roderick has turned bright red behind the drum kit.

"Cedes said she wanted to go?" Sam asks, attaching a strap to his guitar, looking thoughtful. "Okay, sure. We'll go."

I stare at The Pips, as they are now officially called. I signed a paper on that too. They seriously plan to go ice skating. Not a strip club or a rock show or a drug lair, not at all. They want to run ahead and join picket fence America, get into the Christmas spirit. I need a new band.

"It'll cheer you up, man," Jeff says, clearly seeing the 'hell no' on my face.

"It might," Sam agrees. "You've been really moody lately."

I turn to my guitar quickly. "I'll come along and watch you stupid fuckers fall on your asses. I'm not skating. I've got dignity."

"Sure you do," Jeff grins, and it's only then he starts asking what we've planned for Rampant.

The new music is different from The Warblers, which made band music. It was loud and overpowering, all parts and aspects demanding attention. This is different, even the name suggests it: Blaine Anderson and The Pips. I'm at the forefront, me, my voice, my lyrics, my guitar, and they back me up. Sam and I do all the song-writing, and I do all the lyrics. I could have hired session musicians and dictated the entire show, but I'm not comfortable standing alone in the spotlight, even if it is my music. Creating an actual band around me, a band that sticks to the recording and touring, helps me relax. Something old, something new. Half of the songs are acoustic, too. Acoustic music is dead. My fans will kill me. Let them.

Normally, we stay at the practice space late into the night, writing songs that we discard and never use. I want to find the perfect ones. This time, though, we finish up early because Jeff promised Mercedes that we'd meet her at seven.

It's started snowing during the time we spent in the basement, and we come out to a chaotic Bleecker Street. I button up my winter coat the best I can to protect from the cold. I'm not used to this climate. London got wet and miserable during winter with the occasional sleet, but New York's cold goes straight into my bones. Jeff hails us a cab.

"We're going out drinking afterwards, right?" I ask when we're crammed in the backseat, Roderick having taken the passenger seat. The wipers of the car keep making a wheezing sound against the window.

"'Course," Jeff promises. Roderick adjusts his glasses and Sam tries to get snow out of his hair.

When we get to the rink, I realize it's bigger than I expected. Dozens of skaters are gliding on the ice, kids screaming, people inching forwards with arms outstretched to balance themselves. It's getting dark now, but they've got lights around the edges, illuminating the ice and the skaters. The trees of Central Park are dead and bare, rising high into the air, and behind them, skyscrapers take over the skyline. We can't find the girls at first, but then Sam spots them already on the ice. Roderick and Jeff stay behind to buy tickets while Sam and I walk to the barrier that surrounds the rink. Sam waves the girls over.

Mercedes and Rachel both skate over to us, eloquently and gracefully with huge smiles on their faces. Their cheeks are rosy from the cold and exertion. "You look good out there," Sam says, leaning over the barrier to briefly kiss Cedes.

"You coming too, right?" Cedes asks, and Sam nods while I shake my head.

Rachel pouts at me. "You're not skating?"

"No."

She sighs but doesn't push it. She knows when I mean no. "I'll stand here and watch," I then amend. Happy couple, happy couple...

The girls take hold of each other's hands as they take off, and Sam seems a bit nervous but still excited. He said earlier that he hasn't ice skated since he was a boy.

"Come on," Jeff calls from behind us. "Roderick's friends are here." Sam takes one estimating look at the ice before he heads over, and I grudgingly tread behind. Jeff waits for me, and then he leans close, voice lowering so that Sam doesn't hear as he adds a mischievous, "Don't say I never did anything for you."

I blink at him, confused, eyes focusing on the backs of three guys Roderick is now talking to. I follow Sam, hands deep in my pockets.

The guy with crazy, curly brown hair – like an afro, almost, exploding around his head – notices me first. He looks young, twenty-two at most, relatively short and tiny. He pales and stares at me, not saying anything. The other two guys follow afro boy's stare and –

"Sam and Blaine, meet Ian, Kurt and Dave," Roderick says, motioning between us and them. "Guys, this is Sam Evans, he plays guitar, and then this is, well. This is Blaine."

Jeff is by my side now, grinning broadly. The fucker planned this. The fucker.

Sam looks taken aback before he says, "Kurt! Hey!" They didn't meet at Will's party. Sam and Kurt actually haven't met in years, but Sam doesn't need a second in remembering Kurt. He makes an impression. Dave's beaming at me, and Kurt is looking from Ian to Roderick to us like this has got to be some fucked up joke. "We met back in '74," Sam says, though I know Kurt remembers. "You were touring with The Warblers! B, it's your old roadie!" Sam nudges my side as if I might be unaware of this.

Kurt gives Sam and me a strained smile. "Hi." Then he looks down at his shoes. The afro guy, Ian, is still staring at me. Maybe he's mute.

"We meet again!" Dave now enthuses. "God, what a coincidence!"

"Yes. That's exactly what it is," Jeff says with unconvincing nods. "Well," he then laughs, "let's go put some skates on!"

I take the opportunity to say, "Jeff, a word?" I promptly lead us away from the guys as they now head over to the skate booth. Jeff is giving me an all-knowing smirk, like he's just done something extremely remarkable. I look at him, trying to understand this. Then I say, "What the fuck?"

He instantly launches into it. "Roderick knows Kurt! Mic nights! ¿Recuerdas? And I was talking to Roderick last night, and he said he was coming skating with his friend Ian, who plays in a band with Kurt, and it's not a common name, is it? So I asked a few questions and realized it was your Kurt! And now he's here! He's not gonna turn you down twice, is he? You can definitely get him into bed this time!" He acts like my sex life affects him personally or, more likely, he's just so intrigued by the situation that he is giving himself the right to interfere.

"Have you lost it? Rachel's here!"

"Eh, I'll distract her," he shrugs.

"Goddammit, Jeff!"

I didn't want to see Kurt anymore. Or I did. I wanted to, but at the same time I didn't. I don't know. I couldn't decide, but Jeff decided for me. I don't need to witness any more of Kurt's blossoming love. He made it clear that he has no interest whatsoever, and he wasn't playing hard to get either. I can tell the difference between the two, and I wasn't as subtle as I wanted to be. He knew I was still interested, and that makes the rejection that much worse.

"Come on!" Jeff chuckles. "At the gallery, he tensed up the second he realized you were in the room! He could barely look away. He totally wants you, man."

"No, he fucking hates me," I correct angrily, and Jeff looks confused. "Look, things with us came to a pretty nasty end. Alright? And Dave over there is his boyfriend, so what? I stand here while they ogle at each other? Not my idea of a good time."

"The artist's a fag?"

I nod, and Jeff hums like he is reassessing the situation. He doesn't seem to see what the problem is. Then he says, "I can distract him too."

He flashes a smile at me, and I swear under my breath as he goes to join the rest of the party. I march to the barrier of the rink and get out a cigarette. I'll just pretend they're not even here.

The snow fall has almost stopped now, only a few occasional flakes falling down. In front of me, a little girl falls flat on her ass and starts crying. Her father skates over and picks her up. I turn the collar of my jacket upright and try to hide. I don't necessarily have to speak to Kurt at all.

I still see him as he and the others enter the rink. Sam's alright on skates, taking a few careful strides before he finds Cedes in the mix of people going clockwise. Roderick's also got the whole skating thing figured out, but Ian is trying hard to stand upright. Kurt's doing better, but he's clutching onto Dave, who's laughing.

I hope that the both of them fall down on their asses, break their hips, and get hospitalized for the rest of winter.

Ian crashes flat on his back. Rachel skates past him and does a pirouette. She was raised in Canada – she's got the whole ice skating thing in her blood. Ian bravely gets up, waves his arms helplessly, and then falls flat on his ass again. Whoosh once.

Whoosh twice. I accidentally drop the cigarette I'm holding. It hits the ice and rolls on its glittering surface, and I watch it ruefully before getting another one out. I have too many damn pockets, I know I –

"You're not joining us?" an overly friendly voice asks, and I cringe before looking up and seeing Dave. Kurt's with him, now letting go of Dave's arm and moving to take a hold of the barrier not-so-gracefully.

"I have self-respect," I tell Dave flatly. I no longer have any fucking reason to pretend to be nice to this guy, especially when I've probably made his stupid show a success. Kurt manages to stand still as he holds onto the barrier firmly. He's clearly not a very experienced skater, but he's doing better than Ian, who is now getting helped back up by Sam and Roderick for what must be the fourth time.

Idiot Artist says, "That's a shame!"

A flame emerges from my lighter as I light a second cigarette. "What is?" I ask. "That I am not a miserable cunt who enjoys public humiliation to further worsen childhood traumas? I've got nothing to apologize for."

Dave looks taken aback. Fuck him.

"Just a shame you're not skating with us."

"Sure. Hey, Rach!" I call out, waving, and Rachel waves happily and skates over to us. She's out of breath, but her eyes are sparkling. She's clearly enjoying herself.

"This is so much fun!" she exclaims before looking at Kurt and Dave curiously, and I make the introductions, making sure to say 'my girlfriend' at least thrice. Dave shakes her hand. Kurt can't because he's clutching the barrier, but Kurt's looking at her. Good. She's easy on the eyes.

Then she focuses on Kurt and says, "We've met!"

I freeze, my elbows leaning on the barrier, my right hand still as the cigarette is fitted between my fore and middle fingers. Kurt looks confused – better than that blank expression he's been giving me so far – but I'm confused too. "Huh?" I ask Rachel.

"Lucy tour! I've told you a million times, Blaine!"

"Right, yeah. Right."

No matter what she tells me, I don't actually remember her. I met hundreds of people that summer – if she toured with a support band of ours for five shows without ever actually talking to me, then she cannot expect me to remember her. I remember her friend, though, who tried to set up a threesome with Kurt and me. I remember that girl, but not Rachel. Rachel was upset about that, but then I eventually said that, oh yeah, I vaguely remember now, yes, of course.

"I'm sorry, I don't remember you," Kurt says.

"I was one of the dancers on the Canadian dates?" she offers, looking hopeful. Kurt shakes his head slowly. She sighs in defeat, looking thoughtful. "Oh! This one time Ryder told me to come find you! We walked back together, remember? In, uh, it was... Ottawa! You and Blaine were outside by the bus, I remember because even then I kept thinking how handsome Blaine was!" she laughs. "It was after the show. You really don't remember?"

Kurt looks at me briefly, eyes wide. He remembers. Not Rachel, but he remembers what actually matters.

"Sorry. No."

Rachel looks disappointed. Jeff skates over to us then, and he's surprisingly good at it, keeping his balance, even knowing how to brake. He is sticking to his distraction promise, although I'd rather he didn't, but he quickly convinces Dave and Rachel to come skating with him. "You'd slow us down, man," he tells Kurt, linking arms with Rachel and Dave and pulling them away.

I want to ignore Kurt's presence or perhaps just blow some smoke in his face. Instead, I say, "You're not very good at that."

He glares and lets go of the barrier, wavering a little as he stands on the skates. "At least I've got the balls to try it out." He takes tentative steps, moving right in front of me.

He's in a bad mood. Clearly the effect of my gorgeous girlfriend. She's real. Yup. Didn't make her up. And if he is worried I'll try and flirt with him some more, he can dream on. I'm over that.

Kurt tries to take off, but ice skating is clearly not one of his strong points because he loses balance, and I instinctively reach out to steady him, cigarette falling onto the ice a second time. That's how you can always tell where I've stood – just follow the stubs. When I die some day, my grave will be surrounded by them. My grave will become a stub mountain.

I grip Kurt's arms, and he grips mine, pulling on my jacket as he swears. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I've got this, I've –"

His feet slip, and he crashes against me, body pressing into my chest. My lower ribs get squashed against the barrier as he pulls me in, air leaving my lungs. He clings onto me for balance, and I fist the back of his jacket to keep him standing.

"Whoa – just –"

"I've got this, don't –"

He almost falls down again, pressing further into me, but then steadies. His breath washes over my neck, his hair pressed against my nose, and I breathe him in without meaning to. We stay still in the awkwardly fitted embrace, and my fingers tighten their hold of his jacket. It's like he's too afraid to move. "Fuck," he swears eventually, placing a hand on my shoulder, pulling himself back. His breathing is shallow, cheeks rosy – from the cold? From whatever he's thinking right now as he looks at me, eyes flying over my features? He looks surprised. Taken aback. His eyes are wide and dark, lips red and parted. And I could lean in, right here, right in front of all these people. I wouldn't care.

Kurt's gaze suddenly fixes behind me. His hand instantly drops from my shoulder. "Ian. Gave up already?" He pulls back quickly, clutching the barrier again instead of me. His cheeks are redder than they were a second ago, and he is trying his best not to look at me. I keep my eyes on him, taking in every detail.

"Y-Yeah," a timid voice sounds from behind me, but I don't look at the crazy afro kid. "N-Not very good at skating."

"Neither am I," Kurt laughs forcedly, chuckling at his friend, but he's acting guilty, caught red-handed. He glances at me briefly before he braves the ice and skates away clumsily. Must be bad if blackening bruises are preferred to my embraces.

I finally turn to Ian, who looks nauseous, gazing at me like he's seen a ghost. He fidgets, pulling on the sleeves of his thick jacket. He stays where he is like he's too afraid to come closer. Rachel and Cedes skate by, waving at me. Kurt's reunited with Dave, who laughs brightly, sparkly teeth and sparkly eyes and sparkly, sparkly, and I turn around fully to lean against the barrier. My heart keeps beating fast, but I try to ignore it.

"Ian, right?" I ask, and he nods. I beckon him over with a single finger, and he takes steps towards me, rigid and unsure. "You're in a band with Kurt?"

"It's, uh. It's his music. I just help play it." He says nothing else, but he's staring at me like he expects me to say something amazing. A lot of fans do – they expect me to speak in lyrics non-stop, offer grains of infinite wisdom. I don't. When the silence drags on, Ian blurts out, "I went to your high school."

I quirk an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah! I mean, you were- you were gone by the time I started high school, but yeah! I was a freshman when the first Warblers album came out. I wore out my copy so quickly." He chuckles to himself, sounding embarrassed to be telling me this. "And then, then when Boneless came out and you were on TV and magazines and the radio, you became such a legend back home. Mr. Yarrow, the music teacher, told me he used to give you guitar lessons and –"

I snort. I vaguely remember the music teacher of my high school – vaguely, vaguely, I never cared about an education – and he certainly never even knew I played guitar. I taught myself. Mrs. Anders taught me the basics of music, and I picked it up from there.

Another guy trying to get a piece of the fame, flat out lying about knowing me.

"Anyway. You made me want to play guitar in the first place," Ian says sheepishly. He shivers from the cold but smiles, keeping eye contact. There's nothing I can really say to a comment like that. 'Thanks' or 'Well, how's that treated you'?

"Explains why you kept falling on your ass. Not much ice skating in Westerville."

"No," he laughs shyly, his cheeks turning pink. I turn back to look at the skaters, eyes flying over the masses until I see Kurt and Dave again. My stomach drops at the sight of him and then curls up angrily at the sight of them.

Ian mumbles something about getting a hot chocolate from the stall by the ice rink, and I go with him to his surprise. Rather that than watch super couple on ice or think of the way my skin flared up from having Kurt so close to me. It got to him too. It must have.

Ian doesn't have a stutter and neither does he suffer from a disability. He's just nervous, full on panicking that I'm sipping hot chocolate with him – mine flavored with whiskey, I go nowhere without my flask – but now his silence has turned into a stream of consciousness rant. He is speaking ten miles a minute, about New York and music and shoes and apple varieties, and then he mentions Kurt, and when I express interest, he seems to settle on that topic, delighted to get a reaction out of me. "No, yeah, no," he says. "We met at a club. A, um, special club." An underground gay club. "We were both kind of bored –" Not on drugs, then. "– and he was with a friend who hooked up with my friend –" Everyone fucking everyone, but no, not Kurt who's madly in love, "– and then we started talking about music –" Ian must have declared his admiration of me within the first two minutes, at least, "– and we had so much in common, man." Previously mentioned admiration not included. "The music's good. Kurt's really talented."

"How often do you play?"

"When we can, you know. We were meant to play at an open mic night tomorrow, but Kurt's working so we had to cancel." He shrugs apologetically. "We're not, like, real musicians. Like you. Or anything." He seems terrified that I'll think he's comparing himself to me.

"Who's playing tomorrow, then?" I ask, and when Ian blinks, I add, "Kurt. Whose gig is he organizing tomorrow?"

"Oh! Right. No, it isn't to do with his internship, he's just working at the restaurant. Though last month Kurt was the promoter's representative for this one band, you might've heard of them, I was really jealous, he –"

"Come again?" I say very slowly to make sure I'm hearing this right.

Ian's on the same page with me, happy to be telling me something I don't know. He looks delighted. "Kurt's got an internship with the promotion company. Unpaid and stuff, three days a week. It was meant to be four days, but he had to cut down and take up more shifts at the restaurant because at least that pays. I mean, Dave switched from full-time to part-time to pursue his art more, and Kurt's kind of stressed about being the one supporting them both. But waiting tables isn't too bad, you know? And it's for Dave's career." Ian takes a long sip of his hot chocolate. "It's a sacrifice." Then, "Man, it's cold out here." Then, "Oh. Uh. I mean – They're together. Uh. Like. They're gay. Um."

"I know."

Ian's not one for small talk.

He's said enough, though.

No one turns down my sudden offer to buy everyone dinner. They've been skating in the cold, what could be better than having a nice, warm meal right now? Especially on me, too. And we don't head out to any of the cozy, crammed and cheap family run restaurants in The Village. I ask Rachel to name the most expensive restaurant close to us, and so we arrive to a busy restaurant with our entourage of nine people. We're instantly escorted to a private cabinet when the floor manager recognizes me. We're all underdressed, our lifestyles imprinted on our faces – except for the girls, they always look good – but the royal treatment doesn't reflect the way we look at all. I ruffle my hair to get snowflakes out and help myself to sit at the end of the table. Kurt sits at the far end with Dave, though Dave initially tries to sit closer to me. Dave's already told me five times how generous I'm being to people that I barely know. I replied that I support the arts.

"Order whatever you want," I say dismissively.

I manage to pin the night on Roderick, proposing a toast out of nowhere, saying that he's signed the contract, he's a Pip now whether he likes it or not, and that I look forward to our professional relationship, and that we're here celebrating and how nice it is that some of Roderick's friends were able to come too. Truthfully, though, it seems Roderick is friends with Ian and only vaguely knows Kurt and Dave. Either way, Roderick is flustered.

We're not here for Roderick, however. Earlier today, I wanted to see Kurt fall on his ass before leaving him to his idyllic life with Dave.

Except that Kurt lied.

Oh sure, his life is so fucking amazing. He's so moved on. He's so living the American dream with his music contacts and hot photographer boyfriend.

What a fucking liar.

I don't try making eye contact or engaging Kurt in conversation. I talk to Jeff sitting next to me, my righthand man, and Rachel on my other side as my queen. And from this throne I'll judge the rest of the people in the cabinet as I sip on wine, smoke cigarettes, take the guests in slowly and calmly with hawk-like attention.

After everyone's eaten, we remain talking and drinking, and finally Kurt stands up and exits the cabinet – finally – and I stub my cigarette against my plate next to the barely eaten risotto. "Excuse me," I say, and Jeff grins like he knows. He does, bits and pieces. Not everything. Not even close.

Kurt's taking a piss by one of the urinals when I enter the men's toilets. He's got his back to me, unaware of my presence. He's been drinking too much wine. I've been paying attention to that. It might work in my favor.

Kurt turns around after he's done, flinching, hands on the zipper of his jeans. I remain quiet. "Hi," he says, awkward and blunt, the word just hanging in the air. He heads for the sinks. He starts washing his hands, and I look at us in the mirror – me with my back leaning against the wall next to the door, him with his shoulders tensed up. He glances up, our eyes meeting in the mirror. "Did you want something?"

"You're a liar."

He looks too surprised for it to be an authentic reaction. "Don't know what you mean."

"It's a nasty habit. You should do something about it." He keeps up his confused expression as he shakes his hands to dry them. "It's a waste of your talent, you know. Waiting tables."

He stops a little then, ducking his head so that the reflection no longer lets me see his face. He turns around, looking defiant. "I didn't lie." When I scoff, he fiercely counters, "Okay, I might have embellished the truth a little, but I hardly lied."

"Do you really care what I think?"

"No."

"See, I told you it'd become a habit."

He shoots me a glare, crossing his arms over his chest. This time, I look down – I'm not trying to pick a fight. He just lied when he didn't have to, when he could have just said how it was. I had my share of shit jobs back in the day. I get it.

"Ian just said some things, and –"

"Fucking Ian," Kurt mumbles bitterly, but the kid shouldn't take the blame for telling me the truth.

"Look, you shouldn't be waiting tables. We both know that. And your so-called friends seem to lap it up, but I'm here to tell you they're full of shit. Dave's mediocre at best. And what about your art? What about that? You're sacrificing your talent to help someone who doesn't have half of it." He opens his mouth to retaliate, but I say, "No, you listen to me. When you were growing up and you pictured your life, were you in the leading role? Were you? Or was this your goal, being the sidekick in someone else's dream?" Kurt's jaw tightens, and he looks down. He knows I'm right. He must know that whatever he's doing with his life right now is a waste of time. Sure, Dave might get somewhere, but Kurt shouldn't have to enslave himself to promote mediocrity.

"You wouldn't get it. You don't get it. We're a team, Dave and I. We work together," he informs me. Yeah, because that works. He should ask Sonny and Cher. "Love is about sacrifice," he says.

"No. It's not." He looks lost momentarily, and my hands twitch by my sides, but I don't let myself go over to literally shake some sense into him. He's still got so much to learn. Instead, I sigh. "Do you need money?"

"What?"

"If you need money, all you got to do is ask."

I don't get the reaction I'm expecting. At all.

"What the fuck?" he ask quietly, every syllable oozing venom. "I don't- I don't want your money! We don't need your money. God!"

He moves to get past me to the door, but I block him. "Why are you pissed off at me? I'm being nice."

"Like you were ever nice," he retorts, the words cutting deeper than they should. "What are you doing, Blaine? Dazzling us with your wealth and fame? I have no idea what kind of a game you're playing here, but I love Dave, and I don't –" He looks over my shoulder, still defiant. That's him. He'll go down fighting. "I'm not taking your money."

"God, you're still too proud for your own good."

"Yeah, maybe. Maybe I'm just a waiter at a shitty Italian restaurant, slaving away while you roll around in money with your semi-famous friends, but I've got more dignity than the rest of you combined. You know what you have in there?" he asks, motioning at the door. "A group of yes men and a few adoring fans, all looking at you like god: Roderick, Rachel, Jeff, Ian –"

"Dave."

His jaw sets tight. "Yeah. Dave too. So what's the deal? You need them to feel better about yourself? Extend charity, show just what an amazing guy you are? I think that's what it is. But don't act shocked if I'm not joining their ranks, if you can't bribe me. I'm not a beggar, and I need nothing from you."

It sounds rehearsed, like he's prepared this rant, probably over the course of the past few hours. What he thinks about my life.

He tries to get past me again, but I take a hold of his arm, stopping him by my side. I take in a deep breath and whisper, "Kurt, come on." He's overreacting.

He looks down, refusing to look at me. It's not like I'm asking him to take a thousand bucks, but whatever might be helpful. Fifty bucks. A hundred. Five hundred. And so what they're all a bunch of yes men? Does he think I don't know that?

"Fuck off," he hisses, but it doesn't sound too sure. He walks out of the bathroom, door swinging. I forgot the temperament he had. Amazing in bed, a pain in the ass otherwise.

I take a leak before joining my party, and on my way in, I ask Dave to swap seats with Jeff. Dave's standing up before I can even finish the sentence, and Kurt looks alarmed but we both know he can't say anything about it.

Cedes is talking about Pilates again – she keeps saying that it will be huge someday, really, someday all of America will be doing it. I think it's likelier that Americans magically stop masturbating. Rachel's intrigued, however – she always is – and the women are deep in conversation when Dave sits down next to me, a half-finished red wine glass in his hands. I pour it full and ask him to tell me about his work. He instantly does, like I've asked that one question he can spend forever talking about.

I'm not entirely sure of my agenda until I am. Roderick, Ian and Jeff are talking amongst themselves, Jeff befriending strangers the way that only he can, and Roderick asks a horrified, "How can you say that Eat the Document was a masterpiece compared to Dont Look Back?" and Jeff replies with a deep intake of air, "Well –"

Kurt is talking to Sam, and both men look uneasy. Sam asks something; Kurt shrugs and bites on his lower lip. He's breathtaking. Dave talks about a short film he once made.

Lauren needs a bang. Something I haven't done yet. Something to reintroduce me to the public.

"Dave," I say, interrupting him. "I want you to film a documentary of me and the guys."

Dave's mouth remains hanging open, but the rest of the table keep talking as the universe keeps spinning and the puzzle pieces start coming together.

Kurt is nervously shredding a napkin into bits of fluff. He doesn't have to worry. I've got it from here.