Chapter 4: Wolf's Teeth

"Wow," Dave breathes out, fidgeting as the elevator doors close behind us. "Oh, wow," he adds, clutching the camera around his neck with white knuckles.

Sam grins lopsidedly, lifting a loose wrist, bringing the bottle of JD to his lips. Old No.7, Tennessee Whiskey. He passes it onto Jeff.

Jeff has never been in a successful band, unlike Sam and me, but he still doesn't get dazed in the face of stardom. Sam doesn't get recognized much and he was never overly famous, but he's used to the whirlwind and he's used to meeting big names. Dave isn't. We only bumped into Jerry in the lobby just now – I wonder what he's doing in New York – and The Pips and I have moved on with our lives, whereas Dave can't seem to recover. He's pale, looking around with big, unnerved eyes.

"So it's. It's a party with," Dave says. Then he reverts to, "Fuck, that was Jerry Garcia." He's already said it five times. And then Dave looks at me like he wants to add 'Fuck, I'm hanging out with Blaine Anderson. Fuck, fuck, fuck.'

Jeff says, "Relax, David! Relax! Take a slug!"

"Go on," Sam beckons with a laidback air that's not often seen.

Sam's got a vision of this music. He knows where we're heading, what he wants from me, what he expects from me, and it's thanks to him that this attempt at making music hasn't proved to be a failure. Even he knows when to let go, however, when not to frown upon Jeff's endless antics and the shit that he puts me up to, usually unproductive for the cause of the album we're trying to do. Lou Reed's party is one of them.

"I shouldn't. I'm working," Dave says. He looks like he's been dragged out of his comfort zone. Kurt always acted like he owned the room he walked into – he was charming everyone from David Bowie to me. Dave has none of that charisma. What the hell brought these two together, I'll never know.

I say, "You're learning how you'll be working. Take a sip."

Dave eyes the bottle that Sam's offering, and in the face of peer pressure – or, rather, my use of the imperative – he takes the bottle and brings it to his lips.

It's a Saturday night. When Kurt gets back home to their apartment after an exhausting shift at the restaurant, his boyfriend will be out on the town with me. Dave will not be home, waiting. Instead, he'll be receiving a short introduction to rock 'n roll by the one guy Kurt probably doesn't want around him.

Kurt doesn't have to worry. I won't spill out his secrets, ask Dave if Kurt's come still tastes the same. My mouth's locked, and I threw away the key a long time ago, threw it behind me on Castro Street and didn't turn to look back.

Pretended I didn't look back.

We get to the right floor, and the elevator doors open. I readjust my coat.

"Blaine," Jeff says, and I nod silently and let him walk out first. It was never a conscious decision on my part or Jeff's, but it's still there: Jeff as an unofficial bodyguard. It's evolved as we've been attending parties and causing riots. He's not much of a bodyguard, really, since he's primarily my bandmate, present to drink and fuck and party, and sometimes, I don't see him for half the night, but he always keeps an eye out. Sam would be a lot better at keeping me safe if only he expressed the desire to follow me up and down Manhattan night after night, but he's been domesticated. Even if he's with us now, he has plans to be home at five AM latest, snuggling up to Mercedes.

Point is that Jeff knows people. I trust his judge of character fully, and he sees a troublemaker a mile away. Provided he's not too stoned or drunk, he is able to get me out of awkward situations swiftly and efficiently. This includes him doing a pre-emptive sweep of clubs and bars and, this time, the party.

Dave looks confused by the system when Sam and Jeff enter the apartment that the noise is coming from, but I wander to the end of the hallway, getting out a cigarette and looking through the window, down twenty floors and onto a road littered with the roofs of yellow taxis.

"Are we not going in?" Dave asks me in confusion, camera hanging around his neck. I look at him carefully, taking in his worn-out leather jacket. He's got a bit of brown hair hanging in front of his eyes. He's handsome but not stunning. He's smart but not intelligent. He's got depth but not insight.

I will be seeing a lot of Dave now. Doesn't mean I ever get to see Kurt, just his supposed better half. Maybe I can be masochistic.

"No rush," I say, and Dave lifts the camera and snaps a picture of me in the hallway, smoking slowly.

Behind him, Jeff pokes his head out. "B," he says simply, but it's enough. Last month, I almost walked into a party Seb was attending while visiting New York. We can't have that. No, we can't have that at all.

"Keep your head on there, kid, and follow me," I say, knowing full well that Dave is older than me. He only nods, though, of course he does. It's only a music elite party, and he's shitting himself. Glad Roderick didn't come because arriving with two newbies would be too much for me to put up with.

The apartment is swamped with the members of the New York scene, walls and floor barely visible because people have taken over every nook and crook, some holding beers, some wine bottles, some whisky bottles. The smell of sweat, grass and cigarettes is overwhelming, and I slip into the crowd and the world of dimmed lights like a criminal, shoulders slumped on hoping no one notices.

Of course everyone notices.

Jeff is giving us the grand tour, pointing left and right with, "And there's the powder room," and I nod without looking, but Dave murmurs "Shit" behind me, and I assume that he looked in and realized that it's a different type of powder that the people present are after.

These days everyone knows not to trust a guy who doesn't take anything. There really isn't anything dodgier than that.

"Oh," Jeff then says, stopping quickly and peering at Dave behind me. "That's one thing Lauren mentioned, right? When you do your documentary thing."

"Yeah," Dave says, sounding unnerved. "No footage of drug use."

Jeff grins. "Good luck with that."

We end up in a bedroom after having paid our respects to the host. Lou seemed surprised that I came. I'm not a regular. I'm more at home amongst the unknown, struggling artists than I am with these rockers, groupies and hangers on. Not a party animal. Not something to be put on display. I had to come tonight, though. Because of Dave. Because if he weren't here, he'd be at home, and I don't like the scenarios that I see when I close my eyes.

The bedroom has been adopted as an extension of the living room in lack of space, Sam and Dave sitting on the edge of the bed while I occupy the old, bulky armchair in the corner. Jeff leans against the wall next to me, acting like a surprisingly loyal watchdog. He'll be gone the second he spots a pretty skirt. Sam and Jeff talk, laughing and joking. Dave keeps looking around with big eyes. There's a steady flow of guests into the room now that we're here, the bedroom becoming even more packed than it was when we entered.

A girl is talking at me with big, shiny eyes when I beckon Dave over with a single finger. He obeys instantly, shoulders tense as he walks over. "Sit down," I tell him, and someone quickly offers him a chair. Dave pushes that stupid, incessantly flopping hair from his forehead as he sits close to me, leaning over to make sure he hears me in the noise of the party. I ignore the 'Hey, Blaine's from people I don't know and ask, "You okay, Dave?"

"Yeah. Sure. Of course." He nods excessively and then flashes a quick smile. "I used to live in the Castro District in San Francisco. I've seen parties."

Oh. So they met in the cesspool of depravity itself. Romantic.

"Fag parties aren't the same as rock parties," I correct him, hoping to insult him because he's in a position where he has to put up with it. But then he'd tell Kurt that I acted like an asshole, and then Kurt would –

Dave doesn't seem insulted, though, he just nods in an ain't that the truth kind of way. He then focuses his gaze to the doorway, lifts his camera and snaps a picture. Whatever was there is gone by the time I look over. "Wasting film," he mumbles sheepishly when he lowers the camera, like he acted out on impulse and now regrets it. "Expensive."

"Isn't that gonna be paid for?" I ask. Lauren looked slightly stressed, though pleased, when I told her of Dave doing a documentary of the band. The Beatles made fucking nonsensical movies – I can most certainly get people to pay to see me in the studio and on the road. It's that extra something that Lauren was looking for, ideal for those who constantly complain that I'm such an elusive figure, that I don't seem to be comfortable with my fame. Now they can see behind the scenes and pry on my life like they seem to dream of doing.

Dave was in a meeting with Lauren and her lawyers for practically an entire day. Again, Lauren noted that she could have gotten this or that guy to do this for me, someone already famous, someone with more experience, but I wanted Dave. At least he's not expecting to be paid as much as those other guys.

Dave was dazed according to Lauren, and Dave still is. He frowns and then laughs a confused, "Oh. Yeah. I guess that film rolls are paid for." He looks embarrassed and mumbles, "It's all a bit confusing. There's an accountant that I need to send receipts to and there's a budget that Lauren insists that I stick to, and it's just – But I mean. I can do it. I've done documentaries, those just... consisted of interviews and things. Easier to organize than this."

"That's why I asked you to come along tonight. So that when you do start working on the actual documentary, you're comfortable working in this environment," I explain and motion around the crowded, loud room.

"I only get one interview per crew member," Dave then says, sounding worried. "Would you want to do that before or after the tour? When is the tour? When are you going to the studio? When's the album coming out?"

"Dave!" Jeff laughs from beside me. Although Jeff knows that Dave is fucking a guy I used to fuck and that I'm not entirely happy with that, Jeff seems to genuinely like Dave. In fact, Dave seems to get along with all the guys. Dave is a likeable guy. There's nothing wrong with him except for the list of two hundred and thirty-five items that I keep a log of in my head.

"What?" Dave asks, brows furrowing.

"You gotta relax! We go to the studio when we go to the studio! We tour when we tour! It'll happen!" Jeff wipes his nose with the back of his hand and shivers. I missed him snorting what's undoubtedly gone up his nostrils now. So much for the protection he might've been able to give me. "Man," Jeff says, looking around. "Tequila. This party needs tequila."

He heads out of the room, presumably to find just that.

"Lauren did tell you that I get to say what goes onto that documentary, right?" I ask, and Dave nods. He doesn't even look like he's got a problem with it. Dave will edit and re-edit that documentary until I give it my seal of approval. I don't care what's in it. I only know what I don't want to be in it. It's been a long time since I've toured, but if next spring I find myself hyperventilating in backstage toilets, Dave cannot film that for the world to see. We're not recording history – we're compiling a product to sell. At least Ryder taught me that much.

"I've got ideas," Dave then says. "I'd love to brainstorm with you sometime, to see what you've got in mind. I'd, uh – Yeah, I'd love that, Blaine. If that's okay with you. If you've got time. I know you're busy, of course I know that. I'm busy too, but I can change my timetable around it."

"You haven't quit at Will's, have you? Will would be damn pissed off at me for that."

"No, no," Dave says quickly. "Juggling the record store job with my photography, a few commissions and now this. Hardly have time to sleep."

I lean back in my chair, taking in a deep breath. "Kurt's okay with that?"

"Oh yeah. He's great like that. He's doing a mic night this week, and I was gonna go see him and, you know, show support, but now I've got a meeting at the gallery and I had to cancel, and –" He stops to catch his breath, face flashing with something like the pain evoked by an unpleasant memory. Like a fight or an argument. But then he smiles and that adoration is there. "Kurt gets it, though. He really does. Don't know where I'd be without him." He looks around the room, at the exhibition or movie that we're watching, something surreal and intangible. He chuckles and turns to me. "Guess this was the average night on your Warblers tour, right?"

I let my eyes wash over the people indifferently, the latest fashion that's covering their limbs, the latest bands that are leaving their lips, the latest drugs that are circling in their veins. "Sometimes," I admit. "Just with a bit more sweat." I think back to one of the early parties on that tour, Kurt doing coke, Kurt hooking up with that anonymous guy, Kurt pressed to the wall and making out with him... There was something so untamed about him. Wild. Uncontrollable. Now he's chained down by the guy sitting next to me. Yeah, I'd take Dave back home to meet my family if I had one, if fag relationships counted as real ones. Dave's the kind of guy that parents would love. If Kurt hadn't abandoned his dad, I could see Dave right there, in the haven of Catholicism, saying, 'I'd love a second helping of mashed potatoes, Mr. Hummel! Thank you!'

Dave would fit in there better than Kurt ever could. I know that. Deep down Kurt knows that. Dave doesn't.

"The Warblers parties were crazier than this," I say. "Kurt loved those parties."

"I can't picture that," Dave laughs, sounding amused. "He's not much of a party person."

"Was when I knew him." Although my tone is slightly challenging, Dave doesn't contradict me or say that, well, he probably knows Kurt better than I do. Maybe. But I know who he was. "So when did you two meet?" I ask, going against my instincts, like I desperately want him to add insult to injury.

Dave looks thoughtful, his mouth moving with no sound coming out, like he's adding it up in his head. "We got together early '75, but I met him a few months before that, so... we must have met two or so years ago. He was working in a Castro bar." Dave smiles this little smile only lovers can smile, like his mind is suddenly filled with memories only he and Kurt share. Memories expanding over two years. That's a lot of memories. That's a lot of time spent in each other's exclusive company. That's a lot of mornings waking up together.

"You met a few months after we finished the tour, then," I say. I must have been... I must have been throwing Quinn's clothes out of the window and packing for London myself. I was fine. I was on top of the world. I wasn't running away from anything. I was running towards.

"Yeah, must have been," Dave agrees. "God, when he told me he'd been on that tour with you guys, my first thought was that he must have been on that bus when it crashed." Genuine concern is heavy in his tone, and it suddenly sinks into me like wolf's teeth. He loves Kurt. Probably. Most likely. Two years. You don't stick around someone for that long if you don't love them. And Kurt said it too, straight to my face, that he loves Dave, but it's the way you love your pet dog. Not the way you Love someone. Who needs love, anyway? It just complicates otherwise perfectly functioning relationships. Look at Quinn and me. We were fine without it.

"He wasn't on tour with us anymore at that point," I say roughly. He chose to stay behind in San Francisco. He quit. For nothing. A stupid fight. A misunderstanding.

Dave smiles. "Lucky, right?"

"It was lucky."

Dave doesn't even know how heavily edited the version he's gotten is.

I stub my cigarette into the ashtray someone holds out for me and regret having asked Dave to come along with us at all.

"You broke your arm, right?" Dave now asks. I startle and glance at him briefly before I nod and wrap my arms around my middle. "Which arm?" he asks, sounding curious, examining me. My heart is suddenly beating fast, feeling irregular somehow. I drop my gaze. Dave doesn't back off at all. "What's Nick up to these days? He's such an amazing drummer."

I clear my throat. "Don't know."

"You don't know? But surely you –"

"Dave," Sam says, in this serious tone that seems to convey whatever Sam intended it to. In my peripheral vision, Dave looks down to his lap. Sam is still sitting on the bed across from us. He has spent his time talking to people, being the most appealing member of The Pips to the general public. Jeff's too crazy while Roderick is too awkward. Sam's solid. Sam clearly picked up on the conversation we were having and has now silenced Dave. I could signal Dave to leave with a flick of my wrist, have someone else take his place, engage them in conversation instead, but I don't.

"The documentary," I say after a considerable silence, and Dave flinches, looking up quickly. "It's about this band. These guys."

"Yeah. Of course. You got it." Breathless. Reassuring. When I say nothing more, he stands up, clutching his camera like a shield of armor. "I'll go snap some more shots. Get a feel for it all, like you told me to. If that's alright."

"Go for it," I say, and he flashes a nervous smile at me before he snakes out of the room. Escaping. Running for it. He better not tell Kurt.

Dave's seat is instantly occupied. There seems to be an unofficial queue to come sit next to me, exchange a few words. "Blaine, man, I've always wanted to ask if Six in the Morning is about Nam, because it is, right? It's about war, man, it's –"

I beckon Sam over, and he gets up, leaning close to hear me, and I raise my voice above the background noise. "Dave can stay, but I don't want to see him again tonight."

Jeff might be a good bodyguard, accomplice and all of it, but when he's fucked and out of it, Sam isn't bad at the job either. It's just that Sam would rather not take on the responsibility whereas Jeff feels like it validates him somehow.

Sam looks after Dave briefly. "Sure." He gives my shoulder a brief squeeze and follows the filmmaker out of the room.

I lean into the chair, not sure what it's all for. Show Dave what he's missing, show him what Kurt was once a part of. Throw Dave off his game. Hope he gets fucked up and cheats on his partner with disastrous consequences.

Kurt must have been furious about the documentary. I wouldn't know and Dave hasn't said anything about it, but Kurt must be pissed off. That Dave now works for me. That the money that buys their bread will be coming from me.

Dave knows a good deal when he sees it, but it's not enough to have wooed half of the duo. Winning Dave over won't be enough to... God, Kurt's such a stubborn asshole.

Someone asks me if I've ever considered writing a book.

Rachel's busy performing at the birthday party of some rich kid whose daddy is a millionaire and who promised The Rockettes for him. I think the kid is turning seventeen. Good wank off material right there: a row of scantily-clad women dancing for him. Rachel said she'd go back to her place from there and meet me in the morning. Bring croissants.

She's far away from this basement bar on 4th Street. Anyone I've ever known is far away from this bar, and though I've prowled these streets far and wide, I've never been here. The place has got poor lighting, the capacity of a hundred and fifty max but it's still half empty, while concrete pillars hold the ceiling up. The air is heavy with smoke, and music is coming from the stage in steady waves. I inhale sharply. I'm late.

I pull the brim of my hat over my eyes, self-conscious as I go up to the bar where the idle bartender looks at me expectantly. My fingers dance over the sticky counter. "A whiskey."

The bartender looks over his shoulder at the shelves of bottles with affluent disinterest. "Will Johnnie Walker do?"

"Always," I say with a small smile. We started a new song yesterday. One of the best ones yet. I'm always up for spending time with Mr. Walker. "No ice."

I get ice, anyway.

I find a round corner table with a scratched surface and a moist beer mat. I'm too far back to be seen in this light – I haven't spent the majority of my adult life on stages to not know that. A group of a few dozen people are formed into a mass before the stage, looking up at the two performers. The spectators are looking at the band, at each other, at their drinks, shifting restlessly like they're not sure what their purpose is. I don't hear much except for the last few chords of the song. Unsure cheering sounds, some stray claps. Someone yells a drunken "YEAH!"

Kurt steps closer to his microphone, a soft smile on his lips. "Yeah right back at you."

I stare. He's full of charisma. He's practically radiating it.

The crazy kid – Ian – lifts a hand as if to say thank you and clutches onto his guitar nervously. There probably have been a few performances already. It's past eleven, so it's not an all bad timeslot that they've been given. Still, it's a Tuesday night and the place is hardly the center of rock 'n roll, and there will definitely be a few more guys after Kurt's set.

I've seen Kurt on stage too many times to count: skin glistening with sweat, pupils dilated from the buzz, cheeks rosy, lips parted in some indistinguishable shout. The crowd was always louder than anything else. I've seen him play around with Puck's basses and keyboards, Seb's guitars, my guitars, Nick's drums. I've heard him jokingly singing Crocodile Rock during soundcheck, but that's all mockery, a dress rehearsal compared to this. His own music. His own words. I know how big of a deal that is, but Kurt isn't nervous. It's a shitty bar, a shitty crowd, but he smiles easily like he's just won the lottery. If he's nervous, not a trace of it is visible on his features. He's having a great time up there.

"You good?" Kurt asks Ian, who is now switching the guitar to a bass, and Kurt takes the guitar from him, putting down the twelve-string he was using when I walked in. Ian nods, brown hair falling out of place. "Alright," Kurt says, the microphone catching his voice and carrying it across the room. He eyes the guitar neck as he places his fingers on the strings. He's dressed in tight, blue jeans with a big buckled belt, a red and white checkered dress-shirt that's three buttons undone, a white undershirt visible. He looks comfortable on stage, comfortable as he says "a one, a two – a one, two, three, four" and kicks into the new song.

The music is stripped down – has to be with just guitar and bass – but it's still recognizable somehow. It's not noise. Melodies are clear, and Kurt's vocals are smooth at parts, then rough out of nowhere. He has a fantastic vocal range and knows it and is using it. Good. You should always play to your strengths.

Girls in the crowd sway to the music, someone has gotten out a lighter as a joke. I'm not laughing. Kurt closes his eyes as he launches into the chorus. The lyrics are dreamlike, full of strange visions that I cannot decrypt. It could be about love or life or death or his morning cereal. Whatever it is, Kurt sings it with conviction, in a voice that compels me to listen. It's good music. I don't have to flatter him. I don't have to like the music. If it were bad, I'd tell him the truth, and then I'd tell him how to make it better.

A few times during the performance, looking at him gets too much, and then I drop my gaze and stare into my emptying glass. Had a few drinks at home before leaving. Some courage. The phone kept ringing as I got ready. Not sure who it was. Jeff, Sam, Will, Roderick, Brittany, Lauren. Could have been anyone. It's easy slipping into the night, saying you were in one place when you were at another. The city's too big for anyone to really know, and no one is going to check up on your facts. No one could give you the truth, anyway. Maybe someone saw me. They don't really remember.

When Kurt says that it's their last song, I look up again and practically don't blink for the three minutes that the song lasts. It's a more upbeat song, and the refrain gets stuck in my head, echoing from my left ear to my right even after they leave the stage, waving at the half-empty room, Ian mumbling, "Thanks so much!" to Kurt's microphone.

It's not much of a show, but the room still relaxes after they're gone. Like they can now focus on something other than Kurt, who had the room eating out of the palm of his hand the few times that the crowd stopped to properly pay attention.

I get up and head back to the bar with my empty glass. "Fill her up," I instruct. "No ice." I get ice again.

When I turn around to face the room, Kurt and Ian have come out, both with two gig bags for their instruments. They leave them by a table and start chatting to the people that have surrounded them. The next performer, a girl in her twenties, is getting ready onstage. Kurt laughs at something that an older guy is saying to him, nodding quickly, brushing brown hair to the side. His lips are stretched wide into a smile. I bring the glass to my lips calmly. Not so calmly.

I head over when Kurt separates himself from the masses, getting a capo out of his back pocket and sliding it into one of the pockets of the gig bag. "That was pretty good," I say to his back.

Kurt instantly turns to the sound of my voice as if to thank me for my opinion, but then he sees me. He pales, maybe, I can't really tell from the lights, but everything about him certainly looks colorless. His eyebrows lift in surprise, but then confusion pulls them down, and then he settles on an almost neutral expression. It's stony, what it is. So I offended him. So I hired his boyfriend to work for me. But I'm here now.

"I mean," I continue, "you have to work harder than that to get panties thrown on stage, but it's a start."

He stays silent for unnervingly long, but then seems to kick into motion. "Yeah. Probably." His smile isn't a smile, but his lips purse together icily. "Let me guess. You walked by perchance and just had the random urge to come in for a drink and lo and behold –"

"Dave told me," I say, cutting him off, and then I look around the room as if to see his worse half. I know he's not present. Kurt most likely knows that I know. "Guess your boyfriend's too busy to come see you," I conclude. There's only a hint of mockery in my tone, but come on. Dave's playing Picasso left and right, too busy to come see this? "I happened to have time," I then explain. "Nothing good on TV or the radio."

He narrows his eyes at me, and I can't seem to have the balls to look him in the eye. He shifts restlessly. "And where's the rest of the Anderson party?" Now it's his turn to sound mocking. He looks around like expecting to see The Pips or someone else, but when he doesn't see them, his eyes land on me again.

"It's just me," I say. The tight set of his jaw loosens a little, and he looks confused, like he's lost ground or the one angry thought he was clinging onto. "I'm sorry about last week, by the way," I say, forcing the words out. "Jeff's always asking for money. I meant nothing by it."

"You meant something by it."

"Yeah, well." I scratch my neck, feeling uncomfortable. "You didn't want my help, and when anything that's something becomes nothing, then that's all it is."

Ian now appears by Kurt's side. "Blaine! He's grinning wide, eyes flying over my features too damn fast. He's covered in slight sweat, hardly from the stage, though, and – Oh. Well, he's on something. Wasn't five minutes ago, I'm relatively sure, and Kurt appears to be observing the same thing, that his friend has popped something since they got off stage. "You saw us play?" Ian asks, blinking too much, pushing frizzy curls out of the way. I only nod, and he grins twice as much. "Fuck! Fuck, that's far out!" He breathes out. "Did you dig it?" I do a modest nod after having given it some thought, and again he seems delighted. "You did! Fuck, man. Fuck."

"There's potential."

"Potential! Fuck! Potential, Kurt!" he enthuses. "So glad I didn't see you in the crowd, I would've shat myself otherwise!" He laughs hysterically. Kurt shoots him a glare that he misses completely. I don't really have a comeback for that either. Ian keeps gazing at me, reminding me of Brittany when she's lost in her own world. "You look really good tonight," he then announces, letting his eyes fly over my brown corduroy suit and then back to my face. "Really sexy." His cheeks flush red. "I don't know why I said that," he mumbles nervously. He bites on his bottom lip shyly.

"Let me buy you a drink," I offer, and Ian looks flustered through his drugged haze.

"Rum and coke?"

"You got it," I nod, then look at Kurt. "Anything for you?"

Kurt looks like he has no idea what to do, eyes flying between Ian and me, and then his shoulders slump slightly. "Just some water," he says. It sounds like defeat.

Kurt goes to give their instruments to a friend of theirs as Ian and I go to the bar. Ian explains that they keep their guitars with this guy who lives in The Village, making it easier for them to practice and perform, not having to drag their instruments from Brooklyn. Kurt's got some old acoustic at his place that he can practice with. Ian goes into great detail about it.

Kurt's sitting by the same corner table that I occupied before, and he doesn't look at me when I sit down opposite him and place the glass of water in front of him. He's smoking, flicking the tip above the ashtray. Ian sits down next to me and says, "I'd love some tips from you, man. About being a star and stage performance and all that."

"That could take all night," I say. I'm joking, but Ian doesn't get it.

"Let's hope not," Kurt says, now leaning back in his chair. He takes a drag, cheeks hollowing, He seems to be looking at my hands on the table rather than my face. "Can't stay long. My shift starts at noon." Our eyes meet briefly. He knows what I think about that. I've said my piece. Ian only nods like yeah, business as usual. His friends aren't even real friends.

Ian does most of the talking, buzzing, pupils blown, sweating, explaining with his hands. Kurt keeps smoking, nodding in agreement on the rare times that Ian makes a good point on music as the expression of the soul. I mostly just look at Kurt, who tries not to notice. I try not to look at him too much. He's just beautiful. That's all. Two locks of hair keep falling in front of his now gray eyes. He's got stubble that he undoubtedly has to shave off before work, the stubble grown more on his upper lip. He could grow a moustache if he felt like it. It'd be trendy for one thing. I've only kissed him clean shaven or with stubble, never with anything more. I've never properly kissed bearded men at all. It'd leave no room for pretending not to know that it's not a woman. Kurt never did leave any room, anyway, despite his hips that I loved grabbing onto when we fucked. I loved all of it: his calloused fingertips, protruding hipbones, the hair on his legs and arms, his thick cock and how tight the skin of his balls was when he was really fucking hard. The scent of his sex. I wonder if he still smells the same.

"Oh, I saw someone!" Ian announces, eyes gleaming as he stops what has been a soliloquy for the past four minutes. "I'll be right back." He gets up and vanishes into the crowd, calling out someone's name.

With Ian no longer distracting us, Kurt looks even more restless. The silence lingers on.

"So," I say, and Kurt does this little 'yeah' shrug, lips pursed tight as he lifts his glass of water.

He then places it down carefully, thumb rubbing the glass's rim. "Dave's really excited about the documentary."

"We all are."

"He thinks you're strange."

"Strange?" I repeat, and Kurt nods. Dave does seem intimidated by me even though he clearly wants to prostrate himself whenever he sees me. It's not bad, being strange. I finish my drink in one go. "You don't mind?" I ask, and Kurt quirks an eyebrow. "About him working with the band. Coming on tour with us next spring."

"I'm in a situation where I don't have the luxury to mind," he says through slightly gritted teeth.

"He'll do the documentary for half the price an established director will."

"Sure that's why you chose him," he says sarcastically.

I look at the girl on stage, dropping her pick, bending over to pick it up, and getting enthusiastic cheers from the male members of the audience. "So why haven't you told Dave about... you know. I doubt he'd want to work with me if he knew I beat him to it."

Kurt is smiling disbelievingly to his glass when I look at him. Yeah, it's not like it was a race. Not like Dave and I are the only men to have ever gone there. But why has Kurt kept quiet? He loves Dave, after all. He was shouting it from rooftops not so long ago. So why lie? The shame? The guilt? There's got to be a reason.

"It's not healthy for any relationship to recite one's entire sexual past," he says before tucking hair behind his ear and taking another sip of water. I don't think I've ever seen him drink water before. He scratches his temple nervously. "Besides, now it'd only make things weird. He's signed the contract. He's happier not knowing, and it was just. A meaningless thing, so I don't see the reason to." He stops to consider his words, but then seems to put it behind himself. "Anyway. Dave's working with you guys. That hardly affects my life. He'll talk about it a lot, but I'll talk about my day too."

"Like couples do," I supply, even if I am fully stuck on 'meaningless thing'. So meaningless that I have his skin crawling whenever we see each other. I don't care if it's dislike because it's not indifference. It's not meaningless. If it was meaningless, he would have told Dave.

"Yeah, like couples do." He stubs out the cigarette into the ashtray. "I doubt your girlfriend knows a blow by blow account of your flings either."

"Even I don't know that."

"Yeah." He shifts restlessly. "Exactly."

He looks around the room, from the girl singing badly on stage to the lookers on to the people hanging at the bar to the lone guy in the corner scribbling on napkins, looking like a pretentious poet if there ever was one. Kurt sighs. "Where'd Ian disappear to?" I can't see him anywhere either, and Kurt stands up and smoothes down his dress shirt. His jeans hug his legs tightly, and I don't look at the shape and contours of his body, lands that I once explored. He wouldn't let me anywhere near him now.

"I'm sure Ian's fine."

"I don't see him anywhere, and he wouldn't just take off," Kurt argues. "I'll be back in a minute."

He goes after Ian like a good friend would. The good friend that he is.

I feel idle and out of place, and fuck it, I've finished my drink again. Should've flat out asked for the bottle. I head to the bar again, get ice again, and I lean against the sticky wood of the counter and stare at the golden contents of the glass, at the little ice cubes floating in it.

A hand lands on my shoulder unexpectedly. "Blaine." I crane my neck and look at Kurt, then at his fingers on my jacket. The way the calloused fingertips press into my bony shoulder through my clothes. They slip off. "I, um – Ian's taken some shit. He's in the toilets. I need help back there." He fidgets. "Our friends have gone and –"

"Okay."

A simple 'Blaine' would have sufficed.

I follow Kurt to the dirty and claustrophobic men's toilets, black tile floors, orange walls. Makes me feel neurotic. Ian's sitting on the floor between two urinals, legs spread out, back against the wall. His mouth is hanging open, and he looks like he's rolling around in bliss instead of the gruesome reality of piss.

"Ian," Kurt says, going over and giving Ian a shake. "Ian, we're leaving now."

"But we've just arrived, man," Ian declares, eyes out of focus. He laughs at something behind me, and I look over my shoulder to see if someone's there. Nothing but a bathroom stall.

"He's fucked," I say, and Kurt glares at me like that's kind of obvious, thank you very much. He's not dangerously fucked, but semi-coherent. There's nothing to be worried about.

"Come help me," Kurt says snappily.

Together we get Ian up to standing, Ian's arms wrapped around our shoulders. He weighs like a ton of bricks, laughing loudly and mumbling incoherently. LSD, maybe? Coke? It's hard to tell. He dangles between us, and I get a mouthful of hair at one point when he almost slumps against me. "He just needs some air," Kurt says when we get out of the toilets. Air. Sure. I've heard that one before.

Dragging Ian up the stairs of the bar is painful, but we manage it and soon are on the cold street. Kurt realizes that Ian's forgotten his jacket and while he retrieves it, I let Ian sit back down on the sidewalk with his back to the closed formal attire rental shop a few doors down from the bar. Ian shivers but doesn't actually seem to be aware of the chilly December air.

"Having a good time?" I ask Ian as I get out a cigarette.

He doesn't hear, but suddenly, his eyes focus on me. "I'm a fag," he says. Yeah. Sure. I figured as much. He laughs. "I'm a gay fag, so I'm always having a good time."

"Good for you."

He grins like a madman. "I'd love for you to fuck me. For Blaine Anderson to fuck me."

I laugh and light my cigarette. "Again, good for you."

He closes his eyes and breathes. Then he leans to his side a little and vomits on the street. I'm a safe distance away, but instinctively step back from the mess. He better throw up now and not when he's lying on his back. No, definitely don't want that. Something as simple as gravity has snatched away some of our best men already.

"Aw, fuck me," Kurt's irritated voice comes as he's now back. He looks at Ian finishing up his impromptu street decorations. He's got Ian's jacket with him, an ugly brown coat dangling from his grip. Instead of helping it on Ian, he just stares at his friend. "How the fuck am I supposed to get him home now? He's going to vomit all over the subway and me, and he can hardly walk."

"Take a taxi," I offer.

Kurt laughs. "Yeah, like I have money for that." I open my mouth, but Kurt says, "Don't."

"I was just going to say," I say slowly, pacifying, "that I don't live too far from here. Leave Ian on my couch for the night. I'll kick him out in the morning."

Kurt looks down the street winding westwards. Wind ruffles his hair. "How far away?"

"Fifteen minutes with him," I estimate. "Just need to get on Thompson Street and start heading south."

Ian's laughing to himself, not at all bothered by his nausea just a second ago. Kurt looks hesitant, eyes flying between his friend and me. "You sure you'd be okay with that?"

"Jeff does it all the time," I lie.

He hesitates for a second longer before he says, "Well, I guess it's easier than dragging him to Brooklyn." He sounds defensive when he doesn't need to be. We help Ian up to standing, and Kurt manages to put the jacket on him and even zip it up. Ian's too disorientated to be allowed to walk by himself, but after two blocks he gets rejuvenated, pulls free from us, and proceeds to zig-zag on the sidewalk as we keep our eyes on him. "He's not usually like this," Kurt says after a while. We're sharing a cigarette since I offered him one. Ian's hugging a street lamp. Kurt takes a long drag, looking embarrassed. His best friend's a junkie, and his boyfriend's a no show. "Someone must've offered him some cheap shit."

"Probably. That's not a good trip he's on," I muse because Ian's getting paler and paler, now shivering. There's no need to take him to a hospital, though. He still knows his name and who I am. When that starts to go, that's when I'll worry.

We firmly guide Ian when we turn on Thompson Street. "Four blocks down," I say, and we walk into the long line of cast-iron buildings as a taxi rattles down the cobble street. Kurt passes me my cigarette back. His fingers are cold when they briefly brush mine, our breaths rising into the air.

Ian stumbles ahead of us slowly. "We're not in Kansas anymore!" he howls, cackling, followed by, "Who said that?!" He looks around in bewilderment, eyes wide and panicked.

"He's usually really not like this," Kurt persists.

We're back to dragging Ian as his energy fades, and as we cross Prince Street, two tonsured men in brown tunics pass us, both smiling our way. "Peace, Blaine!" one of them says.

"You too, Brother Jack," I say, nodding since my arms are preoccupied with Ian. Ian's hand flies around aimlessly and tips my hat over my eyes. I mutter curses, and we stop for me to fix it. Kurt is quirking an eyebrow, looking after the two men, and I say, "Franciscans friars. They live on the next block." Kurt is still staring, Ian dangling between us with his head bobbing to our movements like he's a buoy at sea. "The brothers are big Warblers fans," I explain, and Kurt laughs disbelievingly. It's a very colorful neighborhood, the perfect environment to disappear into. I nod towards the red brick building we're now outside of. "This is it."

Fire escape stairs go back and forth over the facade, and someone's smoking on the landing of the third floor. We ascend the stone steps to the front door as I get out my keys.

"Which floor you on?" Kurt asks, trying to support Ian the best he can.

"Sixth. Top floor."

"Any chance there's an elevator in there?"

I push the door open and grin at Kurt. "Nope."

Ian falls flat on his face through the opened doorway. Kurt stares at his friend's back. "Great."

Dragging Ian up six floors definitely isn't what I had planned for the evening, but Kurt and I manage it. I take Ian's shoulders, and Kurt takes his legs. Kurt's a lot stronger than he looks – I noticed that when he was a roadie for us. My left elbow starts hurting when we reach the fourth landing, but I grit my teeth and say nothing. Ian mumbles incoherently, occasionally pulling away from our hold, and we almost drop him on the hard steps at least a dozen times. When we get to the top with Ian still intact and not bleeding, I'm pleasantly surprised.

Kurt's out of breath, his hair a mess. I get out keys again and open the door to my apartment before lifting Ian up one last time. "Living room couch," I say, leading the way as we carry Ian along the entrance hallway, reaching the end where the living room opens up on one side. We carefully walk past the LP shelves covering one of the living room walls, and I hit my shin against the corner of the coffee table, but we manage to lie Ian down on the couch.

"Ow," he groans from us apparently having been too rough, but he seems comfortable where he is, relaxing against the cushions. I try to catch my breath a little, unbuttoning my coat and throwing it on the couch that's still free.

"He'll be alright there for the night," I say, noticing the remote sticking from beneath Ian's back, quickly pulling it from beneath him and putting it on the coffee table.

"Wow," Kurt says. He's not looking at Ian, but at the dining table that's on the other side of the room, next to the archway to the kitchen. That area is a dining room, really, though it's not separated by an actual wall. Kurt looks around in the dark, street light coming through the windows. "This place is, like... three times bigger than that place you had in LA."

"I upgraded," I explain but then it occurs to me that Kurt's in my home, and I start motioning around like an idiot. "This used to be one big space. I think they made shoes here in the fifties. I bought it real cheap, had these walls built... There was an architect drawing it up."

"And Rachel decorated." He's eyeing a pair of panties on the living room floor between us. Plain white ones that are visible in the dark. Rachel likes the pair.

I quickly pick them up, annoyed that they decided to lie there for all the world to see. I stuff them in my pant pocket quickly. "I hired someone to decorate the place. Rachel and I don't live together."

Kurt looks genuinely surprised. "You mean you've got... half of this building's top floor all to yourself?"

"Yeah."

Kurt seems impressed at first, but then he only laughs emptily. "Life must be fucking easy when you're loaded."

"Not really," I mutter, throwing my hat on top of my coat and going for my tie next. Ian's other arm dangles off the couch awkwardly.

"Blaine," Ian mumbles from the couch, gazing at me through half-lidded eyes. He's got a stupidly proud grin on his face. "You're radiating orange and blue." He tugs at his own shirt in disorientation. "We going to fuck now?"

"Ian, what the fuck?" Kurt hisses. He didn't hear the previous proposal on the street, but I don't get why he's so shocked. Ian can never take his eyes off of me.

"Maybe later," I say, and Ian looks disappointed but then loses his moment of clarity and curls up in on himself tiredly.

"Jesus," Kurt says.

"Don't be too hard on the kid," I say as we now head back to the hallway leading to the door. I switch the lights on, finally managing to tug off my tie. When Kurt scoffs, I say, "His crush is kind of cute."

"Vomiting all over 4th Street isn't cute," he argues, his steps slowing by the wall of book shelves, head tilting as he reads the titles. I push the bedroom door open, switching the lights on there too before throwing my tie on the unmade bed. It lands on the floor halfway there. "If he, like," Kurt says from behind me, "gets up in the middle of the night to try and molest you, don't feel guilty about punching his lights out."

"I'm not going to fuck him, in case you're worried," I say, my eyes landing on the bed where a rectangular, flat package that got delivered earlier is still lying. I quickly close the door before Kurt sees it.

"I'm not worried."

I quickly card my hair, restless for no reason. I should have stopped to consider the situation more fully before bringing him here. I cover up my anxiety with a smirk. "You sound worried."

"For him, maybe. He's totally fucked."

"Well, he's not my type," I respond in annoyance, unbuttoning the top buttons of my dress shirt. Like he honestly thinks I'd need to take advantage of his friend. "You want a drink?"

"No, no, I need to get going." It's getting close to one in the morning, and it shows on him. His eyes are tired, his features softer somehow, but he's trying not to show it. He tries to be as angular as he can, tough as steel. He looks like Brooklyn's too far away, but he'll be damned if he admits that. "Dave's probably back already too, and –" He stops in the middle of a sentence, a sudden calm taking over him even as his eyes fill with wonder. "That's mine."

"What?"

"What you're wearing." His eyes focus on the slice of chest that's now been exposed by the opened top buttons. I look down myself and can just see the silver chain resting against my skin. "That's mine," he repeats. "I gave it to you once." His voice sounds searching. Our eyes meet, and I can feel cold sweat pushing through. "During that photo shoot on the roof."

I shake my head with a quick laugh. "This isn't the same chain."

"Looks a lot like it."

"Well, it's not."

"You sure? I got my initials engraved onto the clasp, and –"

"This isn't that one!" I snap angrily, and Kurt takes a step back, eyes widening. Stupid chain. Stupid night. Stupid life. I quickly button up my shirt, and I don't know what to say now, what the hell he wants me to say. He seems to be at a loss for words too. I don't know why I wanted him to drop by. See the place. Impress him. Pathetic. "You better go."

"Yeah. Alright." He looks solemn. "I'm going."

I see him to the door, and he gets a brown woolen scarf out of his jacket pocket and wraps it around his neck. He takes two steps out the door before he swirls around quickly. "Thanks. By the way. For looking after Ian. You really didn't have to, you know."

"It's no bother."

"Yeah, but –" He stops and fidgets slightly, like he isn't sure what protocol should be followed in this case. "Just thank you. I appreciate it."

I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms. "Wow. I deserve an actual English thank you."

His brows furrow, but then he laughs. "Oh!" His eyes sparkle for a second, reminding me of a time that passed a long time ago. My chest constricts painfully. "I, um, I don't do that anymore." He smiles wide at the memory, a faint pink blush on his cheeks. He's never looked more charming in his life. "I realized that if it's the only thing going for me, it's kind of sad, so. I stopped doing it."

"It wasn't sad. It made you different." I focus all of my attention to my fingernails. "That's what I liked about you."

When I look up, his smile is gone. "Goodnight, then," he says quietly.

I tip an invisible hat. "Bonsoir."

He lets out a laugh and smiles, and I don't know why I feel like I've just been crowned the king of New York for the simple achievement.

Kurt lifts his hand as a goodbye, smiling, and I lift my hand in return. He pulls up the collar of his jacket as he gets to the stairs, soon disappearing from sight though his footsteps echo. I keep listening to the sound until the door opens and closes six floors down.

I finally kick my shoes off as I close my front door. Ian's snoring loudly in the living room, but I hardly hear it once my bedroom door is closed as a sound barrier.

My bed squeaks when I sit on the edge, and I pick up the parcel lying next to me. The brown, thick paper is hard to tear off, but soon I have the large frame in my hands. A blurry, black and white Brooklyn street stares at me, but I ignore it, and there in the corner, there: the face of a man with soft looking skin. A shy smile. Eyes cast downwards. Hair a mess. Happiness and love captured in one stupid shot. His lips look soft. Maybe a bit swollen, like he's just been kissed, before they left the confines of their apartment.

I turn the photo frame around to find a little piece of paper glued to the back: 'The Boy by David Karofsky.'

I flip it back around, look at Kurt's smiling form a second time, and then I quickly hide the frame under my bed, convinced that I don't have to think about it if I can't see it.

I can show up for his shows, employ his boyfriend, take care of his idiot friend, but there isn't necessarily anything I can do to tip the scale in my favor, so why the fuck am I still persistently turning myself into a joke in his eyes? Because he knows. He's known since we first met at that party, and he still...

A thud sounds from the other side of the wall. Ian's fallen onto the floor. "Fuck," I laugh miserably and let myself fall backwards on the bed.

Although I can't feel it, the chain's lock is pressing 'K.E.H.' into the skin of my neck.