Chapter 8: Living on Borrowed Time

Pretend they're not there. How the hell am I supposed to pretend that the huge video cameras around the table aren't there? Can anyone act normal given the circumstances?

Five drinks in, yes.

We're just a few guys playing cards in the studio lounge, taking a break from recording. I'm not keeping tabs on what we've done for the album so far. Don't want to think about it. It's four or five in the morning, maybe, and we're the only ones left: the band, Dave, Will and I. Will came by to say hi, but he didn't distract us – we were already distracted. Dave's had a few drinks, but he keeps the two tripod-attached cameras recording while he now holds the third, moving about, focusing in on different people. Sam's laughing hard into his hands, and Roderick is staring at his cards thoughtfully. Jeff's dealing, and Will swears that Jeff's giving him shit hands on purpose.

I'm great at poker. No need to worry at all.

A week. The nagging voice inside my head doesn't let me forget it: we've been recording for over a week. And what do we have to show for it? What triumphs can we celebrate? Random drum takes and some recorded guitar parts. A quarter of a song somewhere. Maybe. And the songs, these songs that have been circling inside me for so long, sounded nothing like they're meant to. The band's frustrated because I can't tell them what's wrong. It just hasn't been right. But we've got time, plenty of it. It's only been a week. These days people take years to record anything. No one's pressuring me. It's fine. It's certainly not a problem.

I drink up and look at my cards, study the crude features of the king of hearts. It's got exaggerated lips. Kurt's deep asleep right now, back in the Brooklyn apartment. Soft, even breaths passing through his full lips. The other side of the bed is empty. When he reaches out for another body, it's not Dave he's looking for. It's me.

"Blaine, focus!" Will tells me, all business like. He takes cards very seriously, which Jeff endlessly takes the piss out of.

"Lost in his thoughts again," Sam says teasingly, and Dave's camera is aimed at me as I duck my head, hair falling out of place.

"Dave," I say, and the guy looks from behind the camera. I kick back one of the chairs. "Put that thing away and play some cards."

"But –"

"I wasn't asking," I say and stub a cigarette into the ashtray. He hasn't been filming all along but he concluded that us playing showed a more relaxed and humane version of us. He's very specific about what he actually wants to film, sticking to a documentary sketch he and the lawyers have drafted. It'll be a mix of backstage scenes, interviews, and us playing the songs once we get on tour. If we ever get there. If we ever.

Dave's good at poker, but not as good as the rest of us, and I can't help but grin when Dave folds, losing his twenty bucks. Kurt won't be pleased with that. Dave knocks down a beer, looking forlorn.

"How's the crew hunt going?" Sam asks with an easy, drunken smile as he folds. He looks at the stack of bills on the table, probably realizing that he's just lost the money that he was supposed to spend on a kitten for Mercedes.

"Good," Dave shrugs. "We've got a production team, and we're looking for people to come to the studio and the road with us. Hired Kurt yesterday." He takes a sip of his beer.

I stare. "You hired Kurt?"

"Yeah. He can handle the equipment every bit as well as me." He looks nervous, like we'd object. Like I'd object. We all know they're an item, even if it's never explicitly said in public. Well, Will might not know, but that's because Will doesn't care about his non-famous friends.

I'm not objecting. It means that Kurt will come on tour with us. He's coming on tour. I won't have to spend weeks without seeing him after all. And to the studio, he'll be coming here too. Fuck, seeing Kurt just got so much easier.

"That's great," I laugh. That's fucking great, even if I realize that Dave is milking the project for all it's worth. Dave gets paid and so does Kurt. A family enterprise.

Dave relaxes. "Yeah. It'll be good to spend more time with him." He focuses on the game that Roderick, Will and I are still playing, and that's when I realize the downside of Kurt's secondary employment: his free time's just gotten cut short, having been taken over by a lot of Dave. And that isn't great. Kurt can't be with me if he needs to be working with Dave. Although knowing Kurt and knowing the thing we've got – knowing us – he took the job to see me more. Just three days ago, he said it, just as I pushed into him. That he needs to see me more. His nails dragging down my back.

And now he's on the film crew.

Sneaky fucker.

Roderick folds. Will looks at me murderously.

I say, "Maybe you should call him right now. Invite him over," and Dave says, "Nah, he'll Be asleep, poor thing. He's tired a lot these days. He gets these migraines," and I hum and bite on my lower lip not to grin. Wear him out, do I?

Jeff is looking at me knowingly, but I give nothing away. Jeff knows. Probably. Most likely. He's asked about it, but I'm holding my peace. It doesn't concern Jeff, regardless of how hard he tried to make it happen for us. No. This one, him and I, I'm not sharing with anyone.

"Blaine. Time to show me what you've got," Will says, and I come back down to earth, looking at my cards. I've got a pair of kings and a lot of nothing.

"Score," Will grins as he reaches for the pot in the middle.

"Must hurt, man," Jeff laughs as Will gets out his already bulging wallet, eager to introduce the newcomers to the family.

"Don't care," I shrug.

"You're not in touch with finance," Will tells me sternly.

"Probably not. Lauren takes care of that." I light a new cigarette, only then realizing that Sam, Roderick and Dave all look like they've been robbed.

"Cedes'll be pissed," Sam says, and Dave nods like he's going to get a word from his better half too. Roderick's single but still seems sorry for himself. His paycheck for his new job is clearly still in the mail.

"You lost two hundred bucks and could've won a fuck load more," Will tells me, now counting the money feverishly to see how much he's gained. I have no idea how much money I put in; I just emptied whatever was in my wallet.

"Eh."

"You really don't care?" Will asks with disdain. "Well. Must be nice being as rich as you." He sounds disapproving, although it's not like he's poor. He's got a chain of record stores, and I know he's rolling in it.

"What?" I ask, seeing he's unhappy.

"It just." He leans back in his chair. "It doesn't feel like a victory if you're not upset."

"So you want to see me suffer. A real friend you are."

Jeff says, "Blaine shouldn't gamble for money. It doesn't affect him. No, he should gamble for something else." He's got a mischievous look on his face that's up to no good.

"Well, go on," I tell him. "Say I take my money back and lose something else instead. What do you want? A guitar? Lauren's private phone number?"

Jeff is grinning broadly while Will looks thoughtful. "Well," Jeff says in this tone, and I cut him off instantly with, "No. Fucking my girlfriend is not okay."

"Just an idea," he pouts.

"You should be so lucky."

Jeff just laughs – teasing me, the fucker. Rachel would never cheat on me. I don't need to snoop around or fear that she'll slip or give into temptation. The girl's in love with me and I make her happy. No more questions needed.

"What if I want your time?" Will asks me. "Say every ten bucks represents an hour, so twenty hours."

I laugh. "God, Will. I'm touched." He's grinning, and Sam's got a look on his face like he might see where this is going. I don't. "You want twenty hours, you've got them."

"Shake on it."

I reach over the table to grasp his hand, and the second I do, he says, "Great! Seems like I've got a new employee."

The guys burst out laughing as I pull my hand back. "What?" I seethe.

"Don't worry, I'll let you choose your own shifts."

"I am not –"

"Working at one of Will's Record Stores," he beams.

"My management will never allow it."

"You shook on it, man!" Sam laughs.

I stare at them in horror. I will be murdered there. What the fuck?

"A deal's a deal," Will says with finality, but if he thinks for a second that I will go work for him, he's kidding himself. The guys don't seem to be able to get over my sudden demotion from rock star to retail, and even Dave's grinning like I'm his colleague now, but I'm not. Jeff says that I brought this on myself. I didn't. I thought Will would want some contacts or some shit. And the album, what about the album?

"Your face right now," Sam grins. "I wish I had a camera."

"Oh!" Dave exclaims, looking overly enthusiastic in his puppy way. "Oh. Oh, you do!" He gets up quickly, chair legs scratching the floor, and he hurries to a box that he brought in earlier. "These are, uh, one of the latest features of the film project. Here. One for each." He's piled up Polaroid cameras on his arms and now passes them around.

"These are far out!" Roderick says and immediately snaps a picture of us. A small square comes out at the front of the bulky camera, and he snatches it and waves it in the air.

Dave babbles, "We thought they'd add a nice, personal touch to the documentary. You can take pictures of whatever in the studio, on tour, back home."

"Who's we?" I ask as I take mine. I'll use up the film taking pictures of myself giving the camera the middle finger.

"Kurt and me. They were his idea." Dave sits back down. "He's got some great ideas for this project. It's been great working with him." He's beaming. I'd want to laugh, but don't. He's so sweet, our Dave. Getting excited about some Kurt time. He's so clueless, our Dave, thinking that the time spent together means anything to Kurt, when I know that Kurt's completely and utterly and madly –

"Say cheese!" Jeff says and takes my picture, startling me. "Will can use this one for the employee of the month shot!"

"Die, Sterling."

They laugh.

I wonder how much time Dave and Kurt have spent together recently. It's clearly more than I thought.

Dave thinks he can take Kurt away from me? That's a laugh.

I'll show him who's running this show.

The limousine is parked in the narrow back alley, like pearl for swine. It glistens in the midnight rain, and the chauffeur is all the way at the street corner, smoking with his back turned, just like I told him to.

"Come on," I repeat, holding the door open, and Kurt laughs. He's wearing the black polo shirt that all the bar staff wear, and he clearly didn't think he'd get to spend his break like this.

"How inconspicuous," he says as he gets into the limo.

I say, "I invented subtlety," and follow. He brushes water out of his hair, eyes smirking as I close the door.

"Clearly," he says, leaning into the backseat and looking around the limo like he's a millionaire's son and used to such thrills, but then he just laughs. "Well, this is new."

The limo is Lauren's doing entirely, to transport me between the studio and my apartment with style. I don't care for it personally, but right now it has some plusses to it. "You like it?" I ask, and he just makes a funny face like he didn't expect to find himself in a limo ever. Then he focuses on me like he remembers now – me, yeah – and his eyes darken. My skin feels hot the second he touches it, crawling into my lap like a feline. His knees dig into the seat by my sides, his ass resting on my thighs.

"Don't care if this was the back of the shittiest van," he says, and Dave's van comes to mind. He leans in closer. "It's the company that matters."

He's got a point there. His lips are dry as they meet mine, and he smells like cigarettes and sweat. Not his own this time, but the general stench of the club. I don't mind it, but I much prefer him different. I love him shower fresh, when his skin feels so soft, or after sex, when he smells fucking incredible, a bit like me. I grab the back of his head and pull him in, coaxing his mouth open. He tastes like orange juice with a hint of vodka. Drinking on the job, clearly, but all of that is secondary and insignificant as I relax against him, my tongue slowly brushing over his.

Haven't seen him in two days. I hate that. Hate the waiting. Hate the thoughts that haunt me as I wait, the ones that vanish when we're reunited. It all makes sense when he's around, but when he goes, the certain things don't seem so certain anymore.

"It is suspicious," he says teasingly when he pulls back from the languid, greeting kiss. "I mean, it's better than you walking into the club, but a suit wearing chauffeur coming to collect me is probably raising eyebrows as we speak."

"At least I told him to park two blocks down," I argue, pushing closer to reconnect our lips. Dave already left the studio a few hours ago, cutting his night short like he had said he would. I made up some excuse about not feeling well and jumped ship after another day of failed recording. "I'm here to steal you away," I whisper.

"Are you now?" His tongue is slowly grazing my bottom lip as our lips hover. My heart's beating fast, a knot in my guts loosening. He sighs. "I can't. Not today. I told you."

"But I thought you were finishing early tonight."

"I am, but I've got plans." His hands are pressed against my chest, now slipping downwards to my belt. "I can, however, take an extended break." He looks wicked like a little boy about to steal something he knows isn't his. And it's not his, but he's got a pretty decent claim to it.

"What plans?" I ask, pushing his hands away. I don't mind if it's documentary stuff. We talked about it after I found out about his new job, and Kurt's hardly a co-director or co-anything – more like an errand boy. And it's not just exclusively him and Dave now that the film crew is nearly complete, and it's not like – not like I'm worried or bothered By it. I just know what day it is. I just know that his plans are not professional at all.

Hair has fallen in front of his eyes, and he doesn't say anything. He scratches his head, looking awkward. I want him to say it. "Well, it's just. Um. Sort of a special or – I mean, not special, like... special, but it's. Well, it's my anniversary with Dave, actually."

"Oh. That. Almost forgot about it."

He stares. "You know?"

"Two years." I let my thumb gently brush over his moist lower lip. "Am I right?"

He looks surprised. "Yeah." He doesn't sound sad or guilty, just taken aback. "He told you?"

"He did. You didn't."

"Well, I – I just. I didn't. I mean, should I have?"

I shrug. Maybe not. Probably not, But that's not the point. "You know you can tell me anything at all." And not mentioning implies that it means something to him. So he should tell me, tell me weeks before it happens.

"I know that." He laughs slightly, embarrassed. "It's just slightly confusing sometimes."

"I don't see what's confusing about it," I tell him flatly. There's me and Rachel, and then there's me and Kurt. They are two completely independent spheres, and I've been neglecting Rachel a hell of a lot recently. I know that. I bought her a diamond bracelet to make up for it, and then I met up with Kurt and fucked him. I don't see why Kurt would find the different spheres complicated, but at least it explains why he didn't immediately say that it was their nominal anniversary. He wasn't trying to keep it from me as such. Maybe he just doesn't know that I know full well where Dave's place in this equation is.

Before he gets to say anything else, I place one hand on the small of his back, the other wrapped around his neck, and I swiftly tip us over to lie down on the seat. I capture his lips before he can speak. His hips buck upwards, and I grind against him, hard and ruthless. His lips aren't dry anymore, but moist and sweet, a forbidden apple for me to devour. I wonder if this is what he has planned for later.

"You think he's gonna fuck you tonight?" I ask, setting up a rhythm.

"Probably," he groans, head dipping backwards and exposing a gorgeous stripe of his throat. I kiss him there, my teeth sinking in. I'd want to draw out blood but know I can't mark him. Not that visibly.

"You think he's gonna fuck you as well as I do?"

His cock is hardening in his jeans, the outline a source of pleasure as I grind down. My cock's hard, has been since we parked. "No," he gasps, and I bite on his neck. No. Of course not.

"And you'll think about me all the way through."

"I know. Fuck," he swears. His hands are uncoordinated, twisting the shirt at my back, and deep, guttural groans leave his parted lips. I could get him off right here in the back of the limousine. Could make him come without even undressing him.

"If I fucked you right now, he'd notice, wouldn't he?" My lips hover over his ear, and my tongue darts out to trace his earlobe. He shivers. It's nonsensical, the way we can turn each other on. Anything. Toe sucking, thigh Biting. Touch. As long as there's touch. "He'd notice you all slick and loose. He'd smell me all fucking over you."

"Yes," he gasps, and I feel dark. Whatever it is, it's dark, a sensation deep in my guts. Wanting to be a presence that lingers on him wherever he goes. Making it impossible for him to forget. And, most of all, others could sense it too. Backing off, knowing that this one is off limits.

Why would he find any of this confusing? I've never known anything as crystal clear in my life.

He's hard as hell now, like I knew he'd be. I kiss him hard, my tongue pushing in, and I grind against him harder, faster, adding a circular movement that causes him to mumble incomprehensibly.

Then I stop.

He gasps for air, pupils blown. My hand slides down his side, feeling his taunt body, the way it curves, the muscle and bone. I remain above him but lift myself to lose the body contact. "I don't want this," I tell him, and he looks confused. "Getting you off on your break in the backseat of a car. We're not goddamned teenagers."

"It was working for me," he says, voice husky. "And, you know, this is a limo. That makes it all kinds of classy, it almost –"

"I want to fuck you. In my Bed. Want you on your hands and knees, your hands bound to the headboard, and then I want to fuck you. For hours. Won't let you come no matter how close you get. Want to do it tonight. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Tonight. That's what I want." I swallow hard, reassemble my thoughts. "Thing is, you can't be in two places at once."

He's reached down to rub himself, clearly hoping to get off as I fill his head with visuals that drive me just as insane. I snatch his hand. "Nuh uh."

He groans in frustration. "You're such a prick."

"Can be, yeah." I stare down at him. Wait for an answer. "Come to my place after work."

I don't add please.

"B, I told you..." he whispers. I hope that he feels the longing that I feel. Of course – of course – he does. He wouldn't have to stay all night, and he could come up with excuses. A co-worker had to go home early because they got sick, Kurt had to stay behind and cover for them, and so on, and so on. It comes down to what he chooses. Who he chooses. He says a quiet and breathless, "Alright."

Alright. Good choice. That's a damn fantastic choice.

"I'll be waiting, then," I tell him, ignoring the rather strong sense of accomplishment. Not like I'm surprised that he chose me.

We get out of the limo, him having fixed his appearance the best he can. "See you," he tells me, plain flirtatious and eyes sparkling. I smirk after him, my gaze focusing on his ass as he goes. God damn.

When the driver comes back, I nod after Kurt and say, "My dealer." The driver's expression clears up like it finally makes sense to him, what just happened, and he looks the tiniest bit relieved.

I stay by the doorway, watching him play. His shoulder blades move as his fingers dance over the keys, peaceful and beautiful. He hasn't switched on the lights, but an orange glow shines in from the street. The white bed sheet has looped around his waist. I must have fallen asleep, woken up in a dream.

He doesn't hear me crossing the room as he plays. The music woke me up in the first place. It's classical music, Chopin, and he's not just playing any piece by the Pole, but the one. The only piece of music that kept playing in my head for weeks after the crash: Nocturne No.2 in E flat.

It doesn't have the chilling effect on me that it once had. By playing it, he's attaching the music to something else. To this moment instead. And I much prefer this moment.

His fingers come to a graceful stop, gently resting on the keys. He stills like he stops existing when the music does. Ivory skin, chestnut hair, and the shadows dance on the contours of his back.

"Hey."

He starts and looks over his shoulder. "Hi. Shit, sorry if I woke you, I –"

"I'm glad you did."

He smiles, looking embarrassed. "How long you been standing there?" He sounds shy, almost, his hands withdrawing from the keys. As I walk over, he reaches out to press a hand against my Bare stomach, his thumb absently brushing the waistband of my boxers.

"Long enough." I brush stray hairs behind his ear. "You sound good."

"I'm really rusty."

"Could've fooled me. Move over." He obeys, and I sit on the bench next to him, our bare shoulders pressing together.

"I haven't gotten the chance to play in a long time," he says, still trying to explain it when he doesn't have to.

"Don't let me stop you," I say quietly. He hesitates for a second before his fingers land on the keys once more, and he begins to play. Not Chopin this time. Something else. Something his. I don't know how I know it, but I do. That this one, this particular one, he composed himself. It doesn't last for long, maybe a minute, his hands gliding over the keys masterfully, and then he stops like he doesn't remember the rest anymore. There's nothing he isn't amazing at. "You're a great pianist."

He shrugs like he's not so sure. "Mama taught me." His words sound strained. It takes an effort, mentioning his mom at all. I see him there: aged ten, crooked glasses, overgrown hair, sitting next to his mom on the bench the way we are now. He was trying to take in the information. Start from somewhere. Für Elise, most likely. He was trying so hard to get it right. Please his dear mother, who looked on with pride.

I press my nose against his shoulder, breathe him in. Let him know he's still here and he's fine. We shouldn't think about her and what happened. What matters is where we are, and he's with me, and he's fine now.

"You should have it."

"Have what?"

"The piano." I press a kiss to his slightly clammy skin. "I'll give it to you."

He laughs softly. "I wonder what Dave would think of that."

I move closer to him, placing a trail of kisses from his shoulder to his neck and up to his cheek. He sighs placidly, turns his head towards me, his lips meeting mine softly. "He'd think that you've sure got one very appreciative lover," I whisper, our lips slowly brushing.

He smiles, his fingertips dancing on the back of my neck. "That's a theory."

I feel light-headed and well-grounded at the same time, a sensation of being stupid and carefree yet blessed as we laugh against each other's mouths. We don't talk about them. The others. Not really. We know they're there, of course we do, and we don't pretend they're not. It wouldn't be an affair if the others slipped our minds. If we could pretend it's just us. We get close to the point sometimes, but we've never fully crossed the line. Or at least he hasn't.

He focuses on the piano again, brows knitting together. I ask, "Was that your own music you just played?"

"Yeah."

"It was good."

He looks shy. "Thanks. With the documentary money coming in, I'm going to put some aside. Book a studio to do a proper demo this spring. I haven't had the time to jam with Ian in forever, but we'll get on it." It sounds like he wants me to know he's going somewhere with it all. That he has plans. Bartending might not be a huge step from waiting tables, but he's got a changed mentality now. Ideas brewing under his skin. I can sense it.

"Well, I know studios. If you want me to make a few calls –"

He instantly stops playing. "No." He sounds stern and his eyes narrow as he looks at me.

"No what?"

"No charity."

"It wouldn't be charity to help out a friend," I argue. "You're busy right now. You could do with a helping hand. I mean, there's the bartending, the documentary work, the gig promotion, then me..."

"You take up a lot of time," he smirks.

"Why rush a good thing?" I ask quietly with a kiss pressed to his jaw where the stubble tickles my lips.

"Maybe because I need to go home soon," he says. And I know. Of course I know, living on borrowed time. He's already late beyond a perfect excuse, and I wonder what he'll say, how he'll cover it up. He has to go. It always ends the exact same way.

"I'll give you money for a cab."

"Blaine –"

"It's late, you're late, and Brooklyn's far away." He looks displeased, and I press a random key to distract myself. "You think he'll give you a hard time for it?"

"He'll be pissed off." He sounds matter-of-factly and not particularly worried by the prospect. "Let's not talk about it, though." I have no problem with that. "And I can find my own way home."

"Just money for a cab, Kurt."

He sits up straighter like he wants to appear taller than he is. "I don't need anyone to take care of me."

"I know that." My fingers meet his on the keys, and my thumb brushes over his knuckles. "But that doesn't mean you shouldn't let me."

"Well," he says, getting up and grabbing the sheets, keeping them around his lower half. "You take care of my orgasms. That's doing a lot already as it is." He smirks down at me, and I let him cross the room, the dimples above his behind visible as the sheets pool down at his back. His bare feet barely make a sound as he moves.

The music room feels pathetically empty the second he leaves it.

When I join him, he's looking for his clothes in the bedroom, having discarded the sheet. I see his shirt peaking from under a pillow. The bed looks like it's been hit by an atom bomb. We made a mess. I love it when we do. He swears under his breath when he sees the time on the nightstand clock, But I don't feel guilty. Not really. I don't lose if he has a fight with Dave. On the contrary.

He looks like an apparition in my bedroom, and my gaze focuses on his perfect, pale ass. I smirk, reaching for the Polaroid camera that I haven't done anything with yet, simply having dumped it on top of the dresser on the day Dave gave it to me. "Hey," I call out, and Kurt turns around, hair sticking out all over. I snap his picture before he can react.

His eyes widen. "You did not just –"

"Polaroids. Your idea, huh?" I take the picture coming out at the front, still grinning.

"I'm naked."

"Oh trust me, I know."

"Give it to me!"

"No." I snap another.

It ends up in a scuffle and us rolling on the bed, laughing as he attempts to get the pictures from my grip, but I don't let him. Memories. Something to look at when he's gone. Just some proof. "You fucking cunt," he swears when he realizes he's lost and is beneath me and still naked but now hard just like I am. We reach for each other simultaneously, the air full of the urgency of a half-desperate quickie.

A damn good anniversary if you ask me.

I am fifteen minutes late to Will's Record Store on my first day, and I'm late on goddamn purpose.

Will ended up making some concessions for my punishment. Although I tried, I couldn't weasel out of it altogether. He's put me to work in the original Will's Record Store and none of the bigger ones that get more customers. This one is the safest option, although I fully resent twenty hours of honest work. Me? Slaving away like a commoner? Unheard of.

Lauren was appalled enough when she found out, and I could just say no. I could. But if I don't do it, the guys will never let me hear the end of it. Better deal with this punishment, get it over and done with, and tell them it was nothing. Emerge on the other side as victorious.

But what makes this spectacle even worse is that Dave Karofsky is, for this lousy afternoon, my superior.

He doesn't act like it, thankfully, as he brings us cups of coffee from the backroom and shows me around the shop. It's a tiny place with past and upcoming tour posters on the walls, the small counter located in the back with the door to the backroom behind it, and everything in between is filled with records, new and second-hand. The second-hand ones are in unorganized stacks, but the new vinyl records are in alphabetical order. Dave emphasizes how important Will thinks it is.

"Bands starting with 'The' are in whatever comes after. So, The Warblers, you will find in W." Dave pulls out our first album, stares at it in awe for a second, then snaps out of it and puts it away nervously. "Then artists go by surname. Harry Nilsson is in –"

"N."

"Exactly."

The job is a demotion, certainly, and I dread someone walking in and recognizing me. It will happen. Of course it will, and if word spreads that I'm apparently working at Will's, I'll end up dealing with fans all day long. That's the real punishment, and we all know it.

But at least I don't have to be in the studio. My so-called shifts are irregular, but they will take away studio time. I don't have to be there, snapping at Jeff that he's doing it wrong, telling Roderick that he's a talentless nobody and informing Sam that this is not what we talked about.

The music isn't working out. We've put so much effort into the preparations, practicing, fine-tuning, and now the sound we're producing is incongruous. It's like we've hit a brick wall. Bob keeps saying that he thinks it sounds good, but Sam was man enough to admit that it's not what he had in mind. Maybe it's not them. Maybe it's the music. We worked on it for so long that we outgrew it.

I don't know what we're doing wrong, and surprisingly, Will's Record Store feels like a breath of fresh air. The store is empty because it's not open yet. Dave sits behind the counter, sipping coffee and clearly trying to wake up some. He looks exhausted. He's lost weight too. He's working himself to death, as he should. My cup rests on the counter as I stand on the other side.

"You know how to work the register?" Dave asks, and of course I do. "You need to write down whatever you sell here, that way we know which ones are selling and what we need to order more of." Dave sounds like he's stuck trying to think of what to say. He didn't have that problem when we first met, right on this same spot. He couldn't shut the fuck up. Back then I had no idea who he was. Back then Kurt was loyal to him for whatever reason. I didn't have much of a chance at first, but I prevailed. I won. I got the boy. Dave still hasn't realized it, doesn't have a clue, and that's exactly why I ended up winning. For being more observant. For being smarter.

He says, "I'd like to interview you sometime soon." He looks down at his coffee when he says it.

"There's no rush."

He falls silent like I killed the conversation he hoped to start. After an uncomfortable silence, he says, "I interviewed some of the fans that are staying outside the studio. I thought it'd add a nice contrast." He scratches his chin. "Some of them are kind of intense. I mean... some of them are really obsessed." He looks up with wondering eyes. "How does that make you feel?"

"Sounds like an interview question."

He laughs. "Yeah, I guess." He checks his wristwatch, and I see the small hand slowly getting closer to the hour. I haven't been up this early since 1969.

"So did you and Kurt have a good anniversary last week?" I ask conversationally with enough boredom to indicate that our dead conversation is the only thing pushing me to ask about something as dull as Dave's boyfriend. Dave's expression darkens. "Aw," I say. "Don't tell me you had a fight."

Please, please tell me you had one hell of a row. I can only gain from their strained relations.

"It was nothing," he says, shrugging it off. Sure it was nothing, Kurt vanishing under the radar for unexplained hours. Maybe I can get Dave to leave Kurt – well, maybe. Dave keeps looking at Kurt so fucking adoringly that it's not likely. And I don't need them to break up, of course not. It hardly matters that they share a refrigerator and possibly a toothbrush. "He got stuck at work," Dave shrugs, and I fight off the self-satisfied grin. At work, was he? Kurt could get away with murder. "He made up for it, though." Dave's eyeing a copy of the staff list that he's taken out, focused on it while every hair on my skin seems to be sticking out suddenly.

"He did?"

"Yeah." Dave looks up eventually and seems surprised that I'm staring at him, waiting. "Oh. Um."

"I didn't mean to pry," I say instantly with a short laugh. "You don't wanna tell me, I get it. Not my business." I push just the right buttons, too, because Dave looks alarmed, worried that he's pissed me off when all he wants to do is please.

"He just prepared a romantic dinner for two the other night, that's all."

"That's... nice." I force out the words. Nice in the way that a lobotomy must be nice. "Roses and candles? The whole nine yards?"

"Yeah."

Roses, candles and the whole nine yards. The other night? But... Kurt said that he was working. I rake through my brain, and he definitely said he would be working at the club, but now Dave is telling me that he wasn't. He was at home, winning Dave back over with roses, candles and the lot, like sweaty love-making and marinara sauce, attending to all of Dave's needs.

I asked Kurt if he was free. I ask him the same question about every damn day. He said he wasn't free because he was working. He lied. That's alright, we all lie, but he lied to me. Since when has he done that? Because there are the others, the ones we're fooling, and then there's us, who know the truth. The truth about me and him. The truth about us. Romantic dinners with Dave do not fit into that equation.

"Time to open up," Dave smiles, finishing the rest of his coffee. He rounds the counter and heads for the door, pushing hair behind his ears, and there's a bruise right there below his left ear. Kurt likes biting down there when he comes. I know that.

Dave knows that.

A few kids stroll into the shop, and Dave flips the Open/Closed sign.

He and I have more in common than I'm willing to admit.