Chapter 11: No Beginnings

The branches of the pine trees are drooping down with a heavy coat of snow, and it reminds me of the early sixties when I'd stand on this porch as an entirely different person. I was only a child, my nose cold, watching the snowfall. It wasn't much different from Ohio, really. But the excitement of waking up in the early hours of the morning for a road trip in the middle of nowhere to spend some time with my father meant everything to me, and the one good thing that my old man ever managed to do for me was to bring me up here every winter. It taught me one thing at the age of six: there was a world outside Westerville.

I have nothing in common with that little boy anymore, nothing but some scrapes of a shared past. Then the music happened, and LA happened, and the band happened, and the drugs and the booze and the women and the paralyzing realization that it couldn't last forever and that it just might kill me before the inevitable end, and every day it became more crystalized that I didn't want what I had gained. I think I'm on the right path now. I think I might be.

The two cars we rented stand outside the cabin, both covered in the snow that fell earlier. Our steps have trampled the snow and made paths here and there, and everyone else is asleep, but I can't. I keep smoking, wrapped up in Jeff's jacket, watching the way the trees sway in the mild, midnight breeze. It's not that cold, fifteen degrees, maybe. The air's got enough bite to feel on my skin, but I'm not giving up yet.

I keep humming a song in my head, a song that didn't exist when we got here a bit over a week ago. It's now my favorite song, and I like humming it, like going to my notebook and changing the lyrics here and there. We've got it on tape now, another one ticked off, but I'll keep working on the lyrics until last minute.

The music isn't turning me into an insomniac. We've scrapped some of the songs and brought some other ones back to life. And they sound like they should, so they're not keeping me awake. Sam said that we've been here for ten days. I don't see time as days, but simply as time: an endless string of hours, no beginnings, no ends. It's a blur of writing music and drinking with the guys and getting the firewood done, and I haven't been counting. Counting is remembering, and I don't need to be reminded. I feel his absence, anyway.

They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. They never mentioned that absence makes you feel like you're walking around dismembered.

"For someone who lived in LA for a decade, I'm impressed by how you handle the cold," Sam's voice comes, and I look over my shoulder to see the cabin door open. A light is on in the kitchen, casting shadows on the porch. That's one of the biggest changes from my childhood: electricity. It's like a different cabin altogether. In my memories, it was damp and cold and smelled of dead animals. Now the large pantry is a guest room, the fireplace in the lounge is actually working, and the two bedrooms in the back have new, wider beds, and none of the floorboards are loose. It's all new and pleasant, and the guys don't seem to realize that it was never pleasant before.

"I've got surprises up my sleeves," I say, watching Sam wrap his jacket around himself tighter.

"You alright?" he asks me, and I nod. I'm alright. More now than ever. I get out my cigarette pack, but he rejects it with his palm faced my way. "Shouldn't," he says, and I shrug and put it back in my jean pocket. Our breaths rise into the air and my fingers feel stiff, but nothing can shift the tranquility of our surroundings right now.

"You okay?" I now ask in return, because Sam did go to bed. He's sharing with Jeff and complained on our second morning here that Jeff always ends up draping all over him. Roderick kept laughing while I just wondered if Jeff seriously was trying to hit on Sam. Sam seemed annoyed enough without even knowing Jeff has a habit of sleeping with men. Roderick's in the pantry, or the converted guest room, I suppose, with its narrow single bed, and I've got my old man's room. You'd think that lying there would evoke bad spirits, his spirit, a ghost clinging onto me, but it hasn't been like that at all. Nothing happens. I look at the corners, waiting for something to step out of the shadows, but nothing ever does.

It's like it's really over now. The past has really died.

Sam sighs slightly. "Jeff's snoring."

I laugh and suck on my cigarette. "Yeah, he tends to do that." Sam quirks an eyebrow at me, and I say, "You think we've never passed out on each other?"

"Point taken." He still looks uneasy, like he has been discovering his losses while I've been discovering my gains.

"I know what's up," I tell him.

"I know, I know," he says quickly, the words rushed. He grimaces slightly. "It's hard to explain, man. I've spent a decade with Mercedes, and I know you and – and Jeff think it's dull, makes me dull, or –"

"Sam, man, we've never –"

"– but she's my soulmate. You know? And I miss her. We don't even have a telephone here, have to drive down to town to call her. I love hanging out with you guys, but I'm not in love with you, am I?" he asks, laughing a tad miserably. "You spend that much time with someone, it's hard to function without them."

"You should marry her, then."

"Oh, I plan to. Trust me, I will." He sounds so certain that I smile despite myself, and he glares at me, but he's not really mad. "Sounds naïve to you, but that's because you're a cynic, Blaine Anderson."

"I'm mortally wounded by such accusations."

"Like anything could ever get to you," he says and rubs his nose that's reddening in the cold.

"Something just might one day," I say, the cigarette finishing, and I flick it over the railing to the snow. I stuff my hands into the jacket pockets as I blow out the last of the smoke. It's thicker than our breaths, than the carbon dioxide we emit around us.

I only half-lied to Sam. I would have lied fully had he let me finish the sentence. Jeff's often said that Sam's done for, tamed and so on and so forth, but if Sam's too monogamous, Jeff's promiscuity certainly compensates. Jeff gets along well with Mercedes because Jeff gets along with everyone, and Jeff doesn't mean to be cruel when he talks about Sam's ball and chain. He likes Cedes. Cedes still doesn't like me, but I hardly ever see her so it's not an issue. Stealing Sam away up to the cabin probably isn't making me any shinier in her eyes either. I'm sure I've said some nasty things about their relationship too, in a drunken or drugged up haze, or even when sober, just to make a point of me not having to leave band practice because my girlfriend's best friend's brother's cat needs feeding or some other chore that only comes about in a well-established relationship. But we don't think Sam is dull because of it. We don't think he's less than what he is. Hell, it makes him who he is, and the last time I checked, Jeff and I both loved the man.

We're just assholes, Jeff and I.

"So what's up with you?" he asks, and when I give him a 'what do you mean' eyebrow lift, he says, "You know. You." I remain as confused as before. "You've been acting weird all week. Or, well. You've been acting weird all year come to think of it, but even more so lately. I can't decide if it's good or bad."

"The world's pretty black and white to you, huh?" I ask just to change the subject. He's not stupid. He knows I'm changing the subject.

"I'll figure it out eventually," he says, but I know that he won't. I'm not about to tell him, and he could never put the puzzle pieces together himself. He shivers slightly. "How long do you think we'll still be here?"

"Two weeks, maybe. The music is..."

"Yeah. Yeah, fuck. The music's really coming together, huh?" he asks, eyes shining and a proud smile emerging on his lips. He still trusts me, even if he knows there's a lot I'm not including him in. He's included in the music, and that's the most important part of our friendship. And I'm not sure if it's the stress-free environment or the painkillers I take four times a day behind the guys' backs, but my arm has no longer been acting out either. "It makes all the bad stuff worth it," Sam says. "I don't mean to sound like I'm pining away here, but man, going to bed and having Jeff molesting me in my sleep? Makes me miss Cedes in ways I didn't know I could miss her. But the music makes it all worthwhile. We keep writing songs like these, I'll happily stay until the end of the century."

"We won't need that much time. Two weeks."

"Maybe longer if we don't get anything done over the next few days," he says. We had a band meeting earlier, and we agreed to take it easy for a while, provide enough material for the documentary, sure, but also take it easy, kick back, drink too much and go to bed when the sun rises. "Dave's coming in the morning then, yeah? Did Roderick say he'd pick them up?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think he did," I say, nodding excessively, the butterflies now there, and Sam probably thinks that I don't understand and can't relate, but he has no idea.

"Far out," he smiles. "Well, don't stay out here for too long or you'll freeze to death."

"I'll make sure I won't." I push my hands deeper into the pockets, giving Sam a goodnight nod as he heads back inside. My fingers touch something papery in the left pocket, and I pull it out as Sam closes the door quietly. It's a Polaroid picture, a thin square thing in Jeff's pocket. It's been taken in the studio control room, half of Bob's face in it, Sam with his back turned, but they're not the point, the focus or the meaning. It's a picture of Lauren and me. Jeff did say that he approved of that leather skirt, and Lauren told him to back off, and there was nothing unusual in any of it. As for me, it was a day like any other. Jeff took the picture at some point without any of us realizing. Lauren's laughing in the shot, and I'm grinning at her.

I don't know if Lauren's the point or if I'm the point. Either way, I get the uncomfortable feeling of knowing too much, and I quickly put the Polaroid back into Jeff's pocket.

If Jeff and I are assholes about Sam's relationship, it's just because we're jealous.

The table in the kitchen is the same. The wonky, crude letters are the same, made by a knife and an eight-year-old's determination and boredom: B.D.A. III. Dad gave me a beating when he saw what I had done to the table. I deserved it, to be fair. I place the plate over the letters carefully, the piece of toast nothing to cheer about, but I'm more focused on the voices outside: laughter, car doors, steps on the porch.

I don't know why I'm nervous or buzzing like this, why I've been nervous all damn morning, my pulse picking up steadily. Now I hide in the kitchen and wait. The door opens in the lounge. Footsteps. Banging to get the snow off. Jeff's explanatory voice of "this is the lounge, sorry about the mess", but of course it's a mess with all of our music gear stuffed into a single room, and a familiar, "Oh wow, it's so cozy," and how nice that Dave approves, and I strain my hearing, frozen to my seat in the kitchen, and Roderick asks if he can take one of the bags, and Sam says that he'll go get the suitcase from the car, and the commotion keeps going, their voices and footsteps and the showing to their rooms, and then it quiets down again, their voices muffled as a bedroom door closes, and they're all convened there now, and –

"I like your place."

I look up, and he's in the doorway, smiling. He's unbuttoned his coat, but he's wearing red mittens I've never seen before, and they look slightly ridiculous on him if it weren't for how they look perfect. His smile reaches his sparkling eyes, and I read the unspoken message, a simple 'Hey'.

I lean back in my chair, a rush of blood in my ears. Ten days, Sam said. I didn't count because you can't count infinity.

"Hey," I whisper. And it all locks into place.

"So it's done?" I ask, and he nods. We're at the start of the hallway that leads from the lounge to the bedrooms, and he's leaning against the wall while I mimic him, our socked toes almost touching. "How'd it go?"

"It was – God, it was incredible," he says, clearly wanting to gush about it but not being able to. The others are spread out in the living room, Dave taking out his equipment and explaining how it works to an intrigued Jeff as Sam and Roderick laugh over the beers they're having. "And Bob was so helpful, the man was amazing, and it turned out so good, I can't tell you. And Bob said he liked it. He honestly said it was really good," he beams, but I'm not at all surprised. I knew it'd be amazing. Everything he does just about is. "I brought you a copy."

"Oh yeah?"

"You deserve to be among the first ones to hear it," he says, and we can't seem to take our eyes off each other. My hands are stuffed into my pockets because when they weren't, they kept trying to reach out on their own accord, grab his hand, pull him over, kiss him on the lips, entwine myself around him, not caring that everyone's here. "When Ian saw the studio, he just about died."

"What'd you tell him?"

He shrugs. "Something about winning it in a card game against you. To be fair, I don't think he cared much for the how, he was just excited to –"

"What you two talking about?" Roderick asks, and Kurt looks over his shoulder into the lounge as I see the guys all looking our way now. I don't know how obvious it is, the body language, how subtle, because Kurt's got his hips cocked in this certain way that I know is an invitation, and I know I can't take my eyes off of him.

"Hunting," I reply, and Sam looks slightly skeptical.

"Now this," Jeff says, drawing the attention back to himself. He's pointing at a button on the video camera he's got on his lap. "What does this one do?"

Dave and the others focus on the technology once more. Jeff's the best accomplice I've ever had.

"So where's this demo?" I ask quietly, and Kurt nods towards the bedrooms. "Lead the way."

He takes one look at my band and his boyfriend and then heads down the hall to Sam and Jeff's room, where their bags are for now. They're only staying for four days. It was Roderick's idea, actually. When the music started flowing, he just said that it felt like the kind of thing that should be on the documentary, and Jeff called Lauren the next time we went to town, Dave plus one because we have no room. I don't know if Kurt volunteered or if Dave chose him for selfish reasons, but it hardly matters because Kurt is now here. The sleeping arrangements are still obscure, but Dave brought sleeping bags so the lounge will probably be left to Dave. And, well, Kurt, though I want him in my bed. Maybe if I told Dave that, look, man to man here, I want to borrow your boyfriend for the night. Don't make a big deal out of it, Karofsky – you don't own him. No one does, but we're having fun trying, aren't we?

Kurt opens up a battered suitcase on Jeff and Sam's bed – clothes and some books – and then he finds a tape somewhere between rolled up sock pairs. I close the door behind us as he turns back around.

"Here," he says, exhaling heavily, and he looks nervous and excited as he passes the tape to me. "It's, um, it's just the four songs that we did, and they're not final versions or anything, but it's something, right? At least it's something, and –"

I kiss him, my hand taking a fistful of his shirt. Been wanting to kiss him since he arrived, since I left New York. He sighs against my lips, his arms wrapping around my neck. The tape presses into the small of his back as I place a hand there, keeping him close. "I'm sure the songs are unbelievably good," I say, our noses brushing together, and I could count the lashes that are dark against his cheeks, could count the shades of green and blue and grey in his eyes, my lips barely touching his. "You have any idea how much I missed you?" I ask, and he laughs like he's embarrassed.

"How much?" he asks, and I kiss him again, now with more force, putting everything into it. I wrap my arms around his waist, pulling him closer until we're pressed together, and he feels amazing in my arms, and Sam's words echo in my head, and that's it, that's what this is.

Voices right outside the door tear us apart, and a second later the door opens. I'm still wiping my mouth as Sam says, "You guys want beers or..." His voice fades away, and his brows knit together. "You alright?"

"Yeah," I say while Kurt nods, "Yeah, definitely. Just fine."

"Right. Okay. Um, so the beers?"

Kurt looks at me, eyebrows raised to his hairline. "Beers. Yeah, that'd be great."

"Wouldn't say no," I concur, and as Kurt follows Sam back to the lounge, I quickly go drop off the tape in my room, where I put it on the nightstand, placing my notebook on top. Never to be lost or misplaced.

The guys make an extensive shopping list now that there are two more mouths to feed and since we're out of food again. Kurt sits on the same couch as Dave, but they don't touch, and Jeff asks if anyone else wants chicken except for him. Kurt looks tense now, thanks to Sam's sudden invasion, no doubt, but Sam is just helping Jeff with the list, saying that he's definitely going because he wants to call Mercedes, and Dave's volunteered to drive because he's the only one who hasn't had anything to drink today.

"Blaine, are you coming?" Dave asks me, and I lean my shoulder against the fireplace mantle, slowly sipping my beer. I look out of the window where it's still light, but in a few hours the sun will set. I shake my head slowly.

"I was thinking I'd stay behind too," Kurt says. "I'm exhausted from the flight, and –"

"Yeah, of course," Dave cuts him off, tone laced in worry. Dave's placed a hand on Kurt's knee, squeezing it affectionately.

"Guess the three of us will hold up the fort then," Roderick says, and my eyes focus on my drummer, who has glasses low on his nose and is wearing an ugly sweater with a moose on the front, which is perfect for our location but looks like it was made by his blind grandmother. Roderick smiles at me, not that awed smile anymore because it's worn off. It's the smile of a good friend, but right now Roderick really needs to be able to read the 'no' that should be visible on my face.

"Roderick, don't tell me you're abandoning me," Jeff says miserably. "You know that Dave and Sam are going to talk about politics the entire drive, and I'll die of boredom. Roderick, cariño, amor, amor de mi vida..."

Roderick laughs, abashed, and shakes his head. "I really don't –"

"You should go," I say. That's all I say. Roderick looks at me like he's suddenly reminded of who he's dealing with, and his cheeks flush slightly. "Keep Jeffito there some company."

"Thank you! Glad someone's on my side," Jeff says firmly.

"Sure. Okay. I'll go," Roderick mumbles.

Kurt's quick to disappear, saying that he's taking a shower and then a nap, and the guys pull on boots and wrap themselves in their thick jackets, checking five times that someone's got the list and that acceptably obscene amounts of alcohol and cigarettes have been written down. Dave goes to start up the car, and I stand in the open doorway, wrapping my arms around myself as the cold hits me. Roderick is behind the car, signaling Dave where and how to reverse. It's started snowing heavily, and the sky is giving us all it's got, like it knows that it won't get another chance for such a display until next winter.

Jeff stands next to me, zipping up his jacket. "I'll try not to hurry back," he says, keeping his eyes on the car that's now turning the right way round. He's not looking at me, but he looks like he wants some acknowledgement.

"Thanks."

"Eh," he shrugs. "What wouldn't I do for my brothers, right?"

Brothers. I don't know if he believes that or if he's trying to throw me off the scent. I wouldn't want to know the truth in any case.

He gets out a cigarette pack, winks at me, and descends the porch steps. I turn back to the lounge, and Sam's standing by one of the couches, kicking back into motion when our eyes meet. "I'll see you later, then," he says, Roderick calling for him to hurry up.

"Yeah, man." He squeezes past me, and I say, "Remember the vodka."

I stay in the doorway until the four of them have crammed into the car and the backlights have vanished down the narrow and windy road towards the main road. It's already getting darker, and the wind is picking up, and I close the door before the entire cabin feels like Antarctica.

And then they're gone at last, and we're alone.

It's quiet. It's absolutely quiet. No music, no Jeff, no sirens. My steps sound loud in my ears as I cross the room, and as I approach the back of the cabin, I hear running water. I see it in my mind's eye already: transparent drops rolling past his shoulders, down his back, his chest.

I stop outside the bathroom door. It doesn't have a lock, it never did. I undress myself. That's how he should always be approached because that's what will always happen in the end: he'll strip you bare.

The bathroom is steamy, and the shower curtain shows a blurry silhouette of him standing in the tub, and my heart feels heavy, beating dark in my chest. I close the door quietly, breathing in the steam as I walk over. I draw the curtain aside. He doesn't flinch or startle. He's facing me, and lather has caught at his left ear and he doesn't seem to be aware of it. His lips turn upwards into a smile, and the want and the urgency, they've never felt as burning, and still I have all the time in the world.

"C'mere," he says. I step in, and my hand slides across his stomach.

"I do get to worry," he argues, snuggled beneath a dozen blankets "It's a fucking storm out there."

"Precisely," I say from my couch. "Would they start driving back in weather like this? No. They really wouldn't." Which is why it's ridiculous we're on different couches. Even with all of Jeff's diversions, they should have been back at least two hours ago. It's dark outside, and the wind is rattling the windows while the fireplace keeps flickering and radiating warmth into the room. "They're not coming back tonight."

"But what if a tree fell on the car or something?" he asks, forehead wrinkled in worry.

I brought the radio through from the kitchen, and Howlin' Wolf is playing Smokestack Lightning, and he's howling his blues, alright, downright howling, "Oh tell me, baby, where did ya stay last night?" We're waiting for the local news, but I already know what happened: they drove into town, and then the blizzard started. They decided to try and wait it out, but it only got worse, and the inn's right in the center, and it certainly isn't full this time of year, and that's where they are. They'll drive back up tomorrow morning. We've got all night, him and I, but he's perched on the couch, telling me to stay on the other one just in case they come back because we wouldn't hear them coming what with the wind being so loud.

The seven o'clock news start, the transmission rattling and crackling, but the male voice is comprehensible enough. When he says, "Highway 83 is closed off north of Wilton due to heavy snowfall that has stopped all traffic –" I say, "See? I told you so."

He breathes out slowly, relaxing. "Well, as long as they're alright and not stranded out there."

"They're fine," I say for the hundredth time just as the newscaster says that the road should be reopened by noon tomorrow. "Now can I sit on the same couch as you?"

"No. You have cold fingers."

"Do not," I argue, pressing the pads of my fingers into my palms, trying to get the blood circulating a bit better. "We've got a cabin in the woods, a roaring fire, and not a single soul miles around. This could be a damn romantic evening if you just let me sit over there."

He laughs. "We don't do romantic, Blaine."

I don't see why not.

His worry seems to subside, however, now that he knows there is a good reason for the guys not having returned. I pick up our former conversation, his demo tape still in the recorder. I listened to it five times in a row while he sat on the couch, trying to hide behind the blankets, his cheeks tinged red. "You've got an incredible voice," I say. He looks pleased but also like my words are too good to be true. "I haven't heard anyone ever sing like that. It's something new. Something groundbreaking. You're using your voice as its own instrument."

The music isn't anything I'd write. Sam once said that my music is "brooding", even when it's a full on rock explosion like it often was with The Warblers. The dark aura has always been there in my work, and I know that. Kurt's music doesn't have that. His music is lighter, something you might hear on the radio, more commercial sounding. A pop rock feel to the songs. But then you listen to the lyrics and realize he's trying to say something. It's a blend of styles, and I remember what I told him and Ian on their mic night: it's got potential. It's got a fuck load of potential because it's good.

"I'm glad you like it," he says, smiling slightly as his eyes are fixed on the live flames. "That's pretty cool. You're talented, so. That's a good sign. That you like it."

"My opinion's worth shit. People just think I'm smart and knowledgeable because I'm famous."

"It still means something to me."

My chest expands for no obvious reason.

"I want more copies of your demo. I want to pass it onto people." I already said this too, halfway through the second song on our first listen. Sure, he could put tapes in envelopes and mail them to labels, have the tape piled up under dozens of other tapes to be listened to at some point. But he doesn't have to. He doesn't because he's got me, and I know people, and he deserves to skip the queues and the bureaucracy and the middlemen. I'm not saying I can get him signed. I'm saying that I know people who can, and that my word has weight in it.

"Blaine, I don't know if –"

"You want this. Don't you?"

"I wanted it when I was younger. Then I realized it was just a silly dream. We can't all be rock stars, can we? So I let it go. Focused on what my life really was. Then I toured with The Warblers, and I... I found myself writing songs again. I'd seen that it could be done. The dream could be attained, but... maybe I'm just too old now." His tone is testing the waters, a bit embarrassed like people are sometimes when they're honest and say that, yes, really, they want to become astronauts or models. Really. Sometimes it takes as much balls to say what you want to do as to really go for it.

"You're twenty-five. There's still time to change the road you're on."

He grins, and his face turns mock serious. "And when I'm famous, I'm bu-uy-ing a stairway to heaven."

"Good plan. That's what you should do." He laughs, but I don't mean to distract him from the point or let him change the subject. "Look, all I can do is give the demo to a few guys, who might listen to it, might not, might pass it on, might not. What do you have to lose?"

He shrugs, looking small. "I don't know." It sounds like he wants to say 'a lot', but I can't imagine what that could be. Bartending at the club or doing his non-profit internship for the promotion company? I know he has had his heart set on making his own connections, making it without any help, but I'm only trying to speed up his inevitable discovery. The Warblers had help, too – Seb slept with the daughter of a label's CEO, and she slipped our demo on top of the pile. No one in the business comes out clean, and me helping Kurt out if I can is pretty innocent compared to what some people have done.

"Okay. I guess," he sighs.

"Well, good. That's settled, then. Also, I have to say that I'm making my move now. Just warning you."

"What?"

"Gonna invade your couch and join you under those blankets. Then I'll fake a yawn and stretch to wrap my arm around you and then I'll try to get you to make out with me a little bit."

"Like we're googly-eyed teenagers, huh?"

"Pretty much, yeah," I say, and I love the way I can make him laugh, when he thinks I'm being a moron, and I swear I don't make such lame passes at others, but I know he'll laugh and that's why I do it.

These days, that's why I do everything I do.

The curtains are new, a pale yellow and too bright with the morning sun shining through them. The darkness has passed, the storm has subsided, the wind has settled down. It looks like the world has started new, and it's decided to be as beautiful as it can this time.

It's still too early for me to greet it, and I close my eyes. Kurt's back is pressed against my chest, and he's breathing evenly in his sleep. We're sharing a pillow, and my arm is resting under it while the other has curled around his chest. He's warm and soft and alive, like he is the center of it all, that's what it feels like when I feel the thud of his heart against my fingertips. His arm rests over mine, and I've never felt as relaxed in my life. My nose brushes against his hair, and his hair smells like sex, and I don't really know how we managed that last night.

This is what it'd be like.

There'd be no one else in the cabin. Just the two of us. And, I don't know, maybe we just felt like some downtime, needed some privacy, some peace and quiet. Whatever the reason. And the world could wait with its recording schedules and tour plans and crazy fans and old enemies and new enemies and album release dates, because that would all slip from view. And we'd do nothing special. We'd make breakfast, we'd cut down firewood, we'd go for walks, we'd listen to the radio and sing along to forties blues songs, he'd play some guitar and I'd try and cook up something edible, and maybe we'd play chess or just talk, god, we'd just talk, and then we'd have a shower and I'd fuck him against the wall, and then later he'd laugh by the fire at something stupid I said, and we'd go to bed, wake up and repeat.

I kiss the nape of his neck with dry lips, as gently as I can. I don't want to wake him up. I want to let him sleep for as long as he wants to.

We've never done this before. We've slept in beds, taken post-coital naps, shared a bed through the night a few times, but I've never woken up to find him asleep in my arms, to find myself holding him as close to me as I can. To wake up to a feeling of unity, of being a part of something bigger, something I can't quite figure out but can still name.

I've never done this before in my life.

It's him. Yeah, that sounds about right. That sounds like something he'd manage to do.

He stirs, and I nuzzle the spot behind his ear that he loves getting kissed. He hums, sounding pleased, and he turns to lie on his back. He's got a lazy smile on his lips, his eyes half parted. He looks sleepy and has bed hair, and I study every detail as my hand moves to trace the features of his face, my fingertips moving on his cheek. His lips part, and he's about to say something, but I press my forefinger against his soft lips, silencing him. His eyes flutter open, revealing light blue irises, and he looks at me questioningly.

I let my finger slide to his jaw, and my hand settles on the side of his neck. "I love you."

He exhales softly. Not like it's a surprise. And it all comes together, then, the past and the present and the future. Truthfully, I don't know much of anything. I'm all talk. I've seen this country and I've seen a few others, and I've seen a lot of people and I've heard a lot of things, but I didn't understand any of it. Didn't understand because I didn't understand myself, but now it's all falling into place.

His hand moves up to grab the back of my head, and the kiss is crushing like he doesn't want us to say words that are inadequate, anyway. I kiss him, feeling torn open, closer to him than I've ever felt to anyone, and that's where I want to keep him. At the core. I want him to know all the things no one has ever known. Want him to be the one. Want him.

The kiss deepens, but it's not rushed. We shift until I'm on top, and he tastes stale and he tastes perfect, and my heart feels heavy and my heart feels light, and the rest of me feels weak, weak at the sight of him, at the feel of him.

I breathe him in, all senses heightened. My hands slip through his soft hair. The energy spreading through me is new, almost nervous even as it is consuming. "Want to be inside you," I whisper, lips brushing his, and a delicious half-gasp escapes his lips.

I want to take my time, want to go slow and soft and look into his fucking eyes, all of it, because the universe rearranges itself for us. It does. He rearranges me.

His hands are running down my spine and back up, and the slow kiss contains more passion and more feeling than any heated, hard kiss I've shared with him, and what I feel for him is in every cell of me, bubbling over and consuming me from within.

"Please," he gasps in between a kiss, sounding overwhelmed. He wants it too. Needs it as much as I do.

He breaks the kiss, eyes suddenly wider, wider. His mouth hangs open, and he looks alarmed. "What?" I ask, but he hushes me, looking to the door, and then I hear it too. Banging. Shoes against the floor. Jeff's voice.

"Fuck," Kurt swears, but I don't care, but he does and by extension that means that I care too, and I roll off of him quickly and reluctantly. He's out of bed like he's been hit by lightning – smokestack lightning – wiping his mouth and flattening his hair and pulling on boxers that aren't even his. "How late is it?" he asks, looking out of the window where it's light, lighter, and we slept in, but we had the right to.

"Don't know. I'll keep them out there and you slip back to your room." I grab a pair of pants and pull them on with no underwear beneath. "Alright?"

"Okay. Alright."

Jeff's voice is calling out what sounds like 'Honey, we're home!'

"Don't you worry about anything," I tell him, sweeping him in for a kiss that takes him by surprise. I feel a fraction of the stress leaving him, and he appears more in control when we part. I will handle this. He never needs to worry about anything. "And by the way, you look dashing this morning," I add with a sly grin, and he lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh as his eyes smile at me.

A cold chill hits me in the hallway, flying in from the open door and the men and grocery bags that have now come in.

"There he is," Jeff says, spotting me first, and I run my hands through my hair quickly as I get to the lounge.

"You guys got stuck in town?" I ask, and Roderick launches into a blow by blow account of their adventure, and Dave looks around so I say that Kurt's still sleeping in Sam and Jeff's room since, well, there was a vacant bed, and Dave seems content with that although he looks longing, too, like the unexpected departure from his boyfriend made his heart ache.

Unsure if Kurt is still in my room, waiting for the right moment to sneak across the hallway to the other room without being spotted, I show all the guys to the kitchen to put the food away. I try to smile, but there's a hard blade stuck into my guts, and somewhere deep within me an angry wave is saying 'I hate you for coming back so soon,' and 'I never wanted any of you to return, you should've just left us here by ourselves. We were good. We were perfect.'

We really were.

The guys empty the paper bags, and Sam heads back out but I block him quickly. "Not gonna help out?" I ask, and he frowns, his gaze dropping from my eyes to my bare upper half.

I hear doors open and close. Sam looks over my shoulder, probably having heard it too. "Just going to put my coat away," he says, slipping into the lounge where he throws his jacket on top of the couch that's still covered in the blankets that Kurt and I used last night. I look down the hallway, scratching my head, and Sam says, "You look..."

I focus on him. "Yeah?"

He seems to be in a loss of words. A door opens, and Kurt steps out of the second bedroom. I have no idea why he got dressed because he's now down to a pair of pajama pants, and his hair is tousled, and he yawns and lifts a hand our way. "Mornin'." He points down the hallway. "Shower."

"We'll fix breakfast," I tell him, and he gives me a thumbs-up and he walks to the bathroom, like my existence is just a fleeting thought in the edges of his sleepy mind. He'll be hungry after the sex we had. We better fix up a decent damn breakfast. I watch him until he disappears into the bathroom, and unlike yesterday I can't go join him. It feels like a crime.

"Well," Sam says, attracting my attention again. He chuckles, now seemingly more relaxed. "We should start getting lunch ready."

"That late, huh?" I ask as I follow him to the kitchen.

"That late," he says, and Jeff sighs dramatically that I should put some clothes on, for god's sake, because my attempts at trying to seduce him are slowly but surely working, and I flip him off while Roderick says that's sick. Dave smiles crookedly, clearly feeling out of place, and when I become aware that there's at least one obvious bite mark on my lower stomach, I place my hand on it and finally go get dressed.

The alcohol has been flowing freely as we've settled in the lounge by the fire, and our voices get louder as our blood mixes with the vodka. I'm mostly quiet, just laughing at the stories the guys are telling, a stupid grin constantly stretched on my lips. Roderick's sharing my couch, Kurt's on the floor with a blanket beneath him, and the rest are on the second couch, empty beer bottles gathered at their feet.

I suck in the smoke from my cigarette, cheeks hollowing. Dave did some filming after lunch, and we played some new songs for him, and Kurt watched us playing, and I swear the music sounded a million times better than it ever has. But I haven't gotten the chance to be alone with him, and it's starting to get to me. When Dave interviewed Jeff, Sam asked me to figure out more songs with him, and after the recording, Kurt and Dave went on a stroll. Not a walk, but a stroll – Dave's words, not mine – and the two of them vanished for an hour and twenty-three minutes like there is anything worth seeing out there.

They left hand in hand too, like they're so deep in rural areas that there's no fear of someone seeing them holding hands, and although Kurt smiled at me when they got back – the smile – I can't shake off something disconcerting at the back of my brain.

Kurt laughs at something Sam says. I can't take my eyes off of him. My heart keeps beating heavy and hard, and it's not the alcohol because I'd need to drink for five more hours to get properly drunk. It's just the way my heart always is now. Kurt. He's it.

"That's the more sensible arrangement," Sam says, bringing the bottle to his lips, and I snap out of my thoughts and look over to the other couch.

"That really would be great," Dave says. "I get these backaches."

"What?" I ask, trying to follow the conversation.

"Sleeping arrangements," he informs me. "Kurt and I will take over the second bedroom. Sam doesn't want to share with Jeff anymore."

"I didn't think it was that bad," Jeff says, sounding insulted.

"I'd wake up to find you drooling on me," Sam says indignantly. "I'll be just fine sleeping here in one of the sleeping bags."

Jeff sighs dramatically. "Blaine, can I sleep with you instead?"

"No," I say, and he glares at me. Kurt's busy picking at the label of his beer, and something hard settles in my stomach. I want him to say no. I want him to say that he refuses to share a bed with Dave. They wouldn't... They wouldn't fuck, not here, surely not when they're surrounded by other people, and Kurt isn't quiet during sex, and the bed is squeaky, so no, they wouldn't or couldn't, but even then, that bed is not wide, and they're bound to end up pressed together. And maybe they do that in New York every night, anyway, but somehow this time it hits too close to home.

This is our house. We made it ours last night, and now he's going to someone else's bed instead, and am I the only one who thinks there's something inherently wrong in that picture?

"Well, if that's settled, I should go to bed," Dave says. "I need to be up early to set up the cameras."

"That sounds like a plan," I say. What I mean is fuck off. We'll stay up all night drinking, and I'll make sure Kurt doesn't go to bed until the sun is up and Dave's fiddling with his stupid cameras for a damn documentary I decided to do on a whim in order to get closer to Kurt. It worked. Worked like a charm. Why is Dave still here?

The others try to tell Dave to stay because they all like him, Roderick, Sam and Jeff. They all like the director, but Kurt doesn't say anything, I'm pleased to note. And with Dave gone, Roderick can move to the other couch, and Kurt can sit next to me.

Dave gets up, shaking his head. "Need to get some sleep, you guys. Especially before I get too drunk. Can't work with a hangover."

"Well, goodnight if you really insist on it," Roderick says mournfully. Dave, however, isn't leaving. Instead he's looking at Kurt.

"Kurt? You coming?"

Kurt looks up from the beer bottle he has so intently been studying for a while now. I stare at him. Don't you dare.

But Dave says it so casually, like he just assumes they go to bed together, at the same time, because that's what they do, that's how they work. After a pause, Kurt says, "Yeah," getting up, smoothing down his shirt and not looking at me. He seems self-conscious, and I don't know if it's the fact of the gay couple going to bed at the same time in a house full of supposedly straight men, or if it's just me. Because he's not looking at me.

Kurt puts his bottle down on the mantle and flashes a quick goodbye smile. But he wouldn't actually go. Not in our house, not because he knows now, and he's mine now, I claimed him this morning, and he doesn't need Dave for anything anymore.

"Night, guys," he says, and his eyes land on me briefly. He looks... not sorry. Worried. Yeah. Like he's worried.

Dave leads the way out, and as they disappear, scorching disappointment pools in my stomach.

Oh.

Jeff's looking at me silently, Sam is doing the same, and Roderick's already moved on to talk about the new apartment he's moving into now that he's making decent money.

My eyes flicker to where Kurt disappeared from view. My insides feel rotten.

"How about we stick to the spirits?" I ask lifelessly, and seeing that the vodka bottle has been finished, I go to the kitchen where the whiskey is. A stupid thing. God, so – Never mind. Who cares? Never mind, it's nothing.

I lean against the counter and drink straight from the bottle. I hear a slight bang, and all my senses heighten momentarily. I don't hear it again. It wasn't the bed banging in the midst of sex because then I'd hear it again, or maybe they slowed down, or maybe it was just them getting into bed, and I try to breathe, try not to think about it. It's all I can think about.

Fuck it. This place. This cabin needs more than a fucking renovation to transform itself into something pleasant. Something that doesn't take stabs at me.

I take long sips of the bottle until finally my mind stops playing a reel of Dave doing filthy fucking things to Kurt, and Kurt loving it, head thrown back in pleasure. I know it's just my imagination. I know, I know, but their touches feel so real.

The guys laugh in the living room. I march back out, grab my coat and inform them that I'll be drinking in one of the cars.

The air doesn't feel as cold as it actually is because I've been drinking, but my breath fogs up the car windows quickly. I find a pair of fingerless gloves in my jacket pocket, which is pointless because my fingers remain as cold as they were before. Kurt doesn't like my cold fingers. I wonder what Dave's blood circulation is like.

I sit in the light yellow Mercedes, quietly singing, "Oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz?", trying to distract myself from the cabin and whatever is happening inside it. I don't know if it's been two minutes or twenty, when knuckles knock against the window on the passenger's side, and Sam is leaning down, peering through. He opens the door without an invitation, the car tilting as he sits down and settles in. "Hey."

I hum and let my fingers trace the wheel. It's a nice car. Lauren got us really nice cars. Sam talked about this one at length on the drive up, could hardly shut up about the purring sound as he pressed the accelerator.

"So you know how weird it is that you're sitting out here in the middle of the night, right? Because you being you, you might not know."

"Beats standing on the porch in the wind," I argue and offer him the bottle. He takes a long gulp, and silence lands on us. I don't feel much like talking, I just don't want to be in that house right now.

"I know why you're out here." He stares out, towards the smudged squares of light that are the cabin windows. "I'm trying really fucking hard to understand it. I mean, it is... it is Kurt, isn't it?" His voice has faded into a quiet and serious whisper.

I look at him in surprise. I thought he was going to say music or the meaning of life or death or anything other than the actual truth. My old band blew up on me when they found out, Nick, my best fucking friend, was worried I wanted to fuck him too, my ex-girlfriend went into hysterics, Lauren nearly the same, Jeff just grinned but that's Jeff, and Sam is – Sam is such an average guy. He wants a wife and children, and he wants security and retirement plans, wants real American values and all of it, but he's not doing any of the things I've come to expect. He's just sitting there.

"Yeah, it is," I confirm, not at all sure how to handle this. "How long have you...?"

"Twenty minutes, maybe. A hunch? I don't know. Maybe even for a month on some subconscious level, but now the truth's just been staring me in the face. Need to own up to it, you know?" He takes another long sip, his breath rising into the air. It's pitch black outside, and I'm glad we can't quite see each other's faces. He sighs. "It puts me in an awkward position, man. Dave's become a good friend, and – Well, Kurt and I are cordial, I guess. I wish I didn't know."

"I didn't tell you."

"No, but if I figured it out, how long's it gonna take before someone else does too? And I mean – Mercedes and Rachel are really good friends. If Cedes finds out that I knew all this time –"

"Look. No one's finding anything out."

"Blaine." He lets out a short laugh. "It's written all over your face." He looks at me, and I duck my head, not wanting him to see whatever he sees. It's not that obvious. Can't be because if it were, we would've been found out already. Or maybe it's only now that it's starting to get to me, that it's finally leaking through the cracks. "Okay, so what's... what's going on with you two?"

A good question. A damn good question.

Jeff's asked about us, but he's nosy and jealous, and Lauren's asked about us, but she's nervous and jealous, but Sam... Sam sounds like he thinks I probably just want to talk about it. To someone. Anyone. Someone not me. I haven't wanted to share it with others, but Sam's a smart guy, and he understands these things – hell, he's got Mercedes, doesn't he? – and I find myself leaning into my seat and letting it pour out.

"I don't know. I swear to god, I don't know. Sometimes, I think I know what's going on with him, but then I realize I have no idea what he's thinking. Don't know what he's feeling. And then I think I've got us figured out, that we're on some solid ground, but then it's all in my head or maybe it's not, but I haven't asked because we don't – We're two guys. We don't talk about our fucking relationship. Well, not honestly, anyway. God. I just don't know what's going on with us." I wonder if my rant makes any sense to Sam at all- I think of Kurt just getting up and going with Dave, and maybe he had no choice in that situation. Okay. But I just can't even begin to guess what he thought while he stood up and left. "I don't have Kurt fucking Hummel figured out. No change there, I guess." My words practically drip of bitterness.

"So you guys... have done this before..?" he asks, now finally sounding confused by our relations. I give him a long, long look, and I can just see the flash of realization on his face. "Oh. Okay." He sounds surprised.

Sam's band didn't stick around long enough to ever witness anything that went down with Kurt and me, but I did tell Sam to fuck off because of Kurt. Indirectly because of Kurt. Maybe directly, but I just didn't know that yet. And when Canadian Experience split up and Sam and I were reunited, we never talked of Kurt or the Lucy tour again. Let the past be gone, we decided, clicked our glasses together and decided to start writing music together. He didn't need much convincing. He had Blaine Anderson on his doorstep. No, he needed very little convincing.

"Old habits die hard, right?" I ask quietly. They don't die at all. "When we met again... before Christmas. It was..." I don't even know how to finish the sentence I started. Magical. Legendary. Chemical. I had no choice.

"Who knows?" Sam asks. Too many people. Kurt would go ballistic if he knew because he's always so damn worried about someone finding out. But most of my band does now, and my manager too. That's three more people than should be allowed. "About your... preference, I mean," he then clarifies.

"The men I've fucked?"

I'm crude on purpose. 'Preference'. What a polite way to put it. He's not thrown off by it, though, not calling me a fag to my face like Seb or Puck or even Quinn did. He doesn't even flinch. He just says, "I never would've guessed."

"Rewind five years, and me neither." Before Kurt. Before all of this. God, back then I was so damn sure of the things that were falling apart around me. "Look, you remember a few years back that anchorwoman who blew her brains out on TV?"

"Yeah, I remember reading about it."

"I saw it."

"Shit. You being serious?"

"Yeah. Even remember the exact day because it happened the morning after I... with Kurt. He was the first." Somehow the information feels too personal to share, but I press on because that wasn't my point. "And I – I don't know. For a few weeks, I thought it was a sign from God or Allah or Krishna, fucking Zeus. That it was bad, the root of evil. That that part of me was evil. Maybe it is, come to think of it." Kurt briefly crosses my mind. "But the thing is that it's my decision. And nothing out there can judge me, only I can. Some – some fucking depressed lunatic woman killing herself on air has got nothing to do with me. There is no predestination. There's just life. You can't rationalize chaos, Sam. You can't make everyone happy, so you gotta choose. And I chose me."

"And how's that working out for you?"

I laugh, fully realizing that I'm trying to get drunk in a rental car because Kurt has chosen to keep up appearances. "The results vary."

I suddenly remember a drunken memory, telling Sam that Kurt was a fag. A hotel corridor, maybe, and me talking bullshit as usual, and Sam just didn't seem at all affected that Kurt was gay. Now that he knows the truth about me, he remains as calm as he did then. Fuck. Maybe I've met the only guy in the country who thinks it's not his business who people sleep with.

"You should come back inside," he says eventually. "Don't want to look suspicious, right? And whatever you and Kurt... have. He looks at you differently. Than Dave, I mean."

"You think so?"

"I do," but I'm not sure if he's just saying it for my sake. "And he's going behind Dave's back to be with you, so we can all come to our own conclusions from that, right? So you can stop moping about it."

"Not moping," I object, and I recall him talking about Cedes and yeah. It's like that. What I feel for Kurt. "You spend that much time with someone, it's hard to function without them," I reason, quoting him, and Sam chuckles. Kurt can't refuse to share a bed without all of it coming out, without causing a scene. That's all. Nothing more. "Thanks, Sam."

"You're welcome. But just... don't include me? I don't want to lie to people I care about."

Neither do I, but it's become second nature somehow. I barely even notice it anymore.

I promise to leave him out of it, anyway.

Still, when I finally go to bed hours later, alcohol pulsing in my stomach and the world bleary, lacking the clarity it had that morning, it occurs to me that it is different. It has changed.

I'm sick of sharing him.