warnings: dirty talk, slight slight dub-con

Chapter 12: Baby, I Think I'll Refrain

The usually silent studio receptionist looks like a frightened hare as she approaches our bar table. We don't even notice her at first, me keeping my eye on the time, Roderick on the newspaper, and Sam on Roderick's face. "Mr. Anderson, sir," she repeats, and it's only then that we notice her. "She said it was urgent," she explains and hands me a small note. It reads: 'So what are we doing tonight? – Rachel' "She's been calling all day."

"Okay," I say and put the note in my pocket. The girl keeps waiting, but I don't know for what. She clearly wants me to say something so that she can pass on a message. "I'll call her?" I offer, and she visibly relaxes.

"Okay. Thank you, Mr. Anderson."

As she heads back out of the busy bar to get to the studio that's just a few blocks down, I silently add that I'll call Rachel when I get around to it. She's been breathing down my neck all week, asking what plans we've got and what are we doing when. I've been living in the studio ever since we got back from Bismarck, recording songs with the snap of my fingers. I haven't had much time for her, even less now that she's moved back to her newly renovated apartment. It's all shiny and brand new and it cost me a fortune, but she hasn't been informed of that. I hardly saw her when we were unofficially living together, but she kept the place tidy and she cooked and she was nice to cuddle with at night, and it's a shame that she's gone now because my bed is cold without anyone next to me. Now we could migrate back to my place, which is closer to his work and Brooklyn, but my apartment has never been home. My apartment is a handful of rooms. The hotel room is ours.

The band and I have finished fifteen songs, all in two weeks. It's like I've been possessed by a muse, it all pouring out, the band mesmerized by the way the music just suddenly comes together. The way it should have been in the first place. They're all so fucking excited now. Lauren's planning the big release, and the news of it is hitting the radios and the music magazines: he's coming back. They're holding their breaths.

Roderick is still reading the little clip in the arts section of The New York Times that's about the band. It doesn't even mention Roderick by name, but his eyes are still popping out in excitement. I know what it says: Blaine Anderson, The Warblers, the bus accident, been under the radar since, no new releases in three years, et cetera, et cetera. Long awaited return. A pioneer of music. Whoever wrote that clip clearly wants to fuck me.

"God, they're really selling it," Roderick says, now pushing the paper along the table back to Sam. "Oh god. Oh wow." He looks stressed.

"If no one likes it, it'll be my head they'll chop off. Not yours," I say kindly, and Roderick seems comforted by the knowledge.

"They'll like it," Sam says, now rereading the article, his eyes flying over the text. His mouth is twisting up at the corners. And of course they'll like it. That's not even an issue; it's just a matter of how much.

A chorus of whistles and a few 'Looking good, baby!'s attracts our attention, and the last chair gets pulled back. "Gentlemen," Lauren says and sits down. "What are we thinking of the article?" She gets her cigarette holder from her bag and quickly has a lit cigarette attached to it. She leans back in the chair and orders herself red wine.

"We're thinking it's good," Sam says, "but don't you think it's a bit dangerous to be promising release dates when we're not done yet?"

She waves her hand dismissively. "Early summer, it said. Now that could be June or July. Either way, keep your calendars free for June. I envisage a warm up tour." She sucks in cigarette smoke and blows it out, a perfect O rising into the air. "I'm going to get us on an airplane. Hit all the major cities: LA, Chicago, Toronto, Phoenix, Philly, San Fran, you say it, we'll hit it. The arenas will be sold out. Just you wait. It's all about marketing. After that, Europe."

"No way," Roderick breathes out, and Lauren is clearly thrilled to have an enthusiastic audience.

"Yes way." She leans forward, eyes shining. "Paris. London. West Berlin. Rome! Copenhagen! Bombay!"

"Bombay's not in Europe," I note.

"Who the fuck cares? The world will be ours! And trust me, after that, even New York will feel small." She smiles wickedly, wine in one hand, cigarette holder in the other, and it occurs to me that she's living her dream. Good some of us are.

Quarter past. I should leave soon, and I tell my company as much. Lauren lifts a curious eyebrow. "You off to... you know?"

Lauren certainly hasn't invented subtlety.

But yes, I am. She's right. I've spent a ridiculous amount of energy to get Kurt to meet me today. He's impossible to get a hold of these days, but finally we found a time that suited us both. Lauren doesn't seem to like Kurt much. Well, she tolerates him or, rather, the situation. She liked it even less when I gave her Kurt's demos and told her to pass them along. Nepotism at its finest, but it's Kurt. Last time I checked, I'd do anything for the man. This is next to nothing. Lauren was disgruntled but followed my orders, anyway. Now she keeps giving me these looks like it'll all blow up in my face if we're not careful. We're being careful.

Her tone has attracted Sam's attention, and I don't necessarily want them realizing that they both know, so I quickly say, "Yes. Appointment at the masseuse's. Work these tensed muscles off." I roll my shoulders for show.

I dig into my pocket for a small bottle, digging out two white pills and knocking them to the back of my throat. I wash them down with the last of my beer. Lauren's staring at me. "What are those?"

"Vitamins. Took your advice on the healthy diet thing." I get up and button up my jacket. "Don't worry, doll," I say, pressing a quick kiss to the top of Lauren's head. She flicks the end of her cigarette holder, getting the ash to fall from the tip. "I'll catch you later. I want to hear more about these tour plans."

As I wave, I feel the pain in my left elbow again. Damn useless limb. The pain killers will kick in soon enough. Besides, right now I have other things to worry about.

He'll be here. He's just late.

He should have been here forty minutes ago, but there are plenty of factors I should take into account: traffic jams, broken down subway trains, losing his keys... Could be anything.

The hotel bed looks like it's never been touched, the cleaners having made it immaculate once more. The rest of it, though, looks lived in: I've brought guitars and clothes over, and he's got clothes here too, now, and the nightstand drawer has five opened lube bottles in it, and his shampoo bottle is in the bathroom next to his toothbrush, and for all intents and purposes, it's a place for two people. But I'm just one.

He said he might not be able to make it, but he'd try. And if he couldn't, he'd call. He's just so busy, he claims. I'm busy too, but I make time for him. Hell, we'd see each other even four times a week at the start, but now it's once in eight, nine days. Hasn't he noticed that? Because I certainly have. And it's me doing the begging. I'm very aware of that uncomfortable fact.

He hasn't called, though, so he must be on his way. He's just late. Again.

The few times we've gotten together since I got back from Bismarck, we've settled in here. Our time together has been empyrean: sex in the shower, expensive room service snacks, quick naps after sex... his smile. But he's always late and he always leaves too soon.

I had an epiphany in Bismarck: we got nearly twenty hours of exclusive time. We... have never had that before. We have never been alone for that long. And although I had it for such a short time, it was long enough for me to realize that it's what I wanted. I was happier in those twenty hours than I have been in twenty-six years, and now it all feels so hollow when he isn't here. I don't know how to tell him that. I've kept hoping that he can sense it too somehow, but if he could, wouldn't he be here already?

These rooms mean nothing without him.

I wander back out to the living room, the wine glass in my grip. Kurt's armchair is empty, so I sit in it, watching out of the window. I wonder what his favorite feature of our view is, if he has a favorite building. I loosen my tie and hold back sighs that won't make a difference. Why is this starting to feel hauntingly familiar?

He's fifty minutes late when I hear the doorknob being turned and the key getting pushed in. I don't get up from my chair, just look to the doorway, and then he steps in, cheeks flushed like he's been running.

"You're still here," he says, breathing heavily. "I'm so sorry I'm late."

"Still here," I say, but now we've got an hour, and not two hours, because he has to be somewhere again. He always has to be somewhere. I've been living at the studio, but when I've left the building, I've been with him. I've occasionally gone home for fresh clothes and notes from Rachel, like 'Where are you?' and 'Call me at work' and 'I miss you'.

Kurt is quick to take his jacket off, but he doesn't stop there, instantly removing his t-shirt, too. "Sorry about that," he says, a dirty sway to his hips as he makes his way over, and it's nothing. He drops his shirt on the couch casually, his bared upper body inviting, warm, soft, and it's nothing.

It's everything.

He straddles me on the wide armchair, his ass resting on my thighs. He takes my wine glass and finishes it in one go, the wine leaving a hint of dark red on his lower lip. My forefinger slides down his chest slowly, stopping where his ribs end. "Where were you?"

"Stuck on the phone with Mason. He needed to rant about Carl. They're not doing so well."

"Not all couples are meant to be."

He shrugs, hooking a finger under my chin and tilting my lips upwards. "Guess not," he says and presses our lips together. When I don't kiss him back, he pulls back with a frown. "You alright?" he asks, his hand soothingly carding through my hair.

"Yeah. Sure. I guess I just – I don't know. Thought you were with Dave."

"He's at work," he says in this tone like I should know that, and maybe I should, maybe he mentioned it, but plans change. "And right now I'm here with you, alright?" His voice is soft and gentle, and he kisses me on the lips. "Don't think about him. Three's a crowd."

Yeah. It really fucking is.

"I should've called the hotel that I'd be late. Sorry. Come on, let me apologize," he purrs, coaxing my mouth until I open up for him, and he kisses me deep. I try not to feel cheated that we only get half of the time we were meant to get, that it's taken us days to arrange this. It's getting more and more difficult to see him.

He's unbuttoning my shirt, pushing it off my chest. "I'll blow you," he says, sounding turned on by the mere thought of it. I am too, of course I am, and I try to push it out of my mind, the other guy, and I try not to feel like he's trying to bribe me. Of course he isn't. He isn't.

He moves down to sit on the floor in front of me, unbuckling my belt and kissing my lower stomach, and he'll look so beautiful on his knees for me, he'll look perfect, and I'll close my eyes, lean back, keep my hands in his hair, letting him get me off with his mouth. But with his mouth occupied, we won't be able to talk, and – and right now I have things to say.

"So I was thinking I could take a day off next week. You say which one and we'll meet up here. Breakfast, lunch and dinner in bed."

"Blaine," he says, looking up from where he's sitting between my parted legs. He stares at me incredulously. "I can't disappear for an entire day."

"Since when?"

"Since never. I'm juggling three jobs here, and the documentary is taking up a lot more time now, and the promotion company is organizing the dressing rooms for Led Zeppelin, and I've given the club my notice but I'm not quitting for another few weeks, and I would really like to just not think about that and suck you off instead."

My hands are in his soft hair. I cup his cheek, genuinely amused. "You don't have to work, you know." He rolls his eyes at my words like I've said something stupid again, and he'll probably start saying that I've lost touch with the real world. "Quit all of your damn jobs, I'll give you the money, and then you can take days off."

"Maybe I want to work," he says, but come on. Anyone would choose a life of luxury over hard labor.

"Oh, I'd still make you work," I say with a wiggle of my eyebrows, but he doesn't laugh and tell me how wonderful I am. Instead he stands up, shaking his head like he's pissed off. What did I do?

"You never change," he says in this tone that I've heard far too often in the past, and I suddenly know where this is going because we've done it before: I'll say he's stubborn, he'll call me an asshole, and then we'll fight for no reason and feel like shit for no reason until we will eventually make up, yet another scar added onto our relationship. But I'm done with that. If he wants to hate me for caring about him, then fine. Fucking fine. If he wants to slave away because it protects his pride, makes him a self-sufficient young man of his own means, then fine. If that's so important to him.

I don't want to fight with him.

"I just want to see you more often. Is that a crime?"

"No. Of course not." He sighs dramatically. "You could just give me a bit of space."

"Space?" I echo, and when he nods to confirm it, I feel lost. Space? He wants space? My mind can't wrap itself around it. I don't want space. It's the opposite of what I want. When did he decide on this?

"Not like a lot of space," he then amends. "Just... I just need this to be less intense."

"Yeah. Sure." I clear my throat and start buttoning my shirt again. Less intense. Alright. I see. Didn't know I was being too intense for him.

"Hey, don't do that," he objects, now moving back to straddle me. "We talk too much. Come on, been looking forward to this for days." His words have turned from sour to sweet, and then he's kissing me again, moving closer, almost burrowing himself into me, and my arms wrap around his waist and hold him close. More space. Less intense. How is this either of those things?

"Want you to fuck me," he says, his mouth moving to my neck, and my eyes fix on the ceiling. My cock responds, of course it does, and I'll fuck him and love it, of course I will, but I can't shut off my brain. Something about this isn't right.

"It just gets a bit confusing sometimes, you know?" I ask, recalling him telling me that a few months back. It just gets a bit confusing, knowing where the lines are, how the spheres overlap. It's fucking confusing.

"Don't see what's confusing about it," he says, and the most sickening part is that I don't even know when I missed out on that window of opportunity with him. I just suddenly realize that I have.

I slam the door shut, throwing my keys towards the side table, but they end up on the floor, anyway. I'm punishing my apartment for no apparent reason, kicking my shoes off on my way to the living room. My hair is wet from the shower I took at the hotel, and usually I don't shower because I like smelling him on me, smelling of sex, I fucking get off on it, but now I wanted to feel clean.

I empty my pockets of the crap in them, noticing the small note written by the receptionist at the studio, and yeah, yeah, I'll get to it.

I grab a guitar and hide in the music room, not looking at the piano because his ghost is there playing Chopin, back bare, sheets pooled around his waist, looking otherworldly, and he didn't want space then. He didn't want less intensity either. He wanted me.

What changed? Maybe I... Maybe I fucked it all up. In Bismarck.

"Don't be paranoid," I mutter to myself, leaning over the guitar to reach the notepad on the coffee table. "You've still got him." I scribble down lyrics and go back to trying to compose this damn tune that's been stuck in my head for the past twenty minutes.

He's just stressed. He said it himself: three jobs. A boyfriend and a lover. Hell, that'd keep anyone swamped, and he's just tired, exhausting himself. That's all it is. And he tells me to back off because he wants to make it on his own. Okay. That's all it is.

I consider calling Sam and talking to him about it because he is the only person in this world who I can talk about it to, but he made it clear that he doesn't want to know. Rachel would have some amazing advice. She's damn smart about these things. I should ask her without actually asking her.

I don't ever remember feeling this goddamn emotionally drained.

The phone is ringing back out in the living room, but I choose not to react to it. All I know is that it's getting darker outside and that the empty beer bottles keep lining up, and then I'll go to bed at six in the morning, having started some new song ideas, hiding from the world once again. Some rock stars are social whores. Some are even more famous because they try to be unattainable. Chasing the dream, chasing someone on another plane of existence. Lauren spends half her time telling everyone that no, Mr. Anderson will not be attending, thank you for the invite. She did try telling me to go to that opening night of some new club, Studio something, but I don't enjoy mingling with famous people. What do we have in common except for our fame? Our arrogance that's come along with it. Well, that's a hoot.

"Hey."

I nearly jump up as my heart skips three beats. "Jesus fucking Christ!" I clutch the guitar to my chest, seeing Rachel walking into the music room. She's got her keys in hand. I forgot she didn't return those yet. "Fuck, you scared me," I say as she looks at the table of bottles and notes. She's wearing one of her favorite dresses, an elegant, black maxi dress, and her hair's up in a bun. I study her further: favorite red high heels, her expensive clutch, her best jewelry... She's dressed up like she's going to a ball, and she's absolutely fucking stunning.

"Where are you going?" I ask her, my eyes finally locking with hers.

"You tell me," she says, and her voice wavers slightly. "I've been trying to get a hold of you for days. Even came by this morning, but –"

"Yeah, I passed out at Jeff's." Not even a lie.

"Of course you did." There's a strain to her words. I don't follow. Seconds tick by with her waiting for something, but when it doesn't happen, she says, "God, Blaine! I've been – been sitting next to my phone all day! I thought – I just thought you were making a show of it, wanting to rile me up, and I sat there in my best clothes waiting for a limo that never arrived! I was so convinced that you were just messing around with me, that you'd come in and sweep me off my feet! I thought, 'He couldn't have forgotten, I've been dropping hints for weeks now!' For weeks, Blaine!"

"It's not your birthday," I say knowledgeably because it's not.

"No! It's our anniversary!" she cries out and then spins around, a hand lifting to her face as she attempts to compose herself. I stare. It is? It is. We got together late March last year, it's late March now... which would suggest that a year has passed and that we have something annual to celebrate. "You forgot," she laughs bitterly out into the room. "God, should've known you're lost in your own head again. Always the goddamned music!"

"I've been recording my new album!" I argue, finally putting the guitar aside and standing up. She's pissed off, that's more than obvious – hell, she just swore, and she's not the swearing kind.

"I know that! I know." She faces me again, apparently having managed to calm down a little. "I'm just tired of you putting us in second place all the time. I hardly ever see you. Might as well be single."

I stare at her in disbelief. "Are you breaking up with me?"

"No! God no! You're not listening to me!"

I'm hearing her alright, but I just don't understand what she's saying. So I forgot our anniversary and, funnily enough, spent my free time today having sex with my gay lover in our Chelsea Hotel tryst. She knows none of this. She's beautiful even in her distress, and something like guilt washes over me. I don't mean to upset her. I don't mean to make her sad, but how can I fix this when she's being cryptic in typical female fashion? She says she's tired of me yet here she is. She says she wants to be single but isn't breaking up with me.

"Look, it's only... a bit after midnight?" I hazard a guess. "Come on, I'll take you out."

"It's too late for that!"

"Then what the hell do you want?!" I snap, not meaning to, regretting it when she looks like I've just slapped her. I've had an awful day, I want to tell her, that Kurt is pushing me away and I don't know why. "I'm sorry," I say quickly, but I've clearly stirred up a storm as her eyes flash angrily in a way I've never seen before.

"Where is this relationship going, Blaine?" she asks, and oh god, there's a conversation I don't want to have. "You have to take responsibility! You can't be passive, just going with the flow! There are two people in this: you and me. And I feel like – like I'm giving so much. So much, Blaine! What are you doing?"

"Getting lectured at?" I suggest, which is the wrong thing to say, and god, why don't I just shut the fuck up sometimes? She turns on her heel and walks out of the room, and I follow like a dog that knows it's upset its owner, saying, "Baby, come on, I didn't mean that!"

"You did! And that's the problem!"

She doesn't stop at the front door to give me a chance to ask her to stay, which she then would, and we could make up, and I swear I'd fuck her with thought put into it this time because it is our anniversary, and I have not been this long with anyone in my life. Except Quinn. Sure. And Kurt if we could count the time spent apart, which we can't, but I've carried him around for nearly three years. Kurt disqualifies, Quinn was... Quinn was Quinn, but Rachel. She's the kind of girl you marry. She knows this. I pretend not to know this. And she storms out of my apartment, not stopping for the courteous pause at the door to let me change her mind, and instead I end up following her down the stairs as her high heels click against the steps and my bare feet follow.

"Don't be so dramatic!" I tell her on the landing on the fifth floor, but she takes no notice of me. "Rachel, are you honestly making me follow you out into the street? Jesus Christ! It's not like a single day measures up our relationship!"

For once, Dave had a point.

Rachel comes to an abrupt stop and swirls around, her brown eyes boring holes into me. "It does! Right now, it really does! You don't take me seriously at all, do you? You just take me for granted! God, they're right, they're –"

"Who's they?" I ask, descending a few steps. "Oh, let me guess! Your Rockette friends, right? Suzanne, Megan and Poppy? You all gather round, do you, and talk about me? Is that what you do?" She doesn't reply, which is as much of a reply as I need. "God, I don't need you gossiping all over fucking New York about me! Shit, Lauren would get pissed if she knew that –"

"Oh, Lauren! Now there's a girl you do spend time with! She doesn't have to stand around waiting for your calls, she –"

"Would you get over Lauren already?! It's like you want me to sleep with her! I mean, if that's it, let me know! I'm sure she'd be up for it!"

Her jaw line's been drawn tight, her mouth twitching as her eyes are brimmed by unshed tears, but no, I am done with this. If we don't evolve, we die. It's true for us, and it's true for Kurt and me, and Rachel really needs to let go of these ancient insecurities. "How can you say that to me?" she asks.

"It's easy when all I hear is bullshit."

"I..." Her voice fades, and she descends a few steps, looking horrified. She opens up her clutch bag, going through the contents quickly. "Here. I don't want to carry this around anymore." She throws a silver plectrum at my feet. It's not one of mine. "It's made from a meteorite. Throw it out, do whatever you will, I don't even care." She keeps going down the stairs, but I don't go after her. Instead I sit down on the steps, head between my hands, a sudden headache taunting me.

The pick lies a step down from me, a round cornered triangle. It's engraved 'B+R', and I wonder when she got it done. Weeks ago, knowing her. She's always on top of these things.

I'm just tearing everything apart.

For Brooklyn standards, it's not bad. I never really envisioned it much, I just assumed that the place would look ratty and poor, not nice like this. It's modest looking, a simple red-bricked building with a lot of straight lines and medium-sized rectangular windows. I'm so caught up in staring at it, of visualizing the life it contains, that life I've never seen, that I almost miss my chance of an old woman coming out of the door. I hurry to hold the door open for her, and she says, "Thank you, dear," takes one look at me, seems frightened, and hurries down the steps while I slip in.

I probably look like a mess. I haven't slept. Bet Rachel's crying on the phone to Poppy about how shit I am. But the hours haven't been in vain because I've been thinking. I've been thinking a lot, and one phone call later, here I am: 128 Montague Street.

The staircase is narrow and the paint is peeling, and I walk up to the second floor, keeping my eyes on the door numbers. I hesitate before knocking. Ask myself if I really want to do this, but then it occurs to me that it doesn't matter. I haven't been sure of anything in years, but I've managed to survive.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Wait. Hold breath. Goddammit. Knock, knock, knock knock knock knock.

"Hold your damn horses!" a voice yells from the other side, but I'm just that annoyingly gone where I act on my impulses, yet I know that I could stop myself if I put my mind to it, and no, I will not hold my horses. Figuratively. Because I have none. Horses, that is.

When Kurt opens the door, he isn't expecting it to be me. A neighbor, maybe, or the mailman or, I don't know, someone not me. He's in a pair of dark blue pajama pants, nothing else although it's nearing eleven o'clock and respectable people are dressed by now, and he looks so... homey. The fabric is faded and fluffy, and he looks like he was watching some TV or maybe was doing the dishes or something utterly domestic that I can't for the life of me imagine him doing. We stare at each other, me in fascination, him mostly in shock.

He says, "How do you know where I live?" Not even, 'What are you doing here?'

"Lauren," I explain, but he still seems just as stunned. "'You want to come in, Blaine?' Don't mind if I do! Thanks." I push past him, knowing that Dave isn't home. I know this because he was in a meeting with Lauren when I called.

And then I'm there. His home. Their home.

It looks like two guys with on and off jobs live in it. It's messy and it's cluttered, and it – it's got such a lived in feel to it. Dave's artwork is all over the living room walls, sometimes in frames, sometimes just stuck to it with a few pins. Film rolls are piled up on a side table next to a camera that's next to a framed photograph of Dave and Kurt, arms on each other's shoulders, smiling at the camera, the background – looks like the Golden Gate Bridge, is the Golden Gate Bridge. Piles of laundry have taken over the green couch, waiting to be put away, and the furniture looks worn down and old, and Kurt's guitars and bass are in the corner next to an amp, and a pile of vinyl is on the floor, and the place is clearly too small for them. But it's inevitably theirs. They walk through that door and exhale in relief of being back home.

"I could do with a drink," I say, but Kurt looks at me cautiously, folding his arms over his bare chest. He looks gorgeous. "Kitchen this way?" I walk through the open door to the narrow kitchen, no room for a dining table anywhere, it seems, and open the fridge and help myself to a beer that's next to a half-eaten block of cheese. I had all these grand speeches stuck in my head on the subway, and now I've forgotten all of them.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, leaning against the kitchen doorway. His pajama pants are low on his waist, I can see the start of his pubic hair, and god, it's distracting.

"Am I not welcome?" I take a sip. "Is my presence here making you feel uncomfortable?" A note pad lying on the kitchen counter, Kurt's handwriting 'Dave – your mother called, wants us to come visit her this summer?' "Did I need to be invited here?" I ask, my mind reeling over the thought of Dave's mother even knowing what homosexuality is.

"You came barging in here! You look like hell, what are – Shit." He sounds like he's only now getting it. "Has something happened? Is your dad okay?"

"My dad...? Fuck, he's fine. I've just. I've been thinking. Ever since yesterday, been thinking about all this space and intensity, and Rachel had some smart things to say about relationships, she –"

"Rachel?"

"Yeah, she's a damn smart girl. Especially when she's mad."

"Oh my god, you told her." He's gone visibly pale. He looks nauseous.

"I didn't fucking tell her." I finish half the bottle with the second sip.

"You guys had a fight?" he then asks, and we did, yes, I made her feel like shit, I ruined her day, week, life, I'm no good, I'm scum, she deserves great things, that girl, and does Kurt expect me to talk to him about this? About my guilt and how shitty I feel right now?

"This isn't about us, I mean Rachel and me us. It's about us. Because I've been thinking," I declare once more, trying to gather my thoughts, or rather Rachel's thoughts. "There are two people involved in this relationship: you and me. And what are you contributing to this? I feel like I'm doing all the work here. That's what I feel like, and it gets better: I know what I want. Or what I don't. I don't want space and I don't want it to be less intense, and I can't understand why you do. Now it's your turn. Go." I put the bottle down on the counter and stare at him expectantly. He looks like he certainly didn't expect this.

When it's clear that I'm not getting an answer, I walk past him because I'm not done looking around yet. The room next to the kitchen is the second bedroom, the one Kurt proudly informed me that they don't even use, but they need as a cover. Can't have the landlord knowing they're two fags. Well, no. This area didn't look like his precious Castro with rainbow flags at shop fronts. This is a respectable neighborhood. The bed in the second bedroom is hidden by all the boxes on it: it's a storage room more than anything else.

"How about we talk about this when you're not drunk?" he suggests, following me like a hawk. Probably worries that I'll start breaking shit.

"Good guess, but I'm not drunk." I'm not. I haven't had anything to drink, and if I'm a mess, then it's him and my thoughts and Rachel, all messing me up.

I cross the living room and – jackpot. Their bedroom. I stand in the doorway, taking in the messed up sheets on the bed that looks more than slept in. Oh, it's been put to use alright. It's the only room that looks organized, the sheets matching the curtains, books on the nightstand, a few candles there, even. I see them lying on that bed, naked, kissing and laughing, and I had to see it for myself. Had to come all the way here to see it. And the smell. Fuck, the smell. "Oh god," I laugh mostly out of desperation. Oh god, why did I come here?

"What?" he asks, now sounding nervous. He reaches for the doorknob and closes the door like he doesn't want me there. Like that part isn't meant for me. I've dragged him through all of my sheets. We've made my bed a playground. I let him in.

I pull him into my arms, hugging him tight, and he doesn't respond because he's not expecting it, but he eventually hugs back, all muscles tense like he doesn't trust me right now. I breathe him in. No, I fucking sniff him, like a dog, nose against his neck, down his shoulder, to his armpit, and don't tell me this, don't fucking kid me right now.

My hand slides down to his lower back and, without an invitation, slips inside his pajama pants. And it's familiar by now, nothing strange in me sliding my fingers between his cheeks, but it's not to tease him and it's not done slowly, but to get a quick brush of my fingers against his hole before he manages to stop me. His breathing hitches. He steps back, my hand slipping out. He catches it easily enough.

"Don't be a dick, Blaine."

"I could note the various ironies in that particular sentence, but baby, I think I'll refrain." It's like an out of body experience where I'm me but I'm not me. I know it's going to hit me any second now, any second, so I try to stick to the complete and utter incomprehension for as long as I can. "Should I volunteer for sloppy seconds?" I loosen my tie. "Or was he the sloppy second? Because I did fuck you yesterday and I did make you come. You can't fake it. That's the glory of fucking men."

"Unbelievable," he mutters. "You come here uninvited, to my home, and then you pull this shit on me? Your mother really could've taught you some manners before bailing out on you."

I want to say, 'Your dad really could've taught you how to not be a faggot before you got jumped by a bunch of jocks', because if he wants to go down that road, then I will. Oh, how I will. But before I can astound him with my amazing comebacks of highly intellectual content, he says, "You think Dave and I never fuck anymore?" He sounds disbelieving but there's a hint of something else that I can't quite put my finger on.

I was under the impression that they don't. Anniversary sex aside, no. Of course they don't.

But they do. God, he stinks of Dave. Hasn't even showered. There he is, standing right there, probably feeling all nice and warm and fuzzy about it, the way I felt after he fucked me, that stupid fucking feeling of contentment. "Did you enjoy it?" I ask, and calm fury is appearing on his features. I'll match his fury and raise him betrayal. What does he want me to say? That it hurts? That now my mind is full of these- these fucking visuals, and I can hardly breathe? "Well?! Did he make you come? Did he? Did you get off?!" He says nothing. I take two steps closer, and yeah, it's hitting home now, the fact of what he's done is settling in. "Did you suck his cock?" I stress every syllable. He bends. He breaks.

"Yes!" he barks angrily, voice breaking and strained. "I let him fuck my mouth and then my ass, and I fucking loved it. Is that what you want to hear?"

"Shut up! You stupid fucking asshole! Are you trying to make me go punch his lights out?!"

"Punch him...?" he repeats, clearly lost. He laughs. It's a cold laugh that sends shivers down my spine. "Blaine." Condescending as ever. "He's my boyfriend."

"And what am I? What exactly am I?!" I yell, demanding to know, but he doesn't have the answer. Of course he doesn't. He doesn't think about us. But I do. I have been. Rachel, she's got some real insight, she does. I pace back and forth in their small living room, and something stronger than anger is coursing through my veins, sucking the sunlight out of the day until it's all black. "I don't want him touching you."

"Excuse me?"

"I don't want him touching you!"

"Are you at all aware of how psychotic you sound right now?!"

I come to a stop. "You think I'm being unreasonable?"

Nothing is more reasonable. He's mine. He belongs to me, his kisses, his laughter, his smiles, and I'm not sharing.

"Blaine! You've – You've watched another guy fuck me!" he exclaims in exasperation. "Remember, in LA? You didn't mind him touching me. You fucking loved it, and I loved you watching!"

"So we once had a threesome. What's your fucking point?!"

"That we have never been exclusive, you and I!"

And that's my fault. Probably. For a while on tour, he was only sleeping with me. Pretty sure that he was, and he probably would have been happy only sleeping with me, but I couldn't – commit. I couldn't let myself think of him in those terms, but that was almost three damn years ago now. We had a threesome. Okay. I have good memories of it. Standard jerk off material. But that was before, and if he thinks for a second I'd ever invite someone into bed with us again, he's wrong. I was stupid, is that what he wants me to say? That I was stupid that summer, made some mistakes?

He has managed to halt my attack momentarily, long enough for him to aim his archers at me and tell them to fire. He says, "And what about Rachel? Don't you fuck her?"

Should've seen that one coming.

"Don't bring her into this."

"Girls don't count?" he laughs angrily. "Fuck you! Sex is sex."

"You know nothing about Rachel and you know nothing about us! So shut up because that's different! Her and the LA kid, that's all different!"

"How?!"

"Because I say so!"

And they're different from him sleeping with Dave. LA kid, barely remember what he looked like. He never mattered. We used the kid. Kurt wasn't playing house with him, Kurt wasn't sharing his bed with him, Kurt wasn't smiling in pictures with him. That kid was insignificant, and Dave is not. Dave matters to Kurt. This life. This other life he's got, the Blaineless one, matters to him a fucking lot. And that's why he wants space. Wants it to be less intense. That's why he's avoiding me: because he's clinging onto this.

It's a bit too late for him to change his mind. He can't go back and forth on this no-man's-land. He can't give himself to me and then share himself with others. It's not his decision to make. He isn't allowed to have that kind of intimacy with others. It ridicules what we have. It tears me apart. He should know that.

"I don't want anyone else touching you. Just me. You're reserved for me."

His stare is icy. "You can't order me around."

"You so sure about that?"

"You're so fucked up," he says disbelievingly, like he didn't realize this is who I am. "Maybe you should go."

"But you don't want me to go. You want me to fuck you." He looks insulted, but I unbutton my jacket slowly. "You're always up for a second round, Kurt. We know that. Don't tell me he fucked you twice because I won't buy it."

"Time you leave," he says, marching over and grabbing my arm, pulling me, and it's history repeating itself, him throwing me out of his kingdom, like none of it matters to him. These past few months. But it's not my fault this time, it can't be.

I take hold of his shoulders, forcing him to face me, and I kiss him, pulling his half-dressed body to me. He tries to push me back, but he can't do it because he doesn't really want to push me back. He bites on my tongue, though, and my mouth retreats. "Son of a –"

"Let go of –"

I kiss him again, don't care that it stings, force him to open up for me. His hands are on my hips, trying to push me off, but I press him against the wall, the picture frames shaking. I push one hand into the back of his pants again, at an awkward angle, my wrist protesting, but I get my fingers between his cheeks, and – there's nothing. He comes to a complete still, his breath quickening. I kiss him again, and he doesn't fight back now, just stands still, and I circle my fingers around his rim. I can't really do much other than that without hurting him. And it's then that I realize what the strain in his voice was. He was lying to me. Lying about his relationship with Dave. The thought isn't as comforting as I thought it would be.

My tongue pushes against his, and I keep at it until he shudders and his body presses against mine. He kisses me back, groaning at the back of his throat. It's almost too easy.

"You'd love for me to fuck you right now," I tell him, our mouths pressing together. I feel his entire body yearning for it. It's too easy to flick that switch inside him. He's breathing hard, his hands pulling on my shirt, trying to tuck it out of my pants. Our bruised lips press together. A bit of yelling, an adrenalin rush... "You'd love for me to fuck your tight hole. You'd get off on it." My hand pulls back from his hole, my fingertips running up his vertebrae. "I'd drag you to your bed, yours and Dave's, and fuck you there until the bed broke. You'd be on your hands and knees, the picture of you and Dave on the nightstand watching you get fucked so hard. Would you let me? Huh? Come on, would you let me?"

My lips hover over his, and I stare into his lust-filled eyes. His cheeks are rosy, and his body is thrumming. He's hard, I feel it against me. Humiliation, anger, I see it all there in his eyes, but it loses to desire. He breathes out, "Yes."

Yes. Of course it's a yes.

I take a hold of his shoulders once more, my forehead pressed to his. "See, the thing is, Kurt... the thing is. That the thought alone repulses me." I step back, my eyes darting to the closed bedroom door. Their bed.

Nothing is holy to him. He's trying to salvage whatever he has with Dave, and what for? What does any of it even mean to him?

"You said you wanted space, and all it takes to get you on your knees for me is a little bit of dirty talk? Fuck," I laugh, shaking my head. "You tell me who's fucked up. You tell me that." I try to breathe, but it hurts. My eyes fly over his form, his erection that's visible at the front of his pants, his reddened cheeks and swollen lips. He'll never stop being beautiful to me, but it's more than obvious that he doesn't realize that. And he's ashamed. Ashamed of this. "God, take a look at yourself," I whisper.

Unlike Rachel, I have enough theatrical flair to stop at the door. He's still pressed to the wall, heaving, staring at me with wide eyes.

"I meant what I –" My throat closes off. Suddenly, the memory makes me feel humiliated. I don't know what I was thinking. God, what was I thinking? "I meant what I said. In Bismarck. It's taken me all this time to realize you're pretending it never even happened. Fuck, that's... that's just great," I laugh, my voice breaking. My chest feels hollow, and I hang my head in shame of myself. He probably wishes that I had kept my mouth shut, blurting out something so stupid. "Enjoy your space."

I don't bother closing their door as I walk out, leaving him to his game of playing everyone around him. He's a walking disaster, probably clueless as to what the hell he even wants, but I still know that what we've got is too good to lose or to cheapen, something too good for a dirty affair, and if he – if he doesn't realize that... If he doesn't want that. Doesn't want what I've been offering like a fucking idiot.

He doesn't come after me. Of course not.

Outside, the spring sun shines bright. I stand on my own two feet and try to remember who the hell I am without him.