Chapter 13: A Thing of Beauty/Slip Away

The café owner never tries to make any money off of me. When I walk in, shoulders hunched, head hung low, she just greets me, tells the waitress to bring me some black coffee, and motions me to the table in the corner that she knows I like the best. I can see out into the street, but people can't see me. The place is only two blocks from my place, at the heart of the neighborhoods where I tend to make myself known, but the café's under the radar. It's not a place you'd find Jeff having a hangover cure in, or any of the rockers or artists around these parts because the place isn't romantic. It's sandwiched between a shoe store and a rare coins shop that I've never seen anyone in, and I haven't brought Rachel here or Jeff or Sam or Will, not even Kurt. It's my own place. It's got an old soul.

It was a damn smart move for me to keep one place to myself. Keep one plain corner table with a wobbly chair to myself.

I place my hat on the table. Remove my sunglasses. The girl brings me coffee. She doesn't look at me and she doesn't ask questions, and I get out my notebook.

"How's the album going, Blaine?"

I look up towards the counter where Eleanor is looking at me with a motherly smile. "It's going well, El. It's done."

"You don't say." She scratches her greying head, her wedding ring still on her finger. Her husband died last year. Cancer, I think. "I'll be buying it."

"I'll send you a copy." She looks like she's about to protest, so I say, "Don't even try to argue with me. I'll sign it for you. It might even be worth some money one day."

She nods, a small smile stretching on her face. "Well, thank you, Blaine. That'd be sweet of you."

"Don't mention it," I say and start working on the snippets of lyrics that have been circling in my head the past few days. I don't know what they're for because it's like I said: the album is done. We finished the last song last night, and the official party is taking place tomorrow. I've worked out the track list. I've given it a title. The guys are excited, the label even more so: they sent me a fruit basket.

I'm so tired of life.

The black ink swirls on the white page, my eyes following the loops and the curves. It's a sunny day, of course, just to let me know that I don't have the right to be miserable. And spring is time for lovers. Yeah, what lovers? Rachel isn't taking my calls, and I'm not taking Kurt's. Lovers. I sent Rachel flowers, too, but she never called to thank me. And now I walk around SoHo, sunglasses and hat, seeing lovers holding hands, arms around each other's waists, laughing into each other's necks. They always come out during spring. It's a seasonal thing. Turn, turn, turn.

The coffee is bitter and too hot, burning my tongue, but I don't mind. The white porcelain is almost too hot to hold. I feel the odd shape of the Chelsea Hotel key ring in my pocket, and I don't know why I carry it around. Right now, that temporary haven is the last place where I want to be.

I did a foolish thing.

I write down a few more lines, and they all seem like they don't connect, but they do, or they will. It's like I'm looking at the pages with a magnifying glass, missing the bigger picture.

At least he has called, but I told him that it wasn't a good time and that I was going out, and then eventually I just hung up on him. He hasn't called since. I couldn't deduce anything from the sound of his voice: was he going to tell me that I'm an asshole or that he was sorry? I don't know. Maybe even he doesn't. Maybe I said some stupid things, or I represented my feelings in an idiotic fashion, but I meant what I said: I don't want other people touching him. Not the way I touch him. And now I lie in bed at night, seeing him arch into the touch of anonymous men, and I've never felt whatever it makes me feel. A knife to my chest and dragged downwards as he succumbs in throes of passion across town. I'm on a quest to find some well-hidden piece of him from an infinite labyrinth full of dead ends. I'm blindfolded and desperate. I can't seem to get a hold of him.

Eleanor's got the radio on, and I feel mocked and ridiculed when that stupid number one hit from a few months back comes on. I heard it on the radio plenty then, but I never thought anything of it. Now a silent anger bubbles in me when the girl sings, "You mustn't think you've failed me just because there's someone else," and she then proceeds to wail about how hard it is for her to be in love with two men. She's an angel, though, this girl. She's torn apart by it. I don't know if Kurt's sorry or angry, but he's not torn. He said it himself: it's not confusing to him.

I'd love to see inside his head, see how it operates. See what exactly he thinks of me, and what he thinks of Dave, and how exactly do those differ? But I can't read his mind, and he will never tell me.

I can't lose something I've never had. Can't lose someone I never had.

I did such a foolish thing.

I keep thinking of that Auden poem, writing his words on the paper distractedly. Over and over again.

So I pity myself. Someone's got to. Fuck, I used to be so much stronger than this. None of this would have affected me a year ago, six months ago. I need to put that armor back on, find that battered shield. It was potentially lethal to take it off.

"Blaine. Hey!"

I start, looking up from the page to see a man standing by my table. In my café. In this one place where I thought I'd be safe in this city of millions. My insides feel frozen. Fuck you, universe. Go on, ridicule me further then. Go on. Because here he is.

"Mind if I sit down?" Dave asks good-naturedly with that familiar nervous edge to his words. He'll never get rid of all the amazement he feels at the sight of me.

I don't want him to sit down. He can go home and obsessively listen to his Warblers records and jerk off to the mental image of Sebastian Smythe on stage. He seems the type.

"Sure. Go ahead." I push the other chair with my leg. Sit down, then. Mock me.

"What a coincidence running into you!" he laughs, taking a seat, placing a rolled up newspaper on the table, carefully lowering the camera bag that's hanging from his shoulder. He sees me looking at it. "Just been taking some pictures here and there. Then it's off for my last shift at Will's. Been working there since we moved to New York, so that's kind of scary, but the documentary is a full-time project now." I look at his mouth. Try to determine if he's a good kisser. If it's a sensual mouth or a soft mouth or – "What are you writing?"

I drop my gaze onto the page, sharing my table, my coffee, my notes with the other man. The legitimate one. "'The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good.'" I take another sip of my coffee, not looking at the mouth that kisses Kurt. "W.H. Auden."

"I don't recognise it. I don't read much poetry."

"I do."

Something like embarrassment flickers on his face. Does he take Kurt slow or does he take Kurt hard? Does he make love or does he fuck? And how many times since the cabin have they copulated? Kurt's got an insatiable libido. Someone's got to do the job.

The girl brings him coffee, and he seems unnerved now. "Is this a bad time?" He looks at my notes like the morbid tone has put him off. Yes, it is a bad time. We're living in bad times, can't he tell? Maybe he fucked Kurt last night. Maybe he hasn't showered, maybe I should start sniffing him too, see if I can smell it. But I don't want to know. God, if knowing turns me into this zombie I've been, going between rage and loss and anger and sorrow and confusion and pain and then rage again, then I'd rather not know.

I say, "I'm in love, and it's not going so well." I close the notebook and gaze out of the window.

A sympathetic, understanding expression takes over his features. "I, uh... I did hear something about you and Rachel going through a rough time." He holds a pause so that I can comment if I want to. I don't. He smiles even more sympathetically. "I'm sure she'll come around, Blaine. I mean, all couples have their disagreements."

"I suppose you're right, but I just don't see much of a future there right now." I don't even know who I'm talking about anymore, but the words still ring true. "Have you ever cheated on Kurt?"

And would he be stupid enough to tell me?

He looks surprised by the change of topic, his cheeks turning red like me asking something so personal has got him flustered. "No. No, of course not."

"Because I thought gays slept around a lot."

"Some do. Some of us want relationships. Want to settle down." But Kurt's too cute to settle down. Was three years ago, still is today. Dave brushes stray hairs behind his ear. "To be honest with you, Kurt and I had a bad winter. We barely saw each other. But, you know, when you love someone that much, you find them again. Life was less hectic when you guys were in Bismarck, and we got to spend time together again. Maybe you and Rachel need to do that too."

He's giving me relationship advice. Telling me where I went wrong: leaving. Leaving Kurt unguarded. While I was writing him songs, he slipped away from me. Is that what I'm supposed to conclude?

I close my eyes. I see Kurt there, night three of a New York without me. Thinking of me. Lying in bed, boxers on, staring at the ceiling, feeling lonely and restless, thoughts wandering to Bismarck and what I'm doing and if I'm missing him yet. Dave walks into the room, and they're ready to go to bed, and Dave says how nice it'll be that he can sleep in for once, and then Dave stops slightly, realizing that he's got a thing of beauty in his bed, or, no – No, maybe Kurt looks at Dave, thinks, 'There's a way not to feel lonely', or maybe the two things happen simultaneously, and the first touch, well, it's hesitant because it's been a while, and they're nervous, but then months of pent up passion or longing (on whose side?) gets unleashed, and it's so hot to the touch. And the next night they do it again. And Kurt doesn't have to miss me. He realizes that he never really even did.

Maybe I had lost my chance before he ever even got to Bismarck.

"You know anything about tour rules?" I ask quietly. Dave shakes his head and looks intrigued. I get out a cigarette. Try to pull my way out of this quicksand. "I'll tell you. Seeing as we'll be hitting the road in a few months, you should know these things." I go through my pockets, but he's quick to get out matches and light one for me. I lean in, suck in smoke, blow it out from the corner of my mouth. He drops the match into the ashtray. "Thanks." I rest my elbows on the table. "Firstly, drugs and alcohol are at everyone's own discretion as long as, and I stress this, you're still able to do your job. If you're too fucked to do it, I'll fire you."

"Oh, I wouldn't –"

"I'm not saying you would. You just need to know this, and you need to let your crew know. You're responsible for them."

He nods, alert and listening. Docile like a dog. He'd probably even want to take notes.

It rarely happens that a crew member is too out of it to function, and we used to laugh it off if someone missed soundcheck because they were wandering along hotel corridors shitfaced, incoherently mumbling about walking in crystal forests of magic lights. It's nice to have ideals, though. Something to aim for.

I don't think of our Lucy tour and me drinking too much and getting myself arrested and starting fights and stirring shit up. But that was another tour with a band that hated itself. I don't want to go through that again.

"We're a band on tour, so it's perfectly okay for things to get wild, and they will get wild, but just... keep your head on. Don't OD. Don't sleep with a minor. The basic shit." He looks shocked. Clearly he hasn't been in our circles long enough to get these basics covered. "There'll be groupies, of course. It's okay to bang them, that's what they want. Use a condom, though, they're not necessarily clean. Don't believe them if they say they've got a diaphragm or that they're on the pill, that's the oldest trick in the book for them to knock themselves up." I flick my cigarette over the ashtray. Rachel's words come to mind, about me smoking when I'm nervous. Bullshit. There's no link. "And significant others back home... are back home." I let out a heavy sigh. "The oldest tour rule is that it's not cheating when you fuck around on tour. You're allowed to. And no one is stupid enough to say anything of it to whoever's waiting for you back home."

"Good thing Kurt's coming on tour with us, then," he laughs nervously, as an icebreaker. "Or that I'll be on tour to keep my eye on him." He's trying to make it into a joke, but he's right. If he wants to keep Kurt in his life, he needs to keep Kurt under constant surveillance.

I stare at him calmly. "You think he'd cheat on you?"

He looks offended. He can't be right for Kurt. He can't be if he can't even see what's right in front of his eyes: me. The way I look at Kurt. Sam said that it's written all over my face, and Sam said that Kurt looks at me differently from Dave, and if Dave can't see it by now, can't sense the tension whenever Kurt and I are in the same room together, then he doesn't know Kurt at all, can't read him, or can read him even less than I do, and he doesn't deserve Kurt, he doesn't deserve to be the guy who gets to take Kurt home.

I want to say, 'Be offended, go on. Be offended. It's nothing compared to the confusion and loss I feel.'

"Look, what I'm trying to say is that you'll be walking around with that camera crew, and plenty of shit will happen that can't be on that documentary, alright? Like the drugs. And the underage girls that someone is bound to sleep with. You make sure that you don't as much as accidentally film that." He nods conscientiously, all serious like. "And Rachel isn't coming on tour, she's got her own show. But I care about her. I wouldn't want to hurt her. And so, when you see me taking off with women, you make sure no one's filming. I don't want anyone asking stupid questions." I scratch my neck, the words now forming in my head, and I take a drag of the cigarette and take a sip of the lukewarm coffee. This bit never gets easier. This bit makes my heart race like that of some tiny rodent every damn time. "And sometimes... sometimes, you'll see me take off with men instead. And you don't need to pay any attention to that either."

Dave lets out a burst of laughter, eyes sparkling like I got him with that one. I stare at him blankly. I fuck men. I fuck his boyfriend.

"Oh, come on. April Fool's Day was last week," he says, smile lopsided. He seems touched that I decided homosexuality would make a good joke, like it's a nod towards him. I take a long sip of my coffee and open my notebook again, finding a new page and scribbling down a few more lines that pop into my head. I feel his eyes on me, and I can see in my mind's eye how his facial expression changes from amused to shocked, his pupils widening, his mouth maybe even dropping open. "You're... you're being serious."

"You're not a homophobic homo, are you?" I ask incredulously, quickly adding, "I'm not a fag. I just sleep with men too. I thought it'd be better for you to know. And on tour, well, plenty to choose from." I feel nauseous. "I imagine I'll be pretty busy."

Faceless, nameless bodies, young women with tight pussies, virgin boys with tight asses. Bodies. Meat.

"I need a glass of water," Dave announces, his face a sickly pale. He gets up quickly and hurries to the counter. Well, this is a new reaction.

I push all the whirlwind of regret and sorrow into that broken, pathetic part of me that's spilling all over the pages of my notebook, and I try to focus here. Dave is my competition. He's the enemy. If he weren't around, messing it all up for me, Kurt would be mine already.

I can work with this. Turn Dave into a weapon. My next move. I used to be so good at this, but now I just mope around like that will somehow make me look like the better option. Dave thanks Eleanor for the glass of water, and I recompose myself and tell myself to man the fuck up, and by the time he sits down again, I feel... lighter. Calmer.

Colder.

"You alright, Valdes?" I ask, and he nods hurriedly, guzzling the water. "You seem a bit surprised."

He laughs in a 'oh fuck get me out of here' way, trying to avoid eye contact. "Yeah, uh. I just. I never imagined that you might... I mean. You're. Fuck, you're Blaine Anderson. You're – you're famous, everyone knows you, and you'd – you'd imagine that something like that couldn't be kept. Secret. Or I mean. That there'd be rumors or... But fuck, I had no idea."

I drop the stub of my cigarette into the rest of my coffee. It makes a hissing sound and sinks. That's the point. That no one has any idea. I can't go around admitting that I've, well, tried to suck cock.

Eleanor is leaning against the counter. Looks like she's trying to do a crossword again. I need to come here more often. She hums to the tune on the radio, and I feel like I'm ten-years-old and Lucy's asleep in my lap, whimpering in her dog dreams, and I can hear the humming from the kitchen where my grandmother who is not my grandmother is doing the dishes, and I try to memorize that seven times eight is fifty-six. That's why I come to this café. For the split moments that this woman's presence reminds me of someone else's.

David Karofsky looks like he has never been more shocked in his life.

"I'm discreet. That's what it's all about," I say. "So don't tell anyone about this, alright?"

"Yeah. Of course not."

"I mean it. No one."

He nods hurriedly. "No one."

I miss him more than I can stand.

"Why would you tell Dave?!" Kurt asks, voice raised either because he's angry or because he has to compete with the noise that's coming from the party taking place behind the doors of the studio lounge. The music is thumping through, a celebration with the band and the production team, Dave and four film crew guys asking everyone how they feel with cameras on their shoulders, cables zigzagging across the floor. Kurt is pale and upset and yelling at me. "He's asking all kinds of questions now! About The Warblers and if I noticed anything when I was a roadie for you guys, if I ever picked up any vibes, he even – He even asked if you've ever come onto me!"

"Well, what'd you say? Have I… ever come onto you?" I let my eyes slowly, slowly roam over his body.

"Of course I said no, lied straight through my teeth. What do you think?" he asks. He's scared. He's jumpy. I wonder if it went down like I pictured it, Dave bursting through the door with, 'Blaine fucks men!' And at that moment, Kurt sitting there on their couch, eyes wide as saucers, did he think, 'Oh god. Blaine told Dave'? Maybe. Kurt seems thoroughly shaken, and maybe he really thought that I went to his better half and told Dave why exactly he and Kurt were distant this winter. "God, you shouldn't have done that. I don't know what to tell him. I don't know what - Fuck, why'd you do that?"

"Because of the tour. The documentary." I lick my lips slightly. "The men I'll be fucking."

He lets out a deep, unnerved breath and crosses his arms, maybe a sign of annoyance. Who knows? I watch the muscles of his forearms, the way they're pronounced through the skin. The t-shirt is grey. It's new. He leans his back against the wall of the wide corridor, made with the transportation of instruments and other equipment in mind, and the sound of laughter echoes from the party. I look the opposite way, to the double doors that lead to the reception. I don't want to be here.

"You've just made everything harder," he sighs, and I want to ask him when exactly was it meant to be easy. "That was a stupid move."

"Well, he can't exactly unknow it now, can he? I did what I had to do."

"For the documentary."

"Exactly," I lie.

He looks at me with what could be disappointment. I don't want to stand here to be scrutinized by him, for him to come up with a million new reasons why I'm a failure. "You've made your point. Alright?" he asks quietly. Which point was that? "Not taking my calls, avoiding me... Your tour plans. I guess you're over me then. What with all these other men you want to do instead." His tone is challenging. I don't take the bait. He swears under his breath, jaw line tense. "I'm sorry. Okay? When you – When you came to our apartment, that was a- a weird situation that neither one of us was prepared for. We didn't handle it very well. It was stupid, and we should forget about it. Go back to the way it was."

"The way it was?" I echo. But the way it was wasn't working. Doesn't he realize that?

"Yeah. Before Bismarck and all of that. Things were really good between us, remember?"

I do. They were amazing. We were amazing.

Dave thinks they've rekindled since. I don't know if that's the reason why Kurt and I seem to be miles apart from each other. Kurt hasn't said a word of it to me, not even when I got back from Bismarck and we slipped back into our daydream: we'd eat ice cream in bed, enjoying post-coital chatting about music, calling room service for some vanilla to go with the chocolate, and I remember how he lay there, nothing but some sheets covering his crotch, laughing as I dived in for an ice cream kiss. Desperately wanting to pretend that nothing had changed. But it had. I could detect his guilt – it was penetrating our world, bursting our bubble. He pulled away from all the kisses too quickly.

He never said a word about him and Dave and still clearly doesn't plan to.

"We just need to be more careful," he says gently. "Dave's paying attention now."

"Go back to the way it was and be more careful," I recap for him.

He wants to go back in time. Before I told him how I felt. Before I told him that I knew he didn't want to acknowledge how I felt.

That's two times he is choosing to ignore. Deny, deny, deny. Hell, we've done it before. I've done just that before, and Quinn, god, Quinn out of all people comes to my mind, sitting in a bar with me, suspicious eyes on me – 'You're not in love with him, are you?' No. No, no, no. I was so good at it. I was so fucking good at it.

If I did it once, I can do it again.

"Are you coming to any of the Led Zep shows this week?" he asks, and yeah, I forgot about that, that he and his team are spending the next seven nights making sure that the dressing rooms of Madison Square Garden have enough beers and sandwiches. His grand finale. He's giving up everything for the documentary project: quitting his club job to come on tour, having at least postponed the actual job offer made by the promotion company now that his internship is at an end. I don't know if I should be surprised that they want to keep Kurt on. Who wouldn't?

"At some point, yeah. See how Bonzo's doing," I say, shrugging.

"Yeah? Because those things can easily drag on, and, well, it's easy for me to disappear for a few hours before going home, so..." He trails off, inviting me back to our bed. I don't know if I'm ready to join him there. When I say nothing, annoyance flickers on his face. "Come on. It's stupid fighting about this."

I push hair from my forehead, avoiding eye contact. "Is it?"

He doesn't say anything, but his attempt at a warm smile disappears.

The door to the reception opens, and the receptionist girl whose name I have not bothered to learn seems relieved at the sight of us. "Mr. Anderson," she says. "I tried calling the lounge, but I don't think they can hear the phone in there. I've got Miss Berry on the line for you."

I instantly feel more alert. "Connect it to the control room," I request, and she nods, hurrying to do just that. Kurt's lips have pursed, but he says nothing. I don't want to finish having this conversation. "You should join the party before Dave notices our absence with his newly acquired skills of observation and deduction." The sarcasm is as heavy as a fully iron heart. "I gotta take this call."

His eyes flicker to the door of the control room just down the hallway. "Apparently you guys are breaking up."

"Who the hell told you that?" I ask, and he shrugs nonchalantly. Doesn't matter to him. Clearly. "Don't believe everything you hear," I say and head to the studio door, maybe walking out on him with a bit of a rebellious flair. He doesn't stick around, and he doesn't tell me to stop as his steps go the other way, towards the lounge.

The noise of the party disappears behind the walls and doors of the studio, and I flick the light on in the control room. A lone microphone stands on the other side of the glass, the darkness swallowing up all the other equipment in the live room. I sit on Bob's chair by the mixing table and lift the receiver of the phone that has a light flashing red. "Rachel, hey."

"Hey." Her tone is official, lacking its usual warmth and friendliness. I feel relieved and sad and lonely and happy all at once. She's done a number on me. "You didn't answer at home, so I decided to try the studio."

"Yeah, we're all here celebrating. The album's done."

"It is? Wow."

"Yeah, we've named it Wolf's Teeth. I've named it, that is."

"Sounds violent."

"It is."

"Well, congratulations."

I hear female voices at the other end and figure that she's calling from the dance studio. That's where I've been calling, mostly, bombarding the secretary Penny with messages for Rachel. She hasn't made herself known in over a week, despite my best efforts.

"You know I've been trying to call you."

"I know."

Oh. Well. I guess she's not returning my calls because that's what I did to her. Payback. Smart. Or just cruel punishment.

"So how've you been?" I ask, absently pushing buttons on the mixing board.

"Not good, Blaine." She sighs, sounding pained, and I echo it with every fiber of my being. I'm not doing so well either. No, I'm not doing well at all. "Maybe we should get together and talk."

"Okay. Sure." That sounds good. I'll give her my sad puppy eyes, and she'll crumble, and then at least one thing in my life will be the way it should be. And now that the album is done, I'll spend more time with her, I swear that I will. I'll take her to those movies she wants to see, accompany her to those Broadway shows we've never gone to, I'll be there more, because she's been away for a week and it's forced me spend too much time by myself. I'm not very good company. "Did you get the flowers?"

"Yes, I got the flowers. Thank you."

"Sunflowers. Your favorite."

There's a long pause on the line where I wonder if she's still there. When she speaks again, the calm tone from before is gone. "They're not my favorite."

"Oh, come on. They are. Remember when we went to that Italian place in San Diego? Every table had a sunflower, but you wanted them all, so I made our waitress steal the other table's flowers. You were wearing that hat of yours that matched." The memory is a pleasant one, making me smile. We have plenty of good memories, Rachel and I.

"Blaine, I've never been to San Diego!" she exclaims angrily, but she has, I know she has, we were there, it – Oh. Oh shit. "Oh god, you're confusing me with Quinn, aren't you?"

"No!"

"A hat with a sunflower?"

"Rachel, baby –"

She hangs up on me. I take the receiver from my ear and stare at it in horror, and instantly a wave of rage washes over me. "Fuck!" I swear and throw the receiver against the studio glass, but it just makes a loud thud and drops onto the buttons. A 'toot, toot' echoes from it until it's all I hear. Quinn has dark blonde hair, Rachel has dark blonde highlights, I've been to restaurants with both, it was a damn easy mistake to make. Fuck. Fuck! I try, I really fucking try, but what do I get for my efforts? Nothing. Nothing but shit thrown at me. "Motherfucking piece of shit," I swear, and maybe those gossiping friends of hers are right. Maybe I am the worst boyfriend of the goddamn decade.

I put the receiver down, pick it up again and call the dance studio, the number memorized by now.

No one picks up.

I was planning to go before I even knew that Kurt's promotion company was involved in the string of seven sold out shows at Madison Square Garden. I felt obliged, really, having hung out in the same circles as Bonzo in London back in 1975. I didn't expect Kurt to have anything to do with this tour: his promotion company handles unknown cases at small venues. Well, Led Zeppelin is big enough for smaller companies to have been hired as extra help.

The backstage area is massive, the band is on stage, and the likelihood of seeing Kurt anywhere is limited. Good. Because I think he was right, ironically enough: space. I need that right now. I need it because he is confusing the hell out of me, and I can't be around him when I feel like this. He wants to make up. No, he wants to forget and pretend, and I am expected to do the same.

Right now, I might be better off without him fucking up my mind.

Jeff is hyped, telling me to introduce him to the band. I only know Bonzo, once met Robert, once shook hands with Jimmy, and have never even talked to John Paul. I've prepared myself for a night of heavy drinking because that's what Bonzo likes to do, and I appreciate him for it.

"Lauren says we'll play here," Jeff yells in between songs, and I watch from the sidelines into the arena. This place was Ryder's dream: twenty thousand people. This is what he wanted for The Warblers. We would have gotten here. We would have.

The crowd is larger than any Warblers crowd ever was. I remember shaking and trembling and falling apart at the sight of crowds half the size. I see the mass of people, fading into black, and even if the lights were on, the people at the very back would be even less than tiny specks of color. I don't feel put off by them. I don't feel like I need to prove anything anymore. I'm not saying that fans screaming my name no longer affects me, it still does, but I'm no longer terrified of them figuring me out. They try, they really do, but so far only one person ever has, and so the ratio tends to be on my side.

Jeff cheers enthusiastically when Robert screams into the microphone, shirt open, jeans low on his waist, crazy curls past his shoulders. He ends up on the stage floor, still screaming the same note, and I smell the sweat from the side of the stage. Warblers memories come rushing back to me, but they don't haunt me, just provide a contrast with what I now want: as much intensity without the theatrics.

When the show is over, a whole crowd is waiting for the band beside the stage. Bonzo is quick to spot me, greeting me warmly, and Jeff puts on his charming grin and has Bonzo eating out of his hand within five minutes. "We're getting drunk tonight, lads," Bonzo informs us with a broad grin. "We'll drink 'til we die."

"Sounds like a plan to me!" Jeff says, and as Bonzo disappears to get showered and changed, Jeff and I mingle in the dressing room, groupies finding us quickly. Their manager Grant comes over and instantly tells me that whoever is managing me is shit and that he can do better than that clueless man. When I inform him that my manager is, in fact, a woman, he's appalled and launches into a speech of women's role as baby machines and housewives, saying that the little girl playing manager is going to ruin my career and should stay in the kitchen baking waffles for me and then sucking my cock in the bedroom every night. Lauren would have punched Grant in fifty different ways by now.

"Blaine, at least let me take you out for lunch," Grant beckons. "Champagne? Where is – God, can we get some champagne?" he calls out loudly, snapping his fingers. "Anyone?!"

It's right then when I've lowered my guard that Kurt appears, a champagne bottle in hand, glasses in the other. "Of course, Grant. Here you go."

"Cheers, Kurt! Can always count on you," Grant says, offering me a glass. Kurt just smiles professionally. Led Zeppelin are here for a week, this is their third night, and Kurt seems to have made an impression with his dressing room organizational skills. He looks tired, though. Exhausted.

"Hey, Blaine. Jeff." His eyes linger on me. I wish I hadn't had anything to drink because my judgement isn't very trustworthy when I'm sober, let alone with alcohol in my blood.

"Kurt, how's it going?" Jeff asks, already pleasantly drunk.

"You know each other? Blimey, New York's small," Grant laughs, now lifting his champagne glass and drinking it greedily. We just shrug instead of playing the game of who knows who how.

"What have you got planned for tonight?" he asks conversationally.

"Going out to get drunk, high and laid," Jeff sums up ungracefully, but yeah, that seems to be on the agenda. I might be single for all I know. Rachel has not returned a single one of my further calls. She did pick up yesterday, accidentally, maybe thought it'd be her mother, and we only ended up fighting and screaming at each other over the phone, me because I'm angry and scared, her because she's angry and hurt. I called her high maintenance and needy, I think, I don't know, I was just telling her to stop being a bitch already, and I made her cry, too, her last words before hanging up being, 'All I've ever tried to do was to be the kind of girlfriend you need'.

She was right. That's why she's always kept me in a loose grip. Not because she didn't want to hold me tighter but because she knew that I didn't want her to. She's been waiting for me to say that now I want her to.

Kurt says, "You guys have fun, then. We'll be finishing off here after you've headed out to clubs." Someone calls his name, and he gives us an apologetic smile. He brushes against me as he goes, his hand briefly touching my stomach, and my insides do a somersault. I practically shiver, the feel of his touch washing from my toes to the crown of my head, and I take in a shuddery breath and focus on looking like nothing happened at all.

He could slip away tonight. He told me he could, and I knew that coming here, but I told myself that I wouldn't see him. Pretending that I didn't even hope to see him. And I'm not sure if his offer still stands because everything is so unfinished with us. But no. No, I'm not vanishing into the night with him tonight, not until we can agree on where we stand.

He will come around. He will see things my way. I just need to exhaust him, that's all. I've done it before.

"Take my business card, at least," Grant then says, and I accept it out of courtesy, slipping it into my jacket pocket. It won't go in, at first, the way blocked, and I pull out a piece of paper as Grant and Jeff talk about New York clubs.

I unfold the torn off piece of paper, expecting to find my own messy handwriting and some half-finished lyric, but I'm not the scribe behind the note. I read the short text and then look up in surprise, trying to find Kurt somewhere in the dressing room, but he's nowhere to be seen. His brush against me was even more intentional than I thought.

"Blaine, you coming?" Jeff asks, signaling that we are now moving along. I quickly fold the note and pocket it, nodding hurriedly. Yeah. Coming. Sure.

But I see the text when I close my eyes, simple, painful and all too alluring: I'll be waiting at Chelsea Hotel. I miss your skin.

I won't go. No. I won't.

The bigger picture of the lyrics finally comes into focus half past three in the morning. I knew that they all linked together somehow. I find a pen and a notepad, look at the notebook scribbles, and it flows out of me suddenly, unexpectedly, and if at any point I fumble, I only need to look over to the hotel bed where Kurt is asleep. Red sheets are in a ball at the bottom of the bed, and he's got his back to me, half lying on his stomach. His skin looks golden in the glow coming from the lamp by my chair and from the light of the city coming in through the window. I can hear him breathing. Evenly. Softly. Like music.

His spine curves, his body narrowing down from his shoulders to his waist, then moving outwards at his hip, like a wave running along the side of his sinuous form. His ass is pale but still slightly pink, the impact of my body against his having left marks.

I shouldn't have come here.

I sip on my Scotch, trying to get his taste out of my mouth. Not because it's unpleasant but because it fills me with contentment and purpose and that one thing he doesn't want to know. The one thing he doesn't need me to feel.

He was waiting. Like he said he'd be. Shower fresh, smelling of his musky cologne, and I was his the second I stepped into the room. He said, "Let's just forget about it," somewhere between the kissing and the removal of clothes, but we didn't rush it. We took it slow and hard. And I never replied, didn't even try to because I felt so lost.

Left Bonzo and Jeff before I was even two drinks in. Made up some excuse. They didn't really pay attention.

My eyes drop back onto the hotel notepad, the Chelsea Hotel logo in the top right corner, and I flip onto a new page, a new stanza spewing out of me, and the rhythm of it is in my head. I can hear the notes. It won't go away. This song.

He was sinful to watch. Beneath me. Mouth open, the filthiest, most erotic moans escaping his swollen lips, all hot and masculine and "Blaine, god, Blaine," and I was waiting for that accidental slip of another name that never came. His brows knitted together, blown pupils staring at me through half-lidded eyes, cheeks flushed, pleasure flashing on his face. His hand dropped down between us, his fingers touching the point of connection, where I pushed into him. His fingers splayed there, my cock between his middle and index finger, like he had to locate where all the pleasure was coming from.

He shifts in his sleep. He moves onto his back. I don't know what he's dreaming of, but his cock is half-hard, resting against his lower stomach. He reaches out to touch the other half of the bed. My half. Dave's half. His hand goes over the sheets, but he finds nothing. I expect him to wake up. For the absence to set off an alarm through his subconscious.

It doesn't happen.

Of course it doesn't.

He slips back into deep sleep.

When I climaxed, it wasn't the same. It didn't feel like it meant as much as it did before, and I think I would have felt that way even without the condom. He had bought some. Clearly knew I would end up coming here. He just said that it makes cleaning up easier. Now that we need to be more careful. So I put it on. I was hard, on top of him, of course I put it on if it meant that I got to be inside him. But I didn't get to mark him. Claim him. I felt like a fucking tourist.

The white come that had gathered at the tip of the condom was a foreign sight. With women, it's different, the small emission of sperm is a congratulations for not accidentally coming in her, that you did a job well done. Not this time. Not with him. I want to come inside him, want to touch him there after I'm done, feel my fingers wet from lube and my seed, kiss him, think that that's when he's at his most beautiful. Because he is.

Pulling the condom off felt like an apology.

He fell asleep quickly. Said, "Don't let me fall asleep," snuggling to me, tired, worn out, mouth swollen and red, and I kept kissing him. Trying to find more meaning in it than he was willing to give.

I'll let him sleep.

He's at peace. He's tired. He's working himself to death.

I'll let him sleep.

I flip onto a new page. Tension curls up in my stomach, tension and loss and longing. How can he be asleep in my bed, still making me feel like I haven't seen him in years?

His chest rises and falls. I watch him, mesmerized. This might be the last time I ever see him like this. This might be the last time he and I ever come to this room.

The second the thought enters my mind, a paralyzing fear erupts in me, and I finish my Scotch, fingers trembling. These days cannot last. I know it. I sense it. Like a dog knowing that it's about to die, with that same conviction it suddenly occurs to me that these stolen nights will wither. Maybe it never could last. Not when he's drawing boundaries to my dreams.

I start breathing faster. I look at the notes. The letters are blurred. I close my eyes, wipe my cheeks, and try to get the page into focus. But nothing will come of it, nothing will come of this.

I put the notepad on the side table and get up. I try to move quietly. I don't want to wake him up. No one else in this world might let him sleep, but I will. I will always let him.

His jacket has been thrown onto the couch in the main room. I sit down slowly, doing everything like a second takes five, and I find his wallet in one of the pockets. Ten dollars cash. Drycleaners receipt. Bank card, ID, nothing of interest. I look into one of the small pockets, the calloused pads of my fingers feeling the rough corners of folded paper. I pull it out. Unfold the paper. A picture.

I rest my elbows against my knees, leaning forward, the picture in my hands. Dave. Nothing else. Not even a good picture of Dave, or Dave with something interesting in the background. Just Dave. Looking kind of stupid and out of focus. I flip it around. Kurt's handwriting greets me again, and it looks like I'm not the only one writing confessions on whatever writable material I can find: 'First day in our new home. Best day of my life – 17th of April 1975'.

The sounds of his breathing aren't audible to the other room. I've done so many foolish things in my life, but this one beats all the rest of them. Been such an idiot. Been so fucking stupid.

I leave his wallet in his jacket pocket the way it was, like nothing has ever been touched. I find the rest of my clothes, dress silently, tie my shoe laces. He's asleep in our bed, and I lean down to kiss him on the lips. He stirs slightly, warm air puffing against my dry lips, but I soothe him before he can wake up, brushing his soft hair. He falls back into sleep. Restful sleep. The world where everything is easy.

I would like to think that I walk out of the room gracefully, that I don't stagger and I don't fight for breath. I clutch onto the notepad, mind spinning, the entire world spinning, and I feel so gullible and so sick, and the elevator takes forever to get me to the ground floor. I wipe my cheeks with my sleeves.

Two blocks down, I spot a payphone. I find a few coins in my pockets. The hotel receptionist puts the call through after some desperate convincing. It rings and it rings and it rings, and finally Bob groggily answers, "Hello?"

"Bob. It's Blaine."

"Blaine…? It's – It's four in the morning, it's –"

"I need you to come to the studio. Right now. I need you to – Bob, there's this song, I need to record it, you need to come down. Bob, please. Please listen. I need you to help me out because I can't get it out of my head, and these words are pouring out, and god, it's so ugly, all of it, all the things I thought were beautiful, they're so fucking ugly. I see it whenever I close my eyes. I'm so fucking lost, Bob. I've got this one more song. Just this one last song, and then I swear that I'm done. I swear. But if I don't get it out, it'll kill me. It's killing me."

"I'll meet you outside in half an hour."

"Thank you."

The line goes dead.

When I find her, it's morning. My throat feels sore from alcohol, cigarettes and singing, and my knuckles ache from the hard wood of her door, but I knock and I knock. I feel like my legs won't carry me much further, like I've used every ounce of my energy to get me here.

She opens the door, fully dressed, shoes on, like she is on her way out. She sees me and freezes, her eyes widening. "Blaine. My god, are you –" And then she opens up her arms and pulls me in, and nothing makes sense, nothing, but I focus on her arms around me, her words, "Blaine, baby, it's okay, whatever it is, it's okay –"

I tremble against her, and she pulls me into her apartment, door closing, haven, sanctuary, healing. She shushes me, petting my hair softly, and I hide my face in the crook of her neck, the skin soon feeling wet the way my cheeks feel. "You love me," I whisper, clutching onto her. "You love me, don't you?"

"Of course I do. Blaine, of course I do."

I try to breathe, try not to think of the sunlight creeping across the hotel room, stirring him from his slumber. Panicking. Hurrying to Brooklyn to be with him.

I clutch onto the back of Rachel's shirt, pressing her against me as hard as I can. "I'm so sorry. Just don't leave me. Please, don't ever leave me."

And then my legs give in, and she can't support my weight. We fall to our knees, but she keeps holding me.