Chapter 16: Elizabeth Castro
Nothing and no one wakes me up.
A pillow lies under my head, another is lying length-wise next to me, like I've pulled it closer in my sleep. I used to sleep alone just fine.
The walls of my bedroom are the same beige color they've been since the place got refurbished. Rachel chose the color, made a big fuss over beige and cream and what I preferred. I didn't care.
It's quiet in my room. No pretty brown-eyed girls or blue-eyed boys anywhere.
The peace sometime in the morning, maybe closer to ten, is soothing. Feels like I managed to sleep for a few hours after all. Soon I have to head over to Madison Square Garden for our second New York show, but before that I should check the morning papers, see if they concur with the reviewers for the Baltimore and Philly shows: that I'm still an elusive know-it-all on stage and off it, but for some reason they can't stop watching, and neither can anyone else. Oh, and the music's not bad either.
I shave in the bathroom, accompanied by a leaking tap. Drip. Drip. Drip. My eyes dart to look at the shower curtain reflected in the mirror, but no one's behind it, whistling or humming or filling the gaps with morning kisses. I get dressed, sitting on the edge of my bed to tie the laces of my black platform shoes. My tour suitcase remains packed because we'll be off soon enough, heading to Chicago next, I think.
Find cereal and milk in the kitchen. The milk hasn't gone bad yet. I lean against the counter and munch on the food, fully dressed and with a clean-shaven chin. Can hear the crunch of the cereal. Crunch, crunch.
It's hot as hell in New York City. Black clouds are decorating the sky.
I feel restless. I know that the phone will start ringing soon, and if I don't answer, Lauren will be coming down to personally drag me out to do whatever she needs me to be doing. Fulfil other people's expectations of me.
The shows aren't bad. I've got them figured out, even when faced with twenty thousand people.
I scratch my nose. Feel more detached from humanity than I ever have felt.
Got a call from Ohio yesterday, from the hospital. Some infection. A turn for the worse. I don't have the time to wonder why I can't even bring myself to pretend to be affected by his slow way of dying. He'd do it quick if he had any decency.
I don't have the time to feel, period.
My fingers accidentally catch the chain around my neck. Yeah, he's still not talking to me. Is still mad. I tried talking to him in Philadelphia again and again, but it's difficult when someone else is always around and no privacy is to be had. He tagged behind long enough on the walk from the limo to the jet to ask me who else I've told. No one, I said. I swore. No one, no one at all, I lied. I don't think he bought it, just shot a dirty glance at me.
I don't have the time to feel the full impact of his wrath. Sometimes I even forget, for a second or two. But then I see him, and his disgust of me penetrates every cell of my body and makes it harder to breathe.
I remain by the kitchen window, eyeing the bruise colored clouds that lick the tops of the tallest buildings. Crunch, crunch, crunch.
The apartment is vast and empty. A quiet, lonely kingdom all to myself where the only sound is that of me breathing.
Roderick and I get shoved back and forth. The mix of fans and press pushes forward, the venue workers struggling to keep them back. The camera flashes blind me, and I try to cover my eyes and just keep swimming upstream. The pushing feels like an invasion of privacy, of decency. The shouting irritates my ear drums, the commotion bouncing around in my head. Someone grabs my arm, and I have to tear myself free. Lightning erupts from the darkening evening sky, the air pregnant with imminent rain.
We manage to get to the side door, and after a short but brutal struggle, we get inside and the door closes behind us. The security men are panting.
Roderick looks around. "Fuck, I lost my hat."
"Buy a new one," I offer.
Thomas, a guy who works for Madison Square Garden and is responsible for ensuring our pleasurable stay, laughs. He guides us through the canteen and to our dressing room while the security men follow us loyally, like dogs, like Argos, living only for the thought of us. I spot a few of our roadies but don't say hello. I'm too important to have the time, returning from a string of interviews in time for the show. One of Dave's men spots us and hurries to follow us with a camera on his shoulder. Dave's said that following us around will create a good sense of the constant movement and chaos behind the scenes or something along the lines.
When we get to the spacious dressing room, the security men taking position outside the doors, a loud chorus of voices greets us. Everyone's present, including some of Dave's crew, who've thankfully put their cameras away. Pre-show drinks are going around, and it's become a habit for us just to chill out and have a few beers before going on stage. Loud bursts of laughter erupt, the guys amused by whatever they're talking about. Thomas helps himself to a beer as Dave's guy puts the camera away. I find a seat by the dressing table, grabbing a beer bottle and note that Kurt isn't present. Brittany's about to start her set any second, and so neither she nor Santana is to be found.
"That is a myth," Sam says, slouched on the couch lazily. Mercedes looks slightly disgusted by whatever they're talking about. Rachel's not in New York this week but out of town somewhere. I'm not sure if it's on purpose, but I'm glad we're missing each other, not having to wonder if she'll come see us out of curiosity or anger.
"It's not, man! I swear, this guy told me it happens," Jeff insists enthusiastically.
"Spontaneous orgasms? That you're walking down the street and just get off?" Sam says skeptically.
"Coming in your pants," Roderick snickers appreciatively, and the guys laugh.
"No, that's not what I said. Not spontaneous or without, uh, stimulation. I only said that apparently some men can come without getting their dicks touched."
"Bullshit. Come on, that is bullshit," Sam deadpans. When Jeff is about to object, Sam says, "Think about it. Have you ever gotten off without getting your dick touched?"
"Well, no but –"
"So there ya go."
"Mercedes, help me out! We only know how our own dicks work," Jeff reasons, which is such a lie but he covers up his bisexuality very well. Apart from me, none of our friends know.
Mercedes chuckles, even if she clearly thinks that this is an obscene conversation only men would ever have. "I wouldn't know much about other guys' dicks."
"Much?" Sam asks with a raised eyebrow her way, and she rolls her eyes. Oh. Oh, cute. That's what's missing in that picture: clearly they were virgins when they first got together. How darling. The only two suckers in the twentieth century who are pleased riding just one horse.
"We need to ask groupies," Jeff says, dismissing Mercedes as a potential witness to these supposed ejaculations he's focusing his energies on.
The door to the dressing room opens, and Kurt wanders in. "Kurt! Just the man I wanted to see!" Jeff says, grinning broadly. Jeff's seemed pleased in some weird way that Kurt now knows that I've confided in him about our affair. I might be losing sleep over Kurt's anger, but Jeff certainly isn't. "Can you please verify for these non-believers that men really can get off without getting their dicks touched?"
Kurt stops. "Um..."
"So you're saying," Sam interrupts with a laugh, "that some men can get off by, I don't know, kissing chicks?"
"Not kissing. Broaden your horizons a little there, Sammy. I'm asking Kurt for a reason," Jeff says. Sam's eyebrows lift to his hairline, the way they would with any straight man suddenly asked to fill their head with visuals of gay sex. Kurt looks more than uncomfortable as the guys look at him, waiting for an answer. Jeff is enjoying this. Kurt spots me, but I haven't said a word to Jeff. I would never go into detail.
Kurt's cheeks look red, but it's not just embarrassment – it's anger aimed at me. But I don't want the entire room thinking of him in that situation. Don't want them to sexualize him or picture his far-gone sounds or the way his hips fervently move when he's about to orgasm. That's none of their business.
"That really doesn't happen," Dave now steps in. "That never happens. Does it, Kurt?"
"No. No, of course not," Kurt says, but Jeff doesn't look disappointed, more like he is holding back a smirk. A dark desire swirls in me, something that is pleased. So Dave has never. They never have.
"I, uh, forgot something," Kurt now says, motioning back out, eager to leave. He's almost at the door when it gets opened for him, and one of our roadies pops his head in.
"Hey, you guys, Brittany wanted you all to come check out her set. She said it's important."
Brittany's voice is ringing in the background as the guys exchanges glances of confusion, but no one seems to know anything. It's not like Britt to be secretive.
I'm quick to get up, however, and lead the way. Or, well, follow Kurt, who hurries his steps but I match his pace in the narrow backstage corridor as the roadie leads us through the maze towards the stage. Roderick's a safe distance behind me, pushing his glasses up his nose, blue bags under his eyes from the tour lifestyle, but he's enjoying it. I walk faster, and as we ascend a short flight of stairs, I say, "I haven't told Jeff anything that could be considered intimate."
"Don't talk to me right now," he hisses back, not even looking at me.
"I wouldn't do that to you."
"Wouldn't you?"
"No." We reach the top of the stairs, and I grab his wrist, stalling him. "Listen to me." He unwillingly locks eyes with me. God, he's so angry. "I wouldn't do that to you."
"Funny thing about that," he says, releasing himself from my hold. "There are plenty of things you've done that I never thought you'd do."
Roderick almost walks into my back. Kurt walks off quickly, and I have no choice but to mix with the band as we approach the stage. The lights are blinding at first, but I blink it off until Brittany's form comes into view center stage, a pink dress on her, her hair loose, and her old mahogany guitar pressed to her chest. She's in the middle of a song, faced with the crowds of Madison Square Garden. She might as well be singing to two bored cows in a Midwestern field – that's the air she gives off. No intimidation, no pressure. She's just happy to be singing her songs about love and peace.
Dave joins Kurt near the guitar holder where six of my guitars are hanging, waiting to be used during our show. They talk but I can't hear what. It's brief, whatever it is, Kurt's shoulders drawn tight. Great. Now he thinks that I've told Jeff all the dirty things we've done.
Lauren's smoking with her cigarette holder, looking displeased. Her hair's on a bun and she's wearing a pale yellow Jacqueline Kennedy style jacket, but the denim miniskirt and her messy eyeliner break the illusion. "What's she doing this time?" Lauren asks me, eyeing Brittany suspiciously. Lauren's still probably hurt that Brittany refused Lauren's recent offer to manage her, maintaining that Santana manages all of her affairs. Lauren knows Brittany's going to be successful and hates her for it.
"I really don't know."
We watch the next two songs, after which I begin to feel tired. I can't stay still for too long these days without feeling like my blood isn't flowing the way it's supposed to, reaching my head and the tips of my fingers. There have been a few incidents within the past week where the sudden dizziness has returned, but they pass quickly enough. I have no idea what's causing it. The codeine, maybe? All drugs have side effects. I've learned that much. But the codeine keeps my left arm working, keeps the pain away. I have to have two working arms. I'm a guitarist, for god's sake. And the drowsiness washing over me could just be tour exhaustion and not drug induced because I hardly sleep these days. A few hours here and there. Couldn't sleep for six hours straight no matter how hard I tried.
Twenty thousand people applaud Brittany when she finishes her song, Santana eagerly whistling from the side of the stage. She keeps snapping pictures of her, the big camera hanging around her neck, the shots for an album that the two of them will look at when they're old and grey.
It's hard to comprehend a number as huge as twenty thousand. Sometimes I try to imagine putting the thousands of people into a single row, figure out how many miles that'd be. Miles and miles and miles.
"If it's alright with you," Brittany says into the microphone, brushing straw colored hair behind her ear. "I'd like to ask someone very special out on stage with me." Someone from the crowd instantly screams my name. Brittany turns to us, beaming. "Santana, come on out here."
Santana lowers her camera, surprised. She looks at us, but Sam just shrugs, taking the camera from her. Santana gingerly walks on stage, nervously glancing at the crowd.
"Now what is she doing?" Lauren groans.
I almost say that I don't know, but then I do. I think of the conversation Brittany and I had a few nights back, about Johnny and June. Brittany's a modern girl. She feels perfectly at ease with taking the initiative.
That douchebag Lennon once sang that you've got to hide your love away. Right he was, I've come to find. But Brittany wouldn't subscribe to that. No, she would think it a crime.
So I guess I'm the only one who isn't surprised when Brittany ropes Santana into singing a romantic duet with her on stage. It's the kind of overdramatic gesture of love that she'd find suitable. Lauren laughs beside me at Brittany's nerve, that it's not wise to flaunt a homosexual relationship, but Santana doesn't seem to care as she accepts gladly and hugs Brittany on stage with thousands of witnesses. The audience cheers wildly. Mercedes is wiping her eyes.
"Well," Lauren sighs. "Guess we need to whip up some sort of coming out party for those two fools." She glances at me. "You think this will ever be you, Blaine?"
I think back to the pillow that I clearly had pulled to my chest in my sleep. Something to wrap myself around.
"No... I really don't think I will."
A post-show celebration party is immediately settled on, Lauren making a few calls and settling on Studio 54. She says that she knows it's disco music, but it's also the hottest place in New York right now and that she practically had to sell her left kidney to get us in on such short notice. When Brittany comes off stage, beaming with happiness, she informs us that no, no, no, there's a nice jazz club on West 52nd Street that she and Santana frequent and that they want to go there. Lauren is seething, but it's not her coming out party as Jeff reminds her. Lauren looks like she has to contain herself not to slap Jeff.
We go on in forty minutes, and the roadies are busy setting the stage while the majority of us pours back into the dressing room. I, however, go in search of one of my Gibsons, knowing that Brittany adores it, and it seems like a fitting present. I can buy more guitars easily enough.
I'm kneeling behind a set of piled up monitors, opening up a guitar case, when I hear familiar voices just on the other side: Kurt and Dave. Talking. The voices come closer. No, not talking. Arguing.
I stay still, trying to be as quiet as a mouse.
"It'd be rude not to go," Dave says, sounding frustrated.
"They won't notice us missing!" Kurt exclaims. "You know how it is when we go out with this crowd, dozens of people swarm them. They won't even remember you and I exist."
"Kurt, it's their congratulatory party."
"But I don't want us to go!" Kurt snaps. There's a pause, and I can see his look of angered defiance in my mind's eye because it's a look that he's given me far too often. "You and I should be home, not here with these people!"
"But we are here with these people, so –"
"How much material do you need for one goddamned documentary? For god's sake!"
"Why are you so set on hating this project when it's the best thing that's ever happened to me? The contacts I'm making, the people I'm seeing!"
"Famous people. What's so amazing about famous people?" Kurt scoffs, tone despising if ever. When he speaks again, he's struggling to sound more appeasing. "Look. I just don't feel like hanging out with this crowd tonight. So can we please go home? Screw their parties. They happen every night."
"Okay. Fine."
"Thank you."
"You go home if that's what you want."
"Excuse me?"
Dave sounds genuinely upset when he speaks. "I like Brittany, she's a damn nice girl. So I'm going. And don't throw it in my face either! Why would I rather be home where you'll just ignore me the way you always do these days?"
"How is this me ignoring you?!"
"It is! You know that it is! God, I'm tired of you treating me like – like a liability. You think about that. And this party, it'd add a wonderful one-minute scene to the documentary. Imagine Blaine giving a speech or something, what a good scene that'd make! So now I have to go get the equipment we already packed away for the night. But that's not me ignoring you, that's me being busy." He draws in a breath. "What's your excuse?" His tone is close to despising as his steps lead away. I had no idea Dave could have such balls.
Kurt, in turn, swears like a sailor. He walks in circles. He swears more. He heaves a sigh.
I don't move properly until I'm sure that he's gone, only then flipping open the metal locking clasps and opening the hard case. It's not the Gibson I'm looking for. It's not the time to process it either, what I eavesdropped, except to allow myself to conclude the obvious: Kurt doesn't trust me, he doesn't trust Jeff either, and he wants to keep his boyfriend away from us while he figures out what to do.
I wonder if Kurt will depart from the tour before it even properly gets started. Would that make me happy or unhappier?
So they fight. All couples fight.
Kurt doesn't trust me.
I hunt down one of the roadies to ask after my guitar. It hasn't been unloaded, even, and is in the bus's trailer. He offers to go get it, but I take his keys and take on the task myself. Give myself a minute or two to pretend that I'm not thinking about it, fidgeting as I wait for the elevator to arrive, to take me to the parking hall where the bus is.
"Hey," Dave's voice says as he suddenly appears beside me. He's smiling that happy go lucky smile of his, giving no indication of the fight he just had with his boyfriend. He looks tired, though. He looks more tired all the time. "Shouldn't you be getting ready for the show?"
"Still got a bit of time. I need to get something from the bus trailer." I show him my keys.
"Oh, I'm going down too. Need to get more film for the cameras, coming out party and all."
"So you're coming? To the party."
"Yeah. Of course. Why wouldn't I?" He laughs like my question is absurd, and I only shrug as the elevator arrives, the doors opening. I follow him in, letting him press the right button.
The industrial elevator hums as it starts going down, and I try to think of something to say. Small talk. Something other than how I've made Kurt come in ways Dave never has, and no matter what Kurt tells me, it's clear that their relationship is not idyllic at all. But I can't rejoice. Because even with all of that, Kurt chooses Dave over me. Makes one wonder what horrible, horrible crime I must have committed to be thought of so poorly. To not matter.
"So where will the party be?" Dave says after a pause. "Someone said that we'll –"
Without any warning, the lights go out. The elevator stops dead, trembling and shaking. I manage to keep my balance, blinking in the sudden dark.
"What the...?" I start. I trace the wall before locating the buttons, but the elevator does not react to the press of my thumb.
"Did it jam? Are we stuck?" Dave asks from behind my shoulder worriedly.
"Does it look like we're moving?" I snap back angrily at his inane questions. "Shit, I don't know. Fuck!" I run my fingers along the wall and this time locate the door before banging on it and calling out. No response. Dave is pressing the buttons fervently, but that's not doing any good. "Maybe we're in between floors," I say when we seem to be attracting no attention.
"But you need to go on soon!" he exclaims and joins me in the banging and yelling. "Hello! Someone?! We're stuck in here! Hello?! Anyone at all?!" He slams the door angrily.
I stare at him suspiciously. "You're not claustrophobic, are you?"
"No. You?"
"No."
"Someone will hear us," he says with such an obvious conviction in his voice that I instantly feel hope leaving me in the face of his faith.
"Go on, try then. I'm tired of this shit. All of this," I breathe, letting myself sit on the floor by the doors that are refusing to budge. I dig into my pocket and soon swallow two codeine pills dry. My eyes are adjusting to the dark – how does it happen again? Rods and cones and all of that, reacting, millions of the damn things in the retina. However it works, it works, and Dave's outline becomes more detailed.
It's not a biggie. No problem. Just a sold out Madison Square Garden waiting to see Blaine Ross, who is stuck in a fucking elevator. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," I swear, leaning my head against my raised knees. Stuck with Dave of all people.
"Hang on, I think I – I hear something! Hey! HEY!" He bangs more vigorously. "In here! We're in here!"
To my surprise, it's not wishful thinking because a foreign voice soon echoes from the other side. "Someone stuck in there?"
I quickly scramble up to my feet. "Yes! Yeah, we're –"
"You got oxygen?"
"Oxygen?" I repeat, feeling a stone sink to the bottom of my stomach. No way in hell am I dying with only Dave Karofsky to keep me company. No way in hell.
"Yeah!" Dave replies, peering to the ceiling. "Yeah, we do!" A ventilation valve is above us, the slats showing into the elevator shaft above, and maybe we could try to open it, and – and I don't know, somehow get out because fuck it, I've got a show to do.
"Great, now you just hang in there! It's chaos out here so sit tight and –"
"What?!" I demand. Sit tight?
"Power's out in all of New York City! No one knows what's happening! If it doesn't come back on soon, the show needs to be cancelled. We've got a full house of restless people out there! It's crazy! We'll come get you, I promise!"
"But... But we – Hey!" I call out. "Hey, you need to let us out of here! For crying out loud! Hey!" I bang on the door, but there is no further response. The bastard's gone. "I'm Blaine fucking Anderson, you can't leave me here!" I rage, but it's no use.
Power's out in all of New York? Shit. Fuck. But how – Maybe the thunderstorm.
"Fuck," Dave says, and for once we agree. "Did you tell anyone where you were going?"
"Well, that roadie, but no. No one else."
"Shit. I think we'll be here for a while." He sighs heavily. "So much for- for everything. Brittany's party."
"It's a night of big events," I mumble and resume my position on the floor. Dave slides down the door and sits down next to me. He looks defeated, or his outline does. "Here," I say, offering him a cigarette. Not sure if he even smokes. He doesn't, if the way his hand hovers, hesitating, is any indication, but he accepts anyway. I light his cigarette and mine, since oxygen isn't a problem. I take in a deep, deep drag. God. God, what a night. "Wonder if they're looking for us."
He laughs. "Of course they are. You said it yourself – you're Blaine fucking Anderson. You're the guy that this show is encircling. They're looking for you frantically, trust me." He flicks his cigarette, his face now slightly illuminated by the red tip. "I wonder if anyone's looking for me at all." His words sound bitter, and I know what he's thinking. His tiff with Kurt is still echoing in my ears. We never – I mean, we've fought. Kurt and I, we've had our fights. Brutal fights. But we've never bickered and snapped like an old couple, but that's what he and Dave are: an old couple.
"You talking about Kurt?" I ask, looking at him. I can't see his expression in the dark properly, but I add, "I've just noticed some tension between you two. That's all."
He sighs. "That obvious, huh?"
I hum in agreement and wonder if I really want to know. Then I realize that I'm stuck with Dave and that I'm a masochist. I do want to know. "You guys okay?"
"Yeah, sure," he says, but then laughs sadly. "I don't know why I said that. We're not okay, no."
"You want to talk about it? I mean, maybe it'll help the time pass." I motion with my hand vaguely, a 'time passing' hand gesture.
He sighs, an undetermined sigh that says that he doesn't know. I realize how little I know of Dave. His friends. His likes. His dislikes. Who is he close to? He and Sam get on, but they're hardly confidants. None of his friends – and I assume he has some scattered in New York and San Francisco – are on tour, so he can't talk to any of them. Well, I'm here. I won't be his friend, but I'll listen. Let him give me his insight on what the hell is wrong with Kurt Hummel.
Dave lets out a deep breath that almost resembles a groan. "I don't know... He's just distant. He's not. He's not there, you know? Like sand running through my fingers. And he says he wants to be with me, but I just – Don't know what he's thinking. He's changed somehow. And I thought we were on really solid ground, where we didn't have to question us anymore, you know?" He glances at me with big, sad eyes, waiting for someone to side with him on this.
"Yeah. Yeah, I know exactly what you mean."
A fucked up solidarity washes over me. Dave and I aren't that different in the end. We're both fools for the boy, getting played with no idea at all as to what Kurt is thinking. Dave's still better than me, though. The one Kurt chose.
"Don't get me wrong, I love him more than anything," he hurries to add and then laughs. "I can imagine how gay that sounds to you, but now that I know that you... you know. Men too. I mean. Maybe you can relate a little."
"To be fair, I just fuck men," I tell him with a sardonic smile. He doesn't get the joke, he just laughs like yeah, of course. "But go on."
"Well, sometimes, like today, I just – I get reminded that he's really good at keeping people away. He's always been like that. If he doesn't want to let you in, you're fucked. We'd been together for months before I even managed to get him to tell me anything about his past. I get it now, though. I mean, maybe that's why he keeps people away, you know? He expects people to leave him."
That's funny. As far as I can see, it's Kurt who does the walking away. He has regard for himself. Self-respect. That's what ruined me the first time. All boiling down to some teenage promise of 'never again' when he stood on the side of the road hitch-hiking with his right arm in a cast, hoping that the dark of the night would hide the bruises on his face.
"I've said too much," Dave says apologetically and sucks on the cigarette nervously.
"Not at all. Who would I tell?" I ask, motioning around our prison. Occasionally we hear voices from outside, but none come closer. The electricity hasn't come back on, and I guess that means we're cancelling the show. They must be busy trying to get everyone out in an orderly fashion. I bet Lauren's looking for me. I'm that girl's first thought in everything. Not my fault that the city's electricity is down. Not my fault but I feel a small tinge of guilt that people came out here for no reason.
"Your, uh. Your dad," Dave says softly. "He's sickly, I think you once said?"
"Yeah."
"You see him a lot?"
"No. Haven't seen him in years." And don't plan to and will feel no remorse about it when he dies. That's my plan. That's how it works in my head.
My tone is harsh enough for Dave to drop it. He just mumbles, "I can't relate to losing one's parents, that's all. Kurt was only ten, you know."
"Yeah, that must be tough, that –" Wait. "What?"
"His parents died in a car crash," Dave says, and some kind of a switch flicks on inside me. "He was an only child. He came from a well off family, you know, his dad was a business man, but the aunt he was sent to live with gambled off his inheritance. She didn't care for him, the witch. So when he moved to San Francisco, he didn't have a cent to his name. Can you imagine that? His parents had wanted him to go to Yale. It's not fair, is it? Life." He runs fingers through his hair restlessly. "No one really wanted him growing up. That's how he still views things. Well, I want him. It's been over two years, and I feel like I'm still trying to prove that I want him and won't abandon him. You'd think he'd know that... after all we've been through." He shakes his head tiredly. "Now he's pushing me away. I don't know why. I'm running out of patience, too, and it only makes things worse."
"That's, um. That's a very... unfortunate past. I had no idea."
Dave laughs. "Well. He wouldn't tell you, would he?"
"No. Hardly know him, after all," I chuckle to amplify Dave's amusement over the thought. But I'm not amused. Car crashes, wealthy parents and wicked relatives? My god. And here I thought – I don't know what.
A chorus of voices sound beyond the doors, a rushed, "In here, you said?", followed by banging and Lauren's worried voice. "Blaine? Is it you in there?!"
My savior, that girl.
"Yeah, Lauren," I call out without trying to get up. I keep smoking my cigarette as Lauren shouts for more flashlights and crowbars or anything. Dave's up on his feet again, calling out for our rescue. Suddenly, I've got all the time in the world. In no hurry whatsoever.
My lips quirk up at the corners, and I let myself smirk.
Shattered glass paints the sidewalk as looters help themselves to TVs, VCRs, food and whatever else. We cross the darkened street, police sirens ringing out in the distance. Lauren keeps hurrying Jeff and me to the doors of the Startler Hilton opposite Madison Square Garden.
I'm in no rush. I'm not sure if I've ever seen anything as fascinating in my life: a city in chaos. And all the tall buildings, the dazzling lights of New York, are gone. Instead a long, long row of black, gigantic blocks of dead skyscrapers decorate the streets, and people are walking around looking lost, but some strut with a clear sense of purpose and a baseball bat.
It took them an hour to get us out of the elevator. In the meanwhile Lauren evacuated the rest of the crew to the hotel, which has no electricity either, but she said that they provided the rooms with gas lanterns and candles. She keeps speaking like we're under attack from ourselves. Vandalism has erupted, sure, people are looting and breaking shit, but I feel at home in New York for the first time since I got here. It all fits somehow: Kurt's lies and the pandemonium of the city.
Kurt looked sick when I finally pulled up from the elevator, the floor coming up to our chests as we were in between floors. He was pale. I know what he thought: that locked in with Dave, I'd tell him all about us. All about the way Kurt can come without getting his dick touched, the way he laughs disbelievingly afterwards, golden and godlike.
Lies, lies, lies spilling from Kurt's lips.
I feel more driven insane by my love for him than I ever have. He should have told me.
Dave seemed pleased that Kurt stuck around waiting. Jeff, on the other hand, kept laughing during the rescue operation. He seemed to think it was funny. The dream couple already left for the hotel, but I wanted to go get Brittany's Gibson, dragging Jeff and Lauren to the basement with me. The guitar is now in a gig bag, hanging across my back as a strap digs into my left shoulder.
Blackout or no blackout, they've still done an extremely courageous and dangerous thing. I find myself feeling proud of them.
"Come on," Lauren snaps. I'm still standing in the middle of the street, watching the groups of people that are like wandering masses emigrating. Someone breaks a shop window. No alarm goes off. The evening air is hot, the city in the midst of a heat wave. Sweat rolls down my neck. "Blaine, for god's sake!" She grabs my arm and drags me to the hotel doors where Jeff is waiting. I don't want to go inside – I want to stay out, Mom.
"Can't I just walk home?"
Lauren looks furious. "Would Elvis Presley walk home? Would Frank Sinatra walk home?!"
"No, he'd have the mobs pick him up," Jeff says. "You're sexy when you're mad, Lauren."
"Blaine," she says, ignoring Jeff promptly. "There's anarchy out in the streets. There are riots in Brooklyn! So you come inside right now and stay safe."
"But –"
"Blaine." My head instantly turns to the direction of his voice. Kurt's at the hotel door, looking at me evenly. "Please come inside."
The streets are buzzing with a new, forbidden energy, and I can't join in. Kurt's asking me to hide and wait for it to pass, for things to go numb again. Because I feel. Suddenly, I feel more than I have in weeks, for him, about him, the world, how it all works. Oh, Kurt. Kurt, you did such a foolish thing.
My feet take the steps up to the huge doors of the hotel that takes the largest chunk of the block, and we enter a candlelit lobby, eerie and otherworldly as our steps echo amongst the marble pillars and bounce off the high ceiling. Kurt leads the way, saying how they were getting worried about us taking so long so he came to check, and that the guys are killing time playing cards in candlelight and playing songs and someone found some booze so it's a party of some kind.
"Jeff," I say, shrugging the guitar bag off my shoulder and passing it to him. "Give that to Brittany, will you?" We're at the bottom of the stairs – elevators not working, of course. "Kurt and I need a minute."
We need a lifetime, but I'll start small.
Lauren sighs. She almost glares at Kurt and says, "Make sure he doesn't leave the building." Kurt looks thrown off as my manager begins to climb the stairs. "Hurry up, Sterling!" she snaps.
"I'll tell them something," Jeff says simply, but he doesn't smirk or give that all knowing look he's grown so fond of since the Baltimore incident. Maybe it's something he can read on my face, that now is not the time to be throwing innuendos around or purposefully tease Kurt. He looks almost solemn before hurrying after Lauren.
"Can't it wait, whatever it is?" Kurt asks me, but I shake my head, and I'm surprised that he doesn't put up more of a fight as I nod back to the grand lobby.
"Lauren said you helped put our stuff away," I say vaguely, which he must know is just bullshit, an excuse, but he nods and leads the way to the luggage room. I express a wish to locate a bag I had in the dressing room, the one with an extra shirt because clearly that's what I'm after now when the lights are out: a clean shirt when it's too dark to see stains. No staff is around so we enter the small, narrow room that is barely illuminated by a flashlight someone's left on one of the shelves.
I close the door behind us. He starts looking through bags that are eyelevel with him. "It's romantic somehow, isn't it?" I ask, leaning my elbow on one of the shelves. "A blackout. Although getting stuck in an elevator with Dave isn't really what I'd call romantic, but it could be with the right person." He lets out a dismissive hum and keeps checking the bags. "All of the city is in chaos. Subways aren't running, nothing is open, it's dark everywhere. Hot as hell. Humid. Imagine all the people copulating in all kinds of places right now, maybe in luggage rooms or –"
"Stop it," he says and pulls out a small leather bag. "Is this the one?"
"I wanted to give you my condolences," I say, and he quirks an eyebrow. "I didn't know your parents died. Well, your dad."
"He hasn't died," he says impatiently and pushes the bag back to its place.
"Oh but – But he did. When you were little, remember? Your rich parents who loved you, but then a bad, big truck ground them to minced meat. Bad truck. Bad, bad truck. And then this – This evil aunt character!" I laugh – try not to laugh but can't help it. "My god, it's like you turned your life into a Charles Dickens novel! And Dave bought it? No, really. He bought it?"
I can't see all the shades in our new monochromatic world, but Kurt might have paled. Yeah. Yeah, he lied alright. But I won't ask him why because I already know.
"That doesn't concern you whatsoever," he says angrily.
"But it does. Because all this time I thought that – that Dave was just better. That he had something I didn't, that you two shared some kind of a holy fucking bond that even your adultery couldn't shake. And now I finally see that he's just a puppet to you! That's all he is! You don't even bother telling him the truth. No, let me finish!" I say when he's about to object. It's like a mystery novel, and we've finally gotten to the part where the guilty party gets exposed, and although it's been obvious from the start that Mr. Hummel did it with the knife in the library, the motive has been missing, and now I finally have it. "Because he matters, doesn't he? Dave. He matters because he doesn't know. I can't imagine, Kurt, all the things you did on your travels, all the shit you went through. I bet you've done things you're not proud of. And Dave doesn't know any of that so with him... with him you can pretend that it never happened. I bet you even believe it sometimes, this alternate history of yours. You think that... that if Dave knew, he wouldn't love you. So you lie. You lie to be worthy of his mediocrity."
"Are you done now?" he snaps. I've hit a nerve. Of course I have because I'm right.
"There is a flaw in this scheme of yours, however, and that's that he doesn't love you. He loves the person you're trying to be, but not the person you are. He has no idea who you are. Whereas I –"
"Blaine, please," he whispers, but I'm not done. I feel desperate and urgent, needing to tell him this once and for all. Before I can, he rushes out, "Okay, I've lied to Dave. I didn't – I don't want him to know about my family or what happened. You don't get it, Blaine, but he's not like – not like you or me. He comes from a perfect little family. His mother is proud that he is gay! I mean – Proud parents. I never even thought that could be possible! So there's him, while I'm –" he says, gesturing with his hands but coming up with nothing. "Christ. If he knew, there'd be no end to his questions. He feels sorry for me as it is. So no, I've never told him. But we love each other. We're real. You think what you think but –"
"Your sham of a relationship is falling apart. Can't you see that? Poor Dave's walking around, wondering why you're distant, not knowing that you were never even close! Whereas I know. I know the things you've done. I know the bad in you, all the things you're ashamed of, the ugly parts you don't want anyone to see. I've felt all of it beneath your skin. I know. And you're still beautiful to me."
He has that closed off expression he gets when he's blocking me out, blocking my words out – Dave knows that much, that Kurt can keep us at a distance. I am tormented. I don't understand. I finally know what Dave means to him, the chance to pretend, to redeem himself, even, but life doesn't work like that. We can never remove ourselves from our pasts. I know because I've tried, but I still wake up every day as the son of an alcoholic veteran who didn't have an ounce of family man or father in him, and as the son of a woman who only made herself known by her absence, and I can sing and tour and make hit records, but tomorrow I'll still be the same man. I cannot be magically transformed. I can evolve, but whatever I become is built upon what I was. Kurt is trying to reinvent himself by taking a shortcut. It cannot be done and will only end in disappointment.
I wouldn't tell him to be any different. I wouldn't ask him to change. "Kurt," I say softly. He looks at me. "I know who you are, and I love you."
He breathes out fast and unevenly, dropping his gaze. "Please don't say that."
His pained look cuts deep into me, even through my victory over Dave. "Is it that unpleasant for you to hear?" I ask quietly. No response. "Does my love disgust you?"
"I don't want to have this conversation."
"But why is my love secondary?" I ask angrily, hurt boiling inside me. I don't know what's wrong with me in his eyes. What I can say or do to make him understand the gravity of what I'm saying. Does he think I'm lying? Does he think that my feelings don't correspond to normal human feelings, that my love is a lesser love? "How can you choose someone like Dave when I offer you –"
"You know nothing about Dave and me!" he retaliates, like some line has been crossed and he won't hold his tongue a second longer. "I know I don't deserve him! I know that, Blaine! I've lied and I've cheated when he's been nothing but good to me! You think you've got us figured out, but you don't. You know nothing about us, the things he's done for me, all the –"
"Like what?"
"We love each other despite –"
"Like what?!" I demand because there's something here he's not telling me, something that's made Dave such a godlike figure in his eyes.
"You wanted us to be over just as much as I did, but now that you don't have me anymore, you're chasing me again. How fucking typical, Blaine Anderson, how fucking typical! God, can't you just stop with this nonsense?!"
"Nonsense?" I repeat icily. He says he can hear it in my songs – my feelings for him – but would rather think it's lyrical exaggeration. Wants me to confirm it for him too. But I won't. Can't. I'm not perfect, I know that. He's still mad about Jeff and would be madder if he knew that Lauren and Sam know too, and I know I've been an asshole lately, ignored his peace offers but all of this has just hurt too much, but now I've turned around and lain myself out there yet again and he still – He still won't. "I didn't know my love for you was nonsense."
He briefly touches his temple like a sudden headache's come on. "I didn't... Come on, I didn't mean it like that. I just –"
"I'm not doing this for the sake of chasing you," I hiss venomously. "I'm beyond that. And we're better than that." I slam the flashlight off the shelf, and it smashes to the floor with a crash. The light goes out.
I get out of the luggage room, back to the lobby. Instead of heading for the stairs, I head straight to the doors. He follows me, calling out my name in this infuriating 'don't be stupid' tone, like I'm overreacting. "Blaine, where are you going?!"
"Out," I respond simply.
Out. To join my people.
He doesn't try to stop me.
The city is still covered in black, and two policemen are arresting a man just as I walk out of the hotel, pressing his face against the asphalt.
The man screams like a wild animal.
There's a girl sitting on the steps of my building. She's holding a bottle of champagne and looks like she has walked out of a fashion show. The diamond decorations on her high-heels sparkle as a fire engine with the sirens on speeds down the street. She looks just like I remember her.
"I heard there was a party," she tells me with a broad smile when I stop to take her in. She pushes bushy hair back, still a crazy pink color. Her heavily done up eyes land on me, dreamlike and soft.
"How you liking it, then?"
"Well, the show was goddamned cancelled. All the lights went out, you see. Lots of new guys around who don't know their classics. I decided to cut the line and managed to get this address."
I smirk. "You been waiting for me?"
"Oh, no. There were some detours." She takes a slug of her champagne before casting a long, hard look my way. "How you doing, Blaine?"
"Not well. I'm in love."
She shakes her head. "Love's such a dreadful thing." She pats the step next to her.
I join her on the third step and take the champagne bottle that she offers. "I need a good party," she muses. "A change of scenery. Just for a few days." There's a question in her voice, and I nod briefly to grant permission.
"You sure know how to start, Kitty."
She hums in agreement.
We watch silently as a darkened New York sinks into a black hole.