Chapter 18: Columbia Dreams/Codeine Visions

Our jet is lost. Not sure how that can happen – it was meant to be in Hangar D, but it's not. Our pilots are none the wiser, and Lauren is busy yelling at the staff of the private airport. Most of us are slung on the hard seats of the small waiting room, dust flakes drifting in the air as sunlight comes through the dirty windows. We're sleep deprived and hungover, Brittany and Santana leaning on each other as they sleep in the corner. The air is stale and somehow too warm to breathe.

"Coffee would be great," Jeff croaks from beside me. He sounds like Satan's been fucking his mouth all night. He's got sunglasses on because apparently the light hurts his eyes.

"Lauren!" I call out, causing Jeff to flinch. "Can we get coffee?"

The airport worker she's talking to looks over her shoulder. "There's fresh coffee in the office." He motions to a door with slated venetian blinds over the window. He doesn't seem very bothered about the fact that his staff has misplaced our fucking plane. We only need to get to Florida. We're only number one now. No big deal.

"Office... too far... away," Jeff groans, reaching out pathetically and then slumping back in his seat.

"You sad fuck."

"Blaine. Blaine, ayuda, por favor. Necesito café." He pushes closer and nuzzles my shoulder. "I'll love you forever." He smells of old booze, cigarettes and some girl's perfume.

"I thought you already did."

"I'll love you more."

"Unlikely."

"I will. I really will." He looks up at me with plate-sized eyes, lower lip jutted out. I sigh as I push him off and stand up, and he makes a little purring sound like he's now overly pleased. He takes the opportunity to lie down on the seats, adjusting the butterfly collar of his shirt before stretching out, as if to make sure he looks good like this too.

I cross the room quietly so as not to wake up anyone. Lauren is hissing that the staff better move the other plane, then, if it's in the way of ours.

The office is small and cluttered, and I go straight for the old sixties coffee machine on the corner table next to a half-finished airplane model. I open the cupboards to find a mug or a glass since we're not being picky.

"You can rinse mine."

I look over my shoulder to find Kurt sitting by a small desk. He's extending a white mug with a cartoon kitten on it, his feet propped up on the paperwork on the desk. He's got a magazine in his lap, and it looks like I've walked in on his coffee break. He's smiling, though. Smiling.

"Thought you went for a walk with Mercedes and Sam," I say, as if to explain why I am in the same room with him. Not on purpose – pure accident. I take the mug from him in any case.

"Was going to but then I found this." He lifts the aviation magazine, the cover showing a bikini-wearing woman posing in front of an airplane. "It's fascinating stuff. About, like, planes."

"I'm endlessly intrigued," I say as I fill up the mug with lukewarm coffee, and he chuckles. Making him smile always feels like a small victory.

He goes back to flipping the pages, and some of the tension in the air has lifted. "So what did you get up to last night? You disappeared from the party pretty early on."

"I went for a walk," I say honestly, although I don't want to think about it because then I – Yeah. Yeah, too late now because it's now on my mind: his record deal that he is clueless to. I just haven't had the chance to tell him yet. I've been busy with other things.

"A walk by yourself?" he asks, not looking up from the magazine.

"By myself."

He makes a humming sound, but then seems to get bored of the magazine and tosses it on the table. "And Kitty left this morning, then?" He looks inquisitive, scratching himself behind the ear as his eyebrows arch in question.

"She did. Roderick and Jeff will miss her for sure." Lauren or Mercedes certainly won't. Kurt's clearly checking up on me, but now is the wrong time to be doing it. I clear my throat slightly. "Anyway, the coffee's getting cold, so –"

"Are you okay?" he asks, frowning. Of course I am. I am so okay.

"Yeah, man. Groovy. Just a bit tired."

He doesn't look convinced. He can't read me that well, can he?

Kitty said that Kurt's weighing the pros and cons. A record deal is a pro. Certainly. But I just need to figure out how to word it, just need some more time to process the thought myself. I promised I'd do it today, but there still are eleven hours to go. Maybe tonight when we get to Tampa – we're not doing a show there until tomorrow, so we'll have more time. I just need more time.

"You're not sleeping well, are you?" he asks in this knowing tone, quickly getting up from his seat. "Here, sit down for a while." He picks up papers that are piled up on the other chair, motioning for me to sit. I reluctantly obey because he'll know something's wrong if I run for it.

"I'm sleeping here and there," I say, protesting slightly.

He sits back down, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. "Yeah? Because you don't look it." There's sincere concern on his face that feels unbearable to handle.

"So you're saying that I look like shit."

"No, you look good. Of course you do. Just unsettled." And getting more and more unsettled. What does 'of course' mean? Because I think he always looks good. Always. When he's exhausted with reddened eyes, when he hasn't showered in four days and his hair is greasy, and when he's walking away from me. Of course he looks good. "If it makes you feel any better, you seem to be handling touring a lot better than you did last time." He smiles benignly.

"Not plotting Seb's murder probably does help."

He laughs at my stupid joke, even though we both know it was a lame comeback. And I am still kind of planning Seb's murder – seeing that asshole's face on the covers of music magazines with his Menace glam rock band makes me kind of homicidal.

"So it's the touring that's getting to you?"

I shrug. Partly. I don't exactly thrive on this. It's stressful and exhausting and never-ending, but I'm surviving. Partly the tour is getting to me, but for the most part it's him. Of course it's him, and not necessarily even because of us. "It's just not an ideal life, is it?" I ask. "Being a professional musician."

"Money, fame... Yeah, must be horrible." He's smirking, though.

"Come on, you've seen what it's really like. Since day one you saw through all the flashing lights. It's artificial. The hotels and the gift baskets and the champagne and the limousines... The girls," I add, and he nods in a 'well, that's true' kind of way. "Look at where we are." I motion around the tiny office, stuck waiting for our plane as the heat glues our shirts to our skins, the electric fan in the corner covered by dust like it broke five years ago. What's glorious about this? What's rock 'n roll about any of this? "There are easier, more genuine ways to make a living. I think so, anyway. I only do this because it's the only thing I know."

"I think it's pretty great," he says, and something in me sinks. "A new city every night, the open road... It's exciting. There's this buzz in the air. Everyone's excited to see you play, to hear you sing all the songs... Well. Almost all of the songs." He flashes a nervous smile at me. I still won't play 708. I never will. I wonder what he's dissected from its lyrics, if he's slowly realizing that it's not exaggeration. I'll never forget the night I wrote it, the sickening disappointment and loss swirling in my stomach. Knowing he was sleeping on our hotel bed, unaware that I had left. "Trust me, this beats all the shitty jobs I've ever had. You're lucky."

"So you'd want this life?"

"If I could. If I had the talent." He rolls his eyes at his own words apologetically, but he doesn't sound like a dreamer. He doesn't even know that his dream has become something tangible.

I was hoping that The Warblers was a warning sign for the shit that fame does to people. I hoped that I was a warning sign for him.

"There is a rootless feeling to it all, though," he then amends. "Forgetting what city you're in, never being home. Not having a home. I've had that before. Well, you know I have." He looks at me like he and I share some kind of an understanding. "It's sad, sometimes. Like, I see you in a crowded room, and all of these people are queuing up to talk to you, and... I don't know. You look lonely. You never laugh the way I've fe – seen you laugh." He corrects himself a second too late. My chest feels empty, a cavity in it.

"So maybe it's not the lifestyle that's fucked up. Maybe it's just me," I suggest. Seb thrives on this kind of a life, so did Puck. A lot of people do. Nick didn't. I never have either although I wouldn't let it go. No. It's better to be influential and miserable than to be some average Seb who never did anything, didn't know anyone, and led a remarkably insignificant life. Kurt might be better suited for this kind of a ride than I am. He's seen its ugly sides and is still here, is saying he can still see the appeal of it.

Maybe I could offer to play on his record, say it was a label decision, to create some buzz by having me on his album, or – or then, I don't know, I could write a few songs for him to play. Make Lauren talk to Atlantic, steal him onto our label from Columbia.

It doesn't mean we have to go our separate ways.

He might not even want the record deal. Right? He might not want it.

I can't sleep. I walked around Chicago until sunrise, then found Kitty in my bed. I won't be able to sleep as long as this is eating me up inside.

"I need to tell you something," I start slowly. He looks concerned, but it's not about me or my sleeping habits or the lack thereof. "Some news. Although you should remember how fickle the music industry is so no one knows what actually happens until it really happens, but..." I place the kitten mug on the table. He seems confused. I wring my hands, trying to find a way to word it properly. "Lauren just got a call from this guy, works for this label. He'd heard your demo, one of the ones I passed on. He wants to talk to you."

Kurt blinks. "What?"

"I don't know. I mean, wanting to talk is hardly a promise of anything, is it? And you know labels are bitches. They're always breathing down your neck, wanting you to change things. We had to go back to the studio for Boneless to put a hit on it. Fucking cunts," I murmur, but I clearly haven't distracted him enough. His eyes are wide, and he's paled. "It might not amount to anything," I hurry to say. "Just keep that in mind."

"...A label guy wants to talk to me?" he clarifies. "To me? I mean, it's not some mess up, is it? He really heard my demo and wants to talk?"

Unfortunately.

"Yeah."

"Oh, fuck," he breathes out in astonishment, standing up quickly. The chair legs screech against the floor. He holds a hand over his mouth, then it moves to his hair, his t-shirt lifting, exposing a strip of pale stomach with dark hair cutting across it, and I try not to notice it but I do. He lets out a strangled sound of shock and begins to pace. "What label?"

"They're all the same, aren't they?"

"Blaine."

I hang my head. "Columbia."

He stops. "What? Did you just- Columbia? Columbia Columbia?" His disbelief is obvious. I nod my head. Not some small label either, of course not, but one of the biggest, most powerful labels in North America. "Oh my god. Oh my god, I'm going to pass out. I'm going to faint. I see black. It's getting black!"

Alarmed, I stand up quickly, ready to make him sit down. When my hands land on his shoulders, however, I'm startled when he steps in and hugs me tightly. "Oh god, oh god," he repeats, wrapping his arms around me. And then, "Fuck!" He laughs, sounding slightly hysterical.

"What did I tell you about not getting carried away with it?" I ask quietly, his warmth not only pressed against me but penetrating, getting in deeper, washing over me. His warmth and his touch, things no longer mine. I hug him back, trying not to be greedy about it. Trying to hold on.

"Thank you," he says, sounding choked up. "Even if it doesn't go anywhere, I – God, Blaine, thank you." He pulls back, eyes shining, and it's not often that anyone gets to see him happy like this. It's contagious. He laughs, blinking too much, and he quickly wipes his eyes. He looks slightly embarrassed for getting so emotional. He is the most perfect definition of beauty I have ever seen.

I pull him back into my arms. He hugs me just as tightly as he did before. I kiss his temple briefly and without thinking, and it's only when he doesn't shove me back that I realize that he might have done just that. He laughs against my neck, repeating "fuck, fuck, fuck," and I smile against his hair. I did this for him.

"You'll come with me, right?" he asks, voice rushed. "To this meeting thing."

"Of course," I promise instantly. Of course. Knowing the music business, insider information, don't want him to get screwed over. He needs me. Kitty said that he might.

He needs me.

"Thank you," he says again, sounding like he means it as we keep the tight embrace. Heavy weight rolls off of me the longer the hug lingers – past acceptable, justifiable – until we just stand there because it feels good. And right. The scent of hotel shampoo in his hair, the hot air bringing out a smell of slight sweat on his skin. He's still thrumming, adrenalin, shock, and I hold him until he calms down, until nothing is left except his golden smile and gratitude.

Anything for you, kid. Anything.

With me on the side.

The way he clings onto Dave is sickening. The way Dave clings onto him is just as bad. They're happy, I get it, happy for Kurt and the interest Columbia has now shown in him. But the way they keep touching each other is vile.

The restaurant is a public place, and we're scattered to seven different tables: the band, the film crew, the techs. A night off, live a little. Celebrate Kurt a little because everyone knows the news by now. Champagne for all. Limos from our hotel in Tampa – that hotel, that goddamned – to Madeira Beach. What the hell – it was only an hour to the Gulf of Mexico, anyway. Shrimp cocktails to start with and plenty of wine for all.

Lauren's trying to woo him. Yeah, Kurt's interesting now. Only now.

I've left the company and settled at the bar, drinking whisky and nibbling on the salty peanuts. I keep looking over to the table where Kurt is, how Dave casually has his hand on the back of Kurt's neck even as he's talking to Mercedes across the table. Lauren keeps ordering more booze. She isn't even concerned about me or their public displays of affection.

I said that I wanted to work on some new lyrics. They let me be as they think I'm working.

Mostly the restaurant is empty. It's getting late. The staff will let us stay, though, the owner doting on us and running around to get whatever we want. We saw the sunset through the window earlier, the sun sinking into the sea. The restaurant's right at the beach.

This was meant to be my victory. My day of glory.

Not Dave's who has never supported Kurt's music. Dave's career came first: Dave's art and Dave's photography and Dave's documentary, Dave, Dave, Dave. Never even made it to Kurt's open mic nights, did he?

And now he's the proud boyfriend.

The two seem to have forgotten all the previous fights and disagreements. I crunch on peanuts with the force of my teeth, my sharp canines. Oh, Dave is such a proud partner or boyfriend or fool. That excited look on his face. Slight astonishment. Yeah, smile while you can, before Lauren tells you that you and your sexuality are going underground.

This wasn't meant to bring them together.

I squeeze my whisky glass too tight. Stop it. Don't be so obvious.

I smoke heavily, but don't touch the whisky too much. I don't want to cause a scene. I made some calls before we left Chicago, though – a fresh batch of codeine pills was waiting for me at the hotel reception. They hit me hard when I drink too much.

Let's try not to drink too much.

He laughs. They laugh. They have moved their chairs closer to one another's. Accidentally, I tell myself. By pure, pure accident. They don't notice me.

"Top me off," I tell the bartender, and he does. I drink down the sixteen-year-old golden liquid and get up.

Enough's enough, Anderson.

I walk out of the restaurant, still smoking, my shoulders hunched. I cross the parking lot, to the steps that lead down onto the beach. Palm trees sway in the wind. Someone's walking their dog in the distance. It's not New York. It most certainly isn't New York.

Halfway down to the sea, I sit down on the sand. The wind ruffles my hair softly. I swallow two codeine pills, absently rubbing my left elbow. It'll be okay. It won't be too bad.

"Fuck this," I sigh heavily and drop onto my back, my knees bent as my shoes dig into the sand. The ocean keeps breathing, I hear it touching the shore. Smoke swirls from my glowing cigarette tip into the sky, against the dark blue of it where stars are twinkling brightly. Thousands and thousands of light years away... I remember when Neil Armstrong first walked on the moon. I was packing. I didn't go to my high school graduation but stayed in my room, listening to the new album of another Neil and figuring out what to take with me now that Nick and I were taking off. We hitch-hiked across America, and Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. That big, pale thing above my head. It's far away. It's damn far away. Neil Young kept singing in my head. We travelled the same length, Neil and Neil and I.

This record deal was a small step for me, but a giant leap for Kurt. I saw us together, chasing the moonlight.

So much for that.

I'll go to that meeting with him. I'll hold his hand. And then I'll be right back here, at square one, wondering how these things manage to backfire on me.

I'm getting tired of being so fucking politically correct. Of waiting.

I used to just fucking take him. No questions asked. No need for permission. I had him wrapped around my finger. And –

"So where are you right now?"

I look up, seeing his silhouette upside down. His tone is playful: our old 'where are you supposed to be right now?' game to see which one of us lied better.

"I'm lying on the sand and smoking." I inhale deep and exhale further smoke. "Where are you?"

"On the phone to Mason to tell him about the meeting. You know he'd freak out so it'll be a lengthy phone call. They were kind enough to let me use the phone in the office." He walks closer and sits on the sand next to me. I try to assess the situation: he takes walks with me, he sits me down for coffee with him, he follows me out onto the beach... It's a change from him avoiding me like the plague or temptation or the thing that ruins his life and fucks him up. He's seeking me out.

"Where are you really, though?" I ask, tone challenging.

"Out on the beach with Blaine Anderson, who discovered me. Lauren's got this whole advertising campaign planned," he chuckles before he shivers slightly. It's not cold by any means, but he's only wearing a blue t-shirt that blends with the sky. "All the attention got a bit overwhelming back there."

If he gets a record deal, he better get used to the attention.

He lies down next to me, his arm briefly brushing mine. He'll get sand in his hair, but he doesn't seem to mind. His hand reaches out expectantly, and I pass him the cigarette. I look at the stars. He points up. "That one over there is Gemini."

"Where?"

"That one." He shuffles closer until our heads are touching. I squint and follow the angle of his finger.

"Oh yeah."

"I don't know how exactly it's meant to look like twins."

"If you look at it sideways, it does," I say, leaning my head to the side. "Arms, two pairs of legs... See? There." I draw lines into the air.

He is also tilting his head. "Yeah, I kind of see it now."

"You know how they got up there?" I ask him, feeling the shake of his head against my own. "The twins were Castor and Pollux. They had the same mother, but different fathers. Don't ask me how," I add when he draws in a breath like he's about to object. "It's Greek mythology, anything's possible. But because of this, only Pollux was immortal. Castor was a mere human. They were inseparable, but then Castor died in battle. Pollux couldn't deal with the loss of his twin, and so he offered his immortality, was willing to give it up. A compromise was come to: one day Pollux would be on Mount Olympus and Castor would be in Hades, and the next day the other way around. Immortal but never together. Well. That's one of the sadder versions. They also say that Zeus took pity on them and made them stars in the sky, to be immortal together for all times." I trace the invisible lines of the constellation with my fingers. "And there they still are."

"I think I like the second version better," he says quietly, passing the cigarette back.

"I think I like the first."

He breathes evenly in the dark. We hear female laughter from a distance, maybe the parking lot or somewhere along the beach. Happy and faraway. A dog barks.

"I've got one," he then says, leaning in again and pointing at the sky. "A Gibson's Flying V. There's the guitar neck, and there's the body."

"I see it. What's it called?"

"The Guitar constellation. Obviously."

"Well, obviously."

He laughs softly. I take a final drag of the cigarette and flick it away into the dark. "I got one too," I say. "See those four stars there that kind of form a line? That's the Line constellation."

"Oh wow. You're so knowledgeable."

"It's true. I am."

"Are you sure that's the Line constellation, though? See, if you continue it there, like this, and it curves and comes back down..." He shows what he means, and I nod, humming. "Well. That just looks like someone's dick, doesn't it?"

"Trust you to find a cock up there."

"That's the Penis constellation."

"Your personal favorite, I take it?"

"Depends on who it's attached to," he muses in a mock serious voice. I snort and give his shoulder a gentle shove. He snickers. Fucking kid.

He takes a hold of my hand before I can pull it back, his fingers lacing with mine. He doesn't look at me but keeps gazing upwards, our hands settling on his stomach.

A sudden tranquility and awareness stir up in me. Perfect ease and unbearable tension at the same time. He's fucking with my head. His thumb slowly brushes over my knuckles, his index finger drawing circles onto my palm, and he's fucking with my head.

"I just wanted to say thank you. About the meeting with Columbia."

"I only passed your demo along. It's all you from there." Our hands rise and fall with his even breaths. He seems comfortable like this, at ease. My mind races. "Are we leaving any time soon? Back to Tampa and the hotel."

"Ah. The... hotel."

"What?" I ask because he's got this ominous tone to his words.

"We've stayed there before. On The Warblers tour. A bit odd."

"Why?" I tilt my head to the side to see his profile. "Because it's the first place we ever fucked?"

"Well... yes, actually." He laughs nervously. I recognized the place the second we walked in, a hundred memories suddenly feeling as recent as yesterday. We're not on the same floor, not in the same room, but Kurt remembers a lot more than he's letting on. I hoped that he recognized it too – remembers us making out in the corridor, barely making it to the bed in his and Mason's room. Fuck, I had no idea what I was doing, but I got him off, I fucked him well. Hasty and clumsy and needy. Not knowing any of the little things that make him tick, not behind refined in the art of fucking men at all, but it was all the more intense because of it. Every touch a discovery.

I'm not surprised that it's on his mind. It is on mine. He knows our anniversary, and he knows the sightseeing spots in the history of us. I just thought he'd deny it, the way he has all this time.

"I just thought –" he begins but then stops. "God, I don't know." A helpless laugh. "Too many memories, you know? And comparing to then and now, it's all so different. We're really different." He exhales steadily. "We were young. I think we were both angry with the world back then. Maybe that's why we got along."

"Speak for yourself. I'm still angry."

He laughs. I'll say anything to make him laugh.

"Two things happened in that hotel," I reflect quietly. "One – I was inside you for the first time. That changed my life." The steady up and down of his breathing stops. "And two – I watched that anchorwoman kill herself."

His fingers stop rubbing my hand. He moves to lie on his side, leaning on one elbow that digs into the sand. He doesn't let go of my hand. He looks surprised and solemn. "You never told me that."

"The two things aren't related. Not really. But I connect them." I let myself reach out to touch his hair, feeling grains of sand falling as I card through the locks. "Out of the two, I prefer the memory of your face when you came."

"How fucking romantic," he whispers. There's a moment, a lull, a sharp tug in my stomach. His hand slides over my mid-section, and my fingers twist in the hair at the back of his head. His eyes meet mine and then drop onto my lips. Repeat history. Quickened heart beats. A rush of blood. Be mine, be mine. He swallows hard, breathing shallow. Come on, give up already. "I..."

"Don't think about it," I say quietly, gently pulling him down. Don't. Just let it happen, for the tide to come and take us away. It's just a kiss. Now when has that ever gotten us fucked?

He stops mid-movement of leaning down. His hand, which has slid down to curl around my hip, feels over my pocket. His eyebrows knit together. A small rattling sounds louder. The pills.

I freeze. Fuck.

His agile fingers slip into my pocket before I can stop him, and then the pill bottle is in his hand. He stares at it unblinkingly. "What are these?" His voice is sharp and focused, none of the previous soft playfulness in it, with none of the magic I just managed to perform on him.

"Vitamins."

I try to reach for the bottle, but he moves to sit on his knees, the frown not going anywhere. He's examining the label carefully – it's prescribed to a Mrs. Anne Brown, if my memory doesn't fail me.

"What's codeine?"

"It's a vitamin. A type of vitamin."

He looks me square in the eye. His lips form a thin line. "I don't believe you."

He stands up swiftly, and I am left scrambling up to my feet, trying to follow him. "What exactly are you doing?" I call after him.

"Confiscating these until I find out what the fuck they are!" he replies angrily. I stop, watching him storm back to the parking lot. He climbs the steps two at a time, my pills firmly in his grip.

Well, fuck. There he fucking goes, then.

I don't sleep well that night, but it's not because of Kurt and his possession of my pills. I'll tell him something, anything, I'll swear and he'll believe me. I wouldn't lie, would I?

It's the headache that keeps me up. I listen to night time radio and stare at the ceiling: Crimson Gone comes on at quarter to two. Miranda's Dream comes on at four. In this damn hotel, in some other room – smaller, not grand like this one – I tasted his flesh for the first time. I try to jerk off to the memory of it, but then the headache comes back, and I give up in my efforts. I try reading a book. Formulate what I'll say to Kurt come breakfast, because really, him stealing my property is starting to get less funny. I need those pills. It could be life-threatening not to be taking them regularly – he can't know that.

What a fucking arrogant prick.

But no, I have to be nice about it. Ask nicely. Kindly. Firmly. Calmly.

If he shows those pills to Lauren, I'm fucked. No. He wouldn't. Would he?

I keep tapping my thighs nervously, smoking chronically. I don't feel too good at all. What's his room number? No idea. Cuddling there with Dave, together with their Columbia dreams.

There's no rush.

No rush.

I'm calm.

I try to get back to bed around six o'clock, slipping under the covers. The headache has faded, but it's not defeated. I feel it in the back of my head, throbbing, waiting for its time. Sneaky bastard. And I manage to fall asleep, clearly I do, because the next thing I know is a firm knock on my door. I know that knock – it's Lauren's 'you better be up or else' knock. I groan and roll out of bed, pulling my briefs up just in case so that Lauren doesn't get any ideas. I must have slept in, I must have –

The alarm clock on the nightstand shows that it's ten to seven. Who does Lauren think she is, my fucking master? I'll throw a Spartacus on her ass. She should know that I do nothing before noon.

I pad to the door sleepily, already irritated. Not my ideal way to start a day. "Alright, alright," I bark when her knocking persists. "Am I late for something?" I ask, opening the door.

But it's Kurt who pushes the door open the rest of the way and walks straight past me. "Morning to you too?" I frown. He's fully dressed and seemingly alert – what on earth has he been doing this morning? He stops and looks around, and then enters to the bathroom. I push the door closed uncertainly. Maybe he really needs to piss?

Then I remember that he has my pills. I quickly follow him but stop at the door. He's going through my toiletries bag that's on the counter. "What are you doing?" I ask in confusion.

"Making sure you have no more of these," he says, pulling the orange bottle out of his pocket and continuing on in his raid.

My insides clench at the sight of the pills. Fuck, I need those. "My vitamins. Can I have them back now?"

"Vitamins?" he repeats, stopping in his inspection. It's only when our eyes meet that I realize how furious he looks. I almost do a double take. "You and your fucking vitamins!" he all but shouts. "I don't –" He stops to quote the description that he clearly knows by heart. "'Take every four to six hours as needed.' That'd be, what? A maximum of six a day? And how many of these are you popping?" The obvious despise in his eyes renders me speechless. "You're stupid. You're so fucking stupid!"

Suddenly, he's twisted off the cork and has tipped the bottle over the toilet. "What are you –" Dozens of small pills pour out in a sudden shower. I stare in horror.

"Back off!" he yells and holds out his hand when I try to intervene.

"Have you lost it?!" I yell angrily, an ache in me spreading as the last ones drop into the bowl. His hand reaches for the lever. "No! Don't you fucking dare!" His hand doesn't even hesitate, and the toilet flushes itself. He steps out of the way just in time as I rush over, but nothing of my pills remains. My stomach drops as I watch the water swirling. No, no, no, no, nononono. "Christ, Kurt, why did you do that?!"

"Why would you do that?!" he counters, more angry than I've ever seen him, and I've definitely seen him angry. "Are you that desperate to die young?!"

"You don't even know what they are!" I argue, trying to think of a medical condition he doesn't know of, maybe I've got cancer? No, too depressing, maybe –

"I found out, trust me. Codeine. Painkillers. Did you know that that shit can be fucking addictive?! That you can overdose on them, that they're fucking dangerous when mixed with alcohol, that –"

"But they make me feel better!" I snap before I can stop myself. It doesn't appease the thunder in his eyes, but he fucking threw them away and now they're gone, and it takes hassle to organize these things, and who do I know in Tampa? Well, Big Keith, our drum tech from '72, yeah, he could sort it out, but fuck. Fuck. Fucking fucker. "They make me numb," I try to explain desperately. It's not like it's a problem. It's not. And I don't take them for the hell of it either. "It's just that – My left arm never healed from the bus crash properly, alright? It gets sore." I touch my left elbow without meaning to. "I took codeine to get me through recording and now I take it to get through touring. They're just painkillers. I need them."

"You don't need them."

"I do!"

"No –"

"I don't have to fucking feel when I take them! And you just flushed them down, like it's any of your fucking business!" I yell, and the anger in my words surprises me too.

His hands have curled into fists. "You don't want to feel." He shakes his head. "You don't want to fucking feel. You fucking selfish prick. What about me? Huh? What about how I'll feel on the day we find you dead on a hotel bed, having overdosed on your innocent pills and a bottle of whisky?! You don't – You don't stop to think, Blaine! It's always about you, and you don't understand how this shit affects me, and I can't spend my days terrified that you'll do something stupid, because you would! Christ, I know that you would!"

"Kurt," I manage, trying to interrupt him.

"Shut up!" He throws the pill bottle across the room in magnified anger.

I shut up. I feel like I've just been told that I've been a bad, bad dog. I didn't mean to – It's just something I did, I didn't expect it to – for him to. It wasn't meant to be a big deal.

But it is. To him.

"You're done here! No more of this shit!" he yells, finger pointed at me, and then he seems to run out of breath. His brows knit together as his shoulders drop. He hasn't slept. I notice it then, the bags under his eyes, how exhausted he seems. He turns his back on me, and I watch the line of his shoulders, startled when he seems to shiver. "What would I do if something happened to you?" he asks quietly. "Blaine, what would I do?"

"Hey," I whisper, trying to sound soothing as my insides ache. "C'mere." I press a hand on his shoulder, but he tries to shrug me off. "Kurt, come on." I apply more pressure, and he turns around and buries himself in my embrace. He's shivering as I wrap my arms around him, his warmth pressed against my bare chest. "Hey, I'm right here, alright?" He's still breathing fast. I gently rub the back of his neck, my words whispered against his hair. "Okay, I'm sorry. I'm sorry." I breathe him in, his scent, take in the way he's wrapped his arms around my waist and is burrowing into me. "I would never do that to you. Kurt, I would never." Lying pale and stiff on a hotel bed, my eyes staring at nothing. It's happened to too many to count, people I've known. No. No, that's not what I want. "You're not getting rid of me that easily," I promise him, and he laughs, but it's a small, scared laugh. I didn't mean to scare him. I have. His blunt fingernails dig into my lower back as he holds me tightly. My heart feels heavy. "I'll stop. Won't take them anymore." I don't even have to think about it. "I promise."

"Do you really?"

"Of course I do."

His nose presses against my jaw, his lips brushing against my Adam's apple. "You don't know how scared I get."

"No. No, I don't," I admit because the feeling of surprise lingers. That he cares this much. I always wanted him to, but I didn't know. "It's alright now." My head presses against his, tilting downwards. "We'll be okay."

My lips find his. Soft. Tentative. He lets out an uneven breath. Blinks, eyes wide. A spark runs through me, as strong as it ever has been. He was going to let me kiss him last night, I know it. And now we're here again, far too close for two friends or former lovers, let alone for two men. And I kiss him because there is no way I cannot.

His lower lip slips between mine as I press our mouths together. He doesn't pull back. Instead he lets out this tiny sound, like a quiet murmur of pleasure, a gasp. Hot fire erupts inside, my guts twisting painfully with yearning. His skin is addictive, his touch, his love. I need addictions. I couldn't have him. I found a substitute. It's not unheard of.

But if he lets me back in, then it'll only be an ugly memory. I promise. I swear. Because I don't manage without it, without him. I'm just lost. Angry. Confused. Like an animal forced to leave its turf, thrown into some unknown land, disorientated. I'm not me without him.

I kiss him with clear intent, needing to get closer. His lips part under pressure, and our tongues slowly brush together, wet and hot. He breathes out unevenly, hesitating. I kiss harder, trying to push him over, to make him lose his balance. He bends. He breaks. He pushes closer, opening up further. We kiss fervently, tracing a taste that is so familiar that we could never forget even if we wanted to. My hands move up to his hair, pulling just the way he likes it. He hisses and sucks on my lower lip. It goes straight to my groin. My fingers twist around the strands of his hair, pulling, making him expose his neck as his head turns. My mouth moves to his jaw and his neck, and he breathes hard, letting me. I kiss the vein running on his neck, feeling the fast pulse of it. His stubble scratches my nose, and I feel driven insane by my desire for him.

I push my hips against his. He loses his breath from the contact. His fingers dig into my shoulders. "Stop," he breathes out. I look him in the eye – his blown pupils, fuck – and lean in closer to kiss him despite the warning. "Stop," he repeats, but he's not exactly trying to push me away. I stay still and slowly lick my lower lip as I breathe hard, trying to recompose myself. His cheeks are rosy. I've turned him on. "I've sworn to myself," he whispers feebly.

I lean closer, our foreheads pressing together. I close my eyes. "What?"

What silly, unkeepable promise has he made?

"Not to sleep with you anymore." His voice is husky from even saying it.

Lust pools at the pit of my stomach. Never again? How can he think that we'll never fuck again? Because when he and I fuck, we fuck. Unapologetic and graceless and sweaty. How stupid of him. But for now, for now –

"I can respect that."

He looks surprised. Of course he is.

I swerve in for a kiss, a long, desperate kiss as I push us backwards, until he's pressed to the bathroom wall. He's hesitating, clearly confused, but I merely push my hips against his, leaving no space between. He groans when he feels my erection against him. He's wearing his black bell jeans, the ones that hang way too low on his waist. The denim is thicker than the fabric of my briefs, but the layers working as a barrier don't stop me. I feel him, and he can feel me.

"I get so hard just kissing you," I whisper, my hand at the back of his head. I slowly thrust against him, dragging my crotch over his. My bulge is obvious, the briefs unable to hide it. He shudders and pushes against the pressure. He locks eyes with me, surrendering further, and he kisses me. His hips begin to move, grinding against me. Permission. Admittance. Those things I'm sick of asking for. I wrap my free arm around his lower back and begin to move with him shamelessly. We entwine the best we can.

We pull on each other, throat, earlobe, lips, kissing and tasting, always coming back to kiss with swollen lips. Our hips move fast and hard, thrusting to get friction and pressure. The outline of his cock presses against my erection. "Fuck, you feel that?" I ask, and he nods quickly. "What are you? Come on, say it." I trace his lower lip with my tongue as he tries to speak.

"God, I – Fuck, I'm so hard." He laughs desperately, hissing as our hips move. "God, Blaine." His hand twists in my hair, and our noses press together as he pulls me in for a clumsy kiss. "I can't stop thinking about you."

"Then don't." My hands go to the top of his jeans, trying to unbuckle his belt.

"Blaine."

"I know, I know. I'm not – Just trust me. God, let me feel you," I beg, but he seems to take it as an order.

His chest rises and falls rapidly as he looks down between us. His belt becomes unbuckled, my fingers trembling as I fight with the top button, fingertips grazing his skin, the line of hair in the middle. I manage to get him unzipped. He swears, his body pressed to the wall but his hips pushing forwards. I slowly brush the skin exposed with the pad of my thumb – the bit that is one of my favorite parts of his body. Just there below his navel, where the trail of body hair becomes less soft, becomes shorter, coarser, mixing into his pubic hair. I love that spot. I love kissing it and I love inhaling it and I love the way it feels right now, against my calloused fingertips. Travelling downwards, my fingers brush through light curls and then get to the base of his fat cock, the skin warm.

He's staying so still. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard. I slowly pull his cock out, feeling him hot in my hand. It's not even want that fills every fiber of my being, but need.

"You look so good," I say honestly, the pink, flushed flesh of his cock pressed against my palm. I wrap my fingers around his hard length, keeping the grip loose as I run it from the head to the base. He lets me touch him, size him up like I've never done this before. My hand slips into his underwear and cups his balls. He sighs contentedly and pushes into the touch, his plump lower lip between his teeth. I stroke the skin just behind his balls with a single finger, to watch him jerk and moan. His cock gets even harder, steadily pointing upwards and needing attention. I pull my hand out and focus on stroking him instead.

Jerking him off is hotter than I can stand. He's giving himself away with his gasps, thrusting into the fist of my hand. I squeeze tighter on the upstroke, and soon his crown glistens with clear pre-come. He gasps when my thumb brushes over his slit, spreading the liquid slowly.

"You fucking tease," he hisses. I don't mean to tease – it's just captivating. He kisses me fiercely, his hands skimming down my sides. "Let me see you," he groans, voice low.

"Okay," I rush out, nodding. Fuck.

He pushes my briefs down hastily. His hands first cup my ass, kneading, and my body feels wired up when he lets a finger briefly run over my hole. He soon reaches for the front, my cock now released.

"Jesus," I breathe out when he takes me in his hand. Our foreheads press together. I look down to see him in my hand, and to see myself in his. He's not giving me any mercy, his fingers wrapped around my cock tightly as he's stroking me. My eyelids flutter shut, our uneven breaths filling my ears. Our lips find each other's sporadically, clumsily, the matching rhythms of our hands too distracting. My chest radiates with heat, but it's not just sexual want – it's more than that. A yearning for us to become a part of each other. Then he won't be able to walk away anymore. Then he won't be able to do anything except bend to my will and stay.

I falter when his hand disappears, almost falling against him. The groan I let out is pathetic – please touch me, don't fucking stop – but then I smell the scent of myself, his fingertips under our noses as he licks his palm. His hand hastily moves back down, and fuck, that's even better. My mind spins with desire for him.

"Remember the hotel? Our room?" I prompt, licking my lips. I stroke him faster, every now and then swiping my thumb over the sensitive crown to spread his pre-come.

"Yeah," he replies hoarsely.

"Remember how we'd spend entire afternoons fucking?"

He squeezes my cock tighter in response, nodding. Our hips move restlessly as we try to thrust into each other's hands. He groans, his head tilting backwards. My teeth scrape the skin below his left ear, kissing, tasting. My nose presses against the shell of his ear. "I want to fuck you all night," I whisper.

"It's morning," he corrects but he sounds like he doesn't particularly care.

"Even better. Got all day too." Not going to the venue at all, fuck that – staying here instead, in this same hotel, fucking and fucking, sleeping, then fucking again, kissing the back of his knee as I bend his legs over his stomach.

The wet tip of his cock brushes against my bare stomach. I jerk him off faster, trying to make him lose it. He seems to have the same plan, stroking me faster, flicking his wrist, making my toes curl.

"Fuck, B, that's so good," he groans. His brows have knit together and his eyes have screwed shut, and his mouth hangs open as he breathes. It's an almost pained look, but it's pleasure. I let the blunt edge of my nail drag across his glistening tip on the next stroke, and he shudders. Just a bit of pain at the right moment just fucking undoes him. "Shit, you're gonna make me come," he breathes, his free hand in my hair as he pulls me closer.

"That's the idea," I say, my voice lower and huskier. He kisses me, and the strength he puts into it paralyses me. It's a desperate kiss from a desperate man – I recognize it, I give them myself rather often. He swallows hard, his fingernails digging into my scalp.

"Don't stop," he whispers. His hand on my dick has slowed down, and I've forgotten to stroke him altogether. "Blaine, please."

I nudge his nose with my own, getting him to lift his head so that our lips can touch. It's a mere press of our swollen lips together, gentle and soft. My heart is beating heavily in my chest, in a way that makes me feel its fast but still steady thuds in all of my body. I slowly pick up the pace of my hand, and he groans, encouraging. I won't stop. I'll get him off.

I work him up again, which isn't difficult – I focus on ignoring how he keeps touching me, his talented hand knowing just how I like him touching me – and when his breathing begins to hitch in the familiar way of him getting close, I peck his lips once – butterfly light – and sink down onto my knees.

"Fuck, what are you –"

I have to taste him.

My mouth wraps around the tip of his cock, my tongue flattening against the slit. He gasps loudly, the back of his head slamming into the wall with a thud. My hand closes in a fist around the base of his cock, covering a few inches there to keep him steady.

"You don't have to," he breathes, sounding fucking turned on. Of course I don't have to.

My eyes close as I take in as much as I can – not thinking about it or his size, driven only by the want to take him like this. My cheeks hollow as I suck on his length, and his hand comes down to squeeze my shoulder. His hips thrust forwards, like he wants more. I feel my throat tightening first, an instinct to push him out of my mouth. I stop for a second, breathe through my nose, and push the feeling away. Then I relax my jaw and take it. He tastes good on my tongue. He smells good, too. I begin to blow him, working my mouth on him. He's groaning loudly, swearing heavily, trying to keep his hips still. When I look up at him, he's got his eyes closed and one hand in his hair, his mouth open. It's one of the sexiest things I've ever seen, and I suck him hard and watch the way his brows knit together. It's a new kind of power I've never had over him before, my tongue licking the underside of his cock.

"I'm gonna come," he warns. "Fuck, I can't –" His fingers dig into my shoulder. I reach for my own cock with my free hand, fisting myself as I suck him. "Blaine. Blaine!" He sounds frustrated, like he can't handle this right now, like he's trying to fight a losing battle.

I pull back, the weight of his cock on my tongue disappearing. I press a kiss to his leaking crown, wet lips, wet cock, pre-come and saliva mixing, a strand of it stretching from my lower lip as I pull back. Everything is dazed and too hot.

His hand shoots down immediately and he begins to jerk off fervently, his hips thrusting into it. "Fucking hell," he breathes, his movements eased by my spit. He sounds like he feels too good. My fingers dig into his hip, and I touch myself, harder, faster –

"Oh fucking shit," he groans and comes. I haven't moved away much at all, and the first streak hits me on the cheek. It's fucking beautiful. I move back in without meaning to and wrap my mouth around the tip. I've tasted him before – you fuck a guy as often as I've fucked him, you get to know what his come tastes like as a by-product of cleaning your skin or his, of kissing, sucking, it happens – but not like this. His come is bitter and warm on my tongue, and he's still coming. I feel the spurts on my tongue, filling my mouth before I can swallow. His moans have dropped an octave now that I've taken him in my mouth. My balls tighten further, fire curling up in my guts, and I moan with my mouth full of him as I fist my cock.

He's panting when he finally slips out of my mouth. I lean back, swallowing, my mouth feeling used. His taste is all over, penetrating, inescapable. I run my tongue over my teeth, along the insides of my cheeks – him, him, him – and finally come hard, jerking off on my knees in front of him. The world slips into black as pleasure rattles through me, come sliding between my fingers.

I'm almost done when a hand lands on my head, soft and gentle. I try to catch my breath, my body tingling. Fuck. Fuck, we needed this. My hand slowly moves on my cock to milk out the rest of my semen. I look up at him, and our eyes meet. He looks fucked: his hair is a mess and his lips are swollen, his clothes askew, his jeans unzipped, his half-hard cock out. His palm cups my cheek, and his thumb traces the skin. I realize he's wiping away his come on me.

"Jesus," he says in a hoarse voice, a certain softness to it. Then, not nearly as softly but not entirely accusatory either, "Who have you been practicing on?"

"No one," I say honestly. He was wrong about practice making someone perfect or the desire of wanting to please. You just have to want it badly enough. Have something to prove or something to lose. He does a small scoff, however, like he doesn't buy that. "No one," I repeat, not wanting to argue. I lean in and slowly trace the head of his softening cock with my tongue. He sharply pulls in air. I let the tip of my nose brush his shaft, smelling him, before tucking him back into his underwear, pulling the fabric over him.

I stand back up, my knees a little weak and my briefs ungracefully down to mid-thigh. I reach for a towel to wipe my come-covered hand. Somehow it's too hard to meet his gaze, although knowing he's now seen me on my knees in front of him, mouth full of his cock, god, that he's seen me like that and that I've let it happen, has warmth spreading at the bottom of my stomach. After my hands are clean, I take a hold of his fly and slowly zip him back up. His breathing is still uneven, and I feel the gaze of his blown pupils on me. I buckle his belt, smoothing over his crotch once I'm done. Like before. Perfect again. He feels a little bit harder than he did a second ago.

"Better than my codeine visions," I joke, but he doesn't look amused. I pull my briefs up for some decency. This shouldn't feel awkward.

He's looking around the bathroom like reality is hitting him hard. His neck and cheeks are rosy, and he has that post-orgasm glow about him. Getting off relaxes him.

The empty codeine bottle has rolled to the foot of the toilet, and though I know there is nothing inside, I yearn for it. But I won't. I promised him.

He rubs his face and laughs. It's not a happy laugh but a desperate one. I'm not surprised. This is what he does: he falls into me and then takes it back again.

"Aren't you supposed to wait at least five minutes before letting the regret settle in?" I ask quietly.

He laughs louder, shaking his head. "But I don't regret it. I don't."

"Right. You'll just pretend it never happened."

"No." He smoothes his shirt slightly in some attempt to hide the telltale signs, but then he gives up. His brown eyes meet mine. "I don't want that either." He sounds anguished for some insane reason. He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. "That was… God, the things you do to me don't have words." My heart swells instantly. A dark cloud appears behind his eyes. "I don't regret it, and that's the worst part. I only feel like shit when I think of what I'm doing to other people."

"You mean Dave," I supply for him. The bathroom feels colder than before. Dave is even here. Omnipresent. Forever a cloud over whatever we do.

"Don't say his name that way." He sounds hurt on his behalf.

"What way am I supposed to say it?"

"I'm the fuck up here. Not him. He's never done a single thing wrong." I'd disagree: he took what was rightfully mine. "Fuck," he sighs like the bigger picture is coming back into view. "You with your pills and your fucking messes, and me here again, and fuck. What am I doing to Dave? Again? I'm such a fuck up. I'm such a fucking fuck up." He seems to be getting himself worked up over this.

"I told you I'm done with codeine," I say quickly so that he doesn't hold that against me.

"You say that, but I don't even know if I trust you," he laughs, and the words cut in deep. Of course he can trust me. I'm the only person he should ever trust. "The thought of… trusting you. Of letting you in fucking terrifies me."

"Why would it scare you?" I ask in confusion, such a thought never having crossed my mind.

"Of course it does," he says, which isn't an answer. What kind of a level of letting me in is this? All the way, which he has never done with anyone in his life? Or keeping me at the fringes, the way he's kept Dave? "Look, I'm... I'm really confused right now." He looks like it. He looks like a man being pulled in two opposite directions.

"Okay," I say soothingly.

"I need to figure things out. About what I - feel and what I want, and - I feel like shit that I did this to Dave yet again. I miss Dave when he's not around, you know? I miss him," he says empathetically like I might not get him otherwise, but I do. I miss Rachel every day. "And I- I miss you." He stops and stares at me like I'm a mirage standing there in the bathroom in pale yellow briefs. "God, I miss you." He exhales heavily. "I'm just really exhausted emotionally, and I just don't know. Now there's all this label business with Columbia, too, and –"

"But you're saying that I've got a shot," I interrupt him because that's what it sounds like. I've got a shot.

"The two of us," he says feebly. "How could that ever work?"

"Amazingly well," I tell him, suddenly full of renewed hope. I've got a shot. He's here, he's not running away, he's acknowledging it. Us. "Can I kiss you? I really want to."

"No."

"We were kissing just before and I sucked your cock, but now I can't kiss you?"

"No."

"That's some fucked up logic you've got there," I say, not even upset, just grinning and feeling light. He laughs, but this is all heavy for him, I can see that. It's draining him and confusing him and keeping him up at night. I get that he feels bad that he'll break Dave's heart, but Dave will get over it. He will.

He says, "I think I need some perspective on things."

"Yeah, absolutely."

"Tour life is always so detached, you know? You don't see the bigger picture."

"I agree." I might be nodding excessively, but every word he says between now and finally giving up the fight and being mine is a word of wisdom that I'll fully support.

"I feel like I don't know what I'm doing."

"I think you're doing it pretty well, whatever it is."

He laughs, and I've got him charmed. Wrapped around my little finger. He's mine now. All –

"That's why it'll be really good to see Mason when we get to LA, you know? He anchors me a bit. He gives good advice."

Mason? As in, out of the closet Mason McCarthy who hates my guts and whose last words to me were at the hospital after the bus crash, a mere 'A shame you didn't die'? This is the man who is giving his views on who is more worthy, immaculate Dave or contemptible me?

"…Yeah. Great."

Well.

I'm fucked.