"You look like shit." Wes pronounces when he sits down next to Blaine at the coffee shop.

Blaine barely looks up from where he is stirring his coffee. "Hello to you too, Blaine. Good to see you this morning, Blaine. How are you doing, Blaine? How are you adjusting to the big city, Blaine?"

"To be fair, you haven't exactly called or texted before today either." Wes says, sipping at his coffee nonplussed. "You said it was an emergency. A shortage in hair gel hardly constitutes an emergency, even if your hair is a fright."

"I didn't put gel on? I… I didn't sleep much last night." He rubs his hand over his hair, feeling his out of control curls. They feel as frazzled as the rest of him.

"You don't say."

Blaine ignores the sarcasm. "Have you seen it yet? The video?"

"I don't look at social media before 8:30 in the morning, Blaine. You know that a good routine—"

Blaine pulls out his phone and pushes the play button, thrusting the phone at him. "This. Watch."

Wes watches the video with his usual silence and blank face. Blaine tries not to chew his fingernails while waiting—he broke himself of that habit when he was 11 and he will not give into weakness because of this. When it finishes, Wes hands the phone back and studies Blaine closely. "So. We could sue for copyright infringement, but cases for unauthorized performances are rarely granted hearings—"

"What?" Blaine sputters. "I don't want to sue Kurt!"

Wes looks puzzled. "While I'm relieved, I am uncertain as to what you want me to do. It is your song, correct? I recognized the chord progression near the chorus as something similar to that song you composed for the Warbler's banquet several years ago."

"Yeah, it's my song."

"It's a lovely song, Blaine. You've obviously developed your talents over the years and you should be quite proud of yourself. And Kurt, if I may, sounds exquisite here. Almost as if you wrote the song for him."

Blaine flushes. "I mean, I was inspired by his performance and the play..."

"Oh, I understand now. You're the one being sued. I can certainly represent you, should you choose, but Ryan Durphy is a powerful man. We should think about our choices carefully."

"You think he's going to sue me? Oh god, I didn't even think of that." He tugs on his curls, his breathing becoming more erratic.

Wes lets out a long exhale. "Why don't you start from the beginning, because I am not following you. Only, do make it concise. I only have 20 minutes before I must head to the office."

Blaine nods and tries to organize his thoughts. "Right, yes. Um, so I wrote a song, that song, about a month or so ago, when we were waiting for the real music, and Kurt and I have been tinkering with it. I thought it was just a fun diversion, you know, to pass time and work with him on vocals. He, uh, performed it on Saturday with his band. It went viral."

"Is that so?"

Blaine shakes his head. "No, I mean, really viral. There's been over 5 million hits in the last 48 hours. They played it on The Late Show with James Corden last night."

"I can see why."

"Brad, he's the music director and my mentor, he sent me these texts threatening to quit. And Roz called me this morning to set up a meeting with Ryan Durphy today. It's gotten completely out of control. I didn't want any of this and now you think they're going to sue me."

"Ah. I see." Wes presses his fingertips together and then pulls out his phone. "Right then. What time is your meeting?"

"Um, 9:30."

"Not ideal, but I can switch a meeting to make it work." He holds the phone up to his ear. "Tyler, reschedule my 9 o'clock for 11 today. Yes, yes, I know, apologize profusely and get her a gift basket if needs be. Thank you. Oh, and connect me through to Sydney. Of course I know how cell phones work; this is easier. Yes. Yes. Thank you. Syd, it's Wes. Listen, I need a favor from you. Mmh hmm, music licensing. The usual request, but it's for a close friend. Free today? This morning? Excellent. Until then."

Wes snaps the phone closed (Blaine really shouldn't be surprised that Wes is the solitary holdout in the entire world in getting a smartphone). "We'll meet with Sydney at 8:45. She's just down the street from the theater, so we should be able to complete the forms prior to our meeting with Ryan."

"Forms?" Blaine questions, his mind swirling with a million questions.

"Yes, to license your song. She'll walk you through on choices for standard licensing or creative commons, as I'm sure you haven't thought about this before."

"But why do I need to license it?"

"Blaine." Wes's voice is ever patient and kind. "You have written an incredible song, just like I thought you could. And you deserve to be compensated appropriately with licensing and attribution and royalties. Should Ryan Durphy choose to make it a part of the play, which he will as he is a shrewd man with a keen eye on the pulse of what makes the entertainment industry tick, it is my job as a lawyer and as your friend to represent you in the negotiation. You have just provided him with the best advertisement possible for his musical and he should be thanking you and paying you handsomely."

"I just. I don't know." Blaine rubs his eyes. "I wasn't planning on any of this."

"I know. But you must seize this opportunity. Besides," Wes says with a smirk, "it's about time that one of your serenades finally pays off. Leave it to you to write a run-away hit for a boy."

"I failed there, too." Blaine says soberly. "He's poly. He has a boyfriend, Elliott, the guitarist in that video, and I think he's in a triad. And you know as well as I do that I can't do poly relationships." Blaine shakes his head at the memory of trying to have an open relationship with his college boyfriend Pete. It had … not gone well.

Wes claps his shoulder in sympathy. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Blaine shrugs. "I have bigger things to worry about now than my pathetic love life."

Wes gives him a brief smile, before he puts on his lawyer face again. "That's why you have me to make this process as smooth as possible. It's going to be okay. You have my word. Once a Warbler, always a Warbler. Do not forget our motto: 'brothers forever, we flock together'." He pulls a gavel out of his pocket and bangs it on the table. The other inhabitants of the shop look up in alarm, but Blaine is touched by the gesture.

"Thanks again, Wes." Blaine enthuses, already feeling the lighter about the whole situation. He can do this.

The discomfort behind Blaine's eyes has steadily increased over the course of the day to a pulsing dagger of pain. He's exhausted, the roller-coaster of anxiety and nerves having wrung his body out entirely, and all he wants to do is go home and go to sleep.

Instead, he's stuck here in the orchestra pit, working with Brad to expand the orchestration of his song.

It's been a terribly busy, terribly stressful, terrible day. As Wes had predicted, Ryan Durphy hadn't threatened to kick him out or murder him, although it took a while for his nauseated stomach to get that message. Besides a brief meeting during his audition, Blaine had never really interacted with the entertainment monolith before. Ryan Durphy maintained an emotionally void facade as Blaine nervously took a seat. He's flanked by two women, Marley Rose and Mercedes Jones, the play's composers. As 'Rose Jones,' the singer-songwriter duo had sprung to popularity during the pandemic when their songs had become viral TikTok hits. Three platinum albums followed, but this was their first musical. They've visited the stage a few times during these last weeks of rehearsals, but they've worked mostly with Brad, so Blaine doesn't know them very well. Roz sat in a chair to the side of the desk, her sharp eyes taking in all of the details gleefully and it took a few moments before Blaine spotted Brad in the corner, glowering at him.

Wes slid into the chair beside Blaine and gave his arm a brief squeeze in support.

"You didn't share with us that you were a composer, Mr. Anderson." Mr. Durphy said after a long silence where Blaine tried not to squirm under his scrutiny.

"I… It was listed in my resume." He stuttered. "I, um, wrote a full musical in grad school."

"Relax, Blaine," Ryan said, more of a command than a suggestion. "I have a nose, one could say, for untapped potential. I hired you because I thought that you had that spark and I'm pleased to see that I wasn't wrong. It's been a long time since I've been surprised in this business. But you and your song have surprised me."

"Two million views would suggest this to be a good thing." Wes pointed out and Blaine was fiercely grateful for his friend's presence. "Free publicity is never a bad thing."

"No," Ryan agreed. "But you have made our job a little more, shall we say, complicated."

"I keep telling you, Ryan." Mercedes interrupted, "we should have been using Tiktok and YouTube all along to generate interest. This generation isn't going to looking for New York Times reviews. Social marketing is key and that song was lit."

"I agree," Marley said, "this may end up being a blessing. I think we can use this to our advantage."

"Sales increased by threefold today. We're sold out through half of January." Roz interjetted.

"Sounds like we can untangle the complications if you are agreeable." Wes stated and handed over the forms that he and Blaine had signed earlier. The rest of the meeting was filled with negotiations that Wes deftly handled. Brad had glared silently in the background, the only one not pleased with the outcome it seemed, but nobody else seemed to notice.

There were practicalities to address, beyond money and rights. Blaine's name as a composer would need to be added to the programs and those had already been sent to the printer. The digital banners that were lit over the theater and Times Square would need to be altered, even though his small byline wouldn't even be readable. His song had been written only for piano and would need to be altered—Blaine had dabbled with overlays of violin accompaniment, but orchestration had never been his strong suit musically. And the soundtrack had already been mixed and was about to be released in less than a week—adding the song would require hours in the recording studio with the orchestra, the chorus, and Kurt. All to be completed in a week already full of tech rehearsals and publicity.

Blaine left the meeting more stressed than he had entered, his mind whirling with the snarl of "to-do"s that he has to accomplish in less than 48 hours. Wes had clapped him again on the shoulder, telling him that he had faith that he could handle it and to call if he had problems, "but not until tomorrow because I've already upset my schedule."

He spent the afternoon with Brad. Before, Blaine had thought he was taciturn, but that had been nothing like the sullen man who shot down every idea with a single shake of the head. Writing music for a complete orchestra was a job that took months and Blaine was trying to do it in an afternoon with a guy who now hated his guts.

The headache had developed slowly, likely due to a combination of no sleep, no food, and no water for what felt like years, and now, every note that Brad pounded out on the piano made it throb more.

"What if we added in the winds starting in measure 62?" Blaine asks. "Something like 'da da daaaaa dada'."

"No."

"Or what if—"

"No."

"Really? You didn't even hear my idea."

"I don't need to."

Something snaps. "Fine. You know what. Just. I don't know why I'm here then."

"Because it's your song and legally, I can't make changes to it without your permission." Brad states angrily, saying more words than Blaine had ever heard him mutter in the last two months. "Now you're one of the 'composers.' Even though I'm the one with 30 years of experience, you're the one who's going to get acknowledgements and awards. My name won't be on the program but yours will. I've just been the one who did all of the work in rearranging the score for the orchestra and making this all sound good, but now you get to waltz in and take all of the credit."

"I'm not trying to take over! I didn't mean to step on your toes, okay? I was just playing around."

"And you thought you could do better than me. Figures."

Blaine throws his hands up in frustration. "What? No! I was inspired by you. Your music is… breathtaking. I got to watch you create magic when you directed those songs. You took Rose Jones's music and transformed it into something that lives and breathes on stage. The way you expanded 'Sister Marigold's Lament' for her dance scene? Gave me chills and it's going to be doing that for so many people who come to the show or stream the soundtrack. You have the job that I have dreamed of having my entire life. So I went home at night and tried to create a little of that magic myself. It just got out of hand and I'm sorry. I'm sorry you got caught up in this, too."

Brad's scowl twists as he stares at Blaine. "Your song is good," he says reluctantly. "Unpolished, but not half bad."

Blaine blinks. He did not expect even faint praise. "Thanks."

"Write this down. Benjamin's. Brisket on rye, extra pickles."

"What?"

"Go get me dinner and be quick about it. And then we work." Brad turns his back on Blaine, muttering as he stares at the scattered sheet music, not even waiting to see if Blaine follows his orders.

"Oh, ok. Ok." Blaine scrambles to his feet, relief coursing through him.

He's headed up the stairs when he hears the other members of the orchestra groan at the announcement that they'll be staying longer. He pauses. It's late and it's his fault that they're stuck here, when they have lives and families. "What would you all want on your sandwich? My treat."

Brad looks up briefly and gives him a nod. Blaine takes it as affirmation.

Blaine stops at his favorite little coffee shop on his way to pick up the orders, hoping that the caffeine jolt will ease his headache and give him needed endurance for the long evening ahead.

"Blaine! Hi!" A voice calls behind him, a voice he knows all too well, from how it's invaded his thoughts and dreams.

His emotions are a wreck, he knows, and he has tried very hard to avoid thinking about the tangle of feelings that Kurt's singing on Saturday has caused: the thrill of hearing Kurt sing his song and sing it to him with such depths of emotion; the numbness of having his song, his baby and creation, exposed to the world without his permission; the simmering anger that Kurt hadn't asked him, hadn't told him that he was going to do that; the layers of fear when he realized that he could very well lose his job and any chance of working in music again. He has pushed aside most of those feelings in an attempt to do damage control. He was grateful when Unique took one look at him this morning and told him firmly that he had the day off because it meant he could avoid Kurt until he could sort out his complex feelings.

Or so he had hoped. His smile feels plastered on as he turns in line. "Hi, Kurt."

"I haven't seen you all day. Unique and Mike put us through the grind today. We must have done every song and dance a dozen times before they were satisfied. I have muscles hurting that I didn't even know existed." Kurt prattles, seemingly oblivious to Blaine's mood. He perks up. "Did you check out twitter today? I tried texting you the link but you didn't respond. Your song was trending in the top 5! And can you believe it? There was a crowd outside the stage door asking me for my autograph because they recognized me from the video. I've never had that happen before."

Bitterness clogs the back of Blaine's throat. "Congratulations."

Kurt halts and puts his hand hesitantly on Blaine's arm. "Hey, what's wrong? You seem upset."

"Maybe that's because I am upset." The words pour out of his mouth.

"Why? What's wrong?"

"What's wrong? What's wrong? Do you know how I spent my day, Kurt? While you were signing autographs, I was talking to lawyers to make sure that I wouldn't lose my job and begging Ryan Murphy not to sue me."

"I don't… why would he sue you?"

Blaine purses his lips. "Because I made an unauthorized version of his musical and 'released it' just prior to his official soundtrack release. Do you know how that looks?"

Kurt looks stricken. "Blaine, I didn't—"

"No, you didn't." He interrupts. "You didn't ask my permission or warn me or anything."

"Because you kept thinking that it wasn't good." Kurt argues back. "And it is good—it's one of the best songs that I've heard or sung in years. There's a reason that it's going viral because it's that good."

"But that wasn't your decision. It was mine. It's my song and it was just... It wasn't ready."

"Look. I'm sorry. I never wanted to get you in trouble. But Blaine, you're incredible. You are such an incredible songwriter and I wish that you would believe me and now the world knows it, too, and this is going to offer you so many opportunities-."

"I didn't want the world to know! I wrote that song for you, Kurt. Just you. It was private and I thought... I thought it was our moment." He blurts out, angry and frustrated at Kurt and himself. He was such a fool, exposing his heart like that. To Kurt, who never even realized what that song meant. "Well, I guess it doesn't matter now."

"I-I… I didn't—" Kurt stutters.

"Blaine! Your double expresso is ready." The barista interrupts them.

Blaine grabs his drink, letting the heat ground him. "I gotta head back. Ryan wants the song with the full orchestra ready to record tomorrow."

"Blaine, wait—"

He doesn't turn around.

Kurt doesn't follow.