Set just before the last chapter. This is what happens when you decide to write drabbles instead of a linear story ugh.

Tumblr is here (endofadream)

"Blaine?" Kurt is cautious as he opens the door to the Have-Not room. The rest of the houseguests are slowly dispersing throughout the house after the Veto meeting. Mercedes says something in the kitchen that Kurt can't quite catch as the door shuts behind him. His thoughts are angry but all he feels is a numbing, penetrating sense of sadness that fills the very marrow of his bones with lead.

The room is empty though it is strewn with blankets: on the floor, over the uncomfortable airplane chairs that function as beds. Just the sight of them makes Kurt's back ache as he remembers his awful week as a Have-Not. Looking around, he spots Blaine huddled up in a row of those chairs, his knees drawn up and his forehead resting on them.

"Blaine?" Kurt asks, still cautious, as he steps over.

There's an unintelligible noise, and Kurt has to fight the impulse to smile. It would be completely inappropriate, especially at a time like this, but Blaine is so entrancingly adorable no matter what that it's difficult sometimes. He takes a seat next to Blaine, tipping his head back and staring up at the ceiling, at the ominous black camera in the corner. He wonders what America will think when they see this.

Blaine being put on the block had been bad enough, but when Kurt hadn't been picked for the Veto competition and Rachel had won but had kept the nominations the same—though he supposes that he deserves it for shifting from Rachel and then being exposed and powerless after his new alliance had dissolved—it feels a million times worse. Kurt feels absolutely defeated, run-down, helplessly at the mercy of the rest of the house—which is exactly what they want.

Breaking him and Blaine up is a power move. Kurt's not an idiot, he knows that they're the couple to beat and that everyone lately, it seems, has been avoiding him and Blaine more and more. Conversations stop when he walks into the room. Shifty glances are thrown outside during his yoga routines when they think Kurt isn't looking. But just the thought of Blaine leaving, of him being alone, it makes Kurt feel sick.

"Blaine, honey, just talk to me," Kurt tries, placing a hand on Blaine's knee. He studies the slump of Blaine's shoulders, the loose lock of his fingers over his shins. He still can't get the look in Blaine's eyes when Rachel had chosen not to use the Power of Veto on anyone out of his head.

The reply, when it comes long minutes later, is muffled. "I'm going home."

Kurt's heart clenches painfully. It feels like there's a knife in there, digging and twisting. "No you're not."

Finally Blaine lifts his head. His cheeks are wet, but they're not red, and his eyes are surprisingly bright. He looks focused, determined, but, somehow, there is also the dark shadow of defeat looming the crevasses of his face, like the shadow of a threatening storm cloud. "Come on, Kurt. You're not stupid." He smiles weakly, painfully, like there's a hook in the corner of his mouth and it's being tugged up against his will. It's a show smile, bright and fake for the audience—the viewers—like stage makeup. "We both know that Tina is just a pawn. The real objective is to completely blindside me and get me out of here."

Hearing it from Blaine's mouth, real words said so bitterly, so bluntly, makes all of the pent-up rage held in little bubbles just under Kurt's skim begin to burst, rising hotter and hotter like lava towards the surface as they fill him with a carbonated rage. He clenches his hands into fists, sets his jaw, and he doesn't realize that he hasn't said anything until Blaine unfolds himself, sits upright and takes Kurt's hands, making little soothing noises as he gently pries the fingers apart.

"It's not right," Kurt says, jerky through his anger.

"It's a game," Blaine says simply. He looks up, catches Kurt's disbelieving stare, and chuckles, dropping his gaze again. His fingers clench briefly around Kurt's before he drops their hands altogether. He goes for his mic pack, adjusts the long black cord and re-clips the mic to his collar. "I guess you just…have to take it in stride."

"I don't want you to go."

It's childish, and as soon as Kurt says it he realizes how petulant it sounds; he also realizes how true it is. There had been a time, maybe, when Kurt had been okay with the fact that one of them would go eventually. They would have seen each other in the end, whether one of them was up there or not, and later there would have been the jury house if both of them got evicted. But now, so far into the game, just the idea of not seeing Blaine every day, of not waking up to him and drinking coffee with him and competing for their lives in this house with him…it hurts more than Kurt's initial NYADA rejection had. And it also scares him. It could throw off his game. It could cost him the half-million fortune.

It could…it could mean that this goes so, so much deeper than just a summer fling.

Blaine looks like he's going to say something, but then he stops, his mouth half-open before he closes it. He turns his head towards the wall, then to the camera, then to the stacks of luggage against the wall. A corner of the blanket hangs off of the row of seats. Blaine didn't button the top button of his shirt. Kurt's own mic digs uncomfortably into his lower back. It seems like time has stopped.

"I don't want to go."

It's soft like the waves upon a distant shore. Blaine lowers his head, drags his nails along his pant leg. Kurt could almost pretend that he didn't hear it, but he knows that he did. He knows that there is something, magnetizing and sparking, between them. It isn't hard to miss the sudden sharp hitch in Blaine's breath, that tiny little hiccup indicative of a sudden onslaught of tears.

"I—" Blaine sucks in a deep breath. He draws his lips into his mouth, wets them. The light plays off of the shimmering mirage of tears in Blaine's eyes and they glitter like crystals. "I don't want to leave you, Kurt. I really don't. It hurts just to think about."

"Then don't go." Kurt's voice cracks. His own vision is submerged in shimmering murky shapes. "Don't leave me."

It slips out, but Kurt, surprisingly, finds himself not regretting it, despite how impossible the request is—they can't control their own fates in this house. Sooner or later if it's not this week one of them will have to go.

Blaine begins to say something, a foreign crease dark between his thick brows, but then shakes his head. He takes Kurt's hands again, only this time he holds them, their fingers slotting together, Blaine's skim soft and warm against Kurt's. Blaine lifts his head up, meets Kurt's eyes and smiles broadly, genuinely, his cheeks stretching out and his eyes fanning little lines at the corner. He's so gorgeous, Kurt thinks in awe.

"Let's just make the most of what time we have, all right?"

Kurt scoots closer, the plastic seats unyielding against his thighs and knees as Blaine falls back, easy, looking up at Kurt like he's the most spectacular thing he's ever seen.

And Kurt kisses Blaine, desperate for just a little time, a small moment, where he can pretend that this isn't a house, that they aren't being filmed, that it's just them in Kurt's New York apartment, two new souls brought together, exploring places they've never visited.

Already, in the back of his mind, Kurt thinks, this will never be goodbye.

"Blaine, sweetie, the last thing I wanted to see was you walking out that door. Everyone loved you, but it was a power move that I completely understand even though it sucks. I would have done the same thing if it had been for someone else. Though, if you ask me, they were all just a little jealous."

Kurt stops, sucking in a breath. The diary room blurs around him, the dark shape of the camera fuzzing and distorting as he blinks away his tears, looks up and takes deep breaths to calm himself down. His heart is pounding, his hands are shaking. He doesn't want to be doing this, not for the second time—not for what might, and will be, the last time.

"I don't want you seeing this," he says, his voice rough like gritty rock salt. "I just—I hope to god you aren't seeing this, but I have a feeling that you are." He wipes his nose with the sleeve of his sweater in a manner very unlike him, manages another laugh and fruitless blank smile. "You're watching this right now and I'm stuck here with every single person who blindsided you just to break us up in the insane hopes that they'll shift the power in the house. Well, I have news for them: they just made one hell of an enemy in Kurt Hummel."

The smile he gives the camera this time is a little more real, more determined and steelier. They more than likely won't show any of this on the show, but Kurt takes comfort in knowing that it's still recorded, that it's still being seen by someone. He's ready to get blood on his hands, to make enemies and to show the house that, weeks of camaraderie or not, they're all in for a surprise after this eviction.

"And you know what? They can't touch us, or what we have. This stopped being just a showmance for me a long time ago, and I promise you, baby, that I'm gonna win this thing for us. I'll miss you."

For the first half of the day of the live vote, Kurt and Blaine don't get out of bed.

Most of the time is spent saying nothing. Under the covers their feet twine. They're naked, but Kurt doesn't care. He strokes his hand over Blaine's thick, soft hair, noses at the curve of Blaine's neck as his hand rubs over Blaine's chest, over warm skim and toned muscle.

His fingers trace patterns, words, I don't want this to end and please don't leave me now. Blaine doesn't know what they are, and Kurt finds a sense of comfort in that. It's like it's his own secret, his own invisible ink.

When they kiss, it's passionate, world-ending, never-ending. They get worked up and pant into each other's mouths. They touch; bring themselves together only to unravel and immediately fall apart.

The nape of Kurt's neck is sweaty from exertion when Blaine places his hot palm there. The covers slip down to Kurt's shoulders. When Kurt looks down, Blaine's eyes are glittering amber ovals.

"Let's just pretend this day is never going to end," Blaine says.

Kurt agrees.

"All of the votes are in. By a vote of four to one…Blaine, you will be leaving the Big Brother house tonight."

Kurt's ears ring funnily, tinny, like he's on the receiving end of a bad connection. The hand of Blaine's that he's been holding during the voting suddenly feels very faint, not-there like if Kurt squeezes too tightly it will just disappear.

He had known that this would happen, but it still hadn't prepared him for how it would feel. To have this ripped out from under him. He looks over at Blaine, sees a perfect show face, lips thinned into grim determination. Blaine nods his head, manages a little affirmative smile as he looks up at Julie on the screen, and stands up. Kurt's hand falls from his, and there's a terrifying, disoriented moment where Kurt doesn't really know what to do without that tether.

Then he picks himself up, puts himself back in order, and as Blaine is hugging people and shaking hands and waving off the "it's nothing personal" comments, Kurt stands up.

Blaine's bag is already in his hand, and he's halfway to the door. Something irrational rears up inside Kurt, roars with an earsplitting din: past that door is a different world, a world where their lives aren't run by cameras and producers and lies. It's a world outside of a singular house, where they're normal people free to live their lives however. Things are different. These people are different.

Kurt is one of the last people to hug Blaine, and he never wants to let go. He holds Blaine close, squeezes him tight. It hurts, letting him go, but he has to. Blaine's time in this house is over with, but Kurt's is still going strong, and he'd made a promise, both to himself and to Blaine.

A tear slides down Blaine's cheek as they part. Kurt feels the wetness of his own against his lashes, and he smiles, strokes a hand down Blaine's cheek before pulling him back in for another brief hug, his face pressed into the crook of Blaine's neck.

As he pulls away, he lets his lips brush over Blaine's ear, and he whispers, fierce and fiery, "I'm gonna win this thing for you, baby, I promise."

He slips Blaine a piece of paper, crumpled and folded small, and watches as Blaine slips it into his pocket without breaking eye contact.

Blaine nods, another tear glittering down his cheek, and he raises his chin, sniffs and laughs, watery, as he waves to everyone, says goodbye one last time. He opens the door, casts one last glance back at Kurt, and lets it fall closed.

The house falls silent in the way that it only does after an eviction. Everyone mourns—or doesn't mourn—the loss in their own way. Kurt thinks about crying tonight in his bed, thinks about planning new strategies. There are a myriad of possibilities, but they don't seem quite as desirable now that he'll be sleeping alone.

They all gather collectively at the display of pictures. The last place Kurt wants to be is here, but he knows that he has to. Tina stands next to him, along with Rachel, but Kurt doesn't speak to either of them. He's too afraid of what he might say if he does.

He has to be careful now that he's alone. He and Blaine are easily the biggest targets in the house, and with one down Kurt knows that the house won't stop until they've gotten rid of him, too.

He stares at Blaine's picture, at Blaine's easy, goofy smile, his too-gelled hair, his bright, crinkled whiskey eyes that gradually fade, fade, until the rest of his picture is bathed in black-and-white. Kurt's stomach twists, and a heavy ball settles in his throat. But he doesn't cry. He doesn't say a word.

He's the first to leave the display and no one says a word.