Thank you for all your lovely comments on the last chapter. I tried to get this one up sooner, and so hopefully I'll be able to update more regularly from now on! They'll probably be a few more chapters after this. Enjoy!

Blaine's sleeping when Kurt calls. It's like he knows. It's like somehow he can tell that something is wrong. So he's resigned, in a way, when he answers the phone. He's ready for what he knows Kurt's going to say.

"Hey." He can tell how quiet his voice is. It feels right, though, what with Kurt being so far away and the view from his window—snow melting around trees and benches, people in their coats and scarves, him up in his room, the heater on, the sound of Wes in the bathroom.

"Hey."

He tries to picture Kurt, the little apartment that they shared for those few days together. He tries to picture how Kurt must look—pretty pale skin, lips the color of strawberry popsicles in the summertime.

"So…" Kurt's voice trails off after the one word, leaving it as though it's all that needs to be said. The gap hangs there for a moment.

"How've you been?" Blaine almost feels guilty. It's been nearly a week since they talked properly. They'd texted back and forth for a while; usually, Kurt would offer to call and usually, Blaine would tell him not to.

"Good."

Blaine could hear Kurt exhale, as if he was about to say something but stopped himself. Blaine waited.

"Yeah, I've been—no, actually, things have been…listen, Blaine, I guess that's why I'm calling. You've…been avoiding me?" It comes out like a question and Blaine can almost hear the wince in Kurt's voice.

"I haven't…things have just been really busy."

"Right."

Blaine breathes, in, out, in. He counts to three.

"Are you angry with me?" Kurt asks.

"I'm not, I promise." Blaine says it a little too quickly, but he needs Kurt to know that he's not angry. He needs Kurt to know that he's not upset. He needs Kurt to know that he's all right. Really, truly, he's all right.

"Blaine, listen…I love you, I really, really do."

That's when Blaine's heart starts to sink. It's a little shift with those words and a little more with the ones to follow.

"You're my best friend. I care about you so, so much."

There's a pause and Blaine wonders if Kurt can hear how heavily he's breathing.

"But I can't do this, okay? I can't just wait here and hope that maybe you'll pick up your phone, that maybe I'll know what's going on with you. I can't just sit here and worry about you. And you, you can't just choose to call me when you feel like it and ignore me when you don't. It's not fair, Blaine."

Blaine swallows and nods into the receiver.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he says.

Kurt breathes hard into the phone.

"I know," he says.

They're quiet for a moment. Blaine can hear Wes turning off the water in the shower. He's waiting for Kurt to say it because there's no way in hell that he can.

"I think…" he can tell Kurt's trying to chose his words. "I think that maybe we should just be friends."

Blaine can feel the rest of his heart give way, sliding from where it should be and falling somewhere deep inside him, somewhere where it's beat gets lost amongst the feeling of his breath, rapid though his lungs, and the blood rushing through his veins, cheeks turning hot and red, tears falling down to cool them.

"Okay," he says after a while. "If that's what you want."

There's a pause.

After a moment he hears something shift, as if Kurt's cheek is rubbing against the receiver.

"It's what I want."

"All right, then."

"Friends though, right?" He can hear the desperateness in Kurt's voice.

He thinks about it for a moment. He wants to say yes, but something inside of him begins to suck him down. It's one part anger—at Kurt for doing this to him and not understanding and calling it off when all Blaine wants Kurt to do is come rescue him. But it's also one part sadness because the best thing he's ever had is slipping away and it hurts so bad that it's almost tangible.

"I don't know, Kurt, maybe."

"I…I'll talk to you soon, then?" Kurt's voice sounds thick and for a fleeting moment, Blaine wonders what Kurt must be feeling.

"Yeah, we'll talk soon," he says softly.

There's a second's pause.

"Take care," Kurt's voice is gentle. Then the line goes dead.

When Wes comes out, Blaine's still sitting there, holding the phone in his lap and staring out the window. He starts to wonder why.

The last time he'd done it, it'd been too messy. It makes him sick to think about, actually. This time, he'd need to be neater. It wasn't fair to Wes to have to find him like that. This time, he'd been more thoughtful.

The drugstore across campus is open twenty-four hours a day. He buys a bottle of Advil, turning it over in his hands as he walks through the florescent-lit aisles. He remembers being little. He remembers getting sick and having his mom break apart capsules, giving him half of one along with a glass of juice and a bowl of soup.

That makes him stop for a moment—his mom, his dad, their faces. They love him, they do. He knows that. He starts to put the bottle back.

This isn't about them, though. All his life he's thought about them, what they want, what they expect. This is about him and what he needs. He needs Kurt to come back to him. He needs to feel better. He needs to stop hurting so much.

He takes the bottle back and buys it before he can second-guess himself again. It's still pretty early. Wes is probably still awake. Blaine tries to think of somewhere nice, somewhere he'd be happy to die. The park has always been a beautiful place, lovely in the springtime, enchanting in the winter. But he doesn't want to alarm an innocent passerby who'd happen to find him. No, that wouldn't do. He also needs somewhere where he won't be found for a while.

He's walking back when he sees it—a church open all hours of the day.

There are beautiful stain glass windows. The organ in the back looks old and timely. He can picture the generations and generations of people all seated along the pews—elegant ladies from the twenties, soldiers from the forties, little boys from the sixties. It's truly a wonderful place to take in.

He finds a closet. It smells a little musty but he likes it. Sitting there he can imagine something more than himself, something more than him and his problems.

He closes his eyes and pictures Kurt behind his eyelids.

So pretty, he thinks. He realizes that he hasn't brought anything to drink. He can't even do this right, he thinks to himself.

Slowly, he empties the bottle into his hand. The dim light makes them look like glittering red sand cupped in his palm.

He thinks of his family.

He thinks of the future he won't have.

He thinks of all the things he'll miss.

He thinks of the way Kurt said, "I think that maybe we should just be friends."

He opens his mouth, tilts back his head, and raises his palm to his lips.

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