Warnings: Some language toward the end of the chapter. Mentions of past abuse, nothing graphis.

A/N: Sorry this took so long guys. I don't really have an excuse outside of life sometimes being busy and me sometimes being lazy and my beta having a life outside of my fics so sometimes things take a while. Anyway, here's your Klaine conversation, per request. Every review is appreciated, but don't feel obligated to say anything. Enjoy the fic guys.

The room was a cacophonous abstraction. The mention of regionals had polarized those within it into petty differences. Kurt, distracted by the frantic thrumming of his own heart, abstained from the argument. If Rachel noted his silence, she made no comment. Not to Kurt anyway. Toward the rest of the room, she prattled on in stubborn absolution- there was no way she would allow the New Directions to perform the same set list twice in a row. Not in a competition anyway. Santana, sitting across the room, preached the injustice of Rachel's tyranny, screaming angry threats in spanish. Slowly each side dragged the other toward a grudging solution: the Michael Jackson set would not be performed at regionals, so long as it could still be the weekly assignment. Rachel tried to argue- "We can't afford to waste time if we plan on winning, Mr. Schue!"- but in the end, even she had to consent.

Kurt could not care less. He had just sold his soul to chance, and he had done so willingly. And now, he wished more than anything that he could take it back. Kurt had never been one much for chance. He didn't like situations he could not control, and Blaine was a walking bowl of uncertainty. But he had made his decision. He had made a promise to himself- no more running, no more hiding. He was doing the right thing, he just knew it. Or, at least he thought so. Besides, it was just a cup of coffee, wasn't it? If things got uncomfortable or if Blaine didn't recognize him or if Blaine wasn't, well, Blaine, he could just call the whole thing initiation and be done with it. He did not need to commit to anything. It was just coffee.

All too quickly the room was alive, churning with students eager to end their school day or to begin working on their songs. Kurt sat back wondering where exactly the time had run off to. Time always moved too quickly when he needed to slow down. He sighed and bent down to retrieve his book bag from under his seat, but was stopped by Santana's voice.

"Wait a minute," she called out. The room quieted, if only slightly, at the sound.

"Would you give it a break, Santana, we're doing your stupid Micheal week, okay?" Rachel snapped, flipping her hair off her shoulder to cover it with her bag strap.

"Not that," Santana retorted, rolling her eyes. "I just realized that moptop over there hasn't had an audition."

Every eye turned to Blaine, who sat awkwardly under their sudden scrutiny.

"What does that matter? Everyone who auditions gets in anyway," Tina pointed out, a defensive lilt to her tone.

"Yeah, and besides, I've heard him sing," Finn pointed out, trying as he often did, to assert his leadership amongst the club.

"Oh so just because you two had a little moment in the showers, we're all supposed to accept him?" Santana held up her hands, cutting Finn off before he could protest. "Look, all I'm saying is that the rest of us had to audition to get in here. If Blaine wants to be one of us, he should do the same." She shrugged.

"As loathe as I am to agree with anything Santana says," Rachel began loftily. "She has a point. I mean, how else are we going to know what Blaine sounds like or where he fits in the choir?"

"It's stupid to have the auditions now," Sam spoke up finally. "He's already been here for two days. Usually auditions happen before you join."

Up to this point, Kurt had said nothing. He was content to watch Blaine with poorly concealed interest. Blaine had sat quietly by, allowing the room around him to discuss his fate as though he weren't in the room at all. It was a troubling contradiction, to see him sitting there poised with eerily perfect posture as the room around him discussed him so objectively. Something about the way he just sat there sparked something in Kurt.

"Why don't we just wait for him to perform Micheal like the rest of us on Friday and use that as the audition? Would that satisfy you, Santana?" Kurt suggested. His voice sounded sharp and defensive, even to his own ears. The bite in his tone surprised him. He hadn't meant to speak at all, not really. The words seemed to spill from his mouth of their own accord. His mind performed backflips, trying to justify his own bitterness. Blaine was staring at him strangely. He told himself that it was simply his nature- that Kurt Hummel simply could not sit idly by while another person was discussed like an object. But he knew it was more than that. The problem wasn't that the glee club was being insensitive, but rather that they were being so towards Blaine. Kurt swallowed hard and fixed his gaze determinedly on Mr. Schue, both to add weight to his suggestion and to keep his eyes from traveling towards Blaine. This was going to be harder than he had thought.

"That- that sounds fine to me," Mr. Schuester agreed, both taken aback by Kurt's sudden animosity and relieved to have a realistic solution. "Blaine will prepare a Michael song like everyone else, and that'll be that."

Blaine hustled along with everyone out of the glee room. There was such a rush for the door that he found himself being jostled and thrown by the waves of bodies. It was too close for him; there were too many people pressed up against his flesh, and he had never been one for contact. He fell back and allowed the flow of bodies to stream past him and out the door.

He pulled the note from his back pocket, but did not unfold it. He simply stared at the small white square, rolling it over in hands, running his fingers over the edges. This was thirty-seven shades of bad idea, he told himself as he began stepping toward the now empty doorway. This note could be a lot of things, it could mean a lot of things, but none of them were good- that was the only fact Blaine found himself sure of.

"You gonna go?" Blaine jumped, his head snapping up to meet Sam's eyes. He hadn't noticed Sam waiting for him just outside the doorway. Blaine scolded himself mentally for his distracted nature, but composed himself quickly and continued his walk down the hallway.

"Go where?" He asked as Sam fell into step beside him. Sam nodded towards the note Blaine still clutched in his hand.

"I sort of read it over your shoulder," he shrugged. "You gonna go?"

Blaine sighed, too anxious to be upset over Sam's nosiness.

"I don't know." He stuffed the note back into his back pocket.

"Well," Sam said, "All I can say is that anyone you look at the way you were looking at Kurt is worth some coffee, don't you think?"

"The way I was-" Blaine started, confusion coloring his face. Sam held up his hands.

"Hey, hey," he interrupted. "I don't judge. I could care less who you like to have your coffee with, I'm just saying...get some coffee, should you." His voice changed strangely at the last phrase, taking on an almost nasally quality.

"Was that Yoda?" Blaine asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Okay, not my best, but roll with me here, okay?" Blaine scoffed mildly. Sam grinned. "Just- you should go. I think you'd be good for him." Then he punched Blaine's arm lightly, jokingly, and hurried down the hallway. Blaine stood for a moment, staring after him.

This is one strange, strange school, he thought to himself, shaking his head. What had Sam meant anyway? Did he know Blaine was gay? Was Blaine really that obvious? He had always been such a good actor, so capable of hiding who he was. But he wasn't hiding that anymore, he reminded himself. Out and proud, for the Townings. So it didn't matter what Sam thought or what Sam saw. Blaine had bigger secrets to worry about.

At least Sam refrained from dealing out a beating or anything like that. Better yet, he seemed okay with it. And he thought Blaine would be good for Kurt. Did that mean that Kurt was gay, too? Well, that explained the flamboyance of Kurt's outfit. It also added far more unnecessary confusion to Blaine's situation. The note hung with heavier questions in his pocket, burning against his skin.

Blaine knew better than to go. It was a terrible idea. Yet as he weighed the alternatives in his mind, the warning flares seemed to dim a little. The way Blaine saw it, he had two options. He could go back to the Dodson's, or he could go to the coffee shop. Going "home" meant danger. He would have to make it through the front door and up the stairway to his bedroom without being seen and risking his foster father's temper. Getting caught could mean anything. Blaine had no idea yet what this new man was capable of, what he would do should Blaine find him with enough alcohol in his system. Blaine rejected that idea instantaneously.

Of course Blaine could simply wander aimlessly around the city, but then he risked being seen by a member of the glee club. There was no doubt in Blaine's mind that Sam had eagerly spilled the whole situation to each of his friends. Being spied simply walking around town would lead to questions or resentment, and that was the last thing Blaine needed.

Which left the Lima Bean with Kurt. Kurt who smiled so distantly, and yet held the chance of being far too close. He could know so much, too much. And knowledge like that led to questions, the kind Blaine could never begin to answer.

He swallowed hard. He needed to get this over with, so theLima Bean it was. It was just coffee. Blaine could last through coffee. He could do this.

With his nerve steeled, Blaine squared his shoulders and continued his walk towards the double door exit of the school. Lockers and doorways passed him on either side. Blaine could never remember the hall being so long, but he kept his eyes trained on the door. He tried not to think.

Kurt pulled into the Lima Bean parking lot exactly seven minutes late. Normally a stickler for timing, Kurt was, for the first time in his life, terrified of seeming over eager. He turned off the engine before resting both his hands on the steering wheel. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, trying to compose himself, to find some untapped center of strength to pull him out of the car. He could do this. He was going to do this.

After a moment's hesitation, Kurt pulled the key from the ignition and pushed open his car door, stepping lightly down from the driver's seat. He could do this. He closed the car door behind him, clicking the lock button on his key once before stuffing it unceremoniously into his pocket. He could do this. The walk from his car to the glass doors of the Lima Bean seemed to take both forever and no time at all. He could not imagine time moving any slower, and yet as he reached the doorway, he found himself wishing time had stopped altogether. His heart was beating with unmeasurable speed, and for a moment he wondered if he might die then and there from some sort of stress-induced heart attack. A part of him wished he would; this whole ordeal would be far easier if he were dead. No. He could do this. Kurt pulled the glass doors open and stepped inside.

Walking into the coffee shop, Kurt was almost surprised to find it exactly the same as he had last seen it. Some part of him had expected some strange, drastic change to have occurred. It was an unwelcome awakening to realize that, while his life was doing backflips, the rest of the world had continued as it always had. Nothing had so much as shifted despite all the shaking Kurt's world had undergone, and he felt himself feeling foolishly, childishly offended.

Then Kurt caught sight of him, and for a moment his vision cracked. He looked so wrong there, an estranged figure silhouetted against such a familiar background. He sat alone at at a small table, an empty chair occupying the space opposite him. His perfectly erect posture was interrupted only at his neck, which bent slightly. His eyes were fixed on the coffee mug before him, not even a twitch of movement disturbing his waters. He was so still, always still, as though he were trying be make himself invisible, to convince those around him he were nothing more than furniture. Kurt wondered for a moment if he could breathe in all that stillness or if, perhaps, he was drowning.

Kurt could not remember making the conscious decision to walk over toward Blaine, but suddenly there he was. He cleared his throat. Blaine jumped slightly, something Kurt pretended not to notice as Blaine scrambled to his feet, a polite smile transforming his features. Kurt matched the expression, hoping Blaine could not hear the clamorous beating of his heart.

"Hey." Kurt somehow managed to force the word past his lips. It hung between them, thickening the air with a tension Kurt could have cut with a knife. He cleared his throat.

"Should we sit?" Blaine offered, gesturing toward the table and its currently vacant seats.

"Oh. Sure," Kurt agreed, grateful for some way to move the moment forward. He took his seat quickly, stumbling slightly in his haste. He sat perched on the edge of his chair, the tension coiling him like a spring. Blaine lowered himself with more control, settling into the very back of his chair, leaving the maximum distance between himself and Kurt. His coffee sat in the middle of the table, a barrier between them. Blaine caught Kurt noticing it and cleared his throat awkwardly, pulling the mug toward himself.

"I-I hope you don't mind that I ordered without you," he offered quickly.

"Oh, no, no, that's fine," Kurt cut in, his hands flying out in a dismissive wave.

"It's just, you weren't here, and I didn't know what you would want," Blaine trailed off.

"Oh, yeah, of course. It's my fault for being late," he confirmed. "It's fine, really."

Blaine nodded, his responding smile just as unsure as Kurt's own, and silence again overtook the air. Blaine's thumbs drummed against his mug. Kurt wiped the sweat off his palms onto his jeans and wished he had worn something made of a more absorbent material.

"Do you want me to get you something?" Blaine asked suddenly, gesturing with one hand toward the growing line at the register. "I can go order something if you like."

"No, no that's alright." Blaine nodded and after a beat, his attention fell back to his thumbs which resumed their rhythm against the side of the white porcelain mug. Kurt took a deep breath.

"So you're probably wondering-"

"How long have you been in the-"

The two boys began at once, their words becoming muddled with one another, indistinct. Kurt laughed awkwardly, Blaine forced a smile.

"You go first," Kurt offered politely.

"No, no, it's not important, go right ahead." Blaine made a gesture as though he were giving Kurt the floor. Kurt managed an embarrassed laugh, and fearing the silence which threatened to overtake the air once more, opted to speak.

"I was just going to say that, uh, you're probably wondering why, well, why I asked you to come and meet me today," Kurt began. He wished he had taken Blaine up on the offer for coffee. A nice warm nonfat mocha would have given him some place to direct his focus as he spoke. Instead he settled for studying his hands, which he had folded atop his crossed knees. Blaine remained silent. Kurt looked up for a moment, to find Blaine staring intently at the contents of his mug as though it were suddenly the most interesting thing he had ever encountered. Kurt cleared his throat, which seemed to be getting drier by the second, and continued.

"Well, I guess, I uhm," Kurt stuttered. He was usually so articulate. Kurt Hummel always knew what to say. On even his worst days, he could give Santana a run for her money. But he had never been in a situation like this, where his heart settled so heavily in his throat that he thought it might suffocate him. He swallowed hard. "I guess I was wondering...if...you..." he laughed once, trying, and failing, to remove some of the tension in the air. "If you, ah, remember...me."

"What?" Blaine's neck almost broke, his head snapped up so quickly. His voice sounded sharper than he had intended, the word flying from his lips like an arrow, or perhaps a shield. Kurt's question had shattered the tension of the moment into something akin to hope. Hope was a dangerous emotion, and Baine instinctually struggled to repress the feeling the only way he knew how. "Remember you?"

"Uhm, yeah?" Kurt responded, looking physically defeated. Blaine struggled to find the words to respond. The answer was simple. Of course Blaine remembered him. But what was he supposed to say? Oh, why yes, I remember you. We got the shit beaten out of us on a daily basis by an angry alcoholic deadbeat for about a year and a half after your parents died in some tragic car accident, and then you left me in that house- alone. How's life?

The thought of bringing it up at all, of admitting out loud any piece of his past sickened him. It made him physically ill. And yet something about the way Kurt kept shooting him nervous glances, the haunch of his shoulders, ignited something in Blaine. He did not want to admit too much, and yet at the same time he could not bring himself to disappoint Kurt.

"I'm not sure," Blaine answered noncommittally. It was a lie, but it was the closest semblance of truth he could muster. "Remember you from where?"

Everything would be easier if Blaine could simply get Kurt to make the admission first. It would take the guessing out of the game and Blaine would know his standing once again. There was no sure footing for him here, not unless Kurt set the foundation.

Something flashed across Kurt's face. The emotion was familiar to Blaine, but the name escaped him. It was gone as quickly as it had come. He rubbed his palms on his pants and dragged himself into a more dignified position.

"Well I guess that's that then," Kurt said, the pleasantry in his voice sounding false. He refused to meet Blaine's eyes, and in the falter in his smile, Blaine found the word. Disappointment. Kurt was disappointed. What could he possibly be disappointed about? Certainly not Blaine's answer. Blaine had risked enough giving away even that much of himself, what more could Kurt want? Kurt had managed to escape the hold of the system, to find a loving family, to make friends and build a life. He had no right to be disappointed that someone he knew eleven years ago may have forgotten his face. He had no reason to hope for remembrance. Kurt had gotten out, what right did he have to hope for more?

Suddenly Blaine was irrationally, inexplicably furious. Kurt had no reason to be forcing smiles at him from across an almost empty coffee table. There was no cause for Kurt to look so defeated. What had he been hoping for? What had he expected? Tears? Some heartwarming reunion straight out of a Nicholas Sparks film? Blaine was certain Kurt knew about his life. He understood how quickly news traveled in towns like Lima. There was no way Kurt could be ignorant to Blaine's situation- that he was still trapped in the system, just as lost and alone and pathetic as ever. He had no right to be sitting across from Blaine, knowing what he undoubtedly knew, looking so wholly deflated.

"What's what then?" Blaine asked, proud of how controlled his tone was. Blaine could be a slave to his fear, to his panic, to his own undying self doubt. But Blaine was the master of his anger. He could be polite and civil and calm, take whatever was coming to him with a smile on his face. His rage could wait until he was in front of a punching bag.

"I came here to find out if you remembered me. You obviously don't, so that's that." Kurt was not as practiced in the art of masked emotions, and his own hurt bled through his words. The pain in his tone only worked to feed Blaine's fire. Suddenly Blaine did not want out. He wanted to hear Kurt say exactly how and where and why they had met.

"I never said that," Blaine answered, letting a soft touch of confusion color his words. "I just asked where you thought you knew me from." I want to hear you fucking say it, he thought. For a the first time since he had left the Towning's, Blaine did not want to run or to hide. He wanted to take the mess of his life and shove it down Kurt's throat, simply because Kurt got the chance Blaine never did. Because Kurt got out. Because he left Blaine behind. Blaine wanted Kurt to feel it.

Kurt worried his bottom lip between his teeth, as though he might find the right words somewhere in the texture of his skin.

"You and I," he started, then paused, his eyes flicking down to his fidgeting hands, not sure how to continue. He tried again. "Look, I know you're-" He cut off once more with a deep breath.

"I was a foster kid, too, once, and I don't know if you remember me or not, but we shared a home for about a year when I first went into the system and it was," he paused, took a deep breath, then laughed once, mirthlessly, "Well, to be honest, it was the worst year of my life." Blaine did not respond. He did not move, did not breathe. He was unsure whether he could, even if he wanted to.

"If you don't remember it, that's okay. In fact, it's probably for the best, but I think you do." Kurt nodded once, his face setting into a sort of resolve that made Blaine nervous. "I think you remember, somewhere, and I just- I just realized how much of that you...got me through," Kurt's eyes glanced up, and Blaine struggled to keep his expression neutral.

"In any case, I suppose I just wanted to, well, thank you. For everything," Kurt spoke the last few lines quickly, as though the words might burn him should he hold them on his tongue too long. He laughed, a shaky apprehensive sound, and Blaine noticed the way Kurt's hand trembled as it moved to straighten his collar.

"I'm usually much more articulate than this," he explained, looking at Blaine as though he was waiting for him to speak. Blaine remained silent, he could not find any words. Kurt rubbed the back of his neck.

"You know, I spent a lot of time rehearsing that speech, I could use a little feedback," Kurt joked lamely. Blaine kept his eyes on his coffee, his jaw clenching painfully. He concentrated on relaxing the muscles there.

"Was my delivery off? I've never been good with punchlines. I hear it's all in the timing," Kurt tried once more. When Blaine made no motion to speak, Kurt took a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice was low and soft. There was a tinge of desperation lining each syllable. "Look, I suppose you don't have to say anything if you don't want to, but I just- I need to know."

Kurt remembered everything. Kurt remembered Blaine, he remembered the house they grew up in. He remembered Blaine. That was everything Blaine had ever hoped for. He had stayed up more nights than he would ever admit, even to himself, curled up against his own insomnia, playing this scene over and over in his mind- this recognition. And yet, Blaine had never imagined it would feel like this. He had pictured some sort of comfort, but he felt none of that now. All he could feel at that moment was shame. He wanted to bury his head in his arms and cry; his guilt threatened to drown him. Because Kurt had gotten out. He had managed to get everything Blaine had ever wanted for either of them, and Blaine had dragged him back down. Blaine would have sold his soul an hundred times over for a chance to forget his past, and yet he had forced Kurt to remember. So the way Blaine saw it, he now owed Kurt exactly what he had stolen.

"I remember," he said simply, his voice barely above a whisper. Kurt looked up at him, shock rearranging his features into some sculpture of hope. Then he nodded, and the smallest hint of a smile laced the edges of his eyes. He settled back into his seat, but his eyes never left Blaine's. He seemed to be waiting for Blaine to say something more, or else, perhaps, to get up and bolt out of that room. Blaine wanted nothing more than to do just that. But he owed Kurt now, for dragging him back into this world. The least Blaine could do was stay.

"You know," Kurt said after a moment's silence, when Blaine had made no motion to leave. "I think I'm going to get that coffee."