I guess it's one of those nights, guys.

He's not like the others. He's harsh. He's got rough edges, a lot of rough edges. He's cruel. The words used to cut people down; the words used to build up walls. Walls and walls and walls. Protection – layers of it. He's impolite and inconsiderate. He's too much confidence and too much ego. And that's what they all see.

All they see is the anger.

What they don't see are the late nights. The stumbling home, tired and hungry, when the moon is already gone and the New York City streets are halfway silent. They don't see the bone-breaking exhaustion as he tries not to make noise, tries not to disturb the other boy (asleep on the couch, waiting for him). They don't see the way the boy's eyes flutter open anyway and he rushes over, helping him sit. They don't see the affection in the other boy's eyes as he returns with food, only to find him passed out in the chair.

It's in those moments that the walls come down.

They come down when he's on the phone, the older man's voice yelling at him (words like 'useless', 'worthless', 'nothing'). They come down as he pulls his hair out, trying to find the places semicolons belong – not periods. They completely crumble as he finds his way to the bed and falls into the waiting arms there. That's what they don't see.

Instead, they see the banter. They see the insults and jabs. They see biting remarks and snaps. They can't quite detect the sparkle of amusement in the boys' eyes. They see the pushing; pushing to succeed; pushing to perfection. Always pushing too far, too much, too hard.

But that's what it is. Their relationship.

It's pushing each other out of their comfort zones. It's pushing them into the unknown, pushing them toward the things they hate. For him, it's the feelings; it's letting his walls down and letting someone in. For the other boy, it's the passion; it's the slow build up of frustration until he explodes. That's what they all see: too much, too far.

What they don't see are the smiles over coffee. They don't see the way his finger tips brush the other boy's pale neck with no intent but simple contact. They don't hear the tone of their voices as they exchange secrets in the dark. They can't understand the shaking balance that both boys label 'perfection'.

They only see Kurt and Sebastian.

It's KurtandSebastian that they never see.

A/N: I've got two stories in the making and I'm slowly but surely cranking out another one shot. This is a little something I threw off the cuff to tide you over. Bare with me.