The door swung open and Blaine stumbled in, feeling for the light switch on the wall. He'd been talked into staying at the bar with the rest of the band until closing.

Once Vince returned, Blaine and Robert started back on their snarky attitudes towards him. Blaine just needed someone to pick on since their performance hadn't gone so well.

“Remember when you tried to resurrect the dead in high school?” The buzz from the alcohol came on quick.

“Come on. Are you guys going to hound me about that forever?” Vince had whined.

“Sure as shit we are.” Blaine had snickered. “Remember when you tried to contact Jim Morisson?”

“It almost worked too,” Vince had said with a sneer. “Until you fuckers ruined it.”

Everyone, even Katlinne joined in on poking at Vince until Vanessa approached with a pleasant look and explained that she would call the next week. It was almost a sure deal, depending on what Tommy had to say. According to the look on the manager's face before Blaine left the bar, he was quite pleased with their performance.

As he stumbled inside, Blaine couldn't count on his fingers how many bottles he’d tipped, mainly because he didn't give a damn to keep count. All he knew was that crashing in bed sounded like a damn good option.

Blaine meandered into the living room. In the corner of his eye, he spotted the granite angel stuck between the wall and the television, right where he instructed the mover to put it. The angel's blank eyes stared at the opposite wall above the couch, it's fully carved wings wrapped around its sides.

For a moment, Blaine could swear its white feathers were curling. A ruffle seemed to echo through the room, but he blinked and realized it was probably just because he was tired. He staggered closer to the statue and peered up at its shape.

Still beautiful. Magical. Almost realistic, and, yet, completely unreal. If the angel was gentle, and alive, it would fold its wings around Blaine and bless his cursed bad luck away. That would be a miracle.

As Blaine stood, he couldn't believe the detail Augustus had put into the statue. Every muscle crease was carved meticulously into the heavy slab of granite. It could have been something in a museum, behind a glass case for everyone to gaze at from afar. Instead, it was in his living room. The only piece of art Augustus finished. Granted to Blaine in his will, of all things. Why him?

The desire to impress everyone who came in dawned on him. Come on, check out the awesome angel statue—he'd wave people down from the street if he needed to.

The alcohol running rampant in Blaine's blood began to make him woozy. The statue's intricate face began to blur. Its marbled features swirled and blended. A wing, an arm, carved feathers: all began to fall.

Blaine's eyelids drooped. His knees grew weak. He knew he shouldn't have drank so much. He braced himself against the front of the statue, trying to keep himself upright. With his eyes closed, he focused on every amount of strength he had left on preventing his legs from giving out from underneath him.

The smooth granite texture warmed under his touch. His fingers slid against the front base, lingering on a strange rough patch.

“Set me free,” a humming sound, like the wind, swept through his mind.

Blaine's legs dropped from underneath him just as he opened his eyes to the unusual patch on the front of the statue. He thumbed over the dusty spot, then crumbled to the floor before he could make anything out of it.

***

Ring, ring.

A brilliant late afternoon sun blazed through the window, shining down on Blaine as he laid on his stomach stretched out across the floor.

Ring, ring.

The telephone buzzed. He could swear it was louder than it had been before.

Blaine curled his fingers against the plush carpet underneath him. How did he end up on the floor? A breath came deep from his lungs, followed by a hack, and the bitter taste of booze burning at the back of his throat.

Ring, ring.

“Fuck,” he spouted to himself, unable and unready to stand on his own wobbly legs.

When he opened his tired eyes, the blinding light burned and he had to shut them tight again. He kicked his legs out, hitting the front of the statue.

“Shit!” he spouted to the pain shooting through his foot.

A moment passed and he debated on standing up to answer the phone, or letting the voice mail grab it. With the fourth buzz, he heaved himself up on hands and knees and turned towards the statue.

It took a massive amount of energy to pull himself up, using the statue for support as he tried to stand. The amount of stamina he didn't think he had until he was clenching on to the granite for dear life. A tremble ran through his legs and he felt the alcohol burn at the back of his throat, again. If he tried to move, he'd probably fall back on to the floor.

He straightened his spine and opened his eyes. Surely, he didn't want to throw up on the precious carving. But why was he so driven to protect the damn thing? Was it the money it was worth? He hadn't even had the chance to get it appraised, yet.

Knowing him, he would ruin it one day. He'd come home piss ass drunk and crash right into it, no matter where it was placed in his house. It would be better if he had sold it to a museum, then he could be assured it was safe and out of harm's way.

The statue’s face seemingly stared down at him. Wait, that wasn't right. He blinked, and the angel was now in its rightful stance, dull, lifeless eyes narrowing in at the wall above the couch.

That is getting a little creepy, Blaine grinned nervously as he let go of the statue and stumbled back. He bumped the edge of the coffee table, and found himself tumbling back on his ass against the polished wood.

Ring, ring.

“Shut it,” he hollered, thumbing his temples.

Ring, ring.

He reached over the table and picked up his cell phone. “What?”

“Well, fuck you too,” Katlinne answered him.

“Shit. I'm sorry. I just... woke up...” Blaine's voice faltered as his stomach tightened. He either needed to eat or run to the bathroom, the latter sounding like a better option.

“Feel like shit, do ya?”

He nodded, cleared his throat, and answered, “Yeah.”

“How about some better news?”

Anything was better than knowing your stomach was flipping over itself. “What?”

“You remember last night when you mentioned you wanted that specialty light for the front of the statue?”

Blaine flicked his eyes to the statue in front of him. “Yeah?” Not really.

“Well, I found one down at the hardware store. It was only twenty bucks.”

“It's for home use?”

“Yeah, well...” There was plastic rustling in the background. “Says ‘Lighten up your garden or home with this powerful fluorescent light from—‘”

“All right. Sounds good,” Blaine interrupted.

“So can I come over and help you install it? I haven't seen this thing, yet. I'd like to have a look.”

“Ugh.” He curled over himself, clenching around his stomach. “Yeah, gimme about an hour or so—“

“You sound really bad, hun.”

The phone slipped from Blaine's hand and landed on his knees as the pain grew worse.

“I'll be...” He choked. “... fine. See you in a... bit.”

He stood in a hurry, the phone landing on the floor with a thunk. Nothing sounded so much better than a trip to the restroom at that moment.

***

An hour later, Blaine had wrapped himself in a blanket and curled up on the couch. He'd been trapped inside the restroom, unable to move after last night's alcohol came up. Awaking to the foul odor of bile, and his head propped up on the side of the toilet, wasn't exactly how he'd thought he'd spend his day.

He couldn't do a damn thing for the rest of the evening but lay on the couch and watch old reruns. Maybe later, he would try to steady himself enough to fix himself a small dinner.

Buzz, the doorbell rang and he remembered that Katlinne had promised to come over with the spotlight.

“Come in,” he hollered.

The door opened and Katlinne stepped around the corner with a plastic bag in her hand. She took one look at Blaine, bundled up and probably as pale as a ghost, and dropped the bag on the floor.

“Jesus, are you okay?” She darted to the couch.

“Too much, Katy. Way too much booze last night.”

“I guess.” She felt his forehead, his skin burned under her palm. “God you have a fever, Blaine.”

“I feel like shit,” his voice wavered.

“You need to take something for it.” Katlinne turned, maybe to seek out some relief in the kitchen, before her eyes caught sight of the statue in the corner of the room. “Is that...?” She approached the large decoration instead.

“Yep. That's Augustus's work. I think he ended up calling it The Angel in the Dark, or something lame like that.” Blaine attempted to sit up, curling the blanket around his torso.

“Jesus, it's huge. Doesn't it belong outside or in a museum? I wonder how much money it’s worth.”

Blaine remembered his decision to sell it. He knew he couldn't afford such a precious piece of work, but something made him shiver as he thought of the movers taking it away. He wouldn't be able to see it go.

“What? It's not like it's a kid or a dog. Besides, I'm planning on getting an appraiser here next week.” Blaine shrugged, the advice made to himself rather than his band mate.

“But you'll have to keep it clean, and I don't think it works well in this corner. I mean, it's just crammed in here—“

“It's fine. I'll reposition it when I can figure out a better place to put it,” Blaine insisted.

Katlinne turned and retrieved the plastic shopping bag from the floor. “Whatever you say. Anyway.” She pulled out the green box with a picture of a lamp from the bag. “I bought that spotlight. Were you thinking of drilling a hole into the floor, or maybe bolting it into the wall?”

“Haha, very funny. No, I asked the landlord if I could bolt it into the ceiling.”

“They let you do that?”

“For an extra fee tacked on to your rent, yes.” Blaine stood, his legs stronger than earlier, and walked around the coffee table to the statue where Katlinne stood. “Problem is that it will be a part of the building when I move. I can't take it with me.”

“Assholes.”

“It's their rules, Katy.” He pointed up at the ceiling, about a foot away from the sculpture. “I want to put it right there.”

“Do you have an electrician coming in?”

Blaine shook his head. “I'm going to do it myself.”

Katlinne backhanded him in the shoulder. “You're an idiot. You don't know anything about wiring.”

“I know some.”

“Yeah, some. What, from splicing speaker wires?”

“I'll have you know that I was really good at electronics in high school.” Blaine crossed his arms.

“Oh, yeah, I remember that.” Katlinne rolled her eyes. “After you put that lamp together, the wires started a blaze in the shop.”

“Okay, so I had a few screw ups.” Blaine shrugged. “But I'm still gonna do this. It's the perfect job today.”

“Oh, hell no, Blaine, not with that fever,” Katlinne commanded, coaxing her friend back to the couch. “You're sick. You need to rest and let a skilled electrician do it.”

Blaine stumbled back to the couch. “You're too worried, Katy. It can't be any harder than hooking up that ceiling fan for your pops.”

“Yeah, but you weren't hung over then, either.” Katlinne reminded him. “And besides, dad had to rewire the entire thing after that, remember? Just face it, Blaine, you are bad at that kind of stuff.” She set the light box on the coffee table and meandered into the kitchen.

Blaine leaned back against the couch and eyed the statue again. No, he would keep the elegant trophy just as Augustus wanted. He would hook up the light fixture as soon as Katlinne left, well, as soon as he felt able to anyway. The light would shine down upon the sculpture's face and torso, brightening every detail so he, and everyone who came to visit, could stare in amazement at the artist's creation. He owed that much to his father's best friend.

“So, where is the Tylenol?” Katlinne asked from the kitchen, shuffling through a cabinet.

Blaine sighed and motioned to the bathroom. “In the medicine cabinet.”

Oh, Katy would certainly kill him if he attempted to mess with the electrical wiring in his condition. He'd better make sure the fever had broken before he tried to electrocute himself.