It was a day afterward that Kurt mentioned how he spent Father's Day every year. They were all sitting around the kitchen table at the Hummelberry apartment eating something Rachel had cooked for dinner (none of them could identify it and they were all too awkward about it to ask - Blaine elbowed Santana and shook his head every time she started to, knowing it would upset the brunette) that wasn't altogether too bad, when Rachel said pleasantly, "So, what are you all doing for your fathers for Father's Day?"

They all looked at Blaine, Rachel with sudden realization that he couldn't really do anything, the other two with concern for how he'd react. Blaine just smiled and shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I'll help Kurt get a present for Burt. He's the best dad I've got."

"Oh, I don't get my dad a present for Father's Day," Kurt explained immediately, and the focus was - thankfully - averted to him. "My dad always said the best thing I could get him was something we could do together that was what we'd do normally if we had the chance. Like go out to dinner, or maybe to a movie. Whenever I asked why, he always said that it meant I didn't love him any more than normally, which meant I always loved him as much as I could - and I do, so I never argued."

"Aw, that's sweet," Santana drawled, but Blaine's head was already racing. "I give my dad another tie for his collection every year. Sometimes my mom wears them on their anniversary. Context up to you all -"

"Really, Santana," Rachel scrunched up her nose. "I get both of my dads old classic musicals. I'm going to have a difficult time this year, I think we already own most of them, but I was thinking I could start accepting modern ones. My first choices were Wicked and Rent, what do you guys think?"

"Both fantastic musicals," Kurt said.

"Have you guys ever thought about how much like Rent we are?" Santana remarked then, slightly more serious than before. "I mean, we've got the snarky lesbian -" she gestured to herself, "the cute little film nerd who apparently never has time to hang out because he's constantly visiting Ohio -"

"Artie's just busy is all -" Rachel tried to say.

"- and then we've got a gay male counter-tenor," Santana went on, pointing at Kurt, "and a drama queen." She pointed at Rachel on the last line, who bit her lip to avoid smiling.

"Who's Mimi?" Kurt said, fighting giggles.

Rachel wasn't too good at holding it back. "I nominate Blaine."

"Now, hold on a minute!" Blaine exclaimed, leaning forward and putting his arms on the table, but they were already all shrieking with laughter. Santana had thrown her head back and her rougher voice was almost as musical as it was when she sang; Rachel's hands were flitting around her face when she moved even the slightest bit; and the corners of Kurt's eyes were crinkling and he was bent at the torso, his midsection convulsing with mirth, that dimply smile spread wide across his face.

And so it was that late that night that Blaine was online buying pane tickets, just to see that smile again - because he hadn't seen it in weeks, and he had to make Kurt trust him again.

It was Santana that ruined the surprise.

The next morning, she asked to use him computer to do the bookkeeping. Blaine didn't think anything of it; she asked him that once a month, because she'd broken her computer maybe two months after moving to New York when she'd still been cramped in with Rachel and Kurt, and she was much better with money than he was. He gave it to her without thinking and went to make eggs for breakfast.

"Why do you have internet history that says you bought four tickets to the Dayton airport?"

"Oh, sh- I didn't - I mean..." Blaine dropped the whisk into the eggs and whirled around. "I thought... Kurt's always with Burt on Father's Day, and Artie said he's going anyway and already has his ticket, and I thought Rachel could deliver her musicals in person, and you could just get your dad a tie -"

"The tie thing was a joke," Santana interrupted him dryly. "I get my dad snow globes, actually. He's got a thing for them. That and old records." She raised her eyebrows when she saw Blaine's form still hadn't relaxed. "Chill, B. It's fine, we've got the money for it. I was just curious."

"Oh - okay," he said, waiting for the catch. When none came and she went back to typing, he grabbed the whisk again before hesitating and continuing to say, "You're really alright with it? I spent a lot of money without asking you -"

"If you want me to yell at you I will," she rolled her eyes, "But I was just going to let you try and make Kurt kiss you again."

"We kiss all the time -"

"I know, god," she groaned, "Don't remind me."

And in that short conversation, Blaine entirely forgot to tell her to keep it a secret so he could surprise Kurt, which had been his intent, and so when Kurt and Rachel showed up for their typical Tuesday dinner, the first thing Santana said after she and Blaine set the hamburgers (and one veggie burger) down on the table was, "It'll be nice to be back at Breadstix, where we can just get an unlimited supply of those greasy, delicious sticks, and don't have to cook for a few days."

"When are you going to be in Breadstix?" Rachel asked, dropping her fork in surprise the same time Kurt paused and stared at her in confusion.

"We all will be," Santana said, and Blaine hissed her name and she turned to him. "What? They've got to know so they can pack -"

"Why are we going to Breadstix, Blaine?" Kurt said slowly, and Blaine's heart stopped beating because he only sounded suspicious, not pleased, and he wanted to please him, after what he said, 'once a cheater, always a cheater', he needs more, Blaine, more -

"He got us plane tickets," Santana said in response when Blaine didn't speak. "We're all going to Lima for Father's Day so you can spend the day with your Dad and Berry can be all musical-theatre-y and I can bombard my dad with stupid tiny globes of snow."

"I thought you said ties -"

"It was a joke."

"Did you really, Blaine?" Kurt asked, a smile back, but not the smile, and Blaine felt a pang of guilt at when that smile had stopped coming for him. But he smiled back at Kurt, and nodded. And when Kurt stood up and his chair scraped across the floor and he kissed Blaine's cheek chastely and quickly, it was soft and tender and Blaine flushed to the tips of his ears.

The next two days with much elation on the Ohio side when they revealed their travel plans. They were due to board their plane the next day, in under twenty-four hours, and they were just finishing up packing. Blaine was sitting on his bed while Santana went through his clothes to make sure he hadn't packed anything that would embarrass her when she was inevitably seen with him when his phone rang.

He answered without looking at it. "Hello?"

"Blaine."

The phone slipped through his fingers into the bedspread, but he fumbled it back to his ear as quickly as he could. "Da- Nicholas."

Santana looked at him curiously and froze when she saw his face. She dropped the shirt she'd been picking at and turned toward him fully, reaching out a hand for him to take without even speaking. He took it. It was as warm and firm as always, and she smiled supportingly the same time his father - no, Nicholas - said, "I've been informed that you're coming to Ohio for Father's Day."

"I am," he confirmed. "Who told you?"

"If you'd believe me, Burt Hummel," his father - Nicholas, damn it - said. "He walked into the building today to be his buddy's back-up for a relationship problem. It got sorted out, but there was a big scene, and he mentioned that his son was coming back from New York with his four friends. I assumed you were one of them."

"I am," Blaine said again, not elaborating this time, already tasting the stiffness on his tongue.

"Now, Blaine, we discussed this -"

"I'm not coming down for you," Blaine cut across him. "I'm coming down for Burt. For my Dad."

Nicholas's sharp intake of breath wasn't missed, but Blaine didn't feel guilty. He'd been the one to insist on not being "related" to Blaine - it wasn't Blaine's fault he had an actual family now and could say things like that. "That was uncalled for -"

"What should be uncalled for is this call," Blaine snapped. "You shouldn't have even dialed."

"Blaine -"

"Hang up."

"If you'd stop being gay this wouldn't be a problem!"

"Problem?" Blaine hissed. "I don't have a problem. You seem to, though. Maybe you should go talk it out with your family instead of taking it out on a stranger."

"I just wanted to make it clear that you don't owe me a visit -"

"For Father's Day?" Blaine scoffed. "Is that what this call was meant to accomplish? Look, don't worry about me coming to you for family-related holidays. I wouldn't dream of going anywhere near you on days I could be appreciating those who actually love me and aren't even supposed to."

Santana's and wriggled a bit in his grasp, and when he looked back at her, he realized he was gripping her hand with so much force it was hurting her. Loosening his grip so she smiled gratefully, he listened to his father - no, damn it, Nicholas - try to refute him. "We tried, Blaine! We tried for as long as we could! You're the one who ruined this! You are a horrible, unappreciative, stubborn child who needs to stop sticking his dick up every guy he sees and start realizing that that is gross and wrong and -"

"Do not even begin the process of presuming that you are more aware of what I am than I am. I know my interior." Blaine nearly spit the words and they came out a low, threatening monotone. "I may not like it much, but I know it. And it's mine, so I'll decide what to do with it, and thank you kindly to stop telling me otherwise."

"You -"

"You have no right to even be making this call," Blaine went on, fury beginning to fall off the tower it had built up. "You're not my family, so why worry? Worried that I might show up and contaminate the house with my gayness? Have you even bothered cleaning out my room? Or have you been too scared to touch all the awards people handed me over the years? Could you not be bothered to realized that who I love shouldn't matter when it comes to how much you can love me? Or were you busy with Cooper, maybe, and were reminded of the failure you disowned and the fact that you're hiding it from him?"

"That is completely out of line -!"

"GROW UP!" Blaine screamed. "GROW UP AND FOR ONCE, STOP JUMPING IN AND OUT OF MY LIFE! MAKE UP YOUR MIND! DO YOU WANT TO BE IN IT, OR NOT?!"

For a moment, Blaine let it slip. And for much longer than a moment, he cared about the answer, and about how Santana was staring at him in morbid, terrified fascination.

"No."

There was a click and a dial tone, and Blaine pulled the phone away from his ear, and almost wished it was back up there so he could hide behind the meaningless noise and the silence wouldn't be so compressing.

Santana's eyes were always dark, but the way she was looking at him, her face half cast in shadow and her hair falling about her cheeks, made her look positively disgusted, though he knew that her features were anything but, and it was really just his perception that was warped. She stared at him, and waited for him to explain, or to speak, but he didn't; instead, he retracted his hand, and when his fingers weren't linked with hers she reached out for him again and said, "Blaine -"

Not B, or Gel-Head, or any of the nicknames she called him so affectionately. She had to choose the one label his parents had given him that wasn't meant to be offensive and that hurt the most when they used it. And he knew she was thinking about how his side of the conversation was so sharp and jaded, and how what muffled, incomprehensible murmurs she heard were softer and steadier through the phone, and he snapped, "Haven't you ever seen Scooby Doo? The monsters are always humans and the good guys are always the pretty ones."

Her hand fell limp onto his lap when he placed his own on the bed. His knuckles twisted on the sheets.

"B," she tried again, and Blaine glanced at her guiltily at the hurt in her voice, despite how juvenile his comment had been.

"Sorry," he said through gritted teeth. "Just - go to bed. I'll see you in the morning."

And with that, he turned around and put his back to her and his head on the pillow, and closed his eyes with finality. She whispered his first initial one more time, the quietest he'd ever heard it, before she finally got to her feet and walked quickly to her own room.

Blaine hated himself more with each step she took and wondered how many walls he'd just thrown up between them again.

Santana considered calling Kurt. She considered calling Burt. Maybe even Cooper. She even considered Sam. And then she considered Blaine - but not as someone to call. She considered how angrily he'd shouted into the phone, and she thought over whether it was a good thing or a bad one; the same could be pondered over his questions and comments and the fact that he didn't end the phone call. She wondered if he got any closure from what had just happened or if the whole thing seemed more open and unamended than before.

He hadn't moved in his bed. She'd been listening for him to move, waiting for the rustle of a sheet that meant he was shifting, for the sniff that meant he was breathing, for the crumpling of a pillowcase that meant he was burying his face. She got nothing. She wanted to hear even the groan of the bed frame - nothing. She waited to see if he'd recognize that she was listening as closely as she could.

And then she thought that maybe he was doing the same for her. Maybe he was making no noise because he was waiting to see if she did. Maybe he was listening just as intently for her, to see if his words had any resonance, to see if his tone had hurt, to see if his actions had caused any lasting effect. Maybe he was waiting for the restlessness of sleep's hiding to hit her.

Or maybe he was debating whether or not he should try to talk to her. Maybe he was thinking over what he'd do if she tried talking to him again. Maybe he was thinking over what he could have done differently, how he could have handled it, what he could have said, and why he didn't do it like he was doing it in his head. Knowing Blaine, that was probably the most likely option.

The sheets that curled around her were cold and unforgiving and she didn't know what to do. If she didn't make a sound, both she and Blaine would be caught in this limbo for much longer than either of them should stand. If she did, she was basically telling Blaine that either she wasn't phased by his anger and could function properly - not true, not that it mattered - or that she was hurt enough to ignore him back - not true, not yet - or that she cared and was hurt, but not about him. None of those things were things she wanted to do to him.

But what else could she do? She couldn't lay in the bed forever, stiff, and rigid, and with sheets that had moved only once and not since. She thought about Blaine's face and how it had looked when she fought Karofsky off of him in the hall at McKinley; how it had looked after the breakup when he darted into the bathroom to cry; how it had looked after the car accident; how it had looked running into his tormentor at the bar; how it had looked seeing Adam; and she wondered what it looked like behind that curtain and was suddenly much more sad than she meant to be.

Without meaning to, she turned her head and her body following it so it pressed against the bedding beneath her. The sound it made was shockingly clear in the still, untouched air, and for a moment she couldn't hear their neighbors under them kiss goodnight, or the ones next door bang against the wall with their bed just enough to make it obvious what they were doing, because the tiny, miniscule paper-on-paper sound she created drowned it out.

Blaine's breath caught and she only just heard it before the almost-silence regained control, and she listened to their neighbors kissing and banging on the walls, and she listened to their dishwasher try to start and fail, and her phone in the living room beep to mean it was done charging, and the computer whirring as it updated - and listening to all of that took up maybe another ten minutes before she gave up and curled in on herself.

It was only moments later that she heard Blaine move, too, and instantly froze. He rolled off his bed so his feet hit the floor softly, and his bedside table drawer pulled out. Something thick slid from the wood into his hands and he picked up something metal - it made a barely discernible clinking noise when he touched it. There was the sound of a book opening, and pages flipping, and then pen met paper and she could hear him writing.

So he thought she was asleep and was writing in his journal like he hadn't in months; in secret, in silence, and in the night.

She breathed deeply evenly, and he never once paused in his writing. She wondered just how badly it must have hurt him to go through that one brief phone call - enough to make him choke on what sounded like a soft sob while he scribbled.

Santana wished she was asleep. She wished she was desperately.

And then she was.

Right:
Made Santana Breakfast
Reminded her her shift started early today
Didn't blow up at Prof. Ramirez over the essay
Made dinner
Helped Santana pack

Wrong:
Woke up
Ate breakfast
Nagged Santana about work
Went to school
Wanted to yell at Prof. Ramirez
Fell asleep during lunch
Missed lunch date with Kurt because I fell asleep
Came home
Pushed Santana to pack
Made her help me
Answered Nicholas's phone call
Yelled at him
Snapped at Santana
Pushed everyone away
Again
I'm sorry
Talked to myself in this journal
Stop talking to yourself
Freak
Stop
STOP

The drive to the airport was uneventful. Blaine and Santana didn't speak the whole way, but both made an effort to speak to the other two completely normally, and neither of them seemed to notice that they avoided their roommate. Airport security was simple enough to get through. Before boarding Kurt called Burt and arranged to be picked up like they'd said they would. Boarding was just as uneventful as the drive.

But then the plane took off, and once Blaine's ears had popped because of the pressurization and then cleared themselves slowly for a minute or two after smooth flying, Blaine took Kurt's hand and looked to him for his opinion of the movie they should watch.

It was innocent. Totally innocent. Blaine was pointing at the screen and Kurt was, too, and then Kurt grabbed his finger with his finger playfully and turned to kiss his cheek. Blaine smiled at the contact, like he normally would, and turned his own blushing head in response and met Kurt's lips.

"Oh, come on!"

The voice groaned from the seat across the isle loudly, and Blaine looked over immediately. There was a man, in his forties, maybe, with graying blond hair and blue eyes, and a pale, wrinkled complexion, though his suit wasn't wrinkled. Not was it flat, stretching over his expanding stomach like that. And he was looking right at them, disgust clear on his face.

"Is there a problem, sir?" asked the stewardess kindly, stepping forward with a smile that seemed plastered on.

"Yes, there is," he said, and Blaine made eye contact; the man sneered disdainfully and growled, "I don't want to have a seat next to a bunch of fairies."

"He did not," Santana hissed under her breath.

"I'm sorry, sir, but they paid for their seats and it's not our policy to move perfectly polite paying customers -"

"Polite?" the man repeated incredulously. "They're polite? They just kissed! In plain sight!"

The stewardess blinked and her smile never faltered. "I'm sorry, I fail to see how that is impolite."

"Damn straight," Santana muttered. Kurt's hand gripped Blaine's tighter, but Blaine didn't turn to face him; he still hadn't broken eye contact, and despite how his stomach was rolling nervously, he couldn't look away. If he looked away, the man won. The man could rally others. As it was, the airplane's crowd staring at them out of Blaine's peripheral vision seemed disinterested or displeased with the scene he was making.

"They're fags," the man pressed angrily. Blaine felt a jarring pain when Kurt's grip tightened impossibly quickly. "I don't want to have to see that. It's disgusting and wrong. I refuse to be seated near them."

"Maybe you'd like to move your seat to the bathroom?" Santana suggested, even more loudly than the man, unbuckling her seat belt and standing up in one fluid motion. "You'd fit right in. In fact, we could probably flush you down the toilet with the other pieces of crap."

"Oh, so the fags have a friend," the man groaned. "Brilliant. Stewardess, I plan to filing an official complaint -"

"I'm sure we can find another seat for you, sir," said the stewardess evenly, her level head triumphing over the anger between the standing girl and the sitting man. "Or perhaps since it's their proximity that bothers you, we could find a different seat for them and their group. Would you like me to speak with the captain?"

"Do whatever you have to do to get the fruitcakes away from me," he snarled. "And their bodyguard."

"Oh, I don't think so," Santana began, her finger rising and jabbing towards him; he flinched as she leaned over Kurt and Blaine's laps. "I could cut your head in half and you still wouldn't be open-minded, but you know what? That doesn't even matter. I don't care if you think my friends kissing is gross. I can guarantee that their relationship is more loving than yours because someone as full of hate as you can't possibly have a relationship as full of love as theirs." The man's face blotched red all over and he opened his mouth, but Santana cut him off. "And if my Brittany was here right now you'd have twice the complaints. And her dads, on top of that!" Santana pointed to Rachel, who nodded proudly, her nose upturned.

"Crazy bitch," the man remarked degradingly. The stewardess slipped away silently; nobody noticed but Blaine out of the corner of his preoccupied eye.

"I may be," Santana retorted, "But you're so much worse than me, pal, you're fatter, balder, older and more wrinkled than Peter Pan in the human world after a beer belly and aging start to set in. You're disruptive, you're unkind, you're stubborn as an ass and your face looks like one, so shut your damn mouth and just let us fly home."

The man looked positively apoplectic, and fumed, his fist coming down with a slam on his arm rest, "No insane lesbian orange picker is gonna lie to me straight to my face with lips that have committed an abomination to the world and lord!"

"ORANGE PICKER?" Santana roared, "I'M FROM LIMA HEIGHTS, BUDDY, I no toleraré SU ESTÚPIDO DE MIERDA MIERDA TRUCK BOCA!" and the whole plane winced. Kurt's hand left Blaine's, and if he'd had a moment he'd have stretched it at the chance when he was out of Kurt's painful constraint, but instead both he and Kurt had to physically hold Santana back with the help of Rachel. Blaine finally broke the eye contact so he could look at Santana, who had begun swearing at the top of her lungs in Spanish.

The stewardess chose that moment to come back in, and said, in her calm and totally unphased voice, "If you'll please calm down, we've located new seats for both parties. Sir," she said, facing the man, her smile genuine as Santana quieted down enough to glare sharply at him, "If you'll come with me, we've found your party seats in first class."

"Wha-" Santana started.

"Right this way," the stewardess finished, turning around so she faced Kurt and Blaine and the girls, her arm extending toward the front of the cabin. "The man who caused the disturbance will be sitting in third class, as far away from you as possibly."

"WHAT?!" the man opposed vehemently. "I DEMAND -"

"We all demand you'd shut the hell up!" interrupted the woman sitting behind the man, her hair pulled into an African turban, her accent matching her attire. "You wanted to be away from them, so take what you receive. I just want to get to Ohio without having to deal with you or having to explain to my child why there are people filled with such hatred that are permitted to live."

The man's face drained of color and he stared at her blankly while Kurt pulled Blaine to his feet and Rachel thanked the stewardess kindly. "I'm not the thing that needs explaining," he sputtered futilely.

"Really?" the woman arched an eyebrow. "My child understands love, but I have never shown him hate. I do not wish to expose him to such awful things until he can deal with it independently. You, sir, have destroyed that hope." She looped her long, graceful arm around the quivering boy sitting in the seat beside her, who automatically buried his head in her side. "I speak on behalf of all reasonable people when I ask you to follow your orders and leave."

The man was still speechless when the second stewardess arrived and took him into third class, and the whole cabin stood and gave tremendous applause the moment he was gone. Santana bowed and the woman nodded graciously. Kurt smiled at everyone - and Blaine opened the door to first class and pulled him through, understanding the surprise and pride on his face and knowing that it was as fake as the tearlessness state Blaine was forcing himself to stay in.

"You alright?" Kurt asked him gently when the girls followed them through and shut the door.

Blaine smiled at him. "Yeah, fine. Proud of you." No, I'm not fine. But I am proud. Please believe me. Please let it be enough, at least for now.

Kurt reached for his hand again and squeezed it - tenderly, this time, and whispered, "I love you."

Blaine whispered it in return and put his head on Kurt's shoulder and didn't remove it; not even when the stewardess showed them to their seats and they sat and buckled themselves in, or when the captain made the announcement that any passengers who dared behave with such vulgar attitudes would be forbidden to ride in the future, or when he personally thanked Santana - by name, which she gave the stewardess beforehand - for standing up for those she loved. And if he shed a tear or two, Kurt didn't mention it or feel it - he just ran his thumb over his knuckles in that way he did and talked to him mindlessly about plans they'd already discussed.

When they got off the plane and walked into the waiting room, Burt was there, wearing a grin and an old flannel shirt and jeans and work boots and a baseball cap, like always, and he held his arms open wide when he saw Kurt, who ran into them without a second thought. "Hey, kiddo," he greeted happily, his eyes closed and his arms tight around his son.

And then Kurt pulled away and Rachel tackled Burt, who snickered at her enthusiasm and hugged her back.

And then Burt raised his eyebrows at Santana, and she paused, her arms still crossed over her shoulders, and when he held his arms open Blaine nudged her back with his elbow - and she rolled her eyes and embraced him lightly. But he wasn't having that; he gripped her to him and spun her around, and she laughed outright and kissed his cheek when he set her on her feet again.

"Hi, Burt," Blaine said in salutation, remembering to call him by his first name and not his title, as was his habit.

When Burt hugged him just as tightly as he had the others - possibly even tighter - it didn't only catch him off guard, it made him cry again. Burt noticed. Burt asked about it.

And so Kurt took him aside and let the others go to the car while he explained.

Burt caught up with them right before they opened the car doors and he hugged all of them again. Blaine managed not to cry. And he was terrified of that, because it meant he was hiding feelings again. It meant they were disappearing. It meant he couldn't feel.

And the last time that happened...