Blaine Anderson hated grocery shopping.

He had nothing against it in principle, exactly -- it was oddly satisfying to pick through the shelves and bins for the best prices like some sort of post-modern forager. He just hated shopping alone. There was something a little sad about the heap of single-serving frozen dinners and one-person macaroni packets piled haphazardly in the bottom of his cart.

Turning down the canned goods aisle, Blaine stopped in front of the endless rows of soup, momentarily distracted. There were too many choices. What was the difference between low sodium and reduced sodium? Was it better to get lower fat content or lower cholesterol? He just wanted some damn chicken noodle soup.

A teenage girl ducked in front of him to snatch up a can, muttering a brief 'excuse me' as she dropped her prize in her cart. Blaine turned unconsciously to watch her leave; a boy with red streaks in his hair hurried to catch up with her, giving her a little swat on the seat of her jeans that made her squeal.

There were a few other people on the aisle too: a middle-aged woman with upswept hair and a neatly-pressed formal suit steered her haul past the cereal boxes, three small children clinging to the bars of the cart; Blaine smiled at the youngest one, who waved at him shyly. An elderly gentleman passed by with another man, probably his son, the two of them talking in hushed tones.

Blaine shook his head a little, clearing his thoughts as he glanced down at his pocket-watch. It was almost six, and he still had plenty of work to do for tomorrow's filing overhaul at the office. He picked a can of chicken noodle soup at random, adding it to his stash, and headed for the dairy section.

His cell phone buzzed just as he was reaching for a half-gallon of milk, and he closed the freezer door, fumbling in his coat pocket. "Hello?"

"Blaine, you didn't call yesterday," his mother scolded. "If you can't talk, you need to remember to send me a text or voicemail to let me know. I missed a card party waiting for you. It's only polite."

"I completely forgot," he sighed, frustrated at himself. "I just haven't been myself this week, sorry."

"Are you sick, dear?" His mother's tone changed instantaneously. "I can bring you a jug of herbal tea."

"No, no, I'm fine. Don't worry."

"Maybe you should take some anyway. You do get hit hard by colds -- you and your brother always had poor constitutions."

"Mom," Blaine cut in, a little irritated. "I'm fine, and I'm twenty-six years old. I think I can weather it by myself, thank you. And it's not a cold anyway."

Years of strict adherence to social niceties overrode Mrs. Anderson's maternal instincts, and she didn't press the matter. Blaine finished the rest of his shopping while she briefed him on the activities of the last two weeks instead.

"Your father sent a postcard from Venice," she remarked as Blaine scoured through the selection of brightly-packaged candy. "The meeting is going well so far, and he left a folder of instructions for you at the office. And . . . and he sends you his love."

There was just enough of a waver in her voice that Blaine knew that his father had done no such thing. "Thanks, I'll be sure to pick the folio up tomorrow morning." He plucked a bag from the shelf to give him something to occupy his hands with.

"Are you sure you're feeling well? You know . . . you know you can tell me anything, don't you, Blaine?"

It was more true now than it had been even two years ago. She had put in a genuine effort to make some progress, to try to understand him -- she really had, and it was better between them now. Easier.

He took a steadying breath, staring at the package of jelly beans in his hand until the gaudy colors blurred together. "Kurt and his son are coming home today."

His mother inhaled sharply, her breath crackling over the line. "I see." A few beats of silence passed. "Are you going to see him?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "I haven't decided yet, and he might not be up to visitors right now. I don't want to push."

"Poor boy," his mother said, and she actually sounded sincere. "I hope he can find some peace here."

"He's not a boy anymore," Blaine said, smiling a little sadly. He did some quick mental math and added, "He'll be twenty-seven this year."

"Well, you're not a boy anymore either." He heard a shuffling noise on the other end of the line before her voice came back clear. "I know things were uncomfortable back then, but I always thought Kurt seemed very nice. Very polite, very fond of you. If you and he managed to stay good friends through . . . everything, then I'm sure he would want to reconnect. He may need his friends more than ever."

"But maybe -- maybe I don't know if I can do it." He held his breath, waiting for her response, knowing how much he had just given away.

"I love you, Bunso," his mother said firmly.

Blaine felt unsettled, stripped open in the middle of a Safeway for everyone to see. His mother hadn't called him by that name for years, not since he was small, and he'd always loved the sound of it, how it rolled so fluidly off her tongue. His father hadn't liked it -- he'd said it was gibberish.

"I . . . thanks," he said awkwardly. "I love you too, Mom."

"You'll know what to do," she told him. "Give him a call, see how the wind blows, and maybe you can find some measure of peace yourself."

She hung up before he could say a word, leaving him standing alone in the middle of the aisle with a dial-tone buzzing in his ear.

*******************************************************
*Bunso: a Tagalog term of endearment for the youngest child.
*******************************************************

It was a quiet, sunny summer afternoon when Kurt Hummel returned to his father's house with dozens of boxes piled high in a rental car and a sleeping toddler propped on his hip.

Carole greeted him at the door with a warm hug and a forehead kiss that made him feel a little childish, though he appreciated it all the same. Her arms were solid and generous and far too stifling.

"I'm sorry we're early," he said, pulling back so abruptly that the little boy in his grasp stirred fussily. "Jace had a rough night, so he slept all the way from Madison and I didn't need to make many stops. I can help put together the room if you haven't had time . . . "

"Burt and I set everything up last night. We haven't found a bed for Jace yet, but Burt pulled out your old crib. It's pretty big, so he should be okay for now."

"Don't worry about the bed. It's only temporary. I'll find a place soon." Kurt let his messenger bag drop to the floor as he shifted Jace onto his other hip.

Carole's smile faltered, but she covered it gracefully by ushering him into the kitchen for coffee.

Kurt toyed with his cup, watching silently as his stepmother shuffled the dishes around on the counter and filled the old coffeemaker with cheap grocery store brew -- far from his usual free-trade organic beans, but he felt too tired to care about it today.

"It'll be done in a minute, Kurt," she said conversationally.

For a moment, it was quiet except for the low bubble of the percolator. Kurt looked around the familiar kitchen with its cheerful checkered tile and painted glass sunflowers hanging from the light fixture. It hadn't changed at all since he left home -- the awful yellow curtains that he hated and Carole loved were still hanging over the window. Carole had changed, though. She was plumper around her hips, her dark hair streaked with gray and poorly covered with artificial brown coloring. Kurt made a mental note to recommend a better dye.

"I have orange juice for Jace if he's thirsty. Or does he like apple better?"

"Orange is fine," Kurt replied, reminded of the solid, silent weight in his arms, "but I don't think he'll wake up for a while longer. I won't let him sleep past four, though, or he'll never go to bed tonight."

"Does he stay on schedule for you?" Carole asked, abandoning the counter to sit across from him, letting out a slight noise of discomfort as she eased into her chair. "Finn was a terror at night -- he never went to sleep when I wanted him to." She laughed softly. "I can't believe how big Jace has gotten."

"He sleeps a lot, and he sleeps hard." Kurt paused as Jace squirmed onto his side, slotting his head up underneath his father's chin. His thin blond hair floated up like dandelion fluff, tickling Kurt's neck, and he had to shift the boy onto his shoulder instead. "He's been restless these last two weeks, though, with all the packing and moving. He wasn't very happy with me during the flight -- he cried all the way to Wisconsin." The corner of one lip turned up just a bit. "I think the woman sitting next to me was about ready to call security on us."

Carole laughed obligingly. "Well, he certainly seems peaceful enough now. You know that you can take as much time for yourself now as you want, don't you? You've got a regular posse of willing babysitters here." She looked wistfully at Jace.

"Do you want to hold him?" Finn and his wife didn't have children yet, so Jace was the only grandchild in the family.

Her face brightened. "Oh, please! I'd love to; I haven't held him since last Christmas, and pictures and videos just aren't the same."

The two of them stood as Kurt transferred Jace into Carole's capable hands. She cradled the little boy happily, smoothing kisses onto his chub-cheeked face as Kurt sat back down, his arms feeling oddly empty.

"He's so handsome," she remarked, examining his tiny fingers and button nose carefully, so as not to wake him. “He looks like a happy and healthy boy."

Kurt felt a ridiculous flutter of pride, but then her eyes lifted to study him across the table, and he could almost hear her doing a mental comparison. He knew he didn't look his best at the moment, and he steeled himself against an unwanted barrage of motherly concern. She hesitated, though, and he could see her evaluating his mood and stony face and deciding to let Burt deal with it instead.

"Is Dad at the shop or at the HQ?" he asked in a bid to distract both Carole and himself. He'd been okay the last few days, better than he'd thought he be with the big move, but it was always a tentative business.

"The HQ. General Assembly will be ongoing this year, so Burt's got his hands full with the commute every weekend, and he's been spending about three afternoons a week at the party offices. Amelia is keeping an eye on things for him in the capitol right now, but thankfully, it's been a fairly slow month; no big issues or bills to push through, just mostly municipal appeals and review."

Kurt latched onto the topic, and they discussed Burt's legislative agenda for the year until the man himself came home around four, the familiar stomp of his boots replaced by a lighter shuffle of dress shoes. His gait was still the same, though -- steady and measured -- and Kurt was out of his chair and in his father's arms before Burt had gotten halfway down the hall.

"Dad," he breathed, allowing himself a moment of weakness as he buried his face in his father's suit-coat, a hint of the scent of motor oil in the well-tailored fabric.
Burt's broad hands cupped the back of his head, curling briefly in his hair before he cleared his throat and moved back, studying Kurt's face intently. "Hey, kiddo. Good to see you."

Kurt closed his eyes, took a steadying breath, and then smiled. "You're going to see a lot of me for the next few weeks."

"And I'll be glad for it. It's been too quiet around here lately with just Carole and me. It'll be nice to have the little sport around. Where is he, anyway?"

"Carole has him. Come see." Kurt led the way into the kitchen, shaking his head as his dad shrugged off his coat and tossed it carelessly over the back of the couch.

Jace was sitting on the table -- bracketed by Carole's protective arms -- and playing quietly with a row of wooden blocks that Kurt had brought along. He looked up as his father came in, still bleary-eyed from so much sleep, and when he noticed Burt, his arms shot into the air in a plea to be picked up.

"Grampa!" he cried.

Burt hauled him up with a groan, returning the boy's eager hug and somewhat messy kiss. It always amazed Kurt how well Jace remembered people, and Burt had been a fairly constant presence the first year of his life. Grandpa was his favorite person in the world, apart from Kurt.

The evening passed very pleasantly. Carole warmed up a nice, heart-healthy stew in the crockpot, and even the notoriously picky Jace ate a good portion of the potatoes and peas. They sat in the living room afterwards, and Kurt chatted with Carole about his latest project while Burt and Jace ‘wrestled’ on the carpet and played with the Fisher Price train set that had once been Kurt’s.

By seven, Kurt started to gather things up, knowing that Jace would need to be cleaned up after a long day of travel, but Carole immediately volunteered for bath duty, not yet ready to part with her grandson for the night. She whisked him upstairs while Kurt and Burt headed back into the kitchen to wash the dishes.

Kurt dried and his father rinsed, and it was just the two of them, standing together at the sink, the house completely still. About halfway through the plates, Burt stopped and turned to face his son, looking serious.

The overhead light suddenly seemed so much brighter, and Kurt felt a hot rush of shame over the way he'd let his hair air-dry over his forehead without a drop of hairspray, the way his nails were bitten down to the quick, the way the shoulder seams of his sweater sagged down a bit too far on his arms. He was certain that his dad could see all his imperfections under the harsh glare of that light, all the cracks and dents and colorless threads worn through. He was certain that he looked as brittle as he felt.

Burt glanced down, dropped a dish into the soapy water.

"Just say it, Dad."

"You look . . ." He stopped, dug his fingers into the sponge. "You look real tired, Kurt. And damn skinny."
Kurt bit the inside of his cheek. "What do you want from me?"

"I want to know you're dealing with this. Jesus, kid, I don't expect everything to be hunky-dory for you -- I'd be more worried if it was -- but I want you to be able to deal."

"I am."

"Doesn't look like it to me. You're doing a great job with Jace -- far better than I did with you those first few years -- but you have to take care of yourself too. Don't do what I did."

Kurt propped his elbows on the counter and bent over, flicking at a bubble on the tap. "It'll be two years this September."

"Kiddo . . ."

"I'm tired of feeling like this, and I hate myself for feeling tired of it." He closed his eyes. "When does it stop, Dad?"

"God, I wish I could tell you. Believe me, I do. It took me more than two years, that's for damn sure." He wiped his hand on a towel and touched Kurt's cheek with uncharacteristic tenderness. "But I had you, kid, and that makes all the difference."

"And I have Jace."

"And you have all of us," Burt corrected.

Kurt managed something like a smile, and Burt squeezed his shoulder. "Go get some sleep. I'll finish up here.”

Carole had already finished the bath, coaxed Jace into his pajamas, and somehow managed to brush his teeth without evoking a screaming fit. She bid Kurt goodnight and left him to get his son settled down for the night. The crib sat in the corner, freshly cleaned with new sheets, but Jace was already crawling under the covers of the bed expectantly.

It was a bad habit, letting him sleep in the bed with him, but Kurt wasn’t in the mood to deal with a tantrum tonight. Jace usually went down in his crib fairly obediently, but he’d been especially clingy this week. He was a perceptive boy, and he knew that something was changing, even if he didn’t understand, so he was sticking close to Kurt. Truth be told, it comforted Kurt to have him close too.

He put Jace down, tucking the sheets snugly around him. He was wide awake and staring out the window, watching with curious eyes as the leaves shook in the wind, illuminated by the porch lights. There hadn't been many trees in their old neighborhood. There hadn't been many trees in New York, period.

“Daddy, look.” Jace pointed.

“Pretty leaves, aren’t they? What color are the leaves, Jace?”

“Green!” Jace said proudly. He’d started learning his colors, although Kurt wasn’t sure if he actually understood the concept or was just a lucky guesser -- he mixed up black, brown, and pink consistently.

“Good job. They’re pretty green leaves.”

“Pretty green leaves,” he parroted. “Read hat story?”

“Sure. Let Daddy find it, okay?” Kurt hunted down the diaper bag, which Carole had thoughtfully set by the bed, and pulled out Jace’s favorite book, a story about Blackbeard’s search for his missing pirate hat. Finn had sent it for his second birthday, and it was one of the few books that Jace could sit all the way through.

He quickly washed up and changed into his own pajamas before bringing the book over and slipping under the sheets. Jace immediately curled up against his side, little pinky finger in his mouth, and listened quietly. It took three readings before both he and his father fell asleep, the book still propped open on Kurt’s chest.

**************************************

“Good morning, Blaine. Mr. Anderson left you a memo, and I have your work orders for you.”

Blaine smiled at the office attendant, accepting the manila envelope that she slid across the desk toward him. “Thank you, Camilla.” He took a moment to glance at her hands as he picked up his files; she painted her nails a different color for every day of the week. They were hot pink today.

“You have a message from Mr. Haunheiser too. His assistant will have the Swarvski account ready for your father when he returns.”

“Thanks for letting me know. I’ll send the information on.”

Blaine toted the stack of paperwork into his cubicle. It was dingy and cramped but far better than his last one, which he’d had to share with one of Mr. Haunheiser’s more annoying clerks. The measure of privacy had been a perk of his recent promotion, and he’d done his best to make his work space comfortable: a montage of pictures were tacked over the plain gray walls, and he’d placed a marigold planter behind his conference phone – although that didn’t really brighten the room much, as Blaine was terrible with plants and the flowers had been dead for weeks.

After booting up his computer, he opened up the first folder of the day. The memo from his father was cold and perfunctory – not that he had expected anything else – and he made the few adjustments that needed to be made. When that was finished, he arranged for Nancy and Camilla to re-file the clientele packets while he reviewed the ledgers that had been returned from the accounting office. It was tedious work, and he frequently found his attention straying toward the open window across the hall.

The day was uneventful, and by lunchtime, Blaine sent the staff members who had finished their workload home. They rushed off eagerly with profuse thank-yous, and Blaine decided to take a late lunch himself.

There was no one in the break-room but the chief accountant, Charles, who was hunched over a plastic container of instant macaroni. Charles had been one of his father’s first employees, and Blaine was pretty sure he’d never met anyone quite so depressing in all his life.

“Hi, Charles! How are you doing today?” he asked brightly, pasting a smile on his face as he sat down next to the portly, balding man.

Charles blinked at him with small, bleary eyes, his fork hovering in midair. “Hello, Blaine. My food is cold.”

“Why don’t you pop it in the microwave again? Sometimes those containers take a lot longer to heat up than the label says.”

“The microwave is broken.”

Blaine glanced over his shoulder at the black microwave. Not surprising – his father never replaced anything until it was long past its expiration date.

“It heated it a little bit before it died,” Charles informed him, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, “but not enough.” He let out a heavy sigh. “It’s never enough.”

“Huh. You know what, why don’t you take an early day, Charles? There isn’t much left to do here, so I already sent a lot of people home. Go watch a game or go to dinner with your wife.”

“My wife left me.”

“Um.” Blaine swallowed heavily. “Oh, okay. Sorry.”

Charles looked down mournfully at his lukewarm mac and cheese, and Blaine scurried away on the pretense of needing to make a call.

Since his lunch was still sitting in the fridge in the break-room – and Blaine was too embarrassed to go back in – he stopped at a nearby coffee shop for a caffeine boost and an overpriced sandwich. The office was nearly deserted when he came back, so he ate alone in his cubicle, paging through Vogue and listening to Camilla flirt with the UPS man.

He still had twenty minutes off the clock when he finished, so he booted up his laptop and browsed through Facebook on a whim. Very few of his friends updated anymore – and he hadn’t posted on his own since college – but occasionally a piece of news would pop up on his feed. His eye was quickly caught by one status halfway down the page.

Finn Hudson: Hangin out w my bro an nephew today!!!!!

There was a picture attached. Blaine paused with his finger indecisively hovering over the touchpad. After an uncertain moment, he clicked.

The picture must have been taken by someone else – probably Finn’s wife – because all three of them were in it. They were in the Lima public park, and Finn was closest to the camera, his face split wide with a grin. A little blond boy was clinging to his shoulders, and there in the background was Kurt, perched elegantly on a swing.

Blaine glanced over his shoulder uneasily before enlarging the photo, leaning close to his screen and squinting. The resolution wasn’t very good, but he drank in the blurry image. He hadn’t seen Kurt in a long time, though he’d talked to him often enough, if much less than usual in the past two years. Kurt’s Facebook was left largely untouched, although he had recently started to post photos of Jace in his album again, but he never put up pictures of himself.

Blaine hadn’t known what to expect. He knew he certainly looked different than he had back then, but he couldn’t tell if Kurt had changed – the camera was too far away to capture his face clearly. He was wearing some sort of checkered peacoat with a wide red belt, and his hair was ruffled along his forehead. Blaine grinned to himself when he noticed that Kurt still sat with one leg crossed over the other, even on a swing set.

He studied the image for a moment longer, as if hoping it might suddenly morph into HQ, before logging out and returning to his paperwork.

For the rest of the afternoon, his fingers itched to scroll back and bring up the picture, but somehow he kept himself on task. Nothing was more pathetic than stalking an ex's Facebook photos, even if said ex was still a good friend. It wasn't as simple as that. Nothing was ever simple with Kurt.

***

It was half-past six when Blaine finally dragged himself through the door of his apartment, flicking on the lights and letting his briefcase drop to the floor.

Food came first: chicken cutlets were quickly stuck in the oven and salad was tossed, and he brought a glass of wine into the living room to nurse while he watched the news. When everything was done, he ate dinner in the kitchenette; he didn't know why he still sat down for meals, since he generally didn't have any company except the mismatched, unused chairs clustered around the table. Force of habit, he supposed.

Still, it wasn't as lonely as it could have been. Blaine invited Hazel from 102 B to dinner twice a week -- she was a sweet old lady, very grandmotherly, and she brought him cookies. Actually, Hazel was the reason that he'd found this apartment in the first place. Five years ago, his father's firm had drawn up her late husband's will, and she'd taken a shine to Blaine, who had been put in charge of her file. He had been looking to move out of his parents' house at the time, and she'd mentioned the vacancy at her complex. He signed the lease the very next week and he'd been there ever since, much to his father's displeasure.

In fact, his father was still trying to get him to move. Mr. Anderson had found a small house listed for a reasonable price just a few blocks away from the firm, and he wanted Blaine to take it.

"For God's sake," he'd told him, "at this rate, you're going to be thirty years old and living in a rundown apartment building filled with retirees and teenage punks. You're too old for this. You need to settle down."

With a girl might have been slyly implied a few years ago, but that had been the one stance on which Blaine had always refused to budge. He was gay, he would be gay forever, and even if he hadn't had an actual relationship in a thousand and a half years, he was still gay. So, the implication with a girl had been replaced by so you can look respectable before you die alone.

Blaine wasn't sure if that was an improvement or not.

He didn't want the house, because then it would be permanent. That house would be another weight anchoring him to Westerville. And God knows he had too many weights already. He'd lived in the town where he was born for practically all of his life, watching as his friends and family gradually scattered across the country, across the globe. His own brother was off frolicking in Asia somewhere, touring the continent with his fiance; his college friends had packed up, moved on; and Kurt . . . .

Blaine cleaned up the remains of his meal and sat down in front of his upright piano, a gift from his mother after he had graduated. He rolled a few chords, loosening up his fingers.

He and Kurt had planned on getting out of Lima together. Kurt had even waited for him that year, taking general classes at OSU and helping manage his father's legislative activities, and Blaine had been so ready to get out, so eager to see the world. In the end, only Kurt had been able to shake the Ohio dust from his boots.

Blaine lifted his hands from the keys, letting them fall into his lap. He'd tried to leave once, and he'd gotten as far as Chicago before he came back. He always came back. There was something inescapable about this place, something that reeled you in and sucked you down into the mud and convinced you that you weren't strong enough to survive anywhere else.

And now it had dragged Kurt back too.

He flipped open his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he found the one labeled Kurt Hummel-Mulryan. Making an impulsive decision, he pressed the send button.

It went straight to voicemail, but Blaine didn't hang up. He waited for the tone, gathering his thoughts together. His mouth suddenly felt very dry.

"Um, hey Kurt. It's Blaine. I hope the move went well for you and Jace, and let me know if you need help unpacking or with storage . . . or anything. Yeah. Uh, I know you've only been home for a week, but I'd really like to see you. We could meet at the Lima Bean, for old times' sake. Not that -- not that I'm implying anything! I totally understand if you're too busy or you don't want to. No expectations. I . . . man, I hate leaving voicemails. Sorry. Anyway, I'm going to shut up before I say more stupid things. Give me a call or text me and let me know one way or the other. And feel free to bring Jace too. I'd really love to meet my godson. Yeah, so . . . bye, Kurt."

Blaine snapped the phone shut, sighed, and dropped his forehead against the keyboard in a cacophony of dissonant notes.

************************************