Chapter 12, Pt. 2

John could hear his brother laughing from across the house one floor up. It had sounded the same since they were teenagers—loud. The booming sort of laughter that could make you jump if you were close enough and caught off guard. He dropped the last of the suitcases down on the floor of the guest room and made his way back downstairs in time to see a very flushed Kurt Hummel darting toward the kitchen with too many flowers in his arms.

John watched him go before turning his attention to Harry, "What was that all about?"

"Nothing at all, just meeting a friend of Blaine's," Harry turned Blaine around by his shoulders and looked him over before turning his attention back to his brother, "He doesn't look too worse for the wear—a little scrawnier maybe, but I was picturing something a lot worse the way you were talking, Johnny."

Blaine looked at him questioningly, and, for a moment, John stared back. Blaine—always so little—even smaller than before. Blaine with perpetual dark circles under his eyes. Blaine whose hand never stopped in that little convulsive motion. He wondered what his brother saw… He shook his head from the reverie and realized Blaine was still watching him; waiting, "Yeah, well, he's been doing a little better. Chemo's more spread out now."

"Good to hear it," Harry clapped his hand down on Blaine's arm so heartily, Blaine stumbled forward a step. John resisted the urge to reprimand his roughness. He reminded himself that this was Harry. If he reprimanded him now, he would only have to do it again in twenty minutes when he was too rough again; too loud; too crude. Blaine's lack of filter from time to time seemed to be a gene Harry held as well. John's obnoxious little brother—always in trouble; always doing whatever he pleased ever since they were children while John chased after him trying to clean up the mess. He decided it best to just ignore him for the moment.

John appraised the polo hanging from Blaine's shoulders—a baby pink thing that had previously clung a little too tightly to Blaine's chest for John's taste, "Why don't you go change your shirt and then go say hello to your aunt and grandma?"

Blaine's eyes went wide, "She's here?"

John didn't need to ask for clarification over which she he was referring to, "Of course, she came with Har—"

"Where is she?" Blaine cut him off impatiently.

"In the kitchen with your mother and aunt," As soon as the words were out of his mouth, John understood why Blaine looked so alarmed. John's mother was in the kitchen. Kurt was in the kitchen.

When Blaine turned toward the hall and disappeared, John made no move to try and stop him.

Harry frowned after his nephew before looking up to his brother as he made his way down the steps more fully, "Is that the cancer thing or—"

"No, it's an 'our mother' thing," John looked down the hall toward the kitchen.

Harry nodded his understanding before smiling, "How've you been, Johnny? You look like shit."

"We don't sleep much," John replied tightly.

Harry's smile finally fell; he lowered his voice as though afraid of being overheard, "How's he been?"

"He does all right," John replied vaguely.

"How about that Kurt kid?" Harry laughed to himself, "Blaine seems to like him. He mentioned someone at Christmas, is that the same kid?"

John nodded pertly.

"Do you like him?" Harry ventured.

"It doesn't matter whether or not I like him."

Harry's smile slipped, "You and Blaine getting along okay?"

John resisted the urge to scowl at his brother, "Of course."

Harry held up his hands defensively, "No need to get testy, John, I was just checking."

John tried to get a hold on his sudden irritation, "There's not much room to add Blaine and my differences to all of this mess. Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

How were they already fighting? John was sure the engine of Harry's car was still warm, and he hadn't even seen his mother long enough to say anything past a quick hello. His arguments with Harry were as repetitive as his fights with Blaine. He let out an exhausted sigh, "We do this every time, Harry. Blaine is my son, do not presume to tell me how to raise him. It's easy for you to stand here and act like the open-minded uncle, but what would you do if it was one of your daughters?"

"I'd thank Jesus she's not going to go out and get herself pregnant." Harry cracked a grin but then sighed, "I'm not trying to piss you off, John, I just feel sorry for the kid from time to time; you're even harder on him than you ever were on me and he does okay for himself."

"Did I say anything about not letting Kurt in the house? Did I accuse him of anything?" John snapped.

"No, you didn't, you're right… I'm sorry, I guess I'm just used to having this conversation with you—old habit, really," Harry clapped his brother on the arm and moved toward the kitchen, "But now it's out of the way and we can move on. What do you say to a drink?"

Part of John wanted to bring the argument back; prove his point… but Harry was right, there was little substance to the fight anymore—it was the same conversation every time and it held little purpose that weekend; he opted to accept the subject change. He shrugged in response to Harry's query.

"I have three kids under the age of eight that I just spent nine hours in the car with, Johnny, and your kid has cancer. I think that warrants a very strong drink for the both of us."

Despite his irritation, John couldn't help but smile just a little as he followed after his brother—he was as incorrigible at thirty-five as he had been at fifteen. As they neared the kitchen, the high notes of female voices quickly filled his ears… or maybe it was Kurt talking, too. He couldn't hear Blaine.

"There you two are; what have you been doing out there?" Elizabeth gave him a closed lip smile from over the top of her flowers. The smile that means she is already prepared to throw herself out the window over the presence of her mother-in-law.

"Just chatting," John chanced a look around the room. Kurt was standing beside Elizabeth, looking between a second arrangement of flowers he was tucking into a vase and John's oldest niece, Natalie, who was regaling him with a long-winded account of what she had seen on their road trip. His sister-in-law, Elaine, was standing on Elizabeth's other side with the baby in her arms, eyeing Kurt curiously. Blaine stood sentinel at Kurt's side, holding flowers when Kurt held them out his way.

"Where's Helen?" Harry pulled down two tumblers from a glass-fronted cabinet.

"Harry, really, she's your mother. Have a little respect." Elaine frowned at him.

"She's been freshening up in the downstairs guest room." Elizabeth answered, pulling a stray leaf from a stem a little more harshly than necessary.

"Has she—" John glanced at Kurt and then Blaine, "Have you gotten the chance to say hello, Blaine?"

"Not yet, she was downstairs when I got in here," Blaine's mouth was set in a frown; Kurt pulled a flower from his hand and tucked it in with the rest before giving him a funny smile.

"He's been busy being the assistant florist," Kurt added.

Natalie cut off her story about counting cows on the drive abruptly and frowned at Kurt, "Your voice is kind of high for a boy. How old are you?"

"Natalie!" Elaine cried out; her expression mortified.

"The same age as Blaine; I'm eighteen," Kurt ignored Elaine's embarrassment and smiled slightly, "Are you eighteen, too?"

She giggled; delighted, "No, I'm six and a half."

"I would have guessed at least eight," Kurt brushed the cut stems into his hand before dropping them into the garbage.

"I'm the oldest cousin after Blaine," Natalie said proudly before pointing a finger toward the little girl on the floor, "Ava's only four."

Ava smiled shyly up at Kurt from where she was cradling a baby doll beside her mother's feet.

"Are you our cousin, too?" Natalie looked Kurt over curiously, "I thought Blaine was our only cousin."

"No, I'm not," Kurt glanced at Blaine.

"Kurt's a very special friend of mine," Blaine's hand brushed Kurt's as he handed over the last of the flowers.

Elaine looked Kurt over again from the other side of the island; her suspicions confirmed.

"Like a best friend?"

"Sort of." Blaine nodded.

"My best friend's name is Hannah. Last week was her birthday and we got to go get our nails painted, see?" Natalie fanned out her fingers to show off her glossy purple nails.

Blaine opened his mouth but then closed it; he met Kurt's eyes—a quick, silent conversation played out that John had seen before. Blaine had lost the word for whatever it was he wanted to say.

"They're lovely," Kurt filled, looking down at Natalie's hands, "Very alternative color choice."

Blaine nodded and smiled, "Lovely."

"Blaine, dear, you're home." A voice behind John alerted him to his mother's presence. He hadn't even heard her come up the stairs. She'd changed from her chino colored pants and green top into a powder blue dress that made her eyes seem even more piercingly blue than usual. John wasn't sure if it was the sharpness of her eyes from the dress or the intensity of her gaze on Blaine that made him shift uncomfortably. He took a drink from his glass and was glad for the slow heat it created in his chest.

Blaine's smile fell, "Hi, Grandma."

"Don't just stand there, silly boy, come give us a hug," She held out her arms to him and took a step closer.

Blaine crossed the room and brushed a kiss against her cheek before receiving her embrace stiffly.

She kissed his cheek and held him out in front of her to look over. She studied his pink shirt and then the navy blue beanie atop his head, "How are you feeling?"

"All right," Blaine shifted beneath her hold.

She brushed a thumb over the lipstick stain she'd left on his cheek, "You look tired."

"I'm fine."

Helen looked him over again, but then her smile slipped as her gaze shifted across the kitchen, "And who might this be?"

Blaine turned to look at Kurt; he backed out of Helen's hold, "This is Kurt Hummel."

Kurt crossed the kitchen quickly and held out a hand, "Pleasure to meet you."

Helen studied his coiffed hair, his exposed ankles, and, finally, his extended hand. She shook it lightly but said nothing.

His outfit wasn't particularly ostentatious in John's mind, at least compared to some of the other getups he'd come to the house in—but that gauzy pink scarf; those mint green capris… they set off a thousand alarms in John's mind as his mother looked him over for a second time.

A lull of silence fell over the kitchen. Harry met John's gaze and rolled his eyes before taking a long drink from his glass and clearing his throat loudly, "Natalie, didn't you bring your Barbie's with?"

Natalie nodded exuberantly, oblivious to the tension in the room, "Yeah! Blaine, I brought all of them so we could play!"

Blaine broke his gaze from his grandmother to look at her, "Every single one?"

She nodded again as she climbed down off of her chair at the island, "Dad didn't think they'd all fit, but they did!"

Harry had unscrewed the lid of the brandy again. He tipped it over John's glass and filled it even fuller, "If we decide to go golfing at all while I'm here, I'll have to borrow clubs. Mine had to stay home to make room."

Elizabeth gave John a pointed look. Do something.

John looked back toward his mother and son. Blaine's back was straight and his shoulders tense, but, his mother was right; he looked tired. John cleared his throat awkwardly, "Why don't we all go sit down in the family room until dinner's ready?"

The group agreed loudly, all more than happy to escape the awkwardness of the kitchen.

Harry leaned in close to John's ear as they filed out and chuckled, "I think she likes him."

John scowled at him but said nothing.

Natalie half-dragged Blaine toward the family room and pulled at his hand to sit down on the carpet.

"Natalie, be gentle with him," Elaine scolded, "Remember—"

"I know, I know," Natalie huffed and then looked to Blaine conspiratorially, "Mom says we gotta be careful with you."

"Natalie," Elaine groaned and covered her eyes with a hand.

"Well you did!" Natalie scowled at her as she dragged a duffle bag out of the corner.

"She's right you know," Kurt smiled as he sat down cross-legged beside Blaine, "Blaine's a big baby; if you get too rough, he might start to cry."

"Like last Christmas when we watched Toy Story 3?"

Kurt raised an eyebrow, "Toy Story, Blaine? Really?"

"They almost got incinerated!" Blaine's cheeks turned pink.

"I hate it when animated characters almost perish, too," Kurt giggled and nudged Blaine with his shoulder.

John would have been able to ignore the exchange any other day, but all he could feel was a dragging sense of dread in his stomach when he caught his mother's expression.

Natalie dumped the bag of Barbie's out across the floor and plopped down on the opposite side of the pile. She appraised Blaine for a long moment before speaking, "You can be whatever one you want."

"I don't have to be Ken?" Blaine raised an eyebrow in surprise, "You always make me be Ken."

"Well you should be him 'cause you're the boy," Natalie chanced a look at her mother and then added, "But since you're sick you can pick a girl one this time if you want."

"Lucky me," Blaine chuckled and picked through the tangle of dolls before adding, "You got more since the last time we played. Has your mom been spoiling you?"

"No! You never come to play with us, Blaine so you never get to see when we get new ones," Natalie batted Ava's hands away from a Ziploc bag filled with dresses.

"You live a long ways away from me," Blaine shrugged.

"Mom told me one time you're gonna move to New York when I start second grade," Natalie looked at Blaine hopefully, "So then you can come play all the time 'cause you'll be so much closer!"

Blaine inspected a Barbie with hair that had been hacked too short, "I'll still be in the a few states away, but we'll be able to see each other a lot more."

John caught Elizabeth's eye, unsure of how to react to Blaine's words. They'd had plenty of late night conversations about the coming year in the privacy of their bedroom, but she shook her head at him. They couldn't just drop it on him. Not yet.

"You're still planning on moving to the city, Blaine?" Elaine spoke tentatively.

"I'm in at NYU," Blaine didn't look up from the mess of dolls and offered no further comment on the matter.

"What about you, Kurt, you just graduated too, didn't you?" Harry spoke up, "What're your plans?"

Kurt, to John's surprise, hesitated before answering, "I… I got an internship with a fashion design company in Manhattan; I'm supposed to start at the end of August."

Harry grinned, "You'll both be living life in the Big Apple then; any plans to be roommates?"

John contemplated smacking his brother across the back of the head.

Kurt and Blaine exchanged a look before Blaine answered, "Not next year; I'm signed up to be in the dorms."

"John; could I have a word with you?" Helen's eyes were still on Blaine and Kurt, "In private?"

His glass was still half full, but John polished it off in one gulp before answering, "Sure."

He could feel Blaine's eyes on his back as he trailed after his mother.

She wheeled around to face him the second they were in the kitchen, "I am appalled, Jonathan."

John flinched.

"If this was one of Harry's children, I'd understand, but this is you," Helen shook her head; "I can't believe you've let things get this out of control."

"I'm not sure I quite understand," In truth John knew exactly what she was talking about.

"John, this problem with Blaine is getting worse than ever! It's terrifying enough to think of him living in New York when he's so sick he barely has control of one of his hands, but then to add this to the equation—" She cut her words short and let out an exasperated sound.

"You noticed his hand?" John hadn't missed the fact that Blaine had kept his hand carefully out of sight either tucked in his pocket or hidden in his lap since he'd arrived home. He didn't know when she would have seen it; maybe when he hugged her…

"That is not the point right now," she let out another disgusted sigh, "I thought you sent him to that private school to help him get away from these sorts of temptations."

Yes, because sending my gay son to an all-boys school is the best way to try and make him straight. Any other point she could have made, he might have taken silently, but that particular topic—the events surrounding Blaine's transfer—was a sensitive issue; his hands fisted almost involuntarily,"You know that wasn't the reason we sent him to Dalton."

It wasn't a direct attack, but she looked affronted all the same. It took her a moment to regain composure; she touched a hand to the gold cross hanging around her neck as though to steady herself, "He needs guidance, John, especially now."

"I'm doing my best with him, Mom, what do you want me to say?" John resisted the urge to rub at his temples.

"John, he has a boy here, a boy who has him under such a spell that—" her eyes glazed with tears. She didn't finish the sentence.

"I didn't even know he existed until Blaine brought him home for dinner one—" John cut himself short when he heard the floor creak slightly behind him.

Blaine stood in the doorway; his arms folded across his chest and his expression unreadable, "Mom sent me in for water and meds."

A short silence lapsed over them. Helen recovered first; she smoothed her dress and fixed John with one more look, "I'll let you two talk."

Blaine stepped aside to let her pass. Once she had gone, he moved to the cabinet to pull down a cup.

John quietly pulled down the prescription bottle from a cabinet beside the refrigerator. Blaine didn't meet his eyes as he held the glass underneath the tap.

The room was filled with the homey aroma of herbs and warm food, but it felt wrong against the tension. John cleared his throat and set the pill bottle down beside the sink.

"The smell of all this okay with you?" John broke the silence awkwardly.

"It's fine." Blaine spoke tersely; his eyes on the glass filling in the sink.

"Did you take your other pills this morning before you left?"

"Yes."

"What about the green one; the one for nausea, did you make sure—"

"I took it." He pulled the cup out from under the tap and took a long drink before cupping his palm over his mouth and swallowing down the meds.

John could hear Kurt's laugh from the family room. He glanced at the oven timer ticking down—barely four minutes to go. "It's getting late. We're going to have dinner soon."

Blaine stared at John blankly.

John shifted his weight from foot to foot, "Maybe it's time Kurt should think about getting home."

Blaine stared at him in disbelief. He lowered his glass back to the counter and studied the black granite of the countertop in silence, "That's how it's going to be, then?"

John sighed and hoped silently a fight with Blaine would be easier than one with his mother, "Blaine—"

"You really don't get it, do you?" It wasn't an accusation. There was no venom in the words; no fury in his eyes when he looked back at John. Just a sad question; a quiet realization.

John ran a hand through his hair. Blaine angry he could deal with. Blaine that day only two months prior when John had told him Kurt couldn't come to church—screaming and seething; all fighting words and hateful sneers—John was used to that. He never knew what to do when Blaine gave him this look, though. The look that only quietly whispered, I'm so disappointed in you. He considered lying; he considered twisting it back around on him and turning the conversation back into something combative. He was unsure as to what to say, but he knew he couldn't meet those eyes anymore. He dropped his gaze, "No. I don't."

A silence lapsed between them as Blaine absorbed the information; considered what to do with it. When he spoke, his voice was still sad; soft, "I love him, Dad. Just like you love Mom and just like Mom loves me…"

There was a certain sting in those words, too, or maybe it was the lack of them that hurt. John loved his wife, his wife loved her son. What was John to Blaine, then?

Blaine was talking again, but there was more conviction there, "I have done everything I can to be the man you raised me to be—I am a good person, I work hard for what I want, I try to see some good in everybody, I am as honest as I can be, and I do my best to do right by the people I love. But for some reason, at the end of the day, you look at me and all I can see on your face is how disappointed you are because, despite all of that, you only see me as one thing. It's the same for him—you look at him, and you don't even see him. He is the loyalist, strongest, and most caring person I know, but you are so incredibly blinded by us, by the notion of your son and another boy being together, that you can't even begin to realize how lucky I am to have someone so fantastic in my life; someone so incredibly beautiful to love me."

John finally looked at Blaine. Blaine stared back, but then it was his eyes that fell to the ground.

John could see the effort so many words had taken for him; the toll it took to try and keep his voice flowing; the words coming out as they should. His voice was quiet and his eyes were still on the floor when he finally added, "I'm not asking you to go out and buy a rainbow flag for the front porch or to go out in the streets and start campaigning for gay rights. I'm just asking you to accept me. To accept us."

"Blaine, I—" John realized he didn't have a way to finish that sentence. He what? "… Kurt can stay for dinner."

They stared at one another in silence. The timer on the oven went off.

"John! Could you check the chicken?" Elizabeth called from the family room; her heels already tapping closer across the wood flooring.

John reluctantly looked away from Blaine to move toward the oven. Before he could even fully open the door, she was there beside him. Elaine at her side.

"It looks perfect, Lizzy," Elaine smiled, "What do you need me to do?"

"Could you get the salad out of the refrigerator?" Elizabeth pulled an oven mitt from a drawer, "Harry, keep your fingers out of that frosting; if your daughters can keep away from it, so can you. John, dear, could you uncork that bottle of wine on the counter? "

John stepped toward the island and out of his wife's way. Blaine was standing by the sink; watching the production quietly; he met John's eyes.

The volume and movement of the room steadily increased—pots banging; Harry laughing; Elaine and Elizabeth fussing over the food.

"Where is that serving plate?" Elizabeth turned around in a frazzled circle, "I can never remember where I keep it."

"I can get it," Blaine tore his eyes away from John and moved to a high cabinet, his head tipping up to study the shelves.

"Blaine, be careful, if—Oh! Ava, honey, keep your hands away from the oven, it's hot!" Elizabeth scooped her niece from the floor and away from the open oven door only to be greeted by shocked tears.

"Mom! Look how Kurt did Skipper's hair!" Natalie came running in, a doll held high above her head, "Mom! Mom! Look at it!"

"Honey, just a moment, I'm trying to get this chicken out—"

The kitchen was a cacophony of sound and dizzy with movement; everyone caught up in their own production. Only John was watching Blaine standing on his tip toes; reaching high above his head, his fingertips brushing the edge of the glass serving tray that had been a gift for his and Liz's wedding, "Blaine, be careful."

Blaine didn't hear him; his fingers closed over the lip of the plate and he eased it forward slowly until half of it was off the shelf. He stumbled a little; off balance on the little support offered by his tip toes, and the plate dipped forward. He reached up quickly; tried to regain his hold on it, but in his panic, he'd lifted his right hand to it; his fingers grasped onto it only long enough to jerk it forward before letting go.

The sound of the plate shattering on the ground was loud. Definitive. The room stilled—even Ava stopped crying to look in alarm toward the sudden noise. Blaine's face went white. He was on his knees, trying to gather up shards of glass before anyone else could react. His right hand spasmed in its usual tick, but he ignored it.

"Blaine, don't, you're going to—" Elaine leaned over to touch his shoulder, but let out a soft, surprised breath when he recoiled from the touch. She retracted her hand and looked to her husband helplessly.

"Blaine, come on now," Harry stepped in closer, "Get up off the ground. Be a good—"

"Shit," Blaine hissed. A red line of blood snaked down from his palm, but it didn't hinder his attempt to clean up the mess, if anything it fueled it; he worked faster, more desperately.

John opened his mouth; prepared to step in, do something, but he didn't know what to do. What to say.

Kurt knelt beside him and caught his wrist in his hand, ignoring the blood that seeped over his own fingers, "Blaine."

He kept trying to gather up glass in his free hand, but the movement was less determined; slower. Finally he stopped all together, his eyes cast down to the mess on the floor.

Everyone was silent.

Blaine didn't look up, "I'm sorry."

His words sent the entire kitchen into motion again; everyone in a sudden overly-cheery flurry.

"I'll get the vacuum, don't fret about it, dear," Elizabeth was gone from the kitchen before she'd even finished the sentence.

"Happens to the best of us, sport," Harry spoke cheerily; waved his glass of brandy as though to cheers the occasion. He frowned at its near empty state and went to refill it.

"It was an accident." Helen stood in the doorway, her eyes focused on Kurt's grip on his wrist.

"Oh, Blaine, your hand! Don't worry, we'll clean it up. John, where's your medical kit?" Elaine ushered the children away when John didn't respond, happily informing them they were going to go on a scavenger hunt for Band-Aids.

Blaine remained motionless; his eyes still scanning the floor until they came to rest on his bloodied hand, and then, finally, Kurt's eyes, "I—"

"I know." Kurt brushed his thumb over the soft skin inside Blaine's wrist. They stared at one another and John stared at them. Something tingled in the back of his neck; sent a strange ripple of understanding through his brain. There it was. It wasn't the brush of his thumb or the understanding gaze—it was something in Kurt's tone. In everything behind those words. 'I know.'

It was love and it was so impossibly real.

John knelt down quietly, careful not to disturb the other two, and gathered up the larger shards of glass.

"Sorry," Blaine whispered again; John could feel his eyes on him; watching the quick, agile movement of his fingers as he gathered up the jagged pieces of the plate.

So am I. John bit back the words before they could come out. He straightened back up before going to drop the mess into the garbage can, "Never liked that thing anyway."

Blaine didn't smile at the joke.

Suddenly, the others were reassembled, and all of their noise came with it; Elizabeth towing the vacuum behind her, Harry with his refilled cup; Elaine to fuss at Blaine to come sit down so they could tend to his hand.

Blaine got to his feet and allowed the momentary fawning without comment.

Helen was still watching Kurt as he brushed the smaller pieces of china from his knees before murmuring something in Elizabeth's ear. Slowly, surely, the kitchen returned to some state of order. The glass was thrown away; the vacuum put back in the hall closet; the food dished onto plates. Blaine was instructed to sit at the table with the little girls until food was served.

"How come you're sitting with us already, Blaine?" Natalie swung her feet in her chair and walked her Barbie across the tabletop contentedly.

"Because I'm in trouble," Blaine smiled half-heartedly at her.

"Blaine, nobody is upset!" Half of the kitchen shouted back at him.

He raised his left hand in the air defensively, "All right, all right, I'm not in trouble. I'm just being kept out of the way."

"Mom says I hurt more than I help sometimes," Natalie informed him.

"You and me both," Blaine sighed, "Let me see Skipper's hair."

Everyone kept touching him as they passed; little affectionate gestures in an attempt at brushing away the broken plate—Elaine squeezed his arm when she settled the baby into her highchair, Helen's hand brushed his back as she laid out napkins, Harry tugged at the back of his hat with a laugh as he passed on his way to the bathroom. Only John maintained his distance until they had all taken their seats at the table.

Blaine answered questions and listened politely to the chatter around the table, but he remained subdued, a smile only gracing his face when Kurt leaned in closer from time to time to murmur something in his ear. He didn't look at John.

"Do we have to go to church tomorrow?" Natalie groaned.

"Hate church," Ava added with a scowl.

"Girls, we go to church every Sunday, this is nothing new." Elaine sighed as though this were a battle she'd endured a few too many times before.

"But we're on vacation," Natalie whined, "You're s'posed to have fun on vacation."

"God works to make your life wonderful every single day, the least we can do is go and say thank you to him once a week," Helen fixed Natalie with a serious look, "What if Jesus just decided he didn't feel like doing all those good things he did for you, hmm?"

"That would have been bad," Natalie sighed and pushed the salad greens around her plate, "But church is so boring."

"Not everything is about fun, Natalie." Helen scolded.

"We'll go out for breakfast afterward," Harry turned his attention from cutting Ava's chicken to his oldest daughter, "How about that?"

Natalie nodded excitedly; oblivious to the scowl her grandmother was giving her father.

Helen's attention shifted to Kurt and John knew what was coming.

"And you, Kurt, do you…attend mass?"

Blaine stopped playing with his food, his shoulders suddenly tense. He didn't look up, but John watched Kurt, suddenly equally uneasy.

"I'm not religious." Kurt took a sip from his glass of water, his demeanor perfectly at ease.

"Oh?" Helen watched him from across the table; her fork hanging daintily from her fingers.

Kurt nodded coolly, "I respect your beliefs and anyone else's. They're just not mine."

"Kurt's more than willing to come to mass with us," Blaine suddenly spoke up, his eyes moving to John, "But some thought it might be inappropriate."

Helen put her fork down slowly; her gaze fixed on Blaine in a way John remembered from his own childhood. It was the look that meant she was going to explain the ways of the world; the way things are. The way things should be. "Perhaps that's true."

"And my presence is appropriate?" Blaine's hand brushed Kurt's fingers on the table almost imperceptibly.

"You were born into the church, Blaine, just because you've been lead astray—"

"Lead astray?" Blaine echoed, "I have a brain tumor, Grandma, you're going to have to be a little more succinct with me—faulty processing and all that, you know."

"Blaine," John hissed his name; he knew the look on Blaine's face even better than he knew the look on his mother's. Nothing good would come of this conversation, "Not now."

"It's perfectly all right, John," Helen spoke calmly, her gaze never leaving Blaine, "I mean your choices in the people you choose to be romantically involved with."

"I got drunk and kissed a girl two years ago at a party, would that be more to your liking?"

"Blaine!" Elizabeth breathed out his name; her eyes wide, "Honey, please."

Helen's eyes went to John, full of accusation, but her words were directed to Blaine, "You're still a child, Blaine; children make mistakes all the time—alcohol is as much of a sin as being with men—"

"I'm not with men; I'm with him," Blaine's hand closed around Kurt's wrist lightly, "Only him."

"Blaine, you're going through something devastating right now with your cancer," Helen spoke slowly, "But you are also being given the chance to meditate on your life and your decisions; the people you choose to spend time with."

Blaine's hand pounded down on the table so hard, John startled in his seat. His voice was a near snarl when he spoke, "How dare you."

Helen looked unruffled; like she had expected the affront, "Blaine, there is no need for theatrics. I am trying to help you see the error in your decisions, you're a smart boy, and I love you very much—"

"You do not love me. He loves me." Blaine's hand brushed Kurt's arm again, "Love is unconditional—it doesn't make rules, isn't that what the bible says?"

"The bible says it is wrong to lie with another man, Blaine." She spoke calmly, "We've been through this conversation before."

"Then I guess I'm going to hell." Blaine spoke through gritted teeth.

"Blaine!" Elizabeth's hand flew to her mouth, "Honey, please, don't talk like that, it's so morbid. I know the tumor can make you—"

"This is not the tumor talking; this is me talking!" Blaine shouted.

Natalie burst into tears, "I d-don't w-w-want B-Blaine to g-g-go to hell!"

"He's not! He's not!" Harry dragged a hand through his hair and exchanged a weary look with his wife, "Blaine's fine. We're all fine."

"Blaine is clearly not fine," Helen looked at Blaine pointedly, "Blaine, you are being irrational right now. I know you know in your heart what is right."

"I know that I—" Blaine clamped his mouth shut; his expression suddenly woozy.

Blaine's skin was strangely ashy; his eyes went down to his plate. Kurt, who had been uncharacteristically silent through the entire fight, was suddenly standing, pulling at Blaine's elbow almost urgently.

Blaine's chair tipped over backward and hit the wood floor with a bang as he lurched to his feet. They disappeared around the corner; Blaine's hand clapped tight over his mouth and Kurt half-pushing him toward the bathroom.

All three girls were crying now; Elaine pulled the baby onto her lap and tried to sooth her over the noise. Elizabeth was on her feet, moving to pull a prescription bottle from the cupboard before disappearing down the same path Blaine and Kurt had just taken.

John sat silently beside his mother; staring into the suddenly vacated space on the other side of the table.

His mother's voice was so quiet he almost didn't hear her, "You need to get him out of here, John. This environment is toxic to his soul; Harry told you about the clinic by them, didn't he? He could do his treatment there, and I know an excellent priest who specializes in dealing with youth who are troubled—"

"He's not troubled." John didn't break his gaze from the toppled chair.

"John, it is your job as his father to teach him right from wrong; to lead him down the right path."

"He doesn't need me to teach him anything," John turned his gaze to his mother finally. For once, he didn't feel ten years old beneath her reproachful scowl, "He is a good boy."

"Of course he is John," Helen looked him over quickly as though she feared him suddenly growing horns and a tail, "Blaine is a wonderful child, but he has people around him who are leading him into this terrible temptation. I know you feel horrible about him being sick, but allowing him to keep the company of that boy—"

"Kurt," John cut her off, "He has a name. It's Kurt."

Helen pursed her lips and fixed him with her fiercest look, "The devil comes in all sorts of disguises, John."

Harry let out a short laugh, "The kid is hardly the devil, Mom. Seriously, give the kid a break, he's barely eighteen years old and you were tearing him a part right to his face."

Helen ignored him; her attention fully on John, "His presence will kill your son."

"He is saving my son," John was shocked at the sound of his own voice—loud and angry and aggressive. It felt…good.

Helen regarded him almost warily. Her voice was tight when she finally spoke, "I will not tolerate his presence so long as I am in this house, John."

"Then I suggest you find somewhere else to stay for the remainder of your visit."

"John," Finally, she was shaken; her eyes betrayed. John felt the slightest twinge of guilt in his chest.

"I am not saying you have to leave," He spoke a little more quietly; broke eye contact, "But I can't have you upsetting him like that while you're here—he doesn't need another thing to stress him out."

She was silent, her expression calculating. Long before she said anything, John knew she would not leave nor would she give up her fight for Blaine's saving. Things were never simple with his mother.

Sure enough, she nodded slowly, "Fine."

"And you can't attack Kurt like that," John glanced toward the empty chairs again, "It sets Blaine off, and Harry's right, Kurt… he's just a kid."

She looked thoughtful again, though John couldn't even begin to guess over what was going through her mind. She nodded shortly, "Fair enough."

Elizabeth walked back into the kitchen; her expression tired.

"Everyone all right?" Harry pulled her chair out further for her.

"He's sick—he doesn't ever eat this much; I think it was just hard on his stomach on top of so much activity…" Elizabeth's eyes flitted to Helen and then back to Harry as she took her seat, "He's going up to bed."

"No chance of a recoup?" Harry checked his watch, "It's not even eight yet."

She shook her head, "He had a busy day. I don't think he'll be sick anymore, but he's done in for the night, I'm sure."

"Does he need someone to be up there with him?" John wasn't surprised when his mother's tone was calm. She would rather die than appear ruffled.

John met Elizabeth's eyes and asked her a silent question.

She gave an almost imperceptible nod of her head in response.

"No," John lifted his glass to his mouth and took a long drink; letting it burn his throat and warm his chest, "He's fine."

"Can we go see him?" Natalie sniffled and wiped her nose on the back of her arm.

"Not now, dear, he needs a little bit of time to rest." Elaine handed her her fork, "Finish your dinner."

Slowly, conversation filled back in, but John couldn't focus. His eyes drifted constantly to the two empty chairs across the table.

When the meal was over, Harry took the baby to the family room to rock, and Elaine corralled the girls to the upstairs bathroom for a bath before bed.

"I think I'm going to go to bed," Helen spoke quietly, "It's been a long day for everyone."

"Do you know where the extra blankets are in the downstairs guest room?" John wiped off the tabletop and returned the dripping cloth to the sink; careful to avoid his wife's elbows when she attacked scrubbing a pan with shocking energy.

"Yes," Helen looked toward the stairs leading to the second floor thoughtfully for a moment, but then, with a shake of her head, she moved toward the basement steps, "What time is church in the morning, John?"

"Nine."

"Lovely," She nodded once, "Good night."

"Night." John mumbled.

Elizabeth said nothing until Helen had disappeared behind the faint click of a door downstairs. She slowed her scrubbing. The abrasive sound of her sponge on sticky metal was replaced with the quiet whir of running water. Even after the suds had disappeared down the drain, she remained standing with her hands in the sink; warm water running over her fingers and pooling in the edge of the pan.

"I can dry that if you want." John spoke quietly; nervous to break the calm that had finally settled over the house.

She kept staring down into the water running over her hands, "I don't know if I believe in hell."

John was silent.

She looked up at him; her chin angled down almost defiantly, "Our son is good, John."

He nodded, "I know that."

She held his gaze for a minute longer before looking back to the sink and turning the tap off. She dried her hands on a dishtowel hanging off the handle of the dishwasher, "I'm on the verge of killing your mother."

John didn't offer a reaction.

Elizabeth pulled a second rag from a drawer to dry the pan. She stared down at it between her hands, "I know you feel the same way."

"I don't hate my mother," John let out a long sigh, "She's just... very stuck in her ways."

Elizabeth dried the pan and crouched down to push it back into its place with the rest beneath the oven. She looked up at him solemnly, "That doesn't mean you can't tell her what you believe, John."

John felt suddenly exposed; nervous. He looked down at his shoes but offered no account of the exchange with his mother at the dinner table.

Elizabeth sighed as she straightened back up. She moved closer to him and smoothed his collar, "Are you going to go say goodnight to Blaine?"

It wasn't really a question. There was only one night in his memory he had passed the closed bedroom door without saying anything, "I doubt he's still awake."

Elizabeth ignored the comment and smiled at him, "I'll be up in a minute; I'm going to see if Harry needs any help getting Abbie to sleep."

John made his way quietly up the stairs, listening to the faint sounds of Natalie and Ava splashing in their bath. Before he could reach the doorknob, the handle of Blaine's door turned; the door pushing open slowly. Kurt appeared, looking just as surprised to see John as John did to see him. His hair was disheveled on one side as though he'd been laying on it, and his eyes looked sleepy.

John tried to look past him into the room, but the whole room was bathed in murky shadows, "Did he get sick at all again?"

Kurt smiled sleepily, "Just once when we first got up here, and it was nothing really. He's been asleep for awhile now."

John nodded; he was blocking Kurt's exit down the hall, "I… I'm sorry about dinner. It was completely uncouth for us to have that type of an argument with guests present."

Kurt shrugged, "At least it was interesting."

The ease of his response; the casual shrug as though being berated by a near-stranger was as normal as being asked for the time of day made it even worse; made his mother's words burn his cheeks with an even deeper embarrassment. John looked away, his voice uncertain, "My mother is…."

"Blaine's told me," Kurt supplied.

"Right…" John watched Kurt barely stifle a yawn.

"I've got a long drive; I should get going," Kurt rubbed his eyes.

"You could sleep here," John blurted; his voice a little too loud compared to their previously hushed whispers, "That is, if you feel too tired to be driving all the way back."

Kurt's eyebrows went up almost imperceptibly. It took him a second to respond, "I'll be fine; my dad will kill me if I don't get back, but thank you for the offer… I appreciate it. Really."

John stepped out of the way finally and let Kurt pass.

Kurt turned at the top of the stairs to offer him one more awkward wave before disappearing down the steps.

John listened to the sound of the front door creaking open and then clicking shut before quietly slipping into Blaine's room. When he shut the door behind him, he was momentarily surrounded by darkness. But, as his eyes adjusted, he realized there was enough light from the streetlight to make out the faint outline of the desk; the armoire; the bed. He crouched lower and felt along the wall until his fingers lit upon their desired item: the nightlight purchased in an attempt to save a few stubbed toes during the night if Blaine had to make a dash for the bathroom. He flipped the little switch on it and the room was suddenly bathed in dim, yellow light. He stood and moved toward the bed quietly until he could see Blaine—one hand cast up above his head on the pillow, the other draped across his chest; the hat finally off. As silently as he could, John touched a hand to Blaine's head. The short dark hair was beginning to turn soft. He brushed his thumb over the thin line of scar tissue gently.

"Kurt?" Blaine mumbled; stirring in his sleep.

"He went home for the night; it's just me," John whispered back.

Blaine's eyes opened and he turned his head to look at the vacated space beside him as though to confirm the news.

"How do you feel?"

"Better," Blaine murmured, his hand finally coming down from above his head. He brushed his knuckles across the empty pillow beside him.

"Do you need anything?" John realized his hand was still on Blaine's head, but he couldn't bring himself to pull it away.

"No," Blaine mumbled.

"I didn't mean to wake you up." John finally forced himself to pull his hand away, "I wouldn't have come in if I thought you were already asleep."

Blaine smiled at him faintly, "You always come in to say good night whether I'm asleep or not."

John didn't know how he knew; he didn't really want to ask him, so he opted to ignore the comment, "Well, good night then. Your aunt and uncle are in the guest room next door and your mother and I are right down the hall if you need anything."

Blaine nodded. His eyes were far off; thoughtful, "Could you sit down for just a minute?"

"Sure thing," John sank down slowly onto the edge of the bed; unsure of what Blaine could want.

Blaine studied him in silence for a long minute before speaking quietly, "I heard what you said to Grandma Helen…about Kurt."

John swallowed, "...You heard that?"

Blaine nodded; chewed at his lip, "Thank you, Dad... For trying."

"That's…" John swallowed down the sudden lump in his throat, "That's my job."

He was rewarded with Blaine's fingers brushing his briefly. Neither one said anything more. When Blaine's breathing slowed into the quiet intervals of sleep, John remained seated on the edge of the bed.

He gazed around the bedroom—the Ohio State hat hanging from the bedpost; the stack of gossip magazines and outdated copies of Vogue on the nightstand; the Polaroid of Kurt, just barely visible in the half-dark, tacked to the side of the full length mirror. John remained still, careful not to jostle Blaine, and took it all in. The room had been so free of character for those years Blaine spent in the dorms at Dalton, but now the whole space hummed with Blaine… But something else, too—the garbage can pulled flush beside the bed frame for 'just-in-case', the line of orange prescription bottles on the desk; that little neon yellow stress ball Blaine was constantly closing his right hand around for hours at a time sitting abandoned near the open closet door—it clashed with that bubbling melody; that happy song of Blaine-ness in everything, but it couldn't overpower it. John could practically feel Blaine darting around the room, climbing over the top of the bed rather than going around it to get to the mirror, singing the entire time he got dressed, laughing on the phone as he promised that he would be no more than fifteen minutes late. Blaine everywhere.

He lifted a picture from the nightstand and turned it toward the window until the streetlight illuminated it in a ghostly orange glow. Kurt was holding a crown to his head as though he feared it might fall; Blaine had his arms wrapped around Kurt's middle, his chin on his shoulder. They were both laughing. John replaced it carefully and stood slowly; his knees cracking in protest and the mattress groaning over the sudden loss of his weight. He gazed down at Blaine—one arm already cast back above his head; a leg stretched at a funny angle beneath the blankets. Gently, John tucked the covers up higher around his chest. He considered touching a kiss to the top of his head…

A thin sliver of light suddenly grew across the room as the door creaked open quietly. Elizabeth crossed the room silently and came to stand beside John. She let out a quiet laugh, leaned over, and tucked Blaine's hand back down under the blankets. She touched a kiss to his forehead; whispered something in his ear. It was so easy for her to show him how much she adored him.

John let out a quiet sigh and shook his head as he turned away from the bed and retreated to his own room. He lay on his back and listened. The quiet of the house was different that evening—humming with the presence of more than just their little family of three— an almost tangible hum of tension from his mother in the basement—praying angrily for the astray souls of her family; the padded sound of footed pajamas in the room next door. John closed his eyes and could picture them all—rosary beads sliding between fingers; his wife touching one more kiss to their son's forehead; his nieces, glassy eyed and subdued, listening to a bedtime story; Kurt blinking sleepily at the patch of illuminated road in front of his headlights...

It had been a long time since John had slept soundly—for weeks, the quiet had been too complete, every sound had Elizabeth shaking his elbow, whispering urgently. Did you hear that? Do you think he's all right? Is he sick? Should I go check on him? It wasn't as though Blaine would allow their presence in his room anyway if he were sick, but still they would lie awake, listening for the quiet groan of floorboards to tell them the story of Blaine's movements. The hum of all those people was oddly nice- a soothing lullaby filling the usual silence that left too much room for interpretation.

By the time Elizabeth slipped into their room, John was asleep. He didn't wake once until the sun was pouring through the window—the quiet sounds of night replaced by the buzz of a Sunday. It was a new day. It was time for church.